Welcome to my first Supernatural fanfic! I'm new to the fandom and I'm only on season three - so much to discover! I wasn't sure if I'd write any stories for the fandom, but this just emerged and I'm beginning to suspect there are more jostling for position. I hope you enjoy this little story of the little Winchesters.
The summer that Dean was ten and Sammy was six they lived in an apartment. Dean didn't remember the name of the town but he remembered that crummy, beaten up couple of rooms because it wasn't a motel and it wasn't some stranger's place where he had to sleep on the settee and Sammy slept curled in an armchair.
The apartment - a walk-up on the third floor of a crumbling, poorly-maintained block had, for a while, been home. Had it belonged to one of Dad's hunter friends? Had Dad even rented it, legally, for them? Dean didn't know.
He remembered the orange throw on the bed he'd shared with Sammy. He remembered the echoey stairwell, where Sammy had tried out wailing like a banshee and Dean had got the blame for letting him. And he remembered the park across the street.
They were allowed to go to the park. Dad had said, "I'm not going to be around so much for a while. You boys need to stay here." He'd glared at Dean at this point and Dean had got the full subtext behind those dark, haunted eyes. Take care of your brother. Any trouble and it'll land on your shoulders.
"Yes, sir," he'd replied, both to the words spoken out loud and the ones his Dad didn't say.
Dad said they could stay in the apartment or they could go across the street to the park.
They couldn't go two blocks east and see a movie.
They couldn't go a block west to the library, which pissed Dean off no end because he wasn't much for reading but Sammy was, and if his little brother didn't have books, he'd be a hell of a lot more difficult to keep in check.
So, they stayed in the apartment and watched TV. And when, each day, Sammy had had enough cartoons and eaten more than his share of the Lucky Charms or the Froot Loops (which were too expensive really, and Dad never gave Dean enough money for food), they crossed the street to the park.
The grass was patchy and yellow, summer-dusty and hard. There were a couple of squeaking swings, a battered jungle gym and so on. And Sammy had spent enough time on the road, being dumped with strangers and having to keep quiet and keep out of the way, to find the place a small heaven of freedom.
He swung, he climbed, he quickly made friends with other kids. He was like a happy, normal six-year-old, who'd play for a while and then go home and be part of a normal, average family.
Except Sammy didn't have a Mom sitting on one of the paint-peeling benches, gossiping with her Mom friends. Sammy had Dean. And a Dad who left early and got back late, or called to tell Dean he wasn't coming and reiterated his orders to look after his brother and not stray beyond their strict boundaries.
That made Dean angry and he had to fight hard to keep the hurt out of his 'yes, sirs' and 'no, sirs.'
Of course he'd look after Sammy. Of course he wouldn't go places Dad had said not to. What else was he going to do? What else did he have except his role as older brother and obedient son? Nothing, that's what.
So, Sammy played and Dean leant against the park railings and watched and tried not to think about food because Sammy was growing real fast and there was never enough for both of them so Dean often went without.
Most days there were kids his own age. They played in and out of the dried-up flower beds and clumps of brown-edged bushes, and around the statue in the middle of the park. Sometimes Dean couldn't tell what they were running for or if they were just running for the hell of it. Sometimes he could see they'd split into two groups and were having some kind of play fight.
One time they had sticks which they were pretending were guns. But they were holding them all wrong; they were getting in each other's lines of fire; and, if Dean had been leading either group he would have set a trap, or outflanked the others and the game would have been over pretty swiftly, the opposing team thoroughly and efficiently subdued, if not actually restrained.
But Dean didn't play. Even the word made his mouth twist in a smirking sneer. Playing was for little kids - okay for Sammy, but not for him, not for Dean.
It was okay for those other kids too - they looked right somehow, running about in their imaginary worlds. But it wouldn't be right for Dean. He had to stay here, in the real world, dealing with real stuff, like making sure his brother got food to eat and cleanish clothes to wear (that was the other place that wasn't off-limits - the laundromat), and eking out the cash his Dad had given him to cover essentials.
So Dean leant against the park railings until it felt like they'd worn grooves in his back and he had to shift into another casual lean - one hand in his pocket, the other stretched out, his weight mostly on one leg and the ironwork.
He was cool. He was calm. He was spending the summer chilling in the park, and anyone who saw him wouldn't even see him because he was so calm and easygoing, he'd just blend in. Nothing to see here. Not for the Moms or the little kids, and definitely not for the older kids who slouched against the railings further along, behind the brick-built shed where, on Mondays and Thursdays, a gardener would come along and pull out a hose and sprinkle some of the dying plants with not enough water.
The older kids swore and smoked and sometimes passed around a bottle. And Dean thought they looked pretty interesting. But he was looking after Sammy, so he left them alone and stuck to his section of the tall, rusty iron railings and watched Sammy and acted his assigned role, just as Dad wanted.
Mainly he watched Sammy, but he couldn't help noticing the other kids too sometimes - when they were hurt or excited or tired, and they'd run to their Moms and get a hug or a smile or even picked up so they could sit in their Mom's lap until they were ready to play again.
Dean and his little brother didn't have a Mom anymore, obviously, but if Sammy needed something he ran to Dean. They didn't hug. Because Sammy was six now and even if he was hurt he'd learnt not to cry much. Dad didn't like all that whining and whinging. He said, "I have enough to deal with. I don't need you damn kids giving me even more trouble!"
So if Sammy was upset he'd suddenly be there at Dean's side, his fingers sliding between Dean's, and they'd both lean against the railings for a bit, until Sammy's fingers slipped from his and he ran off again.
And if Dean was hurt or upset or tired or worried he just told himself he was fine and kept on telling himself until he mostly believed it - and that had to be good enough.
So they were okay that summer, Dean and Sammy, spending the long, empty days between the apartment that smelt of dust and old sweat and the park across the street, with occasional diversions to the laundromat and the store on the corner of their block, where Dean could just about afford to buy the type of food that was okay to live on for a while if you weren't too fussy.
Except there was one problem. Every day, about lunch time, an ice cream truck showed up at the park. And Sammy wanted an ice cream. Every day, when the latest kid Sammy had befriended was bought an ice cream, Sammy wanted one too.
"Can I have an ice cream today, Dean? Please! I really want one! All the other kids get ice cream - why can't I have one?"
And Dean said stuff like:
"Sorry, Sammy, I've only got enough for the laundromat."
Or, "Not today, Sammy. Do you want me to push you on the swing?"
Or once, when his brother's eyes had gone really big and swimmy and Dean's insides had twisted in response, he'd searched through all his pockets and found an old, dried-up stick of gum and Sammy had been happy enough with that in the end.
But one time, Sammy's friend-of-the-day had come with his dad. And friend-of-the-day, who was somewhere between Dean's nearly grown-up ten and Sammy's still little six, had wanted an ice cream. His dad had said no - no, they were going home to eat soon and the kid wouldn't eat his dinner and he'd been told earlier what the deal was - they'd go to the park, but there'd be no ice cream.
And boy, did that kid kick off. First the lip-trembling and the tear-filled eyes.
The dad didn't budge.
Then the stamping foot, the folding arms and the lip firming right up and sticking right out.
The dad still didn't budge, and he was starting to get pissed now - Dean could tell. And so could Sammy, whose small, dirty hand found its way into Dean's.
They both knew the signs - the thinning lips, the frown, the tensing arms. They both knew that when Dad looked like that you shut up, you kept out of range, you did whatever it took to disappear and not make yourself a target. Except sometimes Sammy was too young to be able to lie low and so Dean had to do something stupid to draw his Dad away from his brother - just like sometimes Dad used a distraction to get the attention of whatever he was fighting so he could outflank it and do the salt-and-burn or whatever needed to be done.
Then the kid really went for it, yelling and beating his dad's legs with clenched fists and making himself into a sideshow for anyone who cared to watch.
Dean watched, with contempt - because he thought the kid was way too old for that kind of crap. He was also getting kind of scared for what the dad might do, but as well as that, he couldn't help having just a tinge of admiration for the kid - Dean would never dare yell at his Dad and certainly wouldn't raise a fist to him.
Sammy gripped his hand tight.
Dean braced himself for the harsh words, the slap, the tight collar-grip, the dragging out of the park to be punished in the car or when they got home.
But none of those things had happened. That guy, that ordinary, everyday dad, crouched down till his face was level with his son's. He put his hands on his boy's shoulders - not a crushing, restraining grip, but a gentle curl of palms and fingers. He looked into his son's angry, red, snotty face and he said firmly, calmly, "You really want that ice cream, don't you?"
Well, shit - he was gonna cave.
The kid nodded and hiccuped and sniffed, so that some of the slime-trail disappeared back up his nose - gross.
"It's tough when you really want something you can't have, isn't it?"
A whimper and a nod agreed, and another sniff.
"I get it, son. I really do. I understand how sad it makes you."
Sammy's fingers twitched in Dean's.
"But you'd be extra sad if you had an ice cream now and couldn't eat your meatloaf for dinner - wouldn't you? Meatloaf's your favourite still, isn't it?"
Sniff. "We're having meatloaf tonight?"
"Sure we are. And if we head home now, I reckon your mother'll be just taking it out of the oven when we get there. Okay?" The dad stood up and held out his hand.
The boy took it. And they left, arms swinging, the kid skipping every other step.
Dean watched them go out of the gate and get in a shit-brown Buick and drive off. The car disappeared around the corner, past the laundromat. Dean stared at the corner, unable to look away, even though he wouldn't usually look at a stupid Buick Lesabre (a name which tried way too hard to add to its non-existant coolness factor) twice, and he wouldn't ride in a shit-brown one if you paid him in solid gold bars.
There was a tug on his hand. He looked down at Sammy - and he really needed to cut his brother's hair again. His uneven bangs were hanging down over his eyes.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"What's meatloaf?"
"You know what meatloaf is, booger-face. We had it at that diner in… well, we had it, anyway."
"Don't call me booger-face." Sammy chewed his lower lip and then grinned, and added, "Farty-pants."
"Yeah, you are."
"Not me, you!" Sammy emphasised his words with a sharp elbow in Dean's gut.
Dean lightly smacked the back of Sammy's head in response - a casual flick designed to irritate but not hurt. His brother responded with a shriek and a determined effort to land one on Dean, curling his hands into chubby fists and flailing around.
Dean easily held him off and dodged around until Sammy's bangs were plastered to his sweaty forehead and he was breathing in gasps. Then he deliberately dodged the wrong way until one of those soft little fists met up with his ribs.
"You got me!" Dean groaned and winced and backed away and then fell to his knees and curled up and rolled around in the dirt for a bit just to make Sammy laugh.
Then he got up and took up his position again, leaning against the railings, back to being the strong, silent guardian.
Sammy scuffed his toes in the dirt.
"Dean? Will I never get an ice cream?"
He wasn't whining. He wasn't turning on the tears, making his eyes big and pleading, pulling the cute-little-puppy act, even though he knew it worked on Dean at least some of the time.
He was just asking a question, like he was wondering if there was something wrong with him - something that meant he was different from other kids or even that he'd done something so bad that it meant he didn't deserve ice cream.
Dean looked down at his brother's face, his badly-cut hair, the tide mark of dirt at the top of his forehead where Dean hadn't checked if he'd washed properly. He had on one of Dean's old shirts which was too big for him and one wriggling big toe was visible through a hole in his sneakers because Dean hadn't found the right moment to tell Dad his brother needed new shoes.
"Dean?"
Down by the ice cream truck a girl with blonde pigtails was jumping up and down, pointing excitedly at the pictures, shouting out, "I want that one and that one and that one!" and getting indulgent smiles and just being allowed to be a silly, noisy, demanding, normal kid.
"You'll get ice cream, Sammy," said Dean. His voice came out funny. His throat ached and his chest felt like it did when Dad yelled at him and he had to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down and pack away his hurt and his guilt. "You're gonna have ice cream today."
"Really? Dean? Really? Can I?"
"Sure you can, Sammy. Today." He had no money. Not a single cent. "Just… go play for a bit longer and then we'll get you an ice cream."
The little boy pelted off, whooping, taking a running jump and landing in the sand pit. Dean would have to brush off his clothes and get him to shake out his shoes before they went back inside - Dad'd have a fit if there was sand everywhere when he got back.
How the hell was he going to buy Sam an ice cream? He'd promised now. He'd promised not just his brother but himself - and he was damn well going to keep that promise.
Because Sammy deserved to be a normal kid for once who got normal stuff. He deserved for it not to be a big deal either, not to feel like he had to be perfect just to get that one simple thing. He shouldn't have to feel that way - that every good thing had to be earned, had to be deserved, that what he got was conditional on how he acted - everything a punishment or reward.
Sammy was just a little kid. He should have… good stuff. Whether he'd been a pain in the ass or not. Dean's sharp eyes darted around the park, at the scene he'd got to know so well - the kids playing, the parents watching, doing those little things they did to show their kids… what?
Dean's chest ached again. What was up with him today? Was he coming down with something? No. No, he was just working things out, thinking his way through a tangle, like that time Dad had taken him out to learn signs and tracking and stuff and he'd got stuck in a thorn bush and had to work his way slowly out.
Words fought their way to the surface of Dean's thorny mind - words he'd never say, because that wasn't who he was. He wasn't someone who said the soft, girlie stuff - or Dad didn't want him to be, which amounted to the same thing.
But the word was there anyway, and Dean's cheeks were hot with it and he glanced from side to side as if people would hear it and know.
Love. The smiles and the hugs and the holding on laps and the crouching down and looking their kids in the eye and saying they understood - all those things were about love.
Did Dad love him and Sammy? Well, of course he did. He just showed it differently, that's all. Just because he didn't show it didn't mean he didn't feel it, did it?
Anyway, all that was just crap. Just stupid stuff that didn't mean anything, because Dean knew who he was and he was the son who followed Dad's orders and the older brother who looked after Sammy. He had a job to do, and right now that job was to get Sammy an ice cream.
So, to get an ice cream, he'd need money. Which meant earning, borrowing, hustling or outright stealing.
As Dean saw it, the park presented one obvious opportunity, in the form of the older kids, lurking behind the shed, passing around a bottle of something. At least one of them must have some money or else how would they have got the bottle? And all Dean had to do was part them from some of their cash.
He had heard Dad talking sometimes - about credit cards and hustles and ways of getting money. Dad said it was okay to do stuff like that because he got rid of all the bad things that hurt people, and if he could tell anyone, people would gladly pay him.
Dean had asked to help one time and for a minute it looked like Dad would let him, because Dean was good at stuff that people didn't expect a kid to be good at - shooting pool and shooting guns and so on - and you could use that to get money out of suckers, somehow. But Dad had told him no - go sit with your brother in the car. So Dean, of course, had gone.
But anyway, he knew there were ways and means. He knew Dad planned such things carefully, so he didn't get in trouble. Dean wasn't much for planning things, though. He didn't really know where to start. So, maybe he'd just stir things up and see what bit? Like if you weren't sure what crazy stuff you were dealing with and just sprayed out a shit-tonne of salt and a coupla gallons of holy water to see what happened.
Dean abandoned his casual slouch, shrugged the stiffness out of his shoulders, and began ambling toward the gardener's shed, running his hand over the railings as he went, all cool and calm - just a bored kid.
Cracks of the older boys' drunken laughter and a few girlish giggles reached him as he approached, as well as the dry scent of cigarettes. He rounded the corner of the shed and stopped, curling his hand around the railing, sagging to one side and letting his stretched arm hold him up.
A dark-haired boy - a man, really, with slicked down shoulder length hair and the ghost of a moustache - let the bottle fall from his lips and glared at Dean. "What do you want, little shit?"
"Ah, come on Steve - he's cute, arncha little guy?" A girl, all pink lips and glowing blusher, wove unsteadily toward him and ruffled his hair. "What a cutie-pie!" She pinched his cheek before shrieking with laughter and falling toward him, but catching herself on the railings.
"I said, what do you want?" The bottle was passed onto another sneering teenager.
Now both Steve's hands were free, but Dean watched his eyes. 'The clues are in the eyes', Dad had said, adding, 'if they have eyes'.
"My Ma's called the cops," said Dean, trying to imitate the way the local kids spoke. "She said, ain't none of you twenny-one and you shouldn't be drinkin' 'round here. And she said y'all are a 'disgrace to the town'."
"Oh yeah?" Steve stepped up and grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, twisting it so that Dean was lifted half off the ground. "And what do you think a 'disgrace to the town' might do to a snot-nosed punk kid like you? Hey?"
The stirring-up had gone according to plan. Now what? Dean licked his dry lips. Dad could put this kid down with one well-placed punch to his stupid, pimply face. But all Dean could do was keep the tremor out of his voice and pretend he was totally cool with being dangled off the ground by his collar.
"I just thought I should warn you," he said. "Cause they're coming. The cops."
"Oh yeah?"
Some of the kids looked around nervously. One or two disappeared furtively around the far side of the shed.
"Yeah, and-" What else? Dad said, 'confuse, divert, attack when they're disoriented.' "They're coming from all around so maybe you should hide… in… in the shed!"
"Oh." Dean's feet touched the ground again, but his collar was still twisted tight at his throat. "Oh, well, I guess we'd better do that, then. Hadn't we, Laurie-Ann? Hadn't we better hide in the shed from the big, bad cops?"
The grey-green eyes didn't leave Dean's face, an exaggerated gathering of the guy's brows and a false singsong tilt to his voice giving Dean a clue that all wasn't well with his half-assed plan.
Laurie-ann giggled again. "I'll go into the shed with you any time, Steve Henderson."
"They're coming," said Dean. Crap. There was none of the panic that might lead to a scramble in which wallets wouldn't be missed, much less grateful payments for information given out. Stupid plan, Dean. Stupid, stupid plan. "You should run while you got the chance."
"Oh, I think we're safe enough." Steve hissed in his face, right up close. "I think my Pa, Police Chief Henderson, knows to leave well enough alone."
Crap.
Dean's feet left the ground again. "I don't know what your game is, little shit, but you just lost."
Pain exploded in Dean's cheek and his neck jerked sharply to one side.
"Please don't hurt me!" His feet scrabbled for purchase and he snatched at Steve's denim jacket. "Please!"
"Stupid little kid!" A hefty punch to his stomach winded Dean so that he could barely hear Laurie-ann's shrieks. Then he was dropped and his legs had no strength to stop him crumpling into a heap on the hard, cigarette-end littered ground.
He stayed there.
His lungs remembered how to breathe, and after a while the fire in his face and his gut died down a bit. He sat up.
The older kids had all gone. Dean pressed the back of one hand against his cheek. It came away with a streak of red on it, but not too much. Not enough to be bothered about. He'd been running through the bushes, he thought, already composing his cover story, for Sammy's benefit and later for Dad's. A branch had whipped him in the face, but he was fine. Neither of them would need to know anything else.
He stood up, shakily, letting his head droop for just a minute till the world stopped spinning. Then he squared his shoulders and pulled down the front of his stretched shirt and walked out from behind the shed like he'd just been playing hide-and-go-seek or taking a piss - and definitely not as if he'd just had his ass handed to him.
Once again, he ran one hand casually against the railings. But his other hand remained at his side, clenched in a tight, sweaty fist. His fingertips left their tap, tap, tapping against the railings as he abandoned his usual territory altogether and made his way to the edge of the sandpit.
"Is it time, Dean? Is it time for my ice cream?" Sammy looked up, shading his eyes against the sun's glare. His eager smile drooped. "What happened to your face, Dean?"
Dean shrugged, casually. "Nothin'. Just got hit by a branch." And he unfurled his fist and showed Sam his prize. "Look. I had a few coins after all, right down at the bottom of my pocket."
His less-than-half-baked plan hadn't failed. It hadn't succeeded spectacularly, no, because he'd only been able to snatch a few coins from Steve's pocket at the expense of acting like a stupid, scared baby and getting a couple of bruises that'd hurt for a while. And also at the expense of some pride, because Dean had really wanted to pull off a slick hustle like his Dad, and not resort to actual petty theft. But assholes like Steve deserved to be stolen from.
"Is it enough?" said Sam. "Enough for an ice cream, with squirty sauce and stuff?"
"Uh, I think it's just enough for a small one," said Dean.
"That's okay. I don't need squirty sauce." Sammy jumped up and clapped his sandy hands. "Let's go!"
It wasn't enough. Dean looked at the small collection of coins in his palm and back at the pictures on the side of the truck and searched for something even smaller, even cheaper than the smallest cone. But there wasn't anything.
"Dean?" Sammy tugged at his hand. "Dean, it's our turn. Dean, we're next!"
Dean's throat tightened. His chest hurt again too. This shouldn't be happening. It shouldn't be happening. It wasn't right.
Dad should be here and he should just buy Sammy whatever ice cream he wanted. He should take just one day off - just one day a week or a month or even a year. There should be one day when Sammy could be a normal, annoying, over-excited kid and not get yelled at or told to be quiet or told he couldn't have what he wanted unless he did as he was told and probably not even then, because Dad had more important things to take care of. There should be one damn day when Dad took Sammy to the park and bought him an ice cream.
Why couldn't Dad be here, just this once? Just this one time?
Dean's too-empty palm blurred in front of him. Was his hand shaking? He couldn't even tell.
"Dean?" Sammy's voice was so small. "Dean, we're not getting ice cream, are we?"
He wanted to say yes. Yes we are. Instead, Dean shook his head and began to turn away.
But as he blinked his eyes clear, he caught a glint of silver. There was something shiny on the ground, tucked beneath the wheel of the truck.
Dean crouched down and flicked it out with the tip of one finger. It was a quarter.
They sat, side by side on the edge of the sandpit. Sammy had made more mess with a small ice cream than Dean had ever seen anyone make, because he'd licked it so slowly and carefully, to make it last as long as he could. It had dripped all down Dean's old shirt and left sticky blobs on the jeans that had once been Dean's too and he'd roughly patched the holes in the knees so Sammy could wear them. And as for his little brother's face and hands - Dean would make Sammy undress as soon as he stepped in through the door of the apartment and he could go straight in the bath.
"D'you want a lick?"
Sammy held out his ice cream, the edges of the cone all sagging, the melted sweetness dripping down over his fingers.
"No. Thanks."
"You sure? It's real good."
"I'm sure."
Sammy sucked the soggy cone. "It was lucky you found that quarter."
"Yeah."
It was lucky. But it meant more than that - it meant more than just your average, every day little bit of luck. It meant more because it reminded Dean of something his Mom had said once.
He could barely remember her now. He couldn't picture her face any more, or remember what her hair had been like or even what she made him for breakfast. But he remembered her voice saying, "If you find a silver coin on the ground, just when you really need one, that's when you know."
"What, Mommy?" Dean had said, when he was younger than Sammy was now. "What do you know?"
And he remembered her kiss, that had landed softly on his forehead, just before she turned out the light.
"That's when you know your guardian angel is there, looking out for you. Goodnight, Dean."
A guardian angel.
Huh.
Well, maybe… It'd be nice to think there were good things out there as well as the bad. Dean wouldn't count on it.
But for now, or for then - for that long-ago summer when he'd been ten and Sammy had been six - well, he'd won that day at least. A bit of daring and a bit of pain and a bit of luck had got Dean what he wanted - just a simple thing, a little bit of that other world that maybe he and Sammy would never really be part of.
And when, on that hot, dry summer's day, Sammy had finished his ice cream and licked his sticky fingers and wiped them on his too-big shirt, Dean had looked at him and smiled.
"C'mon, Sammy. Time to go home."
Thank you very much for reading! Please review!