This was written for dontknowmyname at the Summer of Sam Love Fic Exchange (community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) summer (underscore) sam (underscore) love). Fics are being posted starting TODAY and continuing through the week...nearly 60 new stories altogether, each with the theme of "Sam is awesome!" (He really is, isn't he?)

Prompt: Weechester- Sam convinces John to participate in a Friday movie night (maybe a tradition he and Dean started) maybe all three on one motel bed/couch and Sam might fall asleep before the movie ends? (Just pure family cuteness).

Notes:

--Not mine; just playing!

--Thank you SO much to the SOSLFE mods, Faye Dartmouth and sendintheclowns, who created this whole idea and also served as cheerleaders, and all around great gals. Sam is awesome! And so are both of you!

--Thanks to Faye Dartmouth (again!), carocali, and Tyranusfan for the betas…although I played with it a bit before I posted, so all mistakes and misfires are my own.

--Title from "Wish You Were Here" by Incubus. Maybe I should hold with care.

--I took some liberties with John's backstory; I hope you'll forgive me.

--This is an equal opportunity for awesomeness story.

In This Moment

There's a muffled sound in the darkness, something quiet like it wants to be loud, covered up and hidden. John rolls over, mattress springs creaking, still more than half-asleep but alert enough. His fingers slide toward the Taurus under his pillow, curving around warm metal, thumb hovering over the safety.

The sound comes again, a little louder this time, and he sighs, finally recognizing it. His hand relaxes and he pushes up reluctantly, rubbing tiredness from his eyes.

The floorboards are cold; he'd given the boys the propane heater, made do with extra blankets for himself. Not like he's been sleeping much anyway. He tugs on a pair of wool socks, scratchy between his toes and slick on the worn pine when he stands in them. He takes care to plant his feet as he crosses to the door and pulls it open.

All the overhead lights are off, but there's a ghostly flicker of blue-white coming from the end of the hallway. As he enters the tiny living room, he catches sight of a huddled little lump curled at one end of the battered couch. The glow from the muted television paints shadows over a tousled head.

"Hey, kiddo. Whatcha doing out here?"

Sam's been sick for nearly a week now, some bug he must have picked up in the string of diners and motel rooms they've swung in and out of over the last month or so. A fresh set of leads on what might have killed Mary had wound them through some desolate stretches of country at the most desolate time of year.

Sammy was pretty well knuckled under the first couple of days, wracked with chills and muscle aches and a dwindling appetite made worse by rolling bouts of car sickness. He'd been stoic through it all, though—tougher than John thought he'd be. He hadn't complained about the Impala's broken heater or the cramped back seat or the long hours of driving, even when it was clear he was miserable.

The stop here in Bismarck had really been for Sam, John finally acknowledging that dragging the kid across another state line before he was healthy again wasn't going to get them anywhere but maybe the ER. He bundled the boys into a hunting cabin—a friend of a friend's place from his Marine days—and then raided the pediatrics aisle of a chain drug store off the highway. Sam had been dosed up with the whole stash: fever reducer and cough suppressant and the eucalyptus rub Mary had sworn by even though John hated the smell of it. A night and a day had gone by and John had let himself believe Sammy was on the mend.

Sammy coughs, head buried in the crook of his elbow and John slides a hand over his forehead, feeling the disappointing warmth of fever.

Obviously, he was wrong.

He cards his fingers through Sam's bangs, smoothing them out of the way, frowning when Sam sighs into the touch, drawing comfort.

"Hey," he whispers again, and gives a little tug. "How come you're out of bed?"

"Couldn't…" Sam coughs again, longer this time, deep and wet sounding. When he can finally speak, it's with a voice gone ragged at the edges; strained. "Couldn't breathe. Had to sit up."

A deep, old fear awakens in John's belly, one that has its roots not in the fire or what came after, but sprang to life the first time Mary had taken his hand and put it on her belly and said, You're going to be a Daddy. He's spent the boys' lifetimes raging against the darkness, protecting them from the things that went bump in the night. Truth is, though—in a dark, hidden place inside he never wants to think about—there are a thousand more benign ways to lose them. Monsters no weapon can defeat, demons no exorcism or holy water can touch.

For a moment, Sam's not the only one with trouble breathing.

He sits, pulling Sammy under the shelter of his arm, little body like a furnace burrowing into him. "Think it's about time we paid the doc a visit, Tiger." His tone is calm, unworried, even as his mind supplies words like bronchitis and pneumonia and what if.

Sammy, though…Sammy just squirms briefly and settles, head back against John's shoulder. "'ll be okay. Don't worry."

There's a faint pat on his knee, thump thump thump, and John grins suddenly, hearing Dean's voice, hearing his own, in Sam's reassurance. "'Cause we're Winchesters, right?"

Sam's chin digs into John's ribs as he nods. Whispers Winchesters like it's a magic word, full of power and promise.

Dean chooses that moment to come stumbling out of the boys' bedroom. His hair is more than a little worse for sleep, sticking out in wayward tufts all over his head. He's got a flannel sheet clenched in both hands; it trails behind him like a train. "What's everybody doing up?"

John stifles a laugh. Dean's a pretty capable kid usually: strong and resourceful and a good caretaker of his brother. He's got all the makings of a great hunter—a soldier, even. And he holds hearth and home together in the moments John falters: the little engine that keeps their family chugging forward, even when there's no clear path in sight. But in this moment, bedraggled and bleary-eyed, he's every inch a little boy. He scowls as he lurches toward the couch, uncoordinated and petulant.

"C'mere, Deano." John holds his other arm out.

Dean flops down into it, grumbling, jamming bare toes under the corner cushions and flinging the flannel out to cover everyone. John drags it over his lap and tucks it around Sam, who makes a contented noise.

"We're watchin' a movie, right, Dad?" Sam's eyes are closed now, but he seems lucid enough.

John quirks an eyebrow at him. "We are, huh?"

"The gun one. Remember?"

John does.

It had been a Christmas gift, delayed. He'd actually missed Christmas, months ago already, hamstrung by bad weather and a worse alternator. He'd come home to two grim-faced boys and the knowledge, delivered by Dean not long after, that Sam knew the truth about hunting. About everything. There'd been a rocky period after that, Sam rightfully angry and also—in ways he showed but never admitted—scared.

There was a pall over things for a while, Sam uncharacteristically silent and brooding. When he made eye contact—which was rare—his expression alternated between a sadness far deeper than his eight years should have allowed and clear, sharp betrayal. He never asked a single question though, or voiced any disapproval. If not for Dean's confession, John would have had no idea what the problem was.

John wasn't sure what it said about him that, even knowing, he couldn't bring himself to address the issue head-on. Instead, he started Sam off with training. And, since Sam was so familiar with the journal so well now, odds and ends of research to help them find other hunts. He told himself Sam would come to him when he was ready, that Sam needed time to process, that maybe the silence was a good thing. But even he had to admit there was a breach between them now: distance and distrust. He just hadn't had it in him to fix it.

Somehow, though, Sammy had found a way to make his amends for him. He'd come from a late night grocery store run to find a newspaper-wrapped package on his duffel, Sammy watching not-quite-subtly out of the corner of his eye as John opened it.

Guns of Navarone. A classic. And a longstanding Winchester tradition, though Sammy didn't know it. He'd looked both pleased and oddly guilty when John clapped him on the shoulder in thanks. After, things had thawed, and eventually, Sam had been mostly back to his old self.

Sam had tried to get a movie night going for weeks after with no success. Between jobs for pay and jobs for hunting—and a mind that could never truly rest, always looking three steps ahead—hours spent watching television seemed an unnecessary indulgence. Eventually, Sam stopped asking.

Eventually, John had forgotten about it entirely.

He remembers now, though. He recalls watching it when he was Sam's age—or rather, watching his Dad watch it, basking in that feeling of sharing a rare special moment with a man who was usually reserved and difficult: qualities that had grown worse as he'd grown older, until John had barely had a relationship with him at all. He'd died with that distance still between them: hurts unhealed, forgiveness unspoken. Until the fire, it had been the single greatest regret of John's life.

Now…now, his life is filled with regrets. But maybe this time, in this one small way, he can make his own amends.

He peels the blanket free and stands up, stretching a little as he heads for his duffel, back popping satisfyingly. The tape is there, buried under dirty clothes and his machete, still sealed in plastic wrap, price tag painstakingly scratched away. He pops it in the VCR and scoops up the remote, settling back into his place on the couch, flanked by sleeping sons.

The movie starts, volume low and rumbling, but John isn't watching. His arms settle comfortably around the boys, pulling them close. Dean's already snoring softly, the way he only does when he's truly exhausted, Sammy warm and so small against his side.

John measures their breaths, quantifying and calibrating: mapping out the route to the hospital, just in case, counting silver bullets and hours to Canon City, wondering if he has the filter for the oil change the Impala desperately needs, if Bill Harvelle has that grimoire he promised, if Dean's finally outgrown his winter boots, whether or not he should register the boys for school, next town they came to…

"Is it good, Dad?"

Sam's voice is quiet in the darkness, still scratched up and too low.

"Yeah, kiddo. It's real good." John's fingers drift over Sam's cheek. Might be his imagination, but Sam seems cooler. And he hasn't coughed in a while. Maybe things aren't as bad as he feared.

"Can we do this again?"

John looks down at his boys, both huddled to him so securely. There's a big bad world out there, full of unspeakable horrors, evil just waiting for the chance to take and hurt and rip the last precious things John has from his hands like they're nothing. Every day is a struggle and sometimes, he's so tired he can hardly think, so scared it takes everything in him just to make himself move.

But in here, in this moment, they are safe. Together. In this moment, John can protect them from everything, and they are his.

Winchesters. Maybe there's a magic to it, after all.

John smiles, settles his hand over the crown of Sam's head, heavy. Anchoring.

In this moment, he can promise anything.

"Yeah, Sammy. We sure can."

Fin