Roswell, New Mexico
May, 2000...
"Where's Sam?"
I winced, dreading the question I knew was coming and the lecture I was going to have to endure when my father received an answer. "I...uh..." I faltered, licking my lips nervously. I usually had a smart answer for everything, but I wasn't so smart when it came to my Dad.
"Dean..." he repeated, staring me down, his expression one of brewing anger and worry. "You were supposed to keep an eye on your brother. Where is he?"
"I-I don't know. He..." I was licking my lips again, terrified of my father's reaction. If there was one person I didn't want to piss off, it was him. Monsters were one thing, Dad was another. I'd rather take on a dozen werewolves than fight with my Dad.
"What do you mean you don't know"!"
I felt myself unconsciously flinch at the anger in his voice, and I stammered. "Dad, I....I was here, I swear. I don't know where he went. I think....I think he went out the bathroom window."
"The bathroom window," he repeated, doubtfully. "Are you telling me he ran away?"
"I don't know. I guess so. It's not my fault! What do you want me to do' Watch him while he takes a leak?"
I saw his eyes narrow and I knew I was treading on thin ice, but it wasn't my fault. If Sam wanted to take off, all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. I couldn't keep my eyes on him twenty-four to seven. I had to sleep sometime. I had to go out and get food. I had to shower. I had to trust he wouldn't do anything stupid, but apparently, he had. Either that or....well, the alternative was unthinkable.
"Don't you take that tone with me, boy," my father hissed through clenched teeth. He closed the distance between us, eyes still narrowed, and poked an accusing finger at my chest. "You know the drill. It was your job to watch him, Dean. If anything happens to Sam, I'm blaming you."
My face flushed with anger. Seventeen years of watching over Sam was starting to take its toll. "What the hell do you want from me, Dad" Do you want me to hold it for him' He's not a kid anymore. If he wants to take off, he's gonna find a way."
I think the fist that shot out and connected with my cheek surprised him as much as it did me. The punch was hard enough to knock me off my feet, and there was no hand offered afterwards to help me up, no apology, nothing but a hardened look of rage in the eyes of the man who was my father.
I felt the sting of tears prickling at my eyes, and that was the last thing I wanted him to see. I hadn't let him see me cry since I was six, and I wasn't about to break my good record now.
"Son of a bitch," I heard him mutter to himself, but whether he was angry at me for losing Sam or angry at himself for hitting me, I'll never know. I rubbed my cheek and watched him warily as I climbed to my feet. He wasn't going to get a second punch if I had anything to say about it.
"Dean..." he said as he took a step forward, but I waved him off and backed away toward the door. I wasn't going to wait around and take a chance at being John Winchester's punching bag again. He'd have to take his anger out on some other schmuck.
I grabbed my jacket, and my feet found the door. I heard him calling my name as I hurried away from the motel room. He might have even apologized, but I wasn't listening. I was too worried about Sam and in too much physical and emotional pain to think straight.
He didn't bother to follow, knowing that unlike Sam, I'd be back at some point, like a glutton for punishment. I was, after all, the loyal son.
"Where's Sam?"
I winced, dreading the question I knew was coming and the lecture I was going to have to endure when my father received an answer. "I...uh..." I faltered, licking my lips nervously. I usually had a smart answer for everything, but I wasn't so smart when it came to my Dad.
"Dean..." he repeated, staring me down, his expression one of brewing anger and worry. "You were supposed to keep an eye on your brother. Where is he?"
"I-I don't know. He..." I was licking my lips again, terrified of my father's reaction. If there was one person I didn't want to piss off, it was him. Monsters were one thing, Dad was another. I'd rather take on a dozen werewolves than fight with my Dad.
"What do you mean you don't know"!"
I felt myself unconsciously flinch at the anger in his voice, and I stammered. "Dad, I....I was here, I swear. I don't know where he went. I think....I think he went out the bathroom window."
"The bathroom window," he repeated, doubtfully. "Are you telling me he ran away?"
"I don't know. I guess so. It's not my fault! What do you want me to do' Watch him while he takes a leak?"
I saw his eyes narrow and I knew I was treading on thin ice, but it wasn't my fault. If Sam wanted to take off, all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. I couldn't keep my eyes on him twenty-four to seven. I had to sleep sometime. I had to go out and get food. I had to shower. I had to trust he wouldn't do anything stupid, but apparently, he had. Either that or....well, the alternative was unthinkable.
"Don't you take that tone with me, boy," my father hissed through clenched teeth. He closed the distance between us, eyes still narrowed, and poked an accusing finger at my chest. "You know the drill. It was your job to watch him, Dean. If anything happens to Sam, I'm blaming you."
My face flushed with anger. Seventeen years of watching over Sam was starting to take its toll. "What the hell do you want from me, Dad" Do you want me to hold it for him' He's not a kid anymore. If he wants to take off, he's gonna find a way."
I think the fist that shot out and connected with my cheek surprised him as much as it did me. The punch was hard enough to knock me off my feet, and there was no hand offered afterwards to help me up, no apology, nothing but a hardened look of rage in the eyes of the man who was my father.
I felt the sting of tears prickling at my eyes, and that was the last thing I wanted him to see. I hadn't let him see me cry since I was six, and I wasn't about to break my good record now.
"Son of a bitch," I heard him mutter to himself, but whether he was angry at me for losing Sam or angry at himself for hitting me, I'll never know. I rubbed my cheek and watched him warily as I climbed to my feet. He wasn't going to get a second punch if I had anything to say about it.
"Dean..." he said as he took a step forward, but I waved him off and backed away toward the door. I wasn't going to wait around and take a chance at being John Winchester's punching bag again. He'd have to take his anger out on some other schmuck.
I grabbed my jacket, and my feet found the door. I heard him calling my name as I hurried away from the motel room. He might have even apologized, but I wasn't listening. I was too worried about Sam and in too much physical and emotional pain to think straight.
He didn't bother to follow, knowing that unlike Sam, I'd be back at some point, like a glutton for punishment. I was, after all, the loyal son.