Glad you all feel so strongly about this one... I guess. Last time people felt this way about one of my stories, they stopped reading. You guys are hooked, though, right?
Right?
4.
Maybe They'll Leave You Alone, But Not Me
The ceiling, Sam found, was very interesting. It gave him something to focus on as he thought back over the years. He glanced over at his brother's bed, comforted by the snoring, unmoving lump that lay underneath the thin blankets. No nightmares, at least. A little embarrassment in the morning, but no nightmares.
He looked back to the off-white plaster, letting his mind wander back. He didn't remember Stratlebie, just the town after, the town where his father and brother had fought for the first and only time. An actual shouting match. Then the smack.
He strained his mind, fighting to remember the events that had led up to that sound, the one that had shocked him, had made his blood run cold, had made him wonder- not for the first time- what it could have been like if their father had chosen run-down bars to run-down motels, alcoholic spirits to dead ones.
It had been their first day in the town, he knew that much for sure. He'd been sitting on the couch in the thing that passed for a living room, watching a fuzzy TV and internally bitching about his lot in life. Dean had been gone for most of the day. John had been in the kitchen, cleaning his guns and double checking his notes on the next case.
The front door had opened, and Dean had walked in, muttering some half-hearted greeting to his silently-fuming brother. Sam could remember being angry about leaving the only real friends he'd had, the ones he'd kept the longest, the ones that had, unbeknownst to him, made fun of his brother whenever they were alone with the older boy.
He remembered hearing Dean's footsteps on the kitchen tiles, remembered his father asking where he'd been. The store. The inevitable query of what he'd bought, followed by silence. The silence was broken by a growl of anger, disjointed words, and then yelling. Actual shouting. By both parties.
He still couldn't quite remember what they'd been fighting about, why they'd started yelling. Only a few fractured phrases jumped out at him. Take it back. You can't make me. Where'd you get the money? I earned it. We need it. Get your own. You think I'm not trying my hardest? I think it would be easier if you had a job. Watch it. Mom wouldn't have wanted this.
And then the noise, a sharp sound, his father's hand against his brother's face, hard enough to draw blood and scare Dean enough to always worm his way in between his remaining family members whenever they fought, waiting for a blow that never came, eager to protect his charge.
Sam remembered that noise, remembered it well. He'd never forgotten that noise. After that night, it had been so much harder to accept the fact that Dean was willing to blindly follow his father's orders to the letter, even if that loyalty suddenly made sense.
He'd never forgotten the statement that came after that sound, either. It had just been too random, too out-of-place to simply shrug off. They're not even your size.
He sat straight up in bed, a small gasp escaping between slightly parted lips. The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He looked over at his sleeping brother, heart pounding in his chest, a lump forming in his throat.
He remembered the town that had come after Stratlebie for more than just the fight. Exactly one week after they'd arrived had been his first day of junior high and Dean's first day of high school.
Sammy had woken up that morning to the smell of Dean making waffles in the kitchen. He'd climbed out of bed, silently cursing his father for missing the milestone, and opened his closet to find it empty.
He'd though it was a prank, had stormed down the stairs, shouting every word in his steadily increasing vocabulary of things that he couldn't say around his dad. Dean would pay for stealing his clothes on such an important day.
Dean had surprised him, though, by handing him a plastic bag from the local superstore. It had been full of new clothes. Shirts, socks, jeans, even boxers. Thought you should make a good first impression.
Sam had asked where he'd gotten the money, and his brother's only response had been that he'd earned it.
He'd earned it, all right, Sam realized as he sat in the bed, staring with wide eyes at his brother's sleeping form. He'd gone through two years of torture, two years of handouts, two years of being everyone's verbal punching bag, just to give Sam a fighting chance. It didn't seem fair.
He laid back down, his heart still pounding, eyes threatening to overflow as he mentally stepped back and looked at the picture that had been drawn in front of him in such a short amount of time.
Dean could have used that money for himself, could have stopped the torture, at least for an while. He could have let Sam get John so worked up that the sound of flesh-on-flesh resonated through every dumpy motel room. He could have opted out of this hunt, made up an excuse.
But he didn't.
And he never asked for anything in return.