AN: My working title for this chapter was "Schmooptastic" if that tells you anything about content. It doesn't advance the story much, but it does explore more about how Dean sees Sam. Writingtrainingwheels said something's about Dean being Sam's mother figure and it intrigued me, and this chapter is the result!
* * *
Dean didn't say a word, just let Sam purge his pain, almost silently, as if he couldn't be called on it if he didn't make noise. Like Dean would make fun of him. Sam had earned every one of these tears and more. Most people of any age who'd gone through what Sam had would've been screaming, or in a looney bin. But Sam had been remarkably calm until his horrified confession a few minutes before. It was obvious that he needed to let some of his turbulent emotions out, and Dean was more than happy to play the role of pressure release valve.
Faced with the same thing, Bobby would have drunk the pain away. Dean would have found something to punch or kill. Dad probably would have done all three. This was better.
He had to think about what Sam had said and find a way to get the kid to let go of any guilt that lingered. As for Dean not trying to escape because he wouldn't go without Sam, well, wasn't that a given? Trying to escape on his own had actually never occurred to him, not once.
Sam shivered, and Dean pulled him in even closer. He knew it was a gift to be allowed to witness this, to be a safe place for Sam to be vulnerable. He couldn't help but remember the one and only time he'd made fun of Sam for crying.
Dean was ten but sometimes he felt like he was ancient already, the weight of responsibilities so so heavy. He was counting the emergency money that Dad kept hidden in the freezer. There were no free school lunches in this stupid town in the middle of nowhere, and Dad wouldn't be back until tomorrow or even the day after, instead of today.
Sammy was so hungry lately, but all they had left were a few wimpy slices of ham and a couple of the cheese sticks Sammy liked. All of the food Dad had prepared ahead of time was gone, the bread was gone, the milk was gone. Even the jello was gone.
Dean counted the money four times, trying to figure out how much he could get for eleven dollars and eighty-two cents. Then Sammy walked in, lip trembling. Dean could have counted to the second how long it would be until the kid vented his spleen and burst into tears. 3...2...1...
"De, Marty's having a birthday party and he's inviting the rest of the boys and not me cuz his mom says I'm a raga - ragamuffin." Big sniff. '"M not, am I, De?"
Two fat tears rolled down Sam's cheeks, but for the first time that he could remember, Dean was unmoved. He was trying to make sure they had enough to eat and Sam was whining about a birthday party with kids he would probably never see again after they moved in a few weeks.
"You don't even like Marty and you're crying over his stupid party?" Dean's words were more tired than sharp, but he'd emphasized the word crying and knew it sounded mocking.
Sammy had stepped toward Dean as he'd spoken, confident in his reception, in the knowledge that his big brother would give him a hug and make it better. But he froze now. Sucking in his bottom lip, Sammy drew a deep breath, visibly trying to stop the tears. There was surprise and hurt on his face -- and not from stupid Marty's stupid party. From something Dean did. Dean who was supposed to listen and make him feel better.
Without another word, Sammy ran out of the kitchen. Dean heard their bedroom door shut and the soft but clear sounds of Sammy sobbing.
It physically hurt Dean. He rubbed a hand over his sternum, feeling like he'd actually been stabbed. He did that to Sammy. And he knew his own betrayal had cut far deeper than the all too familiar peer rejection.
Hating himself, Dean finally made his feet move and shuffled to the sole bedroom. Sam was hiccupping now, which meant he was really crying for all it was soft. Dean felt even worse, if that were possible. With sickening clarity, he remembered coming back from first grade once and having Sam, sporting a fat lip and scrape on his chin, leap into Dean's arms to start crying. Baffled, Dad had said, "he didn't shed a tear after he fell." But Dean had understood, and had been proud that Sam saved his tears for the one he wanted comfort from the most.
Dad was horribly uncomfortable with tears. If you cried in front of him, at best you'd get an awkward pat on the shoulder. More likely, he'd just wait until you were done and change the subject. Either way, the message was clear: don't bring me your tears and don't look to me for comfort.
Dean hadn't wanted Sammy to feel that sting. So what had he done? Offered comfort for years and then suddenly pulled it away.
Listening to Sammy, Dean felt like crying himself, and he never cried. He had to fix this, but what if he couldn't?
Dean climbed up on the bed, wincing when Sammy curled away from him. "Hey. uh, Sammy? You know those spy movies that Dad likes?" The James Bond movies didn't hold Sam's attention, but he was aware of them through exposure.
The dark head nodded. Good, he was listening. "Well, Bond is this super tough spy, right? I mean he always beats the bad guys and doesn't cry even when he gets all beat up. But know what? One time, he did cry." Dean wasn't about to explain that it was over the death of his wife.
" You know why? Not cuz he got hurt here, or here or here." He poked Sam's arm, leg, then back. As he'd hoped, Sam squirmed away from the last poke and rolled onto his back. "Not even here." Dean tapped Sammy's nose. "He got hurt here." He lightly tapped Sam's chest right over his heart. "That hurts more than any outside hurts, enough to make even a super tough spy dude cry."
Sammy might be little, but he wasn't stupid. He got it. He launched into Dean's arms. The tears didn't last long after that. Sam had gotten what he'd needed. As they tapered off, Dean said, "You probably don't want to go to Farty Marty's party anyways. If his mom thinks you're a muffin, she might try to eat you!"
Sam giggled -- mission accomplished -- and wiped his nose on Dean's shirt -- little kids were so gross. Then Dean remembered something super awesome. Dad had left them a special treat -- a bag of M 'n' Ms.
Dean used the chocolate candies to teach Sammy to spell fart and poop and butt. And when Dean ate one, Sammy said, "you're eating part of a butt!" and they laughed until they cried, which was so much better than any other kind of crying.
Then Dad drove all night and got home the next day, and they all watched An American Tail on TV together. Okay, Dad slept on the couch between them, but he was there.
Sammy sang "there's no cats in America and the streets are paved with cheese" for three weeks, baffling Dad, and they ended up leaving before Farty Marty's party anyway. Dean I'm forgot the name of the town, but he never again forgot to be there for a crying Sammy.
So, yeah, this felt familiar. And Dean wasn't about to make fun of Sam. He slid the hand that had been rubbing Sam's back up into the shaggy mop of hair and just held on.
"I got you, Sammy," he said in lieu of meaningless platitudes. "I'm here. Just lean on me."
With a pang, Dean realized that Sam hadn't cried on him since he'd found out that monsters were real. He'd turned away from Dean that night to cry alone. It had felt momentous somehow, just as big as Sam learning the truth of what Dad did.
Dean had savored all of Sam's firsts and accomplishments as proudly as any young mother. In his mind, there were four rough categories of achievements.
Dean was excited about the regular milestones like learning to walk or read. He could tell you the name of the town they were in when Sam lost his first tooth or where Dean taught him to drive.
If those made Dean proud, he was over the moon at the accomplishments that proved to the world what Dean already knew -- Sam was special, a genius. Like when he won the Shelley County spelling bee. Or when he entered and won a high school essay contest while only in eighth grade.
Achievements that were specifically to do with Hunting were their own separate category, because Dean had mixed feelings about them. Like only about a month ago when Sam had won a family target shooting contest. He beat Dean once in a while (just like Dean only beat Dad about twice a month), but that night, Sam had shot the best. And while Dean was proud, part of him was disappointed in a world that required such skills for Sam to stay relaxed, safe.
The last category included some signs of maturity rather than achievements as such, but they were all together, because they were the ones that hurt. A recent example was Dean catching sight of Sam kissing a girl as he walked home from school. When Dean teased Sam about his first kiss, Sam had laughed and admitted that it wasn't his first kiss. The realization that little bro no longer told big bro everything was like a splash of cold water. Sam refusing to cry on Dean's shoulder was even worse.
And how much did Dean hate that Sam had learned firsthand just how cruel the world could be? He'd tried as long as he could remember to shield Sam from darkness that was out there. Bang up job there, Dean. He knew he couldn't protect Sam's innocence forever...though he'd never stop trying...but he deeply mourned the shadows Eisheth and her games had cast on Sam's soul. Sam was lightness and goodness, though Dean would gargle broken glass before saying so out loud, and it was just wrong that he should be tainted by evil and monsters.
Maybe Dean couldn't prevent some of that darkness from slipping his guard and hurting Sam. But this, this giving Sam what he needed to get through it, whatever it was he needed.
So, yeah, Dean didn't care one bit that his one shoulder was wet and his other ached and his ass was going numb. And while every atom in his body hated what Sam had gone through, the physical and emotional pain that had been inflicted on him, Dean was beyond grateful that he could finally do something to help. That even after everything, after the nights where Sam had laid beaten and bruised on the hard floor with Dean not able to give him so much as a kind word, Sam trusted him. Sam wanted him there. Sam...fell asleep on him the same way he'd done so often the first half dozen years of his life.
Dean couldn't stop the smile even as a few of his own tears slid unseen into Sam's hair. He'd been on edge, kept from his raison d'être, the whole time at Eisheth's little compound of horrors. Now, with Dad and Bobby next door, the threat eliminated, and Sammy right here and not protesting, Dean wasn't in any hurry to let go. Besides, a person's senses still work when they're asleep, so he could even pretend he was doing it totally for Sam. Because even this lanky, nearly grown version relaxed the most when he knew his brother was there. Besides, nobody was there to call him on it.
So Dean held on until Sam's tears had dried and he laid against Dean's shoulder with the boneless depletion of the deeply unconscious and Dean's bad arm was trembling. Even then, he held on for another few minutes before reluctantly and with exquisite care laid Sam back in the bed. The kid didn't so much as twitch. Apparently, it had finally sunk in that he was truly safe.
And if that didn't warm Dean's calloused heart, nothing did. He pulled the covers up to Sam's chin, echoing Sam's resulting sigh. How many times had he tucked the kid in over the years?
Small Sam had never wanted to miss anything, so he'd go and go until he cashed out wherever he was. Dad hadn't cared about if he napped or not, as long as Sam slept at night. So Sammy had spent a lot of time hyper and overtired. Dean had gotten good at watching for the signs that Sammy was getting tired and figuring out how to get the kid to slow down until he fell asleep.
Dean had spent many, many hours reading or telling stories to a "not tired" Sam. And he was an expert in deducing when Sam was sleeping heavily enough to not wake when he was put to bed.
It beat the heck out of finding him curled up under the kitchen table or inside the couch under the cushions (don't ask Dean -- Sam was weird even back then) or once, on top of Bobby's desk. Dean bit back a smile at the memory of Sam's first overnight stay at Bobby's without Dean there. Apparently, Sammy hadn't really slept at all, and so Bobby hadn't either. When John and Dean had walked in, it had been to see Bobby sleeping sitting up on the couch with Sam's legs stretched across his lap, rifle in the former's hand.
Sammy had woken up even faster than the hunter had, and his resulting leap off Bobby's lap had been...emasculating. It was possibly the only time Dean had ever seen Bobby drop his weapon.
Dean snickered softly as he gratefully climbed into his own bed.
"Sleep well, bitch," whispered Dean, and was asleep himself almost before he got the covers pulled up, content in the knowledge that he'd taken care of the kid, his kid, the best way he could.
* * *
AN: Dean alludes to the 1969 James Bond movie On Her Majesty's Secret Service with George Lazenby.
An American Tail is a very cute cartoon movie from 1986 about a mouse family that emigrates to the U.S and accidentally gets separated.
Shazza: Thank you! I tried to make Sam stoned enough that his guard would be done but not so stoned that he was incoherent...if that makes any sense.
Timelady66: I wonder if you have any idea how much I appreciate your comments. Who would the Winchesters be without their guilt? LOL I love what you said about John. I've always thought he was a complex character, and you put your finger on that perfectly.
Sofia: Aw, sorry for the tears, but I'm flattered. Desi will come up soon, but not quite yet. Oh, and a few more flashbacks here. Congrats on acing the test! I use books as bribes for my own kids, as my parents did for me. You have to know your audience! And thanks a million for your kind words.
Chiiva: Oh, thank you! I'm so glad you like it!
printandpolish: So, not in this chapter, but in the next, promise.
WastedJamie: Thank you so much! My heart hurt for John when Dean flinched. John will definitely have to deal with that, and he will soon, in the next chapter or two. Stoned Sam was very fun to write. I don't know what that says about me! LOL
Jenjoremy: I love the word cathartic, even if Dean told that shapeshifter psychologist that it's psychobabble crap. *g*
stedan: And I just kept going on and on with the chick flickness. Sometimes I get a little out of hand. In my defense, ya'll enable me! Just so you know, I tend to read your comments repeatedly because I appreciate your insights. I think Bobby is the easiest to write, just like you said, though Sam and Dean often come fairly easily because we "know" so much about them. John is definitely harder, since I want to do justice to his complex motives and emotions while still keeping him im character. Thanks for your kind words!
writingtrainingwheels: I hope you know that this chapter is mostly your fault! ;-) It isn't very subtle at all, but I figure it takes place mostly in Dean's mind and memories so it's okay. Maybe. As always, I like your insights. I intend to have plenty more one on ones between different characters.
muffinroo: Not stoned Sam soon, and lots more talking stuff through, at least as much as Hunters do. BTW, I'm sorry that your story is taking so long...I've been a bit overwhelmed on the RL front.
MaddyWinchester: I'm at a point where I'm not even coming up with my own story ideas any more because the suggestions are so great, so no way am I going to ignore my greatest resource. I do tend to whump Sam the most...to put it mildly, but I really am not nice to anyone. Thank you for saying the schmoop stays in character. That's helpful!
Lena: Hello! Sorry your laptop is giving you fits. I had Dean shed a few tears for you (because you were, as always, correct). You are also the one who pointed out once that Dean would be both proud and sad when Sam achieved certain things with hunting. And writing is always therapeutic for me. I have a standing "prescription" to write some every day. I love that you were sitting outside with your cat! Mine has taken to sprawling across the end of my bed at night, and he takes up a lot of room. And I'm so with you on wishing we could get more SPN. I doubt there will ever be such a great show.
Jily4: Aw, man, thank you! So many conversations yet to come. Because like you said, there's an awful lot of guilt to go around.
Kathy: You made me laugh when you said you're greedy for more! I'm just glad I haven't driven you off by writing so much. Thanks for what you said about dialogue. It's hard to judge for myself.