New (Supernatural, gen, 1026 words, complete)
Title: New
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Word count: 1026
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Warnings: none
AO3 link
Author's note: Shameless fluff written after Tumblr discussion about the parallels between Dean & Sam and Rocket & Groot in Guardians of the Galaxy:[Spoilers (for story and for GOTG)]
I liked the idea of a regenerating baby Sam
It's been ten days since Death put Sam's soul back in, and Dean's almost given up hope. He's gone from keeping vigil by Sammy's bedside, to checking in every hour or so, to feeling too sick to really look at all. Cas says Sam will probably never come round: and Dean did that to him, stuffed that broken soul back into the body of the thing that wasn't his brother. There didn't seem to be another choice. Sam was still burning in Hell.
Dean's jittery pacing takes him all around the junkyard, out to the main road and back again to the house. When he gets back in Bobby's sitting at his desk, pouring whisky into an empty glass. He offers it to Dean. "Sam still asleep?" he says.
"Yes," Dean says, but he doesn't really know if what's happening to Sam is sleep. Maybe the scorching embers of what came out of Lucifer's cage have burnt out his brother's brain for good, sizzling away all those buzzing, bright connections that made Sam Sam: got him into Stanford and away from the hunting life, saved Dean's life (and his Dad's) on several occasions, carried all that hope and forgiveness and love right up to the edge of the gaping hole in Stull Cemetery.
"He'll wake up," Bobby says. Dean's not so sure.
He's knocking back his second whiskey when he hears a noise from downstairs. Sammy. Dean's heart thumps erratic and hard. He looks back across the desk, sees Bobby's eyes wide and cautious. Maybe Bobby's not so excited to get Sam back, not after Robo Sam chased him round the house with an ax. But Dean? Dean's thrilled and terrified and tearful all at once.
"You better go down there," Bobby says; prompting Dean out of his daze, off his chair and down the stairs. Dean pauses at the bottom to catch his breath. Then he walks slowly over to the panic room door. He can't see from this angle what's inside the room; just the empty floor, and the corner of the bed Sam's been lying on. There's another noise from inside the room: a cry, in a high voice, and Dean's chest clutches tight with anxiety. It doesn't sound like Sam, not like Sam in his normal state: maybe Sam wracked with misery or pain.
He's almost too scared to step forward. But he breathes deep, sets his shoulders and strides straight in through the half-open door. What he sees sends waves of prickly shock through his every limb.
Sam's sitting on the bed with his legs tucked up under his chin, arms wrapped around his shins, crying into his knees. When he hears Dean enter, he looks up. His eyes spill over with big, wet tears. "Dean?" he says.
Dean gapes, wordless and stunned. It's Sam. But this Sam is a tiny child of, maybe, two years old.
Dean knows this baby. He knows him really well. He knows him from months spent buckled into the back of the car together, waving toys or comics or the less dangerous bits of Dad's arsenal in front of wide-open hazel eyes to keep him amused. He knows him from cutting up his vegetables good and small, from holding his chubby little hand as they crossed the road; from picking him up when he fell over in the dirt and smiling at him really quickly so Sam didn't have the chance to start crying. He knows him. But it's been almost twenty-five years.
"Dean!" says Sam again through his shuddering sobs, and his arms, still dimply with baby fat, stretch out for his brother. Dean responds without thinking, tucks his hands under Sam's armpits and lifts him onto his hip. Sam sniffles into his shoulder. Dean rubs his back. He's not sure what to do. Death never said anything about physical changes; Dean had been worried Sam might turn out a vegetable, not turn into a kid.
Little fingers are twisting at Dean's collar, Sam's curly head burrowing into his neck. Dean wonders how Sam knew it was him. Does he have any of his adult memories in that baby head? Or does Dean still have enough of his six-year-old self about him for an infant Sam to pick it up? He kind of hopes it's the latter. The idea of this toddler having seen the things Sam's seen... Dean doesn't even like to imagine it. It messed Sam up as a man in his twenties. This little dude shouldn't have to know that stuff.
He squeezes Sam closer. Thankfully, the sobs have stopped: Sam's wheezing juddery breaths in and out, interspersed with small hiccuping gasps that clutch tight at Dean's chest. "Hey, Sammy," Dean says.
He supposes he should take Sam upstairs; should show him to Bobby, or call Cas, and try to work out if there's anything they can do to fix this. But instead, Dean sits down on the bed. He shifts Sam onto his lap, turns him round so that he can look his old-new baby brother in the eyes. Sam looks right back with his own soft, serious gaze: so different from Robo Sam's detatched amusement that Dean wants to cry. And maybe he is crying, already, without having noticed it start; because Sam reaches his hand and pats at the wet on Dean's cheek. "Oh," he says. "Oh, no."
"It's OK, Sam," says Dean. And he finds himself thinking, maybe it's right that Sam came back this way. Maybe it's his chance to give Sam what he didn't have last time, to make him a home that's more than an old black car on an open road. Maybe he could give this Sam a bedroom, with lots of books in it; and an education that takes in fewer than four dozen schools. He could build him a life that's focused not on revenge, but on living. They could play sports, keep pets, have neighbours. Go to the beach. Dean's dizzy with how much he wants it.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says. "Let's get a house, yeah? Just you and me."
"What do you say, Sam?" he says. And Sam smiles.