Red

Red
Author: Raelinschaos


Dean woke up to a strange feeling of dread in his stomach. He couldn’t see Sam; his bed was rumpled & lumpy so he had slept in it, but Dean couldn’t hear the shower running, so he got up quickly and scanned the room. There wasn’t any sign of a break, no drag marks—and, fuck, God knows Sam would go down fighting, so…where the hell was Sam?

By all purposes, Dean should be panicking. With any luck, Sammy probably just gone to get some breakfast, but ever since the incident with the Benders—man, that was one seriously fucked up family, and that’s why you don’t mess with a man and his dentures—Dean has a tendency to worry when Sam goes out on his own.

He decided to take a shower, and if Sam wasn’t back by the time he finished Dean would go track him down. He took off his top and, chucking it onto Sam’s bed, there came a slight oomph from one of the piled. Dean went for his knife, quietly moving towards the bed. He pulled back the cover and was met with…a much younger Sam, screaming at the sight of Dean and a large knife.

“Well, shit,” Dean said, and he knew this was going to be a long day.

~~~~~

“No,” said Dean quickly putting the knife down. “Sam—Sam, stop screaming,”

Dean could just see other people bursting into the room any minute. Sam stopped at his name being called, eyes big, watery with fear, and looking up at him, Dean figured he was only about ten.

“My big brother will kick your ass,” said the little Sammy, and Dean had to smile at that.

Ah. The worshipping days.

“Sammy,” he said, noticing the slight shudder that went through Sam’s small frame.

“No one calls me Sammy except my dad and my brother!”

“Fine. Sam, I need you to listen to me, okay? I am your brother—I’m Dean.”

Sam stared at him, “you’re not Dean, Dean’s fourteen your…old,” spitting the word.

Dean’s mouth dropped, not knowing whether to laugh or smack Sam upside the head.

“I’m not old, I’m twenty-seven. And I’m your brother. I don’t know what happened, but you were older, too, just…not anymore?”

“…Really?”

“Yeah, we’re travelling together. Hunting,” and when Sam looked at Dean again, he didn’t say anything.

“Look, you should shower, and I? I’m going to call a friend who might be able to help, okay?” Sam nodded and got out of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

Eyes closing mid-sigh, Dean thought, Fuck. me.

~~~~~

Dean called Missouri—Dean I’m glad you called—and Dean had always felt weird about her doing that.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, hoping the sounds he heard from the bathroom wouldn’t require any band aids in the immediate future.

“I know a powerful spell has been worked, but I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad.”

“Good or bad? Sam’s ten. How is that a good thing?”

“Boy, don’t you take that tone with me. I can smack you with a spoon from here. What I meant—”

“Really?”

“What I meant was—I can’t tell whether it was good or evil who worked the spell.”

Dean just nodded in understanding, knowing that Missouri would know. She said some other stuff, too, but Dean may or may not have caught it as he scanned the room for floating silverware.

“Dean? Dean?”

“Wha—no, I’m here,” he said, carefully eyeing a moldy takeout spoon. “I’m listening.”

“Mm hmm. Anyway, these types of spells really just try and change something that happened, something that had a profound effect later on in that person’s life.”

Dean nodded again trying to think of something that was either so awful—well more so than usual—or something so good that had happened to Sam when he was ten.

Well, that and if Missouri knew about the moldy spoon.

“And…Dean?” said Missouri, breaking Dean out of his thoughts, “you need to be careful, sweetheart. I’m not sure whether Sam will still have his powers or not.”

Dean hadn’t even though of that, so he said thanks—so Missouri said it’s okay, honey. If you need anything call me.

But just before he hung up, he heard the crackling of phone lines on her end, and she said, “Boy, clean up your room. There’s a fork and a butter knife that go with that spoon.”

~~~~~

Sam came out naked as the day he was born and a whole new notch of uncomfortable shot through Dean’s brain.

“I can’t reach the towel,” he said, and Dean wondered if that was honestly enough of an excuse for Sam to parade around like he belonged to a mental institution or was a junior member of PFLAG.

Dean quickly grabbed the towel from the rail noticing that Sam hadn’t had his growth spurt yet and was quite small—even for his age—as Sam dried himself off. Dean routed around in their duffel bags trying to find some clothes for Sam, but all he found were pair of shorts and a t-shirt that were way too big and baggy.

It would have to do until they got to a clothing store, he thought, praying no one thought he was related to an East-side reject.

“Sammy,” he said noticed Sam flinch a little at the nickname. “Sam, put those on,” he said pointing to the clothes he laid out on the bed. “I’m gonna shower quickly and then we can get going. We’ll try and find you some clothes that will fit.”

Sam nodded and Dean headed into the bathroom. He showered swiftly as Sam dressed in the stuff Dean had found for him. They were too big so Dean put a belt on the shorts which helped a little, but shoes were going to be a problem. Dean decided that the best thing was to carry him—which he did—to the Impala and packed up their gear, before checking out surreptitiously. The motel owner might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but would have probably noticed Dean suddenly having a kid while the guy he was with disappeared.

~~~~~

When Dean drove to the local mall, he carried Sam in and they headed straight for a shoe store. The sales clerk looked at them strangely, but one look from Dean told him that asking a question would not be the smartest option. Dean bought Sam some trainers before heading to a clothes store. This clerk got the same look and didn’t ask any questions, and Dean found a couple of pairs of jeans and some t-shirts and hoodys, even a pair of pyjamas, so he had Sam try them on while he paid for them

By the time they headed out of the store, Dean was starving.

“I’m hungry,” said Sam, and this was the first information he had volunteered since that morning.

Looking around, they headed towards a café that was still serving breakfast. Their waitress ohhed and ahhed over Sam, and kept telling Dean what an adorable son he had. Dean had a mental flash back to uncomfortable but didn’t try to dissuade them in their assumption. He was young, too young, to have a son—especially Sam’s age—but knew all the years of hunting and time on the road had aged his looks somewhat.

They ate their fill, Dean having a fried breakfast, slathered in grease, and Sam having blueberry pancakes which he ate with too much gusto and too much syrup and smiled for maybe the first time that day.

They paid and got back into the car, driving up on to another motel lot. Dean checked in with Sam and grabbed what they needed from the car—Dean was still on a hunt. There was a black dog in the area. They had found where it was holed up and were supposed to get rid of it tonight, but with Sam being out of commission, Dean didn’t really want to leave him on his own.

He’d figure that out later, deciding that find out what Sam remembered should take priority. Hopefully, maybe Dean could find out what was supposed to change. He got them unpacked—well, as much as they ever did.

“Sam,” he said, as he eyed a ten year old Sammy pretend a paper plate was a steering wheel. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up today?”

“You had gone out,” said Sam, barely looking at him as he passed an imaginary 18 wheeler. “You went to get some background digging for a hunt.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. He remembered having to do that a lot at his age, doing research for dad or meeting girls when Sam or Dad didn’t ask too many questions.

“And then,” said Sam. “I woke up in that bed this morning.” Sam’s brow wrinkled before he yawned, collapsing flat out on the bed. “I’m tired.”

Dean sighed. “Okay, Sammy,” he said, before raising off the other bed. He noticed the flinch again— something was off about that—and he really wanted to know what, but he figured he’d have to wait till later.

“You can go to sleep,” he said, as Dean grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed and covered Sam with it and said goodnight, even though it was mid-afternoon. Sam fell asleep almost immediately and Dean figured he’d do some research on the laptop.

Sammy’s laptop.

He looked over at the younger version of his brother he was sleeping soundly for once.

And, for once, he thought, half-snorting, half smiling, he’s cuter when he’s sleeping.

~~~~~

Dean was scouring the internet for any lead on what had happened to Sam. Three hours into it and he still had nothing. He knew what the spell did, but not why nor from whom.

Oh, God, kill me now. There was a reason why Sam did the majority of this stuff.

Three hours. Three hours and the only thing he had to show for it were just more on the actual logistics of the spell, and, considering what Missouri said about it was cast by good or evil, Dean hadn’t really learned anything new.

Then again, if Dean were a betting man—and, $500 from the night before’s poker game in his back pocket said he was—Dean was betting on evil, because…the why? As in why? As in why would something good do this to Sam? Hell, to them? Now?

That he just didn’t know.

He shut the laptop down and leaned back in the chair. What had happened to Sam at that age that was worse than all the things they had been through before? And what had it influenced?

And, Sam started to cry out, and Dean was up and by Sam’s side without any conscious thought.

“Sam?” he asked, shaking him lightly. “Sam?”

Sam sat bolt upright, panting, hard eyes catching sight of Dean, and he flung himself into Dean’s arms, all nimbly legs, and noodly arms. Dean held on tight to the crying boy in his arms, shushing him when the sobs racked his body.

“Sam?” he asked, pulling Sam away from his chest. “What did you see?”

Sam told him about…things—shadows, things moving fast… it was scary Dean—and Dean just hugged him again.

“It’s okay, Sam. Shh, it’s okay. It was just a nightmare,” he said as he stroked Sam’s hair. Sam was still trembling.

It was a vision. It had to be. They would have to move on it soon, but it was very weird. Sam said there was a lot of shouting, although he couldn’t really recall what was being said, and he didn’t really see anything, just felt terrified in it and lonely

Dean knew this was important—damn near vital—but he needed to deal with the black dog first. Sam had stopped crying and trembling, so he pulled Sam away and looked at him. His face was red and his eyes were puffy, so Dean took his hand and said

“Come on. Go get cleaned up and we’ll go get something to eat.”

Sam nodded and headed off to the bathroom. Dean knew he couldn’t leave Sam on his own, but he sure as hell couldn’t bring Sam with him, and no matter how charming he tried to be, Dean didn’t think that So, yeah…you’re a, uh, definitely fine person, so—hey. How about looking after my brother. He likes GameBoy. You wouldn’t happen to have one of those laying around, would you? was going to work with the mousy check in clerk, regardless of how much cleavage she showed.

Sam came out of the bathroom, and his eyes were no longer puffy. “I saw a diner down the road. Let’s go get something,” he said, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. Sam followed him.

~~~~~

The waitresses loved Sam instantly. He was a quiet and polite boy, and Dean had to fight the urge from rolling his eyes. At ten, Sam was still as uptight as he was at twenty three.

You’re a kid. How many manners can you have?

They ate their fill and left. Sam got a muffin free of charge, and Dean was wondered if he could scam some more from one of the waitresses—my name’s Jean, darlin’—to take back to the motel. Sam had smiled and said thank you and Jean had smiled and tousled his hair. They got back to the motel and Sam sat down and turned the tv on and Dean headed to the shower.

When, Dean came out later Sam was still watching tv. “Anything good on?” he asked, and Sam huffed a no.

Dean just nodded and got dressed. Sam was already yawning again, and Dean found himself yawning along with Sam.

“Okay, let’s get some shuteye.” Sam nodded and switched off the tv. Dean checked the salt lines and for the knife was under his pillow. He pulled out the pyjamas they had bought earlier and Sam got changed and into bed. Then, Dean crawled under his own covers, looking over at Sam who was already sleeping.

“’night, Sam,” he said in a hushed voice before drifting off to sleep

Dean woke up suddenly, feeling for the knife under his pillow when he heard what had woken him up.

Sam was crying. Dean quickly got out of bed and went over to his side.

“Sam?” he whispered, shaking his arm lightly. “What’s wrong?”

Sam blinked through wet eyelashes. “I forgot,” he said. “I didn’t know where I was, and I saw you and I was scared, and—”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise.”

Sam looked at him with those big eyes, the ones Dean had difficulty actually saying no to.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Sam asked, looking down.

Dean made an inward growl but was used to it.

“Sure,” he said, and lifted the cover. Sam climbed out and went over to Dean’s bed. Dean got in the other side, pulling the knife out from under the pillow and placing it within arm’s reach on the side table. He fell asleep wrapping himself round Sam, and was reminded of when they were both younger and Sam had a nightmare or was sick and that he would always crawl into Dean’s bed and Dean would wrap himself around Sam and protect him.

~~~~~

They woke late the next day and quickly showered and headed out for some late breakfast. They went to the same diner, and the waitresses once again kept coming over to see Sam. Dean figured he could probably get the poor saps to watch Sam for him while he wasted the black dog, and, near the end of breakfast, Sam excused himself to the bathroom, and Dean saw his opportunity

Jean came over with their bill wit a refill on Dean’s coffee.

“Jean?” Dean said. “Can I ask you a favour?”

She looked at him and smiled. She’d probably do anything for the young father and his son.

“It’s like this,” Dean said, voice dark and low and just enough to be believable. “Sam’s mom is in town, and she wants some stuff of hers back and I don’t want Sam there to get his hopes up at her taking him home with her.”

For a second, Dean felt a little guilty over trying to pull a fast one over on Jean, but figured that he had a job to do, and if it kept Sam safe, then it probably balanced out on a karmic level anyway.

“It’ll only be a couple of hours, so…,” he said, sighing, and breaking eye contact—just enough so the poor girl thought he was heartbroken and tired. “You see…if Sam could just stay here for a while, if you could just watch him...”

Jean’s eyes melted. “Oh, sure, hon. That there boy of yours is a cutie. I’d love to help,” she said, and turned to walk back to the till, before turning around again.

“You know, any woman who wouldn’t want such a nice boy like Sam doesn’t seem very bright to me, she said, hand on her hips, turning back one final time.

“And, well…you ain’t too hard on the eyes either, suga’,” she said, winking, and Dean just grinned behind his coffee.

Jean went to the back room, couldn’t stand to think what type of women wouldn’t want Sam, so sweet and polite—adorable, really. She let the other waitresses know, and they all agreed and she when she went back to pick up the plates from Dean’s table, Sam had returned and was just finishing his pancakes

When Jean came back over, Sam smiled and set his fork and knife down on the plate for her. Dean picked up the bill and stood to put his jacket on. They went to the till where Jean was waiting and he paid with a generous tip in the glass jar, before kneeling down to Sam’s height.

“Okay, Sam,” he said. “I need you to stay here with Jean and the other waitresses while I go out for a bit, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of hours and, if you’re good, I’ll bring you back a present, how’s that?”

Sam nodded, his wiry arms linking Dean in a child-tight hug, before Jean pointed him to a booth a little ways away where some pencils and paper where waiting.

“One last thing,” said Dean, hand firmly grasping the waitress’ shoulder. “Sometimes, he’ll have this…thing where he’ll curl into himself, say he’s seeing something. Usually, they’re just…they’re usually just nightmares that he’s had—could you just…could you just remember what he says and let me know? Just…give him some water afterwards and he should be fine, you know?”

Jean just nodded again, her hand covering his own on her arm.

“He’ll be fine, sweetie. Just get on back now.”

Dean took one last look, then left and headed back to the motel to pick up what he would need, finally ready to hunt down the black dog.

~~~~~

Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken long at all, and Dean was back at the motel packing up the stuff they had unpacked the night before. After, he also called their father, carefully looking over his shoulder out of sheer habit. He left a message—like Dad ever answered his phone—telling him what had happened and the next town they were heading to, asking him to meet them.

It had taken all of two hours, and, on the way back, Dean stopped off at a bookstore. He found one of Sam’s favourite books from when he was ten under a ratty old pile of children’s books marked Half-Priced Books. Dean remembered Sam reading it over and over again when they were younger, and, hoping it would ease Sam a bit to have something that was familiar to him, Dean bought it smiling as the sales lady wished him a good day.

By the time Dean headed to the diner, the lunch rush was finished and there were only a couple of truckers eating. Dean walked in and spotted Jean at one of the tables refilling coffee. She smiled at him and pointed towards the kitchen. Dean traced her line of sight and there was Sam, on a stool, perched and eating apple pie.

“Sam,” he called, walking over. Sam looked up and smiled. “Ah, I see you’re stuffing your face again.”

Sam nodded and kept eating, smiling as the too big spoon left splatters of apple preservatives across his chin.

Jean came over then. “Yeah. I’m sorry. We couldn’t resist. He’s just too skinny—thought he needed some fattenin’ up,” she said, all smiles and dimples.

The corners of Dean’s mouth almost gave, Sam finishing his pie and wiping his mouth. He thanked Jean for the pie and for looking after him, as Dean told Sam to get in the car. Sam nodded and waved to the waitresses on the way out, all of which gave a loud protest and a wave goodbye.

Oh, shush. It wasn’t no big thang and oh, that poor cutie. Gonna break them hearts up or ya’ll come back now. Ya’ hear?

Dean turned to Jean, eyes spewing a thousand different thank yous, before asking, “was he okay? No trouble?”

Jean took a careful look at Sam, little hands pulling open the driver’s seat door.

“Oh, no! No, not at all! Well—no, uh, well, yeah he had an episode,” she said conspiratorially, “but he just said it was the same stuff from a nightmare he had yesterday. He was an angel.”

Dean nodded, grinning. “How much do I owe you?” he asked, already taking out his wallet.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, lightly slapping him on the arm. “It was a hoot looking after him. Oh,” she said as she made her way to the corner counter.

“And this is for you two on the way to…wherever it is you’re going.”

She pulled up two paper plates with sandwiches and two packet of chips, and, for a second, Dean thought that she must be a mom because Dean always thought that the only people who were ever that unconditionally nice were either mothers or people named Mary.

“Thank you.” Dean smiled, taking the plates before setting them down to put money in the tip jar then saying goodbye and thank you again.

He went out to the car, Sam opening the door so Dean could give Sam the plates, then got in the other side and started up the car.

~~~~~

They headed off down the road, heading for the place Dean had researched while Sam was at the diner. They were on their way to where they needed to be, starting off in the direction of a small town only a couple of counties away. They drove until Dean was too tired to, and, without Sam to take over, Dean decided to stop.

They had had dinner a while ago, and Sam was sleeping in the passenger seat so Dean took the next exit to a motel and pulled up to the check in. He left Sam sleeping in the car and walked into the office. Dean walked in, smiling to the guy behind the desk.

“Evening,” he said.

The guy just nodded.

“Uh, can I get a room just for the night?”

“A double?” asked the man, dull eyes noticing Sam sleeping in the car.

Dean looked behind him at the car. “Yeah,” he said, turning back.

“Why don’t you go and get the young’un settled in while I process this, ‘kay?” the man said, with little enthusiasm.

Dean smiled a genuine smile of thanks, determined not to be annoyed, and the man gave him a key to Room 3, which wasn’t too far. Dean headed back out to the car. He grabbed what he needed and put them in the room, before going back out for Sam—who, for all intents and purposes, really was too old for Dean to carry him around.

Still, Dean got the sense that Sam probably needed the sleep and decided on not wanting him to wake up. Halfway to the door, Dean was both grateful and concerned as he realized about how light Sam was, trying to remember Sam as ten year old.

He got Sam into the room and quickly got him changed. Sam woke a little and helped by lifting his arms at the right time, thanking Dean as he tucked him into bed. Dean salted the windows and doors before going back to the check in office. The man looked up when he came in.

“All settled in?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, handing the man the credit card he was using.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you and your boy out here this late at night? And where’s the missus?”

Dean looked at him then, slightly agitated, knowing that the guy wasn’t really asking permission.

“His mom’s dead,” Dean said, unflinchingly. Technically speaking, that wasn’t a lie and he knew that the man believed him when his gaze softened a little. “We’re off to visit my dad.”

The man just nodded, handing Dean the sheet to sign in, and then his card.

“Night,” he said, and Dean remembers giving something resembling a grunt goodbye before heading back to their room.

He quickly checked the salt lines before getting ready for bed.

~~~~~

Morning came quickly enough, and Dean woke later in the night and found that Sam had crawled into bed with him again. Dean found himself expecting another flash of uncomfortable, but just smiled lightly and went back to sleep.

~~~~~

He woke up to the sound of the tv playing. Dean looked around and found Sam sitting on the end of his bed watching cartoons like they were the only thing that mattered.

“Morning,” he said.

Sam looked around, briefly greeting him with what may have been a growl before turning back to the tv.

Dean got up and went to the bathroom, thanking whatever god that came up with a messaging shower head. They would get packed up, check out and have breakfast before getting back on the road.

Sam was still watching cartoons when he came out of the bathroom.

“Have you showered?” he asked.

Sam looked at him and shook his head.

“Okay. Well, go get showered already. We’ll head out and get breakfast.”

“Okay,” said Sam, standing up. Dean packed and got some clothes out for Sam.

Sam came out—thankfully dressed—and changed quickly, his hair still wet and curling.

~~~~~

They put their gear in the car and Dean checked out. The man told him to have a safe journey and wished them well. Dean rolled his eyes, but decided they didn’t have time for him to tell the guy off. Dean found a truck stop a little ways down the road and they stopped to get breakfast, figuring that—at the rate they carried on—it would probably take another day or so to get to their next gig. Dean decided when they next stopped for some sleep he would call their father and tell them how far away they were.


~~~~~

They were making good time, and Dean had stopped for lunch and dinner hours ago, but was still wide awake so he kept driving. He found a motel before he became too tired and stopped off, checking in, and quickly getting Sam off to sleep.

Sam crawled into his bed again that night and Dean woke only to find Sam curled against his side, and—suddenly—Dean was struck with the realisation of how differently his life could have been if he hadn’t been a hunter.

Dean knew he couldn’t have any children. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even live past thirty five. And, if you asked him on any other day, he never really thought of himself as the parental type, but, with Sam curled up next to him—for maybe the fourth time in his life—Dean wished he was normal.

Dean never wanted an apple pie life, not like Sam did, but, now, with Sam’s fingers latched to his skin, he wished for maybe just a little bit.

Maybe not the house, though. Or white picket fence, and, really, especially not the typical 9 to 5 job, but…maybe. Maybe a kid.

Sam snored loudly and curled a little tighter against Dean, and Dean’s face wouldn’t listen to his brain as it broke out into something half grin, half grimace. He’d be able to sleep again, but, as he drifted, that thought and wish, that taste of apple pie wouldn’t leave him as he slipped into dreaming.

With one last look where his shoulder should be, Dean’s vision filled with messy brown hair and chubby cheeks, cold hands massaging the small body next to him, and Dean thought.

That would be nice. Just that little bit—that would be nice.

Dean woke before Sam and went to get breakfast. Sam was watching tv when he got back, already dressed. They ate quickly, checking out before nine, and getting back on the road. Somewhere near the town, Dean made a pit stop. Sam went to the bathroom and Dean phoned their dad, leaving a message and updating him on where they were, asking him to be there.

Dean bought water and sandwiches so they would have to stop for lunch. Dean really wanted to be settled into the town before night fall and hopefully meet their dad. They had dinner a couple of hours ago, and night had fallen. Dean was still driving when he decided that they should stay outside the town, making it easier to get in and out while keeping a safe distance from people getting too suspicious.

Sam had been asleep earlier, but had woken up and was looking outside the window. He really didn’t talk that much, Dean remembered, when Sammy was younger. He was a very talkative and curious kid, but when he got to ten, Sam just started talking less and didn’t ask as many questions, just seemed to read a lot.

Dean looked over at Sam and wondered what the hell was going on.

Dean saw a sign for a motel just outside of town, and pulled in. Sam was awake so he came and checked in with Dean. They unpacked the car for the night, and Dean got Sam settled. He was asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow. Dean drew lines around Sam’s bed before moving on to the windows and the door.

He went outside to call his dad, leaving him a message telling him that they were there and where they were staying. Dean just hoped that their dad would meet them. He went back inside and quickly got changed, sleeping for a couple of hours before he was woken by the sharp sound of Sam crying.

“Hey,” he said, sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed. “What’s wrong, buddy? Did you have another nightmare?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, can you tell me what it was about?”

Sam shook his head this time, so Dean frowned. He needed to know whether this was another vision about the gig he was going to be working or if it was just another random nightmare.

“Is this same as the others you’ve been having?”

Sam shook his head again, and Dean sighed.

Well, that was sort of a relief, but Sam had plenty of un-vision nightmares in his memory banks that could scare his younger version into (probably) never sleeping again.

“Sam, please. You have to tell me what it was about,” Dean tried.

“No,” he said in a soft voice. “I have this nightmare sometimes. I’m okay.”

Dean looked at him, completely unconvinced. If Sam had (has had?) this nightmare, then it was from when he was actually ten, but Dean knew he wouldn’t get anything out of Sam tonight so he just reluctantly said okay before tucking Sam back into bed.

~~~~~

Dean had gone back to his bed and slept till morning. Sam was still asleep when Dean woke up, so he took a shower trying to remember Sam ever mentioning a recurring nightmare from when they were younger but only drew up a blank.

Dean couldn’t think of one and this worried him. Sam had kept something hurtful and scary from him when they were supposed to be close and share everything. Dean got dressed and woke Sam who quickly got ready.

Dean drove them into town for breakfast and grabbed a local newspaper to see if anything weird had been going on lately and, hopefully, determine what it was he was going up against and how to get rid of it.

They sat in a nice little diner which was pretty quiet although it was after the normal breakfast run. Sam had a cooked breakfast and ate slowly, deliberately, and Dean could possibly convince himself that it was just Sam being all moody. Dean ate and read the paper, but nothing supernatural seemed to be happening in this town, and the vision had been vague about the shouting and the sense of fear. There really weren’t any visuals—which was weird by itself—but he attributed it to Sam being younger, and, although he had his powers, probably hadn’t grown into them completely.

~~~~~

They got back to the motel and went inside. Sam sat on the bed reading the book Dean had bought him while Dean started looking on the internet for who might be haunting this place. Twenty minutes in, there came a knock on the door.

Dean grabbed his gun and opened the door, and, there, looking a little worse for wear, was their father. John looked at Dean and then down at the gun Dean was pointing at him and smiled.

“Good, son,” he said, clapping Dean hard on the back. “Always be prepared.”

Dean smiled and backed up a little to allow his father to cross the threshold and into the room. Sam had looked up at the knock and was now staring wide eyed at their father. John turned back to Dean, the smile gone.

“Clearly not so prepared,” he said, frowning. Dean just pointed to the floor where a line of salt.

“Ah. Well. There you go,” said John. He hugged Dean, a strong reaffirming hug, mentally checking Dean was there, safe and unhurt, and Dean hugged back with the same intensity.

John pulled back from the hug and looked around the room again. He saw Sammy sitting on the bed and he was as Dean had said—ten years old, complete with his nose stuck in a book. John went over to him not believing his eyes.

“Sammy?” he asked, and Dean noticed a shudder run through his brother’s body—more noticeable when John said it than when Dean had.

Sam looked up and some emotion flittered over his face, but it was there and gone far too quickly for Dean to understand what it was. John hugged Sam who hugged him back and Dean smiled. They would get this sorted out now that Dad was here. He would know what to do. John sat down next to Sam and put his arm around him, looking up at Dean who was still standing near the door.

“So, what have you found out?” asked John, and Dean told him that it looked like a haunting near the same area of woods over the last couple of months. John just nodded.

“I was just sitting down to start researching the town on the laptop,” said Dean.

“You’ll probably be able to find more if you went to the local library,” John said, one eyebrow quirked.

Dean shifted. “Yeah, I was going to go, but I didn’t really want to drag Sam around, and it’s not like I could have left him here alone.

“Good idea. Might’ve drawn a bit too much attention,” John said, sighing as he watched Sam turn his attention back to a late afternoon cartoon. “Well, I’m here now, so you go and hit some books.”

“But…” Dean said, taking one last look at Sammy, who seemed to be engrossed with what was stuck up his nostril.

John laughed. “I’m sure I can take care of Sammy here for one afternoon,” he said, ruffling Sam’s hair, and maybe that’s why he missed Sam flinch at the sound of his nickname. “Besides, it’ll give me time to try and find out what happened to him.”

Dean swallowed, taking one last look at Sam, but said okay instead.

“I’ll probably be gone for a couple of hours. Maybe more,” Dean said, stopping to kiddie punch his brother’s arm. “Did you want me to bring something back?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Make sure you bring back something Sammy here’ll eat.” John moved to elbow Sam, and, again, that shudder ran through his little brother, making Dean want to shudder as well.

Dean opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but just shook his head and grabbed his keys, saying goodbye to his dad before ruffling Sam’s hair one last time. He got into the Impala and headed back into town.

If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was their dad, Dean was sure of that.

~~~~~

Dean found the public library, but it was closed on Sunday. Dean was annoyed but couldn’t think of anything short of picking the lock and the last thing he needed was some fifty-four year old guard busting his ass and calling for back up for a few books that could wait one more day.

Still, it was too early to grab anything for lunch, so Dean decided to ask around town. Most people didn’t want to talk, though, and the ones that did only told Dean what he already knew. It had only been an hour, but it wasn’t like he was going to get anything else done, so Dean decided to head back to the motel.

The motel itself was practically empty, but the interstate that ran next to it wasn’t. Truckers love their Sundays, he thought. Dean parked the car a little way’s back from their room, the worried and somewhat jealous part of him wondering if Sam was telling their dad what had happened back then as he made his way back.

He stopped before opening the door when he heard crying. Maybe Sam was telling dad what was wrong, and if Dean walked in now it could ruin the moment.

Dean decided to look in the window and what he saw...was red. Some part of him wanted to throw up or cry or beat the living shit out of something, someone, because, right there, in the motel room, sitting on the bed, was his father—John Winchester—completely naked, and in front of him was his little brother, Sam—Sammy—sucking him off as tears streamed down his round face.

Dean couldn’t hear them now, but he saw his father’s lips moves as he made out the words, a jumbled mess of SammySammyohGodSammy, the tears on his brothers face falling faster.

And in that second, Dean didn’t know if it was the anger or the downright rage, but in that second Dean’s world shattered as easily as the glass not two inches from his face.

In that second, all Dean saw was red.

~~~~~

Later, if you asked Dean what had happened, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. He remembers that he couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink, and for a few precious seconds everything suddenly went red, but then it all came back in a wild rush or colour and noise and he could move, could see and had already started to.

Dean kicked the door open with such force that it bounced off the wall, knocking the frame on it down and shattering the glass. John had just come, the splatter all over Sam’s sobbing face, choking as he scrambled into a corner somewhere, anywhere, just out of the way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing to my brother?” he asked, kicking the door shut, and for the first time in his life, John didn’t say anything about his son’s tone.

Sam swallowed loudly, and Dean didn’t want him to be here for this.

“Sam?” he asked, gently, eyes never off his father. “Sam, I want you to go to the bathroom, and cover your ears, okay? Do not come out until I get you, okay?”

Sam got up quickly, almost falling over himself to obey Dean, who watched him go, the door slamming shut in the urgency. Dean’s eyes snapped back to John sitting on the bed, still naked with his spent dick hanging slightly over the edge.

“I’ll ask again, you sick bastard, what the hell were you doing?” he asked quickly, not giving John a chance to interrupt. “Because it looked like you were forcing my baby brother—your son—to suck you off, you sick fucking asshole.”

“Dean,” said his father. “I’m sorry, it’s just…I got lonely.”

Oh, god, Dean thought, this had happened before.

How many times? When did it start? How old was Sam when—

And where the fuck was he?

And everything after was a blur. Dean didn’t ask any questions, just moved with a speed of the things they hunted, a warrior possessed as he slammed his fist into John’s face. There was a satisfying crack as Dean broke his father’s nose, but didn’t stop until the only sounds that could drown out Sam’s whimpers were the sound of blood rushing in his ears and the crunch of bones breaking.

And he doesn’t stop and there is blood and then there’s this sudden flash that flitters across Dean’s brain, Sam at eighteen saying, lowly, I decided at ten and Dean gets it, just finally gets it.

And this is why. This is why.

Just as suddenly as he had started, Dean stops, hands tired and aching and split at the knuckle. John’s face is bloody, his nose at a very off angle, and Dean doesn’t have it in him to care.

You did this, he thinks, you made him leave, leave me, and go to collage. You, who I looked up to, who I—

I—

Dean’s eyes close, and he smiles—crooked and broken—at the irony in the fact that he didn’t stop until his face was wet with either sweat or tears but salty just the same.

“You’re his father,” he says, shrugging to the bathroom door, and it’s low and breathy, and so not Dean.

“You’re his father,” he says and the only thing worse than not feeling right now is knowing that the man he idolized was more of a monster than the things he hunted.

“Get out,” he says, his voice like hard steel, motioning to the door because Dean can’t bear to touch him.

“Just get the fuck out, and never—and I mean never—go near me or Sam ever again,” he says, and if his eyes are red swollen, John knows better than to try and soothe him.

“You’re not welcome here. With us.”

John gets up, putting on his clothes, and walking to the door. His nose now bleeding slightly and if his voice is raspy as he says Dean, then the only noise louder than it is Dean’s no and I mean nothing and I never want to hear from you again.

John turns and heads out and if he stops—one foot from stepping out, out of there lives—and turns to look at Dean, then Dean can only return with I love you in a quiet voice and now, I hope you burn in hell.

~~~~~

Dean stayed hunched over the closed door until the final sounds of John’s car melted onto hardened tar. He walked to the bathroom door, slowly opening it to find Sam looking up with huge, watery eyes, and something akin to terror.

“It’s okay, kid,” Dean said. “It’s me. It’s just me.” Sam slowly took down his hands from his ears, having stopped crying earlier. His face was still wet from, the tear tracks framing his face oh god, Dean thought, he still had John’s come around his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean sighed, gently thumbing off what he could. “I’m sorry. I never knew.”

Dean rinsed a nearby facecloth, picking what he could out of Sam’s hair. The boy would need a shower, but Dean figured that could wait till later. Dean just hugged him, burying his face in Sam’s small neck and he honestly didn’t know for which of them it gave more comfort.

“I didn’t know,” Dean muttered, his breath shaking every bit as much as his chest. “I would have… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dean” Sam said, his small arms raising and comforting what he could. “It’s not your fault.”

And if Dean ever heard sadder words in his life, he couldn’t remember them.

“He’s gone now, Sam. I promise,” Dean said, hugging Sam even harder. “He’s not coming back.”

Sam held on to Dean’s neck fiercely and started to cry again, and if Dean’s vision blurred, Sam couldn’t tell. Minutes felt what like hours and they sat like that until someone knocked on the door. Sam sat bolt up right in Dean’s arms, head snapping up at the sound.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Dean said. “It’s not him. Probably just the manager. Just stay here, maybe take a shower, and I’ll take you out from some apple pie, okay?”

Sam shook his head, oddly looking around him and Dean ruffled his hair.

“Good. Just stay here and I will deal with who’s at the door.”

But as Dean walked out, Sam said, “Dean” in a quiet little voice. “Can I—can I close the door?”

And looking at him, hearing his voice, something in Dean’s head recoiled.

“Of course, Sam,” he said, swallowing. “You can close it. I’ll be right back.”

Sam nodded and got up and shut the door.

~~~~~

It really did turn out to be the owner, and, though he seemed to be a mostly amiable kind of guy, that didn’t mean he was looking like one now. He took one look at Dean, though, and his face softened a little.

Dean stepped forward, slightly closing the door behind him, and the owner stepped back. They walked a little way into the car park, but Dean was nervous, keeping an eye on their door, and staying close.

“Now, I know something big and dirty when down here, and it looks like you’ve got enough straits to work you through,” he said, gesturing to Dean’s bloodied hands. “But…do you mind tellin’ me what the hell just happened ‘round here? I see you kick the door in, and then there’s a lot of shoutin’… Next thing I know there’s a man walking out your room with a face that looks like he lost to a brick wall. That kind of thing tends to spring up a few questions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dean. “I’ll pay for the door.”

“Son, that don’t matter so much right now,” the skinny, old man said, eyes as sunken as his he cheeks. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Sam…isn’t my son like you think,” Dean said, skin itching. Dean couldn’t actually have this conversation, not when he was still in shock of it all himself.

When the man didn’t say anything, Dean just said,

“Sam’s my baby brother and…that man you saw walk out of here?—he’s…well, he’s…he—”

A sick, old man.

A pervert

A fucking pedophile.

Our father.

“—he hurt Sam.”

The owner just looked at Dean for a moment until Dean looked back. They stood there, looking at each other, and then the man nodded—his eyes saying what his voice (or his common sense) couldn’t.

“Well, alright now,” he said, thumping Dean on his shoulder. “You get on back to that brother of yours—make sure he’s alright.”

Dean shook his head and turned, ready to close the door.

“You know, son, uh, I got this friend here. He, uh, works at the police station. Might be able to help you if you…”

Dean wanted to laugh at the thought. If you asked him, he’d never thought this day would come.

“You know, you don’t have to decide now, but…well, I’ve heard that it’s best to report things like these as soon as possible.”

Dean nodded. “Thank you. That’s actually—that means something. Thanks.”

Dean shut the door carefully, turning to find a wet and already dressed Sam when he turned.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said, eyes red, and apparently that’s the only he could find to say.

Sam just stood by the door jam, unreadable.

“You know… Do you still want to go for that pie?” Dean coughed, his laugh falling flat. “I’ll even spring from some ice cream.”

Sam looked up at that, but his eyes were…Dean couldn’t tell. “Is Dad going to jail?”

Dean’s face froze, his palms sweaty. “Sam…why—how—”

“That man,” said Sam, quickly glancing at the closed door and back. “He said something about the police. …Is Dad going to jail?”

“Sam…” Dean tried, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Somehow I’m sorry your father is a perverted asshole probably wouldn’t have been very comforting.

“I don’t think it would matter,” Sam said, and he was still looking at the door. “It’s not like jail ever held him before.”
“Sam…” Dean sighed, but his eyebrow quirked. “Are you…are you worried he’s gonna come back and…”

Sam eyes flashed from the door to Dean’s eyes, disgust and horror and utter revulsion etched unto his face.

“Oh, Sam,” Dean breathed, trying to steady his own. And, suddenly, Sam was running, his small, wiry arms closing around Dean’s waist, his grubby hands digging into the small of Dean’s back, hair and face wetting Dean’s shirt as Dean’s own eyes watered.

“I promise you, Sam, he’s not coming back, not for you,” he all but sighed, voice low. Dean kneeled until they were hugging each other, Sam’s arms nearly choking his neck, as Dean rubbed his small back with his hand.

“Shhh, it’s okay. He’s not coming back. I promise. It’s okay.”

~~~~~

They packed up the next day. Dean went to check out, paying with real money this time, and if Jacob, the manager, had anything to say, he said it with his eyes.

Dean nodded, muttering, “We’ll be fine. He just can’t, you know? We can’t stay here.”

Jacob nodded. “You take on good care of yourselves, now. That’s a nice kid you got.”

They stopped two states away. It was approaching two in the afternoon, but Dean felt better in the knowledge that he was far away from that town and, hopefully, John. He checked in on his own, the man half asleep and didn’t notice the unconscious Sam in the front of the car. Dean pulled up to their room and got Sam inside and into bed. He grabbed their gear and salted the door and windows before doing to sleep himself.

Dean took one last glance at Sam, curled and silent and Dean remembers back then, older times, and he wonders how he didn’t see those edges, those wrinkles on Sam’s young face.

I don’t know what to do, Dean prays, even if he doesn’t have anyone left to pray to.

I don’t know what to do.

~~~~~

Dean woke late in the afternoon to find his twenty three year old brother sitting on the edge of his bed watching him.

Dean stared back.

Later, Sam asked, “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean said, careful but lazy, and not moving.

Sam nodded, opened his mouth for a while, but only said, “I’ll get you some coffee. Lunch.”

“That’d be nice,” Dean said as Sam got up and grabbed his wallet, his keys and left. He heard the Impala start up and drive off. Dean got up and headed to the bathroom taking a new set of clothes with him. He started the shower and waited for the water to get to the right temperature, standing under the spray to let it wash over him as his brain put together everything they’d done.

It wasn’t till now—in the harsh light of morning (afternoon?)—that he stopped and had time to process everything. At ten, Sam decided to leave when he was old enough, a life changing decision—the life changing decision—they’d been searching for.

Sam had wanted a shot at a normal life, and Dean really couldn’t blame him for that. Sam deserved anything he wanted after…but, it hurt that Sam hadn’t told him, and Sam hadn’t, had had to go through it alone. On top of everything, Dean promised to protect him and hadn’t, and no amount of wishing could change that.

Dean stepped out from the shower and dried off quickly, hearing the door open and close. Dean got dressed and walked back into their room.

Sam sat at the small table drinking one of the coffees. There was a sandwich and some crisps as Dean sat down in the other chair, picking up and sipping his own. Neither brother said anything; Dean and Sam just alternating between sipping their coffees and staring at them.

Eventually, Dean couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Why?” he asked. Sam looked up, his eyes flashing something, an echo of what Dean saw in them yesterday. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” Sam said, low and quiet, as if that was all the answer he needed. And if Dean had closed his eyes, he would have thought the ten year old version of his brother was sitting there. “He told me. Told me that you’d hate me. Be disgusted. Leave.”

“How could you think that—”

“I was disgusted with myself, Dean,” Sam snapped. “It wasn’t that much of a stretch to think you would be, too.

Dean looked down at the coffee cup in his hand and set it down.

“When did it start?”

“I was eight,” Sam said, like he was telling a story that didn’t happen to him. “And we were in that town—in Idaho—and we’d been there long enough for you to make some friends so you went out to the park or downtown and something, and I had to stay in and he, uh…he...”

“Don’t,” said Dean. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Sam laughed, but there wasn’t any joy in it.

“I remember thinking it was horrible, but he was always so sorry after… And he said it wouldn’t happen again, never again, and I didn’t really know what was going on, so…I believed him. And it didn’t happen again—for a while, at least. Then we moved and I was nine, and—I don’t know where you were—probably detention, I think—but he did it again, and I didn’t know what to do.

“He promised it wouldn’t happen again, but it did,” Sam sniffled, and his eyes were watery, but they didn’t fall.

“And, when you were ten?”

Sam snorted. “By then it happened more often. Whenever you went out, he’d…yeah. I was ten when I decided. I decided I wouldn’t live that life forever, wouldn’t let him do that forever, so…I decided as soon as I was old enough, I would leave. Leave the hunt, leave the bastard, leave…”

“…Me,” Dean finished.

Sam looked up. “Yeah—no…maybe,” Sam admitted. “But it wasn’t you I was leaving.”

“I know,” Dean said.

“Do you?” Sam asked.

“No,” Dean said bluntly. “But I’m starting to.”

And they sat there, quiet. Just two brothers having coffee.

“Sometimes I wish…” Sam looked up at Dean, who looked back. “I’m sorry that I didn’t—that I couldn’t…”

Sam smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you.”

There was another silence and Sam finished his coffee while Dean peeled the cardboard label off his, then Dean said,

“I could never hate you, Sam.” Sam’s eyes watered. “I wish I could… I would’ve… I’m sorry.”

Sam stumbled off his chair and onto his knees, and he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, his head buried in Dean’s chest.

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” he mumbled. “It’s not your fault.”

Dean’s own eyes watered and he took a deep breath as he slid down to the floor, too.

“Okay,” he said, rearranging them, a mass of tangled limbs. “But it can’t be your fault, either, okay? It can’t be your fault, either.”

Sam chuckled and it sounded like music. “I know.”

“Good,” Dean said, and when Sam starts to cry, Dean just holds him like he did yesterday with a ten year old that, even now, seems like a long time ago. Sam holds on to him like a drowning victim, and Dean holds him back, and he never wants to let Sam go, or even get of this floor. Because he can protect Sam here—here, in a dingy hotel on the floor with just his arms wrapped around his brother.

Because, once they draw back and get up, once they head out that door, Dean’s not so sure that he can protect Sam. He hadn’t been able to protect him when he was eight or nine or ten, hadn’t been able to protect him from their own father, so, when Sam looks up at him, wet tear tracks down his face, his eyes huge—Dean doesn’t know what to say or how to fix it or make it better.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to take up the silence, and it’s a struggle, because what do you say to a rape victim—I’m sorry you got molested?

But he doesn’t have to because Sam just smiles at him slightly saying thank you like they’re just words—ones that don’t exonerate Dean for every sin he’s committed.

Sam buries his face back to where Dean’s neck met his shoulder and Dean realises that he doesn’t have to say anything or be someone. He just has to sit here and hold his brother because that’s what they do, who they are, and that should be enough. And it would probably take a long time before Sam could talk about it, and a really long time before Dean could take his eyes of his brother out in public, but they would mend, would maybe have a few scars and cracks, yet be better for the breaking.



The End.