Arrested Development 1/1
Summary: An AU story where Dean is at Stanford with Sam, relying on his brother to take care of him. Told from multiple outsider perspectives. A different take on the de-aging trope.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Thanks to my beta skylar_matthews for collecting all my extra commas and convincing me this story was fit for the public.
ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT
**Year One: Jordan**
Jordan wasn’t exactly sure how the small group ended up talking to each other. In every other lecture class he attended at Stanford, the only thing he exchanged with his classmates was a dirty look whenever someone had their backpack in the way.
But, for some reason, the five people who sat in the eleventh row back in Peterson’s English class all became friends. There was Jordan, who was really only at the school for the basketball scholarship; Peter, whose parents wanted him to be a doctor but would probably end up being a starving poet in four years; Jess, who wanted to save the world with a Poli Sci degree; Cindy, who had been given the choice between moving out and going to school and had chosen the latter; and Sam, ferociously determined to be a lawyer. The entry level English class was a requirement for pretty much every program at the school, and Peterson didn’t attempt anything beyond reading his notes from a prepared slide show that still used actual slides. After one of the classes early in the semester, Jordan had turned to the future friends sitting beside him and voiced what all of them were thinking:
“What the hell was he even talking about?”
A brief discussion had turned into an involved conversation that moved from the lecture room to the hallway to the coffee shop and had lasted for hours. Peter patiently explained the minutiae of The Iliad to Jordan and Cindy with helpful additions from Sam and Jess. Then, they spent a good amount of time complaining about their useless prof, the general stress of college, and how at least they were better off than the poverty-stricken Columbian farmers who had slaved to harvest the coffee they were now drinking. That last part was Jess’ fault, and in time everyone got used to how she could turn anything into a social cause worth fighting for.
Sam had been the first to leave, glancing at his watch in guilty surprise.
“It’s only eight, Sam,” Cindy rolled her eyes. “Even my crazy controlling parents don’t make me come home by now. What, you got a psycho jealous girlfriend?”
“No,” Sam shook his head mildly. “A brother. He’s already got to stay home alone while I’m at class, I can’t leave him by himself all night, too.”
It was their first clue in the great mystery of Dean, and over the next few weeks Jordan wasted far too much effort trying to piece the puzzle together.
It was just Sam and Dean, no other family, and Dean stayed home working while Sam was at school. Sam was cagey about what exactly Dean did, although apparently it had something to do with designs and mechanics and patents. Dean taught Sam how to tie his shoes, liked cars and engines, and had some psychic ability to use up all the milk the night before Sam wanted cereal for breakfast. And somehow, Dean needed Sam to be home for him, because Sam was always rushing in that direction, never able to stay as late as anyone else during their Friday “we hate Peterson” rants. Jordan guessed it was some sort of disability, like Dean was in a wheelchair or something. Peter thought it was blindness, Cindy bet on agoraphobia, and Jess refused to play. Either way, no one had the courage to just ask Sam about it.
It wasn’t until midterms rolled around that Jordan actually got to meet Dean. They were all terrified of Peterson’s exam, having heard rumours from previous students that he had killer tests. A plan to study late into the night was formed, but Sam announced his intention of backing out, claiming that he didn’t want to leave Dean alone for that long.
“Dude, you have to be there,” Jordan pleaded. “You’re the only one who can explain T.S. Eliot.”
“Hey, I can explain Eliot,” Peter protested. “He’s, like, my idol, man.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. Sam, you’re the only one who can explain T.S. Eliot in a way that makes sense.”
“Look, if Dean being alone is the issue, why don’t we all meet at your place?” Jess suggested casually. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Uh… Yeah, sure,” Sam stammered. “I mean, I… I don’t see why not…”
“Great,” Jess smiled.
Jordan caught up with her after the group had disbanded with plans to meet next night.
“You’re a clever chick, Moore,” he complimented. “You’re just as curious to find out about Dean as we are.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jess shrugged. Her grin betrayed her though.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jordan arrived at the off-campus apartment a little earlier than planned, thanks to strangely efficient public transit. He knocked on the street-access door, which opened quicker than he had expected.
Standing in the doorway was a short kid with spiky hair, no older than twelve. A spray of freckles decorated his nose, which contrasted uncomfortably with his cold green eyes.
“Uh… I think I have the wrong place…” Jordan was on the verge of tiptoeing away and texting Sam to confirm the address when the kid called him back.
“You a friend of Sammy’s?”
“Yeah. I’m Jordan.”
The kid opened the door wider and stepped out of the way. “Sam just ran down to the corner store. He freaked out when he realized that the only thing we have to eat in the house is canned ham and crackers.”
Dazed, Jordan followed the kid inside. “You’re Dean?” he finally guessed, incredulous.
“Yeah,” the kid nodded. “What, you were expecting a dog or something?”
“No, just someone… older,” Jordan confessed.
Dean scoffed. “Yeah, aren’t we all,” he replied. “Take a seat, man. Sam’ll be back soon and you guys can start geeking out over some dead guy’s scribbling.”
If any other twelve-year-old had tried that, Jordan would’ve been tempted to squash them with his thumb. When Dean said it, however, Jordan found himself stumbling for a comeback.
“It’s called literature,” he replied, failing to remember that a comeback should make him look less like a dork, and not like a pretentious tool.
“Whatever,” Dean snorted. “I read that Homer guy when Sam was slogging through it. Man, that’s some crazy shit. And Odysseus was a prick.”
“You shouldn’t swear,” Jordan gaped. Then, he winced internally. How was this kid making him look like a complete ass? For that matter, how had this kid read The Iliad and understood enough of it to make a crude remark on the main character?
Sam returned then, thankfully rescuing Jordan from any more awkwardness.
“Hey, Jordan,” Sam greeted, frowning slightly. “Everything okay, Dean?”
“Fine, Sam,” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re just talking about The Iliad. Getting a head start on the studying.”
Sam’s frown deepened. “You both hate that book.”
Dean turned and gave Jordan the first grin he had seen on the boy. “What do you know? We actually do have something in common.”
After that first encounter, Jordan took his cues in dealing with Dean from Sam. Dean was obviously a different sort of kid, and Sam treated him as if he was a lot older than he could possibly be, like an adult instead of a boy teetering on the precipice of puberty. Jordan didn’t even know how old Dean was until his birthday rolled around in January, the same day as Jess’, actually.
The whole group had gathered at Sam and Dean’s, the unofficial hangout location because it was the only place where Sam didn’t have to leave early. No one minded, anyway. Dean actually fit into the group strangely well, considering that he was nearly a decade younger than everyone else.
Jess was turning nineteen, and was starting to look a little more believable with her fake ID. After they had sung for both Dean and Jess, Cindy turned to Dean and asked him.
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-four,” Dean replied automatically.
Jordan roared with laughter, and even Jess smiled into her slice of cake.
“Try again,” Cindy prompted.
Dean glared at Cindy, but when the expectant silence didn’t ease up he flicked his gaze to Sam.
“Twelve. Dean’s twelve,” Sam answered quickly, leg bouncing at his side.
“Yeah,” Dean drawled, not taking his eyes off his brother. “That’s how old I am.”
Dean was in a funk for the rest of the night, even with presents to take his mind off of things.
The group had gotten together to buy Dean a sweatshirt from the Stanford bookstore (and, no, it wasn’t cheap of them, they were all just a little broke and the Stanford logo was almost as expensive as the tuition) and Dean pulled it over his head at the prompting of Peter, who, as the designated photographer of the event, wanted a picture of the moment.
The sleeves hung past Dean’s wrists and the fit was too loose to be practical.
“You’ll grow into it,” Jess remarked.
“I remember twelve was the year I started shooting up,” Jordan added. And if his brother was anything to go by, Dean wasn’t destined to be a midget his whole life.
“Right,” Dean replied shortly, looking even more pissed than he had been about the age thing, if possible.
Dean went to bed early that night, waving off concerns for his welfare and giving permission for the party to keep going.
“He’s had a long day,” Sam shrugged. “Look, why don’t we head out for the rest of the night? Dean’ll be fine on his own for a bit.”
**Year Two: Cindy**
She had seen it from the beginning, of course, but it wasn’t until second year that the thing between Jess and Sam got really annoying.
“If Sam’d just man up for once and ask her out, we wouldn’t have to put up with all the moping and lustful stares,” Cindy complained, knocking back the rest of her coffee.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Sammy’s about one more sappy love song away from writing freaking poetry. He hasn’t had this bad of a crush since Charlotte Bleiker five years ago. Trust me, you do not want a repeat of that.” He lifted his empty coffee cup to the waitress, and she brought the carafe over, giving Dean a concerned eye.
Cindy had gotten used to the sight of a thirteen year old drinking coffee right around the time she had become used to meeting said thirteen year old in the small coffee shop a few blocks off campus. It was also just across the street from the massage therapy office she worked at ever since quitting school and moving out on her own. They had been meeting every Thursday since the winter semester started. Sam had a late class so couldn’t be home and Dean got bored easily so Cindy offered to do some totally not babysitting. Basically, Dean paid for her coffee and she talked with him for a while. At the beginning, she had questioned his caffeine intake, warning that it might stunt his growth. Dean had merely snorted and asked for a top-up.
It was surprising, actually, how much they had in common. They’re both devoted to music, although they had slight differences in opinion of what defined “music”; they rebelled against the mould of traditional schooling, and they loved black coffee with wide slices of pie. They’d spent hours together in this café, talking about the state of the world and the merits of coffee bean roasts.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Cindy laid out to her co-conspirator. “We go junior high on this. You tell Sam that I told you that Jess has a massive crush on him. Filled with confidence, he asks Jess out and they spend the rest of their lives happy together.”
“Good plan,” Dean acknowledged, tracing the paisley pattern of his armchair. “But with a flaw. Sam’s not planning on dating anyone.”
“What?” Cindy wrinkled her nose. “I know the guy’s serious about being a lawyer, but that’s just ridiculous.”
“Nah, it’s not about the lawyer thing,” Dean shook his head. He grimaced. “It’s about me.”
“What about you?”
Dean kept his gaze planted firmly on his coffee cup. “He’s not going to date while I’m still… You know, not dating.”
“That’s it? Well, then, that’s simple. We’ll just have to get you a girlfriend.”
Dean’s face did a perfect impression of a cherry tomato. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Cindy continued, warming up to the idea. Thirteen wasn’t too young for a tame little adolescent romance. “We’ll run down to the nearest junior high and get you a sweet little girl to be with.”
A flash of horror crossed his face. “I’m not going to date a kid like that!”
“Like what?”
He schooled his expression. “A public school kid,” he replied smoothly. “I’d be way too smart for those girls.”
“What about that private school downtown? Got to be some smart seventh-graders there.”
“I’m too cool for those girls,” he smirked.
“Okay fine, Mr. Picky. You got any ideas?”
Dean looked at her over his cup of coffee, a mixture of hope and secrecy flickering on his face. He was staring at her.
Oh. Oh, no!
Why she hadn’t clued in before was beyond her, but it finally smacked her in a sudden realization.
All the asking her about her day and offering her advice and listening to fucking Joni Mitchell and saying he liked it.
“Dean…” She put her cup of coffee down. She had no clue how to say this, but she was saved by Dean himself.
He had picked up on her turmoil, of course, and the steel shutters crashed down over his face.
“Never mind,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t… That’s not… Whatever, just forget it. I’m done.” He stood to leave, planting a fistful of wrinkled bills on the table. “I’m going home, see you later.”
As much as his embarrassment pained her, she wasn’t sure about letting him walk home on his own. “Wait, Dean!”
“Cindy, it’s three fucking blocks,” Dean snapped back. “I don’t need you to hold my hand, okay?”
She blinked, and flinched back. “Yeah. Okay.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next day, she sat down next to Sam in the same place and haltingly told him the whole story.
He took it surprisingly well.
“You didn’t mean anything by it,” Sam told her.
“Is Dean okay?”
Sam took a long drink from his coffee. “Dean’s got a lot going on that he doesn’t share,” he finally spoke, staring out the window. “He’ll be okay, and he knows you didn’t mean to hurt him. It’s just… Things are difficult for him, you know?”
She didn’t, but now was the absolute worst time to pry.
“I’m going to take a break hanging out with you guys for a while,” she announced.
“You don’t have to do that, Cindy,” Sam protested, but she could see straight through it.
“At least when we meet at your place,” Cindy insisted. “Just for a bit.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed.
“Hey, and Sam? Do us all a favour and just ask Jess out, okay?”
**Year Three: Peter**
Peter’s father owned a copy store in Nebraska. He had built it from the ground up and invested his entire life into making the business grow. To this day, the man worked sixty hours a week to keep the business afloat and to support Peter and his two younger sisters still living at home. Peter had vivid memories of walking to the store after school and sitting with his dad as the man changed toner cartridges and filled out paperwork.
“I want you to have the opportunities I never did,” his father had told him. “You’re going to have a better life.”
So it should’ve come as no surprise to Peter when his father all but disowned him upon the announcement that he was switching from pre-med to a Creative Writing major. Regardless, the reaction was still uncalled for. It was his own dammed life; he could do what he wanted.
As good as that phrase was, it did nothing to dampen the guilty flames that licked his insides raw.
The alcohol helped, though.
“Another?” Dean asked him. The bottle tipped over Peter’s glass before he could reply.
Peter lifted the tumbler to his lips and took a gulp.
“Maybe I should’n’ta said what I did,” he pondered. “M’dad paid for everything. School… books… I owe the guy.”
“You don’t owe him jack,” Dean replied. “Just because the guy helped you out, doesn’t mean he owns you.”
“Yeah… Hey, is Sam around?”
“Dude, how wasted are you? I told you when you came: he’s out with Jess.”
“Oh. Right. I shouldn’t be drinking w’you. You shouldn’t be givin’ it…” He trailed off, swirling the comforting liquid in his glass. What was he trying to say? Oh, yeah. “You’re’a minor.” He pointed to Dean with the hand that held his cup. The rum sloshed onto his fingers and Peter set the cup down, licking his fingers thoughtfully.
“Maturity is in the eye of the beholder.”
Peter snorted. “Tha’s smart. You’re smart, Dean. M’dad’s smart. Smarter’n me…”
“If he’s that smart, he’ll come around.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sure. He just wants you to have a good life. Soon, he’ll realize that that doesn’t include giving people needles and sticking your finger up their asses.”
Peter snorted, and then sobered (slightly). “You never see your dad anymore.”
“Yeah, well, my dad is a particular brand of asshole.” Dean shot back a swallow of his coke and Peter watched him quietly. Finally, the boy spoke again. “He blew up when he found out Sam had a scholarship for Stanford. Brought up all this shit about responsibility and family. He was scared of Sam leaving, see. So in the end he made things worse and gave Sam a dammed ultimatum, which any idiot would know would be enough to get Sam to do the exact opposite of what you wanted. Sam left, and they haven’t talked since.”
The Winchesters never talked about their family, and Peter felt he was given a rare privilege to peak behind that iron curtain. “What about you?” he asked, enraptured.
Dean shrugged. “Not much good, am I? Here at least I can help Sam out as much as I can. With Dad, I’d just be dragging him down.”
“You don’t… drag. You’re useful,” Peter insisted. To make his point, he held out his empty glass and Dean poured another splash into it.
Dean just scoffed. “A twelve-year-old kid isn’t good for much, Peter.”
Peter squinted at Dean. “You’re thirteen,” he corrected. Would be fourteen in a couple weeks.
Dean smiled a tight, tense grin. “Right. Just testing your sobriety.”
In the dim kitchen light, Dean looked so young still. His features were undefined, his cheeks were smooth. That sprinkling of freckles was as prominent as ever.
“You haven’t got any taller,” Peter observed.
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Still waiting for that growth spurt,” he replied shortly.
“Hmm…” Peter nodded and poured the rest of his drink down his throat. It slipped down smoothly and collected with the rest of the warmth in his belly. He held out his cup again, but Dean screwed the lid on the bottle.
“Dude, you’ve had enough.”
“Dean…” Peter whined.
“Let’s get you to the couch,” Dean announced. “You can sleep it off there.”
Dean did a surprisingly decent job of hauling Peter to his feet and dragging him to the dilapidated couch.
The stale smell made Peter’s nose itch.
“Get to sleep,” Dean ordered from above Peter.
“Yeah…”
“Your dad’ll come around, Peter,” Dean promised. “He just wants what’s best for you.”
The coming around part had taken Peter longer than planned, and he found himself needing to leave his gloomy basement suite to couch surf at the Winchesters until he could patch things up with his dad.
During his time with the Winchesters, Peter learned that Dean not only had the mouth of an adult, but he also had several adult habits such as drinking coffee, doing a large chunk of the cooking, and staying up until 2am on a weeknight to play Mortal Kombat, long past his brother had gone to sleep.
Okay, maybe that one wasn’t particularly adult, but it certainly wasn’t something a kid should be doing.
“Shouldn’t you be going to bed?” Peter wondered.
“Shouldn’t you?” Dean grunted, eyes focused on the screen. “You have that quiz tomorrow, don’t you?”
“You’re on my bed,” Peter reminded the boy. “Anyway, don’t you have school? Or… something?”
“Finished school,” Dean replied, not even pausing in his assault on Peter’s character.
“Really?” Peter blinked. “Like, high school?” It made sense, knowing that Dean got paid for whatever work he did at home, but it came as a surprise somehow.
“Yeah. You can take pretty much everything online now.”
“Still, pretty impressive for fourteen.” Peter had been preoccupied with his angsty, misunderstood poet stage at that age. “What are you, some kind of genius?” he wondered.
“Something like that,” Dean grinned.
“So all you do is work,” Peter supplied. “Doing mechanical design stuff? You don’t want to take college courses or whatever it is super geniuses do?”
“I have what I need to get work and make money,” Dean shrugged. “I never really liked school, so I’m not about to do more if I don’t have to. Plus, this way I can set my own hours and stay up till two killing you at MK.”
“Dude, how are you so good at this?” Peter complained as his character took yet another pummelling.
“Been playing this since I was ten and the original came out,” Dean smirked.
“The original came out in like, the nineties,” Peter scoffed. “Were you even born yet?”
“Whatever,” Dean scowled. He finished beating Peter up and then flipped the remote control onto the couch. “I’m heading to bed. Get your beauty rest, loser.”
**Year Four: Jess**
They say you only really get to know a person once you live with them.
When Jess moved in with Sam at the start of their fourth year, she wasn’t surprised by much. Sure, he was a little bit more of a neat freak than she guessed, and he had this really weird habit of stockpiling salt in the cupboard above the stove like there was going to be a worldwide shortage, but overall it was pretty much like she expected.
Dean, however, took her completely by surprise.
She knew what he was like from before, but he had all sorts of interesting quirks that never really stood out until then.
He didn’t have any friends his own age, for one thing. He didn’t even seem to want any. Jess had suggested he do all kind of activities: music lessons, computer classes, sports teams. She couldn’t really blame him for saying no to the sports. At fourteen years old, Dean still looked around twelve; thirteen if he scowled. Being put on a team of guys who already had to shave every day seemed extraordinarily cruel.
Jess had tried to approach Sam about the subject of getting Dean some age-appropriate friends instead of a group of college students, but Sam hadn’t backed her up.
“Dean’s unique,” Sam had told her. “Trust me, he doesn’t want to hang out with kids his own age.”
“Maybe he hasn’t told you he wants to,” Jess pushed. “But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel that way. Don’t you think he deserves to have some friends who are interested in the same things he is? I mean, c’mon, Sam. Don’t you ever wish Dean had some kids to go to the arcade with rather than dragging you along every time?”
Sam jumped back as if he had been stung. “Never,” he spoke with odd intensity. “I’ll never get tired of being with Dean, do you understand, Jess? No matter what. Five, ten, freaking fifty years from now, I’ll still do whatever the hell Dean wants and love it because he’s my brother. Okay?”
It was the first time Jess had seen anything besides the gentle, meek side of Sam. It scared her, a little, to think of the potential brewing under the surface if Sam was pushed in a particular way. And she learned that day to never question a decision Sam made about Dean. And really, what the hell did she know, anyway? All you had to do was talk to the kid for five minutes to realize he was a unique case.
He talked like he was a decade older than his claimed age, he was ridiculously smart, and basically acted like an adult with some childish interests rather than a child with a big vocabulary.
The weirdest thing about Dean, though, was his relationship with Sam. Sam looked after Dean in many ways, sure. He was home for Dean, and always made time to hang out with him. But, as odd as it sounded, Dean actually acted like Sam’s older brother rather than the other way around.
Dean asked Sam about his classes, listening and responding like the proud parent both boys were missing; he nagged Sam about taking a jacket with him before leaving the apartment; he took charge of the grocery shopping, the cooking, and most of the cleaning; and he teased Sam in a way that no older brother Jess had ever seen would ever allow. Dean expounded life advice to Sam on dealing with pressures from exams or the proper way to approach a difficult professor, and Sam always listened attentively and gratefully.
It was strange, and made Jess horribly curious, but she knew not to go prying into the nature of their relationship.
There was a lot, actually, that she learned not to pry into.
There were the strange looks Sam and Dean gave each other and the hushed conversations they had behind the closed door of Dean’s bedroom. She learned not to pry into the subject of their father. It always resulted in a tense silence between the two of them that left the apartment chilly for days after. And when the end of October rolled around, Jess also learned not to pry into the hushed conversations Sam had on the phone and later dissected with his brother.
“Caleb hasn’t heard from him either,” Sam reported to Dean. His voice was muffled by the wall between the bedrooms, but if Jess lay by the heat register, she could make most of it out.
She was stretching, of course. Not spying.
“I told you,” Dean replied. “Something’s wrong.”
“Dean, I’m sure he’s fine. You know how he gets sometimes. Especially around this time of year.”
“He hasn’t answered any of my calls,” Dean grumbled.
“How often have you been calling him?” Sam asked sharply.
“Sam, don’t try to pick that fight now,” Dean replied patiently. “Dad’s in trouble; I know it.”
Jess pretended to be surprised when Sam announced Dean’s sudden desire to go on a weekend road trip. It was a brother’s trip, apparently, and no, it would be best if Jess stayed home because she had that big exam coming up, didn’t she?
She gritted her teeth, smiled, and nodded, vowing to squeeze the entire story out of Sam when they came back. She’d refuse to bake them anything from the custom Moore recipe book until they explained.
But she caved soon after that promise, missing Sam and missing Dean, too. She made a fresh batch of cookies and stayed up as late as she could Sunday night until her eyelids dragged down and she surrendered to the call of her bed.
The last thing she remembered was waiting for their stupid shower to heat up before she was yanked up, frozen in place.
Then came the ripping pain, the choking fire, and the paralyzing terror.
**Epilogue: Dean**
The junker car they had grabbed for the trip to Colorado wasn’t even worth comparing to the Impala from Dean and Sam’s childhood. But that car was missing along with its owner, so they had to take what they could get. The car was too quiet for Dean’s taste, but the guy who just lost his girlfriend deserved to call the shots every once in a while so Dean didn’t complain.
But Sam himself, though, was too quiet for Dean’s taste. Too driven, too scary focused. And Dean had to say something about that.
“You can leave me,” he offered.
It took a moment for Sam to blink, pull himself together and turn his eyes off the road for a second to look at Dean.
“What?”
“I can stay with Pastor Jim or whoever,” Dean shrugged. “Or drop me off in a big enough city where no one will notice a minor on his own. You don’t need to be dragging me around the country while you try to find Dad.”
Sam swerved the car sharply, landing them half on the shoulder of the road and half on the grass.
“Dean, I’m not leaving you,” Sam stated bluntly.
“Look at me man,” Dean protested, holding up his small hands with his skinny arms. “What good am I to you like this? I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention over the last decade and a half, but this isn’t going to change any. I’m no good in a fight, I can’t interview witnesses, I attract all kinds of attention. You need a real partner, not some kind of lame-ass Peter Pan.”
Sam, to Dean’s surprise, grinned.
“Peter Pan?” he mocked. “Seriously, dude?”
“He never grows up,” Dean defended.
“You can’t even fly,” Sam pointed out. “That’s why we’re stuck driving to Colorado instead of taking a plane like normal people.”
“Whatever,” Dean growled.
Sam sighed. His huge hand landed on Dean’s skinny shoulder.
“Look, Dean, I don’t care about any of that crap. And there’s no way I’m leaving you at Pastor Jim’s.”
“Sammy…”
“Dean, I need you here, okay?” Sam blurted out. “I just… You help me just by being here. And if you were gone… Things would be a lot worse.”
Sam’s words stayed in the air, cramming the small stuffy car.
“Okay,” Dean agreed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “C’mon, Sam, get back on the road. We’re wasting daylight.”
“You know,” Sam commented as he merged into traffic. “Peter Pan could swordfight, too. Last I checked, you couldn’t do that, Dean.”
“Shut up and drive, Sam.”
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Thanks to my beta skylar_matthews for collecting all my extra commas and convincing me this story was fit for the public.
ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT
**Year One: Jordan**
Jordan wasn’t exactly sure how the small group ended up talking to each other. In every other lecture class he attended at Stanford, the only thing he exchanged with his classmates was a dirty look whenever someone had their backpack in the way.
But, for some reason, the five people who sat in the eleventh row back in Peterson’s English class all became friends. There was Jordan, who was really only at the school for the basketball scholarship; Peter, whose parents wanted him to be a doctor but would probably end up being a starving poet in four years; Jess, who wanted to save the world with a Poli Sci degree; Cindy, who had been given the choice between moving out and going to school and had chosen the latter; and Sam, ferociously determined to be a lawyer. The entry level English class was a requirement for pretty much every program at the school, and Peterson didn’t attempt anything beyond reading his notes from a prepared slide show that still used actual slides. After one of the classes early in the semester, Jordan had turned to the future friends sitting beside him and voiced what all of them were thinking:
“What the hell was he even talking about?”
A brief discussion had turned into an involved conversation that moved from the lecture room to the hallway to the coffee shop and had lasted for hours. Peter patiently explained the minutiae of The Iliad to Jordan and Cindy with helpful additions from Sam and Jess. Then, they spent a good amount of time complaining about their useless prof, the general stress of college, and how at least they were better off than the poverty-stricken Columbian farmers who had slaved to harvest the coffee they were now drinking. That last part was Jess’ fault, and in time everyone got used to how she could turn anything into a social cause worth fighting for.
Sam had been the first to leave, glancing at his watch in guilty surprise.
“It’s only eight, Sam,” Cindy rolled her eyes. “Even my crazy controlling parents don’t make me come home by now. What, you got a psycho jealous girlfriend?”
“No,” Sam shook his head mildly. “A brother. He’s already got to stay home alone while I’m at class, I can’t leave him by himself all night, too.”
It was their first clue in the great mystery of Dean, and over the next few weeks Jordan wasted far too much effort trying to piece the puzzle together.
It was just Sam and Dean, no other family, and Dean stayed home working while Sam was at school. Sam was cagey about what exactly Dean did, although apparently it had something to do with designs and mechanics and patents. Dean taught Sam how to tie his shoes, liked cars and engines, and had some psychic ability to use up all the milk the night before Sam wanted cereal for breakfast. And somehow, Dean needed Sam to be home for him, because Sam was always rushing in that direction, never able to stay as late as anyone else during their Friday “we hate Peterson” rants. Jordan guessed it was some sort of disability, like Dean was in a wheelchair or something. Peter thought it was blindness, Cindy bet on agoraphobia, and Jess refused to play. Either way, no one had the courage to just ask Sam about it.
It wasn’t until midterms rolled around that Jordan actually got to meet Dean. They were all terrified of Peterson’s exam, having heard rumours from previous students that he had killer tests. A plan to study late into the night was formed, but Sam announced his intention of backing out, claiming that he didn’t want to leave Dean alone for that long.
“Dude, you have to be there,” Jordan pleaded. “You’re the only one who can explain T.S. Eliot.”
“Hey, I can explain Eliot,” Peter protested. “He’s, like, my idol, man.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. Sam, you’re the only one who can explain T.S. Eliot in a way that makes sense.”
“Look, if Dean being alone is the issue, why don’t we all meet at your place?” Jess suggested casually. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Uh… Yeah, sure,” Sam stammered. “I mean, I… I don’t see why not…”
“Great,” Jess smiled.
Jordan caught up with her after the group had disbanded with plans to meet next night.
“You’re a clever chick, Moore,” he complimented. “You’re just as curious to find out about Dean as we are.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jess shrugged. Her grin betrayed her though.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jordan arrived at the off-campus apartment a little earlier than planned, thanks to strangely efficient public transit. He knocked on the street-access door, which opened quicker than he had expected.
Standing in the doorway was a short kid with spiky hair, no older than twelve. A spray of freckles decorated his nose, which contrasted uncomfortably with his cold green eyes.
“Uh… I think I have the wrong place…” Jordan was on the verge of tiptoeing away and texting Sam to confirm the address when the kid called him back.
“You a friend of Sammy’s?”
“Yeah. I’m Jordan.”
The kid opened the door wider and stepped out of the way. “Sam just ran down to the corner store. He freaked out when he realized that the only thing we have to eat in the house is canned ham and crackers.”
Dazed, Jordan followed the kid inside. “You’re Dean?” he finally guessed, incredulous.
“Yeah,” the kid nodded. “What, you were expecting a dog or something?”
“No, just someone… older,” Jordan confessed.
Dean scoffed. “Yeah, aren’t we all,” he replied. “Take a seat, man. Sam’ll be back soon and you guys can start geeking out over some dead guy’s scribbling.”
If any other twelve-year-old had tried that, Jordan would’ve been tempted to squash them with his thumb. When Dean said it, however, Jordan found himself stumbling for a comeback.
“It’s called literature,” he replied, failing to remember that a comeback should make him look less like a dork, and not like a pretentious tool.
“Whatever,” Dean snorted. “I read that Homer guy when Sam was slogging through it. Man, that’s some crazy shit. And Odysseus was a prick.”
“You shouldn’t swear,” Jordan gaped. Then, he winced internally. How was this kid making him look like a complete ass? For that matter, how had this kid read The Iliad and understood enough of it to make a crude remark on the main character?
Sam returned then, thankfully rescuing Jordan from any more awkwardness.
“Hey, Jordan,” Sam greeted, frowning slightly. “Everything okay, Dean?”
“Fine, Sam,” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re just talking about The Iliad. Getting a head start on the studying.”
Sam’s frown deepened. “You both hate that book.”
Dean turned and gave Jordan the first grin he had seen on the boy. “What do you know? We actually do have something in common.”
After that first encounter, Jordan took his cues in dealing with Dean from Sam. Dean was obviously a different sort of kid, and Sam treated him as if he was a lot older than he could possibly be, like an adult instead of a boy teetering on the precipice of puberty. Jordan didn’t even know how old Dean was until his birthday rolled around in January, the same day as Jess’, actually.
The whole group had gathered at Sam and Dean’s, the unofficial hangout location because it was the only place where Sam didn’t have to leave early. No one minded, anyway. Dean actually fit into the group strangely well, considering that he was nearly a decade younger than everyone else.
Jess was turning nineteen, and was starting to look a little more believable with her fake ID. After they had sung for both Dean and Jess, Cindy turned to Dean and asked him.
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-four,” Dean replied automatically.
Jordan roared with laughter, and even Jess smiled into her slice of cake.
“Try again,” Cindy prompted.
Dean glared at Cindy, but when the expectant silence didn’t ease up he flicked his gaze to Sam.
“Twelve. Dean’s twelve,” Sam answered quickly, leg bouncing at his side.
“Yeah,” Dean drawled, not taking his eyes off his brother. “That’s how old I am.”
Dean was in a funk for the rest of the night, even with presents to take his mind off of things.
The group had gotten together to buy Dean a sweatshirt from the Stanford bookstore (and, no, it wasn’t cheap of them, they were all just a little broke and the Stanford logo was almost as expensive as the tuition) and Dean pulled it over his head at the prompting of Peter, who, as the designated photographer of the event, wanted a picture of the moment.
The sleeves hung past Dean’s wrists and the fit was too loose to be practical.
“You’ll grow into it,” Jess remarked.
“I remember twelve was the year I started shooting up,” Jordan added. And if his brother was anything to go by, Dean wasn’t destined to be a midget his whole life.
“Right,” Dean replied shortly, looking even more pissed than he had been about the age thing, if possible.
Dean went to bed early that night, waving off concerns for his welfare and giving permission for the party to keep going.
“He’s had a long day,” Sam shrugged. “Look, why don’t we head out for the rest of the night? Dean’ll be fine on his own for a bit.”
**Year Two: Cindy**
She had seen it from the beginning, of course, but it wasn’t until second year that the thing between Jess and Sam got really annoying.
“If Sam’d just man up for once and ask her out, we wouldn’t have to put up with all the moping and lustful stares,” Cindy complained, knocking back the rest of her coffee.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Sammy’s about one more sappy love song away from writing freaking poetry. He hasn’t had this bad of a crush since Charlotte Bleiker five years ago. Trust me, you do not want a repeat of that.” He lifted his empty coffee cup to the waitress, and she brought the carafe over, giving Dean a concerned eye.
Cindy had gotten used to the sight of a thirteen year old drinking coffee right around the time she had become used to meeting said thirteen year old in the small coffee shop a few blocks off campus. It was also just across the street from the massage therapy office she worked at ever since quitting school and moving out on her own. They had been meeting every Thursday since the winter semester started. Sam had a late class so couldn’t be home and Dean got bored easily so Cindy offered to do some totally not babysitting. Basically, Dean paid for her coffee and she talked with him for a while. At the beginning, she had questioned his caffeine intake, warning that it might stunt his growth. Dean had merely snorted and asked for a top-up.
It was surprising, actually, how much they had in common. They’re both devoted to music, although they had slight differences in opinion of what defined “music”; they rebelled against the mould of traditional schooling, and they loved black coffee with wide slices of pie. They’d spent hours together in this café, talking about the state of the world and the merits of coffee bean roasts.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Cindy laid out to her co-conspirator. “We go junior high on this. You tell Sam that I told you that Jess has a massive crush on him. Filled with confidence, he asks Jess out and they spend the rest of their lives happy together.”
“Good plan,” Dean acknowledged, tracing the paisley pattern of his armchair. “But with a flaw. Sam’s not planning on dating anyone.”
“What?” Cindy wrinkled her nose. “I know the guy’s serious about being a lawyer, but that’s just ridiculous.”
“Nah, it’s not about the lawyer thing,” Dean shook his head. He grimaced. “It’s about me.”
“What about you?”
Dean kept his gaze planted firmly on his coffee cup. “He’s not going to date while I’m still… You know, not dating.”
“That’s it? Well, then, that’s simple. We’ll just have to get you a girlfriend.”
Dean’s face did a perfect impression of a cherry tomato. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Cindy continued, warming up to the idea. Thirteen wasn’t too young for a tame little adolescent romance. “We’ll run down to the nearest junior high and get you a sweet little girl to be with.”
A flash of horror crossed his face. “I’m not going to date a kid like that!”
“Like what?”
He schooled his expression. “A public school kid,” he replied smoothly. “I’d be way too smart for those girls.”
“What about that private school downtown? Got to be some smart seventh-graders there.”
“I’m too cool for those girls,” he smirked.
“Okay fine, Mr. Picky. You got any ideas?”
Dean looked at her over his cup of coffee, a mixture of hope and secrecy flickering on his face. He was staring at her.
Oh. Oh, no!
Why she hadn’t clued in before was beyond her, but it finally smacked her in a sudden realization.
All the asking her about her day and offering her advice and listening to fucking Joni Mitchell and saying he liked it.
“Dean…” She put her cup of coffee down. She had no clue how to say this, but she was saved by Dean himself.
He had picked up on her turmoil, of course, and the steel shutters crashed down over his face.
“Never mind,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t… That’s not… Whatever, just forget it. I’m done.” He stood to leave, planting a fistful of wrinkled bills on the table. “I’m going home, see you later.”
As much as his embarrassment pained her, she wasn’t sure about letting him walk home on his own. “Wait, Dean!”
“Cindy, it’s three fucking blocks,” Dean snapped back. “I don’t need you to hold my hand, okay?”
She blinked, and flinched back. “Yeah. Okay.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next day, she sat down next to Sam in the same place and haltingly told him the whole story.
He took it surprisingly well.
“You didn’t mean anything by it,” Sam told her.
“Is Dean okay?”
Sam took a long drink from his coffee. “Dean’s got a lot going on that he doesn’t share,” he finally spoke, staring out the window. “He’ll be okay, and he knows you didn’t mean to hurt him. It’s just… Things are difficult for him, you know?”
She didn’t, but now was the absolute worst time to pry.
“I’m going to take a break hanging out with you guys for a while,” she announced.
“You don’t have to do that, Cindy,” Sam protested, but she could see straight through it.
“At least when we meet at your place,” Cindy insisted. “Just for a bit.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed.
“Hey, and Sam? Do us all a favour and just ask Jess out, okay?”
**Year Three: Peter**
Peter’s father owned a copy store in Nebraska. He had built it from the ground up and invested his entire life into making the business grow. To this day, the man worked sixty hours a week to keep the business afloat and to support Peter and his two younger sisters still living at home. Peter had vivid memories of walking to the store after school and sitting with his dad as the man changed toner cartridges and filled out paperwork.
“I want you to have the opportunities I never did,” his father had told him. “You’re going to have a better life.”
So it should’ve come as no surprise to Peter when his father all but disowned him upon the announcement that he was switching from pre-med to a Creative Writing major. Regardless, the reaction was still uncalled for. It was his own dammed life; he could do what he wanted.
As good as that phrase was, it did nothing to dampen the guilty flames that licked his insides raw.
The alcohol helped, though.
“Another?” Dean asked him. The bottle tipped over Peter’s glass before he could reply.
Peter lifted the tumbler to his lips and took a gulp.
“Maybe I should’n’ta said what I did,” he pondered. “M’dad paid for everything. School… books… I owe the guy.”
“You don’t owe him jack,” Dean replied. “Just because the guy helped you out, doesn’t mean he owns you.”
“Yeah… Hey, is Sam around?”
“Dude, how wasted are you? I told you when you came: he’s out with Jess.”
“Oh. Right. I shouldn’t be drinking w’you. You shouldn’t be givin’ it…” He trailed off, swirling the comforting liquid in his glass. What was he trying to say? Oh, yeah. “You’re’a minor.” He pointed to Dean with the hand that held his cup. The rum sloshed onto his fingers and Peter set the cup down, licking his fingers thoughtfully.
“Maturity is in the eye of the beholder.”
Peter snorted. “Tha’s smart. You’re smart, Dean. M’dad’s smart. Smarter’n me…”
“If he’s that smart, he’ll come around.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sure. He just wants you to have a good life. Soon, he’ll realize that that doesn’t include giving people needles and sticking your finger up their asses.”
Peter snorted, and then sobered (slightly). “You never see your dad anymore.”
“Yeah, well, my dad is a particular brand of asshole.” Dean shot back a swallow of his coke and Peter watched him quietly. Finally, the boy spoke again. “He blew up when he found out Sam had a scholarship for Stanford. Brought up all this shit about responsibility and family. He was scared of Sam leaving, see. So in the end he made things worse and gave Sam a dammed ultimatum, which any idiot would know would be enough to get Sam to do the exact opposite of what you wanted. Sam left, and they haven’t talked since.”
The Winchesters never talked about their family, and Peter felt he was given a rare privilege to peak behind that iron curtain. “What about you?” he asked, enraptured.
Dean shrugged. “Not much good, am I? Here at least I can help Sam out as much as I can. With Dad, I’d just be dragging him down.”
“You don’t… drag. You’re useful,” Peter insisted. To make his point, he held out his empty glass and Dean poured another splash into it.
Dean just scoffed. “A twelve-year-old kid isn’t good for much, Peter.”
Peter squinted at Dean. “You’re thirteen,” he corrected. Would be fourteen in a couple weeks.
Dean smiled a tight, tense grin. “Right. Just testing your sobriety.”
In the dim kitchen light, Dean looked so young still. His features were undefined, his cheeks were smooth. That sprinkling of freckles was as prominent as ever.
“You haven’t got any taller,” Peter observed.
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Still waiting for that growth spurt,” he replied shortly.
“Hmm…” Peter nodded and poured the rest of his drink down his throat. It slipped down smoothly and collected with the rest of the warmth in his belly. He held out his cup again, but Dean screwed the lid on the bottle.
“Dude, you’ve had enough.”
“Dean…” Peter whined.
“Let’s get you to the couch,” Dean announced. “You can sleep it off there.”
Dean did a surprisingly decent job of hauling Peter to his feet and dragging him to the dilapidated couch.
The stale smell made Peter’s nose itch.
“Get to sleep,” Dean ordered from above Peter.
“Yeah…”
“Your dad’ll come around, Peter,” Dean promised. “He just wants what’s best for you.”
The coming around part had taken Peter longer than planned, and he found himself needing to leave his gloomy basement suite to couch surf at the Winchesters until he could patch things up with his dad.
During his time with the Winchesters, Peter learned that Dean not only had the mouth of an adult, but he also had several adult habits such as drinking coffee, doing a large chunk of the cooking, and staying up until 2am on a weeknight to play Mortal Kombat, long past his brother had gone to sleep.
Okay, maybe that one wasn’t particularly adult, but it certainly wasn’t something a kid should be doing.
“Shouldn’t you be going to bed?” Peter wondered.
“Shouldn’t you?” Dean grunted, eyes focused on the screen. “You have that quiz tomorrow, don’t you?”
“You’re on my bed,” Peter reminded the boy. “Anyway, don’t you have school? Or… something?”
“Finished school,” Dean replied, not even pausing in his assault on Peter’s character.
“Really?” Peter blinked. “Like, high school?” It made sense, knowing that Dean got paid for whatever work he did at home, but it came as a surprise somehow.
“Yeah. You can take pretty much everything online now.”
“Still, pretty impressive for fourteen.” Peter had been preoccupied with his angsty, misunderstood poet stage at that age. “What are you, some kind of genius?” he wondered.
“Something like that,” Dean grinned.
“So all you do is work,” Peter supplied. “Doing mechanical design stuff? You don’t want to take college courses or whatever it is super geniuses do?”
“I have what I need to get work and make money,” Dean shrugged. “I never really liked school, so I’m not about to do more if I don’t have to. Plus, this way I can set my own hours and stay up till two killing you at MK.”
“Dude, how are you so good at this?” Peter complained as his character took yet another pummelling.
“Been playing this since I was ten and the original came out,” Dean smirked.
“The original came out in like, the nineties,” Peter scoffed. “Were you even born yet?”
“Whatever,” Dean scowled. He finished beating Peter up and then flipped the remote control onto the couch. “I’m heading to bed. Get your beauty rest, loser.”
**Year Four: Jess**
They say you only really get to know a person once you live with them.
When Jess moved in with Sam at the start of their fourth year, she wasn’t surprised by much. Sure, he was a little bit more of a neat freak than she guessed, and he had this really weird habit of stockpiling salt in the cupboard above the stove like there was going to be a worldwide shortage, but overall it was pretty much like she expected.
Dean, however, took her completely by surprise.
She knew what he was like from before, but he had all sorts of interesting quirks that never really stood out until then.
He didn’t have any friends his own age, for one thing. He didn’t even seem to want any. Jess had suggested he do all kind of activities: music lessons, computer classes, sports teams. She couldn’t really blame him for saying no to the sports. At fourteen years old, Dean still looked around twelve; thirteen if he scowled. Being put on a team of guys who already had to shave every day seemed extraordinarily cruel.
Jess had tried to approach Sam about the subject of getting Dean some age-appropriate friends instead of a group of college students, but Sam hadn’t backed her up.
“Dean’s unique,” Sam had told her. “Trust me, he doesn’t want to hang out with kids his own age.”
“Maybe he hasn’t told you he wants to,” Jess pushed. “But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel that way. Don’t you think he deserves to have some friends who are interested in the same things he is? I mean, c’mon, Sam. Don’t you ever wish Dean had some kids to go to the arcade with rather than dragging you along every time?”
Sam jumped back as if he had been stung. “Never,” he spoke with odd intensity. “I’ll never get tired of being with Dean, do you understand, Jess? No matter what. Five, ten, freaking fifty years from now, I’ll still do whatever the hell Dean wants and love it because he’s my brother. Okay?”
It was the first time Jess had seen anything besides the gentle, meek side of Sam. It scared her, a little, to think of the potential brewing under the surface if Sam was pushed in a particular way. And she learned that day to never question a decision Sam made about Dean. And really, what the hell did she know, anyway? All you had to do was talk to the kid for five minutes to realize he was a unique case.
He talked like he was a decade older than his claimed age, he was ridiculously smart, and basically acted like an adult with some childish interests rather than a child with a big vocabulary.
The weirdest thing about Dean, though, was his relationship with Sam. Sam looked after Dean in many ways, sure. He was home for Dean, and always made time to hang out with him. But, as odd as it sounded, Dean actually acted like Sam’s older brother rather than the other way around.
Dean asked Sam about his classes, listening and responding like the proud parent both boys were missing; he nagged Sam about taking a jacket with him before leaving the apartment; he took charge of the grocery shopping, the cooking, and most of the cleaning; and he teased Sam in a way that no older brother Jess had ever seen would ever allow. Dean expounded life advice to Sam on dealing with pressures from exams or the proper way to approach a difficult professor, and Sam always listened attentively and gratefully.
It was strange, and made Jess horribly curious, but she knew not to go prying into the nature of their relationship.
There was a lot, actually, that she learned not to pry into.
There were the strange looks Sam and Dean gave each other and the hushed conversations they had behind the closed door of Dean’s bedroom. She learned not to pry into the subject of their father. It always resulted in a tense silence between the two of them that left the apartment chilly for days after. And when the end of October rolled around, Jess also learned not to pry into the hushed conversations Sam had on the phone and later dissected with his brother.
“Caleb hasn’t heard from him either,” Sam reported to Dean. His voice was muffled by the wall between the bedrooms, but if Jess lay by the heat register, she could make most of it out.
She was stretching, of course. Not spying.
“I told you,” Dean replied. “Something’s wrong.”
“Dean, I’m sure he’s fine. You know how he gets sometimes. Especially around this time of year.”
“He hasn’t answered any of my calls,” Dean grumbled.
“How often have you been calling him?” Sam asked sharply.
“Sam, don’t try to pick that fight now,” Dean replied patiently. “Dad’s in trouble; I know it.”
Jess pretended to be surprised when Sam announced Dean’s sudden desire to go on a weekend road trip. It was a brother’s trip, apparently, and no, it would be best if Jess stayed home because she had that big exam coming up, didn’t she?
She gritted her teeth, smiled, and nodded, vowing to squeeze the entire story out of Sam when they came back. She’d refuse to bake them anything from the custom Moore recipe book until they explained.
But she caved soon after that promise, missing Sam and missing Dean, too. She made a fresh batch of cookies and stayed up as late as she could Sunday night until her eyelids dragged down and she surrendered to the call of her bed.
The last thing she remembered was waiting for their stupid shower to heat up before she was yanked up, frozen in place.
Then came the ripping pain, the choking fire, and the paralyzing terror.
**Epilogue: Dean**
The junker car they had grabbed for the trip to Colorado wasn’t even worth comparing to the Impala from Dean and Sam’s childhood. But that car was missing along with its owner, so they had to take what they could get. The car was too quiet for Dean’s taste, but the guy who just lost his girlfriend deserved to call the shots every once in a while so Dean didn’t complain.
But Sam himself, though, was too quiet for Dean’s taste. Too driven, too scary focused. And Dean had to say something about that.
“You can leave me,” he offered.
It took a moment for Sam to blink, pull himself together and turn his eyes off the road for a second to look at Dean.
“What?”
“I can stay with Pastor Jim or whoever,” Dean shrugged. “Or drop me off in a big enough city where no one will notice a minor on his own. You don’t need to be dragging me around the country while you try to find Dad.”
Sam swerved the car sharply, landing them half on the shoulder of the road and half on the grass.
“Dean, I’m not leaving you,” Sam stated bluntly.
“Look at me man,” Dean protested, holding up his small hands with his skinny arms. “What good am I to you like this? I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention over the last decade and a half, but this isn’t going to change any. I’m no good in a fight, I can’t interview witnesses, I attract all kinds of attention. You need a real partner, not some kind of lame-ass Peter Pan.”
Sam, to Dean’s surprise, grinned.
“Peter Pan?” he mocked. “Seriously, dude?”
“He never grows up,” Dean defended.
“You can’t even fly,” Sam pointed out. “That’s why we’re stuck driving to Colorado instead of taking a plane like normal people.”
“Whatever,” Dean growled.
Sam sighed. His huge hand landed on Dean’s skinny shoulder.
“Look, Dean, I don’t care about any of that crap. And there’s no way I’m leaving you at Pastor Jim’s.”
“Sammy…”
“Dean, I need you here, okay?” Sam blurted out. “I just… You help me just by being here. And if you were gone… Things would be a lot worse.”
Sam’s words stayed in the air, cramming the small stuffy car.
“Okay,” Dean agreed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “C’mon, Sam, get back on the road. We’re wasting daylight.”
“You know,” Sam commented as he merged into traffic. “Peter Pan could swordfight, too. Last I checked, you couldn’t do that, Dean.”
“Shut up and drive, Sam.”