The day they'd ended up in the system was a blur, a mess of bad decisions and worse luck that had spiraled faster than either of them could control.
John had been gone for over a week—longer than either of them had expected. Not unusual, exactly, for him to take off on a hunt, leaving them behind to wait, but he'd promised them he'd be back in a few days. Just a quick job, nothing dangerous, nothing that should have kept him so far from his sons, cut off without so much as a phone call.
They'd held on the best they could at first. Dean knew how to manage in his dad's absence, taking care of the money, rationing their food, watching out for Sam. But by day six, their cash reserves were thin, and the stash Dad had left them had dwindled to just a few dollars. He had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.
He'd told Sam to stay in the apartment, to keep his head down and not worry. Just a few hours, he'd said. A quick run to the bar to play some pool, pull in enough cash to keep them afloat until Dad showed up again. Sam had tried to argue, but Dean's mind had been made up.
"Just stay here," he'd told Sam with that steely look that left no room for debate. "I'll be back before you even notice."
But things hadn't gone as planned.
Dean had been doing well, keeping his head low, his mouth shut, his focus on the game. He'd racked up a decent amount of cash, nothing too flashy, nothing that should've drawn attention. But some guys don't take kindly to losing, and Dean had the misfortune of running into one of those guys. One second, he'd been pulling his cash into his pocket, ready to get the hell out of there. The next, a fist had cracked against his jaw, sharp and brutal, and his vision had gone white.
When he'd come to his senses, his hand pressed against his face, the guy had already stomped away, muttering curses. And just like that, the cash was gone, ripped out of Dean's hand before he could even register the pain.
So he'd come home bruised, empty-handed, his cheek swollen, a telltale reminder of his defeat stamped in purpling skin. He'd tried to brush it off, told Sam it wasn't a big deal, that he'd just taken a hit he hadn't expected. But the mark was impossible to ignore, and it hadn't taken long for his teachers to notice.
He hadn't thought much of it at first, figured he'd just endure their concern, keep his mouth shut, let the whole thing blow over. But the questions kept coming, more insistent, pressing, until they'd asked where his dad was. The look in his teacher's eyes had been sharp, assessing, and he'd known in that moment that he couldn't bluff his way out. They'd tried calling his dad and, predictably, got nothing but silence.
That's when Child Protective Services had stepped in. And from there, it had been a flurry of questions, interviews, whispers he couldn't quite hear. By the time the dust had settled, they'd been removed from the apartment, carted off to a temporary foster placement where they could be "properly supervised."
Sam had been furious. The anger in his eyes had simmered hot and dark, uncontainable, until Dean had all but ordered him to keep quiet, to sit still, to wait until they could find a way out. And through it all, Sam hadn't let go of his resentment, anger coiling tight in his chest every time he thought of the teachers who had pushed so hard, the CPS agents who'd hustled them out of their home like they were a problem to be solved.
The foster placement had been uncomfortable from the start. A sterile house, a strict set of rules, two other kids who watched them with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. Dean had seen it all before—the stiff couches, the quiet tension, the unspoken feeling that they were an inconvenience nobody really wanted around.
And tomorrow, they'd be shuffled again, to a place they said would be "more permanent." Not forever, not a real home, but something that'd buy the system time while they sorted out where two teenage boys really belonged.
"It's not an option, Sammy," Dean had said, the weight in his voice heavy and unyielding. "If you bring it up, they're gonna put me somewhere else. You're gonna end up alone, or they're gonna shuffle you around. I won't let that happen."
As he sat on his bed that night, Dean fixed Sam with a steady, unyielding gaze, his voice dropping to a murmur. "We can't bring up the seizures," he said, voice low but sure. He didn't need to elaborate for Sam, who knew the whole story by heart—but he went on anyway, laying it out clearly as if needing to convince them both.
Dean's epilepsy was the fallout of a hunt gone bad—one of those days that neither of them could forget, no matter how hard they tried. It had been Dean's 14th birthday, his first hunt alongside their dad, the one John had promised would be "easy," a gift of sorts to Dean for finally coming of age. But everything had unraveled fast. Instead of the simple salt-and-burn job it was supposed to be, they'd run into something nastier, more vengeful, and way beyond what Dean was ready for. By the time their dad had pulled him to safety, Dean had taken a hard hit to the head, leaving him unconscious and broken on the ground.
The seizures had started not long after. At first, they were subtle—a sudden, disoriented look, a few seconds where he'd go blank, eyes flickering as if struggling to stay present. Those absence seizures, they'd learned, didn't look like much from the outside, but to Dean, they stole whole chunks of time. More rarely, he'd suffer grand mal seizures, more violent episodes that left him drained, shaking, and out of sorts.John had been rattled—Dean could see it even through the stoic mask their dad usually wore. Dean had tried to shrug it off, act like he could still handle himself, but he'd seen the deep, hidden worry in Dad's eyes when he thought Dean wasn't looking. His dad had taken him straight to the hospital afterward, waiting through long hours of tests and questions, the tension carved into every line on his face. When the doctors finally handed over a prescription to help manage the seizures, John hadn't hesitated, as if doing this one thing might right all the things that had gone wrong.
Still, Dad didn't always want to talk about how dangerous it really was; he'd often insist that Dean could "handle it." But when the doctors had handed over instructions for emergency medication, John made sure Dean carried it like it was another weapon in his arsenal. Ignoring it wasn't really an option. Dad might be confident that Dean could tough it out, but the look on his face had made one thing clear: this was different.
"It's not an option, Sammy," Dean had said, the weight in his voice heavy and unyielding. "If you bring it up, they're gonna put me somewhere else. You're gonna end up alone, or they're gonna shuffle you around. I won't let that happen."
Sam had argued, anger sharp in his voice, fists clenched tight with frustration. But Dean had stared him down, quiet and unflinching, until Sam had finally relented, the fight leaving him in a low, resentful hiss.
"You shouldn't have to hide it," Sam had muttered, barely able to look at Dean. "It's not fair."
But fair didn't matter now. Fair didn't get them out of this mess. Dean had seen the way people looked at kids with "issues," the way adults handled anything that wasn't easy or convenient, and he knew without a doubt that his epilepsy would be a dealbreaker. So he'd shoved it down, kept his expression steady, his tone even, until he'd finally gotten Sam to promise to keep quiet.
Still, as they lay there in the unfamiliar room that night, Sam felt the anger still churning, a silent storm he couldn't calm. He hated this place, hated the people who looked at them like they were something to manage, something to handle. Hated the cold, hollow way they were being shuffled from house to house, as if they were nothing but numbers on a page.
And most of all, he hated their dad. Hated the way he'd left them, the way his absence had put them in this mess, the way his choices had carved out the road that had led them here. And, underneath that hatred, a quiet, aching worry—because despite everything, Sam still wanted him to come back, to rescue them, to make things right.
But he knew better than to hope. And as he drifted off to sleep that night, he felt the weight of it all settle deep, knowing that if they were going to get through this, they'd have to find their own way out.The foster home was as frigid inside as it had been from the outside—every corner of it cold and unyielding, with the faint scent of stale detergent lingering in the air. Sam took it all in as he and Dean followed Mr. Thompson, the foster father, down a narrow, dimly lit hallway that was more utility than warmth. Unlike the short-lived softness of Karen, their last foster mother, there was nothing gentle about Mr. Thompson. He was a tall, solid man, with a look that seemed to say he'd seen just about everything, and what he hadn't seen, he didn't care to.
Sam caught Dean's eye as they walked, giving his brother a small, reassuring nod. Dean's jaw was set, the bruise from that bar fight standing out sharply on his cheek in the low light. Sam could tell it still hurt; he saw it in the way Dean clenched his teeth when he thought no one was looking. But Dean's expression stayed firm, shoulders squared, meeting Mr. Thompson's cold, probing glances with unflinching defiance. Sam's chest tightened just watching him—Dean's bravado might work sometimes, but here, in a house where they were clearly unwelcome, it was only going to make things worse.
Mr. Thompson stopped abruptly at the end of the hall, turning to face them, his expression settling into something halfway between a scowl and thinly veiled impatience.
"Listen up," he said, his tone clipped, a little too loud in the silence of the hallway. "In this house, you live by the rules. You don't like them? Tough. You follow them, or you're out." He crossed his arms, eyeing them both, but Sam could feel the man's gaze linger longer on Dean, as if he'd already made up his mind about him. "Showers—five minutes, max. We don't waste water here. You got me?"
Dean nodded slowly, his jaw tightening even further. Sam wished he'd soften a little, maybe keep his head down, but he knew Dean better than that. Instead, Dean held Mr. Thompson's gaze, silent, almost daring him to say something else. Sam felt a flicker of dread; every second Dean held that stare was just loading more fuel to the fire.
"And no food unless it's meal time. None of this sneaking snacks out of the kitchen. Meals are enough." Mr. Thompson's gaze shifted to Sam, his eyes narrowing, almost like he thought they'd already tried raiding the fridge. "We're not running a restaurant."
Sam bit the inside of his cheek, nodding with a forced look of respect. They didn't need this man's kindness, he told himself, just his tolerance. They only had to last here until John showed up again. If John showed up again. The thought sliced through him like ice, and he shoved it away, focusing back on Mr. Thompson, who was still listing off rules with all the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant.
"No roughhousing, no backtalk, and absolutely no disappearing without telling me or my wife where you're going. Understood?"
Another silence fell, thicker and more uncomfortable this time, and Sam turned to Dean, hoping his brother would just say *yes* and let it go. But Dean's eyes had lost focus, his gaze softening as if looking at something distant and unreachable. His face, so hard and set a moment ago, went slack, and his lashes fluttered ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. But Sam saw it instantly—the familiar glassiness, the way Dean's breathing slowed, just a fraction too much.
A petit mal seizure. Another one. The frequency had been picking up, and Sam's stomach tightened with worry. He told himself it was the stress, the upheaval of this strange, loveless place, but he couldn't shake the lingering thought that the punch Dean had taken just a few days ago had somehow worsened things.
Mr. Thompson's brows furrowed, his face screwing up with annoyance as he looked at Dean. He clapped his hands sharply in front of Dean's face. "Hey! Are you even listening? I'm talking to you."
Dean didn't respond. He was still caught in the seizure, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted slightly, unseeing and unreachable. Sam could tell he was completely gone, lost in the void, oblivious to Mr. Thompson's irritation. He stepped in quickly, trying to intercept, but Mr. Thompson was already snapping at Dean.
"Hey!" he barked, leaning closer. "Don't ignore me, boy. You think you're too good to listen? Or you high on something?"
Sam's heart pounded, anger and fear swirling in his chest. He knew he needed to get Dean away before this got worse, before Mr. Thompson decided to start yelling or, God forbid, try shaking him awake.
"He's not ignoring you, sir," Sam said quickly, stepping slightly between Mr. Thompson and Dean. "He's…he's just been a little out of it since he got hurt the other day." Sam tried to keep his tone calm, soothing, hoping the man would back off. "Got hit pretty hard; might still be lingering effects from the concussion."
Mr. Thompson scowled, still glaring at Dean with open suspicion. "He better snap out of it. I won't have this kind of attitude in my house, you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I'll take him to our room, let him rest," Sam said firmly, edging Dean slightly toward the hall. He placed a hand gently on Dean's shoulder, guiding him, careful not to startle him as he began to lead his brother away. Dean's eyes were starting to regain focus, but Sam could tell he was still disoriented, blinking slowly as if the world had gone blurry around the edges.
Once they reached the small, bare room they were sharing, Sam closed the door softly behind them, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He guided Dean to the bed, easing him down onto it, and sat next to him, watching as Dean's gaze cleared bit by bit.
Dean's eyes focused on him, the familiar confusion and frustration flaring up as he blinked at Sam. "What…?" he started, his voice a little shaky.
"It's okay," Sam murmured, keeping his tone steady. "You had a small one. Mr. Thompson thought you were zoning out on purpose."
Dean groaned, his hand coming up to rub at his temple. "Great. That's just what I need—another reason for him to hate me."
Sam reached out, squeezing Dean's shoulder. "He's an idiot. You're doing fine. Don't let him get to you, okay?" But he could feel the tension coiled up in his own chest, a dark, heavy weight pressing against his ribs. Every time Dean had one of these seizures, Sam felt that helplessness creep in, an old, gnawing fear that had only gotten worse since that awful night in the motel room when Dean had seized for the first time.
Sam watched as Dean's breathing evened out, the dazed look in his eyes fading away, leaving only exhaustion. These petit mal seizures always left Dean fatigued, drained in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. They left him vulnerable, and Sam hated it—the way Dean's body betrayed him, the way it left him open and exposed to the world.
As Dean leaned back against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed, Sam's own thoughts drifted to John, out there somewhere, oblivious to everything they were dealing with. Sam clenched his fists, anger searing through him like a red-hot wire. All of this could have been avoided if John had just been there, if he'd stayed like a father was supposed to, instead of running off to chase something else, something he'd never even told them about.
"Sammy…" Dean's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. Sam turned to see Dean watching him with those tired, haunted eyes, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips.
"I'm fine," Dean said softly, as if he could read the turmoil in Sam's mind. "Just…need a few minutes, alright?"
Sam swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. Take all the time you need." He wanted to say more, to tell Dean that he didn't have to keep pretending, that he didn't have to keep brushing off his pain as if it was nothing. But he knew Dean wouldn't listen. He'd keep protecting Sam, keep hiding his own needs and fears, just like he always had.
So Sam just sat there, quietly keeping watch, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him. He didn't know how long they'd be stuck here, in this place that felt so wrong, but he knew one thing: as long as they were together, he'd make sure Dean was okay. Even if he had to fight every rule, every scowl, every narrow-eyed glance from Mr. Thompson.
And he'd wait. Because John would come back. He had to. And until then, Sam would be ready, doing what Dean had done for him his whole life—standing guard, ready to fight anyone who tried to break them apart.
The light in their room was weak and gray, filtering in through a small window overlooking the barren backyard. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, eyes fixed on the ancient cell phone cradled in his hands. He thumbed through the contacts, the familiar names flashing by—*Dad* *Pastor Jim* *Bobby.* Each one brought a pang of frustration and hope, the possibility that someone, anyone, could tell him what was going on, why John had been gone so long without a word. He'd called three times now, the phone buzzing in his hand, unanswered each time. Just that empty silence on the other end, stretching on until the line disconnected. His stomach twisted with a kind of helplessness he hated more than anything.
"Any luck?" Sam's voice was low, careful, but Dean could hear the worry laced in it. Sam was perched on his own bed, knees drawn up, looking at Dean like he was the last solid thing in a world that felt increasingly unstable.
Dean shook his head, letting out a small, frustrated huff. "Nothing. Not a damn thing." He hesitated, then flipped the phone open again and dialed Pastor Jim's number. There was no answer there either. The same thing with Bobby. The same silent, unanswered ringing. With every missed call, the hollowness gnawing in his chest deepened, making the whole house feel even more stifling than before.
Dean's frustration simmered under his skin, sparking in his gaze, making his hands tremble just slightly as he stowed the phone away in his bag, hiding it from view. He knew Sam was watching him, could feel the concern radiating from his younger brother, but Dean kept his face hard, determined. He had to keep it together, for Sam's sake.
Just then, a sharp knock echoed from the door. Dean glanced over, the hardness slipping back over his expression, as if expecting trouble before anything had even been said. He shot Sam a look as he quickly stowed the phone under his pillow, then rose to answer the door.
Mrs. Thompson stood in the doorway, arms crossed, giving both boys a long, appraising look that bordered on disdain. Her eyes lingered on Dean's bruised jaw, lips pressing together in disapproval. Dean didn't flinch; he met her gaze, his stance almost daring her to say something.
"You boys have chores to do before dinner," she said, her tone curt, final, as if the words themselves were a form of punishment. "The list's on the kitchen counter. Get to it."
Dean's jaw tightened. He felt the instinctive pushback, the resistance rising in him. He hated this woman's look, the way she stared at him as if he was some delinquent who needed to be shown his place. But he forced himself to nod, even if it felt like surrender, and muttered a short, clipped, "Yes, ma'am."
He could feel her eyes on his back as he brushed past her, Sam following close behind. In the kitchen, the list waited for them, a neat row of tasks written in blocky, almost mechanical handwriting: *Polish the living room furniture. Sweep and mop the floors. Clean the counters.*
Dean's lip curled as he scanned the list, but he grabbed a rag and some polish from under the sink and headed to the living room, feeling Sam close on his heels. They worked in silence, Dean scrubbing the lamp on the end table with more force than was probably necessary. The rag squeaked against the glass as he polished, his movements sharp, angry, his mind seething.
"Dean, maybe…just keep it cool, alright?" Sam said softly, barely above a whisper, as if afraid the walls themselves would overhear.
Dean shot him a glance, a spark of frustration in his eyes. "I'm cool, Sammy," he muttered, forcing his voice low and steady. But they both knew it wasn't true; they both knew he was anything but cool.
It wasn't long before Mr. Thompson entered the room, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. His gaze fell on Dean, who was still bent over the lamp, and immediately his face twisted with anger.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" he barked, crossing the room with quick, purposeful strides. Dean straightened, taken aback by the sudden accusation.
"Your wife told me to clean in here," Dean replied, his tone restrained but laced with barely-contained irritation. He straightened his shoulders, jaw set, his gaze defiant, meeting Mr. Thompson's glare without backing down.
The man's face darkened, and Sam could see the tension tightening in Dean's posture, the way his chest started to rise and fall a little faster, a little too sharply. Mr. Thompson didn't seem to notice—or care. He stepped closer, towering over Dean, his voice loud and sharp.
"You don't talk back to me in my own house, boy," he snapped. "When I say something, you listen. You got that?"
Dean's fists clenched at his sides. He didn't break eye contact, his gaze fierce, his face a mixture of anger and frustration that Sam knew all too well. Sam quickly moved closer, his mind racing for the right thing to say, anything to diffuse the tension.
"Sir," Sam began, his voice calm, placating, "he was just doing what Mrs. Thompson asked. We're just trying to finish the chores, like you told us."
But it was clear Mr. Thompson had already made up his mind. He pointed a rigid finger toward the doorway. "Go outside. Both of you. I'll have a word with my wife about this."
For a moment, Dean looked like he might refuse, his face set in that fierce, stubborn expression that Sam had seen before, that look of defiance that usually led to trouble. But then he turned on his heel, storming out of the room with Sam close behind. T
They slipped out into the backyard, the late afternoon sun casting a dim, watery light over the yellowed grass and rusting fence. Dean's fists were still clenched at his sides, his breathing fast and shallow as he took his seat on the step. Sam sat next to him, feeling the simmer of anger radiating off his brother. For a few moments, they both just sat there, listening to the far-off hum of traffic, the distant shouts of kids from a nearby playground.
Sam glanced over at Dean, watching the way his brother's knuckles stood out, white against his skin, as he balled his hands tighter. "Just breathe, okay?" Sam said gently, trying to coax Dean back to a calmer place. "Don't let him get to you. He's… he's just a jerk."
Dean's jaw was set, muscles twitching as he stared out at nothing, but Sam could tell he was hearing him. Dean's eyes flicked downward, the fire in them dimming just a little, and he let out a slow, frustrated breath.
Just as Dean's shoulders finally started to loosen, they both heard the sound of the door swinging open behind them. They turned to see Mr. Thompson stepping outside, his expression as dark as a storm cloud. Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as Mr. Thompson stopped just a few feet away, gesturing for Dean to come over.
Dean pushed to his feet slowly, a stubborn look in his eyes as he squared his shoulders, walking up to Mr. Thompson without a word. Sam watched him, feeling his own heartbeat quicken, instinctively tensing as his brother approached the man.
Mr. Thompson placed a hand on Dean's neck, firm and unyielding. His fingers pressed into Dean's skin just a little too hard, his grip a little too tight, and Sam's pulse kicked up, a warning thrumming through his veins.
"You will follow the rules in this house," Mr. Thompson said in a low, stern voice. "I don't care what you did in your last place. I don't care what kind of behavior you're used to getting away with. Here, you respect me. You got that?"
Dean's gaze stayed fixed ahead, his face a mask of defiance. But as Sam watched, he saw something shift in Dean's expression—a flicker in his eyes, a slight slackening in his mouth. Sam's stomach twisted. He recognized those signs, the subtle indicators of a seizure coming on. Dean's eyes drifted, unfocusing, his head tilting just slightly as he blinked slowly, his body going still.
"Don't ignore me," Mr. Thompson barked, his voice rising with anger. He tightened his hold on Dean's neck, and when Dean didn't respond, he gave him a sharp shake, trying to pull him back to attention.
Sam felt his chest tighten. He took a step forward, wanting to intervene, but unsure if he could without making things worse. "Sir," he said carefully, "he's… he's just… tired."
Mr. Thompson wasn't listening. "What is wrong with you, boy?" he snarled, gripping Dean's shoulders as he shook him harder, trying to snap him out of what he assumed was stubborn insolence. But to Sam, it was all wrong—Dean's face was too blank, his eyes glazed over, his mouth parted slightly as if he were somewhere far away.
Then, Dean's body seemed to stiffen under Mr. Thompson's grip, his muscles locking up as his gaze floated unfocused, caught in the grip of the seizure. His limbs stayed tense, rigid, his breathing faintly erratic, and Sam could see the subtle twitch in his brother's jaw, the distant, trapped look in his eyes.
Mr. Thompson's face twisted in frustration. He gripped Dean's shoulders harder, his fingers digging in, and started shouting. "Are you even listening? I told you, when I'm talking to you, you pay attention! This kind of disrespect will not fly here!"
Dean's body jerked slightly, his eyes snapping back to awareness with a startled look of confusion and fear. He blinked, dazed, as he tried to pull away, but Mr. Thompson's hold on him remained firm, almost as if he intended to keep Dean pinned in place until he forced an answer from him. Dean's breaths came fast and shallow, his chest heaving as he tried to orient himself, his gaze darting from Mr. Thompson to the yard around him, like he was trying to figure out where he was and what was happening.
Mr. Thompson's voice was still sharp, unyielding. "You think you're gonna get away with this? With that attitude?"
Dean swayed under his grip, his face still pale, his expression unfocused as he struggled to shake off the lingering disorientation from the seizure. He looked almost cornered, his breaths coming faster, sharper, a look of anxiety twisting his features as he realized he was still trapped under Mr. Thompson's hand.
That was enough for Sam. He rushed forward, pushing between them, his voice steady but pleading. "Sir, please. He… he just gets these… these episodes sometimes. He wasn't ignoring you. He just—he needs a second."
Mr. Thompson stared down at Sam, his eyes narrowed with irritation, as if he were weighing the truth in Sam's words. But the hard, skeptical look on his face didn't soften. He finally released Dean with a sharp huff, as if dismissing him entirely, his gaze a mixture of disgust and exasperation.
"Go to your room," he snapped, voice laced with contempt. "And don't bother coming down for dinner."
Dean didn't hesitate this time. He turned and headed back inside, shoulders stiff, face still pale and drawn. Sam followed close behind, glancing back once at Mr. Thompson, feeling a surge of anger rise in his chest as he caught the look of annoyance on the man's face.
Once they were back in their room, Dean sank down onto his bed, pressing his hands to his temples, his face tight with discomfort. Sam moved closer, kneeling beside the bed, his voice low and soothing.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam asked, his hand resting lightly on Dean's arm.
Dean nodded, but he looked exhausted, his breaths shallow and quick as he tried to calm down. His hands trembled slightly, a leftover effect from the seizure and the adrenaline that had surged through his body during Mr. Thompson's outburst.
"Just… give me a sec," Dean mumbled, his voice shaky. He looked down, his gaze distant, unfocused, as he tried to bring himself back fully from the lingering fog of the seizure.
Sam kept close, grabbing a bottle of water from the dresser and pressing it into Dean's hand. "Here. Just sip a little, okay?"
Dean took the bottle, lifting it to his lips with a slight tremor in his hand. He took a sip, then another, each one seeming to bring him a little closer to himself. But his face was still pale, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Sam could see the lingering confusion in his eyes.
"Dean," Sam said softly, his tone gentle, steady. "It was just a petit mal, okay? It's over now. Just breathe."
Dean nodded, swallowing hard, as he took a few deeper breaths. But his face was still etched with frustration, and Sam could see the way his fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket, like he was holding on to something solid to ground himself.
"He… he just kept shaking me," Dean muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, laced with both anger and a faint trace of fear. "I… couldn't make him stop. Couldn't say anything."
"I know," Sam murmured, his heart aching as he listened. "You didn't do anything wrong. You weren't ignoring him. He just… doesn't get it."
Dean's jaw tightened, a mix of anger and humiliation flashing in his eyes. "I hate this," he muttered. "I hate that they think I'm just… just being difficult. Like I can help it."
Sam moved closer, reaching out to place a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder, feeling the subtle tremors still lingering in his brother's body. "Dean, it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. And… we'll get out of here soon, okay? Just… hang in there. We'll figure this out."
Dean looked at him, his gaze softening just a little, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes as he nodded. The tension slowly ebbed from his shoulders, and Sam stayed beside him, a steady presence in the quiet room, grounding him through the last lingering effects of the seizure.
The room was dim, painted in shades of twilight as the last bits of daylight faded outside. Sam sat on his bed with a book balanced on his lap, but his eyes hadn't moved past the same sentence in ages. He kept glancing over at Dean, stretched out on the opposite bed, his face still pale, breaths coming steady but faintly shallow, as though the seizure had taken more out of him than he wanted to let on. Dean's arm was draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate rhythm, but Sam knew he wasn't asleep. Dean was resting, or at least trying to, trying to shake off the aftereffects, trying to push past the humiliation and the fear.
A low simmer of anger bubbled up in Sam's chest, sharp and insistent. Anger at Mr. Thompson for what he'd done, shaking Dean like he was some doll, just because he hadn't immediately snapped to attention. But Sam knew the anger ran deeper than that, burrowed under the surface of his thoughts, where it seethed and festered. It was anger at Dad, too. Because if Dad hadn't just vanished on another hunt, they wouldn't even be here. If he'd just picked up the phone once—if he'd just bothered to check in on them instead of running off with a single-minded focus that left them to fend for themselves.
And it went deeper than that, Sam realized, his fists clenching around the edges of the book. Dean wouldn't even have these seizures if Dad hadn't dragged him out on some hunt two years ago. If Dad hadn't thought it was fine to bring a fourteen-year-old kid along to kill some creature on his birthday, as if that was a normal way to celebrate. Sam could still remember the night Dean came back, how he'd tried to laugh it off despite the bruises and blood, despite the way he flinched when Sam tried to help him. But Dean hadn't been the same since. The trauma had left a mark not just on his body, but on his brain, a scar he couldn't just walk off or shrug away.
And now they were here, in some stranger's house, with strangers who didn't give a damn about Dean's condition, who saw him as a nuisance, a misbehaving kid rather than someone who needed a little patience and understanding. It was unfair, cruel even, and Sam could feel the anger searing through him, almost hot enough to make him shake. And Dean—Dean bore it all in silence, shouldering the weight like he always did, as if he could somehow take it on for both of them, as if it was his job to protect Sam from everything wrong in the world, even when it came at his own expense.
Sam let out a frustrated sigh, his chest tight as he tried to push it all away, tried to focus on anything else. But the anger lingered, swirling like a storm cloud over his thoughts.
From across the room, he heard the faint creak of Dean's bed as his brother shifted, lifting his arm from his eyes. Sam looked over to see Dean watching him, one eye open, a hint of that familiar, wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What's got you so worked up, Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice low and teasing, though Sam could see the exhaustion shadowing his gaze.
Sam huffed, glancing away with a shrug. "Nothing. Just… thinking."
"Uh-huh," Dean replied, clearly not convinced. "Thinking, huh? Didn't know thinking made you sigh like a middle-aged accountant."
Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. Dean always had a way of doing that—of poking through the fog of Sam's anger or worry, finding the smallest crack in his defenses and slipping in, his humor a balm even when Sam didn't want it to be.
"Just… I don't know," Sam muttered, lowering his voice, not wanting the Thompsons to hear. "This whole place, this… situation. It sucks."
Dean let out a quiet laugh, a sound that was more breath than voice. "No kidding. Thought Mr. Thompson was gonna burst a blood vessel back there." He grinned, adding with a dry, sarcastic drawl, "I'd almost feel bad for him if he wasn't such a jackass."
Sam snorted, feeling a flicker of amusement despite himself. "Guess we're lucky we didn't end up in worse, right? The perfect foster family for two charming, well-behaved kids like us."
"Oh, yeah," Dean replied, his tone thick with sarcasm. "We'll be fitting in any day now. Just gotta figure out how to polish those weird lamps or… whatever it was."
They exchanged a glance, and the absurdity of it all, the sheer ridiculousness of their predicament, sparked a laugh in Sam's chest that he couldn't hold back. It was quiet, but it felt good, breaking through the tension. Dean joined in, his smile softening, though his eyes were still heavy with fatigue.
They lapsed into silence, but it was lighter now, the weight of Sam's anger easing just enough for him to breathe again. For a few minutes, they just sat there, talking in low tones, exchanging quiet jokes, careful not to let their voices carry. Sam could almost pretend they were back at home, back in a place where they didn't have to tiptoe around strangers' rules and keep their guards up.
But as they spoke, as Dean shifted on his bed, Sam noticed the faint shake in his brother's hand, the lingering effect of the seizure, the way his breathing hitched every now and then. He was hiding it, like always, brushing off his own discomfort in favor of putting Sam at ease, like it didn't matter that he'd just gone through a frightening, humiliating ordeal.
And that realization hit Sam with a familiar, bittersweet ache. Once again, Dean was the one doing the comforting, the one easing Sam's worry, taking on his anger as if it were his own, even when he was the one dealing with epilepsy. Dean was the one living with the stress of having to hide it, to pass it off as nothing more than tiredness or inattention, to bear the weight of their father's choices, alone.
As the room settled back into quiet, Sam lay down on his bed, turning his face into the pillow, letting out a long breath. He couldn't shake the warm, grateful feeling that lingered, the feeling of being loved and looked after, of being protected even in the middle of this mess. And he couldn't help the small, tender smile that crept onto his face as he closed his eyes, a flicker of appreciation that he knew he'd never be able to put into words.
Dean might have epilepsy, might be carrying more than anyone should have to, but somehow, he still managed to carry Sam's worries, too, even when they weighed him down like stones. And for that, Sam loved him fiercely, with every part of himself.
The room had grown dark, shadows stretching long across the walls as the evening settled into a heavy silence. Sam's stomach had started to twist with hunger, a dull ache that only served to deepen his frustration. It wasn't just his own discomfort gnawing at him; he knew Dean needed something to eat, especially after the seizure earlier. Even without epilepsy, going hungry for too long was a bad idea. But for Dean, it was riskier—a dip in blood sugar could make him weak, set off another seizure, or just drain his energy even further. The fact that the Thompsons didn't seem to care felt like a slap, though Sam guessed it wasn't deliberate, just… indifference.
He threw another glance Dean's way, watching him lying on the bed, his gaze distant. They hadn't spoken much since Mr. Thompson had stomped out earlier, and Sam could see the quiet weight of it settling on Dean. Despite everything, he wasn't complaining; he was just lying there, eyes half-shut, with that familiar air of silent endurance. Sam's heart ached, a potent mixture of anger and admiration swirling within him.
Just as Sam was about to say something—anything to break the silence—a faint buzz came from under Dean's pillow, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Dean's eyes snapped open, his hand moving in an instant to retrieve the phone. He shot Sam a quick, cautionary glance before pressing it to his ear, his voice a low whisper.
"Hello?"
Sam straightened, his senses sharpening. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but the tension in Dean's body told him all he needed to know. He leaned in slightly, trying to pick up any hints, but the answer came quickly when he heard Dean's voice again, a quiet exclamation that almost sounded like relief.
"Bobby!"
Sam's heart leapt, a strange mixture of hope and relief flooding him. Bobby. Of course Bobby would come through. The man had always looked out for them, in his gruff, roundabout way, and if anyone could get them out of this mess, it was Bobby Singer. Sam didn't dare speak, but his gaze locked on Dean, his own pulse quickening as he waited to glean whatever he could from his brother's responses.
Dean's voice was soft, steady as he explained their situation. Sam could tell he was leaving things out—keeping his voice calm, deliberately omitting the worst parts. He wasn't saying anything about the way the Thompsons had treated him, the brutal ignorance that Mr. Thompson had shown during his seizure, or the strain of having to hide his condition day after day. Sam felt a pang of frustration, wanting to shake Dean and force him to tell the truth, to let Bobby know just how bad things really were.
"Yeah, well… we're fine," Dean said, his voice dipping slightly, and Sam knew it was a lie. "Just, uh… just me and Sam, trying to get by." His tone was casual, but Sam noticed the way his hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles whitening as he kept his voice steady. "You do whatever you need to, Bobby. Just… just get Sam outta here."
Sam's breath caught at that. Dean's focus, even now, was on him—making sure he got out, that he was safe, as if he weren't the one dealing with the seizures, the stress, the weight of holding everything together. A fierce, bittersweet loyalty radiated from Dean's words, and Sam felt his heart twist. He wanted to tell Dean to stop, to remind him that they were in this together, but he knew better than to interrupt. This was Dean's way, his quiet, stubborn way of protecting Sam.
Dean went silent, listening, his face unreadable. But then Sam saw the subtle change, the way Dean's shoulders relaxed just slightly, and he could almost feel the relief settling over his brother. Whatever Bobby was saying, it was enough to give Dean hope.
"They've been fine," Dean murmured after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't worry about it." Sam clenched his jaw, recognizing the deliberate vagueness in Dean's tone. He was talking about his seizures, downplaying them as if they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Sam's annoyance flared, knowing that Bobby deserved the truth, that he'd want to know if Dean was struggling. But he also knew how Dean was, how fiercely private he could be about his condition. Sam could only hope that Bobby, being Bobby, would read between the lines and sense that all was not as fine as Dean claimed.
There was another pause, then Dean asked, "Where's Dad?" His voice softened, almost hesitant, as though he were afraid of the answer.
Sam watched his brother's face carefully, trying to gauge what was being said on the other end. He saw Dean's expression shift, his gaze dropping to his hands, the faintest crease of worry crossing his brow. Whatever Bobby was telling him, it wasn't good news.
After a long silence, Dean finally nodded, a small, resigned movement, and murmured, "Yeah, okay. Just… keep in touch, alright?" His voice was quiet, almost pleading, though he quickly masked it with a casual, "We're okay, all things considered. Thanks, Bobby."
With that, he lowered the phone, his fingers slipping it back under the pillow, and looked up to meet Sam's gaze. For a moment, they just stared at each other, a silent understanding passing between them.
"Bobby says he can get us out in two days," Dean said, his voice a mix of relief and determination. "Maybe three or four if things don't go to plan, but… he'll get us out."
Sam nodded, feeling the weight of it settle over him. Two days, maybe more. It felt like both a promise and a burden, the hope of escape balanced against the uncertainty of how much longer they'd have to endure this place.
"What about Dad?" Sam asked, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.
Dean's gaze shifted, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the bedspread. "Apparently, he got hurt on a hunt. Bad concussion. Bobby said he wasn't waking up for a few days… then, when he did, he was so out of it he couldn't even…" Dean's voice trailed off, his eyes clouding with a faint, pained expression. "He just called Bobby today, asking about us. He's still in the hospital. Can't get out yet, but… Bobby's working on it."
Sam felt his fists clench, the frustration bubbling up like a storm. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that their dad could just disappear, could go off on some reckless hunt and leave them stranded, forced to fend for themselves in a place where they were barely tolerated, let alone cared for. And it wasn't fair that Dean, of all people, would take it so hard, would feel this quiet, unspoken guilt as if he were somehow responsible.
Dean's gaze drifted downward, his voice barely audible. "If he'd just let me come with him, maybe…"
Sam felt a surge of anger that burned hotter than anything else, a fierce, protective fury. How could Dean think that? How could he shoulder that kind of guilt, as if it were somehow his fault? Their dad was a grown man, capable of making his own choices. If he needed someone by his side, he should've found an adult, not dragged Dean into the danger.
"No," Sam said firmly, his voice cutting through the quiet. "It's not your fault, Dean. Dad's gonna be okay. Bobby's got it handled."
Dean looked up, his expression softened by something vulnerable, something that looked almost like relief. But Sam could still see the weight lingering in his eyes, the way he held himself as if he were carrying the whole world on his shoulders. He wanted to say more, to reassure Dean in some way, but he knew better than to push too hard. Dean had always been stubborn, and Sam knew that letting him know he was cared for had to be done carefully, without drawing too much attention to his vulnerability.
They settled back into silence, but Sam felt a flicker of hope, a faint sense of comfort that, despite everything, they were going to get through this. Bobby would come through. They'd get out of here. And maybe, once they were free, they could find some kind of normalcy again.
As Sam lay back on his bed, his thoughts drifted, a mixture of anger, gratitude, and a fierce, unbreakable bond with the brother who had always, somehow, managed to keep them both safe. And as he drifted into a restless sleep, he knew that no matter what, they would make it through—together.