WOTR | Book 1 Part I
BOOK 1: THE REGIONS
War Of The Regions:
Book 1 Part I
Masterpost
Dean is standing in their small cottage slicing bread, the warm, soft food pliant in his hands. He can hear Sam humming tunelessly behind him while he writes on a piece of paper, and the sounds of the market floating through the open window. He places a slice of bread on a plate, a slice of lettuce on top, a sliver of tomato, and then slaps on another slice of bread to make a sandwich. It’s good food today, the result of a successful trade at the market yesterday.
“Sammy,” he says, turning around, and places the plate in front of him. “That’s for you, okay?”
Sam doesn’t look up from his homework, continues scribbling with a blunt pencil and Dean sighs, moves a little closer and talks a little louder. “Sam?”
Sam looks up at him and smiles, and Dean points to the plate. “Sandwich.”
“Thanks, Dean,” he says, and grabs for the plate eagerly with both hands, disregarding his homework beside him.
Dean makes his own sandwich, the same as Sam’s, and sits down at the table beside him. Sam smiles at him and Dean can’t resist returning it, and offers Sam his crusts.
“You’re sure, Dean?” he asks with soft eyes, voice loud in the small room.
“Sure I am.”
Dean waits until Sam’s finished eating before he speaks again. “How bad is it?”
Sam looks at him and frowns. “How bad is what?”
Dean feels uncomfortable, but he swallows it down, and says, “It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it? Your hearing?”
Sam shrugs and looks down at his empty plate. He picks some crumbs up on the tips of his fingers and puts them in his mouth. Dean waits for Sam to speak, watches him carefully.
“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “But it’s okay if you’re loud.”
Sam gives a little grin and Dean tries to grin back, but it doesn't reach his eyes and he’s sure he doesn’t look anywhere near convincing. He doesn’t want to push the subject, and Sam goes back to his writing and Dean stands to tidy up and washes the plates under the soft trickle of water in the sink.
Once the kitchen is clean, Dean glances out of the window and watches the people in the marketplace carefully and attentively. Their dad taught him how to watch people, how to make sure a situation is safe and how to look out for Sammy. Always watch out for Sammy.
He sees Ellen selling broth and Ash walking out of the brewery, Anna with her bread and Joshua in the gardens. He looks over to the small hill to the East and can see the tree that stands beside Uncle Bobby’s, and wonders about taking Sam there, and going for a hunt. He looks back at Sam, who’s still writing.
“Hey, Sam?” he says, walking over to him. He leans over his shoulder to see what he’s doing and sees the entire page filled with small words, letters looping together. “You want to go see Bobby?”
Sam looks up at him and smiles. “Yeah, okay. Are you coming, too?”
“I’ll walk you there, but I’m going out. Going to get some stuff.”
Sam nods and doesn’t ask questions, well-rehearsed in this routine, and stands up and shoves the cheap pencil in his pocket, and folds up the piece of paper. Together they walk out of the cottage and down a short stone path to the street, and Dean pulls Sam close, keeps a hand on his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t lose him in the bustle of people. A few people smile at them and say hello, and Dean does so back, but focuses on not stopping and ensuring Sam gets to Bobby’s, safe and sound.
They reach the bottom of the East Hill and walk up it, Dean leading Sam to Bobby’s front door. Sam knocks on it three times, and the door opens an inch.
“Who’s there?” Bobby grunts, and Dean steps forward a little.
“It’s just us, Bobby.”
The door opens and Bobby looks at them, gives them a tight smile and gently pulls Sam inside.
“I’m going out,” he tells Bobby, and Bobby just nods, keeping a firm grip on Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few hours to get Sam. I’ll get you something, too.”
“You be careful, boy.”
“Always am,” Dean replies easily, and gives a quick one-armed hug to Sam, who’s staring up at him with those wide eyes, that look too old for a fourteen-year-old to be wearing.
“Bye, Sammy.”
“Bu’bye,” Sam says, and gives a little wave of his hand. Dean gives him one last smile before turning and walking back into the marketplace.
Dean walks past the stalls and finds Jo sat outside the brewery next to her mother’s broth stand, peeling potatoes on the dry earth.
“Hey, Dean,” she says with a smile. “What’s up?”
“I need to get some supplies,” he says, sitting himself down next to Jo’s pile of potatoes on the ground. “And game,” he says in a quieter voice.
Jo just nods and finishes peeling the potato in her hands before standing up and walking over to her mother.
“I’m going with Dean. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Ellen turns away from the customer she has just finished serving and levels a stare at her. “You be careful, Joanna Beth,” she says quietly, pocketing the money into her apron. She looks towards Dean. “You look after my girl, won’t you?”
“Always do,” Dean says, and Ellen nods sharply at them both before turning back around and plastering on a smile for the next customer.
Dean stands up and starts walking towards the East Hill, and Jo easily falls into step beside him. Instead of walking up the path to the homes at the top, they take a sharp left and into a small alleyway between two buildings. It’s a routine they’ve easily fallen into, and a pattern they’ve perfected over the years. Dean leads the way out of the alley and into the deep vegetation behind Rufus’ hut, crouching carefully beneath the low hanging thorns.
“Where’s Sam?” Jo asks, as they stand up tall again and start their descent down a small chalky path that leads down the hill.
“At Bobby’s,” Dean replies, slowing his pace to fall beside Jo.
They walk farther down, and Dean throws cautious glances behind him, ensuring nobody is on their trail. They reach a small stream and jump over it with practiced ease, and turn left once they reach the fallen log and berry bush.
“How is he?” Jo asks, and picks some gooseberries off a bush as they walk, and hands one to Dean.
Dean puts it in his mouth and eats it before replying. “Worse. The hearing thing, I mean. He’s not ill anymore though.”
“That’s good,” Jo says quietly. “About not being ill. Sorry to hear about his hearing, though.”
“Yeah,” Dean replies, just as quiet.
They both naturally come to a stop once they reach a small clearing with dry, dusty earth. Dean looks around with sharp eyes, all senses attuned to picking out any details of movement. Jo is doing the same, and once there is no sign of anybody but them in the clearing, Dean feels himself relax. He walks forwards a few meters and leans beneath some low branches, and goes down to a crouch by the trunk of a large tree.
He stays there completely still, listening quietly. There’s not a sound, no buzz of electricity, so he gives a quick whistle and Jo comes up behind him, and they start scaling the fence that’s disguised in vegetation.
Since they were younger than Sammy’s age they’ve been doing this, escaping the village and jumping the fence that the Highland doesn’t bother electrifying anymore. The entire village, except for the Official’s Hall, is without electricity, and Dean guesses the cost for maintaining an electrified fence is too much to bother with. At eight years old his father taught him how to use a knife, how to hunt, how to stay low and watch with attentiveness and precision. Everything with precision and accuracy.
Once Dean had mastered getting game, had mastered keeping Sammy fed and did it well, the responsibility to do so fell solely upon his shoulders, and John would be gone for days at a time, would return with money and more food if they were lucky, sometimes clothes and even coal. Sometimes they didn’t see him for days, sometimes weeks.
Dean never asks, has told made up stories whenever Sammy has, but he’s sure John goes into the other extinct Regions, to the Outerlands. It’s forbidden, punishable by death, and sometimes Dean fears that perhaps he’s been caught this time, and it will just be him and Sammy left, but every time he’s returned and everything is fine again.
They head along the edge of the fence in a comfortable silence, birds chirping above their heads and the occasional squirrel scuttling up a tree. Half a mile down they reach a small mound of rocks, too small to be called a cave, and Jo leans in to pull out a bow, arrows, and their knives. She decides to keep the bow today, and hands Dean the knives, which he slips inside his leather belt.
“Mom’s been trying to make me see Ash more,” Jo says into the silence, and Dean laughs, bends down to pick up an acorn off the floor and pockets it.
“Yeah, and how’s that going?”
“Well, he’s great. As a friend.” Jo shoots an arrow into the tree ahead of them and they continue walking slowly along. “But I’m just not interested in him, and he always smells of beer. I don’t wanna marry him. I don’t want kids.”
They reach the tree and Jo pulls the arrow out, and puts it back in her weave pouch. Dean smiles at her and picks a blackberry from a bush. “No, ‘course you’re not. You’re more interested in Anna, aren’t you?”
There’s a small blush of pink filling her cheeks, and Dean laughs, hands her a blackberry that Jo grabs out of his hand and pops in her mouth.
“Blushing looks good on you, Harvelle.”
“Drop it, Winchester,” she says, and continues walking deeper into the woods. Dean pockets a few of the berries into his leather pouch before following.
“Hey, I don’t care,” he says. “You know I don’t. If I ran the place I’d let you date her, not some guy. ”
Jo shrugs, as if shoving the conversation away, and Dean doesn’t push it. They both know that whatever it is, a fantasy or dream, can’t be thought into enough to become real hope. The Officials would take her to the Outerlands if she disobeyed and went with a woman. It simply didn’t work like that. It’s not something Dean tries to think about, and the idea of a proper relationship that lasts longer than it takes for a sneaky handjob behind the mill isn’t one he can feasibly have. He’s already got enough commitments to think about adding another one.
“Hey,” Dean says, trying to lighten the mood. “How about we actually do some hunting?”
Jo pulls an arrow out of the pouch on her back and places it against the bow. “Thought you’d never ask.”
A few months back Sam had the flu. The kid is always getting sick, and Dean looked after him in the best way he knew how, kept him company when he wasn’t out hunting and made sure he was fed and warm and safe. It wasn’t enough.
Dean had started noticing that Sam wouldn’t be paying attention as much when someone spoke, would speak louder himself and would need Dean to repeat things. Since then it’s steadily declined.
Dean is sitting opposite Sam in front of the fire, a large mug of water between them and a woolen blanket draped over Sam’s shoulders. Dean had returned to Bobby’s a few hours earlier to find that their dad had returned with coal and a pouch of money to keep them going, and some new cuts and bruises that Dean had covered with bandages. Their dad is gone again, this time in the town at the brewery, and they have an hour or so until curfew goes up and he comes back.
A large pile of berries sits on the wooden kitchen table and a metal pot full of hunted squirrel is slowly burning over the fire for John to eat when he gets home. Dean leans forward and stares at Sam, makes sure he’s got his full attention.
“Okay,” he says, making sure he’s speaking loud enough but not shouting in the small room. “What other words do we need?”
“Breakfast?” Sam asks, a small frown on his face.
Dean nods and waits for a moment, thinking. “Okay”, he says, finally settling on an idea. “How about this?”
He puts both hands in front of him and moves his right over into his left and cups it, as if mimicking a bowl. Sam copies him and looks up at Dean in confusion.
“Like a breakfast bowl,” Dean says, and shows him again. “Get it?”
Sam nods and gives a small smile. They’ve been sitting in front of the fire for the last half an hour trying to create motions and signs with their hands to go with the words that Sam might, one day, not be able to use. Dean doesn’t like to think of Sam losing his hearing as a definite possibility, but it’s a thought that’s been lurking in the shadows for all of them.
Dean had tentatively explained the situation to their dad when he’d come home, and he’d let out a heavy sigh, looked over at Sam with concerned eyes, and then sat next to Dean and said, “So find another way to talk to him. Use your hands.” Then he’d left the cottage and hasn’t been back since.
This is Dean finding another way. It’s going to be okay. It is.
“Okay,” Sam says, shaping the ‘OK’ sign with his right hand as he says it, “that’s breakfast.”
With the word ‘breakfast’, Sam accompanies it with the sign they’ve created and Dean smiles.
“Yeah, man,” Dean says, nodding, accepting that a nod is a sign enough in itself. He tries to think of a way of incorporating all the words they’ve come up with into a sentence, and shapes the signs with his hands as he says them, “Are you okay, Sammy? You want a drink?”
Sam grins at him and catches on. “I’m okay, Dean. I want water.”
“You got it,” Dean says, and hands the mug of water to Sam, who rolls his eyes but takes it anyway. “Thanks,” he says, bringing his free hand to his stomach and making a thumbs-up sign.
Dean hears the sound of two people talking as they pass the cottage window and he glances towards the small clock that sits by the door. Ten minutes until curfew. He sighs and stands up.
“Bed,” Dean says, drawing the shape of a ‘Z’ in the air to signify sleep. “We can make up shapes for the alphabet tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says, and then Dean has got an armful of Sammy and Dean slowly wraps his arms around his younger brother, feels and hears Sam let out a small sigh, a little stunned that Sam is clinging to him.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, and pulls away to look him in the eyes. “It’s okay.”
Sam draws a circle around his heart and points at Dean, and Dean swallows, doesn’t need to ask what that one means.
He mirrors the image back to him, and Sam smiles and leaves the room to go to bed. “Love you too, Sammy,” Dean says quietly into the empty room, and turns around to follow Sam to the bedroom.
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