Title: Nights Away From Home

Author: Silverkitsune

Part: 1/1

Pairings: None

Rating: PG

Spoilers: None

Summary: The first time John leaves the boys with Pastor Jim things don't go very well. WeeWinchesters ahead

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke and I don't think they plan on sharing any time soon.

Authors note: Many thanks to my beautiful beta reader Michelle, and to Christie for giving me her always welcomed opinion. Comments, criticisms, and cookies are always welcomed.

The day Jim Murphy met John Winchester was the same day he noticed that the leaves around his home had turned. Gold leaves were brushing up against the clear windows of the church. Green ones spotted with yellow blew into his kitchen and blocked up his gutters. Red maple leaves the color of dried blood covered his front porch. They were everywhere. In truth, the leaves could have been crushed to a fine powder and covered with the first snow and he never would have been the wiser, but when Jim stepped forward to shake the hand of a man with a face that was five days past a shave and held freshly bruised eyes, he'd heard a rather loud crunch sound out from underneath his feet. It was then that he realized that the seasons had changed.

John had been brief. He'd told the pastor that Caleb had sent him. That Caleb had said, "John, if you're serious about the whole thing you should pay Blue Earth, Minnesota a visit. There's a pastor in Blue Earth named Jim Murphy who can give you a hand."

John was serious, and Jim believed him. Caleb only sent him the ones who were broken enough to be serious. At the time, he had been more than happy to help the man in his endeavor; relieved that there would be another solider on the front line. However, driven or not, John Winchester was new. Not quite as green as grass thanks to his time in the marines, but inexperienced enough to be more of a hindrance than a help if he didn't get some proper training under his belt. Inviting the man into his home, he gave John a cup of coffee and a list of names, people who would get him suited up and prepared for the things he was about to go up against. Before John left, Jim told him that he could always stop in Blue Earth again if he needed help, a promise given to many and acted on by few. John had given him a brisk head nod, climbed into the gas guzzler he called a classic and pulled away. Jim had never expected to see him again.

One Sunday, less than a month after the black Chevy Impala had rumbled down his driveway, Jim looked up after shaking the hand of his last parishioner, and saw a familiar car pull in front of his house.

Trudging across the tall grass that separated his church from his home, Jim was surprised to see that John wasn't alone. A toddler, who couldn't have been more than a year old, was being held in the man's arms. Another boy, older, perhaps four or five, stood next to him. Jim knew who they were, but never in his wildest nightmares had he believed he would ever meet them.

"Pastor," John greeted. The toddler was sucking on his fingers, and stared at Jim with curious eyes.

"John," Jim responded. "Are these your children?"

John shifted the toddler on his hip and handed him down to the older boy. "Yep. This is Sammy, my youngest, and Dean, my oldest. Say hello boys."

Sammy still had three of his fingers in his mouth, and his attention had been diverted away from Jim and onto his older brother. Taking him by the hands, Dean helped the younger one stand for a moment before wrapping his arms around the other boy's middle. Sammy had looked at him with curiosity, but Dean watched him warily, and didn't say anything.

"Dean," John said, laying a hand across the boy's sandy hair. "Watch Sammy for a minute. I'm going over there." He pointed to Jim's front porch. "I need to talk with Pastor Jim, but I'll be right back."

Jim threw the boys a smile that wasn't returned, and motioned the taller man forward. "What do you need, John?"

John hesitated, rubbed the back of his head with his large hand and sighed. "I need a favor."

The Impala should have left a dust trail in its wake. Should have kicked up dead leaves and clouds of brown that made the rear bumper look hazy and intangible, but Jim's driveway has been paved since 1962. Dean stood on the front porch with Sammy in his grasp, watching until the car turned and drove out of sight.

"Let me show you where you guys are going to sleep," Jim said with a sigh and his best kind expression.

Dean didn't respond, just tugged his brother forward, and followed Jim into the house.

That night, the pastor slowly traced the twisted design that decorated the Celtic cross on his bedroom wall and tried to sleep. He wondered exactly how much an act of baby-sitting would count for in the afterlife when they weighed his soul and learned that he was partly responsible for dragging two little boys into the hunt.

Two days later, Jim kicked the blankets away from his feet, crawled out of bed and made his way to the shower, yawns punctuating his footsteps. It was the end of November, and a chilly morning had settled in around the house. His plans for the day were light, and instead of his usual outfit of slacks, button-up shirt and collar he pulled on a pair of jeans and t-shirt with a red flannel shirt to go over it. He frowned at the look of his razor then set it back into the medicine cabinet. He would have to go unshaven until he could get to town and buy a replacement blade.

The floors were cool under his bare feet, but the kitchen tiles were like walking on blocks of ice. Jim pulled a carton of eggs, slices of cheese and a stick of butter out of the fridge before lighting the pilot light on his stove. It was a break from his usual morning habits. A cup of coffee and a piece of toast would keep him fit until noon, but he didn't expect his smaller charges to follow the same sort of diet. Sammy was old enough to handle scrambled eggs, and Dean plowed through whatever Jim put in front of him. Setting the pan on top of the stove, he cut a lump of butter off of the stick and tossed it in.

As he cracked the first egg into a waiting bowl, he heard Sammy's small footfalls cross his living room rug. Sammy had just about mastered walking, though he did have his occasional fall, so it wasn't a surprise to hear the boy up and about. What was unusual was the absence of an additional set of heavier footfalls. When the one-year-old was active, Dean was never far behind, and Jim was impressed that Sammy had managed to untangle himself from his attentive brother without waking him.

The boy made more noise once he had toddled into the kitchen, and Jim looked down from his cooking when he felt a pair of small hands press against the jean of his leg.

"Daddy," Sammy said happily.

Jim scooped the toddler up, balancing him on his hip. "Hello, Sammy," the pastor greeted. Sammy blinked, a look of confusion spreading rapidly over his features. The toddler shoved three of his fingers into his mouth, and peered at Jim with large brown eyes. Then the tears began to fall.

"I'm sorry, buddy," Jim said, bouncing the crying boy on his hip. "Your dad will be back in a few more weeks."

Flicking the stove off with his free hand, Jim crossed the kitchen and entered the living room where he almost ran straight into all 57 pounds of Dean.

"Dean," Jim said over Sammy's cries, carefully sidestepping around the boy. "Good-morning."

Before John had left, heading off to train with a woman named Becka that Jim had heard of, but never met, he'd explained that Dean had been silent bordering on mute since his mother's death. In the time he'd spent with Jim, the boy had said only a handful of words, all of them to his brother. Still, the murderous glare he was on the receiving end of, and the demand in the five-year-old's out-stretched arms were easy enough to understand.

"Ok, Sammy, I'm going to give you to your brother," Jim said softly.

Once Dean had Sammy in his grasp, the older boy plopped onto the floor holding his little brother's hands. He leaned in until their foreheads touched.

"It's alright Sam. It's alright. Don't cry."

The cries, which had died down considerably the moment Jim had handed the toddler over, were reduced to the occasional whimper and then finally silence in a matter of seconds. Dean wiped his younger brother's face off with his shirt sleeve before maneuvering himself into a position that put Jim to his back and Sammy to his chest.

Jim stood behind them, his hands outstretched, fingers twitching with the need to do something, but unsure what. He was hovering, awkwardly, a move he'd seen his mother do a hundred times when it came to her own children when he'd been small.

"Go away," Dean said softly, his face buried in Sammy's hair.

Jim sighed and stepped around the boys. Behind him the soft murmur of Dean's voice drifted across the tiles and snapped at his heels.

That he had lost his footing with the Winchesters was putting it mildly. Around noon when he placed two bowls of alphabet soup on the living room coffee table Dean's eyes tracked his hands. When he took a seat on the couch so that he could keep them in sight while working on translating a large stack of Chinese protection prayers, Dean stopped whatever game he'd managed to get his brother to play and glared at him. Later, when the game had been permanently put aside and the T.V. turned on, Dean kept a death grip on Sammy's hand. The ridiculousness of the entire situation was not lost on the pastor, but he was unsure as to what sort of actions could smooth over his blunder.

Jim had made a sizable dent in the stack of prayers when he saw Dean pull a yawning, cranky Sammy to his feet.

"Nap time, Sammy," Dean insisted leading his brother towards the guest room.

"Cat?" Sammy responded, his small voice thick with sleep.

"Sure," Dean said, shepherding his brother through the hallway. "I'll tell you the cat story."

Jim flirted with the idea of following the Winchester boys, but a rather hard look from the oldest kept him on the couch. He was being bossed around by a five-year-old.

He was checking the phrasing on one of the more difficult lines when Dean reentered the room.

"We need to talk." Dean said the words carefully, like he'd only been given so many and he didn't want to waste them on nonsense.

"Alright Dean," Jim said, setting down the manuscripts. "Let's go into the kitchen. Is that alright?"

Dean hesitated, and thought about the proposition before answering. "Yes."

"Something to drink?" Jim asked over his shoulder. "I have some apple cider in the fridge. We could heat it up. It would only take a minute."

"That would be good," Dean answered politely.

Pulling the carton out of the fridge, Jim warmed up the stove and poured a generous amount of the amber colored liquid into a waiting pot. Jim pulled two mugs, one dark orange, the other red, down from his shelves while he waited for the cider to heat.

The pastor let Dean have the orange mug. The boy's small fingers wrapped around the ceramic as he blew across the surface of his steaming drink. Jim took the red one, his own hands mirroring Dean's. Dean's fingers just barely touched when wrapped around the mug, but Jim's encircle his entirely; the pale white fingers a stark contrast to the red surface.

Dean took a sip, but mug was quickly set back down. Sticking his tongue out the boy flapped his hand, fanning it until whatever burn the cider had caused had melted into a dull throb. His next sip was cautious, but satisfactory.

"Everything alright?" Jim asked, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he was sure that the coppery taste of blood would soon hit his tongue. He would not allow the start of what he hoped was going to be a peace conference get destroyed by his inability to hold a straight face.

"Fine," Dean answered.

Taking a sip from his own mug, Jim waited.

"I need another blanket," Dean finally said, his green eyes finding Jim's brown. "It's cold at night, and don't want Sammy to get sick."

"A reasonable request," Jim responded. "I can turn the heat up a little as well."

"Heat costs money," Dean said smoothly. "Me and Sammy will be fine with an extra blanket."

Jim nodded, but made plans to turn the heat up later when Dean had gone to bed.

"And no more scrambled eggs," Dean continued. "Sammy doesn't like them."

The pastor raised an eyebrow at this, Sammy had seemed perfectly happy with his breakfast options that morning, but kept his mouth shut. "What do you suggest?"

Dean picked up his mug and gently swished the remaining cider around. "Applesauce, or egg foo young."

Jim blinked. "Egg foo young?"

"It was his first food," Dean said, pride evident in his voice. "Daddy said it was strange, but not bad strange, and Sammy really likes it."

"Your brother is rather unique," Jim said kindly.

"Yeah," Dean said, practically beaming. "He's really smart even though he's only one."

Jim smiled, and for a moment, the expression was returned. And then, the moment ended and Jim watched as the smile was carefully deconstructed, folded up and locked away. Dean lifted the mug to his lips, his eyes leaving Jim's and glancing towards the other room.

"You scared Sammy."

"I apologize for that," Jim answered. "Scaring your brother isn't something I ever wanted to do, Dean."

"But you did," Dean accused, his voice hard. "You made him cry."

Jim felt a headache bloom behind his eyes.

"Dean-"

"I want you to leave Sammy alone until my dad gets back," Dean said firmly. "I can take care of him. We're fine. You just leave us alone."

Dean looked at him expectantly. Jim reached for the right words, the wrong words, any words, but none came. He was usually so good with children.

"Dean," he began slowly. "What would happen if you got sick tomorrow?"

Dean smirked. "I don't get sick."

"Everyone gets sick sometimes," Jim said. "If you got sick, and your dad was gone, who would look after, Sammy?"

"I'd still look after Sammy," Dean said with certainty.

"You might be contagious though. You might get him sick if you tried to take care of him while you weren't feeling well."

"Daddy would come back," Dean answered nonplused. "Daddy is my backup."

"And he's a fine man for the job," Jim pressed on. "But what if your daddy was very far away, and couldn't get back for a few days. Then what?"

Dean's lips twisted into a stubborn pout. "Daddy would get back faster."

"What if your dad was sick too?" Jim probed.

Dean blinked at him, suddenly looking small and frightened. "Is my dad ok?"

"He's just fine," Jim said. "But if he wasn't, and you weren't what would you do, Dean? Who would look after, Sammy?"

The blood washed out of Dean's face. Had Jim wanted he could have counted each individual freckle that dotted the boy's nose.

"Dean," Jim said, gently. "Do you know what you could do?"

"No."

"You could call me, Dean." Reaching across the table, Jim plucked the mug out of Dean's clenched fingers and headed for the stove. "Let me get you a refill."

Jim took his time. He gave the steaming liquid a few stirs before dipping the ladle and pouring a generous amount into the two mugs. Returning to the table, he set the drink in front of the anxious boy and sat down.

"It's good to add new people sometimes," Jim said softly. "Even though sometimes new people can scare us. I was a very new thing to Sam, and I scared him. I think if he gave me a little time, a second chance, we could be friends. I could be the backup for his backup."

Dean dipped his pinky into the mug, and swirled it around until he'd created a small whirlpool. Licking his finger clean, the sandy haired boy pushed his full mug towards the center of the table. "I have to go check on Sammy now."

"Alright," Jim said. "You do that."

Once Dean was out of reach, Jim lifted his mug warmed hands and began to massage his temples. He could feel his soul grow heavier with each retreating footfall.