By Any Other Name (What Matters Is What Something Is)
Title: By Any Other Name (What Matters Is What Something Is)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3400
Summary: There's still a lot that Dean can teach Sam.
Spoilers/Warnings/Notes: Written for the prompt "staying up with a baby all night" at fluffandfold. Babyfic, schmoooop, warm fuzzies, goes AU after Season 2.
By Any Other Name (What Matters Is What Something Is)
In the dark and fuzzy place between sleeping and waking, it takes Sam a minute to remember where he is. He's warm, a heavy knitted blanket pulled up around his shoulders and another draped over his legs, tucked under his feet. He breathes in the smells of shampoo and faint traces of laundry detergent in the pillowcase his cheek rests on and tries to figure it out.
The faint fuzz of white noise reaches his ear with a certain familiarity, the sound of two breathing patterns drifting in and out like the ocean washing over sand. Sam relaxes muscles he didn't know had tensed, resting fully once more on the bed. His bed, and Dean's, with Dean's body-shaped divot on the other side and Dean's head-dent still in his pillows. He can still smell Dean the way he was when they got out of bed this morning, alive under their skins and yet lazy with the burn of hard-worked muscles and the taste of each other still pungent in their mouths. If he's not careful, he can still feel the sore puffiness of the bites on his back where no one can see but Dean.
He chooses not to be careful at all, all the better to enjoy the memories.
Sam reaches out, eyes mostly closed, to sweep over the space where Dean should be. He listens to the twinned breathing coming from the jerry-rigged walkie-talkie on their lamp table and, without making a conscious effort to do so, matches the rhythm of his inhalations and exhalations to the pattern he recognizes as Dean's. He's almost asleep again when there's a hitch, a bump, a whimper, and he remembers what he's instantly stricken with guilt for having forgotten.
"Shh, shh," Dean murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and indistinct through the speaker. "Hush, hush, hush, don't --"
The whimper's volume increases, broken by a hiccup, and then a thin, unhappy wail.
Sam's already tossing the blankets off when Dean whispers, urgently, asking the baby girl not to wake her daddy.
***
Sam shuffle-hurries from bedroom to front room in his sock feet, covering his mouth to mute his yawn and blinking in the dim dusk. Dean's standing by the window, jiggling an armful of pale pink blankets and holding back the old beige curtain that came with this bungalow they managed to rent on-the-fly. He's dressed in ancient sweatpants that were once white but have been laundered so many times that they're now a dingy gray. He's thrown on a white undershirt, and his feet are bare.
"Hey, now, I told you that wasn't cool," Dean says to the blankets. "Let your old man get some rest, huh?"
"It's okay. I needed to get up," Sam fibs, hoping Dean won't call him on it.
Dean gives him a look, kind of the same as he gave Sam when Sam tried playing sick to get out of a hunt when he was fourteen. "No, what you needed was to get at least four solid hours. Don't want you goin' crazy on me from sleep deprivation or whatever."
"Dean."
"What? It happens." Dean rearranged the blankets, propping them on his shoulder with an easy grace that makes Sam twinge with jealousy. How does he make this look so simple? Like he's not afraid of… Sam doesn't know… breaking her, maybe. Her entire head fits in his palm, reminding him uncomfortably of a photograph he once saw in a popular science magazine, a picture of a gorilla delicately balancing a teacup in its hand. Sometimes he thinks if he breathes too hard, she'll shatter.
Or cry. He's not sure which he dreads most, as when she cries he has no idea what's going on inside her two-week-old mind.
"Seriously, Sam, go back to bed. I got this one." Dean rubs the baby's tiny back while she hiccups out tired-sounding sobs. "She's just cranky 'cause she's worn out. Kind of like her --"
"Call me 'old man' one more time, and I'll kick your --"
"Hey, language in front of the kid."
Sam would take a moment to savor the irony -- Dean taught him to curse like a sailor before he knew what a quarter of the words actually meant -- but he's too tired for this and he's got to save his energy for not appearing to be actually tired. "Fine. A-s-s. Happy?"
"It's a start." Dean hesitates, stilling his hand. He looks Sam up and down, almost shyly in that weird Dean way, like if he had an ounce less testosterone he might say something that could possibly be interpreted as sentimental. Which he never will, and never does. "You look like, um, garbage. Go back to bed."
Sam tries for a casual grin. "I'm fine. Jeez, Dean."
"You know what? I think your old man's a liar," Dean says next to the top of the pink blankets, the half-light of the nearly-faded sunset turning him into something old and fey. "What do you think?" He mimics a falsetto -- badly. "You're right, Uncle Dean, just like always!"
"Have it your way, man," Sam scoffs, rebelling against the twist of relief. God, if he didn't have Dean in the midst of all this… he doesn't like to think about it. He rubs at the corner of his eye, yawning. "How long was I out?"
"Dunno. You were snoring when I got here and she was sacked out next to you. Good thing you didn't roll over and smash her flat. Gotta be careful about that, man."
Sam flushes dark, embarrassed. "I didn't think."
"Better start. She's gonna be counting on you." The censure is gentle; Sam can tell Dean's keeping it low-key for the sake of not upsetting the snuffling baby. "It's not that hard, Sam. I did it just fine when I was four. Granted, you're about the same mental age still, but --"
Sam laughs, surprising himself. "Screw you."
"Maybe later, if you ask me pretty." Dean's expression heats briefly, flooring Sam with the yawning dichotomy between sex on legs and caretaker.
But then again, that's Dean for you.
"I'll keep that in mind. When did you get back?" Dean's been tending bar for the past few days, insulted as always at the jokes about him making far more in tips than he does hustling. It's not all a jest. He can flirt money out of pretty women's hands as easily as he used to charm their thongs off. Back before what they are now.
"Two hours, I think?" Dean adjusts the blankets to free up his arm and check his watch. "Actually, closer to three. You might have done better at sleeping than I gave you credit for, Sammy."
Sam's got his mouth open to answer with some kind of comment about good dreams, tormenting Dean a little back in fair return, when the blankets hitch and out pours a long, shaky wail.
"Shoulda known better than to tempt fate," he says instead, determined to try again. "Three hours means it's my turn. Hand her over."
Dean eyes him up and down. Sam's already marshalling counter-arguments when Dean surprises him by exhaling heavily and walking toward him, the baby balanced so effortlessly in one arm, her head on his chest, that Sam hates him a little.
He nods his thanks all the same and holds out his arms.
Dean smacks them with his free hand. "What have I told you about this? You keep trying to grab her like she's a stick of firewood or something. See how I've got her? Like this."
Sam's not going to tell Dean how scared he is that he'll drop her. He's really not going to.
Unfortunately, Dean sees right through him. "Give me a break. Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Time to face your fears, Sam. Sit down. The couch will do."
"Dean, I --"
"Sit. Down." Dean doesn't give him a choice, aggressively muscling into Sam's personal space. Sam backs up, afraid of squishing the baby between them, until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he flops down with a total lack of grace.
Dean surveys him, then nods "Good enough. Now hold out your arm like you're gonna tuck a football underneath your pit and head for the goal line."
"Dean, this is stupid."
"You don't like sports metaphors? Okay. Like you've got, I dunno, a teddy bear or something."
"I'm not the baby here."
Dean blows air over his forehead, noisy and derisive. "Either you work with me here or I'm gonna strap her to your chest. Which might not be a bad idea. They've got those Snuggly things… hang on, hang on, let me see what I can come up with… here. Her head in the crook of your elbow, forearm underneath, the rest of her on your lap, and for the last time you're not gonna break her. She survived being born, and it's not like that's a picnic --"
To give Dean credit, he realizes the moment after he hears himself how he's put his foot in his mouth. "Damn it. Sam --"
"Don't."
Three beats of silence hang heavy in the hair between them before Dean rubs his hand over his jaw ans sighs. "Yeah."
Sam carefully adjusts the pink blankets, pulling them back so he can search the baby's wrinkled-up face for any sign of a resemblance to her mother, who he only vaguely remembers seeing through Meg's eyes, and who didn't get a chance to name her baby girl, who had his cell number in her purse and not much else. He doesn't remember what she looked like beyond having thick, silky red hair, red and gold as fire. "It's okay." He sounds like he's lying even to himself.
"Yeah." Dean clears his throat. "You know, you really gotta give her a name."
"Soon. I promise."
"Okay," Dean says, full of false cheer. "Snuggly thing. Kind of like a sling. You've seen those before, right? I can probably use something old, probably better if it's yours. Did you keep that T-shirt with the holes in it?"
Sam's chuckle takes him by surprise. "Which one? That's more or less a description of my entire wardrobe."
"The ugly one. Oh, wait…" Dean smirks at him, and thank God, the tension dissolves. There are things they decided, without saying it aloud, they wouldn't talk about, and this was too close for comfort.
"Which one, Dean?" Sam asks, cautiously pulling the baby closer. "Hey, hey, don't cry."
The baby -- his daughter, he keeps having to remind himself of that simple fact; it never ceases to boggle his mind -- doesn't respond well to orders. Even as he's coaxing, ready to promise her the world and a pink pony on the side if she'll just be good, her wrinkled alien face is crumpling and her toothless red mouth opening to bawl. Her tightly clenched fists waver in helpless infant rage against a weird, cold world with no one to count on besides two big, rough men, one of whom is, in her opinion, a moron.
Dean abandons his quest for sling-making materials and rests his hand briefly on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Chill out, Sam. Maybe she's hungry." He doesn't say what Sam can read between the lines: relax, you're not gonna get it right all at once.
Sam's not used to taking the long way around. He doesn't think he's very good at it.
The baby hiccups. Dean leans over Sam, one arm braced on the back of the sofa, to get a good look at her. Fat tears roll down her cheeks. "What do you think?"
"Um." Sam stares at the baby. Her lips are puckering, kind of like she wants something to suck on. Okay. "I think so, yeah."
Dean's pat on the back lets Sam know he got it right. "You want me to warm up a bottle?"
"I can get it. Where are they?"
Huh? Dean knows exactly where they -- oh. "In the fridge," Sam replies, telling himself he's too absorbed in making sure he doesn't drop her to bother informing Dean that he's not nearly as subtle as he'd probably like to think he is right now. "The bottom shelf."
"That'll be cold, man. Should I heat it?"
Sam does roll his eyes this time, although he's tempted to chuckle. "Yeah. But not in the microwave. Stick it in… in…" he tries to remember. "A bowl of hot water. Warm it that way. Um." He hesitates. "Right?"
"Good job." Dean rumples up his hair, and not at all too quickly to be missed plants a kiss on Sam's temple before he's off to the fridge in the bungalow's attached kitchenette.
The baby's getting his shirt soaked with slowing tears and snot. "Turn on some music?" he asks. "That might help."
"Soothes the savage beast, huh? Yeah, okay."
"Keep it low, though. I think there's a lullabies CD over there or something."
Dean scoffs as he rummages in the fridge. "No niece of mine is gonna grow up on nursery rhymes. That'd scar her for life. Zeppelin. Houses of the Holy."
"You're joking, right?"
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"Ozzy?" Sam offers as a compromise. "Maybe 'Dreamer'?"
Dean makes a rude noise, but as he returns with the heated bottle, he pauses long enough to flip through the pre-loaded CD's and cue up "Dreamer". They both already know she calms down to that one.
Sam carefully lifts the baby to get a better look at her while he's waiting on the music, the bottle, and Dean. He had his doubts at first, when he answered the phone and a nurse spoke to him from half a country away -- who wouldn't? -- but now, looking at her, there's not a doubt in his mind that she's his. He's not sure how he can already tell, but he can. The baby girl has the Winchester look to her, muddy baby eyes turning green under long lashes, and what hair she has a dark brown that shines golden in the sunlight. She's happiest in a moving car, loves AC/DC, and eats like a racehorse on the eve of the Kentucky Derby.
The CD, a mix he burned with stolen MP3's, skips and jumps to the next track. Meatloaf. Dean makes a "huh" noise and tests the bottle on his wrist. "Man, this stuff stinks. We gotta get you on something better, kiddo."
Sam shakes his head, tolerantly amused at both Dean and the baby girl's suddenly wide eyes. He's singing under his breath without consciously meaning to do so, and thank God Dean picks up the lyrics before she starts wailing all over again at Sam's singing voice.
“I would do anything for love,” Dean informs his niece, thumping the bottle to get out all the air bubbles, “but I won't do that.”
"What does that mean, anyway?" Sam asks, keeping it quiet. "I always wondered."
"Say what, now?"
"What wouldn't he do for love?" Sam clarifies, taking the bottle from Dean and hesitatingly trying his approach. "Meatloaf."
Dean considers the question. "Got me," he says at last. "You having any luck?"
The baby girl's sobs have mostly faded to unhappy hiccups and snuffles. She blinks sleepily but after a few prods at her lips, she opens them to drink. "Oh, wow, you were starving, huh?" Sam gingerly adjusts his hold. "Don't choke."
"She'll be fine. Hey, Sam?"
"Mmm?"
"When's the last time you ate?" Dean snorts. "Don't answer that. And don't move."
"Don't worry about it," Sam replies, fixated on the contentedly guzzling baby. She's not crying. She's curling into him as if she actually likes it there. He's not breathing lest he ruin this.
The microwave beeps, and shortly thereafter Dean returns. "Don't say anything," he orders, scooting up behind Sam.
When Sam turns his head, mouth open to disobey and ask what that means, Dean's ready with a slice of leftover pizza, point first, wedging it in Sam's mouth.
Sam coughs around his pizza, chews fast, swallows hard. His guts are twisting into knots. "What are you, crazy? I could have dropped her!"
"No, you couldn't." Dean leans over the back of the sofa, refusing to let Sam look away. "You'd never drop her. Besides, I was there and if you had slipped, I'd have caught you. Her."
"Yeah, well, you're always telling me how when I was this age, you dropped me plenty of times," Sam says, pretending he didn't catch Dean's slip, making like it didn't arrow straight through him. He frowns at the pizza-with-one-bite-missing instead. "Mushrooms, Dean?"
"They're good for you."
"They're fungus." Sam lets Dean stuff another bite in his mouth regardless. "Do I have to finish all of this before I can have dessert?"
"Don't get smart with me."
"Too late for that."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Feed your kid."
Sam can't say what he wants to, so he offers the second best he's got to give and follows instructions. Holding his daughter with a care that eases to tentative confidence, he coaxes all the formula she'll take down her, watching her all the while. When Meatloaf has growled his last note and the CD ends, he hums mixed Tripping Daisies songs and apologizes for sour notes, propping her on his shoulder and gingerly tapping her fragile back with two fingers until she lets one rip -- wow, no question that she's a Winchester --.
He really should name her. It's odd how he keeps forgetting.
Maybe later. Here, like this, it's good, but he wants more. Careful not to drop her, he noses at Dean until Dean gets the idea and circles around to sit by his side, letting the baby curl her fist around one of his fingers and shake it.
This is better.
Sam props the nearly-sleeping infant on his chest, thinking he might be starting to get the hang of this. She's light enough to fly away, barely any weight to her at all. Holding her there with one hand and nudging Dean, he breathes in deeply and wonders if maybe the definition of family is both fluid and never-changing all at once.
"You're gonna be a good dad, Sam," Dean says abruptly. "Just gotta give yourself a chance."
Sam cups the baby's head, the pulse as fast as hummingbird wings in her temple fluttering against his palm. "Yeah," he says, not looking at Dean. "Maybe. I mean, I have a pretty good example to follow."
"Big shoes to fill, if you ask me. Dad did a decent job with what he had. Surprised to hear you coming around."
"I'm not talking about Dad." He can almost see the cartoon question mark rising over Dean's head, so he nudges him. "Do you really want me to say it?"
The clue bulb ignites; Dean half-laughs under his breath. "Nope."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Look up at me."
"Why?"
"You probably know why." Sam waits patiently for Dean to tilt his head back, betraying his mischievous tease in the glitter of his look, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips. "Yeah. That's the basic idea."
He covers Dean's mouth with his own, lingering there, not taking more than a taste and making a promise for later. Dean exhales, breath tickling Sam's chin, slipping up and around to rub his thumb on the back of Sam's neck.
The baby girl's asleep. Hallelujah.
"Think she'll stay down for a while?" Sam asks, slightly breathless, when they part.
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice rough at the edges. "Meet you in the bedroom."
"No." Sam keeps his hold on the baby. "I'll meet you after I get her down in her crib."
"Oh, really now?" Dean eyes him; Sam thinks he sees lights of equal challenge and approval. "Go to it, then. See you in five."
Sam takes seven minutes, but Dean doesn't make him pay a forfeit.
***
When Sam wakes up the next morning to the sound of whiffling baby snores and the smell of Dean on his pillow, he thinks maybe it'll be a good day to figure out a name for his daughter.
***
A/N: Thanks to insomnia_geek and to rivers_bend for beta'ing and explaining why heating formula in a microwave would have been a bad, bad idea. Hurray for fluffandfold! \o/
Comments make me positively giddy!
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3400
Summary: There's still a lot that Dean can teach Sam.
Spoilers/Warnings/Notes: Written for the prompt "staying up with a baby all night" at fluffandfold. Babyfic, schmoooop, warm fuzzies, goes AU after Season 2.
By Any Other Name (What Matters Is What Something Is)
In the dark and fuzzy place between sleeping and waking, it takes Sam a minute to remember where he is. He's warm, a heavy knitted blanket pulled up around his shoulders and another draped over his legs, tucked under his feet. He breathes in the smells of shampoo and faint traces of laundry detergent in the pillowcase his cheek rests on and tries to figure it out.
The faint fuzz of white noise reaches his ear with a certain familiarity, the sound of two breathing patterns drifting in and out like the ocean washing over sand. Sam relaxes muscles he didn't know had tensed, resting fully once more on the bed. His bed, and Dean's, with Dean's body-shaped divot on the other side and Dean's head-dent still in his pillows. He can still smell Dean the way he was when they got out of bed this morning, alive under their skins and yet lazy with the burn of hard-worked muscles and the taste of each other still pungent in their mouths. If he's not careful, he can still feel the sore puffiness of the bites on his back where no one can see but Dean.
He chooses not to be careful at all, all the better to enjoy the memories.
Sam reaches out, eyes mostly closed, to sweep over the space where Dean should be. He listens to the twinned breathing coming from the jerry-rigged walkie-talkie on their lamp table and, without making a conscious effort to do so, matches the rhythm of his inhalations and exhalations to the pattern he recognizes as Dean's. He's almost asleep again when there's a hitch, a bump, a whimper, and he remembers what he's instantly stricken with guilt for having forgotten.
"Shh, shh," Dean murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and indistinct through the speaker. "Hush, hush, hush, don't --"
The whimper's volume increases, broken by a hiccup, and then a thin, unhappy wail.
Sam's already tossing the blankets off when Dean whispers, urgently, asking the baby girl not to wake her daddy.
***
Sam shuffle-hurries from bedroom to front room in his sock feet, covering his mouth to mute his yawn and blinking in the dim dusk. Dean's standing by the window, jiggling an armful of pale pink blankets and holding back the old beige curtain that came with this bungalow they managed to rent on-the-fly. He's dressed in ancient sweatpants that were once white but have been laundered so many times that they're now a dingy gray. He's thrown on a white undershirt, and his feet are bare.
"Hey, now, I told you that wasn't cool," Dean says to the blankets. "Let your old man get some rest, huh?"
"It's okay. I needed to get up," Sam fibs, hoping Dean won't call him on it.
Dean gives him a look, kind of the same as he gave Sam when Sam tried playing sick to get out of a hunt when he was fourteen. "No, what you needed was to get at least four solid hours. Don't want you goin' crazy on me from sleep deprivation or whatever."
"Dean."
"What? It happens." Dean rearranged the blankets, propping them on his shoulder with an easy grace that makes Sam twinge with jealousy. How does he make this look so simple? Like he's not afraid of… Sam doesn't know… breaking her, maybe. Her entire head fits in his palm, reminding him uncomfortably of a photograph he once saw in a popular science magazine, a picture of a gorilla delicately balancing a teacup in its hand. Sometimes he thinks if he breathes too hard, she'll shatter.
Or cry. He's not sure which he dreads most, as when she cries he has no idea what's going on inside her two-week-old mind.
"Seriously, Sam, go back to bed. I got this one." Dean rubs the baby's tiny back while she hiccups out tired-sounding sobs. "She's just cranky 'cause she's worn out. Kind of like her --"
"Call me 'old man' one more time, and I'll kick your --"
"Hey, language in front of the kid."
Sam would take a moment to savor the irony -- Dean taught him to curse like a sailor before he knew what a quarter of the words actually meant -- but he's too tired for this and he's got to save his energy for not appearing to be actually tired. "Fine. A-s-s. Happy?"
"It's a start." Dean hesitates, stilling his hand. He looks Sam up and down, almost shyly in that weird Dean way, like if he had an ounce less testosterone he might say something that could possibly be interpreted as sentimental. Which he never will, and never does. "You look like, um, garbage. Go back to bed."
Sam tries for a casual grin. "I'm fine. Jeez, Dean."
"You know what? I think your old man's a liar," Dean says next to the top of the pink blankets, the half-light of the nearly-faded sunset turning him into something old and fey. "What do you think?" He mimics a falsetto -- badly. "You're right, Uncle Dean, just like always!"
"Have it your way, man," Sam scoffs, rebelling against the twist of relief. God, if he didn't have Dean in the midst of all this… he doesn't like to think about it. He rubs at the corner of his eye, yawning. "How long was I out?"
"Dunno. You were snoring when I got here and she was sacked out next to you. Good thing you didn't roll over and smash her flat. Gotta be careful about that, man."
Sam flushes dark, embarrassed. "I didn't think."
"Better start. She's gonna be counting on you." The censure is gentle; Sam can tell Dean's keeping it low-key for the sake of not upsetting the snuffling baby. "It's not that hard, Sam. I did it just fine when I was four. Granted, you're about the same mental age still, but --"
Sam laughs, surprising himself. "Screw you."
"Maybe later, if you ask me pretty." Dean's expression heats briefly, flooring Sam with the yawning dichotomy between sex on legs and caretaker.
But then again, that's Dean for you.
"I'll keep that in mind. When did you get back?" Dean's been tending bar for the past few days, insulted as always at the jokes about him making far more in tips than he does hustling. It's not all a jest. He can flirt money out of pretty women's hands as easily as he used to charm their thongs off. Back before what they are now.
"Two hours, I think?" Dean adjusts the blankets to free up his arm and check his watch. "Actually, closer to three. You might have done better at sleeping than I gave you credit for, Sammy."
Sam's got his mouth open to answer with some kind of comment about good dreams, tormenting Dean a little back in fair return, when the blankets hitch and out pours a long, shaky wail.
"Shoulda known better than to tempt fate," he says instead, determined to try again. "Three hours means it's my turn. Hand her over."
Dean eyes him up and down. Sam's already marshalling counter-arguments when Dean surprises him by exhaling heavily and walking toward him, the baby balanced so effortlessly in one arm, her head on his chest, that Sam hates him a little.
He nods his thanks all the same and holds out his arms.
Dean smacks them with his free hand. "What have I told you about this? You keep trying to grab her like she's a stick of firewood or something. See how I've got her? Like this."
Sam's not going to tell Dean how scared he is that he'll drop her. He's really not going to.
Unfortunately, Dean sees right through him. "Give me a break. Okay, that's it. I've had enough. Time to face your fears, Sam. Sit down. The couch will do."
"Dean, I --"
"Sit. Down." Dean doesn't give him a choice, aggressively muscling into Sam's personal space. Sam backs up, afraid of squishing the baby between them, until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he flops down with a total lack of grace.
Dean surveys him, then nods "Good enough. Now hold out your arm like you're gonna tuck a football underneath your pit and head for the goal line."
"Dean, this is stupid."
"You don't like sports metaphors? Okay. Like you've got, I dunno, a teddy bear or something."
"I'm not the baby here."
Dean blows air over his forehead, noisy and derisive. "Either you work with me here or I'm gonna strap her to your chest. Which might not be a bad idea. They've got those Snuggly things… hang on, hang on, let me see what I can come up with… here. Her head in the crook of your elbow, forearm underneath, the rest of her on your lap, and for the last time you're not gonna break her. She survived being born, and it's not like that's a picnic --"
To give Dean credit, he realizes the moment after he hears himself how he's put his foot in his mouth. "Damn it. Sam --"
"Don't."
Three beats of silence hang heavy in the hair between them before Dean rubs his hand over his jaw ans sighs. "Yeah."
Sam carefully adjusts the pink blankets, pulling them back so he can search the baby's wrinkled-up face for any sign of a resemblance to her mother, who he only vaguely remembers seeing through Meg's eyes, and who didn't get a chance to name her baby girl, who had his cell number in her purse and not much else. He doesn't remember what she looked like beyond having thick, silky red hair, red and gold as fire. "It's okay." He sounds like he's lying even to himself.
"Yeah." Dean clears his throat. "You know, you really gotta give her a name."
"Soon. I promise."
"Okay," Dean says, full of false cheer. "Snuggly thing. Kind of like a sling. You've seen those before, right? I can probably use something old, probably better if it's yours. Did you keep that T-shirt with the holes in it?"
Sam's chuckle takes him by surprise. "Which one? That's more or less a description of my entire wardrobe."
"The ugly one. Oh, wait…" Dean smirks at him, and thank God, the tension dissolves. There are things they decided, without saying it aloud, they wouldn't talk about, and this was too close for comfort.
"Which one, Dean?" Sam asks, cautiously pulling the baby closer. "Hey, hey, don't cry."
The baby -- his daughter, he keeps having to remind himself of that simple fact; it never ceases to boggle his mind -- doesn't respond well to orders. Even as he's coaxing, ready to promise her the world and a pink pony on the side if she'll just be good, her wrinkled alien face is crumpling and her toothless red mouth opening to bawl. Her tightly clenched fists waver in helpless infant rage against a weird, cold world with no one to count on besides two big, rough men, one of whom is, in her opinion, a moron.
Dean abandons his quest for sling-making materials and rests his hand briefly on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Chill out, Sam. Maybe she's hungry." He doesn't say what Sam can read between the lines: relax, you're not gonna get it right all at once.
Sam's not used to taking the long way around. He doesn't think he's very good at it.
The baby hiccups. Dean leans over Sam, one arm braced on the back of the sofa, to get a good look at her. Fat tears roll down her cheeks. "What do you think?"
"Um." Sam stares at the baby. Her lips are puckering, kind of like she wants something to suck on. Okay. "I think so, yeah."
Dean's pat on the back lets Sam know he got it right. "You want me to warm up a bottle?"
"I can get it. Where are they?"
Huh? Dean knows exactly where they -- oh. "In the fridge," Sam replies, telling himself he's too absorbed in making sure he doesn't drop her to bother informing Dean that he's not nearly as subtle as he'd probably like to think he is right now. "The bottom shelf."
"That'll be cold, man. Should I heat it?"
Sam does roll his eyes this time, although he's tempted to chuckle. "Yeah. But not in the microwave. Stick it in… in…" he tries to remember. "A bowl of hot water. Warm it that way. Um." He hesitates. "Right?"
"Good job." Dean rumples up his hair, and not at all too quickly to be missed plants a kiss on Sam's temple before he's off to the fridge in the bungalow's attached kitchenette.
The baby's getting his shirt soaked with slowing tears and snot. "Turn on some music?" he asks. "That might help."
"Soothes the savage beast, huh? Yeah, okay."
"Keep it low, though. I think there's a lullabies CD over there or something."
Dean scoffs as he rummages in the fridge. "No niece of mine is gonna grow up on nursery rhymes. That'd scar her for life. Zeppelin. Houses of the Holy."
"You're joking, right?"
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"Ozzy?" Sam offers as a compromise. "Maybe 'Dreamer'?"
Dean makes a rude noise, but as he returns with the heated bottle, he pauses long enough to flip through the pre-loaded CD's and cue up "Dreamer". They both already know she calms down to that one.
Sam carefully lifts the baby to get a better look at her while he's waiting on the music, the bottle, and Dean. He had his doubts at first, when he answered the phone and a nurse spoke to him from half a country away -- who wouldn't? -- but now, looking at her, there's not a doubt in his mind that she's his. He's not sure how he can already tell, but he can. The baby girl has the Winchester look to her, muddy baby eyes turning green under long lashes, and what hair she has a dark brown that shines golden in the sunlight. She's happiest in a moving car, loves AC/DC, and eats like a racehorse on the eve of the Kentucky Derby.
The CD, a mix he burned with stolen MP3's, skips and jumps to the next track. Meatloaf. Dean makes a "huh" noise and tests the bottle on his wrist. "Man, this stuff stinks. We gotta get you on something better, kiddo."
Sam shakes his head, tolerantly amused at both Dean and the baby girl's suddenly wide eyes. He's singing under his breath without consciously meaning to do so, and thank God Dean picks up the lyrics before she starts wailing all over again at Sam's singing voice.
“I would do anything for love,” Dean informs his niece, thumping the bottle to get out all the air bubbles, “but I won't do that.”
"What does that mean, anyway?" Sam asks, keeping it quiet. "I always wondered."
"Say what, now?"
"What wouldn't he do for love?" Sam clarifies, taking the bottle from Dean and hesitatingly trying his approach. "Meatloaf."
Dean considers the question. "Got me," he says at last. "You having any luck?"
The baby girl's sobs have mostly faded to unhappy hiccups and snuffles. She blinks sleepily but after a few prods at her lips, she opens them to drink. "Oh, wow, you were starving, huh?" Sam gingerly adjusts his hold. "Don't choke."
"She'll be fine. Hey, Sam?"
"Mmm?"
"When's the last time you ate?" Dean snorts. "Don't answer that. And don't move."
"Don't worry about it," Sam replies, fixated on the contentedly guzzling baby. She's not crying. She's curling into him as if she actually likes it there. He's not breathing lest he ruin this.
The microwave beeps, and shortly thereafter Dean returns. "Don't say anything," he orders, scooting up behind Sam.
When Sam turns his head, mouth open to disobey and ask what that means, Dean's ready with a slice of leftover pizza, point first, wedging it in Sam's mouth.
Sam coughs around his pizza, chews fast, swallows hard. His guts are twisting into knots. "What are you, crazy? I could have dropped her!"
"No, you couldn't." Dean leans over the back of the sofa, refusing to let Sam look away. "You'd never drop her. Besides, I was there and if you had slipped, I'd have caught you. Her."
"Yeah, well, you're always telling me how when I was this age, you dropped me plenty of times," Sam says, pretending he didn't catch Dean's slip, making like it didn't arrow straight through him. He frowns at the pizza-with-one-bite-missing instead. "Mushrooms, Dean?"
"They're good for you."
"They're fungus." Sam lets Dean stuff another bite in his mouth regardless. "Do I have to finish all of this before I can have dessert?"
"Don't get smart with me."
"Too late for that."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Feed your kid."
Sam can't say what he wants to, so he offers the second best he's got to give and follows instructions. Holding his daughter with a care that eases to tentative confidence, he coaxes all the formula she'll take down her, watching her all the while. When Meatloaf has growled his last note and the CD ends, he hums mixed Tripping Daisies songs and apologizes for sour notes, propping her on his shoulder and gingerly tapping her fragile back with two fingers until she lets one rip -- wow, no question that she's a Winchester --.
He really should name her. It's odd how he keeps forgetting.
Maybe later. Here, like this, it's good, but he wants more. Careful not to drop her, he noses at Dean until Dean gets the idea and circles around to sit by his side, letting the baby curl her fist around one of his fingers and shake it.
This is better.
Sam props the nearly-sleeping infant on his chest, thinking he might be starting to get the hang of this. She's light enough to fly away, barely any weight to her at all. Holding her there with one hand and nudging Dean, he breathes in deeply and wonders if maybe the definition of family is both fluid and never-changing all at once.
"You're gonna be a good dad, Sam," Dean says abruptly. "Just gotta give yourself a chance."
Sam cups the baby's head, the pulse as fast as hummingbird wings in her temple fluttering against his palm. "Yeah," he says, not looking at Dean. "Maybe. I mean, I have a pretty good example to follow."
"Big shoes to fill, if you ask me. Dad did a decent job with what he had. Surprised to hear you coming around."
"I'm not talking about Dad." He can almost see the cartoon question mark rising over Dean's head, so he nudges him. "Do you really want me to say it?"
The clue bulb ignites; Dean half-laughs under his breath. "Nope."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Look up at me."
"Why?"
"You probably know why." Sam waits patiently for Dean to tilt his head back, betraying his mischievous tease in the glitter of his look, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips. "Yeah. That's the basic idea."
He covers Dean's mouth with his own, lingering there, not taking more than a taste and making a promise for later. Dean exhales, breath tickling Sam's chin, slipping up and around to rub his thumb on the back of Sam's neck.
The baby girl's asleep. Hallelujah.
"Think she'll stay down for a while?" Sam asks, slightly breathless, when they part.
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice rough at the edges. "Meet you in the bedroom."
"No." Sam keeps his hold on the baby. "I'll meet you after I get her down in her crib."
"Oh, really now?" Dean eyes him; Sam thinks he sees lights of equal challenge and approval. "Go to it, then. See you in five."
Sam takes seven minutes, but Dean doesn't make him pay a forfeit.
***
When Sam wakes up the next morning to the sound of whiffling baby snores and the smell of Dean on his pillow, he thinks maybe it'll be a good day to figure out a name for his daughter.
***
A/N: Thanks to insomnia_geek and to rivers_bend for beta'ing and explaining why heating formula in a microwave would have been a bad, bad idea. Hurray for fluffandfold! \o/
Comments make me positively giddy!