SPN/J2 Big Bang: Sons o' Desolation (Sam/Dean, NC-17, Part 1/2)

[joans23]

Master Post

"Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation-
Ee-yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!"
- From Town by Charles Badger Clark Jnr.
Sun and Saddle Leather (1917)

Dean's gaze scoured the horizon for any sign of his quarry. The prairie was empty, as far as the eye could see. He swung down from his horse, the leather of his chaps creaking in the heat of the mid afternoon sun. Walking this way and that, he searched the ground for the trial. He spit onto the light sandy soil when he found none.

Fuck.

He'd lost them.

Dean lifted his hat and untied the handkerchief from around his neck, mopping the sweat from his brow. He looked to the east, towards Lawrence, as always feeling the draw of his place of birth. Retying the handkerchief and replacing his hat, he mounted his horse and turned its head south, towards the small town of Bond.

He passed scattered fields of wheat and corn. Dean thought he'd try to find a few weeks worth of work while he waited to hear fresh news of the men he hunted and could pick up their scent again. The gun at his side made it hard sometimes. Folks didn't want trouble.

Dean stopped at the edge of town, spying some trouble already in progress. Near the waterhole a few men armed with pick axe handles were circling the wagon of a farmer, heavy bags of grain piled high behind his back. They were filthy and rough and Dean didn't like the look of 'em. Not one little bit. One of them caught Dean's eye and scowled at him briefly before turning his attention back to his prize. When he looked back a moment later, Dean was gone.

He made his way behind the general store and tied up his horse. The back door wasn't locked, making things a little easier. He passed through the store quickly, motioning for the owner rising behind the counter to stay down. The catch and release of his spurs on the wooden floor sang softly in the silence. The barrel of hickory was beside the door. Dean picked one up, letting the screen door swing shut behind him with a loud bang as he tested its weight in his hand.

The men turned sharply, hands going to the guns at their hips. Seeing Dean's lone figure and apparent disinterest, they relaxed and went back to their sport. One broke off and approached him, the scar across his upper lip pulling his mouth up in a perpetual sneer.

"Get out of here," he snarled.

Dean didn't answer. His arm shot out, catching the surprised man against the side of the head and dropping him on the spot.

"Hank!" one of the others yelled and they all turned towards Dean again.

Dean dropped his hands, showing them the open palm of one hand, the other wrapped loosely around the stave as it hung to the ground.

Two of them rushed him at once and Dean brought up the hickory to first block the one's blow and then slap his open hand against the side of the other's skull. The man shook his head, ear ringing. Dean closed his hand into a fist and punched him in the face, feeling the man's nose break under his knuckles even as he saw the blood gushing out of it to cover his mouth and chin. The first man drew his arms back, meaning to bring his stick down onto Dean in a mighty sweep, but Dean caught him with a blow across his wide open chest. As the man doubled over, gasping for the breath Dean had beat from his lungs, Dean swung low, snapping his head back even as the man's legs gave out from under him.

The ring leader was still standing his ground, leaning against the wagon as he watched Dean with heavily lidded eyes.

Dean waited for his move. He knew he had to take care of him, but humiliating him too badly would cause the kind of trouble Dean would rather avoid.

He pushed himself upright, lifting his weapon and pointing it towards Dean, trying to distract Dean from the hand he was inching towards his hip. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt and began pulling it from its holster, Dean's shot rang out. The pick axe handle fell from the man's grip, landing heavily at his feet. He clutched at the wound through the hand he needed to put a hole through Dean.

"I'm gonna let you gather your fellows and get them out of here, but if I ever see any of your faces in this town again, you'll regret it," Dean told him. He meant it.

"You're the one that's going to be sorry, Mister," the man said, baring his tobacco stained teeth at Dean.

One by one his companions got to their feet. The one with the broken nose hawked back a thick wad of snot and blood and spit it out against Dean's boots. Dean kept his pistol trained on them until they'd gotten on their horses and ridden out of town.

"Now what did you have to go and do that for?" a woman's husky voice asked behind him.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am?" Dean holstered his gun, but kept his hand resting on the hilt as he turned towards her.

"Them boys killed the last sheriff a few weeks back," she said, hands on her hips, her full bosom straining at the low cut of her bodice. "No one around to deal with 'em when they come back with the whole gang all pissed off and baying for blood. And you, you'll be long gone outta town."

"I was only trying to help, Ma'am," Dean said. Silently he vowed it would be the last time.

She was still eyeing him critically, looking him up and down as more people ventured outside and gathered at her back. A gust of wind picked up the dust from their feet and flung it into Dean's eyes. He peered at the storefronts through one squinted eye. The signs were weathered and old, but not slipped so far into ruin as to be beyond repair.

"You seem to have some skill, gun fighter, and I for one, am tired of these brigands running around like they own the town. Taking whatever they want, abusing my girls and generally making it impossible to earn an honest living. If you really want to help, you'll think about staying awhile. We could pay you."

Dean thought of his pack, lost in a mad dash across Texas, his horse well on its way to going lame and winter breathing down the back of his neck. He thought of the man with the yellow eyes and his band of outlaws getting further away with each passing day. He heard the voice of his father and nodded.

"That was easier than I thought it would be. Anyway, there'll be a room at the saloon for you tonight until we can see about something more permanent tomorrow."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Enough of this 'Ma'am' nonsense," she said, holding out her hand. "Name's Ellen. Ellen Harvelle."

"Dean Winchester," Dean said, taking her hand. Her grip was firm, but that didn't surprise Dean at all. His childhood was filled with mirror images of the woman before him; his father turned to them for comfort, Dean clung to them for a mother's warmth.

"Welcome to Bond, Dean," she said and turned on her heel, walking briskly back towards the saloon. There were a few of her girls hanging through the doors and spilling out onto the porch and Dean made sure to bestow them with a wink and a lewd grin before she herded them all back inside, hiding giggles behind their hands.

One after the other, the other townsfolk left as well, passing him by with a nod and a tipped hat. Dean noted them all, keeping track of everything from the post master's slight limp to the general store owner's full gait. Never knew when he might need 'em. To one side, Dean saw a tall young man, arms crossed across his broad chest. Now there was one he could've used, if only the collar around his throat hadn't rendered him completely useless. He had his eyes on Dean, nodding along to what the man beside him was animatedly complaining about. He gestured in Dean's direction and Dean paid closer attention. The man was of medium build, slightly older and when he flashed him an annoyed look, Dean caught a glimpse of black eyes to match the pitch black of his hair. Something about the man raised his hackles and Dean decided to keep a special eye on him.

A young boy led Niyol round to Dean. Dean took over his horse's reins, watching as the boy ran over to a younger one, taking his brother's hand and leading him away. Dean made his way over the barber, tying her securely and slinging his saddle bags over his shoulder. He ordered a bath and a shave, handing over his boots to be shined as he waited for the bath to be drawn.

The barber's boy took his dirty clothes to be laundered. Dean settled into the steaming water with a contended sigh. He leaned back with eyes closed, pistol dangling from one hand outside the tub as he waited for the worst of the filth caked to his body to dissolve.

A floor board creaked. The sun was setting, the wood settling as the worst of the day's heat melted away.

Dean lifted his pistol, thumbing back the hammer.

"Hello, Preacher," he said, eyes still closed.

The man cleared his throat, and Dean could hear him shift his weight from one foot to the other.

"Mister Winchester."

"You're just gonna have to wait your turn, Preacher. Or was there something else I could help you with?" Dean asked, lowering his gun.

"There will be no need for you to stay, Mister Winchester. You'd best finish up here, get on your horse and keep going."

Dean slowly opened his eyes, finding the man's eyes locked on his. The hazel orbs held his, alive but not quite as zealous as most men of the cloth he'd encountered before.

"I can't do that. I've been hired to do a job."

"A job," the preacher spit. "Perpetuating even more mindless violence. We don't need your kind here. Ruben has the situation under control, if the people would just have faith and a little patience."

"Tell that to the guy who was about to have his head bashed in."

"It wouldn't have come to that. Ruben was about to go talk to them when you made a mess of things."

"Ruben?"

"Mister Culter. He runs the bank, not that it's any of your business."

"It's my business now," Dean told him. "And I'm not gonna let a bunch of good people suffer while I stand by and do nothing."

He stood up in the tub and reached over for the towel draped across the back of a chair. The preacher's eyes left his for an instant to run haltingly down the length of his body before he looked away.

So that was the way of it.

Dean was no stranger to the ways of the world. He'd spent long enough on the trail to know sometimes men had to look for comfort where none other could be found. Hell, he'd done some looking of his own more than once. He'd had eyes size him up like that before, but never ones belonging to the likes of the fellow before him now. And even though there was a supply of ready, willing and able woman no more than a hundred feet away, Dean found himself not minding it at all. He wanted to say something to bring the man's searing gaze back to him.

There was a knock at the door.

"Got everything you need, Mister Winchester?"

"Yes, thank you, Mister Singer. The preacher was just leaving."

"Reverend Campbell. Sorry, didn't know you were here."

"Bobby. How are you?"

"Good, thank you, Reverend. Anything I can do for you?"

"No, I was ... just leaving," he said. Dean could see how much it pained him to give in.

Dean dropped the towel and rummaged in his saddle bags for clean clothes. Bobby stayed in the doorway, silently waiting with Dean until the man of God turned on his heel and left.

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Anytime. Preacher means well, but he's got the wrong people whispering in his ear, is all."

"How about that shave?" Dean asked, leading the way into the front of the shop. He had bigger things to worry about.

†

The sun had set, and the full moon lighted Dean's path as he made his way over to the saloon. Hands on the swing doors, Dean halted for a moment. He was still cloaked in darkness, as much part of the night as the stars and the cicadas caught in worship of the day's heat. Inside there was light, color, music and laughter. Dean pushed his way through.

Silence fell. The piano player hit a false note. A card fluttered to the ground.

"Dean," Ellen said and motioned for the music to start up again.

Dean stood his ground as Ellen sashayed over to him, her slightly faded brocades and silks rustling with every step. He took her hand when she reached him and bent down over it, brushing his lips against the back of her hand. She accepted it with a nod and led him over to the bar where a shot was whiskey was already being poured for him.

"You want something to eat?"

"I'd be much obliged, thank you, Ma'am. Ellen." Dean corrected quickly at her arched brow.

Ellen motioned towards the kitchen. Dean took a sip of his whiskey. It burned all the way down to his empty stomach and settled there in a sour puddle. His glass was refilled and Dean carried it over to an empty table in the corner.

His food was brought over by a slight girl with angelic features. She was as light as Ellen was dark, but undeniably her kin.

She carefully placed the plate of steaming meat and vegetables in front of Dean. She tried to keep her eyes downcast, but Dean saw the glances she kept stealing from beneath her lashes. He caught her wrist as she turned to go. Dean could see her swallow and then she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. The offer was made and accepted without a word being spoken. Dean released her and she went over to whisper a request in the piano player's ear. Dean caught Ellen glaring at him from across the room. Good enough to save the town, but not good enough for her daughter.

He was heading into dangerous territory and he didn't even know her name.

Dean ate, steadily laying waste to his dinner at a pace that belied his hunger. He nursed the whiskey. Halfway through his meal the girl appeared at his side again, placing a glass of clear water next to his plate. He smiled his thanks.

One by one the saloon's patrons retired, some up the stairs, some to their own beds. Dean resisted the siren call of his own promised pillow. He stayed until he was sure there would be no trouble. Ellen directed him to his room when he could count the asses left warming stools on one hand.

The room was small, but clean. The floor was swept and the bed neatly made with fresh bedding and a heavy quilt. There was a rickety chair behind the door that he maneuvered in front of the window. Dean took off his boots. He draped his jacket over the back of the chair.

There was scratching at the door, soft and barely there. Dean unclenched his hands and stepped away from the chair.

"I'm Jo," she said and Dean closed the door behind her.

Jo sat down on the edge of the bed. The only sound came from the rustling of her red dress. She folded her hands on her lap and watched as Dean walked past the bed to sit down in his chair.

Dean drew his gun and opened the cylinder, checking that all the chambers were filled. Satisfied, he closed it again with a flick of his wrist and rested it on his knee.

Jo stood after a few minutes and started unlacing her dress.

Dean's eyes were drawn to her trembling hands. Her hands stilled as she caught him looking and Dean faced the window again. He could still see her faint reflection in the glass.

She stepped out of the dress and walked around to face Dean. He looked up at her and saw her throat working as she swallowed. Gathering her courage, she braced her hands on Dean's knees, and sank to hers.

"Don't."

"But..."

"You can sleep here tonight."

Jo looked down. She let her hair fall over her face to hide her face. She lifted a hand and tried to cover her breasts. Her hands were soft and small. Dean didn't think they'd even manage to wrap around the handle of his gun, let alone fire off a shot. He couldn't imagine her holding on to much of anything.

Dean reached out and lifted her chin with the gentle press of his fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"It's alright," he promised. "Get some rest."

Jo nodded, a brave little smile tugging at her lips. She got to her feet and moved over to the bed. A shiver ran down the length of her spine before she slipped under the covers and drew them up to her ears.

Dean listened to her breathing. He hoped it would be enough to keep the demons at bay.

"What are you doing here?" Jo asked suddenly, breaking Dean's reverie.

"Your mother," Dean started to explain, surprised that no one had informed the girl of his purpose.

"I know, hired you clear out the gang. I meant, why did you come here?"

"No reason. Passing through, nothing more."

"Passing through to where?"

"You got a lot of questions," Dean said, not unkindly.

"Don't get too many chances to ask them," Jo answered matter of factly. She sounded so young.

"Looking for some men. They killed my father."

"Outlaws?"

"Yes."

"Outlaws killed my dad too. When I was little. Couldn't do nothing about it though. My mom brought us out here, opened the saloon. I swore when I grew up I'd find them and make them pay."

Dean didn't have to ask her why she didn't. The frontier, wild and untamed, was no place for a woman alone. He thought about being helpless. About being tied to a home, a family, unable to exact his revenge. He felt sorry for the girl.

"Do you do this a lot?" Dean asked.

"Now who's got a lot of questions?" she teased.

Dean shrugged and turned his attention back to the moonlit street. It was quiet for a long time and he thought she'd fallen asleep.

"Sometimes, when someone asks. Not many do. Too skinny, say I talk too much." Jo laughed, a short, bitter bark. "I don't think my mom minds."

"You should settle down. Get married, have babies," Dean said. There was something about her that could draw a man in, make him want to give up everything to take care of her.

"Ain't nobody want me. Told you, too skinny, talk too much. Well, there's Jimmy, I suppose," she amended. "But Ma don't approve of him."

It was getting colder and Dean put his jacket back on, flicking the collar up against his neck. He made no move towards the bed and since she knew he wouldn't, didn't offer to share the blankets with him.

"Go to sleep, Jo," he told her.

"Goodnight, Dean," she said and did.

Dean leaned back in the hard chair. Just before he fell asleep, he saw a coyote standing at the edge of town. Dean could have sworn it looked right at him.

†

Dean was finishing his breakfast of two slices of day old bread and some coffee he had begged off the cook in the kitchen when Jo came in. She was surprised to see him standing there and her step faltered.

"Miss Jo," he greeted with a tip of the hat he wasn't wearing yet.

"Good Morning, Mister Winchester," she returned after casting a careful glance at the turned back of the cook. If she was woken by the effects of his nightmares during the night, she gave no sign of it.

Dean finished his last mouthful and chased it with the dregs of his coffee. With a grimace he put down the cup.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said to the cook and she dismissed him with barely a nod, thick arms working a fresh batch of dough. Dean took up his hat and went out the back door.

He stood for a moment, fixing his hat on his head. His hand dropped to the pistol at his side, his bond with this life. Dean walked around the side of the building, looking, seeing. By the time he made his way to the front, Jo and some of the other girls were coming outside. They were crowded in around Jo, clearly giving her a hard time.

"... asking for trouble," one of them was saying, cutting herself off when she caught sight of Dean.

"Ladies," Dean greeted and held a hand out to Jo to help her down the three steps onto the street.

She took it with a grateful smile. Dean leaned down and brushed his lips across the lace of her gloves once she safely reached his side. Dean had time to look up and see the blush rising to her pale cheeks before all hell broke loose.

Jo's hand was ripped from his as a large man barreled into his side, tackling him down into the dust. A fist made him taste more of it before he got a moment's reprieve. Jo had grabbed the man's arm and was trying to pull him off Dean.

"Jimmy! Get off him!" she yelled. She was very suddenly silenced when Jimmy let go of Dean, twisted round and backhanded her. Jo let go of him, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. Her eyes were wild and terrified above them.

"Did you fuck him, you whore?" Jimmy snarled and took a menacing step towards her.

The loud cock of Dean's gun stopped him.

"Touch her again and you're dead," Dean told him. Only a man already dead wouldn't believe him.

Jimmy's lip curled into a snarl. His icy blue eyes dared Dean.

"That's enough of that, Mister Winchester." Ellen's voice cut through the tension.

Dean looked over at her and she had her shotgun aimed at him again. At him. Not on the man that had just given her daughter a bloody lip.

"You go on now, Jimmy. Come on back tonight, Jo will have some whiskey waiting for you. Jo, inside."

With one last glare at Dean, Jimmy turned and walked away. Ellen waited until the girls had all squeezed past her, Jo pointedly keeping her eyes cast down and not looking at her mother, before she lowered her weapon.

"You'd best see to your horse, Mister Winchester. Then go on over to Mister Singer. He'll get you sorted."

Dean nodded, fire still running through in his blood. He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he made his way down the street.

His horse, at least, was happy to see him. She neighed softly when he stroked over the silky softness of her nose.

"Hey, girl," Dean said as he took out the apple he'd hidden in the pocket of his jacket. It was bruised from the fall, droplets of clear juice weeping from a few small tears in the dull red skin, but she didn't seem to mind.

Dean made sure she had enough fresh water and feed before taking the curry to her for a good rub down.

"Preacher," he grunted, not breaking his rhythm as he stroked down her flank.

"How do you do that?" the voice he knew would be behind him, asked.

"Years of practice," Dean said.

Reverend Campbell didn't bother hiding his snort of disbelief and walked round to the other side of Niyol, trailing his hand down the length of her sloped back as he faced Dean.

"It's Sam, by the way," he said and that made Dean falter.

"Sam," Dean said, straightening. He held out his hand. "Dean," he offered in return.

Sam shook Dean's hand, his grip firm, and smiled at him. A pair of dimples cut into his cheeks and made him look all of twelve years old. He was young, but for the first time Dean wondered just how young.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked, pointing at Dean's face.

Dean raised a hand and touched his bruised cheek. It was the least of his pains and he barely felt it.

"It's nothing," Dean said.

"Do you see now? He hit her. On the street, in front of her mother, and they do nothing."

"None of my business. I'll be on my way again soon anyway," Dean said, wanting nothing more than for the preacher to leave. There was something happening here, between them. He could be wrong, and it could mean a bullet or a hastily tied noose, but he didn't think he was.

"You did something," Sam said. "And it wasn't just shooting and killing."

Dean looked up and Sam was a step closer. He was looking at Dean.

"Reverend?"

"Yes, Michael?" Sam asked, turning towards the young boy that had brought Dean's horse around the day before.

"Mister Culter sent me. They're ready to head out to old man Elkins's place, like you asked."

"I'll be right there. Thank you, Michael," Sam said. He motioned for the boy to go on when he showed no signs of leaving. Once they were alone, he turned back to Dean. "I apologize, for what I said before." He held his hand out to Dean again. "I'm glad you stayed."

Dean nodded and took his hand. His fingers slid along Sam's palm before his fit against it. Sam reached over with his other hand and slapped Dean on the shoulder before letting go. Dean nodded and watched him leave. He picked up the curry again and heard movement behind him. He turned back with an unfamiliar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Forget some..."

The words died on his tongue when he saw the group of men pouring in through the narrow alley, Jimmy at the front. A pair of arms suddenly circled his chest from behind, lifting him off the ground while another's hand snaked round to slip his gun from its holster.

"I hope she was worth it," Jimmy said, close enough that Dean could smell the whiskey on his sour breath.

"You'll never know," Dean said, and spit in his face.

The first hit came to his belly, hard enough to lift even the man holding onto him off his feet. As if from a distance, Dean heard the loud grunt escaping from his lips as the breath was forced from his lungs. He'd already distanced himself from the pain, wholly occupied with trying to figure out how he was getting himself out of the ambush with the least amount of damage.

Dean drove his elbow back into the stomach of the man holding him and stomped down on his foot at the same time. The man let go, shoving him away instead of just letting go and Dean wasn't expecting that. He stumbled forward, and was forced back again by the knee connecting hard to his face. Dean leaned forward and spit a mouthful of the blood into Jimmy's. Jimmy lifted a hand to wipe it away and it gave Dean the chance he was looking for.

Dropping down, he punched a hard left and right into Jimmy's gut. Still crouched low, he twisted round to catch the fist that was flying towards his head and pulled, tumbling his attacker into one of his friends and they both fell at his feet.

The knock to the base of his skull brought him to his knees. Dean's vision blurred and he fought to stay upright. He needn't have bothered. The same metal staff was swung again, catching him under the chin and Dean fell to the ground. The moment he went down, they were on him, kicking and hitting. The hits were coming so thick and fast, Dean couldn't keep track of them. They mangled his arms and legs, caved his face in, cracked his ribs until they ripped at his insides. Dean thought he knew every possible fermentation of agony, until Jimmy forced the arm he had wrapped around his middle wide. Strong hands held it down for Jimmy to bring the heel of his boot down on Dean's gun hand.

Dean howled, he must have. He could feel his throat constrict with the force of it, but his ears were filled with a rushing white noise. He was about to lose consciousness and Dean yearned for it, even though he knew it could possibly mean the end of him if he did.

"Hey!"

Dean heard the shout from a distance and there was a flurry of movement as his attackers moved off him. All but one raced away. Dean lifted his eyes, struggling to focus on the gun Jimmy had pointed at his heart. His gun.

Please, Dean thought. He didn't know what he was begging for.

Dean heard another shout, closer this time. The gun was wavering in Jimmy's hand. Dean imagined he was trying to decide whether or not he had it in him to take a man's life. Don't pick up a gun until you know you're ready to kill. It was the first thing his father ever told him. Dean felt little comfort in his father's memory in this moment before death. Instead, he wondered whether a certain man of God would care. If he'd bother to recite the Lord's prayer over the lowly gun fighter's open grave.

The bullet pierced his chest and darkness fell for Dean Winchester.

†

"...no use to us now," Dean heard Ellen say as he came to briefly.

There was a hard wooden floor under his back and a sea of faces staring down at him.

"Can't just..." Bobby was saying, his hands working furiously over Dean's body.

Dean felt, rather than heard, his shirt ripping. He tried to sit up under the heavy hands pushing down on his chest, but he was already losing the battle with unconsciousness again.

"I'll..."

Dean knew that voice. He opened his mouth to say his name. It became a scream instead when someone took his hand. Then everything went dark.

The next time Dean woke up, it was in a warm bed. The room was dark, the fire crackling nearby casting dancing shadows on the wall.

Sam was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

His collar was undone, the long line of his throat exposed with his head tilted back in sleep. His mouth was slack, soft snores escaping through his open lips. Dean watched him until he fell asleep again.

Every time he woke up, Sam was there.

Sometimes, Sam noticed and others Dean would be gone again too quickly. He fed Dean sips of water that slid mercifully cool down his throat. He wiped a cool cloth over Dean's brow. He checked Dean's dressings.

"Where am I?" Dean asked. He didn't know how long it'd been. He'd lost all track of time.

"This is my house," Sam answered. He had exchanged his pristine outfit of black and white for a set of decent working clothes. Dean had trouble reconciling the preacher with a flannel shirt and well-worn denim that threatened to rip at the seams.

"Why?" Dean's throat caught on the word, turned it into a cough.

"No one else would take you," Sam said, gently turning Dean on his side and holding him there until it stopped.

Dean wanted to say more, but the pain in his chest was making it hard to breathe.

"Rest," Sam said, settling the covers over Dean's shoulders.

It was morning the next time he woke up, the sun pouring in warm and bright through the drawn curtains. Dean could hear someone clanging pots and pans together in the kitchen, Sam he presumed. He pushed himself up against the pillows a way, careful of his tightly wrapped right hand. Dean couldn't move his fingers even if he tried. There was a broad bandage across his bare chest, holding a thick wad of padding that was spotted with blood in place. Dean pressed against it with his good hand. He'd had enough of these to imagine the hole in his flesh with perfect clarity. It had been close, but not quite.

The bed he was laying in wasn't very wide, but it was comfortable. There was a Bible on the bedside table, but little else adorned the room apart from the basic furniture.

"You're awake," Sam said from the doorway. He held a tray with food and two cups of coffee. "Good."

"Yeah," Dean said and tried to sit up.

"Wait," Sam said, setting down the tray on his abandoned chair. "Let me help you."

Dean didn't like it, but he took hold of Sam's offered arm and used it to lever himself into position. Just the small amount of exertion had fine beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip. Dean was surprised at the amount of growth he felt there when he went to wipe it away. He'd been out for a few days then.

"Thank you," Dean said.

Sam nodded and placed the tray in Dean's lap. There was a small bowl of runny oatmeal, an apple and the coffee. Sam took his cup and sat in the chair. Dean picked up the spoon with his left hand. He got it in the bowl and some of the oatmeal on it fine, but when he tried to lift it to his mouth, spilled it all onto the tray. Counting his blessings, at least he hadn't gotten any on his naked skin. Sam quickly set his cup down on the floor next to him and scooted the chair closer to Dean's side.

"Here," he offered and held his hand out for the spoon.

Dean reluctantly handed it over and watched in agony as Sam scooped up more of the oatmeal, carefully dragging the underside against the edge of the bowl before bringing it up to Dean's mouth. He held the spoon suspended in front of Dean, waiting for Dean to lift his head the last few inches and close his lips around the spoon, sucking the gruel into his mouth.

"Slowly," Sam admonished when he attacked the next spoonful. "You haven't eaten anything in days. Your stomach needs to get used to having food in it again."

He fed Dean all of the oatmeal and then carved off a few thin slides of apple which he pushed through Dean's parted lips with a steady finger. Sam finished the rest of the apple in a few large bites before pushing his chair back again and retrieving his coffee.

Dean's cup stood forgotten on the tray, growing cold. The silence between them stretched like the seconds before high noon, but Dean didn't break it. He watched Sam finish his coffee under lids grown heavy again. He took a few sips when Sam offered him his cold coffee and sunk back against the cushions with a tired groan when Sam left to take the tray to the kitchen.

"I'll check your dressings later," Sam said from the doorway. "I'll be out back, will you be alright?"

Dean nodded and shimmied back down. He was asleep in an instant.

It was growing dark when he woke up, the sun sitting low and red on the horizon. The crackling of the fire was the only sound disturbing the silence. Sam was in the chair, mending Dean's clothes. He was squinting down at the small needle in his hand, struggling to see in the poor light. Dean watched Sam through hooded eyes, careful not to let on that he was awake. There were dark circles under Sam's eyes. His left hand shook.

"You should get some sleep," Dean said, startling Sam badly.

Sam ignored him. "We need to clean you up some. Change that bandage," Sam said instead. He carefully stuck the needle through the shirt's collar and laid it beside the chair.

Sam got a splinter from the stove in the kitchen and lit the lamp on the small bedside table. The flame licked and spluttered at the sudden breeze that managed to squeeze past the slight crack in the window. Sam closed it and drew the curtains.

He seemed somehow bigger to Dean, shrouded in the shadows the light couldn't quite dispel.

The basin was balanced on Sam's chair, filled with water poured from the pot on the stove. Sam rolled up his sleeves and dipped and soaped the rag in the hot water, until his hands turned an angry red.

Dean tried to push himself up again, determined. Sam left the rag resting on the edge of the basin to wordlessly help Dean. He peeled back the covers, Dean's arms laying heavy and useless at his sides. Carefully lifting Dean a couple of inches each time, Sam removed the bandages, looping them around his hand as he went. His face was kept turned away from Dean, his hands sure in their duty. Dean could smell day-old sweat on him, a hint of horse and earth, something metallic that he almost mistook for blood, but recognized as ink.

The putrid stench of the poultice that assaulted them when Sam lifted it away from the wound almost made Dean gag.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Don't know. Didn't ask. Bobby swore it would do the job though."

"Bobby patched me up?"

"Folks in these parts rely on Bobby's skills. The Doc's all the way over in Clark County."

Sam started with his arms, wiping of first the one and drying it before moving to the other. Rolling him onto his side, Dean's back was next, then his neck and shoulders. Sam rinsed the rag and soaped it again vigorously before working on Dean's chest. He worked gently, but quickly, cleaning the dried blood and remnants of the poultice from Dean's skin. Dean shivered, flesh raising in goose bumps and nipples pebbling.

"Almost done," Sam said. He voice was barely above a whisper.

Patting Dean's chest dry, he pressed a little too hard on his bruised ribs and Dean sucked in a hissed breath.

"Sorry," Sam said, and Dean let him finish.

Sam applied a milky salve that reeked only slightly less than the stuff he'd just washed off and tied fresh strips of cloth around Dean's chest.

"Bobby said to leave the hand alone. The bones need time to mend."

Dean looked down at the stiff cloth that was tightly wound around his ruined hand. The tips of his fingers were tainted a purplish black and Dean looked away again.

Sam gathered the basin and the soiled rags and left the room. By the time he got back, Dean had already pulled the covers up over himself. Sam tugged at them anyway, straightening and tucking them in. He wouldn't look at Dean; kept his eyes on the task at hand.

"You should have eaten something before going back to sleep," Sam said.

The oatmeal he had for breakfast could've been his first meal in days. Dean still didn't have any idea how long he'd been out. But he didn't feel hungry and exhaustion won out. He shook his head.

Sam nodded and placed a few more logs on the fire. Returning to Dean's bedside, he pulled the chair a bit closer before sitting down.

"Are you going to sit there and watch me sleep all night?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "Sleep," he said simply. Dean's confusion must have shown and he elaborated. "You're in my bed."

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"It's fine," Sam said.

Sam scooted down on the chair, settled with his hands folded in under his armpits and let his chin drop down onto his chest. The firelight caught the auburn strands in his hair, streaking his shaggy head with fire. The lines on his forehead relaxed and fell away. A line of spit shined inside his slack mouth. Dean was still watching him when he fell asleep.

He woke suddenly, unsure whether his sharp cry had managed to slip out of the nightmare. Dean cast a quick eye at Sam. He was awake, his eyes two bottomless pits staring back at Dean.

"What did he do?" Sam asked softly.

"Who?" Dean asked, his voice rasping out from his constricted throat as he avoided the question.

"Your father. Even before... You kept pleading with him not to."

"He saved my life," Dean said. It hung there, suspended in the darkness - the first time he'd spoken about his father's death to anyone. Dean didn't have the words to talk about it, but with Sam quietly listening, he wanted to find them. There was an ache in his chest, different from the pain lacing through bone and muscle, deeper.

Sam didn't say anything, but he sat up a little straighter.

"There was this land grabber, a real bastard. If the people wouldn't sell to him at the price he was offering, he'd go after their kids. Little babies, only a few months old. We were onto him, but to my dad? I don't know, it was like it was personal. He went after him with everything he had."

Dean coughed. His throat was dry. It wasn't just because of being laid-up for however long. The last time he talked this much, it was with his father.

"Do you want some water?" Sam asked, already rising.

Dean waved him back. If he didn't finish now, he didn't know if he'd be able to get going again.

"He knew beating down my dad wasn't going to get him off his trail. His gang took my dad, setting an ambush for me. I knew what it was and I knew my dad would kick my ass for falling for it, but what else could I do? He had me pinned, staring down the barrel of his gun. I saw him pulling the trigger. And then my dad was there. Somehow he'd gotten loose and he took that bullet for me."

Sam looked away, pretending not to see Dean wipe a hand over his eyes.

"I buried him in the Dakotas. And I swore there, on the banks of the Missouri, that I would make the man with the yellow eyes pay."

"And that's what you dream about?"

Dean nodded. "I hear the bullet thudding into my dad's chest. I'm choking on the dust and crawling past their horses' hooves to reach him. His blood is on my hands. And those yellow eyes are laughing at me as he dies in my arms."

"Was he the only family you had?"

"Yeah. I never knew my mom. He never said, but I think she died. Think I had a little brother. Whatever got her must've got him too."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

He sounded it too. Dean turned his head away and closed his eyes. Sam didn't say anything further and Dean relaxed into the silence. The rest of his sleep remained dreamless and he woke the next morning feeling better than he had in a long time. Sam was gone, the chair pushed back against the wall.

Dean inched out from beneath the covers. He found his clothes, clean and folded, on an empty shelf in the narrow armoire. He touched a finger to the hem of one of the two black jackets Sam had hanging in there, then shut it quickly. Getting dressed took a lot out of him. Dripping with sweat and breathing hard, he sat down on the bed while he waited for his heart to stop racing. Dean listened for Sam, but there was no sound of him.

In the kitchen Dean found more oatmeal cooking on the stove and a pot of coffee brewing on the back. He poured the coffee first. It was strong and hot, just what he needed. The oatmeal wasn't as runny as the previous day's batch. It was still difficult doing everything with his left hand, but Dean was determined to manage. He sat in one of the two chairs around the small kitchen table and stared out at the yard as he ate. It was swept clean, a couple of chickens pecking in the dust. The cow was grazing lazily on the gentle slope of the hill. It was everything he knew he could never have.

When Sam returned at noon, he found Dean sitting on the front porch.

"What are you doing up?" Sam asked. His arms were laden with the logs that Dean had heard him chopping behind the barn.

"Couldn't stand being laid up anymore. I'm not dying."

"No," Sam agreed. "No, you're not. Did you find everything fine?"

"Yes, thank you."

Sam shifted on his feet, hitching the weight of the wood higher up into his arms. "I'm just going to," he said.

Dean nodded and Sam moved past him into the bedroom. After stacking the wood next to the hearth, he went out to get another armful to fill the wood box in the kitchen. He filled two cups with coffee and brought one back out to Dean. Dean's hand shook a little when a reached out to take it. He balanced the steaming cup on his knee. Sam sat down on the step and set his down beside him.

"This your place?" Dean asked.

Sam looked out across the few narrow rows of corn, the patch of vegetables, and wiped a tired hand across his face. "Yeah," he said.

"Didn't know the church paid enough for preachers to own land."

"It's just a patch, cut off from my mama's farm. She gave me the deed when I came back out here."

"Were you born here?"

"No. My mother moved out here when I was just a babe though. Bought it from the money my grandad left her."

"What about your father?"

Sam flinched, the barest of shift in his shoulders that Dean would have missed if he hadn't been watching.

"I'm sorry. None of my business."

"That's okay," Sam shrugged. "Mama never talked about him, but she still wears her wedding ring."

"She must be pestering you to get a woman's hand on the place," Dean said. It was clumsy. He had to know.

"I better see about dinner," Sam mumbled and got to his feet. He shot the cup of coffee, still half full, out over the porch rail.

Dean stayed on the porch, sipping his cooling coffee, listening to Sam moving around in the kitchen. Soon the smells of cooking were wafting past Dean; meat, potatoes and gravy. Dean's stomach wanted him to run to the kitchen, but he made himself stay in his seat until Sam called for him.

Sam fiddled with the stove, but Dean could see him watching carefully. When Dean was safely in his seat at the table, Sam brought over their laden plates. He'd cut Dean's meat into neat little bites. Dean didn't comment on it, only grasped his fork awkwardly in his left hand.

"Remember, slowly," Sam said when Dean started in on his dinner.

Dean scowled, but he measured his bites and slowed his chewing. Sam matched his pace and finished just after Dean. He cleared the plates and refilled their cups with fresh coffee. They sat in companionable silence as they sipped, the candle light casting stronger shadows as the sun went down.

"I'll take the chair," Dean said, getting up from the table.

"No, your wound hasn't even closed yet. You can't sleep in the chair the whole night," Sam protested.

"Would've slept in the saddle if I'd been on the trail," Dean said.

"But you're not," Sam said. "Please."

Dean made his way slowly to the bedroom. With the setting of the sun, the aches and pains in his bones seemed to have doubled. Sam followed him with the candle and lit the lamp on the bedside table before retreating to the kitchen, leaving Dean to get ready for bed. Dean undressed and placed his folded clothes back in the wardrobe. He'd barely settled under the covers when Sam returned.

Sam blew out the lamp and took off his shoes and belt in the dark. Dean could hear them clonking onto the floor and then the rustle as Sam settled under a blanket. He didn't move the chair any closer. Dean was asleep before Sam could wish him a good night.

Dean woke alone again at the crack of dawn. Sam's blanket was neatly folded in his chair.

Eating the same breakfast in the kitchen, Dean heard the whinny of horses coming from the barn. He smiled. He hadn't even dared hope for his horse.

He found Niyol safe and sound in a stall, surrounded by fresh hay and head buried in a bucket of feed. "Hey, girl," Dean said, running a hand down her flank. She was freshly curried, near-black coat gleaming in the morning light. His saddle, bags, bedroll and other gear were stored nearby, his guns buried beneath it all, gleaming in their holsters. Dean curled a hand around the well oiled leather. He was startled to realize that he hadn't even given a thought to his weapons until that moment. He couldn't remember the last time he went to sleep without one in his hands and yet he'd done so the night before without a second's hesitation.

Dean didn't need to search too hard for the why. It was already there, settled underneath his skin, truer than the blood pumping in his veins. For perhaps the first time in his life, he'd felt safe. Dean fit the bedroll under his arm, and left the rest where they lay.

He stowed it under Sam's bed, then made his way out onto the porch. He didn't know where Sam was or when he would return. Probably out visiting parishioners or perhaps meeting with Culter in town, like the first time Dean saw him. Dean didn't want it to be the latter. Dean's gut told him the man was somehow involved with the reason he was hired in the first place. He couldn't quite reconcile the Sam Campbell that nursed him back to health with the preacher conspiring with the swarthy man on the grand steps of the bank.

Determined to earn his keep, Dean explored the kitchen. With his hand fucked up he couldn't do much, but he was sure he could at least manage dinner.

The biscuits were just coming out of the oven when Sam walked in, arms loaded with another day's supply of wood.

"What is this?" Sam asked, a grin splitting his face in half.

"Dinner?" Dean offered, unable to help his own smile.

"Well, it smells great," Sam said and reached out to brush at the smudge of flour marring Dean's cheek.

Dean turned away, pretending to busy himself with the plates as he wiped furiously at his cheek with the back of his injured hand. Sam took his seat and clasped his hands in front of him. When Dean was settled, he closed his eyes and Dean dropped his head when Sam said a quick prayer.

"Dear Lord, for what we are about to receive, make us truly thankful. Amen."

"Amen," Dean echoed. He took a huge bite of his dinner and stole a glance as Sam sampled his.

Sam's eyes went wide and he took another bite. "This is incredible. Where'd you learn to cook like this?" he asked, talking around a huge mouthful.

"My old man couldn't cook a lick. It was either that or starve."

Sam made a grunt of assent and started in on his steak. Dean took another biscuit and watched him eat with a proud warmth blooming in his chest. After a while Sam noticed Dean hadn't touched his meat yet and motioned over with his knife, offering.

"No, finish your dinner," Dean said, but Sam would have none of it. He leaned over and dragged Dean's plate closer, making quick work of the cutting.

"So, what do you do all day?" Dean asked, trying to fill the silence while Sam worked.

"Why, are you bored already? It hasn't even been a week and you should still be taking it easy."

"No, I was just wondering, that's all."

Sam finished the cutting, but didn't move to give Dean's plate back. Dean looked over and Sam was watching him, the expression on his face unreadable. Dean held out his hand and Sam handed him back his food, covering with a quick grin.

"Actually I've been helping out the Moore's the last couple of days, bringing in the harvest. No sons," he said. "Tomorrow I'm heading over to the Miller's. Their son's been having some problems lately."

"Problems?"

Sam shrugged. "Mister Miller's not the easiest father."

"Can I come with you?" Dean asked. His question surprised himself even more than it did Sam.

"I don't," Sam started, but Dean interrupted him.

"No, of course not. I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not that. Just, you sure you're up for it?"

"Yeah," Dean said, pressing a hand to his chest. "I think so."

"We'll change the dressings again tomorrow morning and decide after we've had a look. Alright with you?"

"Yeah, sounds fair," Dean said, sure that he'd be fine.

They finished their dinner in silence, Dean again heading to the bedroom while Sam cleaned up in the kitchen. By the time Sam came in, Dean had built up the fire and unrolled his bedroll in front of it.

"You going to be alright down there?" was all Sam asked. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started taking off his shoes.

Dean quickly slid into his bedding and turned onto his side, facing the fire. It was too close, too hot, and it burned his eyes even after he clenched them shut. He could feel his cheeks glowing, his lips felt swollen and puffy in the heat. Sam blew out the lamp and it wasn't long before Dean heard the bed groaning beneath his weight as he settled.

"Good night," Sam said.

It felt like a long time before Dean could trust his voice enough to answer.

"Good night."

†

Sam's bed was neatly made when Dean woke. He was getting back into his old habits, waking before dawn, but still Sam beat him to it. He wondered where the preacher learned to rise that early. Dean sat up, running his good hand over the growing stubble on his cheeks and chin, coming fully awake as he heard Sam's nearing footsteps.

He was carrying a candle and a pitcher of hot water. The empty basin was already waiting next to the chair against the wall.

"Morning," Dean said, standing as he pulled up his pants and tied his belt.

"Morning. You ready?"

"Yeah," Dean said and walked over, sat down in the chair. Sam knelt down, pouring some of the water into the basin and soaking a rag in it while Dean untied the ones around his ribs.

Sam brought the candle closer, squinting into the warm light and pressing a careful finger against the wound in Dean's chest.

"Look's good. How's it feel?" Sam asked.

"Good," Dean said and endured Sam's poking and prodding for another minute.

Sam cleaned it thoroughly, reapplied the salve and retied the bandage.

"Should be alright to ride. If you still want to," Sam said. He sat back on his haunches and began cleaning up the mess.

"I want to," Dean assured him and finished getting dressed.

There was oatmeal and coffee in the kitchen first, and then they went outside to saddle their horses. Sam's was a magnificent bay stallion, perfectly suited to his owner. He reared back, stomping nervously until Sam soothed him with a steady hand and a calm voice.

"That's quite an animal you've got there," Dean said, struggling to buckle the girth.

"It was a gift," Sam said, his voice muffled as he worked. "To the church."

Dean could guess all too easily who the gracious benefactor could be. Leaving the saddle bags and his rifle where they were, Dean placed a hand on his gun belt, unsure. It didn't sound like Sam expected any trouble, but a nagging voice, either instinct or old habit, insisted he go armed. With one final glance in Sam's direction, Dean gave in and buckled it on. He went back to fiddling with the stirrups until Sam was ready to go.

Satisfied that the saddle was secured, Dean took a deep breath and swung himself up onto his horse. His chest pulled painfully for a second, but once he got his seat, it settled into a dull throb that was easily outweighed by the elation of being in the saddle again.

"Ready?" Sam asked and Dean nodded, tapping his heels against Niyol's flank and holding on as she shot forward. He slowed her to a walk with a firm hand.

Sam came up to him and Dean grit his teeth and picked up his pace as they made their way to the Miller's farm at a slow trot.

Every jolt and lurch stabbed through Dean as Niyol navigated the unfamiliar terrain without Dean's steady hand to guide her, and he tried to hold on tighter to the reins. Sam's presence next to him was about as foreign as the fertile landscape around him; Dean was used to riding alone, and through harsh and deadened lands. The rising sun revealed field after golden field of crops ready for harvest. Sam kept too close, his leg knocking against Dean's every so often.

The sun was fully up and beginning to warm them through by the time they made it to the humble homestead, by all appearances a well kept place.

Missus Miller came out to meet them and show them where to tie their horses.

"Reverend Campbell, I'm so happy you could make it," she said, smoothing down her apron and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She peered past Sam to get a glimpse at his mysterious companion.

"Happy to help, Missus Miller. This is Mister Winchester," he said, pointing a hand in Dean's direction.

"Dean," Dean amended the introduction and lifted his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am."

Missus Miller still seemed unsure as to Dean's purpose for accompanying the preacher, but she greeted him politely and didn't ask.

"He's inside," she said and Sam motioned for her to lead the way.

"I'll just wait here," Dean said and Sam turned back to nod at him before disappearing into the house.

Dean sat down on the porch, watching some men working in the fields in the distance. Faintly, he could hear Sam talking inside, another voice, young and wavering, joining in occasionally. In time it seemed to be growing in confidence, coming easier, but Dean's ass was going numb.

He stood up, made his way round the back of the house to the back, where Missus Miller was hanging out the washing to dry.

"Do you need a hand?" he offered. "Only have the one, but it's at your service."

Missus Miller gave a nervous little laugh, darting a quick touch to her throat with a fluttering hand.

"Never knew a man to offer to help with laundry," she said.

Dean stood closer and handed her the shirts from the basket at her feet to hang. She took a few from him and hung them in silence. He handed her a faded blue one, smaller than the ones before. Instead of hanging it, she held the damp cloth to her face, a desperate keen escaping from her throat. Dean dropped the shirt in his hand back into the basket and laid it instead on the woman's shaking shoulder.

"I don't know what we're going to do," she said. "I don't want to lose him."

"You won't," Dean said, putting every ounce of faith he felt in the preacher into his tone.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Sam. Reverend Campbell. He knows what he's doing. I'm sure it'll be fine."

The door swung shut behind them and Dean dropped his hand. Sam was standing on the porch, his hands on the shoulders of a pale boy with unruly red hair and bad skin. He caught Dean's eye and Dean backed away.

"Go on," Sam said and gave the boy a little push.

He took a hesitant step, then another, and another, until he reached his mother. They stood facing each other in silence for a moment, then the boy knelt down and picked up the shirt Dean had abandoned. He held it out to his mother, who took it with a soft smile and ruffled a hand through his hair before dutifully hanging it. The boy cast an embarrassed smile at Sam, who only smiled back and turned away with a small wave.

"Let's go," he said.

Dean waited until they'd gotten back on their horses and turned their heads towards home before speaking. He didn't ask Sam what the problem was or what he said to the boy.

"You did good," was all he said.

"You too," Sam said.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Their days settled into this familiar rhythm. Dean would accompany Sam on his daily missions to assist his parishioners, whether it be with word or deed. More often than not Dean ended up lending a helping hand as well. Sam never asked it of him, never expected it, but always thanked him for it. Once they returned home, Sam would tend to the horses and his other outdoor chores while Dean prepared dinner. They'd enjoy it together, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, before retiring to bed. The only exception was Sundays. Sam would spend the morning and a good portion of the afternoon at the church, giving his sermon and participating in whatever else it was they did to waste away a perfectly good day. Dean kept his opinions to himself, and Sam never said or did anything to pressure Dean into attending.

One morning they were closing the door behind them and when they turned, Ruben Culter was there, just sitting on his horse, watching them.

"Sam," he said. "Reverend Campbell," he amended after Dean shot him a look.

"Mister Culter," Sam greeted him back warmly. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"We've been missing you in town, Reverend. I wanted to make sure you were still keeping well." His eyes cut to Dean, making his meaning clear, but Sam seemed not to notice.

"We're doing fine, thank you. Mister Winchester is well on his way to a full recovery and has been helping me do the Lord's work. I must say, I am thankful for not having to call upon your good graces as often. I know you're a busy man."

"Never too busy to help, Reverend. I'm more than happy to assist any time you need me."

Dean kept hearing more than the words that were flowing from the man's slick tongue. He kept an eye on him, even as Culter kept an eye on Sam, barely acknowledging Dean presence.

"I'll remember that, thank you Ruben." The man preened at Sam using his first name. "But now, if you'll excuse us. We were just on our way over to the Barr's. They were attacked by those brigands last week and we're helping to rebuild the barn they burned down."

"Yes, terrible business that," Culter said, slamming his hat onto his head. "Let me know when you're done with the barn, Reverend. I'll see to it that it's filled with some feed and a few pieces of livestock."

"That's very generous of you. I'll be sure to pass that along to Jake. Good day, Mister Culter."

"Reverend," Culter said, tipping his hat and spurring his horse into a gallop.

Dean watched the back of him until he passed through the gateposts.

"Coming?" Sam asked, already swinging into his saddle and Dean hurried to catch up.

As the days bled into weeks, time became inconsequential as Dean healed and the men became accustomed to the easy camaraderie between them. Sometimes, it caught up to Dean; how it felt like they'd known each other all their lives. How easy it was to forget why he was here, what he'd left behind, and what was waiting for him. This wasn't his home, and soon it would just be a memory of how once, for a little while, he almost had a normal life. A safe life. A good life.

Part 2