In Clearest Night (2/2)
Title: In Clearest Night (2/2)
Rating: R (for language only), Gen
Characters: Dean, Sammy, John
Word Count: 7,032/13,870
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes!
A/N: Very belatedly for the spn_christmas Prompt 15: John doesn’t come home from a Christmas-Eve hunt, leaving wee!Sam and wee!Dean alone on Christmas Day (gen).
This is the first part of the All Thy Harms Repair series. Thanks to msscullyred for the Super!Beta!; mysticmhorag for a quick grammar overview; and Camille-is-here for the loan of Aunt Tilly's lamp. The title comes from My Thoughts Are Wing'd With Hopes by John Dowland
Setting: Winter. Pennsylvania, December 1993.
Summary: Sammy and Dean go on a hunt for their missing father at Christmas. “Whatever you do, don’t take off on your own unless you don’t have a choice.”
Part 1
Part 2
‘Sammy!’
‘Wha …?’ Nothing. Just the sound of Dean’s voice - yelling at him. Not mad. Worried.
‘Jesus, Sammy! Are you okay?’
Too dark to see. Why can’t I … ? Oh. Not much more light. ‘Ow!’ That hurts. ‘Hurts! Dean?’
‘Hush now, take it easy, kid.’
A light - light? torch? - flicking into one eye and away. Which one? ‘Igngh.’ Then the other.
‘What, Sammy?’
‘Why’s everything all twirly?’
‘Oh shit! I mean, everything’s fine, Sammy.’
Fine. There was that Winchester four-letter word again. Can’t be good. Warmth around him. Too dark. Nap time.
‘Shh, Sammy, I’ve got you.’
Hands on his face. Hands? Stroking. Nice. Comforting. Don’t stop. ‘You shh, wanna go sleep.’
‘Can’t let you do that, Sammy.’
Hands on his face. Pats. Harder. Sammy twisted his head away, and bit his lip. Hard. Okay, now he was awake. Huh! The ceiling was sideways. He blinked a few times. Weird - still sideways. Is it the ceiling or me? ‘Dean? What happened?’
‘You took a bang.’ Dean’s face instead of the ceiling. He didn’t look so good.
‘I feel like someone shot me.’
‘Not quite, Sundance.’
‘Sundance? I thought you were Sundance? I’m always Butch Cassidy, you never let me be the Sundance Kid!’
‘Today you can be the Kid.’
Why’s Dean being so nice? ‘m’kay.’ Too much light.
Hands again. ‘Come on, Spark Plug. Wakey, wakey.’
Fingers on his ear. Pinching - ‘Christ!’
‘Sorry, Sammy. I need you with me.’
‘Alright, already. I’m awake. Really, Dean. Stop patting me will you?’
‘Oh. Sorry, dude.’
‘Did we blow a tire?’
‘Yeah. But only after we skidded and ran into the snowdrift.’
‘We skidded?’
‘Dude! Don’t you remember anything?’
More worried pats. ‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m okay. Stop worrying,” Sammy pulled Dean’s hands down from his face and patting them consolingly. Now I’m doing it.
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘Uh … maps! You had me checking maps of Clearfield!’ He had it all now. No problem.
‘Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but you were abducted by aliens and lost an hour. More if you count the time you were out.’
‘Oh.’
Shit.
‘Did I miss anything?’
~~~
‘So we didn’t actually hit the other car?’ Sammy took a shaky breath. Dean was right; getting stitched up was a bitch. Why does everything else hurt too?
‘Nope.’ Hands steady on his head. ‘Just the snowdrift. Whatever it was, it was a bad mother-fu…’
‘DEAN!’
‘Well, it was! And it hit back.’
Some days Dean sounded like the younger brother. God, that hurts. Biting his lip a second time was just stupid. He did it anyway.
‘One more, Sammy.’
I can take this. Ouch! I wish Dad was here.
‘That’s the lot. Still with me, Sammy?’
Sammy thought about that. Maybe yes, maybe no. ‘Give me a minute.’
Dean moved around in front of him. ‘Take five. You did good, kid. But if you ever take your seatbelt off again while we’re driving, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?’
‘When did I …?’
‘That’s another story, Sammy, and you’ve already had one tonight.’
What? Don’t ask. ‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Next time pack more anaesthetic will you?’ That got a grin. They had some that they were saving, like the coffee, for their father. Who knew what state he’d be in? There was no way in hell either of them was going to use what little they had for a relatively minor scalp wound.
‘Pussy.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Well, put your arms around this jerk’s neck, so he can help you up.’
‘What happened to take five?’
‘You must have lost more time. Head injuries will do that to you.’
‘Shut up and pull, Dean. Ow!’
‘Sammy?’
‘No, ‘sokay.’ Think of something else. ‘What about the truck?’
‘That sucker’s not coming out of there till spring.’
‘How are we going to find Dad now?’
‘Hasn’t been any more traffic since the accident.’ Not answering the question. Evasion, one of Dad’s favourites.
Finally, the right time to ask. ‘What happened to the other car, Dean?’
‘They left.’
Too abrupt, even for Dean. So much there that he wasn’t going to tell.
‘It’ll be dawn soon, but we can’t keep waiting on the off chance that something else comes by. We can’t be too far from Clearfield. I think we should hike it.’
He didn’t ask, ‘Can you make it?’ Didn’t need to. Sammy returned the favour by not repeating what their father had drummed into them both. “Never leave the vehicle if you’re lost. It’ll get you killed. Rescuers will always find the vehicle before they find you.” They weren’t lost. Just a bit behind schedule. Besides, staying at the scene of an accident in a stolen car was asking for even more trouble.
Their Dad came first. Always would. Whatever they were going through, his hell had to be worse.
~~~
‘Dean?’
‘What?’ Not mad. Just worn-out.
‘We killed someone’s truck!’
‘So?’ Really not reacting the way he usually did.
‘We stole their truck and then we crashed it!’ Voice rising despite himself. Time to take a deep breath and … Christ what's that? Something, somewhere near his collarbone felt cracked, or maybe even broken. Shit. Mustn’t tell Dean.
‘It was an accident. Okay, not the stealing part, I meant to do that. Just the crashing bit. We do what we have to. Can’t waste your energy thinking about it. It’ll make you crazy.’
‘You don’t think about it?’
‘Me? Never. I’m like Teflon.’ Still grinning through everything. Back to pretending.
Dean reached out to lift Sammy over an extra drift slanting across the road. ‘Much more of this and we’re screwed. Pray for a snowplow guy on an early shift.’
‘Okay,’ Sammy gasped out, doubling over after his feet touched down again. Oops. Not so good at make believe as Dean was. Shit that hurts. His shoulder was about to fall off - or something.
‘Sammy? Goddamn it!’
Arms cradled around him, sheltering, but not touching till he knew what hurt. ‘Salright, Dean. Just need a minute … catch my breath.’ Tilting sideways into those arms anyway. Hurting more, but not caring. Just needing their protection.
‘Sammy?’ It wasn’t really a question. That patented, big brother, “what haven’t you been telling me?” warning tone said it all.
Damn, sprung! ‘Ah …’ Screw it. ‘Shoulder … right one. Think I did some damage.’ Some? Maybe a lot. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘Shut up, stupid!’ Snapped out. Like he meant it. Words, that didn’t echo the care taken to examine the injury. ‘Here?’
Oh, God! ‘Um … yeah, that’s the spot.’ No, this wasn’t good. Shouldn’t have been so stupid. He was going to hold them up too much. All my fault.
‘Bit of support should do it for now.’ Casual words as gentle hands deftly fixed a sling.
Dad was right. It always paid to travel expecting the worst.
‘That’s good. I’ll be right now.’ Have to be. That just got him a look.
‘I’ve got you,’ Dean said. The three words from Dean, that said it all. Words only ever torn out under pressure. ‘Arm up, kiddo.’ He scooped him up and kept on going. Big brother to the rescue. ‘You tell anyone at your next school I carry you around, and I swear I’ll tell them about your teddy bear.’
‘I don’t have a teddy bear anymore!’
‘They won’t know that.’ Hugging Sammy closer despite the words. ‘Hey! Do you see what I see?’ Singing.
Dean, outside in the snow singing a … Christmas song? Sammy knew he must have a concussion. There was no way that … and there it was, only visible now that they were right on top of it. Dark grey bars slanting across the ashen snow. A gate. An old wooden farm gate hanging sideways on its hinges. Blown open in the night and stuck partway in a mound of fresh snow. More shadows behind, trees marking a laneway.
‘Come on, Sammy. I see a star.’
There were times when Sammy wanted to shake Dean till his freckles fell off. This wasn’t one of those times.
~~~
Darkness. Warmth. A too-hot body cradling his, arms wrapped loosely round his shoulders. Sammy nestled backwards into a grumbling chest. Recognising that smell. Dean, sweet, sour, just … Dean.
He started to turn over. Oops, the sling. Shit! ‘Ow?’ It came out more as a whimper.
Dean’s arms tightened briefly around him. ‘Sammy?’
Awake, and conscious without the need of a caffeine infusion? Sammy figured that concussion obviously lasted longer than it used to. The whole world had tilted on its axis while he slept. Not enough to cause tidal waves, shake politicians from their beds, or end global warming. Just enough to rattle everyone’s Great Aunt Tilly’s lamp, and interfere with Dean Winchester’s body chemistry. He decided that the world had a sense of humour after all.
‘Hang on, Sammy.’
There went most of his warmth. A dying creak of the bedsprings, then light, as something was pulled gently from his face. Dean’s jacket?
‘Hey.’
‘Hey. What happened?’ Sammy was tired of waking up with no memory of the day before. Amnesia was highly overrated because it … Ouch! Oh, it really does come back with a bang. Sammy decided that his new year’s resolution was going to be no more head injuries. Ever.
‘Dude, you going to chuck, or what? Because I don’t think this place has any buckets.’
‘No! And forget my last question. I remember. Truck meets car. Car loses interest. Truck meets snowdrift. Love, true love.’
‘Guess you really are feeling better.’
‘More awake anyway,’ Sammy said, trying to sit up. Not a good idea. Maybe he could just lie here for a year and hope the jikininki brought Dad by, as a present. Spirit of Christmas and all that.
‘Here, lean on me.’
Dean’s arms lifting him up, slowly, but not quite slow enough to prevent him stiffening as the pain bit deep. ‘Ow! Damn it, if you start singing again I’ll know I’m crazy.’
‘You’ve always been crazy, Sammy. Dad just didn’t want to tell you till you were twenty-one. ‘Fraid it might stunt your growth or something.’ Words that didn’t match the hands holding him steady, helping swing him around on the edge of the stained hessian mattress.
‘How long?’
‘Bout four hours. We had to crash or we weren’t going to make it. We’re no good to Dad dead.’
‘Lucky we found this - what is this place?’ Small. Bare boards, a few patches of faded pink linoleum in the corner, grimy shutters letting in shafts of early morning greyness, and the scariest wallpaper he’d ever seen. Are those cabbages? They were. Giant blue cabbages. They’d stayed in weird places all his life. Some so strange that they had a running bet on which state had the worst motel décor. Texas had been ahead till now, but Pennsylvania had it beat by two cabbage lengths.
‘Stable. Not used in years by the look of it. We’re in the servant’s quarters.’
‘Stablehands, Dean.’
‘Hands, feet, whatever. Had a bed with a halfway decent mattress,’ Dean joked, as clouds of dust rose with every movement.
‘So where are the horses?’
‘Dunno, Kentucky maybe? Pretty rundown looking place from what I could see last night dragging your sorry ass in here.’
Sammy wasn’t even going there.
Dean snuck a look through the shutters. ‘Day’s a wastin’ and we need to split this chicken … um … horse ranch. There are a few trucks out there, so we’ve got a nice selection to choose from.’
Nice turned out to be an overstatement. Sammy had seen classier wrecks at Bobby’s salvage yard. ‘Better hope some of them still run,’ he hissed at Dean as they snuck along the line of vehicles.
‘Eeny, meeny, miny, Toyota,’ Dean muttered, dragging Sammy to a standstill.
‘Not stealing American, Dean?’
‘Shut up!’ Whispered, but no less forceful. ‘This is the only one that even looks like it’s been driven this century. Hah! Not even locked, talk about stupid. Though that wouldn’t slow me down.’
He passed over their packs before easing open the door, ‘Toss ‘em in the back. Oh fuck! Down, Sammy.’
Sammy collapsed awkwardly on the ground next to the open tailgate. Noise. The house across the yard. Singing. Christmas carols to be precise. Obviously not everyone liked Kentucky.
‘Sammy.’ Dean, skithering up to him. ‘In the back, now!’ He picked him up like one of the packs and slung him onto the tray with their belongings.
It just felt like his collarbone had snapped for real this time, if it hadn’t been already. It would be fine, just - fine, Sammy told himself as his brother slid in next to him, pushing him further towards the front and dragging the crumpled tarpaulin over them both.
They’d certainly made too much noise to be overlooked. Sammy lay there next to Dean, shuddering with pain and trying desperately to think of a good story. One that could get them out of this situation before they ended up in a reformatory for break and enter, car theft, and a lot of weapons violations as soon as anyone got a look in their packs. They really were out of luck this time.
‘Rudolf, the red-nosed reindeer, the things he can do with that …’
Sammy felt Dean snicker beside him as the X-rated soloist came closer, and just managed to kick him into silence as truck door opened. They couldn’t get that lucky, could they?
They could. “Devil’s own luck” as Caleb was wont to say.
Never look a gift truck in the mouth.
~~~
If Sammy thought Dean had been upset in Brookville, it was nothing to his reaction in Clearfield. Or rather his non-reaction to the absolute lack of any of their father’s signs.
John Winchester hadn’t ever been in Clearfield, Pennsylvania.
Sammy just wished Dean would hit something, anything, anybody, him for preference. They’d checked all the usual locations. Then they’d worked their way systematically through all of the more obscure places; the sort that were only ever to be used if one of them was injured and on the run. What Dad called churches of last resort to piss off Pastor Jim. Jim Murphy had told them that it took more than John Winchester to piss him off.
John Winchester hadn’t had a last resort, at least not in Clearfield.
~~~
Dean had shut down again. This time, Sammy was worried that it was for good. Waiting for Gerry was a picnic compared to this. Yesterday he’d … that can’t be right? Twenty-four hours and a world of waiting and searching away … Yesterday, Dean had talked when he had to. Slicing through the chaos with his plan. It had been scary, but this went beyond fear.
Sammy had grown up in awe of his father. Looking up to him, needing him, missing him when he was gone, loving him without question. But sometimes, like now, when he wasn’t there, it scared him. Dad, out there - hunting. What if? Dean was different. Always there. Feeling like the one constant in his confused life. The voice that read him to sleep. The smile he’d do anything for. Dean stayed. Dean worried.
There was only one thing left in Dean’s eyes now, and it wasn’t worry, it was desperation. Sammy didn’t know how to fix that.
~~~
‘Night time and corpses.’
Hunched over maps in the cheapest café they could find. Filling their thermoses with coffee, themselves full of leek soup and doubts. Going back over the only data they had; Dean’s memories of their father’s notes on the jikininki.
‘Freakin’ ghosts like a little midnight snack now and then.’ Dean, all flushed and bright-eyed with a target in sight. Finally back on automatic and talking. Castaway lines. Another masquerade.
Sammy didn’t care. He was willing to settle for this shadow Dean for now. ‘How often is now and then?’ Keep him talking.
‘Now and then every night if they can get it.’
Two weeks since their father left on this hunt. How much of that had he been the hunter? Two weeks of nights. Time was something they’d never have enough of.
~~~
Some morgues ran on blood, others on ink. Sammy wasn’t sure which he liked least.
‘Disturbed graves, always newsworthy.’ Dean sounded undisturbed by that happy fact.
Still talking. But now he was talking a lot.
‘This is what Dad picked up on. Started last year over in Arcadia. Moved around a bit, guess they were looking for just the right place to settle in.’
‘Not enough bodies?’ Sammy couldn’t believe that was the first thought that had come into his head. Some things about being a Winchester still caught him by surprise.
‘Or could just be something in the water.’
There was something still not quite right with Dean. He didn’t know what it was, but Dean’s rhythms were off. It was the only word that fit. It was like Dean was being switched between slow, fast-forward and pause. Probably just the adrenaline.
‘So we need to find ourselves some likely graveyards at night?’ Exactly Dean’s idea of a roaring good time. “Feel up to a little zombie pig action tonight, Sammy?”
‘Looks like that’s what Dad was doing. Following the graves. But the pace picked up this month. Must be their busy season.’ Mimicking the old Dean almost perfectly.
‘More people dying?’
‘Yeah. Or we could have another problem.’
‘Do I want to know?’ He really didn’t.
‘Dad said some legends say they can look like humans in the daytime. Could look like anyone, be anybody.’
‘Anybody at all?’
‘If this lot are old-fashioned, that’s a yes.’
‘So they’d have an advantage over Dad?’
‘Nothing gets an advantage over Dad for long.’
‘Yeah.’ Sammy couldn’t work out which of them was struggling to sound the most convincing.
‘There’s one other thing, Sammy. If they can look human, and they run out of dead bodies to chow down on, they could just make more.’
~~~
Grand theft auto turned out to be harder in Clearfield than Pittsburgh. Small towns weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Less people, more friendly eyes.
Hitchhiking across the state in bad weather wasn’t perhaps the best backup plan they’d ever come up with. But Dean, buoyed up with an unnatural exuberance, had been convinced of his ability to charm anyone into a lift.
After the first hour Sammy knew that Dean’s plan sucked. It was a re-run of last night, sloshing along the roadside, dodging the remains of leaden snowdrifts. Today’s only advantage was that he was still walking. He was exhausted and everything hurt. Even the sling. But there was no way that he was going to let Dean carry him like a baby ever again. Not that Dean wouldn’t have tried the moment Sammy even suggested that he was tired. Dean was hurting too, more than he’d ever admit. Sammy could see it clearly now, but they both kept on going, lying to each other with every forced smile and confident step. They were going to save their Dad no matter what it took.
Neither of them refused to admit that there might not be anyone left to find, let alone rescue.
~~~
Moonlit treks left a lot of time for exactly three things: sightseeing, thinking, and talking. Unfortunately the scenery also consisted of three things: snow, trees, and the road. Thinking about their father was something they couldn’t stop doing, no matter how disturbing the images were. Talking was almost as bad.
‘The news reports matched Dad’s trail exactly, up to Brookville.’ Rehashing everything looking for a sign.
Dean sounded calm again, more focussed. He didn’t look so good though. In fact, Sammy thought he was starting to look more like the accident victim than he was. ‘Nothing for Clearfield.’ He knew his Dad almost as well as Dean did; he didn’t go anywhere on a whim. ‘He never made it there.’
There was that one possibility they weren’t going to say aloud. Dean forced it out anyway. ‘They might have got him.’
‘No.’ If we don’t say it, it won’t come true.
‘He’ll be in Kane then.’ Repeating what they’d already decided … prayed … was true. Their only lead was the recent reports of three consecutive desecrations in another town. The first since Brookville, starting the day before their father was due back. No such thing as coincidence in their world.
‘Kane.’ It was their mantra now.
~~~
‘Away in a …’
‘Dean!’
‘manger,’ Dean whispered back.
‘That’s not what you were going to sing at all,’ Sammy retorted. After all, he’d heard another variant a few miles back.
‘Was too!’
‘Dean.’
‘Was!’
Okay this was officially getting weird. Dean could be annoying, and he never let go of an argument until he’d won it, or it had run away screaming for mercy, but he usually knew when to pick his battles. Singing that farmer’s naughty Christmas carols while fighting through the start of a snowstorm to rescue their father just wasn’t in the Winchester handbook.
Sammy peered through the snowflakes to get a closer look at his big brother. Tired, check. Wet and dirty, check. Obnoxious smirk, check. Sweating like a pig in the wintertime? Bad sign.
‘Dean?’
‘Yo!’
Oh God, he was high as a kite! That wasn’t right at all. He’d been as close to normal as he’d been since this whole trek started, less than an hour ago. ‘Come here,’ Sammy hissed, clumsily tugging Dean to a standstill with his left hand.
‘kay!’
Nope. There definitely wasn’t much of Dean at home. ‘Bend down.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, please?’
‘You don’t have to be such a bully about it,’ Dean muttered before he tilted down to Sammy’s level. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Shh, I just want to check your temperature.’
‘I don’t think I know you that well, Sammy.’
Some of Dean was still there, peeking out the odd window, and thumbing his nose at the world.
‘You’re pretty hot, Dean.’
‘I’m always hot.’
‘No, I mean your temperature.’
‘Oh.’ A very long pause to think that one through. ‘It’s my jacket, it’s padded.’ He sounded all of four, and very proud of himself.
‘You’re not wearing a jacket. I’m wearing two. Remember you put yours on me when it started snowing?’
‘Sammy, hurt; keep Sammy warm!’
Oh brother. ‘I think you’re sick.’
‘I feel fine!’
‘I just bet you do. Dean, where are we going?’
A frown before his face opened up in one enormous beam, ‘Dad. We’re going to find Dad!’
‘Because?’
‘Because he’s our Dad?’
~~~
‘Goddamn zombie pig!’ Sammy swore.
It had taken him a while to get the information out of Dean. The singing, the pouting, not to mention the skipping, had made it hard to get any sort of answer out of his so-called big brother.
‘Goddamn zombie pig!’ Sammy swore again, because now he really was mad, and as worried as hell.
Dean had spent all that time making sure Sammy’s cut was treated with holy water, and had neglected to mention he’d also been injured in that final skirmish. A damned gash in his side from one of its horns. Oh Christ! I tickled him. No wonder he flinched. That was just typical Dean, always had to be the hero. Didn’t want Sammy to worry about him, on top of Dad. He’d bandaged himself up, without the holy water. Dean had been right all along; the pig had literally been toxic.
It had taken a while for the effects to take hold, but looking back Sammy could see that the signs had been there, if he’d paid attention. Dad would have noticed. Dean would have noticed if it had been me. Sammy had to make this right. He couldn’t lose either his father or brother. It wasn’t an option. He carried me! Dean had been hurting, and he’d carried him to shelter.
Sammy looked down at his hero sitting there, singing quietly to himself, in the snow.
My turn now.
~~~
‘Fucking zombie pig!’ Dean cursed for the fifth time, trying to keep the edges of his wound open. Giving the holy water room to do its job.
Judging by the way it bubbled and turned a nasty khaki colour, there was a hell of a lot for it to work on.
‘Hang on, Dean,’ Sammy said as he drenched the area again. Please don’t let this be too late. He didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t work. After all, holy water might be what Dean called “hot shit” on a lot of things, but it couldn’t work miracles.
The Winchesters stopped believing in miracles in 1983.
~~~
‘How do you feel?’
‘How do you think I feel, Sammy? You just shoved God’s version of Alka Seltzer into me, I feel just dandy!’ Dean, slanging back like he usually did.
Sammy would have relaxed more if Dean hadn’t had that programmed on an endless bewildered loop along with “Hurts, Sammy,” or “Where’s Dad?” Dean was still swinging from just plain out of it, to almost normal, from one minute to the next, and the cycle was getting faster. Sammy didn’t know if that meant his brother was getting better or not, but he knew Dean was desperately wrestling with the fever and confusion. How he’d gotten back on his feet and moving resolutely on again was a wonder.
Struggling one-armed to get his top jacket off and back onto Dean as they walked, he knew he’d keep asking the question as long as it took for the real Dean to break through.
~~~
As dawn clashed in an unequal battle with the weather, salvation finally came disguised as a whack on the head. ‘Dude, stop asking me that!’
Ow, that hurt. But luckily, not right on top of his stitches. Sammy smiled; his brother was back with a vengeance. ‘Only if you stop hitting me.’
‘Bitch.’
For once Sammy let that have a free ride. One prayer down, one to go. Might as well cast it to that heaven of Pastor Jim’s and see what happened. Get us out of here and we’ll do the rest. We’ll find Dad. It never paid to ask for everything. Bobby said the universe always appreciated a little help.
‘Sammy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘We’ve got company.’
Dean’s mind might have still been fuzzy around the edges, but his eyes would always be those of a hunter.
~~~
Company never came alone.
As he sat in the back of an epileptic station wagon next to a crate of aggressive chickens it was all Sammy could do to not start laughing. Or was that crying? He wasn’t sure, the only thing he knew was that he hurt and was too tired even to think, except to worry about his family.
Hours of hiking the icy mountain roads and being ignored by every motorist, then two cars pulled up for them within minutes of each other. The first, a new Volvo, driven by someone’s grandmother, all round bodied, cheerful, and nothing that was familiar to either of their experience. While watching Dean’s charm melt the snowflakes he’d been nursing his arm, thinking that prayer did work after all, right up to the second when his brother suddenly backed them out of the offer of a lift. Understand his brother? Not in any lifetime.
Sammy slapped another inquisitive beak back behind the netting, hoping he didn’t look bad enough to be considered chicken food, though he had his doubts. Here they were en route to St. Mary’s with possibly the grumpiest couple he’d ever met, and Dean was safely asleep in the corner furthest from the wildlife. If he hadn’t been so tired himself Sammy might have set a chicken or two loose just to wake his brother up and get an answer as to why Dean had slipped him the danger signal about Granny V, but the chickens hadn’t seemed to frighten him one bit.
~~~
‘Those boys are dead.’
It wasn’t a sentence Sammy wanted to wake up hearing as the car came to a shuddering stop. He kept his eyes closed and reached his good hand out, only to find Dean’s there first with a quick warning clasp.
‘Dead to the world, Judith. Whatever they’ve been up to, it’s worn them past the edge of exhaustion.’
Sammy turned slightly as if still asleep and flicked a quick look at his brother through barely open lashes. Not quite the problem they’d been ready to react to.
‘I know, William. They sure look to need a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep.’
‘And a doctor. Stubborn. Won’t take charity. Proud boys.’ Their driver, ornery as ever, but unexpectedly kind when they weren’t supposed to overhear.
‘You’ve never made anything sound like charity in your life.’
Over the sound of their driver’s rusty laughter Dean and Sammy came obviously awake.
‘Wow, are we there already? Sorry, Sir, Ma’am. I think we both fell asleep on you,’ Dean said, dripping politeness as only he could.
‘Sorry,’ Sammy chimed in, keeping up his part of the double act. He looked over the chickens and out through the side window. Not downtown St. Mary’s unless that consisted of an old weatherboard house, and a garage that could give a tower in Pisa a run for notoriety.
‘Our place is not far out of town. Thought we’d take a minute and drop everything off. You two might like to stretch your legs.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You boys want to make yourself useful, you can haul out those damned chickens before they start thinking my back seat is their new laying station.’
Sammy had to hand it to the Mitchells; they were pretty smooth when they wanted to be. The drop off quickly migrated to “just a warm drink while William tops up the gas”, and then to some swearing over a “pesky alternator.” Next thing they were being efficiently herded towards a bathroom by Judith’s well-polished line in cantankerous, “I’ll not have you boys dirtying up my dining room furniture.”
Once they’d used up most of the Mitchell’s water to get clean enough to meet even Judith’s high standards, there was still another cleansing ritual to perform. Thankfully, this time the holy water stayed calm and clear.
Dean would have staged a walkout there and then, but Sammy knew if he didn’t get Dean, and himself, another few vital hours of rest neither of them would get much closer to Kane. He let himself wilt a little more openly - no acting required for that - and sure enough Dean let them be managed by the testy couple into dinner, and a short rest while the car was “fixed.”
Back in charge, Dean propped him up in the corner of a sofa that could have taken five of them in comfort. Must be nice to have a big family. Tucking pillows around his sore shoulder so deftly that Sammy was sure the Mitchells didn’t even suspect he had anything other than the sprained wrist they’d lied about. ‘You okay, Sammy?’ Too soft to be overheard.
‘Yeah, you?’ Standard operating procedure; never make a big deal of things.
Dean settled down next to him with a barely concealed wince. ‘I’m good.’
Sammy knew the shades of that lie. His brother was still hurting, but nowhere near as bad as earlier. Dean would get better in time, they both would. Sammy just hoped they had enough left.
Dean nudged him. ‘Get some sleep, but if you drool on me, you’re dead meat.’
Sammy didn’t remember much after that. Just flashes of hearing their hosts try to question Dean, the warmth of a rug tucked tighter around him, talk of a storm, the touch of Dean’s hand along his cheek. Sometime later he thought he woke up, curled in a ball in his brother’s arms, and lay there listening to Dean whisper the names of God as if they were candles he was lighting one by one against the darkness.
~~~
When he woke up alone in the strong daylight of what had to be the next morning, Sammy knew he’d convinced Dean to make the wrong decision. All that time lost. Dad. ‘Shit!’
‘Wash your mouth out, child!’
Oops. Judith, glaring at him from the kitchen doorway.
‘Sorry, Mrs Mitchell,’ Sammy apologised, trying to bounce with healthy conviction to his feet, and failing miserably. Damn sling.
‘Hmm.’ Judith had apparently raised too many boys of her own to fall for that. ‘Your brother’s outside. Said he needed some fresh air before you left. Car’s all ready to go as soon as my William’s finished his breakfast. I made you both a little something to keep the wolf from the door.’
The jikininki. ‘Mrs Mitchell, you’re …’
‘Don’t you try and charm me boy, your brother already beat you to it.’ She struggled to force a frown. ‘Just leftovers anyway, only go to waste.’
Sammy knew when to let things go with just a ‘Thank you.’
~~~
Frantically rounding the corner of the house a few minutes later, Sammy found Dean calmly crouched between the snow-covered remains of some bush or other. He was right up against one of the support pillars - what the?
‘Dean, what in heck are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ That was Dean all over. Never admitted to anything he didn’t have to. Something their father had taught them both, but only Dean managed to escalate to new heights.
Sammy took a breath, for some reason Dean wasn’t as freaked over their delay as he should be. Why not? ‘Are you all finished doing nothing?’ Sammy asked slowly as he watched his brother shove a pen furtively in his pocket before forcing his way between the bushes to his side.
‘Yep, just waiting for you to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to hit the road? Mr Mitchell’s been chomping at the bit for at least half an hour.’
‘Yeah, right. I just saw him chomping over his tea in the kitchen. He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘I’m here now, you two ruffians. Don’t stand there gabbing, morning’s almost gone, and I want to get you to town and be home again before the next storm hits. Trouble. Boys are nothing but trouble,’ William muttered darkly as he walked back to the already packed car.
Sammy didn’t know how Dean had done it, but he’d instinctively chosen the right lift after all.
~~~
Sammy couldn’t say what led them to Decker’s Chapel. Well, he could if words like luck or fate were allowed in their father’s lexicon of revenge.
Dean, who always knew exactly what he was feeling at any given time - older brothers were scary - just shrugged and said, ‘Shit happens.’ But it was clear that he too was juggling a sense of jubilation and impending doom. Life was like that for the Winchesters.
Sammy looked back down to where his brother’s hand still rested next to a recent entry in the visitor’s book. A message that they both had so desperately needed to find. Three words, “John Winchester, Kane.” Three words and a symbol that read “danger.” Three words, one symbol - confirmation and warning.
Dean ran his hands over their father’s handwriting one last time. ‘If there’s a God, he’s got a nice sense of irony.’
~~~
Leaving St. Mary’s was harder than it should have been. Sammy looked back one last time at that tiny white chapel built by one man to honour and thank his God.
‘Dean?’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘Just, no.’
Sammy wished they had the time to stay, time to do something symbolic for their mother in this town that bore her name. But Dean was right, it was time to move on and finish their quest; rescue their father, no matter the cost.
Ever since William Mitchell had dropped them with a farewell grunt on South St. Mary’s Road, the fragments of their journey had fallen into one last precarious configuration. Like a kaleidoscope, sometimes the patterns made sense, more often they didn’t. But they always looked different on the surface where you couldn’t see chaos burning away below.
~~~
It was no man’s land - that gap between road and timberline, a narrow vacuum between civilisation and wilderness.
By now Sammy felt his feet had seen all of Pennsylvania, and they didn’t ever want to set eyes on it again. Dean’s thoughts on anything were usually a mystery, but, to judge from his swearing, for once they were of the same opinion.
They’d followed the border of the forest this far, slowly working their way ever northwards; keeping in the lee of the trees, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Every hour of night brought them nearer to their father. Dad has to be there. The Winchesters had only ever lost one battle. Since then their father had always trained them with one thought in mind - failure is not an option.
Now, tracing the edge of that oppressive storm, Sammy didn’t know what had happened to those clear nights he’d been praying for. Destroyed by the ferocity of the elements, like everything else in their lives he suspected.
One thing they both knew, they were too close to the end now for fear.
~~~
They lost a day. Twenty hours - longer, swept away by wind and snow, and that damned fate that Dean raged at in the face of pandemonium.
They barely talked during that time. Huddled in a fragile shelter of fallen tree trunks and hastily hard-packed walls of snow. As always, in times of crisis, they acted fast, felt too much, and said too little.
It was a time of madness.
They never would talk about that storm.
~~~
They endured.
In the end that was perhaps their father’s greatest and most painful gift. Their ability to take anything - survive love, and loss. To outlast their fears, and keep fighting, and existing beyond all hope.
They came through that storm, but its breaking brought them no respite. Their journey wasn’t over yet.
On that eve, there were no celebrations, no family gatherings by the fire, no songs to be sung. They’d rarely had the time or inclination to indulge in what their father called “the shallow subterfuges” of holidays. The Winchesters had only the one unbreakable tradition, a ritual, in fact, though not one tied to any conventional religion, no matter how much it might seem so.
‘Sammy?’
‘What?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Just, yes.’
In lieu of anything else Sammy bent down and placed his lit torch firmly upright in the snow.
They continued silently on; what had been needed to be said had been said … all that couldn’t, was understood.
~~~
Sometimes, even endurance isn’t enough.
They faltered, together; gathered themselves and went on towards that last hill, only to fall again at its foot.
This time Sammy knew he could not go on. ‘Go. Tell …’
‘No. I’ve got you.’
They went on, leaving only the one set of deep footprints that were too quickly covered over.
But there always comes a time when even courage isn’t enough.
Finally, when there was nothing else to do they simply fell, curved around each other; dark reflections of their father’s grief on the surface of the world.
When he was younger Sammy used to think that everything they did was a game - the lessons, the tests, the hunts. Now he knew the name of their game was death.
‘I don’t want to play any more,’ he whispered.
‘Sammy.’
‘I know.’
‘Get up!’
Death defined all the Winchesters. Some days they embraced it.
Some days they fought back.
~~~
The roar of flames, the scent of blood, and bodies - burning.
Some things never leave you.
It was always Dean who went first, and Sammy would always give thanks for that mercy.
It could have been days, minutes, or hours - time was one of those meaningless pieces of ballast they’d had to cast aside along the way - before they moved cautiously together over the final hill.
But it was Dean who was the first to see, and Sammy was glad of that, as well.
Crouched above Kane’s cemetery in the moonlight, Sammy couldn’t look, not after all this time, and especially not now. He held tight to Dean, his only anchor in all the chaos. Don’t let me go. The sounds, the smell. He blocked them all out. Dean? He felt his brother relax, just for a second, before tensing again.
It was Dean who was the first to know, and Sammy gave thanks.
Time to look; time to know.
Their father’s car swung into a defensive position next to some tumbledown gravestones. The first thing to see - what Dean had seen, and been thankful for.
But … ‘Dad?’
‘Shh,’ Dean tugged him down behind cover. ‘Look.’
Graves. Some of them were open, too many of those had visitors.
Jikininki. Out for dinner. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Neither were the jikininki.
‘They really are what they eat,’ Dean said, stating the distastefully obvious.
‘Dad?’ I have to know. Hands holding him back. ‘Dean?’
‘Wait, Sammy.’
This time they both heard, and saw, and knew.
Dad! Their father, firing from behind one corner of the Impala; rising from shelter to a laborious crouch, one leg stiffly balanced out to the side. Wounded, but alive. Still fighting. Triggering off more firetraps around the graves. Jikininki. Burning. Still too many.
‘Dean!’
‘I know.’ His voice calm, completely focussed, the end in sight. His hands. Shaking. Loading guns. He looked at Sammy; they didn’t need any more words. Everything had changed. Now there was nothing but this moment. This was how it would be - they would be - from now on. A team. Crazy, fucked up, but a family.
As they ran together down the hill towards their father there was nothing but this.
The roar of flames, the scent of blood, and bodies - burning.
These are things the Winchesters remember.
In Clearest Night
With Clouds Do Mask In Progress
Nor Yield Me Any Grace In Progress
With Clouds Do Mask In Progress
And Die In Thee
Of Flames Be Born In Progress
Rating: R (for language only), Gen
Characters: Dean, Sammy, John
Word Count: 7,032/13,870
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes!
A/N: Very belatedly for the spn_christmas Prompt 15: John doesn’t come home from a Christmas-Eve hunt, leaving wee!Sam and wee!Dean alone on Christmas Day (gen).
This is the first part of the All Thy Harms Repair series. Thanks to msscullyred for the Super!Beta!; mysticmhorag for a quick grammar overview; and Camille-is-here for the loan of Aunt Tilly's lamp. The title comes from My Thoughts Are Wing'd With Hopes by John Dowland
Setting: Winter. Pennsylvania, December 1993.
Summary: Sammy and Dean go on a hunt for their missing father at Christmas. “Whatever you do, don’t take off on your own unless you don’t have a choice.”
Part 1
Part 2
‘Sammy!’
‘Wha …?’ Nothing. Just the sound of Dean’s voice - yelling at him. Not mad. Worried.
‘Jesus, Sammy! Are you okay?’
Too dark to see. Why can’t I … ? Oh. Not much more light. ‘Ow!’ That hurts. ‘Hurts! Dean?’
‘Hush now, take it easy, kid.’
A light - light? torch? - flicking into one eye and away. Which one? ‘Igngh.’ Then the other.
‘What, Sammy?’
‘Why’s everything all twirly?’
‘Oh shit! I mean, everything’s fine, Sammy.’
Fine. There was that Winchester four-letter word again. Can’t be good. Warmth around him. Too dark. Nap time.
‘Shh, Sammy, I’ve got you.’
Hands on his face. Hands? Stroking. Nice. Comforting. Don’t stop. ‘You shh, wanna go sleep.’
‘Can’t let you do that, Sammy.’
Hands on his face. Pats. Harder. Sammy twisted his head away, and bit his lip. Hard. Okay, now he was awake. Huh! The ceiling was sideways. He blinked a few times. Weird - still sideways. Is it the ceiling or me? ‘Dean? What happened?’
‘You took a bang.’ Dean’s face instead of the ceiling. He didn’t look so good.
‘I feel like someone shot me.’
‘Not quite, Sundance.’
‘Sundance? I thought you were Sundance? I’m always Butch Cassidy, you never let me be the Sundance Kid!’
‘Today you can be the Kid.’
Why’s Dean being so nice? ‘m’kay.’ Too much light.
Hands again. ‘Come on, Spark Plug. Wakey, wakey.’
Fingers on his ear. Pinching - ‘Christ!’
‘Sorry, Sammy. I need you with me.’
‘Alright, already. I’m awake. Really, Dean. Stop patting me will you?’
‘Oh. Sorry, dude.’
‘Did we blow a tire?’
‘Yeah. But only after we skidded and ran into the snowdrift.’
‘We skidded?’
‘Dude! Don’t you remember anything?’
More worried pats. ‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m okay. Stop worrying,” Sammy pulled Dean’s hands down from his face and patting them consolingly. Now I’m doing it.
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘Uh … maps! You had me checking maps of Clearfield!’ He had it all now. No problem.
‘Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but you were abducted by aliens and lost an hour. More if you count the time you were out.’
‘Oh.’
Shit.
‘Did I miss anything?’
~~~
‘So we didn’t actually hit the other car?’ Sammy took a shaky breath. Dean was right; getting stitched up was a bitch. Why does everything else hurt too?
‘Nope.’ Hands steady on his head. ‘Just the snowdrift. Whatever it was, it was a bad mother-fu…’
‘DEAN!’
‘Well, it was! And it hit back.’
Some days Dean sounded like the younger brother. God, that hurts. Biting his lip a second time was just stupid. He did it anyway.
‘One more, Sammy.’
I can take this. Ouch! I wish Dad was here.
‘That’s the lot. Still with me, Sammy?’
Sammy thought about that. Maybe yes, maybe no. ‘Give me a minute.’
Dean moved around in front of him. ‘Take five. You did good, kid. But if you ever take your seatbelt off again while we’re driving, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?’
‘When did I …?’
‘That’s another story, Sammy, and you’ve already had one tonight.’
What? Don’t ask. ‘Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Next time pack more anaesthetic will you?’ That got a grin. They had some that they were saving, like the coffee, for their father. Who knew what state he’d be in? There was no way in hell either of them was going to use what little they had for a relatively minor scalp wound.
‘Pussy.’
‘Jerk.’
‘Well, put your arms around this jerk’s neck, so he can help you up.’
‘What happened to take five?’
‘You must have lost more time. Head injuries will do that to you.’
‘Shut up and pull, Dean. Ow!’
‘Sammy?’
‘No, ‘sokay.’ Think of something else. ‘What about the truck?’
‘That sucker’s not coming out of there till spring.’
‘How are we going to find Dad now?’
‘Hasn’t been any more traffic since the accident.’ Not answering the question. Evasion, one of Dad’s favourites.
Finally, the right time to ask. ‘What happened to the other car, Dean?’
‘They left.’
Too abrupt, even for Dean. So much there that he wasn’t going to tell.
‘It’ll be dawn soon, but we can’t keep waiting on the off chance that something else comes by. We can’t be too far from Clearfield. I think we should hike it.’
He didn’t ask, ‘Can you make it?’ Didn’t need to. Sammy returned the favour by not repeating what their father had drummed into them both. “Never leave the vehicle if you’re lost. It’ll get you killed. Rescuers will always find the vehicle before they find you.” They weren’t lost. Just a bit behind schedule. Besides, staying at the scene of an accident in a stolen car was asking for even more trouble.
Their Dad came first. Always would. Whatever they were going through, his hell had to be worse.
~~~
‘Dean?’
‘What?’ Not mad. Just worn-out.
‘We killed someone’s truck!’
‘So?’ Really not reacting the way he usually did.
‘We stole their truck and then we crashed it!’ Voice rising despite himself. Time to take a deep breath and … Christ what's that? Something, somewhere near his collarbone felt cracked, or maybe even broken. Shit. Mustn’t tell Dean.
‘It was an accident. Okay, not the stealing part, I meant to do that. Just the crashing bit. We do what we have to. Can’t waste your energy thinking about it. It’ll make you crazy.’
‘You don’t think about it?’
‘Me? Never. I’m like Teflon.’ Still grinning through everything. Back to pretending.
Dean reached out to lift Sammy over an extra drift slanting across the road. ‘Much more of this and we’re screwed. Pray for a snowplow guy on an early shift.’
‘Okay,’ Sammy gasped out, doubling over after his feet touched down again. Oops. Not so good at make believe as Dean was. Shit that hurts. His shoulder was about to fall off - or something.
‘Sammy? Goddamn it!’
Arms cradled around him, sheltering, but not touching till he knew what hurt. ‘Salright, Dean. Just need a minute … catch my breath.’ Tilting sideways into those arms anyway. Hurting more, but not caring. Just needing their protection.
‘Sammy?’ It wasn’t really a question. That patented, big brother, “what haven’t you been telling me?” warning tone said it all.
Damn, sprung! ‘Ah …’ Screw it. ‘Shoulder … right one. Think I did some damage.’ Some? Maybe a lot. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘Shut up, stupid!’ Snapped out. Like he meant it. Words, that didn’t echo the care taken to examine the injury. ‘Here?’
Oh, God! ‘Um … yeah, that’s the spot.’ No, this wasn’t good. Shouldn’t have been so stupid. He was going to hold them up too much. All my fault.
‘Bit of support should do it for now.’ Casual words as gentle hands deftly fixed a sling.
Dad was right. It always paid to travel expecting the worst.
‘That’s good. I’ll be right now.’ Have to be. That just got him a look.
‘I’ve got you,’ Dean said. The three words from Dean, that said it all. Words only ever torn out under pressure. ‘Arm up, kiddo.’ He scooped him up and kept on going. Big brother to the rescue. ‘You tell anyone at your next school I carry you around, and I swear I’ll tell them about your teddy bear.’
‘I don’t have a teddy bear anymore!’
‘They won’t know that.’ Hugging Sammy closer despite the words. ‘Hey! Do you see what I see?’ Singing.
Dean, outside in the snow singing a … Christmas song? Sammy knew he must have a concussion. There was no way that … and there it was, only visible now that they were right on top of it. Dark grey bars slanting across the ashen snow. A gate. An old wooden farm gate hanging sideways on its hinges. Blown open in the night and stuck partway in a mound of fresh snow. More shadows behind, trees marking a laneway.
‘Come on, Sammy. I see a star.’
There were times when Sammy wanted to shake Dean till his freckles fell off. This wasn’t one of those times.
~~~
Darkness. Warmth. A too-hot body cradling his, arms wrapped loosely round his shoulders. Sammy nestled backwards into a grumbling chest. Recognising that smell. Dean, sweet, sour, just … Dean.
He started to turn over. Oops, the sling. Shit! ‘Ow?’ It came out more as a whimper.
Dean’s arms tightened briefly around him. ‘Sammy?’
Awake, and conscious without the need of a caffeine infusion? Sammy figured that concussion obviously lasted longer than it used to. The whole world had tilted on its axis while he slept. Not enough to cause tidal waves, shake politicians from their beds, or end global warming. Just enough to rattle everyone’s Great Aunt Tilly’s lamp, and interfere with Dean Winchester’s body chemistry. He decided that the world had a sense of humour after all.
‘Hang on, Sammy.’
There went most of his warmth. A dying creak of the bedsprings, then light, as something was pulled gently from his face. Dean’s jacket?
‘Hey.’
‘Hey. What happened?’ Sammy was tired of waking up with no memory of the day before. Amnesia was highly overrated because it … Ouch! Oh, it really does come back with a bang. Sammy decided that his new year’s resolution was going to be no more head injuries. Ever.
‘Dude, you going to chuck, or what? Because I don’t think this place has any buckets.’
‘No! And forget my last question. I remember. Truck meets car. Car loses interest. Truck meets snowdrift. Love, true love.’
‘Guess you really are feeling better.’
‘More awake anyway,’ Sammy said, trying to sit up. Not a good idea. Maybe he could just lie here for a year and hope the jikininki brought Dad by, as a present. Spirit of Christmas and all that.
‘Here, lean on me.’
Dean’s arms lifting him up, slowly, but not quite slow enough to prevent him stiffening as the pain bit deep. ‘Ow! Damn it, if you start singing again I’ll know I’m crazy.’
‘You’ve always been crazy, Sammy. Dad just didn’t want to tell you till you were twenty-one. ‘Fraid it might stunt your growth or something.’ Words that didn’t match the hands holding him steady, helping swing him around on the edge of the stained hessian mattress.
‘How long?’
‘Bout four hours. We had to crash or we weren’t going to make it. We’re no good to Dad dead.’
‘Lucky we found this - what is this place?’ Small. Bare boards, a few patches of faded pink linoleum in the corner, grimy shutters letting in shafts of early morning greyness, and the scariest wallpaper he’d ever seen. Are those cabbages? They were. Giant blue cabbages. They’d stayed in weird places all his life. Some so strange that they had a running bet on which state had the worst motel décor. Texas had been ahead till now, but Pennsylvania had it beat by two cabbage lengths.
‘Stable. Not used in years by the look of it. We’re in the servant’s quarters.’
‘Stablehands, Dean.’
‘Hands, feet, whatever. Had a bed with a halfway decent mattress,’ Dean joked, as clouds of dust rose with every movement.
‘So where are the horses?’
‘Dunno, Kentucky maybe? Pretty rundown looking place from what I could see last night dragging your sorry ass in here.’
Sammy wasn’t even going there.
Dean snuck a look through the shutters. ‘Day’s a wastin’ and we need to split this chicken … um … horse ranch. There are a few trucks out there, so we’ve got a nice selection to choose from.’
Nice turned out to be an overstatement. Sammy had seen classier wrecks at Bobby’s salvage yard. ‘Better hope some of them still run,’ he hissed at Dean as they snuck along the line of vehicles.
‘Eeny, meeny, miny, Toyota,’ Dean muttered, dragging Sammy to a standstill.
‘Not stealing American, Dean?’
‘Shut up!’ Whispered, but no less forceful. ‘This is the only one that even looks like it’s been driven this century. Hah! Not even locked, talk about stupid. Though that wouldn’t slow me down.’
He passed over their packs before easing open the door, ‘Toss ‘em in the back. Oh fuck! Down, Sammy.’
Sammy collapsed awkwardly on the ground next to the open tailgate. Noise. The house across the yard. Singing. Christmas carols to be precise. Obviously not everyone liked Kentucky.
‘Sammy.’ Dean, skithering up to him. ‘In the back, now!’ He picked him up like one of the packs and slung him onto the tray with their belongings.
It just felt like his collarbone had snapped for real this time, if it hadn’t been already. It would be fine, just - fine, Sammy told himself as his brother slid in next to him, pushing him further towards the front and dragging the crumpled tarpaulin over them both.
They’d certainly made too much noise to be overlooked. Sammy lay there next to Dean, shuddering with pain and trying desperately to think of a good story. One that could get them out of this situation before they ended up in a reformatory for break and enter, car theft, and a lot of weapons violations as soon as anyone got a look in their packs. They really were out of luck this time.
‘Rudolf, the red-nosed reindeer, the things he can do with that …’
Sammy felt Dean snicker beside him as the X-rated soloist came closer, and just managed to kick him into silence as truck door opened. They couldn’t get that lucky, could they?
They could. “Devil’s own luck” as Caleb was wont to say.
Never look a gift truck in the mouth.
~~~
If Sammy thought Dean had been upset in Brookville, it was nothing to his reaction in Clearfield. Or rather his non-reaction to the absolute lack of any of their father’s signs.
John Winchester hadn’t ever been in Clearfield, Pennsylvania.
Sammy just wished Dean would hit something, anything, anybody, him for preference. They’d checked all the usual locations. Then they’d worked their way systematically through all of the more obscure places; the sort that were only ever to be used if one of them was injured and on the run. What Dad called churches of last resort to piss off Pastor Jim. Jim Murphy had told them that it took more than John Winchester to piss him off.
John Winchester hadn’t had a last resort, at least not in Clearfield.
~~~
Dean had shut down again. This time, Sammy was worried that it was for good. Waiting for Gerry was a picnic compared to this. Yesterday he’d … that can’t be right? Twenty-four hours and a world of waiting and searching away … Yesterday, Dean had talked when he had to. Slicing through the chaos with his plan. It had been scary, but this went beyond fear.
Sammy had grown up in awe of his father. Looking up to him, needing him, missing him when he was gone, loving him without question. But sometimes, like now, when he wasn’t there, it scared him. Dad, out there - hunting. What if? Dean was different. Always there. Feeling like the one constant in his confused life. The voice that read him to sleep. The smile he’d do anything for. Dean stayed. Dean worried.
There was only one thing left in Dean’s eyes now, and it wasn’t worry, it was desperation. Sammy didn’t know how to fix that.
~~~
‘Night time and corpses.’
Hunched over maps in the cheapest café they could find. Filling their thermoses with coffee, themselves full of leek soup and doubts. Going back over the only data they had; Dean’s memories of their father’s notes on the jikininki.
‘Freakin’ ghosts like a little midnight snack now and then.’ Dean, all flushed and bright-eyed with a target in sight. Finally back on automatic and talking. Castaway lines. Another masquerade.
Sammy didn’t care. He was willing to settle for this shadow Dean for now. ‘How often is now and then?’ Keep him talking.
‘Now and then every night if they can get it.’
Two weeks since their father left on this hunt. How much of that had he been the hunter? Two weeks of nights. Time was something they’d never have enough of.
~~~
Some morgues ran on blood, others on ink. Sammy wasn’t sure which he liked least.
‘Disturbed graves, always newsworthy.’ Dean sounded undisturbed by that happy fact.
Still talking. But now he was talking a lot.
‘This is what Dad picked up on. Started last year over in Arcadia. Moved around a bit, guess they were looking for just the right place to settle in.’
‘Not enough bodies?’ Sammy couldn’t believe that was the first thought that had come into his head. Some things about being a Winchester still caught him by surprise.
‘Or could just be something in the water.’
There was something still not quite right with Dean. He didn’t know what it was, but Dean’s rhythms were off. It was the only word that fit. It was like Dean was being switched between slow, fast-forward and pause. Probably just the adrenaline.
‘So we need to find ourselves some likely graveyards at night?’ Exactly Dean’s idea of a roaring good time. “Feel up to a little zombie pig action tonight, Sammy?”
‘Looks like that’s what Dad was doing. Following the graves. But the pace picked up this month. Must be their busy season.’ Mimicking the old Dean almost perfectly.
‘More people dying?’
‘Yeah. Or we could have another problem.’
‘Do I want to know?’ He really didn’t.
‘Dad said some legends say they can look like humans in the daytime. Could look like anyone, be anybody.’
‘Anybody at all?’
‘If this lot are old-fashioned, that’s a yes.’
‘So they’d have an advantage over Dad?’
‘Nothing gets an advantage over Dad for long.’
‘Yeah.’ Sammy couldn’t work out which of them was struggling to sound the most convincing.
‘There’s one other thing, Sammy. If they can look human, and they run out of dead bodies to chow down on, they could just make more.’
~~~
Grand theft auto turned out to be harder in Clearfield than Pittsburgh. Small towns weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Less people, more friendly eyes.
Hitchhiking across the state in bad weather wasn’t perhaps the best backup plan they’d ever come up with. But Dean, buoyed up with an unnatural exuberance, had been convinced of his ability to charm anyone into a lift.
After the first hour Sammy knew that Dean’s plan sucked. It was a re-run of last night, sloshing along the roadside, dodging the remains of leaden snowdrifts. Today’s only advantage was that he was still walking. He was exhausted and everything hurt. Even the sling. But there was no way that he was going to let Dean carry him like a baby ever again. Not that Dean wouldn’t have tried the moment Sammy even suggested that he was tired. Dean was hurting too, more than he’d ever admit. Sammy could see it clearly now, but they both kept on going, lying to each other with every forced smile and confident step. They were going to save their Dad no matter what it took.
Neither of them refused to admit that there might not be anyone left to find, let alone rescue.
~~~
Moonlit treks left a lot of time for exactly three things: sightseeing, thinking, and talking. Unfortunately the scenery also consisted of three things: snow, trees, and the road. Thinking about their father was something they couldn’t stop doing, no matter how disturbing the images were. Talking was almost as bad.
‘The news reports matched Dad’s trail exactly, up to Brookville.’ Rehashing everything looking for a sign.
Dean sounded calm again, more focussed. He didn’t look so good though. In fact, Sammy thought he was starting to look more like the accident victim than he was. ‘Nothing for Clearfield.’ He knew his Dad almost as well as Dean did; he didn’t go anywhere on a whim. ‘He never made it there.’
There was that one possibility they weren’t going to say aloud. Dean forced it out anyway. ‘They might have got him.’
‘No.’ If we don’t say it, it won’t come true.
‘He’ll be in Kane then.’ Repeating what they’d already decided … prayed … was true. Their only lead was the recent reports of three consecutive desecrations in another town. The first since Brookville, starting the day before their father was due back. No such thing as coincidence in their world.
‘Kane.’ It was their mantra now.
~~~
‘Away in a …’
‘Dean!’
‘manger,’ Dean whispered back.
‘That’s not what you were going to sing at all,’ Sammy retorted. After all, he’d heard another variant a few miles back.
‘Was too!’
‘Dean.’
‘Was!’
Okay this was officially getting weird. Dean could be annoying, and he never let go of an argument until he’d won it, or it had run away screaming for mercy, but he usually knew when to pick his battles. Singing that farmer’s naughty Christmas carols while fighting through the start of a snowstorm to rescue their father just wasn’t in the Winchester handbook.
Sammy peered through the snowflakes to get a closer look at his big brother. Tired, check. Wet and dirty, check. Obnoxious smirk, check. Sweating like a pig in the wintertime? Bad sign.
‘Dean?’
‘Yo!’
Oh God, he was high as a kite! That wasn’t right at all. He’d been as close to normal as he’d been since this whole trek started, less than an hour ago. ‘Come here,’ Sammy hissed, clumsily tugging Dean to a standstill with his left hand.
‘kay!’
Nope. There definitely wasn’t much of Dean at home. ‘Bend down.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, please?’
‘You don’t have to be such a bully about it,’ Dean muttered before he tilted down to Sammy’s level. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Shh, I just want to check your temperature.’
‘I don’t think I know you that well, Sammy.’
Some of Dean was still there, peeking out the odd window, and thumbing his nose at the world.
‘You’re pretty hot, Dean.’
‘I’m always hot.’
‘No, I mean your temperature.’
‘Oh.’ A very long pause to think that one through. ‘It’s my jacket, it’s padded.’ He sounded all of four, and very proud of himself.
‘You’re not wearing a jacket. I’m wearing two. Remember you put yours on me when it started snowing?’
‘Sammy, hurt; keep Sammy warm!’
Oh brother. ‘I think you’re sick.’
‘I feel fine!’
‘I just bet you do. Dean, where are we going?’
A frown before his face opened up in one enormous beam, ‘Dad. We’re going to find Dad!’
‘Because?’
‘Because he’s our Dad?’
~~~
‘Goddamn zombie pig!’ Sammy swore.
It had taken him a while to get the information out of Dean. The singing, the pouting, not to mention the skipping, had made it hard to get any sort of answer out of his so-called big brother.
‘Goddamn zombie pig!’ Sammy swore again, because now he really was mad, and as worried as hell.
Dean had spent all that time making sure Sammy’s cut was treated with holy water, and had neglected to mention he’d also been injured in that final skirmish. A damned gash in his side from one of its horns. Oh Christ! I tickled him. No wonder he flinched. That was just typical Dean, always had to be the hero. Didn’t want Sammy to worry about him, on top of Dad. He’d bandaged himself up, without the holy water. Dean had been right all along; the pig had literally been toxic.
It had taken a while for the effects to take hold, but looking back Sammy could see that the signs had been there, if he’d paid attention. Dad would have noticed. Dean would have noticed if it had been me. Sammy had to make this right. He couldn’t lose either his father or brother. It wasn’t an option. He carried me! Dean had been hurting, and he’d carried him to shelter.
Sammy looked down at his hero sitting there, singing quietly to himself, in the snow.
My turn now.
~~~
‘Fucking zombie pig!’ Dean cursed for the fifth time, trying to keep the edges of his wound open. Giving the holy water room to do its job.
Judging by the way it bubbled and turned a nasty khaki colour, there was a hell of a lot for it to work on.
‘Hang on, Dean,’ Sammy said as he drenched the area again. Please don’t let this be too late. He didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t work. After all, holy water might be what Dean called “hot shit” on a lot of things, but it couldn’t work miracles.
The Winchesters stopped believing in miracles in 1983.
~~~
‘How do you feel?’
‘How do you think I feel, Sammy? You just shoved God’s version of Alka Seltzer into me, I feel just dandy!’ Dean, slanging back like he usually did.
Sammy would have relaxed more if Dean hadn’t had that programmed on an endless bewildered loop along with “Hurts, Sammy,” or “Where’s Dad?” Dean was still swinging from just plain out of it, to almost normal, from one minute to the next, and the cycle was getting faster. Sammy didn’t know if that meant his brother was getting better or not, but he knew Dean was desperately wrestling with the fever and confusion. How he’d gotten back on his feet and moving resolutely on again was a wonder.
Struggling one-armed to get his top jacket off and back onto Dean as they walked, he knew he’d keep asking the question as long as it took for the real Dean to break through.
~~~
As dawn clashed in an unequal battle with the weather, salvation finally came disguised as a whack on the head. ‘Dude, stop asking me that!’
Ow, that hurt. But luckily, not right on top of his stitches. Sammy smiled; his brother was back with a vengeance. ‘Only if you stop hitting me.’
‘Bitch.’
For once Sammy let that have a free ride. One prayer down, one to go. Might as well cast it to that heaven of Pastor Jim’s and see what happened. Get us out of here and we’ll do the rest. We’ll find Dad. It never paid to ask for everything. Bobby said the universe always appreciated a little help.
‘Sammy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘We’ve got company.’
Dean’s mind might have still been fuzzy around the edges, but his eyes would always be those of a hunter.
~~~
Company never came alone.
As he sat in the back of an epileptic station wagon next to a crate of aggressive chickens it was all Sammy could do to not start laughing. Or was that crying? He wasn’t sure, the only thing he knew was that he hurt and was too tired even to think, except to worry about his family.
Hours of hiking the icy mountain roads and being ignored by every motorist, then two cars pulled up for them within minutes of each other. The first, a new Volvo, driven by someone’s grandmother, all round bodied, cheerful, and nothing that was familiar to either of their experience. While watching Dean’s charm melt the snowflakes he’d been nursing his arm, thinking that prayer did work after all, right up to the second when his brother suddenly backed them out of the offer of a lift. Understand his brother? Not in any lifetime.
Sammy slapped another inquisitive beak back behind the netting, hoping he didn’t look bad enough to be considered chicken food, though he had his doubts. Here they were en route to St. Mary’s with possibly the grumpiest couple he’d ever met, and Dean was safely asleep in the corner furthest from the wildlife. If he hadn’t been so tired himself Sammy might have set a chicken or two loose just to wake his brother up and get an answer as to why Dean had slipped him the danger signal about Granny V, but the chickens hadn’t seemed to frighten him one bit.
~~~
‘Those boys are dead.’
It wasn’t a sentence Sammy wanted to wake up hearing as the car came to a shuddering stop. He kept his eyes closed and reached his good hand out, only to find Dean’s there first with a quick warning clasp.
‘Dead to the world, Judith. Whatever they’ve been up to, it’s worn them past the edge of exhaustion.’
Sammy turned slightly as if still asleep and flicked a quick look at his brother through barely open lashes. Not quite the problem they’d been ready to react to.
‘I know, William. They sure look to need a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep.’
‘And a doctor. Stubborn. Won’t take charity. Proud boys.’ Their driver, ornery as ever, but unexpectedly kind when they weren’t supposed to overhear.
‘You’ve never made anything sound like charity in your life.’
Over the sound of their driver’s rusty laughter Dean and Sammy came obviously awake.
‘Wow, are we there already? Sorry, Sir, Ma’am. I think we both fell asleep on you,’ Dean said, dripping politeness as only he could.
‘Sorry,’ Sammy chimed in, keeping up his part of the double act. He looked over the chickens and out through the side window. Not downtown St. Mary’s unless that consisted of an old weatherboard house, and a garage that could give a tower in Pisa a run for notoriety.
‘Our place is not far out of town. Thought we’d take a minute and drop everything off. You two might like to stretch your legs.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You boys want to make yourself useful, you can haul out those damned chickens before they start thinking my back seat is their new laying station.’
Sammy had to hand it to the Mitchells; they were pretty smooth when they wanted to be. The drop off quickly migrated to “just a warm drink while William tops up the gas”, and then to some swearing over a “pesky alternator.” Next thing they were being efficiently herded towards a bathroom by Judith’s well-polished line in cantankerous, “I’ll not have you boys dirtying up my dining room furniture.”
Once they’d used up most of the Mitchell’s water to get clean enough to meet even Judith’s high standards, there was still another cleansing ritual to perform. Thankfully, this time the holy water stayed calm and clear.
Dean would have staged a walkout there and then, but Sammy knew if he didn’t get Dean, and himself, another few vital hours of rest neither of them would get much closer to Kane. He let himself wilt a little more openly - no acting required for that - and sure enough Dean let them be managed by the testy couple into dinner, and a short rest while the car was “fixed.”
Back in charge, Dean propped him up in the corner of a sofa that could have taken five of them in comfort. Must be nice to have a big family. Tucking pillows around his sore shoulder so deftly that Sammy was sure the Mitchells didn’t even suspect he had anything other than the sprained wrist they’d lied about. ‘You okay, Sammy?’ Too soft to be overheard.
‘Yeah, you?’ Standard operating procedure; never make a big deal of things.
Dean settled down next to him with a barely concealed wince. ‘I’m good.’
Sammy knew the shades of that lie. His brother was still hurting, but nowhere near as bad as earlier. Dean would get better in time, they both would. Sammy just hoped they had enough left.
Dean nudged him. ‘Get some sleep, but if you drool on me, you’re dead meat.’
Sammy didn’t remember much after that. Just flashes of hearing their hosts try to question Dean, the warmth of a rug tucked tighter around him, talk of a storm, the touch of Dean’s hand along his cheek. Sometime later he thought he woke up, curled in a ball in his brother’s arms, and lay there listening to Dean whisper the names of God as if they were candles he was lighting one by one against the darkness.
~~~
When he woke up alone in the strong daylight of what had to be the next morning, Sammy knew he’d convinced Dean to make the wrong decision. All that time lost. Dad. ‘Shit!’
‘Wash your mouth out, child!’
Oops. Judith, glaring at him from the kitchen doorway.
‘Sorry, Mrs Mitchell,’ Sammy apologised, trying to bounce with healthy conviction to his feet, and failing miserably. Damn sling.
‘Hmm.’ Judith had apparently raised too many boys of her own to fall for that. ‘Your brother’s outside. Said he needed some fresh air before you left. Car’s all ready to go as soon as my William’s finished his breakfast. I made you both a little something to keep the wolf from the door.’
The jikininki. ‘Mrs Mitchell, you’re …’
‘Don’t you try and charm me boy, your brother already beat you to it.’ She struggled to force a frown. ‘Just leftovers anyway, only go to waste.’
Sammy knew when to let things go with just a ‘Thank you.’
~~~
Frantically rounding the corner of the house a few minutes later, Sammy found Dean calmly crouched between the snow-covered remains of some bush or other. He was right up against one of the support pillars - what the?
‘Dean, what in heck are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ That was Dean all over. Never admitted to anything he didn’t have to. Something their father had taught them both, but only Dean managed to escalate to new heights.
Sammy took a breath, for some reason Dean wasn’t as freaked over their delay as he should be. Why not? ‘Are you all finished doing nothing?’ Sammy asked slowly as he watched his brother shove a pen furtively in his pocket before forcing his way between the bushes to his side.
‘Yep, just waiting for you to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to hit the road? Mr Mitchell’s been chomping at the bit for at least half an hour.’
‘Yeah, right. I just saw him chomping over his tea in the kitchen. He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘I’m here now, you two ruffians. Don’t stand there gabbing, morning’s almost gone, and I want to get you to town and be home again before the next storm hits. Trouble. Boys are nothing but trouble,’ William muttered darkly as he walked back to the already packed car.
Sammy didn’t know how Dean had done it, but he’d instinctively chosen the right lift after all.
~~~
Sammy couldn’t say what led them to Decker’s Chapel. Well, he could if words like luck or fate were allowed in their father’s lexicon of revenge.
Dean, who always knew exactly what he was feeling at any given time - older brothers were scary - just shrugged and said, ‘Shit happens.’ But it was clear that he too was juggling a sense of jubilation and impending doom. Life was like that for the Winchesters.
Sammy looked back down to where his brother’s hand still rested next to a recent entry in the visitor’s book. A message that they both had so desperately needed to find. Three words, “John Winchester, Kane.” Three words and a symbol that read “danger.” Three words, one symbol - confirmation and warning.
Dean ran his hands over their father’s handwriting one last time. ‘If there’s a God, he’s got a nice sense of irony.’
~~~
Leaving St. Mary’s was harder than it should have been. Sammy looked back one last time at that tiny white chapel built by one man to honour and thank his God.
‘Dean?’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘Just, no.’
Sammy wished they had the time to stay, time to do something symbolic for their mother in this town that bore her name. But Dean was right, it was time to move on and finish their quest; rescue their father, no matter the cost.
Ever since William Mitchell had dropped them with a farewell grunt on South St. Mary’s Road, the fragments of their journey had fallen into one last precarious configuration. Like a kaleidoscope, sometimes the patterns made sense, more often they didn’t. But they always looked different on the surface where you couldn’t see chaos burning away below.
~~~
It was no man’s land - that gap between road and timberline, a narrow vacuum between civilisation and wilderness.
By now Sammy felt his feet had seen all of Pennsylvania, and they didn’t ever want to set eyes on it again. Dean’s thoughts on anything were usually a mystery, but, to judge from his swearing, for once they were of the same opinion.
They’d followed the border of the forest this far, slowly working their way ever northwards; keeping in the lee of the trees, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Every hour of night brought them nearer to their father. Dad has to be there. The Winchesters had only ever lost one battle. Since then their father had always trained them with one thought in mind - failure is not an option.
Now, tracing the edge of that oppressive storm, Sammy didn’t know what had happened to those clear nights he’d been praying for. Destroyed by the ferocity of the elements, like everything else in their lives he suspected.
One thing they both knew, they were too close to the end now for fear.
~~~
They lost a day. Twenty hours - longer, swept away by wind and snow, and that damned fate that Dean raged at in the face of pandemonium.
They barely talked during that time. Huddled in a fragile shelter of fallen tree trunks and hastily hard-packed walls of snow. As always, in times of crisis, they acted fast, felt too much, and said too little.
It was a time of madness.
They never would talk about that storm.
~~~
They endured.
In the end that was perhaps their father’s greatest and most painful gift. Their ability to take anything - survive love, and loss. To outlast their fears, and keep fighting, and existing beyond all hope.
They came through that storm, but its breaking brought them no respite. Their journey wasn’t over yet.
On that eve, there were no celebrations, no family gatherings by the fire, no songs to be sung. They’d rarely had the time or inclination to indulge in what their father called “the shallow subterfuges” of holidays. The Winchesters had only the one unbreakable tradition, a ritual, in fact, though not one tied to any conventional religion, no matter how much it might seem so.
‘Sammy?’
‘What?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Just, yes.’
In lieu of anything else Sammy bent down and placed his lit torch firmly upright in the snow.
They continued silently on; what had been needed to be said had been said … all that couldn’t, was understood.
~~~
Sometimes, even endurance isn’t enough.
They faltered, together; gathered themselves and went on towards that last hill, only to fall again at its foot.
This time Sammy knew he could not go on. ‘Go. Tell …’
‘No. I’ve got you.’
They went on, leaving only the one set of deep footprints that were too quickly covered over.
But there always comes a time when even courage isn’t enough.
Finally, when there was nothing else to do they simply fell, curved around each other; dark reflections of their father’s grief on the surface of the world.
When he was younger Sammy used to think that everything they did was a game - the lessons, the tests, the hunts. Now he knew the name of their game was death.
‘I don’t want to play any more,’ he whispered.
‘Sammy.’
‘I know.’
‘Get up!’
Death defined all the Winchesters. Some days they embraced it.
Some days they fought back.
~~~
The roar of flames, the scent of blood, and bodies - burning.
Some things never leave you.
It was always Dean who went first, and Sammy would always give thanks for that mercy.
It could have been days, minutes, or hours - time was one of those meaningless pieces of ballast they’d had to cast aside along the way - before they moved cautiously together over the final hill.
But it was Dean who was the first to see, and Sammy was glad of that, as well.
Crouched above Kane’s cemetery in the moonlight, Sammy couldn’t look, not after all this time, and especially not now. He held tight to Dean, his only anchor in all the chaos. Don’t let me go. The sounds, the smell. He blocked them all out. Dean? He felt his brother relax, just for a second, before tensing again.
It was Dean who was the first to know, and Sammy gave thanks.
Time to look; time to know.
Their father’s car swung into a defensive position next to some tumbledown gravestones. The first thing to see - what Dean had seen, and been thankful for.
But … ‘Dad?’
‘Shh,’ Dean tugged him down behind cover. ‘Look.’
Graves. Some of them were open, too many of those had visitors.
Jikininki. Out for dinner. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Neither were the jikininki.
‘They really are what they eat,’ Dean said, stating the distastefully obvious.
‘Dad?’ I have to know. Hands holding him back. ‘Dean?’
‘Wait, Sammy.’
This time they both heard, and saw, and knew.
Dad! Their father, firing from behind one corner of the Impala; rising from shelter to a laborious crouch, one leg stiffly balanced out to the side. Wounded, but alive. Still fighting. Triggering off more firetraps around the graves. Jikininki. Burning. Still too many.
‘Dean!’
‘I know.’ His voice calm, completely focussed, the end in sight. His hands. Shaking. Loading guns. He looked at Sammy; they didn’t need any more words. Everything had changed. Now there was nothing but this moment. This was how it would be - they would be - from now on. A team. Crazy, fucked up, but a family.
As they ran together down the hill towards their father there was nothing but this.
The roar of flames, the scent of blood, and bodies - burning.
These are things the Winchesters remember.
In Clearest Night
With Clouds Do Mask In Progress
Nor Yield Me Any Grace In Progress
With Clouds Do Mask In Progress
And Die In Thee
Of Flames Be Born In Progress