Archive of Our Own

Summer settled over their lives like one long evening, soft and golden. With Sam out of school, he spent his days running around the junkyard with Rumsfeld, coloring in his sketchbook, and even learning about fixing cars with Dean. Sam didn’t get to finish out his soccer season, but Dean had found a soccer camp happening that summer and signed him up. Sam loved every second of it and had even made a few friends. Dean took him to meet up with them at the playground or the public pool some days, and some days the two of them went to the library or out to the local diner, wherever Sam wanted to go. Dean, for his part, was happy to have a summer where he could watch his kid be normal and carefree.  

Some days, he let Sam "work" out in the junkyard with him.

“And then you clamp the black end to any metal not next to the battery,” Dean explained, Sam watching him on his tip-toes as Dean attached the jumper cable. “Now the car should start.” He held out the keys to Sam. “You want to crank it?” 

Sam’s eyes went wide like Dean just offered the keys to the Batmobile to him. “Yes!” He snatched them out of Dean’s hand, scrambling into the driver’s seat. One hand was clenched tight around the wheel, tongue sticking out as he tried once, then twice, to finally get the keys inserted. 

The engine stuttered, coughing and turning over for a moment before it roared to life. Sam stuck his head out the window, grinning like a maniac. “I did it!” 

Dean chuckled, leaning against the old Ford. “Damn right, you did, little man.”

Sam beamed, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. There wasn’t a trace of what happened in the spring, not in this moment. 

“Alright,” He said, patting the truck. “Cut the engine before Bobby yells at us for wasting gas.” 

Sam obeyed, killing the engine before hopping out of the truck. “That was so cool.” 

“Yeah?” Dean ruffled the sweaty locks. “Maybe I won’t send you to second grade in a couple of months, keep you around as my assistant instead.” 

“I have to go to school, it’s the laaaaaw,” Sam laughed, twisting out of Dean’s grasp, stretching out the last word. 

“Oh, is it now?” Dean grinned, mischievous. He swooped Sam up, digging his fingers into the kid’s side. 

“Dad!” Sam squealed between breathy laughs. “St-stop, it ti-tickles.” 

Rumsfeld barked excitedly, nipping at their heels as he tried to play with them. 

“Boys!” Bobby’s voice boomed out from the house. “Come on in, lunch is ready!” 

Dean ceased his attack, Sam still laughing breathlessly in his arms. Though seven now, Sam was still small for his age, and Dean was able to hold him with ease. 

“Better listen to Uncle Bobby, we don’t want to make him mad,” Dean said as he headed towards the house. “He’s like a grumpy bear.” 

“I heard that,” Bobby glared at him. 

Sam squirmed in Dean’s grasp and he let him down. “Go wash up and we’ll eat.”

Sam bolted for the bathroom, Rumsfeld hot on his heels. Dean washed his own hands in the kitchen sink, eyeing the plate of sandwiches and carrots Bobby was setting out. 

“You and Sam raise hell?” Bobby asked, not looking up. 

“Always,” Dean dried his hands off, going to snag a sandwich off the top. Bobby slapped his hand away. “Hey!”

“Let Sam eat first,” Bobby grumbled. 

Dean reached for a carrot stick instead. “Never thought I’d see the day where you willingly put out vegetables.” 

“Well, someone has to set a good example for the kid.” 

Sam emerged from the bathroom, hands wet, but clean at least. He climbed into a chair, face still pink from the sun. “Uncle Bobby, I started a car today!” 

Bobby passed him a plate. “You don’t say.” 

“Yeah, it was dead but we put jumper cables on it and I started it,” Sam explained, tearing the crusts of his sandwich. 

“Sounds like you’re ready for your driver’s license.” 

Sam giggled and took a bite, crusts now gone. He kicked his feet under the table, tearing off a piece of ham and feeding it to Rumsfeld. Dean leaned back in his chair, eating his lunch and listening as Sam happily told Bobby all about the truck between bites. Dean would let Sam talk his ear off whenever he wanted. His words still came and went like the tide sometimes. After a bad nightmare, once after a horror movie he watched without permission. The quiet days were further between now, but they still crept in. 

Dean didn’t point out when they happened. He would just sit with Sam, letting him curl up next to him with his sketchbook, or watch an episode of Scooby Doo until the kid found his voice again. 

But not today. Today was a good day. 

The sharp ring of the landline yanked Dean out of his thoughts. 

“Bet that’s Rufus,” Bobby grunted as he rose. He disappeared into the living room, footsteps fading on the wooden floor. 

Sam’s chewing slowed, eyes drifting to the doorway. Dean tapped his knuckles on the table, Sam’s gaze jumping back to him. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’m sure it’s just another ‘cursed raccoon.’ Eat up your carrots, okay?”

Sam picked up a carrot obediently, dipping it in the ranch, Bobby’s low tones echoing in the background. He came back in a minute later, hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“That was Rufus,” Bobby explained, shooting a pointed look at Sam. 

“Hey, tiger,” Dean said. “Why don’t you go draw the truck you started for Uncle Bobby?” 

Sam’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Okay,” He nodded as he slid out of his chair. “But I know you guys are gonna talk about hunting.” 

Dean let out a surprised huff as Sam trotted out of the room. “Can’t get anything past him.” 

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Wonder where he learned that from.” Dean rolled his eyes. “But Rufus tracked something to Coldwater, he needs another set of eyes on it tonight.”

Dean paused with his glass raised halfway to his mouth. “You gonna go?” 

“Just gonna have a look, it’s probably nothing,” Bobby said, but the look on his face said it was definitely not nothing. 

Dean set his glass down, swallowing. Considering. “You need backup?” 

“No. You said you didn’t want Sam hunting and if you came, he would have to come too.” Bobby pointed out. 

“I know, and I meant that. I just…” He trailed off. 

Didn’t like Bobby going off alone to hunt an unknown. Didn’t like him going without Dean to back him up. 

Bobby’s face softened in understanding. “I’ve been hunting longer than you’ve been alive, I know what I’m doing.” 

Sam chose that moment to reappear, paper clutched in his hands. “I drew it with flames, like the superhero cars.” 

“Good job, squirt,” Bobby ruffled his hair. 

Sam looked up at him from under his bangs. “Are you going on a hunt?” 

“Looks like it,” Bobby said. “But I’ll be back by morning. I need to get going now before Rufus decides to go off without me.” 

Sam nodded slowly. He reached out, wrapping his arms around Bobby. The man froze for a second, clearly surprised, before returning the embrace. 

“Be careful, Uncle Bobby,” Sam whispered in his ear before pulling away. 

Dean tried to ignore the bad feeling in his gut. It was just worrying over the first hunt any of them had gone on since they started living with Bobby, he told himself. 

“Check-in, alright?” Dean requested. 

“I will,” Bobby agreed. “But it’s gonna be fine, just don’t eat all my food while I’m gone.” 

Dean and Sam watched Bobby go from the porch, Rumsfeld whining softly from where Sam was holding him at his collar. 

“It’s okay Rummy,” Dean heard Sam whisper to the dog as Bobby’s truck rumbled down the gravel driveway. “He’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Dean forced himself to look away from the taillights. “You want to learn how to change a tire? You can show off to Uncle Bobby when he gets back.” 

Sam scratched behind Rumsfeld’s ear. “Okay.” His voice was a little smaller than before, but he was still talking. 

Dean squeezed his shoulder, steering them back to the rows of cars, trying not to think about the knot in his stomach. 

____

Morning came and went, and Bobby still wasn’t back. No check-ins, either, and no answer to any of Dean’s thirty phone calls. 

“Dammint Bobby, just call me back,” Dean growled into the phone when he got sent to voicemail. Again. 

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands. It was late afternoon now and Sam was passed out on the couch, tired from kicking around the soccer ball with Dean all morning. He should wake Sam up, he wouldn’t go to bed tonight if he stayed asleep much longer, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because when Sam woke up, Bobby would still be gone, and he’d have to tell the kid what he was about to have to go and do.  

Dean glared at his phone, willing it to ring. 

“Dad?” Sam’s sleepy voice rang out. He muffled a curse behind his hand, looking at where Sam was sitting up on the couch now. “Is Uncle Bobby back yet?” 

He knew what he had to do. “No, Sammy, he’s not.” 

“Oh,” Sam said softly. The kid knew from experience what it meant when someone didn’t return from a hunt on time. 

Dean moved so he was kneeling next to the couch, tucking a strand of Sam’s hair behind his ear. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure he’s fine and just got caught up in the case. But I’m gonna go look for him, okay?” 

Sam chewed on his bottom lip and he was twisting his fingers in his lap. “Can I go with you?”

Dean closed his eyes, the question hitting harder than he expected. “No kiddo, it might be too dangerous. I already called Cameron’s mom, you’re gonna go stay with them while I’m gone.” He had called Sheila, the mom of Sam’s favorite soccer friend, and explained that he had to leave town for a quick family emergency for a day or so. She’d been more than happy to keep Sam, telling Dean not to worry about a thing.

Sam’s bottom lip wobbled. “But you said you wouldn’t leave me.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dean apologized, rubbing his thumb up and down Sam’s cheek. “But I’m just making sure Uncle Bobby is okay and we’ll both be back within a day. You won’t even realize I’m gone.” 

Sam took in another stuttering breath, a few tears escaping his eyes. “I know it’s scary, but I always come back, don’t I?” Dean tried his best to give a reassuring smile. Sam blinked up at him, lips trembling but nodding. “You just need to be brave for me, can you do that?” 

Sam nodded again, more confident, wiping at his tears with the back of his hands. “I can be brave,” The boy whispered. 

“I know you can,” Dean patted his cheek. “Go pack a bag for me, just in case, and I’m gonna drop you off.” 

It was just past dinner time when Dean pulled the Impala to a stop at the end of the cul de sac where Sheila's house stood, the sun hanging low in the sky. He cut the engine and looked over at Sam sitting in the passenger seat and clutching his backpack in his lap.

“I packed you some snacks,” Dean said, forcing a smile on his face. “And I put Mr. Waddles in there too.”

“Okay,” Sam mumbled, staring straight ahead. 

Dean hesitated. “I know you don’t like it when I’m not here, but everything’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna have fun with Cameron.”

Sam finally turned to look at him, hazel eyes wide with anxiety under his bangs. “You promise you’ll come back?” 

Dean swallowed. “I promise.” He opened the driver’s door. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.” 

He walked Sam to the door and Sheila answered with a warm smile, Cameron right behind her. “Hi sweetie,” She greeted, kneeling to Sam’s level. “I made some lasagna for dinner and Cameron picked out a movie for the two of you to watch.” 

Sam didn’t respond but took a tentative step forward when Dean squeezed his shoulder. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Dean told her, voice low. 

“Of course,” She assured. “But we’re going to have a lot of fun.” 

Dean knelt next to Sam, adjusting his collar and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I love you, kiddo. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Sam launched forward, dropping his backpack and latching his arms around his neck. Dean squeezed him back tight, hugging him like he never wanted to let go. 

“Be safe,” Sam whispered into his ear before he pulled away. 

Dean watched them go inside from the porch, hands clenched into fists in his jacket pocket. The sun was setting now as Dean headed back into the Impala. He had family to find and a promise to keep. 

He followed a map to the coordinates Rufus had texted Bobby, pulling into a clearing of the forest next to a familiar truck. He killed the lights, grabbed his shotgun, and stepped out of the Impala into the night. 

The air smelt wrong. Sharp and bitter, almost like ozone. 

He broke into a run when he heard shouting, leaves crunching under his boots. Bobby’s familiar gruff voice sent a pang of relief down his spine, and Rufus yelled something about a trap. Then a screech, unnatural and deafening, like metal scratching on metal. 

Dean burst out of the forest and found them. Bobby was on one knee, blood trailing his temple with his shotgun raised. Rufus stood over him with a knife, slashing out at a creature Dean had never seen before. It flickered in and out, half there and half not, with a pale blue face and black gouges for eyes. 

He didn’t hesitate, raising his shotgun and firing. The creature shrieked again, causing Dean to wince, and it flickered and launched backward into the dense forest. 

“Dean!” Bobby barked, rising to his feet. 

“What the hell is that thing?” Dean gasped, half from exertion and half from relief, rushing over. 

“A revenant,” Rufus growled, wiping blood from his jaw. “We were luring it into a trap when it double-backed and jumped us.” 

“Well, let’s get this son of bitch,” Dean chambered another round. “We ending this? I got a kid to get back to.” 

Before either man could answer, the air dropped ten degrees. A pressure rippled through the air with another screech, coming from right behind Dean. He turned just in time to see the creature’s hand reach out and touch his chest. 

Pain exploded, folding his ribs in and pushing them out. His body seized up and jerked once and then Dean knew nothing but darkness. 

____

Dean hit the ground hard and didn’t move. 

“ Dean! ” Bobby bellowed as Rufus rushed at the revenant, pulling out the engraved shackles and slapping them on the creature. 

Bobby fell to the ground next to Dean just as Rufus drove his knife into its chest, the creature disappearing with one final shriek. Bobby pressed two fingers to the side of Dean’s neck, finding a pulse. His chest was rising and falling in steady breaths. 

“Dean, wake up,” Bobby shook him gently, and then when he didn’t stir, harder. “Dammit, boy, come on.” 

Still nothing. 

“Rufus!” Bobby barked. “What the hell did that thing do to Dean?” 

Rufus’ expression was pale. “Some of the lore said the revenant can trap people in an induced state.” 

Bobby didn’t take his eyes off Dean. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack with his lips parted like he was sleeping, but he was unnaturally still. “How do we wake him up?” 

Rufus hesitated. “I don’t know.” 

Bobby whipped his head up at that. “The hell you mean, you don’t know? You drag me all the way out here, lead me on a wild goose chase for that thing, and break my phone so I can’t call Dean. He comes running out here, and you tell me you don’t know how to wake him up?” 

Rufus pursed his lips. “I’m sorry Bobby, truly, but I have some books at my cabin that might have something. He should be fine, really, except for the whole sleeping thing. We can bring him back there and look.” 

Bobby almost opened his mouth to agree when, through his panic, he remembered. Sam. Fuck, what would he tell the kid? Where even was he? Waiting in the Impala? 

“I can’t," Bobby shook his head. "I have to get back to Sam. I’ll take Dean back to my place, it’s closer than the cabin anyways.” 

He hefted Dean up into his arms with a huff, ignoring the rolling in his stomach at how limp he was. “And Rufus,” Bobby said, voice pitched low and dark. “You don’t want to know what’ll happen if you don’t find out how to wake him up.” 

“I will.” He said, grave. 

Bobby carried Dean back to the Impala and found it had no Sam in it. He settled him into the backseat, strapping seat belts across his chest and waist so he wouldn’t roll off the bench in the shifting car. He dug Dean’s phone out of his jean pocket and Rufus headed off to his cabin, promising to call as soon as he found something. Bobby slipped into the driver’s seat, feeling wrong at being behind the wheel. 

He flipped open the phone as he drove back towards Sioux Falls, finding two missed calls from a Sheila Burke. His brows furrowed before he placed the name, a mom of Sam’s friend. Dean must’ve left the kid with her while he chased after Bobby. Ignoring the guilt over being the one to cause Dean to get into this mess in the first place, he dialed the number back. 

“Dean,” A woman’s relieved voice came over the line after one ring. 

“This is Bobby Singer, Sam and Dean’s uncle.” He spoke. 

He could hear the woman’s hesitation through the phone. “Oh,” She said eventually. “Is Dean alright?” 

Bobby cleared his throat. “He’s fine, just tied up in something at the moment. I was calling you back for him.”

She was quiet for another beat. 

“I saw he had two missed calls from you," He prompted. "Is Sam alright?” 

“He’s fine,” Sheila responded quickly. “He’s just worried, I can tell, and he’s not really talking. Won’t go to sleep either. I thought maybe talking to Dean might help.” 

Fat chance of that at the moment. Bobby glanced back at Dean through the rearview mirror, still with no change. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he considered. He couldn’t leave Sam there, it would just cause the boy to panic, but he couldn’t roll up to a neighborhood with an unconscious man in the back. And when Sam did finally see his dad, he didn’t want it to be in front of an audience. He formulated a plan: get Dean back to the house and then go get Sam. Maybe by then, he would figure out what to say to the kid. 

“Well, we’re all good now over here now, but Dean’s busy, so why don’t I just come and pick Sam up?” 

“Oh, I really don’t mind keeping him, and it’s getting late.” She protested. 

“It’s no problem,”  Bobby waved her off. “I’ll be there in about an hour.” 

“Okay then, I’ll let Sam know. See you soon.” The line clicked dead. 

Sam would know something was wrong as soon as he was told Uncle Bobby was coming to get him and not Dean. He pushed the accelerator further to the floor, the car speeding forward. 

____

Sam was waiting with Shelia on the front porch when Bobby pulled up. He got out of the car, hat in hand, and watched Sam’s face fall. 

“Thanks for taking him,” Bobby greeted. “But I better get him home and in bed.” 

“Anytime,” She replied, before giving Sam a quick hug. “You come over whenever you want.” 

Sam nodded, following Bobby back into the car. His backpack was resting on the floorboard and he had his stuffed penguin in his lap, twisting one of its arms. “Where’s Dad?” He asked as soon as they were moving, voice small and fearful. 

Bobby knew that he couldn’t lie to Sam. Only seven, but he already had a lifetime of hunting under his belt. “Something happened when he came to get us. He’s going to be okay though, Rufus can fix it, he just needs to find out how.” 

Sam’s hands turned white from his grip on the stuffed animal. “What happened?” 

“He’s asleep. He’s not hurt, we just have to figure out how to wake him up.” 

Sam was quiet and Bobby flicked his eyes off the road to see Sam press his face into Mr. Waddle’s fuzzy head. 

“Can I see him?” He asked, his voice barely loud enough to hear. 

His chest ached. “Yeah, you can. He’s right on the couch. In fact, I bet he’ll feel better once he knows you’re there.” 

Sam shifted towards the door and stared out at the dark. When they pulled up to the house, Sam was unbuckled and going for the door before Bobby could even put the car in park. He ran up the steps of the front porch and inside. 

Bobby came up behind him just in time to see Sam freeze in the doorway of the living room, eyes locked on Dean’s sleeping form on the couch. 

“Daddy?” Sam called, voice trembling. 

Bobby leaned against the wall at the sound of the little voice, using it to hold himself up. Sam hadn’t even called John “Daddy” since he was three. Sam padded over to Dean’s still form, standing next to the couch. His face was a storm of emotions and tears were already dripping down his cheeks. 

“Daddy, you have to wake up now.” He commanded in a wobbly voice. 

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his mouth as he watched Sam carefully crawl onto the sofa before curling into Dean’s side, laying his head on his chest. “Please wake up. You promised.” 

Those were the last words Bobby heard from Sam for a while. But, hidden by Sam’s small form, where neither person could see, Dean’s finger twitched. 

____

Sam knew he was upsetting Uncle Bobby. He saw the way his face twisted when he looked at Sam. He was using the same voice Dad used when he was worried about Sam, lower and softer than he normally talked. 

“Sam, bud,” Uncle Bobby said in that voice, looking down at him where he was still lying on the couch. “You want to go take a shower?” 

Sam wanted to answer, he did, but the words went mushy in his throat and he couldn’t get them out. He didn’t like the mushy words or the way they always made Dad’s and Uncle Bobby’s faces twist, but he didn’t know how to get them out. Instead of answering, he tightened his grip around the amulet that hung around his dad’s neck. 

Uncle Bobby sighed, crouching down next to him. “Go shower, Sam. Dean’ll still be here when you get back.” 

Sam didn’t want to go. He didn’t like seeing Dad not moving. It made his chest tight and his stomach queasy like the time he ate a bad hamburger. Laying with Dad, though, made him feel a little bit better. But he wanted that look to leave Uncle Bobby’s face, so he slipped off the couch and headed upstairs to the bathroom.

____

As soon as Sam went upstairs, a heavy silence settled over the house. Bobby studied Dean for a moment: breathing good, steady, and he almost looked peaceful. Like he was taking a well-deserved nap. But he wasn’t, he was in a supernaturally induced coma, and Bobby had no idea how to wake him up. Rufus hadn’t found anything yet, and none of Bobby’s books held any leads either. Some of them mentioned revenants, and the people they pulled under, but none so far on how to wake them up. He focused on the fact the books did mention that most did wake up, eventually (and decidedly didn't focus on the ones that didn’t). 

He stood out of his crouch, sinking into his armchair with a groan, hands forward over his knees.  “Come on, kid,” He muttered, adjusting his cap. “You’re scaring the hell out of me.”

The only answer he got was another woosh of Dean’s chest. He wasn’t getting any words out of the other resident Winchester either. He caught sight of the amulet Dean never took off, the leather twisted from where Sam had been fiddling with it. He reached out, straightening the necklace. 

“Don’t do this,” He said, laying his hand on Dean's chest. “Not to him.” 

He could hear the faint sound of water running from upstairs. Sam was trying, he could tell, but he was still just a boy. He could see the terror written plainly on his face while curled up under his father’s arm, in the way he reverted to that quiet state that gripped him for weeks before. Dean might not be that boy’s father by blood, but he was in every other sense of the term. He didn’t want to know what would happen if Dean didn’t wake up. 

____

Dean knew he was dreaming. He was standing in a motel, one completely foreign yet intimately familiar, like all the other hundreds he had seen in his life. This one, though, he remembered. 

He watched as a younger version of himself came limping into the room, trying his best to shut the door quietly so as to not wake the sleeping four-year-old. He looked younger than he was now, but older too, heavy exhaustion lining his eyes. 

He remembered this hunt. John had been hunting a wendigo and Dean had refused to come along. For one, it had been Christmas Eve and he wasn’t going to leave Sam to spend the holiday alone. For two, Sam had been four years old. John hadn’t thought to find someone to watch Sam and he wasn’t leaving a baby alone in a seedy motel room. But then John had called, the hunt was going sideways he didn’t know if he could make it out without backup. So Dean had waited until Sam was out for the night, tucked him in tight, and double-checked all the salt lines, before heading out to rescue John, making sure the door was locked when he slipped out of the room.

He had saved John's ass and killed the wendigo, earning himself a gash in his leg in the process, and John had slapped him on the back in thanks before heading out to a bar. 

“De?” Four-year-old Sam mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. 

He watched himself freeze, unexpectedly caught. Sam sat up in bed, yawning, eyes catching on the blood-coating Dean’s jeans. Sam’s eyes welled up immediately. “De?” He asked again, chin wobbling. 

“I’m alright, Sammy, just a little scratch,” His younger self had tried to soothe, moving towards the bed, but he was unable to hold back a wince at the movement. 

Sam looked even smaller than Dean remembered him, sitting up in the bed in his Thundercats footie pajamas. 

“De, you- you're-” Sam stuttered over his words. “You’re hurt.” 

“I’m fine, baby, just a little scratch,” Dean said, sitting on the bed and pulling Sam towards him. 

He knew what happened next. 

“Was it a monster?” Sam asked quietly around his sniffles. 

He could see the shock written across his face he remembered feeling. “What? No, Sammy, monsters aren’t real.” 

Sam hiccuped, squirming, reaching out under his pillow and pulling out John’s hunting journal. “I found this,” He said, fingers gripping the journal tight. “I wasn’t snoopin’, but it fell out of Dad’s bag. Some of the words are too big, but… it says monsters are real. Dad and you hunt them. That’s why Dad’s gone all the time.” He looked up at Dean. “Is it true?” 

Dean moved closer to the memory, a lump of emotions growing in his throat. Sam, too young for this, was clutching the heavy journal like it was a teddy bear. He tried to put a hand on his kid, comfort him somehow, but he wasn’t really there. It was just a dream, a memory. He blinked through the sudden sting in his eyes. 

“You’re not ‘sposed to lie to me,” Sam said, voice hushed, when memory-Dean did not answer. 

He watched his younger self close his eyes, pulling Sam in closer. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s true.” 

Dean’s confirmation set the toddler off again, his whole face scrunching up and turning red as more tears came. Dean rocked the crying child. “It’s okay, buddy, I promise. The monsters can’t get to you, I got you, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

“No,” Sam said, the word coming out around hiccups and sniffles. “No, the monsters are gonna get you, De. You can’t let ‘em take you away. I don’t- I don’t wanna be alone. I don’t wanna ‘em to take you.”

“No, baby, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean wiped at his tears. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You- you promise?” Sam asked, holding up his pinky finger. 

He watched as his younger self wrapped his pinky around Sam’s (whose hand was so s mall wrapped in Dean’s). He scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks because apparently, you could still cry in dreams. 

The scene played out just as Dean remembered: Sam pulling out a present, the amulet that had hung around Dean’s neck ever since. He smiled, a little, at that, fingers rubbing over the familiar metal. 

The dream slipped into black, the scene fading, but a little voice Dean knew better than his own rang in his ear. 

“Daddy, you have to wake up now.” 

____

One day passed, and then another, and Sam stayed tucked under Dean’s arm on the couch. Bobby kept a close eye on them from his spot in the recliner, going through all the books he had. He had turned on the TV for Sam, finding an old Scooby Doo episode to leave on. Sam turned his face towards the TV, but Bobby could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that he wasn’t watching it. 

He had nodded off somewhere between the second and third episode and was startled awake by the sharp ringing of the landline. Sam lifted his head curiously as Bobby pushed himself up, just making it to the phone before the ringing stopped. 

“Rufus, that better be you,” He barked into the receiver. 

“I found something, Bobby,” Rufus replied. “An old lore book I had to call in a favor to get, by the way, but it says to wake the victim up someone has to talk them awake, basically.” 

“I’ve been talking to Dean, though, and he’s still asleep,” Bobby pointed out, forcing himself to use the word asleep, careful of the little ears listening in. 

“It can’t just be anyone, it has to be, according to the lore, ‘the person closest to their heart,’” Rufus quoted. 

Bobby exhaled deeply. His gaze turned to Sam, sitting up now, but still stuck to Dean’s side like a magnet. He loved Dean like his own and knew Dean felt the same even if struggled with saying it, but if anyone was going to take that title, it was the kid Dean had raised. The same kid that wasn’t talking right now. 

“Alright, Rufus, thanks.” Bobby got out. 

“Let me know when Dean’s awake, will you?” Rufus asked, hanging up without an answer. 

Bobby latched the phone back on the hook, feeling Sam’s eyes trained on him. He walked back over to the couch, sitting on the end by Dean’s feet. Sam maneuvered closer to Bobby, his face showing that he wanted to know what was said. 

“Rufus found a way to wake Dean up,” Bobby started, Sam’s eyes darting to Dean and back at Bobby’s words. “He said all we have to do is talk to him, and he’ll wake up.” 

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed, and his shoulders curled up, his entire body tight. Bobby reached forward, clasping his hand around the back of Sam’s neck.

“I know I've been talking to him, bud, but the book says it has to be you. I know it’s hard, I know it’s scary, but if we want Dean to wake up you need to talk to him. You think you can do that?” 

He watched as Sam worked through the information in his head. He opened his mouth, clearly gearing up to speak, but no sound came out. He shut his eyes and his shoulders shook in a silent sob. 

Bobby squeezed his neck, gentle but firm, in support. “You can do it, Sam. What’s your dad always tellin’ you, huh? That you’re brave. So just be brave for him, okay?” 

Sam gave a sharp nod, eyes still shining but no tears falling. He leaned forward towards Dean, fingers tangling in the sleeve of Dean’s jacket like he could leech strength from his dad’s presence alone. He inhaled a deep, shaking breath.

“Dad.” Sam blinked as his own words surprised him. He gripped Dean’s sleeve tighter. “Dad, you gotta wake up now.” 

Dean didn’t stir. 

“Please, Dad you hafta wake up,” Sam choked out. “You said- you said you wouldn’t leave me. You promised. ” 

Sam’s hand traveled to Dean’s face, clumsily cupping either side. His voice came out a little stronger, “Wake up, Dad.” 

Bobby held his breath as he waited for a reaction, for anything, from the man lying on the couch. Sam chewed on his bottom lip, studying Dean, before leaning down and kissing Dean’s forehead, just like Dean had done so many times before. “I miss you, Daddy. Please come back now.”

Dean’s lashes fluttered. 

____

The instant Dean smelled the smoke, he knew what memory he was in. He watched, in a daze, as his fourteen-year-old self woke up slowly, face scrunching at the smell, before shooting up in bed. 

Dean knew there was something wrong with these dreams now. He had heard his kid’s voice, speaking to him from a distance, pleading with him to wake up. But he didn’t know how. He’d tried to will himself up, even pinched his arm, but nothing was working. He was stuck, and now he was stuck watching one of the worst nights of his life. 

He followed his younger self as he ran out of the room, coming face to face with the sight that still haunted his nightmares: Sammy’s nursery as it went up in the flames, his mother pinned and bleeding on the ceiling. 

“Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back!” John barked, shoving a squirming baby into his younger arms. “Now, Dean, go!” 

With one last look at his mom, the last time he would ever see her, he turned and fled out of the house, the baby tucked tight into his chest. Dean followed, numb, relieving the night like it was yesterday. 

Younger Dean ran until he was in the yard, standing out by the mailbox with his gaze locked on his house going up in flames. Baby Sam let out a soft mewl, reaching one arm out. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Younger Dean hushed, eyes flicking down and focusing on the baby, bouncing him gently. He moved one hand so Sam could grasp around Dean’s pinky finger, all five tiny fingers wrapped around his one. 

Dean turned his head back to the house, waiting for what Dean knew came next: John bursting out with his robe fluttering, his mom turning to ash inside. The moment didn’t come, however, and Dean was stuck in a loop of feeling the heat from the flames and listening to a younger version of himself trying to soothe a confused baby brother.

“What’s happening?” He asked himself, wishing wildly again to wake up. 

His kid needed him. He heard it in his voice, in his words, when he called out for him. He had no idea what was happening, or where he was, but he knew that Sam needed him. 

“Dad.” 

Dean turned in a circle, searching for the echoing voice. “Sammy!” 

“Please..." Sam’s voice came in and out like a flickering radio. “Dad, you hafta wake up. You said you wouldn’t leave me. You promised.” 

Dean searched in the night for Sam, but there was no mop of unruly brown hair to be found anywhere. “Sam, where are you?” He called, desperately. 

The only answer was the roar of the flames. 

Dean forced himself to take a deep breath, grounding himself. He needed to focus, Sam needed him to focus. If he was asleep, trapped from whatever the revenant did to him, all he had to do was wake up.

“I miss you, Daddy.” 

Dean felt a heat bloom in his chest. It was different from the heat of the flames. It was gentle and soothing like the sun blooming out over a clear day. He focused on the feeling, willing it to guide him awake. 

“Please come back now.” 

The heat in his chest exploded at the same time John finally came running out of the house, taking over him in tandem with an implosion of flames behind him. 

Dean blinked, and he was lying down, staring at the familiar worn ceiling of Bobby’s house. Sam’s face was hovering over him, pale and twisted with fear. 

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice was hoarse.

“ Daddy?"  Sam gasped, his eyes going wide. 

Dean blinked, slow and heavy. He felt like he had slept for a month, weighed down with exhaustion, but as he gazed at his kid, he felt something in him settle. 

“Hey, buddy,” He croaked, barely louder than a breath. “Told you I’d be right back.” 

Sam burst into tears. 

Panicked, Dean tried to sit up, grunting a little when Bobby rushed over to help him up. Dean winced as he shifted, still a little sluggish, but stretched his arm out towards Sam. “Hey, hey, c’mere, it’s okay.” He mumbled, voice cracking and dry from disuse. 

Sam didn’t hesitate, crawling over and burying himself in Dean’s lap just like the four-year-old in his dream had done. He wrapped his arms tight around Dean’s ribs, burying his face in his shirt, soaking it through with his tears. 

Dean curled around him, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Shh, you’re okay, I’m okay. We’re alright, Sammy.” 

Bobby was kneeling on the floor next to the couch, one hand steady on Dean’s shoulder and the other brushing through Sam’s hair. “You scared the hell out of us, boy,” He muttered, voice thick. 

He wanted to ask what happened, but his kid crying in his lap kept his questions at bay. Sam was still holding on like Dean might slip under again.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean whispered against his hair. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.” 

Sam pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red and face blotchy. He reached up and touched Dean’s cheek, small fingers brushing just under Dean’s eye like he was reassuring himself he was real. Dean smiled faintly, blinking against the sting in his own. 

“It’s okay,” Sam whispered, matching Dean’s volume. “You came back.” 

Dean nodded, leaning his forehead against Sam’s. “Told you I would.” 

“Don’t go again, please, Daddy.” 

A tidal wave of emotions crashed through Dean when he heard that name. 

“I won’t,” He vowed. “I’m right here. I’ve gotcha.” 

____

The living room was dim now, the amber glow from the old lamp lighting the room. Dean was slouched back onto the couch, a blanket thrown loosely over him. Sam hadn’t moved from his side for longer than a bathroom break, and only when he’d made Dean promise he’d still be there when he got back. While Sam was out of the room, Bobby had explained hushed and fast what happened to him. 

Now, Sam was curled up like a cat against his chest, one hand bunched up in the fabric of Dean’s shirt and holding on. His cheek was pressed over his chest, blinking heavily and fighting sleep. Dean brushed his hand through Sam’s hair rhythmically. “You know,” He murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “You’re gonna twist yourself up sleeping like this.” 

Sam didn’t answer, but Dean could feel the tightening of fingers in his shirt like Sam could feel him t hinking about moving. 

He sighed softly, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Alright, alright,” He gave in. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

From the kitchen doorway, Bobby watched them with something soft in his eyes. Dean caught the look and raised his brows. “You ever seen him this clingy?” 

Bobby shook his head once. “Not since the demon.” 

Dean nodded slowly, rubbing Sam’s back. “I scared him, huh?” 

“You were gone almost three days, Dean. I think he was startin’ to believe you weren’t coming back.” 

Dean’s chest tightened. He looked down at the mop of brown hair tucked under his chin and absently thought that it was time for a haircut. “He brought me back.” 

“That he did.” 

Dean marveled at the small boy breathing softly against him. “My brave boy,” He murmured. 

Sam stirred just a little, pressing his face tighter against Dean’s chest as he let out a soft, hiccupy sigh, eyes finally heavy enough that they fell closed. Dean pulled him closer, resting his cheek against Sam’s hair. 

“Guess we’re sleeping here tonight,” He muttered with a half-smile. 

Bobby grunted. “Reckon you earned it.”

Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windows, but inside, wrapped in warmth from his kid pressed against him and the comforting soft light, everything was still.