Author's Note: Annabeth was born two years after Sam, so Sam is two years old when Azazel comes into the Winchester home. Mary dies on November 2nd, 1985.
She was perfect. Little Annabeth Lilith Winchester. Hair as black as coal and eyes as blue as ice. She came into the world a screaming, pathetic thing, something that instantly turned off her six year old elder brother and even frightening her two year old brother, who clapped his hands to his ears at the shrill cries that made him jump. John and Mary didn't have the heart to remind him that he'd have to share a room with her. Dean was ever so grateful for his age. But, eventually, as all things with young children, they grew to love the new addition, Dean more so since he could grasp the concept. Sam was still waddling around in diapers.
Their family was complete. Everything they ever wanted, they had. Their house was tightknit, perfectly fit for three kids to make a mess of. They loved each other eternally to the moon and back and back again. Their children were perfect, albeit a little crazy. Dean was active in running around, Sam struggling to keep up with him, while Annabeth proved early on she loved to cry long into the night unless one of her parents were holding her. She did best with her brothers standing over her crib. Well, Dean peeking over her crib, while Sam peeked into the bars, his shaky legs still learning to stay upright.
Their family dynamic was as normal as any other, upon first glance, of course. Dean was the leader, on the brink of several growth spurts that would have his soft, baby face slimming down into an angular smolder. Until then, he wears his Transformers t-shirts and capris pants, struggling to hold Sammy up while they played pirates, including Annabeth to the best of their ability in her baby swing, watching on as Dean triumphantly rescued his scurvy crew with a foam sword, Sammy right at his side, an eyepatch forced onto his big head while he sucked his thumb and watched his big brother admirably, not knowing anything he was saying. Mary would peek in now and again, her hands occupied with ingredients for her specialty homemade baby food Annabeth seemed to enjoy and a platter of fruit for the boys. John was in and out of the house, either for work or pilfering the bars, but he made time to kiss his wife hello and let his two boys run and jump on him in a dog pile, wrestling until he made time to grab Annabeth from her swing and pepper her tiny face with kisses.
The Winchester family had a newly rendered tradition, something they had started the year Sammy was born for Halloween. Dean had strutted down the sidewalk, his hair perfectly gelled with a leather jacket on his shoulders. He was Danny Zuko, and proudly so. Sammy was wearing a leather jacket, too; John had to find it specially made for a baby, and his short hair was lightly combed to the side. Mary and him couldn't decide whether Sam was Kenickie or Sonny. The next year they were Batman and Robin. And when their sister was born the next year on February 14th, 1985, the three of them were dressed as Alvin and the Chipmunks, Dean pushing Sam's stroller while wearing a giant red sweater with a yellow 'A' stitched onto it, and toddler Sammy was Simon, Mary even going as far as to use masking tape for his fake glasses since he kept trying to take them off. And Annabeth cooed in her father's arms in a green jumper, her blue eyes curious as they walked down their neighborhood, her big brothers begging for candy.
Sadly, that was the last Halloween celebrated for years and years to come. Annabeth didn't even get to truly experience nor remember it.
On November 2nd, 1985, after a hard day for John, whose muscles were so sore he could barely walk up the stairs, followed his wife in her nightgown while she balanced six year old Dean on her hip up the stairs toward the bedroom that held Sammy and Annabeth. He could hear Sammy's gurgled cooes, signaling he had yet to fall asleep. Annabeth, whom was only eight months and sixteen days old, was sound asleep in her tiny crib, pink polka-dotted blanket gently laid over her tiny body. Her raven hair stood out to him, just as much as it did the day she was born. She came into the world with a head full of hair, her eyes as blue as ice. Beautiful. Sammy turned his head toward his family as they walked in. He lunged onto his stomach, grunting as he struggled to pick himself up onto his chubby legs. Now that he's learned to walk, that's all he wants to do.
"No, no, Sammy," Mary giggled fondly, gently shifting him with one hand so he was laying back down. "We're just here to say goodnight, right, Dean?" His big brother nodded enthusiastically, reaching out to pat Sammy's hair the same way his mother was. "Tell him goodnight, Dean."
"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean grunts, leaning forward to kiss his head. He smiled. "We'll play pirates in the morning. We'll make Beth walk the plank."
"Oh-ho, c'mon, Deany-boy," John interfered with a laugh, taking Dean from his wife's arms, even if his own body protested the weight. He was so tired. "Your sister's gonna have to sit that out. She doesn't need to be walking any plank." While Mary sat with Sam, trying to coax his eyes closed even with the activity going on around him, John held Dean and took him to Annabeth's crib, where she completely ignored her family in favor of slumber. "Say goodnight to your sister, too, and we'll get you to bed."
Dean pouted, not tired, but he leaned forward and gently kissed his baby sister's head, too. "Nighty-night, Beth."
"Yes, nighty-night, Beth," Mary giggled quietly, approaching them. Sammy had, at last, gone down. She stared down at her baby, smiling wistfully. She ran a finger down her chubby cheeks before turning to her husband and eldest son. "Let's hurry before one of them wake." She took Dean back from John and roamed back down into the hall towards his respective bedroom, knowing the safe way to his bed from practice since all of his toys littered the carpet, making it difficult. John remained in Sam and Beth's room for a few moments, looking over both beds before switching off the light, ensuring their moon night-light was still illuminated, before exiting.
The day for the Winchesters was finally coming to a close. Sam and Beth were asleep, as was their big brother, Dean, who had his racecar blanket pulled up toward his neck, drool dripping from his lips. Mary had retired to bed, also exhausted from the day. A six-year old, two-year old, and an eighth month old was enough to put her in a collective eight year, eight month coma. She was snoozing as soon as she hit the pillow, her mind drifting into whatever dream it conjured that night.
She didn't know how long she got to sleep before it was interrupted. She stirred for a moment, scratched her nose, and turned over. Maybe Dean accidentally kicked the wall again. Apparently he was a very active sleeper. She mumbled feebly, pressing her blonde head back into the pillow. She had nearly fallen back asleep when she heard it again. Opening an eye, she saw the baby monitor, something that has remained practically attached to her since Sammy had come into the world, was making noise. It was a whisper. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. She hoped Sam hadn't climbed out of his crib again. He liked to go bother Beth if he was bored.
Yawning, she stretched and pulled the blankets off of her. She noticed John wasn't beside her. He was probably downstairs again. He liked to watch the network with a beer in hand before he went to bed. It was something of a nightly routine. Shaking her head, she stood and slipped her feet into her slippers, exiting her bedroom toward the baby room. The door was open, as they had left it, and she could see the dim light from their little moon John had nailed to the wall a year before when Sam made it clear he didn't like the dark.
She peeked in, stumbling for a moment when she saw John's figure standing above Sammy's crib. She glanced from him to Beth's crib. She was still sleeping soundly.
"What's wrong, John?" she whispered, careful. "Is he hungry?"
John barely looked over his shoulder at her. But she could see his eyes in what little light the room provided. He lifted a finger to his lips.
"Sh," he hissed quietly. She tried not to roll her eyes.
She snorted, turning away back to the staircase. "Alright." Now that she was up, she needed to find a way to get back down. Warm milk always helped Dean. That was worth a try. Stifling a yawn, she began her descent down the staircase, keeping her hand on the railing to keep herself from tripping. She stopped short when she noticed the light flickering on the first landing. She frowned, lifting a hand to tap against the bulb. It settled after a moment. Shrugging, she continued her way down until she stopped with only three steps to go.
The television was still on, some news story going on and on about nothing she cared about. The armchair was currently occupied, occupied by John. Mary's blood ran cold. Whipping around to look up the stairs. She could still see the faint shadows of whoever was roaming through Sam and Beth's room.
"Sammy," she said. "SAMMY! SAMMY! BETH! ANNABETH!" She charged up the stairs, not knowing what she was about to walk in on. But the moment she got back to her children's room, she was suddenly screaming at the top of her lungs, either from pain or blood-curdling fear.
John grunted, sitting up instantly. His wife's screams didn't relent. Heart suddenly pounding against his chest, he leapt to his feet and toward the stairs. "Mary? MARY! MARY!" He made it to the bedroom, but the screaming had finally stopped. Panting from being suddenly thrust awake to the sounds of his panicky wife, John looked around. The room seemed perfectly alright. Annabeth was babbling, awake. Sam had managed to pull himself up, looking at John curiously as he approached his crib.
"Hey, Sammy," he greets, lifting a hand to caress his face. "You alright?"
Drip. Drip. John turned, confused. Nothing. He felt something hit the top of his head, almost like a raindrop. Finally, he looked up. He shouted in surprise and horror, suddenly falling down into the carpet, his eyes unable to leave his wife, who was pinned to the ceiling with her stomach drenched in blood. Her mouth was open, struggling to breathe as she stared back down at her husband. He didn't have time to react, to jump to his feet and attempt to yank her down, something. Flames burst from the ceiling, engulfing her into the fire and licking at the wooden walls. He needed to go. He needed to get his kids out of there. But Mary...
"Daddy! Daddy!" Dean called from the hallway, confused as to what was going on. The fire was spurring on hotter; Sam was crying, reaching for his father. Annabeth was bawling in her crib, not knowing what was going on. John had to act fast. Grunting, he pulled Sam from his crib and raced out into the hall, pushing the toddler into a frantic Dean's arms.
"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! GO, DEAN, GO!" John practically shoved him toward the stairs, but Dean went, struggling to keep his hold on Sam while John pushed himself back into the room, coughing and sputtering from the black smoke. The fire had nearly reached Annabeth's crib by the time he grabbed her, wrapping her tightly in her blanket and holding her close to keep her from breathing in the fumes as he dashed out again, determined to get out of the house with his daughter alive.
He had barely reached the front door when the upstairs imploded, breaking in every window they had. He was out on the porch, finally getting to Dean and Sam. He pushed aggressively at his son. "GO, GO, GO!" Dean obliged, panting harshly into the night while John followed, holding Annabeth even tighter to his chest. They had made it. They were alive. John did his part as a father.
It wasn't long before their destroyed home was surrounded by cop cars, ambulances, and a ruby red firetruck, keeping the hose steady as they put out the flames. They were already looked over; they were fine. Hastily giving them a blanket to share, they returned to get their jobs done, keeping the crowds back that had formed from their neighbors and even residents from three blocks over. John had Annabeth still clutched in his arms. Dean had Sammy in his lap, staring up at what used to be their home with tears in his eyes.
"Daddy, where's Mommy?" Dean asked.
John didn't answer. His mind was turning to and fro, trying to make up his mind on what his next move was.
"Daddy? Is Mommy okay? Dad?"
John made up his mind, glaring ahead at the rubble left behind. He knew exactly what he was going to do.