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Sometimes, Dean’s competitive nature is enough to convince him to get through a meal. Just the mention of Cas cleaning all the dishes without Dean’s assistance has resulted in Dean scarfing down the rest of dinner before Cas can even reach the sink.
This, Cas is aware, is also not healthy, but the pros outweigh the cons. Cas knows this because he completed a cost-benefit analysis on one of the nights in which Dean’s nightmares got the angel sent out of bed.
This strategy doesn’t always work and today is one of those days. Cas silently berates himself after Dean further shuts down at his suggestion. Dean has been withdrawn all day, quiet with a faint tremor running through his whole body. If Cas has to guess, Dean hasn’t spoken to anyone but Jack. Dean always puts aside whatever he’s experiencing to give Jack what he wants. Cas hasn’t exploited this yet, but he’s come close several times.
It’s possible that tonight may be the night he pilots the new tactic though, because Jack skips into the kitchen just as Cas finishes filling the sink with water. This method of movement is because somersaulting has been banned from most rooms in the Bunker. Kissing bruises from where Jack has knocked into a piece of furniture is a ten minute process, at minimum. Even between Cas, Dean, Sam, and Eileen, the ritual was too frequent to maintain. Jack is accident prone enough. He doesn’t need his preferred mode of movement to get ‘Get Better Soon’ affection.
“Where’s Dee?” Jack asks, trailing his fingers along the wall as he circles the room. Jack claims that, as God, he can’t get dizzy. Cas has seen Jack fall over too many times after spinning to believe him.
Cas smiles softly at the question. Ever since Jack took on a child’s form, he has been especially affectionate with Dean. Jack’s memory of his early life seems to be very muddled, although he occasionally recalls some experiences with exceptional clarity, like when Dean taught him to drive. Cas and Sam think that Jack has buried his unhappy memories, but left his pleasant ones untouched. Cas is too nervous to test this hypothesis and distort the balance that Jack gifted himself with, so he doesn’t know if Jack remembers Dean’s attempts to kill him. He thinks not, but sometimes Jack goes so far out of his way to gain Dean’s approval, like coloring with Dean’s favorite color (black, then orange, then purple) instead of his own (pink, then green, then yellow).
Jack comes to stand beside Cas at the sink, which is filled with soaking dishes. Mainly Tupperware from their leftovers night. Cas’ sleeves are rolled up and some of the soapy water slides down and drips onto Jack’s head. Cas gets a hand towel and dries his son off. “Dean’s finishing up dinner,” Cas answers.
“Can he play?” Jack rubs at the damp spot on his head with a gummy smile.
“He needs to finish eating, honey.”
The door between the kitchen and dining room is cracked open and Cas can see that Dean still has about half his plate left. Dean often talks through meals to compensate for the fact that he’s not eating. Tonight, he remained silent, lining up his kernels of corn into rows of eight once he ran out of the chicken Cas had portioned out for him.
The angel considers himself lucky that he is technically ambidextrous, because Dean is right handed. His left was clutched in Cas’ right the entire meal.
Sam and Eileen retired early for ambiguous reasons. Eileen plans to leave for a hunt in the morning, so Cas doesn’t need much of an imagination to figure out that they shouldn’t be disturbed this evening.
“He could come back,” Jack insists. He snags the towel from Cas’ loose grip and starts to wipe it along the walls in a reverse of his previous trip. When he gets to the door, he pushes it open. “Dee!” he chirps. “I want to play Bobbles!”
Bobbles is how Jack refers to the game Trouble. Cas isn’t quite sure how the game works because the button mechanism at the center of the board makes an irritating noise. When they play though, Dean’s face breaks out in a loose smile that Cas has learned to associate with Bobby and the Mary from Dean’s childhood. Jack must have noticed that Dean has been struggling today, because it’s a game the child usually has little patience for.
Dean looks up at the sound of Jack’s voice, pausing in his flattening of the mashed potato pile.
Cas has learned that speaking for Dean is generally unproductive, even when Dean is having trouble talking, so he stays silent as Dean works to answer. He does, however, place a hand on Jack’s shoulder, stopping him from crawling into Dean’s space. Dean would never push Jack away, even by accident. Cas doesn’t approve of Dean’s martyr complex.
“Hi buddy,” Dean says eventually.
“I want to play Bobbles,” Jack repeats, a bit less certain this time.
“I… want to play with you too.” Dean’s eyes flick to Cas. “But I, uh, have to eat dinner.”
Jack wrings the towel close to his chest. “But you’ve been eating forever.”
Dean’s face looks absolutely panicked for exactly three seconds before a mask of impassivity settles over his features again. “How about… your pops gets you a special dessert and you eat with me? Then when we’re both done, we can play.”
Cas hopes his eyes convey his disagreement about giving Jack sugar this late. As Cas has reminded Dean several times, glucose can pass through the blood brain barrier. Jack will never get to sleep if he’s up thinking. Dean usually points out that the brain does more than think. And that Jack is God. God or not, Jack’s body is not made for mass glycogenesis.
“Yes, please!” Jack agrees.
Cas withholds a sigh. “Can you wait in the kitchen and decide whether you want a chocolate chip cookie or an Oreo?”
Jack nods emphatically, skipping away to complete the task, which will require more than enough time for Cas to check in with Dean.
“You don’t have to play with him if you’re not feeling well,” Cas reminds his partner softly.
Dean shrugs. He begins leveling the mashed potatoes again, attempting to avoid Cas’ gaze.
Cas takes a seat beside the hunter. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking please?”
Dean’s hand jerks, leaving a divot in his potatoes. He takes a deep breath and then continues with his motions. “Sammy only ate one sandwich.”
Cas hums softly. He wants to say that Sam also ate two helpings of salad that contained boiled egg, if it’s protein content that Dean’s concerned about. He stays quiet, not wanting to prevent Dean from finishing his thought. He’s missed Dean’s voice today.
“Didn’t see his breakfast or lunch.” Dean sets aside his fork, clasping his hands together and squeezing. Not too tight, so Cas leaves it. “Wanna check on him, but don’t wanna interrupt him ‘n Eileen.” Dean glances over at Cas, hunching in on himself slightly.
“There’s nothing wrong with your feelings,” Cas starts and Dean smirks a little when he hears it, familiar with the phrase. Cas hopes that if he says it enough times, Dean will believe him. “Do you think that seeing Sam would help? You deserve support, even if it means taking up space.” Another smirk and huh, yeah. That last one has been becoming a staple as well.
But Dean quickly shutters his expression again. “I don’t think it would help.”
There’s a thumping sound followed by an “Ow” that means that Jack has been left unattended long enough to try somersaulting.
“I’m going to get Jack his dessert. Can you think about some things that might help tonight while I do?”
Dean nods, picking up his fork again.
In the kitchen, Jack is trying very bravely to hide the fact that he crashed into the cabinets below that sink and that water splashed onto the floor. He fumbles to stick the now wet hand towel behind his back. He smiles guiltily at his pops.
“Where’s an appropriate space to somersault in?” Cas asks.
Jack rattles off the approved spaces that he knows very well but rarely abides by while Cas unhooks the childproof locks on the cabinets. Jack has proven himself very capable of stacking items until he can reach the top shelf where the treats are stored.
“Thank you. Remember that we ask this because we want to keep you safe.” Cas leans down and kisses Jack's forehead. “Now, what type of cookie did you decide on?”
“Oreo please!”
Cas fulfills the request and follows his son back into the dining room.
In their absence, Dean has cleared his mashed potatoes. The corn still remains. Dean, Cas knows, finds it difficult to justify eating foods that aren’t very calorie dense or high in protein content. Corn is neither, but Dean carefully balances several kernels on his fork.
Cas kisses the back of Dean’s head because a little positive reinforcement never hurts.
“Thank you for the cookie, dads!” Jack doesn’t look up as he says this, too focused on prying his Oreo apart. He proceeds to scrape the cream inside off the cookies with his teeth, getting chocolate residue all over his face and hands. Once the two cookies are cream-less, he nibbles around them in a circular manner, uncaring of the crumbs that fall onto the table.
Cas thinks that Jack’s process is rather disgusting, but he, as Dean reminds him, is the angel parent. He gets to deal with the exploding light bulbs and sensory overloads induced by Angel Radio beaming in at top volume. Dean is the human parent and gets to deal with all the nasty corporeal situations that require alcohol wipes, lice soap, and, once, tomato juice. Jack still insists that the skunk was just saying ‘Hi’.
In the time it takes Jack to eat his single Oreo, Dean has consumed half of his corn.
Dean swallows with some effort. He pins on a smile briefly as he says to Jack, “How about you get the game set up while I finish?”
Jack scurries off to do just that, only barely making a detour to wash his hands when Dean calls after him.
Both stay silent as Dean carefully maneuvers the last few bites of corn from his plate to his mouth.
Cas watches as he always does. He doesn’t need to eat and sometimes finds the task painful, too reminiscent of his time as a human. Tonight, he ate in solidarity with Dean.
He wishes he didn’t have to monitor Dean like this, even though they’ve both agreed it’s safer for Dean.
Cas hadn’t known about Dean’s struggle until a month ago. He had found his partner collapsed on the floor of the shower, unconscious despite the still hot water pounding against his chest. Switching off the water, Cas had dried Dean off and dressed him. He kept watch as Dean fitfully slept through the day. When he woke up that evening, he explained that he’d gotten light headed, trying desperately to brush it off.
“Not eating will do that to you,” Dean laughed when Cas asked why he’d been light headed in the first place. At Cas’ concerned look, he continued in a more serious tone. “I, um… needed to feel in control. Like when I was a kid.”
Dean still hasn’t said exactly why he felt out of control, but Cas imagines it has something to do with learning that his entire life was handcrafted by God. Dean hasn’t quite managed to regulate his consumption back to a healthy level. With his permission, Cas has stepped in, requesting only that Dean allows Cas input on what he puts on his plate and that the hunter doesn’t leave the table until his plate is empty.
Some days are better than others, and Cas hasn’t found Dean unconscious recently, so he thinks they’re on the right track. His books on eating disorders seem to agree.
“I’ll eat for Jack,” Dean announces softly, letting his fork clatter against his empty plate.
Cas does his best to conceal his worry. It’s leaps and bounds better than not eating for Sam, but he’s not completely convinced that this is what should be motivating Dean to sustain his body. He doesn't mention his concern, content to watch as his boys get their game set up in the war room. Dean’s speech is relaxed, but his movements are still carefully controlled. Cas suspects he’ll have time for another cost-benefit analysis tonight.
John drops off the boys without warning any time he's found a hunt within a state of Bobby's house.
The hunter doesn't mind. Sure, he'd prefer a head's up, but it's better than never seeing the boys he's gotten so attached to. Better than them being left alone in a motel room for days. Better than thinking they're dead.
This time, Bobby is getting back from a supply run to find the boys sitting on his porch. He glances back at his truck bed full of five gallon buckets. Not like anything needs to be refrigerated.
He studies the boys on the short walk to the porch. He knows that Dean has been able to pick a lock since he was seven and that his front door is far from complicated. He's got protection from all the things that matter, so he ain't real concerned about some civilian breaking in.
He ruffles Sam's hair, gives Dean a nod, and unlocks the door.
He doesn't bother asking where their dad is or how long they've been sitting there or how long they'll be staying. Chances are they only know the answer to the second question.
"Sam, why don't you go get your bedroom setup. Dean, help me with some lunch?"
He left the scrapyard around six o'clock that morning, 72oz travel mug's worth of coffee at his side, and it's already past noon. They don't exactly sell cremators at Walmart and Rufus used up the last of his chicken bone ash on a nasty poltergeist. Not a bad gig, breaking into Joan's Funeral Home. But he would've pushed it back a week if he knew that John would be dropping his boys off.
Sam takes off without too much trouble, tugging Dean's duffel away from him.
Dean doesn't move, tracking Sam's climb up the stairs until his brother disappears. He's unreasonably tense for a kid, period, but especially for a kid who's just been dropped off at the most stable housing he's known since preschool.
The boy turns on a hair when Sam leaves his sight line, something cold, empty in his eyes. Bobby wonders what the hell John said to him before he tore off to God knows where. Wonders if it would kill the man to cut the kid some slack. Dean's not Mary, shouldn't have to be.
He thinks about the pair of gloves he picked up at a garage sale that spring, week or so after John took the boys away last. He's sure he's got a baseball laying around. Question of whether or not Dean will stop playing Atlas long enough to play catch.
"Lunch?" Dean asks quickly. He doesn't look at Bobby when he continues. "Sammy hasn't eaten since yesterday. Dad drove straight through the night."
"Didn't get you boys breakfast?" Bobby comments without thinking.
Dean clams up even further and Bobby grinds his teeth. He knows better. Dean can't handle people questioning his old man. He's not like Bobby. He doesn't have an example of a good parent. Least, not one that ain't dusted over.
"Vamp nest up north. Eight victims so far. Wasn't time to waste."
Bobby gestures for the boy to follow him, ignoring how Dean hesitates and then makes up for that hesitation by snapping into action. Boy's too young to be a soldier, but he's sure got that thousand yard stare.
Bobby makes sure his back is to Dean, rifling through the fridge, when he softens his voice as much as he can after ten years of smoke passing through his lungs. "When'd you eat last?" He has his back to Dean, but he ain't stupid. He's got the boy's reflection in the window to his left. Dean, predictably, freezes at the question.
Near five months ago now, time before last that John abandoned his boys at Bobby's door, Dean let it slip that he was starving so Sam wouldn't have to. 'Course, Dean has this knack for telling Bobby the sorts of things that make his stomach drop out the bottom right before John gets back. Things like, "Oh, Dad took me to hunt some ghosts on a reservation last month. Got thrown against a wall, think I cut my arm then" and "Sammy's still recovering from the flu. At least, we think it's the flu. The Symmetrel I got after… It seemed to help". It's like the kid knows his dad's on his way, even though John rarely calls ahead.
Worse the news, closer it is to his old man's arrival, too, it seems.
This last one, John tore up his driveway within the hour.
Bobby's running out of condiments to eyeball on the fridge's shelf when Dean finally admits, "Day before last. Finished off the peanut butter." He says the last bit like it makes up for the forty eight odd hours of starvation. Bobby thinks about his words a bit longer and dammit, yeah that is something to be proud of. Dean didn't save the last of their protein, his most coveted meal, for his brother.
"Got a fresh jar in the pantry," he tells Dean. Neither of them know what to do with praise. "Or, I've got some leftover pulled pork." He shuts the fridge, motioning for Dean to take a seat. "We'll go do a food run after lunch."
He can see Dean gearing up to deny that Bobby needs to spend any of his own money on him or his brother—he doesn't need to hear it again. "Between stocking up on holy water and herbs, forgot that us humans have to eat."
Dean smiles anxiously, but his gaze jerks behind himself, checking to see if Sam heard. Kid'll do anything to prolong his brother's childhood.
It doesn't take too much convincing to set Dean up with some reheated pulled pork and a slice of white bread. Especially not when the older boy watches Sam enthusiastically fix his own plate.
For once, they all finish 'round the same time.
The trip to the store goes about as expected. Sam asks for ice cream and pears and cheese sticks. Dean asks for nothing.
Bobby loads up on French onion soup, the name brand kind too. One thing he knows Dean actually likes to eat.
Dean thanks Bobby quietly on the car ride home. Sam bops along to the song on the radio, some vaguely familiar country song from before Bobby's time.
Sam helps bring the groceries in and then zips off to the living room. Bobby's sure he'll find the boy reading through the bin of books Bobby had salvaged from the library's trash. Most of them are torn up or have stains covering several pages. But the stories are intact for the most part. And they're in English, not Latin. That's all that Sam really cares about.
Bobby stops Dean from going after his brother. "Help me unload the truck?" he requests quietly.
Dean agrees without question. Bobby can't help but feel guilty for taking advantage of the boy's need to be useful.
Dean hops into the truck bed and pushes the buckets toward Bobby after he puts down the tailgate.
"Got a favor to ask," Bobby starts, feeling completely out of his depth.
The kid looks up briefly before reaching for another container.
"When you're here, will ya eat all the food I give you?"
Dean stills, the wind picking up around them. It catches his flannel, pulling the extra layers away from his middle and, God, the kid's nothing but bones.
Bobby's not sure what he'll do if the kid says no. He refuses to force him to eat and he knows telling John will only make things worse. He tries to think about what his own father would have done in this situation, probably beat him for being ungrateful, and vows to do the opposite.
Thankfully, Dean whispers, "Sure" so quietly Bobby's worried he's imagined it, before sliding the last bucket toward the hunter.
They carry the buckets down to the basement and Bobby's unsurprised that despite looking half starved, the kid doesn't need to take a breath at the bottom of the stairs. His daddy's always run the kid ragged.
With Bobby's permission, Dean scurries back upstairs to be with Sam.
The afternoon passes rather uneventfully. Sam reads two chapter books start to finish and Dean brags about how Sam read two chapter books start to finish.
Before too long, it's time for dinner.
Bobby makes his mom's meatloaf and heats up some green beans from a can. He wants to toast some bread, but he gets the feeling it will make Dean uneasy, having that much on his plate.
Sam starts on his food right away when Bobby calls them to the table. As always, Dean watches Sam for a few minutes before picking up his own fork.
Dean eats slower than Sam, carefully picking out each bite and drinking a lot of water in between. Bobby refills his glass twice while Sam's still there. The younger boy doesn't ask why Dean doesn't do it himself, too wrapped up in his own meal.
Sam pops the last few green beans into his mouth and asks Bobby if he can go back to reading.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Sammy," Dean corrects.
The brothers glare at each other, but Sam quickly swallows and repeats his question. Bobby agrees and just as quick, Sam's gone. The second the door clicks shut, Dean slumps, his head coming to rest against the table.
The hunter doesn't bother asking if Dean's alright. Just waits until the boy's breathing comes back into rhythm. "He's reading in the other room," Bobby says. Dean sits up, rigid. "He ain't getting hurt, not here." He pieced together enough about the Shtriga in Wisconsin to know that Dean does not like Sam out of his sight. "Now eat your dinner."
Dean tries, but with Sam gone, it seems like the boy's lost all motivation. He whispers that his stomach hurts several times, and Bobby believes him. But he also knows that the kid needs food. Else he's gonna die and Bobby's not about to let that happen. Not to this kid.
It's dark out when Dean manages to finish his slice of meatloaf and Sam comes back.
"Can I read this?" he asks, holding out a book. It's a red hardcover, missing it's dust jacket. From this distance, Bobby can't make out the title on the spine.
Dean holds out his hand and Sam dutifully gives him the book.
Longer than it should, Dean thumbs through the first chapter. It's one of the books Bobby salvaged from the library, but he doesn't question why Dean's checking it. The house is full of accounts of the supernatural. Dean made it a rule the first time they were here that Sam had to ask before messing with anything, and Sam, for the most part, listens to his brother.
"Yeah," Dean determines eventually. "You can read it." He passes the book back.
"Tomorrow though," Bobby corrects, realizing the time. "You ought to be getting to bed."
Sam frowns. "Dean's not going to bed," he protests, crossing his arms to his chest.
"I'm older," Dean says firmly, swinging around in his chair to face Sam. He stays at the table though, just like Bobby asked. The hunter feels his heart warm a little.
"I'm older," Sam mocks under his breath. "Fine," he grumbles.
"You need help?" Dean and Bobby ask at the same time.
Sam rolls his eyes and mumbles a "No" before disappearing. They listen to his footsteps as he climbs the creaky stairs.
Seeing his brother fills Dean with an urgency to want to see him again and the boy scarfs down half of his remaining green beans. He gulps down more water and he's breathing heavily. Bobby closes his eyes, wondering if there's anyway to make this better for the boy.
Another twenty minutes pass before Dean takes another bite.
The whole meal has been in fits and starts, but in the near dark, it becomes more obvious.
"Dean," Bobby says softly. "You're so close." Dean's whole body shudders. He's always been thin as a rail, don't take much to make him shake like a leaf.
He hates this. Hates seein' John's boy like this, hates causing John's boy—hell, let's be honest, his boy—to be like this. But Bobby? Bobby doesn't hunt like John Winchester, all shoot first, ask questions later. Bobby's methodical, a researcher; he gets it right. And dammit, he's not going to screw Dean up any more than John already has.
He doesn't think there's any book that could quite understand Dean's situation, but at the very least, there's books of psychological mumbo jumbo that can help describe it.
He's got two of them sitting on his bedside table.
Dean presses his fork down too hard on his plate, a piercing screech making them both flinch. He's got a bite, maybe two, of green beans left on his plate. Every time Dean makes a move to finish clearing his plate, he looks physically sick.
Fingers trembling, Dean sets down his fork and looks at Bobby, eyes wet. "Please let me see Sammy," the boy begs, his voice high from a lack of air.
Bobby holds in a sigh, wishing nothing more than to grant the kid's request. But it's their first night trying this and he has to hold firm. "After you finish, bud," he promises. "You know the deal."
“You okay, man?”
Dean’s eyes go wide for a second before his face goes blank. “What?” he grunts.
Sam motions to his brothers’ plate. “Day’s saved. You’re seriously not going to finish that?”
His brother cracks a smile, leaning back into the booth. For a moment, Sam could believe he’s relaxed. “Lost my appetite looking at your rabbit food.”
“Yeah, whatever, man.” He takes an exaggerated bite of his salad.
Dean rolls his eyes. Clears his throat. Drums on the table.
“Dude.”
His brother holds his hands up in surrender.
Sam doesn't remember Dean being so fidgety. Or so tense. His eyes race around the room, tracing each person who passes their table. Every time someone enters the bar, he taps on the table, as if keeping count.
Twice, there’s a particularly loud cheer at the game playing on the TVs by the bar of the twenty four hour joint. Dean flinches so hard, hand reaching for his gun, that he almost knocks over his drink.
It’s childish, but Sam is still surprised that the past couple years changed his brother.
When they were kids, Dean always seemed like a fortress. No matter how much Dad yelled, no matter how long they were left alone, Dean was always always steady. These past four years, Sam has had to learn to be his own foundation.
Seeing Dean now is incongruent. The last time he saw Dean, he didn’t know he liked Brussel sprouts. The last time he saw Dean, he’d never been to a farmer’s market. The last time he saw Dean, he hadn’t taken a nutrition class for his science credit.
Of course, Dean is different too. He doesn't hold himself like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He wears the necklace Sam gave him when they were kids openly, not tucked under his shirt. He even goes on hunting trips by himself. Right now, when Sam looks at Dean, he's not sure he recognizes his brother.
Not when he pushes away perfectly good food. Or, maybe it's just that he isn't pushing it toward Sam.
He knows he shouldn't. He knows it’s not Dean’s fault, not really. But he can’t help but blame Dean for his own poor eating habits that he’s only changed with Jess’ support. Used to be, he would order the same greasy fried-egg-bacon-and-onion burger Dean would. Now, he knows that his body needs more than protein and fat. The fact that either of them are alive after the crap Dean fed them as kids is a miracle in Sam's opinion. He has countless memories of being told Funyuns were vegetables, strawberry Pop-Tarts were fruit, and Slim Jims were protein. Hell, yesterday, Dean offered Doritos and a Hershey's bar as breakfast. He was nineteen the first time he had a fresh carrot and twenty the first time he ate cherries.
Eating fresh, eating healthy, it feels like a revelation.
Still, sometimes he goes out and buys a carton of rocky road ice cream. He’ll finish the whole thing off in the parking lot across from his apartment with a plastic spoon from Wendy’s he stuck in his glove box months prior.
Sometimes, he just wants to eat and eat and eat because there wasn’t enough when they were kids and there’s enough now. He can afford a 20 piece of McDonald’s nuggets and a large fry every night if he wants.
Sam’s never quite been good at self control. Not like Dean, who even at twenty six years old flags down the waitress for a to-go box for the second half of his burger. Sam’s sure he’s got the cash to not have to worry about needing to save it for later. After all, he's bought Sam snacks at every gas station they've fueled up at, plus lunch earlier that day.
“That’ll go bad by the time you get to wherever you’re staying,” Sam blurts out. He’s not sure why it matters. If Dean doesn't want to eat his burger, he shouldn’t have to eat his burger. But he can’t seriously entertain the idea that Dean’s not hungry. They just finished a hunt, that’s the one time they ever ate their fill as teenagers.
Dean glances back at Sam. "It'll be fine," he answers gruffly. He sounds a little like their dad and, despite himself, Sam sits up straighter.
"We've still got a couple hours back to my place and I doubt you're going to find an honest-to-God motel in Palo Alto. Unless you've got a cooler in the Impala…" Which, actually, Sam wouldn't put it past him. But he's been in the Impala all day, nostalgia ripe in his chest. There's no cooler.
Dean gets this distant look in his eyes and Sam realizes what he's said. The clear indication that Dean is not invited to crash at his place. That Dean is not invited to remain in Sam's life.
His brother clears his throat, face blank. Sam wants to pretend that Dean missed the implications of what he said, but it's been two years and Sam's tired of pretending that Dean is dumb.
"All the more reason to get on the road," Dean says eventually. Sam follows his gaze to the waitress refilling coffees a few tables away, who promised to bring Dean a box. His escape. It would hurt if Sam hasn't been looking for the same thing since Dean broke into his apartment.
"It’s already past midnight. Not like I'm going to be sleeping before my interview anyway. Just finish your food." Sam scraps up the last bite of his salad onto his fork and swallows it while staring down his brother.
Dean picks up one of his fries, swirling it around in the disgusting mix of ranch and ketchup he's made for as long as Sam can remember. He wonders if Dean knows that Kranch is a trademarked term now.
Two full minutes pass before Dean pops the fry into his mouth.
Their waitress returns to their table just as Dean swallows. Between them, she places a white styrofoam box with a copy of the bill tucked inside. Sam snatches up the check before Dean can react. His brother glares immediately, but smiles politely at their waitress when she speaks.
"Sorry about that wait. Here's your box and I brought the bill over as well. No rush or anything."
Dean and Sam both thank her, remaining silent until she's out of earshot.
"Fork it over."
Sam shakes his head.
"Seriously, Sammy. You're a broke college student, let me buy you dinner."
Sam crosses his arms. "I'm not leaving until you've eaten." He doesn't know why he feels so strongly about it all the sudden. He just… He needs to know that Dean's full. His heart beats faster at the idea that Dean's hungry.
"Kid, I'm not five. I'll eat if I want to eat. Right now, I don't want to eat."
"I'm not leaving," Sam repeats, ignoring the 'kid'. He meets Dean's gaze and stares back hard.
They stay like that for what feels like an hour, until Dean's shoulders slump and he mutters, "Fine." And then, even quieter, "You sound like Bobby."
Sam hopes his face doesn't betray his shock. He can't think of a single time he has ever out-stubborned Dean. Dean has always always won out. If he didn't want to watch ALF on the motel TV, they didn't. If he wanted Sam to go to sleep, he was tucked in within the minute. If he thought Sam needed a haircut, he dug Dad's clippers out of the trunk. If Dean told Sam to eat the last granola bar, he would force it down Sam's throat before accepting a bite.
Sure, if Dean was on the fence about something, he might've taken Sam's thoughts into consideration. But once Dean made a decision, that was it. Unless, of course, their dad told him something different.
With Dad missing, Sam wonders how Dean plans to get anything done. He regrets the thought immediately. Dean is his own person. This hunt has more than proved it. It's just sometimes easier to think of Dean and his dad as the same entity. Or to think of Dean as an extension of their Dad's will.
Sam's eyes flick up when he hears Dean's glass hit the table harder than necessary. Sam's still vaguely surprised that Dean's drinking water, but he supposes that Dean's always been a staunch opponent of drunk driving. Especially after Sam got a concussion when Dad, a twelve pack of beer deep, rear ended a tractor going slow on a Nebraskan back road.
Dean picks up his last three fries, skips the Kranch, and shoves them straight in his mouth, chewing angrily. He hasn't touched his burger again, but while Sam had been thinking, he's cleared the sides.
When he notices Sam looking, he accusingly points his napkin at him. "I'm still buying."
"Okay," Sam agrees.
Dean looks pleased and he finally picks up the second half of his burger. He faces the long end toward himself. Then turns it to the shorter end. Then the other shorter end. He dips it in Kranch, stares at it for a bit longer, and smears some of the Kranch back onto his plate.
Under the table, Dean's foot is tapping, too quick to be in time with the music coming from the bar.
"I know the waitress said 'No rush', but-"
Dean shoves half his remaining burger into his mouth. He barely chews before swallowing it down with some water.
His eyes are wide when he looks at Sam, like he also wasn't prepared for what just happened.
Yolk from the egg runs down Dean's fingers and Sam's certain that's the only thing in the whole world that's still moving.
There's another cheer from the bar, and Dean's flinch breaks them out of the moment.
"Guess I was hungrier than I thought," Dean laughs, clearly aiming for levity. Instead, he sounds nervous.
Sam tries to smile, but it's difficult with how dry his mouth has gotten, and how large the lump in his throat has become. For a second, he thinks he's about to cry. Dean sets down what's left of the burger to unsuccessfully clean his fingers off with an already dirty napkin.
His mouth twitches, not to smile or to frown, but just to move. He drains the rest of his water and his foot taps and Sam has to stop himself from reaching across the table and shaking Dean until his brother is steady.
"Do you want mozzarella sticks?" Dean says suddenly, as if he hadn't just been trying to leave with half his dinner uneaten. "Looked good on the menu."
"No," Sam replied slowly.
Dean's shoulders slump. "You barely ate."
"Dude." Sam gestures to Dean's plate. "You've barely eaten."
His brother shrugs and several emotions Sam can't read pass over his face.
"Give me the bill."
"Not until you've eaten," Sam repeats, confusion growing.
Dean takes in a deep breath, his exhale shaking. "Give me the bill so I can eat." Sam stares at him, unable to formulate a meaningful response to that. "It'll be better after I've paid, just- Come on, Sam."
Maybe it's the 'Sam'. Dean hasn't called him anything other than 'Sammy' or 'kid' since they finished the hunt. Or maybe it's how convinced Dean sounds, how serious. Like his cause and effect logic is old news. Maybe it's because Sam remembers being ten years old and watching Dean watch him eat.
He passes over the bill and Dean pulls out his wallet, folding the cash over the receipt. At a glance, Sam would guess that Dean's tipped way over ten percent. When they were kids, Dean didn't tip at all.
In short order, Dean finishes his burger in slow, sure bites. He jerks his head to the door and Sam follows him out.
It's not until they're walking in the dimly lit parking lot that Sam realizes what's really bothering him about Dean.
His brother isn't watching him anymore.