A/N: Hooray, last chapter. Like two times longer than any of the other chapters so far (and still miserably short), but I've finally done what I meant to. The line at the end of In My Time of Dying, where John talked about Dean being obnoxiously selfless as a kid, and comforting John when he came home from a hunt, yeah, that line inspired this whole thing.
Many thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, alerted, etc. Special thanks to UberAwesome, who is my real-life friend, who read first, on the bus, and said she would hunt me down if I didn't put it up, which was actually extremely encouraging. Thank you to people who reviewed continuously, you're support does not go to waste.
Disclaimer: This is the part where I return the characters, all nice, neat, and not too badly damaged to their home, all wrapped up.
Left Alone
As predicted, Sam woke up in the middle of the night. Granted, he'd woken up every hour or so, always complaining about something, and around six, Dean had decided Sam was too warm to be fighting the fever on his own, and gave him another dose of medicine, hoping it'd bring his temperature down. Even so, with Sam complaining about it being too hot, or too cold, or being thirsty, or having a headache, or he couldn't breathe because his nose was too plugged, he never complained that he was hungry.
Not until two in the freakin' morning, naturally.
Because Sam Winchester was the definition of pain-in-the-ass-little-brother.
At two am, Sam woke up and turned over on his side to look at Dean, who had fallen asleep (because taking care of feverish toddlers was a pain in the ass and tiring as hell). His head was still throbbing and the decongestant Dean had given him had worn off. But his had gone down, and he hadn't had anything to eat all day, no matter how much his brother insisted.
He pouted and scrambled out of bed to wake Dean. His legs felt kind of wobbly, but he still climbed onto Dean's bed in order to shake him awake.
"Sammy?" asked Dean groggily, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"I'm hungry, Dean," he said.
"Course you are," he muttered, feeling Sam's forehead. It was cooler than it had been all day. "Didn't I tell you this would happen?"
"I guess," muttered Sam. "But I wasn't then, Dean."
Dean flicked on the lamp and squinted at the clock. He groaned. "It's two o'clock in the freakin' morning, Sam," he grumbled, flopping back down on his pillows. At two in the morning, Dean would never voluntarily get out of bed. The hunger of his baby brother fell under "voluntarily" in Dean's book. "If you can wait," he said to his pillows. "Then I'll make you breakfast. If not," he said rolling over, looking at his sick brother. "You're not helpless, Sammy. Do it yourself. Your soup is in the fridge."
Sam stood up. "Okay," he pouted. "But I don't want soup, Dean."
Dean groaned and swung his legs out of bed. "Sam, I swear," he growled as much as he could in his eight-year-old voice. "If you want spaghettio's…"
Maybe it was the fever, or the time, or he knew Dean would never really hurt him, but Sam giggled. "No," he said. "Make me breakfast," he pleaded. "I'm hungry."
"Do it yourself, bitch," said Dean, getting all the way out of bed, following Sam into the kitchenette.
"Jerk," said Sam. "Dad said you're not supposed to call me a bitch."
Dean shrugged. He stood there as Sam popped some bread into the toaster and waited silently for it to pop.
Sam was sitting at the table, gnawing on his toast, Dean watching him protectively when the door rattled. Sam and Dean jumped, but Sam relaxed once the noise had passed. Dan stayed tense, trying not to look as scared as he felt for Sam's sake. He turned, miraculous not taking his eyes off Sam, to get the gun.
Sam frowned, but not at the sight of the gun. Maybe he didn't know what hid in the dark, but he knew the rules. When something tried to get in, Dean would shoot it, no questions asked until after the thing was killed. And even at eight, Dean was a pretty fantastic shot.
But it didn't mean Sam liked it when Dean got the gun out. Dean only touched it when Dad took him shooting or when he was scared. And the only reason Dean would be scared was if there was something to be afraid of. Something that could hurt them.
"Dean?" he asked.
"Everything's okay, Sammy," Dean assured him.
"Who's at the door?" asked Sam.
Dean looked down at Sam and then back at the door. "Go back to bed, Sam," he ordered. But Sam shook his head. "Now," he growled.
"No," he said stubbornly, but he got up and stood behind Dean.
"Not so close, Sammy," he mumbled, not minding that Sam totally had no concept of personal space. His hand on Dean's sleeve, a pesky little reminder of his brother's presence, was comforting.
The door opened, and Dean was lucky he was a little slow. John stumbled through the door and Dean put to gun down and smiled, relieved.
"Gonna shoot me, Dean?" asked John with a crooked smile.
Dean laughed. "No, sir," he answered. "Not you."
John plopped himself down at the table and surveyed his boys. For the first time in his life, Sam didn't feel like he was piece of machinery being inspected.
"Dad?" asked Sam cautiously.
"Sammy?" asked John right back. "What are you doing up?"
Sam shrugged and walked over to John a little nervously. John picked Sam up and put him in his lap. "Did Dean take good care of you, Sammy?"
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Dean even read to me." John smiled.
"Well, that was good of him," said John softly. "You've got a good big brother, Sammy, don't you forget it."
The corner of Dean's mouth twitched from the corner where he was watching his rarely gentle father holding his brother tenderly.
"I can't," answered Sam. "Dean won't let me."
John laughed, and it was a real laugh. The kind Dean only ever heard from Sam. "No, I wouldn't think so," he chuckled ruffling Sam's hair gently. He smiled at Dean and kissed Sam's forehead. John frowned. "You're a little warm, Sammy," he said sternly. "Why are you up?"
Sam looked at Dean sheepishly. "I'll got to bed, Dad," he said getting up, walking back to bed. Dean followed behind Sam. John called Dean's name, but Dean just turned back and told John he'd only be minute, if he needed to talk to him.
John shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "It's late. Got to bed, boys."
Dean nodded. He and Sam climbed back into their respective beds. Sam curled up and squirmed around for a little while until he finally settled on his back. Dean laid on his side to watch Sam until he fell asleep, reluctantly releasing his position as Sam's caregiver now that John was home.
"Dean?" asked Sam. "Dad's back now. We gonna go?"
"I don't know, Sam," answered Dean. "Dad just got home. I'm sure he hasn't made up his mind yet."
"We will move?" asked Sam.
"Eventually."
"But, Dean," said Sam, sitting up. "I don't wanna."
"Yeah, Sam?" said Dean angrily. "Too bad!" Dean sat up too, fuming. He was angry , he wanted to punch something. He couldn't punch Sam though, and yelling was out of the question, because he didn't want John to overhear them. "No one gives a rat's ass about what you want, Sam."
Sam pouted at Dean, like he couldn't believe what Dean had just said to him. But Dean was so angry, he didn't even notice how not true what he said was.
"Life isn't fair, Sam," he said sternly . "You don't get to do everything you want. What dad says goes."
"Why?" asked Sam.
"Because he's Dad," answered Dean. "He just knows what has to happen. And you don't have to like, but you to pretend you do and come with us."
Sam pouted some more. "I still don't like it," he said stubbornly, laying back down.
Dean swung his legs out of bed. "Sammy?" he asked, suddenly aware he had let his anger get the best of him. "Sam, I'm sorry." He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, but he cringed away from Dean's touch. "Really, Sam. I…didn't mean it." He cleared his throat. "I care about you, Sam. I care about what you want, and so does Dad, but Sammy it's dangerous to say in one place for too long."
"I forgive you, Dean," mumbled Sam. "And I'm sorry. I hurt our feelings. And I made you mad. I didn't want to. I did it on accident."
Dean smiled. "You're such a girl, Sammy," muttered Dean playfully. "Goodnight."
"Night, Dean."
Dean woke back up about an hour later. He looked over at Sam, who looked so small in that bed all by himself, but he was sleeping peacefully nonetheless He looked around for John, but he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, so Dean assumed he was sleeping on the couch.
Dean didn't really know what possessed him to do so, but he got up and went to check on John. Maybe because Dean wanted to make sure he was really there, not eaten up by some monster. Or maybe it was because at eight, Dean had the distinct ability to take care of people. And maybe Dean wasn't great with words or feelings, but he knew just how comforting a soft touch could be.
Because when Dean looked at his father, he looked like he needed to be told that everything would be all right. His head was in his hands, deep purple bags sagging below his eyes. His forehead was creased in deep though, and not one he necessarily wanted to dwell on.
"Dad," whispered Dean uncertainly. "John lifted his head and smiled weakly at Dean.
"Come here, Dean," said John. Dean approached John cautiously. But he sat without hesitation on his father's lap.
"Dad?" asked Dean. "You're okay?"
"Yeah, Dean," answered John. Dean approached John cautiously. "I'm good." Dean nodded. "Just worried. It's a dangerous job." Dean didn't say anything. "I'm worried, one day I won't make it back."
"Don't," said Dean simply. "You'll make it back, because you're the best hunter in the world."
John laughed gratefully. "But, Dean," he said seriously. "You'll take care of Sam if I don't? And yourself, won't you?"
"Yeah, Dad," answered Dean. "I'll look after Sam."
"Good boy," said John. Then the two soldiers were silent. John couldn't stop thinking about those poor boys' spirits he'd destroyed. Those poor boys. John wasn't a softie, and he certainly never let anyone know how he was feeling, but he was in charge of his own boys, or and they needed him. And those boys, or ghosts, or whatever, would kill him because he would take off for days at the a time, because the alternative meant taking them along. John heaved a heavy sigh.
Dean looked up at him. John looked tired and frazzled and a little like he had seen a ghost, which Dean knew he had. Dean had never seen a ghost, but he knew John fought them. And in a few years, Dean would fight them too. Dean couldn't wait until he was big enough to go hunting with John and Bobby, but if a ghost could make John, the bravest man Dean knew, look like that, then Dean didn't want to think about the thing that killed his mother, But Dad would be okay, though Dean, because he's always okay.
John looked down at Dean, like he didn't even see him. "They were just kids," he muttered softly. "They were kids, and they were scared. And angry."
Dean frowned. "It's okay, Dad," he said, and he put his hand on John's shoulder. "It's all right." John smiled sadly, and for the first time in four years, John picked Dean up and tucked him in. "It's all right, Dad," he said one more time. "Me and Sammy are here."