Teufelshunde 4/6
Title: Teufelshunde 4/6
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: Everything aired ever.
Warnings: Dark themes, other canon stuff. As always, PM me if you have any concerns.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: While most got to sleep, Espera leans against the wheel of his Humvee parked by Colbert's, composing a letter to his wife back home in Los Angeles. He uses a red lens flashlight, which emits a dim glow, not easily spotted by potential enemy shooters, to write on a tattered legal pad.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Teufelshunde 4/6
While most got to sleep, Espera leans against the wheel of his Humvee parked by Colbert's, composing a letter to his wife back home in Los Angeles. He uses a red lens flashlight, which emits a dim glow, not easily spotted by potential enemy shooters, to write on a tattered legal pad. Espera's wife was a sophomore at Loyola Marymount College when they met. At the time, he was a nineteen-year-old laborer with no future. They married shortly after she got pregnant, and much of Espera's life since then has been an effort to better himself in order to meet her high standards. "You see, dog," he explains, "my wife is smart, but she fucked up big-time when she married me. I was a piece of shit. I remember my wife talking about all the books she'd read, and it hit me there was a whole world I'd missed. Before I met her I used to think, I've got a shitload of hand skills--welding, pipe-fitting--any pussy can read a book. See, I didn't grow up with no understanding. My mom tried, but my dad is a psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet."
2011:
It's DeeDee in the window. Sort of. She's younger than he's ever seen her, even in the beginning. Pretty, in a homegrown sort of way that does absolutely nothing for him. Her hair is braided and she keeps turning around to talk to someone inside.
But it isn't her house.
There's a black car in the driveway and a crooked oak tree out front. In the picture window, DeeDee gestures at him. Come here. Behind her, something moves. She isn't alone. He starts running.
The other person puts a long white hand over DeeDee's face and gathers her into the darkness.
"No!" he screams. "DeeDee, wait! Wait!"
Dean sits up on the floor of the abandoned cabin and tries not to puke again.
"I think we got twinkies in the trunk." Sam's watching him, doing that mother hen shit again. "And I found something else in the cupboard last night."
"Is it coffee?"
Sam smiles, and Dean's blood pressure drops about thirty points.
"Don't fuck with me man, not about this. Is it or is it not coffee?"
He smiles wider.
"See," Dean says flatly. "There is a God."
Espera uses the term "psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet" with the utmost respect. He aspires to possess warrior skills equal to those of his father, who won a bronze star in Vietnam, and believes if he's lucky, he himself will retire one day as a "proud, psycho ex-Marine." Despite his reverence for his father's combat valor, the man abandoned him at a young age (after an incident, according to Espera, in which his dad was shot in their home by a jealous girlfriend), and their relationship remains rocky.
1984:
She was dreaming about Dallas when they called. About after, when she was in the hospital. She tapped her thumb against the railing. It was weird. She was crying, nauseous as hell from whatever they'd given her, looking at the bag of saline like it was a gift from God. And maybe it was. She closed her eyes. There were footsteps in the hall. They were here.
Clip, clip, clip, clip....
It wasn't polished shoes on linoleum, it was her phone. Teresa groaned into her pillow, reached for the beside phone as she rolled over. There was hair in her eyes, but it seemed like too much work to open them anyway.
"What?" she growled.
"Navarro. 214, just north of Coop Gin."
"Lerrick boys again?"
"Nope. Put on your big-girl panties and get out here."
"Christ." Teresa hung up the phone. She'd been here long enough now, they didn't talk about panties or being on the rag or cup size unless it was important. And nobody called in the middle of the night. Not a whole lot happened in Muleshoe that needed more than a couple deputies at once. She half-fell out of bed, reaching for her clothes. Bra, Red Raider t-shirt, socks...
"Pants," she muttered. "I require pants."
There were jeans slung over the back of her couch. Not her decent ones, but the one with the grass stains on the knees that never did come out. Put on your big girl panties and get out there. And fuck 'em if they didn't like her jeans. There was a rubber band in the back pocket. She pulled her hair back in a half-assed bun and shoved her feet into her work boots.
The night was chilly, wind blowing stiff out of the east. She pulled on her windbreaker, the one with her credentials on the back. It wasn't like she needed those. Everybody and their mother knew she was a Sheriff's Deputy, but it was cold and her teeth still ached from the dream. Miracle of miracles, the truck started on the first try.
"That's my girl." She patted the dashboard affectionately. Teresa pushed the clutch and put the truck in gear. It rocked back and forth over her pitted driveway, but the county road was better. She put the brights on and shifted into high gear. Her house was back by the railroad, almost twenty miles from Coop Gin. It took her fifteen minutes.
She parked next to one of the cruisers and pulled her gun out from under the front seat, realized she'd forgot the shoulder harness, and tucked it into the small of her back as she climbed out of the cab.
"Navarro," Astor barked. "Over here." He didn't talk a lot. It was his best feature. She was approaching the scene, the small ditch lit up by high beams and ringed with every lawman in Muleshoe. Astor held up a hand. "Don't puke on my evidence."
"What about your shoes? Those fair game?"
He spat tobacco juice on the dead grass and scowled. Teresa shrugged and headed towards the scene.
"Oh, fuck," she exhaled.
She'd seen a lot of dead bodies in Dallas, your typical murder suicides, the crispy critters on the freeway, and the most terrifying, the kids left in cars on hot days. Decapitation was a new one for her. She could see the spine on the man in the ditch. His head was lying next to him, face slack and eyes open.
"ID?"
"Name's Elkins," Astor said. "Colorado license."
"Shit. Are we looking at Feds?"
He raised his left eyebrow and spat.
"Well. At least your shoes are safe."
He considered that for a moment, then pointed his chin towards the squad car and the hunched figure in the back seat.
"No flies on you, old man" she said warmly.
He glowered. And it began to dawn on her.
"Did they put you up to this?"
"Nope."
"Shit. I thought we were over this hazing bullshit."
Astor shrugged.
"Fine. I'll drive your psychopath to lockup. But no more pads stuck to my locker." That was how it worked. She bought back her dignity one undignified errand at a time.
"Deal." He handed her the keys and opened his palm.
"No fuckin' way are your dickless wonder deputies driving my truck back."
Astor didn't blink.
"Fine. But easy on the clutch."
He rolled his eyes and snatched the keys out of her hand.
Teresa walked briskly past the other deputies and climbed into the driver's seat of the blue and white. The engine turned over and the radio kicked on. Travis Tritt. Loud. She punched it off with force and the stupid little knob came off.
"Fuck it," she muttered.
"Don't make 'em like they used to," said the man in the back seat.
"Fords," Teresa said, pulling onto the road. "They make shit cars. I drive a Chevy."
"Me, too."
Teresa had gone into law enforcement with her eyes wide open. Her childhood had not been a sheltered one. And then there was Dallas. The absurdities, though, those she was not prepared for. This, for example. Talking Detroit steel with a murderer in the back seat, a guy with the poetic blood still on his hands.
For the first time, she looked in the rear view mirror. He had a two day beard and a mean smile and his face was cast down, eyes in the shade.
"She idles high, sometimes. My truck."
"It happens. I can take a look at it later, if you want." The murderer snorted back a laugh at his own joke.
"You're a funny guy."
"For a cold-blooded killer," he finished the thought.
"They told you about that Miranda stuff, right?"
"Just making conversation."
"I"ll say."
"Listen," he started to speak and swallowed, cleared his throat. "Listen, lady--"
"That's 'Deputy Lady' to you," she snapped reflexively.
"Navarro," he growled. "I need your help."
"Look, asshole, you took a guy's head off back there--I'd put my money on a machete--and there's enough physical evidence to make John Wayne Gacy blush. You got 'convict' written all over you. I don't think you're in a position to be asking any favors."
The man straightened up. His eyes were brown. Tired and sharp. He met hers in the mirror and the hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.
When she was fifteen, her dad had gone off elk hunting and left her alone at the ranch for the weekend. Around midnight, the dogs started barking. Either her dad was home or something was after the cattle. And her dad wasn't home. Teresa had grabbed the shotgun in the corner of the bedroom, pulled on her dad's sheepskin jacket, and run outside in bare feet. It was a coyote, an old one, with scars from barbed wire and a torn-off ear.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is John Winchester. You need to send someone for my boys."
<<<<<>>>>>
If the squeak of the hinges startled her, she didn't let it show. Adopting her best I-belong-in-here pose, Teresa turned around.
"Can I help you?"
"John Winter, CDC," he said and flashed a badge. "I'm here to examine the body."
"For what?" The best defense was always a good offense. "You think smallpox took this man's head off?" She waited while the man in the cheap suit spun a good yarn about the Elkins' family's congenital dental defects and why they were of such concern to national health. Teresa looked around the morgue. It was empty.
"...just sign here and we'll take custody."
"Let's not and say we did. Sir."
He blinked.
"That's a 'no'."
"Look, miss..."
"Miss Deputy Navarro," she said flatly. "And I'm not signing jack. And you've got two minutes to give me a compelling reason not to call my boss and have you arrested for impersonating a federal agent."
"I don't know who you think you--"
"I'm a Sheriff's Deputy. And if that badge is real, I will eat my hat."
He reached for said badge again.
"Sir, give it up. You've been made."
Frowning, he had to ask, "What gave me away?"
"You've got hat hair. And a real fed would have gone over my head by now."
"Bobby Singer."
"Teresa Navarro."
"You figure out what's in the drawer yet?" His face relaxed, shaking off the veneer of bureaucratic formality. Now he just looked bitter, gesturing at the morgue wall like it was Showcase Showdown.
"Yeah. A dead guy."
"Yes and no."
"I'm not in the mood to play games, Mr. Singer."
"Call me Bobby," he said, shucking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
"Bobby. Make your point or I'll have to throw you out."
"But you won't." He grinned. "Because you want to know what's in the drawer." He opened the square silver door and pulled on the handle, rolling out the body of Daniel Elkins.
"Looks an awful lot like a dead guy."
"Does it?" Bobby Singer pulled off the sheet that covered Elkins' face. With his left hand, he pulled the man's upper lip away from his teeth. With a ballpoint pen from his pocket, he depressed Elkins' upper gum. A sharp, pointed tooth appeared from nowhere.
"Holy shit. What the hell is that?"
"That, Deputy, is a vampire."
1985:
The trial was a surprisingly low key event. The local paper was there and a crime reporter from Lubbock. But the truth was that most people didn't want to know. Elkins wasn't from around here. And neither was Winchester. They were outsiders. So while the murder itself might have been bloody, it wasn't really any of their affair. It was another reason to talk about the evils of big city life, the perils of a godless populace, what a shame it was that they had to lock their doors at night. Soon it would be nothing more than a cautionary tale, same as the deceptive passing lanes just outside of town.
Teresa couldn't go every day. She'd been subpoenad and given her testimony honestly, so help her God: the scene of the crime, the appearance of the defendant, the conduct of the investigation. They didn't ask her about the victim, other than the details of the decapitation. The ADA was really driving that one home. Teresa, for her part, was under no obligation to reveal the details of the second set of teeth.
But she was there for opening and closing arguments. And sentencing. The real question was, of course, whether or not Winchester would pay with his life. When the judge stood up and announced that Lady Justice would have to make do with a mere twenty five to life, Winchester didn't even flinch. When she got home that night, put her feet up and opened a beer, Teresa started to wonder if he'd rather have the needle.
<<<<<>>>>>
Her hand was shaky, not from nerves but caffeine. It was an eight hour drive to Huntsville and Teresa had left two hours before dawn. She'd refueled several times, both gas and coffee. She had no appetite for lunch, so there was just one hundred percent pure Arabica pouring through her veins.
"Afternoon, Officer."
Startled, she turned on her heel. A middle aged warden was looking her over, institutionally. He was black, going a little soft around the waist, but the way his shoulders were set said he could handle himself in a fight. Comfortable but alert.
"What gave me away?
The warden put his right hand on his right hip. Teresa looked down and saw that her hand was hovering next to the waistband of her jeans, looking for the reassurance of a gun that wasn't there. The Browning was in the parking lot, under the bench seat of her Chevy. Which, at the moment, was where she'd rather be.
"Occupational hazard. I'm Deputy Navarro, from Muleshoe."
"Officer Trammel. Ed."
"Teresa."
"Well, Teresa. Just remember. Keep your hands on the table."
She raised an eyebrow. She'd already had a thorough pat-down.
"Makes us nervous, if'n we can't see your hands."
All she could do was nod.
"Right then. I believe we have your table ready now."
"Thanks, Ed."
A few minutes later, John Winchester was sitting across from her. Her hands were white and posed on top of the plastic picnic table. He hadn't shaved since the trial and he looked...not downtrodden. Vacant. He looked like he'd moved out.
"Hi."
"Do I know you?"
"Yeah," she swallowed. "Yeah, you do. I drove you back to the station. In Muleshoe."
"Oh." He nodded. "How's your truck?"
"She's just fine."
"Well if your truck's just fine--"
"I got a closer look at Elkins' body."
He looked at her directly that time, the first sign of life.
"He had some interesting dental work."
John bowed his head and clasped and unclasped his fingers. His hands were uncuffed for the moment and they made small friction noises, warm skin over callouses.
"I'm so sorry, John."
<<<<<>>>>>
It was ridiculous. And pathetic. She should stop coming here.
"Eddie," she said pleasantly.
"Teresa. Good to see you again."
She shouldn't look forward to this, these afternoon visits once a month. Sixteen hours in the car shouldn't seem so easy. After a year, the standard Why are you here? had been dropped. He'd figured out that she didn't know the answer to that question.
"Afternoon," he said, sounding like he'd just woken up from a nice long nap. Not tousled, though, not today. Just relaxed, voice clouded with sleep. And nobody should look like that in orange.
"I brought you some stuff." Teresa pushed the pile of newspaper clippings and Weekly World News across the table. "I'm new at this. I just cut out all the stuff that seemed weird. I was hoping you could tell me if it was weird enough."
<<<<<>>>>>
1990:
She's here. She came today. John wondered if he'd stop being surprised.
"Afternoon."
"John." Teresa looked tired to him, wrung out.
"Is everything okay?"
"I haven't been able to follow them. They move them on purpose, keep them under the radar."
"The boys?"
"Something happened, John, in their last house."
"A fire?"
"No, why would... Listen, the system's splitting them up."
"They're..."
"I'm so sorry. I don't know where. They change their last names, and they..." She didn't want to tell him something.
"And they what?"
"Dean's in a group home somewhere."
John leaned back, careful to keep his forearms on the table.
"John?"
"I'm going to give you a list," he said. "I'm going to give you a list and I need you to bring it back here, before the end of visiting hours."
She nodded, thin-lipped and suspicious, but listening. "Okay. Tell me."
If he'd had time to give a shit, maybe he'd be curious about what she was thinking. But there wasn't time for that. There was only one play to make.
<<<<<>>>>>
"Eddie," John said quietly. "I need you to not ask questions. You can write me up and toss me in solitary tomorrow, but I need you to not ask questions."
The guard licked his lips. He wasn't stupid. He'd been here for years. "Thinking about offing yourself?"
"Uh, no." His mouth twisted up. "Not tonight."
"Listen to me, Winchester." He was talking with years of hard fought experience. "You so much as stub your fucking toe and I'll have your ass in restraints so fast it'll make your head spin."
"Yeah. I got it."
Eddie turned his back and, John guessed, closed his ears too. He looked at the small pile of supplies on his cot and wondered how Teresa had managed to round it up in Huntsville. But it didn't matter, not really. John got on his knees and began to sketch. He'd just finished the incantation when Eddie turned back around. Fuck.
"What the hell are you doing, Winchester?"
"I can explain later."
"Yeah? You set shit on fire, you go to solitary. Get your ass up against that wall, and do it right the fuck now."
John exhaled a choked laugh. "How stupid do you think I am?"
Eddie's eyes lit up from the inside out. "You really want an honest answer to that?"
No. Not really.
"You conjuring me, John. I'm surprised. I took you for a lot of things, but suicidally reckless wasn't one of them. You ready to die? Today?"
"I'm ready to make a deal."
It smiled. "It's very unseemly, making deals with devils. How do I know this isn't some trick you cooked up with the hunter slut?"
"It's no trick. I have to help my boys. I have to keep them together."
"Why, John. You're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them. If only your boys knew you even existed."
"It's a good trade. You want me a hell of a lot more than you want them."
"For now." It tilted its head. "But you're right. They're not much of a threat yet. Either of them. You know the truth, right? About Sammy? And the other children?"
Fuck. "Yeah."
"For a convicted murderer, you are a shitty liar."
"Can you get them back together? Yes or no."
"Yeah. I can."
"Good. Then we have a deal."
"No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot."
"With what?"
It smiled with Eddie's face.
<<<<<>>>>>
She knew something was wrong. Every smell was sharper today. Without meaning to, she thought about the police kennel. That smell of disinfectant and crated dogs. Eddie was looking at her funny, but she couldn't fix her face up right. John was sitting at the usual table, but his face was in his hands.
"Hey," she said, sitting down slowly.
"Yeah." He looked up.
"You look like hell."
John grinned and her stomach tightened up. It was raffish, but subdued.
"What the fuck did you do?"
He picked at some sleep in his eye.
"John?"
"Tell me, Teresa. What are you doing for the next fifteen years?"
<<<<<>>>>>
2005
"Hey," Eddie tapped on his cell door. "Wake up, Winchester."
"Judas priest." John swiped at his face. He'd just fallen asleep. Finally. "What the hell, Eddie?"
"You got a phone call."
"Teresa?"
"No. Your son."
John snorted. "You got the wrong fucking Winchester."
"You sure? 'Cause there's a Sam Winchester on the phone and he sounds pretty pissed."
He rolled out of bed with the grace of a much younger man. Banging his knuckles on the unforgiving metal of the cell door, John shoved his hands through the small opening.
"Cuff me. Hurry the fuck up and cuff me."
<<<<<>>>>>
"You're here." It was flat. Not excited. Certainly not grateful.
I was in the neighborhood she almost said. Instead, Teresa shrugged.
"Huh." He didn't seem to know what to do, in his jeans and flannel from twenty years ago. "Huh." It was summer and Texas and the heat was blazing. He was sweating and there were goosebumps everywhere. All the noises seemed to be coming from everywhere at the same time. Tires and freeways and other guys stepping into the sunlight for the first time in a very, very long time.
"I got AC in here." She was looking at him funny.
"Okay." John climbed into the truck. It was a newer model. Two or three years old maybe.
"Hungry?" she asked, after a few strained minutes. Because somehow all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the cab. "There's a Whataburger around here somewhere."
"Holy shit." He twisted around. "Is that a Sonic?"
"Yeah."
"I haven't had a decent tater tot in..."
Teresa put on her blinker and turned the car around. He was rummaging through his pockets.
"I don't have anything."
"That's okay. If you can get my condenser at home running, I'll call it even."
"Why are you here?"
Teresa parked the car and waited silently for a minute.
"Nevermind. I shouldn't have--"
"A long time ago, something bad happened to me. And then I...something bad happened to you. That I was a part of. And I couldn't just walk away." Her grip on the steering wheel was making her knuckles turn white. "Sometimes something bad happens and you can't just leave it be. You know?"
<<<<<>>>>>
John liked her place. It was simple and there wasn't a whole lot of crap on the walls or anything. He bet there was a lot of stuff he could tinker with and fix up. He'd start with the condenser and maybe re-caulk the windows. He was pretty sure he remembered how to do that. He could do that, for her.
"John?" She was kicking off her boots.
"Yeah."
"Do you want to stare at my windows or do you want to get in bed with me?"
"Do I have to pick?" It was the kind of smile he didn't remember smiling. But he must have, because it felt kind of familiar. He put his hands on her and his mouth, and all that felt familiar, too.
<<<<<>>>>>
"I'm sorry," he said afterward. She was curled up, beside him, resting her head on his arm. Teresa figured it had to be a little numb, but it was so warm and so much more solid than her pillow.
"Sorry?" She couldn't help it, she'd been drifting off a little, listening for the train.
"I'm sorry this is all..."
"I know." I don't care, she almost said. This is everything. "I make some mean fucking pancakes. You better wake up hungry."
"No doubt."
<<<<<>>>>>
Two weeks later, John had fixed about everything there was to fix. He thought about going to the grocery store and renting one of those steam cleaners for the carpet. But that would involve people and those scanners and little keypads to pay. Last time he'd gone with her it was like time travel. Like the fucking Jetsons.
So he was sitting at her kitchen table, just a card table with a tablecloth thrown over it, nursing a cup of coffee when the phone rang. At first, he refused to answer the phone. He didn't want it to look bad, he told her, some strange man living at her house. She'd laughed at him. So he answered the phone now, when she was at work.
It was Sam on the other end. It caught him off guard again, the way his son sounded. His voice was deep and tense, and John wondered how tall he'd gotten, how he wore his hair, how he did in school. Weird things that had nothing to do with him. Sam had an address for him and a date and time.
"I'm going to Dallas next week." He announced it as soon as the door opened. Teresa paused there, keys in her hand, purse halfway down her arm.
"Oh."
"Sam says they're ready, you know, to see me."
"Oh. Good. That's good, right?"
John stared at his mug. Her mug. Don't mess with Texas women, it read.
"You're not gonna come back, are you."
He shook his head.
She nodded. Then she went to the fridge and opened a cold Shiner.
"I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"No," he said. "I'm not."
"Well. I am."
<<<<<>>>>>
"Take it off," she said, pushing him backwards onto her bed. The mattress squeaked a little.
"Huh?" He was already naked.
"The ring, John. Just tonight. Please."
"Oh."
He didn't even remember he was wearing it, she realized. But he took it off for her, put it behind a picture frame on her bedside table and didn't look back.
That night, she took everything she could from him.
<<<<<>>>>>
John sat in front of a cup of lukewarm coffee with his hands shoved resolutely into his pockets. The world beyond his table was non-existent. A stranger walked up, asked to borrow one of the two empty chairs, and he barked a refusal. It looked bad, he knew, because he didn't look like a regular guy anymore. And that was important here, in the south. Everybody had to get along and be friendly and shit. It was why he'd never left Teresa's house. Because he was rangy and hard-eyed behind a salt and pepper beard that didn't disguise the scar on his face and he didn't look like a nice guy anymore.
"Are you John Winchester?"
John stood up in a hurry, kicking his chair out behind him. It seemed out of place, the startled-rabbit feel of it. He fumbled with the chair, moving it out of the way so he could face his son. He was tall, real tall, and his hair was long and groomed. He was wearing a suit like somebody who was used to wearing a suit. Clearing his throat, John offered his hand. The boy--the man--hesitated, then shook it in a perfunctory way, something to get over with.
"You must be Sam."
"We can't sit out here," Sam gestured at the patio. "Let me check inside."
"Sure, sure," John assented, without understanding. He followed his son into the coffee shop. It had quieted down since the early morning rush hour. There was a small table set aside, with three armchairs. Sam nodded at it in approval, and John sat down. Sam didn't. He walked over to the counter and spoke to one of the girls behind. Barista, Teresa had said. John wiped his palm over his face, swallowed with difficulty, and tried to pull himself together. Jesus wept. Above him, the background music, something instrumental and inoffensive, stopped playing altogether. Sam came back.
"You can't sit there," Sam said baldly. "Dean needs that seat."
"Okay." John changed chairs, from the one with its back against the wall to the one with its back to the door. Now he understood. "I thought you said he was fine."
"No," Sam bit off the word. "I said he was going to be okay. I never said he was fine." Then he flipped open his cell phone and texted something--that was also a thing now. "Okay. He should be here in a couple minutes."
"You vet all his friends?"
Sam colored. "No. Just you."
John nodded.
"I'm not trying to be..." Sam exhaled. "I'm just trying to watch out for him. He came back--they had to make up a name for the thing that happened to him, what happens when something blows up so close to you that your brain ricochets back and forth inside your skull."
"IED?"
"Yeah. Anyway. I gave him the wrong Starbucks on purpose. He's gonna be pissed when he figures it out."
John smiled, crookedly. "It's a good trick. Wanted to make sure I'd show?"
Sam nodded. "You..." He bit his lip for a moment, debated. "I had to be sure you wouldn't disappoint him again."
"Again." John cleared his throat, studied his hands. Square up, he thought, square the fuck up
"He used to--every night he'd do this, you know, no matter where we got placed, he'd tell me about how you were coming for us." Sam's tone was flat, empty, but not bitter. "'Don't be scared, don't worry, I'm here, and Dad's coming for us.'"
"I'm glad you stayed together." John's coffee was threatening to come back up, but damned if he was going to be sick in front of his son.
"It wasn't easy. The system is what it is, but the system in Texas...they lose kids. But we got lucky. We were together long enough to get a foster mom who fought to keep both of us."
"Was it bad?" John asked, his voice had dropped to something gravelly and hurt. "Before you found her. Was it bad?"
Sam met his eyes and would not answer him. John turned the coffee mug in his hand a few times before he tried again.
"SMU law, huh? Kind of a big deal."
"Yeah." Sam blushed. "My professors wanted me to go to Stanford, out in California. It's more prestigious, or something."
"Why not California?"
"Dean has good doctors here. And he'd just gotten back when I got in. If I left, or if we moved, it was going to make it worse. I couldn't do that. No, the VA here's a polytrauma site. He has buddies and a job at a garage. He needs to be here, for a little longer."
"I'm glad you're staying," he said softly. "And I'm glad you found me."
"I had to." It was Sam's turn to study the floor. "I got that phone call. And I thought, if he made it or not, you deserved to know."
John opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the noise of a classic Triumph pulling up outside. It was late summer, so the rider was in only a t-shirt and jeans. He was also without a helmet, which was probably why Sam was making a noise of aggravated disapproval. The man outside was tall, painfully thin, with fair hair in a close buzz cut. There were scars on his skull, where the doctors had put him back together again. His aviators were reflective, his eyes were hidden.
Dean.
"Dean." John started to stand.
"Wait. Just...give him a second. He needs to put eyes on us first." Sam licked his lips. "Don't move too quickly. And for Christ's sakes, don't touch me."
The skinny man with the aviators walked in with a practiced confidence that spoke of a long tour. He turned, just inside the door, and looked his family over. His face showed nothing. He walked up and ordered a large black coffee. The woman in the green apron gave it to him, but wouldn't take any money. Texas, she said, we take care of own. Dean tried to smile. He came over to his father and his brother and sat down in the chair, where he had a back against a wall and full view of the whole place.
"Dick move with the address, Sammy."
Sam exhaled, and made some complicated gestures with his hands. Dean signed back, fingers flying furiously. John watched, not understanding. Finally, Dean broke it off with a crude middle finger, and turned to his father. He pulled off his sunglasses at last. Green. They're still green.
"Hi." Dean cleared his throat. "He's not always such a jackass."
"Your hearing--I didn't know."
"It's all back now."
Sam coughed.
"Mostly back."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"In my right ear. Most days it's back, in my right ear."
"Good," John said lamely. "That's good."
"So here we are," Sam announced. "You wanted to meet us. Here we are."
"Right." John ducked his head. "I could start with apologies."
"Or you could save your breath," Dean said agreeably.
"Okay, then. Okay. I want you to know that I'm innocent. Well, not of everything, but what they put me in jail for. I didn't do it."
"That's news," Sam said dryly. "I'm just a first year law student, but I'm pretty sure when they catch you in the act, with your hands on the machete, covered in the man's blood--that's what they call a slam dunk."
Dean gestured at his brother, and they signed back and forth for a moment, a secret argument John would never understand. "Sorry," Dean said. "Go on."
But John couldn't. It took almost a minute, maybe. It doesn't matter, he decided right then. I'm still their father. Even if they never know it, I do, so it doesn't matter.
"I'll understand if you boys never want to see me again after today. I'm damn lucky you came out here at all, I know that. There are things you may never understand and things I hope you never can. I went back and forth about talking this over at all, but-- Neither of you got to grow up easy, anyway. I bet you've seen things. Things that made you wonder. Either here, after they put me away, or maybe in Afghanistan or Iraq. I bet you've seen things. And you should know. What I killed twenty years ago was not Daniel Elkins."
"Yeah," Sam said dryly. "We know."
"We've known for a while now."
"Oh." John clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. "That's..." A relief? A surprise? What the hell was your foster mother doing, that you know? Did you remember what I taught you? Did you lay down salt lines at night? Did you remember that you need passwords? Did you remember the right name for Christ? Did ever need me for anything?
Sam cleared his throat.
"Sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to...you know." And just then, he felt it. A sudden pressure in his chest, and the desire to vomit increased. His time was up. "And I'm sorry about this, too."
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, starting forward. "Sammy, something's wrong. Call 911."
"He's fine."
"I said call," Dean almost yelled.
"Don't worry," John said quietly. He'd seen his boys, that was the demon's half of the deal. His half, every second of parole he'd been eligible for. Every day possible of prison. "There's really nothing to do."
But Sam was dialing anyway, and talking.
"What did you do?" Dean asked, quiet again.
"You're both here, that's what matters."
"Dad?"
"Dean, I'm sorry."
"I figured."
"I want you to..." John stopped himself. He didn't have any right to ask. That, and he was running out of air.
"Watch out for Sammy? You know I will."
He realized that Dean had reached across and was holding him by the forearm. This was good. This was much better than he deserved. Dean was staring at him and John could see that he knew, he knew that somebody was dying in front of him. He knew, and he was used to it. Maybe even expected it.
"Don't be scared," his son said.
John smiled. He wanted to stand up and hug him--he hadn't even touched his son yet. But he lost his balance and slid to his knees, so it was Dean that had to reach down and grab him by the shoulder, propping him up. Sammy was still yelling at the phone.
"Dad." Dean leaned in close, so smoothly that John had to wonder if he'd done this before. "Don't worry. We know. About Sam--about everything. We know."
"Okay."
Dean gripped his shoulder tighter. Sam dropped his coffee. John closed his eyes.
Since meeting his wife, Espera has become an avid reader, voraciously consuming everything from military histories to Chinese philosophy to Kurt Vonnegut (his favorite author). In the Middle East, he spends every free moment either reading or writing long letters to his wife, who works at an engineering firm in the San Fernando Valley. Tonight, at the cigarette factory, Espera reads me the beginning of a letter to his wife. "I've learned that there are two types of people in Iraq," he reads, "those who are very good and those who are dead. I'm very good. I've lost twenty pounds, shaved my head, started smoking, my feet have half rotted off, and I move from filthy hole to filthy hole every night. I see dead children and people everywhere and function in a void of indifference. I keep you and our daughter locked away deep down inside, and I try not to look there." Espera stops reading and looks up at me. "Do you think that's too harsh, dog?"
No spoilers, please.
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: Everything aired ever.
Warnings: Dark themes, other canon stuff. As always, PM me if you have any concerns.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: While most got to sleep, Espera leans against the wheel of his Humvee parked by Colbert's, composing a letter to his wife back home in Los Angeles. He uses a red lens flashlight, which emits a dim glow, not easily spotted by potential enemy shooters, to write on a tattered legal pad.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Teufelshunde 4/6
While most got to sleep, Espera leans against the wheel of his Humvee parked by Colbert's, composing a letter to his wife back home in Los Angeles. He uses a red lens flashlight, which emits a dim glow, not easily spotted by potential enemy shooters, to write on a tattered legal pad. Espera's wife was a sophomore at Loyola Marymount College when they met. At the time, he was a nineteen-year-old laborer with no future. They married shortly after she got pregnant, and much of Espera's life since then has been an effort to better himself in order to meet her high standards. "You see, dog," he explains, "my wife is smart, but she fucked up big-time when she married me. I was a piece of shit. I remember my wife talking about all the books she'd read, and it hit me there was a whole world I'd missed. Before I met her I used to think, I've got a shitload of hand skills--welding, pipe-fitting--any pussy can read a book. See, I didn't grow up with no understanding. My mom tried, but my dad is a psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet."
2011:
It's DeeDee in the window. Sort of. She's younger than he's ever seen her, even in the beginning. Pretty, in a homegrown sort of way that does absolutely nothing for him. Her hair is braided and she keeps turning around to talk to someone inside.
But it isn't her house.
There's a black car in the driveway and a crooked oak tree out front. In the picture window, DeeDee gestures at him. Come here. Behind her, something moves. She isn't alone. He starts running.
The other person puts a long white hand over DeeDee's face and gathers her into the darkness.
"No!" he screams. "DeeDee, wait! Wait!"
Dean sits up on the floor of the abandoned cabin and tries not to puke again.
"I think we got twinkies in the trunk." Sam's watching him, doing that mother hen shit again. "And I found something else in the cupboard last night."
"Is it coffee?"
Sam smiles, and Dean's blood pressure drops about thirty points.
"Don't fuck with me man, not about this. Is it or is it not coffee?"
He smiles wider.
"See," Dean says flatly. "There is a God."
Espera uses the term "psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet" with the utmost respect. He aspires to possess warrior skills equal to those of his father, who won a bronze star in Vietnam, and believes if he's lucky, he himself will retire one day as a "proud, psycho ex-Marine." Despite his reverence for his father's combat valor, the man abandoned him at a young age (after an incident, according to Espera, in which his dad was shot in their home by a jealous girlfriend), and their relationship remains rocky.
1984:
She was dreaming about Dallas when they called. About after, when she was in the hospital. She tapped her thumb against the railing. It was weird. She was crying, nauseous as hell from whatever they'd given her, looking at the bag of saline like it was a gift from God. And maybe it was. She closed her eyes. There were footsteps in the hall. They were here.
Clip, clip, clip, clip....
It wasn't polished shoes on linoleum, it was her phone. Teresa groaned into her pillow, reached for the beside phone as she rolled over. There was hair in her eyes, but it seemed like too much work to open them anyway.
"What?" she growled.
"Navarro. 214, just north of Coop Gin."
"Lerrick boys again?"
"Nope. Put on your big-girl panties and get out here."
"Christ." Teresa hung up the phone. She'd been here long enough now, they didn't talk about panties or being on the rag or cup size unless it was important. And nobody called in the middle of the night. Not a whole lot happened in Muleshoe that needed more than a couple deputies at once. She half-fell out of bed, reaching for her clothes. Bra, Red Raider t-shirt, socks...
"Pants," she muttered. "I require pants."
There were jeans slung over the back of her couch. Not her decent ones, but the one with the grass stains on the knees that never did come out. Put on your big girl panties and get out there. And fuck 'em if they didn't like her jeans. There was a rubber band in the back pocket. She pulled her hair back in a half-assed bun and shoved her feet into her work boots.
The night was chilly, wind blowing stiff out of the east. She pulled on her windbreaker, the one with her credentials on the back. It wasn't like she needed those. Everybody and their mother knew she was a Sheriff's Deputy, but it was cold and her teeth still ached from the dream. Miracle of miracles, the truck started on the first try.
"That's my girl." She patted the dashboard affectionately. Teresa pushed the clutch and put the truck in gear. It rocked back and forth over her pitted driveway, but the county road was better. She put the brights on and shifted into high gear. Her house was back by the railroad, almost twenty miles from Coop Gin. It took her fifteen minutes.
She parked next to one of the cruisers and pulled her gun out from under the front seat, realized she'd forgot the shoulder harness, and tucked it into the small of her back as she climbed out of the cab.
"Navarro," Astor barked. "Over here." He didn't talk a lot. It was his best feature. She was approaching the scene, the small ditch lit up by high beams and ringed with every lawman in Muleshoe. Astor held up a hand. "Don't puke on my evidence."
"What about your shoes? Those fair game?"
He spat tobacco juice on the dead grass and scowled. Teresa shrugged and headed towards the scene.
"Oh, fuck," she exhaled.
She'd seen a lot of dead bodies in Dallas, your typical murder suicides, the crispy critters on the freeway, and the most terrifying, the kids left in cars on hot days. Decapitation was a new one for her. She could see the spine on the man in the ditch. His head was lying next to him, face slack and eyes open.
"ID?"
"Name's Elkins," Astor said. "Colorado license."
"Shit. Are we looking at Feds?"
He raised his left eyebrow and spat.
"Well. At least your shoes are safe."
He considered that for a moment, then pointed his chin towards the squad car and the hunched figure in the back seat.
"No flies on you, old man" she said warmly.
He glowered. And it began to dawn on her.
"Did they put you up to this?"
"Nope."
"Shit. I thought we were over this hazing bullshit."
Astor shrugged.
"Fine. I'll drive your psychopath to lockup. But no more pads stuck to my locker." That was how it worked. She bought back her dignity one undignified errand at a time.
"Deal." He handed her the keys and opened his palm.
"No fuckin' way are your dickless wonder deputies driving my truck back."
Astor didn't blink.
"Fine. But easy on the clutch."
He rolled his eyes and snatched the keys out of her hand.
Teresa walked briskly past the other deputies and climbed into the driver's seat of the blue and white. The engine turned over and the radio kicked on. Travis Tritt. Loud. She punched it off with force and the stupid little knob came off.
"Fuck it," she muttered.
"Don't make 'em like they used to," said the man in the back seat.
"Fords," Teresa said, pulling onto the road. "They make shit cars. I drive a Chevy."
"Me, too."
Teresa had gone into law enforcement with her eyes wide open. Her childhood had not been a sheltered one. And then there was Dallas. The absurdities, though, those she was not prepared for. This, for example. Talking Detroit steel with a murderer in the back seat, a guy with the poetic blood still on his hands.
For the first time, she looked in the rear view mirror. He had a two day beard and a mean smile and his face was cast down, eyes in the shade.
"She idles high, sometimes. My truck."
"It happens. I can take a look at it later, if you want." The murderer snorted back a laugh at his own joke.
"You're a funny guy."
"For a cold-blooded killer," he finished the thought.
"They told you about that Miranda stuff, right?"
"Just making conversation."
"I"ll say."
"Listen," he started to speak and swallowed, cleared his throat. "Listen, lady--"
"That's 'Deputy Lady' to you," she snapped reflexively.
"Navarro," he growled. "I need your help."
"Look, asshole, you took a guy's head off back there--I'd put my money on a machete--and there's enough physical evidence to make John Wayne Gacy blush. You got 'convict' written all over you. I don't think you're in a position to be asking any favors."
The man straightened up. His eyes were brown. Tired and sharp. He met hers in the mirror and the hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.
When she was fifteen, her dad had gone off elk hunting and left her alone at the ranch for the weekend. Around midnight, the dogs started barking. Either her dad was home or something was after the cattle. And her dad wasn't home. Teresa had grabbed the shotgun in the corner of the bedroom, pulled on her dad's sheepskin jacket, and run outside in bare feet. It was a coyote, an old one, with scars from barbed wire and a torn-off ear.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is John Winchester. You need to send someone for my boys."
<<<<<>>>>>
If the squeak of the hinges startled her, she didn't let it show. Adopting her best I-belong-in-here pose, Teresa turned around.
"Can I help you?"
"John Winter, CDC," he said and flashed a badge. "I'm here to examine the body."
"For what?" The best defense was always a good offense. "You think smallpox took this man's head off?" She waited while the man in the cheap suit spun a good yarn about the Elkins' family's congenital dental defects and why they were of such concern to national health. Teresa looked around the morgue. It was empty.
"...just sign here and we'll take custody."
"Let's not and say we did. Sir."
He blinked.
"That's a 'no'."
"Look, miss..."
"Miss Deputy Navarro," she said flatly. "And I'm not signing jack. And you've got two minutes to give me a compelling reason not to call my boss and have you arrested for impersonating a federal agent."
"I don't know who you think you--"
"I'm a Sheriff's Deputy. And if that badge is real, I will eat my hat."
He reached for said badge again.
"Sir, give it up. You've been made."
Frowning, he had to ask, "What gave me away?"
"You've got hat hair. And a real fed would have gone over my head by now."
"Bobby Singer."
"Teresa Navarro."
"You figure out what's in the drawer yet?" His face relaxed, shaking off the veneer of bureaucratic formality. Now he just looked bitter, gesturing at the morgue wall like it was Showcase Showdown.
"Yeah. A dead guy."
"Yes and no."
"I'm not in the mood to play games, Mr. Singer."
"Call me Bobby," he said, shucking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
"Bobby. Make your point or I'll have to throw you out."
"But you won't." He grinned. "Because you want to know what's in the drawer." He opened the square silver door and pulled on the handle, rolling out the body of Daniel Elkins.
"Looks an awful lot like a dead guy."
"Does it?" Bobby Singer pulled off the sheet that covered Elkins' face. With his left hand, he pulled the man's upper lip away from his teeth. With a ballpoint pen from his pocket, he depressed Elkins' upper gum. A sharp, pointed tooth appeared from nowhere.
"Holy shit. What the hell is that?"
"That, Deputy, is a vampire."
1985:
The trial was a surprisingly low key event. The local paper was there and a crime reporter from Lubbock. But the truth was that most people didn't want to know. Elkins wasn't from around here. And neither was Winchester. They were outsiders. So while the murder itself might have been bloody, it wasn't really any of their affair. It was another reason to talk about the evils of big city life, the perils of a godless populace, what a shame it was that they had to lock their doors at night. Soon it would be nothing more than a cautionary tale, same as the deceptive passing lanes just outside of town.
Teresa couldn't go every day. She'd been subpoenad and given her testimony honestly, so help her God: the scene of the crime, the appearance of the defendant, the conduct of the investigation. They didn't ask her about the victim, other than the details of the decapitation. The ADA was really driving that one home. Teresa, for her part, was under no obligation to reveal the details of the second set of teeth.
But she was there for opening and closing arguments. And sentencing. The real question was, of course, whether or not Winchester would pay with his life. When the judge stood up and announced that Lady Justice would have to make do with a mere twenty five to life, Winchester didn't even flinch. When she got home that night, put her feet up and opened a beer, Teresa started to wonder if he'd rather have the needle.
<<<<<>>>>>
Her hand was shaky, not from nerves but caffeine. It was an eight hour drive to Huntsville and Teresa had left two hours before dawn. She'd refueled several times, both gas and coffee. She had no appetite for lunch, so there was just one hundred percent pure Arabica pouring through her veins.
"Afternoon, Officer."
Startled, she turned on her heel. A middle aged warden was looking her over, institutionally. He was black, going a little soft around the waist, but the way his shoulders were set said he could handle himself in a fight. Comfortable but alert.
"What gave me away?
The warden put his right hand on his right hip. Teresa looked down and saw that her hand was hovering next to the waistband of her jeans, looking for the reassurance of a gun that wasn't there. The Browning was in the parking lot, under the bench seat of her Chevy. Which, at the moment, was where she'd rather be.
"Occupational hazard. I'm Deputy Navarro, from Muleshoe."
"Officer Trammel. Ed."
"Teresa."
"Well, Teresa. Just remember. Keep your hands on the table."
She raised an eyebrow. She'd already had a thorough pat-down.
"Makes us nervous, if'n we can't see your hands."
All she could do was nod.
"Right then. I believe we have your table ready now."
"Thanks, Ed."
A few minutes later, John Winchester was sitting across from her. Her hands were white and posed on top of the plastic picnic table. He hadn't shaved since the trial and he looked...not downtrodden. Vacant. He looked like he'd moved out.
"Hi."
"Do I know you?"
"Yeah," she swallowed. "Yeah, you do. I drove you back to the station. In Muleshoe."
"Oh." He nodded. "How's your truck?"
"She's just fine."
"Well if your truck's just fine--"
"I got a closer look at Elkins' body."
He looked at her directly that time, the first sign of life.
"He had some interesting dental work."
John bowed his head and clasped and unclasped his fingers. His hands were uncuffed for the moment and they made small friction noises, warm skin over callouses.
"I'm so sorry, John."
<<<<<>>>>>
It was ridiculous. And pathetic. She should stop coming here.
"Eddie," she said pleasantly.
"Teresa. Good to see you again."
She shouldn't look forward to this, these afternoon visits once a month. Sixteen hours in the car shouldn't seem so easy. After a year, the standard Why are you here? had been dropped. He'd figured out that she didn't know the answer to that question.
"Afternoon," he said, sounding like he'd just woken up from a nice long nap. Not tousled, though, not today. Just relaxed, voice clouded with sleep. And nobody should look like that in orange.
"I brought you some stuff." Teresa pushed the pile of newspaper clippings and Weekly World News across the table. "I'm new at this. I just cut out all the stuff that seemed weird. I was hoping you could tell me if it was weird enough."
<<<<<>>>>>
1990:
She's here. She came today. John wondered if he'd stop being surprised.
"Afternoon."
"John." Teresa looked tired to him, wrung out.
"Is everything okay?"
"I haven't been able to follow them. They move them on purpose, keep them under the radar."
"The boys?"
"Something happened, John, in their last house."
"A fire?"
"No, why would... Listen, the system's splitting them up."
"They're..."
"I'm so sorry. I don't know where. They change their last names, and they..." She didn't want to tell him something.
"And they what?"
"Dean's in a group home somewhere."
John leaned back, careful to keep his forearms on the table.
"John?"
"I'm going to give you a list," he said. "I'm going to give you a list and I need you to bring it back here, before the end of visiting hours."
She nodded, thin-lipped and suspicious, but listening. "Okay. Tell me."
If he'd had time to give a shit, maybe he'd be curious about what she was thinking. But there wasn't time for that. There was only one play to make.
<<<<<>>>>>
"Eddie," John said quietly. "I need you to not ask questions. You can write me up and toss me in solitary tomorrow, but I need you to not ask questions."
The guard licked his lips. He wasn't stupid. He'd been here for years. "Thinking about offing yourself?"
"Uh, no." His mouth twisted up. "Not tonight."
"Listen to me, Winchester." He was talking with years of hard fought experience. "You so much as stub your fucking toe and I'll have your ass in restraints so fast it'll make your head spin."
"Yeah. I got it."
Eddie turned his back and, John guessed, closed his ears too. He looked at the small pile of supplies on his cot and wondered how Teresa had managed to round it up in Huntsville. But it didn't matter, not really. John got on his knees and began to sketch. He'd just finished the incantation when Eddie turned back around. Fuck.
"What the hell are you doing, Winchester?"
"I can explain later."
"Yeah? You set shit on fire, you go to solitary. Get your ass up against that wall, and do it right the fuck now."
John exhaled a choked laugh. "How stupid do you think I am?"
Eddie's eyes lit up from the inside out. "You really want an honest answer to that?"
No. Not really.
"You conjuring me, John. I'm surprised. I took you for a lot of things, but suicidally reckless wasn't one of them. You ready to die? Today?"
"I'm ready to make a deal."
It smiled. "It's very unseemly, making deals with devils. How do I know this isn't some trick you cooked up with the hunter slut?"
"It's no trick. I have to help my boys. I have to keep them together."
"Why, John. You're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them. If only your boys knew you even existed."
"It's a good trade. You want me a hell of a lot more than you want them."
"For now." It tilted its head. "But you're right. They're not much of a threat yet. Either of them. You know the truth, right? About Sammy? And the other children?"
Fuck. "Yeah."
"For a convicted murderer, you are a shitty liar."
"Can you get them back together? Yes or no."
"Yeah. I can."
"Good. Then we have a deal."
"No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot."
"With what?"
It smiled with Eddie's face.
<<<<<>>>>>
She knew something was wrong. Every smell was sharper today. Without meaning to, she thought about the police kennel. That smell of disinfectant and crated dogs. Eddie was looking at her funny, but she couldn't fix her face up right. John was sitting at the usual table, but his face was in his hands.
"Hey," she said, sitting down slowly.
"Yeah." He looked up.
"You look like hell."
John grinned and her stomach tightened up. It was raffish, but subdued.
"What the fuck did you do?"
He picked at some sleep in his eye.
"John?"
"Tell me, Teresa. What are you doing for the next fifteen years?"
<<<<<>>>>>
2005
"Hey," Eddie tapped on his cell door. "Wake up, Winchester."
"Judas priest." John swiped at his face. He'd just fallen asleep. Finally. "What the hell, Eddie?"
"You got a phone call."
"Teresa?"
"No. Your son."
John snorted. "You got the wrong fucking Winchester."
"You sure? 'Cause there's a Sam Winchester on the phone and he sounds pretty pissed."
He rolled out of bed with the grace of a much younger man. Banging his knuckles on the unforgiving metal of the cell door, John shoved his hands through the small opening.
"Cuff me. Hurry the fuck up and cuff me."
<<<<<>>>>>
"You're here." It was flat. Not excited. Certainly not grateful.
I was in the neighborhood she almost said. Instead, Teresa shrugged.
"Huh." He didn't seem to know what to do, in his jeans and flannel from twenty years ago. "Huh." It was summer and Texas and the heat was blazing. He was sweating and there were goosebumps everywhere. All the noises seemed to be coming from everywhere at the same time. Tires and freeways and other guys stepping into the sunlight for the first time in a very, very long time.
"I got AC in here." She was looking at him funny.
"Okay." John climbed into the truck. It was a newer model. Two or three years old maybe.
"Hungry?" she asked, after a few strained minutes. Because somehow all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the cab. "There's a Whataburger around here somewhere."
"Holy shit." He twisted around. "Is that a Sonic?"
"Yeah."
"I haven't had a decent tater tot in..."
Teresa put on her blinker and turned the car around. He was rummaging through his pockets.
"I don't have anything."
"That's okay. If you can get my condenser at home running, I'll call it even."
"Why are you here?"
Teresa parked the car and waited silently for a minute.
"Nevermind. I shouldn't have--"
"A long time ago, something bad happened to me. And then I...something bad happened to you. That I was a part of. And I couldn't just walk away." Her grip on the steering wheel was making her knuckles turn white. "Sometimes something bad happens and you can't just leave it be. You know?"
<<<<<>>>>>
John liked her place. It was simple and there wasn't a whole lot of crap on the walls or anything. He bet there was a lot of stuff he could tinker with and fix up. He'd start with the condenser and maybe re-caulk the windows. He was pretty sure he remembered how to do that. He could do that, for her.
"John?" She was kicking off her boots.
"Yeah."
"Do you want to stare at my windows or do you want to get in bed with me?"
"Do I have to pick?" It was the kind of smile he didn't remember smiling. But he must have, because it felt kind of familiar. He put his hands on her and his mouth, and all that felt familiar, too.
<<<<<>>>>>
"I'm sorry," he said afterward. She was curled up, beside him, resting her head on his arm. Teresa figured it had to be a little numb, but it was so warm and so much more solid than her pillow.
"Sorry?" She couldn't help it, she'd been drifting off a little, listening for the train.
"I'm sorry this is all..."
"I know." I don't care, she almost said. This is everything. "I make some mean fucking pancakes. You better wake up hungry."
"No doubt."
<<<<<>>>>>
Two weeks later, John had fixed about everything there was to fix. He thought about going to the grocery store and renting one of those steam cleaners for the carpet. But that would involve people and those scanners and little keypads to pay. Last time he'd gone with her it was like time travel. Like the fucking Jetsons.
So he was sitting at her kitchen table, just a card table with a tablecloth thrown over it, nursing a cup of coffee when the phone rang. At first, he refused to answer the phone. He didn't want it to look bad, he told her, some strange man living at her house. She'd laughed at him. So he answered the phone now, when she was at work.
It was Sam on the other end. It caught him off guard again, the way his son sounded. His voice was deep and tense, and John wondered how tall he'd gotten, how he wore his hair, how he did in school. Weird things that had nothing to do with him. Sam had an address for him and a date and time.
"I'm going to Dallas next week." He announced it as soon as the door opened. Teresa paused there, keys in her hand, purse halfway down her arm.
"Oh."
"Sam says they're ready, you know, to see me."
"Oh. Good. That's good, right?"
John stared at his mug. Her mug. Don't mess with Texas women, it read.
"You're not gonna come back, are you."
He shook his head.
She nodded. Then she went to the fridge and opened a cold Shiner.
"I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"No," he said. "I'm not."
"Well. I am."
<<<<<>>>>>
"Take it off," she said, pushing him backwards onto her bed. The mattress squeaked a little.
"Huh?" He was already naked.
"The ring, John. Just tonight. Please."
"Oh."
He didn't even remember he was wearing it, she realized. But he took it off for her, put it behind a picture frame on her bedside table and didn't look back.
That night, she took everything she could from him.
<<<<<>>>>>
John sat in front of a cup of lukewarm coffee with his hands shoved resolutely into his pockets. The world beyond his table was non-existent. A stranger walked up, asked to borrow one of the two empty chairs, and he barked a refusal. It looked bad, he knew, because he didn't look like a regular guy anymore. And that was important here, in the south. Everybody had to get along and be friendly and shit. It was why he'd never left Teresa's house. Because he was rangy and hard-eyed behind a salt and pepper beard that didn't disguise the scar on his face and he didn't look like a nice guy anymore.
"Are you John Winchester?"
John stood up in a hurry, kicking his chair out behind him. It seemed out of place, the startled-rabbit feel of it. He fumbled with the chair, moving it out of the way so he could face his son. He was tall, real tall, and his hair was long and groomed. He was wearing a suit like somebody who was used to wearing a suit. Clearing his throat, John offered his hand. The boy--the man--hesitated, then shook it in a perfunctory way, something to get over with.
"You must be Sam."
"We can't sit out here," Sam gestured at the patio. "Let me check inside."
"Sure, sure," John assented, without understanding. He followed his son into the coffee shop. It had quieted down since the early morning rush hour. There was a small table set aside, with three armchairs. Sam nodded at it in approval, and John sat down. Sam didn't. He walked over to the counter and spoke to one of the girls behind. Barista, Teresa had said. John wiped his palm over his face, swallowed with difficulty, and tried to pull himself together. Jesus wept. Above him, the background music, something instrumental and inoffensive, stopped playing altogether. Sam came back.
"You can't sit there," Sam said baldly. "Dean needs that seat."
"Okay." John changed chairs, from the one with its back against the wall to the one with its back to the door. Now he understood. "I thought you said he was fine."
"No," Sam bit off the word. "I said he was going to be okay. I never said he was fine." Then he flipped open his cell phone and texted something--that was also a thing now. "Okay. He should be here in a couple minutes."
"You vet all his friends?"
Sam colored. "No. Just you."
John nodded.
"I'm not trying to be..." Sam exhaled. "I'm just trying to watch out for him. He came back--they had to make up a name for the thing that happened to him, what happens when something blows up so close to you that your brain ricochets back and forth inside your skull."
"IED?"
"Yeah. Anyway. I gave him the wrong Starbucks on purpose. He's gonna be pissed when he figures it out."
John smiled, crookedly. "It's a good trick. Wanted to make sure I'd show?"
Sam nodded. "You..." He bit his lip for a moment, debated. "I had to be sure you wouldn't disappoint him again."
"Again." John cleared his throat, studied his hands. Square up, he thought, square the fuck up
"He used to--every night he'd do this, you know, no matter where we got placed, he'd tell me about how you were coming for us." Sam's tone was flat, empty, but not bitter. "'Don't be scared, don't worry, I'm here, and Dad's coming for us.'"
"I'm glad you stayed together." John's coffee was threatening to come back up, but damned if he was going to be sick in front of his son.
"It wasn't easy. The system is what it is, but the system in Texas...they lose kids. But we got lucky. We were together long enough to get a foster mom who fought to keep both of us."
"Was it bad?" John asked, his voice had dropped to something gravelly and hurt. "Before you found her. Was it bad?"
Sam met his eyes and would not answer him. John turned the coffee mug in his hand a few times before he tried again.
"SMU law, huh? Kind of a big deal."
"Yeah." Sam blushed. "My professors wanted me to go to Stanford, out in California. It's more prestigious, or something."
"Why not California?"
"Dean has good doctors here. And he'd just gotten back when I got in. If I left, or if we moved, it was going to make it worse. I couldn't do that. No, the VA here's a polytrauma site. He has buddies and a job at a garage. He needs to be here, for a little longer."
"I'm glad you're staying," he said softly. "And I'm glad you found me."
"I had to." It was Sam's turn to study the floor. "I got that phone call. And I thought, if he made it or not, you deserved to know."
John opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the noise of a classic Triumph pulling up outside. It was late summer, so the rider was in only a t-shirt and jeans. He was also without a helmet, which was probably why Sam was making a noise of aggravated disapproval. The man outside was tall, painfully thin, with fair hair in a close buzz cut. There were scars on his skull, where the doctors had put him back together again. His aviators were reflective, his eyes were hidden.
Dean.
"Dean." John started to stand.
"Wait. Just...give him a second. He needs to put eyes on us first." Sam licked his lips. "Don't move too quickly. And for Christ's sakes, don't touch me."
The skinny man with the aviators walked in with a practiced confidence that spoke of a long tour. He turned, just inside the door, and looked his family over. His face showed nothing. He walked up and ordered a large black coffee. The woman in the green apron gave it to him, but wouldn't take any money. Texas, she said, we take care of own. Dean tried to smile. He came over to his father and his brother and sat down in the chair, where he had a back against a wall and full view of the whole place.
"Dick move with the address, Sammy."
Sam exhaled, and made some complicated gestures with his hands. Dean signed back, fingers flying furiously. John watched, not understanding. Finally, Dean broke it off with a crude middle finger, and turned to his father. He pulled off his sunglasses at last. Green. They're still green.
"Hi." Dean cleared his throat. "He's not always such a jackass."
"Your hearing--I didn't know."
"It's all back now."
Sam coughed.
"Mostly back."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"In my right ear. Most days it's back, in my right ear."
"Good," John said lamely. "That's good."
"So here we are," Sam announced. "You wanted to meet us. Here we are."
"Right." John ducked his head. "I could start with apologies."
"Or you could save your breath," Dean said agreeably.
"Okay, then. Okay. I want you to know that I'm innocent. Well, not of everything, but what they put me in jail for. I didn't do it."
"That's news," Sam said dryly. "I'm just a first year law student, but I'm pretty sure when they catch you in the act, with your hands on the machete, covered in the man's blood--that's what they call a slam dunk."
Dean gestured at his brother, and they signed back and forth for a moment, a secret argument John would never understand. "Sorry," Dean said. "Go on."
But John couldn't. It took almost a minute, maybe. It doesn't matter, he decided right then. I'm still their father. Even if they never know it, I do, so it doesn't matter.
"I'll understand if you boys never want to see me again after today. I'm damn lucky you came out here at all, I know that. There are things you may never understand and things I hope you never can. I went back and forth about talking this over at all, but-- Neither of you got to grow up easy, anyway. I bet you've seen things. Things that made you wonder. Either here, after they put me away, or maybe in Afghanistan or Iraq. I bet you've seen things. And you should know. What I killed twenty years ago was not Daniel Elkins."
"Yeah," Sam said dryly. "We know."
"We've known for a while now."
"Oh." John clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. "That's..." A relief? A surprise? What the hell was your foster mother doing, that you know? Did you remember what I taught you? Did you lay down salt lines at night? Did you remember that you need passwords? Did you remember the right name for Christ? Did ever need me for anything?
Sam cleared his throat.
"Sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to...you know." And just then, he felt it. A sudden pressure in his chest, and the desire to vomit increased. His time was up. "And I'm sorry about this, too."
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, starting forward. "Sammy, something's wrong. Call 911."
"He's fine."
"I said call," Dean almost yelled.
"Don't worry," John said quietly. He'd seen his boys, that was the demon's half of the deal. His half, every second of parole he'd been eligible for. Every day possible of prison. "There's really nothing to do."
But Sam was dialing anyway, and talking.
"What did you do?" Dean asked, quiet again.
"You're both here, that's what matters."
"Dad?"
"Dean, I'm sorry."
"I figured."
"I want you to..." John stopped himself. He didn't have any right to ask. That, and he was running out of air.
"Watch out for Sammy? You know I will."
He realized that Dean had reached across and was holding him by the forearm. This was good. This was much better than he deserved. Dean was staring at him and John could see that he knew, he knew that somebody was dying in front of him. He knew, and he was used to it. Maybe even expected it.
"Don't be scared," his son said.
John smiled. He wanted to stand up and hug him--he hadn't even touched his son yet. But he lost his balance and slid to his knees, so it was Dean that had to reach down and grab him by the shoulder, propping him up. Sammy was still yelling at the phone.
"Dad." Dean leaned in close, so smoothly that John had to wonder if he'd done this before. "Don't worry. We know. About Sam--about everything. We know."
"Okay."
Dean gripped his shoulder tighter. Sam dropped his coffee. John closed his eyes.
Since meeting his wife, Espera has become an avid reader, voraciously consuming everything from military histories to Chinese philosophy to Kurt Vonnegut (his favorite author). In the Middle East, he spends every free moment either reading or writing long letters to his wife, who works at an engineering firm in the San Fernando Valley. Tonight, at the cigarette factory, Espera reads me the beginning of a letter to his wife. "I've learned that there are two types of people in Iraq," he reads, "those who are very good and those who are dead. I'm very good. I've lost twenty pounds, shaved my head, started smoking, my feet have half rotted off, and I move from filthy hole to filthy hole every night. I see dead children and people everywhere and function in a void of indifference. I keep you and our daughter locked away deep down inside, and I try not to look there." Espera stops reading and looks up at me. "Do you think that's too harsh, dog?"
No spoilers, please.