FIC: Whispered Words and Secret Smiles (1/3)
Name: Whispered Words and Secret Smiles. (1/3)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Words: 9,324 (in three parts)
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam, John, Castiel.
Summary: From the moment Mary dies, Dean and Sam are close. Closer than usual brothers, really. This is their story.
Warnings/Spoilers: Incest, spoilers for seasons 1-3, vague for 4 after the initial episode.
Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Author’s Note: Inspired by John Winchester’s journal, typed up here.
Beta: skullgirl013
Comments: PLEASE! COMMENT! It feeds the bunnies for more fic. :) Please! It makes my day so much.
Part Summary: He watches the crib for an hour without going to sleep. He feels his eyelids getting heavy but he fights it off. He fights it off every time his eyes start to close. Because if he blinks, Sammy could be gone, too, when he wakes.
Extra note: Oh, wow, this got rec'd oncrack_impala. Thank you so much!
-Part 1- -Part 2- -Part 3-
Part 1
1983, November - December.
“We’re staying here for a few days,” John says. He herds his eldest boy inside and Dean just looks around the house because it’s not his home. He looks at John who sighs. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean looks up at John and he holds his arms out. John places Sam in them and Dean holds his little brother close, carrying him into the living room, sitting before the sofa, on the floor, and placing Sam in his lap. He just sits there, then. Holding his brother close and rocking.
He hears conversations. His dad telling Mike what he saw that night. Mary. That’s mom, Dean thinks. Mary on the ceiling. Dean looks up at the ceiling above his head and stops rocking. Sam makes a discontented noise, so he starts again, rocking back and forth. It’s late and dark and the lights in the room flicker like fire. Dean shivers. Fire.
Mike thinks Dad is insane, Dean realises. He can tell by his tone. He strokes Sammy’s head and places a kiss where his hand was a second before. Mike thinks Dad is insane but Dean doesn’t because Dean trusts Dad. Loves Dad. Loves Sammy.
“Come on, kid.”
Dean looks up. John is in the room. He’s not sure when he walked in, but he stands up.
“Bed time. Mike and Kate have found you a room.” He takes Dean by the hand and removes Sam from his arms. Dean suddenly feels very small and alone, but he doesn’t reach for his brother.
John leads him upstairs to a small, tiny guest room. There’s a bed and a crib. He places Sam in the crib and Dean watches, intently, his gaze never breaking from Sam.
Sam’s head lolls to the side and his eyes meet Dean’s. Dean smiles at him, gently, before Dad turns around and Sam smiles back. He’s too young to smile, Dad used to say, but Dean sees it. Dean sees Sam’s secret smiles just for him.
Dean walks across and climbs into bed. John follows him, strokes his head softly. “Sleep tight, Dean.” He plants a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead.
Dean smiles up at him, sleepily, and John smiles back. It’s the only time he smiles these days. Dean closes his eyes and he hears John as he wanders out of the room, closes the door behind him and the light goes off with a tiny click.
Dean opens his eyes again. It’s not dark in the room because the curtain isn’t big enough for the window, which is open. Sam’s crib is right there next to it. Vulnerable.
He watches the crib for an hour without going to sleep. He feels his eyelids getting heavy but he fights it off. He fights it off every time his eyes start to close. Because if he blinks, Sammy could be gone, too, when he wakes.
“Take your brother and go.”
Dad entrusted him with the task of looking after Sam that night and it’s stuck. Dean will always protect him. He swears this to himself.
The wind howls and Dean shivers. That’s it.
He climbs out of bed, takes the bedcover with him, wanders across the room, lowers the side of Sam’s crib and climbs in beside him with the quilt. He turns and lifts the side again, carefully, then turns and lies down beside his baby brother. He lies with one arm across him, holding him and protecting him, the covers over them both. And there he falls asleep.
1984, March - April.
Dean isn’t stupid.
Okay, so while the other kids in the neighbourhood had started sculpting things out of sand that were ... artistic, almost, Dean still just saw it as sand, he’s still not stupid.
It takes him only a week to work out that Sammy doesn’t cry at night and Dean can sleep if he either takes Sam to his bed or climbs into Sam’s crib.
It takes him a couple of months to realise mom isn’t ever coming home.
It takes him another couple of months to realise he doesn’t care as long as he has Sammy and Dad. They’re still his family. He can survive without mom.
But he still cries at night, realising she won’t whisper to him anymore when she puts him to bed, “Angels are watching over you.”
1984, September.
Dean shakes his head and John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dean, you need to do this.”
Dean shakes his head again and Dad looks so fed up.
“Dean, you’re five. Five year olds start school. Don't you want to grow up to be big and smart? To be able to teach Sam things?”
Dean shakes his head even more vehemently.
He won’t leave Sammy. He won’t. And he won’t go to school in a place he doesn’t even know the name of just because they’re passing through on one of Dad’s wild goose hunts.
Dean misses Missouri. He misses talking. He misses the look Sammy had on his face, sitting on her lap while Dean talked. Talking was good. He can’t talk to anyone anymore. He misses Kansas. He misses home.
“Dean, this isn’t a choice.” John shakes his head. “Take your bag and go in.”
Dean looks at Sammy in his child seat in the front seat, his little sweaty palm on the glass of the Impala. Dean put him in there. Dad still can’t work one of those seats. Dean wonders how he’ll cope when he’s at school all day.
He places his larger hand over Sam’s small one, the glass separating them and he looks, pleadingly, at John.
But he can tell by the look on his face. That’s it. No arguing. Dean goes to school.
So he takes his hand away and Sam watches him walk up to the front doors through the glass. Dean wants to go back, tell him it’s okay. He’ll be home at three.
He goes in to the school and it takes him a while to find his class, but when he does he sits down at the very back, between a boy in glasses and a girl with bright red pigtails. They try and talk to him. He just offers them weak smiles and nods or shakes his head. They think he’s mute. He doesn’t care.
He sits through lessons. Doesn’t absorb anything he’s taught. Then he drags himself outside. Dad’s waiting for him and Sam’s in the car. Front seat. Watching him. Sobbing. He’s red in the face like he never stopped the whole day. Dean opens the passenger side door and Dad looks confused. But then he leans in, strokes Sam’s head and kisses him on the forehead. He brushes his lips over his ear. “It’s okay, Sammy, I’m here,” he whispers. Too quiet for anyone to hear. Whispered words just for Sam. The crying ceases and Dean climbs in the back seat to go home.
1984, November.
Sammy says his first word while Dean is at school. Dad misses it.
By the time Dean gets home - walking, now. Dad doesn’t have time to pick him up and believes Dean can look after himself - Sam has it off to a fine art. He just says it again, and again, and again. Like a mantra. A chant just for himself.
“Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean.”
When Dean hears it he drops his carefully crafted mug. The thing he made in art because Missus Ulrick made Tess with the red pigtails make him do it. It was red and stupid and he was told to bring it home for Dad. It smashes into the floor of their rented home.
“Sammy?” Dean says. His voice sounds strange, it’s so rarely used at proper volume.
“Dean, Dean!” He’s crawling towards Dean now and without even thinking it through, Dean just scoops him up in his arms. “Dean, Dean!” Sam giggles and snuggles into his shoulder and Dean holds him close. He wanders through the house to find Dad.
He fails. “Sammy, where’s dad?” Dean asks.
“Dean! Dean! Dean!” Sammy claps his hands together and almost sends both of them off balance. He’s a heavy kid, but Dean’s used to it and just rearranges his stance to compensate.
He finds a girl in the kitchen, listening to music and dancing around in a really short pair of shorts. She’s about sixteen, blonde, tall. Long legs and when she turns around Dean sees she’s wearing a low-cut top as well.
“Oh, hi!” she says. “You must be Dean. Your dad said you’d be coming home soon. I’m Ashley.”
Dean just stares at her, smitten with a girl for the first time.
“Dean! Dean! Dean!”
“Aw, that’s so cute how he says your name like that,” Ashley says. “Here, give him to me, I was just about to feed him.”
Dean holds him closer and shakes his head.
“Come on, kid, I’m the babysitter. I’m meant to be the one that looks after him.” She laughs and holds her hands out. Dean shakes his head again. “Don't you talk?” she enquires.
“Dean! Dean! Dean!”
Dean shakes his head, puts Sam on his hip and walks across to the fridge. There’s money in an envelope taped to the front. The envelope is labelled Babysitter Money. He takes it off, offers it to her. She raises an eyebrow, takes it, and stuffs it down her cleavage. His eyes follow the progress of the envelope unconsciously.
“You’re tryin’ to tell me to leave, aren’t you?” she asks.
Dean nods.
She sighs. “Your dad won’t be pleased.” But there’s something in Dean’s eyes. Something that tells her that this is how it goes. So she sighs, scribbles her number down and says, “If your dad needs a babysitter again, this is my number.”
Dean watches her ass as she leaves. He can’t help it. But as soon as she’s gone he turns his attention back to Sam. “Let’s get you something to eat,” he whispers in his ear.
“Dean! Dean! Dean!” Sam squeals.
Dean puts Sam down on the counter next to the fridge and opens the door. Sam just sits there on the edge. Any other kid would bounce and fall off, but not Sam. Sam just watches Dean, repeating his mantra. “Dean! Dean!”
“Learn another word,” Dean tells him, quietly. Sam just grins at him and Dean rolls his eyes, smiling. He pulls out a pot of fruit puree, pulls the lid off, grabs a spoon and hops on the counter next to Sam. He crosses his legs under his body and holds out the spoon. Sam grins at it. Dean puts some fruit on the spoon and offers it to Sam. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, as Sam swallows down the mashed up banana. “I’m sure Dad had a good reason to leave you with her.”
Sam gurgles and swallows and exclaims, “Dean!”
Dean feeds him the rest of the fruit, which gets all over Dean’s trousers and all over Sam’s face and shirt. Dean sighs, clambers down from the counter and grabs some kitchen paper, which he uses to gently clean Sammy up.
He then picks Sam up and takes him into the living room. He sits on the sofa, lounging on it, and places Sam in his arms.
When John comes in a few hours later, they’re still there. Asleep.
1985, January.
Dad’s on the phone. Sammy’s asleep on the sofa, fallen asleep listening to AC/DC on the radio, which Dean turns down, slightly, now to stop it from waking his little brother. He strokes his hair, that hair that’s growing now, long and floppy and gorgeous. Sam just leans into the touch and sighs in his sleep. Dean smiles.
“No, no, he’s not having a party.”
Dean wanders towards the kitchen. John’s stood in front of the sink, leaning against the cool metal and looking through the window at the falling snow, big, white phone held to his ear, the curly cord wrapped around his neck.
It’s his birthday next week. He’s six and Tess has been asking if he gets a party but Danny - the boy with glasses and a penchant for pulling Tess’s pigtails - said his family is too much of a freak. Dean realises this is right now. Dad goes away for days at a time now. He stopped coming back every night and one time he came back covered in blood and Dean had to help clean him up.
Dean’s starting to realise they’re not even slightly normal. But that’s okay, he thinks. He thinks that’s okay as long as he’s with Sam.
“We’re moving on, soon,” Dad says, on the phone. “I’ve found a place up in...” He sees Dean, hovering in the doorway.
Dean knows it was too good to be true. They moved around a lot before he started school. He should have known they would again. He meets his dad’s eyes and he just... knows he won’t see his friends again.
“Tomorrow,” John says, in reply to something the person he’s addressing asked.
Dean goes into his and Sam’s room to pack.
1987, January.
It’s Dean’s birthday in thirty-seven minutes and he’s lying in bed watching the clock tick by. Eleven twenty-three. Eleven twenty-four. The bed moves as Sam climbs in beside him and he just reaches out and puts his arm around him on auto-pilot. Sam snuggles in close and mumbles, “Happy birthday, Dean.”
Dean taps the clock. “Thirty-five minutes, Sammy,” he says, quietly. His voice still sounds alien to him.
Sam shrugs. “Dean, why don't you talk?”
Dean stops. Just... stops. Nothing moves in the room. He shrugs.
Sam lifts his head up, looks at Dean. He’s four but there’s such age in his eyes. Dean supposes he looks the same. They’ve both grown up too fast. He just wants Sam to be a kid. “You should talk more, Dean,” Sam says. “I like your voice.”
Dean looks down at him. “You do?”
Sam nods. “Please, Dean. Talk more.”
Dean nods. “Okay.”
Then it happens. So fast he isn’t sure it really did happen. Sam launches forward, presses his lips to Dean’s cheek then falls back to settle beside him again.
Dean looks at the clock and tries so hard not to run his fingers across his cheek. Thirty minutes.
Time goes by and he isn’t sure whether he wants midnight to come or not, really. Because then Sam might go back to his own bed like he does sometimes. Dean’s too old to crawl in beside Sam, so he just stays in his own bed and listens to Sam breathing. Tonight he hopes Sam stays. It’s his birthday, after all. He’s eight.
He watches the clock and when it ticks midnight he exhales.
“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says. He pushes a little parcel wrapped in newspaper into Dean’s hand and Dean blinks at it.
“What’s this?” he asks.
Sam shrugs.
Dean pulls at the newspaper and discovers the pie it’s concealing. He laughs, smiles and snuggles Sam. “Thanks, Sammy,” he says.
Sam snuggles against him. Doesn’t make a move to leave so Dean relaxes, rolls onto his side and pulls Sam against him, his back pressing to Dean’s chest.
“I’ll try and talk more,” Dean whispers, quietly.
Sam smiles, Dean feels it. “Okay.”
They don't see John stood in the doorway, listening.
1988, September.
“Come on, Sammy.”
Sam wanders behind Dean, bag hanging from his shoulder. “What if they don't like me?” he asks.
Dean looks at him. “They’ll have taste?” It’s something Dean’s started doing now. Pushing Sam away. He wants Sam to make friends like he didn’t and move on. He wants Sam to have a normal life.
Sam pouts at him. He looks adorable. “Don't be mean,” he says.
Dean sighs and ruffles his hair. It’s long and untamed and he loves it. Probably too much. “You’ll do fine, Sam,” Dean promises. “You’ll have your own gang in no time.”
“I don't want a gang,” Sam mumbles. “Just want you.”
Dean ignores him. Tries to ignore him. Manages. Sees one of his friends. Hasn’t known him long but they get on well. “Go on, Sammy, have fun!” he shouts, as he runs across the yard.
He glances back one time as he talks, animatedly, to the boy. Sam’s staring at the school with this wide-eyed expression. He looks so lost and alone.
Dean ignores him because Sam needs to find his own way.
At lunch, Dean sits down at the table he always sits at, surrounded by boys and a few girls. They’re not old enough to be boys and girls yet, not really, they’re all just kids. Although the girls have cooties. Obviously.
Dean sees Sam. He’s settled in well now, sat with some friends across the lunchroom. Their eyes meet and Sam gives him this tiny smile. He smiles back and they’re right there. Back when Dean was four and Sam was only six months old and Dean used to see him in his crib, smiling at him and dad said he was too young but Dean knew. It was their secret smile. Dean ducks his head, smiling and turns to reply to Travers. When he looks back, Sam’s playing up with one of his new friends.
He looks so happy and this makes Dean happy, too. For the first time, he thinks life isn’t too bad, really. Nor is school or the town they’re in. And he thinks Sam has a chance. He really has a chance at a normal life.
Dean looks at the girl sat next to him and grins when she offers him some of her yoghurt.
~Part 2~