I just thought of a one shot for this, so yeah. And sadly, no, supernatural does not belong to me, but if it did, Dean and Cas would already be married. Anyways, on with the story.
I don't think Sammy will ever know how hard those first years were. Something had seeped into dad's heart the moment mom died, a coldness stronger than reason.
The first months were confusing. He…he just sat there, staring blankly at a wall. The apartment we had rented out was dark and dirty, and all could do was stare.
I tried to get his attention, I wanted to play ball, and I wanted to feed Sam so he would just stop crying. All I would do was tug at his sleeve saying,
"Dad, Sammy's crying, what do I do?"
"Dad, Sammy's hungry"
Even now I remember the surprise and hurt, the day he snapped. I just wanted to know where Mom was. He picked me up roughly from the scruff of my shirt, and he kept yelling, and yelling, "SHE'S GONE DEAN, SHE'S GONE, AND IM STUCK HERE WITH YOU!"
It was hazy, and slowed down, the way he picked me up even higher, and threw me against a wall. I remember the pain coursing through my head and down my back. A sob bubbled up but by then John had left the apartment, the door slamming shut.
Sammy was crying again.
It only got worse from there. He couldn't stare at me, guilt would over power him in waves, I could tell by the way his eyes seemed to drown.
Then he found out about the real world, about what actually killed Mom. I had turned 5 by then, and he stayed on the computer and made frequent visits to the library. I found my own ways to take care of Sam. I still don't know how I managed to keep him fed and bathed.
Obsession crawled into John's brain like a sick disease. It tore at his heart and ravaged his soul. He bought a journal, he wrote in it every single day he found out something new and soon enough he'd be gone for days at a time, on a hunt.
I was six when we met Bobby. John had wound up into a trap of sorts, chewing on more than he could swallow. Bobby saved him, and from then John left us at Bobby's.
For a while, it was a dream come true. Bobby would help with Sam, he'd cook dinner, (Or what he could cook) for us and it all seemed okay. Until john started training me.
It started as a crawl first, he'd make me run laps around the house, taught me how to hold a gun, the basics. I was fucking six when he brought me along on a hunt. Bobby and he had been at each other's throats about the matter, but I just wanted to be with him, spend time together.
John won the argument and there I was, close to Johns back as he muttered to me what we were trying to kill.
"A skin walker, Dean, pretty simple, nothing too difficult" I just nodded happily, I clung to his every word, excited to make him proud.
I remember, in flashes that we caught the thing by night fall, trapped in a snare John had made. It was snarling, whimpering, fighting against the ropes.
"Okay, Dean" He said, handing me a small light gun, "Shoot it, it's loaded with silver" It was heavy, and cold, and I clutched at it eagerly, ready to make him proud.
But it turned, the thing turned back into a human, and she was sobbing, and screaming, "Please don't shoot, I have children, please. I didn't hurt nobody" My heart dropped like a stone, sheer fright showing on my face.
"Do it Dean, it's just a monster" John growled at me, pushing me forward. The gun seemed to dance with my hand, it shook and clattered but I couldn't pull the trigger.
"Dean, do it!" John yelled, a roughness to his voice unlike any other.
The trigger pulled, the bullet moved out and my hand vibrated with the force. I heard it, the squish when it hit the woman's eye. She was silenced, dropping quietly with a thud.
"Good shot, Dean, but next time, don't hesitate" John grounded out, starting to walk away. I don't think he ever noticed the tears that leaked from my eyes in a stream. I had killed someone, they had children, and I had killed her.
My first kill was at 6, and my dad was somewhat proud of me.
I didn't talk for a week.
I was 7 when John started heavily drinking, celebrating his both failed and victorious hunts with a bottle to curl up with. He would take me to the simple hunts, teaching me everything he could. At the moment, I was like a sponge and I tried to absorb everything he said, even when it dealt with killing.
There'd be nights where after a failed hunt, the room would reek of Jack and I'd put Sam in his room, and close the door. He would yell at me, telling me things I didn't wanna hear. The way he thought it was me and Sammy's fault of mom's death.
The hitting didn't start until later, when I got sick and talked back, asking why, why was he telling me these things.
"So you know the truth, Dean!" He would slur, slapping me almost playfully, "Do you think I can protect you? Look how your mother ended up"
He'd knock me around a bit, slap me on the face in a carefree manner, like a game of cat and mouse.
Sam didn't know what happened half the time, his chubby face was always split in a grin and he would just babble small words he had learned from me. John sometimes seemed to snap out of some type of stupor, picking him up softly, cooing at him.
Sometimes it lasted as long as a week, feeding, and bathing Sam, helping him walk and such. We would play ball in the park, and we'd laugh at Sammy's eagerness to want to play with us.
I don't think it wasn't until that night that he really became a dad again. The night he realized how awful he truly was. The night I almost died at the ripe age of 8.
It was a simple spirit, salt and burn, the usual. Sam was with Bobby, and there we sat, just John and me in the bitter cold. He had his gun cocked slightly upwards, ready for anything. We were standing in the hallway of an abandoned house, where 5 teens had found their fate.
A wailing swept through the house during the night, an awful screech that made even the hardest of hearts tremble in fear.
"Be ready" John had said curtly, advancing in one direction. I remember the way flames suddenly licked the sides of the walls, wall paper crackling and turning to ash in a matter of seconds.
"Dad" I had screamed out, but he was so intent on finding it, he never heard. Never heard the ghost tenderly reach for my arm and pull me roughly to the side. The intense feeing of flames lick at my arm still haunts me, the way a scream tore through my throat.
John had spun around wildly, seeing the ghost with vengeful eyes. I was lost to him, all he saw was a target. He took aim, cocking the gun and firing.
Maybe it was the sound of my painful screams that brought him back, the way he looked when he noticed that while he had shot the ghost, I had been put in the middle of the cross fire. Rock salt embedded in my chest like shards of angry glass.
He dropped everything, running through flames and swinging me in his arms, running out of that house faster than anything id ever seen.
I woke up hours later on Bobby's couch, with a tearful John looking over me.
"I'm sorry, Dean, I haven't been good with you these past…hell, these past years. I'm sorry, I'll be better, I swear."
I had laid my hand weakly on his knee and he smiled softly, putting my hand up close to his face, brushing it against his stubbly cheek.
Nonetheless, he kept his promise, most of the time. He still lashed out from time to time, still forgot his responsibility as a father, but it was better now.
Sammy never found out those first years, still the age of around 4 when the incident happened. I'd like to keep it that way.
Reviews? Thanks for reading, and have a nice day. Oh, feel free to comment if you want other stories like this, or any constructive criticism.