SPN fic: The Art of Balance, 1/?
A/N: With the prompting and support of borgmama1of5 and candycanerica, I decided to give Dean’s POV on Running Away From Home a shot. The original story starts HERE, with each part linked to the next below the text of the chapter. This story begins in parallel Part Three, wherein Dean is fifteen and Sam is about to turn eleven. Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys, hope it doesn’t disappoint! X
Title: The Art of Balance, 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Sam may be the rebel, but being the good son isn’t so easy either. Dean’s POV on some events of Running Away From Home.
Dean wasn’t stupid.
Sure, he was no boy genius, didn’t pretend he could keep up with Sammy or anything. Spelling wasn’t his strong point, and sometimes he had trouble focusing on research when there was no concrete, urgent outcome. But he was smart enough where it counts, which was not in school. And he knew his brother.
He knew that his family had problems, serious and deep, knew that Sammy wasn’t going to fit into this life without something breaking. He knew that Sam and Dad were never going to hug and make up and apologize for everything, every knife they’ve twisted in each other over the years, every shouting match, every calculated offhand jab of derision. He had stupid dreams, of the three of them hunting together, a perfect team, the family business. But in reality, keep Sammy and Dad in close quarters for any length of time and they’d gradually take each other apart under the best of circumstances, leave alone the stress of a hunt. They were so different on the outside, but so exactly the same underneath. Neither willing to give just a little, to accommodate, to compromise on principles. Dean had spent his life giving, accommodating and compromising on principles. He wasn’t not sure he had any principles left, aside from keeping them together.
He knew this - and he pretended not to see it in the hope that refusing to acknowledge the issues would somehow make them less serious. Pretended Sam was just a regular, moody pre-teen, and Dad was just an old-fashioned ex-marine father, tough but unfailing in his love for his kids, always with their best interest at heat. It was a leap of faith, but it was not impossible. Pastor Jim said faith was important.
When Dad told Dean he was giving Sammy a gun for his birthday, Dean almost questioned the decision. Dad must have seen the hesitation in his eyes, because he said,
“He’ll come round to it. Sam’s the kind of kid who needs responsibility. Needs to be in on the action. He’s angry at being left behind, and that’s understandable. He’ll do better now we can make him part of the hunt.”
Dean considered getting Sammy something else - something geeky, like a book, and telling him it was from Dad as well. But come May he didn’t have the cash. Dad was just back from a solo hunt: Dean had tried to persuade him he was healed enough to come, that his shoulder barely hurt anymore, but Dad said it was a straightforward salt-and-burn and that Dean would be more of a liability than a help until he got full movement back. The money Dad left had barely stretched to bread and peanut butter for the last couple of days.
“I can’t use this,” said Sammy when he saw the gun. Dean’s heart sank. He had hoped - a dumb hope, there was a chance that Sammy would understand…Dad said: “You will soon. It’s time you started training.”
“I’m a pacifist,” Sammy said.
“You’re disobedient,” said Dad.
“Yeah - civil disobedience,” Sammy said: “It’s a form of passive resistance.”
Dean rolled his eyes and pretended to whack his head on the table.
That night he tried again, waiting till they were both in bed and he thought Dad was asleep. “Look - Sammy, just - you’re always complaining that dad and I go off together without you right? Well, once we get you trained, you can start coming with us. Be a full part of the team. You gotta put the work in before its safe for us to take you hunting.”
“I’m not going to be a hunter, Dean.” He was curled up in the dark, covers deliberately over his face so that Dean could just see his eyes gleam defiantly in the light from the doorway. Dean hated it when he talked like this. Why he had to pretend things could be that couldn’t be:
“Yeah, you are. Until we catch the thing that killed mom, we got no choice. It has to die. You know that.”
“I wish I knew what she was like,” Sam said a little wistfully. Dean wished it too. It was lonely, having no-one to remember her with. Dad could rarely bear to mention her. “She was - she loved us,” Dean said carefully, “More than anything.” What could he tell Sam about her? He knew his memories were a child’s memories: of being held, and sung to. Sometimes he thought he remembered her laugh. He remembered the feeling of safety, and it killed him that Sammy had probably never felt like that. “She loved you,” he told him honestly. “Don’t you want revenge for having that taken away from you?” Silence. “I do,” Dean persisted. Sammy wouldn’t say anything else. But neither of them slept for a while.
* * *
06.15
Dean shot each can down with slow, deliberate precision, trying to demonstrate proper form for the kid. It hurt his arm and shoulder, and the early morning chill of Minnesota springtime didn’t help, but like Dad said: a real enemy makes no allowances for weakness. Halfway through he switched hands seamlessly: an essential skill in a fight. The last can vanished over the fence with a satisfying clang, and of Dean felt the familiar glow of power as the small cloud of dust rose. This was when he was strong, smiling inside. The pure, simple rush of clean force.
The first time Sammy tried it, he caught the recoil, and his startled yelp of pain struck something elemental in Dean, making him start forwards before he could think, but Dad put out an arm to stop him.
“Again,” said Dad to Sammy, “Controlled squeeze on the trigger.”
Sammy’s face showed something brittle-sharp for a moment, but he pushed it down, forced himself through the practice in slow but respectable style for a total beginner. Dean smiled. He knew Sam could be good. Better than good. If he’d just turn all that determination and fire to hunting - hell, they’d be unstoppable.
“Nice job, Sammy,” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. Sammy gave him a pained look, which he ignored, because he was pretending Sammy would come to love this.
As they headed towards the car Dad said: Boys - don’t be late after school. You’re doing a run.”
“Yes sir,” said Dean.
“I have soccer practice,” said Sam. Dean thought, ‘no’.
“This is more important.”
“But - I can’t miss it! There’s a big game next week!” His voice was rising in that way.
“You’re not going to have time for soccer anymore. Quit.”
“I - ?!” Sammy’s mouth opened and closed once. “You can’t do this to me!”
“Sammy,” Dad crouched down and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I know its hard. But you have to be ready. You have to train so you’ll be safe.”
“No,” said Sam in his darkest voice.
“Sammy-“ tried Dean.
“No. I won’t do it.” Sam folded his arms across that chest, a gesture he’d used from the time he was a toddler. “I’m a kid, not your soldier. This is against the law.”
“Do not take that tone with me,” Dad snapped. “And don’t be stupid. We know things in this family the law doesn’t, and like it or not you are part of this family Samuel Winchester.”
Dean tried to catch Sam’s eye. Tried to touch his arm, even got in the back of the car with him which he hadn’t done for a year. Sammy refused to look at him or anything, turning in on himself in that dangerous way. Over the next days he didn’t talk much.
Never a good sign.
Part Two.
Title: The Art of Balance, 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Sam may be the rebel, but being the good son isn’t so easy either. Dean’s POV on some events of Running Away From Home.
Dean wasn’t stupid.
Sure, he was no boy genius, didn’t pretend he could keep up with Sammy or anything. Spelling wasn’t his strong point, and sometimes he had trouble focusing on research when there was no concrete, urgent outcome. But he was smart enough where it counts, which was not in school. And he knew his brother.
He knew that his family had problems, serious and deep, knew that Sammy wasn’t going to fit into this life without something breaking. He knew that Sam and Dad were never going to hug and make up and apologize for everything, every knife they’ve twisted in each other over the years, every shouting match, every calculated offhand jab of derision. He had stupid dreams, of the three of them hunting together, a perfect team, the family business. But in reality, keep Sammy and Dad in close quarters for any length of time and they’d gradually take each other apart under the best of circumstances, leave alone the stress of a hunt. They were so different on the outside, but so exactly the same underneath. Neither willing to give just a little, to accommodate, to compromise on principles. Dean had spent his life giving, accommodating and compromising on principles. He wasn’t not sure he had any principles left, aside from keeping them together.
He knew this - and he pretended not to see it in the hope that refusing to acknowledge the issues would somehow make them less serious. Pretended Sam was just a regular, moody pre-teen, and Dad was just an old-fashioned ex-marine father, tough but unfailing in his love for his kids, always with their best interest at heat. It was a leap of faith, but it was not impossible. Pastor Jim said faith was important.
When Dad told Dean he was giving Sammy a gun for his birthday, Dean almost questioned the decision. Dad must have seen the hesitation in his eyes, because he said,
“He’ll come round to it. Sam’s the kind of kid who needs responsibility. Needs to be in on the action. He’s angry at being left behind, and that’s understandable. He’ll do better now we can make him part of the hunt.”
Dean considered getting Sammy something else - something geeky, like a book, and telling him it was from Dad as well. But come May he didn’t have the cash. Dad was just back from a solo hunt: Dean had tried to persuade him he was healed enough to come, that his shoulder barely hurt anymore, but Dad said it was a straightforward salt-and-burn and that Dean would be more of a liability than a help until he got full movement back. The money Dad left had barely stretched to bread and peanut butter for the last couple of days.
“I can’t use this,” said Sammy when he saw the gun. Dean’s heart sank. He had hoped - a dumb hope, there was a chance that Sammy would understand…Dad said: “You will soon. It’s time you started training.”
“I’m a pacifist,” Sammy said.
“You’re disobedient,” said Dad.
“Yeah - civil disobedience,” Sammy said: “It’s a form of passive resistance.”
Dean rolled his eyes and pretended to whack his head on the table.
That night he tried again, waiting till they were both in bed and he thought Dad was asleep. “Look - Sammy, just - you’re always complaining that dad and I go off together without you right? Well, once we get you trained, you can start coming with us. Be a full part of the team. You gotta put the work in before its safe for us to take you hunting.”
“I’m not going to be a hunter, Dean.” He was curled up in the dark, covers deliberately over his face so that Dean could just see his eyes gleam defiantly in the light from the doorway. Dean hated it when he talked like this. Why he had to pretend things could be that couldn’t be:
“Yeah, you are. Until we catch the thing that killed mom, we got no choice. It has to die. You know that.”
“I wish I knew what she was like,” Sam said a little wistfully. Dean wished it too. It was lonely, having no-one to remember her with. Dad could rarely bear to mention her. “She was - she loved us,” Dean said carefully, “More than anything.” What could he tell Sam about her? He knew his memories were a child’s memories: of being held, and sung to. Sometimes he thought he remembered her laugh. He remembered the feeling of safety, and it killed him that Sammy had probably never felt like that. “She loved you,” he told him honestly. “Don’t you want revenge for having that taken away from you?” Silence. “I do,” Dean persisted. Sammy wouldn’t say anything else. But neither of them slept for a while.
* * *
06.15
Dean shot each can down with slow, deliberate precision, trying to demonstrate proper form for the kid. It hurt his arm and shoulder, and the early morning chill of Minnesota springtime didn’t help, but like Dad said: a real enemy makes no allowances for weakness. Halfway through he switched hands seamlessly: an essential skill in a fight. The last can vanished over the fence with a satisfying clang, and of Dean felt the familiar glow of power as the small cloud of dust rose. This was when he was strong, smiling inside. The pure, simple rush of clean force.
The first time Sammy tried it, he caught the recoil, and his startled yelp of pain struck something elemental in Dean, making him start forwards before he could think, but Dad put out an arm to stop him.
“Again,” said Dad to Sammy, “Controlled squeeze on the trigger.”
Sammy’s face showed something brittle-sharp for a moment, but he pushed it down, forced himself through the practice in slow but respectable style for a total beginner. Dean smiled. He knew Sam could be good. Better than good. If he’d just turn all that determination and fire to hunting - hell, they’d be unstoppable.
“Nice job, Sammy,” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. Sammy gave him a pained look, which he ignored, because he was pretending Sammy would come to love this.
As they headed towards the car Dad said: Boys - don’t be late after school. You’re doing a run.”
“Yes sir,” said Dean.
“I have soccer practice,” said Sam. Dean thought, ‘no’.
“This is more important.”
“But - I can’t miss it! There’s a big game next week!” His voice was rising in that way.
“You’re not going to have time for soccer anymore. Quit.”
“I - ?!” Sammy’s mouth opened and closed once. “You can’t do this to me!”
“Sammy,” Dad crouched down and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I know its hard. But you have to be ready. You have to train so you’ll be safe.”
“No,” said Sam in his darkest voice.
“Sammy-“ tried Dean.
“No. I won’t do it.” Sam folded his arms across that chest, a gesture he’d used from the time he was a toddler. “I’m a kid, not your soldier. This is against the law.”
“Do not take that tone with me,” Dad snapped. “And don’t be stupid. We know things in this family the law doesn’t, and like it or not you are part of this family Samuel Winchester.”
Dean tried to catch Sam’s eye. Tried to touch his arm, even got in the back of the car with him which he hadn’t done for a year. Sammy refused to look at him or anything, turning in on himself in that dangerous way. Over the next days he didn’t talk much.
Never a good sign.
Part Two.