AN:

So, I really didn't think I would get this up today, but my best friend in the whole entire world, Sand_AllyMayhem beta'd this part of it last night, in person (yes, I am insanely lucky, my best friend lives only two blocks away!)

Short Chapter, flashing back and forth from the days immediately following the first time the Winchester boys encountered the Striga to the finals moments of Season One through some linear moments in Season Two. The Story of how a plastic soldier saved the world!

Anywho, if it doesn't make a lots of sense yet, I'm sorry. It should shape up nicely with a few more chapters. That's one of these reasons Sand_AllyMayhem checked it over for me. She knows the entire storyline, and swears I'm not crazy.

As Always

EverReader

PS, this will be a four or five shot, I think, and feel free to check out my other current project, The Samulet Confessions, which should only be one chapter away from completion.

PPS-interested in sending a prompt? PM me, tag it Salt & Burn Confessions.

Disclaimer: Still not my sandbox

Confessions of a Toy Soldier

September 1989

Six-year old Sam Winchester sat on the swings at the church playground. He was bored and hot and he didn't want to swing anymore but he had promised Dean he wouldn't move from this spot where Dean could see him as he worked on the old bicycle Pastor Jim had found in the church garage.

And that was a problem.

Not the bike. The bike was cool. Sam had been itching to learn to ride a bike, felt stupid that all the other kids in his first grade class knew how to ride a bike when he didn't. He could shoot a BB gun (remember not to talk about this in school, Sam) tie and untie twelve different kinds of knots with his eyes closed (his Dad came up with weird games) and he could even say the entire Lords Prayer (in Latin, and they didn't even go to church unless they were staying with Pastor Jim.)

But he'd never had a chance to learn to ride a bike, with or without training wheels. Dean's eyes had lit up when when Pastor Jim had rolled the old rusty bike out of the dusty garage.

"Awesome!" He'd crowed with glee, running his hands up and down the slightly bent frame. "Gonna fix this up for you, Sammy. Be just like new! Your own bike, how about that?".

Dean had quickly made the project his own, waving off any offers of help from Pastor Jim, or Chuck, the Church's old groundskeeper. He'd kept talking about how he was gonna make it the best bike ever.

Which was why Sam was now sitting in the late afternoon sun, idly kicking his feet back and forth on the church's swing set, pondering his Dean problem.

Because, however awesome a bike would be, Sam knew the truth.

Something was wrong with Dean.

Sam studied his brother as he continued to work on Sam's new bike in the shade of the garage. He was completely engrossed in the project, when he wasn't watching Sam's every move like a hawk.

It was beginning to frighten Sam a little.

April, 2005

Dean lay in the back seat of the Impala, struggling for every shallow breath. Through pain and panic, one thought pushed through.

Sam hadn't taken the shot.

He'd been so scared, so sure, that Sam would take the shot. Hadn't their entire childhoods been spent chasing the Yellow-Eyed Demon? Hadn't they sacrificed everything, their mother, Jess, every tiny shred of normality, of hope and happiness and safety?

So he'd known, even as he called out to his brother, his voice so weak he could barely hear himself. He'd known that this would end, here and now, that Sam would end it. Sam would pull the trigger, for this first time in his life, he would follow their father's order without question. He would pull the trigger and end the demon.

And their father along with it.

But Sam hadn't taken the shot. Dean had never been so grateful for anything in his whole entire life.

Weakly, he attempted to sit up. He could hear Sam and Dad in the front seat, but their voices sounded muffled, much farther away then they should. As if the front seat of the Impala was another country, and Dean was on an airplane flying in the opposite direction.

"Not everything, Sir." He could barely make out Sam's words, but the tone alerted him, woke up the sluggish big brother instincts drowning in the haze and pain in his head.

Sam and Dad were fighting again. 'Was someone hurt? Was Sam hurt?' Dean wondered, thoughts flitting around his head like drunken fire flies. The Impala hit a pothole, and the shooting pain in his sternum brought Dean back to himself. He was the one who was hurt. He tried vainly to sit up, hands scrabbling for purchase. Suddenly his hand closed around something wedged into the ashtray of the door.

"It'll keep us safe when we sleep Dean." Sam's six year old voice floated through his mind as he gazed down in bemused surprise at the old plastic soldier in his hand. He hadn't meant to pull it out. He'd promised Sam he'd leave it there, under the window, though he'd never completely understood his then six-year old brother's logic. Dean had sworn he'd leave it there, so he had.

Sam had said it was there to watch out for them.

To keep them safe.

'Hope it still works', Dean thought as everything faded to black.