Part of Lonely Souls
Warnings: underage, hustling
Three weeks, John had been gone, and the money was running out. Dean hadn’t eaten in two days, other than the crackers and creamers he’d lifted off the side table at the diner around the corner. Sam had had cereal for the last three meals, and now the milk was gone. There was a grocery three blocks down, but Dean was too big now for shoplifting, and he was pretty sure the owner of the diner had been spreading the word. Last time he’d been in, to buy two apples and a pint of milk with the change he’d scraped out of the bottom of his duffle, the clerk had watched him the entire time, eyes narrowed and mouth tight.
John had told him, repeatedly, that he wasn’t ready yet to hustle pool, but really, what other options did he have at this point? They were behind on the room, and ducking the motel manager wasn’t going to work for much longer. It killed him, straight up murdered him inside, but after Sam had gone to sleep, Dean had raided the kid’s bag and lifted the twenty-five bucks he had stashed in a sock. Money that Sam had been saving for who-knows-what.
“I’ll put it back,” he murmured, low, so as not to wake Sam. “Promise, Sammy.” He shoved the cash in his back pocket and left.
Warning: This is not an easy read. I mean it.
But it’s really, really good. I mean that too.