Sam woke up alone in he and Dean's bed, the cold morning air radiating from the window pane. He peered over the covers, and saw his father's bed still made on the other side of the room. He hadn't come to bed. Great, that always ended well. His eyes moved lazily over the room, searching for his sibling. The bathroom door stood open, revealing a lack of big brothers in the dark cubby hole. The pillow smelled like Dean though, so he couldn't have gotten up long ago. He closed his eyes, concentrating. No noise could be heard in the old house, and Sam's curiosity peaked. He abandoned the warm blankets for the cold floor, and padded to the stairs. He noted the other guest room along with Bobby's being empty, and concluded he was the last to wake. He was surprised his father hadn't woken him. Probably Dean's doing, and he felt a rush of gratitude towards his older sibling.
As he moved down the stairs, in the slow manner that the early morning demanded, he became aware of soft voices, probably in the kitchen. They were serious, and Sam knew that their break between hunts, this time totaling a whopping twelve hours, was over. He approached the door warily, and found everyone around the rackety kitchen table. The tension was palpable. Everyone looked fairly disgruntled, and Dean's disturbed expression gave Sam shivers. Despite his cautious avoidance of the well-known squeaky boards, John's eyes immediately darted up to stare hard at Sam. His expression did not change, as though Sam himself had already been involved in the unfortunate discussion. Having the dark and agitated eyes directed so strongly at him stopped him in his tracks. Dean saw the direction his father was looking, and froze slightly himself before whipping around. If anything, he became more distressed looking at his woken brother. Bobby and Brett mimicked John, their gaze only slightly softer. Luke sat in the corner, fiddling his thumbs and specifically not looking up. Andrew let his gaze slide across the room, taking in everyone else's expressions before landing on Sam, seemingly unimpressed. The lack of emotion in those eyes, despite the strong and uncomfortable ones also being directed at him, was the most disturbing. He had to will himself to look back at Dean, who appeared to have collected himself and was now staring at Sam with that damn mask over his face. Time stood still for a moment, and Sam had no idea what to say. So he settled with the easy.
"'Morning?"
Dean's eyes closed as though in pain, and he turned away, bringing a hand up to pinch his nose pensively. Sam tracked the movements, shivers crawling father up his spine, before noting how John's eyes swept up and down his younger son, as though sizing him up. Sam didn't like that one bit, and suddenly felt dangerously exposed in front of his family. He was hit with the same eerie need to cover some deep part of him up as he had been last night with Andrew, who was now looking at the table, bored.
"Sit," John sighed with a stern and frightening authority, gesturing toward the empty chair, pushed back from the table as though in a hurry. An exclamation. An argument. But a quiet one, kept from waking Sam. One, apparently, about him. He noticed how everyone was standing, and sat slowly and stiffly, like a child knowing he was about to be punished. Goddamn it, Sam hadn't done anything. Had he? He couldn't build himself up to feel the anger he usually did when lectured by his father. Some strange fear had wiggled its way into his heart, leaving room for nothing else. Sam had to force himself to take a breath.
John pulled up a chair facing the other way and sat down, his harms hanging with well disguised tension across its back. The position seemed like something straight out of a cheesy cop movie, and Sam wanted to laugh. It slipped out, sounding choked. Dean's head snapped to look at Sam again, the horror coming back and Sam knew that he had just made a wrong move in whatever game they were playing.
"What?" He asked, trying to sound annoyed and not scared. When no one answered, he continued, "Come on, dad's playing bad cop and Dean looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Something's up." His tone was raw as he tried to play the situation off. To pretend like Dean wasn't looking at him like he was afraid not just for, but of Sam. Andrew chuckled dryly from across the room, and Sam wanted to punch him. But he wasn't called smart for no reason, and Sam knew attacking the older boy would somehow condemn him. It seemed like there was a fair chance of him still inevitably ending up there though, so Sam let his fists ball under the table.
John seemed incapable of speaking as he continued to stare hard into his son's eyes as though searching for something hidden. He was seeking something out, and Sam shivered to think it was inside of him. Bobby stepped forward, placing a hand gently on the table and speaking carefully.
"Let's just call this a debriefing kid. We're gonna go through yesterday step by step, make sure we didn't miss anything," and he meant let anything go and that was a nasty thought and why were they asking Sam and, "think you can do that with us?"
Sam just stared, his expression confused and annoyed and hurt. Because goddamn it everyone was teaming up against him and no-one seemed to want to tell him a damn thing about it. Dean still hadn't spoken a word.
"There anything you want to tell us boy," Brett asked from beside Bobby, his unwavering gaze commanding authority. Sam remembered how little he liked the man.
"Not that I know of," Sam said, annoyance bleeding into his tone as he held the other man's gaze. "What is going on," he demanded.
"Please. Just, do what they say," Dean spoke quietly, not looking away from the floor, "please." Sam noticed how he avoided saying his name, actually addressing him. As though he wasn't Sam, as though he wasn't Dean's brother. The quiet words sapped Sam of his anger, and he nodded mutely.
Bobby ran a hand over his face, and they began what Sam knew was really an interrogation.
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