Act II, Chpt. 4 teaser for the ol’ [TFW Saga.]
Dad keeps searching. The house, the yard, over and over; and Sam follows behind, a shadow, hands curling fists into his pajamas.
When Dad goes outside, Sam sits on the steps with Rumsfeld, the concrete burning cold through his socks. The big dumb dog lays his head in Sam’s lap and sleeps, and even though sometimes the way Dad yells Dean’s name makes Sam cry a little, Rumsfeld doesn’t seem to mind. He licks at Sam’s face until he stops crying, and then he puts his head back down and goes back to sleep.
Dad isn’t paying any attention to Sam except to make sure Sam’s there. Sam tries to ask him questions, when he’s standing still long enough for him to ask. He asks him what the man was. Dad doesn’t answer that he was a monster. He just says “Sam, not now.” He asks what’s going to happen to Dean. Dad tells Sam to stop asking questions.
By mid-afternoon, the sun’s been swallowed up by a thick sheet of clouds and Sam is sitting in the armchair again and thinking that he’s tired in a gray, hazy kind of way. He hears Uncle Bobby’s truck pulls in. He knows it’s Bobby because of how the truck whines; the Impala never whines. Dad says the Impala purrs, like a wimpy house cat, but Sam thinks it rumbles, like one of those big black jungle cats.
He wonders what the Impala would be like without Dean to crawl over the front seat and play cards with him, and tries not to think about it.
Bobby looks tired, big dark raccoon circles under his eyes. He gives Sam a hug and asks if Sam is okay, but it doesn’t make Sam feel any better. He just mumbles that he is and looks down at his socks, gray with dust.
Bobby and Dad talk in the office for awhile. They close the door, and Sam sits at the kitchen table and picks at the peeling edge where formica meets aluminum. Sometimes Dad’s voice gets loud, almost a yell, but Sam can’t understand what they’re saying, and he doesn’t want to. He wants them to go find Dean, and bring him back.
He tells himself that it’d be okay if they left him here with the big dumb dog, he wouldn’t be scared or anything - he just wants them to bring Dean back.
When they’re done talking, Uncle Bobby goes upstairs to take a shower and Dad makes dinner. It’s just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Sam tries to eat it, because Dad never cooks anything and Dean always tells him to shut up and eat if Dad makes something, but he only gets a bite before his stomach starts taking somersaults. He sips his milk, instead.
“Sam,” Dad says in his tired voice. He hasn’t even touched the sandwich on his own plate so Sam doesn’t think he’s in trouble for not being hungry. “Do you want something else? I could make you some mac ‘n cheese, or pancakes.”
“No, m’okay.” He picks at his sandwich’s crust and admits, “I’m not hungry.”
“C’mere, Sammy.” Dad gestures for Sam to come around to where he’s sitting. He does, and Dad puts his elbows on his knees and leans forward so they’re about the same height.
When Dad puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, Sam knows it’s going to be a grown-up talk and Dad’s going to ask him to do something he doesn’t want to.
“Are you gonna go look for Dean?” Sam asks, before Dad can say anything.
He tries to stand up as tall as he can. “I wanna help.”
Dad smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “I’ll be alright. Your Uncle Bobby will need all the help he can get running the scrap yard.”
Sam’s face drops. The scrap yard doesn't matter. This is Dean. “Uncle Bobby can help too. And Pastor Jim, too, maybe, and Mr. Caleb, and everybody…”
It’s like Dad doesn’t even hear what he says, though. He just keeps talking. “You do whatever he asks while I’m gone, okay? It won’t be more than a couple of days.”
Sam shakes his head, listening but not really listening. “Dad, I can help. I can… I can read, and stuff, I understand almost all of the newspaper now, and I can make posters and things…” He’s seen those for dogs and cats and things, not for kids, but he thinks it would work.
“You can make all the posters you like, but I want you to do it here.”
“Why?” Sam’s voice is rising, and it’s getting that squeaky edge that he hates. It makes him feel small. “Why can’t I come with you? Where are you gonna look?”
“I’m going to Illinois, and you’re staying because I said so, Sam.” Dad stands up and takes the plates off the table. “I’ll be back in a few days, and I expect you to do as Singer says while I’m gone. No playing in the yard, no wandering off. I want you within sight at all times, d’you hear?”
That’s the tone that means Sam’s supposed to nod and say ‘yes, sir’ and nothing else. But it’s like Dad’s barely even listening, like he doesn’t even care. So he just stands there and doesn’t say anything back, because if Dad doesn’t have to listen to him, why does he have to listen to Dad?
Dad stares at him a minute, and Sam stares back, and then Dad sets his teeth with a click and gets to his feet. “If there’s anything you need out of the car, you best get it now.”
Sam doesn’t answer. Instead he asks, “Why do you have to look all by yourself?”
“This is not a discussion. If you want it, get it out of the car now, before I go.”
“I don’t have anything,” Sam says, in the tone Dad hates, the one he calls ‘talking back’. Sam doesn’t care.
Dad hears it, too, ‘cause he dumps the dishes in the sink with a slam. “Good.” He grabs his jacket off the chair in the library. “I’ll call when I get there.”
He doesn’t wait for Sam to answer. He doesn’t even look at Sam, really. Which is fine, Sam thinks, because he’s mad, and he hopes Dad is mad too.
But then the front door slams, and the Impala starts, and Sam can hear the car pulling out and away. The second that low rumble fades off, all that prickly hot anger just drains out of him. He lied to himself when he thought he wouldn’t be scared. He is. He’s scared that the man will come back. He’s scared that the man might take Dad too, or that Dad won’t find Dean.
He doesn’t want Dad to be mad at him, he wants Dad to come back, because the only ones who can make the bad things stay away are Dad and Dean and now they’re both gone.
Uncle Bobby walks downstairs then, and his wet hair is sticking up at funny angles that Sam barely notices. “Your daddy take off? Sam?”
Sam nods mutely and sniffs, swiping his nose on his sleeve.
Sam nods again, even though his throat’s closing up with the rising tears. He wants Dad. He wants Dean. He doesn’t want Uncle Bobby to rustle his hair and say, “Alright. If you say so. You look wiped. Let’s get you settled on the couch, okay?” He doesn’t want any of it. But he follows Bobby to the couch and Bobby puts a whole pile of blankets on him and leaves him to go to sleep without making him shower or brush his teeth or anything.
After Bobby goes, Sam rolls on his side and curls up into a ball, pulling the blankets up high over his head. He cries until he feels like he’s going to be sick. Eventually, he falls asleep.
