A/N: Decided to post the original chapter 3 as a stand-alone so we replaced it with this one.
Enjoy.
Mine!
Wisconsin
September 1986
"Give that back, Sammy, I need it for school!"
"It Sammy's!"
"No, it's not!"
John sighed as the shouts echoed throughout the small house. Sammy had finally gotten over his fixation with the word 'no' after nearly a year, but he'd firmly settled on an equally annoying replacement three months earlier…
Mine.
Sammy was liked a dog with a bone when he settled his mind on something, including his current 'mine' mentality. Anything and everything he thought looked fun he promptly claimed, usually something of Dean's that the older boy used a lot or held dear.
As the shouts continued, the eldest Winchester did his best to ignore them, concentrating on cooking breakfast. He knew well enough that the longer he waited to get involved, the longer he could still pretend that nothing was going on, in spite of the yelling, but he'd actually gotten quite good at ignoring it. The moment he got involved he knew he'd have, not one, but two pouting boys on his hands.
It happened invariably. Sammy would pout because he would most likely be forced to return whatever he'd claimed since, if it truly was for school, Dean would need it. Dean would be pouting because, like clockwork, the minute John interrupted, Sammy entered grudge mode and blamed Dean.
Sammy could hold a grudge better than someone twenty years his senior, an amazing feat for a three year old, and would stubbornly hold onto it until Dean gave in, however many hours or days later, and gave Sammy whatever he had originally laid claim to. Sammy was Dean's only weakness and he was never happy if the toddler was upset. If Sammy was happy, Dean was happy.
Beyond that, John hated getting between his boys, and hoped they were never forced into a position where they had to make a choice between each other or him. If it ever happened he knew he'd have to come up with something drastic to get them back on the same side, even if it pitted them against him. It would always be a sacrifice he was willing to make. His boys came first, always, even above himself. He'd gladly sacrifice his own happiness so long as his sons were together and safe.
The shouts got louder as the boys entered the kitchen and John was jostled as Sammy inserted himself between his legs and the oven door. Dean gave a low growl.
"Dad, he's got my crayons for school. I have art today."
Sighing John looked down at Sam and saw the green and yellow Crayola box hugged tightly against the small body. He nearly winced as the toddler turned his limpid dark brown eyes, pooling with pleading tears, up to meet his.
They were his eyes, but he could still see Mary in them and in that innocent little face. Dean was all him, save for Mary's eyes, but Sam was all her.
"Sammy," John started.
The toddler stuck out his bottom lip, hugging the box of crayons tighter, "No. Mine."
"Dean needs them for school, Sammy." John tried again.
"No. It Sammy's," the toddler pouted, "Sammy says."
Dean sneered at his little brother, "It's Simon Says, brat."
Sammy's bottom lip trembled as he sniffled at the insult. John glared at his elder son, "Dean! Sammy's only three, he doesn't know any better."
The older boy pouted a moment at being chastised before turning the attention away from himself and back on his brother, "I still need my crayons for art."
Recognizing the ploy, but letting it pass, John lifted Sammy into his arms and met his gaze, "Sammy, Deano needs his crayons…"
"No, Daddy," Sammy wheedled, giving his puppy look, "Mine."
A small moan escaped John at that look. He couldn't say no. Sighing he turned to Dean. The older boy scoffed, knowing what was coming.
"Just…let him keep this box, Dean. All his are broken."
"Because he broke them." Dean sneered again.
John continued talking as if Dean hadn't spoken, knowing it would annoy the seven year old, which was better punishment at the moment than chiding him would be, "We'll stop at the general store and buy you a new box on the way to school."
At that Dean's attitude brightened and he grinned cajolingly, "64?"
The eldest Winchester sighed, "32, just like before."
"But, Daddy," Dean pleaded, knowing the term 'daddy' worked for him the same way the puppy look worked for Sammy, "64 is so much cooler. And everyone in my class will be so jealous."
Bringing one hand up to rub the bridge of his nose, John closed his eyes, wondering what he'd ever done to deserve two sons like Sam and Dean when they were like this. Of course, it didn't help that they both had him wrapped around their little fingers.
He sighed, shaking his head, "Fine. I'll buy you a box of 64."
As Dean skipped off to the table to wait for his breakfast John looked at Sammy, frowning at the thoughtful scowl on the toddler's face, "What's wrong, Sammy?"
"I want new cwayons like Deano."
John moaned. It was going to be a long, long day.
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Sam was sitting on the floor surrounded by blocks while John sat on the edge of the couch skimming a book on demonology, cross-referencing with his grandfathers' and father's old journals, and scribbling down notes he felt may be helpful in his own hunt for Mary's killer. He came from two long standing lines of hunters, his mother's and his father's. Winchester and James, both families of supernatural hunters, leaving behind a lot of information regarding the supernatural world. Surely there had to be something useful in his family history given the wealth of information he had access to.
It was said that the James men had become hunters in the mid 1900's when one of their own had turned on her own husband and children, leaving none alive. It had later been discovered she'd been possessed at the time, which had led to the hunt. Even a few of the James women had joined the hunt.
On the other hand, Winchester men had been hunters as far back as the late 1800's. One of John's ancestor's on their side had even been said to have finally vanquished the father of all vampires, Dracula, after a supposed 400 year reign.
Apparently Bram Stoker's vampire had been based on reality.
His whole childhood John had been trained how to fight the evil of the world when he wasn't in school. His mother had insisted he be allowed to get at least a high school education. He'd never gotten a chance to thank her before she'd died of cancer when he was 13, making his father promise to let him graduate. She'd given him as normal a childhood as he could have with a hunter for a father, which was the reason he made sure Dean, and Sammy, when the time came, always had the chance to go to a real school so they, too, could get diplomas.
Ironically, John had hated hunting as he'd grown up, and the moment he'd turned 18 and graduated he'd escaped to the Marines, vowing to never return to the life he'd led up to then. Yet, here he was, roughly a decade later, reminding himself of everything he'd tried to forget during his time in the Marines and his few short years with Mary.
It bothered him that he would be raising his sons the way he'd been raised, as soldiers, robbing them of the normal childhood he'd hungered for his entire life. It pained him that he couldn't give it to them. That thing had wanted Sammy, and the toddler had to be protected, even if it meant raising him and Dean to be hunters so they could protect themselves and each other.
Absently John reached for the pen and paper he'd set on the coffee table only to feel his fingers brush over the scratched wood. Blinking he glanced over, lifting up the journals and other books spread across the table as he searched for the notes he'd been scribbling.
After a moment he found the notes, torn off the notepad and dropped on the floor, but the pad and pen remained missing. Suspiciously John turned his gaze to Sammy and sighed. The toddler was happily scribbling away, having forgotten his blocks in favor of 'coloring'.
Getting up John walked over to his son and knelt down, "Sammy, I need that back."
"Mine." Sammy replied succinctly, without looking up.
"Sammy." John sighed, knowing better than to just take the paper and pen back, "How 'bout we get one of your coloring books, and I'll take that back…"
Sammy's only reply was to turn his back on his father, bringing the pen and paper with him and giving a little two-toned, sing-song, "Mine."
Running his hand through his hair John growled in frustration as he balled his hands into fists. Sammy looked up at his father with startled eyes.
"Daddy mad?"
John groaned as he saw his son's lip tremble, and the big brown eyes looking up at him filled with tears. He knew he should assert his authority but he couldn't. Even knowing he was teaching his son that the things he was doing wouldn't get him reprimanded, which was sure to come around later and bite him in the ass, he just couldn't say no to Sammy.
John sighed, "No, Sammy, I'm not angry…Daddy just has a headache." Besides, it wasn't like he lacked pens and paper around the house. He had another notepad…
Somewhere.
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"Sammy!"
"No! It Sammy's!"
An angry growl followed, preceding a whiny, "Daddy!"
John's head thumped down on the dining room table as the shouts once again echoed through the house. Dean had barely been home from school for 45 minutes, plopped down by the coffee table doing whatever homework a second grader received in the first couple weeks of school while Sammy sat a few feet away playing with toddler puzzles and watching cartoons on TV.
How could they have started one of their battles already?
Groaning, John was just shifting to get to his feet when Sammy ran into the dining room holding Dean's new 64 color box of crayons. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, hoping to ease the headache forming there before it got out of hand, John met his younger son's pleading gaze, seeing the pouty bottom lip tremble. Dean made an appearance from the living room, fuming in ways a seven year old just should not have the ability to fume in.
Shaking his head John turned his back on his sons, propping his elbows on the table, pressing his fingers against his throbbing temples, and counted to 10…then 20…and 30…finally stopping at 40, then continued on to 50 for good measure. Finally, he took a fortifying breath and turned back around, thinking, just maybe, he was ready to attempt to diffuse World War III as his sons worked toward waging it in the dining room.
It was going to be a really, really long night.
END