Flagstaff (2/3)
Title: Flagstaff
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Bobby, OMC
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Spoilers: Derived from part of 5.16, Dark Side of the Moon
Summary: After finding Sam, John decides a visit with Bobby is in order.
“They didn’t have him,” his son said. Holy Christ. His fifteen year old son had found, researched, and handled two hunts, solo, trying to find a missing brother without the help of a missing father. He could have been killed, or worse. A jolt of guilt-ridden fear shot through him and he grabbed Dean’s arm, needing to reassure himself that he was okay. Apparently, he had severely underestimated his eldest son. “You took them out? By yourself?” Dean nodded miserably, obviously distraught that his hard work hadn’t rewarded him with a brother. He took a hard look at his son, there was color back in his cheeks, and his eyes were focused. He still looked like the walking dead, but after all the work Dean had obviously put in, he wasn’t going to cut the kid out of the search now. What Dean needed at the moment was someone to take charge, take the responsibility off his shoulders. Time to put Sergeant Winchester’s boots on. “Alright. Get up, get your jacket,” he said firmly. Dean was even better than he was at finding all the tiny clues, and if he hadn’t found anything in those houses, then there was nothing to find. The woods was the most logical place to look next, Dean couldn’t possibly have covered every inch by himself. “We need to get to a phone, call the police. It’ll take more than the two of us to mount a search party for the woods.” He looked hard at his desperate, terrified son. I’ll give him a minute to collect himself in private. He stepped outside to give his stubborn, proud son time to put his game face on.
He hated the idea of filing a missing person’s report. It would put Sam in the database forever, and force him to admit out loud that he hadn’t been there when his boys needed him. He leaned against the car, mind racing. He turned at the sound of Dean opening the door. He still looked a little unsteady, but he was mobile, and they had work to do. Where to start? He needed the whole story. “Alright, so Wednesday,” he started. “Where were you? What were you and Sam doing the last time you saw him?” He frowned as Dean blanched again.
“He was our room, finishing his homework. I…” he watched as Dean swallowed hard. “I was with Nicole.”
“Who the hell is Nicole?”
Dean glanced at the trailer next to them. “The girl next door.”
“Wait a minute, you left Sam here and went next door to see a girl?”
Dean’s eyes widened. “No. No, Sir. She came over. We were… on the couch.”
“Doing what exactly?” He rolled his eyes as his son blushed. “Jesus, don’t answer that.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to wrap his head around the situation. Frustration made his throat tight. “So let me get this straight. You were rounding the bases on the couch with some girl and Sam just vanished?” Dean nodded slowly, eyes downcast. “Damnit, Dean! Of all the stupid, irresponsible- “ He stopped himself. Since the night the Striga had nearly killed Sam five years ago, Dean hadn’t taken his eyes off his brother for more than ten minutes at a time. He was the most responsible fifteen year old in history, and holding him responsible for one mistake wasn’t fair. But then… it was. “You know what’s out there, Dean! You know we can’t afford to let our guard down for a second. Anything could happen. THIS could happen! What the hell were you thinking?” He knew exactly what Dean had been thinking. The same thing he had been thinking at fifteen, shot through with hormones and chasing Tracy Gilmore’s skirt. He was just a kid, damnit. He slammed his fist down on the hood of the Impala, frustration and the beginnings of true panic taking hold.
It was both a burst of good fortune and a true miracle that the police cruiser pulled up at that exact moment, exactly one moment before John Winchester went into full-out alarm at the loss of his youngest. One moment more, and there might have been an emotional explosion that would have leveled the trailer park. One minute more and Sam might have been actually dead, fried from the inside out by the force of his father’s anger. One minute more and he might have strangled Sam with his bare hands at the thought of his son, not eaten by monsters, not sold into slavery, not abducted by aliens, but just running away from home. His son. As it was, the exact moment that the reality of Sam’s disappearance finally slipped past his concern with his eldest, wormed around his sense of denial, and popped full force into the front of his mind, was the exact moment that Deputy McFarlon pulled up with Sam in the back of his cruiser.
“John Gavinston?” It took him a moment to remember the alias he’d rented the trailer with. He nodded at the deputy.
“Yes, sir. I’m John.” He felt his heart stutter before he remembered his government protocol. Always send two officers to deliver a death notice, because no man should have to face a grieving widow alone. The fact that this officer was here alone meant that he wasn’t coming to notify next of kin. A tightly coiled knot of tension loosened enough for him to take a breath.
“I believe I have a runaway here that belongs to you.” The deputy’s face was hard, weathered, but not unkind.
Runaway. The word reverberated through him with an audible clatter. No, that really was a clatter. He glanced behind him to see Dean sitting on the steps, legs gone out from under him. He took half a step towards Dean before remembering how jumpy his son had been for the last half hour. The last thing he needed right now was to have Dean flinch away from him, sparking an inquiry on why exactly he had a son who’d run away and another that was afraid of him. He turned back towards the cruiser, glancing at the officer’s name tag. “Yes, sir, Deputy McFarlon. I believe you just might. We were just going out to look for him.”
“How long’s your son been missing, Mister Gavinston?” He didn’t like the accusatory tone in the deputy’s voice.
“Said he was staying over with a friend. Didn’t think anything of it till he didn’t come home from school today. So, I guess the answer is technically… all weekend.” It still grated something deep inside him to lie straight faced to cops.
Deputy McFarlon nodded. “Well, that’s the same story he gave us. Found him squatting in a trailer over on Baker Street. Owner’s out of town. Sister came over to check on the dog and found him inside. Looked like he’d been there a few days, but he says it was only the weekend.” The deputy’s face softened, a sympathetic smile stealing across his lips. “I got a boy, just turned twelve. Just old enough to think he’s a man and my rules don’t apply to him anymore.” The deputy opened the back door of the cruiser, revealing his very guilty looking eleven year old son, leaned forward with his hair in his eyes and hands cuffed behind his back. Deputy McFarlon leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Seeing as he didn’t vandalize the place, owner’s decided not to press charges. Says he took good care of the dog, actually. Mutt didn’t want to let him leave. I thought a ride home in cuffs might do him some good, though. He seems like a good kid, easy to scare straight.” The deputy leaned in and hauled Sam out by his elbow, bending to unlock the handcuffs once he was standing. John repressed a wry smile at the thought of Sammy riding home in a police cruiser, handcuffs and all, to be delivered back to his father. The kid’s imagination had probably punished him far more effectively than he ever could, though that remained to be tested. He’d deal with his son in private after he’d had a chance to level his own head. He had never once handed out punishment in anger, and today would not be the day he started, no matter how tempting the idea of bending his rebellious child over his knee sounded.
He turned as Deputy McFarlon’s eyes tracked something over his shoulder. He watched Dean approach with wide, haunted eyes. Jesus, he’s been dealing with this for days. Dean stopped beside him, pausing for a moment before extending his right hand. “Thank you for finding my brother, Sir,” he said, almost too low to hear.
The deputy smiled wide at his eldest and shook the offered hand. “All in a day’s work, son. You keep an eye on him for your dad in the future, alright?”
“Yes, Sir,” Dean said in a choked voice. He turned back toward the trailer without a glance back to see that Sam followed him in.
John offered his own hand. “Thank you for returning my son.”
McFarlon smiled back at him and shook his hand with a firm grip. “Couple of respectful boys you got there. He’s a seems like a good kid, just at that age where they need a firm hand to remind them that they’re not grown just yet. My sister’s kid went through it from ten to seventeen, gave her hell and heartburn. She was at her wit’s end, ended up sending him to boot camp. Then all of a sudden, he just tightened up his belt and flew straight. He’s a firefighter now, next county over. Couldn’t be prouder. Kids just need a little discipline.”
“I’ll see to it,” he replied, and that wasn’t a lie at all.
* * *
Runaway. Dean caught the railing and sat heavily as his legs crumpled from beneath him. Not once had it ever occurred to him that Sammy had just left. Just run off to be on his own. Just snuck out the door while he was making out with Nicole and walked away from them on purpose. Hurt and betrayal ran down his face as the cop talked to Dad. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and he didn’t care. Eventually, the cop opened the back of the cruiser and hauled his brother out in handcuffs. In fucking handcuffs. Now he’s probably got a record, and isn’t that just what Dad expected of this week. Well, hell. Even if he had failed at an entire week, he could still get Sammy fed and put to bed. It was the least he could do. He wiped his face on his sleeve, got his feet under him and walked over to the cruiser. “Thank you for finding my brother,” he said sincerely. It felt more than a little strange to be shaking hands with a cop instead of trying to avoid one, but the man had accomplished what he himself had failed at for twelve fucking days in a row. He was the hero of the day, and owed the respect he was entitled to.
“You keep an eye on him for your dad in the future, alright?” Yeah, obviously I’m exactly the one to put that responsibility on. Can’t keep him safe, can’t even keep him happy enough to want to stick around. “Yes, Sir,” he managed to squeeze out through a throat choked with emotion. Not that I blame him. Who the hell would want to spend every day with me anyways? Not even Dad. He turned and walked back into the trailer, not really caring if Sammy was with him or not. Sam went straight to the room they shared without a word. He stood in the middle of the living room, glaring at the stack of useless notes on the table. Lot of good that did me. Right down the road, right under my nose the whole time, and I couldn’t find him in plain sight.
Dad walked in a few minutes later, slamming the door behind him. “Get packed, we’re leaving!” He forced his hands and feet to move, to pack up his few belongings. Clothes went into his duffel in the same condition they came off the floor, toothbrush shoved in on top. He glanced at Sam, sitting sullenly on the bed, and started packing up Sam’s bag too. When everything they owned was stuffed into their bags, he took them out to the car. He tossed them into the trunk on top of the hidden compartment, slammed it shut, and sat in the passenger seat to wait.
* * *
He watched Dean take the boys’ bags out to the car. Sam was still sitting on the bed, glancing up occasionally with a look halfway between sullen and terrified. Jesus, what had he gotten them all into this time? He had one son that wasn’t talking, and one that would only whisper. Both of them were still going to need a stern talking to. And with the adrenaline wearing off, he was beginning to remember how tired he’d been when he got here an hour ago. I can’t deal with this shit right now. A vacation, that’s what they needed. A day to sleep in, rest up so he could deal with the dysfunction that had insinuated itself into his already dysfunctional family. Mary would divorce you for what you’ve let happen here. A taste of a real home, some time to remember that they were family. We’ll head to Bobby’s. Real house, real work, and another pair of eyes to help me keep track of these two. Been seven months since they’ve seen hi m, and they always seem so happy there. He ran a hand over his face, disgusted with himself for the thousandth time about the life his sons should have had. “Sam, let’s go.” His son stopped sulking long enough to get to his feet, then resumed with a huff and a stomping exit.
The ride to Bobby’s was the longest eighteen hours of his life. He was exhausted, angry, and still at a loss on what to do with his sons. The worst part was the silence. Dean took a long hard look at Sam over his shoulder as they pulled out of the drive, and then promptly passed out, leaning against the window. About every half hour he would jerk awake, spin around to look at Sam with frightened eyes, then settle back in with a sigh. For his part, Sam sat in the back, head down and arms crossed staring at the floor for the greater part of the journey. Every question about when and where they needed to stop was met with a mumble from Sam and a head shake from Dean. He finally gave up. If one of them got hungry or needed to pee, they’d speak up.
Rumsfeld greeted them noisily as they pulled up at the house in front of the salvage yard. Bobby greeted them on the porch with a shotgun a few moments later. “That you, Winchester?”
“It’s me, Singer. Sorry to drop in on you without calling, but my phone took a dive and I’m in need of a little help. Something that’s kinda your specialty.”
“What kinda help we talkin’? I ain’t chasin another banshee through the woods with ya. Came home with twice as many gray hairs as I left with, and whatever the hell that was she spit at us never did come outta my favorite jeans.” He found himself swallowing a laugh at the memory as Bobby lowered the shotgun.
“Nothing like that. I’ll give you the details later, but the short of it is, you mind if the boys spend some time here with you? And maybe me too, here and there?”
Bobby scowled at him. “How long? I’m getting damn tired of you runnin’ off with ‘em just when I done got used to havin’ ‘em around. Soon’s I get Dean elbow deep workin’ on one of these junkers you always come swoopin’ in two days before he gets it runnin’.” Bobby glared at him, one eyebrow raised. “And how the hell’s Sam sposta learn his Latin when he can’t get past imundis in the damn dictionary?”
“I was thinking maybe the rest of the summer,” he said, hopefully. He found himself grinning as the man’s eyes lit up.
“Well, hell. Bring em on in then. I got six cars in this week, and the basement needs cleanin’ sumthin’ awful.”
With a grateful smile, he accepted the beer Bobby offered as he ushered the boys inside. Bobby was a grouchy old man, set in his ways, and used to being alone. But damn if he didn’t light up whenever the boys were around. He felt a twinge of sympathetic sadness as he wondered if Bobby and Karen would have had kids if she were still alive. The man loved his boys like they were his own. He sent his sons upstairs to get settled in, with orders for Sam to start on the basement as soon as he was unpacked. A mumbled “Yes, Sir,” was thrown over his shoulder as his youngest stomped up the stairs. “And when that’s done, you can start organizing the library,” he threw back. Sam paused, eyes roaming over the endless stacks of books that filled every available corner. With a sigh and a nod, he disappeared up the stairs.
Dean stood in the living room looking utterly lost. He was still too pale, his eyes wide, pupils pushing the irises to slivers of green around sinking pools of black. “Dean?” Bobby questioned gently. When his son didn’t respond, Bobby turned eyes back to him in question. He looked at Dean, saw the anguish too raw to be bricked up behind the wall of bravado the kid had worn since he was four. “Dean!” he called, louder. Dean flinched, eyes snapping to his father’s face. “Get unpacked, son. Meet me out back in fifteen.” Yes, Sir was soundless as it formed on his son’s lips. He watched his eldest climb the stairs like an animated mannequin.
“Alright, Winchester, start talking,” Bobby demanded. “What the hell’s Sam done to earn a month’s heavy labor, and more importantly why the hell does Dean look like he’s shell-shocked?”
“I think he is,” he replied with a sigh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sam ran away while I was out on a hunt.”
“Whaddaya mean, ran away?”
“I mean, ran away. Holed up in an empty trailer for two fucking weeks. Came home in the back of a cruiser in fucking handcuffs. Dean apparently went half nuts trying to find him, thought something had taken him. I don’t think he’s slept in days.”
“And where the hell were you while this was goin on?” Bobby said accusingly.
“Ass deep in a creek trying to keep a Wendigo from eating my face. Phone got lost on day two.”
“Dammit, Winchester… you don’t think that boy’s got enough to worry about with being the damn man of the house while his daddy’s gone off god knows where with no guarantee of comin home? He’s just a kid for god’s sake. You ever think maybe you shoulda knocked on a door, found a phone and checked in once in a damn while? You stubborn inconsiderate bastard, if I was your daddy, I’d have beaten you to death before you were twelve.”
“Singer, if you were my daddy, I’d have packed my shit and left before I was twelve.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow at him and he cringed as he realized what he’d just said. “Jesus, Bobby. This is my fault, isn’t it?”
“You bet your ass it is.” Bobby shook his head, expression hard. “Good as he takes care of Sammy, Dean’s just a kid himself, and he’s got no more clue what to do with a willful, independent eleven year old than you do. Difference is, you’re the one sposta be figurin it out. Boys don’t need a drill sergeant, they need a daddy, and Dean ain’t it. Now get up there and be a damn father to those boys before I do it for you, ya idjit.”
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