A/N: Here there be angst.

Still don't own them.

o0o

How is it even possible that funerals happen on sunny days? It was November for Christ's sake a month epitomized for its bleak gray days and yet it was a cool, crisp Kansas autumn day with no rain in sight and not a cloud in the sky. It just seemed wrong to be watching the thirty or so people who were standing unhappily together in somber clothes by his mother's casket which was about to be lowered into the ground as they offered quiet comfort to each other in the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

Sam didn't recognize most of the mourners. He knew his mother's parents but that was mostly from pictures and not from remembered visits. And they'd visited their Aunt Cathy once or twice over the years that he recognized his mother's sister in spite of being about fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger. And he vaguely recognized some of his dad's army buddies that they'd eventually met. The rest were unknowns to him; he didn't know who his mother was to them or where they'd known her from. Yet more evidence that the woman who should have been the most important woman in his life was a complete stranger to him.

And yet she was the most important woman in his life and had been for twenty years, uncontested: her death had changed everything. Sam while never knowing what he had missed as he couldn't remember his mother, had never really known who he had missed either. All he had known was that unlike all the other kids, he didn't have a mother: there was a gap in his grade school stick figure drawings, there was no one to join the PTA, there was no one to make a mother's day card for. Sam had hating having to explain that, year after year, school after school, that his mother was dead, had died when he was a baby. He'd hated seeing the looks of pity on yet another gently embarrassed teacher's face as they found some other artwork project for Sammy to do, or suggested that he make the vase or picture frame for John instead. He'd never known his mother but he'd known his lack of her his whole life.

Not that he hadn't been cared for. His father and brother had done the best they could: Dean had done way more than any merely four years older brother ever should have: he'd given Sammy a strategy for dealing with awkward pauses when the adults stuttered to a stop when they learned Sam's mother was dead; he exclaimed and examined all of Sammy's artwork and stories; and one memorable occasion he'd even tried to bake something when all the mothers had been asked to bake something for a bake sale their newest school was having. Sammy smiled briefly at the recollection: the cake had never made it to school, in fact most of the cake never made it into the oven – most of it had ended up on the floor, on each other and each boy had consumed a large quantity of uncooked cake mix. Their father had been stonily silent when he'd come home from whatever job he'd had and had found his boys covered in flour and water and chocolate cake mix. But his "well, did you save any for me" line was the start of one of Sam's fondest memories of his dad as he had gotten into the food fight with them.

None of that lighthearted father was anywhere in evidence right now. Sam had avoided looking, had deliberately kept his eyes away from the figures closest to the grave, but he could feel the weight of Chris' expectation beside him and he finally allowed himself to see.

Oh god. It was as bad as he'd thought. Worse. Four-and-a-half-years old Dean was silently sobbing in a little navy blue suit jacket and black pants, his breath was hitching as tears streamed from his eyes as he clutched John's pant leg as John stood stone-faced beside the grave, carefully holding his sleeping infant son in one strong arm. His father wasn't crying. His father wasn't reacting. His father was wearing that stoic mask that Sam had come to know and had learned to hate – that same closed off, locked in, eyes impassive look that Sam knew his brother had learned from their father. A look that said: "Back off and leave me alone" in no uncertain terms. A look that Dean gave him usually accompanied by a totally inadequate and utterly unbelievable "I'm fine." And Sam could already see the beginning of the determined, all-consuming obsession, because if he could read his father at all, he'd say he was still in denial, still not coping, not believing. And note ready to cope with anything, let alone ready to be solely responsible for two small boys.

Chris hadn't yet shown Sam who John was before Mary's death. Maybe Chris had been going to show Sam before Sam had interrupted his 'lesson' and had asked to see his mother. So Sam hadn't yet had a glimpse of his father unburdened, and he was regretting that as he witnessed the birth of the bitter haunted man his father would become.

As he witnessed the death of Dean's unfettered childhood.

For, in a move that Sam could only interpret as achingly symbolic of everything that was to come, John knelt down and handed the still sleeping baby into his big brother's care.

"Son, I need you to hold onto your brother for a minute, ok Champ? I've got to go talk to the minister."

But the minister would have to wait because Dean spared one hand as he clutched his sleeping baby brother to his chest to grasp his dad's jacket to stop him from getting up.

"Two hands on the baby, son." John's was gruff with suppressed emotion. He could hold it together as long as he didn't look at his sons. He could and would get through this interminably long, unimaginably painful day but he wasn't ready to share his grief with anyone, wasn't ready to be the strong one for his son; he knew he'd have to be, he just didn't know how he was going to be. Meeting Dean's tear-filled hazel eyes meant acknowledging that he wasn't the only one Mary had left, wasn't the only one devastated by this profoundly inexplicable loss. He heard rather than saw Dean's breath hitch as he tried to quiet enough to talk to his dad. He couldn't meet his son's eyes as his son gazed up at him in his still crouched position, both hands now cradling his brother.

"D-dad?" Tears were still rolling down Dean's face, unimpeded by the not yet acquired tough façade. "D-daddy? Is mommy coming back?"

John's gaze hardened as he reacted to this metaphorical jab to the solar plexus. He tried to soften it, for his son's sake, but the eyes that briefly met his son's before he was forced to look away by the weight of the grief in this nearly inconsolable child were shuttered and cool.

"Dean, Mommy's not coming back. She's in heaven now, with Grandpa Joe and Buster."

John didn't want to say the next part, didn't want to have to admit it out loud, but Dean needed to hear it, had to understand. No matter how hard it was to say. He steeled himself to meet his son's tear-soaked face.

"Mommy's dead, son. She's not ever coming back. It's just you me and Sammy now." And damnnit John was blinking back the tears, willing them not to fall. And failing. Silent tears were slipping down his face – he futilely tried to stop them. Dean needed his father. John wanted to be strong for him. John needed to be strong for him, for them both.

Oh god. He knelt on the grass, heedless of his dress pants, and gathered Dean and Sammy to him. He couldn't do this. But for his sons, he'd have to. Somehow.

He rocked his sons gently as he and Dean mourned while Sammy slept, cradled by his family.

"D-daddy? Are you going to die too? Is Sammy?"

John couldn't answer. Didn't want to answer. Because the answer was 'yes'. And that's not what Dean wanted to hear right now, not what Dean needed to hear right now. His grieving son just wanted reassurances. And John didn't have any to offer.

He pulled back from Dean a bit in order to answer the question. He wanted to, but he couldn't lie to his son, no matter how painful the truth might be; he couldn't afford to, not any more.

"Yes, Dean. Someday I'm going to die too."

Dean started sobbing anew into his father's jacket, young Sammy almost crushed between them.

"I don't want you to die, Daddy. I want you to stay with Sammy n' me."

"I want to stay with Sammy and you too, kiddo, but sometimes people die just like that."

Dean pushed away from John's chest just enough to be able to see his dad.

"Are… are you going to be d-dead too… when I go to sleep tonight?" His son's tear-filled hazel eyes held an anguish no four-year-old should ever have to experience.

To hell with the painful truth – Dean was four, goddamnnitall.

"No, Dean, I'm not going to die when you go to sleep. I'm going to be here for as long as I can, cause I love you boys, and I don't want to leave you."

"Mama loved us... and she's gone." Dean's soul-stricken, grief-filled eyes pleaded for understanding. It just didn't make any sense.

John couldn't argue with that inescapable truth.

"Yes, she'd gone, and something could happen to me too, but we're going to take good care of each other and we're going to protect each other and we're going to be a family together and if something does happen…"

Goddamnnit, but John couldn't think, couldn't find a way to make this alright. "If something does happen…" Fuck – what if something did happen? John was all the boys had left at this moment – no way in hell were they every going to live with Mary's parents. Her sister Cathy… John couldn't think. Didn't have a plan. Didn't have an answer for his son.

Shit. He did have a plan. It was so obvious. And it would work.

Dean, even at four, was already a natural follower. He wanted to do what was expected of him. He was happiest when he had earned one of Mary's smiles or one of his dad's "Good job, Champ!''s. Dean's developing personality was already settling into the role of a natural caregiver who wanted to make everyone happy: he was already trying to be the best big brother he could be to Sammy. He already took his perceived responsibilities seriously. And he was still young enough to be malleable. John could exploit that.

God help him. May Mary forgive him for what he was about to do.

"We'll have to be strong, be tough, ready for anything, so that if something does happen you and Sammy can take care of each other. We'll be a family for as long as we can, and we'll be strong and ready for anything."

God the thought of turning this earnest, loving boy into a tough battle-ready soldier sickened John, but Dean was right, something could happen. And if what happened to Mary was any indication the threat could come from anywhere.

"We just gotta be strong, Champ, we just gotta be strong." And John clenched his own traitorous eyes shut and fought for control. He blinked back tears of his own, as he started Dean down the road to toughening him up, to becoming the pliable willing soldier and protector that he knew he could be.

"Don't cry, son. We have to be strong now. Don't cry, Dean."

And Dean, even grieving and hurt and not able to even begin to understand the new shape of his world, tried, as ever, to do what his father wanted. He gulped audibly and sniffed several times as he tried to be brave like his dad, be strong like his dad and tried to emulate his father's shuttered expression. He freed one hand from holding his brother to wipe away the tears. His bottom lip was trembling, his breath was still hitching, but he did as his father asked and dried his tears. He gaze was tremulous, and hurt and puzzled, but he'd do what his father wanted. He sniffled again, and wrapped both hands firmly around his brother.

"We gotta be strong Sammy," he whispered, not really understanding why it was. "Just like Daddy."

John closed his eyes, not wanting to see his silently shaking son who was striving so valiantly to be what his father needed, to be who his family needed. John cursed himself as he silently begged both God and Mary for benediction.

Sam couldn't stand it any more.

"Please tell me that my father did not just ask a grieving four-year-old to suck it up. Please tell me that he didn't make a hurt and confused little boy feel bad for crying at his mother's funeral for fuck's sake! How could he do that to his son, how could he…?"

Sam stuttered to a stop, stunned at what their father had done, angry all over again.

Sam, the only Winchester still capable of tears, had tears streaming down his face.

Sam was hunched in upon himself as the memory finally faded around them. His hands were over his face, his tears flowing freely, unashamedly down his cheeks. His lack of embarrassment at his own 'weakness' truly marked him as Mary's son.

"How…" Sam tried again. "How could he do that to Dean? How could anyone do anything so monstrous? He was four…!"

"Sam," Chris' tone was gentle. "I think your father didn't know how to cope. Remember, your mother's death was his first exposure to anything violently and utterly supernatural, and he was afraid – he was afraid it could happen again and afraid he wouldn't be ready. And soldiering was what he knew. And he knew Dean would give his all to be anything his Daddy needed him to be."

"But Dean… he shouldn't have had to…"

"Dean's first life lesson is that everything can change just like that, for no reason. One day he was happily playing with his race cars and singing with his mommy without a care in the world, the next day his house is burned out, his mother is dead and his dad who he played with can't cope with him or much of anything any more. And he's only four, he doesn't understand death, he doesn't fully realize that she's never coming back, he doesn't understand that life is sometimes just unfair. He just knows that his mommy is gone. And that everything's different now.

"And what he learns is that he has to strong and he has to be ready and he has to protect and love his remaining family because they too could be gone just like that. He hated going to bed for months afterwards as he didn't really believe your father wouldn't' be dead when he woke up. He loved his mother, he loves his dad and he loves his baby brother. And it's not a hardship to take care of them, it's not a burden, it's a joy because it means he still has them, they haven't left him and he counts every day they're not dead when he wakes up as a blessing."

Sam isn't looking at the memory any more. He isn't looking at the motel room as it takes shape around them again. He isn't looking at Chris, who's desperately wishing that he could offer tangible support, could offer the hug this young man so obviously needed. But he couldn't. He could focus enough to put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, but it wasn't enough, and it wasn't what Sam needed.

Sam needed time to think. Sam needed a chance to wrap his head around everything he'd learned. Sam needed to make sense of the no longer absolute framework of his world.

Sam was twenty-three. And as with a great many people that age, he'd had the arrogance that comes with youth that his perceptions of the world were the right ones. And that now that he was an adult, and a college graduate, thank you, that his rationalizations for the behaviours of the people around him were how it was. He presumptuously assumed that he knew the complete picture, that he'd understood where his brother and father were coming from, that he'd had enough of the facts to make a legitimate judgment.

And now, hopefully, he knew better. He hadn't had the full picture, he hadn't known nearly enough, and while his world still had the same structure, the foundation was not as concrete as it had been.

He likely needed time to assimilate all the information he'd been gifted with. He could probably use a stiff drink, a long nap and a hug. He was wrung out, exhausted and not firing on all cylinders right now. He still had tears flowing on behalf of the brother who'd lost so much, so fast and who'd had to grow up way too soon.

Although no time had passed, it had been a bloody long day.

But if any of it sunk in, if any of it was taking root, then it'd be worth it.

Chris just had to see what his student had learned.

Because just as Dean needed his family, Sam needed to be able to 'see' his family for what they were: not a millstone to drag him down, but their own imperfect, flawed, but fiercely loyal safety net against the monsters and horrors that existed.

If Sammy had seen, then maybe both brothers would live to see their thirties.

o0o

TBC