SPN gen fic - Laws of Motion - John, Dean and Sam PG13
I have fic. *dances with glee, tempered with mild exhaustion*
I started this story back in August, and then was struck by horrific writer's block. I knew what I wanted to write, but couldn't find the words. The fic is dedicated to my husband, who patiently explained Newton's Laws of Motion to me several times.
TITLE: Laws of Motion
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, teen Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 4900 words. Set pre-series. The wonderful yasminke did sterling beta work as always. Sam has a physics quiz, and a werewolf hunt.
He turns into the driveway, and even as slow as he takes it, every crack in the baked concrete judders all the way through the suspension into the steering column, shuddering his shoulders and dragging a wince from the back of his throat.
Still, it’s a driveway, plus there’s an actual garage. An unprecedented indulgence to luxury, but he’d decided a while ago that they were going to stay here until Dean graduated, and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving the Impala parked out front for every snot-nosed little punk to fondle.
There’s the reassuring rhythmic thud that Dean swears up and down is not of demonic origin floating through the open window, but quietly, which means he won’t have to kick their asses for disturbing the neighbors. He can just make out the sound of the boys over it, Sam’s newly-broken voice still colored with a hint of reedy peevishness, Dean’s voice deeper and so laid-back it’s practically horizontal.
“I don’t get it.” A hiss of frustration, then the slap of a book meeting the table. John can picture Sam’s mulish expression, the one he’s been wearing pretty much constantly for the past year.
There’s a soft clatter of something on the table - guns, or maybe knife and whetstone - and he steps closer to the kitchen window, not enough to see or be seen, presses his back against the aging siding, and listens.
“Here, lemme see.” Dean’s voice is calm, patient. “Dude. You got the equation wrong. Force equals change of momentum over time, not times it.”
John remembers the last-first-high school parent-teacher conference he went to for Sam. He was usually out of town on a hunt, never in one place long enough to be around for it. Pretty much what he’d expected: English, Latin and History teachers singing the kid’s praises. That hadn’t really been much of a surprise, given the way Sam devours books, spitting out obscure bits of information as a challenge, a way to question everything John has taught him.
There was this one science teacher, though. Older guy, the kind of teacher John remembers only too well from his own school days. Tough, take-no-shit, tell-it-like-it-is type of guy.
“Sam’s doing okay, but he could do better, Mr. Winchester. Boy needs to apply himself, put in a little more effort.”
“So it’s force times time. Why didn’t you just say that?” Sam bitches, with that whiny petulance that has plagued his tone ever since Sammy became Sam. John’s used to hearing it directed at himself, but it’s a surprise to hear it aimed at Dean, and his palm itches to smack some of the pissy little attitude out of the kid.
“Sam.” Amused tolerance colors Dean’s tone. “It’s not rocket science.” A pause, then he adds sheepishly, “Okay, so technically it is rocket science.”
Sam laughs then, a quiet huff of breath, low and easy, and their shared laughter floats through the open window, putting an inexplicable ache in John’s chest. There’s the soft sound of muttered obscenities, the comfortable camaraderie of insults and abuse that John remembers from foxholes eight thousand miles and almost as many years away.
He pushes off from the wall and walks in through the front door. The faint scent of charred food hits first, hard to tell if it’s tonight’s supper, or the splatters from last night’s chili slowly welding onto the stove top. He guesses they’re having leftovers tonight, because Dean always makes enough to feed a small army.
An army marches on its stomach, son.
When Dean was small, John came upon him belly-crawling down the stairs, tiny green soldiers tumbling in tow. John had hauled him up by his ankles just before Dean had pitched head over heels all the way to the bottom of the stairs. When questioned, Dean had just shrugged and parroted that line at him.
Dean had clearly taken John’s subsequent explanation to heart.
“Something’s burning,” he says, setting his bag down beside the table, then giving the pan a quick shake. The sticky mass in the pot hisses in vague protest, but doesn’t shift.
“Shit.” Dean’s chair grates across the floor, and he grabs a spoon from the sink and starts scraping burnt chili from the base of the pan.
“Watch your mouth.” John’s muttered warning is more out of duty than actual disapproval, especially since the air outside is still crackling blue from the boys’ earlier banter.
He can practically hear the eye-roll in Sam’s deep, unrestrained sigh. John bites down on a reprimand; he really doesn’t feel like getting into it with Sam this early in the evening.
Sam sprawls at the kitchen table, his school books vying with the contents of the weapons bag for possession of the area. John figures Dean was cleaning the guns while he was helping Sam with the whole rocket science deal.
“You finished up here, son?” he asks, and starts clearing away the gun oil and rags.
“Just your guns left,” Dean mutters, hunching over the pan of chili, poking at it in a vain attempt to coax it back from the brink of petrifaction. He lifts the spoon, and a dollop of black-flecked goop slides off it, plops back into the pan with a wet splat. Then he brightens visibly, grabbing the ketchup and chili sauce.
“We all set for tonight?” Dean works hard at sounding nonchalant, but his body betrays him. He rocks lightly on his heels, poised, senses alert, muscles itching to move in familiar patterns. Something in him, or maybe trained into him. John isn’t sure which, and to be honest, he doesn’t care to examine that idea too closely.
He nods. “We’ll go over the plan after supper, then you boys get a few hours of shut-eye. We head out around midnight.”
Sam shifts at the table, mutters something indistinctly.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John keeps his voice even, calm.
There’s a stiffening of the kid’s shoulders at the Sammy and John hears an unspoken reproach in Sam’s exaggerated sigh.
He scrubs his hand over his face; chin sandpaper sharp under his palm. It’s not all Sammy-It’s Sam, Dad-he’s as guilty as the kid these days. Everything they say to each other grates, every conversation a potential minefield, the words tinderbox dry.
“You want some help with that?” he nods to the textbook, extending an olive branch.
“S’okay.” Sam pulls the book closer to him; tapping the end of his pencil against the table. “It’s physics.”
“I do know something about mechanics, kiddo,” he offers lightly.
“It’s not that kind of mechanics.” Sam rolls his eyes, snaps the book shut.
It hurts, that condescension, but he catches Dean’s eye, and the kid’s shaking his head, mouth thin in a frown that’s straight from Mary’s face to John’s heart.
“Well, if you’re finished there, you can set the table.” He snaps that out, voice tight, throat aching. Not what he means to say at all.
Sam shoves his books into his backpack and pushes back from the table, chair legs screeching across the floor. He stomps over to the cabinets, digs in the drawer, the clatter of cutlery harsh and jangling. Back to the table and he starts setting down the forks with a stilted precision that’s borne of barely restrained fury.
Sometimes, it feels like a blink of an eye since Sammy was strapped into the highchair, banging a spoon in arrhythmic anticipation of the evening meal. Dean joining in with his knife and fork, an impromptu drum kit, and baby Sammy smiling, open contentment in his big, wide, gummy grin.
But sometimes, times like this, it feels like a hundred years ago.
Dean gives up. Lifts his arm away from his eyes and turns his head on the pillow, checking the nightstand for possible weapons. He discounts the hunting knife and the radio alarm, slightly regretfully, but there’s a tennis ball and a selection of emo paperbacks on Sam’s side, which would be fit for purpose.
“It’s a simple choice, Sammy.” His brother looks up from the desk, and Dean pushes himself up against the headboard. “Either you put the light out and get your ass to bed, or I start throwing stuff. At your head.”
Sam huffs out a short irritated sigh, then ignores him, carries right on reading.
“Dude,” Dean warns, aiming two fingers at Sam’s head. “Pretty big target.”
“Dean.” Sam smacks the book down on the desk in exaggerated frustration. “I gotta know this for tomorrow.”
“Sam.” Dean leans back, shoves his hands behind his head. “You been studying since you got in from school. If you don’t know it now, you never will.” He feels sorry for the kid, but it is kinda funny, because as much as Sammy is a total dork boy geek about schoolwork, poor kid just doesn’t get physics.
“It’s only eight-thirty,” Sammy pouts. “Most kids don’t go to bed at eight-thirty.”
“Yeah, well most kids don’t get to go werewolf hunting. You need to get some sleep before we head out.”
“Don’t see why I get to go.”
Shit, not this again. 101 Reasons Why My Life Sucks, by Sam Winchester, age fourteen and one quarter. Kid probably keeps a secret diary, where he lists all the imagined crimes committed daily against his human rights. In sparkly fucking ink, most likely.
This time last year, Sammy was begging Dad to let him tag along. Skulking off in a sulk when Dad made him stay in the car; pleading with them to let him do some of the research. Dean had been all for Sam taking on research duties, and it hadn’t taken that much effort to persuade Dad. Thirteen-year-old Sammy had spent many a happy hour geeking out over twelfth century Latin cleansing rituals.
Fourteen-year-old Sam spends many a less than happy hour hunting, or more specifically, whining about going hunting.
“Way I see it, Sammy, Dad’s doing you a favor. Next time you gotta write a poetry paper for English, you got all this real life teen angst to call on for inspiration.”
Sam doesn’t bother turning around, just flips him the finger and keeps right on reading.
Dean reaches over and selects the tennis ball, curving his fingers around it, weighing it in his hand. It’s kinda like a mixture of darts and pool, he figures, tilting his head a little to improve his aim. Just got to get the right angle. Simple physics.
The tennis ball bounces off the base of the lamp and connects with Sam’s forehead with a pleasingly solid thunk. At least Dean guesses it’s his forehead, because the room is plunged into sudden darkness as soon as the ball ricochets off the lamp switch.
The yelped ‘fuck it’ provides further evidence that the ball has indeed made contact with its intended target. Then Dean hears the scrape of chair legs on the floor, and he readies himself for the attack.
It’s sloppy and uncontrolled, like always when Sammy’s pissed. Kid’s got natural ability, but his form goes to hell when he’s riled. The latest growth spurt doesn’t help either; Sam still hasn’t figured out how to control his coltishly overlong legs, and spends most of their sparring sessions tripping over his clown feet and falling ass-backwards on to the dirt.
But he’s a determined little bastard, and he knows how to fight dirty; Dean’s made sure of that. He lands on Dean’s stomach, knees shoved into his kidneys, thumbs searching out his eyes. Dean twists under him, turning his face quick enough that Sam’s thumbs jab into his nose and left ear, pressing into cartilage instead of eyeball.
It takes a while for their eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, but that doesn’t stop them. Sammy had bitched non-stop about Dad’s stupid freaking Miyagi head-trip, but right now Dean figures his little brother’s probably appreciating the whole blindfolded sparring twist that Dad had added to their training sessions a while back.
Dean had gone along with Dad’s training quite happily. To be honest, the blindfold made no difference. Dean didn’t just predict Sam’s moves; he knew them by heart, knew when Sam would punch and where he’d kick, knew when to block and where to aim. Because those were Dean’s moves, and before they were his, they were Dad’s. Muscle memories passed down from father to son. Dean could take Sammy down with his eyes closed, and on one memorable occasion had done so with one hand literally tied behind his back.
Not tonight, though. Sam’s temper might make him careless, but it also makes him volatile, his moves becoming suddenly unpredictable. Dean shifts just in time to avoid a kneecap in the nuts, hooks his arm around Sam’s neck and presses a thumb into his windpipe. Sam struggles to draw breath and his legs flail wildly, somehow managing to swing all the way up to the nightstand and send the alarm clock flying, taking with it the pile of books and the two penicillin culture-encrusted coffee cups teetering on the edge of the table.
The resultant crash is frankly impressive, shattering the silence of the tiny apartment, and they both freeze in anticipation of Dad’s reaction. Which isn’t long in coming.
The wall behind their heads is pummeled viciously, then -
“Boys! What the hell is going on in there?”
The wall is thin enough that Dad might as well be standing next to them yelling. Dean feels Sam’s temper flare; his whole body goes rigid, muscles taut with rage. He knows that the kid’s about to open his smart mouth and get his dumb ass kicked. So he takes advantage of Sam’s exasperated contempt, and flips him easily, spreading Sam’s arms wide and kneeling lightly on his biceps. Hurts like a bitch; it’s a move he rarely uses on his little brother.
“Get off me, fucker,” Sam growls, loud enough for Dad to hear, and Dean wonders if maybe Sammy has a death wish. Or developed some kind of weird craving for soap.
Dean kneels a little harder on the trembling muscles and covers Sam’s mouth with his palm. “Dude, chill.”
There’s a puff of air through his fingers, a soft squeak of almost pain, and then Sam’s scowl relaxes, and he nods his head wordlessly. Dean leans back, taking the weight off his knees, but he doesn’t remove his hand.
“Sorry, Dad,” Dean calls out, and Sam’s mouth twists into a grimace under his fingers. “Knocked the lamp over.”
“Get your asses in bed, then. I want lights out half an hour ago, you hear me?”
“Right along with the rest of the county,” Sam says, but this time he has enough sense to keep his voice down.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes hard enough to give himself a migraine.
There’s some stomping, heavy footsteps and then the creaking protest of ancient bedsprings as Dad lies back down again.
Dean lifts his hand tentatively, relaxes his hold on Sammy. He shoves Dean off his chest and rolls to the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor.
“Kiss ass,” he hisses, abruptly disgusted.
There’s not much Dean can say to refute the allegation, so he digs his heel into the small of Sam’s back, sending him ass-first onto the floor.
“Go to bed, Sammy,” he drawls, purposely leaning on the Sammy to piss his brother off.
Sam swears softly but creatively, combining old favorites in new and interesting ways. Dean allows himself a moment of justified pride in his little brother’s extended vocabulary - he’s responsible for most of it - but he feels he should offer a word of caution.
“Dude, Dad hears you and you’re gonna be spitting soap for a week.”
Sam heaves himself onto his own bed with a melodramatic sigh. Then, “Why do you do that?”
Dean contemplates faking a snore. Not too loud, just enough to convince Sammy he’s dozed off.
“Dean.” A slight rise in volume now. Jesus, the kid does not know when to keep his big mouth shut.
“Sam.” Dean wills him to go to sleep.
“Why do you do that?” Sam repeats.
“Why do I do what?” Maybe if he just parrots back everything Sam says he’ll bore his brother to sleep.
“You know.” An exasperated sigh. “Whatever the hell Dad says.”
He is not doing this. Not gonna spend the next hour and a fucking half justifying himself - justifying Dad - to Sam, because that’s what this’ll turn into. It’s a conversation he’s tired of having with his brother.
“Quit bitching and go to sleep.”
Sam’s quiet then, for so long that Dean thinks maybe he’s actually fallen asleep, that he’s finally gonna be able to get a few hours of shut-eye before they head out for the hunt.
Then, very quietly, “It’s not like you’re dumb.”
Dean lies very still, doesn’t answer Sam.
“You’re smart. And I don’t just mean street smart, Dean.” There’s sincerity in Sam’s tone now, and the back of Dean’s neck prickles. “You’re better than me at science, and math.”
There’s something in Dean’s chest, a lead weight pressing down there. “Wouldn’t exactly be hard, dumbass.” He keeps his voice light, even.
Sam ignores the insult. “There’s a world out there.” His voice is low, earnest. “College, maybe. You don’t have to always do what Dad wants.”
Dean swallows, his throat suddenly painfully dry. Sam can’t have guessed.
He’d never actually considered it. Not seriously. Not even when Mr. Harrison called him back after Physics class, offered to help him with the application forms.
"Grades are good enough, Dean. You should think about it."
Mr. Harrison had talked of traitorous possibilities: applications, scholarships. Dean had listened to him, and for a moment, the world had been suddenly magnified; expanded to something more than just his family, more than just the hunt.
A couple of nights later, Dad had a run-in with a Black Dog, and Dean sewed his arm up, five neat stitches stretched over the meat of his shoulder. He’d thrown the application forms in the trash along with Dad’s blood-soaked shirt, and spent the rest of the night sitting up with Dad to watch for signs of infection.
College. It’s a ridiculous idea: a dumb childish dream. Might just as well think about flying to the moon. He’s needed here, with Sammy and Dad, doing the job he’s spent his life training for. There are a thousand guys out there with his grades, with what Mr. Harrison calls his ‘natural ability’.
College won’t miss Dean Winchester.
He feels Sam’s eyes on him, in the blind darkness of the room, his accusation echoing in the silence between them. You don’t always have to do what Dad wants.
“It - it’s what I want, Sammy. It’s got nothing to do with Dad,” he lies.
Sam snorts softly, then rolls onto his side, so that Dean can’t see his face anymore. After a few minutes his breathing slows, evening out into soft rhythmic snores.
Dean stares at his brother’s back for a long time, and doesn’t sleep.
Sam shifts his weight, huddling his shoulders and curling his hands to bring his fingertips in under the worn cuffs of his jacket. Make that Dean’s jacket. Or whoever the hell owned the damn thing before Dad spied it at the thrift store.
He had been ridiculously pleased with his discovery. “Don’t make ‘em like that any more,” he’d declared.
"There’s a reason for that,” Sam had managed not to say, refraining from pointing out that the garment had been languishing at the bottom of the ’last chance to buy’ bargain bin, buried beneath three left shoes and a disturbingly stained ‘Kids From Fame’ sweatshirt.
It was, his father had proudly proclaimed, a proper old-fashioned hunting jacket. Sam had known right then it’d be handed down to him, once Dean was lucky enough to outgrow it. The heavy wool plaid refuses to wear out, the red and black check still as garish as the day it was made, which was mostly likely around the same time as the discovery of the wheel.
It’s raining; a soft, relentless mizzle that soaks into the seams of the jacket, releasing the smell of wet dog and mildew from the damp fabric. The werewolf can probably pick up his scent a mile off. Maybe that’s why Dad insisted he come, to play Little Red to Dad’s woodcutter. He can’t see any other good reason for dragging his ass out here in the middle of the night.
Dad said it was for backup, but that’s pretty much a bunch of crap. Dad and Dean don’t need backup. They’re a two-man team, have been for a while now. Dean knows what to do almost without Dad having to tell him. Like tonight, when Dad had gone over vague details of the hunt after supper. Dean had leaned in, nodding as he read over Dad’s shoulder. Sam felt a pang of envy at the easy intimacy of it, Dean and Dad on some wavelength that he’s never been able to access.
Dad expects Sam to be like Dean, to follow orders, to obey without question. Sam can’t. He needs to know the details, the hows and whys and what ifs of every hunt. Dad never shares that information, not with Sam anyway. Not even with Dean, Sam suspects, but then Dean is a fervent believer in the infallibility of John Winchester. There are fanatical Jesuits out there with less faith in God than Dean has in their father.
Dean doesn’t need to be told once, never mind twice, just snaps to when the order comes, his heels practically clicking in time to his ‘yes sir’. Like a clockwork soldier, just wind him up and watch him go.
Sam half-wishes now he’d stood up to Dad for once and refused to come on the hunt. Dad would have ranted and raved - so what else is new - but in the end, Sam would’ve just ended up with extra PFT or a week of KP duty, or some other acronymic Marine bullshit-type punishment. And he’d have half a chance of getting a passing grade on his Physics quiz tomorrow. Mr. Cade’s been on his case this semester, about how he needs to knuckle down, put some actual effort into his work. Jesus, it’s not like he doesn’t get enough of that from Dad over training.
Dad and Dean had headed into the woods a half hour ago, following the werewolf’s trail. Dad had pointed out the claw marks on the trees, the weirdly human-shaped footprints on the dusty pine-needled track, leading off into the darker cover of the woods. He’d left Sam out here on the edge on the forest, told him to watch the perimeter, and Sam’s still not sure if he’s supposed to be back-up or bait.
The clouds drift apart to reveal the moon, fat and bright as a silver dollar, hanging low in the sky. Sam yawns, his jaw stretching and cracking with the effort. He clicks the safety back on his rifle and leans it against a tree, pats his pockets for a stick of gum, candy, anything to keep him awake.
Dumb.
Dumber than dumb.
Stupid dumbass rookie mistake.
No, dumb doesn’t do it justice. It’s idiocy on an epic scale, grand monumental stupidity.
It’s sudden, the attack, the silence of the night ripped apart as the creature tears out of the forest, snarling gutturally, moonlight flashing off strangely pale skin. It’s like the werewolf has been waiting, watching for the moment that he puts the gun down, leaving himself open, vulnerable. Sam wants to move, but his legs won’t co-operate with his brain; he’s frozen in place, an easy target.
Jesus, Dad is so gonna kick his ass.
A body slams into him, not head-on, but from the left, a solid wall of muscle that knocks him off his feet, carries him down to the damp pine-scented earth. The side of his head cracks hard against an ancient tree stump, and light explodes behind his eyes, supernova bright.
The pain is white-hot, shorting out any synapses that might have allowed him to control his temper. He struggles wildly, elbows and knees jabbing into the body above him with satisfying force. His elbow collides with solid bone, the impact jarring his arm and dragging an anguished hiss from his assailant.
“Sammy!” Another quiet exhalation, breath hot against the side of his face. “Stay down!”
He recognizes Dean; the hold is wearily familiar, one his brother uses in training when he wants to immobilize Sam without hurting him. And that dumb baby name. No matter how many times Sam corrects him, Dean always reverts to Sammy in times of stress.
He stops struggling, but Dean doesn’t let him up, just covers Sam’s body with his own. Sam realizes why when the gunshot rips through the still air, echoing through Dean’s chest, while his heartbeat thuds loud in Sam’s ear.
The wild snarling is abruptly ended, and there’s a faint canine whimper which becomes a horrible choking gargling as the werewolf regains human form. Sam realizes it’s the sound of someone choking on their own blood.
Dean’s grip relaxes then, and Sam feels something warm and wet on his cheek.
“Dude, don’t drool on me.” Sam shoves his brother off and rubs the heel of his hand over his cheek. His palm comes away dark.
“Sammy!”
He’s grabbed under the arms, hauled roughly to his knees. That’s Dad. He shares the whole Sammy fixation thing, but he’s not so good at holding Sam without hurting him.
“You okay, son?” Dad’s voice is gruff. He grasps Sam’s chin, fingers biting into muscle, angling his face towards the flashlight. “Did it get you?”
“No, sir,” he responds automatically, then tries to twist out of his father’s firm grip. “Dad, I’m okay.”
Dad loosens his grip, swipes his fingers over Sam’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
Sam isn’t sure if it’s an observation or accusation. He runs his hand over his cheek again, feeling the sticky warmth there, but without the usual accompanying spike of pain. The side of his head aches a little where he cracked it against the tree stump, there’s gonna be a bruise at least, maybe an egg-shaped lump, but he’s definitely not bleeding.
Dad turns his head to the side again, his thumb pressing along the edge of Sam’s jaw, hard enough to bruise.
“Dad!” This time Sam squirms free, rubbing at the tender spot on his jaw. “I’m okay.”
“Dad.” Dean’s voice sounds weird, muffled, like that time they played Chubby Bunny and Dean got nineteen marshmallows in his mouth without swallowing.
Dad swings the flashlight around to shine it on his brother. Dean is kneeling forward, his head bent low, spitting dark strings of saliva onto the ground. He blinks in the sudden glare of the flashlight.
“Jesus, Dean!” Dad hisses, and then he’s over beside him, running his hand over Dean’s face. Sam hears a soft wince, can’t tell if it’s from Dad or his brother.
“Werewolf do this?” Dad asks, and Sam’s blood runs cold.
His fault. He’d been standing out here on the edge of the woods like a bump on a log. Hadn’t even tried to run. Dean had knocked him out of the werewolf’s path, kept him covered while Dad had killed it. If it had bitten Dean…
“I wish,” Dean mutters ruefully, spitting another mouthful of blood onto the ground. “Damn, but you got sharp elbows, Sammy.”
Dad huffs out a breath, half a laugh, half a sob. “Jesus, boy, don’t do that to your old man.”
He pulls Dean against him awkwardly, his hand on the back of Dean’s head. Dean’s eyes close and he slumps against Dad, his cheek crushed against Dad’s chest. They sit like that for a moment, Dad’s hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s neck, Dean still and quiet.
“It’s what I want, Sammy. It’s got nothing to do with Dad.”
Dean’s a piss-poor liar. Sam knows then, knows for certain that Dean won’t leave their father.
“Sam.” Dad’s voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. “You wanna tell me what the hell your rifle’s doing over by that tree?”
Sam opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself. No reason for such stupidity. He knows the rules.
“Dad, come on,” Dean pleads quietly. “He was just tired. We all are, right? And Sammy's been studying for that quiz tomorrow.”
Like that matters to Dad.
Dad sighs, deep and deliberate. “Be nice if you used that smart brain for something besides school, Sammy. You never put your weapon down. Left yourself wide open.” He shakes his head slowly.
“Dad.” Dean's voice is soft.
“Damn lucky,” Dad whispers, but he lets it go. He pretty much always does that when Dean asks him.
Dean to the rescue. Like always. No matter what dumb shit Sam pulls, Dean’s always there to cover his back. Even if it means Dean gets an elbow in the mouth, or a broken nose, or a dislocated shoulder. Like it’s Dean’s job to get hurt instead of him.
Sam realizes then that he isn’t backup, or even bait. He’s a liability. Dean and Dad don’t need him around on the hunt, fucking things up for them.
Dean and Dad don’t need him. Period.
They’re a two-man team, and there’s just no room for three.
I started this story back in August, and then was struck by horrific writer's block. I knew what I wanted to write, but couldn't find the words. The fic is dedicated to my husband, who patiently explained Newton's Laws of Motion to me several times.
TITLE: Laws of Motion
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, teen Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 4900 words. Set pre-series. The wonderful yasminke did sterling beta work as always. Sam has a physics quiz, and a werewolf hunt.
He turns into the driveway, and even as slow as he takes it, every crack in the baked concrete judders all the way through the suspension into the steering column, shuddering his shoulders and dragging a wince from the back of his throat.
Still, it’s a driveway, plus there’s an actual garage. An unprecedented indulgence to luxury, but he’d decided a while ago that they were going to stay here until Dean graduated, and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving the Impala parked out front for every snot-nosed little punk to fondle.
There’s the reassuring rhythmic thud that Dean swears up and down is not of demonic origin floating through the open window, but quietly, which means he won’t have to kick their asses for disturbing the neighbors. He can just make out the sound of the boys over it, Sam’s newly-broken voice still colored with a hint of reedy peevishness, Dean’s voice deeper and so laid-back it’s practically horizontal.
“I don’t get it.” A hiss of frustration, then the slap of a book meeting the table. John can picture Sam’s mulish expression, the one he’s been wearing pretty much constantly for the past year.
There’s a soft clatter of something on the table - guns, or maybe knife and whetstone - and he steps closer to the kitchen window, not enough to see or be seen, presses his back against the aging siding, and listens.
“Here, lemme see.” Dean’s voice is calm, patient. “Dude. You got the equation wrong. Force equals change of momentum over time, not times it.”
John remembers the last-first-high school parent-teacher conference he went to for Sam. He was usually out of town on a hunt, never in one place long enough to be around for it. Pretty much what he’d expected: English, Latin and History teachers singing the kid’s praises. That hadn’t really been much of a surprise, given the way Sam devours books, spitting out obscure bits of information as a challenge, a way to question everything John has taught him.
There was this one science teacher, though. Older guy, the kind of teacher John remembers only too well from his own school days. Tough, take-no-shit, tell-it-like-it-is type of guy.
“Sam’s doing okay, but he could do better, Mr. Winchester. Boy needs to apply himself, put in a little more effort.”
“So it’s force times time. Why didn’t you just say that?” Sam bitches, with that whiny petulance that has plagued his tone ever since Sammy became Sam. John’s used to hearing it directed at himself, but it’s a surprise to hear it aimed at Dean, and his palm itches to smack some of the pissy little attitude out of the kid.
“Sam.” Amused tolerance colors Dean’s tone. “It’s not rocket science.” A pause, then he adds sheepishly, “Okay, so technically it is rocket science.”
Sam laughs then, a quiet huff of breath, low and easy, and their shared laughter floats through the open window, putting an inexplicable ache in John’s chest. There’s the soft sound of muttered obscenities, the comfortable camaraderie of insults and abuse that John remembers from foxholes eight thousand miles and almost as many years away.
He pushes off from the wall and walks in through the front door. The faint scent of charred food hits first, hard to tell if it’s tonight’s supper, or the splatters from last night’s chili slowly welding onto the stove top. He guesses they’re having leftovers tonight, because Dean always makes enough to feed a small army.
An army marches on its stomach, son.
When Dean was small, John came upon him belly-crawling down the stairs, tiny green soldiers tumbling in tow. John had hauled him up by his ankles just before Dean had pitched head over heels all the way to the bottom of the stairs. When questioned, Dean had just shrugged and parroted that line at him.
Dean had clearly taken John’s subsequent explanation to heart.
“Something’s burning,” he says, setting his bag down beside the table, then giving the pan a quick shake. The sticky mass in the pot hisses in vague protest, but doesn’t shift.
“Shit.” Dean’s chair grates across the floor, and he grabs a spoon from the sink and starts scraping burnt chili from the base of the pan.
“Watch your mouth.” John’s muttered warning is more out of duty than actual disapproval, especially since the air outside is still crackling blue from the boys’ earlier banter.
He can practically hear the eye-roll in Sam’s deep, unrestrained sigh. John bites down on a reprimand; he really doesn’t feel like getting into it with Sam this early in the evening.
Sam sprawls at the kitchen table, his school books vying with the contents of the weapons bag for possession of the area. John figures Dean was cleaning the guns while he was helping Sam with the whole rocket science deal.
“You finished up here, son?” he asks, and starts clearing away the gun oil and rags.
“Just your guns left,” Dean mutters, hunching over the pan of chili, poking at it in a vain attempt to coax it back from the brink of petrifaction. He lifts the spoon, and a dollop of black-flecked goop slides off it, plops back into the pan with a wet splat. Then he brightens visibly, grabbing the ketchup and chili sauce.
“We all set for tonight?” Dean works hard at sounding nonchalant, but his body betrays him. He rocks lightly on his heels, poised, senses alert, muscles itching to move in familiar patterns. Something in him, or maybe trained into him. John isn’t sure which, and to be honest, he doesn’t care to examine that idea too closely.
He nods. “We’ll go over the plan after supper, then you boys get a few hours of shut-eye. We head out around midnight.”
Sam shifts at the table, mutters something indistinctly.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John keeps his voice even, calm.
There’s a stiffening of the kid’s shoulders at the Sammy and John hears an unspoken reproach in Sam’s exaggerated sigh.
He scrubs his hand over his face; chin sandpaper sharp under his palm. It’s not all Sammy-It’s Sam, Dad-he’s as guilty as the kid these days. Everything they say to each other grates, every conversation a potential minefield, the words tinderbox dry.
“You want some help with that?” he nods to the textbook, extending an olive branch.
“S’okay.” Sam pulls the book closer to him; tapping the end of his pencil against the table. “It’s physics.”
“I do know something about mechanics, kiddo,” he offers lightly.
“It’s not that kind of mechanics.” Sam rolls his eyes, snaps the book shut.
It hurts, that condescension, but he catches Dean’s eye, and the kid’s shaking his head, mouth thin in a frown that’s straight from Mary’s face to John’s heart.
“Well, if you’re finished there, you can set the table.” He snaps that out, voice tight, throat aching. Not what he means to say at all.
Sam shoves his books into his backpack and pushes back from the table, chair legs screeching across the floor. He stomps over to the cabinets, digs in the drawer, the clatter of cutlery harsh and jangling. Back to the table and he starts setting down the forks with a stilted precision that’s borne of barely restrained fury.
Sometimes, it feels like a blink of an eye since Sammy was strapped into the highchair, banging a spoon in arrhythmic anticipation of the evening meal. Dean joining in with his knife and fork, an impromptu drum kit, and baby Sammy smiling, open contentment in his big, wide, gummy grin.
But sometimes, times like this, it feels like a hundred years ago.
Dean gives up. Lifts his arm away from his eyes and turns his head on the pillow, checking the nightstand for possible weapons. He discounts the hunting knife and the radio alarm, slightly regretfully, but there’s a tennis ball and a selection of emo paperbacks on Sam’s side, which would be fit for purpose.
“It’s a simple choice, Sammy.” His brother looks up from the desk, and Dean pushes himself up against the headboard. “Either you put the light out and get your ass to bed, or I start throwing stuff. At your head.”
Sam huffs out a short irritated sigh, then ignores him, carries right on reading.
“Dude,” Dean warns, aiming two fingers at Sam’s head. “Pretty big target.”
“Dean.” Sam smacks the book down on the desk in exaggerated frustration. “I gotta know this for tomorrow.”
“Sam.” Dean leans back, shoves his hands behind his head. “You been studying since you got in from school. If you don’t know it now, you never will.” He feels sorry for the kid, but it is kinda funny, because as much as Sammy is a total dork boy geek about schoolwork, poor kid just doesn’t get physics.
“It’s only eight-thirty,” Sammy pouts. “Most kids don’t go to bed at eight-thirty.”
“Yeah, well most kids don’t get to go werewolf hunting. You need to get some sleep before we head out.”
“Don’t see why I get to go.”
Shit, not this again. 101 Reasons Why My Life Sucks, by Sam Winchester, age fourteen and one quarter. Kid probably keeps a secret diary, where he lists all the imagined crimes committed daily against his human rights. In sparkly fucking ink, most likely.
This time last year, Sammy was begging Dad to let him tag along. Skulking off in a sulk when Dad made him stay in the car; pleading with them to let him do some of the research. Dean had been all for Sam taking on research duties, and it hadn’t taken that much effort to persuade Dad. Thirteen-year-old Sammy had spent many a happy hour geeking out over twelfth century Latin cleansing rituals.
Fourteen-year-old Sam spends many a less than happy hour hunting, or more specifically, whining about going hunting.
“Way I see it, Sammy, Dad’s doing you a favor. Next time you gotta write a poetry paper for English, you got all this real life teen angst to call on for inspiration.”
Sam doesn’t bother turning around, just flips him the finger and keeps right on reading.
Dean reaches over and selects the tennis ball, curving his fingers around it, weighing it in his hand. It’s kinda like a mixture of darts and pool, he figures, tilting his head a little to improve his aim. Just got to get the right angle. Simple physics.
The tennis ball bounces off the base of the lamp and connects with Sam’s forehead with a pleasingly solid thunk. At least Dean guesses it’s his forehead, because the room is plunged into sudden darkness as soon as the ball ricochets off the lamp switch.
The yelped ‘fuck it’ provides further evidence that the ball has indeed made contact with its intended target. Then Dean hears the scrape of chair legs on the floor, and he readies himself for the attack.
It’s sloppy and uncontrolled, like always when Sammy’s pissed. Kid’s got natural ability, but his form goes to hell when he’s riled. The latest growth spurt doesn’t help either; Sam still hasn’t figured out how to control his coltishly overlong legs, and spends most of their sparring sessions tripping over his clown feet and falling ass-backwards on to the dirt.
But he’s a determined little bastard, and he knows how to fight dirty; Dean’s made sure of that. He lands on Dean’s stomach, knees shoved into his kidneys, thumbs searching out his eyes. Dean twists under him, turning his face quick enough that Sam’s thumbs jab into his nose and left ear, pressing into cartilage instead of eyeball.
It takes a while for their eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, but that doesn’t stop them. Sammy had bitched non-stop about Dad’s stupid freaking Miyagi head-trip, but right now Dean figures his little brother’s probably appreciating the whole blindfolded sparring twist that Dad had added to their training sessions a while back.
Dean had gone along with Dad’s training quite happily. To be honest, the blindfold made no difference. Dean didn’t just predict Sam’s moves; he knew them by heart, knew when Sam would punch and where he’d kick, knew when to block and where to aim. Because those were Dean’s moves, and before they were his, they were Dad’s. Muscle memories passed down from father to son. Dean could take Sammy down with his eyes closed, and on one memorable occasion had done so with one hand literally tied behind his back.
Not tonight, though. Sam’s temper might make him careless, but it also makes him volatile, his moves becoming suddenly unpredictable. Dean shifts just in time to avoid a kneecap in the nuts, hooks his arm around Sam’s neck and presses a thumb into his windpipe. Sam struggles to draw breath and his legs flail wildly, somehow managing to swing all the way up to the nightstand and send the alarm clock flying, taking with it the pile of books and the two penicillin culture-encrusted coffee cups teetering on the edge of the table.
The resultant crash is frankly impressive, shattering the silence of the tiny apartment, and they both freeze in anticipation of Dad’s reaction. Which isn’t long in coming.
The wall behind their heads is pummeled viciously, then -
“Boys! What the hell is going on in there?”
The wall is thin enough that Dad might as well be standing next to them yelling. Dean feels Sam’s temper flare; his whole body goes rigid, muscles taut with rage. He knows that the kid’s about to open his smart mouth and get his dumb ass kicked. So he takes advantage of Sam’s exasperated contempt, and flips him easily, spreading Sam’s arms wide and kneeling lightly on his biceps. Hurts like a bitch; it’s a move he rarely uses on his little brother.
“Get off me, fucker,” Sam growls, loud enough for Dad to hear, and Dean wonders if maybe Sammy has a death wish. Or developed some kind of weird craving for soap.
Dean kneels a little harder on the trembling muscles and covers Sam’s mouth with his palm. “Dude, chill.”
There’s a puff of air through his fingers, a soft squeak of almost pain, and then Sam’s scowl relaxes, and he nods his head wordlessly. Dean leans back, taking the weight off his knees, but he doesn’t remove his hand.
“Sorry, Dad,” Dean calls out, and Sam’s mouth twists into a grimace under his fingers. “Knocked the lamp over.”
“Get your asses in bed, then. I want lights out half an hour ago, you hear me?”
“Right along with the rest of the county,” Sam says, but this time he has enough sense to keep his voice down.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes hard enough to give himself a migraine.
There’s some stomping, heavy footsteps and then the creaking protest of ancient bedsprings as Dad lies back down again.
Dean lifts his hand tentatively, relaxes his hold on Sammy. He shoves Dean off his chest and rolls to the side of the bed, planting his feet on the floor.
“Kiss ass,” he hisses, abruptly disgusted.
There’s not much Dean can say to refute the allegation, so he digs his heel into the small of Sam’s back, sending him ass-first onto the floor.
“Go to bed, Sammy,” he drawls, purposely leaning on the Sammy to piss his brother off.
Sam swears softly but creatively, combining old favorites in new and interesting ways. Dean allows himself a moment of justified pride in his little brother’s extended vocabulary - he’s responsible for most of it - but he feels he should offer a word of caution.
“Dude, Dad hears you and you’re gonna be spitting soap for a week.”
Sam heaves himself onto his own bed with a melodramatic sigh. Then, “Why do you do that?”
Dean contemplates faking a snore. Not too loud, just enough to convince Sammy he’s dozed off.
“Dean.” A slight rise in volume now. Jesus, the kid does not know when to keep his big mouth shut.
“Sam.” Dean wills him to go to sleep.
“Why do you do that?” Sam repeats.
“Why do I do what?” Maybe if he just parrots back everything Sam says he’ll bore his brother to sleep.
“You know.” An exasperated sigh. “Whatever the hell Dad says.”
He is not doing this. Not gonna spend the next hour and a fucking half justifying himself - justifying Dad - to Sam, because that’s what this’ll turn into. It’s a conversation he’s tired of having with his brother.
“Quit bitching and go to sleep.”
Sam’s quiet then, for so long that Dean thinks maybe he’s actually fallen asleep, that he’s finally gonna be able to get a few hours of shut-eye before they head out for the hunt.
Then, very quietly, “It’s not like you’re dumb.”
Dean lies very still, doesn’t answer Sam.
“You’re smart. And I don’t just mean street smart, Dean.” There’s sincerity in Sam’s tone now, and the back of Dean’s neck prickles. “You’re better than me at science, and math.”
There’s something in Dean’s chest, a lead weight pressing down there. “Wouldn’t exactly be hard, dumbass.” He keeps his voice light, even.
Sam ignores the insult. “There’s a world out there.” His voice is low, earnest. “College, maybe. You don’t have to always do what Dad wants.”
Dean swallows, his throat suddenly painfully dry. Sam can’t have guessed.
He’d never actually considered it. Not seriously. Not even when Mr. Harrison called him back after Physics class, offered to help him with the application forms.
"Grades are good enough, Dean. You should think about it."
Mr. Harrison had talked of traitorous possibilities: applications, scholarships. Dean had listened to him, and for a moment, the world had been suddenly magnified; expanded to something more than just his family, more than just the hunt.
A couple of nights later, Dad had a run-in with a Black Dog, and Dean sewed his arm up, five neat stitches stretched over the meat of his shoulder. He’d thrown the application forms in the trash along with Dad’s blood-soaked shirt, and spent the rest of the night sitting up with Dad to watch for signs of infection.
College. It’s a ridiculous idea: a dumb childish dream. Might just as well think about flying to the moon. He’s needed here, with Sammy and Dad, doing the job he’s spent his life training for. There are a thousand guys out there with his grades, with what Mr. Harrison calls his ‘natural ability’.
College won’t miss Dean Winchester.
He feels Sam’s eyes on him, in the blind darkness of the room, his accusation echoing in the silence between them. You don’t always have to do what Dad wants.
“It - it’s what I want, Sammy. It’s got nothing to do with Dad,” he lies.
Sam snorts softly, then rolls onto his side, so that Dean can’t see his face anymore. After a few minutes his breathing slows, evening out into soft rhythmic snores.
Dean stares at his brother’s back for a long time, and doesn’t sleep.
Sam shifts his weight, huddling his shoulders and curling his hands to bring his fingertips in under the worn cuffs of his jacket. Make that Dean’s jacket. Or whoever the hell owned the damn thing before Dad spied it at the thrift store.
He had been ridiculously pleased with his discovery. “Don’t make ‘em like that any more,” he’d declared.
"There’s a reason for that,” Sam had managed not to say, refraining from pointing out that the garment had been languishing at the bottom of the ’last chance to buy’ bargain bin, buried beneath three left shoes and a disturbingly stained ‘Kids From Fame’ sweatshirt.
It was, his father had proudly proclaimed, a proper old-fashioned hunting jacket. Sam had known right then it’d be handed down to him, once Dean was lucky enough to outgrow it. The heavy wool plaid refuses to wear out, the red and black check still as garish as the day it was made, which was mostly likely around the same time as the discovery of the wheel.
It’s raining; a soft, relentless mizzle that soaks into the seams of the jacket, releasing the smell of wet dog and mildew from the damp fabric. The werewolf can probably pick up his scent a mile off. Maybe that’s why Dad insisted he come, to play Little Red to Dad’s woodcutter. He can’t see any other good reason for dragging his ass out here in the middle of the night.
Dad said it was for backup, but that’s pretty much a bunch of crap. Dad and Dean don’t need backup. They’re a two-man team, have been for a while now. Dean knows what to do almost without Dad having to tell him. Like tonight, when Dad had gone over vague details of the hunt after supper. Dean had leaned in, nodding as he read over Dad’s shoulder. Sam felt a pang of envy at the easy intimacy of it, Dean and Dad on some wavelength that he’s never been able to access.
Dad expects Sam to be like Dean, to follow orders, to obey without question. Sam can’t. He needs to know the details, the hows and whys and what ifs of every hunt. Dad never shares that information, not with Sam anyway. Not even with Dean, Sam suspects, but then Dean is a fervent believer in the infallibility of John Winchester. There are fanatical Jesuits out there with less faith in God than Dean has in their father.
Dean doesn’t need to be told once, never mind twice, just snaps to when the order comes, his heels practically clicking in time to his ‘yes sir’. Like a clockwork soldier, just wind him up and watch him go.
Sam half-wishes now he’d stood up to Dad for once and refused to come on the hunt. Dad would have ranted and raved - so what else is new - but in the end, Sam would’ve just ended up with extra PFT or a week of KP duty, or some other acronymic Marine bullshit-type punishment. And he’d have half a chance of getting a passing grade on his Physics quiz tomorrow. Mr. Cade’s been on his case this semester, about how he needs to knuckle down, put some actual effort into his work. Jesus, it’s not like he doesn’t get enough of that from Dad over training.
Dad and Dean had headed into the woods a half hour ago, following the werewolf’s trail. Dad had pointed out the claw marks on the trees, the weirdly human-shaped footprints on the dusty pine-needled track, leading off into the darker cover of the woods. He’d left Sam out here on the edge on the forest, told him to watch the perimeter, and Sam’s still not sure if he’s supposed to be back-up or bait.
The clouds drift apart to reveal the moon, fat and bright as a silver dollar, hanging low in the sky. Sam yawns, his jaw stretching and cracking with the effort. He clicks the safety back on his rifle and leans it against a tree, pats his pockets for a stick of gum, candy, anything to keep him awake.
Dumb.
Dumber than dumb.
Stupid dumbass rookie mistake.
No, dumb doesn’t do it justice. It’s idiocy on an epic scale, grand monumental stupidity.
It’s sudden, the attack, the silence of the night ripped apart as the creature tears out of the forest, snarling gutturally, moonlight flashing off strangely pale skin. It’s like the werewolf has been waiting, watching for the moment that he puts the gun down, leaving himself open, vulnerable. Sam wants to move, but his legs won’t co-operate with his brain; he’s frozen in place, an easy target.
Jesus, Dad is so gonna kick his ass.
A body slams into him, not head-on, but from the left, a solid wall of muscle that knocks him off his feet, carries him down to the damp pine-scented earth. The side of his head cracks hard against an ancient tree stump, and light explodes behind his eyes, supernova bright.
The pain is white-hot, shorting out any synapses that might have allowed him to control his temper. He struggles wildly, elbows and knees jabbing into the body above him with satisfying force. His elbow collides with solid bone, the impact jarring his arm and dragging an anguished hiss from his assailant.
“Sammy!” Another quiet exhalation, breath hot against the side of his face. “Stay down!”
He recognizes Dean; the hold is wearily familiar, one his brother uses in training when he wants to immobilize Sam without hurting him. And that dumb baby name. No matter how many times Sam corrects him, Dean always reverts to Sammy in times of stress.
He stops struggling, but Dean doesn’t let him up, just covers Sam’s body with his own. Sam realizes why when the gunshot rips through the still air, echoing through Dean’s chest, while his heartbeat thuds loud in Sam’s ear.
The wild snarling is abruptly ended, and there’s a faint canine whimper which becomes a horrible choking gargling as the werewolf regains human form. Sam realizes it’s the sound of someone choking on their own blood.
Dean’s grip relaxes then, and Sam feels something warm and wet on his cheek.
“Dude, don’t drool on me.” Sam shoves his brother off and rubs the heel of his hand over his cheek. His palm comes away dark.
“Sammy!”
He’s grabbed under the arms, hauled roughly to his knees. That’s Dad. He shares the whole Sammy fixation thing, but he’s not so good at holding Sam without hurting him.
“You okay, son?” Dad’s voice is gruff. He grasps Sam’s chin, fingers biting into muscle, angling his face towards the flashlight. “Did it get you?”
“No, sir,” he responds automatically, then tries to twist out of his father’s firm grip. “Dad, I’m okay.”
Dad loosens his grip, swipes his fingers over Sam’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
Sam isn’t sure if it’s an observation or accusation. He runs his hand over his cheek again, feeling the sticky warmth there, but without the usual accompanying spike of pain. The side of his head aches a little where he cracked it against the tree stump, there’s gonna be a bruise at least, maybe an egg-shaped lump, but he’s definitely not bleeding.
Dad turns his head to the side again, his thumb pressing along the edge of Sam’s jaw, hard enough to bruise.
“Dad!” This time Sam squirms free, rubbing at the tender spot on his jaw. “I’m okay.”
“Dad.” Dean’s voice sounds weird, muffled, like that time they played Chubby Bunny and Dean got nineteen marshmallows in his mouth without swallowing.
Dad swings the flashlight around to shine it on his brother. Dean is kneeling forward, his head bent low, spitting dark strings of saliva onto the ground. He blinks in the sudden glare of the flashlight.
“Jesus, Dean!” Dad hisses, and then he’s over beside him, running his hand over Dean’s face. Sam hears a soft wince, can’t tell if it’s from Dad or his brother.
“Werewolf do this?” Dad asks, and Sam’s blood runs cold.
His fault. He’d been standing out here on the edge of the woods like a bump on a log. Hadn’t even tried to run. Dean had knocked him out of the werewolf’s path, kept him covered while Dad had killed it. If it had bitten Dean…
“I wish,” Dean mutters ruefully, spitting another mouthful of blood onto the ground. “Damn, but you got sharp elbows, Sammy.”
Dad huffs out a breath, half a laugh, half a sob. “Jesus, boy, don’t do that to your old man.”
He pulls Dean against him awkwardly, his hand on the back of Dean’s head. Dean’s eyes close and he slumps against Dad, his cheek crushed against Dad’s chest. They sit like that for a moment, Dad’s hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s neck, Dean still and quiet.
“It’s what I want, Sammy. It’s got nothing to do with Dad.”
Dean’s a piss-poor liar. Sam knows then, knows for certain that Dean won’t leave their father.
“Sam.” Dad’s voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. “You wanna tell me what the hell your rifle’s doing over by that tree?”
Sam opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself. No reason for such stupidity. He knows the rules.
“Dad, come on,” Dean pleads quietly. “He was just tired. We all are, right? And Sammy's been studying for that quiz tomorrow.”
Like that matters to Dad.
Dad sighs, deep and deliberate. “Be nice if you used that smart brain for something besides school, Sammy. You never put your weapon down. Left yourself wide open.” He shakes his head slowly.
“Dad.” Dean's voice is soft.
“Damn lucky,” Dad whispers, but he lets it go. He pretty much always does that when Dean asks him.
Dean to the rescue. Like always. No matter what dumb shit Sam pulls, Dean’s always there to cover his back. Even if it means Dean gets an elbow in the mouth, or a broken nose, or a dislocated shoulder. Like it’s Dean’s job to get hurt instead of him.
Sam realizes then that he isn’t backup, or even bait. He’s a liability. Dean and Dad don’t need him around on the hunt, fucking things up for them.
Dean and Dad don’t need him. Period.
They’re a two-man team, and there’s just no room for three.