4: character: enters Callie
4: character: Enters Callie
Sam took care of all the procedures for leaving the port, communicating with control with the usual efficiency. He was still not talking to Dean unless necessary, however, and the ship was unusually quiet. All the whirring and buzzing and clicking of normal operational status was the only background to Dean's heavy steps in the short side-alleyway to his cabin. If one could call that cubicle a cabin, that is, but it was functional, and that was all Dean needed, really. Since he couldn't have what he really wanted, that is.
Meeting Krycek always brought on a terse and snappy Sammy. Sam didn’t like Krycek, has never liked him - not that the man made it easy to like him, mind you, he certainly didn't go to any length to give anyone reasons to feel comfortable in his company. Dean took him in his stride, so to speak. A necessary evil. With some definite perks. Sam has always growled at him, and Dean wondered, not for the first or last time, how come John had never said anything to Sam about it. Krycek was, after all, damn useful.
"Sam?"
The ship kept her silence. Dean got rid of his boots and socks, shed his sweaty shirt and the rest of his ship-clothes here and there, scattered on the floor casually, knowing that it would irritate Sam and that scurrying servo-bots would arrive in a few minutes time to pick them up. He had his last water shower before they would leave the system - water was precious, after all, and ultrasounds showers were all that was allowed on board after leaving the docks. Barefoot on the cold metal of the ship's floor, Dean padded back to his small cabin and stretched on the bunk bed.
"Sammy. It's been two weeks."
"I can count."
Dean closed his eyes, a small curl to his lips. He shifted down and pulled the blanket over his legs. This time, his meeting with Krycek hadn't left visible bruises - and yes, when that happened, usually Krycek had his fair share of bruises, too - and it was clear this made Sam more inclined to break his reproaching radio-silence.
"Send another message to dad. Tell him to set a meeting point, and please, not to make me wait days for him to appear. Set course for Ambrosia, what d'you say? Time we check on the kids."
The ship's communication system crackled for a few seconds. "All done. Callie will wait for us."
Dean turned on his side, ready to fall asleep. "D'you mind…"
The lights in the cabin dimmed gradually. Dean's breathing got regular, and deep, but he wasn't asleep yet, and he knew Sam knew it as well.
"Hey, Dean."
"Uh.."
There was a pause. "I think I remembered mom, earlier. There must have been a connection in my memory banks. It was…unexpected."
Dean inhaled briefly. Even with the automated tones of a digital personality, Sam always managed to capture that very same tone he used to have when he was five years old, all hair and big puppy eyes. "Don't worry, hotshot. It's high time we paid a visit to Jess. She'll set you up in no time."
Sam was quiet for a while, but Dean could swear he could hear him thinking.
"It's just. You're my brother, and I remember you. And Dad. And it's not a problem, but, when it's mom…I feel weird. As if I forgot to lock the panels or to adjust the conveyor settings for take off, or to substitute the gyroscopes' sensors, which you know just can't happen, because I don't forget this stuff. I can't."
"It's just an electronic mishap, or some shit like that. We passed through a couple of gamma-storms, in the past few months. That's it. Jess will set you up, brand new. She's good, you know that." Dean rubbed his toes against the rough material of the blanket, trying to warm them up. Their mom…Sam could not possibly have memories of their mother. He never knew her. At least, Sam, his brother Sam, the one that was floating in a protected vat system away from where they were, he never knew their mother. The digital personality installed in the ship's computer, well…there were ways for it to gain knowledge, acquire memories from other sources. Viruses. Hackers. Damn.
"I'm sorry." Sam's whisper barely broke the silence.
"It's okay, little brother. It's okay."
It took a while before Dean could sleep. He did remember his mother. Well enough to miss her. He remembered her well enough to know that he hated his brother, at first, because his birth had brought on his mother's death. But that was long ago. That was before John had put the infant in Dean's arms, for the first time. That was before Dean had felt that fierce sense of possessiveness and protection that had never left him when his brother was concerned.
A visit to Callie was a good idea. It would cheer both of them up, and Callie would know where Jess was, how to track her down. Hopefully, Callie had news of Bobby and Ellen and Jo, too. And if miracles still happened, and John Winchester was alive and well, if someone had news of him, it would be Callie.
On that hopeful note, Dean fell asleep.
Surreptitiously, Sam let the ship's sensors raise the cabin's temperature, so Dean would not be cold.
~~
Dean had been the one who saw Callie for the very first time. He was following John in the labyrinth-like stalls of the daily market on Proxima Delta, very carefully keeping the back of his father's dark and grimy coat in his sight - too grown up to be wanting to hold John's hand, but not old enough to feel completely safe if separated by his father. He had a knife, and Holy Water, of course, and knew a few basic rituals and formulas to protect himself in emergencies, but John was still tall and larger than life, for Dean, and the ultimate bastion of defence.
Sam, given his short legs and the other - highly dubious at least at first sight - patrons of the place, was safely and solidly settled atop John's shoulders, his chubby fingers curled around the collar of John's coat for safe holding, his heels beating a staccato rhythm on John's chest with the excitement of the day, the fresh air and the first rays of sun after a few weeks of space travelling.
There were two suns, in fact, but the second one was still very low on the horizon, just peeking out from the other side of the event horizon. The spices and herbs of the market were making Dean's nose tingle, and he was looking around curiously, an eye always on John's back. There were loud calls from every corner, seeds and roots of every possible shape and colors in wicker baskets of all sizes, and jute sacks one near the other in untidy rows.
John had been very clear as to the rules for this outing. Sam was to be in physical contact with either John himself or Dean at all times. Dean was free to look around and spared the ignominy of holding his father's hand, but more than three steps away from John at any given time and their trip would be cut short.
"There'll be lots of people, Dean. This is a big market, a really big one. Everything gets sold here, if you look long enough and hard enough, but not everything that gets sold should be. You understand me?"
John had put his hand on Dean's shoulder, looking down at him in his man-to-man-chat look he had more and more often lately. Dean felt as tall as his father. "I have my Holy Water, sir." He had shown John the small flask at his waist.
"Good boy." There had been only a small hesitation, then John had passed on one of the Sacred Knives to Dean, the smallest one, the one whose hilt fitted Dean's still small hand perfectly. "Be careful with it, okay?"
Dean hadn't been able to hide the gleam of joy in his eyes, of course. It was one thing to practice knife throwing in isolated places, or train with John in hand-to-hand combat, and another to be allowed to carry a weapon on himself.
He'd been trotting after John for an hour or so, by now. The rucksack in John's hand was slowly filling up, but each deal involved long and animated discussions. Dean was looking around them as John was once again silently scrutinizing the contents of yet another stall: small translucent beads of rare dumortierite scattered in between shards of hessonite, well polished Cat's Eyes and agates and small bowls of Moonstone Dust. John was letting his fingertips brush the surface of the various stones, but Dean, who knew his Dad very well, already knew that what John really wanted was the unusually large beryllium stone with the red and purple tones casually placed in a corner of the table.
Sam was staring intently at the top of the stall nearby, where a row of small cages was precariously hooked to a long wooden pole. The cages contained all sorts of tiny Fwills, multicoloured little birds who were said to be demon-sensitive and prone to turn the colour of their plumage towards a dark blue, almost black, from their natural tones of sand and ochre and then die if a demon were in their close proximity. Dean turned around, interested in the other customers and the sellers. Many were furtive, but many more had a hard look to them.
And that's when Dean first saw her. She was maybe Sammy's age, year more or less, standing still a few steps away from them, but quite clearly looking at them, John and Sam, and Dean.
Dean had already been to so many planets he had sort of lost count, and he'd seen many different towns and villages and space ports, and even a couple of space stations. The vast majority of the inhabitants of the Clusters were making it from day to say, so someone poorly dressed wasn't exactly something Dean would really pay attention to. John made sure he and Sammy always were warm and clean, and that was a luxury many didn't have.
Still, the little girl with the mass of tangled dirty hair was only wearing what once must have been a white shirt… or was it a dress? Dean wasn't exactly versed in girls' clothes. Not yet anyway. No boots, no shawls - in Dean's experience and memories, many women wore shawls around their shoulders and hips, and they smelled good, too. The paths between the stalls weren't much more than dirty soil patted down by the boots of the customers and the wheels of the wagons and carts and the hooves of the beasts pulling them, splattered here and there by the occasional puddle of unspecified liquids. The little girl's feet were bare and seriously dirty.
"Dean, c'mon," John touched Dean's shoulder briefly. His eyes sparkled, and Dean knew that meant the deal had gone well.
Sammy bounced excitedly on John's shoulders. "Daddy! Look, panfrittee'! Can I have one, please? Please Daddy?"
They had had breakfast before leaving the ship, but it had been a few hours ago, and the sweets stalls also had a steaming cauldron with dark, thick grains slowly boiling in it. Dean watched as John's nostrils widened, catching the scent in the air. "Coffee..." the tone was indulgent, and Dean's stomach decided to growl his vote loud and clear. "Okay boys. One panfrittee' each, and, Sammy? Don't you go swallowing yours without chewing first so that Dean will give you half of his, you hear me?"
The three of them moved towards the short queue at the stalls and what with the appetizing smells of the fried sweets and having to juggle them in their hands so not to get burnt, Dean forgot about the little girl for a while.
Until he realized that she was still following them a few stalls later, Dean close to finish his panfrittee' with a few last huge bites.
"Dad?"
"Mm…?" John was checking out a selection of maps and loose printed pages, a rarity that always fascinated Sam, so the boy was still for once and perching forward over John's head to look as well.
Dean reached out and tugged on a corner of John's coat, keeping his eyes on the girl, once again still at a few paces away from them.
"What is it, boy?" John looked down at Dean, his hand hovering over the heavy leather-bound tome the vendor had pushed close to him. Dean nodded, so that John looked where his boy wanted him to look.
"She's been following us for a while," Dean's murmured, low enough that she wouldn't hear, but loud enough for his words to reach John's ear among the chaos and fracas of the market life around them, three-legged chickens and Chihuahua-sheep trotting amok in between everyone's legs and under the market's stalls.
John thought it over for a moment, taking in the conditions of the girl. "She must be some vendor's daughter. Just wandering around. Don't worry."
Dean nodded, and they moved on, from stall to stall, avoiding the freshly butchered entrails dangling from silver hooks under a black tent and instead opting for the charms row of the booths. However, Dean realized that his dad was keeping an eye on their tail. That is, the little girl persistently trotting after them. Stopping every time they stopped. And picking up something. And putting it, whatever the something was, in her mouth.
John stopped abruptly, and Dean almost crashed against his father's backside.
"Sammy?"
"Yes, daddy?"
Dean looked up at his brother, instantly suspicious of the puppy-sweet note in his little brother's voice.
John's tone wasn't angry, but stern. "Have you been dropping bits of your panfrittee', boy?" He bent on his knees and carefully deposited Sam on his feet, in front of him. It was hard for John not to shake his head at his youngest vehement and clearly false denial. "Sammy?"
"...she looks hungry, daddy."
John sighed, passed his hand on his stubbly chin, considering. "Fine. Let's take care of this, then." Turning around, he faced the girl, who had stopped right around a corner stall and was peeking at them from that relatively safe place.
John wiggled her finger at her, indicating that she should move closer, trying to look harmless. Which, given the guns at his waist, the knife in his boot, the Devil's Trap charm hanging from his neck and the tips of a dark tattoo poking out of his right sleeve and the right side of his neck…well, he tried a smile, hoping it didn't come out more as a hungry wolf-like grin.
The little girl seemed to be thinking about it for a moment, but then trotted obediently until he was right in front of the Winchesters. And then she looked up at John.
"You lost, little one?"
She didn't answer, only kept looking up. Sammy, one hand firmly gripped in John's much larger one, offered her the rest of his sweet. She took it with a little smile and started chewing it with little happy morsels.
"What's your name? Your parents around here?" John glanced around, hoping to see some frantic mother or father looking for a lost daughter. Nothing caught his eyes, though. All the selling and haggling was going on without a bother. "Hey. You." John had never lost the particular tone of voice: once a Space Corp, always a Space Corp.
The stall owner turned to look at him immediately.
"You know this girl? Know her parents?"
The man shook his head in denial, dismissing the enquiry right away.
"Great," John cursed softly. Dean hit him in the side of his thigh. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Stay close, okay?" Dean nodded, ready to follow the plan of action, because one was surely to come.
John offered his hand to the little girl. She gave him hers with another content little smile, and then settled to trot happily alongside him, three little steps for each of his longer ones, Sam similarly trotting on the other side of John, Dean acting as rearguard.
John traced their steps back, stopping every other stall to enquiry about the girl, his questions met mostly with indifference and quick downward glances that had John's temper rising steadily. Finally, the woman who was now serving small pieces of hard ginger-sugar called out at them.
"I heard you asking," she was talking fast, her accent heavy, vowels slipping one after the other. "About the girl." She looked around quickly. "If I were you, I'd be leaving her here, and fast." After checking around once again, the woman stepped aside and pointed at the very back of the market, behind the far away tents where the cattle was. "The slaves' wagons have been parked there for a few days. She must have slipped away from one of them. She's small enough."
Slavery was something that made John's blood boil, but here in the Clusters' outer system, it was common and everyone was mostly indifferent to it. Sometimes it was debts; sometimes it was punishment for petty crimes, other times it was walking in the wrong streets at the wrong time.
"I've been bringing them water," the woman added. She looked older than John, but out here everyone looked old pretty soon. "They might pay you if you bring her back."
The look John turned on her had the woman step back. Tightening his hold on the two little hands in his, John turned them around, standing still for a moment. Dean waited patiently at his side, while Sammy and the girl started exchanging funny faces and showing each other their tongues, each one trying to reach their nose with the tip of it.
John let out a deep sigh.
Dean wasn't tall enough to see the slaves' wagons in the distance, behind the market stalls and tents, but he'd seen other similar wagons before, in other small planets, other dirty markets like this one. He'd seen the metal bars, and the chains at ankles and wrists, and the empty eyes of the slaves. And he knew why John was always so strict with the rules when he took them along in one of these outings, why his father always made sure to wear his weapons in a way that was visible in these occasions, while in others he did the opposite. Dean was old enough to know that kids had a price on the slave markets, too.
"Dad," he tugged at John's elbows. John tilted his head, looked at him. "I don't need the new jacket," Dean went on, now that he had his father's attention. A new jacket for him was on their list of the items they were looking for, before John had been distracted by the more interesting amulets and various paraphernalia that made his life as a hunter a lot easier. Not buying the jacket meant extra money for more food. "She's Sammy's size…"
John swallowed and found the few clouds in the sky suddenly compelling. For a short while, Dean looked up at his father as he looked up at the sky.
"Okay," John nodded, smiling at Dean, eyes a little shiny. "We've got friends, right, Dean? We'll ask around and find her a decent place."
It took several years, in fact, before the Winchesters would find a place for Callie. It took her some time to say full words and sentences with sense, as if talking really wasn't something she was used to, but after a while with the Winchesters, when asked, she would answer that Callie was her name.
~~
Sam opened the Impala's portals with a soft, smooth swish sound of servo-hydraulics, letting Dean out to face the fierce morning winds of Ambrosia. The planet was quite isolated from the normal Merchant routes, far out on the borders of the Clusters. It still managed to be designated in the Merchants maps, however, and therefore was a sustainable if not thriving community, thanks to the furious winds that stormed its surface during most of its solar year. The semi-desertic continent didn't provide enough plant biomass to convert into energy, but the continuous wind speeds, never slower than 100/150 mph, allowed for a massive installation of wind turbines. A regular intake of engineers freshly out of classes would arrive every couple of years to keep the hundreds of thousands wind turbines in working condition, and just as regularly ships would dock in orbit for trade or to buy the energy, still cheaper and easier to store and distribute than the alternatives, especially on the outer Clusters planets.
Dean patted the sleek flank of the Impala, then jumped off on the ground. He knew the vid-sensors would follow his moves, so he waved for Sam before looking around, protecting his eyes from the fine dusty sand in the air with his hand. Callie was only a few steps away, by now, running towards Dean and jumping him just like when they were kids and the three of them would run for the length of the Impala's corridors, driving John insane.
"It was time you two passed this way, I was starting to think you've forgotten me!"
Dean twirled around, then put her down and kept her at a distance, scrutinizing her. "You haven't grown an inch."
Callie batted his hands away. "You go ahead, Old Betsy isn't very patient, I don't want her to take the cart who knows where." She pointed one of her fingers to the dark grey farm horse a little on the side, loosely tied to a dried tall bush of red berries which obviously were keeping the horse busy. Dean picked up the saddle bags he'd dropped in order to brace himself for the young woman's embrace and walked to the cart. Callie always spent a little time with Sam's digi'son, the two of them talking quietly on their own. Dean always thought that had Callie been around at the time, perhaps Sam wouldn't have fallen for the New Regime propaganda so blindlessly, maybe Callie would have been a more effective cushioning barrier than him between Sam's driven idealism and John's ruthless pragmatism.
And maybe Dean could still sprout wings…
Callie reached Dean and he helped her up on the cart. The old horse started moving with a little encouragement. The wind and the squeaking of the cart's wheels were way too loud for them to talk, so the brief journey to Callie's farm was silent. Once there, the kids stormed out of the barn and the main house, and Dean had to survive their affectionate tackling and distribute the small gifts he'd brought with him.
After a simple dinner, Callie reached him on the porch, drying her hands in the towel tied at her waist. Some of the kids were practicing shooting at empty bottles and cans.
"You've got a couple of new ones," Dean said, leaning against the porch railing.
"Bobby dropped them here a couple of months ago. They’re still adjusting. The twins are out hunting, it's the mosonis' annual migration time. We should get meat for a while."
Dean petted the dog nosing at his boots. "I'm not staying long, hope to see them."
"Oh, you will," Callie sat on the porch's steps, stretching her legs in front of her. "They’re so tall, now. As tall as you. Not a nightmare in a full year."
Dean nodded, quietly pleased at this news. "I brought salt. I'll make the rounds tomorrow, secure the perimeter." It was an unspoken rule, that every Hunter popping by Callie's farm, whether to drop a kid or just visit, would make sure the farm's land was adequately magically protected. Callie wasn't able to do it, due to her 'blank aura', as Dean recalled John once calling it. Nothing, ritual or charms, would work in her hands.
They hadn't clued in to it until she was in her teens, although Dean now knew that John had been making notes in his journal for years before actually coming out with it. John had been really worried, at first. Dean remembered several tests administrated as games or being passed as training routines. None of them revealed more than that, though. It was what it was, and it wasn't voluntary, just a lack of something in Callie. John had noted his suspicions in his journal, that she might be a half-breed of some kind, even though most of those had been all tracked down and exterminated generations ago.
They never talked much about it, not after that one time when John took her aside and had a quiet talk with her. They all knew better, and it soon became second nature to remember that Callie was useless at magic.
"I'll send a couple of the girls with you, they've been practicing. You can check on them."
Dean sat near Callie, stretching his longer legs in a similar fashion. "You got news about Dad?" She might have told him, even without him asking, but you could never be sure, with Callie. Sometimes her reasoning was completely hers.
Just like when she went to Dean, all those years ago, and out of the blue asked him to introduce her to someone he trusted so she could have sex. Just like that. How old were they? Callie must have been fifteen or sixteen, they didn't know exactly. "You're crazy, you know that?" he'd said at the time, shaking his head at the notion.
"I asked your father, but…"
"You asked Dad?" Dean could still hear his stunned voice, clearly, memories as fresh as yesterday's breakfast. "What did he say?"
"He just spluttered and turned all blue and purple and then walked away." Callie had shrugged, dismissed the failed quest, and insisted with Dean, because with that much moving they were doing all over the Clusters and the three of them, Sam, Dean and John, breathing on her neck, she simply didn't want to die a virgin, and that was how things were going to end. If someone didn't do something, that is.
Dean snickered at the memory. Callie elbowed him. "What?"
"First tell me if you heard from him, then I'll tell you."
"He's fine." It wasn't cold yet, and the winds have quietened down, as they always did for a short while before howling furiously at night time once again. Callie's scratched at her bare legs, curling her toes against the wood of the steps. "He deposited some money in my credit account a little while ago. Left a message. I know he's fine. Grumpy, but that's not news, right?"
The kids were counting the bottles and cans felled by their practice, claiming their marks. Dean observed them for a little while. "Grumpy, that's how they call it these days?"
Callie just smiled.
She had memories of her own, awakened by the look in Dean's eyes. Three days after Sam had stepped into the vat, three days after John had injected him with the drugs necessary to keep him stable and under control, three days after the longest and hardest demonic entrapment ritual Dean and John had ever performed, and the one they had both barely survived. Three days after seeing his little brother fluctuating in the vat, tubes in and out of his body - John vanished without a word - Dean got drunk out of his brain and went looking for trouble. That's when Dean went underground, and Callie went looking for him and brought him back here to the farm. Dean remembered more of those days than he admitted to, but they never talked about it. They didn't need to. They were brother and sister in ways that counted more. And John had known where to go to, once he wanted to check on Dean, once everything was somewhat bearable, once his hands had stopped shaking.
Dean threw a pebble in the air, then another. Dad was fine. The bastard wouldn't get in touch with him, of course, but he was fine. Dean could feel his shoulders literally getting lighter, the burden of worry lifted somewhat.
"Let's go check on the kids, then." He stretched up, patting his full belly. "Their stance could be better. Have they been practicing their spells?" He started walking towards the make-shift shooting range, Callie's soft steps just behind him as her voice updated him on the new arrivals, what their powers seem to be, how they were, how much scared and wounded and terrified.
Work to do, minds to ease. Dean was good at that, better than John, who was respected and obeyed promptly but also feared. Dean could see Sam in each one of those kids they were trying to save, and where that made John harsh and distant, it made Dean grasping at hope.
Sam took care of all the procedures for leaving the port, communicating with control with the usual efficiency. He was still not talking to Dean unless necessary, however, and the ship was unusually quiet. All the whirring and buzzing and clicking of normal operational status was the only background to Dean's heavy steps in the short side-alleyway to his cabin. If one could call that cubicle a cabin, that is, but it was functional, and that was all Dean needed, really. Since he couldn't have what he really wanted, that is.
Meeting Krycek always brought on a terse and snappy Sammy. Sam didn’t like Krycek, has never liked him - not that the man made it easy to like him, mind you, he certainly didn't go to any length to give anyone reasons to feel comfortable in his company. Dean took him in his stride, so to speak. A necessary evil. With some definite perks. Sam has always growled at him, and Dean wondered, not for the first or last time, how come John had never said anything to Sam about it. Krycek was, after all, damn useful.
"Sam?"
The ship kept her silence. Dean got rid of his boots and socks, shed his sweaty shirt and the rest of his ship-clothes here and there, scattered on the floor casually, knowing that it would irritate Sam and that scurrying servo-bots would arrive in a few minutes time to pick them up. He had his last water shower before they would leave the system - water was precious, after all, and ultrasounds showers were all that was allowed on board after leaving the docks. Barefoot on the cold metal of the ship's floor, Dean padded back to his small cabin and stretched on the bunk bed.
"Sammy. It's been two weeks."
"I can count."
Dean closed his eyes, a small curl to his lips. He shifted down and pulled the blanket over his legs. This time, his meeting with Krycek hadn't left visible bruises - and yes, when that happened, usually Krycek had his fair share of bruises, too - and it was clear this made Sam more inclined to break his reproaching radio-silence.
"Send another message to dad. Tell him to set a meeting point, and please, not to make me wait days for him to appear. Set course for Ambrosia, what d'you say? Time we check on the kids."
The ship's communication system crackled for a few seconds. "All done. Callie will wait for us."
Dean turned on his side, ready to fall asleep. "D'you mind…"
The lights in the cabin dimmed gradually. Dean's breathing got regular, and deep, but he wasn't asleep yet, and he knew Sam knew it as well.
"Hey, Dean."
"Uh.."
There was a pause. "I think I remembered mom, earlier. There must have been a connection in my memory banks. It was…unexpected."
Dean inhaled briefly. Even with the automated tones of a digital personality, Sam always managed to capture that very same tone he used to have when he was five years old, all hair and big puppy eyes. "Don't worry, hotshot. It's high time we paid a visit to Jess. She'll set you up in no time."
Sam was quiet for a while, but Dean could swear he could hear him thinking.
"It's just. You're my brother, and I remember you. And Dad. And it's not a problem, but, when it's mom…I feel weird. As if I forgot to lock the panels or to adjust the conveyor settings for take off, or to substitute the gyroscopes' sensors, which you know just can't happen, because I don't forget this stuff. I can't."
"It's just an electronic mishap, or some shit like that. We passed through a couple of gamma-storms, in the past few months. That's it. Jess will set you up, brand new. She's good, you know that." Dean rubbed his toes against the rough material of the blanket, trying to warm them up. Their mom…Sam could not possibly have memories of their mother. He never knew her. At least, Sam, his brother Sam, the one that was floating in a protected vat system away from where they were, he never knew their mother. The digital personality installed in the ship's computer, well…there were ways for it to gain knowledge, acquire memories from other sources. Viruses. Hackers. Damn.
"I'm sorry." Sam's whisper barely broke the silence.
"It's okay, little brother. It's okay."
It took a while before Dean could sleep. He did remember his mother. Well enough to miss her. He remembered her well enough to know that he hated his brother, at first, because his birth had brought on his mother's death. But that was long ago. That was before John had put the infant in Dean's arms, for the first time. That was before Dean had felt that fierce sense of possessiveness and protection that had never left him when his brother was concerned.
A visit to Callie was a good idea. It would cheer both of them up, and Callie would know where Jess was, how to track her down. Hopefully, Callie had news of Bobby and Ellen and Jo, too. And if miracles still happened, and John Winchester was alive and well, if someone had news of him, it would be Callie.
On that hopeful note, Dean fell asleep.
Surreptitiously, Sam let the ship's sensors raise the cabin's temperature, so Dean would not be cold.
~~
Dean had been the one who saw Callie for the very first time. He was following John in the labyrinth-like stalls of the daily market on Proxima Delta, very carefully keeping the back of his father's dark and grimy coat in his sight - too grown up to be wanting to hold John's hand, but not old enough to feel completely safe if separated by his father. He had a knife, and Holy Water, of course, and knew a few basic rituals and formulas to protect himself in emergencies, but John was still tall and larger than life, for Dean, and the ultimate bastion of defence.
Sam, given his short legs and the other - highly dubious at least at first sight - patrons of the place, was safely and solidly settled atop John's shoulders, his chubby fingers curled around the collar of John's coat for safe holding, his heels beating a staccato rhythm on John's chest with the excitement of the day, the fresh air and the first rays of sun after a few weeks of space travelling.
There were two suns, in fact, but the second one was still very low on the horizon, just peeking out from the other side of the event horizon. The spices and herbs of the market were making Dean's nose tingle, and he was looking around curiously, an eye always on John's back. There were loud calls from every corner, seeds and roots of every possible shape and colors in wicker baskets of all sizes, and jute sacks one near the other in untidy rows.
John had been very clear as to the rules for this outing. Sam was to be in physical contact with either John himself or Dean at all times. Dean was free to look around and spared the ignominy of holding his father's hand, but more than three steps away from John at any given time and their trip would be cut short.
"There'll be lots of people, Dean. This is a big market, a really big one. Everything gets sold here, if you look long enough and hard enough, but not everything that gets sold should be. You understand me?"
John had put his hand on Dean's shoulder, looking down at him in his man-to-man-chat look he had more and more often lately. Dean felt as tall as his father. "I have my Holy Water, sir." He had shown John the small flask at his waist.
"Good boy." There had been only a small hesitation, then John had passed on one of the Sacred Knives to Dean, the smallest one, the one whose hilt fitted Dean's still small hand perfectly. "Be careful with it, okay?"
Dean hadn't been able to hide the gleam of joy in his eyes, of course. It was one thing to practice knife throwing in isolated places, or train with John in hand-to-hand combat, and another to be allowed to carry a weapon on himself.
He'd been trotting after John for an hour or so, by now. The rucksack in John's hand was slowly filling up, but each deal involved long and animated discussions. Dean was looking around them as John was once again silently scrutinizing the contents of yet another stall: small translucent beads of rare dumortierite scattered in between shards of hessonite, well polished Cat's Eyes and agates and small bowls of Moonstone Dust. John was letting his fingertips brush the surface of the various stones, but Dean, who knew his Dad very well, already knew that what John really wanted was the unusually large beryllium stone with the red and purple tones casually placed in a corner of the table.
Sam was staring intently at the top of the stall nearby, where a row of small cages was precariously hooked to a long wooden pole. The cages contained all sorts of tiny Fwills, multicoloured little birds who were said to be demon-sensitive and prone to turn the colour of their plumage towards a dark blue, almost black, from their natural tones of sand and ochre and then die if a demon were in their close proximity. Dean turned around, interested in the other customers and the sellers. Many were furtive, but many more had a hard look to them.
And that's when Dean first saw her. She was maybe Sammy's age, year more or less, standing still a few steps away from them, but quite clearly looking at them, John and Sam, and Dean.
Dean had already been to so many planets he had sort of lost count, and he'd seen many different towns and villages and space ports, and even a couple of space stations. The vast majority of the inhabitants of the Clusters were making it from day to say, so someone poorly dressed wasn't exactly something Dean would really pay attention to. John made sure he and Sammy always were warm and clean, and that was a luxury many didn't have.
Still, the little girl with the mass of tangled dirty hair was only wearing what once must have been a white shirt… or was it a dress? Dean wasn't exactly versed in girls' clothes. Not yet anyway. No boots, no shawls - in Dean's experience and memories, many women wore shawls around their shoulders and hips, and they smelled good, too. The paths between the stalls weren't much more than dirty soil patted down by the boots of the customers and the wheels of the wagons and carts and the hooves of the beasts pulling them, splattered here and there by the occasional puddle of unspecified liquids. The little girl's feet were bare and seriously dirty.
"Dean, c'mon," John touched Dean's shoulder briefly. His eyes sparkled, and Dean knew that meant the deal had gone well.
Sammy bounced excitedly on John's shoulders. "Daddy! Look, panfrittee'! Can I have one, please? Please Daddy?"
They had had breakfast before leaving the ship, but it had been a few hours ago, and the sweets stalls also had a steaming cauldron with dark, thick grains slowly boiling in it. Dean watched as John's nostrils widened, catching the scent in the air. "Coffee..." the tone was indulgent, and Dean's stomach decided to growl his vote loud and clear. "Okay boys. One panfrittee' each, and, Sammy? Don't you go swallowing yours without chewing first so that Dean will give you half of his, you hear me?"
The three of them moved towards the short queue at the stalls and what with the appetizing smells of the fried sweets and having to juggle them in their hands so not to get burnt, Dean forgot about the little girl for a while.
Until he realized that she was still following them a few stalls later, Dean close to finish his panfrittee' with a few last huge bites.
"Dad?"
"Mm…?" John was checking out a selection of maps and loose printed pages, a rarity that always fascinated Sam, so the boy was still for once and perching forward over John's head to look as well.
Dean reached out and tugged on a corner of John's coat, keeping his eyes on the girl, once again still at a few paces away from them.
"What is it, boy?" John looked down at Dean, his hand hovering over the heavy leather-bound tome the vendor had pushed close to him. Dean nodded, so that John looked where his boy wanted him to look.
"She's been following us for a while," Dean's murmured, low enough that she wouldn't hear, but loud enough for his words to reach John's ear among the chaos and fracas of the market life around them, three-legged chickens and Chihuahua-sheep trotting amok in between everyone's legs and under the market's stalls.
John thought it over for a moment, taking in the conditions of the girl. "She must be some vendor's daughter. Just wandering around. Don't worry."
Dean nodded, and they moved on, from stall to stall, avoiding the freshly butchered entrails dangling from silver hooks under a black tent and instead opting for the charms row of the booths. However, Dean realized that his dad was keeping an eye on their tail. That is, the little girl persistently trotting after them. Stopping every time they stopped. And picking up something. And putting it, whatever the something was, in her mouth.
John stopped abruptly, and Dean almost crashed against his father's backside.
"Sammy?"
"Yes, daddy?"
Dean looked up at his brother, instantly suspicious of the puppy-sweet note in his little brother's voice.
John's tone wasn't angry, but stern. "Have you been dropping bits of your panfrittee', boy?" He bent on his knees and carefully deposited Sam on his feet, in front of him. It was hard for John not to shake his head at his youngest vehement and clearly false denial. "Sammy?"
"...she looks hungry, daddy."
John sighed, passed his hand on his stubbly chin, considering. "Fine. Let's take care of this, then." Turning around, he faced the girl, who had stopped right around a corner stall and was peeking at them from that relatively safe place.
John wiggled her finger at her, indicating that she should move closer, trying to look harmless. Which, given the guns at his waist, the knife in his boot, the Devil's Trap charm hanging from his neck and the tips of a dark tattoo poking out of his right sleeve and the right side of his neck…well, he tried a smile, hoping it didn't come out more as a hungry wolf-like grin.
The little girl seemed to be thinking about it for a moment, but then trotted obediently until he was right in front of the Winchesters. And then she looked up at John.
"You lost, little one?"
She didn't answer, only kept looking up. Sammy, one hand firmly gripped in John's much larger one, offered her the rest of his sweet. She took it with a little smile and started chewing it with little happy morsels.
"What's your name? Your parents around here?" John glanced around, hoping to see some frantic mother or father looking for a lost daughter. Nothing caught his eyes, though. All the selling and haggling was going on without a bother. "Hey. You." John had never lost the particular tone of voice: once a Space Corp, always a Space Corp.
The stall owner turned to look at him immediately.
"You know this girl? Know her parents?"
The man shook his head in denial, dismissing the enquiry right away.
"Great," John cursed softly. Dean hit him in the side of his thigh. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Stay close, okay?" Dean nodded, ready to follow the plan of action, because one was surely to come.
John offered his hand to the little girl. She gave him hers with another content little smile, and then settled to trot happily alongside him, three little steps for each of his longer ones, Sam similarly trotting on the other side of John, Dean acting as rearguard.
John traced their steps back, stopping every other stall to enquiry about the girl, his questions met mostly with indifference and quick downward glances that had John's temper rising steadily. Finally, the woman who was now serving small pieces of hard ginger-sugar called out at them.
"I heard you asking," she was talking fast, her accent heavy, vowels slipping one after the other. "About the girl." She looked around quickly. "If I were you, I'd be leaving her here, and fast." After checking around once again, the woman stepped aside and pointed at the very back of the market, behind the far away tents where the cattle was. "The slaves' wagons have been parked there for a few days. She must have slipped away from one of them. She's small enough."
Slavery was something that made John's blood boil, but here in the Clusters' outer system, it was common and everyone was mostly indifferent to it. Sometimes it was debts; sometimes it was punishment for petty crimes, other times it was walking in the wrong streets at the wrong time.
"I've been bringing them water," the woman added. She looked older than John, but out here everyone looked old pretty soon. "They might pay you if you bring her back."
The look John turned on her had the woman step back. Tightening his hold on the two little hands in his, John turned them around, standing still for a moment. Dean waited patiently at his side, while Sammy and the girl started exchanging funny faces and showing each other their tongues, each one trying to reach their nose with the tip of it.
John let out a deep sigh.
Dean wasn't tall enough to see the slaves' wagons in the distance, behind the market stalls and tents, but he'd seen other similar wagons before, in other small planets, other dirty markets like this one. He'd seen the metal bars, and the chains at ankles and wrists, and the empty eyes of the slaves. And he knew why John was always so strict with the rules when he took them along in one of these outings, why his father always made sure to wear his weapons in a way that was visible in these occasions, while in others he did the opposite. Dean was old enough to know that kids had a price on the slave markets, too.
"Dad," he tugged at John's elbows. John tilted his head, looked at him. "I don't need the new jacket," Dean went on, now that he had his father's attention. A new jacket for him was on their list of the items they were looking for, before John had been distracted by the more interesting amulets and various paraphernalia that made his life as a hunter a lot easier. Not buying the jacket meant extra money for more food. "She's Sammy's size…"
John swallowed and found the few clouds in the sky suddenly compelling. For a short while, Dean looked up at his father as he looked up at the sky.
"Okay," John nodded, smiling at Dean, eyes a little shiny. "We've got friends, right, Dean? We'll ask around and find her a decent place."
It took several years, in fact, before the Winchesters would find a place for Callie. It took her some time to say full words and sentences with sense, as if talking really wasn't something she was used to, but after a while with the Winchesters, when asked, she would answer that Callie was her name.
~~
Sam opened the Impala's portals with a soft, smooth swish sound of servo-hydraulics, letting Dean out to face the fierce morning winds of Ambrosia. The planet was quite isolated from the normal Merchant routes, far out on the borders of the Clusters. It still managed to be designated in the Merchants maps, however, and therefore was a sustainable if not thriving community, thanks to the furious winds that stormed its surface during most of its solar year. The semi-desertic continent didn't provide enough plant biomass to convert into energy, but the continuous wind speeds, never slower than 100/150 mph, allowed for a massive installation of wind turbines. A regular intake of engineers freshly out of classes would arrive every couple of years to keep the hundreds of thousands wind turbines in working condition, and just as regularly ships would dock in orbit for trade or to buy the energy, still cheaper and easier to store and distribute than the alternatives, especially on the outer Clusters planets.
Dean patted the sleek flank of the Impala, then jumped off on the ground. He knew the vid-sensors would follow his moves, so he waved for Sam before looking around, protecting his eyes from the fine dusty sand in the air with his hand. Callie was only a few steps away, by now, running towards Dean and jumping him just like when they were kids and the three of them would run for the length of the Impala's corridors, driving John insane.
"It was time you two passed this way, I was starting to think you've forgotten me!"
Dean twirled around, then put her down and kept her at a distance, scrutinizing her. "You haven't grown an inch."
Callie batted his hands away. "You go ahead, Old Betsy isn't very patient, I don't want her to take the cart who knows where." She pointed one of her fingers to the dark grey farm horse a little on the side, loosely tied to a dried tall bush of red berries which obviously were keeping the horse busy. Dean picked up the saddle bags he'd dropped in order to brace himself for the young woman's embrace and walked to the cart. Callie always spent a little time with Sam's digi'son, the two of them talking quietly on their own. Dean always thought that had Callie been around at the time, perhaps Sam wouldn't have fallen for the New Regime propaganda so blindlessly, maybe Callie would have been a more effective cushioning barrier than him between Sam's driven idealism and John's ruthless pragmatism.
And maybe Dean could still sprout wings…
Callie reached Dean and he helped her up on the cart. The old horse started moving with a little encouragement. The wind and the squeaking of the cart's wheels were way too loud for them to talk, so the brief journey to Callie's farm was silent. Once there, the kids stormed out of the barn and the main house, and Dean had to survive their affectionate tackling and distribute the small gifts he'd brought with him.
After a simple dinner, Callie reached him on the porch, drying her hands in the towel tied at her waist. Some of the kids were practicing shooting at empty bottles and cans.
"You've got a couple of new ones," Dean said, leaning against the porch railing.
"Bobby dropped them here a couple of months ago. They’re still adjusting. The twins are out hunting, it's the mosonis' annual migration time. We should get meat for a while."
Dean petted the dog nosing at his boots. "I'm not staying long, hope to see them."
"Oh, you will," Callie sat on the porch's steps, stretching her legs in front of her. "They’re so tall, now. As tall as you. Not a nightmare in a full year."
Dean nodded, quietly pleased at this news. "I brought salt. I'll make the rounds tomorrow, secure the perimeter." It was an unspoken rule, that every Hunter popping by Callie's farm, whether to drop a kid or just visit, would make sure the farm's land was adequately magically protected. Callie wasn't able to do it, due to her 'blank aura', as Dean recalled John once calling it. Nothing, ritual or charms, would work in her hands.
They hadn't clued in to it until she was in her teens, although Dean now knew that John had been making notes in his journal for years before actually coming out with it. John had been really worried, at first. Dean remembered several tests administrated as games or being passed as training routines. None of them revealed more than that, though. It was what it was, and it wasn't voluntary, just a lack of something in Callie. John had noted his suspicions in his journal, that she might be a half-breed of some kind, even though most of those had been all tracked down and exterminated generations ago.
They never talked much about it, not after that one time when John took her aside and had a quiet talk with her. They all knew better, and it soon became second nature to remember that Callie was useless at magic.
"I'll send a couple of the girls with you, they've been practicing. You can check on them."
Dean sat near Callie, stretching his longer legs in a similar fashion. "You got news about Dad?" She might have told him, even without him asking, but you could never be sure, with Callie. Sometimes her reasoning was completely hers.
Just like when she went to Dean, all those years ago, and out of the blue asked him to introduce her to someone he trusted so she could have sex. Just like that. How old were they? Callie must have been fifteen or sixteen, they didn't know exactly. "You're crazy, you know that?" he'd said at the time, shaking his head at the notion.
"I asked your father, but…"
"You asked Dad?" Dean could still hear his stunned voice, clearly, memories as fresh as yesterday's breakfast. "What did he say?"
"He just spluttered and turned all blue and purple and then walked away." Callie had shrugged, dismissed the failed quest, and insisted with Dean, because with that much moving they were doing all over the Clusters and the three of them, Sam, Dean and John, breathing on her neck, she simply didn't want to die a virgin, and that was how things were going to end. If someone didn't do something, that is.
Dean snickered at the memory. Callie elbowed him. "What?"
"First tell me if you heard from him, then I'll tell you."
"He's fine." It wasn't cold yet, and the winds have quietened down, as they always did for a short while before howling furiously at night time once again. Callie's scratched at her bare legs, curling her toes against the wood of the steps. "He deposited some money in my credit account a little while ago. Left a message. I know he's fine. Grumpy, but that's not news, right?"
The kids were counting the bottles and cans felled by their practice, claiming their marks. Dean observed them for a little while. "Grumpy, that's how they call it these days?"
Callie just smiled.
She had memories of her own, awakened by the look in Dean's eyes. Three days after Sam had stepped into the vat, three days after John had injected him with the drugs necessary to keep him stable and under control, three days after the longest and hardest demonic entrapment ritual Dean and John had ever performed, and the one they had both barely survived. Three days after seeing his little brother fluctuating in the vat, tubes in and out of his body - John vanished without a word - Dean got drunk out of his brain and went looking for trouble. That's when Dean went underground, and Callie went looking for him and brought him back here to the farm. Dean remembered more of those days than he admitted to, but they never talked about it. They didn't need to. They were brother and sister in ways that counted more. And John had known where to go to, once he wanted to check on Dean, once everything was somewhat bearable, once his hands had stopped shaking.
Dean threw a pebble in the air, then another. Dad was fine. The bastard wouldn't get in touch with him, of course, but he was fine. Dean could feel his shoulders literally getting lighter, the burden of worry lifted somewhat.
"Let's go check on the kids, then." He stretched up, patting his full belly. "Their stance could be better. Have they been practicing their spells?" He started walking towards the make-shift shooting range, Callie's soft steps just behind him as her voice updated him on the new arrivals, what their powers seem to be, how they were, how much scared and wounded and terrified.
Work to do, minds to ease. Dean was good at that, better than John, who was respected and obeyed promptly but also feared. Dean could see Sam in each one of those kids they were trying to save, and where that made John harsh and distant, it made Dean grasping at hope.