The Lights of Home Part 2
Part 2: The Hand That Holds the Knife
There followed then lazy summer days full of the smell of grass clippings, the chirp of crickets, hot concrete and the rasp of chalk as Sammy taught himself how to play hopscotch, enchanted by the descriptions in one of the chapter books he borrowed from the library. Sam also loved riding the bike, sitting precariously on the handlebars with his feet propped on the wheel guard, laughing as the wind carded his hair. No one could love the bike more than Dean did, though. Straddling the too-big seat with both feet on the pedals and one fist in the air, he was a cowboy, a cop, a fireman, a superhero, a hunter just like Dad. He polished the bike good as new and kept it gleaming.
Dean's favorite part of this tiny country town was the General Store on Main Street, a hodgepodge conglomeration of old-fashioned and thoroughly modern, set in a row of stores with the false fronts on them like in a Western movie that made them look like they had two stories instead of one. In the back of the store were bolts of cloth for selling to the Amish in the area, plain and roughspun, and an alcove sheltered a small collection of boring books from a Christian publisher. Reed baskets held handmade soaps and soup mixes, kaleidoscopes and Jacob's ladders. Best was the section up front, though. Where all the candy was.
Tootie Frooties for a penny and Dum-Dums for a nickel. Jellybeans of every flavor Sam and Dean had ever imagined, and some they had never thought of. Old-fashioned hard candies in waxed paper, taffy and licorice pipes, gummy bears and jawbreakers the size of Dad's fist. Every time Dean finished mowing a yard or trimming a hedge, he stopped at the candy store to reward himself. Even Sammy could get some candy with the coins he found on the sidewalk and under the seats in the Impala, though of course Dean never hesitated to share his bounty. Sammy liked the accomplishment of sliding his own pennies across the rough wooden counter to buy his lollipops. They even had an old-fashioned cash register, big as a dollhouse, that made cheerful jangly noises when the little-old-lady cashier opened and closed it.
In the morning they ate cinnamon toast and orange juice, then made their rounds of the neighborhoods where Dean mowed grass, Sammy running ahead of the mower to pick up sticks, then standing where the grass was newly cut and spinning around in circles, arms outstretched, until his bare feet were stained yellow-green and he fell down laughing, ordering the world to stop lurching around and let him off. Lunch was peanut butter and jelly or macaroni and cheese or canned Italian, and in the afternoon they rode to one of Woodlan's two playgrounds. The newer one had better equipment: a new jungle gym, a teeter-totter that didn't squeak. But Dean liked the old one better, because the trees there were old and tall and shaded everything, until being under them felt almost like being in a cave, cool and cozy and navy blue in the shadows, dark green above. That playground also had the tallest slide they'd ever seen.
That side of town, near the older playground, was edged in cornfields, and later in the summer when the corn was tall Dean pulled the bike one row inside just in case, though he thought it would probably be safe enough just sitting on the sidewalk next to the street. The boys ran down the rows of corn, the earth moist and yielding under their feet in June, hard and cracked in July, when rain hadn't come for awhile. They could sneak along the edge of the fields, playing Indians and spying on the suburban houses only steps away from where the corn ended. On Third Street was a house with a big yard, and the man living there often practiced shooting his bow in the late afternoon and early evening, arrow after arrow speeding into the straw target near the field, a cloth painted with the image of deer covering the straw, a green tomato fixed inside where its heart would be. Dean crouched inside the corn and watched for long minutes, eyes narrowed, and criticized the man's technique for Sammy's ears alone.
They found a grassy hill where they could lay on their backs and watch the clouds, or roll down the prickly side. They paused to watch the train go by every time it rumbled through, trying to count the cars and arguing when their counts differed. They splashed and fought in the spray from the garden hose, and figured out how to turn the water so as to make a rainbow in the sun. Sometimes they even played with Eddie and other neighborhood children, races, freeze tag, Simon Says, cops and robbers. Mrs. Stoller gave them cookies and lemonade, smiling broad and kind, and they were careful to always thank her politely. Once a week or so Dean let Sam drag him to the library to get more books.
In the twilight they caught fireflies, trapping them in a cleaned mayonnaise jar, holes punched in the metal lid with the tip of Dad's least favorite Bowie knife. Dean thought maybe if they caught enough it would be a good nightlight for Sammy, but always once they got the insects into the jar, they seemed to glow much less often. The inside of the jar smelled kinda like grass clippings, bitter and pungent.
"Here, Sammy, let me show you something."
He squished the guts around his little brother's finger in a line of dull yellow, and Sammy stared, fascinated. "Ewww, gross," he said, but his voice was equally repulsed and delighted.
"Yeah, see, look, now you have a glow-in-the-dark ring."
"Awesome."
They got bit up by mosquitoes and Dean ordered Sam not to scratch, but couldn't seem to follow his own advice. It just felt so much better. And then worse, later. He ended up using baking-soda-water paste to try to soothe the itchy bumps, something he remembered from the little house in Lawrence, the memories blurred and fuzzy and washed out like a photograph left exposed in the sun, handled too much and too often.
At night they tidied up the house, made dinner, and waited for Dad.
~*~
It was a Sunday when John looked up from his books and realized that it was already July. He'd been busy over the past couple of weeks, what with the summer solstice and everything. Seemed like there was always a cult or a witch or a just plain crazy person trying to pull off something evil on the solstice. But now it was July, and Independence Day was coming soon. Maybe he should take the boys to see the fireworks....
Without thinking too hard about it, he started closing the books fanned around him on the table, packing up his papers, making a final note in his journal. It was time to go back to his sons.
Driving his car out of Fort Wayne and into the country, John always knew when he was nearing Woodlan. It wasn't just the buggies he had to pass, the pitted ruts down the middle of each lane where many horseshoes had trodden, the fields of corn and soybeans with their gentle dips and rises. It was the feeling he got as the Impala sped over the country roads, a loosening of every muscle in his body, the tension of bending over old books and sorting through endless microfiche bleeding out of his fingers and toes. It was the feeling of coming to a place where he belonged. The feeling of coming home.
The duplex was just a couple of blocks off the main drag. John saw activity in the front as he approached, kids, adults, both of his sons and the neighbors from next door, the...Stollers? The Stoller dad seemed to teaching his sickly-looking son how to ride a bike, Sammy cheerleading from the sidelines, Dean riding his red bike alongside, gesturing encouragingly, while the Stoller mom looked on with a gentle smile.
He carefully drew to a stop a few yards away, watching, waiting for the driveway to clear before coming the rest of the way. Sammy saw him and waved, but Dean was busy trying to pedal slow enough to pace the Stoller kid without falling over. Dean had always been good at that, at meeting people where they were and coming alongside, his father and his brother both.
The two bikes turned around at the end of the block and started back, just in time for the Stoller kid to wobble and finally start to fall. His dad was there, though, catching him before he could hit the asphalt, and Dean smoothly braked his bike and hopped down. The dad ruffled his son's hair, his face open in laughter, and started to reach for Dean's, but Dean ducked away, shoulders hunching up. The man took it in stride, turning easily back to his kid. John kept his eyes on Dean.
He saw the way Dean was watching the father and son, the way they were laughing and smiling at each other, touching warmly, the man's hands on his kid's shoulders, the boy patting his father's stomach. In that moment Dean's face was naked, split open, and John saw the wordless aching there, the longing. Dean's body was utterly still, every ounce of himself given to staring at them. It closed up, went away, when they turned back to him.
God, John had been away for too long.
He finally drew into the driveway and got out to meet the neighbors, Megan and Daniel Stoller, their little boy Eddie with his face still gleaming brightly in success. Sammy hung off his arm, treating his father like a climbing tree, and Dean held a small, constant smile, watching his friends meet his dad. The Stollers were going to have a Fourth of July cookout, and they wanted John and his boys to come. It all felt so home-like, so normal, miles and miles away from Winchester life. He said something non-committal and took his boys inside for supper.
It was a good evening, full of chatter and jokes and smiles, his boys so happy to have John there mentally as well as physically. Sammy had a pile of Laffy Taffy wrappers covered with knock-knock jokes and silly puns, but sometimes they were cut off, the answer or the question missing. He wanted John to help him figure them out, and John did his best to oblige. Dean washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen, occasionally offering a crude suggestion. He was still smiling, eyes careful on John, trying to hold him here in the moment without touching him, forcing him. Trying to make him stay, and John wanted to, he truly did.
Later, Sam settled down with his book, and John went into the kitchen, found Dean fiddling endlessly with the faucet, just flipping it back and forth, back and forth, staring out the window above the sink as if he could see something no one else could. John put a hand on his shoulder and Dean jumped, whirling to face him, eyes wide and green, green in his suddenly pale face, breath catching in his throat. John backed off, startled, lifting his hand with his fingers spread. "Didn't mean to scare you, kiddo."
"Oh. Dad." Dean let out a long breath, his shoulders falling down, loosening and relaxing. "Sorry. You surprised me, is all. I was thinking about something else."
"Yeah, I figured." John tried out a smile, found it coming easier than he expected. "Hey, I think it's time we did that sparring I promised you. Can't let you get rusty."
He expected a bright smile, an eager assent. Dean loved training, and they hadn't done any for a long time. Not since before the troubles in the last town, before Dean started acting out at school. It would be a return to a simpler, happier time, in a small way, and John wanted very much to go.
But Dean frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "Do we have to?"
John was so shocked that he almost said No, of course not, but c'mon. Who was in charge here? He frowned in return, making no effort to hide his displeasure. Why had Dean's rebellion chosen to resurface now? Their evening had been so calm and pleasant up to this moment. It seemed a terrible shame to destroy that peaceful atmosphere now.
"We don't have to, but we will."
"Why?"
And oh, that was it. John felt his hand curling into a fist, but kept his voice carefully level. "Because I said so, that's why. Who do you think is the boss here?"
"You are," Dean muttered, eyes cast sullenly to the floor.
"That's right, I am," John said evenly. "C'mon, let's go to the backyard."
Dean followed him, and if he dragged his feet a little, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum in the kitchen, then the concrete of the steps leading down to the yard, John chose not to mention it.
~*~
The backyard was small, high privacy fence blocking out the world beyond it, three or four scraggly pine trees littering one end with sticks and cones. The grass was too long in some patches, dirt dark brown and bald in others. A half-broken picnic table leaned drunkenly against the fence near the house, warped and pitted with exposure, the grain pronounced, red paint all but worn away. All in all, it was a decent sparring ground. Now in the evening it was still warm out, the air a little heavy, but not too hot for some exercise.
The differences in their sizes precluded true sparring, trading of blows. Mostly John simply presented himself as a target, both hands out and flat for Dean to strike at, coaching him on his combinations and technique and moving around to make it harder. Punch, jab, right cross. Turn your body into that, keep yourself aligned, keep your elbow bent. Punch from the shoulder. Better. Again. Better. Again. Again. Again.
At first Dean's movements were desultory, unenthusiastic, but gradually he fell further and further into the dance. His eyes focused and narrowed, body tight with concentration, sweat appearing on forehead and cheeks and sticking his t-shirt to his shoulders and chest. John continued it until he could feel the kid starting to wear down and tire, until his palms began to sting with the repeated blows. And then he asked.
"Dean, I don't understand what happened to you in the last town. Things were going good until you started fighting at school. Why would you do that?"
Dean didn't answer, just frowned mightily and continued to jab at John's hands, following him as he backed around the yard.
"Answer me, dude. You know how I feel about that. We don't draw attention to ourselves-we don't make waves. Why didn't you keep your head down?"
For moment Dean didn't breathe, his fists faltering in the air, but then he punched even more fiercely. "I did," he hissed through gritted teeth. "I did what you told me. I did keep my head down."
John almost laughed at this blatant untruth. "No, you didn't. C'mon, kiddo. You were fighting, you were talking back to the teachers, your grades were dropping. It was like you suddenly gave up, gave everything away. Why would you do that?"
"I was keeping my head down!" John was startled to realize that those were tears, not sweat. "I kept my head down! I did, I did!"
Dean was practically yelling, now, shaking with frustration and rage. He stopped striking at John's palms and tried to make a body shot, jabbing for his father's side. John reacted just in time, the boy's fist glancing off his forearm.
"I kept my head down! You told me not to make trouble, and he told me not to make trouble, and I didn't! I didn't!"
John's breath stopped. More blows to his body, his chest, Dean trying desperately to strike back at him, using all of the strength in his slender frame. In one way they didn't hurt at all, but in another way it was like being stabbed with knives, sharp and piercing, wounding to the heart. John caught the boy's hands in his and held him off, away from his body, his breath coming back in erratic pulls and swoops.
"Dean... What are you saying, Dean?"
Dean pulled at his arms, trying to free them from John's grip. He was panting in harsh, grating gasps, tears and sweat running down his face. "I kept my head down, Dad, I kept my head down, I did, I swear. I did what you said. I didn't say anything, I didn't tell anyone."
His son was crying, sobbing, broken, lost and young. His wrists suddenly felt so small in John's hands, fragile, easy to twist and break, like the bones of a bird. A spot of darkness buried itself in John's chest and started to expand, all but choking him. "Dean..." The word was almost inaudible. "Dean, Dean, what happened? What happened to you?"
Dean pulled on his hands again, frantic to free himself, his voice suddenly desperate, pleading. "Let go...let go of me, please let me go, please, Dad..."
John released him abruptly, and his stomach felt filled with stones, falling hard. Dean crumpled, knees buckling, just like that, and John bent to catch him. Saw an echo in his mind of Daniel and Eddie Stoller, but he wasn't trying to keep Dean from hitting the asphalt. This was something much, much worse.
He scooped the kid up in his arms, and then Dean was fighting again, bucking and twisting, his young voice an ugly snarl. "Get off, get off me!"
John stumbled back, trying to hold the boy still, and the back of his knees hit the picnic table. He turned, set Dean down, snatched his hand away as if he was too hot to touch. Dean scooted along the bench, away, away, until his shoulder hit the fence. Then he curled up, face pressed into his knees, and sobbed. Sobbed.
His father stood there watching, his hands bent into useless fists. Watched his son cry in wrenching gasps, his whole body shaking with every shattered breath. Listened to the ugly sounds of grief and fear and pain. Didn't know what to do.
He didn't know what to do.
At last he turned and left him there, made his way back to the house with heavy steps, sluggish and slow. To his everlasting shame, he left him there.
~*~
Sammy was waiting for him in the tiny dining room. "Daddy?"
Dean was visible out the window, curled up on the picnic table's bench, shoulders heaving with desperate sobs.
"He just...he just needs some time alone. It's okay, Sammy."
Sammy reached a small hand toward the window, touched the glass, as if he could reach Dean just by wanting to. "Is it about that man at our old school?"
John's knees felt cut from under him. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, suddenly powerless. "He told you?"
"Yeah." The young eyes were clear, unhaunted by this telling. John didn't understand how that could be. "Dean said me and him don't keep secrets. The man, he told Dean not to tell anybody, no parents or teachers, but Dean said I don't count, 'cause I'm his brother, and that's different. I'm not anybody. I'm Sammy."
"That's right. You're Sammy." John stared at his hands, curled on the table, weak and empty. "What did he say? What did he tell you?"
The little boy shook his head, solemn as a grave. "Not my secret, Daddy. You know that. You can't hear it from me."
Yes, the sacred pact of childhood. John wondered if they had made it a pinky swear, or if words were enough of a promise between his boys.
Sammy turned back to the window, staring out at his brother. "Is Dean gonna be okay?"
His voice was very small.
John looked with him, and he didn't know. "Yeah, Sammy. He'll be fine. Just give him some time, all right?"
It was getting darker outside, twilight falling over Indiana. In a half hour Dean's form on the bench would be just a gray lump, hidden in the shade, invisible to all but those who knew exactly where to look.
"It's about time to get ready for bed, kiddo."
Sam stared at him with big, sad eyes. John knew his kids didn't usually go to bed till an hour or more after dark, and it was still sunset now. But he needed Sammy to listen and obey. He needed Dean alone.
His younger son, bless him, seemed to understand. He nodded slowly. "Can I say good night to Dean, first?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
Sammy opened the back door and stepped out, small feet quiet and graceful. John watched through the window, saw him cross the yard to his brother. Dean didn't look up, still crumpled inward on himself, though the shaking had finally begun to ease. Sammy climbed up on the bench next to him and plastered himself all over Dean's side, wrapping his arms around the older boy as far as they would go. John saw his lips moving, murmuring something in Dean's ear. Dean didn't react. Sam squeezed him tight for a moment longer, then clambered slowly off the bench and headed back inside.
"It's okay, Daddy," he said, closing the door behind him. "Dean will talk to you now."
"He tell you that?"
"No, 'course not. He didn't say anything. But I know."
John just nodded, slow, believing. Of course. Dean knew Sammy and Sammy knew Dean, and apparently John didn't know anything at all, missing something like this.
"'Night, Daddy."
"Good night, son."
Sammy headed up the stairs for bed.
~*~
John thought for a moment before he sat down next to Dean, trying to decide what would be too close, what would be too far. He didn't want the boy to feel trapped against the fence, but he didn't want him to feel that John didn't want to be near him, either. Even though that was true, in a way-John wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere at all. He was done indulging his own weakness, though. It was time to focus on his son.
At last he sat, close but not touching, just in case. "I'll kill him, Dean. I'll kill him. Give me a name, and I swear, he's dead."
It shouldn't be comforting, and maybe it wouldn't be to another kid, a normal kid. But they were Winchesters, and Dean relaxed at his father's words, arms sliding slightly down around his knees. He was shivering still, his pale skin speckled with goosebumps in the gloaming light. After a long moment he swallowed, then spoke, voice hoarse and ragged, near a whisper. "Don't go."
John pulled in a breath through aching lungs. "All right. I won't."
The darkness deepened and John just sat there, listening to his boy breathe. "I'm here, buddy. I'm not going anywhere," he said again, because he had to make sure that Dean knew.
The boy nodded against his knees, face still hidden, the movement slow and limp with weariness.
After another minute or so John put a hand on his son's back, slowly and gently, ready to draw back if Dean flinched. But the kid allowed the touch, and after a bit even seemed to be pressing into it, a tiny whimper escaping his throat. Encouraged, John shifted closer, until he could feel Dean against his side, small and warm and his, his. "Let's go inside. It's late."
"'M tired, Dad." A low murmur, heavy with exhaustion. "Don' wanna move."
"Then let me take care of it, okay?"
The boy made a small noise that John took for agreement. Again he hesitated, not wanting to push too far, too fast. He hated this, hated that he was uncertain of how to be with his son. Hated the man who had done this, who had taken John's bright, confident child and made him afraid to be touched by an adult. He buried the rage for now, because it would not help him here, but oh, it was deep and strong and black, so black.
"C'mere, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling the boy against him, the endearment he hadn't used since Dean was a toddler sliding effortlessly from his lips. "I gotcha. It's gonna be okay."
Dean smelled sour and salty, still damp with tears and sweat, but underneath was the sweetness that belonged only to Dean, John's beautiful son, his precious baby boy. He drew the boy into his arms, one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees, and Dean grunted softly and let his head slide beneath John's chin, sheltered and safe. John clutched him to his heart, fighting tears of his own, then carried him inside. Kicked open the door and climbed the stairs, hesitated at the door of the boys' room, then continued to his own and laid the kid down in his own bed.
He took off Dean's shoes but didn't touch the rest of his clothes, catching the soft green glimmer of Dean's half-open eyes watching him in the dim light. Not too much, John, you idiot. He tucked the light blanket around Dean's shoulders, then sat next to him on top of the covers, his back against the wall, feeling Dean's warmth against the length of his leg.
"Tell me who it was. Tell me what happened."
Dean's breath quickened, loud in the quiet room, and for what felt like forever, he didn't answer. Then he turned over on his side, facing his father, curled up in a tight ball with his face pressed against John's hip, shaking silently. And he told his dad everything, everything that had been done to him.
~*~
"It was the P.E. teacher."
John couldn't remember his name, didn't know if he'd ever known it. Was furious at himself for not knowing.
"I stayed behind one day to help him clean up. I liked P.E."
Implicit in this was I don't like it anymore.
"He put his hand on my arm and told me to come with him. In the equipment closet. Um. There was a rack of basketballs."
John lowered his hand to the boy's head and started stroking his hair, slow and smooth, combing through the tangles, the dried sweat.
"He pushed me down. Held me. Covered me. He was so strong and big. He covered my whole body. I could..."
Dean trembled harder. John laid his hand still on his son's hair, cupping the back of his head, pressed it there. His fingertips touched the back of Dean's neck and he rubbed, massaging carefully and firmly.
"I couldn't move. Well, maybe I could have, but I didn't, I... I didn't yell. I didn't say anything. I didn't..."
John said nothing. He wanted to curse, demand why Dean hadn't fought back, at least tried to get away. He knew it was wrong, but he was so angry in that moment, so fiercely enraged.
"Dad, I didn't, I couldn't, I wanted to, but... I was so scared. I was so scared."
Dean was waiting, now, for John to say something. To condemn him, absolve him, whatever John wanted to do. He drew in a shaky breath and knew that he had to be a father.
"It wasn't your fault, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong."
It was crazy, it was insane, but Dean's shaking stopped almost immediately.
"He didn't take my clothes off, or his, but I could...I could feel him moving. Pushing against me. I felt it, Daddy, I felt all of it."
John started stroking his hair again.
"Then he just...let me up. Told me not to tell anyone, and let me go. And I...I just went. I didn't say anything. I kept my head down."
John tipped his head back against the wall and felt the tears falling down his cheeks, running down his neck, into his collar. God. He had done this. He had done this.
"The next day he said that my shorts were too low and he stuck his fingers into the waistband and pulled them up, and his fingers were so dirty and hard, and... That was when I started skipping P.E. There were a couple of other times he scared me, though. I saw him watching me in the hall. Once, when school was over, I turned a corner and he was right there, waiting for me. There weren't any kids around, no one but me and him, and he smiled and... I ran away like a little baby."
John sniffed, and managed to murmur, "Good for you. Good for you, son."
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I...I know I was bad."
"No. No, Dean. You weren't bad."
"But I started fighting. I don't know why. I was just...I couldn't be good anymore. And I didn't care about school, and I yelled at the teachers, and, and I was being so bad."
"No, sweetheart, no. You just...you wanted someone to see. You wanted someone to help you. And no one did. That's not your fault, kiddo, that's mine. Mine, and everyone else who didn't see. You're not bad. You're not bad."
Dean was crying again, and so was John. It felt like there was nothing else to do.
Prologue & Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 & Epilogue | Warnings & Notes
Soundtrack & Picspam
Art by millylicious