Monsters and Humanity

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Title: Monsters and Humanity
Author: muddledmusings
Recipient: dreambrother89
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author’s Notes: ~5,000 words and pre-series. This incorporates a little of two prompts - Dean hurt/Sam comfort (kind of) and a real life situation. Hopefully it works as my muse has, ironically, been in hibernation all summer.
Summary: Sam hasn’t always wanted to be normal.

Sam stood silently in front an old gas station. He didn’t need to try and blend in here; his hand-me-down sneakers and stained t-shirt blended seamlessly with the cracked walls. In fact, the place was so shabby Sam was surprised Dean so much as let him look at it by himself, let alone stand outside it.

While subconsciously picking at the rubber sole of one shoe with the other, he watched a rusty car swerve into the driveway. A man sporting unkempt stubble and a faded denim jacket climbed out, simultaneously drawing a cigarette from his pocket. He kicked the door shut, causing the car to shake ominously, and then made his way to lean against the wall near the other end of the building. After lighting up the cigarette, he stared off towards the road, empty due to the late hour. Suddenly the man looked up, eyes locking with Sam’s. Hastily, Sam turned his attention once more towards his shoes.

The next few minutes were the longest of Sam’s life. His neck burned with the man’s gaze, and although he’d never admit it, he found himself desperately wishing he had gone into the station’s convenience store with Dean. He was just about to turn and run inside when a hand clamped over his shoulder.

“Dinner,” Dean chirped with a grin. Sam sighed in relief, letting his body collapse around the burrito that was being shoved against his chest.

“Thanks,” Sam mumbled. Flustered, he quickly made to start walking.

Dean’s fist wrapped around his arm, pulling him backward, as he said, “Hold up. Where the hell you gotta be so fast?” He studied Sam suspiciously.

“Nowhere, I just…” Sam’s eyes flicked back to the man, who was still watching them, expression blank. Dean’s gaze followed his brother’s, then snapped back to his face.

“How long’s he been there?” Dean asked, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

Sam shrugged in an attempt to appear unfazed. “Maybe five minutes.”

“Damn, Sammy. A guy’s watching you like that, you come find me right that fucking minute. Got it?” Sam nodded. “Okay, now stay quiet and walk in front of me.”

Dean spun Sam around and gave him a light shove in the back. They walked briskly, Sam all the while focusing on the tension rolling off his brother. He was clearly exercising every ounce of training he’d had, straining his ears and treading as lightly as possible.

Then they stopped. Sam’s heart ceased. All there was in the world was the intensity of the blood in his ears and Dean’s hand slowly squeezing his shoulder. “Sammy,” he breathed, hot air pooling against Sam’s neck, slipping down his back, “run.”

And so Sam ran. His feet were pounding into the pavement, pain shooting up his legs from the impact, adrenaline causing him to fly down the overcast road. Finally, he slipped down a side alley and, back pressed against cool brick, concentrated all efforts on breathing.

Dean hadn’t followed him, but that much Sam had expected. It was likely Dean had taken a different route, hoping to draw off the guy and meet up with Sam later. As for the younger Winchester, his responsibility in these situations, as he’d often been told, was solely himself.

Yes, Dean was surely hidden safely away just like Sam. He must be because that was the plan.

But when Sam heard a large crash just around the corner, it didn’t stop him from freezing with fear.

There was a moment of silence, some scuffling, another loud thud, and finally the worst sound - Dean’s voice, choked and pained, rasping, “What do you want?”

“Money.” The solitary word was practically grunted, a low horrible grind that sent every hair on Sam’s body standing on end.

“Don’t have any,” Dean responded, still begging for breath.

“Shame.” There was a haze of indistinct noise, a gasp from Dean, and then silence. It was the final straw for Sam; he took a small step around the corner.

Dean was, for the most part, obscured from view by the pursuer’s bulky frame. Still, Sam could see enough to know that his brother was on the ground with a foot planted firmly on his chest. His mind raced. Clearly the man was too big for him to take on alone, but Dean was also obviously in no state to defend himself. Who knew where the man would strike next? The head? The heart? What if he had a weapon?

For a moment, Sam could do nothing but stand in place and panic. A raucous laugh, however, roused him from his stupor. Just as the man drew his foot back to release at Dean’s ribs, Sam lunged. He angled his body towards his quarry’s left side and, aided by a last minute leap, knocked him to the ground.

“Sammy, get out of here!” Dean shouted, but Sam wouldn’t here it. He’d landed firmly on top of the man’s chest, feeling quite accomplished, when the shock on his victim’s face turned to manic glee. Just as the man’s hand went flashing inside his denim jacket, Sam was thrust off his chest and sent sprawling across the pavement. He barely had time to register the change in position before his eyes settled on Dean, now wrestling with their attacker, and a knife clenched in the latter’s fist.

Sam’s gaze was caught on the glint of the knife, flashing through the air, getting closer and closer to Dean’s skin. It whisked once past his arm, and Sam had to bite back a scream as he saw a drop of red land like rain on the road.

The man’s grin widened as he paused to admire the cut. Dean didn’t blink. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, and in a blur of movement, the knife was in Dean’s hand, pressed against his aggressor’s throat.

“You wouldn’t,” the man coughed, now pinned to the ground, disbelief in his eyes at the turn of events.

“You almost did to my brother.”

“He jumped me first.”

“He’s eleven, and you had a knife. That’s hardly fair.”

“Life ain’t about what’s fair, kid.”

“Yeah?” Dean tossed the blade from his right hand to his left, and then sat up slightly straighter. “You one of them that thinks it’s all about the fun?” He reeled his free arm backwards and hissed, “I’ll show you fun.” Suddenly Dean’s fist was colliding with the man’s face, twisting in agony, shouting in pain. Dean rolled off, pocketing the knife, while Sam watched the man grope at his swelling eyes, already turning black and blue.

Then Sam was being yanked from the ground. Dean was hoisting him up and urging him forward, supporting him. Sam glanced one last time over his shoulder, at the ordinary man shriveled and bleeding on the ground, and then let Dean pull him across the pavement.

They didn’t stop. Dean pushed them through a half mile of sprinting before they finally reached the apartment building, crumbling and creaking as they bounded up the steps. It was not until the door was closed, the lock bolted, the curtains drawn, that Dean allowed either to breathe.

At long last he stopped and turned to face Sam, who was still hovering near the rickety wooden door. “What if he follows?” Sam croaked, doing his best to keep his voice stronger than a whimper.

“He won’t.” Dean wrapped one hand around Sam’s forearm in reassurance.

“How do you know?”

“The lock downstairs is solid. Good security. It’s why Dad picked this place. Plus, I made sure his eyes swell shut.”

“He’ll be mad.”

“Course he will. He’ll also be too hung over in the morning to remember what we look like.”

Sam frowned. “He was drunk?”

“You think I could have taken him if he wasn’t?” Sam shrugged in response, but the motion was lost as Dean pulled him into a tight hug, half laughing. They stayed like that for a moment, Dean clinging to his baby brother, his life line.

And then they broke.

Dean held Sam at arm’s length for a moment, surveying him closely. “You hurt?”

“No,” Sam said.

“Liar.” Dean lifted up one of Sam’s arms. It was rubbed raw four inches to either side of the elbow. He cringed and asked, “That’s from when I pushed you, right?”

Sam shuffled his feet. “You didn’t have a choice. It’s fine.”

“No way, go wash it off. I’ll get you some bandages.” Sam obeyed, moving into the tiny, dimly lit bathroom. He stripped off his shirt, dabbed at his elbows with a damp towel, and headed back into the small living area. Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of bandages beside him. Sam took one look and stopped.

Something was wrong.

His fist was clenched and pressing against the table, eyes squeezed shut, jaw set. If Sam didn’t know better, didn’t know Dean, didn’t know he would never, could never…

Dean’s eyes flashed open, and everything Sam knew was shot to hell. Instead of a clear gaze, strong and determined, Sam saw only blood shot veins, heat, glass, liquid pooling at the corners.

But then Dean blinked, or maybe Sam blinked. He couldn’t be sure. One way or the other, the world was set in motion again, and Dean was grinning.

“Okay, squirt. Sit.” Still eying Dean wearily, Sam sat in the chair Dean had pulled out to face his own. “Arms out,” Dean ordered, and he set about wrapping the worst of Sam’s scrapes. He was just about to bandage Sam’s elbow when the younger wrenched his arm backwards.

“Dean!”

“What? Did I hurt you?” Dean asked in panic.

“No,” Sam replied exasperatedly, shaking his head. “It’s just, if you wrap me anymore, I’m not gonna be able to move! It’s just a scrape. I’ll be fine.”

Dean looked unconvinced but conceded. “Whatever, but no bitching about it later.” Sam rolled his eyes, and as if mimicking the movement, his stomach churned loudly.

“Oh, shit,” Dean murmured after the noise. “We dropped the burritos, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, but really, Dean. It’s no big deal. We’ve got crackers.”

“Right. Some dinner that is. Guess it’ll have to do, though.” He moved to push his chair back to stand, but this time Sam was certain of the expression he saw.

Pain.

Sam leaped up, pushing his brother soundly back into the chair. It swayed slightly from the abrupt movement as he said hurriedly, “No, sit, Dean. I’ll get them.” Doing as he was told and looking vaguely grateful, Dean settled back into the chair. Sam walked to the cabinet and gently pried it open, careful not to put too much stress on the ancient hinges. He peered inside and located the box of Ritz crackers, accompanied by nothing other than a half box of cornflakes and partial bag of salt. He pulled out the crackers and went back to the table, settling opposite Dean.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, a rarity. The Winchesters were men of few words, but such heavy stillness was both uncommon and unnerving. Out of the corner of his eye Sam watched Dean attempt (and fail) to consume a cracker. Wincing, he instead set to turning in slowly in his hand, nibbling at an edge, turning, nibbling, turning, nibbling, turning, nibbling -

“Stop it, Dean! Just stop it!” Sam cried out, no longer able to take the masked agony.

Dean looked up sharply, face contorting into mock confusion. “Stop what?”

“You’re hurt, Dean! I saw the guy get you with his knife. And I’m pretty sure you were punched some, too. So just stop pretending you’re not in pain!”

“Don’t be stupid, Sammy. I’m fine.”

“Dean!”

“I’m…”

“Don’t lie to me!” Sam screamed the final words, fury etched into his features. Dean’s face fell as Sam struggled to take a deep breath. “Just,” Sam sighed, “just tell me what’s wrong. I can help. Really, I can.”

Frowning, Dean shook his head. “There’s nothing to help. Okay, I’m in a little pain. Nothing a couple hours sleep and some Tylenol won’t fix.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sam stated bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Too bad. Finnish your crackers and go to bed.” Sam gnawed his lip, unwilling to let the situation rest. Eventually, however, he was forced to admit temporary defeat. Shoving another fistful of crackers into his mouth, he slumped off to the bedroom he shared with Dean.

Lying in bed ten minutes later, Sam stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows of men and women, ordinary in appearance, monsters at heart. Between half closed eyelids and the eerie glow of moonlight, the scene played out against the ceiling. A single solitary figure raised a fist, asked for money, beat his brother until he bled.

An ordinary man, denim jacket and cigarette.

He slipped between Sam’s eyes. They stood outside an old gas station, Sam trembling in fear as the ashes of the cigarette were flicked towards him. Everything he knew to protect himself, everything he’d been taught, failed. Sam flung holy water, but the man just downed it and wiped the corner of blood-red lips with the back of his hand - like it was liquor. So Sam drew a salt circle, but his tormenter merely blew, breath puffing as it would in a frozen winter. It curled around the salt, strong as the wind, carried the grains away with the trees and the scenery. Only Sam stayed rooted to the ground.

Sam and the monster, ordinary monster, stayed rooted to the ground.

He woke, night still thick, with his heart racing, blood pounding. One glance across the room told him Dean had made it to bed, and Sam settled back into his pillows.

When he went to shut his eyes again, all he saw were common citizens. But their faces were bloodied, their hands were groping, and hate rolled off them in staggering waves.

So he didn’t close his eyes. He fell asleep watching his brother’s chest rise and fall, and he made a decision. If he could not trust the people of the world, then he would join his brother and father in the hunt. There was no other choice.

The next day was a Monday, and Sam was given strict orders, barked from a bed-ridden Dean, to attend school as usual. Sam reluctantly complied but only after moving every available food source and four glasses of water to the nightstand, despite protests. (Dean had, of course, insisted he’d get up just as soon as Sam left, but Sam wasn’t stupid.)

Mrs. Groves, their neighbor, drove him to the big K-8 school, also per Dean’s demands. Admittedly, Sam understood the necessity for an escort rather than taking the bus on that particular day, but it didn’t stop him from refusing to respond to the majority of Mrs. Groves’ inquisitions. It wasn’t that he disliked her personally; he just despised her perpetual need to find flaws in his dad’s parenting.

School was more irritating than ever. Again, he had nothing against actual school, just the manners and attitudes of those who attended it. His teacher stared down her nose at his bandages, asked him questions about how his home life was. The kids were cruel, tormenting, and unrelenting. Current events hour was filled with horror stories, tales of people who’d done awful things to each other. History held genocide. Reading entailed a rush of boys looking for the most appalling, violent tales they could find in the library.

Sam didn’t get it. He didn’t get people or their need to tear each other apart. He didn’t get why everyone felt such a strong desire to isolate, destroy, hate their own kind.

It only strengthened his resolve - to become engrossed in the world he understood. And although he was still too young to hunt, every little thing counted.

So when their class visited the library that Monday afternoon, Sam let his hand trail over book after book, searching for exactly the right thing. He wandered through the nonfiction section for twenty minutes, not being able to afford the looks he’d receive if he merely asked for the location. Ultimately, his labors were rewarded - six first aid books, his for the taking.

The librarian looked at his elbows, looked at the books, and frowned.

“I fell off my bike,” Sam said, shrugging before she could ask. He didn’t have a bike. “Anyways, I thought it’d be kind of cool to know how to do this.” He waved his elbows at her. “My brother wrapped them up. He’s a boy scout.” Dean hated boy scouts. He thought they were annoying and had their heads up their asses. Sam agreed, but mostly just because it was something Dean had said.

She checked out the books without question, and Sam juggled them back to the classroom. There he spent the next three hours reading, book tucked under his desk while the rest of the class practiced multiplication, spoke fractured Spanish, and learned state capitals (twelve of which Sam had seen). By the time the bell rang, he was through two of the smaller books and had read the first three chapters of a larger one.

On the way home, Mrs. Groves expressed her views on his chosen reading material. She wasn’t pleased.

Neither was Dean.

“I told you I’m fine, Sammy,” he grunted as Sam flipped down the covers and started peeling off Dean’s shirt.

“Did you get out of bed today?”

“Course I did. How’d you expect me to pee in bed?”

Sam rolled his eyes and asked, “How long did it take you to get to the bathroom?” Dean grimaced and didn’t answer.

“Right,” Sam said, shaking his head. He then set about examining Dean’s chest, trying to recall exactly what he’d read. “Well, I don’t expect anything’s broken.”

“You a doctor now?” Dean asked sarcastically. Sam ignored him, choosing to retort by jabbing a finger at a bruise-free section of his ribs. Dean flinched.

“I’m the best you got, seeing as Dad won’t be home ‘till Friday - at the best.” Sam pressed lightly against Dean’s side. “That hurt?” Dean squeezed his eyes shut; the expression wasn’t missed. “Sorry. Now, about you’re face…”

“What about it?”

“It’s purple.”

“It is?”

“Dean! You said you’d gone to the bathroom!”

“Who says I haven’t?”

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom. You can’t miss it.”

Sagging backwards into the pillows, Dean breathed out, “Sorry. It…”

“Hurts to move?” Sam finished for him. He held his breath. Dean had never been this hurt before. Not that Sam could remember. Even after the few hunts he’d had been on, Dean had never been confined to bed.

“Yeah.” Sam stared at his hands, wrapped around the blankets pooled at Dean’s waist. “Hey, Sam?”

“Huh?”

“I really gotta pee.” Sam rolled his eyes but moved beside Dean, draping one arm over his shoulders. Slowly, Dean pushed one leg and then the other out of bed.

It took them five minutes to get to the bathroom, five minutes for Dean to go to the bathroom, and another five to get back to the bed. For another ten minutes, they sat in complete silence. Dean’s eyes were shut again, but given the shaky way he was breathing, Sam was certain he was no where near unconscious. Sam chewed his lip as he watched his brother, gaze resting on a thick red line running horizontally across his upper arm.

“Dean?” Sam whispered, and Dean’s eyes fluttered open. Briefly, Sam was taken aback by the ache and exhaustion there. “You’re cut…It should really be cleaned…and wrapped.” He thought for an instant that Dean would fight him on it, but eventually, his eyes drifted shut again.

“Okay.”

Sam shuffled out to the kitchen where the bandages still resided, and scooped up an armful, along with the antibiotic Dean had put on his scrapes the previous night.

It took too long to wrap Dean thoroughly. It took too long, and it hurt too much - for both of them. Every time Sam dabbed at a cut, brushed a bruise, touched a scrape, Dean cringed, and Sam died a little. He hated that Dean was so vulnerable, hated that some ordinary, disgusting man had forced his big brother to crumble, turn into nothing more than the ashes of his cigarette.

Ashes, black and burnt and torn. And whenever Sam breathed in, it hurt.

Eventually, he finished. Dean’s eyes were shut, avoiding Sam’s gaze no doubt, and he could not decide if it made him angry or grateful.

As he tucked and tied the gauze on Dean’s arm once more (just to be sure), his fingers lingered. He stilled and listened, Dean’s heavy breath falling on his ears - he’d finally fallen asleep. Sam shut his eyes, hands still wrapped around Dean’s forearm, and remembered when, just a day ago, Dean had done the same to him.

His eyes grew hot behind closed lids. Slowly, his grip on Dean’s arm relaxed as his fingers slipped down it to clutch at the still, hot hand resting on the bed. Opening his eyes, Sam studied his brother’s calm features. After a long minute, he sighed. A barely-there whisper hung from his lips, “It’s not fair.”

Sam spent the majority of the next day sitting on his bed. He alternated between watching Dean sleep and reading some of the mythology books stashed in obscure corners of the apartment. At that precise moment, however, he was doing neither. Instead, he was devouring a large bowl of chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Mrs. Groves. After Sam told her he’d caught the same illness as Dean and would not need a ride to school that day, she’d promptly delivered an entire vat of her home-made soup. God bless elderly women with nothing better to do.

Sam swung his legs back and forth as he slurped down another spoonful, studying his brother carefully. Although Dean was likely at the peak of soreness today, he was altogether in fairly good shape. He had not needed much care besides receiving help to the bathroom again, and Sam was practically giddy because of it.

At two, Dean stirred, blinking away the haze of sleep and drugs as he focused on his brother. Sam hastily set down the bowl and scrambled off his own bed towards Dean’s.

“Hey,” he said softly, laying one hand across an undamaged wrist. Bleary-eyed and only half awake, Dean made no effort to shun the touch.

“Hey,” he croaked back. “What time is it?” Sam peered at the bedside table.

“Two. Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Dean reached one hand up slowly to rub at his eyes and shook his head.

“No.” He rolled his neck, groaning from the motion. Sam grimaced.

“Still hurt?”

“It’s better,” Dean replied through tight lips. He blinked a few more times and finally focused completely on Sam. Then he frowned. “Today is a…Tuesday?”

Sam nodded. “Yup.”

“And it’s two. In the afternoon?” Dean asked.

Before Sam had even finished nodding, Dean was pushing himself up, eyes ablaze. “Sammy, why the fuck aren’t you at school?” he demanded.

Startled, Sam took a small step backward. “Dean, you can’t be alone right now! Besides, it’s not like it really matters…”

“The hell it doesn’t! You can’t just skip school, Sammy. Especially not because of me.”

“What? You’re way more important than…”

“I’m not saying you should go if it mean’s I’m gonna die or something! I’m just saying that since all I did was sleep all day…”

“I don’t…”

“You have to go to school. You have to get an education!”

“I don’t want to learn anything from those people! I can learn from you and Dad!”

Dean stopped trying to push himself out of bed and stared at Sam. “What are you saying? You want to be home-schooled? Because that’s…”

Sam grinned. “Can I? Can I be home-schooled?”

“What? No! I wasn’t suggesting it! I thought you were! No way in hell, Sam!”

“Why not?”

“Because I said no! You’re not gonna waste your brain by listening to me and Dad yammer on. Why don’t you want to go to school?”

“You don’t like it either!”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Besides, just ‘coz I don’t doesn’t mean you don’t.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Bull shit.”

“It’s true.”

“No it’s not. You love numbers and reading and all that crap.”

Dean stared at him, and Sam could feel himself melting, shrinking, burying into the floor as Dean’s eyes bored through him.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean said finally as he threw back his head against the wall as Sam squirmed uncomfortably.

“I just want to help you and Dad,” he whispered, eyes glued to the floor. “That’s all I wanna do.”

“That’s fine, Sammy, but you have to go to school. You’re too young right now. Even I gotta go.”

“Please, Dean,” Sam begged as his eyes flickered upward, “please don’t make me.”

Dean’s mouth curved downward, his eyes softened. “Are you being bullied or something?”

“No…I just don’t trust them.”

“Whose them?”

“Everyone.” Dean looked completely lost, so Sam continued. “That guy,” he said, taking a deep breath, “that guy from the other day - he was completely normal, just a human, and he beat you up, Dean! For no reason! He could have killed you, and he didn’t care! He just kept hurting you! And it’s not like he’s the only one. People are horrible! It’s like they enjoy seeing everybody in pain. I don’t want to be part of that. I just want to help you. I want to fight something I understand.” Sam finished hurriedly, wringing his hands together and staring at his brother, begging, pleading.

Dean blew out a hot puff of breath. “Damn. Sammy, look…” Dean rubbed his eyes briefly. “Not all people are like that.”

“Most of them are,” Sam objected.

“A lot, Sammy,” Dean admitted. “A lot of them are complete bastards. They’re selfish and mean and don’t care who gets hurt, but not all of them.” Sam made to interject, but Dean pushed on. “What about me? You think I’m like that?”

“No!”

“Dad?” Sam shook his head again. “Uncle Bobby? Pastor Jim?”

“That’s only four Dean - five counting me.”

“So you think that everybody else out there is evil?”

Sam bit his lip. “I just don’t…”

“Look at it this way, Sammy. Why does Dad hunt?”

Sam shrugged. “For revenge?”

“Well, yeah. But why else? He knows the truth so he does everything he can too…”

“Save people…” Sam breathed, finishing Dean’s sentence.

Smiling slightly, Dean continued. “But why the hell would he bother if they were all evil? We see a lot shit in our line of business, Sammy. There’s a lot of blood and a lot at risk. You remember my first hunt? ‘Bout a month back? I can tell you, Sam, you don’t go through that unless there’s a point. Not unless you got something worth fighting for.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t see how you can be willing to save people like that guy.”

“That’s what I mean. If you think everybody’s like that, there’s no choice but to just give up. You gotta believe in people, Sammy. You gotta want them to live as normally as possible, gotta want to save them from what’s out there. Just give ‘em a chance.”

Sam sighed and slumped down on the bed next to Dean. “So I gotta go to school tomorrow?”

“Yup,” he said, smirking. “In the meantime, though, you can get me some of whatever was in that bowl.” He pointed at the discarded chicken noodle bowl, and then gave Sam a firm shove off the edge of the bed.

Sam grimaced from the floor. “Guess your feeling better,” he mumbled as he pushed himself up.

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll be able to fetch things for myself for a couple of days, at least.” Sam groaned and stumbled out of the room, Dean laughing behind him.

Dad was home on Friday as expected. He was relieved that they were safe, upset they were injured, pissed Sam had skipped school, and exhausted from the hunt. After a brief bout of curses and deep breaths, he collapsed on the couch. Dean, who had finally begun walking without using Sam as a crutch, passed him a beer and settled down as well. He flicked through several TV channels, and Sam watched them go by, only half-interested.

Nervously, Sam fidgeted on the edge of his seat, a battle raging inwardly. Bugs-bunny took a large bite out of a carrot, and he decided he didn’t want to stall any longer.

“Hey, Dad?” he squeaked, and his dad turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. Dean kept focusing on the screen. “Umm…I was wondering. How long you think we’re gonna be in town?”

“End of June, probably. But you knew that, Sam.” He eyed Sam questioningly.

“Right, well, I just wanted to be sure. See there’s this thing, and it runs till June.”

“Gonna need a few more details, Sammy.”

Sam gulped. “Soccer. It’s a junior soccer team, and I just thought it would be good if you know, I tried out.”

His dad raised the other eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Some of the boys are kind of cool. Well, one is, and he said maybe I should join. It might be fun.”

“Huh. These are actual try-outs? Like someone might get cut?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Humph.” Sam watched his father’s face. He took another gulp of beer, swallowed, and then turned towards the television, expression settling back into that of a weary parent.
“Dean?” He said sharply.

“Yeah?” Dean asked, eyes still trained straight ahead.

“Take Sam to the park tomorrow. I’ll be damned if anybody cuts my boy.”

Dean’s head stayed facing rigidly forward, but his eyes slid to meet Sam’s. “Yes, sir,” he said, a sly grin appearing on his face. Sam beamed.

Maybe normal wasn’t all bad.