A piercing cry broke though the dark night, making Dean's bright green eyes snap open. Clutching the covers around him in his little fists for a moment in surprise, he relaxed finally when he realized the cries were from Sam in the crib that sat under the window across the room.
"Daddy?" Dean called out in a small voice over Sammy's cries. Earning no response, he sat up in his bed to look across the small room to see his father lying on the couch, a bottle of bourbon in his hand while his mouth was slack open as he snored away. "Daddy?" He tried again, but once more, nothing.
Pushing the blankets off his little body, he crawled across the large bed and quietly dropped off the edge. His bare feet barely making a whisper as he cross the floor, he wandered over to Sammy's crib. Looking up to the similar clips his mother used to push to lower the side of the crib, Dean's little fingers fiddled with the clips for a moment before, with a click, the bars lowered. Smiling triumphantly, he quickly grabbed the step stool that sat under the crib to line it up alongside before clambering up the stool and into the crib to join his wailing baby brother.
"Shh, Sam. It's okay." Dean whispered, crossing his legs to be seated properly before leaning forwards to pick up Sam and cradle him in his small arms. The moment he was picked up, Sam's cries lessened, however, he still hiccupped and cried a little. Rocking him slightly, Dean watched his brother intently. "When I was sad, Mommy used to sing me a song. She used to sing it to you too, but I don't think remember." Scrunching his nose, he watched Sam grab at his pj shirt. "I can try and sing it to you if you want."
At this point Sam's cries began to increase in volume once more.
Shifting the baby's body in his arms, Dean began to rock back and forth. "Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better." He sang softly.
So, with every verse sung, Sam began to quiet, though his big brother continued to sing, not only for the comfort of Sam, but for Dean himself as well.
November 16, 1983
… Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side- or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he's trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.
Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don't know how to stop it, and part of me doesn't want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won't remember her at all. I can't let her memory die…
-Excerpt from John Winchester's journal