Hey Jude
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me; not Supernatural, not the Beatles, not Hey Jude. The Brotherhood AU characters belong to Ridley C James, so a big thank you to her for creating these terrific characters to play with!
A/N: This is my first foray into the Supernatural Fanfiction world! This plot has been in my head a while and takes us all back to Dean's quote in "The Song Remains The Same" and in terms of the plot timeline, takes us back to Wee!Chester innocence, and a little bit of season one. Because with the way things are going, I think we all need to go back to the simpler times!
Humungous thanks to sallydeathhands, and Wraithedarte, the two awesome, fantastic people who read this story and gave me the courage to post it. They're the reason this fic is online. They rock in the fiercest way! Seriously, check out their SPN fics. Can anyone say 'genius'? Again, thanks to Ridley for the use of her amazing Brotherhood characters.
Hope y'all enjoy!
This is dedicated to Superman, for being such an awesome guy. I'm actually glad to be proven wrong! More to the point, I'm glad I'm Louis Lane, Superstar! ;-)
###
A tiny, almost indiscernible creak.
That's all it took before Mary Winchester snapped her eyes open, sitting up and sliding seamlessly out of her bed in a single, smooth motion. Her movements were quick and assured as she pulled out the 9 inch silver blade from underneath the mattress, working with an efficiency that didn't even have John stirring.
I guess you can take the Campbell out of hunting, but you can never take the hunter out of the Campbell. The rueful thought flashed through her mind for the split second before a second creak was heard, and her attention was devoted solely to the perceived threat. Running soundlessly on the balls of her feet, she peeked into her eldest's bedroom.
Her heart stopped.
Dean's bed was rumpled, obviously slept in….but uninhabited.
The golden haired woman raised a hand to her throat as her insides seized up in terror. She felt like she was choking and she painfully struggled to draw in a gasping breath. She wanted to scream out for John, for her John to come make it better. Instead, she ran to her baby's room, expecting the worst and already feeling dizzy and nauseous. She stopped abruptly at the doorway when a childish whisper broke through her haze of fear.
"Hey Sammy, why're you awake, huh?" Dean's voice brought all Mary's previous panic crashing down hard on her and she slumped to the floor, choking back a sob of sheer relief. Fighting her every instinct to run inside and grab both her babies, hold them to her to prove that they were still fine, Mary made herself sit still on the carpet outside the door, and listen. Why was Dean awake this time of the night anyway? Did he wake up because Sammy did? But then, she would have heard Sam's cries. The only way Sam would not have cried upon waking up would have had to be if he had seen a familiar face when he looked around. Which meant that Dean was already in the room when Sam had woken up. But why?
"You okay, little brother?" Dean's soft voice asked. "I camed to come check on you, Sammy. You should be as'eep."
Mary waited, listening to the sounds as her Dean undoubtedly climbed over the rail of her youngest's crib. The four year old had seemed to master that trick astoundingly quickly, right after learning how to make Sammy smile. He did it so often, that Mary and John hadn't actually had that many nights of waking up to Sam's screaming, rather being awoken by gurgles and whimpers. At first, Mary thought that it was because Sam was the most peaceful baby in history, until she awoke one morning to find Dean camping next to Sam's crib, sleeping uncomfortably with a pillow and blanket. That's when the truth came out, complete with Sammy's delighted shrieks every time Dean reached out for him.
"You need to s'eep, Sammy," Dean sighed long-sufferingly and Mary smothered a small chuckle. "Else we'll both be tired 'morrow morn'in." Sam answered his brother's gentle reprimand with a gurgling giggle. The young mother grinned as her eldest sighed again. She risked a peep in, and saw Dean begin to rearrange the blankets to properly cover his little brother. He pressed a small kiss to Sam's forehead and the baby cooed happily, reaching up and gripping some of the long locks that fell around the four year old's face. With infinite care and more patience than his age suggested, Dean unwound Sam's tenacious grip on his hair, putting the hand back underneath the blanket. The baby immediately began to squirm again, whimpering slightly.
"I know what'll make you s'eep, Sammy," Dean said suddenly. Mary could hear the smile in her son's voice and bearing in mind some of the toddler's more mischievous moments, she decided that now might be a good time to reveal her presence.
Stepping into the doorway, she opened her mouth to softly whisper her eldest's name. With the first sound that emerged from his lips, Mary clamped her mouth shut with a small clack, frozen in wonder, chest exploding with love like a nuclear reaction.
"Heeey Jude…"
He was singing Sam the lullaby she sang for him. He was singing his baby brother to sleep. Mary's eyes filled with tears and she chuckled as Dean broke off in confusion.
"I don' really know why Mommy says 'Jude' Sammy," he admitted, forgetting the song for a second. "Why do you think? Think Jude is Mommy's friend? I think so too," he nodded without waiting for an answer, patting the baby's curls softly, knowing instinctively that this calmed the baby down. Sam whimpered again and Mary watched in fond amusement as her eldest remembered what he was doing in the first place.
"Right, Sammy, sorry buddy," the four year old apologized seriously. "I'll just change the words so you know 'm talkin' ta you.
Hey Sam… don' make it bad
Take a sad soooong, 'n make t'better
'e'member to let 'er into…heart
Then you c'n start…make it better."
Mary stood in quiet awe, watching as her youngest calmed with the sound of his brother singing to him, and quickly fell asleep, after Dean repeated the verse a few times, obviously remembering only that part of the old Beatles track.
When Dean's voice trailed off into quiet, Mary snapped the hallway lights on and padded softly into Sam's nursery, smiling lovingly at the sight that met her eyes.
Sam was fast asleep, one hand curled tightly into Dean's pajama top and the other resting lightly on his older brother's cheek. Dean had his arms forming an enclosure around the baby, barely brushing against him but still holding him against his chest in a protective cage. The toddler had dozed off singing the lullaby, unable to resist the pull of sleep that the song now subconsciously brought him. Watching her boys curled up together, Mary felt like her life could not be any happier; she could not feel more fulfilled than she did right then.
Tomorrow, Sam would turn 6 months old, and she would teach her oldest baby the words to the second verse, so that he always would know.
Kissing her angels on the forehead, Mary Winchester returned to bed, heart filled with happiness. Tomorrow was going to be a very eventful day.
John Winchester was a man who could handle many things.
He could fix a '67 Impala's broken radiator.
He could discharge a weapon with deadly accuracy.
He could bring an organization to the ground with the right persuasion.
He could reduce a decorated SEAL or a hardcore syndicate leader to a blubbering mass of salt water.
He could recite the Marine's code of honor if woken up at ten after two in the morning.
What he could not do…right at this very moment…was calm his bawling 10 month old baby boy.
"Hey Sammy, please buddy…please stop crying," he begged, at the end of his tether. He had tried feeding him, changing his diaper, dangling that rattle Mac had given him in front of him, scolding him, threatening him…nothing had made one lick of difference. He pleaded with the dissatisfied baby, wishing desperately, not for the first time, that his Mary was there. Mare was an angel…she could calm both their boys down just by smiling at them and cooing. Desperation clawed at John as he wracked his brain for a solution. Baby Sam looked up at John, big hazel eyes swimming with tears and pleading just as hard for something frustratingly unknown. "I wish you could just tell me, kiddo, I'd give you anything," John whispered brokenly. The baby's crying softened, but didn't cease one bit.
"He's got quite a set of lungs."
The voice from behind him quickly shifted John out of his vulnerable state. Turning to face Mac, who was standing at the doorway, John cast his friend an apologetic look.
"Yeah," he nodded gruffly, "I'm sorry if he woke you."
"He's a baby, John," Mac waved it off dismissively. "Babies cry and wake people up all the time."
"Junior?" John asked, hoping that Mac was the only one Sam had brought out of sleep.
"Caleb is dead to the world asleep," Mac assured him lightly. Stepping forward, he ran gentle, probing fingers over Sam's little body. "He seems physically fine. Maybe we should give him warm milk," he muttered distractedly. Understanding dawned on his face as he turned to face John.
"What?" the irate father asked.
"Samuel has been sleeping just fine until tonight," he explained. "And tonight was the first night we moved Dean to a separate room."
"Oh…" understanding derailed John and he wondered how on earth his tired mind had missed that. Running a surprisingly gentle finger down Sam's cheek, he asked softly, "You want your big brother, don't you Kid? You want Dean?"
At the sound of his brother's name, Sammy flung his arms around wildly, clearly gesturing an emphatic YES! His crying started anew and he kicked restlessly in his cot, thrashing in protest. Mac sighed and tried in vain to calm him.
"I think we have to wake Dean," he said finally. "It's a pity, I hoped a night away from Samuel would get him to talk to us, insist to see him or something."
John felt worry weigh his bones down again at the thought of his eldest, his baby boy that he seemed to have lost 4 months ago too. His heart ached at what his little boy was going through; he hadn't spoken in months, since Mary…
"I put him to sleep hours ago," Mac finished, jerking John from his thoughts. A small smile crept on to his features as he thought about his son, suspicion lurking.
"He went straight to bed didn't he?" he asked shrewdly. "Not a fuss, didn't even stretch or anything, did he?"
"Yes," Mac frowned. "He was very calm."
"You just got played by a five year old, Mac," John chuckled slightly.
"How so?"
"Dean never goes to bed peacefully. He tricked me doing that once, and Mar…" John stopped abruptly, pain lancing through him until he couldn't breathe. Choking down his emotions, he managed to finish his story, even though his voice became inevitably gruffer and his eyes mysteriously glistened. "She always knew when he was bluffing, and she told me when he was going to sleep, he'd stretch out on the bed before settling down. Never still. Never calm. S'not Dean's way."
Mac huffed out a small sigh that was part exasperation and, he hated to admit, part amusement. Outsmarted by Little Dean Winchester…it would seem the good doctor was either getting rusty, or they had a far too bright and devious child among them.
John and Mac peeked quickly into the next room; John's chest seized painfully at the sight of the empty bed. A single image assaulted his memory; yellow eyes.
Both the men lurched towards the bed. Throwing back the coverlet, John's insides trembled when it revealed no Dean.
Without warning, sudden as summer rain, Mary's voice wafted over his senses.
Dean would never leave Sammy alone. Good Doctors and drill sergeants be damned.
Whipping around to face a door just off the side, John clamped a hand over Mac's shoulder.
"There's a connecting bathroom to Sam's room," he stated, more than asked. Both men stilled, an unspoken agreement of stealth between them, before slipping through the door. Relief slammed into the oldest Winchester as he heard the unmistakable sound of a bed creaking and Sam's cries die down to a whimper. The two hunters peered into the room to see a tousled mop of hair clambering up over the cushions that surrounded the little baby. Baby Sammy stretched his arms out impatiently, whining softly. Catching one little hand in his, Dean pressed a little kiss to Sam's palm in a gesture so like Mary, John felt his breath constrict in his chest. Sam gurgled happily and began to make sounds in his own baby language, pleased to have garnered his brother's attention and presence as he had been so diligently protesting for. Curling himself protectively around his little brother, Dean began to rock very slightly back and forth, obviously urging the baby back to sleep. Sam, however, had none of it. He continued obliviously to make noises, beginning to whimper slightly once he felt like he had lost his brother's undivided attention once more.
Hearing this, Dean obligingly sat up a little, much to the baby's immense pleasure. He clapped, smiling brilliantly at his brother, looking perfectly content now that he had his big brother there with him, awake and focused on him. Dean let out a sigh, smiling very slightly despite himself. It was obvious to John and Mac that the toddler took his only happiness and pleasure from his brother's happiness.
"He can't sleep," Mac breathed, softly enough that only John heard him. "Dean can't just stay up the entire night."
"They're my boys, Mac," John replied just as softly. "Ace is incredibly out-of-the-box. You'd be surprised how capable, resourceful and determined Dean can be when it comes to protecting Sammy and keeping him well."
"Even so, John, he's just a child himself," Mac pointed out. Instant guilt assaulted John at the constant pressure he kept putting his older son under, forgetting so easily that he was still a baby himself.
John straightened, about to enter the room and relieve his eldest of Sammy-duty, when a sound stopped both him and Mackland dead in their tracks.
The first sound emerging from the blond-haired toddler in months.
"Hey Sam…
'Don make it bad.
Take a sad song, 'nd make t'better.
'Member to let her into yo' heart
Then you can star'..make t'better.
Dean sang clearly, angelically although slightly fragmented, and if John closed his eyes, he'd have thought Mary was standing in front of them. So many nights he had heard her sing the very same song to lull Dean and then Sammy off to sleep…the last time he had heard it, it had come from her lips.
Mac nudged him and John shifted his focus back to his boys, snuggled together in a cocoon of blankets. Sammy, despite being wide-awake not seconds before, had drifted off into an easy slumber, clutching on to his older brother, even in sleep wanting him right there. Dean yawned and laid down next to his brother.
"Thanks Mommy," the toddler mumbled softly.
John Winchester was not a man who shocked easily, but damn if you couldn't knock him over with a feather right now.
"Sammy wouldn't sleep, but I 'membered your trick Mommy. Thank you." The five year old stretched leisurely, caged his arms protectively around his younger sibling and rested his head on the pillow, tucking Sam's head underneath his chin almost.
A hand clasped John's shoulder in what he recognized now to be sympathy.
"Mary's lullaby?" Mac guessed shrewdly. John couldn't speak if he tried, so he settled for nodding jerkily, grasping the doorframe to support himself, suddenly feeling tired beyond any possible measure. Body weighing him heavily down, he staggered to sit on the edge of Dean's discarded bed, Mac shadowing his motions discreetly, there for support if he needed it, but not coddling either.
The two men sat in silence for a moment.
"John? You alright?" Mac tried gently, receiving a mute nod from his friend. When it became obvious that the oldest Winchester wasn't going to entertain any touchy-feely comfort chick flick moments, as Caleb so often put it, Mac sighed resignedly.
"Well, we might as well have some of that warm milk we were going to give Sam. Except make the warm, cold. And, y'know, make the milk, whiskey."
###
"DEE!"
Caleb Reaves sat bolt upright in bed at the muted gasp that was so undoubtedly Sam's. The connecting door to his and the boys' bedrooms at Pastor Jim's had at first seemed like an appalling idea, but as things stood, it was open for two reasons; one, because Caleb wanted to easy, quick access to them, and two, because he had come from their room just a few hours earlier, playing an illegal, late-night poker game with the elder Winchester, using sweets Dean had smuggled up as betting chips.
He was on his feet in the next instant, moving silently as his mentor had taught him, and heard the sound of Dean getting out of bed. Hearing no rushed movements, Reaves relaxed, sensing no immediate danger.
A nightmare.
Sam always had lots of those, and always woke up calling for Dean. The four year old, once woken from his night terrors, could only be comforted by his big brother, and more often than not, Dean ended up sharing his bed with the toddler, never once complaining or teasing, and giving Caleb an earful when he had dared to irk the baby of the family about it.
Caleb leaned against the door as Dean untangled Sammy from his sheets, sparing a second to nod at Caleb, assuring him he could handle this, before turning his attention back to a teary Sam.
"Dee…" the toddler whimpered, holding up his arms desperately. Caleb's heart tugged; the kid was obviously terrified. In a smooth motion, Dean grasped his younger brother underneath his armpits and pulled him tightly into his arms. Sam wrapped his legs around Dean's waist and buried his head in his shoulder.
"It's alright Sammy," Dean soothed, rubbing the boy's back rhythmically. He steadfastly ignored Caleb's presence, focusing on the toddler in his arms instead.
"I tried to fin' you, Dee, and you was gone," Sammy hiccupped, clutching tighter to Dean's neck. "You weft me 'lone, you p'omised you won't weft me 'lone!"
"It's alright, Sammy, it's okay. Look, Buddy, I'm right here, okay? I'm right here."
"Can I…" Sam hesitated, ploughing his face even deeper into Dean. Wordlessly, Dean maneuvered them both to his bed, sending Caleb a single glare, daring him to mock Sammy or him about it. The teen held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, grinning impishly at his best friend and subsequently earning himself a patented Dean Winchester eye-roll.
Settling Sammy underneath the covers, Dean began to comb his fingers soothingly through the boy's unruly curls. After a solid few minutes of this, Caleb couldn't figure out what had him rooted to the spot, but still he remained, silently observing the tranquility that now surrounded Sam as his brother was next to him.
"Can' s'eep, Dee," the boy mumbled, snuggling closer to his brother. Dean sighed slightly and cut his eyes to Caleb's form. Caleb could see he was struggling with a decision and he knew his friend had made up his mind when his face adapted a 'what the hell' expression and he turned his attention to the huddled Sammy-shaped lump curled into him. To Caleb's immeasurable shock, he opened his mouth, and began to sing softly.
"Hey Sam…don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better…
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make things better.
Hey Sam, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get hurt
The minute you let her under your skin
then you'll begin
to make it better."
The sound of Sammy's deep breathing stopped the impromptu performance. Caleb shook himself from the stupor he had fallen into; his best friend had talent; his voice was pure and rich and undoubtedly smooth. Hearing Dean sing to his little brother was about as heart-warming a sight as Caleb had ever known, not that he could ever let his feelings be seen. Adopting a smirk, he tried to erase the awe and pride from his expressive golden eyes.
"I think you're ready for kids all your own, now, Deuce," Caleb smirked at his friend. Pain flickered across his face, startling Caleb. His comment hadn't meant to hurt, and Dean had taken so much worse ribbing from him…how had he hurt his friend the level he'd seen cross his face?
"Shut up and go to bed, Caleb," the 9 year old returned sharply, the absence of his usual nickname stinging the teen far worse than he would have thought.
"Deuce, man, I…"
"Leave me alone, Caleb," he whispered, turning his head, but not before Caleb caught a glimpse of a shiny, lone track of moisture streak down his pale face. Stunned into unresponsiveness, Caleb's mind screamed as his feet seemed to move off their own volition, heading to his bed.
A preliminary search of the bedroom the next morning saw no Dean, just a sleeping Sammy. Caleb hunted for the little boy, stopping in his father's room to ask him if he had a clue where the kid had wandered off to.
"Hey, Dad, you seen Deuce anywhere?" he asked distractedly, looking around the room as though expecting a blond head to pop up from behind a curtain, satisfied for having scared the psychic.
"Not here, Son," Mac answered, "he must be asleep still."
"He's not in his room," Caleb muttered, worry beginning to gnaw at him.
"You two fought about something?" Mac guessed knowingly.
"I teased him about singing to Sammy last night," Caleb grumbled, running a hand through his hair, beginning to quickly tire of Dean's brattiness the longer he was worried.
"Oh…" Mac's winced, catching Caleb's attention. His father's face was creased with worry and sympathy.
"What?" Reaves asked impatiently.
"Son…he sang that old Beatles song, didn't he? Hey Jude?"
"Yeah," Caleb nodded surprised. "You heard it too?"
"Yes," Mac nodded thoughtfully, "a long time ago. It was the first words Dean spoke after Mary died when he came to us. I told you about it, but didn't tell you the circumstances. Mary used to sing that song to Dean all the time, son, it was their lullaby, and Dean sings it for Sammy when he can't fall asleep."
Caleb stood motionless for a minute, horror filling him in every pore.
"Oh, man, Dad, I…" he trailed off, thinking about how upset the 9 year old had to be right now. He knew he would be.
"Find him and apologize," Mac advised softly. "Dean adores you. He'll forgive you easily."
Caleb nodded, guilt and regret oozing off him. Should've known better, he admonished himself. Deuce would never so openly display something like that in front of me unless it was necessary, and important enough to him.
Desperation mounted as he found no trace of the kid in the house, and it only amplified when he thought of the thankfully still sleeping Sammy. The boys had a waking-up ritual of sorts, each making sure that they were the first person their brother saw upon waking. Obviously, Sammy being younger, it often fell to Dean to maintain it, and Caleb's brow creased in concern at the thought of what the youngest Winchester might do when he woke up to no Captain One Helluva big brother.
Jogging outside, Caleb looked in all their usual jaunts; Jim's pond, the barn, even the Church. No sign of Dean anywhere.
His panic now reaching full throttle as much more sinister possibilities filled his head, Caleb ran off in search of his mentor. He was apprehensive about what Johnny might do, but it was nothing compared to the terror of something having happened to Dean. Spotting him leaning against the Impala, Caleb ran over to the former Marine.
"Johnny, I can't find Dean," he blurted, not bothering with the pleasantries, just eager to get help and action.
"Calm down, Junior," John raised an eyebrow at Caleb. "Jim, Dean and I went to the shop this morning. Dean said something about needing to buy you something. He should be up in the room."
Shock and surprise barreled into the teen, rooting him to the spot momentarily. Why was Dean getting him something? And what did he get?
First and foremost, though, an apology.
"Thanks, Johnny," Caleb yelled over his shoulder as he jogged up the front steps into the house. Taking the stairs two at a time, he peeked into Sam and Dean's room. Seeing only the huddled form of the four year old, Caleb retreated and went to his room instead.
Sure enough, there on his bed, sat his best friend.
"Deuce, I…" he started, walking in. He was immediately shut up when the kid held out a clenched fist.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you last night." The downturned head of hair was all that was visible to the teen as Dean kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Deuce, man, I'm the one who should be sorry," Caleb shook his head, ignoring the proffered fist and gently taking Dean by the shoulders to force him to look at him. "I didn't know, Deuce, I swear I didn't," he murmured regretfully.
"How could you have?" Dean shrugged, green eyes fixed steadfastly on Caleb, showing no hint of anger or hurt, just forgiveness and understanding. "It's okay, Caleb, I shouldn't have shouted at you. I knew you didn't know about the song or you wouldn't have said anything. I get it." The kid shook his fist thrusting it again at Caleb. Smiling gently at the boy, Caleb held out a hand. Dean grinned toothily back before dropping his peace offering into Caleb's upturned palm.
Chuckling at the packet of peanut MNMs that landed there, the teen stood up, ripping the packet open with his teeth and holding it out, silently giving Dean first offering of the chocolatey goodness. The kid's answering smile was contagious, and he reached out, before stopping cold in his tracks, cocking his head to the side, tongue sticking out ever so slightly from the side of his mouth.
"What?" the psychic asked, frowning at his friend. Dean said nothing, simply dropped his hand and scurried out the adjoining door into the room he shared with Sam. He padded softly over to the bed…
…just in time for Sam to open his eyes. The toddler's face creased into a sleepy smile, and he held his arms out to his big brother. Caleb looked on in amazement. How had Dean known the exact moment Sam was going to wake? Thinking back, Caleb began to wonder how, all the times before this too, Dean somehow had the uncanny knack for knowing the precise moment his brother was about to wake, whether he was in the next room, or the next floor.
As Sam curled into Dean, only waking properly when Dean displayed the Peeps he had gotten Sam from his little shopping expedition, Caleb knew how Dean did it.
It was just a Dean-Winchester-Older-Brother thing.
###
Since when did the howling of the wind outside sound like a werewolf? Then again, that would be why they described the sound as 'howling'. Come on, Sammy. Don't be stupid.
Ten-year-old Sam Winchester chose to overlook the fact that he was having a full conversation with himself in his head, focusing instead on the window he had been looking out of for about 2 hours now. Sam was staying at Pastor Jim's, and while he loved it here, today he was beyond anxious.
Today, Dean had gone on a hunt with Dad and Caleb, hunting a wendigo that had been on an unusual killing spree. Sam was terrified for his brother, now especially since they had promised to be back two hours before. Which had led to him sitting at the window. Worrying. Fervently. Sam didn't think…no, he knew he could not handle a life without his big brother in it. The mere thought of it sent him into a full blown panic attack. As he sat, anxiously awaiting the familiar deep, trembling roar of the Impala's engine, he was certain something awful had happened. Nausea churned his gut and he shivered spastically.
"Son…"Pastor Jim tried, but no sooner had the endearment been uttered before Sam violently shook his head.
"I can't sleep without Dean," he said in small voice that sounded to him much younger than his 10 years. Hell, truth be told, he didn't much feel his age either; all that was left in him was a trembling 2 year old afraid of the dark.
Thinking on this, Sam remembered a time long ago; he must have been about 5 then; when he had woken up from an awful nightmare and Dean had sung him a lullaby to get him back to sleep. Later, Sam found out it wasn't really a lullaby, just an old song, but Sam loved it. Secretly, he thought of it as his song, and frequently, he had made Dean sing him off to sleep. It stopped when he turned 9, when he tried to be as mature as his bigger brother, but given the circumstances, and the way he felt right now, Sam thought he wouldn't mind being five years old again, and he definitely would give almost anything to have Dean there, singing him his song so he could fall off to sleep again.
As if his pained and whimpering thoughts had reached his big brother, Sam heard the distant rumble of the classic engine that had one of the most distinctive sounds in Sammy's world. The others, of course, being the harsh bark of his father, the kind tones of the Brotherhood members, and the calming, soothing, reassuring, loving tenor of Dean's drawl, that never failed to make him feel protected and loved.
Racing to the door, Sam yanked it open and bolted outside before anyone could stop him. Before the Impala had completely stopped, he was ripping open the back-seat door, scanning his brother for any sign of injury. When he saw the denim of Dean's leg soaked with blood, a high keening sound escaped his throat and he stood motionless, a dull roaring in his ears. Vaguely, he felt arms lifting him but he couldn't move or react.
Then that sound.
Oh, that ever distinctive sound.
He was more grateful to hear it than he was to hear the car.
"Shh, shh, Sammy, I'm okay," Dean's murmur reached his ears. "I'm alright, Sammy, I promise. It's just a small graze, kiddo, just a graze. I'm here now, you're okay. Everything is going to be just fine."
Sam's unresponsiveness broke at the sound of the safety-inducing words. He noticed he was in Dean's arms, sitting on his lap, a split second before he launched himself bodily into Dean's chest. Wrapping his arms around his brother's chest, he finally, finally felt okay again. Sniffles escaped him as he held on tight, afraid to let go. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulled him in tighter, and he sighed contentedly. He felt Dean lift them both to a more comfortable position, running a comforting hand through Sam's unruly hair. He snuggled deeper into Dean's chest, smiling when he felt his brother's chest rumble underneath his face as laughter travelled through his body.
He distantly felt Dean shaking his head, and heard the words "No, it's fine, leave him. I've got him" before he felt himself gently tugged upwards. Clinging to his brother like he was 5 again, Sam hid his face from the disapproving look he knew would be etched on to his father's face. Dean shuffled into the house and sat at the kitchen. Sam slid off him, reluctance evident, only the knowledge that his brother needed to be treated keeping him from clinging obstinately on. He moved to Dean's side, who immediately ruffled his hair in a soothing gesture. Sam leaned into the touch happily this time, even as he mumbled, "Not my hair, Dean. Jerk."
"Bitch," Dean murmured absently, smiling tiredly at Sam, who grinned happily back. Caleb caught Sam in a quick headlock and Sam laughed as the older hunter ruffled his hair too.
"Aw, come on, Runt, I used to be the one who got all the enthusiastic greetings and attention!" the psychic whined with a grin.
"Never said the kid couldn't develop taste, Damien," Dean smirked, green eyes twinkling despite the pain and exhaustion hollowing them out.
"Bite me," Reaves shot back.
"I don't swing that way, man, I thought we cleared this up weeks ago?"
"What can I say, Deuce, I just want you so bad," Caleb rolled his eyes, grinning dryly.
"Find a bar, Junior, and leave my son out of that," John rejoined, a rare smile playing over his lips as he handed Caleb a beer and Dean a soda before opening his own beer. Dean smirked at Caleb, who glared playfully back.
"Lose the grin, you little bi…"
"Caleb!" Pastor Jim's admonishing voice cut through the psychic's intended insult. He cringed, and Sam grinned at the look on his face.
"I tried to tell him not to swear at us, Pastor Jim," Dean shook his head innocently. "He just wouldn't listen."
Sam stifled a laugh at the accusing look Caleb shot at Dean.
"There's only so much you can do, Big Brother," Sam joined in, sighing in mock-weariness. Dean's face lit up in a grin at Sam's back-up and Sam returned the smile while Caleb scowled and John snorted.
"Indeed, Samuel," Pastor Jim smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling. "Caleb, I believe you just volunteered to help with my sermon for this Sunday."
"I don't know why I surround myself with you people," Caleb grumbled, taking a swig of his beer moodily.
Sam caught a look of slight remorse on his older brother's face, and Sam knew Dean would find a way to make sure Caleb wasn't so much mad as he was petulant.
"Don't flatter yourself Junior," John deadpanned. "We're the ones keeping you around. You're like an overgrown puppy we're obligated to feed and play fetch with. Like Atticus."
Sam and Dean roared with laughter at the incredulous and betrayed look of indignation on Caleb's face, surprised and pleased that their father had joined in the banter. John winked at his oldest son, whose smile widened all but removing the earlier exhaustion from his face.
"What is this, attack of the freaking Winchesters?" Caleb asked crabbily. The Pastor, running interference, looked worried about the grotesque patch of red staining Dean's blue denims.
"Let's take a look at that leg, son," Pastor Jim gestured to Dean's bloody jeans as the laughter died down. "What happened?"
"Deuce wanted to be a hero," Caleb snarked, even as concern and guilt worried his golden eyes. He leaned forward, earlier complaints forgotten as he focused on his best friend. "The wendigo was coming at me when Rambo launched himself over me."
"He would've swiped your chest clean through, man," Dean muttered, eyes darkening as the moment presumably played itself over in his head. Sam felt his belly flop with relief and edginess.
Pastor Jim carefully cut open Dean's jeans, wincing in sympathy at the deep gash running down Dean's calf.
"Deuce, you said it was just a small scratch!" Caleb hissed. The accusation was mirrored in John's narrowed eyes.
"It is," Dean shrugged calmly. "Just went a little deeper than I thought."
Reaves cuffed the fifteen year old across the back of his head, sighing long-sufferingly, brow furrowed in concern. Sam knew the older hunter hated when either of them got hurt, especially Dean, and more especially on account of him. Caleb had, long ago, taken on the role of protecting Dean, as much as he grumbled and claimed he was coerced into it by the oldest Winchester. Pastor Jim made quick work of cleaning out the wound while Dean sat stoically still, only smiling slightly in acknowledgement when Pastor Jim assured him that he would be quick with the sutures.
Though sickened at the sight of his brother's wound, Sam stayed at Dean's side. Seeing the grimace on his face, Dean let go of his stoicism long enough to swat Sam's chest with the back of his hand, winking at his brother and earning a grin despite Sam's best efforts to look reproachful.
Once Pastor Jim declared himself finished and Dean recounted the hunt to Sam in over exaggerated splendor, it was time to call it a day. Adrenaline wore off, leaving the three hunters exhausted and without his worry keeping him up, Sam felt himself crash too. Shuffling up to their bedrooms, Caleb came into their room with them, staying to hang out just a little while longer. Sam dozed off, Dean and Caleb still talking and fooling around.
Blood.
So much blood.
A…creature…some…thing…launching itself directly at Dean. Claws flashed silver in the dead of night, illuminating the look of terror and horror in Dean's green eyes.
"Sammy, RUN!" Dean screamed, as the thing began to tear into him. His brother's agonized shrieks filled Sam's ears as he watched rooted to the spot. Sam's body jerked as the thing ripped into his brother's chest, coming back with organs hanging from his blood-matted paws. Sam could only stand there aghast as the thing slowly began to rip Dean even further apart, somehow his screams still ringing in the air.
"Dean!" Sam screamed desperately, sobbing in great, breathless heaves. "Deeee…
…AAANNNN!" Sam bolted upright in bed, feeling cold for a fraction of a second before a warmth surrounded him. He grabbed frantically onto the familiar form of his brother who promptly pulled him into the safety of his arms, running a hand through his hair and making soothing sounds.
"It was just a nightmare Sammy, I'm right here. I'm okay. I'm not going anywhere, Kiddo."
Maybe he should have been embarrassed for clinging on to his older brother like he was a little child, for waking him up for a nightmare, but Sam couldn't care less at that moment. For all intents and purposes, he was 5 again, and having his brother next to him made the terror go away.
When he finally got his gasping under control, Dean gently pulled the covers over him and went back to his own bed. Sam felt fatigue pull him again, but like so many times before, he could not get to sleep, wired still, even as sleep beckoned.
He hesitated only a split second before getting out and padding silently over to Dean's bed.
"Dean?" In this one, uttered address, Dean's green eyes opened, studied Sam as though he could read his mind, like it seemed he sometimes could, and saw what Sam was asking without him saying it. Wordlessly, he scooted over, pulling open his blanket in silent invitation.
Needing no more prompting, Sam jumped in, snuggling close to his brother, who wrapped a strong, protective arm around him. Comforting himself with the steady thrum of his brother's heartbeat against his cheek, Sam tried to fall back to sleep. Though no longer scared now, and as blissfully peaceful as he was, he still could not sleep.
And then he heard what he hadn't heard in years.
Something he needed without him knowing.
But of course, Dean knew.
"Hey Sam…don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better…
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make things better."
Dean's voice, smooth and sweet like warm honey, wafted over him, instilling such a sense of safety and love and calm in him that he wished he could stay here forever.
Hey Sam, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get hurt
The minute you let her under your skin
then you'll begin
to make it better."
The pull of sleep won now, not from tiredness, but the alluring pull of the song that always had Sam drifting into sleep.
"I'll always be with you, Sammy," Dean whispered as he drifted off. "As long as I'm around, you never have to be afraid, and I'll always fight to make sure nothing ever takes me away from you."
As Sam snuggled closer and lost his battle with consciousness, he couldn't help but think…
…he really loved the idea of always having big brother there.
###
"Son of a…!"
"…Sam?" The muffled curse from her boyfriend woke Jess up from a deep sleep. She opened her eyes blearily, looking at Sam who was clutching his right foot. He glanced at her with a half-smile.
"I stubbed my toe on the dresser," he explained sheepishly. She giggled.
"Why aren't you in bed?" Jess questioned around a yawn, sitting up, wondering why Sam had exchanged his usual Stanford sleeping shirt for an old, worn AC/DC shirt with a hole on the bottom hem. She remembered trying to wash it once; it was the first time they had fought, Sam insisting that the shirt was something no one could touch, claiming it was priceless. He never explained the story behind it, and Jess didn't ask. She learned quickly that there were some things Sam would just never share.
"Couldn't sleep," he shrugged.
"And…" she looked at the items in his hands, "an old shirt, that mysterious box you haven't opened in 3 years, a kid's jacket and presumably the couch is going to help you get back to sleep?" she raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.
"I think it's time to open it," he muttered, looking pensively at the worn box. After a full minute, he looked at her again. "My brother left the box in my dorm when I first came to Stanford. He said it was for when I needed it, and I would know when that moment came that I should open it. I think I should open it."
"Oh-kay," Jess nodded, wishing her boyfriend wouldn't get his hopes up. The way he described the relationship he once had with his older brother often made Jess wonder. She was sure he was over-selling it, and after building up this image of a supernaturally close bond with him, she didn't want him to be disappointed. He must have built some high expectations for what was in that box, and Jess just couldn't believe that it would match up. Sam spoke like his brother was a God, and Jess? Jess had an older brother too, and while they were as close as anyone, she didn't put Jason on a pedestal. Sam, although maybe unknowingly, did. "And how are you sure that it will help?"
"Dean," he said simply. "Dean left it, knowing I would need it, and trusting me to know when I would need it too." Jess bit her lip.
"Honey, think about the odds. I mean, your brother wouldn't have left you something 3 years ago because he somehow knew you wouldn't be able to sleep one night and you would just magically know that he left you, like, sleeping pills or something."
"Then either way, I'm about to find out," Sam replied in a clipped voice, eyes steeled and jaw clenched in anger. She sighed; it was pointless trying to get Sam to believe that his brother wasn't practically psychically attuned to him.
"Fine," she acquiesced. "I just hope you aren't disappointed."
"Dean's never disappointed me," he replied firmly, leaving the room.
It took all of 2 minutes for Jess to follow.
She stayed, half hidden by shadows, in the hallway, watching as Sam stretched out on their sofa and sat the box next to him before gently running the child's jacket in his hands. Rubbing the edge of the jacket between his fingers, he seemed to immediately calm. Jess remembered the story behind the old jean jacket; one that naturally involved big brother Dean…
"Sam, it's a kid's jacket. Why on earth would you want to keep it?" Jess asked in confusion as she unpacked her clothes into their new apartment.
"It's important," Sam snapped. Taking the worn old jacket, he put it in the drawer stubbornly. Hurt bubbled in her; Sam was never short with her. She stood still until he looked at her, immediately softening at the hurt on her face. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" he apologized gently. "I didn't mean to snap."
"Why is it so important to you?" she asked, smiling slightly so he knew he was forgiven. She watched him contemplate a long moment before looking back at her.
"It was Dean's," he admitted. She felt her eyebrows rise in confusion.
"Wait, your big brother, Dean?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "This one time, I was real little, must have been about 6 years old and Dean got hurt. He uh….he fell out of a tree. I felt so guilty, I thought it was my fault since I got my Frisbee stuck up there and begged Dean to get it for me. Of course he never could say no to me, so when he fell, I was sure he would hate me for asking him to do that.
Anyway, I was crying the whole way to the hospital, didn't even stop when they offered me a sucker. When Dad told me they wanted Dean to stay there for a night because he had a concussion with a broken arm, I started crying again, all the way to his room. When he saw me, he just smiled his usual devil-may-care grin and patted the spot on the bed next to him. He hugged me into his side with his good arm, telling me he was alright and that he didn't blame me and that everything was going to be okay, until I stopped wailing. I ended up staying with him that night, refused to even go with my dad. I think some of the nurses may have suspected my Dad of child abuse, the way I was screaming blue murder than I had to stay with Dean," he chuckled, eyes soft with the memory. Jess grinned at the thought of temper-tantrum Sam.
"So you stayed?" she prompted him to finish.
"Yeah," he nodded. "And that night, Dean gave me his favorite jean jacket. That jacket," he flicked his head towards the drawer. "He said that no matter what, that jacket would protect me if I had it, because if I had his jacket, then I had him there too. It took him the better part of an hour to convince me he wasn't going to leave me," he smiled ruefully. "Of course at the time, I didn't realize I would be the one leaving him."
"You kept the jacket 15 years," Jess remarked in awe.
"I cried when it stopped fitting me," he grinned. "Dean had to give me his other jacket for me to calm down. But I always kept this one. It meant something. The others didn't, not so much."
Jess took in the look on Sam's face, realizing then that his brother was something more to Sam than Jess would be able to comprehend. Frankly, she didn't think she would ever understand it.
Sam patted the jacket one more time before taking the box in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he opened it, and pulled out…
…an old tape.
Jess sighed under her breath. She knew it was going to be a disappointment. Sam was going to be brooding for a week about this.
Jess was about to go back to bed when Sam reached over and popped the tape into their player. Curiosity getting the better of her, she crossed her arms, waiting to see what was on it.
"Sammy."
She could hear the grin and the love behind the one, simple nickname. She thought jealously to the one time she'd called her boyfriend 'Sammy', and his prompt response:
It's Sam, Jess. There's only one person in this world allowed to call me Sammy.
Swallowing the bitter pill of envy, she listened.
"It's Sam," she heard Sam mutter, albeit playfully. Then came the tape recorder, timed so perfectly that Dean seemed to have known exactly when Sam would respond, and with what.
"It aint Sam, man. It'll always be Sammy."
Jess's jaw dropped along with Sam's as Dean's laughter came through the speakers.
"If you're listening to this, it means you need me, Sammy. I'm sorry I aint there, man. But let me guess, you're sitting there with my old jacket, wearing my AC/DC shirt that you always thought I didn't know you stole? Which was my favorite shirt, by the way."
"Damnit, Dean," Sam huffed softly, amused. "Well, it's my shirt now, you big jerk."
A small laugh. "Bitch."
An exuberant laugh came from Sam, his whole body shaking, and with a start, and a small pang, Jess realized that in 3 years, she had never heard Sam laugh like that. So joyfully. So delightfully.
"Now you're probably wondering how I knew what you would be saying and how I knew you would need this tape one day. I couldn't tell you, Sammy-boy. I guess it's the same way I always knew when you were going to wake up when we were kids. Same way I knew when you were about to get pounded by a bully and needed my help, even when I was on the other end of the school, or in a different school entirely. Same way I always know when you need me. Since you were six months old, Sammy, I always knew when you needed me."
"I wish you were here," Sam whispered softly, somehow still conversing with a freaking tape.
"Wish I was there too, little brother." Jess shook her head, still shocked and in disbelief. "But since I'm not, I'm gonna do the only thing I can do. The only that ever worked when you really couldn't sleep. And the next time we speak or the next time I see you, we aren't going to mention a word about this okay? I know you love those chick-flick moments, Sammy, but Caleb would never let me live it down and I have a rep to protect."
"Jerk," Sam mumbled again with a smile, settling on to the couch, using the jean jacket as a pillow.
"Bitch. Now, comfortable with that jacket as a pillow or you want to get a cushion?"
Ok, maybe Sam wasn't over-selling. Maybe Dean was psychic. Or a God.
"I'm good," Sam yawned.
"Okay then…
Hey Sam…don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better…
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make things better.
Hey Sam, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get hurt
The minute you let her under your skin
then you'll begin
to make it better."
Jess recognized the old Beatles song, and had to admit that the rich, deep baritone Dean sang it in was gorgeous, like warm, syrupy honeysuckle. She looked at Sam who, surprise surprise, was fast falling off to sleep on the sofa. Jess smiled, warmth and disbelief in her in equal measure.
"Works every time," the voice on the tape wasn't finished. "Goodnight little brother." The slightest hesitation. "Love you."
"Love you Dee," Sam mumbled, sounding all of 5 years old, before conking.
For a long time, Jess just stood there. She was so very, very wrong. The bond Sam had with his brother was amazing, and she knew she wouldn't be able to understand it. But looking at her peacefully sleeping boyfriend, she could appreciate it. If anything, Sam under-sold his bond with his brother.
"Honey think of the odds…" her earlier words wafted over her. She smiled. She had learned something today.
The Winchester brothers seemed to always beat the odds.
###
"No…no…NO!" Dean's heart shattered as his little brother awoke screaming. Vaulting himself from his bed in one smooth motion, he was at Sam's side in a second.
"Shh, Sammy, I…I'm here little brother," Dean hesitated. It was so much easier when Sammy was a kid. Assure him that he was there and repeat that it was a nightmare and everything was going to be okay, and the kid would be fine. But now? Dean wasn't even sure his little brother wanted him there at all, and this nightmare was real, and things were not going to be okay, because the love of his brother's life had just been murdered right in front of him.
Sam hadn't slept in days…since Dean raced into that burning, crumbling building and yanked him out by the scruff of his neck. He had made himself sick in doing so, burning up a fever and a nasty case of dizziness, nausea, sore throat, the works. Dean had to force meds down his throat and sit on the bed until Sam fell asleep.
Now, he could see why Sam wouldn't sleep.
His little brother woke up thrashing and screaming. "Sammy!" he barked, when the soothing didn't work. Sam stopped, going rigid, searching him out with fever-bright eyes.
"Dee…" he whimpered, and damn if a part of Dean's heart didn't just get lost forever.
"I'm right here, Sammy, right here Kiddo," he comforted automatically. Like he was 10 again, Sam launched himself into Dean's chest. Just like he did that day, he pushed past everything and wrapped strong, solid, comforting arms around his admittedly larger frame. Dean unconsciously rocked back and forth, tightening his grip when Sam hiccupped.
"All over me," he keened pitifully, painfully. "On my face, Dee, make 't go 'way," he pleaded.
Dean pushed his brother away far enough to frame his face with large, calloused hands that spoke of years of rough work, but still symbolized worlds of comfort and safety to the younger Winchester.
"What's on your face, Sammy, tell me, I'll get it off," Dean soothed, wondering what nightmare about Jess made his angst-addled little brother so worked-up.
"Blood," he moaned, sounding 6 years old again. With a flash, Dean remembered; Jess's blood dripped from the ceiling right on to Sam's cheek. He had wiped it off with the cuff of his sleeve immediately, hoping Sam hadn't noticed in the traumatic events that followed, but obviously, that was an empty hope.
"I got it, Sammy, okay, I'll get it out," the older brother comforted, humoring the younger man's illusion of blood on his face, grabbing a wet facecloth from the bedside that he used to wipe Sam's face when his fever was sky-rocketing earlier. With the gentleness and tenderness born from years of being a mother, a father, a brother and a care-giver, Dean ran the wet cloth over Sam's sweaty face, careful to soothe his brother while he worked.
"'S'it gone?" he asked softly, childishly, looking up at Dean with the implicit trust he used to have when they were kids and Sam believed that Dean could fix anything in the world because he was Captain One Hellova Big Brother.
"It's gone, Sammy, I promise," he nodded, pushing a wayward lock of Sam's drenched hair away from his eyes. Sam nodded, settling slowly back down, not relinquishing his hold on Dean's shirt.
"Will you…?"
Sam didn't need to complete the sentence.
Dean figured, what the hell? Sam was too fevered to remember this in the morning, and even if he had been? To hell with it. His little brother needed this. Needed him. Damn if he was going to say no.
"Hey Sam…don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better…
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make things better."
Dean sung softly, carding through Sam's hair with his fingers like he had some 22 years ago, relishing in the familiarity of the old Beatles song and remembering the angel that sang it to him every night for four and a half wonderful years.
"Hey Sam, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get hurt
The minute you let her under your skin
then you'll begin
to make it better."
Looking down at his sleeping brother, curled into him the same way he did every time he sang for him, Dean had to smile, even through the pain of the last couple days.
"Night little brother," he whispered. Taking a deep breath in, he looked out the window to the shining stars that lit up the sky. "Night Mom," he breathed. "Thank you for saving him. Twice."
And maybe it was the darkness of the night, or maybe it was the tiredness from being up with Sammy the last few days, or hell, maybe it was just Dean's jumbled brain playing cruel tricks on him. But at that very moment, Dean could've sworn on the Impala, that he heard a soft peal of laughter accompanied by a voice saturated with love, that he hadn't heard since he was 4 years old:
"Hey Jude…don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better…
Remember to let her into your heart,
then you can start to make things better.
Goodnight, Love. Sleep well. Angels are watching over you."