His Hand in Mine 1/2
Aug. 21st, 2009 01:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faye_dartmouthTitle: His Hand in Mine
Author:faye_dartmouth
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lostandalone22
Word Count: around 10,000
Author’s Note: I took the fun prompts bylostandalone22 at the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
summer_sam_love fic exchange and combined it with some (unfortunately) real life experience I have had in the last year. Wee!Sam is precious to write, and so I hope this fits the bill. Thanks to sendintheklowns for the idea and geminigrl11 for the beta.
Prompt: Sam sick as a toddler with something worse than the flu and John (and possibly another hunter) spend time taking care of him and trying to make him better. With a little bit of Sam meeting the various other hunters (like Bobby, Caleb, Jim, and Joshua) for the first time and what their first impressions were.
Summary: That’s what John is doing. Each hunt, each bit of research. He’s caring for the wound that’s seared into them as best he can. They all might scar, but it’ll heal. It’ll heal.
Author:
faye_dartmouth Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Recipient:
lostandalone22 Word Count: around 10,000
Author’s Note: I took the fun prompts by
lostandalone22 at the summer_sam_love fic exchange and combined it with some (unfortunately) real life experience I have had in the last year. Wee!Sam is precious to write, and so I hope this fits the bill. Thanks to sendintheklowns for the idea and geminigrl11 for the beta.Prompt: Sam sick as a toddler with something worse than the flu and John (and possibly another hunter) spend time taking care of him and trying to make him better. With a little bit of Sam meeting the various other hunters (like Bobby, Caleb, Jim, and Joshua) for the first time and what their first impressions were.
Summary: That’s what John is doing. Each hunt, each bit of research. He’s caring for the wound that’s seared into them as best he can. They all might scar, but it’ll heal. It’ll heal.
-o-
I can feel his hand in mine
That’s all I need to know.
-from “His Hand in Mine” by Elvis Presley
-o-
There’s not much in South Dakota. Between the Badlands and Mount Rushmore and maybe Sturgis, John can’t fathom why anyone would want to come here at all. Parts of it are pretty, John supposes, but it’s empty and its mostly rural. The towns seem small and mostly dirty, which John figures is more a problem with the dusty air than the people themselves.
It occurs to John, as he watches his sons sleeping in the back seat, that maybe South Dakota’s not really the problem.
He tries to remember how many miles he’s put on the car since Mary. He tries to remember how many nights he’s loaded the boys into motel rooms and fed them greasy eggs at small town diners. It’s John’s life that is grainy and faded, rubbing raw against the edges of his soul as he tries to make sense of anything that’s happened since that night.
It’s the best he can do, he tells himself, and it’s almost true. The boys are alive and clothed and fed. They even laugh a little, Dean playing games with Sammy to make the hours slide by.
But there are some things John can’t change. Really, there’s just one thing that John can’t change, and it’s the thing that matters most. He can’t bring Mary back. He can’t give his boys a mother, can’t fill the void of her absence, not even a little.
But he can get the thing that killed her. He can make sure his boys stay safe and alive and maybe then, only then, will her legacy be fulfilled.
John steels himself, looking in the rearview mirror again. Dawn has broken, with reds and oranges behind him, and the boys are slumped in their seats, asleep.
It’s the best he can do, and right now South Dakota isn’t about the starchy flat plains or the wondrous achievement of Mount Rushmore. It’s about a man named Bobby Singer, who owns a salvage yard in the middle of nowhere. Daniel Elkins told him that Bobby might be able to help him.
Right now, it’s the best lead he’s got, so John pushes the pedal farther toward the ground, and lets the sun burn hard at his back, so bright that when he looks to check on his boys again, all he can see is brightness.
-o-
Bobby Singer is a gruff man. Bearded and with a hat drawn over his shaggy hair, Bobby scowls at John over the end of a shotgun until John can explain.
“I got your name from Daniel Elkins,” he says, hands up and placating. “He said you might be able to help me.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t say that I’d want to help you now, would he?”
That much is true, but John’s come this far. He doesn’t smile, but keeps his face earnest and his hands where Singer can see them. “He said you would be able to help me figure out about a demon.”
Bobby’s eyes narrow. “There are lots of demons.”
“I’m just looking for one.”
“Ain’t we all.”
John purses his lips. “It killed my wife.”
Bobby stiffens a little at that, and his aim wavers.
“Please,” John persists, seeing his opening. Hunters are human, perhaps the most human of all. Because everyone has a story, everyone got into this somehow, and John knows that it’s not just for the kicks. “I have my sons with me.”
He gestures to the car and Bobby’s gaze follows it. He curses, puts his gun down. “You some kind of idiot?” he asks, shaking his head. “This ain’t no place for children.”
John looks at him gravely, and thinks about Sammy’s burnt out nursery. “And what place is?”
Bobby gets his gist, because between hunter and hunter, they know the world’s not a safe place. There’s no such thing as innocent or safe, and John tells himself that so it’s not so hard to raise his sons in motel rooms and the backseat of the Impala.
With a sigh, Bobby pushes his front door open. “Come on, then,” he growls, disappearing into the house.
John almost grins as he watches him. In quick strides, he goes back to the car. The boys are drowsy in the back seat, Dean blinking sleepily and Sam looking grouchily for his blanket. Unbuckling Dean, he hands Sam the blanket from the floor, easing his youngest out of the car seat.
“Where are we, Daddy?” Dean asks.
“A friend,” he says, and he believes it. “We’re at the home of a friend.”
It’s good enough for Dean, and Sam’s too bleary eyed to know the difference. With Sam in one arm and their duffel in the other, John leads his sons inside.
-o-
Bobby is glowering in the kitchen when John finds him. He deposits the bag on the table and sets Sam on his feet, only to be met with an impassioned wail as the toddler throws himself at John’s legs. Sam’s hot breath is on his knee and he looks down to see his son watching him with a twinge of desperation.
“He needs to be held longer,” Dean says. “He just woke up.”
John doesn’t believe in coddling the boys, not like he might have once, but he’s half afraid if Sam has a meltdown, Bobby might send them to the curb just as fast. It’s easier to scoop Sam up, bouncing him gently as he looks at the other man.
Bobby is watching with something like discomfort and uncertainty. “Awful young, ain’t they?”
“Dean’s almost six now,” John explains. “He’ll start kindergarten next fall.”
“Little one can’t be over two.”
“Does it matter?”
Bobby’s brow furrows a bit. “Just tryin’ to get to know my company is all,” he replies, a harsh edge to his voice.
It’s fair enough, John supposes, but his sons are off limits. Bobby has let them inside, but Daniel Elkins’ recommendation doesn’t carry as much weight as John may let on. “His name is Sammy,” John says as a concession. “He may look like the easy one now, but give him some time and you’ll know him better than you want to.”
Bobby looks uncomfortable again. “So now that we’ve got the introduction over,” he says, “You want to talk business?”
John meets the man’s gaze steadily. Bobby has information; John has questions. It’s as much as they need to be friendly.
Putting Sam down again, he looked the boy squarely in the eyes. “I want you to mind Dean, you understand?”
The little boy blinks earnestly. He hasn’t picked up many words yet. John’s not much for conversation and Dean’s still quiet in the wake of his mother’s death, so there’s not much for Sam to learn from. But the kid is smart as anything, and John knows Sam understands, as much as an eighteen-month-old can.
Turning his eyes to Dean, he is just as firm. “You stay out of trouble,” he orders. “And keep Sam where you can see him.”
Dean nods. He takes the duffel off the table. “Come on, Sammy,” he says, walking out to the next room. John can see it is a disheveled living room, with sagging couches and a cracked coffee table.
“You want to head to the library?” Bobby offers.
“Do you want your living room destroyed?”
Bobby makes a face. “What?”
John grinned wearily. “Trust me, we want to stay here.”
Bobby just raises his eyebrows and gives a small shake of his head. “So why don’t you tell me about this demon?”
-o-
Turns out, Bobby Singer knows more about demons than John thought was possible. Daniel had been a wealth of knowledge, expert in everything from werewolves to wendigos and just about everything in between. He had even given John the rundown on demons, their basic functions and how to get rid of them. They’d memorized a few exorcisms and taken one down in one of the hardest hunts John’s face yet.
But Bobby--
Where Daniel is knowledgeable, Bobby is downright obsessed. Within two hours, they’ve speculated on the demons powerful enough to do what John’s looking for, reading up on their histories and their trails.
It’s a little hit and miss, because no demon seems to have quite this MO. Until they can pin down the demon or at least the class of demon, summoning it will be damn hard and tracking it will be a damn near impossibility.
“How do you know all this?” John asks, shaking his head in amazement.
Bobby just snorts. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?”
John looks up, surprised. There’s a story there, but Bobby hasn’t asked any questions apart of the pertinent ones, and John knows enough to return the favor.
Bobby scowls, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. He glances out past John toward the living room where the boys are playing. Dean’s gotten a few toy cars from the duffel, crashing them together repeatedly. Sam’s distracted by a stack of books, carefully opening the covers and turning the pages.
“I’m sorry,” John tells him.

Bobby snorts. “Got way passed sympathy a long time ago,” he says. He looks back at John. “Moved straight on to revenge.”
“I know that feeling,” John tells him. “That’s why I have to find this thing.”
Bobby hesitates, just for a moment. “You know, you need to remember one thing in all this. I can tell you everything I know. I can help track your demon and, if we can find it, I can help you get rid of the damn thing. But it’ll cost you.”
“I don’t have any money,” John says. The insurance pay out only lasted so long and the boys’ bank accounts were never big enough to start with.
Bobby shakes his head. “I’m not talking about money,” he says. “I’m talking about them.”
John glances at his sons, and then turns dark eyes back to Bobby. “My sons have nothing to do with this.”
“They have everything to do with this,” Bobby tells him. “You’re running around acting like a man with nothing left to lose.”
“It took my wife,” John tells him, his voice low.
“But it didn’t take your sons,” Bobby counters. He blows out a breath. “If they were mine--”
“They’re not,” John says crisply. “Will you help me?”
Bobby’s mouth shuts, thinning out. He nods. “I’ll help you.”
John nods. “Then let’s do this.”
-o-
The next few days are intense. They research and they read. They look for patterns and demonic markers. It’s tedious and slow work, elongated by as much caffeine as John can stomach and as little sleep as Bobby will work on.
The boys run about the house, confined to the four walls of Bobby’s living room. They set up a spare room for the boys to sleep in, but John likes them within ear’s reach at all times if he can help it.
Bobby helps by picking up some of the things off the floor, even vacuums to pick up anything small that Sam might try to eat. It’s too cold to go outside and Bobby’s TV only gets one channel, so the boys have been creative in their means of entertainment.
Truthfully, John’s almost too engrossed to notice their antics. It’s something he’s used to. The controlled chaos of their play. Until there was screaming or crying, the noise assured John they were alive and well, which was about all he could muster.
They stop to eat, deli sandwiches and a mismatched assortment of unrecognizable canned foods. Sammy drinks all the milk in the house in a day, so they live on tap water for the rest of it, until Bobby promises to take them into town to buy something more suitable.
It’s not perfect, but it’s got some of the comforts of home with all the perks of a hunting library. Singer’s not as organized as John would like, but his chaos is a good complement to John’s structure, and he feels as though they might really be making progress.
When the boys are asleep that night, Bobby hands him a beer and crashes hard on a chair. “They’re good boys,” Bobby says.
John opens his beer and takes a drink. “I know.”
Bobby nods a little, sipping his own. “I feel bad there ain’t much here for them.”
“They’re fine,” John says, and it’s mostly the truth.
“Nah, the place ain’t even baby proofed,” he says. “I ought to at least cover the outlets.”
“Sam would just pull them out anyway.”
“You sure they’ll be warm enough in there?”
John wants to laugh, but is almost too tired to make the effort. “They’ll be fine.”
“It’s like ice in here,” Bobby says. “I’ll put another log on the fire.”
John doesn’t agree or disagree, just watches tiredly as Bobby puts his beer down and goes to the hearth. He pulls a log from the pile. Opening the glass casing surrounding it, Bobby hauls the log in. It crackles and groans as embers flare up, settle again, then take root.
John wants to get up, wants to keep working, but the fire is warm and the night is dark. Bobby settles in the chair across from them and neither of them talk until they are both asleep.
-o-
John awakes to the brush of something against his knee.
A brush and then a full on jostle pulls John fully aware and he blinks the sleep away in time to see Sam’s mischievous grin as he launches into a friendly hello of da-da-da.
John relaxes, stretching a little as he puts a hand on Sam’s head. The toddler is encouraged by that and starts to scale the couch. Shifting, John makes room for Sam. It takes a moment, but the small boy labors his way up and pushes to a sitting position, looking proudly up at his father with a giggle.
John can’t help but smile back. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” he asks, and he remembers vaguely why toddlers were supposed to still sleep in cribs. “How long have you been up anyway? And where’s your brother?”
Usually Sam’s early morning rustling wakes Dean first, an inevitable consequence of them sharing a bed. He relies on Dean to keep tabs on Sam when he can’t, but given that Dean is only five, he supposes, he really can’t be too upset about it.
Still, it gives him a moment’s pause to think about his baby boy up and around the house all by himself. He’s seen the messes Sam can get into--and he certainly hopes Bobby hasn’t left anything that is dangerous or valuable within the little guy’s reach.
With a sigh, John glances across the room. His new research companion is still zonked out on the chair. Pushing to his feet, John feels his age and the lack of sleep. He groans, and Sam is at him again, standing on the couch and making an imploring lunge with his arms.
Rather than let his son fall off the couch, John deftly sweeps him into his arms, positioning the child on his hip.
Sam, for his part, settles in contentedly, fingers going to John’s face, wet and sticky on his scruff. He bites playfully at Sam’s fingers, which try to explore his mouth next, and the boy giggles again.
This is good enough, he thinks. Sam is happy. Sam is healthy. If his boy can giggle, than John has fought the good fight for another day--and won.
As good as that feels, it doesn’t negate what has to be done today. There’s still plenty of research ahead, but first he needs to get Sam in order so he can start it. Briefly, he stops by Dean’s room, poking his head in and finding his oldest sprawled across the mattress on the floor, one arm flung above his head and a sheet barely covering his torso.
It would probably be easier to wake Dean, but seeing his son like that, so safe and relaxed, John’s hard pressed to do it. He can handle Sammy on his own, just for a bit.
Closing the door softly behind him, he bounces Sam down the hall. He shivers a little, feeling the chill of the house. He thinks of Dean, only half covered with a sheet and stops by the fireplace. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to open the glass and toss in a fresh log. He adds another for good measure, lingering for a moment to feel their heat.
Replacing the screen, he walks on. In the kitchen, he takes in the mess and makes a face. He hadn’t noticed how poorly they’ve kept house the last few days. Not that he thinks Bobby is probably ever very fastidious, but the dishes and generalized mess of two young children definitely makes the place worse for wear.
He puts Sam down to open the fridge, and the toddler hedges at his heels for a peak. He’s reaching for the beer on the lower shelves when John spots the eggs and juice, and thinks that’ll be enough to get them going. Pulling them out, he pushes Sam gently out of the way with his leg as he closes the door. Sam takes the movement well and scrambles around, looking up at his father in anticipation of his next move.
“How about some breakfast there, buddy?”
Sam smiles, his two front teeth clearly visible. “Da da da da,” he says.
“You want breakfast?” John asks.
In reply, Sam moves his feet, in a frantic approximation of a tap dance that makes John laugh. “Okay, okay,” he relents. “I’ll get to work on it.”
Turning toward the stove, he realizes it’s probably going to be more work than he realized. The pans are dirty and stacked in the sink, and he’s not entirely sure where Bobby would keep more if he has them. Hoping to avoid doing dishes, John opens cabinets and cupboards, looking for something suitable. Pulling out the rack under the stove, he strikes gold, or metal anyway. They look old but clean, and he retrieves a skillet that looks like it’ll do the job.
“It’ll just be a minute,” John is saying as he looks back at his boy.
But Sam’s not there.
John pauses for a second, a flash of dread moving through him. Sam’s an active kid, though. A fast mover. He started walking young and had been on the go ever since. Wandering off isn’t out of the realm of possibility or even altogether unusual for an inquisitive kid like Sammy, and John isn’t sure why he’s finally feeling some concern about the place after giving the boys mostly free range for the last three days.
Still, there’s something about this that just seems different. Maybe it is parental instinct finally kicking in, maybe it’s just paranoia, but John needs to know where his son is. Now.
He steps into the living room and sees a flash of Sam’s red footsie pajamas. Sam loves to be chased--it’s not often he gets his father’s attention, and his habit when he does, is to bolt in the other direction as to initiate a game of chase. It’s Sammy’s way of asking to play, as best as his little self can.
Which is all well and good except they’re guests in this house and Bobby is still sound asleep. John’s about to scold his son for being so inconsiderate, but his mouth freezes and his heart stops when he sees where Sam’s headed.
It’s almost in slow motion--Sam’s happy toddling sprint across the room. Sam’s all smiles and he pauses when he reaches the far end, looking back with a triumphant grin for finally garnering his father’s full attention.
“Sam, no--” John’s saying, but it’s too late.
His little boy’s hand goes out to steady himself, reaching for the closest thing. Normally, it’d be a couch or a wall or even a table or a person, but not this time.
Because Bobby has a fireplace, one John stoked just five minutes ago. And it’s raging hot, the flames licking at the wood and John can feel the heat from here.
It’s covered with glass, at least, but glass isn’t impenetrable.
More than that, it gets hot. He remembers the heat from it as he’d added the logs.
He’s moving faster than his mouth is working, scaling the distance with lunging strides. He’s fast and the panic in his heart makes him faster but it’s not fast enough.
Sam’s hand makes contact, palm against it and fingertips pressed down, and it only takes a second for his son’s face to scrunch up in shock.
John’s already got him under the arms, plucking the boy away from the danger. It’s only been a second--just one second--and for a moment, John thinks, maybe it’s not so bad.
Sam is wailing, of course, but John can’t tell if it’s pain or fear. Sam gets spooked sometimes, and the initial cry of being startled isn’t a whole lot less mournful than that of pain. He pulls the boy into his arms, cradling him, trying to control his breathing as he pries at Sam’s hand.
The toddler has it locked pretty tight, and it’s hard to get a good look. John can see that it’s red, but it doesn’t look as bad as he might have thought, but Sam’s still crying, eyes wet and wide, and mouth wide open with intense wails.
“What the hell?” Bobby’s voice asks.
John doesn’t spare the man a glance, but keeps his eyes trained on his son, looking for more clues, more signs.
“What happened?”
John swallows. “He burned himself,” he forces himself to say. He closes his eyes, pulling his son a little closer. “I just turned around for a minute.”
Bobby is lurking over them now, and John can feel his presence. “Burned?”
John opens his eyes, and looks at Sam. The tears are bigger now, his face red with the exertion of crying. “The fireplace screen.”
Bobby curses. “How bad?”
John tries to look at the hand again, but can’t see much. But Sam’s cries aren’t abating, and John knows the boy is in pain. “I don’t know.”
“Lemme get some ice,” Bobby grumbles, and it’s more fear than inconvenience in his voice.
John doesn’t even nod, just pulls Sam closer, rocking the boy as best he can, brushing a kiss in his hair. Sam thrashes though, his cries taking on a desperate pitch, and John is beginning to feel nauseated.
Bobby returns with a washcloth full of ice, but it’s more than a little difficult to apply it to Sam’s hand. Sam screams with new vigor at the cold, his head thrown back with strained cries.
It’s about more than John can take--Sam’s tears are big and his face is contorted with pain. He’s stopped writhing, but somehow John doesn’t think that’s altogether a good thing. His little boy is still hurting, but has almost resigned himself to it.
Because his son’s not even looking at him. When Sam wants attention or comfort, he makes no mistake in letting John know. This is different--Sam’s cries aren’t directed at him, aren’t directed at anything at all. It’s all Sam can do, and John feels his heart clench a little in his chest.
“Daddy?” Dean’s voice asks.
John looks up, feeling stricken. His five year old is in front of him with a serious case of bed-head and eyes wide.
“What’s wrong with Sammy?” Dean asks.
“He touched the fireplace,” John tells him shortly. He wonders if some parents would lie to their children, try to soften it a little, but he doesn’t lie to Dean. He can’t lie to Dean, not like he can Sam. Dean is his entirely, as much a partner as a child, and John refuses to deny his oldest the truth, no matter what.
Dean’s eyes go rounder, looking from his screaming brother to the fire still raging. He steps forward, touching Sam’s head gently.
This should do it, John thinks. Dean’s touch is almost magic, stilling even the most ferocious of Sam’s fits. Dean can calm Sam down--and then they can better assess the situation. With Sam calmed, they can look at his hand, see how serious it is and figure out what to do. Look into getting antiseptic and gauze, and maybe see about a little Tylenol.
Dean’s hand strokes Sam’s hair and the little boy’s eyes meet his big brother’s. There’s the pain and desperation again, and his wails ratchet up another notch.
“Shh, Sammy,” Dean says softly. “You’re alright. You’re alright. I’m here. Dad’s here. You’re alright.”
That has always been enough. Together as a family. That is all they have and John has told himself it’s enough.
Today, however, it’s not.
Sam’s eyes turn back to the ceiling and he cries harder, almost choking on it. John looks at his oldest son, looks at Bobby, and then looks at his baby.
It’s not an easy decision to make, but it’s also not a hard one. John’s proud and strong and independent. But his baby his in pain that not even Dean can heal. Still, admitting that they need help is like admitting defeat, admitting his failure as a parent, which is the hardest thing of all because he tries so hard to tell himself the opposite.
“Bobby, my keys are on the table,” John says, standing carefully, Sam still in his arms.
The other man looks alert and more than a little scared. Taking in strangers is one thing, John figures. Tending to screaming children is entirely another. But Bobby Singer proves himself to be a good man, probably a better one than John deserves. He swallows hard and nods once. “What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“I’m going to get Sam loaded in the car,” he says, moving toward the door. “I need you to drive us to the nearest hospital.”
He’s already halfway out the door before Bobby responds in the affirmative. The air outside is cold, and the boys are in their pajamas still. Dean is trudging along behind him, feet shoved haphazardly into his untied shoes. They’re not wearing coats, but John can’t care. He cares about one thing and one thing only right now: making the cries of his son stop.
Sam doesn’t fight as John wrestles him into the car seat. The little boy turns miserable eyes to the front and cries again, but he sounds tired and worn. But Sammy can’t give up and won’t give up, and gives another wail, and John settles in next to him, Dean on his other side. “I know, Sammy,” John says softly, understanding the defeat and the inevitability all too well. “I know.”
-o-
Bobby drive fast and furious, navigating the Impala like he’s driven it every day of his life. The massive body fishtails in the slush of the curves, and John holds himself steady, his hand never leaving Sam.
Sam’s always liked car rides--the rumble of the engine and the thrum of his road have been the only lullabies Sam knows--and it does relax him, but not enough. Sam’s body goes a little limp, arms and legs lax, head leaned back against the car seat. His face loses the intensity that it had before, but the little boy still cries, strangled and persistent whimpers that rip at John’s conscience.
Bobby meets his eyes through the rearview mirror. “You all doing okay back there?”
John glances at Dean, who is pale faced and shivering in the seat next to him. He looks at Sam, who looks too exhausted to even fully understand his own pain anymore. Throat tight, he meets Bobby’s eyes again. “Drive faster,” he says.
And Bobby does.
-o-
The hospital in town is small, but John doesn’t care. Bobby pulls them into the emergency entrance and slams the brakes to a halt right in front of the doors. John’s already fumbling at Sam’s restraints, plucking the boy out and pushing Dean out the door.
The movement seems to awaken Sam’s senses and he screams with a renewed sense of pain that John doesn’t let himself think about. He steps by Dean and onto the curb, following Bobby as they charge through the doors.
The admitting desk isn’t hard to find, and help is just as easy to come by. A screaming toddler seems to have the same effect on everyone, and John finds himself in a cubicle with a nurse who is smiling at him and asking him what happened.
Her smile is sweet enough, and John supposes that’s what’s called a good bedside manner. But his youngest son is screaming and in pain and his oldest is terrified and cold and it’s all John’s fault. It’s his fault and he just wants them to make it better now.
“Sir, can you please tell me your son’s name?”
It takes all of John’s concentration and more self-control than he thought he had to answer her calm and collected. “Sam,” he says.
She smiles a little. “And what seems to be the problem?”
John tries his best not to be incredulous. “He burned himself,” he says shortly. “Touched the hot fireplace screen.”
She makes a sympathetic face, leaning in to Sam. “Oh, sweetie, I bet that hurt, didn’t it?”
Sam twists away from her, burrowing into John with another rush of tears.
“How long ago did this happen?” she asks, her eyes back on her chart.
“About twenty minutes ago,” John tells her in exasperation. “Can we just see a doctor now?”
“It’s just standard paperwork, sir.”
Standard paperwork, his ass. His son is still crying and they drove all the way here when John doesn’t have any insurance and no more than fifty bucks to his name. Sam’s hand is burned and John has come here for help, not standard paperwork.
“Miss,” Bobby interrupts. “That boy has been crying ever since he touched the thing. I respect your damn paperwork, but I respect a little boy’s pain a whole hell of a lot more. We’ll fill out your forms, but get this boy some help.”
She looks at Bobby, a little wide eyed, then at John.
John stares at her and dares her disagree. Where Bobby is polite, John’s about ready to jump down someone’s throat, because his son is hurt and John is angry at himself, but it’s really not so easy to punch himself, so he’s pretty sure at this point he’ll settle for the next person that comes along unless it’s a doctor in a white coat coming to see what’s wrong with his boy.
She smiles, clipping her pencil to her clipboard. “Well, then,” she says. “I’ll just leave this with you and go get the doctor.”
“You do that,” John says, rocking Sam in his arms.
She leaves with a perfunctory nod and a cursory smile, and John holds Sam closer, kisses his hair gently.
Sam’s had to wait for a lot of things in life. He’s had to wait for a real home. He’s had to wait for time with his dad. He’s had to wait to be fed even when he’s hungry. He’s had to wait for toys until John can find some.
Sam won’t wait for this. John makes himself a promise, and hopes this is one he can keep.
-o-
They don’t get a doctor but they get a friendly looking PA. “So what happened?” she asks, looking around at the motley bunch.
John is not impressed. “He burned himself.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” she says, moving closer. “On what?”
“Like I told the nurse, he touched a hot fireplace screen,” John tells her purposefully.
She doesn’t seem to catch his drift, but instead nods. “Which hand?”
“Just his left.”
Carefully she reaches for Sam’s hand. The boy tenses in his arms, his face scrunching up in anticipation of discomfort. John sees Dean stiffen on the chair and even Bobby looks ready to jump.
Moving Sam’s fingers sets Sam off again and John whispers empty reassurances as the PA takes a look.
For the first time, John sees the damage.
His stomach turns and for a second, he thinks he might throw up.
Where it had been red before, it’s blistered now. Sam’s entire palm has swelled up, each fingertip accented by a large blister.
Even the PA winces.
Carefully, she returns Sam’s hand. “Okay then,” she says. “I’m going to go call for a consult, see if we can get someone in here to deal with this.”
John is so tired and he does not have the patience for this. “I thought you were going to take care of this,” John tells her flatly.
“A burn of that degree requires expert attention,” she explains, taking off her gloves. “It’s completely common procedure to get a burn specialist in here, especially when dealing with young children.”
“But he’s in pain,” John reminds her, over Sam’s dogged cries.
“The doctor will give him a shot of something for that,” she says. “It should only be a few minutes.”
A few minutes is more than John wants to wait. A few seconds is more than John wants to wait.
But there’s a futility that John can’t fight. It’s like seeing Mary on the ceiling and knowing she was dying and being able to do nothing. That’s why he hunts, to do something. But here he is, Sam in his arms, Dean by his side, and there’s nothing he can do to make this better for any of them.
Nothing except wait.
-o-
And wait.
John is pacing the room now, back and forth with a steady rhythm. Sam has quieted again, miserable and helpless.
Dean looks listless in the corner, watching his father pace with weary eyes.
“Daddy?” his oldest asks finally.
“What?” he replies, not pausing his movement.
“Why did Sammy touch the fireplace?”
John closes his eyes and wants to forget, but the memory is there, fresh and unbidden. Sam’s giggles as he ran across the room. The hopeful look of playfulness as he reached out. The second of shock and pain before John’s entire world came crashing down.
“He was just playing,” John says, opening his eyes again. “He didn’t know any better.”
“If the fireplace is so hot, why did we leave it on?” Dean asks.
Bobby curses. “I should have known better,” he says. “Damn place gets so cold, I’m just so used to running it.”
“We just didn’t think about it,” John interrupts. Because they hadn’t. There are some dangers John’s ever aware of. Any hint of a supernatural influence, and John is looking for the wards and seals to protect them all. But fireplaces? John’s lucky if he remembers to cover outlets and not leave coins where Sam can get them. But fireplaces...
Dean is silent for a moment, before he continues. “I’m sorry for sleeping in,” he says. “If I had gotten up with Sammy, this might not have happened.”
As if John isn’t feeling bad enough, his son’s apology twists John’s guilt until it almost suffocates him. “It’s not your fault, Dean,” he says.
“But, I--”
“Dean, it’s not your fault,” John says, hugging Sam closer to his chest. The boy sniffles but doesn’t cry. “It’s not Bobby’s fault and it’s not Sammy’s fault.”
“Then who’s fault is it, Daddy?” Dean asks, and it’s so damn innocent that John nearly cries right there.
It’s his fault. It’s all John’s fault. Every last moment of it, from dragging his boys there to turning his back to those fives seconds he left Sam alone to the year of Sam’s life he’s spent dragging his sons on the road.
They’re in a crappy ER in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota, and it’s the middle of winter and Sam’s hand is almost twice its normal size and it’s all John’s fault.
He can’t tell Dean that, though. He trusts his son with everything, and this facade of safety is the best he can offer in return. “No one’s,” he says in a gruff whisper. It’s a lie he wants to believe, but can’t. “It was just an accident.”
If Dean doubts him, he doesn’t say anything. John just keeps his grip on Sam and paces some more.
-o-
After ten minutes, John’s patience is strained.
After twenty minutes, and no doctor and no nurse, it’s gone.
He takes Sam into the ward, looks at the nurses milling about and the only reason he doesn’t yell is because Sam’s still in his arms, teetering somewhere between tears and exhausted sleep.
John doesn’t need to yell to be intimidating. He doesn’t care who he has to threaten and what he has to demand: his son’s waited long enough (more than long enough), and he will get help. And he will get it now.
-o-
It’s only three minutes later when a doctor miraculously appears, good natured and gray. He pulls his gloves on and smiles at them.
John glares back.
“So he burned himself,” the doctor begins. “Fireplace, I’m told?”
“A glass screen,” John corrects tersely.
The doctor nods, moving closer. Sam tenses in his arms but doesn’t cry. The doctor smiles at the boy, pulling gently at the hand.
It looks worse than before--even more swollen and puffy.
The doctor makes a sad sound. “Oh, buddy,” he says. “You got it good, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t more than a second,” John tells him. “I had just turned around and he got away....”
“Happens to the best of us,” he says. “When my son was a little younger than Sam here, he managed to touch the hot stove.”
It’s meant as comfort, but it doesn’t make John feel any better. “Can you give him something for the pain?”
“He looks pretty well had,” the doctor says. “We’ll give him a small dose of morphine, let that calm him down. After its taken effect, we’ll go ahead and cut away the blister. The one on his palm seems to have popped already, so we’ll have to remove it. One of the nurses will show you how to treat it and what you need to do each night before we send you home.”
John blinks at him, surprised. “That’s it?”
The doctor takes off his gloves, ruffling Sam’s hair a little. “That’s it.”
“But--”
“Burns are funny things,” the doctor explains, picking up Sam’s chart. “They don’t do most of their damage up front. It’s the long-term impact that is most concerning. It’s hard to tell just how deep Sam’s burns are at the moment, but we’ll know the full extent of his damage in a few days.”
“What kind of damage are we talking about?”
“My guess?” the doctor says. “We’re looking at mostly second degree burns. They’ll be painful, but if we can keep the hand clean and moist, it should heal up without too much difficulty. We’ll have to monitor it a bit, make sure the skin isn’t healing too tight and see if there’s any need for grafts, but from the look of it, I don’t think so. It’s ugly and it’ll hurt, but I think he’s going to be fine.”
After all the waiting, all the crying, all the everything--they thought Sam was going to be fine?
The doctor smiles a little. “I’ll go get the morphine and get a nurse in here to clean the wound. How does that sound?”
John has to admit, that sounds pretty good.
-o-
Sam screams bloody murder when he gets the shot, but he calms quickly afterwards, his body relaxing into his father’s arms. For the first time in hours, John can sit, Sam sprawled against him. His baby’s awake, but just barely, his wide, dilated eyes tracking the movement of the nurse as she comes to clean his wound.
The nurse, different from before, does her work while Sam’s on John’s leg. She’s friendly like the rest, chatting casually as she preps for her work. She has scissors of various sizes, some cream, and some gauze, and she turns Sam over and gives the same sympathetic sound that everyone has. “Oh, baby,” she says to Sam. “You really did it, didn’t you?”
Sam just blinks at her with vague apprehension.
“You know,” the nurse continues, picking up her scissors. “I have a daughter, just a few years older than Sam here. I was trying to get ready one morning and she likes to help me in the bathroom. She was trying to move some things on the counter and caught my curling iron. Burned her arm something terrible. I never did hear such a cry as that.”
John tries not to look at the bubbled flesh on Sam’s hand. “I know the feeling.”
“It’s already mostly popped,” she says gently. “But we may see a little more fluid come out--”
As if on cue, John feels something wet on his leg, dribbling to the floor.
“Sorry,” the nurse says. “That should be the worst of that.”
John doesn’t reply, just holds Sam firm. His son hasn’t twitched, but John can feel the tension lurking in his body, dimmed by drugs and pain.
The nurse focuses now, her eyes narrowing as she leans in closer. “We’ll get as much of the skin as we can,” she says, “but in a few days, you might want to trim some yourself, just to get rid of the dead skin.”
There are many things John wants to do, and cutting away the skin of his son’s palm is really not among them.
“Okay,” the nurse says, putting the scissors down. “You ready to learn how to bandage it?”
John’s not ready. John’s never been ready. He wasn’t ready to get married when Mary finally said yes. He wasn’t ready for a baby when he found out Mary was pregnant. He wasn’t ready for a house when the apartment was just too small. He wasn’t ready for Mary to die and leave him with two boys and a tragedy he didn’t know how deal with.
John’s not ready to be a single father, and yet, here he is. On his own. And there’s no other option but to say, “Yeah. I think so.”
-o-
It’s a lot of information. How to clean the wound, how to bandage it. Alternative bandages for home use. What to look for, how often to give pain medication. Things Sam should avoid, things to let Sam do.
It’s a long list, and John’s had an easier time memorizing Latin exorcisms than keeping track of this.
The front desk hits John up again for insurance information, and to make it go faster, John tells the truth, that they’re uninsured, and provides them a billing address at a PO box in Kansas that he used to check. They let them go after that, with one last look by the doctor, then they hand John Sam’s discharge papers, and send them all on their way.
Outside, it’s mid-afternoon. Dean is dragging more than a little, and Bobby looks worse for wear. Sam’s quiet but still awake, stubbornly clinging to consciousness, even though he looks half-asleep already.
“Let’s go,” John says, pulling Sam closer to him. He puts a heavy hand on Dean’s head. “Let’s go home.”
Next
I can feel his hand in mine
That’s all I need to know.
-from “His Hand in Mine” by Elvis Presley
-o-
There’s not much in South Dakota. Between the Badlands and Mount Rushmore and maybe Sturgis, John can’t fathom why anyone would want to come here at all. Parts of it are pretty, John supposes, but it’s empty and its mostly rural. The towns seem small and mostly dirty, which John figures is more a problem with the dusty air than the people themselves.
It occurs to John, as he watches his sons sleeping in the back seat, that maybe South Dakota’s not really the problem.
He tries to remember how many miles he’s put on the car since Mary. He tries to remember how many nights he’s loaded the boys into motel rooms and fed them greasy eggs at small town diners. It’s John’s life that is grainy and faded, rubbing raw against the edges of his soul as he tries to make sense of anything that’s happened since that night.
It’s the best he can do, he tells himself, and it’s almost true. The boys are alive and clothed and fed. They even laugh a little, Dean playing games with Sammy to make the hours slide by.
But there are some things John can’t change. Really, there’s just one thing that John can’t change, and it’s the thing that matters most. He can’t bring Mary back. He can’t give his boys a mother, can’t fill the void of her absence, not even a little.
But he can get the thing that killed her. He can make sure his boys stay safe and alive and maybe then, only then, will her legacy be fulfilled.
John steels himself, looking in the rearview mirror again. Dawn has broken, with reds and oranges behind him, and the boys are slumped in their seats, asleep.
It’s the best he can do, and right now South Dakota isn’t about the starchy flat plains or the wondrous achievement of Mount Rushmore. It’s about a man named Bobby Singer, who owns a salvage yard in the middle of nowhere. Daniel Elkins told him that Bobby might be able to help him.
Right now, it’s the best lead he’s got, so John pushes the pedal farther toward the ground, and lets the sun burn hard at his back, so bright that when he looks to check on his boys again, all he can see is brightness.
-o-
Bobby Singer is a gruff man. Bearded and with a hat drawn over his shaggy hair, Bobby scowls at John over the end of a shotgun until John can explain.
“I got your name from Daniel Elkins,” he says, hands up and placating. “He said you might be able to help me.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t say that I’d want to help you now, would he?”
That much is true, but John’s come this far. He doesn’t smile, but keeps his face earnest and his hands where Singer can see them. “He said you would be able to help me figure out about a demon.”
Bobby’s eyes narrow. “There are lots of demons.”
“I’m just looking for one.”
“Ain’t we all.”
John purses his lips. “It killed my wife.”
Bobby stiffens a little at that, and his aim wavers.
“Please,” John persists, seeing his opening. Hunters are human, perhaps the most human of all. Because everyone has a story, everyone got into this somehow, and John knows that it’s not just for the kicks. “I have my sons with me.”
He gestures to the car and Bobby’s gaze follows it. He curses, puts his gun down. “You some kind of idiot?” he asks, shaking his head. “This ain’t no place for children.”
John looks at him gravely, and thinks about Sammy’s burnt out nursery. “And what place is?”
Bobby gets his gist, because between hunter and hunter, they know the world’s not a safe place. There’s no such thing as innocent or safe, and John tells himself that so it’s not so hard to raise his sons in motel rooms and the backseat of the Impala.
With a sigh, Bobby pushes his front door open. “Come on, then,” he growls, disappearing into the house.
John almost grins as he watches him. In quick strides, he goes back to the car. The boys are drowsy in the back seat, Dean blinking sleepily and Sam looking grouchily for his blanket. Unbuckling Dean, he hands Sam the blanket from the floor, easing his youngest out of the car seat.
“Where are we, Daddy?” Dean asks.
“A friend,” he says, and he believes it. “We’re at the home of a friend.”
It’s good enough for Dean, and Sam’s too bleary eyed to know the difference. With Sam in one arm and their duffel in the other, John leads his sons inside.
-o-
Bobby is glowering in the kitchen when John finds him. He deposits the bag on the table and sets Sam on his feet, only to be met with an impassioned wail as the toddler throws himself at John’s legs. Sam’s hot breath is on his knee and he looks down to see his son watching him with a twinge of desperation.
“He needs to be held longer,” Dean says. “He just woke up.”
John doesn’t believe in coddling the boys, not like he might have once, but he’s half afraid if Sam has a meltdown, Bobby might send them to the curb just as fast. It’s easier to scoop Sam up, bouncing him gently as he looks at the other man.
Bobby is watching with something like discomfort and uncertainty. “Awful young, ain’t they?”
“Dean’s almost six now,” John explains. “He’ll start kindergarten next fall.”
“Little one can’t be over two.”
“Does it matter?”
Bobby’s brow furrows a bit. “Just tryin’ to get to know my company is all,” he replies, a harsh edge to his voice.
It’s fair enough, John supposes, but his sons are off limits. Bobby has let them inside, but Daniel Elkins’ recommendation doesn’t carry as much weight as John may let on. “His name is Sammy,” John says as a concession. “He may look like the easy one now, but give him some time and you’ll know him better than you want to.”
Bobby looks uncomfortable again. “So now that we’ve got the introduction over,” he says, “You want to talk business?”
John meets the man’s gaze steadily. Bobby has information; John has questions. It’s as much as they need to be friendly.
Putting Sam down again, he looked the boy squarely in the eyes. “I want you to mind Dean, you understand?”
The little boy blinks earnestly. He hasn’t picked up many words yet. John’s not much for conversation and Dean’s still quiet in the wake of his mother’s death, so there’s not much for Sam to learn from. But the kid is smart as anything, and John knows Sam understands, as much as an eighteen-month-old can.
Turning his eyes to Dean, he is just as firm. “You stay out of trouble,” he orders. “And keep Sam where you can see him.”
Dean nods. He takes the duffel off the table. “Come on, Sammy,” he says, walking out to the next room. John can see it is a disheveled living room, with sagging couches and a cracked coffee table.
“You want to head to the library?” Bobby offers.
“Do you want your living room destroyed?”
Bobby makes a face. “What?”
John grinned wearily. “Trust me, we want to stay here.”
Bobby just raises his eyebrows and gives a small shake of his head. “So why don’t you tell me about this demon?”
-o-
Turns out, Bobby Singer knows more about demons than John thought was possible. Daniel had been a wealth of knowledge, expert in everything from werewolves to wendigos and just about everything in between. He had even given John the rundown on demons, their basic functions and how to get rid of them. They’d memorized a few exorcisms and taken one down in one of the hardest hunts John’s face yet.
But Bobby--
Where Daniel is knowledgeable, Bobby is downright obsessed. Within two hours, they’ve speculated on the demons powerful enough to do what John’s looking for, reading up on their histories and their trails.
It’s a little hit and miss, because no demon seems to have quite this MO. Until they can pin down the demon or at least the class of demon, summoning it will be damn hard and tracking it will be a damn near impossibility.
“How do you know all this?” John asks, shaking his head in amazement.
Bobby just snorts. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?”
John looks up, surprised. There’s a story there, but Bobby hasn’t asked any questions apart of the pertinent ones, and John knows enough to return the favor.
Bobby scowls, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. He glances out past John toward the living room where the boys are playing. Dean’s gotten a few toy cars from the duffel, crashing them together repeatedly. Sam’s distracted by a stack of books, carefully opening the covers and turning the pages.
“I’m sorry,” John tells him.

Bobby snorts. “Got way passed sympathy a long time ago,” he says. He looks back at John. “Moved straight on to revenge.”
“I know that feeling,” John tells him. “That’s why I have to find this thing.”
Bobby hesitates, just for a moment. “You know, you need to remember one thing in all this. I can tell you everything I know. I can help track your demon and, if we can find it, I can help you get rid of the damn thing. But it’ll cost you.”
“I don’t have any money,” John says. The insurance pay out only lasted so long and the boys’ bank accounts were never big enough to start with.
Bobby shakes his head. “I’m not talking about money,” he says. “I’m talking about them.”
John glances at his sons, and then turns dark eyes back to Bobby. “My sons have nothing to do with this.”
“They have everything to do with this,” Bobby tells him. “You’re running around acting like a man with nothing left to lose.”
“It took my wife,” John tells him, his voice low.
“But it didn’t take your sons,” Bobby counters. He blows out a breath. “If they were mine--”
“They’re not,” John says crisply. “Will you help me?”
Bobby’s mouth shuts, thinning out. He nods. “I’ll help you.”
John nods. “Then let’s do this.”
-o-
The next few days are intense. They research and they read. They look for patterns and demonic markers. It’s tedious and slow work, elongated by as much caffeine as John can stomach and as little sleep as Bobby will work on.
The boys run about the house, confined to the four walls of Bobby’s living room. They set up a spare room for the boys to sleep in, but John likes them within ear’s reach at all times if he can help it.
Bobby helps by picking up some of the things off the floor, even vacuums to pick up anything small that Sam might try to eat. It’s too cold to go outside and Bobby’s TV only gets one channel, so the boys have been creative in their means of entertainment.
Truthfully, John’s almost too engrossed to notice their antics. It’s something he’s used to. The controlled chaos of their play. Until there was screaming or crying, the noise assured John they were alive and well, which was about all he could muster.
They stop to eat, deli sandwiches and a mismatched assortment of unrecognizable canned foods. Sammy drinks all the milk in the house in a day, so they live on tap water for the rest of it, until Bobby promises to take them into town to buy something more suitable.
It’s not perfect, but it’s got some of the comforts of home with all the perks of a hunting library. Singer’s not as organized as John would like, but his chaos is a good complement to John’s structure, and he feels as though they might really be making progress.
When the boys are asleep that night, Bobby hands him a beer and crashes hard on a chair. “They’re good boys,” Bobby says.
John opens his beer and takes a drink. “I know.”
Bobby nods a little, sipping his own. “I feel bad there ain’t much here for them.”
“They’re fine,” John says, and it’s mostly the truth.
“Nah, the place ain’t even baby proofed,” he says. “I ought to at least cover the outlets.”
“Sam would just pull them out anyway.”
“You sure they’ll be warm enough in there?”
John wants to laugh, but is almost too tired to make the effort. “They’ll be fine.”
“It’s like ice in here,” Bobby says. “I’ll put another log on the fire.”
John doesn’t agree or disagree, just watches tiredly as Bobby puts his beer down and goes to the hearth. He pulls a log from the pile. Opening the glass casing surrounding it, Bobby hauls the log in. It crackles and groans as embers flare up, settle again, then take root.
John wants to get up, wants to keep working, but the fire is warm and the night is dark. Bobby settles in the chair across from them and neither of them talk until they are both asleep.
-o-
John awakes to the brush of something against his knee.
A brush and then a full on jostle pulls John fully aware and he blinks the sleep away in time to see Sam’s mischievous grin as he launches into a friendly hello of da-da-da.
John relaxes, stretching a little as he puts a hand on Sam’s head. The toddler is encouraged by that and starts to scale the couch. Shifting, John makes room for Sam. It takes a moment, but the small boy labors his way up and pushes to a sitting position, looking proudly up at his father with a giggle.
John can’t help but smile back. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” he asks, and he remembers vaguely why toddlers were supposed to still sleep in cribs. “How long have you been up anyway? And where’s your brother?”
Usually Sam’s early morning rustling wakes Dean first, an inevitable consequence of them sharing a bed. He relies on Dean to keep tabs on Sam when he can’t, but given that Dean is only five, he supposes, he really can’t be too upset about it.
Still, it gives him a moment’s pause to think about his baby boy up and around the house all by himself. He’s seen the messes Sam can get into--and he certainly hopes Bobby hasn’t left anything that is dangerous or valuable within the little guy’s reach.
With a sigh, John glances across the room. His new research companion is still zonked out on the chair. Pushing to his feet, John feels his age and the lack of sleep. He groans, and Sam is at him again, standing on the couch and making an imploring lunge with his arms.
Rather than let his son fall off the couch, John deftly sweeps him into his arms, positioning the child on his hip.
Sam, for his part, settles in contentedly, fingers going to John’s face, wet and sticky on his scruff. He bites playfully at Sam’s fingers, which try to explore his mouth next, and the boy giggles again.
This is good enough, he thinks. Sam is happy. Sam is healthy. If his boy can giggle, than John has fought the good fight for another day--and won.
As good as that feels, it doesn’t negate what has to be done today. There’s still plenty of research ahead, but first he needs to get Sam in order so he can start it. Briefly, he stops by Dean’s room, poking his head in and finding his oldest sprawled across the mattress on the floor, one arm flung above his head and a sheet barely covering his torso.
It would probably be easier to wake Dean, but seeing his son like that, so safe and relaxed, John’s hard pressed to do it. He can handle Sammy on his own, just for a bit.
Closing the door softly behind him, he bounces Sam down the hall. He shivers a little, feeling the chill of the house. He thinks of Dean, only half covered with a sheet and stops by the fireplace. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to open the glass and toss in a fresh log. He adds another for good measure, lingering for a moment to feel their heat.
Replacing the screen, he walks on. In the kitchen, he takes in the mess and makes a face. He hadn’t noticed how poorly they’ve kept house the last few days. Not that he thinks Bobby is probably ever very fastidious, but the dishes and generalized mess of two young children definitely makes the place worse for wear.
He puts Sam down to open the fridge, and the toddler hedges at his heels for a peak. He’s reaching for the beer on the lower shelves when John spots the eggs and juice, and thinks that’ll be enough to get them going. Pulling them out, he pushes Sam gently out of the way with his leg as he closes the door. Sam takes the movement well and scrambles around, looking up at his father in anticipation of his next move.
“How about some breakfast there, buddy?”
Sam smiles, his two front teeth clearly visible. “Da da da da,” he says.
“You want breakfast?” John asks.
In reply, Sam moves his feet, in a frantic approximation of a tap dance that makes John laugh. “Okay, okay,” he relents. “I’ll get to work on it.”
Turning toward the stove, he realizes it’s probably going to be more work than he realized. The pans are dirty and stacked in the sink, and he’s not entirely sure where Bobby would keep more if he has them. Hoping to avoid doing dishes, John opens cabinets and cupboards, looking for something suitable. Pulling out the rack under the stove, he strikes gold, or metal anyway. They look old but clean, and he retrieves a skillet that looks like it’ll do the job.
“It’ll just be a minute,” John is saying as he looks back at his boy.
But Sam’s not there.
John pauses for a second, a flash of dread moving through him. Sam’s an active kid, though. A fast mover. He started walking young and had been on the go ever since. Wandering off isn’t out of the realm of possibility or even altogether unusual for an inquisitive kid like Sammy, and John isn’t sure why he’s finally feeling some concern about the place after giving the boys mostly free range for the last three days.
Still, there’s something about this that just seems different. Maybe it is parental instinct finally kicking in, maybe it’s just paranoia, but John needs to know where his son is. Now.
He steps into the living room and sees a flash of Sam’s red footsie pajamas. Sam loves to be chased--it’s not often he gets his father’s attention, and his habit when he does, is to bolt in the other direction as to initiate a game of chase. It’s Sammy’s way of asking to play, as best as his little self can.
Which is all well and good except they’re guests in this house and Bobby is still sound asleep. John’s about to scold his son for being so inconsiderate, but his mouth freezes and his heart stops when he sees where Sam’s headed.
It’s almost in slow motion--Sam’s happy toddling sprint across the room. Sam’s all smiles and he pauses when he reaches the far end, looking back with a triumphant grin for finally garnering his father’s full attention.
“Sam, no--” John’s saying, but it’s too late.
His little boy’s hand goes out to steady himself, reaching for the closest thing. Normally, it’d be a couch or a wall or even a table or a person, but not this time.
Because Bobby has a fireplace, one John stoked just five minutes ago. And it’s raging hot, the flames licking at the wood and John can feel the heat from here.
It’s covered with glass, at least, but glass isn’t impenetrable.
More than that, it gets hot. He remembers the heat from it as he’d added the logs.
He’s moving faster than his mouth is working, scaling the distance with lunging strides. He’s fast and the panic in his heart makes him faster but it’s not fast enough.
Sam’s hand makes contact, palm against it and fingertips pressed down, and it only takes a second for his son’s face to scrunch up in shock.
John’s already got him under the arms, plucking the boy away from the danger. It’s only been a second--just one second--and for a moment, John thinks, maybe it’s not so bad.
Sam is wailing, of course, but John can’t tell if it’s pain or fear. Sam gets spooked sometimes, and the initial cry of being startled isn’t a whole lot less mournful than that of pain. He pulls the boy into his arms, cradling him, trying to control his breathing as he pries at Sam’s hand.
The toddler has it locked pretty tight, and it’s hard to get a good look. John can see that it’s red, but it doesn’t look as bad as he might have thought, but Sam’s still crying, eyes wet and wide, and mouth wide open with intense wails.
“What the hell?” Bobby’s voice asks.
John doesn’t spare the man a glance, but keeps his eyes trained on his son, looking for more clues, more signs.
“What happened?”
John swallows. “He burned himself,” he forces himself to say. He closes his eyes, pulling his son a little closer. “I just turned around for a minute.”
Bobby is lurking over them now, and John can feel his presence. “Burned?”
John opens his eyes, and looks at Sam. The tears are bigger now, his face red with the exertion of crying. “The fireplace screen.”
Bobby curses. “How bad?”
John tries to look at the hand again, but can’t see much. But Sam’s cries aren’t abating, and John knows the boy is in pain. “I don’t know.”
“Lemme get some ice,” Bobby grumbles, and it’s more fear than inconvenience in his voice.
John doesn’t even nod, just pulls Sam closer, rocking the boy as best he can, brushing a kiss in his hair. Sam thrashes though, his cries taking on a desperate pitch, and John is beginning to feel nauseated.
Bobby returns with a washcloth full of ice, but it’s more than a little difficult to apply it to Sam’s hand. Sam screams with new vigor at the cold, his head thrown back with strained cries.
It’s about more than John can take--Sam’s tears are big and his face is contorted with pain. He’s stopped writhing, but somehow John doesn’t think that’s altogether a good thing. His little boy is still hurting, but has almost resigned himself to it.
Because his son’s not even looking at him. When Sam wants attention or comfort, he makes no mistake in letting John know. This is different--Sam’s cries aren’t directed at him, aren’t directed at anything at all. It’s all Sam can do, and John feels his heart clench a little in his chest.
“Daddy?” Dean’s voice asks.
John looks up, feeling stricken. His five year old is in front of him with a serious case of bed-head and eyes wide.
“What’s wrong with Sammy?” Dean asks.
“He touched the fireplace,” John tells him shortly. He wonders if some parents would lie to their children, try to soften it a little, but he doesn’t lie to Dean. He can’t lie to Dean, not like he can Sam. Dean is his entirely, as much a partner as a child, and John refuses to deny his oldest the truth, no matter what.
Dean’s eyes go rounder, looking from his screaming brother to the fire still raging. He steps forward, touching Sam’s head gently.
This should do it, John thinks. Dean’s touch is almost magic, stilling even the most ferocious of Sam’s fits. Dean can calm Sam down--and then they can better assess the situation. With Sam calmed, they can look at his hand, see how serious it is and figure out what to do. Look into getting antiseptic and gauze, and maybe see about a little Tylenol.
Dean’s hand strokes Sam’s hair and the little boy’s eyes meet his big brother’s. There’s the pain and desperation again, and his wails ratchet up another notch.
“Shh, Sammy,” Dean says softly. “You’re alright. You’re alright. I’m here. Dad’s here. You’re alright.”
That has always been enough. Together as a family. That is all they have and John has told himself it’s enough.
Today, however, it’s not.
Sam’s eyes turn back to the ceiling and he cries harder, almost choking on it. John looks at his oldest son, looks at Bobby, and then looks at his baby.
It’s not an easy decision to make, but it’s also not a hard one. John’s proud and strong and independent. But his baby his in pain that not even Dean can heal. Still, admitting that they need help is like admitting defeat, admitting his failure as a parent, which is the hardest thing of all because he tries so hard to tell himself the opposite.
“Bobby, my keys are on the table,” John says, standing carefully, Sam still in his arms.
The other man looks alert and more than a little scared. Taking in strangers is one thing, John figures. Tending to screaming children is entirely another. But Bobby Singer proves himself to be a good man, probably a better one than John deserves. He swallows hard and nods once. “What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“I’m going to get Sam loaded in the car,” he says, moving toward the door. “I need you to drive us to the nearest hospital.”
He’s already halfway out the door before Bobby responds in the affirmative. The air outside is cold, and the boys are in their pajamas still. Dean is trudging along behind him, feet shoved haphazardly into his untied shoes. They’re not wearing coats, but John can’t care. He cares about one thing and one thing only right now: making the cries of his son stop.
Sam doesn’t fight as John wrestles him into the car seat. The little boy turns miserable eyes to the front and cries again, but he sounds tired and worn. But Sammy can’t give up and won’t give up, and gives another wail, and John settles in next to him, Dean on his other side. “I know, Sammy,” John says softly, understanding the defeat and the inevitability all too well. “I know.”
-o-
Bobby drive fast and furious, navigating the Impala like he’s driven it every day of his life. The massive body fishtails in the slush of the curves, and John holds himself steady, his hand never leaving Sam.
Sam’s always liked car rides--the rumble of the engine and the thrum of his road have been the only lullabies Sam knows--and it does relax him, but not enough. Sam’s body goes a little limp, arms and legs lax, head leaned back against the car seat. His face loses the intensity that it had before, but the little boy still cries, strangled and persistent whimpers that rip at John’s conscience.
Bobby meets his eyes through the rearview mirror. “You all doing okay back there?”
John glances at Dean, who is pale faced and shivering in the seat next to him. He looks at Sam, who looks too exhausted to even fully understand his own pain anymore. Throat tight, he meets Bobby’s eyes again. “Drive faster,” he says.
And Bobby does.
-o-
The hospital in town is small, but John doesn’t care. Bobby pulls them into the emergency entrance and slams the brakes to a halt right in front of the doors. John’s already fumbling at Sam’s restraints, plucking the boy out and pushing Dean out the door.
The movement seems to awaken Sam’s senses and he screams with a renewed sense of pain that John doesn’t let himself think about. He steps by Dean and onto the curb, following Bobby as they charge through the doors.
The admitting desk isn’t hard to find, and help is just as easy to come by. A screaming toddler seems to have the same effect on everyone, and John finds himself in a cubicle with a nurse who is smiling at him and asking him what happened.
Her smile is sweet enough, and John supposes that’s what’s called a good bedside manner. But his youngest son is screaming and in pain and his oldest is terrified and cold and it’s all John’s fault. It’s his fault and he just wants them to make it better now.
“Sir, can you please tell me your son’s name?”
It takes all of John’s concentration and more self-control than he thought he had to answer her calm and collected. “Sam,” he says.
She smiles a little. “And what seems to be the problem?”
John tries his best not to be incredulous. “He burned himself,” he says shortly. “Touched the hot fireplace screen.”
She makes a sympathetic face, leaning in to Sam. “Oh, sweetie, I bet that hurt, didn’t it?”
Sam twists away from her, burrowing into John with another rush of tears.
“How long ago did this happen?” she asks, her eyes back on her chart.
“About twenty minutes ago,” John tells her in exasperation. “Can we just see a doctor now?”
“It’s just standard paperwork, sir.”
Standard paperwork, his ass. His son is still crying and they drove all the way here when John doesn’t have any insurance and no more than fifty bucks to his name. Sam’s hand is burned and John has come here for help, not standard paperwork.
“Miss,” Bobby interrupts. “That boy has been crying ever since he touched the thing. I respect your damn paperwork, but I respect a little boy’s pain a whole hell of a lot more. We’ll fill out your forms, but get this boy some help.”
She looks at Bobby, a little wide eyed, then at John.
John stares at her and dares her disagree. Where Bobby is polite, John’s about ready to jump down someone’s throat, because his son is hurt and John is angry at himself, but it’s really not so easy to punch himself, so he’s pretty sure at this point he’ll settle for the next person that comes along unless it’s a doctor in a white coat coming to see what’s wrong with his boy.
She smiles, clipping her pencil to her clipboard. “Well, then,” she says. “I’ll just leave this with you and go get the doctor.”
“You do that,” John says, rocking Sam in his arms.
She leaves with a perfunctory nod and a cursory smile, and John holds Sam closer, kisses his hair gently.
Sam’s had to wait for a lot of things in life. He’s had to wait for a real home. He’s had to wait for time with his dad. He’s had to wait to be fed even when he’s hungry. He’s had to wait for toys until John can find some.
Sam won’t wait for this. John makes himself a promise, and hopes this is one he can keep.
-o-
They don’t get a doctor but they get a friendly looking PA. “So what happened?” she asks, looking around at the motley bunch.
John is not impressed. “He burned himself.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” she says, moving closer. “On what?”
“Like I told the nurse, he touched a hot fireplace screen,” John tells her purposefully.
She doesn’t seem to catch his drift, but instead nods. “Which hand?”
“Just his left.”
Carefully she reaches for Sam’s hand. The boy tenses in his arms, his face scrunching up in anticipation of discomfort. John sees Dean stiffen on the chair and even Bobby looks ready to jump.
Moving Sam’s fingers sets Sam off again and John whispers empty reassurances as the PA takes a look.
For the first time, John sees the damage.
His stomach turns and for a second, he thinks he might throw up.
Where it had been red before, it’s blistered now. Sam’s entire palm has swelled up, each fingertip accented by a large blister.
Even the PA winces.
Carefully, she returns Sam’s hand. “Okay then,” she says. “I’m going to go call for a consult, see if we can get someone in here to deal with this.”
John is so tired and he does not have the patience for this. “I thought you were going to take care of this,” John tells her flatly.
“A burn of that degree requires expert attention,” she explains, taking off her gloves. “It’s completely common procedure to get a burn specialist in here, especially when dealing with young children.”
“But he’s in pain,” John reminds her, over Sam’s dogged cries.
“The doctor will give him a shot of something for that,” she says. “It should only be a few minutes.”
A few minutes is more than John wants to wait. A few seconds is more than John wants to wait.
But there’s a futility that John can’t fight. It’s like seeing Mary on the ceiling and knowing she was dying and being able to do nothing. That’s why he hunts, to do something. But here he is, Sam in his arms, Dean by his side, and there’s nothing he can do to make this better for any of them.
Nothing except wait.
-o-
And wait.
John is pacing the room now, back and forth with a steady rhythm. Sam has quieted again, miserable and helpless.
Dean looks listless in the corner, watching his father pace with weary eyes.
“Daddy?” his oldest asks finally.
“What?” he replies, not pausing his movement.
“Why did Sammy touch the fireplace?”
John closes his eyes and wants to forget, but the memory is there, fresh and unbidden. Sam’s giggles as he ran across the room. The hopeful look of playfulness as he reached out. The second of shock and pain before John’s entire world came crashing down.
“He was just playing,” John says, opening his eyes again. “He didn’t know any better.”
“If the fireplace is so hot, why did we leave it on?” Dean asks.
Bobby curses. “I should have known better,” he says. “Damn place gets so cold, I’m just so used to running it.”
“We just didn’t think about it,” John interrupts. Because they hadn’t. There are some dangers John’s ever aware of. Any hint of a supernatural influence, and John is looking for the wards and seals to protect them all. But fireplaces? John’s lucky if he remembers to cover outlets and not leave coins where Sam can get them. But fireplaces...
Dean is silent for a moment, before he continues. “I’m sorry for sleeping in,” he says. “If I had gotten up with Sammy, this might not have happened.”
As if John isn’t feeling bad enough, his son’s apology twists John’s guilt until it almost suffocates him. “It’s not your fault, Dean,” he says.
“But, I--”
“Dean, it’s not your fault,” John says, hugging Sam closer to his chest. The boy sniffles but doesn’t cry. “It’s not Bobby’s fault and it’s not Sammy’s fault.”
“Then who’s fault is it, Daddy?” Dean asks, and it’s so damn innocent that John nearly cries right there.
It’s his fault. It’s all John’s fault. Every last moment of it, from dragging his boys there to turning his back to those fives seconds he left Sam alone to the year of Sam’s life he’s spent dragging his sons on the road.
They’re in a crappy ER in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota, and it’s the middle of winter and Sam’s hand is almost twice its normal size and it’s all John’s fault.
He can’t tell Dean that, though. He trusts his son with everything, and this facade of safety is the best he can offer in return. “No one’s,” he says in a gruff whisper. It’s a lie he wants to believe, but can’t. “It was just an accident.”
If Dean doubts him, he doesn’t say anything. John just keeps his grip on Sam and paces some more.
-o-
After ten minutes, John’s patience is strained.
After twenty minutes, and no doctor and no nurse, it’s gone.
He takes Sam into the ward, looks at the nurses milling about and the only reason he doesn’t yell is because Sam’s still in his arms, teetering somewhere between tears and exhausted sleep.
John doesn’t need to yell to be intimidating. He doesn’t care who he has to threaten and what he has to demand: his son’s waited long enough (more than long enough), and he will get help. And he will get it now.
-o-
It’s only three minutes later when a doctor miraculously appears, good natured and gray. He pulls his gloves on and smiles at them.
John glares back.
“So he burned himself,” the doctor begins. “Fireplace, I’m told?”
“A glass screen,” John corrects tersely.
The doctor nods, moving closer. Sam tenses in his arms but doesn’t cry. The doctor smiles at the boy, pulling gently at the hand.
It looks worse than before--even more swollen and puffy.
The doctor makes a sad sound. “Oh, buddy,” he says. “You got it good, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t more than a second,” John tells him. “I had just turned around and he got away....”
“Happens to the best of us,” he says. “When my son was a little younger than Sam here, he managed to touch the hot stove.”
It’s meant as comfort, but it doesn’t make John feel any better. “Can you give him something for the pain?”
“He looks pretty well had,” the doctor says. “We’ll give him a small dose of morphine, let that calm him down. After its taken effect, we’ll go ahead and cut away the blister. The one on his palm seems to have popped already, so we’ll have to remove it. One of the nurses will show you how to treat it and what you need to do each night before we send you home.”
John blinks at him, surprised. “That’s it?”
The doctor takes off his gloves, ruffling Sam’s hair a little. “That’s it.”
“But--”
“Burns are funny things,” the doctor explains, picking up Sam’s chart. “They don’t do most of their damage up front. It’s the long-term impact that is most concerning. It’s hard to tell just how deep Sam’s burns are at the moment, but we’ll know the full extent of his damage in a few days.”
“What kind of damage are we talking about?”
“My guess?” the doctor says. “We’re looking at mostly second degree burns. They’ll be painful, but if we can keep the hand clean and moist, it should heal up without too much difficulty. We’ll have to monitor it a bit, make sure the skin isn’t healing too tight and see if there’s any need for grafts, but from the look of it, I don’t think so. It’s ugly and it’ll hurt, but I think he’s going to be fine.”
After all the waiting, all the crying, all the everything--they thought Sam was going to be fine?
The doctor smiles a little. “I’ll go get the morphine and get a nurse in here to clean the wound. How does that sound?”
John has to admit, that sounds pretty good.
-o-
Sam screams bloody murder when he gets the shot, but he calms quickly afterwards, his body relaxing into his father’s arms. For the first time in hours, John can sit, Sam sprawled against him. His baby’s awake, but just barely, his wide, dilated eyes tracking the movement of the nurse as she comes to clean his wound.
The nurse, different from before, does her work while Sam’s on John’s leg. She’s friendly like the rest, chatting casually as she preps for her work. She has scissors of various sizes, some cream, and some gauze, and she turns Sam over and gives the same sympathetic sound that everyone has. “Oh, baby,” she says to Sam. “You really did it, didn’t you?”
Sam just blinks at her with vague apprehension.
“You know,” the nurse continues, picking up her scissors. “I have a daughter, just a few years older than Sam here. I was trying to get ready one morning and she likes to help me in the bathroom. She was trying to move some things on the counter and caught my curling iron. Burned her arm something terrible. I never did hear such a cry as that.”
John tries not to look at the bubbled flesh on Sam’s hand. “I know the feeling.”
“It’s already mostly popped,” she says gently. “But we may see a little more fluid come out--”
As if on cue, John feels something wet on his leg, dribbling to the floor.
“Sorry,” the nurse says. “That should be the worst of that.”
John doesn’t reply, just holds Sam firm. His son hasn’t twitched, but John can feel the tension lurking in his body, dimmed by drugs and pain.
The nurse focuses now, her eyes narrowing as she leans in closer. “We’ll get as much of the skin as we can,” she says, “but in a few days, you might want to trim some yourself, just to get rid of the dead skin.”
There are many things John wants to do, and cutting away the skin of his son’s palm is really not among them.
“Okay,” the nurse says, putting the scissors down. “You ready to learn how to bandage it?”
John’s not ready. John’s never been ready. He wasn’t ready to get married when Mary finally said yes. He wasn’t ready for a baby when he found out Mary was pregnant. He wasn’t ready for a house when the apartment was just too small. He wasn’t ready for Mary to die and leave him with two boys and a tragedy he didn’t know how deal with.
John’s not ready to be a single father, and yet, here he is. On his own. And there’s no other option but to say, “Yeah. I think so.”
-o-
It’s a lot of information. How to clean the wound, how to bandage it. Alternative bandages for home use. What to look for, how often to give pain medication. Things Sam should avoid, things to let Sam do.
It’s a long list, and John’s had an easier time memorizing Latin exorcisms than keeping track of this.
The front desk hits John up again for insurance information, and to make it go faster, John tells the truth, that they’re uninsured, and provides them a billing address at a PO box in Kansas that he used to check. They let them go after that, with one last look by the doctor, then they hand John Sam’s discharge papers, and send them all on their way.
Outside, it’s mid-afternoon. Dean is dragging more than a little, and Bobby looks worse for wear. Sam’s quiet but still awake, stubbornly clinging to consciousness, even though he looks half-asleep already.
“Let’s go,” John says, pulling Sam closer to him. He puts a heavy hand on Dean’s head. “Let’s go home.”
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