Fic: Renascentia. SPN. Gen. Weechesters. 1/2

[felisblanco]

Title: Renascentia
Author: felisblanco
Pairing: none
Rating: G, I think.
Word count: 20.670 words
Summary: The boys (ages 8 and 4) are alone when they both fall very sick.
Warnings: Angst and angst and more angst. John Winchester's A+ parenting. You've been warned.
Author's note: Wow, I wrote gen! Inspired by being sick with the flu for 3 weeks over Xmas and being annoyed with how quickly fictional characters get over stuff like that. Beta'd by candygramme who is now protectively hugging her inner Dean, after seeing how cruel I am to mine. Oops? lol

At eight years old Dean knows how to keep Sammy safe.

He knows how to put salt lines along the doors and windows, so nothing evil can get in. He knows not to answer the phone unless it’s Dad (one ring and then again one minute later). He knows not to answer the door, no matter how hard they knock, or CPS might come take Sammy away. (He’s not really sure what CPS is but, he knows they’re bad people.) He knows how to dress Sammy warm when it’s cold outside and slather sunscreen on him when it’s hot and sunny. He knows how to get Sammy to eat his vegetables. (He tells him they’re magic beans that will make him strong like Dad. “Like you!” Sammy says, gazing at him with those big eyes that make Dean feel like he can do anything). He knows how to keep the place clean, because dust and dirt are good for germs and bad for people. He knows he has to make Sammy eat his fill before Dean can finish the rest, (which isn’t always much.) because Sammy cries when he’s hungry. (He knows how to trick his own stomach into thinking he’s eating, with just a taste of salt or sugar (or his own snot if there’s nothing else.) on his tongue.) He knows to tell Sammy just enough to keep him from doing stupid things (like blowing breaks in the salt lines,) but not so much he gets scared of monsters. He knows to keep the shotgun within his reach but far out of Sammy’s. He knows Sammy needs to go to bed before he gets too cranky. He knows how to brush Sammy’s teeth, because “dentists are expensive, Dean!” (Sometimes Dean’s teeth hurt so much he wants to cry but he doesn’t say anything. He’s sure they’ll get better soon.) He knows how to do laundry, because clean clothes are warmer than dirty ones. He knows how to clean the scrapes on Sammy’s knees, how to kiss a bump better, how to make Sammy laugh so he forgets to cry. He knows to never, ever show Sammy that he’s scared when it’s dark outside, and the wind blowing sounds like whispering voices, and he thinks that maybe this time Dad won’t come home.

Dean doesn’t know how deal with this.

He’s dreaming. He used to get this nightmare a lot but not so often anymore. (Now he mostly dreams about monsters, and Dad dying, and people coming to take Sammy away.) It’s not always the same but it’s always about that night. The night Mom died.

Sometimes he’s standing in Sammy’s room, watching her burn on the ceiling. (He didn’t see her, not really. He only saw a glimpse through the door, of her foot, naked and pale, before the flames swallowed it. When he sees her in his nightmares, spread on the ceiling like the world has been turned upside down, that’s how she is, naked, like she used to sleep the first few weeks after Sammy was born, and he lay cradled on her breast, small and colicky and always hungry. Dean used to crawl into bed and cuddle up to them under the warm covers, breathing in the smell of sweet milk and clean soap. Mom’s tummy and breasts so soft and Sammy so small and Dean felt happy and safe. He remembers that, being happy. In his dreams he is never happy, he is just terrified.)

Sometimes he’s the one lying in Sammy’s crib, alone, and no one comes to get him. Sometimes Dad hands him Sammy and tells him to run outside, but when he gets there his arms are empty, and he can hear Sammy through the burning window, screaming. Sometimes he can reach up, tall as anything, and pull Mom down from the flames but she still keeps burning. Sometimes the door to the nursery is closed, and he can’t open it, no matter how hard he tries, but he can hear them screaming on the other side, Mom, Dad, and Sammy.

This time he’s in the crib, but he’s got Sammy cradled in his arms, holding him tight as the flames roar around them. He can hear Dad yelling, and he wants to get up, wants to haul Sammy out of the crib and run out, save them both, but he can’t move. Sammy is gazing at him with those big, big eyes reflecting the flames all around them, and Dean wants to tell him to not be afraid, that he will keep him safe, when suddenly Sammy catches fire. He’s burning, burning, flames eating his hair and sizzling on his skin, and it hurts, it hurts so much, but Dean won’t let go, he will never let go, he will never-

Dean jerks awake, his throat hurting like he’s been screaming, his head pounding, and his eyes burning with tears. He gulps in air, and it’s like his lungs are still scorched from the fire, because the air claws at his throat, making him cough until he can hardly breathe. He’s warm, too warm, like in the Impala on a sunny day in July, except the air he draws into his lungs is painfully cold. The heating must have conked out again. It still takes him a moment to realize the heat under the covers, that is almost burning in its intensity, is coming from the small body pressed up against him.

Dean sits up, frowning. “Sammy?” he croaks out, his voice barely a whisper. “Sam?”

Sam doesn’t move. He’s lying completely still. When Dean puts a hand on his arm the skin is dry and burning hot. “Sammy?” No reaction. Dean’s heart speeds up in his chest. “Sam? Sammy?” He rolls his brother over on his back, and it’s like moving a ragdoll. Sam’s mouth is open, there’s a strange sound when he breathes, like the air is coming through a muddy pipe. His cheeks are red and so hot, Dean is afraid he’ll burn his fingers. “Sammy, wake up! Wake up!”

Sammy groans, his eyes blinking open. They glitter in the low light, like they’re swimming in water. Sammy looks up at Dean, but it’s like he can’t see him, and after a moment Sammy’s eyes close again.

“Sammy, I think you’re sick,” Dean whispers, stroking Sam’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m gonna make you better, okay?”

Sam doesn’t answer but his eyes move under his eyelids as he breathes slow and heavy through his open mouth.

“I’m gonna get you some OJ,” Dean tells him. OJ has vitamin C, which is good for your health. That’s what Pastor Jim says anyway. “I’ll give you OJ so you’ll get better.”

Dean slips out of bed. The floor is freezing under his feet, and he pulls on his socks before putting on his sweats and a flannel shirt. His breath makes small clouds that disappear as soon as they leave his mouth.

He starts moving but has to stop and steady himself on the doorframe when the room starts spinning. Okay, so maybe he’s sick as well. He’s not sure they have enough OJ for the both of them. He’ll give Sammy as much as he wants today and if there’s still some left tomorrow Dean can have it then.

The small apartment is so cold that for one moment Dean wonders if he accidentally left a window open (Dad would kill him) but everything is as it should be, except the radiators are ice-cold. He tries the taps and breathes out in relief when warm water rushes out. Must be the thermostat then, again. Dad did show him what to do, the last time it happened, but as he stands staring at the small piece of plastic, with its buttons and wires, it’s like his brain is filled with cotton. Okay, okay. He just needs to think a bit. Think. If only his head didn’t hurt so much. Maybe he just needs to sleep a little longer.

He goes back into the bedroom with a glass of OJ and Sammy hasn’t moved. He’s still lying on his back, mouth open, that awful sound every time his tiny chest rises and falls. “Sammy, wake up. You have to drink this.”

Dean puts the glass on the bedside table and crawls into bed, hoisting Sam up until he’s resting against Dean’s chest, warm like a furnace. It feels good after the cold in the apartment having crawled its way into Dean’s bones. He’s shivering, his hand shaking when he reaches for the glass. “Sammy, are you awake? You need to drink this.”

Sammy mumbles something Dean can’t hear, but his eyes slip open and he blinks slowly, like his eyelids are really heavy. “De?” His voice is a whisper but not like Dean’s where the sound just won’t come out louder, more like he’s too tired to speak. “’M ti’ed.”

Dean kisses his burning cheek. “I know. It’s okay. You just have to drink this and you’ll be good again. Here.” He holds the glass up to Sammy’s lips, forcing them open with his fingers when Sammy just gazes at him, confused. Dean tips the glass carefully, meaning only to give Sam a little bit but the juice runs down Sammy’s chin, staining his t-shirt and running down on the sheets.

Dean presses his teeth into his lower lip. He just changed the sheets yesterday and they don’t have any more clean ones. He’ll have to wash them in the bathtub and hang them to dry over the kitchen chairs. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs when Sammy coughs, spitting OJ all over the sheets. “It’s okay, Sammy.”

“Don’t wanna. Hurts,” Sammy mumbles, trying to push away the glass.

“I know. But you gotta. You gotta to get better. Just a little more.”

Half of the juice ends up on the sheets and on Sammy’s t-shirt, but some of it goes down his throat, and Dean has to believe that is enough. Pastor Jim did say it was a miracle juice.

“C’mon, we gotta change your shirt.”

It’s a struggle because Sammy doesn’t help at all. He’s like a ragdoll, his limbs soft and heavy, and he makes those small sounds of distress with every movement, like Dean is hurting him. It makes Dean almost afraid to touch him. As soon as the shirt is off, Sammy’s skin peppers in goosebumps, and even flushed with heat he starts to shiver. Dean slips out of the warm bed and pads across the room to the small drawer that holds their clothes. Sammy’s got one clean shirt left, if he spills on that one too he’ll have to wear one of Dean’s, even if they are way too big on him.

Dressing Sammy is even harder than undressing him. Just raising the t-shirt above Sammy’s head is difficult and pushing one arm through its sleeve is hard enough to have Dean’s own arms aching. He has to take a break before getting the other one through, and when he’s finally finished, he collapses on top of the stained sheet, his chest aching as he breathes heavily through his sore throat.

He needs to get Sammy something to eat to get his strength back up, or he’ll never get better. And then Dean has to fix the thermostat and change the sheets and maybe call Bobby to ask if he’s heard from Dad, even if it’s only been five days since Dad was supposed to check in and Dean’s supposed to wait a week (it used to be one day, then three, then five. Dean knows Dad’s waiting for him to grow up so he doesn’t have to waste time calling them all the time. Maybe in a year or two). But first he just needs to close his eyes, just for a moment. He slides down until his head rests on the pillow, heavy and hurting, and puts his arms around Sammy’s small frame, the heat radiating off his skin slowly seeping into Dean’s own cold limbs. He’s still shivering when he falls asleep.

He wakes up to Sammy crying, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, De.”

There’s yucky sick all over the bed, drenching them both. It smells so bad Dean almost pukes himself, except just then Sammy throws up again and Dean has to hold him as he shakes with cramps. The room is still freezing but they can’t stay in bed, not now.

Dean wipes most of the sick off Sam’s face and arms on a clean corner of the sheets before stripping both of them out of their clothes. Sammy’s so heavy Dean can hardly lift him. Dean stumbles and almost drops Sammy on the floor on the way to the bathroom. He makes Sammy sit in the tub and uses the shower head to rinse the puke off him, then lathers up Sammy’s hair with shampoo and doesn’t stop rubbing it until all the smell is gone. Then he wraps Sammy up in the only towel they have before stepping into the tub himself and showering as quickly as he can since the hot water’s already run out. He ends up shivering with cold, teeth chattering in his mouth as he dries himself with the small washcloth that’s mostly dry since last night.

“C’mon, Sammy. We can watch some TV,” he says and carries Sammy into the living room. Dean is panting by the time he reaches the old ratty couch, and he dumps more than puts Sam down, almost falling on him in the process. “Dude, you’re getting fat,” he teases but Sammy is too sick to pay attention and Dean is too exhausted to repeat himself. It wasn’t that funny anyway.

He finishes drying Sammy’s hair then puts the blanket around him before going back into the bedroom, wrapped up in the damp towel, to get them some clothes and change the sheets. It smells like sick in there, all sour and thick in the air, and Dean gags, breathing in sharply through his mouth to stop his stomach from convulsing. He stops by the bed, looking down at the mess that awaits him, and suddenly just the thought of having to strip the bed and wash the sheets is too much. He’s so tired and he aches all over. He just can’t.

Searching his drawer, he only finds one clean t-shirt and no underwear. He doesn’t even have sweats because Sam threw up on his only pair and just the thought of putting on jeans is exhausting. He really needs to do laundry, he had just been feeling so tired the last few days, he kept putting it off. Defeated he finds underwear for Sammy and a plaid shirt for himself. It feels scratchy on his skin that is weirdly sensitive, but it’s long enough to reach his knees and hide that he’s naked underneath. When he gets back into the living room Sammy is half-asleep again, but Dean shakes him awake and coaxes him into the clothes. His t-shirt is like a dress on Sammy’s small frame, the AC/DC logo clashing ridiculously with Sam’s baby-blue undies.

Exhausted Dean slips under the blanket and cuddles up to Sammy, savoring the heat radiating off Sammy’s soft body. Sammy is already asleep again, breath wheezing, and it doesn’t take long until Dean’s eyes start drooping.

This time he doesn’t wake up until Sammy is shaking him, crying his name. Dean fights to open his eyes and takes in the puke spattered blanket and Sam sobbing pitifully, saying, “’M sorry. I’m sorry, De,” over and over again. The foul smell catches in Dean’s throat, his eyes sting, and his chest hurts so, so much. He chokes out, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and buries his face in Sammy’s hair. “It’s okay. I ain’t mad. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

John searches his pockets until he finds the quarters he’d put aside when he bought his cup of coffee earlier. He’s over a week past his check-in date but it can’t be helped. Dean understands. Thinking of Dean, John scowls as he punches in the number to the small rental apartment the boys are staying in. Dean was supposed to call Bobby yesterday. The boy is responsible most of the time but sometimes he forgets himself, reading comics or watching TV or whatever it is he does when he’s not taking care of Sammy. Not homework, that’s for sure. By John’s calculation school starts again in two days. He thinks. Dean usually keeps track of those things.

John sighs. He needs to find someone to look after Sam while Dean is at school. He tried homeschooling Dean for the first year, but John will be the first to admit he simply doesn’t have the patience. Especially since, if anything, Dean’s lack of interest and attention when it comes to studying is only getting worse. So instead he’s been forced to sign Dean up for school in every place they’ve been in, however short of a time. Admittedly missing out a week or five sometime in between. It can’t be helped. Dean understands. In fact, John is pretty sure Dean prefers staying home with Sam.

Why the hell isn’t Dean answering the phone? Are they out? Dean knows he’s not supposed to leave the apartment. Seriously, if he’s dragged Sam out to buy more of those damn comic books, he’ll-

“Hello?” The voice is small, timid. Hoarse and scratchy but undeniably Sam.

“Sam? Where’s Dean?” John snaps.

There’s silence for a moment and then Sam’s says hesitantly, “On the floor.”

What the hell kind of game are they playing this time? “Well, tell your brother to stop screwing around and give him the phone.”

Sam sniffles, it sounds like he’s got a whole bucket of snot up his nose. “He’s sleeping.”

John rolls his eyes. “Well, wake him up!”

“I tried,” Sam says, his voice wobbly. ”He can’t hear me.”

Everything stops.

The fear grips John so tight that for a moment he can’t breathe. “Sammy,” he says, the effort of keeping his voice calm almost killing him. “How long has Dean been on the floor?”

Sam sucks snot up his nose. A cough rattles in his throat. “I dunno. I’s asleep and then I woke up and then I’s sleeping some more and-”

“Sam, listen to me,” John interrupts before Sam spirals. “Is Dean moving?”

Sam hitches his breath. “No.”

John’s heart is hammering so fast he feels dizzy. “Sam, is he breathing? Is Dean breathing?”

Sam coughs again. “I dunno. Maybe?”

John closes his eyes. “Is he, is he cold? Sam, if you touch him, is his skin cold?”

“No, he’s really warm,” Sam says and the sudden relief almost makes John’s knees buckle. Jesus, he thought… “Like I’s warm but not now,” Sam is saying. “I’m cold. It’s really cold, Dad.”

Shit. That damn thermostat. “Okay. Okay, Sam. Listen to me. Dean needs to stay warm. Can you put a blanket over him?”

“No.” Sam sniffles again. His voice is trembling and John wonders if it’s because he’s about to cry or because he’s freezing. “The blanket’s gross ‘cause I threw up on it. And the bed. It’s also gross. It smells real bad.”

Damn. Okay. Okay. “Sam, put on as many clothes as you can find. Then go find your jackets and put them over Dean, okay?”

“Okay.” Sam hiccups wetly. “Dad? I’m real hungry. Dean’s gonna make soup but he dropped it on the floor and went to sleep.”

John closes his eyes. “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m on my way. You can eat cereal, okay?”

“I can’t find it. I can’t find anything.” Sam sniffles and this time he’s clearly holding back tears.

Shit. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in three hours. Can you hold out until then?”

“Okay. I dunno how long that is,” Sam says. He sounds scared. “Do I have to sleep many times?”

“No, it’s not long at all, kiddo. Just… go be with Dean. Keep each other warm, okay? And I’ll be there very soon.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll take care of Dean.”

“You do that, Sammy.”

John hangs up and for a moment all he can do is lean against the wall and breathe. How sick is a kid if he won’t wake up? Probably sick enough that he needs immediate medical attention. But if he calls 911 and they find the boys alone, they will inform CPS and that will be it. How is he supposed to protect his sons if they get lost in the goddamn system?

Damnit all to hell!

John shoves away from the wall and runs to the car. There better not be any cops lurking by the road because he’s putting his foot through the fucking metal and he’s not letting up until he’s there. Even if he has to shoot his way through.

It’s so quiet when John flings open the door that for a moment he’s sure all he’ll find is two small, cold bodies. The apartment is freezing, he can see his own frantic breath curling in the air. No one answers when he calls out and he runs to the bedroom and then the bathroom before he remembers Sam talking about Dean making soup.

He finds them behind the small kitchen island. Sam is bundled up in what looks like every item of clothing that they own, all of them dirty, face glistening with snot, puke in his hair. He’s sleeping half on top of Dean who is lying face down under his and Sam’s jackets on the floor, his head resting in a drying puddle of what looks like chicken noodle soup. The pot lies discarded a couple of feet away. Sam’s forehead is warm but his hands and feet are icy. Dean is burning up, his skin dry and flushed pink.

Sam mumbles when John picks him up to look him quickly over before shaking him awake when he’s confirmed that apart from sorely needing a bath, his younger son seems to be okay. Soon as Sam can stand on his own feet, eyes blinking sleepily like he’s too tired to even take in what’s happening, John rolls Dean over on his back. Dean’s only wearing a shirt, spattered with soup and puke, and nothing else, not even underwear. There’s soup in his hair and on the side of his face that lay in the puddle, and it hits John that Dean could easily have inhaled the soup and choked on it while unconscious. Dean’s face is flushed, the cheek that lay in the puddle burned painfully red, and his lips are cracked, tongue dry at the edges where it lies slack in his mouth.

John pulls Dean into his arms and stands up. The kid feels so light, his body so small, nothing like the big boy he left in charge. They both seemed okay when he left but… that was almost two weeks ago.

“C’mon, Sammy,” John chokes out. “Let’s clean you boys up, and then we’ll take Dean to see a doctor.”

He can’t take them in looking like this. Someone will know. Someone will figure it out and take them away.

He wipes Dean’s face clean and washes his hair swiftly with the shower head, drying him off with the towel before repeating the process with Sam. Then he redresses Sam in a relatively normal amount of clothes, as clean as he can find them. After some searching he finds Dean’s jeans on the floor in the puke-stinking bedroom. He gives up looking for clean socks and picks a dirty pair from the laundry, pulling them on Dean’s feet.

“Alright, Sammy, let’s go,” John says, putting Dean over his shoulder while hoisting Sam up on his hip. “Let’s go get Dean-o better.”

“He gonna wake up?” Sam asks, words mumbled from the thumb stuck in his mouth.

“Course he is, kiddo. Don’t you worry.” John starts the car, smiling at Sam in the back seat, where he sits with Dean’s head in his lap, patting his damp hair with snotty fingers. “Dean’s gonna be just fine.”

John steeples his fingers under his chin, eyes dry and heavy with exhaustion. Sam is asleep on the bed, curled up next to Dean, having been fed toast and orange juice and green Jell-o. He’s still got a slight fever and he’s snotty as hell but otherwise he’s remarkably fine. Just the flu, the doctors think. Apparently it’s been going around.

John leans forward, brushing a lock of hair out of Sam’s face before laying his palm against Dean’s flushed cheek. Dean, who still hasn’t woken up, although the high fever finally broke after they cooled his body down with ice packs. He’d been seriously dehydrated, something the IV is slowly taking care of, but they’re still waiting on the results on some tests. From what John gathers they’re mostly worried about how long Dean might have had the high fever. And the hell of it is, John has no way of knowing.

The story he gave was that he’d come home from a work trip after leaving the boys with his mother, who unfortunately is getting on in years and he never would have left them with her if he’d realized she’d become so forgetful and unreliable. “Honestly, doc, I feel just awful.” He’s not sure they believed him. He’s usually a decent liar but the fear is making him stumble over his own words.

John looks up when Dean’s doctor walks in, tensing at the carefully neutral look on her face. What’s her name again? He’s forgotten in all the chaos. Dr. Whyler? Yeah, that’s it.

“What’s the news, doc?” he says, keeping his voice appropriately worried without hinting at the panic in his chest. “My boy gonna be alright?”

“Mr. Hetfield,” Dr. Whyler says. “Looks like we have a bad case of streptococcus. It’s not just a simple matter of a sore throat,” she adds in a sharp tone when he breathes out in relief. “Left untreated it can and did become life threatening. Especially on top of the influenza and pneumonia.”

John rubs a hand over his face to hide his shock. How the hell could this happen? He was fine! “But we got here in time, right? He’s going to be okay. Right?”

She holds his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Barely in time. I am guessing he first contracted the flu, from his brother most likely, which then developed into pneumonia. When the strep hit, with his body already weak, he succumbed very fast. But yes, he got lucky. We can detect no heart murmurs, and his kidneys look to be alright. Your kid is a real fighter.”

John breathes out, cracking a tired smile. “Dean’s a trooper, alright. Thank you.”

She doesn’t smile back. “Mr. Hetfield,” she says flatly, looking over at the sleeping boys before flipping through the papers on her clipboard. “We have some other concerns.”

“Concerns?” he parrots in sudden panic. It must be something in the bloodwork they did. What could they have found? There are no genetic issues as far as he knows on his side of the family but maybe Mary’s... No, nothing that he can remember but he wasn’t exactly close to the Campbells.

“Yes.” She looks straight at him. Her eyes are very light grey. Almost translucent. “Were you aware that your son is showing serious signs of malnourishment?”

John blinks. What? “Uh. Well, like I said,” he stumbles.

She shakes her head before he can make up another decent lie. “We’re not talking about going without food for a couple of days.” Her face is carefully blank, and he just doesn’t understand what she’s hinting at. “Dean is severely underweight, his iron levels are low, his dental health is really poor. I could go on but I think you get the picture. A child this young doesn’t develop these kinds of problems unless he’s been undernourished for quite some time. Mr. Hetfield, how often do you leave your sons alone with your mother?”

John stares at her. He can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Mr. Hetfield?”

“I guess more often than I should have,” he says slowly. “My work… I’m on the road a lot and I can’t always take them with me.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, doc, I just… I’m a little lost here. I mean, Dean eats! He’s not a picky eater!”

She sits down on the chair opposite him. Judging from how her face softens she seems to have decided he is not entirely to blame. Which doesn’t make him feel any better. “We’re not talking about that either, Mr. Hetfield.”

“No, no, I know. I understand. I just mean… The kid eats like a damn wolf!”

“Does he?” she asks gently. “Or does he wolf down food when he’s with you, because he’s deprived of it when you’re away?”

Deprived? But…

Oh. Oh.

“Oh God.”

He drops his head into his hands. He always leaves food, of course he does. And some money for emergencies. He’d put the food running out this time on Dean being too sick to go out to buy more. But…

Can he have been miscalculating that badly? Sometimes Sam complains about them running out of cereal or being tired of SpaghettiOs but Dean… Dean never complains. Dean always says, ‘Don’t worry, Dad’ and ‘I’ve got it’ when John asks if they’re good. And sometimes… Sometimes John has run late, by several days, and he’s never once wondered how Dean made the food last.

“The good news is that, apart from a stuffy nose, your younger son is fine,” he hears the doctor say through the whoosh-whoosh in his ears. “Whatever’s been going on, your mother seems to have kept him properly fed.”

“No,” John says, his voice hoarse. “That will have been Dean. He’ll have made sure. He’ll have given Sam his ration if there wasn’t enough. He… He takes real good care of his little brother.” Oh Jesus.

“I can tell he’s a good boy.” She hesitates. “Mr. Hetfield, I’m sorry, but I will have to report this. I’m obligated to….”

“No, I understand,” he says quickly, mind working a million miles per minute, figuring out the fastest way to get out of there. With both boys. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left them with her so much. It’s just that after their mother died…”

The sob he lets out is only half faked. God, Mary. If she knew, she would fucking kill him.

“I’m sorry.” The doctor pats his hand. “Some kids are so skinny, you don’t always realize what’s going on. He would have been tired though, had difficulty focusing in school maybe?”

John nods. He doesn’t want to admit that he’d just figured his oldest probably wasn’t that bright. And yes, now he thinks back, Dean usually falls asleep as soon as John gets home. As soon as he knows Sam is safe. And it’s always a pain getting him up in the morning. Not to mention that practice always leaves him exhausted, which has only prompted John to work him harder.

“It can affect mental health as well. Cause depression, anxiety, short temper. Not always,” she adds when he just stares at her. “No reason to think he’s been having those kinds of problems if you haven’t noticed anything.”

John swallows. “He’s a good boy. He does as he’s told, he hasn’t been… no.”

She nods in sympathy. “Alright. Has he said anything about his teeth hurting? His gums are pretty inflamed. It can happen with malnutrition, but it increases risk of tooth decay. I could detect what seemed to be at least two cavities, but a dentist will need to take x-rays. In any case, regular dental care is very important.”

“Of course. My mother said she’d been taking care of it,” he lies. “But, no, he… he hasn’t said anything. He’s a real quiet kid.” He’s a real tired kid, that’s what he is. Oh Jesus.

She flips back the files on her clipboard and puts it down in her lap, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Mr. Hetfield, I know this sounds overwhelming, but it’s all treatable. To start with we’ll get him on antibiotics and change his IV, get his vitamin levels up. And I’ll have our nutritionist come and talk to you as soon as he’s available. Then, once your son feels better, you need to take him to a dentist, have those teeth taken care of.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do anything,” he promises. Lies. He won’t be doing any of those things here. He’s getting his boys out of there as soon as he can. Before the CPS comes a-knocking. “Doc, he’s not waking up. Is it…?”

“High fever can be very draining on children and if he was weak to begin with…. His body is working on replenishing his energy. We won’t know for sure, of course, until he wakes up, but there’s no reason to believe he won’t, with time, make a full recovery.”

John closes his eyes, hand over his mouth. “Thank you,” he chokes out.

“Of course. And Mr. Hetfield,” she says sternly as she stands up, “no more leaving your children with your mother.”

“No, there’s no chance of that,” he says, eyes on Dean’s flushed face. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage but he clearly can’t leave the boys alone for as long as he has. Maybe Bobby can take them in, at least when the hunt looks to be a long one. Dean should still be able to handle a few days, a week even, as long as John makes sure there’s plenty of supplies. Not right away obviously, but once Dean’s built his strength up. And had those teeth taken care of. Now, that’s gonna cost a pretty penny. His funds are pretty much gone and the hospital bill will empty his last credit card… Never mind. He’ll figure something out. Somehow.

Dean slowly blinks his eyes open, confused but not disoriented. He knows where he is - home, in the backseat of the Impala, wrapped up in a blanket with his head in Sammy’s lap - he just doesn’t know how he got there. When he opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, no sound comes out and he ends up coughing violently. It hurts. It hurts so much in his chest and his throat that tears spring to his eyes as he fights to pull in a rattling breath.

“Dad, Dad! Dean’s awake!” Sammy yells, his happy voice stuffy with snot. “It’s okay, Dean,” Sammy says, sticky fingers stroking Dean’s cheeks. “You’re gonna be okay. Dad got you medicine.”

Dean blinks up at Sammy, at the happy smile and rosy cheeks, as he fights to pull air into his lungs. It’s like someone is sitting on his chest, crushing him. His head feels really heavy, his thoughts slow, like they’re swimming through thick soup. When he lifts his hand to wipe the drool crusting at the corner of his mouth, he feels a tug in his arm an finds an IV needle in the crook of his elbow, the drip connected to a saline bag duct-taped to the Impala’s ceiling. Dean frowns. What?

Another painful breath seizes his lungs and he automatically presses his hand against his chest, looking down when he feels unfamiliar crisp material under his palm. His heart sinks. He’s wearing a hospital gown.

“That’s good, Sam,” he hears Dad answer, voice rough. Dean looks up, trying to catch his father’s eye in the rearview mirror but John is staring straight ahead, his face grim.

Dean shrinks in on himself. No hospitals, that’s the rule. And now they’re in trouble with the bad people at CPS. Must be, since they’re driving in the middle of the night when Dean knows Dad already paid for the apartment until the end of the month.

He still has no idea how he ended up in the hospital. Last he knew Sammy was sick but looking at him now, he seems better. Coughing and snotty but his eyes aren’t scary glassy anymore and his hands feel cool against Dean’s warm skin. That’s good. Dean had been real worried there for a while.

He’d only started worrying about himself when his voice died. What if something came to take Sammy and Dean couldn’t even yell at him to run? Dean had tried to call Bobby - even if his voice was too faint to talk, Sammy could have told Bobby what was going on - but he kept getting the number wrong. That’s when he got really scared. It was like his brain wouldn’t work, like he couldn’t think. Just like he couldn’t remember how to fix the thermostat. And if he couldn’t even think, how was he supposed to keep Sammy safe?

Everything after that is a blur, the room shifting from dark to bright to dark to bright. He tried to stay awake when Sammy shook him but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open. The last he remembers is Sammy crying because he was hungry and thinking that he’d have to get up and heat their last can of soup. The one he’d been saving because once that was gone, they’d have nothing left to eat. He can’t remember if he ever even got up or if he let Sammy be hungry. He tries to ask but there’s no sound, just wheezing.

“You okay, kiddo?” Dad grunts in the front seat, giving Dean a sharp look when there’s no reply. Dean tries again to speak but he only ends up coughing until he can’t breathe. It hurts so much, tears start leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“Dean? You need me to stop?”

Dean tries to shake his head but that turns out to be a bad idea. Pain explodes in his brain and he gasps, which only makes him start coughing again and this time he can’t stop. He’s faintly aware of the Impala coming to a screeching halt and then Dad is hauling him out of the car as he retches, his empty stomach cramping so painfully he starts to cry.

“Sshh, it’s okay. It’s okay, kiddo. Just breathe. Breathe for me, can you do that?”

He tries, bile dribbling out of his mouth as he shakes and coughs and retches while the world slowly goes dark around the edges until the night swallows him whole.

Dean wakes up in a bed, warm on one side, shivering from cold on his other. Dad and Bobby are outside the door, yelling at each other really loud. Dean groans, confused, and the warm weight beside him moves as a small hand comes up to pat his cheek. “De, you awake?”

He grunts and is instantly seized by violent coughing. The yelling stops and then Dad is there, helping him sit up, a bowl ready in his hand. “You need to hurl, son? Dean?”

“I keep telling you, Dad, Dean can’t talk,” Sammy says, sounding frustrated.

Dean shoots him a glare. He opens his mouth to say he’s not a baby, he can talk just fine, but there’s no sound, just wheezing, and that’s when he remembers. Getting sick and the hospital and puking in the Impala. His shoulders shoot up as he waits for Dad to start yelling but Dad keeps rubbing his back, his other hand on Dean’s forehead, big and rough and cool.

“Scared us there, kiddo,” he says quietly.

Dean slumps against Dad’s chest and Dad doesn’t push him away or tell him he’s too big for that, but pulls him closer, his arms warm and strong and safe. “Sshh,” he says and Sammy asks, “Why is Dean crying?”

Dean wants to say he’s not but he can feel the tears running down his nose. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say and “I didn’t mean to get sick,” and “Please don’t be mad,” but there’s no sound and all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and hide his face in his dad’s broad chest as he cries himself to exhaustion.

It takes a week before his voice comes back and even then it’s so hoarse they can hardly understand him. Sammy takes it upon himself to be Dean’s interpreter. He makes half of it up, but Dean doesn’t mind, just rolls his eyes and smiles when Sammy giggles.

Dad brings him soup and broth and whatever else doesn’t hurt his throat but gets frustrated at Dean’s lack of appetite. Dean tries, but the hot food makes his teeth hurt even worse. The pain is constant now, so bad he feels nauseous with it, and he’s so, so tired.

Soon as Dean manages to stay awake for longer than half an hour, Bobby starts tossing him stuff to read. The Three Musketeers, and Robin Hood and other books that look old enough to have been Bobby’s when he was a kid. Thinking of Bobby as a kid is weird, even if Dean knows it’s highly unlikely Bobby came into the world with his baseball cap and scruffy beard and smelling of engine grease. Dean tries to read, for Bobby’s sake, but he can’t seem to focus and the small print makes his head hurt. Sammy on the other hand loves the books. He points at the pictures, and then he makes up stories that Dean thinks are probably better than the originals anyway. Even if he finds it slightly embarrassing that all the heroes in Sammy’s stories are called Dean.

He still doesn’t really know what happened. He tries to apologize for getting them in trouble, but Dad just stands up and walks away. It makes Dean feel a little bit smaller every time. Then a week after they arrive at Bobby’s, Dad leaves in the middle of the night, without a word.

“He’ll be back soon, son,” Bobby assures Dean, ruffling his hair.

Dean just turns away and pulls the covers over his head. A moment later the bed dips as Sammy crawls in, hands freezing, smelling of wet dog. “Are you sad? De, are you sad?”

“No.” Dean’s voice is dry and strangled and he coughs. It still hurts. And his throat hurts and his head hurts and his chest hurts and his teeth are killing him. When Sammy snuggles closer Dean pushes him hard. “Go’way. You’re cold and you stink.”

Sammy falls off the bed with a thud. There’s silence for a long while. Dean can hear Sammy hitching his breath as he gets to his feet. “’M sorry,” he sniffles and then he’s gone, running out of the room and down the stairs before Dean can tell him he didn’t mean it.

Dean’s lower lip wobbles. The room goes blurry. He’s just so tired. So horribly tired and hurting and he really, really misses Mom.

“Dean? I washed my hands in really hot water. Can I get back in now?”

He wants to say no. Wants to be alone for just a few minutes so he can cry in peace. But Sammy’s voice is small and sad and it’s not his fault Dean is useless. Dean doesn’t say anything, just presses his face into the pillow to dry his tears before lifting the blanket. Sammy crawls under and snuggles up close, his small hands wet but warm as they start stroking Dean’s back.

“There, there,” he whispers. “You’re gonna get better real soon.”

Dean closes his eyes and sucks on his teeth.

Two days later the toothache is so bad Bobby pries Dean’s mouth open with his fingers, glaring inside before fetching a set of pliers. “Milk teeth,” he mutters. “Gonna come out anyway.” He frowns. “Well, not that one. Or that one. Christ, your Daddy better bring back that money.”

“I’m fine,” Dean tries to say without choking on Bobby’s fingers but he ends up sounding like a goose honking.

“Don’t be an idjit, boy,” Bobby says, like he can understand him anyway. “Jeez, your teeth are somethin’ awful. You don’t brush’em?”

He did, but after his gums started hurting and bleeding so much he just sort of stopped. He stays still with his mouth wide open, squeezing his eyes shut when Bobby slips the cold pliers in between his lips. He breathes through his nose, fighting not to gag at the sound of metal scratching the enamel.

“Oh hell.” Bobby pulls the pliers out again and Dean lets out a relieved sigh. “Here,” Bobby says and hands Dean his flask. “Take a big gulp now, son. Will numb it all nice and easy.”

Dean scrunches up his nose at the sharp smell, but does as he’s told, nearly choking on the liquor burning its way down his throat. It tastes like the worst medicine he’s ever had.

And it doesn’t numb his teeth one bit.

“Bobby says the tooth fairy don’t like rotten teeth,” Sammy says but he still checks under the pillow one more time.

Dean wants to tell him the tooth fairy is probably a monster that collects teeth so it can eat annoying little brothers, but his gums hurt, and he drools every time he opens his mouth, so he doesn’t bother. At least he’s finally stopped spitting blood.

“Bobby says Dad will be back soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

Dean prods one of the holes in his gums gingerly with his tongue. Ow. Then prods the other two, just to check. Ow. Ow.

“Bobby says you’ll get new teeth. Bigger teeth. Like Dad.”

Dean grunts. He liked his old teeth. Well, apart from them hurting so much. He’s still got at least two hurting that Bobby says the dentist will have to take care of because they’re his grown-up teeth. Dean’s so close to just begging Bobby to take them too. He swears that if his teeth get good and stop hurting, he will always brush them and never eat candy ever again. Except maybe on Halloween. Free candy doesn’t count.

“Bobby says-“

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. Sammy looks at him quickly but clearly decides Dean’s not actually annoyed. “Bobby says if you want to you can come down and watch some TV.”

Dean sits up and glares at him. “Why didn’t you say so?” he tries to bitch but he has trouble pronouncing half the sounds. Especially S, it’s like his tongue refuses to cooperate, like it’s too big in his mouth.

“Come on,” Sammy says, slipping off the bed. “We can watch cartoons!”

Dean stumbles out of bed. His legs are wobbly and he grabs Sammy’s shoulder to keep from toppling over. He just can’t understand why he still feels so tired. It’s been days and Bobby’s been giving him medicine. Shouldn’t he be better by now?

Together they make their way out of the room and down the stairs. When Bobby brings them popsicles Dean forgets to feel miserable for almost five minutes.

This time when Dean wakes up to Dad and Bobby arguing downstairs, Sammy is lying very still beside him, small fists in Dean’s t-shirt, his breathing low and shallow.

“What’s going on?” Dean whispers. It’s only slightly lower than his current normal voice that is still too hoarse to carry further than a few feet.

“Dad was gonna wake you up and Bobby got mad, said you’re still weak and need your sleep,” Sammy whispers back. “So Dad said you ain’t Bobby’s son and then Bobby got really mad. And now they’re yelling.”

Dean’s stomach knots. “Dad say what he want with me?”

“To get your teeth fixed with some guy from the ‘rines. Then Bobby said Dad can’t just let any damn hack mess up your teeth,” Sammy recites. “And that he had to pull three already ‘cause you were getting more sick from them hurting. Dad didn’t like that,” Sammy adds in a shaky whisper.

Dean struggles to sit up. “I’m awake now. It’s okay, I’m not that sick.”

Sammy sits up as well. He’s got snot leaking out of his nose that he catches with the tip of his tongue. Ugh, gross. “You’re really sweaty,” he says, sounding skeptical. “And you keep falling over.”

“No, I don’t!” Dean hisses but tumbles when he slips out of bed,. He glares at Sammy when he giggles. “I’m fine!” he insists and starts looking for his clothes. The shirt he wore yesterday is still damp with sweat and he pauses. “What time is it?”

“Dunno,” Sammy says. “You just slept a little bit.”

That explains why he feels so groggy. “Dad wanted to leave now?”

Sammy nods. “Says it’s two states over and you gotta be there by morning.”

Just the thought of sitting in the car across two states makes Dean’s joints ache. But he’d rather be hurting with Dad than be left behind again because he’s weak. “You better get dressed, too,” he tells Sammy. “Put on warm socks. It’s snowing.”

He ends up having to help Sammy with most of his clothes. Sometimes he thinks Sammy pretends to be more of a baby than he is because he likes Dean doing things for him. Usually Dean doesn’t mind. It’s just that he’s so very, very tired.

The loud argument is in full swing when Bobby notices them standing in the doorway with their bags ready and cuts off whatever he was about to yell. The abrupt silence makes Dad turn his head. If he’s surprised to see them, he doesn’t show it. “You boys ready?”

Dean gives a firm nod. “Yes, sir.” He lisps the S.

“Goddammit, John, the kid can hardly stand!” Bobby tries one last time, but Dad is already heading out the door.

Dean gives Bobby a small nod, while Sammy runs over for a quick hug, and then they slowly make their way to the door, Dean hauling both their duffel bags since Sammy’s is almost as big as he is. He’s close to dropping from the weight when Dad meets them at the door, unhooking the bags from Dean’s aching shoulders. “Come on,” is all he says. “Time’s a-ticking. Sam, in the back.”

“Dad, can I… It’s cold. I should keep him warm,” Dean says. Truth is, he’s not sure he can sit up on his own.

Dad gives him a knowing look but nods. “I’ll get the blankets,” he says, fetching them from the trunk. They’re freezing cold but the familiar smell of gun oil and beer is soothing and they’ll heat up soon enough. “You boys try and sleep some,” he grunts as he gives Bobby a perfunctory wave before getting in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.

Dean lays down with his back against the seat, wrapping his arms around Sammy’s warm body to keep him from rolling onto the floor. He presses his lips shut so Dad won’t hear him whimper as every pothole in Bobby’s driveway jolts his joints.

Dad’s buddy, Barney, takes one look inside Dean’s mouth and whistles. “Damn. Those must hurt an awful lot,” he says to Dean with a friendly smile, eyes glassy, breath smelling of alcohol.

Before Dean has time to nod, Dad says, “Can you fix’em?”

Barney looks up with a frown. “’Course I can. Still have my tools, don’t I? But I told you, man, I don’t have any anesthetics. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch. You should take the kid to a proper dentist.”

Dad says, “Yeah, well,” which Dean knows is John-speech for ‘Ain’t got no money for that’. “Don’t worry, Dean’s tough,” Dad adds, sending Dean a quick smile. “Ain’t that right, kiddo?”

Dean nods, his heart hammering in his chest. His head is already pounding but he’s too tired to argue, and at this point he can’t really imagine anything hurting more than it already does.

Barney gives Dean a speculative look, then stands up. “Wait here.” He comes back with a bottle of pills and a joint held lightly between his lips. “Take those,” he says and shakes out two pills before filling a dirty glass with water from the tab.

Dean glances at Dad but he just sighs and gestures at him to go ahead. The glass smells of old booze but Dean is thirsty enough to empty it anyway. Isn’t until Barney lights up the joint and takes a quick drag before offering it to Dean, that Dad makes a move to interfere with a loud, “Hey!”

Barney throws him a glance and snorts. “Little late getting high and mighty, ain’t it, Winchester?”

“He’s eight years old!” Dad growls.

“You really wanna argue about how to treat eight-year-old kids?” Barney says, voice low and dangerous. “You?”

Dean’s eyes dart from Barney’s icy glare to Dad’s pissed off face and is shocked when his father swallows and looks away.

Barney nods, face softening a little. “Just don’t wanna hurt the kid more than I have to. Smoke up, son,” he tells Dean. “Slow and easy, deep and good.”

Dean hesitates but his father nods, so he sucks on the joint when Barney puts it to his lips. The first inhale has him coughing so hard he almost throws up from the pain. Barney waits patiently, stealing a couple of puffs himself while Dean gets his breath back. “Easy,” he says, patting Dean’s thigh lightly. “It’ll ease your chest pains, too. Just give it a minute.”

Dean’s head is already swimming but when Barney offers him the joint again, he closes his eyes and obediently pulls the smoke in deep.

Sometime later he wakes up, rolls over and throws up on the floor, before passing out again.

The next time he emerges they’re on the move again. Sammy is sleeping beside him, pressed up against the back seat, snoring loudly with congestion, snot running freely from his nose and onto the sleeve of Dean’s jacket. Dean thinks of shoving him off and sitting up but just then another bout of nausea hits him, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, moaning in panic.

“Bucket on the floor beside you,” Dad says quickly, as if he’s been watching him in the rearview mirror.

Dean rolls over and only just manages to hurl into the bucket and not all over the back of the front seat. When he’s finally done Dad hands him a bottle of water over the bench. “Guess that’s gonna put you off smoking weed for good, hey, kiddo?” he says as Dean rinses his mouth and spits into the bucket. He sends Dean a small grin that fades when Dean just stares blankly, eyes heavy and prickling. “You okay, Dean-o?”

Dean knows he’s supposed to say yes but he’s just too tired and he feels too sick and his mouth hurts, so instead he just lies down again and pulls the blanket up to his ears. After a while Dad pulls over to the side of the road to empty the bucket and rinse it with water from the bottle.

“Just try and get some more sleep,” he says as he puts the bucket back. Then ruffles Dean’s hair almost hesitantly. His hand is big and warm and Dean has to bite his lip to not start crying. “We’ll be at Pastor Jim’s in just a few hours.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Dad’s hand rests heavy on Dean’s head a while longer, then he steps back and closes the door, getting back in the front seat. Dean squeezes his eyes shut but Sammy’s hair still gets damp.

His teeth feel better, as do his gums, eventually. And his cough gets better. Slightly. And even if, now he’s not quite as miserable, he kinda likes being sick because he gets to sleep as much as he wants, and Dad and Pastor Jim take care of Sammy, and Pastor Jim makes them all really nice food, and there’s no school to make him feel stupid, he can’t shake the fear that Dad will leave him permanently with Pastor Jim if he continues being so weak. And then what will happen to Sammy? He’s too small to be left in some motel room on his own. And Dad would. He’d have to. His job is really important and that means he has to make hard decisions, like leave them behind so he can go save people. That’s what heroes do, make hard decisions. And his dad is, above all, a hero.

After a week at Pastor Jim’s, Dean is still looking pale and tired but he says he’s feeling a lot better so John packs them up, and they say their goodbyes. Jim tries to get him to leave the boys with him, at least until Dean is properly back on his feet, but John is already a month behind schedule, and this time he’s got a lead he just can’t dismiss. They drive up to Montana, where spring is still a long way off. This time John makes sure to buy plenty of food before he leaves, even if he’ll just be gone a few days. When he gets back - only a couple of days late - the relieved and slightly surprised look on Dean’s still pale face stirs John’s guilt, but dammit, it’s not like he can just put away his gun and let the monsters kill whoever the hell they want. Dean understands.

It’s a bit worrying how tired the kid still looks though, despite John making sure to buy plenty of fruit and vegetables to up his vitamin levels. It still takes John two more trips to realize why, and then only because of the smell.

“Dean, what’s this?”

Dean’s head jerks up, those long eyelashes that remind John so much of Mary blinking rapidly. Instantly his shoulders pull forward as his back curls into a hunch. “Nothing.”

“Why the hell are you keeping food in here?” John snaps, pulling rotten fruit and molded bread and bags of cereal out of his older son’s duffel bag. There are a couple of cans of soup in there as well, plus trail mix and beef jerky, that he can’t remember buying. Which means Dean probably stole them last time they stopped for gas. If needs must, then sure, but there hasn’t been any need and they can’t afford taking that kind of unnecessary risks. Still, he’ll let it go for now. “For crying out loud, Dean, look at this. That’s wasted food. And your bag stinks. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was just…” Dean starts then he looks down, biting his lip. “Sammy cries when he’s hungry,” he mumbles.

Oh jeez. “Sam is fine,” John says because he’s been making sure, dammit, and Dean knows it. “Dean, we talked about this. You’re still weak. You need to eat your ration.”

Dean sags even further. “I’m okay. And it’s just for emergencies, in case…” He stops, fidgeting. “Sammy cried so much,” he murmurs, lower lip trembling.

John fumbles for the chair behind him and sits down, its legs screeching across the floor from the sudden weight. The urge to pull his older son into his arms and just hug the hell out of him is overwhelming, but he can’t afford to coddle the boy. He’s too soft already.

“You need to eat, too, Dean. Hunger makes a sharp mind but a weak body,” he points out. “And I need you to grow strong, son. To put some muscles on your bones. Okay? You can’t look out for Sammy if you’re weak, can you, Dean?”

Hurt and panic flicker in Dean’s eyes before he lowers his gaze. “No, Sir.”

“Okay.” John clears his throat. “So… Make sure to eat up from now on.” Dean nods but his brow sinks into a worried frown. John sighs. “I’ll leave more money for emergencies, alright? For food, not comic books,” he adds sternly. Granted, it was just that one time but…

Dean flinches. “Yes, Sir,” he says, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Okay. Good talk.”

John stands up. He expected to feel better now he’s solved the mystery but something about his older boy’s small frame sitting hunched over his homework stirs an uncomfortable feeling in his guts. Doesn’t look like the kid’s made much progress since John told him to sit down and get it over with, over an hour ago. Dean’s fallen way too far behind and he’s only in third grade, for Christ’s sake. How hard can it be? Still, some positive motivation might be in order.

“Finish your homework and you can take Sammy to the playground for an hour before practice.”

He expects Dean to look grateful, even happy, but he just nods and picks up his pencil. His breathing is a little heavy and John can’t help worrying that he’s getting sick again. Doctor said it might take time for get him to get to full strength but it’s been weeks. Well, all the more reason to get him back on track. Healthy food, fresh air, and exercise. Just what a growing boy needs.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks his eyes open when Sammy crawls into his lap. “What?” he says, shifting on the bench to accommodate for Sammy’s knees digging into his thighs.

“I’s talking to you and you didn’t hear me,” Sammy complains, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck. His nose is ice cold when he presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek. “Can we get ice cream?”

“With what money?” Dean scoffs. He backtracks quickly when Sam’s lower lip starts to tremble. “It’s too cold, squirt. You’ll get brain freeze.”

“My brain can freeze?” Sammy asks, eyes wide.

“Yep,” Dean tells him, rubbing Sammy’s nose with his hand to warm it up. He gets snot all over his palm and wipes it on the bench before wrapping his arms around Sammy’s wriggling body, grateful for the warmth. “And then we’ll have to scoop it out to warm it up in the bathtub.”

Sammy giggles, his whole body jiggling with it. Dean grins. He loves Sammy’s laugh. Sometimes when he’s feeling weird, like he just wants to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head until Dad and Sammy forget he’s there, he tickles Sammy’s tummy, just to hear him laugh. It doesn’t always make him feel better, but just the reminder that Sammy is here, and that Dean can at least make him laugh, helps him not feeling quite as useless.

“Or on the stove! We can make brain soup!” Sammy says, with all the cannibalistic enthusiasm of a four-year-old.

“Yum-yum!” Dean agrees and Sammy almost falls off his lap laughing.

Giggles still hitching in Sammy’s chest, he shifts around, all knees and elbows, until he’s facing front in Dean’s lap, feet dangling on either side of Dean’s knees. He’d become sweaty running around the playground but judging from the slight shivering, he’s already cooling down. Dean checks his watch. They still have twenty minutes to go before he can take Sammy back to the motel to warm up. His own body has already gone numb with cold, just sitting on the bench. Sammy kept begging him to come play but Dean still feels so tired (weak, he’s weak) and he just wanted to rest a little bit, before he has to go spar with Dad. Sammy is warm and soft, covering Dean’s front like a blanket, and Dean’s eyelids grow steadfastly heavier. He wraps his arms tight around Sam, so he can shove his cold hands into Sammy’s warm armpits and rests his chin on Sammy’s shoulder. Then he allows his eyes to fall shut, just for a moment.

Continued here