Teufelshunde 1/6
Title: Teufelshunde
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, AU
Spoilers: None yet, eventually everything.
Warnings: The foster system.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All remaining screw-ups are mine. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: Culturally, these Marines would be virtually unrecognizable to their forebears in the "Greatest Generation".
Prologue
*Prologue has been re-worked, re-formatted, re-quoted.*
Teufelshunde 1/6
Culturally, these Marines would be virtually unrecognizable to their forebears in the "Greatest Generation". They are kids raised on hip-hop, Marilyn Manson and Jerry Springer. For them, "motherfucker" is a term of endearment. For some, slain rapper Tupac is an American patriot whose writings are better known than the speeches of Abraham Lincoln. There are tough guys among them who pray to Buddha and quote Eastern philosophies and New Age precepts gleaned from watching Oprah and old kung fu movies. There are former gangbangers, a sprinkling of born-again Christians and quite a few guys who before entering the Corps were daily dope smokers; many of whom dream of the day when they can get out and are once again united with their beloved bud.
2011:
"Fuck me to tears. You're never gonna believe this."
"Try me." Sam picks up his empty boot, examines it clinically. There is definitely something stuck in the tread. He extends a hand, thinks better of it, and reaches for his pocketknife instead.
"Seriously." Dean is opening and closing cabinets, on the hunt for something. "Of all the gin joints in all the world."
"You're killing me with the suspense."
Dean keeps searching. The rasp of a match being struck, the smell of phosphorous. Cautiously, Sam continues his assault on the sole. Little, foul smelling pieces begin to flake off, but the center resists. He digs a little deeper with the knife, leverages, and it falls out: a small, greying pinkie finger. Sam sighs, kicks it to the floorboard with his booted foot. Dean's head reappears above the counter in the kitchenette.
"Check it. They got Spaghettios!"
These young men represent what is more or less America's first generation of disposable children. More than half of the guys in the platoon come from broken homes and were raised by absentee, single, working parents. Many are on more intimate terms with video games, reality TV shows and Internet porn than they are with their own parents. Before the "War on Terrorism" began, not a whole lot was expected of this generation other than the hope that those in it would squeak through high school without pulling too many more mass shootings in the manner of Columbine.
1990:
"Hi, Sam. My name's DeeDee."
"Hi," the boy mumbled, unwilling to meet her eyes. He was seven years old, with no mother and what Texas called an unfit father. Later, she would learn that was code for Huntsville. On all her applications and forms, she'd indicated she was most comfortable with a boy of elementary school age. Girls were a mess and given her own adolescence, she figured she had absolutely no business trying to manage one. So she specifically asked for a boy. And just one.
"You got your things?" It was as innocuous a question as she could come up with at the time. She wanted this to go easy, for this part at least to be easy. Her first go at the foster parent business, maybe she'd get a break. Instead, Sam started crying. Crap. "Look, I know this is hard. It's a little scary for me, too. But we're gonna make a good team, okay? I promise."
"'S not that," he said, wiping at his face like he could push the tears back in. "I just...I'm gonna miss Dean, that's all."
"Oh?" DeeDee hesitated. This could be the biggest mistake she ever made, hands down, even counting the tattoo she got in Cleveland. But, just like the ink, she knew if she didn't do it, she was gonna kick herself 'til the day she died. "Who's Dean?"
"He said I was gonna be fine. He said we were both gonna be fine and I needed to suck it up and trust him, but--"
"Sam." She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, and he turned up to face her. "Who's Dean?"
"My brother."
Oh, hell.
"Okay. Wait here just a minute." DeeDee used the walk to the caseworker's desk to turn some things over in her mind. She started wondering if she could handle this, if two kids were even a feasible idea, but by the time she made it to the end of the linoleum hallway, she was just adjusting her budget for more mac and cheese. Well. There you have it. She cleared her throat and stared down at the caseworker, one Lyle Stevens--a name that sounded familiar and for all the wrong reasons.
"Dinah. How can I help you?"
Gritting her teeth, DeeDee forced herself to smile. "Well, Lyle, I'm trying to locate Sam's brother. So he can stay with me, too."
"Oh, gosh, Dinah. I'm so sorry. That's not possible."
"Really? There's not someone you can call?"
"Not a soul, not at this hour."
DeeDee turned back, looked over her shoulder at Sam. The kid was doing his best to hold it together, but it was only a matter of time before he came unglued again. She looked at Lyle. Time to bring out the big guns.
"Look, Lyle. I'm sorry you don't like me. I really am. But let's not mix that up with the kids, okay?"
"Dinah," he repeated, like he didn't know how much the name grated, "there's really nothing I can do for you at this hour."
"Then call your boss."
"It's Mrs. Wildstone's day off."
"Then I guess it's not her day off anymore, is it?"
"Look. The other boy is a problem child. We can't just--"
"First of all, Lyle, if you call him a problem child again where his little brother can hear--hell, where I can hear--you and I are going to have a real problem. Secondly--"
"He has a number of behavioral issues," Lyle persisted. "He's been called in front of--"
"Lyle, can it," she said quietly, in a frosty tone that she learned from Gideon. "Can it, or I will climb over that desk and make sex a fond memory for you, so help me God."
Lyle shut up.
"Secondly, it's time to call Mrs. Wildstone whether it interrupts her beauty sleep or not. And, you know what, I don't think there's any call to be a prick about it, either. I'll be waiting with Sam."
It was a long twenty-five minutes. She could feel the disbelief rolling off Sam, like the kid couldn't believe she'd said what she said, or couldn't believe it would mean anything. She tried to remember her training, the endless seminars she'd been subjected to. Much good had they done her.
"So. Y'all like spaghetti?"
"Yeah."
"Me, too. I'm thinking spaghetti for dinner. What kind of sauce do you want?"
"Don't like sauce."
"No sauce at all? Not even a little?"
"I like butter and salt on mine. Dean likes the white sauce."
"Good to know. What kind of noodles, do you think?"
They'd just settled into a comfortable back and forth when the glass door opened and all five foot one of Mrs. Wildstone blew in. She was wearing overalls and flip flops, and it didn't appear that she'd been getting beauty sleep so much as she'd been painting.
"What, Lyle? What?" she snapped, moving right past Sam and DeeDee. "One day off. Is that too much to ask now? I just wanted to paint my garage door because it was starting to make my house look trashy. Now I can't have that? I can't have a garage door because you can't handle an emergency transfer by yourself?"
"Hiya Kelsey."
"DeeDee!" Mrs. Wildstone turned on her heel to face Dinah and Sam. "Don't worry, this is all dry paint. Give me a hug. How are you?"
"I'm good, thanks. How are Jack and the girls?"
"They're good. They're at home, forced labor in the garage. And Sam, good to see you, too."
"Hi."
"So, Lyle." Kelsey turned back towards the caseworker on call. "What's this all about?"
"You know her?" Lyle asked, clearly not getting the picture.
"Know her? She was my maid of honor. Good Lord, what was that...ten years ago?"
"Eleven, I'm afraid. Here's the thing," DeeDee said, pointedly turning her back on Lyle. "Sam's got a big brother. And I'm willing to take them both."
"Dee...there's nothing I'd like more than to keep the boys together. But it's not that simple. There are a lot of factors at play here. Not the least of which is--"
"I know. But if I'm taking Sam, I'm taking both of them." She raised an eyebrow.
"You know that's not how the system works."
"I told her that the brother was a bit of a--"
"Jesus Christ, Lyle. I'm having a conversation here. Look, DeeDee." Kelsey stared up at her friend and said with all due gravity, "There are a lot of factors."
"I understand. And I'm not leaving without the brother."
Kelsey narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath before deciding. "I'll arrange something. A probationary thing, for both of you. I know you think you know what you're getting into. But this is not J.V. anything."
"I got it. Probationary thing sounds great."
"Okay." Kelsey pinched the spot where her nose met her forehead. "Lyle, put a call in to the brother's temporary placement." Lyle, mouth puckered, did so. "DeeDee, this could take a couple hours. You guys might be a lot better off waiting at your place."
Someone small, seven-years-old-sized, hooked his fingers through the belt loop of Dee's jeans. Something inside her, something she thought was long gone, something that had been on ice for five years, two months, and four days, suddenly caught like a pilot light. She was in trouble.
"But Dean will be there in time for dinner, right?"
Kelsey sighed. "I'll bring him myself."
Sam was looking straight up at her, staring her in the face like he'd just seen her raise the dead, walk on water, and cure blindness in one fell swoop. There were tears in his eyes now, but happy ones. Gideon, I am so screwed. And as usual, it's all your fault.
While they waited for Dean, she showed Sam her house. She tried to remember how important it was to manage everyone's expectations. They were not her children. She was not their mother. In all likelihood, this would not be their last foster home. They would never have a real home. So she tried to show it to him like she would an overnight guest, someone staying for a few weeks.
"It's an old house, back from about 1900. It was a real mess when we bought it, but we spent a couple years just fixing it up."
"Who's we?"
"Mr. Strickland and me. He went on up to Jesus five years ago."
"Oh. Sorry."
"The house creaks a lot, where the old parts and the new parts meet up. I like to think it's just him, keeping an eye on things."
"Like a ghost?" Sam's voice jumped an octave.
"No, nonono. Um, just...more like...an alarm system. You know, something that keeps an eye on the house. But it's not real, Sam. It's not. It's just something that helps me sleep better at night. You know what I mean?"
Sam nodded, suddenly grave. "Where's our room?"
"Just back here, right across the hall from mine. In case you need anything. There's only one bed, but we can fix that up tomorrow."
"One's okay. We usually share."
"Alright," she hedged. "We'll worry about getting Dean his own bed later."
"Oh, wow! It's big!" he ran into the room, turning around.
DeeDee's tennis shoes didn't make it past the door jamb. Five years on and she still hesitated at the threshold. The massive desk was gone. Gideon's friends had helped her with that, had helped her pack and move his things out and, more recently, move the twin bed and the bookshelves in. She'd set some of his old clothes out, some of his t-shirts and sweatshirts. They'd be huge on anyone under six foot, but it seemed wrong to leave them in boxes when they might be needed. It only hurt a little, seeing Sam running around, touching things, standing in places she didn't want to go.
"You wanna see the back yard?"
"There's a yard? Oh, man, Dean is never gonna believe this." Sam was clearly starting to perk up a little.
"I got a nice screened-in porch and everything. No jungle gym, or anything like that, but I found some old sports gear lying around."
Just lying around, Dee?
"There's a football an' a baseball an' a bat an' a glove..." Sam was clearly going to inventory the whole collection. He gasped. "'An' a soccer ball." He turned and looked at her again, like there was a chance she could sprout a halo and wings at any given moment. "Are these...are these all for us?"
"Long as you don't break any windows with 'em, you bet."
"Dean is never gonna believe this."
That became the popular refrain while she showed him the fenced yard, the little crick beyond it, the small garden she was trying to keep alive, and then where everything was in the kitchen--because apparently Dean would want to know. Halfway through the junk drawer, somewhere between duct tape and random paperclips, Sam went quiet for a moment.
"He'll be here soon," he smiled. "We should start the pasta."
"Okay."
They'd just dumped the dried noodles in when Kelsey's minivan pulled up. She'd changed into a clean pair of jeans with a collared shirt and nice shoes. A decent day-off compromise. DeeDee and Sam watched from the porch while Kelsey opened up the passenger door. He was eleven, the boy that climbed out, with short dark hair and a hollow face. He didn't look at Kelsey or the minivan or the house, but out of the side of his eyes he looked DeeDee over like she was standing in a line-up.
"Dean!"
The older boy's head snapped up. He dropped his backpack into the gravel and held his arms out, catching Sam at full speed. They stumbled together into the side of the minivan. Sam was crying again and talking under his breath. Kelsey shrugged and walked over.
"Dee."
"Kels."
"I'm backing your play here. But if you so much as suspect that this thing is going south, you have to tell me."
"I will."
"As in, obligated by law."
"Got it."
They watched in silence for a few more minutes, trying not to invade the private moment, the real family.
"Thank you." DeeDee said. "I mean that."
Kelsey waved it off. "Don't thank me yet. You need the least little thing, you give me a ring. I want to do right by them at least as much as you."
Watching Kelsey drive off, Dee experienced a brief moment of panic, the urge to call for help, abandon ship, abort the mission. Reel it in, Dee. Pull it the hell together. She straightened her shirt, like that was helpful at all. You wanted this. You've always wanted this, and you know it.
"Hey!" Sam said, startlingly cheerful. "The pasta's ready!"
It was the most disconcerting meal she would ever have. It felt very much like some sort of weird dance. She led for a few moments, steering the conversation to safe places. Then Sam would push in a different direction, probing questions, feeling her out. Thing was, Sam hadn't asked her many personal questions until now, much less shown an undue curiosity about her personal life. And Dean didn't talk at all.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Sam asked, with a face open and honest.
"No," she said, "I don't."
"Do you go to church?"
"Not usually, no."
Dean blinked, played with his pasta. He ate voraciously at first, then slowed down, and then stopped entirely. Every few moments, he would look over at Sam's plate. Sam was eating like a champ, in between impolite questions. He finished his mound of pasta with a satisfactory smile. Thank God. She'd needed an excuse to stand up for a good ten minutes. Dee smiled, picked up Sam's plate, and went to go load it up with seconds.
"Aw come on," Sam said from behind her. "I don't like the white sauce, Dean."
When she turned around, Dean had put his plate in front of his brother, traded forks. Inside her, Dee's heart sliced, beat sideways. Gideon, you son of a bitch.
"Don't worry." She looked Dean in the eye. "I made enough for an army."
Dean lifted his chin, nodded, and took his plate back.
"Awesome," Sam said. "I love pasta"
Bedtime was stilted too. Eight thirty was good. She'd asked Kels beforehand, but when she'd mentioned it to the boys, there was a telling pause in the room. Sam looked at Dean. Dean shrugged. Sam turned back to her. Dean tapped his brother on the shoulder, and Sam turned around again. Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam sighed, turned back to Dee.
"That sounds good. Can we take showers first?"
"Yeah of course."
She washed dishes while they cleaned up. It was an empty, mechanical process and it gave her time to think. There were two conversations going on here, she realized. She and Sam were talking, and Dean and Sam were talking. It was an awkward dynamic, to say the least. Dee was pretty sure it was out of her league. But there was no panic this time, no splash of adrenaline. You're the grown-up. Might as well act like it. As she was drying, a noise started down the hall. It wasn't the shower, it was something more mechanical. A lid slammed into place.
Dean had started the washing machine. She set the last dish out to try, then went looking. Sure enough, there were two empty bags sitting next to the washer in the hall closet. He was on top of the dryer, replacing the detergent on the high shelf. His hair was still wet and he was wearing one of Gideon's t-shirts. The faded, burnt orange one with the barbecue stain over the heart and the hem lay below his knees. Dee couldn't make herself talk.
The bathroom door opened with a bang and Sam burst out, hair in wet spikes, wearing his towel with the dignity of a Roman Senator. "Hi, what's up, what's going on, I just got out of the shower."
"I...can see that."
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked at DeeDee.
"We're ready for bed now."
<<<<<>>>>>
They are the first generation of young Americans since Vietnam to be sent into an open-ended conflict. Yet if the dominant mythology that war turns on a generation's loss of innocence--young men reared on Davy Crockett waking up to their government's deceits while fighting in the Southeast Asian jungles; the nation falling from the grace of Camelot to the shame of Watergate--these young men entered Iraq predisposed toward the idea that the Big Lie is as central to American governance as taxation. This is, after all, the generation that first learned of the significance of the presidency not through an inspiring speech at the Berlin Wall but through a national obsession with semen stains and a White House blow job. Even though their Commander in Chief tells them they are fighting today in Iraq to protect American freedom, few would be shaken to discover that they might actually be leading a grab for oil. In a way, they almost expect to be lied to.
All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright.
Chapter Two
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, AU
Spoilers: None yet, eventually everything.
Warnings: The foster system.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All remaining screw-ups are mine. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: Culturally, these Marines would be virtually unrecognizable to their forebears in the "Greatest Generation".
Prologue
*Prologue has been re-worked, re-formatted, re-quoted.*
Teufelshunde 1/6
Culturally, these Marines would be virtually unrecognizable to their forebears in the "Greatest Generation". They are kids raised on hip-hop, Marilyn Manson and Jerry Springer. For them, "motherfucker" is a term of endearment. For some, slain rapper Tupac is an American patriot whose writings are better known than the speeches of Abraham Lincoln. There are tough guys among them who pray to Buddha and quote Eastern philosophies and New Age precepts gleaned from watching Oprah and old kung fu movies. There are former gangbangers, a sprinkling of born-again Christians and quite a few guys who before entering the Corps were daily dope smokers; many of whom dream of the day when they can get out and are once again united with their beloved bud.
2011:
"Fuck me to tears. You're never gonna believe this."
"Try me." Sam picks up his empty boot, examines it clinically. There is definitely something stuck in the tread. He extends a hand, thinks better of it, and reaches for his pocketknife instead.
"Seriously." Dean is opening and closing cabinets, on the hunt for something. "Of all the gin joints in all the world."
"You're killing me with the suspense."
Dean keeps searching. The rasp of a match being struck, the smell of phosphorous. Cautiously, Sam continues his assault on the sole. Little, foul smelling pieces begin to flake off, but the center resists. He digs a little deeper with the knife, leverages, and it falls out: a small, greying pinkie finger. Sam sighs, kicks it to the floorboard with his booted foot. Dean's head reappears above the counter in the kitchenette.
"Check it. They got Spaghettios!"
These young men represent what is more or less America's first generation of disposable children. More than half of the guys in the platoon come from broken homes and were raised by absentee, single, working parents. Many are on more intimate terms with video games, reality TV shows and Internet porn than they are with their own parents. Before the "War on Terrorism" began, not a whole lot was expected of this generation other than the hope that those in it would squeak through high school without pulling too many more mass shootings in the manner of Columbine.
1990:
"Hi, Sam. My name's DeeDee."
"Hi," the boy mumbled, unwilling to meet her eyes. He was seven years old, with no mother and what Texas called an unfit father. Later, she would learn that was code for Huntsville. On all her applications and forms, she'd indicated she was most comfortable with a boy of elementary school age. Girls were a mess and given her own adolescence, she figured she had absolutely no business trying to manage one. So she specifically asked for a boy. And just one.
"You got your things?" It was as innocuous a question as she could come up with at the time. She wanted this to go easy, for this part at least to be easy. Her first go at the foster parent business, maybe she'd get a break. Instead, Sam started crying. Crap. "Look, I know this is hard. It's a little scary for me, too. But we're gonna make a good team, okay? I promise."
"'S not that," he said, wiping at his face like he could push the tears back in. "I just...I'm gonna miss Dean, that's all."
"Oh?" DeeDee hesitated. This could be the biggest mistake she ever made, hands down, even counting the tattoo she got in Cleveland. But, just like the ink, she knew if she didn't do it, she was gonna kick herself 'til the day she died. "Who's Dean?"
"He said I was gonna be fine. He said we were both gonna be fine and I needed to suck it up and trust him, but--"
"Sam." She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, and he turned up to face her. "Who's Dean?"
"My brother."
Oh, hell.
"Okay. Wait here just a minute." DeeDee used the walk to the caseworker's desk to turn some things over in her mind. She started wondering if she could handle this, if two kids were even a feasible idea, but by the time she made it to the end of the linoleum hallway, she was just adjusting her budget for more mac and cheese. Well. There you have it. She cleared her throat and stared down at the caseworker, one Lyle Stevens--a name that sounded familiar and for all the wrong reasons.
"Dinah. How can I help you?"
Gritting her teeth, DeeDee forced herself to smile. "Well, Lyle, I'm trying to locate Sam's brother. So he can stay with me, too."
"Oh, gosh, Dinah. I'm so sorry. That's not possible."
"Really? There's not someone you can call?"
"Not a soul, not at this hour."
DeeDee turned back, looked over her shoulder at Sam. The kid was doing his best to hold it together, but it was only a matter of time before he came unglued again. She looked at Lyle. Time to bring out the big guns.
"Look, Lyle. I'm sorry you don't like me. I really am. But let's not mix that up with the kids, okay?"
"Dinah," he repeated, like he didn't know how much the name grated, "there's really nothing I can do for you at this hour."
"Then call your boss."
"It's Mrs. Wildstone's day off."
"Then I guess it's not her day off anymore, is it?"
"Look. The other boy is a problem child. We can't just--"
"First of all, Lyle, if you call him a problem child again where his little brother can hear--hell, where I can hear--you and I are going to have a real problem. Secondly--"
"He has a number of behavioral issues," Lyle persisted. "He's been called in front of--"
"Lyle, can it," she said quietly, in a frosty tone that she learned from Gideon. "Can it, or I will climb over that desk and make sex a fond memory for you, so help me God."
Lyle shut up.
"Secondly, it's time to call Mrs. Wildstone whether it interrupts her beauty sleep or not. And, you know what, I don't think there's any call to be a prick about it, either. I'll be waiting with Sam."
It was a long twenty-five minutes. She could feel the disbelief rolling off Sam, like the kid couldn't believe she'd said what she said, or couldn't believe it would mean anything. She tried to remember her training, the endless seminars she'd been subjected to. Much good had they done her.
"So. Y'all like spaghetti?"
"Yeah."
"Me, too. I'm thinking spaghetti for dinner. What kind of sauce do you want?"
"Don't like sauce."
"No sauce at all? Not even a little?"
"I like butter and salt on mine. Dean likes the white sauce."
"Good to know. What kind of noodles, do you think?"
They'd just settled into a comfortable back and forth when the glass door opened and all five foot one of Mrs. Wildstone blew in. She was wearing overalls and flip flops, and it didn't appear that she'd been getting beauty sleep so much as she'd been painting.
"What, Lyle? What?" she snapped, moving right past Sam and DeeDee. "One day off. Is that too much to ask now? I just wanted to paint my garage door because it was starting to make my house look trashy. Now I can't have that? I can't have a garage door because you can't handle an emergency transfer by yourself?"
"Hiya Kelsey."
"DeeDee!" Mrs. Wildstone turned on her heel to face Dinah and Sam. "Don't worry, this is all dry paint. Give me a hug. How are you?"
"I'm good, thanks. How are Jack and the girls?"
"They're good. They're at home, forced labor in the garage. And Sam, good to see you, too."
"Hi."
"So, Lyle." Kelsey turned back towards the caseworker on call. "What's this all about?"
"You know her?" Lyle asked, clearly not getting the picture.
"Know her? She was my maid of honor. Good Lord, what was that...ten years ago?"
"Eleven, I'm afraid. Here's the thing," DeeDee said, pointedly turning her back on Lyle. "Sam's got a big brother. And I'm willing to take them both."
"Dee...there's nothing I'd like more than to keep the boys together. But it's not that simple. There are a lot of factors at play here. Not the least of which is--"
"I know. But if I'm taking Sam, I'm taking both of them." She raised an eyebrow.
"You know that's not how the system works."
"I told her that the brother was a bit of a--"
"Jesus Christ, Lyle. I'm having a conversation here. Look, DeeDee." Kelsey stared up at her friend and said with all due gravity, "There are a lot of factors."
"I understand. And I'm not leaving without the brother."
Kelsey narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath before deciding. "I'll arrange something. A probationary thing, for both of you. I know you think you know what you're getting into. But this is not J.V. anything."
"I got it. Probationary thing sounds great."
"Okay." Kelsey pinched the spot where her nose met her forehead. "Lyle, put a call in to the brother's temporary placement." Lyle, mouth puckered, did so. "DeeDee, this could take a couple hours. You guys might be a lot better off waiting at your place."
Someone small, seven-years-old-sized, hooked his fingers through the belt loop of Dee's jeans. Something inside her, something she thought was long gone, something that had been on ice for five years, two months, and four days, suddenly caught like a pilot light. She was in trouble.
"But Dean will be there in time for dinner, right?"
Kelsey sighed. "I'll bring him myself."
Sam was looking straight up at her, staring her in the face like he'd just seen her raise the dead, walk on water, and cure blindness in one fell swoop. There were tears in his eyes now, but happy ones. Gideon, I am so screwed. And as usual, it's all your fault.
While they waited for Dean, she showed Sam her house. She tried to remember how important it was to manage everyone's expectations. They were not her children. She was not their mother. In all likelihood, this would not be their last foster home. They would never have a real home. So she tried to show it to him like she would an overnight guest, someone staying for a few weeks.
"It's an old house, back from about 1900. It was a real mess when we bought it, but we spent a couple years just fixing it up."
"Who's we?"
"Mr. Strickland and me. He went on up to Jesus five years ago."
"Oh. Sorry."
"The house creaks a lot, where the old parts and the new parts meet up. I like to think it's just him, keeping an eye on things."
"Like a ghost?" Sam's voice jumped an octave.
"No, nonono. Um, just...more like...an alarm system. You know, something that keeps an eye on the house. But it's not real, Sam. It's not. It's just something that helps me sleep better at night. You know what I mean?"
Sam nodded, suddenly grave. "Where's our room?"
"Just back here, right across the hall from mine. In case you need anything. There's only one bed, but we can fix that up tomorrow."
"One's okay. We usually share."
"Alright," she hedged. "We'll worry about getting Dean his own bed later."
"Oh, wow! It's big!" he ran into the room, turning around.
DeeDee's tennis shoes didn't make it past the door jamb. Five years on and she still hesitated at the threshold. The massive desk was gone. Gideon's friends had helped her with that, had helped her pack and move his things out and, more recently, move the twin bed and the bookshelves in. She'd set some of his old clothes out, some of his t-shirts and sweatshirts. They'd be huge on anyone under six foot, but it seemed wrong to leave them in boxes when they might be needed. It only hurt a little, seeing Sam running around, touching things, standing in places she didn't want to go.
"You wanna see the back yard?"
"There's a yard? Oh, man, Dean is never gonna believe this." Sam was clearly starting to perk up a little.
"I got a nice screened-in porch and everything. No jungle gym, or anything like that, but I found some old sports gear lying around."
Just lying around, Dee?
"There's a football an' a baseball an' a bat an' a glove..." Sam was clearly going to inventory the whole collection. He gasped. "'An' a soccer ball." He turned and looked at her again, like there was a chance she could sprout a halo and wings at any given moment. "Are these...are these all for us?"
"Long as you don't break any windows with 'em, you bet."
"Dean is never gonna believe this."
That became the popular refrain while she showed him the fenced yard, the little crick beyond it, the small garden she was trying to keep alive, and then where everything was in the kitchen--because apparently Dean would want to know. Halfway through the junk drawer, somewhere between duct tape and random paperclips, Sam went quiet for a moment.
"He'll be here soon," he smiled. "We should start the pasta."
"Okay."
They'd just dumped the dried noodles in when Kelsey's minivan pulled up. She'd changed into a clean pair of jeans with a collared shirt and nice shoes. A decent day-off compromise. DeeDee and Sam watched from the porch while Kelsey opened up the passenger door. He was eleven, the boy that climbed out, with short dark hair and a hollow face. He didn't look at Kelsey or the minivan or the house, but out of the side of his eyes he looked DeeDee over like she was standing in a line-up.
"Dean!"
The older boy's head snapped up. He dropped his backpack into the gravel and held his arms out, catching Sam at full speed. They stumbled together into the side of the minivan. Sam was crying again and talking under his breath. Kelsey shrugged and walked over.
"Dee."
"Kels."
"I'm backing your play here. But if you so much as suspect that this thing is going south, you have to tell me."
"I will."
"As in, obligated by law."
"Got it."
They watched in silence for a few more minutes, trying not to invade the private moment, the real family.
"Thank you." DeeDee said. "I mean that."
Kelsey waved it off. "Don't thank me yet. You need the least little thing, you give me a ring. I want to do right by them at least as much as you."
Watching Kelsey drive off, Dee experienced a brief moment of panic, the urge to call for help, abandon ship, abort the mission. Reel it in, Dee. Pull it the hell together. She straightened her shirt, like that was helpful at all. You wanted this. You've always wanted this, and you know it.
"Hey!" Sam said, startlingly cheerful. "The pasta's ready!"
It was the most disconcerting meal she would ever have. It felt very much like some sort of weird dance. She led for a few moments, steering the conversation to safe places. Then Sam would push in a different direction, probing questions, feeling her out. Thing was, Sam hadn't asked her many personal questions until now, much less shown an undue curiosity about her personal life. And Dean didn't talk at all.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Sam asked, with a face open and honest.
"No," she said, "I don't."
"Do you go to church?"
"Not usually, no."
Dean blinked, played with his pasta. He ate voraciously at first, then slowed down, and then stopped entirely. Every few moments, he would look over at Sam's plate. Sam was eating like a champ, in between impolite questions. He finished his mound of pasta with a satisfactory smile. Thank God. She'd needed an excuse to stand up for a good ten minutes. Dee smiled, picked up Sam's plate, and went to go load it up with seconds.
"Aw come on," Sam said from behind her. "I don't like the white sauce, Dean."
When she turned around, Dean had put his plate in front of his brother, traded forks. Inside her, Dee's heart sliced, beat sideways. Gideon, you son of a bitch.
"Don't worry." She looked Dean in the eye. "I made enough for an army."
Dean lifted his chin, nodded, and took his plate back.
"Awesome," Sam said. "I love pasta"
Bedtime was stilted too. Eight thirty was good. She'd asked Kels beforehand, but when she'd mentioned it to the boys, there was a telling pause in the room. Sam looked at Dean. Dean shrugged. Sam turned back to her. Dean tapped his brother on the shoulder, and Sam turned around again. Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam sighed, turned back to Dee.
"That sounds good. Can we take showers first?"
"Yeah of course."
She washed dishes while they cleaned up. It was an empty, mechanical process and it gave her time to think. There were two conversations going on here, she realized. She and Sam were talking, and Dean and Sam were talking. It was an awkward dynamic, to say the least. Dee was pretty sure it was out of her league. But there was no panic this time, no splash of adrenaline. You're the grown-up. Might as well act like it. As she was drying, a noise started down the hall. It wasn't the shower, it was something more mechanical. A lid slammed into place.
Dean had started the washing machine. She set the last dish out to try, then went looking. Sure enough, there were two empty bags sitting next to the washer in the hall closet. He was on top of the dryer, replacing the detergent on the high shelf. His hair was still wet and he was wearing one of Gideon's t-shirts. The faded, burnt orange one with the barbecue stain over the heart and the hem lay below his knees. Dee couldn't make herself talk.
The bathroom door opened with a bang and Sam burst out, hair in wet spikes, wearing his towel with the dignity of a Roman Senator. "Hi, what's up, what's going on, I just got out of the shower."
"I...can see that."
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked at DeeDee.
"We're ready for bed now."
<<<<<>>>>>
They are the first generation of young Americans since Vietnam to be sent into an open-ended conflict. Yet if the dominant mythology that war turns on a generation's loss of innocence--young men reared on Davy Crockett waking up to their government's deceits while fighting in the Southeast Asian jungles; the nation falling from the grace of Camelot to the shame of Watergate--these young men entered Iraq predisposed toward the idea that the Big Lie is as central to American governance as taxation. This is, after all, the generation that first learned of the significance of the presidency not through an inspiring speech at the Berlin Wall but through a national obsession with semen stains and a White House blow job. Even though their Commander in Chief tells them they are fighting today in Iraq to protect American freedom, few would be shaken to discover that they might actually be leading a grab for oil. In a way, they almost expect to be lied to.
All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright.
Chapter Two