Chapter Ten

"We're staying back," Dean said, leaning against his car as he watched Bobby pack his things into the backseat of the truck. "Sam's still hurt, and he doesn't need to get hurt even more."

"I was thinking the same thing," Bobby replied.

"What thing?" John asked, appearing beside Bobby. He looked at Dean, looked around him subtly. "Did you put all your stuff in? Where's the kid?"

"Kid has a name, Dad," Dean told him, rolling his eyes. "Sam's resting. I'm staying with him."

Dean furrowed his brows as something unreadable flashed across his father's face, but before he could completely gauge it, he was blocked by the truck when John bent down to put his bags in with Bobby's, knowing that the Impala wasn't coming with them. "So you'd rather babysit some kid than save someone's life?"

Dean couldn't see his expression when he said it, but there was something akin to mockery there, maybe even anger, casual as it was. He felt irritation grate his chest, and even though he knew he shouldn't fuel whatever emotion was behind his father's words, he couldn't hold his own emotions back. "His name is Sam. And what the hell, Dad? Do you even know what he went through? Are you seriously expecting a thoroughly injured and traumatized kid to be on his own and take care of himself?"

John remained hidden behind the blue Ford, hands wrapped up on its top, as if he had paused to think, whether it was in consideration of how completely insensitive he sounded or in thought of an answer, Dean wasn't sure. After a while, he straightened, slamming the door shut. "Of course not," he responded quietly, didn't seem to be able to look him in the eye for some reason. "Take care of yourself. And Sam too."

Dean stared at him, slightly baffled at the sudden change. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

He turned to look at Bobby, and he was staring at John too. Maybe he was wondering about him too. Maybe he was catching on to something Dean couldn't. He'd probably have to ask later.

"Take care of yourselves," he told them both, in their own hunter-fashioned, non-sentimental come back safely. "It's not fun cleaning blood off the sheets and carpets while you two are sleeping on painkillers."

"What a helpful soul ya are," Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

A few minutes later, he was watching the blue car fade off into the distance, still wondering about his father. Wondering if it had anything to do with the son he had lost and the ghost of him that haunted them in this boy's eyes.

…

"Breakfast!" Dean announced loudly, dropping the bag of burgers from a nearby diner on the rickety table. One nagging part of him worried that it would snap under the weight and all the food would be ruined, but he didn't consciously ponder much on it as he looked at Sam expectantly. Sam shifted his gaze from the TV screen, an old Western movie playing on it that Dean was almost sure he had watched before but couldn't remember the name of, and then he glanced at him for a second before he quickly pressed the close button on the remote, about to climb off the bed to join him.

"You know what? Stay there. I'll bring it over," Dean said before he could move any more, picking up the bags from the table, that ignored, nagging part of him floating away in relief as he did so. "What's a little vacation time without breakfast in bed, huh? Wait, that sounds like we're on a honeymoon." He scrunched his nose up. Sam huffed out another smile, an incomplete laugh.

"Yeah, I wish my dad thought I was hilarious too," Dean said, mock-wistfully staring off into the distance. He shook his head. "He just doesn't appreciate me enough."

"I never said you were hilarious," Sam said, voice shyly low but mirthful, smiling down at his burger as he unwrapped it.

"No, but you almost laughed," Dean countered.

"Almost," Sam keyworded, shrugging one shoulder lightly.

"Still counts," Dean retorted, grinning at the short banter. They fell back into a silence after, peaceful and comfortable as they sat on a bed across from each other and ate, and Dean finally felt like something good was happening.

...

Dean spent the next few hours throwing all of Sam's clothes (there weren't a lot of them, and they were all quite threadbare) into a washing machine at the local laundromat, and then buying a few more pairs for him. He had asked Sam what his favorite colors were, and he told him it was blue and red and black, and so there was a shirt for each of those colors, and jeans to go along with that. He also bought him a new duffel where he could put all his new things, and other basic necessities, and shoes. Kid's shoes were too worn and dirty; the threads of its soles poking out, smudged with grime.

He returned to the motel with newly-cleaned clothes and two shopping bags. Sam looked at him, confused, when he walked through the door with all of it. He grinned at him, and handed Sam his duffel bag full of his old clothes, and then plopped the bag of new ones on his bed.

"What's all this?" Sam asked, looking at the bags.

"See for yourself," Dean told him.

"It's for me?"

"Yup."

Sam glanced at Dean uncertainly, and then back again at the bags, staring at them as if he didn't know what to do with them.

And then he reached for it and slid it towards himself. He peeked in, brow furrowed, before putting his hand in. The first thing he pulled out was a red plaid, and he smiled. Dean had a feeling he liked plaids. The next thing he grabbed was a dark blue crew neck. Then lastly for the shirts, a black v-neck. The rest were all jeans and a pair of shoes and new toiletries.

"Thank you," Sam said quietly, sincere and soft with a smile (like Adam used to every morning he made him breakfast and packed his lunch and comforted him after the bullies made him cry and held him after nightmares).

Dean's smile was brittle. "Don't mention it."

...

They fit themselves as comfortably as possible on a small couch and surfed through channels, looking for something worthwhile to watch. Dean's finger ached from constantly pressing up and down on the next button of the remote, and he suppressed a groan from the boredom and frustration grating in his chest.

"TV's crap in the evening," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I just want a good movie to watch. Is that too much to ask?"

Eventually, Dean landed on a movie that he knew and enjoyed, some horror movie that he wasn't really scared of. He had seen worse things to be afraid of it, and had already watched it a few times to be aware of the surprise elements.

"Hey, It!"

Dean glanced at Sam, his face alight with excitement. It had long since worn out the adrenaline for him, but there was nothing else good on there so he did get a bit enthusiastic about it. He had expected to see the same kind of interest that he himself had on Sam, but Sam only stared at the screen with an expression that indicated otherwise. Not boredom, but… fear? Sam was looking at him, eyes wide, not excited at all.

"Evil clowns, Sam!" Dean exclaimed, grinning, arms comically out.

Sam gulped, looking down at his trembling hands.

"What?" Dean asked, suddenly worried. Did the movie remind him of something bad? "You… you don't like this movie?"

Sam shook his head.

"Is that a no, that's not it, or a no, I don't like this movie?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised in question.

"I-I don't..." Sam trailed off, breathed deeply, and swallowed again. "I just… I don't like..."

Sam didn't finish, didn't seem to want to. Whatever it was, he didn't want to admit it out, either out of embarrassment or shame or fear, Dean didn't know. Sam lifted his head, watched the screen, and he seemed to tense up at whatever was going on in the screen, shoulders tight and pulled back in alarm and defensiveness, jaw clenched and eyes large in terror. Dean's gaze followed to where his were, where there was a scene playing of Pennywise the Dancing Clown talking to a child from under the sewer drain, showing him a boat.

Sam swallowed.

"C... Clowns?" Dean asked uncertainly.

Sam looked at him, eyes wide, which was answer enough.

Dean stared at him for a few seconds, just taking that realization in. This was a hunter since birth that had sliced and diced more monsters than he could remember, felt their guts and brain-matter spill over him, and he was terrified of Ronald McDonalds?

Something bubbled up in his chest, throat, under his nose, and he tried not to let it out, but he couldn't help a pretty audible, choked snort, his upper-cheeks rising at his tight-lipped, desperately restrained smile.

"S'not funny," Sam muttered, blushing, to which Dean couldn't hold it in anymore. He threw his head back and guffawed.

The laugh mostly just came from the surprise, because that was unexpected, and a bit of a relief too, but pretty funny. Sam was still blushing, fidgeting a little, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

"Sorry," Dean said after he was done, but the grin never left. "I just... really didn't expect that."

Sam scrunched his nose up, scratching his cheek awkwardly.

They fell into a silence after as Dean continued his channel-surfing.

Until...

"Clowns, though?" Dean turned to him, eyes and forehead scrunched, a teasing half-smile on his face.

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

Dean grinned.

...

Bobby and John came back somewhere around half-past nine, dirtied and bruised and limping a little, but otherwise in one piece.

"How'd it go?" Dean asked from where he was waiting for them. Sam was sleeping inside, fell asleep through the next movie they played, which was Good Morning Vietnam. Dean had to half-carry him back to the bed from the couch, and was pleasantly surprised to see that, although Sam had flinched away from him initially, he had melted back into the grasp around his back when he saw it was just Dean. It was progress, and it also warmed Dean's heart to see the newfound trust.

"Was one violent son of a bitch," John growled, limping. "Which makes sense, I guess."

Dean nodded.

"He's bein' overdramatic," Bobby waved his hand at him. "Threw us around a bit. Not too uncommon when you're huntin' a ghost."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you weren't the one standing guard," John muttered. "Bastard only decided to throw you against a headstone at the last minute."

Dean watched in amusement for a while as they bickered in front of him, until Bobby eventually out-snarked his Dad (nobody messed with Bobby. Dean learned that time and time again). John sighed and shook his head in defeat.

As they both began to walk towards their respective rooms, Dean spoke up.

"Dad?" Dean said, and John turned around. "Can we talk alone for a minute?"

John glanced at Bobby, who nodded and headed off towards their shared room.

"Talk," John said. "Make it quick. I'm beat and barely standing on my feet here."

"Alright, uh…" Dean felt nervous, which probably showed in his tone because John seemed a little confused and worried. Dean shifted on his feet, exhaled and ploughed through. "I know you got issues with Sam. And I know why." John seemed alarmed and defensive, without any reason, according to Dean. Dean wasn't going to say anything that needed any defending. Or maybe it's because he knew where it was going, who they were going to talk about. It was still a sensitive topic, still a raw wound that they never went near because the risk of even brushing it and making it bleed still felt too overwhelming. "I just want you to know that it's not like that, okay? No one's replacing him. Sam's gonna stay with us, and he's a great kid… but we're not trying to fill his place in our family with Sam." He hesitated. It was still hard saying his name. "Adam's always gonna be my little brother. Your son."

John didn't say anything. Dean didn't say anything more.

But something seemed to have cleared between them. Dean felt like they had reached an understanding and his Dad seemed a little easier and open when he gave him a smile, lines barely there on his tired face, but there. He nodded and looked down at his shoes, something a bit vulnerable in that gesture alone.

"Sam's doing fine, I hope," was all John said.

Not that kid, like some nameless boy he didn't care enough to know about. But Sam, like someone he might be able to like someday. Dean thought maybe something cleared between him and Sam too now.

John turned around, walked off towards his room. Dean smiled and, after a while, did the same.

Author's Note: So, an earlier update than usual, at the very least. I'm still working on that.

Thanks to Ghostwriter, Eruthiawen Luin, babyreaper, jensensgirl3, YesteryearsGirl, AlElizabeth, reannablue, whatnosheep, Kas3y, Engxty Piksy for the amazing feedback! And to the rest of you who've tagged me and/or my story as favorite/alert. Seriously, y'all are awesome. Thanks for making my day!