Chapter One is from Sam's point of view. Dean is 14 and Sam is 10. These aren't my kids; I'm only babysitting.
Our Daily Bread - Chapter One
SAM
"You left the bread open."
I don't look up. Dean sounds ticked, but I don't give a crap. It's not like he's done anything but pick at me since Dad left all those days ago.
"Sam. Why'd you leave the bread open?"
I huff a sigh. "I didn't mean to," I say, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.
When Dean doesn't immediately answer, I scramble for the TV remote so I can pick what we watch, at least until Dean wrestles the remote away from me. I flip past the news – somebody died in a car crash – and the weather channel – somebody died in a storm – and a cop drama – somebody died in a shooting. It's a wonder there's anybody left out there for my dad to save.
I settle on The Rugrats, and it takes me a little while to realize Dean's not arguing with me, even though he hates this show. He'd rather watch something about cars, even though he won't be old enough to drive legally for a couple more years. Or some movie with cute girls but no plot. Or a hunting show because even though they usually only hunt deer or turkey on those shows, Dean says hunting is hunting and there are tactics to be learned from watching somebody sneak up on a deer, whose survival instincts are just as strong as those of a werewolf.
I twist in my seat, wondering what Dean's doing – and my heart starts hammering in my chest.
Dean is still standing next to the bathroom door, in front of the sink where we keep our toothbrushes, along with the bread and peanut butter because this motel doesn't have a kitchenette like some of the nicer ones do.
He hasn't moved from the spot and he's still holding the open bread bag.
I can see him in the mirror and he's –
"Dean?" Even to my own ears, my voice comes out sounding really small.
He doesn't answer me, but I can see his shoulders shaking and I scramble off the end of the bed and dart toward him. When I'm standing two or three steps behind him, I stop again, not sure what to do.
Dean doesn't cry. Ever. I have been alive ten years and I have never, not once, seen any evidence at all that he even can cry. Dad can cry – one time Dean got bad hurt and I saw two whole tears escape from Dad's left eye – but not Dean – not Dean, not ever.
"Dean?" I try again. "Whats'a matter?"
Dean seems to realize by my voice that I've moved much closer, and he scrubs his sleeve across his eyes.
"Nothing," he says forcefully. He slams the bread bag down on the counter. I can't believe he's this upset about bread. There were only two pieces left anyways and they were both heels.
"I was in a – in a hurry to eat," I rush to explain. "I was really hungry when I got home from school today. Will Hart took my lunch and dunked it in the toilet because I'm the new kid."
I expect Dean to flare up with anger at this revelation – or at least look at me in sympathy. But he is staring at the bread bag with its two hardened, crispy lumps of bread that have been left out in the air for almost two hours. It took Dean that long to get home from the detention he got for sneaking out of school to pick me up when I was sick last week. His shoulders are still moving funny and the rest of him isn't moving at all.
"Dean?" I ask. "What did you eat for lunch?" And I get this sick feeling in my stomach like the peanut butter I ate on the last of the good bread is moving around in there.
"Go watch your show, Sam," Dean says, but now I can even hear it in his voice. Dean – my Dean, my big brother, who doesn't even cry when he gets stitches – is crying over some crispy bread heels.
I close the gap between us and take the bread bag out from under his hand. I touch the bread inside, but he's right. It's crispy and dry. It's not something you'd wanna eat.
"Dean …"
He spins around, tears evident on his cheeks, and punches his fist into the bathroom door so hard it slams open and bounces all the way back closed again. I can't help but jump at the noise, but I'm too startled to cry. My stomach hurts.
"I said go watch your stupid show, Sammy!" Dean shouts, inches from my face. I scamper back to the bed, not eager to find out whether he will hit me like he just did the door.
I wouldn't hit him back if he did. Just for today.
Dean stalks across the room and grabs his jacket. I feel my throat get tight. I hate when Dean storms out after a fight and then I can't even make up with him. All I can do is stare blankly at the TV and worry about whether my brother's safe and whether he hates me and whether I'm a bad little brother.
Tonight I don't have to wonder. I ruined the bread. Before Dean even got a sandwich. I didn't even think! I'm a terrible brother.
This is when tears start to form in my eyes, too.
The motel door opens, but it doesn't close and after a minute, I glance that direction. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding onto the knob, and his shoulders are heaving and while I watch, he throws up, right there on the sidewalk. Then he slams the door with him still on this side of it and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Dean –"
"Shut up, Sammy."
"Dean, I'm real sorry about the bread –"
Dean breathes in and out, too fast and too loud, for a second and then he checks the locks. When he's sure we're closed safely back in, he goes to the other bed – Dad's bed when Dad's here – and stretches out across it on his stomach.
"It's okay," he says, which is his most frequent lie. "I wasn't hungry."
I keep looking at Dean, but he never moves. So I turn back to the Rugrats, but I'm not really watching. I think I hate the taste of peanut butter from now on. I think I hate this stupid motel room and the stupid Rugrats and my dad for being gone. I know there isn't any more money for bread. I know what's been taken from Dean, he'll never get back.
After a minute, Dean drags himself back off his bed and comes to sit next to me on mine. He puts his hand on my shoulder, heavy, for just a second. "I'll take care of Will Hart tomorrow," he promises.
I sniffle, scrubbing away the one tear that has managed to fall, and duck out from under his grip. "It's okay," I tell my brother. "You don't have to."