Title: "You Gotta Go There To Come Back" Featuring: Sam and Dean Winchester Rating: PG Summary: Moments of normal. Gen-fic. Disclaimer: Never happened. All rights belong to Eric Kripke, Wonderland Productions and the WB, not me. Notes: Title blatantly ripped off from the album of the same name by Stereophonics. All hail the glorious Dee for the most excellent beta (and for the smack on the head when I got all anal on her), and for Gretchen, who only laughed at me a hundred times instead of the thousand I deserved. "I'll wear another smile for you That way you know I'm fine, and having fun with you" -- Stereophonics You go backwards – It's just after 8am, and you should be making breakfast (most important meal of the day, boys) before heading down to the field for weapons training. The breeze, what little there is of it, feels good across the back of your neck, and you scarf down your toast with the recklessness of youth, just fuel to keep you going. You're nine years old (almost nine and a half) and it's summer – lazy, endless days made for swimming or fishing or hanging out in the air-conditioned coolness of the mall. At least, that's what summer vacation is for all the other kids you know. But not for you. You're nine years old, but you feel thirty. The sun beats overhead, bright light burning, blazing, not a cloud in the sky, no relief from the heat. The grass is an emerald forest beneath your feet and the cool shade of the woods beckons. But you don't go. Even at nine, you know what monsters lurk in the shadows, waiting for the unsuspecting. You pat the switchblade in your back pocket as you head past the trees, taking point, keeping an eye out the way Dad's taught you. You might be small for your age, but you can already shoot a bullseye from 200 yards out, and no one can take you down in a fight. You tromp up the hill, a scrawny, scab-kneed boy in faded shorts and a bright red tee shirt with a picture of Godzilla eating Tokyo, hair inexpertly cut by your Dad (who always trims your bangs too short), eyes crystal-clear and alert. Always watching. Always hunting. Right now, they're watching your brother as he lopes behind you, all limbs and enthusiasm, skinny arms flopping from side to side, flopflopflop. He looks like an orangutan, and when you call out to tell him this, he only grunts at you in a monkey-like cackle. You smile and tell Sammy to hurry his lazy ass up and, when he grins back, you can see the gap where his two front teeth should be. His bangs fall over his eyes (he won't let Dad touch them), his white t-shirt already has a grass stain on it, and he still has jam on his upper lip from the toast you'd pressed into his hands as you'd left the house with him following you, no questions asked. His delighted, childish laughter rings across the distance between you, a sound you don't hear often enough, and Dad not at all. The sudden, fierce rush of love (protection) plows you like a roundhouse kick. As you stand, dumbfounded and a little sick to your stomach, waiting for your brother to catch up with you, you know this morning playing hooky will be worth the extra pushups and training later. Just for this one moment of normal. You go forwards – Worn leather creaks as you shift in your seat, bright sunlight warming you through the windshield, prickling at you from behind closed eyelids. You've been pretending to sleep for an hour now and Sam's been quiet, radio turned down, pretending to believe it. The problem is, as good as you both are at lying, you never could lie to each other. You wouldn't know how to start. You keep your eyes closed, thinking, always thinking, and it'd probably surprise Sammy how much you actually do think. Actions may be easier on the body and soul, but there's a lot more to this job, this life, than action. The air is resonant with the things you do not say, but then, secrets are different from lies, something you both learned early on. A Winchester family tradition. Thanks, Dad. You wonder how he is, where he is, if he's thinking, worrying, if he's closer to the thing that killed Mom and Jess, if he'll call you and Sam when the time comes to confront it. You half-think, half-fear, that he won't, that he'll deny you and Sam the right you've earned since you were a boy and Sam was a baby. Then you berate yourself for the thought. You wonder what'll happen when you finally do kill it (and there's never been a doubt in your mind that you would; not once, not ever), what'll happen to Sam, to Dad, if they'll be able to move forward, move on. If they can finally look at each other and not through each other. You wonder what family would feel like. You wonder what you would be doing if you didn't have this, this overriding purpose, if you had the 9 to 5, the house in the 'burbs, the mini-van, the golf club membership, the wife with one on the way. You wonder how long you'd last trapped in a suit, behind a desk, before you'd go not-so-quietly mad. You wonder why Sam would have ever chosen that life, why anyone would. This life may not have much in the way of stability, but at least it's real. When the car rolls to a stop, you blink the grit out of your eyes and look around. A brilliantly green field, liberally sprinkled with dandelions or dillweed or delphiniums or some shit surrounds you, and you twist in your seat. Sam just grins (and the sight of that grin is like a fast punch to the solar plexus), answers your unspoken question with a tilt of his head and says you both could use some time off. You look at Sammy, then outside the windows, at the promise of a beckoning blue sky and soft grass beneath your toes. It's a mad race to see who can get out of the car first. If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!