To Fight in the Shade - Part 2
It was then that Sam realized that Dad meant it. In spite of the fact that his voice was low and even, which meant that he was trying to be patient, was talking to Sam as though he expected Sam to be smart enough to understand (which was something he seldom did), he meant it. Sam wasn’t going to be allowed to play soccer, not just this summer, but ever. Ever.
“That’s not fair,” said Sam. His jaw felt all tight, and he felt something start to boil behind his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter, Sam, that’s just the way it has to be. If you play soccer, and you’re good, which you are, they’ll see you and then they’ll see all of us. And that can’t happen.”
Dad said this and his voice dipped off at the end. He continued driving like he’d not said anything remarkable, and Sam was just expected to go along with it, even if what Dad had just said felt like Dad was cutting off Sam’s last breath of hope. No soccer for Sam, no normal, never, never, never.
“That’s how it has to be,” said Dad, with utter calm, his voice low and quiet. “And the harder you fight it, the harder I’m going to clamp down.”
“I don’t care,” said Sam, and then his mouth got away from him. “You’re just saying the FBI is watching just so you can control everything I do and that’s just bullshit.”
“You want to say that again, Sam?” Dad’s voice cut across Sam’s words. The air between them suddenly felt as sharp as a well-honed knife. “Do you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see that Dad’s hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. A part of him knew that Dad was also trying to give Sam a way out, because he was allowing Sam the chance to pretend he’d not just said what he’d said. But Sam didn’t want out, he wanted through. He wanted to blast his way through this stupid life and into a different one. One where playing soccer wouldn’t get you arrested or worse. Most Dad’s would be proud of Sam, but not Sam’s Dad. Not John Winchester.
But Sam knew he was right, Dad was just being mean. Again.
“It’s bullshit,” said Sam, making his voice as loud and clear as he could. “You’re lying ‘cause you just don’t want me to do anything that’s not about your stupid hunting, so the whole thing is bullshit.”
With a screech of tires, Dad pulled the car off the highway and onto the exit ramp, and zoomed through the stop sign like he’d not just given Sam a lecture about how important it was to keep a low profile. Like he didn’t know about the dangers of getting a traffic ticket anywhere near a small town. With a hard jolt, he pulled over on the dusty shoulder and slammed on the brakes. He turned off the engine so fast that the car actually wheezed in complaint. Road dust settled over the shiny black hood of the car and across the windshield.
Sam made himself look towards the driver’s seat. Dad was white and his eyes glittered and there was a tell-tale pulse along his jaw line.
“Get out,” said Dad, each word bitten off.
“What?” asked Sam. Was Dad going to leave him by the side of the road? How would Dean find him? “Why?”
“Get out of the car,” said Dad, his voice dipping to a low growl, “or I’ll pull you out.”
The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck suddenly stood up. He was in hot water even when there wasn’t any hot water around. He opened the door, and quickly got out of the car and looked at the wide dirt shoulder and the simmering fields of green growing things that stretched off to the tree line. Something was humming in the distance and he was hot all over, the backs of his knees, under his arms, so hot, and still he felt like he was cold.
Dad stormed around the front of the car, the black hood catching his reflection for a second, and then Dad came right up to him, looming in the bright sunshine with sweat on his forehead thatching his hair to his skin. There was a glare in his eyes that told Sam it probably didn’t matter what he said now, he was in for a whipping because Dad never pulled the car over like that for no reason. But he had to try.
“It’s not fair,” he said.
“It’s not open for discussion, Sam, so just knock it off.”
“No,” said Sam, practically spitting the words out, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. Dad was so tall that he almost blocked out the sun as Sam looked up at him. “No, I won’t, because this is all bullshit.”
Sam saw Dad’s hand come up but he didn’t have time to back away before he felt a slap. It was hard enough to feel like his brain had slammed into his skull. His eyes watered and as he touched the side of his face, Dad took off his belt and folded it in his hands, the leather gleaming in the sunshine like snakeskin. That’s when the bottom of Sam’s stomach dropped out. His knees buckled like someone had tackled him.
Dad reached for Sam and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt to pull him close. Dad bent his knee and slammed Sam down hard against his thigh. The denim was hot and Dad’s leg muscles were bunched hard as iron and Sam struggled and pushed against the heat and closeness, his head swimming and his heart racing, blood racing cold all through him even as the sun beat down. He clutched at the folds in Dad’s jeans, at the empty belt loops at his waist, feeling the sweat through Dad’s t-shirt, feeling the fury.
“Dad, no, please, please don’t-”
“I told you Sam, one more step out of line-”
Sam lurched and slipped lower on Dad’s leg and for a second he thought he could get free and wondered how far he could run through the fields before Dad caught him. But Dad bent even closer and wrapped his arm across Sam’s back and around his waist, his fist pressing against Sam’s stomach. Trapped, Sam could feel every shift of Dad’s whole form, as Dad pulled his arm back and slammed the belt down across the back of Sam’s bare legs. Sam’s body jerked, and he clung even tighter, fingers curling around the waistband of Dad’s jeans.
“Dad,” he said, his voice coming out high and panicked.
The belt sliced into him, cutting through the cotton of his shorts and underwear, right down to the bone. The leather hissed as it came down again, cut and curling around his hipbone, stinging the side of his stomach with a sly pop.
Sam curled himself as tight as he could, close to Dad’s leg, drawing his own legs up, but Dad shifted his stance and Sam’s legs could only dangle, his toes barely scratching the dirt. Head pressed against Dad’s jean-clad hip, fingers numb, thighs on fire, his backside felt every stroke of Dad’s belt like it was red hot wire and there was nothing else. Just the hot sun, and Dad’s leg, and the denim that scratched Sam’s face and the tears that were blinding him. He held his mouth tight against his teeth to try and keep from crying.
This was worse than the whipping he’d gotten for running away or breaking Dean’s crossbow, which had been wrong, he knew that. He wasn’t even getting it for saying bullshit four times practically in the same breath. It was because Dad wanted to tear out that part of Sam, the part that didn’t want to be a hunter, that wanted, instead, to be normal and safe. Dad wanted to tear it out and trample it down and leave it in the hot, green Alabama field where no one would ever find it.
That’s when he started to cry, he couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care if Dad would think he wasn’t being manly enough or that he should buck up and just take it. That he should just stop complaining and just be the hunter that Dad wanted him to be. Even if that’s what Dean would do, and he already had, Sam couldn’t.
The whipping ended and Dad pushed him away, still holding on to Sam’s upper arm with a tight, angry grip. Sam couldn’t stop crying. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow, his eyes squeezed shut, his sobs clawing their way up his throat.
“Enough, Sam,” said Dad, giving Sam a shake.
Sam shook his head, and as his sobs carried up into the hot, still air over the fields, he heard Dad say, “God damnit, Sam,” under his breath.
Sam lifted his head and scrubbed at one eye and pulled his arm free from Dad’s grip.
It was not enough to make him stop crying, but Dad was looking at him funny, like he was about to lose his patience all over again.
So Sam tried to stop crying. He tried hard, even thought there was nothing that could soothe the hard fire that pounded from his bottom down to the backs of his knees. He took a deep breath and then another, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his t-shirt, but the sleeve was too short so he ended up smearing snot across his upper lip.
Dad slid his belt back on and buckled it and then pulled on the hem of his t-shirt. He came closer, and Sam jerked backwards, but Dad just used the hem to wipe Sam’s face. The cotton felt scratchy and warm from Dad’s body, and Sam let him do it.
Dad finished wiping Sam’s face with the t-shirt and then he tucked it back in to his jeans. It was one of those odd bits of kindness that Dad sometimes showed Sam but as always, it was too little too late.
Through his blur of tears, Sam looked up at Dad and said, “I hate you.”
Dad flicked his eyes and looked right at Sam. “I know,” he said.
*
The ride home was hot. Even with all the windows down, and Sam had rolled his down because Dad said he could, and even as fast as Dad was driving, the back of Sam’s neck and his armpits were soaked with sweat. He folded his legs beneath him, so that he only had to sit on part of one welted thigh, and sagged against the door frame, feeling like someone had removed all of his bones.
The trees and close cut grass whizzed past, making Sam dizzy. But he would rather look at something that made him feel like he wanted to throw up than to look at Dad, to catch his eye, to see the sweat on the back of his hard arms, veins pulsing through the tops of his tanned hands as he gripped the steering wheel. Or see the rage in his face, grim and dark, brows lowered as he frowned. Of course he was still mad at Sam, but he was always mad, so what difference did today make?
Sam felt mad, too, and what difference did that make? None. No matter how much Sam wanted to play soccer, even for fun, Dad would always find out, and even if Dad’s reasons were stupid, Sam would get a whipping, which made him tired and sore and madder than ever. And stupid. Stupid because he simply couldn’t figure out a way to make Dad see reason. Make Dad see that playing soccer, even being on a school team, was harmless. It would keep Sam busy, and build up his stamina for more stupid hunting, and didn’t Dad want Sam out of his hair?
“Sam, stop picking at that.”
Sam looked down and realized he was tearing at the little rubber strip that pressed against the glass. Sam rolled up the window a little to see if that would smooth it out, and then he rolled the window down, but that just tore it some more.
“Leave it alone.”
Sam let his head sag forward and buried his face on his folded arms as he rested them against the open window frame. It had been a bad day, then a good day, and then a terrible day, and he didn’t think it was going to get any better.
(Sad Sam on the drive home.)
*
The sun was hot and the dust from the road was a hazy cloud as Dad pulled up to the cabin and parked the car.
Sam didn’t look over at Dad, he just got out of the car, wincing as he stood on stiff legs. The car door was warm under his hands as he shut it. Dad got out of the car just as Dean came out of the cabin, the screen door slamming behind him.
Sam didn’t know what to do. He knew he should probably help to bring in the stuff that Dad had bought at the hardware store, but he was still so mad about the whole thing that no part of him wanted to be nice. Dad already thought Sam was the least of his sons; bringing in supplies wouldn’t make any difference at all.
“Bring in the supplies, Dean,” said Dad, as if Sam weren’t even there and could have done it. Naturally Dad didn’t ask him, naturally Dad expected nothing of him now.
As Dad went up the stairs, Dean came trotting down. He was grimy with the cabin chores he’d done while they were gone. The second he saw Sam, he said, “What you do to piss Dad off this time?” His green eyes blazed.
Sam could hear Dad sigh as he opened the screen door.
“He didn’t piss me off,” Dad said. “He disappeared for twenty minutes and I couldn’t find him.” The screen door slammed behind Dad, leaving Sam alone with Dean, who was shaking his head at Sam, frowning like he was disgusted.
“I didn’t disappear,” said Sam. He wanted Dean to understand how the day had gone, and how the time had gotten away from him because he was doing something he loved. “I was playing soccer.”
Dean shook his head, and went around to the driver’s side to reach in and pop the trunk. Then he went to the trunk, and as he opened it all the way, looked over at Sam. “You know what Dad said, Sam. He said no soccer, so quit being a baby about it.”
Dean started arranging things so he could carry them in. Sam stood there for a second, listening to the hum in the trees, feeling the sun bake the top of his head, wishing he had a glass of water, and knowing that what he wanted most of all was sympathy from Dean, for Dean to be on his side.
Dean straightened up with several coils of soft, white nylon rope in his arms. He came toward Sam, shaking his head, but not looking at Sam. “You just gotta give it up, if you’re going to be a hunter.”
He was just about to go striding off when Sam moved to block his path. Dean pulled up mid-stride, jerking back, looking at Sam like he’d popped out of nowhere.
“No,” said Sam. “No, I’m not going to be a hunter, don’t you get it? I don’t want to.” And then he kicked Dean hard in the shin.
Dean dropped the bundles of rope, hopping on one foot to clasp his leg. He was so off balance that even Sam could even see where he could apply the least amount of pressure to shove Dean so he would fall over. Which Sam did, mind on fire, and Dean went sprawling in the dirt.
“You little bitch,” said Dean, scrabbling up on his elbows, covered with dust. He sounded mean, but Sam could see the surprise in his eyes. “You don’t get to kick me.”
“Stupid jerk,” said Sam, giving Dean a good solid kick in the ribs. It was wrong to kick a man when he was down, Dad said that all the time, except he always added that there was a time and a place when it was okay, and Sam figured this was one of them. He just wanted to pound Dean into the ground, and make him hurt. Make him feel how much it hurt Sam to not be able to play soccer.
But Dean apparently wasn’t going to just stay put and let Sam do this, because when Sam tried to kick him again, Dean reached out and grabbed Sam’s ankle and twisted it just right so Sam fell in the dirt, mashing the side of his face and getting dust in his eyes. Then Dean was on top of him, straddling Sam’s hips with his thighs, pressing Sam into the dirt with his weight.
He swung a punch that Sam could barely see through watering eyes, but he stuck his arm up to try and block the blow, which still managed to graze his chin and slam his head into the ground. The backs of his legs and his bottom were screaming at him, and he tried to shift his weight, even though it felt like he was on fire, to dislodge Dean, but Dean was firmly in place, pressing down on Sam’s shoulder with one hand, and drawing back the other for another punch.
The punch landed, full on, and Sam’s mouth filled with a bitter taste and his teeth started to throb, and he couldn’t believe that Dean had actually hit him. Hard. He didn’t want to cry, so he swallowed, but the tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes anyway. Blood dripped down the back of his throat, just as Dean’s hand slipped off his shoulder and slammed into the ground beside Sam’s head, bringing Dean’s face close.
“Why do you have to ruin everything?” Dean’s teeth were white against his face, red with rage, his eyes huge and green and very pissed off. “You’re ruining my summer, stop ruining my summer.”
Just as he drew back and curled his fist for another blow, Dean’s weight was suddenly gone, and Sam opened his eyes wide, pushing himself up on his elbows. Dad had Dean by the scruff of the neck, holding him fast and hard.
“How many times have I told you, Dean, you’re bigger than he is. You don’t hit your brother.” He gave Dean a small shake and let him go with a chuff to the back of his head and then looked over at Sam to glare, his brows drawn low. “That goes for you too, Sam.”
Sam waited, watching, expecting Dean to burst out with the truth that Sam had kicked him first, but he never did. Dean stared at the ground, his mouth was drawn in a thin line, like he was afraid he might say something if he opened it. His rage was gone and he was white under the sweat on his face and on his neck. His shirt was smeared with dirt, and he wiped the blood from his knuckles on it, adding more stains.
“Get up, Sam, and help your brother bring in the supplies. No more fighting.”
Sam struggled to his feet and opened his mouth, thinking that maybe Dad should know that he kicked Dean first, that while Dean had been pissy about the soccer, Sam had started it; it wasn’t Dean’s fault.
“But we fight all the time,” Sam said. He wasn’t whining, he was protesting. His mouth felt sore; he wiped at it with the back of his hand. There was only a little blood there.
Dad waved Sam’s explanation away. “Sparring isn’t fighting Sam, and you know it. Any more fights between you, and I swear neither of you will sit for a week. Now, help your brother bring in those supplies.”
Dad almost never made threats. The fact that he had, well, it wouldn’t matter if Sam had just gotten a whipping already today, and it wouldn’t matter if Dean was the golden child; the threat wasn’t an empty one. Then Dad went inside the cabin.
Dean picked up the coils of rope and shook the dust off them. He climbed the stairs and went into the cabin, leaving Sam alone except for the hum and the far away rustle of leaves as the wind blew across them.
Sam looked at what was in the trunk, and picked the two one-gallon containers of kerosene; they had wide handles and would be easy to carry. Plus he would be carrying two things that were much heavier than the coils of rope Dean had. But then he felt bad for thinking that. Dean would probably make twice as many trips as Sam, eager and tireless, and Sam would still end up looking like the lazy one.
So he looked in the trunk again and saw the two kerosene lanterns, which had handles made of thin, rounded metal. He put the kerosene down on the ground, and gripped the thin handles of the lamps, and then bent his knees and tried to gather up the broader handles of the kerosene and hold all of them at once. He managed to get it in his right hand and then the kerosene handle slipped from the fingers of his left hand and clunked as it fell on its side.
Sam took a deep breath and figured he would try again, but Dean showed up. He didn’t look at Sam. Sam thought Dean was probably still mad that Sam had kicked him. Not that Sam blamed him; he felt bad enough about it already that if Dean wanted to punch him again, he’d let him.
Dean didn’t say anything as he picked up the kerosene and for a second, Sam thought he was just going to grab everything and carry it all in, taking both the kerosene and the lanterns like Sam had been going to do. Instead, he bent close and took Sam’s hand and shifted the pair of handles so that the thinner handle rested on top of the wider one. Then he did the same with the other pair, lifting the kerosene so Sam could grip it and then adjusting the thinner handle on top. Sam had the weight equally balanced, and both hands could grip the handles firmly, and so now he could look like he was really carrying a lot in.
“There you go,” said Dean. He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he studiously looked at the trunk, as though he were trying to figure out what to carry next.
Sam took a breath. “I’m sorry I kicked you,” he said. Then he added, “Both times.”
Dean nodded, sucking his lips against his teeth. He leaned forward and picked up one of the bags that looked heavy; a flat rubber belt stuck out and Sam figured it was for the generator.
“And I’m sorry I punched you,” Dean said. “Both times, although you kind of deserved it.” He frowned as he said this, almost like he though it was a little harsh.
Sam could see there was something there that Dean felt bad about. Maybe Dean was wishing that Sam could play soccer, but since Dad had said no, then Dean had to say no, since Dean was Dad’s favorite and everything. At least Dean had said sorry, which was something.
Sam shrugged his shoulders, like it didn’t matter and he wasn’t mad at Dean, which he wasn’t, at least not anymore. Then he walked off, shortening his stride so the weight in his hands wouldn’t throw him off.
But he needed to make sure that Dean understood where Sam stood on all of this. He liked playing soccer, FBI or no FBI, and Dad was just mean and wrong to stop him. As Sam got to the top of the stairs, he turned. Dean was still standing by the open trunk staring at the contents as if memorizing them.
“I didn’t deserve it, you jerk,” Sam said.
Dean looked up then, straight at Sam. “Yeah you did,” he said, and then he paused, his mouth working. “And you’re still a little bitch.”
But he didn’t look like he meant it to be really mean, not like he had when he was on top of Sam and punching him. Instead his eyebrows were twisted together, like looking at Sam made him feel sad or something. Sam had seen that expression on Dean’s face, once in a while, when Dean was looking at Dad; he’d never seen Dean look at him like that.
Something sucked out the breath in Sam’s chest, and he made himself nod and turn. Dad was standing there, pushing the screen door open for Sam. Dad stepped aside as Sam walked into the darkness of the cabin; he could hardly see it was so dark, after the brightness of the driveway. But it wasn’t only that. There was something bigger going on and he didn’t understand it. Dean loved hunting, and a full summer of training to do just that was like heaven for Dean. And every time Sam did something to break that lush, exciting feeling of it, that hurt Dean.
“What’s the matter with you, Sam, just put that stuff over by the shelf.”
Sam looked up. He’d been standing in the same spot, just inside the door, with the weight of the kerosene and the lanterns pulling at the muscles in his arms. The cabin was little brighter now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, but he shivered all over.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. He wasn’t complaining; his head felt light and white inside of it, like his skull had been emptied of air, and his stomach was doing weird dipping things.
“It’s the heat,” Dad said. He took the handles from Sam’s fingers, which didn’t have any feeling at all, and placed the kerosene and the lanterns on the top shelf with one movement. Then his hand was on Sam’s forehead; Sam felt hot where Dad’s hand touched him.
“You need to drink some water,” said Dad. He took his hand away, and Sam followed him to the sink and drank the glass of water that Dad gave him, feeling a little bit better. He watched as Dean came in with his arms full and went over to the shelf along the wall, to put everything on the floor.
“Is that it?” asked Dad.
“Yep,” said Dean. He began putting everything away, a box of nails, the little box of mantles for the lanterns, the industrial size of WD-40, and the large folded canvas, just like the kind Sam had messed with at the hardware store. Dean seemed content to be doing this, because he must be figuring, as Sam did, that most of it would be used in the course of the summer to help them train. And Dean liked everything that had to do with training.
Well, Sam didn’t, and he never would, he figured, but that didn’t mean that he had to ruin it for Dean. Only he didn’t know how to do that, how to hate something only not so much that you ruined it for someone else.
More important than that, he had to figure out a way to keep standing because as Dad took the now empty glass out of Sam’s hand, the water in his stomach surged around, trying to find a way out. Then everything started to go grey and float away; he lifted his hand trying to hold on to something to keep his balance, and his hand closed around something he realized was Dad’s t-shirt.
“D-” was all he managed to say.
“Here we go,” said Dad, but he didn’t sound mad. His hands came up under Sam’s arms and Sam realized he was being walked towards the couch, even though he couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. There was a creeping, grey feeling crawling up his spine and the second Sam’s knees touched the edge of the couch, he collapsed on it, barely feeling the weight of his head as it hit the cushions. Dad arranged Sam’s legs on the couch so they weren’t all tangled up and Sam sighed with his whole body.
Sam tried opening his eyes, but all he could see was the darkness of the cabin and the two blobs standing over him. He felt very tired.
“It’s the heat,” Sam heard one blob saying to the other blob. “That boy just does not like the heat.”
“Nope,” said the other blob, agreeing.
Neither blob said anything about this being more of Sam’s princess drama. “Quit starring,” he said to the blobs.
“I’ll get a washcloth,” said Dad’s voice, and that blob went away.
The other blob stood there for a moment, and then went away too. Sam let his eyes sink closed, and took a deep breath and thought about getting the feeling back into his legs and his arms, even though his legs were on fire from the whipping. Maybe he had a headache, too, he didn’t know.
Then someone, probably Dad, came with a cool washcloth in his hand and wiped Sam’s face with it. Sam felt the tension in his head relaxing a little bit, though when the washcloth moved over his mouth where Dean had punched him, it stung, so Sam pushed it away, feeling Dad’s knuckles and the wet cloth beneath the palm of his hand.
“Better?” asked Dad. His voice was so close to Sam’s ear, he sounded like he was kneeling down.
Sam nodded.
“You hungry?” asked Dad, his voice falling away as though he were standing up.
Sam nodded again. “Noodles,” he said. “Tuna and noodles.”
“Noodles,” said Dad. The sound of his footsteps told Sam that he was walking away.
Sam waited a few minutes, and took several deep breaths until the inside of his head stopped spinning. After a bit, he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Dean was by the table, setting it, and Dad was at the stove.
Sam’s stomach raced around and growled, so he patted it, and he thought he could smell tuna. Dad was making tuna noodle casserole, like Sam wanted, and he would probably put peas in it, like he usually did. Sam didn’t like peas, but he was hungry enough, so he would probably just eat them and not make a fuss about it. Not that anyone would notice or care. They would just be glad, Dad and Dean both, that Sam was finally falling into line.
Well, they could think that all they wanted; they could think it forever if they liked. Just because Sam was going to eat the peas, it didn’t mean that he was going to agree with everything Dad wanted, that he was going to be the boy that Dad wanted him to be.
Problem was, the boy Dad wanted Sam to be was exactly the type of boy Dean was, and always had been. Which was, in spite of Dad, the boy Sam wanted to be; he wanted to be like Dean. Dean, who was in love with everything that Dad did, and everything that Dad was and wore and liked. Trouble was, if he tried to be like Dean, then he’d be like Dad wanted him to be. Only he didn’t want to do that, so was he being stubborn just to be stubborn, like Dean was always saying?
But Sam liked Dean, liked him a lot. And liking Dean, well, that meant he should like everything that Dean was. Right? Only he didn’t. Not all the time. Like today, Dean had been on Dad’s side the second he’d come out of the cabin, and he’d automatically assumed that whatever had happened had been Sam’s fault. Even though it had been, today, Dean never took his side.
“Sam.”
Sam looked up and realized he’d been scowling at his sneakered feet and that he was sticking with sweat to the couch, and that he’d been lying on the welts the belt had left and there was no way he was getting off this couch without a crowbar.
“Supper.”
Dean walked over to him, and he wasn’t a blob anymore. He’d washed up and changed his shirt, and he held out his hand to Sam. Sam took it and Dean pulled him up from the couch and didn’t say anything about the fight, or that Sam should just buck up and do it Dad’s way.
Instead he just looked at Sam and nodded, as if he and Sam had been having a conversation and Dean was agreeing with him. As he turned away, he said, “Dad said to change your shirt.”
Sam looked down. There was dried snot on his sleeve that was black with dirt, and something dark that was probably dried blood right along his shirt collar. “Okay,” he said.
He hurried into the bathroom to wash his hands and face, and then, still dripping, he went into the bedroom and stripped off his shirt and threw it on the pile. He didn’t have a clean t-shirts left, so he took one of Dean’s, which was a little big, but there was no help for it. As he walked out of the bedroom and sat down at the table in his regular chair, Dad was dishing out huge mounds of tuna casserole.
“Dean, pour the milk,” said Dad.
“We’re out,” said Dean.
Sam looked at the tuna noodle casserole that Dad had served him. There was enough on the plate for two helpings, all gooey with cheese, and as far as he could see, there were no peas. There were onions, but Sam liked those. He picked up his fork; he’d been totally willing to eat those peas, but probably it was better not to mention that right about now. So he just started eating.
*
It took three days for the backs of Sam’s legs to feel like anything other than wooden posts. On the runs he and Dean did in the morning, he had to walk until he could run, and it took him forever to catch up to Dean, and even then, Dean was back at the cabin long before Sam was. But Dean didn’t tease him and Dad didn’t say anything about it, like he usually did if Sam was slow. Stuff like, try a little harder next time, Sam. Or if he was in a bad mood, he’d say, Sam you can’t walk the whole two miles.
Instead Dad made him drink some water before he started the run, and when Sam came back, Dad had a glass of water waiting on the countertop in the cool of the cabin. The water was from the tap so it wasn’t too warm or too cold. The drink usually helped a little bit and Sam didn’t feel as dizzy after the run. Not that he was going to tell Dad that. If he did, Dad would just make him run three miles instead of the two.
Today, in the cool darkness of the cabin, Dad had the glass of water waiting for them, one for him and one for Dean, and as they stood there and drank, Dad pointed to the knives he had laid out on the table.
Right away, as soon as Dean was done with his glass of water, he moved in close, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“We gonna throw knives, today?” he asked.
“For a few days,” said Dad, coming close behind Dean. “Then we’ll do some rope work and mix the two up.”
“Sounds good,” said Dean.
Sam didn’t say anything, but put his glass down and stood next to Dean. Even though he’d not worked with them a lot, Sam actually liked knives for some reason. Maybe that was because they were quieter than rifles or guns, and they were less complicated than the crossbow. He didn’t really know why he liked knives. He didn’t really understand how he could like anything about training to be a hunter; he was still working out how to hate hunting a little less even if only so that Dean could enjoy it more.
“Okay, Sam?” asked Dad. Sam nodded his head, but it wasn’t like Dad was asking his permission, Dad just wanted to make sure Sam was paying attention.
“Fine, now listen up.” Dad pointed to one of the knives on the table. It was a regular hunting knife. “This is a cutting knife, and it has a jagged edge made for cutting, whereas a throwing knife-” Here Dad picked up a knife that was all smooth, except that the point looked very sharp. “A throwing knife doesn’t have an edge for cutting, and that’s because you could cut yourself with it very easily if it did.”
“What if you need to throw and you don’t have a throwing knife?” Sam asked, in spite of himself; he didn’t really care about any of this.
“Then you throw whatever you have on hand,” said Dad. “But if you practice with a throwing knife enough, you could probably make it work. Here, Sam, hold this.”
Dad picked up the throwing knife and put it in Sam’s hands. Sam hefted it. It was heavy and the metal was dull; compared to Dean’s favorite hunting knife, it wasn’t very pretty to look at.
“That’s called a Faka, and it’s about seven ounces,” said Dad. “It’s a good starter weight for you.”
“What about me?” asked Dean. Dean had trained with throwing knives last summer for a few weeks with Dad and liked to brag to Sam how good he was because Dad had told him he was a natural.
That’s when Dad smiled, his teeth flashing white. “I’ve got something for you, Dean,” he said. “It’s a flying knife. Here.” He pulled a small package towards him that had been sitting on the table and handed it to Dean.
Dean undid the tape and the paper and rolled the knife out in his hand. The sheath gleamed darkly, and the hilt had a dull shine that was a lot like the one the crossbow had. When, Dean pulled the knife out of the hilt to look at it, and the blade was almost as narrow as a stiletto, and Sam could see right away how deadly it was.
“The fun part about this one,” said Dad, standing up, “is that it doesn’t spin. You’ll have to learn a whole new throwing style.”
“Cool,” said Dean, and Sam sighed. Every time he thought he was catching up, or getting used to something, Dad had to go and dazzle Dean with some new way of doing something that was dangerous, and probably against the law. Sam was pretty sure while his Faka was legal, the flying knife wasn’t.
“Okay, boys,” said Dad, leading the way, “let’s go outside.”
Into the sun they went, directly out to the lower edge of the field where they practiced on target shooting and sparring. The field was very wide and long and almost flat. It was hemmed on three sides by trees, and Dean kept the grass short by using the scythe about once a week.
The targets on the piles of hay bales were looking a little ratty. Sam remembered painting the targets on butcher paper; the circles he’d made were a little lopsided, but at least the edges of the circles were clear. Dad would probably put them to work painting new targets soon, but for now, they were going to throw knives.
“We’ll start with you, Sam,” said Dad. “Show me you remember the stance for throwing.”
That part was easy, his left foot went at 12 o’clock and his right foot, further back, was at about 2 o’clock. Sam did this, then shifted his weight till he was on the balls of his feet, and he bent his knees.
“Good. Now keep your shoulders level and grab the knife by the handle.”
“Like a hammer,” said Dean, chiming in.
Sam rolled his eyes, but Dad just ignored Dean and came up to Sam to examine his stance.
“Keep relaxed, and hold the knife level with the spot where you want it to land.” Dad clamped his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pressed down for a minute. Then he let go and looked from Sam to the target. “Don’t worry about making it, Sam. If it falls short, we’ll tighten the distance, I just want to see how far you can make it.”
Sam looked at the target. He already knew he was too far away from it, but, if Dad knew that, then Sam would just have to throw. So he did, hefting the knife in his hand and then letting it fly. The knife spun silver in the air for a few good turns and then landed in the dirt about halfway to the target.
“Okay, move up.”
Dad got the blade and wiped it on his jeans, and then handed it to Sam, handle first. Then Sam moved up and settled his stance, shifting his shoulders to move his hot t-shirt against his skin, wishing for cooler air.
“You should be close enough now,” Dad said. “Don’t just aim wild, pick out an element on the target, like a tear or where blue turns to red. Aim there. And keep it level.”
Dad stepped back, and he must have pulled Dean with him, because suddenly Sam was all alone. It was just him and the knife and the target. He picked out a spot where the hay was poking through in the bulls eye, then he took a deep breath and swung his arm and let the knife go. It circled in the air two fill times and then bounced off the target and fell to the grass.
“Nice try, Sam, go get it and try again. This time, go closer, you’ll stick it, I promise.”
Trying to keep his impatience to himself, Sam went over and picked up the knife and wiped it on his shorts, like Dad had done.
“Move up till you’re about ten feet away, Sam,” said Dad, and Sam scooted up till he was close enough to see every wrinkle in the cardboard, every tuft of hay from the bales underneath, every hole that he and Dean had made that summer. “Try it now.”
Sam breathed in slowly and made his stance. Keeping his arm level, he concentrated on the one spot where the hay was sticking through, and let the handle go with a snap. The knife rotated through the air one and a half times, and then the blade sunk itself deep, with the handle down.
“Too close,” said Dad. Dean didn’t say anything, and Sam just stared at the knife for a second, feeling the sweat building on his scalp and wondering how he could enjoy doing this at all. How, when he hated everything that it represented.
“Keep it going, Sam,” said Dad, now.
Sam picked up the knife and moved back a little bit. He wiped the knife off again, and ran the back of his hand across his forehead and wiped that on his shorts, too. And this time, when he threw the knife, it spun perfectly, two times, and when the point was in, the handle blade was level.
“It’s easy to do when you try,” said Dad. Which meant that he felt that Sam hadn’t been trying before. Which he had. But as he turned, Sam caught Dean’s face; there was a pleased look about him, a little smile, his eyes shining.
“Yeah,” said Sam, instead of saying anything else. He wanted not to ruin everything for Dean, even if that meant not saying something when he wanted to, even when he was right. “Let Dean have a turn, now, okay?”
Dad nodded, and Sam moved back to stand next to Dad while Dean took position in front of the target.
Sam loved watching Dean throw knives, because Dean loved doing it. His eyes gleamed, and his whole face smiled as he lined up his feet to the 12 and the 2.
Dean unsheathed the flying knife and put the sheath in his pocket. Normally, Sam knew, you’d have the sheath strapped to your belt or your leg, but now they were only practicing and so it didn’t matter so much. Sam held the warm blade of the Faka in his hand because Dad wouldn’t want him putting it in the dirt.
Dean tested the weight of the blade in his hand.
“How do I throw this, Dad?” he asked, not turning back to look. All of his concentration was focused forward.
“Put your finger in the hole and balance it,” Dad said. “See how the weight rests? Think about it like you would throwing a spear.”
That wasn’t really fair, because Sam didn’t think Dean had ever thrown a spear, but naturally, because Dean was the perfect, adaptable son, he tried it and nodded without looking back at Dad.
“I see,” Dean said.
“Move it up a bit,” Dad said. “Up to fourteen paces away.”
“I can do it from here,” Dean said, insisting. But he scooted up a little anyway, and dipped his chin as he positioned his finger in the hole in the handle.
From where he was standing, Sam saw Dean’s eyelashes flick up as he eyed the distance to the target. Dean was so amazing when he was like this, so bright and focused and whole; even though what he was training for made Sam mad, his brother was beautiful. Not that Sam would ever tell anyone, especially not Dean.
Dean shifted back and threw the blade. As Dad had promised, it flew straight, without spinning, so there was no need to calculate for the turns. But it fell in the grass, cutting through the dirt just like a quarrel did.
Dean trotted up to get the knife and came back to Dad, wiping the blade on his shorts. “What did I do wrong?” he asked Dad.
Dad met him halfway. “I think it’s your arm,” Dad said. He turned Dean around to face the target. “You had the right stance, but with this blade, you need to hold your arm higher. Like this, bottom of your arm parallel to the ground.” Dad pulled Dean’s arm up, a little roughly, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t go any lower than this, understand?”
Dean nodded. Sweat rolled down in front of his ear, reminding Sam how hot it was, but Dean was still smiling even though he was concentrating, and Sam made himself not say anything. He didn’t even snort.
Dean set the blade in his hand, adjusted his finger, and, shifting his weight, threw the knife. It went like an arrow would, straight and zinging through the air, and landed with a good, solid thwunk in the target, right on the edge of the bulls eye.
“Nice,” said Dad, and he came up to clap Dean on the shoulder, and Dean practically shook with pleasure.
This small bit of praise would take Dean to the moon and back. Sam struggled not to roll his eyes, but the best he could manage was to roll them without Dad seeing him.
“Let’s try it again, Dean,” said Dad. “Try moving back a step with each throw, and we’ll see how far you get today.”
Sam settled himself in the dirt, cross-legged, and rested the Faka on one knee. The metal was warm. He ran his finger along the edge where it felt pretty dull all the way up the blade, that is, until he pricked his skin on the tip. He sucked his finger in his mouth and didn’t say anything because it looked like Dad and Dean were all worked up about the flying knife and would soon forget about Sam. That was the way it went, mostly. But then, Dad wouldn’t be all focused on Sam, and Sam could enjoy watching Dean, watching Dean enjoy his summer.
*
“Okay, now do a bowline knot,” said Dad. “I’ll time you.”
Sam’s arm was sore from throwing knives for three days, but they were working with knots now, which was a lot easier. He reached for the pile of rope in front of him and took the end. For a second, he held the soft rope in his hands because he wanted to enjoy this moment, with the three of them, sitting in the shady woods, deep beneath the dark green bower of a group of mountain laurels.
(Mountain laurel in bloom.)
The dirt was soft and cool against Sam’s bare legs, and there was a jug of water standing by with cheese and crackers for a snack, and no one, especially not Dad, seemed to be in any hurry. It was nice for once to be training this way, slow and easy, and it was a huge change from the stringent days of knife throwing, with 15 minutes in the morning and 15 in the afternoon, and sometimes 15 more minutes just after it got dark, just to see how they would do.
But finally that had stopped and now they were spending the morning working the rope and learning to tie knots. That is, learning to tie knots faster; Sam guessed; both he and Dean already knew all the knots there were to know, so learning to tie them faster was easy, just plain easy.
Dad’s stopwatch started ticking; he wanted to time them both going at the same time. Dean was good with ropes, his fingers were always so nimble, and he was always faster than Sam, so a few more seconds wouldn’t make any difference to Sam, as long as Sam’s time generally improved.
Dad caught Sam just sitting there watching Dean, so Dad gave Sam the hairy eyeball. Sam dipped his head and concentrated on the knot, slipping the right end, the near end, Dad called it, through the bight, under, then over, and then under again. He’d done this so many times he could almost do it with his eyes closed, so he did. He closed them and finished the knot, taking the near end over again and then down through the bight and then he drew it tight.
“Good, Sammy,” said Dad.
Sam’s eyes flew open; it was only a little bit of praise but it made him want to squirm anyway. Dad was looking at him with a glint in his eyes, dark brows lowered as if he were concentrating on what he was seeing. He was seeing exactly what he wanted to see, of course. And that was Dean, tying knots faster than anyone alive, and Sam, his youngest, in whom he was almost always sorely disappointed, taking it up another notch by doing it pretty fast anyway, even with his eyes closed.
“Fast is good,” said Dad, nodding at Dean.
Dean nodded back, and wiped his hands on his t-shirt, leaving blackish streaks behind. He seemed only slightly abashed at the open praise from Dad, but Sam could see the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, and how hard he was concentrating.
“It’s always good to be fast, but it’s good to know how to do it without looking.”
Dean didn’t know that Dad was making Dean to it like Sam had done, with his eyes closed, but Sam did. It was like Dad was cutting Dean down, saying he wasn’t good enough, and it made Sam mad. Dean was the best at everything, why did Dad have to be mean to him all the time? At least he’d not added, Do it the way Sam did it, but that was the only thing keeping Sam’s mouth shut.
“This is important,” Dad said, going on, like he always did, making a point by driving the idea into the ground. “If it’s too dark to see, or if something’s coming at you, you might need to tie a knot without looking. Or untie it, but we’ll get to that in a minute.”
Dad looked at them both with dark, serious eyes, and Sam realized how calmly he was talking; there’d been no yelling all morning long. Sam didn’t know why, maybe it was because both of them were paying close attention, and Sam hadn’t said much of anything, so Dad had had nothing much to yell at.
Sam picked up a new, unknotted piece of rope. He looked at Dean. Dean was so fast at this, he always was; it would be hard to do it as good as Dean, even when Dean’s eyes were closed, too, but Sam wanted to try.
“Just do your best, Sam” said Dad, catching Sam at this. Dad always knew what Sam was thinking. “Ready? Close your eyes and go.”
Sam closed his eyes and formed the bight and did the over under over under till he heard the click and opened his eyes. Dean was already done but Sam was almost done, so he quickly shut his eyes and finished the knot. Dad clicked the stopwatch again. When he opened his eyes, Sam looked at the knot in his hands. It was sloppy and the near end was too long, but it was still a good knot and would hold.
“Almost as fast as with your eyes opened, both of you.” Dad shifted to put the stop watch in his pocket and then nodded at them to untie the knots. This was easy to do; the rope was nylon and soft from being new.
When the pile of white, slightly dusty, rope was all undone, Dad pulled the green canvas bag that had held their supplies closer to him.
“We’re going to try something a little different now, okay?”
Sam nodded, though he didn’t understand why Dad was asking instead of telling was beyond him. Still, as long as they stayed sitting in the cool shade, working with their hands and their minds, Sam could do this all day.
Dad pulled several longish lengths of rope made of hemp out of the canvas bag and laid it in the dirt in the middle of their crossed legs.
“Pick up a piece of rope and feel it in your hands. It’s rough, but you never know what kind of rope you’ll have on hand and when you’ll need it so it’s good to get used to different kinds. Got it?”
Sam held the rope in his hands and rolled in against his palm, feeling the prickly edges. He nodded and Dean did too. All of this made sense, except for Dad’s slow pace and the careful way he kept checking in with them.
“It’s important to be able to work with rope, no matter what, even if something’s coming at you.” Dad nodded, and then looked at Dean.
“Dean, hold out your hands.”
Dead held out his hands right away, ready for whatever Dad was going to do, trusting in all things Dad-related in a way that made Sam mad. But when he saw that Dad was tying Dean’s hand together, Sam’s pulse began to race a little. It was like a flash in his mind; he could see where this was going.
“Dad, wait-” said Sam.
From beneath dark brows, Dad cast him a quick, hard look. “This is important, Sam,” said Dad. It also shut Sam up, and made him cold all over, because Dad was perfectly serious, and very, very calm.
Dad continued tying Dean’s hands together tightly, as though not concerned that the rough hemp was biting into Dean’s wrists.
Dean looked at Sam, his eyes wide, as Dad finished tying the knot.
“There,” said Dad. “Can you get free?”
Dean bent his head and struggled to pull his hands, pushing one fist and pulling with the other. But he had to give up or tear his skin, so he did, shaking his head as he looked at Dad, as if fearful that Dad would find fault in him because he failed. “Nope,” he said.
Dad quickly reached over and undid the knots. As Dean rubbed his wrists, Sam could see his throat working, freckles standing out beneath his tan. He’d not liked being tied up, but of course he wasn’t going to complain. Then Dad looked at Sam and Sam knew it was his turn, even though he didn’t want to.
“C’mon, Sam,” said Dad in that same, calm, low voice. Dad wasn’t getting worked up, so Sam knew he wasn’t supposed to get worked up either. But it was hard; his heart was starting to thump already.
Part 3
Master Fic Post
“That’s not fair,” said Sam. His jaw felt all tight, and he felt something start to boil behind his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter, Sam, that’s just the way it has to be. If you play soccer, and you’re good, which you are, they’ll see you and then they’ll see all of us. And that can’t happen.”
Dad said this and his voice dipped off at the end. He continued driving like he’d not said anything remarkable, and Sam was just expected to go along with it, even if what Dad had just said felt like Dad was cutting off Sam’s last breath of hope. No soccer for Sam, no normal, never, never, never.
“That’s how it has to be,” said Dad, with utter calm, his voice low and quiet. “And the harder you fight it, the harder I’m going to clamp down.”
“I don’t care,” said Sam, and then his mouth got away from him. “You’re just saying the FBI is watching just so you can control everything I do and that’s just bullshit.”
“You want to say that again, Sam?” Dad’s voice cut across Sam’s words. The air between them suddenly felt as sharp as a well-honed knife. “Do you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see that Dad’s hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. A part of him knew that Dad was also trying to give Sam a way out, because he was allowing Sam the chance to pretend he’d not just said what he’d said. But Sam didn’t want out, he wanted through. He wanted to blast his way through this stupid life and into a different one. One where playing soccer wouldn’t get you arrested or worse. Most Dad’s would be proud of Sam, but not Sam’s Dad. Not John Winchester.
But Sam knew he was right, Dad was just being mean. Again.
“It’s bullshit,” said Sam, making his voice as loud and clear as he could. “You’re lying ‘cause you just don’t want me to do anything that’s not about your stupid hunting, so the whole thing is bullshit.”
With a screech of tires, Dad pulled the car off the highway and onto the exit ramp, and zoomed through the stop sign like he’d not just given Sam a lecture about how important it was to keep a low profile. Like he didn’t know about the dangers of getting a traffic ticket anywhere near a small town. With a hard jolt, he pulled over on the dusty shoulder and slammed on the brakes. He turned off the engine so fast that the car actually wheezed in complaint. Road dust settled over the shiny black hood of the car and across the windshield.
Sam made himself look towards the driver’s seat. Dad was white and his eyes glittered and there was a tell-tale pulse along his jaw line.
“Get out,” said Dad, each word bitten off.
“What?” asked Sam. Was Dad going to leave him by the side of the road? How would Dean find him? “Why?”
“Get out of the car,” said Dad, his voice dipping to a low growl, “or I’ll pull you out.”
The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck suddenly stood up. He was in hot water even when there wasn’t any hot water around. He opened the door, and quickly got out of the car and looked at the wide dirt shoulder and the simmering fields of green growing things that stretched off to the tree line. Something was humming in the distance and he was hot all over, the backs of his knees, under his arms, so hot, and still he felt like he was cold.
Dad stormed around the front of the car, the black hood catching his reflection for a second, and then Dad came right up to him, looming in the bright sunshine with sweat on his forehead thatching his hair to his skin. There was a glare in his eyes that told Sam it probably didn’t matter what he said now, he was in for a whipping because Dad never pulled the car over like that for no reason. But he had to try.
“It’s not fair,” he said.
“It’s not open for discussion, Sam, so just knock it off.”
“No,” said Sam, practically spitting the words out, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. Dad was so tall that he almost blocked out the sun as Sam looked up at him. “No, I won’t, because this is all bullshit.”
Sam saw Dad’s hand come up but he didn’t have time to back away before he felt a slap. It was hard enough to feel like his brain had slammed into his skull. His eyes watered and as he touched the side of his face, Dad took off his belt and folded it in his hands, the leather gleaming in the sunshine like snakeskin. That’s when the bottom of Sam’s stomach dropped out. His knees buckled like someone had tackled him.
Dad reached for Sam and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt to pull him close. Dad bent his knee and slammed Sam down hard against his thigh. The denim was hot and Dad’s leg muscles were bunched hard as iron and Sam struggled and pushed against the heat and closeness, his head swimming and his heart racing, blood racing cold all through him even as the sun beat down. He clutched at the folds in Dad’s jeans, at the empty belt loops at his waist, feeling the sweat through Dad’s t-shirt, feeling the fury.
“Dad, no, please, please don’t-”
“I told you Sam, one more step out of line-”
Sam lurched and slipped lower on Dad’s leg and for a second he thought he could get free and wondered how far he could run through the fields before Dad caught him. But Dad bent even closer and wrapped his arm across Sam’s back and around his waist, his fist pressing against Sam’s stomach. Trapped, Sam could feel every shift of Dad’s whole form, as Dad pulled his arm back and slammed the belt down across the back of Sam’s bare legs. Sam’s body jerked, and he clung even tighter, fingers curling around the waistband of Dad’s jeans.
“Dad,” he said, his voice coming out high and panicked.
The belt sliced into him, cutting through the cotton of his shorts and underwear, right down to the bone. The leather hissed as it came down again, cut and curling around his hipbone, stinging the side of his stomach with a sly pop.
Sam curled himself as tight as he could, close to Dad’s leg, drawing his own legs up, but Dad shifted his stance and Sam’s legs could only dangle, his toes barely scratching the dirt. Head pressed against Dad’s jean-clad hip, fingers numb, thighs on fire, his backside felt every stroke of Dad’s belt like it was red hot wire and there was nothing else. Just the hot sun, and Dad’s leg, and the denim that scratched Sam’s face and the tears that were blinding him. He held his mouth tight against his teeth to try and keep from crying.
This was worse than the whipping he’d gotten for running away or breaking Dean’s crossbow, which had been wrong, he knew that. He wasn’t even getting it for saying bullshit four times practically in the same breath. It was because Dad wanted to tear out that part of Sam, the part that didn’t want to be a hunter, that wanted, instead, to be normal and safe. Dad wanted to tear it out and trample it down and leave it in the hot, green Alabama field where no one would ever find it.
That’s when he started to cry, he couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care if Dad would think he wasn’t being manly enough or that he should buck up and just take it. That he should just stop complaining and just be the hunter that Dad wanted him to be. Even if that’s what Dean would do, and he already had, Sam couldn’t.
The whipping ended and Dad pushed him away, still holding on to Sam’s upper arm with a tight, angry grip. Sam couldn’t stop crying. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow, his eyes squeezed shut, his sobs clawing their way up his throat.
“Enough, Sam,” said Dad, giving Sam a shake.
Sam shook his head, and as his sobs carried up into the hot, still air over the fields, he heard Dad say, “God damnit, Sam,” under his breath.
Sam lifted his head and scrubbed at one eye and pulled his arm free from Dad’s grip.
It was not enough to make him stop crying, but Dad was looking at him funny, like he was about to lose his patience all over again.
So Sam tried to stop crying. He tried hard, even thought there was nothing that could soothe the hard fire that pounded from his bottom down to the backs of his knees. He took a deep breath and then another, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his t-shirt, but the sleeve was too short so he ended up smearing snot across his upper lip.
Dad slid his belt back on and buckled it and then pulled on the hem of his t-shirt. He came closer, and Sam jerked backwards, but Dad just used the hem to wipe Sam’s face. The cotton felt scratchy and warm from Dad’s body, and Sam let him do it.
Dad finished wiping Sam’s face with the t-shirt and then he tucked it back in to his jeans. It was one of those odd bits of kindness that Dad sometimes showed Sam but as always, it was too little too late.
Through his blur of tears, Sam looked up at Dad and said, “I hate you.”
Dad flicked his eyes and looked right at Sam. “I know,” he said.
*
The ride home was hot. Even with all the windows down, and Sam had rolled his down because Dad said he could, and even as fast as Dad was driving, the back of Sam’s neck and his armpits were soaked with sweat. He folded his legs beneath him, so that he only had to sit on part of one welted thigh, and sagged against the door frame, feeling like someone had removed all of his bones.
The trees and close cut grass whizzed past, making Sam dizzy. But he would rather look at something that made him feel like he wanted to throw up than to look at Dad, to catch his eye, to see the sweat on the back of his hard arms, veins pulsing through the tops of his tanned hands as he gripped the steering wheel. Or see the rage in his face, grim and dark, brows lowered as he frowned. Of course he was still mad at Sam, but he was always mad, so what difference did today make?
Sam felt mad, too, and what difference did that make? None. No matter how much Sam wanted to play soccer, even for fun, Dad would always find out, and even if Dad’s reasons were stupid, Sam would get a whipping, which made him tired and sore and madder than ever. And stupid. Stupid because he simply couldn’t figure out a way to make Dad see reason. Make Dad see that playing soccer, even being on a school team, was harmless. It would keep Sam busy, and build up his stamina for more stupid hunting, and didn’t Dad want Sam out of his hair?
“Sam, stop picking at that.”
Sam looked down and realized he was tearing at the little rubber strip that pressed against the glass. Sam rolled up the window a little to see if that would smooth it out, and then he rolled the window down, but that just tore it some more.
“Leave it alone.”
Sam let his head sag forward and buried his face on his folded arms as he rested them against the open window frame. It had been a bad day, then a good day, and then a terrible day, and he didn’t think it was going to get any better.
(Sad Sam on the drive home.)
*
The sun was hot and the dust from the road was a hazy cloud as Dad pulled up to the cabin and parked the car.
Sam didn’t look over at Dad, he just got out of the car, wincing as he stood on stiff legs. The car door was warm under his hands as he shut it. Dad got out of the car just as Dean came out of the cabin, the screen door slamming behind him.
Sam didn’t know what to do. He knew he should probably help to bring in the stuff that Dad had bought at the hardware store, but he was still so mad about the whole thing that no part of him wanted to be nice. Dad already thought Sam was the least of his sons; bringing in supplies wouldn’t make any difference at all.
“Bring in the supplies, Dean,” said Dad, as if Sam weren’t even there and could have done it. Naturally Dad didn’t ask him, naturally Dad expected nothing of him now.
As Dad went up the stairs, Dean came trotting down. He was grimy with the cabin chores he’d done while they were gone. The second he saw Sam, he said, “What you do to piss Dad off this time?” His green eyes blazed.
Sam could hear Dad sigh as he opened the screen door.
“He didn’t piss me off,” Dad said. “He disappeared for twenty minutes and I couldn’t find him.” The screen door slammed behind Dad, leaving Sam alone with Dean, who was shaking his head at Sam, frowning like he was disgusted.
“I didn’t disappear,” said Sam. He wanted Dean to understand how the day had gone, and how the time had gotten away from him because he was doing something he loved. “I was playing soccer.”
Dean shook his head, and went around to the driver’s side to reach in and pop the trunk. Then he went to the trunk, and as he opened it all the way, looked over at Sam. “You know what Dad said, Sam. He said no soccer, so quit being a baby about it.”
Dean started arranging things so he could carry them in. Sam stood there for a second, listening to the hum in the trees, feeling the sun bake the top of his head, wishing he had a glass of water, and knowing that what he wanted most of all was sympathy from Dean, for Dean to be on his side.
Dean straightened up with several coils of soft, white nylon rope in his arms. He came toward Sam, shaking his head, but not looking at Sam. “You just gotta give it up, if you’re going to be a hunter.”
He was just about to go striding off when Sam moved to block his path. Dean pulled up mid-stride, jerking back, looking at Sam like he’d popped out of nowhere.
“No,” said Sam. “No, I’m not going to be a hunter, don’t you get it? I don’t want to.” And then he kicked Dean hard in the shin.
Dean dropped the bundles of rope, hopping on one foot to clasp his leg. He was so off balance that even Sam could even see where he could apply the least amount of pressure to shove Dean so he would fall over. Which Sam did, mind on fire, and Dean went sprawling in the dirt.
“You little bitch,” said Dean, scrabbling up on his elbows, covered with dust. He sounded mean, but Sam could see the surprise in his eyes. “You don’t get to kick me.”
“Stupid jerk,” said Sam, giving Dean a good solid kick in the ribs. It was wrong to kick a man when he was down, Dad said that all the time, except he always added that there was a time and a place when it was okay, and Sam figured this was one of them. He just wanted to pound Dean into the ground, and make him hurt. Make him feel how much it hurt Sam to not be able to play soccer.
But Dean apparently wasn’t going to just stay put and let Sam do this, because when Sam tried to kick him again, Dean reached out and grabbed Sam’s ankle and twisted it just right so Sam fell in the dirt, mashing the side of his face and getting dust in his eyes. Then Dean was on top of him, straddling Sam’s hips with his thighs, pressing Sam into the dirt with his weight.
He swung a punch that Sam could barely see through watering eyes, but he stuck his arm up to try and block the blow, which still managed to graze his chin and slam his head into the ground. The backs of his legs and his bottom were screaming at him, and he tried to shift his weight, even though it felt like he was on fire, to dislodge Dean, but Dean was firmly in place, pressing down on Sam’s shoulder with one hand, and drawing back the other for another punch.
The punch landed, full on, and Sam’s mouth filled with a bitter taste and his teeth started to throb, and he couldn’t believe that Dean had actually hit him. Hard. He didn’t want to cry, so he swallowed, but the tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes anyway. Blood dripped down the back of his throat, just as Dean’s hand slipped off his shoulder and slammed into the ground beside Sam’s head, bringing Dean’s face close.
“Why do you have to ruin everything?” Dean’s teeth were white against his face, red with rage, his eyes huge and green and very pissed off. “You’re ruining my summer, stop ruining my summer.”
Just as he drew back and curled his fist for another blow, Dean’s weight was suddenly gone, and Sam opened his eyes wide, pushing himself up on his elbows. Dad had Dean by the scruff of the neck, holding him fast and hard.
“How many times have I told you, Dean, you’re bigger than he is. You don’t hit your brother.” He gave Dean a small shake and let him go with a chuff to the back of his head and then looked over at Sam to glare, his brows drawn low. “That goes for you too, Sam.”
Sam waited, watching, expecting Dean to burst out with the truth that Sam had kicked him first, but he never did. Dean stared at the ground, his mouth was drawn in a thin line, like he was afraid he might say something if he opened it. His rage was gone and he was white under the sweat on his face and on his neck. His shirt was smeared with dirt, and he wiped the blood from his knuckles on it, adding more stains.
“Get up, Sam, and help your brother bring in the supplies. No more fighting.”
Sam struggled to his feet and opened his mouth, thinking that maybe Dad should know that he kicked Dean first, that while Dean had been pissy about the soccer, Sam had started it; it wasn’t Dean’s fault.
“But we fight all the time,” Sam said. He wasn’t whining, he was protesting. His mouth felt sore; he wiped at it with the back of his hand. There was only a little blood there.
Dad waved Sam’s explanation away. “Sparring isn’t fighting Sam, and you know it. Any more fights between you, and I swear neither of you will sit for a week. Now, help your brother bring in those supplies.”
Dad almost never made threats. The fact that he had, well, it wouldn’t matter if Sam had just gotten a whipping already today, and it wouldn’t matter if Dean was the golden child; the threat wasn’t an empty one. Then Dad went inside the cabin.
Dean picked up the coils of rope and shook the dust off them. He climbed the stairs and went into the cabin, leaving Sam alone except for the hum and the far away rustle of leaves as the wind blew across them.
Sam looked at what was in the trunk, and picked the two one-gallon containers of kerosene; they had wide handles and would be easy to carry. Plus he would be carrying two things that were much heavier than the coils of rope Dean had. But then he felt bad for thinking that. Dean would probably make twice as many trips as Sam, eager and tireless, and Sam would still end up looking like the lazy one.
So he looked in the trunk again and saw the two kerosene lanterns, which had handles made of thin, rounded metal. He put the kerosene down on the ground, and gripped the thin handles of the lamps, and then bent his knees and tried to gather up the broader handles of the kerosene and hold all of them at once. He managed to get it in his right hand and then the kerosene handle slipped from the fingers of his left hand and clunked as it fell on its side.
Sam took a deep breath and figured he would try again, but Dean showed up. He didn’t look at Sam. Sam thought Dean was probably still mad that Sam had kicked him. Not that Sam blamed him; he felt bad enough about it already that if Dean wanted to punch him again, he’d let him.
Dean didn’t say anything as he picked up the kerosene and for a second, Sam thought he was just going to grab everything and carry it all in, taking both the kerosene and the lanterns like Sam had been going to do. Instead, he bent close and took Sam’s hand and shifted the pair of handles so that the thinner handle rested on top of the wider one. Then he did the same with the other pair, lifting the kerosene so Sam could grip it and then adjusting the thinner handle on top. Sam had the weight equally balanced, and both hands could grip the handles firmly, and so now he could look like he was really carrying a lot in.
“There you go,” said Dean. He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he studiously looked at the trunk, as though he were trying to figure out what to carry next.
Sam took a breath. “I’m sorry I kicked you,” he said. Then he added, “Both times.”
Dean nodded, sucking his lips against his teeth. He leaned forward and picked up one of the bags that looked heavy; a flat rubber belt stuck out and Sam figured it was for the generator.
“And I’m sorry I punched you,” Dean said. “Both times, although you kind of deserved it.” He frowned as he said this, almost like he though it was a little harsh.
Sam could see there was something there that Dean felt bad about. Maybe Dean was wishing that Sam could play soccer, but since Dad had said no, then Dean had to say no, since Dean was Dad’s favorite and everything. At least Dean had said sorry, which was something.
Sam shrugged his shoulders, like it didn’t matter and he wasn’t mad at Dean, which he wasn’t, at least not anymore. Then he walked off, shortening his stride so the weight in his hands wouldn’t throw him off.
But he needed to make sure that Dean understood where Sam stood on all of this. He liked playing soccer, FBI or no FBI, and Dad was just mean and wrong to stop him. As Sam got to the top of the stairs, he turned. Dean was still standing by the open trunk staring at the contents as if memorizing them.
“I didn’t deserve it, you jerk,” Sam said.
Dean looked up then, straight at Sam. “Yeah you did,” he said, and then he paused, his mouth working. “And you’re still a little bitch.”
But he didn’t look like he meant it to be really mean, not like he had when he was on top of Sam and punching him. Instead his eyebrows were twisted together, like looking at Sam made him feel sad or something. Sam had seen that expression on Dean’s face, once in a while, when Dean was looking at Dad; he’d never seen Dean look at him like that.
Something sucked out the breath in Sam’s chest, and he made himself nod and turn. Dad was standing there, pushing the screen door open for Sam. Dad stepped aside as Sam walked into the darkness of the cabin; he could hardly see it was so dark, after the brightness of the driveway. But it wasn’t only that. There was something bigger going on and he didn’t understand it. Dean loved hunting, and a full summer of training to do just that was like heaven for Dean. And every time Sam did something to break that lush, exciting feeling of it, that hurt Dean.
“What’s the matter with you, Sam, just put that stuff over by the shelf.”
Sam looked up. He’d been standing in the same spot, just inside the door, with the weight of the kerosene and the lanterns pulling at the muscles in his arms. The cabin was little brighter now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, but he shivered all over.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. He wasn’t complaining; his head felt light and white inside of it, like his skull had been emptied of air, and his stomach was doing weird dipping things.
“It’s the heat,” Dad said. He took the handles from Sam’s fingers, which didn’t have any feeling at all, and placed the kerosene and the lanterns on the top shelf with one movement. Then his hand was on Sam’s forehead; Sam felt hot where Dad’s hand touched him.
“You need to drink some water,” said Dad. He took his hand away, and Sam followed him to the sink and drank the glass of water that Dad gave him, feeling a little bit better. He watched as Dean came in with his arms full and went over to the shelf along the wall, to put everything on the floor.
“Is that it?” asked Dad.
“Yep,” said Dean. He began putting everything away, a box of nails, the little box of mantles for the lanterns, the industrial size of WD-40, and the large folded canvas, just like the kind Sam had messed with at the hardware store. Dean seemed content to be doing this, because he must be figuring, as Sam did, that most of it would be used in the course of the summer to help them train. And Dean liked everything that had to do with training.
Well, Sam didn’t, and he never would, he figured, but that didn’t mean that he had to ruin it for Dean. Only he didn’t know how to do that, how to hate something only not so much that you ruined it for someone else.
More important than that, he had to figure out a way to keep standing because as Dad took the now empty glass out of Sam’s hand, the water in his stomach surged around, trying to find a way out. Then everything started to go grey and float away; he lifted his hand trying to hold on to something to keep his balance, and his hand closed around something he realized was Dad’s t-shirt.
“D-” was all he managed to say.
“Here we go,” said Dad, but he didn’t sound mad. His hands came up under Sam’s arms and Sam realized he was being walked towards the couch, even though he couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. There was a creeping, grey feeling crawling up his spine and the second Sam’s knees touched the edge of the couch, he collapsed on it, barely feeling the weight of his head as it hit the cushions. Dad arranged Sam’s legs on the couch so they weren’t all tangled up and Sam sighed with his whole body.
Sam tried opening his eyes, but all he could see was the darkness of the cabin and the two blobs standing over him. He felt very tired.
“It’s the heat,” Sam heard one blob saying to the other blob. “That boy just does not like the heat.”
“Nope,” said the other blob, agreeing.
Neither blob said anything about this being more of Sam’s princess drama. “Quit starring,” he said to the blobs.
“I’ll get a washcloth,” said Dad’s voice, and that blob went away.
The other blob stood there for a moment, and then went away too. Sam let his eyes sink closed, and took a deep breath and thought about getting the feeling back into his legs and his arms, even though his legs were on fire from the whipping. Maybe he had a headache, too, he didn’t know.
Then someone, probably Dad, came with a cool washcloth in his hand and wiped Sam’s face with it. Sam felt the tension in his head relaxing a little bit, though when the washcloth moved over his mouth where Dean had punched him, it stung, so Sam pushed it away, feeling Dad’s knuckles and the wet cloth beneath the palm of his hand.
“Better?” asked Dad. His voice was so close to Sam’s ear, he sounded like he was kneeling down.
Sam nodded.
“You hungry?” asked Dad, his voice falling away as though he were standing up.
Sam nodded again. “Noodles,” he said. “Tuna and noodles.”
“Noodles,” said Dad. The sound of his footsteps told Sam that he was walking away.
Sam waited a few minutes, and took several deep breaths until the inside of his head stopped spinning. After a bit, he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Dean was by the table, setting it, and Dad was at the stove.
Sam’s stomach raced around and growled, so he patted it, and he thought he could smell tuna. Dad was making tuna noodle casserole, like Sam wanted, and he would probably put peas in it, like he usually did. Sam didn’t like peas, but he was hungry enough, so he would probably just eat them and not make a fuss about it. Not that anyone would notice or care. They would just be glad, Dad and Dean both, that Sam was finally falling into line.
Well, they could think that all they wanted; they could think it forever if they liked. Just because Sam was going to eat the peas, it didn’t mean that he was going to agree with everything Dad wanted, that he was going to be the boy that Dad wanted him to be.
Problem was, the boy Dad wanted Sam to be was exactly the type of boy Dean was, and always had been. Which was, in spite of Dad, the boy Sam wanted to be; he wanted to be like Dean. Dean, who was in love with everything that Dad did, and everything that Dad was and wore and liked. Trouble was, if he tried to be like Dean, then he’d be like Dad wanted him to be. Only he didn’t want to do that, so was he being stubborn just to be stubborn, like Dean was always saying?
But Sam liked Dean, liked him a lot. And liking Dean, well, that meant he should like everything that Dean was. Right? Only he didn’t. Not all the time. Like today, Dean had been on Dad’s side the second he’d come out of the cabin, and he’d automatically assumed that whatever had happened had been Sam’s fault. Even though it had been, today, Dean never took his side.
“Sam.”
Sam looked up and realized he’d been scowling at his sneakered feet and that he was sticking with sweat to the couch, and that he’d been lying on the welts the belt had left and there was no way he was getting off this couch without a crowbar.
“Supper.”
Dean walked over to him, and he wasn’t a blob anymore. He’d washed up and changed his shirt, and he held out his hand to Sam. Sam took it and Dean pulled him up from the couch and didn’t say anything about the fight, or that Sam should just buck up and do it Dad’s way.
Instead he just looked at Sam and nodded, as if he and Sam had been having a conversation and Dean was agreeing with him. As he turned away, he said, “Dad said to change your shirt.”
Sam looked down. There was dried snot on his sleeve that was black with dirt, and something dark that was probably dried blood right along his shirt collar. “Okay,” he said.
He hurried into the bathroom to wash his hands and face, and then, still dripping, he went into the bedroom and stripped off his shirt and threw it on the pile. He didn’t have a clean t-shirts left, so he took one of Dean’s, which was a little big, but there was no help for it. As he walked out of the bedroom and sat down at the table in his regular chair, Dad was dishing out huge mounds of tuna casserole.
“Dean, pour the milk,” said Dad.
“We’re out,” said Dean.
Sam looked at the tuna noodle casserole that Dad had served him. There was enough on the plate for two helpings, all gooey with cheese, and as far as he could see, there were no peas. There were onions, but Sam liked those. He picked up his fork; he’d been totally willing to eat those peas, but probably it was better not to mention that right about now. So he just started eating.
*
It took three days for the backs of Sam’s legs to feel like anything other than wooden posts. On the runs he and Dean did in the morning, he had to walk until he could run, and it took him forever to catch up to Dean, and even then, Dean was back at the cabin long before Sam was. But Dean didn’t tease him and Dad didn’t say anything about it, like he usually did if Sam was slow. Stuff like, try a little harder next time, Sam. Or if he was in a bad mood, he’d say, Sam you can’t walk the whole two miles.
Instead Dad made him drink some water before he started the run, and when Sam came back, Dad had a glass of water waiting on the countertop in the cool of the cabin. The water was from the tap so it wasn’t too warm or too cold. The drink usually helped a little bit and Sam didn’t feel as dizzy after the run. Not that he was going to tell Dad that. If he did, Dad would just make him run three miles instead of the two.
Today, in the cool darkness of the cabin, Dad had the glass of water waiting for them, one for him and one for Dean, and as they stood there and drank, Dad pointed to the knives he had laid out on the table.
Right away, as soon as Dean was done with his glass of water, he moved in close, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“We gonna throw knives, today?” he asked.
“For a few days,” said Dad, coming close behind Dean. “Then we’ll do some rope work and mix the two up.”
“Sounds good,” said Dean.
Sam didn’t say anything, but put his glass down and stood next to Dean. Even though he’d not worked with them a lot, Sam actually liked knives for some reason. Maybe that was because they were quieter than rifles or guns, and they were less complicated than the crossbow. He didn’t really know why he liked knives. He didn’t really understand how he could like anything about training to be a hunter; he was still working out how to hate hunting a little less even if only so that Dean could enjoy it more.
“Okay, Sam?” asked Dad. Sam nodded his head, but it wasn’t like Dad was asking his permission, Dad just wanted to make sure Sam was paying attention.
“Fine, now listen up.” Dad pointed to one of the knives on the table. It was a regular hunting knife. “This is a cutting knife, and it has a jagged edge made for cutting, whereas a throwing knife-” Here Dad picked up a knife that was all smooth, except that the point looked very sharp. “A throwing knife doesn’t have an edge for cutting, and that’s because you could cut yourself with it very easily if it did.”
“What if you need to throw and you don’t have a throwing knife?” Sam asked, in spite of himself; he didn’t really care about any of this.
“Then you throw whatever you have on hand,” said Dad. “But if you practice with a throwing knife enough, you could probably make it work. Here, Sam, hold this.”
Dad picked up the throwing knife and put it in Sam’s hands. Sam hefted it. It was heavy and the metal was dull; compared to Dean’s favorite hunting knife, it wasn’t very pretty to look at.
“That’s called a Faka, and it’s about seven ounces,” said Dad. “It’s a good starter weight for you.”
“What about me?” asked Dean. Dean had trained with throwing knives last summer for a few weeks with Dad and liked to brag to Sam how good he was because Dad had told him he was a natural.
That’s when Dad smiled, his teeth flashing white. “I’ve got something for you, Dean,” he said. “It’s a flying knife. Here.” He pulled a small package towards him that had been sitting on the table and handed it to Dean.
Dean undid the tape and the paper and rolled the knife out in his hand. The sheath gleamed darkly, and the hilt had a dull shine that was a lot like the one the crossbow had. When, Dean pulled the knife out of the hilt to look at it, and the blade was almost as narrow as a stiletto, and Sam could see right away how deadly it was.
“The fun part about this one,” said Dad, standing up, “is that it doesn’t spin. You’ll have to learn a whole new throwing style.”
“Cool,” said Dean, and Sam sighed. Every time he thought he was catching up, or getting used to something, Dad had to go and dazzle Dean with some new way of doing something that was dangerous, and probably against the law. Sam was pretty sure while his Faka was legal, the flying knife wasn’t.
“Okay, boys,” said Dad, leading the way, “let’s go outside.”
Into the sun they went, directly out to the lower edge of the field where they practiced on target shooting and sparring. The field was very wide and long and almost flat. It was hemmed on three sides by trees, and Dean kept the grass short by using the scythe about once a week.
The targets on the piles of hay bales were looking a little ratty. Sam remembered painting the targets on butcher paper; the circles he’d made were a little lopsided, but at least the edges of the circles were clear. Dad would probably put them to work painting new targets soon, but for now, they were going to throw knives.
“We’ll start with you, Sam,” said Dad. “Show me you remember the stance for throwing.”
That part was easy, his left foot went at 12 o’clock and his right foot, further back, was at about 2 o’clock. Sam did this, then shifted his weight till he was on the balls of his feet, and he bent his knees.
“Good. Now keep your shoulders level and grab the knife by the handle.”
“Like a hammer,” said Dean, chiming in.
Sam rolled his eyes, but Dad just ignored Dean and came up to Sam to examine his stance.
“Keep relaxed, and hold the knife level with the spot where you want it to land.” Dad clamped his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pressed down for a minute. Then he let go and looked from Sam to the target. “Don’t worry about making it, Sam. If it falls short, we’ll tighten the distance, I just want to see how far you can make it.”
Sam looked at the target. He already knew he was too far away from it, but, if Dad knew that, then Sam would just have to throw. So he did, hefting the knife in his hand and then letting it fly. The knife spun silver in the air for a few good turns and then landed in the dirt about halfway to the target.
“Okay, move up.”
Dad got the blade and wiped it on his jeans, and then handed it to Sam, handle first. Then Sam moved up and settled his stance, shifting his shoulders to move his hot t-shirt against his skin, wishing for cooler air.
“You should be close enough now,” Dad said. “Don’t just aim wild, pick out an element on the target, like a tear or where blue turns to red. Aim there. And keep it level.”
Dad stepped back, and he must have pulled Dean with him, because suddenly Sam was all alone. It was just him and the knife and the target. He picked out a spot where the hay was poking through in the bulls eye, then he took a deep breath and swung his arm and let the knife go. It circled in the air two fill times and then bounced off the target and fell to the grass.
“Nice try, Sam, go get it and try again. This time, go closer, you’ll stick it, I promise.”
Trying to keep his impatience to himself, Sam went over and picked up the knife and wiped it on his shorts, like Dad had done.
“Move up till you’re about ten feet away, Sam,” said Dad, and Sam scooted up till he was close enough to see every wrinkle in the cardboard, every tuft of hay from the bales underneath, every hole that he and Dean had made that summer. “Try it now.”
Sam breathed in slowly and made his stance. Keeping his arm level, he concentrated on the one spot where the hay was sticking through, and let the handle go with a snap. The knife rotated through the air one and a half times, and then the blade sunk itself deep, with the handle down.
“Too close,” said Dad. Dean didn’t say anything, and Sam just stared at the knife for a second, feeling the sweat building on his scalp and wondering how he could enjoy doing this at all. How, when he hated everything that it represented.
“Keep it going, Sam,” said Dad, now.
Sam picked up the knife and moved back a little bit. He wiped the knife off again, and ran the back of his hand across his forehead and wiped that on his shorts, too. And this time, when he threw the knife, it spun perfectly, two times, and when the point was in, the handle blade was level.
“It’s easy to do when you try,” said Dad. Which meant that he felt that Sam hadn’t been trying before. Which he had. But as he turned, Sam caught Dean’s face; there was a pleased look about him, a little smile, his eyes shining.
“Yeah,” said Sam, instead of saying anything else. He wanted not to ruin everything for Dean, even if that meant not saying something when he wanted to, even when he was right. “Let Dean have a turn, now, okay?”
Dad nodded, and Sam moved back to stand next to Dad while Dean took position in front of the target.
Sam loved watching Dean throw knives, because Dean loved doing it. His eyes gleamed, and his whole face smiled as he lined up his feet to the 12 and the 2.
Dean unsheathed the flying knife and put the sheath in his pocket. Normally, Sam knew, you’d have the sheath strapped to your belt or your leg, but now they were only practicing and so it didn’t matter so much. Sam held the warm blade of the Faka in his hand because Dad wouldn’t want him putting it in the dirt.
Dean tested the weight of the blade in his hand.
“How do I throw this, Dad?” he asked, not turning back to look. All of his concentration was focused forward.
“Put your finger in the hole and balance it,” Dad said. “See how the weight rests? Think about it like you would throwing a spear.”
That wasn’t really fair, because Sam didn’t think Dean had ever thrown a spear, but naturally, because Dean was the perfect, adaptable son, he tried it and nodded without looking back at Dad.
“I see,” Dean said.
“Move it up a bit,” Dad said. “Up to fourteen paces away.”
“I can do it from here,” Dean said, insisting. But he scooted up a little anyway, and dipped his chin as he positioned his finger in the hole in the handle.
From where he was standing, Sam saw Dean’s eyelashes flick up as he eyed the distance to the target. Dean was so amazing when he was like this, so bright and focused and whole; even though what he was training for made Sam mad, his brother was beautiful. Not that Sam would ever tell anyone, especially not Dean.
Dean shifted back and threw the blade. As Dad had promised, it flew straight, without spinning, so there was no need to calculate for the turns. But it fell in the grass, cutting through the dirt just like a quarrel did.
Dean trotted up to get the knife and came back to Dad, wiping the blade on his shorts. “What did I do wrong?” he asked Dad.
Dad met him halfway. “I think it’s your arm,” Dad said. He turned Dean around to face the target. “You had the right stance, but with this blade, you need to hold your arm higher. Like this, bottom of your arm parallel to the ground.” Dad pulled Dean’s arm up, a little roughly, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t go any lower than this, understand?”
Dean nodded. Sweat rolled down in front of his ear, reminding Sam how hot it was, but Dean was still smiling even though he was concentrating, and Sam made himself not say anything. He didn’t even snort.
Dean set the blade in his hand, adjusted his finger, and, shifting his weight, threw the knife. It went like an arrow would, straight and zinging through the air, and landed with a good, solid thwunk in the target, right on the edge of the bulls eye.
“Nice,” said Dad, and he came up to clap Dean on the shoulder, and Dean practically shook with pleasure.
This small bit of praise would take Dean to the moon and back. Sam struggled not to roll his eyes, but the best he could manage was to roll them without Dad seeing him.
“Let’s try it again, Dean,” said Dad. “Try moving back a step with each throw, and we’ll see how far you get today.”
Sam settled himself in the dirt, cross-legged, and rested the Faka on one knee. The metal was warm. He ran his finger along the edge where it felt pretty dull all the way up the blade, that is, until he pricked his skin on the tip. He sucked his finger in his mouth and didn’t say anything because it looked like Dad and Dean were all worked up about the flying knife and would soon forget about Sam. That was the way it went, mostly. But then, Dad wouldn’t be all focused on Sam, and Sam could enjoy watching Dean, watching Dean enjoy his summer.
*
“Okay, now do a bowline knot,” said Dad. “I’ll time you.”
Sam’s arm was sore from throwing knives for three days, but they were working with knots now, which was a lot easier. He reached for the pile of rope in front of him and took the end. For a second, he held the soft rope in his hands because he wanted to enjoy this moment, with the three of them, sitting in the shady woods, deep beneath the dark green bower of a group of mountain laurels.
(Mountain laurel in bloom.)
The dirt was soft and cool against Sam’s bare legs, and there was a jug of water standing by with cheese and crackers for a snack, and no one, especially not Dad, seemed to be in any hurry. It was nice for once to be training this way, slow and easy, and it was a huge change from the stringent days of knife throwing, with 15 minutes in the morning and 15 in the afternoon, and sometimes 15 more minutes just after it got dark, just to see how they would do.
But finally that had stopped and now they were spending the morning working the rope and learning to tie knots. That is, learning to tie knots faster; Sam guessed; both he and Dean already knew all the knots there were to know, so learning to tie them faster was easy, just plain easy.
Dad’s stopwatch started ticking; he wanted to time them both going at the same time. Dean was good with ropes, his fingers were always so nimble, and he was always faster than Sam, so a few more seconds wouldn’t make any difference to Sam, as long as Sam’s time generally improved.
Dad caught Sam just sitting there watching Dean, so Dad gave Sam the hairy eyeball. Sam dipped his head and concentrated on the knot, slipping the right end, the near end, Dad called it, through the bight, under, then over, and then under again. He’d done this so many times he could almost do it with his eyes closed, so he did. He closed them and finished the knot, taking the near end over again and then down through the bight and then he drew it tight.
“Good, Sammy,” said Dad.
Sam’s eyes flew open; it was only a little bit of praise but it made him want to squirm anyway. Dad was looking at him with a glint in his eyes, dark brows lowered as if he were concentrating on what he was seeing. He was seeing exactly what he wanted to see, of course. And that was Dean, tying knots faster than anyone alive, and Sam, his youngest, in whom he was almost always sorely disappointed, taking it up another notch by doing it pretty fast anyway, even with his eyes closed.
“Fast is good,” said Dad, nodding at Dean.
Dean nodded back, and wiped his hands on his t-shirt, leaving blackish streaks behind. He seemed only slightly abashed at the open praise from Dad, but Sam could see the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, and how hard he was concentrating.
“It’s always good to be fast, but it’s good to know how to do it without looking.”
Dean didn’t know that Dad was making Dean to it like Sam had done, with his eyes closed, but Sam did. It was like Dad was cutting Dean down, saying he wasn’t good enough, and it made Sam mad. Dean was the best at everything, why did Dad have to be mean to him all the time? At least he’d not added, Do it the way Sam did it, but that was the only thing keeping Sam’s mouth shut.
“This is important,” Dad said, going on, like he always did, making a point by driving the idea into the ground. “If it’s too dark to see, or if something’s coming at you, you might need to tie a knot without looking. Or untie it, but we’ll get to that in a minute.”
Dad looked at them both with dark, serious eyes, and Sam realized how calmly he was talking; there’d been no yelling all morning long. Sam didn’t know why, maybe it was because both of them were paying close attention, and Sam hadn’t said much of anything, so Dad had had nothing much to yell at.
Sam picked up a new, unknotted piece of rope. He looked at Dean. Dean was so fast at this, he always was; it would be hard to do it as good as Dean, even when Dean’s eyes were closed, too, but Sam wanted to try.
“Just do your best, Sam” said Dad, catching Sam at this. Dad always knew what Sam was thinking. “Ready? Close your eyes and go.”
Sam closed his eyes and formed the bight and did the over under over under till he heard the click and opened his eyes. Dean was already done but Sam was almost done, so he quickly shut his eyes and finished the knot. Dad clicked the stopwatch again. When he opened his eyes, Sam looked at the knot in his hands. It was sloppy and the near end was too long, but it was still a good knot and would hold.
“Almost as fast as with your eyes opened, both of you.” Dad shifted to put the stop watch in his pocket and then nodded at them to untie the knots. This was easy to do; the rope was nylon and soft from being new.
When the pile of white, slightly dusty, rope was all undone, Dad pulled the green canvas bag that had held their supplies closer to him.
“We’re going to try something a little different now, okay?”
Sam nodded, though he didn’t understand why Dad was asking instead of telling was beyond him. Still, as long as they stayed sitting in the cool shade, working with their hands and their minds, Sam could do this all day.
Dad pulled several longish lengths of rope made of hemp out of the canvas bag and laid it in the dirt in the middle of their crossed legs.
“Pick up a piece of rope and feel it in your hands. It’s rough, but you never know what kind of rope you’ll have on hand and when you’ll need it so it’s good to get used to different kinds. Got it?”
Sam held the rope in his hands and rolled in against his palm, feeling the prickly edges. He nodded and Dean did too. All of this made sense, except for Dad’s slow pace and the careful way he kept checking in with them.
“It’s important to be able to work with rope, no matter what, even if something’s coming at you.” Dad nodded, and then looked at Dean.
“Dean, hold out your hands.”
Dead held out his hands right away, ready for whatever Dad was going to do, trusting in all things Dad-related in a way that made Sam mad. But when he saw that Dad was tying Dean’s hand together, Sam’s pulse began to race a little. It was like a flash in his mind; he could see where this was going.
“Dad, wait-” said Sam.
From beneath dark brows, Dad cast him a quick, hard look. “This is important, Sam,” said Dad. It also shut Sam up, and made him cold all over, because Dad was perfectly serious, and very, very calm.
Dad continued tying Dean’s hands together tightly, as though not concerned that the rough hemp was biting into Dean’s wrists.
Dean looked at Sam, his eyes wide, as Dad finished tying the knot.
“There,” said Dad. “Can you get free?”
Dean bent his head and struggled to pull his hands, pushing one fist and pulling with the other. But he had to give up or tear his skin, so he did, shaking his head as he looked at Dad, as if fearful that Dad would find fault in him because he failed. “Nope,” he said.
Dad quickly reached over and undid the knots. As Dean rubbed his wrists, Sam could see his throat working, freckles standing out beneath his tan. He’d not liked being tied up, but of course he wasn’t going to complain. Then Dad looked at Sam and Sam knew it was his turn, even though he didn’t want to.
“C’mon, Sam,” said Dad in that same, calm, low voice. Dad wasn’t getting worked up, so Sam knew he wasn’t supposed to get worked up either. But it was hard; his heart was starting to thump already.
Part 3
Master Fic Post