FOUR:

And Together We'll Go on, Through Time

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Mary woke with a slight gasp, finding the pillow looking at her. She pushed herself up to her elbows, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She stretched out a hand but found the other side of the bed empty.

She realised she could hear the baby monitor and suppressed a sigh. Instead she pushed herself out of bed, blearily looking down the hallway. She headed on down to the nursery, rubbing her eyes. She put her hand to the doorjamb, pushing the door open and wandering in.

"John?" she blinked. But her husband was not there. She shook her head, walking to the cot and looking down.

The baby rolled and protested, and she put her hands in slowly. She lifted him out, leaning him against her shoulder and patting him reassuringly.

"Oh, oh, oh," she breathed soothingly, bouncing him slightly. "Ok… Everything's alright Sammy," she cooed, and the baby quickly settled down. She smiled, turning to the door. Rubbing his back gently, she hummed for both of them as she walked to the door and out. She passed the light, wondering why it was still on, before it flickered. She tutted and tapped at the loose shade before carrying on to the top of the stairs.

"John?" she called. She saw the unmistakable shape of her husband slumped in the easy chair, his head tilted to one side, his slight snores a dead give away. She frowned as she realised the television set was flicking away, blinking through the channels. Abruptly it stopped on a black and white picture.

She smiled as the penny dropped, making her way down the stairs with little Sammy starting to doze against her front. She got to the bottom of the stairs and her smile broadened as she found her husband out for the count even though his large hand was pushing at the button on the remote to lessen the volume.

Rounding the chair she confirmed her suspicions.

"And what time do you call this, young man?" she grinned.

A small boy, his light shaggy mop of a head the first thing seen, was curled up on his father's lap. One hand was out on the back of his dad's, pushing it into the remote control button. The little head turned and looked up at her with surprise and a little fear.

"Mommy," he realised, and his little face turned happy. "Wanna watch a movie."

"Deanie, come on, it's a long time past everyone's bedtime."

"Mommy!"

"Don't start with me, young man," she said sternly. "I put you to bed hours ago. Why did you get up again?"

Her son's eyes dropped in a familiar gesture of discomfort. "Wanted a movie," he mumbled, but she noted how tightly his little hand was clutching at his father's dressing gown.

"Was that all?"

Dean hesitated, then his small eyes shifted from side to side in discomfort. She smiled slightly, amazed at how every one of his feelings flooded over his face unchecked.

"Dean?" she asked quietly. "Sweetheart. What is it?" What nightmare made you get up in the middle of the night to find your father to sit on? Again? "Why did you come down here?"

Dean kept his face averted and she heard a little sigh fight its way out of him. "The voice."

Mary stared at him for a moment. "What voice?" she smiled. "The man on the TV? Let me guess, he said the next programme was going to be a movie, so you just had to--"

"It said Sammy's room was bad," he mumbled.

"Bad," Mary prompted flatly. "Bad like how?"

Dean shrugged. "Just… bad."

"And who is this voice, hmm?" she teased. "Who does it sound like? Your father?"

Dean looked at the face of the man sleeping under him. Dean's little face appeared troubled, but then he looked up at his mother. I wanna tell her it's like me. Big me. But she'll say I can't eat Cheesy Puffs after dinner if I do. "Nah," he sighed. "Don't know."

"Right," she nodded. She adjusted Sam against her shoulder, studying her older son for a moment longer. "Well come on. It's high time we all got back into bed."

"But--"

"If you want, you can come in with Daddy and me, ok?"

"But Sammy--"

"Sam too, if you really want," she shrugged, non-plussed. What in the world has gotten into him all of a sudden?

The small boy let go of his father's hand but squirmed against his front, beating a small fist against his chest. John's mouth slapped shut and his head shot up as if pushed.

"What the--. Dean! Stop that," he groused.

"Mommy says we gotta go to bed," he said, his tiny eyebrows wrinkling downwards in an attempt to be firm with his father.

John looked at him and hid his smile. "Ok then, sport. Let's go." He looked around at Mary, a peace offering of a smile on his face, before hefting his little boy onto his arm. He looked down and snatched up the remote, switching off the black and white monster movie currently in full swing. "Ready?"

Dean nodded and John carried him up the stairs, Mary following with Sam in her arms. Dean held onto his father's arm loosely, not minding in the least if he were being carried back to bed.

Now I don't gotta walk it myself, he giggled. John looked at him for a moment, poking him in the chest with a smile, and Dean squirmed in enjoyment before lacing his arms round his neck.

Something disturbed his amusement just then; Dean paused to wonder why he suddenly felt nervous. He looked round, trying to work out what was making his shoulders bunch up.

Not the nursery, a tiny wisp of warning clouded into Dean's head. Not the nursery...

As they reached the top step, Dean turned and stared at the far door quickly, his little face draining until it was nothing but chalk-white.

"What?" John asked, surprised. "What is it?"

"I don't like it," he whimpered, positive that something inside him was trying to push him away from the landing that led to Sam's room.

"Dean, don't try this. It's bedtime," John said firmly.

"I don't like it," Dean whispered, and his father was surprised to feel the little lad trembling against his arm. "Don't make us go. Don't make us go!" he squealed.

John turned and looked back at his wife. "I don't get it," he began.

But Mary lifted Sam up her chest slowly, stroking him quickly. "Sam's upset too," she observed, finding the tiny infant wriggling, his face turning red in his preparation to cry and snivel. She cooed and patted at him, but neither young boy could be calmed. Dean's distress worsened and he began to push at his father desperately. His voice rose to a shout as he repeated a word that sounded suspiciously like 'run'.

"Now just you cut that out!" John snapped with a sternness he had hardly ever needed with his eldest son. Despite the anger in his voice, the fitting boy in his arms appeared incapable of hearing him. His legs kicked, his fists lashed out, his screaming grew in volume.

"Sammy!" Mary cried, anguished. John turned to find his wife trying to soothe a screeching baby. She looked up to meet her husband's eyes. Then her face turned white. She drew in a horrified gasp even as she turned in the corridor. "John! Come with me!" she shouted.

He didn't think to argue. He followed her, trying to control the limbs of his four-year-old. She all but ran into their master bedroom, her husband behind her in confusion. He stopped but she was already laying Sam down as carefully as she could in their bed, bunching up bedclothes around him to keep him steady. She turned and crossed to John, ignoring his curious pleas for her to explain. She plucked Dean from his arms, turning the child to sit on her hip and look at her.

"Dean!" she cried. "Dean! Listen to me, listen to Mommy!" she commanded.

Dean fell silent, and John squelched a tiny spark of resentment of his eldest's tacit obedience of her sharper tone.

"Deanie - sweetheart, we're safe here. We're safe here," she said calmly. She put her right hand to his hair before sliding it down his face gently. "We're safe in here. Nothing can reach us in here," she whispered. "Do you believe Mommy?"

The little green eyes glittered at her for a second. Then the small, pale face nodded.

"Good boy," she nodded back. She leaned a kiss into his forehead firmly. "Now you stay with Sammy, ok, trooper?"

"Sammy?" he havered. For all his sudden calmness, his miniature body still shook with fear.

"You sit with Sammy. You hold onto him and you shut your eyes, ok, Deanie?"

"Why?"

"You shut your eyes," she said, more sternly. "Do as you're told. This is important."

Dean didn't answer.

"Dean, you obey your mother," John put in harshly. She flicked her gaze to him, understanding in a flash that while he had no clue what was going on, he was about to have faith that she knew. Mary looked back at her eldest.

"I'm putting you down with Sammy. You keep him safe, you hear me?"

"Yes Mommy."

"Keep him safe." She held him tightly. "Say it. Say you'll keep him safe."

Do it, the voice sneaked into Dean's brain.

A strangely calm look came over his miniature features and Dean nodded. "I'll keep him safe," he repeated quietly. "I'll keep him safe," he added, his voice much stronger.

"That's my boy," she nodded. She kissed him and set him down quickly on the bed. He immediately scrambled to the flailing baby, grabbing him up and propping his head on his arm. He pulled him onto his lap securely, turning him to fall into his front. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and listened to the baby gurgling and relaxing at the familiar touch of his sibling.

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean whispered. "I got you. I got you. Everything's gonna be ok."

"John," Mary commanded, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

"Mary, what is it? What's going on here?"

"A man's going to come in through that door. We're going to stop him."

"What man?" came his father's voice. "Mary, what the hell--"

"Just don't ask. When this is over, when he's gone - then, I swear to God, I'll tell you everything," she said. The desperation in her voice almost made Dean open his eyes.

But he didn't dare. Instead he swallowed, gripped his baby brother more tightly, and concentrated on whispering over and over to the small bundle. "It's ok Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok."

"John - get back behind the rug," his mother hissed, worry colouring her tone.

"Why?"

"Just do it! He can't cross the rug!"

"Because of that thing you painted under it?"

There was a creak, and then the new sound of a man's voice that was not his father's.

"Hello again, Mary," it oiled. "Long time no see. How are the boys doing?"

Dean shivered at the hidden tone of power in the obsequious voice, on the man he didn't know. And yet… something tickled in Dean's mind. A tiny, tiny voice told him to open one eye, just one eye, just for a moment, just to see the man with the strangely familiar voice.

He held out for a surprisingly long few minutes. The voice was talking, reasoning, commanding. Dean heard his mother's voice: cold, warning, adamant. Suddenly he did not know whom he feared more.

The voice kept telling him to open his eyes, to look at this moment, to see what was happening. Something that sounded so much like him, but couldn't have been him, telling him this was a crossroads, this was where he had to do something to change… something.

Unsure why, he let his right eye pop open. He had time to catch sight of an unremarkable man standing with his hands apparently in his jacket pockets, talking to his parents. He caught a strange glint to the man's eyes, almost as if they were yellow.

And whether it was the strange, knowing voice in his head that he was beginning to believe knew him better than anyone, or little Dean's own instinct, he suddenly had a deep and overwhelming fear for his brother.

He squeezed his eye shut again, whispering his mantra over and over: "Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok."

There was an oily, unctuous laugh, thick with derision and hatred. He heard his father shout and a wooden crash. Dean jumped in fright but he neither stopped his whispering nor opened his eyes.

"A devil's trap? Really? Oh Mary, I'm wounded," came the laughing voice. "But not enough to stop me."

"Don't you touch them!" his mother shouted furiously. A crash and a frightened feminine cry almost had Dean in tears. Still he squeezed his eyes shut. Still he wished and prayed everything would stop.

Until something grasped at the collar of his pyjamas. He felt himself lifted from the bed but clutched at baby Sam tightly.

"No!" Mary screamed.

Open your eyes, whispered the voice. And he did.

He saw the leering face of an older man, watching him with twinkling yellow eyes of mischief.

"Well, well, well," he breathed maliciously. Dean stared, his breath catching in his throat with terror. "I think you have something there that I need," he added.

Dean realised the man's other hand was coming up for Sam's blanket. Fear turned into anger. He filled his lungs and let it go with a baleful shout: "Get away from Sammy!"

The man chuckled. "Oh-ho, a little spirit in this one. Pity you ain't the one I need, kid. That could have been fun." His hand moved forward and grasped the baby's soft woollen wrappings.

Do it! the voice urged in Dean's head. Do it! Do it NOW!

Dean didn't question the voice. He simply swung his legs back in the air and pounded both feet forward as hard as he could.

They struck the man in the arm. It pushed him back. He lost his balance and let go of the boy. Dean dropped back to the bed. He folded Sam into his front and curled up on his side, shaking with rage. He waited for the strike, the kick, the retribution for what he had done.

But it didn't come. Instead he heard another crash, a loud warning from John. Then a terrible snarl and a cry of anger that was most definitely not human.

"Fine - now I have your husband I'll flay the skin from him while you watch!"

And then Dean heard his mother's voice, clear as day:

"Put. Him. Down."

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Da da daaaa! Tune in Sunday 19th July for the conclusion!

Hope this wasn't too predictable...