Phantom Load - Part 5

[lovesrain44]

Friday, January 17th, 1992

Once at school, Dean’s morning classes rolled past him, though he did remember to attempt a list of each assignment.

When he went to the lunchroom, he could see that there was beef stew and carrot rounds on the menu. That's what the kids were eating. His stomach lurched as he felt the dollar in his pocket. There was a nice little stack of them in his sock drawer. He wasn't hungry, suddenly, and he looked around. Even if he went in, there was no telling who would show up, unseen, especially if Dean sat with his back to the door. Which he never would do. He knew better.

The day got better when he got to geography, and he concentrated on that rather than on his stomach growling and burning. It was nice that Joel was out today. Not that he couldn’t have taken Joel; he could have bloodied that face of his as quick as anything. But Dad had said, head down. Do your homework. Stick to the plan.

Dean stuck to the plan. He was able to do the worksheet on Siberia with no problem, and carefully wrote down the assignment for the next chapter, plus the test on Wednesday. Putting a big circle around the information with a flourish, he shut his notebook loudly and nodded at it. This was part of what Dad wanted.

When the last bell rang, Dean went to his locker and collected all his books. He was pretty sure he had assignments in every class, in addition to which, all of his teachers, except for Mr. Collins, had given him a list of makeup assignments that were to be done over the weekend. Dad would want to see the list, and, no doubt, the finished assignments when he came home to do laundry on Sunday. Though Dean could do that, if need be, in the little stacked washer and dryer that stood narrow and cramped in the corner of the bathroom.

He hauled on his coat without buttoning it up, but the day was sunny, and the walk home would be pleasant. Pulling his heavy bag with the books over his shoulder, he headed down the main hallway, in front of the principal’s office and towards the front door.

Then a pair of hands grabbed him and guided him towards the little side hallway, and before he could think, he was being pushed down the metal stairs and down the narrow dark passageway towards the janitor’s office, the bank of boilers humming and blinking in the dusty, still air.

“Did you have a nice day, Dean?” asked Mr. Gunnarson, taking off the bag and Dean’s coat and laying both of them on the lumpy green couch. “You look like you didn’t sleep well.”

For a moment, Dean could only stand there, his mouth open, blinking. His eyes moved to the open doorway, and beyond that, the little rectangle that was light coming through the little window at the top of the stairs.

“Come here, Dean,” said Mr. Gunnarson. He sat at the chair in front of his desk and for a moment, Dean looked at that, at the stacks of pink and yellow paper, the pencil cup with only one pencil in it, a bottle of some type of fluid, a greasy rag flung over the top. At the circles of stains on the wood on the pitted surface of the desk. At Mr. Gunnarson’s shoes.

“Come on, Dean, don’t be shy. You know I won’t hurt you.”

Mr. Gunnarson tugged at his arms and pulled Dean between his legs. He half lifted Dean to settle against his thigh, and gave Dean a pat.

“Been having trouble with your classes, is that it?”

Startled, Dean turned to look at Mr. Gunnarson, seeing part of his own reflection in Mr. Gunnarson’s large glasses.

“Teachers talk in the lounge, you know,” said Mr. Gunnarson. He rubbed Dean's thigh and drew him close in a hug. “It must be hard to start a new school like that. Everything so new and maybe a little scary.”

For a second, Dean felt the gentle words fall over him like a blanket, how nice it was that someone understood just exactly how it was. Not that Dean wasn’t willing to do what Dad wanted, that wasn’t it. But he couldn’t complain, not to Dad, who wouldn’t listen to any whining, and not to Sam, who loved each new school like it was his first. Mr. Gunnarson’s fingers were undoing the button on Dean's jeans, unzipping them, and pulling down cloth on his underwear. The cool skin of Mr. Gunnarson’s fingers on his bare skin quickly turned warm.

“No,” he said, “Don’t do that, don’t-”

“Now, Dean,” said Mr. Gunnarson, using the heel of his hand to push down on Dean’s crotch. “This will feel good. It will make you feel better.”

It didn’t.

Dean turned his head away, tucked his chin to his shoulder so he wouldn’t have to watch, but it couldn’t keep it from happening. Mr. Gunnarson pushed and pulled on Dean, his breath coming in hard gasps while his thigh trembled beneath Dean. Then Mr. Gunnarson pushed hard, and it hurt, but Dean was startled by Mr. Gunnarson’s loud groan, and a dense, salty smell. He almost fell backwards then, but grabbed at the cloth of Mr. Gunnarson’s shirt to steady himself. Still looking away. Still trying not to look down and see himself, to see Mr. Gunnarson’s hand stroking him, gently now. Like it wanted to sooth, even though it was shaking.

Light lanced down through the frosted windows, and Dean slid off Mr. Gunnarson’s lap, pulling up his underwear, buttoning his jeans. He reached for his pea coat and put it on. Grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced at Mr. Gunnarson, who was sitting in the chair like a statue, his mouth slack, eyes a little glazed. Then, without asking permission, Dean walked out of the janitor’s office and up the stairs, careful to shut the door behind him. Once he turned the corner, he could see the flash of orange bus, and the white of the van just entering the parking lot, which was good, because it meant he wasn’t late.

But by the time he reached the door, he realized he had a disaster on his hands. Sammy came flying off the van before it had even stopped. His nose was bleeding, and the blood had soaked his shirt. But even worse, he held up his right arm like a stump and for a second, Dean thought someone had cut his hand off. But it was the mitten that was gone, missing from his string. Dean knew that even before Sammy had said a word.

“He cut it, he cut it off!” Fury, it was fury, and anger, all rolled up and glittering in Sammy’s eyes. “I punched him, I punched him hard, and he ran away.”

Dean reached out for the empty sleeve, reached in and pulled Sam’s hand out, the ragged edge of the string trailing around his wrist like a leech. Sam’s hand was cold.

“Why?”

“He said it was stupid.” Sammy spit out the word. “He’s stupid. Uncle Bobby gave them to me, and I want my mitten back!”

There was no way to get the mitten back, unless Dean went to Sam’s school and beat up the boy and made him. Or if Sam made him, which, at this point, given the black swirl of pure hate around Sammy, wasn’t a far possibility.

“We’ll get your mitten,” said Dean, dropping the sleeve and reaching for Sam’s face. Used his thumb to press against Sam’s upper lip, to swipe away the blood. It was slowing. “Looks like he punched you, too.”

“It wasn’t a good punch,” said Sam. Now he was starting to sniff, snot mixing with blood, and running down to his chin. Using the tail end of his flannel shirt, Dean wiped some of it away, but it just went everywhere. Not hopeless, a good, cool washcloth would take care of it. But in the meantime, Sammy was on the edge of bawling out loud. Now that he’d told Dean what had happened, his woe over his mitten could march to the fore, leaving the anger ashes at his feet.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

He motioned with his head, towards home as the buses and the van left the parking lot, as mothers in minivans stopped and started, picking up their kids and moving along, just as it should be.

“We’ll get you new mittens,” said Dean as they walked along the side of the road, the wind blowing their open jackets back, streaming through their hair, whistling past their ears. He stopped them at the first corner to zip Sammy up, buttoned himself up, and bent his shoulders into the wind. Even though the sun was shining, it was not warm, and particularly, as they walked beneath the long shadows, it was positively cold. “New ones, Sammy.”

“I want my mitten,” said Sam. Lips drawn in a mulish line as he wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark streak on the sleeve of his coat. “It's mine.”

Now the tears were dripping off Sammy’s chin, and Dean let them. There wasn’t any point in stopping them, it would be like trying to dam up the waters of a fast, hard river, so you might as well let the water spill now as later. But he had to try.

“C’mon, it’s just a mitten.”

“It was red,” Sammy said, twisting his head to look at Dean, stopping by the empty field, where the autumn-burned cattails bent under the wind. “It was red and it was mine.”

Dean stopped too. Let the wind whistle down his collar, felt the grit of Sammy’s blood drying on his fingers. “So beat him up and get it back.”

Sam’s eyes were pooling with tears, which left streaks on his face, and behind that, Dean could see the flicker of thinking this through.

“Or I could,” Dean offered, not sure how he would manage the logistics of it.

Then Sammy scrubbed his eyes with both of his hands, wiped the snot and blood from his upper lip with his sleeve again, and swallowed. “No, I’ll do it. I’ll get it back.”

Funny Sam. Crying one minute, and then pulling his shoulders back the next.

They walked on, and Dean thought about dinner and homework, and what might be on TV, and whether Dad might come home early. That would be good if he did.

When they got to the trailer, Sammy’s tears had dried, and Dean used the key on the string around his neck to unlock the door and let them in. He turned up the heat a little bit, telling himself to remember to turn it down later, before Dad got back.

They put their coats on the chairs, dumped the bags on the floor next to the couch, and Dean thought that the homework could wait till tomorrow. After all, it was Friday night, wasn’t it? He had the whole weekend to get his assignments done. Sam went to wash his face and change his shirt. When he came back he said, “Hot dogs.”

“Again?” asked Dean. Sam would have hot dogs every day of the week if Dad let him.

“And macaroni and cheese. In a box.”

Putting his hands on his hips, Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, pulling his eyebrows down in a scowl. But Sam wasn’t fooled. He just smiled and started getting everything out, opening a few cupboards with false starts, as they all still did, putting the packages of pink hot dogs on the counter with a triumphant smack.

“There. Cook now.”

“Only if we have chocolate pudding after,” said Dean. Mock stern.

“Well,” said Sam, floating away to throw himself on the couch. “If we have to.”

Dean made dinner, standing as close to the heating element as he could. He couldn't understand why he was freezing, but he didn't want to turn up the heat anymore. Dad was sure to find out and get pissed. Instead, he concentrated on putting extra butter in the mac and cheese. When he was finished cooking, they ate sitting on the couch, watching sitcoms till Sam snorted milk through his nose. Then they switched to America’s Most Wanted, which both of them watched in complete silence. Then Dean announced that he was going to make chocolate pudding so Sam could watch Perfect Strangers and Dean wouldn’t have to watch it and barf.

“Make a double batch,” said Sam, bouncing on the cushions.

“There’s only one box, idiot.”

Dean went into the kitchen and measured out the milk and poured the powder into a big white, plastic bowl. They didn’t have beaters, so he mixed it all together with a spoon, careful to smash the lumps against the side of the bowl. Then he put the bowl in the fridge, and walked over to throw himself in the Dad chair.

“Only Dad gets to sit there,” said Sam, taking up the couch with his whole body.

“Well, I’m sitting here now,” said Dean, knowing that the only reason he was bold was because Dad wasn’t due back till Sunday.

“I’m going to sit there tomorrow,” said Sam.

“Right. Like you got the guts.”

Dean sank back in the chair, and put his feet up on the ottoman, like Dad did. For a moment, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes, curling his fingers around the worn edges of the armrest. Imagining for a minute that he was Dad, tired, just home from a hunt. Even though he was playing pretend, it made him feel more normal than he had all day. The idea that Dad was home was a good one; he let it sink through him until he felt a little warmer inside.

“Knock it off, boy,” he said, making his voice low and gritty.

“You’re not Dad,” said Sam, not putting up with it.

Dean cracked an eye at Sam, and laughed. Then he hopped up and looked at the clock on the stove. It had been four minutes. He went and checked the pudding, sticking a finger in and licking it. Pretty firm. He got two spoons from the drawer, grabbed the bowl, and went back to the Dad chair. But Sam was sitting in it.

“That’s my seat, Sam, get out.”

“You move,” said Sam, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, both hands on the armrest, “you lose.”

“Get out, Sam, or I’ll make you.”

“Make me.”

Dean appraised the situation for a minute. The chair was big enough for two and it was selfish of him to hog the whole thing, even though Sam was wrong. He’d only left the chair because of the pudding. So, tucking the bowl against his hip, he tossed the spoons at Sam, and shimmied in to sit beside him, making Sam go close against one armrest while he snugged himself against the other.

“Big enough for two,” said Dean, his hip banging against Sam’s.

“Maybe,” said Sam.

Dean picked up a spoon where it had fallen in between their thighs and flicked some of the pudding at Sam with it. “Maybe, hell. It’s big enough because I said it was.”

“And I said maybe.” Sam grabbed a spoon and flicked some pudding back at him.

Then Dean took a mouthful of pudding. It was a bit soupy, but it was sweet and cold. “Maybe, baby,” he said, licking the back of the spoon. Then he looked at Sam, who had taken a big mouthful of pudding, so much so, that his cheeks were bulging.

“Don’t you spit that pudding at me,” said Dean, tucking his chin down in warning.

“Mmmmm?” asked Sam, eyebrows protesting his innocence.

“I mean it, Sam. You spit that at me and you’ll be sorry.”

“Mmmmmmpf,” said Sam in response, cheeks bulging even harder as he tried not to laugh.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Sam dared. Exploding, the pudding went all over Dean, all over the lamp behind him. Dean scooped up some pudding with his spoon, and flicking the spoon back with his finger, splashed it all over Sam’s face. Sam was laughing so hard, he didn’t care, and scooped his hand in the bowl and flung the contents of it at Dean. Dean tried to fling some back, and ended up getting most of the pudding on the wall. Mouth open, almost screaming with it, laughing so hard, his stomach hurt. And then the pudding was gone. Dean looked up. There was even some on the ceiling.

“Oh, shit. Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

Sam shrugged. Smiled, pudding dripping from his nose. “Not if we clean it up first and promise not to tell.”

*

Run.

Run.

Run.

It didn't matter how fast. He could see Gunnarson's face glowing bright through a black window. It kept getting closer all the time, no matter what he did or what he ducked behind.

He was so tired. But if he stopped, Gunnarson would get him, and hold him, and touch him. He couldn't let that happen.

Someone was shaking him and then his eyes were open in the almost-black room. Sam was actually sitting up, leaning over him.

"Hey," said Sammy, and even though his voice grouchy with sleep, his hand was light on Dean's arm. "Are you awake now?"

Dean grunted, and then rolled over to face the other way. His whole body felt like it had been twisted through with screws, and his legs ached as though he'd been running.

"Sleep now, Sammy," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"No more dreaming out loud, then," said Sam. Dean felt his body thump back down on the mattress. He tried to make himself breathe slowly and quietly but it was hard. Something wet leaked into his ear and soaked into the pillow. He wished Dad was home.

Saturday, January 18th, 1992

In the morning, the sun streamed in through the crack in the curtain, waking Dean up like a knife had lanced through his head. Sam was still asleep, still face down in the pillow, so Dean slipped out of bed, and kept the covers low so a draft wouldn’t wake the kid up. Then he stepped into the bathroom, and turned on the water to fill the tub. They’d not gotten around to getting a shower curtain yet, so any bathing that had taken place had been in calf-deep water.

The water steamed in the chilly air as the tub filled, and Dean took his pjs off and climbed in, reaching for the bar of soap from the sink, standing and bending to lather it up.

He didn’t want to look, but the bruises were there, shaped like puzzle pieces below his belly button, where the dark hair was starting to grow. He touched the top of one bruise with the side of his thumb and thought, yeah, it might hurt to pee. It was too late for ice, but if he left the bruises alone, like Dad always said you should do, leave it alone and don’t mess with it, then the bruises would fade. Even there.

Washing up, half crouched down, made his thighs ache, but it felt good to take the plastic pitcher and pour the water over his head and to feel it sliding down his back. He rinsed his hair extra well, and then bent forward to pull out the plastic drain. Water began to swirl in grey ropes down the drain, and then he grabbed the towel from the rack and dried off. By the time he was dressed, Sam was waking up, wanting to know when they were going to the 7-11 for candy.

“Was that today?” he asked.

Sam climbed out of bed and began taking off his pjs and pulling on jeans and his t-shirt from yesterday. “There’s no school,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on some socks. Then he shook his bangs out of his eyes. “And Dad’s not here.”

“Then we should go today,” said Dean.

It was only eight o'clock or so, so they got bowls of cereal with the last of the milk and watched cartoons as they sat on the floor, their backs propped up against the couch. Then they rinsed out their bowls and while Dean went to get the baggie of money from the sock drawer, Sam put on his coat and his sneakers, and his one mitten, holding the amputated string in his other fist. Then he hopped from foot to foot.

“Come on, Dean, come on,” he said, opening the front door when Dean had his jacket only on halfway. “How far is it?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” said Dean, testing the knob as they stepped out and Dean pulled the door behind him. Snow scattered like dust at his feet. The air was icy, the sky a sharp blue. “Maybe two miles?”

Sam shrugged and hopped down the stairs, hair flying, coat trailing out behind him.

“Zip up your coat, you dork,” said Dean, buttoning his.

Sam did as he was told and they set out, walking westward towards the bright mountains, keeping on the side of the road facing oncoming traffic, well away from the road, running sometimes, walking others. They soon reached the 7-11, where Sam raced to the candy aisle first thing and began humming to himself as he looked over the selection.

When Dean joined him, he asked, “How much do we have?”

Dean had already counted the money as they’d walked. “Ten dollars and sixty cents.”

“That’s five dollars and thirty cents each, right?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. I’m getting all chocolate.”

This made Sam smile, then he returned his attention to the rack. Predictably, he grabbed a bag of gummi bears and then a bag of miniature peanut butter cups along with some red licorice. Dean could tell that this went over five dollars, so he grabbed a Hershey’s, a bag of pixie sticks, and a little bag of peanut M and M’s. “Okay,” he said.

Then they walked home. The wind was at their backs and the sun was higher in the sky, so even though it was still cold, it was pleasant. They opened the candy, and Sam traded him some gummi bears for some pixie sticks, and they munched on the gummis, tipped the straws into their mouths, and opened one peanut butter cup each. By the time they got to the trailer, the Impala was there.

Inside, Dad was making coffee at the stove, flannel sleeves rolled up, toast in the toaster, warming the inside of the trailer with his presence. He smiled at them and nodded as he poured from the coffee pot into a large mug. Dean could see he was half awake, and barely that. From the grit on his neck, Dean could tell that washing up after the hunt had come second to getting coffee.

“Candy run?” he asked, leaning back against the sink to drink his coffee black.

Sam put his coat on the back of the chair, clutching his candy to him. Dean could only stand there with a bag in his hand; the evidence was clear enough. It only took two seconds for the second question to come. And the third.

“Have you done your homework?" This question was almost automatic as if Dad already knew the answer he expected to hear. Then he paused, tipping his head to one side, the coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "Where did you get the candy? And where’d you get the money for candy?”

While Dean'd brought homework home, he’d not started. As for the candy money, that was another story. Sam looked at him, frozen by the dining room table, both hands on his coat.

"The 7-11," said Dean. "We walked there before the traffic got too bad."

"All the way into town?"

Dean nodded.

"And the money?"

Dean paused, looking at the candy. For some reason his brain refused to move backwards and, as hard as he tried, he could not remember.

"I don't know," he said shrugging.

"You don’t know? Son, you had to get it from somewhere."

A squirrelly panic began to build up in his stomach and his lips were dry. He licked them and looked up at his father, blinking.

"Don't tell me you took money from the emergency jar, Dean you know that-"

"It's his lunch money, Dad," said Sammy swallowing. "He saved up. And me too."

"Shut up, you jerk," said Dean.

There was a long, cold pause from Dad as he put his coffee mug on the counter. Then he leaned back on his hands as they curled around the edge of it. “Is this right, Dean? You used your lunch money?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean shrugged and looked down at his hands. The smell of the open bag of candy was entirely unappetizing at that moment.

“But you said it was a dollar. How do you have leftover money?"

“It-it wasn’t a dollar after all for Sam,” said Dean. Swallowing. Ducking his head. Knowing the problem wasn’t that they’d used the extra money for candy, but that they’d lied about it by not bringing it up. Knew it right away, in the fast second as Dad’s feet suddenly came into view. "He had forty-five cents in change every day. We stockpiled it."

"Look at me, Dean," said Dad.

Dean looked up. Dad was scowling, his dark brows drawn down, mouth angry beneath a day's beardgrowth. "Are you telling me-From the looks of it, you spent more than just what Sam had in change. Let me see the receipt."

Dean shrugged. He could do numbers in his head and always did well in math class, but for some reason, he could not remember how much they'd spent at the 7-11, even though it had only been an hour or so ago.

"Receipt," said Dad, snapping this out. He held his hand out and waited like that while Dean dug in his pockets, feeling lint and crumpled paper. Instead of trying to separate the mess, he pulled it all out and plunked it on the table. There was a dollar bill and some quarters and pennies mixed with some thread. And the receipt. Dad fished it out and unfolded it.

For a moment, he looked at it, not saying anything. It was when his eyebrows drew together that Dean figured he was in trouble.

"You gave him over ten dollars, Dean. How many days did you go without lunch? Every day?"

Squirming, Dean thought about this and tried to remember. But there was a big blank spot where his school day should have been, so he couldn’t pin down any of it, let alone the time he should have been eating lunch.

"Weren't you hungry?" asked Dad, his head tipping to the side in a way that told Dean he was ready to listen, but that Dean had better speak up.

"I think so-I mean, I just got busy."

"Too busy to eat lunch."

Dean had no answer for this. As far as he could recollect, he'd not gone anywhere near the lunchroom. Why that was, he had no idea.

"What have I told you about that?"

There was a question in Dad's voice that wanted more than the obvious answer. Dad wanted to hear the thing about an army traveling on its stomach as well as its feet plus why Dean hadn't been eating. But Dean couldn’t tell him. He didn't know himself.

"Soldiers got to eat, Dad, that's what you said." His voice shook as he said this; he knew he was letting Dad down by the omission that could count as a lie on top of which, he simply could not remember why he was not eating lunch. He was about to open his mouth and apologize when Dad stopped him with a look.

“What have we talked about, Dean? What have we talked about?”

Dean couldn’t raise his head. Dad took the bags of candy from his hand, contained rage making them tremble.

“Dean?” This was a question both and a command to answer. Behind him, Dean could hear Sam shuffling while he put his gummis and the peanut butter cups on the table and backed away. “Answer me.”

He swallowed but couldn’t work up enough spit. It had been a crappy week and this on top of everything else just made it worse. His voice was frozen in his throat, and that just set Dad off.

“If I can’t trust you to be honest about this,” he shook the pixie sticks at Dean, “then I can’t trust you to back me up in a hunt. You follow me? I’ve got to be able to count on you in the field; I can’t do that, if I know you’re keeping shit like this from me.”

The voice was loud; it boomed in Dean’s head. Behind him, Sammy sniffed.

They were both in trouble. Dad picked up the candy, all of it, and threw it on top of the fridge. Then he grabbed Dean’s coat and took it off, roughly. Grabbing him by the collar he shoved him in a chair. A second later, the grey messenger bag landed in front of him.

“You’re going to finish this,” he said. “All of it. Every assignment. And I’m keeping the candy until I can trust you to be honest with me.”

Then he pointed at Sam, still frozen.

“And you, go to your room. You can do your homework there. Shut the door.”

Isolation, then, for both of them. Which of them it would be worse on, Dean didn’t know. Only that as he began taking books out of his bag, he never wanted to cry so much in his life. He had to bite his lower lip to keep it from shaking, to almost hold his breath against the tears. Waited till Dad had gone into the front bedroom and slammed the door, coffee cooling in a mug that sat forgotten on the counter. All the warmth gone out of the room. For a moment, he lowered his forehead until it touched the top of the table. Let his chest shake, and his face tighten up, and thought he was going to die. And the candy hadn’t even tasted good.

Dad came out of the front bedroom and then went out to the Impala. Dean heard him opening and shutting the doors with extra force. Then, with a slam, Dad was in the trailer, filling it up. Angry, still. Then he came over to Dean, to where Dean sat with his pencil in his hands, a stack of books at his elbow, and an empty sheet of paper in front of him.

“Dean.”

Dean folded the pencil between his two hands till it threatened to break.

“Dean, look at me.”

Dean looked up, raising his face till he was looking in Dad’s eyes, which glittered hard and were narrowed.

“What is going on with you, son? This isn’t like you, lying to me.”

It took Dean a minute to figure out what Dad was saying. What Dad was asking him. Dean knew he could figure it out, he just needed a little more time. Besides, Dad always liked it more when his boys figured out their own problems. It would make them into men, into hunters, one day.

Dean shrugged. “New school,” he said. “It’s not like the others.”

“None of them are like the others, Dean, so that’s not an answer.”

Dean blinked. Still looking at Dad, seeing the tired lines on the familiar face, the dark, watchful eyes. The mouth, not smiling. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “I just thought-”

“Thought you were being clever? Pulling a fast one on the old man?”

This made Dean nod. It was as good an answer as any. “Yeah. Dumb, huh?”

Dad nodded, hands on his hips, but his shoulders relaxed, now that his point had been made. “Pulling a fast one is not the problem, pulling one on me, is. You got that, Dean?”

Dean nodded. Dad went to the top of the fridge and pulled out the candy.

"Don’t know that I should let you keep this candy," he said, his eyes stern. "At the very least you're grounded for a week from gallivanting off to the 7-11."

Chewing on his lip, Dean felt his eyes grow hot. "Half of it's Sammy's," he managed around the hardness in his throat. "Don't take Sammy's candy, Dad, please?"

In the silence, Dad put in front of Dean one piece of each kind of candy to eat while he did his homework, even though the gummi’s and the peanut butter cups were Sam’s. Which Dad knew. Then he took the same amount into the back room and came back, shutting the door carefully behind him, as though he’d just gotten done feeding a tiger and wanted to make sure it didn’t get out. The message was clear. They were to finish their homework and give Dad some peace and quiet.

“You can have more tomorrow. And you will use your lunch money on lunches, is that understood?"

"Yes, Dad."

Then Dad went into the front bedroom and closed the door behind him.
 Dean let himself shake. Watched the paper on the table wrinkle as his tears fell.

Part 6