THSS 1
Master Post
Part One | Part Two | Part 3 | Notes and Acknowledgements (possibly spoilery)
The Hapless Soldier's Sigh
***
Golden sunlight, warm despite the early hour, spilled in through the window. Sharon hummed to herself and did a little two-step in front of the fridge. She caught herself quickly and glanced over her shoulder, but her daughter was nowhere in sight. Good. Natalie had been very clear about what was cool these days, and dancing mothers were definitely not. Neither was being called ‘Nattie’. Sometimes it was hard to tell she was only seven. Sharon picked a few eggs out of the carton and balanced them on the countertop by the stove, frowning slightly. It was a shame, really; she had loved calling her little girl that. But, she consoled herself, cracking the shells expertly on the edge of the pan, it would be a long time before Mommy’s blueberry pancakes went out of style.
She poured milk into a cup, mixed in the garishly sweet instant hot chocolate mix, and put the concoction into the microwave. Her daughter’s rejection of everything childish was probably a reaction to Martin leaving, she told herself. The divorce hadn’t been pretty, even though they’d tried to keep their daughter out of it as much as possible, and she’d read the books and gone to the meetings and knew that things like that were hard on children.
She set the milk carton down with a sigh, pressed her palms flat on the surface of the counter and breathed deeply, in and out, in and out. Their last fights had been hell on Sharon, too. She was all too aware that she might not have made it if it weren’t for her daughter to cling to.
But Sharon couldn’t smother her now. Natalie needed independence, to feel in control of her life, and to feel the stability Sharon could give her as a mother. She needed love, and love, Sharon could do. She pushed her bangs out of her face and made herself smile. Her little girl was not all grown up yet, after all. Just yesterday, a stray ball had knocked one of Nattie’s baby teeth out in gym class and Sharon had held her daughter for over an hour, just rocking her back and forth and crooning reassurances. And when it had been time for bed, the girl had gotten so excited about the tooth fairy coming that it had been hard to put her to sleep at all.
Sharon flipped the pancake over with a spatula, revealing golden brown dough, just right, and looked over at the clock. She quickly took off her apron and wiped her hands with it, moved one of the new, colorful plates an inch to the right, and made her way up the stairs.
“Wakey-wakey,” she called, “Time for breakfast.”
There was no sound from her daughter’s room, not that she was expecting it. No child woke up early to go to school.
Sharon stopped at the door with the colorful name tag, cocked her head to listen, and knocked.
“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s a new day.”
Silence was all that answered her. Sharon smiled indulgently - that was her Nattie, stubborn even in sleep.
“Okay, I’m coming in,” she called. She didn’t notice the suspicious red smudges on the brass as she turned the handle. She pushed the door open with a smile, paused, and started screaming.
***
“Daddy?”
John glanced down in surprise at the darkening mop of hair at his side; he hadn’t even heard the kid get out of the Impala.
“I thought I told you to stay in the car,” he said. His tone was harsh, he could tell, but he was tired. He had just driven over 200 miles in a single day, with two boys who would much rather wreak havoc on Bobby’s junk yard than be here - even if Dean was too smart to say it out loud.
“But I wanted to look at the house,” Sam whined, learning heavily against John’s legs.
John left him there and glanced at the building again, then at the piece of paper in his hand.
It was supposed to be a mansion. Cold Rock Manor, the address read, 14 Copper Lane.
‘Copper Lane’ was a joke. It wasn’t even a real road, just a trampled dirt path, forking off from the main road before they even got to the sign welcoming them to Lame Deer, Montana. Tall pine trees lined the road on either side, rising tall and forbidding into the distance. At the end of the driveway, muddy from a recent shower of rain, half-hidden between badly kept Chokecherry bushes and blackberry vines, stood the three story tall Cold Rock Manor like a relic from ancient times.
It was surprisingly small for a mansion, not much larger in size than a regular townhouse. There was a porch that made an attempt at looking fancy, but apart from that, Cold Rock Manor was a large house with clumsily decorated windows and a sickly green paint job. Ivy crept up its side, wrapping long limbs around the classical columns of the porch and squeezing the life out of them. Even from the distance, the wooden boards looked faded and cracked. The paint peeled from the walls. A shutter up on the second story was nailed shut with a large board.
John almost snickered. Of course the place would look like a haunted house, something out of that Scooby Doo cartoon. Not that he minded. Things that lived in the suburbs, hiding behind white picket fences, were usually a good deal scarier.
“Do we have to stay here?” Sam moaned against the fabric of John’s jeans, hugging John’s leg tightly, “It looks icky. I wanna go to Disneyland.”
John glared at Dean who sat slouched in the front seat, reading his comic book and pointedly ignoring the two of them. John couldn’t blame him - Sam had been whining incessantly for the past 100 miles, and it wasn’t just John who was about to lose his temper.
“We’re not going to Disneyland,” John growled, pushing his youngest toward the car. Not even if we could afford it.
“Why not?” Sam asked over his shoulder, but it was token protest and they both knew it. John pointed him sternly to the car. Sam crawled in, sticking out his small butt like he would have mooned John if he had been old enough to know what that was, and pulled the door shut a little too forcefully. John sighed.
He took a moment to breathe in the air that still smelled like the last bout of rain. He looked down at his mud-caked boots and frowned. A brief inspection of the ground confirmed his fears; the summer rain on the dust had transformed the driveway into a mudslide. There was no way he was putting his baby through that.
Steeling himself against the whining that his decision was bound to cause, he strode over to the car and pulled the door open.
“We’ll leave the Impala here,” he decreed, “She’ll only get stuck in the mud.”
Dean finally put the comic down, looking around with awakening interest. Sammy seemed about to open his mouth and complain again, so John quickly shut the door again.
He popped the trunk with one hand and beckoned Dean with the other. The boy had gotten out as well, taking in their surroundings, but he reached for his pack graciously enough.
“Sam, come get your backpack,” John called. He heaved the weapons bag over his shoulder and closed the trunk with a thud. He’d get his clothes in the morning, once the path was dry enough to drive on.
Sam inched the back door open, casting accusatory glances around him. Dean, already on his way down the road, chomping at the bit, turned and gave his brother a wave.
“Come on, Sammy, let’s go!”
Sam trotted after him, dragging his feet like he was sleepwalking, and John pushed the short straps of the backpack over his shoulder and went to lock up the car.
***
Sam lasted about half the driveway before he stopped right in front of John, nearly tripping him, and lifted his arms.
“Sam, goddamn it…” John growled as he narrowly avoided smacking into his youngest with a sports bag filled to the brim with metallic items. He stretched out a hand, ready to turn Sam bodily back towards the mansion and push him forwards, but Sammy’s eyes were almost closed and even John had to admit that sometimes enough was enough.
“Dean,” he called.
The boy stopped and turned, then came trudging back with a sigh when John waved him over. He took the backpack with Sammy’s things, sagging a little under its weight and pushed the straps over his arms so the pack was resting against his chest. He waited for John’s nod of permission before he took off again, kicking a pebble into the wet grass by the side of the road.
John slung both handles of the weapons bag over one shoulder. He leaned down, tilting a little, to slide the other arm under Sam’s butt. Sam’s arms immediately wrapped themselves around John’s neck, his legs sure to cause bruises where they dug into his waist. The small cold nose unerringly found a warm patch of skin at John’s neck.
Holding the clinging little monkey tightly, John maneuvered around a large puddle.
“You’re really getting too old to be carried,” he told the kid sternly. Sam snuffled against his neck, and John sighed. He was too tired for baby tears right now. So instead of making Sam walk like he should, he concentrated on dragging himself along the driveway and avoiding the puddles of sludge and ignoring the fact that Sam was really starting to get heavy.
John heaved a sigh of relief when he finally spotted a path paved with flat, round stones leading through a Chokecherry thicket and towards the front door of the house. Then he spotted Dean already on the porch, hand raised to knock, and almost had a heart attack.
“Dean!” he snapped. The boy turned, surprised but not guilty, frowned and waited until John had reached him.
“Don’t do that,” he chastised, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? There could be anything inside that house.”
Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, eying John dubiously.
“So what are we going to do, burn it down?”
John rolled his eyes, turned to the door and knocked; two times, hard.
“Coming!” was the immediate reply, called from somewhere in the house. John put one hand on Dean’s shoulder and pulled the boy against his side, shifting Sam so he could easily shove the boy at his brother if things went south.
The man who opened the door was tall and lanky, with a sharp nose and short curly hair of an indefinable grey-brownish color. He wore corduroy pants and a blue sweater with a dress-shirt underneath, giving the overall impression that he’d rather break out the golfing gear than be here.
“Lance?” John asked.
“Mr. Winchester?” Lance replied. John nodded.
“Yeah.”
“And you must be Dean,” Lance said with a smile. Dean stared at him. Sammy sniffed against John’s neck and John rocked him lightly, hoping against hope that the boy wouldn’t pick this inopportune time to wake up. His arms were starting to hurt, though, and he scowled at the man in the doorway.
Guilty recognition flitted across Lance’s face and he almost tripped over his own feet stepping back to let them through, muttering, “Of course, of course, come in, I apologize, you must be exhausted.”
He was, but then John hadn’t felt truly rested in five years or so, hadn’t been able to slow down and take a breath, so he just nodded and pushed past Lance. The large hallway was dark but open, with doors to a kitchen and a living room and a staircase leading upwards.
“Bedroom?” John growled at Lance, who nodded hastily.
“There are several guest bedrooms upstairs on the second floor,” he said, “Feel free to choose any one you are comfortable with.”
John nodded.
“Stay with me, Dean,” he said.
Dean nodded, rolling his eyes, and John raised his eyebrows at him before lifting Sam higher on his hips and heading upstairs. He slowly made his way up the rickety staircase, steps creaking under his heavy boots. Sam remained slumped against John’s chest. At the landing, John picked the second-closest door and pushed it open. There was a nicely-sized queen bed in it, if little else. It smelled a little dusty but it would do for the night. His boys had certainly endured worse.
“Wait here,” he told Dean, who rolled his eyes again and began to inspect the pictures lining the hallway, already looking bored.
John gathered up both of the boys’ backpacks and dropped them on one side of the bed. He somehow managed to get the sweater off Sam without putting him down or waking him up, but when he pried the boy’s fingers loose from their death grip in his shirt, Sam regained consciousness just long enough to register that Dean’s pack was lying next to him and start whining.
“But I want my own bed!” he groused, twisting in John’s arms.
“Sam!” John hissed, catching the kicking feet and holding them still. “You can get your own bed tomorrow. Tonight, you’re going to sleep in this bed, right now, without another word, is that clear?”
Two fat tears rolled down Sam’s face, but the boy fell silent immediately. John pulled his shoes off him with a sigh, worked the comforter out from under him and flipped it over the small body.
“Sleep,” he said, softening his voice a little. Sam curled away from him, his thumb sliding between his lips, but John felt too tired and too old to reprimand him for that. He gave one short leg a pat and dragged himself outside, leaving the door open just far enough to let a ray of light fall into the darkness of the room.
***
Dean was still waiting in the hall, inspecting the flowery 80s wallpaper. John gestured him over, crouched down and pointed a finger at the boy’s chest.
“This is your room. You’ll both the sleeping here tonight. We’ll find Sammy something else in the morning.”
Dean stifled a yawn.
“Okay,” he said, pulling away, but John held him tight.
“Dean, concentrate. You need to watch out for your brother, especially right now. We have to be careful.”
Dean nodded and cast a longing look at the door.
“I mean it, dude. Don’t go wandering around, you hear me? No excursions without me being up and knowing about it.”
“I got it, Dad,” Dean assured him, fidgeting. “M’not gonna do anything without your permission. Okay?”
“Yeah.” John let go of the boy’s arm and rose. He pushed the door open and allowed Dean to step inside first.
“Quiet, he should be asleep.”
“I can see that, Dad,” Dean informed him dryly. He toed off his sneakers, pulled off his pants and sweatshirt, and flipped the covers back. He rolled over on his side, pulling Sammy closer to him, and gave John a look.
“Why are you still here, Dad?” he asked, quietly so as not to wake his brother, “I got this, okay?”
Feeling relieved but useless, John nodded and slipped quietly out the door. There was still a light on downstairs, and he followed its call almost mindlessly, like a moth drawn to a flame. He found Lance sitting on one of the couches in the living room, watching the darkening sky through the glass windows on the west side of the house. Small flowers and leaves fluttered against the glass, and John couldn’t help feeling jumpy and raw.
“Hey,” he said.
Lance looked up and smiled.
“Did you get settled in alright?” he asked, gesturing at the other end of the couch. He waited until John, feeling awkward, had settled down, and held out his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, “My name is Frederic Lance.”
John knew that, of course. He knew Lance was 38 years old. He knew he was of Dutch descent and had attended Oxford University for a couple of years before he suddenly decided to quit his studies for unknown reasons and retire to the backwaters of Montana. He knew Lance had called Bobby Singer three days ago, when John had been up to his elbows in engine grease, and reported that something supernatural was killing off his town.
John just looked at the man for a moment, seizing him up with his eyes, before he took the offered hand.
“John Winchester,” he said. “What’s happening on here?”
Lance looked startled at the way John cut straight to the chase, but he caught himself quickly enough.
“Well, as you’ve no doubt heard from Mr. Singer, I called to report that something is taking children in this town. There have been…” He rolled his eyes heavenward to think before he continued, “five disappearances so far. And the M.O. is always the same.”
John nodded.
“There have been three boys and two girls, between six and ten years of age, in the span of six weeks. All of them were healthy and reasonably happy when they went to bed at night, and the next morning, they were gone.”
John nodded again, even though talking about children this way always turned his intestines to ice.
“And what makes you think they haven’t just been kidnapped?”
Lance gave him an incredulous look that John met evenly, adding a hint of steel to his gaze. If this wasn’t his area of expertise, then there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t arrest anyone, and he wasn’t about to waste the time he could spend saving people.
“Because there have been absolutely no ransom demands, no signs of forced entry, nothing. Just distraught parents.”
Lance gave John a pleading look that John ignored while he pretended to think about it.
“I’ll look into it,” he finally conceded. “I can’t promise anything more than that, but I will take a look around.”
In truth, John had already been convinced or he wouldn’t have come in the first place, but Lance didn’t need to know that. In any case, John’s words were enough to dissipate the tension in the room, and Lance smiled at him again.
“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Winchester?”
“I’ll take whiskey if you have it,” John said. He sank back into the comfortable cushions of the couch. Lance puttered away; John could hear him opening closets in the kitchen and took the glass gratefully when the man returned.
Lance sat down as well, resting his own drink on the armrest, and clasped his hands together.
“All right,” he announced too cheerfully, “let’s discuss logistics, shall we? I can provide meals and a roof over your heads. The house is certainly big enough. I will reimburse you for any expenses you have while you’re here, but I took the liberty of providing for some basic necessities. I figured you would arrive late and not be in the mood to go shopping right away.”
Lance smiled awkwardly when John simply stared at him.
“Feel free to use anything you find in the kitchen.”
“You’re covering food and lodging?” John asked, just to be on the safe side. Lance nodded.
“I wasn’t sure what your sons would like, so I just bought a bit of everything. I hope that’s okay?”
John saw the man fiddle with his own fingers anxiously and almost laughed. Free food was always okay. He wished he would be able to say that his sons weren’t picky, but that definitely wasn’t the truth with Sam.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Lance tilted his head; John could see him debate whether or not to actually ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue, and he almost grinned proudly when Lance finally opened his mouth. When he spoke, however, John dropped his gaze and settled his fingers on the damp whiskey glass.
“Your boys, do they-?”
“Dean does.” John rotated the glass a quarter turn. “Sammy’s just a kid.”
Lance opened his mouth, no doubt to remind John that Dean was just a kid, too; as if John didn’t know, then shut it again. John turned the glass back.
“I intend to keep it that way.”
“It’s going to be hard to keep it from him in the long run,” Lance said quietly.
John rolled his eyes.
“I won’t keep it from him indefinitely, Lance, but I won't tell him yet. He’s still a baby.”
He could tell from Lance’s thoughtful nod that the man agreed that Sammy was too young, but his decision to not tell Sammy had nothing to do with age. At five, Dean had known everything John had known, and he had handled it fine.
“Why did you call Bobby Singer?” he asked.
Lance looked up at him, a crease between his brows. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
John took a small sip from his drink. “I mean that it’s rare for civilians to call in things like this. We usually find out via our own network.”
Lance uncrossed his legs. “Are you asking me how I knew who to call?”
John sighed and dragged the palm of his hand over his brow. “Among other things.”
Lance gave him a doubtful look, but he smiled amiably enough. John was starting to get tired of the niceties.
“When I first became suspicious of these disappearances, I began to ask around. Don’t worry,” he said with a quiet laugh, “your number isn’t in the phone book somewhere. I asked the right people the right questions, and they pointed me to Mr. Singer.”
“And why do you care so much?” John pressed, “It’s not like you’re in any danger.”
“This is my home,” Lance said incredulously. “These people mean a lot to me. I have dozens of books dedicated to this region.”
When John didn’t fall off his chair in amazement, Lance deflated a little.
“I just care. Maybe I feel indebted to this community.”
John didn’t quite snort, but he was tempted. Lance frowned.
“The people here have done so much for me; they’ve accepted me even though I don’t fit into their way of life. I can’t just stand by and watch something like this ravage them.”
He pressed the palms of his hands together, resting them between his spread knees.
“They’ve watched out for me when I needed it. Now it is time for me to return the favor.”
“It must be nice,” John said; he grinned at Lance’s surprised look. “Being that naïve.”
Surprise, disbelief and annoyance flitted over Lance’s face to finally be replaced by a carefully blank mask.
“I should let you get to bed,” Lance said, “You must be tired.”
John bit back a sour grin of triumph.
“You should,” he said, standing, shook Lance’s hand again and made his way upstairs. He pushed open the door to Dean’s room silently, quickly checking that his sons were still fast asleep. He opened the door across the hall which turned out to be a bedroom as well, pulled off his shoes and fell asleep, the door still wide open.
***
A stray sunbeam and the hazy memory of being somewhere unfamiliar tickled John awake. He levered himself upright and stumbled out the door to check on his kids.
Dean was still fast asleep, upper body curled protectively around a pillow. Sam was nowhere to be seen. John turned, calm and deadly, and surveyed the room. The shoes that he had dropped by the side of the bed last night were still there but the sweater John had managed to wrestle from the half-asleep boy was no longer on the chair by the window. John followed his son’s likely path to the bathroom where he found a pair of dirty little-kid socks draped over the towel rack.
John made his way downstairs, the worn carpeting muffling his footsteps. It all looked a little differently in the light, but John was used to adapting to change and to navigating in unfamiliar places. He found his way to the open sitting area, lined with bookshelves that creaked and sagged under the weight of hundreds of books crammed into them. Lance sat in the recliner facing the couch, dressed in what looked like pajamas and an old-fashioned morning robe. He even had slippers on his feet. And he was smiling very pleasantly at John’s youngest.
“So, how old are you, Sammy?” he asked.
Not nearly old enough to be having conversations with strangers when his father and brother are asleep, John’s mind readily supplied, But old enough to know better.
Sam looked especially tiny on that couch, his legs barely hanging over the edge. His jeans and sweater were too big and his shirt was too tight. He was in absolutely no position to defend himself.
“Five,” Sam giggled, thrusting out a splayed hand. Lance smiled at Sam’s enthusiasm.
“My, you’re positively an adult,” he said. His eyes flickered to John coming towards them and widened, most likely at the look on John’s face. Sam squawked in surprise when John grabbed him from behind, lifting him clean off the seat and onto his hip. He turned on his heel and carried the struggling kid into the kitchen, away from Lance’s prying eyes, his sympathetic sigh.
He poked a finger into his son’s plump little chest.
“Damn it, Sam, I told you not to wander around!”
“Nuh-uh,” Sam protested anxiously. John had already opened his mouth to give him hell when he remembered that Sam was right; he hadn’t told the boy.
“Well, I shouldn’t have to!” he snapped. He deposited Sam on one of the chairs, stalked to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. When he set a filled glass down in front of him, he could see the boy was near tears again. John sighed. He went out into the living room to snag one of the big fluffy pillows so his son would actually be able to reach his food, not meeting Lance’s eyes and telling himself it was because it was none of the man’s business.
Sammy’s eyes were still swimming when John returned to the kitchen with the pillow. John fought down an exasperated sigh. He let Sam climb up his arm, deposited the pillow on his chair, sat the child down on the pillow, and pushed the barely-touched glass of orange juice into his hand.
“Drink,” he told him. Sam pushed the glass away with a mutinous glare. John mentally threw his hands up and went hunting for a frying pan, eggs and bacon. He forced himself to focus completely on the task at hand until he heard Dean trample down the stairs.
“How many eggs do you want, dude?” he asked over his shoulder.
Dean grinned.
“All of them,” he said, pulling out the chair next to his brother.
“Plates and such are over there,” John told him with a nod in the right direction. Dean rolled his eyes, sighed, and obediently rose to set the table. During his search for salt and pepper, John risked a glance at his youngest. Sam was humming to himself, absently sipping his orange juice while he dug his fingernail into the wooden tabletop, so John figured the crisis was averted.
He could hear Lance shuffle around in the living room, tracked his progress over to the stairs and to the upper floors. A quick sniff told him that eggs and bacon were just about ready and he motioned for Dean to take his seat. John made his way around the table to Sam’s plate and tipped the pan sideways, keeping the hot metal far away from his kid.
“I want cereal,” Sam protested. John sighed, looked down at Sam who stared back at him with a guileless expression, then turned to his own plate.
“Dean, get your brother cereal.”
Dean huffed in annoyance but rose without the slightest hesitation. Within moments he had Sammy’s breakfast assembled and fished for the battered comic book he seemed to always carry around with him. Sam duly ate for about ten minutes before he lost interest in his food.
“How do we know Mister Lance?” he asked. He dropped his spoon into his cereal, showering his surroundings with small drops of milk. Before John could say anything, the boy saw the expression on his face, ducked, and quickly stuck the spoon in his mouth again.
“Sowy,” he mumbled around it.
John wiped the spatters from his bare forearms with a sigh.
“Mister Lance is Uncle Bobby’s friend,” he said. He watched with half a smile as Dean put the comic book down with a faint sigh, reached over and wiped residual milk from Sam’s cheek. The younger boy frowned and ducked away, batting at Dean’s hand.
“Quit it!” he whined. Dean shrugged. He gave his father a wry grin and disappeared into his magazine again.
Sam kicked the leg of his chair with his heel.
“But why come Mister Lance wants us here?”
John put his coffee cup down a little too hard, sloshing some of the hot liquid over his hand.
“Damn it!” He shook it to take some of the sting out, pointed the other at Sam. “Stop asking questions and eat.”
Sam obeyed, frowning, and John shoved down the urge to put his head in his hands and sigh. This was bound to be a disaster.
***
After breakfast, which Dean dutifully cleaned up, John went to take a shower and shave. He needed to look sharp for this, not like a guy who had just spent the last two days trying to outsmart his five year old kid. Without the stubble, he actually managed to look somewhat presentable, and the suit was almost wrinkle-free.
John buttoned up his shirt as he made his way down the stairs. It was casual, but still professional enough to pass as an FBI agent’s downtime wear, and might just be enough to impress the local law enforcement. Tightening his tie around his neck, he did a quick visual check for Lance - outside in the garden, enraptured by a few gnarled rose bushes - and found his sons in the living room. Sam seemed to be completely in love with the bookcases lining the walls so John waved Dean over.
“I’m going to go into town,” he told him. Dean wanted to come too, John could see it in his eyes, so he shook his head a little. His son’s face fell, but he nodded.
“Do you want me to do anything?” he asked. John knew the boy meant cleaning the weapons or going through John’s research, but instead he said, “I want you to keep an eye out for Lance.”
Dean nodded.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“We don’t know anything about him. That makes him dangerous, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said with a single, decisive nod, “I won’t let him sneak up on me.”
“And if he tries anything funny with you or Sam?” John asked sternly.
“I shoot him.”
No hesitation, that was good. John patted Dean’s cheek.
“That’s right, dude. You shoot him. I’ll deal with the rest.”
Dean nodded. John nodded.
“Good.”
He pointed at Sam’s back; the little monkey was now trying to climb the book case, going for one of the books at the very top, no doubt.
“You don’t let him out of your sight.”
Dean shook his head and John ruffled his hair. He let out a sharp whistle and Sam turned, startled. John crooked a finger at him. Sam looked at him, at the enticing books above him, and then at John again. He sighed and descended, slumping into himself a few feet from John and Dean with a defiant frown on his face.
John pointed a finger at him, a clear sign to stay.
“Dean will get you your book.”
Sam nodded, Dean nodded, and John slung his bag over his shoulder and walked away, closing the door behind him quietly.
***
The town was reasonably small, a few thousand inhabitants and a main street that barely deserved the name. John did spot a nice lake on the way into town, clear and blue and clean enough that he considered taking his boys swimming there sometime before he shook his head once and focused on his job. First stop was the sheriff’s office, easy enough to find when he asked a middle-aged lady who immediately pointed him in the right direction, charmed by his suit if by little else.
The sheriff’s office was small and cramped, an old, beat-up oak desk being all that separated the visitor’s area from the filing cabinets beyond. John towered over the pimply-faced kid at the computer and flipped open his badge.
“I need to talk to the person in charge,” he said, all authority. The kid nearly fell out of his chair scuttling to comply and hurried to the door hidden off to one side between a filing cabinet and a bulletin board littered with shocking flyers of “Have you seen this cat?” and “Car for sale”. The kid whispered something urgently and a moment later, the portly sheriff himself was on his way to greet John, discreetly tugging his uniform in place.
“You’re FBI?” he asked, puffing heavily. John showed his badge again.
“Agent Eric Castellano,” he told him, stowing his fake ID and holding out his hand. The man shook it with sweaty fingers.
“Karl Merker. Glad to see someone’s finally taking an interest in this case.”
“I wouldn’t be relieved just yet,” John said gruffly, “I’m the only back-up you have.”
Merker shrugged. “Well, we do have a few other officers - and a fire department - so I trust we’ll get this figured out.”
His face grew dark. “We have to.”
John nodded, feeling oddly understood by this man even though he was a cop and therefore useless. Merker gestured towards the backroom.
“If you’d like to come with me, Agent, I can get you up to speed.”
***
If it was somehow possible, the backroom/office was even more cramped than the reception area. John pushed a stack of papers off the single visitor’s chair and took a seat while the sheriff dropped into his desk chair and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“This is a nightmare!” he exclaimed, “I just don’t know how to deal with this kind of thing.”
“That’s why I’m here,” John soothed, “The responsibility rests on my shoulders now. All you need to do is fill me in.”
He smiled that don’t-worry-about-a-thing smile that he’d learned from Jim, and Caleb.
“Can you manage all that?” Merker asked with a skeptic face. “Where’s your team?”
John’s smile turned mild. “Where’s yours?”
Merker looked over his shoulder, like his back-up might just pop up from behind the stacks of files, and, when that didn’t happen, sighed in defeat.
“We can work together on this, I’m sure.”
John nodded noncommittally. “So what’s the M.O.?”
“There doesn’t really seem to be one,” Merker told him. He looked troubled by the whole thing.
“Kid goes to bed, it’s quiet all night, when the parents come to check the only thing that’s left are the teeth.”
“The teeth are knocked out and left behind?” John asked faintly. He’d seen a lot in these past few years, but this was a bit nauseating even for him.
“That’s right,” the Sheriff repeated, “Tiny little baby teeth. Whole handfuls.”
“Right,” John muttered. Merker looked like he wanted to keep talking, but when John growled at him, the man scurried away to get John all the information he had.
***
John loosened his tie as he pushed open the screen door, his gaze going directly to the two boys in the living room. Dean lay sprawled out on the couch, his legs hooked over the back, a flimsy paperback in his fingers. John tossed the tie over the back of a kitchen chair and undid the two upper buttons of his shirt. If Dean was this relaxed, then Sammy couldn’t be far, and he was indeed lying stretched out on the rug with his nose in a book.
John rested his hand on one of Dean’s knees.
“Hey boys,” he said, “Everything okay with you?”
Dean smiled at him, marking the page with this finger before closing the book and resting it on his chest.
“Sam’s cranky,” he said.
Sam’s head whipped up. His lower lip was defiantly pushed forward.
“I am not!” he protested. Dean rolled his eyes at John.
“Oh, you are,” John insisted.
Tears welling up in his eyes, Sam kicked his feet.
“Not!”
“Sam!” John hissed.
“No!” Sam wailed in reply.
Dean put the comic book aside and stood, holding out a hand.
“I’m going to take a nap,” he announced, “Sammy? You coming?”
Sam glanced at his outstretched hand, then at John. He climbed to his feet slowly.
“A nap?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes, a nap.” Dean waggled his fingers. “Come on, you can read to me if you want.”
Sam held his book to his chest as he edged towards Dean.
“I don’t wanna sleep,” he said, but he was almost at his brother’s side now.
“And you don’t have to,” Dean soothed, “I said I was going to sleep, right? You can stay awake all afternoon if you want.”
Sam didn’t quite look convinced by the idea, but he let Dean lead him upstairs without a word of protest. When John hadn’t heard a single sound for over an hour, he finally abandoned the case files and followed, making his way up to Dean’s room.
Sam was sprawled out on the bed, limbs flung about haphazardly, mouth open as he breathed heavily. Dean sat in an armchair by the window with a book propped against his angled legs. He looked up at John and smiled.
“Hey Dad.”
John bent over the small form of his youngest out of sheer habit, monitoring the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the faint snore, the slight flush on his cheeks.
“He’s been out cold for about an hour now,” Dean informed him from his perch.
“We need to go into town, get groceries,” John told him. Dean nodded and slipped off his seat, toeing for the shoes he had kicked off by the closet, watching John reach for his brother out of the corner of his eye. John relaxed a little, knowing Dean was placing his brother before everything. He cupped Sam’s shoulder and gently shook it.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said gently, “Time to awake up.”
“I’m not asleep,” Sam informed him in a mumbled whisper, “I don’t nap.”
John nodded. Dean pulled a pair of shorts out of Sam’s bag and tossed them on the bed.
“It’s warm, he’ll be bitchy all day in jeans,” he said, wrinkling his nose. John would have told him off for his tone, but the kid had a point, so he unzipped Sam’s pants instead.
“Come on, kiddo, wake up,” he said, “You need to get dressed, we’re going out.”
“But you’re taking my clothes off,” Sam protested, but he lifted his hips in drowsy compliance and allowed John to thread his legs through the shorts. John set him down on his feet and gave him a light push towards the bathroom.
***
Less than half an hour later, John was steering his sons through the town’s main grocery store. It was small and cramped, with mothers of all shapes and sizes wandering the isles, some of them with toddlers trailing behind them. John earned more than a few interested looks and sighed; he could have done without the attention.
He turned around to ask Dean if they needed anything, but the boy was already loading toast and jam into the cart he had snagged. Demoted from his task as family provider, John turned to make sure Sam hadn’t gotten lost or found a section with kids’ books somewhere, only to find himself faced with the pleading eyes of his five-year-old cradling a cardboard box to his chest.
“Lucky Charms?” he asked hopefully.
John shook his head vehemently.
“Oh hell no,” he shot down his son’s pleading look, “We can get the damn store brand for half the price, and it tastes exactly the same.”
Sam hugged the box tighter.
“Mr. Lance has Lucky Charms,” he murmured sullenly.
Goddamn Lance, John had never wanted to strangle him more. The only reason why Sam was spared hearing where Lance could put his Lucky Charms as far as John was concerned was Dean’s timely interruption.
“Hey, Dad,” his oldest asked over his shoulder, “Do we need toilet paper or does Lance have that covered?”
“Leave it,” John told him. The man could take it out of his pay - if he was getting any. Dean nodded and wandered off as John gave the box Sam was waving at him a pointed stare.
“Put it back, Sammy,” he told him sternly.
“But I-“ Sam broke off suddenly, his eyes wide, staring at a spot over John’s shoulder. John whirled around and almost sucker-punched the sheriff when he found the man right behind him, but he managed to stop himself.
“So, this must be the kid.” Merker grinned fondly at Sam, his hands on his hips. “And who might you be, little fella?”
“I’m Sam,” Sam announced. He inched a little closer to John’s leg, no doubt tempted to hide behind it.
“Well, Sam,” the sheriff said with a grin, “How’re you liking our fair little town?”
That seemed to freak Sam right out. He wrapped one arm around John’s knee, the other one still clinging protectively to the cereal box.
“Fine,” he mumbled. Merker threw a knowing smile John’s way before leaning forward so he was nose to nose with John’s kid.
“That’s very good. Now, you just keep yourself and your daddy out of trouble, okay?”
“Daddy says I am trouble,” Sam volunteered quietly. Merker guffawed loudly, which was not helping with John’s urge to throw the man into the nearest collection of salted crackers and made Sam fidget uncertainly.
“Good luck with your hunt, Mr. Castellano,” the sheriff said, clasping John on the shoulder like they were friends, and strolled away, hand on his gun holster like anyone was actually impressed by that measly thing.
“Castellano?” Sam echoed with wide eyes. John was once again saved by his oldest son’s arrival.
“I think we should get laundry detergent, at least,” Dean said. His arms were full with brightly colored plastic bottles. “The blue one is cheaper, but you’re supposed to need less of the red one. The pink one’s good for stains, though.”
Before John could come to a conclusion, or even tell Dean that Lance could damn well buy that for them, too, Sam unglued one arm from the box and tugged at his sleeve.
“I need to pee.”
***
The coffee shop was crowded, every table and chair occupied by business men with their laptops or middle-aged housewives having their daily gossiping session. There was a surprisingly large number of screaming children running up and down the walkways in between, giggling shrilly, an ever-changing obstacle course for the harried-looking waitresses.
John felt Dean press against his side and rested a hand on his boy’s shoulder. He forgot, sometimes; forgot that Dean hated crowds, that they freaked him out: their hustle and busyness and the way people always seemed to almost knock him over like the boy was invisible.
Sam had never had that problem. If anything, the kid seemed to grow taller when there were people around. He’d grin and be adorable and bask in the limelight like he didn’t get enough attention at home. John snorted.
Like that would ever happen.
***
Sam fell asleep on John’s shoulder on the way back to the car. John felt his forehead.
“Do you think he’s coming down with something?” he asked Dean. Sam’s face felt cool, maybe a little sunburned, but that didn’t have to mean anything.
“Maybe he’s on his period,” his oldest snickered.
“Dean,” John chided, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. How on earth did the boy know about that kind of stuff, anyway?
“What?” Dean asked back with a grin. John just shook his head and deposited his bundle gently in the backseat.
***
Smoke filled John’s nostrils when he woke. He was out of bed in an instant, half-way to the door before he even realized he was moving. The wooden boards were warm under his bare feet. The door-knob was still cool, but the air was stifling and thick, settling in his lungs and making him cough.
“Dean!” he called. At the door to his boys’ room he paused and turned; there was an orange glow coming from the staircase, warm and soft and almost comforting if it hadn’t been so deadly.
“Boys!” He threw open the door, and there was - nothing. The bed was neatly made, as if someone had aligned the sheets with a ruler. No trace of his children, or their things - not even of Dean’s beloved pocket knife or Sammy’s new book. It was as if they had never even existed.
***
John sat up with a gasp, breathing heavily through his nose. He shoved the covers that had tangled around his waist away. The floorboards were mercifully cool, almost chilly. The hallway was dark. There was no orange glow from downstairs, and he had to feel his way down the corridor with his hands outstretched.
By the time he quietly inched the boys’ door open, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He could see them lying there, wrapped around each other, small chests rising and falling peacefully.
He sagged in relief, leaning heavily against the wall when his knees grew weak. Fine, fine; they were fine.
“Dad?” The larger of the two shadows moved, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Wha’s'rong?”
“It’s okay, Dean,” John said. He made his way over to the bed and stroked a hand over Dean’s hair, a little too roughly because he was still shaking so hard. “Go back to sleep, okay?”
His oldest mumbled something that sounded like “okay” and turned over, drawing the covers up to his neck. John took a deep breath and sank down next to the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest. It was harder than he had thought not to fall apart.
***
Part Two