NOTHING REALLY HAPPENS AT MIDNIGHT

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by Riama

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Summary: Stanford era AU. Sam, Dean and his luggage ;-)

A/N: No beta, sorry.

Knock, knock.

Sam turns in bed, imperturbable in his sleep. He's exhausted. Finals are close and he really needs to sleep.

Knock, knock, knock.

Hiding his head under the pillow, he stubbornly ignores the repetitive sound. I'm sleeping. Ignore the noise and it will go away by itself.

The bed is soooo warm and soft. It should feel empty without Jessica at his side, but he's immensely grateful for being all by himself for the weekend. He should feel guilty for thinking like that, but he doesn't. He's a big guy and needs his space! And he's so happy right now with his huge empty bed...

Knock, knock, and knock, KNOCK!

He opens his bleary eyes and glances unfocusedly at the alarm clock: midnight.

Exactly midnight.

His dad used to say that nothing really happened at midnight. The whole legend around the "cursed hour"? Lies. A bunch of crap. Old wives tales. Evil doesn't have a watch, he would say. Only some ghosts had a weird obsession with midnight, remains of their human existence probably.

The rational part of his brain, the one that's trying so hard to forget about the hunting and all the things that hide in the darkness, tells him that's probably some neighbor, or a drunk friend trying to get him outta home in a weekend night, or maybe Jess that misses him at night… In spite of everything, Sam can't shake the uneasy feeling the idea of a midnight visitor causes.

Barely awake, he throws the covers aside and sits up, testing the floor's temp with his bare feet. Socks make him claustrophobic. As he touches the cold floor a shiver surprises him and he stands shakily.

The knocking becomes more persistent, turning rhythmic, almost melodic. Is that Fraggel Rock??

Knock, knock, knock-knock-knock…

Sam stalks down the hall. Still half-asleep, he walks into the bottom of the couch, hitting his big toe against it. Tears sprung as he curses the aggressive piece of furniture.

"Sonofa…"

Limping, he gets to the door and opens it. And if his feet weren't so freaking cold, and if his toe didn't hurt so much, and if he couldn't feel the snot coming from his cold nose, he would think it was all a dream.

"Thought I'd taught you better than this Sammy. Opening the door without checking who's on the other side? Are you nuts or just suicidal?!"

"Dean?! Shit…"

And there he is, his invincible big brother in all his glory. Almost two frigging years since they last saw each other and Dean still has the uncanny ability (he would probably call it "awesome superpower") of making him feel like a 5 year old:

"Hey! Watch your mouth dude..."

That's when Sam notices two weird things. One: the strange way his brother is holding his duffel, almost protectively, as if it were a fragile super-expensive vase. And two: the mop of blondish hair sprouting from it, just over Dean's shoulder.

Then, as Dean rearranges his "duffel", the material moves, revealing a pair of tiny arms with a monkey-like grip around his brother's neck.

"You have a monkey in your duffel?" he asks sleepily and, yes, very stupidly too.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, his expression between amused and offended, almost disgusted. Probably more amused than anything.

"Dude…" He snorts.

Not waiting for an invitation, he storms into the tiny apartment, cold street air following him. Sam is awake enough to close the door.

Dean leaves his "luggage" carefully on Jessica's second-hand couch and it's then when Sam finally realizes the reality of the situation.

"Oh…"

There, sprawled on his second-hand couch, there's a little boy. Not younger than three. Not older than four.

Snoring softly, the kid is undeniable cute. Longish blond hair, tiny freckled nose, long black eyelashes resting on rosy cheeks… And he is disturbingly familiar too.

"Who…?"

They're both standing in front of the couch. Arms crossed in identical poses. Watching the boy.

"Evan." He states simply, not taking his eyes from the kid.

"Evan."

"Yep…"

"Evan… who?"

"Just Evan."

There it is. The shit eating grin he has (not) missed so much.

"Sure. And he is…"

"He's your father Sam." He says in a deep voice, in what it's supposed to be, as Sam realizes a few minutes later when he's fully awake, his best Darth Vader impression (which is pretty lame, by the way).

"What??"

"Just kidding."

Sam lets out a relieved breath.

"In fact… He's your brother Sammy."

"What??!"

"Nah… Kidding again. You're so easy." Dean pats his back, laughing at him.

In the past, in his other life, in a similar situation, he would've wished to be an only child. He's lost the count on how many times he's wished that through the years, and how many times he felt horribly guilty for just thinking about it. And now he almost does (wish to be an only child, I mean, not the guilty part – yet). He's annoyed and irritated and tired. But he's been alone for two years, and he's kinda missed Dean's mockery.

"He's mine." Dean says, kneeling in front of Evan and running a hand through his shaggy hair.

Now it's Sam's turn to snort.

"Yeah, right…"

"That's the truth." And something in Dean's eyes when he turns to look up at Sam tells him that he's not lying this time.

"But… how… who…. When… you??"

"You see Sam, when a boy and a girl like each other…"

"Stop it! Can't you be serious for once?"

Evan stirs and Sam realizes he's been too loud, and that he's ruined the perfect moment to have a serious conversation with his brother. And knowing Dean, these moments are so rare he'll have to wait until the next leap year at least.

A pair of green eyes open and Dean's attitude changes immediately. His face softens.

"Hey buddy".

Sam feels a pang of jealousy because there was time, not so long ago, when that tone of voice was meant just for him.

"And Dad left"

"What?"

He's surprised by the sudden turn in their conversation.

"Neither of us want this life for Evan, Sam. We… you, Dad and me… we didn't have a choice. But I want Evan to have that choice."

Sam can feel anger boiling inside. His father left Dean alone with a kid? What the hell was he thinking?

"And that's why Dad left." He says calmly, managing his anger.

Dean nods.

Evan is now awake and looking at him with those expressive huge green eyes, suspicious of the stranger in front of him. He looks to his dad (fuck, dad…) questioning, inquiring, and Dean looks back at him before answering.

"This… this is your uncle Sammy. Remember I told you about him?"

Sam, not Sammy.

The kid nods, looking confused.

"But you told me he was a girl."

Dean laughs embarrassed and stands up. He gapes a few times, trying to form a plausible explanation, but it's Sam who answers.

"Hi Evan." He approaches the boy slowly, trying not to scare him. But soon realizes this boy doesn't scare easily.

"Hi."

Sam crouches in front of the boy, while Evan follows his every movement.

"How old are you?"

"Free."

"Three?", he asks, feigning surprised.

Evan nods vigorously, long blond hair falling over his eyes.

"Wow, really? I thought you were at least four, or four and a half."

Then the kid smiles widely at the compliment and Sam finds himself melting because that's Dean's smile. Only more bright and open, more innocent, and Sam feels the sudden urge to protect this little boy from all evil, with his life if necessary. And he understands his father for the first time in 22 years.

And he knows something has changed. He doesn't need Dean anymore, at least not in the same way. But there is somebody new in their lives that is so pure, so fragile and innocent that requires all of Dean's attentions; and he doesn't care. Evan. Who sits on Jess's second-hand couch, wearing wore jeans, a shabby hoodie and no shoes. Evan, who is so Dean that it hurts. Evan, who is looking at him as if he were a complicated puzzle… What the hell…?

"It's the hair, right?" the little voice asks.

He hears Dean snickering, and he knows where this is going but he asks anyway.

"What?"

"That's why dad thought you were a girl. The hair."

And Dean is laughing so hard he's crying and choking, and his head might explode. Sam feels himself blushing under his nephew's speculative stare, and he truly hates his brother right now. And Evan looks at them curiously, head tilted to the side, frowning.

Yeah, nothing really happens at midnight…

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