Book One Part 1

[maychorian]

Book One: Like Superman

1984
Lincoln County, Nebraska

Dean had a cold. His warm little arms wrapped around John's neck, clinging close, almost stifling. John could feel his son's tiny ribcage rising and falling, wheezing, pressed against his own through the layers of shirts and jackets. Dean's face was hot where it lay against John's neck, but his weight was limp and solid and heavy, almost too much to bear.

Rain fell from the sky in sheets and torrents, and John looked up at the clouds from under the thin protection of the motel overhang, listening to the water rattling in the gutters. The gutter above must've been blocked with debris, for a column of water as thick as John's arm fell to the concrete in a cascade just a few feet to his left. Another mark of this particular establishment's poor maintenance. He hadn't noticed it last night, too tired from driving, from pushing, from fighting, roving the roads with his sick toddler and his crying infant. He had poured the three of them into the ratty beds without noticing the rusty pipes and moldy skirting and frayed electric cords.

Only the light of day had revealed these dangerous defects to him, and John knew that they had to move out. Even though he had hoped to stay in one place for a few days and give Dean a chance to get better. Even though the cash in his pocket was running dangerously low and he needed a break to build it back up. Even though road-weariness had seeped into his very bones, weighing him down and making everything just that little bit harder.

Dean coughed on his shoulder, wet and loud, and John's eyes slipped back to the car. Just ten steps away into the rain, and he'd already packed everything else, even gotten baby Sammy into his seat in the back. But something inside him-maybe the memory of Mary and her fierce motherhood-made him hesitate to take his sick son out into the rain.

At last, he forced himself to do it. He crossed through the rain and bundled Dean into the backseat, letting him lie down next to Sammy's infant carrier and covering him with a blanket from the floor. Dean's hands slipped away from his neck reluctantly, but the poor kid was half-asleep already, snuggling into the purr of the Impala rumbling warm around him. John's hand lingered on his forehead for a moment before he pulled himself away and into the driver's seat.

There he sat, hands wrapped too tight around the steering wheel, and stared into the rain. Where next? Where could he go? He had never wanted to leave Lawrence, but the fire hadn't ended with that one terrible night, the deaths hadn't ended with his beloved wife, and Missouri Mosely had scented the taint of evil. And so he had gone, hoping to draw it away, outrun it, keep his boys and his remaining friends and family safe. But now he had nowhere to go, no home to return to. He was wandering without purpose, without a plan, and that was the worst thing of all. What was he supposed to do?

He was so tired.

Something moved in John's peripheral vision, and he jerked his head around just in time to see a gray figure loom out of the rain like a ghost, slipping in between one moment and the next, and a pale hand splayed across the window with a splat of rain and glass. He jumped at the sound, helplessly, and then was furious at himself for reacting like that. It was just a kid, he saw, just a boy soaked and shivering, staring at John through the glass and the torrent.

He stared, breathing hard, not sure what he was supposed to do. The boy stared back at him, grim and silent, like some unwelcome harbinger. Then his palm lifted from the window, his hand curled into a fist, and he knocked, gently, once, twice, and again.

"John Winchester," he said, and somehow John heard him even through the patter of water over metal, the rumbling of the engine, the roaring of the sky.

John breath caught in his throat. He fumbled for the automatic lock, found it, and listened to the ka-chunk as they depressed, sheltering him and his boys from this strange specter.

The ghostly boy had blue eyes, he saw. Blue eyes and a battered face, scraped and bruised, blood in his hair slowly being diluted by the rain to run across his forehead and down his cheek.

"I must speak to you, John Winchester," the ghost said. "Will you let me in?"

He shook his head numbly. Of course ghosts were real. Of course they were. Hadn't Missouri said? More things out there in the dark than you've ever imagined, John, she'd told him, her voice both kind and sorrowful. Most o' those stories we tell our youngsters to keep 'em out of the woods... Most of those stories are true. You take care now, y'hear?

But he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't know how to fight them. That was what he needed-he needed information, he needed knowledge, he needed weapons. And he didn't have anything, anything at all, just a car and some clothes and a gun from his service days.

And two sons, sleeping behind him, secure in the trust that Daddy would always keep them safe.

That was what started John's hand toward the gear shift. That was what pulled his face into a fierce snarl. "Fuck no! You get away from me and my kids!"

He put the car in drive and pulled out, ignoring the way the ghost snatched his hand back and stumbled away from the car. In the rearview mirror John saw the pale figure standing there in the rain, watching them go, before he turned his attention back to the road ahead. They were getting out of here before even more supernatural creatures sensed the taint on John and his boys and sought them out.

Someday John would know how to deal with these threats, how to kill them and destroy them and drive them back. Someday soon, God willing. For now, though, all he could do was run.

~*~

It was still raining when John found a new town, a new motel. He backed the Impala into the space next to the door of their room so he wouldn't have as far to walk, but they were still going to have to pass a step or two through the rain. When he opened the back door, Dean was awake, staring sleepily up at him, still bundled in the blanket. He didn't say anything-he rarely said anything-but there was the same weary question in his eyes as always. Where are we, Daddy? Where we going?

"We're here," John said, felt the gruff rasp in his voice. Too long since he had spoken to anything but ghosts.

He carried Dean inside first and settled him in the bed, then brought in the portable crib, then the baby, who by that point was crying, fussy from enforced captivity. He brought the duffels next, set out the few toys they had for Sammy to play with, then went back out to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

The ghost-boy stood there in the rain, watching him.

John halted one step outside the motel door, and the keys fell from his hand and splashed down on the wet concrete.

The boy stood straight and pale, directly across from John in the aisle between the Impala and the car next to it. His arms hung at his sides and his face was blank and white where it wasn't bruised and bloodied. John stood there numbly, watching the rain bounce off him and sluice down his flesh.

"John Winchester," the boy said again, solemn and ringing. He spoke like someone who was used to being heard, a voice of command completely at odds with his pitiful, waif-like appearance. "Will you speak to me now?"

This time John was ready. He pulled his gun, pointed it, held it steady, and took one step forward. "What are you? What do you want with me?"

Yeah, holding a gun on a ghost was probably not his best plan. But it was all he had. So he held on to it, and tried to make himself believe that it would work, that this was all he needed to protect his sons.

Strangely enough, it actually had an effect. A change swept over the boy, fear transforming his face in an instant, and he flinched sharply. His head jerked and he stumbled back a step, a low cry bursting from his mouth as his shoulder hit the Impala's side mirror, and both hands reached out for something to hold on to and found nothing but rain-slick metal and glass.

A dart of regret pierced John's heart. Ghost, monster, or supernatural beastie, the thing still looked like a child, only a few years older than Dean. He felt monstrous himself for causing that sort of gut-wrenching terror in that small face, that trembling frame. "What are you?" he barked again, forcing it down.

The specter groaned and leaned against the car, trembling all over. Did ghosts tremble? Did they interact with physical objects like that? John shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't know.

"I'm...just a boy," he said. "I'm just a boy. A human boy. I know...I know why you're scared of me, but don't be. Please don't be. I'm just a little human boy."

"I'm not afraid of you," John spat, but they both knew it was a lie. He took another step forward, holding his gun straight and bracing his arm with his other hand, tipping his head to sight along the barrel. "Why should I believe you? How did you find me? How do you know my name? How did you follow me from the last place?"

"I just...I know things. I know you, and Dean, and Sam. I knew where you were because I...I saw it. I know you. I know...what you need to know."

Could this boy see into John's mind, read his desires? That was what he needed more than anything. Knowledge. Answers.

One more step, and the muzzle hovered only a few inches from the boy's temple. If John leaned down, he could press it right into that pale, wet skin. This close, John could see that his nose was bleeding, a sluggish tongue of dark red trailing across his upper lip. It looked like blood. It smelled like blood. The coppery scent was clear through the fresh fall of rain, utterly unmistakable. John was very, very familiar with that smell.

Did ghosts smell like flesh and blood? Surely they only smelled of wind and night and grave dirt.

John let go of the gun with one hand, slowly, slowly, and reached a finger toward that ugly trickle. His own hand was trembling, too. He ignored the boy's instinctive flinch at his nearness and pressed down.

It felt like blood. The skin below was clammy, but it felt like skin.

"I'm just a boy," the child whispered. "I know who you are, and I came to help you. I know what killed your wife."

Mary.

For a moment John couldn't breathe. The ability had been taken away from him, just like that.

Then the boy collapsed, his knees buckling, and he slid down the side of the Impala as his strength finally failed. John was frozen, staring, unable to catch him even from only inches away. The kid folded to his knees in a puddle by the front tire, bent and trembling, utterly spent.

John stood, towering over this exhausted, bloody boy. He felt the rain in his hair, on his face, saw the child's chest slowly rising and falling. They were done. They were both done.

He put the gun away and gathered the kid into his arms to carry him inside.

~*~

John remembered enough first aid to know that the kid was dangerously close to hypothermia. His body was heavy and cool in John's arms, his breath too slow, too labored. His lips were tinged with blue, eyes glassy, head a limp, wet weight on John's shoulder. John pushed the door shut behind him with his hip, saw Sammy playing on the floor, Dean asleep and dwarfed in the queen-sized bed. His sons were all right, for now, so John had a little time to try to figure out this new burden.

He carried him through the living area to the bathroom, leaving a trail of rain behind them on the carpet. John was soaked, too, but he didn't feel his own shivering, only the child's. In the closer quarters, the boy twitched against John, tensing up, and John didn't like what that signified. Not one little bit.

"Shh," he ordered gruffly, carefully setting the boy on the toilet to rest for a moment. He had to keep a hand on the shivering shoulder to hold him steady while he leaned down to turn on the taps, start the tub filling with warm water. "We gotta get you warmed up, that's all. You've been out in the rain too long."

The boy nodded, chin jerking with the movement.

"What's your name? You seem to know all about me, but I don't know anything about you."

"J-J-Jimmy." Now that the adrenaline of the confrontation was gone, the kid's teeth were chattering, thin little body shaking uncontrollably with bone-deep chill. "M-my name is J-Jimmy."

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Let's get you out of those wet clothes, okay?"

Jimmy's hands clenched in the wet fabric over his stomach, unwilling to give up this scant protection. John didn't give him much of a chance to get over his shyness, just reached for the shirt and started stripping it off. The kid's fingers were weak, and the ragged, stained clothing slipped out of his grip at John's tug.

Then it was off, and John sat back on his heels, staring. Jimmy looked away. John felt the wet shirt clenched in his fist, dripping over his knee and thigh, wringing out in his grip as he sat there.

The kid's torso was completely covered with bruises and marks, half-healed but still awful, still ugly, still clear as a fucking bell. They weren't the kind of scrapes all kids got in the summer, either, falling off fences, sliding into home. This was something else entirely.

John wanted to ask who had done this. He wanted to hunt the bastard down and beat him to a pulp. He wanted to tell Jimmy that nothing like that would ever happen to him again, not ever, not in a million years.

But John had his own family to protect, his own two children who depended solely on him now. He'd made similar promises to them (not again, gonna be okay, safe from now on, I promise I promise I promise), and those were first on his heart. He couldn't make another promise, not now, maybe not ever.

So he just set the shirt on the linoleum by the tub and reached back again, carefully but inexorably forcing Jimmy to relinquish the rest. The kid tried to resist, a little, where he could, but he was nothing against the will of John Winchester. Before long he was shivering in the tub, head bent so John couldn't see his face, knees drawn up to his chest in the circle of his arms. He let John minister to him, drawing up warm water in a plastic cup, pouring it over his welted back, his matted hair, washing away the cold and grime and leaving the livid evidence of long-term torment.

John didn't say a word. Just got the kid clean and warm, draped him in one of his threadbare Marine t-shirts, and folded him into bed next to Dean. The toddler was a furnace of fever, flushed cheeks and sweaty gold hair. At the new presence in his bed, he turned over in his sleep and snuggled up to Jimmy, digging into his side and throwing an arm around his chest.

Jimmy lay frozen for a few seconds, then wrapped an arm around the little boy and held him close. He stared down at the five-year-old for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to just pass out, right there. John watched it all, not sure what to think about the conflicting currents tugging around inside his chest. He tucked the two children in, then sat back on the side of his bed, watching them, holding his chin on his folded hands. Two sick, traumatized boys... They ought to be together, he thought, still somewhat fuzzy with reaction and confusion, only that thought even marginally clear. And it seemed that the two of them agreed.

He watched them for a long time. Until Sammy started fussing, demanding food, and his own stomach growled, and other needs intruded.

That was the beginning.

~*~

1989
Fort Douglas, Wisconsin

Dean had always known that there was something different about his big brother. Jimmy was...strange. He did things and said things that just weren't normal. Dean was used to it, couldn't even remember life without Jimmy, without this occasionally fierce, occasionally abstract presence beside him, around him, over him. He knew, though, that Dad didn't really get Jimmy, that he got weirded out by the oldest Winchester boy on a regular basis. Jimmy would make one of his weird comments, give one of his faraway looks, and Dad would stare at him sideways, eyes wide and face blank. He didn't know how to deal with it, so he mostly ignored these things when they happened.

Dean didn't really understand Jimmy either-sometimes he was just too weird, too out there, as if he was from another planet or something-but he accepted him. Jimmy was his big brother and he loved him just much as he loved Sammy, though in a different way. So Dean listened hard to Dad's instructions and tried to follow them, for both their sakes.

"And if someone calls..." Dad said, waiting for Dean to finish the familiar rule.

"Don't answer," Dean repeated patiently.

Dad shook his head. "What's the rest? Dude, this is important. If it's me, I'll let it ring once, then..."

"I know! Yeah, you'll ring once, then call again."

"If I'm not back by Sunday night..."

"Get Jimmy to call Pastor Jim." Dean stifled a giggle at this. He and Sammy still thought it was pretty funny, how their brother and their dad's friend had almost the same name. The two had some similar ideas, too, a similar seriousness about God and faith and religion, though Dean had heard them debating theology behind a closed door once and quickly found something else to do. That stuff made his head hurt.

"And if someone tries to break in?" Dad asked, nudging his shoulder.

"Shoot first, ask questions later," Dean said promptly. That was his favorite of Dad's rules, because it made the most sense.

"All right. That's good, buddy." Dad looked over to where Sammy sat on the leather armchair, watching Thundercats. He loved that show, was totally engrossed it. Didn't even notice that Dad was leaving them again, but later there would be tons of questions and whining and complaining and demanding that Jimmy sing to him or Dean tell him a story or something. Sammy was annoying like that.

Dad put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "And most importantly?"

"Listen to Jimmy, look out for Sammy."

"That's my boy." Dad's hand circled around the back of Dean's neck and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm gonna go outside and talk to your brother before I go. Have a good weekend."

"Sure, Dad."

Dad scooped up his heavy duffel in one hand (always impressive to Dean-he had to use two hands and always grunted a lot when he tried to carry Dad's bag) and went out the door. Dean turned the lock behind him, even though he would have to open it again when Jimmy came in, and went to the window to watch Dad go. Jimmy stood by the open hood of the Impala, doing some last-minute maintenance. Jimmy didn't love cars, not the way Dean did, but he knew his way around them, and he always insisted on checking the engine before Dad took off for a few days. It was his way of taking care of Dad and making sure he came back to them.

Dad paused by the side of the car as Jimmy straightened up, facing him. They left a few feet of space between them, way more than when Dad talked to Dean or Sam. They spoke for a few minutes, probably the same instructions, Dad doing most of the talking while Jimmy nodded solemnly, closed the hood, wiped his hands on a shop rag. Right at the end Dad took a step forward and put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, moving slowly and making sure Jimmy could see it coming. Jimmy still flinched, though. He almost always flinched when Dad touched him. That was why Dad didn't do it very often, Dean figured.

Dad looked sad at that, like he always did. Dean wanted to tell him not to give up, that it was gonna be okay. It had taken Jimmy a long time to get used to Dean and Sam hugging him, tackling him, wrestling him to the floor and covering him with tickles until he all but choked on his laughter. Surely he would get used to Dad too, eventually.

But Dad just stepped back and opened the driver's door, giving Jimmy a last wave before closing the door and driving away. Jimmy stood watching him go, then turned back to the motel.

"Hey, where's Dad?" Sammy asked suddenly, and Dean turned around, already rolling his eyes. Of course the kid had to notice now. "Did he leave again?"

"He'll be back in a couple of days, short stuff. You know he will. We told you what was going on just a little while ago, remember?" Dean moved to the door to unlock it for Jimmy.

"I thought you were talking about tomorrow." Sammy's little face scrunched up in displeasure.

Dean huffed, already tired of it. "Today, Sammy! It's today! Jeez, why can't you listen to Dad like the rest of us do? This stuff is important!"

Jimmy came in and closed the door behind him. He knew at a glance exactly what was going on, of course. He always did. "You should pay more attention," he told Sammy, in that super-serious way he had, blue eyes big and round, mouth pulled down in a tiny circle. Dean wasn't off the hook, though-Jimmy turned to him and tilted his head, giving him that same serious frown. "You should be a little more patient. He's only a child."

"I know." Dean turned away and scuffed his shoe on the carpet, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks. Jimmy was just as good as Dad at making him feel awful with just a look, a few words. Dad had never needed to spank them, though Dean privately thought that Sammy could have used it once or twice-that disapproving glare and disappointed tone were plenty punishment enough.

Sam shuffled over to put a hand on Jimmy's arm, looking up at him with his big, pleading eyes. "Can we have saghettios for supper?"

Of course Jimmy said yes. Dean couldn't blame him, though. He couldn't say no to Sammy when he looked up at him like that, either. Even their dad had problems with that look.

Dean cooked for them. Jimmy had burned their dinner once too often when he got distracted with something. Usually he was very responsible, and he watched over Dean and Sam like a spiky-haired hawk, but ordinary, everyday tasks escaped him sometimes. Dean didn't mind. He felt important and grown-up, standing at the stove, stirring the canned food every now and then until it was hot. Jimmy was busy with his own project, anyway.

He did it in every new motel. Got out his little pot of homemade ink and slender paintbrush and went around the room, thorough and exact. He painted symbols on the door jambs, on the windowsills, in each corner of every room. It was better than salt, he said, more permanent and effective. Usually he did his best to hide the symbols in places people wouldn't see, so they wouldn't get painted over or cleaned off, so the next people who used this room would be protected, too. It took a long time.

"They won't keep everything out," he'd told Dean once a couple years ago, when Dean was in a phase of following his big brother around, watching everything he did and trying to get involved. "These are symbols from one religion, only. I don't know any more than that. But they will protect us from many things."

Dean had wrapped his little fingers in the hem of Jimmy's shirt and held on tight, a lump rising in his throat. "From the thing that killed my mommy?"

Jimmy looked down at him very solemnly, nodding his head slowly. He always treated Dean with great gravity, as if everything he had to say was important, worth listening to, as if every question he had was worth an answer. Even Dad wasn't always that great at listening to Dean and answering him, and he was the best dad in the world, for sure, just like Jimmy was the best big brother and Sammy was the best little brother.

"The symbols will protect us from that, yes. And also from the thing that killed my parents. That is their main function."

Jimmy's voice always quivered a little when he spoke of his parents, gone long before he had become Dean and Sammy's brother, but Dean knew that they had died around the same time as his mommy had. Then Jimmy had had a bad family, one that hurt him, and then he ran away and came to them, and Dean was awfully glad about that.

He wrapped his arms around Jimmy's waist and squeezed him tight, and Jimmy hesitated, then hugged him back with one arm, holding his ink-stained fingers above Dean's head. They never talked about that again, but the knowledge was always clear and sharp between them. They knew what the bad things in the world were; they knew what they could do and they knew to be afraid.

Sammy didn't know. Dean didn't want to him to. Neither did Jimmy and Dad. That was another silent understanding they had, among the three of them. It was kind of a Winchester thing.

Jimmy was just finishing up when Dean finally decided the Spaghettios were ready. He called Sammy to the table, and Jimmy poured the milk while Dean spooned the pasta and sauce into three bowls. It just figured, of course, that Sammy decided then that he didn't want "saghettios" after all. He wanted Lucky Charms.

"There aren't any Lucky Charms!" Dean burst out, losing his patience again. He didn't want to, but Sammy just brought it out in him sometimes.

"Yes, there are, I saw them," Sammy said.

"Well, maybe there are, but there's only enough for one bowl, and Jimmy hasn't had any!"

Jimmy blinked at him. "I thought you were saving those for yourself."

"Yeah, but..." If they were just for himself, Dean would give the Lucky Charms to Sammy, no problem. He'd give anything to Sammy, though he would mutter about it and stomp around some to make his point. And Jimmy would give anything to him, he knew that, and he didn't complain about it either. So by trying to save something for Jimmy, was Dean saving something for himself, too? But then, if Dean didn't stand up for Jimmy, no one would, because Jimmy sure didn't do it for himself.

This was complicated.

Jimmy shook his head. "In any case," and he gave Sammy a stern look, "it doesn't matter, because we are not having Lucky Charms for supper. We are having Spaghettios."

And that was pretty much it. Jimmy's word was law when Dad wasn't there, and Sammy knew it.

He ate his Spaghettios.

~*~

By Sunday, Dean was climbing the walls. They hadn't left this room in three whole days. And as much as they liked each other, they didn't like each other that much.

"Can I please go play at the arcade?" he asked again. "It's just next door. I won't be gone for long."

Jimmy was having one of his abstract phases, laying on the floor with his arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling as if he could see something beyond it. When Dean asked what he was doing during this he usually said "praying" or "meditating," but it was weird that he seemed to prefer to do it with his eyes open. Jimmy was just plain weird, sometimes. He was fifteen, but sometimes he seemed to be way, way older. Like, forty-five, or something.

Occasionally Dean could get away with something while Jimmy was like this. Not this time, though. "No," he said softly, absently, blinking serenely at the ceiling as if it had some kind of secret to tell him. "No, you shouldn't leave. It's dangerous."

"But, Jimmy..."

"No." This was more firm, and Jimmy gave him one of his gentle little glares, which was the closest he ever got to saying, Fuck off, you pest. I'm busy. "Sammy's ready for bed and he wants you to tell him a story. Mine are boring."

"Okay, okay! Jeez." Dean waved his hands in the air and stomped to the bedroom off the main living area. Sammy was already tucked in, washed and brushed and in his jammies, waiting expectantly for Dean, his big eyes and his chubby round cheeks peeking above the covers.

Dean told him a story full of guns and ghosts and pirates and beautiful damsels in distress, with plenty of explosions and fighting and bloody wounds. Sammy ate it up, as always, and asked for another one, but Dean told him "no" in the sternest Jimmy-Dad voice he could manage. He pulled the covers up around Sammy's shoulders and turned off the light, ruffling the kid's hair all over the place as he stood.

In the main area, Jimmy's arms were folded over his chest, his eyes closed as he hummed to himself. It sounded like one of those hymns he liked so much. Dean stood there for a little while, watching Jimmy's fingers curl and tremble at the edges of his ribcage, as if he was struggling, fighting, as if prayer and meditation was this active thing that took up all of his concentration and will. Which must be true in a way, he realized. Jimmy was always way tired after one these times, as if he'd been running for miles or doing push-ups until his arms were noodles, not lying on the floor or staring out a window.

Dean sneaked past him and gently, carefully turned the lock on the door. It opened with only the barest hint of a click, and he turned the door knob with the same care, holding his breath. Jimmy didn't notice, didn't stir. He just kept humming, low and almost breathless. Dean stepped carefully outside, lifting the key from the counter as he went, and closed the door behind him.

Then he breathed out in relief, listening to the crickets sing, smelling the asphalt and the crisp evening air. Free. Probably for just an hour or so-he'd have to get back before Jimmy noticed-but he was free.

Dean didn't get much pocket change, so he had learned to make one quarter go for a long, long time. He didn't realize how much time was passing, busy killing aliens and defending the home planet, and he startled near out of his skin when the owner of the arcade leaned in the door and told him it was closing time. Dean glanced guiltily at the clock. Damn, it was late.

Maybe Jimmy hadn't noticed. Maybe he was still busy doing his thing. Surely he would have stalked over and dragged Dean back if he'd noticed he was gone. But then again, maybe he hadn't wanted to leave Sam alone. He said it was dangerous out-maybe he wouldn't risk leaving the six-year-old alone to go after a disobedient little sneak.

Dean wouldn't blame him for being mad. He kinda wanted to beat himself up for being such an idiot. His sneakers slapped on the blacktop as he rushed back to their motel.

No Impala in the lot, so at least Dad wouldn't be there to chew him out for this astonishing breach of Winchester rules. Dean let out a breath of relief as he turned the key in the lock and let himself in.

And then he halted in the doorway, staring, feeling the blood drain away from his face.

Jimmy was nowhere in sight, and something was going on in the bedroom. The door was only partly ajar, but Dean saw a sickly white light inside the smaller room, heard a weird sucking noise like a wind blowing through a cave. Something was happening and his brothers, his brothers were both in there. They were both in there and Dean had left them alone and how could he, how could he have done that? It was dangerous out tonight, Jimmy said, and the symbols didn't protect against everything, and Dean had left them to go play....

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean stepped toward the bedroom. He reached carefully for the sawed-off in the corner, lifted it to his shoulder with one hand while he touched the door with the other. Slowly, silently, he pushed the door open, letting out more light and sound. And he stared, gulping.

Jimmy was kneeling on the bed over Sammy, who was still asleep on top of the covers. The older boy's back was bowed in tension, fighting to maintain his grip, absolutely still, pushing against... He was pushing against a big...thing in a black robe, his hands on the creature's chest, holding it still. It was a monster, and its mouth was open, the source of the strange white light, impossibly long, sharp fingers curved around Jimmy's shoulders as if holding him still. They were locked in some strange, stiff-armed wrestling hold, keeping each other off, fighting with their eyes.

Because, because... Dean's mind stuttered, unable to take it in. Jimmy's eyes were glowing, white too, but pure and intense and holy, not at all like the sickly radiance in the creature's mouth. He panted, sweat sliding down his forehead and pale cheeks, throat convulsing as he swallowed as if trying to keep himself from being sick.

As Dean stared, the monster jerked its face forward, closer into Jimmy's space, and Jimmy's mouth began to open, too. There was light in there, white and pure, and the monster was sucking it, it was sucking it out of Jimmy and into itself, it was eating Jimmy, it was eating him...

"Dean, get down!"

Dad's huge hand landed on Dean's shoulder and shoved him out of the way, roughly enough that it made Dean stumble, and then Dad was shooting, striding into the room with his gun held out straight from his body and shooting, shooting, shooting. Dean hit the door jamb, the sawed-off falling from his numb hands, clattering on the floor. Just as Dad shot, Jimmy seemed to just...push with his hands, and there was an explosion of awful white light. Dean and Dad both fell back, shielding their eyes. In a small, clear snapshot of shock just as his eyelids slammed shut, Dean saw Jimmy's painted symbol on the windowsill, now scratched through as if by a long, evil fingernail.

The creature shrieked, a horrible sound, like a million nails being scraped over a million chalkboards. It went higher and higher and then it just...stopped. Cut off right in the middle, as if it had been sliced by a knife. The light beyond Dean's shielding hand diminished just as suddenly, winking out like a firefly. Dean raised his hand and looked, blinking dazedly at the bright spots that clouded his vision.

He was just in time to watch Jimmy collapse, falling over Sammy to lay terribly, scarily still on the bed. Dad scrambled to his feet and was there in a second, tossing his gun aside and hauling Jimmy up in his arms. "Dean, get Sam!"

His breath loud and rasping in his throat, Dean moved, pulling Sammy out from under their older brother and cradling him in his arms. Sammy had slept through the whole thing, he saw, a small corner of his brain laughing high and wild in hysterical relief. Still innocent of the darkness, the youngest Winchester was, even though it had been standing right over his bed.

Oh, holy shit.

Sammy woke up as Dean accidentally gripped him too tight, startling in his arms and looking wildly around. Dean sat on the bed and held him, watched their Dad holding Jimmy. Jimmy's nose was bleeding and his eyes were shut.

"C'mon, kiddo," Dad muttered, noticing the thick trail of bright red just as Dean did. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to Jimmy's nose, pinching his nostrils shut to stop the bleeding. He looked at Dean, his dark eyes abruptly sharp and hard. "What happened?"

"I...I went out," Dean stuttered. The thought of lying never crossed his mind. He couldn't lie, not about this, not to his dad. "Just for a minute! I didn't...Dad, I swear..."

"Dean?" Sammy's voice was high with fright as he jerked in Dean's arms. He wrapped his hands around Dean's forearms and dug in deep, making him wince. "What's going on? Is Jimmy okay?"

"Shhh, he's fine," Dad said, his voice going soft, just for Sammy. Dean knew he was just saying that, couldn't possibly know if Jimmy was going to be okay, lying so still and pale against Dad's chest with blood spattered over his collar and down his front. He would never let Dad hold him like that if he was awake, would never...

Dean could feel his heart hammering, trying to crawl up his throat. Surely Sam had to be able to feel that too, pressed so tight in Dean's arms. "Come...come on, Sammy," he said. "Let's go to the living room and see if there's anything good on TV. Dad'll take care of Jimmy."

Dad gave him a grateful look, still mixed with anger that Dean had disobeyed strict orders like that, that he had failed his family to utterly and completely. Dean lifted Sammy off the bed and led him into the living room, shutting the door behind them, getting out of the way. At least he could do that right.

Nothing was good on TV and Sammy didn't want to settle, kept straining toward the bedroom, wanting to see what was going on with their brother. Truthfully, Dean wanted to be over there, too, standing with his ear pressed to the closed door. But he forced himself to stay, to entertain Sammy. He tried coloring books and puzzles and their few toys, even tried a couple of stories Sammy didn't want to listen to, then finally started singing one of Jimmy's hymns. He got all the words mixed up and he couldn't remember some of the tune, but he did his best, and Sammy finally leaned against him, listening. The kid had worn himself out with anxiety and wondering, and he fell asleep, finally, lolling on Dean's arm. Dean sat there, supporting him, tension drawing his shoulders up and tightening his neck, listening for any kind of sound from beyond that door.

He heard some soft murmurs now and then, but he couldn't tell if they were coming from his father or his brother. Once he got past the squeaky stage of being a teenage boy, Jimmy's voice had gotten pretty deep, almost like Dad's.

After what felt like a long, long time, the door finally opened and Dad stepped out, his eyes immediately finding Dean where he sat in the leather armchair, Sammy curled up against him. Dean gulped, expecting to be chewed out, but Dad just gave him a slow, sad smile, little more than a twist of the lips. "He's gonna be okay. Just really, really tired. C'mon, let's get you guys to bed."

Dad scooped up Sammy in his arms, careful and slow, trying not to wake him, and carried him back toward the beds. Dean followed at his heels, eager to see his big brother. A little bit of the tension holding him strung tight as a wire had leaked out at his father's words, but not very much.

Jimmy lay limp and pale in the bed that was usually Dad's, his eyes only half open. At least the bleeding had stopped, though, and he wore a clean shirt, somewhat askew on his chest as if he hadn't been the one to dress himself. He smiled, weary and half-absent, when Dean rushed to his side and grabbed his hand. "Jimmy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Shh," Jimmy said, his voice a low, throaty murmur, as if he was too tired to talk very much or very loud. "It's all right. I'm glad you weren't here. It might have gone after you."

"But I didn't... I shouldn't have..." Dean started, helplessly.

"It's over now," Jimmy said soothingly, wrapping Dean's fingers around his and squeezing them close and warm. "The creature is dead. It will never harm another child."

"What was that thing? What did you do? I saw this flash of light, and...and then..."

"Hey now." Dad's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm. Dean looked over, saw that Dad had tucked Sammy into the other bed. The little guy was fast asleep, arms curled up under his head. "We can talk about that tomorrow. Jimmy really needs to rest."

"Okay," Dean said miserably, unconsciously leaning away from his father with his hip on the edge of Jimmy's bed. He glanced over at the fold-up cot in the corner, the one Jimmy would usually take when all four of them were together. "Dad, can I...?"

Dad sighed, understanding right away. "Sure, buddy, you can sleep with Jimmy tonight. I'll cuddle up with Sam."

Dean nodded gratefully. Dad went out to unpack the Impala while Dean slipped out of his clothes and into his PJs. Then he crawled in with Jimmy, who was already dozing, his cheek pale and smooth against the pillow. Dean took his hand again and curled up close, curving himself into his big brother. Close enough to feel the warmth and weight of him, strangely lightened now, as if the evening's events had taken something substantial away from him, something vital.

"You really gonna be okay?" he whispered, needing to hear it from Jimmy's lips.

The older boy's dark eyelashes fluttered before he forced them up halfway to look at Dean, his blue eyes faded and dull in the light from the single lamp Dad had left shining. "I will be as okay as I can be."

And that was as good as a promise.

It still took Dean a long time to fall asleep.

~*~

Next

Master Post | Art Master Post | Soundtrack | Notes & Acknowledgments