Written in 2016-somehow I missed putting this up! No one was looking for a "Freaks & Geeks" tag? :) -KHK

To Put Away Childish Things
K Hanna Korossy

"What're you doin' up?"

Dean's voice didn't startle him, and Sam realized some part of him had heard his brother's movements through the building without even being conscious of it. Amazing: they'd only inherited the Men of Letters' bunker a month or so ago, but they were completely settled in.

Sam glanced at the clock on the laptop, wincing when he saw it was only a scant five hours since they'd gotten back, and feigned innocence as he looked up, stretching.

"Wasn't tired—I slept in the car, remember?"

Dean grunted as he shuffled over to the coffeemaker. After a large-screen TV, that appliance had been his next big purchase for the bunker, even before the small fridge for the library and his beloved memory foam mattress. By the time he poured himself a cup and moved, zombie-like, to take a seat opposite Sam at the kitchen table, Sam had managed to smooth his disheveled hair back, rub his eyes free of grit, and check to make sure there wasn't any blood on his lips. His cough hadn't gone away.

Dean was perceptive, though, even half-asleep, so Sam quickly went on the offense. "What're you doing up? I thought for sure you'd sleep into tomorrow."

Dean shrugged one-shouldered, half-hidden behind his mug. He mumbled something that might've been about a dream he had, or that he had to hit the head.

Sam huffed and shook his head, returning to his laptop, and the cup of tea that had long grown cold. He clicked through two more sites, frown deepening, as Dean slowly came to life across from him. Enough to notice Sam's perturbation, apparently, as he finally spoke actual words.

"Found something?"

He probably meant something about Cas, who was in the wind with the Angel Tablet both Heaven and Hell were looking for, or about the next of the three Trials to close Hell's gates, although Kevin hadn't called yet to say what it was. But Sam addressed the question he was asked. "Sort of. Maybe?" Off Dean's raised eyebrow, he continued, "I hacked into KDCF—Kansas's child protective services department—to flag us if any of the kids show up in the system." He didn't have to specify what kids he meant: the day before they'd left three young hunters—Krissy Chambers and her two newly adopted sibling—living on their own, a decision Sam had gone along with reluctantly. Garth was going to check in on them occasionally, but still, he didn't trust them to stay out of trouble as much as Dean seemed to.

Dean was, in fact, watching him warily. Maybe he was more worried than he'd let on; sometimes there just were no good choices. "And?"

"And they're fine so far," a whole ten hours since Sam and Dean had left them, "but I found this." He spun the laptop around on the table.

His brother bent to look, eyes scanning across the screen as his own frown grew. "Abused kids?" He gave Sam a skeptical look. "Hate to tell you, man, but that's kinda the bread-and-butter of CPS."

"Not that," Sam said impatiently. "Look at their stories. Four different accounts of a 'disappearing boy' who attacked kids."

"Dude, bad parents'll say anything, you know that. Probably were high or something."

"The kids tell the same stories."

Dean's lips tightened. His eyes were back on the laptop. "So, what, you're thinking vengeful spirit?"

Sam was nodding. "Makes sense. Maybe a kid who died in foster care, or was abused for real?"

"Okay. Maybe," Dean conceded, turning the laptop back to Sam. His hands returned to cradling his mug, giving him an oddly defensive look. "So, check it out? What are you thinkin', reporters? Cops?"

He shook his head. "CPS caseworkers. You can make the IDs and—"

"Whoa, whoa." The coffee was down and Dean's hands were up. "We've never been CPS before."

Sam shrugged. "So? You're the one who says if something's new, they won't be looking for it."

"Yeah, but…CPS? That's…" He slashed a hand through the air. "I don't like it, okay? Dead kids are one thing, but abused kids?"

It was an odd reaction, even from Dean, king of odd turn-offs. Sam looked at him in confusion. "Dude, half the kids we meet in this job are having the worst day of their lives. How is this worse?"

"It just is!"

Sam rocked back, blinking. "Okay, well… We don't have to be CPS, but it's the best way to get in to talk to both the children and the parents. And, man," he smiled, "I don't know what you're worried about—you're great with kids. You can always get 'em to talk to you. And that's what matters, right, that we figure out how to help them?" It was a low blow and he knew it, but he wasn't sure what Dean's deal was and he needed to get past it. Kevin could call with the next Trial at any time, or Sam could take a turn for the worse. They couldn't afford to coddle Dean's sensitivity to hurting kids.

Dean's face was stormy as he clearly battled with himself. Then he spit out a "fine." He rose from the bench, nothing sleepy about his movements now. "I'll be ready in 15."

Sam suddenly felt all of his accumulated fatigue as he watched Dean go. He wasn't sure what that was about, but one thing he knew it wasn't, was fine.

00000

"Dude, south Kansas—we were just down here. Should've just stayed in Conway Springs yesterday."

Sam focused on his tablet, ignoring his grumpy brother. He'd been complaining since they'd left Lebanon: It was too sunny, too chilly, too much traffic, too few good radio stations. Sam had tried to be patient; he really had. But leaving Dean at the next rest stop was looking better and better. Just about the only thing he hadn't carped about was Sam's health.

A quick change of lanes and a muttered curse. "Friggin' Sunday drivers."

Sam didn't point out that it was Wednesday. Couldn't have, as he started coughing deep from his chest. Crap. When he was done, he surreptitiously wiped the blood from his hand onto his dark hoodie.

"Tell me the truth, Sam," Dean asked, eyes on the road. "Is it getting worse?"

So much for that. Well, at least it wasn't another rant. But Dean had been worrying about him from the moment Sam said the Sumerian chant that completed the first trial…and almost collapsed from a jolt of pain. Cas's recent revelation that something had changed in Sam at the molecular level hadn't made any of them feel better. "I don't think so," Sam said truthfully, because he understood worrying about your brother, he really did. "I mean, it's not getting better, but nothing really hurts, I just feel…off."

"Off. Right." Dean muttered something to himself. "You sure you're up for this?"

Sam also understood wanting to throttle your brother. "Dean…" he sighed. Having to answer this question before every single hunt had gotten old three hunts ago.

"Dude, you got taken down again yesterday. By a gimp."

Sam breathed out slowly, reminding himself yet again his brother was just scared. "That gimp was a trained hunter I thought was watching my back—I wasn't expecting him to stab it."

Dean tipped his head. "Point. But he got you pretty good—concussion on top of whatever's going on with you…"

"Look," Sam said, maybe a little sharply but, come on, he wasn't a saint, "either you trust me on this or we pack it in right now." At Dean's suddenly hopeful look, he ruthlessly added, "I'm sure Garth knows another hunter in the area who'd run this one with me…"

Dean flinched, silent and hard.

And Sam felt instantly contrite, remembering again his brother's bleak words even before Sam finished the first Trial. I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand… that's all I have waiting for me. What kept Dean there, fighting, was Sam. And that wasn't something he could make light of.

He cleared his throat. "I'm not… If this really bothers you so much, man, we can go back, okay? Garth can find somebody to take it instead of us. But I'm telling you, I'm okay. I'm not a hundred percent, but how many hunts do we go into with both of us running on full tanks?" He could see Dean acknowledge that one. "I promise, I'll tell you if that changes, all right?"

Even Dean seemed hard put to stay mad after that. "So right now you're…?"

"My head hurts and I'm tired, that's it."

Dean grimaced, but Sam knew at that moment he'd won the fight. "And you'll tell me," Dean still pressed, because he was Dean.

"You want me to pinkie swear?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was trying not to smile.

Even with his chest aching, Sam felt like he could breathe again.

00000

Dean had gone off to find a copy shop to work his forgery magic on the CPS IDs. There were some forging supplies in the bunker—there seemed to be some of everything in the bunker—but nothing recent enough for their purposes. Sam had found a shady picnic table in the park where his brother had dropped him and continued to research the case.

Bobby had hated tablets—then again, the older hunter hadn't had a good opinion about anything that wasn't on paper—but they were great for research on the go. Sam wouldn't have minded a couple more hours in the bunker to finish his fact-gathering, but Dean had seemed to be in now-or-never mode, and he wasn't going to risk the "never" part.

"You got anything yet?"

Sam squinted up to see his brother standing beside him, a dark silhouette in the sun. "Got the IDs?"

Dean fanned out the two laminated cards he had in his hand, then dropped them on the table as he took a seat on the bench next to Sam.

"Well, there are a disturbing amount of kids who either died in foster care or just…disappeared."

"Tell me something I don't know," Dean said sourly.

Sam glanced at him, taking in the pinched expression, then back at his notes. "I've been narrowing it down to boys between five and twelve—every witness said it was a 'kid,' not a toddler or a teen—but it's still a lot. And if they're one of the ones who vanished, or who CPS didn't even know about or who died before CPS started keeping records…"

"…we won't have a grave to dig up. Awesome," Dean sighed. He picked at a hangnail of wood in one of the table planks.

Sam clicked back to a previous file he'd left up, hesitated, then spoke. "I did find this, though. Family in 1989, single dad, two boys, ages 6 and 10."

Dean went still. Obviously, he caught the parallels, too.

"It's not a full file—no names—but it says the kids were reported abandoned in a motel, protective older brother, unexplained injuries…" He looked up at Dean. "Kinda sounds like us, doesn't it?"

Dean's jaw was flexing; Sam could practically hear his teeth grinding together. "And probably a hundred other families out there. What's your point, Sam?" Dean never had liked talking about the way they were raised, their dad's casual negligence. He prodded the wood even harder.

"They were placed with a family for almost two weeks," Sam read on. "Then they disappeared one night—CPS doesn't have anything else on them." Which was what had dampened his suspicions: he would've remembered their being taken from their dad for two weeks. Dean had to be right; it was just another sad family story, maybe even another hunter with kids.

Dean hissed as the wood came loose and jabbed into the meat of his thumb. "You think one of the kids is our spirit?" he growled, yanking his hand back.

The anger in his voice drew Sam's attention, and he watched, transfixed and horrified, as Dean pulled the one-inch hunk of wood out of his flesh. "Uh, not really. Just—"

Dean tossed the bloody splinter away, headless of the red pooling in his palm. "Then stay on the case! We've got enough suspects without digging for more."

Sam blinked, then pulled the handkerchief from his brother's nearest jacket pocket without asking. Before Dean could do more than squawk a protest, Sam was cradling his hand, dabbing at the blood.

"Dude, just—"

"Shut up, Dean," he said mildly, grimacing when he saw there was still a small splinter embedded in the flesh. One-handed, he dug out his lock-picking kit and chose the finest of the picks to tease the wood loose. Even as Dean made a disgruntled noise, Sam eased it free, then pressed hard against the wound to stop the blood flow. "Flask," he requested.

Dean glared at him but handed it over.

Sam pulled the handkerchief away long enough to pour a slug of alcohol onto the wound, then pressed down again. He ignored Dean's whine as he wrapped the hand and tied it off.

"Dude, it was a splinter."

Sam's turn to glare wordlessly at him.

Amazingly, Dean backed off, looking abashed. They both knew the older Winchester would've been hard pressed to argue against taking care of your brother.

Sam turned back to the tablet. He clicked away from the depressingly familiar case and brought up again the list he'd been keeping. Dean was right: there were too many suspects. Maybe the witnesses could narrow it down with a description, or a clue as to when the boy had lived. Other than that, though, short of catching the ghost in the act, this could be a tough one to solve.

And Dean's knuckles were white where his good hand pressed into the bad. On top of his worry about Sam, he'd taken Krissy and the other kids' case a little personally, and now Sam had dumped another hunt with kids on him. Probably not the best timing, not with Dean already concerned about his "kid," but that didn't quite explain his brother's hostility and defensiveness. Maybe this was reopening some old wounds? Not just their childhood with John Winchester, but Sam knew his brother had dodged CPS a few times when they were kids, and had probably lived in fear of them. He winced to himself as he remembered Dean's reaction to going in as child protection workers. Not one of his best ideas, Sam realized too late.

But there was just a tired resignation in Dean's voice when he finally spoke. "So, who's the first victim?"

For now, that would have to do.

The first girl only said it was a "mean boy." Her mother was in the hospital, being treated for some kind of addiction. Sam ignored his brother's knowing gaze.

The second kid, a nine-year-old boy, said the spirit was about his age and had black hair and "scary eyes." But not black ones. And it took Dean a half-hour to cajoling that much out of him. The mom had only seen the ghost from behind and confirmed the black hair and nothing else, but she looked more annoyed at the questions and her kid's injury than upset.

Black hair and under ten: Sam's list still had nine names, and those were just the ones they knew about.

The third kid, Eric, was in the pediatric ward with a broken leg from being pushed down the stairs. He'd just glimpsed the kid as a blur before he went down. His dad, though, saw it all.

"He was probably a little older than Eric—nine, ten? I'd never seen him before—Eric's not allowed to bring kids home. I yelled at Er for getting his shoes muddy—the kid costs a fortune, I swear—went to get a towel, and when I came out, he was there. Dark, straight hair, dark eyes, freckles. Like a normal kid, y'know? Then he…" The man's mouth trembled. He was sitting alone on dirty sofa, piles of trash around them. "He saw me, and he just…reached out and shoved Eric down the stairs. But it was like he was doing it because of me, you know? I never saw the kid before, but he was watching me, and he looked…really ticked."

"And then he vanished?" Sam prodded.

The man snorted. "I know what it sounds like. But I'm tellin' ya, he didn't go down the steps, and there was nowhere else for him to go. One minute he was there, the next, just…gone. And now they're blaming Eric fallin' on me."

Dean's hands were balled on his thighs; perhaps the parents they'd talked to hadn't been the ones to injure their kids this time, but none of them would be voted mom or dad of the year anytime soon. "You remember anything else about the kid? Did he say anything? What was he wearing?"

"Uh." The guy didn't look strung out, but if his fidget and the stench of stale nicotine in the room were anything to go by, Sam would've bet he was itching for a smoke. "He didn't say anything. At least, that I heard. And he was dressed normal—jeans, uh, sneakers, I think? An Avengers t-shirt."

Dean straightened. "Avengers, like, the movie?"

"Uh, yeah." He gave them a puzzled look. "Is'at important?"

Sam had been surprised, too, but one glance at Dean and he got it. "You've got no idea," Dean said to the guy, and then they were standing, saying their goodbyes.

They were halfway down the sidewalk when Sam said, "The Avengers came out not long ago, right?"

"Last year. Which means we're talking about something recent." He cut a sideways look at Sam. "How much you want to bet we're looking for a kid who just died, not a disturbed grave?"

And it made sense. New spirits were always confused; the kid could be trying to get back at the one who hurt him, or protect other kids, or even just get to the other side of the veil, not realizing he was hurting innocents. It made their case suddenly a lot easier.

As easy as a recently murdered kid could get, anyway.

00000

He found the boy over lunch.

Sam stopped chewing his pizza as he read, and as soon as he looked up and Dean saw his face, his brother was reaching across the checked tablecloth for the tablet.

In some ways, it was a typical case: Peter Petrovich, ten-years-old. Mother died in childbirth, dad turned alcoholic as a result. Peter, an only kid, had probably been paying all his life for his mom's death. The month before, his dad had called 9-1-1 to say he'd found Peter lying under the tree in their back yard, unconscious. The kid died the next day of injuries the ME said were from a beating, not a fall. His grave was less than a mile from the restaurant.

Dean didn't say anything, just tossed his napkin down and took a walk.

They had a few hours to kill before it got dark and they could dig up the body. Sam stayed at the restaurant, drinking coffee and digging up files, reading about sad lives while he waited to go salt and burn a small body.

Dean showed up after sundown, smelling of alcohol.

"Ready?"

They were two-thirds through digging, both of them down in the hole, when he heard Dean suck in a breath. Sam immediately grabbed for the shotgun even as Dean hoisted himself topside…and crouched down in front of a short, faintly shimmering figure.

"Don't do that!" Its small voice, stern and angry, carried to Sam.

"Hey, easy. We're not gonna hurt you, okay? We wanna help." Dean had both hands up, his voice calm.

"Grown-ups don't help. They hurt you, or they don't care!" The kid was shoving before Sam had a chance to react, sending Dean tumbling back ass over teakettle.

But even as Sam took aim, his brother was holding a hand up to stop him. His eyes stayed on the kid while he got stiffly back to his feet and squatted in front of the spirit again. "Peter, right? I know nobody helped you with your dad, Peter. And that wasn't right. I know because I've been there—grown-ups weren't always there for me, either."

Peter gave him a frankly doubtful look.

"But most of the time," Dean went on earnestly, "they weren't trying to be mean. They just didn't get it. Not every grown-up was like your dad, right?"

Peter chewed on his lip, small hands brushing uselessly against his jeans in a move that reminded Sam of his brother.

"But my brother and me," a blind wave back at Sam, "we're here to help. We help kids like you."

"How?" The kids voice was still full of suspicion, but he was listening.

"Well," Dean cocked his head, "me and Sam, we help kids get home. Find their moms."

For the first time, the kid's angry expression faltered, thin shoulders drooping. "My mom? She left us—she didn't care…"

Sam lowered the shotgun.

"Oh, I bet she cared," Dean said quietly. "I bet you she loved you, so much. But she couldn't stick around and look after you. And your dad missed her so much, too, he kinda lost it. You know, like how you have with those kids?"

Peter's expression wobbled. "I didn't mean to. Their parents were mean—I was trying to save them. I didn't mean to hurt them."

"Hey, I know, I know that. Nobody's blaming you. I know it's been confusing. But you see that bright light?"

The kid frowned at Dean. "What light?"

"Look around, Peter," Dean instructed gently.

Reluctantly, the kid peeled his eyes away and glanced around. Sam knew the moment he saw the way, his eyes growing wide with wonder.

"That's where your mom is, kid. You go find her, okay? She'll look after you."

Peter didn't say anything, just stumbled forward one step, slack-jawed and face bright, then another.

And then a sudden brilliance washed out Sam's vision. When he blinked it back, the two of them were alone. Just him and Dean, who crouched with head down, one hand flat on the ground.

"Y'all right?" Sam murmured.

"He was just a lost kid." Dean cleared his throat and stood, beginning to gather supplies, his back still to Sam. "Guess that's one grave we don't have to finish digging." His voice was rough.

Sam didn't see his face until they were back at the car, but he figured Dean had needed a minute to compose himself.

Sam could use the time, too.

00000

They'd returned to the bunker in silence and headed straight to bed. For the little rest he'd gotten the last few nights, Sam took a long time to go to sleep. The tossing and turning he heard from across the hall told him his brother was in the same boat.

Still, at least they were more clear-headed the next day. Sam waited until they were halfway through the omelets Dean had whipped up for breakfast—seriously, the guy was a closet Julia Child—before he spoke up casually.

"You didn't tell me CPS put us with the Morrisons."

The fork stopped halfway to Dean's mouth. When he looked up at Sam, he didn't seem surprised, just…old. His smile bitter. "You just had to keep digging, didn't you."

"You said we were staying with friends of Dad while he had to go take care of something."

"You were six, Sam." Dean poked at a piece of pepper. "You would've freaked out if you'd known we were being taken away from Dad."

Like Dean probably had been inside. Sam's memories of the two weeks were dim—it was just another relocation for him, nothing to worry about—but he did remember how Dean hadn't wanted to play with the Morrison kids, had just stayed in his room or the couch by the front window. How he'd been as mad as Sam had ever seen him when Sam mentioned wanting to stay with "Mama Maggie," the only thing that had scared him in the whole situation.

Sam cleared his throat, also just playing with his food now. "Dad came and got us?"

Dean snorted. "Took him two days just to figure out we were gone. Then ten more to find out where we were. He snuck us out at night; nobody else knew."

Sam frowned. "I don't remember that."

"You were half asleep. He carried you out."

He wondered sometimes how many of his benign or vague childhood memories were stark moments of worry and anguish Dean would never forget. Who the distrustful, defiant kid the CPS file had talked about was, because the kid-Dean he'd known had been confidant and funny and annoying, yeah, but also comforting, able to do anything.

He did get now why Dean, Mr. Pro-Hunter, had wanted Krissy and her friends to have a normal life free of hunting.

Dean stood and grabbed their half-finished omelets, tossing the food in the trash and rinsing plates. Breakfast was done. Instead, he grabbed two beers from the fridge, opening one with his ring and placing it before Sam before doing the same for himself.

Sam shoved the coffee mug aside and thoughtfully pulled the cold bottle closer. He turned it a moment, making water rings on the table, before lifting it in a toast.

"To family."

Dean gave him a wary look that slowly softened into an understanding. Maybe they weren't even drinking to the same definition of family, but that was still something that mattered to them both. He tilted his bottle to clink against Sam's.

Sam drank slowly. And tried not to think of the picture of the lost and angry-looking ten-year-old he had saved on his computer.

The End