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“I told you to stay inside the car.” John’s voice booms from the other side of the parking lot. Sam visibly startles, but shows no intention of moving from his spot on the hood, even with his father barreling towards him.
“I wanted some fresh air, is that a crime now?” he quips back with a teenaged defiance John will probably never get used to and goes back to stargazing.
“Yes. Now move before you scuff the paint.” John deadpans.
As he’d stepped out for a smoke, he’d heard some truckers speculate about the going rate of some hooker, leering at some place back of the parking lot. He hadn’t thought anything of it, until they’d mentioned a black muscle car. Crushing the barely lit cigarette under his boot, he’d called out for Dean to finish his drink and practically sprinted to their car, bile rising as images of his youngest child, no father should ever see, forced themselves into his mind. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sam was alone.
“Get in. We’re leaving.” John tries again.
Now that he’s gotten closer, his gut still churns uncomfortably at the sight in front of him. Sam lies stretched out on the hood of Impala, one leg bent for purchase, the other hanging off at an angle, aiming for casual. The light of the streetlamp he’d parked under bounces of off Sam’s exposed hipbone where his pants pulled lower, likely when he’d scrambled on top of the hood. He has one hand propped up underneath his head, the other is slung over his thigh, pulling attention towards his spread legs. If it was anyone else, he’d call the pose unmistakably seductive. He doesn’t know what’s worse: If Sam has no clue what he’s accidentally signaling to onlookers, or if he knows exactly what he’s doing.
John shakes his head, willing himself to focus on getting Sam into the car (or at least off of the hood).
“I’m not asking again.”
While Sam contemplates about doing his dad the favor of listening to him, John thinks about whether he should circle back and pummel the perverts that made those comments about his son into mush, when Dean finally reaches them.
The way Dean’s breath hitches at the sight of his younger brother horrifies John into going cold all over, quickly realizing random strangers ogling his youngest suddenly aren’t his biggest problem anymore. Dean’s face is back to neutral within seconds, but John still catches the way his eyes widened, his lips parted slightly and it’s a miracle he doesn’t throw up then and there.
“Now, Sam!” He barks instead, hard and angry, making Sam flinch as if slapped. The way he avoids eye contact after, head drooping as he carefully slides off of the hood sends a sharp pang of guilt through John. It’s not Sam’s fault, but right now he doesn’t need to understand why he needs to get in the car. He just needs to do it. With Sam shuffling meekly into the backseat, still grumbling words of protest under his breath, he orders Dean into shotgun before he can reach for the back door, refusing to imagine what might happen if they were to share the backseat. Turning the ignition, he speeds out of the parking lot, tires skidding, kicking up loose gravel, and squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.
The motel room he’d booked only has two beds so he’ll have to sleep on the couch tonight, John strategizes as he glances in the rearview mirror at Sam staring out of the window. The moving shadows painted by the headlights of passing cars make him out even smaller than he is. His heart aches at the sight. ‘Dad, I’m already fifteen.’ Sam had scoffed when John wouldn’t let him join on last week’s hunt. Please god, he’s only fifteen.
He’ll have to start paying for three beds, maybe even double rooms from now on. He looks at Dean, the boy he loves more than life itself. Even now, he realizes with steadfast acceptance. For Dean’s sake, especially now. Even if he has trouble understanding. Dean can have any girl he wants wrapped around his finger in a matter of minutes. It makes no sense for him to be looking at his own brother like that. John follows Dean’s gaze out of the window.
“Sam, move to the other side. I can’t see out the back.” It’s a feeble excuse, but it works. With minimal protest, Sam scoots into the seat behind John and another wave of nausea hits John as Dean turns his head now that Sam’s no longer in view of the right hand mirror. He barely keeps from swerving off the road as all his planning hits a wall. There’s no way he can keep them in his line of sight 24/7 for the rest of his life.
It’s just overactive hormones. It’ll pass. He keeps repeating like a prayer. Until then, he’ll shower with the door open, sleep mostly when Dean’s driving, rig the door to Sam’s room at night if he has to, send him to Bobby’s when all else fails. By god, he’ll do whatever it takes, but he can’t tell either of them what he saw in Dean’s eyes tonight. What if he’s wrong?
Or worse yet, what if he’s right?