A Child Who's in Flight
Title: A Child Who's in Flight (or even more scenes from an alternate universe wherein Sam stole the Winchester boys in 1987)
Rating: PG-13?
Words: 3,837
Spoilers: Nothing specific.
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Children in distress, fluff (?), my inability to write action sequences.
Summary: Happy fifth birthday, Sammy. Everybody's got a plan for you. (Yay, more Reverse Engineering 'verse.)
Neurotic author's notes: Okay, classiczeppelin, here's your flowery dedication: this is for you, because I love you. Oops, I tried. To everybody else, have some fluff (?) and baby Winchesters. The title is from "Children Will Listen," from Into the Woods, and the cut text is from Les Misérables, volume IV, book III, "The House on Rue Plumet." Il se disait qu’il n’avait vraiment pas assez souffert pour mériter un si radieux bonheur, et il remerciait Dieu, dans les profondeurs de son âme, d’avoir permis qu’il fût ainsi aimé, lui misérable, par cet être innocent.
Sammy turns five on the Monday, and it’s exciting because he knows that five-year-olds get to go to Kindergarten. He’s faced, however, with some major disappointment the morning of May second when, bouncing up and down on Sam's stomach at 6 am, he is gently told that he won’t actually start Kindergarten until the fall.
“But I got this Saturday off work,” says Sam, running a hand over Sammy’s slumped little shoulders, working very hard not to laugh at his big pouty lower lip, or to resent the kid too much for robbing him of an extra half an hour’s sleep, “and a half-day Friday, and Uncle Bobby’s coming, remember? We’re gonna all go out.”
“Dean too?” asks Sammy, already visibly perking up, and when Sam says of course the kid nods happily, slides off of Sam, all boneless and skinny, and goes back to the tiny, closet-sized bedroom he shared with Dean. Sam smiles as he drags himself off the poky, awful futon he sleeps on and begins rummaging around the kitchen, preparing coffee, cocoa (“as a treat,” he’d told Sammy firmly a few days ago when he pulled the powder out of the grocery bag and watched Sammy’s tiny, energetic body practically hum with an anticipatory sugar rush), and-as another birthday treat-big bowls of Lucky Charms for both boys.
Dean, who enters the kitchen bent down slightly to accommodate one arm slung amicably over his little brother’s shoulders, makes a token protest that he doesn’t need the cereal or hot chocolate, but all it takes is Sam’s gentle “it’s already made, Dean, and I made it for you” for Dean to accept the treasures for what they are-a celebration of Sammy-and he listens with rapt interest as Sam spends breakfast detailing his dream (about a giant cat named Fishy, apparently), as well as all his plans for things he and Dean (and, occasionally, Big Sam, an inclusion in that sweet, high little voice that makes Sam’s heart whoosh up into his throat every time) now he is a Big Boy like Dean, a list that includes going to the Grand Canyon, going in a hot air balloon, riding horses, going in bumper cars, and getting three dogs and a kitty.
Sam gets the kids to the bus stop like always, waits until they’ve boarded safely before boarding his own bus to work in the opposite direction. He’s scoured the library sale and second hand shop-and is recognized and greeted warmly at both, with a shower of questions about the boys, his boys-and found a small collection of books he think Sammy’ll be able to read (or work up to) that Dean will, hopefully, also get a kick out of, and at least one he knows Sammy is way too young to be able to read himself, just so Dean has something to read his kid brother. He’s arranged Bobby’s visit and he’s even bought a little bag of balloons. For Sammy. Because this, apparently, is what single fathers do when they occupy their time with jobs and parent teacher conferences as opposed to, well, hunting demons.
And there, of course, is the reminder, like a slap, that John is out there somewhere, alive, and mostly whole, without his children, hunting fiercely, and the knowledge that he is nothing to John, not really, he’s the man that Bobby vetted upside down and backwards and he’s the man who stole his sons, and in his strange detached way John has accepted this as part of his world, the same way he did demons, and the necessity of leaving his children behind, and the choice to leave them later, and being homeless, and being so poor they relied on lies and hustling to survive, and Dean becoming what amounted to a parent, and Sam running away at eighteen-angrily, and bitterly, but with surprising ease. He didn’t like it, but it was the way things were and he made a life of it. It was something Sam found distantly admirable, and it also scared him.
In any case, wherever John was, he wasn’t in Wisconsin with Dean and Sammy, but Sam was, and he was going to just keep on making due.
:::
Friday night, after Bobby arrived to a flurry of hugs from the boys, and after the four of them went out for a birthday dinner, they’re interrupted in their efforts to chose a movie to watch by a sharp knocking at the door. Sam stands easily, waving the boys back to their meager but much-loved pile of VHS tapes, assuming it was just a neighbor, or that Dean or Sammy had left something at the babysitter’s. He notices Bobby’s tense shoulders, the way he edges himself between the door and the boys, and stiffens at the reminder that while he’s had the luxury of going soft, Bobby is still a hunter.
The pounding on the door resumes, more urgent this time, and when Sam yanks the door open so intent is his knocking that John Winchester almost punches him square in the face. Sheepishly, he withdraws his fist, then swallows audibly. “Sam,” he says.
“John,” Sam replies, inclining his head slightly, mouth dry and head spinning with the possibility that John might have shown up for Sammy’s birthday-and it’s only then, almost a week late, that Sam realizes this week was his birthday, as well.
“Are the boys here?” says John, a little breathlessly, attempting to lean around Sam to see into the house, and Sam shifts unconsciously, attempting to use his shoulders to block John’s view of the domestic little cluster around the coffee table.
“Why?” asks Sam.
“You have to grab them and go,” says John, without preamble, meeting Sam’s eyes at last. “I think you know damn well I wouldn’t be here poking my nose-I wouldn’t lie about this, Sam. Something’s coming and you have to come with me.”
“John?”
“Dad?”
“Daddy!”
Sam starts as Bobby, Dean, and Sammy appear behind him, and he steps aside, lets Bobby through and before he’s quite sure what he’s doing he’s scooped Sammy into his arms, but the boy wriggles away, extending his arms towards his father. Dean stands his ground, rigid and ramrod straight next to Sam’s leg, his eyes fixed on John.
“Hey-a, Sammy,” says John, a little raspily, and to Sam’s shock he reaches forward and extracts Sammy from Sam’s arms quite naturally, lets Sammy twine his arms and legs around John like an octopus. His hand comes up to cradle Sammy’s little neck and the back of his head, and his nose falls against the crown of Sammy’s head. He closes his eyes. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” says John into Sammy’s hair.
“Thank you, Daddy,” Sammy breathes, his face squashed in John’s neck, and for a wild instant Sam is wildly, desperately jealous. Dad, he thinks, before he can help himself, Dad, it’s me.
John hikes Sammy up on his hip and smiles down at Dean. “How you doin’, little man?” he says, warmly, urgency of the moment apparently temporarily forgotten. Sam and Bobby watch, unwilling to interrupt, as Dean mumbles “okay” before stumbling forward and pressing his face into his father’s stomach, hands coming up to cling with naked need to either side of John’s open jacket. John, to his credit, drops his hand from Sammy’s hair and cradles Dean’s head now. Sam and Bobby stay where they are, watching this little scene unfold, as Dean’s slender shoulders shake and Sammy’s skinny legs latch all the more tightly around his father’s middle.
“John,” says Bobby, after a moment, and that’s all it takes.
“We have to go,” says John, in drill sergeant mode at once, and Dean steps back, nods, and even Sammy loosens his grip a little, lists outwards as though inviting Sam to take him from his father. Sam doesn’t, just yet, his eyes fixed on John, and Sam is wriggled to the ground, where he immediately grabs hold of Dean’s hand. Dean holds fast, his eyes steady on his father’s face.
“Sam,” John says shortly, all traces his trembling devotion to his sons gone, “any weapons you have. You too, Bobby. Into the car.” When they all just stand there for a moment, unsure, John barks, “Now!” and before he knows it Sam has extracted his gun, his knife, some holy water and a large canister of salt from his secret stash under the futon and in the highest cabinet by the refrigerator, thrown them haphazard into a duffel bag and dragged it out to the Impala-the rush of joyful familiarity is unavoidable-where Bobby and John are loading the trunk. He sees the backs of his boys’ heads in the back seat, comes forward towards his two erstwhile fathers, his duffel clutched in front of him protectively.
“You in the back,” grunts John, “we have to get gone yesterday.”
And then they’re off, leaving the warm little ground floor apartment behind with the lights still on and the balloons still bobbing around, most only half full as Dean and Sammy’s lung capacity will allow.
“John,” says Sam, and receives a glare from Bobby that bounces from John to the nervous boys to Sam, squashed behind his father in the back while the boys huddle together next to him. He makes a face at Bobby and extends an arm around both boys, who remain stiff and confused and mostly engaged in one another and their father, but make no attempt to shrug him off.
They’re driving too fast down the highway and the boys are starting to drift off, their tense little bodies relaxing at last, when there’s a sharp jerk as the car wrenches across two lanes and then a jolting halt, so abrupt Sammy lets out a little “oh!” of surprise, followed by a sinking feeling and the harsh hiss of tires letting out air.
“Stay,” grunts John, ducking out of the car, Bobby on the other side, and Sam, unsure if the order applies to him, twists in his seat, arm curling more tightly around the boys, sees a tall, slender man of about thirty and a perky blonde college-aged girl circling John and Bobby, their intentions clear.
“Big Sam, whas goin’ on out dere?” whispers Sammy, voice thin and scared, lisp at full force, and Dean is telling his shush, Sammy, it’s okay, and before Sam is quite sure what’s going on there’s a violent jolt, a tilt, and then he’s landed hard on the pavement, face down. He whirls around, sees John and Bobby pinned against a tree by the tall-guy demon while the girl’s got a skinny arm hard against Dean’s collarbone, holding him fast despite his ferocious struggling. Another demon, an older man, has got little Sammy by the shoulders, lifting him clean off the ground so they’re eye level, and poor Sammy is frozen, too scared to even squirm or kick. John and Bobby’s faces are twin masks of complete fear. The demon’s inch is a nose from Sammy's tiny one, his grin fixed wide and hungry in a way that makes Sam want to vomit.
“Looky here,” he sing songs. “Happy birthday, little Sammy. Were you having a party?” He gives Sammy a little shake and the kid’s face glistens with tears as he shutters ineffectually in the demon’s grip. Sam whips his head to John and Bobby, unable to move, to Dean, face alight with pure fear, back to the demon, who looks him square in the face and actually drops Sammy clean onto the pavement.
“Sammy!” gasps Dean, and gets a hand smacked over his mouth, hard, for his trouble.
“Well, well, well,” says the oldest demon, “what have we here? This is a puzzle.”
Sam tries to edge backwards, arm flailing out for the duffel, but in an instant the demon has advanced, pinned Sam’s arm under his boot and bent down, folding unnaturally at the waist. “Now, now, I know who you are,” he says, “but I’m not quite sure I know how you’re here.”
Sam stares back, heart racing. Is this some minion of Azazel’s? Someone who knows who Sam is, who Sammy is, what they might do? The demon smiles again, unhinged and terrifyingly lazy, easy, like this is fun.
“Tell me, Sammy-boy,” it says in a low voice, “how’s a wayward son like you end up in the year 1988? Last I checked, you were five.” Sam tries to get out from under whatever force is holding him down, desperate to see the look on Dean and John’s faces, to see what they think or understand, to see if Sammy is alright. The demon just smiles wider, bends lower, whispers, “I won’t share your little secret, Winchester. Wouldn’t do to upset Daddy. He does have such grand plans for you, darling. Think what he could do with two.” He flicks his head in the direction of little Sammy, who is so small and delicate and smart and clever and so full of hope and joy-
“Go back to Hell,” Sam says hoarsely.
“You first,” replies the demon, coolly, and then Sam isn’t breathing, and then Sam is exploding with pain, there’s an awful constricting pressure on his windpipe, he’s writhing and his eyes are streaming and his vision is swimming and everything is moving slowly and too fast all at once and it’s all blinking in and out, the distant, warped cries of something high pitched and mewling, like a baby, and he thinks he feels something twisting and wet and sharp in his abdomen and he knows he can’t breathe, can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe-
-a light, a shout, the smell of scorched asphalt and then nothing, the cool spring night air and the distant noises of cars in the city.
Sam props himself up, dazed, head spinning, and sees Dean, crumpled on his knees on the pavement, a red angry mark across his face and his knees bloody, and John and Bobby, both slumped, unharmed, against their trees, all eyes staring at Sammy, on his feet, illuminated by the Impala’s taillights, scraped raw but not bleeding save for two steady streams of blood coming out his nose, face slick with tears.
“I don't know what I did,” whispers Sammy, and then Dean dives forward, snatches Sammy and falls back on his rear, holds the little boy against him and rocks a little.
John and Bobby step forward tentatively, and Sam sees for the first time that the ground where Sammy stood, flooded with lights from the Impala’s taillight now Dean and Sammy have scurried to the side, is cracked. He also becomes belatedly aware of the wound in his stomach, which is substantial but somehow looks cleaned and has stopped bleeding, like it’s several hours old. He gapes, open mouthed, at little Sammy, who is sitting dumbfounded in Dean’s arms, not clinging back or pulling away.
“Sam,” says Bobby gruffly, and Sam jumps.
“Yessir?” he slurs, focusing with considerable effort on Bobby’s face.
“Can you get up?”
“No,” says Sam, and then he passes out.
:::
When he wakes up, he’s stretched on his back in the back of the Impala, legs scrunched up against one door, his stomach wound dressed and his throat aching. The car is moving, and when he turns, dizzily, towards the front seat, he sees John driving, Bobby in the passenger seat with a slumped, sleeping Sammy and a silent Dean squashed onto his lap.
“We’re almost back,” says John in a low voice, and Sam nods, lets the soothing motion of the moving car distract him from everything that’s happened, from the increasingly pressing pain in his throat and head and stomach, from Sammy’s blank, tear-streaked face.
They get back to the apartment not long after, and despite his feeble protests Sam is deposited on Sammy and Dean’s proper bed. He’s given some strong pain meds and passes out until the morning, when he wakes to the clattering sounds of the boys in the kitchen and Bobby's low, measured voice as he reigns them in. He tilts his head back a little, closes his eyes and smiles at the warm domesticity of it, still kind of out of it.
“They’re making pancakes,” says a voice from the doorway, and Sam jumps to see his father leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the pictures, books, and sparse toys that litter the room. He swallows. “I always knew,” he says after a moment, “I mean, I’ve known for-every since-but I didn’t think-” He pauses, pinches the bridge of his nose. Collects himself. “The demon that killed my wife,” he says slowly, “marked my son, marked Sam, and I don’t know why, or for what. But I think you do. I think you know all of this already.”
Without anything else to say, Sam hoists himself up until he”s leaning against the headboard and says, “Yes, sir.”
“What’s he want with my boy?” John says, his voice strained and Sam’s heart breaks, it does, in that moment, for this man who had everything taken away from him.
“I told you,” says Sam, “there’s a revolution underway in Hell. He’s making deals. Collecting kids. For his army.”
“And Sammy’s-?”
“Sammy is supposed to lead that army,” says Sam shortly, wearily, his head hitting the wall with a dull thunk. John looks like he might vomit. From the kitchen, Dean’s laughter, high and tinkling and rare, rings out like bells.
“He doesn’t,” says Sam. “He won’t. It’ll cost him-it’ll be-he won’t do it.”
“He didn’t, you mean,” says John, quietly.
“Yessir,” whispers Sam.
“Good boy,” says John, and he leaves again.
:::
John leaves after pancakes. He deposits his dishes in the sink, gathers his things together, and sweeps in to tell the boys goodbye. Sammy cries, in a hard, short burst, but quiets when John kisses his forehead, promises to return soon, and passes the kid off to Bobby, who entices him with promises of The Never-Ending Story on VHS. John watches them go, and probably suspects, like Sam does, that on some level Sammy knows he’s being played but allows it to happen, as it’s less painful than a full understanding of the situation. Easier to kiss his daddy goodbye for now and go bury himself in movies.
No such luck for Dean, who stands planted in the middle of the kitchen, eying John warily as he bends to wrap a cursory arm around Dean’s shoulder.
“Goodbye, Dean,” says John evenly, even briskly, “be good for Sam, okay?”
“Dad,” Dean breathes, and then he looks down, fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt as John claps Sam on the shoulder. “Dad,” he says, only a little louder, as John turns and slips out, intent on vanishing while Sammy’s distracted, before things devolve into uncomfortable emotional displays or before he and Sam are forced to think too hard about their conversation in the bedroom.
“Dad,” says Dean again, louder this time, as the door closes, and then the sound of the Impala roaring to life fills the kitchen and before Sam is sure what has happened Dean is rocketing out the door, his bare feet slapping the dirty, uneven pavement as he tears down the path and, to Sam’s horror, into the road, trying to chase a car that's already turning down the road. “Dad!” he calls, and Sam is there, catching him round the middle and scurrying backwards back onto safe ground, Dean held in front of him like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Dad,” whispers Dean, defeated, and Sam sets him down, turns him by the shoulders to look at his face, tries to hold his twisting shoulders, and then gives up, scoops him up, and carries him inside. Dean lets him, his little face pressed into Sam’s shoulder, and Sam bypasses the lively discussion going on in front of the TV to deposit Dean in the darkened bedroom.
“You okay, baby?” Sam asks, running a hand through Dean’s hair and tactfully ignoring the stark tear trail running down Dean’s face.
“Not a baby,” says Dean, with an almighty sniffle, and before Sam can chuckle and assure Dean he knows it, the kid has sniffed again and is looking Sam in the face. “Is Sammy human?” he whispers.
“Very much so,” says Sam wryly, dropping down to sit on the bed with Dean, a lifetime of human error clattering around in his head.
“Sorry,” says Dean, like a reflex, and Sam cups his face, tsks at him.
“You were so brave, you know,” he says, “last night.”
“Sammy was-I tried but I didn’t-and-and I was-”
“Dean,” says Sam, but Dean’s little chest is heaving, his face, downturned, screwing up as his breath comes a little too hard for Sam’s liking.
“I didn’t-and I-he was all, Sam, he was bleeding and shaking and I don’t know what I-”
This is unbearable. This is as terrible a thing as Sam can conceive of, this small boy still reeling from the reappearance and subsequent disappearance of his father, from the the attack the night before, from seeing his tiny baby brother in second or third hand clothes out in the road, doing the impossible.
“It’s okay,” says Sam, lamely, abruptly, please, Dean, believe me, even if he’s lying, “Dean, it’s okay.”
“Sam, I-”
"You're always brave, Dean," Sam blurts, and hopes it’s right. Dean sucks in a big breath and holds it, nods, his eyes shiny, and lets himself list against Sam, and Sam turns, pressing his face into Dean’s hair the way John had Sammy’s, breathing him in.
“Really?” whispers Dean, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on the leg of Sam’s jeans.
“Absolutely,” says Sam.
“Happy birthday,” says Dean, so quietly Sam almost doesn’t hear it, and Sam doesn’t ask how he knew.
“Thanks, Dean,” he whispers back, into Dean’s soft hair, into his small little head and his sweet Dean head. “Think I’ll have a good year?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Dean, face twisting up into a knowing little grin, and the thing is, is Sam’s pretty sure he’s right.
Rating: PG-13?
Words: 3,837
Spoilers: Nothing specific.
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Children in distress, fluff (?), my inability to write action sequences.
Summary: Happy fifth birthday, Sammy. Everybody's got a plan for you. (Yay, more Reverse Engineering 'verse.)
Neurotic author's notes: Okay, classiczeppelin, here's your flowery dedication: this is for you, because I love you. Oops, I tried. To everybody else, have some fluff (?) and baby Winchesters. The title is from "Children Will Listen," from Into the Woods, and the cut text is from Les Misérables, volume IV, book III, "The House on Rue Plumet." Il se disait qu’il n’avait vraiment pas assez souffert pour mériter un si radieux bonheur, et il remerciait Dieu, dans les profondeurs de son âme, d’avoir permis qu’il fût ainsi aimé, lui misérable, par cet être innocent.
Sammy turns five on the Monday, and it’s exciting because he knows that five-year-olds get to go to Kindergarten. He’s faced, however, with some major disappointment the morning of May second when, bouncing up and down on Sam's stomach at 6 am, he is gently told that he won’t actually start Kindergarten until the fall.
“But I got this Saturday off work,” says Sam, running a hand over Sammy’s slumped little shoulders, working very hard not to laugh at his big pouty lower lip, or to resent the kid too much for robbing him of an extra half an hour’s sleep, “and a half-day Friday, and Uncle Bobby’s coming, remember? We’re gonna all go out.”
“Dean too?” asks Sammy, already visibly perking up, and when Sam says of course the kid nods happily, slides off of Sam, all boneless and skinny, and goes back to the tiny, closet-sized bedroom he shared with Dean. Sam smiles as he drags himself off the poky, awful futon he sleeps on and begins rummaging around the kitchen, preparing coffee, cocoa (“as a treat,” he’d told Sammy firmly a few days ago when he pulled the powder out of the grocery bag and watched Sammy’s tiny, energetic body practically hum with an anticipatory sugar rush), and-as another birthday treat-big bowls of Lucky Charms for both boys.
Dean, who enters the kitchen bent down slightly to accommodate one arm slung amicably over his little brother’s shoulders, makes a token protest that he doesn’t need the cereal or hot chocolate, but all it takes is Sam’s gentle “it’s already made, Dean, and I made it for you” for Dean to accept the treasures for what they are-a celebration of Sammy-and he listens with rapt interest as Sam spends breakfast detailing his dream (about a giant cat named Fishy, apparently), as well as all his plans for things he and Dean (and, occasionally, Big Sam, an inclusion in that sweet, high little voice that makes Sam’s heart whoosh up into his throat every time) now he is a Big Boy like Dean, a list that includes going to the Grand Canyon, going in a hot air balloon, riding horses, going in bumper cars, and getting three dogs and a kitty.
Sam gets the kids to the bus stop like always, waits until they’ve boarded safely before boarding his own bus to work in the opposite direction. He’s scoured the library sale and second hand shop-and is recognized and greeted warmly at both, with a shower of questions about the boys, his boys-and found a small collection of books he think Sammy’ll be able to read (or work up to) that Dean will, hopefully, also get a kick out of, and at least one he knows Sammy is way too young to be able to read himself, just so Dean has something to read his kid brother. He’s arranged Bobby’s visit and he’s even bought a little bag of balloons. For Sammy. Because this, apparently, is what single fathers do when they occupy their time with jobs and parent teacher conferences as opposed to, well, hunting demons.
And there, of course, is the reminder, like a slap, that John is out there somewhere, alive, and mostly whole, without his children, hunting fiercely, and the knowledge that he is nothing to John, not really, he’s the man that Bobby vetted upside down and backwards and he’s the man who stole his sons, and in his strange detached way John has accepted this as part of his world, the same way he did demons, and the necessity of leaving his children behind, and the choice to leave them later, and being homeless, and being so poor they relied on lies and hustling to survive, and Dean becoming what amounted to a parent, and Sam running away at eighteen-angrily, and bitterly, but with surprising ease. He didn’t like it, but it was the way things were and he made a life of it. It was something Sam found distantly admirable, and it also scared him.
In any case, wherever John was, he wasn’t in Wisconsin with Dean and Sammy, but Sam was, and he was going to just keep on making due.
:::
Friday night, after Bobby arrived to a flurry of hugs from the boys, and after the four of them went out for a birthday dinner, they’re interrupted in their efforts to chose a movie to watch by a sharp knocking at the door. Sam stands easily, waving the boys back to their meager but much-loved pile of VHS tapes, assuming it was just a neighbor, or that Dean or Sammy had left something at the babysitter’s. He notices Bobby’s tense shoulders, the way he edges himself between the door and the boys, and stiffens at the reminder that while he’s had the luxury of going soft, Bobby is still a hunter.
The pounding on the door resumes, more urgent this time, and when Sam yanks the door open so intent is his knocking that John Winchester almost punches him square in the face. Sheepishly, he withdraws his fist, then swallows audibly. “Sam,” he says.
“John,” Sam replies, inclining his head slightly, mouth dry and head spinning with the possibility that John might have shown up for Sammy’s birthday-and it’s only then, almost a week late, that Sam realizes this week was his birthday, as well.
“Are the boys here?” says John, a little breathlessly, attempting to lean around Sam to see into the house, and Sam shifts unconsciously, attempting to use his shoulders to block John’s view of the domestic little cluster around the coffee table.
“Why?” asks Sam.
“You have to grab them and go,” says John, without preamble, meeting Sam’s eyes at last. “I think you know damn well I wouldn’t be here poking my nose-I wouldn’t lie about this, Sam. Something’s coming and you have to come with me.”
“John?”
“Dad?”
“Daddy!”
Sam starts as Bobby, Dean, and Sammy appear behind him, and he steps aside, lets Bobby through and before he’s quite sure what he’s doing he’s scooped Sammy into his arms, but the boy wriggles away, extending his arms towards his father. Dean stands his ground, rigid and ramrod straight next to Sam’s leg, his eyes fixed on John.
“Hey-a, Sammy,” says John, a little raspily, and to Sam’s shock he reaches forward and extracts Sammy from Sam’s arms quite naturally, lets Sammy twine his arms and legs around John like an octopus. His hand comes up to cradle Sammy’s little neck and the back of his head, and his nose falls against the crown of Sammy’s head. He closes his eyes. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” says John into Sammy’s hair.
“Thank you, Daddy,” Sammy breathes, his face squashed in John’s neck, and for a wild instant Sam is wildly, desperately jealous. Dad, he thinks, before he can help himself, Dad, it’s me.
John hikes Sammy up on his hip and smiles down at Dean. “How you doin’, little man?” he says, warmly, urgency of the moment apparently temporarily forgotten. Sam and Bobby watch, unwilling to interrupt, as Dean mumbles “okay” before stumbling forward and pressing his face into his father’s stomach, hands coming up to cling with naked need to either side of John’s open jacket. John, to his credit, drops his hand from Sammy’s hair and cradles Dean’s head now. Sam and Bobby stay where they are, watching this little scene unfold, as Dean’s slender shoulders shake and Sammy’s skinny legs latch all the more tightly around his father’s middle.
“John,” says Bobby, after a moment, and that’s all it takes.
“We have to go,” says John, in drill sergeant mode at once, and Dean steps back, nods, and even Sammy loosens his grip a little, lists outwards as though inviting Sam to take him from his father. Sam doesn’t, just yet, his eyes fixed on John, and Sam is wriggled to the ground, where he immediately grabs hold of Dean’s hand. Dean holds fast, his eyes steady on his father’s face.
“Sam,” John says shortly, all traces his trembling devotion to his sons gone, “any weapons you have. You too, Bobby. Into the car.” When they all just stand there for a moment, unsure, John barks, “Now!” and before he knows it Sam has extracted his gun, his knife, some holy water and a large canister of salt from his secret stash under the futon and in the highest cabinet by the refrigerator, thrown them haphazard into a duffel bag and dragged it out to the Impala-the rush of joyful familiarity is unavoidable-where Bobby and John are loading the trunk. He sees the backs of his boys’ heads in the back seat, comes forward towards his two erstwhile fathers, his duffel clutched in front of him protectively.
“You in the back,” grunts John, “we have to get gone yesterday.”
And then they’re off, leaving the warm little ground floor apartment behind with the lights still on and the balloons still bobbing around, most only half full as Dean and Sammy’s lung capacity will allow.
“John,” says Sam, and receives a glare from Bobby that bounces from John to the nervous boys to Sam, squashed behind his father in the back while the boys huddle together next to him. He makes a face at Bobby and extends an arm around both boys, who remain stiff and confused and mostly engaged in one another and their father, but make no attempt to shrug him off.
They’re driving too fast down the highway and the boys are starting to drift off, their tense little bodies relaxing at last, when there’s a sharp jerk as the car wrenches across two lanes and then a jolting halt, so abrupt Sammy lets out a little “oh!” of surprise, followed by a sinking feeling and the harsh hiss of tires letting out air.
“Stay,” grunts John, ducking out of the car, Bobby on the other side, and Sam, unsure if the order applies to him, twists in his seat, arm curling more tightly around the boys, sees a tall, slender man of about thirty and a perky blonde college-aged girl circling John and Bobby, their intentions clear.
“Big Sam, whas goin’ on out dere?” whispers Sammy, voice thin and scared, lisp at full force, and Dean is telling his shush, Sammy, it’s okay, and before Sam is quite sure what’s going on there’s a violent jolt, a tilt, and then he’s landed hard on the pavement, face down. He whirls around, sees John and Bobby pinned against a tree by the tall-guy demon while the girl’s got a skinny arm hard against Dean’s collarbone, holding him fast despite his ferocious struggling. Another demon, an older man, has got little Sammy by the shoulders, lifting him clean off the ground so they’re eye level, and poor Sammy is frozen, too scared to even squirm or kick. John and Bobby’s faces are twin masks of complete fear. The demon’s inch is a nose from Sammy's tiny one, his grin fixed wide and hungry in a way that makes Sam want to vomit.
“Looky here,” he sing songs. “Happy birthday, little Sammy. Were you having a party?” He gives Sammy a little shake and the kid’s face glistens with tears as he shutters ineffectually in the demon’s grip. Sam whips his head to John and Bobby, unable to move, to Dean, face alight with pure fear, back to the demon, who looks him square in the face and actually drops Sammy clean onto the pavement.
“Sammy!” gasps Dean, and gets a hand smacked over his mouth, hard, for his trouble.
“Well, well, well,” says the oldest demon, “what have we here? This is a puzzle.”
Sam tries to edge backwards, arm flailing out for the duffel, but in an instant the demon has advanced, pinned Sam’s arm under his boot and bent down, folding unnaturally at the waist. “Now, now, I know who you are,” he says, “but I’m not quite sure I know how you’re here.”
Sam stares back, heart racing. Is this some minion of Azazel’s? Someone who knows who Sam is, who Sammy is, what they might do? The demon smiles again, unhinged and terrifyingly lazy, easy, like this is fun.
“Tell me, Sammy-boy,” it says in a low voice, “how’s a wayward son like you end up in the year 1988? Last I checked, you were five.” Sam tries to get out from under whatever force is holding him down, desperate to see the look on Dean and John’s faces, to see what they think or understand, to see if Sammy is alright. The demon just smiles wider, bends lower, whispers, “I won’t share your little secret, Winchester. Wouldn’t do to upset Daddy. He does have such grand plans for you, darling. Think what he could do with two.” He flicks his head in the direction of little Sammy, who is so small and delicate and smart and clever and so full of hope and joy-
“Go back to Hell,” Sam says hoarsely.
“You first,” replies the demon, coolly, and then Sam isn’t breathing, and then Sam is exploding with pain, there’s an awful constricting pressure on his windpipe, he’s writhing and his eyes are streaming and his vision is swimming and everything is moving slowly and too fast all at once and it’s all blinking in and out, the distant, warped cries of something high pitched and mewling, like a baby, and he thinks he feels something twisting and wet and sharp in his abdomen and he knows he can’t breathe, can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe-
-a light, a shout, the smell of scorched asphalt and then nothing, the cool spring night air and the distant noises of cars in the city.
Sam props himself up, dazed, head spinning, and sees Dean, crumpled on his knees on the pavement, a red angry mark across his face and his knees bloody, and John and Bobby, both slumped, unharmed, against their trees, all eyes staring at Sammy, on his feet, illuminated by the Impala’s taillights, scraped raw but not bleeding save for two steady streams of blood coming out his nose, face slick with tears.
“I don't know what I did,” whispers Sammy, and then Dean dives forward, snatches Sammy and falls back on his rear, holds the little boy against him and rocks a little.
John and Bobby step forward tentatively, and Sam sees for the first time that the ground where Sammy stood, flooded with lights from the Impala’s taillight now Dean and Sammy have scurried to the side, is cracked. He also becomes belatedly aware of the wound in his stomach, which is substantial but somehow looks cleaned and has stopped bleeding, like it’s several hours old. He gapes, open mouthed, at little Sammy, who is sitting dumbfounded in Dean’s arms, not clinging back or pulling away.
“Sam,” says Bobby gruffly, and Sam jumps.
“Yessir?” he slurs, focusing with considerable effort on Bobby’s face.
“Can you get up?”
“No,” says Sam, and then he passes out.
:::
When he wakes up, he’s stretched on his back in the back of the Impala, legs scrunched up against one door, his stomach wound dressed and his throat aching. The car is moving, and when he turns, dizzily, towards the front seat, he sees John driving, Bobby in the passenger seat with a slumped, sleeping Sammy and a silent Dean squashed onto his lap.
“We’re almost back,” says John in a low voice, and Sam nods, lets the soothing motion of the moving car distract him from everything that’s happened, from the increasingly pressing pain in his throat and head and stomach, from Sammy’s blank, tear-streaked face.
They get back to the apartment not long after, and despite his feeble protests Sam is deposited on Sammy and Dean’s proper bed. He’s given some strong pain meds and passes out until the morning, when he wakes to the clattering sounds of the boys in the kitchen and Bobby's low, measured voice as he reigns them in. He tilts his head back a little, closes his eyes and smiles at the warm domesticity of it, still kind of out of it.
“They’re making pancakes,” says a voice from the doorway, and Sam jumps to see his father leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the pictures, books, and sparse toys that litter the room. He swallows. “I always knew,” he says after a moment, “I mean, I’ve known for-every since-but I didn’t think-” He pauses, pinches the bridge of his nose. Collects himself. “The demon that killed my wife,” he says slowly, “marked my son, marked Sam, and I don’t know why, or for what. But I think you do. I think you know all of this already.”
Without anything else to say, Sam hoists himself up until he”s leaning against the headboard and says, “Yes, sir.”
“What’s he want with my boy?” John says, his voice strained and Sam’s heart breaks, it does, in that moment, for this man who had everything taken away from him.
“I told you,” says Sam, “there’s a revolution underway in Hell. He’s making deals. Collecting kids. For his army.”
“And Sammy’s-?”
“Sammy is supposed to lead that army,” says Sam shortly, wearily, his head hitting the wall with a dull thunk. John looks like he might vomit. From the kitchen, Dean’s laughter, high and tinkling and rare, rings out like bells.
“He doesn’t,” says Sam. “He won’t. It’ll cost him-it’ll be-he won’t do it.”
“He didn’t, you mean,” says John, quietly.
“Yessir,” whispers Sam.
“Good boy,” says John, and he leaves again.
:::
John leaves after pancakes. He deposits his dishes in the sink, gathers his things together, and sweeps in to tell the boys goodbye. Sammy cries, in a hard, short burst, but quiets when John kisses his forehead, promises to return soon, and passes the kid off to Bobby, who entices him with promises of The Never-Ending Story on VHS. John watches them go, and probably suspects, like Sam does, that on some level Sammy knows he’s being played but allows it to happen, as it’s less painful than a full understanding of the situation. Easier to kiss his daddy goodbye for now and go bury himself in movies.
No such luck for Dean, who stands planted in the middle of the kitchen, eying John warily as he bends to wrap a cursory arm around Dean’s shoulder.
“Goodbye, Dean,” says John evenly, even briskly, “be good for Sam, okay?”
“Dad,” Dean breathes, and then he looks down, fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt as John claps Sam on the shoulder. “Dad,” he says, only a little louder, as John turns and slips out, intent on vanishing while Sammy’s distracted, before things devolve into uncomfortable emotional displays or before he and Sam are forced to think too hard about their conversation in the bedroom.
“Dad,” says Dean again, louder this time, as the door closes, and then the sound of the Impala roaring to life fills the kitchen and before Sam is sure what has happened Dean is rocketing out the door, his bare feet slapping the dirty, uneven pavement as he tears down the path and, to Sam’s horror, into the road, trying to chase a car that's already turning down the road. “Dad!” he calls, and Sam is there, catching him round the middle and scurrying backwards back onto safe ground, Dean held in front of him like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Dad,” whispers Dean, defeated, and Sam sets him down, turns him by the shoulders to look at his face, tries to hold his twisting shoulders, and then gives up, scoops him up, and carries him inside. Dean lets him, his little face pressed into Sam’s shoulder, and Sam bypasses the lively discussion going on in front of the TV to deposit Dean in the darkened bedroom.
“You okay, baby?” Sam asks, running a hand through Dean’s hair and tactfully ignoring the stark tear trail running down Dean’s face.
“Not a baby,” says Dean, with an almighty sniffle, and before Sam can chuckle and assure Dean he knows it, the kid has sniffed again and is looking Sam in the face. “Is Sammy human?” he whispers.
“Very much so,” says Sam wryly, dropping down to sit on the bed with Dean, a lifetime of human error clattering around in his head.
“Sorry,” says Dean, like a reflex, and Sam cups his face, tsks at him.
“You were so brave, you know,” he says, “last night.”
“Sammy was-I tried but I didn’t-and-and I was-”
“Dean,” says Sam, but Dean’s little chest is heaving, his face, downturned, screwing up as his breath comes a little too hard for Sam’s liking.
“I didn’t-and I-he was all, Sam, he was bleeding and shaking and I don’t know what I-”
This is unbearable. This is as terrible a thing as Sam can conceive of, this small boy still reeling from the reappearance and subsequent disappearance of his father, from the the attack the night before, from seeing his tiny baby brother in second or third hand clothes out in the road, doing the impossible.
“It’s okay,” says Sam, lamely, abruptly, please, Dean, believe me, even if he’s lying, “Dean, it’s okay.”
“Sam, I-”
"You're always brave, Dean," Sam blurts, and hopes it’s right. Dean sucks in a big breath and holds it, nods, his eyes shiny, and lets himself list against Sam, and Sam turns, pressing his face into Dean’s hair the way John had Sammy’s, breathing him in.
“Really?” whispers Dean, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on the leg of Sam’s jeans.
“Absolutely,” says Sam.
“Happy birthday,” says Dean, so quietly Sam almost doesn’t hear it, and Sam doesn’t ask how he knew.
“Thanks, Dean,” he whispers back, into Dean’s soft hair, into his small little head and his sweet Dean head. “Think I’ll have a good year?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Dean, face twisting up into a knowing little grin, and the thing is, is Sam’s pretty sure he’s right.