Happy SPN finale! It wasn't perfect, but I was surprisingly satisfied with the ending we got. And there was plenty of room to capitalize on the angst they gave us. Dad!Sam filled me with unexpected feels—and so I wrote this. Enjoy!
Sam's son is named for Dean, but he reminds Sam relentlessly of Jack.
As a toddler his hair fluctuates uncertain between light and dark blond. Sam's heart squeezes at the sight of his honey golden waves.
He has a serious, studious gaze, eyes that drink in everything around him with cautious curiosity.
He grows a gap-toothed smile—gentle and sweet and achingly reminiscent.
He asks questions—deep, soul-bending questions only a child's mind can form—after careful contemplation. When Sam answers (however bewildered) he chews on his father's reply, brow knitted in thought, before nodding his acceptance.
He looks at Sam with a boundless yet familiar trust, and Sam nearly cries.
Sam does not hide his past from his child. The bones of his new life have formed around the absence of his old one. Around the people now absent from him.
They are inescapable. Sam is thankful for this.
Dean knows who his namesake is. Everything he did, how much Sam loved him. (Sam makes clear to his son that he is not a replacement.)
He knows there were others, too. Heavenly beings. But on this Sam never goes into detail.
Sam doesn't tell his son angels are watching over you. They don't pray, don't discuss any concrete form of faith. He amends his mother's adage to someone is watching over you.
He blinks curiously up at Sam. You mean uncle Dean?
Sam smiles. I'm sure he is. Yeah.
He prays sometimes. He can't help it. Privately, when the loneliness claws its way into his throat and sits, waiting, for him to thoughtlessly say something to his dead brother.
(Dead brother. It still sounds impossible.)
When the hole in his heart gnaws painfully at the love he's seeded and carefully grown from grief and resolve and emptiness, he talks to Jack.
Talks to him like he's popped in for a drink. Tells him about the day, about what Dean's learned or done, about what he's feeling.
There aren't pictures of Jack around the house. Sam holds the memory of his first child close, determined to not let this grief infect his house.
Jack isn't dead, after all. It makes for a very strange, specific kind of mourning—not one easily brought up in a grief counseling session. (How do you explain that your three-year-old child became God?)
He was here for a little while, but now he's not. Sam has to go on without him.
(He fears, irrationally, that Dean will grow up and leave just as quickly.)
Dean is ten the first time he catches a glimpse of Jack—a picture on one of Sam's old phones. Hey, I know him.
Sam is taken aback. You do?
His son nods solemnly. I dream about him sometimes, I guess.
A weight slams into Sam's chest like a wrecking ball.
Not bad dreams. It's like he's watching out for me. Sometimes he'll reach out and take my hand.
It feels like…he's my friend.
Jack's innocent, impish grins shines up at him from the phone screen.
Dad, are you okay?
For Sam has stumbled backward into a chair, eyes quickly filling with tears.
His son's worried eyes morph into pale blue, his voice deepening as he repeats the question. Sam, are you okay?
(Jack never called him dad. Only father, only that once.)
Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay.
Dean's eyes are careful and hesitant, looking down at the old picture. Do you know him? Who is he?
The weight on Sam's chest focuses, taking the shape of a hand over his heart. I'm as close as this.
He passes his hand over his eyes before reaching out to his son. C'mere, kiddo.
His new life is built on a graveyard, around the empty space left by his brother, the ghost of his kid.
He never knew his sons played together in the ruins.
I want to tell you a story about a boy named Jack—and what he taught me about being a father.
Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought—reviews feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!