Disclaimer: sadly, I still do not own supernatural. I asked, but they wouldn't take an insane cat, 2 fish, and a snuggie in trade
Sam knew he'd be in trouble in as soon as his dad got back. John and Dean had
gone out-separately- to research for the next hunt. Since Dean was 16 now, John had
given him the Impala, and had bought a truck for himself. Sam was left behind and
ordered to work on his target practice. John had tied several can to a high branch of a
tree, and told Sam to hit every one by the time he got back. But Sam had been distracted
with thoughts of Trish Wilson, whom he planned to ask out Monday at school. As a
result, his shooting was sloppier than usual. He'd only hit 9 out of 15 cans. John would
see it as a failure, he knew. Sure enough, he heard the truck pull up, and without even
coming inside first, he heard John go check on the cans, then stomp into the kitchen
where Sam was just finishing cleaning the gun he had used.
"9 cans, Sammy? Is that really the best you can do?" John sneered at his youngest
son. "No, sir. I'll do better next time, I promise." Sam replied quietly.
"That's not good enough!" John roared, suddenly furious. What if next time, we're on a
hunt, and you get your brother or me killed because of your clumsiness and lousy
shooting! What are you gonna do then? Start whining and say 'but I'll do better next
time! I can't believe you're my son; you're a disgrace to the Winchester name! Go to you
room, I don't even want to look at you right now. If I feel like it, I might leave you some
dinner, even though you don't deserve it. Worthless little brat.
Throughout John's rant, Sam had gotten paler and paler, and was now crying
openly, though he was trying not to let his dad see. Now, in his room, he thought over
what his dad had said. His dad didn't want him. He didn't deserve to be a Winchester.
He'd never be any good at anything, no matter how hard he tried. He hadn't been laying
down long when the solution came to him: if he wasn't here, dad and Dean wouldn't be
in danger from his lousy shooting, his clumsiness, his inexperience. They'd be better off
without him. He would have to work quickly; if he was still here when Dean got back,
he'd try to stop him. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a quick
note, packed his few clothes, a gun, and a couple knives into his duffle bag, and went out
the window as quietly as possible. Hopefully, he'd be miles away by the time anyone
noticed he was gone.