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Dad's not here. Nothing new there, though. Sam would have been surprised if he were.
Dean's in the kitchen making breakfast, something fried by the smell of it. Sam hopes there's bacon, the real stuff, not that fake crap. With Dean working full-time now, they have more money. Plus, it keeps him out of the house late enough for Sam to finish his homework after school without interruption.
Dean's not so good at being quiet, and Sam's not so. . . patient when it comes time to do some reading. He likes learning, always has. He loves reading and writing and figuring and studying. He's good at it, too, and knows he isn't bragging or exaggerating. He is good at that kind of stuff.
His teachers usually warm up to him pretty quickly, once he's been in school long enough to turn in a few assignments. If it's English, or Social Studies, he can usually impress them by the second class. Math takes longer, science too. He works harder in those four classes than in the rest. Chorus or art or that junk is useless to him, so he hides in the background quietly. P.E. is like a test of how good an actor he can be. Each class, he has to figure out what the other kids know and what they don't and then copy them.
He can. . . excel in English, and Math, and Science, and Social Studies. He can't in P.E. Looking too good there, at least for a freaky, new kid, would be a disaster. He'd get beaten up every day! No, better to just pretend.
He's not Dean, after all.
"Hey, look!" Dean calls out when Sam walks into the tiny kitchen. He goes to the stove and looks over Dean's shoulder into the skillet. Pointing with the spatula, Dean crows, "It's a freakin' cactus, Sammy! I didn't even do that intentionally. That's like. . . zen pancake-making, isn't it?" He pulls his face into a mask of calm wisdom or something, which actually makes him look a lot like Pastor Jim. "You do not make the pancake to eat," Dean intones solemnly. "The pancake makes itself to be eaten."
Sam snorts and Dean turns to share a look of amusement with him. "Very deep, Dean," he tells him.
Dean grins. "What can I say? Sometimes these things just come to me." He goes back to making up the rest of the batter, flipping the delicious-smelling pancakes like a pro. Sam drifts over to go sit at the table in the corner, and hurries the last few steps when he spots the plate resting in the middle. Lying on a bed of grease-soaked paper towel are strips and strips of delicious, salty, crispy, beautiful bacon. Real stuff. All curled and brown, with touches of black and here and there a spot of pink. Sam snaps his teeth together embarrassingly fast when he feels drool start to slide out of the corner of his mouth. He casts a quick glance back at Dean, but he's too busy humming and seeing how high he can flip the last pancake to be paying any attention to what Sam's doing at the moment.
He'd hoped for bacon, had even kind of expected it and was prepared to sulk a little if it hadn't been here. But it still surprises him. Sam looks over at Dean again, glancing up and then back down again quickly when he sees Dean turn, bringing the big plate stacked high with hot, steaming pancakes with him. The table's already set, and when Sam makes room for the pancake plate by scooting the little tub of margarine and big bottle of syrup farther onto the table, he realizes with a shock that Dean even heated up the maple syrup. That really startles him cos it's Sam who likes his maple syrup hot, not Dean. It's one of the things he teases Sam about, in fact. When they're at diners for breakfast, Dean either makes fun of Sam's hair, the growling of his stomach, the way he always makes sure to say 'Thank you' to the waitress, his t-shirt that day, how short he is, the way he uses a knife and fork, or how he requests hot syrup for pancakes or waffles or French toast.
But as Dean drops into the chair across from him, Sam realizes that's just his brother for ya. He's annoying and rude and he thinks he's funny when he's not, and he goes on and on about stupid stuff like girls and car engines, but he's always there and he never forgets anything important. . . and most of the time the not-so-important stuff, either, like hot syrup or bacon, or. . .
"Got stuff for burgers tonight," Dean says around a mouthful of pancake. Sam looks up, chewing his own big bite of pancake, and Dean just laughs. Sam probably has syrup on his chin or around his mouth again. Happens every time, and Dean always laughs, but today it doesn't annoy him like it usually does. He just goes on eating, and Dean grins again before catching and holding Sam's eyes as he tries to stuff a whole syrupy pancake inside his mouth.
"Ugh, Dean, God!" Sam exclaims, disgusted, and Dean frantically puts a hand over his stuffed mouth. His shoulders start shaking and his face is turning red, but it's not cos he's choking. He's laughing, the prick. Sam just shakes his head again and picks up another strip of bacon to munch on.
Less than 20 seconds later, Dean's chuckling out loud.
"That was a close one!" he overshares. "Nearly lost it when you made the bitch-face."
". . . didn't make a bitch-face," Sam can't help mumbling, stabbing another soggy square of pancake angrily.
"Sure you did," Dean replies. "Why do you think I do that stuff?"
Sam looks up at a loss. "Cos you're a jerk?"
Dean just smirks.
It takes another few seconds, but Sam gets it eventually. When he does, he scoffs. "You are a jerk," he declares.
"Bitch-face," Dean retorts. "Funniest damn thing I've ever seen." He takes another forkful of pancake and a big bite of bacon before continuing. "Can't start the day without doing my brotherly duty. It'd be against The Code," he adds, and Sam drops his fork and glares at him for that.
"I was six!" Sam shouts. "How was I s'posed to know there wasn't-- ?!"
" --a friggin' Code of Brotherly Conduct?" Dean finishes, laughing. "C'mon, Sammy, that one's never getting old."
". . . already told Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby," Sam mutters under his breath, picking up his fork again. He's got less than half an hour before he has to be ready for school, so there's no time left to dawdle. . . even if it is his birthday.
"Yeah, well," Dean starts, leaning back in his chair now that he's finished off his breakfast, "you ever get a girlfriend, I'll tell her too. Girl oughta know what kind of dork she's with." Sam glares at him again from under his bangs, but that just amuses Dean even more. "And, man, do I have plenty of stories! Whew-ee. Some real doozies too, like that time in Michigan when Mandy Parks started that rumor about how your--"
"Shut up, Dean!" Sam yells, cutting him off and going red from embarrassment. "That was just a stupid rumor. It never happened! Mandy Parks was a liar and nobody with a brain would believe what she said. . . about anything!"
Dean pointedly raises an eyebrow when Sam stops talking. "You done?" he asks with a smirk.
Sam just sighs and goes back to eating. His pancakes and syrup are cold now, and his bacon doesn't seem all that appealing anymore either.
Stupid Dean.
"Anyway," Dean says, picking up his plate and getting to his feet. He walks over to the sink and runs water over the plate before coming back and clearing the table. "Like I was saying earlier, I got hamburger and buns and all the fixings, so no piddling behind after school, okay?" Dean's back is to him as he says all this, but Sam knows it for what it is.
Olive branch. Dean's way of apologizing.
"I got it all worked out at the garage, so I'll be back 'round four-thirty today 'stead of six."
Sam had finished eating while Dean was talking, so he gets up and walks over to stand next to him at the sink.
Neither of them says anything right away, but when Dean finishes soaping up the dishes and turns the water on to rinse them off, he nudges Sam with his elbow.
"You want fries or onion rings?" he asks quietly, and Sam's a little stunned.
"Uh, onion rings," he says, watching Dean's face. But Dean just nods, not getting what Sam's trying to tell him. "We gonna train tonight?" he asks carefully as Dean goes about rinsing off the skillet.
"Nah, not tonight, Sammy. Tonight's movie night. 'Sides, not every day my only brother turns 12. We can go one night without." Dean shoots him a look as he sets the clean skillet in the drainer.
Sam smiles, and feels like hugging Dean, but doesn't. He's 12 years old now.
12-year-olds don't do that stuff, so Sam just says, "Cool. Thanks, Dean," and leaves the kitchen.