I cannot even tell you how much this scene broke my heart. That look on Dean’s face when Sam is surprised he knew what a kitchen was, like that was really not what he was expecting to hear and not in the good way. How he looks away from Sam and his mouth pinches in for a second. You can see him shake it off and put a happy face back on until he sees how much Sam likes the burger, and the put-on smile turns back into the real one.
Because who do you think did most of the cooking those times they got to stay somewhere long enough to go to school? Not John, I’ll bet. We’ve already seen in canon that Dean made meals for Sam when John was away, when he wasn’t any more than eleven or twelve.
How many times did Dean stand on a chair so he could reach the stovetop to heat up Spaghetti-os? How many times did he get spatter burns trying to cook the cheap fatty bacon that was all they could afford? How proud was he the first time he cooked scrambled eggs exactly the way Sammy liked them, without burning them or undercooking them? Or when he made cookies from one of those supermarket tubes of cookie dough and watched Sam gobble them down and then smile at Dean with chocolate all around his mouth and his eyes shining because they were so much better than the hard ones in a bag? How many times did he take the burned toast or the lopsided, undercooked pancake or the rice that stuck to the bottom of the pot so Sam could have the stuff that tasted right? How many times was he the one who had to make sure Sammy was fed, and fed enough, even if he had to go without?
And here’s Sam, acting like none of that ever happened.
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