Arms Wide Open. Part Twelve.
Part 12/13
May You Find Comfort Here. [June 14th, 1999]
Dean.
Bobby quietly shakes Dean awake and whispers for him to get upstairs. Sammy is still sleeping, thankfully nightmare-free (or so it seems), and Dean gets up from the floor, stretches his tired limbs, and stifles a yawn. Outside, Bobby motions impatiently for him to get his ass in gear. On their way to the study, all the older hunter does is shake his head at Dean’s inquiries as to what is going on. That perks Dean’s interest. If Bobby doesn’t immediately reveal his knowledge about something, it’s either because of something weird or of something big. Seeing as how they deal with freakishly strange shit on a daily basis, something being both weird and big isn’t that easy to come by, not by Dean’s standards at least.
Bobby stops at his desk that’s groaning under the weight of all his books and notes and artifacts. The man wordlessly picks up his phone, flips it open, and holds it up for Dean. ‘1 missed call,’ the display reads. Dean shrugs. Bobby wriggles the phone and glares at him. Dean decides to indulge him, seeing as how it is his house after all, and magnanimously takes the thing, opens the menu, and scrolls to the call log.
John Winchester.
He puts the phone back down on the table and looks at it as if it were about to start sprouting wings. “Is this a joke?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby says, “but I figured you might want to do the honor.”
Call Dad, Dean thinks. It’s quite anticlimactic to think that after all this time, he’s back, just like that. A phone call - not a whole fucking plane of existence - away. “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”
Dean digs his own phone out of his pocket and hits the speed-dial. Bobby fixes the phone in Dean’s hands with narrowed eyes. The call doesn’t go directly to voicemail. Dean holds his breath.
“Dean.”
Holy fucking shit. The connection is bad; a lot of static echoes over, but Dean would recognize that voice anywhere. He asks anyway. “Dad?”
“Yes, son. It’s me.”
“Thank god. Are you ok? Where are you?” Bobby leans forward a little and the older hunter’s eyebrows crawl up to hide in the shadow of his cap. “Are you hurt?”
“Dean, everything’s fine. Or as close to it as we ever get.” With Dad, that could mean anything from having lost a leg to being a little dizzy. It does nothing to calm his racing pulse. “Bobby and you; you sent the Cree?” Well, Dean thinks, actually it was Castiel. With a minuscule shake of his head Dean thinks about all the stuff Dad missed. He can already hear Dad’s no-nonsense voice ordering him to cut the bullshit and to tell him what really happened. Angels, Dean? - Erm. Yes, sir? Nope, that’ll have to wait for now.
“They kinda decided to help on their own,” he says, and technically, it's not a lie. “I guess they felt guilty for putting you in danger’s way or something.” In front of him, Dean can see realization sink into Bobby’s face that this is indeed a conversation between father and son. The older hunter shakes his head, takes off his cap, and kneads it between his hands. The smile that follows is pure relief; Dean understands all too well. The line is silent except for the steady buzz of static. “How did they find you, by the way? No one told us any details.”
“I’m still a little hazy on that myself.” Huh. He hopes that Dad can’t see through Dean’s own bull this easily.
“So,” Dean says, “You’re alright? Back? And, like, whole?”
A tense moment of white noise later, Dad says, “Yes, Dean, I’m back and I’m still me. A little rattled, but nothing serious.” Oh no, Dean thinks, don’t you dare. He knows this tone. Knows it and hates it with all his heart.
“Listen, son." John says, "It’ll probably take me some time to sort things out. I’ll come home as soon as I can.” Months, Dad. It’s been ten fucking months. The man doesn’t even sound guilty. “I know I shouldn’t have left like this," he continues, "but I stumbled upon these old legends, and I think I’m onto something big here. The real deal. So I’ll have to check up on this before I can come home.”
Yup, not a trace of remorse. Dean lets the silence stretch and gives himself a few breaths to calm his thoughts. Dad is right, of course. If whatever 'this' is really is big, then every day counts. But then- what about Sammy? At the other end of the line, Dad goes straight from informative to defensive.
“Dean, you know how these things go. If this is a hunt, then I’ll have to follow up on it. It might lead us to the son of a bitch that caused the fire.” Oh. Not so much big, but pretty fucking huge. But still - Sammy.
“I know Dad, but-”
“And it’s not as if you're alone. You’ve got Bobby, right?” Dean’s eyes flick to the other hunter. Bobby looks pissed. He probably knows exactly how the conversation is going.
“Of course I have. Bobby says hi, by the way.” Actually, Bobby glares daggers at the phone. “Dad, it’s just-”
“You’ll be fine. You’ve been hunting on your own for years.” I know, Dean thinks bitterly, but you’re totally missing the point here! Anger starts simmering deep in his stomach.
“I have to go, son. I’ll check in with you as soon as I know what this-” Dean can’t believe his ears. All the fear and uncertainty they endured the past months, and the man can’t be bothered to ask whether or not Bobby and Dean are alright. Dad doesn’t even know about Sammy yet. He’s trying to shake Dean off, not five minutes after resurfacing, and he doesn’t even know.
“Dad, listen! You know I can take care of myself. That’s not what this is about! I know you want to get to the bottom of this but Dad, it’s- uh. It’s Sammy.”
Dad is silent. A minute later, he still is. “Dad? Are you still there?”
“S-sammy?” Fuck, Dad sounds so small all of a sudden.
“Yeah, Dad. Sammy. We found him. Uh, Bobby and me. We found him when we were looking for you, actually.” Dean knows the next question before Dad even asks.
“Dean. Are you-”
“We’re sure, Dad, a hundred percent. It’s Sam.” Nothing but white noise rings in Dean’s ear. “It’s him. Really. You- do you think you can come?”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Dad finally says. He doesn’t sound small anymore; actually, he doesn’t sound much like anything anymore. “It’ll take me a few hours at least. Two days, tops. I- I’m not exactly, uh- sure where I’m at.”
Dean blinks at that piece of information. “Alright,” he says, “Uh. Dad. It’s- Sammy, he’s been through a lot.” Understatement of the year. “There's a bunch of stuff he doesn’t remember. He’s way better already, but we’re still not sure about all the things that happened to him. He might not- it’s a little complicated. Just. Don’t expect too much, ok?” Just take it, Dean begs, for once, please, just go with it. The silence claws at his strained nerves. He really doesn’t want to explain the details of all things Sammy over the fucking phone. With a sudden jolt, he remembers what it was like to see the kid for the first time. Dean cringes.
“He’s doing really good,” he’s quick to say, “For all that’s happened to him. He’s definitely on the mend. You should see him, Dad. He’s really smart and really fucking brave; takes pretty much everything in stride. He’s eating a lot better already, which is good because they weren’t that big on food uh- before. But Bobby’s cooking, he’s a regular Martha Stuart, so Sam’s getting healthy and-” The sting of Bobby’s smack to the side his head has Dean blinking. He'd been babbling.
“Dean,” John says and damn, he sounds as if he’d just been choked, voice all raw and breath ragged. It’s even worse than sounding small. “Son, I need to go. You take good care of your brother now. I’ll be there soon. I- I have to go.”
Take care of Sammy, Dean wants to say, are you freaking kidding me? But all that’s left of the call is the busy signal.
Sammy wakes up an hour later. Dean had gone back to the nest of blankets on the floor and lain down next to his brother, drawing comfort from the steady rhythm of the kid’s breath. The conversation with Dad feels like a dream. Then Sam’s eyes snap open and Dean forgets everything else for a moment, but the boy looks ok. Still tired as hell, but not currently battling his unconscious, Dean gratefully notes.
“Are you ok, Sammy?” The kid turns around a bit so he’s facing Dean. They’re not as entwined as they used to be when they were younger but it’s so much closer than just two days ago. If Dean were to stretch his arms, he could touch the kid. Sammy doesn’t seem to mind. He offers a small smile. Dean’s heart twangs with a sudden jolt; god, how he missed this.
“Did you sleep well?” Dean asks and Sammy nods. “Are you hungry?” After a moment of pondering that, Sam shakes his head. Well then, this is as good a time as any.
“Sammy,” Dean says, “I’d like to talk to you about something.” Dean hears the strange quality to his own voice and apparently, so does his brother. Sammy sits up and eyes Dean with gentle curiosity. Dean sits up straighter as well and wishes he knew what to say to prepare the kid for the social disaster that can be John Winchester.
Sam nods. “Ok.”
“Uh. It’s about Dad. I talked to him- on the phone, earlier.” Dean tries to ban the nervousness from his voice, but now Sammy looks worried, eyes wide.
“Is he ok,” Sam says and Dean feels the nonexistent question mark quiver with tension.
“He’s fine,” Dean says and thinks about how much information would be overkill. Months of scavenger hunting? Probably. Hunting demons and monsters of legends? Might be. A fire terrible enough to prompt a man to neglect everything that should be important to him? Definitely.
Sam still looks worried. “You never called him that before,” he says.
Dean pauses and goes through the statement once more in his head. Wasn’t there a word too much in there somewhere? “I, uhm. No?” This is going great.
“I have wondered why that is,” Sammy says, “You seem very close.”
Ok, Dean is officially lost. How come the kid keeps doing that to him? “Yeah, we’re uh. We’re close.”
Sam nods and looks satisfied and a little relieved that his observation turns out to be true. “I always thought it was a term of endearment. In the books, that’s what children say. ‘Dad’. Or ‘Daddy’. When they’re close, when they like each other.” Sam hesitates before he continues, “So I wondered why you wouldn’t call him that.” Sammy still doesn’t make sense.
“Call him what?” Dean asks.
“Dad,” Sam says.
“What?" Dean’s head hurts. "Call Dad ‘Dad’?”
“Yes,” Sam says, “You only say ‘Bobby’ all the time.”
“Oh,” Dean says. He definitely didn’t see that one coming. “I do like Bobby, a lot. You’re absolutely right about that. But I’m not his son. That’s why I don’t call him Dad, is all.”
Sammy’s nose wrinkles in that adorable way it always does when he tries to make sense of things. Dean can literally see the gears turning while his brother readjusts the mental image of their family. How the hell did the kid get there, anyway?
“But he calls you ‘son’ and ‘kid’ all the time,” Sam says, “And me too. So- if he’s not your father-” The kid’s voice falters as he tries to work out how families are supposed to function outside of the world of literature.
“No, kiddo, he isn’t. He calls me that - and you, for that matter - because we’re still family. Not by blood, we’re not related to each other like that. But he’s a very close family friend. We’ve known him since you were not bigger than this.” Dean holds his hands apart to indicate a baby-sized little brother. “Dad knows him too, of course. When he had to go on a job we’d stay here, with Bobby.” Dean grins at a sudden flash of memory. “We used to call him ‘Uncle Bobby’. That’s what he kinda is to us, Sammy. He’s Uncle Bobby and part of our family.”
Dean is a little surprised at this whole thing. He’s so smart, Dean thinks, how the hell did he get that wrong? But then again, Sammy had been pretty much isolated from a very young age. Locked up by demons, a mad angel, and a fox spirit who apparently hadn’t been big on explaining stuff. He shouldn’t be surprised that the kid had tried to make sense of things his own way.
Dean mentally shakes his head at himself. Now that he thinks about it, there’s a lot of ground they haven’t covered yet. He hadn’t talked to Sam about Dad’s current situation. Of course he’d told him about the past, about things they did and places they went, but Sammy could have all too easily pictured Bobby with them instead of Dad. How the hell could he have know otherwise? Whenever he’d deliberated on how to find Dad and what might have happened to him, he’d done so with Bobby and Cas. And since the angel was (and is) still so concerned about getting too close to Sam and upsetting the kid, Sammy hadn’t been there to hear it. Dean is a little shocked to see that he completely blanked out on this fact. He should probably get the kid some books about how the world works. Or stop talking about day-to-day stuff and get into things already. It’s about fucking time.
“So we are here because our parents are on a job,” Sammy asks without asking, “Mom and Dad have left us here because of their work.” That snaps Dean out of his thoughts. Sammy sounds so relieved that it almost physically pains Dean. So, what, the kid had thought that Bobby was Dad and that Mom had just left them? If anything, this whole clusterfuck shows Dean how badly he’s done fulfilling his big brother duties. He’d thought they were making progress, that Sammy was slowly making his way back into the world. But in truth, Dean hadn’t even explained the most basic things to the kid. His brother had no idea how families were supposed to work; that Mom and Dad and Baby usually lived in a house with a dog, a cat, and a garden out back. He didn’t know that fathers usually stayed with their sons, not unrelated uncles; that mothers weren’t meant to burn to ash on the ceilings of nurseries.
“They are on a job right now, Mom and Dad,” Sammy says and Dean’s heart aches at the careful way the kid tastes those names on his tongue.
“Uh. It’s complicated.” Dean’s definitely not up to give Sam the whole monsters-are-real-and-guess-what-we-kill-them speech, although the kid probably won’t have a problem understanding the monster part.
“Dad is - was - on a job. He was supposed to be back a while ago, but he didn’t come home. So we went looking for him. That’s how we found you, by the way.” Dean smiles encouragingly at the boy. “But I’m sure he’s ok. That’s why we talked on the phone earlier. He’s back from the job. And he’ll come home soon. So no reason to worry, ok? He’s really excited that you’re here.”
“Our Dad is coming here. To- to meet me?” Dean might have just stroked out a little. That was a fucking question, thought and spoken and underlying, the whole shebang. Dean blinks at the kid in front of him and Sammy looks nervous as hell. And those eyes! Dean’s paled memories don’t do them justice, now that Sam's puppy-dog look is trained on him full-force, but he'll do anything to wipe that look from his face.
“Yeah, Sammy. He's coming to see you. He’ll be here as soon as he can. He’s really looking forward to it. He’s happy that you’re here now, that you’re safe.” Dean sends a quick thank you out into the world when the eyes lose some of their desperate edge. They’re still not gone, but now it’s more like a puppy hoping for a game of catch and not like a starving, freezing dog begging for shelter. This he can work with.
“You should try to go back to sleep, Sammy.” Dean hadn’t forgotten about the previous night, about those terrible sobs shaking his brother into submission. How could he ever? In the light of that, this day couldn’t have gone better. Sammy hadn’t eaten, but he’d slept and talked and had calmly accepted the news about Dad without missing a beat. Maybe the kid had just needed to let loose, to get rid of some of the crap he struggled to deal with. In that case, just continuing as if things were normal might be the best way to go.
“We have to get up in time for breakfast tomorrow," he says. We missed a whole lotta meals and you know how Bobby loves to cook. I bet he’s a little sad that no one was there to enjoy it with him today.”
“I like his food,” Sammy says, and Dean thanks his lucky stars that his tactics seem to have worked. “No one has ever cooked for me before.”
The sudden lump in Dean’s throat is of epic proportions. “Then go to sleep now,” he croaks, “Night, Sammy.” In the silence that follows, Dean thinks of all the times he’d cooked for the squirt and tries not to cry.
The following day is a particularly bad one. When Sammy wakes up, he already has that detached look on his face that Dean has come to loathe. It means that Sam will spend hours locked in his own head, blocking out the world around him. All Dean can do is be more patient than usual, gently leading the kid to where he wants him to go or just leaving him be and hoping he’ll snap out of it sooner rather than later. It’s like a special brand of torture custom made for Dean, to dangle his little brother right in front of his nose, clearly in need of help, but leaving Dean without the means to do anything. It has all of them on edge.
At breakfast, Sammy barely eats two bites of the bacon-potato omelet that Bobby topped with a blend of freshly chopped herbs. Afterwards he spends an hour and a half sitting in the panic room, half-hidden behind the cot, tracing his scars. He’d done that often during his first weeks at Bobby’s and when Dean had mustered the courage to ask about the repeating circular motion, the kid had shrugged and looked to the ground.
“It helps against the dark,” he’d whispered a few moments later, bathed in the sunrays that made their way down to the ground, and that was all Dean had gotten out of him.
By lunch the kid is flinching at his own shadow. He doesn’t dare leave the table on his own, so Dean opts to guide him back downstairs and leave a bowl of vegetable stew on the floor in case Sammy gets hungry. He doesn’t. He stays huddled in his blankets and doesn’t move until dusk. Dean hates these days, when Sammy feels that the colors are too bright and the slightest noises too loud and not even the safety of the basement or the scars on his face can ground him.
Dinner time finds Dean and Bobby alone at the kitchen table and Dean can’t help but wonder how they were ever able to function without Sam. It hasn't even been a full six months since the kid's been back, but his current absence leaves both men with a stale taste and nervous glances at where the kid usually sits. His little brother doesn’t do much, is not actively trying to entertain them, but the way he marvels at the smell of their meals or at the reflections in his water glass when he tilts it this way and that are impossibly innocent. It’s almost as if they were intruding on a private moment shared between Sammy and the world.
After the initial weirdness of seeing the boy stroke the spines of books or getting his head so close to freshly tumbled laundry that he almost crawls into the machine, Dean tried to see things from the kid’s perspective. And, honestly? It was pretty freaking cool. Concentrating on nothing but the feel of the sun on his back when he works gives him an odd feeling of contentment. Once Dean tried to mimic the way Sammy balances silverware on his index finger whenever Bobby is busy with the last touch-ups to their meals. The first time Dean managed to do it with one of the serving spoons, he’d felt as victorious as if he’d just taken out a nest of vamps. Spoons are the most difficult and the bigger ones are like the master class of silverware-balancing. The grin that had lit up Sammy’s face when he’d seen it had kept Dean warm for two days straight.
The changes have been small, though. They didn’t suddenly turn into a bunch of nitwits, staring at the oven light for five hours until the roast is done. No one recites poetry to trees, although occasionally Bobby does look kind of thoughtful when he passes the one sad cactus that managed to survive his black thumb. It’s more that they've learnt to appreciate Sammy’s enthusiasm, his delight at everyday things like he's letting them glimpse a well-protected secret, and sharing that with the kid is a reward neither hunter takes for granted.
After a while, Dean starts touching things more often. Not in a kinky way, (although he honestly wouldn’t mind trying this new attention to detail that way as well), but out of general curiosity. If something looks sleek or pebbled or jagged, he likes to know how it feels underneath his fingertips. Sometimes he just touches things because he can, though. It drives Bobby crazy and Dean has a field day with it more often than not. But then again, he just needs to sniff the air come mealtime to know that the older hunter has ventured further into experimenting with seasoning and herbs. Sometimes Bobby even forgets to pretend he’s grumpy when he looks at them during the first few bites of a new creation. The expectant hope in the man’s face keeps Dean from making snarky comments, every time. Since Sam had reentered their lives, he’d filled an emptiness they hadn’t been aware of. Whenever he’s locked inside his head though, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.
Which explains the utter disappointment in Bobby’s demeanor when he says over dinner, “I think he might have liked this one. It’s got asparagus and white mushrooms in it - he liked those when we had those spiced pepper pastries the other night.”
Bobby barely refrains from pouting. If it weren’t for the lack of Sammy in front of him, Dean would definitely have ribbed the older hunter for it. As it is, Dean doesn’t feel like joking at all and he slides his half-untouched plate a little further away.
“You know,” Dean says, “it’s really nice, but I’m actually not that hungry. I think I’m gonna check on Sammy; maybe he’d like some.”
Bobby throws him a weary glance. “Yeah, ‘m not that hungry either. If he isn’t up for casserole, there’s still leftover potato salad in the fridge. Or I can whip up a grilled cheese sandwich, he usually likes those.”
“You know it’s not your cooking, right?” Dean nudges something green with his fork. “It’s just been a really crappy couple of days, and you know, last night, that really- And the thing with Dad-” Dean shakes his head. They’d talked about Sam’s misconception and while Bobby initially looked a little flattered, he’d agreed that they’d have to keep an eye on this. “But you know,” Dean muses, “He’s doing real good, better than I could have hoped for after that nutjob angel attacked him. He’s trying so hard, he's entitled to a mood swing every once in a while.” He pushes his chair back. “I’m gonna see how he’s doing. Maybe he’s ready to leave the floor, at least.”
“That bad, huh?” Bobby eyes the plate in front of him. “Nah. Maybe tomorrow,” the older hunter finally says and Dean leaves the kitchen to the sound of Tupperware being filled.
An hour later, Dean still hasn’t emerged from the basement and Bobby checks on his boys to find them on the floor. Sam lies half buried under blankets and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean’s left arm is completely hidden under the pile that is his little brother while his right hand rests on top of his own thigh. Bobby stands in the door for longer than he cares to admit and takes in this picture of brotherly comfort. He knows that these aren’t his kids in the usual sense, but in some ways they’re more his than anyone else’s, including John.
If Bobby brushes away a few tears in the dark, no one is awake to see.
A couple of hours later, Dean steps into the kitchen and grabs a glass of water before he joins Bobby in the next room. “Sorry for bailing out on dinner earlier. Sammy wasn’t hungry and being on edge all day really did him in.”
“No need to apologize, son.” They sit in silence and read up on lore and trauma treatment in minors until Dean rubs a hand over the crick in his neck. Bobby looks up at the movement and opens his mouth to say something when the sound of a car fills the air. They are far enough from the surrounding streets that for a sound this loud, the car must be headed for the house. Both hunters are suddenly on high alert, and Bobby grabs the shotgun while Dean snatches a knife from the table.
The car is long and slim and gleams in the outdoor lighting. It idles a little before it shuts off close to the front porch; steps crunching over the gravel as whatever it is makes its way towards the house. The hunters nod at each other and take positions in the corridor, no need for words. Dean holds his breath, but after a minute of nothing he starts to get dizzy and has to suck in a gasp of air. Next to him, Bobby frowns. The older hunter’s gaze flicks to the angel proofing all over the walls and to the devil’s traps on the ceilings. Dean grabs Bobby’s flask of holy water from a nearby table. We should be good, he thinks, but when the knock on the door comes, he flinches nevertheless.
go back (part eleven) || Masterpost || continue (part thirteen)
May You Find Comfort Here. [June 14th, 1999]
Dean.
Bobby quietly shakes Dean awake and whispers for him to get upstairs. Sammy is still sleeping, thankfully nightmare-free (or so it seems), and Dean gets up from the floor, stretches his tired limbs, and stifles a yawn. Outside, Bobby motions impatiently for him to get his ass in gear. On their way to the study, all the older hunter does is shake his head at Dean’s inquiries as to what is going on. That perks Dean’s interest. If Bobby doesn’t immediately reveal his knowledge about something, it’s either because of something weird or of something big. Seeing as how they deal with freakishly strange shit on a daily basis, something being both weird and big isn’t that easy to come by, not by Dean’s standards at least.
Bobby stops at his desk that’s groaning under the weight of all his books and notes and artifacts. The man wordlessly picks up his phone, flips it open, and holds it up for Dean. ‘1 missed call,’ the display reads. Dean shrugs. Bobby wriggles the phone and glares at him. Dean decides to indulge him, seeing as how it is his house after all, and magnanimously takes the thing, opens the menu, and scrolls to the call log.
John Winchester.
He puts the phone back down on the table and looks at it as if it were about to start sprouting wings. “Is this a joke?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby says, “but I figured you might want to do the honor.”
Call Dad, Dean thinks. It’s quite anticlimactic to think that after all this time, he’s back, just like that. A phone call - not a whole fucking plane of existence - away. “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”
Dean digs his own phone out of his pocket and hits the speed-dial. Bobby fixes the phone in Dean’s hands with narrowed eyes. The call doesn’t go directly to voicemail. Dean holds his breath.
“Dean.”
Holy fucking shit. The connection is bad; a lot of static echoes over, but Dean would recognize that voice anywhere. He asks anyway. “Dad?”
“Yes, son. It’s me.”
“Thank god. Are you ok? Where are you?” Bobby leans forward a little and the older hunter’s eyebrows crawl up to hide in the shadow of his cap. “Are you hurt?”
“Dean, everything’s fine. Or as close to it as we ever get.” With Dad, that could mean anything from having lost a leg to being a little dizzy. It does nothing to calm his racing pulse. “Bobby and you; you sent the Cree?” Well, Dean thinks, actually it was Castiel. With a minuscule shake of his head Dean thinks about all the stuff Dad missed. He can already hear Dad’s no-nonsense voice ordering him to cut the bullshit and to tell him what really happened. Angels, Dean? - Erm. Yes, sir? Nope, that’ll have to wait for now.
“They kinda decided to help on their own,” he says, and technically, it's not a lie. “I guess they felt guilty for putting you in danger’s way or something.” In front of him, Dean can see realization sink into Bobby’s face that this is indeed a conversation between father and son. The older hunter shakes his head, takes off his cap, and kneads it between his hands. The smile that follows is pure relief; Dean understands all too well. The line is silent except for the steady buzz of static. “How did they find you, by the way? No one told us any details.”
“I’m still a little hazy on that myself.” Huh. He hopes that Dad can’t see through Dean’s own bull this easily.
“So,” Dean says, “You’re alright? Back? And, like, whole?”
A tense moment of white noise later, Dad says, “Yes, Dean, I’m back and I’m still me. A little rattled, but nothing serious.” Oh no, Dean thinks, don’t you dare. He knows this tone. Knows it and hates it with all his heart.
“Listen, son." John says, "It’ll probably take me some time to sort things out. I’ll come home as soon as I can.” Months, Dad. It’s been ten fucking months. The man doesn’t even sound guilty. “I know I shouldn’t have left like this," he continues, "but I stumbled upon these old legends, and I think I’m onto something big here. The real deal. So I’ll have to check up on this before I can come home.”
Yup, not a trace of remorse. Dean lets the silence stretch and gives himself a few breaths to calm his thoughts. Dad is right, of course. If whatever 'this' is really is big, then every day counts. But then- what about Sammy? At the other end of the line, Dad goes straight from informative to defensive.
“Dean, you know how these things go. If this is a hunt, then I’ll have to follow up on it. It might lead us to the son of a bitch that caused the fire.” Oh. Not so much big, but pretty fucking huge. But still - Sammy.
“I know Dad, but-”
“And it’s not as if you're alone. You’ve got Bobby, right?” Dean’s eyes flick to the other hunter. Bobby looks pissed. He probably knows exactly how the conversation is going.
“Of course I have. Bobby says hi, by the way.” Actually, Bobby glares daggers at the phone. “Dad, it’s just-”
“You’ll be fine. You’ve been hunting on your own for years.” I know, Dean thinks bitterly, but you’re totally missing the point here! Anger starts simmering deep in his stomach.
“I have to go, son. I’ll check in with you as soon as I know what this-” Dean can’t believe his ears. All the fear and uncertainty they endured the past months, and the man can’t be bothered to ask whether or not Bobby and Dean are alright. Dad doesn’t even know about Sammy yet. He’s trying to shake Dean off, not five minutes after resurfacing, and he doesn’t even know.
“Dad, listen! You know I can take care of myself. That’s not what this is about! I know you want to get to the bottom of this but Dad, it’s- uh. It’s Sammy.”
Dad is silent. A minute later, he still is. “Dad? Are you still there?”
“S-sammy?” Fuck, Dad sounds so small all of a sudden.
“Yeah, Dad. Sammy. We found him. Uh, Bobby and me. We found him when we were looking for you, actually.” Dean knows the next question before Dad even asks.
“Dean. Are you-”
“We’re sure, Dad, a hundred percent. It’s Sam.” Nothing but white noise rings in Dean’s ear. “It’s him. Really. You- do you think you can come?”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Dad finally says. He doesn’t sound small anymore; actually, he doesn’t sound much like anything anymore. “It’ll take me a few hours at least. Two days, tops. I- I’m not exactly, uh- sure where I’m at.”
Dean blinks at that piece of information. “Alright,” he says, “Uh. Dad. It’s- Sammy, he’s been through a lot.” Understatement of the year. “There's a bunch of stuff he doesn’t remember. He’s way better already, but we’re still not sure about all the things that happened to him. He might not- it’s a little complicated. Just. Don’t expect too much, ok?” Just take it, Dean begs, for once, please, just go with it. The silence claws at his strained nerves. He really doesn’t want to explain the details of all things Sammy over the fucking phone. With a sudden jolt, he remembers what it was like to see the kid for the first time. Dean cringes.
“He’s doing really good,” he’s quick to say, “For all that’s happened to him. He’s definitely on the mend. You should see him, Dad. He’s really smart and really fucking brave; takes pretty much everything in stride. He’s eating a lot better already, which is good because they weren’t that big on food uh- before. But Bobby’s cooking, he’s a regular Martha Stuart, so Sam’s getting healthy and-” The sting of Bobby’s smack to the side his head has Dean blinking. He'd been babbling.
“Dean,” John says and damn, he sounds as if he’d just been choked, voice all raw and breath ragged. It’s even worse than sounding small. “Son, I need to go. You take good care of your brother now. I’ll be there soon. I- I have to go.”
Take care of Sammy, Dean wants to say, are you freaking kidding me? But all that’s left of the call is the busy signal.
Sammy wakes up an hour later. Dean had gone back to the nest of blankets on the floor and lain down next to his brother, drawing comfort from the steady rhythm of the kid’s breath. The conversation with Dad feels like a dream. Then Sam’s eyes snap open and Dean forgets everything else for a moment, but the boy looks ok. Still tired as hell, but not currently battling his unconscious, Dean gratefully notes.
“Are you ok, Sammy?” The kid turns around a bit so he’s facing Dean. They’re not as entwined as they used to be when they were younger but it’s so much closer than just two days ago. If Dean were to stretch his arms, he could touch the kid. Sammy doesn’t seem to mind. He offers a small smile. Dean’s heart twangs with a sudden jolt; god, how he missed this.
“Did you sleep well?” Dean asks and Sammy nods. “Are you hungry?” After a moment of pondering that, Sam shakes his head. Well then, this is as good a time as any.
“Sammy,” Dean says, “I’d like to talk to you about something.” Dean hears the strange quality to his own voice and apparently, so does his brother. Sammy sits up and eyes Dean with gentle curiosity. Dean sits up straighter as well and wishes he knew what to say to prepare the kid for the social disaster that can be John Winchester.
Sam nods. “Ok.”
“Uh. It’s about Dad. I talked to him- on the phone, earlier.” Dean tries to ban the nervousness from his voice, but now Sammy looks worried, eyes wide.
“Is he ok,” Sam says and Dean feels the nonexistent question mark quiver with tension.
“He’s fine,” Dean says and thinks about how much information would be overkill. Months of scavenger hunting? Probably. Hunting demons and monsters of legends? Might be. A fire terrible enough to prompt a man to neglect everything that should be important to him? Definitely.
Sam still looks worried. “You never called him that before,” he says.
Dean pauses and goes through the statement once more in his head. Wasn’t there a word too much in there somewhere? “I, uhm. No?” This is going great.
“I have wondered why that is,” Sammy says, “You seem very close.”
Ok, Dean is officially lost. How come the kid keeps doing that to him? “Yeah, we’re uh. We’re close.”
Sam nods and looks satisfied and a little relieved that his observation turns out to be true. “I always thought it was a term of endearment. In the books, that’s what children say. ‘Dad’. Or ‘Daddy’. When they’re close, when they like each other.” Sam hesitates before he continues, “So I wondered why you wouldn’t call him that.” Sammy still doesn’t make sense.
“Call him what?” Dean asks.
“Dad,” Sam says.
“What?" Dean’s head hurts. "Call Dad ‘Dad’?”
“Yes,” Sam says, “You only say ‘Bobby’ all the time.”
“Oh,” Dean says. He definitely didn’t see that one coming. “I do like Bobby, a lot. You’re absolutely right about that. But I’m not his son. That’s why I don’t call him Dad, is all.”
Sammy’s nose wrinkles in that adorable way it always does when he tries to make sense of things. Dean can literally see the gears turning while his brother readjusts the mental image of their family. How the hell did the kid get there, anyway?
“But he calls you ‘son’ and ‘kid’ all the time,” Sam says, “And me too. So- if he’s not your father-” The kid’s voice falters as he tries to work out how families are supposed to function outside of the world of literature.
“No, kiddo, he isn’t. He calls me that - and you, for that matter - because we’re still family. Not by blood, we’re not related to each other like that. But he’s a very close family friend. We’ve known him since you were not bigger than this.” Dean holds his hands apart to indicate a baby-sized little brother. “Dad knows him too, of course. When he had to go on a job we’d stay here, with Bobby.” Dean grins at a sudden flash of memory. “We used to call him ‘Uncle Bobby’. That’s what he kinda is to us, Sammy. He’s Uncle Bobby and part of our family.”
Dean is a little surprised at this whole thing. He’s so smart, Dean thinks, how the hell did he get that wrong? But then again, Sammy had been pretty much isolated from a very young age. Locked up by demons, a mad angel, and a fox spirit who apparently hadn’t been big on explaining stuff. He shouldn’t be surprised that the kid had tried to make sense of things his own way.
Dean mentally shakes his head at himself. Now that he thinks about it, there’s a lot of ground they haven’t covered yet. He hadn’t talked to Sam about Dad’s current situation. Of course he’d told him about the past, about things they did and places they went, but Sammy could have all too easily pictured Bobby with them instead of Dad. How the hell could he have know otherwise? Whenever he’d deliberated on how to find Dad and what might have happened to him, he’d done so with Bobby and Cas. And since the angel was (and is) still so concerned about getting too close to Sam and upsetting the kid, Sammy hadn’t been there to hear it. Dean is a little shocked to see that he completely blanked out on this fact. He should probably get the kid some books about how the world works. Or stop talking about day-to-day stuff and get into things already. It’s about fucking time.
“So we are here because our parents are on a job,” Sammy asks without asking, “Mom and Dad have left us here because of their work.” That snaps Dean out of his thoughts. Sammy sounds so relieved that it almost physically pains Dean. So, what, the kid had thought that Bobby was Dad and that Mom had just left them? If anything, this whole clusterfuck shows Dean how badly he’s done fulfilling his big brother duties. He’d thought they were making progress, that Sammy was slowly making his way back into the world. But in truth, Dean hadn’t even explained the most basic things to the kid. His brother had no idea how families were supposed to work; that Mom and Dad and Baby usually lived in a house with a dog, a cat, and a garden out back. He didn’t know that fathers usually stayed with their sons, not unrelated uncles; that mothers weren’t meant to burn to ash on the ceilings of nurseries.
“They are on a job right now, Mom and Dad,” Sammy says and Dean’s heart aches at the careful way the kid tastes those names on his tongue.
“Uh. It’s complicated.” Dean’s definitely not up to give Sam the whole monsters-are-real-and-guess-what-we-kill-them speech, although the kid probably won’t have a problem understanding the monster part.
“Dad is - was - on a job. He was supposed to be back a while ago, but he didn’t come home. So we went looking for him. That’s how we found you, by the way.” Dean smiles encouragingly at the boy. “But I’m sure he’s ok. That’s why we talked on the phone earlier. He’s back from the job. And he’ll come home soon. So no reason to worry, ok? He’s really excited that you’re here.”
“Our Dad is coming here. To- to meet me?” Dean might have just stroked out a little. That was a fucking question, thought and spoken and underlying, the whole shebang. Dean blinks at the kid in front of him and Sammy looks nervous as hell. And those eyes! Dean’s paled memories don’t do them justice, now that Sam's puppy-dog look is trained on him full-force, but he'll do anything to wipe that look from his face.
“Yeah, Sammy. He's coming to see you. He’ll be here as soon as he can. He’s really looking forward to it. He’s happy that you’re here now, that you’re safe.” Dean sends a quick thank you out into the world when the eyes lose some of their desperate edge. They’re still not gone, but now it’s more like a puppy hoping for a game of catch and not like a starving, freezing dog begging for shelter. This he can work with.
“You should try to go back to sleep, Sammy.” Dean hadn’t forgotten about the previous night, about those terrible sobs shaking his brother into submission. How could he ever? In the light of that, this day couldn’t have gone better. Sammy hadn’t eaten, but he’d slept and talked and had calmly accepted the news about Dad without missing a beat. Maybe the kid had just needed to let loose, to get rid of some of the crap he struggled to deal with. In that case, just continuing as if things were normal might be the best way to go.
“We have to get up in time for breakfast tomorrow," he says. We missed a whole lotta meals and you know how Bobby loves to cook. I bet he’s a little sad that no one was there to enjoy it with him today.”
“I like his food,” Sammy says, and Dean thanks his lucky stars that his tactics seem to have worked. “No one has ever cooked for me before.”
The sudden lump in Dean’s throat is of epic proportions. “Then go to sleep now,” he croaks, “Night, Sammy.” In the silence that follows, Dean thinks of all the times he’d cooked for the squirt and tries not to cry.
The following day is a particularly bad one. When Sammy wakes up, he already has that detached look on his face that Dean has come to loathe. It means that Sam will spend hours locked in his own head, blocking out the world around him. All Dean can do is be more patient than usual, gently leading the kid to where he wants him to go or just leaving him be and hoping he’ll snap out of it sooner rather than later. It’s like a special brand of torture custom made for Dean, to dangle his little brother right in front of his nose, clearly in need of help, but leaving Dean without the means to do anything. It has all of them on edge.
At breakfast, Sammy barely eats two bites of the bacon-potato omelet that Bobby topped with a blend of freshly chopped herbs. Afterwards he spends an hour and a half sitting in the panic room, half-hidden behind the cot, tracing his scars. He’d done that often during his first weeks at Bobby’s and when Dean had mustered the courage to ask about the repeating circular motion, the kid had shrugged and looked to the ground.
“It helps against the dark,” he’d whispered a few moments later, bathed in the sunrays that made their way down to the ground, and that was all Dean had gotten out of him.
By lunch the kid is flinching at his own shadow. He doesn’t dare leave the table on his own, so Dean opts to guide him back downstairs and leave a bowl of vegetable stew on the floor in case Sammy gets hungry. He doesn’t. He stays huddled in his blankets and doesn’t move until dusk. Dean hates these days, when Sammy feels that the colors are too bright and the slightest noises too loud and not even the safety of the basement or the scars on his face can ground him.
Dinner time finds Dean and Bobby alone at the kitchen table and Dean can’t help but wonder how they were ever able to function without Sam. It hasn't even been a full six months since the kid's been back, but his current absence leaves both men with a stale taste and nervous glances at where the kid usually sits. His little brother doesn’t do much, is not actively trying to entertain them, but the way he marvels at the smell of their meals or at the reflections in his water glass when he tilts it this way and that are impossibly innocent. It’s almost as if they were intruding on a private moment shared between Sammy and the world.
After the initial weirdness of seeing the boy stroke the spines of books or getting his head so close to freshly tumbled laundry that he almost crawls into the machine, Dean tried to see things from the kid’s perspective. And, honestly? It was pretty freaking cool. Concentrating on nothing but the feel of the sun on his back when he works gives him an odd feeling of contentment. Once Dean tried to mimic the way Sammy balances silverware on his index finger whenever Bobby is busy with the last touch-ups to their meals. The first time Dean managed to do it with one of the serving spoons, he’d felt as victorious as if he’d just taken out a nest of vamps. Spoons are the most difficult and the bigger ones are like the master class of silverware-balancing. The grin that had lit up Sammy’s face when he’d seen it had kept Dean warm for two days straight.
The changes have been small, though. They didn’t suddenly turn into a bunch of nitwits, staring at the oven light for five hours until the roast is done. No one recites poetry to trees, although occasionally Bobby does look kind of thoughtful when he passes the one sad cactus that managed to survive his black thumb. It’s more that they've learnt to appreciate Sammy’s enthusiasm, his delight at everyday things like he's letting them glimpse a well-protected secret, and sharing that with the kid is a reward neither hunter takes for granted.
After a while, Dean starts touching things more often. Not in a kinky way, (although he honestly wouldn’t mind trying this new attention to detail that way as well), but out of general curiosity. If something looks sleek or pebbled or jagged, he likes to know how it feels underneath his fingertips. Sometimes he just touches things because he can, though. It drives Bobby crazy and Dean has a field day with it more often than not. But then again, he just needs to sniff the air come mealtime to know that the older hunter has ventured further into experimenting with seasoning and herbs. Sometimes Bobby even forgets to pretend he’s grumpy when he looks at them during the first few bites of a new creation. The expectant hope in the man’s face keeps Dean from making snarky comments, every time. Since Sam had reentered their lives, he’d filled an emptiness they hadn’t been aware of. Whenever he’s locked inside his head though, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.
Which explains the utter disappointment in Bobby’s demeanor when he says over dinner, “I think he might have liked this one. It’s got asparagus and white mushrooms in it - he liked those when we had those spiced pepper pastries the other night.”
Bobby barely refrains from pouting. If it weren’t for the lack of Sammy in front of him, Dean would definitely have ribbed the older hunter for it. As it is, Dean doesn’t feel like joking at all and he slides his half-untouched plate a little further away.
“You know,” Dean says, “it’s really nice, but I’m actually not that hungry. I think I’m gonna check on Sammy; maybe he’d like some.”
Bobby throws him a weary glance. “Yeah, ‘m not that hungry either. If he isn’t up for casserole, there’s still leftover potato salad in the fridge. Or I can whip up a grilled cheese sandwich, he usually likes those.”
“You know it’s not your cooking, right?” Dean nudges something green with his fork. “It’s just been a really crappy couple of days, and you know, last night, that really- And the thing with Dad-” Dean shakes his head. They’d talked about Sam’s misconception and while Bobby initially looked a little flattered, he’d agreed that they’d have to keep an eye on this. “But you know,” Dean muses, “He’s doing real good, better than I could have hoped for after that nutjob angel attacked him. He’s trying so hard, he's entitled to a mood swing every once in a while.” He pushes his chair back. “I’m gonna see how he’s doing. Maybe he’s ready to leave the floor, at least.”
“That bad, huh?” Bobby eyes the plate in front of him. “Nah. Maybe tomorrow,” the older hunter finally says and Dean leaves the kitchen to the sound of Tupperware being filled.
An hour later, Dean still hasn’t emerged from the basement and Bobby checks on his boys to find them on the floor. Sam lies half buried under blankets and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean’s left arm is completely hidden under the pile that is his little brother while his right hand rests on top of his own thigh. Bobby stands in the door for longer than he cares to admit and takes in this picture of brotherly comfort. He knows that these aren’t his kids in the usual sense, but in some ways they’re more his than anyone else’s, including John.
If Bobby brushes away a few tears in the dark, no one is awake to see.
A couple of hours later, Dean steps into the kitchen and grabs a glass of water before he joins Bobby in the next room. “Sorry for bailing out on dinner earlier. Sammy wasn’t hungry and being on edge all day really did him in.”
“No need to apologize, son.” They sit in silence and read up on lore and trauma treatment in minors until Dean rubs a hand over the crick in his neck. Bobby looks up at the movement and opens his mouth to say something when the sound of a car fills the air. They are far enough from the surrounding streets that for a sound this loud, the car must be headed for the house. Both hunters are suddenly on high alert, and Bobby grabs the shotgun while Dean snatches a knife from the table.
The car is long and slim and gleams in the outdoor lighting. It idles a little before it shuts off close to the front porch; steps crunching over the gravel as whatever it is makes its way towards the house. The hunters nod at each other and take positions in the corridor, no need for words. Dean holds his breath, but after a minute of nothing he starts to get dizzy and has to suck in a gasp of air. Next to him, Bobby frowns. The older hunter’s gaze flicks to the angel proofing all over the walls and to the devil’s traps on the ceilings. Dean grabs Bobby’s flask of holy water from a nearby table. We should be good, he thinks, but when the knock on the door comes, he flinches nevertheless.
go back (part eleven) || Masterpost || continue (part thirteen)