FIC: We Say Grace, We Say Ma'am (1/1)
Title: We Say Grace, We Say Ma’am
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, and John
SPOILERS/Timeline: None. Pre-series. teen!chesters
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: It’s hard to be idealistic when you’re 19 years old. Even harder when you live in a trailer park. Almost impossible when your dad is John Winchester.
A/N: Written for prompts 39 and 40 at found_fic_spn. Title from Hank Williams Jr. song A Country Boy Can Survive. Beta’d by pdragon76 - because of her awesomenessosity, and poked at and prodded by the kind loveliness that is quellefromage. *kisses you both on the forehead*
“What’s this?” His voice was scratchy, throat inflamed. Felt like someone was down there with a fucking rake when he talked.
His dad flicked open the lid of the Styrofoam container. “Figured you might want somethin’ heartier than broth and Jell-o by now.”
Dean leaned forward from the pillow, line from the canula pulling against his cheeks. He eyed the gray burger and limp looking steak fries, face pinched. The idea of swallowing anything thicker than spit past the bruised faultline at the base of his neck made all his muscles tighten.
“It came from the cafeteria,” his dad said, arms folded across his chest. “I’d run out and get you somethin’ better, but--” a hand escaped from under his elbow, flapped between them. “Your brother has the car.” He said it like it hurt.
“Everything okay?” Dean croaked.
John snapped his temple toward the door. “He’s packin’ things up at the trailer. We’ll crash in the waiting room tonight. You should be outta here by morning.”
Dean’s eyes wandered from his dad to the window on the other side of the room.
“Eat your burger, son.”
Dean’s right hand fisted in the loose weave of the cotton blanket, soreness resonating through the raw tight swell in his knuckles. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m…” His dad’s figure shifted in his periphery. “I’m sorry.”
The heavy sigh crossed the space between them. “You did what you thought you had to do,” John said.
Not the right thing - his dad didn’t say that. John Winchester never gave up anything he didn’t have to.
“Patterson’s not pressing charges so far, but the cops’ll be in soon to get your statement.”
“Figured,” Dean wheezed. “Teri and Chris?”
“They’re fine. Banged up and scared, I guess.” John dragged a hand through his beard. “DCFS and a couple detectives already talked to your brother. You and Sammy should make sure you’re on the same page.”
“There’s just one page, Dad.”
*******************************************************************
“No touchy! No bumpy, no movey, no nothin’.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Why don’t you grow up,” Sam sneered, gathering up his books and notepad. He crammed his calculator into his backpack, followed it with his cinderblock algebra II text. “You know, I was here first. You wouldn’t leave me alone in the bedroom, so I came out here.” He snatched up his plastic pencil case and slung the backpack over his shoulder. “And by the way, no one makes mix tapes anymore. At least not off records. Asshole.”
Dean folded his arms across his chest, standing in front of the record player like a bar bouncer. “Stop slammin’ shit around.”
“Why? ‘Cause the world’s greatest injustice would be a fucking skip on your bootleg Kansas road trip tape? Jesus, Dean,” Sam said shoving the kitchen chair against the table, “Could you be any farther up Dad’s ass?”
“Fuck you.”
Sam’s lips pursed, eyes squinted for a brief second, and then his mouth curled up on one side.
Dean’s jaw went hard. He pointed a thick finger at Sam. “Don’t do it, fucker. I’m halfway through side B.”
Something was going to happen, either way. They both knew it. Dad had been gone four days, groceries were low, and trailer homes in May? In Georgia? Were sweatboxes. Trailer homes also had shit-buckled plywood floors that bounced like a sea storm with hardly any encouragement.
Sam took off from the kitchen area at a slow jog. Two steps in, Sparks of the Tempest popped and hissed and Robby Steinhardt’s voice went silent for a half second. Dean dove at Sam like a linebacker.
They hit the couch with an earthquake thump and a small puff of dust, bounced onto the coffee table. The Goodwill find popped a leg, and both boys tumbled onto the filthy, tri-color nylon shag - Dean on top. The record arm jumped the vinyl completely, and the needle hit the stereo deck with an amplified clunk.
“Stupid little prick!” Dean spit, Sam’s legs wagging and scrabbling from underneath like a cockroach on its back.
“Get off me!” Sam yelled, algebra book riding hard into his spine.
“Stupid fuckin’ bitch!”
They froze; Sam’s long leg wrapped over Dean’s back, Dean’s forearm slammed against Sam’s neck.
“You stupid fuckin’ bitch!”
Their eyes traveled in the direction of their neighbors’ trailer. Shay and Teri Patterson. They had a kid, Chris. Couldn’t have been older than ten. He’d helped Dean and Sam wash the Impala a couple of times.
“Shit,” Dean hissed, pushing off Sam’s chest and crossing to the window that faced the Patterson’s lot next door.
“They’re at it again?” Sam whispered, disgusted and dubious.
There was a crash of glass, and they heard Teri’s familiar wail.
“I thought he got locked up last week.” Sam said, joining Dean at the window.
“Guess he got out,” Dean said, fingers strung up in the Venetian blinds.
“I feel bad for the kid. Well, for both of them,” Sam said solemnly, eyeing the Patterson’s trailer. He shook his head. “Why does she stay?”
“Where is it, huh? Get your fuckin’ purse, bitch!”
“Sometimes people don’t know when to leave,” Dean said flatly, then “I’m goin’ over.” He jumped back from the window, grabbed his t-shirt off the stereo speaker, and dropped the collar over his head.
“What? No. No way.”
Dean punched his arms through his sleeves, grabbed his boots from the mat by the front door, and plopped down on the recliner to tug them on.
“Dean, no way. Dad’ll kill you. Shay Patterson’s a freaking crackhead!”
Dean shook his head as he tied his laces. “Doesn’t give him license to smack his wife around.”
Sam threw off his back pack and stepped in front of the door, perfect imitation of Dean’s stereo sentry from before. “Dude, don’t.”
“Move, Sam.”
Dean’s voice was spiked with adrenaline, attention focused like x-ray vision through Sam, their front door, and the Patterson’s.
“Shay, please!” Teri screamed.
“Sam. Move.”
“Dean.”
“Sam.”
They heard Patterson’s door slam open and the volume of Teri’s cries spiked and dropped. Before the door slapped closed, they heard a hard smack of skin on skin. Dean pushed Sam aside; nearly brained him with the door.
“Dean!”
He hopped down the three iron-cage steps on the cement block that served as their front porch, Sam two seconds behind him. Chris was standing in the grass barefoot, staring at his tempest-tossed trailer, tears dropping silently from his wide eyes.
“Hey, Chris,” Dean called lightly.
The boy jerked, caught off guard. He shot a quick glance at Dean and Sam, horrified blush reddening his cheeks.
“Hey, man,” Dean said with a backward nod of his head, “why don’t you come and hang out with me and Sam for a while.”
Chris’s head snapped back and forth between the trailer and the boys. A crash and a yell from inside made him take a step toward Camp Winchester.
“Hey, yeah,” Sam said stepping forward. “We can, uh…I think Voltron’s on or something.”
Chris ran another course of glances between home and the boys, slid his forearm under his nose. “Okay.” He took a few steps back, turned, and Sam met him halfway between their two trailers. Dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him in the right direction.
Dean headed toward the Patterson’s, calling pleasantly over his shoulder, “I’m just gonna let your folks know where you are.”
*******************************************************************
John shifted in the vinyl chair next to Dean’s bed, thumb nail picking at a grease stain on the thigh of his jeans. “Cops told your brother Shay was high as a kite. Probably didn’t even feel half the damage. EMTs said you busted his jaw.”
Dean winced at the edge of pride in his dad’s voice. “He wouldn’t let up.”
They fell silent; nothing but the white-noise hiss of the oxygen, sporadic beep of the oximeter.
“I take it--” Dean jostled under the blanket, tried to swallow down the itch in his throat. The attempt turned into a ragged cough, and he brought a hand to his mouth, pressed fingers against the double stitch in his split upper lip. His dad pressed a plastic cup into his hand.
“Take a sip.”
A second passed before he could, then the water loosened up the dry drag. “I take it we’re movin’ on in the morning.”
John’s lips pooched in a pout, eyes focused somewhere around Dean’s knees.
“Sammy’s almost done with his semester and, not that I’m lookin’ to hang out in a trailer park any longer than we already have, but--”
John raised a hand to stop him. “Cops and DCFS, Dean. Time for us to move on. Shay sobers up and decides to press assault charges? Or convinces Teri to press on his behalf?” He shook his head. “We don’t need that kind of attention.”
“I didn’t mean--”
“Can’t stop the rain with an umbrella,” his dad said.
“He was beatin’ her, Dad. And he’s done it before, you know that. And Chris was--” Dean cleared his throat, knocked a tight fist against his thigh. “He’s a kid. He’s just a little kid.” His voice graveled up at the end; emotion aggravating his swollen throat. He reached for the cup of water on the rolling table next to the bed. Took a slow, careful swallow that echoed off the tiled floor, bounced between the white walls.
“Sometimes I forget…” John said.
Dean stilled. Held tight to the cup in his hand.
“Sometimes I forget that not all the monsters in this world are taken care of with rock salt and holy water. I raised you boys to be helpful, to watch out for people who couldn’t watch out for themselves--”
“Yes, sir.”
“You just… You can’t do that at the cost of your own safety, Dean. Or Sammy’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean grunted.
“I can’t-- We can’t--”
“Yeah,” Dean said, and set the cup back on the table next to the burger and fries.
A nurse poked a conciliatory frown around the half-opened door to Dean’s room. “Mr. Gregory? The detectives are here to talk to Dean.”
John gave her a nod over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
The nurse looked over John and caught Dean’s eye. “Sweetie? You okay to talk?”
His throat tightened momentarily; a sense of gratitude for her care that melted through him like wax. “Yes, ma’am.”
*******************************************************************
He pounded his fist against the pebbled aluminum door of the trailer, glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sam had Chris safely at their place. There were snuffed tears and harsh staccato whispers - threats - from the other side of the cheap door. Dean’s eyes wandered down to the handle: a standard key-in-the-knob lock, keyslot on the outside and a thumb turn on the inside. Pickable in about three seconds. He figured a well-placed donkey kick under the knob would pop the door just as quick. Before he could do either, the door swung in and Shay Patterson - covered in sweat and pupils like saucers - insinuated himself between Dean and the top porch step.
Dean bobbed his chin, put on a friendly smile. “Hey, Shay. How you doin’?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Teri around? I was lookin’ to borrow a neighborly cup of sugar.”
“Get off my goddamned property.”
Dean’s smile went straight and he shook his head, sucked in a breath. “Yeah, see? Thing of it is, I happened to know you rent this shit hole just like we do, so it doesn’t so much belong to you, as it does to Humboldt Management.”
“I said, get off my goddamned property.”
“And I said I wanted to talk to Teri.” Dean slid a side-step to Shay’s right, squinted into the dim trailer. “Teri? You okay?”
Shay’s pale arms shot forward, shoving Dean off the stoop.
“Shay, no!” Teri shouted tearfully from inside, then, “I’m okay, Dean. You should-- Go on home, okay?”
Dean planted his feet at the edge of the cement patio, arms hung loose at his sides. He looked past Shay - through him - and called out, “Hey, Teri? Chris is over at our place. Just gonna hang out for a little while, okay? Come pick him up after dinner, all right?”
“Okay, De--”
“Shut the fuck up!” Shay shouted over his shoulder at Teri. He slammed the door behind him, slipped his wiry frame down the steps and stopped two feet from Dean. “Go get my boy.”
Dean put on an exaggerated grimace. “Yeah, no. That’s just not gonna happen, Shay,” he said.
The man twitched from head to foot, lips pulled back in a snarl. “I ain’t lettin’ my boy hang out with two faggot-ass brothers whose daddy don’t even like ‘em enough to stick around more ‘an an hour at a time.”
Dean huffed a laugh. “You’re a real pro at observation, Shay. Too bad none of it’s aimed at you.”
Shay was quick and he was wiry, but he was baked as a Christmas ham. He swung out wildly, a sloppy haymaker that had no chance of connecting. Dean dipped left, and Shay’s momentum drove him in a half-circle that robbed his balance, dropped him to one knee. Dean would have walked, then; would have left the wife-beating son of a bitch kneeling on the cement if Shay hadn’t gone for the stray piece of rebar next to the stoop. Dean kicked himself for not noticing it sooner. The thin steel rod made an awful noise as it scraped across the surface of the brush-finished concrete.
“Come on, man. Don’t be an idiot,” Dean said coolly, hands speaking other words as they balled into fists. “Why don’t you take a walk. Cool off.”
Shay Patterson was ugly like a bulldog, wore every wrong or injustice he ever perceived on his face. His beady eyes darted all over Dean - frantic and hungry - like ants on a hotdog scrap after a picnic.
“You think you get to tell me what to do?”
Dean showed his palms. “Just makin’ a suggestion. Whatever message you were tryin’ to give Teri? I think she got you loud and clear for today.”
Quick - like the flicker of a ghost in the dark - Dean saw something in Shay’s eyes that reminded him heart-achingly of his dad. Remorse or guilt, maybe…slippery as mercury. It disappeared with a blink, and Shay swallowed and lifted his arms. Cocked the rebar over his shoulder like a Louisville Slugger.
Dean caught it at the top of the arc. It was stupid, but it beat the hell out of copping it in the temple. He hissed through the pain, wrapped his fingers around the bar, and pulled Shay forward. Managed to pound a knee into the man’s hip as he went down again. Dean yanked the rebar from Shay’s stubborn hands and tossed it onto the brown sickly grass a few feet away. Leaned over and cautioned, “Stay down.”
Shay popped up like a full-cranked jack-in-the-box. Dean’s chin collided with the man’s fast-rising shoulder, snapped his head backward and sent him stumbling. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, and Shay leaped like a vulture on carrion.
“I got a message for ya! I got a message for ya!” Shay yelled, a spray of blood misting down on Dean’s face. He landed a straight-on punch to Dean’s mouth, made his head bounce off the hard-pack dirt. Shay had a good six inches and twenty pounds on him - not to mention at least a rock of crack and likely half a six-pack - but Dean got a knee up. Tucked his shoulder and managed to roll Shay to the side. He fired a piston-pump of punches into the side of the man’s face. Was pulling back for another when he heard the siren. Two minutes away at most.
Goddamnit, Sam!
Shay didn’t hear it, though. Or did, and just didn’t care. He landed an uppercut that shot Dean off his chest like a rocket. Before Dean could process the turn of events, Shay was on top again, forearm crushing down on his neck, robbing him of breath and clear vision. Dean gurgled, red bubbles bursting over his lips, and closed his eyes.
Sam!
*******************************************************************
“The way we see it, it’s Shay started it. Teri likely didn’t mean to, but she corroborated your story and your brother’s - Shay touchin’ you first. Shoved you off the porch, took the first swing.”
Dean’s eyes darted to his dad, then back to the policeman. He gave him a tight nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Shoot,” the other officer said, “‘tween you and me and these four walls? You prolly done Shay a favor. F’ shore done one for Teri and their boy.”
Dean blushed and bent his head; didn’t feel like busting someone’s jaw and getting them arrested was kindness of any sort. And he sure hadn’t done any favors for Sam or their dad.
“Now, Mr. Gregory, you understand,” the first officer said, tucking his notepad into his pocket and turning to John, “Dean has the right to file assault charges against Patterson.”
John nodded, arms pinned tight across his chest. “We do, but I think we’ll leave this one alone.”
“Even still, you can file a restraining order if you like.”
John gave the officer a tight smile. “Thanks. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble keeping good distance.”
The shorter policeman plucked the toothpick from the corner of his mouth, gave a little chuckle. “Well, I have a feelin’ Shay’s gonna have time to cool his heels.” The officer stared intently at the thin, damp piece of wood as he rolled it between his thumb and finger. “Mondays’re kinda...it’s hard to get motivated, know what I mean?” he said with a wink at Dean. He cocked his head. “Might take a day or two to file all the reports, by that time it’ll near be Friday, and the local judge likes troutin’ this time of year--”
“You got a good ten worry-free days,” the man’s partner summed up.
John pushed off the far wall of the hospital room, stepped forward with his hand extended. “I appreciate it. Very much. So does Dean.”
“Yes, sir. I sure do,” Dean said scratchily.
Both officers shook hands with the Winchesters. The taller of the two handed John a business card.
“Call if you have any questions. We’ll give you a heads-up when Shay’s headed home.”
“Thanks again,” John said.
As the officers left, the shorter one stopped, turned back to face Dean as his hand played fiddle across his chin. “Prolly shouldn’t say this, bein’ a law officer and all, but, uh…” He set his hands on his round hips, hooked his thumps over his gun belt. “I known Shay Patterson since he was a pup, and he’s always been ornery. Now, I don’t condone you go bustin’ jaws of guys twice your age,” he said to Dean, “but you did the right thing, son. What you done - as far as Teri and Chris? It was the right thing.”
“Yes, sir,” John said, “It was.”
Dean stared down at his fists in his lap, throat too tight to say a word.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, and John
SPOILERS/Timeline: None. Pre-series. teen!chesters
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: It’s hard to be idealistic when you’re 19 years old. Even harder when you live in a trailer park. Almost impossible when your dad is John Winchester.
A/N: Written for prompts 39 and 40 at found_fic_spn. Title from Hank Williams Jr. song A Country Boy Can Survive. Beta’d by pdragon76 - because of her awesomenessosity, and poked at and prodded by the kind loveliness that is quellefromage. *kisses you both on the forehead*
“What’s this?” His voice was scratchy, throat inflamed. Felt like someone was down there with a fucking rake when he talked.
His dad flicked open the lid of the Styrofoam container. “Figured you might want somethin’ heartier than broth and Jell-o by now.”
Dean leaned forward from the pillow, line from the canula pulling against his cheeks. He eyed the gray burger and limp looking steak fries, face pinched. The idea of swallowing anything thicker than spit past the bruised faultline at the base of his neck made all his muscles tighten.
“It came from the cafeteria,” his dad said, arms folded across his chest. “I’d run out and get you somethin’ better, but--” a hand escaped from under his elbow, flapped between them. “Your brother has the car.” He said it like it hurt.
“Everything okay?” Dean croaked.
John snapped his temple toward the door. “He’s packin’ things up at the trailer. We’ll crash in the waiting room tonight. You should be outta here by morning.”
Dean’s eyes wandered from his dad to the window on the other side of the room.
“Eat your burger, son.”
Dean’s right hand fisted in the loose weave of the cotton blanket, soreness resonating through the raw tight swell in his knuckles. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m…” His dad’s figure shifted in his periphery. “I’m sorry.”
The heavy sigh crossed the space between them. “You did what you thought you had to do,” John said.
Not the right thing - his dad didn’t say that. John Winchester never gave up anything he didn’t have to.
“Patterson’s not pressing charges so far, but the cops’ll be in soon to get your statement.”
“Figured,” Dean wheezed. “Teri and Chris?”
“They’re fine. Banged up and scared, I guess.” John dragged a hand through his beard. “DCFS and a couple detectives already talked to your brother. You and Sammy should make sure you’re on the same page.”
“There’s just one page, Dad.”
*******************************************************************
“No touchy! No bumpy, no movey, no nothin’.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Why don’t you grow up,” Sam sneered, gathering up his books and notepad. He crammed his calculator into his backpack, followed it with his cinderblock algebra II text. “You know, I was here first. You wouldn’t leave me alone in the bedroom, so I came out here.” He snatched up his plastic pencil case and slung the backpack over his shoulder. “And by the way, no one makes mix tapes anymore. At least not off records. Asshole.”
Dean folded his arms across his chest, standing in front of the record player like a bar bouncer. “Stop slammin’ shit around.”
“Why? ‘Cause the world’s greatest injustice would be a fucking skip on your bootleg Kansas road trip tape? Jesus, Dean,” Sam said shoving the kitchen chair against the table, “Could you be any farther up Dad’s ass?”
“Fuck you.”
Sam’s lips pursed, eyes squinted for a brief second, and then his mouth curled up on one side.
Dean’s jaw went hard. He pointed a thick finger at Sam. “Don’t do it, fucker. I’m halfway through side B.”
Something was going to happen, either way. They both knew it. Dad had been gone four days, groceries were low, and trailer homes in May? In Georgia? Were sweatboxes. Trailer homes also had shit-buckled plywood floors that bounced like a sea storm with hardly any encouragement.
Sam took off from the kitchen area at a slow jog. Two steps in, Sparks of the Tempest popped and hissed and Robby Steinhardt’s voice went silent for a half second. Dean dove at Sam like a linebacker.
They hit the couch with an earthquake thump and a small puff of dust, bounced onto the coffee table. The Goodwill find popped a leg, and both boys tumbled onto the filthy, tri-color nylon shag - Dean on top. The record arm jumped the vinyl completely, and the needle hit the stereo deck with an amplified clunk.
“Stupid little prick!” Dean spit, Sam’s legs wagging and scrabbling from underneath like a cockroach on its back.
“Get off me!” Sam yelled, algebra book riding hard into his spine.
“Stupid fuckin’ bitch!”
They froze; Sam’s long leg wrapped over Dean’s back, Dean’s forearm slammed against Sam’s neck.
“You stupid fuckin’ bitch!”
Their eyes traveled in the direction of their neighbors’ trailer. Shay and Teri Patterson. They had a kid, Chris. Couldn’t have been older than ten. He’d helped Dean and Sam wash the Impala a couple of times.
“Shit,” Dean hissed, pushing off Sam’s chest and crossing to the window that faced the Patterson’s lot next door.
“They’re at it again?” Sam whispered, disgusted and dubious.
There was a crash of glass, and they heard Teri’s familiar wail.
“I thought he got locked up last week.” Sam said, joining Dean at the window.
“Guess he got out,” Dean said, fingers strung up in the Venetian blinds.
“I feel bad for the kid. Well, for both of them,” Sam said solemnly, eyeing the Patterson’s trailer. He shook his head. “Why does she stay?”
“Where is it, huh? Get your fuckin’ purse, bitch!”
“Sometimes people don’t know when to leave,” Dean said flatly, then “I’m goin’ over.” He jumped back from the window, grabbed his t-shirt off the stereo speaker, and dropped the collar over his head.
“What? No. No way.”
Dean punched his arms through his sleeves, grabbed his boots from the mat by the front door, and plopped down on the recliner to tug them on.
“Dean, no way. Dad’ll kill you. Shay Patterson’s a freaking crackhead!”
Dean shook his head as he tied his laces. “Doesn’t give him license to smack his wife around.”
Sam threw off his back pack and stepped in front of the door, perfect imitation of Dean’s stereo sentry from before. “Dude, don’t.”
“Move, Sam.”
Dean’s voice was spiked with adrenaline, attention focused like x-ray vision through Sam, their front door, and the Patterson’s.
“Shay, please!” Teri screamed.
“Sam. Move.”
“Dean.”
“Sam.”
They heard Patterson’s door slam open and the volume of Teri’s cries spiked and dropped. Before the door slapped closed, they heard a hard smack of skin on skin. Dean pushed Sam aside; nearly brained him with the door.
“Dean!”
He hopped down the three iron-cage steps on the cement block that served as their front porch, Sam two seconds behind him. Chris was standing in the grass barefoot, staring at his tempest-tossed trailer, tears dropping silently from his wide eyes.
“Hey, Chris,” Dean called lightly.
The boy jerked, caught off guard. He shot a quick glance at Dean and Sam, horrified blush reddening his cheeks.
“Hey, man,” Dean said with a backward nod of his head, “why don’t you come and hang out with me and Sam for a while.”
Chris’s head snapped back and forth between the trailer and the boys. A crash and a yell from inside made him take a step toward Camp Winchester.
“Hey, yeah,” Sam said stepping forward. “We can, uh…I think Voltron’s on or something.”
Chris ran another course of glances between home and the boys, slid his forearm under his nose. “Okay.” He took a few steps back, turned, and Sam met him halfway between their two trailers. Dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him in the right direction.
Dean headed toward the Patterson’s, calling pleasantly over his shoulder, “I’m just gonna let your folks know where you are.”
*******************************************************************
John shifted in the vinyl chair next to Dean’s bed, thumb nail picking at a grease stain on the thigh of his jeans. “Cops told your brother Shay was high as a kite. Probably didn’t even feel half the damage. EMTs said you busted his jaw.”
Dean winced at the edge of pride in his dad’s voice. “He wouldn’t let up.”
They fell silent; nothing but the white-noise hiss of the oxygen, sporadic beep of the oximeter.
“I take it--” Dean jostled under the blanket, tried to swallow down the itch in his throat. The attempt turned into a ragged cough, and he brought a hand to his mouth, pressed fingers against the double stitch in his split upper lip. His dad pressed a plastic cup into his hand.
“Take a sip.”
A second passed before he could, then the water loosened up the dry drag. “I take it we’re movin’ on in the morning.”
John’s lips pooched in a pout, eyes focused somewhere around Dean’s knees.
“Sammy’s almost done with his semester and, not that I’m lookin’ to hang out in a trailer park any longer than we already have, but--”
John raised a hand to stop him. “Cops and DCFS, Dean. Time for us to move on. Shay sobers up and decides to press assault charges? Or convinces Teri to press on his behalf?” He shook his head. “We don’t need that kind of attention.”
“I didn’t mean--”
“Can’t stop the rain with an umbrella,” his dad said.
“He was beatin’ her, Dad. And he’s done it before, you know that. And Chris was--” Dean cleared his throat, knocked a tight fist against his thigh. “He’s a kid. He’s just a little kid.” His voice graveled up at the end; emotion aggravating his swollen throat. He reached for the cup of water on the rolling table next to the bed. Took a slow, careful swallow that echoed off the tiled floor, bounced between the white walls.
“Sometimes I forget…” John said.
Dean stilled. Held tight to the cup in his hand.
“Sometimes I forget that not all the monsters in this world are taken care of with rock salt and holy water. I raised you boys to be helpful, to watch out for people who couldn’t watch out for themselves--”
“Yes, sir.”
“You just… You can’t do that at the cost of your own safety, Dean. Or Sammy’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean grunted.
“I can’t-- We can’t--”
“Yeah,” Dean said, and set the cup back on the table next to the burger and fries.
A nurse poked a conciliatory frown around the half-opened door to Dean’s room. “Mr. Gregory? The detectives are here to talk to Dean.”
John gave her a nod over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
The nurse looked over John and caught Dean’s eye. “Sweetie? You okay to talk?”
His throat tightened momentarily; a sense of gratitude for her care that melted through him like wax. “Yes, ma’am.”
*******************************************************************
He pounded his fist against the pebbled aluminum door of the trailer, glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sam had Chris safely at their place. There were snuffed tears and harsh staccato whispers - threats - from the other side of the cheap door. Dean’s eyes wandered down to the handle: a standard key-in-the-knob lock, keyslot on the outside and a thumb turn on the inside. Pickable in about three seconds. He figured a well-placed donkey kick under the knob would pop the door just as quick. Before he could do either, the door swung in and Shay Patterson - covered in sweat and pupils like saucers - insinuated himself between Dean and the top porch step.
Dean bobbed his chin, put on a friendly smile. “Hey, Shay. How you doin’?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Teri around? I was lookin’ to borrow a neighborly cup of sugar.”
“Get off my goddamned property.”
Dean’s smile went straight and he shook his head, sucked in a breath. “Yeah, see? Thing of it is, I happened to know you rent this shit hole just like we do, so it doesn’t so much belong to you, as it does to Humboldt Management.”
“I said, get off my goddamned property.”
“And I said I wanted to talk to Teri.” Dean slid a side-step to Shay’s right, squinted into the dim trailer. “Teri? You okay?”
Shay’s pale arms shot forward, shoving Dean off the stoop.
“Shay, no!” Teri shouted tearfully from inside, then, “I’m okay, Dean. You should-- Go on home, okay?”
Dean planted his feet at the edge of the cement patio, arms hung loose at his sides. He looked past Shay - through him - and called out, “Hey, Teri? Chris is over at our place. Just gonna hang out for a little while, okay? Come pick him up after dinner, all right?”
“Okay, De--”
“Shut the fuck up!” Shay shouted over his shoulder at Teri. He slammed the door behind him, slipped his wiry frame down the steps and stopped two feet from Dean. “Go get my boy.”
Dean put on an exaggerated grimace. “Yeah, no. That’s just not gonna happen, Shay,” he said.
The man twitched from head to foot, lips pulled back in a snarl. “I ain’t lettin’ my boy hang out with two faggot-ass brothers whose daddy don’t even like ‘em enough to stick around more ‘an an hour at a time.”
Dean huffed a laugh. “You’re a real pro at observation, Shay. Too bad none of it’s aimed at you.”
Shay was quick and he was wiry, but he was baked as a Christmas ham. He swung out wildly, a sloppy haymaker that had no chance of connecting. Dean dipped left, and Shay’s momentum drove him in a half-circle that robbed his balance, dropped him to one knee. Dean would have walked, then; would have left the wife-beating son of a bitch kneeling on the cement if Shay hadn’t gone for the stray piece of rebar next to the stoop. Dean kicked himself for not noticing it sooner. The thin steel rod made an awful noise as it scraped across the surface of the brush-finished concrete.
“Come on, man. Don’t be an idiot,” Dean said coolly, hands speaking other words as they balled into fists. “Why don’t you take a walk. Cool off.”
Shay Patterson was ugly like a bulldog, wore every wrong or injustice he ever perceived on his face. His beady eyes darted all over Dean - frantic and hungry - like ants on a hotdog scrap after a picnic.
“You think you get to tell me what to do?”
Dean showed his palms. “Just makin’ a suggestion. Whatever message you were tryin’ to give Teri? I think she got you loud and clear for today.”
Quick - like the flicker of a ghost in the dark - Dean saw something in Shay’s eyes that reminded him heart-achingly of his dad. Remorse or guilt, maybe…slippery as mercury. It disappeared with a blink, and Shay swallowed and lifted his arms. Cocked the rebar over his shoulder like a Louisville Slugger.
Dean caught it at the top of the arc. It was stupid, but it beat the hell out of copping it in the temple. He hissed through the pain, wrapped his fingers around the bar, and pulled Shay forward. Managed to pound a knee into the man’s hip as he went down again. Dean yanked the rebar from Shay’s stubborn hands and tossed it onto the brown sickly grass a few feet away. Leaned over and cautioned, “Stay down.”
Shay popped up like a full-cranked jack-in-the-box. Dean’s chin collided with the man’s fast-rising shoulder, snapped his head backward and sent him stumbling. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, and Shay leaped like a vulture on carrion.
“I got a message for ya! I got a message for ya!” Shay yelled, a spray of blood misting down on Dean’s face. He landed a straight-on punch to Dean’s mouth, made his head bounce off the hard-pack dirt. Shay had a good six inches and twenty pounds on him - not to mention at least a rock of crack and likely half a six-pack - but Dean got a knee up. Tucked his shoulder and managed to roll Shay to the side. He fired a piston-pump of punches into the side of the man’s face. Was pulling back for another when he heard the siren. Two minutes away at most.
Goddamnit, Sam!
Shay didn’t hear it, though. Or did, and just didn’t care. He landed an uppercut that shot Dean off his chest like a rocket. Before Dean could process the turn of events, Shay was on top again, forearm crushing down on his neck, robbing him of breath and clear vision. Dean gurgled, red bubbles bursting over his lips, and closed his eyes.
Sam!
*******************************************************************
“The way we see it, it’s Shay started it. Teri likely didn’t mean to, but she corroborated your story and your brother’s - Shay touchin’ you first. Shoved you off the porch, took the first swing.”
Dean’s eyes darted to his dad, then back to the policeman. He gave him a tight nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Shoot,” the other officer said, “‘tween you and me and these four walls? You prolly done Shay a favor. F’ shore done one for Teri and their boy.”
Dean blushed and bent his head; didn’t feel like busting someone’s jaw and getting them arrested was kindness of any sort. And he sure hadn’t done any favors for Sam or their dad.
“Now, Mr. Gregory, you understand,” the first officer said, tucking his notepad into his pocket and turning to John, “Dean has the right to file assault charges against Patterson.”
John nodded, arms pinned tight across his chest. “We do, but I think we’ll leave this one alone.”
“Even still, you can file a restraining order if you like.”
John gave the officer a tight smile. “Thanks. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble keeping good distance.”
The shorter policeman plucked the toothpick from the corner of his mouth, gave a little chuckle. “Well, I have a feelin’ Shay’s gonna have time to cool his heels.” The officer stared intently at the thin, damp piece of wood as he rolled it between his thumb and finger. “Mondays’re kinda...it’s hard to get motivated, know what I mean?” he said with a wink at Dean. He cocked his head. “Might take a day or two to file all the reports, by that time it’ll near be Friday, and the local judge likes troutin’ this time of year--”
“You got a good ten worry-free days,” the man’s partner summed up.
John pushed off the far wall of the hospital room, stepped forward with his hand extended. “I appreciate it. Very much. So does Dean.”
“Yes, sir. I sure do,” Dean said scratchily.
Both officers shook hands with the Winchesters. The taller of the two handed John a business card.
“Call if you have any questions. We’ll give you a heads-up when Shay’s headed home.”
“Thanks again,” John said.
As the officers left, the shorter one stopped, turned back to face Dean as his hand played fiddle across his chin. “Prolly shouldn’t say this, bein’ a law officer and all, but, uh…” He set his hands on his round hips, hooked his thumps over his gun belt. “I known Shay Patterson since he was a pup, and he’s always been ornery. Now, I don’t condone you go bustin’ jaws of guys twice your age,” he said to Dean, “but you did the right thing, son. What you done - as far as Teri and Chris? It was the right thing.”
“Yes, sir,” John said, “It was.”
Dean stared down at his fists in his lap, throat too tight to say a word.