Tooth and Nail 1/1
Title: Tooth and Nail
Author:marlowe78
Rating: PG 13 (language)
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Bill Harvelle
Word count: 2.556
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Language. Violent dream.
Summary: How can it be that in all these years hunting throughout the US, Dean and Sam never heard from their relatives? How come no Campbell ever contacted the Winchesters after Mary's death?
Maybe they couldn't...
Disclaimer: I sadly do not own any of the main characters in this fic. Even worse, I don't get paid for writing.
a/n: Wow. Not written for any prompts. Whew, exhilarating feeling!
This has no beta, and nobody read it before. So please, please, if you find mistakes, TELL ME!
*******
„Campbell? You sure?“
„Yupp. Name’s… Sal Campbell, has a son, Christian. Must be twenty, round about. Bit older, mebbe.”
“Sheeeeeesh…” John let out a heavy breath. Campbell. Like Mary. Maybe relatives? “Can you tell me more ‘bout ‘em?”
Bill Harvelle shifted on his stool. Distractedly, he peeled at the label of his beer, loose from the moisture it’d collected now that it was warming up in the bar and the air around it was cooling.
Slightly cooling only. It was hot as fucking hell in here. The smoke from about sixty cigarettes and judging from the smell, more than one cigar hung in the room and burned in the throats. It probably helped beer-sales a lot.
“Hm. He’s a good hunter. Thorough. Fast. His son’s pretty good too.”
“How old did’ya say he is?”
“Sal? ‘s hard to say, maybe fifty, fifty-five? Looks kinda rough.”
John smiled a bit at that, drew his hand through his scruffy beard. He still had dust from the hunt in his hair and clothes, hell, in his freaking nose! And Bill didn’t look much better. Harvelle picked up fast on his grin. Smart man, that Bill.
“Nah, John. Compared to him, we look like straight out if GQ” he laughed. “Why you askin’?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
“Bull” it was nearly lost in a loud burp, but John caught it anyway. He frowned, took a sip himself.
“I call bullshit, Johnny! I know your ‘I have a seeeecret, nobody knoooows it’-face by now. Whassup?” Those fuckin’ earnest, after all the shit they’d seen still deeply compassionate eyes burned into John’s resolve. Just like they always did. Just like Sammy’s.
He sighed. “Mary’s name was Campbell” Despite all these years, it still hurt in his throat and behind his eyes to say her name.
“Aw, shit.” Bill gave John a minute of silence. “Where’s she from?”
“Lawrence. We met there. Just…after I came back”
Bill looked away. They’d both seen war. Slightly different ones; different continent, different occasion. Still, war was war.
“I could ask around a bit. If you want?”
John shook his head. Stopped. Nodded.
“’preciate it.”
“No prob. Ellen’s a wizard for collecting information. Parents?”
“Deanna and Samuel”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Deanna, huh?” he grinned.
John smiled back, shrugged. “Yeah.”
~~SN~~SN~~SN~~
“Why can’t we do something normal for once? Other kids go to the beach during summer! We’re the only ones who run around through the freaking forest in August!”
“Watch your language, boy.” John was still slightly amused about his son’s tirade. Twelve and unhappy, and he could relate, he really could. But there wasn’t a choice. Not for them.
“Sorry, sir.”
How different his sons were was never clearer than on these occasions. Dean was actually happy, doing the things they did. He’d been on his first salt-and-burn shortly after Sammy found out ‘the secret’, an easy hunt with a relatively harmless, if highly annoying ghost. Since then, John’d taken him with him on and off, whenever he thought it safe enough. Not half as often as Dean wanted, that was sure.
Sam… Sam hated hunting. He’d been weary of it when he first learned about it, then he’d been scared. Nowadays, he found more and more reasons to hate it and more often than not called it the reason they were constantly moving. That it was the reason they were apart from what Sam called normal. Most times, he was just deeply unhappy and insecure because of their life, but now and then John'd already spotted anger in his young face when he'd had to leave behind another set of friends. Whenever he was reminded that his family would never be normal.
For Sammy, normal meant safe.
Dean already knew that wasn’t true.
It wouldn’t be possible to make Dean un-know it, and Sam’d probably never understand that his idea of normal only meant that you’d have no idea that the thing that ate you alive was actually real. Until, you know, it ate you alive.
He wished to God he could give his kids normal. That they could go and sit on their Grandparents legs, play with other kids. Hell, go to school. He wished he still got their college-funds, wished he hadn’t needed it. Wished he at least spent it on something fun. Like going to Disneyland.
Hell, John had no idea anymore what normal was, these days. He was pretty sure continually changing towns and raising his boys in motels wasn’t, though.
”Ellen said they’ve been around for some time. Old family. Freaking high level of knowledge. Don’t like to share much, though. Stick with their own, most offa time.”
“Where they come from?”
“Oh, yeah. Same Campbells as your Mary. Apparently their line goes back to the Mayflower and further. Congrats, man. You got relatives! Whole bunch of’em”
Yeah. He distinctly remembered that normal people visited relatives for Christmas. Couldn’t do that, either.
”You gonna visssit ‘em?”
Caleb had been dealing on and off with Sal Campbell. Knew him well enough. Had told him more than Ellen’d been able to find. First-hand information. Wasn’t their hunting-skills John was interested in, anyways, and they never visited the Roadhouse.
Bill and John were on their third round of whiskey, trying to forget about their latest fucked-up hunt.
” Ya kiddin’, Bill? Haveya heard whass he like, Sal?”
“Nupp. Whass he like?”
“Freakin’ psycho, man. Caleb ssaid. Lives inna mountains, inna com-hicks - compound. Likea freakin’ m’litry nutjop”
“Souns like you. Kinda”
“I’m no nuttjop! Kid ofhis, Chrishan? Calep says he killed’s first werewolf when he’s like ten.”
“S’hard. So?”
“Wasn’t full moon for ‘nothor two weeks!”
They’d been silent a while.
“S’true?”
“Dunno. Calep saiss. But dunno. Don’ wanna riskit, sough.”
They’d sat a while.
“’s propably smart.”
“Yupp”
“Smart Johnny!” Bill had smiled his beaming Sammy-smile and clapped him on the shoulder. Well, on his nose, but he’d been aiming for the shoulder. They’d downed some more glasses after that, drowned out the sorrow of being too late and fallen asleep on the table until the bartender kicked them out.
They’d slept some more outside until they’d parted ways.
Goddammit, he missed the bugger. Missed him and mourned him with every shot he drank, trying to honor his life but scared, so scared of what’d been left behind.
Scared of Ellen, yes. But even more scared of Jo and her big, elfish eyes. Of the grief in their home that would cling to everything Bill’d ever touched. That would surround Ellen like a veil.
Ellen with the easy laugh and big smiles and huge personality.
He wasn’t scared of much, but he was scared shitless by the thought of facing Ellen Harvelle.
Campbell.
He didn’t know enough about the Campbells. Didn’t know any of them. Why’d Mary said there hadn’t been anyone left after her parents had been murdered? Where did they come from?
A family of hunters. Why wasn’t Mary’s branch part of them? Had they been pacifists? Did Sam’s dislike for their life come from Samuel Campbell, who had split from his family’s business?
It certainly beat the alternative. That Mary had been a Campbell with all it encompassed.
They were a mystery, and even Ellen with her sharp mind and Caleb with his contacts hadn’t been able to dig up more than basic facts:
Sal Campbell had raised his son hard and fast. Christian was said to be as smart and as capable as his old man; his girlfriend or wife, whatever, hunted too.
When they entered a room, they never did it alone.
Never hunted alone, never with anyone they didn’t know.
They were efficient, but from what John’d learned, even he was compassionate in comparison. They took out the threat, not bothering with alternative methods. They were hard as nails, tough as old leather. Lived reclusive, didn’t like to share knowledge with hunters that didn’t work with them.
They took in hunters into their inner circle, but once you were in, you weren’t getting out. John wasn’t sure if they weren’t allowed or simply didn’t want to.
Whatever the reasons, whatever their superior knowledge was, there was just no way he’d let them near his family! Hell, he was bad enough as their drill-instructor, but he at least loved them with all his heart, would die for them on the spot.
He wouldn’t let anyone anywhere near his kids who didn’t feel the same.
Dean was smart and frighteningly good at hunting. Even more frightening, he was awfully fast when it came to throwing himself in front of danger to protect his father or his brother. Any danger, be it a speeding car or a ghost.
John knew that and adjusted his methods accordingly but a stranger, another hunter might not. That was just too risky. And then there was this… this light in Dean. Despite all that’d happened, all that he’d seen with far too young eyes, all the responsibility his old man dumped on him, Dean was a happy kid whenever he was allowed to be. Deeply compassionate about things, especially about younger things.
God, he’d had such a hard time convincing Dean that puppies were not practical in their life. If Dean’d been a bit less understanding, a bit more manipulative like his mother, they’d have a whole pack by now. Because in all honesty, John liked dogs as well. But he’d convinced Dean, and now he had an ally for convincing Sammy. Much needed, because Sam? Sam knew how to use his huge eyes and the dimpled smile like a pro.
He knew he was much harder to Dean than necessary. His boy was a bit too sensitive, cared too much about a gruff shout that had nothing to do with him, really. Took things to heart and buried them there and let them fester.
But when he smiled…
If anyone else had a hand at training his kid, there wouldn’t be much left of the boy with the sunny smile. Not much left of his son.
And then, there was Sam.
As much as he wanted to give his boy more - both his kids - he couldn’t. What counted for Dean counted ten times for Sam. Because God knew, his pre-teen already developed a stubbornness that equaled his own. Impossible to imagine what’d be necessary to get his youngest in line.
John distinctly remembered the free-spirited, happy-go-lucky boy from Wichita who’d been to base-camp with him. They’d made him run laps and do push-ups until he’d been foaming from his mouth, his drill-sergeant had screamed him down every chance he got until the poor kid had sobbed into his pillows at night. Wichita-Kid had stopped resisting one day. Had stopped joking, smiling or talking back. Already broken before he even left US soil.
He would NOT let anyone break his boys!
And… there was the other matter.
John’d actually considered the protection a group of hunters could give his family, what knowledge there was to be had that might help in his search for the thing that… for the devil that had destroyed his life.
But there’d always been the fact that Sammy…
They might help him. Might protect Sam. Might give him shelter and stability and a level of normal that might make him happy.
But they just as easily might kill his son. Put him down. Just in case.
And that was not happening!
*
He’d dreamed of it.
He’d seen some shady figures, holding his eldest who was screaming bloody murder, kicking, yelling, howling in fury and fear and love for his brother.
He’d seen them hold him down, four men because John was sure that it’d take at least one for each limb to hold Dean where Sammy was concerned.
He’d seen, from afar, a mute witness, how two men took lanky, innocent, floppy-haired Sam through a door, into a room with devil’s traps on the walls and ceiling. He’d seen, in a strange double-vision, how they slit his youngest’ throat with a sharp blade - not cruel, not prolonging suffering, but lethal, bloody and so damn final, while at the same time his eldest screamed his throat bloody.
Mercifully, he’d woken up.
Had gone into his boy’s room and silently mourned all they’d never have, all they’d never see. He’d sat all night and known that he’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.
*
If it meant flying below the radar of the police as well as the hunter-community, than that’s what he’d do.
He trusted two hunters with his kids. Singer and Jim. He’d have trust Bill Harvelle, but …
And Ellen ran the Roadhouse. Too many hunters came and went. Even if Ellen’d ever let him in, it wouldn’t be a safe place.
He trusted Caleb, at least basically that much that his friend knew about his kids, saw ‘em once in a while. Caleb wouldn’t talk about him and his, so that was all right. Caleb was a good guy, though John refrained from ever using him as a babysitter again since that incident with a drunken Sammy. A drunken five-year-old Sammy.
Oh, he believed that it was an accident, that Sam had found the mostly-empty bottles and played grown-up. He did. Or, well, most days he did. Still, Caleb was a good buddy to have his back, but not to have his boys.
Since Dean’d turned older, he didn’t think he needed babysitters anymore anyway.
It was hard, John knew that. To have no-one to trust except two old men and a dad. To have no other kids that could ever know what they did. Dammit, it was hard for John too!
But it was necessary. It was right.
It was safe.
~~SN~~SN~~
“Daaaaaaad”
Sam could whine with the best of them.
“Sam…”
“My feet hurt, my back hurts and the mosquitoes are eating me! How is it fair that we never do something real people do? Why do we have to -“
“Sammy, shut up. Your whining is just as annoying as the mosquitoes!”
“Deeean!”
“Saaaaaaam!”
“Deee- ow! Dad, he shoved me!”
“Dad, he’s a whiny bitch!”
“Am not!”
“Are too”
“Am not, you… you…you jerk!”
“Stop it right now!” John roared. Then looked into those huge surprised eyes of his boys who were suddenly confederates again and he couldn’t help but laugh.
They both had red dots all over their faces, all over any piece of skin that wasn’t covered with clothing. Upon closer inspection, he hadn’t fared better. The smirking guy from the pharmacy was up for a surprise; John’d shove the shitty, expensive bug-spray into his fat ass when they reached town again.
He sighed. “Sam. ‘Normal’ people go on nature hikes and go camping, just as we do.”
“But…”
“I know. You’re miserable, you’re tired and you’re suffering from blood-loss due to vampiristic bugs. But surprise: we all do!”
Sam shut up, looked at his feet. Dean smirked a bit, but stopped to scratch his neck, then his arms. His legs. John could see that he wanted to complain, was biting his tongue not to whine like Sammy’d done.
He sighed again.
“You know what? I’m sick of trees. How about we go find the car, pack our stuff and go to … Sam, where do you figure the beach might suit your desires?”
The whooping joy that sounded through the forest would stick with John for a long time.
And the three weeks in Fort Bragg he’d carry with him through years to come. To remember what it felt like to feel safe, if only for a while.
To remember what’s worth fighting for.
Tooth and nail.
~end
a/n:
I researched and it's said that William Harvelle died 1986. However, the web says that in an earlier version of "Jo's Blog", he died in 1995. I decided that for my story to work, Bill died somewhere in between. In my story, Christian - based entirely on Corin Nemec's birth-year - is 7 years older than Dean.
I absolutely discount the SPN-comics, because I haven't read them. So... When MY John found hints about Sam, Sam was at least nine. And Dean, therefore, thirteen. This might be a good time for Bill to have died, don'tcha think?
So, unofficial year of death: 1992.
Just assume Jo wore pigtails until she was nine ;-)
Author:marlowe78
Rating: PG 13 (language)
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Bill Harvelle
Word count: 2.556
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Language. Violent dream.
Summary: How can it be that in all these years hunting throughout the US, Dean and Sam never heard from their relatives? How come no Campbell ever contacted the Winchesters after Mary's death?
Maybe they couldn't...
Disclaimer: I sadly do not own any of the main characters in this fic. Even worse, I don't get paid for writing.
a/n: Wow. Not written for any prompts. Whew, exhilarating feeling!
This has no beta, and nobody read it before. So please, please, if you find mistakes, TELL ME!
*******
„Campbell? You sure?“
„Yupp. Name’s… Sal Campbell, has a son, Christian. Must be twenty, round about. Bit older, mebbe.”
“Sheeeeeesh…” John let out a heavy breath. Campbell. Like Mary. Maybe relatives? “Can you tell me more ‘bout ‘em?”
Bill Harvelle shifted on his stool. Distractedly, he peeled at the label of his beer, loose from the moisture it’d collected now that it was warming up in the bar and the air around it was cooling.
Slightly cooling only. It was hot as fucking hell in here. The smoke from about sixty cigarettes and judging from the smell, more than one cigar hung in the room and burned in the throats. It probably helped beer-sales a lot.
“Hm. He’s a good hunter. Thorough. Fast. His son’s pretty good too.”
“How old did’ya say he is?”
“Sal? ‘s hard to say, maybe fifty, fifty-five? Looks kinda rough.”
John smiled a bit at that, drew his hand through his scruffy beard. He still had dust from the hunt in his hair and clothes, hell, in his freaking nose! And Bill didn’t look much better. Harvelle picked up fast on his grin. Smart man, that Bill.
“Nah, John. Compared to him, we look like straight out if GQ” he laughed. “Why you askin’?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
“Bull” it was nearly lost in a loud burp, but John caught it anyway. He frowned, took a sip himself.
“I call bullshit, Johnny! I know your ‘I have a seeeecret, nobody knoooows it’-face by now. Whassup?” Those fuckin’ earnest, after all the shit they’d seen still deeply compassionate eyes burned into John’s resolve. Just like they always did. Just like Sammy’s.
He sighed. “Mary’s name was Campbell” Despite all these years, it still hurt in his throat and behind his eyes to say her name.
“Aw, shit.” Bill gave John a minute of silence. “Where’s she from?”
“Lawrence. We met there. Just…after I came back”
Bill looked away. They’d both seen war. Slightly different ones; different continent, different occasion. Still, war was war.
“I could ask around a bit. If you want?”
John shook his head. Stopped. Nodded.
“’preciate it.”
“No prob. Ellen’s a wizard for collecting information. Parents?”
“Deanna and Samuel”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Deanna, huh?” he grinned.
John smiled back, shrugged. “Yeah.”
~~SN~~SN~~SN~~
“Why can’t we do something normal for once? Other kids go to the beach during summer! We’re the only ones who run around through the freaking forest in August!”
“Watch your language, boy.” John was still slightly amused about his son’s tirade. Twelve and unhappy, and he could relate, he really could. But there wasn’t a choice. Not for them.
“Sorry, sir.”
How different his sons were was never clearer than on these occasions. Dean was actually happy, doing the things they did. He’d been on his first salt-and-burn shortly after Sammy found out ‘the secret’, an easy hunt with a relatively harmless, if highly annoying ghost. Since then, John’d taken him with him on and off, whenever he thought it safe enough. Not half as often as Dean wanted, that was sure.
Sam… Sam hated hunting. He’d been weary of it when he first learned about it, then he’d been scared. Nowadays, he found more and more reasons to hate it and more often than not called it the reason they were constantly moving. That it was the reason they were apart from what Sam called normal. Most times, he was just deeply unhappy and insecure because of their life, but now and then John'd already spotted anger in his young face when he'd had to leave behind another set of friends. Whenever he was reminded that his family would never be normal.
For Sammy, normal meant safe.
Dean already knew that wasn’t true.
It wouldn’t be possible to make Dean un-know it, and Sam’d probably never understand that his idea of normal only meant that you’d have no idea that the thing that ate you alive was actually real. Until, you know, it ate you alive.
He wished to God he could give his kids normal. That they could go and sit on their Grandparents legs, play with other kids. Hell, go to school. He wished he still got their college-funds, wished he hadn’t needed it. Wished he at least spent it on something fun. Like going to Disneyland.
Hell, John had no idea anymore what normal was, these days. He was pretty sure continually changing towns and raising his boys in motels wasn’t, though.
”Ellen said they’ve been around for some time. Old family. Freaking high level of knowledge. Don’t like to share much, though. Stick with their own, most offa time.”
“Where they come from?”
“Oh, yeah. Same Campbells as your Mary. Apparently their line goes back to the Mayflower and further. Congrats, man. You got relatives! Whole bunch of’em”
Yeah. He distinctly remembered that normal people visited relatives for Christmas. Couldn’t do that, either.
”You gonna visssit ‘em?”
Caleb had been dealing on and off with Sal Campbell. Knew him well enough. Had told him more than Ellen’d been able to find. First-hand information. Wasn’t their hunting-skills John was interested in, anyways, and they never visited the Roadhouse.
Bill and John were on their third round of whiskey, trying to forget about their latest fucked-up hunt.
” Ya kiddin’, Bill? Haveya heard whass he like, Sal?”
“Nupp. Whass he like?”
“Freakin’ psycho, man. Caleb ssaid. Lives inna mountains, inna com-hicks - compound. Likea freakin’ m’litry nutjop”
“Souns like you. Kinda”
“I’m no nuttjop! Kid ofhis, Chrishan? Calep says he killed’s first werewolf when he’s like ten.”
“S’hard. So?”
“Wasn’t full moon for ‘nothor two weeks!”
They’d been silent a while.
“S’true?”
“Dunno. Calep saiss. But dunno. Don’ wanna riskit, sough.”
They’d sat a while.
“’s propably smart.”
“Yupp”
“Smart Johnny!” Bill had smiled his beaming Sammy-smile and clapped him on the shoulder. Well, on his nose, but he’d been aiming for the shoulder. They’d downed some more glasses after that, drowned out the sorrow of being too late and fallen asleep on the table until the bartender kicked them out.
They’d slept some more outside until they’d parted ways.
Goddammit, he missed the bugger. Missed him and mourned him with every shot he drank, trying to honor his life but scared, so scared of what’d been left behind.
Scared of Ellen, yes. But even more scared of Jo and her big, elfish eyes. Of the grief in their home that would cling to everything Bill’d ever touched. That would surround Ellen like a veil.
Ellen with the easy laugh and big smiles and huge personality.
He wasn’t scared of much, but he was scared shitless by the thought of facing Ellen Harvelle.
Campbell.
He didn’t know enough about the Campbells. Didn’t know any of them. Why’d Mary said there hadn’t been anyone left after her parents had been murdered? Where did they come from?
A family of hunters. Why wasn’t Mary’s branch part of them? Had they been pacifists? Did Sam’s dislike for their life come from Samuel Campbell, who had split from his family’s business?
It certainly beat the alternative. That Mary had been a Campbell with all it encompassed.
They were a mystery, and even Ellen with her sharp mind and Caleb with his contacts hadn’t been able to dig up more than basic facts:
Sal Campbell had raised his son hard and fast. Christian was said to be as smart and as capable as his old man; his girlfriend or wife, whatever, hunted too.
When they entered a room, they never did it alone.
Never hunted alone, never with anyone they didn’t know.
They were efficient, but from what John’d learned, even he was compassionate in comparison. They took out the threat, not bothering with alternative methods. They were hard as nails, tough as old leather. Lived reclusive, didn’t like to share knowledge with hunters that didn’t work with them.
They took in hunters into their inner circle, but once you were in, you weren’t getting out. John wasn’t sure if they weren’t allowed or simply didn’t want to.
Whatever the reasons, whatever their superior knowledge was, there was just no way he’d let them near his family! Hell, he was bad enough as their drill-instructor, but he at least loved them with all his heart, would die for them on the spot.
He wouldn’t let anyone anywhere near his kids who didn’t feel the same.
Dean was smart and frighteningly good at hunting. Even more frightening, he was awfully fast when it came to throwing himself in front of danger to protect his father or his brother. Any danger, be it a speeding car or a ghost.
John knew that and adjusted his methods accordingly but a stranger, another hunter might not. That was just too risky. And then there was this… this light in Dean. Despite all that’d happened, all that he’d seen with far too young eyes, all the responsibility his old man dumped on him, Dean was a happy kid whenever he was allowed to be. Deeply compassionate about things, especially about younger things.
God, he’d had such a hard time convincing Dean that puppies were not practical in their life. If Dean’d been a bit less understanding, a bit more manipulative like his mother, they’d have a whole pack by now. Because in all honesty, John liked dogs as well. But he’d convinced Dean, and now he had an ally for convincing Sammy. Much needed, because Sam? Sam knew how to use his huge eyes and the dimpled smile like a pro.
He knew he was much harder to Dean than necessary. His boy was a bit too sensitive, cared too much about a gruff shout that had nothing to do with him, really. Took things to heart and buried them there and let them fester.
But when he smiled…
If anyone else had a hand at training his kid, there wouldn’t be much left of the boy with the sunny smile. Not much left of his son.
And then, there was Sam.
As much as he wanted to give his boy more - both his kids - he couldn’t. What counted for Dean counted ten times for Sam. Because God knew, his pre-teen already developed a stubbornness that equaled his own. Impossible to imagine what’d be necessary to get his youngest in line.
John distinctly remembered the free-spirited, happy-go-lucky boy from Wichita who’d been to base-camp with him. They’d made him run laps and do push-ups until he’d been foaming from his mouth, his drill-sergeant had screamed him down every chance he got until the poor kid had sobbed into his pillows at night. Wichita-Kid had stopped resisting one day. Had stopped joking, smiling or talking back. Already broken before he even left US soil.
He would NOT let anyone break his boys!
And… there was the other matter.
John’d actually considered the protection a group of hunters could give his family, what knowledge there was to be had that might help in his search for the thing that… for the devil that had destroyed his life.
But there’d always been the fact that Sammy…
They might help him. Might protect Sam. Might give him shelter and stability and a level of normal that might make him happy.
But they just as easily might kill his son. Put him down. Just in case.
And that was not happening!
*
He’d dreamed of it.
He’d seen some shady figures, holding his eldest who was screaming bloody murder, kicking, yelling, howling in fury and fear and love for his brother.
He’d seen them hold him down, four men because John was sure that it’d take at least one for each limb to hold Dean where Sammy was concerned.
He’d seen, from afar, a mute witness, how two men took lanky, innocent, floppy-haired Sam through a door, into a room with devil’s traps on the walls and ceiling. He’d seen, in a strange double-vision, how they slit his youngest’ throat with a sharp blade - not cruel, not prolonging suffering, but lethal, bloody and so damn final, while at the same time his eldest screamed his throat bloody.
Mercifully, he’d woken up.
Had gone into his boy’s room and silently mourned all they’d never have, all they’d never see. He’d sat all night and known that he’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.
*
If it meant flying below the radar of the police as well as the hunter-community, than that’s what he’d do.
He trusted two hunters with his kids. Singer and Jim. He’d have trust Bill Harvelle, but …
And Ellen ran the Roadhouse. Too many hunters came and went. Even if Ellen’d ever let him in, it wouldn’t be a safe place.
He trusted Caleb, at least basically that much that his friend knew about his kids, saw ‘em once in a while. Caleb wouldn’t talk about him and his, so that was all right. Caleb was a good guy, though John refrained from ever using him as a babysitter again since that incident with a drunken Sammy. A drunken five-year-old Sammy.
Oh, he believed that it was an accident, that Sam had found the mostly-empty bottles and played grown-up. He did. Or, well, most days he did. Still, Caleb was a good buddy to have his back, but not to have his boys.
Since Dean’d turned older, he didn’t think he needed babysitters anymore anyway.
It was hard, John knew that. To have no-one to trust except two old men and a dad. To have no other kids that could ever know what they did. Dammit, it was hard for John too!
But it was necessary. It was right.
It was safe.
~~SN~~SN~~
“Daaaaaaad”
Sam could whine with the best of them.
“Sam…”
“My feet hurt, my back hurts and the mosquitoes are eating me! How is it fair that we never do something real people do? Why do we have to -“
“Sammy, shut up. Your whining is just as annoying as the mosquitoes!”
“Deeean!”
“Saaaaaaam!”
“Deee- ow! Dad, he shoved me!”
“Dad, he’s a whiny bitch!”
“Am not!”
“Are too”
“Am not, you… you…you jerk!”
“Stop it right now!” John roared. Then looked into those huge surprised eyes of his boys who were suddenly confederates again and he couldn’t help but laugh.
They both had red dots all over their faces, all over any piece of skin that wasn’t covered with clothing. Upon closer inspection, he hadn’t fared better. The smirking guy from the pharmacy was up for a surprise; John’d shove the shitty, expensive bug-spray into his fat ass when they reached town again.
He sighed. “Sam. ‘Normal’ people go on nature hikes and go camping, just as we do.”
“But…”
“I know. You’re miserable, you’re tired and you’re suffering from blood-loss due to vampiristic bugs. But surprise: we all do!”
Sam shut up, looked at his feet. Dean smirked a bit, but stopped to scratch his neck, then his arms. His legs. John could see that he wanted to complain, was biting his tongue not to whine like Sammy’d done.
He sighed again.
“You know what? I’m sick of trees. How about we go find the car, pack our stuff and go to … Sam, where do you figure the beach might suit your desires?”
The whooping joy that sounded through the forest would stick with John for a long time.
And the three weeks in Fort Bragg he’d carry with him through years to come. To remember what it felt like to feel safe, if only for a while.
To remember what’s worth fighting for.
Tooth and nail.
~end
a/n:
I researched and it's said that William Harvelle died 1986. However, the web says that in an earlier version of "Jo's Blog", he died in 1995. I decided that for my story to work, Bill died somewhere in between. In my story, Christian - based entirely on Corin Nemec's birth-year - is 7 years older than Dean.
I absolutely discount the SPN-comics, because I haven't read them. So... When MY John found hints about Sam, Sam was at least nine. And Dean, therefore, thirteen. This might be a good time for Bill to have died, don'tcha think?
So, unofficial year of death: 1992.
Just assume Jo wore pigtails until she was nine ;-)