SPIT STAINS

"…or you know… we could just leave him hanging from a lamp post and hope that some who knows the brat drives by," Dean suggests.

He's not serious, Sam knows he can't possibly be serious, but he still gives his brother the stinky look and pulls the ratty blanket that they've managed to dig up from the trunk of the car, tighter around the sleeping kid.

It wasn't like they'd planned to have a kid around for long and it wasn't like they could've just left him in the mine.

The witch, a pathetically cliché old hag with moldy clothes and wrinkles deeper than the bowls of the earth, had gone all Hansel and Gretel on a couple of kids in town.

All that was really missing from the scenario was a trail of bread crumbs…

A trail of failed hex bags and a couple of disgustingly rotten animal carcasses did the job well enough, and once Sam and Dean had properly dealt with the hungry old gal, they'd found themselves with a couple of kids at hand.

Scared, crying, snotty, hungry kids.

The Impala would never be the same.

Most of them were locals and kind of knew where their homes were, so it hadn't been that hard dispatching them to their scared-out-of-their-pants parents, who were relieved enough embracing their kids that they didn't even think to question who'd brought the kids in.

Which was all the better, given that 'an evil witch did it' wouldn't quite cover all the bases… not without involving padded rooms, that is.

By the end of the day, he was the only one remaining. The last child to be returned.

Dean had to admit… the kid was kind of adora-- cute. In a snotty, barely out of diapers way.

The brat couldn't be more than five… maybe four. All large hazel eyes, studying them both intensely like they were greens dogs; and brown curls that hang loosely down his tiny head, and just ended up reminding Dean too much of other cute kids that he'd fell in love with years ago.

The kid had no idea where home was. He just knew that it was a new home and that he and his uncle had moved in last week.

The fact that he hadn't mentioned a mom or a dad or even cried for his parents, not even joining in the wailing choir that had given Dean a splitting headache for most of the drive, was sitting kind of uneasy inside Dean's chest.

Crying for mommy, crying for daddy… hell! crying for friggin' Ted, the bear. No matter how annoying those things were, Dean knew that was the normal reaction for a scared kid.

But not this kid. No.

This kid just stared. At them.

When Dean decided that they needed a break and had sent Sam out to get them food and drinks and –he added after seeing the sad look on the kid- some ice cream, it was just the two of them. Then, he proceeded to start the first ever Winchester versus what-ever-the-kid's-name-was staring contest.

The kid did nothing but stare at them. So Dean stared back.

Dean stared while the kid's eyes grew larger, first in surprise and then in mischief; Dean stared as the kid grew insecure of his victory and proceeded to stuff his thumb inside his mouth; Dean stared until he could feel the kid's shoeless feet stop their bouncing around and grow still in a final acceptance of security.

And then Dean crossed his eyes over his nose and was rewarded by the most perfect baby giggle that he'd heard in years. That he'd heard since Sam had declared himself too big to play little silly kids' games and had grabbed a book instead.

Dean couldn't help but smile in return. The kid softly kicked him over the seat, tiny toes barely registering over Dean's jeans. He understood the message loud and clear: you're ok… I'm glad you guys found me.

When Sam returned in what looked like only a few minutes after, but was actually closer to half an hour -because the cook was on his break, and the waitress did not get payed to flip burgers- the kid had somehow taken over Dean's personal space and claimed him as his personal pillow and bed.

The only way for Dean to save his manhood after being so thoroughly 'abused' was to act pissed about it and relegate the kid to the back seat -- Not before making sure that there was a clean towel serving as a pillow beneath the kid's head (because drool was tough to get off the seat's leather) and a warm, if old, blanket (because kid's get colds easily and the only thing's worse than kiddy snot was ectoplasm, everyone knew that).

Dean wasn't fooling anyone. The older hunter also knew that.

When they finally drove by a street that the kid recognized, their ride ended up at the ruins of a burned down house. Home, if it had been here, was no more.

When they finally managed to dig up that some of the kid's family was staying in some motel down the street from where they'd been staying, (the place actually managed to look more ratty than their ratty motel) and when more and more it seemed like the reason why the kid hadn't asked for his parents was because, somehow, he knew that his parents weren't around to worry about their kid anymore (fire in the kitchen -the cleaning lady at the motel had told them, even though they hadn't asked for any details- destroyed the house and killed everyone inside), it all felt like a kick in the teeth because, hey! the kid was alive because some crazy bitch –who'd decided to dwell in the dark arts and had needed a pint or two of kiddy blood- had taken him from his home just in time to stop him from burning to death alongside his parents. Ain't life grand?

The uncle, a guy about Dean's age, ran to pick the kid up as soon as he laid eyes on him, almost squeezing the life off those tiny bones, too many tears running down his face to even say thank you.

There really was no need for it, not when the man's gratitude shined so clearly from his eyes, for having the last piece of his family –the family he no longer believe he had- delivered back, safe and sound.

Which was all the better for Sam and Dean, anyways. It wasn't like they were planning of keeping the kid or anything.

It would take days to remove the stain of drool that the kid had left in Dean's jacket's shoulder, where he'd fell asleep. And Sam had been the one who had ended up eating the ice-cream that he'd had brought back, because the kid had been too exhausted to even keep his eyes open and Dean was too busy in between driving and stealing glances to the back seat, worried that the kid might roll off on some sharp turn. And melted ice-cream in the car would just not do.

Their lives weren't meant for worries and troubles like that; their lives were spent making sure that other people had a chance of having worries like that.

And when the kid squirmed out from under his uncle's arms and raced back to Dean, little arms that barely reached the hunter's knees, begging to be lifted up, Dean was totally fearing for his jacket's further soiling when he picked the kid up and let him hug the bejesus out of him. Yes, that was fear in his face… and maybe a little disgust for kiddy mouthly fluids… it certainly wasn't regret or wishful thinking or anything of the sorts. Nope.

Because, really, what would he have to regret?

And when, somehow, the kid managed to convince Sam to join the hug with just a bat of his huge eyes? That was just karma being the usual bitch, because Sam totally deserved to have the puppy-look thrown back at him by a professional.

The end

AN: Wrote in a couple of minutes today, in answer to a fic-meme at the SPG GEn LOVE. Beta-ed by the lovely Jackfan2. All remaning mistakes are mine.