Bumf*ck, Nowhere - Part Twelve
Master Post
Part Twelve
“Is she alive?”
No sooner had the demon smoked out of Michelle Schmidt’s body, than Sam was crossing into the devil’s trap and kneeling beside her. He ran his hand up her neck, seeking out the pulse point and quieted; waiting for the telltale thrumming against the pads of his fingers. It was there, and he sighed in relief; his brother, behind him, sighing simultaneously. Sam carefully lifted first one and then the other eyelid.
“She’s got a concussion.”
“She got her bell rung pretty good, dude,” Dean offered, “of course she’s got a concussion. The question is, how bad?”
Loss of consciousness was a pretty good indicator under normal circumstances, however, demon possession was never a normal circumstance and most victims seemed to lose consciousness at least briefly when the demon was exorcized.
“Michelle? Can you hear me?”
Mrs. Schmidt stirred then to the sound of Sam calling her name quietly. Groaning, she leaned away from the soft press of his hand as he probed her scalp for open wounds she might have sustained in the hit.
“Dean, help me with these ropes.”
Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother and together they began tearing away at the knots they’d made to restrain the woman’s body during the exorcism; her arms first and then her legs, until she was free and slumping forward into Dean’s chest.
“I gotcha, sweetheart.” Rising to his feet, Dean gathered the petite woman into his arms. She seemed to weigh next to nothing, so he was easily able to carry her into the house; Sam opening doors and clearing the path before him. Dean laid her gently onto the sofa, smoothing the hair from her face and holding her motionless as she opened her eyes and tried to say something to him.
“Don’t move, okay? Try not to speak. Sammy, get a glass of water or somethin’.”
Sam disappeared into the kitchen, and then returned a short minute later with a glass of water. Dean eased the woman up and helped her to take a few careful sips, and when he asked if it had helped, she nodded yes.
“Kids?” She grasped one of his hands, clinging to it as though he was a lifeline.
“Safe,” Dean answered, giving her hand a comforting squeeze, “and so are you.”
“S’gone?”
“Yes ma’am.” Sam leaned over his brother’s shoulder and into her line of vision. “Once you’re up for it, we’re gonna get you home; make sure you’re okay.”
***
Thick wet snow fell in Boxholm, insulating the town in a blanket of silence so eerie and foreboding that it was almost deafening. Inside the Schmidt home, it was the same; a home full of tension and people; not a one of them saying a word; all of them afraid of jinxing the results from the next room where Michelle Schmidt was being examined by a physician. The closest clinic was eight miles away in Ogden, but the storm that had blown in had made travel outside of town, ‘not recommended’ and travel in town, precarious at best. But Paul, being the local barman, knew everything there was to know about everyone in town. One phone call and he had made arrangements for a doctor from one of the Ogden clinics who lived locally to make a house call. And so they waited - Paul, the three Schmidt children, Sam and Dean - outside the downstairs bedroom, filling up the living room with their uneasy silence.
Carrie sat on one end of the sofa - which was little more than a love seat - with younger brother, Ryan leaning heavily into her side; his head resting on her shoulder. Sam was crammed into the other corner of the sofa with the youngest Schimidt cuddled up in his lap. As still as he was sitting, Timmy could have been sound asleep, but every time Sam leaned his head down to check, the little boy’s blue-gray eyes tilted up to look back at him. Paul was seated in a recliner, rocking a slow and steady rhythm all the while watching Dean nervously pace the floor like an expectant father.
“This is taking forever,” Dean groaned. “Why’s this taking so long?”
“He’s just being thorough, Dean,” Sam offered.
“Light somewhere, will ya kid?” Paul said finally, having grown slightly dizzy from Dean’s back and forth. “You’re making us all nervous.”
Dean did stop then, giving both Paul and Sam dark and stormy looks before promptly sitting down with a huff on the arm of the sofa next to Sam. A moment later, he looked down when Sam suddenly clamped a firm hand over his knee to stop it from bouncing. Dean hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. So many thoughts running through his head kept him from noticing much; except how long the doctor was taking with Michelle Schmidt.
People got hurt all the time in their line of work. Sometimes they were hunters, but more often they were innocent civilians - victims to whatever heinous evil they had chasing after them. But this was different, somehow, and casting his eyes around the room at all the morose faces, he realized that this time was more…personal. He checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes, and puffed his cheeks, exhaling noisily.
As if on cue, the doctor appeared in the doorway, surprising Dean and causing him to nearly fall over himself in his scramble to stand.
Paul too was on his feet. He stepped around Dean and in a quiet, yet commanding voice, said to him: “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”
Dean frowned, but did as he was told, sliding into Paul’s relinquished chair and ignoring Sam’s pointed look. They watched as Paul met the doctor midway across the room, shook the man’s hand and exchanged a few quiet words before the doctor turned to address the room.
The doctor rounded the sofa and took a seat on the sturdy coffee table in front of them and placed a comforting hand on Ryan’s knee. “Your mother will be fine. She’s got a pretty good bump on her head; right here,” he touched his fingers to a place on his head up and to the back of his right ear, and then said to Carrie, “I’ll show you how to take care of it, okay? I don’t want you giving her any Ibuprofen right now, because she has a minor concussion, but she’s thinking clearly, and that’s a good sign. You can use ice packs for any swelling or pain too. What she needs most is a lot of rest, so you children be good for her, alright?” The doctor glanced across at Dean and Sam. “I want her to be seen again in a few days; either by her own doctor if she can get into Ames or by me if this weather still hasn’t cleared up.” He turned back to Carrie. “Do you have any questions?”
Wide-eyed and looking a bit intimidated, Carrie shook her head.
“You can go in and see her, but just for a few minutes. She really does need her rest.”
Carrie rose, and like he was magnetized to her side, Ryan immediately followed her. Tim, however, buried himself further into Sam’s chest, clinging to him.
“Timmy,” Carrie called, holding her hand out to him, but her little brother vehemently shook his head ‘no’, clutching at Sam’s over shirt.
“It’s alright,” Sam assured her. “He can stay with me. You two go on.”
Carrie hesitated for a second, but then nodded and took Ryan by the hand instead and together they walked into their mother’s bedroom.
“S’okay bud, I gotcha.” Sam wrapped his arms around the little boy, tucking him under his chin and rocking him gently. He glanced up and was surprised to find Dean watching them; his eyes, heavy with something that Sam couldn’t place.
“So…” Dean averted his eyes and turned his attention back to the doctor. “She’s really gonna be okay…Michelle?”
“Yes, well, like I said, I want her to be checked out in a clinic once this storm is passed, but it does appear to be just a low grade concussion; nothing some rest won’t fix.” He gave them a genuine, yet reserved smile, and then changed the subject. “Paul tells me you and the Schmidtz are family?”
Sam was the first to speak, rolling naturally into one of many backstories they had used in the past: Cousins from out of town, visiting for the holidays. “We’re staying with Mrs. Kirchmann, cuz Shelly doesn’t have a lot of room,” he said, using the nickname as though it were second nature.
“And because we kinda sprung this on her last minute,” Dean added. “Surprise!” he held his hands up with a big cheesy smile. Sam rolled his eyes, hid his amused smirk in Timmy’s hair.
“Well, it’s a very good thing you are here,” the doctor affirmed. “The head injury isn’t serious, but it’s most certainly not something these children should have to deal with alone. I feel better knowing they have family around to help them.”
“Family first, right Sammy?” Dean answered, locking eyes with his brother.
“Sam? Dean?” Carrie appeared in the doorway. “Mom’s asking for you.”
Dean was the first to stand, offering a hand out to his brother, who had the added weight of a five-year-old to contend with. He pulled Sam up, gave his brother’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and then leaned into Tim’s line of sight.
“You wanna go in with us to see your mom, little man?”
Tim wrapped his long skinny legs around Sam’s narrow waist, clinging to him tighter, but did finally nod his head into Sam’s chest.
“Good boy,” Dean soothed, rubbing the young man’s back calmingly.
***
“You gonna tell me what’s going on with you?”
As a measure of protection, Sam and Dean had bedded down for the night in the Schmidts’ living room; Dean on the floor and Sam on the sofa because his brother had insisted. Sam had tried to argue that it hadn’t been him to take the header into the hardwood floors and certainly Dean needed the couch more than himself, but his brother’s response had been a snide: Yeah, well, I’m tougher than you are and you need your beauty sleep for those cougars down at the salon.
So Sam had taken the sofa which was much too short to fit his lanky body, and Dean had made a quilt-lined bed for himself on the floor, where he laid with his hands tucked casually under the back of his head. At the sound of his little brother’s quiet voice, Dean looked up at Sam from his place on the floor and tried to get a read on Sam’s mood.
Sam had rolled on to his side and was looking back at his brother from over the edge of the sofa. Even in the low light, Dean could make out the tell-tale signs of a man wanting to ‘talk it out’; the drawn brows, the corner of Sam’s lower lip pulled in between his teeth, the dark depth of his eyes as they attempted to seek the truth in Dean’s.
Sorry Sammy, Dean thought, it’s been way too long of a day - Hell…week - for that garbage. He shrugged, nonchalantly and turned over onto his belly, saying, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I’m talkin’ about how quiet you’ve been tonight and all the looks you’ve been-”
“Go to sleep Sam,” Dean interrupted, his voice muffled by the SpongeBob pillow he’d borrowed from Timmy. He closed his eyes, buried his face into the pillow, and did his best to shut out the nagging weight of his brother’s eyes on him.
There was an exaggerated sigh of frustration, as well as the sound of Sam punching his pillow and trying to get comfortable on the too small sofa, and then a moment later, the long steady breaths of sleep. Dean turned his ear and let the soft sounds of his brother lull him until the world faded away.
***
Christmas Eve arrived on a bright crisp Sunday morning and Sam had left shortly after first light to work in the salon. A large, local Christmas party that evening promised a busy day and the opportunity for decent tips and Sam was not about to turn that down. Dean, however, had the day free and spent the morning faking his way through breakfast.
“I know what I’m doin’” he scolded Carrie, when she peeked over his shoulder and suspiciously eyed the gelatinous yellow lump in the skillet. She raised her hands in surrender and smiled dubiously before snatching up a slice of butter toast and walking away. Dean made a face behind her back and delighted when the boys voted unanimously that Dean’s eggs were: ‘Not so bad.’ He would take that as a win.
Afterwards, Dean did his best to fade into the background as the Schmidt family seemed to quickly resume their business as usual. The boys roamed the house, playing, until eventually they were told by their sister to go outdoors, and Carrie saw to her mother as well as the household, which had been neglected for two days. Dean took advantage of the quiet to pay Michelle a visit in her room.
He found her propped up against the headboard, awake, but resting quietly in the darkened room.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, carefully sitting down on the end of her bed.
“Oh,” she smiled weakly at him, “about a well as can be expected after being possessed by a demon.”
“You remember that, do you?”
“Not so much, no. But I picked up on little things…from within. It’s a bit like waking up from a dream, you know. You can almost remember what it was about, and then it just…drifts away from you?”
Dean nodded his understanding, although he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He’d had so many questions he wanted to ask her: Why it’d gone after Mark Heiser? What exactly did Yellow Eyes have in store for his ‘Special Children’? And what had it meant when it had said there was another demon set on getting its hands on Sammy? Too many unknown variables and nowhere to get the answers.
“Carrie tells me I have you and your brother to thank for bringing me home to my kids. My own, personal heroes.”
“We were just doing our job, ma’am,” Dean said, his ears tipping the palest shade of pink.
“Your job involves fighting demons?”
“Something like.”
“You saved my life, and you protected my kids…that makes you heroes in my book. I’ll never be able to truly repay you, but I can at least make sure you and your brother have some place to go for Christmas.”
“Oh. No, really…”Dean shook his head, “we don’t-”
“It wasn’t a suggestion. We want you here - the kids and I - and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Sammy and I…we just don’t…uh…”
They were interrupted by a swell of sound; thundering feet and rolling, little boy giggles, layered over top of Sam’s deep tenor. Sammy was back from his shift and by the sounds of things, already had the boys in a frenzy of excitement.
Saved by the bell. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and smiled sheepishly. “Better go see what all the commotion is about.” He stood up, but not before Michelle could catch hold of his hand. He glanced first at where their hands were connected and then back to her tired eyes.
“We’re not done talking about this.”
***
Sam had been ambushed in the driveway by two miniature abominable snowmen. Ryan and Timmy - both dressed in full snowsuits - had come barreling out of the snow cave they had spent the entire day digging. They chattered excitedly at Sam, jumping and clambering all over him and trying to pull him into their ‘Fortress of Snowitude’. With two boys physically attached to his legs, Sam lumbered up the snow-covered walk and burst through the door. The three of them tumbled into a snow-laden heap on the floor, laughing and giggling.
Alarmed by the ruckus, Carrie ran to the entry. “What is going on out here?” she exclaimed, but her worry melted away when three smiling faced turned up to her from the dog pile. “What are you guys doing to him? Get up.”
“It’s alright. They’re not bothering me,” Sam promised. Ryan clambered off of the floor and then threw himself over Sam’s back, wrapping his long, skinny arms around Sam’s neck in what was intended to be a choke hold. Sam reached up and snagged the boy by the back of his winter coat and hauled up and over his shoulder, laying him out on his back and pancaking him to the floor. Timmy scrambled to his feet and came to his big brother’s aid, but was quickly subdued as well when Sam wrapped a long arm around him and pulling him into his grip. Both boys squealed and giggled as the fought to win their freedom, to no avail.
“See, I got it all under control,” Sam said, grinning broadly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Dean, arms crossed casually, leaning up against the doorframe with a soft smile.
“Under control or not,” Carrie piped up, “Mom’s trying to rest, so if y’all’re gonna be that noisy, you’re gonna have to take it back outside.”
“Yay!” the boys cheered from beneath Sam. In a flash, they had kicked and squirmed out of his hold, and were pulling him to his feet, intent on the goal of dragging Sam back outside with then.
“Wait, wait, wait…what about Dean?” Sam argued with them. “Dean wants to go too.” Sam couldn’t help grinning at his brother, knowing full well that he sounded like the six-year-old who had once been the center of Dean’s universe. Back then his brother would have bent over backwards to give in to any whim that Sam had. Then again, it appeared that not much had changed, because next thing Sam knew, Dean was rolling his eyes in mock exasperation and pushing off the wall to join them.
“Alright,” Dean conceded. “Let’s go.”
---
Part Thirteen