Imagining the first hunt where John decides Sam can be left alone. He would be maybe… what? 9 or 10? Dean, old enough to be actual backup, and Sam would just be in the way, so dad says “Sam, you’re staying here.” And Dean pauses, wants to object, but dad needs backup and Sam is definitely old enough to be alone by now, Dean was younger when dad started leaving him alone.
Sam, looking up from his homework, eyes flitting between dad and Dean like he’s waiting for Dean to say something. But Dean can’t say anything, doesn’t have anything to say. He can’t say he doesn’t want Sammy to be alone because that’s stupid, that’s not how hunting works.
So Sam says, “can’t I go stay with Uncle Bobby? He’s only a few hours away, I can take the bus–“
But Dean stiffens, and dad bristles, because dad and Bobby had a fight, and Dean knows they’re probably not going to go back to Bobby’s for a while.
Dad says, “No. You’re old enough to stay on your own.”
And Sam knows that that tone means no fighting, dad’s already made up his mind, so he drops his eyes back down and his shoulders come in, and Dean itches to say something, to say look dad, he’s still just small, we can’t leave him here.
But dad’s gone back to his guns, and Dean has more rounds to pack, and he knew this day was coming, even if he didn’t- even if Sam was still so tiny, just his baby brother, who still couldn’t hit every single target when he practiced.
When they leave, Sam stands at the door, next to dad’s duffle, like he’s hoping dad will forget and pack him up in the back too. But dad hasn’t forgotten, and he crouches down to meet Sam’s eyes as he goes over the list he’d always given Dean before he left. Lock the doors, keep your head down, keep the gun close. Check the salt lines. When dad checks in, he calls once, then hangs up, calls again.
He leaves Caleb’s number on the fridge, even though Sam memorizes every phone number they learn the second they hear it.
Dad waits for Sam to repeat everything back to him, in his high, shy voice, and then pats him on the shoulder, says “be smart, Sammy.” And takes the duffle to the car.
Sam looks at Dean, his little fists clenched at his sides. Dean’s tall now, taller than some adults, and Sam has to crane his neck up to look at him.
Dean drops his backpack to pull him into a hug, wraps his long arms around Sam’s thin shoulders. Sam grabs him around the middle, holds on, hides his face in Dean’s chest.
They stand there too long, long enough for dad to get impatient and honk, and Dean startles away.
Sam’s blinking fast, pretending not to have been crying, and Dean pretends not to have seen.
“It’s only three days, Sammy. Lock the doors, do your homework, we’ll be back before you know it.”
Sam blinks at him, nods, looks like he’s about to say something, and Dean prays he won’t, that he won’t, because if Sam asks him to stay, he will, and then they’ll have to do this all over again the next time. Just rip off the bandaid.
Sam doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dean as he picks his backpack up. Follows him like a shadow when he goes through the door, then he stands in the doorway, watches Dean trudge up to the car, slide into the passenger seat.
Dad’s looking, too. He doesn’t look nervous, doesn’t look worried, and of course not, he wouldn’t leave Sam alone if Sam wasn’t ready.
Sam looks small, in the door way, clutching onto the doorframe. He doesn’t wave when the car starts, just keeps standing there. Dean turns around in the front seat when they start driving away, watches Sam stand there until they turn a corner.
