Sammy's Bad Day
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: It's Dean's first day of school, and Sammy is having a rough day without his big brother. John feels helpless as his youngest suddenly becomes extremely accident prone, and wonders if Dean's absence is to blame...or something else. Pre-series. Wee!chesters. Warning: Pro-John.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.
Chapter One
"Here we are, kiddo," said John, stopping outside the open classroom door of Mrs. Benzel's first grade classroom. "Room number seven."
"Seven's a lucky number," Dean stated matter-of-factly.
"It sure is, buddy. See? The school year's already off to a good start," said John, whilst playing a game of hand-over-hand to hold onto a wriggling Sammy, who was straining with all his might to get out of his father's arms to investigate the noisy and exciting classroom filled with other children and undoubtedly some toys. "You ready, Dean?"
Six-year-old Dean glanced up at his Dad before peeking his head around the door frame, staring apprehensively into the bustling classroom, scoping it out. Dean withdrew his head before anyone spotted him, shrinking away from the door again and gripping the straps of his backpack tightly, feeling enormously out-of-place. Dean knew school was where he was supposed to be. It was where all the other kids his age went all day. But he was also painfully aware that he wasn't like those other kids. They may have belonged in school, but he knew his place was with his Dad and Sammy. They needed him, and he was anxious about being separated from his family, even if it was just for a short time; he honestly didn't know what they were going to do without him.
John was thinking the exact same thing as he gazed down at his eldest son. "You'll be alright, Dean. So will me and Sammy. And you'll feel better after you meet your teacher—I know I will. Come on, kiddo." He moved toward the door, knowing Dean would be more comfortable stepping into the new environment if he led the way. John stopped short when he felt Dean tug on his sleeve, looking up at him with wide, hesitant green eyes.
"Wait, Dad," Dean pleaded anxiously. John immediately lowered himself to Dean's eye level, one knee on the linoleum floor, and sat Sammy down on his raised bent knee, one arm still around the toddler's bare midriff, where his shirt with the monster truck on it had ridden up from all his squirming. John held fast, preventing the adventurous toddler from wrecking havoc on the unsuspecting first grade class. His other hand went to Dean's shoulder, and he spoke to him with a voice filled with concern. "What's wrong, son?"
"What if...what if my teacher knows?" Dean whispered in John's ear.
"Knows what?" John asked, also in a hushed voice. There was any number of things Dean could be afraid of his teacher knowing about him and his family, all of which would raise more than a few eyebrows in administration.
"That...that I never went to kindergarten," Dean said, looking anxiously over his shoulder, as if afraid his teacher was eavesdropping and would now assure that he was kicked out of school for trying to trick the system.
"Oh, that," said John dismissively, stopping himself from chuckling. Dean's face was still deadly serious and deeply troubled, and it wouldn't help his situation any to think his Dad was laughing at his fears. "I took care of it. As far as the school knows, you passed kindergarten with flying colors."
"You mean...you lied?" Dean said, his voice now barely audible.
John really didn't feel like having this conversation right now, but he supposed Dean had to know about his cover story so he wouldn't get tripped up if his teacher asked him about his old school. Before, when they still lived in Kansas, Dean had been enormously excited about starting kindergarten. But a lot of things had happened since then; he was a different kid now. When Dean turned five and the time to register arrived, John had intended to enroll Dean in school. But when it came time to sign Dean up, John just couldn't do it. He had considered half-day kindergarten, but no—he couldn't even bring himself to do that; his paranoia wouldn't allow it. John had some serious and justifiable trust issues, and at the time, the idea of placing his son in a building with several hundred strangers was unthinkable to him—anything could happen! But Dean was a year older now, and a year wiser. John had taught him the basics of how to protect himself and dosed him with more cautions of the dangers of the world than any kid his age should ever have to know. And now he could at least send his eldest child to school with some small amount of reassurance that he could look out for himself if, God forbid, something were to happen.
"Not entirely," John said, "I told the Principal that we've been moving around a lot, and that things have been hard since," he swallowed. "...since your mother. I think they understood."
"But what if the other kids can tell?" said Dean anxiously, "What if they think I'm dumb 'cos I didn't go to kindergarten?"
"I've never heard of a kid who skipped a grade because they were dumb, Dean," said John, with an encouraging smile. "You deserve to be with other kids your age. You're just as smart as any of those snot-nosed kids in there. Maybe even smarter. I let you bypass kindergarten because I know you can handle anything that first grade can throw at you. And I won't let any administrate dictator tell me otherwise."
Dean positively glowed under his father's praise, a shy smile turning up the corners of his lips. "You really think I'm smart, Dad?"
"You betcha, kiddo," said John, hand now on the back of Dean's neck. "You're a good listener. You're great at following directions, which I know your teacher's gonna appreciate. You're a fast learner, you're responsible, and you've got a good head on your shoulders. You're gonna be great."
Dean's smile was like the sun. "Dad, d'you think the kids here are learning the same kinda stuff I've been learning?"
"No, Dean. I don't think so. They typically stick to the three R's," John continued to speak quietly, lest any parent, student, or teacher overhear and have their curiosity piqued; he seriously doubted any other first grader in there was learning how to field strip a Browning, and he sure as hell didn't want them knowing his kid could. "And it might be a good idea not to talk about my job on the playground, okay? Or anywhere else, for that matter."
"Okay," Dean agreed solemnly. "I won't say anything."
Satisfied that Dean was both reassured and wouldn't be perpetuating other student's beliefs in the supernatural, John straightened up, positioning Sammy in a one-armed side-hold, his belly resting against John's forearm. Sammy giggled with delight, tipping his head forward so he was looking upside down. And he was, thankfully, entertained enough by the doors on the new linoleum-tiled ceiling to halt his escape attempts.
"Ready, kiddo?" John asked, a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean nodded deftly, and the two elder Winchesters and upside-down Sammy walked into the classroom side-by-side. John felt Dean tense slightly next to him as he took in the strange new environment up-close; he had never been in a classroom before. Dean gazed around the room with wide eyes—at the alphabet banner running along the perimeter of the room, the colorful educational posters on the wall, the large chalkboard, the globe on a pedestal, the hamster cage under the window, bins of toys, pattern blocks and book bins, and thirty individual desks with little blue chairs lined up in six neat rows. Members of Mrs. Benzel's first grade class were occupying some of these seats. The rest were exploring their classroom, chattering among their peers. Some of the more unruly and unsupervised children were simply running amok. There was a decent smattering of parents there to usher their children into the first day of grade school, and John was acutely aware that he was the only Dad in the classroom.
After a moment of standing awkwardly by the door, the Winchesters were greeted by a kind-faced woman with honey-blonde hair and warm brown eyes, wearing a pale pink business suit. "Welcome!" she greeted warmly, extending her hand to John. "I'm Mrs. Benzel."
"John Winchester," John shook the teacher's hand, and she immediately passed his first test of character with her firm handshake. "These are my sons. The little one here is Sammy—"
"Hello, Sammy," said Mrs. Benzel, bending her neck to the side and leaning over so she could see the toddler from the same upside down vantage point. Sammy giggled and righted himself, John securing his hold on him. "But you're too little to be one of my students, aren't you? How old are you, honey?"
"Two," Sammy answered brightly, holding up a pair of fingers.
"That's right, buddy," said John proudly, as Mrs. Benzel beamed at the toddler. He nodded to the boy that was practically glued to his side. "And this is Dean."
"Dean Winchester!" Mrs. Benzel said excitedly, shaking Dean's hand. "It's so good to meet you, Dean! I hear you moved here from Kansas."
"Uh-huh," Dean nodded, deciding it was simpler to agree than to explain all the places he'd lived between Lawrence and Pine Bluff, Arkansas. He was already warming up to the nice lady who wasn't anywhere near as scary as he imagined a teacher to be. He also liked that she didn't use a different voice when she talked to him and Sammy like other adults did. "I went to kindergarten there. My teacher was Mrs. Hunsuckle. She had blue hair and smelled like cats."
"Did she, now? Oh my," Mrs. Benzel laughed appreciatively, looking up at John, who looked just as bemused as she did.
"Yep. That Mrs. Hunsuckle was a real character," John smirked, impressed at Dean's ability to come up with a fake name and story off the cuff; a skill that would definitely come in handy in their line of work. "Sorry, I need to let this one loose before he hurts himself," John said, as Sammy strained so far forward he almost fell out of John's reach, coming dangerously close to landing on his head. "Be good, Sammy. I'm watching you." He set the little boy on the floor, where he took off like a cat on a hot tin roof, making a beeline for the toys.
"That's such a fun age," said Mrs. Benzel, watching as Sammy dove headfirst into the bin of multi-colored cardboard bricks. "They're so energetic!"
"Tell me about it," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sammy can be a real handful sometimes. But Dean here is a big help with him," said John, drawing Dean into a one-armed side-hug.
"I'm sure Dean is a great big brother," Mrs. Benzel smiled. Dean's cheeks colored as he smiled shyly, half-hiding his face in the pleat of his Dad's jeans.
"Hey, buddy, why don't you go play with Sammy for a few minutes?" said John, giving Dean a gentle nudge forward. "I want to talk to your teacher."
"Okay," said Dean agreeably. He motioned John down to his level, meaningfully cupping his mouth with his hand. John inclined his head down and Dean whispered something in his ear, before running off to join Sammy in building a structurally unsound cardboard castle to house the animal hand puppet kingdom.
"Dean seems like a very bright boy. I'll do whatever I can to make him feel comfortable here," said Mrs. Benzel, who hadn't failed to notice the way Dean clung to his father and was currently puppy-guarding his little brother from the other rowdy children. He looked to her like a deeply caring child; one who would be prone to separation anxiety. "I know it can be difficult starting at a new school."
"Dean's pretty adaptable," said John, feeling guilty thinking of the number of times they'd had to uproot in the past year. "He doesn't talk much, but he's a good kid. He's funny, but guarded. You've just got to get him to come out of his shell, but not force it. If you know what I mean."
"I do," said Mrs. Benzel understandingly. "I'll give extra special attention to Dean."
John suddenly shifted uncomfortably. "You've seen Dean's file, Mrs. Benzel?"
"Yes, I have," said Mrs. Benzel, delicately. "I...I'm very sorry for your family's loss, Mr. Winchester."
"John," he corrected her, and muffled a cough. "Thing is, I thought you should have some idea of what Dean's been through this past year. But I don't want him to have any special treatment, or be singled out. When Dean's here, I'd appreciate it if he was given a chance to just be an ordinary kid."
"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Benzel said reassuringly. "I completely understand. And I'll do my best to respect your wishes, John."
"Thanks," said John, slightly gruffly. He laughed suddenly. "D'you know what the first thing Dean asked me after I told him I'd enrolled him here was?"
"No—what?" Mrs. Benzel asked curiously.
"If the cafeteria has pie," John chuckled. "He reminded me to ask you, just now."
"Yes," Mrs. Benzel responded with a note of amusement, "You can tell Dean that the cafeteria usually serves pie or cobbler for dessert about once a week, usually on Tuesdays," Mrs. Benzel said. She was already growing very fond of her new student from Lawrence, Kansas—could tell he was a real character. She looked up to see John give Dean the thumbs up, and a grin broke out across the child's lightly freckled face that spread from ear to ear.
"I'm glad. Dean's really torn about being away from Sammy every day," John explained. "The two of them are usually glued at the hip. The promise of pie is sort of like a consolation prize to him."
"Does he have a favorite pie?" Mrs. Benzel asked, always keen to show her genuine interest in her students. "I'm pretty good friends with the woman who arranges the lunch schedule."
John weighed the question. Apple? Pumpkin? Berry? Banana crème? All pies seemed to be created equal to Dean. "Not really. If it has the word 'pie' in it, that's always been good enough for him."
"Do you do a lot of baking, John?" Mrs. Benzel smiled.
"Me? God, no," John said, thrusting his hands deep inside his pockets, his eyes suddenly sad. Mrs. Benzel was already anticipating his response, realizing now that the answer was so obvious and wishing she could retract her question. "His mother used to make it for him all the time."
"Well, I'm glad Dean has such a lovely memory of his mother," said Mrs. Benzel sincerely, her warm brown eyes shining with compassion.
"Yeah," John mumbled softly, eyes downcast. It was more than he'd talked to someone about Mary in months, and he found it was still just as painful. "Me, too."
Suddenly awkward, Mrs. Benzel checked her watch, casting John an apologetic smile. He nodded to her in understanding, and Mrs. Benzel clapped her hands three times, drawing the attention of the parents and about half of the students. "Okay, everyone! We're going to be starting class in a few minutes. So parents, please say goodbye to your students now, and if my class would please each take a seat—"
Mrs. Benzel wandered off to corral her students. She paused briefly in front of Dean and Sammy. John watched as she spoke to them, smiling, and with her back to him, bent down in front of Sammy. He saw Mrs. Benzel's elbow raise in what he suspected was a handshake with Sammy. She ruffled Sammy's hair and straightened up. John watched the exchange with a smile; he could tell both his boys had already taken a shining to Mrs. Benzel.
John checked his watch, and saw that class was due to start now. He looked up to see Dean kneeling beside Sammy, helping him tie his perpetually loose shoelaces. Dean finished securing Sammy's shoe and made his way over to John, dragging Sammy by the hand, who was in turn tugging a teddy bear along behind him that was bigger than he was.
"Seems like you lucked out with your teacher, Dean. I think you're really gonna like it here," said John, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Okay, Dad," said Dean immediately, as if liking the classroom were instructions he'd been issued and was expected to obey.
"When school gets out, we'll be right outside waiting for you by the flagpole by the front doors, alright, kiddo? You come straight outside to us when class gets out; I know Sammy will be dying to see you. Listen to your teacher, and follow her instructions. Never leave the classroom to go to the bathroom without asking Mrs. Benzel for permission first. Stay inside the gates at recess. Save the change from your lunch. The school has the number to reach me if you have any emergencies," said John, tacking off his mental list of reminders for Dean as he went, deciding he'd covered pretty much everything. "And just...look out for yourself, Dean."
Dean nodded, taking note of the strange derivative on his Dad's final admonition, which brought him to his biggest concern about leaving his family to fend for themselves. He suddenly gripped his Dad's arm urgently, with surprising strength for his age. "And you're gonna look out for Sammy, right, Dad?"
"Of course I will, Dean," said John, slightly exasperated.
"Promise you'll look out for Sammy," said Dean, with an intensity in his eyes that was unnatural for one so young. It was so surreal for John, to have his own orders echoed back to him, with an unbecoming amount of authority in a six-year-old.
"I promise," said John solemnly, as Sammy stood there hugging the massive coffee-colored teddy bear and sucking his thumb. "I swear I'll look out for Sammy."
"You won't let anything bad happen to him?" said Dean, eyes wide.
John couldn't believe Dean would even ask such a thing. "Dean, don't worry—your brother's safe with me."
Dean released his grip on John's arm, visibly relaxing. He instead threw his arms around John's waist, hugging him tightly. John prized Dean's arms off and lifted him up in an embrace as Dean's arms wrapped around his neck. "I'm gonna miss you, kiddo," he said in Dean's ear, and felt Dean's grip around his neck tighten, burying his face in John's broad shoulder. Sammy, always hating being left out, dragged the bear with him, and used his free arm to hug John's leg.
"Say bye to Sammy," John whispered to Dean, lowering him to the floor. Dean turned to his little brother, opening his arms wide. Sammy happily hugged Dean around his middle, the naturally affectionate toddler oblivious to the reason they were all hugging. So when Dean said, "Bye, Sammy," it sent the two-and-a-half year old into a tailspin.
"Bye?" Sammy repeated, clinging tighter to Dean, his eyes wide with panic. "Where you go?"
"I'm staying here, Sammy," Dean explained gently. He had already told Sammy he was going to school, and only now realized that his little brother must have thought they were all going to school, like a day trip—and hadn't grasped the idea that his big brother would be left behind.
"No!" Sammy screamed his favorite word, shoving away from Dean, his little face growing red. "You come, Dean!" He pulled on Dean's arm, trying to drag him towards the door, but Dean stayed rooted in place, too heavy to be pulled by Sammy's little toddler arms.
"I'm sorry, Sammy. I have to stay at school. I'll be back home later today," Dean said soothingly, hoping to calm his brother's tantrum—half the class were already staring at them.
"NO!" Sammy positively shrieked, petitioning his father for help. "Dean no stay! Make him come, Daddy!"
"I'm sorry, pal," said John sympathetically. "Dean's got to stay here. But we'll come back for him later. He'll be home before dinner."
"NOOOO!" Sammy cried, fat nears now streaming down his face. He started hitting John's leg, furious at him for consenting to giving Dean away. John bent over, swiftly picking up Sammy, who began pounding his chest with tiny balled-up fists instead. "No, Sammy," he said firmly. "No hitting."
Sammy let out a shriek like a banshee in response to the reprimand, and started his current, inexplicable tactic of smacking himself and saying, "No!" whenever he was told not to do something. John couldn't work out exactly what Sammy meant to accomplish by this behavior apart from punishing him for saying "No" by beating himself up. It also made him consider picking up a book on child psychology instead of the occult sometime.
"I'd better get him out of here, kiddo," said John, bending down and pressing a kiss into the top of Dean's hair. "He'll be alright," he said, addressing Dean's torn expression. "We'll be back for you at three."
"Okay," said Dean softly, his eyes fixed on Sammy, wishing that either he could leave too or that Sammy could stay; he could look out for Sammy at school just like he did at home. But something told him that idea just wouldn't fly; no one else had their little brother or sister with them.
John smiled tightly, running his hand over Dean's short-cropped blonde hair, forcing himself to tear away from his eldest. He tried to think of it as just another hunt, where he was trusting Dean in the care of a capable and trusted individual. He knew he should feel even more secure with Dean being in a school, but he wasn't. He'd researched the history of the school grounds and the surrounding area, and hadn't found anything out of the ordinary. But he was still anxious for Dean, hoping he wouldn't suffer for missing kindergarten, because that had been his fault—hoped he would be a quick learner, that he wouldn't struggle, that he would get along with the other kids, and that he'd be able to fit in. Most of all he worried for Dean being separated from his brother; he was always strongest with Sammy by his side.
John paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, and Sammy blubbered, "D-D-Dean!" Mrs. Benzel put her hand on Dean's shoulder, gently guiding him to the last empty seat. As Dean's back turned away, John let out a long-suffering sigh, adjusted his hold on Sammy—now in his full-blown meltdown stage—and marched down the long, empty hallway lined with classes that were already in session.
As ever when John left one or both of his children, he felt like he was leaving a part of himself behind. Sammy was still screaming for his brother as John strapped him into his car seat, giving John the mother of all headaches. He got in the driver's seat and positioned the rear view mirror so that it was directed solely at Sammy, who was casting him a dirty glare of betrayal as his mouth emitted a sound that was almost supersonic.
When they got back to the motel room, Sammy bolted through the front door, climbed up onto one of the beds and dramatically threw himself face-down into the mattress, sobbing tears of fury. John set his bag down by the door and sat heavily beside Sammy on the bed, who instantly inched away from him.
"C'mon, Sammy. Don't be like that," said John softly, reaching out and rubbing gentle circles on Sammy's back. "Don't be mad at me. I was hoping we could have some fun today. Just you and me."
Sammy mumbled into the mattress, and John thought his response sounded something like a defiant, "No! Go away!"
"Fine. You wanna sulk all day?" said John tiredly, getting to his feet. "Suit yourself. I've got work to do, anyway."
John went to sit at the round table by the window and pulled his journal towards him, opening up to his most recent entry. Sammy lifted up his head and cast a furtive, tear-filled glance at him, quickly looking back down and hiding his face when John caught his reproachful stare. John lowered his gaze to his journal again, and it wasn't long before he again sensed he was being watched. And this time, Sammy held his gaze, his eyes scorching.
"Don't look at me like that, Sammy!" John exclaimed, "I did not abandon your brother!"
"You leave Dean!" Sammy shouted accusingly. "You a bad Daddy!"
John groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I told you, Sammy—we're gonna go pick Dean up in a few hours. And I swear—if you stick that lip out any further I'll to be able to rest a plate in it," he patted his lap. "Come over here and sit with me, buddy."
Sammy "Hmphed!" and buried his face in the blankets again.
John sighed deeply before rising to his feet and tiptoeing stealthily over to the bed. He lifted up the corner of a loose blanket on the still-unmade bed, casting it over Sammy's shoulder. The toddler lifted his head up, but it was too late for escape—John was already pushing on Sammy's side, rolling him along the bed, wrapping him up in the quilted blanket until he was a Sammy burrito. The little boy forgot he was supposed to be sulking and giggled crazily, fighting to tunnel his head to the surface with his arms pinned uselessly at his sides. He felt himself being lifted up, and finally poked his head over the edge of the blanket wrap, and found himself looking into his Dad's smiling face.
John sat down on the bed, settling Sammy on his lap, his head resting in the crook of John's elbow. Sammy tried to squirm, but was bound by his restraints. "Can't—move!"
"That's kind of the point, son," said John. "I want to talk to you. You're mad at me, right?"
"Yes," said Sammy, his scowl returning as he remembered he was supposed to be cross.
"Do you know what would happen to Daddy if I didn't send Dean to school?"
Sammy shook his head, his hair flopping.
"Not only would your brother be illiterate—" John saw the look of confusion cross Sammy's face at the new vocabulary word, and clarified, "—not able to read and write—but I'd have to go to jail. Thanks to a little thing called truancy, there's a law—a rule—that kids Dean's age have to go to school. And since I'm not exactly a good teacher, he has to go to a real school. Understand?"
Sammy huffed. "I hate school."
"Don't say that, Sammy. One day you'll be going to school, too," said John.
Sammy's expression brightened. "Wit' Dean?"
"Yeah. You won't be in the same class, but you'll be going to the same school one day, at least for a few years," said John, taking into account the four-year age difference between his sons. "In the meantime, you stay home and keep me company, I stay out of jail, Dean gets a free education, and I'm sure he's gonna come home and teach you everything he learns so you'll already be the smartest kid in class before you even start. That sound good, kiddo?"
After some consideration, Sammy nodded his head fervently, looking considerably more cheerful. Satisfied that his youngest wouldn't be shooting daggers at him all day now, John inched up Sammy's blanket to free his feet, setting him on the ground. "Alright. I'm gonna let you loose now, and you're not gonna hit Daddy anymore, okay?" said John, gripping a corner of Sammy's blanket and pulling. "Spin, Sammy!"
Sammy teetered back and forth on his stocky toddler legs, spinning on the spot as John pulled on the blanket by lengths. Round and round Sammy went as the blanket peeled off him,with John reeling it in. The tail end corner of the blanket whipped off Sammy, who almost fell over in a dizzy daze. John caught Sammy by the shoulders before he spun out, making him spin one time in the opposite direction to counterbalance his dizziness. He picked Sammy up, giving the toddler's smooth cheek a scratchy kiss. "You still mad at me, Sammy?"
Sammy gave the question some serious consideration before shaking his head no.
John let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "That's good. I'm glad. C'mon, pick something for us to do now. Anything you want."
"Read book!" Sammy declared without hesitation, clapping his hands together excitedly. Sammy loved to be read to. Mary used to read to the boys all the time, though Sammy was too young to remember that. John slacked off in the reading department, but he would make the effort whenever he had the energy as well as both of the boy's attention. John knew Dean was excited to learn to read so he could read to Sammy, too. The downside of that, for John, was he was going to miss listening to Dean make up stories to go to the pictures; he'd always found Dean's renditions far more entertaining than the original text.
"Sure, buddy," John smiled, setting Sammy on the floor. "Go pick one out."
Sammy tottered over to the massive pile of kid's books stacked on the far nightstand, checked out from the library and probably long overdue. The toddler returned with not just one book, but as many as he could carry.
"This one!" Sammy exclaimed, thrusting an orange volume at John and setting the rest in a stack on the bed.
"Green Eggs and Ham," John instantly recognized the cover, not at all surprised at Sammy's choice; it was his favorite book, and he checked it out in every city they went to. John lifted Sammy up, turned the boy around so his back was to him, and settled down against the pillows, where Sammy immediately rested his head against John's chest, snuggling in close to his side. Sammy's head went up under John's chin, where his soft hair tickled. John breathed in the sweet, fresh scent of Sammy's baby shampoo. He wrapped one arm around the toddler's middle, using the other to hold up the book.
As usual, he let Sammy 'read' the first page. "I am Sam!" the little boy chanted. Smiling, John turned the page. When John said nothing, Sammy, who couldn't read the page, took his father's pause to mean it was his turn again. "I am Sam!" and on the next page, John started, "Sam..."
"I am!" Sam finished the line happily. And so it went on like that, with John reading everything but the "'I am Sams' and 'Sam I am's'," where he left pauses for Sammy to fill in with one of the two options, sometimes differing from the text. They made their way through what felt like Dr. Seuss' entire back catalog, including John's least favorite— "You don't have to jump on me just because we're reading Hop on Pop, Sammy," to his personal favorite, The Pale Green Pants with Nobody Inside Them, which John thought would make for a pretty compelling hunt if he ever came across such a phenomenon in real life.
When he closed the cover on Yertle the Turtle, John set the book aside and asked his youngest, "What d'you wanna do next, Sammy?" before the boy could get a chance to suggest they read all the books again like he usually did.
Sammy tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Watch TV!"
"I think I can just about manage that," said John, reaching out and grabbing the remote from the bedside table. He turned on the TV, where it was still on a kid's channel from when the boys had been watching Scooby-Doo during breakfast. Sammy had been so enthralled by a talking dog that John had to remind him to eat, while he was certain he had heard Dean mutter, "Amateurs," into his corn flakes.
With a few notable exceptions such as The Looney Tunes and other shows he had grown up watching, John thought that most children's programming was downright annoying, but he did a good show of pretending for all the world that the sometimes mind-numbing content and grating voices on children's television were something he relished.
John and Sammy watched several tolerable-enough programs back to back. During commercials, Sammy would get hyper at the mere mention of sugary breakfast cereals, get up, and start bouncing on the bed. With nearly every toy commercial that wasn't pink and princess-y, Sammy would freeze and his jaw would drop as he watched the display, turning to John the second each ad was over, declaring the last toy was stupid and THIS toy was the one he wanted. John would listen to his pleas, smile, and say, "Maybe for Christmas, kiddo."
During the last few minutes of Sesame Street, John realized that it had been awhile since Sammy had chanted letters or numbers along with the puppets, and hadn't acted at all scared when The Count turned up onscreen. He looked down to see that the boy curled into his side was sound asleep and drooling on his flannel shirt. John checked his watch, realizing Sammy was right on time for his nap. John eased out from beneath Sammy, careful not to wake him. He pulled the blanket up over his youngest and lightly ran a hand over his curly hair.
With Sammy asleep, John saw an opportunity to grab a shower and shave. He had planned on washing up that morning while the boys ate breakfast, but that plan had been thwarted when Sammy had decided to dump his bowl of Cheerios over his head and John had spent half an hour bathing a toddler instead.
John stepped into the adjacent bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear Sammy in case he woke up and wondered where he went. He showered, shaved, dressed, and stepped out of the bathroom, scrubbing a white towel over his still-dripping hair.
John laid the towel over his shoulders and turned to the bed—which was empty. "Sammy?" he said sharply, pivoting around the small motel room, where his youngest son was nowhere in sight. "Sammy!" he called again, more urgently, his heart racing. Where was he? His mind immediately jumped to every worst case scenario imaginable for a hunter/parent—could he have gotten out of the room somehow? Had he just been playing at being okay with Dean being at school and had gone off looking for him? Had something or someone else gotten in? Had he been taken by a supernatural entity? Vanished into thin air? He had heard of stranger things happening...
"Sammy!"
A small head poked up over the opposite side of the bed, and John instantly felt himself relaxing as relief flooded through him. He moved around to the other side of the room, his heart still pounding against his rib cage. He swallowed. "What're you doing, pal? You didn't fall out of bed again, did you?"
"Coloring," Sammy responded, laying back down on his stomach, knees bent in the air. Sammy propped himself up on his elbows, grabbed a red crayon and furiously scribbled on a piece of loose-leaf paper.
John spotted a black permanent marker laying a few inches away from Sammy, which his son had used to cast darkness over his land of scribbles. He bent down in front of the toddler, holding up the marker. "Sammy, did you take this from Daddy's bag?"
"Noooo," Sammy drawled, his innocent, offhanded tone almost making John believe him.
John sighed, slipping the marker into his pocket. "I don't want you going through my bag anymore, Sammy. Okay?"
"Okay," said Sammy, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he pressed down with a yellow crayon so hard that it snapped in half.
"Did you take anything else?"
Sammy shook his head, his hair swishing with the movement. John surveyed Sammy's surroundings—army men, crayons, crumpled and discarded attempts at doodles—nothing out of place. He gripped Sammy's ankles and the kid kept on coloring as John lifted the lower half of his body up to check that he wasn't laying on top of anything to hide it from him. He searched the boy's pockets, and, finding nothing but lint, decided to believe the toddler. John straightened up and asked, "What d'you want for lunch, Sammy?"
"Macencheese," Sammy responded, not looking up from his paper.
"Are you actually gonna eat it this time?"
"Yes," Sammy said, "I eat it all."
"Fine," John relented, wishing the kid had asked for something simpler, like a PB&J sandwich. But that usually went to waste, too; Sammy ate like a bird, and John had no clue what it was kids had against crust. He moved over to the kitchenette to prepare one of the few meals he knew how to make. He pulled the blue box of macaroni from the single overhead counter, put a pot of water on the dinky burner, and retrieved the milk and butter from the mini-fridge. This time, he even remembered to add the cheese flavoring after he drained the noodles.
When he'd finished making Sammy's lunch and called for him, Sammy came running, holding his finished drawing in his hands. Sammy tripped over the rug in his haste, and John helped him to his feet. "Whoa, buddy..."
"Look, Daddy!" Sammy said proudly, thankfully unfazed by his tumble. He held up his borderline-Jackson Pollock drawing. "It's for Dean. It's a dinosaur."
"That's great, Sammy. He's gonna love it," John said, admiring the indecipherable drawing for an appropriate length of time before turning and reaching into the cutlery drawer.
Sammy turned the drawing over in his hands, admiring it from all angles. He suddenly gasped and dropped the drawing, which floated lazily to the floor. "What's wrong?" John said, turning at the sound. Sammy held up his finger, where a small red slit on his fingertip told John the boy had just got a paper cut.
"Hold on, Sammy..." John said, going over to the first aid kit on the counter and retrieving a Band-Aid. He turned to Sammy, who had his finger in his mouth, sucking on the cut. "Here, get that out of your mouth..." he tutted as he picked Sammy up, carried him over to the sink and helped the boy wash the cut clean. He set Sammy's bottom on the counter and dried off his hands with a paper towel before wrapping the Band-Aid securely around his fingertip. "I'm sorry, buddy. I know how much those things sting. But you'll start to feel better now."
Sammy nodded, blinking rapidly. John picked him up again, hugging the boy briefly before setting him in his high chair and placing the bowl of macaroni and cheese before him. John tried a bite to make sure it wasn't too hot before passing the plastic fork off to Sammy. While the toddler began picking at his lunch, ditching the fork and diving into the fluorescent orange noodles with his hands, John sat down with his deli turkey club and perused several national newspapers for leads on a hunt.
John was halfway through reading obituaries in The New York Times when he glanced sharply up at the sound of Sammy crying out in pain. He immediately got to his feet when he saw a drop of blood dribbling down Sammy's chin. Pulling down on Sammy's bottom lip, and saw that the boy had chomped himself viciously and the area was already beginning to swell.
"Good things always come in threes, huh, kiddo?" John shook his head. Sammy had had three blunders in the past five minutes alone: tripping, the paper cut, biting his lip—it had to be some sort of record.
John went for the freezer as Sammy sobbed behind him. All the ice packs he had were in the Impala, in a regretfully liquid state. He went to the mini-freezer and grabbed a bag of mixed vegetables, presumably left behind by previous occupants of the room at some point in history. He wrapped the bag in a paper towel and held it up to Sammy's lip to ice it as tears rolled down his round cheeks. In time, Sammy's cries faded to soft whimpers and he suddenly became fascinated with playing with the bag of flash-frozen veggies.
While Sammy played with his peas and carrots, John grabbed a baby-wipe from the dresser-turned-changing table and cleaned up Sammy's hands and face, being careful not to douse his bottom lip. He let Sammy loose from his high chair to go play with his new toy while he took care of the lunch mess.
John glanced at his watch; they still had a couple of hours to kill before they had to be at the school, and they had exhausted all there was to do in the motel room without Dean, the main source of entertainment for both of them.
"Uh-oh!"
John looked up just in time to see the bag in Sammy's hands rip in two, the contents exploding out in every direction. Sammy dropped the now empty bag, picking up a bit of semi-thawed carrot cube and sticking it in his mouth.
"No, Sammy," said John, striding forward and holding out his palm and considering the curiosity of being a parent trying to stop his kid from eating vegetables. "That carrot's old and probably doesn't taste too good. Plus, that floor's filthy. Spit it out."
Sammy seemed to agree with John's consensus for once, for he pulled a face and spat out the freezer-burned carrot into John's hand. "Yucky," he agreed.
"If you still want carrots, we'll pick some up at the store later. Okay, kiddo?" said John, going over and retrieving the trash can from beneath the sink. With Sammy's help, he scooped up the mixed freezer-burned vegetable chunks and threw them away. With the mess cleared up, John asked Sammy, "Before we go to the store, what d'you say we go to that park that has the lake and the trail?"
"Doggies?" Sammy inquired hopefully, cocking his head to one side.
"Yeah, there'll probably be some dogs there," said John, aware of his son's obsession with the hairy, orifice-sniffing, slobbering creatures. Dogs had been ruined for John after seeing a hell-hound kill a man and learning about spectral black dogs, but Sammy was still enamored by them.
"Okay!" said Sam keenly, tugging on John's hand, leaning forward with all his might. "Let's go!"
"I guess we're going to the park," John said with bemusement, snagging his shoulder bag as he allowed himself to be dragged towards the door.
...
TBC
AN: Just some little side notes: Mrs. Benzel was the name of my kindergarten teacher, and Eleanor Hunsuckle is a character me and my friend have crop up in a lot of our stories we co-write :)
I used 'Sammy' in my narration instead of 'Sam', because I think it brings to mind his age easier.
As usual with my story, this is based on an entry in John's journal where he held Dean back a year because he was anxious about sending Dean to school, but when he finally did, Dean was anxious and made him swear to look after Sammy.
There will be plenty of mishaps in the next chapter, as Sammy has a rough first day without his big brother. This has been a WIP of mine for months so I decided to post to force myself to finish it. If that makes any sense!
