Goodnight, Moon: Chapter Eight

“There is no distance on this earth as far away as yesterday.” ~robert nathan

                                  
Tucking the blanket around his brother, Dean lowered himself next to him on the bed. He was asleep again, thankfully—having woken up violently coughing and only marginally lucid right after Missouri told them that Sammy was actually protecting Sam as well—which was why he couldn’t remembering doing the spell.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean watched him sleep for a long moment, struggling with every emotion imaginable before reaching over and lightly smoothing aside the ever wayward bangs. Then taking the warm washcloth again, he gently dabbed away the drying blood on Sam’s face. Leftovers from Sammy’s “protecting.” He was so tired of seeing his blood…especially when his brother was the one doing the spilling—which was happening way too often lately.

Their lives…so freakin’ messed up.

“What’re you up to, Sammy?” he asked softly, more to himself than to his sleeping brother.

“He okay?” Bobby stepped up to the doorway.

Clearing his throat, “Yeah,” Dean leaned back a bit and threw the washcloth onto the nightstand, “He’s asleep.”

The older man nodded. “Missouri’s ready.”


~*~*~*~

Walking into the kitchen, “Why is my brother hurting himself?” Dean demanded gruffly.

Already sitting at the table, the woman nodded, “Okay, first you should know the spell you two did, worked.”

Two pair of surprised eyebrows rose simultaneously.

“Did he have a nightmare after you completed it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Dean glanced uneasily at Bobby as he leaned on a chair, “Sammy did.” He turned back to Missouri. “Why?”

“It was the spirits showing him what he needed to know.” She shook her head, brow creased. “But he couldn’t understand it. It only frightened him.”

“But Sam knew,” Bobby realized out loud.

“Yes. What little part of him was aware at the time.”

“And not knowing if he’d be able to tell us…” Dean paused, tightening his jaw, “if he’d be in control again, he reached out to the only person he didn’t actually have to tell,” he surmised.

Missouri’s eyes met Dean’s in confirmation.

“What did you see,” Bobby regarded her closely, “before Sammy stopped it? What’s he protecting them from?”

When she hesitated, tears filling her dark brown eyes, a lump formed in Dean’s throat. Tensing, he straightened.

“What?” Bobby prompted again, glancing worriedly at Dean. “What did you see?”

The single word was soft, even gentle when spoken with as much sympathy as it was, but it instantly drained the color from both seasoned hunters’ faces.

“Tuesday.”


~*~*~*~

Staring off into thought, Dean sat at the kitchen table alone.

Six months.

That son of a bitch trickster.

Sam had been alone for over six months before his world was righted again. He knew what life was going to be like without him.

He knew.

Dean closed his eyes.

Jeezus…

He had gone straight back to Sam’s side after Missouri told them. He had wanted to wake him. He had wanted to demand to know why he hadn’t told him. But he ended up just standing there. Frozen. Watching his brother sleep and understanding a lot better the ache he’d been seeing in his eyes the last few weeks—as if Sam had already lost him.

Because he already had.

/ “I had to.” /

One elbow on the table, rubbing his brow absently, Dean stared off…the heartache, the desperation suddenly all too familiar.

/ “I had to, Bobby. He’s my brother.”/

“Damnit, Sam,” he breathed low, closing his eyes again and praying that Bobby was right—that the spell hadn’t had the chance to be completed, because now he was more certain than ever. In that bathroom, Sam had tried to do whatever it took…to save him.

He cursed again. Who the hell was the big brother anyway? Sam was trying to protect him. Sammy was trying to protect him and Sam. He was the one that was supposed to be doing the protecting, damnit. It was his job. His birthright.

…which he was currently failing at miserably.

Washing a hand wearily down his face, a tug on his shirt had him lifting his head to find Sammy swaying before him, clutching his leather jacket in one hand. He looked impossibly little and innocent standing there all sleepy-faced with his hair askew. No one would have guessed he held such strength already at this young age, such determination, such an innate drive within him to protect his family…despite the pain it caused himself…despite the fact that it might cost him his life. Because that’s what it could come to, Dean feared, if they couldn’t figure out what was going on in that head of his.

A part of Dean wanted to be proud. Honored even. But the big brother part of him…the part of him that had raised and worried over him…wanted to smack him upside the head and curse at him until he was blue in the face.

He’d just end up scaring Sammy, though.  And Sam…Sam would just call Dean a self-righteous bastard, go all bitch-face on him…and probably kick him in the shins before stomping off. Dean grinned crookedly…but it fell.

Another tug on his shirt refocused his attention and reaching over tiredly, “Sorry, Squeaks,” Dean picked Sammy up and placed him in his lap. Since Sammy didn’t have to fight to remain present, he was a lot stronger than Sam. Dean doubted Sam would even be able to stand at this point…especially after what Sammy had done trying to protect him, them. Sam from an unbearable memory and God knows what else. And Dean…from something he couldn’t change.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

But sticking the tip of his thumb in his mouth, Sammy merely melted into his chest.

Frowning, the older hunter wrapped his arms around him, melting back with a sigh, and for a moment…for a much needed moment, was nothing more than a big brother with a sick little brother. “You know how long it took me to break you of that habit the first time, kiddo?” he teased lightly, tucking the jacket around him. “Actually,” he thought aloud with the faintest of grins. “I think you still do it once in awhile.”

When Sammy started fingering Dean’s amulet, “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?” Dean asked into his hair.

The head shook.

“Good.” Though, if Dean were being honest with himself, it’d be nice if the spirits or whatever would leave another bread crumb for them.

Apparently while Dean was…gone and Sam had searched for the trickster…he had also hunted. And something he had hunted, so said the spirits, had something they needed to turn Sam back. What? Missouri hadn’t been able to see. But she got a glimpse of the creature from Sam’s memory before Sammy blocked it and was pretty sure she could figure out what it was. Then they’d just have to find it.

Piece of friggin’ cake.

A car door outside announced the return of Missouri. The psychic had wanted to gather some herbs she couldn’t bring with her on the plane, and also insisted on them eating real food. What did she think Fruity Pebbles and Fruit Loops were?

Not to mention Fruit Loops doubled as weaponry.

Dean’s eye still stung.

“Hey, baby, how you feelin’?” Missouri came in carrying a bag of groceries.

Dean opened his mouth.

“Not you.”

He feigned hurt.

“Boy, suck in that pout.” But she said it with a wink.

Sammy giggled and turned shyly to hide in Dean’s chest as he clutched at his necklace. “What’s so funny?” Dean asked, looking down at him.

Timid eyes peeked out towards Missouri from under shaggy bangs.

“Yeah,” Dean drawled sarcastically, “she’s a hoot, isn’t she?” he said dryly.

Missouri brought up a warning finger as Bobby came in with more bags and a book from the shed—which Dean was beginning to suspect was as much a place to regroup for him as it was for information.

“Hey, kiddo. Hope you’re hungry,” Bobby dropped the brown paper bags onto the kitchen table.

Dean’s eyebrows rose at the amount of food. He started peeking hopefully in the ones he could reach, only to be slapped away by Missouri. “Ow!,” he looked affronted.

“M&M’s are for after lunch,” she warned with a knowing eye.

Grumbling, Dean looked down at his brother…and grinned. “Hey, Sammy…”

“Don’t even think about it, Winchester.”

Damn her psychic abilities.


~*~*~*~

“So, now that’s two possible creatures we’ve narrowed it down to based on what Missouri saw,” Bobby said, tossing a book onto the kitchen table.

“Great, so now we just have to narrow it down to one, the one and scourer three thousand miles to find it,” Dean replied dryly. Yup. Piece of friggin cake.

Bobby shrugged. “I’ve already put some feelers out to some other hunters—see if they know where either of these creatures might be holdin’ up.”

They really didn’t know any other way to go about it, not without Sam’s help, not without risking Sammy trying to stop him again.

Dean nodded, trying to wipe his squirming brother’s mouth off. The kid did manage to eat some spaghetti before his appetite waned completely, but most of it ended up on him…and therefore, Dean.

“The bath’s ready,” Missouri chimed, walking back into the kitchen. Both boys froze in their struggles.

“For Sammy,” she clarified. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you grabbed one too when he’s done,” she eyed Dean up and down.

Tentatively sniffing an armpit, Dean canted his head to the side. He really couldn’t argue.


~*~*~*~

As baths went, this one went relatively easy. Sammy was too tired to put up a fuss and actually ended up bathing himself—claiming, to Dean’s amusement, that he was a ‘big boy’.  After Dean adjusted the water temperature, helped him get his shirt off over his bandaged arm, and dodged yet another question about where their dad had gone, he was good to go.

Standing by the slightly ajar bathroom door, ready to assist if needed, Dean reminded him, “Don’t get your bandage wet.”

“I won’t,” came a weary reply. The kid was fading fast.

“Don’t scrub off my awesome artwork,” he added.

“I won’t,” came another slightly more exasperated reply. Dean grinned at how Sam-like he sounded when tired...or was it Sam just sounded more Sammy-like?

It wasn’t long before his little brother was waddling out, clean pants on and a towel hugged around him.

“All done, kiddo?” Dean asked, snapping the jeans—impressed that he even managed to get them on being mostly one-handed. “Squeaky clean?”

“Squeaky is clean,” he murmured sleepily into Dean’s neck as he was scooped into his arms.

Grinning, Dean nodded. “That’s my boy.”


~*~*~*~

Sitting him on his bed—Dean’s eyes, for a moment, were unable to look away from the unmarred skin. Aside from the wound he had inflicted on himself just the day before, Sam’s skin was… perfect. Painless. There were no scars from Meg’s possession, or Bela’s bullet or the shadow demon’s claws, or even the werecat they had hunted when Sam was fifteen. Nor were there any from other countless injuries, countless close calls. The scar, the scar was even gone from his back.

Dean couldn’t help but wonder again if they were doing the right thing, trying to turn Sam back. Maybe…

“Boy, don’t make me slap you,” Missouri warned, leaning in the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tinfoil caps, Dean wondered, what were the chances Bobby had one lying around?

Missouri raised an eyebrow.

Glaring, “Is there some sort of lock or something I can put on my brain to keep you out?” he asked tersely, then turned to find Sammy a shirt and socks.

“Not that I would tell you.”

Dean could practically hear her grinning slyly at his back. He rolled his eyes.

Finally finding some socks, after a tentative sniff, he knelt down and slipped them onto his brother.

“No wigglies for the pigglies if you don’t tuck them in,” the boy sing-songed tiredly as he watched him.

Dean chortled. He had forgotten all about that. When Sam was about three, he went through a phase where he hated wearing anything on his feet—even socks. In the dead of winter, he’d run around their drafty, barely heated cabin without any socks on. Dean had always been chasing him down and wrestling something on him, only for Sam to shed them as soon as he was free—wiggling his toes in blatant mockery in Dean’s direction.

Frustrated and afraid that he’d get sick, or frost bite, Dean had told him once that he wouldn’t be able to wiggle his piggies anymore if they fell off—which is what would happen if he didn’t cover them up.

Shit like this he remembers…

“Come on, then,” Missouri held her hand out to the boy, “I have something for you in the living room before you and your brother take a nap.”

Dean made a face.

After coughing into his ‘chicken wing’ as Dean had taught him, Sammy looked up at him for permission first. Receiving a ‘get outta here’ gesture, he lethargically slid off the bed and took the older woman’s hand. “Is it a lion?” Dean heard him ask softly as they walked out the door. The corner of his mouth turned up.

Two old, worn work boots appeared in his line of vision. “Well, they ain’t Gucci, but I guess they’re cute.” The boots rocked back on their heels.

Confused, Dean looked up into Bobby’s amused eyes. “Huh?”

The eyes narrowed. “Boy, you look dead on your feet.”

“Ah, well, no worries there. Missouri has scheduled us nap time and don’t you think I’ll be sharing the binkie,” he quipped, turning to search his brother a shirt.

“Good luck getting it off of Sammy,” Bobby deadpanned.

Dean snorted in agreement. He didn’t think the kid had let his jacket out of sight since he started using it as a cape.

Scratching the back of his head, they really needed to do some laundry, he thought, looking at the mess of clothes thrown about. It had been five days now since Sam had been turned into a child—though it seemed like a lifetime, and they were running out of clean clothes…and here, Dean had originally thought, hoped, he had bought too many.

Finally finding the bag with the t-shirts, he pulled one out and froze.

Concerned, Bobby stepped closer. “What is it?”

It was meant to be another humorous one. Another great find. One that read, “If found, please return to Kansas.” But it wasn’t funny. Not anymore. Kansas had been crossed out and something was written underneath. Looking closer, Dean gripped the shirt harder when he realized it wasn’t Sammy’s handwriting…but Sam’s that simply read, “Dean”

Closing his eyes, he clutched the t-shirt. “Sam,” he whispered like a broken prayer, not even noticing the worried presence behind him. Bobby didn’t say anything, though. There was nothing left to say.

“Dean! Look what Missouri got us!” Sammy called from the living room.

Offering him a moment alone, “I’d better make sure it’s not a damn lion,” Bobby grumbled for show. He lingered for a moment, though, eyeing him helplessly before walking away.

Still looking down at the shirt, Dean fingered it as if it held the last piece of the man his brother had become. “Just hold on, Sam. Just you hold on.”


~*~*~*~

Walking out into the living room, shoulders re-squared and game-face back on, Dean pulled a shirt down over Sammy’s head that boldly read, “Princess.”

He smirked at Missouri’s raised brow. Assuming she knew about Sam’s, sorry, Sammy’s brief flaunt into warrior princess-hood by one means or another, “It’s scary how well I know him, isn’t it?” he replied, “Though, I gotta say, the Frisbee fetish I didn’t see coming.”

Oblivious, wiggling his hands through the sleeves, Sammy then shoved his present up at Dean. “Look!” he exclaimed excitedly—suddenly appearing a lot more awake.

Kids. Like freakin’ yo-yo’s.

Dean whined. “A book?”

“Boy, you have to give the child something age appropriate when he’s like this.”

“Hey, we let him play,” Dean defended.

The stout woman put her hands on her hips, “With shotgun shells?”

“Um…”

“And what’s this I hear, you using your brother to get a date?”

Sammy giggled, watching the funny faces his brother made while he faltered. He tilted his head back and looked up at the lady. “You’re a hoot,” he mimicked Dean’s words from early.

Dean smothered his laugh with a cough into his fist.

“No, baby, your brother is just an idiot,” she winked, unable to help her own grin.

That had Sammy giggling even harder.

Rolling his eyes, Dean took the book from his hands. “He turned out just fine the first time, thank you very much.”

Missouri’s eyes soften. She smiled. “He sure did.”

“Will you read it to me, Dean? Pleeeease?” Sammy tugged on his jeans, then buried his face in them to cough.

Grimacing, Dean turned the book over and really looked at it for the first time. He nearly dropped it. “How’d…?”  But looking up, she was already gone.

Lowering himself down onto the couch, Sammy immediately climbed up into his lap and got comfortable, spreading Dean’s leather jacket over them both. Patiently, he fingered the images on the cover—the cow, the moon, the writing that spelled, “Goodnight, Moon,” as Dean struggled with the lump in his throat.

It had been Sam’s favorite book growing up. He had him read it to him every night since he was two and they’d discovered it forgotten in some hotel room. It hadn’t been long before Dean knew the book by heart.

Finally opening it, he found that he still did.



~*~*~*~

“…and goodnight noises everywhere.”

“Don’t forget,” Sammy prompted, more asleep than awake.

Dean winced. He was hoping he would have nodded off by now.

Even after the last words read, the story had never been complete in Sam’s eyes until they had said goodnight to their dad—even if he was in another state, Cubby—a stuffed bear Sam had had for all of two weeks before it was tragically abducted by someone’s mut, but whose memory would live on in extended versions of children books forever, and each other.

“Sammy,” he tried throatily. He really didn’t want to do this. It’d just open more old wounds that had never completely healed.

The boy merely looked up at him, concern in his eyes because Dean had never not finished it, and Dean knew he was a goner. Damn those eyes.

Licking his lips, the words were slow to come and like broken glass across his heart when they finally did. “Goodnight, dad,” he finally said roughly. Then, swallowing painfully, “Goodnight, Cubby.”

He was rewarded with dimples. “Goodnight, Dean.”

But Dean didn’t continue…he was wishing for a moment that Sam wasn’t the only one three and half feet tall again. He was wishing for a weak moment…that he could start over too…and still believe that their father could hear them, no matter how far away he was.

“Now you say it,” Sammy prodded helpfully, softly.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he finally replied, the old joke coming surprisingly easy off numb lips.

Titling his head back, Sammy giggled, “Noooooo.”

Dean managed a brief, weak smile as tears filled his eyes and he finished thickly—saying goodbye again to an innocence he once thought he never had, but found himself longing for more and more every day, “Goodnight, Sammy.”

Chapter NINE