"Dean?"
Dean dragged the spoon through the sticky mush that coated the bottom of the pot. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as a flake of nonstick coating rubbed off and mingled with Sam's dinner. He picked it out carefully. Stupid soup. Stupid rusty pot. Stupid old stove.
"Deeeeeeeeean."
He stirred one more time before answering.
"What is it?"
"Look at what I drew."
Sam proudly held up a wrinkled piece of hotel paper on which was neatly drawn a simple house with a white picket fence. At least, Dean thought it was meant to be white, but the only thing he'd found for the kid that looked remotely like a pen was a tiny stub of green crayon, stuffed haphazardly between their mattress and the headboard.
There were two stick figures in front of the house, one tall, with spiky green hair, and the other small and curly-haired. D and S, Sam had written. He hadn't quite mastered his spelling yet.
"That's great," Dean muttered, turning back to the burner.
As if they would ever get a home with a picket fence, green or otherwise.
He sighed when he saw that the flame had petered out. Perfect. That was just what he needed. Coughing, he shut off the gas and scrambled down from the counter, dragging the pot with him.
"Here you go," he said, swallowing a pang of hunger as he dumped the contents into Sam's bowl. Despite its rather unpleasant appearance, he found himself craving it. The smell only made him hungrier.
No, he told his stomach sternly, Sam needs it more.
Picket fences he couldn't do. Food… well, sort of. He could try, at any rate.
With a start, he realized that Sam's eyes were fixed on him with an indiscernible expression, and that he hadn't even touched his food. A burst of irrational anger ran through him at the sight.
"What are you staring at?" Dean snapped, and tried without success to suppress his aggravation. "Don't be picky. This is all we've got until Dad gets back."
Obediently, Sam picked up his spoon and took a bite. Dean quickly averted his eyes and hurried to the sink to wash out the pot.
"Dean?"
He groaned. "Now what, Sam?"
"Dean, why don't you have some? Aren't you hungry?"
Hell, yes! I could eat four burgers, a whole pie, and still have room for the disgustingly soggy concoctions Bobby calls cereal.
"No."
He squirted some soap into the pot and started to scrub at the burnt vegetables that clung to the bottom.
"Dean?"
His temper getting the better of him, Dean swung around, flinging water across the room. Sam was such a little prattler.
"Sam, shut the hell up and let me finish what I'm doing! Eat your food!"
Sam hung his head and stirred his soup rapidly, his jaw trembling.
Dean dropped his arms to his sides in defeat. The soap suds dripped mournfully from his wet hands to the carpeted floor, and he slid the floor, his vision suspiciously blurring. He was hungry, and he wanted Dad to come back, and he was tired of cheap motels and stale air and springy beds.
A pair of stocking-clad feet padded towards him, but he couldn't bring himself to look up. Sam crouched down next to him, small hands gripping the large plastic bowl tightly. "Dean, I'm not hungry."
There was a slight pause. Sam evidently expected him to answer. Dean gnawed the inside of his cheek and battled the sharp waves of remorse that were sweeping over him in quick succession. It wasn't Sam's fault that he hadn't managed the budget properly. He shouldn't have splurged on the apples.
"Can… can we share it?"
A lump rose in Dean's throat at the hesitance in his tone. Maybe Dad wasn't there, but Sam was. Good old Sam. He wondered suddenly what on earth he would – could – do without his little, dorky, curly-haired brother.
When he nodded, Sam beamed and ran to find another spoon, his hazel eyes shining.
That would have tided him over a hundred meals.
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