Don't mind me, I'm just cleaning out my Supernatural folder :D


"You still awake?" Dean asked when he pulled up to the motel. Glassy, unfocused hazel-green eyes met his green ones with a small glare, before slipping closed again. "I'll take that as a yes. How's the head?"

"Peachy," Sam replied sounding irritated, seemingly taking a page out of Dean's book: Lie through your teeth about your pain, and people tend to not hover. Or that's what Dean thoroughly believed, even if said people-i.e. Sam-hovered despite what he said. Now, it was his turn to hover.

And how could he not, after finding his big-little brother unconscious, his blood smeared across the edge of a coffee table. The spirit they were hunting decided an upright Sam just wasn't an option. Good riddance to the frigging man-hating shrew, Dean thought bitterly remembering how he found Ms. Perry's remains buried under the huge elm tree out back of her old house. It was while he was digging that Sam's head became acquainted with the table. He knew he should have taken the house.

"Let's get you into the motel," Dean suggested turning the Impala off. He threw open his door, pocketing his keys, and pulled himself from the car.

He closed his door and jogged around to the passenger side. He grasped the door handle, readying himself to catch his brother if he should start to fall from the car, and pulled the door open. Sure enough, without the support of the door, Sam started listing to the side. Dean grabbed his arm with both hands, keeping his brother from face planting into the asphalt.

"That would have sucked," he commented helping Sam out of the car. The change in positions was enough to turn Sam's face a slight green color. "Don't puke on me," Dean begged keeping a firm grip on his brother's arm. He shut the passenger door with his hip, helping Sam toward their motel room.

"If you don't…" Sam cut off, pulling Dean to the ground with him as he fell to his knees, heaving whatever was left in his stomach onto the asphalt. He had puked once already, when Dean was half dragging/half carrying him out of the old, now spiritless house earlier that night. I hope Caleb's friend is happy.

"You good?" Dean asked noting the stinging in his knees from when he fell. It was times like these that Dean wished Sam was still twelve, small, and light. Not the overly gargantuan guy he grew up to be.

"Yeah," Sam gasped, breathing rapidly, running a shaky hand across his face.

"Okay, here goes." They stood, Sam swaying dangerously, and started toward the room again. Dean leaned his brother against the wall once the door was in reach, one hand fisting Sam's jacket while the other dug through his pockets for the key. He found it in his left hip pocket, amongst thirteen dollars in change and a folded receipt from a gas station three towns over.

Once inside, Dean deposited Sam onto the farthest bed from the door, flipping on the lamp and causing Sam to squint his eyes against the light. Quietly apologizing, he helped his brother out of his jacket, throwing it onto the tiny desk shoved against the wall. He snatched his bag off the floor and laid it down next to Sam.

"You won't need stitches, thank God," he commented digging through his bag until he found the first-aid kit and extracted a bottle of Tylenol, some alcohol, and the penlight from the bottom. He shined the light in his brother's eyes, Sam instinctively shying away from the light, but Dean was able to see both his brother's pupils shrink like they were supposed to; it was the best news he got all night. Dean made quick work washing his hands, cleaning the cut, and bandaging it. It was a testament to just how many injuries he had handled that a simple head wound took him under a minute to treat.

"Just take a few of these and then you can sleep," Dean said crossing the room to the small, gray-blue kitchenette crammed into the corner. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with cool water. He carried it back to his brother, picking the Tylenol up off the bedside table. He shook two out, offering both the water and pills to his slowly fading brother. Once the pills and water were gone, Dean moved his bag and allowed Sam to lie back, feet hanging off the bed. He was out the moment his head hit the mattress.

Trying to keep himself from waking Sam, getting a groan of protest but nothing more, Dean pulled his brother's entire body onto the bed, pulling his sneakers off. He threw them under the bed, hoping Sam found them when he woke up. Either that, or he would bitch for twenty minutes about his shoes being missing, blaming everything under the sun, until he found them under the bed. Then he'd blame Dean for putting them in a place he wouldn't look, Dean would make a snarky comment, and that would result in a stupid argument.

Dean moved the shoes over by the door, hoping to avoid a fight of any kind, and headed back to the beds. He removed the comforter from his bed, throwing it over his brother. Once he was sure Sam was situated, he pulled his phone from his pocket and went outside.

He scrolled through his contacts, hitting send on a familiar name, letting the phone ring four times before he answered.

"This had better be important," Caleb snarled in a gruff voice. "I haven't slept in two days."

"Your friend's ghost is gone," Dean said unfazed by the older hunter's tone. He knew how it was; their job didn't always guarantee an exact sleeping schedule. Hunters slept when they could, no matter where they were.

"Oh, hey kiddo," Caleb responded, his voice losing the snarl. Dean rolled his eyes at the stupid nickname the older man used, having gotten used to it a long time ago. Caleb yawned before continuing, "Any problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean replied honestly. In almost twenty-three years of hunting, he had had to deal with fifty-seven head wounds. Twenty of which had been inflicted on him, so he wasn't a stranger to the basic first-aid for concussions. Luckily, Sam had escaped a concussion, he just needed sleep. Plus, Dean didn't need one of his elders swooping in every time there was a problem. He wasn't a little kid anymore.

"Alright. I'll call Todd and let him know his man hating spirit has been exterminated. And I'll call you if I come across any boring hunts." There was a hint of a smile in Caleb's voice. It was a joke he and Dean shared when they would part ways after a joint hunt.

"Ditto," Dean said with a small smirk. "Maybe we'll run into a cat killing creature sometime soon. I believe you'd enjoy that; saving poor Mrs. Mittens from the mean, mean monster."

"You're funny, Dean," the other man retorted, still smiling. "Tell your brother 'hi' from me."

"Okay." Dean was about to hang up, but before his brain could send the message to his hand he blurted out, "You haven't heard from my dad, have you?"


"Nothing, it's just we haven't heard from him since he called us for that job in Indiana…"

"…and you're worried. Look, kiddo, I haven't heard from him, but Joshua said that he talked to Johnny a few days ago. So, he's alive at least. Besides, if your dad needs you he'll call. Until then, hang up so I can get some sleep" Dean chuckled at Caleb's comment, telling him good-bye a few seconds later and snapping his phone shut. He headed back inside, Sam still asleep but somehow managing-in the ten minutes Dean took to make his phone call-to get himself tangled in his covers.

Dean pocketed his phone, heading toward his brother. He untangled Sam, rousing him from sleep. Sam squinted at the lamp's light, running a hand across his face. For a split second, confusion spread across his face when he felt the dried blood, but he seemed to remember a few seconds later.

"Hey," Dean said quietly, sitting next to his brother so his head blocked direct light from him. "You okay?"

"M' a little tired," Sam whispered eyes already starting to droop again.

"Okay, but before you sleep. Name?" It didn't hurt to be one hundred percent sure that Sam wasn't suffering a memory lapsing concussion.

"What?" Sam asked, opening his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing. "Dean, I don't..."

"Just humor me, Sleeping Beauty," Dean deadpanned giving Sam a pointed look.

"Sam Winchester," his brother replied rolling his eyes.




"May 2nd, '83."

"Okay, go back to sleep Samantha," Dean said getting to his feet. Sam's response was far from pleasant, but he was asleep before Dean could reply.

Dean grabbed the remote off the nightstand, settling on his bed. He turned the television on and snapped the lamp off, the bright glow of the screen eliminating the room. He started flipping through the channels, stopping on a Dukes of Hazard rerun. As he started watching the show, he let his mind wander.

There was really no reason to worry about his father. Caleb was right; if John needed help he'd call. Or, Dean liked to think he'd call. Truth was he wasn't sure if his dad would call. John had spent half his life hunting demons and the other half trying to convince his kids he was alright. They knew he wasn't, the drinking proved he wasn't. Dean looked up to the man, hero worshipped him (as Sam put it), but he wasn't stupid. John Winchester was far from a perfect man.

John didn't want their help with whatever he was doing. It was as simple as that. And even though Dean knew it was because his father was trying to keep them safe, he still couldn't help the feeling of abandonment that settled in his stomach and made itself at home. It was the same feeling he got when he was younger and his dad would leave for a new hunt. The same feeling he couldn't quite shake since the age of four when his mother died, pinned to the ceiling.

He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. He now knew why Sam was always in a bitchy mood. Thinking too much was depressing.

He glanced over at his gargantuan brother, wondering what was going on in that Sammy sized brain of his. Was he dreaming about his visions, Jessica? Whatever was attacking his dreams, Dean knew his brother wouldn't sleep very long; just like Dean wouldn't sleep very long when he, ultimately went to bed.

But until then, he'd watch Bo and Luke ruin a perfectly good car by hood sliding and jumping inside through the window. Mind numbing television had to be better than thinking, right? And if Dean managed to catch a glimpse of Daisy Duke, well all the better for him; it sure as hell beat dwelling on things that ought not to be dwelled upon.

He dug his phone from his pocket, setting it on the nightstand next to his bed. If his dad did decide to call during the show, Dean would be ready to answer it. And if he had a hunt for them, they'd do it. Dad was giving them these hunts for a reason, he had to be. What else would he be doing if that wasn't the case?


Yeah, another one shot. I just love writing for Dean. He's got so many layers, and it's fun to peel them back and explore the emotions he keeps buried. I am still waiting for him to deal with all the stuff that has happened this season. I am still mad about a certain death :(

So, thanks for reading, drop a comment if you can, and I own nothing.


P.S. Takes place sometime in season one. I can't seem to escape that season for some reason.