Meidung
Title: Meidung
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Companion piece to Rumspringa. Beta'd by pdragon76, whose scrutiny improves everything.
Summary: And I know, I know you are changed out. And I hope, I hope you're arranged out. But I'm still asleep, and you woke me up again. And I'm still asleep, but you woke me up to leave. -Sufjan Stevens
MEIDUNG
"Where did Dean go?"
Sammy was twelve and ever since his birthday all his questions were directed at John. Why do we live in apartments and not houses? How come we get our clothes at the Goodwill and not Old Navy? Why can't I have a backpack from a real store and not the Surplus? The answer was either 'because I said so' or 'go ask your brother', depending.
"What do you mean?" John fumbled around the kitchen, trying to figure out why the coffee wasn't already made.
"I mean I think he left last night."
"What?" He opened the can. Dammit. Enough for half a cup of good coffee or two cups of piss-weak coffee. Just the kind of decision a man shouldn't have to make before drinking his coffee. Vicious cycle.
"I said I think he left last night. Didn't find a note or anything."
John's mouth soured. He set down the Folger's and walked to the window, the one that looked over the parking lot. The Impala was still there. So was the truck. He turned around. The Chevy's keys were sitting next to Sammy's bowl of Lucky Charms. Fuck.
"Dad? Hello?"
"What?"
"Where did Dean go?"
To the zoo.
"He went to help Jefferson re-roof his house."
"Huh." Sam stopped eating, started pushing the marshmallows around the surface of the milk. "Why? How come he didn't say goodbye?"
"I don't know. You can ask him when he gets back."
"How come he didn't leave a note?"
"I'm not a fucking psychic, Sammy." John pulled his coat off the back of a kitchen chair, pulled the truck keys out of his pocket. "We're out of coffee."
Dean would be home in a few days, maybe a week at the outside. John would put money on it.
][
"Winchester?"
"Yeah. Look, Dean's got a bit of a wild hair. Took off on his own a couple days ago."
"Damn."
"Mind keeping an eye out for him? You know. In case he checks in."
"Of course."
"And...I had to tell Sammy something. He thinks Dean's re-roofing your place in Pennsylvania."
"Come again?"
"I had to tell Sammy something. Just not the truth."
"I got it. I won't blow your cover. You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"No reason."
][
Day five, and John had killed what was left of the hard liquor. He'd fucked this up but good, he just wasn't sure when. He couldn't even remember what he said, or what Dean said, or what it had even been about. The car, maybe?
He and Mary used to have fights like this. He'd gotten better, he had. But sometimes, they used to have fights like this. Mary always warned him when he'd crossed the line. She'd go for a walk, or take Dean to the grocery store, or sometimes send John out back to mow the lawn. Most of their kitchen was remodeled during a rough patch they'd had in '82. He couldn't remember what it was about, he never did. But Mary took Dean to the playground, and when they got back, John was scraping that ugly fucking floral wallpaper off with a straight razor.
"Daddy?"
"Come on, kid," Mary had said. "We're going to the zoo."
"Daddy coming?" Dean asked, and she scooped him up and carried him out the back door.
"Daddy's gone to the zoo already."
She hadn't thought he heard, but he had. They came home late, both drowsy and sun-kissed. John had just finished tearing out the cabinets. He was covered in plaster and sweat, and the kitchen looked like a Claymore had gone off.
"You done here?" she'd asked.
John nodded.
"Good," she smiled. "Dean has a new favorite animal."
"Baboons!"
"The red-assed kind?"
"John."
"Yeah! The ones with the red--"
"Dean, head upstairs and put your PJ's on. Daddy will come up in a minute and read you a story."
"'Kay."
And then, of all things, she smiled at him. He spent the day breaking things in their kitchen, for reasons he didn't understand and never would, unable to speak a civil word or even look her in the eye. And she smiled at him. She ruffled his hair, releasing a small cloud of plaster, and smiled.
"It was just a dream, baby. You're not over there anymore." She kissed him, and when she pulled away, her lips were white. "Now run go take a shower. Dean wants to hear the little bunny story before he falls asleep."
Mary had always warned him when he'd crossed the line.
][
It was two weeks before Dean showed up on the grid. It was the longest stretch John had been home in a long time, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a little boring. He woke up, got Sammy on the school bus, punched in at the warehouse, came home, made Sam dinner, and started over again. And Sam, Sam was eerily cool about the whole thing. After the first few days, the Why's and the How Come's stopped. The apartment was quiet all the time. John went to work and Sam went to school. John did research and Sam did homework. John drank beer and Sam ate cereal. Jesus Christ, did Sam eat cereal.
A couple times, John almost said something about it. The kid was not exactly svelte, and he put away Lucky Charms like it was his job. John tried bringing home the cheap kind, the off-brand that came in a huge plastic bag. Sammy looked at him like he'd backed over the family dog. The next day, the real deal was back in the cabinet. Sammy would eventually get some height on him, lose the baby fat. John was tall. Dean was tall. Sam would get tall. He was sure of it.
The longer Dean was gone, the quieter it got. By the end of the second week, conversation in the apartment consisted mostly of gestures and the occasional yes or no. And John was ready to admit that he was worried. Dean was going to be okay, of course he was going to be okay. Dean had what it took to survive, and John had made sure he knew it. Dean was smart, he was resourceful, and he was okay. John just wished somebody would put eyes on him and see it.
So when the phone rang on the day before Halloween, John jumped out of his chair. Sammy was in the boys' room, reading, but John had no illusions about the fact that he was probably being followed with the scrutiny of a practiced spy. He needed to be careful.
"Hello?"
"He just left."
"Jim, good to talk to you. How's Minnesota?" It was asinine, and John knew it.
"Sam there?"
"You bet."
"Send him out for milk or something. We need to talk."
"Sammy?"
"Yeah?" Sam's shaggy head appeared at once.
"I need you to run down to the store and pick up some more milk." John picked through his wallet and grabbed a couple bills, didn't even check what they were.
"You just bought a gallon yesterday."
"I mean bread. For PB&J's."
"We have enough to--"
"Sam, just go get whatever we need. Now."
His eyes narrowed, but he took the money and left. Slammed the door on his way out.
"He gone?" Jim asked.
"Yeah. You saw Dean?"
"Yes, you dumb son of a bitch, I did."
"Is he--"
"He's fine, John. He is A-O-K. One hundred percent above board. Squared away."
John sagged against the wall. The sarcasm wasn't lost on him, but Jim wouldn't lie. Probably couldn't.
"Feel better?" Jim apparently took his silence as assent. "Then you listen to me. I don't know what you said, and I don't know what you did, but you have really shot this one all to hell."
"Yeah."
"Yeah? Yeah? That's what you have to say to me?" Jim sounded pissed, like John hadn't heard in more than 16 years.
"Look," John cleared his throat. "He'll be home by tomorrow on the bus, right? I'll straighten it out with him then, I swear. I'll make it right."
"Home." There was a sound on the other end, like Jim was dumping flatware into his sink. "He's not going home, John. He's picked up a road bike, and he thinks you're not looking for him, you sorry shitbird. He's not going home."
][
"You can go out, if you want," Sammy said, swinging his legs at the kitchen table. John dropped the dish he was washing, let it plunge to the bottom of the sink. His gut told him to stay, but his brain was already halfway to the bar.
"I'm good," he lied.
"I know what day it is, Dad. I can count to six."
John turned around and started washing again.
][
"You're sure."
"Sorry. No sign of him."
"Not even--"
"Did I stutter? No sign of him."
"Right. Okay."
"Sorry, John. Your kid's good. He's real good."
][
"How long does it take to re-roof a house?"
"A while." John focused on the burger in front of him. It was payday, and they were at Sammy's favorite place for dinner. It was the least John could do, really. Sammy was starting to get to him. And not like usual, by whining and wheedling. This was worse, because Sammy didn't even know he was doing it. That morning, Sam hadn't woken up on his own, like usual. John put on the coffee and then went into the boys' room. Sammy was sleeping on his brother's mattress. Sammy had gotten the real bed when they'd moved in, of course, because Dean had volunteered to take the mattress on the floor. No questions asked, Winchester SOP. And now Sammy was sleeping in his brother's bed.
John was thinking about picking a fight with him, just to see if he could. Not here, though. No need to make a scene. He cleared his throat, and tried to enjoy his burger. It was a really good one, too. Cooked right, buttered bun, sharp cheddar. And John was having trouble enjoying it. So was Sam, apparently. He was picking at his congealing cheese fries with all the enthusiasm of a man in front of a firing squad.
"Something wrong with your food?"
"Nuh-uh."
"I thought you liked this place."
"No, Dad, I don't!" It was the loudest thing he'd said in weeks. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out the window.
"Yeah, you do. This is your favorite place."
"It's Dean's favorite place. It's Dean's."
"Shit, Sam. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand why he hasn't called."
"I told you. Jefferson's place is out in the sticks. No phone, no running water. Just...think about how smelly he is right now, no shower for almost a month. You probably wouldn't want to talk to him, even if you could."
"Couldn't smell him over the phone."
"Fair point." John set his burger down. "But he'll be back soon."
"Do you even miss him at all?" It was an accusation, really, and not a question at all.
"No, I don't," John snapped. "You know why? Because you shouldn't miss people when you know they're coming back. Your brother's coming back, so no, I don't miss him. And neither should you."
Sammy bit his lips and studied his fries. John asked for the check.
][
Sam was at school when Caleb called. John had the day off, courtesy of his dumb-as-shit boss, who hadn't figured out that yesterday's forklift accident was John's fault, and not the company's. Turns out, when you only slept two hours a night, your reaction time started to go. So John had been half a second too slow, and he'd gotten checked by the guy driving the heavy machinery. Nothing serious, just a little banged up. John hadn't breathed a word about workman's comp, but they'd given him a paid day off anyway. Nothing wrong with his reflexes now, though, scrambling to get the phone.
"He was here," Caleb announced.
"What do you mean 'was here'?" John yelled into the phone, not even attempting to preface his anger.
"I mean he was here, and then he left."
"I told you to keep him there, goddammit. I told you to keep him there."
"He's sixteen, John. What did you want me to do? Handcuff him to the radiator?"
"At least he'd still fucking be there, Caleb. Where is he going now?"
"Didn't ask."
"Well, thank you. You've been a real big help."
"He'd only have lied to me anyway, John, and you know it."
"I guess we'll never know."
"You gonna ask me how he looked?" Caleb said coolly.
John balled his fist and put it against his forehead. "You gonna make me ask?"
"Hungry, mostly."
"Did..." He almost choked. "Did you give him something to eat?"
"Jesus Christ, John." Caleb sighed. "Of course I fed him. Gave him a gun, too."
"What happened to his Beretta?"
"Ditched it in Utah. Said they picked him up for vagrancy."
Vagrancy. It hit him hard. Vagrancy. My son is homeless.
"You raised him tough," Caleb said. "You raised him tough, and he's making it. He'll come home when he's good and ready."
"He needs to come home now."
"You raised him tough."
After they hung up, John went into his room and pulled out a map from under the bed, something they picked up at a motel or a rest stop along the way He only took it out at night, when Sam was sleeping. His boy didn't need to see it. John brought it out and put it on the kitchen table: the forty-eight contiguous states laid out before him.
He hadn't hunted once since Dean left, but he was working a new job: tracking Dean. John was good at reading a trail, he was more than good. But Dean was good, too. Apparently he was as good at disappearing as John was at tracking. I wonder if he knows he's doing it. By inches, he's doing it.
John pulled a pencil from behind his ear and drew an 'x' on Lincoln, Nebraska. There weren't many marks on the map. Oklahoma, where someone had reported a Triumph stolen around the time Dean might have been there. Missouri, where a man matching Dean's description broke a guy's orbital bone in a bar. He made a note to start calling precincts in Utah tomorrow, see if he couldn't find anything more specific. He couldn't leave Sammy for long enough to pick up a trail, and he couldn't put out a missing person's report without putting them all at risk. John wasn't doing a very good job, and he didn't have much to go on.
He just didn't know what else to do.
][
"It's me."
"No joy, John."
"No joy."
][
"Are you okay?"
"Of course. Why?"
Sam looked at him, a little hesitant. "You just put the milk back in the cabinet and the cereal back in the fridge."
"Oh." John scratched his beard. He'd stopped shaving in October, and apparently he was going grey.
"And you haven't hunted in, like, a month and a half. Haven't even left town. When you're not working, you stay here and do...Dean stuff. And I'm not even sure you sleep anymore. What's going on?"
Well, son. I'm a failure as both a father and a hunter. And I'd rather be drinking right now than having this conversation, but I have to go to work because you need to eat and we can't use any of the cards because we can't leave because what if your brother decides to come back and we're not here to come back to.
"Did something happen to Dean?"
"What? No. Of course not. I talked to Jefferson just the other night. He's fine."
"You talked to Jefferson? When? Was Dean there? Why didn't you tell me?"
Rookie mistake. "I talked to him last week. I guess Dean wasn't there."
"So why didn't you tell me?"
"Because, Sam, you are not my mother. Okay? Now go get your shit together, or you're gonna miss the bus."
][
"Hello?"
"Mr. Meeker? This is Shirley from American Express."
"Did someone use my card?"
"Someone did use one of the cards, sir, yes."
"Where?"
"It was charged yesterday by the Emergency Services Department at Alaska Regional Hospital."
"Where?"
"Anchorage, sir."
"Son of a bitch. He wasn't even on the goddamn map."
"Sir?"
"Never mind."
John slammed down the phone and went looking for his duffle bag. It was Thursday. That was good. Sammy could take care of himself for the weekend. John would call him in sick for tomorrow. How long till he came home? Two hours. John's palms itched. Maybe he could just leave him a note.
Don't be a fucking moron, Winchester.
He did a load of clothes, called United for tickets, tidied up the kitchen, made sure there were enough Lucky Charms to last, and packed his bag. He folded up his tracking map and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Tapped it there. Sam was a little late, dragging his feet.
"You're leaving?" He sounded relieved.
"Just for the weekend. I'll be back Sunday night."
"Okay." Sam's grin was a little lopsided. "I'll be fine. Go kill something evil already."
][
Alaska was fucking freezing. John had been all over the world with the Corps, and all over the States with his boys. He thought he knew cold. He tried not to imagine what it would be like on a motorcycle on the freeway.
"Hi. My name is Leroy Meeker, and I'm looking for my son. He was here, day before yesterday."
"I'm sorry, sir." The admitting nurse was tapping away at her computer, wouldn't meet his eyes. "But federal privacy regulations bar me from--"
John reached out, grabbed her hand. He tried to dial down his smile from predatory to something else.
"He's sixteen, lady, and I'm his father. He's a minor. You treated him without my consent. So pull up his chart before I have to go over your head."
Ten minutes later, he was talking to the doctor who'd set Dean's hand.
"Oh, it was broken alright," he said, breezing through the file. "He said someone had dropped the hood of a tractor trailer on it. He walked around like that for a week or so. I had to give him something for the swelling and the pain before I could even really examine it."
John focused on keeping his hands in his pockets. "And then what."
"And then...sir, we were unaware of your son's actual age."
"And then what."
"I set his hand and gave him a scrip. And then I released him."
John was at a loss. There was no more paper trail left to follow. He left the hospital with a handshake from the orthopedist, a copy of Dean's chart, and a profound sense of inadequacy. Dean had stolen a bike, John hadn't anticipated that. Dean was mobile and flexible, also unforeseen. Dean was earning enough cash to get by, something John didn't expect. It was a clusterfuck, and it was a clusterfuck of his own making.
It was time to start begging. He wasn't above it anymore. It was time to make the phone calls, to tell people that he, John Winchester, had officially cracked. Dean had broken his spirit, maybe even on purpose. John sat down on a bench outside the sliding doors of the entrance and considered that.
His phone rang.
"Hello, this is Dr. Agrawal in Emergency Services."
"Yeah?" John stood up, looked behind him.
"I'm trying to reach John Winchester."
"You're talking to him."
"Excellent." Dr. Agrawal breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'd like to admit your son, and I need your permission to treat him."
"You've what? I'm here. I'm already here at the hospital. Is it his hand? Is there something wrong with his hand."
"His hand?" she asked, bewildered. "No, sir. If you'll join me on the fifth floor, I'd be glad to speak to you."
John looked up. This hospital had three floors, maybe four if you counted the basement, the morgue. He stepped out into the driveway in front of the doors and tried again. Three floors. He didn't get it. A cab driver honked at him. He was in the way.
"Sir?"
"What hospital are you at?"
"Tampa General, sir."
John was already climbing in the cab.
"Sir? Are you there?"
"Talk to me," he barked. "Tell me everything."
][
John could not get on a plane. There were too many travelers trying to escape the frozen tundra hell that was Alaska in winter. There was bad weather in Salt Lake City. There was bad weather at O'Hare. There wasn't an empty seat to be found. John maybe wished he were dead. Or in Tampa. Maybe even at the same time. John dialed a number in South Dakota.
"This is Singer."
"Bobby."
"John."
"Sammy's in trouble."
"Shit." He could hear Bobby standing up, silencing the dogs in the kitchen. "What kind of trouble?"
"He's in the hospital, in Tampa."
"That's a twenty-four hour drive from here. Where the hell are you?"
"Anchorage."
"The Anchorage that's in Alaska?"
"Bobby, I try not to ask you for too much. I swear to God, I do. But I can't get a flight. Right now I need you to shut up, hang up, and drive to Florida."
"We'll be there as soon as we can." And then he hung up.
We?
"Hello. I'm checking in for the 12:20 through Seattle."
John turned. That was thirty minutes from now. The passenger was a middle-aged guy, balding, thick in the waist. He had bad hair and a briefcase. And his flight was thirty minutes from now. John jumped onto the baggage scale, the one next to the counter, and leaned over between the guy and the check-in man.
"Look. You don't know me. And I'm sorry about this, but I need your ticket more than you do." Behind him, the airline employee was protesting. "You got kids?" The guy nodded. "Good. That's good. My youngest is about to go into surgery for a hot appendix, whatever the hell that means. Right now he has a fever of one-oh-five, and doctor at Tampa General says he's hallucinating about his brother, who ran away from home two months ago. This isn't a scam. I'm not lying. Look me in the eyes, mister. Look me in the eyes. I need your ticket more than you do."
][
"Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a complimentary cocktail?"
They were trying to ply him with booze. That was never a good sign. John wasn't a nervous flier, but he'd spent the last two hours clutching his barf bag like a rosary. He didn't make trouble, just stared straight ahead at the notice telling him what to do with his tray at what times. John shook his head. Save it for some other guy, the kind that doesn't lose his kids.
][
He found Bobby waiting for him outside. John hadn't really slept in a couple days, or showered, or eaten. And he did not have time for a lecture from Bobby fucking Singer. So it was a damn good thing that Bobby just nodded at him.
"He's just fine, John. Upstairs. Room two-oh-one. Take it easy on him."
John thought about taking the stairs. They might be faster, but he might buy the farm on the way up, and that was unacceptable at this point. So he waited for elevator. He caught his reflection in the steel panels on the inside. It wasn't pretty. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. He walked down the hall because running always tipped off the nurses, especially the night ones. Those broads did not screw around.
His shadow fell in the doorway of room two-oh-one, and then his heart honest to God stopped beating. Dean was there, in the bed next to his brother. His eyes snapped open. He looked... If John was gonna be honest with himself, and why the hell not, he had nothing else to lose, his son looked a little mean. He'd lost weight. His clothes were loose, and the bones of his face were shadowed. His hair was cut real short. He had a five o'clock shadow that John had never seen before. He looked weathered and wiry and a little strung-out on adrenaline. John didn't like it.
Dean climbed out of bed, careful with the hand in the cast, cradling it against his chest. He looked ready to run. John took a step forward, but he couldn't even open his mouth. Don't do it. Don't do it. Stay. You gotta stay. Then Dean relaxed a little, cringed, and raised his bad arm so he could cough into his elbow. It didn't sound good.
"You sick?"
"No."
"What happened to your hand?"
"It's broken. I fell off Jefferson's roof."
That tore it. John put a hand over his face. Fresh cut grass, a straight razor, kitchen cabinets. He looked up at the ceiling. A white-lipped kiss, a shower, the little bunny.
He crossed the room, and he grabbed Dean. It was a rough embrace, and maybe a little crushing, but John could give a shit. His son smelled like diesel and stale sweat and fever. There has to be another way, besides the radiator. There has to be another way. John let go. Dean was a little unsteady, but he stayed on his feet. John looked him over, trying to step back, trying to see what had happened. Like he could read it on his face. Dean sneezed into his elbow. Sounded like a nasty cold.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"You can’t-you can’t do this again. I thought, I don’t know what I thought, but I-you can’t do this again. You’re my son and if you leave like this again, I’m not gonna make it. I swear to God, Dean. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do."
And he'd be damned if that wasn't the truth. John was ready to accept terms. Dean looked ready to give them. It was virgin territory for them. They both saw it, both knew it, felt it. John waited.
"Don't ever bet against me again."
"You have my word."
No spoilers in the comments, please!
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Companion piece to Rumspringa. Beta'd by pdragon76, whose scrutiny improves everything.
Summary: And I know, I know you are changed out. And I hope, I hope you're arranged out. But I'm still asleep, and you woke me up again. And I'm still asleep, but you woke me up to leave. -Sufjan Stevens
MEIDUNG
"Where did Dean go?"
Sammy was twelve and ever since his birthday all his questions were directed at John. Why do we live in apartments and not houses? How come we get our clothes at the Goodwill and not Old Navy? Why can't I have a backpack from a real store and not the Surplus? The answer was either 'because I said so' or 'go ask your brother', depending.
"What do you mean?" John fumbled around the kitchen, trying to figure out why the coffee wasn't already made.
"I mean I think he left last night."
"What?" He opened the can. Dammit. Enough for half a cup of good coffee or two cups of piss-weak coffee. Just the kind of decision a man shouldn't have to make before drinking his coffee. Vicious cycle.
"I said I think he left last night. Didn't find a note or anything."
John's mouth soured. He set down the Folger's and walked to the window, the one that looked over the parking lot. The Impala was still there. So was the truck. He turned around. The Chevy's keys were sitting next to Sammy's bowl of Lucky Charms. Fuck.
"Dad? Hello?"
"What?"
"Where did Dean go?"
To the zoo.
"He went to help Jefferson re-roof his house."
"Huh." Sam stopped eating, started pushing the marshmallows around the surface of the milk. "Why? How come he didn't say goodbye?"
"I don't know. You can ask him when he gets back."
"How come he didn't leave a note?"
"I'm not a fucking psychic, Sammy." John pulled his coat off the back of a kitchen chair, pulled the truck keys out of his pocket. "We're out of coffee."
Dean would be home in a few days, maybe a week at the outside. John would put money on it.
][
"Winchester?"
"Yeah. Look, Dean's got a bit of a wild hair. Took off on his own a couple days ago."
"Damn."
"Mind keeping an eye out for him? You know. In case he checks in."
"Of course."
"And...I had to tell Sammy something. He thinks Dean's re-roofing your place in Pennsylvania."
"Come again?"
"I had to tell Sammy something. Just not the truth."
"I got it. I won't blow your cover. You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"No reason."
][
Day five, and John had killed what was left of the hard liquor. He'd fucked this up but good, he just wasn't sure when. He couldn't even remember what he said, or what Dean said, or what it had even been about. The car, maybe?
He and Mary used to have fights like this. He'd gotten better, he had. But sometimes, they used to have fights like this. Mary always warned him when he'd crossed the line. She'd go for a walk, or take Dean to the grocery store, or sometimes send John out back to mow the lawn. Most of their kitchen was remodeled during a rough patch they'd had in '82. He couldn't remember what it was about, he never did. But Mary took Dean to the playground, and when they got back, John was scraping that ugly fucking floral wallpaper off with a straight razor.
"Daddy?"
"Come on, kid," Mary had said. "We're going to the zoo."
"Daddy coming?" Dean asked, and she scooped him up and carried him out the back door.
"Daddy's gone to the zoo already."
She hadn't thought he heard, but he had. They came home late, both drowsy and sun-kissed. John had just finished tearing out the cabinets. He was covered in plaster and sweat, and the kitchen looked like a Claymore had gone off.
"You done here?" she'd asked.
John nodded.
"Good," she smiled. "Dean has a new favorite animal."
"Baboons!"
"The red-assed kind?"
"John."
"Yeah! The ones with the red--"
"Dean, head upstairs and put your PJ's on. Daddy will come up in a minute and read you a story."
"'Kay."
And then, of all things, she smiled at him. He spent the day breaking things in their kitchen, for reasons he didn't understand and never would, unable to speak a civil word or even look her in the eye. And she smiled at him. She ruffled his hair, releasing a small cloud of plaster, and smiled.
"It was just a dream, baby. You're not over there anymore." She kissed him, and when she pulled away, her lips were white. "Now run go take a shower. Dean wants to hear the little bunny story before he falls asleep."
Mary had always warned him when he'd crossed the line.
][
It was two weeks before Dean showed up on the grid. It was the longest stretch John had been home in a long time, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a little boring. He woke up, got Sammy on the school bus, punched in at the warehouse, came home, made Sam dinner, and started over again. And Sam, Sam was eerily cool about the whole thing. After the first few days, the Why's and the How Come's stopped. The apartment was quiet all the time. John went to work and Sam went to school. John did research and Sam did homework. John drank beer and Sam ate cereal. Jesus Christ, did Sam eat cereal.
A couple times, John almost said something about it. The kid was not exactly svelte, and he put away Lucky Charms like it was his job. John tried bringing home the cheap kind, the off-brand that came in a huge plastic bag. Sammy looked at him like he'd backed over the family dog. The next day, the real deal was back in the cabinet. Sammy would eventually get some height on him, lose the baby fat. John was tall. Dean was tall. Sam would get tall. He was sure of it.
The longer Dean was gone, the quieter it got. By the end of the second week, conversation in the apartment consisted mostly of gestures and the occasional yes or no. And John was ready to admit that he was worried. Dean was going to be okay, of course he was going to be okay. Dean had what it took to survive, and John had made sure he knew it. Dean was smart, he was resourceful, and he was okay. John just wished somebody would put eyes on him and see it.
So when the phone rang on the day before Halloween, John jumped out of his chair. Sammy was in the boys' room, reading, but John had no illusions about the fact that he was probably being followed with the scrutiny of a practiced spy. He needed to be careful.
"Hello?"
"He just left."
"Jim, good to talk to you. How's Minnesota?" It was asinine, and John knew it.
"Sam there?"
"You bet."
"Send him out for milk or something. We need to talk."
"Sammy?"
"Yeah?" Sam's shaggy head appeared at once.
"I need you to run down to the store and pick up some more milk." John picked through his wallet and grabbed a couple bills, didn't even check what they were.
"You just bought a gallon yesterday."
"I mean bread. For PB&J's."
"We have enough to--"
"Sam, just go get whatever we need. Now."
His eyes narrowed, but he took the money and left. Slammed the door on his way out.
"He gone?" Jim asked.
"Yeah. You saw Dean?"
"Yes, you dumb son of a bitch, I did."
"Is he--"
"He's fine, John. He is A-O-K. One hundred percent above board. Squared away."
John sagged against the wall. The sarcasm wasn't lost on him, but Jim wouldn't lie. Probably couldn't.
"Feel better?" Jim apparently took his silence as assent. "Then you listen to me. I don't know what you said, and I don't know what you did, but you have really shot this one all to hell."
"Yeah."
"Yeah? Yeah? That's what you have to say to me?" Jim sounded pissed, like John hadn't heard in more than 16 years.
"Look," John cleared his throat. "He'll be home by tomorrow on the bus, right? I'll straighten it out with him then, I swear. I'll make it right."
"Home." There was a sound on the other end, like Jim was dumping flatware into his sink. "He's not going home, John. He's picked up a road bike, and he thinks you're not looking for him, you sorry shitbird. He's not going home."
][
"You can go out, if you want," Sammy said, swinging his legs at the kitchen table. John dropped the dish he was washing, let it plunge to the bottom of the sink. His gut told him to stay, but his brain was already halfway to the bar.
"I'm good," he lied.
"I know what day it is, Dad. I can count to six."
John turned around and started washing again.
][
"You're sure."
"Sorry. No sign of him."
"Not even--"
"Did I stutter? No sign of him."
"Right. Okay."
"Sorry, John. Your kid's good. He's real good."
][
"How long does it take to re-roof a house?"
"A while." John focused on the burger in front of him. It was payday, and they were at Sammy's favorite place for dinner. It was the least John could do, really. Sammy was starting to get to him. And not like usual, by whining and wheedling. This was worse, because Sammy didn't even know he was doing it. That morning, Sam hadn't woken up on his own, like usual. John put on the coffee and then went into the boys' room. Sammy was sleeping on his brother's mattress. Sammy had gotten the real bed when they'd moved in, of course, because Dean had volunteered to take the mattress on the floor. No questions asked, Winchester SOP. And now Sammy was sleeping in his brother's bed.
John was thinking about picking a fight with him, just to see if he could. Not here, though. No need to make a scene. He cleared his throat, and tried to enjoy his burger. It was a really good one, too. Cooked right, buttered bun, sharp cheddar. And John was having trouble enjoying it. So was Sam, apparently. He was picking at his congealing cheese fries with all the enthusiasm of a man in front of a firing squad.
"Something wrong with your food?"
"Nuh-uh."
"I thought you liked this place."
"No, Dad, I don't!" It was the loudest thing he'd said in weeks. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out the window.
"Yeah, you do. This is your favorite place."
"It's Dean's favorite place. It's Dean's."
"Shit, Sam. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand why he hasn't called."
"I told you. Jefferson's place is out in the sticks. No phone, no running water. Just...think about how smelly he is right now, no shower for almost a month. You probably wouldn't want to talk to him, even if you could."
"Couldn't smell him over the phone."
"Fair point." John set his burger down. "But he'll be back soon."
"Do you even miss him at all?" It was an accusation, really, and not a question at all.
"No, I don't," John snapped. "You know why? Because you shouldn't miss people when you know they're coming back. Your brother's coming back, so no, I don't miss him. And neither should you."
Sammy bit his lips and studied his fries. John asked for the check.
][
Sam was at school when Caleb called. John had the day off, courtesy of his dumb-as-shit boss, who hadn't figured out that yesterday's forklift accident was John's fault, and not the company's. Turns out, when you only slept two hours a night, your reaction time started to go. So John had been half a second too slow, and he'd gotten checked by the guy driving the heavy machinery. Nothing serious, just a little banged up. John hadn't breathed a word about workman's comp, but they'd given him a paid day off anyway. Nothing wrong with his reflexes now, though, scrambling to get the phone.
"He was here," Caleb announced.
"What do you mean 'was here'?" John yelled into the phone, not even attempting to preface his anger.
"I mean he was here, and then he left."
"I told you to keep him there, goddammit. I told you to keep him there."
"He's sixteen, John. What did you want me to do? Handcuff him to the radiator?"
"At least he'd still fucking be there, Caleb. Where is he going now?"
"Didn't ask."
"Well, thank you. You've been a real big help."
"He'd only have lied to me anyway, John, and you know it."
"I guess we'll never know."
"You gonna ask me how he looked?" Caleb said coolly.
John balled his fist and put it against his forehead. "You gonna make me ask?"
"Hungry, mostly."
"Did..." He almost choked. "Did you give him something to eat?"
"Jesus Christ, John." Caleb sighed. "Of course I fed him. Gave him a gun, too."
"What happened to his Beretta?"
"Ditched it in Utah. Said they picked him up for vagrancy."
Vagrancy. It hit him hard. Vagrancy. My son is homeless.
"You raised him tough," Caleb said. "You raised him tough, and he's making it. He'll come home when he's good and ready."
"He needs to come home now."
"You raised him tough."
After they hung up, John went into his room and pulled out a map from under the bed, something they picked up at a motel or a rest stop along the way He only took it out at night, when Sam was sleeping. His boy didn't need to see it. John brought it out and put it on the kitchen table: the forty-eight contiguous states laid out before him.
He hadn't hunted once since Dean left, but he was working a new job: tracking Dean. John was good at reading a trail, he was more than good. But Dean was good, too. Apparently he was as good at disappearing as John was at tracking. I wonder if he knows he's doing it. By inches, he's doing it.
John pulled a pencil from behind his ear and drew an 'x' on Lincoln, Nebraska. There weren't many marks on the map. Oklahoma, where someone had reported a Triumph stolen around the time Dean might have been there. Missouri, where a man matching Dean's description broke a guy's orbital bone in a bar. He made a note to start calling precincts in Utah tomorrow, see if he couldn't find anything more specific. He couldn't leave Sammy for long enough to pick up a trail, and he couldn't put out a missing person's report without putting them all at risk. John wasn't doing a very good job, and he didn't have much to go on.
He just didn't know what else to do.
][
"It's me."
"No joy, John."
"No joy."
][
"Are you okay?"
"Of course. Why?"
Sam looked at him, a little hesitant. "You just put the milk back in the cabinet and the cereal back in the fridge."
"Oh." John scratched his beard. He'd stopped shaving in October, and apparently he was going grey.
"And you haven't hunted in, like, a month and a half. Haven't even left town. When you're not working, you stay here and do...Dean stuff. And I'm not even sure you sleep anymore. What's going on?"
Well, son. I'm a failure as both a father and a hunter. And I'd rather be drinking right now than having this conversation, but I have to go to work because you need to eat and we can't use any of the cards because we can't leave because what if your brother decides to come back and we're not here to come back to.
"Did something happen to Dean?"
"What? No. Of course not. I talked to Jefferson just the other night. He's fine."
"You talked to Jefferson? When? Was Dean there? Why didn't you tell me?"
Rookie mistake. "I talked to him last week. I guess Dean wasn't there."
"So why didn't you tell me?"
"Because, Sam, you are not my mother. Okay? Now go get your shit together, or you're gonna miss the bus."
][
"Hello?"
"Mr. Meeker? This is Shirley from American Express."
"Did someone use my card?"
"Someone did use one of the cards, sir, yes."
"Where?"
"It was charged yesterday by the Emergency Services Department at Alaska Regional Hospital."
"Where?"
"Anchorage, sir."
"Son of a bitch. He wasn't even on the goddamn map."
"Sir?"
"Never mind."
John slammed down the phone and went looking for his duffle bag. It was Thursday. That was good. Sammy could take care of himself for the weekend. John would call him in sick for tomorrow. How long till he came home? Two hours. John's palms itched. Maybe he could just leave him a note.
Don't be a fucking moron, Winchester.
He did a load of clothes, called United for tickets, tidied up the kitchen, made sure there were enough Lucky Charms to last, and packed his bag. He folded up his tracking map and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Tapped it there. Sam was a little late, dragging his feet.
"You're leaving?" He sounded relieved.
"Just for the weekend. I'll be back Sunday night."
"Okay." Sam's grin was a little lopsided. "I'll be fine. Go kill something evil already."
][
Alaska was fucking freezing. John had been all over the world with the Corps, and all over the States with his boys. He thought he knew cold. He tried not to imagine what it would be like on a motorcycle on the freeway.
"Hi. My name is Leroy Meeker, and I'm looking for my son. He was here, day before yesterday."
"I'm sorry, sir." The admitting nurse was tapping away at her computer, wouldn't meet his eyes. "But federal privacy regulations bar me from--"
John reached out, grabbed her hand. He tried to dial down his smile from predatory to something else.
"He's sixteen, lady, and I'm his father. He's a minor. You treated him without my consent. So pull up his chart before I have to go over your head."
Ten minutes later, he was talking to the doctor who'd set Dean's hand.
"Oh, it was broken alright," he said, breezing through the file. "He said someone had dropped the hood of a tractor trailer on it. He walked around like that for a week or so. I had to give him something for the swelling and the pain before I could even really examine it."
John focused on keeping his hands in his pockets. "And then what."
"And then...sir, we were unaware of your son's actual age."
"And then what."
"I set his hand and gave him a scrip. And then I released him."
John was at a loss. There was no more paper trail left to follow. He left the hospital with a handshake from the orthopedist, a copy of Dean's chart, and a profound sense of inadequacy. Dean had stolen a bike, John hadn't anticipated that. Dean was mobile and flexible, also unforeseen. Dean was earning enough cash to get by, something John didn't expect. It was a clusterfuck, and it was a clusterfuck of his own making.
It was time to start begging. He wasn't above it anymore. It was time to make the phone calls, to tell people that he, John Winchester, had officially cracked. Dean had broken his spirit, maybe even on purpose. John sat down on a bench outside the sliding doors of the entrance and considered that.
His phone rang.
"Hello, this is Dr. Agrawal in Emergency Services."
"Yeah?" John stood up, looked behind him.
"I'm trying to reach John Winchester."
"You're talking to him."
"Excellent." Dr. Agrawal breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'd like to admit your son, and I need your permission to treat him."
"You've what? I'm here. I'm already here at the hospital. Is it his hand? Is there something wrong with his hand."
"His hand?" she asked, bewildered. "No, sir. If you'll join me on the fifth floor, I'd be glad to speak to you."
John looked up. This hospital had three floors, maybe four if you counted the basement, the morgue. He stepped out into the driveway in front of the doors and tried again. Three floors. He didn't get it. A cab driver honked at him. He was in the way.
"Sir?"
"What hospital are you at?"
"Tampa General, sir."
John was already climbing in the cab.
"Sir? Are you there?"
"Talk to me," he barked. "Tell me everything."
][
John could not get on a plane. There were too many travelers trying to escape the frozen tundra hell that was Alaska in winter. There was bad weather in Salt Lake City. There was bad weather at O'Hare. There wasn't an empty seat to be found. John maybe wished he were dead. Or in Tampa. Maybe even at the same time. John dialed a number in South Dakota.
"This is Singer."
"Bobby."
"John."
"Sammy's in trouble."
"Shit." He could hear Bobby standing up, silencing the dogs in the kitchen. "What kind of trouble?"
"He's in the hospital, in Tampa."
"That's a twenty-four hour drive from here. Where the hell are you?"
"Anchorage."
"The Anchorage that's in Alaska?"
"Bobby, I try not to ask you for too much. I swear to God, I do. But I can't get a flight. Right now I need you to shut up, hang up, and drive to Florida."
"We'll be there as soon as we can." And then he hung up.
We?
"Hello. I'm checking in for the 12:20 through Seattle."
John turned. That was thirty minutes from now. The passenger was a middle-aged guy, balding, thick in the waist. He had bad hair and a briefcase. And his flight was thirty minutes from now. John jumped onto the baggage scale, the one next to the counter, and leaned over between the guy and the check-in man.
"Look. You don't know me. And I'm sorry about this, but I need your ticket more than you do." Behind him, the airline employee was protesting. "You got kids?" The guy nodded. "Good. That's good. My youngest is about to go into surgery for a hot appendix, whatever the hell that means. Right now he has a fever of one-oh-five, and doctor at Tampa General says he's hallucinating about his brother, who ran away from home two months ago. This isn't a scam. I'm not lying. Look me in the eyes, mister. Look me in the eyes. I need your ticket more than you do."
][
"Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a complimentary cocktail?"
They were trying to ply him with booze. That was never a good sign. John wasn't a nervous flier, but he'd spent the last two hours clutching his barf bag like a rosary. He didn't make trouble, just stared straight ahead at the notice telling him what to do with his tray at what times. John shook his head. Save it for some other guy, the kind that doesn't lose his kids.
][
He found Bobby waiting for him outside. John hadn't really slept in a couple days, or showered, or eaten. And he did not have time for a lecture from Bobby fucking Singer. So it was a damn good thing that Bobby just nodded at him.
"He's just fine, John. Upstairs. Room two-oh-one. Take it easy on him."
John thought about taking the stairs. They might be faster, but he might buy the farm on the way up, and that was unacceptable at this point. So he waited for elevator. He caught his reflection in the steel panels on the inside. It wasn't pretty. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. He walked down the hall because running always tipped off the nurses, especially the night ones. Those broads did not screw around.
His shadow fell in the doorway of room two-oh-one, and then his heart honest to God stopped beating. Dean was there, in the bed next to his brother. His eyes snapped open. He looked... If John was gonna be honest with himself, and why the hell not, he had nothing else to lose, his son looked a little mean. He'd lost weight. His clothes were loose, and the bones of his face were shadowed. His hair was cut real short. He had a five o'clock shadow that John had never seen before. He looked weathered and wiry and a little strung-out on adrenaline. John didn't like it.
Dean climbed out of bed, careful with the hand in the cast, cradling it against his chest. He looked ready to run. John took a step forward, but he couldn't even open his mouth. Don't do it. Don't do it. Stay. You gotta stay. Then Dean relaxed a little, cringed, and raised his bad arm so he could cough into his elbow. It didn't sound good.
"You sick?"
"No."
"What happened to your hand?"
"It's broken. I fell off Jefferson's roof."
That tore it. John put a hand over his face. Fresh cut grass, a straight razor, kitchen cabinets. He looked up at the ceiling. A white-lipped kiss, a shower, the little bunny.
He crossed the room, and he grabbed Dean. It was a rough embrace, and maybe a little crushing, but John could give a shit. His son smelled like diesel and stale sweat and fever. There has to be another way, besides the radiator. There has to be another way. John let go. Dean was a little unsteady, but he stayed on his feet. John looked him over, trying to step back, trying to see what had happened. Like he could read it on his face. Dean sneezed into his elbow. Sounded like a nasty cold.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"You can’t-you can’t do this again. I thought, I don’t know what I thought, but I-you can’t do this again. You’re my son and if you leave like this again, I’m not gonna make it. I swear to God, Dean. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do."
And he'd be damned if that wasn't the truth. John was ready to accept terms. Dean looked ready to give them. It was virgin territory for them. They both saw it, both knew it, felt it. John waited.
"Don't ever bet against me again."
"You have my word."
No spoilers in the comments, please!