One Week Earlier
Sam wakes to the sound of a screen door swinging shut, followed by the trunk slamming and the start of an engine. He lays with his eyes open listening to his father go. He doesn't move to get up until he hears the truck clunk down the dusty dirt driveway and turn onto the road. Then he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his back, his arms, his toes. On the bed across from him Dean snores so loud and sudden that he jumps about a half inch in his sleep and mumbles something dreamily, one heavy arm drooping down onto the wood floor. Sam watches as his brother smacks his sleep caked lips together and mutters, "Don't be like that, Kelly…" and twists the other way.
Sam rolls his eyes and makes his way across the creaking floor as light as he can, then out into the hall and down the stairs into the kitchen where Bobby is standing over the toaster, popping two slices down into the slots.
"You made breakfast?" Sam yawns and regards the spread of food on the kitchen table, which is clear for the first time in ages. Sam can't even remember a time when it wasn't covered in stacks of ancient books and clutters of newspaper clippings, but today the table is bare apart from a plate of buttered toast and a mess of scrambled eggs that have fallen in crumbles around the bowl where they are overflowing.
Bobby gives him a half smile. "Yeah well, I thought I'd have a go at it anyway. I'm a piss poor cook, but I figured how bad can someone screw up toast and eggs?"
Sam eyes the blackened toast and he knows that he and Bobby are thinking the same thing but they don't say it. Sam seats himself at the table and nibbles at an unburnt corner of toast, nodding at Bobby approvingly. He knows what Bobby is doing, that he's trying to cheer him up after the blow out he had with his father the night before, but the stale bread does little to suppress the feeling of resentment and guilt that rises in his chest like bile. Even now the words burn in his skull like the hot poke of a knife.
How am I supposed to trust you when you lie to me like this, Sam?
Look at me when I'm talking to you
You want to be treated like an adult, well start acting like one
Sam sets down his toast. Suddenly his isn't very hungry. He catches sight of a scrap of paper on the edge of the table where his father's handwriting is scrawled hurriedly.
Dean, take care of the car for me, will ya?
Don't skip school
No girls
Back in a few days
Good old dad. Bobby sees Sam take notice of the note and says, "You know your dad don't mean half the things that come out of his mouth. You don't know how much trouble shooting his mouth used to get us into back in the day." Sam blinks at him. "Point is," He continues, "Don't take what he says to heart. He doesn't hardly ever mean it."
"Yes," Sam says, sitting back, "He does."
Bobby looks like he's going to protest when Dean rushes down the stairs in a flash, "Mornin, Sammy," he says, tussling Sam's hair. "Awesome, breakfast." He reaches past Sam and grabs a handful of toast, popping almost a whole slice into his mouth as he falls hard into the chair beside him. "Thank God, I'm starving."