Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Sam, I need you to promise me something.”

Sam turns to look at Dean. “Yeah, sure, what is it.”

“Promise me you won’t be a defiant little shit around dad when I’m not around,” Dean said. He forced his tone calm, forced it even, bit back any shake.

“Dean, what are you talking about?”

“You said you’d promise me.”

Sam still gives Dean a weird look, “Sure, I promise I won’t be a defiant little shit.”

-/-/-/-

Sam fails to uphold his promise.

Dean feels his stomach tie itself into knots as he walks in through the motel doors.

Every single nerve in his body lights on fire. It’s a very distinct tone that John takes, and Dean hopes that it’s never been taken in the presence of Sam until now. The sort of tone that has his knees locking up, nothing but wrong ripping through him. Fight, flight, or freeze and it always triggers freeze and maybe that’s when everything went wrong.

He still manages to stumble over and snap a hand over Sam’s mouth, looping an arm around his torso and yanking him back. Pulling him away. Getting him out of there before it goes bad.

And Sam yields.

Dean doesn’t know why he yields but he’s not gonna question it. He’s just gonna be thankful for it as he utters out apologies and says it won’t happen again and drags him to the door. Each step he takes is hastened, scared maybe.

He barely catches it, but it still takes far too much willpower to keep moving in the wake of a quiet, disdain filled, “When will you learn.”

-/-/-/-

Dean “sleeps” in the impala.

So does Sam.

Except, Sam actually sleeps. Quietly snoring. Laid out in the back seat, partially pretzel’ed so he’ll fit, but asleep.

Dean just sits in the front passenger seat the whole night, eyes on the motel the entire time.

Waiting, he supposes, for when dear old dad comes out to teach Sam a lesson. Waiting, he guesses, for when he has to do it. Waiting, for the when he has to put his money where his mouth and defy John, prove every single word he’s ever said to Sam about wanting to protect him.

He wouldn’t be shocked if it was in part fear of that happening that kept him up all night long.

-/-/-/-

“You look like shit,” Sam mused as he placed a cup of coffee in front of Dean along with a lemon bar on a napkin.

Dean gave an almost hum of laughter, regular tone dredged with tiredness. “Thanks.” Even the taste of coffee is wrong. His stomach still rebels against him, all tied and twisted and wrong. He was hoping that maybe it would’ve went down now that he’s away from John, stupid hopes apparently.

Sam takes a bit of his own treat, a brownie, before speaking again. “Did you even get any sleep last night?”

“Don’t make me laugh.” He refuses to look Sam in the eyes as he speaks, “Why would I, huh? You pissed off dad.”

“The hell is he gonna do about it?”

Dean shrugged, “You don’t wanna know. Can I try some of that brownie? It looks crazy good.”

Sam breaks off a piece for Dean, he’s traded a chunk of lemon bar in turn.

“I’ll give you some cred for having a good eye for treats,” Dean said through a bite of decadence. It washed the bitter taste of having should’ve known better from his mouth.

“You gave me a list of what might taste good.”

“You still made the final choice, take compliments when they come your way, Sammy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A roll of the eyes.

There’s a comfortable beat of silence. As silent as silence can be in a cafe at least.

“Has dad ever gotten mad at you like that before?” Sam asked cautiously. He watches with predatory intent as some of the color drains from Dean’s face.

“Yeah.” A pang of something weighs heavy on Dean’s voice, Sam can’t quite tell what, “You’re lucky I caught you before it could get bad.”

“That wasn’t bad?”

Dean can’t help the slight snort of laughter, more somber then humorous, “You don’t know the half of it, and let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

Sam nodded in quiet agreement to the notion, “Yeah.”