We Will Organize Our Children - Part 1
Prologue
Year One
John slumps over the table in Mike Guenther's kitchen, exhausted. He closes his eyes and listens carefully, but he doesn't hear anything.
Thank God. Sammy is finally asleep. Dean's been asleep for hours, but Sam's got two new teeth coming in, and apparently it hurts like hell, judging by the amount of fussing and crying he's been doing.
John doesn't remember Dean being this miserable when he was teething, but he guesses Mary dealt with it, like she dealt with everything.
He tries not to think about Mary, except that's all that John seems to be able to do. Thinking about Mary is the only thing that gets him out of bed in the morning to take care of her sons. The only thing that makes him go to bed sober enough to hear them if they cry out in the night.
John's trying desperately to step up to the plate. He owes it to Mary. He hates himself for every time he was weak, every time he let her down.
Sighing, John straightens up, moving his head from side to side to ease the kinks in his neck. There's work he needs to do tonight, a book he wants to read, and a teething child is no excuse for shirking his duty.
He pulls his new leather-bound journal closer and opens it to a clean page. Mary kept a journal and thought John should, too. So now he is, too late to please his wife. He's only written on the first few pages, and the vast emptiness of the thing is daunting.
There's so much he needs to learn.
John's been feeling an urgent need to be on the move. He told Missouri Moseley that yesterday, and she looked at him with sad eyes.
"John Winchester, you do what you need to do. I can't tell you things I don't know, and I don't know if those boys of yours are safe here or not."
Missouri loves his boys, and they've taken to her easily. John's not sure he should leave Lawrence, but he knows he can't stay with Mike and Kate any longer. He can't stand the pity in their eyes. Or the judgment.
They think he should move on, get over what happened to Mary. It was tragic, yes, but sometimes these things happen. He should move himself and the boys back into the house after the damage from the fire is repaired and go back to work at the garage.
John tells Mike he can go to hell, then he hands him the paperwork that will give him John's half of the garage. Mike stares at him as if he's lost his mind.
John packs up the boys and leaves Mike and Kate's house a few days before Christmas, moving into a small apartment near the University. They watch him go, Kate looking helpless, Mike shaking his head.
He stays far away from his house. John can't bring himself to set foot in the place, especially after Missouri tells him that true evil was there the night Mary died.
She doesn't know what it could have been, and John needs to find out, same as he needs to breathe. He needs to know what killed his wife and reduced his life to ashes.
Lawrence won't be able to hold him much longer.
But right now the University of Kansas has libraries full of books, and John spends his days pouring over them, trying to find an answer to the darkness that came uninvited into his life.
He finds someone to watch the boys. Kate would do it, even after the way John left them, but he won't ask her. There's a woman named Naomi, with a son of her own, and she keeps Dean and Sam for him a few hours every afternoon, while John searches through book after book in an attempt to find the answers he needs.
Dean looks up at John with wide, frightened eyes whenever John leaves. He clings to his father in a way he never did when Mary was alive, and he barely says a word, except to John or Sammy. Every morning John finds him in Sammy's crib, curled around his brother as if he's trying to keep him safe.
It breaks John's heart and fills him with guilt. This isn't how he wants life to be for his boys. Dean should never have had to carry his brother out of a burning building at the age of four.
John should have been able to keep his family safe.
Sometime after Dean's fifth birthday, in the chill of January, John realizes the University libraries have nothing left that's of any use to him. He gets ready to leave, loading as many of the boys' clothes and toys as he can fit into the trunk of the Impala.
"Where will you go, John?" Missouri asks.
John shrugs. "I don’t know. I just know I have to."
"I have a name," Missouri says slowly. "He's a preacher in Minnesota. He might know something." She hands John a piece of paper, and he tucks it into the pages of his journal.
Bending to kiss her cheek, he says, "Thank you."
Missouri looks at him, sympathy and understanding on her face. "Now don't be a stranger, John Winchester. You bring those boys back to see me once in a while."
John nods, but he thinks they both know he won't set foot in Lawrence again unless he has no choice.
Jim Murphy, the paper says. Blue Earth, Minnesota. John gets out the map after he settles Sammy in his car seat. Dean's in the back with his brother, surrounded by his collection of Matchbox cars. He's clutching his favorite red Mustang in his hand as he watches his father.
"Okay," John says with a tight smile. "Let's get this show on the road."
Dean looks at him, and the trust in his eyes terrifies John. He doesn't have the slightest idea what he's doing, dragging his boys to some unknown place, but the urgency to be gone is more powerful than the need to hunker down in one place.
The trip should take seven hours, eight at the most, but John hadn't realized how much two little boys would slow him down. Sammy in particular is fussy. John can't figure out how one baby can produce so much pee over the course of the day, but he thinks he spends more time changing diapers than he does behind the wheel of the car.
Dean is quiet and helpful, trying to keep his brother entertained, and they finally both fall into a fitful sleep around mid-afternoon.
No way is John showing up at this Murphy guy's place at dinnertime with two tired and hungry little boys, so he finds a cheap motel outside of Blue Earth to spend the night.
He pauses in the doorway of their room, Sammy in his arms and Dean peeking in around his knees. The walls are covered in virulent green wallpaper with mustard yellow flowers scattered all over it, and there are pictures of carousel ponies above each bed.
John shakes his head, blinking, and shuffles inside, Dean clinging nervously to him. "It's just a decorator high on acid, Deano, don't worry about it," he says, dumping his duffel on the bed closest to the door.
Sammy wakes up and peers around the room, his eyes bright and curious. He points a chubby finger at the pictures of the horses and smiles, wiggling happily in John's arms.
"Okay, then," John says. He dumps Sammy on the bed and says, "Let's get you changed again, buddy boy." Sammy's diaper isn't just wet this time, and John wonders what the hell he could have fed him to produce the noxious sludge masquerading as shit in his diaper.
Dean backs away, wrinkling his little nose in disgust. "How about you unpack your backpack, kiddo," John suggests, and Dean nods.
"Okay, Daddy."
Dean works quietly, and by the time John looks around the room trying to figure out where to dispose of Sam's toxic diaper so they can all breath freely again, Dean has both his and Sammy's things unpacked and carefully arranged on top of the dresser. He hands John a plastic bag, and John accepts it gratefully. Opening the front door and looking carefully around for onlookers, John places the bag outside on the sidewalk. He'll find a dumpster later.
Dean's perched on the bed next to Sammy when John comes back inside. "You hungry?" John asks him, heading to the sink to wash his hands. He's not sure he'll ever get rid of the smell.
Dean nods solemnly.
"Good job with the unpacking, son," John says as he bundles Sammy back into his coat, pulling a soft wool hat down over his ears. Dean's proud smile is good to see.
Sammy tugs irritably at his hat as John gets the boys back in the car. John knows he saw a diner down the road a ways, and he hopes there's something on the menu he can smush up enough for Sammy to eat. He tucks a jar of baby food into his coat pocket just in case, but he'd like to save that for when he really needs it.
He'd been thinking during the drive up of ways to make enough money to keep the boys fed and in clothes that fit, and he's come up with a few ideas, but for now John just wants to locate this Jim Murphy guy and find out what he knows. It's like a constant itch in the middle of his back, this need to know who or what killed his wife.
"It's cold out, Sammy," Dean says, pulling Sammy's hat back down over this ears. Sammy laughs and gums his fist, drooling down his chin.
Dean grins at John, and John smiles back. Tonight at least they'll be warm and well-fed.
In the morning, they go look for answers.
Jim Murphy is a preacher of some kind, with a church and everything. John worries about what that means, if he's going to be some kind of holy-roller, spouting off about sin and retribution, but Murphy turns out to be nothing of the kind.
John feels like an idiot, standing there in the church vestibule clutching his kids and saying, "Missouri sent me," as if he's part of some secret underground movement, but Murphy just looks him over carefully and then nods, like John's passed some kind of test.
Weirdly relieved to have met the man's approval and sensing somehow that he's finally found someone who can help, John feels himself relax for the first time since Mary's death.
Murphy holds his arms out and nods at Sammy.
"Here, let me," he says, and John gratefully lets someone else carry his son's weight, even if only for a short time.
Dean looks as if he isn't too sure about this turn of events, and Murphy smiles down at him. "Come on, let's go see if we can rustle up some lunch."
He leads the way through a narrow passageway that goes from the church to a small house next door. They end up in the kitchen, John at the table with a beer and Dean with a mug of instant hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows, a coloring book, and a handful of broken crayons. The marshmallows seem to be making him quietly happy. Sammy burrows into John's chest, gumming his shirt, as Murphy says, "So, John, what brings you here?"
John watches Dean for a moment and makes a decision. If he's going to do this, Dean is going to have to be with him all the way. The boy only just turned five and has barely started speaking again, but John is a big fan of telling the truth.
He looks at Jim Murphy and starts talking.
Year Two
Bill Harvelle dies because John is inexperienced. That's why he'd been working with Bill in the first place, because he's still so new at this hunting thing, and he wanted to learn.
They're in California; someplace called Devil's Gate Reservoir. Figures the damn place really is a Devil's Gate, and it's not just imaginatively named.
And it all goes to hell in a hurry when John's foot scuffs through the salt line, and he doesn't even know he's done it. Fucking hellspawn is all over Bill, and then Bill's dying, and John's got no choice as Bill begs him to put a bullet in his heart.
The drive from California back to Nebraska with Bill's body in the back seat of the Impala is the longest twenty hours of John's life. He cleans Bill up as best he can and wraps him in the extra blankets he carries in the trunk in case of a snowstorm. It won't do for him and the boys to get stuck on the road somewhere without extra blankets.
John pulls the car to a stop in front of the Road House, shifts into park and sits, waiting. Waiting to tell a child that he'd failed to protect the most important person in her world.
Ellen comes out, a shotgun held at her side, fear in her eyes. She sees John sitting alone in the car, and watching the realization dawn on her face almost guts him.
He makes himself watch, doesn't let himself look away. He doesn't deserve the relief that would bring.
Ellen stumbles to a halt, and John gets out of the car, moving swiftly to her side. She drops the gun and sags in his arms, dry-eyed and silently trembling.
"I'm sorry," John whispers into her hair. "I'm so sorry." It's all he can say, and it's so grossly inadequate that the words get stuck in his throat.
Then Ellen is pushing him away, moving towards the car and oh, god, John doesn't want her to see, but she's going to, she has to, Bill is her husband - was her husband, and she has the right to see.
"Ellen," John says, but then he stops, because he can't think of anything else to say.
She pulls open the car door and unwraps the blanket that covers her husband's face, and John is at least grateful that he didn't have to shoot Bill in the head.
There are a couple of guys in the bar, other hunters that John doesn't know, and they help him and Ellen get Bill's body inside and into the backroom. They lay him on the bed, and Ellen stands and stares at him, motionless, until she comes back to herself with a start.
"Jo," she says. "She'll be up from her nap soon. I won't let her see him like this." She looks around with determination.
One of the other hunters, a grizzled guy in an old Army fatigue jacket, says, "I'll go check on her, keep her occupied," and Ellen nods. "She knows me."
The two men leave the room, sending curious looks John's way as they close the door behind them.
"Tell me what happened, John," Ellen says. Her voice is devoid of emotion.
John tells her. She's looking at him in horror by the time he's done.
"Get out," Ellen says, her eyes hard. Two words, but they're more than enough.
John bows his head and says, "I'm sorry," then turns and walks out of Bill and Ellen's bedroom and out of the Road House.
John feels hollow inside. He's lost so much here; a friend and a mentor, maybe a surrogate family. A friend for Sammy and Dean. Jo is only four, but he'd thought about how they might play together sometime.
The grief he can live with. He's been living with grief for a while now. It's the guilt that's almost overwhelming, and he has no idea how to handle it other than to get drunk.
Three days later John wakes up in a run-down motel somewhere in Nebraska with little memory of how he got there. He cleans himself up and gets back on the road.
John drives straight to Bobby Singer's place to pick up his boys. He tells Bobby about Bill and waits for Bobby to throw him out, too. To his surprise, Bobby shakes his head with some degree of sympathy.
"We all make mistakes, it comes with the job," Bobby tells him. "It's what you learn from those mistakes that counts." The words are commonplace, almost clichéd, but the way they're spoken tells John that Singer knows something about mistakes and regret.
John's found a cabin where they can spend the summer, and he loads the boys and all their crap into the car. Dean waves at Bobby as they pull away.
The cabin isn't much, but it's good enough to call home for now. John knows when fall comes and school starts he's going to have to stay in one place, at least for a while.
Last year John made an executive decision that Dean would be just fine if he skipped going to kindergarten, but come September, he knows he'd better have Dean enrolled in the first grade, or Jim Murphy is going to be on his ass about it.
Their current phone conversation is making that pretty damn clear.
"I understand, John, I really do, but this is going to take some time. Whatever killed Mary isn't going to make it easy for you to find it, and in the meantime, you have to think about the boys."
John massages his right temple, where a headache is threatening to blossom. "I know, Jim," he grits out. "I got that the first ten times you said it." He sighs. "I know," he repeats, less irritated this time.
Looking around the rough cabin at the toys spread all over the floor and the rumpled blankets on the two narrow beds, John says, "I guess this place isn’t so bad. There's a creek for the boys to play in and some trails in the woods and -"
"And you're using those trails to teach Dean how to track, aren't you?" Jim voice is amused rather than accusatory, so John admits it.
"Hell, yes, I am," he says. "It's a perfect place. And I'm just teaching him the basics, stuff I learned in the Marines about tracking and covering your trail. He thinks it's a great game."
There's silence on the other end of the line, as they both ponder the idea that John is teaching his six-year old things he learned in the Marines, and then Jim says, "You know they can stay here with me anytime you need them to."
It's an offer he's made before, and John appreciates it, he really does. "I know," he says for what feels like the hundredth time. "But I'm not hunting anything right now, not looking for anything, just taking some time to hang out with the boys in peace."
Neither one of them mentions the changeling John killed a week ago. Neither one of them mentions how it had almost ended up the other way around, how the creature had almost proven to be too much for John's rudimentary hunting skills.
But both of them know the price of inexperience and lack of knowledge, and they're in silent agreement that John needs to take some time to learn how to do this right if he's going to do it at all.
He had no idea this world was even possible, that these things existed, but now that he does, he can't unlearn it. Somewhere out there is the thing that killed Mary, and John knows that someday he'll find it and kill it.
There's not another choice for him.
But there's also apparently plenty that needs killing in the meantime. Who knew?
"I gotta go, Jim," John says. "Sammy's awake."
John checks Sammy's diaper and is pleased to see that it's dry. Some days he thinks Sammy is more determined to get the whole potty training thing out of the way than John is. And as John has learned over the past two years, Sammy can be one determined little boy.
"Come on, Deano," John says, scooping Sammy up in his arms and tossing Dean a plastic bag full of old pop cans he'd picked up along the highway. "Let's get in some target practice."
Dean's face lights up, and he bounces to his feet from the spot on the floor where he'd been taking a small plastic truck apart with a screwdriver and a fork.
They head out back, and John sets Dean to lining up the cans on the top rail of the fence that separates the small yard from the dark woods behind the cabin.
"Like this, Daddy?" Dean asks as he carefully balances the can on the uneven wood.
"Spread them out a little more, dude," John says, and Dean nods and does his best to arrange them so they don't fall over.
"Okay, come here, let me show you this," John says, and Dean complies eagerly.
John takes just a moment to go over it in his head one more time while he gets Sammy settled with a pile of blocks on the ground, safely behind the action.
This is a good idea. It's even necessary, and it's not too soon.
The boys need to be safe. It's John's job to keep them safe, but if he can't, he needs to know they can take care of themselves.
He pulls a sawed-off shotgun out of the duffel bag he'd dropped at his feet and says, "I'll show you how to clean it later, because a man always has to take care of his guns, but for right now, let's see if you can aim this thing."
Dean's eyes light up, and he takes the gun almost reverently in his hands. It's too big for him, and he'll need both hands to hold it up, but there's something about the sight of his son holding a gun that makes the weight John's been carrying around lift a little.
He knows that's all kinds of fucked up, but that's his life now. Whatever it takes.
By any means necessary.
He shows Dean how to hold the gun, how to aim, and after he loads it for him, John takes a step back to see what his son can do. He doesn't expect much. The kid is only six, and it's his first time firing a gun.
Dean takes his tongue between his teeth, holds the gun up in front of him, closes one eye, and fires. He hits one of the cans, and his face lights up like the Fourth of July.
"Daddy, I did it!" Turning back to the fence, he fires again and again. In all, Dean hits a total of five cans, and John is beyond impressed. He smiles from ear to ear at his son, and Dean's grin is blinding in return.
He's so caught up in Dean's triumph that he jumps at the sudden tug on his pant leg.
John looks down at his other son, who is clinging to his leg and grinning up at him, and his heart stutters in fear.
"Sammy! I told you to stay over there," he says sharply, and Sam's smile disappears. His lower lip trembles, and his eyes fill at the angry words. John picks him up and gives him a little shake. Sammy whimpers in distress.
"Sammy," Dean says, carefully putting the gun down before coming over to them. "It's okay, Sammy. I shot the cans, didn’t I, Daddy?" Dean looks up at John, his expression uncertain.
"Yeah, kiddo, yeah, you did," John says, and he ruffles Dean's hair. Dean looks relieved, and Sammy tucks his head into John's neck, hiding his face.
John pats him on the back, forcing himself to calm down. It wasn't Sammy's fault. He's just a baby. John needs to do a better job of watching out for his boys.
He still has so much to learn.
Year Three
John likes to drive. He doubts he'd be following his current lifestyle if he didn't, because there's a fuckton of driving involved in criss-crossing the country what sometimes seems like ever other day.
But right now, right this minute, he wishes he'd never learned how to drive. He wishes he could pull over to the side of the road, park the Impala, and leave her there. Just walk away and never look back.
And he'd leave his damn kids in the car while he was at it.
Sighing, John rubs his hand over the back of his neck and checks the rearview mirror for about the hundredth time. Sammy is still sitting with his arms folded across his chest, his lower lip stuck out in a very impressive pout. Coupled with his fierce frown, it's a very scary face indeed.
Based on experience, John figures he has roughly five minutes to find a place to stay for the night before his three-year old explodes.
He can't decide if Dean's trying to help the situation or not. His efforts are definitely making things worse, but what John's not sure of is if it's on purpose or not.
For Dean's sake, he hopes it's not.
Up ahead on the right John spies a motel, and he raises his eyes to heaven and thanks a God he's not sure he believes in for coming to the rescue.
"Sammy, come on, look, here's your favorite soldier," Dean's saying cajolingly. He holds a green army man in front of Sam's face, and Sam bats at it with lofty contempt.
"Don’t want that one, Dean," he says furiously. "Don't like that one. Want the other one."
Dean rolls his eyes and holds out his other hand, which contains what looks to John like an identical soldier.
Apparently it does to Sammy, too. "NO!" he yells. "NOT THAT ONE."
"Sammy, that's enough," John growls as he swings the car into the motel parking lot.
The Greenbrier Inn is painted a dusty green, a row of ten rooms on either side of the main office, with an empty swimming pool behind a rusty chain link fence. There's a diner down the road and a convenience store next door, and it's John's idea of heaven right about now.
He parks the car and turns to look at his pain-in-the-ass sons. His annoyance fades when he sees the distress on Sammy's face. They've been driving all day, and the boys have actually been pretty well behaved considering they've been cooped up in a car for hours on end.
Dean looks exhausted, his eyelids drooping, and John notices for the first time that's it almost dark. With a guilty start he realizes they haven't eaten in almost six hours. No wonder Sammy is on the verge of a meltdown.
"Stay here," John says, fixing Dean with a firm eye. "I'm going to get us a room, then we'll get dinner."
"Yes, sir," Dean says, the sir swallowed by a yawn. Dean blinks groggily a few times and looks at John. "We will." Kid's almost asleep on his feet, and John could kick himself.
"I wanna come," Sammy demands, and John watches his lower lip tremble.
He makes a command decision. They can get a room and then go right to dinner. The car can wait to be unpacked later. "Okay, let's go."
Sammy's frown disappears, replaced by a blinding smile. Dean laughs at his brother, and both boys scramble out of the car when John opens the door.
Sammy takes two steps towards the Office, obviously prepared to dart across the parking lot, and John grabs at the collar of his jacket.
"Whoa, buddy, slow down there. What's the rule about parking lots, or any other place where there are cars?" He looks sternly down at his son.
Sammy looks like he's going to start pouting again, but Dean nudges him with his elbow, and Sammy says, "Watch out for cars before I go?"
"Right. And did you?" John asks.
"No." Sammy's lower lip goes into its trembling act again.
"No, what?"
"No, sir." Sammy's voice is subdued, and he stares down at his feet.
"Well, don't you think you'd better?"
"Okay." And Sammy looks right, then left, then right again, and then up at his father, a hesitant smile on his face. "Okay?"
"Okay. Let's go," and John trails behind them as the boys race each other to the building.
Dean hangs back while John talks to the desk clerk, but Sammy pulls on John's pant leg until John picks him up, then he engages the clerk in friendly conversation while John pays for the room. He's going to have to find another job sometime in the next week or so, judging by the amount of money he has in his wallet. Or doesn't have, to be more accurate.
The clerk gives Sammy a last smile as they turn to leave, room key in John's hand. "The meat loaf at the diner is really good," he says with a wave.
John nods, and the three of them head across the parking lot to the restaurant.
It's late, but there are still a lot of folks eating, so John figures the food can't be too bad. He herds the boys into an empty booth, sliding in beside Sammy, nodding at Dean to take the other side.
He runs his eyes down the menu and silently thanks God when he sees French fries and macaroni and cheese. He knows he should make some kind of an effort to get his boys to eat the occasional vegetable, but that's not gonna happen tonight.
Add in chocolate milk and apple pie, and Sammy and Dean are in heaven, the weariness of the road lifting as if it had never been there. His boys are resilient; John will say that for them.
So resilient, in fact, that he eventually has to resort to a growl to get them to sit still and eat. It doesn't make him any happier to be forced to endure the reproachful glare of Sally, their forty-something waitress, who makes him feel like some kind of monster just because he wants his children to behave themselves when they're out in public.
But that's where the pie comes in, because Sally is apparently a soft touch, and by the time John pays the check, everybody, including Sally, is smiling again. In fact, the smile she's sending John's way now looks a lot like an invitation.
She's not bad looking, tall and blonde with great-looking tits and a laughing, red mouth, but he can't. Not with the boys, and he may be a crap dad, but he's not going to leave them alone in a motel room just so he can get laid.
He smiles regretfully at Sally and gathers up his sons. Sammy is quickly losing steam, and Dean is fading fast, freckles standing out on his pale face.
"Goodnight, and thanks," John says, holding the door open with his hip while Sammy droops in his arms. Dean scoots out ahead of them and carefully looks both ways before he nods back at his father.
They get settled in their room, which isn't as crappy as John had been anticipating from the look of the cluttered office. The boys curl up together in the bed farthest from the window, instantly out like a light.
John sits on the other bed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. This has been one hell of a long day. He misses Mary desperately on days like these. He's angry that this is his life, that this is the life he's been driven into, and that he's been forced to drag his children into.
Sammy's soft snores reach his ears, and John blinks at the sudden prickling behind his eyes.
He needs to keep them safe. Whatever it takes, whatever he has to do, he'll do it.
Year Four
"What the fuck is a rugaru?" John snaps, frowning at the man seated across the table.
"It's a monster. It looks human, but it'll turn once it gets a taste of human flesh. It's inevitable." Travis shrugs and puts his coffee cup down.
"But this guy looks just like a guy," John says, flipping through his journal until he finds a blank page where he can start writing. "How do you know he's a rugaru?"
John shakes his head. Ghosts, sure, werewolves, black dogs, poltergeists, he's dealt with all of those and it doesn't surprise him anymore that they're real.
But rugarus? That doesn't even sound like a real word. It sounds like something from one of those cartoons Sammy likes to watch in the morning - Puffalumps and Bumblelions. How can something like that be real?
Travis says, "Because I've been watching him. And because there have been two deaths here in Wichita that match the pattern, that make it obvious there's a rugaru in the area." He shovels in a forkful of eggs and sausage, chewing like sitting around discussing a man-eating monster is the most ordinary thing in the world.
John pushes his plate away. He seems to have lost his appetite. His coffee cup is empty, and he wants more, but he sure as hell doesn't want their waitress coming over here while they have this bizarre conversation.
"How do you kill it?" he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Burn it. Gotta burn it alive," Travis says. He smiles grimly at the expression of shock John knows is on his face. "It's not pretty, I know, but it's the only way, and John, this thing has to be stopped."
John knows that. This rugaru has killed and eaten at least two people, maybe more, and if what Travis says is true, the two previous victims have only whetted its appetite.
He makes careful notes in his journal while Travis finally motions the waitress over to refill their coffee cups. Once he's written down everything Travis tells him, he looks at his watch.
"Shit. I've got to go pick up the boys. Mary Ellen Robinson's been watching them for me this morning, but I told her I'd be back by eleven." He gathers his things and pulls a ten out of his wallet to cover his share of the check.
Travis nods. "Okay. I'll get the things we need and meet you tonight in the park." He pauses and looks at John curiously. "You got someone to watch the boys tonight? Mary Ellen?"
"No, not yet," John says. "Mary Ellen's busy. I'll find someone, don’t worry." He doesn't have to add that leaving the boys with Mary Ellen twice in one day might make her ask too many questions about where he was going and what he was doing.
"Pretty great kids you have there," Travis says, looking up from his coffee. "Dean seems like a real smart boy. You been training him up?"
John smiles, digging in the pocket of his jacket for his car keys. "Yeah, sure have. You should see him with a shotgun, handles it like a pro. Got a great eye."
"Does he know? What you do, I mean?" Travis asks, his eyes curious, and John pauses.
"Pretty much. Not a lot of the details, but he's known from the beginning. I decided early on not to hide it from him. I make sure he knows he's safe, and that I'm teaching him how to look after himself and his brother."
Travis nods. "Makes sense."
John jerks his head toward the door. "Better get going."
"Right. Eight o'clock." Travis drains his coffee cup and stands up. They walk out to the parking lot together.
"I'll see you tonight," John says.
When John gets to the Robinson's, Dean greets him at the door. "Dad, Sammy's sick." Dean's face is pale, and he's frowning up at John as if it's somehow all John's fault.
There are voices coming from the back of the house, Sammy's with the petulant tone he gets when he's sick and Mary Ellen's more soothing voice telling him his daddy is going to be here soon.
John pinches the bridge of his nose. Great. A sick kid, no babysitter, and a rugaru that needs killing.
"Let me in, Dean," John says impatiently, and Dean steps back, letting his father at least get his foot in the door. "Now, tell me what's wrong with Sammy?"
"He started coughing right after you left this morning, and he just now threw up all over the kitchen table." Dean makes a face like that's the grossest thing in the world.
Wouldn’t that be nice, if it really was the grossest thing Dean will ever have to deal with.
John sighs. Sammy must have heard his voice, because he calls, "Daddy?" and the next thing John knows, his knees are being held captive by two skinny, pajama-clad arms.
"Hey, Sammy," John says, hoisting his youngest son up to sit on his hip. Sammy buries his face in John's neck, and John can feel both heat and snot.
"Lemme see," he says, nudging Sammy's head back and peering into over-bright eyes. He runs his hand across Sammy's forehead, slightly alarmed at the heat radiating from the little body in his arms.
Also alarming is the fact that his normally talkative four-year old hasn't said a word beyond that initial Daddy. Sam's running chatter is a constant, the soundtrack to their lives, always there.
Mary Ellen appears from the back of the house, smiling ruefully at John. She looks worn out, and John feels a momentary pang at having placed his burden on her shoulders, even for a little while. She's a nice enough woman, but Dean and Sammy are his, and he's the one who should be taking care of them. He's the one who needs to make sure they come to no harm. That they're safe.
"Dean, get your stuff together," John says. "Come on, dude, shake a leg," he adds, when Dean seems reluctant to tear his eyes away from his brother.
Dean nods and shuffles reluctantly down the hallway toward the back of the house. John cuts him some slack, doesn't bark at him to move his ass, because he knows how Dean gets when Sammy is sick.
John manages to drag his wallet from his back pocket and extract a couple of bills to pay Mary Ellen while Sammy clings to him like a limpet, his arms so tight around John's neck they threaten to cut off his air. Kid's gonna have a hell of a choke-hold when he gets older.
Dean's back a lot faster than he left, and John manages to get Sammy settled in the back seat of the Impala while Dean loads their crap in the front passenger seat. He crawls into the back with Sammy and doesn't even complain when Sammy sneezes all over him.
They're staying in a roadside inn with rooms painted the color of mud, dull blue curtains at the windows, and some kind of green patterned polyester bedspreads that look like camouflage. It's a damned depressing place to be sick in, and John thinks of their house in Lawrence, the sunny kitchen and brightly colored bedrooms Mary fixed up for the boys.
But it does no good to go there, they all suffer when John's thoughts turn to Mary, so he shakes it off and deposits Sammy in the middle of the bed he's been sharing with his brother.
Sammy whimpers and refuses to let go of John's neck. John's stuck bent over the bed, and his back twinges as he tries his best to gently extricate himself from the determined grip Sammy's obviously not going to have the patience to wait until he's older to develop.
"Let go, baby boy," John says.
"'M not a baby," Sammy protests, but he relinquishes his grasp on his father's neck, and that's all John can ask.
"I know," John says. He reaches down and smoothes Sam's hair off his sweaty forehead. Sammy always seems to need a haircut.
Dean's dragged all their stuff into the room. Sometimes John marvels at the amount of crap necessary to maintain and entertain two little boys.
Although, now that he thinks about it, Dean's not so little anymore. John hates to do it, but it wouldn't be the first time he's left Dean in charge of Sammy while he's been gone. And it'll only be a couple of hours. Dean's a good kid, tough and smart.
John really doesn't have an option. It would be the first time Dean's had to deal with a sick Sammy all by himself, but he's probably a more patient nurse than John is.
Another half hour of arguing with himself while he gets Sammy settled in bed with a can of Coke from the motel vending machine, the waste basket next to the bed, and a towel over the pillow in case he throws up again, and John's made a reluctant decision.
"Hey, Dean," he says, motioning Dean over to the small table in front of the window. "I have to go out with Travis for a couple of hours tonight."
Dean's eyes widen, but he nods seriously.
"Here's the children's Tylenol." John's made sure to keep some in their first aid kit ever since that nightmarish occasion when both boys were sick, and he had to decide between leaving them alone while he made the fastest trip in history to the drug store, or taking two small, feverish, whining boys with him on that errand from hell. "Give Sammy some more at 9 o'clock, okay?"
"Yes, sir," Dean says. He suddenly seems a lot older than eight. He looks around the room. "Is there more Coke for later?"
"I'm going to go get you boys something to eat before I leave," John says. "I'll bring back some Ginger Ale."
At 7:30, Dean shuts the door behind John, armed with the usual strict instructions not to open it unless he's positive it's John, and that he's alone. John stands listening until he hears the deadbolt slide into place, and then he heads for the car.
It turns out it's relatively easy to kill a rugaru, but it's also one of the most disturbing things John's ever been a part of, and that's saying a lot. Between Viet Nam and hunting, there's not a lot he hasn't seen, but this is brutal and ugly. John hopes he doesn't have to do it ever again.
When he gets back to the motel, he waits for Dean to open the door, eyes peering anxiously up at his father as he lets him in.
John knows his clothes smell like burning flesh, and he keeps his distance from Dean. He nods, telling Dean it's okay to stand down. "Get some sleep, son."
Dean hesitates, looking at him with worried eyes. "You okay, Dad?"
John gives him a tired smile. "Yeah, kiddo, I'm okay. How's Sammy?"
"He's good. Sleeping. He's not as hot as he was before, and he didn't puke again." Dean yawns, and it seems to catch him by surprise.
"Bed," John orders.
"Yes, sir," Dean yawns again. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow.
Year Five
The shtriga is long gone by the time John gets back to Fort Douglas. Fucking thing's just vanished, and John has a bad feeling that it keeps to some kind of cycle, which means it won't make another appearance for a long time.
Goddammit. If Dean had just shot the damn thing when he had a chance…but Dean only had a shotgun, and even if he'd taken the shot, there weren't iron rounds in that gun, only bullets, ordinary bullets that were fucking useless, and what had John been thinking, leaving Dean with something so fucking inadequate to defend himself and his brother?
And what had Dean been thinking, leaving Sammy alone for even five minutes? John shakes his head. He's only a kid wars with he fucking knows better, until John has to pull over to the side of the road to get his head straight before he crashes the Impala into a tree, or something equally stupid.
The road to Jim Murphy's isn't long enough, and by the time John gets there he's still angry and terrified at the thought that the shtriga is still alive, and at how badly he'd screwed up.
Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Sammy in that - that thing's grip, with its hood lowered, sucking the life force out of his baby boy. He can't imagine that he's going to be sleeping well for a long damn time.
He thought his anger at Dean had faded, but when he pulls up in front of the Rectory and sees Dean laughing and chasing Sammy around the yard, it catches him by surprise again, sharp and bright.
Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are white, John bows his head and takes a deep breath. Sammy sees him and breaks away from whatever game he and Dean are playing, running to the car yelling, "Daddy, you're here! Daddy, watch what Dean showed me how to do!"
John looks up to see that Dean's no longer laughing. He's standing stock-still, staring at the car but not at his father. His face is blank, devoid of expression, which isn't something John is used to from his eldest. Dean is almost always animated, frowning in concentration when he's shooting at tin cans, laughing at Sammy, or just looking lively and interested when John is showing him how to do something.
This still, pale face reminds John of how it was in the months after Mary's death, and he feels most of his anger fade away, enough that he's able to open the car door without his hands shaking, and he can offer Sammy a reasonable facsimile of a smile.
"Hey, Sammy," John says, scooping his youngest into his arms. Sammy giggles and throws his arms around his father's neck.
"Hi, Daddy," Sammy says. "You're back!"
John's laugh actually makes it past the tightness in his throat. Sammy has a real talent for stating the obvious, and he does it with an uninhibited childish joy and enthusiasm that almost always wins John over. Right now isn't any different.
"I am? Are you sure?" John teases, and Sammy laughs merrily.
"Me and Dean were playing hide 'n seek," Sammy informs him. "I hided real good, but Dean found me, cuz he's so smart." Sammy beams proudly as John carries him into the Rectory. Jim's standing in the doorway, watching.
John walks past Dean on his way inside. "Dean," he says, nodding at his son.
Dean's eyes flicker toward him, then quickly away. "Hey, Dad."
John sits at Jim Murphy's kitchen table with Sammy on his lap, alternating his attention between Sammy's cheerful chatter and Jim's careful questions about the shtriga. His answers for Jim are mostly grunts and headshakes, while he nods at Sammy, every once in a while saying, "Is that so?"
It takes almost fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee before John realizes that Dean is still outside.
So, okay, he's a little slow on the uptake, but he's been legitimately distracted. Jim stands up and says, "Sandwiches for supper," disappearing into the refrigerator and emerging with cheese, lunchmeat, bread, and mustard.
"Can I have bologna, Pastor Jim?" Sammy asks, like he couldn't possibly think of a better treat. John kisses the top of his head and stands up, plunking Sammy down on the chair in his stead.
"Chill for a minute, dude," John says. "I'm going to go find your brother."
Sammy nods and is immediately chatting happily with Jim about the merits of bologna versus ham sandwiches. John hears him start singing in his off-key little boy voice about his bologna having a first name, as the screen door swings shut behind him.
Dean's sitting at the beat up old picnic table at the side of the small yard, looking dejected. He glances up when John pokes his head outside the kitchen door but doesn't meet his eyes.
"Supper's ready, Dean." John waits, but Dean doesn't make any attempt to get to his feet. "Dean." It comes out sharper than John intended, but it gets Dean moving.
John holds the screen door open, and Dean slides inside. It almost seems to John that Dean is holding himself so that he doesn't brush against his father when he slips past.
"Dean, look, bologna!" Sammy says happily, and Dean smiles at him.
"Dork," he says and goes to sit in the chair next to his brother.
"Wash your hands, Dean," John says. He doesn't always remember the niceties, but sometimes he hears Mary's voice in his ear, reminding him of the things that make life a little more civilized. Clean hands in a bright, sunny kitchen, coffee brewing and pie in the oven, these are the things he remembers. And to get a piece of Mary's pie, you had to have clean hands.
John's surprised to see Dean flush at the reminder. What the hell, he didn't mean it as a criticism, but he recognizes the look on Dean's face as one of mingled embarrassment and chagrin.
John looks over to see Jim frowning at him. His confusion grows. He gives Jim a look that says he'll be getting more information out of him later, when the boys have gone to bed.
John can't figure out how Sammy manages to eat two sandwiches, because he doesn't think the kid stops chattering for the entire meal. It's almost as if he's trying to make up for Dean's silence, and then it hits him.
That's exactly what Sammy is doing. He's done it before, on other occasions and other times when Dean's been silent or withdrawn, especially if John was upset with him about something.
But John isn't upset, at least not anymore. Okay, he's not exactly happy that Dean disobeyed him, that he left the motel room in Wisconsin, left Sammy in danger. But he doesn't think Dean will pull a stunt like that again, not after how close the shtriga came to -
John shakes his head to clear it of the image of that thing hovering over Sammy. He imagines he'll been seeing that in his nightmares for a good long time, and he suspects the same will hold true for Dean.
There's no need to belabor the point. Dean made a mistake, but so did John. He expected too much.
Dean isn't ready.
The boys go back outside to play after supper, catching fireflies at dusk as the last rays of the sun disappear.
John and Jim settle on the back porch, drinking beer and watching them chase bugs around the yard.
Before John can speak, Jim says, "He feels terrible."
John nods. Part of him wants to retort that Dean should feel terrible. He almost let a terrible thing happen.
"He thinks you hate him." Jim's voice is calm, but John feels the censure in it.
"I don't hate him," John snaps. The need to defend himself is powerful. "That's ridiculous."
"John, what do you think would have happened if Dean had been in that room, too? If he hadn't behaved like the child he is instead of the soldier you'd like to think he is, just for a little while?" Jim honestly sounds curious, and John stares at him in dawning horror.
"I could have lost them both," he says hoarsely.
Jim nods and puts his empty beer bottle down on the table between them. "So why don't you cut him a break, and at least give him a smile and a fucking pat on the shoulder."
John finishes his beer in silence, never taking his eyes off his boys.
They stay with Jim for a week, until John hears about a poltergeist in a small town in Indiana.
"Sure you don't want to leave the boys here a while?" Jim asks. "They're more than welcome." John can't figure out why Jim's looking at him with that mixture of sympathy and impatience that's been annoying him for days.
Shaking his head, John says, "Thanks, but I'm gonna take 'em with me. We need to figure out somewhere to stay put for a few months at least, once fall gets here. School."
He says it with dread. It's not that he wants his sons to grow up to be illiterate and uneducated, but school has turned out to be the biggest pain in John's ass ever. Who knew it would be such a hassle?
It keeps him from moving around as much as he'd like, and it means contact with other people, people whose job it is to pay more attention to Dean than John is comfortable with. And this year Sammy's starting kindergarten, and Sammy doesn't have a clue how to keep quiet, how to go unnoticed.
Sam also can't think of any reason why he should. John can hardly wait.
He's also going to have to figure out how to get more money than the occasional part-time job gives him. He's been mulling over the idea of fake credit cards for a while, trying to figure out how to make it work.
Jim hesitates the way he does when he wants to say something he knows John isn't going to like. "John, I think Dean -"
And John cuts him off right there. He knows his son better than anyone, and he doesn’t need any more advice from a man who's never had a kid of his own.
"Dean's fine."
And he mostly seems to be. He's extra attentive to Sammy, who's completely basking in it. Sammy thinks his big brother is the best thing since sliced bread, and that kind of faith is enough to pull anyone out of the doldrums.
Not that John can accuse Dean of moping. John wouldn't tolerate it if he was, but that's not quite it. He's quiet but not silent; serious, but he laughs with Sammy.
He's just a little…off. John spends a lot of time searching for the right word, and he thinks he's finally found it. Subdued. Dean is subdued.
The drive to Indiana is uneventful, for which John is inordinately grateful. The boys play quietly in the back seat of the car with the bag of mismatched Legos and the new supply of green Army men John added to the pile of clothes he bought for the boys at the Goodwill Store before they left Minnesota. They're growing like weeds, and it seems every time John looks at them, their anklebones are sticking out past the end of their pant legs.
John finds a run-down trailer located on the outer edges of a sad-looking trailer park where the rent isn't much more than he'd pay for a motel room. He'd like to hang around for a while, give all of them a chance to catch their breaths.
On their second night there, John decides he might as well take care of the poltergeist. It's the reason he picked this place, after all.
Poltergeists are mean sons of bitches, but it's really a one-man job, and John isn't worried. He isn't worried until the exact minute he's about to walk out the door at six o'clock on a Friday evening.
He doesn't expect to be gone for more than a few hours. If it's done correctly, ridding a place of a poltergeist can be a violent undertaking, but it's a straightforward job, nothing mysterious about it. Poltergeists are just mean, and they don't take kindly to being ousted once they've settled in somewhere.
And God help him, John doesn't want to, and he doesn't mean to, but he can't help looking at Dean and wondering. Doubting. Can he trust him to do this? To look after Sammy and keep him safe?
He sees the same doubt in Dean's eyes. In the end, John hadn't said anything to Dean about what happened in Wisconsin. He'd lightened up, knowing Jim was right, nodded and smiled and patted Dean on the back, all the while never actually talking about what had happened.
Dean made a mistake, and John wasn't about to sugarcoat it by telling him it was okay. And if he's honest with himself, John's choking on enough guilt of his own that the conversation would have been difficult at best.
So he let it go, but now he's second-guessing himself. He doesn't like the self-doubt he sees in Dean. A good soldier needs to have confidence that he can do the job. But his commanding officer needs to have that same confidence in his troops, and right now John just doesn't, there are no two ways about it.
There's also no choice. That poltergeist isn't going to leave of its own accord just because John's unsure about trusting his older son to watch his younger one.
So he looks away, doesn't meet Dean's eyes when he tells him he'll be back in a few hours and to look after Sammy.
Dean doesn't meet his when he says, "Yes, sir," he just closes and locks the door behind his father.
The poltergeist is a stubborn bastard, but John's home by midnight, with a bruise blossoming on his cheek and a sprained left ankle, but not really much that much worse for wear.
Entering the trailer quietly, he locks the door behind him. Hobbling over to the couch, he sits and bends over to take off his boots.
When he straightens up, Dean's standing there in his pajamas, a bag of frozen peas in one hand and an opened beer in the other. He doesn't say anything, just hands over what he has to offer.
Wordlessly, John takes the beer and tips his head back, taking a long pull. He closes his eyes in gratitude at how much he needed that, then reaches out and takes the bag of peas, holding it up to his cheek. He nods his thanks at Dean.
Tentatively, Dean reaches out a hand and pats his father on the shoulder, just once, then draws it back. He turns and goes back to the room he shares with Sammy.
Part 2