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By no means would Dean and Sam say they had a good childhood. It wasn't even a decent one. Most people's childhoods were filled with hanging mobiles, cartoons, warm milk, and bedtime stories about magic.
The Winchesters grew up with corpses hanged in trees, twirling slowly like R-rated sacks of puss and filth. Their childhood was filled with blood, spilling out in front of them on dirty motel room carpets after John stumbled in half dead with hoarsely recalled recounts of the monsters that lurked in the dark and tore at human lives like paper.
Children who were lucky had fussing aunts, understanding fathers that beamed with pride, and mothers who kissed and stroked their hair when they wept. They were safe.
Dean and Sam had a worrying Uncle Bobby who insisted that they needed a normal childhood of which they knew nothing about.
John would come back either tired, practically dead, angry, or sometimes drunk. He would tell Dean,
"I'm working, later. Go feed Sammy. Protect Sammy, it's your job. Good enough, you could do better."
He would tell Sam, "I don't have time. I don't care Sammy. I'm working. Go away, not now. Go ask Dean."
Sam had Dean to tell him, "It's okay, Sammy. You can show me. That's really nice!"
They were never safe.
But as much as 'gritty darkness' basically summed up Dean and Sam's childhood, if you asked him in the right place at the right time when Dean was just in the right mood, he could tell you that he remembered good things too.
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Darkness veiled all that sped past the window of the Impala's backseat. Trees, road signs, and telephone poles.
A warm, worn calm was settled around the car's occupants. Nobody was talking, and it made comfortable stillness as some classic rock played softly from the radio, reverberating with its bass.
Dean, ten years old, had his elbow propped up against some sticky-outy piece of the right side door, his body leaned sideways across the bench seat.
Sammy, six years old, had his warm sleeping head rested on Dean's lap. Dean's eyes idly sliding on the trees. To be honest, the position he was in was beginning to ache, but Sammy's innocent warmth kept him from moving. It made him ecstatically content to have his little brother sleeping soundly.
"Is your brother okay? Comfortable?" John asked, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Sammy.
"Yes, sir," Dean dutifully reported, his voice almost as low.
"I don't think we're going to find a bed tonight," John said, "I'll pull the car over and you'll have to sleep in the back."
"Yes sir," Dean said again, trying now to slyly lower himself to a better sleeping position without waking Sammy.
"That wasn't an order," John said, "You don't have to 'sir' me on everything." he was softer in the first days, Dean might say if you asked him later, still trying to be a father as well as a trainer and commander.
"Okay Dad," Dean eased out. He didn't admit it, but he wished his dad would be like this all the time— soft and nice, comforting.
The pop of gravel under the Impala's tires joined the slowing down feeling as the car was pulled off to the side. By this time, Dean had managed to deposit Sammy completely on to the bench seat, delicately without waking him.
"Are you comfortable?" John asked. Dean was sitting fully upright so Sammy could sleep on the bench seat.
Dean chewed his lip, testing the limits just a bit, "Not really. I'm uh, not really tired anyway." The shifting around necessary to make Sammy comfortable had left Dean uncomfortably awake, like his mind was carefully inserting adrenaline into his body.
John paused, shifting slightly on the driver's seat, almost as if he were about to sleep, but after done tossing, he straightened up,
"Come sit on the hood with me," He said softly, fondly.
Dean's body, awake as it was, was keeping him from truly falling asleep. But his mind, that was different, wandering. The stars he could see out the window were many in number, were there half as many monsters as there were stars? Or maybe the question should be were there half as many stars as there were monsters. Comparing stars to monsters should have been a negative pursuit, but it brought Dean comfort. What if every star was a person his dad had saved? Whom he had helped save. What if every star was one better thing in the world, where Sammy could be safe forever. But Dean knew a world like that was impossible...
"Dean?" John repeated.
Dean smoothly turned his head, "Yeah?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Hood. Yeah." He swung his legs out if the Impala as John stepped out and took a seat on the front, crossing his arms and putting his weight leaned back, a position Dean would subconsciously imitate many years from then.
Mary and John sat on the hood like this once, John in the same position, but younger and less weighted, and Mary delicately stretched across it, her body draping. Dean didn't delicately drape, but hopped up onto shiny surface.
"Are you... okay, son?" John asked, undetectably turning his head.
"Yeah." Most remarks between Dean and his dad were utilitarian, this was strange. If felt awkward...
"Not just... not just right now," John said, and every word he said seemed hard for him, "I mean with all of this." he had never asked. Not since the fire had destroyed their house.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, because he was pretty sure he knew what his father was trying to ask, but it was so unlike him.
John cleared his throat and tried a different approach, "You don't mind having to switch schools all the time?"
This Dean could handle, a straightforward question with no ambiguous hidden subtext, "I dunno, school's not really what I think about a lot Dad."
"I know Sammy doesn't like having to move around so much..." John paused and looked sideways at his son, judging his reaction, which looked surprised, "What is it Dean?"
"You know?"
"Know what?" this conversation was getting more paused and unfamiliar.
"That Sam doesn't like having to move." Dean's tone was accusatory and John couldn't understand why.
"Yeah I know."
"Then why don't we—!?" the boy took an unnecessary breath to stop himself from finishing his sentence, which most likely would have grown loud enough to wake Sammy, "...sorry. I didn't mean to yell. Almost yell. Whatever. Never mind."
But he had captured John's attention. Sure John knew his boys were miserable most days, that raising them on the road like warriors wasn't a happy fuzzy childhood, but it was a safe one. One that protects them from whatever they might need to fight, and that was good enough for him. The thing was, John couldn't explain this to Dean and Sam. He couldn't even explain it to Bobby, who argued that they should be taught to play ball and have a steady home. Well to hell with him, he wasn't their father. He didn't have the right to...!
Anyway, John knew all these things, but could never explain them. That's why he would tell his sons to follow orders and do as they were told. He never asked after their 'feelings' because... Well "just because" okay? But tonight, it was like something quietly broke. And John needed to make sure Dean was okay.
"No, Dean. What were you gonna say?"
The boy paused, "I dunno, then why don't we just not move?" The boy mumbled it, "If you know Sammy doesn't like it, why do we do it?"
"So this is about Sammy?" John was thinking.
"Yes." He paused, "...No."
"Well what's it about?"
"I dunno," Dean said again, hopping off the car just because his idle legs needed something to do, "You. This." He gestured to the air around them, "And why..." ...Can't mom be here!? His voice broke.
"Dean..." John stopped casually leaning on the hood, instead he half-stepped towards his son, who ignored him. "Dean," John said firmly.
As wrong as it may have been, Dean responded well to orders, "What?"
"I'm sorry," John said, walking towards him.
"What?" He repeated, incredulous.
"I'm sorry, son." Dean was frozen, because this couldn't be his dad. His dad was apologizing, "I'm sorry this happened to us, to you and Sammy."
"But..." They would have been standing eye to eye if they had been the same height, which they weren't. To correct this, John kneeled.
"You know other children don't live like this." It was a question as well as a statement. John had heard of parents who brainwashed their children, beat them, mistreated them, and then told them that that was life. He didn't want that for his children. He wanted Dean to know... that this was life, but that he by no means meant for it to be like that.
"I know," Dean said, looking down.
"Dean, look at me." It was another order, and it made him obey, "Pretend that we didn't live like this. What would you want?" John didn't know why he asked, because he knew if Dean said he wanted a normal life, he would feel guilty every new roadside motel they went to, knowing.
The young Winchester cleared his throat, "I just want Sammy to be safe."
"No, what do you want?" Although, it made John a small bit prideful that his rules had stuck so permanently into his eldest's head.
Dean looked down again and John didn't bother telling him to do otherwise, instead, he waited.
"You save people Dad," he stated.
"Yes."
"And I help." John nodded. Dean shrugged, "That makes me a good person, right?" John nodded again. "And taking care of Sammy, that's what a good brother does? Following orders, that's what a good son does?" Again, John nodded.
"I just want to be a good person I guess," Dean decided, "Not evil like those things you kill. Take care of Sam, help you help people. I just wish it wasn't so hard all the time."
John swallowed, relieved with Dean's answer. At least he knew he was raising a good kid so far, "Okay Dean... Okay."
John pat his oldest on the shoulder and they both went back to the hood and resumed their positions.
There was silence for a while and Dean scooted closer to his Dad, leaning against the man. Time stretched out and suddenly, John was aware of a slumping weight on his side– Dean had fallen asleep. He fondly gathered the boy in his arms and placed him in the passenger seat, smiling.
END