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The days following Sam’s kidnapping were quiet. Sammy, a kid who normally had no trouble filling every silent space, was as quiet as a mouse. Dean tried to get him to talk but was met with one-word answers or a nod or shake of his head. He had taken Sam out of school with an explanation of a nasty case of mono, forged doctor’s note and all (a skill Dean had perfected four years ago) until Sam’s injuries were healed enough to return. Sam hadn’t even protested when Dean told him. The same kid who used to tear up when he was told he’d have to miss school for a hunt.
Dean, on his part, tried to keep up his normal routine with the addition of his new shadow. When he worked on the cars, Sam sat on the hood or curled up in the backseat with a book. When he was making breakfast or lunch, Sam was sitting at the kitchen table. He didn’t want to be far out of Dean’s reach, and honestly, he didn’t want Sam far right now either. Rumsfeld was never far behind Sam either, always curled up at the boy’s side or right on his heels. Dean tried to get Sam to talk. Asked him questions, and told him stories, but Sam was quiet through it all.
Dean felt a tug on his sleeve while sitting on the couch late at night, watching an old black and white western on the TV. He looked over and there was Sam, blanket clutched in his arms as he stared at Dean with wide eyes, Rumsfeld standing next to him. Fuck, the kid was getting quiet, he didn’t even hear him come downstairs.
Dean turned the volume on the TV down. “Sammy? Thought I put you to bed hours ago.”
Sam clutched his blanket even tighter if it was possible. Dean sighed, “C'mere kiddo.”
Sam crawled onto the couch, tucking himself into Dean’s side, Rumsfeld jumping onto the other side of the couch. He untangled the blanket out of the kid’s grasp, laying it gently over him. “You have a bad dream?”
He felt Sam nod against his chest. “You want to talk about it?”
As expected, Dean didn’t get an answer. He sighed softly, cupping the back of Sam’s head against his chest.
The first night after Sam had been back, the kid woke himself up screaming. Dean had torn into the room, Bobby hot on his heels, gun raised. He found Sam sitting up in bed, crying, and scrambling towards Dean once he spotted him. Dean had handed his gun to Bobby and sat on the bed, letting Sam crawl into his lap and tucking the kid into his chest as he forced his racing heart to calm. He had rocked Sam, Bobby slipping silently out of the room with a quiet holler if you need me, Dean hushing the kid until he fell back to sleep.
A week and a half later, Sam hadn’t screamed himself awake again, but he hadn’t heard a peep out of the kid since. The nightmares continued, but he just cried silently, little sniffles tearing at Dean’s heart. He felt like he was barely treading water in his worry, head only staying just above the surface. Bobby had suggested taking Sam to talk to a professional, but what was he supposed to say? Even if they didn’t mention the demon, and left it at that Sam was kidnapped and tortured, but not once did they go to the police or the hospital?
Dean ran his thumb up and down the nape of Sam’s neck comfortingly. “Buddy, you’re gonna have to talk at some point.”
Sam wiggled one arm out, reaching out and wrapping his fingers in the chord of Dean’s amulet.
Dean didn't beg much, at all if he could help it, but Sam's silence was clawing at him. “Please, baby, just one word."
Sam buried his face further into his chest. Dean sighed, ducking his head down and pressing a kiss to Sam’s hair. “I’m here, Sammy. When you’re ready, I’ll be here, okay? Just try and get some rest.”
Sam turned his head into Dean’s neck and he could feel the little boy’s soft puffs of breath even out into sleep. Hopefully, he would sleep through the rest of the night without waking again. Dean glanced up when he heard heavy, familiar footfalls, finding Bobby walking into the room.
“He's asleep,” Dean informed him, voice low, as Bobby sat in an old recliner.
“Good,” Bobby said. “You going to bed anytime soon?”
“Probably not.” He hadn’t been sleeping much, keeping up with Sam’s sleep schedule, and when he did try he couldn’t stay down for very long.
Sam mumbled something in his sleep, no real words, and Dean shifted him in his arms a little, and the kid settled back down.
“Thought so,” Bobby muttered to himself. Then, louder, “How’s Sam doing?”
Dean smoothed a hand through the kid’s hair. “Better, I think. He’s still not talking, but the nightmares are letting up some. He wasn’t even crying when he came down this time.”
“Good, that’s good,” Bobby assured. “And he’ll talk when he’s ready. He’ll be alright.”
“Yeah, you're right. It’s just…”
“I know.” Bobby finished for him gently, understanding Dean without him needing to speak his fears out loud.
“I didn’t want this for him, Bobby,” Dean said. “I thought when we came here, he would be safe, but a demon still managed to find him and now he won’t even talk.”
“He is safe, the house is warded to hell and back. We got him back and the demon’s dead. You know as well as I do you can’t even truly escape this life, but you’re as out as you can get. We’re doing the best we can for him.”
Dean knew Bobby was right. After Sam was back, Dean had taken him around the house and carefully explained every warding sigil and devil’s trap to him, all of it coming together in the message that Sam was safe here. But every time he caught a glimpse of the scabs around Sam’s wrists or the healing bruise on his face, he felt the same pang of guilt.
“I just wish I could figure out what’s keeping him from talking,” Dean admitted.
Bobby shrugged. “People react to trauma in different ways, especially kids. Who knows what’s going through his noggin.”
“I wish we could take him to a professional, like you suggested, but I can’t risk them taking him away.” Dean’s hold on Sam tightened unconsciously.
Bobby nodded his agreement. “I’ll keep looking, see if I can find anything that might help him.”
Bobby let out a slow breath, standing. He walked over, placing a hand on top of Dean’s head. “Get some sleep when you can, I’ll leave the hall light on.”
Dean shut his eyes, relaxing into Bobby's comfort. Bobby's hands tightened in his hair for a moment, reassuring, before moving to give Rumsfeld a soft pat before walking off towards his bedroom. Dean let the low murmur of the TV and the solid weight of Sam in his arms pull him into sleep.
____
Sunlight streaming in through the windows woke Dean up the next morning. Sam was still curled up on his lap, and Dean smiled as he realized Sam had slept through the rest of the night with no nightmares. He untangled Sam from himself, laying him on the couch and retucking the blanket around him.
He shuffled into the kitchen, yawning, finding half a pot of still-warm coffee and a note from Bobby saying he had run out for supplies. He poured himself a cup, relishing in the strong brew. He heard a soft padding and turned to find Sam standing in the doorway, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sleepily rubbing at his eyes.
Dean offered a gentle smile. “Morning kiddo. You hungry?”
Sam nodded, climbing onto a kitchen chair and folding his legs underneath himself. Dean pulled out a carton of eggs, whipping out breakfast in no time. He set the plate of food in front of Sam. “Scrambled, just the way you like.”
Dean pulled two containers out of the fridge. “You want juice or milk?” He expected Sam to just point at what he wanted, as he had gotten accustomed to, but he froze when he saw Sam’s mouth opening. His lips were parted, brows furrowed, like he was searching for his words. A small sound came out of Sam’s mouth, somewhere between a breath and a whisper, but no words. Sam’s face screwed up with frustration and he tightened his hands into fists, one hitting the table with a soft thud, just hard enough to make his fork rattle.
Drink containers abandoned, Dean kneeled next to Sam, taking his small hands in his own. “Hey, hey,” He said softly, uncurling the little fists. “There’s no need for that. You’re trying, Sammy, I can see that, alright?”
Sam’s eyes had widened, brimming with unshed tears.
“You’re doing so good,” He added, voice low and sure, palming Sam’s cheek with one hand. “You can talk when you’re ready, and I’ll be here, okay?”
Sam nodded into his hand, and Dean patted his face once before standing, turning the kid’s attention back to his food. “Eat up, Sammy.”
____
After it became clear Sam was going to be missing an extended period of school, Dean sent Bobby to the school to pick up some work for Sam. He knew Sam cared about school and getting good grades, and Sam’s teacher had guaranteed them that as long as Sam did the work she sent home, she would make sure his grades would let him move on to second grade in the fall. It was close enough to the end of the school year that Dean didn’t know if school would still be in session when Sam was well enough to go again. He didn’t want Sam to be held back because of something outside of the kid’s control, so he set time aside every day for Sam to do his schoolwork.
Now, Sam was lying on his stomach on the front porch, scribbling on a worksheet with Rumsfeld curled up by his feet snoring. Dean was working on replacing an AC unit under the hood of a car, and Sam was just in his eyesight. Every once and a while, he would poke his head out and check on him, but he seemed content with his worksheets.
The closer the end of the school year crept, Dean was reminded about how closer Sam’s birthday was coming. The kid was going to be seven. Dean’s seventh birthday had included a big bounce house, cake, and ice cream. He wanted Sam’s birthday to be just as happy, not with Sam traumatized and unable to speak. A happy memory for Sam, as their birthdays rarely were. His last birthday, his twenty-first, had passed in the days following John breaking Sam’s arm. Dean hadn’t even noticed until Bobby commented on it a few weeks later.
If you had asked him six years ago what he thought his life at twenty-one would be like, he wouldn’t have imagined it would entail living in South Dakota and taking care of a kid. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam erasing at something on the worksheet, his feet kicking in the air behind him. He grinned as he ducked back under the hood. No, he hadn’t imagined this, but he wouldn’t change it for anything.
As Dean was reaching for a hose, a soft sound rang out in the junkyard. He almost banged his head on the hood with how fast he yanked it out. Rumsfeld, awake now, had moved to Sam’s face and was licking at his cheek, begging for attention. Sam was giggling, smiling as he pushed at the dog to no effect. It was the first sound Dean had heard from him in weeks, and now he was laughing and smiling.
He drank in the sight, a matching grin forming on his face. He watched, tucking in the sight of Sam happy with dimples forming on his face into his chest. He wiped his hands on a rag, walked onto the porch, and sat next to Sam as his laughter died down.
“Rumsfeld bothering you?” He asked casually, scratching behind the dog’s ear.
Rumsfeld rolled over, tongue hanging out, and Dean obliged by rubbing his belly. Sam shook his head with a small laugh, smile still lingering, moving to sit next to him. Dean glanced down at what Sam had been working on, the page filled with the sloppy writing of a child.
“All done with your work?”
Sam nodded, hesitating for just a second, before picking up the paper and holding it out to Dean. He took it, smoothing it out as he read over the prompt: Write about someone who takes care of you.
Underneath, in Sam’s messy scrawl: Dean takes care of me. Dean is my big brother and we live with our Uncle Bobby. We didn’t always live there, but we do now. Dean packs my lunch for school and makes me pancakes in the morning. He teaches me things, like how to tie my shoes and the names of all the stars in the sky. He hugs me when I’m sad and makes me feel better when I’m sick and keeps me safe. Dean is the best big brother in the whole world. I love him.
Dean read it once, then twice. The writing was messy and uneven, but every word was spelled right. He didn’t cry, wouldn’t in front of Sam, but he felt something in him crack open in him at the words. Sam was staring at him, clearly waiting for a reaction. “That’s good Sammy.” He rasped.
Sam smiled at him again, bright. He wrapped one arm around his kid, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Love you too, kiddo.”
They sat on the porch, letting the sun warm their faces, Rumsfeld flopped out lazily across a stair. Sam leaned into Dean’s side, tucking his feet underneath him, and in that moment Dean began to feel like everything might be okay. The sun was shining, there was a puppy snoring at their feet, and Dean had a kid who felt safe enough to laugh again.
Eventually, Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “You want to go inside and get a snack? Bobby has some Swiss Rolls he thinks he’s hiding behind the canned green beans.”
Sam nodded, scrambling up and gathering up his papers and pencils, tugging on Dean’s sleeve. Rumsfeld perked up at the motion, tail wagging as he followed them inside through the screen door.
“You think I could keep this?” Dean asked, gesturing with the paper held in hand.
Sam nodded as he dragged a chair over the pantry, standing on it and digging around for the box of Little Debbies. He found his treasure, ripping open the box and tearing into the snack cake with gusto. Dean pulled out his wallet, folding the piece of paper into neat squares, and tucking behind the picture of his mom holding a baby Sam.
____
Bobby had once given up on the idea of having kids. At first, he refused, too afraid of himself becoming his old man to even consider it. Then, after many long talks with Karen, he opened himself up to the idea. Karen had been the best person he had known, and if she thought he’d be a good dad, well, he couldn’t argue with her too much. And with what he thought was finally, just when he’d been ready to tell Karen they could try, she was possessed and Bobby had been forced to kill her. With that, he had given up on the idea of children altogether.
Then John Winchester showed up on his front porch one day, toting along a fourteen-year-old boy with a baby clutched in his arms. Despite all his walls and worries about having kids, he had grown to love those two boys. He did what he could for them around John’s dictatorship, taking them in when allowed and giving them space to just be boys. He watched them grow. He'd seen Sam’s first steps into his brother's arms, had taken Dean to get a real driver’s license when all his father offered for his sixteenth was a fake, and helped Dean get the paperwork to give him legal custody of Sam the day he turned eighteen.
When they showed up at Bobby’s house that fateful day, a cast on Sam’s arm and desperation shining in Dean’s eyes, he hadn’t hesitated. He'd known he’d do anything for those boys the day Dean had finally trusted him enough to hold baby Sammy. The time since had been tough, especially since the demon had kidnapped Sam, but he couldn’t help but be grateful they were here in the aftermath, in a space where they both could heal.
They would heal. They were already beginning to, Sam smiling and laughing more often now if still not talking, but that would come with time. That morning, he had found them both in Dean’s bed, Sam on his stomach and using his brother's arm like a pillow. He slipped out of the room with a fond smile no one could see, glancing up. You would've loved them, Karen.
With two more occupants in his house, it was filled with laughter and warmth in a way that it hadn’t since his wife had died. But he was going through food faster than he had ever before, especially with the way Dean ate. He had left for the grocery store, Dean working out in the junkyard and Sam watching him go from the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket to protect from the early Spring chill with Rumsfeld by his side. The mutt had made it clear which one of them was his favorite and it sure as hell wasn’t Bobby.
A couple of hours later, his truck rumbled back into the yard loaded with groceries and he caught sight of Sam waiting still on the porch. He got out and could hear clanging and cursing from further in the yard, snorting at Dean’s apparent struggle. Sam didn’t run out when he spotted his truck, the kid wasn’t running much at all these days, but he did stand up, hands clasped in front of him.
“Hey there partner,” He said as he stepped down from the cab. “Want to give me a hand bringing the bags inside?”
Sam smiled, just a little, and followed Bobby down to the bed. They brought the bags inside, Sam unpacking each one carefully and precisely. He saw the moment Sam’s eyes lit up when he spotted the cereal Dean had instructed him to get, a bright red box with a cartoon leprechaun filled with marshmallows.
“Got the right one, huh?”
Sam nodded excitedly, clutching the box. For a moment, Bobby thought that would be it. But then Sam’s mouth opened, and barely louder than a whisper, he spoke. “Thank you.”
Bobby froze, somehow managing to hold onto the bag of apples he was holding. His heart pounded, Sam watching him, and Bobby knew he couldn’t get this wrong.
“You’re welcome squirt,” Bobby said quietly, like they were sharing a secret. “That was really nice.”
Sam beamed at him, a smile reaching all the way to his eyes.
“You want to try that around your brother?” Bobby asked.
It was a little raspy, after weeks of no use, but the small “yes” he got might have been one of the best things he ever heard. A little hand slipped into his.
“Let’s go find him then.”
Sam’s hand was small and clammy in his own as they walked outside, and Bobby gave it a tiny squeeze of reassurance. He knew how brave the kid was being right now. They found Dean on a creeper underneath an SUV, legs sticking out.
“Hey Dean,” Bobby greeted.
One more clang and Dean rolled out, a smudge of grease along his jaw. “Hey Bobby, did ya get the-”
He cut himself off as he pushed up, catching sight of Sam, who was now standing slightly behind Bobby’s legs, still clutching at his hand. His face softened as he shrugged on his discarded flannel overshirt. “Hey buddy, you’ve been helping Bobby out?”
Sam nodded, tightening his grip, and looking up at Bobby with uncertain eyes.
“You got it,” Bobby murmured. “He’s listening.”
Dean’s lips pursed and he looked at Bobby, but he nodded towards Sam, indicating to just let the kid take his time.
Sam took in a breath, shaky, and Bobby nudged him forward just a step. “Hi, De.”
Dean’s eyes widened and he sucked in a sharp breath. “You talked.”
Sam nodded again, more certain this time.
Dean’s eyes were locked on Sam. “Can you say it again?”
Sam stepped forward again on his own, lip wobbling but his voice coming out stronger. “Hi, Dean.”
Dean crouched down to Sam’s eye level, brushing the boy’s bangs off his forehead. “Hey Sammy,” He choked out. “I’ve missed your voice, kiddo.”
Sam launched forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck. He responded instantly, one arm wrapping around Sam’s back and the other cradling the back of Sam’s head. Dean hugged him tight. “My brave boy,” Dean said softly, pressing a kiss to the side of Sam’s head. “I’m so proud of you. You’re amazing, kiddo.”
Sam wiggled in Dean’s grasp, pulling back with a shy smile on his face. “Can we have mac and cheese for lunch?”
Bobby knew Sam could have asked his brother for the moon at that moment, and Dean would’ve found a way to give it to him. “Sure. You wanna help me make it?”
Sam nodded, pulling on Dean’s hand and tugging him towards the house. Bobby ruffled Sam’s hair when they reached him, catching Dean’s eyes. He talked, Dean mouthed at him, eyes lit up like he won the lottery.
Bobby offered him a grin, clapping a hand to his shoulder, content with both his boys safe at home.
____
The first time Dean had left the house without Sam, Bobby made sure to stay close to the kid. Dean had just gone to pick up dinner for them, out and back in an hour, but Bobby could still tell the kid was nervous. It was the first time he’d been without Dean in shouting distance since he’d been kidnapped, but if Sam was ever going to get back to eight hours a day at school by himself, this was an important first step.
While they were waiting for Dean to return, Bobby sat on the porch swing with Sam, reading from an old Native American lore book while he pushed them slowly with his foot. Sam was scribbling away at a piece of paper with some crayons and Bobby thought he could see the beginnings of the Impala in the drawing.
The sun was setting, casting the yard in a soft orange glow, and there was a breeze in the air that Bobby could tell was going to turn into a chill later. All in all, it was a peaceful evening.
“Uncle Bobby?” Sam asked, breaking the silence. There was a note of something in his voice that had Bobby looking up from his book. “How come you didn’t have any kids?”
Bobby paused, taking in the question. Sam tended to ask questions that to others seemed like they came out of left field, but if you could follow the roadmap in the kid's brain, probably made perfect sense. “Well,” Bobby began. “Life just never worked out for me that way, I guess. I got you and your brother, though.”
Sam shifted so he was looking at Bobby now, still clutching a green crayon in his hand. “So me and Dean are like your kids?”
Bobby closed his book, knowing the rest of this conversation was going to require all of this attention. He laid one arm on the back of the swing, Sam shifting closer to him, thinking about how to explain such a complex relationship to such a small kid. “In a way, kinda. You know I love you and Dean, but you're also your brother’s kid.”
Sam nodded like that was something he knew already. “And dads are supposed to take care of you right? Make your food and teach you how to tie your shoes and do fun things with you?”
“Among other things, yeah, they are.” Bobby pushed the swing again with his foot. “Where’s this all coming from, squirt?”
Sam switched his green crayon for a black one. “John never really did any of those things.”
If Bobby could, he’d knock John flat on the ass and give him a piece of his mind. John had two of the most precious things on Earth and he treated them like dirt. It was the first time Bobby had heard Sam refer to John as anything other than Dad, though. “John didn’t do a lot of things right.”
“Dean does those things with me.”
Bobby shifted his arm so it was around Sam, squeezing him gently. “Yeah, he does. Dean’s been more of a daddy to you than John has ever been.”
Sam nodded again, slower this time. He looked back down at his paper, adding the roof of the Impala.
“Do you think…” He trailed off for a moment, fingers tightening on the crayon. “Do you think Dean would be mad if I called him Dad?”
Bobby felt his heart crack open. Sam was still staring at his paper, afraid to look up in case the answer might hurt.
“No,” Bobby said firmly, but gently. “No, I don’t think he’d be mad at all. In fact, I think he would love it a whole lot.”
Bobby knew it would mean more than anything to Dean. He saw the way Dean was with his little brother, the way he cared for him and called him my kid, my boy. Though parenthood may have been thrust on Dean unjustly, he loved that little boy with everything he had.
Sam was quiet for a long moment. The swing creaked softly beneath them, rocking in the breeze.
“But what if he doesn’t want me to?” Sam spoke finally, voice catching at the end.
Bobby smoothed some of the kid’s hair down with one hand. “I promise you, Sam, he’s not going to be mad. Dean loves you more than anything and you calling him Dad is just you recognizing everything that he does for you. If you want to call him Dad, I bet all the money I got that he’ll be okay with it.”
Sam chewed on his bottom lip, clearly thinking it over. “I want to.” He said eventually. “I just wanted to make sure it’d be okay.”
Bobby tucked a lock of Sam’s hair behind his ear. “It’s more than okay.”
Sam’s lips quirked up and he turned back to his drawing, continuing with his coloring. Bobby watched him for just a moment before opening back up his book, keeping his arm around Sam.
____
Sam’s small scream split the quiet of the night like glass. Dean was on his feet in half of a second, cold wood pounding under his feet as he raced into Sam’s room. His kid was illuminated by his nightlight, sitting up in bed, clutching at his blanket with a white-knuckled grip. Dean didn’t hesitate, sitting on the bed and pulling Sam into his arms.
“I got you,” He whispered, voice hoarse with lingering panic. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I got you.”
Sam sobbed into his chest, cries that seemed too big coming from such a little body. Dean shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the bed so he could rock Sam, hoping the rhythmic motion and the soothing words would help calm him down. He fought to keep his tears at bay as Sam cried, his heart breaking more at each sob that ripped out of him.
Sam had been doing so well. He was talking again, more and more each day, and hadn’t been woken up by a nightmare in the past couple of nights. It had been even longer since he’d woken up screaming. Though, as Dean knew from his own experience, trauma didn’t follow a timeline.
Eventually, Sam calmed down enough that his sobs were reduced to hiccuping breaths. “It was just a dream,” Dean murmured into Sam’s hair, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. “It was just a dream, baby, everything’s okay.”
Sam hiccuped another breath. “Don’t leave me, Dad.”
Dean’s breath caught in his chest. Sam hadn’t asked for their father, not once since they had come to Bobby’s house. “I’m sorry, Sammy, but I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam tightened his grip on Dean, tugging on his shirt, and shaking his head. “No, I mean you.”
The words hit Dean like a bullet, piercing through his chest. For a moment, all Dean could do was hold onto the trembling little boy in his arms.
“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-” Sam was trying to pull back now, breathing picking up again, taking the silence caused by Dean’s internal panic as rejection. “I’m sorry, I just-”
Sam’s panic broke Dean out of his trance. “Hey,” Dean cut in softly. “It’s okay, Sammy, calm down.”
Sam stilled in his arms, staring at Dean with his bottom lip trembling. Dean reached out, rubbing his knuckles against the side of Sam’s face. “Did you mean to call me Dad?” He asked, being careful to keep his voice calm and assuring.
Sam chewed on his bottom lip and Dean nudged it out gently with his thumb. “Cause it’s okay if you did.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “Because you always come when I call and hold my hand when I’m scared. You don’t yell at me and help me with my homework and… and that's what dads are supposed to do, right?”
Dean blinked back the sting in his eyes, not wanting to freak Sam out, but damn if Sam wasn’t bleeding his heat dry. This stupidly perfect kid, who deserved so much more than what he had been given in life, who had been through so much, but still looked at Dean as if he hung the moon.
“Yeah, that’s what dads are supposed to do,” Dean answered, voice rough. He kissed the top of his kid’s head, letting it linger. “You can call me Dad if you want. I’d be honored if you did.”
Sam responded by curling into Dean’s arms like he had found the safest place in the world. Dean had thought of himself as the kid’s dad for a long time now, but to hear Sam call him that? Dean didn’t know if he deserved that title, but he would treasure it, and try to live up to it with everything he had.
He leaned back until they were lying down in the bed, Sam still glued to Dean. “Go to sleep, baby. I’m right here.”
Sam nuzzled into his chest, just like a cat, and Dean let out a soft huff of laughter.
“Night, Dad,” Sam mumbled around a yawn.
Dean closed his eyes, relishing those words. “Night Sammy.”
____
The sun was shining brightly and warming the air, making it the perfect day to go to the park. Sam was returning to school the next day and Dean wanted to give him one more good day beforehand, so he loaded up the Impala with lunch and his kid, even dragging Bobby along, and took them to the closest park. They ate their lunch of sandwiches and chips at a picnic table, Sam listening intently to an old hunting story Bobby was telling (a watered-down version, Dean knew, but that didn’t seem to matter to Sam).
It spoke to how much better Sam was doing that he was even interested in a hunting story, showing no signs of distress at the thought of the supernatural. Sure, he still had a few bad dreams and sometimes he spoke less than normal, but his wounds were healed and he was doing better.
As Bobby’s story winded down, Dean caught how Sam’s eyes kept glancing over to the other kids on the playground.
Dean nudged his shoulder. “Go play, Sammy. We’ll be right here.”
Sam grinned at him before scrambling off the picnic table and taking off to join a group of kids at the slides.
“He’s doing better,” Bobby noted, a pleased note to his voice.
Dean followed Sam’s path as he went down the slide. “Yeah, he is.” He said, almost like he couldn’t believe it.
Bobby reached into the cooler, passing a can of soda to Dean before taking one of his own. “Kid’s tougher than any of us.”
Dean huffed out a laugh. “No argument there.”
Bobby cracked open his soda, not looking at Dean. “He called you Dad yet?”
Dean snorted; it didn’t surprise him that Bobby knew about that. “A few times,” He his his smile behind his can. “Not every time, but yeah.” There was a beat of silence. “Means more to me than I can put into words.”
Bobby nodded like he understood. Of course, he understood.
When Sam ran back to them, his hair was sticking up in every direction and his cheeks were red from the sun. “I’m thirsty,” He declared.
Dean pulled out a juice box, poking the straw in before handing it off to Sam.
“Thanks, Dad,” Sam beamed before slurping from the straw.
Joy bloomed in Dean, the kind that warmed him down to the tips of his toes and made the whole world a little more steady.
Sam reached for Bobby, tugging on his arm. “Uncle Bobby, come play tag with me!”
“My knees aren’t what they used to be, kiddo,” Bobby grumbled, but let Sam pull him up and started chasing him around in the grass.
Dean stayed seated for a moment, watching as the sun shone in Sam’s hair and listening to his delighted shrieking as Bobby chased him.
Sam ran back to him, slapping him on the shoulder. “Dad, you’re it!” He yelled over his shoulder as he took off again.
Dean laughed and started running to join them.