Dean is such an interesting character: the big brother, the loyal son, and the surrogate mother all rolled into one. In my mind, he always knew how to handle Sam, right from the off.
WeeChester. Den is 6 and Sam is 2.
Don't own anything. Don't profit.
8. Crust
Some things, they say, are sent to try us. And that Sam was a fussy eater was a given right from the off. A continual point of contention for father and son alike, whether it was an aversion to vegetables, later revoked; a strange affinity for foods of the red, yellow and orange persuasion solely; or something as simple as preferring the crusts cut off his PB and J sandwiches. Sammy was determinedly headstrong even at two years old, and John handled every variant quirk in the same manner; cantankerously and incendiary, where gentle persuasion would have undoubtedly yielded more successful results.
Life on the road could quickly become tedious and tempers frayed, vented to the company of those you had had too great an excess of already, without intermission. It was a poor excuse, but it was fact.
Therefore, holing up in their third motel that week alone, after a near continual twenty-four hour drive, none of the Winchesters were in a particularly homoeopathic mood. Exhausted, irritable and cold. It would have been less foolish to provoke a hibernating grizzly into attack, than engage into any sort of exchange with the small family at that present time, and especially to inform them that the policy demanded payment be given up-front.
John opened the door to another third-rate and certainly unwelcoming motel room. How with different fixtures and fittings, with different (and garishly clashing) colour schemes and arrangements did each and every one of them, somehow, manage to look the same? But their budget was becoming scarcer by the day, and if only one thing could be raised in its defence, it was that it offered a roof over their heads which wasn't reinforced metal. The proverb; beggars can't be choosers, certainly rang true in this circumstance.
He hastened to transfer their meagre possessions from the trunk to their new temporary address.
Meanwhile, Dean was left to coax a distressed and sleep deprived Sammy from his car-seat, where he sat whimpering pitifully in his misery. John had needed the stereo turned up to the max, in order to keep his attention directed towards the road, which meant that neither Sam or Dean could sleep, marking the long hours even more irksome than usual. For Dean it had been nothing short of torture, for Sammy, who needed more sleep than his father and brother combined, anyway, it must have been unbearable.
"Come on, buddy. Let's get you out of there."
Dean held out his arms, indicating that he wished to pick Sam up, and waited to see if the toddler would respond in compliance.
Sam didn't hesitate. His feeble whimpers ceased instantly and he threw his his arms up in response, reaching for his brother. His small hands opening and closing with a fervent desperation, as if the promised event wasn't happening expediently enough.
Dean chuckled, deftly releasing the fastenings and lifting the wriggling bundle into his arms; feeling Sam's small hands take purchase of his t-shirt in iron resoluteness. He honestly didn't understand why dad had so much trouble with this.
Ferrying his brother inside, he deposited him on the lumpy, thread-bare sofa, before settling down beside and turning on the old fashioned TV. If the complimentary clock on the sideboard was right, then they could catch some late night cartoons. Not the good ones though; they finished hours ago.
Sam curled into his side, gnawing persistently on his thumb. Dean gently hooked his finger around the digit and pulled it free with a satisfying pop, only to have it return the second he relinquished his restraint. Surrendering the fight, he simply pulled Sam onto his knee, wrapped his arms around him and closed his eyes.
Dad was trying to wean Sam off his pacifiers, since they had suffered the misfortune of having been left behind in Dallas. Looking at the digit; shrivelled, cracked and tender, Dean was willing to venture that cold turkey wasn't working out so well.
In a life driven by secrets, lies, defence and protection for the benefit of an ignorant race, the little things, the simple things were somehow lost along the way. Patience was a virtue which had been sullied by the price of mistake. And what John Winchester saw day to day made it ever harder for him to bring compassion home, until a lifetime of military structure had become his norm, anchor and saving grace, in those initial months when her absence was everywhere.
They must have fallen asleep, because the next thing they knew, their farther was calling them with the particular tone of annoyance they recognised as the necessity of repeated command;
"Boys. Food."
They scrambled to take their seats at the unlevel table – Sam boosted up to a comfortable height by two of their pillows – suddenly inexpressibly hungry.
The offering was frugal, and to any other set of siblings would have seemed unappetising; bread bought already stale, toasted under the grill, and slathered liberally with discount peanut butter, no jelly, washed down with tap water, absent of even a hint of juice. But to their abrupt sentiments of starvation, it was a feast.
Dean wasted no time in acquainting his tongue with the texture, completely disregarding the polite customary of eating with ones mouth closed, in order to shovel as much into the space as was humanly possible in the meagrest allowance of seconds. For after all, the toast didn't stay warm for long, and that was one of the best parts. He had already lost valuable minutes.
He had just reached the happy stage of licking the gloopy mass off the roof of his mouth before re-submergence, when he became aware of the discord.
Sam's small whimpers had started up again, though this time they were not merely the plaintive sounds of discomfort, but seemed intent on imparting understanding. In the grips of exhaustion, Sam's limited stock of words had been abandoned for variously pitched, communicant mono-syllables, and John wasn't in the deciphering mood.
"Just eat, Sammy," he said tiredly, and with a hint of annoyance, pushing the plate back towards him. "It's not that bad."
The toddler gave a frustrated moan, because no-body was understanding him; that the problem wasn't the food itself, but it's crispy outer edge which hurt his jaw to chew.
Mimicking his fathers movements in reverse, he pushed the plate away, folding his arms over his rumbling stomach.
"Sam …" that very tone was a warning in itself. "I mean it."
The toddler stared into the care-worn face of his father, imploring him to understand, to make everything right, as only a father could. But doleful eyes found only the sympathy of haunted ones. Having no feasible alternative, Sam dredged up his voice:
"Off," he said emphatically, pointing to the offending outer-rim. When no comprehension was gained; he repeated again with the same inflection; "Off. Off. Off."
The sound penetrated John's mind infuriatingly, compelling him to do anything to make it cease.
"Stop it, Sam! For god's sake, can't you just eat!" Desperation donned the cast of anger, driving unnecessary severity. "You're not moving from this table until every bit is gone."
For a moment Sam remained motionless and mute; transfixed, and then the tears began to fall and he wept openly.
Unable to stand the sound, John stepped outside.
He shouldn't have lost his temper, he knew and regretted it, but his youngest son worried him to no end. Already so thin and fragile looking, the fact that he barely ate was a constant cause of concern. He remembered Dean passing through several awkward stages at a similar age, but Mary had dealt with each of those expertly, until he had grown out of them. Now he was left to contend with Sam's alone; stumbling in the dark.
He was restless, on edge. He faced the difficulties of a hunters life by throwing himself into fatherhood; and the difficulties of that by terminating as many evil sons of bitches as he possibly could. It was a balance both precarious and necessary, both cathartic and damaging. And without it, his life fell apart at the seams.
No whisper of a job had reached him in a month. It seemed like every supernatural nasty was taking a hiatus, and wasn't that a comforting notion. His hunting ground was limited also; never more than two hundred miles in circumference from either Jim Murphy's or Bobby Singer's. The only two places in the world he felt safe leaving his sons for the duration.
Their living allowance was scarce with no option of reimbursement. If Sam and Dean had been older, then maybe he could have reasonably justified leaving them for an hour, but not now. John Winchester wasn't a man to willingly ask for help, but this time, he feared he might have to.
Back in the kitchen, Dean soothed his brother softly:
"Sammy, it's okay. I'll make it better," he promised. But the toddler was, for the moment, inconsolable.
Scrambling for his fathers tool bag, Dean sucked in a breath and, ignoring two years worth of warnings, delivered in no uncertain terms, against exactly that which he was about to do, he plunged in his hand boldly, knowing exactly what he was seeking.
For its ornate, inlaid scabbard and silver blade, the knife just looked like a glorified kitchen carver, which was actually quite fitting.
Retrieving it, he sat back at the table and pulled Sam's plate towards him. His brothers sobs tapered off to delicate hiccups at its removal, and instead he fixed his eyes upon Dean with unrestrained interest.
Dean smiled at him confidently, endeavouring to assure him that his wish had been comprehended, even if not by the intended source. He was encourage when Sam gave his gesture a watery return.
Then, angling the bare blade away from him, and handling it in an awkward, unfamiliar fashion, he quickly separated the crusty outer edges from the tender inner of Sam's toast; the only thing which had been preventing him from eating. Simple, really.
For good measure, he quartered the slices also, making them so much the more easier to handle. Then, ensuring that Sam was watching, he swept the offending pieces onto his own plate, before proffering Sam his again. Even then, big brother knew best.
"All gone," he assured happily. "No crusts for Sammy."
He tossed the knife carelessly back into the grubby hold-all, taking a moment to savour the beauty of his own shot, before turning back to his supper, which was by now, stone cold.
"Gone!" Sammy burbled, offering his brother a gummy peanut-butter smile, before chewing contentedly.
Dean's cuts were as rough as any six year old's with a hunting knife they had never wielded could be, but that didn't seem to matter to the toddler as he eagerly reached for another quarter to hold in his left hand.
"That's right, squirt," Dean laughed, ruffling his brothers plentiful locks affectionately; "enjoy."
When John re-entered the cramped motel, it was to be confronted by the pains of his own shame. Both of his sons sat eating happily, because Dean had understood in an instant, that which John hadn't even made the effort to descry. It wasn't that Sam was being overly difficult, just that John wasn't listening. Even then he remembered the trouble the toddlers small teeth had breaking through the reinforced edge. It was w hat his youngest had been trying to tell him all along.
He knew he should have more patience, his sons were not the things he hunted, and in that moment, he resolved to try harder.
Any tenderness which he might have once possessed was stolen from him the same night Mary had been too. But looking upon the scene before him, it seemed that, against impossible odds, that nurturing instinct, which had so characterised her, had found reincarnation in the son who was so much like her.
Brother, son, mother. Dean was their rock – and one day would become the only thing which held them all together.
Thank you for reading :)
- One Wish Magic.