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The Coratel Inn by River Falls, Wisconsin, is not the worst place to be in the sweltering pit of a heat wave in the summer of 1991, not by a long shot.
Dean has his reservations, of course. He doesn't want to spend sixth grade in a classroom permeated by cheddar and ricotta, mainly because he'd be too hungry to concentrate, but still.
Dad reassured him that cheese-loving Wisconsin didn't actually smell like the inside of a charcuterie board, but Dean is still doubtful—he's seen Laverne & Shirley. Bobby has a weird obsession with cheesy (ha!) sitcoms.
But there are a few obvious benefits—it opened this summer, for one. That means the AC is still several years away from being busted or making that weird rattling hum that always chases Dean out of his best dreams. It also means they have a discount for the first three months after opening, three months during which he and Sammy will be happily stowed away while Dad hunts the Pishtaco that had apparently hitched a ride across the Pacific.
When Dad shared his notes on that particular monster last night, Dean fought to keep the grimace off his face upon learning the human-fat-sucking part of the equation. Sammy was busy whining about his craving for pistachios. Where the kid had ever even smelled a pistachio is beyond Dean and his al dente Spaghetti-Os. The kid is going through a bit of a nut phase right now.
But besides the dirt-cheap rates and non-busted AC, the other win is finally being able to teach Sammy how to swim.
Just two miles south of Main Street and a right turn down Park lies Glen Park Swimming Pool.
Dean heard about it in history class, first. A girl named Jessie or Janie or Jackie was bitching about her mom not buying the new swimsuit she wanted. He was more focused on scratching his initials into the wood-chipped desk below him, but his ears perked real fast when she mentioned the free hot dogs they gave to kids every afternoon at six. One map from the gas station later and Dean was met with the blessing of the walk being a measly thirty-minute walk south of their motel. That was closer than the elementary school where Dean had to pick Sam up. Dean made sure to remember to thank Dad when he got back; maybe cheese-loving Wisconsin wouldn't be so bad after all.
Their swimsuits (or lack thereof) had been a fairly easy fix. One trip to the mall with Dad's jacket that could comfortably fit an elephant alongside Dean and some sticky fingers was a clean and simple solution. Well, maybe not clean, but definitely simple.
Sam had gaped when he'd shown him the haul. Sam was used to him showing up with food all the time from the budget Dad left him (which seemed to shrink year by year while Sammy's appetite decidedly did not). But he wasn't used to this.
Presents were exclusively for birthdays and Christmas, when they could swing it. And those usually consisted of a new pair of socks or, once, memorably, Dean's first pistol: a Seecamp LWS .32 automatic. Dad surprised him with it last year a few nights before his eleventh birthday. He'd had to miss the actual day, but Dean was so excited he couldn't find it in himself to care (much). Dad ruffled his hair and pressed a kiss to his brow and Dean had preened like he was a kid, trying not to revel in the contact. He wasn't a baby. The metal was cool against the pads of his fingers and his chest was warm and lighter than it'd been in months.
That is to say, Sam is ecstatic when Dean tosses him his shorts and says they're headed to the pool.
"For real? Wait, Dean—for real?" His hazel eyes are practically bugging out of his head as he practically tramples Dean's sneakers into the motel room. "This isn't a joke, or—it's not, right?"
"You think I'd spend Dad's precious Hamiltons on these if it was?" Dean fights to keep the smile off his face before relenting as he stuffs Sammy's homework back into his bag where he'd dropped it in his excitement. He glances at the sheets and his smile widens. 100%—A+—smiles happily at him from the page of multiplication tables. Sammy is a genius. Dean was always sleeping through math at Sam's age—hell, even now. Probably more than he did then, actually. Cheap motel rates are still motel rates, even if his knees hurt.
"When can we go?" Sam has somehow shimmied into the nylon in a heartbeat. Dean blinks himself out of his momentary stupor and smirks at the kid.
"Well, maybe we can't—I heard something about missing homework in Miss Anna's class?" Dean teases. He has a harder time remembering the names of his own teachers—they usually aren't in one school district for more than a few weeks anyway—but Sammy's usually stick, for some reason.
Dean tries not to laugh as Sam freezes up, wide hazel staring blankly up at him as his huge brain in that tiny body tries to cook up an excuse. His palm clenches, wrinkling the mint green swimsuit and distorting the little avocados printed all over the fabric. Dean couldn't find anything with nuts, but seeds were kind of like nuts, right?
"It wasn't—I didn't do it on purpose," Sam tries, clenching and unclenching his fist nervously. "I left the worksheet in the library."
Dean pauses at that. He was going for some lighthearted ribbing but… "Well, that's a first."
Sam flushes, looking at his socked feet. He'd kicked off his shoes in his hurry to put the avocado swim trunks on. Looking at it again, Dean thinks they might be a size too small. Sammy's been growing like a sprout.
"I was looking into the Pishtaco," Sam admits reluctantly. He glares and crosses his arms at Dean's raised brows. "What? I can care about Dad's cases sometimes, too."
Dean raises his hands placatingly. "I didn't say you couldn't, little man." Something ugly squirms in Dean's stomach for a second. "Leave worrying about that stuff to Dad and me, alright?"
Sam looks away, lips pursed, baby fat clinging far too stubbornly to his cheeks for the look to be anything but a pout. "He just… he sounded upset when he was on the phone last time and I wanted to help."
Dean swallows, the knot in his stomach curling tight beneath his ribs. Dad was mad because Dean nudged him for a little more cash on his next trip. Not a lot. He knows money's hard to come by when you're busy being a hero; if there's anything Dad taught him, it's that saving lives is a thankless job. Dean learned that early on. So Dean tries to—tries to help however he can.
"Don't worry about stuff like that, Sammy," Dean ruffles the kid's hair, aiming for impassive as he shucks off his sneakers. He eyes the glare of the sun through the dusty motel window. "And grab the sunscreen, will you?"
Much to Dean's embarrassment, the one needing the sunscreen in the end is not, in fact, Sammy.
Dean tries not to grumble as he watches Sam happily float on his back in the pool while he stays shunted, sequestered away in the depths of misery—the concrete ten feet away from the pool, where three different iterations of every grandma he's ever seen on a soap lather each other in SPF 5000, which Dean's flushed face regrets not applying.
Dean had been ready for a valiant showing of his shining athleticism: hours spent nobly helping Sam tread water and maybe the possibility of letting him try a lap or two on his own.
Crushing his little fantasy, Sammy had taken to water like a lizard to a lot, spending a few minutes clutching Dean's arms like a vise, before indulging Dean's explanation of a doggy paddle, then eyeing and mimicking a guy swimming laps a few lanes over. Dean tried not to be too huffy, but the red creeping onto his shoulders and nose made it difficult to maintain his magnanimous stoicism.
They'd sauntered onto the sweltering concrete in sneakers and socks—flip-flops had never felt like a worthwhile investment to Dean, much less Dad. Why get shoes with less protection to do things that leave you unprotected? He tries not to think about whether Dad would be upset about this little field trip. Last time Dean took Sammy out to the arcade for his birthday, Dad had ripped him a new one so loud they had to leave in the middle of the night before the neighbors got any stupid ideas. In Dad's defense, there was a shapeshifter on the loose; Sammy could've gotten hurt. But Dean highly doubts a Pishtaco is particularly invested in getting their community pool laps in.
He inches a little closer to the garish green monstrosity that is Grandma Cheryl's umbrella two feet over. He tries to keep Sam in his eyeline and there isn't any shade that's not occupied by happy families with their shrieking toddlers or Cheryl and her motorcycle gang.
He scratches his face, cringing at the immediate burn that lights up beneath his nails. Jeez, maybe skin cancer will get him before that Pishtaco will—
"Dean!"
He's up and reaching for the switch in his shorts in seconds as Sam comes clambering over to him.
"What? What happened? Where's the damage?" Dean spitfires, eyes roving over the kid, clutching him tight to his chest despite being drenched. "Sammy? Sam, what's wrong?"
The kid sniffles as he detaches himself. Dean's heart clenches as he sees the telltale redness of his eyes, and he futilely prays it is just the damn chlorine.
"It's—my knees," Sam warbles, sucking back the tears and scrubbing at his face harshly before Dean softly pulls his hands away.
Dean crouches down to assess the damage and winces.
Sam's knees have twin reddening scrapes that Dean knows from experience will grow to stitch up some gnarly scabs. They don't look too deep, but the healing will suck—they're on the hinge of a joint that stretches and pulls all the time.
"Hey, you'll be alright, Sammy," Dean softens his voice when he sees the kid valiantly trying to get his tears under control. He pulls him in for another hug, Sam clutching gratefully at his back in response, eyes darting between his chest and somewhere back towards the pool. As Sam gets older, he starts shying away from affection more, which is weird since he'd been such a clingy kid. But he always needs some reassurance when he's upset, especially when he's hurt, no matter how small, which Dad always seems to hate. Dean pulls him in closer, nose buried in his chlorine-soaked hair. "I'm sorry they hurt, let's get back and I'll fix you right up, huh?"
Sammy nods into his chest and Dean ruffles his hair, letting him hide for a few more seconds before pulling away and nodding towards their shoes. Not the longest vacation, but at least it's something—
"What, ran crying to your mommy now too?"
Sam stiffens, still clutching Dean's arm as a boy who looks around his age with fat ruddy cheeks laughs and laughs. It takes Dean a split second to take in the scrapes on Sam's knees and the shit-eating grin on this ginger fuck's face before Dean is marching over to the lip of the pool.
"Scram before I drown you in the filter." The words are scratchy. Dean's voice hasn't dropped quite yet but the resulting effect is good enough, the kid's confidence waning as he looks around for his parents.
"You're too pussy," the kid sneers, puffing up his chest. "Holding him like a queer, you don't have the balls to—"
Cheryl and her neon green umbrella screech as Dean kicks the kid's legs out, sending him flailing into the pool.
A lifeguard blows his whistle and Ginger Fuck sputters out water from his nose as he clumsily curses and treads water while Dean grabs Sammy's hand with a grin and they run.
The resulting getaway isn't their cleanest, but it isn't too shabby.
They hightail it outta the pool before the lifeguard crosses the deck, and they're out of the street before any demon parents are even interrogating their demon son.
Dean pants, hands on his knees, as he glances down the street with a grin. His blood is rushing, and the pavement is pleasantly warm against his toes, and it's like he can feel it for the first time all day.
"Jeez, what a dick, huh?" Dean lets out a puff, grinning down at Sammy beside him.
Sam's cheeks are flushed enough to match Dean's burns as he speaks between pants. "Now my—feet friggin'—hurt, jerk!"
Dean's grin slips a little as he takes in their matching bare feet and the accompanying sidewalk. Maybe not his brightest idea to dead sprint down a city block without shoes.
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean smiles sheepishly down at him. "I can be pretty stupid sometimes, huh?"
The prod has the intended effect, Sam's face screwing up in annoyance instead of pain. "Yeah. And, you didn't have to shove him!"
This time Dean rolls his eyes. "Did so, the little asshat deserved it. Where's he get off, shovin' kids around—you don't take that shit from anyone, hear me?"
Sam's lip is still drawn between his teeth and he's glaring down at his bare feet. Dean wracks his brain before landing on something that might turn the kid's spirits around back at the motel.
He crouches down and raises his arm. "Come on, soldier. Let's reconvene back at base camp, how's that sound?"
Sam eyes his steed dubiously before nodding, hopping onto Dean's back and nearly strangling him with his grip around his throat before they settle into a steady rhythm. Shit, the kid is really getting too big for this.
Coming home from hunts is never really a highlight for Dad—Dean always tries to help how he can.
Dad is always in rough shape, with a few bruises or nicks on a good night and some fractured ribs on a bad one. Dean's always tried to help Dad when he can—saving money to buy the good stuff for when Dad comes back, like real pasta, and tomato sauce, and on really good weeks, that Kraft shredded Parmesan that Sammy always found a way to make a mess of before he'd fully gotten the hang of using a fork.
The first few times he'd manned the kitchen without relying on canned stuff and a microwave had been, admittedly, a hot mess.
Dean managed to somehow undercook the pasta and burn the sauce. Sammy didn't really mind; he was only five, so any variation to his strict diet of canned Spaghetti-Os and off-brand Lucky Charms was more than welcome. But Dean could tell Dad didn't love it. Dad had smiled tightly at Dean when Dean handed him the plate and had only given him a halfhearted ruffle of his hair before eating a few bites and slinking off to collapse into his motel bed. Dean tried not to feel too bad about eating Dad's portion, but his stomach had been panging for days from carefully rationing his meals enough to pay for the fresh food.
It had been easy to stuff the rubbery noodles in his mouth till his stomach felt tight and overfull—full enough to blame the undulating curl beneath his ribs on the food instead of something else.
Eventually, he got better.
A kind woman took pity on his lost blinking in between two aisles in a Kroger's and introduced him to the best friend he'd have for years—Stouffer's Pre-Assembled Lasagna (Now with Meat Sauce!).
Dean had intrepidly heated it up in the motel's grease-stained microwave and artfully placed it on the Dixie plates that he and Sammy were almost out of.
Dean doesn't remember what hunt Dad had stumbled back from. Maybe a wendigo, or a spirit, or some stupid cat with two sets of teeth. But he remembers that Dad tried it and smiled.
That night he asked Sammy about school, and didn't complain about all the books around the house, and he laughed when Dean made some stupid joke about Uncle Bobby and his addiction to weepy soaps. Dad ate the whole thing, scraping the Dixie plate clean with his white plastic fork as he finished. He ruffled Dean's hair and it felt like tiny electric shocks all over his head down to his fingertips. After tucking Sammy in so gently that it made Dean do a double take, he sat back on the couch with Dean, even letting him lean on his shoulder as some mindless action flick droned in the background.
Dean remembers Dad's hand around his shoulders. He remembers the warm press of his body against his and the gravel of his voice as he spoke.
"Mary loved lasagna." A nose pressed to Dean's hair. It was getting pretty long. A kid at school called him a girl the week before. His dad ran a hand through the blond strands and breathed in.
Dean decides it's okay to have Dad's welcome-back lasagna tonight. Hopefully it'll make Sammy feel better.
Sam's socked feet are curled up beneath him on the ratty couch as Dean brings over two plates of steaming Stouffer's. Dean usually forces the kid to eat at the table, but the rent's up in a few days when Dad comes back, so they're gonna be out of here one way or another.
"Thanks," Sam mumbles as he takes the paper plate. He blows on it, knowing already how long it takes before it gets cool enough that it won't burn his taste buds. Dean sits and takes a bite out of his and relishes the tomato searing the inside of his mouth.
"Don't worry about it, kid," Dean garbles around a bite as he busies himself with sectioning out his next slice. "'S what family's for."
Sam's eyes catch Dean's before he looks down. His fork rises to his lips as he takes his first bite, chews, and finally relaxes. He unspools from the tight ball he'd wound himself up in at the corner of the couch.
That night, Dean is gentle as he cleans the reddening gashes on Sammy's knees and puts Batman band-aids on the scrapes he'd acquired on his toes.
He goes to sleep exactly two feet from Sammy and three inches from the sawed-off he keeps under his pillow, with a belly full of Stouffer's and a swollen tongue.