Time travelling pt. 4
Apr. 30th, 2010 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiDean wakes up because something's poking him in the foot. Not something, he realizes surfacing a little more, but a tiny little finger. He kicks out at it, irritable but gentle, and pats out to find Sam in the giant bed.
"Your turn to feed the brat," Dean grumbles into his pillow, still searching.
The bed's cold. Dean's head comes up blearily. The dog's not on the bed in Sam's spot like she usually is when Sam gets up early. Weird.
The little finger pokes the sole of his foot again. Dean's toes curl over while he props himself up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder to tell the little brat to be patient. Kid knew not to poke more'n once. One of them would eventually lug their ass out of bed and feed him.
Some kind of weird health food oat shit if Sam's the one who gets up first. Count Chocula if Sam somehow manages to kick Dean's ass out of the bed.
He figures between the two of them, the kid gets a pretty good diet most weeks.
The kid lookin' at him is not Ryan. In fact, the kid looks scarily like Sam, wobbly lips and big, watery eyes and all. "You're not my Daddy," the kid says slowly. His lower lip trembles and one hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck. "I want Dean."
Dean faceplants back into his pillow. "Oh you fucker," he mumbles into it. "You couldn't have warned me that this was coming up?"
"Not a-pposed ta say fuck," Sammy says wetly. He sniffles loudly.
Which is, of course, when Dina comes barrelling into the room, barking her fool head off and Ryan makes a cranky, fussing noise from down the hall and Dean sincerely wants to punch his goddamn brother in the face right about now.
Only the only brother he's got is about twenty six years too young.
Dina's trailing leash smacks Dean in the ass when she jumps up on the bed, snuffling excitedly around his face. She smells like fire, maybe, and freakin' light, angelic, same smell Castiel leaves all over the fuckin' place when he decides it's time for a visit.
Could be worse, Dean guesses, sinking one hand into the fur behind Dina's ear to calm her down. Could be sulfur, he guesses, but Sam against demons has been no contest for the last four or so years. Sam against angels was a lot less definite.
"Dean," Ryan's matter of fact voice says, "'s a baby here."
Dean looks up from Dina and the huge, dark eyes just out of his range of focus to find Ryan standing in his doorway. "I know, kiddo," he says eventually. "We're gonna take care of him for a little while."
The tears spill over Sammy's chubby cheeks. "Want Dean," he says.
His heart clenches up tight in his chest, same damn reaction Sam's always been able to pull out of his guts. Jesus. He can't stand seeing his brother cry. "You got him, Sammy," Dean says gently, flipping over so he can sit up, Dina still snuffling around on the bed.
Ryan says, "Hi, baby!" cheerfully.
Dean is going to kill Sam when he sees him again.
He thinks it's really, really lucky that this whole shit hit the fan when Sam was four, not nine. At four, Sam didn't know what the hell was out there and Dean hadn't gotten around to the whole "don't talk to strangers thing" yet, mostly because Dad hadn't gone over it with him.
Sammy takes his word for it that he's Dean after Dean informs him that the special password is, "Zeplin rules."
Then his lower lip wobbles and he says, "'m hungry." He has his tiny little fingers wrapped around Dina's ear. Dean thinks it's probably really damn lucky that she grew up with Ryan's complete and utter lack of anything approaching respect for animals.
Ryan's tuggin' on her other ear. "Me too," he says. "Daddy makes cereal," he continues, "'N Sammy makes 'nanas."
Dean feels a headache coming on at the same moment that Sammy's little eyebrows draw together in a scowl and he says, "Nuh-uh."
"Yuh-huh," Ryan retorts. "Sammy makes 'nanas and nuts and oats. Yummy food. Dean's lazy," he says matter of factly, in what Dean knows is his rendition of what Sam's said at one point or another, "So Dean makes Chocula."
"I am not lazy," Dean says, scooping Sammy up before he can do more than scowl darkly at Ryan.
His kid's brown eyes narrow under his messy mop of dirty blond hair. A second later, his arms go up demandingly and Dean sighs, but obligingly bends over to scoop, his free arm hitting him behind the knees and balancing him as he lifts.
Sammy and Ryan share an intensely competitive look over Dean's chest. He doesn't know whether to laugh at the fact that his son is jealous of his brother-lover, or to go somewhere and bang his head against a wall.
He settles for laughing. The last time he'd done the head banging thing, Castiel had shown up and made disgruntled, soothing noises at him. Something about not wanting Dean to damage his head when he was all that was keeping Sam and his vaguely demonic-ness in check.
Sam'd taken exception to that and Ruby'd shown up to take exception on Sam's behalf and, really, it just would be best for everyone if he found osmething else to do besides bang his head against a solid wall.
"Hungry," Sammy says again, when Dean's done laughing hysterically.
"'M not," Ryan says rebelliously. "Need a bath."
The kid only gets a bath in the morning if he's had a nightmare. And since Dean did not wake up with him wedged between his chest and Sam's back (not that Sam had been in the bed, the fucker), he's pretty sure there wasn't a nightmare.
Ryan still smells like the baby shampoo from last night, a hint of stale sweat, maybe. Not enough to justify a bath and Dean sighs, jiggling both boys.
"You're cuttin' off your nose to spite your face, Ry," he warns. "Gonna look pretty stupid with no nose, dude."
Ryan kicks him in the spine.
"Ryan!" Dean barks.
"Was baby," Ryan says mutinously.
Sammy sticks his tongue out.
Dean seriously does not remembering him being this much of a brat, but then again, he can't really wrap his mind around his brat being this much of a freakin' brat. Ryan's usually good natured, calm, kind of freakishly easy going.
He's used to Sam throwing more temper tantrums than he's used to his kid doing it.
"Food," Dean says, deciding to ignore the kicking thing for now. Count Chocula is beckoning. And Dean needs a friggin' cup of coffee like you wouldn't believe.
He dumps both kids off at the table, Ryan in his usual booster and Sammy in Sam's spot. Sammy's used to having to eat at a table without a booster, so Dean's not surprised when the kdi just stands there on his tiny, sneakered feet, waiting for his breakfast to magically appear in front of him.
The coffee machine is burbling away merrily, set to start up at fuckin' six-thirty in the goddamn morning. Neither Sam or Ryan were particularly big on lettin' him sleep in.
"No feet on chairs," Ryan says from his seat. He's sending Sammy a look from under his hair, like he's not sure whether or not to bury the hatchet.
"Why?" Sammy asks.
Dean pours himself a cup of coffee while Ryan mulls this over. He grabs the Count Chocula, high up in the shelves because Sam hates it when Ryan sneaks sugar foods, and two bowls. Considers a minute, and adds a third one.
Sam sometimes does the whole homemade breakfast thing in the morning, when his blood is turning over and hissin' at him too much for him to sleep. Dean's always torn over whether he should be enthusiastic, 'cause, dude, awesome food, or concerned, because, well. Sam not sleeping.
They've been moving through Southern Europe for a while now, some kind of spinach flaky pastry thing three or four days ago. Dean's lookin' forward to the coffee breakfasts he'd heard Sam mumbling about a couple weeks ago.
It's a moot point when Sam's not there, though, and Sammy's eyes light up when he sees the box of cereal Dean thumps on the table.
"Chocula!" he exclaims happily.
Ryan gives him a cautious look that's more in line with Dean's little boy than the suspicious, pissy looks have been. "My favorite," he declares. "Dean too."
Sammy grins.
Hatchet buried, Dean thinks cheerfully. He pours a generous amount of chocolate cereal into his own bowl and sets Ryan up easily. Sammy's a little harder, 'cause he doesn't really remember how much the brat used to eat at this age. Eventually, he shrugs and gives him the same amount Ryan has.
Sammy eats the marshmellows out of his bowl while Dean splashes enough milk over Ryan's to fill the bowl to the top.
"More," Ryan demands.
"It'll spill," Dean tells him. "You can have more milk later."
Sammy's the opposite, doesn't want much milk in his cereal. Dean has to wonder how the kid got so damn huge when he refuses to drink any calcium, even drags out the tired, "It'll make you big and strong," line. He might add a mumbled, "Not that you need it, fuckin' gigantor," on the end of that, but neither kid hears him.
He crunches his way through his cereal while Ryan shovels it mindlessly into his mouth, getting more chocolate milk on him than into him. Sammy just keeps right on using his hands even after his cereals a soggy mess, neurotically picking out all the marshmellows, and Dean hides a fond, squishy smile behind another mouthful.
Sam still does that.
Dina straggles into the kitchen, her leash still dangling gamely behind her, and plants herself next to Dean to try out the puppy eyes. Dean pats her once on the head and looks her over.
Sam'd gone running this morning. And something had jumped him. He remembers Sam, though, at thirty, weird and not his Sam, but still his damn brother. And Sam had fixed all this shit. He's not too worried about it.
He unclips Dina's leash while both toddlers are attempting to drink the now chocolate milk from their bowls. The dog shoves her head under his hand a second later, her tongue leaving wet tracks on his wrist.
Ryan frowns up from his chocolate milk, milk mustache and all, and says, "Not 'llowed at the table, Dean." His name is stressed the exact same way Sam says it, exasperation and love stretching the vowels out.
Sammy swirls his fingers in the remains of his milk and gives himself a matching pair of streaks under his eyes. It's somethin' Dean showed him how to do when they were both little. He knows he's uncool now, a parent, when his first instinct is to tell him to go clean that off.
He quietly mourns the loss of his coolness cred while he scratches behind Dina's skull. "Do you see Sam here?" he asks Ryan, then, when the kid shakes his shaggy head, "Then I can pet the dog at the table, kiddo. What Sam doesn't know won't hurt him."
His kid mulls this over for a few seconds. "I tell," he finally says decisively and picks up his bowl to finish off his milk.
"Tattletale," Dean mutters under his breath.
Ryan dimples at him. "Yes," he agrees. He swipes his sleeve through the mustache leaving streaks on his pajamas (his kid wears freakin' pajamas, Dean thinks with a weird little lurch in his stomach, full on ducky things that Sam buys him) and looks over at Sammy. "You makin' a mess," he informs Sammy.
"Mmhm," Sammy responds. He licks his fingers.
It takes a few more minutes before both kids are finished eating. Even then, Dean keeps drinking his coffee until he can't stand Ryan's silent stares and Sammy's not so silent bouncing any longer.
Sammy's pretty much covered in chocolate and milk. Ryan's... mostly clean, if Dean ignores the splotchy stains where the milk leaked from his mouth to his pajama tops. Fuck it. He doesn't feel like giving either of them a bath; Samy'd been a bitch to get clean and Ryan would just glower at him until he tried to pass the activity off on Sam.
Who wasn't here. Dammit. No baths.
"Ryan," he says, "Go pick out what you wanna wear today. Sammy, we'll... find you something that isn't Ryan's." He was not dealing with Ryan freakin' the fuck out over Sammy wearing his clothes.
The way his morning was going, Ryan would declare it was his favorite outfit or Sammy would pick Ryan's second favorite outfit to wear and then doom on them all.
If that means Sammy ends up wearing a dress made out of the nearest pillowcase, well, it's not the first time it's happened to the kid. Won't be the last time, actually, when all their clothes are dirty and Dad hasn't shown up in the last few days.
He nicks a pair of Ryan's thick underwear, the kind he'd worn when he'd been potty training, and figures any temper tantrum over Sammy having to wear the "fick undies" was totally worth it. He was not going to get into an argument with Ryan over whether or not Sammy could wear his awesome Power Ranger underwear.
"Don' like the fick undies, Dean," Sammy mutters. He squirms in place, one small hand trying to hitch the underwear into something resembling comfortable and Dean? Seriously has to turn away to hide his laugh with a cough.
"I don' haveta wear the thick undies," Ryan says. Two fingers go into his mouth while he looks at Sammy with his big, solemn eyes. "I gots the Red Ranger."
Sammy's little mouth pulls up in pout as his eyebrows scrunch down. "Dean," he whines.
"You're wearin' a dress, little man. The thick undies are not gonna make you any less cool. Trust me."
He has the Colt up and pointing into the bedroom before he can even think about it. There's something jangling down his nerves, past the present Castiel gave him four friggin' years ago, and there's only one demon suicidal enough to show up in his house.
"Don't you touch him," Dean grinds out, one hand around the Colt and the other juggling two sippy cups of orange juice, "I'll blow your brains out, bitch."
"Sammy says no say bitch!" Ryan yells from the other room.
Ruby grins at him from by the window, her eyebrows raised so high they're disappearing into her blonde hair. "Yeah, Dean," she says, almost cooing, "Sam says not to call people bitches. It's rude." She's jumped bodies again, going from stacked brunette to scrawny lookin' blonde.
Somewhere down the line, Sam'd told her to quit going after bodies she thinks he'd like to bang. Only not in those words, because Sam's mostly polite, even to demon scum, but, that'd be the gist of it. She tends to go more for blondes now, the tiny, wispy kind, especially if she wants to get under Dean's skin.
He likes blondes. Sam's always preferred brunettes, Jess not-withstanding.
"What the hell're you doing here?" Dean asks flatly. The Colt's tapping agianst his thigh, not pointed at her anymore, but that's only because Sammy's poking his stupid, fluffy little head around the corner.
Ryan knows better than to wander around when Ruby comes callin'.
"Checkin' up." Ruby spins on her heel, her sheaf of blonde hair coming dangerously close to smacking Dean in the face and leans over. She braces her hands on her thighs. "Hi there, Sam," she coos, "Aren't you a cutie pie?"
"You touch him and I'll blow a hole in your head big enough to drive my car through," Dean says lightly. He smiles when Sammy looks at him with his eyebrows scrunched together.
Trying to figure shit out look, Dean knows. He's a smart kid, though, and he backs away from Ruby a few seconds later, his hand going to tangle into his hair nervously.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, Sam," Ruby says. She pushes herself back upright and smiles, her eyes seeping black for a split-second. "In point of fact, kiddo, I'd pulverize the spine of anyone who tried."
Sammy gives her a long, long look, then his lower lip wobbles and his eyes fill up and Dean body checks Ruby into the wall so he can scoop his brother up before he starts wailing.
"Somethin' I said?" Ruby asks.
The only reason he does not put a bullet through, well, some non-vital part of her is because Sam'll be pissed if she's not kickin' when he gets back. That, and the fact that she looks honestly confused, like she doesn't know that it scares kids when you threaten people.
Some ways, being topside for so long has made her more human. In others, Dean's pretty sure she's left all of her humanity down below, scarfed up by demons the same way they'd started tearin' into him.
"Seriously," Ruby says. "I follow this? He's crying! I don't even know why he's crying! Make him stop, Dean. It's. It's creepy! My Antichrist should not cry like that."
Sammy sniffles against the side of Dean's neck, tiny and hot and scared, and the Colt taps a jerky rhythym against Dean's thigh. "Get out of here," he tells Ruby.
"Going," she says. She hesitates by the window she crawled through, turns back to Dean and cocks her hip. "I'll be around. In case doom and smite decides to try his hand at the wee Sam, alright? If you need help or anything, yell. Or scream. Or die. I'll definitely be around if you get yourself offed again."
The smile she gives him is full of to many teeth and under her black eyes.
Dean snorts. "You keep hopin'," he says. "Castiel'll just pull my ass right back out again."
"Heaven's favored," Ruby says with a sigh. She heaves herself up, out, her hands still planted on the windowsill as Sammy snuffles wetly against Dean's throat. "Just remember, if I can't touch him, you don't get to let the heavenly host scramble him either.
"He's the way he's supposed to be. They can't make him holy without killing him," she sneers.
Goddamnit, Dean knows that. He rubs a hand down Sammy's back and says, "Don't you tell me what to do, you black eyed bitch. I know that kid better than anyone. I know."
She smiles again and flips her blonde hair behind her shoulder with a shrug. "Just didn't want you getting any ideas, Dean-o. Judging by the stink of holier-than-thou feathers in the alley I lost Sam in, your pet angels are involved. Free head's up from me."
Dean feels Sammy loosen his deathgrip on the collar of his shirt just before the little head lifts to peak over at Ruby. The demon smiles again and waves. Sammy hides his head under Dean's jacket this time, tiny little fingers tugging it over his messy mop of hair.
"Bye," he hears Ryan say. "Come back soon!"
"I'll bring presents next time, kidlet," Ruby yells. She pushes away from the windowsill and gives Dean a mocking salute. "Still can't believe I'm followin' a crybaby," she mutters.
Dean doesn't watch her walk away. She knows the way through the intricate labrynth of anti-demonic shit Dean's got strewn around the yard and the house, and if she manages to fuck up than she can just sit there until Sam comes back and lets her ass out.
"Can I come out now?" Ryan asks. His blond head peaks around the doorway again without waiting for a response. Dean'll take him to task on that some other time, but it's hard to yell at your kid when he skips up to you (skipping! He blames Sam), looks up at your hiding baby brother, and coos, "No cry, baby. S'okay."
He's willing to admit that sometimes Ryan's too damn cute for his own good.
Sammy unburies his head to give Ryan an unimpressed look. "Not baby," he says wetly. Dean's pretty sure he's got a lovely shirtful of snot goin' on near his collar. It doesn't really surprise him that he doesn't care.
You have a kid, you get used to all sorts of shit. When Ryan was a couple of months old, Sam'd wandered around with up-chucked formula on his shirts for weeks. Hadn't even noticed it. Dean figures he's still got one up on Sam.
He knows what he's wearing. He just doesn't care.
Knowing what he's wearing sort of leads him back to why he's wearing it, though. It's Sunday and usually Dean's pretty content to lounge around in boxers and socks for most of the day, but he'd gotten dressed. Sammy would not stop whining about being in a dress and Ryan wanted to go to the bookstore for his weekly dose of geekdom.
"Alright," Dean says, "What say we go get Sammy some new clothes?" Sammy perks up against his shoulder just as Ryan's lower lip pokes out. "And Ryan's book," Dean adds hastily. He has to change that to a, "Both of your books," when Sammy looks like he's contemplating screaming about the unfairness of it all.
Dean might join him if he did.
Sam'd been the geek to get Ryan hooked on books. If it were up to Dean, the kid would just get a new toy car or something everytime he was good, but, no. Ryan got a new damn book every freakin' Sunday because Sam had to make his kid as geeky as he was.
Of course Sammy would want a new book too.
Whatever the fuck Sam'd done when Dean was twenty-three to get himself back where he belonged, he better be freakin' doin' it soon.
The thing about bookstores is that while Dean's always declared that they were friggin' evil, he's never actually had something EMF-y happen to him in one. Until now.
"Jesus Christ," Dean hisses, "Can't a guy do freakin' anything these days without having something supernatural show up and ruin it?"
Castiel blinks his big, puppy eyes. "It is unlikely that you are ever truly rid of the supernatural, Dean," he says contemplatively. He stands next to Dean, watching Ryan motor his way through the stack of colorful cardboard books. "After all, I did loan you my powers once."
"Over four years ago, man. Haven't I, like, shat that shit out yet?" Dean rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets, and barks out, "Back over here!" when it looks like Sammy's trying to wander out of the kids section and into the cooking.
"Angelic powers are not like food poisoning, Dean," Castiel says. He sounds about as amused as he can possibly be, his hands limp and loose at his side. "They do not simply 'pass out' of the human body."
Dean can remember him freakin' the fuck out of his younger self. You know. Before he knew the dude Sam was callin' on for help was an angel and not some revenant or something. "I don't burn Sam anymore," he says lightly, "Haven't for years."
(Smell of human flesh sizzling and wanting to jerk back because it's Sam but there are some things more important than not hurtin' his brother's skin and that was making sure he'd still have a little brother in twenty minutes.)
"Sam is no longer as demonic as he was. His blood is non-reactive to us again," Castiel says. He tilts his head and stares at Dean's little little brother. "He was a charming child."
Dean snorts. "He was a brat, same as he is now."
Sammy's already clutching something to his chest, his eyes darting around like he's terrified someone's gonna take it from him. Dean thinks it's pretty sad, but that's how he remembers his kid brother; even at four, he'd cried over having to leave his books behind whenever they moved.
"Hi, Cas," Ryan says when he looks up. He's got a book in hand; Dean holds back a laugh as soon as he sees the title. It says a lot about his kid that the book he wants is Dirt on my Shirt.
"Hello, Ryan. Are you well?"
Ryan blinks at him a few times. "Kay," he says and goes back to digging through the bargain books.
"You show up for a reason?" Dean asks. From what he remembers, it's gonna be Sam that fixes this shit, wedges time back together like it should be. Castiel will help, if you qualify freakin' the fuck out of Dean helping, but. There you go.
"I would like to put a safeguard on this Sam," Castiel says. He shifts, fidgeting, and Dean leans over to tap him pointedly on the shoulder when he realizes that the shadow behind him is mutating.
"A 'hide him from my homicidal co-worker' safeguard," Dean asks flatly, "Or a 'if he ever turns evil it'll kill him' safeguard?"
The long silence tells him all he needs to know. "I do not fuckin' understand," he continues, "Why the hell you all think you need to meddle with him. He freakin' did what you wanted him to. And he did it because he thought it was right."
"There were things lost," Castiel says. "The integrity of the barrier between hell and earth. My comrades. If this ending could be avoided for one slightly more beneficial, it would be best."
"I am not helping you fuck up my happy ending, dude." Dean takes his hands out of his pockets in order to cross them over his chest, his voice still pleasant. "All roads lead to the same destiny, isn't that the shit you mumbled at me before? Can't change the past, Castiel.
"Sides, I don't think the Big Guy would like you fuckin' with Sam. Might make him crazy, you never know."
Castiel is quite for a long minutes. "Understood," he finally says stiffly.
Dean's still the general of Heaven's army, even if the general of Hell's is more interested in his ass than he is in starting a war.
"I will leave him to you, then," Castiel continues. "Sam at nineteen is significantly less protected than his other selves."
"Yeah, you don't fuck him up either," Dean says darkly.
Castiel inclines his head slightly. "I won't."
Sound of wings next to him and Dean watches the people milling in the kiddy isle to see if anyone else can hear it. Sammy looks up with a frown, which, no suprise there, but nobody else so much as twitches. Also not that big of a surprise.
A tug on his jean leg. Dean reacts to it with an eyeroll; he can hear the rip in the knee tear more under the force of the kid's fingers. "Dean?" Ryan says.
"S'up, kid?"
Ryan's eyes are big, brown, and pleading when he looks up. "Two books?" he asks, four clutched to his chest.
"One," Dean says firmly.
"One book?" Sammy says, coming up from the side. He, Dean can't help but notice, also has more than one book in a deathgrip. "Two? Please, Dean, two?"
Goddamnit. The kid's in this shirt dress number, one of Dean's old Motorhead shirts cinched tight with one of Ryan's shiny leather dress up belts. It almost looks like Dean did it on purpose, which is probably what's keeping the dozen or so moms in this section from calling CPS on him, but, still.
His little brother's in a dress. And he looks like a little girl, with those huge eyes and his dark, curly hair and Dean feels sort of bad about it, because Sam hasn't thrown a tantrum over it and Ryan would have.
"Fine," he says. "Two books."
Sammy can count to two. He swallows hard, beams up at Dean, and offers him Pigeon Wants a Puppy and Peg Leg Peke. Dean wants to sigh. He's pretty sure they have both of those books back at the house. Sam picked them out for Ryan.
Should have seen that one comin'.
Ryan, on the other hand, can't count. Or he likes to pretend he doesn't. He innocently hands up the dirty shirt book, another Pigeon book, then hesitates, dimples, and passes up two Dr. Suesses.
The only reason Dean doesn't buy him all four (what? So the kid's spoiled, so what) is because he doesn't want to deal with Sammy screaming about only getting two.
The second stop for the day is the Salvation Army around the corner. Not the most glamorous place to get your duds, but it'd always been good to Dean and he really doesn't want to drop a bunch of money on shit that's just going to get shipped back with his baby baby brother anyway.
"Hold hands," Dean says as soon as they climb out of the Impala. Then he wants to hit his head on the roof of his baby, because, seriously? Sam's turned him into a paranoid housewife.
And you love it, Sam'd pointed out last time Dean'd said anything about it.
Ryan grabs one hand. Sammy grabs the other. And off they go, deep into the jungle of second hand clothing.
It's warm outside, but Dean finds himself gravitating towards the long sleeve toddler shirts. It's been so damn long since he's seen Sam in anything but sleeves outside that it takes a couple seconds to compute that Sammy's pulling him more towards the tanks.
"Want a puppy shirt," Sammy says softly. Ryan nods his head on Dean's other side and says, "I like puppies."
He lets go of both kids's hands and takes a step back so he can keep them in sight. The immediately dive into finding what they want, both of them used to it. Ryan takes regular trips here when Sam gets on his kick about consumer societies.
Sammy's wrists look tiny and naked against the rows of shirts.
It's been three or four years since he last saw them unmarked, since his handprints had been branded onto Sam. He absently reaches up to scratch at the scar on his own shoulder, faded now but still clear as day. He didn't go around shirtless any more than Sam went around in short sleeves.
"This one," Ryan says decisively.
His kid brother wrinkles his tiny little nose, reaching over to clumsily hold the clothes in question. Dean sees right away what the problem is. "Not a girl," Sammy hisses out. He lets the dress drop to the concrete and gives Ryan a filthy look.
Dean finds himself bending over to pick it up, the tired old, "Clean up after yourself, brat," slipping out of his mouth before he can even stop to think about it. God. He's such a freakin' parent.
Lucky for him, both kids ignore him. His humiliation would have been complete if Sammy had decided to humor him, oh God. He's supposed to be the messy one in this relationship. Not Sam.
"Girls wear dress," Ryan says. He looks over at Sammy, who's about two seconds away from stamping his feet and declaring that Ryan's a stupid poopy-head, and purses his mouth. "You wearin' dress."
"Not a girl," Sammy says venomously.
Dean leans over to pick Ryan up before Sam can get around to kickin' him in the shins. Shit hurt.
"Sammy is not a girl," he tells Ryan. When the kid opens his mouth, he just knows he's going to point out that Dean routinely calls Sam a girl and that would just piss wee Sammy right the fuck off. "Shut your pie hole, Ry."
Ryan kicks him in the spine. Again. Sometimes Dean serisouly wonders how the fuck he got saddled with a little brat who kicked shit and then looked at you with huge brown eyes expecting it to all be alright. Then he realizes that Sam's had a hand in raising said brat and Sam was a freakin' brat to begin with, so he really should have expected it.
He blames Sam. For everything.
"I know that wasn't Sammy," Dean says direly. "Do it again and I'll take your books back."
His threats were probably more effective when the threaten-ee didn't know he was too damn lazy to drive back to the bookstore. He'd totally leave the books here, though. Totally.
He wasn't lying to himself or anything like that.
"This one?" Sammy asks a few minutes later, when Ryan's migrated from being stiff with outrage over being held to a tiny head on his shoulder. The shirt's got a trail of dogs on it, black ones that look sort of like Dina, and Dean's nodding before he can get much further than that.
Sam's always liked dogs.
"Yeah, fine," Dean says. "Let's get you some pants, Sammy, and then we'll grab somethin' to eat. Fried sounds good, right?" Because damn if Dean could cook anything that didn't come out of a can. And Sam didn't let him keep spaghetti-os in the house.
Something about how the smell made him naseous. Whatever. Dean had an iron stomach. Sam, being the girl, had been saddled with the ridiculously sensitive one between the two of them.
The jeans are much, much easier. Ryan is still muttering in his neck about how girls should wear dresses, though, and Dean rolls his eyes hard and resolves to stick the boy in a dress to shut him the hell up later.
Little gender confusion never hurt anyone. Sam probably wouldn't object. If he did, Dean could totally pull out the fucked up, wrinkled, dog eared picture from Dad's journal, where Sammy is all of ten and wearing a sundress.
There'd been a hunt or something, little girls disappearing, and, well. Dean'd already started to broaden by then. Should have seen the look on Sam's face, Dean thinks gleefully. Definitely worth the dead arm Sam'd given him after he'd realized Dean had taken a picture.
Sammy's small hand finds his again right before they hit the check out line, two pairs of jeans and three t-shirts richer. Dean's pretty sure the kid's not gonna be here for more than a few days and while lookin' at Sammy makes his heart clench tighter than anything else ever could, he wants his brother back.
The one that would have bitched about him feeding the kids Mickey Dees for lunch.
"What'a you guys want?" he asks. There's nobody in front of him and a huge line behind him, but fuck if he's gonna get to the damn window and have both of them decide they want to hem and haw for five minutes.
He throws an arm over the back of his seat (where Sam should be, dammit) and twists around to look at two curious sets of brown eyes. "No ice cream for lunch," he tells Ryan. "No soda," he tells Sammy.
Such. A freakin'. Parent.
"Chicken nuggets," Ryan says from the backseat at the same time that Sammy pipes up with, "Hammybugger."
"Got it," Dean says, and rolls down the window. "Two happy meals," he tells the pimply faced kid, fry grease thick on his forehead and bad attitude even thicker. "One hamburger, none of those chopped up onion things, kid'll throw a fit. And one with nuggets. Fries, chocolate milk on both of those."
The chocolate milk is a nod for Sam, 'cause fuck if he's gonna make the boys eat apple slices or something. You came to the fast food backbone of America, you'd better be prepared to eat the deep fried and salty.
Chocolate because, well. Who the hell wanted to drink regular milk when you could drink chocolate instead? Freaks, that's who.
"And two Big Macs, one fry, largest one you've got, and a root beer. Large."
Dean doesn't pay attention to the kid reciting his order back at him. There's a nice little board he can stare at instead, his order highlighted in red, and, besides. Kid is kind of squeaky and obnoxious.
"Sixteen fifty at the next window," pimply kid squeaks out.
Swear to God, he can remember a time when gettin' lunch for three people, two of them with stomachs the size of his fist wouldn't have cost more than ten bucks. Those times, however, are gone. He grudgingly digs his wallet out of his back pocket, shifting foward on the seat with a creak of leather.
The wtenty he's got is so old and mangled that Dean's kind of afraid they're not gonna take it from him. He slides out two tens, just in case, and wiggles his wallet back where it goes.
The he pulls forward and prepares himself to play the waiting game.
He bangs on the steering wheel in tune to AC/DC, trying to ignore Ryan belting out made up lyrics to the song. Sammy just stares out of the window, face scrunched and lower lip poking out. People watchin', Dean figures. Or maybe just trying to wrap his scarily smart little kid brain around the fact that everything doesn't look quite as it should.
Seriously grateful here that Sammy's still young enough to take most shit at face value.
"'m hungry," Ryan says plaintively.
"Hungry too," Sammy aggrees.
Dean rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a second and sighs. "You're hungry, he's hungry, we're all hungry, here."
A half beat of silence while Sammy and Ryan both contemplate this. "I miss Sammy," Ryan finally says. He has his arms crossed when Dean flicks a glance into the rearview mirror, chubby little fingers clutching his elbows as he huffs.
He swallows hard. "I miss him too, Ryan."
"I miss Daddy," Sammy declares, not to be left out. "An' mine Dean. Miss mine Dean."
Dean doesn't know whether to laugh because Sammy's agreeing with him, even if he's bitching while he does it, or if he should pretend not to hear him, because. Just. Because. Sure he knows intellectually that Sam misses Dad just like he does, but to hear it in this piping, clear voice makes something in him splinter
The window opening takes care of that for him. Dean lifts his head off the steering wheel and gives the equally pimply girl working this window a dazzling smile. Her blush creeps up her neck and Dean leans back farther in his seat, grinning. Yep. Still got it.
"Here's your order," the girl stutters out. She hands him two bags and his drink, takes his damn twenty and blinks down at it. "I haven't seen one of these in a long time," she says finally. "I think I have to get a manager to authorize it."
Dean taps his fingers on the wheel. On the one hand, he doesn't want to hang onto money he can't really use without people lookin' at him funny. On the other hand, he's got two toddlers in the backseat and both of them are hungry, cranky, and in need of a nap.
"Nah," he says, "I've got tens."
Pimply girl smiles at Dean in clear relief and leans over to take his money from him. "Thanks," she says, "My manager's kind of..."
"Hey, no problem." He's had his share of shitty jobs before. Granted, now he didn't actually work for a living, because for some reason Bela Talbot made him really freakin' rich before she got torn apart, but he remembers. "Thanks for the food."
The girl smiles again, still blushing. "Have a good day."
"I'm hungry," Ryan complains loudly from the backseat. Again.
"It's quiet time right now, Ryan," Dean says as he pulls out of the drive-through. "You do not eat in my car, messy pants."
Both kids whine the entire damn way home.
"Your turn to feed the brat," Dean grumbles into his pillow, still searching.
The bed's cold. Dean's head comes up blearily. The dog's not on the bed in Sam's spot like she usually is when Sam gets up early. Weird.
The little finger pokes the sole of his foot again. Dean's toes curl over while he props himself up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder to tell the little brat to be patient. Kid knew not to poke more'n once. One of them would eventually lug their ass out of bed and feed him.
Some kind of weird health food oat shit if Sam's the one who gets up first. Count Chocula if Sam somehow manages to kick Dean's ass out of the bed.
He figures between the two of them, the kid gets a pretty good diet most weeks.
The kid lookin' at him is not Ryan. In fact, the kid looks scarily like Sam, wobbly lips and big, watery eyes and all. "You're not my Daddy," the kid says slowly. His lower lip trembles and one hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck. "I want Dean."
Dean faceplants back into his pillow. "Oh you fucker," he mumbles into it. "You couldn't have warned me that this was coming up?"
"Not a-pposed ta say fuck," Sammy says wetly. He sniffles loudly.
Which is, of course, when Dina comes barrelling into the room, barking her fool head off and Ryan makes a cranky, fussing noise from down the hall and Dean sincerely wants to punch his goddamn brother in the face right about now.
Only the only brother he's got is about twenty six years too young.
Dina's trailing leash smacks Dean in the ass when she jumps up on the bed, snuffling excitedly around his face. She smells like fire, maybe, and freakin' light, angelic, same smell Castiel leaves all over the fuckin' place when he decides it's time for a visit.
Could be worse, Dean guesses, sinking one hand into the fur behind Dina's ear to calm her down. Could be sulfur, he guesses, but Sam against demons has been no contest for the last four or so years. Sam against angels was a lot less definite.
"Dean," Ryan's matter of fact voice says, "'s a baby here."
Dean looks up from Dina and the huge, dark eyes just out of his range of focus to find Ryan standing in his doorway. "I know, kiddo," he says eventually. "We're gonna take care of him for a little while."
The tears spill over Sammy's chubby cheeks. "Want Dean," he says.
His heart clenches up tight in his chest, same damn reaction Sam's always been able to pull out of his guts. Jesus. He can't stand seeing his brother cry. "You got him, Sammy," Dean says gently, flipping over so he can sit up, Dina still snuffling around on the bed.
Ryan says, "Hi, baby!" cheerfully.
Dean is going to kill Sam when he sees him again.
He thinks it's really, really lucky that this whole shit hit the fan when Sam was four, not nine. At four, Sam didn't know what the hell was out there and Dean hadn't gotten around to the whole "don't talk to strangers thing" yet, mostly because Dad hadn't gone over it with him.
Sammy takes his word for it that he's Dean after Dean informs him that the special password is, "Zeplin rules."
Then his lower lip wobbles and he says, "'m hungry." He has his tiny little fingers wrapped around Dina's ear. Dean thinks it's probably really damn lucky that she grew up with Ryan's complete and utter lack of anything approaching respect for animals.
Ryan's tuggin' on her other ear. "Me too," he says. "Daddy makes cereal," he continues, "'N Sammy makes 'nanas."
Dean feels a headache coming on at the same moment that Sammy's little eyebrows draw together in a scowl and he says, "Nuh-uh."
"Yuh-huh," Ryan retorts. "Sammy makes 'nanas and nuts and oats. Yummy food. Dean's lazy," he says matter of factly, in what Dean knows is his rendition of what Sam's said at one point or another, "So Dean makes Chocula."
"I am not lazy," Dean says, scooping Sammy up before he can do more than scowl darkly at Ryan.
His kid's brown eyes narrow under his messy mop of dirty blond hair. A second later, his arms go up demandingly and Dean sighs, but obligingly bends over to scoop, his free arm hitting him behind the knees and balancing him as he lifts.
Sammy and Ryan share an intensely competitive look over Dean's chest. He doesn't know whether to laugh at the fact that his son is jealous of his brother-lover, or to go somewhere and bang his head against a wall.
He settles for laughing. The last time he'd done the head banging thing, Castiel had shown up and made disgruntled, soothing noises at him. Something about not wanting Dean to damage his head when he was all that was keeping Sam and his vaguely demonic-ness in check.
Sam'd taken exception to that and Ruby'd shown up to take exception on Sam's behalf and, really, it just would be best for everyone if he found osmething else to do besides bang his head against a solid wall.
"Hungry," Sammy says again, when Dean's done laughing hysterically.
"'M not," Ryan says rebelliously. "Need a bath."
The kid only gets a bath in the morning if he's had a nightmare. And since Dean did not wake up with him wedged between his chest and Sam's back (not that Sam had been in the bed, the fucker), he's pretty sure there wasn't a nightmare.
Ryan still smells like the baby shampoo from last night, a hint of stale sweat, maybe. Not enough to justify a bath and Dean sighs, jiggling both boys.
"You're cuttin' off your nose to spite your face, Ry," he warns. "Gonna look pretty stupid with no nose, dude."
Ryan kicks him in the spine.
"Ryan!" Dean barks.
"Was baby," Ryan says mutinously.
Sammy sticks his tongue out.
Dean seriously does not remembering him being this much of a brat, but then again, he can't really wrap his mind around his brat being this much of a freakin' brat. Ryan's usually good natured, calm, kind of freakishly easy going.
He's used to Sam throwing more temper tantrums than he's used to his kid doing it.
"Food," Dean says, deciding to ignore the kicking thing for now. Count Chocula is beckoning. And Dean needs a friggin' cup of coffee like you wouldn't believe.
He dumps both kids off at the table, Ryan in his usual booster and Sammy in Sam's spot. Sammy's used to having to eat at a table without a booster, so Dean's not surprised when the kdi just stands there on his tiny, sneakered feet, waiting for his breakfast to magically appear in front of him.
The coffee machine is burbling away merrily, set to start up at fuckin' six-thirty in the goddamn morning. Neither Sam or Ryan were particularly big on lettin' him sleep in.
"No feet on chairs," Ryan says from his seat. He's sending Sammy a look from under his hair, like he's not sure whether or not to bury the hatchet.
"Why?" Sammy asks.
Dean pours himself a cup of coffee while Ryan mulls this over. He grabs the Count Chocula, high up in the shelves because Sam hates it when Ryan sneaks sugar foods, and two bowls. Considers a minute, and adds a third one.
Sam sometimes does the whole homemade breakfast thing in the morning, when his blood is turning over and hissin' at him too much for him to sleep. Dean's always torn over whether he should be enthusiastic, 'cause, dude, awesome food, or concerned, because, well. Sam not sleeping.
They've been moving through Southern Europe for a while now, some kind of spinach flaky pastry thing three or four days ago. Dean's lookin' forward to the coffee breakfasts he'd heard Sam mumbling about a couple weeks ago.
It's a moot point when Sam's not there, though, and Sammy's eyes light up when he sees the box of cereal Dean thumps on the table.
"Chocula!" he exclaims happily.
Ryan gives him a cautious look that's more in line with Dean's little boy than the suspicious, pissy looks have been. "My favorite," he declares. "Dean too."
Sammy grins.
Hatchet buried, Dean thinks cheerfully. He pours a generous amount of chocolate cereal into his own bowl and sets Ryan up easily. Sammy's a little harder, 'cause he doesn't really remember how much the brat used to eat at this age. Eventually, he shrugs and gives him the same amount Ryan has.
Sammy eats the marshmellows out of his bowl while Dean splashes enough milk over Ryan's to fill the bowl to the top.
"More," Ryan demands.
"It'll spill," Dean tells him. "You can have more milk later."
Sammy's the opposite, doesn't want much milk in his cereal. Dean has to wonder how the kid got so damn huge when he refuses to drink any calcium, even drags out the tired, "It'll make you big and strong," line. He might add a mumbled, "Not that you need it, fuckin' gigantor," on the end of that, but neither kid hears him.
He crunches his way through his cereal while Ryan shovels it mindlessly into his mouth, getting more chocolate milk on him than into him. Sammy just keeps right on using his hands even after his cereals a soggy mess, neurotically picking out all the marshmellows, and Dean hides a fond, squishy smile behind another mouthful.
Sam still does that.
Dina straggles into the kitchen, her leash still dangling gamely behind her, and plants herself next to Dean to try out the puppy eyes. Dean pats her once on the head and looks her over.
Sam'd gone running this morning. And something had jumped him. He remembers Sam, though, at thirty, weird and not his Sam, but still his damn brother. And Sam had fixed all this shit. He's not too worried about it.
He unclips Dina's leash while both toddlers are attempting to drink the now chocolate milk from their bowls. The dog shoves her head under his hand a second later, her tongue leaving wet tracks on his wrist.
Ryan frowns up from his chocolate milk, milk mustache and all, and says, "Not 'llowed at the table, Dean." His name is stressed the exact same way Sam says it, exasperation and love stretching the vowels out.
Sammy swirls his fingers in the remains of his milk and gives himself a matching pair of streaks under his eyes. It's somethin' Dean showed him how to do when they were both little. He knows he's uncool now, a parent, when his first instinct is to tell him to go clean that off.
He quietly mourns the loss of his coolness cred while he scratches behind Dina's skull. "Do you see Sam here?" he asks Ryan, then, when the kid shakes his shaggy head, "Then I can pet the dog at the table, kiddo. What Sam doesn't know won't hurt him."
His kid mulls this over for a few seconds. "I tell," he finally says decisively and picks up his bowl to finish off his milk.
"Tattletale," Dean mutters under his breath.
Ryan dimples at him. "Yes," he agrees. He swipes his sleeve through the mustache leaving streaks on his pajamas (his kid wears freakin' pajamas, Dean thinks with a weird little lurch in his stomach, full on ducky things that Sam buys him) and looks over at Sammy. "You makin' a mess," he informs Sammy.
"Mmhm," Sammy responds. He licks his fingers.
It takes a few more minutes before both kids are finished eating. Even then, Dean keeps drinking his coffee until he can't stand Ryan's silent stares and Sammy's not so silent bouncing any longer.
Sammy's pretty much covered in chocolate and milk. Ryan's... mostly clean, if Dean ignores the splotchy stains where the milk leaked from his mouth to his pajama tops. Fuck it. He doesn't feel like giving either of them a bath; Samy'd been a bitch to get clean and Ryan would just glower at him until he tried to pass the activity off on Sam.
Who wasn't here. Dammit. No baths.
"Ryan," he says, "Go pick out what you wanna wear today. Sammy, we'll... find you something that isn't Ryan's." He was not dealing with Ryan freakin' the fuck out over Sammy wearing his clothes.
The way his morning was going, Ryan would declare it was his favorite outfit or Sammy would pick Ryan's second favorite outfit to wear and then doom on them all.
If that means Sammy ends up wearing a dress made out of the nearest pillowcase, well, it's not the first time it's happened to the kid. Won't be the last time, actually, when all their clothes are dirty and Dad hasn't shown up in the last few days.
He nicks a pair of Ryan's thick underwear, the kind he'd worn when he'd been potty training, and figures any temper tantrum over Sammy having to wear the "fick undies" was totally worth it. He was not going to get into an argument with Ryan over whether or not Sammy could wear his awesome Power Ranger underwear.
"Don' like the fick undies, Dean," Sammy mutters. He squirms in place, one small hand trying to hitch the underwear into something resembling comfortable and Dean? Seriously has to turn away to hide his laugh with a cough.
"I don' haveta wear the thick undies," Ryan says. Two fingers go into his mouth while he looks at Sammy with his big, solemn eyes. "I gots the Red Ranger."
Sammy's little mouth pulls up in pout as his eyebrows scrunch down. "Dean," he whines.
"You're wearin' a dress, little man. The thick undies are not gonna make you any less cool. Trust me."
He has the Colt up and pointing into the bedroom before he can even think about it. There's something jangling down his nerves, past the present Castiel gave him four friggin' years ago, and there's only one demon suicidal enough to show up in his house.
"Don't you touch him," Dean grinds out, one hand around the Colt and the other juggling two sippy cups of orange juice, "I'll blow your brains out, bitch."
"Sammy says no say bitch!" Ryan yells from the other room.
Ruby grins at him from by the window, her eyebrows raised so high they're disappearing into her blonde hair. "Yeah, Dean," she says, almost cooing, "Sam says not to call people bitches. It's rude." She's jumped bodies again, going from stacked brunette to scrawny lookin' blonde.
Somewhere down the line, Sam'd told her to quit going after bodies she thinks he'd like to bang. Only not in those words, because Sam's mostly polite, even to demon scum, but, that'd be the gist of it. She tends to go more for blondes now, the tiny, wispy kind, especially if she wants to get under Dean's skin.
He likes blondes. Sam's always preferred brunettes, Jess not-withstanding.
"What the hell're you doing here?" Dean asks flatly. The Colt's tapping agianst his thigh, not pointed at her anymore, but that's only because Sammy's poking his stupid, fluffy little head around the corner.
Ryan knows better than to wander around when Ruby comes callin'.
"Checkin' up." Ruby spins on her heel, her sheaf of blonde hair coming dangerously close to smacking Dean in the face and leans over. She braces her hands on her thighs. "Hi there, Sam," she coos, "Aren't you a cutie pie?"
"You touch him and I'll blow a hole in your head big enough to drive my car through," Dean says lightly. He smiles when Sammy looks at him with his eyebrows scrunched together.
Trying to figure shit out look, Dean knows. He's a smart kid, though, and he backs away from Ruby a few seconds later, his hand going to tangle into his hair nervously.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, Sam," Ruby says. She pushes herself back upright and smiles, her eyes seeping black for a split-second. "In point of fact, kiddo, I'd pulverize the spine of anyone who tried."
Sammy gives her a long, long look, then his lower lip wobbles and his eyes fill up and Dean body checks Ruby into the wall so he can scoop his brother up before he starts wailing.
"Somethin' I said?" Ruby asks.
The only reason he does not put a bullet through, well, some non-vital part of her is because Sam'll be pissed if she's not kickin' when he gets back. That, and the fact that she looks honestly confused, like she doesn't know that it scares kids when you threaten people.
Some ways, being topside for so long has made her more human. In others, Dean's pretty sure she's left all of her humanity down below, scarfed up by demons the same way they'd started tearin' into him.
"Seriously," Ruby says. "I follow this? He's crying! I don't even know why he's crying! Make him stop, Dean. It's. It's creepy! My Antichrist should not cry like that."
Sammy sniffles against the side of Dean's neck, tiny and hot and scared, and the Colt taps a jerky rhythym against Dean's thigh. "Get out of here," he tells Ruby.
"Going," she says. She hesitates by the window she crawled through, turns back to Dean and cocks her hip. "I'll be around. In case doom and smite decides to try his hand at the wee Sam, alright? If you need help or anything, yell. Or scream. Or die. I'll definitely be around if you get yourself offed again."
The smile she gives him is full of to many teeth and under her black eyes.
Dean snorts. "You keep hopin'," he says. "Castiel'll just pull my ass right back out again."
"Heaven's favored," Ruby says with a sigh. She heaves herself up, out, her hands still planted on the windowsill as Sammy snuffles wetly against Dean's throat. "Just remember, if I can't touch him, you don't get to let the heavenly host scramble him either.
"He's the way he's supposed to be. They can't make him holy without killing him," she sneers.
Goddamnit, Dean knows that. He rubs a hand down Sammy's back and says, "Don't you tell me what to do, you black eyed bitch. I know that kid better than anyone. I know."
She smiles again and flips her blonde hair behind her shoulder with a shrug. "Just didn't want you getting any ideas, Dean-o. Judging by the stink of holier-than-thou feathers in the alley I lost Sam in, your pet angels are involved. Free head's up from me."
Dean feels Sammy loosen his deathgrip on the collar of his shirt just before the little head lifts to peak over at Ruby. The demon smiles again and waves. Sammy hides his head under Dean's jacket this time, tiny little fingers tugging it over his messy mop of hair.
"Bye," he hears Ryan say. "Come back soon!"
"I'll bring presents next time, kidlet," Ruby yells. She pushes away from the windowsill and gives Dean a mocking salute. "Still can't believe I'm followin' a crybaby," she mutters.
Dean doesn't watch her walk away. She knows the way through the intricate labrynth of anti-demonic shit Dean's got strewn around the yard and the house, and if she manages to fuck up than she can just sit there until Sam comes back and lets her ass out.
"Can I come out now?" Ryan asks. His blond head peaks around the doorway again without waiting for a response. Dean'll take him to task on that some other time, but it's hard to yell at your kid when he skips up to you (skipping! He blames Sam), looks up at your hiding baby brother, and coos, "No cry, baby. S'okay."
He's willing to admit that sometimes Ryan's too damn cute for his own good.
Sammy unburies his head to give Ryan an unimpressed look. "Not baby," he says wetly. Dean's pretty sure he's got a lovely shirtful of snot goin' on near his collar. It doesn't really surprise him that he doesn't care.
You have a kid, you get used to all sorts of shit. When Ryan was a couple of months old, Sam'd wandered around with up-chucked formula on his shirts for weeks. Hadn't even noticed it. Dean figures he's still got one up on Sam.
He knows what he's wearing. He just doesn't care.
Knowing what he's wearing sort of leads him back to why he's wearing it, though. It's Sunday and usually Dean's pretty content to lounge around in boxers and socks for most of the day, but he'd gotten dressed. Sammy would not stop whining about being in a dress and Ryan wanted to go to the bookstore for his weekly dose of geekdom.
"Alright," Dean says, "What say we go get Sammy some new clothes?" Sammy perks up against his shoulder just as Ryan's lower lip pokes out. "And Ryan's book," Dean adds hastily. He has to change that to a, "Both of your books," when Sammy looks like he's contemplating screaming about the unfairness of it all.
Dean might join him if he did.
Sam'd been the geek to get Ryan hooked on books. If it were up to Dean, the kid would just get a new toy car or something everytime he was good, but, no. Ryan got a new damn book every freakin' Sunday because Sam had to make his kid as geeky as he was.
Of course Sammy would want a new book too.
Whatever the fuck Sam'd done when Dean was twenty-three to get himself back where he belonged, he better be freakin' doin' it soon.
The thing about bookstores is that while Dean's always declared that they were friggin' evil, he's never actually had something EMF-y happen to him in one. Until now.
"Jesus Christ," Dean hisses, "Can't a guy do freakin' anything these days without having something supernatural show up and ruin it?"
Castiel blinks his big, puppy eyes. "It is unlikely that you are ever truly rid of the supernatural, Dean," he says contemplatively. He stands next to Dean, watching Ryan motor his way through the stack of colorful cardboard books. "After all, I did loan you my powers once."
"Over four years ago, man. Haven't I, like, shat that shit out yet?" Dean rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets, and barks out, "Back over here!" when it looks like Sammy's trying to wander out of the kids section and into the cooking.
"Angelic powers are not like food poisoning, Dean," Castiel says. He sounds about as amused as he can possibly be, his hands limp and loose at his side. "They do not simply 'pass out' of the human body."
Dean can remember him freakin' the fuck out of his younger self. You know. Before he knew the dude Sam was callin' on for help was an angel and not some revenant or something. "I don't burn Sam anymore," he says lightly, "Haven't for years."
(Smell of human flesh sizzling and wanting to jerk back because it's Sam but there are some things more important than not hurtin' his brother's skin and that was making sure he'd still have a little brother in twenty minutes.)
"Sam is no longer as demonic as he was. His blood is non-reactive to us again," Castiel says. He tilts his head and stares at Dean's little little brother. "He was a charming child."
Dean snorts. "He was a brat, same as he is now."
Sammy's already clutching something to his chest, his eyes darting around like he's terrified someone's gonna take it from him. Dean thinks it's pretty sad, but that's how he remembers his kid brother; even at four, he'd cried over having to leave his books behind whenever they moved.
"Hi, Cas," Ryan says when he looks up. He's got a book in hand; Dean holds back a laugh as soon as he sees the title. It says a lot about his kid that the book he wants is Dirt on my Shirt.
"Hello, Ryan. Are you well?"
Ryan blinks at him a few times. "Kay," he says and goes back to digging through the bargain books.
"You show up for a reason?" Dean asks. From what he remembers, it's gonna be Sam that fixes this shit, wedges time back together like it should be. Castiel will help, if you qualify freakin' the fuck out of Dean helping, but. There you go.
"I would like to put a safeguard on this Sam," Castiel says. He shifts, fidgeting, and Dean leans over to tap him pointedly on the shoulder when he realizes that the shadow behind him is mutating.
"A 'hide him from my homicidal co-worker' safeguard," Dean asks flatly, "Or a 'if he ever turns evil it'll kill him' safeguard?"
The long silence tells him all he needs to know. "I do not fuckin' understand," he continues, "Why the hell you all think you need to meddle with him. He freakin' did what you wanted him to. And he did it because he thought it was right."
"There were things lost," Castiel says. "The integrity of the barrier between hell and earth. My comrades. If this ending could be avoided for one slightly more beneficial, it would be best."
"I am not helping you fuck up my happy ending, dude." Dean takes his hands out of his pockets in order to cross them over his chest, his voice still pleasant. "All roads lead to the same destiny, isn't that the shit you mumbled at me before? Can't change the past, Castiel.
"Sides, I don't think the Big Guy would like you fuckin' with Sam. Might make him crazy, you never know."
Castiel is quite for a long minutes. "Understood," he finally says stiffly.
Dean's still the general of Heaven's army, even if the general of Hell's is more interested in his ass than he is in starting a war.
"I will leave him to you, then," Castiel continues. "Sam at nineteen is significantly less protected than his other selves."
"Yeah, you don't fuck him up either," Dean says darkly.
Castiel inclines his head slightly. "I won't."
Sound of wings next to him and Dean watches the people milling in the kiddy isle to see if anyone else can hear it. Sammy looks up with a frown, which, no suprise there, but nobody else so much as twitches. Also not that big of a surprise.
A tug on his jean leg. Dean reacts to it with an eyeroll; he can hear the rip in the knee tear more under the force of the kid's fingers. "Dean?" Ryan says.
"S'up, kid?"
Ryan's eyes are big, brown, and pleading when he looks up. "Two books?" he asks, four clutched to his chest.
"One," Dean says firmly.
"One book?" Sammy says, coming up from the side. He, Dean can't help but notice, also has more than one book in a deathgrip. "Two? Please, Dean, two?"
Goddamnit. The kid's in this shirt dress number, one of Dean's old Motorhead shirts cinched tight with one of Ryan's shiny leather dress up belts. It almost looks like Dean did it on purpose, which is probably what's keeping the dozen or so moms in this section from calling CPS on him, but, still.
His little brother's in a dress. And he looks like a little girl, with those huge eyes and his dark, curly hair and Dean feels sort of bad about it, because Sam hasn't thrown a tantrum over it and Ryan would have.
"Fine," he says. "Two books."
Sammy can count to two. He swallows hard, beams up at Dean, and offers him Pigeon Wants a Puppy and Peg Leg Peke. Dean wants to sigh. He's pretty sure they have both of those books back at the house. Sam picked them out for Ryan.
Should have seen that one comin'.
Ryan, on the other hand, can't count. Or he likes to pretend he doesn't. He innocently hands up the dirty shirt book, another Pigeon book, then hesitates, dimples, and passes up two Dr. Suesses.
The only reason Dean doesn't buy him all four (what? So the kid's spoiled, so what) is because he doesn't want to deal with Sammy screaming about only getting two.
The second stop for the day is the Salvation Army around the corner. Not the most glamorous place to get your duds, but it'd always been good to Dean and he really doesn't want to drop a bunch of money on shit that's just going to get shipped back with his baby baby brother anyway.
"Hold hands," Dean says as soon as they climb out of the Impala. Then he wants to hit his head on the roof of his baby, because, seriously? Sam's turned him into a paranoid housewife.
And you love it, Sam'd pointed out last time Dean'd said anything about it.
Ryan grabs one hand. Sammy grabs the other. And off they go, deep into the jungle of second hand clothing.
It's warm outside, but Dean finds himself gravitating towards the long sleeve toddler shirts. It's been so damn long since he's seen Sam in anything but sleeves outside that it takes a couple seconds to compute that Sammy's pulling him more towards the tanks.
"Want a puppy shirt," Sammy says softly. Ryan nods his head on Dean's other side and says, "I like puppies."
He lets go of both kids's hands and takes a step back so he can keep them in sight. The immediately dive into finding what they want, both of them used to it. Ryan takes regular trips here when Sam gets on his kick about consumer societies.
Sammy's wrists look tiny and naked against the rows of shirts.
It's been three or four years since he last saw them unmarked, since his handprints had been branded onto Sam. He absently reaches up to scratch at the scar on his own shoulder, faded now but still clear as day. He didn't go around shirtless any more than Sam went around in short sleeves.
"This one," Ryan says decisively.
His kid brother wrinkles his tiny little nose, reaching over to clumsily hold the clothes in question. Dean sees right away what the problem is. "Not a girl," Sammy hisses out. He lets the dress drop to the concrete and gives Ryan a filthy look.
Dean finds himself bending over to pick it up, the tired old, "Clean up after yourself, brat," slipping out of his mouth before he can even stop to think about it. God. He's such a freakin' parent.
Lucky for him, both kids ignore him. His humiliation would have been complete if Sammy had decided to humor him, oh God. He's supposed to be the messy one in this relationship. Not Sam.
"Girls wear dress," Ryan says. He looks over at Sammy, who's about two seconds away from stamping his feet and declaring that Ryan's a stupid poopy-head, and purses his mouth. "You wearin' dress."
"Not a girl," Sammy says venomously.
Dean leans over to pick Ryan up before Sam can get around to kickin' him in the shins. Shit hurt.
"Sammy is not a girl," he tells Ryan. When the kid opens his mouth, he just knows he's going to point out that Dean routinely calls Sam a girl and that would just piss wee Sammy right the fuck off. "Shut your pie hole, Ry."
Ryan kicks him in the spine. Again. Sometimes Dean serisouly wonders how the fuck he got saddled with a little brat who kicked shit and then looked at you with huge brown eyes expecting it to all be alright. Then he realizes that Sam's had a hand in raising said brat and Sam was a freakin' brat to begin with, so he really should have expected it.
He blames Sam. For everything.
"I know that wasn't Sammy," Dean says direly. "Do it again and I'll take your books back."
His threats were probably more effective when the threaten-ee didn't know he was too damn lazy to drive back to the bookstore. He'd totally leave the books here, though. Totally.
He wasn't lying to himself or anything like that.
"This one?" Sammy asks a few minutes later, when Ryan's migrated from being stiff with outrage over being held to a tiny head on his shoulder. The shirt's got a trail of dogs on it, black ones that look sort of like Dina, and Dean's nodding before he can get much further than that.
Sam's always liked dogs.
"Yeah, fine," Dean says. "Let's get you some pants, Sammy, and then we'll grab somethin' to eat. Fried sounds good, right?" Because damn if Dean could cook anything that didn't come out of a can. And Sam didn't let him keep spaghetti-os in the house.
Something about how the smell made him naseous. Whatever. Dean had an iron stomach. Sam, being the girl, had been saddled with the ridiculously sensitive one between the two of them.
The jeans are much, much easier. Ryan is still muttering in his neck about how girls should wear dresses, though, and Dean rolls his eyes hard and resolves to stick the boy in a dress to shut him the hell up later.
Little gender confusion never hurt anyone. Sam probably wouldn't object. If he did, Dean could totally pull out the fucked up, wrinkled, dog eared picture from Dad's journal, where Sammy is all of ten and wearing a sundress.
There'd been a hunt or something, little girls disappearing, and, well. Dean'd already started to broaden by then. Should have seen the look on Sam's face, Dean thinks gleefully. Definitely worth the dead arm Sam'd given him after he'd realized Dean had taken a picture.
Sammy's small hand finds his again right before they hit the check out line, two pairs of jeans and three t-shirts richer. Dean's pretty sure the kid's not gonna be here for more than a few days and while lookin' at Sammy makes his heart clench tighter than anything else ever could, he wants his brother back.
The one that would have bitched about him feeding the kids Mickey Dees for lunch.
"What'a you guys want?" he asks. There's nobody in front of him and a huge line behind him, but fuck if he's gonna get to the damn window and have both of them decide they want to hem and haw for five minutes.
He throws an arm over the back of his seat (where Sam should be, dammit) and twists around to look at two curious sets of brown eyes. "No ice cream for lunch," he tells Ryan. "No soda," he tells Sammy.
Such. A freakin'. Parent.
"Chicken nuggets," Ryan says from the backseat at the same time that Sammy pipes up with, "Hammybugger."
"Got it," Dean says, and rolls down the window. "Two happy meals," he tells the pimply faced kid, fry grease thick on his forehead and bad attitude even thicker. "One hamburger, none of those chopped up onion things, kid'll throw a fit. And one with nuggets. Fries, chocolate milk on both of those."
The chocolate milk is a nod for Sam, 'cause fuck if he's gonna make the boys eat apple slices or something. You came to the fast food backbone of America, you'd better be prepared to eat the deep fried and salty.
Chocolate because, well. Who the hell wanted to drink regular milk when you could drink chocolate instead? Freaks, that's who.
"And two Big Macs, one fry, largest one you've got, and a root beer. Large."
Dean doesn't pay attention to the kid reciting his order back at him. There's a nice little board he can stare at instead, his order highlighted in red, and, besides. Kid is kind of squeaky and obnoxious.
"Sixteen fifty at the next window," pimply kid squeaks out.
Swear to God, he can remember a time when gettin' lunch for three people, two of them with stomachs the size of his fist wouldn't have cost more than ten bucks. Those times, however, are gone. He grudgingly digs his wallet out of his back pocket, shifting foward on the seat with a creak of leather.
The wtenty he's got is so old and mangled that Dean's kind of afraid they're not gonna take it from him. He slides out two tens, just in case, and wiggles his wallet back where it goes.
The he pulls forward and prepares himself to play the waiting game.
He bangs on the steering wheel in tune to AC/DC, trying to ignore Ryan belting out made up lyrics to the song. Sammy just stares out of the window, face scrunched and lower lip poking out. People watchin', Dean figures. Or maybe just trying to wrap his scarily smart little kid brain around the fact that everything doesn't look quite as it should.
Seriously grateful here that Sammy's still young enough to take most shit at face value.
"'m hungry," Ryan says plaintively.
"Hungry too," Sammy aggrees.
Dean rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a second and sighs. "You're hungry, he's hungry, we're all hungry, here."
A half beat of silence while Sammy and Ryan both contemplate this. "I miss Sammy," Ryan finally says. He has his arms crossed when Dean flicks a glance into the rearview mirror, chubby little fingers clutching his elbows as he huffs.
He swallows hard. "I miss him too, Ryan."
"I miss Daddy," Sammy declares, not to be left out. "An' mine Dean. Miss mine Dean."
Dean doesn't know whether to laugh because Sammy's agreeing with him, even if he's bitching while he does it, or if he should pretend not to hear him, because. Just. Because. Sure he knows intellectually that Sam misses Dad just like he does, but to hear it in this piping, clear voice makes something in him splinter
The window opening takes care of that for him. Dean lifts his head off the steering wheel and gives the equally pimply girl working this window a dazzling smile. Her blush creeps up her neck and Dean leans back farther in his seat, grinning. Yep. Still got it.
"Here's your order," the girl stutters out. She hands him two bags and his drink, takes his damn twenty and blinks down at it. "I haven't seen one of these in a long time," she says finally. "I think I have to get a manager to authorize it."
Dean taps his fingers on the wheel. On the one hand, he doesn't want to hang onto money he can't really use without people lookin' at him funny. On the other hand, he's got two toddlers in the backseat and both of them are hungry, cranky, and in need of a nap.
"Nah," he says, "I've got tens."
Pimply girl smiles at Dean in clear relief and leans over to take his money from him. "Thanks," she says, "My manager's kind of..."
"Hey, no problem." He's had his share of shitty jobs before. Granted, now he didn't actually work for a living, because for some reason Bela Talbot made him really freakin' rich before she got torn apart, but he remembers. "Thanks for the food."
The girl smiles again, still blushing. "Have a good day."
"I'm hungry," Ryan complains loudly from the backseat. Again.
"It's quiet time right now, Ryan," Dean says as he pulls out of the drive-through. "You do not eat in my car, messy pants."
Both kids whine the entire damn way home.
