New Supernatural story: Indelible 1/2 (gen)
Indelible
Gen, 17,470 wds, adult
Summary: Six keepsakes, six memories, six stories.
Notes: Indelible is actually six separate stories, connected by a frame. Part IV features some teenage!Dean het, but the remainder of the stories are completely gen. Features John, Sam, Dean, some wee!chesters, and assorted family madness through the years. Title graphic was made by the gracious oxoniensis -- thank you, Signe! Beta by elynross and greensilver; kind encouragement by killabeez. Written for barkley, for Xmas 06.
The story is complete, but it's too long for one post; part 2 will follow part 1 immediately.
for Barkley, with a whole lotta love
Prologue
It was never the unnatural monsters that brought Dean down. Not their claws, or their teeth, or their poison, or any dark magic they possessed. It seemed instead to be natural and man-made things - electricity, or metal twisting and glass shattering, or a farmer's dead aim as he tracked the strangers on his land.
The bullet tore through Dean's side and nicked his lung, and when Sam saw the air bubbles in the blood on Dean's lips, he picked Dean up and ran for the car. Dean didn't struggle, didn't protest; he only turned his face away from Sam, as if he couldn't stand to be seen like this. As if Sam hadn't seen him worse.
As if Sam hadn't seen him die twice already.
Two days in the hospital, two cranky, pissy, grump-filled days with Sam sitting beside Dean's bed, the panic in his heart gradually subsiding to a dull roar. And then Dean pushed the covers back and pulled the IV out, and wheezed, "Get me the fuck out of here, Sam."
So Sam did. He didn't remark on how Dean's face went from pale to grey when he stood up and tried to draw a breath. He didn't listen to the doctor's outraged insistence that Dean remain; he ignored the nurse's reproachful look as she settled Dean in the wheelchair. He noticed, though, when Dean pushed the car door open and stood there, breathing hard, while Sam unloaded the trunk.
"Motherfucker, put me down," Dean said when Sam lifted him off the ground. This time Dean didn't turn his face away; he let Sam see his fury. Sam concentrated on the living weight of his brother in his arms and endured the tirade while he carried Dean the fifteen yards or so into the room.
"Welcome home, honey," he said with a smile when he stepped across the threshold, and the anger in Dean's eyes died down to a small riot, even though he said,
"You are so going to pay for this."
"Whatever, I'm terrified," Sam said, dumping him gently on his bed. He pulled Dean's boots off for good measure, though he was sure that Dean was going to kill him in his sleep for failing to pretend that everything was fine.
The troubling thing was that once he got Dean dressed in sweats and nestled under the covers with all their combined pillows to prop him up, Dean went out like a light. No protests, no frowning demands for water or pills or the remote. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and watched him sleep, and thought about how close they kept coming to the edge, how Dean just kept escaping death like a cat whose nine lives had been unnaturally tripled.
On the third day of Dean sleeping through the morning hours, Sam drank vending machine coffee and tried to pretend he didn't feel the walls closing in, one inch at a time. He didn't want to go too far from Dean, just in case, but he also didn't want to sit there flipping channels or surfing the net looking for jobs Dean was too weak to hear about.
Eventually he hatched a bright idea: he would unload the trunk, dump everything into duffels and a box snaked from the dumpster, and sort through all their accumulated junk. Anything to pass the time.
Dean kept the weapons scrupulously clean and in perfect condition, so Sam didn't mess with them, just set them aside. There were proper spots for most things, though they'd assembled quite a collection of junk layered over and around it all - charms, trinkets, clippings, tapes, stolen police files, and so much more.
Sam was amazed at how much there was -- but what intrigued him most was the box jammed into the wheel well. A box he had never seen before.
He almost didn't notice it; it was beneath the mat, only one tiny corner visible, and it refused to come away easily. It had been mashed down to fit into the space, and it rattled like broken glass. When he worked it free, he glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door, because intuition told him Dean hadn't meant for him to look inside.
Too late now.
The contents were unremarkable, really. A shot glass; a piece of red and green tinsel; a shiny rock; a stray Styx album on cassette; a handcuff key; and a folded piece of paper. Sam picked up the handcuff key and turned it between his fingers. This, he recognized; it was still shiny, because Sam had given it to Dean not six months before, and it had never been used. He remembered that day very well.
He set it down and picked up the piece of paper, unfolding it carefully to avoid tearing the edges. The smell of old wax filtered up from the drawing; his name was scrawled in black crayon across its bottom edge. Something he'd worked on in school, maybe. Something he'd given to Dean. He ran his fingers over it, tracing the sloppy lines of his name, scratching the wax off beneath his nails.
Dean had never kept things like this. Both he and Dad had said over and over it wasn't practical, had told Sam to learn to let go of stuff, that they couldn't have a bunch of sentimental crap weighing them down when they were on the move.
Sam folded the drawing and placed it back in the box. When his fingers brushed across the silky wisp of tinsel, he looked back at the closed door, and wondered.
I. 5, 9
"That one."
Dean looked where Sammy was pointing. Past the regular stringy silver tinsel, past the plain red and green and white garlands, a spectacularly sparkly red and green garland was wrapped around a slip of cardboard. Dean stood on tiptoe and yanked it down, and then read the price.
Next to him, Sam bounced and tugged on his shirt tail. "C'mon, Dean! Let's go get the hot chocolate!"
"Hold your horses, Sammy, jeez." Dean tucked the garland under his arm and fished deep in his left jeans pocket, only to come up dripping change from a gnarled wad of bills. Sam scooped up the jingling pennies from the floor and handed them back. He had the two dollars the lady in the corner house in Madison had given him for shoveling snow, and the three dollars he'd saved from his allowance. He also had the two bucks he'd stolen from the table when Dad wasn't looking, back in that restaurant in Lima, Ohio; the waitress had been mean to him and Sammy both, and he didn't care what Dad thought, she didn't deserve a tip. With the change he had, that came up to seven dollars and seventy-six cents.
"Dean!"
"All right!" he said, and handed the garland to Sammy. "You carry this, okay?"
"Okay," Sam said. His eyes were shining. Dean clutched his money harder.
In the dry foods aisle of the drug store, they found a box of instant hot chocolate. Dean grabbed that and a box of peppermint cookies, which caused Sam to go into such a conniption fit of joy that Dean had to sternly tell him to shut up, not that it had any effect at all. Sam was running rings around him all through the store, up and down the aisles, and so he didn't really notice when Dean picked up a couple more things and stuffed them into his jacket.
Seven dollars and seventy-six cents just wasn't enough.
When they got to the register, Dean handed Sam the money and hoisted him up on the counter so he could pay the lady. "Well, you're a big boy!" she said, winking at Dean, who watched anxiously as she rang up the garland, the cocoa, the cookies, and pronounced her judgment: "That'll be seven dollars and eleven cents."
Sam presented her with a fist full of money. She grinned and counted out what she needed, then said, "That'll do it."
"Thank you, ma'am," Dean said, taking the bag from her.
She nodded, then pressed a candy cane into his palm, and one into Sam's. "Merry Christmas, boys."
"Thanks!" Sam shouted, and jumped down from the counter before Dean could even catch him. Dean walked home after Sam slowly, the lumps concealed against his chest burning like fire because the lady had been so nice. But he couldn't help it, and he wasn't sorry. He wasn't sorry at all.
It was dark by the time they made it back to the apartment. Dad still wasn't back from Bobby's, and Dean wasn't sure he'd make it by Christmas. He won't even try, the nasty voice in the back of Dean's head said, and he kicked a rock off the curb. Of course he would try. He'd promised. Dean unlocked the door and let Sam in, and looked around the room. One bare Christmas tree, procured only after he and Sam had ganged up on their father. Dad had bought it under protest, going on about how it was too much trouble, but Sammy wanted it, so Dean made sure he got it.
But then Dad had packed up and hit the road - something too important to put off, he said to Dean, leaving Dean with a bunch of canned food and Sammy, no school over Christmas break, and nothing to do.
"Can we NOW!" Sam yelled, yanking on Dean's arm, and Dean smiled. He dropped the bag and Sam immediately laid claim to the contents, diving straight for the garland. Dean helped him pull it away from the plastic, and then they wound it around the four-foot tree, Sam making airplane noises as he zoomed around the base.
"Up," Sam said. He looked so expectant that Dean blinked; sometimes Sam seemed a lot older than five. But he picked Sammy up and held him so he could flop the garland around the very top of the tree, which seemed to make him happy.
"Okay," Dean said. "Now you go to bed."
"No," Sam said, and crawled under the tree. "Santa comes now."
Dean fidgeted. "No, Santa comes later. After you put out cookies and milk and brush your teeth and go to bed."
"Now," Sam said with complete assurance.
"Sam," Dean said, raising up a branch to look at his brother. "Go brush your teeth." It was his dad voice, and he knew he could make Sam listen that way.
Sam frowned, and for a second Dean thought he'd have to get tough about it, but he went, dragging a kitchen chair behind him so he could reach the too-high sink in the bathroom.
Dean got out the cookies and put two on a plate. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out his stolen goods: one box of sixty-four crayons and one six-inch fire truck. He crammed them back into the sparse branches of the tree as far as they would go. It would have to do. Maybe Sam wouldn't care that Santa didn't wrap them.
"Done!" Sam announced, running back from the bathroom with foam still on his lips.
With a snort-giggle, Dean pointed at him. "You look like a dog," he said. "Watch out, Sammy's a crazy dog!" He lunged for Sam, who sidestepped him, shrieking, and then the chase was on - through the living room, knocking over a chair in the process, through Dad's bedroom, over the bed, and then under it. Finally Sam just crawled under the tree, where Dean crawled under with him and tickled him until Sam screamed in surrender.
"That's better," Dean said, smug to the end. Sam wriggled up against him and Dean put his arm around Sam. "Want some hot chocolate?"
"No," Sam said, and almost that quick, he was asleep, one warm hand curled around the front of Dean's shirt.
Dean sighed and looked up into the tree. It wouldn't hurt to just...
"Dean."
He jerked awake when Sam whispered his name, but Sam's clutching fingers curled and uncurled on his shirt. "What?" he said, blinking sleep away from his eyes. "Is Dad home?"
"Look," Sam said, pointing up into the branches at the truck.
"Wow," Dean said, making a note to hide the cookies as fast as he could. "Santa musta come while we were sleeping."
Sam sat up and reached up through the branches, yanking down the truck without mercy. More than a few needles sacrificed themselves for his convenience. He didn't say anything, just turned it over and over between his hands. Then he handed it to Dean and burrowed up into the tree like a mole, prompting a cry from Dean. "Sammy! You'll knock it over!"
"Got it!" Sam crowed, and emerged with the crayons. His entire face was transformed, beaming like crazy, and Dean couldn't help but grin. But as quick as it came, the smile vanished, and Sam stared from the crayons to the truck, a puzzled look on his face. Then it cleared, and he said, "The truck must be for you, Dean!"
Dean's eyes widened. "No, Sammy. They're both for you."
Sam shook his head, already beating and punching at the box to get to his beloved crayons. "Santa wouldn't forget you," he said, matter-of-fact. "Right?"
"Right," Dean said, totally unable to see anything. He blinked and held the truck in his open palm; he took a deep breath. Then he said, "You can share it, Sam. If you want to."
"Duh," Sam said, grinning at him. Then he was up and moving again, in search of paper, or something. It didn't matter. He was happy.
Dean set the truck down very carefully under the tree. Then he stood up and snatched both cookies, cramming them into his mouth. He hated peppermint.
Ten minutes later, Sam was settled under the tree with crayons, coloring book and cocoa, and Dean was reading the names of the colors out loud, making fun of them, when the door crashed open and Dad came in, dropping his bag on the floor.
"Dad!" Sam shouted. He barreled out from under the tree, Dean beside him, and their father greeted them both with hugs. "Dad, Santa was here! Look! He brought crayons for me and a truck for Dean!"
"Did he, now?" Dad gave Dean one of those looks, the ones that Dean could never figure out, that might mean he was angry or not. Then he ruffled Sam's hair. "Those are great presents, little man."
"Yeah," Dean said, squirming a little.
"Grab 'em and get packed up. We've got to get on the move."
"What?" Dean stared at him. "Dad! It's Christmas Eve! We-"
"Don't argue with me, Dean. Get packed up. Help Sammy." At the look on Dean's face, he crouched down again. "Something's got my scent, son. I need to put distance between us and it."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, understanding and hating it.
It took him ten minutes to pack both him and Sammy up, and when Sam came into their room and stared at him accusingly, he went even faster. He tossed his pack and Sam's to Dad, who took them to the car, and then he stopped in the living room, looking at the tree.
"Leave it. There's no place for it in the car," Dad ordered.
"Dean, no," Sammy said, his face a study in misery.
"Okay," Dean said. He reached up to unwind the garland, and Sam ran to help him, but Dad shouted at him.
"I said leave it, Dean! There's no time."
Sam already had a fist full of garland, and Dean tried to get him to put it down, but Sam's face had transformed into a miniature version of Dad at his most stubborn. "Sam, come on, we have to go, Dad said," he tried, but that made the scowl deeper. "Let it go," Dean said, and picked him up. He pried Sam's fingers off, one by one, until Sam jerked his hand and the garland snapped in two, leaving a tiny piece clutched between Sam's fingers.
Sam turned his head and buried his face against Dean's shirt, in a way he hadn't since he was little.
When they were settled in the back seat, nothing but the roar of the engine and Sam shuddering against him, Dean shifted a blanket over them both and tried not to look at his dad. His dad, though, was looking at him in the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry, boys," he said. "We'll have a better tree next year. Better presents, too."
Dean looked at the wisp of tinsel shining against Sam's fingers, and thought about how Dad had promised the same thing last year, while they ate Christmas dinner in a Michigan diner.
His answer was automatic, full of faith. "Yes, sir."
~~~
II. 6, 10
Lily Miller had taught first grade for ten years, and every year, she had a favorite student or two. She couldn't help it. At first she thought it was some failing on her part that caused her to become attached to particular kids, some flaw in her wiring, or some disconnect with her duty. Favoritism was the thing they warned teachers against. It was deadly, the experienced teachers said, as they warmed their hands around their coffee mugs in the lounge on break and at lunch. She looked at their worn faces, at the way the job had beaten all the joy out of them, and thought maybe they weren't the most reliable judges of what worked with kids, anymore.
She talked it over with her husband once, while he was grading a stack of exams from his freshmen college students, green pencil in hand and a headache-driven frown on his face. "Do you think it's weird?" she asked, tracing her finger over the red woven whorls in her placemat.
Brian pulled off his glasses and blinked up at her. "Weird that you like your students?" he asked, as though she'd suggested perhaps it would be good if the sun rose in the east.
"Well, no. You know. That there are a couple I love a little. And maybe want to adopt."
Brian snorted and tapped her on the knuckles with the pencil. "At least you want to adopt yours. I have fantasies of duct taping the mouths of mine so I can finish a lecture without interruption." He smiled at her, and went back to grading, and she felt a little better about wanting to buy Gillian West a new winter coat.
This year's crop had yielded three special kids. There was Gillian, with her impossible lisp and that thing she did when she was mad, with her hand on her hip and her lip stuck out, that Lily thought was probably the mirror image of her mom. She was pretty surprised to find out that it wasn't Mom, it was Dad, with the jutting hip and the attitude. Like father, like daughter.
There was also Carlos Mendez, who never spoke in class, but who had an insatiable love of reading. His skill level far surpassed his grade level, though he never bragged, and he hung on every word of every book she read aloud in class. She caught him reading ahead in Charlotte's Web, once, and she gave him the book without comment, because it was worth it to see his eyes light up, and be favored with that quiet smile.
The third one didn't start off well, but he made up for lost time. Sam Winchester came in mid-year, behind in almost everything, and he didn't seem to mind at all. He had a huge smile and an infectious curiosity, and he babbled non-stop about his brother and his turtle and the weather and anything else that happened to be important that day. Sometimes Lily caught herself grinning when he talked, and she had to stop herself, so he wouldn't think she was laughing at him. She made it her mission to get him caught up on reading and math, and he exceeded even her high expectations.
Kids like Sam made her so damned glad to be a teacher, she could barely contain herself.
Then there was the week it rained for three days straight. No recess, no slides, no monkey bars. The kids were fidgety and restless, and she'd crafted and gamed and sung them right out of their chairs for the first couple of days, but the pounding rain and incessant gloom was taking its toll. Even on her.
"Let's do some drawing, how about?" she said, and twenty-five heads nodded vigorously, approving of her plan. "Everybody grab some crayons, and you draw me a picture of someone you admire, okay?"
For the next twenty minutes, there was dead silence, aside from a brief tussle over the sole magenta crayon Greg Tettle and Harley Trask both wanted. Twenty-five heads bent over their paper; twenty-five drawings that saved Lily from a migraine and a riot.
At the end of recess, she began collecting the drawings with an eye toward putting them on the walls. "That's a lovely elephant," she told Greg, who launched into a story about the circus and the elephant handler, and how he was going to be the best elephant rider ever when he joined the circus. Lily smiled and continued on.
But she stopped when Sam Winchester put his drawing into his desk and wouldn't look at her.
"You didn't say you wanted to look at them," he said, shifting away from her in the seat.
"No, I guess I didn't," she agreed, watching him carefully. He had his hands over the desktop, warding away her interest. "But maybe you could show me anyway?"
He shook his head, so hard his hair flew into his face.
"What if I promise not to put it on the wall?"
That got a sideways glance out of him, a little wary. "I made it for Dean," he said, as if that answered her question.
"Oh, I see," she said softly. "If I hang it up, you can't give it to Dean, is that it?"
No answer, but his fingers curled into little fists.
"I promise to give it back so you can give it to your brother," she said, and then he did look up.
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart," she said, making the old familiar gesture. Slowly, Sam produced the picture, holding it out with a hesitant grasp. "Thank you," she said gravely, adding it to the pile.
Sam watched her through the entire class, no matter what else was going on. He barely paid attention to anything, so intent was his focus. Her alarm bells were ringing so loud, she couldn't focus on her lesson plan. Finally she called over her aide, Regina, and whispered, "Can you take them for the reading lesson? I need to go make some copies."
"Sure thing," Regina said, a broad grin spreading over her face.
Lily stuck the drawings in her satchel and slipped from the room, trying not to notice how Sam tensed in his chair.
The teacher's lounge was deserted, so she was able to breathe, think. She had maybe ten minutes before Regina was overwhelmed with her young charges, so she brought out the stack of drawings and paged through them until she found Sam's.
Three stick figures on a field of green grass, under a sky filled with dark clouds and rain. One big dark animal, maybe a dog, with red dots - blood? - on its teeth. Red dots on two of the stick figures, and an angel flying overhead. Angels. Blood. Death.
Sam was six years old.
Lily's hand started to shake.
Five minutes later, she was sipping tea in Mike Fuller's office while he studied the drawing with a practiced eye. "What do you think?" she asked.
Mike put the drawing down and looked her square in the eye. "Well, it's interesting," he said. She winced. That was never the way she wanted to hear him start out. "It's pre-schematic, of course, and indicative of a low self-image. Notice how small Sam is, in this? The parental figure, which is this one, I assume-" He pointed to the large figure with the down-turned mouth "-is dominant in the picture. More often than not, that's an indication of complete dominance in the family. Sam's arms are small, useless. Powerless. And there are odd family divisions, here; the brother is almost as large as the father. Disproportionate."
"Which means?"
"Which means this boy is in a dangerous household, potentially. Both the father and the brother are objects of fear for him. The fact that he didn't want you to see his work is telling."
Lily set her cup down and sighed. Mike was the expert with the child psychology degree, but she had instincts, too, and they weren't singing to her. "I don't get that sense from this kid, Mike. I don't think it's that bad. He worships his older brother."
"Do you really want to take that chance?" Mike's voice was full of steel. "Kids often worship the people that hurt them the worst."
"Mike, you've had Dean in here before. Do you really think he's dangerous?" She shook her head, remembering the day Sam had wiggled away from her when Dean was getting beaten up on the playground. He'd run straight to Dean, no fear at all, and Dean had hugged him right in front of the rest of the kids. "It seems to me he loses more fights than he wins."
"Yes, but he picks them all. That boy has more attitude than a grown man could handle." Mike shook his head. "Better safe than sorry. I'll call CPS, get them to open a case and take a ride out to the house. You send the drawing home with a note. Let's see if we can get the father to come in, see what we see."
When Lily handed Sam back his drawing at the end of class, she also handed him a sealed note for his dad, and watched his face fall. "You tell your dad I need this back tomorrow, okay?"
The abject misery in his face broke her heart, and she knew at that moment why the rest of her peers had told her never to have favorites.
It was impossible to get over it, if they hated you for doing what you had to do.
**
Sam didn't come to school the next day.
Lily sat and watched his empty chair during quiet time, and sometime around lunch she made up her mind. If he was in danger, there was no sense in waiting for CPS to do something. It took too damn long.
Which was how she ended up on the Winchester doorstep, ringing their bell, at dusk.
It wasn't a good neighborhood. There were some shady kids hanging out on the corners, maybe selling drugs, maybe not, and some of the houses weren't kept up well. But she'd seen worse, and she never worried about her own safety. Where she'd grown up, they were lucky to get by with their windows intact and no bullet holes in the walls.
Eventually the door swung open, and Dean Winchester stood there, looking up at her, his hair a little wild, his eyes full of suspicion. "Hello, Dean," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "I'm Mrs. Miller. I'm Sam's teacher. May I come in?"
He looked at her as if he were sizing her up, which was disconcerting, considering that he was ten and not all that big, and definitely shouldn't seem intimidating. "Sure, okay," he said, and held the door open for her.
The house was neat as a pin. Everything in its place, no visible dust bunnies or food, no junk on the ancient coffee table. Sam was standing in the open space between the tiny living room and the kitchen, framed by hideous orange wallpaper. "Hello, Sam," she said. He didn't answer, just edged closer to Dean, who automatically put an arm out for him. "You didn't come to school today. I just stopped by to see if you were feeling all right."
It was Dean who answered, Dean whose chin lifted and whose voice became defiant. "Sammy didn't feel good this morning," he said. "Dad said he should stay home."
"Did your father write a note?" She felt like a bitch for even asking, because it was clear he hadn't.
Dean's chin lifted a little higher. "He said he'd do it tomorrow, if Sammy felt better."
"Are you feeling better, Sam?" She was looking at Dean when she said it, but Sam surprised her by answering.
"A little."
"Good, I'm glad." She turned her gaze to him, as she sat down on the hideous brown-and-green couch. It had probably come with the house; it looked like something her grandmother had owned. "Did you give your dad my note?"
Sam's arms snaked around Dean's waist, and Dean put his hand on the top of Sam's head. "He has it," Dean answered.
She nodded, and was quiet for a second, letting the awkwardness subside. "Dean, did you like the drawing Sam made for you?" she asked finally, and was rewarded with her first true indication of how things were, in that house. Dean's face changed, became quietly proud, and he ruffled Sam's hair.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. It's a great drawing."
Sam squirmed, but he didn't let go of Dean, and Lily knew in that moment that Sam had nothing to fear from his brother. Now, or ever. "Sam has quite an imagination, I'll bet," she said, and Dean's eyes flicked toward her, suspicious again. She waited.
"Sammy's smart," Dean said, which wasn't the answer she'd expected. Sammy really started squirming then, so Dean leaned over and whispered something in his little brother's ear, and Sammy giggled.
"Something funny?" Lily asked, smiling again.
Dean shook his head, staring at her. There was something unnerving in that stare; it was too knowing, for a kid so young. She smoothed her skirt down over her knees, an old nervous habit. "Do you expect your dad home soon?"
"Kinda," Dean said. "It depends."
She raised her eyebrows. "Should I wait?" she asked.
And then the door swung open, and John Winchester stepped through, charging the room with his presence. As soon as he saw her, she understood where Dean's suspicious nature came from; that same look was in his eyes. He didn't address her, just his sons. "Dean, Sam. What have I told you about letting strangers in the house while I'm gone?" An even tone, measured; not angry, but it commanded attention.
"Dad. She's Sammy's teacher."
Mr. Winchester pushed the door closed with one hand and unzipped his jacket. "They pay you people to make house calls, now?" he asked, not smiling.
"Not usually," she answered. She stood up and extended him her hand, and he took it, firmly. Not the way most men did, just squeezing her fingers; his handshake was full and strong, not insulting, not taking her for granted. "I'm Lily Miller."
"John Winchester. Please, call me John." He dropped her hand and said, "Boys, find something productive to do while I talk to Mrs. Miller."
"Yes, sir," they said, nearly in unison, and Lily looked at John curiously, but he seemed not to notice. With a last look at Lily, Dean herded Sam off toward the hallway, out of her line of sight.
John took his jacket off and sat down on the chair opposite Lily, his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded together. "What brings you to my house, Mrs. Miller?"
"John, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Lily."
"Fair enough. The question stands. Why are you here?"
Blunt, direct. She liked that. "Your son drew a very disturbing picture as a gift for his brother," she said, watching his face. "I sent a note home with Sam yesterday, requesting a conference with you, and then you kept Sam out of school rather than respond. I'd like to know why." Nothing flickered in his eyes, no clue to give her an idea of his reaction. Just a steady, calm gaze.
"I kept Sam out of school because he has a fever. Nothing sinister there, Lily. As for the drawing, Sam has an active imagination. I don't see anything wrong with that. Do you?" That direct gaze of his was like a laser, scrutinizing her in the same way she was studying him.
"I encourage Sam's imagination. But he drew himself bloody, John. And his brother as well. He's drawing giant monsters, and I have to be frank with you; that's not normal. It's not normal at all."
"Well, there's a story to this, Lily, and maybe we should get the boys in here while I tell you."
"All right," she said, just as he raised his voice and called for them.
"Dean! Sam! Come in here."
They appeared as if by magic just a moment later, Sam's hand in Dean's, and went to John's side. John lifted Sam into his lap and pressed a hand to his face. "How you doing, Sammy?"
"Better," Sam said, glancing sideways at Lily with a frown on his face.
"He stopped puking around noon," Dean said, and then bit his lip, a flush lighting his face. Lily understood immediately; Dean had stayed home with Sam. Not sick, but taking care of him. She looked back at John, not ready to open the door on that question. Not yet.
"Good," John said. He adjusted Sam in his lap so Sam's legs dangled over the edge of John's knee. "Lily, about four weeks ago, I took my sons into the woods over near Parkview so I could teach them a thing or two. In those woods, we were attacked by two large dogs."
"I've heard the stories about those wild dogs," Lily said. "I thought they were just local legend."
"That's the thing about legends." John smoothed down Sam's hair. "There's always some part of the story that's true."
"Was Sam hurt?" Lily sat forward on the couch. "Is that what he was trying to draw?"
"I was distracted by the first dog. Didn't know the second was there until it attacked. It went for Sammy." John lifted the sleeve of Sam's shirt and Lily could see a mostly-healed bite mark across his upper left arm. Just a glimpse, but the bite spanned his arm and shoulder. Lily tried to reconcile the size of it with the size of a dog's mouth - even a large dog - but she couldn't make it fit.
"That's a nasty wound," she said, as John dropped Sam's sleeve.
"Could've been worse. Dean stepped in, did what had to be done. He saved his brother's life."
"Oh my goodness," Lily said. Her throat closed as she looked at Dean, who had eyes only for his father and brother. He was a small boy, so slender. She thought of that bite mark, and the size of that dog.
If it was a dog at all.
"He's just a little boy," she said finally, trying to put into words all she was thinking.
"He's a brave boy," John said. "He's my son." He turned a smile on Dean then, gentle and full of pride. Dean edged closer to his father and put his hand on his father's knee. "That's what happened, Lily. Everything turned out just fine, as you can see."
"I see," she said quietly. "Dean, were you hurt by the dog?"
Dean looked up at his dad, who nodded. "It scratched me," Dean said, and Lily thought of the drops of blood Sam had drawn. She shivered. "But I'm all right."
"Dean," Sam said suddenly, and jumped off his father's lap. He threw his arms around Dean's waist, and Dean turned pink.
"Don't be such a baby," he said to the top of Sam's head, but he looped that arm around Sam's shoulders again, hugging him without hugging.
"So that's the story," John said. "Is there anything else?"
Lily cleared her throat. "I showed the drawing to our school psychologist. He was...concerned."
"I see." John met her eyes steadily. "Should we expect other visitors soon?"
"Probably." She sighed. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be. You were just looking out for my son, and I appreciate it." John stood up, and she understood loud and clear that she was being asked to leave. "Let me walk you to your car."
"I'll be fine," she said, standing also. She smiled down at Dean and Sam. "Maybe Dean should walk me. He's the hero."
Dean turned an even deeper shade of pink, but he didn't look away.
"Sam?" He turned big eyes up toward her. "I'll see you tomorrow in school, okay?"
"'kay. Bye, Mrs. Miller."
"Bye now."
John Winchester walked her to her car anyway, and he stood at the curb with his hands in his pockets, watching while she pulled away.
Sam never came back to school, and eventually the registrar processed withdrawals for both Dean and Sam Winchester. She hadn't really expected John to send them back to her, but it made her sad, even so. No telling where they might have gone, or why.
Sometimes she stayed awake at night, long after Brian had started snoring in the bedroom, and scanned local news items for reports of the wild dogs, but she never found one again. There was some truth to every story, after all.
~~~
III. 8, 12
John started working his way up to the decision in early September, around the time Sam and Dean both came down with the flu. He hadn't worked in over three months, and the best he'd been able to do in a quick poker game or pool hustle was a couple hundred bucks - barely enough to cover the motel and the medicine for both his kids.
The boys huddled together in one bed like they had since Sam was a baby, sharing germs and misery and everything else that had come their way in the past eight years. He looked at their flushed faces, watched Dean struggle to get out of bed when Sammy needed something, and thought that it didn't seem fair that they were missing out on so much, that Dean never seemed to have a sense of self that didn't revolve around Sam.
Like most other times he'd had that thought, he put it out of his mind once they hit the road again and the world opened up before them. Dean's cough stuck around to remind him, though, so he put down stakes in southern Arizona and let the warm weather do its magic for a little while.
In mid-October they were back on the road, still strapped for cash. John never could hold down any kind of good-paying job for long. People were too curious about too many things, and there was always the risk that the better they got to know him, the more secrets could come spilling out. His kids were well-trained, but getting friendly with the locals could lead to false feelings of trust.
He went out on a hunt in South Dakota with some old friends, the cold burning his skin and lungs, and came back satisfied that he was still doing some good, no matter how hard the life seemed. When he stepped into the motel room, Sam was asleep, but Dean was waiting for him with a smile on his face and a sock stuffed with cash, all small bills.
"What is this?" he asked, dropping the money on the bed.
"Sam and me pretended to be collecting money for a kid's charity. You know, like in the grocery store? We got people to give us money. 'Cause it's not like we don't need it, Dad." Dean glanced at Sam, then back at his father, and said, "I'm old enough, now. I can help more."
John sat down heavily on the bed and looked at Dean's hopeful, sincere face. His sweet, responsible kid, who had just leaped right into the pit of petty crime.
"Dean," he began, then stopped. How the hell was he going to explain it? The lines were grey, and getting more murky all the time. He tugged Dean over to sit next to him on the bed. "Listen, son. There are things we do, and things we don't do. Sometimes I have to lie, but I do it to make sure you and Sammy are safe. Not to take things from people."
"You use credit card money that isn't yours," Dean said, looking up at him.
John cleared his throat. "Those are what they call victimless crimes, Dean. I'm not really taking money from people, I'm taking money from companies that can afford it. It's still not right, but it's...different."
"Different how?" Dean asked.
And try as he might, though he spent twenty minutes going through all the ways he'd justified it to himself, all the rationalizations for it, he couldn't make himself sound any better than a thief, in the end. Dean's expression showed his confusion. A lie was a lie was a lie, except when it wasn't; a crime was a crime, unless it wasn't. John's head was starting to hurt, and with every question Dean asked, he could feel his patience slipping away.
In the end, John lost his temper, because there was nothing else he could say, and no one else to blame but himself. "Dean, I just don't want you to do this again, okay?" He didn't say it kindly; he said it with anger, and hated himself for leading the kind of life that made it impossible to teach Dean by example.
His son shrank away from him. "Okay, Dad. I'm sorry."
"No, don't...it's okay, I'm..." Deep breath, long pause. "You tried to help out, and that's not wrong."
Dean nodded, but the damage was already done. Damned if John could even figure out how to make distinctions between good crime and bad crime.
It took him a few minutes to recognize that rusty, sharp feeling in his gut as shame.
That night, he sat on the edge of his bed and watched his children sleep. He owed them more than this. Mary would have hated this, hated him a little for all the things he wasn't giving her boys. Dean's face was narrowing, becoming pinched with a kind of hunger no amount of food could cure, and Sam seemed too quiet all the time. Both boys had tried damn hard to be perfect for him, he could see that. But the harder they tried, the more impatient he became.
In the morning, he packed up the car and put his sleepy boys in the back seat, and hauled ass east, toward Illinois. John still knew the way, though it had been almost seven years since he'd been back there. There was nowhere else to go, no other place that he could still call home.
It was the right time of year for a light snowfall, and the roads were dusted with powder over ice. John passed new housing he'd never seen before on the way into town, and the shock of the unfamiliar reminded him that he wasn't part of this place anymore. By the time they pulled into the driveway, he already wanted to leave, but that wasn't an option.
Dean stared at the house like he'd never seen one before. "Who lives here, Dad?"
John switched off the engine. "Your grandfather."
**
His father didn't meet them on the porch, though the old bastard must have noticed the car pulling in. He made John climb the stairs and ring the bell, and so John set his teeth and did it. Both the boys hung back behind him, stunned into silence at the prospect of seeing their grandfather. Dean didn't really remember him much, and Sam had still been tiny, the last time they'd been here.
John had sworn he'd never come back after the way he'd left. There had been harsh words between them, but there were many years of hard road between then and now, and his perspective had shifted, over time.
The door swung open and John stared into his father's face, at the lines worn there by time, at the shock of silver hair where black used to be. "Hello, Dad," he said, and was rewarded with a slow smile.
"John. It's been a long time."
"Yes, sir." When his father pushed open the screen door, John twisted around and beckoned the boys forward. "You remember Dean and Sam." They filed into the house in front of him, past his father, who smiled slightly as they passed.
"Good Lord." His father closed the door and crouched down. "You boys have grown up since the last time your dad brought you by. I'll bet you don't even remember me."
Both of them shook their heads, and looked solemnly up at John in unison.
"I'm sorry to come without calling first, but-"
"It's not an issue." His father cut him off smoothly, as if he knew everything John planned to say before he said it. Maybe he did. "You boys must be hungry. How about some sandwiches?"
"That'd be great, thanks," John answered for them.
"The kitchen is that way." Dad pointed down the hall. "You boys go ahead, pull what you need out of the fridge. I'll be along directly."
When they had made their way down the hallway, John rubbed a hand over his face. His father was watching him too carefully. "You look like you haven't slept," he said. "Take my bedroom. Grab a few hours' rest. I'll watch the boys."
John didn't have the energy to argue, didn't want to anyway. The boys were as safe here as they would ever be with him. "All right," he said, surprised at how rough his voice was. "They can be a handful," he added, but his father waved him off.
"No worse than you at that age, I'm certain."
He climbed the stairs, in familiar territory again; slipped off his boots, his shirts, and nestled down in the bed, half-listening for the sounds of his children in the warm house below. He fell asleep to the sound of Sam's laughter.
**
Sometime later, a scream woke him from a deep, dreamless sleep, and John jerked upright, fully awake. The reaction was automatic. "Dean? Sam?"
No answer.
He was pulling his boots on when the scream came again - outside, behind the house. He shoved the curtains aside and his entire body relaxed, one muscle at a time, as he saw Dean and Sam on a sled, sliding sideways down the hill. One more thing John had never taken the time to show them. His father was trudging along behind the boys, dark coat and gloves, reaching for the lead line on the sled.
John sat back down on the bed, giving in to the lethargy in his body. Once fatigue caught up with him, there was no stopping it. A slow ache of bones, a fog in his brain; they'd been creeping over him by degrees for months now, settling into his body by stages. He had known it was happening for a while - ever since he'd started to have trouble concentrating, or planning ahead, thinking about what would come next. Sometimes he'd caught himself staring at the pages of his journal as if he didn't recognize his own words on the page, just waiting for them to come clear.
He recognized that feeling; it wasn't new. He was familiar with it from his days fighting, bleeding, men around him dying everywhere. Only the battlefield was different.
This time, he didn't undress, just pulled the comforter around him and sank back into sleep.
**
When he woke again, it was dark, and the house smelled like roast beef. John sat up slowly and stretched out the kinks. The idea of hitting the road didn't appeal to him, but dinner did.
His father was sitting at the kitchen table with Dean, going through a box of rocks. When John stopped in the doorway, Dean looked up with an expression of disappointment, as if he expected to be pulled away to do something else.
"Are you hungry?" Dad asked, prompted perhaps by the way John's stomach was growling.
"Yeah," John said. He sat down at the table, across from Dean. "I could eat."
"Thought so," Dad said. He got up and made himself busy putting slices of roast beef and carrots on a plate.
"How long did I sleep?"
"Not long enough." The plate his father put before him was heaped with beef, potatoes and carrots, and the smell alone made John's mouth water. "The boys have been fed. Sam's already asleep."
"We've been talking about rocks," Dean said. "And dinosaurs, and stuff." There was a gleam in his eye that made the taste of John's dinner bitter.
"Fossils," Dad explained, though there was no need; John had had his own hand in that box of rocks more times than he could count. "Dean, you should get ready for bed."
"Okay." Dean hopped off the chair and beat feet out of there without waiting for John's approval. John stared after him, amazed.
"You don't have exclusive license on child-rearing," his father said, correctly interpreting that look.
"Guess not." He went back to eating, surprised at how good it all was, how hungry he was.
Dad sat down in the chair Dean had just vacated and put the lid on the box. "I take it you've been having a hard few months."
John put down his fork, wiped his mouth on his napkin. "Dean tell you that?"
"Some. He's not very trusting, your boy. But I read between the lines."
"I didn't raise him to trust."
"Then you've done a good job."
John's temper roared to life. It was this bullshit that had made him leave home as fast as he could, join the Marines and get the fuck out of Dodge. "Says the man who knows everything about screwing up his kids."
His father looked away. For the first time, John noticed that his shoulders were still broad, but bent in a bit, stooped, like the world had finally forced him to pay a price for all that pride and arrogance. "Point taken." When he met John's eyes, there was no weariness in them, just that same old spark of intelligence. "Like you, I did what I thought was right at the time."
"Which explains where I learned it." John shoved his plate back, not really concerned that he wasn't being fair. His father didn't respond. That was different, too; he remembered Dad always spoiling for a fight, especially with him.
The room was chilly, but warmer than most places they'd been in the last half of the year. Nothing about the kitchen had changed, either, aside from the new stove and refrigerator. His mother's copper pans were still hanging over the stove, and her roosters and ducks adorned the walls, yellowed with time.
"Still haven't found anyone to settle down with?" his father asked.
John sighed. It wasn't the kind of question he could answer without telling Dad too much about their lives. He settled for the short version. "Haven't had the time."
"John. It's been eight years. Maybe you should stop running."
"I'm not running." When his fist connected with the table, both of them jumped. "Sorry," he murmured, and then, "I'm not."
"What would you call it, then?" His father's clear green eyes were full of curiosity, and maybe pity, though John pretended not to recognize it. "You came running here after Mary died, after you'd already packed up and hit the road, and you've never stopped since. One town for a few months, another for most of a year, but it never lasts. What are you looking for, John? Why don't you make a home for these boys?"
"I do make a home for them." The moment it was out, it felt like a goddamned lie. Wasn't that why he'd come in the first place? They'd be better off here in a place like this. He could keep them safe here.
"Home is more than four walls, I know." Dad pushed up from the table and collected John's plate. "You're welcome here for as long as you'd like to stay."
"I can't stay," John said. "Maybe...maybe the boys..."
He couldn't even get the words out. They stuck in his throat, the taste of them all wrong.
"That's an option, too."
"They were having fun today," John said softly. "In the snow."
His father set the plate in the sink. "I've made up the downstairs guest room for myself. You stay in the master bedroom, next to the boys." He clicked on the light over the stove, flicked off the main overhead. "Good night, John."
"Good night."
It was a long time before John felt the world was steady enough under his feet for him to move. He turned out the light over the stove and made his way through the dark into the living room, only to be surprised by a dark figure on the stairs.
"You should be in bed," he told Dean, but he sat down next to him anyway. Dean had something in his hand, clutched hard in his fist. "What've you got there?"
"Just a rock." Dean showed it to him; the dull metallic surface shone in the dim light. "Hematite, Grandpa says. It's made of iron. Ancient people used it for healing.
"He told you that?" John looked down at Dean's face, saw him nod. "Huh."
"Dad." Dean's body was so tense, John thought he might snap in two before he managed to get out whatever was troubling him. "Are you gonna leave us here?"
"You've been eavesdropping again," John said, gentle rebuke.
Dean nodded again, but said nothing, his face turned away.
"There are things I want for you boys. Things your mother wanted. I'm not sure I can give them to you," John began, but Dean stood up and put his arms around John's neck, a brief hug, and John could feel cool tears on his cheeks. Then he bolted up the stairs.
"Dammit," John said to the empty stairwell.
He climbed up after Dean, slowly, listening to every creak of the floorboards above as Dean moved around the guest room. By the time he opened the door, his efficient kid had undressed, put his pajamas on, and was already in bed beside Sam.
John sat down on the very edge of the bed and put his hand on the covers over Dean's chest. Dean's eyes glittered in the dark. "I promised you something a long time ago, Dean, after your mother died. Do you remember?"
"I remember," Dean said. For a second, John saw Dean as he was then, four years old and so scared, made mute by trauma.
"I remember, too," John said. "And when we leave here, Dean, we are leaving together. Okay?"
"Okay," Dean said. Beneath John's hand, he could feel Dean's body relax, become less rigid.
"Okay." John leaned over and touched Sam's face, then patted Dean's chest. "Now get some sleep. There's still snow out there. Good sledding tomorrow."
"Yeah," Dean whispered, his teeth gleaming in an ear-to-ear smile.
When John dropped his boots and crawled into bed, he began to put a conversation together in his mind - the one where he would teach Dean to be honest, and fair, and never to trick good people he should be helping. But the snow would melt soon enough, and maybe by then he'd figure out how to make it a lesson without hypocrisy.
~~~
part two
Gen, 17,470 wds, adult
Summary: Six keepsakes, six memories, six stories.
Notes: Indelible is actually six separate stories, connected by a frame. Part IV features some teenage!Dean het, but the remainder of the stories are completely gen. Features John, Sam, Dean, some wee!chesters, and assorted family madness through the years. Title graphic was made by the gracious oxoniensis -- thank you, Signe! Beta by elynross and greensilver; kind encouragement by killabeez. Written for barkley, for Xmas 06.
The story is complete, but it's too long for one post; part 2 will follow part 1 immediately.
for Barkley, with a whole lotta love
Prologue
It was never the unnatural monsters that brought Dean down. Not their claws, or their teeth, or their poison, or any dark magic they possessed. It seemed instead to be natural and man-made things - electricity, or metal twisting and glass shattering, or a farmer's dead aim as he tracked the strangers on his land.
The bullet tore through Dean's side and nicked his lung, and when Sam saw the air bubbles in the blood on Dean's lips, he picked Dean up and ran for the car. Dean didn't struggle, didn't protest; he only turned his face away from Sam, as if he couldn't stand to be seen like this. As if Sam hadn't seen him worse.
As if Sam hadn't seen him die twice already.
Two days in the hospital, two cranky, pissy, grump-filled days with Sam sitting beside Dean's bed, the panic in his heart gradually subsiding to a dull roar. And then Dean pushed the covers back and pulled the IV out, and wheezed, "Get me the fuck out of here, Sam."
So Sam did. He didn't remark on how Dean's face went from pale to grey when he stood up and tried to draw a breath. He didn't listen to the doctor's outraged insistence that Dean remain; he ignored the nurse's reproachful look as she settled Dean in the wheelchair. He noticed, though, when Dean pushed the car door open and stood there, breathing hard, while Sam unloaded the trunk.
"Motherfucker, put me down," Dean said when Sam lifted him off the ground. This time Dean didn't turn his face away; he let Sam see his fury. Sam concentrated on the living weight of his brother in his arms and endured the tirade while he carried Dean the fifteen yards or so into the room.
"Welcome home, honey," he said with a smile when he stepped across the threshold, and the anger in Dean's eyes died down to a small riot, even though he said,
"You are so going to pay for this."
"Whatever, I'm terrified," Sam said, dumping him gently on his bed. He pulled Dean's boots off for good measure, though he was sure that Dean was going to kill him in his sleep for failing to pretend that everything was fine.
The troubling thing was that once he got Dean dressed in sweats and nestled under the covers with all their combined pillows to prop him up, Dean went out like a light. No protests, no frowning demands for water or pills or the remote. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and watched him sleep, and thought about how close they kept coming to the edge, how Dean just kept escaping death like a cat whose nine lives had been unnaturally tripled.
On the third day of Dean sleeping through the morning hours, Sam drank vending machine coffee and tried to pretend he didn't feel the walls closing in, one inch at a time. He didn't want to go too far from Dean, just in case, but he also didn't want to sit there flipping channels or surfing the net looking for jobs Dean was too weak to hear about.
Eventually he hatched a bright idea: he would unload the trunk, dump everything into duffels and a box snaked from the dumpster, and sort through all their accumulated junk. Anything to pass the time.
Dean kept the weapons scrupulously clean and in perfect condition, so Sam didn't mess with them, just set them aside. There were proper spots for most things, though they'd assembled quite a collection of junk layered over and around it all - charms, trinkets, clippings, tapes, stolen police files, and so much more.
Sam was amazed at how much there was -- but what intrigued him most was the box jammed into the wheel well. A box he had never seen before.
He almost didn't notice it; it was beneath the mat, only one tiny corner visible, and it refused to come away easily. It had been mashed down to fit into the space, and it rattled like broken glass. When he worked it free, he glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door, because intuition told him Dean hadn't meant for him to look inside.
Too late now.
The contents were unremarkable, really. A shot glass; a piece of red and green tinsel; a shiny rock; a stray Styx album on cassette; a handcuff key; and a folded piece of paper. Sam picked up the handcuff key and turned it between his fingers. This, he recognized; it was still shiny, because Sam had given it to Dean not six months before, and it had never been used. He remembered that day very well.
He set it down and picked up the piece of paper, unfolding it carefully to avoid tearing the edges. The smell of old wax filtered up from the drawing; his name was scrawled in black crayon across its bottom edge. Something he'd worked on in school, maybe. Something he'd given to Dean. He ran his fingers over it, tracing the sloppy lines of his name, scratching the wax off beneath his nails.
Dean had never kept things like this. Both he and Dad had said over and over it wasn't practical, had told Sam to learn to let go of stuff, that they couldn't have a bunch of sentimental crap weighing them down when they were on the move.
Sam folded the drawing and placed it back in the box. When his fingers brushed across the silky wisp of tinsel, he looked back at the closed door, and wondered.
I. 5, 9
"That one."
Dean looked where Sammy was pointing. Past the regular stringy silver tinsel, past the plain red and green and white garlands, a spectacularly sparkly red and green garland was wrapped around a slip of cardboard. Dean stood on tiptoe and yanked it down, and then read the price.
Next to him, Sam bounced and tugged on his shirt tail. "C'mon, Dean! Let's go get the hot chocolate!"
"Hold your horses, Sammy, jeez." Dean tucked the garland under his arm and fished deep in his left jeans pocket, only to come up dripping change from a gnarled wad of bills. Sam scooped up the jingling pennies from the floor and handed them back. He had the two dollars the lady in the corner house in Madison had given him for shoveling snow, and the three dollars he'd saved from his allowance. He also had the two bucks he'd stolen from the table when Dad wasn't looking, back in that restaurant in Lima, Ohio; the waitress had been mean to him and Sammy both, and he didn't care what Dad thought, she didn't deserve a tip. With the change he had, that came up to seven dollars and seventy-six cents.
"Dean!"
"All right!" he said, and handed the garland to Sammy. "You carry this, okay?"
"Okay," Sam said. His eyes were shining. Dean clutched his money harder.
In the dry foods aisle of the drug store, they found a box of instant hot chocolate. Dean grabbed that and a box of peppermint cookies, which caused Sam to go into such a conniption fit of joy that Dean had to sternly tell him to shut up, not that it had any effect at all. Sam was running rings around him all through the store, up and down the aisles, and so he didn't really notice when Dean picked up a couple more things and stuffed them into his jacket.
Seven dollars and seventy-six cents just wasn't enough.
When they got to the register, Dean handed Sam the money and hoisted him up on the counter so he could pay the lady. "Well, you're a big boy!" she said, winking at Dean, who watched anxiously as she rang up the garland, the cocoa, the cookies, and pronounced her judgment: "That'll be seven dollars and eleven cents."
Sam presented her with a fist full of money. She grinned and counted out what she needed, then said, "That'll do it."
"Thank you, ma'am," Dean said, taking the bag from her.
She nodded, then pressed a candy cane into his palm, and one into Sam's. "Merry Christmas, boys."
"Thanks!" Sam shouted, and jumped down from the counter before Dean could even catch him. Dean walked home after Sam slowly, the lumps concealed against his chest burning like fire because the lady had been so nice. But he couldn't help it, and he wasn't sorry. He wasn't sorry at all.
It was dark by the time they made it back to the apartment. Dad still wasn't back from Bobby's, and Dean wasn't sure he'd make it by Christmas. He won't even try, the nasty voice in the back of Dean's head said, and he kicked a rock off the curb. Of course he would try. He'd promised. Dean unlocked the door and let Sam in, and looked around the room. One bare Christmas tree, procured only after he and Sam had ganged up on their father. Dad had bought it under protest, going on about how it was too much trouble, but Sammy wanted it, so Dean made sure he got it.
But then Dad had packed up and hit the road - something too important to put off, he said to Dean, leaving Dean with a bunch of canned food and Sammy, no school over Christmas break, and nothing to do.
"Can we NOW!" Sam yelled, yanking on Dean's arm, and Dean smiled. He dropped the bag and Sam immediately laid claim to the contents, diving straight for the garland. Dean helped him pull it away from the plastic, and then they wound it around the four-foot tree, Sam making airplane noises as he zoomed around the base.
"Up," Sam said. He looked so expectant that Dean blinked; sometimes Sam seemed a lot older than five. But he picked Sammy up and held him so he could flop the garland around the very top of the tree, which seemed to make him happy.
"Okay," Dean said. "Now you go to bed."
"No," Sam said, and crawled under the tree. "Santa comes now."
Dean fidgeted. "No, Santa comes later. After you put out cookies and milk and brush your teeth and go to bed."
"Now," Sam said with complete assurance.
"Sam," Dean said, raising up a branch to look at his brother. "Go brush your teeth." It was his dad voice, and he knew he could make Sam listen that way.
Sam frowned, and for a second Dean thought he'd have to get tough about it, but he went, dragging a kitchen chair behind him so he could reach the too-high sink in the bathroom.
Dean got out the cookies and put two on a plate. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out his stolen goods: one box of sixty-four crayons and one six-inch fire truck. He crammed them back into the sparse branches of the tree as far as they would go. It would have to do. Maybe Sam wouldn't care that Santa didn't wrap them.
"Done!" Sam announced, running back from the bathroom with foam still on his lips.
With a snort-giggle, Dean pointed at him. "You look like a dog," he said. "Watch out, Sammy's a crazy dog!" He lunged for Sam, who sidestepped him, shrieking, and then the chase was on - through the living room, knocking over a chair in the process, through Dad's bedroom, over the bed, and then under it. Finally Sam just crawled under the tree, where Dean crawled under with him and tickled him until Sam screamed in surrender.
"That's better," Dean said, smug to the end. Sam wriggled up against him and Dean put his arm around Sam. "Want some hot chocolate?"
"No," Sam said, and almost that quick, he was asleep, one warm hand curled around the front of Dean's shirt.
Dean sighed and looked up into the tree. It wouldn't hurt to just...
"Dean."
He jerked awake when Sam whispered his name, but Sam's clutching fingers curled and uncurled on his shirt. "What?" he said, blinking sleep away from his eyes. "Is Dad home?"
"Look," Sam said, pointing up into the branches at the truck.
"Wow," Dean said, making a note to hide the cookies as fast as he could. "Santa musta come while we were sleeping."
Sam sat up and reached up through the branches, yanking down the truck without mercy. More than a few needles sacrificed themselves for his convenience. He didn't say anything, just turned it over and over between his hands. Then he handed it to Dean and burrowed up into the tree like a mole, prompting a cry from Dean. "Sammy! You'll knock it over!"
"Got it!" Sam crowed, and emerged with the crayons. His entire face was transformed, beaming like crazy, and Dean couldn't help but grin. But as quick as it came, the smile vanished, and Sam stared from the crayons to the truck, a puzzled look on his face. Then it cleared, and he said, "The truck must be for you, Dean!"
Dean's eyes widened. "No, Sammy. They're both for you."
Sam shook his head, already beating and punching at the box to get to his beloved crayons. "Santa wouldn't forget you," he said, matter-of-fact. "Right?"
"Right," Dean said, totally unable to see anything. He blinked and held the truck in his open palm; he took a deep breath. Then he said, "You can share it, Sam. If you want to."
"Duh," Sam said, grinning at him. Then he was up and moving again, in search of paper, or something. It didn't matter. He was happy.
Dean set the truck down very carefully under the tree. Then he stood up and snatched both cookies, cramming them into his mouth. He hated peppermint.
Ten minutes later, Sam was settled under the tree with crayons, coloring book and cocoa, and Dean was reading the names of the colors out loud, making fun of them, when the door crashed open and Dad came in, dropping his bag on the floor.
"Dad!" Sam shouted. He barreled out from under the tree, Dean beside him, and their father greeted them both with hugs. "Dad, Santa was here! Look! He brought crayons for me and a truck for Dean!"
"Did he, now?" Dad gave Dean one of those looks, the ones that Dean could never figure out, that might mean he was angry or not. Then he ruffled Sam's hair. "Those are great presents, little man."
"Yeah," Dean said, squirming a little.
"Grab 'em and get packed up. We've got to get on the move."
"What?" Dean stared at him. "Dad! It's Christmas Eve! We-"
"Don't argue with me, Dean. Get packed up. Help Sammy." At the look on Dean's face, he crouched down again. "Something's got my scent, son. I need to put distance between us and it."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, understanding and hating it.
It took him ten minutes to pack both him and Sammy up, and when Sam came into their room and stared at him accusingly, he went even faster. He tossed his pack and Sam's to Dad, who took them to the car, and then he stopped in the living room, looking at the tree.
"Leave it. There's no place for it in the car," Dad ordered.
"Dean, no," Sammy said, his face a study in misery.
"Okay," Dean said. He reached up to unwind the garland, and Sam ran to help him, but Dad shouted at him.
"I said leave it, Dean! There's no time."
Sam already had a fist full of garland, and Dean tried to get him to put it down, but Sam's face had transformed into a miniature version of Dad at his most stubborn. "Sam, come on, we have to go, Dad said," he tried, but that made the scowl deeper. "Let it go," Dean said, and picked him up. He pried Sam's fingers off, one by one, until Sam jerked his hand and the garland snapped in two, leaving a tiny piece clutched between Sam's fingers.
Sam turned his head and buried his face against Dean's shirt, in a way he hadn't since he was little.
When they were settled in the back seat, nothing but the roar of the engine and Sam shuddering against him, Dean shifted a blanket over them both and tried not to look at his dad. His dad, though, was looking at him in the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry, boys," he said. "We'll have a better tree next year. Better presents, too."
Dean looked at the wisp of tinsel shining against Sam's fingers, and thought about how Dad had promised the same thing last year, while they ate Christmas dinner in a Michigan diner.
His answer was automatic, full of faith. "Yes, sir."
~~~
II. 6, 10
Lily Miller had taught first grade for ten years, and every year, she had a favorite student or two. She couldn't help it. At first she thought it was some failing on her part that caused her to become attached to particular kids, some flaw in her wiring, or some disconnect with her duty. Favoritism was the thing they warned teachers against. It was deadly, the experienced teachers said, as they warmed their hands around their coffee mugs in the lounge on break and at lunch. She looked at their worn faces, at the way the job had beaten all the joy out of them, and thought maybe they weren't the most reliable judges of what worked with kids, anymore.
She talked it over with her husband once, while he was grading a stack of exams from his freshmen college students, green pencil in hand and a headache-driven frown on his face. "Do you think it's weird?" she asked, tracing her finger over the red woven whorls in her placemat.
Brian pulled off his glasses and blinked up at her. "Weird that you like your students?" he asked, as though she'd suggested perhaps it would be good if the sun rose in the east.
"Well, no. You know. That there are a couple I love a little. And maybe want to adopt."
Brian snorted and tapped her on the knuckles with the pencil. "At least you want to adopt yours. I have fantasies of duct taping the mouths of mine so I can finish a lecture without interruption." He smiled at her, and went back to grading, and she felt a little better about wanting to buy Gillian West a new winter coat.
This year's crop had yielded three special kids. There was Gillian, with her impossible lisp and that thing she did when she was mad, with her hand on her hip and her lip stuck out, that Lily thought was probably the mirror image of her mom. She was pretty surprised to find out that it wasn't Mom, it was Dad, with the jutting hip and the attitude. Like father, like daughter.
There was also Carlos Mendez, who never spoke in class, but who had an insatiable love of reading. His skill level far surpassed his grade level, though he never bragged, and he hung on every word of every book she read aloud in class. She caught him reading ahead in Charlotte's Web, once, and she gave him the book without comment, because it was worth it to see his eyes light up, and be favored with that quiet smile.
The third one didn't start off well, but he made up for lost time. Sam Winchester came in mid-year, behind in almost everything, and he didn't seem to mind at all. He had a huge smile and an infectious curiosity, and he babbled non-stop about his brother and his turtle and the weather and anything else that happened to be important that day. Sometimes Lily caught herself grinning when he talked, and she had to stop herself, so he wouldn't think she was laughing at him. She made it her mission to get him caught up on reading and math, and he exceeded even her high expectations.
Kids like Sam made her so damned glad to be a teacher, she could barely contain herself.
Then there was the week it rained for three days straight. No recess, no slides, no monkey bars. The kids were fidgety and restless, and she'd crafted and gamed and sung them right out of their chairs for the first couple of days, but the pounding rain and incessant gloom was taking its toll. Even on her.
"Let's do some drawing, how about?" she said, and twenty-five heads nodded vigorously, approving of her plan. "Everybody grab some crayons, and you draw me a picture of someone you admire, okay?"
For the next twenty minutes, there was dead silence, aside from a brief tussle over the sole magenta crayon Greg Tettle and Harley Trask both wanted. Twenty-five heads bent over their paper; twenty-five drawings that saved Lily from a migraine and a riot.
At the end of recess, she began collecting the drawings with an eye toward putting them on the walls. "That's a lovely elephant," she told Greg, who launched into a story about the circus and the elephant handler, and how he was going to be the best elephant rider ever when he joined the circus. Lily smiled and continued on.
But she stopped when Sam Winchester put his drawing into his desk and wouldn't look at her.
"You didn't say you wanted to look at them," he said, shifting away from her in the seat.
"No, I guess I didn't," she agreed, watching him carefully. He had his hands over the desktop, warding away her interest. "But maybe you could show me anyway?"
He shook his head, so hard his hair flew into his face.
"What if I promise not to put it on the wall?"
That got a sideways glance out of him, a little wary. "I made it for Dean," he said, as if that answered her question.
"Oh, I see," she said softly. "If I hang it up, you can't give it to Dean, is that it?"
No answer, but his fingers curled into little fists.
"I promise to give it back so you can give it to your brother," she said, and then he did look up.
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart," she said, making the old familiar gesture. Slowly, Sam produced the picture, holding it out with a hesitant grasp. "Thank you," she said gravely, adding it to the pile.
Sam watched her through the entire class, no matter what else was going on. He barely paid attention to anything, so intent was his focus. Her alarm bells were ringing so loud, she couldn't focus on her lesson plan. Finally she called over her aide, Regina, and whispered, "Can you take them for the reading lesson? I need to go make some copies."
"Sure thing," Regina said, a broad grin spreading over her face.
Lily stuck the drawings in her satchel and slipped from the room, trying not to notice how Sam tensed in his chair.
The teacher's lounge was deserted, so she was able to breathe, think. She had maybe ten minutes before Regina was overwhelmed with her young charges, so she brought out the stack of drawings and paged through them until she found Sam's.
Three stick figures on a field of green grass, under a sky filled with dark clouds and rain. One big dark animal, maybe a dog, with red dots - blood? - on its teeth. Red dots on two of the stick figures, and an angel flying overhead. Angels. Blood. Death.
Sam was six years old.
Lily's hand started to shake.
Five minutes later, she was sipping tea in Mike Fuller's office while he studied the drawing with a practiced eye. "What do you think?" she asked.
Mike put the drawing down and looked her square in the eye. "Well, it's interesting," he said. She winced. That was never the way she wanted to hear him start out. "It's pre-schematic, of course, and indicative of a low self-image. Notice how small Sam is, in this? The parental figure, which is this one, I assume-" He pointed to the large figure with the down-turned mouth "-is dominant in the picture. More often than not, that's an indication of complete dominance in the family. Sam's arms are small, useless. Powerless. And there are odd family divisions, here; the brother is almost as large as the father. Disproportionate."
"Which means?"
"Which means this boy is in a dangerous household, potentially. Both the father and the brother are objects of fear for him. The fact that he didn't want you to see his work is telling."
Lily set her cup down and sighed. Mike was the expert with the child psychology degree, but she had instincts, too, and they weren't singing to her. "I don't get that sense from this kid, Mike. I don't think it's that bad. He worships his older brother."
"Do you really want to take that chance?" Mike's voice was full of steel. "Kids often worship the people that hurt them the worst."
"Mike, you've had Dean in here before. Do you really think he's dangerous?" She shook her head, remembering the day Sam had wiggled away from her when Dean was getting beaten up on the playground. He'd run straight to Dean, no fear at all, and Dean had hugged him right in front of the rest of the kids. "It seems to me he loses more fights than he wins."
"Yes, but he picks them all. That boy has more attitude than a grown man could handle." Mike shook his head. "Better safe than sorry. I'll call CPS, get them to open a case and take a ride out to the house. You send the drawing home with a note. Let's see if we can get the father to come in, see what we see."
When Lily handed Sam back his drawing at the end of class, she also handed him a sealed note for his dad, and watched his face fall. "You tell your dad I need this back tomorrow, okay?"
The abject misery in his face broke her heart, and she knew at that moment why the rest of her peers had told her never to have favorites.
It was impossible to get over it, if they hated you for doing what you had to do.
**
Sam didn't come to school the next day.
Lily sat and watched his empty chair during quiet time, and sometime around lunch she made up her mind. If he was in danger, there was no sense in waiting for CPS to do something. It took too damn long.
Which was how she ended up on the Winchester doorstep, ringing their bell, at dusk.
It wasn't a good neighborhood. There were some shady kids hanging out on the corners, maybe selling drugs, maybe not, and some of the houses weren't kept up well. But she'd seen worse, and she never worried about her own safety. Where she'd grown up, they were lucky to get by with their windows intact and no bullet holes in the walls.
Eventually the door swung open, and Dean Winchester stood there, looking up at her, his hair a little wild, his eyes full of suspicion. "Hello, Dean," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "I'm Mrs. Miller. I'm Sam's teacher. May I come in?"
He looked at her as if he were sizing her up, which was disconcerting, considering that he was ten and not all that big, and definitely shouldn't seem intimidating. "Sure, okay," he said, and held the door open for her.
The house was neat as a pin. Everything in its place, no visible dust bunnies or food, no junk on the ancient coffee table. Sam was standing in the open space between the tiny living room and the kitchen, framed by hideous orange wallpaper. "Hello, Sam," she said. He didn't answer, just edged closer to Dean, who automatically put an arm out for him. "You didn't come to school today. I just stopped by to see if you were feeling all right."
It was Dean who answered, Dean whose chin lifted and whose voice became defiant. "Sammy didn't feel good this morning," he said. "Dad said he should stay home."
"Did your father write a note?" She felt like a bitch for even asking, because it was clear he hadn't.
Dean's chin lifted a little higher. "He said he'd do it tomorrow, if Sammy felt better."
"Are you feeling better, Sam?" She was looking at Dean when she said it, but Sam surprised her by answering.
"A little."
"Good, I'm glad." She turned her gaze to him, as she sat down on the hideous brown-and-green couch. It had probably come with the house; it looked like something her grandmother had owned. "Did you give your dad my note?"
Sam's arms snaked around Dean's waist, and Dean put his hand on the top of Sam's head. "He has it," Dean answered.
She nodded, and was quiet for a second, letting the awkwardness subside. "Dean, did you like the drawing Sam made for you?" she asked finally, and was rewarded with her first true indication of how things were, in that house. Dean's face changed, became quietly proud, and he ruffled Sam's hair.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. It's a great drawing."
Sam squirmed, but he didn't let go of Dean, and Lily knew in that moment that Sam had nothing to fear from his brother. Now, or ever. "Sam has quite an imagination, I'll bet," she said, and Dean's eyes flicked toward her, suspicious again. She waited.
"Sammy's smart," Dean said, which wasn't the answer she'd expected. Sammy really started squirming then, so Dean leaned over and whispered something in his little brother's ear, and Sammy giggled.
"Something funny?" Lily asked, smiling again.
Dean shook his head, staring at her. There was something unnerving in that stare; it was too knowing, for a kid so young. She smoothed her skirt down over her knees, an old nervous habit. "Do you expect your dad home soon?"
"Kinda," Dean said. "It depends."
She raised her eyebrows. "Should I wait?" she asked.
And then the door swung open, and John Winchester stepped through, charging the room with his presence. As soon as he saw her, she understood where Dean's suspicious nature came from; that same look was in his eyes. He didn't address her, just his sons. "Dean, Sam. What have I told you about letting strangers in the house while I'm gone?" An even tone, measured; not angry, but it commanded attention.
"Dad. She's Sammy's teacher."
Mr. Winchester pushed the door closed with one hand and unzipped his jacket. "They pay you people to make house calls, now?" he asked, not smiling.
"Not usually," she answered. She stood up and extended him her hand, and he took it, firmly. Not the way most men did, just squeezing her fingers; his handshake was full and strong, not insulting, not taking her for granted. "I'm Lily Miller."
"John Winchester. Please, call me John." He dropped her hand and said, "Boys, find something productive to do while I talk to Mrs. Miller."
"Yes, sir," they said, nearly in unison, and Lily looked at John curiously, but he seemed not to notice. With a last look at Lily, Dean herded Sam off toward the hallway, out of her line of sight.
John took his jacket off and sat down on the chair opposite Lily, his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded together. "What brings you to my house, Mrs. Miller?"
"John, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Lily."
"Fair enough. The question stands. Why are you here?"
Blunt, direct. She liked that. "Your son drew a very disturbing picture as a gift for his brother," she said, watching his face. "I sent a note home with Sam yesterday, requesting a conference with you, and then you kept Sam out of school rather than respond. I'd like to know why." Nothing flickered in his eyes, no clue to give her an idea of his reaction. Just a steady, calm gaze.
"I kept Sam out of school because he has a fever. Nothing sinister there, Lily. As for the drawing, Sam has an active imagination. I don't see anything wrong with that. Do you?" That direct gaze of his was like a laser, scrutinizing her in the same way she was studying him.
"I encourage Sam's imagination. But he drew himself bloody, John. And his brother as well. He's drawing giant monsters, and I have to be frank with you; that's not normal. It's not normal at all."
"Well, there's a story to this, Lily, and maybe we should get the boys in here while I tell you."
"All right," she said, just as he raised his voice and called for them.
"Dean! Sam! Come in here."
They appeared as if by magic just a moment later, Sam's hand in Dean's, and went to John's side. John lifted Sam into his lap and pressed a hand to his face. "How you doing, Sammy?"
"Better," Sam said, glancing sideways at Lily with a frown on his face.
"He stopped puking around noon," Dean said, and then bit his lip, a flush lighting his face. Lily understood immediately; Dean had stayed home with Sam. Not sick, but taking care of him. She looked back at John, not ready to open the door on that question. Not yet.
"Good," John said. He adjusted Sam in his lap so Sam's legs dangled over the edge of John's knee. "Lily, about four weeks ago, I took my sons into the woods over near Parkview so I could teach them a thing or two. In those woods, we were attacked by two large dogs."
"I've heard the stories about those wild dogs," Lily said. "I thought they were just local legend."
"That's the thing about legends." John smoothed down Sam's hair. "There's always some part of the story that's true."
"Was Sam hurt?" Lily sat forward on the couch. "Is that what he was trying to draw?"
"I was distracted by the first dog. Didn't know the second was there until it attacked. It went for Sammy." John lifted the sleeve of Sam's shirt and Lily could see a mostly-healed bite mark across his upper left arm. Just a glimpse, but the bite spanned his arm and shoulder. Lily tried to reconcile the size of it with the size of a dog's mouth - even a large dog - but she couldn't make it fit.
"That's a nasty wound," she said, as John dropped Sam's sleeve.
"Could've been worse. Dean stepped in, did what had to be done. He saved his brother's life."
"Oh my goodness," Lily said. Her throat closed as she looked at Dean, who had eyes only for his father and brother. He was a small boy, so slender. She thought of that bite mark, and the size of that dog.
If it was a dog at all.
"He's just a little boy," she said finally, trying to put into words all she was thinking.
"He's a brave boy," John said. "He's my son." He turned a smile on Dean then, gentle and full of pride. Dean edged closer to his father and put his hand on his father's knee. "That's what happened, Lily. Everything turned out just fine, as you can see."
"I see," she said quietly. "Dean, were you hurt by the dog?"
Dean looked up at his dad, who nodded. "It scratched me," Dean said, and Lily thought of the drops of blood Sam had drawn. She shivered. "But I'm all right."
"Dean," Sam said suddenly, and jumped off his father's lap. He threw his arms around Dean's waist, and Dean turned pink.
"Don't be such a baby," he said to the top of Sam's head, but he looped that arm around Sam's shoulders again, hugging him without hugging.
"So that's the story," John said. "Is there anything else?"
Lily cleared her throat. "I showed the drawing to our school psychologist. He was...concerned."
"I see." John met her eyes steadily. "Should we expect other visitors soon?"
"Probably." She sighed. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be. You were just looking out for my son, and I appreciate it." John stood up, and she understood loud and clear that she was being asked to leave. "Let me walk you to your car."
"I'll be fine," she said, standing also. She smiled down at Dean and Sam. "Maybe Dean should walk me. He's the hero."
Dean turned an even deeper shade of pink, but he didn't look away.
"Sam?" He turned big eyes up toward her. "I'll see you tomorrow in school, okay?"
"'kay. Bye, Mrs. Miller."
"Bye now."
John Winchester walked her to her car anyway, and he stood at the curb with his hands in his pockets, watching while she pulled away.
Sam never came back to school, and eventually the registrar processed withdrawals for both Dean and Sam Winchester. She hadn't really expected John to send them back to her, but it made her sad, even so. No telling where they might have gone, or why.
Sometimes she stayed awake at night, long after Brian had started snoring in the bedroom, and scanned local news items for reports of the wild dogs, but she never found one again. There was some truth to every story, after all.
~~~
III. 8, 12
John started working his way up to the decision in early September, around the time Sam and Dean both came down with the flu. He hadn't worked in over three months, and the best he'd been able to do in a quick poker game or pool hustle was a couple hundred bucks - barely enough to cover the motel and the medicine for both his kids.
The boys huddled together in one bed like they had since Sam was a baby, sharing germs and misery and everything else that had come their way in the past eight years. He looked at their flushed faces, watched Dean struggle to get out of bed when Sammy needed something, and thought that it didn't seem fair that they were missing out on so much, that Dean never seemed to have a sense of self that didn't revolve around Sam.
Like most other times he'd had that thought, he put it out of his mind once they hit the road again and the world opened up before them. Dean's cough stuck around to remind him, though, so he put down stakes in southern Arizona and let the warm weather do its magic for a little while.
In mid-October they were back on the road, still strapped for cash. John never could hold down any kind of good-paying job for long. People were too curious about too many things, and there was always the risk that the better they got to know him, the more secrets could come spilling out. His kids were well-trained, but getting friendly with the locals could lead to false feelings of trust.
He went out on a hunt in South Dakota with some old friends, the cold burning his skin and lungs, and came back satisfied that he was still doing some good, no matter how hard the life seemed. When he stepped into the motel room, Sam was asleep, but Dean was waiting for him with a smile on his face and a sock stuffed with cash, all small bills.
"What is this?" he asked, dropping the money on the bed.
"Sam and me pretended to be collecting money for a kid's charity. You know, like in the grocery store? We got people to give us money. 'Cause it's not like we don't need it, Dad." Dean glanced at Sam, then back at his father, and said, "I'm old enough, now. I can help more."
John sat down heavily on the bed and looked at Dean's hopeful, sincere face. His sweet, responsible kid, who had just leaped right into the pit of petty crime.
"Dean," he began, then stopped. How the hell was he going to explain it? The lines were grey, and getting more murky all the time. He tugged Dean over to sit next to him on the bed. "Listen, son. There are things we do, and things we don't do. Sometimes I have to lie, but I do it to make sure you and Sammy are safe. Not to take things from people."
"You use credit card money that isn't yours," Dean said, looking up at him.
John cleared his throat. "Those are what they call victimless crimes, Dean. I'm not really taking money from people, I'm taking money from companies that can afford it. It's still not right, but it's...different."
"Different how?" Dean asked.
And try as he might, though he spent twenty minutes going through all the ways he'd justified it to himself, all the rationalizations for it, he couldn't make himself sound any better than a thief, in the end. Dean's expression showed his confusion. A lie was a lie was a lie, except when it wasn't; a crime was a crime, unless it wasn't. John's head was starting to hurt, and with every question Dean asked, he could feel his patience slipping away.
In the end, John lost his temper, because there was nothing else he could say, and no one else to blame but himself. "Dean, I just don't want you to do this again, okay?" He didn't say it kindly; he said it with anger, and hated himself for leading the kind of life that made it impossible to teach Dean by example.
His son shrank away from him. "Okay, Dad. I'm sorry."
"No, don't...it's okay, I'm..." Deep breath, long pause. "You tried to help out, and that's not wrong."
Dean nodded, but the damage was already done. Damned if John could even figure out how to make distinctions between good crime and bad crime.
It took him a few minutes to recognize that rusty, sharp feeling in his gut as shame.
That night, he sat on the edge of his bed and watched his children sleep. He owed them more than this. Mary would have hated this, hated him a little for all the things he wasn't giving her boys. Dean's face was narrowing, becoming pinched with a kind of hunger no amount of food could cure, and Sam seemed too quiet all the time. Both boys had tried damn hard to be perfect for him, he could see that. But the harder they tried, the more impatient he became.
In the morning, he packed up the car and put his sleepy boys in the back seat, and hauled ass east, toward Illinois. John still knew the way, though it had been almost seven years since he'd been back there. There was nowhere else to go, no other place that he could still call home.
It was the right time of year for a light snowfall, and the roads were dusted with powder over ice. John passed new housing he'd never seen before on the way into town, and the shock of the unfamiliar reminded him that he wasn't part of this place anymore. By the time they pulled into the driveway, he already wanted to leave, but that wasn't an option.
Dean stared at the house like he'd never seen one before. "Who lives here, Dad?"
John switched off the engine. "Your grandfather."
**
His father didn't meet them on the porch, though the old bastard must have noticed the car pulling in. He made John climb the stairs and ring the bell, and so John set his teeth and did it. Both the boys hung back behind him, stunned into silence at the prospect of seeing their grandfather. Dean didn't really remember him much, and Sam had still been tiny, the last time they'd been here.
John had sworn he'd never come back after the way he'd left. There had been harsh words between them, but there were many years of hard road between then and now, and his perspective had shifted, over time.
The door swung open and John stared into his father's face, at the lines worn there by time, at the shock of silver hair where black used to be. "Hello, Dad," he said, and was rewarded with a slow smile.
"John. It's been a long time."
"Yes, sir." When his father pushed open the screen door, John twisted around and beckoned the boys forward. "You remember Dean and Sam." They filed into the house in front of him, past his father, who smiled slightly as they passed.
"Good Lord." His father closed the door and crouched down. "You boys have grown up since the last time your dad brought you by. I'll bet you don't even remember me."
Both of them shook their heads, and looked solemnly up at John in unison.
"I'm sorry to come without calling first, but-"
"It's not an issue." His father cut him off smoothly, as if he knew everything John planned to say before he said it. Maybe he did. "You boys must be hungry. How about some sandwiches?"
"That'd be great, thanks," John answered for them.
"The kitchen is that way." Dad pointed down the hall. "You boys go ahead, pull what you need out of the fridge. I'll be along directly."
When they had made their way down the hallway, John rubbed a hand over his face. His father was watching him too carefully. "You look like you haven't slept," he said. "Take my bedroom. Grab a few hours' rest. I'll watch the boys."
John didn't have the energy to argue, didn't want to anyway. The boys were as safe here as they would ever be with him. "All right," he said, surprised at how rough his voice was. "They can be a handful," he added, but his father waved him off.
"No worse than you at that age, I'm certain."
He climbed the stairs, in familiar territory again; slipped off his boots, his shirts, and nestled down in the bed, half-listening for the sounds of his children in the warm house below. He fell asleep to the sound of Sam's laughter.
**
Sometime later, a scream woke him from a deep, dreamless sleep, and John jerked upright, fully awake. The reaction was automatic. "Dean? Sam?"
No answer.
He was pulling his boots on when the scream came again - outside, behind the house. He shoved the curtains aside and his entire body relaxed, one muscle at a time, as he saw Dean and Sam on a sled, sliding sideways down the hill. One more thing John had never taken the time to show them. His father was trudging along behind the boys, dark coat and gloves, reaching for the lead line on the sled.
John sat back down on the bed, giving in to the lethargy in his body. Once fatigue caught up with him, there was no stopping it. A slow ache of bones, a fog in his brain; they'd been creeping over him by degrees for months now, settling into his body by stages. He had known it was happening for a while - ever since he'd started to have trouble concentrating, or planning ahead, thinking about what would come next. Sometimes he'd caught himself staring at the pages of his journal as if he didn't recognize his own words on the page, just waiting for them to come clear.
He recognized that feeling; it wasn't new. He was familiar with it from his days fighting, bleeding, men around him dying everywhere. Only the battlefield was different.
This time, he didn't undress, just pulled the comforter around him and sank back into sleep.
**
When he woke again, it was dark, and the house smelled like roast beef. John sat up slowly and stretched out the kinks. The idea of hitting the road didn't appeal to him, but dinner did.
His father was sitting at the kitchen table with Dean, going through a box of rocks. When John stopped in the doorway, Dean looked up with an expression of disappointment, as if he expected to be pulled away to do something else.
"Are you hungry?" Dad asked, prompted perhaps by the way John's stomach was growling.
"Yeah," John said. He sat down at the table, across from Dean. "I could eat."
"Thought so," Dad said. He got up and made himself busy putting slices of roast beef and carrots on a plate.
"How long did I sleep?"
"Not long enough." The plate his father put before him was heaped with beef, potatoes and carrots, and the smell alone made John's mouth water. "The boys have been fed. Sam's already asleep."
"We've been talking about rocks," Dean said. "And dinosaurs, and stuff." There was a gleam in his eye that made the taste of John's dinner bitter.
"Fossils," Dad explained, though there was no need; John had had his own hand in that box of rocks more times than he could count. "Dean, you should get ready for bed."
"Okay." Dean hopped off the chair and beat feet out of there without waiting for John's approval. John stared after him, amazed.
"You don't have exclusive license on child-rearing," his father said, correctly interpreting that look.
"Guess not." He went back to eating, surprised at how good it all was, how hungry he was.
Dad sat down in the chair Dean had just vacated and put the lid on the box. "I take it you've been having a hard few months."
John put down his fork, wiped his mouth on his napkin. "Dean tell you that?"
"Some. He's not very trusting, your boy. But I read between the lines."
"I didn't raise him to trust."
"Then you've done a good job."
John's temper roared to life. It was this bullshit that had made him leave home as fast as he could, join the Marines and get the fuck out of Dodge. "Says the man who knows everything about screwing up his kids."
His father looked away. For the first time, John noticed that his shoulders were still broad, but bent in a bit, stooped, like the world had finally forced him to pay a price for all that pride and arrogance. "Point taken." When he met John's eyes, there was no weariness in them, just that same old spark of intelligence. "Like you, I did what I thought was right at the time."
"Which explains where I learned it." John shoved his plate back, not really concerned that he wasn't being fair. His father didn't respond. That was different, too; he remembered Dad always spoiling for a fight, especially with him.
The room was chilly, but warmer than most places they'd been in the last half of the year. Nothing about the kitchen had changed, either, aside from the new stove and refrigerator. His mother's copper pans were still hanging over the stove, and her roosters and ducks adorned the walls, yellowed with time.
"Still haven't found anyone to settle down with?" his father asked.
John sighed. It wasn't the kind of question he could answer without telling Dad too much about their lives. He settled for the short version. "Haven't had the time."
"John. It's been eight years. Maybe you should stop running."
"I'm not running." When his fist connected with the table, both of them jumped. "Sorry," he murmured, and then, "I'm not."
"What would you call it, then?" His father's clear green eyes were full of curiosity, and maybe pity, though John pretended not to recognize it. "You came running here after Mary died, after you'd already packed up and hit the road, and you've never stopped since. One town for a few months, another for most of a year, but it never lasts. What are you looking for, John? Why don't you make a home for these boys?"
"I do make a home for them." The moment it was out, it felt like a goddamned lie. Wasn't that why he'd come in the first place? They'd be better off here in a place like this. He could keep them safe here.
"Home is more than four walls, I know." Dad pushed up from the table and collected John's plate. "You're welcome here for as long as you'd like to stay."
"I can't stay," John said. "Maybe...maybe the boys..."
He couldn't even get the words out. They stuck in his throat, the taste of them all wrong.
"That's an option, too."
"They were having fun today," John said softly. "In the snow."
His father set the plate in the sink. "I've made up the downstairs guest room for myself. You stay in the master bedroom, next to the boys." He clicked on the light over the stove, flicked off the main overhead. "Good night, John."
"Good night."
It was a long time before John felt the world was steady enough under his feet for him to move. He turned out the light over the stove and made his way through the dark into the living room, only to be surprised by a dark figure on the stairs.
"You should be in bed," he told Dean, but he sat down next to him anyway. Dean had something in his hand, clutched hard in his fist. "What've you got there?"
"Just a rock." Dean showed it to him; the dull metallic surface shone in the dim light. "Hematite, Grandpa says. It's made of iron. Ancient people used it for healing.
"He told you that?" John looked down at Dean's face, saw him nod. "Huh."
"Dad." Dean's body was so tense, John thought he might snap in two before he managed to get out whatever was troubling him. "Are you gonna leave us here?"
"You've been eavesdropping again," John said, gentle rebuke.
Dean nodded again, but said nothing, his face turned away.
"There are things I want for you boys. Things your mother wanted. I'm not sure I can give them to you," John began, but Dean stood up and put his arms around John's neck, a brief hug, and John could feel cool tears on his cheeks. Then he bolted up the stairs.
"Dammit," John said to the empty stairwell.
He climbed up after Dean, slowly, listening to every creak of the floorboards above as Dean moved around the guest room. By the time he opened the door, his efficient kid had undressed, put his pajamas on, and was already in bed beside Sam.
John sat down on the very edge of the bed and put his hand on the covers over Dean's chest. Dean's eyes glittered in the dark. "I promised you something a long time ago, Dean, after your mother died. Do you remember?"
"I remember," Dean said. For a second, John saw Dean as he was then, four years old and so scared, made mute by trauma.
"I remember, too," John said. "And when we leave here, Dean, we are leaving together. Okay?"
"Okay," Dean said. Beneath John's hand, he could feel Dean's body relax, become less rigid.
"Okay." John leaned over and touched Sam's face, then patted Dean's chest. "Now get some sleep. There's still snow out there. Good sledding tomorrow."
"Yeah," Dean whispered, his teeth gleaming in an ear-to-ear smile.
When John dropped his boots and crawled into bed, he began to put a conversation together in his mind - the one where he would teach Dean to be honest, and fair, and never to trick good people he should be helping. But the snow would melt soon enough, and maybe by then he'd figure out how to make it a lesson without hypocrisy.
~~~
part two