SPN Fic
The Keeper
Is Dad a secret agent?
Yeah, he's James Bond.
Sam's earliest memory, five years old in a dirty motel, playing with paper airplanes. They don't have toys and the TV's broken and Dean folded the stupid things up with a magaze he nicked around the corner, gave them all to Sam so he could play.
He remembers the edges and lines of the planes, the colors from the one with the shaving cream ad, another one for perfume, another one for jeans. All advertisements, not articles, all colorful and interesting. He remembers the smell of burned macaroni and cheese, remembers getting a smack upside the head when he started to complain, remembers the brief look of remorse flitting over his brother's face before Dean gave him seconds and told him to keep his mouth too full to talk.
He was five. His earliest memory of John, he's seven - and it's of his back as he whispers instructions to Dean and closes the door behind him.
If they can get Mom, they can get Dad. If they can get Dad, they can get us.
They're not gonna get Dad.
But what if, Sam hadn't said, seven and scared and not wanting a head smack, what if they get you?
"Keep the doors and windows locked, block it all off with salt, watch your brother."
"Yes, sir."
Sam is nine, pretends he's asleep. Waits until the door closes and the locks click and the salt is out before sitting up and looking at his brother. If Mom died, if Dad fights, if Dean fights... Sam will fight, too.
Dean looks over, sees the look on his face, almost droops with the salt box hanging from his fingers. Knows what Sam's going to ask before he asks it, knows he's going to say yes before he even argues it, knows there's no way to keep Sam out of this life now that he wants in.
It's crazy and it's dangerous and it's scary, but Sam won't be left out. Not while Dean's in.
"Take care of your brother."
It's a mantra in Sam's head, something he's heard a thousand times, probably not even a fraction of the times Dean has heard it. Dad makes Dean look out for him because he won't, he's got better things to do than raise his boys, than read Sammy's papers or look at the diorama he made for science class. Dean doesn't go to science class - doesn't go to any class, usually, but sometimes Sam will look over during recess and see an older kid in a canvas jacket too big for him standing by the chainlink fence. Looking out for him.
He goes to class and studies hard and gets all As. Then he comes home and waits until Dad leaves for Dean to get out the guns, the knives. They mock-wrestle and fight and Dean kicks his ass every time, shows him how to aim and shoot, shows him how to hold the knife and twist it just right. Sam studies almost as hard at that as he does in school.
If John's too busy to look out for Sam, he's too busy to look out for Dean. And if Dean's looking after Sam... well, Sam'll just hafta look out for Dean, too.
Even if it's just by wrestling hard, finally pinning his older brother to the ground, and demanding Dean finish his homework before bed as his prize.
It's always the prize Sam chooses.
You're so dumb. You should make me do your homework, not mine!
No, I shouldn't. I wanna pass my classes.
He wants Dean to pass, too. He wants more for his brother than what their father gave him.
But he can't compete.
Where you been, Sam?
Nowhere, Dad.
On a date, he doesn't say. With this girl, she's great, she's smart, she's in science club, she likes me, let me buy her a burger and fries and an ice cream at the drug store after, might let me kiss her next time, I dunno but I'm hopin'.
Where you been, Sammy?
Nowhere, Dean.
Shelly Myers?
...yeah.
Awesome.
She's great, she's smart, she likes him. But she wouldn't understand, she wouldn't like him anymore if she knew.
Dean tells him that, Dean, eighteen and wise in the ways of women, knows more than anyone about anything - about Sam. He'd know best.
Sam doesn't tell Shelly a thing and when they take off a week later, he keeps up with phone calls. She gets sick of his lies, or gets bored of a phone-boyfriend, something. John doesn't even notice that Sam's upset.
Dean takes his thirteen year old brother out for a beer.
Simple salt-and-burn, or it shoulda been. Sam hadn't been paying enough attention to his research, missed the bit about the spirit choosing kids and strangling them to death, doesn't remember the little note until there's a rope around Dean's neck and nothing pulling on it but he's choking all the same.
GET DOWN! John's voice is roaring, his knife out.
Sam stays where he is, aims and shoots, breaks the rope and Dean falls to the ground gasping.
John yells at him later - When I give you an order, you follow it! - but Sam doesn't care. He bears the storm with narrowed eyes, burying his anger, his hate down deep. He waits until John's screamed himself out to head back into the motel room and check on Dean, lying on the bed with a bruised throat.
Dean punches him in the face.
You shot at a fucking spirit!
And saved your life!
'Cause it surprised it, not 'cause you hurt it! What if it hadn't been surprised, huh? I'd be lyin' there dead 'cause you were too stupid to listen to Dad!
I saved you! I did!
And nearly got everybody killed while you were at it! Don't you ever do something so fucking stupid again, you always listen to Dad! D'you hear me?!
Sam, you take the east side, shot gun with salt shells. Dean, you go with him, rifle with water shells. You look out for your brother, you hear me?
Yes, sir.
Sam?
...yes, sir.
Dean's on his own. Sam and John are down in Florida, chasing a banshee. John gives the orders and Sam follows him and it's... it's okay. It's like having a drill sergeant.
Without Dean around, they're two soldiers. It doesn't bother Sam so much, his dad treating him like a kid in his unit instead of his son. There's even a point, just one, where he asks what Sam's doing with his homework, listens while he talks about the branches of government and the judicial system. Isn't interested, but he listens; listens even if he changes the subject right after, tells Sam to get off his ass and clean up his guns before they rust right up.
And everything's okay.
Dean calls later. Sam's sitting on his motel bed, John's on the other; Sam's polishing the guns, John's on the phone. He doesn't hear what's said, but John's pissed.
You better get off your ass and get out on the road, boy. You've got work to do!
It's not okay anymore.
Late at night, John sleeping, Sam slumped in a chair across the room, staring at the lump of his father beneath the covers.
"I hate you."
He graduates with honors. Dean's there, not in a seat but leaning against a tree, leather jacket and unshaven and smirking so bad Sam's not sure if he's proud or amused. Sam gets his diploma, shakes some hands, takes some pictures, but by the time his friends have stopped jumping on him, start dragging him off for a celebratory lunch and a party, the tree's still there.
Dean isn't.
He gets back to the motel late. John's still gone, still out on a hunt, Dean's out.
But there's a Milky Way on his pillow, wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper. Sam grins like one of his classmate's might, car keys on graduation day, but he knows Dean thought about what candy to get him longer than any posh suburbia family went car shopping.
He puts in his application to Stanford in the morning, doesn't tell a soul. Can't wait to leave John.
Needs to show Dean there's something more than just... this.
You want out? Then go! But you better stay gone!
Dean is silent, frozen, worried - Sam glances at him, sparing his attention from his formidable father.
Dean's silent, frozen, worried... unmoving, unspeaking, won't say a word in Sam's defense or in his.
Fine.
Take care of your brother.
Can't. Not with John there. Sam doesn't fit, square peg, round hole. He isn't a hunter, maybe he's not a college boy either; term papers and formal disputes with professors, giggling girls and jock guys and a life that's busy but stable, no worries beyond the next final. Maybe he's both, John's orders and Dean's encouragement, shooting a target at two hundred yards and getting straight As at Stanford U. Maybe he's more, more than John expected, more than Dean imagined. Maybe he's what his mom would've wanted... maybe he's less.
Take care of your brother.
He can take care of himself.
Both of them.
Is Dad a secret agent?
Yeah, he's James Bond.
Sam's earliest memory, five years old in a dirty motel, playing with paper airplanes. They don't have toys and the TV's broken and Dean folded the stupid things up with a magaze he nicked around the corner, gave them all to Sam so he could play.
He remembers the edges and lines of the planes, the colors from the one with the shaving cream ad, another one for perfume, another one for jeans. All advertisements, not articles, all colorful and interesting. He remembers the smell of burned macaroni and cheese, remembers getting a smack upside the head when he started to complain, remembers the brief look of remorse flitting over his brother's face before Dean gave him seconds and told him to keep his mouth too full to talk.
He was five. His earliest memory of John, he's seven - and it's of his back as he whispers instructions to Dean and closes the door behind him.
If they can get Mom, they can get Dad. If they can get Dad, they can get us.
They're not gonna get Dad.
But what if, Sam hadn't said, seven and scared and not wanting a head smack, what if they get you?
"Keep the doors and windows locked, block it all off with salt, watch your brother."
"Yes, sir."
Sam is nine, pretends he's asleep. Waits until the door closes and the locks click and the salt is out before sitting up and looking at his brother. If Mom died, if Dad fights, if Dean fights... Sam will fight, too.
Dean looks over, sees the look on his face, almost droops with the salt box hanging from his fingers. Knows what Sam's going to ask before he asks it, knows he's going to say yes before he even argues it, knows there's no way to keep Sam out of this life now that he wants in.
It's crazy and it's dangerous and it's scary, but Sam won't be left out. Not while Dean's in.
"Take care of your brother."
It's a mantra in Sam's head, something he's heard a thousand times, probably not even a fraction of the times Dean has heard it. Dad makes Dean look out for him because he won't, he's got better things to do than raise his boys, than read Sammy's papers or look at the diorama he made for science class. Dean doesn't go to science class - doesn't go to any class, usually, but sometimes Sam will look over during recess and see an older kid in a canvas jacket too big for him standing by the chainlink fence. Looking out for him.
He goes to class and studies hard and gets all As. Then he comes home and waits until Dad leaves for Dean to get out the guns, the knives. They mock-wrestle and fight and Dean kicks his ass every time, shows him how to aim and shoot, shows him how to hold the knife and twist it just right. Sam studies almost as hard at that as he does in school.
If John's too busy to look out for Sam, he's too busy to look out for Dean. And if Dean's looking after Sam... well, Sam'll just hafta look out for Dean, too.
Even if it's just by wrestling hard, finally pinning his older brother to the ground, and demanding Dean finish his homework before bed as his prize.
It's always the prize Sam chooses.
You're so dumb. You should make me do your homework, not mine!
No, I shouldn't. I wanna pass my classes.
He wants Dean to pass, too. He wants more for his brother than what their father gave him.
But he can't compete.
Where you been, Sam?
Nowhere, Dad.
On a date, he doesn't say. With this girl, she's great, she's smart, she's in science club, she likes me, let me buy her a burger and fries and an ice cream at the drug store after, might let me kiss her next time, I dunno but I'm hopin'.
Where you been, Sammy?
Nowhere, Dean.
Shelly Myers?
...yeah.
Awesome.
She's great, she's smart, she likes him. But she wouldn't understand, she wouldn't like him anymore if she knew.
Dean tells him that, Dean, eighteen and wise in the ways of women, knows more than anyone about anything - about Sam. He'd know best.
Sam doesn't tell Shelly a thing and when they take off a week later, he keeps up with phone calls. She gets sick of his lies, or gets bored of a phone-boyfriend, something. John doesn't even notice that Sam's upset.
Dean takes his thirteen year old brother out for a beer.
Simple salt-and-burn, or it shoulda been. Sam hadn't been paying enough attention to his research, missed the bit about the spirit choosing kids and strangling them to death, doesn't remember the little note until there's a rope around Dean's neck and nothing pulling on it but he's choking all the same.
GET DOWN! John's voice is roaring, his knife out.
Sam stays where he is, aims and shoots, breaks the rope and Dean falls to the ground gasping.
John yells at him later - When I give you an order, you follow it! - but Sam doesn't care. He bears the storm with narrowed eyes, burying his anger, his hate down deep. He waits until John's screamed himself out to head back into the motel room and check on Dean, lying on the bed with a bruised throat.
Dean punches him in the face.
You shot at a fucking spirit!
And saved your life!
'Cause it surprised it, not 'cause you hurt it! What if it hadn't been surprised, huh? I'd be lyin' there dead 'cause you were too stupid to listen to Dad!
I saved you! I did!
And nearly got everybody killed while you were at it! Don't you ever do something so fucking stupid again, you always listen to Dad! D'you hear me?!
Sam, you take the east side, shot gun with salt shells. Dean, you go with him, rifle with water shells. You look out for your brother, you hear me?
Yes, sir.
Sam?
...yes, sir.
Dean's on his own. Sam and John are down in Florida, chasing a banshee. John gives the orders and Sam follows him and it's... it's okay. It's like having a drill sergeant.
Without Dean around, they're two soldiers. It doesn't bother Sam so much, his dad treating him like a kid in his unit instead of his son. There's even a point, just one, where he asks what Sam's doing with his homework, listens while he talks about the branches of government and the judicial system. Isn't interested, but he listens; listens even if he changes the subject right after, tells Sam to get off his ass and clean up his guns before they rust right up.
And everything's okay.
Dean calls later. Sam's sitting on his motel bed, John's on the other; Sam's polishing the guns, John's on the phone. He doesn't hear what's said, but John's pissed.
You better get off your ass and get out on the road, boy. You've got work to do!
It's not okay anymore.
Late at night, John sleeping, Sam slumped in a chair across the room, staring at the lump of his father beneath the covers.
"I hate you."
He graduates with honors. Dean's there, not in a seat but leaning against a tree, leather jacket and unshaven and smirking so bad Sam's not sure if he's proud or amused. Sam gets his diploma, shakes some hands, takes some pictures, but by the time his friends have stopped jumping on him, start dragging him off for a celebratory lunch and a party, the tree's still there.
Dean isn't.
He gets back to the motel late. John's still gone, still out on a hunt, Dean's out.
But there's a Milky Way on his pillow, wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper. Sam grins like one of his classmate's might, car keys on graduation day, but he knows Dean thought about what candy to get him longer than any posh suburbia family went car shopping.
He puts in his application to Stanford in the morning, doesn't tell a soul. Can't wait to leave John.
Needs to show Dean there's something more than just... this.
You want out? Then go! But you better stay gone!
Dean is silent, frozen, worried - Sam glances at him, sparing his attention from his formidable father.
Dean's silent, frozen, worried... unmoving, unspeaking, won't say a word in Sam's defense or in his.
Fine.
Take care of your brother.
Can't. Not with John there. Sam doesn't fit, square peg, round hole. He isn't a hunter, maybe he's not a college boy either; term papers and formal disputes with professors, giggling girls and jock guys and a life that's busy but stable, no worries beyond the next final. Maybe he's both, John's orders and Dean's encouragement, shooting a target at two hundred yards and getting straight As at Stanford U. Maybe he's more, more than John expected, more than Dean imagined. Maybe he's what his mom would've wanted... maybe he's less.
Take care of your brother.
He can take care of himself.
Both of them.