"You wouldn't be treating me like this if Dean was here." Sam huffed, his teenage angst on overdrive.
"You don't act up like this when your brother's around." John threw back. "Now I said these weapons need cleaning, and that means you stop what you're doing and damned well clean them."
"Like a good little slave, right? It doesn't matter that I have an advanced placement test to study for, does it? If I blow that, I'm stuck in those dumb remedial classes they dropped me in because they categorized me as an itinerant student."
"What the hell does that even mean, Sam?"
"It means I've been in so many schools this year, they think there's something wrong with me, Dad! They think I'm dumb! Thanks to you!"
John stepped close to his son. "Watch yourself, Sam. You WILL speak to me with respect."
"You don't earn respect! You don't care about anything that's important to me! You SUCK, Dad!"
The blow, when it came, cracked like a gunshot in the small motel room. Sam's slight body rocketed off the wall, bounced off the edge of the beat-up table and landed on the floor at the foot of Dean's bed. Blood ran from his nose in rivulets and stained the carpet next to his brother's duffle.
Sam's eyes watered, but he refused to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry. They'd gone at it before, true. But John had never hit him. Not across the mouth. Not like this.
"You ready to clean those weapons now, Sam?"
Sam sat on the crusty carpet, staring up at his father with hatred. His hand held his face where John had struck him. "Screw you!" He spit out with all the venom he could muster.
John eyes went hard. He reached down and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront, hauling him to his feet. "What did you say to me, boy?"
"I said, 'Screw you, SIR!'" Sam ground out, unable to help himself.
John smiled then, but it was bleak expression, devoid of warmth. "That's what I thought you said." the older man nodded. He opened up the door to a blast of brisk fall wind and shoved Sam unceremoniously through it. He put all the force he could muster into the push, and the fifteen-year-old was propelled right off the sidewalk and out onto the unforgiving gravel of the parking lot where he eventually rolled to a stop. He sat up carefully, holding his forehead where it had bounced forcefully off the pavement. He looked up just in time to catch his duffle bag right in the face. Next came Dean's sleeping bag because Sam didn't have one of his own.
"Why don't you take that mouth somewhere else, cause it sure as hell ain't stayin' here tonight?" John said calmly, leaning casually in the doorway.
Sam's body shuddered with sobs he tried desperately not to release. It wasn't just the cruel and unfeeling treatment he'd gotten from the man who was supposed to be looking out for him, he was somewhat used to that. But his father's beating freaking hurt. Sam was sure he had a concussion from hitting the ground so hard. His nose might be broken too; he wasn't sure.
The pain cowled him instantly. "Dad! Please! I … I'll clean them!" Sam stumbled to his feet, his head moments from exploding. "I'm sorry, okay!"
But John wasn't moved. "Are you now? Well, that's good to hear, Sam. You go find some place to cool your heels tonight, and you can come back in the morning. Maybe. If you lose the shit attitude."
Sam stood, looking at his father standing in the doorway like a blockade - as fixed and unyielding as a fence post - and he realized the man wasn't going to give.
"Dad … please." Sam hated himself for the hitch in his voice.
"Way to take it like a man, Sam." John said, ice in his voice. He stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. And the last sound Sam heard was the snick of the lock falling coldly into place.
He stood still for a moment, weighing his options. Dean would be back from the laundromat in an hour or so. He could wait for him and risk Dad's wrath again.
Or, he could just go.
John had just given him an out. Sam could take it and run with it. It would mean leaving Dean, which would rip Sam's heart out, but it would also mean freedom.
Freedom from the hunt. Freedom from the blood and the gore and the smell of burning dead things. Freedom from knife wounds and claw slashes and fear.
Freedom from a father who seemed to hate him more by the day.
Sam could leave. He could catch up with Dean later.
Sam did a quick inventory of his duffle. No phone. No laptop either. No cash. Just some extra clothes, a water bottle and the knife Dean had given him. He felt behind him, relieved to note his wallet was still in his back pocket. One of Dad's fake credit cards was in there, but Sam wasn't entirely sure his pride would let him use it - even in a pinch. And anyway, knowing Dad, he'd call and report it stolen as soon as he realized Sam was missing.
Life lesson and all that.
Sam made a decision. It was enough. He would call Dean from a payphone when he got his bearings. Or, he would stop in at a library and email him.
Sam turned. Suddenly, he felt something bloom in his chest that felt strangely like hope. Maybe tonight marked a beginning for him - a chance to get away and find a better life. It was what he'd been wanting, and Dad had just given Sam his blessing to go after it. He made up his mind.
Sam gathered his duffle and Dean's sleeping bag and staggered off into the woods.
It was a window of opportunity, and the fifteen-year-old stumbled awkwardly through it, leaving just a lifetime of pain and a fine mist of blood in his wake.