The Runt of the Litter

i believe the children are not going to make it

Note: hey babes <3 thank you for the comments over this last week, i know i haven't answered all of you, but i appreciate every kind word so much!

sorry in advance but this chapter is pretty short. i've had a bad week and i had every intention of writing something more substantial for you guys today... but i woke up very depressed and tired and i can't seem to shake the feeling. so i brushed the dust off an old one shot and added to it. i hope you enjoy what's here :)

Anna is almost two in this one. 

i believe the children are not going to make it

Sam hit his knees in the dirt, feeling the press of earth against the old bruises there. His lungs filled fast emptied faster, making his lips dry and his cheeks flush red.

"Four minutes. Not bad, Sammy," Dean said above him.

"See how far a little effort goes?" John disrupted, stepping up so his shadow loomed over Sam's body. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and he had their sister on his hip. Sam looked up, craning is neck back to see his father's face. He'd managed to get even more wasted in the four minutes Sam had spent running. "If you would apply yourself more often, maybe I could make a real hunter out of you."

It made Sam's blood boil, but he was too tired to do anything about it. He dragged himself to a standing position, itching to take Anna from their father when John turned around and almost tripped over his own feet. He glanced at Dean and could see him resisting the same urge.

"Hey, Dad," Dean said, ever the strategist when it came to their father. "It's getting late. Why don't I take Anna in and put her to bed?"

John looked down at the one year old in his arms and his eyes got that wistful look to them that he'd worn even more today than he usually did. "Wonder how it is she looks just like your mother," he said.

Sam felt a pang in his stomach that made him want to throw up. November 2nd never got any easier, no matter how many times they went through it. He wished selfishly that his dad would be as silent in his grief today as he was every other day of the year. And as selfish as it was, he didn't regret that wish, because he and Dean had to keep being quiet today. In fact, they had to be even quieter.

Sam looked at Anna, her little arms wrapping around Dean's neck as their brother took her. He wondered how old she would be when she first started to worry about setting their father off; in November of which year she would learn to walk on eggshells. He looked at her big eyes, a little wider than normal as she snuggled into the crook of Dean's neck. She was watching their father.

He was faced with an image of himself from ten years ago, clinging to Dean's shirt, looking bug-eyed up at Dad and being careful not to breathe too loud.

"Sam," Dean prompted, a call to follow him inside.

Sam stood still for a second, just staring. But then he remembered that the safest place to puzzle over their father was behind Dean.

"Sammy."

He hurried to the door.

()()()

Anna was toeing the line with their father, and Sam was running out of ways to delay the inevitable. He knew he should be better at this by now, freshly turned eighteen and all. But the fact of the matter was, the toddler shouldn't be the one who has to check themself.

Sam swung his eyes over to John, who was drinking a beer, reading a newspaper, looking pissed for no particular reason. He recalled the reunion when John had returned just this morning and Anna had run right up to him for a big hug and kiss. It felt like a million years ago.