Chapter Text
Dean hadn’t slept in three days, which he privately thought was understandable. Sammy was fussy, because he didn’t have any of his toys, and Dean did his best to keep him occupied. Sammy also threw up a lot. Dad had said it was because his tummy wasn’t used to the formula he had to drink now.
Dean tried not to think about why Sammy had to drink formula, but it never worked. Mostly because he missed his Mommy.
His Mommy was dead. She’d burned up in the fire, and now Dean would never get to see her again. He sniffled, perched on the edge of the motel bed.
“Quiet, Dean,” Dad said gruffly, from the desk across the room. “I’m working.”
Dean didn’t want Dad to be working. He wanted Dad to pick him up and hold him and tell him it was all going to be okay, and help him take care of Sammy, and most of all he wanted Dad to go and do laundry because he and Sammy and Dad all still smelled like smoke and it made Dean’s head hurt.
He curled up on his side and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he could see the flames and hear his Mommy screaming. So yeah, Dean wasn’t sleeping much.
He squirmed around on the scratchy motel blanket, trying to get comfortable. His eyes itched, he was so tired, and he was sure that if he just got into the right position he’d be able to sleep, just for a little bit.
His moving disturbed Sammy, who had been napping on the other side of the bed, and he woke up with a hiccupping wail. Dean hurriedly scooted over to him.
“Dean, take care of your brother.” Dad didn’t even look away from the newspaper clippings he was going through.
Dean hauled Sammy into his lap and tried to bounce him gently the way Mommy had shown him. “Shhh, Sammy, it’s all right. It’s okay.”
Sam stopped wailing, hiccuped twice, then threw up all over Dean.
“Dad!” Dean shrugged off his shirt and used a clean sleeve to gently wipe Sammy’s mouth. Sammy blinked up at him.
Sighing, Dad stood up. His knees popped as he stretched. “All right, Dean. I’ll go do laundry. See if you can get Sammy to eat something.” He gathered up their few items of clothing and left the room.
Dean put Sammy back down on the bed. Sam opened his mouth to yell again, and Dean deftly picked up his pacifier and stuck it in before the noise could come out. Sammy quietened down, sucking on the pacifier, and Dean walked over to where Sammy’s bottle was sitting, empty on the counter by the tiny kitchenette.
Focusing intently, he measured out the formula and mixed it up, then climbed up on top of the counter so he could stick the bottle in the microwave. He knew Mommy had shown him how to warm it up on the stove, and had said to never do it in the microwave, but he didn’t have a stove.
He yelped as he closed his fingers in the microwave door, then set to heating up the bottle. He stirred it up really well to make sure it was heated evenly, and then dripped a little bit of it on the inside of his wrist just like Mommy had always done.
It felt warm but not hot, which was good, because Sammy was a baby and he didn’t know any better than to not eat hot food when it was in front of him, so it was all up to Dean to make sure he didn’t burn himself. He walked with the warm bottle back over to the bed and crawled up onto the mattress.
Once he was settled against the pillows, sitting up, he pulled Sammy onto his lap and tried to get him to drink.
He was still trying to get Sammy to drink (he’d had up to the second little line on the bottle, and Dean didn’t know quite what that meant but he knew it wasn’t enough) when Dad came back with clean clothes.
Dad picked Sammy up and held him cradled in one big arm, then took the bottle from Dean. “I’ll finish with Sammy,” he said. “You get a shirt on and put away the clothes.”
Dean wriggled into a shirt quickly and then painstakingly folded up the clothes and stored them in the duffel bag Dad had bought for them. By the time he finished, Dad had gotten Sammy to drink half the bottle, and was patting his back to make him burp.
Sam burped, hiccupped, and went to sleep.
Dad put him down on the bed next to Dean, told Dean to look after him, and went back to his desk, trying to figure out what had killed Mommy.
Dean curled himself around Sammy, nearly hiding the baby from view completely, and tried to get some sleep.
He was just fighting his way out of a nightmare - he hadn’t been fast enough to get Sammy out and the fire had caught them and there were flames licking at Sammy’s blanket as Dean struggled to reach him - when he became aware of a large, soothing hand on his back.
Dad was sitting on the bed right where Dean had been earlier when he was trying to get Sammy to eat. “It’s all right, Dean,” he said, still rubbing Dean’s back, and Dean launched himself into his Dad’s arms.
Dad chuckled a little bit. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Try to get some sleep.” He hoisted Sammy into his other arm as Dean curled up on the bed with his head in Dad’s lap. Dad had a book balanced across his knees with the hand that wasn’t holding Sammy, and Dean knew that Dad was gonna be awake to make sure that the nightmares didn’t come and get him.
He snuggled closer to Dad’s warmth, wrapping one thin arm around his waist, before falling asleep. He could feel Dad pull the blanket over him, then occasionally reach over to rub his back.
Dean got a full eight hours of sleep for the first time since the fire, and Dad was still there when he woke up, which was a treat in and of itself.