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Sam is eight when he throws his arms around Dean’s neck and pecks him right on the mouth, beaming up against his larger than life sunshine bright big brother.
John grasps Sam by the T-shirt, pulls him away from Dean, and barks: “That’s not something you do to your brother, Sam.”
Sam looks at John, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling. “But I love him, daddy,” little Sammy says quietly, trying to crawl back onto Dean’s lap.
John separates them again, rougher this time. “Not like that, you don’t,” John snarls, before he snatches a bottle of Jack from the table and storms off.
*
Sam is eighteen when John, after ten long years of Jack, denial and sorrowful rage, drags Sam out to the parking lot. John shoves Sam’s acceptance letter against his chest as he speaks, slowly and menacingly. “You’re going to California, Sam. Go to California, or so help me I will find another way to keep you from him. You understand me, son?”
Sam’s eyes glitter beneath fluorescent light with unshed, furious tears. He swallows, then he says, “I love him,” and his voice breaks under John’s sickened glare. “Dad,” Sam begs as his head drops. “Dad, please don’t make me leave him.”
John’s face turns ashen, bile rising in his throat. “The way you love him ain’t right, Sammy. Never was.”