Beatty, 1988 (part 6 of 9)
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who's old jim? (iii)
It would definitely explain Miss Jenny Gardner's interrogation. No mention of Jim; a lot of questions--more than usual; him and Dean, and how they came to traveling together. What their home life is like. Where Mom is. (He's my son; when I'm taking care of him, we hit the road, it's part of my job. Taking him to a gig in California. Home's complicated; we move a lot. Mary--Clarisse. When I...married Clarisse, didn't see it all ending up this way. No, I don't think she's happy.
Yes, I'm sorry. Every day.)
It sounds like some sort of awful Child Services intervention waiting to happen. Deadbeat Dad kidnaps his kid, flies him out from Wisconsin to California--and from there, anywhere. Sidetracked in Beatty, Nevada and apprehended by the local badges after--
And really, what the hell does it look like when you see a man, got a gun looks like it's trained on his own kid, who's spilling out panic like he's been--
Fuck. Just fuck. John's angry he's so blind. Angry for being played. Angry because he brought Dean and Dean got hurt and John doesn't even know if it means Dean's just too young for this, or John's just not good enough. Angry because time's up and Dean has to be old enough now, and John's tired of watching his sons grow up like it's some kind of time trial. Even though he's the one with the starting pistol in his hand.
If he can catch this here, he can end it. Forestall it. Something.
Anything.
He has one gun, two knives, and five years of self-studied Latin. He has one dead wife, one boy lost, and one boy sitting at the back of a casino with a woman who saw him look like he was gonna shoot the kid--then saw the kid whip out a .45 and throw it to him.
And now, he's heading off Mr. Beatty Mercantile, because John knows of one crossroads deal, one soul outta Hell, and one man who's probably got a little more to say about both.
Who's Old Jim?
Beatty Mercantile had shrugged at that, this morning. His name tag read SIMON (then, scratched in, 'SAYS SHUT UP AND BUY SOMETHING'), and he'd said, Jim Beatty; life 'a the town. Little, uhm, little cuckoo, you ask him. Real hush-hush, the way gossip goes 'round when a town's not got quite enough to do.
Evidently, someone in this town's up to a whole hell of a lot.
Pulling a soul out of Hell, though (--if that's what Old Jim is; obviously Jim got dragged down, but who knows if what's out there's even really Jim at all). Soul outta Hell takes a lot more than boredom and idiocy to pull. More than a full-scale ritual, for that matter, or anything else John's ever caught sight or wind of. And John's willing to bet, more than a little sacrifice. Sort of thing that can't be hid.
Sort of thing's bigger than one dusty little town that's closed on Sundays.
Maybe on Sundays the neighbors come knocking. Air Force brings the gas. John keeps throwing the pieces together 'til they stick like something reasonable. Rhyolite, convenient little ghost town just north, brings the haunts. And Hell's Gate to the west--God. Hell's Gate. And John wants to break down laughing then and there. When did life start playing it so fucking literal? You get away from deceptive East Coast towns like New Harmony and New Haven and the west just gives up and calls it like it is. Hell's Gate. Should probably check that one out, don't you think, Winchester?
John's not sure which he prefers, but if the day's going to be anything like this gig so far, John hopes this Simon Says character is the sort that sells it straight. He's not? This ain't going to end pretty.
--
There isn't a fiber of her being not screaming at her by now. Things like GET OUT, CALL IN, and DON'T PLAY THE FOOL. These strangers, they're dangerous. No way around that. Some people're a little more prone to firearms than others, but she hasn't seen anyone handle them quite like the Fainall boys.
Simon Walker's got a .22 he keeps shined like his Sunday best; he's a pretty good shot, she remembers. Took her out to the range once and he bulls-eyed every one. But like everyone else she's ever known--even Jenny Gardner and the other police, and gunmanship's a piece of their work--he treats it like pride and privilege. She's seen the Fainalls out in the street, and right here in her own place, and she knows that to them a gun's not either.
Dean treats it like a layman's tool and his daddy treats it like a son. Keep it close, keep it handy, and don't waste words.
Whole gig's a lot scary and a little sad, stifled and grim as they look, and Rita just doesn't know what to think. One hand it's a boy and his daddy caught up in something awful, that much she can see; the other, them two're the perpetrators of the something awful in the first place, and it's her job to get herself safe from them, rather than help get 'em saved.
The way they talk, and the way they act, police should've been her first call. But it's hard to shake Dean sitting at her table eating wet fries and trying on alcohol a little too big for him; or hunched over the toilet saying he doesn't need anyone's help, even if he looks like he does; or just sitting here with his daddy and him, with nobody saying anything but everything being said--being said with tics and postures and silence, some personal language she can read but cannot understand.
Hard to shake the feeling that they're okay, maybe.
Her luck, they're on the run from Tri-Net, got meth sewn into their hems, gonna make a run for it the second they clean up, cauterize loose ends (like herself; won't that be a treat). But she nudges Dean off toward the office door, tells him he better call his brother, she doesn't care what his daddy said.
Anything to keep him here. The Dreamer part of her thinks it's safer here than out, and the Reasonably Frightened part of her doesn't think Dean would get left, so she's got to keep him close. Richard Fainall's got to come back for him. Gotta come back here. This probably isn't what's meant by 'hostage situation' when the drug lord serial killers come to town, but generally drug lord serial killers don't bring their children.
"You get ahold of your brother?" Rita asks when Dean announces his return with a door slammed shut. Somehow, she imagines 'Sammy' sixteen years old and tall, like Johnny in The Outsiders or maybe Sodapop Curtis; she doesn't remember who's who.
She doesn't expect him to say, and he doesn't look like he expects to, either, but appearances can be deceiving: "Yeah. Told me the same thing Dad did."
Meaning nothing, is Rita's first thought. But she reorients herself to the subject quickly enough. Communication via silence seems to be a house specialty, based on what she's seen of them. Dean's got a look on his face of hard-edged determination, the blunt conviction of which seems out of place on any kid, so maybe his phone call sealed whatever his daddy had told him in the parlance of silence.
"Simon." And the name's so out of context Rita almost asks who he's talking about. (Who's Old Jim?)
"Just one of the boys 'round town," Rita allows. She wonders what the hell she'd left in her office made him ask about Simon Walker. "Friend of mine. Works down at Beatty Mercantile most days."
"He ever...Did he ever do anything weird? Maybe like you weren't expecting it, and it didn't seem like him."
Good God. What had she left out? She's written so many angry letters (never mailed, God forbid) she can't begin to imagine what all the kid thinks he's on to. "Sure. Most folks do--end up not being who you thought they were. Secret's bigger for some than others," she answers pointedly.
Dean cheek twitches like he's tasted something sour. He takes the hint. Don't Ask, Don't Tell's a two-way street. "I should go now. Work to do."
No.
Kid's not going anywhere; not talking like he is. "Better off just staying here." Daddy has to come back. Not going to get far waving a gun around like he is. Not going to get far looking for Jim Beatty's ghost--or even his grave. Not going to get far down the road to Crazy. He has to come back sooner or later. Or get dragged back.
"I have to. It's the only thing I--" As it's as though he remembers he's not supposed to talk to her, the way he cuts off. "Thanks for lunch."
He walks out without further explanation, and the door swings back with a mournful rattle-screech. Rita lets him go. She let Richard drug lord psycho serial killer cardshark public assailant zombie-drinking Fainall go, and she lets Dean more-of-the-same Fainall follow right after.
She don't even ask, Where do you think you're going?, not to either of them, because it's clear enough they'd never tell. Not if it's going to matter in any way.
But it's also Beatty, so it's easy enough to guess.
doorways (i).
Thoughts catch on weird things sometimes. Dean's is playing out Rita and the Simon dude stop-action; they step back and forth between being rosily drunk in the diner and zipped up in jackets on the hood of a car, but there's not much in between. Every time Dean attempts to conceive of something, it just turns back to the familiar: Curses, monsters, and ghosts.
That's the reason things like that always happen to his family, anyway. But Rita isn't them and she's probably luckier if she kept it that way. He's known this from the beginning. Rule #1's you keep outsiders out, devils or no. Keep things simple. But Rule #1 doesn't make provision for keeping family in, so Dean's thinking that simple ain't exactly fair.
He drags across the parking lot, but he kicks dirt up at the rock median, picks up speed, and takes the stairs two at a time. They're painted a slick scarlet Dean doesn't think matches the 'moldy cheese' vibe the rest of the building promotes, but it's almost like a red carpet and it's almost like he's going somewhere other than the room, to do something other than shack up and shut up.
Snaps the "Do Not Disturb" placard off the door, turns the key in the lock. Door opens into cool, dark cleanness.
Cleanness.
No more iron jacks on the floor. Dad's tourist pamphlets are nowhere to be seen, meticulous piles gone from the rightmost bed. Gideon's Bible's found itself on the nightstand again, back from its trip under the bed, where Dean sent it the night before. Lights are off, TV's not on, Dad's uneaten Poor Boy isn't a moist lump at the edge of the sink.
Green duffel's not bookending the free souvenirs and promotionals the room's prior occupants left. Green duffel isn't anywhere.
Green duffel's a bad thing to get lost. Dean's first thought is, Dad's gonna kill him. His second is, Unless something else finds me first.
Better to make sure Dad goes the honors; at the very least, he kills things clean. Dean edges clear of the doorway and backs against the wall. Something's in here, it knows it's got company. Can't be helped. Bed, bed, drawerset, closet, bathroom alcove. Dean's estimations, that's five too many places. He's got a knife he doesn't really know how to use and the full knowledge that he screws up, nobody's going to come running in to back him up.
Don't panic.
Butting against Dad's orders hadn't worked too well earlier today, but Dean's thinking it's best to duck out of this one. Thing doesn't jump out when his shadow crosses the light leaking in from the door, it can stay put. Dean's gonna run like hell.
As it turns out, shadows do obscure the late afternoon flush, just before Dean breaks. Only it comes from the outside, not the in.
"Thought you'd be back soon enough," says a voice, thankfully disturbingly worrisomely human.
Dean turns around and it's a tall man in a tan suit, topped off with an outback hat and a set of killer shades, the last of which Dean makes sure to voice.
"Cute. But boy, you in a heap of trouble. You gonna tell us where your daddy is?"
Goddamn it.
"Gas station. We're going to get gas and split, unless that's a problem." Dean breathes out deep. Just people. Just people. Just let them run with that and they'll fill out the rest on their own. Just people; lead 'em where you want 'em.
"Gas station's a hell of a lot more useful, there's gas there. Now, since that all is under my charge, I'm thinking your daddy's unusually dumb, or you're lying. Which one do you want to own up to?"
Dean hates people.
There's a wooden creak from outside and a second shadow swallows the last of the sunlight. Raw instinct presses Dean closer against the wall, though he's getting the impression there actually aren't any monsters under the bed. They're standing in the doorway.
"He's the one, all right. He's the kid, stole my goods."
This has to be a joke.
"Gave him money, get me gas out here, but you heard him straight--gonna run off, and do me a disfavor in the going!"
Seriously? That's it. Shitty town fucking sucks.
"Put the rifle down, Mr. Kimmel. You're a good man, so I let you keep it. You start acting like you're going to use it, and I'm going to reconsider," says the man in the outback hat. Dean can't bring himself to feel any due gratitude, much less express it. This is stupid.
Andrew Kimmel called the Air Force on them. The Air Force. Where in the hell does--
Beatty. That's where. Beatty-unholy-Nevada.
Rifle-happy quarter-keeping Air force-calling Andrew Kimmel's spewing nonsense quick as smiling and Dean's slumped sullen against the wooden paneling and the man in the outback hat might be interrogating him, but Dean's going to play it mute on this one. Probably not Dad's idea of Shut Up and Wait, but it's nice to have a Plan B that follows the same basic principle.
"--thought your daddy was gonna crash that plane my god was really not banking on that one. Scared me shitless, he really did. Don't need you dead quite yet, I don't think--"
Dean tenses, fingers to shoulders to jaw. Andrew Kimmel cuts off, and the expression painted across his face is one of intense satisfaction--on account of what, Dean's not sure, but he's not sure he wants to know.
"You didn't think you got landed here purely on account of your shit luck, did you? We're waiting. All across the damned US of A, we're waiting. Just glad I'm the one to find you. Makes sitting around in this shithole town almost worth it. Because administration's got plans for you Winchesters." Teeth, peeking out behind thin, flat lips. "You best hope your daddy's seeing to your darling baby brother, before we do."
He called them Winchesters. He knows about Sammy. He knows--he knows everything, probably. Everything. The prospect is dizzying.
"Got your guns, got your charms. Your fancy silver knives, your little black magic Bibles. Only a matter a time before we get you." There's those teeth again; Andrew Kimmel's grin is positively reptilian. "Let me ask you something, Dean. A little Sunday School. You know what a demon is?"
Deep breath. Bad things get gone when you shove them someplace you can't see, and you leave 'em there to rot. You bury them. Salt, burn, and goodbye--they're not supposed to come back. Trouble is, they do. They always fucking do. Dean never considered that.
Should have; reallyreally should have: Devil's in the doorway.
"I asked, do you know what a demon is?"
fear (ii).
They're tearing across Nebraska, windows rolled up. The air is electric with storm-calling, and Dad aims to beat the weather out of the state. Wyoming by midnight.
Inside the Impala, the air is wet and heavy, like it's been breathed too many times, and Dean feels this disorienting lightheadedness, makes like he's gonna throw up. But breathe in too deep and it's like dying; he can't imagine getting anything up.
Or new stuff down. No, Boston Market doesn't sound that good. Drive-through is fine. Sammy shifts the seat and Dean knows he's being looked at. He drives the groan of pain down his throat as easy as he can make it, and keeps silent.
Sammy's gonna ask; the words are beating against the backs of his teeth, the same way I hate you I hate you I hate you was, all through Nebraska. But Sammy's smart enough to know that no matter what, Dad can't know.
Dad doesn't ask. Eases the car to parked, leaves the brake off at the gas station. Wyoming by midnight.
He hops out to pay, and Sammy hops the seat, quick chop to the gut. Dean lets slip an awful, scraping, breathy yelp; it's the last thing he should have done, he knows it, but god, it's like his middle's being carved out with a switchblade and short breaths short breaths short breaths. He bites down on the inside of his his lip so hard he tears through skin and it's like his whole mouth is flooded with hot, metallic wet.
He's on the cusp between Hell and dying slowly when he regains enough unoccupied headspace to remind himself to hit back. He doesn't, then something's really wrong. "What the hell was that for!" he grates out, each word smooth and uncadenced--factory-perfect. He swats blindly in Sam's general direction, nicks what feels like chin. "Oh. Let me guess. You hate me."
No, he's scared, idiot. Sammy was scared, like Dean should've been. And Dean had been, at first. He'd thought about Sam driving straight into the divider, head first. Neck snapped back at a right angle. But he'd yelled jump and Sammy hadn't, and he felt the cart wheels lock as the wire basket made first contact, felt it start to spin out, and he just let himself fly, because it was all over, anyway.
But Sammy's looking at him now, the glaze of betrayal in his eyes I hate you I hate you I hate you, and he's still scared. Should've kept you safe; I'm sorry. "Dean, you--"
"Don't--don't touch me. Just don't move. And tonight, don't climb all over my side of the bed, for once. Mr. Tentacles." And Dean cracks a grin. C'mon, Sammy. Dean thinks about lying flat, and he considers not sleeping ever again. "Don't worry. It'll be cool." It's just a dull ache, he's careful how he moves. He can live with that.
Just bury it. Bury it under the sound of hot rain drumming against the roof of the Impala--didn't beat the storm. Bury it under "Hey, scoot out and tell dad to get dinner--bag of pretzels (Dean thinks about chewing) or...Hostess or something." Bury it under Sammy's satisfaction.
They grind to a halt in Lusk, Wyoming, under the pretense of that satisfaction. Dean isn't sure how he's supposed to maneuver from the car to the ground to the motel room, and so feigns sleepiness. Takes it slow.
Doesn't matter, because Dad throws the duffle, heavy with newly-purchased goods, at his person the second he clears the car door. "Catch!"
Off-guard, Dean gives a gasp of surprise; doubles over with the slicing, ripping pain this invites. The duffle knocks him to the ground a moment later.
He wonders if this counts as a catch.
He hopes so. (He thinks, he'd watched some kids play baseball, once. Spied them in the adjoining vacant lot, right through a chain link fence. Wasn't too special, but he and Sam played a real game broadcast, Red Sox v. Tampa Bay, which made it better.
Kid runs headlong into the guy with the mask and the mitt (unfair advantage, really, so it the runner justified in bowling the guy over? absolutely). Dust clears and both kids are on the ground, but Mask n' Mitt's got the ball in his glove still, and the runner is out. Out. And Dean thinks--)
Dean wants out.
The rest is blessedly vague, involves picking bits of asphalt out of his hair for what felt like a week. Feels like abuse, when Dad wrenches up his shirt, finds what Dean later discovered was a white-green-yellow bruise the size of Texas. He can't help wet, sticky tears in the wet, sticky air when Dad brushes his fingers down Dean's torso and it feels like he's driving the knife in, straight down to the hilt.
Then Dad carries him, right past the front desk and the people waiting in line for the phone, like he's a baby, and between the pain and the sheer mortification of this, Dean could die then and there.
Sammy tags after, tripping on Dad's heels, dragging a too-big duffle behind him. Dean doesn't know if it makes Sam look grown up, or just stupid-little, like clogging around in Dad's shoes. You can't fill those.
Dean just knows that the way Dad is carrying him isn't as gentle as Dad thinks. It drags at his ribs and Dean gets the feeling he retches like he wants to, he'll be hacking up more than just his lungs.
Dad sets him in a chair, and gets ice from Sammy, from the ice machine. He gets a version of their little parking lot adventure from Sammy, too.
Dad isn't happy.
But more than that, it's the way Dad looks at him. Frames Dean's head with his hands--hands, big and strong and clammy--in some attempt to convey a feeling beyond words. Dean knows those hands, knows that look, knows those eyes. Seen it on Sam's face, back in Nebraska. And even before that, on Dad's, that night when--
When Dean had tried so hard to make it good. Make it right. Make it so's gonna be okay. But the look on Dad's face screams, I can't trust you.
I can't trust you to keep safe. To be safe.
I can't protect you.
Screams fear.
doorways (ii).
"Going on a little roadtrip, kid. See, we need to orchestrate an old-timey family reunion."
Dean's hesitation must be rimmed with neon, because whatever Andrew Kimmel is now--demon, he says; what the hell does that mean, demon--whatever Andrew Kimmel is now, it puts a soft point right through the Man in the Outback Hat at the spot where his neck joins his skull.
"You're gonna want to be there for this. You can't imagine what it'd do to your daddy if he never found your body."
Never really considered that.
Should have.
Reallyreally should have.
Andrew Kimmel lunges over what is now The Body in the Outback Hat and cops a feel around Dean's midsection, yanks him clear off the ground in one sweet motion. Dean swears he can feel his bones grind together, his ribs just crumble to dust, but that particular incident is far in the past.
He's carried out sideways like a limp sack, and if that doesn't look suspicious as all hell, he can see why there aren't many who gave him and Dad a second glance when they first rolled in. TOURIST KIDNAPPED BY CRAZY UNDERWORLD CREATURE--one for the Weekly World News.
This is. Beyond. Just so beyond he can't even--
He makes a play at hooking his heel into the small of Andrew Kimmel's back, but Andrew Kimmel doesn't feel it, or doesn't care enough to comment. This is probably the point where Dean's mouth starts going at it without his brain, because he can hear the (taste the) words spewing forth, though he has absolutely no clue what he's saying. If this is Fortress, are you Father Christmas?--that kind of thing. But he can't stop, and he just doesn't want to, because this is so beyond anything, he just can't bring himself to care. Andrew Kimmel doesn't say where they're headed or what for; really doesn't talk much at all, and Dean's filling in the gaps with absolutely anything and everything--things he can think of and things he's sure he's very definitely not thinking. Just things. Stupid, stupid things. Don't scare from things you can't fix.
And that's just it. Dean Winchester is nine years old. More than half his life, he's known how awfully terribly real monsters are. How real death is. More than half his life, he's known how to keep 'em at bay, how to hide, learned maybe a little on how to defend--though that's always a last dich thing. You're close enough to shoot a thing, it's as good as having its teeth in you already. He's learned that much.
Dean Winchester is nine years old, and his daddy isn't here to save him. Dean Winchester is nine years old, and he doesn't have a brother near enough to save. Dean Winchester is nine years old, and he is going to die. Gonna be his blood mixed in with the sand, his insides sizzling out in the bare Nevada desert, his clothes thrown into the brush and his bones scattered all down the highway.
After that, everything just flatlines.
(not) alone in the attic.
The dust picks up in flurries, and Sam can feel his nose prick, redden. He sneezes. Brings the cuff of his shirt to his face instinctively.
The window is open. He can see the old red kite bobbing on the old grey tree outside. The breeze is cold. The fear waking in his stomach is cold. He can feel it leaking into his motionless arms and legs, the way ice water does when you swallow down too much, too fast. (I'll race you, says Dean, and the cup is at his lips and tipping. Sam uses a straw.)
He can't move.
The woman does. She circles him, like the V-winged birds in Las Cruces (was that May?) "I can't believe we missed one," she says. Her lips blossom into a pout. She looks like a doll, dressed in her Sunday best. "Not you, Sammy, don't worry. We would never forget you."
The fear starts pooling and warming, awkward and tepid like Sam's not sure whether it is the appropriate response or not. She looks like a Church lady, maybe one of Pastor Jim's friends. She smells like old eggs. But what is she missing? He considers the Sunday School they have sometimes. Dean never let them go, even though they read books and played games and ate those pink and white animal cookies from the store. Ate them with milk. We would never forget you.
"Sorry about the smell," she says, and Sam uncrinkles his nose, looks away. "Blue Earth Bath and Body was closed today, so sue me. Figures that your mommy's friends'd live in backwater Minnesota."
Sam keeps quiet. His world is Dean and Bobby and Pastor Jim and sometimes Dad. He doesn't know about Mommy's friends.
"He's the only one who didn't come to see you, you know. When you were born."
He didn't come and find you.
"It's probably what saved him, honestly. We hit every single name on that baby registry."
Sam doesn't understand, not really. He doesn't understand what this woman is trying to say. Not knowing all of these things makes him feel small and stupid, and he doesn't want to talk to her. But the way her lips curl back and her teeth comb against her tongue, the way she comes closer every time she rounds back to face him, like she's getting ready to land--that makes the fear freeze all over again. He doesn't move.
It's like she senses his uncertainties. "We killed them, Sammy. Do you know what that means?"
Sam has his suspicions. They never talk about Mommy that way, but she's not here. Not anymore. Maybe she was killed. (Like when the car stalls and Dad kills the engine and everything stops, and Dad swears and rages and clangs away under the hood, while Sam and Dean eat bologna sandwiches on the side of the road. They pick out the pieces of gravel and dirt that fly in when people drive past.)
"It means they can't protect you anymore. Speaking of--" And she pauses directly in front of him. Her shoes, round and black and shiny, nudge at his socks. She puts her hands on her knees, skirt smooth and tight against her legs, the way grown up ladies do when they talk to him. Just like tap-dancing Mrs. Aliza Gallagher, minus the crocodile clothes.
"Where's your Daddy?"
The smile makes up for it. She's so close, he can count her crocodile teeth.
Sam doesn't start crying until he feels her breath on his face. It smells like the restaurant candies that come striped red or green, and sometimes blue. He doesn't notice at first, because his eyes are wet from the dust and the sneezing, but when he tries to breathe, he gets a mouthful of that peppermint smell. He can smell the old eggs right under it, and it just seems wrong.
Not enough air.
He hiccups and draws another shuddering breath.
It whines on its way out. The woman just stares, then frowns. Like she doesn't know what to do.
Dean is like that, he thinks. When Sam cries, that's when Dean is most like Dad. Dean steps back and looks in the other direction, as though he doesn't know what Sam is doing, what he's feeling. Sam tries his hardest not to ever cry.
He tries to take a deep breath.
Dean always says there's nothing to be afraid of. And maybe there isn't.
(--Doesn't mean you're not three whole years old when you wake up one night, needing the bathroom, and you find your big brother sitting on the edge of the bed with a rifle napping in his arms. When you think, well, why shouldn't you be afraid? if he's got a gun, like Dad has.
Because isn't he?
It's 2:47 time (which is easy, because the numbers are all laid out in flat, fluorescent green, and not sitting in a circle, like usual) when Dad comes back. He checks in with Dean, wordless; Sam isn't facing the right way and can't see, but Dean slips into bed beside him. They both pretend to sleep.
Dad bangs around in the bathroom until 3:52 time. He's always thirsty when he comes home late. Sam always lines up the brown, white, black bottles behind the bathroom door, come morning.
He still needs the bathroom.
And maybe Dean needs it too. Sam can hear him sniffling, like maybe he's getting sick. But it comes with that same shuddering, hiccuping breathing Sam knows; and he knows that Dean is crying.
Sam wets the bed that night. He needs the bathroom, but the bathroom is busy. He needs the bathroom, but it fees wrong to hear Dean crying. It feels like he should close his ears and turn away. That's what everyone has always done. Everyone Sam knows.
In the morning, Dean is far from pleased to discover the wet spot on the sheets they're sharing, and Sam is uncomfortable and itchy in his last pair of underwear all the way to Scranton. Dad doesn't notice either way.
Sheets cover over two secrets--one Dean's and one Sam's--and these things, they leave behind.
When Sam cries, Dean doesn't ever stop him. He just doesn't hear it.)
So maybe this girl is different, after all. "What's wrong with you?" she asks. Demands, even. "You don't know them."
Sam nearly objects, of course he knows them, he spends every day with them (except today), and they are Dean and Dad. Of course he knows them.
"Your daddy didn't get on with Mommy's friends, much. Even after he learned the truth. They probably hadn't seen you since you were pink and sagging and toothless," the lady clarifies (that's what she thinks this is about). But Sam's thought is planted already, and growing.
Growing.
It's then he realizes that he's still crying.
The lady leans forward and drops a kiss on Sam's forehead. It's a TV kiss, quick and chaste and insubstantial--but the only kind Sam knows. "You don't have to be afraid of anything," she says. Cuts a line down his neck with her fingernail. Her eyes are bright with fancy. "Everyone's got their eyes on you."
Which doesn't sound right, but it doesn't sound bad, either. Sam sniffles.
"Do you like french fries?" the lady asks.
Yes, nods Sam. Yes, he does.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 + a/n | Full Story (.PDF) | Artwork by starry_ice
who's old jim? (iii)
It would definitely explain Miss Jenny Gardner's interrogation. No mention of Jim; a lot of questions--more than usual; him and Dean, and how they came to traveling together. What their home life is like. Where Mom is. (He's my son; when I'm taking care of him, we hit the road, it's part of my job. Taking him to a gig in California. Home's complicated; we move a lot. Mary--Clarisse. When I...married Clarisse, didn't see it all ending up this way. No, I don't think she's happy.
Yes, I'm sorry. Every day.)
It sounds like some sort of awful Child Services intervention waiting to happen. Deadbeat Dad kidnaps his kid, flies him out from Wisconsin to California--and from there, anywhere. Sidetracked in Beatty, Nevada and apprehended by the local badges after--
And really, what the hell does it look like when you see a man, got a gun looks like it's trained on his own kid, who's spilling out panic like he's been--
Fuck. Just fuck. John's angry he's so blind. Angry for being played. Angry because he brought Dean and Dean got hurt and John doesn't even know if it means Dean's just too young for this, or John's just not good enough. Angry because time's up and Dean has to be old enough now, and John's tired of watching his sons grow up like it's some kind of time trial. Even though he's the one with the starting pistol in his hand.
If he can catch this here, he can end it. Forestall it. Something.
Anything.
He has one gun, two knives, and five years of self-studied Latin. He has one dead wife, one boy lost, and one boy sitting at the back of a casino with a woman who saw him look like he was gonna shoot the kid--then saw the kid whip out a .45 and throw it to him.
And now, he's heading off Mr. Beatty Mercantile, because John knows of one crossroads deal, one soul outta Hell, and one man who's probably got a little more to say about both.
Who's Old Jim?
Beatty Mercantile had shrugged at that, this morning. His name tag read SIMON (then, scratched in, 'SAYS SHUT UP AND BUY SOMETHING'), and he'd said, Jim Beatty; life 'a the town. Little, uhm, little cuckoo, you ask him. Real hush-hush, the way gossip goes 'round when a town's not got quite enough to do.
Evidently, someone in this town's up to a whole hell of a lot.
Pulling a soul out of Hell, though (--if that's what Old Jim is; obviously Jim got dragged down, but who knows if what's out there's even really Jim at all). Soul outta Hell takes a lot more than boredom and idiocy to pull. More than a full-scale ritual, for that matter, or anything else John's ever caught sight or wind of. And John's willing to bet, more than a little sacrifice. Sort of thing that can't be hid.
Sort of thing's bigger than one dusty little town that's closed on Sundays.
Maybe on Sundays the neighbors come knocking. Air Force brings the gas. John keeps throwing the pieces together 'til they stick like something reasonable. Rhyolite, convenient little ghost town just north, brings the haunts. And Hell's Gate to the west--God. Hell's Gate. And John wants to break down laughing then and there. When did life start playing it so fucking literal? You get away from deceptive East Coast towns like New Harmony and New Haven and the west just gives up and calls it like it is. Hell's Gate. Should probably check that one out, don't you think, Winchester?
John's not sure which he prefers, but if the day's going to be anything like this gig so far, John hopes this Simon Says character is the sort that sells it straight. He's not? This ain't going to end pretty.
--
There isn't a fiber of her being not screaming at her by now. Things like GET OUT, CALL IN, and DON'T PLAY THE FOOL. These strangers, they're dangerous. No way around that. Some people're a little more prone to firearms than others, but she hasn't seen anyone handle them quite like the Fainall boys.
Simon Walker's got a .22 he keeps shined like his Sunday best; he's a pretty good shot, she remembers. Took her out to the range once and he bulls-eyed every one. But like everyone else she's ever known--even Jenny Gardner and the other police, and gunmanship's a piece of their work--he treats it like pride and privilege. She's seen the Fainalls out in the street, and right here in her own place, and she knows that to them a gun's not either.
Dean treats it like a layman's tool and his daddy treats it like a son. Keep it close, keep it handy, and don't waste words.
Whole gig's a lot scary and a little sad, stifled and grim as they look, and Rita just doesn't know what to think. One hand it's a boy and his daddy caught up in something awful, that much she can see; the other, them two're the perpetrators of the something awful in the first place, and it's her job to get herself safe from them, rather than help get 'em saved.
The way they talk, and the way they act, police should've been her first call. But it's hard to shake Dean sitting at her table eating wet fries and trying on alcohol a little too big for him; or hunched over the toilet saying he doesn't need anyone's help, even if he looks like he does; or just sitting here with his daddy and him, with nobody saying anything but everything being said--being said with tics and postures and silence, some personal language she can read but cannot understand.
Hard to shake the feeling that they're okay, maybe.
Her luck, they're on the run from Tri-Net, got meth sewn into their hems, gonna make a run for it the second they clean up, cauterize loose ends (like herself; won't that be a treat). But she nudges Dean off toward the office door, tells him he better call his brother, she doesn't care what his daddy said.
Anything to keep him here. The Dreamer part of her thinks it's safer here than out, and the Reasonably Frightened part of her doesn't think Dean would get left, so she's got to keep him close. Richard Fainall's got to come back for him. Gotta come back here. This probably isn't what's meant by 'hostage situation' when the drug lord serial killers come to town, but generally drug lord serial killers don't bring their children.
"You get ahold of your brother?" Rita asks when Dean announces his return with a door slammed shut. Somehow, she imagines 'Sammy' sixteen years old and tall, like Johnny in The Outsiders or maybe Sodapop Curtis; she doesn't remember who's who.
She doesn't expect him to say, and he doesn't look like he expects to, either, but appearances can be deceiving: "Yeah. Told me the same thing Dad did."
Meaning nothing, is Rita's first thought. But she reorients herself to the subject quickly enough. Communication via silence seems to be a house specialty, based on what she's seen of them. Dean's got a look on his face of hard-edged determination, the blunt conviction of which seems out of place on any kid, so maybe his phone call sealed whatever his daddy had told him in the parlance of silence.
"Simon." And the name's so out of context Rita almost asks who he's talking about. (Who's Old Jim?)
"Just one of the boys 'round town," Rita allows. She wonders what the hell she'd left in her office made him ask about Simon Walker. "Friend of mine. Works down at Beatty Mercantile most days."
"He ever...Did he ever do anything weird? Maybe like you weren't expecting it, and it didn't seem like him."
Good God. What had she left out? She's written so many angry letters (never mailed, God forbid) she can't begin to imagine what all the kid thinks he's on to. "Sure. Most folks do--end up not being who you thought they were. Secret's bigger for some than others," she answers pointedly.
Dean cheek twitches like he's tasted something sour. He takes the hint. Don't Ask, Don't Tell's a two-way street. "I should go now. Work to do."
No.
Kid's not going anywhere; not talking like he is. "Better off just staying here." Daddy has to come back. Not going to get far waving a gun around like he is. Not going to get far looking for Jim Beatty's ghost--or even his grave. Not going to get far down the road to Crazy. He has to come back sooner or later. Or get dragged back.
"I have to. It's the only thing I--" As it's as though he remembers he's not supposed to talk to her, the way he cuts off. "Thanks for lunch."
He walks out without further explanation, and the door swings back with a mournful rattle-screech. Rita lets him go. She let Richard drug lord psycho serial killer cardshark public assailant zombie-drinking Fainall go, and she lets Dean more-of-the-same Fainall follow right after.
She don't even ask, Where do you think you're going?, not to either of them, because it's clear enough they'd never tell. Not if it's going to matter in any way.
But it's also Beatty, so it's easy enough to guess.
doorways (i).
Thoughts catch on weird things sometimes. Dean's is playing out Rita and the Simon dude stop-action; they step back and forth between being rosily drunk in the diner and zipped up in jackets on the hood of a car, but there's not much in between. Every time Dean attempts to conceive of something, it just turns back to the familiar: Curses, monsters, and ghosts.
That's the reason things like that always happen to his family, anyway. But Rita isn't them and she's probably luckier if she kept it that way. He's known this from the beginning. Rule #1's you keep outsiders out, devils or no. Keep things simple. But Rule #1 doesn't make provision for keeping family in, so Dean's thinking that simple ain't exactly fair.
He drags across the parking lot, but he kicks dirt up at the rock median, picks up speed, and takes the stairs two at a time. They're painted a slick scarlet Dean doesn't think matches the 'moldy cheese' vibe the rest of the building promotes, but it's almost like a red carpet and it's almost like he's going somewhere other than the room, to do something other than shack up and shut up.
Snaps the "Do Not Disturb" placard off the door, turns the key in the lock. Door opens into cool, dark cleanness.
Cleanness.
No more iron jacks on the floor. Dad's tourist pamphlets are nowhere to be seen, meticulous piles gone from the rightmost bed. Gideon's Bible's found itself on the nightstand again, back from its trip under the bed, where Dean sent it the night before. Lights are off, TV's not on, Dad's uneaten Poor Boy isn't a moist lump at the edge of the sink.
Green duffel's not bookending the free souvenirs and promotionals the room's prior occupants left. Green duffel isn't anywhere.
Green duffel's a bad thing to get lost. Dean's first thought is, Dad's gonna kill him. His second is, Unless something else finds me first.
Better to make sure Dad goes the honors; at the very least, he kills things clean. Dean edges clear of the doorway and backs against the wall. Something's in here, it knows it's got company. Can't be helped. Bed, bed, drawerset, closet, bathroom alcove. Dean's estimations, that's five too many places. He's got a knife he doesn't really know how to use and the full knowledge that he screws up, nobody's going to come running in to back him up.
Don't panic.
Butting against Dad's orders hadn't worked too well earlier today, but Dean's thinking it's best to duck out of this one. Thing doesn't jump out when his shadow crosses the light leaking in from the door, it can stay put. Dean's gonna run like hell.
As it turns out, shadows do obscure the late afternoon flush, just before Dean breaks. Only it comes from the outside, not the in.
"Thought you'd be back soon enough," says a voice, thankfully disturbingly worrisomely human.
Dean turns around and it's a tall man in a tan suit, topped off with an outback hat and a set of killer shades, the last of which Dean makes sure to voice.
"Cute. But boy, you in a heap of trouble. You gonna tell us where your daddy is?"
Goddamn it.
"Gas station. We're going to get gas and split, unless that's a problem." Dean breathes out deep. Just people. Just people. Just let them run with that and they'll fill out the rest on their own. Just people; lead 'em where you want 'em.
"Gas station's a hell of a lot more useful, there's gas there. Now, since that all is under my charge, I'm thinking your daddy's unusually dumb, or you're lying. Which one do you want to own up to?"
Dean hates people.
There's a wooden creak from outside and a second shadow swallows the last of the sunlight. Raw instinct presses Dean closer against the wall, though he's getting the impression there actually aren't any monsters under the bed. They're standing in the doorway.
"He's the one, all right. He's the kid, stole my goods."
This has to be a joke.
"Gave him money, get me gas out here, but you heard him straight--gonna run off, and do me a disfavor in the going!"
Seriously? That's it. Shitty town fucking sucks.
"Put the rifle down, Mr. Kimmel. You're a good man, so I let you keep it. You start acting like you're going to use it, and I'm going to reconsider," says the man in the outback hat. Dean can't bring himself to feel any due gratitude, much less express it. This is stupid.
Andrew Kimmel called the Air Force on them. The Air Force. Where in the hell does--
Beatty. That's where. Beatty-unholy-Nevada.
Rifle-happy quarter-keeping Air force-calling Andrew Kimmel's spewing nonsense quick as smiling and Dean's slumped sullen against the wooden paneling and the man in the outback hat might be interrogating him, but Dean's going to play it mute on this one. Probably not Dad's idea of Shut Up and Wait, but it's nice to have a Plan B that follows the same basic principle.
"--thought your daddy was gonna crash that plane my god was really not banking on that one. Scared me shitless, he really did. Don't need you dead quite yet, I don't think--"
Dean tenses, fingers to shoulders to jaw. Andrew Kimmel cuts off, and the expression painted across his face is one of intense satisfaction--on account of what, Dean's not sure, but he's not sure he wants to know.
"You didn't think you got landed here purely on account of your shit luck, did you? We're waiting. All across the damned US of A, we're waiting. Just glad I'm the one to find you. Makes sitting around in this shithole town almost worth it. Because administration's got plans for you Winchesters." Teeth, peeking out behind thin, flat lips. "You best hope your daddy's seeing to your darling baby brother, before we do."
He called them Winchesters. He knows about Sammy. He knows--he knows everything, probably. Everything. The prospect is dizzying.
"Got your guns, got your charms. Your fancy silver knives, your little black magic Bibles. Only a matter a time before we get you." There's those teeth again; Andrew Kimmel's grin is positively reptilian. "Let me ask you something, Dean. A little Sunday School. You know what a demon is?"
Deep breath. Bad things get gone when you shove them someplace you can't see, and you leave 'em there to rot. You bury them. Salt, burn, and goodbye--they're not supposed to come back. Trouble is, they do. They always fucking do. Dean never considered that.
Should have; reallyreally should have: Devil's in the doorway.
"I asked, do you know what a demon is?"
fear (ii).
They're tearing across Nebraska, windows rolled up. The air is electric with storm-calling, and Dad aims to beat the weather out of the state. Wyoming by midnight.
Inside the Impala, the air is wet and heavy, like it's been breathed too many times, and Dean feels this disorienting lightheadedness, makes like he's gonna throw up. But breathe in too deep and it's like dying; he can't imagine getting anything up.
Or new stuff down. No, Boston Market doesn't sound that good. Drive-through is fine. Sammy shifts the seat and Dean knows he's being looked at. He drives the groan of pain down his throat as easy as he can make it, and keeps silent.
Sammy's gonna ask; the words are beating against the backs of his teeth, the same way I hate you I hate you I hate you was, all through Nebraska. But Sammy's smart enough to know that no matter what, Dad can't know.
Dad doesn't ask. Eases the car to parked, leaves the brake off at the gas station. Wyoming by midnight.
He hops out to pay, and Sammy hops the seat, quick chop to the gut. Dean lets slip an awful, scraping, breathy yelp; it's the last thing he should have done, he knows it, but god, it's like his middle's being carved out with a switchblade and short breaths short breaths short breaths. He bites down on the inside of his his lip so hard he tears through skin and it's like his whole mouth is flooded with hot, metallic wet.
He's on the cusp between Hell and dying slowly when he regains enough unoccupied headspace to remind himself to hit back. He doesn't, then something's really wrong. "What the hell was that for!" he grates out, each word smooth and uncadenced--factory-perfect. He swats blindly in Sam's general direction, nicks what feels like chin. "Oh. Let me guess. You hate me."
No, he's scared, idiot. Sammy was scared, like Dean should've been. And Dean had been, at first. He'd thought about Sam driving straight into the divider, head first. Neck snapped back at a right angle. But he'd yelled jump and Sammy hadn't, and he felt the cart wheels lock as the wire basket made first contact, felt it start to spin out, and he just let himself fly, because it was all over, anyway.
But Sammy's looking at him now, the glaze of betrayal in his eyes I hate you I hate you I hate you, and he's still scared. Should've kept you safe; I'm sorry. "Dean, you--"
"Don't--don't touch me. Just don't move. And tonight, don't climb all over my side of the bed, for once. Mr. Tentacles." And Dean cracks a grin. C'mon, Sammy. Dean thinks about lying flat, and he considers not sleeping ever again. "Don't worry. It'll be cool." It's just a dull ache, he's careful how he moves. He can live with that.
Just bury it. Bury it under the sound of hot rain drumming against the roof of the Impala--didn't beat the storm. Bury it under "Hey, scoot out and tell dad to get dinner--bag of pretzels (Dean thinks about chewing) or...Hostess or something." Bury it under Sammy's satisfaction.
They grind to a halt in Lusk, Wyoming, under the pretense of that satisfaction. Dean isn't sure how he's supposed to maneuver from the car to the ground to the motel room, and so feigns sleepiness. Takes it slow.
Doesn't matter, because Dad throws the duffle, heavy with newly-purchased goods, at his person the second he clears the car door. "Catch!"
Off-guard, Dean gives a gasp of surprise; doubles over with the slicing, ripping pain this invites. The duffle knocks him to the ground a moment later.
He wonders if this counts as a catch.
He hopes so. (He thinks, he'd watched some kids play baseball, once. Spied them in the adjoining vacant lot, right through a chain link fence. Wasn't too special, but he and Sam played a real game broadcast, Red Sox v. Tampa Bay, which made it better.
Kid runs headlong into the guy with the mask and the mitt (unfair advantage, really, so it the runner justified in bowling the guy over? absolutely). Dust clears and both kids are on the ground, but Mask n' Mitt's got the ball in his glove still, and the runner is out. Out. And Dean thinks--)
Dean wants out.
The rest is blessedly vague, involves picking bits of asphalt out of his hair for what felt like a week. Feels like abuse, when Dad wrenches up his shirt, finds what Dean later discovered was a white-green-yellow bruise the size of Texas. He can't help wet, sticky tears in the wet, sticky air when Dad brushes his fingers down Dean's torso and it feels like he's driving the knife in, straight down to the hilt.
Then Dad carries him, right past the front desk and the people waiting in line for the phone, like he's a baby, and between the pain and the sheer mortification of this, Dean could die then and there.
Sammy tags after, tripping on Dad's heels, dragging a too-big duffle behind him. Dean doesn't know if it makes Sam look grown up, or just stupid-little, like clogging around in Dad's shoes. You can't fill those.
Dean just knows that the way Dad is carrying him isn't as gentle as Dad thinks. It drags at his ribs and Dean gets the feeling he retches like he wants to, he'll be hacking up more than just his lungs.
Dad sets him in a chair, and gets ice from Sammy, from the ice machine. He gets a version of their little parking lot adventure from Sammy, too.
Dad isn't happy.
But more than that, it's the way Dad looks at him. Frames Dean's head with his hands--hands, big and strong and clammy--in some attempt to convey a feeling beyond words. Dean knows those hands, knows that look, knows those eyes. Seen it on Sam's face, back in Nebraska. And even before that, on Dad's, that night when--
When Dean had tried so hard to make it good. Make it right. Make it so's gonna be okay. But the look on Dad's face screams, I can't trust you.
I can't trust you to keep safe. To be safe.
I can't protect you.
Screams fear.
doorways (ii).
"Going on a little roadtrip, kid. See, we need to orchestrate an old-timey family reunion."
Dean's hesitation must be rimmed with neon, because whatever Andrew Kimmel is now--demon, he says; what the hell does that mean, demon--whatever Andrew Kimmel is now, it puts a soft point right through the Man in the Outback Hat at the spot where his neck joins his skull.
"You're gonna want to be there for this. You can't imagine what it'd do to your daddy if he never found your body."
Never really considered that.
Should have.
Reallyreally should have.
Andrew Kimmel lunges over what is now The Body in the Outback Hat and cops a feel around Dean's midsection, yanks him clear off the ground in one sweet motion. Dean swears he can feel his bones grind together, his ribs just crumble to dust, but that particular incident is far in the past.
He's carried out sideways like a limp sack, and if that doesn't look suspicious as all hell, he can see why there aren't many who gave him and Dad a second glance when they first rolled in. TOURIST KIDNAPPED BY CRAZY UNDERWORLD CREATURE--one for the Weekly World News.
This is. Beyond. Just so beyond he can't even--
He makes a play at hooking his heel into the small of Andrew Kimmel's back, but Andrew Kimmel doesn't feel it, or doesn't care enough to comment. This is probably the point where Dean's mouth starts going at it without his brain, because he can hear the (taste the) words spewing forth, though he has absolutely no clue what he's saying. If this is Fortress, are you Father Christmas?--that kind of thing. But he can't stop, and he just doesn't want to, because this is so beyond anything, he just can't bring himself to care. Andrew Kimmel doesn't say where they're headed or what for; really doesn't talk much at all, and Dean's filling in the gaps with absolutely anything and everything--things he can think of and things he's sure he's very definitely not thinking. Just things. Stupid, stupid things. Don't scare from things you can't fix.
And that's just it. Dean Winchester is nine years old. More than half his life, he's known how awfully terribly real monsters are. How real death is. More than half his life, he's known how to keep 'em at bay, how to hide, learned maybe a little on how to defend--though that's always a last dich thing. You're close enough to shoot a thing, it's as good as having its teeth in you already. He's learned that much.
Dean Winchester is nine years old, and his daddy isn't here to save him. Dean Winchester is nine years old, and he doesn't have a brother near enough to save. Dean Winchester is nine years old, and he is going to die. Gonna be his blood mixed in with the sand, his insides sizzling out in the bare Nevada desert, his clothes thrown into the brush and his bones scattered all down the highway.
After that, everything just flatlines.
(not) alone in the attic.
The dust picks up in flurries, and Sam can feel his nose prick, redden. He sneezes. Brings the cuff of his shirt to his face instinctively.
The window is open. He can see the old red kite bobbing on the old grey tree outside. The breeze is cold. The fear waking in his stomach is cold. He can feel it leaking into his motionless arms and legs, the way ice water does when you swallow down too much, too fast. (I'll race you, says Dean, and the cup is at his lips and tipping. Sam uses a straw.)
He can't move.
The woman does. She circles him, like the V-winged birds in Las Cruces (was that May?) "I can't believe we missed one," she says. Her lips blossom into a pout. She looks like a doll, dressed in her Sunday best. "Not you, Sammy, don't worry. We would never forget you."
The fear starts pooling and warming, awkward and tepid like Sam's not sure whether it is the appropriate response or not. She looks like a Church lady, maybe one of Pastor Jim's friends. She smells like old eggs. But what is she missing? He considers the Sunday School they have sometimes. Dean never let them go, even though they read books and played games and ate those pink and white animal cookies from the store. Ate them with milk. We would never forget you.
"Sorry about the smell," she says, and Sam uncrinkles his nose, looks away. "Blue Earth Bath and Body was closed today, so sue me. Figures that your mommy's friends'd live in backwater Minnesota."
Sam keeps quiet. His world is Dean and Bobby and Pastor Jim and sometimes Dad. He doesn't know about Mommy's friends.
"He's the only one who didn't come to see you, you know. When you were born."
He didn't come and find you.
"It's probably what saved him, honestly. We hit every single name on that baby registry."
Sam doesn't understand, not really. He doesn't understand what this woman is trying to say. Not knowing all of these things makes him feel small and stupid, and he doesn't want to talk to her. But the way her lips curl back and her teeth comb against her tongue, the way she comes closer every time she rounds back to face him, like she's getting ready to land--that makes the fear freeze all over again. He doesn't move.
It's like she senses his uncertainties. "We killed them, Sammy. Do you know what that means?"
Sam has his suspicions. They never talk about Mommy that way, but she's not here. Not anymore. Maybe she was killed. (Like when the car stalls and Dad kills the engine and everything stops, and Dad swears and rages and clangs away under the hood, while Sam and Dean eat bologna sandwiches on the side of the road. They pick out the pieces of gravel and dirt that fly in when people drive past.)
"It means they can't protect you anymore. Speaking of--" And she pauses directly in front of him. Her shoes, round and black and shiny, nudge at his socks. She puts her hands on her knees, skirt smooth and tight against her legs, the way grown up ladies do when they talk to him. Just like tap-dancing Mrs. Aliza Gallagher, minus the crocodile clothes.
"Where's your Daddy?"
The smile makes up for it. She's so close, he can count her crocodile teeth.
Sam doesn't start crying until he feels her breath on his face. It smells like the restaurant candies that come striped red or green, and sometimes blue. He doesn't notice at first, because his eyes are wet from the dust and the sneezing, but when he tries to breathe, he gets a mouthful of that peppermint smell. He can smell the old eggs right under it, and it just seems wrong.
Not enough air.
He hiccups and draws another shuddering breath.
It whines on its way out. The woman just stares, then frowns. Like she doesn't know what to do.
Dean is like that, he thinks. When Sam cries, that's when Dean is most like Dad. Dean steps back and looks in the other direction, as though he doesn't know what Sam is doing, what he's feeling. Sam tries his hardest not to ever cry.
He tries to take a deep breath.
Dean always says there's nothing to be afraid of. And maybe there isn't.
(--Doesn't mean you're not three whole years old when you wake up one night, needing the bathroom, and you find your big brother sitting on the edge of the bed with a rifle napping in his arms. When you think, well, why shouldn't you be afraid? if he's got a gun, like Dad has.
Because isn't he?
It's 2:47 time (which is easy, because the numbers are all laid out in flat, fluorescent green, and not sitting in a circle, like usual) when Dad comes back. He checks in with Dean, wordless; Sam isn't facing the right way and can't see, but Dean slips into bed beside him. They both pretend to sleep.
Dad bangs around in the bathroom until 3:52 time. He's always thirsty when he comes home late. Sam always lines up the brown, white, black bottles behind the bathroom door, come morning.
He still needs the bathroom.
And maybe Dean needs it too. Sam can hear him sniffling, like maybe he's getting sick. But it comes with that same shuddering, hiccuping breathing Sam knows; and he knows that Dean is crying.
Sam wets the bed that night. He needs the bathroom, but the bathroom is busy. He needs the bathroom, but it fees wrong to hear Dean crying. It feels like he should close his ears and turn away. That's what everyone has always done. Everyone Sam knows.
In the morning, Dean is far from pleased to discover the wet spot on the sheets they're sharing, and Sam is uncomfortable and itchy in his last pair of underwear all the way to Scranton. Dad doesn't notice either way.
Sheets cover over two secrets--one Dean's and one Sam's--and these things, they leave behind.
When Sam cries, Dean doesn't ever stop him. He just doesn't hear it.)
So maybe this girl is different, after all. "What's wrong with you?" she asks. Demands, even. "You don't know them."
Sam nearly objects, of course he knows them, he spends every day with them (except today), and they are Dean and Dad. Of course he knows them.
"Your daddy didn't get on with Mommy's friends, much. Even after he learned the truth. They probably hadn't seen you since you were pink and sagging and toothless," the lady clarifies (that's what she thinks this is about). But Sam's thought is planted already, and growing.
Growing.
It's then he realizes that he's still crying.
The lady leans forward and drops a kiss on Sam's forehead. It's a TV kiss, quick and chaste and insubstantial--but the only kind Sam knows. "You don't have to be afraid of anything," she says. Cuts a line down his neck with her fingernail. Her eyes are bright with fancy. "Everyone's got their eyes on you."
Which doesn't sound right, but it doesn't sound bad, either. Sam sniffles.
"Do you like french fries?" the lady asks.
Yes, nods Sam. Yes, he does.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 + a/n | Full Story (.PDF) | Artwork by starry_ice