August 2, 1997

Dean receives life advice from heterosexuals.

John came into the kitchen in the morning as Dean pulled eggs and a package of bacon out of the fridge.

“Dean, put it away,” said John. He walked past Dean to reach the coffee maker, which popped and steamed as it finished percolating.

“I was just gonna make some breakfast,” said Dean.

“Not when Kate’s here,” said John. “I don’t want you cooking.”

Dean looked down at the carton in his hands. They had food in the house. Dean always kept them fed, and he thought the kid might like some bacon and eggs. He’d make it just as well as the Roadhouse would, and he didn’t want to wait to go out.

“So… We’re gonna eat out the whole weekend?” he asked.

“Kate cooks.”

“You’d make her cook?” said Dean. “She’s our guest.”

“She’ll know what Adam eats,” said John. He stirred sugar into his coffee. “And if we have to go out, we’ll go out. But while she’s here, she rules the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind helping out—” Dean started to say.

“Let me say this clearly. You’re gonna cut out the little homemaker act, Dean,” said John, voice clipped. “It’s funny-looking.”

Dean turned and put the eggs and bacon back in the fridge.

It made no sense. Pretending like Dean didn’t cook, that nobody was around to feed this family when there wasn’t a woman in the house.

“You know, Dad, it’s 1997. They let women out of the kitchen these days.”

“When you get married, your wife won’t want you upstaging her under her own roof,” John said. He rested a hand on the countertop, leaning against it with one hip cocked, his coffee held at chest level. He looked squarely at Dean. “Men and women were made differently for a reason. Now each of them brings something to a household, but they’ve got different tendencies. She won’t be happy if she doesn’t get to make the dinners and look after the kids. It’s not natural.”

John spoke expecting no contradiction, in possession of infallible wisdom even the Pope would covet.

When Dean got married. Stated as an inevitable fact.

The only person Dean wanted to be with made the world’s most inedible sandwich.

Of course, John wouldn’t say that was natural either.

“What if I’m the better cook?” said Dean.

“Then you never let her know it,” said John. “You’ve stepped up and done a lot for this family. I’ve seen that, son, even though I never asked for it. But I don’t want you to get confused. This is just a stop-gap. Till there’s a woman here or till you find a woman of your own.”

From John, this counted as a philosophical mood. In the past, Dean would’ve paid careful attention to the way it set out guiding rules and principles. Ways to act and survive. Hell, he’d even thrown in one scrap of a compliment, which Dean wanted to believe counted even if the rest rankled.

John drank from his coffee, then lowered the mug again, using it to gesture at Dean. “I don’t want you to injure Kate’s pride or make her think there’s no place for her here by doing all this house stuff. A woman likes to feel needed. And they like a man they can take care of and fix up a little. You can’t advertise being too self-sufficient.”

“You’re pretty serious about her?” said Dean.

“Wouldn’t bring her here if I wasn’t,” he said. John tapped his fingers against the countertop. He spoke almost to himself as he said, “She’s got my kid.”

Your kids are right here, Dean thought. Waiting for him to show up for them, for once.

Maybe he wanted to start over with Adam. Fix all the ways he screwed up with Sam and Dean.

They were too late to be saved.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs stopped them saying anything further. Dean filled his mug with coffee. Normally, he’d have pulled out an extra mug for Kate, asked what she took in it, brought it to her wherever she took a seat. Unwilling to incur John’s disfavour, he sat down with his cup as Kate came into the kitchen with Adam, saying good-morning and trying to introduce Adam, who hid next to her legs.

For breakfast they ate cold cereal.

Adam didn’t warm up easily. John wanted to take him out to see the horses and show off the farm to Kate. Dean had the impression he wanted to find the chance to dump Adam with him, if the kid were willing to let go of his mother’s hand. The horses in the paddock frightened him and he didn’t want to get closer, even when Dean gave him a piece of apple to offer up.

Dean hadn’t found it difficult when the Girl Scouts visited, but Adam was a different story.

He was younger. He woke up in a strange place. Everyone around him was shattering the status quo of life as an only child of a single parent.

Dean got it. He didn’t know either, what he was supposed to be like with Adam. They were brothers and they were strangers. Adam was so much younger and had been raised so differently.

Yet he stood in the yard, a tow-headed gangly little kid with a bandana around his neck that Kate had neatly knotted that morning. Dean had been that blond, once. He had a mother who dressed him as a small cowboy. His mother who held his hand and took him into the paddock to greet the horses in the morning. When he thought of whose hands first put him in the saddle, he never pictured John.

“The only thing for him is to get up on a horse,” said John. “He’ll see there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“Would you like to give it a try, Adam?” Kate asked kindly.

“He’ll like it once he’s up,” said John. “Dean, pick a horse and get her saddled for him.”

Adam looked between all of them, saying nothing.

“I don’t know if he wants to ride just yet, John,” said Kate.

“I can ride,” said Dean. “He can watch the jump course.” He looked down at Adam. “See if you like that.”

It was a painfully managed compromise, unsatisfying to everybody but Springsteen, who thrilled at the opportunity to unleash his extra energy. Dean took him through their rustic round of jumps, perfectly in control of the horse. He’d worked with Springsteen a long time, and they knew how to talk to one another.

From the sidelines, John described the paces Dean went through, the methods he used, all the things John had taught him over the years. John had always been proud of Dean in competitions. Even from the saddle of a horse, Dean could feel the way John eyed him like he might renew their former argument and get Dean back in a meet.

His arm twinged at the thought. An ache started in his shoulder. Psychosomatic. He never got back the range of movement that he used to have, but he hadn’t had active pain in a few weeks. This was more than a little stiffness in the morning or when it rained. He had to reroute Springsteen around a jump at the last minute because Dean wouldn’t have stayed in his saddle.

He ended the course abruptly, not that Adam would know. John looked hard at him but had no way of knowing what stopped Dean. Dean walked Springsteen over to them slowly, the throb in his shoulder increasing until he heard it in his ears, muffling every other sound.

He didn’t look at his father, just at Adam. He met his eyes the same way he would a nervous horse. Calm and neutral. Promising without saying anything that there was nothing to be scared of, no wrong answer or action.

“What’d you think?” he asked.

Adam looked at the ground like he wanted to climb down from the fence. Less scared and more apathetic.

Dean worried for him. It was obvious John wanted him to love the horses in the same way that Dean and John did. He wasn’t looking for a second Sam who refused the family lineage. John expected the horses to impress him, for something in his genetic material to take over. He wanted Adam to take naturally to the horses. He would’ve loved to brag about Adam getting up on a horse at age five and riding like a born cowboy.

“Do you want to pet him?” said Dean, petting his hand down Springsteen’s neck to show him. “His nose is soft. If you put out your hand, he’ll go to it.”

Adam squinted up at Dean, but he held out his hand. Springsteen stretched his head forward and sniffed, then lipped at it. Adam pulled back and looked up at his mom.

“It’s alright,” she said, but Adam started to climb down the fence.

Dean didn’t look at John. He rolled his right shoulder like he could squirm out of the phantom pain.

“Why don’t I show him the chickens?” Dean offered.

Adam liked the chickens moderately better than the horses. Inside the henhouse, Dean asked him to find and collect the eggs from the nesting box.

“This one’s warm,” said Adam, putting both his hands carefully around a brown egg.

“It was just laid, then,” said Dean.

Adam paused, then looked up. “Wait. Do chickens lay eggs from their butts?”

Dean laughed, scratching at his temple as he searched for the answer. The anatomy of a chicken was another of those things that would never show up on a GED test, which never came around to all of the general knowledge a farm kid learned over the years. He could’ve explained that while the oviduct and the digestive tract were separate functions, they came out of the same place. That the correct word was ‘vent’ and not ‘butt.’

Instead he said, “Yeah. They come out the butt.”

Adam cracked into giggles and gave a delighted, “Ewww!” He brought over the egg and placed it gingerly into Dean’s wire basket.

Adam only carried one egg at a time, which made the task much longer than it needed, but Dean was patient. Out of John’s sight, the strange feeling in his arm ebbed.

As Adam brought back the last egg, looking down at his hands and not at his feet, he stumbled on a step. The egg dropped between Adam and Dean and broke open on the floor, the clear white clumping around straw as the yellow yolk oozed out of shape.

“Uh oh,” said Adam, looking down at the mess.

Dean knelt down and put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind. There’s still lots of eggs here, see?”

Adam looked up at him with a neutral expression. He hadn’t been scared in the first place.

Dean dropped his hand away.

He was just a kid and he knew the difference between an honest mistake and a hanging crime.

He was John’s son, but he hadn’t grown up with John.

“What do you think of toasted Westerns for lunch?” he asked to divert Adam’s attention again. “Good use for these eggs.”

“Okay,” said Adam.

Dean flashed a smile before remembering he wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen. This was going to be harder than he thought.

When lunchtime rolled around, Dean drew himself a glass of water just for an excuse to follow Kate into the kitchen.

“Do you like chicken Caesar salad?” she asked as she looked into the fridge. “Or maybe just… salad. I don’t see any chicken, but it looks like you’ve got Romaine.”

The lettuce came from Missouri’s garden stand. It was good, but after such a light breakfast, Dean was hungry. “Sure,” he said. “But I might’ve got Adam set on a toasted Western. Sorry. You made them before?”

“Oh,” said Kate. “I mean, I’ve had one, I think.”

“Here, you just need…” Dean glanced over his shoulder. The last time he’d seen John, he was out in the shed. He opened the drawer under the oven where he kept the frying pans. “Basically like an omelette. We cut up some ham, green pepper, green onion if we’ve got it.”

He meant to provide the recipe and cut out, but John wasn’t in sight so he stayed around to dice up the ingredients and tell Kate about how to manage the different burners on the stove, all finicky and no two the same. As she stirred the egg, Dean toasted the bread and shredded cheese.

“I had no idea you’d be handy in the kitchen,” Kate said. “I’m impressed. It’s a great help.”

“I know a little. And I’ll stay out of your way, I promise,” Dean said, “but if you ever need an extra set of hands, just ask.”

“I may take you up on that, Dean,” she said. “John doesn’t cook much for himself, does he?”

“Well, that depends on whether you’d call warming up a can of meatballs and gravy cooking.”

Kate winced. “How’d you boys get by all these years?”

Dean wrapped up the cheese and moved fluidly through the kitchen to put it away and check on the bread. “That’s anybody’s guess, isn’t it?” he said.

Kate watched him for a moment, then turned back to her eggs. She shut off the heat on the burner. “You know,” she said. “Women like a man who can cook.”

Dean grinned. He wished he could tell her how hilarious it was. “A guy’s gotta be able to take care of himself, right?” he said. “Who wants some helpless dope?”

---

His success with the chickens aside, Adam remained distant the rest of the day. He liked his mother and the Disney movies he brought. He liked his own toys. He asked a few times when they were going to go home.

Sam seemed to prefer that it failed, going to no more than the basic minimum of effort, even when afternoon rain pushed their activities indoors. Dean didn’t push. John couldn’t make them a happy family through one brief visit and sheer force of will. If Adam didn’t like it out here, that was for John and Kate to sort out. Kate cared about Adam, and his well-being would overrule everything.

That night, Dean lay awake in bed thinking of how he’d explain this all to Cas. Cas didn’t immediately understand social nuances, although he felt things deeply. This wasn’t a fault in him, just a fact. He might not perceive the problem or he might cut through to the easiest solution. Dean never knew what it would be.

Dean fell asleep quickly, but he swept out of it as soon as he heard a sound from down the hall. Stifled crying. The same snuffling Sam used to make when he woke up from a nightmare.

No one else made a sound in the quiet house. Dean got up and treaded carefully across the floorboards, used to being silent. Adam slept in the same room Charlie stayed in, the old nursery.

Dean knocked gently on the door. “Adam?” he whispered, then opened it. He reached in and turned on a lamp.

Adam sat up in bed, arms wrapped around his knees, crying.

“Hey, champ,” said Dean, stepping in. “You okay?”

Adam hid further into his arms, overcome and trying to cover up a wail.

Dean stopped partway into the room. He caught the recognizable whiff of urine. Adam wet the bed.

“Adam,” said Dean, dropping to one knee beside the bed, putting a hand on Adam’s back. He looked tinier in his pyjamas. “It’s okay,” he said. “We can change the sheets. I’ll help you. Let’s get you out of bed, okay?”

Adam got slowly out of bed, face splotchy with tears. Dean wiped at one of his cheeks with his hand. “It’s okay,” he said again. “You don’t need to cry.”

Adam stood in place as Dean stripped the bed. He’d put the sheets through the wash first thing in the morning.

“Do you have extra PJs?” he asked.

Adam nodded and went to the small chest of drawers where he’d put his things.

“Do you want to go down to the bathroom and change?” Dean asked. He was big enough to do that on his own.

“It’s dark,” said Adam.

“I’ll walk you,” said Dean. He took Adam’s hand and walked him down, turning on the bright bathroom light. While Adam changed, Dean deposited the soiled sheets in a laundry basket and put fresh ones on the bed. He joined Adam again when the bathroom door opened and walked him back.

Adam climbed under the covers again, surrounded by sheets that smelled of fresh laundry.

“Was it too dark to go find your mom?” Dean asked. He was thinking of whether he could find a nightlight somewhere, maybe in a cupboard downstairs. It had been a while since they’d needed nightlights around here.

Adam didn’t answer for a long moment, offering neither a yes nor a no. Finally he spoke in a quiet voice. “I wet the bed sometimes,” he said. “John said I wouldn’t at the ranch.”

Of course. The same as he thought Adam would take to horseback riding and farm living after one visit, he believed that merely arriving at the ranch would cure Adam of any weaknesses or fears.

“Would John be mad at me?” Adam asked.

Dean pet a hand over Adam’s fair head. He didn’t go to his mom because she slept in the same room as John, who he was too afraid of waking. Dean didn’t know how to say he was right to.

“I won’t tell him,” said Dean. “Pinky swear.”

He held up his pinky. Adam studied it for a moment, then took him up on it, his tiny finger hooking around Dean’s.

Dean would tell Kate in the morning, and he’d explain that Adam didn’t want to disappoint John so that it wouldn’t go any further. John didn’t need to know.

“You know,” said Dean. “I think I could find a nightlight for in here. Would you like that?”

Adam nodded his head quickly.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” said Dean. It earned another nod.

Dean brought the laundry basket down with him, loading the bedsheets and pyjamas into the washing machine so he could start them first thing in the morning. He rooted through a closet before he found what he was looking for. He returned upstairs to Adam’s bedroom and plugged in a nightlight in the shape of a cowboy boot.

“How’s that?” he said, flicking it on. “Right where you can see it. Does that help?”

“Yeah,” said Adam.

“I know it gets dark in the country, but you’re safe here, you know that?” said Dean, sitting on the end of Adam’s bed.

Adam looked at him like he was waiting for proof.

“We have all those horses outside,” said Dean. “And they can tell apart the good guys and the bad guys. So nothing would get past them.”

Soldiers rode horses into battle. Brave horses had done all kinds of unlikely things. At the same time, Dean knew the reality of horses as prey animals on high alert for anything that even mildly resembled a threat. They spooked at nothing, and he couldn’t say in good faith that they added any level of protection at all. Horses serving as the first line of defence was a bedtime story, more than anything.

So he added something that was true: “I’m right down the hall. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Adam leaned forward and hugged him, his thin arms barely making it all the way around.

Once upon a time, Sam had been this small. It had been a long time since then, since anyone needed Dean like this. He squeezed Adam in return, then pulled the covers over him when Adam laid back again. When he turned off the lamp, the tiny boot plugged into the wall gave off a warm glow.

“Night, Adam,” he whispered.

“G’night, Dean,” he heard in return.