![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sylvanwitch posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
spnmysteryyearsGo here for Part I.
The girl comes back with two bottles of orange juice, a couple of bags of animal crackers, and two vending-machine packets of Pop-Tarts.
Strawberry.
He can’t help the smile of relief and happy surprise that breaks out of him, his gratitude evident in his, “Thank you,” as he takes the offered snacks.
This time Dean gets the more expected response, a genuine smile back from the girl, whose red hands deposit a crumpled pile of bills and a few coins, warm from her skin, in his palm. This he shoves in his pocket with another, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” He’s already trying to rouse Sammy out of sleep to get him to drink some juice.
She murmurs something he misses and is gone before he really notices. He’s having trouble rousing his flushed brother from out of sleep.
Eventually, though, Sam wakes up enough to drink some juice, though he grimaces and hisses as the acidic liquid hits his raw throat. He even manages a few bites of Pop-Tarts, his eyes at half-mast, lids fluttering as he swallows the dry pastry.
“How you feelin’?” Dean asks, knowing it’s a stupid question but feeling helpless and hating it.
Sam shrugs. “Okay,” he lies, his voice barely above a whisper. He winces through another swallow of juice and then hands the bottle back to Dean, who caps it and stows it in the pocket in the back of the seat in front of him.
The other juice he hasn’t opened, hoping it’ll keep in his bag in case he needs more later. Likewise, he’s packed away the animal crackers and second packet of Pop-Tarts. They have at least eight hours left on the road, and he doesn’t want to have to hope for some other stranger’s charity to feed his brother.
Eight hours turns to ten turns to twelve when they hit bad weather just outside of Iowa City, the bus moving at a crawl behind red-eye tail-lights and the blur of flurrying snow.
Dean’s almost at the point of begging strangers for aspirin, or Tylenol, or something, anything to help Sammy, who’s tossing in the seat beside him, fever dreams making him tremble and murmur in his sleep. Dean’s heart is a tight, cold thing in his chest, beating painfully as he locks his eyes on his little brother.
He tries to tell himself that little kids don’t die of fever. He reminds himself of all the danger they’ve survived over the years, of the thing that killed his mother, of the monster his father is even now out there somewhere hunting.
It doesn’t matter, though. Dean can’t wrench his eyes away from Sammy’s struggling breath and unnaturally red cheeks.
“Is the little guy okay?” The voice startles him out of his fixed attention, and he turns to see a middle-aged guy in a Carhartt jacket and John Deere cap standing in the aisle.
Dean’s fear is too immediate to hide, but he tries not to let his voice tremble when he says, “He’s sick. You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”
The guy shakes his head, but then his eyes light up. “I’ll bet I know someone who does, though. Hang on.”
Dean watches the stranger’s progress to the back of the bus, where a mother and father and a little girl are spread out over the wide bench seat taking up the back wall next to the door for the bathroom. The little girl is playing with a brightly colored plastic toy of some kind, but she abandons her play for the more interesting entertainment of the stranger, who asks the mother a question Dean can guess at.
He sees the woman’s eyes come up to seek him out, and Dean ducks back behind his seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny and suddenly worried at what might happen.
But when the man comes back, he’s alone, and he’s got a purple and white box clutched in one work-worn hand.
“She says you can have this. They’re gettin’ off in Mason City and can always get more.”
It’s children’s cold medicine, grape-flavored, the box unopened, drugstore price tag still affixed to the top.
“I’ll pay for it,” Dean says, reaching into the pocket where he’d deposited the change the girl had brought him from the bus station in Joliet.
“Not necessary,” the man says, voice firm. “It’s the holidays, and the little guy needs it.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, thinks fleetingly of his father’s face twisted in disapproval at the way Dean has to keep relying on strangers for help. He shrugs it off, though, deciding he’ll worry about it later, when Sam isn’t so sick.
“Thank you,” he says, considering that he’s used those words more often in the last day than he has in weeks.
“No problem. You need anything else, you let me know. I’m just up front there.” The guy points to an empty seat just behind the driver. Part way back to his seat, the guy stops, says, “Merry Christmas,” over his shoulder.
Dean nods distractedly and turns to the task of waking Sam up to take the medicine. His glassy eyes and lolling head do nothing to make Dean feel better, but at least his brother swallows the sticky purple liquid without spitting it all over Dean this time.
Sam sleeps the rest of the trip, rousing only when Dean shakes him and says, “Sammy, we’re here.”
He leans over Sam to wipe condensation off the window and search the platform anxiously for a familiar figure. They’ve stayed with Pastor Jim a handful of times in Dean’s eleven years, the last time more than two years ago now, but the man is easy to pick out both for his kindly expression and the collar, visible at the top opening of his heavy winter jacket.
Dean waves, and Pastor Jim smiles and returns the gesture.
There are tears behind his eyes as he helps Sammy up and shoulders both of their bags.
He has to swallow them out of his throat to say, “Hi,” when Pastor Jim lifts Sammy off the bottom step of the bus and carries him into the station.
Jim trundles Sam on one hip, despite the seven-year-old sprawl of sweaty limbs, and puts his other hand on Dean’s shoulder to keep him close in the bustle of the bus station.
Under the fluorescent glare of the terminal, Sam looks like death, face blue-pale except for the fever spots on his cheeks, hair sticking to his damp brow, eyes squinched against the headache-glare of the overheads.
“I think Sammy here might need a hospital,” Jim says, keeping his voice light despite the words.
Dean ducks out from under his hand and stops, which brings the minister to a halt, as well.
He shakes his head. “Can’t. No hospitals.”
“I think your dad would understand, under the circumstances.”
Dean looks at the minister for a long minute. “No insurance. Besides, what about child services?”
One of Jim’s eyebrows goes up, like he’s surprised, and then he smiles a little sadly and shakes his head. “One of my parishioners is a nurse. Okay if I call her, ask her to meet us at the house?”
Weary as he is of taking care of things, Dean appreciates that Pastor Jim asks instead of telling. He’s also really grateful that there’s a solution here that doesn’t involve either making his father angrier than he already will be or risking Sam’s life.
“Yeah,” he says, resuming his place at Jim’s side. Then, remembering his manners, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Jim answers, patting Dean on the back and then guiding him with the hand again.
*****
Betty Englert is a tall, rawboned woman, blonde going to grey, ice blue eyes making Dean shiver a little as she takes them both in, toes to head and back again, in a single, assessing instant.
He feels like he’s being graded and tries not to protest when she moves toward Sam, who’s in the bottom of bunk beds Pastor Jim has in one of the rectory’s two spare rooms. They aren’t the only strays who come through, Dean guesses.
Regardless of what she thinks of them, she’s gentle and efficient with Sam, taking his temperature with a digital thermometer, asking Dean questions about how long he’s been sick and the progression of his illness, using a long swab to take a throat culture.
Then she reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a handful of individual sample packets of medicine. She gives the instructions to Jim but looks at Dean, too, and he feels a little better about her helping them.
She administers the first dose of antibiotics herself, explains that the fever reducer will have to wait until the kid medicine is out of him, and tells Jim to call her if there’s any turn for the worse.
“Kid’s lucky,” she says, one hand on the kitchen door handle. “Another day or so and he’d be in the hospital.” Her eyes fall hard on Dean, but it’s not judgment he sees there, only a sort of resigned admiration, like she sees more of this kind of thing than she’d like.
Dean breathes out a long sigh when she leaves.
“How about something to eat, Dean? You look hungry.”
“Thank you, sir,” he answers immediately, stomach growling loudly, the sick feeling in it finally abating with Sammy’s prognosis.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ you know. Jim or Pastor is fine with me.”
Dean nods but doesn’t answer, unsure of what to say.
“Do you like spaghetti?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers automatically. Pastor Jim gives Dean a look over his shoulder as he pulls a box of spaghetti from the pantry.
“Sorry,” Dean says.
Pastor Jim laughs a little then and tells Dean where to find the pot for boiling the water, and they work together like that to put together the easy meal, Jim helping Dean find things, Dean setting the kitchen table and pouring them both glasses of milk.
“We’ll give Sammy something when we get him up for his medicine,” Jim says. “Does he like spaghetti, too?”
Dean, mouth full of sauce and pasta, chews fast to answer, “Yes, s—Yes, Pastor Jim.”
When he’s finished a plate and a half of spaghetti and four slices of thick-cut bread with butter, he pushes his chair back from the table, gets up, and starts clearing.
The plate he’s holding rattles a little too loudly against the stainless steel of the sink when Jim says, “So, I called some of the hunters to see if they can’t track down your father.”
Dean doesn’t turn around, just turns the water on, adds some dish soap to the sponge he finds in a little church-shaped keeper on the sink board, starts washing. The spaghetti is suddenly heavy as lead in his stomach, the sauce acidic in his throat. He swallows to try to clear away the burning feeling.
“You said he’s in upper Michigan somewhere?”
Dean nods, swallowing again, manages a “Yes, sir.”
“What’s he after?”
“Werewolf.”
“In the winter, huh?”
“It’s a bad one. Killed three people, at least.” It’s not that Pastor Jim doesn’t mean well, not even that he sounds like he’s judging their dad. It’s just that Dean knows his father’s a hero, and sometimes other people seem to forget it.
“I’m not questioning your father’s judgment, Dean. We’d just like to find him, is all.”
Make sure he’s okay goes without saying, but they both hear it.
“I left messages on the answering service,” Dean adds, like he’s got to justify bothering the Pastor.
“I have no doubt you did your best, Dean. Your father’s not going to be angry with you. You had no other choice.”
Dean hunches his shoulders, scrubs with renewed vigor at the bottom of the saucepot.
Then Jim is there, taking things from the sink-side rack, drying them with a clean, blue towel, and he’s talking about how busy things are going to be for the next few days.
“We have a candlelight midnight service Christmas morning. Maybe you’d like to help me set up for that?”
Grateful for the change of subject, Dean says, “Yes, sir,” maybe a little too loudly for the circumstance.
“Good. I could use your help.”
Dean finishes the dishes, wipes off the table, looks around for a broom.
“I’ll sweep, Dean. Why don’t you go up and check on Sam?”
He’s almost to the stairs by the time Jim finishes the suggestion.
Sammy is asleep, and maybe it’s just Dean’s wishful thinking, but his little brother looks better. His breathing seems easier and his sleep genuine and deep, not broken by fever dreams and tossing.
He stays a few minutes, listening to Sammy’s breathing, mindful of every minute difference in the quality of the sound, and when he’s sure his brother’s okay, he closes the door and heads back downstairs.
He’s tired, bone-weary, like he’s been training all day in the hot sun, except without the sense of accomplishment at the end. The rectory is comfortable, simply furnished, warm…but Dean feels out of place, like they don’t belong here. He can’t help but wonder where his father is and what he’s going to think about where his sons have ended up.
Pastor Jim comes in from the kitchen with a mug of something steaming in one hand and a book in the other. He seems momentarily flummoxed to find Dean standing in the middle of the living room, hands at his sides, eyes roving over the room like it will unlock the mysteries of the universe if he can only figure out where to rest them long enough.
“You can make yourself at home, Dean. We’re not real formal around here.”
Dean nods, unsure what that means, and takes a cautious seat on one end of the couch. There’s a television, but no remote in sight, and besides, the pastor seems like he might want the quiet to read.
Jim puts his book and mug down on the coffee table and sits in the armchair opposite the other end of the couch. He eyes Dean for a minute, until Dean has to resist a powerful urge to squirm. Then he says, “Sam okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how about you?”
“Sir?” Dean isn’t dumb. He knows what the Pastor is wondering about. But he’s not going to spill their family troubles just because he’s got to rely on the guy for some help. Shame heats his cheeks as he considers that he already owes the man more than he’s likely to be able to repay for awhile. Maybe he should talk…
“I’m just wondering if you’re okay, Dean. You look tired.”
Relieved to have an out, Dean nods vigorously. “I am.” As if summoned, a yawn splits his cheeks.
“Well, why don’t you get ready for bed, and I’ll see about getting Sam his other medicine. Do you think he’ll want to eat something, too?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, sir. It’s hard for him to swallow. And besides, when I checked on him, he was sleeping good. Maybe you could just give him his medicine and wait until breakfast to feed him?”
“That sounds like a good idea, Dean. Do you have what you need? Toothpaste? Night clothes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dean…”
“Yes, Pastor Jim.”
“Okay, then. Head on up. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The bathroom is across the hall from the room he shares with Sam, and Dean leaves the door open a crack so he can hear what goes on while he’s getting ready for bed. He can’t make out what Sammy’s saying, but Jim’s voice is gentle and light, soothing his brother through swallowing the medicine and asking him if he needs anything else.
When he shuts the water off after rinsing his mouth, he hears something else, though, and it has him out of the bathroom and hovering uncertainly in the open doorway to their borrowed room.
“Now I lay me down to sleep…” Sam is saying, for all the world like he says bedtime prayers every night.
Dean was there when Sam said his first word—Dada or Dee, depending on who you ask—has been there when Sam’s gotten perfect scores on spelling tests and jumped ahead three readers for being so smart. He knows all the words Sam knows, but he’s never heard him put them together like this.
Sam finishes the prayer—one that Dean knows only from television re-runs and Saturday afternoon black-and-white movies—and Pastor Jim tucks Sammy in.
Only then does he appear to notice Dean standing in the doorway.
“Climb up,” he whispers, indicating the ladder at the end of the bunk beds.
Dean tucks his diddy bag into his duffle and climbs up, the ladder rails cold against his bare feet. The sheets are soft, like one of his father’s old shirts, and smell of fabric softener. The pillow is likewise fresh-smelling, plump and not worn out with much use.
The ceiling here cants down, making a tight elbow where the upper bunk meets the wall. It’s a close space, and it makes Dean shiver. He’s all the more grateful, then, that Pastor Jim keeps his distance as he wishes Dean a good night.
“Do you pray at night, Dean?” He asks it like he’s casually curious, no judgment in his voice, but Dean still feels cold settle in his belly when he answers.
“No.”
“That’s okay. I pray for the Winchesters every night, just like I do all the hunters and their families.”
Dean knows the man means to make him feel better about his spiritual lack, but his words only make the cold grow and spread up his back. It seems like one more thing he owes that he probably can’t repay.
“Good night,” he says, faking a yawn, and Pastor Jim pats him on the knee and says, “Good night, Dean. Sleep tight.”
He brings the door mostly closed behind him, leaving a narrow sliver of yellow light from the dim lamp on a table in the hall, and though it’s been years since Dean was afraid of the dark itself, he’s happy for the little illumination. Never know when you’ll need to see what comes out of the dark after you.
Once he’s sure Pastor Jim has gone back downstairs, Dean sneaks out of bed to his duffle and retrieves the knife he keeps beneath his pillow. Holy man’s house or not, he’s not sleeping without it.
That night, Dean dreams that he’s running on a road beneath a storm-swollen sky. Lightning tears up the earth in geysers of sod, sets trees at some distance ablaze, and a voice thunders down on him, sometimes like his father’s, sometimes a stranger’s, always saying, “Faster! Run faster!” His heart is throbbing in his chest, his breath coming in heaving, painful gasps, and still he’s commanded to run. He can’t feel his legs; his calves are crippled by cramps, and still the voice says, “Faster, Dean! Faster!”
He awakes with a start to morning light coming in the curtained windows, to the smell of something good coming up the stairs from below, to a stillness that says Sammy isn’t in the room.
Go here for Part III.
Peace,
SW
The girl comes back with two bottles of orange juice, a couple of bags of animal crackers, and two vending-machine packets of Pop-Tarts.
Strawberry.
He can’t help the smile of relief and happy surprise that breaks out of him, his gratitude evident in his, “Thank you,” as he takes the offered snacks.
This time Dean gets the more expected response, a genuine smile back from the girl, whose red hands deposit a crumpled pile of bills and a few coins, warm from her skin, in his palm. This he shoves in his pocket with another, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” He’s already trying to rouse Sammy out of sleep to get him to drink some juice.
She murmurs something he misses and is gone before he really notices. He’s having trouble rousing his flushed brother from out of sleep.
Eventually, though, Sam wakes up enough to drink some juice, though he grimaces and hisses as the acidic liquid hits his raw throat. He even manages a few bites of Pop-Tarts, his eyes at half-mast, lids fluttering as he swallows the dry pastry.
“How you feelin’?” Dean asks, knowing it’s a stupid question but feeling helpless and hating it.
Sam shrugs. “Okay,” he lies, his voice barely above a whisper. He winces through another swallow of juice and then hands the bottle back to Dean, who caps it and stows it in the pocket in the back of the seat in front of him.
The other juice he hasn’t opened, hoping it’ll keep in his bag in case he needs more later. Likewise, he’s packed away the animal crackers and second packet of Pop-Tarts. They have at least eight hours left on the road, and he doesn’t want to have to hope for some other stranger’s charity to feed his brother.
Eight hours turns to ten turns to twelve when they hit bad weather just outside of Iowa City, the bus moving at a crawl behind red-eye tail-lights and the blur of flurrying snow.
Dean’s almost at the point of begging strangers for aspirin, or Tylenol, or something, anything to help Sammy, who’s tossing in the seat beside him, fever dreams making him tremble and murmur in his sleep. Dean’s heart is a tight, cold thing in his chest, beating painfully as he locks his eyes on his little brother.
He tries to tell himself that little kids don’t die of fever. He reminds himself of all the danger they’ve survived over the years, of the thing that killed his mother, of the monster his father is even now out there somewhere hunting.
It doesn’t matter, though. Dean can’t wrench his eyes away from Sammy’s struggling breath and unnaturally red cheeks.
“Is the little guy okay?” The voice startles him out of his fixed attention, and he turns to see a middle-aged guy in a Carhartt jacket and John Deere cap standing in the aisle.
Dean’s fear is too immediate to hide, but he tries not to let his voice tremble when he says, “He’s sick. You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”
The guy shakes his head, but then his eyes light up. “I’ll bet I know someone who does, though. Hang on.”
Dean watches the stranger’s progress to the back of the bus, where a mother and father and a little girl are spread out over the wide bench seat taking up the back wall next to the door for the bathroom. The little girl is playing with a brightly colored plastic toy of some kind, but she abandons her play for the more interesting entertainment of the stranger, who asks the mother a question Dean can guess at.
He sees the woman’s eyes come up to seek him out, and Dean ducks back behind his seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny and suddenly worried at what might happen.
But when the man comes back, he’s alone, and he’s got a purple and white box clutched in one work-worn hand.
“She says you can have this. They’re gettin’ off in Mason City and can always get more.”
It’s children’s cold medicine, grape-flavored, the box unopened, drugstore price tag still affixed to the top.
“I’ll pay for it,” Dean says, reaching into the pocket where he’d deposited the change the girl had brought him from the bus station in Joliet.
“Not necessary,” the man says, voice firm. “It’s the holidays, and the little guy needs it.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, thinks fleetingly of his father’s face twisted in disapproval at the way Dean has to keep relying on strangers for help. He shrugs it off, though, deciding he’ll worry about it later, when Sam isn’t so sick.
“Thank you,” he says, considering that he’s used those words more often in the last day than he has in weeks.
“No problem. You need anything else, you let me know. I’m just up front there.” The guy points to an empty seat just behind the driver. Part way back to his seat, the guy stops, says, “Merry Christmas,” over his shoulder.
Dean nods distractedly and turns to the task of waking Sam up to take the medicine. His glassy eyes and lolling head do nothing to make Dean feel better, but at least his brother swallows the sticky purple liquid without spitting it all over Dean this time.
Sam sleeps the rest of the trip, rousing only when Dean shakes him and says, “Sammy, we’re here.”
He leans over Sam to wipe condensation off the window and search the platform anxiously for a familiar figure. They’ve stayed with Pastor Jim a handful of times in Dean’s eleven years, the last time more than two years ago now, but the man is easy to pick out both for his kindly expression and the collar, visible at the top opening of his heavy winter jacket.
Dean waves, and Pastor Jim smiles and returns the gesture.
There are tears behind his eyes as he helps Sammy up and shoulders both of their bags.
He has to swallow them out of his throat to say, “Hi,” when Pastor Jim lifts Sammy off the bottom step of the bus and carries him into the station.
Jim trundles Sam on one hip, despite the seven-year-old sprawl of sweaty limbs, and puts his other hand on Dean’s shoulder to keep him close in the bustle of the bus station.
Under the fluorescent glare of the terminal, Sam looks like death, face blue-pale except for the fever spots on his cheeks, hair sticking to his damp brow, eyes squinched against the headache-glare of the overheads.
“I think Sammy here might need a hospital,” Jim says, keeping his voice light despite the words.
Dean ducks out from under his hand and stops, which brings the minister to a halt, as well.
He shakes his head. “Can’t. No hospitals.”
“I think your dad would understand, under the circumstances.”
Dean looks at the minister for a long minute. “No insurance. Besides, what about child services?”
One of Jim’s eyebrows goes up, like he’s surprised, and then he smiles a little sadly and shakes his head. “One of my parishioners is a nurse. Okay if I call her, ask her to meet us at the house?”
Weary as he is of taking care of things, Dean appreciates that Pastor Jim asks instead of telling. He’s also really grateful that there’s a solution here that doesn’t involve either making his father angrier than he already will be or risking Sam’s life.
“Yeah,” he says, resuming his place at Jim’s side. Then, remembering his manners, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Jim answers, patting Dean on the back and then guiding him with the hand again.
*****
Betty Englert is a tall, rawboned woman, blonde going to grey, ice blue eyes making Dean shiver a little as she takes them both in, toes to head and back again, in a single, assessing instant.
He feels like he’s being graded and tries not to protest when she moves toward Sam, who’s in the bottom of bunk beds Pastor Jim has in one of the rectory’s two spare rooms. They aren’t the only strays who come through, Dean guesses.
Regardless of what she thinks of them, she’s gentle and efficient with Sam, taking his temperature with a digital thermometer, asking Dean questions about how long he’s been sick and the progression of his illness, using a long swab to take a throat culture.
Then she reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a handful of individual sample packets of medicine. She gives the instructions to Jim but looks at Dean, too, and he feels a little better about her helping them.
She administers the first dose of antibiotics herself, explains that the fever reducer will have to wait until the kid medicine is out of him, and tells Jim to call her if there’s any turn for the worse.
“Kid’s lucky,” she says, one hand on the kitchen door handle. “Another day or so and he’d be in the hospital.” Her eyes fall hard on Dean, but it’s not judgment he sees there, only a sort of resigned admiration, like she sees more of this kind of thing than she’d like.
Dean breathes out a long sigh when she leaves.
“How about something to eat, Dean? You look hungry.”
“Thank you, sir,” he answers immediately, stomach growling loudly, the sick feeling in it finally abating with Sammy’s prognosis.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ you know. Jim or Pastor is fine with me.”
Dean nods but doesn’t answer, unsure of what to say.
“Do you like spaghetti?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers automatically. Pastor Jim gives Dean a look over his shoulder as he pulls a box of spaghetti from the pantry.
“Sorry,” Dean says.
Pastor Jim laughs a little then and tells Dean where to find the pot for boiling the water, and they work together like that to put together the easy meal, Jim helping Dean find things, Dean setting the kitchen table and pouring them both glasses of milk.
“We’ll give Sammy something when we get him up for his medicine,” Jim says. “Does he like spaghetti, too?”
Dean, mouth full of sauce and pasta, chews fast to answer, “Yes, s—Yes, Pastor Jim.”
When he’s finished a plate and a half of spaghetti and four slices of thick-cut bread with butter, he pushes his chair back from the table, gets up, and starts clearing.
The plate he’s holding rattles a little too loudly against the stainless steel of the sink when Jim says, “So, I called some of the hunters to see if they can’t track down your father.”
Dean doesn’t turn around, just turns the water on, adds some dish soap to the sponge he finds in a little church-shaped keeper on the sink board, starts washing. The spaghetti is suddenly heavy as lead in his stomach, the sauce acidic in his throat. He swallows to try to clear away the burning feeling.
“You said he’s in upper Michigan somewhere?”
Dean nods, swallowing again, manages a “Yes, sir.”
“What’s he after?”
“Werewolf.”
“In the winter, huh?”
“It’s a bad one. Killed three people, at least.” It’s not that Pastor Jim doesn’t mean well, not even that he sounds like he’s judging their dad. It’s just that Dean knows his father’s a hero, and sometimes other people seem to forget it.
“I’m not questioning your father’s judgment, Dean. We’d just like to find him, is all.”
Make sure he’s okay goes without saying, but they both hear it.
“I left messages on the answering service,” Dean adds, like he’s got to justify bothering the Pastor.
“I have no doubt you did your best, Dean. Your father’s not going to be angry with you. You had no other choice.”
Dean hunches his shoulders, scrubs with renewed vigor at the bottom of the saucepot.
Then Jim is there, taking things from the sink-side rack, drying them with a clean, blue towel, and he’s talking about how busy things are going to be for the next few days.
“We have a candlelight midnight service Christmas morning. Maybe you’d like to help me set up for that?”
Grateful for the change of subject, Dean says, “Yes, sir,” maybe a little too loudly for the circumstance.
“Good. I could use your help.”
Dean finishes the dishes, wipes off the table, looks around for a broom.
“I’ll sweep, Dean. Why don’t you go up and check on Sam?”
He’s almost to the stairs by the time Jim finishes the suggestion.
Sammy is asleep, and maybe it’s just Dean’s wishful thinking, but his little brother looks better. His breathing seems easier and his sleep genuine and deep, not broken by fever dreams and tossing.
He stays a few minutes, listening to Sammy’s breathing, mindful of every minute difference in the quality of the sound, and when he’s sure his brother’s okay, he closes the door and heads back downstairs.
He’s tired, bone-weary, like he’s been training all day in the hot sun, except without the sense of accomplishment at the end. The rectory is comfortable, simply furnished, warm…but Dean feels out of place, like they don’t belong here. He can’t help but wonder where his father is and what he’s going to think about where his sons have ended up.
Pastor Jim comes in from the kitchen with a mug of something steaming in one hand and a book in the other. He seems momentarily flummoxed to find Dean standing in the middle of the living room, hands at his sides, eyes roving over the room like it will unlock the mysteries of the universe if he can only figure out where to rest them long enough.
“You can make yourself at home, Dean. We’re not real formal around here.”
Dean nods, unsure what that means, and takes a cautious seat on one end of the couch. There’s a television, but no remote in sight, and besides, the pastor seems like he might want the quiet to read.
Jim puts his book and mug down on the coffee table and sits in the armchair opposite the other end of the couch. He eyes Dean for a minute, until Dean has to resist a powerful urge to squirm. Then he says, “Sam okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how about you?”
“Sir?” Dean isn’t dumb. He knows what the Pastor is wondering about. But he’s not going to spill their family troubles just because he’s got to rely on the guy for some help. Shame heats his cheeks as he considers that he already owes the man more than he’s likely to be able to repay for awhile. Maybe he should talk…
“I’m just wondering if you’re okay, Dean. You look tired.”
Relieved to have an out, Dean nods vigorously. “I am.” As if summoned, a yawn splits his cheeks.
“Well, why don’t you get ready for bed, and I’ll see about getting Sam his other medicine. Do you think he’ll want to eat something, too?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, sir. It’s hard for him to swallow. And besides, when I checked on him, he was sleeping good. Maybe you could just give him his medicine and wait until breakfast to feed him?”
“That sounds like a good idea, Dean. Do you have what you need? Toothpaste? Night clothes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dean…”
“Yes, Pastor Jim.”
“Okay, then. Head on up. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The bathroom is across the hall from the room he shares with Sam, and Dean leaves the door open a crack so he can hear what goes on while he’s getting ready for bed. He can’t make out what Sammy’s saying, but Jim’s voice is gentle and light, soothing his brother through swallowing the medicine and asking him if he needs anything else.
When he shuts the water off after rinsing his mouth, he hears something else, though, and it has him out of the bathroom and hovering uncertainly in the open doorway to their borrowed room.
“Now I lay me down to sleep…” Sam is saying, for all the world like he says bedtime prayers every night.
Dean was there when Sam said his first word—Dada or Dee, depending on who you ask—has been there when Sam’s gotten perfect scores on spelling tests and jumped ahead three readers for being so smart. He knows all the words Sam knows, but he’s never heard him put them together like this.
Sam finishes the prayer—one that Dean knows only from television re-runs and Saturday afternoon black-and-white movies—and Pastor Jim tucks Sammy in.
Only then does he appear to notice Dean standing in the doorway.
“Climb up,” he whispers, indicating the ladder at the end of the bunk beds.
Dean tucks his diddy bag into his duffle and climbs up, the ladder rails cold against his bare feet. The sheets are soft, like one of his father’s old shirts, and smell of fabric softener. The pillow is likewise fresh-smelling, plump and not worn out with much use.
The ceiling here cants down, making a tight elbow where the upper bunk meets the wall. It’s a close space, and it makes Dean shiver. He’s all the more grateful, then, that Pastor Jim keeps his distance as he wishes Dean a good night.
“Do you pray at night, Dean?” He asks it like he’s casually curious, no judgment in his voice, but Dean still feels cold settle in his belly when he answers.
“No.”
“That’s okay. I pray for the Winchesters every night, just like I do all the hunters and their families.”
Dean knows the man means to make him feel better about his spiritual lack, but his words only make the cold grow and spread up his back. It seems like one more thing he owes that he probably can’t repay.
“Good night,” he says, faking a yawn, and Pastor Jim pats him on the knee and says, “Good night, Dean. Sleep tight.”
He brings the door mostly closed behind him, leaving a narrow sliver of yellow light from the dim lamp on a table in the hall, and though it’s been years since Dean was afraid of the dark itself, he’s happy for the little illumination. Never know when you’ll need to see what comes out of the dark after you.
Once he’s sure Pastor Jim has gone back downstairs, Dean sneaks out of bed to his duffle and retrieves the knife he keeps beneath his pillow. Holy man’s house or not, he’s not sleeping without it.
That night, Dean dreams that he’s running on a road beneath a storm-swollen sky. Lightning tears up the earth in geysers of sod, sets trees at some distance ablaze, and a voice thunders down on him, sometimes like his father’s, sometimes a stranger’s, always saying, “Faster! Run faster!” His heart is throbbing in his chest, his breath coming in heaving, painful gasps, and still he’s commanded to run. He can’t feel his legs; his calves are crippled by cramps, and still the voice says, “Faster, Dean! Faster!”
He awakes with a start to morning light coming in the curtained windows, to the smell of something good coming up the stairs from below, to a stillness that says Sammy isn’t in the room.
Go here for Part III.
Peace,
SW
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-09 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 06:45 pm (UTC)