I'M NEVER HAVING KIDS!!!

[morethananything]

Sam is eleven years old.

The last thing he remembers is (crying) being alone at a motel, Dad across the country and Dean out who-knows-where — new town, new school, new issues, just after a big-ass hunt in Idaho where Dean nearly broke his neck hunting a... well, Sam's not sure, because he's usually made to stay behind as intel back-up. Then he's suddenly in some musty-ass old place (bunker?), laying on the floor, sigils and books all over the place. First thing he's pretty sure of is that John is gonna give him a shiner for not being where he was told to be (a marine's kid needs to follow orders to keep everyone safe, or so his dad liked to blabber). Second thing is that he needs something to hit things with. Just because his family doesn't trust him with a weapon doesn't mean he's about to give up and lay down to die.

Someone took him. Someone must've used a witch spell or something and stole him. 

For what? Is it — the thing Dad always mentioned? About the inhuman thing in him? The blood?

It runs cold in his veins.

He grabs a lamp, waits by the door. 

There are footsteps.

He won't miss.

Comments

[perkynipples]

Christ, he shouldn't look like he knows how to do this. Dean furrows his brows further and tries not to look like a sour asshole but god, he's feeling pretty sour and assholeish right now.

"That's how you get mugged," Dean says wryly, and pats down himself for his own lighter, holding it up so Sam can't reach just yet. "Gimme one."

[morethananything]

"They can't really mug me if I don't have anything in my pockets," he counters. Sure, he's had a close call or two, but what John and Dean doesn't know won't hurt them; even if they knew, it'd hurt Sam more than it'd bother them in the long run. It's hard enough when he's mostly confined to a motel room.

But... Weird. It's really damn weird, how he's talking to him. That he's even talking to him. If it's really Dean, anyway. He bites his lip and holds out the pack for Dean to take one. His posture is one of nervousness, like a zookeeper giving a lion meat. He's not sure what this guy's game is, but this? This is all freaky. He could run away. He could flee, and he's pretty fast, and...

And this isn't like Dean. As he holds out the pack, he says slowly:

"Why - do you want me here?"

[perkynipples]

"Or kidnapped, or eaten, whatever."

There's no stopping the list of potential shitty things that could happen to him, okay, and he's not going to let any of that happen. He'd fucked up once - twice, technically, judging by that other world.

Dean plucks the pack right out of his hands, and pockets them, zipping his jacket up to hide them. That's a habit that's gonna stop right freaking there, that's for goddamn sure.

"'cause you're my little brother."

[morethananything]

He looks completely insulted for a moment, face blotching red with anger, before he launches at Dean's jacket. There's no real grace to it, no instinct, because he hasn't been taught any useful hand-to-hand combat; it's pretty much on par with a street punk who thinks swinging blindly is the way to go. Though interestingly, he's not throwing any punches, nothing that would actually hurt Dean. "Give them back!! Give 'em back! You asshole! You never wanted to be my brother, you liar! Stop screwing with me!!"

He breathes heavy, doesn't stop wrestling against him, cursing how puny he is for his age.

"You don't like me 'cus mom's dead 'cus of me! Stop pretending you care because you're older!"

[perkynipples]

Truthfully, it's kind of nice having Sam pint sized since he can just grab him, wrap an arm around him and heft him up, settling him down away from anything that he might trip or fall onto. He's not forceful, just firm when he does it and then sets Sam down, frowning down at him until that last bit.

It's like being punched in the gut all over again, and he drops back, takes three steps away quick as can be.

"Is that what he said?"

[morethananything]

Sam is all out of breath and shaky, folding his arms over his chest like it's some sort of small defense, that things'll bounce off them this way. He dips his chin and his gaze flitters around. "Of course it is. John says it all the time. He knows I'm not - right. He knows it's why mom burned. Why would you like me when D-... John made you watch the person who killed your mom?"

His jaw juts a little, and he wipes at one eye with the back of his head, not quite able to look at Dean. He doesn't like when he gets emotional; it's not like he wanted mom to die. He wanted a mom. Hell, he used to pray that whatever's out there would just bring her back. Then maybe his mother would maybe forgive him, and if she forgave him, maybe John and Dean would, too. And they would love him for praying their mother back into their lives.

It was a stupid idea.

[perkynipples]

He doesn't regret it - he would do this a thousand times over, save Sam from the fucking mess that was his life back there a thousand times if it meant he didn't have to go back but at the same time, Christ. John - he wouldn't say that. He'd said some fucked up stuff, and so did Dean, but not that. Never fucking that.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to say here, either, that's part of the problem. Too like his dad, not knowing what to say. It was easier when he was a kid and could just scoop Sam over, shove some froot loops at him, watch some cartoons.

"He's lying."

Dean's voice is a little fucked, a little uneven, but sure.

"Mom burned 'cause there was a demon out for us, and she - it wasn't on you. That's not on you, Sammy. D'you hear me?"

[morethananything]

"You're lying," he all but whispers, his own voice crackly. He wants to turn away and run, but he's scared, because - they always said if he ran, the hunters would get him; this is the less of two evils, isn't it? He looks at the ground and fidgets anxiously with his necklace, small and more confused than he's ever been in his life, because these are all things Dean would never have told him. "You can't mean that."

His heart thumps in his chest and he looks up at Dean. In the end, even if Dean didn't love him back, he couldn't help but hang to his every word. His eyes widen a little and he feels his chest ache. "... There was a demon? Like, like - from the bible? Is that what's wrong with me??"

[perkynipples]

Dean looks away for a split second, willing himself to not fuck this up further. Shit like this is why he wants Sam to take the back seat, why he wants to shove him back and keep him from getting too into things. He's just a kid, here, so it's even more valid but just in general, Christ.

"It wasn't you." Maybe if he says it enough, Sam'll start to get it. Dean glances down, pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache. "D'you get that? It was some assholes upstairs and downstairs and you - it's not you. It's not, Sammy."

[morethananything]

Sam looks a little lost.

"... Okay... Okay," he starts, and is clearly trying to process the last thirty minutes of his life. He very calmly picks up the one cigarette that he'd dropped trying to get back the other ones, sliding it into his pocket and staring at the ground in what could very well be shock, now that everything's suddenly peaceful. The birds are outside chirping, the trees are rustling softly, and a cool wind passes through.

He slides his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Where'm I? Where's — John and other-you? Will I ever go back?"