would like to request a story where Tracy is around 4 and Dean receives a call from school that they should pick her up because she has a fever, threw up and is feeling down
Sam and Dean get worried and immediately go get her
they try to figure out what happened, since she was fine when they dropped her off that morning
she spends the whole day and night very sad and quieter than usual
after looking for answers they question her teacher and she tells they were learning about family dynamics, which got Tracy very sad and feeling like she was missing out the experience of having a mother, for example
basically lots of fluff and angst and family drama, typical of the Winchesters
sorry if that was too long, love your works!!
⤷ the truth, and how much it hurts — .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 . ݁ ⁺₊
summary: when tracy is sent home from preschool sick, sam and dean assume it’s just a fever, until they learn what really upset her. a quiet, painful look at childhood, missing pieces, and the weight of family she’s only beginning to understand.
pairing: dean winchester x little!sister reader, sam winchester x little!sister reader
warnings: generally none, minor mention of being physically sick & some angst !
tracy winchester masterlist // navigation // requests
note: thank you for this request I hope you like it <3 & hope everyone’s 2026 is going well! I’m currently working on more requests that will be posted soon!
The call comes in the middle of nothing.
Dean is elbow deep in the Impala’s engine, sleeves rolled, grease on his hands, when his phone starts buzzing against the hood. He ignores it at first. Lets it buzz. Lets it buzz again. Sam is inside Bobby’s house, papers spread across the table, flipping through lore with one ear tuned to the radio.
Dean sighs, reaches out with the cleanest part of his wrist, and checks the screen
Something in his chest tightens before he even answers.
“Yeah?” he says, sharp, distracted.
There’s a pause on the other end. A woman’s voice. Polite. Careful. Professional in the way that makes his stomach drop.
“Hello, is this Tracy Winchester’s guardian?”
Dean straightens immediately. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she okay?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“She’s safe,” the woman says quickly, and Dean exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “But she’s developed a fever over the last hour, she’s been sick, and she seems very withdrawn. We think it would be best if you came to pick her up.”
Dean doesn’t even hesitate.
“On our way,” he says, already moving. He hangs up without waiting for a response.
“Sam!” he calls, voice sharp, urgency slicing through the quiet.
Sam appears in the doorway instantly, already reading Dean’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“The school rang, said Tracy threw up.”
Sam’s color drains. He grabs his jacket, keys already in his hand. “Let’s go.”
Dean drives faster than usual, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Sam keeps glancing at the clock on the dash, counting minutes, replaying the morning in his head.
“She was fine,” Sam says, more to himself than Dean. “She ate breakfast. She was talking. She didn’t feel warm.”
“I know,” Dean mutters. “She was normal.”
The word feels fragile. Breakable.
Dean pulls into the small parking lot out front of the preschool and barely puts the car in park before he’s out the door. Sam is right behind him
Inside, everything feels too bright. Too cheerful. Children’s voices echo down the hallway, laughter and crying and chatter mixing together.
Dean spots Tracy immediately.
She’s sitting on a little plastic chair near the front desk, wrapped in a thin blanket that’s clearly not hers. Her curls are limp, plastered slightly to her forehead with sweat. Her shoulders are slumped forward, small hands folded in her lap.
She doesn’t look up until Dean says her name.
Her head snaps up. Her eyes go watery instantly.
“Dean,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
He’s across the room in three steps, crouching in front of her. He presses the back of his fingers to her forehead and immediately swears under his breath.
“You’re burnin’ up,” he says softly.
She leans forward without thinking, pressing her face into his chest. Her arms wrap around his neck weakly, like she doesn’t have the energy to hold on very tight.
Sam kneels beside them. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently. “You feel sick?”
She nods, a small movement. “My tummy hurts.”
Dean scoops her up without asking. She doesn’t protest. Just melts into him, head dropping onto his shoulder.
The teacher explains what happened. Fever spiked quickly. She’d gotten sick in the bathroom. Hadn’t wanted to talk much afterward. Just sat quietly.
“She kept asking if she could go home,” the woman adds, her voice soft. “She seemed… sad.”
Dean nods, jaw tight. “We got her.”
Back in the car, Tracy curls up against Dean in the passenger seat, seatbelt loose enough to let her lean into him while still being safe. Sam watches her from the corner of his eye, concern etched into every line of his face.
“Did you eat something bad?” Sam asks gently.
“Did someone hurt you?” Dean asks, sharper.
She shakes her head again, curls barely moving.
By the time they reach Bobby’s, Tracy is quieter than either of them like. She doesn’t complain. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t ask questions. She just follows directions, curling up on the couch under a blanket while Sam fetches the thermometer and Dean brings water.
Her fever is mild. Not dangerous. Enough to make her miserable, not enough to explain the way she looks hollowed out.
“She’s sick,” Dean says, trying to convince himself. “Kids get sick.”
Sam nods. But he’s watching Tracy too closely.
Tracy sleeps on and off. When she’s awake, she stares at nothing. Picks at the edge of the blanket. Doesn’t ask for cartoons. Doesn’t want to color.
At dinner, she eats two bites of soup and pushes the bowl away.
“I’m not hungry,” she murmurs.
Dean’s chest tightens. “You gotta eat a little, kid.”
She nods obediently, takes one more spoonful, then stops again.
She wakes up crying once, quiet tears leaking down her cheeks, face flushed and hot. Dean carries her to the bathroom when she says her stomach hurts again. He sits on the floor with her, rubbing her back, murmuring nonsense reassurances while she retches weakly into the toilet.
Afterward, she just sags against him.
Dean’s throat tightens painfully. “Hey. No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She nods, not really hearing him.
He carries her back to bed. She doesn’t protest when he stays, sitting on the edge, one hand resting lightly on her back until she falls asleep again.
Sam watches from the doorway.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Sam says quietly once they’re sure she’s asleep.
Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
When the next morning approach’s, Tracy’s fever is gone.
She moves slowly. Speaks softly. Keeps close to Dean in a way she hasn’t since her first day of preschool. She doesn’t want to play. She doesn’t want to watch TV. She sits at the table with her crayons but doesn’t draw.
Sam tries gently. “You wanna tell us what happened yesterday?”
Dean crouches beside her chair. “Did someone say something to you?”
Sam frowns. “Did you feel sick before you threw up?”
Dean exchanges another glance with Sam. Something’s missing. They can feel it.
They decide to go back to the preschool.
The teacher looks relieved when she sees Tracy’s brothers again. Concern creases her face when she hears Tracy is still withdrawn.
“I was hoping you’d come back,” she admits. “I was worried.”
“What happened yesterday?” Sam asks carefully. “Before she got sick.”
The teacher hesitates. Then sighs.
“We were doing a lesson on families.”
“We were talking about different kinds of families,” she continues. “Moms, dads, siblings. Who lives in your house. We asked the kids to draw pictures of their families.”
“And Tracy?” he asks quietly.
“She didn’t draw,” the teacher says. “She sat there for a long time. When I asked her if she wanted help, she just… looked really sad.”
“She asked me where her mom was,” the teacher continues, clearly uncomfortable. “I didn’t know how to answer. I told her that families can look different, and that sometimes people aren’t around. She nodded. And then later… she got sick.”
The silence after that feels heavy.
Dean thanks her, voice stiff, and ushers Sam back outside.
They don’t speak until they’re back in the car.
“She thinks she’s missing something,” Sam says finally, voice tight. “Something everyone else has.”
Dean grips the steering wheel. “She is.”
They sit in that truth for a long moment.
That night, Tracy is sitting on the bed in Bobby’s spare room, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the wall when Dean knocks softly.
“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd her.
“Your teacher told us about yesterday,” he says gently.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds quickly. “Okay?”
She nods but doesn’t look at him.
“Do you wanna tell me what you were thinking?”
Finally, very quietly, she asks, “Why don’t I have a mommy?”
The question hits Dean like a punch.
He swallows, choosing his words carefully. “You do. She’s just… not here.”
“Everyone else’s moms pick them up,” Tracy whispers. “They draw pictures with them. They make lunches.”
Dean closes his eyes briefly.
Sam appears in the doorway, leaning quietly, listening.
“It made my tummy hurt,” Tracy says, tears finally spilling. “I think I got sick ‘cause I was sad.”
Dean’s chest aches painfully.
He reaches out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn’t. She leans into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder.
“Oh, kid,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
Sam steps closer. “You’re not missing out because you did something wrong,” he says gently. “None of this is your fault.”
She sniffles. “I just… wanted to know what it’s like.”
Dean wraps an arm around her fully now, holding her close. “Yeah. I know.”
She curls into him, small body warm and trembling.
“You still have us,” Sam adds softly.
She nods against Dean’s chest. “I know.”
They sit there like that for a long time.
Later, when she finally falls asleep again, breathing even and calm, Dean stays seated beside her bed long after Sam leaves.
Because for the first time, it’s hit him just how much she understands.
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