Cooler Minds Prevail
"Sam? Sammy?" John takes long steps across the lawn, driven by panic, his head whipping back and forth. "Sam!"
He turns around and walks backward, scanning the front of the house: the windows, the roof, the sliver of yard on either side. A head appears around the corner, and he freezes.
It's Sam.
At thirteen, the boy is slight of frame but gaining height. His thin arms, stringy with new muscles, cradle a small stack of firewood, and he looks worried, confused. "Dad?" he says. "I'm right here."
John does experience relief, and he sighs and relaxes to see his son unharmed. But the feeling is fleeting, and it waxes too quickly into anger. "Get in the house," he barks.
Sam frowns, and his shoulders droop. His voice is injured. He senses he's in trouble, but can't fathom the reason. "What?"
"I said get inside, now."
Sam drops the firewood at the corner of the house and trudges toward the door. His gait is too slow for John, who meets him halfway, catches him by the back of the neck, and marches him up the front step and into the house, where he slams the door behind them.
John grabs the plastic milk jug that sits by the door. It's full of rock salt. Sam stands rubbing his neck and scowling as John restores the disturbed half-circle on the carpet.
"What the hell did I do?" says Sam.
John replaces the cap and shoves the milk jug back into place. He rounds on Sam. "You know better than to go wandering off."
"I was getting firewood. I was right in the yard."
"Did you have salt on you?" says John. "Did you have holy water?"
Sam looks at the ceiling.
"Don't roll your eyes at me." John takes a step closer. "You could be ten feet outside a salt line or ten miles—you're just as unprotected. You don't take off like that without telling me where you're going."
"I didn't go anywhere!"
Something occurs to John, then, and he narrows his eyes. "Does Dean let you do that?"
The truthful answer would rat out his brother, and Sam has no intention of getting Dean into trouble. But John is overreacting, and Sam is still miffed about it, so he says, "You mean let me take three steps without holding my hand?"
"Don't get smart with me, boy," says John.
"Why not? You want us both to sound stupid?"
John's eyes flash. "You can just watch your damn mouth," he says.
Sam is fighting on purpose, and he wants to push back. But something makes him think of Dean, and he stops.
If Dean were here, this is the part where he'd step in. He'd force the two of them apart, send Sammy to his room, get Dad a beer in the kitchen. He'd break them up, make them calm down, and in an hour's time, they'd be civil again. Dean always knows how to handle these situations.
But Dean isn't here, and Sammy wants to think up a zinger; really hit the old man where it hurts. His mind goes to Mom, and the sentence begins to form.
Dean wouldn't let him say it. Things are always better with Dean, and if Dean wouldn't let him say it, he shouldn't say it. If Dean were here, he'd separate them before any more damage could be done.
So Sam bites his tongue, turns on his heel, and heads for his bedroom. He is proud of himself for walking away. They both need time to cool off, is what Dean would say. Sam just needs to sit alone and think nasty thoughts about his dad until he realizes he's being an idiot. He doesn't like to lose an argument, but at least things didn't come to blows, this time.
But John doesn't get the hint. He grabs Sam by the arm and whirls him around. "Don't you walk away from me!" he snarls.
Sam twists in his grasp. "Let go!"
"You don't leave this house without permission, do you understand?" John growls. "The next time you pull something like that, I'll wear you out, and that's a promise."
Sam gives an extra-hard tug on his arm, and when John still holds fast, he goes from annoyed to enraged.
"What the hell is wrong with this family?" His voice shoots up in pitch, and he is practically screeching. "I take three steps outside and I get the belt?"
"You take one step outside and you'll get the belt," says John. "And if you don't cut out the attitude, I'll take it to you right now!"
"If Mom were here, she wouldn't let you beat me," says Sam.
"If your mother were here, we wouldn't be having this discussion."
Sam imagines Dean hauling him by his shirt sleeve away from John and down the hall. He thinks of the loud voices outside his bedroom door as Dean weathers the storm. He really wishes Dean were here now, because this time, he can't stop himself. "But she's not here, is she?" he snaps. "And whose fucking fault is that, Dad?"
And the rest of the details don't matter, because now all either of them can see is the other, fuzzy through the bright red fire before their eyes.