Here is Dean's POV. Enjoy!


Our Daily Bread – Chapter 2

DEAN

I might have just broken the wall in the bathroom where the doorknob hits.

Also, Sam's heart.

And the third knuckle on my right fist.

When I punched the door, Sam startled, his whole body jerking in place and his eyes going wide. Now he's staring and I hear his sharp gasp of breath, but I can't stop my voice from tearing out: "I said go watch your stupid show, Sammy!"

He scrambles to comply, like maybe I'm going to hit him the way I just hit the door. Instead I focus on breathing and on eradicating the embarrassing, baby tears that keep slipping down my face.

Out.

Got to get the hell out, get away. From Sam's fear and disappointment. From the dent I know I just made in the bathroom wall. From the open bread bag and this friggin' pain in my stomach and the fear that's ripping out of nowhere to choke me, where is Dad, why isn't Dad back, what if Dad doesn't come back –

I'm across the room, I'm grabbing my jacket, I'm yanking open the door –

What if Dad doesn't –

Shit!

If Dad doesn't come back tonight, tomorrow there won't be anything to eat. There won't be anything to feed Sammy. There won't be any money for another night in the motel. We'll be out on the street, we'll be hungry, we'll be cold, Sam will be looking at me with those hurt, scared eyes, pleading, Fix it, Dean …

I grip the doorknob to keep myself standing, heave water and what little food I've had today onto the sidewalk. Once. Twice. Till there's nothing left in me, which doesn't take long.

My stomach hurts my head hurts I want Dad where is Dad what if Dad –

Night. Dark. Evil things. Close and lock the door.

Please, Sammy, don't talk about it. Don't draw attention to the puke on the sidewalk. Don't ask me if I'm all right. There is no answer to that question. Please, Sam -

"Dean?"

"Shut up, Sammy."

"Dean, I'm real sorry about the bread …" In this thin little voice like he's six instead of ten. I can't keep up, can't get my breath, can't stop thinking, stop asking –

Shit!

But it's my job to keep us safe, so I double check the door lock before I crawl onto Dad's bed, which doesn't smell like Dad because he's been gone too many nights. Behind me I hear hitching breath and the start of sniffles and misery rolls through me. I didn't mean to yell at him. I didn't mean to yell at all, I just … I … what if Dad. .. how will I … where will we …

"It's okay," I say with as much big-brotherly cool as I can muster. Then add the biggest lie I've ever told: "I wasn't hungry." Surprised to find that now it's actually true.

I hear the Rugrats prattling on and I hear Sammy's breath and I think about the way he jumped, about the look on the face when I hit the door and yelled at him. It was stupid that he ruined the bread, but he's ten and he's forgetful and I know that. I didn't mean to yell at him. Scare him.

Get up. Take care of Sammy. Tend to Sammy.

I try and try, but it takes a long time before my body cooperates with my brain. I crawl off the bed, clumsy and fumbling, to sit next to Sam. It begins to register that he mentioned a bully. Somebody threw his lunch away – Sammy didn't have lunch today, either. He's only a kid. I can't believe some idiot ruined his lunch. Good bread from the middle of the loaf. Peanut butter. There was even a banana, the last of the fruit. I hurt. I'm not as mad as I should be, I just hurt and it scares me. I should be mad enough to rip somebody apart and instead I'm acting like a chick. I hear Sam sniffle and I man up, laying a hand across his shoulder.

"I'll take care of Will Hart tomorrow."

He ducks my hand and scrubs a tear off his cheek. "It's okay," he says. "You don't have to."

All at once I feel like I could puke again. Sam's never not wanted me to handle a bully for him. I've scared him, yelling at him. I've hurt his feelings. He doesn't trust me anymore. He doesn't want –

I struggle not to let my own breath hitch and when I look up, Sam's gazing at me with watery but trusting eyes.

"I ain't mad at you, Dean," he says, doing that thing he can sometimes do where he knows what I'm thinking when I haven't told him.

You should be. You didn't have lunch today. I yelled at you. I scared you. How am I going to take care of you if Dad – why can't I stop thinking that Dad might not – God, Sammy –

"Okay." My voice comes out little. I clear my throat and square my shoulders. I can't quite find the hunter in me tonight.

"I just don't want you to get more detention for fighting a bully," he says. And turns back to his show.

'Cause if I get more detention, he might screw up again. I can hear him loud and clear. I want to tell him he's wrong, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't really him I was pissed at when I freaked out tonight. But I don't know how to bring it up and I don't know how to bring it up and then it's too late. Sam's fallen asleep draped backward across the bed. I hear his stomach growl and for a second I'm just sad. Then all of a sudden I get really, really mad. I hate myself for losing my cool, I hate throwing up, I hate tears, I hate the Rugrats, I hate how bread reacts to air, I hate my dad, I hate this night.

The Rugrats prattle on and Sam's stomach growls again or maybe it's mine and I hear the cars on the road pass and pass the motel parking lot, but nobody ever pulls in. I'm left alone with my sleeping brother and my own messed-up head, left alone with: what if Dad … where is Dad … how will I … what will we … I don't know how …

Somebody help …

Somebody please …