Entwined Destinies: Son of Sabbathiel - One Shot (Gen)
Title: Entwined Destinies: Son of Sabbathiel
Author: lady_fetish
Rating: PG 13
Character(s): baby Sammy, Dean, John & Mary.
Disclaimer: Supernatural characters are not mine, just borrowing them.
Summary: Dean doesn’t know how he managed to get Sam out of the burning house the way he did. Thinking back on it as they sit on the hood of their dad’s car, it still doesn’t make sense to him, but somehow, he’d actually done it.
Prompt: #2: 'The night Azazel came to mark little Sammy Winchester, was the night Dean discovered a power of his own.
Words: 1597
___________________________________
Night, 1983
Mary Winchester carries her four year old son into her infant’s room, the blond haired boy perched on her hip. “Come on, let’s say goodnight to your brother,” she tells the young boy, smiling lovingly into his face before she allows him to slide from her arms to his feet at the crib side.
Rising up on his tip toes, Dean Winchester leans over his baby brother’s crib, gently kissing his delicate, powder scented forehead. “’Night, Sam,” he tells his brother softly.
Mary smiles down at her infant son. “Goodnight, love,” she tells him softly, reaching out to run one hand over the chubby infant’s head, smoothing the small amount of dark hair he has.
“Hey, Dean.” John Winchester’s voice sounds from the bedroom door, causing both Mary and Dean to turn towards the sound of his voice.
“Daddy!” Dean calls out excitedly, bounding across the room and jumping into his father’s arms.
John easily lifts his son into his arms, holding him in one arm as they look into the room towards baby Sammy and Mary, before John turns his attention to his eldest son. “Hey, buddy. So, what do you think? You think Sammy’s ready to toss around a football yet?” He asks Dean with a playful smile.
Dean giggles and shakes his head. “No, Daddy.”
“No,” John sighs softly as if totally deflated by Dean’s answer.
Mary stands next to the crib, her hand still on her infant son, lovingly caressing his head, simply touching him with a mother’s loving touch, as she smiles over at her husband and eldest son.
“You got him?” Mary asks John, nodding her head towards Dean.
“Yeah, I got him,” John answers, intent on tucking Dean in for the night, pausing briefly in the doorway before leaving the room, looking over at Sam with a soft smile on his face. “Sweet dreams, Sam.”
* * * *
Mary is lying alone in bed, sleeping, when strange sounds come across Sam’s baby monitor, waking her up, a frown marring her brow. “John?” She asks drowsily, before pushing herself into a sitting position on the bed, legs swinging off the side, her hand flat against the mattress, eyes sleepy, as she stands to her feet and staggers towards the bedroom door.
Stumbling to Sam’s bedroom door, Mary lays a hand against the doorjamb as she looks into the room seeing a figure next to the bed.
John…
“John? Is he hungry?” She calls out softly.
The figure doesn’t turn towards her, his attention fixed as he watches his blood drip down into the infant’s mouth. Better than mother’s milk…
“Shhh.”
Mary’s eyes widen slightly, even in her sleepy daze. Well, if I don’t ask, how am I gonna know?
“All right,” she sighs softly, turning away from the door to head down the stairs to make Sam a bottle.
Walking down the hall, Mary frowns as the hall light flickers on and off dimly. Walking over to it she taps it a couple times and the flickering ceases. Satisfied that the problem is fixed she continues down the stairs towards the kitchen, passing the living room on her way, only to find John passed out in the chair in front of the television, a beer bottle still held in his hand.
Mary’s eyes widen. If John is there, then who was…? Turning abruptly, Mary races back up the stairs. “Sam! Sammy!”
Mary runs into Sam’s room and stops abruptly, a soft, startled gasp leaving her parted lips as the black trench coat clad figure turns his head towards her, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark of the room.
“You,” Mary accuses softly.
The figure’s lips curve into a slow, menacing smile.
* * * *
John startles awake to the sound of Mary’s blood curling scream.
Bounding to his feet, John runs through the living room to the stairs and up to Sam’s room where his steps slow. The room is quiet, his infant son laying awake, kicking and making gurgling noises in his crib.
John’s gaze darts from his son to look about the darkened room. “Mary?”
Silence is his only answer as he walks further into the room and over to the crib, peering in at baby Sam. “Hey, Sammy. You okay?” He asks the baby, eyes searching the bed, only to see something wet fall onto the tiny pillow. Slowly, John reaches into the crib to touch the dark, wet spot, a frown of confusion knitting his brow. Another drop - of blood - falls on his hand.
John’s eyes widen as he looks at the blood droplet. Terrified, he turns and looks up to find his wife plastered to the ceiling, bleeding from her abdomen, staring open-mouthed back at him. “Mary!” John yells, just before she bursts into flames, the fire rapidly spreading across the ceiling.
Tearing his gaze away from his burning wife, John reaches into the crib and bundles Sam up in blankets, lifting him up into his arms, before turning to run out.
“Daddy!” Dean calls, his green eyes wide with fright as he runs towards his father and baby brother.
Bending at the waist, knees slightly bent to reach his sons level, John thrusts baby Sam into Dean’s arms. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!”
Dean pauses only a moment, watching as his dad straightens to his full height before he turns, baby Sam held tightly in his arms, running for the stairs, heading towards the front door.
Dean starts to go out the door only to find that it is already too hot, the fire rapidly spreading throughout the house. His exit is blocked. Even at four years old he knows that fire burns, that he and Sam will be burned alive if he goes that way, but he doesn’t see any other way out.
Something instinctive kicks in inside of Dean, a deep rooted knowledge to protect, and it’s not just a feeling that he should do it because his brother is an infant, it’s a deep down, soul burning, need.
Family.
It’s the most important thing.
Protect Sam.
And in that moment, young Dean Winchester, knows that he would gladly die for his brother.
Tucking Sam lengthwise against his body, Sam’s chubby infant legs tucked up against Dean’s young belly, the elder Winchester cradles Sam’s torso with his forearms, the baby’s head held in his hands as he holds him tightly. “I gotcha, Sammy, I’ll protect you,” Dean mumbles softly to his brother just before he throws himself at the burning door.
Emerging on the other side, Dean’s eyes are still squeezed closed from when he threw himself into the flames, the cool dampness of the night air against his skin telling Dean that they made it out of the house.
Slowly he opens his eyes and lowers his baby brother marginally from his body, just enough so that he can look into the infants face; green eyes searching his brother over for harm and seeing nothing. Neither he nor his bother are hurt, not a scratch or a burn on either of them.
Stopping a few feet away from the house, Dean looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t understand it. Even if Sam was alright, he should be burned, and yet there is nothing.
Sam starts to make fussing sounds drawing Dean’s attention back to him, “It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother softly, leaning his head down to kiss his brother’s cheeks. “It’s okay. Told ya I’d protect you, Sam. I’ll always be here to protect you, s’my job,” Dean says softly, words muffled against Sam’s warm, powder scented flesh.
John comes barreling out of the house, scooping Dean up, who is still holding Sam in his arms. “I gotcha,” John tells him as he runs away from the inferno, carrying them to safety.
Later, as Dean sits on the hood of the Impala with his dad and little brother, his gaze fixed on the remains of his home as the firemen fight to extinguish the flames, he tries to figure out how it is that he and Sam made it through the fire the way they did, but he just can’t seem to figure it out. Nothing makes sense. It’s then that his mother’s words vibrate through his head. “Angel’s are watching over you…” Slowly Dean raises his head from his dad’s shoulder, his eyes intent on the dying fire. Could it be?
* * * *
Heaven
Whispered voices:
He knows.
He knows.
The son of Sabbathiel knows.
The son of the viceroy of heaven has figured it out.
A deeper booming voice joins the ramblings.
He does not know.
He only feels the need to protect.
Like his father.
In that need he will keep the Morning Star’s chosen from harm’s way.
He will be our aid.
My son.
The other voices rebuttal:
You could not protect your brother, why should he do better?
You could not change events.
Why should he?
He is going to find out and come against us.
It is not going according to plan.
The Morning Star has made his mark on the infant before Sabbathiel’s son could be taught the ways of a warrior and now Mary Campbell is dead.
It is the end.
All is lost.
All is lost.
The deep booming voice:
He is strong, he will change events.
He is his father’s son and he is man.
He is better than I am.
It is not the end.
It is only beginning…
Author: lady_fetish
Rating: PG 13
Character(s): baby Sammy, Dean, John & Mary.
Disclaimer: Supernatural characters are not mine, just borrowing them.
Summary: Dean doesn’t know how he managed to get Sam out of the burning house the way he did. Thinking back on it as they sit on the hood of their dad’s car, it still doesn’t make sense to him, but somehow, he’d actually done it.
Prompt: #2: 'The night Azazel came to mark little Sammy Winchester, was the night Dean discovered a power of his own.
Words: 1597
___________________________________
Night, 1983
Mary Winchester carries her four year old son into her infant’s room, the blond haired boy perched on her hip. “Come on, let’s say goodnight to your brother,” she tells the young boy, smiling lovingly into his face before she allows him to slide from her arms to his feet at the crib side.
Rising up on his tip toes, Dean Winchester leans over his baby brother’s crib, gently kissing his delicate, powder scented forehead. “’Night, Sam,” he tells his brother softly.
Mary smiles down at her infant son. “Goodnight, love,” she tells him softly, reaching out to run one hand over the chubby infant’s head, smoothing the small amount of dark hair he has.
“Hey, Dean.” John Winchester’s voice sounds from the bedroom door, causing both Mary and Dean to turn towards the sound of his voice.
“Daddy!” Dean calls out excitedly, bounding across the room and jumping into his father’s arms.
John easily lifts his son into his arms, holding him in one arm as they look into the room towards baby Sammy and Mary, before John turns his attention to his eldest son. “Hey, buddy. So, what do you think? You think Sammy’s ready to toss around a football yet?” He asks Dean with a playful smile.
Dean giggles and shakes his head. “No, Daddy.”
“No,” John sighs softly as if totally deflated by Dean’s answer.
Mary stands next to the crib, her hand still on her infant son, lovingly caressing his head, simply touching him with a mother’s loving touch, as she smiles over at her husband and eldest son.
“You got him?” Mary asks John, nodding her head towards Dean.
“Yeah, I got him,” John answers, intent on tucking Dean in for the night, pausing briefly in the doorway before leaving the room, looking over at Sam with a soft smile on his face. “Sweet dreams, Sam.”
* * * *
Mary is lying alone in bed, sleeping, when strange sounds come across Sam’s baby monitor, waking her up, a frown marring her brow. “John?” She asks drowsily, before pushing herself into a sitting position on the bed, legs swinging off the side, her hand flat against the mattress, eyes sleepy, as she stands to her feet and staggers towards the bedroom door.
Stumbling to Sam’s bedroom door, Mary lays a hand against the doorjamb as she looks into the room seeing a figure next to the bed.
John…
“John? Is he hungry?” She calls out softly.
The figure doesn’t turn towards her, his attention fixed as he watches his blood drip down into the infant’s mouth. Better than mother’s milk…
“Shhh.”
Mary’s eyes widen slightly, even in her sleepy daze. Well, if I don’t ask, how am I gonna know?
“All right,” she sighs softly, turning away from the door to head down the stairs to make Sam a bottle.
Walking down the hall, Mary frowns as the hall light flickers on and off dimly. Walking over to it she taps it a couple times and the flickering ceases. Satisfied that the problem is fixed she continues down the stairs towards the kitchen, passing the living room on her way, only to find John passed out in the chair in front of the television, a beer bottle still held in his hand.
Mary’s eyes widen. If John is there, then who was…? Turning abruptly, Mary races back up the stairs. “Sam! Sammy!”
Mary runs into Sam’s room and stops abruptly, a soft, startled gasp leaving her parted lips as the black trench coat clad figure turns his head towards her, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark of the room.
“You,” Mary accuses softly.
The figure’s lips curve into a slow, menacing smile.
* * * *
John startles awake to the sound of Mary’s blood curling scream.
Bounding to his feet, John runs through the living room to the stairs and up to Sam’s room where his steps slow. The room is quiet, his infant son laying awake, kicking and making gurgling noises in his crib.
John’s gaze darts from his son to look about the darkened room. “Mary?”
Silence is his only answer as he walks further into the room and over to the crib, peering in at baby Sam. “Hey, Sammy. You okay?” He asks the baby, eyes searching the bed, only to see something wet fall onto the tiny pillow. Slowly, John reaches into the crib to touch the dark, wet spot, a frown of confusion knitting his brow. Another drop - of blood - falls on his hand.
John’s eyes widen as he looks at the blood droplet. Terrified, he turns and looks up to find his wife plastered to the ceiling, bleeding from her abdomen, staring open-mouthed back at him. “Mary!” John yells, just before she bursts into flames, the fire rapidly spreading across the ceiling.
Tearing his gaze away from his burning wife, John reaches into the crib and bundles Sam up in blankets, lifting him up into his arms, before turning to run out.
“Daddy!” Dean calls, his green eyes wide with fright as he runs towards his father and baby brother.
Bending at the waist, knees slightly bent to reach his sons level, John thrusts baby Sam into Dean’s arms. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!”
Dean pauses only a moment, watching as his dad straightens to his full height before he turns, baby Sam held tightly in his arms, running for the stairs, heading towards the front door.
Dean starts to go out the door only to find that it is already too hot, the fire rapidly spreading throughout the house. His exit is blocked. Even at four years old he knows that fire burns, that he and Sam will be burned alive if he goes that way, but he doesn’t see any other way out.
Something instinctive kicks in inside of Dean, a deep rooted knowledge to protect, and it’s not just a feeling that he should do it because his brother is an infant, it’s a deep down, soul burning, need.
Family.
It’s the most important thing.
Protect Sam.
And in that moment, young Dean Winchester, knows that he would gladly die for his brother.
Tucking Sam lengthwise against his body, Sam’s chubby infant legs tucked up against Dean’s young belly, the elder Winchester cradles Sam’s torso with his forearms, the baby’s head held in his hands as he holds him tightly. “I gotcha, Sammy, I’ll protect you,” Dean mumbles softly to his brother just before he throws himself at the burning door.
Emerging on the other side, Dean’s eyes are still squeezed closed from when he threw himself into the flames, the cool dampness of the night air against his skin telling Dean that they made it out of the house.
Slowly he opens his eyes and lowers his baby brother marginally from his body, just enough so that he can look into the infants face; green eyes searching his brother over for harm and seeing nothing. Neither he nor his bother are hurt, not a scratch or a burn on either of them.
Stopping a few feet away from the house, Dean looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t understand it. Even if Sam was alright, he should be burned, and yet there is nothing.
Sam starts to make fussing sounds drawing Dean’s attention back to him, “It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother softly, leaning his head down to kiss his brother’s cheeks. “It’s okay. Told ya I’d protect you, Sam. I’ll always be here to protect you, s’my job,” Dean says softly, words muffled against Sam’s warm, powder scented flesh.
John comes barreling out of the house, scooping Dean up, who is still holding Sam in his arms. “I gotcha,” John tells him as he runs away from the inferno, carrying them to safety.
Later, as Dean sits on the hood of the Impala with his dad and little brother, his gaze fixed on the remains of his home as the firemen fight to extinguish the flames, he tries to figure out how it is that he and Sam made it through the fire the way they did, but he just can’t seem to figure it out. Nothing makes sense. It’s then that his mother’s words vibrate through his head. “Angel’s are watching over you…” Slowly Dean raises his head from his dad’s shoulder, his eyes intent on the dying fire. Could it be?
* * * *
Heaven
Whispered voices:
He knows.
He knows.
The son of Sabbathiel knows.
The son of the viceroy of heaven has figured it out.
A deeper booming voice joins the ramblings.
He does not know.
He only feels the need to protect.
Like his father.
In that need he will keep the Morning Star’s chosen from harm’s way.
He will be our aid.
My son.
The other voices rebuttal:
You could not protect your brother, why should he do better?
You could not change events.
Why should he?
He is going to find out and come against us.
It is not going according to plan.
The Morning Star has made his mark on the infant before Sabbathiel’s son could be taught the ways of a warrior and now Mary Campbell is dead.
It is the end.
All is lost.
All is lost.
The deep booming voice:
He is strong, he will change events.
He is his father’s son and he is man.
He is better than I am.
It is not the end.
It is only beginning…