It's uncomfortable when John tells Dean to put Sam down and come over. Reluctantly, he makes a bowl for Sammy from the frayed and weathered fabric of the blanket, laying his brother's small form on the motel bed. He always sets up Sammy's bed like this, telling his little brother in whispers that they're birds now, making homey nests from trashy comforters and eating pretend worms. Birds don't need homes, he thinks, they grow up and fly away. It's a game, Dean thinks. Even when sometimes he has to remind himself.
Because, even as little as he is, Dean knows their home is gone. Knows John is lying when he says that the motel rooms are temporary. His father can't even bring himself to hold or look at Sam for long periods of time.
At first they went to day care centers. A few times to Bobby's. But, after awhile, Dean began watching Sam while John ran "errands," the trips getting longer and longer with a "look after your brother" and a decent sized pocket knife stowed in Dean's jacket.
So, Dean sings "Hey Jude" to Sammy when he cries, sitting him on his lap when he can't carry him any more. In fact, there's very little time Dean spends without the warmth and weight of Sammy in his scrawny arms. He knows how to warm up a bottle and change a diaper while he lifts his brother's pudgy arms like wings to tickle his sides.
"C'mere, Dean," John says again.
Dean peeks at Sam's red, chubby cheeks, watching his brother's deep breaths, eyes screwed tight as he dreams. Of ice, Dean hopes, still seeing fire in Sammy's eyes when the toddler is awake. Dean makes his way to his father, watching as John lays out cold metal against the hard surface of the dresser with tiny plinks and thumps.
"Do I need to remind you of how to treat these?" John asks. Dean straightens his shoulders, shaking his head with confidence. Dean knows the rules. Knows that Dad's weapons are dangerous as John's voice echoes "these aren't toys" on repeat in his head.
John nods, satisfied, picking up a new addition to his ensemble. It's long and silver, the wane lights of the motel lamps dotting the surface of it as John lifts it from the pile.
"This one's new," John says, his voice leaking a small amount of pride as he talks. "Got this one from a friend. Had to special order it." Dean stares at the edge of it, mesmerized by the sparkle. It's pretty, the way the light glitters against the side of the machete. Not that Dean would ever say that out loud.
"It's deadly," John says gruffly, "to vampires."
Dean nods in understanding. "You cut off their heads with it," Dean says in reply, wishing his voice sounded deep like his father's, and not small echoing against the tiny walls inside the motel.
John claps Dean on the back proudly. "Yes son, that's right," he says. "And it's very sharp." John is smirking now—something he doesn't do very often. Dean's father grabs an apple from the top of the buzzing mini fridge next to them. He sets it on the dresser.
"Watch," John says, pushing Dean back with a hand to his son's chest. And, despite the quick glance Dean gives to Sam, the small boy's eyes are glued to the dresser in anticipation. He watches as John raises the blade into the air and slams it down onto the apple, cutting it like a ribbon.
"It'll cut your finger clean off," John says in warning, his face serious again as he hands one of the apple halves to his son. Hesitantly, Dean steps forward, looking at the way the discarded fruit half rocks back and forth on its curved side as if it's trying to find its missing part. Dean gently touches the newly formed dent in the dresser, running the pads of his fingers along the gash with a shiver. He tries to imagine what it would be like to do that to a neck instead of an apple. He wishes he hadn't already dreamed it. Not that he would tell that to his dad.
John clears his throat, bringing Dean back to the moment. "Do you want to hold it?" John asks, holding the machete out. Dean furrows his eyebrows. From this angle, he can tell it's long. Longer than his own arm which is still barely big enough to hang his coat up on the motel hooks.
"Um," Dean chokes, before catching John's fierce expression looking down on him. "Yeah," Dean says, "Yeah, of course."
It's a blur as John hands over the weapon, guiding the handle into Dean's small palm. And then, Dean is gripping it tightly as John lets go.
It's heavy. Not as heavy as Sammy, but Dean can still see the way his veins jut out as his muscles tighten in response. Dean moves it a bit, testing it as John watches from above. And the lights are still there, yellow on silver, reminding Dean of Christmas lights he sees on people's houses during the wintertime. He moves the blade again, letting himself become hypnotized in the display.
Dean thinks it sounds like John is smiling when his father asks him if he likes it.
And Dean isn't lying when he says he does. He likes the weight of it. Likes the way it makes him feel bigger than he is. Likes the way it creates a shield between the rest of the world and himself. Likes the way that if he turns the blade just right, he can see Sammy's baby frame behind him, can watch the reflection of his brother's tiny breaths as they raise and lower the blankets. And Dean suddenly imagines himself with a cape like the superheroes in the cartoons he used to watch. Not that any of them had swords, but somehow it seems to fit, while the grown up Dean in his head stands on top of a building, his cape blowing behind him.
And he likes the way his father looks at him right now. Like he's happy with him.
"Someday I'll take you with me," John says. It's warm. It's genuine, but Dean feels an icy chill go through him. And, just like that, Dean's hand dips as the sword starts to feel heavy. John notices and immediately moves in to take the blade. Dean gladly releases his grip, swallowing.
Dean hears Sammy stir and start to cry. He watches his father stiffen a little in response.
"Mind grabbing him while I clean up?" John asks. But they are unnecessary words, because Dean is already walking towards Sam, and John is already turning back to the dresser.
When Dean gets to the bed, Sam's already crawling toward him, wrapping himself around Dean like a monkey, shoving his shaggy hair into the dip in Dean's shoulder while his breathing slows.
"Shhhh" Dean says, "It's ok. You're ok."
When Sam is finally calm, John is done cleaning up the mess and makes his way into the bedroom, sitting on the bed opposite the boys. Neither of them mention it when Sam doesn't go to John.
It's quiet for a minute while Sam grows bored, tugging at Dean's fingers for entertainment.
"Dad," Dean says timidly, "Is Sammy going to go out hunting someday, too?"
John doesn't answer right away as Sam rolls off of Dean's lap, burrowing under the blankets, unaware that he's being talked about at all.
John sighs, "I'm sure we'll find the demon before that," he says.
And Dean wonders why John doesn't say this about him.
But he doesn't.
Dean tries to push this out of his mind with thoughts of birds and nests while the three get ready for bed, Sammy curling up next to Dean's chest in the dark after John turns off the lamp.
"Hey baby bird," Dean whispers as he smooths his hands across Sam's hair. But he can hear the difference in his own voice as the moon strikes the machete through the blinds across the room. It's not comforting this time to pretend.
Dean feels Sam's heat on his collarbone. He hears his father's breaths across the room. Realization finds him, small tears falling into Sammy's hair as Dean looks down at the remnants of the broken blanket nest:
We're never going to fly away.