Work Text:
“Daddy?” Dean says, pulling the sleeve of his father’s pullover. “Sammy’s crying.”
Silence. Dad doesn’t answer but he’s not asleep, Dean can tell, because his father’s got his eyes open. He’s lying on his right side, and he’s looking at the window, like he’s searching for something outside. Dean thinks Dad looks like he’s been crying but surely he must be wrong, because Daddy never cries. Does he?
Dad’s been in bed since yesterday afternoon, since they got home from the police station. Dean’s never been in a motel before, it smells a little odd. He would like to know if, when they can go home, Mom will be there. He’s heard Dad talk about dead people before, and Dean wonders whether Mom is dead now, too, and what that means. He once asked his Dad what “dead” meant and his Dad had said that it meant people went away forever. Mom would never go away for good. So she can’t be dead, Dean thinks. The thought makes everything a little better.
Sammy’s still crying, he’s been crying for a good while now. He sounds angry and annoyed, and his face has grown all red from the screaming. Dean’s tried to tell him Dad will check on him, and he should please please please stop crying, but Dad’s just not coming.
“Dad,” Dean repeats, and when his Dad still doesn’t answer, he crawls onto the bed, and lies down next to him. He tries to wrap his Dad in a hug, like when Dad does when Dean feels sad or ill, but his arms are too short and he only reaches his father’s shoulders. He holds onto the pullover, his fingers clinging to it like he will fall if he lets go, and hides his face in it. Takes in the smell of his Dad that now is everything to him. He misses Mom, and his room, and Sammy is still crying, and he doesn’t know what to do, and Dad doesn’t seem to see him.
“Daddy, please,” Dean begs. He’s almost crying now. It’s dark in the room, only a little light coming through the windows. Dad’s eyes are bright green in the light. Every now and then his Dad will blink, but he doesn’t shift, or move, or speak. His gaze doesn’t meet Dean’s, no matter how often Dean begs.
Dean curls up next to his Dad, maybe that will make it go away, whatever makes his Dad so sad. If only Mommy was there. She always sets things straight, she can kiss all aches and pain away. She sings songs to help you fall asleep. She takes you in her arms when you feel sick. Where is she? Can’t she see Daddy needs her?
Dad hasn’t changed his clothes since yesterday. He’s not brushed his teeth, or eaten anything, and isn’t even properly tucked into bed. He lies on the blanket, with his shoes on, but he doesn’t sleep. He does nothing. Sometimes Dean sees tears running down Dad’s cheeks.
“Daddy, Sammy needs you,” Dean says. Why doesn’t his father do anything? Dean doesn’t understand, he just can’t. Maybe if Dad would explain it to him, but it’s like his dad doesn’t want to talk to him anymore. Sammy’s cries have grown really loud by now, so loud Dean covers his ears, and shuts his eyes. He feels Dad breathe next to him, the rising and sinking of his chest.
Finally, Dean sits up again, and he glances from the crib to his Dad, who seems not to be hearing anything, and back to the crib. Then Dean slides down from the bed and walks over to the crib where Sammy’s still crying. Dean reaches for his baby brother, and lifts him up. The baby is heavy, but Dean’s carried him before, he can do it again. He presses Sammy against his chest, and – kneeling down – lays his little brother down on the floor. Sammy looks so unhappy. Dean thinks for a while, trying to remember what might be wrong with him, or what Mommy does when Sammy’s upset.
“Shhh... be quiet, Sammy,” he says, and his little brother looks at him from big brown eyes that are still crying angry tears. “I’ll help you. Just... stop crying.”
He’s seen glasses with baby food in Sammy’s bag, maybe his baby brother is hungry? It’s only now Dean notices his own tummy is rumbling, too.
There’s three glasses with mashed carrots in the bag, and a spoon. Dean opens one of the glasses, which takes him a little, then he helps Sammy sit up and props him against the wall, so that he can feed his little brother. He digs the spoon into the glass and carefully shoves it into Sammy’s mouth. His baby brother squeals a little when he tastes the food, and the eyes that are fixed on Dean are shining now. “That good?” Dean asks, while Sammy’s already reaching for the spoon with his tiny hands.
At last Sammy’s stopped crying. Dean gives Sammy three spoon-fulls before he eats some of the baby food himself. From then on the spoon feeds them in turns, one spoon-full for Sammy, one for himself.
When the glass is empty, and they’re not hungry anymore, Dean picks Sammy up again, pressing him against his shoulder and patting his back slightly, like he’s seen Mom do, thousands of times. He knows a baby has to belch before you can put it down to sleep. When Sammy’s done, Dean carefully lays him down into his crib, and he tells him a story until Sammy dozes off. He curls up next to the crib on the cold and hard floor, and closes his eyes, and wishes Mommy was there.
Every time Sammy starts crying, Dean feeds him. But he’s soon run out of food. Dad’s still not talking. It grows dark outside. Dean’s afraid. Afraid the motel might start burning, like their house. Maybe Mom won’t come after all. Maybe she’s gone. Maybe if the motel burns, Dad will be gone, too, and then he’ll be alone, and he’ll be left with Sammy. But he’s so small, and how is he supposed to take care of his brother?
He dreams of the fire that night, dreams he’s being trapped in their house. And Dad is there and he is standing in the flames, and Dean’s holding Sammy in his arms. He wakes up crying, he is so afraid that the dream might come true, and he misses Mom so much.
And he’s so scared he can’t even speak.
***
John is dimly aware Dean’s sneaking up to him, asking him something, but he’s not actually listening. He can’t. All that John can think is that he’s lost absolutely everything. And Mary...he saw her, pinned to the ceiling. How could that be? And why would anyone do that to them? Why them?
Why?
Tiny hands are reaching for him, tinier than Dean’s. There’s crying, sobbing, the smell of mashed carrots, and finally John’s gaze focuses, his eyes wandering to the little bundle that’s been placed next to him. There is Sammy, big tear drops rolling down his cheeks; he looks agitated. His rompers are covered in orange spots. Dean’s lying behind him, towards the foot of the bed, sucking on his thumb. He’s not sucked on his thumb in a year, and orange spots are smudged across his clothes.
And that’s when John wakes from his catatonic state. It’s like waking from a dream.
His sons.
It dawns on him that he’s completely neglected them. That they didn’t have food, and that no one was there to look after them, take care of them. Almost instantly he’s on his feet, drawing back the curtains to let sunlight in. He cradles Sammy in his arms and carries him over to the crib, putting him down carefully. It’s then John notices the empty glasses of baby food on the floor. A hot shiver runs down his spine; he feels blood rushing through his veins. Dean’s done this? Oh God. He must have been so afraid.
John remembers now that Sammy was crying, that sometimes he stopped and was silent for a while before he started again. Dean must have fed him, and when he ran out of food he probably brought Sammy to his Dad, hoping he could help. Hoping Dad would finally do something.
Oh damn. Oh crap. How? How could he have done that? Done nothing at all?
John bends over the bed, over his son and lifts Dean up, cradles him in his arms. The boy wakes slowly. John lets his hand run through Dean’s messy hair; it needs washing. His son blinks, a hint of surprise flickers across his face when he sees John. His green eyes are a little dull, John notices, tired and...darkened somehow. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It leaves John with an uncomfortable feeling.
“Dean...” he says, no, apologises. “I’m here now. It’s okay, Dean, I’m so sorry...”
But this time it’s his son who doesn’t talk.
It stays like this for weeks. Even when John’s found an apartment for them, and things go back to normal. As normal as things can be. Dean could have his own room, but he insists on staying with Sam. He still won’t talk, but he never sleeps in his room, he sneaks out at night and climbs into Sammy’s crib. After a week John moves Dean’s bed into Sam’s room
Dean looks scared, nervous somehow. He’s constantly alert, and he clings to Sam as if he fears he might lose him if he takes his eyes off him for a minute. He usually sits by Sammy’s crib, and plays with those green miniature soldiers John bought him. Day after day. And sometimes, when John enters the room, Dean looks up and John thinks his son mistrusts him; he looks like someone who’s lost faith.
John tries everything to get him to talk. He plays with him, talks to him, he tries to trick him into talking, but nothing works. Sometimes it seems like Dean’s at the edge of speaking, like he’s close to an outburst, but then something else takes over again, though John’s not quite sure what it is. It might be fear.
He considers sending Dean to a therapist. He can’t really afford it but he would get the money, somehow. He’s sick with worry. Losing his wife, his home, and now his son, too? It’s more than he can take. Mary would know how to handle these things. She is – was - the empathetic one, she would have healed Dean. But she’s gone and John feels completely swamped by the situation. How can he do this? What if he messes this up? What if he can’t take care of his sons?
John doesn’t send Dean to a therapist, though. With what he’s possibly seen, Mary burning on the ceiling – John doesn’t want some therapist to talk Dean into believing it never happened, that he was just seeing things. Because it’s real, and it happened, and somehow the idea of taking the truth away from Dean seems wrong to John. Dean doesn’t deserve to be treated like a crazy kid whose mind makes things like that up.
John learns to deal with Dean’s mutism. It’s not easy because it all seems so horribly wrong; their new place, Mary’s absence, his son turning into this quiet, saddened boy who won’t talk. And him, the father, in the middle of it with no idea where to go or what to do. He desperately wishes he was better at this, more sensitive, more gentle. And then there’s also this six month old bundle of life that needs constant attention, and John must learn to cope with all this while he’s still not coping with Mary’s death.
John knows of the demon now. Something supernatural has taken his life from him, something whose existence till that day he’d always denied.
“Well, Dean, are you okay?” he will ask every morning, and usually none, or just a faint reaction will mean that his son is doing alright. Sometimes in the mornings John will find Dean’s wet his bed at night. He suffers from nightmares, quietly usually; the only indication are the wet sheets the next day. And there’s nothing John can do.
Then, one night, desperate cries wake him. He instantly recognises Dean’s voice, it’s upset and it only shouts one word over and over again:”Mommy!” It doesn’t take John three seconds until he’s with his son, in Sam’s room, where Dean is tossing and turning in his bed, and crying, and calling for his mother so helplessly.
“Dean!” John exclaims, half in shock, and wraps his son in a hug, pressing the child against his chest, ruffling his hair and rubbing his back, “Dean, wake up, it’s okay...” The despair and the hurt Dean is in hits John like someone’s just beaten him with a club. The boy is sobbing, his face against John’s shoulder. “Mommy,” Dean repeats and John doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be happy because Dean’s said something or not.
“I know you miss her, “ John says, “I miss her, too.” He holds his son like it’s the most precious possession he’s got which isn’t entirely untrue. Both his sons are. If he could, he wouldn’t ever let go again.
Dean remains silent, but John can tell he’s listening at last. They’ve never actually talked about what happened that night, maybe it’s what Dean needs. Or maybe it’s not, but suddenly the words come easy to John and so he spills them, his voice gentle: “Listen, Dean. I know you’re scared. But you shouldn’t be. Your Mommy was a brave person, and she would want you to be brave. Do you hear me, Dean? She would want you to be brave, not be so scared and unhappy...”
Dean nods, and wipes a tear from his eye. John leans back, until he’s lying on Dean’s bed with the boy on his chest. He’s still got Dean wrapped in a hug and he damn sure won’t let go tonight. It takes a little while, but eventually Dean falls asleep again, and for the rest of the night there are no more nightmares. He hears Dean breathe, it’s reassuring.
John can’t find any sleep that night. Thoughts keep spinning in his head like he’s on a carousel ride, faster and faster: how’s he gonna do this, how’s he gonna raise his kids on his own, how is he gonna make them not be scared?
By morning he’s found the answer. He will make sure his sons never have to be afraid of the dark again.
-end-