(PRAGMA – love that is driven by the head, not the heart; undemonstrative)
Twelve-year-old Sam watched as his dad pulled out another bottle of beer from the kitchenette's mini fridge. John Winchester dragged his feet as he walked back to the living area, flopping into the only chair and turning the television back on.
Maybe now wasn't the right time to ask him a math question, but Dean didn't know the answer to it and Sam had it on good authority that this particular question was going to be on tomorrow's exam. Drawing himself up, he crossed the short distance between his and Dean's bedroom and the living area and approached his dad's chair.
"Dad?"
"Not now, Sam." John didn't look away from the TV.
"I'm sorry, Dad, but I just need to ask a quick question."
John slammed the beer bottle against the armrest so that the liquid inside splattered out over Sam's math worksheet. "I said not now," he growled. "Leave me alone, dammit."
Sam bit his lip and retreated back to his room, slamming the door behind him. Dean looked up from where he lay on the bed, thumbing through a skin magazine. "What is it, Sammy?"
"Dad doesn't care about us," Sam announced, slapping the paper down on the room's single desk and flopping on his own bed. "He just doesn't care."
"That's ridiculous, of course he does."
"Then why doesn't he ever talk to us?"
"Because he's tired," Dean said, going back to his magazine. "You're too little to understand."
"I'm twelve years old, Dean. I get it."
"No, you don't." Dean put the magazine aside and sat up. "Sammy, look at me. Dad loves us. He just doesn't show it all the time, but he does. Hell, he has to – we're his sons."