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Sammy had five toys.
1) A plush deer
One of the things John was the most sorry about was that he couldn't offer his children something better.
For one, a car was far less space than growing children of this age - or any really needed. Long car drives made them restless, so the second they parked at a gas stop to fill up the tank the two of them had already jumped out and were running. Dean quick and energetic and Sammy still on stubbly little legs trying his best to keep up. If they were lucky, they would have ended up at a rest stop surrounded by green fields, maybe with some picknick tables or - in the best cases - a playground. When less lucky, their breaks landed at some massive, tarmacked monstrosity with asphalt burning in the sun and hectic coming and going between the never-ending lines of gas pumps, that left John checking every few seconds that none of his were getting run over by a truck while he was filling the car.
And then there was the point with all their things of course. The trunk was already full with their necessities, their clothes and the hunting equipment and left only little space for other personal items. One day the two of them will be old enough to be content with a book, a fake ID or maybe hunting, but this was still many years away. (And John hoped that by the time his boys reached that age, this all would be long over.) For the time being, small children, especially those trapped in motel rooms for days on end, needed things to play with.
Sammy was still at that age where he quickly grew out of everything - even his toys. One thing he had been holding on for a long time, however, was his plush deer.
Before the fire Sammy had a light blue bunny but only over a year after got replaced.
They found the deer in a second-hand store in Arkansas. John had carried Sammy on his hip as he looked for... John couldn't quite remember what he had been there for that day. Clothes? Silver knives? What he did know was that Dean had come up with a game where he hid somewhere in the store and then jump out between the shelves to surprise John when he walked by. And as John was done and ready to go, Dean had still been hiding.
While John went looking for him, he was walking past the shelf the deer was sitting on. The plushie had already been in a... "well-loved" state when he first saw it, but
for some reason, he stopped in his tracks. It was probably just that his last hunt had put him in a sentimental mood and he had gotten melancholic again over everything they lost. He picked the deer up and gave it to Sammy.
Sammy loved it immediately and so a few minutes later they left not only with Dean but also the deer.
In the car later, John saw through the rearview mirror Sam holding up his deer to the window, showing it the houses and other cars flying past.
"So, what's his name?" John asked. The bunny never had gotten a name; Sammy was still months away from being able to talk back then.
"Dasher." Sammy answered.
"Like Santa's?"
"Yes."
"Santa has reindeer, this one is just a deer."
Sam looked at him with big eyes.
"No." He said finally.
No reason to argue, he is gonna figure it out some time. "Why didn't you call it Rudolph then?" He asked instead.
"Because it doesn't have a red nose, Dad." Sammy said it as condescending as a child his age could manage. "Duh."
From then on Sammy had dragged Dasher the Deer with him everywhere he went. Holding it in his arms when he fell asleep on the backseat when they drove the night through, petting it when he was sick in bed with a fever, taking it with them for lunch and having it sit next to him in the diner booth or pretend feeding it from his plate.
From the beginning on the deer had not been in a good state and Sammy loving it so much did not help.
One day, as John was sitting on his bed cleaning his rifle, Sammy came up to him with big tears rolling down his cheeks. Barely getting his words out through the sobs he lifted up Dasher the Deer.
The plushies right front leg had come off, threads ripped and unraveled, the filling quilling out.
John laid the gun aside, kneeled down to Sammy's height and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to worry. You know why?"
Sammy shook his head and sniffed.
"Because I happen to be a plushie surgeon."
"Really?" Sammy asked with big, wet eyes.
"Yeah. Come, I'm gonna fix him right up."
John got the sewing needle and thread out of the first aid kit and Sammy wiped his tears and snot off with his sleeve. They sat opposite to each other on what came closest to their kitchen table, Sammy resting his chin on the tabletop and watching intensely as John worked.
He took the needle he usually used to sew his injuries, that had been through in his flesh many times - at least he wasn't gonna need the whiskey on a plush deer, he chuckled to himself - and sewed the leg back on.
It didn't turn out very good - or any good. You could see the uneven stiches with the wrong thread and the leg was wonky, at an odd angle and had somehow ended up shorter than the other three.
And of course, it didn't turn out well because John was not a plushie surgeon and his sewing skills were only for practicality, not for anything nice.
2) Big Blocks
In the weeks after Dean got his Legos the mood in their motel rooms had turned more hostile and gave John new reasons for headaches. Dean was sitting on the floor building little houses and cars and fighting-robots and so much more. And Sammy couldn't be stopped trying to play with them, too.
The first problem was that Sammy was still a little bit too little, so that John didn't want too small things in his hands out of fear he might try to eat them again. Second, he still didn't have the fine motoric skills or the understanding to reasonably play with them. And thirdly, well...
Sammy was in awe with everything his big brother did, so when Dean plays with the Legos, Sammy must play with them, too. (And probably he hoped Dean would play with him as well.) Dean adored Sammy but like all siblings - John supposed - there were limits somewhere and Dean's were at Sammy repeatedly knocking his towers over.
To finally bring peace back into his family John went out and bought Sammy his own. Now, next to Dean's box of little blocks was a second box with Sammy's big blocks.
One day, as John came back from a horrible, horrible hunt, he opened the door to their room and saw Sammy and Dean next to each other playing with their respective blocks. Dean had built some kind of castle with the little figures running on top, fighting whatever monster was attacking the castle at the moment. Sammy had some kind of block pile with Dasher the Deer on top and was stacking block pillars next to it. Scattered all throughout the room were more blocks of both sizes. He tousled Sammy's hair as he walked by, gave Dean a pad on the shoulder and let them continue to play.
He came back at early evening today, meaning he could give the boys dinner at a reasonable time for once.
At the kitchenette he got a pot and a mug out of the cabinet, the pot onto the stove and the mug into the coffeemaker - a cheap thing, but at least the room came with one, and after being out in the rain the entire day, anything warm will do. He clicks it on, then the stove... the stove stayed cold. On and off again; nothing. It seems like the gas might be out.
This day just kept on giving.
The gas was not the most surprising thing, honestly. This motel was so bad, it was only a step above sleeping in the car. Then again, John was also just a few dollars away from sleeping in the car, too.
At least this room could still give him this hot, caffeined, brown water that somewhat tasted like coffee.
He leaned against the counter, mug in his hand and tried not to think about little cold hands fighting to keep hold on his arm. Tried to focus just on his kids instead, who were fine.
Dean was so deeply immersed in whatever scene he was playing; he didn't even notice that Sammy had shifted over and stacked his blocks on Dean's castle and kicked off some little figures in the process.
At some point Dean looked up at John. "Are you not cooking anymore?"
"Stove doesn't work. We're gonna order."
"If you're not cooking, then you could play with us."
"Oh, yes, Dad, please?"
He looked down at the hand holding the mug. There was still dried blood underneath his nails.
"Please, Dad, my castle needs a tower, you have to help."
"Oh, I want a tower, too."
He closed his tired eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and put the mug down on the counter.
"Alright, so tell me about what tower you want."
3) Zoo Animals
Sammy will soon be tall enough to fit into the clothes John had bought for Dean after the fire. It was hard to think about that this also meant Mary will soon be dead for the same amount of time as they had together after Dean was born.
Doing his best to ignore this fact and focusing just on the practical side, being able to put Sammy into Dean's old clothes would ease some of John's day-to-day worries. He had already found some of Deans old things that were on the smaller side. They were still too big for Sammy but wearable if he rolled the sleeves and legs up. It was a bit of a sad sight to see Sammy in clothes that fit him so badly, but still better than the jeans that have ripped through two patches already. At least too big clothes made layering easier now that they were quickly moving through fall.
Other old things of Dean's were slowly starting to become options for hand-me-downs as well. Last time John had been digging through the garage he was renting on the search for some rarely used hunting equipment, he found a set of wooden zoo animals. They had been stored here since Dean decided he was too old for them and preferred to play instead with his Superman and Batman action figures.
Sammy hadn't minded them being hand-me-downs (well, most things he owned were second hand anyway), but that they used to belong to Dean made them even better in Sammy's eyes. Dean was the coolest person ever to Sammy and everything he owned or had owned was cool by association.
It didn't happen often these days that John was nervous before a hunt, but it did happen. In a few hours he will go out, to an abandoned house he had located this noon and save a hostage from a demon. And then after, he had some questions this demon might be able to answer.
Sammy sat on the floor; his zoo had been expanded with the deer and blocks mapped out paths. The giraffe was involved in a deep conversation with the elephant and earlier little monkeys had climbed their way up on the furniture and had dispersed over all surfaces.
Dean was on his bed, notebook in his lap and pretended to do schoolwork, but doodling instead. As if John wouldn't notice. He did also notice that Dean kept looking up intermittently and threw short glances over at John. The boy must feel Johns nervosity. He did his best to try to project a calm exterior, but Dean was seeing right through him. At least it seemed to be working on Sammy.
As the hours passed, John checked the salt lines again; he couldn’t risk anything getting in here while he was dealing with the demon... or after in case it went badly. A possibility he did not want to think about, that his boys might get left to fend for themselves. He checked the salt canister he left out for Dean. Dean knew what to do. All fine so far.
"Whaaaa!" Something small and hard hit his shin. A little crocodile pressed against his leg followed by a little Sammy. "You're getting eaten! Wham, wham, wham." The crocodile tapped him repeatedly, probably taking large bites out of him. John supposed he must taste well to wood crocodiles.
"Oh no, a crocodile is eating me!" John said dramatically which left Sammy giggling.
He bent down to pick Sammy up and - tensed as dull footsteps walked through the motel hallway and stopped right outside their door.
This time even Sammy noticed that something was up, his laughter quickly froze.
Apparently, this was one thing too much for Dean's nerves. He turned around, pulled his gun out from underneath his pillow and held the cool, silvern weapon between his little, shaking hands.
"Dean, it's fine." John tried to soothe him. That he was whispering didn't help him be convincing.
It seemed to be enough for dean, however. After a moment of hesitation, he laid it down on the side table next to the bed.
The footsteps left again, and John let out a breath of relief.
Sammy eyed Dean's gun cautiously. It seemed like there were some of Dean’s things Sammy would never like.
4) A Hex Bag called Elenor
John knew very well that a hex beg wasn't a toy, but it seems like no one explained that to Sammy before it was too late. For this one John didn't know how he had even gotten hold of it, but by the time John had noticed and wanted to take it away, Sammy had already gotten too attached to it.
There was nothing dangerous and nothing too macabre in this one thankfully and the witch it belonged to was long dead, so John figured if Sammy really wanted to keep it, then he could.
Also, he thought the hex bad would turn uninteresting soon and Sammy would go back to normal child activities.
That did not happen.
At first Sammy just played with it like with a really bad ball or fidgeted it in his hands, but then it got turned into Dean's arts and craft project. A smiling face was drawn onto it with sharpy and pipe cleaners got glued on for arm and legs.
John was concerned for a moment that Sammy would become upset when he saw it but in actuality, he was blown away. And with that John realized, they were never gonna get rid of that damn bag.
Not only was it not just a thing now, but a character, but also Dean had made it, so Sammy treasured it like it was made of gold.
It had a face now, so it needed a name, too. Sammy was not good with naming things like most children, so he just picked the name of the last person that had been nice to him. In this case: the woman working on the front desk who had given him a piece from candy from the bowl.
His Sammy was a very polite boy, he said thank you to her and popped the cherry flavored bonbon in his mouth.
A few hours later when John got back from getting their takeout, Sammy was sitting on the bed with Dasher the Deer in his lab, and many handfuls of empty candy wrappers around him. And he was still playing with the hex bag.
"This again?" John asked.
Sammy pulled a face. "Her name is Elenor."
Of course it was.
A few months before Sammy first got the hex bad in his hands, there had been another incident. John was working on a case involving a Nachzehrer, deeply buried in his research. So buried in fact, he apparently did not look up for multiple hours while digging through thick lore books. He didn't notice when Sammy stopped drawing with his crayons and instead wandered through the motel room and found a knife. Not even just some kitchen knife but one of John's long and curved hunting knives.
More pathetic for John was that he never noticed it himself.
The first time he looked up was when Dean came back from school and said in a strict tone: "No, Sammy. That's dangerous," and took the knife away from him.
That should have been John's job. Hell, it should have been John's job to make sure that the knife never gotten anywhere near where Sammy could reach.
They had been very lucky he had managed not to hurt himself with it.
Compared to the knife John supposed a hex bad made a significantly better toy.
5) Firetruck
After the hex bag incident and still with the knife on his mind, John felt guilty for having to put his kids through all this; they deserved a happy and stable home and not to have to deal with anything like this. As soon as the demon was dead, they could be a normal family again and Sammy would never be close to such things again.
He supposed the reason why Sammy keeps taking his hunting things was because he had so little else. When Dean was the age Sammy was now, he had a room full of toys and games. Sammy's collection right now was pretty sad. But between munition, motel rooms, gas, feeding and clothing two boys on no consistent income and no stable job, there was no money to spare.
And so, John just stole Sammy a firetruck.
Not John's proudest moment but quickly forgotten about when he saw Sammy's face at being presented with the truck. It was new, still in the box, shiny and without any wear marks, very unlike anything else they owned.
Sammy wasted no time unpacking it (with a little help). He marveled at the truck, played with the little extendable ladder, and rolled it over the floor while making little siren noises. John spent the rest of the evening content with two happy children. That until Sammy's firetruck drove through and destroyed the city Dean had meticulously build over the entire afternoon. The two of them argued until John had enough and sent them to bed.
The next day, they had to leave the motel and got back on the road.
The next night, they slept in the parking lot of a highway rest stop at which no other family would go to.
The temperature had dropped when they had reached higher altitudes, and so both his boys (and Dasher, of course) were huddled on the backseat beneath a pile of blankets, while John himself slept on the front seat.
"Sammy?" Dean whispered louder than he probably thought he was.
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry I got angry at you yesterday."
"I'm sorry for your city."
"It’s alright." Dean hummed. "You know firefighters are supposed to save people and not destroy their houses, yeah?"
"Yeah."
In the early morning hours career truckers were getting ready for their day. They stepped out of the drivers’ cabins into the cold, brisk air. With their breakfasts-to-go and paper coffee cups in their hands, they were talking beneath themselves about road conditions, how much worse the weather was going to turn today and how far they still had to drive. And between them were John and his children.
Sammy rolled his firetruck over the thin layer of first snow and between the legs of amused truckers.
"Oh no!" Dean called.
Sammy stopped and looked up.
"Snow city is on fire!"
Sammys eyes shined in excitement and he started running, hell bend on saving the poor residents of snow city.
John still wasn't allowed to get rid of the hex bag Elenor.
A raw wind blew through the pier. Fog hung low over the river and patches of old snow were jittered on the side of the road. Secluded and a bit off from the busy sections of the harbor there was part in which more of the baren buildings had broken windows than not. Any stores had long left for greener shores and the only residents left were those who had to and some stubborn few holding on. It was the kind of place where people minded their own and avoided eye contact with strangers.
John was leaning against the low wall separating the road from the river below, nursing a beer that should have gotten drunken a while ago.
The rough looking men with him - not that John himself looked any less rough than them - each with their own beer or cigarette in their hand were the fellow hunters John had been working with the last few days.
"So, what are we doing with the doll?" One of the hunters - a guy named Lennart Ulreich from Michigan - said.
This cursed porcelain doll had been a pain in the ass the last few days. It caused the death of four people in just two months. Two older women, one pawn shop employee and one girl. Trying to get the doll back into safe and qualified hands had taken longer than he had planned for, dragging on for days, had been jarring, and barely giving him a moment to rest. He didn't even have time to check on his boys throughout.
"I will take it." Micheal Kane said and dropped the cigarette on the floor and stomping it out underneath his foot. "I know just the guy who should be able to destroy it."
Harry Kimmich stepped forward to give the doll casket over to Kane. John held his arm up stopping them in their tracks.
"I can do it myself. No need to involve anyone else in this. It should be quick."
"Hope you don't mind, but I don't want to give it up to you, Winchester." Kane said sharply and took the doll.
John's plan had been to do this case all on his own, like always, but on the first night as he entered a local bar, he met this group of men. Hunters. Both them and him on the same case. Given the amount the work it would take to get the doll, they should finish it together, they had proposed. And John had agreed reluctantly.
He knew why Kane didn't trust him, John did double cross them after all at one point, but the hunting business was at its core solitary after all, and he is not about to just trust any hunter he came across.
Further, John had already heard of Kane before. Of a man with morals changing like the wind, who did not mind working with and for people who were solely focused on their own interests.
"I guess we are at a stalemate now." John said cooly.
Kane hummed, turned around and pressed the doll into Lennart's hands. "Hold this."
John tensed, making himself ready in case the argument would turn physical.
"You see, Winchester. I'm not too fond of people who mess with me." Kane stepped away from John but stayed close to the low wall separating them from the river. "And I'm not a guy who lets things just slide."
When he reached into his jacket, John himself pulled his gun. But Kane didn't have a weapon in his hand.
It was a plush deer.
Scrappy thing, with ugly stiches and one leg bend oddly.
"What have you done?" John's heart beat up to his throat. His brain went hundred miles an hour and was still not understanding. Refusing to understand.
"After you pulled your shit, I just went to get some things sorted out. Took a souvenir."
Oh god.
Kane ripped Dasher the Deer’s head off and threw both pieces down into the river.
"You sure you want to keep your ground on the doll?" Kane asked, but John had already turned around and ran.
He drove way past the speed limit and ignored one red light after the other. He didn't even notice. His mind was blank except the horror scenarios playing in his head of what could have happened to his children. How could he have ever put them at such a risk? They deserved so much better, to be safe. They were just his boys. John can't lose them they were all he had.
He left the motor on not even closing the car door, ran up to their room, ripped the door open.
Both Sam and Dean looked up at him shocked. They sat on the floor. Surrounded by their blocks and animals. A totally normal scene except for John.
He couldn't breathe. There was no air.
"Dad, what's wrong?" Dean asked.
He couldn’t answer either.
Just dragged himself forward, fell on his knees before them, pulled them into his arms. Sammy in his lap, Dean against his side. He kissed the top of Dean's head and buried his face in Sammy's hair. Tears build up in his eyes. Crying both from relief and the fear that was still running through him. He really didn't want to be crying in front of the kids, didn't want them to see him like this, but-
He was full on sobbing, shaking, barely getting his breath in and out of his lungs.
He realized now that everything had just been a ruse to get him off their backs, but he also couldn't care about that right now, because his children are alright.
Dean shifted so he could lay an arm around John and hug him back. "Hey, Dad, it’s okay. It's gonna be okay." He tried to comfort him.
Sammy was so small, he still cried when his parent did, even if he had no idea what was going on.
"Not you too, Sammy." Dean sounded distraught and pet Sammy's arm.
John knew he was failing on so many levels as a parent right now, but his children were well.
Later that day, after both John and Sam had calmed down again and a little semblance of normality had returned, Sammy came up John.
"I can't find Dasher anywhere; can you help me look for him?"
Sammy had four toys.