"You heard what Dad said."
Sam imagines that the point of Dean's finger thrust into his lower back is the threatening mouth of a rifle.
But Dean's voice is harsh even in reality as he leads his little brother from behind toward the basement of the old house. And Sam is much less confident when he emerges from his imagination. He dawdles then whimpers when Dean pokes him again.
"Yes, I heard what Dad said," he says in a small voice, "but I don't understand why he's leaving me here."
"Us," Dean corrects him bitterly. "He's leaving us."
At Sam's huge glassy eyes turned toward him, Dean relents and explains further. "Look, Dad is renting this place so we don't have to move around with him for awhile. Aren't you happy about that, Sammy?"
Dean's voice is grudgingly warmer now, and Sam nods. Sam hates moving all the time.
"But I still don't understand why I have to stay in the basement while you get to be upstairs." Now standing in the half-open door at the bottom of the stairs which grin up at Sam with their worn gold carpeting, he tries to look sad and scared so Dean won't get fed up with his questions.
He doesn't succeed. "You don't have to understand," Dean grumbles impatiently, "when it's your father's orders."
Dean turns over a bucket and gives Sam a look to tell him what it's for, then nods to a pile of moth-eaten blankets in the corner. "You won't get cold." Then he pulls on the corded metal chain controlling the dim output of a single bare bulb in the bare ceiling. Sam isn't tall enough to reach it. Except maybe by standing on the bucket, he realizes. He's annoyed that his logical mind is already adjusting to a life in a dingy basement.
All this is over in a few seconds, and his brother's face disappears behind the door. "You always wanted your own bedroom," Dean shouts.
Then, as the lock clicks into place, he says more quietly, sadly, "Don't worry. I'll be back to take care of you…"
