Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Author's Note: Damn it! I can't get them out of my head!
There was something about Dean's daughter.
Maybe it was the fact that she looked so much like Ava, with dark waves and a wide smiling face. Or perhaps it was her eyes, his eyes, peeking out from within the otherwise purely "Ava" countenance.
It could have been her laid back demeanor, never as high strung as John or as wild as Michael, but seemingly calm, cool, and collected, like her father. Or it may have been those moments when she looked at him with a, somehow, almost disdainful glare, one that had no business being a baby's face. One that reminded him so much of his own father it made him ache.
Or maybe it was simply the fact that for as long as Dean Winchester has been alive he's been all about the ladies.
Whatever the reason, there was no doubt about it, Samantha May Winchester had her daddy completely and totally whipped.
Not that that came as much of a surprise to anyone.
Back when Rachel was born he was much the same way. Even more protective than usual, once actually going so far as to hold his hands out beneath her, ready to catch, even as she was folded neatly into Sam's arms.
"Dude, stop," he had protested. "She's my daughter, I'm not gonna drop her."
And of course Dean knew that was true. Because Sam had always been careful of the women in his life, cautious and gentle. And even if he was the clumsy bumbling idiot that Dean sometimes remembered him to be – an awkward adolescence to blame for an everlasting image – he could practically palm the little girl with his huge gorilla hand. He'd actually have to work to drop her.
But she was their first baby. And she was the only girl Dean had ever known from birth. So being that she was small and delicate, and female, he made it a point to be watchful.
When Maya was born, nearly four years later, they all thought they'd be ready, raising a baby like riding a bike. But she was different. Hardier from the get go, never wanting to be handled for too long, constantly fussy. She was Sam's kid for sure. And maybe it was that fact, that sort of odd link between them, the joked about personality quirk, that was the reason the only person she ever allowed to coddle and cuddle her for more than five minutes at a time, was her dad.
By the time John came, just a few short months later, baby wrangling was old hat, even for the new parents. And to be fair, Ava and Dean fell into their mommy and daddy roles without a hitch. Regardless of the amount of practice they'd received with the girls, they simply seemed made for parenthood.
So there was the fact that they'd been mellowed by experience, the realization that they could actually do the right thing, at least occasionally, without really trying. That helped them to be more laid back in raising the boys.
Then there'd also been the fact that they were boys. Even though John was emotional, had been since birth, and sometimes needed extra attention. And Michael, while seemingly every bit the rambunctious boys-will-be-boys kind of kid on the outside, also yearned to snuggle in his mom's lap, hide his all too often chocolate smeared face in his dad's shoulder. Despite all of that, there was still the underlying feeling that they were hardier, the sense that they were more independent.
This was different. This, this…girl, that was truly Dean's. This small and delicate thing that fluttered her long lashes at him before looking up, with his eyes, and making meek baby gurgles. This sweet and soft and supple creature that fit so well in the crook of his arm, just where John would lay before fussing, face twisting with hot tears, and Michael would wriggle and pull and roll, always needing to move. Samantha lay still, close and contented.
It was true, Dean had always been a sucker for women. But never more so than now.
"Samantha?" he asks, trying to sound affronted, failing miserably whilst smiling and rocking his new niece. "You have two boys and somehow decide to name your daughter after me?"
"It was John's idea. He liked the name Sammy," Dean responds, forehead crinkled with concern as he watches Sam maneuver the baby into a different position.
"Dude," he says, catching the worried look, "I'm not gonna drop her."
"You sure about that?" he asks, rising and moving toward the pair. "You're kind of out of practice."
Sam throws one hand up to stop his brother, the other spread along his namesake's back, plastering her tiny form to his chest. "Don't bogart the baby," he says with a lilt. "She's mine too." And he settles back into the steady side to side rocking rhythm, showing just how not out of practice really he is.
Dean stands motionless, arms still outstretched, waiting to receive back his daughter, face confounded by the fact that he's not being allowed. But that's what you get when you wait two weeks before bringing a new baby over to her aunt and uncle's.
It seems like it's been hours since he's even been allowed to touch her, what with the kids all aching for a turn. Rachel, first in line because, as she pointed out, she's oldest, quickly turned her back on everyone else, cooing privately to her newest cousin, assuring her in hushed, sweet tones that she would always provide a safe haven for her when the boys got to be too much.
And Maya, who didn't quite know what to do with a baby, sitting awkwardly beside Sarah as her mother talked her through the basics of baby handling. As usual, she tried for an air of nonchalance, despite the evident terror in her eyes.
Michael screamed that he was next, just as he did every time Samantha had been held by anyone over the last two weeks. Five a.m., he's up and ready to burp her after her feeding. Eight thirty, he's demanding to kiss her goodnight before heading to bed. Every moment in between, he's readying himself to get at her again. Thank God she slept so much, spent hours away from him, else he wouldn't have any time to bounce of the walls in his typical ADHD fashion.
And naturally, if everyone else was given a turn, John had to have one too, the deprivation of which would only set him to weeping. And if there was one thing Dean and Ava had learned about their daughter in the few short weeks they'd known her, it was that she seemed incapable of letting her brother cry alone. No one wanted to have to deal with that.
So, yeah, maybe he was going through a bit of baby withdrawl, so sue him.
He drops his arms to his sides, clearly dejected and doesn't even notice that Ava and Sarah have entered the room until his wife speaks, letting her chin rest on his shoulder as she does so. "He never lets go of her for long," she says, looking over at Sam. "In fact, if he had the ability to breastfeed, I doubt he'd ever let her go."
The two brothers share a quick eww look, just obvious enough to make the ladies snigger.
"Samantha May," Sarah says dreamily as she moves to her husband's side. "Where'd May come from?" she asks, reaching out and taking hold of one chubby little baby foot, smiling with wide eyes as she looks down at the calm little girl. Before they can answer her previous question she murmurs, almost to herself, "So much like Rachel."
Sam had been thinking it too, how much she reminded him of his own baby, so sweet and serene. But of course Rachel wasn't a baby anymore, was a young woman really, as he'd painfully noticed earlier when watching the easy sway of her hips, the careful way she had of conforming Samantha to her body as she rocked her. Seeing his own little girl move so naturally with a baby in her arms made him want to weep, and it caused an odd sort of twinge beneath his sternum that he'd rather not acknowledge. So instead of commenting and running the risk of sharing a dreamy, our baby's all grown up type of glance with Sarah, he says simply, "Yeah, is that like a short version of Mary, for mom?"
"Nope," Dean says, taking hold of Ava's arms and wrapping them tighter around himself.
"I do like that though," she comments from behind. "We should totally tell people that's why."
Sam transitions the baby once more when she lets out a small gurgle, positioning her so he can see her face, thin alabaster skin covering tiny blue veins, small bowed mouth, so obviously Ava, long think lashes, a Dean trademark trait he'd been kind enough to bestow on all his children. "What does it mean then?" he asks without looking up.
"Do the math, Sammy," Dean responds, coy smirk lacing the words.
It wasn't hard to figure that one out. Born in February… "You named your daughter after the month you conceived her?" he asks, astonishment lighting his features. "Gross."
"Hey," Dean defends, "those were good times." He chuckles just as Samantha begins to squirm, preparing to wail.
"I didn't need to know that," Sam says, handing the baby over into Ava's waiting arms. "I don't want to know that." He lets out an exaggerated shudder, yielding another laugh from his brother.
"Oh please," Ava scoffs while sitting and undoing her blouse, preparing to feed. "You didn't seem so disgusted by the idea of sex with me back in Vermont." Then, looking up and into the dumbfounded, silent faces of the others in the room, "Oh God, never mind. Hormones make me stupid."
"Vermont?" Dean tries, but is quickly drown out by his brother's too awkward ha, ha's.
"What happened in Vermont?" Sarah asks slyly, already catching on. After all, it had never been a secret that Sam and Ava had been involved before they were. It was just the level of that involvement that had never really been relayed.
Ava's eyes dance wildly around the room as she holds the baby close, humming to herself, pretending to be enthralled in her breast-feeding bonding time. Sam continues to smile, an odd shit's gonna hit the fan kind of grimace, as he averts his wife's coy glare. And Dean slowly turns red, jaw clicking and grinding as he works to control himself.
"Sam?" Sarah questions, the corner of her mouth rising into a half smile, evidence of her amusement. Because, damn it the guy was just too cute when embarrassed and flustered like this, even after all these years.
"It was one time," he answered quietly, eyes directed at the floor beneath his feet. "Before we were together. Obviously." The last word he mumbles, fully aware that it's not even necessary, surely she knows he would never cheat on her.
"Well," Ava drawls, "One night, but not exactly one time." Sam winces visibly, not even aware of the questioning glance, the amused raised eyebrow on his wife's face.
"Excuse me?" Dean utters softly, barely contained fury flowing through him.
Sam looks up at his brother, answers quickly. "It was before you two were together too. I mean, before you even met, I think."
"Actually, it was the night we met," Ava says with a lilt, apparently having a bit of fun at the boys' expense.
"Come again?" he asks, turning his attention to his wife who's now transitioning their baby into burping mode.
"That's what she said," Sarah murmurs, glancing quickly at Ava, causing both to break into unsteady cackles.
Both the boys gape openly at them – crazy women – before locking eyes with one another. A fraction of a second goes by before Dean lunges forward, "I'm gonna kill you," streaming from his lips.
Sarah tries to jump out of the way, but can't, Sam grabbing her arm and moving her in between. Because Dean would never hurt his sister-in-law, hell of a shield. And this only makes Ava laugh harder, to the point of being nearly unable to breathe. Which, naturally, greatly disturbs Samantha, as her mother becomes incapable of patting her back.
It's a clever out, Dean realizes. Unable to get to his bastard of a brother – what kind of man hides behind his wife anyway? – he turns around and collects his daughter, leaving Ava to collapse in on herself with huge guffaws. "See what you've done!" he shouts, moving the baby to his shoulder where he carefully rubs soft circles on her back, nuzzling her downy hair with his nose as he whispers, "It's okay, baby."
"You say that now," Sarah chimes in, pulling away from Sam's grip, "but she's definitely gonna need therapy later."
In a much calmer voice – because, hey, this kid just has that effect on her dad – Dean says, "Yeah, well, he's paying those bills."
Still blushing, still mortified and tense from fear, Sam tries to explain once more that, "It was a long time ago. Before…I mean…it doesn't mean anything…didn't."
And finally Sarah works to quell her husband's anxieties, her own laughter slowing down, "We know, honey. It was a long time ago."
"Yeah, it was." His shoulders droop a bit, first sign of relief. Because Ava's regaining control herself, and Sarah's not actually upset, not that she has any reason to be. And Dean, well, Dean seems rather distracted at least.
"I do have one question though," his wife starts, and he knows this won't be good, not with that wispy quality to her voice. "Who's the better lover?"
"That's not funny," he replies, noticing Dean's death glare from over the top of Samantha's tiny head.
"Seriously though," she says through barely controlled giggles, "we had met by then. How am I supposed to tell our children that it was love at first sight if you knocked boots with their Auntie Ava so soon after?"
"Right now, I'm not so sure I love you at all," he replies, sad puppy dog eyes causing her to awww internally before apologizing with a kiss.
"You know what this means, Sammy?" Dean interrupts, steadily bounce-rocking the little girl. "Now I get a whack at Sarah."
"Hey," Ava shoots out, feigning hurt.
Sarah steps away from Sam's side, moves nearer Dean. "No, no, he's right. Fair's fair."
"Again, not funny," he says, pulling her back over to him.
"It's a little funny," Dean mumbles, smiling for the first time since this discussion began. "Whore."
"Hey, now," Sam starts, moving cautiously toward his brother. "There's a baby in the room." He moves around behind Dean to look at his niece's scrunched up face, chances being so close, assuming that Dean won't lunge at him again with the kid in his arms.
"She should know what her uncle really is," he says, tossing a glare over his shoulder.
Sam rolls his eyes and runs his thumb along the baby's cheek, pleased that all the laughter and talk has ceased, hopeful that this awful reminiscing can be forgotten.
Dean pats his daughter's back once more, knowing full well what it'll do. Slimy breast milk spills out her mouth, pooling in Sam's palm that he had moved to cup her face. "Yeah," he whispers in her ear, "that's my girl."