[Born Again Verse] 2. Liquid Gold
Author's Notes: I'm so sorry for how long it took to post this!
I guess I should say preemptively that I am a slow ass. Gomen.
• Masterlist
← Previous Chapter (ramble on)
"How is he?" Lisa asks.
The house is quiet for now. Sam is laying in the crease of Dean's elbow, eyes shut gently but still flicking behind his eyelids, but he's at least fed and cleaned up and not screaming like Satan is peeling his fingernails off (he remembers that, Dean thinks, some part of his spirit remembers). It's nearly sunrise outside and they all three look pretty fucked up; he glances up at Lisa and isn't pleased by the weariness that looks back. "He's sleepin'. Unlike you. You should... you don't have t'stay up for me, Lis. You've done plenty tonight, okay?"
But she shakes her head, giving his thigh a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to tell me twice. But I'm here with you, Dean. I don't think I could sleep now, anyway." She's nervous as hell and shaken by Castiel and Sam, that much is obvious. Still, she simply purses her lips and nods, more than willing to accept this all as anything but a dream. "So... what now? Do - " A breath. "Dean, if you want him to... stay here with us... You know I wouldn't care."
The genuine albeit thin smile she gives him is telling enough that she means it. Dean pictures it: Ben coming home to a kid brother in complete confusion, Lisa trying to be the mother Sammy never had, Dean pretending he's Sam's father - and would that really be very different from a long, long time ago? They would be a good family, just like they were to Dean. They'd love Sam. Who couldn't love Sam, young or older? The kid radiated compassion and understanding, or he was that bratty younger brother who was just as good at teasing people, both of which Dean needed like it was a goddamn food pyramid. He puts a hand on Sam's forehead and Sam twitches, breathing hitching just a little. Then he calms slowly.
"... I don't know. I gotta try to fix him first, though. Cas said - he's still got all these problems in his head. Or with his soul. I can't just let him sit in that; it's hard enough as an adult to deal with the stuff Sam probably has going on right now. So if I can get him back to his old self, I gotta do that first." And Lisa nods at him like it's the easiest thing in the world to comprehend, because she knows more than most in the world that it's completely logical. Logical that a man burns in hell, comes out of hell, ends up an infant, a honest-to-god infant with bright, scared eyes.
"I wouldn't want him to. Suffer, I mean. He's a good person," she says, very softly.
Dean bites his lip. "I'm sorry, Lisa. I'll try to be quick, get this all... figured out." A silence falls over them, because Lisa has mastered the art of telling when Dean has plenty more to say but not enough bravado to say it all in one breath. "You'd be good for him. You really would, too, because... Sam's always wanted that. I never really cared about what he wanted before; not like that, not what made him happiest, what was best for him. I mean, I cared if people hurt him... I wanted to protect him, keep him safe and secure. I guess just... somewhere in that, I kinda - forgot it's not just about protecting someone physically."
When he's sighs, it's a wet and shaky exhale.
"I was so wrapped up in my job and wanting to, to protect that small family I got pieced together, I didn't accept any other kinda' joy other than the ones in my rule book. I hated when he went to college, you know? I practically spit venom at him for trying to be what he wanted. I always told myself I wanted him to be happy, but I - I blamed him for wanting things everyone had a right to, like a Thanksgiving, or some damn soccer tournament. I can't do that this time." He glances at her, and she's giving him that damn look that reminds him of Sam, all sympathy and within judgement and so damn loving that it makes his heart clench. "Whether I get him back to normal or not, I can't lose him again. Not to Hell. Not to myself, either."
"You're good to Ben. You're good to me."
She puts a hand on his hand, his palm pressed softly over Sam's abdomen. It's warm and everything Dean's ever wanted to keep guarded. It's memories from a four-year-old that won't go away, even decades later. It's home.
"You'll make it work," she says, and kisses his forehead.
"... I'm sorry..."
"I know."
He's aware that what she is doing is exercising her ability to let him slip away.
***
He drives for hours, pulls over sometimes to comfort Sammy when he starts screaming at the ceiling of the car, like he's 22 and his life is all over again. He can only feel guilty in his relief, knowing Sam isn't big enough to struggle and push back when Dean's there to try to ground him in reality. Every one-sided conversation he has with this Sam is both a relic and a curse, something to celebrate and something to remind him the old ways are buried six feet deep now.
"Come on, Sammy, what kind of girl will be into a guy who poops on himself."
"Stop being a prissy little bitch and take your binky."
"It's okay, It's okay. It'll be okay - I'm here. God, Sam, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to be what you need. I can't fix this yet, but I'm tryin', man, I swear - "
"You ever tell anyone I'm going under the speed limit and I'm cutting off your baby powder supply."
And of course, so sweetly:
"... Hey, little big man? If I play your frou-frou music, promise not to throw up on the seats again until we make it to Bobby's? Don't make me have to kick you out of the car."
He never kicks Sam out of the car, none of the three times.
As it turns out, perspective is a bitch. Now that he's not four and gullible, has had a taste of what a child's usual life amounts to, he's starting to become one of those freaks who actually looks at what kind of motel room they purchase before they stay in it. He turns down three motels until he finds this one; the first is too rowdy, too loud, the second definitely has bedbugs, and the third - well, the fact that he probably would leave his shoes on in the shower really says something about what the rest of it amounted to. Eventually, though, there's one with shaggy but clean carpeting, decent A/C, and a television with more than three workable channels. Which is still just him finally old enough now to know what constituted for a decent living space for a child (John particularly didn't, and Dean lived and learned; trial and error and Doritos and a mopey little brother). The old clock on the wall reads 1:14 in the morning as he rocks the squirming infant in his arms with easy caution. He's tired, so fucking tired, and he fishes for the duffel full of baby supplies in the delirious hopes that a warm, full bottle with magically materialize in his hand -
Right. Those are self-made.
He wanders about, making good use of the cheap coffee machine while Sam's chubby cheek presses against his shoulder, his sobs eddying into small hiccups. In the short moment of stillness, he closes his eyes, soaks in the small body's heat and breathes in unison with him. With it there's a dizzying and unreal peace (Jesus, Christ, he's alive, they're both here), and then he runs a hand over the back of the child's tiny head. "There you go... Almost ready to grub, kiddo, you're fine... you're just fine." A small hand curls in the collar of his t-shirt in response. Dean has to adjust them both for meal time, sitting down on the edge of the bed, but he manages to slip the nipple of the bottle into the baby's mouth without getting an earful. Sam was never much of an eater, but apparently size is relative in his case: the older he got, the smaller his portions. It's a complication only Sam would bring to the table (instead of food).
He stares down and watches patiently. Yeah, he remembers this face.
Cute, always got what it wanted, always had that intense focused expression when Dean had looked down into it. Weak arms flail eagerly and the bottle's contents start to drain away.
He smiles fondly. "Liquid gold, am I right, Sammy?"
Though, the problem wasn't particularly feeding him; it was making sure he kept it all back down. It was actually a little nerve-wracking, because he didn't remember Sammy puking it all up like this before. He didn't remember it being such a struggle, and there's suddenly a very real fear that maybe the kid's body isn't functioning right anymore. Even if he looks healthy, Castiel had brought him back without really knowing what he was doing, right? What if his stomach was fucked up or his throat didn't gulp properly or - Christ, he doesn't know, he's not a pediatrician here. He just cleans up the mess and ignores the complaints from next door about his crying kid, fills one more bottle and swears to fucking god he'll be the best person on earth if he can just get his brother to keep a few ounces down.
When some of the milk seems to settle and his brother is wet-eyed but appeased, Dean finally lays his head down into the pillow beside his brother, swishing the bottle around. Sam is watching him, has his big ol' brainiac head turned so that he watches Dean's every movement. Little fingers curl and uncurl so much that Dean cuts him some slack and gives him a tiny bag of chips to swing around while he's looking at Dean like he'd genuinely trust him with all the secrets of the world or something.
Instead of his usual beer, Dean takes a swig out of the baby bottle in blind curiosity and coughs and sputters.
"I take it back. This isn't golden at all."
When he looks back at Sam, Sam's smiling, all gums and crescent-shaped eyes.
It steals all the funny punchlines right out of him. He's not sure if it's Sam mocking him from some place far, far away ("Dean, you're still an idiot," would be the dialogue), or if it's Sammy laughing at the strange man's funny noises while he drinks his milk; hell, maybe it's Sam passing gas for all he knows. But either way, it's the best thing he's seen in a long, long, long time. He spends the next hour making faces and relishing the sound of Sam of cooing while he grins. He also tells him all about his new construction job and plays him some of the stuff from the radio Sam missed out on, and he talks about Ben and the kids next door and how the couple across the street totally had a little girl, if Sam starts looking out for chicks young. He mentions this one movie that is like, holy crap, so good - and he says, "When we get you back to being the size of a house again, we can see it. But not now. Rated R, and all that. And don't even bring up that time I snuck you into the theater; man, you didn't sleep without a shotgun for, like, a week. Between you and me, I didn't sleep without one either."
He talks, and Sam just listens.
It won't last, because in a few hours Sam will scream at the walls while the sun's fixing to rise, but for now Dean curls in close, a moon curled around the sun. And when Sam inevitably jerks awake, limbs rigid and eyes roaming the dark room for horrors that he can't even remember or comprehend, Dean will be there.
I guess I should say preemptively that I am a slow ass. Gomen.
• Masterlist
← Previous Chapter (ramble on)
"How is he?" Lisa asks.
The house is quiet for now. Sam is laying in the crease of Dean's elbow, eyes shut gently but still flicking behind his eyelids, but he's at least fed and cleaned up and not screaming like Satan is peeling his fingernails off (he remembers that, Dean thinks, some part of his spirit remembers). It's nearly sunrise outside and they all three look pretty fucked up; he glances up at Lisa and isn't pleased by the weariness that looks back. "He's sleepin'. Unlike you. You should... you don't have t'stay up for me, Lis. You've done plenty tonight, okay?"
But she shakes her head, giving his thigh a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to tell me twice. But I'm here with you, Dean. I don't think I could sleep now, anyway." She's nervous as hell and shaken by Castiel and Sam, that much is obvious. Still, she simply purses her lips and nods, more than willing to accept this all as anything but a dream. "So... what now? Do - " A breath. "Dean, if you want him to... stay here with us... You know I wouldn't care."
The genuine albeit thin smile she gives him is telling enough that she means it. Dean pictures it: Ben coming home to a kid brother in complete confusion, Lisa trying to be the mother Sammy never had, Dean pretending he's Sam's father - and would that really be very different from a long, long time ago? They would be a good family, just like they were to Dean. They'd love Sam. Who couldn't love Sam, young or older? The kid radiated compassion and understanding, or he was that bratty younger brother who was just as good at teasing people, both of which Dean needed like it was a goddamn food pyramid. He puts a hand on Sam's forehead and Sam twitches, breathing hitching just a little. Then he calms slowly.
"... I don't know. I gotta try to fix him first, though. Cas said - he's still got all these problems in his head. Or with his soul. I can't just let him sit in that; it's hard enough as an adult to deal with the stuff Sam probably has going on right now. So if I can get him back to his old self, I gotta do that first." And Lisa nods at him like it's the easiest thing in the world to comprehend, because she knows more than most in the world that it's completely logical. Logical that a man burns in hell, comes out of hell, ends up an infant, a honest-to-god infant with bright, scared eyes.
"I wouldn't want him to. Suffer, I mean. He's a good person," she says, very softly.
Dean bites his lip. "I'm sorry, Lisa. I'll try to be quick, get this all... figured out." A silence falls over them, because Lisa has mastered the art of telling when Dean has plenty more to say but not enough bravado to say it all in one breath. "You'd be good for him. You really would, too, because... Sam's always wanted that. I never really cared about what he wanted before; not like that, not what made him happiest, what was best for him. I mean, I cared if people hurt him... I wanted to protect him, keep him safe and secure. I guess just... somewhere in that, I kinda - forgot it's not just about protecting someone physically."
When he's sighs, it's a wet and shaky exhale.
"I was so wrapped up in my job and wanting to, to protect that small family I got pieced together, I didn't accept any other kinda' joy other than the ones in my rule book. I hated when he went to college, you know? I practically spit venom at him for trying to be what he wanted. I always told myself I wanted him to be happy, but I - I blamed him for wanting things everyone had a right to, like a Thanksgiving, or some damn soccer tournament. I can't do that this time." He glances at her, and she's giving him that damn look that reminds him of Sam, all sympathy and within judgement and so damn loving that it makes his heart clench. "Whether I get him back to normal or not, I can't lose him again. Not to Hell. Not to myself, either."
"You're good to Ben. You're good to me."
She puts a hand on his hand, his palm pressed softly over Sam's abdomen. It's warm and everything Dean's ever wanted to keep guarded. It's memories from a four-year-old that won't go away, even decades later. It's home.
"You'll make it work," she says, and kisses his forehead.
"... I'm sorry..."
"I know."
He's aware that what she is doing is exercising her ability to let him slip away.
***
He drives for hours, pulls over sometimes to comfort Sammy when he starts screaming at the ceiling of the car, like he's 22 and his life is all over again. He can only feel guilty in his relief, knowing Sam isn't big enough to struggle and push back when Dean's there to try to ground him in reality. Every one-sided conversation he has with this Sam is both a relic and a curse, something to celebrate and something to remind him the old ways are buried six feet deep now.
"Come on, Sammy, what kind of girl will be into a guy who poops on himself."
"Stop being a prissy little bitch and take your binky."
"It's okay, It's okay. It'll be okay - I'm here. God, Sam, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to be what you need. I can't fix this yet, but I'm tryin', man, I swear - "
"You ever tell anyone I'm going under the speed limit and I'm cutting off your baby powder supply."
And of course, so sweetly:
"... Hey, little big man? If I play your frou-frou music, promise not to throw up on the seats again until we make it to Bobby's? Don't make me have to kick you out of the car."
He never kicks Sam out of the car, none of the three times.
As it turns out, perspective is a bitch. Now that he's not four and gullible, has had a taste of what a child's usual life amounts to, he's starting to become one of those freaks who actually looks at what kind of motel room they purchase before they stay in it. He turns down three motels until he finds this one; the first is too rowdy, too loud, the second definitely has bedbugs, and the third - well, the fact that he probably would leave his shoes on in the shower really says something about what the rest of it amounted to. Eventually, though, there's one with shaggy but clean carpeting, decent A/C, and a television with more than three workable channels. Which is still just him finally old enough now to know what constituted for a decent living space for a child (John particularly didn't, and Dean lived and learned; trial and error and Doritos and a mopey little brother). The old clock on the wall reads 1:14 in the morning as he rocks the squirming infant in his arms with easy caution. He's tired, so fucking tired, and he fishes for the duffel full of baby supplies in the delirious hopes that a warm, full bottle with magically materialize in his hand -
Right. Those are self-made.
He wanders about, making good use of the cheap coffee machine while Sam's chubby cheek presses against his shoulder, his sobs eddying into small hiccups. In the short moment of stillness, he closes his eyes, soaks in the small body's heat and breathes in unison with him. With it there's a dizzying and unreal peace (Jesus, Christ, he's alive, they're both here), and then he runs a hand over the back of the child's tiny head. "There you go... Almost ready to grub, kiddo, you're fine... you're just fine." A small hand curls in the collar of his t-shirt in response. Dean has to adjust them both for meal time, sitting down on the edge of the bed, but he manages to slip the nipple of the bottle into the baby's mouth without getting an earful. Sam was never much of an eater, but apparently size is relative in his case: the older he got, the smaller his portions. It's a complication only Sam would bring to the table (instead of food).
He stares down and watches patiently. Yeah, he remembers this face.
Cute, always got what it wanted, always had that intense focused expression when Dean had looked down into it. Weak arms flail eagerly and the bottle's contents start to drain away.
He smiles fondly. "Liquid gold, am I right, Sammy?"
Though, the problem wasn't particularly feeding him; it was making sure he kept it all back down. It was actually a little nerve-wracking, because he didn't remember Sammy puking it all up like this before. He didn't remember it being such a struggle, and there's suddenly a very real fear that maybe the kid's body isn't functioning right anymore. Even if he looks healthy, Castiel had brought him back without really knowing what he was doing, right? What if his stomach was fucked up or his throat didn't gulp properly or - Christ, he doesn't know, he's not a pediatrician here. He just cleans up the mess and ignores the complaints from next door about his crying kid, fills one more bottle and swears to fucking god he'll be the best person on earth if he can just get his brother to keep a few ounces down.
When some of the milk seems to settle and his brother is wet-eyed but appeased, Dean finally lays his head down into the pillow beside his brother, swishing the bottle around. Sam is watching him, has his big ol' brainiac head turned so that he watches Dean's every movement. Little fingers curl and uncurl so much that Dean cuts him some slack and gives him a tiny bag of chips to swing around while he's looking at Dean like he'd genuinely trust him with all the secrets of the world or something.
Instead of his usual beer, Dean takes a swig out of the baby bottle in blind curiosity and coughs and sputters.
"I take it back. This isn't golden at all."
When he looks back at Sam, Sam's smiling, all gums and crescent-shaped eyes.
It steals all the funny punchlines right out of him. He's not sure if it's Sam mocking him from some place far, far away ("Dean, you're still an idiot," would be the dialogue), or if it's Sammy laughing at the strange man's funny noises while he drinks his milk; hell, maybe it's Sam passing gas for all he knows. But either way, it's the best thing he's seen in a long, long, long time. He spends the next hour making faces and relishing the sound of Sam of cooing while he grins. He also tells him all about his new construction job and plays him some of the stuff from the radio Sam missed out on, and he talks about Ben and the kids next door and how the couple across the street totally had a little girl, if Sam starts looking out for chicks young. He mentions this one movie that is like, holy crap, so good - and he says, "When we get you back to being the size of a house again, we can see it. But not now. Rated R, and all that. And don't even bring up that time I snuck you into the theater; man, you didn't sleep without a shotgun for, like, a week. Between you and me, I didn't sleep without one either."
He talks, and Sam just listens.
It won't last, because in a few hours Sam will scream at the walls while the sun's fixing to rise, but for now Dean curls in close, a moon curled around the sun. And when Sam inevitably jerks awake, limbs rigid and eyes roaming the dark room for horrors that he can't even remember or comprehend, Dean will be there.