Bumf*ck, Nowhere - Part Thirteen
Master Post
Part Thirteen
Following the steady hum of voices, Dean wandered slowly down the hallway, his socked feet padding silently on the carpet. He stopped in the doorway and took in the beehive of activity that was the kitchen. Ryan and Tim bustled around the room, pulling dishes from the cupboard and food and drink from the fridge, and preparing the table for supper. Carrie was standing over the stove. She slapped at Sam’s hand, warning him to keep his grubby hands out of the food. Grinning mischievously, Sam reached around to tap her far shoulder, and in that split moment in which she was distracted, he snagged her spoon, stuck it in his mouth and scampered away before she could retaliate.
It was the perfect family portrait and Dean’s stomach rolled with a feeling that was most certainly not hunger - no matter how good supper smelled. He backed away from the kitchen without being seen and went in search of his boots.
With the demon sent back to Hell, Dean figured that both the Heiser and Schmidt families should be safe for some time. Nothing could change the fact that Mark Heiser was a Special Kid and, yeah, who knew what messed up shit would come his way in the future, but Dean figured they'd done everything they could for him. The Heiser residence was protected by several devil's traps and the family were wised up to the ways of the things that went bump in the night. They knew how to protect themselves better than most people and if they needed extra help down the track, they now had the Winchesters on speed dial.
As for the Schmidts, they had always been immaterial to the demon, Michelle's weakened body a means to an end, nothing more. Sam and Dean had made sure their house was as demon-proof as possible anyway, just in case, but now that Michelle was out of the woods, Dean didn't see that he and Sammy had any reason to hang around. Only Michelle seemed to have decided that her 'cousins from out of town' were not going to be staying at a boarding house over Christmas. And that youngest Schmidt boy, he had puppy dog eyes that could rival Sam's. In fact, Dean wasn't entirely sure Sam wasn't coaching him in how to use them, because Sam was pushing hard for them to stay too. He was trying to use the 'free accommodation' angle to persuade Dean, but Dean knew that Sammy just wanted a chance at a normal family Christmas. Dean shook his head. When was his little brother ever going to learn that Winchesters just didn't get normal? Anything normal they tried to touch turned to crap, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was mess up Carrie and her brothers.
And yet, he had allowed Sammy to pull him outside that afternoon. He and Sam had helped Ryan and Timmy to build a proper snow fort with an armory stocked full of snowballs, because ‘Be Prepared’ wasn’t just a motto for Boy Scouts. After which, the four boys - two Winchesters and two Schmidts - had launched a preemptive strike on the boy next door, who, according to Ryan, was notorious for his unwarranted snow ball attacks. Now, if Dean was being truly honest with himself, he would admit that he had rather enjoyed a bit of ‘normal’ that afternoon with his brother and Schmidt boys.
But afternoon had turned to evening, and the Schmidt household had settled into its well-known suppertime routine and Dean suddenly felt very claustrophobic. He took advantage of the distraction that supper had caused to slip out the back door, leaving his brother behind. He’d let Sam have his brief taste of normal if it meant he could escape it.
***
Mac ‘n Cheese. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real Mac ‘n Cheese, but any memory he did have, paled in comparison to this reality. He dug his fork into the bowl, spearing the plump macaroni noodles and brought the cheesy forkful to his mouth, closing his lips around it. He let his eyes drift closed and groaned appreciatively.
“S’good,” he mumbled through a mouthful, praising Carrie for a job well done. He pounced on the tall glass of milk as she set it on the table in front of him, taking several noisy gulps of the frothy white drink.
“Don’t they ever feed you?” she asked, giggling.
Sam shook his head, taking another large bite of macaroni, and letting his eyes roll in pleasure. “Not like this,” he answered. “Not homemade. Dean used to make it from the box when we were kids, but that was a lifetime ago.”
“Where is Dean?”
Sam glanced up from his bowl, frowning. He had seen Dean in the doorway of the kitchen, watching everyone prepare the meal. Sam had even caught a glimpse of Dean as he had left the room. He hadn't thought too much about it at the time, but for Dean to miss a free meal…such a thing was practically unheard of. Sam shoveled the rest of the macaroni into his mouth and rose from the table, taking his bowl and glass with him. He tipped the glass back, drinking the rest of the milk, set both dishes in the sink, and then left the kitchen in search of his brother.
He went quietly from room to room, looking for, but not finding any sign of Dean. He took his phone from his pocket and for the first time noticed a message alert.
Needed some fresh air. D
“Dammit Dean,” Sam said under his breath. Muttering to himself, he tucked the phone back into his pocket and was startled when Michelle Schmidt’s soft voice cut through Sam’s colorful inner monologue.
“Everything okay?” she asked, stepping into the room. She crossed to the sofa and carefully lowered herself down, and Sam found himself sliding in next to her.
He turned his face to her and for the first time since meeting her, really looked at her. She was young for a mom with a sixteen-year-old. If Sam had to guess, he’d say early thirties, which really wasn’t too much older than Dean, but there was something about her that made Sam want to open up to her. Something that made him want to put his head on her shoulder and spill all the ups and downs of his day and let her chase away all of his worries. Something that Sam could only attribute to her being a mother.
“He doesn’t like being here very much, does he? Being cooped up with us?”
Sam didn’t have to guess to know that she was aware of Dean’s disappearance, and it made his stomach drop.
“It’s not that,” he answered remorsefully. “He’s got nothing personal against you, I promise. It’s just…” Sam searched for the right thing to say, but hesitated, speechless. How could he possibly explain a person like Dean to someone who could never hope to understand their lives?
“Complicated?” Michelle filled in.
“Yeah,” Sam chuckled humorlessly. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and combed a hand up through the long fringe of hair that framed his face, pushing it out of his eyes and to the side. He knew that the bangs made him appear years younger, and he was trying to grow them out; trying to not look so young; trying to outgrow being Dean Winchester’s kid brother. Trying and failing. ‘Can’t fight what you are, Sammy’, he could hear his brother saying to him.
“I’ve been Dean’s shadow almost my whole life,” Sam accepted, dropping his gaze into his lap, “but there’s times, like this week especially, when even I don’t know what’s going on in his head.”
“It’s alright, Sam. We’re all entitled to our privacy.” Michelle placed a hand over Sam’s forearm and gave him a soothing pat. “And if you boys don’t want to do Christmas with us, that’s fine too.” She held up one cupped hand, “Two young guys…” She held up the second hand, mimicking the first, “a bunch of kids…” Raising and lowering her hands like a scale, she laughed and said, “Truth be told, if I were you, I’d be trying to escape too, but…”
She carefully turned in her seat so that she was facing Sam more directly, and stooping down, to capture his complete attention, she took his hand in hers. “But…I am going to repay you both. What you’ve done for my family…words just aren’t enough. So, if there’s anything you need; anything at all, you be sure to let me know. Okay?”
“You haven’t got a distributor for a ’67 Impala lying around, have you?” Sam half-joked.
Michelle frowned, bemused. “A what?”
“Nothing,” Sam laughed, smiling sheepishly.
“Carrie.” Although not loud, Michelle’s voice rang clear and all too quickly, Carrie was standing in the doorway.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Honey, could you fix up a bowl for Sam to take for him and his brother to share?”
“Sure.” Carrie turned on her heal and walked straight back into the kitchen.
“Michelle, you don’t have to.”
“Shush. What did I say? Anything you need. Now, I know he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. And since I don’t expect you’ll be back around for Christmas dinner, it is completely within my rights to make sure you’ve got something to hold you both over. Now, you better get going, before the boys realize you’re leaving. Timmy’s got those same powerful puppy dog eyes that you’ve got. You don’t wanna fall under his power.”
Carrie appeared at his side with two containers. Sam opened his hands to accept them and she placed them one at a time into his hands. “Macaroni,” she said, handing him a recycled Cool Whip container. “The boys are all done eating, so I just gave you the rest of it.” Then she handed in the second container, a butter tub that looked as though it had been used over and over again for leftovers. “I packed up some smoked ham for you. It’s supposed to be for dinner tomorrow, but you didn’t eat much and Dean hasn’t eaten at all, so…”
Sam looked up at the girl in awe. She blushed and looked away from his searching gaze. Was this the same girl - the one they’d labeled jailbait - who only days before had done everything in her power to gain his attention? She seemed different somehow; older…sadder. He recognized the same haunted look in his brother; the look that said there was nothing she could do that would ever be enough to protect her family from what’s out there. It hurt Sam’s heart to see the effect that his world could have on a vibrant young girl; to know that she was just another person touched and forever changed by the evil that he and his brother hunted daily.
“Thank you,” he said to Carrie, and then turned to Michelle. “Thank you.”
What he meant to say was, ‘I’m sorry.’
***
“There’s no use sneakin’,” Dean’s voice rang out into the darkness. “You were never any good at it, Sammy. I could always hear you comin’ from a mile away with your size 13 heavy-ass feet.” Sam rolled his eyes and let go of the breath he’d been holding since the bottom of the staircase. Dean was right: no use sneakin’. Sam trotted up the remaining stairs, stepping onto the landing and ducking his head at precisely the right moment. He stopped and took in the mess Dean had spread out over the surface of their shared bed.
“What are you doing?”
Lifting the ‘eyebrow of judgment’, Dean scowled at Sam. “I’m cleaning our weapons. What the Hell does it look like I’m doing?”
Great, Sam thought. It was gonna be one of those nights. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I mean, why are you here?”
“Honestly? Because I got cold keeping m’Baby company.”
Sam bit down hard on the inside of his cheek; biting off the urge to tell Dean that the Impala had been the first place he’d gone looking for his wayward brother. Instead he just shook his head and offered Dean the food Carrie had prepared. His brother stared at the containers dubiously and then set them aside.
“It’s real good,” Sam assured him. “They sent us enough for tomorrow too, if we make it stretch.”
“Tomorrow?” Dean turned wide, nervous eyes on his brother, and Sam could see the wheels turning there. It was a look that spelled out guilt at having been caught out, but all too soon, the look changed. Dean narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were all for ‘playing house’ with the Schmidt kids.”
“I wasn’t playing house, Dean. I just thought it’d be nice to have…no, you know what? Don’t turn this around on me. I’m not the one who ran out on a very nice family who was just trying to show you their gratitude.”
Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his Colt. “I don’t need their gratitude, Sam, and I don’t want it.” Pointing the gun down and away, he removed the magazine, then pulled the slide and checked that there wasn’t a round in the chamber. Sam watched his careful movements, knowing that Dean could disassemble and reassemble this particular weapon with his eyes closed. But he never did. He was always meticulously careful and thorough. Even as a child, Sam had always enjoyed watching his brother work. There was a fluid beauty to Dean’s process; his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he removed the barrel bushing and then the slide lock; step by step, laying each piece out on a red cloth in front of him, until Dean’s .45 lay completely disassembled and ready for cleaning. He paused then to glance up, startling Sam back into awareness.
“What?” Dean huffed in annoyance.
“So what, you’re just gonna sit here? All by yourself? All Christmas Day?”
“That’s the plan, Sammy. Look, if you wanna go spend Christmas as a member of the Partridge family, be my guest. Maybe you can even go out caroling,” he added with mock enthusiasm.
Sam glared at him, crossing his arms tightly over his thin chest.
“But I’m not up for it, okay?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not,” Dean growled. “You’re not my shrink, Sam, so stop pushing for answers. Go back if you wanna go back. I’m not gonna stop you. But otherwise, shut up about it.”
Dean picked up his cleaning brush and started in on the next stage of his work; pointedly ignoring Sam. It wasn’t as if Sam didn’t already know what was really going on with Dean. He had, after all, spent nearly his entire life doing his best to keep pace with his brother. But it’d be nice if just once in a while Dean would open up to him; let him help to bear some of the weight that Dean had put upon his shoulders. The anger and the grief of losing their father had been killing Dean slowly; anyone could see it. Add to that the discovery of other ‘Special Children’ and the realization that he had been shackled with the responsibility of either having to save or kill his own brother; no one should have to go through that alone. But Dean wasn’t the sharing and caring type.
“You can’t stand there and will me into opening up with your mind, Sam. You haven’t got those kinda powers.” Dean eyed him sideways. “Do you?”
Sam rolled his eyes and tried to force down the smile that touched his lips. “You know I don’t…Jerk. Scoot over you bed hog.” Sam hipped into his brother’s shoulder and took a seat beside him along the headboard. The bed heaved under his weight, threatening to scatter all the bits and pieces important to the reassembly of Dean’s Colt.
“Bitch, you lose something and I’m gonna knock you senseless.”
“Shut up and hand me the food. I’m still hungry.”
Dean did, and when Sam opened the container of macaroni, Dean couldn’t help but lean in, following the aroma of the still warm noodles.
“Is that…Mac ‘n Cheese?”
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Part Fourteen