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It all starts with a ham. It sits, idly enough, innocently enough, in the oven. Mary's in the kitchen, turning the pages of the newspaper at a sluggish pace, humming to herself a song that Dean has heard a thousand times but doesn't know the name of. And John's there, too, hovering restlessly from the fridge to the TV and back, grunting when the wrong team scores a goal. But his parents have none of Dean's attention. The ham has it. All of it.
Moisture trickles through the shiny surface split into hundreds of small rectangles by the net around it. It's making a hissing sound and the yellow light inside the oven casts an ominous glow against it, painting half of it in a red-tinted darkness and the outline of it a pure golden yellow as if the sun was hiding somewhere behind it. The smell is delicious - salty, thick - and Dean's mouth waters as he stares into the depths of the oven.
He's been there for nearly forty minutes when John finally kneels next to him and plants his large palm over his boy's small shoulder. He straightens Dean's grey t-shirt with a tug of his fingertips and brushes his hand through Dean's soft, long curls. Dean doesn't move or pay him any attention: he's still staring at the ham. It's 6pm on one May evening, and there's a thought shaping up inside Dean's head.
"What's going on with you, Dean?" John asks him, still stroking his hair, "You think the dinner will stop cooking if you're not watching it or what?"
Dean pouts. His brows crease and his eyes steel over as he stares at the ham intently for a moment, nailing it down with his gaze before turning to John.
"What would happen to Sammy if we put him in the oven, Dad?" he asks, deadpan, "Would he turn all pink, too?"
For a moment, John just stares. Then he lets out an awkward laugh and pats his son's head.
"Now that's a thing we don't want to find out. Mary? You hear this kid?"
Mary lifts her head and Dean turns towards her.
"What?" she asks, absent, a little surprised that she's been brought out of the crosswords puzzle.
Before John can open his mouth, Dean answers for him.
"I wanna put Sammy in the oven, Mom."
There's a short silence. Then Mary sighs, brushes her hand through her hair and returns to the puzzle.
"Don't put your brother in the oven, Dean. John, those potatoes need to start boiling now, please, or they'll be late."
Dean climbs out of his bed late at night. He picks up his bunny from the floor and looks supiciously at the doorway before wandering towards it. The stairway's blocked by a gate again, and he runs his fingers over the painted wood as he passes it, but he's not going downstairs. The house is large and silent and dark, and he feels shivers through his spine, but he's heading for Sammy's room and once he's there, he closes the door behind him, locking the rest of the house out. With his bunny still under his arm, he climbs up against Sammy's crib and watches him inside: their eyes meet, and he reaches his hand through the bars to poke at the baby's cheek. He grimaces a little and Sam makes a whiny sound. He's soft and smooth and smells weird, a little sickeningly sweet and a little like baby poop. Dean grabs the bars again and the bunny falls down with a thud from under his arm, but he doesn't notice.
"I love you, Sammy," he tells the baby because that's what his parents have taught him to say, but he thinks the baby's too dumb to understand him and it all seems quite pointless, "I do. But you've gotta go. I was here first."
He drops down from the crib and looks around. The floor's cold. Above him, the stars are gently bouncing in their strings. He thinks, trying to find something that will let him reach into the crib, but there's just that one big chair against the wall. He's not sure if he can climb on it. Finally, with a frustrated pout, he picks up a block from the floor and turns back to Sam's crib. Sam's watching him, big blue eyes round and dark, and Dean shoves the block into his crib. It has numbers and letters on it, but Dean doesn't know what any of them are. He keeps shoving it until it presses against Sam's face.
"Eat it."
Sam watches him curiously.
"I said eat it."
It's too big for Sam to eat. Dean kneels down on the floor, picks up his bunny and walks back to the door. He reaches for the handle, tip-toeing to reach it, and lets himself out again. One more look towards his brother and he huffs discontently. Sam's already asleep.
He's got to go. Now before he grows up and starts fighting back.
The cooking ham haunts the back of Dean's mind.
"John?"
Mary's voice is weary.
"John, where is Sam?"
"I don't know," John responds a little defensively, yet his voice still remains mostly baffled, "Didn't you leave him on the blanket when I left to fix the roof thirty minutes ago?"
They stare at each other for a moment. Slowly, Dean places another block on top of his three blocks tall tower. It sways dangerously.
"Why are you back already?" Mary asks him before shifting back.
"I came to get the nails. Mary, where is Sam?"
As if both having the same thought at once, they turn to stare at Dean. Dean adds a fourth block, and the tower falls apart. A gentle June breeze from outside presses a soft kiss against his cheek and his toes twitch guiltily.
"Dean," Mary starts carefully, "Do you know where your brother is?"
Dean shrugs.
John lets out a sound and walks inside the room. He takes a firm grip of Dean's shoulder and turns him around - it hurts a little, and he looks angry. Dean squirms.
"Dean," John presses.
Dean squirms again.
"I don't know," he says, but he can't look at his father.
"Dean, tell me what you did."
"I didn't do it."
"Yes, you did. Where is your brother?"
Hesitantly, pouting, Dean looks down at the floor and pokes at it idly. John growls and shakes him firmly.
"Tell me, Dean. Where is your brother?"
Still pouting, Dean finally gives up and points towards the TV. He doesn't look when John lets go of him and rushes to the cabinet. As if sensing the tension in the room, Sam lets out a shriek and starts crying - inside the cabinet, where Dean dragged and locked him. John curses loudly and Mary rushes over just the same, and John tugs Sam out from between the VHS tapes knocked to the back and then there's yelling - everyone's yelling. Sam's screaming, Mary's voice is louder than Dean's ever heard it, John's red in the face, and Dean's crying.
They put him in his room and tell him he's not allowed out until he's thought about what he's done. He grips his bunny and cries on the bed, but so quietly that no one can hear him. He won't let them win.
It's July, and Sam watches him intently through the bars when Dean climbs to him again. This time, he watches him back angrily. He didn't ask for this. He didn't ask for a brother. He didn't want a brother. But they brought one in anyway. They put one inside Mary's belly and now it's here and it's called Sam and it's smelly and loud and everyone's new favourite.
"I hate you," Dean mumbles.
His bunny's on the floor again. His hand is in the crib and his fingers are wrapped around Sam's wrist, and he's moving the baby's tiny hand up and down as if banging the crib's mattress.
"I want you to go away," he says, "I want you to die."
His foot slips and he slides down from the crib, hissing in pain and holding back tears; he sobs quietly, curling up on the floor and holding his aching leg, but if he cries, then Mom and Dad will find him, and they'll yell again. He doesn't want that. Through his tears, he looks at the chair again. Fuming, his anger further ignited by the pain in his leg, he stomps to the chair and drags it over. He climbs onto it and reaches into the crib but he can't quite reach Sam; he tries to hit him in the face, but his fingertips barely brush against Sam's nose. The baby's face crinkles up and for a very still, very quiet and very long moment, Dean thinks he's going to cry and wake someone up. Instead, he sneezes, and Dean sighs deeply.
"Why can't you just die," he utters and falls back into the chair.
He sits there and watches his brother and he's so angry he wants to break something.
"I want someone to come and take you away. I want something to eat you. I want mom to put you in the bath and forget you until you're dead."
Sam hiccups. He turns away from Dean and watches the bouncing stars above. Dean takes a hold of the crib and tries to shake it, but it's too heavy. He falls limp again and stares at Sam, thinking of every bad thing that could happen and hopes it will.
Something flies past the window, blocking the lights from outside for a moment and Dean shudders, feeling vulnerable and exposed there with his back towards the door. He glances at it, makes sure it's still closed. Then he gets back up on his feet again and climbs into the crib.
He crouches beside Sam and then freezes in place, waiting to hear someone moving. His heart's pounding and his fingertips are cold and he knows he's in such trouble if he gets caught now, but if he can't reach Sam from up there, then there's no other way. The baby hiccups again and yawns, then closes his eyes and starts sleeping. Dean's still crouching. His heart's still going mad. It hurts a little. He looks around and finds the blanket, drags it out from under Sam and puts it over his brother. Sam makes a sound and wriggles: his small fists make rolling hills into the blanket for a while and then he makes a louder sound. He doesn't like being covered. Quickly, Dean removes the blanket. It won't work. Sam's going to wake the whole house up.
Something tells him that if he really wants his brother dead, he could just cover up his face with his hands and press hard so that nobody will hear him cry. He's done it to himself; held his nose until the world's blacking out. It's fun. It wouldn't be fun for Sam. He wouldn't struggle long and then it'd be over. He'd be gone.
Sam yawns again right before Dean takes a hold of his nose. He makes that first, ear-breaking squeaky crying sound before Dean's slammed his palm over his mouth and the sound muffles. But it's like - it's like his heart's breaking when he does it, and he lets go right away, and that same instant the screaming fills up the air and he's struggling to get out the crib but it's too high and he's too panicked, and his hold slips and the ground is coming up so fast, and -
And then the door's open, and Mary's there. She's holding him tight, pressing him against her chest, caressing his hair and he's crying because it hurts so bad and he's so scared and he's so upset and Sam's upset and everything's horrible, and he can't stop until he feels like he's gonna be sick. He coughs, gags and cries some more, and now John's there, too; John's checking on Sam, then kneeling beside him. His big hand takes a hold of him and he switches laps, and now John's holding him close and he smells safe and Mary's talking to Dean in a voice that makes him feel better, somehow; he doesn't know what he's saying, but he knows he's screaming something, trying to be heard, but it doesn't feel like anyone understands him.
The next morning, he wakes up with the first headache of his life and multiple sore bruises all over his body where he tumbled down from the crib the night before. He doesn't think about any of that, however, and the first thing he does after getting out of bed is rush into Sam's room and make sure he's still breathing.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispers to the sleeping baby, reaches inside the crib and strokes his cheek gently, "I think I don't want you dead after all."
It's August, and Sam's soft and warm. Dean holds him, absently eating his thumb as he watches cartoons on Sam's blanket on the floor, one arm wrapped around Sam's body between his thighs. Sam's squirming and trying to reach for his hand, and Dean lets him grab it eventually: the next thing he knows, Sam's trying to eat him, and his mouth is slimy and disgusting and Dean pulls his hand away again.
They get along better now. Sam's still a dumb baby and he screams a lot and smells bad, but he's better to hold than the stuffed bunny, he's heavy and big and safe and he makes happy sounds when Dean's with him. It's not so bad.
From the roof, John's hammering carries too loudly over the chatter of the colourful animals on TV, and Dean frowns before looking away. The oven catches his eye; he holds Sam a bit tighter, glances around and sees Mary carrying a big basket into the laundry room. Then he looks down at his brother again and smirks.
"You're lucky you're not a ham," he mutters and plants a small kiss on top of the boy's head.
Sam coos.