His Family's Keeper

by kellyofsmeg

Summary: January 1992. It's John's first hunt since Sam has learned the truth. Dean takes it upon himself to comfort and reassure his younger brother while John's away. When he comes home late and badly injured, Dean pulls a double shift and takes care of his father, too. Pre-series. Weechesters.

"You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once" -John Winchester, 2x01, "In My Time of Dying."

...

Eight-year-old Sam Winchester was kneeling on a chair by the motel window, poking his head between the pleated maroon curtains and watching the street. His nose and palms were pressed up against the chilled glass, staring out into the crisp and clear January night, lighter than normal under the glow of the full moon. Sam counted the passing cars, though none of them were the car he was hoping to see.

"When will Dad be home?" Sam asked his brother for the umpteenth time.

"Soon," Dean responded from his spot on the queen-sized bed, his eyes flickering from the television set to his little brother, camped out in front of the window. He patted a spot on the mattress beside him and said, "Come watch TV, Sammy. It'll distract you."

"He was supposed to be back by now," bemoaned Sam, ignoring his older brother and checking his watch. "He said he'd be here by eight o'clock and it's almost eight-thirty now!"

Dean sat up straighter, cursing the day Sam ever learned how to tell time. He'd been giving Dean updates every five minutes for the last hour. "No, Sam. Dad said he'd be back sometime tonight, and he will be. You're the one who said eight."

"And he said he would be back by eight," said Sam.

"No, he said he'd try," said Dean flatly. "There's a difference."

Sam picked up the receiver on the table phone and began to dial a number. "What're you doing?" asked Dean, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up.

"I'm calling Pastor Jim," said Sam as he listened to the sound of the phone ringing through the ear piece. "Dad said to call him if he's late."

"No, Sammy," said Dean, wrestling the phone away from Sam's ear and setting it back in the cradle. "Dad said to call Bobby or Pastor Jim if wasn't back by morning. Sometimes these things just take longer than Dad thinks they will, and it's not his fault. It's not like this is the first time he's ever been late. Well, late by your standards."

"Yeah, but this is the first time I know what Dad's actually doing," Sam pointed out. "He's hunting a monster, Dean—it's dangerous!"

"Maybe for your average Joe-know-nothing, but Dad's an expert," said Dean confidently. "This is all new to you, Sam, but Dad's been doing this since you were in diapers. He knows his stuff. He's the best."

Sam didn't appreciate the reminder that his father and brother had kept him in the dark about his Dad's "job" and their nomadic lifestyle right up until last month. This was the first time his Dad had left him and Dean that truly worried Sam; now he knew his Dad wasn't going out to sell encyclopedias or fountain pens or whatever he currently claimed to be peddling; he was hunting. And not quail or deer—a monster. Something that fought back. And Sam's imagination made the monster his Dad was hunting out to be the most gruesome and terrifying monster imaginable, all claws and fangs, fire-breathing and ravenous and bloodthirsty—the stuff of nightmares.

"What kind of monster is Dad fighting?" Sam asked fretfully, hoping Dean's answer wouldn't be able to top the horrors his mind had conjured up.

"I told you—a shapeshifter." At Sam's blank expression, Dean said, "No one knows what they actually look like, but they can take the shape of anyone. A lot of the time they'll take the form of someone in a family to get close to them, and then..." he trailed off, not able to think of age-appropriate words to explain what a shapeshifter was capable of doing to its victims, especially not wanting to get too graphic since their father was currently hunting one. Sam didn't need to be anymore worried than he already was.

"Could it turn into one of us?" asked Sam anxiously.

"I guess," Dean shrugged. Seeing Sam's stricken expression, Dean rushed on, "I mean, no. I'm pretty sure it has to know what we look like to turn into us."

"But what if the shapeshifter steals Dad's wallet and sees a picture of us—or what if it can read his mind and see what we look like? Then it can turn into one of us!"

Dean laughed to assuage his brother's fears and said, "Dad wouldn't fall for something like that—he'd know it's not really us, 'cos he knows we're here. Plus, it isn't like this is the first time he's hunted a shifter."

"It isn't?" said Sam, sounding partially relieved.

Dean shook his head. "When I was four, I walked outside just in time to see Dad shoot a Shifter in the head. I thought he'd killed a man at first...it looked human. I didn't know it was a monster till later."

"So Dad can just shoot it?" Sam mimed cocking and pulling a trigger.

"Yeah—with a silver bullet. Silver burns them. I'm pretty sure you can also take off their heads. I'd have to ask Dad. They're real easy to kill compared to some things."

Sam's eyes were downcast, mulling over everything his older brother had just told him. It felt strange to Dean, being able to finally speak freely to his little brother about the supernatural world. It was also oddly therapeutic to talk to another person about the horrific truths with on a daily basis. He just wished that person he was offloading his weighty knowledge on didn't have to be his baby brother, whom he'd sheltered from the truth about their Dad's job for all those years. But that innocence was gone now, and it was time for Sam to learn everything he could to protect himself, too.

"You okay, Sammy?" asked Dean carefully; a regular question he posed now that he was constantly assessing how Sam was dealing with everything.

Sam raised his eyes, which were once again wide and fearful. "Dean...if a shifter's easy to kill, why isn't Dad back yet?"

Crap, Dean thought, I did say they're easy to kill, didn't I? Easy if they'd just stop changing their face for five minutes and didn't have super-human agility and strength..."I don't know, Sammy," said Dean, throwing his arms up. "Maybe it's giving Dad the run-around. Or maybe he's just stuck in traffic."

"I thought Dad said he wouldn't be far away," Sam frowned. "He said he was keeping close—an hour and a half's drive. That's what he said. I've spent enough time in a car to know that there's not that much traffic this time of night."

Dean groaned, once again finding himself thinking that his little brother had gotten too smart for his own good. "There is on a Friday night, Sammy. Shapeshifters can be hard to track, alright? Maybe he's just having trouble trying to gank it before it switches it's face again."

"Or maybe he's hurt," said Sam. His face contorted. "Or dead..."

"He's not dead," said Dean with forced calm, thinking back to the last time Sam had expressed this fear. Christmas Eve. The night he'd told Sam the truth. If Sam hadn't asked so many questions, if he hadn't opened his mouth, Sam would still be innocent. Dean felt his temper flare up at the thought. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists at his side. "I told you never to say that again."

"But he could be, Dean!" Sam argued, "We have no way to call Dad. He could be dead and we'd never know where he is. And then people will realize we're all alone in here, and someone will come and take us away—"

Dean had crossed the room in three strides and was now gripping Sam by the shoulders, trying to shake him out of his hysteria. "Sammy, that's not gonna hap—"

Sam shouted shrilly over Dean, almost hyperventilating. "—and they'll make us go to separate homes with strangers and we'll never see each other again—"

"Stop it, Sammy! Shut up! Just stop talking!" Dean shouted, gripping Sam's shoulders tightly. "Dad would NEVER let that happen to us."

"But if he's dead..."

"Dad's not dead!He's the best hunter there is. Nothing can kill him, do you hear me? Nothing!" Dean pushed off Sam's chair, turning away from him and wiping his hand over his face, feeling much older than his twelve, almost thirteen years. "It's time for you to go to bed, Sammy."

"But Dean—"

"Now!" Dean snapped. Seeing his brother's hurt expression and trembling lip, he instantly felt terrible for his outburst and moved forward to hug Sam. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, feeling his brother's chin rest on his shoulder as his arms wrapped tightly around him. "Everything's gonna be alright. I promise. Dad's fine—he always is. He'll be back soon. You'll see."

Sam nodded, uncontrollable tears streaming down his face and spilling onto Dean's shoulder. "You can wait up for him with me, if you want," Dean offered, pulling back. "Would you like that, squirt?"

Sam wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, nodding again. "Alright, c'mon," Dean said, helping Sam to his feet and guiding him over to the bed. His brother was already in his pajamas, and had brushed his teeth, so he'd be set if he did fall asleep. Dean and Sam both rested their backs against the headboard and watched re-runs of MacGyver.

Nine o'clock came, and Dean watched his brother for signs of sleepiness, but Sam seemed determined not to fall asleep until their father returned and he saw that he was alive and well with his own two eyes. Dean noticed that Sam was jiggling his left foot, making a conscious motion to keep himself awake.

"It's okay to fall asleep, Sam," said Dean quietly, "Even if you miss Dad coming in tonight, you can still see him in the morning."

"I'm not tired," Sam lied, blinking several times against his drooping eyelids.

"Suit yourself," Dean sighed, knowing that if his brother stayed up much longer, it would be a very cranky Sam who greeted their Dad in the morning. Dean didn't have the heart to tell Sam, but he didn't expect their father to return until midnight, at the didn't want to give Sam that uncertain target to stay awake until—was hoping he'd just drift off now...

Around nine-thirty, Sam kept going into microsleep and jerking awake. "You can't run from the Sandman forever, Sammy!" Dean called as Sam went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. That did the trick for awhile, allowing Sam another half hour of wakefulness. Dean loved to stay up late, something his Dad had made a habit out of—writing in his journal, researching, pouring over maps and case files. If it wasn't a school night, Dad would let Dean stay up late and watch Star Trek reruns with him. Some nights Dean pretended to be asleep. That's how he knew that a lot of the time his Dad didn't sleep at all, but instead would sit up all night and watch over him and Sam as they slept, like he was afraid something was going to get them, even though he salted the doors and windows and every protective measure known to hunters.

At a quarter past ten, Sam was tired and emotional, as always happened to him he was over-tired. "When..." he sniffed, his chin drooping onto his chest, "...will...Dad..."

"Anytime now," Dean said, hoping he was right. He switched off the TV, as Sammy was no longer watching it, and picked up a Hardy Boys book from the bedside table, reading aloud to his brother in hopes that he would fall asleep.

Sam's body began to slump over more and more as Dean read. Finally he collapsed into Dean's side, head on his brother's shoulder, fast asleep. Dean froze with the book poised in his hands, waiting to make sure his brother was soundly asleep. When Sam began to snore lightly, Dean gently eased him down onto the pillows before he started to drool, pulling the covers up over him.

"Dad...?" Sam murmured in his sleep, sounding distressed and reaching out his arms.

"Shhhh," Dean soothed, easing Sam's arms back down and tucking in the blankets around him. He set the book back on the nightstand. Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's hair like their Dad always did when he tucked him in, and thought he saw Sam give a small, sleepy smile. Content that Sam was sleeping at least somewhat peacefully, Dean moved over to the window, taking the spot Sam had previously occupied. He raised his hand to hold back the curtains and peered outside, watching and listening for the familiar roar of the Impala's engine and the glow of its headlights as it turned into the motel parking lot.

Dean waited. And waited...and waited. Pretty soon, his eyelids began to feel heavy, but he was determined not to fall asleep. Not wanting to turn the TV back on and risk the noise and light waking up Sam, he picked up one of his Dad's newspapers and began to read the comics and sports pages by the light of the table lamp. Then he skimmed articles and obituaries, looking for anything that might be a case, imagining his Dad's face if he found something worth checking out, hoping it would earn him an "Atta boy" or some gesture of affection—a clap on the shoulder, his Dad ruffling his hair, or just giving him that look that said, "You've done good, son." He lived for those moments.

Dean watched midnight come and go, and still his father hadn't returned and he hadn't found any strange articles that weren't already circled in Sharpie, or circled and then x'ed out. Dean tried not to let himself worry too much; his Dad had returned from a hunt later than this countless times before, sometimes not until the crack of dawn. But whenever he was able to, he would call to let him know he was running late. Dean began to split his watch between the window and the telephone.

Dean fought off sleep for as long as he could, using all the same tricks that he'd seen Sam employ—jiggling his foot, splashing water on his face, trying to name all the states in alphabetical order—but finally Dean succumbed, slouching over the table, his cheek pressed over some newsprint, one arm dangling limply at his side.

Around three AM, Dean jolted awake when he heard a scratching at the door, and the faintest, gentlest of knocks—their secret knock. Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

Dad's home.

...

TBC

AN: I've noticed I'm accumulating quite a few stories with the word "family" in the title. Well, family IS very important to the Winchesters...

The incident Dean is referring to where John shoots a shapeshifter in the head is from John Winchester's Journal, where they had been staying at the Roadhouse and John and H realized that their hunting companion, Ichi, was gone and a shifter was in its place. H yelled at John to shoot it, and he did-it was his first monster kill. Unfortunately, it was the same moment when Dean had wandered outside to look for his Dad... :(

I would really like to have a beta for my next chapter. One reason I put off posting this story for so long was because there's some basic medical procedures/first aid in the next chapter and I want to be as accurate as possible, which is frustrating given that the websites I've researched rarely ever agree on everything. SO, if you have read this, are in the medical profession or just know more than a thing or two and would like to beta fic my for accuracy, please PM me :)