New SPN gen: Three Gifts
Three Gifts Sam Gave Dean (whether he wanted them, or not)
Gen, pre-series, about 3,575 words, PG
I.
Sam crouched on the floor outside his father's room and listened hard. If he was quiet, didn't breathe and didn't fidget, he could hear some of what Dad was saying. But he didn't need to hear it at all to know that things were serious. Dean was in Dad's bed, and that never happened unless something was wrong. Like when Sam was four and caught the chickenpox from that stupid Sally Samuels at kindergarten, and the sofa was too hard in that place they'd been staying and made him itch, and Dad put him and Dean in Dad's bed.
He picked at the buttons on his pajama top and sighed. His toes were cold. Dean always said Sam was like a frickin' popsicle.
The door opened suddenly and Sam jumped. He hadn't meant to get caught like that. Dad looked down at him. "What are you doing out of bed, Sammy?"
"Is Dean okay?" Sam asked. He turned his head to look into the room and saw Dean stretched out under the blankets, his eyes closed. He looked weird; his eyes were all dark underneath, like on those days Dad made them get up in the middle of the night and pack up to move.
"He's got a broken leg," Dad said. He crouched down beside Sam and ruffled his hair. "I thought I told both you boys to stay out of the tree."
"But Mikey Peterson said Dean couldn't do it, and Dean had to show him!" Sam said indignantly. Mikey Peterson had a big mouth, Dean had said, and big mouths had to know who was top dog. Mikey was twelve and Dean was nine, but Dean had still made it all the way up to the top, way higher than Mikey, before the branch broke and Dean fell.
"I know." Dad sighed. "Come on, son. We'll be sleeping on the sofa bed tonight."
Alarm made Sam wide awake, even though it was way past his bedtime. "I wanna stay with Dean."
"Well, you can't." Dad had that stern look, the one that was kind of mean. "Dean needs rest. He doesn't need you pestering him tonight."
"'m not a pest," Sam said, frowning. "Dean needs me."
"Not tonight." Dad reached behind him and closed the door, effectively blocking Dean from Sam's view. "Maybe tomorrow, after we get that leg in a cast. Now get in bed."
Sam thought about arguing with Dad, but Dean wouldn't like that, if he found out. Besides, Dad looked really sad, and Sam felt bad already. So he climbed up on the red striped sheets and burrowed down, banging the pillow a couple of times. He thought about Dean, how he'd landed so hard on the ground and that sound he made, and Sam shivered.
Dean needed him. Sam knew how to make it better.
When Dad started snoring, Sam slithered out from underneath the covers and went to Dean's pack, where Sam's books were. He rummaged around until he found what he needed, and then he zig-zagged across the floor toward Dad's room. Dean had showed him where all the squeaky spots were. Just in case, Dean said, and Sam remembered. He turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door just enough to slip inside, then closed it behind him.
The room was brighter than the living room, because Dad had left the lamp on. Dean wasn't moving; he was quiet. Suddenly Sam wasn't sure he should stay. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Dean didn't want him there.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice came from the middle of the bed, where Sam couldn't see him exactly. "That you?"
"Yeah," Sam said, full of happiness that Dean was awake. He ran to the bed, got a good hold on the covers, and hauled himself up onto it. When he bounced onto the mattress, Dean closed his eyes tight and made a face.
"Don't bounce, okay?" Dean opened his eyes and smiled a little, but he was still pain-crinkly around his eyes and mouth, and Sam instantly felt bad for jumping. He wasn't thinking. He had to be smart if he was going to help.
"Sorry," Sam said, biting his lip. "Does it hurt bad?"
"Only a little bit." Dean tried to sit up, but after pushing at the bed a couple times, he gave up. Sam reached for the pillows and pulled at them until they lifted Dean's back a couple of inches. "Thanks, Sammy," he said.
"Welcome." Sam glanced back at the door, then at Dean, who poked him in the arm with one finger.
"Dad tell you to stay out?"
"Yes," Sam said. He tried not to bounce, even though he was excited with his plan. "But I came to keep you company."
"Awesome," Dean said. He looked kind of sleepy, but better than he had a minute ago.
Sam put his book down on the bed. "I'll read to you," he announced. "That'll make you feel better."
"Sure it will." Dean sounded so positive that Sam was right, Sam couldn't help but feel better right away. So he scooted up close to Dean and fitted himself right under Dean's arm, and laid the book out carefully on his knees.
"Little Bear," he began, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Sammy. Not Little Bear!"
It just so happened that Little Bear was Sam's favorite. He made birthday soup, and he liked the cold just like Sam, and he had adventures. "Dean," Sam said, turning his head so his face was against the scratchy-soft of Dean's pajama sleeve. "Little Bear goes to the moon."
"But I've heard it a hundred times!"
"Have not!" Sam drew his knees up tighter and stared at Dean. "You've only read it to me! You can't get to hear it unless I read it to you!"
"Yeah, it's totally different," Dean said. "Guess I was wrong about that." He sighed. Sam leaned in to him and Dean's arm went around Sam automatically. "Well? You going to read, or what, dork?"
"I'm not a dork," Sam said. He scowled at Dean, but as soon as he looked at Dean's pale face he stopped being mad. "Dean, are you okay?" he whispered.
"Yeah, Sammy. Really." Dean closed his eyes again. "Make yourself useful and get to reading, huh?"
Sam grinned. He held the book open with his thumbs and began.
By the time he got to the last adventure, Dean was asleep. Sam closed the book and put it beside him on the bed, because Dean might want to hear more if he woke up and didn't feel good. Then he snuggled down tight against Dean's side, warm and comfortable, and pushed his cold toes up against Dean's good leg. Dean's arm twitched, then curled tight around him.
Sam fell asleep thinking of how he'd make Dean a space helmet tomorrow, just like Little Bear's.
II.
Sam had become accustomed to family fights. In the last six months, he and Dad had argued about everything from the right way to wash a dish to Sam's extracurricular activities at school. Sam was getting used to it, the hot flash of anger and the slow simmer of frustration that never really went away.
What he wasn't used to was Dad and Dean fighting.
He banged through the front door just like usual, and the sound of the argument was so out of place that he stopped dead, convinced for a moment that someone who didn't belong there was in the tiny house. He dropped his backpack, every muscle tense, until he recognized both voices. His heart started to beat faster; there wasn't anything in the world that could make Dean contradict Dad. Or so Sam had thought.
He edged over to the kitchen door and pressed himself to the wall, then leaned over just enough to see Dean standing by the counter, and Dad by the two-seat table. Dad had something in his hand, a piece of paper, and he looked pretty pissed. Dean looked...not pissed, exactly. Just upset. Sam held his breath.
"You said school wasn't as important as living a life. Learning things in the world," Dean said.
"Yes, but school is important, too, if you want to have a future." The muscle low-down in Dad's jaw twitched. "You can do better, Dean. You just choose not to."
Now the muscle in Dean's jaw was twitching, too. "Well, maybe I could do better if I didn't miss tests because I'm hunting with you."
Sam stared at him, wide-eyed. It was the first time he'd ever heard Dean say something smart back to Dad.
"You watch your tone, boy." Dad crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it on the table. "And since you seem to think hunting is the problem, you can stay home with Sammy until you get your priorities straight."
"Dad, come on," Dean said, but he was talking to Dad's back as he picked up his duffel and banged out the back door. A minute later, the rumble of the Impala's engine, and then it faded into the distance as Dad backed out of the driveway and pulled away.
Dean stood very still for a moment. His cheeks were red, and Sam's face burned in sympathy. Then Dean seemed to shake it off. He looked up directly at Sam. "You going to stay there eavesdropping all day?" he said dully.
Sam's face burned even hotter. He stepped around the doorframe and stood there like a doofus, not really sure what to do. "Sorry," he said. "I was trying not to get in the way."
"Yeah, well, I could see your hair coming for a mile before you got to the door." It should have been funny in its familiarity, but instead it felt as flat as Dean's expression. Dean turned away and opened the fridge to pull out a carton of milk. He opened it and drank a few swallows straight from the carton.
Sam glanced at the crumpled paper on the table, then back at Dean. "What's Dad so mad about?"
Dean shrugged, leaned back against the counter, the very personification of 'whatever'. "Doesn't matter."
It was hard not to notice Dean's duffel beside the door, right where it had been waiting for him to pick up and go with Dad. Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help it. "You don't care that he left without you?"
Dean's expression transformed from fake boredom to livid anger in the space of a split second. He threw the milk carton in the sink. "You shut up," he said, pointing his finger right in Sam's face. Then he banged out the door after Dad.
Sam stood there a moment, feeling the quiet of the empty house. He took the paper from the table, uncrumpled it and looked it over. It was a math test, marked D-. Algebra II. Sam scanned the problems; none of them were all that hard. Dean was smart. He shouldn't be having that much trouble passing.
He folded the paper in fourths and slid it into his jeans pocket.
**
Thursday after school, Sam found Dean hunched over at the kitchen table, math book open and three pencils strewn around a pencil sharpener. "Hey," he said, dropping his backpack by the table leg so he could catch a glance of what Dean was working on.
Dean grunted a hello and kept right on penciling that weird chicken scratch that passed for handwriting. It looked like the same test Sam had in his pocket, but he couldn't tell without a closer look.
"Get out of my business, bitch," Dean said, staring up at him.
Sam shrugged. "You get anything for dinner?"
"Your hands broken?"
Sam rolled his eyes. There was still some cheese and bread in the fridge. It took him five minutes to fix two mustard-and-cheese sandwiches; he dropped one on Dean's math book, grinning when Dean said, "Son of a bitch!"
"OK, starve then," Sam said with a mouth full of sandwich.
Dean sighed. The pencil stopped moving, and a second later he had a full mouth.
They ate in silence for the three minutes it took them to gobble down the sandwiches, and then Sam said awkwardly, "I could help you."
"Oh, right," Dean said. "I don't need scholastic help from my little brother, thanks." He stuck the paper in the book, oblivious to the crumbs, and shut the book. Then he stretched leisurely. "Got to get out of here. I'm meeting Teresa Dixon tonight. She's hot, Sammy, right? Think so?"
"I guess," Sam said. Teresa Dixon liked to wear those little half-shirts Dean was so obsessed with. Or maybe it was the boobs underneath. He took a sip out of Dean's soda, which was warm. Dean must have been sitting there for a while before Sam got home. Ditched his last period, probably.
Dean threw a pencil at Sam, then patted him on the shoulder. "Don't do anything dumb before I get home. I'll be back before dawn."
Sam pursed his lips, which made Dean laugh on his way out the door.
The minute Dean was out of sight, Sam opened the book and had a look at Dean's homework. It was a test - a make-up test, maybe, or maybe extra credit, Sam wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that most of Dean's answers were wrong.
No telling how long Dean had been working on that, and he was just a little off on most of it.
Sam picked up one of the pencils and tapped it on the table for a little while, reading over the problems. Then he went through and changed some of Dean's work, substituting the right answers.
When he stuck the paper back in the book, he was careful to mash a few crumbs into it for effect.
**
Dad came back in on Monday, covered in dirt and grumpy as a bear, and Sam didn't see him the whole first day he was back. "Better tread lightly," Dean advised him, pummeling him as they passed in the hallway, one on his way to get dressed, one on his way to the shower.
Sam had soccer after school Tuesday, and when he got home, a peaceful scene greeted him: Dean on the couch, Dad beside him, each of them drinking a beer with their feet up on the coffee table. "Hey, Sammy," Dean said. His eyes were bright. Happy, almost.
Sam flopped down in the narrow armchair. "How'd the hunt go?" he asked Dad.
"Fine," Dad said. "Took down a whole litter of black dogs. Lot of work, but worth it."
"Yeah," Dean said. "So, next week. Rancho Viejo? That poltergeist?"
Dad nodded. "I want you to check the shotguns, make some additional shells." They resumed the conversation they'd been having before Sam got home, the way they did sometimes, totally focused on hunting and the plan as if Sam wasn't even there. And then Sam realized: Dad had reversed himself, and Dean was going on the hunt.
Dean's test was on the coffee table, pinned beneath the heel of his boot; Sam could see the A at the top.
Later that night, just as Sam was dropping off to sleep, Dean kicked his bed and then flopped down on top of his stomach, all his weight forcing an "OOF" from Sam. "Wake up knucklehead," he said brightly.
"Jesus, Dean!" Sam shoved him hard, but Dean wouldn't budge.
"So. Maybe I could use some help on this chapter I'm lookin' at in math," Dean said. "But that doesn't make you smarter than me."
"Says you," Sam said, muffled by the pillow Dean was whacking his face with.
Just as suddenly as he'd landed, Dean sprang off the bed and switched off the light, and Sam heard the squeak of bedsprings as Dean climbed in his own bed. A second later, Dean said softly, "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiled down into his pillow, just in case his grin was so bright it could be seen in the dark.
III.
The house seemed too quiet, now. After an hour of shouting, Sam's ears were still ringing with it, and guilt and hot anger burned the back of his throat.
All the things he'd said he could never take back - all the things he didn't want to take back. And all the things Dad had said, making it pretty damn clear he didn't give a fuck if Sam lived or died, stayed or went away forever.
Just once, during the fight, had Sam turned to Dean expecting...something. Support? Agreement? Someone to step in and end it before Sam clocked Dad or Dad knocked Sam out? He still wasn't sure what he'd wanted. But what he'd seen on Dean's face had choked him, had momentarily drowned out the righteous flow of accusations against their dad. Dean had looked like he was dying, like someone had struck him in the chest and he was bleeding out, pale and stunned, right before Sam's eyes.
It had only been a moment, and John hadn't stopped, hadn't noticed, had gone right on shouting and making threats and ordering Sam around, and Dean's anguished look had been smeared over by the red haze Sam could barely see through when John was around.
Just that now, with his duffel packed and his admission papers stowed safely in his jacket pocket, and his bone-deep disappointment compartmentalized as forcefully as Sam could stand...now, he couldn't stop thinking about how Dean had looked.
He tossed his duffel by the door and went into the kitchen for a beer. John was long gone; he'd probably stay gone for days, if Sam was any kind of judge of his father's character. No word of goodbye, no congratulations on a job well done. Just the window in the front door cracking under the force of the slam.
Sam pulled two beers from the fridge, twisted the caps off, and took them to the front porch. Dean was sitting there on the steps, quiet, very still, staring out into an empty street. Sam tapped his shoulder with one of the bottles, and it seemed to take forever for Dean to stir, to reach up and take it from Sam's hand.
The ancient steps creaked as Sam settled on the porch stairs beside Dean, and stared out at the same patch of nothing. They sipped in unison, Sam acutely aware that this was the last time he might see Dean for a long time. His stomach gave a little flip, and a series of scenarios went through his head, all of them bad. Dad, drunk and surly and harder to live with than ever; Dad, taking it all out on Dean, who would just patiently suck it up and take what was Sam's to bear. Dean, who could have been any fucking thing he wanted to be, but was sitting on this stupid porch looking out at this stupid street because Sam was here, too.
Sam got that. And it made him want to curl in over himself and cry.
Instead, he pushed the toe of his shoe into a space between two rotting boards and lifted. The board came away easy, its integrity lost, the nail that had once held it in place now warped and rusty. "Come with me," he said. "Dean. Come with me. Let's take the car and go."
Dean drained the bottle and set it down in the grass. He looked at Sam with a half-smile; that smile filled Sam's heart up with hope, and then it burst at the first shake of Dean's head. He'd known the answer would be no, but he had to ask.
The long silence stretched, tugging at Sam like a thread being wound back onto a spool. Sam looked at Dean, and thought about what it would be like for him without Sam. A flash of memory came to him, reaching out for Dean after a nightmare when he was just a little kid, and Dean sleeping next to him, warm and smelling of baby powder and traces of Dad's aftershave.
When the words spilled out of him, he was as surprised as Dean. "If you want me to, I'll stay."
Dean's shoulder jerked, and he twisted sideways to stare at Sam, who half wanted to take it back, and half wanted to take off running into the street before Dean could say yeah, Sammy, stay. He could see it all over Dean's face, the answer: yes. Yes, I do want you to. As clearly as if Dean had already said it, Sam could hear the words please don't go.
But then Dean lurched up from the steps like an old man, turned, and went into the house. Sam's eyes were burning, and he wiped the back of his hand across them and took a long swallow of his beer. He smashed his heel into the decaying steps, wood giving way softly beneath his violent impulse, not breaking, but collapsing into the darkness below.
The screen door opened again and a thump sounded behind Sam. He turned his head; the duffel was at Dean's feet, and Dean had the car keys in his hand.
"Let's go," Dean said, and for a brief, joyful moment, Sam thought he'd changed his mind, that he meant they'd both go. But Dean only turned and hopped off the porch, avoiding Sam's eyes altogether. Sam shouldered his duffel and slowly followed behind, out of his old life and into the unknown.
It would be seven years before Sam was able to understand that the bus station had only been the first signpost on Dean's path to hell.
end
June 2008
Gen, pre-series, about 3,575 words, PG
I.
Sam crouched on the floor outside his father's room and listened hard. If he was quiet, didn't breathe and didn't fidget, he could hear some of what Dad was saying. But he didn't need to hear it at all to know that things were serious. Dean was in Dad's bed, and that never happened unless something was wrong. Like when Sam was four and caught the chickenpox from that stupid Sally Samuels at kindergarten, and the sofa was too hard in that place they'd been staying and made him itch, and Dad put him and Dean in Dad's bed.
He picked at the buttons on his pajama top and sighed. His toes were cold. Dean always said Sam was like a frickin' popsicle.
The door opened suddenly and Sam jumped. He hadn't meant to get caught like that. Dad looked down at him. "What are you doing out of bed, Sammy?"
"Is Dean okay?" Sam asked. He turned his head to look into the room and saw Dean stretched out under the blankets, his eyes closed. He looked weird; his eyes were all dark underneath, like on those days Dad made them get up in the middle of the night and pack up to move.
"He's got a broken leg," Dad said. He crouched down beside Sam and ruffled his hair. "I thought I told both you boys to stay out of the tree."
"But Mikey Peterson said Dean couldn't do it, and Dean had to show him!" Sam said indignantly. Mikey Peterson had a big mouth, Dean had said, and big mouths had to know who was top dog. Mikey was twelve and Dean was nine, but Dean had still made it all the way up to the top, way higher than Mikey, before the branch broke and Dean fell.
"I know." Dad sighed. "Come on, son. We'll be sleeping on the sofa bed tonight."
Alarm made Sam wide awake, even though it was way past his bedtime. "I wanna stay with Dean."
"Well, you can't." Dad had that stern look, the one that was kind of mean. "Dean needs rest. He doesn't need you pestering him tonight."
"'m not a pest," Sam said, frowning. "Dean needs me."
"Not tonight." Dad reached behind him and closed the door, effectively blocking Dean from Sam's view. "Maybe tomorrow, after we get that leg in a cast. Now get in bed."
Sam thought about arguing with Dad, but Dean wouldn't like that, if he found out. Besides, Dad looked really sad, and Sam felt bad already. So he climbed up on the red striped sheets and burrowed down, banging the pillow a couple of times. He thought about Dean, how he'd landed so hard on the ground and that sound he made, and Sam shivered.
Dean needed him. Sam knew how to make it better.
When Dad started snoring, Sam slithered out from underneath the covers and went to Dean's pack, where Sam's books were. He rummaged around until he found what he needed, and then he zig-zagged across the floor toward Dad's room. Dean had showed him where all the squeaky spots were. Just in case, Dean said, and Sam remembered. He turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door just enough to slip inside, then closed it behind him.
The room was brighter than the living room, because Dad had left the lamp on. Dean wasn't moving; he was quiet. Suddenly Sam wasn't sure he should stay. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Dean didn't want him there.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice came from the middle of the bed, where Sam couldn't see him exactly. "That you?"
"Yeah," Sam said, full of happiness that Dean was awake. He ran to the bed, got a good hold on the covers, and hauled himself up onto it. When he bounced onto the mattress, Dean closed his eyes tight and made a face.
"Don't bounce, okay?" Dean opened his eyes and smiled a little, but he was still pain-crinkly around his eyes and mouth, and Sam instantly felt bad for jumping. He wasn't thinking. He had to be smart if he was going to help.
"Sorry," Sam said, biting his lip. "Does it hurt bad?"
"Only a little bit." Dean tried to sit up, but after pushing at the bed a couple times, he gave up. Sam reached for the pillows and pulled at them until they lifted Dean's back a couple of inches. "Thanks, Sammy," he said.
"Welcome." Sam glanced back at the door, then at Dean, who poked him in the arm with one finger.
"Dad tell you to stay out?"
"Yes," Sam said. He tried not to bounce, even though he was excited with his plan. "But I came to keep you company."
"Awesome," Dean said. He looked kind of sleepy, but better than he had a minute ago.
Sam put his book down on the bed. "I'll read to you," he announced. "That'll make you feel better."
"Sure it will." Dean sounded so positive that Sam was right, Sam couldn't help but feel better right away. So he scooted up close to Dean and fitted himself right under Dean's arm, and laid the book out carefully on his knees.
"Little Bear," he began, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Sammy. Not Little Bear!"
It just so happened that Little Bear was Sam's favorite. He made birthday soup, and he liked the cold just like Sam, and he had adventures. "Dean," Sam said, turning his head so his face was against the scratchy-soft of Dean's pajama sleeve. "Little Bear goes to the moon."
"But I've heard it a hundred times!"
"Have not!" Sam drew his knees up tighter and stared at Dean. "You've only read it to me! You can't get to hear it unless I read it to you!"
"Yeah, it's totally different," Dean said. "Guess I was wrong about that." He sighed. Sam leaned in to him and Dean's arm went around Sam automatically. "Well? You going to read, or what, dork?"
"I'm not a dork," Sam said. He scowled at Dean, but as soon as he looked at Dean's pale face he stopped being mad. "Dean, are you okay?" he whispered.
"Yeah, Sammy. Really." Dean closed his eyes again. "Make yourself useful and get to reading, huh?"
Sam grinned. He held the book open with his thumbs and began.
By the time he got to the last adventure, Dean was asleep. Sam closed the book and put it beside him on the bed, because Dean might want to hear more if he woke up and didn't feel good. Then he snuggled down tight against Dean's side, warm and comfortable, and pushed his cold toes up against Dean's good leg. Dean's arm twitched, then curled tight around him.
Sam fell asleep thinking of how he'd make Dean a space helmet tomorrow, just like Little Bear's.
II.
Sam had become accustomed to family fights. In the last six months, he and Dad had argued about everything from the right way to wash a dish to Sam's extracurricular activities at school. Sam was getting used to it, the hot flash of anger and the slow simmer of frustration that never really went away.
What he wasn't used to was Dad and Dean fighting.
He banged through the front door just like usual, and the sound of the argument was so out of place that he stopped dead, convinced for a moment that someone who didn't belong there was in the tiny house. He dropped his backpack, every muscle tense, until he recognized both voices. His heart started to beat faster; there wasn't anything in the world that could make Dean contradict Dad. Or so Sam had thought.
He edged over to the kitchen door and pressed himself to the wall, then leaned over just enough to see Dean standing by the counter, and Dad by the two-seat table. Dad had something in his hand, a piece of paper, and he looked pretty pissed. Dean looked...not pissed, exactly. Just upset. Sam held his breath.
"You said school wasn't as important as living a life. Learning things in the world," Dean said.
"Yes, but school is important, too, if you want to have a future." The muscle low-down in Dad's jaw twitched. "You can do better, Dean. You just choose not to."
Now the muscle in Dean's jaw was twitching, too. "Well, maybe I could do better if I didn't miss tests because I'm hunting with you."
Sam stared at him, wide-eyed. It was the first time he'd ever heard Dean say something smart back to Dad.
"You watch your tone, boy." Dad crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it on the table. "And since you seem to think hunting is the problem, you can stay home with Sammy until you get your priorities straight."
"Dad, come on," Dean said, but he was talking to Dad's back as he picked up his duffel and banged out the back door. A minute later, the rumble of the Impala's engine, and then it faded into the distance as Dad backed out of the driveway and pulled away.
Dean stood very still for a moment. His cheeks were red, and Sam's face burned in sympathy. Then Dean seemed to shake it off. He looked up directly at Sam. "You going to stay there eavesdropping all day?" he said dully.
Sam's face burned even hotter. He stepped around the doorframe and stood there like a doofus, not really sure what to do. "Sorry," he said. "I was trying not to get in the way."
"Yeah, well, I could see your hair coming for a mile before you got to the door." It should have been funny in its familiarity, but instead it felt as flat as Dean's expression. Dean turned away and opened the fridge to pull out a carton of milk. He opened it and drank a few swallows straight from the carton.
Sam glanced at the crumpled paper on the table, then back at Dean. "What's Dad so mad about?"
Dean shrugged, leaned back against the counter, the very personification of 'whatever'. "Doesn't matter."
It was hard not to notice Dean's duffel beside the door, right where it had been waiting for him to pick up and go with Dad. Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help it. "You don't care that he left without you?"
Dean's expression transformed from fake boredom to livid anger in the space of a split second. He threw the milk carton in the sink. "You shut up," he said, pointing his finger right in Sam's face. Then he banged out the door after Dad.
Sam stood there a moment, feeling the quiet of the empty house. He took the paper from the table, uncrumpled it and looked it over. It was a math test, marked D-. Algebra II. Sam scanned the problems; none of them were all that hard. Dean was smart. He shouldn't be having that much trouble passing.
He folded the paper in fourths and slid it into his jeans pocket.
**
Thursday after school, Sam found Dean hunched over at the kitchen table, math book open and three pencils strewn around a pencil sharpener. "Hey," he said, dropping his backpack by the table leg so he could catch a glance of what Dean was working on.
Dean grunted a hello and kept right on penciling that weird chicken scratch that passed for handwriting. It looked like the same test Sam had in his pocket, but he couldn't tell without a closer look.
"Get out of my business, bitch," Dean said, staring up at him.
Sam shrugged. "You get anything for dinner?"
"Your hands broken?"
Sam rolled his eyes. There was still some cheese and bread in the fridge. It took him five minutes to fix two mustard-and-cheese sandwiches; he dropped one on Dean's math book, grinning when Dean said, "Son of a bitch!"
"OK, starve then," Sam said with a mouth full of sandwich.
Dean sighed. The pencil stopped moving, and a second later he had a full mouth.
They ate in silence for the three minutes it took them to gobble down the sandwiches, and then Sam said awkwardly, "I could help you."
"Oh, right," Dean said. "I don't need scholastic help from my little brother, thanks." He stuck the paper in the book, oblivious to the crumbs, and shut the book. Then he stretched leisurely. "Got to get out of here. I'm meeting Teresa Dixon tonight. She's hot, Sammy, right? Think so?"
"I guess," Sam said. Teresa Dixon liked to wear those little half-shirts Dean was so obsessed with. Or maybe it was the boobs underneath. He took a sip out of Dean's soda, which was warm. Dean must have been sitting there for a while before Sam got home. Ditched his last period, probably.
Dean threw a pencil at Sam, then patted him on the shoulder. "Don't do anything dumb before I get home. I'll be back before dawn."
Sam pursed his lips, which made Dean laugh on his way out the door.
The minute Dean was out of sight, Sam opened the book and had a look at Dean's homework. It was a test - a make-up test, maybe, or maybe extra credit, Sam wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that most of Dean's answers were wrong.
No telling how long Dean had been working on that, and he was just a little off on most of it.
Sam picked up one of the pencils and tapped it on the table for a little while, reading over the problems. Then he went through and changed some of Dean's work, substituting the right answers.
When he stuck the paper back in the book, he was careful to mash a few crumbs into it for effect.
**
Dad came back in on Monday, covered in dirt and grumpy as a bear, and Sam didn't see him the whole first day he was back. "Better tread lightly," Dean advised him, pummeling him as they passed in the hallway, one on his way to get dressed, one on his way to the shower.
Sam had soccer after school Tuesday, and when he got home, a peaceful scene greeted him: Dean on the couch, Dad beside him, each of them drinking a beer with their feet up on the coffee table. "Hey, Sammy," Dean said. His eyes were bright. Happy, almost.
Sam flopped down in the narrow armchair. "How'd the hunt go?" he asked Dad.
"Fine," Dad said. "Took down a whole litter of black dogs. Lot of work, but worth it."
"Yeah," Dean said. "So, next week. Rancho Viejo? That poltergeist?"
Dad nodded. "I want you to check the shotguns, make some additional shells." They resumed the conversation they'd been having before Sam got home, the way they did sometimes, totally focused on hunting and the plan as if Sam wasn't even there. And then Sam realized: Dad had reversed himself, and Dean was going on the hunt.
Dean's test was on the coffee table, pinned beneath the heel of his boot; Sam could see the A at the top.
Later that night, just as Sam was dropping off to sleep, Dean kicked his bed and then flopped down on top of his stomach, all his weight forcing an "OOF" from Sam. "Wake up knucklehead," he said brightly.
"Jesus, Dean!" Sam shoved him hard, but Dean wouldn't budge.
"So. Maybe I could use some help on this chapter I'm lookin' at in math," Dean said. "But that doesn't make you smarter than me."
"Says you," Sam said, muffled by the pillow Dean was whacking his face with.
Just as suddenly as he'd landed, Dean sprang off the bed and switched off the light, and Sam heard the squeak of bedsprings as Dean climbed in his own bed. A second later, Dean said softly, "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam smiled down into his pillow, just in case his grin was so bright it could be seen in the dark.
III.
The house seemed too quiet, now. After an hour of shouting, Sam's ears were still ringing with it, and guilt and hot anger burned the back of his throat.
All the things he'd said he could never take back - all the things he didn't want to take back. And all the things Dad had said, making it pretty damn clear he didn't give a fuck if Sam lived or died, stayed or went away forever.
Just once, during the fight, had Sam turned to Dean expecting...something. Support? Agreement? Someone to step in and end it before Sam clocked Dad or Dad knocked Sam out? He still wasn't sure what he'd wanted. But what he'd seen on Dean's face had choked him, had momentarily drowned out the righteous flow of accusations against their dad. Dean had looked like he was dying, like someone had struck him in the chest and he was bleeding out, pale and stunned, right before Sam's eyes.
It had only been a moment, and John hadn't stopped, hadn't noticed, had gone right on shouting and making threats and ordering Sam around, and Dean's anguished look had been smeared over by the red haze Sam could barely see through when John was around.
Just that now, with his duffel packed and his admission papers stowed safely in his jacket pocket, and his bone-deep disappointment compartmentalized as forcefully as Sam could stand...now, he couldn't stop thinking about how Dean had looked.
He tossed his duffel by the door and went into the kitchen for a beer. John was long gone; he'd probably stay gone for days, if Sam was any kind of judge of his father's character. No word of goodbye, no congratulations on a job well done. Just the window in the front door cracking under the force of the slam.
Sam pulled two beers from the fridge, twisted the caps off, and took them to the front porch. Dean was sitting there on the steps, quiet, very still, staring out into an empty street. Sam tapped his shoulder with one of the bottles, and it seemed to take forever for Dean to stir, to reach up and take it from Sam's hand.
The ancient steps creaked as Sam settled on the porch stairs beside Dean, and stared out at the same patch of nothing. They sipped in unison, Sam acutely aware that this was the last time he might see Dean for a long time. His stomach gave a little flip, and a series of scenarios went through his head, all of them bad. Dad, drunk and surly and harder to live with than ever; Dad, taking it all out on Dean, who would just patiently suck it up and take what was Sam's to bear. Dean, who could have been any fucking thing he wanted to be, but was sitting on this stupid porch looking out at this stupid street because Sam was here, too.
Sam got that. And it made him want to curl in over himself and cry.
Instead, he pushed the toe of his shoe into a space between two rotting boards and lifted. The board came away easy, its integrity lost, the nail that had once held it in place now warped and rusty. "Come with me," he said. "Dean. Come with me. Let's take the car and go."
Dean drained the bottle and set it down in the grass. He looked at Sam with a half-smile; that smile filled Sam's heart up with hope, and then it burst at the first shake of Dean's head. He'd known the answer would be no, but he had to ask.
The long silence stretched, tugging at Sam like a thread being wound back onto a spool. Sam looked at Dean, and thought about what it would be like for him without Sam. A flash of memory came to him, reaching out for Dean after a nightmare when he was just a little kid, and Dean sleeping next to him, warm and smelling of baby powder and traces of Dad's aftershave.
When the words spilled out of him, he was as surprised as Dean. "If you want me to, I'll stay."
Dean's shoulder jerked, and he twisted sideways to stare at Sam, who half wanted to take it back, and half wanted to take off running into the street before Dean could say yeah, Sammy, stay. He could see it all over Dean's face, the answer: yes. Yes, I do want you to. As clearly as if Dean had already said it, Sam could hear the words please don't go.
But then Dean lurched up from the steps like an old man, turned, and went into the house. Sam's eyes were burning, and he wiped the back of his hand across them and took a long swallow of his beer. He smashed his heel into the decaying steps, wood giving way softly beneath his violent impulse, not breaking, but collapsing into the darkness below.
The screen door opened again and a thump sounded behind Sam. He turned his head; the duffel was at Dean's feet, and Dean had the car keys in his hand.
"Let's go," Dean said, and for a brief, joyful moment, Sam thought he'd changed his mind, that he meant they'd both go. But Dean only turned and hopped off the porch, avoiding Sam's eyes altogether. Sam shouldered his duffel and slowly followed behind, out of his old life and into the unknown.
It would be seven years before Sam was able to understand that the bus station had only been the first signpost on Dean's path to hell.
end
June 2008