AUTHORS NOTE: I had maaajor writers block for all my Supernatural stuff, but I finally got something done! Apologies for the lateness. This is the forth installment of the Tomorrowverse, featuring the whole Winchester family! Check out the first installment and go from there if you're new. :)

Warnings for a child in pain, mental and physical, in some parts. This part is relatively tame, though! SORRY IF THE WRITING IS AWFUL, BAHAHA.

Missouri is damn well exhausted from hauling Sam — Sammy, Dean usually says — Winchester back from the near-dead. The little thing's barely lucid through most of his withdrawals, and she can't say she's much better off through the ordeal; that's what comes with being a psychic, she supposes. Usually it's pricey readings that are half-bent truths or hopeful lies, but sometimes she's got herself a situation where another psychic's life's in her hands. And yes, Sam Winchester is without a doubt something you'd call psychic. On her way to the safe house, she'd had his garbled thoughts try to force their way into her head, and it only strengthened the closer she got to the front door. Left her sweating and weary. Now, she's got cramps and has the shakes, and she swears if John Winchester doesn't stop pacing around on these rickety-ass floors, she's going to break her foot off—

Blood, blood, blood — Sam's thoughts weep. Poor little doll. It's the only real tangible word there is. The other thoughts are more so compulsions, needs. It's hard to explain how instinct needs no such thing as words. They're simply a construct, a means to an end so that we're all not so lonely in life. Talking. She doesn't need that, with him. She simply needs to feel, not hear, not see. He's feeling hungry and sick, and she feels it, too.

But time heals even these sorts of wounds; she feels the evil dripping out of him on his forehead and out his eyes and sometimes from his mouth, and she knows at a certain point that he's no doubt live. And thank god, when the fever does break and taper off. She arises one morning, and if it weren't for her keen abilities as they were, she would have leaped out of her skin at the sight of the five-year-old standing in her doorway, staring blankly at her.

Poor child looks like he belongs in The Omen. His ability to be human is hindered by the cruel images he's so far kept nearly locked away from her (but she feels them, feels the doors locked and the numbing world kept behind them), and his social skills — well, they're a wreckage. She sits up in her bed with a small little smile as he continues his long gaze. He's trying to read her back, she recognizes. This is the limited way he knows how to handle people. He reads them, reads the feelings, the moods, sees images. She and him share a long moment where neither of them say anything, as she offers the image of Mary Winchester smiling over him. She offers Dean's grateful little 'Sammy', a sound that surely the boy will at least feel some sort of connection to.

Sam sends her the image of a dripping red wrist and a room in an old abandoned house, with a rocking chair and a small bed with rough wool blankets. She sees yellow eyes peer into what feels like her very soul, and it takes her aback, the air yanked out of her lungs as she puts a hand to her chest. "Oh, child," she manages. This is something she'll have to talk about with John and Mary, she knows. This boy isn't even aware he's baring a small piece of his soul, a little remnant of the rotted roots that had grounded him before John's arrival. She has a feeling that maybe John is already aware of some, if not… perhaps all… of this information. The thought is unsettling, but she could see how it'd make him even more of a pain in the ass. She can smell the hunter's fear on him, as thick as that nasty after-scent of liquor.

Sam blinks, as if he's contemplating the scent himself. He's good at latchin' onto things. Thoughts and moods.

"Sammy!" Dean calls from down the hall, frustrated as he rushes over. "I told you, you can't go runnin' off!"

Missouri rubs her face. She reads Dean — the boy's relieved Sam hadn't left out a window or door. What a hawk, that child is. She's surprised that he hasn't nailed down the windows yet, with all the hub-bub he's throwing around. She replies for Sam, since he has no mind to reply. "Don't you worry too much about him; he's doing much better."

It's been a week; one hopes he'd be. The child's still a bit unsteady on his feet, tripping over them like the blood had helped keep him more agile (she isn't surprised); his body likely won't be the same, now that he's had that poison inside him, but this is the best of a terrible situation. Now if only she could understand just what was it about that blood he so craved that made him different. What was it? It's a riddle, and damn her if she's not a bit put-out that she can't read this one. Dean sighs over her mental wandering, putting his hands out for Sam; he really loves to (try to) hold him as of late, though the boy is not as much a babe as little Jo. Because as always, Dean happens to have a real fondness for those who are too small to protect themselves, finds a sort of purpose found in safeguarding them. Missouri doesn't need to read Dean to know it's because of Sam vanishing that night, so many years ago, that he finds solace in comforting a child smaller than him.

Even at that age, the ripple effect laps up everyone in this family.

Sam stares at Dean's arms for a long time, and then slaps them away.

As much as Missouri wants to lecture the small boy on his manners (Dean's energy goes sour, goes cold with hurt, and Missouri wants to react on his behalf), she knows it's pointless to be disappointed in someone who had been sitting in a den of darkness for so long; he's a clueless little thing, and she has no doubts that the scratchy bed he'd shown her was… 'home'. A place of isolation until the yellow-eyed man came along and fed him its vein-tapped drug. A home without a foundation, unless you count the rickety old walls due to be condemned. She hurries to stand, ushering the two of them before Sam follows through with his sudden, impulsive thought of jumping at Dean and trying to scratch his face. His bouts of violence haven't quite vanished with the lust for blood, and Sam's a live wire, unsure what to do with himself now that he's out of the night and into the daytime.

"Come now, come now," she says, "Mary's making you boys something to eat. I bet you're both wanting something good to fill you up." It's a nice day out today. Perhaps John will relent, allow Dean and Sam to play outside and get a little sunshine. If he's not planning to… well, Mary and Missouri easily outrank him, as much as he likes to play up the tough guy card. Even now, as she passes by the scratchy hunter, she can see him watching Sam like a hawk — all uneasiness, as if Sam will snap and the room will go red with blood. She can't entirely blame him, not with the power she'd felt within that teeny tiny body, but… well, a plane could crash right on top of them at any moment, couldn't it? She has no time to entertain his miserable concerns.

Everything comes with risk.

Sitting at the old table in the kitchen area, she skips breakfast for herself and instead observes Sam rip apart dry pancakes he'd taken off Dean's plate before the other child could apply syrup. Big brother makes a face and scoots his chair away from the fluffed massacre, dousing what remains of his meal in maple sugariness, but a smile curls his lips regardless.

"He's eating really good," he says proudly, as if it's something to be awarded something for. Missouri doesn't look at Mary, but she feels the energy around her brighten, warm and sentimental. And to her right, John's energy goes a shade lighter, too. Just a shade, but it causes her to smile behind her coffee cup. This is how pieces are glued back together. Her only fear is that something will come along — something that had burned down their home in Lawrence — and play arsonist again. None of them want to say as much, but it's there, that sensation that they're standing on the edge of some great event, just waiting for something to try and snap at their Achilles heels.

Sam plucks up apple slices from an old bowl and crunches through them like a starving animal, which is not that hard to compare; with that unruly hair and the juice on his face, he looks like a feral boy plucked up out of the wood and forced into clothes. He licks his fingers as Mary puts a hand to her cheek, looking concerned for the rate he's moving. Poor thing is exhausted, concerning herself with her family, sleeping so little for fear of the helplessness found there. And for good reason. What a world, to have one son gone one moment, returned the next in such a state of disrepair. Usually, it's the very opposite, something she had thought she learned less than five years ago. Mary's invasive thoughts creep into Missouri's head regardless, all anxious. What if he won't get better? What if something's out there waiting? What if they try to take him again?

Mary says to Sam, so soft, "You should… probably go a little slow. You'll give yourself a stomach ache."

Now, Missouri sees the problem before it even happens - if they had been has keen as she, they'd have felt it like a coiling snake around little Sam's figure. Mary reaches for the plate, and Sam's gaze shoots to the motion with the intensity of a wolf on its game; without restraint he slashes his little nails across the back of her hand, hard enough to draw blood as he hisses a wordless protest. John slams forward and his body goes rigid with that damnable Missouri almost yanks him by the ear for it, but Dean's also moving, grabbing a lock of Sam's brown hair and pulling it. The little trill of pain has Sam twirling around in his seat to face Dean.

"Argh!" he howls, mouth wide and sound harsh with intention. Dean is bristled indignantly, John's hand pressed roughly on the table.

They all linger there, still and silent. Sam hugs the bowl of apple slices, daring anyone to try to take them.

Dean's chest puffs. "You don't hurt mom!"

"Dean - " Mary starts.

"No! I'm not lettin' Sammy go anywhere ever again, but he's gotta know!" He turns toward Sam jabs his finger into Sam's shoulder, freckled face splotched with something reserved but just as vibrant as Sam's since then fizzled anger. Sam just stares at the table, frowning down deeply at the chipped wood. "You don't hurt mom! She's your mom, and you treat her nice! I don't care if you scratch me 'cus I'm your brother, but you don't scratch up your mom, or I'll kick your butt! I'll kick it so hard, you'll go fly through the sky-"

"Dean, don't threaten your brother, or you'll both be in trouble," Mary chides sharply.

Dean deflates. Energy's spent up, de-saturated, and Missouri lets them all work through it. It's not her business, how they tape themselves together again. She only helps when she's needed, when she's asked for. She simply takes a sip among the doubtful and frustrated thoughts blowing through the windless room, feeling time tick by, beat by beat.

Sam makes a sniffling noise, wet and sudden, and by the time their attention is drawn back to him, he's softly blubbering, fat tears dripping down his face into the bowl. And they all just watch him, poor spotlit child, hands still firm around the dish though it shakes in his fingers now; he doesn't make much noise, hair in his face and cheeks red with - Missouri reads humiliation? Fear of reprecussion?

He feels trapped.

But, for Missouri, the most painful sensation of all is that Sam doesn't know that these people actually love him.

Missouri leaves into the next room to go talk with Mom and Dad (which really isn't much of them leaving, because he can still see Dad and Mom as they talk about whatever), and Dean sits patiently with his brother; Sam's stopped crying at least, though not thanks to any words of comfort or hugs or anything of the sort that Dean's offered, and that - that bothers Dean greatly. He's used to being able to comfort Jo with head patting or backrubs or anything like that, but him and Mom, they haven't been able to stop Sam. He just eventually runs out of tears maybe, or maybe makes his head hurt like crazy, so he's smart enough to give it up. Either way… the apples are all browned now in the bowl, which at least has been finally released… though Sam doesn't abandon it completely. Maybe he wants to eat it. Dean guesses that would be okay. He's eaten browned apples before and it was fine. He glances over to the doorway his mom and dad disappeared off to, momentarily icy in his stomach when he catches John's wary gaze looking back at him.

But Dad's gaze softens, and he gives a small smile and nod. And Dean returns it.

At least Dad's not freaking out as much anymore, even if he was mad, too. At Sam.

Which Dean's starting to feel bad for, even if what he did was wrong. You can't just scratch your mom. She's important, you know? Super crazy important, and without her, who knows what could have happened. Without her, Dean isn't sure what he would do. Make his own breakfasts and learn to tie his own shoes and be the one to love himself? Looking at Sam now, distant and silent, he wonders if he would have been like his brother. But then - someone took his brother. And for that, Dean always will be angry. That shoulda' never happened. Mom shoulda' had Sam. Everyone should have.

Whoever took him, they're the ones who made this stuff happen. If Dad ever shows him how to use that gun… He'd blast 'em all away. Like in his Saturday morning cartoons. This is real life, he thinks. This is bigger than G.I. Joe. He knows it's not just a game - it never was, especially when it came down to his father.

A soft little sigh sounds off next to him, as Sam stares at the sad excuse for fruit he'd so viciously safeguarded. Dean watches him intently, wondering what that was about; what's with that weird look? Sammy's got this forehead wrinkle that takes up the space between his eyebrows, his dull stare gazing in a way Dean can't place. The child's small fingers skim along the lip of the bowl, a thoughtful sort of motion. And he can't help but try to ease back into something easier and kinder, after his small blow-up from earlier. "So there's stuff goin' on in your fuzzy head?"

Sam glances up at Dean with a guarded way about his shoulders, which hunker up closer to his pointy ears.

Dean leans back, putting his hands behind his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm… sorry, a'right? I shouldn't yell at you. You don't get any of it yet."

The kid… Dean's not really sure he understands any of what he's saying. Maybe that's another issue altogether, not knowing what people are saying to him. He thinks about Sam sitting up and shaking him awake for a drink of water, though, and thinks that either way, this is all totally doable. They've got this in the bag. He just… needs to be more patient. Or try to be. And Sam just needs to be Sam until he understands. And he will. Dean hesitantly reaches out, shrinking only at the way Sam turns his head and leans away defensively in a sharp motion - maybe he's scared Dean'll really make due on his words and kick his butt. Instead he just puts his hand in Sam's mangy head of hair and scratches back and forth soothingly.

Instead of slapping or scratching at him, Sam's hands clench the edges of the table.

"… Hey. You're gonna be okay, Sammy," he says. "You wanna play or something? We can play a game. I got some toys."

Well. No point in waiting for an answer. Giving one more sturdy rustling of Sammy's hair, he hops down and considers his options.

"Right. Toys. Something easy. Y'can't run around, because Missouri says you're still kind of sick. You're a pain in the butt, bro."

Teaching him a board game seems like trouble waiting to happen. But they could… draw, or something. Maybe watch some television? He winks at Sam and moves into the hallway, speaking as he goes, "I know, I know, I got just the right thing; you'll be great in no time, Sam. I'll pinky promise you, you'll play catch-up easy. Us Winchesters are cool like that."

Sitting in the quiet, John sneaking glances from the hall, Sam watches Dean vanish into the living room.

His lips purse, hazel stare sinking tiredly toward the table; whispering hoarsely, testing the weight, he asks no one:

"… Cool…?"

Missouri shivers in the corridor as a veil of black smoke circles the sky above and drifts harmlessly away into the trees beyond the safe house.

Sam just sneezes.