SPN fic: Fire in the Hole 6/9, part one
OMG, this vacation has gone on and on and on. A bloody comedy of errors, but kinda like a Paulie Shore comedy, right? Not a funny comedy. Still, I can't sit on this chapter any longer. I was supposed to be flying today, but that's apparently TOMORROW and I've suddenly discovered that neither A2 nor I have a key to our house when we arrive back ANYWAY. So, what the hell. Why not just STAY on vacation? Hmmm?
Chapter Six/No Regrets, Coyote (Part One)
Rating: PG-13 for #$@*f$ and gratuitous mentions of That Damn Eagles Song now stuck in your head. Sorry ‘bout that. Gen, WIP.
Notes: Thanks as always to the alarmingly cogent betas, Sasquashme and Lemmypie. I’ve been on vacation, as some of you know, with sporadic access to technology, so this one took longer than usual. I’m really back in the proverbial saddle starting week after next. Also, I’m a lazy creature that doesn’t like to reinvent the wheel, so this fic is in the same realm as Red, Dazzleland and Verbal, and references them occasionally. And, Kripke, as always, rules the universe and all things in it including, unfortunately, all the Winchesters, who I would happily take home and tuck into bed.
Read previous chapters
Our Story Thus Far: In June 2001, in the immediate aftermath of Sam leaving for Stanford, Dean has to deal with his father’s increasingly belligerent and out-of-control behavior while they engage in a non-stop cross-country hunting campaign. Over the course of several months, they battle a Jenny Greenteeth, a west African rain goddess, a dust devil and a kraken, among other things. Thanks to the duplicitous dust devil, Dean is questioning if his decision to remain with his father instead of going with Sam was the right one. We rejoin the Winchesters early in 2002.
In parallel with these stories, in Las Vegas April 2002, Dean is seriously injured in an as-yet unspecified incident that may or may not have been John’s fault. On the run from the law, John meets up with his old friend Bobby Singer, who is mapping historic silver mines; in 1859, Nevada was the scene of the world’s largest silver strike, the Comstock Lode. Believing that something evil is (barely) contained in the abandoned mines, Bobby solicits John’s grudging help. As Dean recovers from his accident, he persuades his father to let him assist, and is promptly befriended by tommyknockers, a ghostly underground presence brought over by the Cornish miners who worked the Lode. Unbeknownst to John, Dean, depressed over his compromised physical capabilities, scared by the changes he sees in his father, and profoundly grieving Sam’s absence, breaks down and starts leaving a series of unanswered messages on his brother’s voice mail.
--
About time you changed that greeting.
Dad would have…well, he would have called, but… C’mon. You know him. Always forgets this kind of crap.
Hope you’re going out tonight. Get good and loose. ‘Cause that’s how I think of you: shit-faced on a school night, six foot four of legless wonder. You always were a cheap date, Sam. But, really, yeah. Have a good one, okay?
--
The moon was huge, full, desert-big and twice as empty. Unreal, like it was hanging in a kid’s school play, like somebody’s mom had made it from cardboard and aluminum foil. It shone above rock so striped you could see the layers even in the dark, each band marking an ancient change in the seabed, dust now, so much death underlying all the desert. Dean crouched behind a rock spur, scrub sagebrush and juniper obscuring his view.
He knew what he was hunting now, knew he was being toyed with, but didn’t much care. He knew what it did and how it could be killed, and that was all that mattered. He hoped it was all that mattered, in the end.
The car was miles away now; his quarry had led him due north through the Navajo nation, right into the heart of Hopi territory. It had wound a trail through the sprawling ancestral lands, past secluded Hopi villages nestled atop the mesas, islands in the midst of the later Navajo flood. He wasn’t here to disturb any of those people, though. He followed dirt paths walked by the vanished Anasazi, but tonight this land belonged to the sky as much as to anything else, stars looking down on this small drama, less involved than the moon, always.
The new rifle was light in his hands, no piece of army engineering from the last world war, but made of materials that claimed origin in laboratories rather than forges. Made by scientists as much as by craftsmen. Part of him, an extension. Mine.
There, far in the distance, a light streak crossed in front of a pine, the snow lying in wind-sculpted drifts where it patched the hillside. Light against dark, dark against snow.
He shouldn’t be able to see this far, he knew that, but this was what it was and he was a hunter. They were here, both of them, quarry and seeker, out here in this desert, this land apart. So it happened, and he didn’t question it. As it should be, an ancient dance.
Dean had been taught how to move quickly and quietly, it was the sort of skill valued in his family and he had learned it, had practiced. Because that’s what you did. That’s what he did. So, tonight, fast, after this animal. Not big, but bigger than was natural, which was his first clue. Not like the last time, when mistakes had been made.
It’s why I’m back here, by myself, hunting this fucking thing. Not his mistake, and he hadn’t paid for it as much as his father had, but there was an account coming due right now that Dean had to make good. There was no one else.
None that cared, anyway.
The hard-packed desert was mostly stone, hardly anything worth calling earth at all, and despite the high-tech rifle in his hands, he felt like he may have moved back in time, that he was somewhere out of time, that this was a dreamscape, not real at all.
That’s what the bastard wants, and gave himself a shake. Focus. Arizona, early February, two years into the new millennium. The painted desert. It had sounded hot, and therefore wanted, when John had pointed the truck south, had sounded a world away from ice fishing on frozen Michigan lakes.
It wasn’t, not really. Moonscape and snow, high wind cutting through his light jacket, hands cold around the stock of the rifle. He rested on a crest, looked down into the shallow valley. There it was, again. Was hardly even trying to remain hidden. Laughing at me, maybe.
Dean steadied his breath, the hammering of his heart. Thought of Nordic events in the Winter Olympics, that dumb-ass combination of cross-country skiing and shooting. The hardest part was calming your heart enough to get off a decent shot.
Which was what he had to do now.
He’d always been lucky; he’d heard it a lot over the years. His easy good fortune drove Dad and Sam nuts, seemed like he didn’t have to work for much. But he had to work for everything, really; they didn’t know how luck worked.
Dean balanced against the rock, sighted the incline where the streak was heading. Silver bullets, the only kind that worked, a Navajo amulet melted down and cast into this shape, this message to the gods: Stop fucking with us. Stop fucking with me. And didn’t know who he was killing this thing for: the dead tourists, his dazzled father, or himself, alone.
Waited. Was lucky. Had earned it. In his sights now, his heart slowed to a crawl. Through the elongated distance, so close in the rifle’s sight, he recognized its easy gait, the way it glided across the difficult terrain, saw its head when it turned, when it locked eyes with him. Knowing that he was there.
Things could have been different; for the last while here in Arizona, they had been different. In some ways, this was the happiest Dean had been in months. His dad was certainly having a blast. Doesn’t he deserve it? What was so wrong with happiness? Why does it always have to be us, making the sacrifices? But he knew. He’d been told, after all: We wander too close to the edge. But that made him think of waterfalls, of what happened at the cusp.
Dean took a breath, one eye shut to the sight, hesitating. Was it really so evil? Wasn’t it just what it was? And he squeezed the trigger, saying goodbye, and it hurt.
The recoil was a bitch, but he was used to it now, had been practicing - which made it skill, not luck - and the beast jumped like it was dancing, the shot echoing throughout the canyon, rustling up an owl that had been dithering in a pine.
Dean lowered the rifle, staring. It was an impossible shot; he knew the rifle didn’t have that kind of range. Still.
He picked his way down the hillside to where the incline commenced. It took him twenty minutes, because it was a long way. The laughing moon circled above his head, heading into the dreamworld, painting the desert blue tonight.
Between a rock and a plump piñon, Dean halted, breath short now, heart going fast. He hadn’t exactly known what he’d find.
He crouched beside the dead coyote, the distinctive silver streak that ran from ear down the side of its head shining lapis in the moonlight. A big coyote, unnaturally big, mouth pulled in a grin, tongue lolling to the side, bullet hole right above its eyes, center of its broad brow. There was little blood, surprisingly. With trepidation, Dean reached out a hand, rested it on the still-warm shoulder, coarse blond and gray fur buffeted by the wind.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to it. “Maybe next time, it’ll work out different. But time you moved on, I’m thinking.”
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and stood, looking down at the coyote. There was no one for miles, not in any direction. Maybe no one in years. Maybe no one. Just him, and his kill. No one to see him wipe his eyes.
“Me too,” he said.
It took him an hour to hike back to the Impala, another hour before he pulled into the parking lot of the Winslow TeePee Village. The plaster wigwams loomed ridiculous against the blushing sky, appeared on the flat desert beside Route 40 like a bad Disney joke. He parked the car, got out slowly, wretchedly. He’d been up all night, wanted nothing more than to sleep. But there might be more business. There might be truly unpleasant business ahead.
His hand had just touched the doorknob when he heard the snore. Loud, cutting the air with gusto, full glottal. Only ever sounded that bad when he’d been drinking. But it was a snore. Which meant he was there, he was sleeping, which he hadn’t done in days.
And Dean entered, making no effort at quiet, came in and smiled at John splayed spread-eagle on the bed, snoring to wake the dead. Dean rubbed his head, felt the weight of his kill inside him. No regrets. They did what they did. They were hunters.
He began to pack, thinking about being damned and being absolved. He packed everything, because as soon as John woke, Dean wanted to be gone.
--
Across the makeshift table Singer had set up outside the camper, the boy ate three sandwiches in the time it took Singer to eat one. Thank god the Winchesters had brought grocery contributions, now it seemed that Dean would be joining them. Singer hadn’t forgotten how much a young man ate - he forgot nothing about Evan, not a thing - but it still came as a surprise.
Over in his corner of the ring, Winchester was pissed, anyone could see it. Angry with his son, angry with injury and recovery. With Dean’s being lost for ten minutes down a tunnel, with the helplessness that momentary loss had produced. Was Dean supposed to be in PT instead of up here? Singer didn’t dare ask. Of course, neither of the Winchesters talked about it, because that would involve…talking.
Once lunch was demolished, Singer absently brushed the table of crumbs with the flat of his calloused hand and laid out his map of the Yellow Jacket, Crown Point and Kentuck interconnections. They’d seen it before, all of them. Their blueprint of work done, work to come.
“Only a few more to go. We’re getting a pretty clear idea of where all the secondary and tertiary tunnels are coming into the system from the surface.” Singer tapped four or five different penciled lines running parallel to the major ones marked in draftsman ink. “Always good to know where the backdoor is.” And where we might need to seal things up, he could have added.
Winchester wandered over, lazy and dangerous as a curious wolf, a tin mug of coffee in his hand. The midday air was warm, even up here, and he’d taken off his work shirt, was just in a tee shirt, dusty, sweat-stained. “You think something supernatural caused the fire, don’t you?”
Singer shrugged. “The fire occurred just at the tail end of the most productive decade on the Lode. Bringing up that much silver that fast might have weakened whatever constraints were in place.”
Dean kept quiet eyes on Singer as his father circled around behind, still taking sips of his coffee, compact frame bundled together like live wires. “What the hell do you think it is, Bobby?” Winchester asked.
Singer wished he had a definitive answer. Men like Winchester liked definitive answers, demanded them.
“A demon?” Dean asked when his father didn’t. Demons were the big flash, what every hunter wanted to go after.
“Well,” Singer said, not with any certitude, “it’s possible that the miners in the Yellow Jacket or the Kentuck broke into a seam, took out just the wrong amount of ore at a weak spot, and that’s when the fire swept through the 800 foot level, trapping the guys in the lower levels.” He tapped the map. “The Yellow Jacket fire killed about forty miners in the first coupla hours, but it burned for well over five years. They used a combination of cave-ins and floods to hold it, and no one worked that mine again for years.”
Dean nodded, but his attention was on the creased map on the table. Finally, he pointed. “And this area here-” and his finger traveled over a shaded tunnel, “this was mined prior to the fire, was below the fire, but has been sealed up since? Probably flooded, but might just be - abandoned?”
Singer nodded. “Yep, that’s right. Though ‘abandoned’ might not be totally correct.”
“I still don’t see how this is anything supernatural.” Winchester’s voice was sparse, flammable as cordite, sharp as obsidian.
“It burned too fast, came out of nowhere,” Singer explained. “Survivors talked about a malevolent spirit, about darkness within the flames. They smelled sulfur, and some heard laughter.” A pause, because he already knew what Winchester thought of mining superstitions. “Some of the Cornishmen reported that the tommyknockers warned them away weeks prior, spoke of an evil down below. The Cornish guys didn’t want to work that drift, but the owners, guys like George Hearst, wouldn’t have any of that.”
It earned Singer a glare, Winchester’s black eyes barely visible in the creases. “I’m going back down the Mexican hole we found last week, Bobby, see where it connects up. Something useful. You two compare your fairy notebooks.” He glanced at his son. “Not down below, you. Up top. See you back here for dinner.”
He moved off uphill, retracing his steps from earlier in the day, feet heavy with work boot and anger.
Worse than usual today, Singer thought. Touchy asshole, any day of the week.
Beside Singer, Dean sighed, a small sound, contained. “He was talking about a haunting in Reno this morning,” he murmured after a minute. “He said that Tim guy from Vegas was putting some new plates on the truck, was gonna drive it up here. Dad said they could handle it, the two of them.” Something slipped in his voice then, and Bobby tried not to wince. “Next week, he’s talking about. He might have to take off for a few days.”
Singer knew that Winchester was not a man to take idleness well, that he needed something tangible to hunt. Only Dean’s recuperation was keeping him here this long. Singer wondered what it must have been like, growing up in the wake of such a restless ship.
“Did he say you could help me while he’s gone?”
Dean shrugged, feeling useless in the face of his father’s drive, body not quite right yet, maybe. The boy didn’t have to say that he was watching his father’s train pull away from the station; Singer could see it. “Didn’t say I couldn’t.” Which wasn’t quite the same thing.
“What do you know about demons?” Singer asked, now looking at Dean the same way Winchester sometimes did, assessing soundness, trying to make sure that he was ready. Not physically, though. John can teach him one way; I’ll teach him another. If he’s interested in demons, I’ll give him demons.
A smile, genuine, large. “More than most.”
“Okay, then. Time you learned more. Let’s get out the textbooks.” He stood, clapped Dean on the shoulder. “You probably liked school, right?”
Chuckling at the kid’s expression, he told Dean to wait at the table, went into his camper and took his time selecting a couple of seventeenth century books on demonology, wrapped in acid-free paper, marked with thin archival strips at relevant sections, mostly passages about fire demons. Those bastards were the worst, Singer judged. Vindictive, smart. Bullies.
He glanced out the camper window. Dean was sitting at the table, his phone in hand, running fingers over the keypad. Then it was at his ear and he stood, one hand tucked under the other elbow, hunched over.
Afraid, Singer thought, reading the posture.
It was a short call, whatever it was, because the kid had the phone back in his pocket in under fifteen seconds, was pacing now, free hand scrubbing his hair. Singer tucked the demonology texts under his arm and opened the door slowly, making sure Dean heard him coming. As soon as the door opened, the kid looked up, a smile crossing his face, false as a mannequin’s.
For an hour or so, he went through the books with Dean, pointing out descriptions of various manifestations, forms, exhausting examples of avarice and cruelty. Names and attributes, histories, hundreds of details about the wreckage left behind. There was no killing them, only enclosing them, surrounding them. Imprisoning them. Trust evil not to have capital punishment, Singer thought with a grim smile.
Dean checked his phone three times in the hour, Singer noticed.
Finally, he asked. He knew the answer, but reckoned the kid needed to say it. “You expecting a call?”
Almost a flinch, a skittish horse shying from his shadow. “No sir.”
“Your brother? You think he’s gonna call?”
Dean shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at Singer anymore. “Nah. He knows better. Has to be a clean break. I shouldn’t…I don’t expect anything.” And eyes were back up, armor complete again. “It’s his birthday. I left a message. You know, I’ve got Dad, and Sam’s by himself and he shouldn’t… Not today, anyway.”
“Does he ever pick up?”
“Not when he’s studying. And he’s always studying.” He paused, fingers resting on the old book. “You’d like him, Bobby. A lot. He’d love this shit,” and gestured to the maps, the old hidebound books. “If it was plain history and not demons.”
“Maybe you should try calling him again.”
“Maybe,” Dean said softly, but it was no agreement.
--
Truman May bent over the faded green felt, with one gnarled finger showed Dean where he should take his next shot, rings studded with turquoise and polished agate. Dean wasn’t in the habit of taking pointers about his pool game; this last week had been different. Once again, May noticed Dean’s uncommon acceptance of advice, pulled that quicksilver grin over the ravaged terrain of his craggy face, eyes glints of blue in the hard light.
The sun was warm on Dean’s back, was actually hot just outside decrepit Winslow even in February, and Dean imagined that the twenty or so cars in various stages of decomposition might trap the desert heat, were radiating it like some kind of solar panels. The Navajo mountains were far to the north, nothing but dust and highway between. The sun big overhead. The rusty cars scattered like bug carcasses in a roach motel. One camper, the kind you pulled behind a big pickup. This one hadn’t moved in years.
A pool table in the middle of this, incongruous, magic, shimmed with bits of scrap wood so it was level, a tarp nearby to keep it free from blowing snow and sand. A clearing in the forest of mechanical rust, green and soft, hinting at pleasure and risk. The two of them circling it, circling each other, a weird unnatural oasis in this winter desert.
He wore his shirt collar up this time. First day out with May here, he’d gotten a burn on the back of the neck, across his nose. Freckles had popped up, dark against red. He’d learned his lesson about winter sunshine, Four Corners strong. Deceptive. Killed his beer, turned his cue over in his hands, wasn’t going to let Truman May get a shot in, made him watch as he cleared the table.
Every day for a week now, and this was only the third time he’d done that, skunked the magnificently wily May.
Three won games and the talk turned philosophical. They weren’t playing for money; they were playing for words. Not lucky. I earned it.
May, face creased like Keith Richards on a Moroccan bender, reached into the braided leather pockets, fetched out balls; they clacked as he arranged them without a triangle. “You think letting humanity fumble around, make their own mistakes, you think that’s evil?” Like they had been talking about this subject instead of pool.
Out of the blue. That’s okay. Seven days of May giving Dean the break and now Dean gave it back, signaling that class was over. May took it, a more even field now. The time for May to help him was done. Now they were playing and they both knew it. May took his time chalking his cue, picked up some sand from between his booted feet, dusted his broad hands with it. He was taller than Dean, Sam-tall, but lean, wiry, narrow-chested. Consequential reach, tricky in every way imaginable. But likeable too.
Dean laughed. “I didn’t say that. But really?” Watched as May placed the nominally white ball on the D, drew back casually, and made the break with a crack like far thunder. “I sometimes wonder if we shouldn’t leave people to their own mistakes, yeah.”
A striped ball zipped into the corner pocket and May nodded to it, pointed to an orange-striped ball, indicated the desired pocket. Called his shots, otherwise they didn’t count. No such thing as luck. He lit the cigarette that he’d been keeping behind his ear, long gray hair caught back in a ponytail, down vest thin and open. “So, not evil to let humanity suffer. Good to know,” and the striped ball fell into the pocket like a lover into bed.
“But,” May continued, indicating his next conquest with a sweep of the cue, “if it’s part of the natural world, if it’s just a regular hunting thing - an eagle, a mountain lion,” and his eyes darted up from the table, stared at Dean, smile an apology, “a wolf, say,” and Dean’s blood ran cold, despite the winter sun, “does that mean it’s evil? That it deserves to die? Just Mother Nature having her way, isn’t it?”
Dean kept his face calm. Kept calm. Thought he was probably keeping calm. “Depends. If it’s natural? Same as humans. Whoever’s smarter about it. But if it’s not natural? If it’s--”
May sank the ball, took a drag of his cigarette, called his next shot, set the cigarette on the edge of the table. Dean watched as the striped ball banked gently, too softly, and the ball teetered on the edge. Not falling.
A miss. And almost no opportunity on the table. May hadn’t made his shot, but he hadn’t left Dean anything to work with. May grinned and shrugged. “I want to finish my smoke,” he excused his miss. “You want another beer?”
Dean nodded, aware that May was giving him more than enough time to study the table while he got another two beer cans from six-pack under the steps. A breeze wafted by, cooled the unexpected sweat on the back of Dean’s neck. Then he saw it, like a path ahead of him, luck or experience or chance. But there: bank, hit, ricochet, soft kiss into the side pocket.
He popped open the beer, took a long swallow, set it down on a car hood, and called his shot. May chuckled, low and under his breath. Now all it would take was skill. As Dean lined it up, May continued. “You mean if something isn’t natural, if it’s part of the dreamworld? If it crosses over? That’s the trouble with you new guys, always thinking that the two worlds are apart and need to be kept that way.” He shook his head and Dean chalked his cue, didn’t want to give the table back to May.
“Navajo and Hopi, they don’t differentiate between Wolf and Coyote, you know,” the lean poolshark hopped up on top of an empty oil barrel, stared at Dean like he was enjoying this. Maybe he was. Funny thing was, Dean was enjoying it. Long time since Dean had called anyone ‘friend’. “Same word for both.”
“Ma’ii,” Dean said softly, ignoring him for a moment. Not ignoring him. He’d always come weaponless to May’s table. Knew he had to if he wanted to find this place, if he wanted to cross the line that May drew on his threshold. Between worlds, here. A meeting place. Dean knew something about winning answers from things such as this.
Who knew it would pleasurable, days of slow easy pool games under a warm sun?
“Take your old man, for instance.” May was chuckling, low, in his throat, almost a yip. “He’s killed a lot of shit, hasn’t he? A lot of stuff that some people would call unnatural. And he’s let a lot of people live that maybe didn’t deserve it.” He held up a hand at Dean’s inquisitive stare. “So, what’s evil and what’s not, hey? Those gamblers on the Mississippi? Little old Jenny was just cleaning house. What business did John have hunting her?”
Dean took the shot, connecting white with solid red. The solid curved around a clutch of stripes, veered into the bank, bounced off at an angle, narrowly missing the eight ball, kissed the solid blue, which dropped into the side pocket. Dean smiled, knowing he’d set up his next shot in the process.
He took a breath of warm sandy air. “Navajo guys. They have those wild dogs minding their sheep. That’s their job, that’s all they do. Swear to god those things are more dangerous than what’s after the sheep.”
A lift of May’s brows. “So that’s you? Nasty old sheepdog?”
Dean grinned again. “We kill what needs to be killed,” he explained without heat. This was an old dance, practiced steps.
May shrugged. “Like that big old sucker in Lake Whacheemeecalit? Yeah, that sure as hell was evil.” He drank the beer, lit another cigarette. “Or maybe you just got too close to where the threshold’s thin. You and your old man, you go looking for the thin places. Out of your way, you might say. No wonder this kind of shit’s always happening to you. Your brother’s got the right idea, you know, getting the fuck away from the twilight zone.”
May wasn’t the dust devil; he wasn’t bound to tell the truth. Dean wasn’t really looking for the truth, anyway. He just wanted to make sure of his options.
And the process wasn’t exactly painful. May played a mean game of pool, told good jokes. Was as homeless and wandering and…dangerous as Dean himself. There might be some other way than the obvious. There might be. Dean hoped for it, suddenly.
He came around the table to take his next shot. “Yeah, I’ll leave that for a higher power to decide.”
“Like Old Man Winchester? Your dad says ‘shoot’ and you shoot?” This was close to other questions asked over the years. Too close.
“Yep, that’s pretty much it,” Dean said, standard answer. Don’t question every order, Sammy. It’s how he is.
“What about now?”
Dean looked up from his one-eyed survey of the table. “Well, he’s not exactly himself right now, is he?”
May laughed outright and Dean thought, Yeah, I’ll probably have to kill him. But sadly, starting to get a little angry, but unclear at what. At whom.
He whispered, “Let him go,” because ‘happy’ could also be accomplished with a lobotomy; didn’t mean that’s what Dean wished for his dad.
“Maybe he’s exactly what he’s always been. At least he’s gettin’ some kicks in.” May crossed his arms in front of his faded tee shirt. Might have been a Harley logo on it at some point in its long life. “He’s a killer, your dad. He’s killed shit, killed things that didn’t deserve it. He’ll do it again. You cross a line like that, you don’t go back.”
Dean blocked him out, calculated the shot, took it, watched with satisfaction as the ball went in. “My dad’s a hero,” Dean said softly.
“You know, I like you, Dean. We’re the same underneath it all, you, me, even John, though he really needed to cut loose. Did him a favor, so I did,” May said, tipping the beer back.
Dean took another swallow. “Yeah? You like me so much, how come you haven’t done me the same favor?”
“Tell you why, but you’re not gonna like it: You been marked already, Dean Winchester. I can see it. Smell it.” And he looked mournful for a moment, those sharp eyes almost kind. Sorry about how things were, not for himself, but for Dean, which was worse. “A Wolf’s got your scent. I’m not going to fuck with that. You should be worrying about that bastard, ‘cause those guys, they don’t let up.”
The beer was sour in Dean’s throat and he couldn’t mask the surprise. Or the horror. “What--”
May’s expression changed, mercurial, grinned and gestured to Dean questioningly. “Okay, so like we were saying. The Wolf. Is he unnatural? Maybe. Or maybe just too close to the edge. Just like you.” He finished his beer, crumpled the can, tossed it over his shoulder where it clanged against some rusty car part.
“You know how this ends, you know how to find me.” And stepped forward with hands held out. “You gonna take your shot, Dean?”
The wind kicked up, sand sweeping across the lot by the side of the highway, cold now, and the grit forced Dean to look away, cursing. He scrubbed his eyes, couldn’t get it out. He turned hard, dropping his pool cue. But when he straightened, the wind dying away as suddenly as it had come, Dean was alone, no cars, no beer cans, no camper. No pool table. The only sign that May had been there was a cigarette on the empty desert by the side of Highway 87, still burning.
--
Dinner came and went. Pea soup and bread and Polish sausages fried over an open fire. Dean watched his father pick over his food, dump his plate into the plastic basin, go back down the Mexican rathole he was mapping, all without saying a word to either Dean or Bobby.
He’s mad, Dean thought, offering to do the dishes, eyes on his father’s back as he picked his way up the hill. He knows what day it is. He’ll work until he’s too tired to think.
Bobby declined his help with a wave of his hand. “You seen the hoist works? You should take a walk up there, check it out.” He kept his eyes on the basin, squirted in some detergent, followed it up with hot water from the kettle. “I can do this.” Gestured with his nose. “Good reception up there. On the grid.” Grinned at the dish pan. “Or so I hear.”
Nothing more, but it was encouragement and a pat on the back and something else thoughtful, and therefore, to be mistrusted. Dean was too tired to say no.
Once he walked up the short trail, Dean discovered that the hoist works were smaller ones; this was the shafthead of a lesser mine. Dean hadn’t retained the name. But Bobby was right about the reception. Dean glanced around, could see clear up Six Mile Canyon, the sun lowering on the horizon, sky streaked pink and gold and purple like some Kool-Aid punk hanging out homeless on skid row. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t walk anymore, was too beat and sore, so he leaned against the old steel works, hoist wheels missing the braided flatwire, boarded up with peeling plywood and rusty nail heads.
Dialed.
This morning, Dean had found out that Sam had changed his greeting. Sam’s getting these messages. He’s still not answering.
It stung, though Dean had been pretending it didn’t matter. Sam was angry. Dean knew that, had known that for months and months. Knew that when his brother got mad, he went deep, went so deep with it, hung on to it like a kindergartener with all the toys. Unshakeable Pit Bull mad. Sam was angry and was angry because he was hurt.
Had been hurt. It had been the right decision, but it had caused all kinds of damage, in all directions.
Today was Sam’s birthday, and even though Dad often forgot, he hadn’t forgotten today, Dean knew, and somehow that was unforgivable. It’s up to me. A bunch of fucking sheep and he was the sheepdog, just running around them, barking at their heels. Trying to keep them together.
A clean break was best: John had said it, Sam knew it, but fuck it if Dean could do it. He’d tried. He had. And he wasn’t built that way. Sam wasn’t going to call back; it wasn’t really the way Sam was built. But if Dean didn’t leave these messages, he was going to go crazy, was going to lose it, more than he already had.
He had time to think all this because the phone was on ring number five. Then six. The voice mail wasn’t picking up. Seven. Turned off? Dean thought, wondering, looking at the westering sun, eyes prickling.
Hello? On the other end, music, loud music, then again, Hello?
Not Sam’s voice.
“Uh,” Dean stammered, shocked. He came away from his lean, tried to hear what was going on in the background. Voices. Music. “Yeah. Is Sam there?”
A pause and Dean thought whoever this was must be having a hard time hearing. So he repeated, louder, “Sam? Is Sam there?”
Sam? Another pause, the song not one Dean recognized, all bass and dance beat. I think so. Hang on - and the music lessened a little. Dean heard, Hey, where’s Winchester at? I’ve got his phone! Then, closer, encouragingly, Yeah, he’s somewhere around here. I’ll find him. Do you want to call back?
Fuck no.
“No, I need to talk to him,” Dean said, and it felt like one of those fairground rides, where the car rode up a water-filled chute to come crashing down into spray and giddy laughter. Not dangerous. That’s what he told himself. Not dangerous, just seemed that way. “I’ll hang on.”
So, who is this? The voice was curious, some young guy. A little bit slurred.
“His brother,” Dean said, voice dropping.
Wow, really? I didn’t think Sam had any family. You live in California?
“No. No, right now we’re in Nevada.”
Oh, okay, so not far away. You should have come out here; Sam got all morose this week, we finally figured out it was his birthday. Man, like pulling teeth-
And for once, Dean didn’t care if he got ‘the chatty one’, didn’t care that this well-lubricated college freshman was going to talk his ear off. Perfectly okay. He found out that Sam was a genius, had gotten into some kind of research group and that he liked statistics and that he played a wicked game of racquetball and could eat more than just about anybody this guy - Wade, his name was - knew. Sam studied too much, was hard to get him out, you know? And had almost zero interest in girls. Was he gay? I mean, okay, that would explain things.
Dean listened, felt guilty, because no way would Sam ever have told him a fraction of any of this, even if he’d been sitting in front of Dean. Even if he’d been vomiting drunk in front of Dean.
After a little while, Wade gave up trying to find Sam. Instead, Dean got passed to Roxanne, who came from Santa Barbara. She wasn’t feeling much pain either, and told him she was into rowing. She hadn’t decided her major. She liked Sam a lot, but he was pretty shy, wasn’t he? And man, did he study too much, it had taken forever to get him out tonight. They had surprised him. Scott had said it was a study group meeting at a coffee shop, but that they had to stop for-
And Dean was listening, sortof, he was, was taking it all in, saying as little as possible, just enough to keep her going, but it was like eating a whole carton of ice cream at one sitting, just stuffing it in too fast. Too sweet and too much and he was feeling sick, because it was really bad for you even if it tasted this good.
He’d been looking at the sky and it was retina-burning bright. So he stared at the toes of his boots, scuffed and dusty, sun slanting orange across them, just as Scott told him that Sam was in the upstairs part of the bar playing darts - wicked good at the darts, man - and that he was taking Sam’s phone up there now -
And Dean looked up from his toes to see his father standing not five feet from him, streaked face, dark eyes gold in the sunset light, face shining in light, or sweat, or tears, it was hard to tell. A terrible expression on his face, stripped raw, every painful thing written there so clearly that Dean’s breath stopped in his chest: he just ceased to breathe.
To think, to know how to do anything.
Because he was standing on a plywood sheet atop a hole that dropped a thousand feet straight into the heart of a mountain, something evil underfoot, his brother about to jump into his hand after a year apart and his father in front of him, precipice between them big as the Grand Canyon, a fall in the making.
Dean lowered the phone, slowly closed it. He could not take his eyes from his father’s. John grimaced, blinked. Nodded a couple of times before looking away, like he’d known he’d find this.
Betrayal. Fear in all its many forms.
Kept nodding to himself, wiped dirt from underground from his face with one hand, clearing it of many things.
Dean saw them anyway, and was still unable to breathe.
“Dad,” he choked out after a moment. He didn’t give himself the fantasy of supposing that John didn’t know who he’d been calling. They were past that. There was no point. He’d probably been there for a few minutes, to have that expression on his face. Dean hadn’t heard him because everything he knew about moving quickly and quietly, he’d learned from this man. “Dad.”
Oh, Jesus, say something. Please.
John had his hands on his hips, was staring at the ground. Finally, not looking up, like the sight of Dean distressed him, “You call him often?”
Define often.
Dean shook his head. “It’s his--”
“I know what day it is,” John said softly, but Dean heard the desolation behind it.
Dean knew that it was better to stay quiet in face of this. To just weather it. Lash himself to the mast and ride it out. But his mouth worked, his mouth always worked. “I haven’t spoken to him, if that’s any consolation.”
John looked up then, brows quirking in a way that Dean dreaded. “You think this is some new way I’ve dreamed up to punish you? You think that?” The man had his own weapons, and not all of them were steel and flame and salt. “Doesn’t call you back, does he?”
Dean heard it then: Pride. Fuck, these two.
“Not once.” Admitted it, wanted to know how he knew, was willing to take whatever was coming, even this. Remembered that they were a couple of head-butting rams and he was a sheepdog. John and Sam, they were the same. And he wasn’t like them.
John only nodded some more. “He’s out of it. He got out. Leave him the fuck alone.”
Protecting Sam, and it hit Dean like a blow.
John shuffled a little, coming to some kind of decision. He turned, started walking stiff-legged to the path down like walking wasn’t something that he normally did. “I’m taking the car. Don’t wait up.”
Dean stood alone on the crest for a good fifteen minutes after his dad left, trying to figure out that last tone in his voice. Not submission, never that. Not anger, either, though Dean has been expecting it. Something else that he didn’t recognize, which worried him, something flat and disconsolate, something beyond Dean’s reach. John was somewhere out there in the night, unreachable. As was Sam.
He looked at his phone, complicit in this crime. Clean break. Unreachable, even with a useless fucking phone. Without thinking, without working it through, he jammed the cell between a crack in the plywood that sealed up the shaft. The phone fell into oblivious darkness, and if it hit bottom, Dean couldn’t hear it.
--
John rinsed the razor in the running water, mirror following the wall of the bathroom slanting up to the ceiling at a crazy angle, a little bedraggled dreamcatcher hanging in the frosted glass window, pueblo-style wallpaper border peeling back in the steam.
Damn, I look about ten years younger when I shave.
John wiped the mirror with his fingers. His eyes were bright when he looked back at himself. Not too bad, for an old guy. Not bad at all. Could see where his sons got it from. A grin slowly emerged, drawing dimples, crinkles at the corner, made him as appealingly worn and soft and dangerous as a vintage leather jacket. Morning again, a whole day to look forward to, and he hadn’t had coffee or breakfast, and man he was half-starving.
In the room beyond, he heard the sounds of Dean getting up, moving around. It was early still, and Dean didn’t exactly like to get up with the sun, but John hadn’t been quiet when he’d come in. Just to shower and shave. Maybe he’s worried about me. John patted his face dry with a happyface cacti appliquéd hand towel. These places Dean found. God, they were funny. I should tell him how much they make me laugh. But then maybe he’d stop, and John had come to like this game.
Looked at the décor. A friggin’ wigwam, for pete’s sake. God, I could eat a cow. He pulled on a button up shirt that he’d thought was clean, but noticed a gravy stain, a grease spot. Hell, that might be lipstick there. Red, anyway. Grinned wider. Maybe time to do laundry. He went with the gray tee shirt, still amused that they were in Winslow, Arizona, and came out humming the song, which he knew all the words to.
Dean was sitting on a low couch upholstered in seventies-era southwest geometric, still in boxers, sleep hair sticking up all over. For once, he looked remarkably intact, not a bruise or a cut on him. Whole. In front of him, resting on the coffee table, was an enormous rifle, shiny, new. Still with the maker’s tags on it.
John remembered: hell, he’d won it last night over a table of cards.
“Dude,” Dean said, voice scratchy with sleep. “Enough with the Eagles.”
John put on coffee, watched his son out the corner of his eye, tuned to his every move. “Written by Jackson Browne, which is why it doesn’t suck. It’s a fine song.”
Slowly, when he thought John wasn’t looking, Dean reached out, touched the gun, one finger running up the barrel. It was a beauty, all right, expensive as hell. Too good for that idiot last night. The blonde on his arm had been too good as well, and John didn’t feel bad about taking the guy to the cleaners. Fools are soon parted and all that.
He leaned against the small kitchen counter, watching Dean’s apprehension and excitement. “Go on. Take it apart. Clean it.” He bent down to the small bar fridge, getting out cream, hiding his grin. “You know, we should drive north outta town, find a good spot on rez where the authorities won’t come lookin’. We don’t hang out enough, you and me. Knock some cans off fences. Few days of that, you won’t know how you existed without her.”
John didn’t have to be looking to know how fast Dean’s head would have come up at those words. He chanced the drip delay function of the coffee maker, poured two cups and replaced the carafe. Turning, he passed one to Dean, who took it silently.
Worth the high stakes game to see the expression on his face. Worry, anxiety, yeah, always those. But also deeply, deeply pleased and somehow that penetrated the happy fog surrounding John, tapped him in a deep dark place that still felt guilt.
It takes so little to make this one happy.
John tossed the coffee back like it wasn’t hot at all, pulled together some clothing into a duffle bag. Dean, his hands still wandering over the rifle, touching here and there like it was a beautiful girl, suddenly stood up, body angled to John.
Deferential. Grateful. But worried, on edge. “Where are you going?”
John laughed. “Out of clean stuff. Hey, you should go out for target practice, young pup.” And Dean did look like a puppy, somehow, even though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Fuck it, I’m not allowed to be cheerful? “I’m gonna be busy today.”
Small cough. Chancing it, apparently. “You’ve been busy a lot. I thought we had a job to do.”
John was walking around the big circular room, on the lookout for stray laundry. “Your job is to become acquainted with your new friend here. Don’t you worry about me.” He kept humming as he finished his survey of the room, happy with the cowboy-hat lampshades and the faux-Hopi kachina doll design on the lightswitch plates. Spiders lived in the tall recess at the pinnacle of the plaster teepee and he seemed to recall that spiders were lucky. He slung the heavy duffle over his shoulder.
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.
“Hey,” Dean stopped him, and John turned. In the morning light, his son’s eyes were gray shadows. “We’re pretty close to the Grand Canyon, you know. We should go.”
John felt his smile go wide, knew it hit his eyes, made a fan of creases burst across both cheeks. “Sure thing, dude. One of wonders of the world. Everyone should see it at least once in their life. That sounds like fun. We should do that. But I’ve got stuff to do right now. And-”
Dean nodded, going back to the gun. The big shiny distraction. A gift, of sorts. Loaded, and John almost laughed at that thought, because it was funny.
“I know. I have a friend to make. Long range practice. No problem.” One quick dip of his head, uncertain between the gun and trying to figure out what John was up to. “Thanks.”
John turned the motel keychain in his hand, a chunk of fake plastic turquoise, as he paused in the doorframe. “I’ll be a while. Don’t wait up.”
--
Read Part Two here
Chapter Six/No Regrets, Coyote (Part One)
Rating: PG-13 for #$@*f$ and gratuitous mentions of That Damn Eagles Song now stuck in your head. Sorry ‘bout that. Gen, WIP.
Notes: Thanks as always to the alarmingly cogent betas, Sasquashme and Lemmypie. I’ve been on vacation, as some of you know, with sporadic access to technology, so this one took longer than usual. I’m really back in the proverbial saddle starting week after next. Also, I’m a lazy creature that doesn’t like to reinvent the wheel, so this fic is in the same realm as Red, Dazzleland and Verbal, and references them occasionally. And, Kripke, as always, rules the universe and all things in it including, unfortunately, all the Winchesters, who I would happily take home and tuck into bed.
Read previous chapters
Our Story Thus Far: In June 2001, in the immediate aftermath of Sam leaving for Stanford, Dean has to deal with his father’s increasingly belligerent and out-of-control behavior while they engage in a non-stop cross-country hunting campaign. Over the course of several months, they battle a Jenny Greenteeth, a west African rain goddess, a dust devil and a kraken, among other things. Thanks to the duplicitous dust devil, Dean is questioning if his decision to remain with his father instead of going with Sam was the right one. We rejoin the Winchesters early in 2002.
In parallel with these stories, in Las Vegas April 2002, Dean is seriously injured in an as-yet unspecified incident that may or may not have been John’s fault. On the run from the law, John meets up with his old friend Bobby Singer, who is mapping historic silver mines; in 1859, Nevada was the scene of the world’s largest silver strike, the Comstock Lode. Believing that something evil is (barely) contained in the abandoned mines, Bobby solicits John’s grudging help. As Dean recovers from his accident, he persuades his father to let him assist, and is promptly befriended by tommyknockers, a ghostly underground presence brought over by the Cornish miners who worked the Lode. Unbeknownst to John, Dean, depressed over his compromised physical capabilities, scared by the changes he sees in his father, and profoundly grieving Sam’s absence, breaks down and starts leaving a series of unanswered messages on his brother’s voice mail.
--
About time you changed that greeting.
Dad would have…well, he would have called, but… C’mon. You know him. Always forgets this kind of crap.
Hope you’re going out tonight. Get good and loose. ‘Cause that’s how I think of you: shit-faced on a school night, six foot four of legless wonder. You always were a cheap date, Sam. But, really, yeah. Have a good one, okay?
--
The moon was huge, full, desert-big and twice as empty. Unreal, like it was hanging in a kid’s school play, like somebody’s mom had made it from cardboard and aluminum foil. It shone above rock so striped you could see the layers even in the dark, each band marking an ancient change in the seabed, dust now, so much death underlying all the desert. Dean crouched behind a rock spur, scrub sagebrush and juniper obscuring his view.
He knew what he was hunting now, knew he was being toyed with, but didn’t much care. He knew what it did and how it could be killed, and that was all that mattered. He hoped it was all that mattered, in the end.
The car was miles away now; his quarry had led him due north through the Navajo nation, right into the heart of Hopi territory. It had wound a trail through the sprawling ancestral lands, past secluded Hopi villages nestled atop the mesas, islands in the midst of the later Navajo flood. He wasn’t here to disturb any of those people, though. He followed dirt paths walked by the vanished Anasazi, but tonight this land belonged to the sky as much as to anything else, stars looking down on this small drama, less involved than the moon, always.
The new rifle was light in his hands, no piece of army engineering from the last world war, but made of materials that claimed origin in laboratories rather than forges. Made by scientists as much as by craftsmen. Part of him, an extension. Mine.
There, far in the distance, a light streak crossed in front of a pine, the snow lying in wind-sculpted drifts where it patched the hillside. Light against dark, dark against snow.
He shouldn’t be able to see this far, he knew that, but this was what it was and he was a hunter. They were here, both of them, quarry and seeker, out here in this desert, this land apart. So it happened, and he didn’t question it. As it should be, an ancient dance.
Dean had been taught how to move quickly and quietly, it was the sort of skill valued in his family and he had learned it, had practiced. Because that’s what you did. That’s what he did. So, tonight, fast, after this animal. Not big, but bigger than was natural, which was his first clue. Not like the last time, when mistakes had been made.
It’s why I’m back here, by myself, hunting this fucking thing. Not his mistake, and he hadn’t paid for it as much as his father had, but there was an account coming due right now that Dean had to make good. There was no one else.
None that cared, anyway.
The hard-packed desert was mostly stone, hardly anything worth calling earth at all, and despite the high-tech rifle in his hands, he felt like he may have moved back in time, that he was somewhere out of time, that this was a dreamscape, not real at all.
That’s what the bastard wants, and gave himself a shake. Focus. Arizona, early February, two years into the new millennium. The painted desert. It had sounded hot, and therefore wanted, when John had pointed the truck south, had sounded a world away from ice fishing on frozen Michigan lakes.
It wasn’t, not really. Moonscape and snow, high wind cutting through his light jacket, hands cold around the stock of the rifle. He rested on a crest, looked down into the shallow valley. There it was, again. Was hardly even trying to remain hidden. Laughing at me, maybe.
Dean steadied his breath, the hammering of his heart. Thought of Nordic events in the Winter Olympics, that dumb-ass combination of cross-country skiing and shooting. The hardest part was calming your heart enough to get off a decent shot.
Which was what he had to do now.
He’d always been lucky; he’d heard it a lot over the years. His easy good fortune drove Dad and Sam nuts, seemed like he didn’t have to work for much. But he had to work for everything, really; they didn’t know how luck worked.
Dean balanced against the rock, sighted the incline where the streak was heading. Silver bullets, the only kind that worked, a Navajo amulet melted down and cast into this shape, this message to the gods: Stop fucking with us. Stop fucking with me. And didn’t know who he was killing this thing for: the dead tourists, his dazzled father, or himself, alone.
Waited. Was lucky. Had earned it. In his sights now, his heart slowed to a crawl. Through the elongated distance, so close in the rifle’s sight, he recognized its easy gait, the way it glided across the difficult terrain, saw its head when it turned, when it locked eyes with him. Knowing that he was there.
Things could have been different; for the last while here in Arizona, they had been different. In some ways, this was the happiest Dean had been in months. His dad was certainly having a blast. Doesn’t he deserve it? What was so wrong with happiness? Why does it always have to be us, making the sacrifices? But he knew. He’d been told, after all: We wander too close to the edge. But that made him think of waterfalls, of what happened at the cusp.
Dean took a breath, one eye shut to the sight, hesitating. Was it really so evil? Wasn’t it just what it was? And he squeezed the trigger, saying goodbye, and it hurt.
The recoil was a bitch, but he was used to it now, had been practicing - which made it skill, not luck - and the beast jumped like it was dancing, the shot echoing throughout the canyon, rustling up an owl that had been dithering in a pine.
Dean lowered the rifle, staring. It was an impossible shot; he knew the rifle didn’t have that kind of range. Still.
He picked his way down the hillside to where the incline commenced. It took him twenty minutes, because it was a long way. The laughing moon circled above his head, heading into the dreamworld, painting the desert blue tonight.
Between a rock and a plump piñon, Dean halted, breath short now, heart going fast. He hadn’t exactly known what he’d find.
He crouched beside the dead coyote, the distinctive silver streak that ran from ear down the side of its head shining lapis in the moonlight. A big coyote, unnaturally big, mouth pulled in a grin, tongue lolling to the side, bullet hole right above its eyes, center of its broad brow. There was little blood, surprisingly. With trepidation, Dean reached out a hand, rested it on the still-warm shoulder, coarse blond and gray fur buffeted by the wind.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to it. “Maybe next time, it’ll work out different. But time you moved on, I’m thinking.”
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and stood, looking down at the coyote. There was no one for miles, not in any direction. Maybe no one in years. Maybe no one. Just him, and his kill. No one to see him wipe his eyes.
“Me too,” he said.
It took him an hour to hike back to the Impala, another hour before he pulled into the parking lot of the Winslow TeePee Village. The plaster wigwams loomed ridiculous against the blushing sky, appeared on the flat desert beside Route 40 like a bad Disney joke. He parked the car, got out slowly, wretchedly. He’d been up all night, wanted nothing more than to sleep. But there might be more business. There might be truly unpleasant business ahead.
His hand had just touched the doorknob when he heard the snore. Loud, cutting the air with gusto, full glottal. Only ever sounded that bad when he’d been drinking. But it was a snore. Which meant he was there, he was sleeping, which he hadn’t done in days.
And Dean entered, making no effort at quiet, came in and smiled at John splayed spread-eagle on the bed, snoring to wake the dead. Dean rubbed his head, felt the weight of his kill inside him. No regrets. They did what they did. They were hunters.
He began to pack, thinking about being damned and being absolved. He packed everything, because as soon as John woke, Dean wanted to be gone.
--
Across the makeshift table Singer had set up outside the camper, the boy ate three sandwiches in the time it took Singer to eat one. Thank god the Winchesters had brought grocery contributions, now it seemed that Dean would be joining them. Singer hadn’t forgotten how much a young man ate - he forgot nothing about Evan, not a thing - but it still came as a surprise.
Over in his corner of the ring, Winchester was pissed, anyone could see it. Angry with his son, angry with injury and recovery. With Dean’s being lost for ten minutes down a tunnel, with the helplessness that momentary loss had produced. Was Dean supposed to be in PT instead of up here? Singer didn’t dare ask. Of course, neither of the Winchesters talked about it, because that would involve…talking.
Once lunch was demolished, Singer absently brushed the table of crumbs with the flat of his calloused hand and laid out his map of the Yellow Jacket, Crown Point and Kentuck interconnections. They’d seen it before, all of them. Their blueprint of work done, work to come.
“Only a few more to go. We’re getting a pretty clear idea of where all the secondary and tertiary tunnels are coming into the system from the surface.” Singer tapped four or five different penciled lines running parallel to the major ones marked in draftsman ink. “Always good to know where the backdoor is.” And where we might need to seal things up, he could have added.
Winchester wandered over, lazy and dangerous as a curious wolf, a tin mug of coffee in his hand. The midday air was warm, even up here, and he’d taken off his work shirt, was just in a tee shirt, dusty, sweat-stained. “You think something supernatural caused the fire, don’t you?”
Singer shrugged. “The fire occurred just at the tail end of the most productive decade on the Lode. Bringing up that much silver that fast might have weakened whatever constraints were in place.”
Dean kept quiet eyes on Singer as his father circled around behind, still taking sips of his coffee, compact frame bundled together like live wires. “What the hell do you think it is, Bobby?” Winchester asked.
Singer wished he had a definitive answer. Men like Winchester liked definitive answers, demanded them.
“A demon?” Dean asked when his father didn’t. Demons were the big flash, what every hunter wanted to go after.
“Well,” Singer said, not with any certitude, “it’s possible that the miners in the Yellow Jacket or the Kentuck broke into a seam, took out just the wrong amount of ore at a weak spot, and that’s when the fire swept through the 800 foot level, trapping the guys in the lower levels.” He tapped the map. “The Yellow Jacket fire killed about forty miners in the first coupla hours, but it burned for well over five years. They used a combination of cave-ins and floods to hold it, and no one worked that mine again for years.”
Dean nodded, but his attention was on the creased map on the table. Finally, he pointed. “And this area here-” and his finger traveled over a shaded tunnel, “this was mined prior to the fire, was below the fire, but has been sealed up since? Probably flooded, but might just be - abandoned?”
Singer nodded. “Yep, that’s right. Though ‘abandoned’ might not be totally correct.”
“I still don’t see how this is anything supernatural.” Winchester’s voice was sparse, flammable as cordite, sharp as obsidian.
“It burned too fast, came out of nowhere,” Singer explained. “Survivors talked about a malevolent spirit, about darkness within the flames. They smelled sulfur, and some heard laughter.” A pause, because he already knew what Winchester thought of mining superstitions. “Some of the Cornishmen reported that the tommyknockers warned them away weeks prior, spoke of an evil down below. The Cornish guys didn’t want to work that drift, but the owners, guys like George Hearst, wouldn’t have any of that.”
It earned Singer a glare, Winchester’s black eyes barely visible in the creases. “I’m going back down the Mexican hole we found last week, Bobby, see where it connects up. Something useful. You two compare your fairy notebooks.” He glanced at his son. “Not down below, you. Up top. See you back here for dinner.”
He moved off uphill, retracing his steps from earlier in the day, feet heavy with work boot and anger.
Worse than usual today, Singer thought. Touchy asshole, any day of the week.
Beside Singer, Dean sighed, a small sound, contained. “He was talking about a haunting in Reno this morning,” he murmured after a minute. “He said that Tim guy from Vegas was putting some new plates on the truck, was gonna drive it up here. Dad said they could handle it, the two of them.” Something slipped in his voice then, and Bobby tried not to wince. “Next week, he’s talking about. He might have to take off for a few days.”
Singer knew that Winchester was not a man to take idleness well, that he needed something tangible to hunt. Only Dean’s recuperation was keeping him here this long. Singer wondered what it must have been like, growing up in the wake of such a restless ship.
“Did he say you could help me while he’s gone?”
Dean shrugged, feeling useless in the face of his father’s drive, body not quite right yet, maybe. The boy didn’t have to say that he was watching his father’s train pull away from the station; Singer could see it. “Didn’t say I couldn’t.” Which wasn’t quite the same thing.
“What do you know about demons?” Singer asked, now looking at Dean the same way Winchester sometimes did, assessing soundness, trying to make sure that he was ready. Not physically, though. John can teach him one way; I’ll teach him another. If he’s interested in demons, I’ll give him demons.
A smile, genuine, large. “More than most.”
“Okay, then. Time you learned more. Let’s get out the textbooks.” He stood, clapped Dean on the shoulder. “You probably liked school, right?”
Chuckling at the kid’s expression, he told Dean to wait at the table, went into his camper and took his time selecting a couple of seventeenth century books on demonology, wrapped in acid-free paper, marked with thin archival strips at relevant sections, mostly passages about fire demons. Those bastards were the worst, Singer judged. Vindictive, smart. Bullies.
He glanced out the camper window. Dean was sitting at the table, his phone in hand, running fingers over the keypad. Then it was at his ear and he stood, one hand tucked under the other elbow, hunched over.
Afraid, Singer thought, reading the posture.
It was a short call, whatever it was, because the kid had the phone back in his pocket in under fifteen seconds, was pacing now, free hand scrubbing his hair. Singer tucked the demonology texts under his arm and opened the door slowly, making sure Dean heard him coming. As soon as the door opened, the kid looked up, a smile crossing his face, false as a mannequin’s.
For an hour or so, he went through the books with Dean, pointing out descriptions of various manifestations, forms, exhausting examples of avarice and cruelty. Names and attributes, histories, hundreds of details about the wreckage left behind. There was no killing them, only enclosing them, surrounding them. Imprisoning them. Trust evil not to have capital punishment, Singer thought with a grim smile.
Dean checked his phone three times in the hour, Singer noticed.
Finally, he asked. He knew the answer, but reckoned the kid needed to say it. “You expecting a call?”
Almost a flinch, a skittish horse shying from his shadow. “No sir.”
“Your brother? You think he’s gonna call?”
Dean shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at Singer anymore. “Nah. He knows better. Has to be a clean break. I shouldn’t…I don’t expect anything.” And eyes were back up, armor complete again. “It’s his birthday. I left a message. You know, I’ve got Dad, and Sam’s by himself and he shouldn’t… Not today, anyway.”
“Does he ever pick up?”
“Not when he’s studying. And he’s always studying.” He paused, fingers resting on the old book. “You’d like him, Bobby. A lot. He’d love this shit,” and gestured to the maps, the old hidebound books. “If it was plain history and not demons.”
“Maybe you should try calling him again.”
“Maybe,” Dean said softly, but it was no agreement.
--
Truman May bent over the faded green felt, with one gnarled finger showed Dean where he should take his next shot, rings studded with turquoise and polished agate. Dean wasn’t in the habit of taking pointers about his pool game; this last week had been different. Once again, May noticed Dean’s uncommon acceptance of advice, pulled that quicksilver grin over the ravaged terrain of his craggy face, eyes glints of blue in the hard light.
The sun was warm on Dean’s back, was actually hot just outside decrepit Winslow even in February, and Dean imagined that the twenty or so cars in various stages of decomposition might trap the desert heat, were radiating it like some kind of solar panels. The Navajo mountains were far to the north, nothing but dust and highway between. The sun big overhead. The rusty cars scattered like bug carcasses in a roach motel. One camper, the kind you pulled behind a big pickup. This one hadn’t moved in years.
A pool table in the middle of this, incongruous, magic, shimmed with bits of scrap wood so it was level, a tarp nearby to keep it free from blowing snow and sand. A clearing in the forest of mechanical rust, green and soft, hinting at pleasure and risk. The two of them circling it, circling each other, a weird unnatural oasis in this winter desert.
He wore his shirt collar up this time. First day out with May here, he’d gotten a burn on the back of the neck, across his nose. Freckles had popped up, dark against red. He’d learned his lesson about winter sunshine, Four Corners strong. Deceptive. Killed his beer, turned his cue over in his hands, wasn’t going to let Truman May get a shot in, made him watch as he cleared the table.
Every day for a week now, and this was only the third time he’d done that, skunked the magnificently wily May.
Three won games and the talk turned philosophical. They weren’t playing for money; they were playing for words. Not lucky. I earned it.
May, face creased like Keith Richards on a Moroccan bender, reached into the braided leather pockets, fetched out balls; they clacked as he arranged them without a triangle. “You think letting humanity fumble around, make their own mistakes, you think that’s evil?” Like they had been talking about this subject instead of pool.
Out of the blue. That’s okay. Seven days of May giving Dean the break and now Dean gave it back, signaling that class was over. May took it, a more even field now. The time for May to help him was done. Now they were playing and they both knew it. May took his time chalking his cue, picked up some sand from between his booted feet, dusted his broad hands with it. He was taller than Dean, Sam-tall, but lean, wiry, narrow-chested. Consequential reach, tricky in every way imaginable. But likeable too.
Dean laughed. “I didn’t say that. But really?” Watched as May placed the nominally white ball on the D, drew back casually, and made the break with a crack like far thunder. “I sometimes wonder if we shouldn’t leave people to their own mistakes, yeah.”
A striped ball zipped into the corner pocket and May nodded to it, pointed to an orange-striped ball, indicated the desired pocket. Called his shots, otherwise they didn’t count. No such thing as luck. He lit the cigarette that he’d been keeping behind his ear, long gray hair caught back in a ponytail, down vest thin and open. “So, not evil to let humanity suffer. Good to know,” and the striped ball fell into the pocket like a lover into bed.
“But,” May continued, indicating his next conquest with a sweep of the cue, “if it’s part of the natural world, if it’s just a regular hunting thing - an eagle, a mountain lion,” and his eyes darted up from the table, stared at Dean, smile an apology, “a wolf, say,” and Dean’s blood ran cold, despite the winter sun, “does that mean it’s evil? That it deserves to die? Just Mother Nature having her way, isn’t it?”
Dean kept his face calm. Kept calm. Thought he was probably keeping calm. “Depends. If it’s natural? Same as humans. Whoever’s smarter about it. But if it’s not natural? If it’s--”
May sank the ball, took a drag of his cigarette, called his next shot, set the cigarette on the edge of the table. Dean watched as the striped ball banked gently, too softly, and the ball teetered on the edge. Not falling.
A miss. And almost no opportunity on the table. May hadn’t made his shot, but he hadn’t left Dean anything to work with. May grinned and shrugged. “I want to finish my smoke,” he excused his miss. “You want another beer?”
Dean nodded, aware that May was giving him more than enough time to study the table while he got another two beer cans from six-pack under the steps. A breeze wafted by, cooled the unexpected sweat on the back of Dean’s neck. Then he saw it, like a path ahead of him, luck or experience or chance. But there: bank, hit, ricochet, soft kiss into the side pocket.
He popped open the beer, took a long swallow, set it down on a car hood, and called his shot. May chuckled, low and under his breath. Now all it would take was skill. As Dean lined it up, May continued. “You mean if something isn’t natural, if it’s part of the dreamworld? If it crosses over? That’s the trouble with you new guys, always thinking that the two worlds are apart and need to be kept that way.” He shook his head and Dean chalked his cue, didn’t want to give the table back to May.
“Navajo and Hopi, they don’t differentiate between Wolf and Coyote, you know,” the lean poolshark hopped up on top of an empty oil barrel, stared at Dean like he was enjoying this. Maybe he was. Funny thing was, Dean was enjoying it. Long time since Dean had called anyone ‘friend’. “Same word for both.”
“Ma’ii,” Dean said softly, ignoring him for a moment. Not ignoring him. He’d always come weaponless to May’s table. Knew he had to if he wanted to find this place, if he wanted to cross the line that May drew on his threshold. Between worlds, here. A meeting place. Dean knew something about winning answers from things such as this.
Who knew it would pleasurable, days of slow easy pool games under a warm sun?
“Take your old man, for instance.” May was chuckling, low, in his throat, almost a yip. “He’s killed a lot of shit, hasn’t he? A lot of stuff that some people would call unnatural. And he’s let a lot of people live that maybe didn’t deserve it.” He held up a hand at Dean’s inquisitive stare. “So, what’s evil and what’s not, hey? Those gamblers on the Mississippi? Little old Jenny was just cleaning house. What business did John have hunting her?”
Dean took the shot, connecting white with solid red. The solid curved around a clutch of stripes, veered into the bank, bounced off at an angle, narrowly missing the eight ball, kissed the solid blue, which dropped into the side pocket. Dean smiled, knowing he’d set up his next shot in the process.
He took a breath of warm sandy air. “Navajo guys. They have those wild dogs minding their sheep. That’s their job, that’s all they do. Swear to god those things are more dangerous than what’s after the sheep.”
A lift of May’s brows. “So that’s you? Nasty old sheepdog?”
Dean grinned again. “We kill what needs to be killed,” he explained without heat. This was an old dance, practiced steps.
May shrugged. “Like that big old sucker in Lake Whacheemeecalit? Yeah, that sure as hell was evil.” He drank the beer, lit another cigarette. “Or maybe you just got too close to where the threshold’s thin. You and your old man, you go looking for the thin places. Out of your way, you might say. No wonder this kind of shit’s always happening to you. Your brother’s got the right idea, you know, getting the fuck away from the twilight zone.”
May wasn’t the dust devil; he wasn’t bound to tell the truth. Dean wasn’t really looking for the truth, anyway. He just wanted to make sure of his options.
And the process wasn’t exactly painful. May played a mean game of pool, told good jokes. Was as homeless and wandering and…dangerous as Dean himself. There might be some other way than the obvious. There might be. Dean hoped for it, suddenly.
He came around the table to take his next shot. “Yeah, I’ll leave that for a higher power to decide.”
“Like Old Man Winchester? Your dad says ‘shoot’ and you shoot?” This was close to other questions asked over the years. Too close.
“Yep, that’s pretty much it,” Dean said, standard answer. Don’t question every order, Sammy. It’s how he is.
“What about now?”
Dean looked up from his one-eyed survey of the table. “Well, he’s not exactly himself right now, is he?”
May laughed outright and Dean thought, Yeah, I’ll probably have to kill him. But sadly, starting to get a little angry, but unclear at what. At whom.
He whispered, “Let him go,” because ‘happy’ could also be accomplished with a lobotomy; didn’t mean that’s what Dean wished for his dad.
“Maybe he’s exactly what he’s always been. At least he’s gettin’ some kicks in.” May crossed his arms in front of his faded tee shirt. Might have been a Harley logo on it at some point in its long life. “He’s a killer, your dad. He’s killed shit, killed things that didn’t deserve it. He’ll do it again. You cross a line like that, you don’t go back.”
Dean blocked him out, calculated the shot, took it, watched with satisfaction as the ball went in. “My dad’s a hero,” Dean said softly.
“You know, I like you, Dean. We’re the same underneath it all, you, me, even John, though he really needed to cut loose. Did him a favor, so I did,” May said, tipping the beer back.
Dean took another swallow. “Yeah? You like me so much, how come you haven’t done me the same favor?”
“Tell you why, but you’re not gonna like it: You been marked already, Dean Winchester. I can see it. Smell it.” And he looked mournful for a moment, those sharp eyes almost kind. Sorry about how things were, not for himself, but for Dean, which was worse. “A Wolf’s got your scent. I’m not going to fuck with that. You should be worrying about that bastard, ‘cause those guys, they don’t let up.”
The beer was sour in Dean’s throat and he couldn’t mask the surprise. Or the horror. “What--”
May’s expression changed, mercurial, grinned and gestured to Dean questioningly. “Okay, so like we were saying. The Wolf. Is he unnatural? Maybe. Or maybe just too close to the edge. Just like you.” He finished his beer, crumpled the can, tossed it over his shoulder where it clanged against some rusty car part.
“You know how this ends, you know how to find me.” And stepped forward with hands held out. “You gonna take your shot, Dean?”
The wind kicked up, sand sweeping across the lot by the side of the highway, cold now, and the grit forced Dean to look away, cursing. He scrubbed his eyes, couldn’t get it out. He turned hard, dropping his pool cue. But when he straightened, the wind dying away as suddenly as it had come, Dean was alone, no cars, no beer cans, no camper. No pool table. The only sign that May had been there was a cigarette on the empty desert by the side of Highway 87, still burning.
--
Dinner came and went. Pea soup and bread and Polish sausages fried over an open fire. Dean watched his father pick over his food, dump his plate into the plastic basin, go back down the Mexican rathole he was mapping, all without saying a word to either Dean or Bobby.
He’s mad, Dean thought, offering to do the dishes, eyes on his father’s back as he picked his way up the hill. He knows what day it is. He’ll work until he’s too tired to think.
Bobby declined his help with a wave of his hand. “You seen the hoist works? You should take a walk up there, check it out.” He kept his eyes on the basin, squirted in some detergent, followed it up with hot water from the kettle. “I can do this.” Gestured with his nose. “Good reception up there. On the grid.” Grinned at the dish pan. “Or so I hear.”
Nothing more, but it was encouragement and a pat on the back and something else thoughtful, and therefore, to be mistrusted. Dean was too tired to say no.
Once he walked up the short trail, Dean discovered that the hoist works were smaller ones; this was the shafthead of a lesser mine. Dean hadn’t retained the name. But Bobby was right about the reception. Dean glanced around, could see clear up Six Mile Canyon, the sun lowering on the horizon, sky streaked pink and gold and purple like some Kool-Aid punk hanging out homeless on skid row. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t walk anymore, was too beat and sore, so he leaned against the old steel works, hoist wheels missing the braided flatwire, boarded up with peeling plywood and rusty nail heads.
Dialed.
This morning, Dean had found out that Sam had changed his greeting. Sam’s getting these messages. He’s still not answering.
It stung, though Dean had been pretending it didn’t matter. Sam was angry. Dean knew that, had known that for months and months. Knew that when his brother got mad, he went deep, went so deep with it, hung on to it like a kindergartener with all the toys. Unshakeable Pit Bull mad. Sam was angry and was angry because he was hurt.
Had been hurt. It had been the right decision, but it had caused all kinds of damage, in all directions.
Today was Sam’s birthday, and even though Dad often forgot, he hadn’t forgotten today, Dean knew, and somehow that was unforgivable. It’s up to me. A bunch of fucking sheep and he was the sheepdog, just running around them, barking at their heels. Trying to keep them together.
A clean break was best: John had said it, Sam knew it, but fuck it if Dean could do it. He’d tried. He had. And he wasn’t built that way. Sam wasn’t going to call back; it wasn’t really the way Sam was built. But if Dean didn’t leave these messages, he was going to go crazy, was going to lose it, more than he already had.
He had time to think all this because the phone was on ring number five. Then six. The voice mail wasn’t picking up. Seven. Turned off? Dean thought, wondering, looking at the westering sun, eyes prickling.
Hello? On the other end, music, loud music, then again, Hello?
Not Sam’s voice.
“Uh,” Dean stammered, shocked. He came away from his lean, tried to hear what was going on in the background. Voices. Music. “Yeah. Is Sam there?”
A pause and Dean thought whoever this was must be having a hard time hearing. So he repeated, louder, “Sam? Is Sam there?”
Sam? Another pause, the song not one Dean recognized, all bass and dance beat. I think so. Hang on - and the music lessened a little. Dean heard, Hey, where’s Winchester at? I’ve got his phone! Then, closer, encouragingly, Yeah, he’s somewhere around here. I’ll find him. Do you want to call back?
Fuck no.
“No, I need to talk to him,” Dean said, and it felt like one of those fairground rides, where the car rode up a water-filled chute to come crashing down into spray and giddy laughter. Not dangerous. That’s what he told himself. Not dangerous, just seemed that way. “I’ll hang on.”
So, who is this? The voice was curious, some young guy. A little bit slurred.
“His brother,” Dean said, voice dropping.
Wow, really? I didn’t think Sam had any family. You live in California?
“No. No, right now we’re in Nevada.”
Oh, okay, so not far away. You should have come out here; Sam got all morose this week, we finally figured out it was his birthday. Man, like pulling teeth-
And for once, Dean didn’t care if he got ‘the chatty one’, didn’t care that this well-lubricated college freshman was going to talk his ear off. Perfectly okay. He found out that Sam was a genius, had gotten into some kind of research group and that he liked statistics and that he played a wicked game of racquetball and could eat more than just about anybody this guy - Wade, his name was - knew. Sam studied too much, was hard to get him out, you know? And had almost zero interest in girls. Was he gay? I mean, okay, that would explain things.
Dean listened, felt guilty, because no way would Sam ever have told him a fraction of any of this, even if he’d been sitting in front of Dean. Even if he’d been vomiting drunk in front of Dean.
After a little while, Wade gave up trying to find Sam. Instead, Dean got passed to Roxanne, who came from Santa Barbara. She wasn’t feeling much pain either, and told him she was into rowing. She hadn’t decided her major. She liked Sam a lot, but he was pretty shy, wasn’t he? And man, did he study too much, it had taken forever to get him out tonight. They had surprised him. Scott had said it was a study group meeting at a coffee shop, but that they had to stop for-
And Dean was listening, sortof, he was, was taking it all in, saying as little as possible, just enough to keep her going, but it was like eating a whole carton of ice cream at one sitting, just stuffing it in too fast. Too sweet and too much and he was feeling sick, because it was really bad for you even if it tasted this good.
He’d been looking at the sky and it was retina-burning bright. So he stared at the toes of his boots, scuffed and dusty, sun slanting orange across them, just as Scott told him that Sam was in the upstairs part of the bar playing darts - wicked good at the darts, man - and that he was taking Sam’s phone up there now -
And Dean looked up from his toes to see his father standing not five feet from him, streaked face, dark eyes gold in the sunset light, face shining in light, or sweat, or tears, it was hard to tell. A terrible expression on his face, stripped raw, every painful thing written there so clearly that Dean’s breath stopped in his chest: he just ceased to breathe.
To think, to know how to do anything.
Because he was standing on a plywood sheet atop a hole that dropped a thousand feet straight into the heart of a mountain, something evil underfoot, his brother about to jump into his hand after a year apart and his father in front of him, precipice between them big as the Grand Canyon, a fall in the making.
Dean lowered the phone, slowly closed it. He could not take his eyes from his father’s. John grimaced, blinked. Nodded a couple of times before looking away, like he’d known he’d find this.
Betrayal. Fear in all its many forms.
Kept nodding to himself, wiped dirt from underground from his face with one hand, clearing it of many things.
Dean saw them anyway, and was still unable to breathe.
“Dad,” he choked out after a moment. He didn’t give himself the fantasy of supposing that John didn’t know who he’d been calling. They were past that. There was no point. He’d probably been there for a few minutes, to have that expression on his face. Dean hadn’t heard him because everything he knew about moving quickly and quietly, he’d learned from this man. “Dad.”
Oh, Jesus, say something. Please.
John had his hands on his hips, was staring at the ground. Finally, not looking up, like the sight of Dean distressed him, “You call him often?”
Define often.
Dean shook his head. “It’s his--”
“I know what day it is,” John said softly, but Dean heard the desolation behind it.
Dean knew that it was better to stay quiet in face of this. To just weather it. Lash himself to the mast and ride it out. But his mouth worked, his mouth always worked. “I haven’t spoken to him, if that’s any consolation.”
John looked up then, brows quirking in a way that Dean dreaded. “You think this is some new way I’ve dreamed up to punish you? You think that?” The man had his own weapons, and not all of them were steel and flame and salt. “Doesn’t call you back, does he?”
Dean heard it then: Pride. Fuck, these two.
“Not once.” Admitted it, wanted to know how he knew, was willing to take whatever was coming, even this. Remembered that they were a couple of head-butting rams and he was a sheepdog. John and Sam, they were the same. And he wasn’t like them.
John only nodded some more. “He’s out of it. He got out. Leave him the fuck alone.”
Protecting Sam, and it hit Dean like a blow.
John shuffled a little, coming to some kind of decision. He turned, started walking stiff-legged to the path down like walking wasn’t something that he normally did. “I’m taking the car. Don’t wait up.”
Dean stood alone on the crest for a good fifteen minutes after his dad left, trying to figure out that last tone in his voice. Not submission, never that. Not anger, either, though Dean has been expecting it. Something else that he didn’t recognize, which worried him, something flat and disconsolate, something beyond Dean’s reach. John was somewhere out there in the night, unreachable. As was Sam.
He looked at his phone, complicit in this crime. Clean break. Unreachable, even with a useless fucking phone. Without thinking, without working it through, he jammed the cell between a crack in the plywood that sealed up the shaft. The phone fell into oblivious darkness, and if it hit bottom, Dean couldn’t hear it.
--
John rinsed the razor in the running water, mirror following the wall of the bathroom slanting up to the ceiling at a crazy angle, a little bedraggled dreamcatcher hanging in the frosted glass window, pueblo-style wallpaper border peeling back in the steam.
Damn, I look about ten years younger when I shave.
John wiped the mirror with his fingers. His eyes were bright when he looked back at himself. Not too bad, for an old guy. Not bad at all. Could see where his sons got it from. A grin slowly emerged, drawing dimples, crinkles at the corner, made him as appealingly worn and soft and dangerous as a vintage leather jacket. Morning again, a whole day to look forward to, and he hadn’t had coffee or breakfast, and man he was half-starving.
In the room beyond, he heard the sounds of Dean getting up, moving around. It was early still, and Dean didn’t exactly like to get up with the sun, but John hadn’t been quiet when he’d come in. Just to shower and shave. Maybe he’s worried about me. John patted his face dry with a happyface cacti appliquéd hand towel. These places Dean found. God, they were funny. I should tell him how much they make me laugh. But then maybe he’d stop, and John had come to like this game.
Looked at the décor. A friggin’ wigwam, for pete’s sake. God, I could eat a cow. He pulled on a button up shirt that he’d thought was clean, but noticed a gravy stain, a grease spot. Hell, that might be lipstick there. Red, anyway. Grinned wider. Maybe time to do laundry. He went with the gray tee shirt, still amused that they were in Winslow, Arizona, and came out humming the song, which he knew all the words to.
Dean was sitting on a low couch upholstered in seventies-era southwest geometric, still in boxers, sleep hair sticking up all over. For once, he looked remarkably intact, not a bruise or a cut on him. Whole. In front of him, resting on the coffee table, was an enormous rifle, shiny, new. Still with the maker’s tags on it.
John remembered: hell, he’d won it last night over a table of cards.
“Dude,” Dean said, voice scratchy with sleep. “Enough with the Eagles.”
John put on coffee, watched his son out the corner of his eye, tuned to his every move. “Written by Jackson Browne, which is why it doesn’t suck. It’s a fine song.”
Slowly, when he thought John wasn’t looking, Dean reached out, touched the gun, one finger running up the barrel. It was a beauty, all right, expensive as hell. Too good for that idiot last night. The blonde on his arm had been too good as well, and John didn’t feel bad about taking the guy to the cleaners. Fools are soon parted and all that.
He leaned against the small kitchen counter, watching Dean’s apprehension and excitement. “Go on. Take it apart. Clean it.” He bent down to the small bar fridge, getting out cream, hiding his grin. “You know, we should drive north outta town, find a good spot on rez where the authorities won’t come lookin’. We don’t hang out enough, you and me. Knock some cans off fences. Few days of that, you won’t know how you existed without her.”
John didn’t have to be looking to know how fast Dean’s head would have come up at those words. He chanced the drip delay function of the coffee maker, poured two cups and replaced the carafe. Turning, he passed one to Dean, who took it silently.
Worth the high stakes game to see the expression on his face. Worry, anxiety, yeah, always those. But also deeply, deeply pleased and somehow that penetrated the happy fog surrounding John, tapped him in a deep dark place that still felt guilt.
It takes so little to make this one happy.
John tossed the coffee back like it wasn’t hot at all, pulled together some clothing into a duffle bag. Dean, his hands still wandering over the rifle, touching here and there like it was a beautiful girl, suddenly stood up, body angled to John.
Deferential. Grateful. But worried, on edge. “Where are you going?”
John laughed. “Out of clean stuff. Hey, you should go out for target practice, young pup.” And Dean did look like a puppy, somehow, even though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Fuck it, I’m not allowed to be cheerful? “I’m gonna be busy today.”
Small cough. Chancing it, apparently. “You’ve been busy a lot. I thought we had a job to do.”
John was walking around the big circular room, on the lookout for stray laundry. “Your job is to become acquainted with your new friend here. Don’t you worry about me.” He kept humming as he finished his survey of the room, happy with the cowboy-hat lampshades and the faux-Hopi kachina doll design on the lightswitch plates. Spiders lived in the tall recess at the pinnacle of the plaster teepee and he seemed to recall that spiders were lucky. He slung the heavy duffle over his shoulder.
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.
“Hey,” Dean stopped him, and John turned. In the morning light, his son’s eyes were gray shadows. “We’re pretty close to the Grand Canyon, you know. We should go.”
John felt his smile go wide, knew it hit his eyes, made a fan of creases burst across both cheeks. “Sure thing, dude. One of wonders of the world. Everyone should see it at least once in their life. That sounds like fun. We should do that. But I’ve got stuff to do right now. And-”
Dean nodded, going back to the gun. The big shiny distraction. A gift, of sorts. Loaded, and John almost laughed at that thought, because it was funny.
“I know. I have a friend to make. Long range practice. No problem.” One quick dip of his head, uncertain between the gun and trying to figure out what John was up to. “Thanks.”
John turned the motel keychain in his hand, a chunk of fake plastic turquoise, as he paused in the doorframe. “I’ll be a while. Don’t wait up.”
--
Read Part Two here