And Our Fates We Did Establish
Dean’s whole body ached. Chest, ribs, arms, stomach, back. He couldn’t quite get his head around what had happened, but he knew his Dad was mad at him, in a way he’d never been, and he knew he hurt because of it.
Dean also knew something had gone wrong. And he didn’t just mean Mom-he’d known for ages that was bad, and not to speak of it in front of John-but something deeper and more. Dad smelled different. Dad didn’t fill the cabinets with food. Dad was loud. Dad threw things.
Dean, in turn, attempted to be quiet, do everything he could to make things neat and clean. And to look after Sammy, who was too stupid to know anything was different.
“Dean?”
Sam-stupid, dumbass Sam-who probably wanted a bedtime story. And who didn’t get that Dean was hurting, and not feeling like it.
“Dean? Are you...sick?” He felt a hand on his forehead. “Feels hot.”
“Shutup,” Dean sniped. Sam didn’t know what he was talking about. “Go to bed.”
“We’re supposed to read.”
“We can’t tonight.”
“But Miss Richie said.”
“Then ask Dad,” Dean said spitefully. He heard Sam’s breath for a long moment before he moved off toward the door.
“Dad?” Sam called. Dean’s gut wrenched. He forced himself out of bed and dragged his throbbing stomach and chest toward the door. “Dad? I need to read tonight. Miss Richie said-”
“Sammy!” Dean barked. Down below them, he heard the slamming of cabinets and the sound of stomping. Sam looked at him with his wide, dark eyes, completely confused.
“Come here and shutup,” he hissed.
“Dean!” John barked up the stairs. Dean poked his head around the banister. “Shut your brother up.”
“Yes sir,” Dean said, backing Sam into his room. His younger brother stood, wide-eyed at the door. “Look, Sam. From now on, when you need something, you ask me. Not him, okay?”
Sam stared at him, sweet, round little face all drawn in grief. “What’d I do?” he said, voice shaking. “Why’s everyone mad?”
“Sammy...you didn’t do anything.” He lay down, still aching. “C’mon. Get your book. I’ll read with you.”
“But you said to ask Dad. You were mad. And then Dad was mad.” Sam’s eyes were officially filled with tears. “I’ll get in trouble if I don’t read.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean said gently. “I won’t get mad again, I promise. Just, you come to me, from here on out. Okay? Let’s read your book.”
Sam didn’t protest, climbing onto the bed next to Dean and snuggling close. They took turns, Dean reading a page, and then Sam struggling along, Dean helping him over the longer words, until they’d finished the selection that was needed. Dean read a few more, enjoying the warmth of Sam’s relaxed body against his own, and hoping to prevent his brother from asking questions: an effort that proved useless.
“Is Dad the reason you’re sick?” He asked. Dean stopped in the middle of a sentence.
“I’m fine, Sam.”
“You don’t look right. You don’t sound right. You and Dad were both mad.” Sam’s chin wobbled. “Is it my fault?”
“No, kiddo,” Dean slipped an arm around his brother and pulled him close. “It’s alright, I promise. No one’s mad at you.”
“Why does Dad drink that stuff? It smells funny.”
“Because he misses Mom.”
“But you miss Mom. You don’t drink it.”
“It’s different, Sammy.” He pulled his brother a little closer. Sam burrowed into him, dark, soft curls tucking Dean’s chin.
“Is it okay if I like you more than Dad?” he said softly. Dean couldn’t deny that his heart swelled with pride.
“Sure, kiddo. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
He could do this. He could be this, for Sam. He could shove down what he knew, and what he needed, and focus on keeping this dumb kid from getting himself killed. And if he went down in the end, well...it was better than living alone. Sam always did alone better anyway: without playgroups, or siblings, or kids his own age like Mom had had for him, little Sammy had still been happy and entertained himself well-enough. And he stayed out of Dean's way. Now Dean just had to keep him out of Dad's.
“And you won’t be mad at me?”
“Not ever,” Dean swore. “Not for anything. Promise.”