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When the man opens their hotel room door Dean levels his sawed off shotgun at his chest. “Keep goin’, mister,” he says through the haze of exhaustion and panic, trying to keep his voice steady.
The man holds up hands and gives Dean a tight smile in the yellow light of the motel lamplight. “I brought some supplies.” He nudges a paper grocery bag towards Dean with his toe. Dean considers the man — he’s a pretty big guy, and he’s got a face that reminds Dean of other hunters. It’s not that Dean trusts him… but Dad was supposed to be back yesterday, and Sammy was going to be hungry when he woke up.
“I’m not supposed to open the door at night. Dad’ll be pissed if he comes back.” Dean’s seen a lot of things for a 12 year old, and he’s certain that a guy who shows up with a bag of things they need has ulterior motives. Dean peers through the bag; some boxes of food and —
He brought Sam a pad of paper and crayons. Dean wants to shoot him in the chest because Dad expects him to protect Sam at all costs, but he lowers his gun anyway, keeping it tight in his grip, and nods towards the table. The guy lifts the bag and carries it to the rickety table.
“Did my dad send you?” Dean asks as he closes the door.
“No, no — though he’s fine. I looked.” The man takes two canisters to the sink and mixes instant coffee in one styrofoam cup, hot chocolate in another. There’s snow outside and the hotel room is chilly. Despite his better instincts Dean sits and takes the hot chocolate when it’s offered to him. The man smiles at him, sad and a little unnerving. “How old are you now?”
Dean tilts his chin up and tries to look as old as possible. “Twelve, though people think I’m older all the time.”
“Fantastic age, twelve. Lots of great kid things at twelve. Makes your brother eight then.”
“Yeah.” Dean sips on his lukewarm hot chocolate, and finally sets his gun on the floor. “I’m not a kid, though. I do loads of grown-up stuff. Everyone says I’m gonna be a great hunter in a couple years.”
“Of course, hunting and shooting. But you don’t want to do that forever. You’ve got loads of compassion in you; you let me in.”
Dean looks away, his fist tight around his little disposable cup. “You brought stuff we needed.” He ought to say thanks, but he can’t quite work the words out. Sam snores in the hotel bed they share, wrapped in the blankets.
The man leans as far back in his chair allows and stares at Dean just a little too long. “If you could go anywhere in the world — in space — would you?”
Dean thinks about it, imagines different planets and those countries in the textbooks he leaves abandoned in motels when they move. But he looks over to where Sam is still snoring like a truck and shakes his head. “No. I’ve got to take care of Sammy and Dad. It’s our job to protect people.”
They don’t talk for a while, and when the man finishes his coffee he stands, tossing the cup into the trash. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Get some sleep, Dean. Heroes must be well-rested, after all. Come on now.” Dean lets himself be led over to the bed, climbs in next to Sam.
He doesn’t realize until he’s nearly asleep, as he hears the door lock click into place, that he never told the man his name.