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Dean has a wad of money hidden in his bag. It’s folded into a skin mag that he bought in Duluth, which itself is folded into a tube of socks. He calls it his Sammy Stash. Dad and Sam don’t know about it. It’s a stack of crumpled bills he’s earned through hustling at pool and hoarded from short-term jobs he’s worked, pressed flat as they can go to look as inconspicuous as possible. It’s for one very specific purpose, in the same way Dean’s entire life has had one very specific purpose.
When Dad takes off sometimes, he leaves only a twenty or two on the motel table to carry them through weeks at a time. It’s okay for Dean to go without, and he has more than once—passing his food to Sam, claiming fullness. But Dean’s got to take care of his boy, so he waits until Sam falls asleep, small and curved around himself like a damn comma and sneaks out the front door. He stays out at the bars—poker, pool, an arcade game he pretends not to understand the rules of until it’s too late for the other guy to take his money back—until five, at which point he takes his earnings to a diner to trade for greasy pancakes or stiff hash browns. He sneaks back into the motel at six, at which point Sam will just start to wake up, grumbling. Dean’ll pretend that he’s been here the whole time, mussing the covers for effect and ran out to get food.
He has $514 in it right now, and a few quarters in his pocket. It’s only ever touched when Sam needs something: clothes (which is way too often, damn kid grows like a beanstalk), food, books for school.
And occasionally, when Sammy pins him with that look. He’d never ask for anything, because he’s just good like that and he knows what they have and what they don’t, but sometimes he sees a book in a shop window or a set of fancy pens or whatever nerds like. And he stops. For just a second, almost as if his mind had been paused by the sharp shoot of want. Dean always mocks him for it (“Your brain stop in there Sammy?” “Shut up.”), but sneaks off when Sam’s at school to buy it when he can.
Look what I found, Dean had said one time, tossing Sam the thick tome as he slid into the Impala’s front seat while picking him up from school. Sam’s pink mouth had opened, eyes huge and fingers tracing over the title reverently.
Wait, Sam’s brow had furrowed, suspicion curdling the awe in his eyes. Did you steal this?
Dean had laughed, a pang in his stomach that he didn’t want to examine. He had already snuck a gift to Sam this month from “Dad,” so he went for another tack. Naw, I sweet-talked the cashier into giving it to me for free. Apparently I have Mr. Rochester’s timeless looks.
Sam had managed to wrestle the remote from him long enough to switch to some book channel (books on TV? who would dare?) and had caught a couple of episodes of some TV show. It was slow, and lame, but there had been some crazy lady in the attic who started fires at night, so maybe Dean didn’t mind as much as he complained he did.
Mr. Rochester is actually hideous in the book, Sam had said, bitch-face full force. Dean had sputtered, indignant, but Sam had tilted his head, giving him an assessing look. That had shut him right the hell up. Whenever Sam turned that cool, analytical glare on a problem, with his set jaw and sharp hazel eyes, Dean’s insides went all funny. It wouldn’t bear under the weight of close scrutiny, so Dean didn’t. You’re more like Heathcliff. Sam had said finally. Or Frankenstein’s monster.
Fuck you! I only know what half of that means, so I’m only half insulted. Dean had muttered, but Sam held the book close to his chest the whole drive home, stealing looks at Dean with his big doe eyes.
Sam always did that, too, which was maybe why Dean was so much more lenient with dispensing his Sammy Stash than he should have been. He held things so carefully, long pianist’s fingers cradling whatever book or pack of highlighters or takeout container of his favorite food (a cheeseburger that Dean would eat the pickles off of) after a fight with Dad.
Thank you, Sam would say, sometimes pithily but sometimes with enough sobriety to bring Dean up short.
Had some extra cash this week, Dean would shrug. This week. As if 70% of the money he got didn’t go into the Sammy Stash, as if he had a weekly income.
Dad doesn’t ask when he comes home how they managed to survive for three weeks on two twenties, and Sam doesn’t notice when Dean slips up and says he earned an extra $40 hustling at pool in a town with no pool table at the bar. Dad probably genuinely doesn’t notice, but Dean is surprised Sam, with all his seventeen-year-old arrogance, hasn’t mentioned it.
~~~
Sam has a wad of money hidden in his bag. Its folded into a NatGeo magazine that Dean bought him at a book store one time, which itself is folded into a tube of socks. He calls it his Stanford Stash. Dad and Dean don’t know about it.