Poor Sam isn't coping with the whole bodily fluids thing very well, I acknowledge that. Maybe in the Jimiverse, something happened in the Cage, for example, Lucifer hogged the TV remote (since he insisted that ii was his Cage, therefore it was his AV system) and on one occasion he wanted to watch Dr Strangelove over and over and over again, and Sam was left subliminally traumatised...
Chapter Ten
"The owls fly forth from the treetops.."
Both the Winchesters were old friends with sleep deprivation.
"Through the air, they soar and they sweep..."
From the demands of a job, insomnia coincident with injury and pain (for the damaged one and the one sitting watch), sleeplessness through anxiety over a hundred different things from a missing engine to a missing sibling, they'd both had plenty of practice at running on empty for days, or weeks, getting barely enough rest to keep the body from collapsing and the brain from spontaneously detonating, then finding some more in the tank just because it was necessary. It was all part and parcel of being a Hunter, and being a Winchester.
"A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love..."
Yet somehow, the current situation was leaving them feeling drained in ways they couldn't articulate clearly.
"For real, shut the fuck up and sleep..."
In fact, thought Sam, getting a mental picture of his brain quietly liquefying and pouring out his ears like so much melted ice-cream, it was becoming more difficult to articulate anything, except using small words and short sentences. It was as thought the child was some sort of psychic vampire, feeding off their own energy and vitality, and yet it had only been two days since RJ had arrived. It was... he searched for an appropriate word, and slowly rolled over to gaze blearily at Dean.
"Mrrrrrnramf," he said.
"Mm-hmmm," agreed Dean, yawning hugely, then quickly plastering the desperate smile back onto his face as RJ started to grizzle again. "Oh, hey, sorry, little guy," he apologised brightly, "Didn't mean to make a scary face, Daddy's just tired, okay? Daddy's just very, very tired..."
Baby RJ had better timing than the most ruthless and experienced torturer. He'd gone to sleep, and stayed asleep as the brothers wound down for the night, then went to bed themselves, Sam smiling to see his brother gazing down at RJ with a mixture of doting pride and awe.
"I just can't believe I participated in producing something this cute," Dean said in wonder, stroking RJ's cheek gently. RJ grabbed his father's hand in his sleep, and Sam wondered if Dean's face would split open from smiling.
"Must be a Living Sex God thing," Sam grinned, happy to see his brother look less stressed. Dean fell asleep watching RJ, and Sam fell asleep shortly afterwards.
That happy state of affairs lasted for approximately ninety minutes.
It would make sense for a parent to be attuned to the smallest of whimpers from their child, Sam thought, but it was just unfair that he seemed to be woken up too every time the kid so much as snuffled.
"Hey, tiger," Dean yawned then smiled dotingly as he picked the boy up, "What's up? You wet again?"
RJ grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt and shoved it into his mouth, as simultaneously an astonishingly loud rumble sounded.
"What the hell was that?" asked Sam, also yawning.
"Hungry, then," decided Dean.
"Oh, great," grumbled Sam, "It's just the sound of the boilers firing up in the chemical munitions factory."
"I got this, Sam," Dean told him, "Go back to sleep."
"Yeah, right," Sam muttered, pulling the blankets over his head, "Don't use my shirts for your spit up cloths, jerk." Against all odds, he managed to nod off again to the sounds of RJ slurping happily on his bottle.
The trouble was, RJ was seriously high maintenance.
He woke up and cried because he was wet. He woke up and cried because he was hungry. He woke up and cried because...
"What's wrong now?" sighed Sam petulantly.
"I don't know," Dean had a note of worry in his voice, "He's not wet, he can't be hungry again, I burped him real good so it can't be wind. Maybe he's just lonely."
"Can't he be lonely during daylight hours like normal people?" whined Sam.
"I don't think babies count as normal people," Dean suggested, sitting RJ on his lap, which seemed to stem the grizzling somewhat. "Is that it, little guy? You feeling lonely? Are you missing your Mom? I can relate to that, it's tough." RJ wanted to cuddle, and kept up the droning monotone of unhappiness as Dean gestured to Sam for the laptop. "Why don't we have a story again, huh?"
Which is how they found themselves sitting with a small child, reading a profane children's story, in the wee small hours.
"It's not working," moaned Sam, sitting up, "This is the third time through, it's not working this time!"
"Well, maybe he's bored with it," suggested Dean.
"How?" demanded Sam. "He's only six months old!"
"You got bored," shrugged Dean, "I'd make up a story to tell you, and if I tried to tell you the same one again, you'd wave your fists and turn bright red, then shit yourself. Here," he reached for the blue squeaky dog toy and threw it to Sam, "You pilot Oinker Stoinker for a bit, I'll find something else."
"Deeeeeean," Sam whined, but then he saw the look on his brother's tired face, and relented. "Sure, bro," he said, hauling himself out of bed, "Give me the pig." He glanced enviously at Lars and Lemmy – the young dogs were still curled together on their blanket, apparently oblivious to the grizzling of the newest pup of their pack. "Right, what do I do? Hey!" He let out a yelp of protest as Dean deposited RJ on his lap. The baby looked up at him, and then went for the mouthful of shirt.
"I guess at least it wasn't my hair this time," sighed Sam, picking up Oinker Stoinker
"Just zoom it around," instructed Dean, sitting on his bed and tapping at the laptop, "And don't forget the running commentary."
"Right, right," Sam paused thoughtfully, then cleared his throat uncertainly as RJ looked up at him warily. "Er, hi there again, RJ," he smiled tentatively, "Your Dad has asked me to take over, uh, flying the pig while he looks for another story. So, er, I'm your Uncle Sammy, and I will be your pig pilot for this, um, flight, I guess."
RJ's eyes went from Dean back to Sam with an expression that was decidedly dubious.
"Okay then. The pig is usually a terrestrial quadruped, and is not normally known for its, uh, aerodynamic properties, or indeed its aviational tendencies. In fact, as far as science knows, no species of pig has ever been observed performing aerobatics in the wild..."
RJ paused in his monotone babbling.
"However, the domesticated species known as, um, Oinkus Stoinkus Dogtoyus, is distinguished from other breeds by, uh, its small size, its atypical blue pigmentation, its unusually regular round markings, and its distinctive cry, which is rendered onomatopoeically as 'whonk whonk', which I shall now demonstrate..."
He gave Oinker Stoinker a squeeze; the squeaky pig produced the appropriate sounds.
RJ was entranced, his face a picture of rapt attention.
"Oinkologists have been unable to determine exactly what the purpose of the animal's peculiar call is. Dr Dean Winchester suggested that it was in order to attract a mate, whereas I incline to the theory that it is expressly intended to assist in locating the toy in the dark when standing on it, as the honking noise is quite loud and may be adequate to disguise the swearing as the, uh, stander-onner swears about turning an ankle. Dr Lemmy and Dr Lars have decided that the honking is purely for entertainment purposes, and also provides stress relief in the case of mental trauma caused by being required to bathe..." He honked on the toy again for good measure.
RJ smiled, and waved his hands. Sam found himself smiling back.
"Well, whaddya know," he said to the child, "You like documentaries better than action films."
RJ giggled, and made a demanding noise as he whacked at Oinker Stoinker.
"You want more, huh?" Sam felt the goofy grin widen on his face. "Okay, well, the, uh, aeronautical aspects of the Flying Blue Squeaky Pig are not immediately apparent – its appearance does not suggest that it is particularly aerodynamic, yet powered by its one humanpower engine, it is able to perform aerial manoeuvres not usually seen in pigs. For example, it can hover at an altitude of one arm's length above the bed, like so, with or without helicopter noise sound effects..."
RJ blew a raspberry of appreciation.
"Hey, Dean," Sam burbled as happily as his nephew, "I think I'm getting the hang of this, why don't we just look up pigs on Wikipedia and read to... him..."
Dean had fallen sideways onto his bed, still holding the laptop, and was snoring gently.
"Okaaaay," Sam wiggled carefully so he could hang on to RJ while he snagged the laptop, "We don't need to bother Daddy, we'll just do it ourselves... right, here we are. 'A pig is any of the animals in the genus Sus, within the Suidae family of even-toed ungulates'...and there's a picture..."
By the time they got as far as the picture of bearded pigs, RJ was asleep.
Sam carefully put him back into his crib, then picked Dean's feet up onto his bed and pulled the blankets over him before returning to his own bed. Then he wrote an email, and sent a short text message before going back to sleep.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Early morning arrived all too quickly. RJ was awake and babbling alertly. The dogs were sniffing and frisky and clearly just happy to be alive right there and then. Sam wanted to strangle them both.
"Do you have to bounce around being so annoyingly happy?" he groaned to Lars as the dog bounded up to him for the good morning greeting ritual of ear scratching.
"Good morning to you too, Little Miss Sunshine," said Dean, already cradling RJ and giving him his morning feed.
Sam turned to his brother, who was sporting impressive dark bruises under his eyes. "If I didn't know different," he pronounced, "I'd think you were a zombie, and decapitate you."
"If I didn't know different, I'd let you do it," sighed Dean with a yawn.
"I think I might feel better if my head wasn't attached to the rest of me," confided Sam, "Feels like some asshole has drilled into it during the night, pulled out my brain, and replaced it with yoghurt."
"That might explain your freaky eating habits," suggested Dean, "Why don't you go get us coffee?"
"Nnnnnngr," complained Sam, "That will involve getting out of bed."
"Well, yeah," agreed Dean, "But your other options are A) finish feeding and burping and changing RJ while I go get coffee, or B) dying in a tragic crash when I wrap the Impala around a tree, or possibly C) being found dead from having preservative-free baby food shoved into every available orifice while I plead not guilty by way of being caffeine depleted to a point where I could not be responsible for my actions."
"Can you arrange it so that I die outright when we crash?" asked Sam hopefully. Dean tossed a boot casually through the air to land on his brother's chest. "Ooof! Ow! Alll right, all right, I'm going," he slowly dragged himself from bed and began to dress. "Don't be surprised if I come back with decaf for you, jerk." He took the keys and headed for the door. "You know, I could just get us a big jar of instant and a couple of spoons."
"Coffee now, bitch."
Muttering mutinously, Sam took the keys and headed out.
While he was waiting for a bored-looking teen to make the two supersized BrainBomb coffees, his cell buzzed with a message:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
OK
He let out a small noise of relief – Plan B had a green light.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The logistics of travelling anywhere with a baby were, Sam decided, probably something that should be handed over to experts, like senior military officers who had plenty of experience with multiple deployments overseas. The amount of stuff that was the bare minimum seemed to be increasing each time they packed the car, whilst they were simultaneously running out of things. And, he noticed with an inward sigh, the laundry bag was starting to fill up again.
"So, we ready to rock and roll?" Dean asked RJ, strapping him into his seat. RJ looked thoughtful, then blew a large bubble of… Sam didn't want to think about it too much.
"How about I drive for a while?" offered Sam.
"I'm fine," Dean replied on autopilot, letting Lemmy into the back then sliding in behind the wheel.
"It's just that I thought maybe RJ might be a bit more settled if you were next to him," Sam went on guilelessly, knowing that 'You look like shit, Dean' would be about as effective as scientific evidence at a Creationist convention.
"Nah, he's fine," Dean added in a voice that was just a touch too brittle and bright. He turned to smile at RJ, who was studiously trying to put one of his own feet into his mouth. "Aint ya, little guy?" He pulled them out of the lot as Sam tried to decide whether eating your own feet was better or worse than chewing on a dog's paw. "He's fed, he's burped, he's changed, he's got Oinker Stoinker to keep him company back there – he really has taken a shine to the little blue guy – and he's got the dogs to amuse him. Today, we cover some ground, guys!"
And they did.
For approximately twenty minutes.
"It's just the carsickness thing again, I think," Sam offered as soothingly as he could, whilst Dean held and jiggled the grizzling child. RJ obligingly spit up on Dean's collar to demonstrate that he was right. "You want me to get him a teething cracker? They're supposed to be good for upset stomachs in particular, and just upsets in general."
"Yeah, yeah, a cracker would be good," Dean replied worriedly, clearly trying not to transmit his unrest to his son. Apparently thought, RJ's radar was something he'd inherited from his father, because he refused to settle. "Hey, it's okay, dude," Dean tried to reassure him, "Uncle Sammy will get the crackers – they make you feel better, he says so, so it must be true…"
He took the box from Sam, gave a cracker to RJ, then put one in his own mouth. "Oh, yeah," he garbled around it, "I feel more settled already…"
Unfortunately, RJ didn't.
"There's something wrong," Dean muttered as he changed RJ's diaper, "There's something wrong with him."
"Well, it has to be a hell of a culture shock," Sam pointed out, "You said it yourself. Maybe he misses his Mom."
As if on cue at the word, RJ began to wail, and it didn't stop once the diaper change was complete.
"Oh, RJ," crooned Dean tiredly, "How do I make it better, huh?"
"I think he might be reacting to your, er, tenseness, bro," Sam suggested tentatively.
"I am not tense!" hissed Dean angrily, "Oh, RJ, I'm sorry, fella, it's just your Uncle Sammy being a bitch…"
That didn't cut any ice with RJ, who just howled louder.
"Oh, come on, it's okay," Dean soothed desperately, sounding anything but okay himself, "Oh, God, why can't I make him settle?"
In the way that only an overtired child can do, RJ ignored all his father's shushings, soothings, cuddlings and rockings, and cried harder.
"Look, er, why don't we just, just, you know, get, uh, underway again?" said Sam tentatively.
"We can't!" Dean sounded as though he was about to burst into tears as well, "I can't just put him down like this!"
"Well, he's gotta run out of steam sometime, right?" asked Sam, but Dean was having none of it. With his own child doing the screaming, his usual stoicism seemed to evaporate.
"Oh, God, what am I doing wrong?" Dean wailed, "RJ, what's wrong? I'm hopeless at this!"
"Uh, look, Dean," Sam began, "I think this probably just seems worse than it is because you're tired, and maybe over-reacting a bit..."
"I'm hopeless," repeated Dean, "What sort of Dad am I if I can't even stop him crying? I'm a terrible Dad! I'm sorry, little guy, I'm so sorry..."
Sam decided that it was time to put Plan B into action. In a movie, this was where somebody stepped up and gave the person about to have hysterics a hearty slap - he couldn't do that, but he could do something equally effective...
"Okay, stop right there," he snapped, "You are full of shit!"
Dean looked at Sam as if he'd just announced a plan to change his name to Miriam and join a convent.
"Yeah, you heard me," he went on, "You are full of shit! Huh, and you tell me I'm the drama queen..."
Dean just blinked in disbelief. Even RJ was startled into silence.
"Look, Dean," Sam tried for a less exasperated tone, "You may have a lot of failings, but kid-raising is not one of them! I know from personal experience how awesome you are at it!"
"You think so?" asked Dean dubiously.
"Totally," Sam stated firmly, "You were barely a kid yourself when you started raising me, and you did a great job. You are a fantastic kid-raiser, and you are going to be an awesome Dad, and you are going to raise an awesome kid, because hey, he's the offspring of the Living Sex God, how could he be anything else?"
"You... you really believe that?" Dean suppressed a snuffle.
"Absolutely," grinned Sam. "You might be full of shit, but with this, you are the shit, bro."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean managed a small smile. "Hey, look, he's settled down!"
"Of course he has," Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, why don't you try sitting in the back with him for a little while, just until he goes to sleep? It's gotta be worth a try. He seems more settled when he's with you."
"Okay," sighed Dean, a small note of despair in his tone, "Would you like that, RJ? Huh? You want Daddy to sit with you for a while?" RJ hiccupped, but managed a small smile of his own.
Once they were underway again, Sam reached into his bag of dirty tricks: he slid Metallica into the tape deck.
"Hey, if it works for you, maybe it'll work for him," he shrugged as Dean's eyebrows shot up.
Ten minutes later, father and son were snoozing blissfully; Lemmy let out a contented whuff and joined them.
Sam turned to Lars, who was sitting in shotgun. "He'll probably try to kill me for this," he confided in the young dog, "But we're never going to make it to Bobby's like this. Not without blood on the walls. We need some time to… stop."
The dog gave him an expression that, in his daze of fatigue, he thought he could read clearly:
Seek forgiveness rather than permission. It usually works for me.
"Yeah, it does," Sam smiled at his dog.
Checking in the mirror that his big brother was still asleep, he took the next exit that turned them South; they hit the state line of Oregon a bit over an hour later.
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