A/N: I'm supposed to be working on my HTTYD fic, and yet here I am uploading this. It's a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone, plus I love wee!chesters, so there ya go. No beta, so I apologise for mistakes made.
Disclaimer: I wish.
The first time John Winchester sees Mary in his eldest son, Dean is five.
It's half past dead tired in the evening, baby Sammy has been howling for hours and John's shot right past the aspirin and straight into the eating a bullet stage of a migraine. Dean hasn't said a word in weeks and John's somewhere between devastated by the loss of his vibrant boy and too tired to give it much thought.
Sleep has become such a rare commodity that somewhere inside the maelstrom of grief and rage that he has become, John mourns the long night ahead. Sammy is as cute as a button when he's happy, all downy hair and dimpled smiles; but the kid's got a set of lungs any drill sergeant would envy and he shows no signs of stopping tonight.
Dean sits quietly on the floor amidst a sad little sprawl of forgotten toys and Sammy lies in all his limb thrashing, ear splitting glory on a blanket nearby. John scrubs at eyes that feel like they're permanently encrusted with sand and weighted by steel simultaneously. The whiskey at his elbow sits barely touched; the glass beside it forgotten as he splits his attention between the books in front of him and the boys on the floor.
He sees Mary in baby Sammy every time he looks and a part of him is ashamed to admit he's begun to stop looking. Sammy is all soft features and warm looks, doe eyes and a bright grin, just like Mary. Where Dean tackled life with the enthusiasm and grace of a Mack Truck, quick to walk and talk, Sammy is content to be carried and cuddled. Mary had always had a lot of love to give and had never suffered any qualms about offering it freely and John sees this in his youngest every day.
Sammy's shrieks up in pitch, the sound damn near enough to break the sound barrier. John swears he can see his glass vibrating with the strain, and if he weren't so damned tired he might find it funny. He doesn't know what to do, and for perhaps the millionth time he wishes Mary were here. He's fed and changed Sammy, taken care of all the needs that usually get a baby crying, but he's been throwing this tantrum for hours. The front door of their piece of shit rental looks so inviting and John thinks he could probably just sneak outside for an hour or two, but Dean is so young and it's not safe.
Dean is looking at John like he's waiting for him to do something, but John's got no damn clue and maybe Dean can see that, because there's suddenly this disappointed look in his eyes, and that shit shouldn't be so obvious in a freaking five year old. Dean crawls over to where Sammy lies, pushing toys out of his way as he goes and hauls the baby into arms barely big enough to hold him. Sammy's cries stutter for a moment, and John finds himself hoping, but even big brother isn't enough to end this tantrum. Dean doesn't seem bothered, though, and simply lies down on the baby blanket, curling his skinny body around Sammy's much smaller one.
And then he begins to hum, and John nearly chokes because it's mangled, but still recognisable. Hey Jude.
Dean presses his face into Sammy's soft hair and he doesn't speak, but the brokenly hummed bars of the song Mary used to sing to Dean carry on.
And Sammy stops. His cries end suddenly, and all that is left is the snuffling sounds of a baby winding down from a tantrum. The house is suddenly silent, but for Dean's continued humming and all John can think is
Mary, oh Mary. What the hell am I doing?
Because maybe Sammy had just needed to be held, and John had been busy with his books, but Dean had somehow known what his brother needed where John hadn't. And Jesus Christ, the kid was five and already knew more about his baby brother than John could even hope to. The house descends into silence and when John looks, both boys are asleep; Dean is curled around baby Sammy, whose tiny fists are tangled in Dean's sleep shirt and John thinks it would take a hurricane to tear his boys apart.
And so John reads on into the night, learning everything there is to know about hunting; and if the full bottle of whiskey slowly empties and his eyes get a little red and the books a little water stained, well there is no one around to see him break.