Topic: Ruby Tuesday (AU Possible Future)

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:23 EST
((Follows on from Darkness Before Me, Shadows Behind.)) _________________________

June, 2012

The Impala flashed along back roads toward Fremont, Nebraska, rumbling in protest at the tension of her driver. Behind the wheel, Nim glared into the darkness in front of her. She'd been on the road for less than an hour, and despite the worry for Dean eating away inside her, she could feel that something wasn't right. There were no other cars along this stretch of road. It wasn't even eleven o'clock at night yet, there was no reason for her to be alone out here. And yet ....she couldn't help the unnerving feeling that she wasn't alone, not entirely. Something was watching her. The sooner she got past the state lines and into Sioux Falls, the better.

*~*~*

January, 2016

The next few hours after arriving in the year 2016 were spent drinking copious amounts of coffee and searching what was left of Bobby's book collection for some scrap of information that would help Dean return to his own place in time. Hours passed, but without the sun to light the morning, it was hard to tell how much time had passed since Dean had arrived, since he'd buried himself in his research. His watch told him it had only been five hours, but it felt like much more.

The house had quieted, the little boy upstairs fast asleep, and he'd finally managed to convince Nim to get some rest, insisting he was fine so long as he had coffee. A pile of books were scattered over the desk that had once belonged to his future self, some open to pages that might prove useful, some closed and stacked in a pile of rejects, some still waiting to be opened. Nim had insisted on a second round of painkillers and antibiotics before she'd turned in. She'd made him a sandwich and a fresh pot of coffee, the plate and cup now sitting on the desk forgotten and empty.

Hours had passed and his eyes had grown heavy, holding his head up like some leaden weight as his eyes drifted closed against his will. Just five minutes, he told himself. Five minutes to close my eyes and clear my head. That's all. But as soon as those eyes had closed, the battle was over, exhaustion taking its toll, coffee or no. He laid his head down against whatever page he'd been open to, resting his arms against the table, surrounded by candles, both to conserve energy and so as not to draw attention from the things that were watching outside the windows. Only five minutes, he'd told himself, but those five minutes turned into hours.

And despite the best efforts of Nimue in making sure Dean stayed undisturbed, it seemed there was more than a little of his attitude in young Sammy. Intrigued by the man who looked so much like his Daddy and who his Momma said wasn't staying, the little boy crept into the dusty library, fingertips on the edge of the table opposite Dean to hold himself just high enough to see the sleeping visitor. Green eyes blinked slowly, staring in hungry fascination at a face the three year old Sammy hadn't seen in almost three months.

Unaware there was a visitor watching him while he slept, Dean went on sleeping, too exhausted to dream, blissfully peaceful sleep without any nightmares. Though he looked similar to the father the boy had lost, he was a few years younger. A few less wrinkles lined his face, no amulet around his neck, no silver band worn on his left hand; no mysterious scar on his left side, which he had yet to ask Nimue about. There were few other differences to tell them apart. This Dean shared his future self's grave determination, but lacked some of the bitterness and grief that had driven him on.

After a long moment of just watching the sleeping man, Sammy lowered himself back down onto his heels, moving to the door to listen for his mother. There was no sound of movement in the house, and this was, apparently, satisfactory enough for the small boy, who turned back into the crowded, dusty room and began to drag a small stool over to the table. The wooden feet of the stool's legs bumped against the rug in a series of quiet thuds, until finally coming to rest. A moment later, the little boy was standing on that stool by the table, right next to Dean's sprawled, sleeping form. One small hand reached out, poking a finger into the shoulder that had been shot the night before.

So deep in sleep, if not for the bullet wound, Dean might not have budged, but that poking finger, as innocent as it was, was enough to remind him of the pain and disrupt his slumber. He only grunted at first, flinching when he was poked, eyes moving beneath closed lids as he started to waken.

Evidently, this wasn't a fast enough awakening for the little boy prodding at him. Sammy frowned, his big eyes narrowing in a determined expression that was a little too like his mother's, and reached out with both hands, taking a firm hold on Dean's shirt over that shoulder and shaking. Hard.

Dean grunted again, this time a little more loudly, his first reaction thinking it was his brother shaking him awake to start a new day, and he brushed the small hand away from the shoulder that was throbbing with a dull ache. "Knock it off, Sam. I'm up already," he barked as he lifted his head, eyes slow to open, groaning with a painfully stiff neck from falling asleep in an awkward position.

Unfortunately, brushing that little hand away meant that the little body it was attached to wobbled dangerously on his stool. Sammy yelped quietly, clutching at Dean's arm to keep his balance. "Don't push!"

Eyes widened as Dean realized it wasn't his brother who was poking at him, but a little boy with eyes too like his own. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached for the boy to steady him on the stool before he toppled over. "Whoa, there. You okay?" he asked, looking into the little boy's face for the first time since he'd arrived. It was a strangely familiar face - a little bit of himself and a little bit of Nimue mixed together to create this boy who was their son. Slowly, he remembered the events of the last few hours, heart sinking when he realized it wasn't just some strange dream. "You shouldn't poke people when they're sleeping," he told the boy. "They might poke back." And just to prove his point, he playfully poked a finger at the little boy's middle.

The giggle that erupted from the child as he was poked was definitely the giggle Dean had heard from the same child the night before. Sammy lurched backwards, his round face creased in a wide grin as little hands batted at Dean's hand. "Don't tickle," he protested in the midst of his giggles. "Shhhh! Momma said no wakin' you up."

Dean's smile widened at the boy's giggles, but quickly faded when he was reminded of their situation. He wondered just how aware the boy was of what was going on in the world outside his house. He wasn't sure what Nimue had told him, even of his own death, but whatever had happened, whatever she'd told him, it was to her credit that there were still giggles to be had in this house, stolen moments of happiness. Dean smiled and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's okay. It's our secret. You hungry' I've been known to make some pretty awesome pancakes."

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:26 EST
Whatever Nimue had told the little boy, clearly he had accepted without question that Dean was someone who could be completely trusted, regardless of how long he would be staying with them. The green eyes, so like his father's, opened wide once again in beaming excitement at the prospect of pancakes. "Can you toss 'em, like right up and over?" the little boy asked, as though this was all that was needed to be the world's finest chef. "Momma can't, her pancakes go plop!" Another quiet giggle made itself known as this secret was shared, the little boy jumping down from his stool. One small hand took hold of Dean's to tug him toward the door.

"Hell, yes!" Dean declared, unable to keep a filter on his mouth, even when speaking to a small child. "They aren't pancakes if you don't flip them!" he exclaimed, smiling warmly down at the small boy who was his future son, touched by the unquestioning trust when one small hand reached for his. He let the boy take hold of his hand, sadly reminded of Sam for a moment, but this wasn't his brother. This was his namesake - a child he and Nim had borne out of love. "One second," he told the boy. "Help me blow the candles out?" He had a feeling supplies in this place were precious, especially that of artificial light, where there was no sun.

A moment of impatient rebellion crossed the little face briefly before Sammy sighed, conceding to the adult in the room reluctantly. "Can't reach," he admitted in doleful tone, those big eyes turning to look at the candles flickering away on the table.

"We can fix that," Dean declared, moving to his feet and plucking the boy up to set him on his feet on the chair. "Be careful. Blow gently, like this..." Dean leaned over to blow out the flame of the candle farthest from the boy. "Your turn."

Sammy didn't object at all to being lifted off his feet, his sneakers squeaking a little on the smooth wooden seat of the chair as Dean set him down again. He watched as the man bent over to blow out one of the candles, bending forward himself to aim a puff of breath toward the nearest flame that was mostly spit and hope. The flame flickered, hissing as the little boy's spittle evaporated in the heat before giving in and extinguishing under the onslaught of enthusiastic puffing. "I did it!" Delighted with this, Sammy beamed up at Dean, clapping his small hands excitedly.

He felt a little bit guilty for allowing the candles to burn away while he slept, somehow knowing light in this place was a precious commodity, but he couldn't feel bad for long in the company of that precious angel of a boy. He grinned and lifted his eyes ceilingward, pointing a finger that way, before looking back and pressing a finger against his own lips.

"Shhh, we don't want to wake your mother." He leaned over and finished blowing out the candles, leaving the books right where they were for now. He'd come across a few interesting tidbits, but even in such dire circumstances as this, one had to eat sometime. Once the candles were out, he plucked the boy up again and set him on the floor, reaching for that small hand again to let him toward the kitchen.

The grin that was levelled in his direction at the gentle reminder not to wake Nimue was a charming mixture of mild guilt and sneaky mischief, suggesting that Sammy wasn't actually supposed to be up himself yet. He shook his head, though, pointing not to the ceiling but to the living room, even as Dean captured his other hand. "Onna sofa," he informed Dean in what had to be one of the loudest whispers ever. "S' been mornin' for ages, and you been all sleepin' and stuff."

"Oh," Dean replied, following the boy's finger in the direction of the living room, where he assumed Nimue would be found sleeping on the couch. He hadn't had time to explore the entire house yet, part of him in wonder as each room unfolded before him, finding bits of himself here and there. A magnet here, a photo there, a scrawl on a calendar or a slip of paper, various belongings he knew must have belonged to him, all reminders of the man who had once existed here, a man he had not yet become. How long had he been asleep" Too long and yet not long enough. It would have to suffice for now. "Let her sleep awhile," he told the boy. "She had a long night."

Leading Dean through the hall in the dark like someone born to it, Sammy tugged harder on the man's hand to make sure he was following as confidently as the three year old led. The faint flicker of candle light emanated from the open doorway to the living room, but it was toward the kitchen that the child was heading. He'd been promised pancakes, and he was going to get them. "Momma don't sleep much," he shared with Dean, quiet voice conspiratorial in the enveloping gloom. "It makes her sad." There was a pause, and the quiet voice grew quieter in a mournful little confession. "I don't want Momma to cry no more."

Dean followed along without much problem, despite his unfamiliarity with his surroundings. There were worse things to fear than the dark. All one had to do was look outside the windows. Dean frowned at the boy's confession, knowing the reason why Nim cried was at least in part because of him. "I'm gonna try to fix that," he told him just as quietly in return, coming to a halt as they reached the kitchen and letting go of his hand to crouch down in front of him. "But I need your help."

"Are you gonna stay and be my Daddy again?" The question was asked with complete trust, an awareness beyond the child's years that promises like that couldn't really be made. But in Sammy's mind, everything had gone bad when his father had stopped coming home, and Nimue had been very careful to make sure that was the only thing that her son considered to be wrong with the world. Dean looked like his father, sounded like his father, he even smiled the way Sammy remembered his father doing. So why couldn't he stay and be his father, and make his mother smile again?

Dean reached for the boy's shoulders, turning him to face him, and looking into those familiar green eyes that looked out from a cherubic face - a face that made his heart ache with longing. The question that he knew was coming, expected or not, hit him like a punch in the gut. His expression turned serious, firm, but not stern. "No, I wish I could, but I can't. There's..." How could he explain to one so young without leaving him bitter and jaded forever" "There's something important I have to do, something that will make your Momma smile again. I have to go away to do it, but I promise you, everything's gonna be okay, and even if I never see you again, I'll always live inside here." Dean pointed very gently to his son's heart. "So long as you remember me."

Eyes that were so like his own regarded him with forlorn solemnity, reluctant to accept this explanation, but wise enough with experience of the worst the world had to offer not to argue with it. "You're gonna go away and make everything better," the little boy agreed with a sad nod. "Like Uncle Sam did." A small hand rose to wrap about the heavy weight of something that hung around the child's neck as he held Dean's gaze trustingly. "M'good at not forgetting."

Dean's heart twisted painfully in his chest at this solemn gravity of his young son, so innocent and trusting, too young to have to deal with such heavy burdens as these. He was reminded of himself, who'd only been a year older when his childhood had been taken from him at his mother's death, the irony of the situation hitting too close to home, the mention of Sam reminding him of his brother's death, though he had never witnessed it. Dean's gaze drifted to the amulet about his young son's neck and he reached to lay it in the palm of his hand. "My brother - your Uncle Sam - gave me that when I was a boy. So long as you wear it, I'll be with you in spirit. I promise."

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:30 EST
He wasn't sure the boy would understand what it was he was trying to say, that he was trying to tell him that whether he was physically there or not, he'd always keep his memory safe in his heart. It didn't really matter if he was the Dean who'd been Sammy's father. Sometime in Dean's future, if he could somehow manage to fix the mess his future self had made, he'd be his father again.

"So you are my Daddy." This was offered with a little smile, a triumphant expression on the small face turned so innocently to Dean's at catching his mother out in a lie intended to protect him. "Momma said you are and you're not, an' I'm not s'posed to call you Daddy. But you are!" Whether Sammy had absorbed the import of Dean's words or not, it didn't change the joy in the boy's upturned smile, or prevent the exuberant hug launched into Dean's arms as the child thumped into him.

Dean wasn't going to argue with that. It was true - He was and he wasn't, or he would be sometime in the future, and he saw no reason to burst the boy's bubble or cause him further grief. Surprised by the sudden hug that caught him around the neck, Dean wrapped his arms around his young son and pulled him close, swallowing the hard lump that was forming in his throat, hoping Nimue didn't wake to catch him and scold him for instilling false hope in their son. Hope was the one thing he wanted Sammy to never give up on.

Holding on for a long moment, the little boy finally let Dean go with a surprisingly happy little sigh. "Can I tell you a secret?" he asked his father, those achingly familiar green eyes wide once again with muted excitement, the small face creased with an impish smile. Sammy didn't wait to be given permission to share, either, lowering his voice to that loud whisper once again. "I'm gonna be a big brother. Momma said you left us a baby an' it'll come out when its ready, an' I'm gonna be the best big brother in the world ever."

Dean rocked back onto his heels as little Sammy let go, arching a too serious eyebrow at the boy's question. He nodded his head in reply, but the boy didn't seem to want to wait for permission and was already sharing his little secret. For a brief moment, Dean was four again, making that same promise to his own father over the sleeping form of his little brother who was lying in a crib, and he ached with the memory and the newly-made promise from his own son.

"I know you will," he admitted, offering a faint slightly sad smile. It wasn't fair that such a young innocent life should have to endure such sadness, though it seemed Nimue insulated him from the world and protected him from harm as much as possible. "You're gonna be the man of the house, Sam. I need you to be good for you mom while I'm gone and help her however you can."

Sammy nodded proudly, pleased to be given such an important job. "I can be a big man an' Momma can shoot stuff an' be cool like you," he agreed, cuddling into Dean's arms once again. "M'gonna be just like you when I'm all growed up."

Dean inwardly winced at the boy's declaration. The last thing he wanted was for him to be like him - to have to be like him. He wanted him to be something else, anything else. A doctor, a lawyer, a bricklayer, anything but a hunter. He pulled the boy away from him, holding him gently by the shoulders while he met his eyes, a serious expression on his face. "You be whatever you want to be, Sam. If you want to be a truck driver, you be a truck driver, but you be the best damned truck driver there is. And you live life. You have fun. Never forget how to have fun. And most of all, grow up to be a good man."

The wide eyes that looked back at him were blissfully ignorant of what was wrong with being just like his father, the fervor of Dean's words going right over the little boy's head. It didn't matter what Dean said to Sammy, just that he was there and spending time with him. The words seemed to require a concession to agreement, though. "I will, Daddy," the little boy promised, not truly understanding what he was promising at all. "Can we do pancakes now?"

Dean realized his lecture was probably a little over the boy's head, but with any luck, in years down the road he'd remember it. The beauty of it was that if Dean was successful, it wouldn't even matter. This moment would never happen, and their children would be free to live their lives without worrying about the world ending. If Dean wasn't determined before, if there wasn't a reason for him to try and save the world, this one small life was more than enough reason all by itself. The simple word "Daddy" touched Dean to his core, and he smiled back at the small boy, unable to remain too stern in the light of that bright face full of hope and unconditional love.

"Yeah, we can do pancakes now," Dean agreed, moving to his feet and reaching over to toussle his future son's hair. "You're gonna have to help me find my way around the kitchen. I forgot where your mom put things."

The boy flailed his hands at the tousling of his hair, pulling a grimace of a face up at Dean before giggling quietly, turning in the gloom the make his way out of sight into the darkened kitchen. It was unsettling how well the child knew his way around his home in this near-pitch-blackness, how comfortable Sammy was in the darkness. From somewhere near the vague shape of the window over the sink, the small voice piped up. "What makes pancakes?"

As the boy disappeared into the darkness, Dean groped his way toward the kitchen, moving along mostly by feel. The darkness didn't really bother him, but he didn't know his way around well enough to get to where he was going without being able to see. "Umm..." What does make pancakes" Dean had always cheated and used pancake mix in the past. "Flour and eggs and butter, I think." As he moved into a wider space that he thought must be the kitchen, he groped for a light switch, knowing there was one somewhere.

"Oooh." Heedless of the groping search for a light switch by the doorway, Sammy began pulling open cupboards. Small arms heaved a bag of flour from one cupboard, pushing to get it onto the table in a minor explosion of the fine white powder that left the little boy coughing and laughing as he moved away again. A light flickered for a moment as the door to what was obviously a refridgerator was opened up, left to drop closed again when Sammy realized he couldn't reach the eggs or butter. "Need a bowl," he declared solemnly in the darkness, small footsteps betraying his return to the other side of the kitchen table to open another cupboard on his level.

Dean flicked the lights on just in time to witness the cloud of flour that went up from the bag and winced again. Nim was going to kill them - or at least, him, but hey, you only live once - or in Dean's case, several times. He had promised the boy pancakes and pancakes were what he was going ot get. "Um..." Dean muttered uncertainly, moving toward the fridge to fetch the eggs and butter. He was tempted to ask the boy some questions, but doing so would reveal that he wasn't the Daddy he thought he was, so he kept his thoughts to himself. "Do you want a little brother or sister?" he asked instead.

The flour was everywhere - on the table, on the floor, covering at least two of the chairs, not to mention all over Sammy himself, who looked as though he'd walked through an ash-storm. The big grin belied any hint of guilt for the mess, though. "Momma says it doesn't matter," he offered to Dean, heaving a heavy mixing bowl out of the cupboard beside him and struggling to lift it up onto the table beside the spilled bag of flour. "Girls are boring. I want a brother, so I can play with him and teach him stuff, like you and Uncle Sam."

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:34 EST
Once the scene was illuminated, Dean had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of his son covered in flour and looking like Casper, not to mention the mess in the kitchen. Oh, yes, Nimue was definitely going to kill him. Dean set the eggs and flour on the table and reached for the heavy bowl to help the boy heft it onto the table. He couldn't help but chuckle at little Sammy's opinion regarding girls, though the mention again of Dean's brother sobered him a little. "Do you think your mother is boring?" he asked, changing the subject back to girls, having a feeling the boy would insist that his mother doesn't count.

"Momma's not a girl," the little boy objected predictably. "She's Momma." One hand poked into Dean's thigh pointedly as Sammy turned to drag open a drawer, rummaging around for a large wooden spoon that he slammed onto the table before pulling a chair out, climbing up onto it. Green eyes turned curiously to Dean. "What'd we do now?"

Dean chuckled at the predictable response from the boy. "She's special, your Momma," he agreed, rummaging in the cupboards for a measuring cup. "Now, we have to mix all the ingredients together to make batter," he replied, opening one cupboard after another in his search. "Do you know where she keeps the measuring cups?"

This was, apparently, one step too far. As much as Sammy seemed to enjoy helping his mother in the kitchen, the little boy was at a loss when it came to locating measuring cups or anything used to actually heat food. He blinked, watching as Dean searched the kitchen, and a small smile crept over his face at the intrusion of Nim's voice calling from the living room. "Bottom cupboard to the left of the stove." She sounded amused and not at all sleepy, suggesting that she had been listening to the pair's progress through the hallway all along.

She might not be so amused when she saw the mess in the kitchen. A look of panic crossed Dean's face when he heard the voice calling from the other room. "We're in trouble now," he whispered to Sammy. "Uh....Thanks, honey. You just relax and we'll bring you some breakfast." He winked conspiratorially over at Sammy before retrieving the measuring cup from the cupboard.

"Honey?" The repetition of his endearment from the living room sounded incredulous as much as amused, followed by a snort of laughter as Sammy rounded off the injunction to stay put with, "Yeah, Momma, shhh! Daddy's cookin'!" The little boy turned a wide smile onto Dean, impatiently banging the wooden spoon against the table, sending small eruptions of flour into the air as he did so.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the boy's innocent impatience. "Whoa, there, slugger," he said as he made a grab for the wooden spoon. "Take it easy on the table. Spoons are for stirring, not playing the drums." There was no sternness in his tone, only amusement as he stilled the spoon in the boy's hand before scooping up a cupful of flour. "One cup of flour!" he declared, dumping it into the bowl.

"One cup o'flour!" was cheerfully repeated at the top of Sammy's lungs, the spoon flailing out of Dean's grip to plunge into the flour now in the bowl, threatening to stir so vigorously that it wouldn't stay in the bowl very much longer.

Dean just couldn't help but smirk now at the boy's overzealous enthusiasm to help, and he just couldn't bear the thought of scolding him. Little boys should have fun, and that's exactly what he was doing. Dean would deal with cleaning up the mess later. Dean handed the boy an egg, keeping one for himself. "Ready?" he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, probably not unlike his son's. He tapped the egg against the bowl to crack it, breaking it open with his thumbs and letting the contents ooze into the flour mixture.

Judging by the look on Sammy's face, being handed an egg was equivalent to being given a map that would lead anyone else straight to the most precious treasure on Earth. "Really?" he asked with cheerful excitement, watching as Dean cracked and broke his own egg. Then it was his turn ....and the egg pretty much exploded in his little hand as he banged it hard off the edge of the bowl, disgorging yolk and white through the boy's fingers as he giggled wildly. "Ewwww!"

Dean cackled uproariously at his son's very first egg-breaking, almost completely forgetting that this wasn't his place in time and that this wasn't his son - at least, not yet. What did it matter" This was what life was really about, this was exactly what he was fighting for. He scooped the boy up, one arm around his waist, and swept him over to the sink, leaning over to turn the water on so he could rinse the egg off his hands. "Not bad for a first try," he encouraged, reminded of his father when he'd shot a pistol for the first time.

In the living room, Nimue glanced up from the journal where she was painstakingly recording every last detail of the past four years, listening to the mingled cackles and giggles from the kitchen. A faint smile touched her face at the sound, something she hadn't heard for more than five months, since their world had turned dark and laughter had become a rare treat. And sad though the understanding was that it couldn't last, she felt deep gratitude flow through her that this Dean visiting them from her past could settle so easily into the warm acceptance of his son-to-be. We have to get him home safely, she promised herself fervently. He'll make things right again.

Dangling from Dean's arm, Sammy flailed his sticky hands underneath the stream of cold water, liberally splashing both of them as he squealed at the chill on his fingers. "Can I do it again?"

Dean flinched from spray of cold water, but held the boy there until his hands were completely cleaned of raw egg before setting him back on the chair near the pancake batter that was still in the works. He grabbed a towel and patted Sammy's hands dry, smiling widely at the little boy. It was the happiest Dean felt in days, despite the dire circumstances. This was their hope for the future. "How about we do it together?" he suggested, knowing eggs were probably not easy to come by, unless they had a stash of them somewhere.

This was more than a hope. It was a reality. It was proof that despite the darkness and dread outside the doors, in this little house there was normality; a healthy, happy little boy growing up in a hunters' household, and soon to be a big brother. Sammy was a testament to the determination of both his parents to give him somewhere safe and normal to be a child.

Sharing that wide smile with Dean, the little boy let his hands be dried, already reaching for the next egg. "I got these off Arty this morning," he declared to Dean cheerfully. "She pecked me, look!" Pulling back one sleeve, he showed off the almost imperceptible mark where a chicken had apparently told him off for stealing her eggs.

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:39 EST
Dean made the leap to assuming Arty was the family chicken, more than a little proud of the fact that they'd been resourceful and prepared enough to be able to survive this and care for their young son, even if only for a short while. A lot had happened in the last four years, and his future self had been an important part of that. While being prepared for every possibility, he hoped that he could change things so that none of it would be necessary.

Dean gave the tiny wound the attention it was due, smiling proudly at his son for winning his very first battle, even if it was with a chicken. "Oh, that's a bad one!" he exclaimed, with a smirk, making more of the little boo-boo than was really necessary. "Does it hurt?" He plucked up another egg, reaching around the boy to guide his hands around the egg. "Carefully this time. Nice and easy."

Beaming with pride at the approval from his father, Sammy didn't offer any kind of objection to being surrounded from behind, his smaller hands caught beneath Dean's as both of them turned their attention to the egg. As it cracked with significantly more control than the last one, the boy let loose a little of his natural curiosity. "Why do we eat chicken poo in stuff?"

Dean found himself chuckling yet again, this time at the question the boy who he was starting to think of his son - their future son - was asking. "It's not chicken poo, Sam," he explained around a bit of laughter. "It's a gift. Chickens lay eggs so we can eat them." Hey, it was a simple enough explanation for a three-year old. He carefully guided the boy's hands so that the egg mixture oozed into the bowl and once that was done, he set the shell aside and handed him back the wooden spoon, once again guiding his hand to show him the proper way to stir the mixture. Milk was added to this, along with a pinch of salt and sugar.

Despite Dean's best efforts, there were enough wild splats of the spoon into the mixture to cover both man and boy with batter, as well as coat the sticky little fingers gripping the wooden shaft. Sammy's face was the picture of intense concentration, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he half-fought, half-helped Dean beat the mixture into something cookable.

A quiet step alerted them to the arrival of Momma, leaning in the doorway with a half-smile, watching the enthusiastic creating. "If I didn't know better, I'd think something had exploded in here," Nimue mused lightly, unable to keep from smiling in the face of their enjoyment.

Dean looked up from the batter-stirring, a slightly embarrassed smile on his face, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "Sorry, but little boys don't stay little very long. I'll clean up the mess. Promise," he told her, only vaguely aware that that promise could be taken to mean another mess besides the one they were creating in the kitchen. "Okay, boyo," Dean said, turning his attention back to Sammy and laughing a little. "That's enough stirring. Now comes the really fun part."

"We'll clean up the mess," Nimue corrected him with a low chuckle, rubbing a hand through her hair as she stepped into the kitchen. The bump that had been so well concealed yesterday was obvious today, outlined by the hang of her voluminous cardigan.

She was forestalled by the flail of the spoon in her direction, Sammy frowning a little at the interruption. "No," the little boy objected. "Go 'way, Momma, we're cookin'!"

Nimue's brows rose at his, her gaze turning to Dean, curious to see whether he was capable of controlling his son's imperious attitude. Not that she needed help to discipline Sammy, but she could remember her Dean's reluctance to start a family at all. It would do him good to realize he was actually good at this.

Dean arched a brow at the boy's sudden spark of what he assumed was possessiveness over this moment with the man he thought to be his father. He glanced over at Nimue who was suddenly looking his way, as if to challenge him to see how he'd choose to handle the moment. His gaze darted momentarily to the now obvious swell of her belly, before looking back at the boy pouting up at him. How did you reason with a three-year old without resorting to scolding" On the other hand, he thought maybe the boy just wanted to do something nice for his mother and make her breakfast.

"Sammy, remember what you said before about wanting to be a good big brother" You want to be a good son, too, right' Your Mom wants to help, too. We're a family. Families do things together."

There was a moment of rebellion in the little boy's face, evidently reluctant to share Dean with Nimue right now, but his mother was there with quiet reassurance. "I won't get in the way, I promise," she told her little man, reaching over to wipe a long splat of batter affectionately from Sammy's cheek. "I'll just tidy up the mess my two little monsters have made while they're cookin'." Her thumb tweaked Sam's nose, making him giggle quietly as she stepped around the table to touch a kiss to Dean's cheek. Drawing back, her smile abruptly faded as she realized what she'd done. "Uh ....sorry, I didn't ....I wasn't thinking." A little awkward, she stepped back with another smile, sticking her tongue out at Sammy.

Dean smiled as he watched the interaction between mother and son, pleased by this little preview of his future - the pleasant part of it anyway - his heart warming, feeling like part of a family again, touched by the unthinking and affectionate kiss to his cheek. The smile faded a little at her apology, and he realized, like her, that he wasn't her Dean. Not really. He turned from them both to rummage around for a skillet so they could finish their pancake making quest, but the joy he'd felt a moment ago faded at the realization that he wasn't the man she loved or wanted him to be. That man was gone, dead, never to return.

Nimue winced as Dean turned away, hating herself for bursting the bubble. She'd forgotten in those moments that this wasn't something she had a place in; that this little exercise was all about Sammy and Dean, and she shouldn't have come into the kitchen at all. Her eyes lifted from Dean's back to find Sammy watching them with wide, solemn eyes, feeling the sudden lack of joy keenly as he scraped the wooden spoon through the batter, and the ever-present pain surfaced in her once again. Forcing a smile for her son, she cleared her throat.

"You're right, Sammy, I should go and carry on writing," she said quietly, reaching to stroke her son's cheek lovingly. "You two have fun." The small boy watched her leave the brightness of the kitchen for the dull flicker of candlelight in the darkness of the living room, quiet and solemn now himself.

Dean glanced up from his search for a pan as Nimue made her exit, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he realized he'd inadvertently driven her away. But she was right. This wasn't his time or his place and it wasn't right for him to pretend that it was. He'd lost himself in pretending to be the Dean she loved, the Dean their son loved and looked up to, but it wasn't who he was. Not yet, at least. He wasn't sure if it really mattered, but it seemed to matter to her. He set the skittle on the stove, before looking over at the little boy, who looked both confused and saddened by his parents' behavior. "What do you say we make her breakfast?" Dean asked, hoping to put a smile back on both of their faces the only way he could think of.

Sammy didn't answer right away, staring intently at the dark doorway across the hall as though expecting his mother to return at any moment. Wanting her to come back and prove that she wasn't crying again. When that failed to happen, the little boy looked up at Dean, confusion and distress warring in those big green eyes. "I didn't mean to make her sad," he said in a mournful voice, openly assuming that his father could do no wrong, that it must be his fault his Momma hadn't stayed. "Will breakfast make her happy again?"

"You didn't make her sad, Sam. I did," Dean replied, taking the blame, knowing it was his fault she'd retreated from the kitchen. He couldn't blame her for bursting the bubble. He couldn't imagine what all she'd been through the last four years, and especially the months since his death, and he suddenly felt a swell of guilt and remorse for not being strong enough to hide his own pain for their sake. "Don't worry. It'll be okay," he reassured the boy, forcing himself to believe it as he leaned down to press a kiss against the boy's head. "Why don't you go give her a kiss and a hug and I'll finish up in here?"

"Really?" Sammy frowned, torn between staying in the kitchen with the man he believed was the father who hadn't come home all those months before and going to the mother who didn't want him to see her upset. "You're not gonna go 'way if I go see Momma?"

"No, I'm not gonna go away," he told the boy in a calm voice, offering a warm, reassuring smile. "You go snuggle with your mother. I'll be out in a while. Promise." There he was, making promises again, but this one he knew he would keep. He swept the boy up from the chair and set him on his feet with a fond smile. "Go on, scoot!"

Jo Winchester

Date: 2012-07-19 14:45 EST
Reassured by a promise he took on faith, completely at face value, Sammy let out a loud squeal of laughter as he was yanked off his feet, arms and legs flailing before he was set down again. He turned, wrapping his arms tight around Dean's legs in a brief hug before turning and running into the darkness beyond the kitchen doorway. From the living room beyond there came the sound of quiet voices murmuring to one another, the tone lovingly trusting, words fading away as mother and son wrapped one another up in their own little world.

Dean stood stock still, listening to the quiet sounds that were coming from the other room - the loving exchange between mother and son - and recollected quiet moments with his own mother, taken from him too soon, his thoughts then turning back toward his future wife and son. Was this really to be his future" If this wasn't worth fighting for, he didn't know what was.

Part of him felt a little lost, a little left out. Nimue had made it clear that he wasn't her Dean, but he couldn't help but feel she was still his Nim. His Jo. What difference did it make what her name was or what time she was from' They belonged together and that was all there was to it. He turned his attention to the making of breakfast while all these thoughts went through his head, painstakingly picking the eggshell from the batter before grilling them up. Before long, he had a stack of pancakes on a plate of various sizes.

Before he was ready to call them to breakfast, a peal of Sammy's familiar giggles suddenly erupted from the living room, and a moment later, the little boy came barrelling back into the kitchen, wild-eyed and grinning, bouncing off Dean's hip. "We're gonna have a picnic on the floor," he declared to Dean excitedly, wrenching open another drawer and pulling out two random handfuls of cutlery before pushing the drawer shut again. He ran straight back out of the kitchen, forcing Nimue to side-step or be run over. Her smile was fond and gentle, and it didn't fade entirely as she stepped into the kitchen, moving to stand with Dean.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her upset calmed once again. "I shouldn't have walked in on you guys. I just wanted to be a part of it, you know" And seeing you with Sammy ..." She paused, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. "I want to keep you here," she admitted reluctantly, "but I know you have to go, you have to go back to me when I was younger, and I can't let myself think of you as mine. It's just hard, you know?"

Dean had to lift the plate of pancakes over the little boy's head so they didn't end up on the floor as he came skittering back into the kitchen to announce that they were having a picnic, but before he could say a word, the boy was gone, and he was joined by a quiet and seemingly penitent Nim. He turned to listen to what she had to say, sighing softly as she explained what she was feeling. He set the plate of pancakes on the counter and reached for her hand. "But in a way, I am yours. What difference does it make if I'm four years younger than the Dean you knew" I'm still the same inside. I still love you. I don't see the difference. Should I love you any less than the Nim I left behind?" He twined his fingers with hers, trying now to make her understand.

"I don't know what?s wrong with me," she told him in a low whisper, unconsciously turning toward him as their fingers entwined, her other hand rising to rest against his chest as her eyes lifted to meet his. "It's bad enough that Jo is someone different in my mind, but ....why am I trying to convince myself that the Nim in 2012 isn't me" I keep forgetting that you haven't lived the last four years with me, that you don't know about so much that I've experienced, and then I remember, and I feel guilty for forgetting." She swallowed, glancing down at their joined hands before her stark, raw gaze found his once again. "I love you, Dean. It doesn't matter what year you're from, what reality you're in. You're always gonna be my Dean. But if I want to keep you, I have to let you go."

He met her gaze as she opened her heart to him, knowing how hard it was for her to admit all this, but somehow knowing it needed to be said, taking it all in, feeling a mixture of sympathy and understanding. Part of him wished he could stay and be a part of their lives, but the best thing he could do for them was to go back and change the future, erase his mistakes, and fix the mess that he'd created. "Do you think I want to leave you? You're amazing. Our son is amazing. I can't even start to tell you how much you both mean to me, but we both know I can't stay. This is the only way, Nim. It's the only way to ensure our children have a future." Not only son, but both children.

A tiny smile touched her eyes, flickering at the corner of her mouth, relieved to know that it wasn't just her struggling with the confusion of the situation. Her hand rose higher, cupping his flour-and-batter-caked cheek. "When you get back, I'm going to agree with you, that it's too dangerous to have children," she warned him quietly. "Don't agree with me, don't even give me a hint that I might be right, and I won't try and hide it when I get pregnant. In my past, I didn't tell you until you noticed. Until it was too late for anything but to go through with it, because I was so scared that you'd leave me. You seemed so against starting a family. And because I kept that secret from you so long, it nearly destroyed us. Don't let that happen again."

His mouth moved wordlessly, shocked by this revelation. The one thing he wanted most in all the world was to have children and be part of a family. It was the worry that he couldn't keep them safe that caused the conflict in him. "I don't understand," he said finally, with a confused furrow of brows. "You're the one who keeps telling me we can do it. Why would you change your mind?"

She drew in a slow breath, glancing toward the door to make sure that Sammy wasn't standing there, listening to their conversation. The clink of cutlery in the living room reassured her as she looked back to Dean. "I changed my mind because I saw the man who would have been my father if I'd been born into this reality torn apart by dozens of an enemy I couldn't identify and didn't know how to fight. I couldn't imagine bringing a child into the midst of that carnage, and it scared me." She shook her head, twisting away to pull plates from a cupboard. "And if we don't get you back soon, it won't matter. Not if that ambush was meant for me."

He thought it might be because of her father, but the plan he'd concocted last night before he'd fallen asleep on the desk worked, he'd change that, as well. He was looking forward to meeting the man that would have been her father, and he had no intentions on letting any of what had happened in her past come to fruition. He frowned at her hurry to send him back, knowing it was important, knowing her life depended on it. Thinking about all the what ifs and the implications of every action past and future was enough to make his head spin, but he had a feeling if the plan worked, he'd practically be able to choose the point of his return to the past.

"Give me one day," he said, his eyes pleading with her. "One day to spend with you and..." He broke off before declaring the boy his son, unsure how she might feel about that. "With Sam." One day to know what it was to be a husband and father, before he had to return to his own place in time and hope that what he did in the past changed the future.

She paused, caught and pinned in place by the plea in his eyes. Part of her wanted him gone before she could hurt anymore, before Sammy could convince himself that his father was back to stay, and yet ....she didn't want to let go at all. Setting the plates down, Nimue stepped close once again, rising onto her toes to brush a soft kiss to his lips, forcing herself not to linger through sheer effort of will. "One day," she agreed in a shaking voice. "To be family again."

One day to fix in his mind the future ahead of him, if only he could get home before all hell truly did break loose.

((Time's a funny thing, isn't it' Barely an hour's gone by in the present day, while a whole day is passing in the future. Yeah, I'm being lazy with present day story - sue me. :grin: As always, the megaliciously awesome Dean is the one to thank!))