The Oldest Son

The past week had been rough.

Their dad hadn't been seen since last Tuesday - he was off hunting. Dean didn't know what this time. He'd heard John talking on the phone about a crocotta, but he hadn't actually been told. His dad had merely left, leaving his last words - the customary "shoot first, ask questions later" - a wad of cash, and a shotgun.

The wad of cash was getting smaller now. The empty pizza boxes and McDonald's wrappers it had been spent on littered the motel room floor.

Dean counted the cash one last time, shuffling it through his fingers. They had forty-three dollars and sixty cents left.

"I don't think dad planned to be away this long," Sam said walking out of the bathroom, looking fresh in his pyjamas while roughly towel-drying his hair; "how much have we got left?"

"Forty bucks, little bro," replied Dean, falling back onto the bed and shoving the cash in his pocket, "forty freaking dollars, to last us 'til he gets back."

"He said he'd be back by Thursday."

"I know, Sammy. He will be."

There was an uncomfortable pause. They both knew Dean didn't believe in those words; but only Dean knew how hard he wanted to. He hoped with all his might that John would be home by then. Today was Tuesday the thirtieth of April.

Sam sighed in response and threw his towel down on the floor, sitting down on the bottom of Dean's bed.

"But we can still have fun if he isn't, can't we?" Dean's face spread out into his familiar cheeky grin and he sat up, giving Sammy another of his famous rough-but-affectionate hair ruffles. Sam scrunched up his face and shoved his big brother off him; and Dean rolled off the bed to the floor.

"With forty bucks, Dean?"

"Forty bucks and a shotgun," Dean said, pushing himself off the ground and heading for the desk next to the front door. After a few seconds of rummaging through its drawers, he lifted the shotgun from its hiding place and held it up for inspection, looking down the barrel at his little brother. "What d'you say, Sammy?"

Sam half-smiled at Dean, getting up and proceeding to snuggle himself into the covers of his own bed as he did so. "That shotgun's for emergencies."

"Your thirteenth birthday is an emergency, Sam," Dean said solemnly, slowly turning away from Sam to place the shotgun back in its drawer. He put it down carefully - as if it were a newborn baby.

Afterwards, he gazed out the window in silence; waiting to hear the steady breathing that would indicate his little brother had fallen asleep.

Then, under his breath, he whispered one small threatening sentence.

"Especially if dad doesn't show."