start.
title: Start
rating: PG; for language
word count: 3254
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar, forever in prank war mode and there'd damn well be hugs.
a/n: gen, in general. wincest if you really squint. sam-centric (which is weirding me out because i'm a total dean girl but i kept on writing in sam's voice, sorta) and also sort-of angsty. a continuation of Hope; which is a continuation of Unsaid. comments and crits would be wonderful. :)
warning: time line is not my thing.
summary: sam tries his best to live the life dean wanted him to, with the little life he left behind.
Start
Dean was way too distracted when Sam had asked him. He was thinking about something, Sam could tell from the waver in his brows and the tightness of the skin around his eyes.
“Dean?”
“Huh.”
“What was my first word?”
Silence commenced, Sam’s eyes focused on the moldy ceiling of the motel room, the lumpy mattress poking at his back. Dean stopped digging around in his duffel and sat at the edge of his bed, near Sam’s feet.
“I think it was ‘Da’. When you were, like, ten months old.”
Sam didn’t want to tell Dean that he had once asked Dad the same question. Or that Dad’s answer was, “I don’t know, Sammy. Now go help your brother load the car. We have to leave now.”
He remembered he was only seven then.
“Was Dad there when I said it?” Sam asked, despite knowing the answer.
Dean sighed, as if he knew exactly where Sam was heading. He refused to address it. “He was out that night. It was just you and me. And I didn’t even realize you said it, I thought it was just one of your non-word jabber until I heard the Impala in the parking lot. I told Dad and he was so excited about it.”
Sam hid the sadness behind his half-smile. “Most people would be very pissed if they missed their child’s first word.”
Dean knew defending Dad would do nothing. “He really was excited. I think it’s because of what you said. I think it meant ‘Dad’.”
Sam gritted his teeth silently. A long moment lapsed.
Sam’s voice was barely audible. “I think I meant ‘Dean’.”
*
If Dean wasn’t so passionate about hunting and probably rubbed it off onto Sam the eighteen plus five years they were together, Sam would’ve quit entirely. Because every single time he had to drop Hope off at Melissa’s and her huge green eyes stared at him, almost begging for adoration, he felt his stomach clenched so hard he almost double over in pain. Every single fucking time. When he walked back to Dean’s Impala - always Dean’s, never his - he’d always cry. Always. He couldn’t even concentrate on the hunt; his mind reeling images of Hope, wondering if she’s getting his juice right; with pulp, just like Dean. Hell - she was so very much like Dean it felt like he was living with his brother again sans the formula-making and diaper-changing and taking-bubble-baths together, which when Sam thought it over felt awkward. He was always grateful for that: that Hope was like the imprint Dean had left behind. But mostly, because he loves the girl more than anything in the whole wide world. As much as he had loved Dean.
It occurred to Sam that even when he passed, Dean managed to give him the normal life he always wanted. Raising Hope was the closest to normal that he could ever have. Waking up in the middle of the night to feed her and rocked her back to sleep, changing her when she fussed, taking her to the doctor when she showed even an inkling of sign of catching something, like any normal parent would do instead of concocting a home remedy and expecting your eldest to nurse a baby as if he was twenty instead of five. Sam realized that memories of Dad, no matter how fond, would always be interlocked with the way he raised them, almost awful. Dean’s memory was all glory. So much so that Sam could not distinguish between the bitter and the sweet whenever he thought about his brother.
There was one time that he thought it was final - he was never ever going on a hunt ever again. He was faced with an enraged spirit in an abandoned factory building. He was used to working alone by then, watching out for his own back, not depending on Dean to do it for him. At first, not a year after Dean’s death, he had heard Dean’s voice in his head every time he’s hunting - warning, reminding him that watch out, Sammy. The bastard’s probably crouching on the beam above your head or you’d want to aim a little lower to strike the heart or when in doubt, always use silver and a little fire, to be safe.
This time, he was distracted. Hope had been throwing tantrums all the way to Melissa’s last night. Sam thought it was a tummy ache. He had told Melissa but he forgot to bring Hope’s sippy cup, the one he always needs to get her to drink her medications. Melissa probably could handle her, had all the experience needed, having three kids of her own. But they weren’t Hope. Sam was so sure if Dean was here he would go, “You’re spoiling her way too much, dude. She’s going to cling to you like super glue.”
“Yeah. As if you didn’t totally treated me the same when we were kids.”
The Dean in his head was smirking. “And look how you’re clinging.”
That’s when the spirit popped out of nowhere and shoved Sam backward, falling over the ledge half a floor down. He had hit an old pile of boxes but he hit his head pretty bad, he was so afraid he’d lost consciousness. His vision cleared just in time for the thing to appear to his left. He shot at it with rock salts and proceeded searching the body, salted and burned it. On the way to Melissa’s his head had throbbed like the vein on his wrist. He put on a bright smile and rang the doorbell. Melissa answered the door with Hope in her arms and his pain numbed immediately as the girl gurgled happily at the sight of his face. Sam declined Melissa’s offer for some coffee, answered her question politely - “The business went smoothly.” - and bid goodbye, pressing Hope so close to his chest he almost squished the little girl. Hope was so used to his huge embrace that she just smashed his face into Sam’s hoodie-covered shoulder, shaking her head from side to side, covering him with saliva.
For three days he felt like his skull was cracked, the fracture breaking bigger and bigger. He thought he was used to headaches, after a couple of years of dealing with painful visions but he had obviously never been pushed half a floor down by a vengeful spirit, having no one - no Dean - to take care of him and on top of it all, has a nine month-old infant to take care of himself. He was often too much in pain to attend to Hope’s cries and so he removed her from the crib and took her into bed next to him, careful to put up extra pillows as made-believe barriers to keep her tiny body from tumbling off the bed.
He had smothered Hope’s head with kisses and whispered against her ears. “I’m not going hunting again.”
Melissa had pointed out to him a couple of times that probably Hope needs a mother. Her smile had been friendly, caring. He had thought of the talk he had with Dean over a year ago in the Impala.
“You remember Sarah? The art chick?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. You should’ve married her when I told you so.”
“Why? Because you have such a wonderful eye for life companions?”
“Uh, yeah. Well, not really life partners. More like chicks, in general. But also, because she knew about what we do and she was still so much into you. That, dude, says a lot.”
As he lie awake, Hope breathing audibly, softly against his chest, he realized what he needed at the moment was actually Dean.
*
“Dean?”
Dean looked up from his laptop. “Hmm?”
“Could I have some tea?”
Dean rolled his eyes but got up and grabbed his jacket. “You’re such a girl, Sammy.”
Sam lifted his head from the pillow, wincing as the blunt pain hit the bottom of his skull. “No. Don’t buy it. Could you make me some? You know, like the ones you make when we were kids whenever I was sick?”
“Okay. I take it back. You’re not a girl. You are, apparently, five.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sick, Dean.”
“You’re having a flu. Not a terminal disease. I would’ve thought a giant like could have an army of antibodies to ward off even cancer.”
“If you didn’t insist we stayed at the river bank all night in the drizzle, I would’ve been fine.”
Dean put on his jacket, heading to the door, pitching his voice higher to resemble a female. “If you didn’t insist we stayed at the river bank…”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, sugar pie. To buy some tea leaves. You want tea, don’t you?”
Sam beamed and nodded eagerly, like he used to do when he was a kid. Dean shook his head shamefully and headed out, mumbling something like “Go back to sleep” in a low voice as if he didn’t want Sam to know he cared that much. Which is absurd because Sam totally knew.
Sam woke up at the sound of a spoon knocking against porcelain and Dean humming. For a second he wanted to laugh but seeing the concerned look on Dean’s face as he settled the mug on the nightstand, all humour was replaced by pure warmth.
“Are you feeling better?”
“A little bit,” he smiled a little and reached out for the tea.
Dean watched as he sipped the hot concoction for a while and let out a satisfying ahh, his head almost clearing right up. The smirk on Dean’s face was more satisfaction rather than boast.
“You’d be lucky if you could find a wife that could brew that kind of a tea, Sammy.”
Sam was silent then, smiling. But now, now he wished he had said his mind.
“Maybe I don’t have to find someone. Maybe I’ll just stick with you.”
*
Hope was babbling now, muttering incoherent jabbers that seemed to tug at Sam’s heart string every single time. She even looked like she could fathom what Sam was saying when he tells her about Dean every morning. Sam had no decent picture of Dean to accompany his tales except one of Dean sleeping that he snapped with Dean’s phone when he was dying with boredom in their motel room three years ago. He was surprised Dean didn’t delete it off his phone but then realized what Dean had probably realized all his life. As attractive as Dean was when he was awake, his good looks somewhat tripled when he was sleeping. Sans the snarky and cocky smirk and vicious determination, Dean’s face was simply…beautiful.
Hope expected her father’s picture every day and her chubby fingers prodded and traced the features on the screen as she listened to Sam describing the glory that is Dean Winchester.
Sam was only half contented. He was worried that Hope would memorize the detail of Dean’s face and remembered him just like that, as an unmoving image that barely justifies what lies underneath. Because he was aware that try as he may, he could never begin to describe how great Dean was with only his words.
Sam thought about the time not long after Dad’s death, when Dean questioned the reason he was spared and Dad was taken instead; believing that he had no right to be alive when he was already dead. Tormenting himself with the notion that Dad had sacrificed his soul to keep him alive.
“Why should I be here instead of him?” Dean had asked between tears.
Sam had thought, “Because I need you more than I need him.” He didn’t say it because he didn’t want to come off as selfish.
Now, as he looked down at Hope, eyes intent on Dean’s sleeping image, tiny perfect mouth jabbering in innocent oblivion, he thought, “This is why you should be here, Dean.”
*
“Sammy Sam Sam…”
The singsong voice grated at Sam’s nerves so much that he could barely concentrate on his face in the mirror, half of it covered with shaving cream. Just yesterday he had cut himself pretty badly when Dean banged on the bathroom door all of a sudden, startling him.
“Quit it, Dean! If you’d wake up earlier than I did you could’ve gone in first!”
“What are you doing in there anyway?” Dean’s tone sounded taunting. “Braiding your hair?”
The door burst open and Sam glared at Dean with half-closed eyes, shaver in his hand and face still covered with cream. Dean pushed past him and grabbed his toothbrush before Sam could stop him. A moment later they were shoulder wrestling, trying to get some space in front of the mirror.
“If you make me cut myself again, I’m going to shave your head in your sleep,” Sam grumbled.
“Now,” Dean huffed, mouth filled with toothpaste froth, “this is why I’ve always wanted a baby sister instead. Girls are nicer in so many ways.”
“What’s so nice about them? They’d take more time in the bathroom anyway.”
“Sammy,” Dean grinned. “If you’re still in the ‘girls-have-cooties-eww!’ stage, you’re even more of a late bloomer than I thought.”
“Shut up.”
Dean stopped brushing and stared at Sam through the mirror. “If ever I’m having kids, I want a girl. It’ll be nice. Plus I get to leave all the The Talk to the missus because no way in hell am I going to endure the torment of discussing about female sexual issues or time of the month or whatever.”
Sam wasn’t sure which he should be more surprised about. The fact that Dean was talking about having a child or about being married. “My, what lucky wife you’re going to have.”
Dean ignored the sarcasm. “I think it’ll be great, you know, to have a girl to really protect and watch over growing into daddy’s perfect little girl instead of taking care of a kid brother who turned out to be a whiny princess who spends a long time in the bathroom shaving when there’s exactly nothing to shave.”
Sam snagged the tooth brush from Dean’s hand and tossed it into the toilet bowl.
“Oh - I definitely want a girl.”
*
Come her third birthday, Hope was able to distinguish between the daddy that Sam was and the daddy in the picture. Come her fourth, she could proudly declare herself lucky for having two daddies. One who doted on her so much, she sometimes believe she was a princess, the one who taught her everything she knew - she was already Latin-literate and reading mythology like fairy tales and another who passed away a true warrior, who already really love her even before she was born. The one she inherited the beauty and snarky genes from, as Sam would put it.
“Daaaaaddddyyyy!!!”
Sam looked up from the papers in his hands. “I’m back here, love!” he hollered back.
Tiny footsteps echoed through the shop and Hope appeared from behind the bookshelf, her cheeks pink from running, Dean’s amulet swinging back and forth around her neck. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Sam smiled, setting his work down. “Who is it, sweetie?”
She shrugged adorably. “I dunno. But she’s very pretty.”
Sam squinted, almost afraid that like everything else, Dean’s view on women was handed down to her. “You know what to do?”
Hope nodded, her pigtails bobbing up and down. “Yes, daddy.”
Sam proceeded to the front of the shop to find Sarah standing next to the cash register, looking as beautiful as he remembered, smiling wide. As soon as he returned her smile, she came forward and enveloped him in her embrace, laughing softly.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she said cheerfully.
Sam was extremely aware of the chill of silver against his neck from her ring finger and thought - Well, that is one Dean’s wish I couldn’t fulfill. “It’s nice to see you too. What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing through. I heard you own a bookstore here and thought I’d drop by and see how you’ve been. Apparently, you’re doing good,” she laughed.
Sam beamed. “Couldn’t complain. How are you doing?”
“Great…I…I’m married,” she grinned, hesitantly raising her hand to flash her wedding ring. “And you?”
Before Sam could answer, Hope came into view, two steaming mugs in her hands. She set both onto the counter and grinned up at the two adults. “Your tea, daddy. Have some tea, ma’am.”
Sarah smiled as she watched the girl clung to Sam’s long legs. Sam hauled Hope up into his arms and smiled back. “Go ahead. She makes awesome tea.” --just like her daddy, he was tempted to add.
Sarah picked up the mug and sipped, all the while gazing at the way Sam was holding the girl against his heart, fingering her dark blond hair lovingly. “Your daughter is amazing.”
Sam grinned, kissing the top of Hope’s head. “She is.”
*
Sam heard the clatter in the kitchen and reached for the knife underneath his work table instinctively. Then he heard a tiny “Oops!” and left the knife where it was, rushing to the kitchen. Hope was standing at the counter in her pink apron, face smothered with flour.
“What happened, baby?”
Hope looked up from the mixing bowl, lips puckered sheepishly. “I thought of baking a cake. It’s Dad’s birthday.”
Dean’s birthday. Sam almost forgot. He passed the girl a smile. “You need any help?”
She grinned, her overgrown bangs prodding her huge green eyes. “Sure.”
“What do you have in mind?” Sam asked, folding his shirt’s sleeves up.
“Mmm…Coffee.”
“He loved coffee,” Sam nodded fondly.
She winked a Dean’s wink. “I know.”
Sam laughed and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“What do you think I should get him, daddy?”
Sam thought - What Dean probably wanted the most was to be here to watch you grow up.
“I don’t know,” Sam pursed his lips. “Why don’t you figure it out yourself?”
That dusk, the sky tinted orange against the horizon, Sam watched as Hope knelt before Dean’s grave, her tiny hands clutching Dean’s amulet against her chest and sporting a smile identical to her father. After a long while, she looked up and her smile widened.
“Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.”
And Sam knew it was the perfect birthday gift, ever.
*
“Hey - you wanted a perfect little daddy’s girl. I’m doing my best.”
“I’m not saying you’re not.”
“What? I’m not complaining, Dean.”
“Riiiightt.” - A roll of eyes.
“I love that girl more than anything in the whole wide world and you know that.”
“You’re wondering why I left you this huge responsibility and you can’t deny it.” - A smug smirk.
“I am not!”
“You’re a lousy liar, Sammy. Don’t let anybody know I was the one teaching you how to hustle.”
“Go away, Dean.”
“You don’t really want me to. Ever. That’s why I’m leaving you with Hope. To get your mind off the past. Off of me. Isn’t it working?” - A soft frown.
“I’d never forget about you and no, it’s not. If anything she’s reminding me more and more of you. She’s the exact replica of you, man. And, I am not complaining.”
“She’s that great, huh? Anyway, you wanna know the real reason you’re stuck with Hope?” - Green eyes widening.
“I am not stuck with her! I’m…she’s…”
“It’s payback for sticking me with whiny, I-won’t-sleep-without-a-lullaby-and-I’d-cry-my-baby-butt-off-until-I-get-one, last-bowl-worth-Lucky-Charms-hogger, pee-in-bed-when-I-was-twelve Sammy.” - A full blown laughter.
Sam woke up to a bright dawn, a smile never leaving his face.
The End
coda
rating: PG; for language
word count: 3254
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar, forever in prank war mode and there'd damn well be hugs.
a/n: gen, in general. wincest if you really squint. sam-centric (which is weirding me out because i'm a total dean girl but i kept on writing in sam's voice, sorta) and also sort-of angsty. a continuation of Hope; which is a continuation of Unsaid. comments and crits would be wonderful. :)
warning: time line is not my thing.
summary: sam tries his best to live the life dean wanted him to, with the little life he left behind.
Start
Dean was way too distracted when Sam had asked him. He was thinking about something, Sam could tell from the waver in his brows and the tightness of the skin around his eyes.
“Dean?”
“Huh.”
“What was my first word?”
Silence commenced, Sam’s eyes focused on the moldy ceiling of the motel room, the lumpy mattress poking at his back. Dean stopped digging around in his duffel and sat at the edge of his bed, near Sam’s feet.
“I think it was ‘Da’. When you were, like, ten months old.”
Sam didn’t want to tell Dean that he had once asked Dad the same question. Or that Dad’s answer was, “I don’t know, Sammy. Now go help your brother load the car. We have to leave now.”
He remembered he was only seven then.
“Was Dad there when I said it?” Sam asked, despite knowing the answer.
Dean sighed, as if he knew exactly where Sam was heading. He refused to address it. “He was out that night. It was just you and me. And I didn’t even realize you said it, I thought it was just one of your non-word jabber until I heard the Impala in the parking lot. I told Dad and he was so excited about it.”
Sam hid the sadness behind his half-smile. “Most people would be very pissed if they missed their child’s first word.”
Dean knew defending Dad would do nothing. “He really was excited. I think it’s because of what you said. I think it meant ‘Dad’.”
Sam gritted his teeth silently. A long moment lapsed.
Sam’s voice was barely audible. “I think I meant ‘Dean’.”
*
If Dean wasn’t so passionate about hunting and probably rubbed it off onto Sam the eighteen plus five years they were together, Sam would’ve quit entirely. Because every single time he had to drop Hope off at Melissa’s and her huge green eyes stared at him, almost begging for adoration, he felt his stomach clenched so hard he almost double over in pain. Every single fucking time. When he walked back to Dean’s Impala - always Dean’s, never his - he’d always cry. Always. He couldn’t even concentrate on the hunt; his mind reeling images of Hope, wondering if she’s getting his juice right; with pulp, just like Dean. Hell - she was so very much like Dean it felt like he was living with his brother again sans the formula-making and diaper-changing and taking-bubble-baths together, which when Sam thought it over felt awkward. He was always grateful for that: that Hope was like the imprint Dean had left behind. But mostly, because he loves the girl more than anything in the whole wide world. As much as he had loved Dean.
It occurred to Sam that even when he passed, Dean managed to give him the normal life he always wanted. Raising Hope was the closest to normal that he could ever have. Waking up in the middle of the night to feed her and rocked her back to sleep, changing her when she fussed, taking her to the doctor when she showed even an inkling of sign of catching something, like any normal parent would do instead of concocting a home remedy and expecting your eldest to nurse a baby as if he was twenty instead of five. Sam realized that memories of Dad, no matter how fond, would always be interlocked with the way he raised them, almost awful. Dean’s memory was all glory. So much so that Sam could not distinguish between the bitter and the sweet whenever he thought about his brother.
There was one time that he thought it was final - he was never ever going on a hunt ever again. He was faced with an enraged spirit in an abandoned factory building. He was used to working alone by then, watching out for his own back, not depending on Dean to do it for him. At first, not a year after Dean’s death, he had heard Dean’s voice in his head every time he’s hunting - warning, reminding him that watch out, Sammy. The bastard’s probably crouching on the beam above your head or you’d want to aim a little lower to strike the heart or when in doubt, always use silver and a little fire, to be safe.
This time, he was distracted. Hope had been throwing tantrums all the way to Melissa’s last night. Sam thought it was a tummy ache. He had told Melissa but he forgot to bring Hope’s sippy cup, the one he always needs to get her to drink her medications. Melissa probably could handle her, had all the experience needed, having three kids of her own. But they weren’t Hope. Sam was so sure if Dean was here he would go, “You’re spoiling her way too much, dude. She’s going to cling to you like super glue.”
“Yeah. As if you didn’t totally treated me the same when we were kids.”
The Dean in his head was smirking. “And look how you’re clinging.”
That’s when the spirit popped out of nowhere and shoved Sam backward, falling over the ledge half a floor down. He had hit an old pile of boxes but he hit his head pretty bad, he was so afraid he’d lost consciousness. His vision cleared just in time for the thing to appear to his left. He shot at it with rock salts and proceeded searching the body, salted and burned it. On the way to Melissa’s his head had throbbed like the vein on his wrist. He put on a bright smile and rang the doorbell. Melissa answered the door with Hope in her arms and his pain numbed immediately as the girl gurgled happily at the sight of his face. Sam declined Melissa’s offer for some coffee, answered her question politely - “The business went smoothly.” - and bid goodbye, pressing Hope so close to his chest he almost squished the little girl. Hope was so used to his huge embrace that she just smashed his face into Sam’s hoodie-covered shoulder, shaking her head from side to side, covering him with saliva.
For three days he felt like his skull was cracked, the fracture breaking bigger and bigger. He thought he was used to headaches, after a couple of years of dealing with painful visions but he had obviously never been pushed half a floor down by a vengeful spirit, having no one - no Dean - to take care of him and on top of it all, has a nine month-old infant to take care of himself. He was often too much in pain to attend to Hope’s cries and so he removed her from the crib and took her into bed next to him, careful to put up extra pillows as made-believe barriers to keep her tiny body from tumbling off the bed.
He had smothered Hope’s head with kisses and whispered against her ears. “I’m not going hunting again.”
Melissa had pointed out to him a couple of times that probably Hope needs a mother. Her smile had been friendly, caring. He had thought of the talk he had with Dean over a year ago in the Impala.
“You remember Sarah? The art chick?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. You should’ve married her when I told you so.”
“Why? Because you have such a wonderful eye for life companions?”
“Uh, yeah. Well, not really life partners. More like chicks, in general. But also, because she knew about what we do and she was still so much into you. That, dude, says a lot.”
As he lie awake, Hope breathing audibly, softly against his chest, he realized what he needed at the moment was actually Dean.
*
“Dean?”
Dean looked up from his laptop. “Hmm?”
“Could I have some tea?”
Dean rolled his eyes but got up and grabbed his jacket. “You’re such a girl, Sammy.”
Sam lifted his head from the pillow, wincing as the blunt pain hit the bottom of his skull. “No. Don’t buy it. Could you make me some? You know, like the ones you make when we were kids whenever I was sick?”
“Okay. I take it back. You’re not a girl. You are, apparently, five.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sick, Dean.”
“You’re having a flu. Not a terminal disease. I would’ve thought a giant like could have an army of antibodies to ward off even cancer.”
“If you didn’t insist we stayed at the river bank all night in the drizzle, I would’ve been fine.”
Dean put on his jacket, heading to the door, pitching his voice higher to resemble a female. “If you didn’t insist we stayed at the river bank…”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, sugar pie. To buy some tea leaves. You want tea, don’t you?”
Sam beamed and nodded eagerly, like he used to do when he was a kid. Dean shook his head shamefully and headed out, mumbling something like “Go back to sleep” in a low voice as if he didn’t want Sam to know he cared that much. Which is absurd because Sam totally knew.
Sam woke up at the sound of a spoon knocking against porcelain and Dean humming. For a second he wanted to laugh but seeing the concerned look on Dean’s face as he settled the mug on the nightstand, all humour was replaced by pure warmth.
“Are you feeling better?”
“A little bit,” he smiled a little and reached out for the tea.
Dean watched as he sipped the hot concoction for a while and let out a satisfying ahh, his head almost clearing right up. The smirk on Dean’s face was more satisfaction rather than boast.
“You’d be lucky if you could find a wife that could brew that kind of a tea, Sammy.”
Sam was silent then, smiling. But now, now he wished he had said his mind.
“Maybe I don’t have to find someone. Maybe I’ll just stick with you.”
*
Hope was babbling now, muttering incoherent jabbers that seemed to tug at Sam’s heart string every single time. She even looked like she could fathom what Sam was saying when he tells her about Dean every morning. Sam had no decent picture of Dean to accompany his tales except one of Dean sleeping that he snapped with Dean’s phone when he was dying with boredom in their motel room three years ago. He was surprised Dean didn’t delete it off his phone but then realized what Dean had probably realized all his life. As attractive as Dean was when he was awake, his good looks somewhat tripled when he was sleeping. Sans the snarky and cocky smirk and vicious determination, Dean’s face was simply…beautiful.
Hope expected her father’s picture every day and her chubby fingers prodded and traced the features on the screen as she listened to Sam describing the glory that is Dean Winchester.
Sam was only half contented. He was worried that Hope would memorize the detail of Dean’s face and remembered him just like that, as an unmoving image that barely justifies what lies underneath. Because he was aware that try as he may, he could never begin to describe how great Dean was with only his words.
Sam thought about the time not long after Dad’s death, when Dean questioned the reason he was spared and Dad was taken instead; believing that he had no right to be alive when he was already dead. Tormenting himself with the notion that Dad had sacrificed his soul to keep him alive.
“Why should I be here instead of him?” Dean had asked between tears.
Sam had thought, “Because I need you more than I need him.” He didn’t say it because he didn’t want to come off as selfish.
Now, as he looked down at Hope, eyes intent on Dean’s sleeping image, tiny perfect mouth jabbering in innocent oblivion, he thought, “This is why you should be here, Dean.”
*
“Sammy Sam Sam…”
The singsong voice grated at Sam’s nerves so much that he could barely concentrate on his face in the mirror, half of it covered with shaving cream. Just yesterday he had cut himself pretty badly when Dean banged on the bathroom door all of a sudden, startling him.
“Quit it, Dean! If you’d wake up earlier than I did you could’ve gone in first!”
“What are you doing in there anyway?” Dean’s tone sounded taunting. “Braiding your hair?”
The door burst open and Sam glared at Dean with half-closed eyes, shaver in his hand and face still covered with cream. Dean pushed past him and grabbed his toothbrush before Sam could stop him. A moment later they were shoulder wrestling, trying to get some space in front of the mirror.
“If you make me cut myself again, I’m going to shave your head in your sleep,” Sam grumbled.
“Now,” Dean huffed, mouth filled with toothpaste froth, “this is why I’ve always wanted a baby sister instead. Girls are nicer in so many ways.”
“What’s so nice about them? They’d take more time in the bathroom anyway.”
“Sammy,” Dean grinned. “If you’re still in the ‘girls-have-cooties-eww!’ stage, you’re even more of a late bloomer than I thought.”
“Shut up.”
Dean stopped brushing and stared at Sam through the mirror. “If ever I’m having kids, I want a girl. It’ll be nice. Plus I get to leave all the The Talk to the missus because no way in hell am I going to endure the torment of discussing about female sexual issues or time of the month or whatever.”
Sam wasn’t sure which he should be more surprised about. The fact that Dean was talking about having a child or about being married. “My, what lucky wife you’re going to have.”
Dean ignored the sarcasm. “I think it’ll be great, you know, to have a girl to really protect and watch over growing into daddy’s perfect little girl instead of taking care of a kid brother who turned out to be a whiny princess who spends a long time in the bathroom shaving when there’s exactly nothing to shave.”
Sam snagged the tooth brush from Dean’s hand and tossed it into the toilet bowl.
“Oh - I definitely want a girl.”
*
Come her third birthday, Hope was able to distinguish between the daddy that Sam was and the daddy in the picture. Come her fourth, she could proudly declare herself lucky for having two daddies. One who doted on her so much, she sometimes believe she was a princess, the one who taught her everything she knew - she was already Latin-literate and reading mythology like fairy tales and another who passed away a true warrior, who already really love her even before she was born. The one she inherited the beauty and snarky genes from, as Sam would put it.
“Daaaaaddddyyyy!!!”
Sam looked up from the papers in his hands. “I’m back here, love!” he hollered back.
Tiny footsteps echoed through the shop and Hope appeared from behind the bookshelf, her cheeks pink from running, Dean’s amulet swinging back and forth around her neck. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Sam smiled, setting his work down. “Who is it, sweetie?”
She shrugged adorably. “I dunno. But she’s very pretty.”
Sam squinted, almost afraid that like everything else, Dean’s view on women was handed down to her. “You know what to do?”
Hope nodded, her pigtails bobbing up and down. “Yes, daddy.”
Sam proceeded to the front of the shop to find Sarah standing next to the cash register, looking as beautiful as he remembered, smiling wide. As soon as he returned her smile, she came forward and enveloped him in her embrace, laughing softly.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she said cheerfully.
Sam was extremely aware of the chill of silver against his neck from her ring finger and thought - Well, that is one Dean’s wish I couldn’t fulfill. “It’s nice to see you too. What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing through. I heard you own a bookstore here and thought I’d drop by and see how you’ve been. Apparently, you’re doing good,” she laughed.
Sam beamed. “Couldn’t complain. How are you doing?”
“Great…I…I’m married,” she grinned, hesitantly raising her hand to flash her wedding ring. “And you?”
Before Sam could answer, Hope came into view, two steaming mugs in her hands. She set both onto the counter and grinned up at the two adults. “Your tea, daddy. Have some tea, ma’am.”
Sarah smiled as she watched the girl clung to Sam’s long legs. Sam hauled Hope up into his arms and smiled back. “Go ahead. She makes awesome tea.” --just like her daddy, he was tempted to add.
Sarah picked up the mug and sipped, all the while gazing at the way Sam was holding the girl against his heart, fingering her dark blond hair lovingly. “Your daughter is amazing.”
Sam grinned, kissing the top of Hope’s head. “She is.”
*
Sam heard the clatter in the kitchen and reached for the knife underneath his work table instinctively. Then he heard a tiny “Oops!” and left the knife where it was, rushing to the kitchen. Hope was standing at the counter in her pink apron, face smothered with flour.
“What happened, baby?”
Hope looked up from the mixing bowl, lips puckered sheepishly. “I thought of baking a cake. It’s Dad’s birthday.”
Dean’s birthday. Sam almost forgot. He passed the girl a smile. “You need any help?”
She grinned, her overgrown bangs prodding her huge green eyes. “Sure.”
“What do you have in mind?” Sam asked, folding his shirt’s sleeves up.
“Mmm…Coffee.”
“He loved coffee,” Sam nodded fondly.
She winked a Dean’s wink. “I know.”
Sam laughed and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“What do you think I should get him, daddy?”
Sam thought - What Dean probably wanted the most was to be here to watch you grow up.
“I don’t know,” Sam pursed his lips. “Why don’t you figure it out yourself?”
That dusk, the sky tinted orange against the horizon, Sam watched as Hope knelt before Dean’s grave, her tiny hands clutching Dean’s amulet against her chest and sporting a smile identical to her father. After a long while, she looked up and her smile widened.
“Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.”
And Sam knew it was the perfect birthday gift, ever.
*
“Hey - you wanted a perfect little daddy’s girl. I’m doing my best.”
“I’m not saying you’re not.”
“What? I’m not complaining, Dean.”
“Riiiightt.” - A roll of eyes.
“I love that girl more than anything in the whole wide world and you know that.”
“You’re wondering why I left you this huge responsibility and you can’t deny it.” - A smug smirk.
“I am not!”
“You’re a lousy liar, Sammy. Don’t let anybody know I was the one teaching you how to hustle.”
“Go away, Dean.”
“You don’t really want me to. Ever. That’s why I’m leaving you with Hope. To get your mind off the past. Off of me. Isn’t it working?” - A soft frown.
“I’d never forget about you and no, it’s not. If anything she’s reminding me more and more of you. She’s the exact replica of you, man. And, I am not complaining.”
“She’s that great, huh? Anyway, you wanna know the real reason you’re stuck with Hope?” - Green eyes widening.
“I am not stuck with her! I’m…she’s…”
“It’s payback for sticking me with whiny, I-won’t-sleep-without-a-lullaby-and-I’d-cry-my-baby-butt-off-until-I-get-one, last-bowl-worth-Lucky-Charms-hogger, pee-in-bed-when-I-was-twelve Sammy.” - A full blown laughter.
Sam woke up to a bright dawn, a smile never leaving his face.
The End
coda