With the Strength of Lions - Part Two (Sparta Verse)

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Part Two

Dad didn’t say anything as he looked at Dean, but the muscles in his jaw tightened and he started to glare. At Dean, which felt pretty strange, since Sam was always the one being glared at, always the one at the end of that look that said he’d just failed Dad in too many ways to count.


Dean opened his mouth, and Sam could sense that he was on the verge of starting to explain, to tell more of the story of what had happened, but he was obviously shaken by being glared at and Sam couldn’t really blame him. It was hard enough as it was, but if you weren’t used to it, it would be even harder.

But Dad shook his head. “I don’t want to hear any more. Go out and cut a switch, Dean.”

Going a little white, blinking, Dean stood there for a second, his hands at his sides, looking at Dad.

“I said go cut a switch; I told you I didn’t want you going in the river above the falls and I meant it.” Dad said this with utter quietness.

Dean snapped his mouth shut, and without a single word, or glance at Sam, turned on his heel and marched across the floor and out the door, ever the obedient son, willing to do whatever Dad said to do, no matter what it cost him.

As the screen door slammed shut behind Dean, Dad looked at Sam for a second, and then got up to go to the sink, where he turned on the cold water and began running the water across the back of his hand. He was going about it like it was ordinary first aid, which it was really. But he was going about it like there was nothing else wrong, like he’d not just sent Dean out to cut a switch, which was the worst, the worst ever.

Dad’s whippings hurt as it was, but switches cut into the skin, into bare skin, and Sam knew this because last time, Dad had made Dean pull his pants and underwear down. Sam hadn’t stuck around long enough to watch, but he’d seen enough to know how it happened. He looked now at the door to the bedroom, at how thin it was, and wondered how much pillow he’d have to pile over his ears to block out the sound.

Dad was taking the first aid box down from the top of the fridge, and he put it on the counter to pull out the long cloth bandage and some first aid cream. He used only one hand for most of this, keeping the other close to the side of his body. Sam watched, shaking, though he couldn’t figure out why; he’d watched Dad do first aid hundreds of time.

“Help me with this bandage,” said Dad.

Sam walked forward, his heart pounding against his breastbone, a fierce buzzing in his ears. He took the tube of first aid cream and spread it over the back of Dad’s hands, gentle over the ripped-open skin and swollen knuckles. Then, with the guidance of Dad’s fingers, he wrapped the bandage around and around, criss-crossing it like you were supposed to. Then he tied the little knot, like Dad had taught him. He gave Dad’s hand a little pat, like Dad sometimes did to him, and looked up.

Dad’s eyes were dark and hooded, and his hair was all witchy and damp around his forehead. He didn’t look happy, wasn’t really looking at Sam, and Sam backed away, just as the screen door opened, and Dean walked in. He carried the switch in his hand, some thin, pale wood he’d found that looked like it was no bigger than one of his fingers. He walked at his normal pace, neither fast nor slow, and Sam could barely stand to look at him, when he was being all brave like that. Was he doing this for Sam? Did he really think he was responsible for not stopping Sam?

Dad moved the whetting stone and the knife to the counter. Sam watched Dad motion Dean over to the table, and Dean laid the switch there; it was all so confusing.

“Take your pants down,” said Dad, “underwear, too.”

Dean moved his hands to the fastening of his still-damp jeans. Dean was getting a whipping because they had gone in the river and shouldn’t have. Sam knew that. But he could hear the river roaring in his ears, along with Dean calling Sam! Sam! Sam! And it was only that Sam realized that the only reason Dean had come in the river was to save Sam. None of this was Dean’s fault.

Dad picked up the switch.

Sam felt frozen all over, all the way down to his toes. Before he could even think, or take a single breath, he walked up to Dad, his bare feet slapping a little on the wooden floor, and put his hand on Dad’s wrist, on the one that held the switch.

“Dad.”

“Not now, Sam.”

“But Dad-”

“I said not now.”

Sam was shaking all over, ice cold, soaking wet, with the sound of the river mixing with the pounding of his heart. He almost couldn’t even move, but still he managed to slip between Dad and Dean, flattening his back against Dean’s side, as his breath skipped and his knees started knocking together.

Dad looked at Sam, his chest rising as though he was taking a deep breath to yell at Sam.

Sam knew he had to do this, even though the thought of it scared him to death and made his heart lurch in his throat. It was the right thing, the very right thing; it wouldn’t be fair to Dean any other way.

Sam took the deepest breath he could and started talking as fast as he could, before Dad could stop him, before he could stop himself.  “I went into the river first. Dean told me not to and tried to grab my arm, but I went in anyway. Then I got stuck, so he came in to save me. So it’s my fault, I’m the one who deserves whipping. Me.”

Everything froze. Dad’s eyebrows flew up again, but he looked like he’d been smacked in the head with a pole and he was looking at Sam like he’d never seen him before. Or like Sam had just walked into the room and without any provocation at all had spat into his face.

Behind him, Sam could feel the muscles in Dean’s side start to quiver.

Then Dad asked, “Dean, is this true?” Even though it was perfectly obvious that it was. Which was good because, since Dean was all out of lies, he wasn’t saying anything at all.

Dad’s throat moved as he swallowed and lowered the switch to his side. “Fine. Dean, over there.” He pointed at the wall near the bedroom door with his bandaged hand.

“Since you’re incapable of looking after Sam,” Dad said to Dean, “then your job now is to watch.”

It wasn’t fair that Dean was still being scolded for something that wasn’t at all his fault, but it wasn’t as bad as him taking a whipping that wasn’t his. But he couldn’t look at Dean.

A second later, Sam felt the weight of it clamp down on his shoulder.

Sam felt the cold start rushing through every part of him and as Dad pressed on Sam’s shoulder to push him to face the kitchen table, his breath started coming very fast, making his head feel like a balloon that was about to start floating away. He could barely hear Dad telling him to take down his shorts and underwear, but he knew that’s what he was supposed to do, so he did it. And even though his hands shook and his fingers fumbled with the button and the zipper, he managed it.

He felt his clothes snag damply on his thighs, but Dad grabbed them and pulled them down further. Then Dad pushed him forward to bend at the waist until Sam’s head was touching the surface of the table. He wrapped his arms around his head, and his breath came back at him in damp puffs. He was shaking all over, and his eyes were hot. A little sound came out of his throat, and even though Dad hadn’t yet hit him he was already crying because he knew it would be one stroke for every year he was old. And it would hurt bad, even at half that many; Dean had been very forthcoming the last time with the details of just how much.

Sam closed his eyes. He heard the swish of the switch through the air, and the shift of weight behind him and he could picture it in his head how far Dad was clocking his arm back. When the switch hit his bare skin, whistling as it landed along the backs of his thighs with the heat of electric wire making Sam jump. There the blow sizzled for a second or two and came back to the surface just as Dad hit him with the switch again, this time along the curve of his bottom, where the skin was the most tender. And as that one sizzled, and the one after that, Dad hit him again and Sam’s bare skin was so hot he was burning. He pushed up to get away, but Dad took his hand and pushed Sam back down hard enough that Sam could feel the edges of the bandage he’d tied around Dad’s hand.

His chin smacked against the surface of the table, and Dad hit him again with the switch, right on the same spot he hit the first time. Sam moved his legs, trying to push up, to get away, but Dad’s hand was a heavy weight, and the skin on the backs of his legs felt like they were being opened with a knife, that they were raw and bleeding. He counted in his head, how many was that, four? He wasn’t going to make it, he knew he wasn’t going to make it to five, let alone twelve, and then Dad hit him again, right along the crease of his thighs where they met his bottom, and he screamed out loud, the sound ripping right from the bottom of his lungs.

Dad seemed to pause, just for a second, but it didn’t stop the whipping. Dad kept whipping him with the switch, cutting Sam’s skin with each stroke of the branch. Sam’s throat grew raw from the sounds he was making, couldn’t stop making, somewhere between crying and roaring as the tears poured hot down his face. He knew Dad would have approved of Sam more, if he’d taken it like a man, but it felt like Dad was peeling him, skin from bone, one stroke at a time.

And from Dean, not one sound.

Somewhere along the eight blow, Sam lost count, and his chest felt hollow as black spots danced in his vision. Or maybe that was nine, he didn’t know, and his eyes had gone dry even though he was making this odd, high sound each time the switch landed, leaving a long, stinging hot red line on his skin, so clear and sharp that he could almost see the outline of it in front of him. Dad’s hand was a hot brand on his back, and he knew Dad was sweating in the heat, in the sauna that was the cabin, could smell the blood and the salt, and wondered how much of it was his own and how much was Dad.

Dad hit him with the switch again, right on a spot where the skin felt already opened,  Sam could only gurgle in his throat, salvia choking him, making him feel like he was going to throw up all over the table. His head circled with some dizzy feeling, and the table started tilting, and then he heard the clatter as Dad threw the switch on the table. He didn’t let Sam up, instead he kept pressing his hand down.

“Stay there, Sam, and take a deep breath,” he said.

Sam took a deep breath and opened his eyes to look at the switch. He vaguely heard Dad tell Dean to go change into something dry, but it was the switch that held his attention. No longer pale and new, it was worn and streaked with something that darkened the wood. He wanted to throw up. But it was only a whipping, and it was over.

He looked away and let his eyes close and laid his cheek on the table, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the blood throb and pulse under his skin, almost seeing the purple and red welts growing along his backside. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his hair was sticking to his forehead.

Then Dad took his hand away, and pulled up Sam’s shorts and underwear, at least most of the way, and Sam tried not to yelp at the quick scrape of edges of cloth against rough skin. Sam grabbed the open waistband and held on, waiting for orders.

“Go change,” Dad said.

Sam straightened up, using the edge of the table for balance when he wobbled. Dad didn’t reach out a hand to help him but then of course he wouldn’t. This was part of being punished for doing something like disobeying a direct order.

Without looking at Dad, Sam hobbled into the bedroom where Dean was just finishing pulling his head through the opening of a dry t-shirt. He tugged it to his waist. Suddenly, he closed the door halfway, and reached for Sam, pulling him into a tight headlock.

Sam struggled for a second, his hair whipping across his eyes, and then stilled when he realized Dean wasn’t choking him, just holding him, with Sam’s damp back against Dean’s dry chest. But still, he was holding Sam tightly, his arm a band across Sam’s throat so Sam couldn’t get away, and so that Dean’s breath was hot in his ear.

“If you ever do that again, I’ll end you, you hear?”  Dean’s voice was low, and razor sharp and Sam didn’t doubt that Dean meant every word, even though he wasn’t sure whether the that was making them both going in the river, or taking the whipping in Dean’s place. Either which Sam would do, if he felt like it, besides, it hadn’t been Dean’s fault.

With a quick twist, Dean let him go and went out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Leaving Sam completely alone.

Sam reached into the open drawer for a dry shirt, it didn’t matter if it was Dean’s or his at this point, and dry clean shorts and underwear. His knees felt unsteady and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to take off his damp clothes without screaming out loud. But as he walked around to his side of the bed, he knew it couldn’t be helped, it had to be done.

He put the clean clothes on the bed and peeled off his shirt. Then, taking a breath and with one stiff motion, he took down his shorts. They snagged on his knees, and he yanked them all the way off, stepping out of the damp mess, not looking at the dark thin streaks of blood, not thinking about it at all. But he couldn’t do the same with his underwear, which felt already glued to his skin in places.

So he didn’t. Instead he pushed the cover and top sheet back and lay face down on the cool, white sheets, and shoved his head under the pillow, circled his arms around his head once more and let himself cry. Not a loud, snot-filled kind that might bring any attention, but a small, thin one, with hot tears slipping down his chin and soaking the sheet beneath his face. He hurt all over, from the bangs and smacks and scrapes that the river had given him, to each pounding welt the switch had left. He hated the world. He hated Dad, he hated everything. And Dean, Dean was still pissed at him, even though the only thing Sam had wanted to do was have some fun, to get Dean to have some fun with him.

His tears trailed away, leaving him exhausted. Then Sam heard a very small click as the door to the bedroom opened. He felt the pillow slip off as he lifted his head, sending his hair in all kinds of crazy directions, and looked. It was Dad. He had dry pants and a different shirt on and his sleeves were rolled up, and the bandage on his hand stood out stark and white against his tan. He had the first aid tube in his hand.

“Go away,” said Sam, low, though he knew he was dancing with danger even as he said it.

“It’ll help keep the skin from scarring,” said Dad. He took a step in the room and closed the door behind him. Sam watched Dad come closer to the bed and wondered what Dean was doing, where he was, whether he was sorry Sam had ever been born.

“I don’t care,” said Sam, snapping, though he did care about scars; he hated them.

“Sam,” said Dad. He sounded tired.

“I don’t care! Go away, I hate you!” If Dad had whipped him hard enough to break the skin and maybe cause scars, Sam really didn’t want to have to think about it. It made him sick to his stomach to think about it.

Sam shoved his head back under the pillow and held it down with both hands. In spite of this, he felt Dad sit down on the edge of the bed, and Sam was startled by something cool as it touched the bare skin over his ribs. When he realized that it was the first aid tube, his body relaxed and the wires that had strung themselves through Sam’s whole body began to unfurl, one by one.

“You want me to do it?” asked Dad.

Sam shook his head. Then Dad pulled the pillow away slowly, making Sam’s head slip quietly to the mattress. Sam let the hair stay covering his face; he didn’t want to look at Dad right now.

“You want Dean to do it?” asked Dad.

Sam shook his head again. He just wanted Dad to go away forever, but his throat felt thick and he simply didn’t have enough energy to say it again. He didn’t have anything left to fight with. Dad probably knew this, and was just sitting there, very still, not going anywhere, and would keep doing it until Sam gave in. So, Sam reached with his hand and picked up the tube, and handed it backwards in Dad’s direction.

“You,” he said.

“Okay,” said Dad.

With his bandaged hand, Dad reached under Sam’s stomach and lifted him his hips enough to pull his underwear down with his other hand. Sam hissed and closed his eyes as the cloth pulled away from his welts; some of them had dried and held on to the cloth. Dad pulled his underwear all the way down to his knees, and Sam just let it happen. It was going to happen anyway; Dad had decided on the course of action, that first aid cream would follow the switch whipping and that was that.

As Dad lowered him back to the mattress, the bandage of his hand scraped across Sam’s ribs. Then he touched the middle of Sam’s back.

“You’re all bruised up here, from the river. I’ll get you some aspirin.”

Sam turned his head away so he could bite his lip without Dad seeing. If it hurt, which it did, he didn’t want Dad to know that it hurt, and he didn’t want to cry anymore anyway because his eyes were burning and they felt dry, and he wanted a glass of water, even though he wasn’t going to ask Dad.

Sam could hear Dad undo the top of the tube, and felt the first cool touch of Dad’s fingers as he spread the first aid cream across the topmost welt. The cream stung for a second, and Sam’s skin tightened, but then the sting faded, leaving a dull throb behind.

Dad put the cream on the second welt, lower down along the curve of Sam’s bottom, and it was done so lightly that Sam began to realize how gentle Dad was being. How slowly and carefully he was going, when he could have slathered the cream on, like he sometimes did, like the time when he was really pissed at how badly Sam had gotten himself messed up and outdone by Dean when they were sparring, and Sam knew that Dad felt that Sam should really, really start applying himself.

But this wasn’t like that. Dad moved like a ghost, leaving a swath of cooling cream behind, using the edge of his thumb to smooth it over each welt, double over the welts where he’d hit the same place twice. And all without a sound, something wispy and ethereal, making the edges of the hurt all over Sam’s body take a back step, and then another. If he had an aspirin sandwich with plenty of sugar, that might help, too. But he doubted Dad would make him one this time; mad as Dad was, he was probably just going to make Sam swallow them.

Then Dad was done and screwing the lid back on the first aid tube, and with another lift to Sam’s stomach and a snap of elastic, he pulled Sam’s underwear up and stood up from the bed.

“Five minutes, Sam,” Dad said. “Then you need to get dressed and come out to supper.”

Then he was gone, and Sam let himself take a very deep breath, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see anything anymore.

Sam must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, Dean was shaking his shoulder. Sam opened his eyes, and squinted, but the only light shining in the cabin was from the light in the kitchen.

“Better hurry,” Dean said, “Dad says you’ve been in here too long.”

As Dean left, Sam struggled into his clothes, blinking away the sleep in his eyes, trying to be awake enough to be coordinated, but feeling numb and stupid. He’d picked out shorts that were baggy and long, not only to make sure the cloth didn’t rub across his welts, but to keep anyone from seeing them. It was one thing to get a whipping, it was another to put up with eyes looking or staring, sympathetic or not. Sam didn’t like it.

But even as he bent over to pull up his damp shorts from the floor to put them in the dirty laundry pile, he realized his whole body had taken a beating in the river. His shoulder especially, where he’d banged into the rock, felt like someone had punched him over and over. Not to mention there were big scrapes along his calves, raw skin that hurt when he touched it. If Dad made him spar with or do anything strenuous anytime soon, he was going to cry like a baby, all over again. And worst of all, his chest felt strange and empty inside, and he didn’t know why.

He pulled on a t-shirt, and, finally dressed, Sam made himself walk as casually as he could out into the main part of the cabin. It was later than he realized, with the air through the window turning to cool as the shadows began to darken the trees. The light over the kitchen table was the only one burning; Dean had laid out the knives and forks and glasses and plates.

Sam was looking for the aspirin, so it took him a second to realize what Dad was bringing to the table. It was camp spaghetti, the kind Dad could make with the sauce and noodles all in one pan, frying it up as easily over a campfire as over a stove. It had a special flavor all its own, and Sam’s stomach growled with hunger as he sat down. Or tried to. His bottom hurt so badly that he had to curve one leg beneath him and sit propped up on that. But then, as Dean poured the milk and Dad dished out the camp spaghetti, nobody was paying him any attention anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

What mattered was the fact that the spaghetti had chunks of stewed tomatoes in it. Normally, Dad would use the jar of spaghetti with the blue parrot on it, the kind that was all smooth except for bits of herbs and garlic. It was the kind where the tomatoes had been put through a blender before they even saw the jar, and it was Sam’s favorite. Whatever kind Dad had used tonight was obviously not Sam’s favorite. Even worse, since Dad knew that Sam hated stewed tomatoes in any form, he’d obviously served this particular brand on purpose. Why couldn’t Dad use the good sauce?

Sam knew that if he tried to eat his supper, he would be miserable and puke. He couldn’t say this out loud, but he could scowl at his plate as Dad pushed it towards him, all filled up. Sam stared at it. There weren’t even any sliced up hot dogs put in, the way Dean sometimes did it, so unless Sam could poke around the tomatoes to get at the noodles, there wasn’t much to eat. And he was starving.

As Dad and Dean started eating, it took a second for anyone to notice that Sam wasn’t, but since Dad had eagle eyes, Sam wasn’t really surprised when Dad stopped and looked at him from beneath dark eyebrows.

“You eat your supper, Sam,” said Dad.

Sam pushed out his chin, and crossed his arms over his chest. Dad might be the boss of him, might be able to hold Sam down over the kitchen table and punish him, but the only way he was going to be able to make Sam eat stewed tomatoes was if he shoved them down Sam’s throat and made him. And Sam didn’t think that even Dad would go that far.

“You eat what’s put in front of you and you do it now, or I’ll be handing out another whipping.” Dad shook his fork at Sam, and Sam just glared at him.

Dean had stopped eating, his fork paused halfway between his plate and his mouth, eyes on the table, and Sam’s heart started pounding like crazy in his chest. He wondered where the switch had gone, and whether Dad was keeping it close by, just in case one of his sons got out of line again.

“Now,” said Dad, his voice low and threatening.

There was no reason, simply no reason Dad couldn’t have made something Sam liked to eat, or at least something he didn’t hate, no reason at all. No instead, he made something Sam didn’t like, made it on purpose, and now he was going to make Sam eat it, so he could teach Sam a lesson on who was boss.

And Sam realized he wasn’t going to put up with it. He hated Dad, he hated this horrible day, and most of all, he hated stewed tomatoes.

“I’m not eating this,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Quickly, he undid his arms and with a flick of his wrists, he pushed the plate away from him. It was only supposed to go a little ways, but with the anger all bunched up inside of him, he must have pushed harder than he realized because the plate went flying, past Dean, past Dad’s arm, and off the table where it fell with a splat, face down.

Dad stood up and shoved the table, and his plate went spinning to fall on top of Sam’s plate. Except Dad’s plate broke in two pieces, and Dad reached across the table for Sam. Sam stood up, fast, to get out of reach, and ducked behind his chair, with his back pressed against the fridge. It wasn’t any kind of good place to be, it wasn’t secure, and it was a corner, so he was backed in if Dad came any closer and there was no telling what he would do.

Only, Dean stood up now too, and put his hands on Dad’s chest, fearless in spite of the blaze in Dad’s eyes like a live, dark thing that wanted to hurt Sam, saying, “Dad, Dad,” until Dad stepped back, his mouth working, shivering all up and down like Sam had never seen him.

“It was an accident!” said Sam, shrieking. “An accident!” He didn’t mean to shove his plate so hard, why was Dad so mad? Why would Dad look like he wanted to kill Sam over a broken plate?

“You did it on purpose,” Dad roared from his chest, “so don’t tell me it was an accident, nobody made you go in, you could have gotten killed-”

Sam had no idea what Dad was talking about. Was he still mad about the river? But he’d already whipped Sam for that, handed out a switch whipping that Sam had volunteered for because he knew he’d been wrong. And it had been a hard whipping besides, because Sam wasn’t going to be able to sit down or sleep on his back for a week at least.

Dean made a motion at Dad, like he was trying to make Dad stop doing something with just his hands. He was looking only at Dad, and not at Sam, concentrating all of his energy there. Dad’s mouth snapped shut and he tightened his whole body, his hands going into fists, and that had to hurt his bandaged hand a lot and Sam didn’t understand any of it.

With a sudden jerk of his body, Dad turned and marched across the floor, much as Dean had earlier. Dad snagged the keys from the hook and went right out the door and into the night, letting the screen door snap shut behind him. They heard the door open and slam and the Impala’s engine rumble to life. After a second, the tires ripped across the gravel as Dad drove away.

Leaving the two of them standing there among the remains of their ruined supper.

Dean was very still, and grey around the edges, shaking a little as he stood there, and by the glitter in his eyes, maybe he might cry. But Dean never cried, not even a little.

“I don’t-” Sam started, but so many things didn’t make sense, he didn’t even know where to begin. “I don’t get it. Is he leaving us?”

Suddenly Dean was close, looming over him, poking him in the chest. “You almost got us killed today, you dumb fuck,” he said in the same voice he’d used when he’d pulled Sam in a headlock. “You freaked him out, and you haven’t even once said sorry.”

Sam backed up, stepping back until he was pressed against the edge of the kitchen sink. The river had left bruises all over, so this hurt, and he tried to move to one side or the other to get away from Dean, but Dean was there again, hands up like he wanted to push or punch Sam. Hard.

Of course he was sorry, sorrier than anything, but he’d already taken a whipping for Dean, had stepped up for it, even, and wasn’t that enough? But Dean needed to hear it, so he said it. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Not me, asshole! Dad!” Now Dean really looked like he wanted to punch Sam, and Sam flinched away, blinking fast. He didn’t know he could take it if Dean was that mad at him. As for Dad, he just didn’t get it.

Dean backed off and pointed at the floor, pushing his chair out of the way. “Clean up this mess,” he said.

“It’s not my turn,” said Sam, protesting, on general principle, since Dean hadn’t accepted his apology.

Now Dean did shove him, banging Sam’s spine into the counter, but he looked sorry right away as his hands dropped to his sides.

“I don’t know whose turn it is,” said Dean, sounding tired.

That was kind of like an apology. Sam made himself let it go and got a bowl from the cupboard to scoop up the mess on the floor. Dean pulled a washcloth from the drawer and rinsed it with cold water, and together they cleaned up the ruined camp spaghetti dinner. They even poured the milk back in the jug, and did the dishes together, with Dean washing and Sam drying and putting them away after.

Then Dean swept the floor while Sam manned the dustpan. The whole time, Dean kept his eye on the screen door, kept his head cocked to listen for the Impala, but even by the time they were done with the mess and the dishes and had packed the spaghetti away for another day, there was no sign of Dad’s return.

Dean went to sit on the couch, and Sam started to follow him but Dean turned and gave him a look and waved him away. Dean wanted to be alone, so Sam went and sat in his chair at the table, with his leg bent beneath him, resting his head in his arms as he watched the door. Dean didn’t turn on the TV. The cabin grew quiet, so quiet Sam could hear the cicadas in the trees, and an owl, and the murmur of the generator.

“I’m thirsty,” Sam said at one point.

“So get a drink of water, no one is stopping you.”

Sam stood up, and his legs were throbbing all up and down before he’d even taken a step. He tried to pretend it didn’t hurt as used his hands to cup water under the tap and drank like horse.

When Sam was finished drinking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel the rippling parallel lines of heat down his legs and wished there was an easy way to take aspirin. He wondered if he could find the aspirin without having to pull a chair over to so he could reach the box. Then he decided against it; if Dad offered him aspirin later, he’d take it. He’d even chew it, just to keep Dad from having to make him a sugar sandwich.

“Do you want a sandwich?” he asked Dean.

Dean shook his head. “Not hungry.”

That was a flatout lie. Dean had probably had maybe two bites of his supper before Sam had ruined it all, so he had to be starving, just as Sam was. His stomach was eating its way towards his spine, and he had to have something or he’d never get to sleep. He’d never get to sleep if Dad didn’t come back, but that was another matter.

“Can I make one for me?” he asked now.

Dean half lifted his head, looking at Sam, and then let it fall back against the arm of the couch. “Better not,” he said, his voice faint.

Sam settled himself back in the chair, shifting on his bent knee to get comfortable. Dad had never been a bed-without-supper kind of Dad, had never used it as punishment, never let a boy go to bed hungry if he could help it.

Of course there had been that one time in El Paso, where Dad had had some kind of run in with the law and they’d all hid in an empty apartment building and dined on water and chewing gum and peppermints for two whole days, but that was different. It had been a little bit like an adventure. Afterwards, Dad had gotten fast food chicken and soda and donuts and special dried mangos just for Sam and fed them all until they’d fallen asleep fully clothed on the beds at the motel they’d checked into.

So Sam knew he could eat, there was no rule that he couldn’t eat without Dad’s sayso, but they’d not eaten their suppers and there was a rule about that: no desert or anything else unless you’d eaten what was put in front of you. Sometimes the rule was broken, there were always circumstances, but it was Dad who decided what the exception would be. But Dad wasn’t here right now, and Sam couldn’t figure out whether this was an exception or not. So he laid his head in his arms and watched the door and felt the echo of his heartbeat beneath the surface of his skin.

It took a long while, and maybe he’d fallen asleep, but he thought he heard the sound of the Impala’s engine, and lifted his head to check. Dean had heard it too and leapt from the couch to race to the door, swinging the screen door wide open so that it banged on the outside of the cabin. Sam saw the headlights swinging over the front steps as Dean went out, and he stood up to follow Dean. The backs of his legs felt stiff, and every step he took made the welts sting and burn like they were alive, so he stopped when he got to the middle of the cabin.

He heard Dad say something to Dean, and Dean said something back, but their voices were too low to hear, and the stomping of Dad’s boots on the steps was loud enough to drown it out anyway. When Dad came in the doorway, it felt like he was ten feet tall, and Sam felt very small standing there in his bare feet. But Dean had said something about saying he was sorry, to apologize for almost getting them all killed today, and so Sam opened his mouth, as Dad came closer, to do exactly that, for Dean.

But Dad held up his hand. “Not now, Sam, I’ve had enough for one day.”  Then he walked over to his chair at the table and started taking off his boots. They had dried funny and stiff, and Dad had to tug to get them off, and Dean went to help him, but Dad waved him off. Sam could only stare, feeling hot all over. When his mouth started getting all wobbly, he bit down on it to stop it because Dad had already had enough for one day, but what he meant was that he’d already had enough of Sam.

As Dad peeled off his socks and stuffed them in the ruined boots, without looking up, he said, “Did you boys eat?”

That’s not what he expected Dad to say. Sam blinked and shook his head as Dean said, “No, Dad, we waited for you.”

While Dad thought this over and looked at his own toes, Sam pictured every food in his head that he could: day old tuna sandwiches, brown bananas, anchovies in tins, cheese that you had to trim the green mold off of, pizza for breakfast, hot dogs that had gone hard and wrinkled, anything. He could eat anything like that, but not stewed tomatoes. He begged Dad with his mind not to have Dean pull out the camp spaghetti and reheat it for a late supper.

Which of course is exactly what Dad did.

“Camp spaghetti it is, then,” said Dad, standing there in his bare feet. “Sam, you can set the table and then pour the milk.”

Sam’s stomach sank to his knees, but as Dean got the plastic bowl of spaghetti out, Sam saw that it was almost nine o’clock, almost too late to be eating, but he was so hungry, he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if he didn’t, so what was he going to do? Maybe he was actually going to have to eat the tomatoes.

Master Fic Post
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3



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