Chapter Text
The first time Dean fed Sam was very early in the morning, just hours after he saw their Mom go up in flames. Dean woke from a fitful sleep to the sound of Sam crying, and he wouldn't stop. Their elderly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy had let them spend the rest of the night on their family room's fold-out sofa, but they were hard of hearing and asleep upstairs. His Dad sat on the end of the mattress, staring unblinking at nothing, while Sam's face turned red and he kicked his legs and struck out with his tiny fists, tears running into his little baby ears.
Dean wanted to yell at his Dad to do something. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He couldn't talk, not yet. His throat hurt from the smoke. (As it turned out, he wouldn't speak a word for months.) Instead, he walked over to the small pile of belongings his Dad and the firemen had managed to salvage, one of which was an emergency diaper bag his mother had left in the trunk of the car, and pulled from it a bottle and a small canister of powdered baby formula, which he deposited in his Dad's lap.
John snapped to attention then. "I guess Sammy's hungry, isn't he?"
Dean nodded.
"Now, how do I do this..." John trailed off, turning the canister in his hands to read the instructions. "I'll be right back, Dean. Watch your little brother. See if you can get him to stop crying so he doesn't wake Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy." He watched his Dad walk down the short hallway between the family room and kitchen.
Dean pulled Sammy up to sitting, and propped him up against his own tummy. His wailing turned into disgruntled whimpering, and his chubby baby hands latched onto one of Dean's, shaking it back and forth before shoving it in his mouth and biting. Sam was teething, and one of his teeth had just begun peeking above the gum line. The bite hurt, and it made Dean a little bit mad, but Sam was a baby. He didn't know anything about anything. Dean resisted the urge to hit or bite him back, just pulled his hand away. Sam started to wail again, but just then his Dad returned with a prepared bottle. He pressed it into Dean's hands.
"Here. Feed your brother. I'll go get us some breakfast, and I'll teach you to change his diaper when I get back," John said, putting on his coat and slipping out the back door without a backward glance.
Dean maneuvered Sam into a different position, cradling his head in his left elbow just like he'd seen Mom do, and pressed the bottle to Sam's mouth. Sam latched on, sucking greedily, his little fist curled into Dean's pajama sleeve. After he'd had a little more than half, Sam's eyes began to droop. Sam released his grip on Dean's sleeve, and he removed the bottle from Sam's slackening mouth. There was something else he was supposed to do. What was it? Right. Burp him. With a bit of difficulty, he hoisted Sam up against his shoulder and toppled into the back of the sofa, wiggled into an upright position again, and began patting Sam's back. Sam burped rather loudly. Dean thought it was gross, but Sam let out a soft baby giggle and battled at Dean's chest before going quiet. Dean slid him down, until Sam's head was pillowed against his heart, and watched him blink a few times before he went to sleep. Dean kissed his little brother on the forehead and leaned into the back of the sofa, his own eyes drifting closed.
When John returned with breakfast from the diner down the street, he found both his boys asleep and the remainder of Sam's bottle slowly leaking onto the sheets.