Summary: John's away on a hunt and twelve year old Dean Winchester considers various options to get the food Sam needs.

Warning: Rough language; contains references to underage whoring.

Dad's out on a hunt, supposed to be back in a couple of days. Credit cards are maxed out. No cash, and the rent's due in another week or so. Don't know what I'm gonna do when that dick landlord comes back on the first with his hand out if Dad's not back yet.

Last time we were in Blue Earth Pastor Jim asked me if I blamed Dad for the way we live. I like the padre and all, but he oughta mind his fucking business.

Blame Dad? What the hell for?

Dad's got enough to worry about each day.

Then Pastor Jim asked me if I blamed Mom for dying.

I turned around and hit him. All he did was stand there and look at me like he was sad or something.


I don't know if he told Dad. I don't think he did. Don't give a fuck, either.

Fed Sam the last of the milk and oatmeal this morning. Only thing left in the fridge is a slice of bologna and two lousy pieces of stale white bread. That's Sam's lunch. I know he's gonna bitch about that. There's nothing left but this half bag of animal crackers.

Huh. Tastes like cardboard and sugar. Sammy likes these stupid things. Figures.

Dumb kid.

I always remember to put a bag in the shopping cart whenever Dad and I buy food. Dad looks at me kinda funny, but he hasn't said anything yet.

Stupid lions and tigers and bears.

Mom used to take me to the zoo when I was little. She'd hold my hand while we walked along.

Saw a camel once. I liked the rhino. Even saw one'a those big ass turtles. Momma said that turtle was older than she and Dad put together.

Most of the animals in the cages looked pretty sad. I could see it in their eyes. Dad looks like that sometimes. He thinks I don't see it, but I do.

Back home in Lawrence me and Mom used to sit real quiet and watch the rabbits come in to the yard and hop around. I liked that.

Mom left lettuce out for them sometimes.

Damn, my stomach's growling like one'a Bobby's dogs. Man, what I wouldn't give for a cheeseburger with plenty of lettuce and mayo right now. I gotta stop thinking like this.

And these damn animal crackers aren't doing a thing for me.

I saw a rabbit a couple of weeks ago. Some witch bitch skinned it alive, stuck pins in it and strung it up by its ears.

How fucked up is that?

I don't what I'm going to do for dinner. Hell, breakfast the next day, either, for that matter. There's a convenience store down the street. I could use my five finger discount, get three of those deli sandwiches, a couple of cartons of juice, some milk. That might hold us, but I don't know when Dad's coming back.

I got my Colt. And that ski mask Dad bought me when we hunted those dogmen up in Minnesota.

Damn, it was cold up there.

Thing is, Dad told me to stay put. Don't think he'd appreciate me getting involved with local law enforcement. Dad would take a pretty dim view of that, y'know? I can't take that chance.

Sam's curled up on the couch out in the living room. Television's on, and he's sound asleep. He sleeps like a log during the day. He has nightmares when it's dark, and I don't know why.

I could pay Morrison the neighborhood perv a visit.

The kids call him Mr. Grabby Hands.

I've seen the way he stares at my mouth and my face. He called me pretty one time, flashed two twenty dollar bills at me, licked his lips, said I had the face of a friggin' angel, for God's sake, and that he'd really like to worship me.

Fucking freak bastard. Thought about kicking his ass, but I didn't.

I don't know why.

I hate that freakin' word. I'm not pretty. My mom was pretty. Hell, she was beautiful.

I could let Morrison touch me. It's just sex, right? Just friction. Not my first time at this particular rodeo, either. I've seen the way this landlord looks at me too. I know he thinks I'm white trash, but he wants to fuck me anyway.

Same shit, different day.

I don't know what Mom would think if she saw me doing this. I don't care, y'hear me? Why can't I use what I have to make things easier for us?

I've got salt lines down, and I hung those medallions Uncle Bobby sent us in each window. I could go next door, stay awhile, get the money and then come right back, before Sam wakes up.

I can get what we need that way, and Dad doesn't need to know. Sam does. I don't know how, but he'll know. When he wakes up he'll look at me real sad, and as soon as he opens his mouth I'll tell him to shut the hell up. I don't want to hear anything he's got to say. This is my business.

It's okay. I can deal with this.


Syncop8ed Rhythm wrote a wonderful, heartbreaking continuation of this story detailing what happened when Dean went over to the pervert's house. It's called Hollow, and I highly recommend it.