Chapter Text
The door to the motel room swung open.
Inside was a pale mockery of a home. A double bed with scratchy sheets. A kitchenette where no one ever made breakfast. A little table where no one ever sat.
A halfway home for travelers.
Utilitarian.
Bare.
Empty.
John Winchester was painfully aware of the persistent buzz of the streetlights behind them as they flickered on and off.
The shadow of a family stood in the doorway, staring down a ghost of a homes comfort.
Little Sammy was finally asleep after so many hours crying. Crying because he was hungry. Crying because he was confused. Because everything was new and scary.
Crying for Mary.
Beside him, Dean was silent.
He stood next to his father, waiting. Holding onto his hand as if it were the only real thing left in the universe.
He hadn’t asked any questions yet— not while they stood outside of their burning house. Not while John gave his statement at the precinct.
The boy was silent.
Everything around John was silent except for the hum of that damned light.
John tore his eyes away from the empty amalgamation, the props of a house yes, but not a home. They hadn’t lost something as meaningless as a table. A bed with soft sheets. A kitchen with yellow paint. “You hungry, Dean?” His voice was dry. As if it hadn’t been used in a hundred years.
Dean nodded once.
Even though John could feel his own feet dragging into the ground, Dean moved forward with only the light prompting of his hand. “Hold your brother.”
Dean sat back on the pillows, arranging them the way… the way he knew to support his brother's weight in the safest way possible. He held his arms out for Sammy, dutifully.
John hadn’t really looked at Dean’s eyes yet. He hadn’t realized how dull they looked until now… How could a kid have eyes like that? What kind of world did they live in where a boy, a four-year-old boy, their son, had eyes that looked so destroyed?
John handed the sleeping baby to his big brother as gingerly as he could.
He didn’t look at Dean again.
John hadn’t thought to get food. He hadn’t thought much of anything yet. What was there to think? What was there to say? He knew what he saw, but what he saw was… it wasn’t right. It was crazy.
He’d seen a vending machine just outside the door.
Dean watched his father with careful eyes. Watched as he dug in his pockets for change.
Everything John did felt like a dream. His mind was filled with nothing but the streetlights buzz as he fished in his pockets for enough quarters to buy his son a bag of chips for dinner.
His big hands fumbled with the coins.
Useless hands.
He felt the persistent beat of his heart rate rising.
He put one quarter in.
Our home is gone.
He put the second quarter in.
Mary’s g—
He nearly dropped the last quarter. The buzzing sound changed as he pushed it into the vending machine.
D4.
Mary’s gone.
The chips stuck in the machine.
Mary was burning.
The glass of the vending machine shattered around John’s hand. Chunks of it stuck in his knuckles. Blood stained a dozen plastic bags.
Dean was quiet.
Dean was so quiet.
John’s heart raced. His breath came out too fast as a dozen bags of chips clattered around his feet. He tried desperately to push the vivid memory from his mind.
John stood there, blood running down his hand, trying to focus on the sound of his heartbeat. Willing it back down.
He couldn’t think. The thinking was… it wasn’t helping.
He was brought back to the earth by the sound of Sammy’s cries.
John grabbed whatever bags of chips that didn’t have blood on it. He wiped his hands on his flannel. At least it was red.
Dean was bouncing Sammy gently-- just like he’d seen Mary do a hundred times— but his eyes were locked on his father.
John shut the door carefully, not wanting Dean to think— to see— his control slipping. “I got you a selection.” He tried to sound warm. Familiar.
He knew he sounded cold.
He sat next to Dean. Took Sammy.
He knew he should speak to him. Try to calm him down.
Mary would sing.
John felt that heavy weight on his chest grow.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean sat back against his father's shoulder. The first words he’d said since running out of the burning house a barely whispered comfort for his baby brother.
John glanced down at him. He felt the need to check and see if he’d really spoken. He almost didn’t notice the infant in his arms begin to calm.
Dean didn’t open his chips.
Sammy’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s one little finger.
It wasn’t long before both boys were asleep.
John didn’t move. He kept his eyes trained on the wall in front of him. The horrors of that night played before his eyes over and over again, accompanied by the persistent buzzing.
None of them moved until morning and John didn’t get a wink of sleep.