To Fight in the Shade - Part 1
Sam stood at the middle of the circle of dirt at the edge of the field, and pointed the gun at the paper target, which was tacked to a stack of old hay bales. Overhead, the sun blazed, sending down death rays of yellow and bright orange.
The top of Sam’s head felt so hot, he was being melted like someone was pouring molten lava all over him. He’d read about that, from a book he’d checked out from the school library, all the knights and stuff fighting around the ramparts of their castles, pouring molten lava on each other. Or maybe it was something else hot, like wax or tar. But it didn’t matter, he felt just like that. Really, really hot, like he was being burned on every inch of his skin.
At the edge of the field, the tall green trees stood tall and punched into the hard, blue sky, trying to outdo each other for a breath of fresh air. But there wasn’t any; except for the sound of the cicadas screaming deep in the branches, nothing moved or made a sound.
Except for Dad.
“I’m telling you for the last time, Sam,” said Dad. His voice came harsh and mad from somewhere behind Sam as he stood in the dirt circle. “Never swing a gun around like that. And don’t thumb the safety off till you’re ready to shoot.”
“I didn’t thumb it off,” said Sam, not looking back. He tossed his head to get his bangs out of his eyes. He was so mad, he tried to clench his teeth against saying anything more, but it came out anyway, loud. “It’s still on. And I am ready.”
“Excuse me?” asked Dad.
Sam took a deep breath, and gripped the butt of the gun and shouted, as loud as he could, “I said it’s on already, jeeze, leave me alone.”
Dean didn’t say anything, though Sam knew he was standing right next to Dad, watching Sam mess up again. But Sam heard footsteps and turned around just as Dad came up, scowling, bared teeth white against his tan face. His hair stuck to his temples, and the sweat circles beneath his arms made his t-shirt stick to him.
He reached out to grab Sam just as Sam lowered the gun to his side; you didn’t point a gun at someone unless you meant to shoot them, that much he had learned. But Dad pulled the gun from Sam’s hands and looked at it. With a click of his thumb, he pushed at the safety and Sam realized, too late, that the safety had already been off, and way before it should have been.
Dad shoved the gun in the back of his pants. He grabbed Sam by the back of the neck with one hand, and jerked on his arm with the other. Then he bent down so he could shout right into Sam’s face.
“When I say safety on till you’re ready, I mean safety on, and I don’t want you screwing around, you got me?”
“And I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sam, shaking his head, and trying to wiggle out of Dad’s tight grip. “I already told you.”
Dad’s whole body jerked. He pulled Sam close, into the curve of his body, so close that Sam had to bend backwards or get squashed. “And I told you,” said Dad, low, almost growling, teeth bared, “one more smartmouth remark like that, and you’d be getting a whipping.”
He shook Sam and while he didn’t release his tight hold, he let Sam move back a little bit. Dad was still close, though, close and hot and mad, and there was nothing that Sam hated more at that moment than the smell of Dad’s sweat.
Unless, of course, it was the thought of the gun in the back of Dad’s pants and the rounds of ammo sitting at Dean’s feet, the ammo that they had to use up before lunch; it was already mid-morning, and there were still tons of bullets left. But Dad didn’t care that sweat was running down Sam’s back like a waterfall, didn’t care that Sam hated guns. And, worst of all, Dad didn’t care that Sam didn’t want to be a hunter.
“You want a whipping?” asked Dad. His grip on Sam’s arm felt red hot, and tight, like it was cutting off all of Sam’s circulation.
“I want Otter Pops,” said Sam. “I’m hot and thirsty and I want Otter Pops and I want them now.” He said it right at Dad’s face, and made himself not panic when Dad’s eyes narrowed and his fingers on the back of Sam’s neck twitched.
Dad let go of Sam’s neck and he started reaching for his belt buckle, and Sam knew that he was going to get it, right here in the field, under the blazing sun. With Dean watching, probably getting mad that Sam had wrecked a perfectly good morning of target practice.
“Uh, Dad?” asked Dean.
Both Sam and Dad looked at Dean; Dad’s hand froze at his belt buckle.
“Maybe he should use the Beretta, it’s a little bit lighter than the Glock.”
Sam blinked. He was already using the Beretta, knew that even before Dad pulled the gun from the back of his pants. Dad straightened up and let go of Sam as he looked at the gun. Then he looked at Dean, and held the gun up, muzzle high, to show Dean.
“Beretta,” said Dad.
“Oh,” said Dean, and made a little huh noise, as though he were totally confused by the whole thing.
But Sam knew Dean wasn’t confused, and Sam tried not to smirk. Dean had gotten Dad’s attention just to make Dad think about something else, other than whipping Sam, for a second. Dean didn’t do it very often, because mostly he acted like he felt Sam deserved whatever punishment Dad handed out to him. Sam flicked a little nod of thanks in Dean’s direction, but Dean was kicking the dust at his feet and not paying any attention.
But Dad was. The look on his face told Sam that he’d seen everything, and knew what Dean had done.
“You get a walk, Sam, but if I hear one more snotty remark coming out of your mouth, I will be handing you a stiff whipping. Understand me?”
Sam nodded, gulping.
Dad held out the gun to Sam. “Now, take it, and hold it the right way, thumb at the guard, but leave the safety on till you’re ready; the most dangerous thing about a gun is the person using it.”
Well, Sam heard that a thousand times before, but he did his best not to sigh, at least not out loud. Instead, he gripped the butt of the gun with both hands, right hand on top. Dad had said that as he got bigger, eventually he wouldn’t need to use both hands, but for now, it was alright.
Dad reached out and yanked at Sam’s right forefinger, moving it down. “How many times do I have to tell you, don’t carry the weight of the gun inside of the trigger bar; use your grip to carry the gun.”
Sam wanted to throw the gun at Dad’s feet, but he didn’t dare. Dad was already mad enough as it was. He shifted his hands, and settled his feet, and then looked up at Dad.
“Fine,” said Dad. “Now wait till I’m out of the way, then snap off the safety, and then shoot at the target.”
Sam waited till Dad’s marching footsteps stopped somewhere behind him. He took a deep breath and looked at the target. It seemed really far away, but bullets could travel that far, spinning and rotating before they punched a hole in whatever they were aimed at. He didn’t like guns for that very reason; it gave him the creeps to imagine shooting a bullet into something that was alive, or un-dead, or whatever. Besides, guns were loud and they smelled bad.
“Okay, Sam, let’s go,” said Dad, sounding at the last edge of his patience. “We don’t have all day.”
Actually they did have all day, but Sam knew better than to say it. He shifted the weight of the gun in his hands and thumbed the safety to off. Then, taking a deep breath, he squinted and aimed the gun at the target, tried to steady his arms, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet flew with a puff and a bang, and Sam staggered against the recoil. His shoulders would hurt later, but Dad never cared about that.
“Too low,” said Dad. “Aim a little higher and try again.”
Too low, too high, what difference did it make? Sam was never going to be good at this, never going to be good enough, not for Dad. Sam wished it was Dean’s turn, so Sam could stand and watch Dean (because Dean was good at it), and then maybe Sam could duck into the shade for a little minute, and pretend he was far, far away.
“Sam,” said Dad, barking. “Let’s go.”
Sam hefted his shoulders and brought the gun up to just below shoulder height. His wrists screamed at him. But he made sure the safety was still off, and went through the motions of setting his stance, and aiming at the target. He could barely hold the gun steady, so the bullet would still be too low, but at least he looked like he was trying. Maybe that would get by Dad.
The bullet zinged into the ground, kicking up dust, just at the right edge of the target.
He was out of bullets now, so maybe his turn was over. Sam thumbed the safety to on and turned around, carefully keeping the gun pointed at the ground.
“Nope,” said Dad, shaking his head. “Come get some more bullets and let’s try another round. You need to work at this Sam, and you’ll keep at it till I see you really working.”
Dean didn’t say anything, but he looked at Sam, eyebrows drawn. He was pissed that it still wasn’t his turn, or maybe he was pissed because Sam was wasting Dad’s time. Either way, he certainly wasn’t on Sam’s side at all. But then, he seldom ever was.
“Bullets, Sam, let’s not take all day.”
Sam didn’t hide his scowl as he walked up to the box of ammo that Dean held out to him. They had all the bullets in the world and all the hot days of summer (which was long enough and hot enough already), and Dad wasn’t about to let this go. Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing his bangs out of the way, and then reached for a bullet.
“God damn it, Sam, how many times do I have to remind you about sweat and metal?”
Dad pulled Sam’s hand away from his head. “Wipe your hand off and then put the bullets in.”
Sam huffed out loud but he didn’t dare do any more of a protest than that. He dutifully, and with exaggerated motions, wiped his right hand on the side of his t-shirt, and then snapped out the empty magazine. Then, one by one, he loaded the bullets in, and tapped the magazine on the heel of his hand. He tapped it so hard that he was going to have a bruise there later, probably. Not that anyone cared.
“Sam.”
Without looking up at Dad, Sam put the magazine in the bottom of the butt of the gun, and clicked it shut.
“One more round, Sam, and then it’s Dean’s turn.”
“Okay,” said Sam, trying to sound like he couldn’t care less.
“Unless I see you still not trying, then we’ll do this all day, you and me, and Dean can go sit on the nice, shady porch and watch us.”
Not getting a turn at the Beretta would make Dean madder than anything else Sam had done that day. Which meant that Sam had to do exactly what Dad said, and really, really try. Otherwise, if Dean had to go sit on the porch and not get to shoot? Sam would never hear the end of it.
Sam walked back to the circle, put his feet in the right spots, and clicked off the safety, remembering to carry the weight of the gun in his hands, and not on his finger inside the trigger guard. Then he raised the gun. He looked at the target and thought about the heat of the sun, and the lack of wind, and how his bullets had all been too low. Then he squinted, and raised his gun almost an entire foot. It might go wide, it might go wild, but he was trying, he really was, and Dad would see that and not send Dean to the porch.
Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet zinged through the air, and went, smack, right into the blue. Sam blinked; he couldn’t believe it, he’d almost gotten a bulls eye.
“Nicely done,” said Dad. “Let’s see you do that again.”
Sam let out a rush of air, a little pleased with himself. Except, the only thing worse than screwing up on purpose in front of Dad, was doing something well in front of Dad. It wasn’t going to get Sam out of anything; Dad was just going to make Sam continue, and would expect him to get better.
“Not tomorrow, Sam.”
Sam shook his head, but lifted the gun to prepare his aim. His shoulders ached, his arms hurt, his wrists were on fire. But anyway, there were only so many bullets in the Beretta’s magazine, and it would be Dean’s turn soon. Unless Sam screwed up, but he promised himself he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t dare.
(The cabin in the woods, with the Impala standing by)
*
By the time Dad called a halt to the training for the day, it was getting towards twilight, with the sky above the tree line turning a darker blue with streaks of pink. It was still hot, and the air was still, but at least they were done.
Sam followed Dad and Dean up the short flight of wooden stairs and into the cabin, where the air felt warm and a little stale, even though all the windows were open. But as he took off his sneakers, the planks of the wooden floor felt cool, and he sighed. He was covered with dust and sweat, and took his turn in the narrow bathroom to wash up at the sink with Dean.
“You smell like a skunk,” said Dean, bumping Sam with his hip.
Sam bumped him right back, and said, “Well at least I don’t smell like a bear.” It didn’t make any sense, because Sam had never really smelled a bear but it was all he could come up with.
Dean snorted deep in his throat and went out into the kitchen area to help Dad make supper. Sam thought about turning on the TV, but he was too tired to watch anything, so he sat at his place at the table and waited for Dad to get done, but by the time supper arrived on the table, and Dad had served them all, it was too late. Sam had moved past hungry, into starving, and right past that into feeling all numb inside. He was so tired, he didn’t think he could eat. He slumped over his plate and picked at his baked beans with his fork.
“Eat your dinner, Sam,” said Dad, sitting down at his spot at the other end of the table. “And lift your head, you’re getting hair in your food.”
Sam lifted his head, feeling bleary-eyed, like he was looking through a thin film. He squinted a little bit at Dean, to see if that would make it better. It almost did, except that Dean was ignoring him now, eating with a hearty appetite, as he usually did, digging into his coleslaw and mixing it with his beans and shoveling it in his mouth. And chewing away like he’d not just spent a full day in the baking sun, shooting round after round, and listening to Sam getting yelled at every other minute.
“I need those guns cleaned tomorrow, Sam,” said Dad, his mouth all full of hot dog bun. “And Dean, you can come with me to Ft. Payne.”
“Okay,” said Dean.
Sam’s head snapped up, in spite of his tiredness. “Hey,” he said. “That’s not fair.” He was well passed watching his tone of voice; it was too much.
“What?” asked Dad. He shoveled some beans into his mouth, like he was barely prepared to listen to what Sam had to say.
“It’s not fair,” said Sam. He slammed his fork down, and shoved at his plate. He almost knocked his milk glass over, but luckily, not quite. “Dean always gets to go and I never do.”
Dad chewed on his mouthful and then swallowed. “I didn’t know you wanted to go.”
“Well, you never ask,” said Sam. “It’s always Dean’s turn and never mine.”
“Sam, you could go,” said Dean. He put down his fork and turned to Dad and nodded. “I don’t mind, Dad, if Sam wants to go.”
Sam almost couldn’t stand it that Dean was trying to make it okay; Sam wanted Dad to ask, and that was fair, wasn’t it? It was Dad’s choice, only he never chose Sam, and now he should. He should have asked way before this, but he should now, especially now, since Sam had brought it up, and not make Dean do it.
Dad looked at Sam, steady, though his jaw twitched a little bit. “Sam,” he said.
This was Sam’s opening. “I never get to go, and I’m always stuck in the cabin while you and Dean go have fun.”
“It’s not always fun, Sam,” said Dad. He scooped a forkful of beans into his mouth and talked while he chewed. “I have phone calls to make and supplies to get, and besides, when Dean comes, he helps me, and I don’t think you’d be that much help.”
Sam looked at Dad through narrowed eyes; he was so mad he wanted to throw his plate on the floor and stand up and holler, but it wouldn’t do any good and Dad would leave him behind just to teach him a lesson. It didn’t matter that he didn’t really want to spend the day with Dad, even if it did mean getting to take a little road trip away from the cabin. What mattered was that it was his turn to go and Dean’s turn to stay behind and clean the guns.
“I can help,” he said, feeling all stern, not really believing that he was pushing it this hard; sometimes that backfired. “You just never let me try, and isn’t that what you always tell us, to keep trying? Well, how can I try if you never let me?”
“That’s not it, Sam,” said Dad.
“But it’s my turn,” said Sam, insisting. He could feel Dean watching him with wide eyes, but he didn’t care if this was going to get him into trouble, fair was fair. “All day long we take turns, first Dean, then me, then Dean again, so why not with this?”
Dad turned his attention to his dinner, like he wasn’t listening to Sam at all, like he’d dismissed the whole thing. Then he laughed a little bit and shook his head as he stirred some of his beans into his coleslaw. “Fine,” he said, not looking up. “Dean, you okay with that?”
“Sure,” said Dean.
Sam snorted. He didn’t exactly know why Dad laughed, but he, Sam, was going to get to go. It still looked like Dean was the good kid, and Sam was the troublemaker. Okay, fine, then, he was the troublemaker. But at least he’d made Dad see it his way. Only now he was more tired than ever.
*
Sam did the dishes while Dad and Dean watched TV. He’d complain more except that it was his turn, so that was fair, and he was all about being fair. So he washed and rinsed and dried, and left everything on the counter for someone taller to put away. Then he wiped table and wiped out the sink, and swept the floor, just to prove that he didn’t forget this time.
Then he came over to stand next to Dad’s chair. Dad had it tipped back with the little footrest up, while Dean lolled on the couch.
“You done?” asked Dad.
“Yeah,” said Sam. “What’s on?”
“Clint Eastwood,” said Dad. “Pale Rider.”
“But you’ve seen that a hundred times,” said Sam. He put his hands on his hips. “Why can’t we watch something else?”
“Because it’s not your turn to choose,” said Dean. Then he added quietly, “Brat.”
“It’s never my turn to choose,” said Sam. He hated the way his voice came out all wobbly, but nobody was paying any attention to him, anyway. “I’m going to bed.”
Dad said “Fine,” but Dean didn’t even look at him, so Sam turned on his heel and marched loudly to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Except by the time he got there, he was worn out, both from the day and from being mad, so he just brushed his teeth and washed his face, and then took off his shirt and shorts and got into bed.
As he lay there, he felt a little excited at being able to go with Dad while Dean stayed behind. He would get out of the chores, and not only that, he would get to find out what it was like, to go with Dad, and travel to someplace new without it being one of those trips where they drove for miles and miles and miles without stopping.
He knew where Ft. Payne was on the map, it was less than 20 miles away. It would be a nice trip, with new fields to drive past and a new town to drive through. It would be more fun, of course, if he and Dean both went, but he had to stick to his guns, otherwise, if he brought it up, Dad might just decide to leave Sam behind on principle, for making such a fuss about it.
Sam yawned, and felt his neck relax against the pillow. He wanted to stay awake till Dean came to bed, to make sure Dean wasn’t mad at him, but he didn’t think he was going to make it.
*
Sam leaned out of the Impala’s passenger window, elbows on the frame, the rubber digging into his skin. His shoulders ached, but leaning forward stretched them out and made them feel better. He was hanging so far out that his hair was whipped straight back, and his eyes were watering. But it was great; the sky was blue and the morning bright as the green leaves whipped past, and he was finally not stuck in the hot cabin with Dad and Dean. Well, he was stuck with Dad, but they weren’t in the cabin for a while. He’d forgotten how fun it was to jump in the car and drive somewhere new.
“Has that door been locked?”
Quickly, Sam looked down and ran his hand over the button to make sure it was down. It was.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Better get back in, we’re coming into town.”
“But we’re going slower.” It was stupid that when the car was going down the highway, Dad didn’t mind him hanging out the window, but when they came into town, he did.
“They got rules, Sam, so pull your head back in.”
Dad didn’t add, before I pull it back in for you, but Sam heard it anyway. And it was irritating, because since when did Dad care about rules. No, he only cared about his own rules, which he seemed to be able to make up on the spot.
Sam sighed and ducked back in the car to plop himself down on the seat, which had grown hot with the sun shining down on it. Still. He wasn’t in the cabin, and Dean had to do all the chores today. Wiping his hands on his knees, Sam smiled as he watched the slowed-down scenery go by.
He found, as they crossed over the railroad tracks and began following the main road that was parallel to it, that he recognized the pattern of the town. There were a lot of these types of towns on the map, with old houses and little stores and the big courthouse in the square, near to which there was surely an ice cream parlor or two. Not that Dad would stop at one of those, but Sam liked little towns like this, just the same.
Dean hated towns like this, hated when they went to a place like this for a job that Dad was working, mostly because there was nothing much to do while they waited for Dad. But Sam liked them, liked the white picket fences and the streets that were obviously named after the people who’d started the town. It was all very quiet and peaceful and miles away from being a hunter. And that’s how Sam liked it, how he envisioned it should be.
(Ft. Payne; Sock Capital of the World)
“We’re here, get out.”
Sam snapped his head up and looked out the front window of the Impala. They were parked in front of a reddish brown painted building that spread itself out far enough to reach the edge of the tracks. There were a few cars in the parking lot, mostly trucks, and a few dusty cars. Across the street was a little red house with a white-trimmed porch, but there weren’t any kids or even grownups around. And there wasn’t a Stop N Sip or anything like that where Sam could hang out while Dad got supplies. Not that Dad would give him money for a soda, but at least there would be magazines to look at.
Sam pulled himself out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him. The gravel beneath his sneakers was gritty and dust flew up in the hot, still air. The hardware store didn’t look very interesting from the outside. Maybe Dean was right about little towns like this.
“Don’t slam that door so hard, Sam.” Dad said this almost by rote as he walked up to the door of the hardware store.
“Why are we here?” Sam asked, following.
“I need some gear, some rope, oil and propane for the generator, and then I need to make some calls.”
Dad didn’t look back as he said this, so it felt like he wasn’t even aware that Sam was there, and maybe like some other boy had asked the question.
“So why didn’t you do this in Mentone? They got phones there. They got rope.”
Dad was at the door and Sam was almost on Dad’s heels, when Dad turned around with his glower firmly in place.
“I told you this last night, Sam, when you said you wanted to come today.”
Looking up at Dad, Sam shook his head. He didn’t remember that part.
“Guy here owes me a favor after I helped him out, so he won’t mind me using the phone,” said Dad, with that tight tone that said he was already impatient. “And he won’t listen in or say anything to anyone about it. You see?”
Sam knew that he was supposed to instantly understand why this was important, that when you were a hunter, you built good-will by saving people from ghosts and haunted objects and stuff they were too stupid to deal with themselves. He got that part just fine, but what Dad wasn’t saying, what Dad never really said out loud, was that it also meant that you had to hide what you were doing from the local cops, or the sheriff or whatever it was that Mentone had. There wasn’t a phone in the cabin, and no one in town that Dad had saved, so they had to come here. Fine.
Sam shifted his attention away from his irritation and hoped it didn’t show on his face; he never liked the idea of being someone the police would come after. You were supposed to be a law abiding citizen, he knew that from books and at school, and yet, here they were, ducking and hiding, and all in broad daylight. Not that Dad would want to hear any of that.
“You see, Sam?”
“Yes, I see,” said Sam, because he did, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
They went into the hardware store, with its shiny floors and long rows of glittering supplies. It smelled, as all hardware stores did, of lubrication oil, and burnt oil, and old oil, and floor wax, which must have been laid down to overcome the stench of oil. Sam hoped he never had to work in a hardware store; he would never be able to get used to that smell. Although it did die down a little, once you’d smelled it for a while, Sam knew that.
Sam eyed the rows and rows of stuff for sale, and wondered how long it would take him to memorize the location and contents of every single bin.
A man came up to Dad, and shook his hand, and had a hearty smile to go with it. The man wore a red vest over a checked shirt and his nametag said “Russ,” He shook Dad’s hand and smiled, and he couldn’t get enough of Dad. If Dean had been there (and Sam suddenly wished he was), then Dean would have been part of the conversation, and the thank you’s of gratitude, and the wave that Russ made at the rows of gear and supplies.
“Anything you need, anything at all,” said Russ, still shaking Dad’s hand, as if still overcome by his near escape from whatever it was that Dad had rescued him from. Sam wondered what it was that had happened, but he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t care anyway.
“My wife would have made you something, if she’d known you’d be here today,” said Russ, still going on. “She makes the best homemade donuts in De Kalb county, but-This your boy? This Dean?”
It was like getting smacked in the face twice. Not only did Dad not tell Russ they were coming, and so, thusly, no homemade donuts for Sam, the guy thought he was Dean. Which meant that Dad had talked only about Dean to Russ, and Sam was pretty sure it had been words of praise and pride. Sure. Why bother even mentioning a son that never came up to your expectations? Stupid Dean. Even when he wasn’t here, he was.
Sam scowled and didn’t hold out his hand to shake when Russ offered his. Russ was going bald and he had a round stomach and his eyes gleamed with pleasure as he looked at Sam, and he was totally normal, but Sam didn’t want any of it.
“This is Sammy, my youngest,” said Dad. Dad gave Sam’s shoulder a little push, and Sam realized he needed to go through the motions, otherwise Dad would want to know why Sam was mad. There was no way that Sam wanted Dad to know how he felt about it, this or pretty much about anything, so he stuck out his hand and Russ shook it.
“Hi, Sammy,” said Russ.
“Hi,” said Sam, letting go right away. He looked at his sneakers, knowing that there was no point in reminding Dad that only Dad and Dean got to call him Sammy.
“I’ve got a boy just your age,” said Russ, heartily. He nodded once or twice. “He’d be in the shop with me today, except he’s at summer camp this week.”
Sam felt his jaw tighten. Summer camp. Of course. What every normal boy would be doing. During the summer. Sam had had enough, he was through playing nice.
“Can I go look at the bins?” he asked.
Dad’s eyes narrowed a little as both men looked at Sam, but Sam made himself not care. He wasn’t being rude, he was just asking for what he wanted.
“Fine,” said Dad, and right away he turned to Russ. “I need to use the phone,” he said. Russ smiled and nodded and led Dad towards the back, both of them walking quickly away as if Sam wasn’t even there. And that was fine too. He didn’t want to be a part of that conversation anyway. Not if Russ had thought that Dad only had one son, one perfect son, named Dean.
Sam started with the left-most aisle, and determined that he’d look at only the left side of each aisle until he’d seen what everything was, then he’d go through it again, looking only the right side of each aisle. It should take him through the time until Dad was done with his calls and getting the propane and all that other junk.
(Inside Ft. Payne Hardware Store)*
It felt like hours had passed. Sam was sick of looking at bins of gleaming nuts and shiny screws. He’d sat on little lawn tractors and had smelled the stiff blocks of canvas and had messed with the fans, some of which were even plugged in and running, until he was bored out of his mind. He’d been bored to start with, and wondering why he’d even asked to come along, but now he was really bored. And way long after he’d put his hand in a bin full of what looked like washers but had turned out to be large, flat-headed tacks (he was still sucking his fingers from that), Dad still wasn’t off the phone.
He wandered to the back of the store, to the back wall, where a large glass window let him see into the office where Russ had led Dad, and where Dad was sitting at the desk like he sat at a desk all the time. He had the phone crooked under one ear, pressed against his shoulder to hold it in place, and he was writing something down on a piece of paper and talking at the same time. Dad’s hair was dark under the shining lights, and his grungy t-shirt and unshaven face made him look like he didn’t belong, like someone had let him in to use the phone by accident.
Dad must have felt him there, because he looked up and jerked his chin at Sam, asking him, without words, what is it?
Sam let himself in the office without asking, and stood there with his hand on the knob and waited a few seconds for Dad to tell him to go away. When Dad didn’t, Sam shut the door behind him, and waited some more while Dad finished what he was saying.
“Okay, Jim, that sounds like a plan.”
“Is that Pastor Jim?” asked Sam. He walked closer to the desk where Dad was sitting. “I want to talk to him.”
Dad shook his head at Sam and continued talking into the phone. “No-yes, tell him yes with the salt, and tell him no, it doesn’t have to be kosher. Table salt will do fine. Have Bobby find someone closer, okay? I’m stuck out here for now.”
Stuck? Dad felt stuck? There was no way he could feel half as stuck as Sam did. As Dad hung up the phone, Sam felt his lower lip pushing out. “You could have said I said hi.”
“What do you need, Sam?” asked Dad, without saying anything about the phone call.
“I’m bored,” said Sam. “Really bored.”
“I told you yesterday that this is what I’d be doing, and you wanted to come along.”
Sam could tell Dad was trying to be patient, but he couldn’t make himself care. “Yeah, but you didn’t say it would be this boring.” He’d wanted to come along in the first place because it was his turn and in the second place to see if the errands with Dad were as fun as Dean always made them out to be. But he couldn’t tell Dad that.
Dad took a breath and turned his attention back to the phone. “Not now, Sam.”
Sam scowled, feeling fierce and really pissed off, but Dad didn’t even seem to notice.
Dad put his hand back on the receiver and picked it up. He dialed the phone, and as he waited for the person on the other end to answer, he said, “Ten minutes, Sam. Take a walk around the block and come back in ten minutes. I’ll be done by then. Probably.”
The person on the other end must have picked up because Dad started talking into the phone like Sam wasn’t even there.
Heart pounding, Sam spun on his heel and marched out of the store, jingling the bell loudly on the door, and ignoring Russ at the cash register as he said goodbye to him. He was so glad to be out of the hardware store and away from Dad, away from anything Dad was doing, even if it was only for ten minutes.
Outside, the contrast between the cool air in the air conditioned store and the hot summer morning outside didn’t slow Sam down. But the lack of anything resembling a block did.
At the edge of the parking lot, Sam stopped. There was a narrow blacktop with a faded yellow line in the middle that stretched left and right. There were houses and a few stores but no sidewalk and nor corner for him to turn at; there was nothing specific. Usually it took him two turns around the average block to use up ten minutes, or if it was a big block, then one turn around would do. But here, nothing.
Still, he was out of Dad’s hair and on his own for ten minutes, which was rare these days. So he turned left and walked along the edge of the black top, towards the row of roof tops and the clock tower of the courthouse that he could see beyond the trees.
After walking a little while, Sam’s shoulders relaxed and he took a deep breath. The sun was almost overhead in the bright blue sky, and although it was hot enough to make his shirt stick to him, there was enough of a breeze to ruffle through his hair and make him feel like it was going to be a good day. Or at least an okay day, considering that Dad was going to expect him back in exactly ten minutes and would probably deliver a stern, hard-eyed lecture about not bugging people when they were on the phone.
Sam came to a three-way corner, a t-intersection. The road he was on went straight, and the road that went right disappeared under some trees. There was a little cement foot bridge over a dry ditch, so Sam took a right, and stood on the bridge for a minute, wishing there was running water so he could take his socks and sneakers off and put his feet in.
As he stood there, he started to hear voices, kids shouting, sounding like maybe it was coming from a swimming pool. Or a park or something. Sam headed off that way; maybe he could, watch someone else having fun, at least for a few minutes.
He walked in the deep shade along the road, watching for traffic, even if there weren’t any cars coming. Underneath the branches, the air smelled a little damp and cool, and it was nice for a minute. Then, as he came out of the bank of trees, he saw that he was right, at least about the park.
There was a large grassy field with a small swing set and teeter tot for the little kids. But there, in the middle of the field, drawing Sam’s eyes like a loadstone, was a group of about seven kids, mostly boys from what he could tell, and they were playing soccer.
Sam blinked to make sure it wasn’t some dumb football they were playing with and kicking around. It wasn’t.
Four of the boys had their shirts off, and the other three didn’t. They were playing with two teams, then, almost the smallest regulation size, except they were missing a player. Sam moved forward like was being dragged, and he could feel his whole body start to smile. He could play soccer for five minutes and then race back to the hardware store and Dad would never know. His only problem now was to figure out how to get a game.
Luckily, the ball went wild and came right at Sam, spinning black and white against the trampled green grass. He stopped it with his foot, breathing hard. They might just tell him to kick it back and go away. Or they might ask.
Sam jerked his chin up in greeting, the way Dean sometimes did, all cool and I-don’t-really-care. He looked at the boy who came over. The kid was shirtless, but he had grass stains all over his shorts and he looked like he was really into playing.
His eyes were bright as they looked at Sam and he scraped his curly blond hair out of his eyes. “Can you play, do you wanna play?” he asked.
Sam thought about mentioning the Division Championship soccer trophy he’d won that spring but decided against it. Dean never would brag, so Sam wouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he said, rotating the ball beneath his sneakered foot.
“Great,” said the kid. “We’ll be four to four then; you can be midfielder for the Shirts.”
The kid had a bossy voice and the midfielder position wasn’t very exciting, not like being the striker or the forward, like Sam had been on his last team. But though Sam could spot the two four lumps of t-shirt that marked each team’s goal posts, there was no actual goalie, so maybe Sam could figure how to do some interesting shots anyway.
“Okay,” he said, and gave a small kick to send the ball to the boy. It was almost like a free kick from when the ball had gone offsides, just high enough so that the kid could catch it against his knee and roll it down and kick it into the center point. The kid was as good as Sam, then.
Sam raced across the grass, and joined the shirted team, and so now the teams were evenly matched. There weren’t any real lines in the grass, so Sam picked a spot between what looked like it should be the midway point and his teams set of goat post t-shirts.
Sweat was already rolling on his face as he took his position, but he felt good, he was smiling with his whole body because finally, finally, he was going to get play. He smiled at the kid who let him play and leaned forward a little to be ready for the kick off. Of course, it was the kid who let him play was doing the kick off; he was probably their best player. And, more importantly, the ball probably belonged to him.
The kid kicked the ball in Sam’s direction and Sam went racing towards it, bangs flying off his forehead, legs moving, grinning the whole while as the hot summer air filled his lungs. He was ready, he was so ready, he was going to kick that ball straight into the other team’s goal, he just knew it.
The ball came at Sam so he kicked it, straight into the tumble of legs that suddenly appeared, and then one of the boys from the Shirts (who Sam realized was actually a girl), scrambled right in there to snap the ball away from them with her toes. She looked like she was flying for a minute, and then she rolled to the ground as the ball spun out of control. It landed offsides again and one of the kids from the other team raced to the sidelines to throw it back in.
There was a little pause in the free throw as they waited for a car to go by. The kid came up to Sam and nodded at him, grinning.
“Looks like I assigned you to the wrong team,” the kid said.
Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shoved his hair out of his eyes, and then wiped his hand on his shirt. “Looks like,” he said, knowing he was smirking so hard it almost hurt his face. “Next time,” he said, realizing too late that there wouldn’t be a next time.
But there was today. He had the normal looking houses, the green grass, and the park with the playing field and the soccer ball and the group of kids he was going to show just how good he was at this. He had today.
*
Blue-shirt boy on Sam’s team kicked the ball to Sam and Sam dribbled the ball forward a little, angling sideways as he propped it up to kick the ball to the Red-shirt girl, who was currently in the forward left position. There was no one in the center position; otherwise, he would have aimed there. But just as he drew his leg back for a good solid kick (and it was a clear shot all the way there, so he could kick it nice and hard), he heard the low rumble of an engine and an ear-splitting whistle.
Sam practically fell over the ball in an effort to stop the kick. He saw the black gleam of the Impala and knew he should go. Dad was calling and it had obviously been more than ten minutes since Sam had left the hardware store.
But what if Dad could see him do a great kick, something sharp that would make the other team have to scramble to keep up? Dad would be impressed and then maybe he would relax his stupid rule against Sam playing soccer.
But just as he angled his foot, he heard the Impala’s engine turn off and the heavy door slam. Then the Skin hooked his leg around to steal the ball from between Sam’s legs. And then everyone was scattering away from Sam.
The hot air simmered up from the grass as Sam turned to look. Dad was striding across the field, long legs eating up the distance to Sam, taking half the time it would have taken any kid on the team to run that far. Dad’s t-shirt was soaked around his neck and under his arms and his dark hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes glittered in the sun and Sam froze.
Behind him, the game started up again, but the sounds felt like they came from far away as Dad reached out. His arm was a mile long, and he grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, fingers firmly digging in and pulled. Sam’s feet slipped out from under him and he had to scramble to stay upright as Dad marched him back to the car.
“Twenty minutes,” said Dad, low, but there was venom in his voice. “I expected you back twenty minutes ago.”
Sam could only gasp for breath as he tried to keep up and when they reached the car, Sam opened his mouth and tried to point back at the field, to explain, to ask if Dad had seen him play, but Dad let go of him with a hard shove.
“Get in the car.”
It finally dawned on Sam, though he’d known it the second he’d heard Dad’s whistle, that Dad was furious. So furious that he was talking very quietly, which was almost more scary than when he yelled.
Dad opened the driver’s side and Sam scrambled across the hot bench seat. He pressed himself against the passenger side door as hard as he could, eyes wide, looking at Dad, whose skin, under his sweaty, five o’clock shadow, was oddly grey.
Dad started up the car, not saying anything, but there was a hard edge to his jaw and his foot on the gas made the car roar. Dad popped the car into drive and the Impala shot down the street and turned the corner so fast that the gear in the trunk shifted with a loud bang. As they raced along the tree-lined streets, Sam held on to the door handle and tried to swallow around his suddenly dry mouth. The air in the car was hot and Sam reached to roll down the window.
“Leave it,” said Dad, with a snap.
Sam knew he was in trouble, but now he couldn’t even lean out the window on the way home? Dad was just being mean. Sam turned his eyes out of the window and made himself not care.
Dad rocketed the car through town and Sam kept his mouth shut as long as he could. He wanted to tell Dad how fun it had been to run with the other kids and kick the white ball across the green grass, to run and not worry whether anything scary was chasing you or to worry about whether you had time to throw a silver knife fast enough and hard enough to strike some creature in the heart.
Then he couldn’t keep his mouth shut any more.
“Dad-” Sam began, but Dad cut him off.
“Ten minutes, Sam,” said Dad. “I told you I wanted you back in ten minutes.”
“But I was playing soccer, Dad, did you see me? I was good, that kid said so, and you-”
“Enough, Sam,” said Dad. “You can’t come back when I say, then you can’t come on any more errands.”
Sam didn’t care about that so much; errands with Dad were boring, but he always forgot about that part. Especially when Dean would come back from them all happy and relaxed, helping Dad carry stuff in from the car like it had been the best day ever. Sam opened his mouth to say something to try and explain it all, but Dad drew a breath and let out a short shaky sigh that Sam couldn’t even begin to figure out. Grownups were always complicated, but especially Dad was.
“More important-” Dad stopped and Sam felt his brow furrow. Dad never had any trouble saying what he wanted to say. No, he just barked out orders and whatever else he wanted to say and that was that.
“Soccer is too high profile, and joining any teams is just-I said no more soccer, no more joining any teams, and I mean it. Do you hear me, Sam?”
Sam wondered where the soccer trophy he’d won was; he’d not seen it since May, not seen it since he’d handed it to Dad, smiling, the blue sky reflecting off the gold plated statue that he thought looked a little bit like him, kicking a soccer ball with incredibly long, gold plated legs. But while Dad had patted him on the head, he’d not smiled or said anything. Instead he’d turned away, with the trophy in his hands, and Dean had come up with a huge grin, saying, Sammy, you kicked that ball so hard for your last goal that it was on fire.
He’d won the trophy at the last game before school had let out for the summer. It had been the most important game, the championship game. But where was that trophy now?
Probably Dad had ended up throwing the trophy away, like he did with everything he didn’t feel was valuable. Probably it was in some garbage dump somewhere, with the bright shininess of the award, the golden gleam of success, now smeared with old banana peel and splatted with coffee grounds or something. Long gone, now, and way out of Sam’s reach.
For a second, Sam regretted winning that trophy at all, whether that was the problem, whether Dad thought he’d get a swelled head and be all prideful about it, even though he’d never bragged about it. Well, not much, and mostly to Dean.
“I don’t care,” said Sam, the frustration boiling under his skin.
Dad roared the car up the ramp and onto the highway. Back to the cabin. Back to more training, more sparring, weapons management, packing up gear, unpacking it. Taking Sam back to more sweat and hard work and nothing that was fun. And back to Dean, so happy to be there and so frustrated with Sam’s attitude that he was already, and actually had always been, on Dad’s side on this.
“I don’t care,” said Sam again, this time with more force. “I like soccer and I’m going to keep playing. I’m going to join the next team at the next school, and you can’t-”
“No, Sam,” said Dad. He almost sounded sad. “I said no. It’s too high profile; we talked about this.”
Dad was being calm, like he was ready to be patient, so Sam gulped in some air and tried to explain.
“But Dad, don’t you see? I’m just a kid, nobody’s going to notice me. I’m good at soccer, real good, and I want to play. On a team, with other kids.”
He was almost panting by the time he finished his little speech, which he thought had all the right things in it to convince Dad. But Sam could tell right away, looking at the side of Dad’s face, where the color was slowly returning, that Dad wasn’t moved, hadn’t changed his mind, not one little bit.
“You have to understand, Sam, and this is important, you have to understand that they are watching. All the time.”
“Who?” Sam asked, his voice coming out twisted and high. “Who’s watching?”
“The local police, the FBI, especially the FBI-”
Part 2
Master Fic Post
The top of Sam’s head felt so hot, he was being melted like someone was pouring molten lava all over him. He’d read about that, from a book he’d checked out from the school library, all the knights and stuff fighting around the ramparts of their castles, pouring molten lava on each other. Or maybe it was something else hot, like wax or tar. But it didn’t matter, he felt just like that. Really, really hot, like he was being burned on every inch of his skin.
At the edge of the field, the tall green trees stood tall and punched into the hard, blue sky, trying to outdo each other for a breath of fresh air. But there wasn’t any; except for the sound of the cicadas screaming deep in the branches, nothing moved or made a sound.
Except for Dad.
“I’m telling you for the last time, Sam,” said Dad. His voice came harsh and mad from somewhere behind Sam as he stood in the dirt circle. “Never swing a gun around like that. And don’t thumb the safety off till you’re ready to shoot.”
“I didn’t thumb it off,” said Sam, not looking back. He tossed his head to get his bangs out of his eyes. He was so mad, he tried to clench his teeth against saying anything more, but it came out anyway, loud. “It’s still on. And I am ready.”
“Excuse me?” asked Dad.
Sam took a deep breath, and gripped the butt of the gun and shouted, as loud as he could, “I said it’s on already, jeeze, leave me alone.”
Dean didn’t say anything, though Sam knew he was standing right next to Dad, watching Sam mess up again. But Sam heard footsteps and turned around just as Dad came up, scowling, bared teeth white against his tan face. His hair stuck to his temples, and the sweat circles beneath his arms made his t-shirt stick to him.
He reached out to grab Sam just as Sam lowered the gun to his side; you didn’t point a gun at someone unless you meant to shoot them, that much he had learned. But Dad pulled the gun from Sam’s hands and looked at it. With a click of his thumb, he pushed at the safety and Sam realized, too late, that the safety had already been off, and way before it should have been.
Dad shoved the gun in the back of his pants. He grabbed Sam by the back of the neck with one hand, and jerked on his arm with the other. Then he bent down so he could shout right into Sam’s face.
“When I say safety on till you’re ready, I mean safety on, and I don’t want you screwing around, you got me?”
“And I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sam, shaking his head, and trying to wiggle out of Dad’s tight grip. “I already told you.”
Dad’s whole body jerked. He pulled Sam close, into the curve of his body, so close that Sam had to bend backwards or get squashed. “And I told you,” said Dad, low, almost growling, teeth bared, “one more smartmouth remark like that, and you’d be getting a whipping.”
He shook Sam and while he didn’t release his tight hold, he let Sam move back a little bit. Dad was still close, though, close and hot and mad, and there was nothing that Sam hated more at that moment than the smell of Dad’s sweat.
Unless, of course, it was the thought of the gun in the back of Dad’s pants and the rounds of ammo sitting at Dean’s feet, the ammo that they had to use up before lunch; it was already mid-morning, and there were still tons of bullets left. But Dad didn’t care that sweat was running down Sam’s back like a waterfall, didn’t care that Sam hated guns. And, worst of all, Dad didn’t care that Sam didn’t want to be a hunter.
“You want a whipping?” asked Dad. His grip on Sam’s arm felt red hot, and tight, like it was cutting off all of Sam’s circulation.
“I want Otter Pops,” said Sam. “I’m hot and thirsty and I want Otter Pops and I want them now.” He said it right at Dad’s face, and made himself not panic when Dad’s eyes narrowed and his fingers on the back of Sam’s neck twitched.
Dad let go of Sam’s neck and he started reaching for his belt buckle, and Sam knew that he was going to get it, right here in the field, under the blazing sun. With Dean watching, probably getting mad that Sam had wrecked a perfectly good morning of target practice.
“Uh, Dad?” asked Dean.
Both Sam and Dad looked at Dean; Dad’s hand froze at his belt buckle.
“Maybe he should use the Beretta, it’s a little bit lighter than the Glock.”
Sam blinked. He was already using the Beretta, knew that even before Dad pulled the gun from the back of his pants. Dad straightened up and let go of Sam as he looked at the gun. Then he looked at Dean, and held the gun up, muzzle high, to show Dean.
“Beretta,” said Dad.
“Oh,” said Dean, and made a little huh noise, as though he were totally confused by the whole thing.
But Sam knew Dean wasn’t confused, and Sam tried not to smirk. Dean had gotten Dad’s attention just to make Dad think about something else, other than whipping Sam, for a second. Dean didn’t do it very often, because mostly he acted like he felt Sam deserved whatever punishment Dad handed out to him. Sam flicked a little nod of thanks in Dean’s direction, but Dean was kicking the dust at his feet and not paying any attention.
But Dad was. The look on his face told Sam that he’d seen everything, and knew what Dean had done.
“You get a walk, Sam, but if I hear one more snotty remark coming out of your mouth, I will be handing you a stiff whipping. Understand me?”
Sam nodded, gulping.
Dad held out the gun to Sam. “Now, take it, and hold it the right way, thumb at the guard, but leave the safety on till you’re ready; the most dangerous thing about a gun is the person using it.”
Well, Sam heard that a thousand times before, but he did his best not to sigh, at least not out loud. Instead, he gripped the butt of the gun with both hands, right hand on top. Dad had said that as he got bigger, eventually he wouldn’t need to use both hands, but for now, it was alright.
Dad reached out and yanked at Sam’s right forefinger, moving it down. “How many times do I have to tell you, don’t carry the weight of the gun inside of the trigger bar; use your grip to carry the gun.”
Sam wanted to throw the gun at Dad’s feet, but he didn’t dare. Dad was already mad enough as it was. He shifted his hands, and settled his feet, and then looked up at Dad.
“Fine,” said Dad. “Now wait till I’m out of the way, then snap off the safety, and then shoot at the target.”
Sam waited till Dad’s marching footsteps stopped somewhere behind him. He took a deep breath and looked at the target. It seemed really far away, but bullets could travel that far, spinning and rotating before they punched a hole in whatever they were aimed at. He didn’t like guns for that very reason; it gave him the creeps to imagine shooting a bullet into something that was alive, or un-dead, or whatever. Besides, guns were loud and they smelled bad.
“Okay, Sam, let’s go,” said Dad, sounding at the last edge of his patience. “We don’t have all day.”
Actually they did have all day, but Sam knew better than to say it. He shifted the weight of the gun in his hands and thumbed the safety to off. Then, taking a deep breath, he squinted and aimed the gun at the target, tried to steady his arms, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet flew with a puff and a bang, and Sam staggered against the recoil. His shoulders would hurt later, but Dad never cared about that.
“Too low,” said Dad. “Aim a little higher and try again.”
Too low, too high, what difference did it make? Sam was never going to be good at this, never going to be good enough, not for Dad. Sam wished it was Dean’s turn, so Sam could stand and watch Dean (because Dean was good at it), and then maybe Sam could duck into the shade for a little minute, and pretend he was far, far away.
“Sam,” said Dad, barking. “Let’s go.”
Sam hefted his shoulders and brought the gun up to just below shoulder height. His wrists screamed at him. But he made sure the safety was still off, and went through the motions of setting his stance, and aiming at the target. He could barely hold the gun steady, so the bullet would still be too low, but at least he looked like he was trying. Maybe that would get by Dad.
The bullet zinged into the ground, kicking up dust, just at the right edge of the target.
He was out of bullets now, so maybe his turn was over. Sam thumbed the safety to on and turned around, carefully keeping the gun pointed at the ground.
“Nope,” said Dad, shaking his head. “Come get some more bullets and let’s try another round. You need to work at this Sam, and you’ll keep at it till I see you really working.”
Dean didn’t say anything, but he looked at Sam, eyebrows drawn. He was pissed that it still wasn’t his turn, or maybe he was pissed because Sam was wasting Dad’s time. Either way, he certainly wasn’t on Sam’s side at all. But then, he seldom ever was.
“Bullets, Sam, let’s not take all day.”
Sam didn’t hide his scowl as he walked up to the box of ammo that Dean held out to him. They had all the bullets in the world and all the hot days of summer (which was long enough and hot enough already), and Dad wasn’t about to let this go. Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing his bangs out of the way, and then reached for a bullet.
“God damn it, Sam, how many times do I have to remind you about sweat and metal?”
Dad pulled Sam’s hand away from his head. “Wipe your hand off and then put the bullets in.”
Sam huffed out loud but he didn’t dare do any more of a protest than that. He dutifully, and with exaggerated motions, wiped his right hand on the side of his t-shirt, and then snapped out the empty magazine. Then, one by one, he loaded the bullets in, and tapped the magazine on the heel of his hand. He tapped it so hard that he was going to have a bruise there later, probably. Not that anyone cared.
“Sam.”
Without looking up at Dad, Sam put the magazine in the bottom of the butt of the gun, and clicked it shut.
“One more round, Sam, and then it’s Dean’s turn.”
“Okay,” said Sam, trying to sound like he couldn’t care less.
“Unless I see you still not trying, then we’ll do this all day, you and me, and Dean can go sit on the nice, shady porch and watch us.”
Not getting a turn at the Beretta would make Dean madder than anything else Sam had done that day. Which meant that Sam had to do exactly what Dad said, and really, really try. Otherwise, if Dean had to go sit on the porch and not get to shoot? Sam would never hear the end of it.
Sam walked back to the circle, put his feet in the right spots, and clicked off the safety, remembering to carry the weight of the gun in his hands, and not on his finger inside the trigger guard. Then he raised the gun. He looked at the target and thought about the heat of the sun, and the lack of wind, and how his bullets had all been too low. Then he squinted, and raised his gun almost an entire foot. It might go wide, it might go wild, but he was trying, he really was, and Dad would see that and not send Dean to the porch.
Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet zinged through the air, and went, smack, right into the blue. Sam blinked; he couldn’t believe it, he’d almost gotten a bulls eye.
“Nicely done,” said Dad. “Let’s see you do that again.”
Sam let out a rush of air, a little pleased with himself. Except, the only thing worse than screwing up on purpose in front of Dad, was doing something well in front of Dad. It wasn’t going to get Sam out of anything; Dad was just going to make Sam continue, and would expect him to get better.
“Not tomorrow, Sam.”
Sam shook his head, but lifted the gun to prepare his aim. His shoulders ached, his arms hurt, his wrists were on fire. But anyway, there were only so many bullets in the Beretta’s magazine, and it would be Dean’s turn soon. Unless Sam screwed up, but he promised himself he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t dare.
(The cabin in the woods, with the Impala standing by)
*
By the time Dad called a halt to the training for the day, it was getting towards twilight, with the sky above the tree line turning a darker blue with streaks of pink. It was still hot, and the air was still, but at least they were done.
Sam followed Dad and Dean up the short flight of wooden stairs and into the cabin, where the air felt warm and a little stale, even though all the windows were open. But as he took off his sneakers, the planks of the wooden floor felt cool, and he sighed. He was covered with dust and sweat, and took his turn in the narrow bathroom to wash up at the sink with Dean.
“You smell like a skunk,” said Dean, bumping Sam with his hip.
Sam bumped him right back, and said, “Well at least I don’t smell like a bear.” It didn’t make any sense, because Sam had never really smelled a bear but it was all he could come up with.
Dean snorted deep in his throat and went out into the kitchen area to help Dad make supper. Sam thought about turning on the TV, but he was too tired to watch anything, so he sat at his place at the table and waited for Dad to get done, but by the time supper arrived on the table, and Dad had served them all, it was too late. Sam had moved past hungry, into starving, and right past that into feeling all numb inside. He was so tired, he didn’t think he could eat. He slumped over his plate and picked at his baked beans with his fork.
“Eat your dinner, Sam,” said Dad, sitting down at his spot at the other end of the table. “And lift your head, you’re getting hair in your food.”
Sam lifted his head, feeling bleary-eyed, like he was looking through a thin film. He squinted a little bit at Dean, to see if that would make it better. It almost did, except that Dean was ignoring him now, eating with a hearty appetite, as he usually did, digging into his coleslaw and mixing it with his beans and shoveling it in his mouth. And chewing away like he’d not just spent a full day in the baking sun, shooting round after round, and listening to Sam getting yelled at every other minute.
“I need those guns cleaned tomorrow, Sam,” said Dad, his mouth all full of hot dog bun. “And Dean, you can come with me to Ft. Payne.”
“Okay,” said Dean.
Sam’s head snapped up, in spite of his tiredness. “Hey,” he said. “That’s not fair.” He was well passed watching his tone of voice; it was too much.
“What?” asked Dad. He shoveled some beans into his mouth, like he was barely prepared to listen to what Sam had to say.
“It’s not fair,” said Sam. He slammed his fork down, and shoved at his plate. He almost knocked his milk glass over, but luckily, not quite. “Dean always gets to go and I never do.”
Dad chewed on his mouthful and then swallowed. “I didn’t know you wanted to go.”
“Well, you never ask,” said Sam. “It’s always Dean’s turn and never mine.”
“Sam, you could go,” said Dean. He put down his fork and turned to Dad and nodded. “I don’t mind, Dad, if Sam wants to go.”
Sam almost couldn’t stand it that Dean was trying to make it okay; Sam wanted Dad to ask, and that was fair, wasn’t it? It was Dad’s choice, only he never chose Sam, and now he should. He should have asked way before this, but he should now, especially now, since Sam had brought it up, and not make Dean do it.
Dad looked at Sam, steady, though his jaw twitched a little bit. “Sam,” he said.
This was Sam’s opening. “I never get to go, and I’m always stuck in the cabin while you and Dean go have fun.”
“It’s not always fun, Sam,” said Dad. He scooped a forkful of beans into his mouth and talked while he chewed. “I have phone calls to make and supplies to get, and besides, when Dean comes, he helps me, and I don’t think you’d be that much help.”
Sam looked at Dad through narrowed eyes; he was so mad he wanted to throw his plate on the floor and stand up and holler, but it wouldn’t do any good and Dad would leave him behind just to teach him a lesson. It didn’t matter that he didn’t really want to spend the day with Dad, even if it did mean getting to take a little road trip away from the cabin. What mattered was that it was his turn to go and Dean’s turn to stay behind and clean the guns.
“I can help,” he said, feeling all stern, not really believing that he was pushing it this hard; sometimes that backfired. “You just never let me try, and isn’t that what you always tell us, to keep trying? Well, how can I try if you never let me?”
“That’s not it, Sam,” said Dad.
“But it’s my turn,” said Sam, insisting. He could feel Dean watching him with wide eyes, but he didn’t care if this was going to get him into trouble, fair was fair. “All day long we take turns, first Dean, then me, then Dean again, so why not with this?”
Dad turned his attention to his dinner, like he wasn’t listening to Sam at all, like he’d dismissed the whole thing. Then he laughed a little bit and shook his head as he stirred some of his beans into his coleslaw. “Fine,” he said, not looking up. “Dean, you okay with that?”
“Sure,” said Dean.
Sam snorted. He didn’t exactly know why Dad laughed, but he, Sam, was going to get to go. It still looked like Dean was the good kid, and Sam was the troublemaker. Okay, fine, then, he was the troublemaker. But at least he’d made Dad see it his way. Only now he was more tired than ever.
*
Sam did the dishes while Dad and Dean watched TV. He’d complain more except that it was his turn, so that was fair, and he was all about being fair. So he washed and rinsed and dried, and left everything on the counter for someone taller to put away. Then he wiped table and wiped out the sink, and swept the floor, just to prove that he didn’t forget this time.
Then he came over to stand next to Dad’s chair. Dad had it tipped back with the little footrest up, while Dean lolled on the couch.
“You done?” asked Dad.
“Yeah,” said Sam. “What’s on?”
“Clint Eastwood,” said Dad. “Pale Rider.”
“But you’ve seen that a hundred times,” said Sam. He put his hands on his hips. “Why can’t we watch something else?”
“Because it’s not your turn to choose,” said Dean. Then he added quietly, “Brat.”
“It’s never my turn to choose,” said Sam. He hated the way his voice came out all wobbly, but nobody was paying any attention to him, anyway. “I’m going to bed.”
Dad said “Fine,” but Dean didn’t even look at him, so Sam turned on his heel and marched loudly to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Except by the time he got there, he was worn out, both from the day and from being mad, so he just brushed his teeth and washed his face, and then took off his shirt and shorts and got into bed.
As he lay there, he felt a little excited at being able to go with Dad while Dean stayed behind. He would get out of the chores, and not only that, he would get to find out what it was like, to go with Dad, and travel to someplace new without it being one of those trips where they drove for miles and miles and miles without stopping.
He knew where Ft. Payne was on the map, it was less than 20 miles away. It would be a nice trip, with new fields to drive past and a new town to drive through. It would be more fun, of course, if he and Dean both went, but he had to stick to his guns, otherwise, if he brought it up, Dad might just decide to leave Sam behind on principle, for making such a fuss about it.
Sam yawned, and felt his neck relax against the pillow. He wanted to stay awake till Dean came to bed, to make sure Dean wasn’t mad at him, but he didn’t think he was going to make it.
*
Sam leaned out of the Impala’s passenger window, elbows on the frame, the rubber digging into his skin. His shoulders ached, but leaning forward stretched them out and made them feel better. He was hanging so far out that his hair was whipped straight back, and his eyes were watering. But it was great; the sky was blue and the morning bright as the green leaves whipped past, and he was finally not stuck in the hot cabin with Dad and Dean. Well, he was stuck with Dad, but they weren’t in the cabin for a while. He’d forgotten how fun it was to jump in the car and drive somewhere new.
“Has that door been locked?”
Quickly, Sam looked down and ran his hand over the button to make sure it was down. It was.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Better get back in, we’re coming into town.”
“But we’re going slower.” It was stupid that when the car was going down the highway, Dad didn’t mind him hanging out the window, but when they came into town, he did.
“They got rules, Sam, so pull your head back in.”
Dad didn’t add, before I pull it back in for you, but Sam heard it anyway. And it was irritating, because since when did Dad care about rules. No, he only cared about his own rules, which he seemed to be able to make up on the spot.
Sam sighed and ducked back in the car to plop himself down on the seat, which had grown hot with the sun shining down on it. Still. He wasn’t in the cabin, and Dean had to do all the chores today. Wiping his hands on his knees, Sam smiled as he watched the slowed-down scenery go by.
He found, as they crossed over the railroad tracks and began following the main road that was parallel to it, that he recognized the pattern of the town. There were a lot of these types of towns on the map, with old houses and little stores and the big courthouse in the square, near to which there was surely an ice cream parlor or two. Not that Dad would stop at one of those, but Sam liked little towns like this, just the same.
Dean hated towns like this, hated when they went to a place like this for a job that Dad was working, mostly because there was nothing much to do while they waited for Dad. But Sam liked them, liked the white picket fences and the streets that were obviously named after the people who’d started the town. It was all very quiet and peaceful and miles away from being a hunter. And that’s how Sam liked it, how he envisioned it should be.
(Ft. Payne; Sock Capital of the World)
“We’re here, get out.”
Sam snapped his head up and looked out the front window of the Impala. They were parked in front of a reddish brown painted building that spread itself out far enough to reach the edge of the tracks. There were a few cars in the parking lot, mostly trucks, and a few dusty cars. Across the street was a little red house with a white-trimmed porch, but there weren’t any kids or even grownups around. And there wasn’t a Stop N Sip or anything like that where Sam could hang out while Dad got supplies. Not that Dad would give him money for a soda, but at least there would be magazines to look at.
Sam pulled himself out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him. The gravel beneath his sneakers was gritty and dust flew up in the hot, still air. The hardware store didn’t look very interesting from the outside. Maybe Dean was right about little towns like this.
“Don’t slam that door so hard, Sam.” Dad said this almost by rote as he walked up to the door of the hardware store.
“Why are we here?” Sam asked, following.
“I need some gear, some rope, oil and propane for the generator, and then I need to make some calls.”
Dad didn’t look back as he said this, so it felt like he wasn’t even aware that Sam was there, and maybe like some other boy had asked the question.
“So why didn’t you do this in Mentone? They got phones there. They got rope.”
Dad was at the door and Sam was almost on Dad’s heels, when Dad turned around with his glower firmly in place.
“I told you this last night, Sam, when you said you wanted to come today.”
Looking up at Dad, Sam shook his head. He didn’t remember that part.
“Guy here owes me a favor after I helped him out, so he won’t mind me using the phone,” said Dad, with that tight tone that said he was already impatient. “And he won’t listen in or say anything to anyone about it. You see?”
Sam knew that he was supposed to instantly understand why this was important, that when you were a hunter, you built good-will by saving people from ghosts and haunted objects and stuff they were too stupid to deal with themselves. He got that part just fine, but what Dad wasn’t saying, what Dad never really said out loud, was that it also meant that you had to hide what you were doing from the local cops, or the sheriff or whatever it was that Mentone had. There wasn’t a phone in the cabin, and no one in town that Dad had saved, so they had to come here. Fine.
Sam shifted his attention away from his irritation and hoped it didn’t show on his face; he never liked the idea of being someone the police would come after. You were supposed to be a law abiding citizen, he knew that from books and at school, and yet, here they were, ducking and hiding, and all in broad daylight. Not that Dad would want to hear any of that.
“You see, Sam?”
“Yes, I see,” said Sam, because he did, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
They went into the hardware store, with its shiny floors and long rows of glittering supplies. It smelled, as all hardware stores did, of lubrication oil, and burnt oil, and old oil, and floor wax, which must have been laid down to overcome the stench of oil. Sam hoped he never had to work in a hardware store; he would never be able to get used to that smell. Although it did die down a little, once you’d smelled it for a while, Sam knew that.
Sam eyed the rows and rows of stuff for sale, and wondered how long it would take him to memorize the location and contents of every single bin.
A man came up to Dad, and shook his hand, and had a hearty smile to go with it. The man wore a red vest over a checked shirt and his nametag said “Russ,” He shook Dad’s hand and smiled, and he couldn’t get enough of Dad. If Dean had been there (and Sam suddenly wished he was), then Dean would have been part of the conversation, and the thank you’s of gratitude, and the wave that Russ made at the rows of gear and supplies.
“Anything you need, anything at all,” said Russ, still shaking Dad’s hand, as if still overcome by his near escape from whatever it was that Dad had rescued him from. Sam wondered what it was that had happened, but he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t care anyway.
“My wife would have made you something, if she’d known you’d be here today,” said Russ, still going on. “She makes the best homemade donuts in De Kalb county, but-This your boy? This Dean?”
It was like getting smacked in the face twice. Not only did Dad not tell Russ they were coming, and so, thusly, no homemade donuts for Sam, the guy thought he was Dean. Which meant that Dad had talked only about Dean to Russ, and Sam was pretty sure it had been words of praise and pride. Sure. Why bother even mentioning a son that never came up to your expectations? Stupid Dean. Even when he wasn’t here, he was.
Sam scowled and didn’t hold out his hand to shake when Russ offered his. Russ was going bald and he had a round stomach and his eyes gleamed with pleasure as he looked at Sam, and he was totally normal, but Sam didn’t want any of it.
“This is Sammy, my youngest,” said Dad. Dad gave Sam’s shoulder a little push, and Sam realized he needed to go through the motions, otherwise Dad would want to know why Sam was mad. There was no way that Sam wanted Dad to know how he felt about it, this or pretty much about anything, so he stuck out his hand and Russ shook it.
“Hi, Sammy,” said Russ.
“Hi,” said Sam, letting go right away. He looked at his sneakers, knowing that there was no point in reminding Dad that only Dad and Dean got to call him Sammy.
“I’ve got a boy just your age,” said Russ, heartily. He nodded once or twice. “He’d be in the shop with me today, except he’s at summer camp this week.”
Sam felt his jaw tighten. Summer camp. Of course. What every normal boy would be doing. During the summer. Sam had had enough, he was through playing nice.
“Can I go look at the bins?” he asked.
Dad’s eyes narrowed a little as both men looked at Sam, but Sam made himself not care. He wasn’t being rude, he was just asking for what he wanted.
“Fine,” said Dad, and right away he turned to Russ. “I need to use the phone,” he said. Russ smiled and nodded and led Dad towards the back, both of them walking quickly away as if Sam wasn’t even there. And that was fine too. He didn’t want to be a part of that conversation anyway. Not if Russ had thought that Dad only had one son, one perfect son, named Dean.
Sam started with the left-most aisle, and determined that he’d look at only the left side of each aisle until he’d seen what everything was, then he’d go through it again, looking only the right side of each aisle. It should take him through the time until Dad was done with his calls and getting the propane and all that other junk.
(Inside Ft. Payne Hardware Store)*
It felt like hours had passed. Sam was sick of looking at bins of gleaming nuts and shiny screws. He’d sat on little lawn tractors and had smelled the stiff blocks of canvas and had messed with the fans, some of which were even plugged in and running, until he was bored out of his mind. He’d been bored to start with, and wondering why he’d even asked to come along, but now he was really bored. And way long after he’d put his hand in a bin full of what looked like washers but had turned out to be large, flat-headed tacks (he was still sucking his fingers from that), Dad still wasn’t off the phone.
He wandered to the back of the store, to the back wall, where a large glass window let him see into the office where Russ had led Dad, and where Dad was sitting at the desk like he sat at a desk all the time. He had the phone crooked under one ear, pressed against his shoulder to hold it in place, and he was writing something down on a piece of paper and talking at the same time. Dad’s hair was dark under the shining lights, and his grungy t-shirt and unshaven face made him look like he didn’t belong, like someone had let him in to use the phone by accident.
Dad must have felt him there, because he looked up and jerked his chin at Sam, asking him, without words, what is it?
Sam let himself in the office without asking, and stood there with his hand on the knob and waited a few seconds for Dad to tell him to go away. When Dad didn’t, Sam shut the door behind him, and waited some more while Dad finished what he was saying.
“Okay, Jim, that sounds like a plan.”
“Is that Pastor Jim?” asked Sam. He walked closer to the desk where Dad was sitting. “I want to talk to him.”
Dad shook his head at Sam and continued talking into the phone. “No-yes, tell him yes with the salt, and tell him no, it doesn’t have to be kosher. Table salt will do fine. Have Bobby find someone closer, okay? I’m stuck out here for now.”
Stuck? Dad felt stuck? There was no way he could feel half as stuck as Sam did. As Dad hung up the phone, Sam felt his lower lip pushing out. “You could have said I said hi.”
“What do you need, Sam?” asked Dad, without saying anything about the phone call.
“I’m bored,” said Sam. “Really bored.”
“I told you yesterday that this is what I’d be doing, and you wanted to come along.”
Sam could tell Dad was trying to be patient, but he couldn’t make himself care. “Yeah, but you didn’t say it would be this boring.” He’d wanted to come along in the first place because it was his turn and in the second place to see if the errands with Dad were as fun as Dean always made them out to be. But he couldn’t tell Dad that.
Dad took a breath and turned his attention back to the phone. “Not now, Sam.”
Sam scowled, feeling fierce and really pissed off, but Dad didn’t even seem to notice.
Dad put his hand back on the receiver and picked it up. He dialed the phone, and as he waited for the person on the other end to answer, he said, “Ten minutes, Sam. Take a walk around the block and come back in ten minutes. I’ll be done by then. Probably.”
The person on the other end must have picked up because Dad started talking into the phone like Sam wasn’t even there.
Heart pounding, Sam spun on his heel and marched out of the store, jingling the bell loudly on the door, and ignoring Russ at the cash register as he said goodbye to him. He was so glad to be out of the hardware store and away from Dad, away from anything Dad was doing, even if it was only for ten minutes.
Outside, the contrast between the cool air in the air conditioned store and the hot summer morning outside didn’t slow Sam down. But the lack of anything resembling a block did.
At the edge of the parking lot, Sam stopped. There was a narrow blacktop with a faded yellow line in the middle that stretched left and right. There were houses and a few stores but no sidewalk and nor corner for him to turn at; there was nothing specific. Usually it took him two turns around the average block to use up ten minutes, or if it was a big block, then one turn around would do. But here, nothing.
Still, he was out of Dad’s hair and on his own for ten minutes, which was rare these days. So he turned left and walked along the edge of the black top, towards the row of roof tops and the clock tower of the courthouse that he could see beyond the trees.
After walking a little while, Sam’s shoulders relaxed and he took a deep breath. The sun was almost overhead in the bright blue sky, and although it was hot enough to make his shirt stick to him, there was enough of a breeze to ruffle through his hair and make him feel like it was going to be a good day. Or at least an okay day, considering that Dad was going to expect him back in exactly ten minutes and would probably deliver a stern, hard-eyed lecture about not bugging people when they were on the phone.
Sam came to a three-way corner, a t-intersection. The road he was on went straight, and the road that went right disappeared under some trees. There was a little cement foot bridge over a dry ditch, so Sam took a right, and stood on the bridge for a minute, wishing there was running water so he could take his socks and sneakers off and put his feet in.
As he stood there, he started to hear voices, kids shouting, sounding like maybe it was coming from a swimming pool. Or a park or something. Sam headed off that way; maybe he could, watch someone else having fun, at least for a few minutes.
He walked in the deep shade along the road, watching for traffic, even if there weren’t any cars coming. Underneath the branches, the air smelled a little damp and cool, and it was nice for a minute. Then, as he came out of the bank of trees, he saw that he was right, at least about the park.
There was a large grassy field with a small swing set and teeter tot for the little kids. But there, in the middle of the field, drawing Sam’s eyes like a loadstone, was a group of about seven kids, mostly boys from what he could tell, and they were playing soccer.
Sam blinked to make sure it wasn’t some dumb football they were playing with and kicking around. It wasn’t.
Four of the boys had their shirts off, and the other three didn’t. They were playing with two teams, then, almost the smallest regulation size, except they were missing a player. Sam moved forward like was being dragged, and he could feel his whole body start to smile. He could play soccer for five minutes and then race back to the hardware store and Dad would never know. His only problem now was to figure out how to get a game.
Luckily, the ball went wild and came right at Sam, spinning black and white against the trampled green grass. He stopped it with his foot, breathing hard. They might just tell him to kick it back and go away. Or they might ask.
Sam jerked his chin up in greeting, the way Dean sometimes did, all cool and I-don’t-really-care. He looked at the boy who came over. The kid was shirtless, but he had grass stains all over his shorts and he looked like he was really into playing.
His eyes were bright as they looked at Sam and he scraped his curly blond hair out of his eyes. “Can you play, do you wanna play?” he asked.
Sam thought about mentioning the Division Championship soccer trophy he’d won that spring but decided against it. Dean never would brag, so Sam wouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he said, rotating the ball beneath his sneakered foot.
“Great,” said the kid. “We’ll be four to four then; you can be midfielder for the Shirts.”
The kid had a bossy voice and the midfielder position wasn’t very exciting, not like being the striker or the forward, like Sam had been on his last team. But though Sam could spot the two four lumps of t-shirt that marked each team’s goal posts, there was no actual goalie, so maybe Sam could figure how to do some interesting shots anyway.
“Okay,” he said, and gave a small kick to send the ball to the boy. It was almost like a free kick from when the ball had gone offsides, just high enough so that the kid could catch it against his knee and roll it down and kick it into the center point. The kid was as good as Sam, then.
Sam raced across the grass, and joined the shirted team, and so now the teams were evenly matched. There weren’t any real lines in the grass, so Sam picked a spot between what looked like it should be the midway point and his teams set of goat post t-shirts.
Sweat was already rolling on his face as he took his position, but he felt good, he was smiling with his whole body because finally, finally, he was going to get play. He smiled at the kid who let him play and leaned forward a little to be ready for the kick off. Of course, it was the kid who let him play was doing the kick off; he was probably their best player. And, more importantly, the ball probably belonged to him.
The kid kicked the ball in Sam’s direction and Sam went racing towards it, bangs flying off his forehead, legs moving, grinning the whole while as the hot summer air filled his lungs. He was ready, he was so ready, he was going to kick that ball straight into the other team’s goal, he just knew it.
The ball came at Sam so he kicked it, straight into the tumble of legs that suddenly appeared, and then one of the boys from the Shirts (who Sam realized was actually a girl), scrambled right in there to snap the ball away from them with her toes. She looked like she was flying for a minute, and then she rolled to the ground as the ball spun out of control. It landed offsides again and one of the kids from the other team raced to the sidelines to throw it back in.
There was a little pause in the free throw as they waited for a car to go by. The kid came up to Sam and nodded at him, grinning.
“Looks like I assigned you to the wrong team,” the kid said.
Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shoved his hair out of his eyes, and then wiped his hand on his shirt. “Looks like,” he said, knowing he was smirking so hard it almost hurt his face. “Next time,” he said, realizing too late that there wouldn’t be a next time.
But there was today. He had the normal looking houses, the green grass, and the park with the playing field and the soccer ball and the group of kids he was going to show just how good he was at this. He had today.
*
Blue-shirt boy on Sam’s team kicked the ball to Sam and Sam dribbled the ball forward a little, angling sideways as he propped it up to kick the ball to the Red-shirt girl, who was currently in the forward left position. There was no one in the center position; otherwise, he would have aimed there. But just as he drew his leg back for a good solid kick (and it was a clear shot all the way there, so he could kick it nice and hard), he heard the low rumble of an engine and an ear-splitting whistle.
Sam practically fell over the ball in an effort to stop the kick. He saw the black gleam of the Impala and knew he should go. Dad was calling and it had obviously been more than ten minutes since Sam had left the hardware store.
But what if Dad could see him do a great kick, something sharp that would make the other team have to scramble to keep up? Dad would be impressed and then maybe he would relax his stupid rule against Sam playing soccer.
But just as he angled his foot, he heard the Impala’s engine turn off and the heavy door slam. Then the Skin hooked his leg around to steal the ball from between Sam’s legs. And then everyone was scattering away from Sam.
The hot air simmered up from the grass as Sam turned to look. Dad was striding across the field, long legs eating up the distance to Sam, taking half the time it would have taken any kid on the team to run that far. Dad’s t-shirt was soaked around his neck and under his arms and his dark hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes glittered in the sun and Sam froze.
Behind him, the game started up again, but the sounds felt like they came from far away as Dad reached out. His arm was a mile long, and he grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, fingers firmly digging in and pulled. Sam’s feet slipped out from under him and he had to scramble to stay upright as Dad marched him back to the car.
“Twenty minutes,” said Dad, low, but there was venom in his voice. “I expected you back twenty minutes ago.”
Sam could only gasp for breath as he tried to keep up and when they reached the car, Sam opened his mouth and tried to point back at the field, to explain, to ask if Dad had seen him play, but Dad let go of him with a hard shove.
“Get in the car.”
It finally dawned on Sam, though he’d known it the second he’d heard Dad’s whistle, that Dad was furious. So furious that he was talking very quietly, which was almost more scary than when he yelled.
Dad opened the driver’s side and Sam scrambled across the hot bench seat. He pressed himself against the passenger side door as hard as he could, eyes wide, looking at Dad, whose skin, under his sweaty, five o’clock shadow, was oddly grey.
Dad started up the car, not saying anything, but there was a hard edge to his jaw and his foot on the gas made the car roar. Dad popped the car into drive and the Impala shot down the street and turned the corner so fast that the gear in the trunk shifted with a loud bang. As they raced along the tree-lined streets, Sam held on to the door handle and tried to swallow around his suddenly dry mouth. The air in the car was hot and Sam reached to roll down the window.
“Leave it,” said Dad, with a snap.
Sam knew he was in trouble, but now he couldn’t even lean out the window on the way home? Dad was just being mean. Sam turned his eyes out of the window and made himself not care.
Dad rocketed the car through town and Sam kept his mouth shut as long as he could. He wanted to tell Dad how fun it had been to run with the other kids and kick the white ball across the green grass, to run and not worry whether anything scary was chasing you or to worry about whether you had time to throw a silver knife fast enough and hard enough to strike some creature in the heart.
Then he couldn’t keep his mouth shut any more.
“Dad-” Sam began, but Dad cut him off.
“Ten minutes, Sam,” said Dad. “I told you I wanted you back in ten minutes.”
“But I was playing soccer, Dad, did you see me? I was good, that kid said so, and you-”
“Enough, Sam,” said Dad. “You can’t come back when I say, then you can’t come on any more errands.”
Sam didn’t care about that so much; errands with Dad were boring, but he always forgot about that part. Especially when Dean would come back from them all happy and relaxed, helping Dad carry stuff in from the car like it had been the best day ever. Sam opened his mouth to say something to try and explain it all, but Dad drew a breath and let out a short shaky sigh that Sam couldn’t even begin to figure out. Grownups were always complicated, but especially Dad was.
“More important-” Dad stopped and Sam felt his brow furrow. Dad never had any trouble saying what he wanted to say. No, he just barked out orders and whatever else he wanted to say and that was that.
“Soccer is too high profile, and joining any teams is just-I said no more soccer, no more joining any teams, and I mean it. Do you hear me, Sam?”
Sam wondered where the soccer trophy he’d won was; he’d not seen it since May, not seen it since he’d handed it to Dad, smiling, the blue sky reflecting off the gold plated statue that he thought looked a little bit like him, kicking a soccer ball with incredibly long, gold plated legs. But while Dad had patted him on the head, he’d not smiled or said anything. Instead he’d turned away, with the trophy in his hands, and Dean had come up with a huge grin, saying, Sammy, you kicked that ball so hard for your last goal that it was on fire.
He’d won the trophy at the last game before school had let out for the summer. It had been the most important game, the championship game. But where was that trophy now?
Probably Dad had ended up throwing the trophy away, like he did with everything he didn’t feel was valuable. Probably it was in some garbage dump somewhere, with the bright shininess of the award, the golden gleam of success, now smeared with old banana peel and splatted with coffee grounds or something. Long gone, now, and way out of Sam’s reach.
For a second, Sam regretted winning that trophy at all, whether that was the problem, whether Dad thought he’d get a swelled head and be all prideful about it, even though he’d never bragged about it. Well, not much, and mostly to Dean.
“I don’t care,” said Sam, the frustration boiling under his skin.
Dad roared the car up the ramp and onto the highway. Back to the cabin. Back to more training, more sparring, weapons management, packing up gear, unpacking it. Taking Sam back to more sweat and hard work and nothing that was fun. And back to Dean, so happy to be there and so frustrated with Sam’s attitude that he was already, and actually had always been, on Dad’s side on this.
“I don’t care,” said Sam again, this time with more force. “I like soccer and I’m going to keep playing. I’m going to join the next team at the next school, and you can’t-”
“No, Sam,” said Dad. He almost sounded sad. “I said no. It’s too high profile; we talked about this.”
Dad was being calm, like he was ready to be patient, so Sam gulped in some air and tried to explain.
“But Dad, don’t you see? I’m just a kid, nobody’s going to notice me. I’m good at soccer, real good, and I want to play. On a team, with other kids.”
He was almost panting by the time he finished his little speech, which he thought had all the right things in it to convince Dad. But Sam could tell right away, looking at the side of Dad’s face, where the color was slowly returning, that Dad wasn’t moved, hadn’t changed his mind, not one little bit.
“You have to understand, Sam, and this is important, you have to understand that they are watching. All the time.”
“Who?” Sam asked, his voice coming out twisted and high. “Who’s watching?”
“The local police, the FBI, especially the FBI-”
Part 2
Master Fic Post