Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or anything related to it, and I don't own 'Carry On My Wayward Son' by Kansas. All rights go to respective owners.
August 3rd, 1981
"Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more," Mary sang softly. She pulled Dean's blanket up to his chin, and he smiled up at her drowsily. "Goodnight, sweetheart," his mother whispered. "I love you."
The three-year-old gripped his mother's fingers in his own tiny ones. "I love you, Mommy."
November 10th, 1990
"Dean?" seven-year-old Sam said. His brother looked to him from he stood at the stove, stirring canned soup for their dinner.
"What?"
"When's Dad coming home?"
Dean wanted to reply that this sketchy motel room wasn't home, that they didn't really even have a real one, but instead the 11-year-old only sighed. "Don't know, Sammy. Soon." Sam pushed out his lips in a pout, arms crossed as he watched the television. A few minutes later, he giggled at the Wily Coyote, and Dean smiled a bit at the sound. After some time he called Sam to the table to eat.
He eyed Sam as he spooned soup into his mouth; he looked calm, almost content, and Dean envied him the ability to forget worries. The lack of responsibility Sam had on his shoulders, the same which John had felt no trouble placing on Dean's.
"You gotta go to bed now, buddy," Dean told his brother, washing their dishes after the meager dinner Dean had scraped together. He had a short memory of his mother, the meatloaf that had been her specialty.
Sam was again seated on the couch, and glanced at Dean. "Do I have to?" he very nearly whined.
"Yeah, kid, sorry. But uh, Dad said, so…" Their father hadn't said anything of the sort, of course. So long as Sam was safe, John didn't care one way or the other at what hour he went to sleep. But sometimes, when Sam didn't feel like listening to his brother, Dean's best bet was to say that it was what John wanted. Sam knew he'd been beat and reluctantly nodded, Dean as well, satisfied as he dried the bowls.
Dean sat on his bed an hour later reading a comic while Sam stretched on his side, silent. He flopped onto his back and turned his head to see Dean; his brother looked at him with a sigh after a moment passed in silence. "Why're you up, Sam?"
"I was never asleep, Dean. I can't."
Dean set his comic on the sheets and squinted at Sam. "What d'you mean 'you can't'? 'Course you can."
"No, I can't! I want Dad!"
Dean had to look away. His brother got that way once in a while, missing their father. He did too, but Dean had grown used to John's absence. Sam was okay, mostly, but it seemed that tonight was one of the times he wasn't. "What d'you need, Sammy?" he asked, in as patient a tone as he could muster.
"I… can't fall asleep."
"Yeah and what d'you expect Dad would be able to do about that?" Dean replied.
"I dunno," Sam mumbled.
"You don't know?"
Sam glared at him, as much as a seven-year-old could glare, and turned away. "Forget it," he said, voice muffled.
Dean's mouth opened, but he couldn't find the right words to say, the ones that would make his brother or this situation okay. "Come on, Sammy." No response. He pressed his lips together, and after a moment of looking at his kid brother's back, he stood and sat down on Sam's bed.
"Sam," he said.
"What?" Sam muttered.
"I'm sorry, a'right? Do you, uh…" He tried to think. When he was a kid, how would Mary get him to sleep? Sometimes she'd sing to him, acoustic-esque versions of what her husband enjoyed and always played in the car, now. Dean turned his back to his brother and propped his hands behind himself. "Carry on, my wayward son…" he sang in a murmur, "there'll be peace when you are done." He glanced at Sam. Nothing. "Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more." He felt fingers on his and looked agaim at his brother. He'd put his hand over Dean's, and was facing him now. Dean looked at their hands and smiled a bit at Sam; Sam smiled back.
"'Night, kid."
"'Night, Dean."