The Ballad of the Invisible Boy: Part Seven.
Part Six.
It’s nearly 4pm by the time Dad gets back. Sam and Dean have put the tiny cabin into a sort of working order, putting the things that needed refrigerating out under a few inches of snow. There’s a fire going and a pot of chili heating over it. Sam is reading and Dean is cleaning his gun when the Impala rumbles up and Dad pushes into the cabin, grunting and breathless and armed with a few plastic bags.
Dean jumps up to help him, smiling when he sees some of the stuff he and Sam had already gotten at Wal-Mart, along with a few other things, including a Walkman, several packs of AA batteries, two packages of Oreos, and some beer.
“Dad, you planning on working out at the gym or somethin’?” Dean grins when he pulls out the Walkman brand-new in the package. He fishes around in his back pocket and pulls out his knife to cut it open.
“No, smartass. I was gonna leave it here with you two to make up for the fact that there’s no TV or anything. I’m thinkin’ I might take it back.” Dad cuffs Dean lightly on the back of the head, shaking his head with a grin as he puts away the other stuff.
Dean does a little happy jig as he rips it open, his eyes bright.
“Can I bring in some of the tapes from the car?”
“That was the thought. I sure as hell’m not gonna buy you a bunch of new ones.”
“Awesome.” Dean beams over at Sam who is still reading his book, Kurt Vonnegut or something. His smile falters a little. “Thanks, Dad.”
Dad grunts his reply but he’s still smiling. “Talked to Aaron. The electricity won’t be on until tomorrow. He’s gotta go deal with the power company after work today. Looks like you boys already got dinner figured out, so it won’t be so bad.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
They both look over at Sam who is looking right at Dad, his book lowered. It just takes Dean one glance at his father to know that Sam’s right. He puts the Walkman down on the counter, the gift tainted now, somehow.
“Got a call from Bobby. He said there’s--”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad. Whatever.”
Sam lifts the book back up to his face and Dad sighs. Dean shifts where he’s standing between them, trying not to look at either of them, really.
“It won’t be that long. A week, tops. Then--”
“You know that Dean’s birthday is next week, right?”
“Yes, Sam. I’m aware. Thank you.” Dad shuts the cabinet hard, making Dean jump a little. Dean walks back over to the fireplace, grabbing up the wooden spoon they’d unearthed from one of the drawers to stir the chili. He wishes they’d remembered to grab some onions.
“So, what? You’re gonna be gone for Dean’s birthday, and you’re just okay with that? Like always? This is his sixteenth birthday, Dad. That’s--”
“I know that, Sam! Jesus Christ, do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Dad turns to look at Sam, his face bright with anger.
Dean takes a quick breath as his heart rate picks up. He hates this, hates them fighting, hates wanting to defend his father even though Sam is defending him. By the time Dean turns back around, Sam is on his feet, still standing in front of the chair but he looks ready to charge at Dad.
“You think knowing and going anyway makes you a better father? Because it doesn’t! Because then you’re doing it on purpose! It’d be better if you just forgot!”
Dad takes a deep breath, probably to yell more but he lets it out in a huff. He reaches down to untie his boots, kicking them off next to the fridge before he looks over at Sam again.
“Sam, you know what? I’m going to go change. By the time I get back, this attitude of yours had better be fucking buried because if it’s not, you’re gonna be doing wind sprints out in three feet of snow, how’s that sound?”
“Like you feel guilty for being an asshole to your son.”
Dad marches over to Sam and lifts him up by the front of his shirt, pushing him toward the door.
“Outside. Twenty sprints from the bottom of the hill to the steps. Now.”
Dean interferes then, hobbling over to stand between Sam and their dad, looking at his dad with his most imploring eyes.
“Dad, it’s freezing out there. Sammy’s just tired, he doesn’t--”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Sam is right at Dean’s back, his voice venomous in Dean’s ear. Dean turns to look at Sam, his eyes huge.
“Sam, god, just shut up, man. Or else you’re--”
“I don’t care! I don’t fucking care. It’s your birthday.” Sam shoves past Dean with tears in his eyes. He stops right next to Dad, so much smaller than him but his fury makes Sam seem to almost hover over him.
“You don’t deserve to be here for his birthday anyway. You’d just ruin it.”
Sam rips the door open and steps out into the snow wearing just his long-sleeved t-shirt and his jeans. He stomps down the porch in his boots and out into the snow. Dean grabs Sam’s coat from the chair and hurries after him.
“Sam, put your fucking coat on right now! Right now or I swear to god, I will kick your ass if you get sick.”
Sam stops halfway down the hill and walks back up, his head down. He snatches the coat from Dean without even looking at him and turns to run back down the hill. Dean watches him until he reaches the bottom and is on his way back up, his cheeks red from cold and tears. Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face.
When he goes back into the cabin and shuts the door, Dad is nowhere to be seen, the door to his bedroom shut. Dean sinks down into the chair, letting his eyes fall closed, trying to ignore the sharp, throbbing ache of his thigh.
--
Sam comes inside twenty minutes later, sweat dripping from his face. Dean has taken the chili off the fire to let it cool and is engrossed in the second chapter of Cat’s Cradle that Sam had thrown beside the chair. He tosses the book down and jumps up, his eyes traveling Sam’s body worriedly.
“Hey,” he says, testing out the waters. Sam just takes his coat off and tosses it on their bed, pulling his shirt off over his head and walking over to his duffel in the corner. Dean doesn’t say anything else, knows when to leave Sam to his thoughts.
Dean grabs three bowls from the cabinet, only finding two regular sized spoons and one gigantic one that he figures he’ll use. He pulls out a pack of saltines and clears his throat before yelling toward Dad’s room.
“Dinner’s ready!”
Dean looks back up at Sam and sees that he’s shivering hard, teeth chattering. Dean shuffles over to the fireplace as fast as he can, ripping up some of the classified newspapers they’d picked up outside of Wal-Mart and tossing them in along with a couple of new logs, stoking the fire again before Sam dies of fucking pneumonia.
Dad emerges just in time to see Sam pull on one of Dean’s old hoodies, to see his sweaty little face and the tremble of his entire body. Dean can tell by the tiny way Dad pauses, the hesitation on his face for a single second that he regrets telling Sam to go outside. Dean figures he probably hadn’t even really meant it but he should have known. Sam is more fucking stubborn than anybody Dean has ever met.
“Hope you guys are hungry,” he says in the most cheerful tone he can find but it falls a little flat. “It’s not as spicy as normal, but it smells good.”
“It does smell good,” Dad echoes and Dean feels some of the tension leave his body. He knows the sound of a peace offering from Dad and that definitely counts as one. Dean hands Dad a bowl with a faint smile and he goes still when Sam approaches. Sam grabs another one of the bowls and the huge spoon, holding onto it tight when Dean reaches for it.
“I’ll use it, Dean. It’s okay.” He meets Dean’s eyes and it makes Dean annoyingly, stupidly emotional, just that single look in Sam’s eyes. Apologetic, protective, a little hurt. He wants to take Sam’s frozen hands and pull them under his own shirt, freeze himself to death just to warm him up again. Wants to rub his face all over Sam’s just to feel the cold tip of his nose. Dean clears his throat, soft and nervous. He nods over to the big cast iron pot waiting on the countertop.
“Go get some food, kid. I made you some of your juice stuff. Don’t forget some crackers.”
Sam grabs a handful of crackers and plunks them down into his bowl before shuffling over to the pot, scooping out two big heaps of chili with the coffee mug they’re using as a serving spoon. He turns around and almost bumps into Dad, two bowls of chili nearly lost.
Dad nods over at the fire, reaching out to squeeze Sam’s arm gently.
“Sit down next to the fire to warm up, kiddo.”
Sam, by some miracle, obeys. Dean hurries to fix his own bowl and grabs Sam’s orange juice before joining him on the floor, Dad in the chair. They eat in silence, the sound of it so loud that Dean almost screams. There’s no cars outside, no birds, no wind, no people. Nothing but the crackle of the fire, the sounds of spoons hitting ceramic, and three men eating chili.
Dad goes back for seconds of chili and so does Dean. Sam rinses his bowl in the sink, pausing and squinting at something Dean can’t see.
“Dean,” Sam says, his voice odd. Dean pauses mid-chew, sitting up a little straighter, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
“Where did this magazine come from?”
Dean opens his mouth to ask what magazine and then he remembers. He swallows before he’s even done chewing which makes him choke a little. He takes a swig of water and clears his throat, face beet red by the time he’s done.
“Dunno. Must’ve fallen into the cart, I guess.”
Sam holds the magazine up, wicked amusement all over his face. He’s smiling so hard his dimples are showing and there it is. That damn magazine.
“Why did you get a Women’s World magazine?”
All three of them stop what they’re doing and just stare at the magazine, the cover bright with some middle-aged lady looking chemically happy in the middle and a few pictures of food surrounding her with enticing headlines like “Boost Your Mood, Your Energy, and Your Spirits!” and “Lose 7lbs. in Five Days!” and “Make a Cupcake Bouquet of HAPPINESS!”
Sam and Dad both turn to look at Dean at the same time.
“It’s just, uh. Heh.” Dean clears his throat again compulsively. He pokes around at his chili with his spoon, shrugging. “It had a, um. A recipe.”
Sam and Dad exchange a look.
“A recipe,” they repeat in unision.
“Yeah, for like. A potato casserole using cornflakes I thought Sammy would like. I didn’t want to just rip it out, so.” He sniffs casually, looking around the cabin, anywhere but at his dad and his brother. He finally can’t take it anymore and looks over at Sam out of the corner of his eyes and he’s startled by the starry look he’s getting from him.
“You got a mom magazine so you could make me food from it?”
“Oh, Jesus. I didn’t save a fuckin’ baby seal or nothin’.”
Dad hides his laughter in mouthfuls of chili and Sam doesn’t say anything else. After Dad downs the last of his beer and starts to laugh outright, Dean tenses up, eyes wide with indignation.
“Hey! You let Sam dress you up like Snow White once so he could be a witch and give you a poison apple!”
“Okay, wait, hold on a minute. I was the manliest Snow White on the planet, I’ll have you know,” Dad shoots back, pointing his empty bottle at Dean.
“Dad. I just want you to replay that sentence in your head. Just think about what you just said.”
“Who cried during The Mighty Ducks?”
“Hey!” Dean jumps up, his voice squeaking a little. Dad sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed in amusement. “Don’t you bring the Ducks into this! That was a heartfelt movie! Quack, Dad! Quack!”
Dad’s face is priceless, his eyes dramatically wide.
“Uh-huh.”
Dean huffs. “You cried when Mufasa died!”
“Who didn’t!?”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, clearly you have a heart of stone, Winchester!”
“Your... face is a heart of stone,” Dean retorts, in full fake pout mode as he limps over to the kitchen where Sam is still standing, leafing through the magazine. Dean glares at him as hard as he can only to have Sam beam up at him, his eyes sparkling like a damn cartoon. Dean groans and runs water into his bowl.
“You love me,” Sam says with a happy sigh.
“Ugh, shut up.”
“You loooove me!”
“How could I love such an annoying little shit?”
“I don’t know but you dooo.” Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and sticks right to his side, a goofy grin plastered all over his face. Dean sighs and wraps his arm around Sam, snuffling his nose around in his hair for just a second before he squeezes him one last time and lets him go.
“Go open the game, short stack. I’m blue.”
“But I wanna be blue!”
“Tough titty. I’m blue and I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“I think you boys forget that I’m the Trouble Champion of the United States of America.” Dad puts his bowl aside and leans forward, cracking his knuckles. “I feel sorry for you both.”
“Yeah, we’ll see, old man,” Sam replies as he rips the plastic off. And just like that, they’re all back to normal. Dean has to keep his grin in check as he settles down on the bed, scooting back just enough so that Sam can set the board up on the edge of it.
--
Two games of Trouble, three beers for Dad and two for Dean, a whole package of Oreos, a thumb war, five death threats, one victory for Sam and one for Dad later, Sam is all but asleep. He’s curled up on the bed with his head on Dean’s good leg, his arms tangled around Dean’s calf, fingers curled around his ankle. Dean is petting his hair absently, watching as Dad puts the game back up, all the pieces going back into their proper containers, the rules folded up right. The small fire in the fireplace is the only light left, the smell from the kerosene lamp still lingering.
Dad closes the box and pushes it away, sitting back in the chair with a heavy, happy groan. He yawns, trying to stifle it behind his hand. Dean just watches him, an easy smile on his lips. Sam shifts against him, tucking up tighter against Dean. Dad looks over at them after a moment and shakes his head.
“That boy,” he sighs, his eyes on Sam. His voice is soft, meant only for Dean. Dean takes the opportunity to look down at Sam, at all that long hair in his face, his small body almost gymnastically contorted around Dean’s. Dean runs the pad of his thumb over the shell of Sam’s ear, tracing it all the way down to the lobe and then back up again. His smile is quieter now, heart-deep.
“Hellion,” Dean whispers, his voice flooded with warmth. “You know he doesn’t mean half the shit he says, Dad.”
“No, he does,” Dad laughs quietly, lifting a hand to rub at his scruffy chin. “He does, make no mistake. But that’s okay. He’s got fight in him, just like his mom. I can’t fault him for it. No matter how much I want to strangle him sometimes.”
Dean exhales a little breath of a laugh, his gaze far-off, lost somewhere near the fireplace. Dad doesn’t talk about Mom much, and Dean savors every little hint about her, collects them in his mind. He’s been putting her together like a puzzle since he was little.
“It’s okay, you know. That you can’t be here. It doesn’t matter. ‘S just another day.” Dean says it because he knows he needs to, not because he means it. He’s rubbing Sam’s back now, hand flat and light along his little shoulder blades, over the notches of his spine through his oversized hoodie.
Dad doesn’t say anything back because there’s nothing to say. They stay quiet just like that for several minutes, the fire crackling across the room, the smell of it permeating everything. Dean loves the smell of a fireplace. He loves a contained fire, one that is only there to help.
“You mean the world to him.”
Dean looks up for that, meeting Dad’s eyes, trying to understand where it came from. Dad is watching them, watching Dean’s hand on Sam, Sam’s viney hold on Dean. He raises his eyebrows at Dean, gives a single nod.
“I mean it. You hung the moon, to him. He looks at you like there’s nobody else in the world worth seein’. He’d bare-knuckle fight anybody who came at him to defend you.”
Dean thinks this over, quiet, his eyes soft on his little brother. His touch becomes more solid, palms warm on Sam’s back, in his hair.
“I feel the same way about him,” he admits, barely loud enough for Dad to hear him. He’s very aware of his heart, the warmth of it in his chest, the fierce, bright glow he always feels when he thinks about Sammy, really thinks about him. He doesn’t know what else to say, can’t let out any of the hundred words tangled up around that one big word in his head: Sam. It’s for him and Sam alone, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever talk about it, not to anybody. Not even to Sam himself. It just is, it’s just there, and they don’t need words for it. Never have.
“I know you do.” Dad reaches over and ruffles Dean’s hair, just a gentle scruff before he stands up. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve gotta be up at four to leave for Sioux Falls again. Get some sleep, boy.”
“Yessir. Night, Dad.”
Dad disappears into the bedroom, the door creaking and clicking shut. Dean’s left alone with Sam sleeping on him and he smiles down at him. He shifts as gently as he can manage, moving to lay down on the bed next to him, repositioning them until Sam is curled up all along Dean’s side, those gangly spider limbs wrapping around Dean, keeping him right where he is.
Like Dean would ever want to be anywhere else.
next.
It’s nearly 4pm by the time Dad gets back. Sam and Dean have put the tiny cabin into a sort of working order, putting the things that needed refrigerating out under a few inches of snow. There’s a fire going and a pot of chili heating over it. Sam is reading and Dean is cleaning his gun when the Impala rumbles up and Dad pushes into the cabin, grunting and breathless and armed with a few plastic bags.
Dean jumps up to help him, smiling when he sees some of the stuff he and Sam had already gotten at Wal-Mart, along with a few other things, including a Walkman, several packs of AA batteries, two packages of Oreos, and some beer.
“Dad, you planning on working out at the gym or somethin’?” Dean grins when he pulls out the Walkman brand-new in the package. He fishes around in his back pocket and pulls out his knife to cut it open.
“No, smartass. I was gonna leave it here with you two to make up for the fact that there’s no TV or anything. I’m thinkin’ I might take it back.” Dad cuffs Dean lightly on the back of the head, shaking his head with a grin as he puts away the other stuff.
Dean does a little happy jig as he rips it open, his eyes bright.
“Can I bring in some of the tapes from the car?”
“That was the thought. I sure as hell’m not gonna buy you a bunch of new ones.”
“Awesome.” Dean beams over at Sam who is still reading his book, Kurt Vonnegut or something. His smile falters a little. “Thanks, Dad.”
Dad grunts his reply but he’s still smiling. “Talked to Aaron. The electricity won’t be on until tomorrow. He’s gotta go deal with the power company after work today. Looks like you boys already got dinner figured out, so it won’t be so bad.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
They both look over at Sam who is looking right at Dad, his book lowered. It just takes Dean one glance at his father to know that Sam’s right. He puts the Walkman down on the counter, the gift tainted now, somehow.
“Got a call from Bobby. He said there’s--”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad. Whatever.”
Sam lifts the book back up to his face and Dad sighs. Dean shifts where he’s standing between them, trying not to look at either of them, really.
“It won’t be that long. A week, tops. Then--”
“You know that Dean’s birthday is next week, right?”
“Yes, Sam. I’m aware. Thank you.” Dad shuts the cabinet hard, making Dean jump a little. Dean walks back over to the fireplace, grabbing up the wooden spoon they’d unearthed from one of the drawers to stir the chili. He wishes they’d remembered to grab some onions.
“So, what? You’re gonna be gone for Dean’s birthday, and you’re just okay with that? Like always? This is his sixteenth birthday, Dad. That’s--”
“I know that, Sam! Jesus Christ, do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Dad turns to look at Sam, his face bright with anger.
Dean takes a quick breath as his heart rate picks up. He hates this, hates them fighting, hates wanting to defend his father even though Sam is defending him. By the time Dean turns back around, Sam is on his feet, still standing in front of the chair but he looks ready to charge at Dad.
“You think knowing and going anyway makes you a better father? Because it doesn’t! Because then you’re doing it on purpose! It’d be better if you just forgot!”
Dad takes a deep breath, probably to yell more but he lets it out in a huff. He reaches down to untie his boots, kicking them off next to the fridge before he looks over at Sam again.
“Sam, you know what? I’m going to go change. By the time I get back, this attitude of yours had better be fucking buried because if it’s not, you’re gonna be doing wind sprints out in three feet of snow, how’s that sound?”
“Like you feel guilty for being an asshole to your son.”
Dad marches over to Sam and lifts him up by the front of his shirt, pushing him toward the door.
“Outside. Twenty sprints from the bottom of the hill to the steps. Now.”
Dean interferes then, hobbling over to stand between Sam and their dad, looking at his dad with his most imploring eyes.
“Dad, it’s freezing out there. Sammy’s just tired, he doesn’t--”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Sam is right at Dean’s back, his voice venomous in Dean’s ear. Dean turns to look at Sam, his eyes huge.
“Sam, god, just shut up, man. Or else you’re--”
“I don’t care! I don’t fucking care. It’s your birthday.” Sam shoves past Dean with tears in his eyes. He stops right next to Dad, so much smaller than him but his fury makes Sam seem to almost hover over him.
“You don’t deserve to be here for his birthday anyway. You’d just ruin it.”
Sam rips the door open and steps out into the snow wearing just his long-sleeved t-shirt and his jeans. He stomps down the porch in his boots and out into the snow. Dean grabs Sam’s coat from the chair and hurries after him.
“Sam, put your fucking coat on right now! Right now or I swear to god, I will kick your ass if you get sick.”
Sam stops halfway down the hill and walks back up, his head down. He snatches the coat from Dean without even looking at him and turns to run back down the hill. Dean watches him until he reaches the bottom and is on his way back up, his cheeks red from cold and tears. Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face.
When he goes back into the cabin and shuts the door, Dad is nowhere to be seen, the door to his bedroom shut. Dean sinks down into the chair, letting his eyes fall closed, trying to ignore the sharp, throbbing ache of his thigh.
--
Sam comes inside twenty minutes later, sweat dripping from his face. Dean has taken the chili off the fire to let it cool and is engrossed in the second chapter of Cat’s Cradle that Sam had thrown beside the chair. He tosses the book down and jumps up, his eyes traveling Sam’s body worriedly.
“Hey,” he says, testing out the waters. Sam just takes his coat off and tosses it on their bed, pulling his shirt off over his head and walking over to his duffel in the corner. Dean doesn’t say anything else, knows when to leave Sam to his thoughts.
Dean grabs three bowls from the cabinet, only finding two regular sized spoons and one gigantic one that he figures he’ll use. He pulls out a pack of saltines and clears his throat before yelling toward Dad’s room.
“Dinner’s ready!”
Dean looks back up at Sam and sees that he’s shivering hard, teeth chattering. Dean shuffles over to the fireplace as fast as he can, ripping up some of the classified newspapers they’d picked up outside of Wal-Mart and tossing them in along with a couple of new logs, stoking the fire again before Sam dies of fucking pneumonia.
Dad emerges just in time to see Sam pull on one of Dean’s old hoodies, to see his sweaty little face and the tremble of his entire body. Dean can tell by the tiny way Dad pauses, the hesitation on his face for a single second that he regrets telling Sam to go outside. Dean figures he probably hadn’t even really meant it but he should have known. Sam is more fucking stubborn than anybody Dean has ever met.
“Hope you guys are hungry,” he says in the most cheerful tone he can find but it falls a little flat. “It’s not as spicy as normal, but it smells good.”
“It does smell good,” Dad echoes and Dean feels some of the tension leave his body. He knows the sound of a peace offering from Dad and that definitely counts as one. Dean hands Dad a bowl with a faint smile and he goes still when Sam approaches. Sam grabs another one of the bowls and the huge spoon, holding onto it tight when Dean reaches for it.
“I’ll use it, Dean. It’s okay.” He meets Dean’s eyes and it makes Dean annoyingly, stupidly emotional, just that single look in Sam’s eyes. Apologetic, protective, a little hurt. He wants to take Sam’s frozen hands and pull them under his own shirt, freeze himself to death just to warm him up again. Wants to rub his face all over Sam’s just to feel the cold tip of his nose. Dean clears his throat, soft and nervous. He nods over to the big cast iron pot waiting on the countertop.
“Go get some food, kid. I made you some of your juice stuff. Don’t forget some crackers.”
Sam grabs a handful of crackers and plunks them down into his bowl before shuffling over to the pot, scooping out two big heaps of chili with the coffee mug they’re using as a serving spoon. He turns around and almost bumps into Dad, two bowls of chili nearly lost.
Dad nods over at the fire, reaching out to squeeze Sam’s arm gently.
“Sit down next to the fire to warm up, kiddo.”
Sam, by some miracle, obeys. Dean hurries to fix his own bowl and grabs Sam’s orange juice before joining him on the floor, Dad in the chair. They eat in silence, the sound of it so loud that Dean almost screams. There’s no cars outside, no birds, no wind, no people. Nothing but the crackle of the fire, the sounds of spoons hitting ceramic, and three men eating chili.
Dad goes back for seconds of chili and so does Dean. Sam rinses his bowl in the sink, pausing and squinting at something Dean can’t see.
“Dean,” Sam says, his voice odd. Dean pauses mid-chew, sitting up a little straighter, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
“Where did this magazine come from?”
Dean opens his mouth to ask what magazine and then he remembers. He swallows before he’s even done chewing which makes him choke a little. He takes a swig of water and clears his throat, face beet red by the time he’s done.
“Dunno. Must’ve fallen into the cart, I guess.”
Sam holds the magazine up, wicked amusement all over his face. He’s smiling so hard his dimples are showing and there it is. That damn magazine.
“Why did you get a Women’s World magazine?”
All three of them stop what they’re doing and just stare at the magazine, the cover bright with some middle-aged lady looking chemically happy in the middle and a few pictures of food surrounding her with enticing headlines like “Boost Your Mood, Your Energy, and Your Spirits!” and “Lose 7lbs. in Five Days!” and “Make a Cupcake Bouquet of HAPPINESS!”
Sam and Dad both turn to look at Dean at the same time.
“It’s just, uh. Heh.” Dean clears his throat again compulsively. He pokes around at his chili with his spoon, shrugging. “It had a, um. A recipe.”
Sam and Dad exchange a look.
“A recipe,” they repeat in unision.
“Yeah, for like. A potato casserole using cornflakes I thought Sammy would like. I didn’t want to just rip it out, so.” He sniffs casually, looking around the cabin, anywhere but at his dad and his brother. He finally can’t take it anymore and looks over at Sam out of the corner of his eyes and he’s startled by the starry look he’s getting from him.
“You got a mom magazine so you could make me food from it?”
“Oh, Jesus. I didn’t save a fuckin’ baby seal or nothin’.”
Dad hides his laughter in mouthfuls of chili and Sam doesn’t say anything else. After Dad downs the last of his beer and starts to laugh outright, Dean tenses up, eyes wide with indignation.
“Hey! You let Sam dress you up like Snow White once so he could be a witch and give you a poison apple!”
“Okay, wait, hold on a minute. I was the manliest Snow White on the planet, I’ll have you know,” Dad shoots back, pointing his empty bottle at Dean.
“Dad. I just want you to replay that sentence in your head. Just think about what you just said.”
“Who cried during The Mighty Ducks?”
“Hey!” Dean jumps up, his voice squeaking a little. Dad sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed in amusement. “Don’t you bring the Ducks into this! That was a heartfelt movie! Quack, Dad! Quack!”
Dad’s face is priceless, his eyes dramatically wide.
“Uh-huh.”
Dean huffs. “You cried when Mufasa died!”
“Who didn’t!?”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, clearly you have a heart of stone, Winchester!”
“Your... face is a heart of stone,” Dean retorts, in full fake pout mode as he limps over to the kitchen where Sam is still standing, leafing through the magazine. Dean glares at him as hard as he can only to have Sam beam up at him, his eyes sparkling like a damn cartoon. Dean groans and runs water into his bowl.
“You love me,” Sam says with a happy sigh.
“Ugh, shut up.”
“You loooove me!”
“How could I love such an annoying little shit?”
“I don’t know but you dooo.” Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and sticks right to his side, a goofy grin plastered all over his face. Dean sighs and wraps his arm around Sam, snuffling his nose around in his hair for just a second before he squeezes him one last time and lets him go.
“Go open the game, short stack. I’m blue.”
“But I wanna be blue!”
“Tough titty. I’m blue and I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“I think you boys forget that I’m the Trouble Champion of the United States of America.” Dad puts his bowl aside and leans forward, cracking his knuckles. “I feel sorry for you both.”
“Yeah, we’ll see, old man,” Sam replies as he rips the plastic off. And just like that, they’re all back to normal. Dean has to keep his grin in check as he settles down on the bed, scooting back just enough so that Sam can set the board up on the edge of it.
--
Two games of Trouble, three beers for Dad and two for Dean, a whole package of Oreos, a thumb war, five death threats, one victory for Sam and one for Dad later, Sam is all but asleep. He’s curled up on the bed with his head on Dean’s good leg, his arms tangled around Dean’s calf, fingers curled around his ankle. Dean is petting his hair absently, watching as Dad puts the game back up, all the pieces going back into their proper containers, the rules folded up right. The small fire in the fireplace is the only light left, the smell from the kerosene lamp still lingering.
Dad closes the box and pushes it away, sitting back in the chair with a heavy, happy groan. He yawns, trying to stifle it behind his hand. Dean just watches him, an easy smile on his lips. Sam shifts against him, tucking up tighter against Dean. Dad looks over at them after a moment and shakes his head.
“That boy,” he sighs, his eyes on Sam. His voice is soft, meant only for Dean. Dean takes the opportunity to look down at Sam, at all that long hair in his face, his small body almost gymnastically contorted around Dean’s. Dean runs the pad of his thumb over the shell of Sam’s ear, tracing it all the way down to the lobe and then back up again. His smile is quieter now, heart-deep.
“Hellion,” Dean whispers, his voice flooded with warmth. “You know he doesn’t mean half the shit he says, Dad.”
“No, he does,” Dad laughs quietly, lifting a hand to rub at his scruffy chin. “He does, make no mistake. But that’s okay. He’s got fight in him, just like his mom. I can’t fault him for it. No matter how much I want to strangle him sometimes.”
Dean exhales a little breath of a laugh, his gaze far-off, lost somewhere near the fireplace. Dad doesn’t talk about Mom much, and Dean savors every little hint about her, collects them in his mind. He’s been putting her together like a puzzle since he was little.
“It’s okay, you know. That you can’t be here. It doesn’t matter. ‘S just another day.” Dean says it because he knows he needs to, not because he means it. He’s rubbing Sam’s back now, hand flat and light along his little shoulder blades, over the notches of his spine through his oversized hoodie.
Dad doesn’t say anything back because there’s nothing to say. They stay quiet just like that for several minutes, the fire crackling across the room, the smell of it permeating everything. Dean loves the smell of a fireplace. He loves a contained fire, one that is only there to help.
“You mean the world to him.”
Dean looks up for that, meeting Dad’s eyes, trying to understand where it came from. Dad is watching them, watching Dean’s hand on Sam, Sam’s viney hold on Dean. He raises his eyebrows at Dean, gives a single nod.
“I mean it. You hung the moon, to him. He looks at you like there’s nobody else in the world worth seein’. He’d bare-knuckle fight anybody who came at him to defend you.”
Dean thinks this over, quiet, his eyes soft on his little brother. His touch becomes more solid, palms warm on Sam’s back, in his hair.
“I feel the same way about him,” he admits, barely loud enough for Dad to hear him. He’s very aware of his heart, the warmth of it in his chest, the fierce, bright glow he always feels when he thinks about Sammy, really thinks about him. He doesn’t know what else to say, can’t let out any of the hundred words tangled up around that one big word in his head: Sam. It’s for him and Sam alone, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever talk about it, not to anybody. Not even to Sam himself. It just is, it’s just there, and they don’t need words for it. Never have.
“I know you do.” Dad reaches over and ruffles Dean’s hair, just a gentle scruff before he stands up. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve gotta be up at four to leave for Sioux Falls again. Get some sleep, boy.”
“Yessir. Night, Dad.”
Dad disappears into the bedroom, the door creaking and clicking shut. Dean’s left alone with Sam sleeping on him and he smiles down at him. He shifts as gently as he can manage, moving to lay down on the bed next to him, repositioning them until Sam is curled up all along Dean’s side, those gangly spider limbs wrapping around Dean, keeping him right where he is.
Like Dean would ever want to be anywhere else.
next.