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He shuts the alarm off after the first beep, and carefully slides out of the bed. Sammy's hogging both the middle and the other side again, which means the little brat must've sneaked over after Dean fell asleep. Kid's getting too old for that kind of stuff, and he knows he's gonna have to make him quit it before Dad gets back.
The room's freezing and for a second when he puts his feet on the floor, it's so cold he's afraid they're gonna stick there permanently. He grits his teeth and dashes across the hall and into the bathroom, turning the shower on before using the toilet and then brushing the awful taste out of his mouth. When he's done, the water's finally starting to warm up and he jumps in.
He wants to stay in there till it starts getting cold again, but he doesn't. He finishes quickly and climbs out, stepping onto the rough towel they're using as a bath rug. Then he reaches over to snag his own still-damp, sandpaper towel and scratches himself dry. He carefully fits it back along the tiny window sill next to Sam's and hurries across the still shockingly cold floor out into the other room again.
Sammy's still wheezing away in his sleep, so Dean rustles through the stack of clean clothes they've piled on the chair and gets dressed as quick as he can. He even puts an extra pair of socks on, and figures no one'll be too upset about it. Dad's always harping on stuff like that, but Sammy can't really wear Dean's stuff yet anyway. Well, he can; he just doesn't like to.
He looks at the clock and sighs. Moving to the bed, he bends down and shakes Sam till the kid groans and starts slapping at him. Then Dean smacks him on the butt and jerks the covers down. Sammy shouts out a "Hey!" and squishes himself down to where he can wrap his arms around his legs.
"Get up, Doofus!" Dean tells him, pushing and shoving at him with his hands.
"Don't wanna," Sammy whines, and Dean can already tell today's gonna suck big time. Hell, he knew two weeks ago today was gonna suck ass. A whiny Sam is probably gonna be one of the better things about today.
Finally the kid just sighs and sits up. Dean nearly busts a gut at the way Sammy's hair is sticking up, but catches himself in time. Nothing makes the tantrums and pouting worse than Sam thinking he's being made fun of, even if the little shit never plays by the same rule. He laughs when Dean screws up, but God forbid Sammy ever be the punch line.
He feels guilty just thinking that, and goes over to sit on the other bed. He drags his skuzzy bookbag up and starts going through his homework real quick. Sam yawns and slumps to his feet.
"Hot water?" Kid grunts out, doubtfully.
"No, I fuckin' used it all," Dean snaps sarcastically. He can't look up after saying it, but Sammy's bare feet only pause for a second before continuing their shuffle to the bathroom.
He hates English, and writing especially, and he has the feeling he's gonna flunk that class at this school. The teacher's one of those mean ol' broads who gets all hung up on spelling and class participation. If you don't talk, you don't get points. If you don't get any points. . . you fail.
Dean's gonna fail, but then again maybe not. They probably won't be here long enough for him to flunk out. They usually aren't.
Sam takes about ten minutes in the bathroom which is shockingly short. Sometimes Dean actually has to go in there and drag the kid out, but not today. He's still working on the stupid vocab words for Ms. Howerdale, when the bathroom door opens and Sam walks out already fully dressed. His hair isn't combed, though.
"Do something with your hair," Dean calls out, finishing his example of the correct use of the word 'mortuary.' Ol' battle axe is gonna love that one. "Looks like you've got a wombat livin' on top o' your head."
He glances up to see Sammy's reaction, and sure enough it's the puckered-up bitch face.
"Shut up, Dean," Kid comes back with, and Dean huffs.
"Nice comeback, Lame-o. You should do stand up." He's working on another sentence, this time for 'mosaic,' so he misses seeing it, but he sure as hell hears the shoe hitting the wall to his right. He feels it pass by, too, and looks down at where it's landed before slowly lifting his head.
Sam's standing there with his hands on his little eight-year-old hips, glaring at Dean like he just. . . trashed Sammy's favorite book, or told a lie to an adult.
"What the hell was that for?" Dean demands, slamming his book down on the bed and getting up. "How many times I gotta tell ya not to break stuff, Sammy? Place costs money. You got money to fix that dent?" he asks, pointing back at the wall where, sure enough, there is now a shoe-shaped dent.
But Sammy, he just lifts his chin and folds his arms across his chest and scrunches up his eyes some more.
"What?" Dean shouts at him. "What's wrong with you? Throwing temper tantrums like a little girl," he adds cruelly. "Dad woulda hauled your butt outside by now."
"Well, Dad's not here, is he?" Sam snaps back. "Quit being mean just cos you're hurt."
"What?" he asks, confused.
Sammy sighs and his shoulders slump. He drops his arms down to his sides and suddenly it's not mad-Sammy anymore. It's sad-Sammy.
"It's your birthday, Dean," Kid says, like Dean has no clue when his own birthday is.
"Yeah, so what?" he responds, turning around and going over to stuff all his books back in his bag.
"Sooooo," Sammy insists, drawing the word out stupidly, "Dad promised he'd be here and he isn't. He broke his promise, Dean. I heard him say it."
"Cos you were spying again like a little creep," Dean remarks.
"Was not."
"Was so! I heard you. You always make too much noise." Sammy's back to being mad, so Dean turns around to face him again. "Dad heard you too. He thought it was funny."
"He did not!" Sam yells, and damn if the kid isn't actually really upset. "Take that back!" And then out of the blue Sam starts banging on Dean with his fists. He even manages to land a good hit to the gut, and Dean doubles over.
"Jesus, fine," he grunts out. "He didn't. Nothing. . . funny at all." Dean takes a tentative breath and stands up straight again, wincing at the pain. "Christ, Sammy."
Kid's real quiet, and Dean can already tell what's coming, before Sammy even moves an inch.
"I'm sorry," Sam cries out, hurrying over and wrapping his stupid, pudgy arms around Dean right where he just socked him in the stomach. It really fuckin' hurts, but. . .
Sammy's actually crying, so. . .
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean tells him softly. "It doesn't matter, all right? I'm not mad."
There's breath against his chest, and Sammy's saying something, but Dean can't hear what it is.
"What?" he asks, messing with the kid's hair cos it's right there and seriously is a disaster. "Didn't catch that, Goober."
Sam lifts his head up to look Dean in the eyes, and luckily there's no snot, but his face is sure all wet and splotchy. He's back to looking way too sad for an eight-year-old, and Dean cannot wait for the mood swings to disappear. Right now, it's like one of those stupid guessing games the kid's always trying to get him to play on long drives. He feels like every second he's gotta be ready to deal with a different 'Sam.' Kid wears him out.
"I said, 'You're still sad.'" He squeezes Dean around the middle and it's difficult, but Dean manages to keep his face calm despite the ache that causes. "It's okay to be sad, Dean," Sammy tells him, using that weird, smarter-than-you voice again.
He wants to roll his eyes and push the kid away for saying stupid stuff, but it's getting to be about time to leave for school and he doesn't want to fight anymore.
"I know it is, Sammy," he finally agrees. "I'm not sad, though."
And it's weird cos Sam goes still for a little bit, a few seconds or something, not that long really. But it's definitely weird cos Sam's always moving around, except when he's sleeping, and even then he tosses and turns and kicks and whaps Dean in the head with his pointy elbows.
Kid's still looking up at him and Dean's getting really uncomfortable with all the clinging.
"Happy Birthday, Dean," Sammy abruptly says.
"Thanks, Sam." He waits a moment, then starts tickling Sam's side with his right hand. Kid squirms and giggles, and runs away. "Now get your crap ready, Squirt, or we'll be late for school!"
Sam just sticks his tongue out at him.