Work Text:
He’s only six years old, for crying out loud, Dean thinks as he looks out into the living room at Sammy curled up on the couch, nestled into a pile of blankets, copy of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ clutched to his chest, eyes glued to the cartoons on the television. He can hear the distant clanging from Bobby working on a car out in the yard. The kid is still trembling, Dean can see it all the way from the kitchen table where he’s spreading strawberry jelly and chunky peanut butter on white bread for their lunch. He’s exhausted, had barely slept last night - neither had Sam, waking up shaking and sweating and crying with nightmares every time he fell back asleep. He looks up at Sam again as he’s cutting the sandwiches into four equal triangles, notes the seemingly permanently furrowed brow, the kid’s bottom lip caught between his teeth that are worrying the skin there.
Underneath all the concern for his baby brother, Dean is seething with rage. He’s never been so angry with his dad in all his short ten years. What the hell was he thinking leaving Sam in the car while they dug up a grave to salt and burn the corpse? Dad hadn’t wanted to leave Sam out of sight, since the ghost was going after little kids. But it would have been better than dragging him along to the cemetery, parking the car not twenty feet from where the damn spirit was sure to show up once they cracked open the coffin. They always show up, and show up pissed. They’d locked all the doors, ran a line of salt all around it and told Sam to stay hidden under the old Army blanket in the back seat. Of course he hadn’t listened, he’s just a kid.
Dean doesn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life. Once that ghost headed for the Impala and Dean saw Sammy’s curly mop peaking up over the the edge of the window, eyes like saucers, he was off running, tire iron in hand, screaming curses he was sure Dad would yell at him for later. The salt line kept the spirit at bay of course, and Dad had the bones burning just a minute later, but it was enough to scare Sammy worse than he’d ever been scared before.
He’d screamed and yelled at Dad while clutching a sobbing brother to his chest, loud and long enough he’s still amazed he’s not in trouble for the rest of his life. Dad had finally relented, resigned that he wasn’t going to win this one, and driven them to Bobby’s before taking off to the next hunt. He might be only ten, but Dean knows how to take care of Sammy, and this is what he needs right now.
Dean balances the two plates of sandwiches on top of two glasses of milk and makes his way into the living room, setting everything down on the coffee table. He tugs at the blankets until he finds an opening to slide under next to Sam.
“Eat some lunch, okay kiddo?” Dean says, passing a plate over. Sam relinquishes his clutch on his current favorite book with one hand to take the sandwich. He looks down at it and frowns.
“Not hungry.” Sam’s voice is quiet, a little shaky. His eyes are still puffy from all the bouts of crying last night. Dean sighs, steels himself against giving in - he’s got to get the kid to eat, he’d skipped dinner last night and barely managed half a dozen spoonfuls of cereal this morning.
“I know, buddy, but you have to eat, okay? At least half.” Dean’s pleading now, willing his little brother to see how much he wants Sam to eat, hoping if nothing else, he’ll do it for Dean. He watches Sam’s eyebrows rise up and disappear under his floppy bangs. “Please?”
“K, Dean,” Sam says, still quiet, somewhat resigned, but he picks up a triangle of PB&J and takes a small bite. Dean smiles as he nudges Sam gently with his elbow, a quiet praise he knows Sam will understand.
They’re quiet as they eat, both watching Tom and Jerry skitter across the screen in a never ending battle of wits. Dean has his sandwich devoured in five minutes, but he waits patiently while Sam picks at his, eating around the crusts and smearing jelly on his chin. Fifteen minutes have passed before Sam lets out a tiny sigh and holds up his plate with its three empty crusts and one remaining sandwich quarter.
“That enough, Dean?” he asks, eyes round, hopeful. Dean grins wide as he takes the plate.
“Yeah, Sammy, that’s good.” He drops a hand to Sam’s head, ruffling his hair as he gets up to clear their dishes. He’s on his way back to the living room when there’s a loud thump on the window behind the couch. Dean sees a dark mass of feathers flapping against the glass before dropping away. Sam jumps, lets out a shout and immediately starts whimpering while his eyes fill up with tears and he sinks down further under the blankets.
“Deeeaan!” The tiny wail travels at lightning speed to Dean’s ears, then makes sharp turn right down into his heart. It’s just seconds before Dean is back on the couch, pulling Sam onto his lap and wrapping his arms around him.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” Dean says quietly, whispering into Sammy’s ear while he’s got him pressed up against his chest. “Shhh...it was just a bird, flew into the window.”
Sam cries into his brother’s shoulder, Dean holding him tight and whispering soothing words while he rocks him slowly back and forth. With every stutter of breath and tremble of Sam’s small body, Dean’s heart cracks a little more, and the knot of anger in the pit of his stomach churns. He wishes he could hunt his little brother’s fear like a wendigo, wipe it out with fire or silver or iron. He wants his bright-eyed, too-smart-for-his-own-good, pain-in-the-ass little brother back, and he’s willing to kick his father’s ass to get it. It’s a good ten minutes before Sammy starts to relax, his crying subsiding to the occasional hiccup of breath.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is a little louder now, his hand still fisted around the hem of Dean’s t-shirt.
“Yeah, squirt?”
“I don’t wanna be scared anymore.” Sam looks up at Dean, watery eyes full of a desperate plea, begging his big brother to make it better. Dean sighs as he runs his hand through Sam’s hair, fingers pulling through a few tangles along the way.
“I know, buddy, I know,” Dean says, tightening his grip around Sam’s waist to hold him closer. His mind races, trying to figure out a way to help, something to give his brother a reprieve from this onslaught of anxiety. He considers teaching him, going through the list of what can be killed with silver, what can be done away with fire, but he figures his dad and Bobby would both kill him for that - Sam’s still too young to know all the details, it’s bad enough he knows the basics of what’s out there and that everyone he loves puts their lives in danger to fight them. It feels like Dean’s always known about monsters and how to kill them, he doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t so he was never really scared of them, not like Sam is now. Finally an idea sparks and he smiles as he glances around the living room. “Hey, how about we build our own fortress? Then we can climb inside, and nothing can get to us - how’s that sound?”
Dean smiles as Sam pushes away to look at him, eyes wide in wonder and his mouth curled into a tiny ‘O’ of amazement.
“We can DO that?” he says, voice louder now, a little squeaky at the end.
“You bet we can, little brother! Uncle Bobby has everything we need right here.” Dean tugs at the blankets, freeing them both from the tangle of fabric and limbs, and stands up, setting Sam down on his feet next to the couch. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Dean rushes up the stairs to the hall closet and pulls out a stack of extra blankets and a few pillows. He clomps back down to the living room and deposits the pile on the floor and smiles down at a gape-mouthed Sam before setting to work. He pulls the cushions from the sofa and upends it, drags in chairs from the kitchen and arranges them around the living room. Then he starts piling the blankets over the furniture, pinning them in place with cushions and pillows until there’s a hollow space in the middle of the room completely surrounded by old quilts and afghans. He tosses the remaining pillows and a few comforters inside, then turns to look at Sam.
“Okay, Sammy, we’re ready for the most important part.” Dean rummages around on Bobby’s desk until he comes up with a blank sheet of paper and a marker. He holds them out to Sam. “This part is all you, little brother.”
Sam looks up at him, a little apprehensive, but takes the paper and pen from him.
“What do I gotta do?”
“Well, we need a sign to put on the door - how else are the monsters gonna know they can’t come in?” Dean chuckles at the change in Sam’s expression, a slight roll of his eyes and quirk of his mouth saying ‘Of course!’ as he drops down the floor and starts to write. Dean surveys the blanket fort as Sam writes, wondering how much trouble he’s going to get in when Bobby sees the mess he’s made. He decides he doesn’t care when he looks down at Sam putting the finishing touches on the sign, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. He knows it’ll be worth any amount of trouble when Sam stands back up and hands him the sign, a smile beaming up at him. Dean takes the paper, ‘GO AWAY MONSTERS’ scrawled in crooked, six-year-old handwriting, and fastens it to one of the blankets with the safety pin he’d scrounged up from one of the desk drawers.
“Okay Sam, crawl in!” Sam grins and starts for the door of the blanket fort, then stops.
“Will you read to me, Dean?” he asks, hopeful and smiling.
“Of course, buddy.” Dean chuckles lightly as Sam scurries around the fort to get his book, then hurries back and drops to his knees, crawling inside. Dean is right behind him, and after a few minutes of shuffling and tossing blankets and pillows around they settle in, Sam curled up against Dean’s chest, and he begins to read.
Half an hour later, Sam is sound asleep, his warm breath coming in even bursts against Dean’s neck. A relieved sigh falls from Dean’s mouth as he, too, drifts off, happy and safe.