by hook or by crook - [SPN/Hook fic]
author's note: oh no what am i doing
this is "Something Wicked" as if instead of a shtriga outside the window, Captain Hook came instead. D:
I went to Wincon and spent a lot of time making flappy hands about crossovers and how they give me feelings and then I mentioned this that I've had stewing for more than two years and people said "Hey you should just write that" and it took absolutely no convincing for me to say "YESS I WILL I'M GONNA WRITE THE THING".
here's the thing. (ps i know nothing about kids. do they speak people? have personalities? i forget.)
summary: 1991, Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. Something is snatching children from their beds, and the Winchesters are on the hunt. John doesn't come home one night, Dean is fed up with everything, and in the morning, Sam is gone.
The only lead is the old woman in an old house who told Dean a story about the most wonderful, magical land and the way through the stars, and Dean think he's found pixie dust on the window sill. Dean makes a promise to find Sammy before Dad gets back, and if that means strong arming the boy who never grows up into taking him along, then he will.
Second star on the right and straight on 'til morning is a terrible time for Dean to figure out that he hates flying.
fic:by hook or by crook, part 1
May 3, 1991
Fort Douglas, Wisconsin
“Papa? I had a bad dream.” Elisa wore her favorite pirate ship pyjamas. “Will you read to me?” She was leaning through the door of Paul Banning’s office, where the light was soft and dim. Paul sat behind his desk, a laptop open in front of him and several stacks of paper. He looked up from his paperwork and shook his head, pushing his thin glasses up his forehead.
“Sorry honey, not tonight. I’ve got too much work.”
It was late, almost midnight. The house was dark and quiet but outside the wind was picking up as a storm rolled in.
Elisa fidgeted. “But there’s something outside my window,” she whispered. Her doe brown eyes were wide and wet, her face pale, and her lower lip trembled briefly. She hovered on the tips of her toes for a moment before her rocking momentum sent her forward and she stumbled to Paul’s side, tucking herself in against his arm. “It keeps knocking and it wants to come in.”
“Sweetie, you’re on the second floor. There is nothing outside your window, I promise.” Paul hesitated, her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt. He wrapped his arm around Elisa and kissed the top of her curly brown hair. “Turn your night light on and leave your door open. I’ll come check on you when I’m done here.”
Elisa rubbed her nose on the long sleeve of her pyjama top. “Okay,” she said with a small hiccup. She turned reluctantly pattered slowly out of the room. She cast a wide-eyed glance back over her shoulder as she left but Paul was already bent over his papers again. The desk light reflected off his glasses and she could not see his eyes.
“Night, papa.”
“Good night, sweetie,” he called absently.
Elisa ran across the floor of her dark, dark room, and scrambled up onto the bed before anything could catch her. She clicked on her fairy bedside light, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders, sitting on top of her pillow. For a long moment she sat, watching the shapes of her bedroom and waiting for them to move.
When they didn’t she scooted down her bed until she was lying flat and the blanket covered her nose. Bonnabee sat on the pillow next to her. Elisa wrapped her fingers around his leg and tugged him closer under the covers.
She closed her eyes and something tapped on her window.
--
Paul finished the last of his paperwork for the night an hour later. He stood and groaned, reaching up high and stretching the kinks out of his back.
His eyes ached, and the darkness when he flicked off the desk lamp was soothing. Paul rounded the desk and left his office. The hall carpet muffled his footsteps in the quiet night.
Paul pushed at Elisa’s partially open door, and peered inside. He started shivering. It was colder in Elisa’s room than in the hallway, and a chill wind blew in from the open window.
There was nothing but that open window to indicate anything was off. But Paul felt his heart skip a beat regardless. He tripped over the thick hall carpet as he ran to the bundled blankets on the bed. He grabbed the soft fleece of her blankets and ripped them away.
The bed was empty and Elisa was nowhere.
On the window sill there was a long, deep gouge in the wood and a sprinkling of fine gold dust that sparked and flashed in a sudden flare of lightning.
--
"Mrs Banning, can you remember anything else about the night your daughter disappeared?" John leaned forward intently.
Miranda Banning hiccuped into her tissue and shook her head, eyes squeezed tight against a new wave of emotion in the tsunami that had been swamping her for the better part of the last thirty minutes. John was nearly resigned to coming back when Mr Banning was home in hopes of actually having a two sided interrogation rather than a question and cry session. Mr Banning had taken to dealing with their daughter's disappearance in throwing himself even more whole-heartedly into his work, leaving Mrs Banning to wallow in her sorrow at home. She did not know when he might be home, or perhaps she did not care.
John tucked his journal into the inner jacket pocket of his cheap suit and plucked a fresh tissue for Mrs Banning to rub her makeup on.
He stood, tugging his jacket around his middle. Mrs Banning looked up, and then away again, staring at the picture on the mantel piece of a chubby, wildly grinning nine-year old. Elisa Banning was red cheeked and curly haired, with bright brown eyes and a mouthful of braces.
She'd been missing for only a day, but she was the third that month.
John opened his mouth to make some consoling noises, when someone knocked on the front door. In the parlour, John and Mrs Banning jumped nearly a foot in the air each. Mrs Banning stood and shuffled around John to answer the door.
Anger bubbled in John’s stomach. Dean stood outside the door, looking belligerent with his jaw set at an irritated angle. Even his freckles looked annoyed.
"Sammy's gotta pee," said Dean, not even bothering to apologize. Sam was whining and wiggling and nearly in tears, so John tapped the anger down and turned a rueful smile to Mrs Banning, who was staring at the children like she'd never seen anything like them before.
"Take your children to work day," lied John. The Impala was parked a block away and around the corner, and Dean knew better than to interrupt when John was interviewing witnesses, but they'd just rolled in to town that morning and John hadn't wanted to waste time searching for motels when the police were already setting up search parties in the wrong directions.
Mrs Bannings face changed in an instant, going soft and wobbly.
"Oh, of course. Elisa loved those. Paul took her to work just last month. Go on," she said to Dean, who was almost holding Sam up by the armpits. "Up the stairs and second door on your right."
Dean nodded, a pinched expression on his face that was his usual go-to for matronly witnesses, and hauled his brother out of the foyer and up the grand staircase.
Mrs Banning watched them with unbridled longing. "How old are they?" she asked.
"Dean's twelve. Sammy's seven," said John. He cleared his throat, suddenly gruff. "Sorry, eight. He's just had his birthday." John could hear Dean clumping about upstairs. His boots were new for him and too big, because he had just started a growth spurt. John didn't trust any of his clothes to stay on him long enough to make them worth the cost.
Mrs Banning sucked in a deep breath and brushed past John, sweeping back into the parlor with more poise than she'd demonstrated his entire visit. "So serious, your boy. Elisa was much the same way most of the time. She loved her books, her stories, but she was always focused. I loved it when she would get excited about things."
John held his breath. It was the most she'd said about her daughter.
"What did she get excited about?"
Mrs Banning smiled, sad and a little wet. "She told me about her dreams, the last time I saw her. Wonderful dreams about a flying, golden ship."
--
Sammy hummed to himself when he was peeing and never took less than forever to finish up. Dean slouched outside the shiny marble bathroom and kicked the toe of his big boots into the edge of the thick plush carpet that ran the length of the hallway. It was expensive and kind of ugly.
Down the hall, through a half-opened door, came a voice.
"Who's that?" the voice asked. It sounded old and tired.
Dean looked up, and hesitated. He didn't answer, because there were things out there that if you answered them they would steal your voice or your soul.
Granted, they probably didn't live in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, but Dad always told Dean to keep his guard up.
He tiptoed down the hall. There was an old lady sitting in a little girl's room. She smiled when she saw Dean. Her face was wrinkled and her whispy silver hair was pulled up in a cotton candy hairdo, with soft curls and a big knot in the back. Her eyes were soft and sunken and her smile was light and warm. It made Dean feel safe, which was not a feeling he was used to.
"Hello there," said the old lady. Her accent was like something off the TV, those British shows he sometimes found when Thundercats wasn't on or Sammy wasn't paying attention. "Are you lost, boy?"
Dean shook his head, and wrinkled his nose.
"Not much for talking, hmm?"
"No."
She chuckled. "Are you here with someone, then?"
Dean nodded. He stepped a bit closer. "My dad's downstairs. He's a cop. And Sammy's in the bathroom."
The old woman sighed deeply, sad and pale, like a china doll. She turned away to the window. Her hair caught the warm yellow sunlight like spun glass and she looked like she came out of a story book.
"He'll be looking for Elisa, then," she said. She frowned.
"Yeah," said Dean. "And the other kids too."
The old lady was silent.
Dean took a few more steps into the room, until the tips of his big boots just touched the soft shag of the carpet. He hovered there, on the threshold, like a ghost on a line of salt.
The old woman cocked her head to the side like a silver-plumed swan, and smiled at Dean again. It was too sad to be comforting this time. "Is Sammy your friend? What's your name?"
"I'm…Dean. Sammy's my Brother."
"Well Dean. It's lovely to meet you. My name is Wendy."
"Are you Elisa's grandmother, Ms Wendy?" asked Dean.
Ms Wendy shook her head. "I am just a good friend, visiting. I knew Mr Banning when he was a little boy, you know. He was one of mine -- my lost boys." Her eyes suddenly came alight, and Dean took an involuntary step forward, his freckled face already creasing into a smile as Ms Wendy said "Would you like to hear a story? Come here, sit by me."
Dean grimaced. He was twelve and being twelve meant he was too old for stories. Except Dad only told him stories about Shtrigas and werewolves, Rawhead and Bloody Bones -- and those stories weren't stories but battle plans. And anyway, there was nothing better to do than wait for Sammy. He walked over and sat on the little red chair at the little pink desk. Ms Wendy leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.
"When I was a little girl, just about your age," she started, "I met a boy who knew the way to the most fantastic place you could ever imagine. He swept me from my bed and took me off among the stars with my two little brothers. I was born in London, you see, and we flew away across the city lights and the stars, until we landed on the clouds just above a magical island."
And she told him her story.
She was at the part where she and and the boy met the mermaids in the lagoon, when Dean heard Sammy call from the bathroom. He slipped on his chair with a clatter. He'd been leaning forward too far, hanging on to Ms Wendy's every word.
"Damn it," he said.
"Language, Dean."
Dean flushed violently, and stammered "I'm sorry, Ms Wendy."
Ms Wendy cocked a silver eyebrow at him. It was possibly the most terrifying eyebrow he'd ever seen in his life.
"Thanks for telling me the story," Dean said, clambering up. He felt awkward and rude, and also like he should bow, but Ms Wendy stood up as well, graceful as though her feet barely swept the floor.
She was taller than Dean had thought she would be and she smelled like honeysuckle and warm spices. There was just something about her.
Dean didn't want to leave.
He heard the rattle of the bathroom door and then Sammy's shuffling footsteps in the hallway, and he made a split second decision. He threw himself across the room and gave Ms Wendy a fierce hug around the waist.
It only lasted a second, but he could feel her hands rest across his shoulders before he ran away and out of the room.
Sammy peered over his shoulder, going up on tiptoes. "What were you doing?" he asked.
Dean elbowed him and herded him toward the stairs. "Shut up, Sammy."
Dean was not excited to get downstairs and see Dad again. He'd deliberately disobeyed orders and that never ended well. Dad was sitting next to Mrs Banning though, listening intently and making the odd note in his journal, and when he looked up there was a sense of grim satisfaction to him.
"There you are, boys," he said, and Dean sighed internally because there was no hint of the anger he had caught when they'd first showed up.
Dad stood, straightening his suit jacket.
"Mrs Banning, thank you very much for your time. I'm sure the information you've given us will greatly aid in the search for your daughter. Boys, thank Mrs Banning for her hospitality."
"Thank you, Mrs Banning," Sam and Dean chorused. Sammy's face broke into an awkward, cheeky grin, and Mrs Banning melted.
"Of course," she said. Then she closed her eyes and looked like she might cry again.
--
Dad left them that afternoon in a motel room with four prints of the same picture of a leaf on all the walls. Dean groaned and flopped onto the bed reserved for Dad. He and Sammy would sleep in the one near the wall, but until Dad came back, Dean was sticking close to the TV.
It was just past noon when Dad went to the police station and the library to do his research.
It was almost eight that evening when Sammy piped up. He'd been sitting and reading his book for the past several hours.
"Dean? I'm hungry."
Dean's stomach had been growling for a while too, but to make dinner for him and Sammy would mean defeat. And that Dad was late.
Dean got up off the bed and rummaged through the suitcase of canned food. Dad had said he'd be home for dinner, so Dad hadn't given Dean any extra money to order pizza or anything. If they were sticking around they'd go grocery shopping, but it would all depend on what Dad's research said.
If Dad actually did any research.
Dean felt guilty, a squirmy unpleasant roil in his belly that didn't help his hunger.
"Spaghetti-O's and green beans," he said.
Sammy sighed, a forlorn expression all over his face, but he nodded.
It was as good as any dinner they had on the road. Sam ate everything, despite his grumbling, and Dean added some butter to the green beans to make them taste less like tin.
After eating, Dean foisted Sammy off on the TV for a while. He went outside and watched the streetlights for a while, waiting for the rumble of the Impala. He didn't stay out long.
At ten, Dean declared it bedtime. He tucked Sammy into their bed and then, not having anything else to do, put on his pajamas and got in bed too.
They lay in the silence and the dark, and eventually they fell asleep.
Dad came back late that night, startling Dean into pulling the knife out from under his pillow. The instinctive reaction earned him a nod of approval and a tired hand wave to go back to sleep.
Dean turned away from the light and the noise of Dad's rustling clothes and repressed sighs. He watched Sammy, curled up and sleeping soundly, and tried to decide if he could smell alcohol or not.
No, he decided, and drifted off.
--
this is "Something Wicked" as if instead of a shtriga outside the window, Captain Hook came instead. D:
I went to Wincon and spent a lot of time making flappy hands about crossovers and how they give me feelings and then I mentioned this that I've had stewing for more than two years and people said "Hey you should just write that" and it took absolutely no convincing for me to say "YESS I WILL I'M GONNA WRITE THE THING".
here's the thing. (ps i know nothing about kids. do they speak people? have personalities? i forget.)
summary: 1991, Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. Something is snatching children from their beds, and the Winchesters are on the hunt. John doesn't come home one night, Dean is fed up with everything, and in the morning, Sam is gone.
The only lead is the old woman in an old house who told Dean a story about the most wonderful, magical land and the way through the stars, and Dean think he's found pixie dust on the window sill. Dean makes a promise to find Sammy before Dad gets back, and if that means strong arming the boy who never grows up into taking him along, then he will.
Second star on the right and straight on 'til morning is a terrible time for Dean to figure out that he hates flying.
fic:by hook or by crook, part 1
May 3, 1991
Fort Douglas, Wisconsin
“Papa? I had a bad dream.” Elisa wore her favorite pirate ship pyjamas. “Will you read to me?” She was leaning through the door of Paul Banning’s office, where the light was soft and dim. Paul sat behind his desk, a laptop open in front of him and several stacks of paper. He looked up from his paperwork and shook his head, pushing his thin glasses up his forehead.
“Sorry honey, not tonight. I’ve got too much work.”
It was late, almost midnight. The house was dark and quiet but outside the wind was picking up as a storm rolled in.
Elisa fidgeted. “But there’s something outside my window,” she whispered. Her doe brown eyes were wide and wet, her face pale, and her lower lip trembled briefly. She hovered on the tips of her toes for a moment before her rocking momentum sent her forward and she stumbled to Paul’s side, tucking herself in against his arm. “It keeps knocking and it wants to come in.”
“Sweetie, you’re on the second floor. There is nothing outside your window, I promise.” Paul hesitated, her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt. He wrapped his arm around Elisa and kissed the top of her curly brown hair. “Turn your night light on and leave your door open. I’ll come check on you when I’m done here.”
Elisa rubbed her nose on the long sleeve of her pyjama top. “Okay,” she said with a small hiccup. She turned reluctantly pattered slowly out of the room. She cast a wide-eyed glance back over her shoulder as she left but Paul was already bent over his papers again. The desk light reflected off his glasses and she could not see his eyes.
“Night, papa.”
“Good night, sweetie,” he called absently.
Elisa ran across the floor of her dark, dark room, and scrambled up onto the bed before anything could catch her. She clicked on her fairy bedside light, and pulled the covers up around her shoulders, sitting on top of her pillow. For a long moment she sat, watching the shapes of her bedroom and waiting for them to move.
When they didn’t she scooted down her bed until she was lying flat and the blanket covered her nose. Bonnabee sat on the pillow next to her. Elisa wrapped her fingers around his leg and tugged him closer under the covers.
She closed her eyes and something tapped on her window.
--
Paul finished the last of his paperwork for the night an hour later. He stood and groaned, reaching up high and stretching the kinks out of his back.
His eyes ached, and the darkness when he flicked off the desk lamp was soothing. Paul rounded the desk and left his office. The hall carpet muffled his footsteps in the quiet night.
Paul pushed at Elisa’s partially open door, and peered inside. He started shivering. It was colder in Elisa’s room than in the hallway, and a chill wind blew in from the open window.
There was nothing but that open window to indicate anything was off. But Paul felt his heart skip a beat regardless. He tripped over the thick hall carpet as he ran to the bundled blankets on the bed. He grabbed the soft fleece of her blankets and ripped them away.
The bed was empty and Elisa was nowhere.
On the window sill there was a long, deep gouge in the wood and a sprinkling of fine gold dust that sparked and flashed in a sudden flare of lightning.
--
"Mrs Banning, can you remember anything else about the night your daughter disappeared?" John leaned forward intently.
Miranda Banning hiccuped into her tissue and shook her head, eyes squeezed tight against a new wave of emotion in the tsunami that had been swamping her for the better part of the last thirty minutes. John was nearly resigned to coming back when Mr Banning was home in hopes of actually having a two sided interrogation rather than a question and cry session. Mr Banning had taken to dealing with their daughter's disappearance in throwing himself even more whole-heartedly into his work, leaving Mrs Banning to wallow in her sorrow at home. She did not know when he might be home, or perhaps she did not care.
John tucked his journal into the inner jacket pocket of his cheap suit and plucked a fresh tissue for Mrs Banning to rub her makeup on.
He stood, tugging his jacket around his middle. Mrs Banning looked up, and then away again, staring at the picture on the mantel piece of a chubby, wildly grinning nine-year old. Elisa Banning was red cheeked and curly haired, with bright brown eyes and a mouthful of braces.
She'd been missing for only a day, but she was the third that month.
John opened his mouth to make some consoling noises, when someone knocked on the front door. In the parlour, John and Mrs Banning jumped nearly a foot in the air each. Mrs Banning stood and shuffled around John to answer the door.
Anger bubbled in John’s stomach. Dean stood outside the door, looking belligerent with his jaw set at an irritated angle. Even his freckles looked annoyed.
"Sammy's gotta pee," said Dean, not even bothering to apologize. Sam was whining and wiggling and nearly in tears, so John tapped the anger down and turned a rueful smile to Mrs Banning, who was staring at the children like she'd never seen anything like them before.
"Take your children to work day," lied John. The Impala was parked a block away and around the corner, and Dean knew better than to interrupt when John was interviewing witnesses, but they'd just rolled in to town that morning and John hadn't wanted to waste time searching for motels when the police were already setting up search parties in the wrong directions.
Mrs Bannings face changed in an instant, going soft and wobbly.
"Oh, of course. Elisa loved those. Paul took her to work just last month. Go on," she said to Dean, who was almost holding Sam up by the armpits. "Up the stairs and second door on your right."
Dean nodded, a pinched expression on his face that was his usual go-to for matronly witnesses, and hauled his brother out of the foyer and up the grand staircase.
Mrs Banning watched them with unbridled longing. "How old are they?" she asked.
"Dean's twelve. Sammy's seven," said John. He cleared his throat, suddenly gruff. "Sorry, eight. He's just had his birthday." John could hear Dean clumping about upstairs. His boots were new for him and too big, because he had just started a growth spurt. John didn't trust any of his clothes to stay on him long enough to make them worth the cost.
Mrs Banning sucked in a deep breath and brushed past John, sweeping back into the parlor with more poise than she'd demonstrated his entire visit. "So serious, your boy. Elisa was much the same way most of the time. She loved her books, her stories, but she was always focused. I loved it when she would get excited about things."
John held his breath. It was the most she'd said about her daughter.
"What did she get excited about?"
Mrs Banning smiled, sad and a little wet. "She told me about her dreams, the last time I saw her. Wonderful dreams about a flying, golden ship."
--
Sammy hummed to himself when he was peeing and never took less than forever to finish up. Dean slouched outside the shiny marble bathroom and kicked the toe of his big boots into the edge of the thick plush carpet that ran the length of the hallway. It was expensive and kind of ugly.
Down the hall, through a half-opened door, came a voice.
"Who's that?" the voice asked. It sounded old and tired.
Dean looked up, and hesitated. He didn't answer, because there were things out there that if you answered them they would steal your voice or your soul.
Granted, they probably didn't live in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, but Dad always told Dean to keep his guard up.
He tiptoed down the hall. There was an old lady sitting in a little girl's room. She smiled when she saw Dean. Her face was wrinkled and her whispy silver hair was pulled up in a cotton candy hairdo, with soft curls and a big knot in the back. Her eyes were soft and sunken and her smile was light and warm. It made Dean feel safe, which was not a feeling he was used to.
"Hello there," said the old lady. Her accent was like something off the TV, those British shows he sometimes found when Thundercats wasn't on or Sammy wasn't paying attention. "Are you lost, boy?"
Dean shook his head, and wrinkled his nose.
"Not much for talking, hmm?"
"No."
She chuckled. "Are you here with someone, then?"
Dean nodded. He stepped a bit closer. "My dad's downstairs. He's a cop. And Sammy's in the bathroom."
The old woman sighed deeply, sad and pale, like a china doll. She turned away to the window. Her hair caught the warm yellow sunlight like spun glass and she looked like she came out of a story book.
"He'll be looking for Elisa, then," she said. She frowned.
"Yeah," said Dean. "And the other kids too."
The old lady was silent.
Dean took a few more steps into the room, until the tips of his big boots just touched the soft shag of the carpet. He hovered there, on the threshold, like a ghost on a line of salt.
The old woman cocked her head to the side like a silver-plumed swan, and smiled at Dean again. It was too sad to be comforting this time. "Is Sammy your friend? What's your name?"
"I'm…Dean. Sammy's my Brother."
"Well Dean. It's lovely to meet you. My name is Wendy."
"Are you Elisa's grandmother, Ms Wendy?" asked Dean.
Ms Wendy shook her head. "I am just a good friend, visiting. I knew Mr Banning when he was a little boy, you know. He was one of mine -- my lost boys." Her eyes suddenly came alight, and Dean took an involuntary step forward, his freckled face already creasing into a smile as Ms Wendy said "Would you like to hear a story? Come here, sit by me."
Dean grimaced. He was twelve and being twelve meant he was too old for stories. Except Dad only told him stories about Shtrigas and werewolves, Rawhead and Bloody Bones -- and those stories weren't stories but battle plans. And anyway, there was nothing better to do than wait for Sammy. He walked over and sat on the little red chair at the little pink desk. Ms Wendy leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.
"When I was a little girl, just about your age," she started, "I met a boy who knew the way to the most fantastic place you could ever imagine. He swept me from my bed and took me off among the stars with my two little brothers. I was born in London, you see, and we flew away across the city lights and the stars, until we landed on the clouds just above a magical island."
And she told him her story.
She was at the part where she and and the boy met the mermaids in the lagoon, when Dean heard Sammy call from the bathroom. He slipped on his chair with a clatter. He'd been leaning forward too far, hanging on to Ms Wendy's every word.
"Damn it," he said.
"Language, Dean."
Dean flushed violently, and stammered "I'm sorry, Ms Wendy."
Ms Wendy cocked a silver eyebrow at him. It was possibly the most terrifying eyebrow he'd ever seen in his life.
"Thanks for telling me the story," Dean said, clambering up. He felt awkward and rude, and also like he should bow, but Ms Wendy stood up as well, graceful as though her feet barely swept the floor.
She was taller than Dean had thought she would be and she smelled like honeysuckle and warm spices. There was just something about her.
Dean didn't want to leave.
He heard the rattle of the bathroom door and then Sammy's shuffling footsteps in the hallway, and he made a split second decision. He threw himself across the room and gave Ms Wendy a fierce hug around the waist.
It only lasted a second, but he could feel her hands rest across his shoulders before he ran away and out of the room.
Sammy peered over his shoulder, going up on tiptoes. "What were you doing?" he asked.
Dean elbowed him and herded him toward the stairs. "Shut up, Sammy."
Dean was not excited to get downstairs and see Dad again. He'd deliberately disobeyed orders and that never ended well. Dad was sitting next to Mrs Banning though, listening intently and making the odd note in his journal, and when he looked up there was a sense of grim satisfaction to him.
"There you are, boys," he said, and Dean sighed internally because there was no hint of the anger he had caught when they'd first showed up.
Dad stood, straightening his suit jacket.
"Mrs Banning, thank you very much for your time. I'm sure the information you've given us will greatly aid in the search for your daughter. Boys, thank Mrs Banning for her hospitality."
"Thank you, Mrs Banning," Sam and Dean chorused. Sammy's face broke into an awkward, cheeky grin, and Mrs Banning melted.
"Of course," she said. Then she closed her eyes and looked like she might cry again.
--
Dad left them that afternoon in a motel room with four prints of the same picture of a leaf on all the walls. Dean groaned and flopped onto the bed reserved for Dad. He and Sammy would sleep in the one near the wall, but until Dad came back, Dean was sticking close to the TV.
It was just past noon when Dad went to the police station and the library to do his research.
It was almost eight that evening when Sammy piped up. He'd been sitting and reading his book for the past several hours.
"Dean? I'm hungry."
Dean's stomach had been growling for a while too, but to make dinner for him and Sammy would mean defeat. And that Dad was late.
Dean got up off the bed and rummaged through the suitcase of canned food. Dad had said he'd be home for dinner, so Dad hadn't given Dean any extra money to order pizza or anything. If they were sticking around they'd go grocery shopping, but it would all depend on what Dad's research said.
If Dad actually did any research.
Dean felt guilty, a squirmy unpleasant roil in his belly that didn't help his hunger.
"Spaghetti-O's and green beans," he said.
Sammy sighed, a forlorn expression all over his face, but he nodded.
It was as good as any dinner they had on the road. Sam ate everything, despite his grumbling, and Dean added some butter to the green beans to make them taste less like tin.
After eating, Dean foisted Sammy off on the TV for a while. He went outside and watched the streetlights for a while, waiting for the rumble of the Impala. He didn't stay out long.
At ten, Dean declared it bedtime. He tucked Sammy into their bed and then, not having anything else to do, put on his pajamas and got in bed too.
They lay in the silence and the dark, and eventually they fell asleep.
Dad came back late that night, startling Dean into pulling the knife out from under his pillow. The instinctive reaction earned him a nod of approval and a tired hand wave to go back to sleep.
Dean turned away from the light and the noise of Dad's rustling clothes and repressed sighs. He watched Sammy, curled up and sleeping soundly, and tried to decide if he could smell alcohol or not.
No, he decided, and drifted off.
--