(no subject)
The Miseducation of Sam Winchester
Summary
Length
Lilith was untrackable. Demons weren’t talking, and neither were the hunters. Sam went back to Bobby’s and climbed inside of a bottle. He wasn’t sure if he was welcome, but Bobby merely unpacked his things in the room he always slept in and put the keys to the Impala on the rack next to his own. Sam stayed because he knew he knew he would kill himself anywhere else, and knew Bobby would watch him. They passed like ghosts in his South Dakota compound, drinking enough to maintain the blanket numbness that came with intoxication. It didn't kill the pain, but smothered it, pushing it down to a radiating throb.
One hot, June day, Bobby came in Sam's room. The younger man was tracing designs in the dust on the windowsill. Sam hadn’t showered in a week, hadn’t shaved in two, and hadn’t spoken since they buried Dean. Bobby’s clothes were ironed. His beard was trimmed. He smelled of toothpaste and aftershave. Wordlessly, he hauled Sam off the floor and shoved him into the shower with his clothes on. Sam glared at him as the warm water soaked through his clothes. Bobby's movements were jerky and deliberate like he was prepared for a fight, but his eyes were red-rimmed and incredibly sad.
"We're going out for a good meal. One that ain’t 80 proof." He announced. Bobby took the bottle from him. "Get cleaned up." It took much energy to protest, so he caught the bar of soap Bobby tossed to him and wiggled out of his shirt.
Sam managed to shower and shave his thick beard without thinking too hard. He put on the clothes Bobby had laid out for him and even brushed his hair. He walked out into the kitchen that Bobby cleaned. He’d piled the dozens of liquor bottles in the recycling bin, washed all of the dishes, and even put a fucking bowl of fruit on the table.
Bobby stuffed his hands in his pockets when Sam eyed him accusingly. "I'm not makin' you do anything you ain't ready for, but if I let this take hold of me, it won't let go, Sam. This isn’t what Dean wanted."
Without Dean, the world was just a bitter display of smiling, ignorant faces that Sam didn't understand and didn’t want to waste his time saving. Dean should have been revered as a king or a saint, but instead he was buried illegally, rotting in a shoddy pine box. He regarded Bobby, quietly, and wondered when they got so disconnected, and why it made him angry.
Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. “Got nothin’ to say, Sam? It’s been weeks. I know you’re in there.”
Sam rolled his lips into this mouth in an obstinate refusal.
Bobby’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t know how. "You are one stubborn sonofabitch, you know that?" He clapped Sam on the back and wrestled him into a hug. Sam let him, but his arms dangled at his sides. “It’s okay to let it get better, kid.”
Bobby held on, and Sam let him as long as he could stand to be touched, then wrenched away when the grief started to seep out, overpowering his inebriation. Sam handed Bobby the keys to the Impala. Sam sat in the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and pretended Dean was driving.
They ate at a surprisingly nice steakhouse and were served by a waitress who knew Bobby by name. Bobby ordered Sam a rib-eye that came on a sizzling plate with lots of onions, peppers and butter. It looked good, but tasted like cardboard. Sam ate it, though, to appease Bobby. Bobby talked through the entire meal about his wife, the life he had before he was a hunter, the bizarre lack of demonic omens, even his hobby of metalwork. Sam half-listened, but mostly stared out the window. It was a yellow Dakota day where the heat of the summer dried up the humidity and the blowing breeze ruffled the trees and made the air smell green. It was the type of day Dean would have loved. Cotton hummed passed the window and dotted the black paint of the Impala. The only snow I like is cottonwood. Summer snow, Sammy, that’s better than this winter shit. Goosebumps bloomed over Sam’s arms as Dean’s voice rang again out in his head like a divine bell, dragging Sam into the memory.
“The only snow I like is cottonwood. Summer snow, Sammy, that’s better than this winter shit.” He leaned forward to wipe the frost off the windshield of the Impala. Her forty-year old heater was unmatched against a Northern Michigan cold.
Dean grumbled as he gripped the wheel of the Impala with both hands, trying to navigate through the worst snowstorm Sam had ever seen. The winter sky glowed a pale pink, churning out crisp white snow. The unplowed roads held about a foot of it that clogged the undercarriage of the Impala and made the heavy boat of a car skid and slip. They’d already pushed it out of a ditch once.
They had just celebrated Christmas and Dean had the debaucherous idea to head up to Canada and ring in his last New Year blazed on infamously strong Canadian grass.
“Dean…” Sam started cautiously.
“Shuddup, Sam,” Dean took his hand off the wheel long enough to punch him in the thigh. “I’m pulling over as soon as I see any kind of motel. My baby doesn’t need to be out in this weather.” Dean patted the steering wheel lovingly.
Sam grinned from the passenger seat. “That’s so sweet of you, but I’m okay. I have a coat.”
“Sorry, Sammy, you’re not my type. I only like ‘em with high beams and lots o’ horsepower,” Dean boasted.
Sam made a disgusted face. “I know you’re not talking about the car.”
They bickered and teased each other for thirteen treacherous miles until they turned into the Tundra Inn, a cheesy winter-themed motel that boasted “roasty-toasty heat” and “all-you-can-drink cocoa.” They checked into the biggest room they had, which was an explosion of blues (navy blue bedspreads, powder blue lamps, electric blue shag), icicle lights and frightening Jack Frosts on the light switches and shower curtains.
They darted outside, into the howling wind and subzero temperatures, for a snowball fight--a Winchester tradition when they were kids. The years in California greatly diminished Sam’s snowball-making skills, but his long legs helped him navigate in the two feet of snow that covered the ground. It was invigorating and incredibly stupid to tramp around in a blizzard, but Sam didn’t care. He watched Dean, hollering in the cold, red in the face, and laughing exuberently, like he did when he was nine, and he tried to burn the memory in his brain, file it away, so he could remember what Dean wore, the feel of the ice on his face, the steam rising off the Impala, if Dean died.
Dean hit him square in the face with a snowball. Sam sputtered, blinking the ice of his eyes and tackled Dean to the ground. He scooped the snow around Dean, pushing it down his coat, laughing the entire time.
“You’re such a bitch. I have snow in places snow should never be!”
Sam heaved more snow at him and flopped on his back. The sky was darker, a black slate against comets of white.
“It’s pretty,” Dean admitted like he could hear Sam’s thoughts. “It’d be prettier if I was stoned, but it’ll do.”
Sam chuckled and climbed to his feet. “I’m going in. I can’t feel…anything,” his nose was numb and he really wished he had a hat.
Dean followed him. “There’s a bucket of cocoa with my name on it.”
Sam and Dean passed a woman on the way back to the room. She was short and had full, round face wearing nothing but a gray sweatshirt and enough eyeliner and black lipstick to paint the Impala. Her long black hair was a flat black striped with purple and blue from cheap hair dye. Sam didn't miss the roundness of her belly, but Dean wa too busy leering at her cleavage to notice. Dean took his time unlocking the door to the room, making sure she wasn’t outside for long. Months away from his own death, Dean was still protective of strangers. She tried to open the door to her room, right next to theirs, but the it wouldn’t budge.
“Hey, Paul Bunyan, little help?”
Dean snorted behind him and opened his own door. “That one is all yours, Sammy.”
“Too much horsepower?” Sam called over his shoulder.
He smiled at the girl as she handed him the keys. “Nice weather, huh?”
“Downright tropical. No offense but the door…”
“Oh yeah, sure.” Sam unlocked it and heaved his body against the door. The ice in the jam splintered and it popped open. “There ya go.”
The woman bounded into the room without a word of gratitude. Her teeth were chattered and she had no luggage. Sam’s bleeding heart got the better of him and he took off his coat and tossed it on the bed. "Happy New Year."
She looked at him with shadowed eyes that were pale gray in disbelief as she immediately pulled it on. “Thanks.”
Sam and Dean drank their weight in cocoa, feasting on the donuts from the last gas station and rang in the new year with a whiskey toast, forced smiles and loaded silence. They went to bed, warm and sated by sugar. Hours later, something jerked Sam into consciousness. His heart pounded and he reached under his pillow to grip his switchblade. Dean snored in his bed, cocooned in all of the extra blankets he’d won in poker. The television was a quiet drone in the background. The snow still raged outside. Sam heard muffled grunts, the tell-tale curl of pain through the thin walls. He climbed out of bed, cursing at the chill on the floor and crossed the blue shag. He went into the bathroom and listened. When he heard it again, it echoed off the checkered blue tile. Sam darted to the door and stuffed his feet into his boots.
“Sam…” Dean called as a warning. He heard the click of him cocking his gun beneath the covers.
Sam pulled his own gun out from under his pillow. "Listen."
She cried out again. Dean’s green eyes widened. “Oh.” Dean rolled out of bed and dressed quickly.
They headed outside and were clobbered by arctic wind and stinging snow. “Son of a bitch!” Sam flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt and trampled through the tornadoes of snowflakes. The Jack Frost thermometer read -14 degrees.
He rapped on the door with a closed fist, gun at the ready. “It’s…um, Paul Bunyan,” Sam frowned. Dean seemed amused. “You okay?”
There was no answer. Dean tried to steal a glance into the room through the window, but the shades were drawn. The girl inside remained silent, and Dean motioned that they just should go back to bed. When she screamed again, he didn’t hesitate to kick in the door and both of them, guns cocked, powered inside. Neither Winchester were prepared for what they discovered. The young woman was crouched in the powder blue bathtub, a coiled belt between her teeth, red-faced and drenched with sweat. Her pants were tossed over the toilet. The crimson of blood smeared on the sides of the tub and the walls. Her hands were cupped around the same round belly Sam noticed earlier, the belly he’d written off as freshman fifteen.
She panted between clenched teeth and shielded her pregnant belly from the weapons.
“W-what's wrong?" Sam stammered, at the same time Dean hollered, “WE’RE COPS!”
He set his gun down on the dresser. His eyes were wide and he seemed unsure of what to do. He seemed…scared.
“You can’t be that stupid,” the girl scowled at Sam’s question.
Sam turned to his brother. “Dean...she needs help.”
Dean’s eyes flared to a comical size. “Unless her name is Rosemary, we can’t help her!” He snapped in a whisper.
She clutched her stomach over the thin tee shirt and as another wave of pain attacked. Dean shoved Sam towards the bathroom, flailing his arms and backing away. Sam cursed under his breath and inched closer. Her legs buckled and Sam sprang forward. He supported her, arm around her waist, hand on her belly. Sam gasped in horrified awe as her belly hardened and tightened, quite literally contracting beneath his fingers. “Holy..."
Dean stood in the threshold, hand over his eyes. Sam threw a bar of soap at him. It smacked it on the shoulder and he took his hand away, wincing. "Hello...go get help! Go find ANYONE!”
She was having her baby alone in a dirty bathtub, and from the pregnancy books scattered on the floor, it looked like she planned it that way. The heavy make-up had masked her young, delicate features. She couldn't have been more than sixteen.
“I thought you guys were cops...”
“Uh, yeah, but we’re definitely not trained for this. You need real help.”
The girl panted raggedly. “I need this thing out of me!”
She collapsed on the edge of the tub, head in her hands, and that’s when Sam noticed she wasn’t wearing any underwear. He slapped a hand over his eyes when he saw the pink between her legs rimmed with hair.
The girl snorted a hoarse laugh, her pain seemingly gone. “You two act like you’ve never seen a naked girl before…” she trailed off. “Wait, have you? Is that guy your boyfriend?”
Sam cocked his head over his shoulder. “He’s my brother.”
“Oh, okay. What’s your name?”
“I’m Sam, the other guy is Dean.”
Dean poked his head in the bathroom. Dean had swapped his short-lived panic for giddiness. “I went to the front desk. Apparently this happens a lot at the wonderful Tundra Inn, and they sent someone down the hill to get the Earl, the vet, because of the storm, it may take some time.”
“Vet?”
“Apparently, he’s a midwife too. Smalltown, America, there’s nothing like it.”
“What the hell do we do until then?”
Dean’s eyes were laughing. “Boil some water and rip up some sheets? The lady at the desk said this can take hours and hours.”
She whimpered. “Fantastic.”
He craned his neck to peer into the bathroom. “What’s your name, sugar?”
“Maribelle, Mary,” she said.
Sam and Dean shared a wistful glance. “Well, Mary,” Dean said. “Why don’t we get you out of that tub and start waiting, huh?”
Dean swept Mary into his arms without a word. He would never admit it, but he loved rescuing the damsel. Mary didn’t seem to mind either. Her pain was gone, and she was clearly thrilled with Dean’s manly strength and easy charm. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean ate up the attention. That was, until Mary’s water broke, a steady trickle on Dean’s stocking feet. Mary promptly climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her face, mortified.
Sam laughed until his stomach ached.
Dean blinked, trying to maintain composure. “I’ve been covered in way worse, Mary. Trust me.”
Sam turned on the television for noise, and they made awkward small talk, waiting for whatever happened next. Sam breezed through one of the pregnancy books on the floor, staring slack mouthed at the pictures and diagrams. Dean was subtly trying to pull information out of the young teen. Mary was seventeen. She refused to say where she was from, but said she was on her way to visit her child's father when the storm hit. Sam didn’t even have to look at her face to know she was lying.
Less than ten minutes after getting settled on the bed, the contractions hit again one on top of the other and didn’t stop. Sam and Dean watched, horrified and helpless. Her body trembled and bucked against the labor pains. She was vicious and mean, a side-effect of the pain they knew all too well. She threw the clock radio at Dean when he refused give her a drink from his flask. She writhed in the bed, biting the pillow, mewing and swearing. It sounded feral and primal, a combination of the cackle of a witch and the wail of a banshee. If Sam hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was possessed.
Dean risked a step away from the bed when Mary buried her face under the pillows. She cried in desperate hiccups.
“What is taking them so long?” Sam asked, flailing his long arms. “Demons, I can handle. But this? We can't do this! We shouldn't do this!"
“I want to be a thousand miles from this! I’m two seconds away from dousing her with holy water!” Dean rubbed his stomach. “And this is like birth control on acid. I’m ordering condoms in bulk, man,” Dean babbled. “Is labor contagious because I’m cramping like you wouldn’t believe!”
Sam glowered at Dean, and then took two shots from his flask. “How is it that you’re more freaked out than HER?”
Mary shrieked, yanking Dean’s arm so hard, he tipped over, sagging between the nightstand on the bed. “I’m here. I’m here.”
Mary drew in a panicked breath as she kicked the covers off, shamelessly pulling up her legs. She was pushing, instinctively bearing down.
Dean’s instantaneously paled, and tried to push Mary’s legs closed. “None of that, honey. Hold it in! Earl’s not here yet!”
The two brothers had fought monsters and demons, been tortured by petty gods, shot by petty thieves and killed by evil, but this was the most terrifying thing they’d ever faced.
She ignored him, and kept pushing. "LOOK!" She hollered. "LOOKLOOKLOOK!"
Dean shoved Sam to the foot of the bed, and sat down next to Mary. “I want no parts of dilation.”
Sam chanced a glance between her legs and couldn’t believe what he saw. The impossible stretching and sliding of flesh and muscle giving way to a patch of alabaster skin and a twist of matted dark hair. His heart raced and his palms sweat as it became as real as it was breathtaking. She was going to give birth to another person, and there was no one else to help. He whisked off his sweatshirt and climbed on the bed. “I can see it, Mary. It’s right there.”
“It is?” She whimpered. “You better not be lying!”
Dean snuck a peek, green eyes inching over the bumps of her knees. “He’s not lying, Mary. You can do this, we’re all going to do this, okay?” He sobered, just as Sam had, and wrapped his arms around her, whispering in her ear. He galvanized her to action in a way only he could
The delivery was the most intense experience of Sam’s life. It wasn’t loud, but a deafeningly quiet, punctuated by Mary’s focused breathing. It was the exact opposite of what Sam and Dean did as hunters. They dealt ghosts and spirits, the messy aftermath of death. They killed monsters intent on mayhem. The burned the corpses of ghosts. But a birth was the giving of life and beginning of a person. It was why they fought and why they kept going after all they’d lost and all they’d seen. The entire room was charged with an inexplicable energy that wasn’t supernatural at all, but the essence of what it was to be human, and it all came from the seventeen year old girl who wanted her baby born.
The baby eased out, head first, eyes open. Sam placed his hand around the base, unsure of what to do. Mary was exhausted, head lulling on the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. “Mary, come on. You have to finish this.” Dean said, shaking her roughly.
“I can’t.Can’t. Buurns!”
Dean lifted her shoulders off the pillows until she was sitting up, pressed against the shifting shape of her stomach and slid behind her. “Look, Mary, look!” He put her hands between her legs, fingers brushing against her baby’s head.
Mary’s eyes cleared, the fog was gone, and the fight emerged. She was silent, doing the business of mothers, and pushed so hard her face flushed a dark crimson. She didn’t stop until the shoulders slid free and there was was a tiny life, red and slippery in Sam’s hands. Umbilical cord still attached, he passed the baby, slick with afterbirth and blood, over to Mary, who could only stare at her daughter in complete awe as Dean wrapped her in the clean Metallica tee shirt he’d swiped from his hotel room.
Dean laughed but it sounded strangely watery like he was about to cry. “Look at what you did.”
Sam wiped his eyes with his sleeves and jumped when the door flew open, comets of snow blew into the room. A man with a bushy gray beard and a lime green snow suit stretched over his own rounded belly entered the room.
Dean and Sam glared at the man who could only be the town midwife. “YOU’RE FREAKIN’ LATE!” They barked in unison.
They bolted at the mention of placenta. Shell-shocked and happy, Sam and Dean sat on their beds and listened to the baby cry.
**
Mary and her baby girl were taken to the hospital by the sheriff. She called to thank them, and tell them that the baby’s name was Demi. And for once, Sam and Dean thought they got to see a happy ending.
The New Year’s storm produced a record thirty-one inches of snow and stranded them at the Tundra Inn. They slept, played cards, watched crappy television and overdosed on the free cocoa spiked with whiskey. The second time Sam woke up to crying, it was coupled with a blast of cold air. He turned around to see Dean inching into the room, clutching the coat Sam had given Mary to this chest. Sam stared dumbly at the bundle of wool and cotton, and incoherently wondered why it was crying.
“Mary bolted.” Dean announced, kicking the door shut. “And I know she’s a new mom and all, but that’s not excuse to leave your kid behind.”
“Wha…” Sam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Dean handed him the baby.
Little Demi was impossibly small with her mother’s gray eyes and dark hair. She nearly fit in the palm of Sam’s hand. He cradled her gently, but was stricken with just how big he really was. He freed her from his jacket.
“She was planning this all along, Sam,” Dean said, setting down the bag of supplies he’d swiped from the room. “She came here to have her baby and leave it somewhere…God only knows what else. I heard her crying, so I stopped by to say hello. The door was unlocked and there just was in the middle of the bed screaming her head off.”
“What do we do now? Strap a car seat in the Impala?” Sam wondered, sarcastic. He sighed, realizing he’d been waiting for something else to happen.
“Yeah, Sammy, right next to the ammo and the rock salt. I have guns that weigh more than her.”
Sam raked his fingers through his hair. “Kidding, Dean.”
“We’re gonna call the police…as soon as the roads are safe.” He said hesitantly.
“She’s gonna end up in the system, Dean.”
“That’s a hell of a lot better than being anywhere near us, Sam. We’re literally walking curses. I mean, I feel like I shouldn’t even touch her.”
Sam laughed. “Um, duh! There’s no way I’d ever suggest we keep her. I just…I just wanted this to end…without any trauma, ya know? Not with an abandoned kid in some orphanage.”
“Me too.” Dean said as he studied the infant’s face. “That’s why I’m hoping-against all that I know-that Mary will come back.”
**
It was profoundly weird to see Dean, a self-proclaimed killer, handle a baby with such ease. While Sam felt like poor Demi would shatter if he held her too long, Dean had an eerie paternal peace about him as he changed her diaper, bathed her in the sink and fed her without a complaint. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d thought Dean didn’t rush to call the authorities because he’d grown attached to the child.
Dean passed her to Sam. “Take her, you lazy sonofabitch.”
“Um...nah.”
Dean placed her into his arms anyway. “I need to pee and I’d like to have both hands this time. And I’m tired of doing all the work.”
“You’re the one who wanted kids!” Sam squawked with a grin that fell as soon as Demi was in his arms.
Dean rolled his eyes, “So when did my life turn into ‘Two Men and a Baby?’ I’m not singin’ Goodnight Sweetheart.” He declared.
He held her and his breath. “I feel like Lenny, or something.”
“You just now feel like that, Jumbo?” He teased before he closed the door.
Sam stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. He had avoided holding her for almost two days.
Dean came out of the bathroom and did an actual double-take at his brother who was still in the same position he left him in. He headed to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. That he lined with Sam’s coat and placed two rolled up towels on either side.
“What on heck are you doing?”
“Makin’ a crib,” Dean replied as if it was obvious. He’d slept with Demi on his chest for the past two nights, afraid she wouldn’t be warm enough on her own. “I’m getting some real sleep.”
Sam chuckled. “Dean, she’s a baby, not a pair of socks. She can’t sleep in a drawer!”
Dean set the drawer on the bed. “Why not? You did.”
“What?!”
His brother smiled, nostalgic. “After the fire, we moved around a lot to friend’s houses, then hotels…then motels, and Dad would hunker you down in a drawer just like this. You liked it.” Dean said. “When you were older, you’d climb in there to sleep on your own. With your blankie.”
Sam was baffled. “I never stood a chance at being normal, did I?”
“Not a shot in hell, bucko. It was easier back then when you were a baby, and we could just cart you around and stick you in a drawer. Now you’re all huge and broody.”
Sam bit his tongue and focused on the baby. She was all soft skin and smelled of powder. She looked angelic in her white nightgown and yellow blanket. She was perfect. She was possibility. Her placid face crumpled and her little squeaks rolled into a full-blown, urgent cry. Sam swayed back and forth, looking at Dean expectantly.
Dean handed him a bottle of milk he’d warmed in the sink. “You want to do the honors?”
He took it without a word and swelled with pride when Demi suckled hungrily. “Jess wanted kids,” Sam confessed.
“She seemed like the type.” Dean said. His voice always got soft and cautious when Sam talked about Jess. It was the only time Dean seemed scared to say the wrong thing, like he was afraid, even three years later, that Sam would fall apart.
“Two boys and a girl named Sam,” he recited with a smile. There was always an ache that came with the memory, a lingering pain that would always be there, but now he feel the good with the bad; the love coupled with the grief. “I just wanted them to look like her.”
“You and the rest of the world.” He teased. “See you’ve held her a whole twenty minutes and she’s not broken yet.”
Sam glanced down at Demi, and brushed a finger over her nose. She’d finished the bottle and looked at him, sleepy and sated. “Babies freak me out,” Sam whispered. He knew he was slightly less than human, tainted with demon blood, and he ridiculously wondered if she could be poisoned just by touch.
“Oh, you just offended tiny feelings, you big meanie. You have to burp her, Sam.”
“You mean the thing where you beat her on the back? Absolutely not.”
Dean shook his head. “Sammy is a giant wussy. He can fight the Big Bad, but he’s terrified of a seven-pound human,” he cooed, taking her from him. He sat down on the bed and gingerly patted her back.
Sam excused himself to the bathroom. It was filled with drying baby blankets and the sink was lined with bottles and nipples instead of bullets and bloody clothes. Sam washed his hands. When he opened the door, Sam was halted at the sight of Dean lying on the bed, propped up on an elbow. Demi rested beside him, protected that the long wave of his body. He watched her with such fascination. The baby, merely days old, was content and awake. Her legs were drawn up to her tummy, thumb in her mouth. Dean sang softly, some funked out version of an Aerosmith song, punctuated by Demi’s adorable sucking noises. It hit him, harsher than a punch, more merciless than a stabwound. Dean would never be a father. Dean would never grow old. Dean was going to die in less than five months. Demi’s birth had done what nothing else had: it let them hope and it let them forget.
Sam was suddenly nauseous. He nudged the bathroom door shout with his toe and dove for the toilet, gagging and choking on the realization. Sam reached a long arm out to turn on the water, so Dean wouldn’t hear him.
“Sammy…you alright?”
Sam dry-heaved and was oddly thankful he rarely had an appetite. He was splashing water on his face, rinsing his mouth when Dean opened the door. “Did you fall in? What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Sam lied. “I’m fine. Tired.”
Dean was incredulous, crossing his arms over his chest. “Exhausted from the nine minutes of baby-holding? You’re getting old, Sammy.”
“Not as old as you, gramps.” Sam forced a smile, but it felt crooked and rigid.
“You are such a terrible liar.”
“You left the baby on the bed!” Sam said, desperately trying to change the subject. “She could fall off!”
Dean laughed. “She’s, like, 50 hours old, she’s fine.”
“Why are you so good with her?”
“I took care of you, moron. From the time Mom brought you home, I just wanted to help. Then…after the fire, Dad wasn’t exactly all there for a long time, so I did what I could…like Mom taught me.”
Sam blinked and was honestly surprised. “I never thought about it.”
Dean touched Demi’s feet and watched as she drifted off to sleep on her own. His demeanor shifted and darkened. Sam could see the gloom in his eyes. “I know you get angry and upset, when I…protect you. I know you think it’s unfair and selfish, and you blame yourself, but I remember when you fit in a drawer, Sam. I remember you when you were this small, and I can’t stop. I don’t want to.”
Sam set his jaw and regarded Dean with mounting anger he couldn’t hide nor control. His heart pumped fury and rage through his system, and he was so completely irate, that he could feel the heat in his fingertips and behind his eyes. Sam flew off the bed and out into the cold, stumbling into the shin-high snow and wind. His brother was forfeiting his life for Sam’s, and nothing Sam did would show Dean how recklessly pathetic it was. And Sam couldn’t even stomach the idea of life without his brother, so he fumed, wishing he had something to kill. He clenched and unclenched his fists and saw the steam rising off his bare skin in the cold. Sam turned around and punched the frozen wood of the wall behind him. The pain bloomed in his hand, like firecrackers igniting, and it felt like liberation. He did it again, and relished the cathartic crash of the ice and bone.
He kept going until his vision sparked and he reeled backwards from a blow to the stomach. The air whooshed out of his lungs and he dropped to the pavement, gasping for air.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Dean hollered as Sam coughed on the pavement.