Like It Was Yesterday, Part 1/2

[daniomalley22]

Fic title: Like It Was Yesterday (And We Could Run Away)
Author name: daniomalley22
Artist name: starry_ice
Genre: gen
Rating: PG
Word count: 20823
Warnings: Child abuse/neglect. Violence on the same level as the show.
Summary: All his life, Dean has followed two rules: do whatever Dad says, and take care of Sam. But he starts to realise that he can't keep doing both, and that he's going to have to make a choice.
Author's note: Thanks to my wonderful friend Lisa for betaing this.
starry-ice created art to go with this fic, and it can be found here!

Morning comes early in Tennessee in the summer, God awful early. Well, Dean supposes it’s not quite that bad. When the weather’s warm, it’s easier to get out of bed. When the sky lightens, it’s easier to wake up. Summer mornings in Tennessee are a lot kinder than winter mornings in Washington. Still, they’re pretty damn early.

This morning starts at half past five. Dean’s glad he’s woken up a little bit before Dad, he gets the coffee on and tidies up some before Dad wakes up. Might put him in a bit of a better mood, and that will make the day a whole lot easier on everyone.

He goes back to the bedroom he shares with Sam, to wake him up. Sam isn’t always so good at waking up early. Sometimes, he’s up before Dean. Sometimes, he’s out of bed for an hour or two before it seems like he’s really awake. Sam’s just not predictable.

Today, he shakes Sammy’s shoulder gently, whispering his name. He calls Sam “Princess Sammy,” just to annoy him, figuring Sam will probably wake up properly just to whine at him. He’s right, too.

They’re both dressed and downstairs in five minutes. Dad’s up by then, drinking his coffee. He looks up when they come in, acknowledging their entrance with a nod. He doesn’t mention the coffee or the clean kitchen, but Dean didn’t expect him too.

“It’s after six,” says Dad. “We’d better hurry up, we’re late for our run.”

Dean says, “Yes, sir,” because Dad expects it, and because if he speaks up, maybe Dad won’t notice Sam’s silence. It’s not that Sammy’s sulking or anything, but he’s always a little grumpy early in the morning, and not inclined to talk.

Dean’s a little relieved when Dad just heads for the door, and he and Sam follow him outside.

They’re staying in a little two bedroom cabin, in a trailer park in a tiny pissant town called Furnace. Since it’s only six o’clock, and the air already feels to be about ninety degrees, Dean can only applaud the founders on their aptitude for giving names. Dad takes the lead and they follow a route along the river, under the interstate overpass and then up a small connecting stream. At least, following the waterways like this, the air isn’t as blisteringly hot as it could be. Finally, they head back to the trailer park along the highway, and it’s like running next to a giant oven. The sun’s barely up. Dean remembers that he and Sam still have to walk to school and back again, and they’ve already run a good six miles.

He glances over his shoulder at Sammy, checking on him. He’s not so far behind, which is good, but he’s clearly having trouble keeping up. His mouth hangs open, and Dean can hear Sam’s ragged breaths over the sound of his own footfalls. Sam’s strides are jerky and uneven. Dean figures Sam must just be reaching his limit; if he’d been struggling this hard all along he’d be much further back.

Dean glances back again, this time sticking a grin on his face and trying to make an encouraging gesture without losing his balance. It’s not quite a wave and not quite a thumbs-up. Come on Sammy, he thinks. We’re nearly there. You can do it.

Sam seems to get the message. He straightens up and grits his teeth, a look of determination crossing his face. He pumps his arms and legs harder, and Dean feels a spark of pride and affection for his little brother. Sam will keep trying, not because he wants to, but because Dean asks him to.

They arrive back at their cabin ten minutes later, Dad first and Dean a few seconds later. Sam comes in maybe half a minute after that, sweat sticking his too-long hair to his forehead. He shuffles the last few steps and finally stops, sucking in air like he’s drowning and leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. For a moment it looks like he might drop on the ground in front of the cabin and stay there, but of course Dad’s not having that.

“For goodness sake, Sam,” he says. “Get up, and stop being such a wuss. You know you have chores to do before you go to school.”

Sam straightens up at once, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Dean can still see how much Sammy’s legs are shaking, and he bets Dad can too. “Yes, sir,” says Sam, and Dad nods and heads inside.

While Dad showers, Dean cooks breakfast. He knows Sam won’t want anything cooked, not after running in the heat, but Dad will want bacon and scrambled eggs, and Dean will have the same. While the bacon is cooking, Dean fills a bowl with cornflakes and adds milk. He doesn’t put any sugar on, because Sam complains that he never puts the right amount on. Sam can do that part himself.

Sam’s job in the morning is to check all the salt lines and then move the weapons out to the car. Not that they really need to bring all the weapons inside every night, and then take them out to the car again in the morning. The car is secure, and the three of them are safe in the cabin with the salt lines and a small arsenal. But two weeks ago, Sam packed up the supplies for a hunt and Dad’s pack was one clip short. No big deal, but Dad still thought it was the sort of carelessness that could lead to disaster, that could have been a disaster if their hunt hadn’t gone as well as it did. So, he’d said, maybe after a few days of lugging the weapons back and forth, Sam would learn to be more careful.

They have quite an extensive collection of weaponry, counting the rifles, the handguns, the knives, the crossbows, the holy water and the salt, as well as a few other things like the crucifix and the rosary, and Dad would be pissed as hell if Sam was careless with any of it, so the job takes him a while. Dean and Dad are halfway through their breakfast by the time Sam comes in, just as sweaty and flushed as when they’d just finished their run. He spots the bowl of cereal on the counter and gives Dean a thankful look, but says nothing. Dean’s glad he doesn’t draw Dad’s attention to the fact that Dean made Sam a special breakfast, different to what he and Dad are eating, even if it is just a bowl of cereal.

Dean finishes his breakfast first, and hurries off to be the first one in the shower. He doesn’t need to rush, really. He and Sam have an unspoken agreement that the first one back from the run gets the first shower, and that is always Dean. But they don’t have a whole lot of time if they don’t want to be late for school. Dean doesn’t care about being late, but Sammy does.

When they’re finally out the door, it’s half past seven and they should be able to make the first bell if they don’t dawdle. Sam pushes the pace anyway, and Dean keeps up, knowing that the middle school is a bit further away than the high school. They don’t speak much as they walk, it’s hot and dusty and every breath Dean takes tastes of hot, still air. Sometimes, he thinks he’d like to bring a water bottle along for the walk, but it would just be something else to carry. He can drink when he gets to school.

They talk as they go, about school and classes and the jerks they have to put up with. Sam whines about gym class and Dean mocks him.

“Sounds awesome!” he says. “Maybe they’ll let you play dodgeball!” Sam groans, which just provokes Dean further. “Bet you’d kick ass at dodgeball,” he says, and Sam shrugs.

“Bet I would,” he says sadly. Dean quietens in realisation. Winning a game is one thing, but no-one likes the new kid who comes in and is just too good, too quick, too bright. It doesn’t just apply to academic stuff. He wonders how the other kids react to Sammy, to the smart and studious kid, who is still a bit on the chubby side and not really all that tall yet, when they realise that he’s a better athlete than the quarterback of the football team, and could probably take out most kids Dean’s age in hand-to-hand. Or maybe, they never find out. Maybe Sammy just hides what he can do, to try to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, notice seems to be something Sammy can just never avoid.

***********

When the bell finally rings to signal the end of school, Sam rushes to be one of the first kids out the door.

It’s been an okay day. Classes have been easy enough and the other kids have mostly left him alone. Even gym wasn’t too horrible. They hadn’t played dodgeball, like Dean had said. They’d played basketball, and Sam is neither good nor bad enough at basketball to stand out. Being the last one picked for a team doesn’t bother him, he’s used to that after thirteen years of moving from town to town and school to school.

There’s only one week of school left. They’ve been in this little town for three months now, one of the longest times Sam can remember attending the same school. Sam’s looking forward to finishing the school year with a group of people he’s sort of come to know. He thinks Dad will want them to move on soon, but he hopes they will be able to stay until the last day. He knows for sure Dad will want them to put extra time into training while school’s out. Especially him. He’s just so far behind Dean, even where Dean was at when he was Sam’s age. Sam knows this, because Dad makes sure of it.

Sam walks about a mile back towards the caravan park, and meets Dean where the road from Dean’s school meets the road from Sam’s school. Sam knows Dean’s been waiting for him, and he appreciates it. The temperature is now over one hundred degrees, and there’s nothing Sam would like better than get back to the cabin and relax under the fan. He bets Dean feels the same way, but he’s waited out in the heat anyway, probably for ten minutes or more.

Sometimes, there are a few kids from Sam’s school who like to follow him home, throwing taunts and trying to get him angry or upset. They usually leave when Dean joins up with Sam, knowing a fight they can’t win when they see it. A few weeks back, though, the biggest one grabbed Sam and tried to shove him down. Sam had fought back, like Dean and Dad had taught him. Sam thinks he could have handled one jerkass bully on his own, but when his two buddies had realised what was happening, they’d jumped in. Dean had come along then, looking for Sam who was running late. Dean had probably saved Sam from a giant ass-kicking.

It had bothered Sam. Not escaping getting beat up, he’s cool with that. But Dean had had to save him. Again. And this time it wasn’t even from a monster or anything. Just some stupid bullies that Dean would have been able to handle on his own when he was Sam’s age. Sam still worries about it. He can just imagine what Dad would say; hell, he’s sure he could recite the speech word for word: If he kept on always needing Dean’s protection, he could wind up getting Dean hurt. If he didn’t become tougher and more self sufficient, he’d be too much of a burden, of a liability, to keep helping his family.

Today, no one follows him, and Dean is standing in the meagre shade of a road sign when Sam reaches him. Dean gives Sam a bright smile, which he returned. They fall into step together without a word, Dean reaching behind Sam to tousle his hair. Sam retaliates by bumping gently into Dean’s side.




Sam likes these parts of the day, where it’s just the two of them, when Dad’s not around to remind him of all the ways he doesn’t measure up. When Dean smiles at him, it’s easy to pretend that Dean actually likes hanging out with him, that it wasn’t just a result of the obligation he feels to protect Sam. As soon as they get home, Sam knows they’ll have work to do and Dad will want them to get straight into training. But for now, he can pretend they’re just two normal teenagers.

Dad does take them out training straight away. They head out a little way to a secluded spot where they can train in peace. First, they work out with sets of pushups, starjumps and crunches. Once they’re good and sweaty, Dad calls a drink break, and Sam figures he’s taking it easy because of the heat. He gulps water, trying not to drink too much or too quickly, knowing he’ll regret it if he does. But it’s hard; they’ve just started and he’s already so thirsty.

Next they do target practice, which is definitely Dad’s way of giving them a break from the physical stuff because of the weather. Sam hates this side of training, though. He’s such a lousy shot, with any kind of weapon.

Dad lines up tin cans on a log for Sam and hands him a rifle. “When you can knock all the cans down in ten seconds, Sammy,” he says,” We’ll change up the weapon.”

Sam picked up the rifle obediently, breathing a little easier. He likes the rifle, of all their weapons it’s the one he’s best with. He’s sure he can manage this.

A few yards away, Dad and Dean are setting up targets for the crossbow. Sam’s only used it a few times, because Dad wants him to focus more on improving with the firearms. But Dean enjoys using the bow, and Dad seems to like teaching him.

“Sammy!” snaps Dad’s voice. Sam jerks out of his daze to see his father glaring pointedly at him, tapping his watch.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, lifting the rifle and trying to focus on the cans. There are only five, but the rifle is bolt action, with a reasonable kick, and it only holds six bullets, so there’s not much room for error.

Sam lines up his first shot, waits till he’s ready and squeezes off the first round. He hits the first three cans, misses the fourth, and carefully aims to get it with his next shot. He hits it and lines up the last can, but a bug buzzes past his ear just as he fires and he twitches to the side. Not much, but enough to miss. Sam sighs in disappointment. He’s out of bullets; he failed.

“What was that, Sammy?” Dad barks, and Sam winces.

“There was a bug,” he explains. “It distracted me.”

“A bug,” says Dad incredulously. “Come on, Sam. Would you let yourself be distracted like that on a hunt? If your life depended on it? Or your brother’s?”

“No!” protests Sam fiercely.

“The way you train, Sammy, that’s the way you’ll be in the field. These are the habits you’ll learn. Come on, get your act together. Reload that rifle and pick up the cans.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbles as he sets about doing so. Dad stomps off, and Sam can hear him praising Dean’s aim with the crossbow, his precision and technique and the clever way he manages to get the sun to shine out his ass. Sam pushes away his irritation. It’s not Dean’s fault that Sam sucks. Once he hits all the cans, Sam is sure Dad will be proud of him too.

The second time around, Sam aims very carefully, making sure each can is perfectly in the gun’s sights and his arms are steady before firing. Not only does he hit all the cans, he doesn’t missed any, and his extra bullet is still in the rifle’s chamber. He grins brightly, because he’s never accomplished such a feat before.

He looked at Dad, who’s frowning slightly and still cupping his watch in one hand. “I didn’t miss any of them!” he says excitedly, just in case Dad hadn’t noticed that.

Dad just gives a curt nod. “That’s good, Sammy. Next time there’s a snail infestation, I’ll know who to call. That took sixteen seconds, Sam, too long. You can do better.”

Sam slumps a bit. He sets up the cans again, wondering how he can possibly go any faster. He realises he’s been going about this all wrong. He’s been shooting the can on the highest end of the log, and going from left to right. With the kick of the gun, he has to bring it that much lower for each new target, and it takes more time. If he starts on the right, each target will be slightly higher than the one before, and he won’t have to adjust as much.

Sam tries his new strategy, determined to make it under the time limit this time. He hits the first two cans rapidly close together, but his shot for the third goes wide. Sam knows he’s been rushing too much. He adjusts his aim to try again, but the gun slips in his sweaty hands and he misses again. Although he knows he’s blown another attempt, Sam tries once more, determined to finish as best he can. The can for some reason blurs and wavers in his vision, and he misses for a third time.

“What are you doing Sammy!” barks Dad. “You’re just wasting ammo! You think it’s so cheap we can afford to throw it away?” Dad stretches out one long arm, cuffing Sam lightly behind the ear.

Sam swallows the lump in his throat, trying not to show how upset he is. Dad won’t be pleased if he starts blubbing like a toddler. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Might as well throw the ammo away, for all the good this practice is doing you,” Dad mutters, and Sam flinches. He doesn’t think he was supposed to have heard that, although Dad was standing close enough that he couldn’t help but hear. Hell, even Dean heard.

“Come on, Dad,” says Dean, removing four crossbow bolts from the bullseye of his target. “Sammy’s doing ok.”

“Ok is not going to cut it when we need backup on a hunt, Dean!” snaps Dad, and Sam’s throat tightens again. Dad never talks to Dean like that unless it’s Sam’s fault. Usually because Dean is trying to stick up for him, or because Dad thinks Dean hasn’t taken care of Sam well enough.

“I can do it!” exclaims Sam. “I’ll get it this time! I just need one more try!” He wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts, and lifts up the rifle. This time, he sights on each can before he fires, making sure he’s lining each one up perfectly. When the first shot misses, his stomach lurches, but he still has time, and the next shot hits. So does the next one, and the next, and to be honest, Sam doesn’t really remember hitting the last two cans at all, but when he puts the rifle down, they’re all lying on the ground, so obviously he did. He lets himself smile a little bit, and when he looks in Dean’s direction, Dean smiles back and gives a thumbs up.

Dad still doesn’t look happy, and shakes his head slightly at Sam. “Don’t become dependent on a crutch, Sam,” he says. “If you need this... extra time to check your aim before the clock starts, you’re just cheating yourself. Remember what I said, the habits you learn here are the ones you’ll take on the hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agrees, and his success suddenly looks a lot more like failure. Still, Dad seems to think Sam’s satisfied his requirements well enough, and he takes the rifle away, returning with a handgun.

Sam grips the handgun reluctantly. He likes this one a lot less, finding it harder to use than the rifle. It’s less powerful, so there’s not as much kick, but there’s no butt to rest against his shoulder for added support. And the handgun was less accurate than the rifle, due to its shorter barrel.

“Same thing,” says Dad. “Five cans in ten seconds. Once you can do that, maybe you can have a try with the crossbow.”

Sam likes the sound of that, mainly because the idea of joining Dean and having him nearby while he tries out the crossbow sounds nice. Maybe Dad would even let Dean show him what to do; Dean’s been getting pretty good with the bow. But he’s pretty sure he won’t be getting near the crossbow today.

Twenty minutes later, Sam still can’t hit all the cans in the ten second time limit. He can hit them all in twenty seconds, but if he tries to go faster, he can’t hit more than two or three of them. Dad’s not saying much, but Sam can sense his disappointment.

“Okay, that’ll do,” he says eventually. Sam nearly speaks up, please Dad, one more try, I’m sure I can get it this time... but there’s really no point. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to do it.

“We’ll have to try it again tomorrow,” says Dad.

“Yes, sir,” Sam nods obediently.

They move on to hand to hand training, first doing some stretches, then a few drills, and finally some sparring. Sam and Dean spar together for a little while. Sam never minds sparring Dean; it’s not like Dean goes easy on him, but he always seems to know how much to push. He can tell when Sam’s slacking off and when he’s really having trouble. Dad watches from the side and calls out pointers, mostly to Sam. He’s dropping his guard, his stance is too narrow, he’s using the same predictable moves all the time. Eventually, Dean hooks his foot behind Sam’s leg and sweeps it from under him, grabbing Sam’s shoulders so he lands on the ground gently.

Sam gasps, he always does, when he loses his footing. He’s smiling again by the time he lands on the ground, and Dean allows his own serious expression to soften briefly before he helps Sam up.

“Gotta sharpen up those reflexes, Sammy,” Dean says gruffly, but Sam can tell he’s not annoyed or anything.

“Sam, I’ve seen preschoolers hold their own better than that,” barks Dad. Sam wants to scoff, because, seriously? Preschoolers? He doesn’t believe that for a second.

Sam and Dean square up to go again, but Dad orders Dean off and takes his place. Sam grimaces and hopes Dad doesn’t notice. He doesn’t like sparring with Dad that much. It’s not as though Dad really tries to hurt him or anything, but if he’s outmatched by Dean, he has no hope against Dad.

Dad jumps right in with a simple punch combo, but he’s moving quickly and Sam’s already tired. He blocks the first two strikes, but the third hits him square in the stomach.

“Defend yourself, Sammy,” says Dad. Sam nods and adjusts his guard.

This time, Dean is the one calling suggestions and advice. “You’re too close, Sam,” he says. “Keep out of his range; get in and out to attack.” Sam backs up, but Dad comes after him too quickly. Trying to create more distance, Sam weakens his stance and Dad pounces, tripping him just like Dean had before. Sam lands on the ground with a thump, and balances on his elbows for a moment. Dad is already there, reaching for Sam’s hand, waiting for him to get up.

They start again, this time Dad keeping in real close. He grabs Sam’s wrists in a firm grip. Sam struggles, and when he can’t break the hold, he tries a kick. He’s in too close; Dad twists to the side and the kick lands against his hip, as effective as hitting an elephant with a peanut. Sam tries to twist his arms free, but he can’t, and then Dad is behind him, one arm around his chest, bending Sam back over his hip. Sam hits the ground again, and is pulled up straight away, because Dad didn’t let go of his arms. Finally, Dad breaks free and moves away.

Sam takes advantage of the sudden space to move around and watch his Dad’s movements. He tries a couple of times to dart in and land some strikes, but Dad sees him coming each time and moves away. It’s frustrating as hell, but Sam is used to it and doesn’t lose his temper. Dad moves suddenly to the left, and Sam follows. Dean calls, “It’s a feint, Sammy!” but it’s too late by then, and Dad is on his right, pinning Sam’s right arm to his side with one arm and putting him in a headlock with the other. Sam grips Dad’s wrist with his left hand, tries to get his hip at the right angle to flip Dad like he’s been shown, but it’s like trying to lift a boulder. If he were a fly. When a minute of struggling has proven that he can’t get free, Dad lets him go.

“Well, Sammy,” Dad starts. “Your stances are lazy. You’re unbalanced, your centre of gravity is too high. You’re still not trying to combine moves fluently, it’s like sparring a typewriter. And your reflexes are hopeless. You’re not concentrating.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam tries to keep his expression blank, to not let Dad see how much the criticism hurts. It’s all true, anyway, so there’s no use whining about it. He just needs to try harder to improve; he wishes he were good at this, like Dean is.

“Are you listening, Sam?” Dad barks, suddenly. “Have you heard a word I’ve said? Do you even care that this sloppiness could get someone killed?”

“Of course, Dad!” Sam cries, mortified to hear his voice wobble. He can feel his eyes burning and tries to blink the feeling away.

“Well, there’s no use crying about it! I need you to lift your game!”

Dean’s voice interrupts there. “It’s a hot day, Dad, we’re all finding it hard.”

“Oh, of course.” Dad’s voice takes on a tone of mocking sympathy. “We’ll just have to schedule our hunts for when the weather’s better. Well?” Dad turns his attention back to Sam, who straightens up quickly. “Don’t just stand there snivelling, pack up the equipment while Dean and I spar.”

“Yes sir.” Sam hurries to pack up all the guns they were using, wiping them down quickly so it will be easier to clean them properly later on. He’d like to watch Dad and Dean spar, and maybe give Dean some encouragement like Dean did for him, but he knows Dad won’t like it. He’s embarrassed to realise that Dad really was holding back during their round, and steps the pace right up for Dean. Dad puts him on the ground three times in as many minutes, and Sam wishes that Dean had kept quiet about the weather. It’s not like ghosts can even feel the weather anymore.

Still, at the end of the round, Dean gets a roundhouse kick past Dad’s guard, and Sam can hear him grunt from a good twenty feet away. “That’s good, Dean,” he says, still sounding a bit short of breath, and to Sam it looks as though Dean grows a whole inch on the spot.

********

Back at the cabin, Dean puts the training equipment away while Sam cleans the guns he’d used. Dean can see the slump in Sam’s shoulders, the hurt expression that he tries to hide, and feels bad for him.

“That was some good shooting with the rifle,” Dean says encouragingly. Sam slouches in his chair a little more.

"I couldn't get it," he says. "I couldn't do it with the handgun, and I won't be able to tomorrow either."

Dean’s not sure what to say to that. He loves Sam, and he knows that he tries hard, but he agrees with Sam this time. He won’t be able to do what Dad wants him to do.

"You just need more practice," he says brightly. Sam doesn’t look up, just keeps polishing the barrel of the rifle vigorously, although it’s already gleaming.

"Dad’s going to be disappointed,” Sam says flatly. Dean winces. He hates disappointing Dad. It’s rarely an issue for Dean; he works hard and he and Dad tend to agree about things. Sam is different to them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care when Dad’s unhappy with him.

"Look at me, Sam," says Dean. Sam avoids his gaze for a few seconds more, trying to pretend that the handgun's grip needs more work, but Dean waits until Sam meets his gaze with a carefully blank face.

"You make me really proud, you know,” Dean says. “You never stop trying, even when it’s hard. I don’t do that. All the things I don’t enjoy or that I’m not that good at, like school stuff, I just don’t try, but you do, even if you don’t like it or it’s something you find hard."

"Dean..." Sam groans.

"Shut up Sammy, just listen. I hate this sappy shit as much as you do, so you could at least listen when I make the effort. Now. Do you feel better, or do we need to have a group hug?”

Sammy laughs at last. "Shut up, Dean."

"No, seriously..."

"Shut up!"

The door of the cabin snaps open at that moment, and Dad steps inside. "Boys?" he asks curiously, "what's so funny?"

Dean becomes more serious at once. He doesn’t want to tell Dad what they've been discussing. Not that he'd be mad or anything, but he probably wouldn’t agree, and he'd tell them both as much, and all the work Dean’s put into making Sam feel better would be undone.

"Nothing, Dad," says Sam a bit breathlessly.

"We were just kidding around," says Dean.

Dad grunts. "You started dinner yet, Dean?"

"Not yet."

"Well, what's the holdup? We've got a job tonight, you know, we don't have all day."

"Yes sir." Dean quickly gets out the ingredients for their meal. They’re having spaghetti; it’s quick and easy, and in hot weather it’s better to not use the oven.

**************

School the next day does not go as well. Sam was walking along minding his own business when professional asshole and all-around cliché Mark Soldon came along and grabbed his math textbook. Now he holds it just out of Sam’s reach, calling insults.

Of course, he can get his textbook back if he wants to. He’ll just have to tackle the jerk and maybe grind his face into the brick footpath a little bit. It would be satisfying and effective.

“Give it back,” Sam growls. One more chance. He’ll give jerk-face one more chance before taking the face grinding option.

“Come and get it, pussy!”

All right, face grinding it is.

*********

“What in the hell were you thinking?”

“He had my textbook! He wouldn’t give it back!”

“So you broke his nose? His parents were a second away from calling the police!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be. You’re grounded. Don’t make that face, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

Dad stalks out of the principal’s office and Sam reluctantly follows him to the car. He’s been suspended for the week, the last week of school. Sam doubts he’ll be back to this school again, and he debates speaking up, getting Dad to let him empty out his locker before they leave. He decides against it, in the end. Dad is really pissed off and Sam knows there’s nothing he can say that won’t make him even madder. He can always get Dean to come by and get his things if he needs to.

The drive home passes in silence, and once they arrive at the cabin Sam waits nervously in the passenger seat for instructions.

“Get inside and do something useful,” Dad growls. Sam hurries inside, eager to put a wall or a closed door between himself and his father.

He spends the afternoon cleaning the bathroom and the bedroom he shared with Dean. Dad is sure to see it for the sucking up that it is, but at least it won’t make him any angrier and it keeps Sam busy.

Sam hears Dean arrive home and then the soft murmur of conversation that means Dad is telling him what had happened. Sam hears Dad raise his voice briefly and figures that was Dean trying to defend him. He hopes for Dean to shut up and a few minutes later the bedroom door opens quietly.

“How do you always get into these situations Sammy?”

“He had my textbook! And he’s an asshole. He’s been picking on me for months, and you know it.”

“You should have stood up to him when it started, without breaking his nose. Then it would never have blown up like this. Do you have any idea how pissed Dad is?”

“Yeah, Dean, I get it okay?” Sam grabbs a pillow from his bed and squeezes it tightly in his hands. “Come on, don’t you... haven’t you ever had someone make you so mad, and you’d just do anything to get them to stop?”

Dean looks at him for a long minute, and Sam eventually flinches and looked away.

“You can’t do that, Sammy,” says Dean. “Because it gets you noticed, and that fucks everything up.”

Sam gives up on arguing, and nods meekly. Dean reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, and Sam wishes he just... wouldn’t. It makes it harder to hold onto his anger, and he needs it.

************

The next week sucks. Dad is constantly pissed, and Sam is moody and bored and pissed. Try as he might, Dean can’t manage to keep the two of them from being at one another’s throats constantly. It’s not so bad most of the time, when Sam is at school all day and Dad leaves him alone. But since Sam got into that fight, Dad’s been on his case, and of course Sam is incapable of taking the easy way out, instead antagonising Dad every chance he gets. Eventually, Dean decides the best thing he can do is stay out of their way. Maybe they’ll argue their way to some sort of understanding.

Of course, that’s overly optimistic. Dad gets word of a haunting in a nearby town, and things actually get worse. Dad thinks the ghost was probably the spirit of the former owner of the house; Sam insists it was his son. Dean’s pretty sure that Sam is just out to contradict anything Dad says, even if it’s something indisputable like ‘ghosts don’t like salt’. Dean’s about ready to strangle him.

Dad, for his part, never lets ten minutes pass without barking an order for Sam to do some chore, usually a chore he hates. Dean gets why; Sam hates taking orders, and if he doesn’t learn better it could be a problem when they’re hunting. It’s not that Dean doesn’t understand that, but he still thinks it wouldn’t kill Dad to give an inch or two. It starts to seem like he doesn’t care about Sam learning anything, like he’s just trying to provoke him into another fight. And of course he knows exactly how to do it. Sam’s petulance is frustrating, but so is Dad’s wounded innocence every time Sam gets mad. It’s so clear to Dean, the way the two of them wind one another up, and he doesn’t understand why they can’t see it.

So, sure, Dean starts to get angry with Dad, but then they figured out the identity of the ghost, and Dad was right. He doesn’t gloat or anything like that. Just figures out a plan for the salt and burn. Sam, however, acts like Dad rigged the haunting just to spite him, and Dean wants to throttle him all over again.

Dad makes Sam sit out for the actual ghost busting, which Dean happens to agree with. Not that Sam would do anything on purpose to get them hurt, but he’s too upset to be reliable. Of course, it starts another fight about whether or not Dad trusts Sam, and it goes on until Dad threatens to give Sam a real reason to sulk.

The hunt goes smoothly enough, but it’s still a long night’s work. Digging up a grave takes hours, and they don’t get home until four. There’s no point going to sleep; Dad will only insist on everyone getting up at six anyway. Dean makes coffee and sits down with a car magazine.

It’s the last day of school, but Dean’s not going. He doesn’t see the point; he’s missed too many days and flunked too many classes to graduate. He hasn’t been going to school all week, but Dad and Sam have been too focused on their stupid fight to notice. Still, when Sam finds out he’s not going, he tries to give Dean the sad eyes.

“There’s always summer school,” Sam suggests hopefully, when Dean explains his reasons for not going.

Dean just shakes his head. He’s not going to summer school. He’s done with school. It’s not like you need a high school diploma to be a hunter. Dad, as expected, doesn’t really care when Dean announces his failure to graduate. Like Dean, he understands what is and isn’t important in life, in their lives. And soon after that, the whole subject gets brushed aside as Dad announces that they’re moving on. This predictably results in an enormous fight.

It goes on for ages, and while Dean tries to get Dad and Sam to calm down, he has absolutely no effect on them. It comes to a head when Sam screams, “Why do we always have to do what you say anyway? You don’t know what we’re doing, you’re just making it up as you go!”

Dean can see it happening, but he can’t figure out what to do about it or make himself move. He can see Dad reaching out and grabbing Sam by the shoulders. His fingers grip tight and his face is red. Sam shrinks back a little, so despite recent evidence to the contrary he’s not completely stupid. He doesn’t apologise, though, or look repentant or do anything else that would cause Dad to ease up, because he has no sense of self preservation.

“Go to your room, Sam, before I do something I regret.”

Dean can see Sam hesitate before he backs down and leaves the room. He slumps with relief and waits a minute afterwards, looking from Dad to the doorway where Sam disappeared, trying to decide who to try to reason with.

He follows Sam, of course, because he can, on rare occasions, be made to see other points of view, whereas talking to Dad would just be a waste of time.

Sam is sitting on his bed, looking so furious that he can’t figure out what to do with himself. He sees Dean come into the room and begins to rant immediately.

“He makes me so mad,” Sam snarls. “Like he doesn’t care what anyone else wants or what anyone else thinks.”

“You know he’s not just moving us for kicks, Sammy,” Dean tries, but he gets no farther than that before Sam interrupts.

“I know that!” Sam shouts. “But I want to stay here, and not just for kicks either. There’s stuff I’d like to be able to do, things I won’t be able to do if we leave. But Dad thinks what I want doesn’t matter, only what he wants matters. Doesn’t it make you angry?”

Dean shrugs. It doesn’t make him angry, not like it does Sam. There are things he wants too, but the number one thing has always been Dad’s approval. Sam’s not like that. At any given moment he seems to have a dozen different wants which are all equally important to him, while staying on Dad’s good side is much lower on his list of priorities. It’s not enough for Sam to keep Dad happy, if it means he never gets to do what he wants. Dean knows that, even if he doesn’t understand it.

“You don’t understand,” Sam says, echoing Dean’s thoughts. “You never fight with Dad. You never go against anything he says.”

“We fight,” Dean argues, because Sam’s wrong. He and Dad don’t always get along.

“Not like I do,” Sam argues. “You always back down, ever since...” He trails off slowly, dropping his eyes to his hands.

“Since when?” Dean asks rhetorically. He knows the fight Sam was talking about, the one that had gotten physical. That had been Sam’s fault too, sort of, even though he hadn’t meant it. He’d been just ten, struggling to keep up with the training, and Dad had been frustrated. No one’s fault, really, and it would never have been such a big deal if Dean hadn’t tried to come to Sam’s defence. He’d been young and hot tempered, and maybe he’d enjoyed being the one who was good at hunting. That had been before he’d understood how risky their work was.

“Never mind,” Sam mutters, turning away.

Sam doesn’t get over his sulk, but they move anyway. They wind up way up north, in Michigan, in a crappy apartment which shares a communal bathroom with three other apartments on the same floor. Sam is less than impressed. Dad simply ignores him, and Dean tries to follow suit, but he’s not particularly good at ignoring Sam when he’s truly miserable. Dean picks up a few hours of work at a garage on the corner, and Dad keeps busy with hunting. Sam is left to his own devices. At first he talks about joining a team or a club, but it doesn’t seem to work out. They’re either associated with schools when Sam has yet to be enrolled in one, or the fees are more than they can afford.

*********

Michigan is the worst state in the US. Possibly in the entire world. Sure, it’s nice to be away from stinking hot Tennessee, but there’s nothing to do here. At least before, there had been space to run around, space to get away from Dad when he’s bothering Sam. Here, in the city, he can never seem to get far enough away.

With Dean and Dad both occupied most of the time, there’s not much for Sam to do. If he hangs around at home, Dad gives him research or chores to do. Sam doesn’t mind doing stuff like that, but he does mind being ordered around, so he tries to spend most of the day away from the apartment. If he’s gone for too long, though, Dean worries about him. He spends time at the library, or the park, or the pool, so that Dean will be reassured he’s someplace nearby.

There are some things which are less than ideal. For example, in the apartment just down the hall live a family with a son who’s just a year older than Sam. When they had moved in and met the neighbours, Dean had suggested Sam go around and make friends. Sam had done it, not because he wanted to, but because Dad didn’t like it when he spent too much time hanging around with civilians. Yeah, it was petty, but Sam figures he ended up paying for it when the whole encounter went spectacularly downhill. The kid might have been roughly Sam’s age, but that was the only thing they had in common. He was a quarterback, where Sam’s chosen sport was soccer, and while Sam’s favourite reading material was Cormac McCarthy, Mick preferred things with lots of pictures.

Once he realised Sam spent a good portion of each week in the public library, voluntarily, Mick seemed to consider Sam fair game for his own brand of personalised harassment. Sam has taken to wearing a baggy sweater over his backpack so that Mick can’t grab it. He tries to time his comings and goings for when he knows Mick won’t be around. If Mick gets the chance he’ll block Sam from going down the hall to his apartment, and then Dad gets on his case for being late. It’s driving Sam up the wall. He knows perfectly well that if he complained about the situation to Dad, or even Dean, they would tell him to man up and stand up for himself. But if he actually beat the jerk up, (as he was perfectly capable of doing) Dad would throw a fit about Sam jeopardising their cover. It stank, and he hated that he was the only one who seemed to realise how unfair it was.

Sam keeps his head down and does his best to ignore and avoid Mick, and it goes okay until Mick gets his older brother involved. Sam knew there was an older brother around but hadn’t met him; he would have been thrilled to have that continue, but instead he arrives home one night with a bag full of freshly checked out books and is stopped in the hallway by a taller, uglier, meaner Mick.

“You Sam?” he mumbles, stepping right into Sam’s path. The question is abrupt and not all that clear, so Sam’s response is less than articulate.

“Huh?”

“Sam. Short fat bookworm, pain in the ass. Is that you?” He steps forward to loom over Sam. “You look like a short, fat bookworm.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to leave my brother alone.”

“I... I’d love to leave your brother alone. Really.”

“Then why do you keep hassling him?”

“I don’t!”

“You calling my brother a liar?” He leans one arm against the wall by Sam’s head. Sam takes a step backwards and wonders if he can run away without Dean calling him a pussy.

“No...”

“So you admit you’ve been giving my brother a hard time?”

Sam must take a little too long figuring out what to say to that, because the guy reaches out and grabs Sam by the collar. Sam tries to prise his hand off, but the other guy is too strong. Sam can see him pulling his fist back to punch and tries to figure out which way to duck. He kicks his shin, but that just makes him madder. And then Sam hears a wonderful sound.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Dean!” he exclaims, taking advantage of his attacker’s distraction to pull free.

“I’m asking you a question, asshole. What are you doing to my brother?”

The guy turns away from Sam to look at Dean, and Sam takes the opportunity to move several yards away.

“Listen, I wasn’t doing anything to him except what he had coming for picking on my little brother.”

Dean looks at the guy steadily, then turns his gaze towards Sam.

“That true, Sammy?”

“No!”

Dean looks back to Mick’s brother. “Well, you heard him.”

“Look.” Mick’s brother squares off with Dean and folds his arms. “I don’t care what your little shit of a brother says, mine told me the kid’s been giving him trouble for days. I won’t stand for it, so when he told me...”

“Yeah?” Dean steps forward, right into the guy’s space. “Your brother came running to you, and then what?”

“Then I came to take care of it!”

“Take care of it how?”

“However I had to.”

“However you had to, right.” Dean moves, so sudden Sam doesn’t even have the impression of movement, just that between one moment and the next Dean has the other guy shoved up against the wall. “You came out here to pick a fight, beat him up!”

“Get off me...”

“Dean,” Sam speaks up. He’s happy enough for Dean to stick up for him, but he hates hearing Dean imply that he can’t look after himself. If Dean pummels the jerk on his behalf, it’s not exactly going to fix anything.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean growls. “And you,” he says, shaking Mick’s brother. “I should break your tiny skull. What’s the matter with you? You don’t pick a fight with a kid. You don’t beat up a fourteen year old.”

“I’m not a kid!”

“Not now, Sam!” Dean snaps.

“Dean, stop it! Come on, he gets it. He’ll leave me alone now. Right?” Sam adds, looking at Mick’s brother. “You’ll both leave me alone now, right?”

Mick’s brother nods, and Dean moves back ever so slightly.

“Don’t think I won’t be watching you,” Dean threatens, and Sam moves away, down the hall towards their apartment. Dean starts to follow him, then swings back to hit Mick’s brother with a punch to the face. Mick’s brother yells and Sam hears something crunch.

“Dean!”

“Come on, Sammy, quick,” Dean says, hurrying Sam along towards their apartment. Sam follows reluctantly, taking up the argument again as soon as they were inside.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have!”

“Maybe not. I wouldn’t have had to, if you’d done something about it yourself.”

“What?”

Dean pulls a beer from the fridge and flicks the top at the bin, where it bounces off and lands on the rug. “What was he saying about his brother? That you were picking on him? I know that’s gotta be bullshit, so was he picking on you?”

“Yeah-“

“And you didn’t do anything, so he went running to his big brother to try to get some reaction from you, right? That’s what happens when you don’t stand up for yourself. You should have nipped the whole thing in the bud.”

“That’s bullshit, Dean. When I got into that last fight at school, Dad was furious.”

“Yeah, because you did it in the cafeteria while a thousand people were watching. Come on, Sammy, you’re supposed to be smart.”

“Whatever, Dean. You’re stupid. You try to solve everything with your fists.”

Dean backs away, raising his hands. “Okay, Sam. Whatever, never mind.”

Sam can see from Dean’s face, his posture, that he’s pissed and that he’s not open to talking about it. He feels a little bad, but what does Dean know? It doesn’t matter what he does, Dad’s always happy with him.

Dean leaves Sam alone in his room, and Sam spends the rest of the evening in there, reading and definitely not sulking.

************

Dean arrives home from work the next day to find Sam being unusually quiet. This is never a good sign, but Dean figures he’s doomed at this point no matter what he does, and so he might as well delay the inevitable as long as possible.

That gains him nearly an hour of peace. He watches an episode of Mash, takes some sausages out of the freezer to defrost for dinner, and sits down to watch Wheel of Fortune. Between ‘The Way Things Were’ and ‘The Merchant of Venice’, Sam speaks up.

“Dean, I’ve been thinking.”

“I noticed. The smoke’s a dead giveaway.”

“Funny. Remember yesterday?”

“Yesterday? No, I’ve totally forgotten.”

“Remember what you said to that asshole?”

“To leave you alone unless he wanted me to make him eat his own dick? Something, I’ll point out, you should have told him yourself.”

Sam’s quiet for a minute after that, but he starts talking again eventually. Dean sighs and rubs his eye with one finger.

“You said he shouldn’t be getting into fights with fourteen year olds.”

“And? He shouldn’t. He’s a coward, picking on someone smaller than him.” Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean tolerates the oppressive silence as long as he could before snapping, “What, Sam?”

“Is... did Dad teach you that?”

“What’s Dad got to do with this?”

“I just wondered, you know. What he might think about someone... getting in a fight, with a kid.”

“You wondered what? He’d be against it.”

“You sure?”

“What the hell? Yeah I’m sure. You see Dad going around getting in lots of fights with teenagers?”

Sam is quiet for a long time, and when Dean finally lets himself look away from the television, he realises Sam has left the room.

**************

Sam knows what he's doing is not the brightest move, but he can't seem to stop himself. He and Dad have always struggled to get along, but in the past Sam has made at least some effort to not deliberately antagonise him. He's pretty sure Dad and Dean don't see it that way, but he used to. Now, though, he’s lost even the slightest interest in keeping things civil.

“Why can’t I get a job? Dean has one.”

“Dean’s eighteen.”

“So?”

“He’s finished school. We need the money.”

“All the more reason for me to get a job too. Besides, we can’t be that tight. I know Dean spends half his wages on condoms and skin mags.”

“Sam!”

“You’re not getting a job, Sam,” says Dad firmly. “And that’s final.”

That would usually have been the end of the argument, right there, but Sam doesn't feel like backing down.

“Why? You don’t need me to be around here all day. It’s not like you give me an allowance, you know, there are things I might like to buy for myself.”

“Like condoms?” Dean asks, glaring over his bowl of cereal.

“No! Like books, and, and um, soda.” Sam looks dismissively towards the fridge. “Not like that cheap-ass kool-aid you make us drink.”

“Sam!” Dad bellows. “You don’t need books, or soda, or... whatever else you’d like to waste your money on. You’ve got food, and clothes, and a place to sleep. That’s all you need.”

“You’re being unfair!” Sam shouts. He can see Dad getting madder and madder, and it's a little frightening, but this is what he set out to do anyway. Not because he wants to, but because he needs to know what will happen.

“I have enough to worry about without you being off doing who knows what, Sam. From now on, you’ll be home unless I give you permission to go out.”

“This sucks!”

Now Sam is so angry he thinks he might throw himself at Dad. He storms out of the room and goes to his bedroom. He tries to slam the door, but it doesn't fit the door frame properly and so only makes a disappointing thud. He feels oddly let down. He still hasn't worked anything out, and on top of that Dad has confined him to the apartment. It sucks.

*******

Dean is about ready to move to another state without leaving a forwarding address. If he’d thought things between Dad and Sam were bad before, he knows better now. By this point, he can only assume that Sam is deliberately picking fights. Half of them start when he asks Dad for something so outrageous, Sam must have been aware there was no chance of getting his way. The other half start when Sam asks for something Dad would usually agree to, if not for the attitude Sam pulls while asking. The neighbours have taken to banging on the walls, and eventually the landlord actually comes by to tell them to keep their voices down or else. The fight caused by that visit still isn't over.

“I didn’t yell. You’re the one who yelled. You always yell.”

“Damn it, Sam, if you could shut up and listen for five minutes...”

“Why should I? No one ever listens to me.”

“If you can’t stop behaving like a spoiled brat, you can go to your room.”

“Fine!”

When Dean seeks Sam out in his room later, he's still fuming.

“...And he thinks no one else ever had a good idea except for him. No one knows anything except for him.”

“Sam, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t you think it’s time you let it go?”

“No!”

“Because whatever it is you want, you’re not going to get it like this, and all you’re doing is making everyone miserable.”

“I don’t care.” Sam pouts and looked away, so Dean can tell Sam is lying about not caring.

“Whatever. If pretending that no one gives a shit about you is what makes you happy, knock yourself out.”

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what I do, he doesn’t care about the things that are important to me. Most dads would be thrilled if their kid got straight A’s. Not Dad, though.”

“He cares what you’re learning, just... you know, mainly the stuff for the job. You’ll need to know all that one day, so it’s more important. To Dad.”

“I’m not going to be a hunter. I’m going to be a lawyer.”

“Oh, great idea, Sam.” Dean knows it's unkind, but Sam’s stubbornness is beyond tiresome. He finds himself giving a high-pitched imitation of Sam’s voice. “Objection, your honour! That’s not fair!”

“Shut up, jerk!”

Dean gives Sam a look, and he can see his brother visibly restraining himself. “Fine,” Sam says at last, through clenched teeth. “That’s fine. Do you mind? I’d like to be alone.”

************

Dean is relieved to get out of the house and go to work the next day. He asks his boss about taking on more hours, but they don’t have enough work to go around as it is. He dawdles all the way home, taking far longer than he needs to at the supermarket deciding what to buy for dinner, and driving the longest route. He walks into the apartment to find stony silence. Dad and Sam are both in the room, pointedly ignoring one another.

Dean sighs, filling a pot of water to boil for the rice. “Chicken curry alright with everyone for dinner?”

Dad grunts and Sam doesn't reply at all. Dean nods to himself. “Good. Glad you all agree.” He starts dicing the chicken, which gives him the opportunity to subtly watch Sam and Dad. Dad is going through the newspapers, looking for odd occurrences. Sam is sitting in front of the television, but it's muted and he has a book open on his lap.

“Who wants to chop some vegetables for me?” Dean asks lightly. For a minute Sam doesn't move. Dad glowers at him, and Sam gets to his feet with a resolutely indifferent expression. He silently walks to stand by Dean at the kitchen bench, picks up a knife and begins slicing an onion with precise chops. Dad drops his newspaper and marches out of the room, saying something under his breath about following up a lead.

The moment the door closes behind him, Sam looks at Dean and says, “It was the thirtieth of April.”

“What was?”

“The night you and Dad had that fight. Do you remember?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Sam.”

“I was just about to turn ten, and I was going to ask Dad if we could go to that movie I wanted to see, you know the one, right? But when I got home, you two were having this argument. Do you remember what it was about?”

“Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Sam! I said I don’t want to talk about this!”

“If you don't answer the question, I'll just assume you were fighting about throwing away your secret collection of Polly Pockets.”

“What the fuck are Polly Pockets?” Dean asks. Sam doesn't answer or look away. Dean decides it's easier to just tell Sam what he wants to know.

“He thought you might be able to do some backup work on a hunt. We were after a werewolf and he wanted you to keep watch from the car, send a signal if you saw it. I thought it was too dangerous.”

Dean's quite satisfied to see the surprise on Sam’s face. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know that’s what it was about.”

Dean shrugs. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I would have been fine, in the car. The werewolf probably wouldn’t even have seen me.”

“Sam...”

“No, no, wait. Sorry. I’m getting distracted.” Sam takes a deep breath. “So, would you say that it was a bad fight?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I just. I wanted to know if you thought, like. What you thought about it.”

“Yeah, it was a bad fight, Sam. You don’t see us going at it like that often, do you?”

“No.” Sam chews his lower lip. “Why did it get so bad?”

“I don’t know. Neither of us would back down.”

“’Cos normally you would. Back down.”

“I guess? He’s our Dad.”

“Right. And when you wouldn’t back down, what happened?”

“You know what happened.”

“Tell me anyway. What did Dad do?”

“I threw the first punch, Sam.”

Sam pauses, blinks. “Yeah. I knew that.”

Dean doesn't believe him. “Sure, whatever. I tried to hit Dad. It was a pretty dumb move.”

“Because he beat you up.”

“He didn’t beat me up. We traded a few punches.”

Sam doesn't respond to that. Instead he says, “I was about to turn ten, so you were fourteen, right?”

Dean doesn't bother to answer that. Sam adds, “That’s how old I am now.”

“So?”

“So, you were really pissed at Mick’s brother when he tried to punch me. You were ready to kick his ass.”

“And?”

“Well, isn’t it the same thing?”

Dean gives Sam a withering look. “No, it’s not the same. For one, you didn’t try to punch him first.”

“And if I had, you wouldn’t have been angry with him for beating me up.”

“I’d have been mad at you, for being stupid.” Dean looks towards Sam. “And, yeah, I would still have been angry with that jackass.”

“Are you angry at Dad?”

“That little twerp is not Dad. It’s not the same thing.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because!”

“You said it was wrong for Mick’s brother to hit a fourteen year old. Dad beat you up when you were fourteen. It was wrong. I rest my case.”

“Oh my God, Sam.” Dean slaps his palm to his forehead. “You have been watching too much LA Law.”

“But, seriously...”

“No, Sam, that’s enough.” Dean cuts off Sam’s cross examination or whatever it is, like he should have done ten minutes ago. “Is this why you’ve been such a brat for the last week? You’re holding on to some grudge on my behalf? Let it go.”

“No, Dean.” Sam has that look on his face, the one that says he thinks Dean is being stupid. “You don’t fight with Dad like that anymore.”

“Guess I learned my lesson, huh?” Dean says, rolling his eyes at Sam’s horrified expression. “Come on, Sam, it happened once. People get mad.”

“But it hasn’t happened since, because you stopped getting Dad angry like that. You stopped arguing with him like that.”

“Maybe I haven’t had to.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sam glances up at Dean from a pile of chopped mushrooms. “I mean, I remember two weeks after that Dad had me come along on a salt and burn.”

“A salt and burn’s not a werewolf hunt.”

“Yeah, but that ghost tossed me into a tree, and I sprained my wrist. But maybe you’re right, and that was different.”

“What do you want me to say, here, Sam?”

“I want you to admit that what Dad did was wrong!”

“Why?” The volume of Dean’s shout surprises him, and he looks down at Sam’s shocked face. “Say I do, I agree with all that stuff you’ve said? What happens then? What difference does it make?”

Sam looks up at Dean, his face still except for his twitching jaw. Then he puts down his knife and stalks out of the room.

“Think about it, Sammy,” Dean calls after him.
Part 2