Sam is curled up on the window seat, hair a mess of tangles and eyes staring with unnatural fixation on the book he's pretending to read. Bobby doesn't call him out on this, and turns slightly away to give the kid a bit of privacy when his childish resolve fumbles and he sneaks a look out the window despite being unable to see anything through it but the rot piling up in the salvage yard. It's been less than half an hour since the boy's big brother had strutted off the front porch with yet another wild idea in his head, leaving Sam "to his books." Which amounted, basically, to Sam being unable to do anything except watch hopefully for his brother to come back and offer to take him with this time. He never does.

The front door squeaks open and bangs shut with careless familiarity.

And Sam is buried beneath the pages of his novel, face hidden from view as Dean stomps into the kitchen. Without even a glance their way, he pulls open the fridge and reaches for he won't find.

"Bobby, where's the beer?"

"There isn't any," he replies without looking up.

He can almost hear the boy turn on his boot. "Why not?"

"Because you're sixteen, Dean. And Sam's fourteen." Bobby turns over the paper he's reading, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing with it. "I'm not keeping alcohol in the house anymore. I shoulda quite drinking as soon as you two moved in."

This last part he mumbles to himself, giving up the senseless sheet of paper in his hand in favor of rubbing his eyes.

"Dad let me drink."

"Do I look like your dad?"

Their eyes meet, and the thoughts that pass there hurt them both, and neither says anything.

"You're back early." He's trying to pull off nonchalance, Sam, but he's biting his lip and his eyes still aren't moving across the page.

"Ran into a kid on my way out." Dean finally opts for a soda since beer is now lacking, and shuts the fridge. "Literally. Rounded the corner and POW!"

Sam lets his book droop as he turns. "He okay?"

"I'm fine, Sammy, thanks for asking."

Sam shoots him a look. "Of course you're fine, Dean, you're practically a tank. Did you hurt the kid?"

"Yep." Dean nods, looking rather pleased with both himself and his brother's comment. "But not by running him down."

Bobby narrows his eyes. "What do you mean by that, boy?"

Dean tips his drink to his companions, grinning. "I punched him."