Archive of Our Own

The soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound effects of the video game on the TV were the only sounds breaking the quiet of the house. The air was warm, with the flickering of Sonic the Hedgehog and the smell of dinner still lingering. 

Dean sat on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. Sam sat next to him, a bowl of popcorn nestled between them. One of his arms was wrapped around Sam’s shoulders and his free hand rummaged around in the bowl. Sam’s small fingers were wrapped around the video game controller, focused on guiding the hedgehog to the gold rings. 

It was a quiet evening, a month after the incident with the revenant. Summer was rapidly drawing to a close, and with the knowledge Sam would be returning to school soon, Dean tried to soak up every moment with his kid that he could. The two of them had spent the day at the pool and now they were relaxing in the quiet evening. It had just been them today, Bobby out to deliver a book on vampires to a hunter friend. 

The TV rang out a triumphant tune, flashing Sam’s score on the screen. 

“I’m gonna beat your score next time,” Sam huffed, setting the controller down and stuffing popcorn in his mouth. 

“Yeah, sure you are, kid,” Dean replied, his tone teasing but warm. “You’re gonna have to level up a lot to catch up to me.” 

“I’m getting better,” Sam insisted, words muffled around the food in his mouth. He flicked his eyes up at Dean, almost challengingly. “Just you wait.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Alright, alright, you’re on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sam lit up at the challenge, picking up the controller again and restarting the level. The comfortable silence took back over, the room only filled with the sounds of mashing buttons and the occasional sigh as Sam’s character didn’t quite make the jump to collect the ring. 

Sam’s eyes began to droop after a while, his attention drifting. It was late, and Sam had spent the day swimming under the hot sun, and all his fun was beginning to catch up to him. He yawned, rubbing at his eyes as the current level finished. 

Dean noticed the shit. He turned his attention from the screen to Sam, tugging the popcorn bowl out from between them and putting it on the table. Sam’s eyes were heavy-lidden, struggling to stay focused on the screen. 

“You done already, buddy?” Dean asked. 

Sam nodded, pressing his cheek into Dean’s side, curling up more comfortably. “I’m tired.”

Dean leaned back more fully into the couch, pulling a blanket around both of them. “Go to sleep, then,” Dean murmured, voice soft. “Unless you want to go up to bed.” 

“No,” Sam muttered, eyes slipping closed. “I’m comfy here.” 

Sam’s breathing grew slow and steady, asleep. Dean smiled at his kid, brushing a hand through Sam’s hair. He gazed down at the boy, marveling at the fact that the small baby he once held had grown into the kid squished into Dean’s side. Though Sam was still small for his age, he was undeniably bigger than he’d been six months ago, and it made Dean’s heart pang with something bittersweet. 

The TV had moved back to the video game’s loading screen and Sam’s rhythmic breathing filled the space. The house felt warm and still, a stark contrast to the chaos of the last six-and-a-half years of Dean’s life. He turned his head to the clock on the wall, noticing how late it was, but he wasn’t quite ready to move. He was in no rush. For once, they had nowhere to be, nothing to run from. 

The creak of the front door opening caught his attention. The sound of boots thumping followed, accompanied by a familiar gruff voice. 

“Quiet night?” 

Dean glanced over his shoulder to find Bobby standing in the doorway. 

“Yeah, we’re just wrapping up here,” Dean replied, voice hushed as he gestured at Sam, who was now deep in sleep nestled against him. 

Bobby walked over, sitting down in the old recliner that was reserved only for him. The last time Dean had tried sitting in it, Bobby cursed at him as he swatted at his legs with a rolled-up newspaper. “You two have a good day?” 

“Yeah, we went to the pool and then played video games all night. Sam’s determined to beat my score.” 

Bobby chuckled as he leaned back into the recliner. “You better watch out then.” 

Dean smirked, glancing down at Sam. “Yeah, I’m not too worried yet. But he’s improving, he’ll be beating me soon enough.” Dean continued rubbing his thumb over the top of Sam’s head, the strands still damp from his earlier shower. “He’s growing up so fast, Bobby. Feels like I blinked and he’s not this little guy anymore.” 

“You know,” Bobby began, pulling off his cap. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d be sitting around, playing video games with the kid all day. Thought you’d always be up on your feet, ready for the next hunt.” 

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Well, we’ve had enough of hunting for a while. I’m just glad we have the time now.” 

Bobby’s gaze softened as he watched Sam nuzzle into Dean’s side in his sleep. “So am I. That was no life for a kid. For either of you.”

Dean couldn’t help the fond grin that appeared at Sam’s cat-like tendencies. “I’m just trying to be the dad he needs.”

Bobby’s lips twitched in a rare smile. “You are, son. Can’t imagine he’d curl up like that to anyone else.” 

Dean let out a huff of laughter. He let Bobby’s words settle into his chest, the firm assurance that he was doing his best by his son. Because that was what Sam was to him. The little boy managed to surpass the title of little brother, growing into something deeper, something more, the shape taking the form of something that could only be what a father felt for their kid. 

The quiet in the room stretched on, both of them content to just be for the moment. Sam stirred against him, causing Dean to tense, but he only released a sigh in his sleep before settling back down. Dean relaxed again, basking in the warmth of his son tucked into his side. 

Just when Dean was thinking they really should get up to bed, a banging that caused the front door to rattle rang out. Dean’s feet thunked onto the floor from the coffee table, sitting up ramrod straight, but still careful of the kid sleeping on the couch. 

“You expecting anyone?” Dean asked, eyebrows raised and voice low.

Bobby shook his head, reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall. “No.” 

Another series of rapid bangs against the door sounded, followed by a loud thud, and Dean’s jaw clenched. Bobby stood, pumping the shotgun. “You stay here with Sam, I’ll go check it out.” 

Dean didn’t argue, giving a sharp nod, though a protective urge thrummed through him. He wanted to go check, to make sure that whatever was out there wasn’t a threat to his son. But Sam’s safety came first, and if Bobby thought whatever was out there wasn’t an immediate threat, he’d stay back with Sam. “Be careful.” 

Bobby gave a grim nod, eyes full of understanding, before quietly crossing the room and slipping out the door. Dean tightened his grip on Sam, his senses sharp and alert, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He refused to let panic creep in, Bobby was handling it. 

Then, without warning, the front door swung open and Bobby took a single step inside, his posture tense. His eyes flickered to Dean and then Sam, who was still blissfully asleep, unaware of the tension in the room. His voice was grave when he spoke, “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Bobby’s gaze moved back outside before he jerked his head towards the door, indicating for Dean to follow. Whatever it was out there wasn’t a threat if Bobby was telling Dean to come look, but the tautness of the man had Dean’s heart rate picking up. Carefully, he maneuvered Sam so he was lying down on the couch, picking up Mr. Waddles from where he had fallen at some point in the night and tucking it into Sam's arms. 

His hands itched for the knife sheathed in his boot and he shook them at his side as he stepped into the night next to Bobby. His world shifted, spinning out of focus, as he took in the man collapsed in a heap on the front porch. 

“John?” He muttered, his voice sounding distant to his ears. 

Bobby’s hand gripped his arm, just above his elbow, helping to ground him in the moment. 

“Is he-?” Dean started, words stopping as a raw wave of concern and anger overcame him. 

“He’ll live, from a glance,” Bobby said, expression unreadable. “But he needs to be patched up.” 

John’s shirt was soaked with blood and he gave a small moan, the sight making Dean feel like he needed to throw up the meatloaf and popcorn he’d eaten. 

“This is your call, son,” Bobby spoke, eyes not leaving John’s form. “We can bring him inside and patch up or leave him be. Whatever you decide, I’ll back your play.” 

Dean’s thoughts were a whirlwind, but they kept coming back to his sleeping son on the couch. Unaware that the father who had broken his arm, who had abused him, had made an unexpected return. Dean clenched his hands into fists, resisting the urge to kick at John’s ribs. 

But John was hurt and Dean didn’t know if he could live with himself if he left the man who’d once been his father out to die. 

“Bring him inside,” Dean decided. “We’ll patch him up, make sure he’s not gonna kick it, and then he’s gone.”

The decision settled like a weight in Dean’s chest. 

“Alright. I’ll get the front and you get the legs.” 

Dean’s body was taut with tension as he crouched down to grab at John’s legs. His hands trembled with anger but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. No matter their history, he couldn’t leave the man to die. 

The sharp tang of blood permeated the house as they moved him inside, making Dean’s stomach twist. He knew that it wasn’t just the smell making him nauseous. It was about having to see the man he'd once called his father again. It was about the protection of his son, the little boy who hadn’t known the love John once had to offer. Dean’s eyes caught Sam’s peaceful form on the couch as they passed it and his gut clenched tighter. Sam didn’t deserve to be caught in the wake of this. 

“We’ll put him on the kitchen table,” Bobby said quietly as he guided them to the kitchen. 

Dean nodded, his face hardening as he held John’s legs in one hand and cleared the table with the other, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Sam. With a grunt they deposited him on the table, John letting out another moan at the movement. 

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Bobby said as he started cutting away at John’s shirts with a pair of scissors. 

Dean paused for a beat, fingers brushing over the first aid kit he was reaching for before snapping it open. “I know.” 

Bobby sighed, looking closer at the three deep gashes covering John’s chest. “You don’t have to do this for him. You have your kid to think about.” 

Dean pulled out the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can turn my back on him like this.” 

Bobby took the bottle from him, pouring it over the wounds and wiping away at the blood. John gave a deeper groan but still didn’t wake. “Well, you say the word and I can still smother him in his sleep.” 

Despite himself, Dean snorted. “Thanks, but I don’t feel like explaining to Sam why we’re burning a corpse out back.” 

The next few minutes were a blur of medical work. Dean’s hands were steady, a habit drilled into him by the man stretched out on the table, but his mind was elsewhere. With each wipe of blood, with each stitch of a needle, all he could think about was Sam. How would he feel when he woke up and saw John? How would he react? 

Finally, after what felt like hours but couldn’t have been longer than twenty minutes, Dean collapsed into a kitchen chair, cleaning the blood off his hands with a fresh towel. “He’s stable.” He muttered, exhaustion clear in his voice. 

John’s breathing was labored, but he would be fine once the gashes healed up. He rubbed the towel between his fingers, the coarse fibers slipping through as he exhaled deeply. Somehow, Sam had stayed out throughout the entire ordeal. Small miracles, Dean supposed. 

“No chance John’ll wake up and we can kick him out before Sam does, huh?” Dean asked, a bitter smile stretching his lips. 

Bobby shook his head grimly. “I don’t think so.” 

It seemed that Dean’s miracles ran out at that moment, small noises of distress coming from the living room sounding out. Dean grimaced, standing up and dropping the towel on his now-empty chair. “Stay with John,” He told Bobby. “I’ll go get Sam.” 

He strode out of the room, refusing to look back. He dropped to a crouch beside the couch, where Sam’s face was twisting in discomfort and he was muttering in his sleep. 

“Hey Sammy,” Dean spoke lowly, cupping the side of his face. “Wake up buddy, it’s just a bad dream.” 

Sam let out another sound of distress and Dean had to bite his lip to keep his emotions in check. Seeing his kid's nightmares never got any easier, no matter how many times he’d gone through this routine. At least he wasn’t screaming himself awake anymore. 

Dean patted the side of his face. “Come on, little man, you just gotta wake up.” 

Whether it was his words or his actions that woke Sam up, Dean didn’t know, but the kid’s eyes cracked open with a soft gasp. “Daddy?” 

That was a new thing as well. Ever since Dean had been trapped in a coma for a few days, Sam had taken to calling him “Daddy” whenever he was overwhelmed or scared, like when he was waking up from a nightmare. The title sent a pang through his heart, reminding him of just how young, how small, his kid was. Too young to have gone through all he had. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m right here,” Dean whispered, sweeping his thumb over his cheekbone. 

He watched as Sam’s face smoothed out in relief. Hazel eyes drifted down and Sam froze, locked on Dean’s chest. Dean glanced down at his shirt, cursing when he realized some of John’s blood must have gotten on him. 

“I’m fine,” Dean assured immediately, keeping up the soothing motion. “It’s not mine or Uncle Bobby’s, we’re both fine.” 

Sam’s face scrunched in confusion, still a bit weary. “Who’s is it?” 

Dean shifted, bracing himself for what he had to say. “When you were asleep there was a knock on the door. We found John out there, he was hurt but we fixed him up, the blood’s his.” 

He watched as Sam clearly tried to process Dean’s words. His arms tightened around the stuffed penguin in his grasp. “Why is he here?” 

Dean moved to sit on the edge of the couch, trying not to crowd Sam. “I don’t know, buddy. He hasn’t woken up yet.” 

Sam stared at him, silent and still, only his tight grip around Mr. Waddle’s betraying him. 

Dean leaned forward, making sure to keep his body language calm and collected. “You’re safe, okay? You don’t even have to see him if you don’t want to. As soon as he’s awake, we’re gonna figure out why he showed up, but then he’s gone.”

Sam blinked a few times like he was trying to clear his head. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. When his voice did finally come out, it was small and scared: “Will you stay with me?” 

Dean felt his heart crack wide open. He had left Sam with their father alone before, unknowingly causing Sam to be left at the mercy of cruel hands. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He nodded without hesitation. “‘Course I will. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Sam lifted his arms in a silent please and Dean didn’t think twice. He scooped his kid up in his arms, holding him close, and pressed a kiss into his messy hair. Sam buried himself in Dean’s shoulder, Mr. Waddles squished between them. 

From the kitchen, Dean could hear Bobby moving around and he was suddenly aware of just how close his kid was to the man who hurt him. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Sam nodded against his shoulder and Dean stood, keeping Sam in his arms. He carried Sam carefully, making sure not to jostle him too much, as he climbed the stairs. He nudged the door to Sam’s room open with his foot and crossed the room to the bed. He sat down first, keeping Sam cradled in his lap, and then gently shifted them both back until he was leaning against the headboard. 

Dean ran a hand comfortingly down Sam’s back. “We’re good, Sammy. He’s not here to take you away, I won’t let him. So don’t worry about John, okay? You don’t have to talk to him, you don’t even have to look at him. Me and Uncle Bobby got it handled.”

Sam let out a hum of agreement, some of the tension leaking out of his small form. Dean pressed another kiss to his hair before tilting his head back, and closing his eyes with a soft sigh. The weight of Sam in his arms was the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him from going downstairs and exploding on John. 

He kept his eyes open and his ears sharp, but the only sound of the creak of the floor as Bobby moved around downstairs. 

No matter what the man downstairs wanted, Dean would protect his son. Always. He wasn’t going to let John ever hurt Sam again. 

He must have nodded off because the next thing Dean knew, there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. 

“Just me,” Bobby’s voice assured him. Dean cracked his eyes open to see the man leaning over them. “John’s awake.” 

Dean tensed instinctively.

“He’s asking for you.” Bobby continued, tone even. “I can tell him to fuck off if ya want.” 

Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, the familiar coil of anger and hurt winding through it. Of course, John was asking for him, probably expecting Dean to come down like a dutiful little soldier. But Dean did want to know why he was here, why he’d shown up after all this time. 

He glanced down at Sam’s sleeping form, who started drooling just a bit on Dean’s shoulder in his sleep. 

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” Dean murmured, wiping at the drool with his sleeve. 

“I’ll stay with him,” Bobby offered, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Dean nodded, sharp and jerky. He trusted Bobby, trusted him more than anyone, especially with his kid. And Sam would be okay for a few minutes, safe under Bobby’s watch if he woke up. 

Still, it took everything in him to slide out from under Sam, easing him onto the bed. Sam stirred a little, but Dean leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple and he calmed. Dean straightened, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“If he so much as twitches-” 

“I’ll handle it,” Bobby said firmly. “Go on and find out why the hell he's here.” 

Dean took one last look at Sam (tiny, curled up around his stuffed penguin, safe ) and then steeled himself. 

He walked slowly down the stairs, every step heavier than the last. He walked into the kitchen, half feeling like he was walking towards a firing squad, and found John sitting up in one of the kitchen chairs, his chest covered by a flannel button-up. 

John looked up at Dean, his eyes bloodshot but clear. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. 

John spoke first. “Dean.” 

For a second, Dean thought he saw regret flash across the man’s face. But then, “Took you long enough.” 

Dean clenched his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest and stopping a few feet in front of him. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

John shrugged like it was no big deal. “Got banged up on a hunt. The cops were sniffing a little too close so I couldn’t go to a hospital. This was the closest.” 

Dean felt a nerve twitch in his forehead. “So what, this is just a pit stop for you?”

John’s mouth tightened, shifting in his chair. His jaw worked, the same way it did every time John was gearing up to argue. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble, Dean.” 

Dean took a step forward, anger flaring. “You coming here at all is causing trouble. You think you get to show up here, for anything, after what you did to Sam?”

John glanced away, just for a second. “I regret doing that, I do. But Sam needs to be tough if he’s going to survive what’s out there.” 

Dean took another slow step, anger flaring under his skin. “He needs to be tough?” He asked, voice dangerously low. “He’s seven, you son of a bitch. He needed his dad. Not some drill sergeant that thought bruises were a part of raising a kid.” 

Dean knew that John would be standing if it weren’t for the wound on his chest. “He’s alive, you’re alive. I guess I didn’t do a terrible job.” 

Dean’s hands were shaking at his side. He wanted to hit him, God did he want to hit him. But instead, he forced the words out of his throat, each one coming up like broken glass. 

“He’s alive because you didn’t raise him,” He pointed a finger at his chest, digging it in. “I did. I made sure he was fed. I changed his diapers. I taught him how to read and walk. You didn’t do shit but leave him traumatized.” 

Something flickered in John’s eyes. Shame, maybe, if he was capable of feeling it. “You were always soft. You get that from Mary.” 

Dean’s entire being was shaking now, trembling. “How fucking dare you bring her up. She died protecting Sam. You honestly think she would’ve wanted you to do that to Sam? Raise him like that?” 

John moved like he was going to stand despite his injuries, but the creak of the floor behind Dean stopped him. 

“Dad?” Sam’s voice called out, wavering like a leaf in the wind.

Dean and John turned at the same time, catching sight of Sam standing in the doorway, one hand twisted nervously in the hem of his shirt. Bobby was behind him, and based on the look on his face, he hadn’t been able to keep Sam from coming downstairs. 

He saw the moment it registered on John’s face that Sam wasn’t calling for him. Finally, his face cracked. Something raw and aching bled through.

Dean walked over and once he was close enough Sam reached out, fingers moving to bunch in Dean’s pants leg. He stood behind Dean’s legs, halfway looking out at John. Dean threaded his fingers in Sam’s hair, grounding himself in the solid, breathing weight of his kid. 

All of a sudden, John looked old. Tired. So unlike the looming figure he’d become in the past years. A little like he was maybe realizing everything he’d thrown away. “I didn’t come here to take him. I just needed a place to land for a minute. That’s all.” 

Dean didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to answer, in front of his kid. Bobby moved, standing in front of both of them with his arms crossed. “You landed,” He said shortly. “You can stay another night, but then you’re gone.” 

John gave a stiff nod. Didn’t argue. 

Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s leg and he bent down, scooping the kid into his arms. He pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple, whispering just for him, “It’s okay, buddy, I gotcha.” 

John didn’t say another word, just staring at the two of them. 

Without another glance, Dean turned and carried Sam back upstairs. 

____

Sam waited until Dean and Uncle Bobby were distracted. They’d kept him upstairs all day, away from John who was confined to the living room. But eventually, Uncle Bobby made Dean go shower and then he fell asleep in the recliner in Sam’s room. Sam slid out of his bed, grabbing his Scooby Doo blanket and spreading it over Uncle Bobby. 

Sam had been thinking a lot since he’d seen John in the kitchen for the first time. About all the things the man had done to him, had done to his dad. At first, seeing him again after all those months made Sam panic, insides turning the way they used to when John would send his dad away on a hunt. But the more he thought about it, the more he could feel himself getting angry. Not just for what he had done to Sam, but for the raw terror and anger he put on his dad’s face. His dad was worried too, Sam could tell, though he tried to hide behind a smile and soothing words. Sam knew Dean didn’t want to make him panic, but he saw the way his dad’s eyes kept drifting to the door, the way his hands trembled minutely when he pulled a blanket around Sam.

Sam walked down the stairs, one hand gripping the handrail, determined to say what he had to say. He paused when he saw John sitting on the couch, hunched over a cup of coffee. Sam chewed on his lip. He just had to be brave. He forced himself to walk all the way into the living room, chin up, willing his words to not get caught in his throat like they did sometimes. 

“You hurt me.” 

John’s eyes snapped up, looking like he’d seen a ghost. John opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. Maybe his words got stuck sometimes too, Sam considered. 

“I know,” John finally said, his voice hoarse. “I know I did, Sammy. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I was just trying to make you strong.” His gaze dropped back down to his mug, but his words didn’t stop. “I didn’t think there was any other way.” 

Sam’s lips trembled, but he didn’t let it stop him. He stepped forward, his feet light on the floor.

“You made me scared. Dads aren’t supposed to do that.” 

John’s shoulders hunched down, his eyes closing briefly. “I thought I was doing what’s best for you. I… I- the world out there-” 

“The monsters out there don't mean you get to hit me,” Sam interrupted, words growing stronger. “You can’t just- just-” His breaths hitched, but he refused to let his words get turned to mush. “I needed you, not someone who made me feel scared.”

“Sam, you can’t possibly begin to-” 

John’s words were cut off by the sound of feet pounding down the stairs. Dean appeared in the doorway like a force of nature, his eyes locking on Sam and relief flooding his features. 

“Sammy…” Dean breathed, soft and worried. His gaze shifted to John and the warmth in his eyes turned cold. 

____

Dean stepped forward, moving quickly between them, standing like a shield. He didn’t need to look at Sam to know what happened. He could feel it in the air, the tension and the hurt. 

“No,” His voice was low, a growl barely contained. “You don’t get to apologize to him. You don’t get to come back after everything you put him through and act like words can fix it.” 

John’s grip on his mug tightened, eyes flickering somewhere between frustration and guilt. 

“You left him, and you scarred him,” Dean’s voice was shaking with the weight of everything. “You think you can come in here and make it all better just because you’re finally feeling some form of guilt? Sam doesn’t get to forget. Sam doesn’t get to unfeel everything you did to him.” 

Sam’s small hand gripped the back of the shirt, pulling the fabric taut. He turned, looking at his kid, Sam’s face pale but determined. He was holding onto Dean’s shirt for Dean, he realized, to comfort him. His son, his brave, brave boy. 

Sam’s voice was small but steady. “I’m okay, Daddy,” He said, even though his hand was still clutched tight in his shirt. “It’s okay.” 

But it wasn’t okay. Sam shouldn’t have to be afraid of the one man who was supposed to protect him. He wanted, more than anything, to pummel his fists into John’s face, make him understand every ounce of pain he inflicted on Sam. His chest heaved, but he forced the tight pull of his shirt to keep him in check. He wasn’t going to allow John to make him do something he’d regret in front of his kid. 

“You aren’t his dad, and you sure as hell aren’t mine,” Dean said finally. “You haven’t been for a long time. And you can forget all that crap about protecting him, him needing to be stronger. Because when you broke his arm, it was because you were drunk and annoyed that he wanted to practice for his spelling test. It wasn’t some misguided notion to protect him that drove you to do that, it was all you.”

John’s face had slid into the mask of stone he took on sometimes that Dean had never been able to read. He knew that was it. They weren't going to get an apology, or atonement, or any of the other thousand things they deserved from him. All he had to offer, all John ever had to offer, were his twisted words that tried to defend his actions. 

“You were always soft,” John scoffed. “Coddling that boy like he’s made of glass. I tried to warn you, he’s not gonna last out there.” 

Dean’s chest heaved. It took everything in him to throw John through the nearest wall. 

“I don’t care what you think,” Dean bit out. “And for the record, he has survived. Demons and revenants, not that you would care.” John’s face parted in shock for just a moment at Dean’s words, and Dean felt the hand pull on his shirt a little tighter, but he plowed on. “But you left a child alone with bruises and nightmares, thinking that made you a father. Sam’s safe. Sam’s healing. He’s mine. You don’t get to lay a finger on him anymore. You don’t even get to look at him.” Dean shifted slightly, unconsciously doing his best to prevent John from seeing even the smallest sliver of Sam. 

For a second Dean thought John might argue, bark some orders, and expect Dean to obey mindlessly. But instead, he snorted, setting his mug on the coffee table and standing. “You want to be the boy’s daddy," He sneered. "Then fine, go ahead, take it. But don’t come crying to me because you didn't take my advice and it all goes to shit.” 

“You got what you came for," Bobby spoke up from the doorway, evidently awoken from his nap "Now, you’ll leave." His tone was icy, but there was no malice in his words. Just an undeniable finality. “And don’t come back.” 

John’s eyes flickered to Bobby, to Dean, and then Sam. He gave no argument, just turned on his heels and walked out the door without another word, gone. No fight to stay, no begging on his knees for forgiveness, not a glance back. The door that clicked shut behind him with a soft shink.  

Dean didn’t move, didn’t speak. He felt Sam let go of his shirt and a small hand slipped into his larger one. It squeezed Dean’s hand. “We’re okay, Dad.” 

Dean took a breath for the first time in a day. He crouched down, wrapping his kid in a strong embrace. 

“We don’t need him,” Sam whispered in his ear. “I don’t need him, because I have you. My real dad.” 

Dean’s inhale was shaky, a few tears escaping his eyes without consent. “What did I do to deserve such a good kid?” 

Sam pulled back just enough to be able to look at Dean. His small hands wiped away the tears on Dean's cheeks, his expression tender. Dean choked up again at the action, at his little boy who had been through so much, more than most adults could stand to go through, and was still so gentle and kind. “You’ve always been my dad. I’m a good kid because you’re a good dad.” 

Dean shook his head, a quiet laugh full of emotion escaping him. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever done, Sammy.” He pressed his forehead to Sam’s, unwilling to let go. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through. That I couldn’t protect you from it.” 

Sam nestled into him, his little arms wrapping around his neck. “It’s okay, ‘cause you’re here. You always make it better.” 

The unconditional love behind those words threatened to undo Dean completely. Instead of breaking down, he held his son tighter. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. You’re stuck with me.” 

Sam giggled and it was Dean’s favorite sound in the world. “I like it that way.” 

He tucked Sam closer like he could shield him from the world with just his arms. 

“Love you, Dad.”

____

Dean lay in his bed, one arm thrown over his face as he desperately wished for himself to just go to sleep. He was tired, and the bags under his eyes weren’t pretty. Bobby had taken one look at him and sent him to bed. Dean had checked on Sam before he tumbled into his bed, and found his kid passed out with a book open in his lap, so he turned off the lamp with a chuckle and left him be. 

Tired as he was, Dean’s mind wouldn’t shut off. Every time he closed his eyes he heard John’s words, saw Sam’s pale face. Just when he was debating on whether a finger of whiskey would help him drift off, he heard soft footsteps. He didn’t move except to pull his arm off his face as Sam padded in, Mr. Waddles clutched in his grasp. 

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said, rubbing at his eyes to get him somewhere closer to awake. “Can’t sleep either?” 

Sam shook his head, his normal curls flattened from sleep. “Bad dream,” He whispered. 

Dean shifted, patting the open side of his bed and Sam didn’t hesitate, climbing in and curling up on his side. Dean pulled his blanket over Sam, waiting for his kid to go back to sleep like he normally did after a nightmare, but instead, Sam’s eyes stayed open, watching Dean.

“You want me to read you a story or something?” Dean asked, smoothing down the unruly curls. 

Sam was quiet for a long moment, but then almost shyly, he asked: “Can we build a fort?” 

Dean blinked. “A fort?” 

“Like… with pillows and blankets.” 

Dean’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” 

Twenty minutes later, every blanket in the house had been relocated to the living room. Chairs were pulled in, blankets pulled overtop of them and tucked into corners. Dean crawled inside the newly constructed fort with a flashlight in one hand and a bag of pretzels in the other. Sam was already inside, propped up on a pile of pillows and grinning like it was Christmas morning. 

“What the hell is this?” 

Dean’s head jerked around to the open flap of the fort and found Bobby peering in, squinting at the fort like he was trying to tell if what he was seeing was true. 

“A fort,” Sam answered, saying it like it should be obvious. 

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “You two idjits take over my living room instead of sleeping and I don’t even get an invitation?” 

“I don’t know, Bobby,” Dean said, sharing a teasing grin with Sam. “You think you could even fit?” 

Bobby glared at him and grumbled something under his breath that Sam probably shouldn’t have heard, but crawled inside the admittedly gigantic fort. He leaned back against the couch with a huff. “This is nice,” Bobby admitted from his spot on the floor. 

Dean tossed a pillow at Bobby. “Told you, I’m the fort-making champion.” 

Sam giggled and something tight in Dean's chest eased just a bit. He passed Sam the pretzels and grabbed the TV remote, turning it on so the glow from the screen lit the inside of the fort where blankets were carefully tucked around the TV's edges. “Alright, Sammy, dealer’s choice.” 

Sam hummed thoughtfully, resting his chin on top of Mr. Waddles. “Can we watch Robin Hood?"

Dean mocked-groaned. “Again?” 

“It’s a classic,” Bobby chimed in, tone serious. 

Dean shot him a look. “Et tu, Bruce?” 

Bobby just smirked and threw a pretzel at his head, which bounced off him and onto Sam’s lap. The boy shook with his giggles, picking up the pretzel and shoving it in his mouth. 

Dean pressed play. 

The soft glow from the movie danced across the blanket fort in shifting colors. Sam settled back against Dean’s side, warm and safe and drowsy, and Dean wrapped his arm around him and pulled him closer. Not even fifteen minutes into the movie, Sam’s head dropped completely onto Dean, his thumb ideally stroking the soft fabric of Dean’s hoodie. Bobby nodded off not soon after, his quiet snores filling the fort. 

Sam shifted against him. “You’re not…” He trailed off, voice small and hesitant. Dean just waited, patient while Sam gathered his words. “You’re not mad at me for waking you up, right?” 

Dean turned, surprised. “What? No, buddy, I’m not mad. And you didn’t wake me up, I wasn’t even asleep.” 

“John used to get mad when I woke him up.” 

Dean swallowed, teeth grinding. Bastard, he thought viciously. He should’ve known better than to think that John’s visit wouldn’t stir anything up in Sam. But John was gone, hopefully for good this time, and Dean refused to let the man cause them any more pain. “You’re always welcome, buddy, you know that.” He said. 

And while Dean knew that Sam trusted him, he had always been a kid who needed reassurance. “Even when I’m scared?” 

Dean’s heart tugged and he gave his kid a small squeeze. “Especially when you’re scared. I don’t ever want you to be alone with that stuff.” 

Sam’s eyes blinked sleepily. “You always say that.” 

“That’s ‘cause I always mean it.” 

Sam curled into Dean’s side tighter, voice slightly muddled by Dean’s hoodie. “You can come to me when you’re scared too. I know he scared you.” 

Dean closed his eyes against the lump in his throat. “He did, but you made it better, Sammy. You always make it better. You’re my whole world, kiddo, nothing’s ever gonna change that.” 

Sam murmured something soft and content, words lost to sleep. Dean pressed a kiss to his hair, looking around at their ridiculous blanket fort. 

The low tones from the movie still playing were the only sounds in the quiet of the house. The air was warm from Bobby’s presence nearby and his son tucked safe into his side.