A/N: Yay! Next Chapter of POW. So this story seems to have a rhythm to it. It'll have a couple of slow chapters spent almost entirely in the characters heads, and then it will have a couple of action based case fic chapters. Then it will revert back to introspection again as the characters assimilate everything that's happened. I don't really do it on purpose, that's just what seems natural for the Winchesters. Hope everyone likes this chapter. After this, we'll see a couple of faster moving chapters. Best case scenario, I'll have another one up tomorrow.

Thanks for reading.

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox

Prisoner of War – Chapter Seventeen

"Pancakes and Other Problems"

Sam half-walked, half-jogged into the house, trying to be quiet at first, as he didn't know if John and Dean were still sleeping upstairs.

Almost immediately, however, Dean popped his head out from around the corner.

"Hey, Sammy, I was just about to call your cell, where were you ma- Hey! Where's your sling?" Dean asked indignantly.

Sam managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at Dean's over-protectiveness. "On my bed." He answered simply, coming into the kitchen.

"Take a look at this." Sam said, tossing the newspaper onto the kitchen table. "I think I found us a case."

"In the Caroline Tribune?" Dean asked sceptically. He was standing at the stove cooking, and Sam could smell eggs and bacon.

The nice thing about John and the other hunters coming in and out of their house was the fact that there was usually some food around, not that Sam had much appetite these days.

"The Caroline Tribune features articles from the surrounding towns also, all these small town papers do." Sam pointed out patiently.

"That's cause nothing newsworthy ever happens here." Dean said flippantly. "Hey, do we have pancake mix? And put your damn sling back on already, you're gonna jack your shoulder up moving it around like that."

"My shoulder's fine." Sam argued. "It's actually designed to move around, oddly enough. And no, to my knowledge, we do not, nor have we ever had pancake mix in our kitchen. Look at this-" Sam picked up the paper, turning to the article about Berryville, featuring the three lottery winners in the last two weeks.

"Huh. Gambling capital, huh?" Dean asked, then frowned. "Dude, your shoulder's not okay, or you wouldn't be making your scrunchy-pain face right now. And what do you mean we've never had pancake mix? I've bought pancake mix."

"I'm making the scrunchy face because my brother doesn't know the difference between frozen waffles and pancake mix, and three, big ticket winners, in one town, in two weeks? Tell me that's not hinky."

"I'm telling you to put your sling back on." Dean said snidely. "And I'll have you know, I can make excellent pancakes."

"Have you been drinking?" Sam asked sarcastically. "Okay, so get this then." He said, showing Dean the article about the talking bear.

"Well, I haven't been drinking but this dude obviously was." Dean said with one brow raised. "Giant, talking bear? Come on, Sammy, what, are we hunting big foot now?"

"Sam, I would have though you'd know by now that Big Foot isn't real." John interrupted then, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself some coffee.

"Only a fool would follow up on some drunk hunter's story about something like that." He said dismissively.

Sam opened his mouth, and Dean looked at him, waiting to see his reply.

But Sam closed his mouth just as suddenly, and a completely blank look came over his face.

"Yes, Sir." He said simply, and without another word, he gathered up the paper, folding it in careful, precise folds before dropping it in the kitchen trash.

John sat down with his cup of coffee, laying his journal down to add some notes in his signature long hand.

"I'm gonna grab a shower." Sam said impassively, heading out of the room.

Dean frowned and sighed. "Breakfast in ten!" He called, and Sam mumbled a confirmation, already heading up the stairs.

Dean turned back to the stove, disappointment heavy in his chest.

For just a moment, while they had bantered, it had felt a little like having the old Sam back.

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Sam stood under the hot spray of the shower, water turned up as hot as he could make it. It was the only way he seemed able to stand to shower anymore, the only time he seemed to manage to fully chase away the chill that seemed to haunt him.

He could dress in all the layers in the world, lay under every blanket in their house, and he'd still feel cold.

He thought maybe the cold was leeching out from somewhere inside him, from that frozen, echoing place his thoughts always seemed to wander to if he didn't tether them down tightly with iron chains.

He resolutely refused to think about Berryville.

He was right about Berryville.

He knew he was right, could feel it in the tingle in his fingertips, could feel it dance along the hairs on the back on his neck.

His instincts, or ability, or whatever the hell it was, was screaming at him louder than a soprano singing the closing aria of Carmen, but that...was...just...fine.

Fine.

It was fine.

It was fine and Sam was fine and Berryville was just...freakin'...fine.

Because John Winchester had said so, and the Winchester boys didn't have religion, oh no.

They had the word of John.

So Sam would forget about Berryville.

He would get out of the shower, and get dressed and go downstairs and eat.

And he would be fine.

Because he would make himself be.

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John left right after breakfast, and Sam moved without a word to go to the kitchen and start cleaning up. Dean followed, hoping he could get Sam talking again, like they had been before John had come in and completely misconstrued the earlier conversation.

Sam hadn't said another word, not about the paper, not about Berryville, not about pancakes.

In fact, Sam was once again wearing his "I'm fine" face, as Dean had come to call it.

Sam started the water to wash the dishes, and Dean bagged up the trash, running it outside quickly, as a light rain had started falling. Sam had his hands in the water nearly up to his elbows when Dean returned, and the sight of Sam's arms submerged in the sink reminded Dean once again about Sam's sling.

Shouldering his brother on his good side, he said "Sling, Sammy. I mean it. There's only a couple dishes left, I'll finish them. Don't you have homework or something?"

"It's fine." Sam said, and Dean wasn't sure if he was talking about his shoulder or the dishes or the end of the freaking Mayan Calendar.

"Dude, put your damn sling on already." Dean snapped, tired of talking to zombie Sam. "If you hurt it worse, you're useless on a hunt, okay?"

Almost as soon as the words came out he wanted to take them back, to call and coax them back down his throat and as far away from Sam as he could get them, because the look in Sam's eyes, the way they'd...shuttered, almost, as if Sam were locking himself away from Dean in his own mind made Dean want to put his fist through a wall.

"Sam..." he started lamely, unsure of what to say to fix things.

'It's..." Sam paused, looking at Dean before phrasing the next words carefully. "It's okay, Dean. You're right. I'll go put the sling on."

He was gone before Dean could get an apology out, and Dean was left there, cursing himself for every kind of fool.

Great way to get the kid to open up.

Annoyed, he stuck his hand into the dishwater to drain the sink, but jerked his hand back almost immediately, cursing at the shock of the water's temperature.

How the hell had Sam managed to do a sink full of dishes in water like that?

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Sam came back downstairs half an hour later, a book in Latin in hand.

Bobby had left it for John, and John had instructed Sam to translate it. He was nearly done, though now he wished he had another four hundred pages left to do, because once it was done, he'd have to think of something else to do.

He knew Dean was off this weekend, and since he'd put the sling on, it kind of ruled out any other training.

Maybe he could just start over and no one would notice.

"Hey, Sam, I'm sorry." Dean was standing awkwardly in the door way of the living room, a concerned expression on his face.

"Don't be, you were right." Sam said calmly. He'd spent the last thirty minutes upstairs locking his head and his heart down tight, he didn't feel like getting in to it with Dean now.

"So, listen. I took a look at the paper. Maybe you're right. We're both free this afternoon. Berryville's only about two hours away. I've been itching to do a little driving anyway. Let's go check it out." Dean offered, not making eye contact.

Sam swallowed, speaking as lightly as he could. "Check what out, Dean? Dad's right, Big Foot's a hoax, and the lottery commission would've discovered if the winning tickets were fakes."

"Could be a spell of some sort, a luck spell, maybe?" Dean said, frowning.

Sam forced down a growing sense of excitement. Actually, what Dean was saying sounded about right to him.

More than that, it felt right to him.

But John had said no.

Furthermore, Sam had a sneaking suspicion that Dean was only even offering because he felt guilty about pointing out to Sam how useless he was with a bum shoulder.

"Uh...actually, I have a couple of chapters I need to translate. I thought I'd go over to the library. A couple of these conjugations are giving me trouble." Sam hedged.

Dean raised a brow. "Really. You? Having trouble with Latin? You speak it like a Roman, dude. It's not even natural how good you are at it."

Sam forced himself not to flinch when Dean said the words 'not natural'.

"I guess there's a first time for everything." He said, shoving his good hand in his pocket, shifting his feet.

"Huh. Okay, well, Dad wants that translation, so we better get you to the library." Dean agreed easily enough.

Sam looked up at him sharply. "I was just gonna walk, it's only a couple of blocks."

"Sure." Dean conceded, "If by a couple you mean twelve. In the rain. When you just got over pneumonia." He finished sarcastically, and Sam stiffened.

"Get your stuff, man. I'll give you a ride. I'll go over to the shop and see if I can pick up a couple of hours overtime." Dean commanded. "Oh, bring a jacket, dude. It's October in Colorado, and you're running around in a t-shirt. No wonder you're always cold."

Sam nodded, turning to go up to his room.

The rental was so big he and Dean actually had separate rooms for once. It was both freeing and a little frightening all at once.

Sam could remember a thousand nights he had soothed himself back to sleep after a nightmare by timing his breathing to Dean's steady rhythm.

Now when he woke, it was to silence.

He reminded himself that it was a good thing. He was too dependent on Dean anyway. Dean wasn't Sam's teddy bear, something for him to hold onto tightly until the monsters went away.

That theory kinda went to hell considering Sam was one of the monsters, after all.

He picked up his hoodie in his good hand and then sighed, frowning.

Hoodies and slings didn't really work.

He'd have to take the sling off, put the hoodie on, put the sling back on. Then if he got hot, he'd have to go back through the whole process all over again in order to strip down. He pulled out his old denim jacket instead, intending to just put his good arm through and drape the other side over his bum shoulder.

It was too small.

Sam laughed a little, a bitter chuckle that actually surprised him at how tired and hopeless it sounded.

Christ, he couldn't even get a jacket on himself.

"That's a problem." Dean said suddenly from the doorway, startling Sam.

"Shit, Dean." He mumbled, turning away until he knew his face was under control again.

"You should have said you needed more clothes, man. That jacket the only thing you outgrow? What about your shoes? They pinch?" Dean said questioningly, and Sam felt himself shrinking, becoming younger and more helpless with every concerned word that came from his big brother's lips.

"Clothes cost money. Money's been tight." He muttered.

Dean frowned. "Yeah, not that tight, dude. Your clothes gotta fit, man. We can't afford DFS jumping our asses cause some teacher thinks you're homeless or something."

"I don't see that happening." Sam forced the words out past the tightness of his throat.

"Damn right it's not happening. Screw the library, let's hit the Salvation Army store. They always got decent boots. We'll grab some jeans and a jacket for you." Dean tossed over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

"We don't have to do that Dean. I've made do longer with worse." Sam pointed out.

"Kinda the point of the mechanics job, Sammy. If I'm going to be all 'upstanding citizen' and all that crap, we might as well get some provisions out of it." Dean argued, and Sam had trouble disagreeing with his logic.

"Fine. But next week, after school, I'm going to see about getting a dish washing job at that cafe over by the school." Sam insisted, trying to reason away the shame he felt at Dean having to take care of him once again.

"Whatever, man. Tomorrow an asteroid could hit the freakin' earth. Let's move. Here, use this one." Dean tossed Sam his leather jacket and pulled on a green canvas one instead.

Sam struggled into it, feeling small the way he always did when he wore something of Dean's, no matter that he was, in fact, taller than his brother now.

They got into the Impala, Sam staring out of the window, letting the passing scenery calm his nerves.

He told himself that it was alright, that Dean had a better chance to earn income because of his age, that was all.

Next week, Sam would turn applications if he had to walk until his feet fell off. Then he'd start getting a paycheck of his own, and he wouldn't have to feel this way anymore.

He wouldn't have to feel shame that the brother whose life he had literally ruined worked crap hours for slave wages in order to buy him shoes.

He blinked a few moments later, a little disoriented.

"Hey, Dean, man, we just passed the city limits sign. Salvation Army's on the west end of town." Sam looked over, tilting his head a little as he studied his brother.

Dean had a mulish expression on his face, and he wouldn't look over at Sam.

"Figured if Caroline had a Salvation Army, Berryville would, too." He said finally, turning on the wipers as the rain increased.

"Dean..." Sam said slowly, not sure of what to say.

"Sam. Seriously. You think I want to be known as the hunter who let Big Foot get away? Hell no. If I catch that fucker, I drink for free for the rest of my life." Dean bragged.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

"Let it go, Sammy. Just enjoy the ride. Your book's in your back pack. Bet you can have it done by the time we reach Berryville." Dean said, relaxing into the drivers seat.

A long moment passed, and Sam smiled just a little. "Yeah." He said softly.

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The drive passed in comfortable silence, Sam engrossed in his translations, and Dean enjoying the feel of his Baby purring softly under his fingertips. He'd always loved driving, loved being in motion, the feeling of going somewhere new. It didn't matter that the next place was likely to be just as crappy as the previous.

What mattered was the drive, with his brother beside him. When Dean was in the car with Sam, he always knew where he was, if he was warm enough, if he was hungry. If Sam needed to rest, the car ride would put him right out, neat as you please.

The Impala was Dean's own personal kingdom, and when he was driving, for just a moment, all could be right in his world.

He glanced over at his brother, at the serious look on his face.

He'd taken a gamble, tricking Sam like he had, but it looked like it might pay off.

He doubted they'd find anything in Berryville, but Sam looked better already, perhaps simply from getting out of the house.

Dean had known Sam was lying about needing to go to the library in order to translate, the kid had learned Latin at Bobby's knee started when he was four or five. He hadn't even known why he was learning it, Bobby had started teaching it to him on a whim, a desperate attempt to quiet an incessantly questioning five year old.

Sam had taken to it like a fish to water, thinking it was a fine game, to have a secret language that he and Bobby and Dean and John all knew. He'd quickly outpaced both Dean and John.

So Sam needing "help" was about as likely as Dean giving up red meat.

Dean hoped that the outing would help his brother shake off the somber mood he'd been in for days now.

Worst case scenario, the case wouldn't pan out. It wouldn't be the first time, and in all likelihood, Berryville did, in fact, have a second hand store.

Sam seriously needed a jacket that fit.

And shoes. And boots.

And a coat...

A big brother's job was never done.