A/N
And Chapter Two of Confessions of a Toy Soldier up and running. This story looks to be four part also. Hope the flash backs are continuing to make sense.
Reviews are Love.
As Always,
EverReader
PS- The Samulet Confessions are now complete, feel free to check them out via my profile if you haven't yet.
PPS- My kick-ass writing playlist this week contains Bullet Train (Stephen Swartz), World on Fire (Les Friction), Cool Kids (Echosmith) and 300 Violin Orchestra (Jorge Quintero). Just Fyi, if you need some new tunes, lol.
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Confession's of a Toy Soldier- Chapter Two
September 1989
A week ago, Dean had been completely normal. At least, normal for Dean. He made Sam's food, helped Sam with his shower. He watched cartoons with Sam.
But he did it like, well, Dean.
He complained about Sam's choice of cartoons. Ragged on Sam for using too much hot water. Complained if Sam wanted the last bowl of cereal.
In short, he acted like Sam's big brother.
But a few days ago, everything had changed. Sam had awoken in the middle of the night, head throbbing, throat sore, and scared to death for some reason he couldn't quite remember, no matter how hard he tried. Dean had been standing in front of his bed, looking frightened. Freezing air was drifting in the open window. Dad was clutching Sam to his chest, as if his fearless father had actually been scared of something.
But no one would tell Sam anything. Dad had bundled them out the door, Sam crying weakly in Dean's arms in the backseat of the impala. Dean was shaking, from cold or fear, Sam hadn't been able to tell.
He'd woken up with a mild cough and slight fever in the bedroom he and Dean shared when they were visiting Pastor Jim.
Dad was gone already. And Dean was asleep in a chair in front of the window, keeping watch like one of Sam's little green army men.
Ever since then, Dean had been acting...different.
He'd check Sam's temperature a half a dozen times a day. Every time Sam turned around, Dean was offering Sam something. Another bowl of cereal, another glass of water, more baby aspirin. He'd let Sam have the first shower. He'd let Sam pick the cartoons. And now he was building Sam a bike.
The entire week Dean hadn't let Sam get more than a dozen feet away. He hadn't let Sam out of his sight.
And yeah, Dean always kept an eye on Sam. He walked him back and forth to school. He took him to the park. He tucked him in at night. One of Sam's earliest memories was of his father leaving, tossing the words "Dean, keep an eye on Sammy",over his shoulders as he disappeared into night.
But this was...different.
Dean had never kept such a tight leash on Sam before. He'd never refused to leave Sam at the Church with Pastor Jim while he ran out to the corner store for a candy bar. He'd never refused to let Sam swing on his own while Dean played cards with the other older boys after school. He had certainly never growled at Pastor Jim before, simply for suggesting that Jim enroll Sam at the little kindergarten down the road.
Dean had taken one look a the place. Just one. That's all it had taken for Dean to realize that the sunny little building, with it's yellow shutters and slide and sandbox housed nothing but Kindergarteners, meaning that Dean would be in a separate school from Sam. And Dean had practically hissed the word "no" at Pastor Jim.
Sam had been disappointed. The little yellow school had looked nice, open and inviting. Sam really liked going to school. Dean knew how much Sam liked school, and until now had always seemed a little relieved when he had been able to drop Sam off at the door to his class.
No one would explain anything to Sam. But Sam was used to people keeping secrets from him. He knew that the gun Dean practiced with wasn't just a BB gun like Sam's. He knew how much trouble Dean got in if he didn't keep the salt lines intact in front of the doors and windows.
Sam also knew that Dean wasn't sleeping very much. Dean was laying not one, but two salt lines down in front of the window of their bedroom every night. He kept falling asleep in the chair he'd sat in front of their bedroom window, as if he were waiting for something. Whenever Pastor Jim could finally coax a reluctant Dean into bed, he insisted on laying in Sam's bed with him, instead of his own. Sam had woken up more than one night in the past week squished between Dean's body and the wall, nearly suffocated by the blankets his brother insisted on piling on top of him even in his sleep.
Last night he had been so hot he'd crawled out of bed, sliding carefully down off the foot of the bed so as to not wake his brother. He'd wandered over to the window, looking curiously out at the full moon. He was careful not to disturb the salt, but from experience he knew the old church window had a draft if you stood close enough.
He'd stood there for a few moments, enjoying the cool air on his skin.
Suddenly Dean had jerked awake, hollering Sam's name like Sam had wandered away from him in a crowded mall at Christmas. Sam had been so startled he'd been unable to speak at first. Dean's eyes had searched the room frantically, widening dramatically when they settled on Sam standing so close to the window.
Dean had lunged out of the bed, grasping Sam by the shoulders and shaking him, shouting at Sam.
"Don't you ever do that, Sammy, you hear me, you stay away from the window, it's not safe!" Sam had started crying, frighted by his brother's fear. The bedroom lights had come on then, illuminating a sleep tousled Pastor Jim, holding a gun that had looked much more like Dean's real gun than Sam's BB gun.
Eventually Pastor Jim had settled Sam down, though Dean was still so tense and tight that Sam imagined he could feel him vibrating.
That was when Sam started to consider the possibility that something bad really was outside of their bedroom window.
Maybe it was a monster.
Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural
April 2005
The Impala looked as if it had gone ten rounds with a monster and lost.
The frame was totaled, twisted into obscene shapes like a tormented, wounded animal. Sam pushed down his nausea, pushed down the tears that wanted to fall at the sight of his only remaining home destroyed like so much garbage.
"Dean is gonna be so pissed." He finally managed, forcing his feet forward. He listened with half a mind as Bobby started listing the numerous problems facing them.
Sam didn't care. Didn't care about how bad it was, didn't care about how much work it would take. He just didn't care. He was alive, Dad was alive.
Dean was alive, and Sam didn't give a fuck about anything the Doctors had to say about that either.
Dean would get better, and when he did, he would want his car. He'd whimper, and moan, and maybe cry at the sight of her. He'd make a fuss and demand sympathy and pie and beer as he worked on her. That was just fine with Sam. Sam would gladly bring Dean all the pie in the world if he would just open his damn eyes.
He shook his head in disgust at the sight of his battered laptop. It was a blow to be sure. They'd needed it for research, he'd have to pick up a new one right away. They'd need a lot of supplies sooner rather than later, if the Impala was any indication.
Thinking of supplies reminded Sam of the list his father had made, and he gave it over to Bobby. Half his mind was already back at the hospital, with Dean, when he saw the look on Bobby's face.
Before Bobby had even said anything truly damning, Sam knew.
He just knew.
The complete and utter sense of betrayal surprised him in it's intensity, and he felt himself sliding to the ground to avoid falling. The sun was suddenly too hot, the Impala was a thousand-plus degrees behind him, pouring heat through his jacket. The entire world was spinning and he felt like he was now the one being twisted into different shapes.
"Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him to hell!' He yelled, voice muffled by the knees he instinctively pulled up to his chest. He ignored the hundreds of aches and pains, the knee the Doctor had advised him against using, the more than half a dozen stitches spread out over his body; various small wounds accumulated over the past few days.
"Sam? You okay boy?" He could hear Bobby's anxious voice in the distance, but he had trouble focusing on it over the roar in his head and the shaking in his limbs.
Every part of him hurt. His while life was in ashes, his brother was dying, and his father was summoning the demon responsible for all of it.
Sam had never been so angry before. Never been so angry he actually frightened himself. He felt dangerous. He felt like if he so much as moved the wrong way, he'd come back to himself hours later only to find he had ripped the world to shreds with his own bare hands.
"I just need a minute, Bobby." He managed finally. He could feel Bobby hovering uncertain, a well meaning shadow that eventually faded, however reluctantly.
He missed Dean. His strong, indestructible big brother, who would never leave Sam to face something like this alone.
At least, not willingly.
But Dean was as broken as the Impala, as broken as Sam's entire life, and Sam didn't know how to fix it all on his own. He wanted to scream and cry and hurt something. He wanted to world to apologize. He wanted things to be made right.
He wanted his mom, and Jess, and Dean.
His father was obviously off his rocker. He brother was dying, dying and this time Sam had no idea how to fix it. Any of it. He was out of options and out of ideas and out of time.
He was all alone.
His hand closed on something laying in the dirt beside the Impala. He looked down at the small, plastic, green object.
His toy soldier. The one he had finally jammed into the ashtray as a kid to avoid losing it as they moved from hotel room to hotel room.
"Don't seem fair for you to have to do it all by yourself." The old grounds keeper's voice drifted across Sam's memory. "Maybe this little guy can help you out."