(no subject)
The Family Business
by Harikari
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Chapter One: Farewell to Sunnyhell
The sky outside was still gray with early morning when Dean Winchester awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. He groaned, rolled out of bed and stumbled out of his room before his eyes were even fully opened.
The phone was on the end table next to the living room couch. Dean dropped down onto the couch, turned the television on with the remote he found on the sofa arm (Sam had left the tv on channel four the night before, which was now blaring the morning news) and reached for the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hello, John?" A woman's voice. A woman asking for his father. Dean hadn't been expecting that.
"No." He didn't bother to elaborate. "Who is this?"
He realized he was being a little bit of an asshole. Didn't care. It was seven in the morning on a weekday, he was exhausted and sore all over from a hunt the night before (Brachen demons were a bitch to kill) and he had been expecting Pastor Jim or Bobby or any of the other numerous hunters his dad kept in contact with when he had answered the phone. Not some lady asking for his father by his first name.
"Oh...I'm sorry. This is Jessica Harris. I hope this isn't a bad time. I just...I really need to speak with John."
Jessica Harris. Dean leaned more deeply into the cushions of the couch. The name sounded vaguely familiar to him. Maybe this Jessica woman was a hunter and for some reason he just wasn't-
Wait. Harris. His mother had had a sister with the married name Harris. Hadn't she?
If Dean had been eating or drinking anything just then he would've choked. As it was he managed a vague, "Aunt Jessica?"
"Yes," she replied. And for the first time Dean noticed that there was something strange about the woman's voice. She sounded anxious. Upset. "Is this Dean? Or Sam?"
"Dean," he said.
"Is your father-" she began again, but he cut her off.
"Hold on a second. I'll get him for you." He put the receiver down on the table, pushed himself up off of the couch and moved toward his father's room. The door was open. John Winchester was sprawled belly down on his bed, the covers and sheet tangled around his long limbs. He was snoring. That and the fact that he hadn't gotten up with the sound of the ringing phone served as evidence of just how tired the man was.
"Dad," Dean prodded from the door. "Dad," he said again when the man stirred. "Phone for you."
-----
His father stayed on the phone for what seemed to Dean to be a very long time.
He tried to listen in on the conversation at first. He sat on the couch next to his dad and pretended to be watching Micky Smithers of channel four news report on another sunny day in Los Angeles. But all too soon (Dean had at that point only gathered something about Anthony is in the hospital, wild dogs) his father seemed to realize what he was trying to do. He gave Dean a look that clearly said mind your own damn business and go do something useful already.
So with a frustrated sigh Dean stood and moved toward Sam's room. "Wake up! School day!" he shouted and gave the shut door a swift kick. He waited until he heard movement beyond the door, then headed for his own room. He needed to get dressed, and after that crazy hunt the night before he badly needed a shower.
Twenty minutes later Dean was dressed, had put the morning coffee to brew and was in the kitchen stuffing two pop-tarts into the toaster (the breakfast of champions).
And his dad was still in the living room, talking.
"So how was the hunt last night?" asked Sam as he shuffled his way into the kitchen. He was dressed but his hair was sticking up at odd angles and his shoes were still missing in action. "Okay?"
"Fine," Dean answered.
Sam moved to the fridge to grab the box of cereal that was sitting on top of it and a jug of milk, to the cabinets to grab a bowl then to the drawer to grab a clean spoon. He spread everything out on the kitchen table and as he began to pour his milk said, "I still don't get why I didn't get to go with you guys."
Dean, fixing himself a cup of coffee, groaned. "Not this crap again, Sammy. Dad told you why. It was a school night."
"Still," Sam tried through a mouthful of fruit loops, but Dean continued before he could say anything else.
"I don't know why you're bitching about it. You're always making such a big deal about how horrible it is that you have to miss out on so much school because of what we do. Dad told you to stay home on a school night. You should be happy."
"He always let you go on hunts on school nights when you were still in high school," complained Sam. It was as if he hadn't even heard his older brother speak. As if he was arguing for the sake of arguing. "And also, I've been thinking. Aren't you curious as to why dad decided to stay in L.A. for so long? I mean. I know that there are a lot of things to hunt down here. But it's weird. He rented a house this time, Dean. Not an apartment or a room. A house. A furnished house."
As to why, thought Dean as he chomped a mouthful of pop-tart. His little brother was such a geek.
"So what? We've lived in houses a few times before. We just haven't hunted down this way for a while. Dad wants to make sure that bastard demon that killed mom isn't hiding around this part of the country and he wants to kill a whole lot of other baddies while he's at it. California is crawling with evil things, Sam. You know that."
"I guess," said Sam. He poked at a soggy, blue fruit loop with his spoon. "Who is dad talking to? Do you know?"
Dean placed his coffee mug in the sink. "Mind your own business, bitch." With a wicked smirk he walked over to Sam and roughly ruffled his hair. "Hurry up. You've got about fifteen minutes to eat and finish getting ready."
"Jerk," Sam spat, glaring. He quickly shoveled down the rest of his cereal. Threw his bowl and spoon into the sink and left the kitchen. Still smirking, Dean followed his brother out of the kitchen and into the living room. He watched as Sam finally disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door a little more harshly than was strictly called for behind him.
"Dean. I need to talk to you."
Surprised, Dean turned to see his father standing next to the couch. He was, at last, off of the phone. "About the call from Aunt Jessica who we haven't seen for a decade and a half?" he asked.
"Yeah," his dad answered. "About that."
Dean moved so that he was closer to his father. Leaned heavily against the back of the couch. "Was she calling about something supernatural? Does she know what we do? Because I heard something about wild dogs-"
"No. She wasn't calling about anything like that. She doesn't know." He ran a hand through his still sleep mussed hair. "Anthony, her husband, was attacked last night. He was...it was bad. He's alive but he's in a coma and not doing very well."
Dean waited for the punch line. Because yeah, what had happened to that Anthony guy sucked. And his family having to deal with it sucked, too. But these were people he hadn't seen in a crapload of years. People that Dean knew his dad wouldn't even bother telling him about unless something besides their misery and pain, something major, was up.
His father sighed. "She wanted to know if she could send her son Xander here. To live with us for a while."
"Oh," said Dean. "Did she get pissed when you told her no?"
His father shook his head. Looked Dean straight in the eye. "I didn't tell her no, Dean."
For a long moment there was only silence.
Dean breathed. He wasn't normally one to question his father. That was more Sam's area. But this? Letting some long lost cousin that none of them even knew, that none of them had seen for literally years come live with them. A family of demon hunters? This was one thing that was just begging to be questioned. To be fought. "What?"
His dad looked ready for a fight. "Jessica has to deal with her husband, Dean. She can't concentrate on her son right now and he's been through a lot. He won't even be here for very long."
"But-" started Dean, because he really couldn't believe what it was he was hearing. But his dad went on before he could continue.
"It's not a big deal. It'll be fine."
Not a big deal?
Dean opened his mouth to argue; didn't know where to start. He felt as if he had up and tripped into an alternate universe. "I don't understand," he said. "We're always moving around. We haven't had any contact..." He trailed off and took a deep breath. "How did she even get this number? How did she even know how to contact you?" He moved away from the couch and started to pace. "We don't even know this guy. What if he's a bad influence on Sam? What about hunting? What if he finds out and freaks and tells people? Or what if he gets hurt? How are we going to hide hunting from him?" And yeah, he realized he was ranting now but he didn't care. He had to make his dad realize just how insane the idea of letting someone live with them was before it was too late.
His father shook his head.
"It'll be fine," he said. "He'll be fine, Dean." But he said it in a way that let Dean know he really wasn't entirely sure about that himself. "He's your cousin. You even met him when you were younger. Don't you remember?"
And Dean isn't sure if it's because of the vivid trauma of his mother's death, but he does have what he's been told are unusually clear memories of being four. And he does remember little Alex. He remembers a chubby bundle of two year old with overlarge brown eyes and a dark, curly mop of hair. He remembers the way the two year old wiggled his fingers at a cooing Sammy through the bars of the crib and he remembers having entirely too much fun bossing the kid around. But there's no way he's going to admit that he remembers those things. And it doesn't matter anyway. Because Alex was only a toddler then. A baby. It was all too possible that he had transformed into a horrible teenager by now. And even if he wasn't horrible, having him around would be way too dangerous and stupid for way too many reasons.
"No," he spat and spun to look his father in the eye again. "You're the one who is always so careful about these things. I don't understand why you would want to do this! It doesn't make any sense!" He was shouting now, but he didn't care. Because if there was ever a time to shout at his father it was now.
"Listen. Dean." And John Winchester sounded serious now. He sounded angry. "I've already told your Aunt Jessica yes. We are going to take Xander in for a little while. He is going to come to L.A. tomorrow night whether you like it or not and you are not going to treat him like shit just because you think that he might be a bad influence on Sam, or that he might find out about us. We'll be careful, we'll handle it. He's your mother's nephew...she would have wanted to help him. He's coming and you'll welcome him. That's an order."
Dean felt his muscles tighten, his fists clench. An order.
And it suddenly all made sense. His dad had agreed to help someone he hardly even knew anymore for the same reason he did almost everything he did, almost everything he had ever done. Mom.
Briefly, Dean thought about continuing his argument. Tomorrow is too soon, it doesn't matter if it's an order I still think it's a bullshit idea. But he knew it wouldn't do any good.
"Yes, sir." He grabbed his jacket up from its place over the recliner's arm and his keys from the coffee table. "Tell Sam to hurry it up. I'll be waiting in the car."
-----
I think it would be best for all of us if you left...for a while.
Xander stepped into the bus station. Took in the rows of seats and benches, the numerous vending machines, the gaggle of people lined up for tickets and the too bright fluorescent lighting. He took a seat on one of the benches next to a woman who was telling her young son that it was bad to eat things off of the floor.
He glanced at his watch. It was nineteen minutes after seven. His ride was supposed to be there at seven thirty.
I think...I'm going to send you to live with your Uncle John for a while, Xander.
Xander sighed and rubbed his eyes.
It was now Thursday night. Which meant that his father had been attacked nearly forty-eight hours before. Two days before. And...man. In just two days his father had fallen into a coma, his mother had both discovered and decided to ignore his I hunt evil things secret, he had been told he was going to be sent to live with some long lost relatives he didn't even know and he had endured an uncomfortably long bus ride from Sunnydale station to inner city L.A. in order to meet and impose upon those same relatives.
Yeah. Things are going great for me right now. Since the moment his mother had told him her plan to send him away from Sunnydale Xander had been trying to lock away his feelings in order to avoid further troubling his mother or himself. Had been trying to hide his emotional reactions to everything that had happened and everything that was going to happen. Through listening to his mom while she begged an obviously unenthusiastic John Winchester to take my son in, please over the phone, packing his things for L.A. (he had been forced to leave behind his comic book collection, his Seven of Nine poster and even his skateboard) and saying goodbye to his weak and comatose father that morning he hadn't flinched. Hadn't allowed himself to feel much of anything.
But now. Now he had just finished with a long bus ride and his stomach was in knots because of hunger and because of nervousness and he was tired.
So he could no longer hold back his emotions, his thoughts. Couldn't hide his feelings from himself any longer.
He was worried about his dad, he was angry at his mom. He was angry at himself for being angry at his mom. He couldn't get the images of his father being feasted on by a demon or of his mother watching from the car with a look of relief on her face as he had made his way into the Sunnydale bus station earlier that day out of his head. He also couldn't stop thinking about his friends. And about how not one of them had contacted him or visited him at the hospital. Not Giles, not Buffy, not Oz, not Cordelia, not even Willow.
Why? he thought. Why didn't they check on me? Because honestly, if it had been one of them in Xander's position -- if something bad had happened to any of their family members -- he would've been there for his friends.
Xander glanced at his watch again. It was seven twenty-nine. He rose from his seat and gathered his luggage, then moved to stand next to the doors and look out at the street. His mother had said that John Winchester would be driving a blue Ford truck...and yeah, there it was. Parked across the street next to a parking meter. He could see a man who looked a little younger than his father was in the driver's seat of the Ford, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Hoping he had the right man and the right truck (apparently his uncle was not the type to actually walk in to a bus station to greet someone) Xander swung his backpack onto his shoulders, grabbed his suitcase and exited the bus station. As he walked toward the truck he tried to remember the details his mother had given him about John Winchester. Ex military, two sons, wife died years ago, moves his family around a lot.
Though Xander was far from actually knowing the guy he had admittedly heard things about John Winchester and his family before. Mostly, he had heard those things when he was younger. When his mother had still talked about her sister Mary and her sister Mary's sons and about how it was so sad that the woman had had to die so young. Xander's mother had even said something years ago about having visited her sister in Kansas just a few months before her death in '83.
He reached the truck. John Winchester gave him a measuring look and a nod of acknowledgment as he rounded the vehicle to reach the passenger's side.
And at that moment, as always, Xander was absently taking in his surroundings. It was something he did without thinking. A habit he had developed after a few too many years of demon hunting in Sunnydale. He noticed the dizzying movement of people and buses that was the station across the street, the slow look he was getting from John Winchester, the sound of a nearby shop's over-the-door bell as another customer made his or her way in or out and a high pitched...squeaking.
The squeaking (maybe more like a squealing) is what made him stop cold, his hand already gripping the truck's door handle. The sound reminded him much too much of his mother's terrified mewling the night of his father's attack. Reminded him too much of the countless people he had heard crying out in pain or in fear in Sunnydale because of one evil thing or another...
He turned and noticed that almost directly behind him, sandwiched between a shoe shop and a small Italian restaurant, was a very dark alley. The perfect place for a vampire or other dark thing to feast on poor, defenseless, unsuspecting victims on nights just like this one.
The squeaking-squealing sound came again. Only this time it was more urgent. Sounded wet.
Xander jumped when the passenger door popped open under his hand. He looked up to see his Uncle giving him a strange look. "Xander, right?" he asked.
Xander nodded. His fingers were twitching and he was suddenly jumpy with the need to destroy whatever it was that was feeding in the alley, whatever it was shrouded in the deep black. But this wasn't home. He had no back up, no weapon on hand. And his Uncle who he didn't even really know was looking at him like he was crazy. So...
"Yeah," he said. "That's right." He tossed his suitcase to the back of the truck when the man motioned for him to do so. "And you're...uh, John. Uncle John."
John grinned. "That's right," he answered. "You must be tired, huh?" His eyes flickered to the alley behind Xander, too.
Xander gripped the straps of his backpack more tightly and tried to imagine that the steadily fading sound he was hearing wasn't someone fighting for their life as all of their blood was drained away. "I guess. A little."
"Come on," the man said. "Get in." And he was suddenly no longer grinning.
Xander got in the truck. As he closed the door he caught the faint scent of smoke on the wind. A scent that for some reason caused goose bumps to rise on his skin and a strange tingle of recognition to spark in his mind.
"Sorry about rushing you. It's just," John said as he pulled into traffic, "Los Angeles is a very dangerous place at night."
Xander turned to look out the window of the truck. To look back at the alley.
More dangerous than you'll ever know, Uncle John, he thought.
-----
It took about ten minutes of driving before Xander noticed the gradual fading of bright lights, tall buildings and traffic.
They were leaving the city area and entering the suburbs.
Only a brief minute after they had turned onto a street lined with quaint, slightly worn looking one-story houses with dying front lawns the blue Ford truck pulled into a driveway. "We're here?" Xander asked his Uncle. And he knew in the back of his mind that this was kind of a big moment. A horrible moment. But because of the long bus ride and the not-being-able-to-save-someone in the alley thing and everything else that had happened that day so far he just didn't have the energy to really care.
"We're here," the man replied. He got out of the truck and slammed the door behind him, reached for Xander's suitcase.
"This kind of looks like my house in Sunnydale," Xander mumbled to no one, then got out of the truck himself.
He followed John Winchester across the front lawn, up the two steps that led up to the porch, across the small porch (it was really nothing more than a slab of concrete a few inches higher than ground level) and to the front door. John bent to sort through his keys in the dim illumination of the motion light; he needn't have bothered.
The wooden front door flew suddenly and almost violently inwards. It revealed two young men standing just inside the doorway. One looked to be about Xander's age. He had long legs and arms that seemed to be threatening to shoot up and out even more at any moment. The other looked a little older. He was broader looking. More solid.
The younger boy stared at Xander as if he were the most interesting sight that could ever be seen. The other guy just...stared.
"Perfect timing," said John. He straightened and put a hand on Xander's shoulder. "Sam. Dean. Say hello to your cousin, Xander."
-----
Chapter Two
by Harikari
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Chapter One: Farewell to Sunnyhell
The sky outside was still gray with early morning when Dean Winchester awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. He groaned, rolled out of bed and stumbled out of his room before his eyes were even fully opened.
The phone was on the end table next to the living room couch. Dean dropped down onto the couch, turned the television on with the remote he found on the sofa arm (Sam had left the tv on channel four the night before, which was now blaring the morning news) and reached for the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hello, John?" A woman's voice. A woman asking for his father. Dean hadn't been expecting that.
"No." He didn't bother to elaborate. "Who is this?"
He realized he was being a little bit of an asshole. Didn't care. It was seven in the morning on a weekday, he was exhausted and sore all over from a hunt the night before (Brachen demons were a bitch to kill) and he had been expecting Pastor Jim or Bobby or any of the other numerous hunters his dad kept in contact with when he had answered the phone. Not some lady asking for his father by his first name.
"Oh...I'm sorry. This is Jessica Harris. I hope this isn't a bad time. I just...I really need to speak with John."
Jessica Harris. Dean leaned more deeply into the cushions of the couch. The name sounded vaguely familiar to him. Maybe this Jessica woman was a hunter and for some reason he just wasn't-
Wait. Harris. His mother had had a sister with the married name Harris. Hadn't she?
If Dean had been eating or drinking anything just then he would've choked. As it was he managed a vague, "Aunt Jessica?"
"Yes," she replied. And for the first time Dean noticed that there was something strange about the woman's voice. She sounded anxious. Upset. "Is this Dean? Or Sam?"
"Dean," he said.
"Is your father-" she began again, but he cut her off.
"Hold on a second. I'll get him for you." He put the receiver down on the table, pushed himself up off of the couch and moved toward his father's room. The door was open. John Winchester was sprawled belly down on his bed, the covers and sheet tangled around his long limbs. He was snoring. That and the fact that he hadn't gotten up with the sound of the ringing phone served as evidence of just how tired the man was.
"Dad," Dean prodded from the door. "Dad," he said again when the man stirred. "Phone for you."
-----
His father stayed on the phone for what seemed to Dean to be a very long time.
He tried to listen in on the conversation at first. He sat on the couch next to his dad and pretended to be watching Micky Smithers of channel four news report on another sunny day in Los Angeles. But all too soon (Dean had at that point only gathered something about Anthony is in the hospital, wild dogs) his father seemed to realize what he was trying to do. He gave Dean a look that clearly said mind your own damn business and go do something useful already.
So with a frustrated sigh Dean stood and moved toward Sam's room. "Wake up! School day!" he shouted and gave the shut door a swift kick. He waited until he heard movement beyond the door, then headed for his own room. He needed to get dressed, and after that crazy hunt the night before he badly needed a shower.
Twenty minutes later Dean was dressed, had put the morning coffee to brew and was in the kitchen stuffing two pop-tarts into the toaster (the breakfast of champions).
And his dad was still in the living room, talking.
"So how was the hunt last night?" asked Sam as he shuffled his way into the kitchen. He was dressed but his hair was sticking up at odd angles and his shoes were still missing in action. "Okay?"
"Fine," Dean answered.
Sam moved to the fridge to grab the box of cereal that was sitting on top of it and a jug of milk, to the cabinets to grab a bowl then to the drawer to grab a clean spoon. He spread everything out on the kitchen table and as he began to pour his milk said, "I still don't get why I didn't get to go with you guys."
Dean, fixing himself a cup of coffee, groaned. "Not this crap again, Sammy. Dad told you why. It was a school night."
"Still," Sam tried through a mouthful of fruit loops, but Dean continued before he could say anything else.
"I don't know why you're bitching about it. You're always making such a big deal about how horrible it is that you have to miss out on so much school because of what we do. Dad told you to stay home on a school night. You should be happy."
"He always let you go on hunts on school nights when you were still in high school," complained Sam. It was as if he hadn't even heard his older brother speak. As if he was arguing for the sake of arguing. "And also, I've been thinking. Aren't you curious as to why dad decided to stay in L.A. for so long? I mean. I know that there are a lot of things to hunt down here. But it's weird. He rented a house this time, Dean. Not an apartment or a room. A house. A furnished house."
As to why, thought Dean as he chomped a mouthful of pop-tart. His little brother was such a geek.
"So what? We've lived in houses a few times before. We just haven't hunted down this way for a while. Dad wants to make sure that bastard demon that killed mom isn't hiding around this part of the country and he wants to kill a whole lot of other baddies while he's at it. California is crawling with evil things, Sam. You know that."
"I guess," said Sam. He poked at a soggy, blue fruit loop with his spoon. "Who is dad talking to? Do you know?"
Dean placed his coffee mug in the sink. "Mind your own business, bitch." With a wicked smirk he walked over to Sam and roughly ruffled his hair. "Hurry up. You've got about fifteen minutes to eat and finish getting ready."
"Jerk," Sam spat, glaring. He quickly shoveled down the rest of his cereal. Threw his bowl and spoon into the sink and left the kitchen. Still smirking, Dean followed his brother out of the kitchen and into the living room. He watched as Sam finally disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door a little more harshly than was strictly called for behind him.
"Dean. I need to talk to you."
Surprised, Dean turned to see his father standing next to the couch. He was, at last, off of the phone. "About the call from Aunt Jessica who we haven't seen for a decade and a half?" he asked.
"Yeah," his dad answered. "About that."
Dean moved so that he was closer to his father. Leaned heavily against the back of the couch. "Was she calling about something supernatural? Does she know what we do? Because I heard something about wild dogs-"
"No. She wasn't calling about anything like that. She doesn't know." He ran a hand through his still sleep mussed hair. "Anthony, her husband, was attacked last night. He was...it was bad. He's alive but he's in a coma and not doing very well."
Dean waited for the punch line. Because yeah, what had happened to that Anthony guy sucked. And his family having to deal with it sucked, too. But these were people he hadn't seen in a crapload of years. People that Dean knew his dad wouldn't even bother telling him about unless something besides their misery and pain, something major, was up.
His father sighed. "She wanted to know if she could send her son Xander here. To live with us for a while."
"Oh," said Dean. "Did she get pissed when you told her no?"
His father shook his head. Looked Dean straight in the eye. "I didn't tell her no, Dean."
For a long moment there was only silence.
Dean breathed. He wasn't normally one to question his father. That was more Sam's area. But this? Letting some long lost cousin that none of them even knew, that none of them had seen for literally years come live with them. A family of demon hunters? This was one thing that was just begging to be questioned. To be fought. "What?"
His dad looked ready for a fight. "Jessica has to deal with her husband, Dean. She can't concentrate on her son right now and he's been through a lot. He won't even be here for very long."
"But-" started Dean, because he really couldn't believe what it was he was hearing. But his dad went on before he could continue.
"It's not a big deal. It'll be fine."
Not a big deal?
Dean opened his mouth to argue; didn't know where to start. He felt as if he had up and tripped into an alternate universe. "I don't understand," he said. "We're always moving around. We haven't had any contact..." He trailed off and took a deep breath. "How did she even get this number? How did she even know how to contact you?" He moved away from the couch and started to pace. "We don't even know this guy. What if he's a bad influence on Sam? What about hunting? What if he finds out and freaks and tells people? Or what if he gets hurt? How are we going to hide hunting from him?" And yeah, he realized he was ranting now but he didn't care. He had to make his dad realize just how insane the idea of letting someone live with them was before it was too late.
His father shook his head.
"It'll be fine," he said. "He'll be fine, Dean." But he said it in a way that let Dean know he really wasn't entirely sure about that himself. "He's your cousin. You even met him when you were younger. Don't you remember?"
And Dean isn't sure if it's because of the vivid trauma of his mother's death, but he does have what he's been told are unusually clear memories of being four. And he does remember little Alex. He remembers a chubby bundle of two year old with overlarge brown eyes and a dark, curly mop of hair. He remembers the way the two year old wiggled his fingers at a cooing Sammy through the bars of the crib and he remembers having entirely too much fun bossing the kid around. But there's no way he's going to admit that he remembers those things. And it doesn't matter anyway. Because Alex was only a toddler then. A baby. It was all too possible that he had transformed into a horrible teenager by now. And even if he wasn't horrible, having him around would be way too dangerous and stupid for way too many reasons.
"No," he spat and spun to look his father in the eye again. "You're the one who is always so careful about these things. I don't understand why you would want to do this! It doesn't make any sense!" He was shouting now, but he didn't care. Because if there was ever a time to shout at his father it was now.
"Listen. Dean." And John Winchester sounded serious now. He sounded angry. "I've already told your Aunt Jessica yes. We are going to take Xander in for a little while. He is going to come to L.A. tomorrow night whether you like it or not and you are not going to treat him like shit just because you think that he might be a bad influence on Sam, or that he might find out about us. We'll be careful, we'll handle it. He's your mother's nephew...she would have wanted to help him. He's coming and you'll welcome him. That's an order."
Dean felt his muscles tighten, his fists clench. An order.
And it suddenly all made sense. His dad had agreed to help someone he hardly even knew anymore for the same reason he did almost everything he did, almost everything he had ever done. Mom.
Briefly, Dean thought about continuing his argument. Tomorrow is too soon, it doesn't matter if it's an order I still think it's a bullshit idea. But he knew it wouldn't do any good.
"Yes, sir." He grabbed his jacket up from its place over the recliner's arm and his keys from the coffee table. "Tell Sam to hurry it up. I'll be waiting in the car."
-----
I think it would be best for all of us if you left...for a while.
Xander stepped into the bus station. Took in the rows of seats and benches, the numerous vending machines, the gaggle of people lined up for tickets and the too bright fluorescent lighting. He took a seat on one of the benches next to a woman who was telling her young son that it was bad to eat things off of the floor.
He glanced at his watch. It was nineteen minutes after seven. His ride was supposed to be there at seven thirty.
I think...I'm going to send you to live with your Uncle John for a while, Xander.
Xander sighed and rubbed his eyes.
It was now Thursday night. Which meant that his father had been attacked nearly forty-eight hours before. Two days before. And...man. In just two days his father had fallen into a coma, his mother had both discovered and decided to ignore his I hunt evil things secret, he had been told he was going to be sent to live with some long lost relatives he didn't even know and he had endured an uncomfortably long bus ride from Sunnydale station to inner city L.A. in order to meet and impose upon those same relatives.
Yeah. Things are going great for me right now. Since the moment his mother had told him her plan to send him away from Sunnydale Xander had been trying to lock away his feelings in order to avoid further troubling his mother or himself. Had been trying to hide his emotional reactions to everything that had happened and everything that was going to happen. Through listening to his mom while she begged an obviously unenthusiastic John Winchester to take my son in, please over the phone, packing his things for L.A. (he had been forced to leave behind his comic book collection, his Seven of Nine poster and even his skateboard) and saying goodbye to his weak and comatose father that morning he hadn't flinched. Hadn't allowed himself to feel much of anything.
But now. Now he had just finished with a long bus ride and his stomach was in knots because of hunger and because of nervousness and he was tired.
So he could no longer hold back his emotions, his thoughts. Couldn't hide his feelings from himself any longer.
He was worried about his dad, he was angry at his mom. He was angry at himself for being angry at his mom. He couldn't get the images of his father being feasted on by a demon or of his mother watching from the car with a look of relief on her face as he had made his way into the Sunnydale bus station earlier that day out of his head. He also couldn't stop thinking about his friends. And about how not one of them had contacted him or visited him at the hospital. Not Giles, not Buffy, not Oz, not Cordelia, not even Willow.
Why? he thought. Why didn't they check on me? Because honestly, if it had been one of them in Xander's position -- if something bad had happened to any of their family members -- he would've been there for his friends.
Xander glanced at his watch again. It was seven twenty-nine. He rose from his seat and gathered his luggage, then moved to stand next to the doors and look out at the street. His mother had said that John Winchester would be driving a blue Ford truck...and yeah, there it was. Parked across the street next to a parking meter. He could see a man who looked a little younger than his father was in the driver's seat of the Ford, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Hoping he had the right man and the right truck (apparently his uncle was not the type to actually walk in to a bus station to greet someone) Xander swung his backpack onto his shoulders, grabbed his suitcase and exited the bus station. As he walked toward the truck he tried to remember the details his mother had given him about John Winchester. Ex military, two sons, wife died years ago, moves his family around a lot.
Though Xander was far from actually knowing the guy he had admittedly heard things about John Winchester and his family before. Mostly, he had heard those things when he was younger. When his mother had still talked about her sister Mary and her sister Mary's sons and about how it was so sad that the woman had had to die so young. Xander's mother had even said something years ago about having visited her sister in Kansas just a few months before her death in '83.
He reached the truck. John Winchester gave him a measuring look and a nod of acknowledgment as he rounded the vehicle to reach the passenger's side.
And at that moment, as always, Xander was absently taking in his surroundings. It was something he did without thinking. A habit he had developed after a few too many years of demon hunting in Sunnydale. He noticed the dizzying movement of people and buses that was the station across the street, the slow look he was getting from John Winchester, the sound of a nearby shop's over-the-door bell as another customer made his or her way in or out and a high pitched...squeaking.
The squeaking (maybe more like a squealing) is what made him stop cold, his hand already gripping the truck's door handle. The sound reminded him much too much of his mother's terrified mewling the night of his father's attack. Reminded him too much of the countless people he had heard crying out in pain or in fear in Sunnydale because of one evil thing or another...
He turned and noticed that almost directly behind him, sandwiched between a shoe shop and a small Italian restaurant, was a very dark alley. The perfect place for a vampire or other dark thing to feast on poor, defenseless, unsuspecting victims on nights just like this one.
The squeaking-squealing sound came again. Only this time it was more urgent. Sounded wet.
Xander jumped when the passenger door popped open under his hand. He looked up to see his Uncle giving him a strange look. "Xander, right?" he asked.
Xander nodded. His fingers were twitching and he was suddenly jumpy with the need to destroy whatever it was that was feeding in the alley, whatever it was shrouded in the deep black. But this wasn't home. He had no back up, no weapon on hand. And his Uncle who he didn't even really know was looking at him like he was crazy. So...
"Yeah," he said. "That's right." He tossed his suitcase to the back of the truck when the man motioned for him to do so. "And you're...uh, John. Uncle John."
John grinned. "That's right," he answered. "You must be tired, huh?" His eyes flickered to the alley behind Xander, too.
Xander gripped the straps of his backpack more tightly and tried to imagine that the steadily fading sound he was hearing wasn't someone fighting for their life as all of their blood was drained away. "I guess. A little."
"Come on," the man said. "Get in." And he was suddenly no longer grinning.
Xander got in the truck. As he closed the door he caught the faint scent of smoke on the wind. A scent that for some reason caused goose bumps to rise on his skin and a strange tingle of recognition to spark in his mind.
"Sorry about rushing you. It's just," John said as he pulled into traffic, "Los Angeles is a very dangerous place at night."
Xander turned to look out the window of the truck. To look back at the alley.
More dangerous than you'll ever know, Uncle John, he thought.
-----
It took about ten minutes of driving before Xander noticed the gradual fading of bright lights, tall buildings and traffic.
They were leaving the city area and entering the suburbs.
Only a brief minute after they had turned onto a street lined with quaint, slightly worn looking one-story houses with dying front lawns the blue Ford truck pulled into a driveway. "We're here?" Xander asked his Uncle. And he knew in the back of his mind that this was kind of a big moment. A horrible moment. But because of the long bus ride and the not-being-able-to-save-someone in the alley thing and everything else that had happened that day so far he just didn't have the energy to really care.
"We're here," the man replied. He got out of the truck and slammed the door behind him, reached for Xander's suitcase.
"This kind of looks like my house in Sunnydale," Xander mumbled to no one, then got out of the truck himself.
He followed John Winchester across the front lawn, up the two steps that led up to the porch, across the small porch (it was really nothing more than a slab of concrete a few inches higher than ground level) and to the front door. John bent to sort through his keys in the dim illumination of the motion light; he needn't have bothered.
The wooden front door flew suddenly and almost violently inwards. It revealed two young men standing just inside the doorway. One looked to be about Xander's age. He had long legs and arms that seemed to be threatening to shoot up and out even more at any moment. The other looked a little older. He was broader looking. More solid.
The younger boy stared at Xander as if he were the most interesting sight that could ever be seen. The other guy just...stared.
"Perfect timing," said John. He straightened and put a hand on Xander's shoulder. "Sam. Dean. Say hello to your cousin, Xander."
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Chapter Two