The Day the Music Died

American Pie - Don McLean

Wednesday, November 2, 1983.

Mary awoke at exactly 4:02 am to Sam crying. He was 6 months old today, but not quite sleeping through the night. She'd stayed up until midnight, paranoid that something might still happen because that was usually when demon-deals went down. Sam had been cranky anyway but had finally slept a solid four hours until now. He was fighting sleep even harder now and practically inconsolable, his crying loud enough to wake the dead.

That theory was proven as Dean came walking into Sam's bedroom, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Mom, why won't Sammy stop?" he asked, equally cranky. It was 4:15 by now.

"You know how sometimes you say you aren't tired when you are? That's what Sammy's doing. Come here," she said, sitting down and patting the floor next to her. "Help me sing him to sleep." So they sang Hey, Jude, Sam cradled in her arms and Dean on her lapuntil Sam finally quieted and fell back to sleep. Dean followed closely behind as he nodded into his mother's chest. Somehow she managed to put Sam back in his crib and Dean in his bed without awakening them. At 4:36, She crawled back into bed next to John, who muttered nonsense in his sleep as he unconsciously grabbed her waist and pulled her closer to him.

A couple hours later she was awoken as John stirred to get ready for work. Half hour and a peck on the cheek later, he left, letting her know that he'd be home late tonight due to an influx of damaged cars caused by the weekend's storm. She managed a couple more minutes of sleep before Dean, sensing that his father had left, sneaked under the covers and cuddled up next to her. That lasted another hour before Sam demanded his mother's attention again, and Dean groaned reluctantly, torn between the warmth and comfort of the bed and the prospect of holding his little brother.

Sam won out, as he always did, and soon the three of them were eating breakfast.

"Guess what today is, sweetie?" Mary asked Dean as she reached over to pour syrup on his waffles.

"Tuesday?" he asked with a tilt of his head, confused as to what the significance of the question was.

"No, silly," Mary laughed, pinching his chin. "It's Wednesday. And it's Sammy's half birthday. He's six months old today."

Dean's face lit up, then fell slightly. "I didn't get him anything." He got out of his chair and onto Mary's lap so he could have better access to Sam, who slapped his hands excitedly against his high chair. "Can we make him cupcakes?" Dean pleaded.

Mary sighed; cooking and baking were by no means her favorite ways to pass the time, but Dean loved helping on the rare occasions that she did. So for him, and for Sam, cupcakes it was. She had more than one reason to celebrate anyway: the yellow-eyed demon no longer a threat, so the impending sugar high and later coma the boys would spend the afternoon in seemed like a cakewalk.

It was barely 10am when an incredibly messy kitchen and two frosting-covered kids showed evidence of the past hour's work put into what Mary thought were some fairly miserable looking cupcakes. Her sons' thought otherwise, as Dean greatly amused his little brother as he smeared frosting and cupcakes bits dramatically over his face.

"Happy birthday, Sammy," he said, climbing onto the table to kiss his giggling brother's forehead, leaving a chocolate lip imprint in his wake.

"Oh, it's definitely bathtime already," assessed Mary, wondering how many they'd need by day's end.

Dean had a massive sugar rush within five minutes of finishing his cupcake and it took nearly 20 minutes for Mary to wrangle him into the bath. Clothing was apparently now optional as he ran stark naked through the halls and up and down the stairs, giggling at his mother's attempts to catch him. At least it's a step in the right direction, she thought, seeing as all she had to worry about now was luring him into the bathroom. Sam thought it was hilarious and refused to stop laughing regardless of how frustrated his mother pretended to sound.

Finally though, the prospect of Dean helping his mom give Sam a bath won out as he calmed down enough to be trusted to sit behind Sam in the tub. His little brother was still a little wobbly when it came to sitting up on his own, so Dean kept a hand close to his back just in case while Sam splashed playfully at the water.

Mary smiled at the closeness of her sons. They were such blessings. Dean was already a more caring and loving soul than she could have ever hoped for. And Sam was still a baby, but his light-heartedness and his little laughs and the way he looked at her with his big hazel (for today; they were constantly changing) eyes convinced Mary that the brothers took more after each other than their own parents. It broke her heart in the sweetest way possible; they'd grow up to be better men than she and John could've ever imagined. She laughed at herself. Every mom said that about their kids.

Of course, Dean had to go and ruin the moment by letting rip a rather loud one, giggling smugly at his accomplishment, then outright laughing as Sam gave a show of solidarity and his mom's face wrinkled in disgust.

"Just wait 'til they're teenagers," her aunt, who had two grown boys of her own, had warned. Boy, was Mary in for it with these two.

...

The remainder of the day passed relatively as expected: Dean was still too amped up on sugar to go down for a nap, but Sam mercifully did with little effort. After that was mostly playtime and cuddles and laundry. Dean only had one major meltdown (and two minor ones) which Mary considered a win. He'd skipped his nap altogether today, so by an early bedtime at around 8, he was more than willing to cooperate.

Sam was already laying in his crib, not quite asleep yet, but not fussing. She picked Dean up and headed into Sam's room.

Mary watched in the doorway as John read a short excerpt from the "Out of the Frying-Pan, Into the Fire" chapter of The Hobbit. Dean was already nodding off, so John cut it short and pushed off the bed as Mary took over, placing his hand on her shoulder as she told their son that angels were watching over him. She only got through the first verse of Hey, Jude before Dean was out like a light.

The time read 8:12pm. The clock in Sam's room stopped.

...

At 11:26, John was awoken by the terrified scream of his wife. By 11:27, his life had burst into flames before his eyes.

...

This isn't real, Dean kept telling himself, his eyes shut tight. It couldn't be real, because if it was...

"Buddy?" a distant voice asked. "Uh, Dean?" He opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with a police officer. Dean was raised to respect the law, and while the officer was offering a reassuring smile, his uniform and the reason behind why he was there intimidated Dean. "Hey, buddy. Just wanted to ask you a few questions, that okay, bud?"

Dean just stared, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together.

The officer took the silence as an implied approval. "Just wanted to know if you saw anything that happened tonight? Notice anything funny or unusual?"

Dean breathed out his nose, tucking himself further behind his dad and up against the Impala. The fire that blazed from their house across the street seered across his sheening eyes. He'd heard him and his dad talking. His... the fire had started out of nowhere as it consumed his... But he couldn't even think it, much less say it aloud. That would mean that the nightmare he'd awoken to was in fact very much real. So he kept his mouth shut and gave the officer an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Well you let your dad know if you do, okay?" he responded, giving what was supposed to be a comforting touch to his shoulder, but had Dean backing further behind his father.

"We're gonna need you to stay in town," the officer said in a professional voice to his dad as he stood back up. "Just in case we have any more... questions."

Dean chanced a look up to his father, and saw that he too was staring blankly at what used to be their house, but was now a blackening mess of flames and smoke as the firefighters fought to control it. Deep down, Dean knew they'd lost more than just a house. All his toys were probably gone. Sam's too, who was at the moment busy pulling at his dad's shirt and cooing to himself, unaware of the gravity of the situation. Dean's clothing was probably gone too, his favorite stuffed animal, his... No, not that. He could handle losing everything else, but he couldn't handle that.

"You got anywhere to stay tonight?" the officer asked in a gentler tone.

Dean saw his dad snap out of his trance, still disoriented. "I, uh. I don't know." He rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, maybe. Got a friend I might be able to stay with until... I, uh... I need a phone though."

"Let's see if one of your neighbors will let you borrow their's," offered the officer. He looked over his shoulder. "Hey, uh, I know you don't wanna leave your kids, but my partner has two of her own, so she's real good with them, if you wanna let her watch them while we get you and your boys a place to stay."

His dad, who had minutes before vehemently insisted that Dean stay by his side while the officer interviewed him, seemed to consider it. "I, uh... Yeah, that's fine I guess." The officer called over to his partner, a short, pleasant looking woman. "I'll be quick about it," his dad added on.

Dean looked up at his dad in terror. He didn't want to leave him, didn't think he could. He clutched tighter onto his dad's leg in protest.

"Dean..." he said in what would have been a stern voice if it wasn't so laced with sorrow. So Dean relented, unsure of what to do with his arms now. His dad opened the door of the Impala so the lady officer could be more comfortable during her watch, cautiously handing her Sam. Seemingly satisfied that his boys were in good hands, he walked away towards the neighbor's house. Dean stared after him, wrapping his arms around himself, standing stiffly in front of his babysitter.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked as a means of distraction. Red was the answer, but that was the color of the beast that was busy devouring his life. He didn't respond, but looked up at the night sky, watching as the blinking lights of a distant airplane flew overhead. He'd heard his dad say something about his... about being on the ceiling. Maybe she... Had she been flying? It was the only explanation he could think of, but he knew it wasn't normal for people to fly. He shuddered as the blinking lights passed out of sight.

This isn't real, he told himself again. It couldn't be.

...

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," said Kate, scooping him into her arms, but he just leaned into her shoulder.

"Just let us know if you need anything," he heard Mike say to his dad. "Anything at all. I know you don't want to hear this, but you'll get through this."

"Yeah…" his dad responded softly. He turned to Kate. "I, uh. I haven't talked to him yet. Any way you could put Sam down?"

"Of course, John," she said, as she passed Dean over to his father and took Sam in her arms.

His dad carried him over to the couch and set him down, kneeling in front of him. He was going to tell him everything was alright. It was just another one of Dad's not-funny jokes. It wasn't real. She hadn't been flying, because that was only possible in dreams or the nightmare he was currently in.

"Dean…" he heard his dad say. Dean looked up at his face, but not in his eyes. There was something unexplainable in them, and it scared him. "Dean, I need you to look at me," he said, his voice sounding as scared as Dean felt.

So he did. He blinked hard as he fought back tears, preparing himself to hear words he didn't want to hear.

"I know you heard me talking to the cop earlier," he continued slowly. "But I need you to know what it means."

Dean knit his brows together. He didn't want to know what it meant.

"Something... bad happened to your mother. Something I can't even... I don't want to believe... But I have to. And I..." He paused as he turned his head away to fight back tears. "Dean... Mommy's... God, I can't do this, Dean, I can't."

Dean heaved silently as a tear fell down his father's cheek.

His dad placed his hand on Dean's cheek. "I need you to be strong for me, Dean." He shook his head. "Because I can't."

So Dean shoved back the fear and the other unfamiliar feelings threatening to consume him. His dad needed him to.

"Dean..." he managed to continue, strengthened by his son. "Dean, Mommy's gone. She... she's not coming back." He sighed heavily. "Not because she doesn't love you, she loves you and Sam so much... God, Dean, I don't even know if you'll understand this." He looked up at his son, who looked back at him with unreal calmness, trying to hide the horror that lay beneath it. "Dean, Mommy's dead."

No. No she wasn't. Because none of this was real, and the concept of death made no sense. Nobody could be gone forever. This was a dream... a nightmare. His dad had never cried before, and people couldn't fly, so he would wake up in the morning to his mom rubbing his back, and then they'd spend the day cleaning the house and playing with Sammy. His Dad would come home from work and Dean would leap into his arms like he always did and this nightmare would soon be a distant memory. So he hugged his not-real dad, who sobbed silently in his arms. And still Dean said nothing, because what was the point of further validating something that was torturing him while he slept? Eventually he was carried to his not-real room, because this wasn't his house, he didn't sleep in a spare bedroom and his dad didn't sleep on a couch. He'd wake up in the morning and it'd all be over.

So why couldn't he fall asleep?