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July 10th, 1997
“Has Anyone Else Died for You?”
The billboard on the side of the highway questioned. The days first rays of sunlight reflected off the vinyl material. It was faded, paint peeling and weeds nearly concealing the words.
Sam turned the question over in his mind, snorting at the religious devotion these Southern towns held. Every one of them was so determined to save his soul.
They were passing through a landlocked town on the border of Tennessee and Alabama. It was tiny, a population of only a few thousand. What else was new? He craved to get lost somewhere, a place big enough where nobody bothered staring, a drop in the sea of faces. Sam stared out the bug splattered windshield of the impala. The car rattled as the passed over cracked asphalt.
Dad was in front, jaw set and eyes bloodshot. Dean snored lightly in the passenger seat, features soft and unlined in sleep. Dad shot Dean a glare, no doubt pissed Dean had fallen asleep so early in the day.
Sam adjusted his position for what felt like the tenth time. Dean had been upgraded to the front while Sam was crammed in the back with all their shit. He was forced to rest his arm against Dean’s lumpy duffle bag.
His stomach grumbled. The early hour killed his appetite for anything. Although he was hungry, a wave of nausea passed over him at the thought of actually eating anything.
Dad sipped on a cup of gas station coffee, the burnt smell further turning Sam’s stomach. How could anyone drink that shit?
“Dad can we get a motel with three beds this time? Dean’s tossing and turning kept me up all fucking night.” Sam grumbled, heart thrumming in his chest at the notion of starting an argument so early in the day. One way to starve off boredom was arguing, it felt to good to stop.
Dad shot him a sharp look. “Watch your mouth, son.” He was quiet for a moment, taking another sip of burnt coffee. “We will get what we can afford and you won’t complain.”
Sam rolled his eyes pointedly, making sure John was looking at him in the review mirror. “Then you sleep with Dean. I’ve done it for fourteen years.”
“You will sleep where I tell you to sleep.” Dad grit out, voice rising with irritation.
Sam suppressed a smirk, liking the way his Dad’s voice changed. “You’re like in love with Dean. I thought you’d be jumping at the opportunity.”
The speedometer ticked up a notch, as Dad pushed the gas pedal down harder. He sighed, long and tired. “Sam, shut your mouth.” The words lacked the bite Sam had been craving, they were dismissive and lackluster.
“Every one knows Dean is your favorite.” Sam continued on, poking the bear a bit more. “He’s practically your girlfriend.”
Dean let out a groan, seemingly summoned by the mention of women, blinking slowly at the morning sunlight. “What’s this about girlfriends, Sammy?” He mumbled. “You got one?”
Sam felt annoyed at Dean’s attempt at a joke.
“No.” He mumbled, turning towards the window.
“Seriously what’d I miss?” Dean asked, turning his head between Sam and his Dad.
“Nothing.” John answered before Sam could.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.” Dean said, tone even.
“It is now.” John said.
Sam stayed silent, irritated that Dean woke up and gotten into the middle of it.
“I hate this family.” He muttered underneath his breath.
“What?” Dad asked sharply.
A rush of anger washed over him, hot and unabated. There was a burn behind his eyelids, a mix of emotions and restlessness. “I said I hate this fucking family.” The words reverberated throughout the stuffy car.
The car jolted, a hard break, nearly sending the tires spinning. Sam’s body flung forward, smashed against the back of drivers side seat. There was no seatbelt to keep him in place, he had begun refusing to wear one a few weeks ago, a silent “fuck you” to his dad.
Dad had completely stopped the car. The road was a desolate two lane road, no other souls around.
Sam peeled himself off the seat, grimacing at the pain in his chest, his ribs had took the brunt of the impact.
He heard the door open and was ripped out of the backseat before he could even process that Dad had gotten out.
Dean’s protests broke through the blood rushing in his ears, pleading with Dad to get back in the car, that he didn't mean it.
Dad held him up effortlessly, like he was a newborn baby instead of a gangly thirteen year old.
He began shaking him roughly. “What is wrong with you?” He grit out, voice low and dangerous.
Sam squirmed, trying to get out of his grasp. It was useless, his legs dangled above the sun-cracked, asphalt.
“Let me go!” He kicked pointlessly, trying to knee him the balls.
Dad’s fingers dug painfully into his shoulder blades. Tears sprang to his eyes, a result of the pain and frustration.
Dad leaned in close to his face, easily holding him in place. “Behave.”
It was one word, not shouted, but said quietly, lethally. He dropped Sam into the backseat, forcing him upright. He continued to writhe as Dad grabbed the seatbelt and clicked it into the lock.
Sam cried silently, tears slipping down his face. He felt like a little kid again, six years old and Daddy yelling at him for wandering too far. Dean had gone quiet, watching the scene with an anxious expression.
Dad got back into the drivers seat and continued on, white knuckling the steering wheel. The car was silent, the radio having been turned off miles back when all the stations turned to static and preaching.
Sam buried his face in his jacket, wiping his tears and snot into the scratchy polyester fabric. The truth was he did hate this family. Dean was okay, annoying, but not the worst. Dad was the devil. Controlling and mean and careless. Dad didn’t love him or Dean. They were simply pawns in his game.
He woke up to the smell of aftershave and salt, a slight rust smell like damp leather. His body recognized it before his brain did, relaxing into the embrace.
His face was pressed against his Dad’s jacket. He shifted slightly, whimpering at the ache in his chest from where he hit the seat.
Arms wrapped around him tighter, fingers brushed against his hair. “Shh go back to sleep.” Dad’s voice rumbled, the familiarity lulling him.
He felt Dad shift his weight to one side as he heard the jingle of keys and a door creaking open. Exhaustion kept him from protesting, launching himself out of Dad’s arms and berating him for treating him like he was a baby.
Dad always had a slick answer for that one, said with a mocking smirk. “You are my baby.”
The feeling of being laid on a stiff motel mattress, his shoes untied and discarded, a blanket spread out over him. He didn’t open his eyes, just curled up as much as he could on his side. The room went quiet, only the hushed voices of his dad and brother.
Hours later, he woke up to the hum of their voices. It seemed like those were the only sounds he ever heard.
The only people he ever interacted with. The three of them, moving from town to town, like nomadic ghosts.
“Don’t think it’s broken.” Dean, voice reassuring and calm. Always the peacemaker.
“He hit the damn seat.” Dad, argumentative, worry creeping into his voice. Sam wanted to scoff, he only cared that the state would be on his ass if he kept beating his kids where it was visible.
“I mean… you stopped pretty hard.”
Sam felt the brush of knuckles just below his ribs, he sucked in a sharp breath before he could stop himself.
“Easy.” John’s voice had softened. “Thought you were still asleep.”
Sam blearily opened his eyes. Dad was knelt on the side of the bed, head titled towards him. He looked awful. Eyes shadowed and stubble visible.
Dean stood in the bathroom doorway, a bag of melting ice in his hands.
“I’m awake now.” Sam said, voice rough.
“How’s the chest?” Dad moved closer, sitting on the side of the bed.
“It’s fine,” He answered defensively. “I’m fine.”
Dad pinched the bridge of his nose, likely nursing a headache from the lack of sleep.
Dean piped up. “Do you always cry yourself to sleep when you’re fine?”
Sam narrowed his eyes, moving to turn away, but the sharp pain in his ribs caught him. He made an effort to keep his expression neutral.
“Let me see, Sammy.” Dad demanded, fingers moving to lift up his shirt.
“No.”
“I’m not asking.” Dad’s voice was stern.
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t get to mouth off all morning and then refuse when I’m making sure you didn’t crack a rib.” Dad sounded annoyed, but his words were clouded with something else Sam couldn’t place.
Staying silent, he stopped arguing, just wanting to go back to sleep, be anywhere but here.
Dad gently lifted his shirt, taking care to not put pressure against the skin. It amazed him how a man that could dig up graves in under an hour and engage in combat effortlessly, could be so soft sometimes.
He wondered if he was that way with Mom. He pushed the thought away, sick curling in his stomach.
The exposure of his skin revealed a mottled purple bruise, canvassing his entire sternum. Just looking at it was painful, the pale skin completely shadowed by the injury.
Sam let out a sight gasp at the sight of it. Dean had leaned forward, face pinched.
Dad stayed neutral, examining it with a careful eye.
“It’s not broken. You’ll live.”
“God Sammy. What is it with the seatbelt?” Dean sighed. “I’m gonna buckle you in myself from now on.”
Sam shook his head. “Stay out of it.”
“Don’t talk that way to your brother.” Dad warned, eyes still on the bruise.
“I wouldn’t have to if everyone wasn’t always ganging up on me.” Sam mumbled, yanking down his shirt.
Dad and Dean exchanged a look, words passed between them without either of them actually speaking.
Of course, Sam was left out of the conversation. Whatever he thought. They can keep their weird looks and weird secret language to themselves.
Dad turned towards him. “Go back to sleep.” Dean handed him the ice pack. Dad set it gently on his chest. “Dean will take this off in twenty minutes.”
Sam didn’t say anything, opting to stare at a moldy water-spot on the ceiling. Dean moved to the other bed, clicking on the TV, surfing through the channels. Sam could see Dean watching him out of the corner of his eye.
Dad stared at him a moment, expression unreadable. Nodding at Dean, he exited the room, locking the door behind him. Neither one asked where he was going. It wasn’t like he’d tell them.
“You really know how to pick your battles.” Dean said, breaking the pause. The TV had landed on a rerun of Mork and Mindy, the canned laughter jarring Sam’s head.
“He scares you.” Sam said, not backing down.
Dean looked at the closed door. “Sometimes.”
“He doesn’t scare me.” Sam picked the edge of the ugly floral comforter. The ice was making his chest numb.
Dean gave him a tired smile. “Yeah.”
There was a pause, Mork’s shouting filled the silence. Mindy kissed him deeply, as the music swelled and the audience howled with excitement.
“You know that’s why you keep pushing him, right?” Dean turned the remote over in his hands, slapping it lightly on his knee.
Sam looked over, the glow of the TV casting shadows on Dean’s face.
“What?” Sam asked, eyes heavy.
“You want him to say something that will finally prove you right.”
“And what’s that?” Sam was nearly asleep, thoughts fleeting and fuzzy.
“That he doesn’t love us.” Dean said it softly, pity in his tone.
Sam was quiet for a moment. He almost didn’t reply. “He never will.” He replied finally, sighing deeply as he heard the muffled sound of an engine coming to life outside.