Five-thirty sees everyone awake, if groggy. Breakfast is beef jerky and some slightly mealy apples but nobody complains, Luke least of all, devouring his food quietly like he hadn't stuffed himself full of stew the night before.
Dean figures he's learned to take his food where he can get it.
But it's quickly apparent that with John awake, things are different. With John awake, Luke sits away from Dean, a couple of yards from the Hunters, eating fervently but quietly, keeping his eyes down. Dean keeps looking over at him, trying to make eye contact, to let Luke see him smile reassuringly. But the kid doesn't look up. Also, John's starting to frown, so Dean gives up and just finishes his breakfast in silence.
Packing the campsite is never a very chatty activity for the Winchesters, but this morning it seems even quieter than usual. Luke is a big help, watching carefully until he gets a sense for where stuff goes, then doing more than his third of the work. Dean is a little embarrassed, and just the slightest bit angry at the kid for showing him up, but god, can he never let that show. He thinks Luke might spontaneously combust if he gets wind of Dean being mad at him.
Luke's still moving around awkwardly (which only makes Dean feel worse about going slower than the kid packing), and once they're done Dean knows they're in for a significant hike back to the car. The kid can make it, Dean's sure, but it's going to be a painful trek for him without medicine.
"Hey, Dad, where's the first aid bag?" Dean calls, shoving the fabric of the tent more firmly into the wrap it fits in. John looks up, frowning a little.
"Why?" he asks.
Dean glances surreptitiously at Luke, whose eyes have gone wide and panicked. Dean suppresses a wince and spontaneously decides that a lie is his best course of action. "Got a headache," he says casually.
John glares at him briefly, going back to finishing packing the cooking gear. "We don't have aspirin to spare for a headache, Dean."
"Dad—"
"No, Dean."
Dean takes a deep breath, calming the anger that threatens to spill over into harsh words that he'll instantly regret. Instead he glances around the campsite, trying to guess which bag his dad would have packed the first aid kit in.
And it's probably the one Luke's holding. Bingo.
"Hey," he says, and Luke jumps. "Hold up, that can be packed better."
Indignation and fear war on Luke's face. The indignation, that's fair, because, if Dean's being honest, the bag could not have been packed better. It's tight and there's no wasted space. But the kid doesn't look inclined to argue with him, just to glare a little, which is fine. Dean drops the tent bag on the ground and kneels, motioning for Luke to follow suit, which of course he does. Dean sees John look at them briefly, then apparently decide that Dean's taking some initiative in training the kid, and look away to make a last sweep of the grounds.
Dean sticks his hand in the bag and feels around until he finds the zipper pack containing their meager medical supplies. He doesn't have to pull it out to know exactly where the bottle of aspirin is, and with deft fingers he pulls it out, unscrews the top, and taps two pills into his other hand. The bottle is closed and back in the kit before his dad has the opportunity to look back, and Dean shoves the pills into Luke's hand.
"But—" the kid argues, and a glare from Dean shuts his protest down.
"Take 'em," he hisses.
"But your father—"
"Fucking take them before he hears you," Dean snaps, still under his breath, but with more force. He doesn't take any pride in the way Luke's eyes shutter and there's a lax obedience, an automaticity in his movements as he swallows the pills. Like orders are something he can deal with. But hell, if he's going to have to boss the kid around to get him to take care of himself, fine. When Luke looks back up at him, his eyes wide beneath his shaggy bangs and seeming to ask did I do good?, Dean can only manage half a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
John's looking, now, and Luke seems to notice without turning, and so he says, his voice soft and even, "Thank you for showing me. I'll pack it right next time."
"Sure," Dean replies, pressing his lips together to keep from grinning, and Luke looks a little confused but Dean just guesses that he's never done this before: kept something from the adult, felt the little wriggle of excitement that having a secret brought. Because Dean dropped out of school when he was fifteen, but Luke probably never got to go.
They could figure out who was Lilim pretty young.
Again, fine. Dean might not know much about school, but he figures he can teach Luke what he needs to know about everything else.
"Let's head out," John orders, and while Dean straightens his back automatically, he's a little surprised to see Luke do the same. Well, almost the same. When Dean straightens up it's like a soldier: head high, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight. When Luke straightens up, it's like he just wants John to know he heard. The hunch leaves his spine but it doesn't leave his shoulders, and he ducks his head further than before. He readjusts the straps on his shoulders, shifting his burden up higher on his back, and doesn't move until Dean does.
Dean's okay with that, knows that the kid feels the need to stay a few steps behind, figures somebody taught him that was proper or whatever. But when John turns around, it's with a scowl. "Get in front of Dean," he snaps, his voice low and rough, and Dean startles almost as much as Luke because he's never heard his dad talk like that, not to a kid.
(They're creatures, Dean, just like witches or wendigos.)
But it lights a fire under Luke's ass real good and he flies in front of Dean, eyes firmly on the ground in front of him, hands white-knuckled against the black straps of his pack. "Don't want you gettin' it in your head to wander off," John mutters, and Luke nods mutely. Dean can't even find it in him to glare at his father when John's gaze turns briefly to him; he knows his expression is nothing but stunned horror, and he can't for the life of him change it. John glares a little harder, and says, "Keep an eye on him," then turns back around before Dean can gather his wits about him to respond.
It's halfway through their hike back to the Impala that Dean can't take it anymore. Luke's fucking shaking, and he wonders if it's not partially his fault. It can't be that the kid's not used to rough treatment, not with the state of him, because Dean's almost positive that his ankle's twisted and that he's got at least one bruised, maybe broken rib. A little bossing around from John shouldn't be enough to shake him like this.
But one thing Dean knows is that surprising pain is the worst kind. He knows that when he sees a fugly coming for him, when he can brace for a fall, when he knows the needle's going in for stitches, he can deal. It's when he thinks he's safe, when he thinks he shouldn't be hurting, but he does, that's when it's bad, when it's hard to take.
Maybe Dean let Luke expect something that he wasn't going to get. Not from John, at least. Maybe he led Luke to believe he was going to get something different here, something kinder, when that wasn't entirely true.
Quietly enough that he knows John wouldn't hear the difference, he speeds up a little and catches up with Luke, who keeps his head down, but Dean's heart tightens in his chest. The early morning light is soft, filtered through the sparse canopy, but Dean knows tear tracks when he sees them. He puts his hand on Luke's shoulder and squeezes gently.
Luke looks up and Dean doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. His hazel eyes are wet, and when he meets Dean's, it's not without fear. He looks right back down, but Dean squeezes again, and with reluctance he lifts his eyes.
Sorry, Dean mouths.
Luke drops his gaze and mouths back, Please stop.
And it's like a fucking knife in his ribs, but Dean stops.
It seems for a while like it's never going to happen, but eventually they do get back to the car, and it's like an oasis. John looks disapproving when Dean grabs Luke's bag and shoves it into the trunk of the Impala over the array of weaponry that has Luke's already-pale face paling further under the layers of filth, but Dean doesn't care. Dean doesn't care about the glare turning into a glower when he opens the door to the back seat for Luke and helps the kid in. He cares more about the gobsmacked, when-is-the-other-shoe-going-to-drop look on Luke's face, but he ignores it all the same.
"The guns and stuff are for monsters," he says softly as he helps Luke settle himself. "Werewolves and demons and stuff. Nobody's going to hurt you."
"Okay," Luke whispers, a panicky-hopeful light in his eyes like maybe if Dean believes that Luke believes him, Dean will make it be true, and he won't wind up with John's bowie knife in his gut.
"How's your foot?" Dean asks.
"I'm fine" is Luke's reply, which is probably a lie and also doesn't answer Dean's question, and Dean knows that if he pushes he'll get an answer, but he doesn't. He's weary and Luke's exhausted and John's getting suspicious and it's time to move on, so Dean shuts the back door and swings himself into the passenger's seat with practiced ease.
The rev and purr of the Impala is like music to Dean's ears and it's all he can do to not fall asleep on the spot, but he weirdly doesn't want to leave Luke the only conscious person in the car with his dad. It's not that Dean thinks John will hurt Luke—he doesn't. His dad wouldn't. Sure, maybe Dean and John get into it sometimes, maybe it gets a little rough sometimes, but Dean can take it. Dean's whole life has been building him up to where he can take a swing and give as good as he gets.
It's just that Luke's a kid. A skinny, awkward, hurt, terrified kid, and John hasn't had to deal with anybody but Dean in a long time, and Luke can't take a swing the way Dean can. So Dean's gonna do what he does, and put himself between a kid and anything they don't want to face. Even if that thing's his dad.
So he stays awake.
Creedence is playing low and scratchy on the cassette, and Dean distantly recognizes "Bad Moon Rising" and hopes it isn't like an omen or something. He starts humming along, because if it's an omen, there's nothing he can do about it.
It's only a couple of hours' drive back to the motel John had rented when they rolled into town, and Luke has nodded off in the backseat by the time they get there. Dean looks back and notices, though the kid doesn't make a sound—not a whistle or a snore. Dean wonders if it's always been that way, or if it's another way of keeping himself safe. Quiet and inconspicuous.
John glances back, too, and his expression turns unreadable—simultaneously darkening and softening, and Dean picks up on the opportunity. "I can bring him in, Dad," he says quickly. John's gaze turns to him, and he just nods once, sharply, before stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
Dean doesn't miss Luke's jump at the sudden noise, or the panic in his eyes and his breathing as he wakes up. He leans back and puts a hand on the kid's knee, not wanting to restrain him too much, but wanting to ground him. "Hey, woah, buddy, it's cool, it's okay," he says, and Luke's eyes eventually find him, round and confused. He softens a little when he recognizes Dean, which Dean counts as a win. "We're back at the motel. Hang tight, I'm gonna help you out of the car."
"I can get out," Luke says quickly, struggling up to a sitting position while Dean circles around to open the door. "I can do it, don't worry about it, I got it."
"Oh, shut up," Dean retorts, and sighs when Luke falls instantly silent and still, staring at him with wary eyes as Dean reaches into the back seat and unbuckles him. "Sorry, man, I'll can it with the orders."
Luke sags against Dean when he frees the boy from the back seat, his legs probably cramping from disuse, but looks up at him with bright, puzzled eyes. "Why?" he asks.
Dean freezes for a moment before starting them off towards the room at a slow pace. "Because, you know, obviously it's weird," he stammers.
"It's really not," Luke replies with a forced kind of lightness while Dean unlocks the door with the key John gave him, stumbling into the room together. "I mean, your dad bought me. It's not weird that you'd give me orders."
"Stop that," Dean snaps, and there he goes again, and Luke's got this weird combination of tight fear and I told you so smugness on his face, and Dean just wants to scream. Instead he sucks in a deep breath and says, "Can you get to one of the beds okay? I'm gonna help Dad unpack."
Luke goes very still under his hands, but nods silently and crosses to the bed farthest from the door, his gait awkward and painful. Dean watches until he sees that the kid's settled safely, then turns and heads back out to the Impala and his dad.
He hasn't even announced his presence when John, not turning around, says, "Don't coddle him, Dean."
Dean stiffens. "Sir?"
"I said, don't coddle him. He's not a god damn wilting flower, he's Lilim, and he's here to help us find the thing that killed your mother. He's a GPS. He's not a pet."
"He's a kid," Dean argues, but his voice is soft and lacks conviction.
He jumps when John slams down the trunk of the Impala. His dad rests his weight heavily against it and still doesn't turn as he says, "He is not a kid. He is not human. He is one of the Lilim, and he's no better than a demon or a witch. Get it out of your head that he's anything else."
And Dean doesn't knowingly lie to his father, not about important things. About getting to third base with a girl named Polly back in Des Moines in the Impala when he was supposed to be making a food run, yes. About important things, no. But he's never told a bigger lie than he does when he says, "Yes, sir. I understand." He grabs the supplies duffel and the research duffel off of the ground and walks inside, leaving his father leaning against the Impala, a look Dean can't decipher on his face.
Luke is sitting exactly where he left him on the bed, watching Dean with hunted eyes as he enters and drops the bags, rooting around in the research one for some books. "You ever done research before, Luke?" he asks, not looking at the kid.
The voice that comes from the bed is quiet, uncertain. "Yes, sir."
Dean stops, and hears an accompanying squeak from the bed as Luke shifts. He turns around and the kid is staring at him, wide-eyed. "Where'd that come from?" he asks, working to keep his voice even. "What's all this yes sir? It's just Dean, man."
Luke's expression slips into something tired, and he says, "Can we not?" When Dean doesn't reply, he scrubs his hands over his face and lowers his eyes. "I know what you're doing, okay? And if you're waiting for me to screw up, okay, let's just do it. I'll screw up. Three, two, one."
Dean's just staring, open-mouthed, at Luke's display, as the kid's face starts to flush and his whole body shakes. "I know what you're doing and I hate this game. I might be young but you are not the first Hunter who thought it'd be funny to pretend to be nice to me until I forget, until I forget how I'm supposed to act, and then it just gives you a reason. Okay? You want it to be my fault? Okay, it's my fault. I'm talking back to you. So get it over with because I don't want to play."
His stomach feels like it's full of lead, and he can't tear his eyes away from Luke's quivering form, his hands clenched tight and eyes glassy with tears. He puts down the book in his hands and goes over to the kid, perching uncertainly on the bed next to him and trying to ignore the panicked hitch in Luke's breath as the mattress dips under his weight.
He puts his hands carefully, slowly, on both of Luke's shoulders, and waits until the kid turns to face him. He tries for a reassuring smile but is pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he says. "Okay? I'm not testing you. I'm not playing a game. I'm just trying not to be a dick."
Luke tilts his head down in what Dean briefly thinks is acquiescence, but then lifts a hand to his mouth and bites back something that sounds like a whimper. Dean's stomach contracts at the sound of it. "This isn't fair," Luke breathes, refusing to meet Dean's eyes even when Dean ducks to try to catch his. "This is really mean. I haven't done anything wrong yet."
"I'm not being mean," Dean argues, baffled, but Luke doesn't even acknowledge his words.
"I don't know what to do if you don't let me play by the rules," Luke continues, his breathing picking up, growing quick and shallow, and Dean's starting to worry about him passing out. "I don't want to be trouble, okay, I don't want to get in trouble, just let me do what I'm supposed to do, okay, please?"
"Jesus, Luke," Dean begins, aghast.
"I know what I am," Luke interrupts, and Dean quiets, eyes wide. "I know what I am and I know what you are and what your dad is, okay? And maybe you think you're gonna save me. But when your dad's done with me, when I've helped him find the demon you're looking for, he's gonna get rid of me. Because that's how this works. And I know he's not going to play any of these stupid games. He knows what's going on."
Dean flinches under the concrete certainty in Luke's gaze, the absolute knowledge that as soon as he's outlived his usefulness he's going to be discarded. The resignation. "Dad's rough, okay, I'm not gonna pretend he's not, but he won't—"
"He will," Luke says softly. "It's okay. It's what happens. It doesn't hurt my feelings. But it's easier if you don't pretend we're gonna be friends. Because when you realize we're not...that's..."
When it hurts.
The words go unsaid but Dean hears them nonetheless. So instead of replying he takes his hands off of Luke and goes over to the bags on the ground, pulling out two books and handing one to Luke. The kid accepts it wordlessly, and Dean sits at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, and says, "See what you can find about something called an Oschaert in there."
And Luke is the picture of obedience.
He hands Luke a book
And he helped him out of the car
And he defended Luke to his father
"He's a kid."
It doesn't sound like much, in the grand scheme of things, but Luke's been called a lot of things over the last eight years and kid hasn't been a frequently recurring one
More often 'idiot', 'useless', 'demon', or just plain, factual 'Lilim'
Not often 'kid', not often 'buddy', and almost never 'Luke'
But he heard Dean, and he also heard Dean's father, who put his son under instructions not to coddle him, not to befriend him
Which makes sense
Because they can't be friends
It's not right and it won't last, even if Dean thinks it will
And it's a little nice right now, for Dean to help him out of the car and make him take painkillers and get him settled and treat him like he's something that might break
Like something that's not broken yet
But it's not sustainable, and Luke knows that if it's going to fall apart, better now than later.
But Dean didn't let it go, and Luke recognizes that, recognizes that the book was a diversion rather than an acceptance
And his hands close around the worn, tattered pages, around the first book he's been given, hasn't had to sneak while his owner was gone, in years
And he wonders if it would hurt too much to pretend with Dean for a little while that things were going to be different.