Chapter Three: The Store

John used his free hand to shake a shopping cart free from the line of carts behind it, pushed the red plastic child's seat down and strapped Sammy in. The toddler was hyper and twitchy from his sugar rush and protested against the restraints, wanting to roam freely outside the cart. Being careful not to use the word "No" and trigger another barrage of Sammy smacking himself upside the head in retaliation, John tutted, "Sammy, you have to stay in the cart today. We're in a hurry." And with your luck today, I'm not taking any more chances, John mentally added.

Sammy sulked, pouted, and picked at the buckle around his waist, trying to wriggle free as John pushed the cart into the store, paying no heed to his son's hopeless escape attempts apart from making sure he pushed the cart out far enough in front of him so Sammy's wildly swinging feet never made contact with his nether regions. Luckily for John, Sammy almost instantly found a distraction, enamored by one of the many red and white balloons tied to the registers for the store's Back to School Sale, ceasing all protests and staring at the balloons with awe. John used the opportunity to pull the wrinkled grocery list from his back pocket, memorizing it and coming up with a tactic based on the store's floor plan to get the shopping done in plenty of time to get to the school.

Sammy remained blissfully accident-free (in more ways than one) as John picked up a box of Lucky Charms, a bag of potato chips, several cans of assorted Campbell's soups, Spaghetti-o's and Chef Boyardee, chocolate pudding packs, animal crackers, Gushers and Fruit Roll-Ups—all of the boy's favorites, as well as items they were running low on like orange juice, milk, bananas, bread, and strawberry jam.

John was mildly aware of and accustomed to the furtive looks and whispers from strangers that followed him when he was out in public with his small children. He was sure that he wasn't just imagining their curiosity, pity, and sympathy—none of which he wanted. It seemed that people could tell motherless children a mile off, and that he was an anomaly for being a single father. As if he'd wanted to be a widower, or imagined he'd ever be raising his children on his own. He hated the stigma that he was somehow a sub-par parent or incompetent just because he carried a Y on his twenty-third chromosome. He wasn't sure what exactly tipped people off that he was a single father when he still wore his wedding ring; everyone just seemed to know. Maybe they could tell that a lot of the time he was barely holding it together.

John's children were outwardly well-cared for, pending the fact of life that boys will be boys and boys loved dirt. He treated his sons with the same order and military precision in which he handled every aspect of his life, from his car to his arsenal. He ensured that they were clean and groomed. He kept Dean's hair relatively short and neat. Sammy proved to be more difficult; the kid made himself scarce at the mere mention of a haircut; John had been lucky to get him to sit still long enough to cut the gum out at the park. As bath time was already all-out warfare, John picked his battles and let Sammy keep his hair longer. He secretly liked the length, anyway. His sons clothing, although typically purchased from thrift stores, were always appropriately sized and in good repair, although it was an uphill battle keeping them in clothes that fit when they both were currently going through growth spurts. John didn't give a thought to whether or not their outfits harmonized top to bottom or were color-coordinated—which could very well be a contributing factor that tipped a lot of people off that he was flying solo.

The one thing John Winchester didn't want to give anyone the impression of (apart from their nomadic hunting lifestyle) was that he was in any way incapable of caring for his children just because he didn't have a wife. After Mary died, members of her extended family and their friends all seemed to think John had become unhinged and was incapable of looking after his sons on his own. Mary's Uncle Jacob had gone so far as to try to "take the boys off [his] hands" after the fire, thinking it would be some sort of relief to him. The truth was that Dean and Sammy were his lifeline, his purpose for carrying on—and he knew losing them would kill him. Even then, when he still was blind to the evil lurking in the darkness, he knew no one could protect his children like he could. Predictably, John vehemently turned down Jacob's offer and ignored all the naysayers who thought he wasn't up to the task of raising his sons alone, determined to prove them all wrong.

So today, with Sammy looking like Pigpen despite having bathed that morning and a far cry from the relatively tidy looking boy he usually was, John felt the usual stares intensify into outright glares of scornful suspicion. He did his best to ignore the fragmented whispered remarks he heard about the uncharacteristically neglectful state of Sammy, but something inside him snapped when he heard a woman in a business suit near him mutter to her friend, "Look at that little boy—look at his shirt. And his hair! Seriously, who brings their kid out in public looking like that? I'd be embarrassed if I were him, not even being able to take care of my own kid..."

The last remark touched a nerve. John turned around to face her, and the woman looked startled and guilty that she had been speaking loud enough for him to hear. "You got kids, Ma'am?"

The woman swallowed, her eyes not meeting his. "No. I don't."

"Then you'd do well to keep your opinions to yourself," said John bluntly, turning the cart sharply and going down another aisle containing the baby supplies, still fuming as his eyes scanned the shelf for diapers in Sammy's size. But all he could see was red.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice said. John moved aside slightly to allow her to reach for a pack of pull-ups. John cast a brief glance at the woman, who looked to be in her early thirties like himself. She had a little girl with pigtails sitting in her shopping cart, who he estimated to be about three. "Thanks," the woman said as she deposited the pull-ups in the packed cart on top of some cauliflower. She noticed Sammy staring at her and smiled endearingly at his messy t-shirt, bandaged chin and lopsided haircut. John could tell from her knowing expression that Sammy's haphazard appearance was a sight not unfamiliar to her. At last—an ally. "Hi, sweetie!" the woman acknowledged Sammy.

"Hi!" said Sammy, waving happily. "I no wear diaper!" Sammy moved to pluck at the waistband of his shorts. "See?"

"No, buddy—she doesn't need to see," said John, catching Sammy by the wrist. He glanced apologetically at the other parent. "Sorry."

"They're all exhibitionists at that age, aren't they?" the woman said with a laugh. John decided that it was nice not to feel like someone was quietly judging him for once. She added in a lilting voice, "Still, a bit young to be potty-training, isn't he?"

"We ran out," John simplified, figuring it was a less long-winded explanation than telling her about how his toddler had swapped out his diapers for toys. He sighed wearily. "It's just been one of those days."

"I've been there," she responded sympathetically, before checking her watch. "Well, I'd better get going. Amelia has a play date in half an hour. Have a good day!"

"You too, Ma'am," John inclined his head as the woman pushed her cart past him, with Sam and Amelia briefly reaching out to touch fingers as she passed. John was surprised at the small vote of confidence he'd received from a brief encounter with another parent who had "been there", and wondered how many of the critics he'd met were childless themselves. It was easy to judge someone when you've never walked a mile in their shoes, and the road John found himself on was an unexpected detour from his original plan, on a road that was untraveled, treacherous, and seemingly endless.

John located the diapers for Sammy, hoping it would be enough to get by until he got some more cash together; those things were expensive. Often a good night of hustling pool would pay for food and his children's various needs for a week at most. He pushed the cart down the aisle, looking down when he heard a low, back-of-the-throat growl emitting from the cart. He looked down to see Sammy with his teeth bared in a convincing show of ferocity.

John was well-aware that frequently and without warning, his imaginative toddler would transform from little boy into a member of the animal kingdom, complete with sound effects, mannerisms, and an inability to speak English. "Which animal are you today, kiddo?" Sammy growled louder in response, accompanied by a hiss. "A tiger?" John guessed. Sammy made an offended growl "Oh. Sorry—a lion."

Sammy nodded happily, making a purring sound deep in his throat. "Let's hear your best roar then, kiddo." Sammy took a deep, dramatic breath, raised his hands and flexed his fingers like claws, and opened his mouth wide, letting out his best impression of a lion's roar. "That's pretty scary, Sammy. If MGM ever hears you old Leo's gonna get put into retirement." Sammy had no clue what reference John had made, but smiled proudly regardless because his Daddy said he was scary, and Dean always said Daddy wasn't afraid of anything.

John turned around the end cap, stopping short when a hunched-over little old lady came around the other corner at the same time, colliding her cart into the front of his. "Pardon me!" the old woman said apologetically, righting her cart. She took off her floral-framed glasses and wiped them on her cardigan. "I didn't see you there!"

"It's no bother, Ma'am," said John politely.

The elderly woman spotted Sammy in the front of his cart and stepped forward to get a closer look at him, beaming at the toddler. She reached out and stereotypically pinched his round little cheek until it turned pink. "Oh, if he isn't just the sweetest little—"

"GrrrrROARRRR!" The little old lady let out a startled cry, releasing Sammy's cheek as if she'd received an electrical shock.

"Oh my!" she gasped, clutching her heart. "I think he just growled at me!"

John shook his head, biting back his laughter. It seemed Sammy had graduated from scaring himself with his animal imitations in a mirror to frightening little old ladies. "He's a lion," he said, by way of explanation.

"Well," said the woman breathlessly, reaching into her twill purse. "He's an excellent lion—very convincing. It's good to see a child with such a vibrant imagination...I think I might have something for him in here..." she pulled a butterscotch hard candy wrapped in crinkly plastic out of her bag and untwisted one end with stiff, arthritic hands, extending the partially unwrapped candy out towards Sammy.

"Thank you, Ma'am. He can have it later," said John, intercepting the potential choking hazard and storing it safely in his breast pocket, afraid she might offer Sammy something else if he told her he was too young for hard candy.

"Oh yes. I don't want to be spoiling his supper," the little old lady chuckled good-naturedly. John thanked her and bid her a good day before returning to his grocery shopping with Sammy hissing and spitting at being denied candy and earning them strange and amused looks from passerby's.

Navigating through the frozen food aisle, Sammy forgot to be a lion and began excitedly bouncing up and down in his barred metal seat. "Cawots!"

"That's right, kiddo," said John, adding a bag of frozen vegetables to the cart, remembering the promise he'd made Sammy to buy some carrots that were edible. If only he could get Dean to eat them, too...

Having checked off every item on the list as well as accumulating a few items he hadn't planned on buying, John went to check-out and picked the cashier with the shortest line, all the while keeping an anxious eye on his wristwatch.

As the customer two people ahead of him gathered up her bags and left, the line inched up and when he looked down to check on Sammy, he saw that his child was wearing an expression of absolute abject terror; his eyes wide as saucers, his mouth open in a silent scream, his fists clenching the metal bar in front of him.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" asked John, wondering what on Earth could be making Sammy look so distraught now. Sammy raised a trembling finger and pointed at something behind John, finally unfreezing enough to emit a frightened whimper. "Daddy! Make it go away!"

John whirled around to see where Sammy was pointing, and found himself face-to-face with a bulbous red nose, a painted mask of vibrant make-up, frizzy red wig, polka dot jumpsuit and oversized-shoes—a clown. Sammy's biggest fear had literally strolled right up to him, on what was easily one of the worst days the kid had ever had. Even more infuriating, John had turned around just in time to see the clown's face turn from a distorted and taunting gurn to an innocent, blank stare. Oh, if this son of a bitch had been teasing his kid...

"Hey, Bonzo, d'you think you can go to another line?" John asked, bluntly dispersing with any niceties.

"Why?" the clown demanded, "You got a problem with clowns or something, pal?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," said John, using his considerable height and bulk for intimidation. "Mostly because you're freaking out my kid."

The clown cleared his throat with a hacking sound, polluting the air around him with his halitosis breath. "Look, buddy, I just finished doing a party for a bunch of bratty four year olds. Do you always change before you come home from work? Clowns gotta shop too, you know. "

John stole a glance into the clown's shopping cart: booze, cigarettes, a box of microwavable burritos and magazines wrapped in gray plastic. He raised an eyebrow. Sammy cried, reaching out for John's arm and hiding his face in his sleeve. "Just make this easy for both of us and pick another line, okay?"

The clown crossed his arms indignantly. "No-kay. It's a free country, pal. Why don't you move?"

"I'm next in line," said John tersely.

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to beat rush hour," said the clown. "Hey pal, looks like your kid's just sprung a leak!"

"Dammit," John muttered, looking down to see the dark spot growing on the front of Sammy's jeans, casting a scathing look at the clown. He knew it had been unrealistic to ask Sammy to hold it in when toilet-training was still an alien concept. He had a good mind to tear the clown a new one on principle, just like he'd wanted to do to that frat kid in the park. But John restrained his borderline-homicidal rage, knowing he only had twenty minutes until he had to pick up Dean. Getting arrested for assault right now was not ideal, so he fought to keep his precarious and dwindling store of patience in check.

"Here, look—I know just what'll cheer the kid up," The clown squeezed the end of his red plastic nose. The loud HONK made Sammy cower, cover his ears and shut his eyes tight, bringing his cries up another decibel. Every cashier and customer in the vicinity was now staring at the spectacle. John felt his urge to kill rising.

"Or maybe—" the clown reached behind his back, producing a bouquet of multi-colored plastic flowers and holding them out to Sammy, who looked at the flowers as if they were a stick of dynamite. "Come on, kid—take them!"

"What part of 'my kid hates clowns' don't you understand?" John stepped between his distressed son and the clown, his broad shoulders effectively blocking him from Sammy's view. "You'd better shove those flowers back up your ass before I do it myself." The clown squeezed the middle of his pocket flower in response, squirting a stream of water onto John's chin and shirt front.

"Whoops!" the clown pointed and laughed with his white-gloved hand. "I just have no control over this thing! You've got something on your chin, riiiight there..."

The ex-Marine wiped the water off his chin with the back of his hand. He'd had as much crap from people today as he could take and this had been the straw that broke the dromedary: the clown was going down. John was winding his arm up to deliver a knockout blow to the clown's stupid painted mug when a small mousy man stepped awkwardly up to them, leaning back enough to be out of the line of fire if John did let his fist fly.

"Is there a problem here?" the manager asked, trying to draw himself up to look bigger than he was.

A much bolder store security guard was now standing between the two men as well. John reluctantly lowered his fist.

"Don't know what you're talking about. It's this guy's been causing problems," the clown feigned innocence. The security guard looked from John's wet shirt (level with the squirting flower on the clown's lapel) to the screaming child in the shopping cart and seemed to put the pieces together. "Come on, pal," he said to the clown, pointing. "They just opened a register over there. Hey, think you can do my daughter's birthday party tomorrow?"

John breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the clown steer his cart of vices around and make his way for register twelve, telling his rates to the security guard. John cast a fake apologetic glance at the manager before he left as well, watching the clown go with a feeling of relief mingled with disappointment, still wanting payback in the form of a deadbeat clown with no front teeth. He needed someone to punish for all the calamities that had happened to Sammy that day, and that bastard would have been the perfect outlet.

John felt a tug on his sleeve and saw Sammy's big green eyes gazing beseechingly up at him, swimming with tears. "Daddy?"

Sammy. There was only one other voice in the world that could have possibly reached him at that moment. John felt the white hot rage inside him recede enough to attend to his terrified child. He ran his hand soothingly over Sammy's hair, the action in turn calming him, making the angry pounding in his head fade to a dull throb.

"It gone, Daddy?" Sammy sniffled, leaning into his touch as John's large calloused hand caressed the side of his face.

"Yeah, Sammy," John said softly. "It's gone."

"Next in line," the cashier called him forward. John gratefully pushed the cart forward and began loading the groceries onto the conveyor belt.

"Cute kid," the cashier's smile was only slightly strained as she scanned the Snack Packs, politely ignoring Sammy's tear-streaked face, disheveled appearance and whiff of a potty accident, and he appreciated it. Along with the criticisms, he got his fair share of strangers telling him his children were cute, adorable, the spitting image of him, etc. However, these comments were nearly always followed with them looking around and asking, "Where's their mother?" as if she was just out of eye sight.

"Thanks," John said gruffly as he reached for his wallet. "He's having a bit of a rough day."

The cashier saw Sammy watching one of the red balloons dancing above his head. She took a pair of scissors and cut one of the red balloons free, tying the blue ribbon loosely around Sammy's little round wrist. The little boy beamed, showing off his pearly white baby teeth. "Here you go, cutie." She looked up at John, realizing in an afterthought it would have been appropriate to ask him for permission first. "It's okay he has that, right?"

"Sure is," John smiled gratefully. "Besides, I defy you to try to take it away from him now."

Sammy happily waved his fist, yanking on the balloon's string, delighting in the way it bobbed up and down as he flapped his arm.

The cashier finished ringing up the items and gave John his total, which he paid in cash that smelled vaguely like a pool hall. "Have a good day, Sir."

"You too," John responded, stuffing his change and receipt into his wallet.

The bag boy loaded the groceries back into the cart and obligatorily asked, "Do you need help out today, Sir?"

"No, thanks," John answered. "Hey, there wouldn't happen to be a changing table in the men's restroom, would there?"

"No, sorry," the kid shook his overlong hair out of his eyes. "Just in the woman's."

"Figures," John muttered, pushing his cart towards the exit. He knew the answer before he'd even asked; it was the same one he'd received in every public place across the country, hoping there was somewhere progressive enough to provide diaper-changing facilities for men, as well. Did society seriously believe women were the only ones who ever had to change a baby? For now, he'd continue to improvise; the back seat of the Impala would have to do.

The trunk was full, so John loaded the groceries into the front passenger seat, save for the brand name knockoff diapers. He lifted Sammy out of the cart, carrying him in an awkward side-hold to avoid contact with his wet shorts. As John ducked his head and passed Sammy through the passenger door, the ribbon around his wrist came loose and the balloon was blown away by a gust of hot summer air.

"Balloon!" Sammy shrieked. John looked to see if he could drag the escaped balloon back to Earth, but it was already twenty feet above their heads and climbing fast, swept away on a sudden breeze.

Great. Just great, John cursed, preparing himself for yet another barrage of crying. He didn't have time to cater to another one of Sammy's meltdowns or they would be late to get Dean. It'd have to be tough love this time. "Sorry, kiddo," John said, forcing Sammy to lay down on the towel, one hand pinning his chest down as Sammy twisted and turned and screamed for his lost balloon. "Go get it, Daddy!"

Ignoring his son's unreasonable demands, John removed Sammy's soiled shorts, cleaned him up and stuck a fresh diaper on him, carrying Sammy over to the trunk and holding the squirming child with one hand as he dug through the laundry bag for anything on the higher end of the cleanliness spectrum to make him look halfway decent; almost anything had to be better than what Sammy was currently wearing. He didn't have time to afford being picky, settling on a pair of shorts with a few washable marker scribbles on them and a striped t-shirt with a small brown smear near the collar that he was brave enough to find out was chocolate.

John wrestled Sammy out of his sticky, filthy monster truck t-shirt. Clothing Sammy was like trying to dress an octopus—he became all limbs, and stubborn and wriggly limbs at that. Sammy cried and fought him every step of the way, but he finally got him dressed and strapped into his car seat. With no time to return the shopping cart, he pushed it roughly against the curb and got in the driver's seat. He checked his watch—less than ten minutes till school gets out. If he made every green light between here and the school, he just might make it in time. He knew Dean was likely to worry himself sick if they were so much as a minute late.

Sammy screamed bloody murder and kicked his legs, insisting John go get his balloon. The kid was a broken record, chanting, "Get balloon! Get balloon! GET BALLOON!" John reached into the bag of groceries, retrieving the box of animal crackers, holding out a few of Sammy's favorite snacks as a distraction. "Little bites, dude."

Sammy stopped crying and stared long and hard at the animal-shaped cookies in John's open palm. Then he screamed and slapped the crackers out of John's hand. "NO!"

John closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "Suit yourself," he scowled, facing forward and starting the car. He let Sammy's bratty behavior slide without reprimand this time, considering numerous circumstances that could be contributing to his current behavior.

John had to bite back his road rage as he spent close to three minutes sitting at a red light at a crowded intersection, listening to Sammy making an unholy racket, smacking the plastic sides of his car seat and letting out an almost continuous scream, only pausing when he had to take a breath. John savored those few seconds, cringing and gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white when the screaming resumed, setting his teeth on edge and his ears ringing. He couldn't wait to get Dean back; he had a gift for calming Sammy down that John coveted.

When the stoplight finally turned green, the car in front of them seemed intent on sitting through it, possibly because the driver had fallen asleep waiting for the light to change. John blared his horn and the car finally moved. "Thank you!" he yelled in exasperation, slapping the steering wheel as the line began to move and he gunned it through the intersection, muttering words that he was glad Sammy couldn't hear over himself.

To John's immense relief, Sammy did eventually stopped screaming—he wouldn't be surprised if the boy had lost his voice by now. He hoped the day had tired him out enough that Sammy would willingly take another nap after they picked up Dean.

"We're almost at the school, Sammy," John said, knowing this would cheer Sammy up. "Time to get Dean."

When John heard no sound of jubilation from the backseat, he wondered if perhaps Sammy had fallen asleep already.

"Sammy?" John's eyes flitted to the rear view mirror and his blood ran cold. "SAMMY!" he swerved the Impala off the road and hard onto the shoulder. He threw the car into park, flung open his door and vaulted into the backseat beside his young son, who was clutching at his throat, his mouth open but with no sound coming out, his eyes wide and scared.

Panic and fear threatened to overwhelm him, but John forced it down, allowing his instincts and training to kick in. He unstrapped Sam from his car seat and set the choking boy on his lap and reassured himself with the fact that he had successfully done this before when Dean was this age and the wheel on one of his toy trucks had come loose. He tried not to dwell on the fact his son was slowly turning blue as he placed an arm diagonally across Sam's chest, leaned him forward and firmly forced the heel of his hand between the boy's shoulder blades. He repeated the action multiple times, but it did nothing to dislodge whatever the obstruction was in Sammy's airway.

When that didn't work, John exited the car and kneeled on the ground, placing Sammy in front of him, sitting him on his bent leg. He put two fingers just above Sammy's belly button and made a fist with his other hand, making rapid, upward thrusts into the boy's abdomen. After five attempts, a butterscotch candy shot out his mouth and plopped onto the road. The little boy began to cough, but once again was breathing, terrified tears rolling down his cheeks. John got Sammy to open his mouth, checking to be sure his airway was clear. Sammy's breathing returned to normal and his coloring was already drastically improving.

John hugged Sammy fiercely, forcing the top of his head under his chin and trying not to think what might have happened if he hadn't glanced in the mirror when he had...

"You okay, buddy?" John asked thickly, his face buried in Sammy's hair. Sammy nodded his head in response, clinging harder than ever to his father as John ran his hand comfortingly up and down his back. John patted his pocket, and found the conclusion he'd arrived at to be correct—Sammy must have somehow snuck the hard candy from the old lady out of his pocket without him noticing—probably when he'd been busy digging through the laundry bag whilst holding him.

Remembering he still had to pick up Dean and was no doubt already late because of their emergency, John kissed Sammy's forehead and reluctantly relinquished his hold, strapping him back in his car seat. Still rattled, John had to resist the urge to watch Sammy in his rear view the whole way to the school instead of the road to make sure he was okay. The boy looked tired, drained, and was very quiet—but at least he was breathing normally.

It had truly been the day from hell. John couldn't believe the sheer amount of minor catastrophes that had happened to his youngest, and sincerely hoped it wouldn't be an indicator of how things were going to be every day, or he'd have to reconsider having Dean home-schooled somehow, something that would be nearly impossible to accommodate with his lifestyle. He doubted whether he'd even be qualified to teach anything apart from weapons safety, anyway.

Naturally, John blamed himself for everything that had happened to Sammy today. He was the father. Ultimately, it was his job to protect his kids from everything, despite the high regard he held Dean in for helping to keep Sammy safe. Sammy had almost choked to death under his watchful eye, had managed to sneak a harmful object off him without him noticing. John had always thought he'd been on the overprotective side of the parenting spectrum. Now, he wasn't so sure. His confidence in his abilities as a father had been shaken to the core—he felt like an utter failure. He'd promised Dean he wouldn't let anything bad happen to Sammy. He'd let him down. Without Dean's help, Sammy had been hurt under his watch, almost grievously so. And for that, John was ashamed.

John parked across the street from the school, since the parking lot was already a mess of waiting cars and kids running everywhere, school buses loading up to leave.

"Ready to get your brother, pal?" John asked, his hands still shaking as he unstrapped Sammy from his car seat, self-loathing still coursing through his veins.

"Yeah!" Sammy beamed, and John winced at the hoarseness of his voice. For all the happiness and enthusiasm he put into his words, no one would ever have known about the absolute nightmare of a day he'd had. Dean had that effect on Sammy.

John frowned, appraising Sammy, thinking what he could do to make to make his child look more presentable. Even with a change of slightly cleaner clothes, the boy still looked like he'd been through the wringer. He spit-slicked Sammy's hair back to hide the chunk missing in the front and wiped off some more blue, sticky ice cream residue on Sammy's neck before deciding this was as good as it was gonna get.

You're definitely having another bath when you get home, kiddo, John thought as he lifted the disaster-magnet of a toddler out of his car seat, smart enough not to say the "B" word out loud until the tub was filled and Dean was there to help with the Sammy-wrangling.

Despite the scrapes on his poor knees, Sammy stubbornly insisted on walking. He held John's hand as the two of them walked past the student cross guards. They had barely taken two steps over the curb when John heard Sammy exclaim, "Ewww!", slowing to a stop.

"What now?" John sighed heavenward, thinking of Dean waiting for them, no doubt worried out of his mind and, knowing Dean, probably thinking that their lack of punctuality meant that a monster had got to them. Looking down, he saw that Sammy had just stepped in a big steaming pile of dog crap.

"Oh, Sammy..." John breathed, picking up his son under the armpits and moving over to the grass path away from the sidewalk to allow the other homeward kids to pass. He helped Sammy scuff his shoe along the grass, but the dog must've had a diet high in protein and the stuff held on like mortar. "You still like dogs, buddy?" John asked, as he worked on untying Sammy's shoelaces, knotted into oblivion by Dean. Impatient, John got out his knife and cut the laces off, deciding to abandon the shoe altogether and ditch it in the nearest trash can. He didn't want that smell in his car, and Sammy had nearly outgrown the shoes, anyway.

As John yanked the shoe off Sammy's bare foot, something fell onto the ground. "Sammy, what was this doing in—" John picked it up and turned it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. He face fell. Sammy looked up at him with wide eyes, making a game of balancing on one foot, teetering side to side to keep his balance. He puffed out his chest, thrusting out his hand and tugging persistently on John's sleeve. "Daddy, gimme! It's mine! It's my treasure!"

Indeed it was a treasure at first glance. It was gold coin, beautiful and ancient—and cursed. John had read about coins in this one's likeness that had started out manifesting seemingly common misfortunes for its owner that escalated, often times culminating in the death of the carrier. John had extensively studied cursed coins for a previous case he'd worked. He would have to check out a reference book to pinpoint the exact coin it was, and consult Bobby as well. He already recognized that the markings strongly suggested the occult. How it had come into Sammy's possession was beyond him; he would never keep anything so dangerous anywhere either of his boys could get their hands on it.

John ignored his son's demands to return the coin to him—he was never going to let Sammy lay his hands on the coin again. He ran his hand down his face and struggled to keep his voice even as he said, "Where did you get this?" Sammy looked down at his feet. Realizing he was using the voice Sammy usually associated with getting put in time-out, he softened his tone and said, "Buddy, you're not in trouble. But I need to know where you got this."

Looking somewhat reassured, Sammy scuffed the toe of his sock on the ground. "Pink!"

"Pink?" John repeated blankly. He didn't have time to decipher the meaning. Luckily for him, they were heading for Sammy's very own personal interpreter.

John stared hard at the coin in his hand. He felt sick to his stomach that Sammy had been walking around all day with a cursed object on him. He found no comfort in knowing the source of Sammy's mishaps hadn't been directly linked to him being unattentive or to his parenting skills, thinking of how close they'd come to disaster.

John straightened up, the coin clenched tight in his fist. Across the street, he saw a parking officer approaching the Impala, ticket pad in hand. John experimentally slipped the coin into his pocket, and the officer stopped in her tracks. She appeared to forget what she had been doing, and wandered away from the car, validating his theory that it was the sort of cursed coin that required direct skin contact to work its black magic. He lifted up Sammy's foot to see the bottom of his sock and, just as he'd suspected, saw a hole in the heel—which explained why his bad luck had been intermittent.

"Come on, Sammy," John said, picking the boy up and holding him tight. He was safe now, and his nightmarish day could finally behind be put behind him. Things would turn around now he had figured out what was wrong, and John vowed he would never let anything else hurt Sammy or Dean. Ever.

They left the soiled shoe in a dumpster and finally made it to the front of the school, where Dean was waiting anxiously for them under the flag pole.

"There you are!" Dean cried, running and pushing his way through the crowd to get to his family, flinging himself at John and hugging him tightly around the waist.

"Hey, kiddo. Sorry we're late. We ran into traffic," John told a half-truth, not wanting to trouble Dean about his brother's horrific choking incident or anything else that had happened. Sammy was wriggling to be let down and see his brother. "Dean!" he cried happily, throwing his arms in the air.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed with equal enthusiasm. John set Sammy down, and he in turn hugged Dean with all his might. "Did you miss me?" Dean asked. Sammy nodded fervently, positively clinging to Dean—he didn't know the half of it. "Dad...what happened to Sammy?" Dean asked, critically examine his little brother. John had been able to conceal the worst of Sammy's mishaps, but Dean looked at his little brother and seemed to inexplicably know everything.

"I had bad day, Dean," said Sammy dramatically, holding onto his brother tighter for comfort. Dean looked at him questioningly.

"He had a tough time without you around, Dean," John consented, then asked by way of distraction, "So how was your first day of school?"

"It was pretty good. My teacher was really nice," Dean exclaimed, his face brightening. John felt himself relax, breathing another sigh of relief. He'd been worried about how school and Dean would mesh. His face turned serious again. "But really Dad, what happened to Sammy?" John couldn't help but feel indignant at the note of accusation in Dean's voice. He brushed Sammy's slicked-back hair back down over his eyes. "What happened to his hair? And his chin? Where's his shoe? And Dad, these clothes are from the dirty laundry bag!"

John coughed, stalling for time as his eldest awaited an explanation for the state of his younger brother. He knew Dean's willingness to return to school hinged on his answer, and he in turn was indignant that he was being held accountable for his actions by a six-year-old. "Dean...Sammy, um...he had a few little accidents. Nothing major."

"What kinda accidents?" Dean asked, still hugging his little brother protectively.

John hated the separation he felt then, like there was an invisible wall between him and his sons—him and them. "Accidents like getting a paper cut, gum in his hair, and falling on his face when he was chasing some ducks. Then he stepped in some dog poop just now, so that's why he's missing a shoe."

"And I saw a cwown!" Sammy squeaked in a terrified voice, hiding his face in Dean's shoulder. He touched the knot on the back of his head. "Fwisbee!"

"And then there was a clown at the grocery store and some jackass hit him with a Frisbee at the park," John shrugged his shoulders helplessly as he put it all out there in the open for Dean to hear and judge him by. "Like I said, Sammy had a rough day. Dean—they were all accidents, I swear."

Dean stared hard at John with a look of intensity that was unnatural on one so young, as if X-Raying him and weighing his absolute faith in his father against his trainwreck of a little brother. At last Dean nodded and said, "I know, Dad. I know you would never let anything bad happen to Sammy."

John felt like he'd just been pardoned by the Pope himself. But there was still another matter on he urgently wanted to get to the bottom of. "Dean...you haven't seen a gold coin, have you?" John asked carefully, keeping his tone light and unaccusing. "It'd be really old looking with decorative symbols around the outside?"

"Yeah," said Dean slowly. "This morning...I was playing with blocks with Sammy and then he got the coin from—"

"Pink!" Sammy interrupted, pointing and yelling at the school building. "There—pink!"

John and Dean both whirled around to see what Sammy was talking about and saw Dean's teacher, Mrs. Benzel, standing at the window in her pale pink business suit, watching them with narrowed eyes. A split second later she was gone, leaving the two elder Winchesters staring dumbly at the window.

"...Mrs. Benzel gave it to him," Dean finished, still watching the window with a frown on his face. "Sammy took his shoes off when he was playing this morning in the classroom, and I was helping him put them back on. Mrs. Benzel came over and she said the coin was good luck, and told Sammy to put it in his shoe and keep it a secret if he wanted it to work. She asked me a lotta questions about Sammy today, Dad. She said she could tell he was special." Dean looked up at his father to see his face frozen, still staring intensely at the window. The look on his face made Dean scared; it looked like his eyes were burning. "Dad—was it the coin? Did it make all those bad things happen to Sammy?"

John didn't answer, as he was fighting between two powerful instincts. The first was to storm into the school, find Dean's teacher, rip her to shreds and then find out what sort of creature from hell she was, witnesses be damned. But an even more potent instinct than revenge won over—one to get his children to safety. John swooped down and scooped up Sammy, seized Dean's hand and cast a backward glance over his shoulder at the school as he began walking briskly to the Impala. Dean had to maintain a jogging pace at his side to keep up with him.

"We're moving again, aren't we?" Dean asked.

"Yes," said John shortly. No way were they staying in town if there was something gunning for Sammy and could have its eye on Dean next.

"Where?" Dean asked as they rounded the corner of the sidewalk and neared the crossing guards.

"You boys'll stay with Bill and Ellen while I figure this out."

"What about school?" Dean asked, picking up the pace.

"I'll have you in a new school by Monday," said John as they reached the car. Dean went around to the other side and helped John strap Sammy into his car seat.

"What d'you think she is, Dad?" Dean asked, his eyes shining with the excitement of having a monster for a teacher.

Witch? Demon? Shapeshifter? Succubus? A run-of-the-mill devil worshiper? Any guess was equally likely at this point. "I don't know yet, Dean. Mrs. Benzel might once have been a sweet little school teacher, but she sure as hell isn't anymore. No human can just vanish into thin air like that. I'll get Caleb and we'll come back with a full arsenal and hunt her down."

"But Dad," said Dean fretfully, "Why would Mrs. Benzel wanna hurt Sammy?"

Dean's words echoed in John's brain, "She asked me a lotta questions about Sammy...she could tell he was special..." it wasn't the first time John had a monster say his baby boy was special before he ganked them. The things that pure evil could possibly think were special in his Sammy were what kept him awake at night.

"I don't know, kiddo," John answered heavily. "But with both you and me looking out for Sammy, nothing like this will ever happen to him again. Okay?"

Instead of looking reassured, Dean's face fell, his shoulders slumping. "I didn't know it was bad luck, Dad, I swear—or I would've told you about it before you left!"

"Dean, this is not your fault, you hear me?" said John firmly, reaching out past Sammy's car seat to grip Dean's shoulders. "You had no way of knowing what that coin was. Today proved you look out for Sammy better than anyone. If you'd been with me today, I doubt half that stuff would've happened. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you, Dean. Sammy couldn't ask for a better big brother."

Sammy nodded in agreement, smiling past his mouthful of his fingers. "You good, Dean!" he said, placing his slobbery hand on Dean's face lovingly. Dean smiled shyly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "Eww—Sammy!"

John smiled warmly at the exchange between his boys, but Dean noticed that his smile didn't extend to his eyes. "You know it's not your fault either, right, Dad?"

John just smiled tightly, reaching out and ruffling Dean's hair. "Buckle up, kiddo." Dean obeyed as John moved into the front seat, started the car and pulled out onto the road, heading for the motel to pack up their stuff and turn in the keys to the room before skipping town.

Despite Dean's reassurances, John still held himself accountable for what had happened to Sammy that day. He felt he should have noticed the exchange between Sammy and Mrs. Benzel. She had seemed so kind, so normal that she hadn't even been on his radar...but he had learned that the culprit was often the unassuming ones. He'd let his guard down, and Sammy had suffered for it.

John swore there and then that he was never going to let something like this happen again. Today's events had brought his paranoia up to a whole new level—nowhere was safe. He wondered how appropriate it would be to subject his children's future teachers to the SSHW test (hunter jargon for Salt-Silver-Holy Water.) He would use this experience as a cautionary tale to never bring artifacts from his job home and risk letting another dangerous object fall into his sons' hands. He'd get a locked safe for the trunk, and soon, a storage unit as his collection grew. Items that couldn't be destroyed were always safer with hunters than floating around among civilians. He'd keep the storage unit a secret from Sammy and Dean, so he'd never risk getting them hurt.

But John Winchester had other business to take care of first. Something—whatever Mrs. Benzel was—had known exactly what that coin was, and had purposely planted it on Sammy. He didn't know why, but he intended to find out. He was out for revenge. Nothing harmed his kids and lived to tell about it.

The hunt was on.

...

THE END

AN: Ahhhh, see? It wasn't really John's fault that Sammy was having such a wretched day. He was cursed. Poor little guy :(

And yes, this story might have been at least partially inspired by "Bad Day at Black Rock." Sammy even lost his shoe!

Sammy growling at the old lady in the grocery store? Apparently I did that when I was a baby. It shocked both my mom and the other woman. It's one of my mom's favorite stories, and part of why my childhood nickname was "killer Kelly."

It wasn't in my plan to explore so much of the trials John must have faced as a single father, but I decided to go with it. I've read numerous articles about the stigma single parents face, and since I think being a single father was even less common in the time the story's set, I decided to go there. I wasn't around in the 80's, but the internet and my parents both informed me that no, baby changing tables in men's rooms were virtually unheard of. That's just a little example. Basically, I think John dealt with a lot more being a single dad than we give him credit for.

Mrs. Benzel seemed so nice, didn't she? I read in John's journal (and there's a reference in the show) that they were constantly surrounded by demons and the like growing up. John was aware, and that was part of why the Winchesters moved so often. Yes, Mrs. Benzel is a demon. I didn't exactly work out in my head why she wanted to mess with Sammy, apart from well—being a demon. But she did know he was one of Azazel's chosen few. Maybe she has a beef with Azazel. John and Caleb will exorcise her, you can bet that much!

As ever, thank you for reading! A special thank you to my reviewers and people who've favorited this fic. You guys are awesome :)