"The Apostle of Tarsus II: Faithfully, Chapters 10-11" Supernatural/Miracles, Rated R
Title: The Apostle of Tarsus II: Faithfully (Chps 8-12)
Fandoms: Supernatural/Miracles X-over
Pairings: Sam Winchester/Theresa Callan, Dean/OFC
Rating: Adult (R)
Word Count: 24,055 total
Warnings: A few Het sex scenes that are graphic in an R-rated way. Language. Brief drug references. Sequel to " The Apostle of Tarsus Chps 1-7."
Summary: Sometimes, when I think of what Castiel did to us, I want to kill him. But most days, I thank him.
Chapter 10: The Return
Word Count: 3,542
The doctor's office agreed to fit us in the next morning. Absolutely nothing on the sonogram looked abnormal. We were certainly relieved to hear it.
I watched Mrs. Callan as she looked at the sonogram; she was the picture of a loving grandmother, with a little smile on her face and pride in her eyes. She spent the next week with us, helping us pack, fussing over Tress, and lightly scolding Dean on a daily basis about straightening up and flying right. Almost every morning, she would put her hand on Tress's stomach and they would sing a hymn to the baby together, usually "Jesus Loves Me." It warmed my heart to see Tress get to spend all that quality time with her mother, especially after they had been estranged.
Mrs. Callan eventually went home, after promising to return for Paul's birth. She even spoke of moving closer to us. In some ways, oh joy, my mother-in-law living right around the corner. In other ways, it would be great for Tress and Paul, so I didn't complain or object. A large extended family wasn't something I ever had. It was definitely something I wanted for my son.
We moved into the bigger apartment shortly after, but kept the hotel room for whenever we needed it. It would make a good meeting place for hunter business. Sometime after Paul was born, we planned to get back into hunting, but only on a very part-time basis, and very local. Paul would have as much stability and normality as possible. We couldn't give it up entirely, though, knowing what was out there. Tress gave me a smile and nodded her head at the idea, but I could tell it made her nervous, us hunting again. Hunting put us in danger. She would stand there with her arms crossed, fingers rubbing nervously at her bare elbows, and tell me she understood whole-heartedly, but I could tell by the worried look in her eyes that she wished we could put all this hunting and angel business behind us forever.
We couldn't, though, not with an Apocalypse looming in the future. Who knew if, or when, Lucifer would figure out where we had gone.
Our son was born on May 23, 1973, a week early. I became the total cliché of a worried but proud father, dropping my busboy tray into the sink when I got the call, tossing aside my apron and rushing to the hospital, where I paced the waiting room until they would let me in to see my wife. Tress told me to call her mother; she hadn't been able to get a hold of her, so I did. Mrs. Callan said she would get in her car and drive out immediately in hopes she would arrive in time for the actual birth.
Things were done differently back in 1973. I did not get to be in the room with Tress while Paul was being born. Instead, Dean and I had to wait until they brought Paul up to a window in a basinet, his little pink fist waving and mouth open in a mighty yawn. He had my dark brown hair, but his mother's eyes. Dean and I made funny faces through the glass. Paul found us terribly boring, and took a nap.
Mrs. Callan hadn't arrived yet. I wanted her to be able to see some of what she'd missed, so Dean and I took lots of pictures once Tress was back in her hospital room. They brought Paul in to nurse and for family time every few hours, and I think we nearly blinded both Tress and the baby with all the flashbulbs we went through. Both did a lot of sleeping.
At one point, when Tress and Paul were conked out together, it was very quiet in the hospital room, and I took the time to just survey my beautiful little family and give thanks for them.
Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Sammy." His eyes were glistening. "You've got a gorgeous family here."
I nodded. "I was just thinking the same thing."
Even Castiel came for a visit. He hadn't been around for a couple months, always looking after angel and Apocalypse-related business. I let him hold Paul, and the baby promptly spit up on him, which was comical, given the uncomfortable look on his face afterward.
Before he left, Castiel looked down at me, sitting with Paul napping on my shoulder, and said, "Sam, tell Theresa I'm very sorry." His face showed great sorrow. There's something about how his eyelids droop when he feels bad that always gets to me. "There was nothing I could do to stop it."
I looked up. "Stop what?"
Boop, Castiel was gone.
Dean and I looked at each other, a pit of dread settling into each of our stomachs. "What did he mean by that?" I said, beginning to panic.
A few seconds later, a Massachusetts highway patrol officer walked into our room, his hat in his hands. "Are you Mr. Winchester?"
I woke Tress up, and handed Paul to his uncle. I already knew this was going to be bad.
"Ma'am, I have bad news about your mother, Patricia Callan," the highway patrolman began.
"What is it?" Tress asked, alarm creeping into her voice. "She's coming to see the baby. Is she hurt?"
The man looked almost as sorrowful as Castiel. "I regret to inform you that your mother was killed in a head-on collision on I-90 about three hours ago. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner, but we had some trouble finding you."
I sat on the edge of Tress's bed and put my arm around her shoulders. She had gasped when the highway patrolman said her mother had been killed, and now she wore a perpetual look of anguish, almost betrayal. Here, she had the chance to continue to mend fences with her mom, and for her mother to see her only grandchild, and both possibilities had been torn from her on a day that should have been nothing but joyous. It was so cruel, so unfair. "We were here. We just had a baby. My mother is - she's coming to see him," Tress said. Her voice shook with impending tears. "She..." Tress put the back of her hand to her mouth.
"What happened?" I asked.
The highway patrolman said that they weren't sure, that there would be an investigation, but that the driver of the other car had swerved in front of Mrs. Callan and crashed into her. It was as simple and tragic as that. Maybe he had been drunk, maybe he had fallen asleep, they would determine that eventually. "I'm sorry for your loss, especially on such a day as this," he said, and left.
Tress had held it together that long; she now burst into tears, wailing with mournful sobs into my chest. I held her, trying to comfort her. "I'm sorry, baby," I said. "I know you wanted your mother to be a part of this so badly."
A few seconds later, Paul began to cry. Dean rocked him gently in his arms, talking to him, but the baby could not be consoled.
It hit me then: My son was a projective empath, just like Tress. His mother's grief had set him off and he wasn't even a day old. I knew as soon as I felt those raw emotions reverberating inside my head that they were coming from Paul.
It also hit me then that this is why, without me there, Paul wound up in an orphanage. His grandmother had been the last living relative of Tress's side of the family who could have taken him in if Tress died. There was nothing any of us could have done to stop Mrs. Callan's death. No one knew it was going to happen, not even Castiel.
Sometimes, I think it must be hard to be an angel. To sense deaths as they happen, and even with all that power, not be able to stop it. That helpless feeling is all part of being human.
Even for non-humans.
*****
The old saying goes that time flies when you're having fun. In a way, it does, but it also slows to a crawl, trots rhythmically like a horse, and walks at a nice, steady pace. Children sprout up like weeds, but they also seem to stay little forever. You don't realize how much your child is growing until you start looking through the photographs you've taken over time. It just seems to happen.
For a long, beautiful time, Paul remained small enough to fit on my chest, and I'd lay him there on his stomach and let him sleep. Sometimes I'd stroke his back and kiss his little head, and just look at him while we all relaxed after dinner. Those simple times were some of the best of my life. We were all so happy.
On July 28, 1973, Dean and Tress drove to New York to see Led Zeppelin in concert, just as Dean had wanted. To not only see his idols play live, but to be a part of his favorite concert film. I'm not sure I've ever seen his face light up like that. All dancing eyes and wide smile full of teeth, like someone had slipped him the strongest euphoria pill ever made. It did my heart good.
Even so, I did not pass up the chance to remind my brother that even though he was there to see Led Zeppelin in concert as many times as he wanted, he would also be there for the rise of disco.
We did the best we could to make the most of the 1970s, but it was when we realized what we had left behind that sometimes, the blues came by for a temporary sit-in. So many modern conveniences that wouldn't be invented for years... but when Dean and Tress left that night, and it was just Daddy and Paul, the 1970s became 100% worthwhile again. I could never get enough of just watching him drool all over his rattle as he sucked on it, or feeling him squeeze my finger when I offered it to him. He was my little man.
Often, the differences between how Tress and I had grown up became comical. She had no idea what a CD was. When I found one among the things in the Impala's trunk, she looked it over curiously.
"It's much smaller than a record," Tress remarked. "And where are the grooves? I don't think I see any here..."
"CDs work differently than a record."
"Oh. Can we play it?" She tried to put the CD on the turntable of her stereo.
I couldn't help it, I laughed very hard at that.
We played Dean's cassettes for her, amused at her reaction to some of the bands. To Metallica, Tress plugged her ears and scowled. "What are they so angry about?" she asked. Dean would have to enjoy them alone. Many of the classic rock bands, she liked, even the ones who wouldn't form for several more years. Dean made the mistake of playing Van Halen's "Running with the Devil" for her, which she rejected just from the title alone, and swore off Van Halen forever. Woops. Considering myself being the vessel of Lucifer had almost broken Tress and I up for good, I guess Dean should have thought that one through.
Tress was one of those women who preferred to make love to music. Led Zeppelin definitely would've been included on our lovemaking soundtrack, but Tress liked songs by Heart for that, too. When there were quiet moments... Dean was out for the night... Paul had gone to sleep, she would play "Crazy on You" and I'd practically become aroused on command. I know it's corny as heck, but Tress liked to call me her "big strong handsome man" before pulling me down on top of her, and that turned me on like nobody's business. That's how things are when you love someone, when you're married to them... little things that once seemed silly to you can take on new meaning when they say it.
As she previously pointed out to me, Tress was Catholic, and didn't believe in birth control. I thought we would have another child, hoped for it, in fact. It would be nice for Paul to have a little sister, and it would throw more water on Castiel's fire over us tempting fate. But, Tress did not get pregnant again. I don't know if the angels messed with our chemistry to make sure we wouldn't have another child, or if it was just the luck of the draw. Seemed to me that some of the angels would like it if we made another Seraph condom. It just never happened.
Castiel came around every few days to check up on my family, making sure Lucifer hadn't found us, watching over Paul, that sort of thing. One night, he caught us in the middle of making dinner, with the stereo playing some Rolling Stones. Tress, with a glass of wine in her, tried to teach him how to dance. It was comical, to say the least.
"You've got to feel the music. Move your hips to the beat," she said.
Castiel watched her shimmy back and forth for a brief time, then woodenly moved his hips from side to side a little. He was too busy concentrating to notice Dean and I snickering at him.
"Oh come on, you can't be feeling this song if you're moving like that!" Tress exaggerated her movements as a demonstration of how crazy Cas should be going in reaction to the song, gyrating her arms and whipping her head around.
Cas stared at her, looking quite bewildered. How many times had we seen those eyebrows furrowed like that? Dean and I were having a hard time not laughing out loud.
When he didn't react, Tress bumped his hip pretty hard with her own. "Get with it, Cas!" she cried, and danced toward me with a playful look in her eyes.
That was something Castiel seemed to understand. He followed her across the room and bumped her in the backside, hard enough to knock her over. If I hadn't been there to catch her, she would have gone face first into Paul's playpen.
Paul, being in the playpen, began to giggle.
We all laughed. Tress looked back at Castiel, who didn't seem to understand what was so funny. "That's good, Cas, but you want to hold back a little," she said.
"Yeah Cas, this isn't a mosh pit," Dean added.
Now Tress looked confused. "Mosh pit?"
*****
At first, the doctor wanted Tress to have an EEG every three months. If anything strange was detected, he would order a PEG. It frustrated me that CAT scans and MRIs weren't readily available; I didn't have any way of knowing if they had even been invented yet. If they had, they weren't in wide use. One thing I did remember from science class is that they were much better diagnostic tools than what we had to work with in this time period. I also knew that eventually, when the brain tumor did not return, the doctor would stop ordering the tests. The looming threat of 1978 would make me crazy, knowing that. But I tried to put it out of my mind for the time being. We would figure something out when the time came. As things were, the tumor had not returned.
Something else, though, did return.
Paul would turn six months old on November 23, 1973. Don't think that we weren't afraid something would happen on that night, with our family's track record. But, would it be a demon... or would the Seraph come back?
Dean and I prepared as best we could. We drew Devil's Traps on tarps and laid them out in every bedroom, near the entrances (drawing on the rug would result in too many breaks in the traps, what with carpeting being the way it is; besides, doing that would ensure we'd never get our cleaning deposit back). We made a couple of those holy oil Molotov cocktails in case the Seraph came and needed to be sent back to Heaven in a hurry. There was no way we could know who would come, if they would come, or what would happen.
The only thing we could do was wait.
Tress had a hard time getting to sleep, but I encouraged her to do so, as she just might get in our way otherwise. I didn't say it like that to her, but it was true - she wasn't a hunter, and never would be. Dean and I stayed awake and watched over Tress and Paul while they slept; the fact that we were currently keeping Paul's crib in the bedroom with us certainly helped.
It was the Seraph who came that night.
One second, Dean and I were alone with our sleeping charges. The next, there was a woman in the room, one with dark hair. I instantly felt almost fixed to the floor. My feet moved sluggishly and my head filled with this overwhelming buzzing sound. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but wasn't exactly pleasurable, either. The alternating feelings moved in waves. I could see that Dean was moving slowly as well; he looked like he was in a trance. Being in the presence of this angel proved to be quite a different experience than our previous interactions.
The Seraph looked at me with eyes that were no longer there, just eye sockets with ice blue light within them. The woman's skin glowed, and I could feel warmth coming off her, strong warmth. "Do not interfere," the Seraph said. It's voice was so alien and so human at the same time, I'm not sure I could ever describe it. Musical, but it also bore into my brain. This being was virtual poetry and certain, horrific death at the same time. "There is little time, and I must prepare my vessel," it finished, and moved toward Paul's crib.
I sluggishly raised my hand in protest. "Please... don't hurt... my baby..." I forced out.
In a tone that sounded almost offended, the Seraph replied, "I would never hurt my vessel," and went to the side of the crib.
Dean tried to light the rag hanging out of one of the Molotov cocktails, but he could hardly move. "What... are you... going... to do?" he asked.
The Seraph put a hand to its eye and brushed away a large drop of ice blue liquid. This, it brought to Paul's lips. He kicked his little legs and accepted the liquid like it was nourishing mother's milk, sucking the Seraph's finger greedily.
"What is that?" I said. The heat coming off the Seraph was growing at a rapid rate, and it began to be too hot to stand. Sweat broke out on my forehead. "What did you... feed him? Your grace?"
"No." The Seraph turned to me, and already the body it was in was catching fire, burning from the inside out. "My tears," it said, and the woman it had used for a vessel turned to ash in a flash of holy fire. The ashes fell into a pile next to Paul's crib.
Suddenly, Dean and I could move again. It was so abrupt that we both almost lost our footing and fell down. I wondered how the man in Houston had ever been able to shoot Tress when the Seraph had such power. I went straight to the crib and scooped Paul up, holding him close out of fear. We had been so helpless; the Seraph could have done whatever it wanted.
Tress sat up on her elbow. "What's going on?"
It amazed me that she could have slept through that whole thing, but then again, the Seraph probably arranged it. I told her what had happened, and she jumped out of bed to check Paul over, to make sure he was okay. But it was as the angel said - it hadn't come there to hurt Paul, only to prepare him.
Dean gingerly touched the ashes with the toe of his shoe. "I guess the Seraph used the most convenient vessel it could find, for as long as it would hold out." He wrinkled his nose at the smell of burned hair. "Poor woman."
It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had, the visit from the Seraph. I'm not sure I could adequately describe what it was like to be in its presence. Like the whole room was filled with molasses and we were trying to move through it.
Two months later, we rented a three-bedroom house and moved in. It would be our home until the Seraph came again.
*****
Chapter 11: Turn the Page
Word Count: 3,865
As it is with all families, we lived, we loved, we fought, we watched time pass, and we built a thousand beautiful memories as the years wore on toward 1978. It was a looming threat for a while, but that eventually changed. I made sure Tress kept up with her appointments, her check-ups, which became less and less as the years passed. The doctor sometimes furrowed his brow at me for insisting that we keep looking for another brain tumor even after Tress had been cancer free for years, but he didn't know what I knew, and I could never explain it to him.
Sometime after we moved into the house, Dean and I started hunting again. We had done it for so many years that it was a part of us, something that came as natural as breathing and loving one another. With our jobs and family, we couldn't take off as much as we used to, but we were always scouring the paper for strange deaths, and when one would come up in the area, we'd spend a couple days looking into it. Just Dean and me, in the Impala, driving an hour out of town or so, music playing on the stereo and my arm out the window, feeling the breeze whisk by... as it had always been. Castiel would often show up and help, or stay behind and watch over Paul and Tress. She didn't like it when we came home hurt, but Tress understood why we had to do it, and she'd fuss over our injuries and kiss my "booboos" every time.
Once, though, we had a big fight about it. Something got Tress in a bad humor and she suddenly became afraid the prophecy of 1978 would come true. "What if I do get cancer again and I die? What would happen to Paul then if one of these evil beings killed you on a hunt? Maybe you shouldn't go."
It took a good hour of more arguing, but I finally convinced her that these awful things were not going to happen, that Paul would never be left alone. So far, I've been able to keep that promise - Paul is not alone. I am not a prophet, though. After a while, I became convinced that my and Dean's presence had somehow changed fate.
I mentioned before that music was an important part of our relationship. I neglected to talk about Journey, and "Faithfully." There were Journey tapes from the 1980s that we'd brought back with us, the ones with Steve Perry on vocals, and I think they were Tress's favorite of the music we introduced her to, next to Heart. Besides the usual songs featuring Perry's crazy vocal range that made women swoon, Tress loved "Faithfully," so much that I would say she cherished the tune.
She said it was about us.
I could see that, upon rereading the lyrics. Except that the man in the song spent a lot more time on the road than I did in those days. When I brought that up to her, Tress frowned at me a little and looked out the window, falling silent. I tried to draw her out, and it took a while, but she finally explained her feelings to me.
I love my family. Nothing will ever change that. I will do whatever is needed to take care of them. If that means working a job, making a home for them, and spending the bulk of my time with them, then that's what I will do. But Tress is right. There is a part of me that will always be on the road. No matter how much I want to pretend that I can escape the hunting life completely, deep down I know I can't.
I grew up on the road.
"I know that you love me and Paul, so don't think I'm saying that you don't," Tress had said that night. "But there's always going to be... a little distance there. You'll always be a little distant and distracted because a part of you is used to being out there, all the time. You and your brother. Some nights, you two sit out on the porch drinking beer and just stare into the distance. Sometimes, you tell each other stories from your past. I can see it in your eyes, how you're examining the night, listening to every sound. Looking for omens. Waiting for things to turn ominous. And then, it doesn't happen, and I call you in for bed because you've lost track of time." Her eyes were a little sad when she spoke these words. "Most nights, I stay in here and do my own thing because I... I don't know, I just... I feel out of place with you two on the porch. I could never understand."
At the time, I had hugged Tress and tried to reassure her that she had no reason to feel awkward about sitting on the porch with us, but I knew there was more to it than that, and I knew the distance really was there and always would be. Two people can love each other with all their hearts, but it doesn't mean they can share every last feeling or experience with each other. It doesn't even mean that they should.
Tress reassured me that she knew that by again explaining why the song was important to her. "It's alright, Sam," she said, stroking my back. "It's like Journey says in that song. You may occasionally go off on hunting trips for real, and sometimes only in your mind, but you always come back to me." She wrapped her arms around my chest. "You're forever mine, faithfully."
I knew it was all true as soon as Tress brought it up. Jess had said something almost exactly like it about six months into our relationship. The distance was there then too, except Jess never knew why. I think I'll always wish that I could have told her the truth before she was killed. As the first woman I ever loved, I owed her that.
*****
Paul grew from a tiny, pudgy baby lying on my chest to an energetic little boy who loved to cuddle up to his parents or uncle and be read a storybook every night. "Do all the voices!" he would demand. Dean was the best at it. He somehow made the voice of each character sound different. Paul would clap his little hands and say, "Read it again!" until we had to cut him off, or he'd never get to sleep. Of course, Dean always got suckered into reading stories the most times out of all of us. He still does.
Paul's first word was "Dada." His second was "Cookie."
Oh, he loves cookies. Virtual cookie fiend, that one. From the time he could cram a pudgy fist full of cookie into his mouth and drool all over it until it became soft enough to gum into pieces he could swallow, 'til now, when he has enough teeth to bite an Oreo in half, he has loved cookies. I remember once when he was three, we all went to the grocery store, and Paul rode in the cart with his stuffed bunny Booboo (Booboo Bunny, as he was commonly known, because he always kissed Paul's booboos right after Mommy or Daddy or Uncle Dean). Suddenly, I heard Paul's little voice singing a song about something he wanted us to buy.
"Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!" he sang. A song he made up on the spot. And holy crap, are kids tenacious. Paul's lungs never seem to give out when he makes up one of these "please buy me this" songs. As if to demonstrate, he sang the tune halfway across the store. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
"Paul, that's enough," Tress chided. "We get the picture."
He stopped for a full minute. Then started up again, tentatively. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
By the time we got to the cookie and cracker aisle, Dean had joined in. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
"Don't encourage the child," I said.
"Oreos, please," Dean replied.
It never fails to make my heart soar with love and fondness while I watch Dean interact with his nephew. He loves that kid so much, almost as much as I do. He'd do anything for Paul, sacrifice anything, become anything. Because Dean is his uncle and not his father, he also lets Paul get away with murder and often acts as his partner in mischief. Sometimes I think Tress got madder at Dean than she did at Paul when she found another art project on the wall that Dean had obviously helped with, being that the little crayon people had word balloons coming out of their mouths with phrases like, "Hiya, turdface!" and "Make me some pancakes, sweetheart!" Paul is still learning to read; he certainly can't write stuff like that, even if Dean says it to him. I watch Dean give my son another piggie-back ride or spin him around by his arms until he's ready to throw up, and all Paul has to do is cry, "Again!" and Dean's back up, spinning him in another dizzying circle, and I know that Paul will never want for love, even if I am killed on a hunt. Paul will always have family. He will never be that lonely little boy who grew up in an orphanage.
And although Castiel has different ways of showing it, I know he loves Paul too. There didn't seem to be much actual danger from demons and angels back then, save for the visits from the Seraph, but Cas still came around on a regular basis to check up on us and make sure we were safe. He often watches Paul play with a tiny smile on his face, and strokes Paul's hair when he runs by. Paul will even cry, "Castiel!" when he sees him, and run at him for a big hug, like he does with everyone he's excited to see. Cas kneels down and opens his arms to receive him, then takes his little hand and allows Paul to lead him wherever he wants to go.
"Look at the picture I drew!" Paul says.
Castiel always regards it with interest. "It's very nice, Paul." He even says that when Paul has drawn him, a mere scribble of what could be a man in a trench coat, but may also be a giraffe.
My son is adorable. The cutest child ever. Even when he tries to help Mommy make scrambled eggs and salts them enough for twenty people. He was learning his ABCs at the time and spelled them out with the salt... twice. Dean won the Olympic sprint to the sink for more water after we all took our first bite. Being the indulgent parent that I am, I just grabbed Paul up and tickled him 'til he kicked his legs and screamed laughter, nearly peeing his pants.
Winters are fun. Dean and I had traveled through many cities as children where it snowed all winter, and even got to have a little fun in these places sometimes, but now we had months and months of snow in which to play. We also got to see it through Paul's eyes. The absolute wonder on his face as he looked over a whole front yard of undisturbed snow, it's white glow reflected in his eyes... what a magical thing to watch. Dean would take his mittened hand and tell him he could be first to walk through it, with his uncle at his side. When they reached the opposite end of the yard, they would lie down and make "Snow Castiels."
Each year, Dean would get Paul and they'd make a fort out of snow, then stockpile their weapons and wait for Daddy to come home so they could ambush me. I would pretend I didn't see them until the barrage of slushy cold balls started hitting my face. Then it was on! Many times, Tress would come outside to call us all to dinner, and we'd be wet and cold but laughing our heads off. It wasn't winter until we had our first snowball fight, and I had the pleasure of stuffing one down Tress's shirt, just to hear her scream laughter. Paul would usually lose a mitten and we'd be out there past dark looking for it. There was always a hot dinner waiting for us inside, where our wet clothes could dry off by the fire.
Sounds like a Norman Rockwell painting. It was something we thought we'd never have.
Of course, the most fun was when Castiel would show up. You'd think after a couple years of us sneaking up on him and pulverizing him with snowballs that he'd stop looking confused about why we were doing it, but no such luck. The first few times it happened, he would just stand there like a flagpole and be hit with one wet, exploding projectile after another, looking around at us, perplexed.
"What was that?" he would ask.
"We just had a snowball fight," I would reply.
"Did I win?"
Eventually, Cas attempted to join in. While Dean ran around him, laughing, Castiel bent over and began to collect snow to make into a ball. The only problem was, he didn't know when to stop.
Dean paused to look at the misshapen, oversized lump in Castiel's hands. "And just what are you going to do with that thing?"
With renewed confidence, Castiel said, "I'm going to throw it at you."
"Fuck no, you're not throwing that mutant snowball at me."
The funniest thing was that Cas didn't listen, and tried to lob the heavy glob of snow and ice at Dean's chest. It made contact but rolled down Dean's coat, landing with a plop on his shoe. The snowball practically buried his foot, even, it was that big.
Dean and Cas looked at each other for a moment, Dean with that exasperated stare he seems to use most on me and the angel. Then Castiel said, "I enjoyed that," in his usual deadpan tone.
Dean just nodded. "I bet you did."
And of course, there had to be a snowman. Paul often asked Castiel if we could borrow his coat for it.
"Why?" Cas asked the first time.
"So it looks more like a person," Paul said. "And he's cold."
"He's a snowman, he's supposed to be cold," Dean pointed out.
This didn't satisfy Paul; he still looked up at Cas with pleading eyes.
Cas took off his trench coat and handed it to Dean. "Sure, you can use it."
By the time we had the coat buttoned around the snowman, Castiel already had another trench coat on. "How did you do that?" I asked.
Cas just shrugged. It's an angel thing.
When spring would come, we'd prepare for Daddy and Paul's birthdays, which weren't that far apart. It was then that I discovered, to my great dismay, that my son loves clowns. Oh, this was just wonderful. I hate clowns. In fact, I'm terrified of them. Maybe it's the fake, painted smiles, or the big red noses... or maybe it has something to do with the creepy animatronic clown dolls at Plucky Pennywhistle's, I don't know. Just wait until Paul sees Poltergeist; that may change his mind.
Anyway, as soon as my son saw the inside of Plucky's, he was screaming to have his birthday party there. Oh joy. But I'm his father, and I have to be brave for my little man. Cake, had a clown on it. With balloons. Balloons, had clowns on them too. Plucky's had a clown come over to entertain Paul and his guests. Even the wrapping paper on Paul's gift from us had clowns on it. Clowns, clowns, everywhere. These are the sacrifices you have to make for your child.
I just tried to ignore them, and watched Paul play in the ball pit. Dean and I ran around outside the pit while Paul pretended to shoot us and we pretended to be shot, grabbing our chests and falling down while he laughed and laughed at us. Michelle's kids got in on the act; Dean and I spent most of the afternoon being shot with finger guns and daring the kids to throw plastic balls at our faces (which were safe on the other side of a net wall, except when Michelle's youngest got me in the nose). By the end of the day, we were almost too tired to walk, but Paul was the one who got carried home.
That happened on our annual trips to the state fair as well. The Big East, they call it. We'd drive to West Springfield and get a hotel for the weekend, and have the time of our lives. It may have been just as fun to watch the wonder of discovery in Castiel's eyes as it was to see it in Paul's. The colorful lights, the sound of the midway, the nightly Mardi Gras parade... I couldn't carry Cas on my shoulders like I did my son, but he still saw plenty to make him curious.
I remember standing there on the midway with streams of people moving around us, Paul in his mother's arms, perched on her hip, and watching Cas as he listened to the abundance of noise around him. People screaming on the roller coaster, carnival barkers calling out to passerbys to try to bring them in to play their games, the dings and beeps of the racing game next to us, and scores of people laughing and talking and taking pictures with their old-fashioned cameras (at least, they were old-fashioned to us).
He looked at me. "Why do they ride the roller coaster if it makes them scream?"
"'Cause it's scary," Dean replied. "In a fun way."
I nodded.
"May I try it?"
Maybe Paul was a little young for the roller coaster yet; he spent the entire ride with his face hidden in his mother's side, but Cas seemed to be able to handle it. Tress, Paul, and I were in the car behind Dean and Cas. I spent the entire ride screaming in glee, rubbing Paul's arm, and laughing at Castiel's reactions. Good times.
On the way down the first hill, Dean raised his arms and hooted and hollered in delight, which made Cas look at him sharply. He yelled to be heard over the other screaming coaster riders. "This feeling of having your stomach in your throat is fun?"
"Yeah!" Dean called back. "Weeeee!"
When we careened down the second hill, Cas looked at Dean and said, "Wee?" And he deadpanned it.
Tress and I laughed ourselves silly.
"Very good, Cas!" Dean replied, and added, "Weeeeee."
Walking out of the roller coaster pavilon, Cas saw that Paul was rubbing his eyes (the ride made him cry) and took his little hand. "I didn't like it much either, Paul," he said, and walked him toward the cotton candy stand.
The cotton candy made Paul forget how scary he'd found the roller coaster. Soft, sticky, pink filaments made of pure sugar will do that. We got a blue one for Cas. He tried to pull some off the cardboard tube, but came away with a glob bigger than his hand. "It all sticks together," he remarked.
Dean helped him get a more manageable piece, and he ate it, considering it thoughtfully. "It melts on my tongue before I can really chew it," Cas said. He licked his lips. "Is it supposed to do that?"
He deemed cotton candy "very interesting." I don't know why Cas ate anything during our visits to the fair; he didn't need food. Maybe it was curiosity, a desire to experience what it was like to be human.
Paul just gobbled up the cotton candy, then licked the sugar off his fingers. My son, the sweets freak.
That was nothing compared to Cas on the bumper cars. Tress and Paul got their own car, Dean got his, and I got mine... and then there was Castiel in a car by himself as well. At first, he couldn't figure out how to operate it, and Dean kept deliberately crashing into him with a gleeful snicker.
"Just trying to get him going," he declared.
Brow furrowed, Cas glared back at Dean. "I don't think you should bump into me on purpose. In fact, none of these people should be doing that." He indicated the other drivers with a sweep of his arm. "Someone could get hurt."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas, if we didn't hit each other on purpose, then they wouldn't be bumper cars. They'd be Avoiding Shit cars."
"Oh."
Second time around, we showed Castiel how to use his bumper car, and he had a lot more fun with it, going after Dean and bumping his car with enthusiasm. But, he didn't fully understand that part of the point of bumper cars is to surprise your target.
"I'm about to hit your car, Sam," he announced, and bumped me.
"Thanks for the warning, Cas."
When he went after Dean, it turned into an episode of Innuendo Theatre. "Dean, I am coming up behind you, about to ram your rear end."
Tress skidded to one side in her car and looked back, her mouth open in a big, surprised O.
You could just hear Dean doing a slow burn in the tone of his voice. "Don't say stuff like that, Cas. You're not supposed to tell me you're about to hit my car. Especially not - "
"Look out for me, Dean. I am coming up your rear."
"Cas!" His face turned red.
Tress doubled over with loud giggles; she laughed so hard she snorted. I couldn't help but laugh too.
Paul looked from one adult to the other. "What's so funny, Mommy?"
To this day, I still don't know if Cas was aware of the implied meaning behind what he was saying. It's not like I'm going to ask him.
At the end of the day, we were all so tired, but it was the best kind of tired. Not Castiel though; angels don't get worn out, not from two corn dogs, cotton candy, and a funnel cake, anyway. While Tress carried the stuffed animals we won for Paul (and her - I had to win a big blue hound dog for my lady), I carried a sleeping Paul out of the fair, his head conked out on my shoulder.
We did this every year. They were always some of the finest days of my life.
*****
On to Chapter 12
Fandoms: Supernatural/Miracles X-over
Pairings: Sam Winchester/Theresa Callan, Dean/OFC
Rating: Adult (R)
Word Count: 24,055 total
Warnings: A few Het sex scenes that are graphic in an R-rated way. Language. Brief drug references. Sequel to " The Apostle of Tarsus Chps 1-7."
Summary: Sometimes, when I think of what Castiel did to us, I want to kill him. But most days, I thank him.
Chapter 10: The Return
Word Count: 3,542
The doctor's office agreed to fit us in the next morning. Absolutely nothing on the sonogram looked abnormal. We were certainly relieved to hear it.
I watched Mrs. Callan as she looked at the sonogram; she was the picture of a loving grandmother, with a little smile on her face and pride in her eyes. She spent the next week with us, helping us pack, fussing over Tress, and lightly scolding Dean on a daily basis about straightening up and flying right. Almost every morning, she would put her hand on Tress's stomach and they would sing a hymn to the baby together, usually "Jesus Loves Me." It warmed my heart to see Tress get to spend all that quality time with her mother, especially after they had been estranged.
Mrs. Callan eventually went home, after promising to return for Paul's birth. She even spoke of moving closer to us. In some ways, oh joy, my mother-in-law living right around the corner. In other ways, it would be great for Tress and Paul, so I didn't complain or object. A large extended family wasn't something I ever had. It was definitely something I wanted for my son.
We moved into the bigger apartment shortly after, but kept the hotel room for whenever we needed it. It would make a good meeting place for hunter business. Sometime after Paul was born, we planned to get back into hunting, but only on a very part-time basis, and very local. Paul would have as much stability and normality as possible. We couldn't give it up entirely, though, knowing what was out there. Tress gave me a smile and nodded her head at the idea, but I could tell it made her nervous, us hunting again. Hunting put us in danger. She would stand there with her arms crossed, fingers rubbing nervously at her bare elbows, and tell me she understood whole-heartedly, but I could tell by the worried look in her eyes that she wished we could put all this hunting and angel business behind us forever.
We couldn't, though, not with an Apocalypse looming in the future. Who knew if, or when, Lucifer would figure out where we had gone.
Our son was born on May 23, 1973, a week early. I became the total cliché of a worried but proud father, dropping my busboy tray into the sink when I got the call, tossing aside my apron and rushing to the hospital, where I paced the waiting room until they would let me in to see my wife. Tress told me to call her mother; she hadn't been able to get a hold of her, so I did. Mrs. Callan said she would get in her car and drive out immediately in hopes she would arrive in time for the actual birth.
Things were done differently back in 1973. I did not get to be in the room with Tress while Paul was being born. Instead, Dean and I had to wait until they brought Paul up to a window in a basinet, his little pink fist waving and mouth open in a mighty yawn. He had my dark brown hair, but his mother's eyes. Dean and I made funny faces through the glass. Paul found us terribly boring, and took a nap.
Mrs. Callan hadn't arrived yet. I wanted her to be able to see some of what she'd missed, so Dean and I took lots of pictures once Tress was back in her hospital room. They brought Paul in to nurse and for family time every few hours, and I think we nearly blinded both Tress and the baby with all the flashbulbs we went through. Both did a lot of sleeping.
At one point, when Tress and Paul were conked out together, it was very quiet in the hospital room, and I took the time to just survey my beautiful little family and give thanks for them.
Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Sammy." His eyes were glistening. "You've got a gorgeous family here."
I nodded. "I was just thinking the same thing."
Even Castiel came for a visit. He hadn't been around for a couple months, always looking after angel and Apocalypse-related business. I let him hold Paul, and the baby promptly spit up on him, which was comical, given the uncomfortable look on his face afterward.
Before he left, Castiel looked down at me, sitting with Paul napping on my shoulder, and said, "Sam, tell Theresa I'm very sorry." His face showed great sorrow. There's something about how his eyelids droop when he feels bad that always gets to me. "There was nothing I could do to stop it."
I looked up. "Stop what?"
Boop, Castiel was gone.
Dean and I looked at each other, a pit of dread settling into each of our stomachs. "What did he mean by that?" I said, beginning to panic.
A few seconds later, a Massachusetts highway patrol officer walked into our room, his hat in his hands. "Are you Mr. Winchester?"
I woke Tress up, and handed Paul to his uncle. I already knew this was going to be bad.
"Ma'am, I have bad news about your mother, Patricia Callan," the highway patrolman began.
"What is it?" Tress asked, alarm creeping into her voice. "She's coming to see the baby. Is she hurt?"
The man looked almost as sorrowful as Castiel. "I regret to inform you that your mother was killed in a head-on collision on I-90 about three hours ago. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner, but we had some trouble finding you."
I sat on the edge of Tress's bed and put my arm around her shoulders. She had gasped when the highway patrolman said her mother had been killed, and now she wore a perpetual look of anguish, almost betrayal. Here, she had the chance to continue to mend fences with her mom, and for her mother to see her only grandchild, and both possibilities had been torn from her on a day that should have been nothing but joyous. It was so cruel, so unfair. "We were here. We just had a baby. My mother is - she's coming to see him," Tress said. Her voice shook with impending tears. "She..." Tress put the back of her hand to her mouth.
"What happened?" I asked.
The highway patrolman said that they weren't sure, that there would be an investigation, but that the driver of the other car had swerved in front of Mrs. Callan and crashed into her. It was as simple and tragic as that. Maybe he had been drunk, maybe he had fallen asleep, they would determine that eventually. "I'm sorry for your loss, especially on such a day as this," he said, and left.
Tress had held it together that long; she now burst into tears, wailing with mournful sobs into my chest. I held her, trying to comfort her. "I'm sorry, baby," I said. "I know you wanted your mother to be a part of this so badly."
A few seconds later, Paul began to cry. Dean rocked him gently in his arms, talking to him, but the baby could not be consoled.
It hit me then: My son was a projective empath, just like Tress. His mother's grief had set him off and he wasn't even a day old. I knew as soon as I felt those raw emotions reverberating inside my head that they were coming from Paul.
It also hit me then that this is why, without me there, Paul wound up in an orphanage. His grandmother had been the last living relative of Tress's side of the family who could have taken him in if Tress died. There was nothing any of us could have done to stop Mrs. Callan's death. No one knew it was going to happen, not even Castiel.
Sometimes, I think it must be hard to be an angel. To sense deaths as they happen, and even with all that power, not be able to stop it. That helpless feeling is all part of being human.
Even for non-humans.
*****
The old saying goes that time flies when you're having fun. In a way, it does, but it also slows to a crawl, trots rhythmically like a horse, and walks at a nice, steady pace. Children sprout up like weeds, but they also seem to stay little forever. You don't realize how much your child is growing until you start looking through the photographs you've taken over time. It just seems to happen.
For a long, beautiful time, Paul remained small enough to fit on my chest, and I'd lay him there on his stomach and let him sleep. Sometimes I'd stroke his back and kiss his little head, and just look at him while we all relaxed after dinner. Those simple times were some of the best of my life. We were all so happy.
On July 28, 1973, Dean and Tress drove to New York to see Led Zeppelin in concert, just as Dean had wanted. To not only see his idols play live, but to be a part of his favorite concert film. I'm not sure I've ever seen his face light up like that. All dancing eyes and wide smile full of teeth, like someone had slipped him the strongest euphoria pill ever made. It did my heart good.
Even so, I did not pass up the chance to remind my brother that even though he was there to see Led Zeppelin in concert as many times as he wanted, he would also be there for the rise of disco.
We did the best we could to make the most of the 1970s, but it was when we realized what we had left behind that sometimes, the blues came by for a temporary sit-in. So many modern conveniences that wouldn't be invented for years... but when Dean and Tress left that night, and it was just Daddy and Paul, the 1970s became 100% worthwhile again. I could never get enough of just watching him drool all over his rattle as he sucked on it, or feeling him squeeze my finger when I offered it to him. He was my little man.
Often, the differences between how Tress and I had grown up became comical. She had no idea what a CD was. When I found one among the things in the Impala's trunk, she looked it over curiously.
"It's much smaller than a record," Tress remarked. "And where are the grooves? I don't think I see any here..."
"CDs work differently than a record."
"Oh. Can we play it?" She tried to put the CD on the turntable of her stereo.
I couldn't help it, I laughed very hard at that.
We played Dean's cassettes for her, amused at her reaction to some of the bands. To Metallica, Tress plugged her ears and scowled. "What are they so angry about?" she asked. Dean would have to enjoy them alone. Many of the classic rock bands, she liked, even the ones who wouldn't form for several more years. Dean made the mistake of playing Van Halen's "Running with the Devil" for her, which she rejected just from the title alone, and swore off Van Halen forever. Woops. Considering myself being the vessel of Lucifer had almost broken Tress and I up for good, I guess Dean should have thought that one through.
Tress was one of those women who preferred to make love to music. Led Zeppelin definitely would've been included on our lovemaking soundtrack, but Tress liked songs by Heart for that, too. When there were quiet moments... Dean was out for the night... Paul had gone to sleep, she would play "Crazy on You" and I'd practically become aroused on command. I know it's corny as heck, but Tress liked to call me her "big strong handsome man" before pulling me down on top of her, and that turned me on like nobody's business. That's how things are when you love someone, when you're married to them... little things that once seemed silly to you can take on new meaning when they say it.
As she previously pointed out to me, Tress was Catholic, and didn't believe in birth control. I thought we would have another child, hoped for it, in fact. It would be nice for Paul to have a little sister, and it would throw more water on Castiel's fire over us tempting fate. But, Tress did not get pregnant again. I don't know if the angels messed with our chemistry to make sure we wouldn't have another child, or if it was just the luck of the draw. Seemed to me that some of the angels would like it if we made another Seraph condom. It just never happened.
Castiel came around every few days to check up on my family, making sure Lucifer hadn't found us, watching over Paul, that sort of thing. One night, he caught us in the middle of making dinner, with the stereo playing some Rolling Stones. Tress, with a glass of wine in her, tried to teach him how to dance. It was comical, to say the least.
"You've got to feel the music. Move your hips to the beat," she said.
Castiel watched her shimmy back and forth for a brief time, then woodenly moved his hips from side to side a little. He was too busy concentrating to notice Dean and I snickering at him.
"Oh come on, you can't be feeling this song if you're moving like that!" Tress exaggerated her movements as a demonstration of how crazy Cas should be going in reaction to the song, gyrating her arms and whipping her head around.
Cas stared at her, looking quite bewildered. How many times had we seen those eyebrows furrowed like that? Dean and I were having a hard time not laughing out loud.
When he didn't react, Tress bumped his hip pretty hard with her own. "Get with it, Cas!" she cried, and danced toward me with a playful look in her eyes.
That was something Castiel seemed to understand. He followed her across the room and bumped her in the backside, hard enough to knock her over. If I hadn't been there to catch her, she would have gone face first into Paul's playpen.
Paul, being in the playpen, began to giggle.
We all laughed. Tress looked back at Castiel, who didn't seem to understand what was so funny. "That's good, Cas, but you want to hold back a little," she said.
"Yeah Cas, this isn't a mosh pit," Dean added.
Now Tress looked confused. "Mosh pit?"
*****
At first, the doctor wanted Tress to have an EEG every three months. If anything strange was detected, he would order a PEG. It frustrated me that CAT scans and MRIs weren't readily available; I didn't have any way of knowing if they had even been invented yet. If they had, they weren't in wide use. One thing I did remember from science class is that they were much better diagnostic tools than what we had to work with in this time period. I also knew that eventually, when the brain tumor did not return, the doctor would stop ordering the tests. The looming threat of 1978 would make me crazy, knowing that. But I tried to put it out of my mind for the time being. We would figure something out when the time came. As things were, the tumor had not returned.
Something else, though, did return.
Paul would turn six months old on November 23, 1973. Don't think that we weren't afraid something would happen on that night, with our family's track record. But, would it be a demon... or would the Seraph come back?
Dean and I prepared as best we could. We drew Devil's Traps on tarps and laid them out in every bedroom, near the entrances (drawing on the rug would result in too many breaks in the traps, what with carpeting being the way it is; besides, doing that would ensure we'd never get our cleaning deposit back). We made a couple of those holy oil Molotov cocktails in case the Seraph came and needed to be sent back to Heaven in a hurry. There was no way we could know who would come, if they would come, or what would happen.
The only thing we could do was wait.
Tress had a hard time getting to sleep, but I encouraged her to do so, as she just might get in our way otherwise. I didn't say it like that to her, but it was true - she wasn't a hunter, and never would be. Dean and I stayed awake and watched over Tress and Paul while they slept; the fact that we were currently keeping Paul's crib in the bedroom with us certainly helped.
It was the Seraph who came that night.
One second, Dean and I were alone with our sleeping charges. The next, there was a woman in the room, one with dark hair. I instantly felt almost fixed to the floor. My feet moved sluggishly and my head filled with this overwhelming buzzing sound. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but wasn't exactly pleasurable, either. The alternating feelings moved in waves. I could see that Dean was moving slowly as well; he looked like he was in a trance. Being in the presence of this angel proved to be quite a different experience than our previous interactions.
The Seraph looked at me with eyes that were no longer there, just eye sockets with ice blue light within them. The woman's skin glowed, and I could feel warmth coming off her, strong warmth. "Do not interfere," the Seraph said. It's voice was so alien and so human at the same time, I'm not sure I could ever describe it. Musical, but it also bore into my brain. This being was virtual poetry and certain, horrific death at the same time. "There is little time, and I must prepare my vessel," it finished, and moved toward Paul's crib.
I sluggishly raised my hand in protest. "Please... don't hurt... my baby..." I forced out.
In a tone that sounded almost offended, the Seraph replied, "I would never hurt my vessel," and went to the side of the crib.
Dean tried to light the rag hanging out of one of the Molotov cocktails, but he could hardly move. "What... are you... going... to do?" he asked.
The Seraph put a hand to its eye and brushed away a large drop of ice blue liquid. This, it brought to Paul's lips. He kicked his little legs and accepted the liquid like it was nourishing mother's milk, sucking the Seraph's finger greedily.
"What is that?" I said. The heat coming off the Seraph was growing at a rapid rate, and it began to be too hot to stand. Sweat broke out on my forehead. "What did you... feed him? Your grace?"
"No." The Seraph turned to me, and already the body it was in was catching fire, burning from the inside out. "My tears," it said, and the woman it had used for a vessel turned to ash in a flash of holy fire. The ashes fell into a pile next to Paul's crib.
Suddenly, Dean and I could move again. It was so abrupt that we both almost lost our footing and fell down. I wondered how the man in Houston had ever been able to shoot Tress when the Seraph had such power. I went straight to the crib and scooped Paul up, holding him close out of fear. We had been so helpless; the Seraph could have done whatever it wanted.
Tress sat up on her elbow. "What's going on?"
It amazed me that she could have slept through that whole thing, but then again, the Seraph probably arranged it. I told her what had happened, and she jumped out of bed to check Paul over, to make sure he was okay. But it was as the angel said - it hadn't come there to hurt Paul, only to prepare him.
Dean gingerly touched the ashes with the toe of his shoe. "I guess the Seraph used the most convenient vessel it could find, for as long as it would hold out." He wrinkled his nose at the smell of burned hair. "Poor woman."
It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had, the visit from the Seraph. I'm not sure I could adequately describe what it was like to be in its presence. Like the whole room was filled with molasses and we were trying to move through it.
Two months later, we rented a three-bedroom house and moved in. It would be our home until the Seraph came again.
*****
Chapter 11: Turn the Page
Word Count: 3,865
As it is with all families, we lived, we loved, we fought, we watched time pass, and we built a thousand beautiful memories as the years wore on toward 1978. It was a looming threat for a while, but that eventually changed. I made sure Tress kept up with her appointments, her check-ups, which became less and less as the years passed. The doctor sometimes furrowed his brow at me for insisting that we keep looking for another brain tumor even after Tress had been cancer free for years, but he didn't know what I knew, and I could never explain it to him.
Sometime after we moved into the house, Dean and I started hunting again. We had done it for so many years that it was a part of us, something that came as natural as breathing and loving one another. With our jobs and family, we couldn't take off as much as we used to, but we were always scouring the paper for strange deaths, and when one would come up in the area, we'd spend a couple days looking into it. Just Dean and me, in the Impala, driving an hour out of town or so, music playing on the stereo and my arm out the window, feeling the breeze whisk by... as it had always been. Castiel would often show up and help, or stay behind and watch over Paul and Tress. She didn't like it when we came home hurt, but Tress understood why we had to do it, and she'd fuss over our injuries and kiss my "booboos" every time.
Once, though, we had a big fight about it. Something got Tress in a bad humor and she suddenly became afraid the prophecy of 1978 would come true. "What if I do get cancer again and I die? What would happen to Paul then if one of these evil beings killed you on a hunt? Maybe you shouldn't go."
It took a good hour of more arguing, but I finally convinced her that these awful things were not going to happen, that Paul would never be left alone. So far, I've been able to keep that promise - Paul is not alone. I am not a prophet, though. After a while, I became convinced that my and Dean's presence had somehow changed fate.
I mentioned before that music was an important part of our relationship. I neglected to talk about Journey, and "Faithfully." There were Journey tapes from the 1980s that we'd brought back with us, the ones with Steve Perry on vocals, and I think they were Tress's favorite of the music we introduced her to, next to Heart. Besides the usual songs featuring Perry's crazy vocal range that made women swoon, Tress loved "Faithfully," so much that I would say she cherished the tune.
She said it was about us.
I could see that, upon rereading the lyrics. Except that the man in the song spent a lot more time on the road than I did in those days. When I brought that up to her, Tress frowned at me a little and looked out the window, falling silent. I tried to draw her out, and it took a while, but she finally explained her feelings to me.
I love my family. Nothing will ever change that. I will do whatever is needed to take care of them. If that means working a job, making a home for them, and spending the bulk of my time with them, then that's what I will do. But Tress is right. There is a part of me that will always be on the road. No matter how much I want to pretend that I can escape the hunting life completely, deep down I know I can't.
I grew up on the road.
"I know that you love me and Paul, so don't think I'm saying that you don't," Tress had said that night. "But there's always going to be... a little distance there. You'll always be a little distant and distracted because a part of you is used to being out there, all the time. You and your brother. Some nights, you two sit out on the porch drinking beer and just stare into the distance. Sometimes, you tell each other stories from your past. I can see it in your eyes, how you're examining the night, listening to every sound. Looking for omens. Waiting for things to turn ominous. And then, it doesn't happen, and I call you in for bed because you've lost track of time." Her eyes were a little sad when she spoke these words. "Most nights, I stay in here and do my own thing because I... I don't know, I just... I feel out of place with you two on the porch. I could never understand."
At the time, I had hugged Tress and tried to reassure her that she had no reason to feel awkward about sitting on the porch with us, but I knew there was more to it than that, and I knew the distance really was there and always would be. Two people can love each other with all their hearts, but it doesn't mean they can share every last feeling or experience with each other. It doesn't even mean that they should.
Tress reassured me that she knew that by again explaining why the song was important to her. "It's alright, Sam," she said, stroking my back. "It's like Journey says in that song. You may occasionally go off on hunting trips for real, and sometimes only in your mind, but you always come back to me." She wrapped her arms around my chest. "You're forever mine, faithfully."
I knew it was all true as soon as Tress brought it up. Jess had said something almost exactly like it about six months into our relationship. The distance was there then too, except Jess never knew why. I think I'll always wish that I could have told her the truth before she was killed. As the first woman I ever loved, I owed her that.
*****
Paul grew from a tiny, pudgy baby lying on my chest to an energetic little boy who loved to cuddle up to his parents or uncle and be read a storybook every night. "Do all the voices!" he would demand. Dean was the best at it. He somehow made the voice of each character sound different. Paul would clap his little hands and say, "Read it again!" until we had to cut him off, or he'd never get to sleep. Of course, Dean always got suckered into reading stories the most times out of all of us. He still does.
Paul's first word was "Dada." His second was "Cookie."
Oh, he loves cookies. Virtual cookie fiend, that one. From the time he could cram a pudgy fist full of cookie into his mouth and drool all over it until it became soft enough to gum into pieces he could swallow, 'til now, when he has enough teeth to bite an Oreo in half, he has loved cookies. I remember once when he was three, we all went to the grocery store, and Paul rode in the cart with his stuffed bunny Booboo (Booboo Bunny, as he was commonly known, because he always kissed Paul's booboos right after Mommy or Daddy or Uncle Dean). Suddenly, I heard Paul's little voice singing a song about something he wanted us to buy.
"Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!" he sang. A song he made up on the spot. And holy crap, are kids tenacious. Paul's lungs never seem to give out when he makes up one of these "please buy me this" songs. As if to demonstrate, he sang the tune halfway across the store. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
"Paul, that's enough," Tress chided. "We get the picture."
He stopped for a full minute. Then started up again, tentatively. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
By the time we got to the cookie and cracker aisle, Dean had joined in. "Please buy cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
"Don't encourage the child," I said.
"Oreos, please," Dean replied.
It never fails to make my heart soar with love and fondness while I watch Dean interact with his nephew. He loves that kid so much, almost as much as I do. He'd do anything for Paul, sacrifice anything, become anything. Because Dean is his uncle and not his father, he also lets Paul get away with murder and often acts as his partner in mischief. Sometimes I think Tress got madder at Dean than she did at Paul when she found another art project on the wall that Dean had obviously helped with, being that the little crayon people had word balloons coming out of their mouths with phrases like, "Hiya, turdface!" and "Make me some pancakes, sweetheart!" Paul is still learning to read; he certainly can't write stuff like that, even if Dean says it to him. I watch Dean give my son another piggie-back ride or spin him around by his arms until he's ready to throw up, and all Paul has to do is cry, "Again!" and Dean's back up, spinning him in another dizzying circle, and I know that Paul will never want for love, even if I am killed on a hunt. Paul will always have family. He will never be that lonely little boy who grew up in an orphanage.
And although Castiel has different ways of showing it, I know he loves Paul too. There didn't seem to be much actual danger from demons and angels back then, save for the visits from the Seraph, but Cas still came around on a regular basis to check up on us and make sure we were safe. He often watches Paul play with a tiny smile on his face, and strokes Paul's hair when he runs by. Paul will even cry, "Castiel!" when he sees him, and run at him for a big hug, like he does with everyone he's excited to see. Cas kneels down and opens his arms to receive him, then takes his little hand and allows Paul to lead him wherever he wants to go.
"Look at the picture I drew!" Paul says.
Castiel always regards it with interest. "It's very nice, Paul." He even says that when Paul has drawn him, a mere scribble of what could be a man in a trench coat, but may also be a giraffe.
My son is adorable. The cutest child ever. Even when he tries to help Mommy make scrambled eggs and salts them enough for twenty people. He was learning his ABCs at the time and spelled them out with the salt... twice. Dean won the Olympic sprint to the sink for more water after we all took our first bite. Being the indulgent parent that I am, I just grabbed Paul up and tickled him 'til he kicked his legs and screamed laughter, nearly peeing his pants.
Winters are fun. Dean and I had traveled through many cities as children where it snowed all winter, and even got to have a little fun in these places sometimes, but now we had months and months of snow in which to play. We also got to see it through Paul's eyes. The absolute wonder on his face as he looked over a whole front yard of undisturbed snow, it's white glow reflected in his eyes... what a magical thing to watch. Dean would take his mittened hand and tell him he could be first to walk through it, with his uncle at his side. When they reached the opposite end of the yard, they would lie down and make "Snow Castiels."
Each year, Dean would get Paul and they'd make a fort out of snow, then stockpile their weapons and wait for Daddy to come home so they could ambush me. I would pretend I didn't see them until the barrage of slushy cold balls started hitting my face. Then it was on! Many times, Tress would come outside to call us all to dinner, and we'd be wet and cold but laughing our heads off. It wasn't winter until we had our first snowball fight, and I had the pleasure of stuffing one down Tress's shirt, just to hear her scream laughter. Paul would usually lose a mitten and we'd be out there past dark looking for it. There was always a hot dinner waiting for us inside, where our wet clothes could dry off by the fire.
Sounds like a Norman Rockwell painting. It was something we thought we'd never have.
Of course, the most fun was when Castiel would show up. You'd think after a couple years of us sneaking up on him and pulverizing him with snowballs that he'd stop looking confused about why we were doing it, but no such luck. The first few times it happened, he would just stand there like a flagpole and be hit with one wet, exploding projectile after another, looking around at us, perplexed.
"What was that?" he would ask.
"We just had a snowball fight," I would reply.
"Did I win?"
Eventually, Cas attempted to join in. While Dean ran around him, laughing, Castiel bent over and began to collect snow to make into a ball. The only problem was, he didn't know when to stop.
Dean paused to look at the misshapen, oversized lump in Castiel's hands. "And just what are you going to do with that thing?"
With renewed confidence, Castiel said, "I'm going to throw it at you."
"Fuck no, you're not throwing that mutant snowball at me."
The funniest thing was that Cas didn't listen, and tried to lob the heavy glob of snow and ice at Dean's chest. It made contact but rolled down Dean's coat, landing with a plop on his shoe. The snowball practically buried his foot, even, it was that big.
Dean and Cas looked at each other for a moment, Dean with that exasperated stare he seems to use most on me and the angel. Then Castiel said, "I enjoyed that," in his usual deadpan tone.
Dean just nodded. "I bet you did."
And of course, there had to be a snowman. Paul often asked Castiel if we could borrow his coat for it.
"Why?" Cas asked the first time.
"So it looks more like a person," Paul said. "And he's cold."
"He's a snowman, he's supposed to be cold," Dean pointed out.
This didn't satisfy Paul; he still looked up at Cas with pleading eyes.
Cas took off his trench coat and handed it to Dean. "Sure, you can use it."
By the time we had the coat buttoned around the snowman, Castiel already had another trench coat on. "How did you do that?" I asked.
Cas just shrugged. It's an angel thing.
When spring would come, we'd prepare for Daddy and Paul's birthdays, which weren't that far apart. It was then that I discovered, to my great dismay, that my son loves clowns. Oh, this was just wonderful. I hate clowns. In fact, I'm terrified of them. Maybe it's the fake, painted smiles, or the big red noses... or maybe it has something to do with the creepy animatronic clown dolls at Plucky Pennywhistle's, I don't know. Just wait until Paul sees Poltergeist; that may change his mind.
Anyway, as soon as my son saw the inside of Plucky's, he was screaming to have his birthday party there. Oh joy. But I'm his father, and I have to be brave for my little man. Cake, had a clown on it. With balloons. Balloons, had clowns on them too. Plucky's had a clown come over to entertain Paul and his guests. Even the wrapping paper on Paul's gift from us had clowns on it. Clowns, clowns, everywhere. These are the sacrifices you have to make for your child.
I just tried to ignore them, and watched Paul play in the ball pit. Dean and I ran around outside the pit while Paul pretended to shoot us and we pretended to be shot, grabbing our chests and falling down while he laughed and laughed at us. Michelle's kids got in on the act; Dean and I spent most of the afternoon being shot with finger guns and daring the kids to throw plastic balls at our faces (which were safe on the other side of a net wall, except when Michelle's youngest got me in the nose). By the end of the day, we were almost too tired to walk, but Paul was the one who got carried home.
That happened on our annual trips to the state fair as well. The Big East, they call it. We'd drive to West Springfield and get a hotel for the weekend, and have the time of our lives. It may have been just as fun to watch the wonder of discovery in Castiel's eyes as it was to see it in Paul's. The colorful lights, the sound of the midway, the nightly Mardi Gras parade... I couldn't carry Cas on my shoulders like I did my son, but he still saw plenty to make him curious.
I remember standing there on the midway with streams of people moving around us, Paul in his mother's arms, perched on her hip, and watching Cas as he listened to the abundance of noise around him. People screaming on the roller coaster, carnival barkers calling out to passerbys to try to bring them in to play their games, the dings and beeps of the racing game next to us, and scores of people laughing and talking and taking pictures with their old-fashioned cameras (at least, they were old-fashioned to us).
He looked at me. "Why do they ride the roller coaster if it makes them scream?"
"'Cause it's scary," Dean replied. "In a fun way."
I nodded.
"May I try it?"
Maybe Paul was a little young for the roller coaster yet; he spent the entire ride with his face hidden in his mother's side, but Cas seemed to be able to handle it. Tress, Paul, and I were in the car behind Dean and Cas. I spent the entire ride screaming in glee, rubbing Paul's arm, and laughing at Castiel's reactions. Good times.
On the way down the first hill, Dean raised his arms and hooted and hollered in delight, which made Cas look at him sharply. He yelled to be heard over the other screaming coaster riders. "This feeling of having your stomach in your throat is fun?"
"Yeah!" Dean called back. "Weeeee!"
When we careened down the second hill, Cas looked at Dean and said, "Wee?" And he deadpanned it.
Tress and I laughed ourselves silly.
"Very good, Cas!" Dean replied, and added, "Weeeeee."
Walking out of the roller coaster pavilon, Cas saw that Paul was rubbing his eyes (the ride made him cry) and took his little hand. "I didn't like it much either, Paul," he said, and walked him toward the cotton candy stand.
The cotton candy made Paul forget how scary he'd found the roller coaster. Soft, sticky, pink filaments made of pure sugar will do that. We got a blue one for Cas. He tried to pull some off the cardboard tube, but came away with a glob bigger than his hand. "It all sticks together," he remarked.
Dean helped him get a more manageable piece, and he ate it, considering it thoughtfully. "It melts on my tongue before I can really chew it," Cas said. He licked his lips. "Is it supposed to do that?"
He deemed cotton candy "very interesting." I don't know why Cas ate anything during our visits to the fair; he didn't need food. Maybe it was curiosity, a desire to experience what it was like to be human.
Paul just gobbled up the cotton candy, then licked the sugar off his fingers. My son, the sweets freak.
That was nothing compared to Cas on the bumper cars. Tress and Paul got their own car, Dean got his, and I got mine... and then there was Castiel in a car by himself as well. At first, he couldn't figure out how to operate it, and Dean kept deliberately crashing into him with a gleeful snicker.
"Just trying to get him going," he declared.
Brow furrowed, Cas glared back at Dean. "I don't think you should bump into me on purpose. In fact, none of these people should be doing that." He indicated the other drivers with a sweep of his arm. "Someone could get hurt."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas, if we didn't hit each other on purpose, then they wouldn't be bumper cars. They'd be Avoiding Shit cars."
"Oh."
Second time around, we showed Castiel how to use his bumper car, and he had a lot more fun with it, going after Dean and bumping his car with enthusiasm. But, he didn't fully understand that part of the point of bumper cars is to surprise your target.
"I'm about to hit your car, Sam," he announced, and bumped me.
"Thanks for the warning, Cas."
When he went after Dean, it turned into an episode of Innuendo Theatre. "Dean, I am coming up behind you, about to ram your rear end."
Tress skidded to one side in her car and looked back, her mouth open in a big, surprised O.
You could just hear Dean doing a slow burn in the tone of his voice. "Don't say stuff like that, Cas. You're not supposed to tell me you're about to hit my car. Especially not - "
"Look out for me, Dean. I am coming up your rear."
"Cas!" His face turned red.
Tress doubled over with loud giggles; she laughed so hard she snorted. I couldn't help but laugh too.
Paul looked from one adult to the other. "What's so funny, Mommy?"
To this day, I still don't know if Cas was aware of the implied meaning behind what he was saying. It's not like I'm going to ask him.
At the end of the day, we were all so tired, but it was the best kind of tired. Not Castiel though; angels don't get worn out, not from two corn dogs, cotton candy, and a funnel cake, anyway. While Tress carried the stuffed animals we won for Paul (and her - I had to win a big blue hound dog for my lady), I carried a sleeping Paul out of the fair, his head conked out on my shoulder.
We did this every year. They were always some of the finest days of my life.
*****
On to Chapter 12