OMG, I wrote a Weechester fic. I don't read them that often but I think they are cute. I never thought I write one but I got this idea a long time ago and it WOULDN'T GO AWAY so, here it is. I hope you like it, leave me a review!
I do not own nor am I affiliated with Supernatural, WB, CW, Kripke Enterprises, actors, or other affiliates there of. No profit is being made from this.
"I can't play with you right now, Sammy. I've got too much work to do."
Dean Winchester stood on the step-stool in front of the kitchen sink, elbow deep in suds. He frowned at his younger sibling but wisely turned back to his task when he saw Sam's starting to get "that look". The "look" was something Dean had never mastered but Sam could do it without even thinking about it. In fact, Sam didn't even know he had the "look" at all, he didn't even know what the "look" was. It was that wide eyed, puppy look and both Dean and their father could never resist it. Well . . . Dad could sometimes, he was a Marine after all but Dean . . . never. He'd finally learned though that if he didn't look at Sam he wouldn't have to see "that look" and it was much easier to resist.
"But Dean . . ." Sam whined.
Okay, Sam didn't exactly whine, Sam never really whined except when Dad was making him do something he didn't want to do. No, when Sam wanted something he wouldn't whine, he would plead. It was a tone of voice that went with "that look" and the combination could be lethal, even their father couldn't resist both the plea and the "look" at the same time.
Dean kept his eyes on the dishes in the sink. He couldn't look at Sam, he could resist the plea if he didn't look at him.
"Not now, Sammy." Dean insisted, scrubbing much harder at a pan than was absolutely necessary.
"Dean, I'm bored," Sam said in that same tone of voice, it sounded so lost and sad. "Come play with me, pleeeeeease?"
Dean sighed in frustration, "Sammy, I can't! Go play by yourself for a while, I'm busy."
Dean was getting dangerously close to really yelling at Sam and he didn't want to do that. The only thing worse than "that look" and the plea was Sam crying. The wobbly lower lip, the huge eyes filling with tears, looking like his dog had just been run over, his whole face crumbling as he succumbed to a real crying jag . . . it was like a knife in Dean's gut every time and the only thing he could think of was trying to stop it. Fortunately, Sam didn't cry often anymore, not since he was three. Now that Sam was five he could hold back the tears as well as Dean could, as well Winchester men were supposed to because they were strong and brave and tears made you weak. Sam didn't cry much unless Dean yelled at him, or Dad yelled at Dean. Dad didn't yell at Sam because as he drilled into Dean, Sam was just a kid that didn't know any better . . . not yet.
"But Dean . . ." Sam pleaded again.
Finally fed up, Dean threw the pan back in the sink. Sam had been after him all day and Dean was sick of it. To be honest, he wasn't sick of Sam, hell, he would love to play with Sam, he would spend his entire day playing with the kid if he could. Dean had responsibilities though, Dad left him in charge and he had things to do. They weren't at a motel now, they were in a house. Oh sure, Dad told him they were renting but Dean wasn't stupid. Maybe the gas was on but the electricity wasn't and the place was covered in a layer of dust with sparse furnishings covered with sheets. They weren't renting they were squatting, it was probably some one's vacation home or something, people who kept the gas on because if you kept if off for months at a time, you'd have to have an inspector out every time you came out to use it. Dean knew a lot of things that Dad didn't think he knew.
That wasn't the point though. Dean had responsibilities while Dad was gone all day. Although Dean would love to blow it all off and play like any other nine year old, he had to do his chores first. He was the man of the house with Dad gone and he had to act like it.
"Sammy," Dean growled, "I'm busy. I havta do do these dishes, then I havta fold the damn laundry, then I havta make lunch, I don't have time to play right now, get it?"
Whoops, Dean made the mistake of looking down at Sam.
Aw, damn.
There was "that look" and not only was there "that look" but . . . oh man, his chin was all puckered and his eyes looked a little too shiny. Dean had to do some quick thinking before Sam broke his heart.
"Look," Dean said in a soft comforting tone, a tone he didn't remember ever hearing from his father but maybe he had learned it from his mother, "I'm sorry, Sammy. I've gotta get all this stuff done before Dad gets home. After lunch I'll play with you, okay? Well play whatever you want, deal?"
Sam's chin smoothed out but the "look" remained firmly in place, "You'll play Memory with me?"
"Anything you want," Dean repeated earnestly.
"Promise?" Sam insisted.
"I promise," Dean made a show of crossing his heart.
Finally, Sam's face broke out in a huge dimpled smile, "Okay, Dean."
Inwardly, Dean sagged with relief, crisis averted. Sam trotted down the hall to the bedroom they shared and Dean turned back to the dishes mentally patting himself of the back. He was awesome at this big brother stuff.
*S*S*S*
Sam rustled around in the toy duffel bag. Well, the duffel bag itself wasn't a toy but they called it the toy duffel because that's where they kept all the toys. They didn't have many, they moved around so much things got left behind sometimes. They had a few stuffed animals, all Sam's because Dean was too old for them now. They had Lego's and army men, a couple of board games (Sam fished out Memory and set it aside for later, Dean always kept his promises), a GI Joe with a missing leg, a ship from Star Wars that Sam couldn't remember the name because he couldn't pronounce it right, crayons, coloring books, and some reading books. Dean was starting to teach Sam how to read now but Sam really wanted to go to school, he just wasn't allowed yet.
Sam got out a shoe box that was colored and drawn on to make it look kind of like a barn. A door was even cut in it so it would open and there were cardboard pieces glued inside to make it seem like it had stalls.
Sam opened the box and dumped the contents onto the floor. Over a dozen little farm animals and pieces to build a fence tumbled out. They were the type of toys that were bought at the grocery store in a little plastic bag. Dean always got the army men and while Sam liked to play with the army men too, he preferred the farm animals. Whenever Sam wanted to play with the animals, Dean would roll his eyes and call him a girl but Sam knew Dean didn't really mean it. He was the one who helped Sam make the barn after all.
Sitting on the floor, Sam started to carefully set up the fence, making sure that the sides came up to the barn before he stared setting up the animals. Some in the barn, some inside the fence, all while humming "The Farmer In The Dell". He was so focused on his task he didn't notice the bedroom door behind him slowly and silently swinging shut. Nor did he notice that the lid of the old toy chest in the corner of the room was opening at the same time the door was closing.
The toy chest was old and was built into the wall. Sam had inspected it himself when they had first gotten there. He thought maybe he could put his toys in it but the box was full of dust and cobwebs and he thought better of it. Dean had said not to touch it anyway since he might smash his fingers with the lid or something. Dean was always like that, always so worried that Sam was going to get hurt.
Sam happily hummed away, oblivious of the strange occurrences around him.
Then the hissing started.
Sam was so engrossed in his playing that it took a few minutes for him to notice the strange hissing sounds coming from the corner of the room. Sam's humming faltered and he cocked his head to the side listening. Slowly, he turned his head towards the noise and frowned at the toy chest.
Although he didn't know it yet, nor did his father or brother, Sam was more intelligent than most children his age. He was more skeptical than most children. He knew when something just wasn't right.
He knew that the lid to the toy chest had been closed since he had inspected it a week ago. Sam also knew that things didn't open of their own accord. He also knew that a hissing sound was always a bad sign. Whether it was snakes, or something called a gas leak, or the sound that dynamite fusses made in the cartoons, it was bad.
Still, Sam was a kid and his own curiosity wouldn't let him run and get his big brother right away. Being more intelligent than most children his age, he was sure there was a very good reason why the chest was open and why there was a hissing sound. He was also wise enough not to approach the chest just yet.
The hissing sound grew louder and then Sam realized it wasn't hissing he heard, it was whispering though he couldn't quite make out what was being said.
Sam sat still watching the chest. Now he was actually becoming a little frightened. As sure as he was that toy chests didn't open themselves, and that there was very little chance that there was a snake or lit dynamite inside of the chest, he knew it was even less likely for a person to be inside whispering at him.
"Ssssssaaaaaaaaam."
Sam's eyes widened and he swallowed hard as the whispering distinctly whispered his name.
"Sssssaaaam . . . . cooooome plaaaaay with meeee . . ."
Sam was no longer sitting on the floor watching the chest out of curiosity. He was sitting there because he was too afraid to move. He wanted to jump up and run out of the room and scream for his big brother but he couldn't seem to make himself do anything except stare at the toy chest that was calling to him.
"Coooome and plaaaaay, Saaaaammy . . . . cooooome plaaaaay wiiiiiith meeee . . . . ."
A hand, black as pitch, slid slowly over the front of the toy chest and gripped tight.
"Plaaaaaay wiiiith meeeee, Saaaammy . . ."
Another hand at the side of the chest emerged and Sam was finally on his feet. He kept his eyes on the chest as he backed away slowly. He was certain that if he turned away, whatever was in that chest was get him faster if he moved too quickly or turned his back on it.
As the very top of a head started to rise out of the box, Sam's back collided with the door and reached up to clutch at the door knob, twisting it hard.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was shaking and was barely more than a whisper as he pulled on the knob, watching the head of whatever was in the chest slowly rise up.
The door didn't move.
"Dean?" Sam said much louder, pulling at the door again, unable to break his gaze from the rising horror in the toy chest.
Then he saw the wide eyes of it, all white except for the middle which were as black as the rest of the the . . . thing . . . whatever it was.
Sam finally turned around, yanking the door and twisting the knob with all his might. The door was unyielding.
"DEAN!" He screamed, pounding his little fist on the door. "DEEEEEEAAAAAAN!"
*S*S*S*
Dean was in the kitchen, finishing the rest of the dishes. The sink had been running the entire time. If it hadn't been he would have been able to hear Sam humming from down the hall. He might have even wanted to check on Sam when the humming became muffled as the door closed. Sam was under careful instruction not to close doors completely. He wasn't supposed to close himself off completely from Dean or even Dad for that matter. But the sink was running so he didn't hear Sam humming, didn't hear the humming stop and certainly didn't the first couple of attempts Sam made to call him.
The scream though, he heard that loud and clear. He dropped the glass he'd been rinsing in the sink where it shattered instantly against the porcelain and he swung around, nearly falling off the step-stool in the process.
"Sammy?" Dean called out in alarm, hoping against hope that Sam was just calling him and that he'd only imagined the petrified sounding scream.
"DEEEEEEAAAAAAN!"
Okay, he definitely did not imagine that.
Automatically, Dean grabbed a container of salt from the counter, jumped down off the stool, snagged the shotgun resting against the counter next to the door frame to the kitchen, then tore down the hallway to the bedroom.
Sam screamed his name again as Dean tried to open the door.
"Sammy!" Dean cried out as the door wouldn't move, "Sammy, hold on!"
Dean rammed his body into the door, trying to get it to open but it wouldn't budge. Sam screamed again, but sounded like he wasn't as close to the door as before. Fear racketing up a few notches, Dean dropped the salt and tried to break the door knob off with the butt of the shot gun but after a few attempts, it was obviously not going to work.
Sam had given up screaming for Dean and was just screaming period.
"Sammy!" Dean yelled at the door.
He picked up the salt container, open it and threw a handful of the stuff at the door knob before ramming into the door with his whole body again.
Miraculously, the door sprung open and Dean found himself staring at his little brother on his stomach, clawing at the floor, his feet in the toy chest while he was being pulled by some force within.
"SAMMY!" Dean lunged forward, dropping the salt again to catch his screaming brother around the waist as he was pulled further into the chest.
Sam flung his arms around Dean's shoulders and hung on for dear life. Dean gripped Sam around his waist, holding just as tightly if not more so. Whatever was in the toy chest was still pulling on Sam and Dean was pulling right back, trying to get his brother out of the chest.
"Deee - eeee - heeeen!" Sam sobbed, clutching Dean's shoulders tightly.
"Hold on, Sammy!" Dean yelled, pulling with all his might and hoping that whatever was pulling back wouldn't end up tearing his brother in two, "Hold on, I've got you, just hold on!"
Dean looked around desperately, he had left the shotgun outside the door but he already knew that the gun wouldn't be much help. He spotted the salt just a foot away from him, if he could just reach it . . .
Keeping a tight grip on Sam, Dean tried stretching out his leg to the container, it was just a few inches out of reach. If he could just stretch a little more, get a little closer . . . he was suddenly jerked forward as whatever had a hold on Sam gave a sudden harder pull. Sam screamed again, crying harder. Dean growled, whatever this thing was, it was hurting his brother and Dean was going to tear it apart with his bare hand if he had to.
"Sammy, listen to me," Dean shouted over his bother's wailing, "I need you to hang onto me as tight as you can, you hear me? Hang on as tight as you can."
Though Dean knew his brother was probably already doing his best to cling to him, he felt Sam arms tighten marginally, his head pressing into Dean's shoulder. Dean gripped Sam tightly, mentally apologized because it probably hurt and pulled with all the strength he had. He knew he most likely wouldn't be able to pull his bother out all the way but he just needed a few more inches, which he was getting slowly but surly. He reached out a foot to the salt container again and this time, manage to roll it forward with his toe.
"Okay Sammy," Dean yelled, "I'm gonna havta move my arm and let go for just a second."
"Noooooooooo," Sam moaned, his fingers hooking into Dean's shirt.
"I gotta to get you free," Dean hollered, "Just hold on tight, Sammy, I'm gonna save you, I promise, trust me."
Although he couldn't see Sam, Dean thought he could feel his little brother nod his head, his little fingers digging painfully into Dean's skin.
Dean redoubled his hold with one arm and he let go with his other. He bent his knees swiftly, retrieved the salt container just as another hard yank pulled him forward again. Thankfully with the efforts of Sam, his little brother wasn't pulled out of his grasp, only wailed again at the sudden jerk.
Dean opened the container with one hand and with a silent plea to anyone out there listening that this would work, tossed the salt into the toy chest.
There was a sudden shriek and Dean fell backwards, his brother landing on top of him, still screaming like a banshee.
Not letting himself rest, for even a moment, Dean scrambled up, still holding onto Sam and ran from the room, grabbing the shotgun in the hallway. He vaguely registered the violent slamming of the bedroom door behind him. He ran into the kitchen and to the back door.
The door wouldn't open.
Dean only allowed himself to only try twice before bolting out of the kitchen to the living room and the front door.
That door wouldn't move either.
Running back to the kitchen, he skidded to a stop as he saw with growing horror, the bedroom door standing wide open.
So was the toy chest which was visible from the hallway.
There was the "something", crawling out of the toy chest. It's whole body black, it's head emerging once again from the depths, the white eyes with the black middle fixed on Dean and his brother.
Dean bolted back into the kitchen and with great difficulty, he managed to pry Sam's fingers loose from him as Dean set him on the floor.
"Don't move," Dean barked, opening the cabinet under the sink and grabbing one of the seven containers of salt lined up there.
Dean quickly poured salt across the doorway of the kitchen. Then for good measure he poured salt in a ring in the center of the room, picked up Sam and deposited him in the middle.
Dean hurried to the back door, throwing salt on the knob, hoping that it would spring open like the bedroom door. No such luck, it was stuck fast. He went back to the salt ring and sat down with his brother. He wasn't sure what he should do now. If anything happened, or if Dad didn't come home one night, he was supposed to take Sam half a mile down the road to the corner store there where there was a payphone and call Pastor Jim or Bobby since Bobby was closer to them here. He didn't know what the protocol was if he couldn't get out of the house.
Sam was crying hard and loud. He was nearly still screaming, in fact, his eye wide and terrified.
"Sammy," Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders, shaking him lightly, "Sammy, calm down, you're okay now."
Sam didn't respond, just kept wailing and staring straight ahead. Dean looked at him worriedly, what was wrong with Sam?
"Sammy!" He shook him harder, still no effect.
Suddenly, Dean realized that Sam was hysterical. He also knew what he was supposed to do. Hating himself he squared his shoulder. With a deep breath, he brought back his hand and slapped his brother sharply across the face.
Sam's head rocked back, his crying stopping abruptly. He stared at Dean for a minute who watched him warily. Then Sam started to cry again, this time a calmer, more quiet crying, the crying of a frighted, hurting little boy.
Breathing a sigh of relief he gathered Sam into his arms, petting his back, rocking and shushing him, telling him that everything would be alright. Dean had him and he was going to be fine.
Dean was facing the kitchen door and over Sam's shoulder his saw the long fingers and the black hands of the "thing" slink around to grab door frame, a moment later the face popped out around the door and stared at him, it had long hair that drooped to the floor and no facial features that Dean could see.
Dean glared at it, picking up the container of salt at his side.
"You can't have him," he hissed, throwing salt at it, with another, quieter shriek the apparition dissipated.
Sam shivered a little in Dean's arms at the sound and Dean held him tighter.
John came home later that night. He found his eldest son inside a salt circle, clutching the shotgun and a container of salt sitting at his side. His youngest son's head was in Dean's lap, apparently asleep.
Before John could say a word, Dean put his finger to his lips.
"He's finally asleep." Dean whispered pointing at Sam, then pointing down the hall, he added, "Toy chest."
*S*S*S*
It didn't take long for Dean to explain what had happened in quiet tones to his father, trying not to wake his brother. It had taken a long time for Sam to cry himself out and even longer for him to fall asleep. Dean had told him stories, when he ran out of those he resorted singing to him, just hoping that Sam would keep calm. The thing hadn't made another appearance but Dean had felt it lurking just out of sight and was certain he'd heard it giggle a few times.
John had grabbed a few necessities and hustled them both into the Impala. He'd carried Sam out with him, just as careful not to wake him as Dean had been.
Dean asked where they were going and his father responded "Bobby's" tersely. Then explained that he would drop them off and go back to the house, get the rest of their stuff and smoke the thing that tried to take Sam. He seemed pretty mad and Dean hoped that he had done the right thing. He never quite got over that time he'd left Sam alone in the motel and coming back to find that creature hovering over him. Neither had John.
Dean sat in the back seat with Sam, staring listlessly out the window, Sam was laying beside him. Dean was absently running his hand through Sam's hair, trying to comfort him even in sleep, or maybe trying to comfort himself. He was worried. Dean had been trying to protect Sam from the knowledge of all the frightening things out there for years. Now, though, something had come after Sam. He hadn't remembered the thing that attacked him before but how was Dean going to explain what happened to him now?
As he glanced down at his baby brother and had an idea. He didn't want to lie to Sam but it was better for Sam if he didn't know the truth, not yet, not until he was older . . . not until Dean didn't have a choice anymore.
*S*S*S*
Sam woke up, disoriented. It took him a moment to realize he was in the car. He sat up and scrubbed his arm over his eyes.
"What's happening?" He asked sleepily.
"Goin' to Bobby's,"Dean answered him, staring out the window.
Sam frowned, "Why?"
Dean sighed, "'Cause Dad said so, that's why."
Sam gasped suddenly, "Dean, what was that thing?"
"What thing?" Dean asked, still staring out the window.
"The thing in the toy chest," Sam answered urgently, the fear inside his gut building again, "The thing that grabbed me?"
Dean finally looked at him, "What are you talking about?"
"The thing!" Sam hissed at him, he glanced at the back of his father's head.
He could see John's eyes in the review mirror, he was watching them but didn't say anything so he turned back to Dean.
In the low light caused by the streetlights and passing cars on the road, he saw Dean frowning at him, "I still don't know what you're blabbing about, Sammy."
Sam huffed in frustration, "The thing that came out of the toy chest, it grabbed me. You saved me, remember?"
Dean shook his head, "Sounds like a crazy dream if you ask me."
Sam shook his own head, "It wasn't a dream, Dean. Don't you remember?"
"Sammy, don't be dumb." Dean admonished, "You know that couldn't really happen, you just had a bad dream that's all.
Sam frowned, suddenly not very certain that what had happened was real.
"Are you sure?" Sam asked tentatively, "Was it really a dream?"
"Sammy, I think I'd know if something like that happened," Dean said in a condescending tone. "I mean, if you said I saved you, then I think I'd remember it happening."
Sam looked beyond Dean into the darkness of night, the fear in is gut slipping away.
"It was just a dream?" Sam asked again, looking at Dean.
"Of course it was," Dean smiled, "would I lie to you?"
Sam couldn't see clearly in the dark. He couldn't tell that Dean wasn't quite smiling in the way he usually did, that he was a little strained around the edges. So with a sigh, he took his big brother at his word.
"I guess not," Sam answered and then yawned, then laid down again, this time, his head in Dean's lap. "It was a scary dream though."
He felt Dean's fingers thread through his hair and stared at the passing street lights, they always looked funny from this angle.
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean whispered to him. "Everything will be okay when you wake up, you'll see . . . I promise."
As Sam's eyes drifted closed he heard, Dean whisper in an even quieter tone, "I'll always keep you safe, I promise."
Sam smiled, Dean always kept his promises.
Although I don't think John would be neglectful enough that he would accidentally leave his kids in a house with a ghost, I'm just gonna say that this particular one is dormant until there are children around. As some of you can no doubt tell, this was a very Japanese inspired spirit.