The Lights of Home Part 3
Part 3: I Can Remember the Fourth of July
Somewhere in Pennsylvania - January, 2009
Dean stepped out of the cafe with a pleased sigh and a burp, his belly warm and full of chili. He felt considerably more even-keeled now, ready to go back to the drudgery of the current hunt. Or Indiana, if need be. If he really, really had to.
Somehow, though, he still managed to be shocked when Castiel popped up yet again, appearing directly in front of his face. Dean started back a step, breath hitching, one hand rising to his chest in a gesture that was disturbingly like that of a maiden aunt. "Shit, Cas! Why you gotta do that to me all the time?"
The angel still had that grim, unhappy expression, tight around his mouth, his tired eyes. "I have decided that I should accompany you to Indiana."
Dean stepped determinedly past him and started walking down the street, glaring askance when Castiel walked with him, effortlessly keeping pace. "What, we need babysitters now? I'm sure whatever it is, Sam and I can handle it."
"Nevertheless, I will go with you."
"So now you're on assignment from the big cheese? Gotta keep an eye on the demon-blood boy and his chosen-one brother?"
"No."
"No to which one?"
"No, this is not an assignment from God."
"Then, what, from another angel?" Dean huffed a frustrated breath, his footsteps fast and hard. "You know what, just forget it. I don't want to know."
He continued striding toward the hall, glancing sporadically at Castiel, who walked with him, serene and silent. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Feather-Breath?"
"I told you, I am going to accompany you to..."
"Starting now?"
"Yes."
They kept walking. Dean scowled ahead, trying and failing to ignore his sudden shadow. This was going to be so annoying.
~*~
Sam, of course, took it all in stride. Damn his eyes. "So, where exactly in Indiana are we going?"
They were sitting at a low, cramped table in the back of the records office, surrounding on all sides by bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling, jammed side-to-side with files, folders, and ledgers. Sam had a stack of papers in front of him and a laptop at his elbow, but he had pushed it all aside to stare at his brother and their heavenly visitor. Castiel stood against the bookcase a few feet away, in the position he had taken when Dean plopped down in the chair across from Sam.
Dean looked expectantly to the angel. He hadn't explained that part yet.
Was he imagining things, or did Castiel's shoulders slump down a little? "The seal is in the northeast portion of Indiana, near Fort Wayne."
"Oh, we've been to Fort Wayne before." Sam nodded easily. "The Bloody Mary case, remember?"
Dean squinted at Castiel. "Is that what you were talking about when you said I'd been there before? Because that was no big deal, man. We talked to a cop, then went on to the next clue."
"No. This is in the country, near the small town of Woodlan."
Oh.
Oh.
Sam just frowned a little. "That doesn't sound familiar."
"You don't remember?" Dean watched his face carefully. "We lived there for three months, the summer I was eleven and you were seven."
"I don't know, Dean. We lived in a lot of places when I was seven." Sam scowled, the way he always did when they started talking about their childhood. "Do you remember where we lived when you were seven?"
Dean sat back in his chair. "Well...no. But that's not the point." He put a tang of irritation in his voice, hiding his surging relief. He had always hoped that Sammy had forgotten that one. He certainly wished that he could. "It was the town with the awesome candy store. Remember that?"
Sam blinked, his face suddenly opening up in nostalgic pleasure. "Oh, man. That one? Dum-Dums for a nickel. Do you think they still have Dum-Dums for a nickel?"
He was clearly salivating at the thought, and Dean grinned, wide and goofy. "I dunno, dude. Guess we'll have to find out."
Sam already had his laptop flipped open, piggybacking on the city hall's limited wi-fi. "Maybe the store has a website. Almost everything has a website now."
Dean made a skeptical face, but he was glad for the slight misdirection. Let Sam remember all the good things about that summer, if he had to remember anything-bike rides and candy and fireflies and that awesome slide at the park. Dean would handle the rest.
A glance at Castiel found the angel still watching him, still serious and displeased. Dean didn't get it. But whatever. It wasn't his job to psychoanalyze the feathered folk.
"Oh, Dean..."
Sam's voice was worried. Dean snapped his head up to stare at him, dread tightening his chest. "What?"
"There's no motel in Woodlan. The closest one is about forty-five minutes away." A few more clicks as he checked another web page. "But, hey, there's a B&B just down the road...."
"Dude, no way! I am not staying at a bed and breakfast with you, not now, not ever!"
Sam peered at him over the laptop's screen. "But breakfast is included, and it's usually really, really good. This one says traditional Amish dishes, fresh fruit in season..."
Dean cut him off with a loud gagging noise. "God, Sammy, no. That is not enough."
"What, you'd rather sleep in the car? In January, in Indiana?"
A calm voice interrupted. "I will handle the sleeping arrangements."
Both Dean and Sam snapped around to stare at Castiel. They had almost managed to forget that he was there. And now he was offering to find them a place to stay?
"How in the world, man?" Dean couldn't help staring in shock. He had never pinned Cas as the practical sort. And now it turned out that he had contacts on the ground? New one.
"Don't concern yourself with the details. It will be free of charge and pleasant, and I believe there may even be a chance for breakfast."
Dean and Sam looked at each other for a moment in blank confusion. Sam twisted his eyebrows in inquiry, and Dean gave a tiny shrug in return. Then they both nodded and turned back to Castiel.
"That would be cool. Thanks, man."
Castiel's expression lightened, as if his face had been hit by a beam of sunlight. And Dean even thought that maybe, maybe, that might be the slightest indication of a smile.
~*~
Woodlan, Indiana - July, 1990
The next morning, John woke with a stiff neck and a heavy heart, still leaning against the wall, fully dressed. He glanced down instinctively, looking for his son, but the bed was empty, the covers rumpled and thrown back.
He made his way downstairs and found his boys in the kitchen, Sammy sitting on the counter swinging his legs, Dean making toast with butter and a canister of cinnamon and sugar ready at his fingertips, the counter around the toaster scattered with crumbs. The older boy's eyes were a little red and puffy, but at least he'd showered and dressed in clean clothes, damp hair sticking up from his head in unruly spikes. The boys were arguing, of course, something about the best way to catch frogs and whether there were any to be found in the creek on the edge of town. John barely listened, too busy just looking at his sons, taking them in.
Sammy saw him first and greeted him with an exuberant wave. "G'morning, Daddy! Want some cinnamon toast?"
Dean had gone still, watching him, young face wary and intent. Waiting to see how John would react in the harsh light of day, probably, waiting for rejection, condemnation. John would have to step carefully here.
He grinned at his younger son and moved over to the counter to ruffle his hair. "That sounds delicious, squirt." He looked to Dean then, smiling warmly. "Dean makes good toast, doesn't he?"
Sam nodded hugely. "It's the best!"
"Do you want some to take with you on the way to town?" Dean still watched him closely, taking two pieces of toast from the toaster and popping in more slices of bread.
John shook his head. "I'm not going to town today."
The boys' eyes widened in disbelief. Sammy even gave a tiny gasp. "You aren't?"
"Nope." John chuckled and scooped the little boy off the counter, clasping him close and tickling his stomach until he laughed breathlessly, squirming against him and begging him to stop.
Dean's eyes were still dark, unbelieving. "Why not?"
John looked at him, stopped tickling Sam and just held him tight. "Well, it occurred to me that I've been here for a whole month now and I don't know anything about this town. Think you boys could give me a tour? I'm sure you've found all sorts of cool things."
"Sure have!" Sammy nodded against his shoulder, throwing one arm around his father's neck and squeezing. "We know everything about Woodlan."
John started moving toward the dining room to set him down at the table, then paused and looked at his feet, frowning. "Um, boys? Why are my feet sticking to the floor?"
Dean shrugged unconcernedly, scraping butter over a piece of toast. "Because the floor is sticky?"
"What, you haven't mopped it? Ever?"
They stared at him with wide eyes. No, of course not. Why would it ever occur to them to mop the kitchen floor? Neither of them remembered what it was like to live in a house.
John sighed. "Well, I see I have some things to show you, too."
~*~
After that, things changed. Mostly in small ways, but in some big ones, too. John didn't go to the library for the rest of that week, guiltily trying to make up for time lost. He taught the boys how to mop and dust and vacuum, clean the toilet and wash the windows. He started a few small repairs around the duplex, the jobs he had promised their landlord in return for reduced rent, and let the boys shadow him, hand him tools, watch their daddy work. He did PT with them again, jogging, strength exercises, stretches, but decided to leave the sparring alone for awhile. They had time.
He asked questions, suddenly eager to know everything his boys were doing, everything they had discovered in Woodlan, everything they thought about everything around them. Dean was hesitant at first, unused to a father who was so intensely interested in his every deed and opinion. Sammy, though, was jubilant, chatting enthusiastically, and Dean gradually warmed to it, too. It made John ache, seeing the light in his sons' eyes, how surprised and happy they were that he actually wanted to spend time with them. Never again, he vowed. Never again.
John and Dean didn't talk again about what the boy had told him on that dark, desperate night, but the awareness of it was always sharp between them. John saw Dean's flinches now, his silent fears and momentary hesitations, and wondered how he could have been so blind to them before. There were just so many of them....
He made a concerted to effort to touch the boy often, always letting him see his hand coming, the intention in John's face before he pulled him into a brief hug. At first Dean froze up every time, standing stiffly, merely enduring the touch on his shoulder, the clasp of his father's arms. Then, slowly, he began to accept the attention, leaning back into John's hand, melting into his embrace whenever it was offered.
In the beginning Sammy was rather confused by the new way of things, staring at his family in mute astonishment. Before long he was demanding his fair share of pats and hugs, though, and John willingly gave them. Then the little boy figured out that this was The Summer of Hugging Dean and threw himself into the project with delighted enthusiasm, wrapping himself around his big brother at every opportunity. This Dean tolerated with a heartfelt sigh and a heavenward glance for strength, but if it went on too long he muttered in exasperation and shoved Sam away, calling him every childish insult he'd ever heard or made up. Sammy ignored these, always going back for more.
John was strangely gratified that Dean never pushed him away. But then, he didn't try to hold on as long as Sammy did, either.
~*~
On the Fourth, John took his boys to see the fireworks in Fort Wayne. He had become familiar with this small Midwest city by now, and it wasn't hard to find a parking spot on a college campus a few miles north of downtown, jostling with other locals for a good spot in the free parking. They took a "picnic basket" (actually a brown paper grocery bag recycled for the purpose) and a ratty shipping blanket John had stolen from some truckstop long back in the endless road trip that was their lives after Lawrence. They walked out on the grassy expanse near Coliseum Boulevard, the south border of the campus. Plenty of room to spread out there, and other families were also laying blankets and unpacking food.
A few blankets away, a teenage girl played folk songs on an acoustic guitar, her boyfriend listening with the dreamy smile of puppy love. In another summer Dean would have made a beeline to the music, asked her to play some AC/DC or Creedence Clearwater Revival. But today he just sat with his father and brother and listened, glancing over to see what was going on whenever the music faltered. The two lovebirds giggled when her fingers slipped or her notes soured, the gentle sound of young laughter drifting over the grass.
John and his boys ate baloney sandwiches and potato chips, licking the grease and salt from their fingers and wiping them on the blanket. They drank Kool-Aid from a communal jug, the plastic cups still setting forgotten on the counter at home. John had timed their arrival for sunset, and as twilight deepened a family nearby broke out boxes of sparklers, mother and father and five chattering, shoving children.
Apparently they had extras, because the father came over to their blanket and offered a box to Dean and Sammy, holding one lit gray stick spitting sparks and the smell of gunpowder. Sammy leaped up from where he'd been reclining against his father's side and accepted before John or Dean could say anything. The man smiled broadly and lit two sparklers with the one in his hand for the boys, giving the remainder to John.
Sammy spun in the grass with arms outstretched, waving the sparkler so that a ribbon of yellow-red light circled him. Dean was persuaded to join in, and they laughed and danced and ran and wrote their names in the air. John sat on the blanket and grinned, quick to provide new sparklers when the old ones sputtered, until the box was empty and his sons collapsed beside him, giggling and panting.
Soon enough full dark came and the show began. The boys sat next to their father, Dean on the right and Sam on the left, leaning against him with their faces turned up to the sky. Fireworks crackled and boomed and shivered in the stars, like a war above their heads, the smoke left behind drifting off invisible. Red and blue and white and green, flares of light dying too quickly, mayflies of celebration. John watched his sons' faces as much as he watched the sky, the light flickering over their awed expressions, young and innocent and his to care for, his to protect. His to fail.
The drive home was a headache and a half, hundreds of cars trying to leave the area at once, bumper to bumper and directed by annoyed-looking cops with flashlights and whistles. But Dean and Sammy slept peacefully in the backseat, spent and smiling and curled around each other. So it was worth it.
~*~
John couldn't help being sharply, painfully aware, now, of things he had never noticed before. A P.E. teacher had hurt his son. A teacher. He had seen the news specials, of course, the hour-long programs narrated by grim, flat voices about the dangers to children, the ploys such human monsters used, the prevalence of the crimes. He had talked to his sons very seriously about what to do if they ever faced such a menace, and mostly just ordered them to stay in the motel room with the door locked and chained when he was gone. Dean knew how to use a gun, and in a couple of years Sammy would know them, too. It was as much protection as he could give them.
But a teacher. How could you prepare for that? How could you prevent that? It wasn't like he could keep his boys out of school, lock them away from everybody and everything that had the slightest chance of harming them. As if that was even possible. Or useful. His boys would have to function in this dark, dangerous world someday-they should start learning how to do it now.
But a teacher. John could think of only one violation that could be worse, one twisting of a position of authority over a child that could be more damaging, more damning. One person meant to nurture and protect whose breaking of that trust could possibly be more unbearable.
And so he wondered about Eddie Stoller.
"Your buddy next door..." he asked Dean one night. They were playing checkers with a battered set they'd found in the garage, missing checkers replaced with milk caps and quarters. "You said he gets sick an awful lot."
Dean nodded absently, studying the board with fierce concentration. "Sammy and me always have to ask whenever we want to play with him, and sometimes it's yes and sometimes it's no."
"When I see him, he always seems pale and out of breath."
"I guess he doesn't get much exercise." Dean shrugged, arrogant and unconcerned as only a strong, healthy kid who had never had a serious injury or illness could be.
John watched him carefully as he made his next move, shoving one checker forward one square. Dean stared at his hand, intent on the game. "What do you think of Mrs. Stoller?"
"I dunno. She's nice, I guess. She pays me for mowing the yard and she gives Sammy cookies."
"Is she nice to Eddie?"
Dean looked up, frowning. Little wrinkles appeared between his eyes, seeming wrong, too hard for such a young face. He was thinking deeply, John saw, seriously considering the question.
"I don't know. She gets kinda...frustrated with him a lot, I think. Because he gets sick so much and spends so much time laying around and doesn't really help her with chores or anything, maybe. It's almost like he's a piece of furniture that she has to work around. But he doesn't seem scared of her or anything. And when we're out playing and he talks about her, it sounds just normal, the same way he talks about his dad. She has her own business that she does out of her house, and Eddie is proud of that. Kinda like me and Sam are proud of you."
John couldn't help grinning at that, truly and deeply touched. "You are, huh? You're proud of your old man?"
Dean smiled back a little shyly, but his eyes were bright and sincere. "Of course I am, Dad. You're a hero."
John looked back at the board, but he didn't stop smiling for the rest of the game. Dean beat him rather handily.
~*~
Dean lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The room trembled with the passing of another train, but Sammy slept on in the bed, tangled in the covers, one hand hanging over the edge of the mattress. Dean selfishly wished that his little brother would have a nightmare, so he would wake up panting and scared, so he would come over to Dean and crawl under the covers and bury his face in his big brother's chest and hold him tight until he fell asleep again. So Dean wouldn't have to lie here alone, frozen in the dark.
His chest felt heavy, full of lead, pinning him to the ground. Most of the time he was good at not thinking about it. He kept himself busy and he made sure he was with someone, and he didn't think about it. But sometimes when he was all alone in the black and the silence, it pounced on him like a monster in a cave, and he couldn't think about anything else.
Dean turned over on his side to face the wall, only inches from his nose. Why hadn't he yelled? He should have yelled. He should have punched Coach Peters in the stomach, the way his dad had taught him, poked him in the eye, stamped on his instep. Instead he'd been confused and frightened, hadn't figured out what was going on until it was too late and he was trapped. He should have been smarter. Faster. Stronger.
How was Dad supposed to trust him to take care of Sammy when he couldn't even take care of himself?
Every detail was sharp and immediate in his mind, as if it was happening again right now. His stupid brain couldn't leave it alone, instead going over every single thing again and again and again. He remembered the smell of stretched, used rubber from the basketballs, the metal of the cart cold and hard, digging into his flesh everywhere he was pressed against it. The way his hands were trapped under him, fingers curled weakly against his chest like dried-up worms, small and useless. The hot weight of Coach Peters all over him, heavy, crushing, driving the air from his lungs. The wrongness of that, the rhythmic pushing, the soft grunts and huffs of air above his head.
The man's hand on his arm, pulling him up, his authoritative baritone voice ordering Dean not to tell anyone, not to make trouble, it was no big deal, just something he had to do. The next day, the rough callused fingers rubbing his hips, pushing past the flimsy protection of cloth, the slow pleasant smile in the hall so full of dark promises...
Dean pushed his forehead against the wall and shuddered convulsively, cold despite the July heat that bled in past the rattling air conditioner, the sheet and blankets covering him. So weak and stupid and useless. Why hadn't he yelled? Why hadn't he fought?
Maybe Dad was still awake. Dean knew he stayed up late sometimes, researching or planning the next hunt or going over everything he'd learned so far, constantly reviewing to keep himself sharp. Maybe Dean could help somehow.
He was on his feet and padding out into the hall before the idea had fully taken shape in his mind. But there weren't any lights on, no Dad bending over the dining room table surrounded with books and papers or in the garage cleaning his guns and sharpening his knives. Eventually Dean found himself standing in the doorway of his father's room, nudging the door frame with his toe and watching the rise and fall of the man's chest, trying to make himself go back to bed.
Dad's body went still suddenly, and Dean knew that he was awake, staring into the dark and trying to figure out what had woken him. Dean almost held his breath, dizzy and aching, wishing he was strong enough to sneak away and leave his father alone.
Dad sat up before he could make himself move, squinting across the room, shoulders flexing under his gray Marines t-shirt. "Dean? You have a nightmare?"
Dean shook his head numbly. "Couldn't sleep," he whispered.
The man let out a heavy sigh, then held out one arm, beckoning with his hand. "C'mere, kid."
He went to him, and just like that he was all folded up in his father's arms, held against that warm, strong chest, curled up practically in his lap. Dean clenched the gray t-shirt in desperate fingers and tried to pretend that he wasn't crying, just a little, tears leaking out to soak his dad's shoulder.
He felt Dad's lips on his forehead, another sigh gusting through his hair. "It's okay, sweetheart. You're gonna be okay."
Dean pressed his face into his father's chest, but really, he couldn't put up with that anymore. "Don't call me that," he got out between sniffles, his voice partly muffled. "'M not a girl."
Dad chuckled quietly, his chest vibrating under Dean's head. "Never said you were. But you are my sweetheart. Have been since you were a teeny tiny baby and I could hold you in one hand."
"That's silly, Dad." Dean sighed, but he didn't push away, and he didn't let go of his dad's shirt.
"Well, I can be silly if I want. Nothing you can do to stop me."
Dean knew his dad was teasing-he knew it-but that didn't stop his shoulders from locking up, his breath stuttering. Nothing he could do to stop him... Yeah, he knew that.
"Hey..." Dad's voice broke, and his hands moved up to Dean's shoulders, gripping tight, still holding him close. "Hey. I would never. I would never."
Dean swallowed, nodded, and then he started crying again, utterly incapable of stopping. So stupid. Why was he being so stupid?
What felt like a long, long time later, he finally ran out of tears and just lay there, hiccuping. His arms and legs were like rubber bands that had been stretched until they weren't stretchy anymore, limp and useless. He felt damp all over, his throat, eyes, and nose aching and plugged. It took him a while to realize that the top of his head was wet, too. That didn't make any sense at all.
"Dean..." Dad's voice was rough, phlegmy. He coughed, and his voice was clearer. "I won't call you that anymore if you don't want me to."
"No," Dean choked out. His voice was weak, but he meant it. "No, that's okay. I don't mind so much."
And he didn't. He could remember, if he thought back past the fire and the weight in his arms, the frantic run down the steps, the flames and smoke bursting out of the window as he stood on the cool lawn, staring. Dad had called him "sweetheart," then, when he was little and dumb and didn't know anything about what lived in the night. It was kinda nice to remember that stuff. And besides if Dad was saying it, it couldn't really be girly, because Dad was the manliest man there ever was.
"All right. All right." Dad shifted on the bed, though his arms didn't loosen around Dean's curled-up ball. "Hey, let's lie down, okay?"
Every muscle in Dean's body stiffened, completely against his will, but he forced himself to relax. Dad slowly eased them down, not making him do anything, waiting for him to come along, until Dad was flat on his back again with Dean tucked under one arm, head still resting on his father's chest. Dad's other hand reached over to card through his hair, somehow rough and gentle at the same time.
For long moments Dean listened to his father's heartbeat, steady and warm in the quiet dark, and he didn't think about anything else. Dad rubbed his back in smooth, firm strokes, in time with that strong, reliable beat.
"Dad?"
Dad's hand paused on his back, pressing warmly. "Mmm-hmm?"
"I want...I want to start sparring again."
Dad breathed in and out, once, twice, a third time. "Okay. If you're ready."
"I'm ready. I want to be able to fight."
"All right. We'll start tomorrow night."
Dean nestled his ear over his father's heart and finally found sleep.
~*~
Dean sparred like a maniac, as if every movement, every punch and jab and cross, was a matter of life and death. His young face was set and grim, too old, his eyes hard burning coals in his glistening face. His body was taut as strung wire, his fists concentrated points of power. For the first time in his son's life, John saw something to fear in this boy, Mary's sweet little child, Sammy's steadfast protector.
He could see the man Dean would become, the consummate hunter, graceful and compact, sheer muscled steel hidden under his good looks, his cocky smile. When they weren't sparring Dean was still Dean, teasing Sam and cracking stupid jokes and taking inordinate amounts of pleasure in whatever they happened to be eating for meals, especially if there were sweets involved. And so Dean would be as a man, John saw, wearing this exterior of childish humor and winking green-brown eyes that would instantly disappear whenever he was faced with something that needed killing.
John knew that this should disturb him, this new dichotomy he saw in his boy, the chasm that separated hunter from child, both halves equally powerful in the same eleven-year-old body. But all he could think was that this was good. This was exactly what Dean would need to survive their life and perhaps even thrive in his own way.
Prologue & Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 & Epilogue | Warnings & Notes
Soundtrack & Picspam
Art by millylicious