[SPN/BoB Big Bang] Free Until They Cut Me Down (6/6)
February 18, 1944
Fort Benning, Georgia
The Bama Club has it all: a band, a bar, a bevy of singing girls. Every would-be paratrooper worth his salt makes it out here on weekends. No one wants to wash out, not least because it means a one-way ticket to some regular infantry unit already in combat, but this place is its own motivation. What’s not to love about a hot jitterbug floor and a town full of girls whose boys have already left them behind?
Dean has a hard time attracting anyone to the pool table. Everyone’s too busy cheering a lanky redhead who dances like he was born to Lindy Hop. The band is barely audible over the crowd. Dean gives up and retreats to the bar. He’s not shy about nursing beer after beer by himself. He’s been here before. The only difference is that he’s alone, and everyone’s in uniform.
He’s been with these guys a week now and he still doesn’t give a shit about them. Everyone swaps stories about why they signed up, how they were motivated by patriotic duty or extra jump pay or a girl told them to do it. Dean makes up a different story every time it comes up, and no one seems to notice. Jump school is a bigger bust than basic training. Drills, rifle range, guard duty, latrine duty, PT, KP, mess duty, classes, officers, grooming standards - he was sick of it coming in. He could be out on a hunt right now. He could go looking for one if he thought he could sneak far enough off the base.
If the drink made him honest with himself, he’d admit that the hustle felt like coming home. This kid from Maine, Hashey, he’s eating it right up. There isn’t that much money at stake, but what’s he going to spend it on besides beer?
“All right, all right,” he says, slurring just enough. “Lemme just set up this one shot. It’s in the hole for you, but hey, we gotta make the gesture, right?”
“Sure,” says Hashey, leaning on his cue and grinning. Dean circles the table, eyeballing his approach. It’s a good spread for him. This is kid’s stuff. It’d be better as a two-man con, but what’s the other option? He bends over and lines up his sights.
The redhead from the dance floor crashes against the table. The balls scatter and the few guys watching groan and harangue him. Dean glares at the other private. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t that clumsy an hour ago.”
The guy offers the audience a sheepish grin. “Sorry, fellas, this fuckin’ galoot back there knocked right into me. He better hope they give him two parachutes, you know?” He points at the table and looks at Hashey. “This your game?”
“Yeah,” says Hashey, brow furrowed. The redhead claps him on the back.
“Congratulations, you were gonna win. Here, other guy, lemme buy you a beer. Sorry for blowing your chances, huh?” He takes Dean around the shoulders and guides him away from the table. He lets go before Dean can shrug him off and frowns at him. “Listen, pal, you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
Dean glares back at him. “Is ‘mind your own beeswax’ beyond you, buddy?”
“Hey, I’m doin’ you a favor.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You gotta live with these guys, you don’t go tryin’ to steal money from ‘em. They’re supposed to keep you alive when there’s guns firing.”
Dean shakes his head and looks the other way. “Whatever. I’m just putting my time in until I’m done.”
The redhead snorts. “Ain’t that the truth. So what, you’re gonna piss it away? ‘Cause me, I’d rather have fun with it.” Dean eyes him. The guy sticks out his hand. His cheer is implacable. “Babe Heffron, South Philly. Where you from?”
Dean smirks. “Babe?”
He grins, unperturbed. “Helps the broads remember my name, that’s for certain. Come on, pal, no secrets here.”
Dean hesitates, and takes a look at the rest of the bar. It’s a fun joint. Everybody finds someone to talk to. “Winchester,” he says, and takes Babe’s hand. “Dean Winchester.”
Babe nods firmly. “Well, Winchester, you stick with me, maybe we’ll make somethin’ of you, yeah?” A fresh smile cracks his face. “Come on, have a damn beer. I know you ain’t as cheery as you’re pretending.”
He isn’t. Maybe he could be.
August 5, 1944
Aldbourne, England
Odin All-father was a trickster. Wayland Smith berated himself for losing sight of that. The walk back to his forge was laborious, but he accepted his penance. The gallows-gift bested him tonight. But he would continue.
He knew the instant he set foot in his forge that he was not alone. “Hello?” he called, scanning the darkness. “Who’s there?”
The electric light switched on. Gladys stood in the middle of the floor, her hands folded at her waist. He sighed. “If you are here to gloat, ‘Nurse Morgan,’ it is ill-mannered, but not unexpected.”
“I come to do no such thing,” she said calmly.
Wayland huffed. “Then what is your business? I am worn. You know the night I’ve just had.” He began to shuffle toward the door to his quarters. She did not move out of his way.
“It was I who took down your lamia, Wayland.” He stopped; their eyes met. His mouth thinned.
“I already know you were healing the boys. The gesture is appreciated, but I would have arranged for it myself. I would not have killed them.”
She held up a hand to block him. “This whole business, it is not what your kind do.”
“As has been proved to me.” He nudged her arm with his cane. “Let me through.”
Gladys fixed him with a look. “You are a god, Wayland, if you remember. You serve the humans. You don’t goad them or threaten their kith. Leave that to the monsters.”
He made a short bow from the waist. “I thank you for your wisdom, sorceress, but as I have told you, I am retiring.”
“That’s true. You are.” Her expression did not change. “A dog or a horse is put down when it becomes a danger to those around it. You should know, Wayland, that I will not suffer these people to be harmed.”
He stopped. “No,” he said, disbelieving. “Gideon saw me off. The thing is done.”
“Gideon is learning,” she said. “We are both old, and I know better.”
His eyes widened as she made a sign and lifted her hand. “Surely there is no call-”
Gladys touched her thumb to her ring finger and wrenched her wrist to the side. A thrush tumbled in midair where he stood. Gladys narrowed her eyes and made a swift gesture away from her. The thrush hurtled through the air and collided with the stone wall of the forge. She heard all of its bones breaking before it toppled to a work table and lay still.
She walked over to the table and surveyed the dead bird with professional disdain. “Come back better,” she said, and walked out of the empty forge. The lights switched off behind her.
October 5, 1944
Nijmegen, Holland
Giddy sees the explosion from the top of the dike. Three men go down with the German grenade. Lesniewski stands up, yanks the grenades off his jacket and hurls them one after another across the road. They detonate all at once, and Giddy has to bellow over the enemy’s screams. “Lesniewski, get back here! Help Alley, he’s hit! Liebgott! Winchester!” He scrabbles down the slope. Liebgott pushes himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his neck. Alley is peppered with holes all over. Dean doesn’t move.
“Joe, you all right?” Giddy slides to his knees and props Liebgott up.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he grunts. “Gimme a fuckin’ bandage.”
Giddy hands him his first aid kit and heads over to Alley. “Jesus,” says Lesniewski, trying to staunch Alley’s wounds. His whole left side is a mess, but Alley’s eyes are fluttering, and he’s trying to ask what happened. Across the dike the cries of the Germans retreat into the darkness. The patrol is alone again.
“Get him back to headquarters,” says Giddy, patting Lesniewski on the shoulder. “Moe, you’re gonna be all right.”
“Winchester?” asks Liebgott, tying off his bandage.
Giddy shakes his head. “I got him.” He makes a small gesture with his right hand. A ghostly double of himself hurries ahead of them.
“Come on, let’s move, let’s move!” it urges.
The two able men don’t hesitate: they heft Alley off the ground and haul him back toward the outpost. Giddy watches them, queasy at the deception. He looks down at Dean, supine and bloody in the grass. “Shit,” he sighs, and crouches down beside him. Whatever blasted Alley on the side caught Dean full in the chest. His torso is full of shrapnel, but his face is oddly intact.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Giddy says. He feels around Dean’s neck for chains and cords; when he finds them, he pulls. The dog tags are bent and still hot from the explosion. He snaps off the second set and pockets them. The amulet he has to fish out, but there it is, wet but unharmed. He wipes it with his thumb and studies the blank bronze face crowned with horns.
“It worked,” says a voice above him. Giddy looks up. Nurse Morgan picks her way down from the road, wrapped in an ankle-length wool coat. She lowers herself to the ground at Dean’s head, gloved hands on her knees. “The charm is very powerful now.”
Giddy cups the thing in his palm. “It’ll really keep somebody safe, huh?”
“The injury must be grave beyond measure for this to let its bearer die.” She reaches forward and shuts Dean’s eyes. “It will fetch a fortune.”
He watches her, grimacing. “This is it?” he says. “This was what he agreed to that night?”
Nurse Morgan lifts beneath Dean’s shoulders and positions herself so his head rests in his lap. “You should leave, Gideon. Your men will wonder.”
Giddy stands up, uncertain. “Will he be okay?”
“Yes.” She raises her eyes to him. “Your men, Gideon. Go.”
He takes a step backwards, then another. Up the road, German guns begin sounding again. He slips the amulet into a breast pocket and secures the button. “Don’t keep that,” Gladys warns. “Graves and Registration will send it where it should go.”
Giddy nods, and turns to chase the patrol back to headquarters. When he’s gone a few yards he glances over his shoulder. The dike is empty, though the tall, stiff grass is dented and red.
*
December 26, 1943
Dear Dad,
I’ll be surprised if you read this letter right away. I know you’re mad at me, and you’ve got every right to be. I disobeyed your order, but believe me when I tell you I’m doing this to keep you and Sam safe. There’s something big hanging over us all, but I’m fighting it. If I make it out of this, I can tell you all this myself, but if I don’t, I want to think you know the important things. I know you do. You taught me all that’s worth knowing, above all that family is everything. I keep that with me every day thanks to you. Don’t be too hard on Sam while I’m gone, and don’t be hard on yourself. Look after each other.
Your son, Dean
* December 29, 1943
Dear Sam,
You know everything I’m going to say. You and Dad know me better than anybody. I don’t want you blaming yourself for this. Just keep going. I know how tough you are, and I know you’re going to be fine.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me. Given what’s ahead, it just seems better to make a clean break. It’ll be easier on you. That doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about you and Dad every day. Don’t ever think I’ve forgotten you, because that’s not true and I’ll kick your ass for it.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say everything I want to tell you. But make sure you and Dad don’t kill each other, and take care of that car, all right? Things are going to be better after this. Everybody can start again.
Don’t go looking to get me out of this. I made this deal on my own and I’m going to go through with it. Just go and live your life. I’ll take care of the rest.
Your brother, Dean
END
thanks, notes and Band of Brothers footage
Fort Benning, Georgia
The Bama Club has it all: a band, a bar, a bevy of singing girls. Every would-be paratrooper worth his salt makes it out here on weekends. No one wants to wash out, not least because it means a one-way ticket to some regular infantry unit already in combat, but this place is its own motivation. What’s not to love about a hot jitterbug floor and a town full of girls whose boys have already left them behind?
Dean has a hard time attracting anyone to the pool table. Everyone’s too busy cheering a lanky redhead who dances like he was born to Lindy Hop. The band is barely audible over the crowd. Dean gives up and retreats to the bar. He’s not shy about nursing beer after beer by himself. He’s been here before. The only difference is that he’s alone, and everyone’s in uniform.
He’s been with these guys a week now and he still doesn’t give a shit about them. Everyone swaps stories about why they signed up, how they were motivated by patriotic duty or extra jump pay or a girl told them to do it. Dean makes up a different story every time it comes up, and no one seems to notice. Jump school is a bigger bust than basic training. Drills, rifle range, guard duty, latrine duty, PT, KP, mess duty, classes, officers, grooming standards - he was sick of it coming in. He could be out on a hunt right now. He could go looking for one if he thought he could sneak far enough off the base.
If the drink made him honest with himself, he’d admit that the hustle felt like coming home. This kid from Maine, Hashey, he’s eating it right up. There isn’t that much money at stake, but what’s he going to spend it on besides beer?
“All right, all right,” he says, slurring just enough. “Lemme just set up this one shot. It’s in the hole for you, but hey, we gotta make the gesture, right?”
“Sure,” says Hashey, leaning on his cue and grinning. Dean circles the table, eyeballing his approach. It’s a good spread for him. This is kid’s stuff. It’d be better as a two-man con, but what’s the other option? He bends over and lines up his sights.
The redhead from the dance floor crashes against the table. The balls scatter and the few guys watching groan and harangue him. Dean glares at the other private. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t that clumsy an hour ago.”
The guy offers the audience a sheepish grin. “Sorry, fellas, this fuckin’ galoot back there knocked right into me. He better hope they give him two parachutes, you know?” He points at the table and looks at Hashey. “This your game?”
“Yeah,” says Hashey, brow furrowed. The redhead claps him on the back.
“Congratulations, you were gonna win. Here, other guy, lemme buy you a beer. Sorry for blowing your chances, huh?” He takes Dean around the shoulders and guides him away from the table. He lets go before Dean can shrug him off and frowns at him. “Listen, pal, you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
Dean glares back at him. “Is ‘mind your own beeswax’ beyond you, buddy?”
“Hey, I’m doin’ you a favor.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You gotta live with these guys, you don’t go tryin’ to steal money from ‘em. They’re supposed to keep you alive when there’s guns firing.”
Dean shakes his head and looks the other way. “Whatever. I’m just putting my time in until I’m done.”
The redhead snorts. “Ain’t that the truth. So what, you’re gonna piss it away? ‘Cause me, I’d rather have fun with it.” Dean eyes him. The guy sticks out his hand. His cheer is implacable. “Babe Heffron, South Philly. Where you from?”
Dean smirks. “Babe?”
He grins, unperturbed. “Helps the broads remember my name, that’s for certain. Come on, pal, no secrets here.”
Dean hesitates, and takes a look at the rest of the bar. It’s a fun joint. Everybody finds someone to talk to. “Winchester,” he says, and takes Babe’s hand. “Dean Winchester.”
Babe nods firmly. “Well, Winchester, you stick with me, maybe we’ll make somethin’ of you, yeah?” A fresh smile cracks his face. “Come on, have a damn beer. I know you ain’t as cheery as you’re pretending.”
He isn’t. Maybe he could be.
August 5, 1944
Aldbourne, England
Odin All-father was a trickster. Wayland Smith berated himself for losing sight of that. The walk back to his forge was laborious, but he accepted his penance. The gallows-gift bested him tonight. But he would continue.
He knew the instant he set foot in his forge that he was not alone. “Hello?” he called, scanning the darkness. “Who’s there?”
The electric light switched on. Gladys stood in the middle of the floor, her hands folded at her waist. He sighed. “If you are here to gloat, ‘Nurse Morgan,’ it is ill-mannered, but not unexpected.”
“I come to do no such thing,” she said calmly.
Wayland huffed. “Then what is your business? I am worn. You know the night I’ve just had.” He began to shuffle toward the door to his quarters. She did not move out of his way.
“It was I who took down your lamia, Wayland.” He stopped; their eyes met. His mouth thinned.
“I already know you were healing the boys. The gesture is appreciated, but I would have arranged for it myself. I would not have killed them.”
She held up a hand to block him. “This whole business, it is not what your kind do.”
“As has been proved to me.” He nudged her arm with his cane. “Let me through.”
Gladys fixed him with a look. “You are a god, Wayland, if you remember. You serve the humans. You don’t goad them or threaten their kith. Leave that to the monsters.”
He made a short bow from the waist. “I thank you for your wisdom, sorceress, but as I have told you, I am retiring.”
“That’s true. You are.” Her expression did not change. “A dog or a horse is put down when it becomes a danger to those around it. You should know, Wayland, that I will not suffer these people to be harmed.”
He stopped. “No,” he said, disbelieving. “Gideon saw me off. The thing is done.”
“Gideon is learning,” she said. “We are both old, and I know better.”
His eyes widened as she made a sign and lifted her hand. “Surely there is no call-”
Gladys touched her thumb to her ring finger and wrenched her wrist to the side. A thrush tumbled in midair where he stood. Gladys narrowed her eyes and made a swift gesture away from her. The thrush hurtled through the air and collided with the stone wall of the forge. She heard all of its bones breaking before it toppled to a work table and lay still.
She walked over to the table and surveyed the dead bird with professional disdain. “Come back better,” she said, and walked out of the empty forge. The lights switched off behind her.
October 5, 1944
Nijmegen, Holland
Giddy sees the explosion from the top of the dike. Three men go down with the German grenade. Lesniewski stands up, yanks the grenades off his jacket and hurls them one after another across the road. They detonate all at once, and Giddy has to bellow over the enemy’s screams. “Lesniewski, get back here! Help Alley, he’s hit! Liebgott! Winchester!” He scrabbles down the slope. Liebgott pushes himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his neck. Alley is peppered with holes all over. Dean doesn’t move.
“Joe, you all right?” Giddy slides to his knees and props Liebgott up.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he grunts. “Gimme a fuckin’ bandage.”
Giddy hands him his first aid kit and heads over to Alley. “Jesus,” says Lesniewski, trying to staunch Alley’s wounds. His whole left side is a mess, but Alley’s eyes are fluttering, and he’s trying to ask what happened. Across the dike the cries of the Germans retreat into the darkness. The patrol is alone again.
“Get him back to headquarters,” says Giddy, patting Lesniewski on the shoulder. “Moe, you’re gonna be all right.”
“Winchester?” asks Liebgott, tying off his bandage.
Giddy shakes his head. “I got him.” He makes a small gesture with his right hand. A ghostly double of himself hurries ahead of them.
“Come on, let’s move, let’s move!” it urges.
The two able men don’t hesitate: they heft Alley off the ground and haul him back toward the outpost. Giddy watches them, queasy at the deception. He looks down at Dean, supine and bloody in the grass. “Shit,” he sighs, and crouches down beside him. Whatever blasted Alley on the side caught Dean full in the chest. His torso is full of shrapnel, but his face is oddly intact.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Giddy says. He feels around Dean’s neck for chains and cords; when he finds them, he pulls. The dog tags are bent and still hot from the explosion. He snaps off the second set and pockets them. The amulet he has to fish out, but there it is, wet but unharmed. He wipes it with his thumb and studies the blank bronze face crowned with horns.
“It worked,” says a voice above him. Giddy looks up. Nurse Morgan picks her way down from the road, wrapped in an ankle-length wool coat. She lowers herself to the ground at Dean’s head, gloved hands on her knees. “The charm is very powerful now.”
Giddy cups the thing in his palm. “It’ll really keep somebody safe, huh?”
“The injury must be grave beyond measure for this to let its bearer die.” She reaches forward and shuts Dean’s eyes. “It will fetch a fortune.”
He watches her, grimacing. “This is it?” he says. “This was what he agreed to that night?”
Nurse Morgan lifts beneath Dean’s shoulders and positions herself so his head rests in his lap. “You should leave, Gideon. Your men will wonder.”
Giddy stands up, uncertain. “Will he be okay?”
“Yes.” She raises her eyes to him. “Your men, Gideon. Go.”
He takes a step backwards, then another. Up the road, German guns begin sounding again. He slips the amulet into a breast pocket and secures the button. “Don’t keep that,” Gladys warns. “Graves and Registration will send it where it should go.”
Giddy nods, and turns to chase the patrol back to headquarters. When he’s gone a few yards he glances over his shoulder. The dike is empty, though the tall, stiff grass is dented and red.
*
December 26, 1943
Dear Dad,
I’ll be surprised if you read this letter right away. I know you’re mad at me, and you’ve got every right to be. I disobeyed your order, but believe me when I tell you I’m doing this to keep you and Sam safe. There’s something big hanging over us all, but I’m fighting it. If I make it out of this, I can tell you all this myself, but if I don’t, I want to think you know the important things. I know you do. You taught me all that’s worth knowing, above all that family is everything. I keep that with me every day thanks to you. Don’t be too hard on Sam while I’m gone, and don’t be hard on yourself. Look after each other.
Your son, Dean
* December 29, 1943
Dear Sam,
You know everything I’m going to say. You and Dad know me better than anybody. I don’t want you blaming yourself for this. Just keep going. I know how tough you are, and I know you’re going to be fine.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me. Given what’s ahead, it just seems better to make a clean break. It’ll be easier on you. That doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about you and Dad every day. Don’t ever think I’ve forgotten you, because that’s not true and I’ll kick your ass for it.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say everything I want to tell you. But make sure you and Dad don’t kill each other, and take care of that car, all right? Things are going to be better after this. Everybody can start again.
Don’t go looking to get me out of this. I made this deal on my own and I’m going to go through with it. Just go and live your life. I’ll take care of the rest.
Your brother, Dean
END
thanks, notes and Band of Brothers footage