I write fics to make my brain less squishy

Not that you have many other places to go. You’ve managed to make friends in school, but you’re not allowed to visit them. They’re not part of the church, and one of them even has divorced parents, an environment your mother does not want you to be a part of, lest your young mind pick up any ideas. Instead she tells you to play with your cousins, over at your grandfather’s place. But you don’t like it there. You never did.

You slow down as you make it onto the salvage yard. Bobby’s house is a strange medium, neutral ground you and your mother can agree on. He’s not in the church, and you’re pretty sure he’d spit at the idea, but he was your father’s friend and colleague. Hunters, both of them, but it wasn’t until you started visiting Bobby earlier this summer that you understood what kind. You’re pretty sure you played over the realization pretty well, the realization that you didn’t know your father hunted demons and monsters, rather than elk or coyote, or whatever kind of animals there are to hunt – you wouldn’t know, since you’re a vegetarian this year. 

Another reason you keep going back to Bobby’s - you were young when your father died, don’t remember him. At Bobby’s, there are things he’s touched, places he stood in that you can stand in now. Sometimes Bobby tells you stories about him, and you hunger for them, lock them away inside yourself for when you return home, because your mother might as well pretend he never existed. She acts like you were an immaculate conception. You learned about that in bible school. Also learned about hell and demons and the devil. It terrified you. Bobby’s books are, in a way, the antidote to that.

In front of the house, you get off your bike, barely noticing the beautiful Chevrolet parked there as well. There’s constantly new cars showing up at Bobby’s, but if you were a little older, you might notice that this one doesn’t belong in a salvage yard. It’s meticulously clean, unlike anything at Bobby’s. 

As you more jump than walk up the stairs to the small porch, you don’t think much of it. The door opens just as you reach it, and you almost run into the man leaving the house. You jump back at the last second, but he still gives you a look like you just stepped on his new shoes. He’s tall, dark hair and a lot of scruff, a worn, brown leather jacket covering a broad frame, and he has an irritated expression on his face. He frowns at you, and you quickly lower your gaze. 

“Bob,” he says over his shoulder, “there’s a kid here.” 

Without waiting for Bobby to reply, the man walks past you, off the porch. You dare to look after him, see him get into the black car parked in front of the house without another look back. You’re distracted when you hear Bobby’s slightly off-kilter footsteps. When you turn around, he’s standing in the hallway of his house, waving you over. 

“Come in,” he says in that perpetually frustrated tone of his, “you’re letting all the cool air out.” You walk inside, push the door closed behind you, then stop in your tracks when you walk into the kitchen. 

At Bobby’s table, the one you and him sometimes sit around when he has the time, eating spaghetti with thick tomato sauce, the only thing Bobby can cook, are two boys. 

Jealousy and territorialism are immediately thick in your throat – Bobby’s house is supposed to be your escape. Other people being there, especially boys, makes it feel like just any other place. The sadness at the perceived loss that follows is so intense it startles you. Bobby walks up next to you. 

“That’s Sam and Dean, honey,” he says, before introducing you. “They’re gonna be staying with me this summer.” Bobby makes a noise, something huffing, followed by a clearing of his throat. If you were outside, you know he’d spit on the ground now, something you have, unsuccessfully, tried to copy. 

“I got some work to do,” Bobby continues, “you kids get along now, you hear?” You nod, just a little, and then Bobby pats your shoulder and leaves the room. 

Slowly, without saying anything else, you walk over to one of the piles of books Bobby has strewn all over his house. You grab the book at the top of the pile, not caring what it is, open it, but then you’re not sure where to sit, what with the two boys at the dining table. You’re not about to retreat into the other room, Bobby’s office, give up the terrain, so you collect all your bravery, walk towards the table. 

You pull out one of the unoccupied chairs, then sit in it, the book in your lap. You look down at it, but out of the corner of your eye, you’re studying the two intruders. 

One of them is basically a baby, or what you, at the ripe age of seven, consider a baby, which is anyone even slightly younger than you. He has a dark brown mop of hair that could use a brush and a trim, and he’s staring down at the picture he’s drawing, crayon held in a fist, which tells you he probably isn’t in school yet, because you learned how to hold a pencil in first grade. He doesn’t seem bothered by your presence, deeply absorbed in his work. 

The other one is a little older than you, but it’s hard to say by how much – a year? Two? There’s a spattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, he has lighter hair and he’s reading a magazine – Hot Rod, you can just see on the cover before he flips it around. He looks up at you and you quickly look down, but you’re pretty sure he saw you. You keep reading, or rather, keep pretending you’re reading, until you hear one of them speak up. 

“You read a lot?” he says, he being the older of the two, which you see when you look up and he’s looking straight at you. You shrug. 

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how to seem cool just with that one word, so you add: “I’m gonna be a hunter when I grow up, so I need to learn.” The boy makes a face, raises his eyebrows in a way that is intensely practiced, like someone put an adult face over his real one. 

“Our dad’s a hunter,” he says, and you think of the man you nearly walked into earlier. “He’s gonna take me on cases with him when I’m older.” 

The jealousy his words spark in you is immediate, painful. No one in your family hunts and from the moment you decided you were going to follow in your father’s footsteps earlier this summer, you have known that you would have to do it on your own. But you’re not going to let this boy see how much that scares you, so you shrug again. 

“My dad was a hunter too,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, “but he died.” 

The freckled boy nods slowly. He considers you for a second, then swallows. To your surprise, it’s the younger one who speaks up. 

“Our mom died when I was a baby,” he says matter-of-factly, like you’re talking about the weather. You look at him, but he hasn’t looked up from his drawing. 

For a brief moment, you envy them – how different your life could be if your father was alive and your mother dead. The fear and nervousness you feel around her. You imagine a life with him to be easy, simple. Quiet. She slapped you once, in the winter. She seemed to feel bad about it, but it didn’t stop her from doing it again a few weeks later. She says it’s your fault, that you’re starting to act out and forcing her hand. You’re not sure what you’ve done, but it must be bad. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, because you’re not sure what else to say, “about your mom.” 

Your eyes go back to the older boy, and his face tenses for a second. You get it. It’s not often that someone mentions your father, but when they do, it’s a toss-up on how it makes you feel. Most of the time, you just want them to shut up. You never met him, but he’s yours. No one else should be allowed to touch him. 

Luckily, to distract you from your thoughts and that boy’s serious expression, just then the younger one drops the crayon. 

“I’m thirsty, Dean,” he says, “can I have some juice?” 

He’s polite for a baby, you think, and then you watch as the older of the two gets up. He walks to the fridge, pulls out a carton of orange juice. Then he steadies his hands on the kitchen counter, pushes himself up, and when he’s up, opens the cupboard with the glasses. You always get a chair to get up there. Bobby’s told you not to climb the furniture. 

Kneeling there on the counter, the boy – Dean? – turns around to you. 

“You want a glass too?” he asks. 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. 

He turns back, grabs three glasses, puts them on the counter, closes the cupboard and then jumps back down to the floor. He looks cool doing it, you have to admit. He brings everything to the table, and when he pours the glass for his brother, he turns to him. 

“Are you hungry, Sammy?” he asks and Sammy, already consumed by his picture again, shakes his head. Dean returns the orange juice to the fridge, and then all three of you sit there for a long time, reading and drawing, sipping orange juice, in companionable silence. 

Bobby doesn't come back for a while. After about half an hour, the younger brother, Sammy, decides to shove some of his paper and some crayons towards you. You think about pretending you're too old to be interested in drawing, but the truth is the book you picked up at random is the most boring thing you've ever laid eyes on. So after battling your young ego for a second, you put it down and grab some of Sammy's crayons. 

You decide to draw a house, but you're struggling to decide which one. There’s your grandfather’s house, large and imposing at the end of a long lawn. It’s beautiful, has more rooms than you can count, but you hate thinking about it. There’s something whisper-y about it, something quiet, but in a bad way. Like everyone is constantly holding their breath. When your mother and you moved out, you were happy, despite how young you were.

There’s the house the two of you live in now. It’s bright, large windows that you can stand in front of, and on sunny days, you feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. All heated up, like your body is buzzing, but nice. The house feels empty, though. Your mother doesn’t like having guests, says they give her a headache. She always touches the side of her face when she says this. Like she can feel it coming on. She says that. I can feel it coming on. The only person who comes by is a woman who cleans twice a week. Your mother watches her, smoking in the kitchen. Neck craning when she leaves the room. You think the woman is nice. She smells good, and she smiles at you when she sees you.

You could draw Bobby’s house. It’s a little bit dirty, and a little bit messy, but it’s the only place you remember ever feeling fully comfortable. Not just comfortable, but safe. There's something warm about it, even if in the winter the wind comes through the gaps in the windows, whistling like someone calling their dog. 

Bobby's house is safe because Bobby doesn't yell, he doesn't get angry when you spill juice or when, while drawing, like you are now, you accidentally draw on the table. He might grumble a bit, but then he gets a cloth, wets it and cleans up your mess without making you feel like you have done permanent damage. You could gift him the drawing and you think Bobby would probably like it, or at least he would pretend to, which is just as good. 

You start drawing and before you know it you have the outlines done and the windows. 

“Is that Bobby’s house?” Sammy asks, peering over at the piece of paper in front of you. You look at him, almost having forgotten that you're not there on your own. The sound of his crayons has been lulling you in, and Dean has been perfectly quiet. He must have turned the pages of his magazine at some point but you didn't hear him. You look back at your drawing. 

“It is,” you say as you keep studying your masterpiece. 

“The windows look like eyes,” he says, “like wide open eyes. Like they saw something scary.” You frown at him. 

“What do you know about seeing scary things?” you ask. The boy looks at you for the first time. His eyes are dark, really dark, almost as dark as his hair, almost black in the low light of Bobby’s kitchen. You think he’s gonna answer you, but then he just looks back at his drawing, focuses on it again. 

Without meaning to, you throw his older brother a questioning look. He’s been studying the exchange, watching both of you like a hawk, as if he’s ready to jump in at any point. He looks at you, then turns back to his magazine, not saying anything.

The three of you remain like this until you need to leave. You slip off the chair, then stand there for a moment, unsure if you should say goodbye or if that would make it seem like you cared, like you even noticed that they were there. You swing your arms a little before turning to the younger of the two.

“I’ll be back here tomorrow,” you say to him and he looks up again, face slack, dark eyes watching you. “I have some gel pens I can bring that you can draw with.” 

Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you realize that gel pens might be way too girly for him. But he just nods.

“Okay,” he says, then turns back to his drawing. You look at the floor, turn and walk outside without looking at either of them again. While you’re riding home air rushes into your eyes, making them water with how fast you’re pedaling.

Bobby’s truck isn’t out front when you return the next day and drop your bike down in front of the house. You know where the spare key is, but then you hear sounds from somewhere. You walk around the house, looking for their source.

Sam and Dean are there. Sam has what you’re pretty sure is a black t-shirt tied around his neck like a cape, while Dean has a red one. Sam is running back and forth in short sprints, trying to be fast enough for the t-shirt to fly up behind him. Dean is holding a camcorder, you see as you approach. It must be Bobby’s, but you had no idea he owned something like this, much less knew how to operate it.

“What are you doing?” you say and Dean looks up. He looks a little surprised.

“You’re back,” he says and you set your jaw. You’re back? You were here first. He has no right to say this to you.

“Said I would be,” you shoot back, sounding a little meaner than you intend to. Sam comes to a stop next to you, breathing hard from his running.

“Did you bring the pens?” he asks. You look at him, then shake your head.

“My mom didn’t let me,” you reply. Sam nods, then turns, starts walking on an invisible line, arms extended out to the sides. You turn back to Dean.

“What are you doing with the camcorder?” you ask, challenge in your voice because while you don’t want to be a square you also don’t like the idea that he might be touching Bobby’s things without asking first. 

“Sam’s gonna film me jumping off that shed,” he says, then looks at you and you raise your eyebrows in question. He indicates the t-shirt around his shoulders. “I’m Superman. Sammy’s Batman.”

Just then, Sam starts running again, making one big jump that must seem huge to him but looks tiny to you. You look at him, then back at Dean, swat at a fly circling you.

“Who’s Superman?” you ask. Dean stops playing around with the camera, frowns at you.

“You don’t know Superman?” he asks, voice unbelieving. Damn it, you should have just pretended. But it’s too late now, so you shrug.

“He’s an alien who’s a superhero,” Dean explains. “He can fly and he can shoot lasers out of his eyes.” You nod, like everything he’s saying makes perfect sense.

“Oh,” you say, like the information is just whatever. Dean studies you, then looks over at his brother who is still running around.

“Hey, maybe you can film it instead,” he says and your eyes shoot up to his face. “Sam doesn’t know how to work the camera.” Your heart flutters. You also don’t know how to work the camera. But to your relief, Dean turns a little, shows you the buttons.

“You press here to start recording,” he explains and you lean in, make sure you catch what he’s saying. “And then here to stop.” You nod, and then he hands the camcorder to you. It’s heavier than it looks.

Dean walks over to the shed. There’s a car parked next to it that’s mostly scrap and he climbs up on the hood, then the roof and then the shed. Sam comes to a stop next to you, breathing hard.

“Can you bring the pens tomorrow?” he asks, but all that leaves you is an uh huh. Because you’re busy watching Dean. He’s effortless, like he’s climbed that shed a hundred times. When he’s on top he looks down, over the edge. He doesn’t seem scared at all. 

“Okay, ready?” he calls down and you raise the camera, push your face against it. Your lashes are in the way a little but you’re sure you have him in frame. You press record.

Dean does a weird thing where he sticks out his arm, hand balled into fist. 

“Up, up,” he says, voice forced deep, “and away!” He lowers his arm, bends at the knees, then jumps. Your heart beats hard in your chest as you try to concentrate on keeping him in frame as he falls closer and closer to the ground.

He lands on his feet, crouched down, both hands going out to keep his balance for a moment. He doesn’t fall. You open your eyes wide. It’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen. You can’t help the sound of wonder that comes out of you as you jump up and down a few times. Dean has the broadest grin on his face as he walks towards you.

“Did you get it?” he asks and you look down at the camera, stop recording, then nod at him. “Did it look cool?”

“It looked awesome!” you say, your enthusiasm carrying you away. Dean looks at you for a moment longer, then down. He kicks a rock, scratches the sole of his shoe over the ground a few times before he continues.

“If you want to I can, like, lend you my Superman comics,” he says, like he’s just making an off-hand comment. You press your lips together.

“Yeah,” you say, then quickly add: “Are there any girl heroes?” Dean nods.

“There’s Wonder Woman,” he says. “She’s super strong and fast.” You nod. 

“Okay,” you say, a funny feeling spreading in your stomach. You know you can’t borrow the comics. There’s no way your mother would allow you to read something about aliens and superheroes. But for some reason, you don’t want Dean to know that. That all you get is stuff for girls, because he probably thinks girl stuff is dumb.

“I can give them to you later,” he says, nodding along. You open your mouth to reply, when your eyes go up, then wide, as you look behind Dean. He turns around immediately.

Sam is up on the shed. You open your mouth to shout something and in that moment, he bends his short legs and jumps. 

He’s tiny. The shed is a million times his size. It’s like he falls in slow motion, his dark cape fluttering behind him. He finally got it to do what he wanted.

He falls on his side. There’s a crunch that makes you want to throw up. Dean is by his side the next second.

“Sammy–” he says, pulling him up but Sam starts wailing, low in his throat. Thick tears explode out of his eyes. You and Dean look down at his arm at the same time. He’s holding it close to his body.

“Sam, it’s okay,” Dean’s saying, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. Sam’s sounds are still low and you wonder if he’ll scream, but he doesn’t. It’s a horrible sound. 

“We need to call Bobby, get him to the hospital,” Dean says, to no one in particular. But you have no idea where Bobby is, or how you could reach him even if you did. You could walk down to the road, try to get some car to stop to find an adult you can ask for help. You could call an ambulance, you know that number, or your home, but no, your mother’s head would probably explode and you’d be grounded forever. The scrapyard is a little bit outside of the city, down a country road, so not many cars pass by. It’s perfect for when you want to drive your bike really fast. 

Your bike.

You start running, kicking up stones on your way as you pump your legs, come to a hard stop at the front of the house. You grab the handlebars, pull it up and then start pushing it towards the back of the house again. The handling is awkward due to its size, but you make it.

Dean looks up when he hears you approach. He’s managed to get Sam to his feet, and it looks like he was about to make him walk. You could be wrong, but you think he looks a little surprised. Maybe he thought you ran off.

You stop the bike next to him, look at his face.

“You can ride him to the hospital,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “That’s the quickest way.”

Dean nods, then grabs for the bike before, to your surprise, rendering control of Sam over to you. You wrap one arm around his small frame. He’s skinny, and you can feel his ribs. He’s shaking, small whimpering sounds still coming from him.

Dean swings his leg over the bike, and then you help him hoist Sam up on the handlebars. It’s awkward, but you manage. When he’s sitting there, legs slung over, back pressed against his brother’s chest, lower lip still shaking, you take a step back. But Dean doesn’t start pedaling, so you look at his face. There’s still some wide-eyed panic there, but also something expectant.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice a little rough. “Get on.”

Riding on the back of the bike has your butt hurting and you’re feeling awkward where you’re holding on to Dean’s shirt over his shoulders. Sam has gone quiet, which is somehow more scary than when he was crying. Still, you can’t help feeling what you’re feeling.

Dean drives at a breakneck speed. You drive fast too, but not this fast. It’s like the three of you are flying. 

It turns out Dean doesn’t know where the hospital is. You only know it because you can always see it when you drive to Bobby’s. That’s probably why he wanted you to come along, although you prefer to think he’s just as nervous and scared as you.

The bike clatters to the ground in front of the ER as the two of you lead Sam inside. The nurse at reception looks at you wide-eyed.

“Where the heck are your parents?” she asks. Dean doesn’t answer, so neither do you. They take Sam away, and then Dean and you sit on red plastic chairs in the waiting area, both of you staring straight ahead. Your heart is beating fast, and there’s a weird tightness in your stomach and chest.

Dean’s not saying anything. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one leg bouncing up and down. You look at him, then look away. He seemed so cool before, and now he seems terrified. It’s fascinating to see.

You push your hand into the pocket of your pants, find the coins you always carry with you. You stand up, walk over to the vending machine. You wonder what Dean likes, if he prefers one soft drink over the other, but then you simply get two Cokes. You walk back to where you were sitting, hold one out to him, wordless. His bouncing stops, and he looks up at you.

He has startling green eyes, and right then, you don’t think you’ve seen any person ever look so scared. He blinks, like he’s waking himself, looks at the glass bottle in your hand, then reaches out and takes it without saying anything. You sit down next to him again.

Bobby’s loud, and you can hear him before you see him. Both of you had to give your home numbers, and it looks like they finally managed to reach him.

“What in the hell happened?” he says as he walks up, voice deep and rough. His brow is low and his eyes wide, but he doesn’t seem angry, despite saying “hell”. He drops into a squat in front of the both of you.

“We were playing,” you say, before Dean has the chance to answer. “Sam fell.” It’s technically true, but it hides the fact that Sam was copying his brother, jumped off the shed on purpose. Bobby’s hands go out, and he puts his hands on your and Dean’s shoulders - one on yours, one on his. Squeezes.

“Thought my heart was gonna stop when they got a hold of me,” he says. “Had me scared shi– had me worried when you weren’t there when I came back.”

You nod. You know Bobby wanted to curse again, but stopped himself.

You can go and see Sam not long after. He looks tiny on the hospital bed but he gives you a tight-lipped smile when you enter.

“Look,” he says to Dean who steps close to him, “I got juice and dinosaurs to color.” Dean nods. He still looks terrified. He puts his hands on the bed, but without touching his brother.

“How’s your arm?” he asks, swallows. Sam shrugs.

“It’s okay,” he answers. Dean nods slowly, then looks at the dinosaur Sam’s coloring. 

“Looks nice,” he says. You’re pretty sure you can hear tears in his voice, the way it goes all thick. They don’t reach his face though.

You’re so used to the way your mother’s footsteps sound, so used to avoiding them when you need to, or making it immediately known where you are on other days, that afterwards you’re sure you hear her the moment she enters the hospital, although you don’t think that’s technically possible. 

But you do hear her, and when you turn around she’s just entering the room, the door left open. She has her bag slung over her arm, is wearing one of her nice dresses with the cardigan buttoned high. From the fine line of her lipstick, you know she reapplied it in the car.

“There you are,” she says, walking over to you. She throws a quick look at Sam, maybe at Dean, then grabs your arm around the wrist. “Do you know how worried I was? Getting a call from the hospital?” She squeezes hard where she’s holding you and you can’t help but make a face. She doesn’t see it, because she turns to Bobby.

“Where were you?” she asks, voice slightly raised. The familiarity between them always freaks you out a little. They feel like they should be from different planets. You know your mother doesn’t like Bobby, sometimes says he’s dirty. But not dirty enough to not let you go to play at his house. 

“It was an accident,” Bobby replies. His voice is calm. Distantly, you think maybe he shouldn’t have left all of you alone, but he’s done it a million times. You once fell in your kitchen at home, the floor wet from mopping. Your shoulder hurt for three days, but you didn’t tell your mother, because you’re not supposed to run in the house. She was only upstairs, and it still happened. Adults like to pretend that they can stop bad things from happening, but the truth you’re figuring out is that they actually can’t.

“Look, it happens, children hurt themselves,” Bobby says, but you can tell he’s sweating a little under your mother’s angry stare. “They did good, got Sam to the hospital. You should be proud, if anything.” She’s still squeezing your wrist, shakes it absent-mindedly with her own movement when she speaks, and it feels like she’s gonna dislodge all the bones in it.

“That’s not the point,” she butts in. “They should be watched. And you didn’t tell me there would be other children, that–”

“Stop it, you’re hurting her!”

All eyes in the room go to Dean. His brows are pushed low and he’s staring down your mother. You feel your eyes widen as you watch Dean’s go down to where she’s holding your wrist. Your mother does the same, like she’s unsure what he’s talking about for a moment.

You expect her to yell at him, tell him to have some dang manners, not to talk to an adult like that. But she’s either surprised enough to not think of that, or the fact that he raised his voice quiets her. She always gets nervous when someone’s loud around her, whether it’s your grandfather or one of her brothers or cousins. She opens her mouth, lips moving like she’s going to say something, but then she simply drops your hand. You make a fist, feel the pull of your skin.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” she says. She turns and starts walking, without so much as looking back at Bobby. You follow after her, needing to hurry a few steps to keep up with her. 

You look back before you leave the room. Bobby’s dropping his shoulders, and then walks over to Sam’s bedside. Dean looks after you for a moment, then turns to his brother as well. But you can’t quite look away yet, at least not until you leave the room and they disappear from sight.

Your mother leads you to the car, both of you getting in wordlessly. She drops her handbag on your lap, then reaches in, finds her cigarettes. It’s a vice she sometimes indulges in, although she shouldn’t. Her words.

She starts the car, says something that you answer with a non-committal sound. She starts driving, through the town, and you look out the window.

A few months ago, a bird flew into the house. Flapped around, wings brushing the windows and walls like crazy. You didn’t know how it got there, but the woman who comes to clean helped it get out.

You’re thinking about what just happened. Stop it, you’re hurting her. And your mother let go. Listened, dropped your wrist. It feels like the bird is in your chest now, flapping around there. Because, as far as you can remember, no one has ever, ever stood up for you.

Except Dean Winchester.

Your mother brought your bike, had it put into the back of the car before leaving, and so the next morning, after breakfast, you slowly and carefully walk outside, grab it and get on it. Your mother hasn’t said that you’re not allowed back at Bobby’s, so you simply go. If your mother says you weren’t supposed to, you can feign ignorance. It’s worth the risk.

You drive down the long country road extra fast. Pedal until the muscles in your legs burn, until the scrapyard comes into view. 

Sam is on the couch, watching TV, a cartoon. He looks up when you walk in. You drop your backpack to the floor, rummage around in it, then hold up what you were looking for - the gel pens. You simply took them. Felt daring when you did.

You walk over to Sam, drop down on the couch next to him. He leans forward, looks at all the colors.

“You can write on my arm with them,” he says, indicating his cast. “Dean already wrote something last night.” You look at where he’s pointing. AC/DC rocks, it says, in what you’re pretty sure is ballpoint pen, the way it’s been almost scratched in there.

“Cool,” you say. You take one of the pens, a darker blue so it shows on the white, hold it up to Sam’s arm. You’re not sure what to write, but then you grin, start scribbling. Sam watches as you work, but it’s upside down for him.

“What is it?” he says. Your drawing skills aren’t great, but you’re still proud of what you did. You brush some hair out of your face. 

“A bat,” you say, and smile at him. “Like Batboy.” Sam grins, toothy and wide.

“Batman,” you hear a voice from behind you. You turn, and it’s Dean, maybe coming from upstairs. He’s watching you two.

“I know,” you reply quickly. There’s a moment of silence, as neither of you three says anything. You lean back slowly, look at the TV. 

It takes a few seconds, but finally Dean moves too. He plops down on the couch next to you, and then the three of you watch. Not speaking, at least not until Dean decides to get a snack for all of you.

You come back the next day, and the next, and then the entire week. Mostly, you play with Sam, but Dean is always there, watching, sometimes joining. 

When you come back on the Thursday, Sam and Dean are gone. Picked up by their father, Bobby says. You stand in the living room, look around. The territory you felt so defensive over is yours again, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. They took everything they have with them, and you’re pretty sure Sam took the gel pens. To someone else, it might look like they were never even there.

But you know they were. You know.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

The first postcard arrives when you’re eight years old. It’s from Salt Lake City. You take it up to your room, sit on your bed, and read it.

There are a lot of churches here. Dad works all the time. There is a snack machine at the motel. Dean ate a whole thing of sour candy and got a stoumech stomach ache. I’m reading Huckleberry Finn and I like it, I like that he tries to be a good person.

Sam W.

And then scribbled below that:

We watched monster trucks on TV and Dad has been hunting. I nearly fired a shotgun, but then didn’t have to. He says he’s gonna drop us off at Bobby’s while he finishes the hunt.

He must notice you’re awake too because he curls his arm, pulls you against him, bringing his lips close to your ear.

“Morning,” he mutters, his breath tickling you, and you grin.

“Good morning,” you reply, reaching for his hand and raising it to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He, in turn, kisses the shell of your ear, his free hand running up your waist before he slips it under the covers.

He runs it over your front, gently pets your stomach, before he travels lower to down between your legs.

Sam’s big hand cups your pussy, and you sigh. He moves his fingers only slightly, testing, teasing, and you press yourself down against his hold.

“Slow,” he half-slurs, half-whispers and you need to grin at the fact that he is still mostly asleep, but this is his first instinct. You’re not about to complain. Instead, you press yourself back, Sam’s nose bumping against yours when you turn your head.

You always want him, but the last few weeks have been ridiculous. It’s like it was when you first got together. You look at him, and it takes your breath away. Need to press up on your toes, run your fingers into his hair and kiss him to remember he’s yours. It makes your breathing catch every time, just like it does now with him touching you.

“Is that good?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know, still soft and going torturously slow. You nod, and your own pleasure confirmed, Sam presses his hips against you, and you feel his growing erection press between your ass cheeks. You bring your own hand between your legs, laying it over Sam’s to urge him on, and when he finally does, it drags a high moan from you.

Your sounds wake Dean with such a violent start that it makes you flinch. One second he’s lying on his front, face pressed into the pillow, the next he’s pushed up on his elbow, other hand in a fist as he looks around for the source of danger, a disoriented look on his face. He blinks, then looks over at you where you are giving him a wide-eyed stare.

You have to laugh when he drops his hand, turning from someone willing to commit violent murder one second to charming Casanova the next when he sees what you and Sam are up to.

“Mind if I join?” he asks, rolling towards you and grinning down at you. You nod, head against the pillow.

“Be our guest,” you say, voice sounding a little cracked. Sam stops touching you, pulls his hand out of your pajama pants, and you roll back against him, some more room now so that you’re lying on your back. Dean pulls away the thin blanket with a dramatic flurry, then gives you a quick kiss on the mouth before moving down your body.

Sam meanwhile pushes up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, the other one going to his crotch and squeezing himself before he pushes into his sweats, starts stroking himself. You tilt your head up to kiss him, then bring your hand to the outside of his pants, your hand assisting his, before you’re distracted by Dean when his kisses reach your stomach.

“Good morning, kid,” he whispers, pushing up your shirt as he leans in and kisses the bump growing there before moving lower. 

A passionate hour and a rushed, cramped shower later, the three of you are loading up the car. Dean insists on carrying your bag while Sam picks up coffee from the diner next door. You’re giddy as you get into the backseat. 

The drive to Sioux Falls isn’t long, not compared to the miles and miles you already have behind you, have collected over the last year. Plus you’re not just taking the drive to see Bobby again, although that is long overdue. There is another reason:

Bobby Singer is, after a long and intense career in the hunting business, retiring. He is moving to Florida, and of course you and Dean have made every imaginable joke at that, Sam rolling his eyes at the two of you. Dean suspects Bobby’s met a woman, but if he has, he’s not telling. Good for him, you think. He’ll let you know when he’s ready. But there’s another reason you’re driving down to meet him.

Bobby is leaving the boys his house. He doesn’t know you’re pregnant, but the timing feels serendipitous. Sam, Dean and you have been discussing whether you want to raise your child on the road or settle down. This feels like the question has been answered for you. It feels like a sign.

You will give this child what you and the boys never had - stability, and unconditional love. A home that feels like a home. The thought feels overwhelming.

As Dean starts the car, you remind yourself to enjoy this drive. If everything pans out the way you’ve planned it, this will be the last one like it for a long time. You imagine yourself, holding your baby in your arms, the Impala parked outside. Used for errands and trips down to the river, but never again to take a loved one away from you.

You sit in the back, the leather seats warmed from the early spring sun. Sam and Dean are up front. The windows are rolled down, the wind whipping in the way it did in the summers of your youth.. You still remember it all so well. The only difference is a handful of years.

Sam used to sit in the back with you then, when John was around, Dean in the passenger seat. And when Dean drove, you got shotgun privileges, his little brother banned to the backseat, usually so Dean could stroke your knee, throw you suggestive glances. 

Later, when Sam returned from Stanford after his time away, you let him have the front seat. Because he needed to feel like he belonged, and also because it allowed you to look at both of them at the same time. 

That’s what you do now. Watch them talk, their voices drowned out by the music Dean put on. Sam laughs at something Dean said. You drop your head back against the bench, lightness in your heart. The love for them making it feel like you’re flying.

The road stretches on behind you as well as before you. Symbolic, and you try not to read too much into it. You run your hands over your stomach, over the life building in there, press your back into the leather seat, and it feels like time and space are moving around you.

When you finally stand in front of Bobby and tell him you’re expecting, it’s Dean who’s got his arm around you, Dean who is slapped on the shoulder by Bobby whose lips are pressed together before he squeezes your arm, Dean who pulls you close when Bobby sniffs, looks away so you won’t see the tears in his eyes. Bobby doesn’t know you’re with Sam too, so to make things easy, you’ve decided this is the story. 

You looked at Sam earlier, standing just off to the side, looking between his brother and Bobby. The look on his face tugged at your heart, even though he agreed to this as well. It seemed to make sense, seeing as you were with Dean first, and people might not react well to what the three of you have. 

You look again now, just as Dean makes a joke about grandpa Bobby, and see that Sam is gone.

You find him once things have calmed down. He’s unpacking his backpack in the library downstairs, sitting on the couch he’ll be sleeping on, knees nearly up to his ears with how low and worn-out it is, while you and Dean take the guest room. You lean against the wide doorframe connecting the room to the hallway, knock gently. Sam looks up and smiles when he sees you. 

“Why are you down here and not upstairs?” you ask with a frown. Sam looks down, the smile disappearing as he pulls his toiletry kit from his bag. 

“We agreed we wouldn’t let Bobby know right now,” he says. You nod. 

“Okay, but you’re coming upstairs tonight, right?” you ask, and then you walk towards him. 

You stand between his legs where he’s sitting, put your hands on his shoulders. Sam shoots a quick look towards the open door, but you know Bobby’s outside with Dean, that you’d hear him long before he shows up.

“Because you know I don’t sleep right when you’re not there,” you say, and then run your hand over your stomach. “Neither of us does. We want daddy close.” 

Sam raises his hand, lays it over yours. He’s not looking at your face, but you can see the thoughts working away behind his eyes. 

“You don’t even know if it’s mine or Dean’s,” he says, looking up at your face. You’ve talked about this before, but you understand what Sam needs. What he has to hear. 

You move forward and straddle him, moving gingerly. Sam looks surprised, but then his hands land on your sides. You pull him close, then, with a grin, you look down at yourself. 

“Couple of months, I won’t be able to do this,” you say and Sam can’t help but grin too. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, and you press your nose against him, then pull back a little before turning a little more serious. 

“This is our baby, Sam. Ours,” you say, looking deep into his eyes. “It’s yours and Dean’s and mine, okay? The details don’t matter.” Sam returns your gaze, then nods slowly. 

“I know,” he says and swallows. You move your head to kiss his cheek, and his eyes fall shut as he takes a deep breath. 

“I want you to come upstairs tonight,” you whisper, giving him another gentle kiss, your lips barely leaving his cheek. “And I want you and Dean to make love to me in our new home.” Sam takes a shuddering breath as you run your lips along his skin. 

“It’s too risky,” he says, but he doesn’t sound half convinced by his own words. 

“Guess we’ll have to be quiet then,” you say with a bit of a grin. Sam opens his eyes, and studies your face. Then he’s smiling too, and slowly shaking his head. 

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he asks. You nod. 

“My whole entire purpose in life,” you respond and Sam chuckles. His hands go to your ass, and he pulls you closer, kisses you deeply. You run your hands into his hair. 

“I can’t wait to watch you be a father,” you say when the two of you separate, and Sam swallows again. You could drown him in compliments, the things it does to him to be revered their own reward. He squeezes you where he holds you. 

“I should finish unpacking,” he says, a gentle smile on his lips. “Because if you keep talking like that, Bobby’s definitely gonna hear us.” You chuckle, give Sam another quick kiss and then reluctantly get up. 

“It would save us the trouble of having to tell him,” you say to Sam’s grinning face before you leave the room and walk upstairs again to unpack your own things.

It’s later in the day. You make some coffee and bring Bobby a cup. He’s back in his office, getting together all the paperwork for the house. He sighs when you walk in and place the steaming cup in front of him. 

“Damn bureaucracy,” he mutters. “I’m too old for this shit.” You chuckle and move to the window, look out at the junkyard beyond. The Impala is parked close by and Dean is lying under it, working on something. You smile to yourself. 

“Are you excited about tomorrow?” you ask, not turning back to Bobby but instead picking up a book from a dangerously high-stacked pile next to you. You scan the cover, run your fingers along the leather binding. 

“Not sure if excited’s the right word for it,” Bobby answers. “Try terrified.” You chuckle again, look out the window at Dean again. He’s getting up now, walking to the opened hood of the car. His face is concentrated and his hands are dirty. 

“You can always come back if you don’t like it,” you say, only half hearing yourself. 

You are too mesmerized, imagine Dean doing what he is doing but a small child running up to him, wanting his attention, Dean cleaning his hands on a rag he’s thrown over his shoulder before picking them up. It’s not just a dream anymore – it’s the future. 

“I was surprised Sam and Dean even wanted the house,” you hear Bobby say. “They don’t seem like the settling down types, but I guess with a little one on the way…” Then he clears his throat and you are distracted from your daydream. 

“Hell, you know these boys are like sons to me,” Bobby mumbles. You put the book down on the wobbly pile again, turn to him. 

“I know, Bobby. And they know that, too,” you reply. Bobby makes one of those sounds he makes, tilts his head. 

“Look, sweetheart,” he says, and it seems like he has a hard time saying whatever he wants to say. You wonder why. 

“You know I’m leaving Sam and Dean the house,” he continues, fingers fidgeting with the coffee cup you brought him. You nod. 

“I guess I’m just getting to an age,” Bobby says, “where I think about… what I leave behind. It’s not much.” You shake your head. 

“Bobby, you were a father to them,” you interrupt him. “The material stuff is nice and all, but what you gave them is so much more important. You made them who they are.” Bobby looks down at his desk, the way he always does when you say something nice to him, something that moves him a little. He’d be telling Sam and Dean to shove it, lovingly, if they tried to say something similar, but you know you get a pass, on account of being a girl. 

“And that’s how I know,” Bobby starts up again, “that they’ll take care of you, even if it’s their house.” You huff a little. 

“Of course they will,” you say, because there has never been a single inkling of doubt in you that they would. 

“Of both of you, I mean,” Bobby adds, throwing a pointed look at your stomach, and you smile, but then Bobby looks back up at your face and suddenly you know he means something else. 

“They’ll both take care of you, I know that,” Bobby says. 

He knows, you realize then. He knows that you’re with Sam and Dean, both of them. A reply is on your lips. You want to tell him he’s got this wrong, that he misunderstood something. People don’t react well to… that. 

But the kindness in Bobby’s eyes stops you. He’s not confronting you with what he knows, or suspects. He’s just letting you know he knows. 

“There’s plenty of stuff in life I don’t understand,” he continues, and you see him blush a little as he looks away from you. “But I know those boys. And I know you. And I know that’ll be a damn lucky child having all three of you as its family.” 

Tears shoot to your eyes, because this is the last thing you were expecting when you walked in here. You’d never hoped for Bobby’s approval, because you simply assumed he would never know. So this is… 

You don’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it is, don’t want to embarrass Bobby. But you can’t stop yourself when you walk around the desk, kneel next to him and wrap your arms around him. The tears are stinging your eyes so you squeeze them shut. Bobby wraps his arm around you, pats your shoulder and then you let go, because you really don’t want to make him uncomfortable. He’s not the hugging type after all. 

“I know Uncle Bobby is gonna take care of this kid, too,” you say, smiling up at him. Bobby mumbles a little, hides his eyes behind the visor of his cap. 

“Got a nice ring to it,” he replies and you chuckle.

“I better go check on dinner,” you say, pushing yourself up, but you plant a quick kiss on the top of Bobby’s head. Then you bounce off to the kitchen. 

That evening is the first time since you found out you’re pregnant that you wish you could drink. Not because you need it, but because the evening turns so jovial. 

The food is great, the meat thick and juicy, the potatoes soft and warm, and the three boys are drinking and getting louder, and you all tell stories you’ve told a million times before but laugh as uproariously as if you’re hearing them for the first time. It fills your heart with so much love that it threatens to spill over. 

Home, you think. This is all you want, all you’ve ever wanted. You look at the dining table and catch yourself wondering how many children you can fit around it. One thing after the other, you remind yourself, hiding your grin in the glass of water you pick up. 

Dean catches you when you’re on your way back from the bathroom, corners you in the small, dark hallway. His arms are around you and he’s leaning down, the taste of beer on his lips and tongue and he’s kissing you so deeply that it makes you feel drunk, even though you haven’t had a sip. He gently presses you against the wall behind you and you feel white hot arousal explode in you as he squeezes your ass. 

“We should go back in,” you breathe as his lips leave your mouth and go to your jaw, then your neck. 

“Just one minute,” he says and you grin, because it’s such an obvious lie, and yet you don’t mind. A small moan leaves you as Dean presses his lower body against you and you feel his outline against your crotch. One hand goes from your ass and drops between your legs, pulling up the simple summer dress you’re wearing. He quickly finds you where you’re warmest, sighing against you when he touches you there. 

“God, I wish it could be like this forever,” he mumbles with his lips just below your ear. He starts drawing circles on you and you need to wrap your arms around his shoulders because it makes you feel almost dizzy, almost high. 

“Wish we could stay here forever and I could just keep putting baby after baby in you,” he whispers and that idea, combined with a slight increase in pressure of his fingers makes you slap your hand over your mouth, arm still around his shoulders, because you know the sound you would have made otherwise could be heard in the entire house. Jesus, what a visual, what a thought. You don’t expect it to turn you on this much. 

“Keep going,” you breathe, just briefly lifting your fingers from your mouth. Dean’s either not surprised that this is working you up, or he’s too into it himself to care. 

“I’d need to come inside you again and again and again,” he’s saying, and the pleasure between your legs is getting so intense as to be almost painful. 

“I’ll watch it leak out of you,” he says, voice so low that you almost have to strain to hear it. “And then I’d put more into you just to make sure.” 

The back of your head hits the wall with a loud thud as you come, but at least you manage to not make any other noises. It’s a Herculean achievement though, because the orgasm makes you feel as if electricity is shooting through you. Because it might be talk, but what’s hiding behind it is the truth, the truth of what all three of you want, and are now suddenly shockingly close to getting. Normalcy. Safety. A place to build a family out of your love. 

Your lips land on Dean’s the second you have oriented yourself again. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” you say and it comes out shaky. Dean strokes the side of your face, shushes you. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, his full lips caressing your face, from your cheeks to your ears. “I love you too, baby, it’s okay.” 

You rub yourself against him like a cat marking its territory, then blink your eyes open. See Dean’s strikingly green eyes and you wonder if your child will have those eyes, or the tricolor of Sam, or yours, or a mix of all three. The last one’s not possible, but still, you can’t stop yourself from thinking how nice that would be. Dean kisses you again. 

“Let’s go back,” he says. You tilt your head. 

“What about you?” you ask, but Dean only smiles. 

“Later,” he says. 

The evening eventually winds down. You keep yawning and snacking on the food left on the table, while Bobby is actually pretty drunk, but Sam and Dean aren’t faring much better. You climb up the stairs, leaving the dishes for tomorrow, drag Dean behind you, but throw Sam a meaningful look, one you’re not sure he catches. 

Dean plops down on the bed face first, making the frame squeak. You pull off his shoes and just manage to wrestle his shirt from him, but he’s too heavy for anything else. You try to roll him over to get his jeans off him, try to make him more comfortable, but he groans at your pushing and prodding. 

“No shaking, I’m dizzy,” he slurs with his eyes closed, one of your legs caught under his torso and his arm slung around your hip, and you lean forward, forehead landing on his back, your shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Just then the bedroom door opens. You turn around, and Sam is doing his very best to be sneaky, but the first thing he does after closing the door behind him is bump his hip into the dresser. His face contorts as he silently cringes and then he’s next to you, his big frame pulling a loud noise from the bed and a squeal from you as he grabs you, pulls you down onto the mattress. 

The three of you shuffle around for a little longer, but soon you’re between the two, still half-dressed yourself, but you don’t care. Their two big, warm bodies are like anchors to a ship, lulling you in, making you so comfortable that you barely manage a small, joyous wiggle and then you’re pulled down into the quiet dark.

You’re the only one who isn’t complaining of a headache the next morning, so you’re generously distributing painkillers and glasses of water. Bobby seems to be doing mostly fine, but then you’re pretty sure at this point that he’s ninety percent whiskey anyway. You and the boys are cleaning while Bobby packs and then suddenly it’s later than you thought and he’s getting ready to leave. You give him a long hug, tell him to come right back if he doesn’t like it, tell him you’ll miss him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says, and it’s as much of a love confession as you’re likely to get. His hugs with Sam and Dean are much shorter, and then the three of you are standing next to each other in the kitchen like baby ducks in a row, and Bobby shoulders his last bag and a second later he’s out the door. 

You all just stand there for a second longer, not moving. Sam grabs you first, because he has had to be careful since you arrived, and he drags you against him, his big hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest against his chest, and is just about to kiss you when the door opens again. Dean’s in the process of coming up behind you and the three of you shoot apart like scalded cats. 

Bobby peeks in and he very clearly notices that he just walked in on something. He grabs for the small sideboard next to the door, raises his hand. 

“Forgot my… car keys,” he mumbles and the three of you nod politely. 

Bobby clears his throat, mutters something about you kids taking care and then pulls back, lets the door fall shut behind him. 

It takes another second of perfect silence and then you, Sam and Dean all burst out laughing. Sam reaches for you again, but you shuffle past him, rush towards the stairs and up instead. It’s only a few moments later that you hear the brothers follow you, their boots clopping on the stairs. You make it to the bedroom and then turn around. 

Sam practically flies into your arms, and he grabs you so close that it almost lifts you off your feet. Dean’s next to him a second later and the moment your lips leave Sam’s, they touch Dean’s. All three of you are roaming hands and pulling on clothes and touching skin that you’ve touched a thousand times before, but it feels different. It feels new. 

Sam starts touching you between your legs when you’ve rid yourself of your clothes, but you shake your head, push him back towards the bed and when he lies down you climb on top of him. You grab Dean’s arm and pull him with you. He kneels next to you on the bed, and you kiss him deeply, hold on to him while you sink down on Sam. 

Your moan is high and needy, and you ride Sam fast and hard while your fingers work between your legs, and soon he needs to tell you to stop or he won’t last, won’t be able to hold back, but you don’t want to stop. You beg him to let you keep going and he does, pulling you down hard against him by the hips soon, his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, upper lip pulled into a snarl as he empties himself into you with a long, loud groan. 

Wasting no time, you grab Dean immediately, hold on to his shoulders as he pulls you off Sam, lays you on your back. He’s inside you quickly, his entry eased even more by his brother’s spendings in you, and he fucks you slow and deep, looks into your eyes when he’s not busy kissing you. 

He’s gentle in it all and when you come he doesn’t cover your mouth with his, instead he lets you cry out, because, right now, this is your house and no one can hear you. 

Sam, insatiable one that he is, waits until Dean finishes, and even though he’s not hard again yet, he uses his fingers instead, until you’re squirming, panting, roots of your hair wet with sweat, your entire body feeling like it’s more alive than it’s ever been. You feel like an animal that has only one goal, only one focus, one purpose. Soon, you’re crying out again. 

The three of you fuck most of the late morning away like this and you feel almost comatose by the end of it. You all doze off after the two clean you and themselves up, and you wake up a few hours later to your stomach rumbling. 

Dressing haphazardly, just enough to make yourself comfortable, not to actually hide your nakedness, you slouch down to the kitchen. Dean uses the meat from the day before to make sandwiches, and you’re pretty sure they’re the best thing you’ve ever eaten. 

All the while, you’re talking, gesticulating with greasy fingers, and you keep reminding yourself that you don’t need to stop yourself from kissing Sam or Dean, from staring at them, from saying things that make it clear what they are to you. 

This is heaven, you’re pretty sure. Dean’s right. 

You wish things could be like this forever.