#1 I'm falling in my dream.

He had always been responsible for his little brother, since a young age. So much responsibility on a child, a child often left alone in a motel room, or when he was younger, with Bobby. Ten years of looking after his little brother and he was ready to give in, give up. Sammy was able to look after himself, he had seen how he could cook the dinner and clean up the dishes, but Dean didn’t want to let down his father. He didn’t want Sam to have the same responsibility he had when he was ten. It wouldn’t be fair.

Dean had known nothing but hunting for a good part of his life and that’s what hurt the most. He had no friends, and any he did have he left behind because they always left and they never came back. His father and him, they didn’t talk much, weren’t really that close. Sure, Sammy was a great kid for a conversation, but there were some things you just don’t tell a ten year old; there’s something’s you don’t tell anyone. He was going to crack and soon. Hell, Dean didn’t scare easy but knowing this scared the shit out of him.

At fourteen he could only remember being overjoyed once before in his live time. John had dragged their asses to Phoenix city and left them in a motel while he hunted. Something came to the motel, looking for them. Dean lifted his dad’s Remington 1100 and shot it with a shit load of rock salt. John had returned home and the first thing he told Dean was, “Great job son” with that ‘I’m proud of you’ smile across his face. It was a memory that was always kept close to his heart.

The Motel they were confined this time was one of the nicer accommodations. The walls were a deep shade of purple, with wall lights in the shape of diamonds. Two beds were in the main room, another room held a double bed along with a closet and chest of drawers, there was a small bathroom with a shower and the kitchen was in the corner of the main room. Sadly, the t.v had only two English channels and three Spanish, but luckily one of the American channels had cartoons and most of the Spanish stuff had subtitles.

Sammy lay behind him on the double bed, his body curled into a tight ball and every so often he would kick out in his sleep. Dean listened to the sound of his brothers breathing. Shadows danced on the already dark walls. He was thinking, pondering over everything, weighing up options and theories. Sammy stirred and mumbled something about that single moment Dean hated his little brother, he hated him purely for the fact that his thought was broken. He cursed himself under his breath for even daring, for that small second, to hate Sam.

“Dean?” Sam whispered feebly.

“I’m here Sammy, go back to sleep.”

He didn’t need any further probing, he dropped off like a stone.

It was all Dean could do not to cry, not to breakdown. He didn’t because he knew he shouldn’t, he thought it was selfish and unfair of him. Big boys didn’t cry. Dean was a big boy, he wasn’t supposed to cry or show emotion. Not even when the pain in his throat hurt so much he couldn’t breath or if his eyes where so full of tears that he couldn’t see. Sometimes it even felt like someone had lit a match and forced him to swallow it. No he couldn’t cry, he mustn’t.

It wasn’t always like his. He used to be bold, adrenaline driven, ate like a horse and swore like a sailor. No one knows what happened, or when, but now he only spoke when spoken to and ate when reminded. He hadn’t been talking; only simple one or two word answers and he had gotten thinner, much thinner. He kept busy most of the time, polishing knives or cleaning guns, over and over until he could manage to stop himself.

When John was home he barely spoke to him. John had never come to accept this. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like this and knowing that there was nothing he could do about it. He often challenged Dean, but never got so much as a grunt. John pushed and pushed until he had no idea how to push anymore. It was physically and mentally draining.

The hunt he was returning from had been disappointing to say the least. A poltergeist in a bit shot hotel. Nothing too exhausting or challenging. He approached the door of the room and braced himself for the day ahead.

“Hey Boys.” He said throwing his duffle onto the aged carpet.

“Daddy!!” Sammy replied running into his father’s arms.

“Hey.” Dean’s reply was hardly as welcoming.

“You boy’s been okay?” John asked, holding onto his youngest boy.

No.

“Yes.”

“Any trouble?”

“No,”

John sighed. He looked out to the park across the road. Mothers where out with their children. He told Sammy to go play, make friends. To come back in when John called. He would safe enough.

John sat on the couch beside his eldest son; he linked an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ve gotten thinner.” He spoke softly sensing his son’s sudden fear,” you haven’t been eating.”

“I forgot.” Dean continued to stare at his feet.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

Dean simply shook his head.

“Come on Dean.”

Dean thumped the arm on the chair. He thumped a soft rhythm, a rhythm that he heard from somewhere but he couldn’t remember where, it comforted him sometimes. Not as much now that he was older.

“Dean answer me.”

Those stupid tears where back. His father’s voice was full of warning.

“DEAN ANSWER ME!!”

Dean looked up at his father. Tears rolled down his cheeks. John stared back at him. His son broken, feeble, desperate. The pain ripped through his heart, he felt so ashamed for raising his voice. Without thinking Dean ran to the bathroom and locked the door. He fell against the far wall and listened as his father shouted his name and thumped the door. All the while Dean thumped the rhythm.

Thump thump thumpthump thump

His father probably thought he was going to do something stupid but for Dean he never would, he couldn’t. He had bit on one of his father’s guns before, prepared to chew a bullet but in the end, he couldn’t do it. He was scared of death. Finally he stood up and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

I hate you

Without warning he hit the mirror with his fist, glass shattered in to shards and fell around him. He stumbled backwards, shielding his face with his bare arms. His hand and forearms were covered in cuts and glass. The pain stung like hell but he liked it. As he sat among the splinters, he felt calm. Blood was collecting around him, not much but enough to fill a small glass, and watching the crimson liquid slid through the grout in the tiles fascinated him. Among the glass and shades of red, Dean came to find his answer.