Then - April 1995, Bald Knob, Arkansas.
School was finished for the day and Sam was standing on the corner waiting for Dean. Sam had been waiting for almost an hour, and only the order of don't draw attention to yourself made him stop biting his nails and fidget for a few moments before he unconsciously started doing it again. Dean was almost never late, and when he was, it was never a good sign. It usually heralded their dad's return from a hunt gone bad and being too hurt to be left alone. So Sam worried and debated with his inner voice the hundredth time whether to start walking homewards. He saw Miss Carden exit through the school's main entrance and despite his worry he surreptitiously watched her bosom sway in tact to her step under her dark purple, shiny shirt. It made his stomach clench, but in a funny, good sort of way and a blush crept up until both his ears were bright red. Suddenly, his want for Dean turned to an urgent wish that Dean would not turn up. As Miss Carden drove away in her old Ford Focus, the weird feelings left Sam and the want for Dean returned, mixed with guilt of having, however briefly, wished for the opposite.
When the one hour late mark had come and gone, Sam started walking, constantly keeping a vigilant eye on the traffic of any signs of the impala. The walk was not that long, and he felt twinges of irritation of Dean's insistence on picking him up as if he was still in 3rd grade. If Dean would just let him walk home on his own – he was almost 12 years old, for Christ's sake! – he would have been home by now. He started swearing, one word for each step he took. With each step his irritation grew, and after several minutes he ran out of swearwords and started inventing new ones in time with each step; oglemonkey, frecklefart, clowncow…after another couple of blocks the mental challenge of creating new words at speed shifted his focus and his bad mood started to lift. His apprehension changed into eagerness of seeing their dad again. Dad had been gone a long time, almost a full month this time, and although Sam was angry at his absence, the safety his father's presence always induced made the possibility of reunion slowly seduce him into an expectant, lighter mood, his annoyance at Dean reduced if not completely forgotten.
Sam saw the impala parked outside their motel room, as he walked past he felt the hood, it was warm but not hot. Dean must have been driving within the past half hour or so. So Dean had been late, and driven directly to the motel rather than swing by Sam's school only a five minute journey away. Sam could only think of one thing that would make Dean drive straight home – the return of their dad in injured shape. Sam walked with long, apprehensive steps and jolted open their motel room in the hope of finding Dean and their Dad both inside. The room was dark, the curtains still pulled and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to being inside from the sharp sunshine outside, still falling through the open door. There were no hushed voices, groans or sharp-ended conversations stilled with his arrival, any of the usual signs that Dad and Dean were there were absent. No-one was in the motel room Dean and Sam shared during their dad's absence. The small kitchenette at the end, with yesterday's dirty cups and plates piled into the sink, was equally empty. But for a small sound from the bathroom Sam might have thought the place deserted. He went to open the bathroom door, but unexpectedly, the door was locked.
The rattle of the door must have alerted the inhabitant to his presence as he heard Dean question from the other side 'Sammy, that you?'
'Dean, what's wrong?' he answered immediately.
He thought he heard a sigh, but before he had a chance to think or ask any more, Dean answered 'nothing's wrong, I'll be out in a minute' in a voice that sounded tired and sad.
'Why is the door locked?', a knot of worry was forming at the base of his stomach, all instincts telling him that something, indeed, was very wrong.
But Dean opened the door and walked into the main motel room, no visible signs of hurt or halted movements indicating damage, not even looking Sam in the eye but nonchalantly flopping down on his stomach on his bed and grabbing the TV remote, flipping it on before saying 'I'm sorry for not picking you up from school, Sammy. I, um, got delayed picking up a few groceries and didn't realise it had got so late.'
His tone portraying sincerity but his averted face making it difficult for Sam to read the truth or lie in his eyes. Realising the entry left wide open in their 'why I don't need a pick-up from school argument' soon made his feelings of worry dissipate as he restarted their old argument but with renewed ammunition.
But instead of arguing back, Dean suddenly turned his back to Sam and said 'Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to wait so long.' Dean ran a hand across his face before continuing 'I'm really tired, would you mind heating up the SpaghettiOs yourself tonight?'
Dean not making dinner was as rare as him not picking Sam up from school. The feelings of worry woke again from their subdued slumber.
'Are you OK, Dean? You're not getting sick or something?' Sam's voice went up at the end of the sentence turning his voice into a squeak, the same way it did when he had spoken to Millie Harrow in English that morning. This time, though, he didn't pay it much attention or get embarrassed and look away. Instead his eyes fastened on Dean's back willing it, hoping to order it, to tell him what was wrong. Thoughts of times when Dean had been ill unwittingly sprang to his mind, the memories of prolonged fear and uncertainty gently nudging his consciousness. He suppressed the unwanted feelings and with effort brought his thoughts completely into the present.
'No, I'm not sick, just tired. Just let me sleep and I'll feel better in a while'.
So, Dean wasn't feeling well. But not getting sick. Yeah right! On the other hand, Dean admitting to not feeling well was so totally opposite their usual script of conversation that it left Sam floundering for several seconds not knowing how to react. In the end, he acquiesced and quietly slumped down on the bed, leaning over and grabbing the remote from beside Dean.
They watched an episode of Star Trek, laying side by side on one of the beds. Sam noticed how Dean slowly seemed to sink into the mattress, his weight settling as if he had held himself tensely before. The close contact soothed Sam's earlier fears of sickness, the lack of signs of fever and the touch of Dean enough to reassure him for now. Soon, the long, even breaths told him his brother was sleeping. Later, he made the SpaghettiOs – thank God, Dean had gone shopping. They had been nearly out of everything that morning, including toilet roll (and God knew the last time that had happened they had had to…) Sam stopped his thoughts going there as it might just loose him his appetite. He debated whether to heat up the entire can and wake Dean, but in the end only made enough for himself. Both, because it was probably better if Dean slept whatever was ailing him off, and also because he had, after all, made Sammy wait for an hour and now made him have to be all quiet and walk on tiptoes. Mostly, the former though, his conscience supplied with a tinge of guilt.
Dean didn't wake up and in the end Sam went to sleep, checking the salt lines and locking the door in the same fashion he had seen Dean do it for as long as he could remember. He felt a secret, inner pride that Dean had trusted him with the task, mixed with worry at the still sleeping form of his brother. To think the absence of the constant chatter Dean usually kept up, that could be so infuriating, could leave Sam missing it, was too perplexing and rather than ponder over Dean's behaviour and drudging up unwanted memories of illness and calling, calling, calling their dad, Sam went to sleep.