When Sammy is 14, John tries to drop him off at Bobby's for the summer, claiming he and Dean need to focus on hunting for a while, without having to drag Sam along when half the time he doesn't even want to go. That's a ruse. He's been noticing things, of course he has. How can he not?
Those longing glances when the other isn't looking, the way an elbow nudge in the ribs earns Dean a dopey smile instead of a scowl half the time, how he still cuts the crusts off his sandwiches, packs his school lunches, quickly plants little kisses over his fresh bandages when he thinks John isn't looking.
The way Sammy basically ends up in Dean's lap whenever he falls asleep in the back of the car, pressing against his ribcage as if trying to crawl inside, half covered by his brother's jacket. How they hold hands when he's walking ahead of them in the woods, tracking whatever they're hunting and turns around without them noticing straight away.
How they don't bitch about sharing a bed when they're short on money.
It's not healthy, he tells Dean. The boy needs to be able to handle himself on his own. He needs to man up, grow up. Dean, after an uncharacteristic amount of arguing, responds with a "Yes, sir", but the emotions behind his eyes make John pause for a second.
Sam is unaware, until the day they're supposed to hit the road. He ends up crying and screaming and kicking, no amount of John's shouting and Bobby's reasoning can cool him off. Not even Dean can make him stop fighting, when he tries to back John up, he gets bit. He doesn't even look mad about that, if anything it seems it's John he wants to punch.
As they drive away, Dean is silent. He doesn't cuss him out or blow up like Sammy does, he's just... Gone. He sits in the passenger's seat, still as a corpse, every muscle in his body tense, staring out the window. For hours, only responding with yes or no. Polite. Restrained. Good little soldier. The anger behind his facade makes John drive more carefully. Makes him take the gear out of the car himself. When they get a room, he takes the bed closer to the door and does not turn his back on him, even if he'd never admit it.
The next morning, Dean's already awake, washed and packed and ready, sitting in the car staring at nothing. The car routine repeats. He does everything mechanically. In the evening he sits on the front step in front of their room well into the night.. He doesn't go out, doesn't flirt with girls or hustle pool, doesn't drink.
On the third day, the phone rings.
"John, Sam doesn't wanna eat." Bobby tries to get him on the line to talk to his father. It's dead silent on the other end.
Day four, Dean gets a pack of cigarettes and smokes half of it before lunch, leg bouncing restlessly.
Day five, "John, he still didn't eat." "Let him have his tantrum. He'll break soon."
It's day six now, John catches his son pacing the room at 3 am, and he seems to be up at five and ready to go..
One week. The phone rings again.
"John, for fucks sake, the boy isn't drinking. If you don't come back for him I'm calling CPS" "If you think that's what's best for him.." Dean can hear cussing as Dad hangs up.
In the morning of day number eight, John wakes up alone, cops knocking on his door looking for witnesses of a car theft in the parking lot. It takes him two seconds to decipher it, and two days to get to Bobby's.
He's resigned, lack of sleep making him numb. "Where are they?" Bobby shrugs. "Outside." John wanders through the maze of the salvage yard, and only spots them from the distance.
Dean is sitting on the floor panel of an old pickup, back against the cabin, Sammy's back against his own chest, apple in one hand, knife in the other, handfeeding him pieces as he cuts them, empty water bottle next to his leg. Sam's tears aren't dry yet, but he's smiling when he cranes his neck a bit to look at him. When his smaller hand snakes up under his brother's shirt, John turns around and leaves.
None of them ever discuss that week again.
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