Chapter Text
It was when John looked away to pull out his journal that he realized Sammy had wandered too far.
"Sammy, come here," he called out sternly to the four-year old scampering to chase someone's little brown and white spaniel across the sandlot. His son was going past the bars, the invisible border he made for Sammy as a compromise for taking him to the park to wait for his brother Dean.
He couldn't help but smile at the tousled haired boy looking back over his shoulder guiltily with huge brown eyes. He looked a lot like Dean when he was three. Mary had caught their son's fingers deep in the cookie dough, trying to pick out all the butterscotch chips. Dean, when warned not to eat the cookie dough, didn't think it included the chips. Mary scolded Dean; John secretly thought Dean would make one hell of a lawyer some day. He couldn't stop snickering over it even when he climbed into bed with Mary that night.
Sammy obediently went over to the park bench where John sat alone with his research, newspapers marred with circled articles and books surrounding him like a fort. John had been going through the books, intending to update some of his previous entries. Sammy placed his hands on John's knees and balanced on his toes. He stood in-between John' knees and peered up at him expectantly with bright eyes.
"What did I say?" John reminded Sammy. He fought the urge to smile as his son balanced precariously on his toes so he could see his father on eye level. Sam always wanted to talk to them on eye level; he'd even try to climb sofas, stools, or stacks of books just so he could see. It drove Dean nuts.
"No past the monkeys." Sammy nodded earnestly back at him, twisting chubby fingers on the hem of one of Dean's old t-shirts. The one with the giraffe; the one John had bought Dean the first time they'd gone to the zoo. The blue tee was faded now and the spindly white giraffe appeared more speckled with the shirt's blue. John, when he'd bought for Dean, had thought it looked stupid. Come on, albino giraffes? But Dean always insisted on wearing it every time John took him back to the zoo. Now that shirt was Sammy's. With a momentary pang of regret, John realized he'd never had a chance to take his youngest to the zoo.
"Monkey bars," John corrected, absently brushing back Sammy's hair from his forehead, straightening the small denim jacket over him. Despite it being spring, it was still cool in this part of Nebraska.
"Monkey bars," his son repeated in such a solemn voice John couldn't help but smile finally. Sammy's been doing that a lot recently; repeating everything as if committing it all to memory. He'd even been mimicking the Latin John falteringly repeated to himself at nights.
"Dean?" Sammy added hopefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
John checked his watch. "Bell just rang, sport. Your brother should be here soon," he told the boy, nodding towards the school the park was behind.
Sammy brightened, already looking away as the dog yipped and chased around his ankles. He giggled and tried to grab the puppy.
"Don't bother the dog," John warned. Sammy nodded, already distracted, chasing the spaniel again with the other kids in the park. John looked around but didn't see anyone upset over his or her dog currently being the rabbit to a bunch of toddler greyhounds. He watched as Sammy circled around the swings to cut off the dog. The spaniel skidded to a surprised halt and spun sharply to the right, heading for the water fountains.
John raised an eyebrow. He wondered where Sammy had picked that up from. John grimaced when Sammy stumbled and fell into the sandbox. Sammy didn't cry, just sat up, blinking in surprise as if to say 'how did I get down here?' and then sprang up with an ease John wished he still had.
Keeping one ear out for Sammy's untainted laughter, he glanced back down at the Xeroxed copies he took. There was an interesting reference to the corocotta he hunted a few months back. John flipped back to the old entry. He glanced up. Everyone else tired out from the chase, but Sammy seemed indefatigable.
John scanned the papers in his hands, frowning when he realized he was missing an essential page. Damn, he'd need to head back to the library before it closed. He looked up to call Sammy back and froze.
The playground was still teeming with children; more now with school out.
No Sammy.
John shot up to his feet and scanned the grounds. He strained to hear the dog or his son. Nothing.
"Sammy?" John ran through the playground. He could hear the pounding in his chest, each face he came across was the wrong face. He sped past the monkey bars, stopping by the hedges that marked the real border of the playground.
"Fire!"
He whipped his head around towards the high, panicked voice and automatically darted for it. John ran towards the sounds, out of the playground, well before his mind made the connection. Dean.
A scuffle, glass breaking and another shout for fire that was starting to get the attention of some parents where his shouting didn't before. John could see Dean's book bag on the ground, its owner grabbing at a cursing lanky, unshaven man, the spaniel yapping at their ankles.
"Dean!" John shouted and the stranger jerked in surprise. He wasn't expecting reinforcements.
"Daddy, he has Sammy!" Dean shouted, still clawing at the man's pant leg, refusing to let go, giving him a swift kick in the shins. Dean yelped when a rough hand took him by surprise, a smack loud enough that John could hear it.
Watching his son fall to the ground ignited something deep inside him; a hot burst of rage that blurred everything. So much so, John wasn't aware he reached them until the satisfying sound of bone against bone filled his ears. The stinging in his fist didn't register. He felt rage spiraling him out of control. He smoothly dodged past the man's defenses, pounding until he could feel the weight of the bastard slump. The haze lifted when he heard a metallic groan and Dean's soft and anxious "Sammy?" filtered through. John staggered to a halt, the body his fist was holding up dropped unceremoniously from numb fingers.
Already, people alerted by Dean's shouting were on the scene; holding down the bastard, others helpfully shouting out that the police were on the way, asking if he needed help, and other inquiries that just swirled to an annoying buzz. John ignored them all; his focus on the four-panel van, its windows cracked from rocks Dean had thrown, the bottoms of Dean's sneakers visible from an open door.
"Dad." Dean, looking back, sounded relieved when John placed a hand on his shoulder. A bruise was already forming on his face that made John's hand tighten over Dean's thin shoulder. Dean didn't say anything though; crab crawling out backwards on his knees until he was out of the van, clutching a tiny denim jacket in his hands.
John felt his throat close up as he approached the van and crouched into the interior.
"Hey, buddy," he said softly to the blank eyes riveted to his face. "Want to come over here?" He held his breath as his son wordlessly shuffled closer to his hands, tiny body shaking as John pulled him out. He couldn't see any wounds, but before he could examine him further; Sammy pressed his face into his shoulder, small arms trying very hard to wrap around his neck. He placed a hand square on his boy's back, feeling the tiny tremors under his palm. John felt Dean standing closer to him when distant sirens grew louder. Dean looked up at his brother, not even aware he was holding onto a piece of John's pants, the small grip tighter and tighter the longer he examined Sammy. John said nothing though when he felt Dean pressing close to them both and he dropped a hand on top of Dean's head. It just didn't feel like it was close enough.
The police came just behind the paramedics. John found himself separated from his boys, herded off to the ambulance, while he was trying to explain to Detective Cranes why he felt compelled to beat the scumbag's face off.
"Sweetie, do you want to tell me where it hurts?" The voice, so sympathetic it made John's teeth ache, floated out from the back of the ambulance with Sammy.
Dean eyes continually glanced over to John as he tentatively described what he saw to the police, how he saw the bastard dragging a kicking and screaming Sammy into the van, slamming the door shut.
"It's okay, we're not going to hurt you. Do you want to tell me your name?"
John looked behind him at the ambulance, cool metal against his back. A thin barrier, thin enough he could hear the well-meaning EMT medic asking his youngest son questions.
"Do you want to just nod your head? Hm?"
A pang twisted in his gut when all he heard was silence. John glanced over to Dean. John was struck by how old his eyes were; far too old any eight-year-old's deserved to be.
Dean was sitting on one of the faded green concrete frogs that dotted the playground. Dean half-heartedly held up a blue icepack to his cheek, but it didn't effectively cover the purpling welt on his right cheek. If it hurt, he didn't show it, though. Dean stared at the back of the ambulance, barely acknowledging the medic checking on him.
"Apparently, he might be responsible for the disappearances of a dozen other kids these past few months..."
John nodded absently to the detective repeating the facts. He glanced back over to the ambulance again.
"Guy just confessed to everything. He's…" the detective cleared his throat. "He's going to show us where the bodies are."
John clenched his fists against his sides. Bile threatened to come up and he swallowed convulsively until the feeling passed.
The detective paused, gray eyes shifting over to Dean. His grim mouth briefly smiled at John's son impatiently swinging his feet, bright hazel eyes glued to the open back of the rescue unit, the icepack left dangling from his hand.
"You have a very brave boy, Mr. Winchester."
Startled, John turned back to the officer.
Cranes gestured to Dean with his pen. "If he didn't think to toss those rocks and draw him out, there's no telling what that guy might do or he might've driven off already." The detective appeared impressed. "Not many eight year olds would think to do that, much less what to call out."
"He's a big brother," John murmured, a brief sad, smile flitted across his face. It faded when he realized he still hadn't heard from Sammy the whole time.
"Sweetie, did the bad man…um…" The medic's voice trailed off as if she didn't know how to ask. She sighed too loudly; frustrated but still willing to try although it was clear to John she had no idea how.
"You have to say something," she entreated. "We just want to know if you're hurt anywhere." She paused. "Do you want me to get your daddy?" She tried again in a false bright voice. "Or your mommy?"
Dean glanced back worriedly and John quietly nodded. Dean dropped the icepack, ducking under one of medic's arms and climbed up the back of the vehicle, his sneakers slipping briefly on the bumper as he climbed in.
A little surprised at how quickly Dean responded, John wondered if nodding or not would have made a difference.
Cranes was morbidly recounting previous cases like he was letting John, the hero of the hour, in on the big secret. John could only nod, his attention still on the ambulance. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes when Dean finally emerged, Sammy clinging desperately to his brother. Dean shrugged away the medic's hand and struggled off the ambulance by himself, Sammy was wrapped around him like a barnacle, head buried into Dean's shoulder. Dean stumbled off the bumper under the weight, weaving with some difficulty towards John and the police officer.
It would have been funny if John hadn't notice Dean was holding on just as tightly.
"Dean," Sammy hiccuped. "Dean…"
John swallowed hard, hearing his youngest boy whimper Dean's name over and over again with the same reverence John spoke out loud any banishing spell. Dean kept talking quietly to Sammy's ear, one hand hesitantly going up and down Sammy's back.
"Dad?" Dean appeared unsure, gazing at him for answers. John wished he had some to give. Monsters his boys understood from what John tried to teach them. But people? John had no idea on how to teach them that. Not when he couldn't understand it himself sometimes.
Ignoring Cranes and whatever it was he was saying now, John reached down and carefully pried Sammy away from Dean. Dean shuffled closer, as if he couldn't bear being too far away.
"Hey, Sammy," John said in a low voice. He pressed his jaw against the mop of dark unruly hair. He could feel Sammy burrowing deeper into his hold, his shoulder growing damp.
John hefted his son higher, tilting his head back to look at his youngest. "Sammy?"
"I didn't mean to go past the monkeys, Daddy" Sammy whispered tearfully into his neck.
John could only hold him tighter. He didn't say anything when Dean pressed close to the pair. A small hand tentatively rested on John's elbow. It was then John realized he was shedding tears of relief into Sammy's hair.