| Normally I don't post fanfiction up anywhere, let alone on Xanga. However, I feel that the time is right to share my works with as many people as possible. I posted this on my fanfiction.net account a few months back, and it got a modest amount of hits, but the exposure just wasn't there. I'm not looking for some spectacular amount of people to say how wonderful my work is, I know that I'm a crappy fic-writer in terms of fanfiction, but I just want to share my humble pieces of work. Review, if you get the chance =) Here it goes... Disclaimers: Everything Supernatural, Sam, Dean and otherwise Winchester is solely Kripke's and the CW's property, unfortunately. I'm working on the whole buying Sam and Dean part, but until I do, it's theirs. However, this story is 100% MINE. (c)2007 SDB Do not copy unless given express permission. Thanks =P ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Watch Over Me: Dean Dean’s musings about his life and admiration for his younger brother on a slow day (no Wincest, despite how I’ve worded it). Set sometime after Tall Tales, although it doesn’t really matter much when it takes place.. Kinda long. Read if you want, it’s something I did when I was bored. OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO Dean’s POV It was three o’clock in the morning when Dean decided that it was safe to get up. He was having a restless night again, and didn’t want to wake Sam up with his worries, so he waited until he heard Sam’s telltale snores before he rose. He had grabbed a beer out of the fridge and slipped into a tee shirt and jeans, as it was obvious he was not going to get any sleep tonight. He was now deep in thought, treading that fine line between illusion and clarity as he sifted through his many memories, viewing each carefully before setting it back down on the shelf of his brain. Sunrise is the perfect time for self-reflection. It’s the witching hour, as their father would say, the crystalline time when neither man nor beast felt the urge to disturb the heavy white fog of dreams that blanketed reality. The quiet was disturbed only by the very occasional car that sped by on the interstate or the quiet drip of water of the leftover rain from yesterday’s storm. Dean stared out of the screen door, eyes glassy and dilated, allowing his pensive mind for one full minute to slip into blissful calm and silence found only for him at this particular time. He frowned inwardly, thinking about how hard it was these days to get a moment of peace and quiet. Hours spent driving in a car with his little brother riding shotgun, arguing and laughing within the same minute about anything and everything drained a man. Dean was tired, so tired these days. Not just physically tired, but mentally, emotionally drained. He had been working these jobs ever since he was old enough to know which way the bullets fired out. Dean didn’t like to admit it to himself, but lately these gigs… they were getting to him. Evading even his innermost thoughts and leaving him not scared but disturbed. At night, he would see the faces of those he had killed floating over him in a hazy mist, whispering their sweet oaths of revenge, even from beyond the grave. Dean had questioned his sanity at one point, but had dismissed it almost immediately. After all, who really is sane in this crazy world anyway? But the one thing that cropped up most often in Dean’s mind of late was one simple fact: his life was all about hunting. He liked to think that in another time, another place, he could be a bit more like Sam. Minus the emotional J. Love Hewitt part. Dean smirked, running a cursory eye over the hunched, snoring form of his sleeping little bro. Sam had had a life, a whole future ahead of him. A law career lined up, a beautiful girlfriend who might have been his wife, friends he would have for life… He had everything that Dean hoped he would someday have, and Sam was some things he hoped he would someday be. How ironic was it that the older brother, the idol in the eyes of the younger, aspired to be a bit more like his younger sibling. But there was no jealousy, no. Rather, it was envy; envy of what could have been for Dean, had life dealt him a different hand. Many a time Dean had thought about his various and frequent escapades with women and wondered, Will I ever find love? He thought he had, with Cassie, and truth be told he still loved her more than he was willing to admit. But she had moved on and so would he, albeit with a chip in his shoulder. And then there was that other thing, one of the reasons Sam had left Dean and their father a couple of years ago: the pursuit of knowledge. Dean wasn’t exactly a scholarly person, not because he wasn’t smart, in fact quite the opposite. Dean fully understood what was going on in school; he was just lazier than some and the teachers just didn’t seem to appreciate the fact that although he was talented, he just didn’t feel like it. Besides, he was caught up in being Big Brother for Sammy. He let Sam worry about school; barely scraping by with a Pass senior year, Dean graduated high school and quickly faded out of the academic picture, leaving Sam alone to shine. While Dean cared for Sam, worked more and more with John on hunts, Sam did schoolwork and grudgingly helped their father. Dean understood better than their father how Sam’s mind worked: in his heart of hearts, Sam didn’t have the mindset of a hunter, a killer. Whereas Dean hunted to kill and partially enjoyed it in that sick, twisted way, Sam hunted to save. The guy even had sympathy for some of those monsters. The only reason Dean had gotten Sam to leave Stanford in the first place was so that they could find John and get him out of whatever hot mess he had gotten himself into this time, as was the Winchester way. Ever since then, even when the times were rough and their lives put in danger, when the dark, heavy curtain of despair and hopelessness had settled over their hearts, Sam pushed Dean to continue, knowing that while they still stood breathing, innocent lives were going to be saved. Dean knew their roles in the “Winchester Tales” too well: Dean was the ruggedly handsome, gun-slinging, tough guy who used fists instead of words, and Sam was the sensitive, caring psychic geek boy who used brains over brawn, although he did know a few kick-ass moves thanks to none other than Dean himself. Dean loved Sam for his selflessness. And hated him for it. Gently setting down the beer on the table, not having touched it at all, he just stood, staring down at Sam, who snuffled in his sleep and turned over, brown furrowing with worry even in the dark recesses of his deepest dreams. When it all came down to it, Sam was the anti-Dean. Sam was sensitive and sugar-coated the truth while Dean was rough and to-the-point. Sam had that puppy-dog look where he could get anyone to do anything, and the only way Dean could get anyone to do anything was either by pointing a shotgun in their face or (if they were female) flashing his patented killer-watt smirk. Sam was quite the opposite, too much of a gentleman to try to bed a lady, no matter how willing she was. Dean remembered the first dangerous Winchester encounter with the yellow-eyed sonofabitch demon that killed their father. The demon had looked right into Dean’s eyes and cruelly played his cards perfectly, spewing lies that Dean knew must be trash, but still got under his skin anyway. “Listen.. You mind just getting this over with, huh? ‘Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing.” The demon, possessing John’s body, smirked and chuckled, still mentally pinning Dean and Sam to the wall. “Funny. But that’s all part of your M.O., isn’t it? Mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth.” “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Dean said, struggling to lift his head off of the wall. “You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is….they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam—he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight. It’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.” Dean rubbed his hand over his eyes. Damn, another headache. Ha. Usually Sammy was the one getting those psychic-vision headaches, but as of late, it was Dean racking up the aspirin bill. Dean knew that what the demon said was bull, but in his moments of utter mental weakness, when he let himself think of the real reason his father died, he wondered... wondered whether or not that was the truth, whether his father loved Sam more than him. And here was Sammy thinking he was the least favorite, when in fact, Dean was questioning more and more whether he had read the signs wrong all along. Sam was more like their mother than Dean was, and perhaps that was why John seemed to have a special look whenever his eyes alighted on Sam. Perhaps that was the whole reason why Dean had those inexplicable reasons for wanting to go further, push himself harder to prove himself in the eyes of his father. Like he was never good enough. Ironic, that, when those almost same exact words were used by Sam more than a year ago when the two were discussing their father. Suddenly, anger and jealousy flared up inside him then, igniting the emotional tinder that had been building up inside his angry heart. Anger at Sam for not appreciating their father and their father’s love more, and even more anger for Sam leaving them at a time he needed the two of them the most. Deep sorrow that he would never be able to experience his father’s voice again. Anger at himself for being the reason for John’s death. Frustration with himself, with Sam, with life, and for no good reason. What exactly he was frustrated at, Dean didn’t know, but all he knew was that the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He was angry at the world, at fate, for dealing the cruelest hand to the Winchester family. Hadn’t his family undergone enough? Hadn’t they suffered for something they did not do? Now They, whoever They were, were back for Sam. Dean’s hand shook, and he clasped and unclasped them at his sides. But he looked over at Sam, still blissfully escaped past that silver curtain of sleep, and all emotions, as fleetingly as they came, vanished, extinguished by the reminder of who was depending the most on him. Almost ashamed with himself for even considering being angry at Sam, he threw on his jacket and headed out the door, thinking a good drive would clear his head. Dean would deal with anything the world threw at him, for himself, for his father, and especially for Sammy. He was his older brother, and come what may, he would meet it head-on. Right now, he and Sam were the only Winchesters left in the world. And it would be a cold day in hell before anyone or anything took Sam away from him. It was 6:00AM when he returned, toting a Dunkin’ Donuts bag filled with sinful sugar treats and balancing a tray of two large coffees: one, black with no sugar, extra cream and fully caffeinated, and the other a decaf roasted hazelnut blend with extra sugar, no cream. Sam was still out like a light, but the smell of coffee soon roused him. He groggily shook sleep out of his eyes and sat up in bed, yawning. “Morning, sleeping beauty. Catch enough shut-eye? Or did I disturb you?” Dean passed him the hazelnut coffee and started sipping on his own hot beverage. He ignored Sam’s grumbled reply (and morning breath) as he turned his head and watched the last wisps of pinky-purple sunrise fade away to dawn. He felt a sort of connection, a kinship with the sunrise, and he sent a silent mental thank-you out to whoever, or whatever, was listening. Yep, Dean thought, tossing Sam a glazed donut and greedily snagging the chocolate one for himself, Sunrise is the perfect time for self-reflection. |
