We are Both Afraid Before the Dawn Part 3
Dawn came and went. Dean couldn't tell the difference. The gym was still pitch black, though the light Sal left them made a warm little circle around him and his brother. Sam's hand had gone lax over his knee over an hour before, and his brother's breathing was easy and deep. Dean wanted sleep: or, even better, a beer. A couple beers. And a real bed. Sitting on the floor, back against the bleachers, was sending protests through every inch of his spine. But shifting might wake Sammy, and he didn't want to wake Sammy. Kid had been through enough that night.
Then some idiot got on the intercom and started bellowing that it was safe to go upstairs, and to proceed in a calm and orderly fashion, and Sam jolted awake and sat up anyway. Dean tossed him a grin and yanked his coat out from under him, knocking Sam on his ass and earning himself a few bruises on the shin as Sam retaliated. The people around them clapped and cheered.
"Time to bust out of here, huh?" Dean grinned. Sam mumbled something Dean's fairly certain their Dad wouldn't allow, but hell, he just wants to get back to the house and sprawl on his bed and sleep until he can't anymore.
They joined the procession toward the stairs, then up them, then slowly out the doors and down the front lawn and into a mess of chaos. Some of the hysteria from the night before, it seemed, was more than justified. Half the school was gone, and Dean guessed the sound of collapsing metal and debris was a good section of the roof making its way down on top of the remnants of the first story. A little more to the right, or a slightly different angle of collapse on the base of the school, and--don't. It hadn’t happened.
Some of those still-annoying volunteers were directing people forward, where a line of camera crews and cop cars and rescue vehicles cluttered up the block, parked at crazy angles, making it clear no one was driving anywhere in town. Trees were uprooted as far as they could see-some had fallen into houses, others into cars, and there were sirens. A lot of sirens.
Sam was knocked sideways by someone in the crowd, who barked at him to quit standing around, and Dean surged forward, yanking his brother to side and calling a few of his favorite expletives at the man’s retreating head.
“Okay,” he squeezed Sammy’s shoulder. “Let’s head back toward the house, and I’ll see if we can’t get a signal to let Dad know we’re alright.”
Sam just nodded, eyes on the wreck of the school. Dean gave him a tug and started them away from the wreckage and down the block. Kid didn’t need to be staring at that, calculating fractions of seconds and whatever else his big dork brain would cook up about how close, statistically, they’d come to being buried in wreckage. And Dean couldn’t think about how little he’d been prepared for this. How he didn’t take Sammy’s nervous nighttime vigil seriously.
Dean shook off these thoughts and focused, just like his Dad had taught him. Later, he could debrief, analyze what dangers weren’t anticipated and how the response could have been different. In the moment, he needed to focus his thoughts and energy on the threats and challenges before them, and try to see any and all possible dangers to Sammy. So he kept his eye on shaky trees and livewires and still-more rescue vehicles trying to barrel down the roads.
Sal was right though-there were already vans full of food and water, and Dean even managed to score some food stamps and a couple mini first-aid kits-always useful in their line of work. The going was slow, the percentage of cops and social workers and emergency crews way beyond Dean’s comfort zone, and if he kept an arm a little too tightly around Sammy, it was for his brother’s benefit. Not his.
Sam was eerily quiet, a bit wide-eyed, and looking much, much younger than usual. Dean wanted to shield him from the families wailing and sobbing when they saw their wrecked houses, or the bruises and bloodstains covering victims seated in the back of open ambulances, but there didn’t seem to be any way of avoiding them. The tornado hadn’t heard the calm and orderly commandments and had apparently touched down near the high school and whipped seemingly at random back and forth across the streets, annihilating rows of homes and taking chunks out of others. The further they went, the longer the stretches of destruction became, until it was all too clear that their own block hadn’t been untouched.
They’d made it to the head of their street when a scream sounded at such a volume Dean honestly thought, for a second, that it was another siren. Dean turned in time to see some rescue workers working extricating a woman from under what was once a staircase, but she appeared to have some kind of bloody towel wrapped in her arms that she wasn’t giving up.
It took a few seconds for him to realize that it wasn’t a towel, but a baby blanket, and he grabbed Sammy and whipped him away from the scene. A second too late.
Sam went very, very white. Than a little green. Then took two steps out of the way and dry-heaved. Dean caught him before he went down on his knees on a mess of porch, fearing he’d land on nails or glass.
“Alright, easy, easy, take it easy,” he murmured, rubbing the kid’s back with one hand while forcing him to stay upright. “It’s okay, they’ve got her. She’ll be fine.” The woman chose that moment to let out another banshee-worthy shriek and begin to sob “my baby, my boy!” Dean was going to lose it himself in a minute or two. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get out of here.”
Sam nodded, a final shiver going through him, and dug his fingers into his brother’s arm. Dean patted him on the back and kept an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him briefly before they worked their way down the final few lots to their rental.
***
Their house was gone.
It was the rough outlines of their house--the lines of concrete brick foundation, in the shape of all their former rooms, the ugly, weak clapboard blown into the holes where floors should be, and that butt-ugly green carpet spread all over everything--but if you hadn't known it used to be a house, you'd say it was a scrap heap, complete with old pipes and a cracked toilet tumbled pathetically over on its side.
Sam's fingers curled around the hem of his shirt. Dean couldn't think of anything to say or do but drop his hand to the top of his brother's head and pet him like a puppy. He couldn't even quite get his mind around what was in front of them. And then, like Divine Intervention, they heard Sal bellow "why you sonofabitch!" and he and Sam trailed into her backyard.
Sal stood there, hands on her broad hips, glaring down at a plot of massacred Earth. "Tore up my tomatoes," she roared. "That damn thing took about five weekends of hard work and drilled it all to hell!"
Dean had no idea what to say. The only thing left standing of her house was a few scattered rooms on the far side from what had been the Winchester's rental, and even what was left was such a mess of debris it couldn't possibly be salvaged. Yet Sal was pacing the backyard, swearing about wrecked flower beds and the cost of fertilizer.
Fortunately, where Dean failed, Sam took over.
“I’m sorry about your house, Sal,” the kid offered.
“Oh hell, honey, I’m not. The damn thing was on its last legs. You watch, this whole block will be built back up by the end of the month. In the meantime, the kids get farmed out and the Daddy Warbucks’ of this country are putting me up in a great big hotel, and I plan to make the most of it. But my tomatoes? You know what it takes to grow good tomatoes? It ain't science. It's smarts.” She sighed and shook her head. "You boys, you need to head on back and get yourself a bed at the shelter. They'll fill up fast. You talk to your Daddy?"
"He's on his way," Dean lied. If Sam's grip tightened slightly on his shirt, he didn't notice. Not a bit.
"Well good. I'll keep an eye out for him. Gonna be hell getting through town. You boys get yourselves a bed and some food and sleep, and if you need anything you call. Got me?"
"Um…" Dean glanced awkwardly at the house. Sal huffed and rolled her eyes.
"Call my cell, boy. It's the only number I gave you. You try getting a message with six children answering your phone."
Dean's hand found Sam's hair. Sam's hand pulled a little tighter on his shirt. In unison, they turned back the way they came.
Part I Part II Next
Then some idiot got on the intercom and started bellowing that it was safe to go upstairs, and to proceed in a calm and orderly fashion, and Sam jolted awake and sat up anyway. Dean tossed him a grin and yanked his coat out from under him, knocking Sam on his ass and earning himself a few bruises on the shin as Sam retaliated. The people around them clapped and cheered.
"Time to bust out of here, huh?" Dean grinned. Sam mumbled something Dean's fairly certain their Dad wouldn't allow, but hell, he just wants to get back to the house and sprawl on his bed and sleep until he can't anymore.
They joined the procession toward the stairs, then up them, then slowly out the doors and down the front lawn and into a mess of chaos. Some of the hysteria from the night before, it seemed, was more than justified. Half the school was gone, and Dean guessed the sound of collapsing metal and debris was a good section of the roof making its way down on top of the remnants of the first story. A little more to the right, or a slightly different angle of collapse on the base of the school, and--don't. It hadn’t happened.
Some of those still-annoying volunteers were directing people forward, where a line of camera crews and cop cars and rescue vehicles cluttered up the block, parked at crazy angles, making it clear no one was driving anywhere in town. Trees were uprooted as far as they could see-some had fallen into houses, others into cars, and there were sirens. A lot of sirens.
Sam was knocked sideways by someone in the crowd, who barked at him to quit standing around, and Dean surged forward, yanking his brother to side and calling a few of his favorite expletives at the man’s retreating head.
“Okay,” he squeezed Sammy’s shoulder. “Let’s head back toward the house, and I’ll see if we can’t get a signal to let Dad know we’re alright.”
Sam just nodded, eyes on the wreck of the school. Dean gave him a tug and started them away from the wreckage and down the block. Kid didn’t need to be staring at that, calculating fractions of seconds and whatever else his big dork brain would cook up about how close, statistically, they’d come to being buried in wreckage. And Dean couldn’t think about how little he’d been prepared for this. How he didn’t take Sammy’s nervous nighttime vigil seriously.
Dean shook off these thoughts and focused, just like his Dad had taught him. Later, he could debrief, analyze what dangers weren’t anticipated and how the response could have been different. In the moment, he needed to focus his thoughts and energy on the threats and challenges before them, and try to see any and all possible dangers to Sammy. So he kept his eye on shaky trees and livewires and still-more rescue vehicles trying to barrel down the roads.
Sal was right though-there were already vans full of food and water, and Dean even managed to score some food stamps and a couple mini first-aid kits-always useful in their line of work. The going was slow, the percentage of cops and social workers and emergency crews way beyond Dean’s comfort zone, and if he kept an arm a little too tightly around Sammy, it was for his brother’s benefit. Not his.
Sam was eerily quiet, a bit wide-eyed, and looking much, much younger than usual. Dean wanted to shield him from the families wailing and sobbing when they saw their wrecked houses, or the bruises and bloodstains covering victims seated in the back of open ambulances, but there didn’t seem to be any way of avoiding them. The tornado hadn’t heard the calm and orderly commandments and had apparently touched down near the high school and whipped seemingly at random back and forth across the streets, annihilating rows of homes and taking chunks out of others. The further they went, the longer the stretches of destruction became, until it was all too clear that their own block hadn’t been untouched.
They’d made it to the head of their street when a scream sounded at such a volume Dean honestly thought, for a second, that it was another siren. Dean turned in time to see some rescue workers working extricating a woman from under what was once a staircase, but she appeared to have some kind of bloody towel wrapped in her arms that she wasn’t giving up.
It took a few seconds for him to realize that it wasn’t a towel, but a baby blanket, and he grabbed Sammy and whipped him away from the scene. A second too late.
Sam went very, very white. Than a little green. Then took two steps out of the way and dry-heaved. Dean caught him before he went down on his knees on a mess of porch, fearing he’d land on nails or glass.
“Alright, easy, easy, take it easy,” he murmured, rubbing the kid’s back with one hand while forcing him to stay upright. “It’s okay, they’ve got her. She’ll be fine.” The woman chose that moment to let out another banshee-worthy shriek and begin to sob “my baby, my boy!” Dean was going to lose it himself in a minute or two. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get out of here.”
Sam nodded, a final shiver going through him, and dug his fingers into his brother’s arm. Dean patted him on the back and kept an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him briefly before they worked their way down the final few lots to their rental.
***
Their house was gone.
It was the rough outlines of their house--the lines of concrete brick foundation, in the shape of all their former rooms, the ugly, weak clapboard blown into the holes where floors should be, and that butt-ugly green carpet spread all over everything--but if you hadn't known it used to be a house, you'd say it was a scrap heap, complete with old pipes and a cracked toilet tumbled pathetically over on its side.
Sam's fingers curled around the hem of his shirt. Dean couldn't think of anything to say or do but drop his hand to the top of his brother's head and pet him like a puppy. He couldn't even quite get his mind around what was in front of them. And then, like Divine Intervention, they heard Sal bellow "why you sonofabitch!" and he and Sam trailed into her backyard.
Sal stood there, hands on her broad hips, glaring down at a plot of massacred Earth. "Tore up my tomatoes," she roared. "That damn thing took about five weekends of hard work and drilled it all to hell!"
Dean had no idea what to say. The only thing left standing of her house was a few scattered rooms on the far side from what had been the Winchester's rental, and even what was left was such a mess of debris it couldn't possibly be salvaged. Yet Sal was pacing the backyard, swearing about wrecked flower beds and the cost of fertilizer.
Fortunately, where Dean failed, Sam took over.
“I’m sorry about your house, Sal,” the kid offered.
“Oh hell, honey, I’m not. The damn thing was on its last legs. You watch, this whole block will be built back up by the end of the month. In the meantime, the kids get farmed out and the Daddy Warbucks’ of this country are putting me up in a great big hotel, and I plan to make the most of it. But my tomatoes? You know what it takes to grow good tomatoes? It ain't science. It's smarts.” She sighed and shook her head. "You boys, you need to head on back and get yourself a bed at the shelter. They'll fill up fast. You talk to your Daddy?"
"He's on his way," Dean lied. If Sam's grip tightened slightly on his shirt, he didn't notice. Not a bit.
"Well good. I'll keep an eye out for him. Gonna be hell getting through town. You boys get yourselves a bed and some food and sleep, and if you need anything you call. Got me?"
"Um…" Dean glanced awkwardly at the house. Sal huffed and rolled her eyes.
"Call my cell, boy. It's the only number I gave you. You try getting a message with six children answering your phone."
Dean's hand found Sam's hair. Sam's hand pulled a little tighter on his shirt. In unison, they turned back the way they came.
Part I Part II Next