Work Text:
Have you ever asked a man
to take your place at the head of the table?
You could shed away your shame
if you found you simply weren't able.
You might find out you could stay
on the ash and on the clay.
Come on home before the girls are grown—
Come on home tonight.
Dean’s sharpening a big knife—a Bowie knife, Sam thinks, correcting himself. He has to know these things now. It’s really dark outside. The moon’s a cold little slice in the sky. Just enough light to glint over the edge of Dean’s blade, over his pale fingers that Sam can only just see through the window, peeking out from the sleeve of his jacket because he's got no gloves. Sam’s supposed to be sleeping, supposed to be tucked safe and stupid away in his little bed in the cabin, but he’s not—if Dean’s up, waiting for Dad, then Sam wants to be, too. Dad's been gone for six days.
Dean says that Dad stays away longer now that Sam knows. Dean says it like, Sam’s a big kid, now, he gets to be in on the family secret. It's better than being left in the dark, Sam guesses, but not by much.
It's cold outside—really cold, just a few weeks after Dean's birthday. Dad wasn't here for that, either. Dean's sitting out on the porch in his thrift store jacket and torn-up jeans, and Sam wants to sit out there, too, but Dean won't let him. Of course. Says it's too cold, that Sam has to go to bed because I'm the oldest, I'm supposed to look out for you. Right. Like Dean is Dad, and he gets to make all the rules.
There's a pop from the fireplace: a log cracking, or something, maybe. Sam pulls their blanket closer around his shoulders. There's so much stuff he has to learn now. He's only known about what's out there, in the dark, for... fifty-seven days. He's been keeping track. Dean says that Dad is gonna kill this big-time demon, that he's gonna get revenge for their mom and make it safe for them to stay put, to be a normal family again, and Sam can't wait. In the meantime, though, there's gun practice and knife practice and learning about all the scary stuff that's all around, waiting to get them.
Dean says not to worry. He says, Dad's gonna be home soon. Stop worrying, Sammy, you're gonna get an ulcer. Sam hasn't looked up what an ulcer is, yet, but he doesn't think Dean knows either. It's just something Uncle Bobby says.
Sam's hungry. Dean made beans, cooked in a can in the fireplace, for dinner. He said, come on, you're gonna be a midget forever, and Sam ate everything Dean gave him, but really there wasn't much.
There's a thump from outside and Sam jerks, refocuses out the window to find the shadowy shape of Dean bent over, hunched. Sam can't tell what he’s doing. He drags their blanket tighter around himself, fumbles for the light on the Superman watch Dean got him. It’s past midnight. Dad's still not back. He wants to go out onto the porch, to grab Dean and pull him inside and get him to tell a story or invent a game or—whatever, anything, but he can't do that anymore. He's a big kid now. He closes his eyes, twists his fingers together, thinks, please. Flings it out into the night. He wonders how long it'll be until Dean comes inside.