A/N: Teenchesters! A step up from mah Weechesterness ;)

The title credit goes to ze sweet new album of The Fray, but the quote at the beginning is what sparked the idea. Though, it was supposed to be reflective. *grumbles* Bipolar bunnies...

Disclaimer: So, as new management, I demand that the Impala be brought back. Like, now. Yeah thanks. *wakes up*... :(

Scars & Stories

"They are not like wounds necessarily, but they're still kind of a road map of where you been, and sometimes kinda point to where you want to go."
~ Isaac Slade – The Fray

Blinding, bright white light filled his vision the moment he swam into consciousness.

I'm dead, was his first thought. I'm dead and that's the freakin' light of Heaven.

Not that he really deserved to go to Heaven, he figured. But maybe that's what everybody thought. Then again, why was his head pounding? There wasn't supposed to be pain in Heaven, came the almost indignant thought.

Eyes adjusted and blurs receded, revealing tacky ceiling lamps and pasty walls that amplified the onslaught of light on his vision. It was worse than a hangover, but clearly this was not the entrance to pearly white gates. Dean felt slightly relieved, surprisingly. He wasn't quite ready, and what would Sammy do without him?

Sam.

The thought spurred him to force his eyes open more, despite the incessant throbbing of his head and watering of eyes. Turning his head to the side allowed him a reprieve, and the pillow just felt so soft and inviting, maybe he could rest his eyes for a few more moments...

"You're awake!"

Dammit.

Groaning under his breath, Dean once more slitted his eyes open and searched for the ridiculously upbeat sounding noise that was Sam's voice. Hadn't the kid ever had a hangover? Oh right. Underage and all.

Not that it had ever stopped Dean.

"Ge' me s'me aspirin, Sammy," Dean mumbled.

His brother's concerned face entered his vision. The kid looked beat, but strung taut, possibly 'cause of caffeine. But that didn't make any sense. Dean groaned again as his headache intensified. No more thinking.

"What for?" came Sam's confused voice.

"Goddamn hangover, that's what for," Dean snapped irritably. God, his head hurt.

Sam frowned. "Dean, you don't have a hangover," he explained. "You're in the hospital, dude."

"Hosp-" Dean broke off, as he'd attempted to bolt upwards and been attacked with crippling vertigo. His stomach lurched and opened his mouth to puke, but there was nothing in his stomach to get rid of. Instead he gagged while Sam darted to his side immediately and tried to settle him back down.

"Easy, man, you're pretty beat up," Sam protested.

"What 'm I doin' in the hospital?" Dean tried, his voice sounding unnaturally slurred. If Sam hadn't been serious about the injured part the young man would've sworn he'd had a little too much too drink. For whatever reason, Dean still clung to his hungover idea. It was better than the alternative: that they'd gone on a hunt and he'd been stupid enough to get himself admitted to the hospital. Dad would be delighted.

The thought brought another question to mind, and he asked before Sam could answer the first, "And where's Dad?"

"Relax, Dean," Sam admonished, sounding strangely mother hennish. That was supposed to be Dean's area, being the big bro and all, but at the moment he really wanted nothing more than to have his head screwed on straight. Thankfully though, his awareness of the surroundings were kicking in.

Dean was, in fact, lying on a hospital bed, IV drip and all. His head felt heavy, more because of the bandages than just ache. Two chairs were situated by the bedside, one recently vacated by his fifteen-year-old brother in preference to sitting on the edge of Dean's mattress. Numerous coffee cups littered the floor, leaving Dean to wonder just how long he'd been out.

"Where's Dad?" Dean repeated, hoping against hope that the eldest Winchester wasn't super pissed that the injury had been something he couldn't fix with their military-standard med kit.

Immediately Sam scowled, and Dean mentally groaned. Damned teenage angst and hormones and whatever other crap made his brother and dad want to bite each other's heads off over every other thing.

Sam shrugged moodily. "Dunno." Then, when Dean looked at him in an obvious order for more, he added, "Probably to finish the hunt you screwed up on." The twerp grinned. "You, this time. Not me." The fact made the younger brother somewhat proud.

Dean groaned aloud this time. He looked at Sam pathetically. "How bad am I, doc?"

"Concussion bad enough for observation, three broken ribs, possible infections on your scratched up back, and one bruised ego," Sam recounted, ticking off the injuries. "But for taking on a beyond pissed spirite and several trees at the same time? I'd say just peachy."

Oh right. Spirits. Angy bastards.

At least his head was clearing up, probably catching up with the meds being fed to his body.

"Don't tell me it was your sorry ass that saved me," Dean said in mock-seriousness.

"You'd better believe it, jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam grinned at the familiar banter, happy his brother was finally awake.

Dean fiddled with the controls on the side of the bed for a few seconds before finding the right button to elevate his back rest so he could sit up. He shifted a little to determine the pain in the rest of his body – under Sam's watchful eye – then attempted to swing his leg over the side of the mattress.

Immediately Sam had both hands on his brother's shoulders and was pushing him back down. And Dean'd be damned if that kid didn't have some strength in his frame. Puberty sucked.

With a grunt, Dean tried swatting his brother away. "Dude, personal space," he complained. "Lemme up."

Sam glared at him seriously. "No way. Dad said you gotta stay in that bed or he'll call the ghost back."

"Since when do you do what Dad says?" Dean retorted, but he didn't argue any more just yet. The movement had made him slightly nauseous, not to mention jostled his ribs. The bandages went all around his back, and he felt back there with a frown at the space they covered.

"Stitches," Sam offered. "Some were pretty bad..."

Dean smirked a little. "Bad enough for scarring?" At Sam's half-nod, half-shrug, he wore a full grin. "Sweet."

Scars were nothing to be proud of, Sammy thought moodily. They just proved that the person had gotten beat up, more than once, most likely.

As is reading his brother's thoughts, Dean smirked. "C'mon, Sammy," he coaxed, "you're just jealous. You know these are gonna be total chick magnets."

Sam couldn't really begrudge him that. After all, he was pretty sure Dean had been laid early in his teen years...

"It's Sam," his brother retorted, then continued, "Just 'cause I don't want a way to achieve male-slutdom."

Dean looked highly offended. "I have standards, Sammy-boy," he protested, ignoring his brother's correction of his name. "And it's not completely my fault that I'm so desirable."

Sam scoffed, rising to the bait. "I'm 'desirable'," he argued, a little indignantly.

"Yeah?" Dean scoffed. "Like you've got any cred with the ladies."

Sam scowled, and immediately tried to think back to some instance that left him scars. Rolling up his sleeves, then his shirt, he studied himself.

There really weren't many, the fifteen-year-old had to admit. The nasty concussions were like scrapes to the Winchesters by now, and healed fine, same with numerous bruising or broken bones. Plus, any stitching was done precisely, and if Sam hadn't known better, he couldn't even tell they were there. The perks of having a dad with military standard stitching ability.

Dean had definitely started this whole thing though. Sam was only participating to humor him, he insisted to himself. And that included finding something to show his brother.

As for Dean, well, Sam had been an emo pain in Dean's ass lately, so any reprieve from his teenage angst fest was welcome to the elder Winchester brother.

"Look," Sam declared triumphantly. There was a pathetically small, pale scar over the top of the teen's knee.

"Man, you probably just fell off your bike or something," Dean scoffed. Sam scowled at him, sitting back moodily. So, yeah, maybe it was true.

Dean smirked. Then he pulled his hospital gown away to point to a nasty-looking series of stitches on his thigh.

"Stabbed," Dean crowed to his brother. "Son of a bitch pulled a knife on me, just 'cause I beat him in darts."

"Not fair, man, it hasn't even faded all the way."

Sure enough, the cut still stood out against the pale skin, indicating the deep gash that had been sewn up recently.

The nineteen-year-old scoffed. "Dude, I got this when you were in diapers asking for a 'wowipop.'"

"You got it two months ago, Dean."

"Exactly."

Sam glared at his brother's stupid joke.

"Bet you've never been in a bar fight, though, huh Sammy?" Dean said smugly then, raising his eyebrows.

"Sam," the boy insisted exasperatedly, but without much hope. Three years and his brother refused to give up on the nickname that suggested a chubby twelve-year-old. "Of course not, I don't break the law just to get hurt."

"What are you talking about, Sammy, we break the law all the time," Dean answered nonchalantly, but it just chafed Sam further. "And you make me sound emo. That's your area, dude."

Sam scowled, but started trying to find a blemish that would tell a story way cooler than his older brother's.

The thing that Dean didn't tell Sam, what he wasn't even completely certain of himself, was the feeling of almost-satisfaction he could get when studying his scars, or successfully healing from any injury. They meant that he had fought off whatever fugly thing, human or otherwise, had dared get in his way. Meant that, in the end, there was proof that Dean'd gotten the victory and bigger prize.

It wasn't always easy, though. There were some hunts, usually close calls, that he remembered with absolute clarity. The rush of adrenaline in an incredibly risky situation, relying purely on instinct to tell him where to land his next strike. Satisfaction and pride at meeting his mark, drawing blood.

Sounded sadistic. Would be, too, Dean supposed, if the bleeding thing had been innocent. Or even human.

Either way, he thought almost guiltily, his father's reaction made up for any uncertainties. John Winchester took pride in his sons successfully hunting monsters. If it wasn't human, it hurt people in its supernatural state of being, it should die.

One of the many reasons Sam and their father were at each other's throats twice as often lately. Dean didn't enjoy being the mediator between Sam's bitchfests and his father's drinking to help curb his rage – as if it ever worked...

Dean was jolted out of his musings as Sam declared a new find.

A long, bumpy line across his abdomen, and Sam had to admit it was probably his only major blemish at the age. John, for all his hardass ways, didn't purposefully put his sons in the line of danger.

"Woah, man, where'd you get that?" This time, Dean sounded slightly impressed.

"Er, it was that week that Dad took me into that freaky-ass forest," Sam remembered.

Immediately, Dean's surprise faded and he rolled his eyes. "Dude, you're gonna tell the ladies that you got it from an enchanted forest?" the nineteen-year-old asked, shaking his head. "At least come up with a less pansy story."

Sam, for his part, glared at his brother. "Girls appreciate the truth too, Dean." Then he huffed, recalling the memory. "Goddamn forest."

"More like goddamn father-son bonding week," Dean teased.

Sam glared at him. "It wasn't my idea to go in there!"

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry," he said consolingly. "Yours was way better than my first." He shuddered a bit.

Sam looked at him, intrigued. Dean, having a problem with being with John for an entire week? Unheard of. He said as much, along with, "Dude, what happened?"

"I, uh, had a run in with a werewolf." Dean nodded. "Backwards."

Sam stared at him, uncomprehending.

Dean rolled his eyes and elaborated, "As in, claws attacking me, ass-first."

Sam's eyes widened, and he couldn't help but laugh at the thought. "No way," he denied. "Prove it."

Dean raised both eyebrows. "Really, Sammy, didn't know you were interested in that stuff."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Shut up, jerk. How do you get one back there anyway?"

"Painfully," he answered. Dean made a face then. "Try having Dad stitch it up for you."

Sammy's face broke into a wider grin as he imagined his brother's plight. "Dude, gross."

Dean snorted. "In all fairness, I don't think Dad enjoyed it much either." Dean started to laugh. "Figures, he had some pretty interesting tales to tell too."

"Seriously?" Dad had never told Sam anything about his experiences. Then again, Sam never asked.

"I'll tell you the story sometime, kiddo," Dean said, grinning at the memory.

Sam looked like he wanted to press for more but Dean cut him off by changing the subject.

"But for a young one like yourself, not bad," the elder assured Sam, smirking. "Follow your big bro's lead, and you may just get to be as awesome as me."

Sam snorted. "That's a low bar."

"God, Sammy," Dean complained. "You can be such a bitch."

"And you're a jerk," Sam immediately countered, finding himself grinning.

"Well, Sam, congrats," Dean said after a short pause. "Ya helped me kill 'bout an hour. Think I can get outta here now."

"Yeah right," Sam responded seriously. "Dad would have your head – concussed and all."

Dean grumbled under his breath, "But he can bounce out of a hospital whenever he feels like it..."

"What was that son?" Dean's eyes flicked to the doorway, startled, at the familiar voice of his father.

"Nothin', sir," he answered, just shy of cocky.

John grunted. "Good, 'cause you're staying here overnight."

"Dad," Dean couldn't help but protest. Yeah, he was whining, so what? There was no way he was staying in this sickly clean and white place any longer.

"Dean."

Okay, so maybe he was.

"You get the spirit?" Sam asked suddenly.

"Salted and burned, kiddo," John responded, sitting down heavily in a chair opposite Sam's side of the bed. He'd heard the most part of their end conversation, and added onto the discussion with a scoff, "By the way, I could top both of you combined."

Dean looked at his father seriously. "Yeah, Dad, but at your old age it's just lost its touch in the dating area."

As John scowled in offense, Dean continued without thinking, "I mean come on, when was the last time you-"

"Please don't finish that," Sam broke in hastily, looking more than a little grossed out.

Both his father and brother grinned at the teen's obvious discomfort.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean crowed. "Don't tell me Dad hasn't even pointed out the birds and bees yet!"

When the other two remained silent, Dean said in obvious shock, "Wait..." He turned to his father. "I was like, a year younger than him!"

John looked at him witheringly. "And you were figuring it out yourself in the Impala," he growled.

Dean blinked, then smirked, refusing to be embarrassed. "Oh yeah..."

Sam's eyes widened comically. "I sat back there!" he cried.

Dean shrugged, winking at his little brother. "Good thing you don't any more, too." Sure enough, John had given the Impala to Dean on the kid's eighteenth birthday, and Sam had happily been bumped up to shotgun.

Sam crossed his arms, the sulky look the Winchesters had gotten accustomed to lately on his face. John, on the other hand, looked slightly amused at his eldest teasing remarks to his brother.

He cut it short before another full-fledged war could begin, "You should start getting some rest, Ace."

"I'm not tired," Dean immediately protested, but it died at his father's stare.

"You know the doc's gonna have to wake you up throughout the night; best sleep while you can." It wasn't really a suggestion.

Dean sighed and leaned back, pushing the button to lay his bed near horizontal again. There was silence in the small hospital room.

Dean drifted off a few minutes later, and John settled back noticeably. Sam did the same, silently brooding.

It was a little sad, Sam thought with an internal snort, that his family was weird enough to even be able to compare scars.

How many normal people though, he reflected next, could say that yeah, they'd fought for their life and come out on top. It was a little ego-stroking, Sam admitted to himself reluctantly.

He listened to Dean's even breathing, proof that for all his protesting, his brother really was exhausted. Didn't blame him though - hospitals hated them already. What was one more for the record books? Sam glanced over to his father next, sitting on the other side of Dean's bed, calmly sifting through a magazine and looking like he wasn't gonna be moving any time soon.

His father had scars too. He'd said it himself. He wondered if John could really sit as Sam and Dean had been and recall all the instances that had occurred for him to get them. His father had fought in Vietnam, for crying out loud. Sam wasn't sure anyone would want to remember that.

They were the three of them the same in that: they bore scars as the price of their survival. Some of anger and sadness, and others of humorous tales that ended with great victory. Kinda poetic, Sammy thought with a little satisfaction.

"Sammy," John said, sounding a little amused. Sam started, then looked down sheepishly as he realized he'd continued to stare. "You alright?"

"Yeah, Dad," he answered quietly, after a pause. With meaning and a slight smile, he figured, "I'll be fine."

A/N:

That was...long. And kinda plotless, heh. I should stop with these random lengthy things...not good for the nerves and other... medical...ailments. But it was like, almost finished, and I thought what the hey *pokes it* Go for it.

John wasn't even gonna be in it. There wasn't even supposed to be funniness. It just..it grow-ed. It was the bunnies, I tell you! *glares* Conniving lil things...

*muses* I wouldn't mind being in the room when they were comparing scars ^.- Heh. Right, review, if ya please :)

-Dodo.