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Sam was six when he rolled into Sedona, Arizona with his father and older brother.
Dad put him and older brother in a school that looked like a big cardboard box from the outside. In front of the school, before leaving, Dad pulled Sam aside and knelt down so they were almost the same size. Dad put his large hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Learn a lot,” Dad said, speaking with a tone of voice he used with adults. “Listen to your brother.”
Sedona was, back then, a sleepy town where people from Phoenix came to buy vegetables and fruit. That’s what Dad said about it when Sam asked from the backseat of the big, black car Dad drove and sometimes slept in. What was Phoenix? And what kind of vegetables? Fruit? Could he have some? Dad didn’t answer, and neither did Dean, so Sam collected his words from mid-air and saved them for later inside the front pocket of his blue, corduroy overalls.
Standing up, at his full height once more, Dad addressed Dean, looking down.
“Do you understand your assignment, soldier?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, in a tone of voice he used with Dad. “I understand.”
Dad nodded and patted them both on the head once. “Good. Be back in three days.”
With that, Dad left in his big, black car. Sam waved good-bye, then looked at Dean.
“Where does Dad go?”
Dean spoke in a tone of voice that meant Sam was asking the wrong question. “I’ve told you before, he goes to work.”
“But where?” Sam could help himself from asking another question. “Where does Dad work?”
Typically, Dean gets mad when Sam asks these types of questions and Sam doesn’t entirely understand why. But he does and it’s never fun. This time, Dean just sighs, rolls his eyes, and takes Sam’s hand into his.
“First day,” Dean says, sounding older than Sam understands. “I’ll walk you to your classroom.”
“We’re late,” Sam points out, struggling to keep up with Dean’s stride and maintain his large backpack on his shoulders. “Are we going to be in trouble?”
Dean snorts and pulls on Sam’s hand. “No one cares if you’re late—just that you show up.”
They head inside, their Dad only a distant memory now, and Dean does as Dean always does: he gets Sam to class. Outside of the room, Dean licks his hand and tries to push Sam’s bangs out of his face. He then smooths out Sam’s overalls, dusting them off at the knees. Finished, he kneels down just like Dad.
“Pay attention, be good, do not leave here until I come to get you. Understand?”
Sam nods, but his eyes water. He likes school. But he likes it better when he’s with Dean, not separated from him. He sniffles and looks down at the linoleum floor.
Dean sighs again. He leans down and embraces Sam, holding him against his chest—one of the few spots where Sam feels safe and cared for. Unfortunately, Dean makes the hug quick and pushes Sam towards the door. He knocks and slips out of Sam’s grasp.
“Go,” Dean murmurs, motioning towards the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The door swings open. A lady with big red glasses in a long red dress stands there. She reminds Sam of a lady on a magazine cover—the kind that he’d find after digging through Dad’s duffel bag, the ones at the very bottom.
“Hello,” she says. “You must be Sam.”
Sam goes to look for Dean, but he’s gone. Dean does that—he can move without making a sound. It’s a skill Sam would like to learn, because his footsteps are so loud sometimes.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answers back. He cranes his neck to meet her eyes. “It’s my first day.”
The lady, his teacher, nods. “It is, but that’s no excuse to be late, Sam.”
Dad will sometimes sit down with Sam and ask him questions so that he can learn the answers to them. Where do they live? Outside of town. What does his Dad do for a living? He doesn’t know.
But why ? Why doesn’t he know? Dad never answers those questions. He just… looks at Sam the way Sam looks at his busted toy truck.
Teacher shakes her head and holds the door open for Sam. “Come in, we’ll get you settled.”
She walks him to his chair at the back of the classroom. Every kid whispers and murmurs as Sam walks past. He keeps his head down, gripping onto the straps of what used to be Dean’s backpack. For a moment, he wants to tug on his teacher’s long, red dress and ask her what it means when adults say, “We’ll get you settled.”
He doesn’t ask though, because the second she shows him his seat, she turns away and walks back to the front of the room. She talks to the whole class with the type of voice Sam has only heard through the walls of wherever Dad chooses to stay overnight. Sam expects to hear thumping and banging against one of the walls soon. When it doesn’t happen, he questions what’s behind the walls of his classroom. His mind doesn’t wander for long though, as his teacher instructs everyone to take out a sheet of paper and a pencil.
Sam extracts both items from his battered, dusty backpack.
The girl in front of him wears her yellow hair in tidy, tight braids. She turns around and sticks her tongue out at Sam. He looks at her, confused and offended. What did he do to make her do that? How should he respond? When Dean does it—from the front seat of the car—Sam does it back. But this little girl is not Dean. Sam looks down and picks up his pencil. He writes his name the way Dean taught him—big S, little a, little m.
Their teacher keeps them busy with letters and numbers all morning. No one else sticks their tongue out at Sam.
At lunchtime, a lady called a Lunch Mom takes them outside to eat on the vast expanse of blacktop.
Sam sits by himself. He isn’t sure who is supposed to give him lunch, but it doesn’t look like anyone will.
Lunch Mom, who looks a lot like a waitress at a restaurant Dad took them to a few nights ago, comes over and sits next to Sam. “Where’s your lunch, Sam?”
“Dad said the school will give me lunch, ma’am.”
“Oh,” she says, her mouth forming into a small circle. “Your Daddy has to fill out paperwork for a low income lunch, honey.”
Sam doesn’t completely understand why it happens, but his face flushes. Dad said there’d be food at school. Maybe Dean knows where lunch is.
“Well, tell you what,” Lunch Mom whispers, getting close to Sam. “We’ll share my lunch. Do you like tuna sandwiches?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wait here, I’m going to grab my lunch box.”
He ends up eating half of a tuna sandwich, a small bag of chips, and a whole apple. As he finishes a carton of apple juice, Lunch Mom ends up giving him the second half of the sandwich, and something Sam’s only had a few times before: small chocolates wrapped in gold, crinkly paper. He laughs when Lunch Mom pokes his nose at the end of the lunch.
The rest of the day goes by okay. Dean collects him at the end of the day, just like he said he would. Except that Sam’s teacher wants a word with them both.
She speaks mostly to Dean, looking at Sam every now and then.
“Tell your father that he needs to fill out paperwork for the two of you to receive low income lunches. Sam needs to bring his own lunch until your father fills these out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean answers, and accepts a stack of papers. “He will, ma’am.”
Teacher lets them go. Dean’s face burns red as they walk down the hallway and out of school. He walks ahead of Sam, not saying anything. Sam understands that when Dean’s quiet, it means Dean needs time alone. So he walks behind, thinking mostly about how tasty those chocolates were.
The motel isn’t too far from school.
Dean opens the motel room door with a key Dad gave him this morning. He throws his backpack down the second he enters the room. Sam quietly slips in behind him, carefully setting his backpack down beside Dean’s.
This motel room is better than the one they stayed at last time. The beds are clean and not that lumpy. However, there are mirrors on the ceiling, which Sam doesn’t like—he worries they’ll fall from their place and break.
“I hate this school,” Dean growls, kicking the sofa in front of the television. “I hate it!”
Sam stays out of Dean’s space. He sits on the bed they shared last night and tries to make himself as small as possible, like whenever Dad and Dean argue in the front of the car. Their last argument was about a gun. Sam hates guns. They’re loud and kill animals. He’s seen Dad and Dean shoot down deer, rabbits, and turkeys. Dad even let Sam hold a gun and Sam didn’t like it at all.
Dad held the gun in one hand and Sam in the other.
Dad seemed sad, not angry, when Sam pushed the gun away and cried.
Guns, Dad has said to Sam and Dean before, are for protection and food—only. This gets Sam wondering what they might have for dinner. Lunch Mom’s tuna sandwich feels like forever ago. But he doesn’t dare ask Dean, who paces dangerously in front of the dirty television.
Sometimes Dad will do the same thing—pace.
From experience, Sam knows not to get in the way.
“Dad left us ten bucks,” Dean snaps, throwing his arms up. “What am I supposed to do with ten bucks for three days? And no school lunches?”
Before he continues, Dean looks over at Sam.
Instantly, his tone of voice changes. “Sammy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Sam says, with a shrug to show that whatever is happening is no big deal. “I have homework.”
Dean nods. He takes a deep breath and looks around for Sam’s backpack. He finds it and pulls out the one folder inside and a pencil, then hands them over.
For an hour or so, Dean helps Sam figure out numbers. Dean is good at them. Sam is good at it, too, but it’s much more soothing to watch Dean put together numbers instead. Dean sets Sam up with crackers and peanut butter—a snack to tide him over until dinner, whenever and whatever that will be.
Some children have moms and dads.
Sam has Dean.
As soon as Sam finishes his numbers and completes his sight words, Dean sweeps him into a tight hug. Sam clings back, burying his face into Dean’s chest. Dean holds him there and rocks back and forth. It’s so good to be held by Dean. Dad holds him sometimes, but it’s not the same.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been grumpy the whole day,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s hair. He rubs circles over Sam’s back, which makes Sam suddenly sleepy. “It’s not your fault.”
Nodding, Sam accepts this truth. However, he holds onto Dean tighter, signaling that he’s not ready to be let go of yet. Dean indulges him and climbs onto the bed.
Sam curls up into the space Dean gives him.
They stay like this for quite some time. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, pushing his bangs away yet again. Tired, Sam falls asleep sucking his thumb and holding onto Dean’s large t-shirt.
Before Sam knows it, Dean’s shaking him awake to have breakfast before school.
“Cereal and an orange,” Dean announces, bringing both items to Sam in bed. “You can have two bowls since we didn’t eat last night.”
Sam’s stomach thanks Dean. He eats the two bowls at record speed, then devours the orange. Dean must have gone shopping sometime between last night and this morning, because Sam doesn’t remember there being any oranges in the stuff they brought with.
“And your lunch, good sir.” Dean plops down a brown paper bag onto the bed. “PB&J, some pretzels, and an apple. And we’re having hot dogs for dinner.”
“Yipee!” Sam shouts, raising his arms. “Hot dogs with what?”
Dean laughs—one of the best sounds in the world. “Bread, duh . And lots and lots of ketchup.”
“I love ketchup.”
“Yeah, I know you do.”
“How come you know?”
“I just do,” Dean scoffs. “I know everything about you.”
“Like what?”
“Like… we’re gonna be late for school if we don’t hurry.”
“No, but tell me what!”
“Okay, okay. I know you like your PB&J cut diagonal, not in half. You like the crusts, even though they’re gross. And you love chocolate, because I’ve seen what you do to ice cream.”
“Chocolate is the best flavor,” Sam volleys back, with a huff. He yawns and stretches before ultimately climbing out of bed.
From there, Dean ushers them through their morning routine. He makes sure Sam brushes his teeth and changes into a different outfit—this time jeans and a black t-shirt that also used to be Dean’s. Sam rolls up the cuffs of the jeans, since they’re too long for him.
Dean is in a good mood today, which means that Sam is in a good mood today.
They arrive on time at school, just in time for the bell. Dean drops Sam off at his classroom door and says the same thing he always says no matter what school they go to: “Pay attention, be good, do not leave here until I come to get you. Understand?”
Sam nods, like he always does. Dean leaves before Sam’s teacher can spot him.
The day goes by fast. Sam writes his name over and over again—big S, little a, little m. He flips a page over and starts writing big D, little e, little a, little n. The loops and swoops of the letters envelop him like a warm hug. He likes writing Dean’s name more than his own.
Lunch Mom sits with him again on the blacktop. She shares more chocolates with him and asks a few questions. Sam knows how to address some of them, and what he doesn’t know, he shrugs and refers back to his older brother for the answers. Lunch Mom smiles when Sam talks about Dad’s big black car. She says her father used to have one just like it.
At the end of the day, Sam leaves with a gold star stuck onto his shirt.
He holds Dean’s hand as they cross the big intersection in front of the motel.
“I got all the math problems right!” Sam kicks off his shoes in the room. He points to his star. “See? Dean? Do you see?”
“I see, I see,” Dean says, his voice sounding like a kite high up in the sky. Motioning for Sam to sit on the sofa, Dean then looks around the room. “This place reeks. Is it your shoes?”
Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean. “No!”
“Pretty sure it’s your stinky, smelly shoes.”
Dean starts making the beds the way Dad showed him—there’s not a wrinkle left by the time he’s done. On the musty couch, Sam pretends to read his homework. In reality, he peeks over his papers and watches Dean, who carefully collects clothes around the room, no doubt to do laundry. Sam likes going to the laundromat. It’s interesting. He likes watching the machines churn clothes around in circles, like some kind of soapy dance.
Turning back to his homework, Sam takes out a sheet of paper with instructions on it. He’s supposed to cut out pictures and put them in the right order. The pictures are all of a lady doing laundry, which Sam finds funny because Dean is getting one of the duffle bags ready so they can go to the laundromat. The lady doesn’t look like she’s at a laundromat, but Sam ignores that.
“I need scissors!” Sam loudly announces. “Where are the scissors?”
Dean looks up from what he’s doing. “What do you need scissors for?”
“I gotta cut out these things.” Sam holds up the panels of the lady doing laundry. “See?”
“The only scissors we got are too big for you to use. I’ll cut them out.”
“But I like cutting.”
“You’re gonna cut yourself and then what are we gonna do?”
“I won’t! Dean! C’mon!”
“No,” Dean says, his voice suddenly sounding like Dad’s when Sam does something he’s not supposed to, like whenever Sam doesn’t walk fast enough to keep up. “I’ll cut them, you do the rest.”
Pouting, Sam accepts these terms. He hands over his piece of paper to Dean, who carefully cuts out each figure and hands them over.
“Now I need glue,” Sam murmurs, looking over all the pieces. “I gotta have glue.”
Dean frowns and shakes his head. “We don’t have glue. We… I dunno. There might be tape in one of these.”
Sam watches Dean sort through their four duffle bags. Two, Sam knows, are for clothes and necessities. One, he’s not allowed to look in. He tried once, recently, and both Dad and Dean scolded him for it. The last one, Sam knows, is for guns. When Dad is away, it’s Dean’s job to clean all the guns. Sam has started offering to help and every time Dean says no. It’s not fair.
“All we have is duct tape,” Dean says, holding it up. “I’ll cut you some pieces.”
Displeased with the lack of glue and being barred from cutting things, Sam folds his arms across his chest and waits for Dean to pass over thin strips of ugly gray tape. With care, Sam starts arranging the pieces onto a sheet of orange construction paper. He’s seen Dean do this a hundred times before. But something’s wrong with the panels. Where are the duffle bags? The quarters and giant washing machines that go brr brr zaa zaa ?
Where is the Dean in these pictures? The only person depicted is the lady.
“Quit it for now,” Dean says, zipping up the duffle bag with their clothes. “Let’s go.”
“I wanna finish,” Sam counters. “Let me finish.”
Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna take forever doing that. Bring it with you.”
“Okay!” Sam leaves the pieces of tape where they are—stuck onto the television—and packs up his papers. He has other homework to do, too. He shoves everything back into his backpack and hoists it over his left shoulder. This makes him feel like Dad getting ready to go to work.
The laundromat, Dean says, is about three blocks away.
By the time they get there, Sam’s legs are tired. Dean had no problem though, and he was carrying the duffle bag.
Dean points to a small table near the wall of washing machines. Sam heads over to it, carefully putting down his backpack and taking out more homework. He takes sneak peeks at Dean buying the detergent—the stuff that makes their clothes smell good for a few days.
Sam wills himself to focus on his homework. He wants to get it done so he can watch the machines with Dean. So, he matches pictures to their words, then colors the pictures in with the set of crayons Dad got him a long time ago. They’re not bright and shiny crayons like the ones at school, but they color just fine. Dean stands over Sam’s shoulder, watching him color. Sam does his best to stay in the lines.
“Count the quarters,” Dean offers. He holds out his hand, filled with shiny quarters. “How many do I have here?”
Proud to be asked, Sam picks out individual quarters from Dean’s hand and places them on the table as he counts. One, two, three…
“Eight,” Sam says, with confidence as he looks up at Dean. “Eight quarters.”
Dean smiles and nods. He takes four quarters and tells Sam that this is a dollar. It costs one dollar to do each load of laundry. They need to do three loads, but Dean only has eight quarters for washing and four more for drying.
“So we’ll just do two loads and call it a day,” Dean sighs. “But you know what? I have an extra quarter. There’s a gumball machine over there.” He points to a wall of gumball machines in the corner of the laundromat that Sam hadn’t noticed. “Wanna pick something?”
Dean does not have to tell Sam twice. Sam races over, coin in hand, and looks up at the great big offering of snacks . A snack is not a meal. A snack is a treat between meals, like crackers and peanut butter. He surveys all of his options before landing on the biggest item available: a Snickers bar. Before he pops the quarter into the slot, he makes sure he’s buying the right thing. One time, he meant to buy candy and got a stupid eraser instead. Popping the coin in, Sam eagerly turns the crank handle. Out pops a delicious Snickers bar.
“Break it in half,” Sam orders Dean. “Half for me, half for you!”
“It’s yours, you eat it.” Dean waves Sam off. “I’m not hungry.”
Sam sniffles and places the Snickers on the table. “Then I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, for crying— fine . Here.”
Like an expert, Dean breaks the small Snickers into two halves. He hands Sam his piece and eats his.
Pleased, Sam takes his time eating his half, savoring every bite. Dean opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue—it’s covered in chewed up Snickers. Sam nearly falls down laughing onto the tiled floor.
“Euw!” Sam squeals. He tugs on Dean’s t-shirt. “Tell me a joke.”
“Why should I?”
“Because! I asked!”
“Oh, because you asked . I didn’t hear ‘please, Dean’ in there.”
“Ple-e-e-ase, Dean. Tell me a joke.”
“What do you call a peanut in a spacesuit?”
“What?!”
“An astro- nut . What did one peanut say to another?”
“What, what?”
“You crack me up.”
“Ahh!” Sam jumps up and down, clapping his hands. “Me, me, me—let me tell one.”
“You don’t know any jokes,” Dean laughs. “But fine—go on.”
“Uhm. Uhm. Why… why did the peanut cross the road?”
“I dunno. Why?”
“Because he’s a nut!”
Dean rolls his eyes and gives Sam’s shoulder a playful shove. “Okay, so you have one joke. But I guess you only need one if it’s a good one.”
“It is a good one! You laughed!”
“I laughed because… hey!” Dean snaps his fingers. “Get back to work, Sammy. Finish your homework.”
Sam makes it snappy. He finishes writing out his name ten times like he’s supposed to. But when it comes to the laundry assignment, he can’t figure it out. He knows that Dean sorts their clothes, but he doesn’t know how he sorts them. He knows that Dean adds detergent, but it’s in a box, not a big bottle like the lady has. The lady looks happy as she’s doing laundry—Dean looked very serious as he worked.
Frustrated, Sam begs Dean for a break. Just one itty-bitty break.
Nodding, Dean allows it. There’s no one else in the laundromat at the moment anyway.
Sam takes off running. He runs circles around the laundromat, burning off pent up energy. Occasionally, he’ll stop and watch the machines, hypnotized by their rhythmic motions and sounds. He opens one of the empty dryers and pretends to take clothes out, like Dean would do. He talks to himself, making up stories about this, that, and the other.
Reaching in once more, Sam’s hand touches something papery. His eyes land on something stuck in the corner. Carefully, he pulls on the paper, until it gives and he works it free.
Eyes wide, Sam realizes what he just found—money.
“Dean!” Sam gasps, running over. He holds the money tight in his fist. “Dean, Dean, Dean—look!”
Dean looks over, unimpressed, until he also realizes what Sam just found. His tone turns serious and sharp. “Where’d you get that?”
“Over there. It was stuck in the dryer.”
Pulling him in close, Dean says, “Show me exactly where.”
Sam hands over the money to Dean, then leads him to the exact dryer. Dean peers inside it, looks around, and places his right hand over his forehead. He whispers, “Sammy, you just found twenty dollars.”
“That’s good, right?”
“That’s amazing .”
“Can you help me with my homework now?”
“Yeah, yeah I can.” Dean’s voice is lighter, which Sam loves. “Look. You’ve seen me do the laundry a thousand times.” He points to each picture of the lady. “Mom sorts the clothes. Mom puts them into the washer. Mom waits for it to be done. Mom puts everything into the dryer. Mom takes it out and… well, I never have an iron, but she irons things and puts them away. That’s it.”
Brow furrowed in concentration, Sam tries his best to keep up with Dean.
“This is… mom?” He points to the lady. “Why does mom do the laundry?”
“Because,” Dean mutters. “Moms usually do the laundry.”
Sam pieces two and two together. He looks up at Dean and smiles. “Then you’re mom.”
Dean shrugs and looks away. “I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Hey. You know what we can buy with twenty dollars?”
“No, what?”
“Pizza,” Dean whispers, his hand covering one side of his mouth. “We can buy one whole pizza.”
“A pizza!”
Smiling, Dean nods. “A pizza! We’re gonna have pizza for dinner tonight. What do you want on it, huh? Sam? Sam? Sam?”
Sam blinks and flinches.
The washing machine broke last week.
Instead of taking the easy route and calling a repairman, Dean took it upon himself to try and fix it, because why not? Now, there seem to be two problems with the machine and the repairman can’t come out for another three days.
Therefore, for the time being, they’re stuck doing laundry at La Lavanderia on 18th and Halsted.
They live a quiet life of retirement in the Chicago neighborhood of Pilsen.
It isn’t—and never will be—Sedona, Arizona.
“You went somewhere just now,” Dean says, waving his right hand in front of Sam’s eyes. “Somewhere far, far away.”
Sam shoots Dean a look and pushes Dean’s hand away from his face. “I was reminiscing , and you spoiled it.”
“Don’t reminisce without me.”
“I can do things without you!”
Dean leans against the table for folding clothes behind him. “Tell that to me the next time you need a jar of salsa opened.”
“It was—you know what? No. I’m not taking the bait. Give me a dollar.”
“What for?” Dean moves away from Sam. “And what makes you think I have a dollar to spare?”
“Just fork over the money, old man.”
Grumbling, Dean opens his wallet and takes out one single dollar. “Lousy kids these days, hitting me up for money like I got all of it in the world to just give away.”
Sam snatches the bill out of Dean’s grasp and smirks. He then walks away, towards the beaten up vending machine in the back corner of the place, next to the vending machine for detergent and softeners. He surveys his options before landing on the obvious.
“Break it in half,” Sam orders Dean, holding out the Snickers bar. “And give me the bigger half.”
“What makes you think I’d do that?” Dean takes the candy bar into his hands and looks at it with a hint of fondness in his eyes.
“Only because you’ve always given me the bigger half.”
“That’s right,” Dean says, his voice like an echo, as if he, too, has gone somewhere far, far away for a second. He taps the candy bar against his hand and shakes his head. “And tonight we’re having pizza.”
With a small smile, Sam makes eye contact with Dean and echoes that statement. “And tonight we’re having pizza.”
John ended up pulling them out of that school when he emerged from wherever he went. Lunch Mom got the ball rolling with the school’s social worker, who had the power to call the Department of Children and Family Services. However, John was always one step ahead—he yanked them out of schools and got them off the grid for a while, dodging whomever might challenge his parenting. It was the same case in Sedona.
The man was a single father, a widower, and a hunter hellbent on chasing a demon.
While John was out in the world saving people and hunting things, Dean was with Sam.
Dean did the laundry and the cooking. He did the sewing and the mending. At the age of ten, he cleaned guns and sharpened knives better than most adult hunters. He was a man before he was a child.
Sam pulls Dean in by the front of his t-shirt.
He plants a kiss on Dean’s lips.
“I want spinach and mushrooms.”
Dean’s face flushes. He rubs the back of his neck, flustered. “I… uh… that’s gross, Sammy.”
“ You’re gross, Dean.”
They eat their portions of the Snickers bar and Dean puts in an order for an extra-large pizza from the place they like off of 21st Street. It’ll be ready in half an hour, which matches up perfectly with their laundry.
And since they’re the only ones in the laundromat, Sam pulls Dean in for another kiss—and another and another and another.