A/N: Weechesters. All shades of the very beautiful rainbow of Dean Winchester's emotions. And a somewhat sympathetic view of John. Dean is eight, Sam is four.
Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever owned Supernatural, the CW, or Sam and Dean Winchester. Sorry.
Left Alone
John started leaving the boys alone when Dean turned eight. Dean had a good head on his shoulders for the most part and Sam listened to Dean better than John anyway.
Besides, Dean looked after Sam no matter who he put in charge of them. Every single hunter or babysitter told him so. "Dean's a good kid. Looks out for his brother."
So when he left Dean alone now, the only difference was that there wouldn't be anyone to look out for Dean, because somehow, even at eight, the kid had devoted his entire existence to keeping Sammy safe. It worried John a little that no one would be there to make sure Dean ate or slept, but it was always only for a few days. He assured himself that Dean was at least smart enough to know he was no good to Sam if he was tired and hungry, and he'd be home soon if he didn't.
John ruffled Sam's hair and straightened up.
"Where you goin'?" asked Sam. John sighed. He wanted so much to tell him the truth, but Dean had made him promise not to tell.
"Work," answered Dean for John. It wasn't a lie, really.
"We moving again?" asked Sam, looking a little crestfallen.
Dean looked up at John for some sort of cue. John sighed and knelt back down at Sam's eye level. "I don't know yet," he said seriously. "I haven't decided. Probably."
Sammy sighed. "Why do we move so much?"
John looked to Dean this time for a cue. "The job, Sammy," said Dean. "Dad's job." Sam sighed again, but he accepted Dean's answer for the time being.
"All right, Dean, you know the rules," said John, standing back up.
"Yes, sir," said Dean. "Don't answer the door, don't answer the phone. Call Uncle Bobby if anything goes wrong."
"And?" pressed John, but Dean frowned stubbornly in his ever present mission to keep Sam from the nightmares hiding in the dark. John wasn't in the mood. "Dean?"
"Go play, Sammy," said Dean.
"But Dean –" he protested. Dean fixed him with a long, stern look. Sam sighed and turned. Dean watched him until he was sure Sam would eavesdrop.
"Dean?" asked John again.
With a backwards glance at Sam, Dean checked off all of his instructions aloud. "Check the salt lines before I go to bed," he recited, like the good little soldier John knew he was. "Anything tries to get in, shoot first, ask question later."
"Good boy," praised John. Dean allowed himself a little smile. "Look after your brother. I'll be home in a few days."
"Yes, sir," said Dean. "I always look out for him."
After John left, locking the motel door behind him, the Impala revving away, four-year-old Sam ran up to his brother. "Dad's gone now, Dean," he said. "Come play."
"I gotta get dinner ready, Sammy," said Dean, pushing past his brother lightly.
Sam pouted and looked at him with those puppy dog eyes of his. "Please?" he asked, holding up a little, green army man.
Dean smiled and took it from him. "Fine," muttered Dean. "Just for a little, but you don't start complaining when you're hungry."
Sam beamed up at him and together they sat on the beds playing army men. Sam always insisted that the little toy soldiers fought monsters. Dean always told Sam the same thing when he suggested it: monsters were bad; they hurt people, why would we fight them? And Sam, born hunter without even realizing it, always answered, "Cuz to save people, Dean."
Dean would look at him then, amidst their playing and say very seriously, no longer thinking of their game, "What if they hurt you, Sammy?"
Usually, Sam would just shrug. Innocent little Sammy didn't really believe in monsters, so the monsters couldn't get him. Only, Dean knew better, and the idea of playing army men wasn't very appealing any more.
This time though, when Dean asked what would happen if the monsters got him, Sam looked at him like he was crazy. "They won't get me, Dean," he said.
Dean frowned. "They might," said Dean. They got Mom, he added in his head.
"No they won't, Dean," he repeated. "You wouldn't let them."
Dean couldn't help but smile. "That's for sure."
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "You would…rip their heads off or somethin'," said Sam simply, not paying any attention to the face Dean made.
Dean jumped up. "Hungry, Sam?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "Too bad. I'm making dinner now."
"Okay."
"What do you want?"
"sghettios."
And Dean left Sam to his army men and his imaginary hunt, because he couldn't bear the thought Sammy with really monsters.
