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Fall came to Sioux Falls too early, in Dean’s opinion, but with it came back their routines. Sam went back to school and soccer, and Dean went back to setting his alarm at six in the morning to take his kid to school. As much as Dean missed the days of Sam tagging around him, he couldn’t help but smile at how excited Sam was to return to school. He had packed his backpack a week in advance and triple-checked the school supply list three times to make sure he had everything.
Three weeks since the first day of the year, after school on a Wednesday, Dean dragged himself back into the house after a long day in the junkyard. He’d worked all day repairing the doors on a car that’d been t-boned and wasn’t even halfway done with the repairs. He sighed, thinking of all the work he still had to do on the car tomorrow.
The house was warm despite the early autumn chill outside, so he shucked off his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch. He grinned when the arm flopped over the lump that was Sam on the couch, curled up with legs to his chest and drooling on a pillow.
“Hey, Sammy.” He leaned over the couch, shaking his shoulder.
Sam mumbled something, scrunching his face and rubbing his eyes with his hoodie sleeves. “Dad? You done workin’ for the day?”
“Yep,” Dean confirmed. “Long day at school?”
Sam blinked, still looking half asleep. “We learned about fractions today.”
“Fractions must’ve worn you out. But you should probably wake up, or I’ll be dealing with a hyper Sammy all night.”
Sam groaned, but sat up, flopping against the back of the couch. “But I’m tired.”
Dean chuckled, ruffling Sam’s hair. “What, they got you lifting weights in second grade now?”
“No,” Sam said, looking up at Dean like he was ridiculous. “We played kickball today in gym class.”
Dean moved, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, looking him over. Sam did look tired. Not just lazy afternoon nap tired. He was just this side of pale, and there was a hint of shadows under his eyes. Dean frowned, thinking. Sam had been doing good, recently, with no nightmares since school started.
“You feeling okay, though? Like, not sick?”
Sam wrapped his arms around his chest, looking small in the large maroon hoodie he was wearing. It was old, having been Dean’s when he was younger and passed down to Sam. “I’m not sick.”
Dean didn’t answer right away, too busy watching Sam’s movements. The way his shoulders curled inwards, the way his fingers were pressing lightly over his chest like he was protecting something. Dean leaned forward, placing his hand on Sam’s forehead.
“You don’t feel warm,” Dean murmured, more to himself than anything. He moved his hand, placing it on Sam’s shoulder. “You do your homework yet?”
Sam nodded. “I finished it waiting on you.”
Dean squeezed his shoulder before letting his hand drop. “Alright then, why don’t you go color and I’ll check on dinner. I think Uncle Bobby mentioned something about chili tonight.”
“‘Kay,” Sam agreed easily, sliding off the couch and off in search of his sketchbook.
Dean wandered into the kitchen, finding Bobby stirring something simmering and spicy in the biggest pot they owned.
“Finished for the day?” Bobby asked, not looking up from the pot.
Dean leaned against the counter, sighing. “Yeah, but I’ll be working on that car for the rest of the week.”
Bobby gave him a grun that might have been sympathy. “That ‘88 Buick?”
Dean nodded. “Crushed door frames, busted lock, bent hinge. I swear the whole car’s leaning now. Gonna take at least two full days to realign everything, assuming I don’t throw my back out first.”
“Well, don’t go makin’ a mess of your spine. You fall out, I’m leavin’ you there on the floor.”
Dean huffed a tired laugh, running a hand down his face. “Hey, did you notice anything with Sam today?”
That got Bobby’s attention. He paused his stirring, looking up. “No. The kid got off the bus and started his homework like normal. Why do you ask?”
“He was passed out cold on the couch when I came in. Said he was tired, and he did look tired, but he was pale too.”
Bobby thought for a moment before shrugging. “He’s a kid. School’s back, his routines changed. That can knock the wind out of them. Plus, heaven knows he’s had a rough year. Sam’s no stranger to rough nights.”
Dean paused, considering. “Maybe,” He said.
Bobby turned down the heat on the stove, placing the wooden spoon on the counter. “We’ll keep an eye on him, but he’s probably just getting adjusted.”
Dean nodded, absently, but was thinking about the way Sam had been holding himself. His eyes flickered to the doorway. Usually by now there would be humming. Sam always hummed when he drew, Eye of the Tiger or the Jurassic Park theme drifting in from the next room. But tonight, it was quiet.
He reached into the fridge, pulling out a can of soda, letting the carbonation sting his throat as it went down. He itched for whiskey or a beer, but Dean didn’t drink when Sam could see. He drained half the can in one go, the soda doing nothing to ease the rolling in his stomach.
He set the can down with a soft clunk and pushed off the counter. “I’m gonna go check on Sam.”
Dean padded out of the kitchen, popping his fingers as he walked. The door to Bobby’s study was cracked, light from the desk lamp spilling out. He knocked softly before opening it. Sam had dragged his coloring supplies in, sitting at Bobby’s desk. His sketchbook was open in front of him, colored pencil clutched in one hand as he drew. His movements were lethargic, though, and his eyes looked unfocused.
“Hey,” Dean said gently. “What happened to my hummingbird? Normally I can hear you four rooms away by now.”
Sam startled a little, glancing up with wide eyes like he hadn’t heard Dean come in. “Oh. Sorry. I was thinking.”
Dean walked in and crouched next to Sam. “Thinking about what?”
Sam shrugged. “School, I guess. And gym class.”
Dean looked him over again, closer this time. The shadows under his eyes hadn’t gone away and his skin had that faint, too-pale tint that made Dean’s stomach twist.
“You sure you’re not feeling off?” Dean asked, keeping his tone light.
Sam hesitated. That was enough to send alarm bells going off in his head.
Sam whispered, “My chest felt funny earlier.”
Dean went still. “Funny how?”
Sam glanced down, fingers trailing just under his ribs. “Like… fluttery. Like there were bugs under my skin. But it was just for a second.”
Dean forced a calm, measured breath. “And now?”
Sam shook his head. “It went away. We were playing kickball. I had just scored so everyone was yellin’ and it got real loud. My chest started feeling funny so I sat on the bench where it was quiet and then it got better.”
Dean let out a long breath, putting his arm around Sam. His kid leaned into him, soft and small and warm. Sam didn’t like loud noises ever since the demon. Not since that night. He had read about it, panic, overstimulation, the way trauma could snake itself into a body and stay there. Especially in a young kid like Sam. Anxiety could feel like that flutter in his chest, the bugs under his skin. Dean had felt it himself. But hearing Sam describe it so quietly, acceptingly, made Dean ache.
“You’re okay now?” He asked, just to be sure.
Sam leaned into him. He hummed an assurance. “Can we eat dinner on the couch tonight?”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, but only if you promise not to spill chili on the pillows again.”
Sam cracked a tiny smile. “That was only one time.”
“It was three times,” Dean corrected, standing up and offering his hand. “Come on, go get comfy. I’ll make you a bowl.”
Dean led Sam back to the living room, keeping a close eye on him as he settled on the couch. Sam turtled into his hoodie, looking content on the couch. In the kitchen, Bobby was already spooning the chili into three bowls, the smell rich and spicy, like comfort food should be.
“How is he?” Bobby asked.
Dean grabbed the spoons from the drawer. “Quieter. Tired, still. He said his chest felt funny at school today, but it was when everyone got loud playing kickball. Said he sat down somewhere quiet after and he was fine.”
Bobby handed him two bowls. “Sounds like anxiety.”
Dean nodded once. “Yeah, that’s what I figured too.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that said more than Dean thought he could ever put into words. Finally, he exhaled, soft and weary.
“He’s trying so hard to be okay,” He said. “And he is, most of the time. But then something like this creeps in and it scares me. That this might never go away, that it might be something else.”
“Sam’s fine,” Bobby reiterated. “And as I said, we’ll keep an eye on him, but I’m sure once he gets adjusted to his routine again he’ll be right as rain.”
Dean gave a quiet nod and turned back towards the living, where his son was curled up and had turned on Thundercats on the TV. He set the bowls on the coffee table, pushing aside a comic book and a remote to make room. Sam peeked out from under his hood, eyes catching the steam rising from the bowls.
“I put cheese on yours,” Dean said, flopping down next to him. “Uncle Bobby says that ruins it, but we both know he’s wrong.”
“I heard that,” Bobby called from the kitchen, footsteps echoing as he walked in with his bowl and three sodas in hand.
Sam gave a tiny smile, reaching for his bowl. Dean handed it over and grabbed his own, leaning back so their shoulders brushed.
The room fell into a peaceful rhythm, the soft clinking of spoons against the bowls and the murmur of the animated TV. Bobby took his armchair, keeping a quiet eye on both boys.
Sam didn’t say much, eating slowly, every few bits followed by a glance at Dean like he was making sure he was still there. Dean would glance back, mouth full, or nudge his shoulder in silent assurance. Sam set his bowl back on the table after a while, clearly done eating, though his bowl was only halfway gone.
Dean set his empty one down. “You should eat a little more, Sammy, it might make you feel better.”
“I said I feel fine, Dad,” Sam huffed, though he slumped into Dean some. “I’m just tired.”
Dean pulled Sam’s hoodie off his head, brushing a hand through his curls, considering. “You want to call it an early night then? You still need to take a shower, though.”
“Will you read me a story after?” Sam asked around a yawn.
“Sure, kiddo.” He nudged the back of Sam’s head, nudging him off the couch. “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be waiting.”
“I want to read Goosebumps,” Sam declared as he disappeared up the stairs.
“Then make sure to wash your hair!” Dean called out, words probably lost in the spray of the water turning on.
____
The next morning came gray and cold, clouds hanging low in the sky. Dean blinked blearily at his clock - 6:01 AM - and groaned, dragging himself out of bed, joints stiff and sore from yesterday’s repair work. He threw on a hoodie in deference to the sleepy light outside and shuffled down the hall.
Sam’s door was wide open, and he was lying on his side in bed, still wrapped tight in his blanket like a burrito. Dean padded in and sat on the edge of the bed, laying a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Morning, sunshine,” He murmured.
Sam stirred, eyes fluttering open. “Already?”
“‘Fraid so. Time to get up, little man, don’t wanna have to make you eat cereal out of the box in the car again.”
Sam gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh and slowly sat up, untangling himself from his mess of blankets. He looked better than yesterday, Dean noted, but was still moving like the fog hadn’t lifted from his brain all the way. The kid did just wake up, he considered.
“You sleep okay?” Dean asked, watching this kid rub his eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam whispered. “I think so.”
“No bad dreams?”
Sam shook his head. “I didn’t have any dreams.”
Dean smiled. “Let’s call that a win.” He ruffled Sam’s hair. “Come downstairs when you’re dressed. We’ll do breakfast and then head in.”
That got a small nod. Dean left him to it and headed downstairs. Bobby was already up, sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper like it was 1933. He glanced up when Dean walked in.
“Kid lookin’ better this morning?” He asked.
“Think so.”
Bobby grunted and slid over a still-steaming mug of coffee and Dean took it gratefully, hands curling around the warmth.
“Think it’s just school then?”
“Yeah,” Dean said after a moment. “But I’m gonna walk him in today, talk to his teacher if he seems off again. Just… better to keep an eye on things.”
Bobby nodded and turned the page. “Good idea.”
Dean didn’t answer, just sipped his coffee and listened to the quiet creaking of footsteps upstairs.
It was still early when they pulled into the school, and the parking lot was still mostly empty. He parked, turning to look at Sam, who was eyeing the school warily. “You okay, bug?”
Sam nodded, but it was a small and brittle thing.
“I told you, Sammy, you’re not in trouble,” Dean said gently. “I just want to talk to your teacher, that’s all.”
Sam hadn't said much during the ride after Dean had told him he’d be walking in with him, just stared out the window and fiddled with the strings on his hoodie.
“Alright,” He sighed, opening the car door. “Let’s go inside.”
Sam didn’t argue. He slid out of the car and stayed close as they walked up the path, the wind tugging at his jacket.
Inside, the hallway was empty and quiet save for the hum of the fluorescent lighting. They walked to room 112, Mrs. Hartley’s class, and Dean knocked quietly at the door.
Mrs. Hartley glanced up from her desk, smiling. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with kind eyes and a warm cardigan. Her smile faltered when she saw Sam, quiet and distant, hiding slightly behind Dean’s legs.
“Good morning, Sam,” She greeted softly, her smile shifting back into place.
Sam gave a tiny wave but didn’t speak.
She must’ve known Dean wanted to speak with her based on the look on his face. “Sam, honey, why don’t you come inside and start putting your things away in your cubby? I’m gonna step outside and chat with your dad.”
Sam nodded, stepping inside the classroom and walking over to the wall of cubbies, decorated with bright name tags and stickers. Mrs. Hartley got up from her desk, moving out to the hall with the door just barely shut behind them.
“You must be Mr. Winchester,” She smiled at him, wrapping her cardigan around herself tighter.
“Just Dean is fine,” He waved off. “So, um, Sam had a bad day yesterday. He said he felt weird during gym, had a flutter in his chest, and got overwhelmed.”
Mrs. Hartley's brows furrowed. “He didn’t come to me. If I’d have known-”
Dean shook his head. “It’s not on you. Sam’s still… Well, the kid had it rough before he moved here, and he’s still figuring out how to speak up when something’s wrong. But I just wanted to flag it. It was probably just anxiety or a bad day, but he was real tired yesterday evening and that’s not him normally.”
Mrs. Hartley nodded slowly, understanding dawning on her face. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep an eye on him today. If anything seems off, I’ll call.”
Dean’s shoulders eased slightly. “Appreciate it.”
She hesitated, then added gently, “Sam’s very bright. Sensitive, but steady. He’s not the kind to act out and he’s very engaged in class. If he shuts down, it’s normally for a specific reason.”
“Yeah. That sounds about right.”
They both looked into the classroom. Sam was sitting at his desk now, having taken out his book, and was ready quietly. He looked up, watching them. Dean gave him a thumbs-up and a quick wink. Sam hesitated, then he smiled.
Dean smiled back.
____
Sam had always been the kind of student teachers appreciated: sharp, attentive, respectful. He never spoke out of turn and never asked to go to the nurse.
So when Stacey noticed Sam barely looking up during the morning discussion, thinking over her conversation with the boy’s father that morning, something tugged at her. He wasn’t slumped dramatically over his desk and didn’t look green, but his pencil tapped slowly against the desk and his eyes stayed down. When it was his turn to read aloud, his voice came out thinner than normal, faint, like the effort of speaking made him tired.
During independent work time, she quietly circled the room. When she reached Sam’s desk, she crouched beside him, her tone casual. “Hey there. Is everything alright this morning?”
Sam blinked, startled from his daze. “Yeah,” He said quickly. “I’m just tired.”
She gave a small nod, not pushing. “Did you sleep okay last night?”
He shrugged.
Stacey noticed how he was sitting. He was leaning slightly to the right like he was favoring one side. One of his hands was near his chest, not holding anything, but just hovering. She recalled how his father spoke about Sam having trouble speaking up when something was wrong.
“Does anything hurt?”
Sam looked down and gave a tiny shake of his head. “No. Just feels weird. My chest is kinda flippy.”
“Flippy?”
Sam looked embarrassed now, cheeks turning a little red. “Like butterflies.”
That caught her attention. She gave him a warm smile and tapped his desk lightly. “Thank you for telling me. Why don’t you head to the reading corner for a bit? Don’t worry about finishing the worksheet right now.”
Sam nodded, visibly relieved, and shuffled over to the soft beanbags and pillows in the corner. Stacey watched him pick out a book and settle down, then walked back to her desk and jotted a note. He wasn’t in pain and didn’t appear to seem scared, but something felt like it wasn’t quite right either.
“Mrs. Hartley!” A girl’s voice called out. “I need help!”
She sighed, looking up to see a hand waving in the air. She’d call Dean before the end of the day.
____
Dean had just stepped out of the garage, intending to go clean up before Sam came home on the bus when his phone rang. He pulled it out quickly, answering it without looking, remembering Sam’s teacher’s promise to call if something was wrong.
“This is Dean.”
“Hi, Mr. Winchester? This is Stacey Hartley, Sam’s teacher.”
Dean straightened up. “Is he okay?”
“He’s alright, no emergency,” She said quickly. “I just wanted to let you know about something that happened this morning, after our talk. Sam mentioned feeling tired and said his chest felt ‘flippy.’ It wasn’t painful, just strange. I let him lie down for a bit and he seemed better later in the day. He was a little quiet, but that’s not unusual for him. He did stay inside during recess, just sat and colored. No complaints, just… low-energy.”
Dean swallowed hard. If there was one thing Sam loved, it was going outside and playing with friends during recess. “Okay. Thanks for calling, I really appreciate you keeping an eye on him.”
“Of course. Sam didn’t want to make a fuss, but I thought it was worth checking in. Kids don’t always know when something feels off.”
“No, they don’t,” Dean agreed softly.
____
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the backyard after school, draping over the makeshift target range. A few empty soda cans were balanced on the wooden fence posts, lined up like cartoon villains ready to be taken out. A BB gun rested in Sam’s hands, a little oversized, but Sam handled it carefully.
Dean stood a few feet behind, arms crossed, casual but watchful as Sam aimed the gun.
“Alright squirt,” Dean instructed. “Breathe slow and steady. Focus on the can, not me or your feet, just the target.”
Sam nodded, tongue poking out in concentration. He aimed, adjusting his stance a little, then squeezed the trigger. The BB missed, just barely, pinging off the top of the fence post.
Sam groaned. “Again?”
“Almost had it,” Dean said, walking forward to reset the can that had wobbled. “You’re getting better.”
Sam offered a tired half-smile, then reached up to rub at his forehead. He blinked a few times, then blinked again, slower.
Dean noticed the hesitation. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Sam said automatically. “Just got fuzzy for a second.”
Dean’s brow furrowed, moving towards Sam. “Fuzzy how?”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. I think the sun got in my eyes.”
Dean glanced up. The sun was setting now, a soft amber that wasn’t harsh enough to cause a reaction like that. He looked back at Sam, who was now leaning slightly to one side, left foot shifting in the dirt like he couldn’t quite keep his balance.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam said again, but his voice was quieter this time. He tightened his grip on the BB gun, wincing just slightly.
“Okay, that’s enough for today. You’re done.”
Sam frowned. “But I haven’t been practicing that long.”
Dean took the gun out of Sam's hands, flicking the safety on. He slung it over his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t like the way you're swaying.”
“I’m not swaying.” He protested weakly.
“You are. Come one, let’s go inside and get some water.”
Sam hesitated, then nodded, shoulders slumping. As they walked back inside, Dean stayed close to his side, hand hovering behind his back. Just in case.
____
Sam liked it when Dad took him grocery shopping with him. Before, when they still lived with John, it was different. Dad would add up the total with each item he carefully selected with a pinched expression on his face, one hand always holding his. Now that they lived with Uncle Bobby, Dad always had a long list that was filled with all of their favorites. He still sometimes grumbled about prices but would toss the item in the cart anyway. Occasionally, Dad would let Sam take one of the little buggies and wander just far enough that it felt like he was grocery shopping on his own. It felt like an adventure.
The grocery store smelled like donuts at the front, but here towards the back, it smelt like cool, frozen air and vegetables. Dad had handed him a list, a few things circled in red ink and gave him a challenge. “Get five things that start with P, tiger,” He’d said, a grin pulling at his mouth.
The first few were easy. Pop-tarts, pretzels, and pudding carts already sat in Sam’s cart, but now things were getting tricky. Sam stood in the snack aisle, his hand on the cool metal edge of the cart, staring at the brightly-colored snacks that seemed to shift in front of him.
He blinked, rubbing at his eyes. There was that floaty feeling again. His chest felt tight, but not in a way that made him feel scared. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable, like when his legs got too hot under the blankets and he had to kick them out. It felt like a weight was pressing down a little too much on his chest. His breathing became shallow without him even realizing it, and for a moment everything felt too bright. Too loud. The buzzing of the lights throbbed in his head.
He took a deep breath and forced his eyes to focus again. The shelves in front of him were shiny at the edges like he was looking at them through plastic wrap. He spotted popcorn in the middle of the shelf. That was a P and would make four.
With a small sigh, Sam reached up, grabbing the butter-flavored popcorn from the shelf. His fingers tingled as he grabbed the box, a sharp coldness rushing through them. It didn’t feel like much, just a weird sensation, but it made him pause.
At the end of the aisle, Sam could see Dad deep in thought, picking up a package of cookies and squinting at the price like it personally offended him. He was muttering something under his breath about inflation and ridiculous prices, but it just sounded like noise to Sam. The words bounced off him, lost in a strange, echoey place.
Sam took another deep breath, steadying himself against the cart. The dizziness left as quickly as it came, but it left him feeling heavy and tired. It didn’t hurt, not really, it was just strange.
He turned and pushed his cart down the aisle slowly, hoping Dad wouldn’t notice. His heart thudded in his chest and his shoes felt like they were dragging his legs down. He leaned a little more against the cart, trying to hide the fact that his legs were shaking. He didn’t want Dad to worry, because then his jaw would go tight and he’d stop the whole day for something Sam couldn’t even explain.
Dean turned back to Sam as he approached, a slight frown forming when he saw Sam’s expression. He forced a smile, trying to make it convincing, but he wasn’t sure if it worked.
“Popcorn,” Sam said, holding up the box. “Four P’s.” He didn’t mention that the store felt too wide and too narrow at once.
Dad studied him for a second before giving Sam the proud smile that made him feel like everything was okay again. “That’s my smart boy,” He said, ruffling Sam’s hair.
Sam smiled back, a little easier this time. The heaviness in him didn’t feel quite as heavy, and the swoopy feeling had gone away, but he still felt tired. But it was okay, Dad hadn’t noticed. He could handle it.
“Good job, Sammy,” Dad said, tossing the package of cookies into the cart. “One more thing, we need something with a P and a P only. How about a pack of-”
But Sam wasn’t really listening anymore, his tiredness tugging at his ears.
He felt a hand brush his shoulder. “You okay?” Dad asked, voice quieter now. But it wasn’t his Are you hurt voice or even his Tell me what’s wrong right now voice, it was just concern.
Sam nodded quickly, he didn’t want to worry him. “Yeah, I’m just a little tired.”
Dean looked at him, eyes sharp, but then he nodded too, dropping the list into the cart. “Let’s finish this up and get out of here then. You can pick out the cereal, deal?”
“Deal.”
But even as he followed them down the aisle, his chest still felt a little tight and his head still felt foggy. He felt like his body was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t figure out what. He threaded his fingers through the cart Dad pushed, a yawn escaping him. Maybe his body was saying he was just tired. They’d go home, and Sam could take a nap, and then Dad wouldn’t rub at his face and everything would be okay.
____
The bathroom was warm with leftover steam, the mirror still fogged in the corners. The hum of the ventilation fan mixed with the drip of the faucet. Dean sat on the closed toilet lid, towel slung around his shoulders while Sam brushed his teeth barefoot on the mat, dinosaur pajama pants pooling around his ankles.
“You smell like a walking bubble,” Dean teased, tugging the towel off his shoulders and rubbing it through Sam’s hair.
Sam giggled, spitting out foamy white. “Better than a mud monster.”
Dean grinned and leaned in. “Speak for yourself, you were a mud monster, little man. There was mud behind your ears. Behind, Sammy. How does that even happen?”
Sam had a soccer game that afternoon, and while Dean watched him hawk-eyed the whole time, he seemed fine, with no complaints of flipping in his chest. He did, however, get covered head to toe in mud when he slid for the ball, and Dean hadn’t trusted the kid to get all of it off by himself.
Sam laughed harder, a real laugh, the kind that had been missing too often lately. Just when Dean reached for the comb, he noticed a shift in Sam’s posture. Subtle, but wrong. The little boy swayed, blinking slow and unfocused, his smile slipping.
“Whoa, hey.” Dean dropped the comb and caught Sam by the shoulders as he tilted forward. “Sammy? Talk to me.”
Sam reached for Dean’s shirt and grabbed a handful without meaning to, small fingers gripping tight. His voice was far away, thin and unsteady. “I got dizzy for a second. Everything kinda swooped.”
Dean crouched down so he was level with Sam, holding him firmly by the waist. “Okay, okay. You didn’t eat that fast. Water wasn’t that hot. You feelin’ sick?”
Sam shook his head slowly, then paused, frowning. “No, just floaty. Like when you spin too fast.”
Dean pressed the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead, not finding any heat, and then cupped the side of his face. Sam’s eyes were glassy and he looked pale under the yellow bathroom light.
“Alright, that’s it. No more standing, c’mere.”
He swept Sam into his arms, the towel falling to the floor. Sam leaned into without resistance, limp and quiet, sending a fresh crack of fear through Dean. He carried them into Sam’s bed, easing Sam into his lap as he pulled the untucked comforter.
Sam curled in without a word, head resting over Dean’s heartbeat, still slightly damp and smelling like soap and clean skin. He rubbed soothing circles on his back.
“Daddy?” Sam asked, voice sounding smaller than it had all week.
“Yeah, kiddo,” Dean murmured into his hair. “I’m right here.”
“I don’t like that feeling. The swoopy one.”
“I know,” Dean whispered. “Me either.”
Sam went quiet again, but he curled closer, burying his head in Dean’s chest, seeking safety in the steady thump of his heart.
Dean let his eyes close, but he didn’t fall asleep. His mind was racing, spinning like the carousel he once took Sam on at the county fair. Round and round.
It could’ve been nothing. It had been warm and humid in the bathroom, or maybe a quick drop in blood sugar. But the way his eyes had glassed over, the way he folded into himself…
He looked down at the little boy in his lap. Sam had fallen asleep, breathing even and soft, his hands wrapped in Dean’s amulet.
He tightened his hold around him.
____
Sam sat on the old worn couch in Bobby’s study, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a book in his lap. Bobby had just come in from the salvage yard, helping Dean out on the repair. He could tell his mind was always half-worrying about Sam, and while Bobby hoped it was just anxiety manifesting itself in the kid, he quietly admitted to himself Sam’s behavior was troublesome. He always seemed tired, nowadays, not even wanting to go outside and play with Rumsfeld. He was eating less, too, less than he normally did. Dean was currently digging around in the fridge for something that might pique the kid’s appetite.
“Evenin’, squirt,” Bobby greeted, brushing dust from his flannel. “Whatcha reading?”
Sam held up his book without speaking. Bobby’s brows furrowed, normally Sam rattled off whatever book his nose was stuck in, excited to share.
“You alright?”
Sam nodded, but his cheeks were pale and he was bundled up like it was winter.
Bobby crossed the room and sat on the couch, resting the back of his hand against Sam’s cheek. “You feel cold.”
Sam didn’t move, but his fingers tightened on his book.
“You got a fever or something?” Bobby murmured, reaching in for the thermometer in the drawer.
It beeped back normal.
Dean walked in with a bowl and a mug. “Hey kiddo, I made you some soup for dinner. Hot chocolate too.” He turned to Bobby, noticing the thermometer in his hand. “He doesn’t have a fever.”
“Still,” Bobby said quietly. “Sam’s normally a furnace.”
Sam blinked slowly, reaching for the bowl of soup, but swayed slightly where he sat.
“Sam?’ Dean was at his side in a flash. “You dizzy again?”
Sam nodded, reluctant. “It’s spinny.”
Bobby shared a look with Dean, not panicked, but concerned. Dean placed a steadying hand on Sam’s back, passing him the bowl of soup. “Eat up, it’ll help.”
“Alright,” Bobby said, gruff and calm. “You’re gonna stay home from school tomorrow, take it easy. A long weekend will do you some good.”
Sam didn’t argue, just slurped softly at his soup. That’s what made Bobby’s stomach twist.
____
Dean watched Sam bundle himself in the corner of the couch, the next day, wrapped in a hoodie and blankets like he was hibernating. His kid hadn’t said much since the dizzy spell.
Dean could feel the unease creeping in, picking away and pulling at the threads of their normal life. Sam fell ill easily, always had, but this felt different. It wasn’t just the coldness or the tiredness. It was everything. The toast Dean had made was untouched except for a few tiny bites.
Dean crossed the room and knelt beside him, tucking in a corner of the blanket. “You still cold, little man?”
Sam shut his eyes, nodding, a small, barely-there motion. Dean palmed his cheek, Sam snuggling into his hand, leeching the warmth out of his skin. Sam’s skin sent a shock of discomfort down his spine. His kid’s skin should’ve been warm, not cold, almost clammy. Not feverish, just wrong. His face was a little too pale for comfort, and it was like he wasn’t quite all the way there anymore. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Bobby, walking into the room with a stack of papers, stopped. “What doesn’t make sense?”
Dean glanced up at Bobby, but the words didn’t come immediately. He didn’t even know how to explain it. His thoughts were fracturing, mind spinning, as he tried to come up with a reason, any reason, for why his kid was acting the way he was.
He grabbed another blanket, lying it over his kid. “Let me know if you feel any worse, okay?”
Sam snuggled into the blanket, pulling it up to his chin. Dean grabbed Bobby by the arm, leading him out of the room and out of Sam’s earshot.
“I’m calling a doctor,” Dean insisted, phone already in his hand.
Bobby agreed. “I’m no professional, but something’s not right with him.”
His thumb was already moving over the keypad, dialing the number to the doctor’s office he had memorized two days ago.
Even with explaining Sam’s symptoms, the cold and pale and tiredness, they still weren’t going to be able to squeeze him in before Monday afternoon. Three days from now. Told him it wasn’t uncommon for viruses to make kids feel cold, just give him some children’s Tylenol until then, and if Sam still felt bad on Monday to bring him in.
“He’ll be okay until then,” Bobby said calmly, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just sit with him for a little bit?”
Bobby wasn’t wrong, they probably could wait a few days, but Dean knew his kid better than himself and knew this wasn’t just a stomach bug or a virus.
He walked back over the couch, Sam’s breaths coming out in heavy little puffs like even breathing was exhausting him. He sat down, gently, before shifting Sam and his mound of blankets into his lap. Sam blinked slowly, his eyes half-open, his weak attempt at acknowledging Dean, but there was no spark in his gaze. He did drop his head to Dean’s chest, ear right over his heartbeat like it was all he had left to give.
Bobby hovered at the doorway, watching them, the unease written in his posture. Dean could see the weight of the situation in his gaze too, but Bobby was good at hiding his emotions. He was calm, the kind that was meant to keep everyone else steady.
Dean wanted to yell, scream, this wasn’t okay, that his son needed help now and not in three days. But he didn’t, forcing himself to think over and over that Sam would be fine until Monday. Bobby came over, a tiny cup of purple medicine in his grasp.
“Hey, Sammy, can you wake up for me?” Dean asked, rubbing his kid’s back softly. “I need you to take some medicine.”
Sam roused slightly, squinting up at Dean. He nudged the cup of medicine to Sam’s mouth and he swallowed it obediently, no complaints of it tasting nasty. He did cough a little, when it was done, but just shut his eyes again and leaned back against Dean’s chest.
Dean had faced monsters, demons, things that had crawled out of hell. None of them had looked as terrifying as the way Sam’s body sagged against him, quiet and too still. No doctor’s office was going to tell him that was normal.
The night passed in soft silences and half-sleeps. Dean stayed with Sam on the couch, only moving to re-dose him with medicine or adjust the blankets. By morning, Sam looked better. Not good, but better. His skin had more color and his eyes stayed open for longer. He even whispered “thanks” when Dean handed him a banana and peanut butter for breakfast.
Dean nearly cried at the sound.
“See?” Bobby said, voice low as he brought in a fresh glass of juice. “Told you he’d feel better.”
Dean nodded, eyes never leaving his kid who had nodded off again. “Yeah, maybe. He’s still going to see the doctor on Monday, not taking any chances. He’s still off.”
Bobby looked Dean up and down, eyes narrowing on his tight shoulders. He spoke carefully: “You’re still wound up like a spring, even with Sam on the mend.”
Dean let out a humorless breath. “Can’t seem to turn it off.”
Bobby walked over to his recliner and sat down. “You think something is still wrong?”
Dean glanced down at his kid, making sure he was still asleep. “No. I mean- I don’t know. It’s like, he’s eating better and got some color back in him. But I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Could just be your nerves.”
Dean let out a short laugh, but it came out sounding more like exhaustion. “I keep looking at him like if I blink, he’ll get worse and I’ll miss it. Every time he yawns too hard or sits down too fast-” He stopped, swallowing hard. “He’s gone through so much, Bobby. Sometimes I don’t know how he’s still as normal as he is. But I don’t think I can take one more thing wrong with him. Every time something happens, I think this is it. This is where our luck runs out.”
Bobby’s expression gentled. “That’s a lot to carry, kid.”
Dean’s voice dropped. “He’s just a little kid. He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”
Bobby crossed his arms. “Neither of you should. But if something does happen, we’ll deal with it like we always do. I hope you know by now that I’m not very going to let you take on everything on your own. So, let go of some of the load, okay? Let me take some.”
“I’m not good at doing that,” Dean said.
“I know, you take after John that way.”
Dean winced but didn’t argue.
“But you ain’t him,” Bobby added after a beat. “You’re better. You love that boy so much it’s comin’ out your ears.”
“I just try to be what he needs.”
“You are,” Bobby stood, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Take a break for a minute, you’re not gonna do Sam any good by burning yourself out. Eat something, take a shower. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Dean glanced down at Sam, resting and peaceful. He squeezed his ankle before prying himself off the couch. “You’re right, but if anyone asks, I’m never admitting it.”
“Idgit,” Bobby grumbled, but there was no heat.
By the time night fell again, Sam had eaten half a grilled cheese and sipped on some Gatorade. He even requested a story, leaning against Dean as he read The Hobbit to Sam.
He tucked Sam into bed, his real bed, not the couch.
“Think I’m feelin’ better, Dad,” Sam mumbled, turning his head on the pillow so he could see Dean’s face.
“Yep,” Dean confirmed, brushing the bangs off his forehead. “Just need a little more rest.”
By Sunday, Sam was up and moving again. It was still slow going, but he was making it up and down the stairs on his own and eating a little more. Mid-afternoon, he was back to coloring at the kitchen table and kicking his legs a little, humming Metallica to himself. Dean, feeling lighter now at the sound, busied himself by starting to prep dinner.
Dean didn’t notice when slumped down in his chair. But he heard the sound: a sharp, shaky gasp.
He dropped the butterknife he was holding, turning to see Sam’s crayon slip from his fingers. His whole body tensed, hands flying to his chest. His eyes blew wide, catching onto Dean as he scrambled at his chest. He opened his mouth like he was trying to speak, but then his eyes rolled and Sam collapsed sideways, falling out of the chair.
"Sammy!"
Dean moved faster than he had in his life, catching Sam before he hit the ground, stopping his head from cracking on the tile. He shifted Sam so he was in his lap, Sam’s chest fluttering with shallow breaths. His little hands clawed at his shirt like he couldn’t get enough air, his lips tinting blue.
“Hey- hey, baby, look at me. I gotcha,” Dean tried to soothe, his own eyes burning with the shock of tears.
Dean pressed a hand to Sam’s chest, the other to his wrist. His pulse was fast, erratic, wrong. Dean’s own heart kicked hard.
“Bobby!" He shouted, voice cracking with terror. "Bobby, get in here!"
Sam’s eyes fluttered, barely tracking. His breaths were too sharp, too quick, closer to gasps now.
“C’mon, Sammy, breathe for me.” Dean’s words tumbled out, his own breathing quickening as tears spilled down, hot and helpless, as he rocked them both on the kitchen floor. “Stay with me, baby. I gotcha, I gotcha, you’re okay, I’m here.”
Footsteps pounded down the hall, heavy and fast, and then Bobby was there, skidding into the room.
Dean looked up, clutching Sam’s too-still form. “He just collapsed- he can’t breathe- his heartbeat’s all over the place-”
“Get him in the truck, we can get him to the hospital faster than an ambulance can get here,” Bobby ordered, snatching his keys.
Dean scrambled to his feet, still holding Sam tight against his chest. Sam let out a faint whimper, head tilting back as he tried to draw in air. Dean pressed a kiss against his temple as he sprinted out of the house. “It’s okay, I got you. Just hang on, baby.”
Bobby already had the truck running and Dean climbed into the backseat, cradling Sam across his lap as he floored it out of the driveway. The engine roared, tires screaming against the pavement as they raced towards the hospital.
Dean sat twisted in the seat, one hand bracing Sam’s head, the other gripping his tiny wrist, fingers locked against his pulse. “You’re doing so good, Sammy,” He murmured, fighting to keep his voice calm against the panic clawing at his throat and the tears still dripping down his face. “We’re almost there, just stay with me.”
Bobby glanced back through the rearview mirror. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s still breathing,” Dean said, voice breaking. “But it’s not right. His lips are blue, Bobby and his heartbeat is funny. It’s his damn heart.”
Bobby didn’t answer, but the car lurched forward as it picked up speed, running a red light as the hospital came into view.
Dean bowed over Sam’s head, Sam’s eyes attempting to track him. “You’re gonna be okay, you hear me, Sammy? I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
The truck screeched to a stop in the hospital drop-off lane, tires barely stopping before Bobby had his door open. Dean was already halfway out, cradling Sam tight, his little boy limp and trembling in his arms.
“Help! I need help!” Dean yelled, cries echoing, as he burst through the sliding doors. “Please, he’s not breathing right! His heart, he collapsed-”
A nurse behind the desk jumped to her feet, slamming a call button. “Pediatric code blue, front intake!” She called into the intercom.
Two sets of hands rushed in, a nurse and a doctor, pulling Sam from his grasp, and Dean’s grip tightened instinctively.
“Sir, we can help him,” The doctor said calmly, but firmly. “Let us take him.”
They pulled again and Dean let Sam go, the nurses jumping on him immediately, the gurney rolling away. “Pediatric male, sudden collapse, shallow breathing, tachycardia, lips cyanotic, possible cardiac involvement.”
The last thing Dean saw was Sam’s socked foot disappearing through the swinging doors, wires already trailing from his chest, the nurse's hands cradling his face.
Dean stood there for a long moment, fists clenched, the smell of antiseptic burning in his nose. The adrenaline was ebbing now, leaving him shaky and with goosebumps covering his arms. His ears rang like something in him had snapped.
He turned in a slow circle, eyes jumping, like maybe if he looked hard enough, Sam would be somewhere. Coloring, smiling, humming Metallica like nothing was wrong.
He stumbled back until his legs hit a chair, collapsing into it as his breath hitched. Then it hitched again, and again until it wasn’t breathing at all, just choking sobs that clawed their way out of his throat.
“I should’ve known,” He gasped, fingers digging into his hair. “I should’ve known. He said he was better but I knew. I knew he wasn’t. I felt it- I felt it, Bobby!”
Bobby was there in an instant, grabbing his shoulders. “Dean. Dean, son, look at me.”
“I let him sit there and draw,” Dean cried. “I let him draw and he was- he was dying. He’s dying, Bobby.”
His face crumpled, and he covered his mouth with a hand, trying to smother the sound. Bobby didn’t say anything, but his own eyes shined, and he sat down, placing a steadying hand across Dean’s back and pulling him in. He didn’t fight, folding in like a child, pressing his forehead into Bobby’s shoulder.
“I can’t lose him,” Dean gasped around his sobs. “My baby, Bobby, my little boy. I can’t lose my baby.”
“You won’t,” Bobby murmured, fierce and low. “Sam’s a fighter. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean didn’t believe it, not yet, but he let Bobby hold him as he cried anyway.
Time passed with Dean having no idea how long he sat in the hard plastic chair. Ten minutes, three hours, Dean didn’t know. At one point, after his cries had died off and he settled into staring at the swinging doors, a nurse came over with some paperwork, but Bobby took it and filled it out without a word. Bobby stayed close, one hand clasped on his shoulder. Dean just stared at the doors, willing them to open.
And then they did.
An older man in scrubs and a white coat stepped out, clipboard in his hand. “Family of Samuel Winchester?”
Dean scrambled to his feet so fast that the blood rushed from his head. “Yes. I’m- his dad, Dean Winchester. That’s me.”
The doctor stepped forward, calm but serious. “I’m Dr. Galloway. Sam’s fine now, he’s stable.”
Dean’s breath left him in a rush, knees buckling as relief crashed over him, but Bobby’s steady grip around his arm kept him up.
“What happened?” Dean rasped.
“He had a cardiac episode,” The doctor explained. “Likely caused by an undiagnosed heart murmur.”
Dean blinked. “A heart murmur?”
The doctor nodded. “Sam had an episode of paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia—PSVT for short. That’s when the heart suddenly races out of rhythm. It’s often linked to structural issues in the heart, which is consistent with the murmur we detected during his evaluation.”
Dean felt his blood run cold.
“He has a murmur that caused his collapse?” Bobby asked, hand tightening on Dean’s arm.
“Yes. The murmur didn’t directly cause the collapse, but it can be an indicator that something else is going on in the heart’s electrical or structural pathways. Sam’s murmur is likely benign, meaning it’s not dangerous by itself, but it can be a sign of an underlying rhythm disorder.
We’ve admitted him for monitoring. He’ll get an echocardiogram, which is an ultrasound of the heart, and we’ve started telemetry, continuous heart monitoring, overnight. Depending on the results, we may do further testing, like a Holter monitor to track irregular rhythms over 24 hours.” The doctor explained, tone patient and understanding.
Dean swallowed hard. “And after that?”
“If the episodes are rare and manageable, he might not need anything but regular check-ups. If we see more serious irregularities, medication could help regulate the rhythm. In rare cases, a procedure called ablation can correct the electrical pathway causing the issue, but that’s a conversation for much later, if at all.”
Dean nodded slowly. “So… he’s going to be okay?”
“He gave us quite a scare, and he’ll need some watching, but with the right care, there’s no reason why he can’t live a healthy, normal life. Sam’s a strong little boy.”
Dean's chest tightened again, but this time from relief. “Thank God,” He muttered. Then louder: “Can I see him?”
“Of course, he’s been asking for you. We’ve started him on fluids and oxygen. He’s in room 227.” She gestured down the doors. “Right down the hall. I’ll be back to check on him in a little bit.”
Dean didn’t wait, murmuring a thank you before taking off through the doors, Bobby just behind him. Their boots echoed in the corridor, the fluorescent lighting buzzing above them like it could drown out the pounding in his ears. His eyes trailed the room numbers, finally reaching 227.
His hand rested on the doorknob for just a second before he twisted it open.
The room was dim, blinds drawn against the late evening light. A monitor beeped steadily in the background, displaying Sam’s heartbeat in blinking green lines across a screen. There was a soft hiss of oxygen from the nasal cannula under Sam’s nose. The little boy looked small in the hospital gown printed with dinosaurs, bundled in white sheets, and an IV resting in the crook of his arm.
He turned his head at the door opening, eyes finding Dean immediately. Bleary, shining, but aware. A flicker of something, face crumpling, and his arms reached out.
“Daddy,” He whispered, barely audible.
Dean was moving as soon as he saw Sam, crossing the room in three quick steps, sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping his hands under Sam’s shoulders and pulling him in, careful of the wires. “Hey, hey, baby boy,” He breathed, holding him close. “You scared the hell outta me.”
Sam twisted, fingers knotting in Dean’s shirt like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t wanna… I didn’t wanna scare you.”
Dean squeezed him tighter, pressing a kiss to his hair. “No, none of that. You didn’t do anything wrong, you… you just got sick, that’s not your fault.”
Bobby watched from just inside the door, leaning against the wall. Dean shared a look with him, and Bobby smiled encouragingly, dipping his head.
“But you were crying,” Sam whispered against his chest. “You were really scared.”
“Of course I was,” Dean said. “You’re my whole world, baby.”
Sam hiccuped softly, shaking faintly. Dean ran his hand up and down Sam’s back, gentle and soothing. “You’re gonna be okay,” Dean promised. “Doctor said they’re gonna keep an eye on your heart to make sure it keeps beating right. They’ve got all this stuff to help you and I’m gonna be here the whole time. Every minute, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” Dean pulled back just enough to look Sam in the eyes, cupping his cheek. “You’re gonna be just fine, okay? We’re gonna get through this.”
Sam nodded, lowering lip trembling, but he leaned back into Dean’s chest without hesitation. The monitor beeped on, steady and strong, and Dean listened to it like it was a prayer.
____
Dean hadn’t moved from the hospital bed since entering the room. Sam was asleep, still a little pale but peaceful, tucked under the warm blankets. Dean sat leaning against the wall, one leg crossed and Sam resting against his chest as if they’d never moved from the kitchen floor. His hand carded through Sam’s hair, the motion hadn't stopped since he got there.
Bobby hadn’t left either. From the moment Dean called for him, Bobby had been at his side, silent when he needed to be and stepping up when Dean couldn’t. And now he was sitting in the room with them in the spare chair, quiet and unmoving, hat clenched in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
He watched them both with a mixture of worry and affection, gaze flickering between Sam and Dean and the monitors. He didn’t speak much.
When Dean collapsed in the ER waiting room, shaking and sobbing, Bobby was there, anchoring him with his presence. He took the paperwork from the nurse, filling it out without a question. When the chill of the hospital room set in, he flicked a blanket over the two of them.
Dean noticed if, of course. Every time he looked up, Bobby was there. Worn and worried but unshakeable. That consistency was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“He looks better,” Bobby finally said, tone low and gravel-rough.
Dean nodded, brushing his thumb along Sam’s temple. “He’s warm again.”
“They’ve got him stable.” Bobby didn’t look away from Sam. “Doctor said they’re gonna get answers, Dean. Sam’s gonna be okay.”
Dean’s voice was hoarse. “I know. I just thought I was gonna lose him, Bobby.”
“I’m not God,” Bobby started, causing Dean’s eyebrows to draw in. “I can’t know when it’s someone's time. But what I do know is that little boy isn’t going to leave you without a hell of a fight.”
Dean closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Sam’s body against his chest reassure him. After a moment, he felt the bed shift slightly as Bobby sat on the edge, his hand resting on Dean’s back. Not pushing, just present.
“I couldn’t have done this alone,” Dean whispered, broken and soft.
“You didn’t have to,” Bobby said. “Not for one damn second.”
Time passed quietly, only broken up by the distant sounds of the hospital and Sam’s even breathing.
A while later, Sam had woken back up and eaten his lunch of hospital mashed potatoes and chicken tenders, there was a knock on the door and Dr. Galloway poked his head in. Dean perched in bed with Sam next to him and dog-eared the copy of Harry Potter Bobby had scrounged out of the truck. Bobby stood at the doctor’s entrance, arms crossed as he hovered at the head of the bed.
“Hey there, Sam,” The doctor greeted warmly as he stepped inside. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”
Sam blinked up at him. “My chest doesn’t feel weird anymore.”
“That’s good to hear,” He smiled as he pulled up a stool beside the bed. “I wanted to go over some things now that we’ve done the echo and the monitoring.”
Dean straightened. “Is he going to be okay?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, Sam’s going to be perfectly fine. The echo confirmed that he has something we call a functional heart murmur. It sounds a lot scarier than it actually is. The irregular heartbeat, trouble breathing, and tiredness were all effects of that. Basically, Sam’s heart pumps blood faster than it’s supposed to. Most functional heart murmurs are harmless, but some things, like stress, or sometimes just for no reason, they get worse.” He turned towards Dean. “Has Sam gone through anything you can think of that would trigger that?”
Dean resisted the urge to laugh, thinking of how to find the words that would explain our lives. “Yeah, he has," He said, pressing a kiss to Sam’s hair, grounding them both in the moment.
“That might explain it, then. It also could be that it just went untreated for so long that it finally manifested. Because the episode was severe, we’re going to put him on some medicine, just one little pill a day, that’ll help smooth out his heartbeat. But the good news is most children grow out of functional murmurs. They improve or disappear entirely as children grow. In most cases like Sam’s, they grow out of it by the time they get to college.”
Dean leaned back, clenching his jaw as the doctor’s words registered. Okay , Sam was going to be okay . Sam looked at the doctor, frowning slightly. “So my heart’s not broken?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Galloway assured, patting Sam’s leg. “Your heart’s a little noisy right now, but it’s working. You’ll probably still feel more tired than normal for a little bit, and cold sometimes, so you’ll need to take it slow. No running marathons just yet.”
Sam made a face, clearly not worried about running any marathons.
Bobby cleared his throat. “So just watch him closely?”
“Essentially. Make sure he takes it easy and takes his medicine. I’m going to recommend he stays home from school next week, just to make sure the medicine takes. I’ve already set him up with an appointment with a pediatric cardiologist on Friday so we can keep monitoring it. But as long as nothing changes, it’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“And if it doesn’t go away?” Bobby asked.
“Then it’s manageable,” Dr. Galloway said calmly. “But right now, I don’t see any signs of long-term complications or anything dangerous.”
Dean let out a huff of a laugh, caught in his throat in his relief. He wrapped one arm around Sam’s chest, squeezing. “You hear that, Sammy? You’re just fine.”
“Yes, he is.” Dr. Galloway smiled.
“Has Sam always had this murmur?” Bobby asked, thinking it over.
“Hard to say,” The doctor shrugged. “Heart murmurs can be genetic. Do you have a family history of them or any heart disease?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “Sam’s not mine, not by blood. I’m his big brother. But our mom died when he was a baby, and our dad... he’s not the kind of man you leave a kid with. So I’ve been raising him. But I don’t know a whole lot about our family history.”
Dr. Galloway nodded slowly, gaze softening as he took in Dean’s words. “Well, it’s not like it matters much if it’s genetic since Sam hasn’t had any issue with it until now. The stress you mentioned probably triggered the episode. His heart shows no structural abnormalities, so just make sure he gets lots of rest until we’re sure the symptoms are gone. That’s something they’ll go into more depth with you at the check-up.”
Dean smoothed his thumb over Sam’s temple, processing.
“There are things you can do at home,” Dr. Galloway added. “Keep things quiet when you can, let him sleep as much as he needs. Watch out for shortness of breath, lack of appetite, or that fluttering feeling again.”
Dean’s fingers twisted around themselves. “I can do that.”
Dr. Galloway smiled again, then stood. “We’re going to keep Sam overnight for monitoring. If everything looks good in the morning, and I suspect it should, we’ll discharge him then.” He patted Sam’s leg again. “You’re a brave little boy, Sam. You’re going to be just fine.”
He nodded to Dean, then Bobby, taking his leave from the room. Bobby blew out a long breath through his nose, shoulders dropping, when the doctor left. Dean looked down at Sam, who was fiddling with the hospital bracelet around his wrist now.
“You’re okay, Sammy,” He murmured. “We’re gonna be just fine.”
Sam leaned into him, exhaustion clear on his face. It was a lot for a kid to take in. “We can go home tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Dean promised, kissing his forehead. “We’ll go home.”
____
Sam was quiet during discharge, curling into the side of the wheelchair Dean was walking next to, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked smaller than normal; pale and worn-out, but alert, ten times better than he had looked coming in. Bobby had gone ahead to pull the truck around.
Dean’s fingers brushed against Sam’s shoulder every now and then as the nurse pushed the wheelchair, Sam’s new prescription and care instructions stuffed into his jacket pocket. He had signed the discharge papers with a practiced signature, relishing in the morning sun on his face in the cool air.
At the curb, Bobby had the back door already open, the air from the heater escaping. Dean helped Sam climb into the back, buckling him into the booster seat and tucking the blanket back around him.
“You good back here?” Dean asked, patting his chest.
Sam nodded, leaning his head against the window. “Can we listen to music?”
Dean shared a smile with Bobby. “I think we can arrange that.”
Dean turned the radio dial until he found a station playing soft rock, and just like he suspected, the kid was out before they pulled out of the parking lot. When they finally pulled into the driveway, Dean turned around and shook Sam’s leg. “Hey, Sammy, we’re home.”
Sam blinked awake, looking out the window. “Yay.” He cheered softly.
Dean chuckled. “Yay is right, kiddo.”
Sam shuffled inside, wiped from the past few days, and made a b-line for the couch. Dean helped him settle in, leaning him back against a pillow and pulling a blanket tight across his legs. “You rest here. I’m gonna get you something to drink.”
Sam caught his sleeve before he could stand, puppy-dog eyes in full effect. “Will you stay, Daddy?”
Dean wondered if he’d ever be able to say no to those eyes. “Yeah, buddy, I’ll stay.” He sat down beside him, Sam wasting no time in cuddling into his side.
“You’re warm.” Sam sighed, cheek pressing into Dean’s shoulder.
“I am? You still cold?”
“A little,” Sam admitted. “But it’s not as bad now.”
Bobby came into the room, a steaming mug in his hands. “Made you some hot chocolate, squirt, that should warm you right up.”
Sam took the mug, curling his fingers around and looking like he was breathing in the steam. He smiled, a little thing, but the first one Dean had seen in days.
“Drink up, bug,” Dean prompted, pushing up on the bottom of the mug slightly.
Sam shifted against Dean, sipping at the mug until it was nearly empty. Bobby slipped off the kitchen, going off to make peanut butter and banana toast. Sam’s breathing slowed, the kind that meant Sam was either about to slip into sleep or was figuring out how to ask a question. Knowing his kid, probably both.
“Dad?” Sam’s voice was quiet when he spoke.
Dean uncurled Sam’s fingers from around the mug, sitting it on the coffee table. “Yeah, kiddo?”
Sam fiddled with the edge of the blanket, staring ahead. “Am I gonna have to go to the hospital again?”
Dean’s heart clenched. He had known, at some point, that question was coming. But hearing the worry, the fear, in his son’s voice hit harder than he braced for.
“I don’t know, Sammy,” He answered honestly, never having been one to lie to his kid. “Maybe, if your chest feels weird like that again. But we know now, we have medicine and doctors that are gonna help you. Me and Bobby are gonna take care of you.”
Sam stayed still against him. “I don’t like hospitals. They smell weird and there’s a lot of noise.”
“I know.” Dean kissed the top of his forehead. “I don’t like them either.”
“I thought maybe I wouldn’t come back when they wheeled me away.”
Dean turned, both arms wrapped fully around his kid now. “Sammy…”
“I was so tired,” Sam continued. “And cold. My chest kept flipping, and everyone was talking so much, but I couldn’t understand anything.”
Dean squeezed him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head. “You scared me, kid. Scared Bobby, too. But you did come back, they fixed you all up.”
“I heard you,” Sam whispered. “The whole time. You kept saying my name and you were crying. I wanted to say somethin’ back, but I couldn’t talk.”
Dean’s throat closed and he blinked hard.
Sam tucked his face into Dean’s neck. “I didn’t want to go.”
“I know, baby boy, I know. You did so good, though. So good, my brave little boy. I love you so much, more than anything.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
Dean took in a shaking breath, his storm of emotions weighing down his chest, breathing in the scent of tear-free apple shampoo, the lingering sharpness of the hospital, and underneath it all, something distinctly Sam.
When he lifted his head, he saw Bobby standing in the kitchen doorway with the plate of toast, but he didn’t say anything. Just watched, eyes glassy and lips pressed tight, giving them the moment. “I’ll be in the garage if you need anything.” He spoke, hushed, setting the plate down and heading out.
Sam’s breathing evened out against Dean’s chest, his small body finally giving in to sleep, cradled in the one place he felt safe. Dean didn’t move, he didn’t dare. He just held him, arms wrapped around his son like a lifeline.
In the stillness, the quiet, Dean could feel everything creeping up his spine. The beeping monitors, Sam’s fingers clawing at his chest as he struggled to breathe, his face half-hidden behind an oxygen mask.
He tightened his arms around Sam, guilt pressing into him like someone pressing on an old bruise. He saw Sam, collapsing onto the kitchen floor and not getting back up.
His breath hitched.
Dean closed his eyes, but the tears were already pushing past his lashes. His heart raced, trying to break free from his ribs. His palms felt cold and damp, white noise buzzing in his head and drowning everything else out.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t-
Dean shifted carefully, just enough to lay Sam against the pillows without waking him. His kid let out a small sigh, holding on to the hem of Dean’s shirt even in sleep. Dean pried it free and stood. He stumbled out the front door, the cool air piercing his skin. He bent over the wooden railing, bracing himself with both hands.
His knees buckled. He dropped to the ground.
It hit like a wave. The image of Sam hooked up to IVs, nurses' voices yelling tachycardia, lips cyanotic, cardiac episode, code blue jumbling up and ringing in his ears. Dean’s chest clenched, tight and burning, and his breaths were short and shallow. His fingers curled against his temples as he shook, gasping, his whole world shrinking to static.
He didn’t even hear Bobby until the man was kneeling in front of him, rough hands firm on his shoulders. “Dean, breathe. You hear me, son? Just breathe.”
Dean tried, choking on it.
“I-I didn’t see it,” He rasped. “I should’ve seen it- he said he was tired and I just- he was coloring and he just collapsed- I should’ve done something-”
“Dean.” Bobby’s voice cracked through the spiral like thunder. “You did do something. You got him to the hospital. And Sam’s fine, now. He’s just inside, sleeping. Sam’s fine.”
He shook his head violently. “I thought I lost him. I thought- I thought my kid died in my arms. He went still and he was just gone. His eyes didn’t even close. And I- I couldn’t fix it.”
He hit his fist against his chest like he could dislodge the weight pressing into it.
“I was supposed to protect him.”
Bobby grabbed his face roughly, forcing Dean to look at him. “You did. You got him help. He’s home because of you. He’s alive because of you.”
Dean’s chest heaved. A sound tore out of him, half sob and half scream, and Bobby just pulled him in, strong arms wrapping around him like he had done for Sam.
He clung to Bobby and cried like he hadn’t since he was sixteen, showing up at Bobby’s because John was drunk at a bar and Sam had a cough that wouldn’t go away, sobbing into the shoulder of the man who had been the closest thing he had to a father in years.
“I’ve got you,” Bobby whispered gruffly. “It’s okay to fall apart, I’ve got you. Let it out.”
So Dean did.
He didn’t know how long they stayed there, knees to wood. But when he finally pulled back, eyes swollen and lungs raw, Bobby didn’t say a word about the tears. Just sat with him. They sat until Dean could feel the panic ebb back, head in his hands until his breaths came easy.
“You don’t have to go back in right now,” Bobby offered gently. “I can sit with him if you need some time.”
Dean shook his head as he wiped the heel of his palm roughly under his eyes. “No, he’s probably gonna wake up scared. He always asks for me first.”
Bobby nodded like he understood, because maybe, Dean considered, he did. “Then I’ll make you some tea.” He stood, offering Dean a hand. “Don’t give me that look, I ain’t gonna poison you. Just somethin’ to help you sleep, if you ever decide to.”
He followed Bobby inside, angling a kitchen chair so he could see Sam sleeping on the couch. A soft flush had returned to his cheeks, and he looked peaceful.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I need to pick up his meds. And maybe some juice, something he’ll drink.”
Bobby sat beside, sliding the tea across the table. Dean took a sip, and as much as he hated to admit it, it wasn’t terrible.
“I can do all that,” Bobby spoke. “We’re a team, remember? Me, you, and that tough little sucker in there.”
Dean’s throat worked around something thick. “He’s been through so much.”
“You both have, and you’re still standing. That counts for more than you know.”
____
Two days into his doctor-ordered rest, Sam was feeling much better. He wasn’t cold all the time anymore and he told Dean the funny flipping in his chest hadn’t returned. Dean was so relieved he could cry, but because Sam was feeling better, that meant he was getting restless. Dean couldn’t blame him, exactly, because as much as the kid loved coloring and reading, he couldn’t imagine it was fun being confined to the couch to a seven-year-old.
“But Dad,” Sam whined, flopping over the arm of the couch. “Why can’t I go play soccer?”
“You heard the doctor, Sammy,” Dean repeated himself, glancing up from the pamphlet he was reading. “You have to rest, at least until your doctor’s appointment in a couple of days.”
Sam pouted. “But I’m bored.”
Dean sighed, setting the pamphlet down. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and gave Sam a look. “I know buddy, I get it. But bored is better than what happened last time.”
Sam squirmed, tucking his chin towards his chest, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. Dean winced. He moved, crouching on the floor in front of the couch so he could look Sam in the eyes.
“Hey, hey,” He said quickly. “That’s not me blaming you, alright? I’m just saying that being bored means your heart isn’t freaking out. Bored means your body’s healing.”
Sam looked at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Dean reached out, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “And I’d rather have you bored but safe than in the hospital.”
Sam nodded slowly, but the pout didn’t disappear completely. “Can we at least go outside? Just sit?”
Dean hesitated. It was getting cooler every day, but with a jacket, Sam would stay warm enough. The fresh air would do him so good.
“Alright,” Dean said, standing. “But we’re not kicking any soccer balls. You get one warning before I call Bobby out there with the water hose.”
Sam broke out into a grin. “Deal.”
Dean helped him into his jacket, grabbing an old quilt and the soft blanket from the couch just in case. As they stepped out into the yard, Sam reached out and grabbed his hand. He led them out to a sunny patch in the yard, spreading out the quilt for them to sit on. Sam stretched his little legs out, the sun shining on his face. Dean settled beside him, stretching out his own legs and leaning back on his hands, watching Sam tip his head back with a soft, contented sigh. The air was crisp, but not biting, and the breeze smelt faintly of pine and chimney smoke drifting from a neighbor’s house down the road.
They sat like that for a while, just listening to the rustling leaves and the occasional chirping bird. Dean let the fresh air work open his lungs and let himself breathe, really breathe, for the first time in days. It wasn’t the hospital, and it wasn’t the couch where’d been keeping vigil. It was calm and Sam was smiling.
Sam leaned his head against Dean’s arm, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s nice out here.”
Dean smiled. “Yeah, it is.”
Sam glanced up at him, eyes squinting in the sunlight. “You don’t gotta worry so much, you know.”
Dean froze, the words landing like a pebble in still water.
“I see you,” Sam added, more serious now. “When you think I’m not looking. You do that thing where your jaw goes tight and you rub your face a lot. You’re scared.”
“You scared me, Sammy,” He admitted. “Really bad.”
“I know.” Sam scooted a little closer, voice small. “But I feel better now. And I like it when you smile.”
Dean blinked up at the sky for a moment before looking back down at his little boy. “I like it when you smile too.”
Sam grinned at him, dimples appearing on his cheeks. Unable to resist, Dean smiled back. Sam nodded like that was enough, laying down on his back. “We should look at the clouds,” He said suddenly.
Dean laid down next to him, pointing up. “That one looks like a cheeseburger.”
Sam snorted. “Nu-uh.”
“Yu-huh. Right there. Bun, patty, lettuce.”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “That’s not a cheeseburger, that’s a sheep with a flat head.”
Dean laughed. “Alright, you win. What about that one?”
____
The exam room was painted in soft blues and yellows, with ocean creatures smiling at them from the walls. Sam’s feet were kicking nervously where they hung off the exam bench and Dean squeezed his hand from the chair he sat in, smiling softly at him.
“You’re okay, buddy,” He said, low. “We’re just checking in.”
Sam nodded, but he was chewing on his thumbnail. The paper crinkled beneath him as his legs swung.
When the door opened, Dean braced instinctively, but the doctor walked in with a calm smile and silly sticker on her white coat.
“Hi there,” She said, sitting on a stool and rolling it in front of Sam. “You must be Sam. I’m Dr. Lewis, and I hear you’ve been having a rough time lately.”
Sam looked at Dean, silently asking for permission, and Dean gave him an encouraging nod.
“A little.” Sam shrugged.
“Well,” She said, standing. “I think we can handle that. You’re the boss here today, so if anything feels weird or scary, you just let me or your dad know, okay?”
That earned a small smile.
She pulled the stethoscope that hung around her neck off. “You want to hear something cool? This is a stethoscope and you can listen to your heartbeat with it.”
Sam leaned in, curious. “You can do that?”
She nodded, handing him the earpieces. Dean watched as she gently placed the bell on Sam’s chest and his eyes went wide.
“Woah, that’s me?”
Dean felt a warmth flood his chest at the wonder on Sam’s face.
“That’s you, kiddo,” She said warmly. She pulled the earpieces out of Sam’s ears, placing them in her own. “Sounds strong to me.”
The rest of the checkup went smoothly. Dr. Lewis talked to Sam the whole time, explaining each step and never rushing. Dean stayed close the whole time, offering thumbs-up and answering questions when needed. By the end, Sam was relaxed, completely engrossed in each step.
“Well, Sam,” Dr. Lewis said, typing notes on her computer. “I think you’re doing great, the medicine is doing its job. There are no signs that the murmur’s causing any trouble, and we’ll continue with regular checkups, but there’s nothing here that scares me.”
“Can I go back to school now?”
“You’ll be good to go back on Monday,” She confirmed, turning to face them. “Your dad mentioned you play soccer too, and as long as you watch out and make sure your chest doesn’t start feeling funny again, you can go back to that too.”
Sam was quiet for a moment, serious. “Am I gonna die from this?” He asked, small and matter-of-fact.
Dean clenched his hands into fists.
Dr. Lewis didn’t flinch, she answered, gently and honestly. “No, sweetheart. No. You’re not going to die from this.”
“But I…” Sam twisted his mouth. “I couldn’t breathe. And I was real cold.”
“I know,” She said, sliding the stethoscope around her neck. “That wasn’t scary, wasn’t it?”
Sam nodded.
“You got sick and your heart was working too hard. But you got help and now your heart is resting better. That means we watch it, and we take care of it, and you grow up strong and loud and fast, just like every other little boy. And, maybe one day, it even goes away completely.”
Dean reached over, wrapping his hand around Sam’s. “See, Sammy? You’re perfectly fine.”
Sam’s eyes were full of something too full for someone so young. “But what if it happens again?”
Dean rubbed his thumb over Sam’s knuckles. “Then I’ll be there, like last time. I’ll get you help and you’ll be safe. That’s what I do.”
Sam nodded slowly and Dean wrapped an arm around his back, Sam leaning in slightly. Dr. Lewis gave them a quiet moment before speaking again, talking to them both. “Now, the medicine is doing its job, but you might still feel symptoms from time to time. The tiredness, dizziness, the tight feeling in your chest. That’s all normal, and with your new medicine, it’s nothing to worry about and should pass within a few minutes of it starting. As long as it passes and isn’t severe, there’s no need to rush back to the hospital. You just might have to rest up more than you're used to.”
They wrapped up the appointment and Dr. Lewis gave Dean more follow-up instructions and papers for their next appointment. “He’s a really lucky kid.” She said gently.
A corner of Dean’s lips quirked up. “I’m the lucky one, I think.”
They walked out of the appointment, hand in hand, Sam swinging them between them.
“I think a good appointment calls for a treat,” Dean said as they reached the car. “Ice cream or pie, little man?”
Sam hummed, thinking. “Can we go to the diner? That way I can get ice cream and you can get pie.”
Dean grinned, ruffling his hair as he loaded him into the back. “Smart thinking, diner it is.”
The drive over was peaceful, sunlight streaking through the window. Sam was quiet in the backseat, forehead against the window, but not in a sad way, just thoughtful. When they pulled into the small-town diner, Sam unbuckled himself and climbed out of the car, grabbing for Dean’s hand with no hesitation.
The place was mostly empty, it being midafternoon on a weekday, and their usual booth was empty. Dean watched as Sam slid in first, watching the flush on his cheeks and the steadiness of his breathing.
Sam grabbed the menu. “Ice cream sundae,” Sam said, pointing at the picture. “With whipped cream and sprinkles and cherries.”
Dean smirked, flipping open to the dessert page for show. “You don’t think I know that by now? You’re a creature of habit.”
“You’re a creature of pie,” Sam shot back, poking out his tongue.
Dean let out a laugh. “Touche.”
They placed their order, Dean going for cherry pie this time, and Sam leaned forward on the table, pushing around the salt and pepper shakers. After a moment, he looked up.
“Dad?”
“That’s my name.”
“I liked Dr. Lewis.”
“She was good, huh? Knew her stuff.”
“And nice,” Sam added. “She didn’t talk to me like I was a baby.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re not,” Dean said, even though he knew Sam would always be his little baby. “You’re way too smart for baby talk.”
Sam sat back, a proud smile tugging at his lips. When the food came, Sam dug into his ice cream with enthusiasm, and Dean watched, gratefulness tugging at him. Just a kid again, for the moment.
____
The morning was crisp, the kind that meant fall was in full swing. Sam stood by the Impala, backpack slung over one shoulder, fingers twitching nervously by the edge of his jacket. Dean knelt to zip the front of it, even though Sam could have done it himself.
“You sure about this?” Dean asked, brushing his bangs to the side. “You feel okay?”
Sam nodded, small but certain. “Dr. Lewis said I could.”
Dean exhaled. “Yeah, she did.”
The classroom was already flooding with morning light and the low hum of chatter when Dean stepped through the door with Sam by his side. Sam clung a little closer than normal, but Dean kept a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Good morning, Sam!" Mrs. Hartley greeted with enthusiasm when she saw them, kneeling beside him. “We’re so glad you’re back, sweetheart.”
Sam gave her a small smile. Dean tugged on his backpack, grabbing his attention. “You remember what we talked about. If you feel weird or tired or your chest starts fluttering, you go straight to Mrs. Hartley or the nurse. Don’t tough it out, Sammy.”
“Promise. And you’ll pick me up?”
Dean pulled him in for a quick hug, ruffling his hair. “I’ll be right outside when the bell rings. Go kick some butt in spelling today.”
Sam walked over to his desk, nervous at first, but started smiling when some of his friends spotted him and started talking excitedly with him.
“I read the note from the doctor’s office,” Mrs. Hartley told him. “Thank you for letting us know everything. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Dean’s jaw tensed. “He doesn’t need a spotlight or anything, he doesn’t like people worrying about him.”
“He’s a quiet one,” She agreed. “But I know what to look for. I’ve already talked with the school nurse.”
Some of the tension in Dean’s shoulders eased. “Thanks. He’s excited to be back, but I-” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m gonna be a nervous wreck all day.”
She smiled kindly. “You’re not the first parent to say that. We’ll take good care of him.”
A child screeched from somewhere in the classroom and Mrs. Hartley sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, I think Jessie got gum in her hair again.”
Dean turned and walked out, forcing himself out the doors. When he slid into the driver’s seat of the Impala, he didn’t start the engine. Just stared at the front doors. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he almost jumped.
A text from Bobby: He make it in okay?
Yeah, he’s fine. I’m the one having a heart attack.
A second, then another buzz: You did good. Come home and have some breakfast. He’ll be alright.
Dean dropped his head against the steering wheel before starting the car.
“He’ll be alright,” He whispered to himself.
____
It had been a long day. When Dean picked Sam up from school, his feet dragged on the ground as he walked and he slumped in the back seat of the Impala. Sam had only been back for a week, and it was clear the long days wore the kid out. Dean was trying not to press, though. He was trying to treat Sam like normal, knowing this was their new normal. He didn’t want Sam to feel like he was different, or wrong.
Sam’s energy was drained and he was quietly playing with his plastic army men on the living room floor. His movements were sluggish, but he seemed happy enough to move around the plastic toys. He'd eaten all his dinner and finished all his homework, so Dean was trying not to hover.
Later that night, Dean was getting ready for bed, swishing mouthwash around in his cheeks as he stared in the mirror. Sam came in, dressed in his pajamas, reaching for his toothbrush. Dean was spitting into the sink when heard a huff from Sam and he turned, expecting to see him struggling with the toothpaste cap.
Sam was standing there, staring at the mirror, his face pale and hand clutching at his heart, his chest rising and falling with sickening irregularity.
“Sam?” Dean asked, voice low and careful, but he could hear the panic creeping in. He took a step forward, stomach twisting.
Sam didn’t answer. He just looked at Dean, his eyes wide with confusion and fear.
“Sam, talk to me, tiger,” Dean urged, reaching for Sam’s trembling hand.
Sam’s voice came out small and hoarse, barely above a whisper. “It feels funny, Dad, my chest. It’s tight. I can’t make it stop.”
Dean’s heart skipped a beat, but he knew what this was. The doctors said it might happen, but it was nothing to worry about, they just had to get through it.
“Okay, okay.” Dean tried to keep his voice steady as he guided him towards his bed. “We’re just gonna sit down, alright? We know what this is, just gotta wait for it to pass.”
Sam’s knees buckled slightly and Dean picked him up, sitting him on the edge of the bed. Sam curled in on himself. Dean ran his hand over Sam’s hair, supporting him through it. Sam’s breathing evened out and he sagged into Dean’s side.
When Sam’s voice came, it was raw and broken. “I don’t want to be sick anymore, Dad.” Sam’s words cracked. “I’m tired of it. I just want to be normal.”
Dean’s heart clenched at his kid’s words. Sam might have been too young to understand the extent of his fears, but Dean knew. How hard it was to live with that uncertainty, that constant nagging in the back of your head telling you that at any moment, this is where it would go wrong. Dean had lived with it for seven years now.
Dean swallowed hard. He knew how much Sam hated being weak and hated that his body could betray him like this. The crack in his kid’s normally brave exterior broke Dean in ways he couldn’t explain.
Sam looked up at him, hazel eyes wet with unshed tears. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore, Daddy.”
“I know, baby boy,” Dean whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I know. I hate it too. But we’re in this together. Me and you, okay? We’re gonna get through it.”
Sam reached out, wrapping his hand in Dean’s amulet. Dean held him closer, rocking him gently, wishing he could fix everything. But here, holding Sam, was all Dean had to give.
_____
Rain was tapping against the windows, light and rhythmic. The smell of damp earth infiltrated the house, mixing with the coffee brewing. Sam was finally asleep upstairs, cocooned in a mess of blankets after a long night of not being able to get warm and repeated nightmares.
Dean stood at the sink, motionless, holding a mug of lukewarm coffee he hadn’t touched. His eyes were fixed on the window, unfocused. He hadn’t slept, Bobby could tell. He didn’t need to ask, he could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the hollows under his eyes, the way his free hand shook slightly against the countertop.
“You’re gonna crash,” Bobby said quietly. “Hard.”
Dean didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” He said plainly. “You’re twenty-one years old and stretched thinner than cheap toilet paper. You can’t keep this up, Dean.”
Dean set his mug down. “What do you want me to do, Bobby? Sam’s- he’s sick. I just can’t take a day off.”
“I’m not asking you to take a day off, though that wouldn’t hurt. I’m asking you to take care of yourself so you can take care of him.” Bobby moved, standing next to him. “Sam’s okay, he’s sleeping. You sit yourself down, eat something hot, and go to sleep for a few hours.”
Dean finally turned to him, anger flaring behind his exhaustion. “You think I don't want to rest? You think I wouldn’t kill for five minutes without worrying about the next thing?”
“I know you want that, but you won’t let yourself have it unless someone tells you it’s okay. So I’m telling you: it’s okay, Dean.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. “I can’t.”
Bobby leaned against the counter. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: that kid takes all of his cues from you. You rest, he’ll rest. You eat, he’ll eat. So give him something good to follow. You’re no use to him if you keel over from exhaustion.”
Dean huffed, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Alright. I’ll go take a nap.”
____
The slam of the Impala door felt too loud for the junkyard. Dean came up the front porch steps with Sam carried in his arms, face tucked in, and eyelashes fluttering against his neck.
Bobby came out of his study, papers in his hands. “What happened?”
Dean didn’t answer at first, just carried Sam to the couch and laid him down gently, placing a blanket over him. Sam mumbled something unintelligible, face turning towards the cushions.
Dean finally looked up, jaw tight. “School called. Said he got dizzy again during art class and almost fell off his stool. The nurse said she thought he was fine, just tired, but….”
He could feel the tension curling tighter in his shoulders. Bobby set the papers down, moving closer to him. “The doc said he was fine at his last appointment. You know these things come with this.”
“But I should’ve noticed.”
“You’re not a doctor, son. I know you forget sometimes, but you’re still young and you're raising a kid. A kid that comes with a little extra, so cut yourself some slack.”
Sam stirred then, eyes fluttering open. “D’d?”
Dean was there in an instant. “Hey bug, you’re okay. We’re at home.”
Sam blinked sleepily. “Sorry.”
Dean winced. “You don’t have to say sorry, ever, we’ve been over this.”
Sam’s hand reached for his, and Dean held it tight.
“Alright,” Bobby said. “New rule. We’re gonna sit down, the three of us, and figure out what works. If it means a new bedtime, it means a new bedtime. If it means Sam skipping out on PE some days, fine. We adjust.”
Sam blinked again, barely holding onto the edge of sleep. ‘“Can we still do pancake Saturdays, though?”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, we can.”
“Good,” Sam mumbled and drifted back to sleep.
____
The air was just cold enough outside that it made the sky feel wide and clear. The old porch creaked under his boots as Dean stepped out, a blanket draped over one arm, a small figure padding behind him in socked feet.
Sam yawned as Dean picked him up when they reached the grass, carrying him over to the Impala. Dean placed him on the hood before joining, pulling his kid close and adjusting the blanket around them.
“Cold?” Dean asked, voice low, more out of reverence for the night than concern.
Sam shook his head but leaned into Dean. “No, just sleepy.”
“Mm.” Dean shifted so Sam could rest easier, the arm around his shoulders like muscle memory. “I thought you’d be out for the rest of the night.”
“I was,” Sam mumbled. “Had a dream.”
Dean stiffened just slightly. “Bad?”
“No. I just… wanted to be with you.”
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at the stars. “Well, mission accomplished.”
Above them, the sky stretched out wide and glittering, the kind that seemed to go on forever. Sam followed Dean’s gaze, voice soft. “Do you think Mom’s up there?”
Dean thought of his mother, who had taken him out to look at the same stars more times than he could count. “Yeah, bug, I do.”
Sam hummed against him, pointing out at one particularly bright one. “I think that one’s Mom.”
Dean leaned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I think so too. Look, see how it gets brighter for a second? That’s her saying hi.”
Sam gave a small wave. “Hi, Mom.”
Sam was quiet for a beat, then asked: “Will the stars look the same tomorrow?”
“Pretty much.”
“What about next week? Or next year?”
Dean turned his head and looked at him. “You thinking that far ahead already?”
Sam shrugged. “I just like ‘em. I like that they stay.”
Dean’s heart did something complicated in his chest, tightening and softening at the same time.
“They’ll be here, Sammy,” He said. “No matter what.”
Sam looked up, eyes wide in the dark, soaking in the sky like he wanted to remember it forever. “Even if we move?”
“Even if we move,” He confirmed. “Even if we’re in the middle of nowhere. You just look up and, boom, there they are.”
Sam nodded, content. Dean could feel his kid's heartbeat, strong and there , from where he leaned into him.
“You remind me of stars, Daddy,” Sam spoke softly.
“Yeah? How come?”
“‘Cause you’re always there too.”
Dean tightened his grip in answer, resting against his son.
“You remind me of the stars too,” Dean said, just for Sam. “Always shining, even when it’s dark.”
He felt Sam’s breathing even out, his small form growing heavier in his arms. Dean looked up at the stars once more, his heart full but heavy, knowing they’d be okay. Maybe not right now, maybe not all at once, but they were moving forward, and that was enough.
“Sleep tight, kiddo,” Dean whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam’s head as he nestled him closer.
The stars blinked above them, quiet and endless.