To Fight in the Shade - Post 3
“It’s only for a minute, Sam, but you need to understand what it feels like, you need to get used to it.” The top of Dad’s lip glittered with sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead, but he looked at Sam as though he didn’t notice, because what he was saying was the most important thing.
“Why?” asked Sam. His voice was shaking a little bit. He wasn’t trying to make a fuss, like he usually would, he really wanted to understand before he let Dad do this to him.
“You never know, Sam” said Dad. “It might never happen, but if it does, you need to know what it feels like so you don’t panic. Panic is the killer.”
Sam knew that Dad had said this a hundred times, panic is the killer, or something like it, that panic is a surefire way to get hurt, or panic is what will end you. And while it was probably true, Sam was pretty sure Dean never had to learn any of this stuff when he was thirteen.
“But I don’t see why-” He wanted to ask why anyone would want to tie him up, but Dad stopped him.
“Because,” said Dean, exasperation clear in his voice. “You’re a mouthy little bi-”
“Dean.”
“Brat,” said Dean firmly.
“It’ll only be for a minute, Sam,” said Dad, glaring at Dean.
It was only a matter of time before Dad got irritated enough to tie Sam’s hands whether he wanted to have them tied or not, so Sam knew he had to give in. He held out his hands and kept his eyes focused on a spot somewhere in the middle of Dad’s chest. He didn’t want to look at Dean and see Dean’s exasperated expression or hear the frustration in Dean’s voice as he chided Sam, yet again, for ruining Dean’s summer. Sam had been trying to hard not to do that, had been doing so well up till now, he didn’t want to mess it up.
So Sam took a deep breath and held very still while Dad started wrapping the rope around Sam’s wrists.
“Don’t hold your breath, Sam,” said Dad. “At least not right now. Just breathe slowly, in and out, and count for each breath, one, two, three, four. Like this.” Dad demonstrated, breathing very slowly and deeply, his mouth moving silently as he counted.
Sam nodded and let out the pressure in his chest and tried to count his breaths in and out, going slower than his heartbeat, one-and-two, three-and-four, but it was hard. The blood thumped behind his eyes, and the rope twisted and tugged as Dad tied the insides of Sam’s wrists together.
“Keep counting with each breath, Sam.”
The rope bit into Sam’s skin and hurt a little bit, though Sam doubted he’d get any sympathy so he didn’t say anything.
When Dad was finished, he cupped the bottom of Sam’s bound hands, supporting them.
“Sam, do you feel-Sam, look at me.”
Sam flicked his eyes up and looked at Dad. He looked back at Sam, grave and still, his eyes dark. There was absolutely no anger lurking in them.
“Do you feel how your hands are heavier? Do you feel the rope on your skin?”
Sam nodded, gulping. Oh, he felt it alright.
Dad nodded back, very slowly.
“Good. Now, wiggle your fingers. See if you can wiggle your way out.” This was the same instructions he’d given to Dean, even though the words had been different for Sam than they had for Dean. Dad meant, fight your way free.
Sam did this. He was trying to do it exactly right, like Dean had done, but as much as he wiggled, the rope only cut and chafed, but didn’t loosen.
The back of his neck grew hot and he struggled; this was definitely not going to add points in his favor, but then Dean hadn’t been able to get free either, so maybe that was okay. Sam was just about to jerk his wrists up in panic, when Dad quickly, and with deft fingers, undid the rope and let them slide away into the dirt. But Dad still held Sam’s clenched fists in one hand and he hefted them.
“See, Sam?” asked Dad. “Feel the difference? The rope doesn’t weigh very much; it’s the pressure of the ropes and your panic that makes it feel like it weighs more.”
Sam clenched and unclenched his fists in the warm circle of Dad’s hands and his arms were so light they felt like they could float away. Dad let go of his hands and reached for the rope again.
“Good,” said Dad. He gestured to Dean. “Now we’re going to try that again, only a little differently this time. Dean first.”
Dean held out his hands, almost smiling as though he knew where this training was going and how to be good at it. But even if he didn’t like being tied up, he always liked being there, with Dad, and even with Sam, especially now, because Sam was doing his darndest not to piss Dean off. But it was going to be hard to keep it up because Sam didn’t like the feeling of the rope around his wrists at all and it looked like there was going to be more of that.
“If you’re being tied up,” said Dad, “when you’re being tied up, tighten your muscles.”
“Why?” asked Dean.
Dad didn’t react the way he usually did when Sam asked why, and that was because Dean’s questions came from Dean-even if they were the same questions that Sam was voicing in his own head: Yeah, but why? Sam was glad Dean had asked, because if Sam had asked it, that would have set Dad off.
To Dean’s question, Dad only said, “Because it’ll increase the size of your arms or legs or whatever. It’s not much, but it’s enough to give you a little bit more room to move under the ropes and get free.”
Dean nodded; he understood this and Sam did too. But he didn’t have to like it.
“Get ready,” said Dad.
Dean took a deep breath and tightened his muscles and waited perfectly still while Dad quickly looped the rope and tightened the knots around his wrists. His muscles were clenched so tightly that Sam could see Dean start to tremble and sweat beaded across his forehead. Dad quickly cupped the bottom of Dean’s clenched fists much like he had with Sam.
Then Dad said, “Okay, let your breath out.”
All at once Dean let out a whoosh of air and relaxed his muscles. His back curved as he slumped forward; there was a big patch of sweat in the middle of his back. Dad ran his finger along one of the curves of the rope across the bones on the top of Dean’s hand. Then he pulled the rope up.
“See? There’s a little bit of slack there now, and if you don’t panic, or thrash, if you don’t jerk, you can ease free. Or at least you’ll have a better chance at it. Try it.”
Dad released Dean’s hands. “Keep breathing,” he said.
Concentrating, Dean laid his clenched fists against one bent knee. Then he began to tug a little and loosened his fingers to wiggle them, and pretty soon, the rope was a piled brown snake in the dust beside his knee. Dean’s wrists looked raw and the backs of his hands had little red scratches, but he didn’t seem to notice this as he beamed at Dad.
“That was an easy knot,” said Sam.
“No, Sam,” said Dad. “It wasn’t. It was a good, hard knot, and Dean got free, fair and square. Now it’s your turn.”
Sam wanted to say no. As a matter of fact, he wanted to stand up and stomp back to the cabin and refuse to do any of it. He figured it was better to cause a fuss and have Dad yell at him for that, than to admit that the idea of being tied up again, even if only for a minute, with both Dad and Dean close by, made his heart race. His hands didn’t like it one little bit; he clenched them against his thighs that were suddenly slick with sweat.
“I’ll be right here, Sam,” said Dad, his voice still quiet. “It’ll only be for a minute and you’ll get more used to it each time.”
One look at Dean’s face and Sam knew there was no way out of this. Dean was already wearing that expression like he expected Sam was going to mess everything up by pitching a fit. Though Dean had been mean to Sam a lot this summer, he’d been nice too; either way, he still didn’t deserve to have Sam always mess everything up.
“Okay,” said Sam, and he held up his arms, wrists together. Blood echoed in his ears.
“Bunch up your muscles, Sam, make fists of your hands. Keep counting and breathing.”
Sam did as he was told and counted his heartbeats and breaths, clenching as hard as he could while Dad tied the knot around his clenched fists. It was the same knot as Dad had tied around Dean, Sam saw, so maybe this could work.
Dad finished the knot and held Sam’s fists, as he’d done before. “Now let go,” said Dad.
Sam released his muscles and took a deep, gasping breath. Then he watched as Dad traced the very narrow gap the between the rope and the top of Sam’s fists. Dad’s finger brushed against Sam’s skin and he shivered.
“See?” said Dad. He pushed up the ropes with one hand. “Just a little bit of a gap, but it’s enough to work with. Provided,” he added, his voice stern, “provided you don’t panic and jerk around.”
He let go and Sam laid his tied fists on one bent knee, like Dean had done. He twitched his fingers and relaxed his hands. He shimmied his wrists back and forth, palms sweating. He tugged a little bit. He flexed. He did everything he’d seen Dean do, but nothing worked. In fact, he could feel the rope biting even more into his skin, just as hard as it had when his muscles were all bunched up. With one last, fierce tug, the rope tightened until it was really tight, and now it hurt.
He threw up his hands. The rope didn’t even shift. “I can’t get it.”
“That’s okay, it’s just your first time.”
“But Dean was able to do it!”
“I’m not working with Dean, right now, Sam, just calm down.”
Sam jerked his fists again, pulling both his hands against his chest in an effort to dislodge the rope that way, but the knot held. Now the rope was so tight, he could feel the blood pumping beneath his skin and his fingers were starting to swell and go numb.
“Stop,” said Dad. He clasped Sam’s fists between his hands. His hands were hot against Sam’s cold skin. “You’ll only make it worse. Remember, panic never helps.”
That was a new version of Dad’s dumb advice but it didn’t make any different. With a little gasp, Sam tried to pull his hands away, but Dad had them firmly in his grip. Then Dad jerked his chin at Dean.
“Dean, try to untie him.” He handed Sam’s fists over to Dean and Dean took them. He tried to untie Sam, worked at the knot, even ripped a fingernail trying. All at once, he looked up, eyes wide, looking at Sam. “I can’t do it, they’re too tight.”
He didn’t sound like he blamed Sam for this, even if Sam knew it was his own fault. But Dean, of course, would blame himself for failing to be perfect in anything that Dad had told him to do. Sam felt bad that he’d put Dean in this position, but that was nothing compared to the mad pounding of his heart against his breastbone. It was ridiculous, Dad and Dean were right there, only right now he wanted out.
“Get me out, Dean,” said Sam, his voice breaking.
“Here,” said Dad, and for a second Sam thought Dad was going to try and undo the knot. Maybe he could have before, but now the knot was hard, like the rope had been glued together, and nobody, not even Dad, was going to be able to undo that knot and get him free.
Dad didn’t even try. Instead, Dad handed Dean a hunting knife, handle first, the serrated edge silver against Dad’s palm.
“Cut him loose-and this is lesson number two: always have a sharp knife handy.”
Dean took the knife and hefted it in one hand and took Sam’s shaking fists in the other hand. He was about to start cutting, when Dad stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting Sam free.” There was the smallest bit of a tremor in Dean’s voice; he leaned toward Sam like he wanted to cut Sam free more than anything else.
“Think about it. Yes, you normally cut away from yourself with any sharp knife, but if the other person can’t move, do you really want to be cutting towards them? What if the knife slips?”
Dean froze. Sam could see him thinking this through, but he seemed distracted, only Sam didn’t know by what.
“Dean-” Sam said, and he wanted to say more, but Dad was reaching out to turn the knife in Dean’s hand, and to help support Sam’s fists.
“Find the narrowest point of the rope, and cut down,” said Dad. “Concentrate as you cut, and if the knife slips, direct it down and away, understand?”
Dean nodded, eyes focused on the knot, and then, when he found the narrow point, right beside the knot, he started cutting. Sam’s hands were throbbing, and his breath was sharp in his throat, but Dean was going to do this, Dean was going to cut him free. He barely noticed that Dad kept his hands where they were, cupped under Sam’s, warm and steady and still.
With the serrated edge of the knife, Dean sawed through the rope, little by little, breathing slowly, keeping his eyes on what he was doing, and not at all looking at Sam. He kept at it till, with a quick flick as the knife, slipped through the rope and free, Dean twisted his wrist and the flat of the blade slipped harmlessly off of Sam’s bent, bare knee. The rope bounced away from Sam’s wrists, and as his hands continued to throb, all he could feel was the warm hollow of Dean’s hands, and Dad’s rough fingers as they gripped Dean’s hand.
“Nice,” said Dad. “Textbook perfect.”
Dean smiled and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He handed the knife back to Dad. Nobody said anything nice to Sam, but they wouldn’t even though he’d been the one suffering. He clasped his hands together and unclasped them, trying to get the blood flowing.
“Now, let’s try that again,” said Dad.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sam, in spite of himself.
Both Dean and Dad looked at him. Dad shook his head, probably with disbelief that Sam was such a lightweight. But Dad stopped and fed them cheese and crackers and water just the same, and for a while, as they ate and drank, the little spot under the trees was quiet and peaceful and nice.
When they were done, Dad put the lid bag on the jug of water, wiped the knife on the back of his thigh, and put the food back in the canvas bag.
“Okay, Dean,” said Dad. “Now tie Sam’s wrists together, and let me see if you can untie him.”
Sam hesitated, but realized there was no getting out of it, so he held out his wrists for Dean, palms together. Dean looked at him and Sam nodded, thinking that it was nice that Dean was waiting till he was ready. And Dean tied the knot as tightly as Dad had and almost as neatly.
Dad reached for Sam’s hands and tested the knot.
“You forgot to hold your breath, Sam,” said Dad.
Sam frowned; it wasn’t like he could remember everything all the time. But of course, Dad expected him to.
“You have to concentrate, Sam,” said Dad. “Doesn’t matter which end of the rope you’re on.” Then Dad nodded at Dean, and Dean untied the knot around Sam’s wrists.
Sam sucked on his still-sore lip and ducked his head. He didn’t want to look at Dad and see the expression on his face; it didn’t seem to matter how hard Sam tried, Dad was never satisfied. Dean, of course, was perfect.
Dad got out a different rope; it was thin like the nylon but still prickly and stiff like the hemp rope. He made them hold some of it in their hands, and as Sam ran his fingers across it, he could see how it would be tricky; the little spars on the rope would keep any knot from coming loose, but it would also make it harder to untie someone.
“Your turn, Sam,” said Dad. “Hold out your hands, Dean.”
Dean held out his hands, and Sam waited till Dean had taken a deep breath and had tightened his muscles. Then he tied the knot around Dean’s wrists as fast as he could, and he left it a little loose on purpose because he didn’t want the rope hurting Dean. And maybe, because he wanted to be able to untie the rope as fast as Dean had.
But then Dad got out the stopwatch, and looked at Sam. It was so hot under the trees, suddenly, and Sam couldn’t believe that Dad was going to time him. He wanted to protest because Dad hadn’t timed Dean doing this very same thing. He even opened his mouth to say Dean didn’t have to do this, but Dad just looked at him, just ready for Sam to be a smartmouth about it
It took everything Sam had not to say something, just everything. He clenched his jaw and took Dean’s tied wrists in his hand and nodded at Dad that he was ready to start. But instead of starting the stopwatch, Dad reached over and twitched on the rope a little bit, and it tightened just to the point where it bit into Dean’s skin. Dean released the breath he’d been holding, but the rope was as tight as ever.
Sam couldn’t believe it, now it was going to be impossible. He scowled fiercely at Dean’s wrists, and waited; he didn’t want to look at anybody, because if he did, he would end up saying exactly what he thought, which wouldn’t help anything.
When Dad started the stopwatch, Sam started working on the rope. But the knots were so tight, his fingers could only fumble at the edges. Dean had to hold his arms out straight so Sam could work on the knots, but it was taking so long that his hands were starting to shake. Sam scrabbled and tugged, but the knots held.
Finally Dad clicked the stopwatch off and set it in the dirt and Dean let his hands fall into his lap.
“You only make it harder on yourself and your brother when you panic, Sam,” said Dad, shaking his head.
Sam hadn’t been panicking; he knew that, it was just that Dad had tightened the knots tight, impossibly tight. It was absolutely unfair.
Dad didn’t care what Sam thought. He just held out the serrated knife, handle first.
“You know what to do,” said Dad.
Yes, Sam knew what to do. He had to cut his brother loose, and all the while he was shaking with fury; Dad had made it harder for Sam on purpose.
“C’mon, Sammy,” said Dean. “I’m starting to go numb in my fingers.”
Sam looked up. Dean held out his wrists, smiling a little bit; he was trying to make it nice for Sam. And Sam remembered that he was going to try, for Dean, at least, and part of that trying was going along with what Dad was trying to teach them. Which was what? Oh, yeah, to not panic, and to remember all the steps.
Sam took the knife from Dad, and hefted it in his hand. He knew he was supposed to find a thin spot and start cutting, away and down. He could do that. He didn’t know how fast he had to be, but Dad hadn’t picked up the stopwatch yet so maybe that didn’t matter.
He tugged Dean’s wrists down till they were resting against Dean’s bare knee.
“That’s right, Sam,” said Dad. “Find something to balance against.”
Sam thrust out his chin, feeling mulish about it, but he didn’t say anything to Dad. Instead, he concentrated on finding just the right spot, there, behind the bulk of the knot, and he started cutting. Well, sawing, actually, with little back and forth motions, taking his time till just as he got to the last part of the rope, and then he hurried.
It happened in a flash. The knife cut through the rope and the edge of the blade was headed straight toward Dean’s leg. To keep from cutting Dean, Sam jerked the blade in his hand, away and down, almost without realizing he was doing it. The tip of the knife dug into Sam’s left arm, leaving a little gouge, and welling up red right away and dripping into the dust.
Sam flung the knife down, and clamped his hand over his arm. He started scrambling to get up, but Dad grabbed him and made him sit still.
“Check it, Dean,” said Dad. “See how deep it went.”
Sam didn’t know why Dad didn’t check it himself, but maybe he knew that at this point, Sam was only going to let Dean see. Dean peeled back Sam’s fingers, and Sam made himself look. Dean was shaking a little, and his fingers were red with blood. Sam’s were too, but he could see that though the cut was a little deep, it wasn’t very big. It was in a triangle shape, like he sometimes did to himself when he was too impatient for Dean to slice his apple for him.
Dean clamped down on the cut with his thumb and pressed hard. When he looked at Sam, his face was white enough so that Sam could see his freckles through his tan.
“It’s okay, Dad,” said Dean. “Just a nick.”
It was a little more than a nick, at least it looked that way to Sam. And maybe Dad thought so too, because he stood up and gestured at Sam to get up.
“Come here, Sam. I’ll wash it and we’ll take care of it.”
Sam got up. Dad bent over to get the jug of water and uncapped it. He moved a little bit away from their circle in the dust and while Dean watched, Dad held Sam’s arm out looked at the cut. Then he poured the water from the jug. It stung, but Dad’s grip was tight, so Sam couldn’t pull away. The blood ran very thin, and Dad nodded, and dried the edges with his t-shirt. Then he ripped a little bit off the edge of the hem and wrapped it around Sam’s forearm and tied a little knot.
“We’ll get some first aid cream and a bandage for that later,” said Dad. “It should hold for now.” He patted Sam’s arm and let him go. “That’s what we call a field dressing.”
Sam sat back down, cross-legged next to Dean. His arm only hurt a little bit, but he felt all twisted and dark inside. Most Dads, in fact, all the Moms and Dads at soccer practice, would have stopped the game, and patched up their kid with a real bandage, and then maybe given him (or her) some Kool-Aid and a cookie, and only after that, would the game have gotten back underway. But not Dad, oh no. He just slapped some dusty cotton on it and said it was okay.
“Cool,” said Dean.
While Dad was busy getting out yet another rope, Sam looked at Dean. “Huh?” He couldn’t imagine that Dean was glad that Sam had cut himself.
“Your first real field dressing,” said Dean. He had a goofy grin, like this was a special event, as though Sam should be glad that he wasn’t playing soccer on some nice, cool, green soccer field. That instead he was stuck in the hot woods, messing around with hard ropes and sharp knives, and very likely bleeding to death right this very minute.
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes; sometimes Dean was so dumb.
*
They worked with the ropes all morning, over and over, until Sam almost got the hang of it. It really was true that you had to clamp down on the panic, or it wouldn’t work. Not that he’d ever tell Dad that he was right. You had to hold on and keep breathing in and out, calmly, like you were really reading a book or something. Sam got better at keeping still, and keeping his mouth shut, but his head started to ache, and his wrists were a mess of scratches, but it was getting hotter and surely the sun was overhead now, meaning that it was time for lunch.
“Almost there,” said Dad. “One more exercise, and then we’re done.”
He stood up and smacked the dirt from his jeans. “Get up, boys.”
Both of them got up. Sam’s legs were sore from sitting in one spot for so long, but he hoped they’d just do some more tests to see how fast each of them could tie knots, then they could go back to the cabin and he could lie on the couch (or sit next to Dean) and just stare at the TV for a while. He’d really like not to be in the woods anymore; he had three big bug bites on the back of his neck already.
Dad gestured to Sam, as he walked towards the trees, and Sam followed. Suddenly Dad grabbed him and spun him around and pressed him against the nearest tree. Very quickly, Dad tied his hands, and then spun the rope over Sam’s head to wrap it around the tree. Sam could smell the dust and sweat on Dad’s skin as Dad pulled the rope tight, and then he adjusted the knots, testing them.
“Dad?” asked Dean. His voice was very small.
Sam felt his eyes widen; his chest tightened like someone was pressing on it.
“Keep breathing, Sam.” Dad kept his eyes on Sam and didn’t pay attention to Dean. “This is a lesson in how to be ready, how to manage this on your own. I’m going to leave you here, tied to this tree. When you get untied, come back to the cabin. If you can’t do it, we’ll repeat the exercise till you can. Dean, you’re next.”
Dad snapped his attention at Dean, and suddenly, Sam felt like he didn’t exist. He watched as Dad picked up the canvas sack and stuffed all of the rope, and the water jug and the wax paper that the crackers had been wrapped in into it. Then he and Dean followed the dirt path and disappeared into the trees.
Sam was cold all over. He was very bad at getting himself free; half the time either Dad or Dean had to undo him; he had the cuts to prove it. There was no way he was going to be able to manage this. Dad had tied his hands the way he had been doing all day, but the ropes around the tree, and across his chest and legs? That was new; Sam didn’t have a clue how to begin.
To Dad it was just an exercise, but it wasn’t fair. Sam was not good at this, not at all. And he was scared, his heart was racing and he couldn’t catch his breath, but Dad didn’t care. Dad wouldn’t care if he stayed out in the woods tied up all night, as long as Sam learned the lesson about how not to panic. How to untie himself. How to pretend it was just another ordinary training exercise, like how to sharpen a knife, or how to shoot a crossbow. Sam’d thought that was bad. This was miles worse.
The rope seemed a little loose just across his arms, and if he could get his arms all the way loose, he maybe could work at the rope around his wrists because that was a knot he was used to.
He jerked his arms up, he couldn’t help it. And now he’d made it worse; everything was tight. The rope was the prickly kind, too, it bit into him everywhere it touched him. Trust Dad to do the hard test with the icky rope, trust Dad to walk off and not care that Sam had wanted to scream after him, Wait, Dad, I’ll do better. It wasn’t even some sort of punishment because Dad was tying Dean up, too. Doing the same thing, testing Dean the same way.
Dean, naturally, wouldn’t be panicking. He’d be ready, he’d hold his breath and tighten his muscles while Dad tied him up. And then, prickly rope or not, Dean would be letting his breath and muscles go and he’d be working the ropes little by little, calmly breathing, just like Dad said. And then he’d be free and waltzing back to the cabin, where the two of them could have dinner, and maybe there’d be ice cold milk and cookies for desert. And there Sam would be, stuck in the woods when it got dark.
We’ll repeat the exercise until you can, Dad had said. Did that mean he’d come and untie Sam and they’d try again tomorrow? Or did he mean he’d leave Sam there way past dark until he was successful? Knowing Dad, he’d pick the meaner choice, the one that was horrible, just to teach Sam not to panic.
Well, he was panicking now. His heart was racing so hard he could hear it, and he strained hard on the ropes, even though it was exactly the wrong thing to do. He jerked his right arm, and behind him, around the trunk of the tree, the rope snagged on something, Now it was extra tight, right along his breastbone. The rope pressed, narrowing the amount his chest could push out to breathe. His hands were going numb, just like they had earlier, and he couldn’t call for help because there was no one nearby to hear him.
Dad would probably wait and wait and then wait some more until he was sure Sam had learned his lesson, then he’d come and untie Sam in time for bed. But it wouldn’t be over, even then, because he’d make Sam repeat this every day, he’d keep tying Sam up until Sam figured it out and could get free on his own. And that would be forever, every day for the rest of his stupid life, because he could not do it. And it would not only make Dad mad, because Sam had yet again failed, but Dean would be disappointed, and would that make Dean mad, make him think Sam was doing it on purpose just to mess up Dean’s summer. Then Dean would hate him for the rest of Sam’s life.
His throat closed up, and his vision went wobbly as his eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t help it. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, clench his teeth, but the tears poured down his face, and his throat insisted on making stupid crying sounds. He was shaking all over, making small tugging motions with his hands as the tears dripped off his chin and onto his once-white t-shirt.
He shut his eyes and tried to breathe but that didn’t help, not one bit, and what if something was sneaking up on him in the woods and he was trapped tied to this stupid tree?
In fact, he heard it now, a loud, crashing noise as something came at him. His eyes flew open, and he tried to toss his head to get the bangs out of his eyes, and blink away his tears to see what was coming. There was a fog in front of his eyes, for a second, then he could see the trees move, and then he saw Dean, pushing through the branches as he came straight through the woods. Not on the path, but through the woods. He carried his rope in his hands; his wrists looked raw, and there was a rip in his t-shirt right across his stomach. He was coming straight for Sam with a determined look on his face.
Cool air seemed to sluice across his skin at the sight of his brother, rescuing him, and made Sam start to cry all over again. “Dean,” he said, over the huge fist in his throat. “I tried and tried, but I c-c-couldn’t do it-”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Dean, his voice low. He came right up to Sam, warm with sweat and dust, leaves in his hair, and dropped his rope at Sam’s feet. “Just hold still, don’t make it worse, okay? I’ll get you out.”
Sam’s chest did a double hitch as he tried to stop crying, tried to keep still. Dean’s hands worked on the knots around Sam’s hands for a minute, then he shook his head as if remembering something, the sequence of how he’d done it before, maybe, then he moved behind Sam to work on the rope around the tree.
“Stop it,” said Dean, and Sam realized he’d been moving so he could see what Dean was doing. That wasn’t helping, so Sam made himself freeze. Dean made a grunting noise, and then the rope around Sam’s chest fell in a puddle at Sam’s feet. Then Dean was next to Sam again, breathing hard through his nose, concentrating, looking at the knot around Sam’s wrists as he worked it.
“Dean-” said Sam, gulping. “I tried, I-” He wanted Dean to look at him, wanted to explain that he wasn’t trying to ruin everything.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. He looked at Sam with steady eyes as he drew his arm back and pulled a length of rope free. “We’re gonna practice, you an’ me, so you can do this better, so you don’t look like-”
Dean went silent as his fingers scrabbled at the knot, his touch warm on Sam’s cold, shocky skin. Then, with a quick breath, Sam’s hands were free. “Just don’t tell Dad, okay?” asked Dean with a slight catch in his voice.
Sam stepped away from the tree, and rubbed his wrists, rubbed his stomach, pulled his shirt away from his neck. “Me don’t tell Dad?” he asked, even though he knew that saying mean things about Dad made Dean pissed at him. “I’m not the one who can’t keep secrets from him.”
Dean looked at Sam; the corners of his eyes were tilted downward. Sam realized it was a mean thing to say, especially after what Dean had just done for him and was going to do for him. Dean would teach Sam how to get out of the ropes, and, if all went well, Dad would never know.
Sam touched Dean’s arm. “I won’t tell,” he said. He wouldn’t let Dean tell either, which usually happened early on when Dean tried to tell lies to Dad. Sam would watch to see when Dean was just about to tell, and then Sam would jump in and say something to get Dad mad at him, it didn’t matter what it was, just so Dean wouldn’t get in trouble. Sam could just imagine how mad Dad would be, how angry and disappointed he’d be in Dean setting Sam free. That would make Dean feel bad, and Sam was determined that wouldn’t happen.
“Okay,” said Dean. He picked up Sam’s rope and handed it to him. “Just wait a minute or two after I leave, then come back to the cabin. Like it’s normal, you just untied yourself and that’s all. He’ll never know.”
Although Dean’s words sounded confident, his voice shook a little bit.
Sam only nodded at Dean; there was nothing he could say to make Dean feel better, he’d just have to protect Dean from his own, self-imposed code of Golden Boy ethics.
Dean went back in the direction where Dad had tied him up. Sam watched Dean’s back, the level set of his shoulders, his summer-shorn hair, disappear through the trees. Which left Sam standing in the cool shade of the mountain laurel, sweating, salt on his face drying, and the rope dangling from his shaking hand. He wished he was far, far away from here, and grown up already, and could tell Dad no and mean it. That he could-
But there was nothing else he could do, but wait long enough and come out of the woods like he’d gotten free himself. So he counted to 60, using Mississippi between every number, and then down from sixty the same way. Figuring that ought to be enough, he started walking back to the cabin, following the dirt path until he got to the clearing.
Dean was just arriving at the bottom of the steps, handing his rope over to Dad. Sam couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Dad tossed the rope onto the porch, and he gave Dean’s shoulder a hearty clap. That’s when he saw Sam; that’s when Dean saw Sam; that’s when Dean froze.
Sam walked up to the steps and handed Dad the rope like it was an everyday event. His heart was still pounding, and he could taste the salt on his mouth from crying, but he’d gotten free from the rope, and here was his proof. See, Dad?
He made himself not look at Dean.
Dad took the rope from Sam and tossed it up the stairs and onto the porch. He took Sam’s wrists in his hands and turned them over so he could see the underside. Sam’s wrists were raw, and he’d been jerking at the rope so hard, he’d actually made the left one bleed. But he didn’t need to tell Dad that.
“Looks like you panicked a little, Sam,” said Dad, with his head bent as he looked at Sam’s wrists. “Even though you got free pretty fast.”
Then he looked up, and his left eyebrow quirked just a little bit and all at once Sam knew. Or thought he knew, there was never going to be any way to prove it, because in order to do that, he’d have to ask Dad. Dean made a little gasping sound that was impossible to miss in the silence that landed after Dad stopped speaking. But he might as well have gone on speaking, because Sam could see it clearly in Dad’s face that he knew what had happened, knew what Dean had done, and knew what Sam was doing now.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw that Dean had gone white under the dirt and sweat on his face. His mouth was open and he was just about to confess. Sam kept his concentration on Dad. Lying to Dad was never truly easy, although it was easier when Dean wasn’t involved in the first place.
Dad made a little motion like he wanted to say something, then he stopped as if he changed his mind and said, only, “Grace under pressure, Sam.” Then he let Sam’s wrists go, and clapped Dean on the shoulder again as he walked up the stairs to go into the cabin. “Nice job, boys,” he said.
“Come in, and let me take a look at those wrists, boys,” said Dad. He was standing on the porch holding the screen door open.
Sam let out the breath he was holding. If Dean kept his mouth shut, Dad would take care of their wrists and the cut on Sam’s arm, and then it would be supper time, and after that, it would be dark. If they could wait long enough, if Dean didn’t break, they’d be fine. Dad didn’t need to know anyway. He never told them anything, why should they tell him anything?
*
After supper, Sam sat on the top step. It was warm but the wind was moving through the trees, so it was comfortable to be there with Dean, who sat cross-legged on the porch while they set the ropes to rights. The nylon ones were easy; they were soft and most of the dust came right off. Plus, it was fun to make a figure-eight of the rope, using Dean’s hands and his elbows as a form. Sam was extra careful as he looped the rope around the freshly scabbed patch on Dean’s elbow.
(Nylon rope, coiled.)
When Sam finished the last of the nylon rope, he set it aside. Then Dean picked up the end of the hemp rope, and worked with his hands, twisting it.
“Sammy,” he said.
Sam waited for Dean to finish, but in the hum and flicker of the moths against the porch light, Dean just looked at Sam, his mouth pulling itself into a frown and didn’t say anything more.
It was as if he were waiting for Sam to say something. He looked at Sam and opened his mouth, then he snapped it shut and got up, casting hemp rope everywhere.
“Hey,” said Sam. The rope had landed on his legs and was prickly.
The screen door slammed and as Sam looked up, Dean was already inside, saying, “Hey, Dad?”
Sam got up and raced inside, slamming the screen door shut. The room felt stuffy after the slightly breezy outside. Sam went over to where Dad was sitting in his seat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, bent over his papers and journals, which were spread all over the place. Every time Sam saw the journal, his fingers itched to go through it, though after the whipping he’d gotten in Broken Bow after he’d filched the journal from Dad, he didn’t dare.
Same came up to stand at Dean’s side, just as Dad looked up from his journal; he barely had a glance for Sam before he looked at Dean. His eyes were shadowed in the overhead lights.
“What is it, Dean?”
“Um…”
“Dean,” said Dad, in that tired tone he usually saved when he had just finished explaining something to Sam for the ninetieth time.
“I wanted to tell you-” said Dean, and even before he said it, Sam knew what Dean was going to say. Dean couldn’t lie to Dad no matter what, not even if a hundred monsters were chasing him and the only way to escape was to not tell Dad the truth. The only thing that surprised Sam was the fact that Dean had lasted this long.
“I’m the one who untied Sam, Dad, it was me.”
Naturally Dean would make it sound like Dean was the only one to blame for it, like he’d not been the hero and charged through the underbrush to keep Sam from peeing his pants in terror. Not that Sam had done that in the longest time, but the effect was the same. Dean had saved Sam from what was sure to have been hours of struggling and waiting while the ropes got tighter and tighter, until Dad came along with that sour look on his face that said he was, yet again, disappointed in his youngest.
But was that better or worse than standing next to Dean right now while Dean confessed and was all truthful and honest and faithful to Dad? Maybe. Except for the part where Dad looked at Sam for a hard minute, before picking up his pen and returning to his journal.
“I already know that, Dean,” said Dad. He wrote in his journal while Dean stood there, mouth open.
“But why didn’t you say anything?” asked Dean, voice rising.
Dad paused a moment to check one of his notes. “Because I wanted to see what you would do.” He flicked a glance up at Dean. “Now I know.”
Sam turned away, disgusted with the whole thing. It had been impossible from the start. Maybe Dad had expected them to help each other and then maybe not. It was one of those things that Dad did, those twisty, weird lessons that were laced with Dad-logic and that had everything to do with hunting. When to lie. How to lie. And to who you could lie. But what made Sam maddest was that it had been a test inside of a test inside of a test and Sam had failed with flying colors.
He snapped on the TV, eyes blurring with fury; he didn’t care what was on. Then he flung himself down on the couch where Dean usually liked to lounge. The cushion on the arm rest was indented with a bowl the shape of Dean’s head. It was bigger than Sam’s head but he put his head there anyway, with his arms crossed over his chest, and glared.
Not at the TV, but at the sharp, naked bulb over the kitchen table that sent hard light everywhere. All over Dad, sitting there with his stupid journal and all over Dean who had pulled out his chair and scooted close to Dad. Their heads were bent together; the light cast long shadows beneath their faces and hands as they talked in low voices.
Whether it was about what Dad was currently updating in his journal or whether it was about the rope test, Sam didn’t care. Either way, Dean probably wanted Dad to tell him that it was okay that Dean had lied as long as Dean came to Dad in the end with the truth. That’s what Dad liked, so Dean had passed everything: he’d gotten free, rescued his stupid, panicky little brother, and been honest about it. Which Sam hand done none of, so he failed. All the way.
To distract himself, Sam got up and changed the channel till he found something good that looked like a program on the mysteries of the solar system, and that was just fine with him. He turned up the volume for good measure and flung himself back on the couch, heart thumping.
Nobody even paid any attention to him; Dad and Dean just kept talking together, heads close, black ink and spun gold, all bathed in hard light. Nobody asked him to come over and there was no way he was going to butt in. He didn’t want to belong to their stupid two-man club anyway. Maybe he once had, maybe he would if-
Sam scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, telling himself that he did not want to start saying anything about what he was thinking because not only would he get in trouble for mouthing off, nobody would care anyway.
He looked at the TV. On the screen, a solar system, or was it a galaxy, spun in an animated spiral to demonstrate something. Maybe it was the big bang theory or something about black holes. Didn’t matter. It was like school, and Sam liked school.
He was going to be in the 7th grade next year and he was going to take all science and math and history they would let him, and he would show Dad and Dean who was smart around here. And if in the middle of school they moved? Then Sam wouldn’t turn in those books; he’d keep them and tell Dad he needed to keep them, and Dad would just have to let him. Sam would study all the time and he would show them-
“Scoot over, Sammy.”
It was Dean, patting his leg. Sam knew there’d be a tussle if he resisted so he sat up. He still hogged the end seat (Dean’s favorite) and rested his arm there, so Dean would know that Sam wasn’t about to move. No matter what.
“Whatcha watching?”
“Science program,” said Sam, clipping over the words. “Big bang, black holes, you wouldn’t be interested.” He wanted to add that Dean wouldn’t understand any of it anyway, but that wasn’t true. Dean was plenty smart, when he wanted to be. So Sam just sat there, blood pounding behind his eyes and just waited for Dean to go away.
*
Bedtime wasn’t any better. The fans in the window and the doorway droned, but didn’t make the room feel any cooler. Sam kicked the sheet all the way to his knees, and blew air up at his bangs to cool his forehead. It didn’t make any difference, and there was no helping the heat.
Beside him, Dean lay stiff as a board, staring up at the ceiling. Sam knew, even without Dean saying anything, that he was still worried about lying to Dad. Even though Dad already knew and hadn’t punished Dean, Dean didn’t like the fact that Dad had caught him lying.
“Stop thinking about it,” said Sam. He wanted to kick Dean, but that would only start a fight.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” said Dean.
This proved that Sam was right, but Dean’s voice was tight and he was probably going to fret about it all night.
“If you’d just kept your mouth shut,” said Sam, now. “But you never can, can you, you always gotta think that Dad’s right, and do it his way.”
“But he is,” said Dean, insisting. “He was teaching us something, and I screwed up, I should have let you rescue yourself.”
Sam couldn’t believe it. “But you said at the time-” At the time, Dean had marched through those trees and rescued Sam and vowed to help him learn how to do this, so he could rescue himself next time. “Aren’t you going to help me?”
There was a pause as Dean cleared his throat, and kicked the sheets down to his knees. That made it easier for more air to sift over Sam’s skin, but he was still hot.
Sam waited for Dean to say something, thinking that he would do just about anything to get Dean on his side and make him stay there. Even though he knew Dean couldn’t help it; Dean’s loyalty to Dad was as sure as the color of his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks. Except, sometimes, he seemed like he was loyal to Sam, too, when he did stuff like he did today. Sam wondered, suddenly, if it drove Dean crazy to be pulled between Sam and Dad all the time, only he couldn’t put it into words to ask it, not in a way that wouldn’t set Dean off.
“I will help you,” said Dean, finally. He took a breath and then shifted on his side, away from Sam. Not in a mean way, but in a way that told Sam that Dean was ready to fall asleep now, if Sam would just stop talking. “But only if Dad knows.”
Sam nodded in the darkness, and closed his eyes, and tried to be satisfied with that. But it was going to be hard.
*
Breakfast was dried cereal in a bowl because they were out of milk and eggs. There were also some oranges that Dad had sliced up but they had no juice in them at all. Plus, Sam had some rope burns across the tops of his thighs that he’d not noticed before; Dean did too. They were already dried over, so Sam tucked his bare feet on the rail of the chair and sucked on a slice of orange and did his best to remember that he wasn’t going to complain anymore and mess up Dean’s summer. At least not more than he already had.
But by the time he was done crunching his way through the dry cereal, he was still hungry. His stomach felt hollow and he patted it and hoped that Dad would want to pick up groceries today. They’d done a solid week of ropes and knives and sparring and Sam wanted a day off. He didn’t dare ask for one, though. Dad was likely to pile on more work or extra chores just to teach Sam a lesson about complaining.
“Must you crunch so loud?” asked Dean.
Sam felt the swipe of Dean’s sneakered foot against his shin, but it mostly missed.
Dad barely looked up from his cereal as he concentrated on his journal.
Sam wanted to say, must you be such a jerk but that would start a fight, and then it would get worse from there.
“Well, if there was milk,” said Sam instead, reasonably, “I wouldn’t be crunching so loud.”
Both Dad and Dean stared at him. In the frozen silence that followed this remark, Sam realized that he was almost complaining, specifically about Dad, who had been so busy putting them through their paces that he’d let them run low on supplies.
Sam tightened his mouth and thought about saying something else, something that was like an apology, but wasn’t. Only he couldn’t think of the right thing. Besides, it was Dad’s job to see take care of the supplies, so it was his fault about the milk anyway.
“I’ll get some today,” said Dad. He wrote something down in his journal and then stuck the pen in and closed it. “We’ll train this morning and then after lunch, I’ll go.” He stood up.
Sam stood up too and took his bowl over to the sink and tossed his orange peels into the trash. He wondered if the bowl would really have to be washed, since he could wipe out the cereal dust with his fingers.
“Out of my way, dork,” said Dean, bumping past him to get to the sink. He could just as easily have reached around, but no, he had to bump into Sam, on purpose.
At the last minute, Sam managed to refrain from giving Dean a shove, or at the very least, bumping back into him to prove a point. He wanted to stay out of trouble, which was going to be hard enough as it was. But he had to try, so he grit his teeth and walked past Dean, without touching him, and said, “It’s your turn to do the dishes.”
Dean couldn’t even say is not because it was. But he could reach back with his foot to trip Sam’s legs and send him sprawling to the floor. Which he did. Sam tried to get up on his hands and knees, but Dad was suddenly there.
“That’s enough of that,” Dad said. He hauled Sam up by the arm. “Get on your feet.”
Sam scowled. It wasn’t fair that Dad blamed him for being on the floor, when Dean was the one who tripped him. Except that Dean never pointed out when it was Sam’s fault; Dean wasn’t a tattle tale, so Sam wouldn’t be. Sometimes, it was hard living up to Dean.
Dad looked at Sam and let him go. “I need you to make me a list of what we need. Then, when Dean’s done with the dishes, I want the two of you to go for a run.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Dean.
“What are you going to do?” asked Sam. He said it without thinking and knew he shouldn’t have, but he did want to know and wanting to know wasn’t a crime, was it?
Dad shot him a look. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sam, but I’m going to check the spark plugs; one of them sounded clogged. Didn’t you hear it, Dean?” He asked this like he expected Dean to have magical hearing or something.
“No, sir.” Dean’s voice sounded flat and Sam bristled. It was like Dean was supposed to have magical hearing or something. Sam made himself not say anything. Instead he glowered as he watched the screen door slam shut and listened to Dad’s booted feet go down the flight of steps.
“I didn’t hear it,” Sam said to Dean’s back.
For a second, Dean didn’t say anything. Then he put the plug in and started filling the sink with hot water. “Well, you couldn’t hear a clogged carburetor if you were looking at it, but I should have.”
Part 4
Master Fic Post
“Why?” asked Sam. His voice was shaking a little bit. He wasn’t trying to make a fuss, like he usually would, he really wanted to understand before he let Dad do this to him.
“You never know, Sam” said Dad. “It might never happen, but if it does, you need to know what it feels like so you don’t panic. Panic is the killer.”
Sam knew that Dad had said this a hundred times, panic is the killer, or something like it, that panic is a surefire way to get hurt, or panic is what will end you. And while it was probably true, Sam was pretty sure Dean never had to learn any of this stuff when he was thirteen.
“But I don’t see why-” He wanted to ask why anyone would want to tie him up, but Dad stopped him.
“Because,” said Dean, exasperation clear in his voice. “You’re a mouthy little bi-”
“Dean.”
“Brat,” said Dean firmly.
“It’ll only be for a minute, Sam,” said Dad, glaring at Dean.
It was only a matter of time before Dad got irritated enough to tie Sam’s hands whether he wanted to have them tied or not, so Sam knew he had to give in. He held out his hands and kept his eyes focused on a spot somewhere in the middle of Dad’s chest. He didn’t want to look at Dean and see Dean’s exasperated expression or hear the frustration in Dean’s voice as he chided Sam, yet again, for ruining Dean’s summer. Sam had been trying to hard not to do that, had been doing so well up till now, he didn’t want to mess it up.
So Sam took a deep breath and held very still while Dad started wrapping the rope around Sam’s wrists.
“Don’t hold your breath, Sam,” said Dad. “At least not right now. Just breathe slowly, in and out, and count for each breath, one, two, three, four. Like this.” Dad demonstrated, breathing very slowly and deeply, his mouth moving silently as he counted.
Sam nodded and let out the pressure in his chest and tried to count his breaths in and out, going slower than his heartbeat, one-and-two, three-and-four, but it was hard. The blood thumped behind his eyes, and the rope twisted and tugged as Dad tied the insides of Sam’s wrists together.
“Keep counting with each breath, Sam.”
The rope bit into Sam’s skin and hurt a little bit, though Sam doubted he’d get any sympathy so he didn’t say anything.
When Dad was finished, he cupped the bottom of Sam’s bound hands, supporting them.
“Sam, do you feel-Sam, look at me.”
Sam flicked his eyes up and looked at Dad. He looked back at Sam, grave and still, his eyes dark. There was absolutely no anger lurking in them.
“Do you feel how your hands are heavier? Do you feel the rope on your skin?”
Sam nodded, gulping. Oh, he felt it alright.
Dad nodded back, very slowly.
“Good. Now, wiggle your fingers. See if you can wiggle your way out.” This was the same instructions he’d given to Dean, even though the words had been different for Sam than they had for Dean. Dad meant, fight your way free.
Sam did this. He was trying to do it exactly right, like Dean had done, but as much as he wiggled, the rope only cut and chafed, but didn’t loosen.
The back of his neck grew hot and he struggled; this was definitely not going to add points in his favor, but then Dean hadn’t been able to get free either, so maybe that was okay. Sam was just about to jerk his wrists up in panic, when Dad quickly, and with deft fingers, undid the rope and let them slide away into the dirt. But Dad still held Sam’s clenched fists in one hand and he hefted them.
“See, Sam?” asked Dad. “Feel the difference? The rope doesn’t weigh very much; it’s the pressure of the ropes and your panic that makes it feel like it weighs more.”
Sam clenched and unclenched his fists in the warm circle of Dad’s hands and his arms were so light they felt like they could float away. Dad let go of his hands and reached for the rope again.
“Good,” said Dad. He gestured to Dean. “Now we’re going to try that again, only a little differently this time. Dean first.”
Dean held out his hands, almost smiling as though he knew where this training was going and how to be good at it. But even if he didn’t like being tied up, he always liked being there, with Dad, and even with Sam, especially now, because Sam was doing his darndest not to piss Dean off. But it was going to be hard to keep it up because Sam didn’t like the feeling of the rope around his wrists at all and it looked like there was going to be more of that.
“If you’re being tied up,” said Dad, “when you’re being tied up, tighten your muscles.”
“Why?” asked Dean.
Dad didn’t react the way he usually did when Sam asked why, and that was because Dean’s questions came from Dean-even if they were the same questions that Sam was voicing in his own head: Yeah, but why? Sam was glad Dean had asked, because if Sam had asked it, that would have set Dad off.
To Dean’s question, Dad only said, “Because it’ll increase the size of your arms or legs or whatever. It’s not much, but it’s enough to give you a little bit more room to move under the ropes and get free.”
Dean nodded; he understood this and Sam did too. But he didn’t have to like it.
“Get ready,” said Dad.
Dean took a deep breath and tightened his muscles and waited perfectly still while Dad quickly looped the rope and tightened the knots around his wrists. His muscles were clenched so tightly that Sam could see Dean start to tremble and sweat beaded across his forehead. Dad quickly cupped the bottom of Dean’s clenched fists much like he had with Sam.
Then Dad said, “Okay, let your breath out.”
All at once Dean let out a whoosh of air and relaxed his muscles. His back curved as he slumped forward; there was a big patch of sweat in the middle of his back. Dad ran his finger along one of the curves of the rope across the bones on the top of Dean’s hand. Then he pulled the rope up.
“See? There’s a little bit of slack there now, and if you don’t panic, or thrash, if you don’t jerk, you can ease free. Or at least you’ll have a better chance at it. Try it.”
Dad released Dean’s hands. “Keep breathing,” he said.
Concentrating, Dean laid his clenched fists against one bent knee. Then he began to tug a little and loosened his fingers to wiggle them, and pretty soon, the rope was a piled brown snake in the dust beside his knee. Dean’s wrists looked raw and the backs of his hands had little red scratches, but he didn’t seem to notice this as he beamed at Dad.
“That was an easy knot,” said Sam.
“No, Sam,” said Dad. “It wasn’t. It was a good, hard knot, and Dean got free, fair and square. Now it’s your turn.”
Sam wanted to say no. As a matter of fact, he wanted to stand up and stomp back to the cabin and refuse to do any of it. He figured it was better to cause a fuss and have Dad yell at him for that, than to admit that the idea of being tied up again, even if only for a minute, with both Dad and Dean close by, made his heart race. His hands didn’t like it one little bit; he clenched them against his thighs that were suddenly slick with sweat.
“I’ll be right here, Sam,” said Dad, his voice still quiet. “It’ll only be for a minute and you’ll get more used to it each time.”
One look at Dean’s face and Sam knew there was no way out of this. Dean was already wearing that expression like he expected Sam was going to mess everything up by pitching a fit. Though Dean had been mean to Sam a lot this summer, he’d been nice too; either way, he still didn’t deserve to have Sam always mess everything up.
“Okay,” said Sam, and he held up his arms, wrists together. Blood echoed in his ears.
“Bunch up your muscles, Sam, make fists of your hands. Keep counting and breathing.”
Sam did as he was told and counted his heartbeats and breaths, clenching as hard as he could while Dad tied the knot around his clenched fists. It was the same knot as Dad had tied around Dean, Sam saw, so maybe this could work.
Dad finished the knot and held Sam’s fists, as he’d done before. “Now let go,” said Dad.
Sam released his muscles and took a deep, gasping breath. Then he watched as Dad traced the very narrow gap the between the rope and the top of Sam’s fists. Dad’s finger brushed against Sam’s skin and he shivered.
“See?” said Dad. He pushed up the ropes with one hand. “Just a little bit of a gap, but it’s enough to work with. Provided,” he added, his voice stern, “provided you don’t panic and jerk around.”
He let go and Sam laid his tied fists on one bent knee, like Dean had done. He twitched his fingers and relaxed his hands. He shimmied his wrists back and forth, palms sweating. He tugged a little bit. He flexed. He did everything he’d seen Dean do, but nothing worked. In fact, he could feel the rope biting even more into his skin, just as hard as it had when his muscles were all bunched up. With one last, fierce tug, the rope tightened until it was really tight, and now it hurt.
He threw up his hands. The rope didn’t even shift. “I can’t get it.”
“That’s okay, it’s just your first time.”
“But Dean was able to do it!”
“I’m not working with Dean, right now, Sam, just calm down.”
Sam jerked his fists again, pulling both his hands against his chest in an effort to dislodge the rope that way, but the knot held. Now the rope was so tight, he could feel the blood pumping beneath his skin and his fingers were starting to swell and go numb.
“Stop,” said Dad. He clasped Sam’s fists between his hands. His hands were hot against Sam’s cold skin. “You’ll only make it worse. Remember, panic never helps.”
That was a new version of Dad’s dumb advice but it didn’t make any different. With a little gasp, Sam tried to pull his hands away, but Dad had them firmly in his grip. Then Dad jerked his chin at Dean.
“Dean, try to untie him.” He handed Sam’s fists over to Dean and Dean took them. He tried to untie Sam, worked at the knot, even ripped a fingernail trying. All at once, he looked up, eyes wide, looking at Sam. “I can’t do it, they’re too tight.”
He didn’t sound like he blamed Sam for this, even if Sam knew it was his own fault. But Dean, of course, would blame himself for failing to be perfect in anything that Dad had told him to do. Sam felt bad that he’d put Dean in this position, but that was nothing compared to the mad pounding of his heart against his breastbone. It was ridiculous, Dad and Dean were right there, only right now he wanted out.
“Get me out, Dean,” said Sam, his voice breaking.
“Here,” said Dad, and for a second Sam thought Dad was going to try and undo the knot. Maybe he could have before, but now the knot was hard, like the rope had been glued together, and nobody, not even Dad, was going to be able to undo that knot and get him free.
Dad didn’t even try. Instead, Dad handed Dean a hunting knife, handle first, the serrated edge silver against Dad’s palm.
“Cut him loose-and this is lesson number two: always have a sharp knife handy.”
Dean took the knife and hefted it in one hand and took Sam’s shaking fists in the other hand. He was about to start cutting, when Dad stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting Sam free.” There was the smallest bit of a tremor in Dean’s voice; he leaned toward Sam like he wanted to cut Sam free more than anything else.
“Think about it. Yes, you normally cut away from yourself with any sharp knife, but if the other person can’t move, do you really want to be cutting towards them? What if the knife slips?”
Dean froze. Sam could see him thinking this through, but he seemed distracted, only Sam didn’t know by what.
“Dean-” Sam said, and he wanted to say more, but Dad was reaching out to turn the knife in Dean’s hand, and to help support Sam’s fists.
“Find the narrowest point of the rope, and cut down,” said Dad. “Concentrate as you cut, and if the knife slips, direct it down and away, understand?”
Dean nodded, eyes focused on the knot, and then, when he found the narrow point, right beside the knot, he started cutting. Sam’s hands were throbbing, and his breath was sharp in his throat, but Dean was going to do this, Dean was going to cut him free. He barely noticed that Dad kept his hands where they were, cupped under Sam’s, warm and steady and still.
With the serrated edge of the knife, Dean sawed through the rope, little by little, breathing slowly, keeping his eyes on what he was doing, and not at all looking at Sam. He kept at it till, with a quick flick as the knife, slipped through the rope and free, Dean twisted his wrist and the flat of the blade slipped harmlessly off of Sam’s bent, bare knee. The rope bounced away from Sam’s wrists, and as his hands continued to throb, all he could feel was the warm hollow of Dean’s hands, and Dad’s rough fingers as they gripped Dean’s hand.
“Nice,” said Dad. “Textbook perfect.”
Dean smiled and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He handed the knife back to Dad. Nobody said anything nice to Sam, but they wouldn’t even though he’d been the one suffering. He clasped his hands together and unclasped them, trying to get the blood flowing.
“Now, let’s try that again,” said Dad.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sam, in spite of himself.
Both Dean and Dad looked at him. Dad shook his head, probably with disbelief that Sam was such a lightweight. But Dad stopped and fed them cheese and crackers and water just the same, and for a while, as they ate and drank, the little spot under the trees was quiet and peaceful and nice.
When they were done, Dad put the lid bag on the jug of water, wiped the knife on the back of his thigh, and put the food back in the canvas bag.
“Okay, Dean,” said Dad. “Now tie Sam’s wrists together, and let me see if you can untie him.”
Sam hesitated, but realized there was no getting out of it, so he held out his wrists for Dean, palms together. Dean looked at him and Sam nodded, thinking that it was nice that Dean was waiting till he was ready. And Dean tied the knot as tightly as Dad had and almost as neatly.
Dad reached for Sam’s hands and tested the knot.
“You forgot to hold your breath, Sam,” said Dad.
Sam frowned; it wasn’t like he could remember everything all the time. But of course, Dad expected him to.
“You have to concentrate, Sam,” said Dad. “Doesn’t matter which end of the rope you’re on.” Then Dad nodded at Dean, and Dean untied the knot around Sam’s wrists.
Sam sucked on his still-sore lip and ducked his head. He didn’t want to look at Dad and see the expression on his face; it didn’t seem to matter how hard Sam tried, Dad was never satisfied. Dean, of course, was perfect.
Dad got out a different rope; it was thin like the nylon but still prickly and stiff like the hemp rope. He made them hold some of it in their hands, and as Sam ran his fingers across it, he could see how it would be tricky; the little spars on the rope would keep any knot from coming loose, but it would also make it harder to untie someone.
“Your turn, Sam,” said Dad. “Hold out your hands, Dean.”
Dean held out his hands, and Sam waited till Dean had taken a deep breath and had tightened his muscles. Then he tied the knot around Dean’s wrists as fast as he could, and he left it a little loose on purpose because he didn’t want the rope hurting Dean. And maybe, because he wanted to be able to untie the rope as fast as Dean had.
But then Dad got out the stopwatch, and looked at Sam. It was so hot under the trees, suddenly, and Sam couldn’t believe that Dad was going to time him. He wanted to protest because Dad hadn’t timed Dean doing this very same thing. He even opened his mouth to say Dean didn’t have to do this, but Dad just looked at him, just ready for Sam to be a smartmouth about it
It took everything Sam had not to say something, just everything. He clenched his jaw and took Dean’s tied wrists in his hand and nodded at Dad that he was ready to start. But instead of starting the stopwatch, Dad reached over and twitched on the rope a little bit, and it tightened just to the point where it bit into Dean’s skin. Dean released the breath he’d been holding, but the rope was as tight as ever.
Sam couldn’t believe it, now it was going to be impossible. He scowled fiercely at Dean’s wrists, and waited; he didn’t want to look at anybody, because if he did, he would end up saying exactly what he thought, which wouldn’t help anything.
When Dad started the stopwatch, Sam started working on the rope. But the knots were so tight, his fingers could only fumble at the edges. Dean had to hold his arms out straight so Sam could work on the knots, but it was taking so long that his hands were starting to shake. Sam scrabbled and tugged, but the knots held.
Finally Dad clicked the stopwatch off and set it in the dirt and Dean let his hands fall into his lap.
“You only make it harder on yourself and your brother when you panic, Sam,” said Dad, shaking his head.
Sam hadn’t been panicking; he knew that, it was just that Dad had tightened the knots tight, impossibly tight. It was absolutely unfair.
Dad didn’t care what Sam thought. He just held out the serrated knife, handle first.
“You know what to do,” said Dad.
Yes, Sam knew what to do. He had to cut his brother loose, and all the while he was shaking with fury; Dad had made it harder for Sam on purpose.
“C’mon, Sammy,” said Dean. “I’m starting to go numb in my fingers.”
Sam looked up. Dean held out his wrists, smiling a little bit; he was trying to make it nice for Sam. And Sam remembered that he was going to try, for Dean, at least, and part of that trying was going along with what Dad was trying to teach them. Which was what? Oh, yeah, to not panic, and to remember all the steps.
Sam took the knife from Dad, and hefted it in his hand. He knew he was supposed to find a thin spot and start cutting, away and down. He could do that. He didn’t know how fast he had to be, but Dad hadn’t picked up the stopwatch yet so maybe that didn’t matter.
He tugged Dean’s wrists down till they were resting against Dean’s bare knee.
“That’s right, Sam,” said Dad. “Find something to balance against.”
Sam thrust out his chin, feeling mulish about it, but he didn’t say anything to Dad. Instead, he concentrated on finding just the right spot, there, behind the bulk of the knot, and he started cutting. Well, sawing, actually, with little back and forth motions, taking his time till just as he got to the last part of the rope, and then he hurried.
It happened in a flash. The knife cut through the rope and the edge of the blade was headed straight toward Dean’s leg. To keep from cutting Dean, Sam jerked the blade in his hand, away and down, almost without realizing he was doing it. The tip of the knife dug into Sam’s left arm, leaving a little gouge, and welling up red right away and dripping into the dust.
Sam flung the knife down, and clamped his hand over his arm. He started scrambling to get up, but Dad grabbed him and made him sit still.
“Check it, Dean,” said Dad. “See how deep it went.”
Sam didn’t know why Dad didn’t check it himself, but maybe he knew that at this point, Sam was only going to let Dean see. Dean peeled back Sam’s fingers, and Sam made himself look. Dean was shaking a little, and his fingers were red with blood. Sam’s were too, but he could see that though the cut was a little deep, it wasn’t very big. It was in a triangle shape, like he sometimes did to himself when he was too impatient for Dean to slice his apple for him.
Dean clamped down on the cut with his thumb and pressed hard. When he looked at Sam, his face was white enough so that Sam could see his freckles through his tan.
“It’s okay, Dad,” said Dean. “Just a nick.”
It was a little more than a nick, at least it looked that way to Sam. And maybe Dad thought so too, because he stood up and gestured at Sam to get up.
“Come here, Sam. I’ll wash it and we’ll take care of it.”
Sam got up. Dad bent over to get the jug of water and uncapped it. He moved a little bit away from their circle in the dust and while Dean watched, Dad held Sam’s arm out looked at the cut. Then he poured the water from the jug. It stung, but Dad’s grip was tight, so Sam couldn’t pull away. The blood ran very thin, and Dad nodded, and dried the edges with his t-shirt. Then he ripped a little bit off the edge of the hem and wrapped it around Sam’s forearm and tied a little knot.
“We’ll get some first aid cream and a bandage for that later,” said Dad. “It should hold for now.” He patted Sam’s arm and let him go. “That’s what we call a field dressing.”
Sam sat back down, cross-legged next to Dean. His arm only hurt a little bit, but he felt all twisted and dark inside. Most Dads, in fact, all the Moms and Dads at soccer practice, would have stopped the game, and patched up their kid with a real bandage, and then maybe given him (or her) some Kool-Aid and a cookie, and only after that, would the game have gotten back underway. But not Dad, oh no. He just slapped some dusty cotton on it and said it was okay.
“Cool,” said Dean.
While Dad was busy getting out yet another rope, Sam looked at Dean. “Huh?” He couldn’t imagine that Dean was glad that Sam had cut himself.
“Your first real field dressing,” said Dean. He had a goofy grin, like this was a special event, as though Sam should be glad that he wasn’t playing soccer on some nice, cool, green soccer field. That instead he was stuck in the hot woods, messing around with hard ropes and sharp knives, and very likely bleeding to death right this very minute.
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes; sometimes Dean was so dumb.
*
They worked with the ropes all morning, over and over, until Sam almost got the hang of it. It really was true that you had to clamp down on the panic, or it wouldn’t work. Not that he’d ever tell Dad that he was right. You had to hold on and keep breathing in and out, calmly, like you were really reading a book or something. Sam got better at keeping still, and keeping his mouth shut, but his head started to ache, and his wrists were a mess of scratches, but it was getting hotter and surely the sun was overhead now, meaning that it was time for lunch.
“Almost there,” said Dad. “One more exercise, and then we’re done.”
He stood up and smacked the dirt from his jeans. “Get up, boys.”
Both of them got up. Sam’s legs were sore from sitting in one spot for so long, but he hoped they’d just do some more tests to see how fast each of them could tie knots, then they could go back to the cabin and he could lie on the couch (or sit next to Dean) and just stare at the TV for a while. He’d really like not to be in the woods anymore; he had three big bug bites on the back of his neck already.
Dad gestured to Sam, as he walked towards the trees, and Sam followed. Suddenly Dad grabbed him and spun him around and pressed him against the nearest tree. Very quickly, Dad tied his hands, and then spun the rope over Sam’s head to wrap it around the tree. Sam could smell the dust and sweat on Dad’s skin as Dad pulled the rope tight, and then he adjusted the knots, testing them.
“Dad?” asked Dean. His voice was very small.
Sam felt his eyes widen; his chest tightened like someone was pressing on it.
“Keep breathing, Sam.” Dad kept his eyes on Sam and didn’t pay attention to Dean. “This is a lesson in how to be ready, how to manage this on your own. I’m going to leave you here, tied to this tree. When you get untied, come back to the cabin. If you can’t do it, we’ll repeat the exercise till you can. Dean, you’re next.”
Dad snapped his attention at Dean, and suddenly, Sam felt like he didn’t exist. He watched as Dad picked up the canvas sack and stuffed all of the rope, and the water jug and the wax paper that the crackers had been wrapped in into it. Then he and Dean followed the dirt path and disappeared into the trees.
Sam was cold all over. He was very bad at getting himself free; half the time either Dad or Dean had to undo him; he had the cuts to prove it. There was no way he was going to be able to manage this. Dad had tied his hands the way he had been doing all day, but the ropes around the tree, and across his chest and legs? That was new; Sam didn’t have a clue how to begin.
To Dad it was just an exercise, but it wasn’t fair. Sam was not good at this, not at all. And he was scared, his heart was racing and he couldn’t catch his breath, but Dad didn’t care. Dad wouldn’t care if he stayed out in the woods tied up all night, as long as Sam learned the lesson about how not to panic. How to untie himself. How to pretend it was just another ordinary training exercise, like how to sharpen a knife, or how to shoot a crossbow. Sam’d thought that was bad. This was miles worse.
The rope seemed a little loose just across his arms, and if he could get his arms all the way loose, he maybe could work at the rope around his wrists because that was a knot he was used to.
He jerked his arms up, he couldn’t help it. And now he’d made it worse; everything was tight. The rope was the prickly kind, too, it bit into him everywhere it touched him. Trust Dad to do the hard test with the icky rope, trust Dad to walk off and not care that Sam had wanted to scream after him, Wait, Dad, I’ll do better. It wasn’t even some sort of punishment because Dad was tying Dean up, too. Doing the same thing, testing Dean the same way.
Dean, naturally, wouldn’t be panicking. He’d be ready, he’d hold his breath and tighten his muscles while Dad tied him up. And then, prickly rope or not, Dean would be letting his breath and muscles go and he’d be working the ropes little by little, calmly breathing, just like Dad said. And then he’d be free and waltzing back to the cabin, where the two of them could have dinner, and maybe there’d be ice cold milk and cookies for desert. And there Sam would be, stuck in the woods when it got dark.
We’ll repeat the exercise until you can, Dad had said. Did that mean he’d come and untie Sam and they’d try again tomorrow? Or did he mean he’d leave Sam there way past dark until he was successful? Knowing Dad, he’d pick the meaner choice, the one that was horrible, just to teach Sam not to panic.
Well, he was panicking now. His heart was racing so hard he could hear it, and he strained hard on the ropes, even though it was exactly the wrong thing to do. He jerked his right arm, and behind him, around the trunk of the tree, the rope snagged on something, Now it was extra tight, right along his breastbone. The rope pressed, narrowing the amount his chest could push out to breathe. His hands were going numb, just like they had earlier, and he couldn’t call for help because there was no one nearby to hear him.
Dad would probably wait and wait and then wait some more until he was sure Sam had learned his lesson, then he’d come and untie Sam in time for bed. But it wouldn’t be over, even then, because he’d make Sam repeat this every day, he’d keep tying Sam up until Sam figured it out and could get free on his own. And that would be forever, every day for the rest of his stupid life, because he could not do it. And it would not only make Dad mad, because Sam had yet again failed, but Dean would be disappointed, and would that make Dean mad, make him think Sam was doing it on purpose just to mess up Dean’s summer. Then Dean would hate him for the rest of Sam’s life.
His throat closed up, and his vision went wobbly as his eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t help it. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, clench his teeth, but the tears poured down his face, and his throat insisted on making stupid crying sounds. He was shaking all over, making small tugging motions with his hands as the tears dripped off his chin and onto his once-white t-shirt.
He shut his eyes and tried to breathe but that didn’t help, not one bit, and what if something was sneaking up on him in the woods and he was trapped tied to this stupid tree?
In fact, he heard it now, a loud, crashing noise as something came at him. His eyes flew open, and he tried to toss his head to get the bangs out of his eyes, and blink away his tears to see what was coming. There was a fog in front of his eyes, for a second, then he could see the trees move, and then he saw Dean, pushing through the branches as he came straight through the woods. Not on the path, but through the woods. He carried his rope in his hands; his wrists looked raw, and there was a rip in his t-shirt right across his stomach. He was coming straight for Sam with a determined look on his face.
Cool air seemed to sluice across his skin at the sight of his brother, rescuing him, and made Sam start to cry all over again. “Dean,” he said, over the huge fist in his throat. “I tried and tried, but I c-c-couldn’t do it-”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Dean, his voice low. He came right up to Sam, warm with sweat and dust, leaves in his hair, and dropped his rope at Sam’s feet. “Just hold still, don’t make it worse, okay? I’ll get you out.”
Sam’s chest did a double hitch as he tried to stop crying, tried to keep still. Dean’s hands worked on the knots around Sam’s hands for a minute, then he shook his head as if remembering something, the sequence of how he’d done it before, maybe, then he moved behind Sam to work on the rope around the tree.
“Stop it,” said Dean, and Sam realized he’d been moving so he could see what Dean was doing. That wasn’t helping, so Sam made himself freeze. Dean made a grunting noise, and then the rope around Sam’s chest fell in a puddle at Sam’s feet. Then Dean was next to Sam again, breathing hard through his nose, concentrating, looking at the knot around Sam’s wrists as he worked it.
“Dean-” said Sam, gulping. “I tried, I-” He wanted Dean to look at him, wanted to explain that he wasn’t trying to ruin everything.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean. He looked at Sam with steady eyes as he drew his arm back and pulled a length of rope free. “We’re gonna practice, you an’ me, so you can do this better, so you don’t look like-”
Dean went silent as his fingers scrabbled at the knot, his touch warm on Sam’s cold, shocky skin. Then, with a quick breath, Sam’s hands were free. “Just don’t tell Dad, okay?” asked Dean with a slight catch in his voice.
Sam stepped away from the tree, and rubbed his wrists, rubbed his stomach, pulled his shirt away from his neck. “Me don’t tell Dad?” he asked, even though he knew that saying mean things about Dad made Dean pissed at him. “I’m not the one who can’t keep secrets from him.”
Dean looked at Sam; the corners of his eyes were tilted downward. Sam realized it was a mean thing to say, especially after what Dean had just done for him and was going to do for him. Dean would teach Sam how to get out of the ropes, and, if all went well, Dad would never know.
Sam touched Dean’s arm. “I won’t tell,” he said. He wouldn’t let Dean tell either, which usually happened early on when Dean tried to tell lies to Dad. Sam would watch to see when Dean was just about to tell, and then Sam would jump in and say something to get Dad mad at him, it didn’t matter what it was, just so Dean wouldn’t get in trouble. Sam could just imagine how mad Dad would be, how angry and disappointed he’d be in Dean setting Sam free. That would make Dean feel bad, and Sam was determined that wouldn’t happen.
“Okay,” said Dean. He picked up Sam’s rope and handed it to him. “Just wait a minute or two after I leave, then come back to the cabin. Like it’s normal, you just untied yourself and that’s all. He’ll never know.”
Although Dean’s words sounded confident, his voice shook a little bit.
Sam only nodded at Dean; there was nothing he could say to make Dean feel better, he’d just have to protect Dean from his own, self-imposed code of Golden Boy ethics.
Dean went back in the direction where Dad had tied him up. Sam watched Dean’s back, the level set of his shoulders, his summer-shorn hair, disappear through the trees. Which left Sam standing in the cool shade of the mountain laurel, sweating, salt on his face drying, and the rope dangling from his shaking hand. He wished he was far, far away from here, and grown up already, and could tell Dad no and mean it. That he could-
But there was nothing else he could do, but wait long enough and come out of the woods like he’d gotten free himself. So he counted to 60, using Mississippi between every number, and then down from sixty the same way. Figuring that ought to be enough, he started walking back to the cabin, following the dirt path until he got to the clearing.
Dean was just arriving at the bottom of the steps, handing his rope over to Dad. Sam couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Dad tossed the rope onto the porch, and he gave Dean’s shoulder a hearty clap. That’s when he saw Sam; that’s when Dean saw Sam; that’s when Dean froze.
Sam walked up to the steps and handed Dad the rope like it was an everyday event. His heart was still pounding, and he could taste the salt on his mouth from crying, but he’d gotten free from the rope, and here was his proof. See, Dad?
He made himself not look at Dean.
Dad took the rope from Sam and tossed it up the stairs and onto the porch. He took Sam’s wrists in his hands and turned them over so he could see the underside. Sam’s wrists were raw, and he’d been jerking at the rope so hard, he’d actually made the left one bleed. But he didn’t need to tell Dad that.
“Looks like you panicked a little, Sam,” said Dad, with his head bent as he looked at Sam’s wrists. “Even though you got free pretty fast.”
Then he looked up, and his left eyebrow quirked just a little bit and all at once Sam knew. Or thought he knew, there was never going to be any way to prove it, because in order to do that, he’d have to ask Dad. Dean made a little gasping sound that was impossible to miss in the silence that landed after Dad stopped speaking. But he might as well have gone on speaking, because Sam could see it clearly in Dad’s face that he knew what had happened, knew what Dean had done, and knew what Sam was doing now.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw that Dean had gone white under the dirt and sweat on his face. His mouth was open and he was just about to confess. Sam kept his concentration on Dad. Lying to Dad was never truly easy, although it was easier when Dean wasn’t involved in the first place.
Dad made a little motion like he wanted to say something, then he stopped as if he changed his mind and said, only, “Grace under pressure, Sam.” Then he let Sam’s wrists go, and clapped Dean on the shoulder again as he walked up the stairs to go into the cabin. “Nice job, boys,” he said.
“Come in, and let me take a look at those wrists, boys,” said Dad. He was standing on the porch holding the screen door open.
Sam let out the breath he was holding. If Dean kept his mouth shut, Dad would take care of their wrists and the cut on Sam’s arm, and then it would be supper time, and after that, it would be dark. If they could wait long enough, if Dean didn’t break, they’d be fine. Dad didn’t need to know anyway. He never told them anything, why should they tell him anything?
*
After supper, Sam sat on the top step. It was warm but the wind was moving through the trees, so it was comfortable to be there with Dean, who sat cross-legged on the porch while they set the ropes to rights. The nylon ones were easy; they were soft and most of the dust came right off. Plus, it was fun to make a figure-eight of the rope, using Dean’s hands and his elbows as a form. Sam was extra careful as he looped the rope around the freshly scabbed patch on Dean’s elbow.
(Nylon rope, coiled.)
When Sam finished the last of the nylon rope, he set it aside. Then Dean picked up the end of the hemp rope, and worked with his hands, twisting it.
“Sammy,” he said.
Sam waited for Dean to finish, but in the hum and flicker of the moths against the porch light, Dean just looked at Sam, his mouth pulling itself into a frown and didn’t say anything more.
It was as if he were waiting for Sam to say something. He looked at Sam and opened his mouth, then he snapped it shut and got up, casting hemp rope everywhere.
“Hey,” said Sam. The rope had landed on his legs and was prickly.
The screen door slammed and as Sam looked up, Dean was already inside, saying, “Hey, Dad?”
Sam got up and raced inside, slamming the screen door shut. The room felt stuffy after the slightly breezy outside. Sam went over to where Dad was sitting in his seat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, bent over his papers and journals, which were spread all over the place. Every time Sam saw the journal, his fingers itched to go through it, though after the whipping he’d gotten in Broken Bow after he’d filched the journal from Dad, he didn’t dare.
Same came up to stand at Dean’s side, just as Dad looked up from his journal; he barely had a glance for Sam before he looked at Dean. His eyes were shadowed in the overhead lights.
“What is it, Dean?”
“Um…”
“Dean,” said Dad, in that tired tone he usually saved when he had just finished explaining something to Sam for the ninetieth time.
“I wanted to tell you-” said Dean, and even before he said it, Sam knew what Dean was going to say. Dean couldn’t lie to Dad no matter what, not even if a hundred monsters were chasing him and the only way to escape was to not tell Dad the truth. The only thing that surprised Sam was the fact that Dean had lasted this long.
“I’m the one who untied Sam, Dad, it was me.”
Naturally Dean would make it sound like Dean was the only one to blame for it, like he’d not been the hero and charged through the underbrush to keep Sam from peeing his pants in terror. Not that Sam had done that in the longest time, but the effect was the same. Dean had saved Sam from what was sure to have been hours of struggling and waiting while the ropes got tighter and tighter, until Dad came along with that sour look on his face that said he was, yet again, disappointed in his youngest.
But was that better or worse than standing next to Dean right now while Dean confessed and was all truthful and honest and faithful to Dad? Maybe. Except for the part where Dad looked at Sam for a hard minute, before picking up his pen and returning to his journal.
“I already know that, Dean,” said Dad. He wrote in his journal while Dean stood there, mouth open.
“But why didn’t you say anything?” asked Dean, voice rising.
Dad paused a moment to check one of his notes. “Because I wanted to see what you would do.” He flicked a glance up at Dean. “Now I know.”
Sam turned away, disgusted with the whole thing. It had been impossible from the start. Maybe Dad had expected them to help each other and then maybe not. It was one of those things that Dad did, those twisty, weird lessons that were laced with Dad-logic and that had everything to do with hunting. When to lie. How to lie. And to who you could lie. But what made Sam maddest was that it had been a test inside of a test inside of a test and Sam had failed with flying colors.
He snapped on the TV, eyes blurring with fury; he didn’t care what was on. Then he flung himself down on the couch where Dean usually liked to lounge. The cushion on the arm rest was indented with a bowl the shape of Dean’s head. It was bigger than Sam’s head but he put his head there anyway, with his arms crossed over his chest, and glared.
Not at the TV, but at the sharp, naked bulb over the kitchen table that sent hard light everywhere. All over Dad, sitting there with his stupid journal and all over Dean who had pulled out his chair and scooted close to Dad. Their heads were bent together; the light cast long shadows beneath their faces and hands as they talked in low voices.
Whether it was about what Dad was currently updating in his journal or whether it was about the rope test, Sam didn’t care. Either way, Dean probably wanted Dad to tell him that it was okay that Dean had lied as long as Dean came to Dad in the end with the truth. That’s what Dad liked, so Dean had passed everything: he’d gotten free, rescued his stupid, panicky little brother, and been honest about it. Which Sam hand done none of, so he failed. All the way.
To distract himself, Sam got up and changed the channel till he found something good that looked like a program on the mysteries of the solar system, and that was just fine with him. He turned up the volume for good measure and flung himself back on the couch, heart thumping.
Nobody even paid any attention to him; Dad and Dean just kept talking together, heads close, black ink and spun gold, all bathed in hard light. Nobody asked him to come over and there was no way he was going to butt in. He didn’t want to belong to their stupid two-man club anyway. Maybe he once had, maybe he would if-
Sam scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, telling himself that he did not want to start saying anything about what he was thinking because not only would he get in trouble for mouthing off, nobody would care anyway.
He looked at the TV. On the screen, a solar system, or was it a galaxy, spun in an animated spiral to demonstrate something. Maybe it was the big bang theory or something about black holes. Didn’t matter. It was like school, and Sam liked school.
He was going to be in the 7th grade next year and he was going to take all science and math and history they would let him, and he would show Dad and Dean who was smart around here. And if in the middle of school they moved? Then Sam wouldn’t turn in those books; he’d keep them and tell Dad he needed to keep them, and Dad would just have to let him. Sam would study all the time and he would show them-
“Scoot over, Sammy.”
It was Dean, patting his leg. Sam knew there’d be a tussle if he resisted so he sat up. He still hogged the end seat (Dean’s favorite) and rested his arm there, so Dean would know that Sam wasn’t about to move. No matter what.
“Whatcha watching?”
“Science program,” said Sam, clipping over the words. “Big bang, black holes, you wouldn’t be interested.” He wanted to add that Dean wouldn’t understand any of it anyway, but that wasn’t true. Dean was plenty smart, when he wanted to be. So Sam just sat there, blood pounding behind his eyes and just waited for Dean to go away.
*
Bedtime wasn’t any better. The fans in the window and the doorway droned, but didn’t make the room feel any cooler. Sam kicked the sheet all the way to his knees, and blew air up at his bangs to cool his forehead. It didn’t make any difference, and there was no helping the heat.
Beside him, Dean lay stiff as a board, staring up at the ceiling. Sam knew, even without Dean saying anything, that he was still worried about lying to Dad. Even though Dad already knew and hadn’t punished Dean, Dean didn’t like the fact that Dad had caught him lying.
“Stop thinking about it,” said Sam. He wanted to kick Dean, but that would only start a fight.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” said Dean.
This proved that Sam was right, but Dean’s voice was tight and he was probably going to fret about it all night.
“If you’d just kept your mouth shut,” said Sam, now. “But you never can, can you, you always gotta think that Dad’s right, and do it his way.”
“But he is,” said Dean, insisting. “He was teaching us something, and I screwed up, I should have let you rescue yourself.”
Sam couldn’t believe it. “But you said at the time-” At the time, Dean had marched through those trees and rescued Sam and vowed to help him learn how to do this, so he could rescue himself next time. “Aren’t you going to help me?”
There was a pause as Dean cleared his throat, and kicked the sheets down to his knees. That made it easier for more air to sift over Sam’s skin, but he was still hot.
Sam waited for Dean to say something, thinking that he would do just about anything to get Dean on his side and make him stay there. Even though he knew Dean couldn’t help it; Dean’s loyalty to Dad was as sure as the color of his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks. Except, sometimes, he seemed like he was loyal to Sam, too, when he did stuff like he did today. Sam wondered, suddenly, if it drove Dean crazy to be pulled between Sam and Dad all the time, only he couldn’t put it into words to ask it, not in a way that wouldn’t set Dean off.
“I will help you,” said Dean, finally. He took a breath and then shifted on his side, away from Sam. Not in a mean way, but in a way that told Sam that Dean was ready to fall asleep now, if Sam would just stop talking. “But only if Dad knows.”
Sam nodded in the darkness, and closed his eyes, and tried to be satisfied with that. But it was going to be hard.
*
Breakfast was dried cereal in a bowl because they were out of milk and eggs. There were also some oranges that Dad had sliced up but they had no juice in them at all. Plus, Sam had some rope burns across the tops of his thighs that he’d not noticed before; Dean did too. They were already dried over, so Sam tucked his bare feet on the rail of the chair and sucked on a slice of orange and did his best to remember that he wasn’t going to complain anymore and mess up Dean’s summer. At least not more than he already had.
But by the time he was done crunching his way through the dry cereal, he was still hungry. His stomach felt hollow and he patted it and hoped that Dad would want to pick up groceries today. They’d done a solid week of ropes and knives and sparring and Sam wanted a day off. He didn’t dare ask for one, though. Dad was likely to pile on more work or extra chores just to teach Sam a lesson about complaining.
“Must you crunch so loud?” asked Dean.
Sam felt the swipe of Dean’s sneakered foot against his shin, but it mostly missed.
Dad barely looked up from his cereal as he concentrated on his journal.
Sam wanted to say, must you be such a jerk but that would start a fight, and then it would get worse from there.
“Well, if there was milk,” said Sam instead, reasonably, “I wouldn’t be crunching so loud.”
Both Dad and Dean stared at him. In the frozen silence that followed this remark, Sam realized that he was almost complaining, specifically about Dad, who had been so busy putting them through their paces that he’d let them run low on supplies.
Sam tightened his mouth and thought about saying something else, something that was like an apology, but wasn’t. Only he couldn’t think of the right thing. Besides, it was Dad’s job to see take care of the supplies, so it was his fault about the milk anyway.
“I’ll get some today,” said Dad. He wrote something down in his journal and then stuck the pen in and closed it. “We’ll train this morning and then after lunch, I’ll go.” He stood up.
Sam stood up too and took his bowl over to the sink and tossed his orange peels into the trash. He wondered if the bowl would really have to be washed, since he could wipe out the cereal dust with his fingers.
“Out of my way, dork,” said Dean, bumping past him to get to the sink. He could just as easily have reached around, but no, he had to bump into Sam, on purpose.
At the last minute, Sam managed to refrain from giving Dean a shove, or at the very least, bumping back into him to prove a point. He wanted to stay out of trouble, which was going to be hard enough as it was. But he had to try, so he grit his teeth and walked past Dean, without touching him, and said, “It’s your turn to do the dishes.”
Dean couldn’t even say is not because it was. But he could reach back with his foot to trip Sam’s legs and send him sprawling to the floor. Which he did. Sam tried to get up on his hands and knees, but Dad was suddenly there.
“That’s enough of that,” Dad said. He hauled Sam up by the arm. “Get on your feet.”
Sam scowled. It wasn’t fair that Dad blamed him for being on the floor, when Dean was the one who tripped him. Except that Dean never pointed out when it was Sam’s fault; Dean wasn’t a tattle tale, so Sam wouldn’t be. Sometimes, it was hard living up to Dean.
Dad looked at Sam and let him go. “I need you to make me a list of what we need. Then, when Dean’s done with the dishes, I want the two of you to go for a run.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Dean.
“What are you going to do?” asked Sam. He said it without thinking and knew he shouldn’t have, but he did want to know and wanting to know wasn’t a crime, was it?
Dad shot him a look. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sam, but I’m going to check the spark plugs; one of them sounded clogged. Didn’t you hear it, Dean?” He asked this like he expected Dean to have magical hearing or something.
“No, sir.” Dean’s voice sounded flat and Sam bristled. It was like Dean was supposed to have magical hearing or something. Sam made himself not say anything. Instead he glowered as he watched the screen door slam shut and listened to Dad’s booted feet go down the flight of steps.
“I didn’t hear it,” Sam said to Dean’s back.
For a second, Dean didn’t say anything. Then he put the plug in and started filling the sink with hot water. “Well, you couldn’t hear a clogged carburetor if you were looking at it, but I should have.”
Part 4
Master Fic Post