Chapter Text
The card game had been a mistake, sure. Dean could admit that now, from this holding cell, reeking of urine and sweat, his back against the cinderblock wall and his elbows on his knees, trying to keep his leg from bouncing. He didn’t want to appear - restless? Weak? Something not good - even to the deputy with acne on his chin who kept calling his mom, this small town in upstate NY, to see when the meatloaf would be ready for dinner.
So yeah, the cards had been a fuck up. But John had been gone for eight days and had left grocery money for more like four - Dean had stretched it to five, and then woken up on the sixth day looking at his options. He could make $35 bucks try to last for three of them for god knew how many more days, or he could take it to the poker game he’d heard some kids talking about at the college bar, and see if he could turn $35 into something more like $100.
And he had. And then that $100, Dean had turned into $175. And then he started feeling lucky, and cocky, and had forgotten that he was 16, and these kids were 21 and 22 and had grown up in New York among families who could afford to send them to the swanky liberal arts college here. And that’s when Dean had lost it all and the group had decided to call it a night. And Dean had walked back to the motel and seen Sam and Katie’s little faces light up at him, assuming he’d have something - something - for them to put in their bellies and the shame had been too great. And Sammy’s stomach was growling.
So yeah he’d gone to steal food for his brother and sister, and yeah he’d do it again, he just wouldn’t get caught the next time.
He wondered if Dad was gonna be more pissed at him for gambling the money away, or for getting caught lifting from a convenience store. Probably both. He’d probably belt Dean for both of them, double the licks, but it was nothing Dean hadn’t taken before and at least Dad was here, at least he’d answered the phone when Dean had the cops dial the number John had left them, at least he was coming and Dean would be out of this cell and they could stop and get the kids some food and then get Sam and Katie out of the motel room with the Colonial days theme that was starting to smell like old socks, with the plasticky blankets that Katie hated. He’d take the licking, keep his head down, and it would be over. Sam and Katie would be fine.
The sound of boots in the hall made him sit up. Sure enough, he heard the quiet rumble of Dad’s voice, talking to someone in the office. He wondered how much bail would be, and how pissed Dad was going to be about that.
Dean stood as the sheriff unlocked the door to the small office out front. His relief came so fast it made him dizzy. He’d been holding himself tight without even realizing it.
Through the bars, he saw John shake the sheriff’s hand. They didn’t look mad—just two men talking.
Finally, John glanced toward him, but it wasn’t eye contact—it was more like he was checking a box, confirming Dean was still there. Then he turned back to the sheriff.
“You can cut him loose, if you want,” the sheriff said. “Not a big deal. Kid’s not dangerous.”
Dean straightened, waiting for the nod, the grunt, the get your ass in the car. He was definitely getting more than 50, but that was fine. He’d survive it. Katie and Sam wouldn’t be sitting in that hotel room wondering when Dean was gonna come home for much longer, that was all that mattered.
Instead, John’s voice came slow and flat: “Let him stay. Might do him some good.”
It took Dean a second to understand the words. They didn’t make sense.
The sheriff blinked. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” John’s tone didn’t change. “Boy needs to learn his lesson.”
Dean’s chest went cold. “Dad,” he said. “Wait, Dad, I’m sorry. I know I messed up real bad, but I – you can’t leave me here.”
John didn’t even glance back at him when he turned for the door. The metal frame rattled as it shut.
Dean stayed standing, his palms gone clammy, the bench behind him suddenly too far away to feel safe.
He’d thought he knew every way John could be angry. Every punishment, every lecture. But this—
The sound of John’s boots faded down the hall, then out into the night.
He wasn’t coming back.
The sheriff looked at Dean almost like he felt sorry for him, which Dean could not abide. “Last time someone looked at me like that, I got dinner first,” Dean said. But the man was unfazed.
“Give it til tomorrow, son,” he said. “I bet he’ll cool off.”
“I’m not your son,” Dean said, anger thumping in his chest. At Dad, at himself, at this smug bastard.
“No, you’re not,” the man said, and walked away, leaving Dean alone in the darkness.