Arms Wide Open. Part Six.

[soserendipity]

Part 6/13


Northern Perils Seeping South: The North. [December 31st, 1998]

Dean.

It hasn’t stopped snowing for two days straight, and everything is covered in a thick blanket of white. Sounds are muted and the sharp edges of the scrap yard have gotten soft. Dean leans onto the railing of the front porch and suppresses a shiver; beer in one hand and a family sized bag of M&Ms in the other. Bobby had given that one to him as a special treat for Christmas. Dean knows that he can be difficult to be around, especially during the holidays. But Bobby knows his story; is aware of the fact that since 1990 the tradition of gift-giving has been deemed unnecessary in the Winchester household. The only present Dad had given him since Sammy was the Impala, and seeing as that was the second coolest present ever, Dean never complained. Not that that had kept Bobby from getting something for Dean, anyway, like a knife for his birthday or a warm jacket for Christmas. But there's no pressure at Bobby’s, so it’s pretty much Dean’s favorite place to spend the holidays. This year, the older hunter had wordlessly shoved two of the huge yellow bags into Dean’s hands and continued unpacking the groceries. No big deal.

And if Dean happened to work on another car besides the Impala without telling Bobby, that was just out of pity for the car. Poor thing has been gathering dust for far too long. He likes fixing cars, there’s nothing to it. Really. For Christmas they’d had some pie, Dean’s special recipe for apple-cinnamon pie, because Bobby had “accidentally” bought a crate o of apples too many and no hunter is big on wasting food. Thank god Dean is nothing but resourceful. Bobby had made steaks and potatoes and they’d watched a game after dinner. Dean smiles at the snow and sips his beer. It had been perfect.

The week between Christmas and New Year's has flown by, and in another four hours 1998 will lie in the past. Dean has snuck out of the house and is enjoying a quiet totally worth freezing his ass off. He loves Bobby, honest. But ever since Wyoming, the older hunter has driven him crazy with his mother hen routine. There’s only so many worried glances and overcooked vegetables Dean can stomach. He doesn’t doubt that he’d been in pretty bad shape after the crash, but it’s not as if Bobby had noticed any of that, especially since he himself had been busy dying from a basal skull fracture and internal bleeding. Also, Cas had healed both of them at nearly the same time, so if Bobby kept insisting that he was fine, shouldn’t common sense dictate that Dean was fine, too? Apparently not. Dean just wishes he’d been conscious to see the actual healing take place. That would've been kinda cool. Anyway, Dean is fine. Bobby is fine. Cas is fine, too. If only Bobby would relax, everything could go back to normal.

“Dean? Hey, Dean?"

Dean ducks his head and rolls his eyes. Any minute now.

“Dean!" Bobby yells, "I swear to god, if you’re outside again - ”

Dean crosses the porch and opens the front door as silently as possible. He is greeted by the cozy warmth of the fireplace and the smell of popcorn wafting over from the kitchen. At the silent snick with which the front door closes, the tirade from the kitchen continues. The man has ears like a fucking bat.

“About time you got your idjit ass inside. You’d better not come down with pneumonia. Standing out in the freaking snow like that; It’s December for god’s sake.” Dean is sure he can hear Bobby shaking his head.

“Geez, Bobby. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, smartass.” Bobby pokes his head around the corner and after visually confirming that Dean isn’t currently hacking up a lung, he disappears into the kitchen again. Which, seriously, is ridiculous. Because Dean. Is. Fucking. Fine.

“Wanna watch a movie till it’s time?” Bobby asks from the kitchen. Dean would like that very much, but he's trying to unlace his boots while juggling a beer bottle and an uncooperative bag of peanuts, so he’s a little busy right now. He frees his left foot with a jerk and some beer spills onto the floor and soaks through his sock. He makes an awkward hop-shuffle-swing move to keep his balance and looks around sheepishly. Good that no one saw that one; he does have a reputation to uphold. Grace of a cat, stealth of a - huh. Cat? Maybe he's a little more drunk than he'd thought.

“Dean!” Great, now Bobby’s head is back and there's a note of worry to the older man’s tone. He eyes Dean critically. “What do you say, movie?”

“Yeah, movie sounds good.” The fact that Dean’s still upright and breathing makes the head vanish again, and leaves him to free his other foot. Then he follows the scent of food. Pie, pie, where’s the pie? He’s sure that there should be some left over from dinner. It was good pie, too - cherry, and Dean wants it, right now. But no worries, he’s a hunter. Hunting is what he does. Not a pastry in the world could escape him. Damn thing doesn’t even have legs.

“You wanna pick one?” Bobby sounds amused, but Dean can’t look at him right now. He’s in stealth mode. Pie be warned, here I come.

“Nah, I don’t care.” Damn it, he can smell the freaking thing. Must be close. He opens the cupboard and stares blankly at Bobby’s dishes.

“But none of that lovey-dovey crap. I’m not kissing you at midnight.” Dean blinks and closes the cupboard. He looks down at his hands and tries to remember why the hell he's clutching a bowl along with his beer and peanuts. Behind him, Bobby chortles.

Bobby.

It’s good to see the kid up and running again. When Cas had told them about the extent of their injuries, Bobby might have stroked out a little. To think that without the angel - no, he’s not gonna go there. Cas was there and things turned out fine. If only the damn kid would take a little more care of himself, everything could go back to normal. Honestly, who in their right mind stays out in the snow in the middle of winter? Bobby bets he didn’t even wear gloves.

But he has to admit, Dean looks good. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks and right now he seems to be spaced out staring at his cupboard, but that’s just an effect of the alcohol. It most probably is. Huh. He should check the kid’s temp before they call it a night, just in case.

Bobby always likes having Dean over for the holidays. He’s not big on celebrating, but neither is Dean, so they’re good. It’s damned easy to make the kid happy, too. John Winchester had made sure of that when he stopped giving him presents when the boy was twelve. The older hunter shakes his head in disgust. But, that makes it only more satisfying when Dean’s face lights up because Bobby gives him something, even if it’s just a bag of peanuts or two. The envelope with a wad of bills and a provocatively sappy reindeer card that reads ‘Don’t spend it all on booze. Merry Christmas, Bobby’ is safely hidden inside Dean’s first aid kit. He knows better than to hand stuff like that over outright. He’d just find it invested into that car that Dean thinks Bobby doesn’t know he’s working on.

“None of that lovey-dovey crap,” Dean says, interrupting Bobby’s musings, “I’m not kissing you at midnight.” Dean frowns first at the bowl in his hands and then at the kitchen. Bobby knows exactly what he's looking for. He lets out an amused snort.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m a gentleman. Wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, especially not when you're already tipsy.” The young hunter turns around and glares at Bobby, who is leaning against the table, huge bowl of popcorn in one hand and a plateful of pie in the other. Dean all but leers at the desert and Bobby chuckles.

“Ah, I see I’m not your type anyway. Now come sit down and let me introduce you to your date of the evening.” He wiggles the plate in front of Dean and grins at the kid’s comical expression. It’s a mix of indignant pride and hopeful desire. He also makes a ‘hmmm’ noise at the pie that Bobby would swear is completely subconscious. The kid is drunk for sure.

They've just settled on the couch; beer in hand, more beer on the table, and food ready to be devoured, when Bobby’s phone rings. Dean groans.

“Not tonight, man. It’s fucking New Year’s, ‘s our night off. Don’t answer that.” Dean actually shakes his fist at the phone. “Worst fucking job description ever! Gimme the pie.” Bobby barks out a laugh, hands over the plate, and grabs his phone. ‘Simon’ the display reads. Well this better be good.

“Hey Bobby!” Simon shouts the second the call connects. Bobby frowns. There's so much noise in the background that he can hardly understand a word.

“Hi Simon. Are you at a party right now?”

“That I am. It’s New Year’s Eve!” The crowd in the background erupts into cheers at that statement.

“I know that, dumbass. So what, is this a social call?” Bobby never thought of Simon as one of his close friends. The guy may be meticulous, which Bobby respects, but he lives in freaking Canada, and although they've exchanged bits of lore over the years, small talk is nothing they ever indulged in.

“What? Speak up; I dunno what you're sayin’!”

“Social call!” Bobby shouts, “Is this- what is this, Simon?”

“Social call? Uh, no? Should I have… oh yeah, right. Sure! Happy new year!” The crowd erupts into choruses of ‘happy new year’ this time. Dean snickers and ducks behind the plate of pie.

“Uhm, uh-huh. Thanks. You too, I mean. So. Let’s-“

“Can’t hear ya, man! What?”

“For crying out loud - just go back to your damn party!” Next to him Dean is stupidly giggly and having trouble breathing, laughing, and swallowing pie at once. Idjit. Bobby's lips twitch in response, but then all the fun deflates out of him when Simon doesn’t hang up.

“What, no, wait! What about Winchester, eh?” Is he trying to kill me, or what?

“What do you mean?” Someone’s screaming something intelligible in the background and again the answering sound of cheers is deafening. Back to shouting it is, then.

“Simon! Get your lazy ass somewhere quiet!” A few moments later the noise has abated somewhat and Bobby does his best not to side-glance at Dean. “What about him, Simon?”

“I hear you just fine, Bobby. Stop screaming. So, uh, what about who?” Bobby rolls his eyes.

“John. What about him?” Next to him, Dean goes deathly quiet. Balls.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah man, John Winchester, you’re looking for him, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Please don’t let him be dead somewhere in the Canadian woods. Actually, please don't let him be dead anywhere.

“This friend of mine, Jonah, he met him a few weeks ago. Was planning on going to Windigo Lake. Winchester was, I mean. Something about the Cree demons? Crazy stuff, but just legends, if you ask me. No one ever saw the giant for real, you know. Kinda like Bigfoot. Anyway. I just met Jonah here at the game, haven’t seen him in ages, and he tells me about this weird American, all gung ho about hunting alone in the woods and asking about demons and things, all intense. So I let Jonah describe him and turns out that he’s your man. So, d’you want us to go looking for him? He planned on going to Chibougamau, that’s what Tommy said anyway. Jonah just called him. I’m sure as heck gonna need backup before I go anywhere near that demon rumor, but I thought you might want us to check on him. Yeah?” Bobby is actually speechless for a second. He clears his throat.

“Simon, I can’t even tell you how much we’d appreciate that. Look, get back to your party or game or whatever and let’s talk in the morning, ok? Call me when you’re up and let’s go over the details then.”

“Sure thing Bobby. Happy new year! I’ll call tomorrow.” The muted sound of cheering wafts over the line.

“Thanks. Happy new year.” Bobby stares at the phone in his hands with a baffled expression. He can’t believe they finally caught a break. No wonder they hadn’t found him at Windigo Lake, Wisconsin; John never went there. Instead he'd snuck off into another country. And the bastard couldn’t be bothered to call his son once in all those months. He’s gonna get a piece of Bobby’s mind once he’s back, that’s for sure. If he doesn’t pump him full of buckshot first, that is.

“Bobby? What are we appreciating?” Bobby will be damned if the kid doesn’t sound twelve again.

“Apparently John made it all the way to Canada. A buddy of a buddy of mine met him a few weeks ago. They’re gonna go looking for him.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god.”

Bobby has nothing to add to that. Nothing he’d like to share out loud, anyway.



Simon calls at noon. Dean has been telling Bobby what to say all morning, and naturally Bobby has ignored him, and faked obliviousness to the countless demands for the phone as well. Dean is glaring daggers at him as he paces back and forth. Bobby feels for the kid, but his impatience would get them nowhere - at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself for the last minute. But when Simon flat out rejects their help for the third time, Bobby feels his own temper rise. This is plain stupid.

“I don’t get why you don’t want us there, that’s all. You said yourself that you’d need backup.” He tries not to sound affronted and fails spectacularly.

“I did. And I do. But I don’t need you, Bobby, nor that rookie of yours that’s rambling in the background, no offence.”

“And why in the hell not? John Winchester isn’t your run-of-the-mill hunter, Simon! He’s hardcore. When he’s hunting something, he’s not one you wanna mess with. Me and the kid, we have a much better chance to actually get him to listen.” Dean’s pacing brings him close enough to Bobby to smack the boy’s head. ‘Sit down’ Bobby mouths and Dean ignores him. They are quite a pair today.

“Bobby.” Simons voice turns apologetic. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sure you’re more than capable of bringing the man home. The thing is, we don’t exactly know where he is yet. We’ll have to go look for him. Outside.”

“So?” Bobby feels like he’s missing something vital. “I’m not exactly a delicate flower. I’ve been hunting longer than you and all your friends combined. And we usually do that outside here, too.”

“Have you ever been to Canada?”

“No. But we have national forests and parks here, too.”

“Exactly!” Simon sounds triumphant and Bobby feels confused. Dean is fuming.

“We’re going, Bobby!” The kid stage-whispers and makes a grabby motion with his right hand. “Gimme the fucking phone!” Bobby shushes him and Dean turns a shade of red that can’t be healthy.

“I still don’t get it.”

At the other end of the line Simon sighs. “Listen, Bobby. Our woods aren’t like your tame little forests. We’re talking about real wilderness here. I’m sorry, I really am. But having you here would just be a liability. We know our way around. We’ll find the man. And if he’s still alive, we’ll get him home to you.” Bobby throws a quick glance at Dean, but he doesn’t seem to have heard the last part. Bobby shrugs.

“If there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”

“Bobby, no! Let me talk to him!”

“Alright, Simon. Call me as soon as you have news.” Bobby shuts the phone and shakes his head at Dean’s bitchface. “Listen, Dean -“

“Why would you do that? What the hell, man!”

“Hey, watch your tone! I get that you’re angry, but Simon is right.” When Dean opens his mouth for an angry retort, Bobby grabs his shoulders and shakes him a little. “Would you think for just a minute? They know where to look; we don’t. They know their way around. We'd do nothing but slow them down. We could be the very thing that prevents them from finding John.” Bobby hears the unspoken ‘in time’ as clearly as Dean. Balls. The kid’s shoulders sag and he averts his eyes. When he looks up again, the anger has been wiped from his face. Now he looks close to tears and Bobby feels like an asshole.

“Dean.” He lets go of the kid’s shoulders and pat’s his shirt a little awkwardly where he wrinkled it. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But we don’t have much of a choice here. Just let 'em do their job. They’ll find him. Simon is a good hunter, and he won’t be alone. It’ll be fine.”

“Do you really think so?” No way should anyone’s eyes be this big, ever. God help him, this kid will be the death of him.

“I do.” Bobby tries to project enough confidence for the both of them. “Now, go and tinker with your car or something. I’ll get you as soon as the phone rings.”

It doesn’t; instead, the damned thing stays silent for a week and Dean is crawling the walls. Bobby caved after the first couple of days and called Simon to get an update, but the Canadian’s phone kept going straight to voicemail. Both Bobby and Dean have left their share of messages but Simon hasn’t called back.

Something must have went wrong; they both know it. Dean is working furiously on fixing the Impala, and Bobby is a little surprised that the boy hasn’t already hotwired one of his junkers and is halfway on his way to Canada. He’s just thankful that they haven’t seen Cas in nearly three weeks. Dean would have zapped out of here faster than Bobby can spell pie.

Dean.

Finally, eight days after their conversation with Simon, the phone rings. They are having dinner, so Dean sees the whole thing. First, Bobby looks angry. Then his expression goes carefully blank. In the end, Bobby’s face looks ashen and during all that he mainly listens, scribbles down a few notes, and only asks the occasional odd question. When he ends the call, Dean is almost sure he doesn’t want to hear what that was all about. Bobby tells him anyway.

“That was Johah, one of the Canadians. He’s- He’s the only one left. He said something about containers and I have a few numbers now. I know a guy that can help us with this, I’ll run them by him. It may take a while but we might be able to locate them.” Bobby hesitates and Dean frowns. What the fuck do containers have to do with anything?

“There was no sign of John. All the- uh. The others are dead.”

“What? How?”

“This guy, Jonah, he’s a friend of Simon.” Bobby shakes his head. “Was a friend. God, this is fucked up. Jonah’s been in a hospital the last couple of days. He says they found what John had been looking for, apparently there were some demonic omens they could trace. Close to, I don’t know.” He frowns at the piece of paper in front of him. “Can’t even read my own damned writing!” Dean snatches the paper away from him, and Bobby doesn’t even complain.

“They followed those omens to some out-of-order industrial compound. They had one of the warehouses surrounded, but what they stumbled upon wasn’t some friggin’ Indian legend.” Bobby’s voice becomes grave and Dean looks up from the piece of paper.

“It was a trap. Someone knew they were coming. Jonah- he says it was a fucking blood bath. There were at least two demons, and I mean real ones; the hell kind. They had some dog with them or something. Jonah thinks it might have been a hellhound, but a couple of them fought the thing. So they must have seen it. Usually, hellhounds aren’t visible to just anyone, so I don’t think that’s what it was.” Dean stares at Bobby open-mouthed. What kind of shit had Dad gotten into? Demons, hell hounds, fucking blood baths? This is so not good.

“So, how many did they kill?” Bobby slaps his hand on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes.

“How the hell should I know? And what kinda question is that, anyway?” He rubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head before he continues a little calmer, “He didn’t say. All he said is that they left him for dead. Everyone else apparently is. Simon, too.” Dean flinches and hisses sympathetically.

“Shit, Bobby. I’m so sorry.” They sit in silence for a few minutes, each hunter following their own thoughts, before Dean tries again.

“I meant the demons, though. How many of those did they get?” Bobby looks bewildered. Then he barks out a dry laugh.

“None. Whatever or whoever was in that warehouse, knew of the attack. They didn’t stand a chance.”

“I wonder what was in there,” Dean says.

“That’s just the thing. Apparently there was nothing, just a bunch of containers and a whole lot of monsters. When Jonah came to, the warehouse was empty, though.” Dean’s hunter senses start tingling at that.

“So what, the demons took them with them?” Bobby frowns and meets Dean’s eyes.

“Looks like it.” The older hunter sighs and gets up. “I’m gonna call Burkowitz about the numbers.”

“What the fuck,” Dean says to the empty kitchen a minute later, “what the fuck, Dad?”

It takes that Burkowitz guy three days to figure out that the random mess of numbers Jonah gave them belongs to a container that was shipped from Montreal to Cleveland. It arrived there on the evening of January 9th.

“But that was two days ago,” Dean groans.

“So? Pack up, boy. We’re leaving in five.” Dean doesn’t move. Maybe he needs to spill it out for Bobby, the man has been under a lot of stress lately.

“So,” Dean mimics, slightly condescending, “that means that the container probably isn’t in Cleveland anymore. Not to mention the other ones that could still be somewhere in Canada. Where the hell do you think we should go?” Bobby rolls his eyes and turns around.

“We’ll figure that out on the road. Move it or I’ll leave you here.”

Two hours later Dean has to admit that he underestimated the man. Apparently Bobby knows everyone and, what’s more important, everyone owes Bobby. That’s why the trucking network that spans across all across the US is currently on the lookout for their containers. Dean has a map across his lap and tries to figure out possible routes, but seriously, the country is fucking huge. There’s no way people actually need all these roads.

They spend the next two days cramped up in Bobby’s Chevelle, because the Impala is still under construction and Bobby’s truck, that would at least give Dean the fucking chance to stretch his legs, doesn’t have any backseats. They don’t know what condition Dad will be in when - when, not if - they find him, so both hunters feel more comfortable this way. Under the steady crackle of the radio they make their way east.

On the morning of January 13th, they are leaving New Castle, Indiana where they stayed for the night.

“Hello.” Bobby flinches and steps on the brakes hard enough to skid the car to a halt on the middle of the road. The cars behind them honk at them, but thankfully they haven’t caused an accident. The smell of burned rubber wafts over from the smoking tires and Dean throws the map at the angel in the backseat.

“Geez! Cas, how many times have I told you to cut this out? Seriously, man. Use a fucking phone!”

“I’m sorry.” Bobby starts the car again and Dean picks up the radio from the floor before he tunes back in to channel 19. “Where are you going?”

“We don’t know yet.” Dean says the same moment that Bobby grumbles, “It’s a friggin’ scavenger hunt.”

“That sounds like fun.” The angels looks like he means it, too.

“It’s not.” Dean rolls his eyes at Bobby’s mood and shakes the radio. He can’t get a clear frequency.

“Can I come?” The young hunter throws a warning glance to the left and Bobby harrumphs.

“Sure, Cas. Just stop the teleporting crap for a while, ok? I think you gave Bobby the creeps.” That earns Dean a glare from the driver’s side. “Bobby, I think there’s something wrong with the radio.” Bobby looks at it and shrugs.

“Just keep trying. It might be a weather thing. Usually, these things don’t just break.” Bobby smirks. “Also, I’m not the one who screamed like a girl.” Now it’s Dean’s turn to glare.

“Yeah? Well, neither did I.”

“Sure, Deanna, whatever you say.”

“You do have a lovely falsetto,” Cas chimes in helpfully and Bobby starts snorting with laughter.

They spend another couple of hours just cruising aimlessly around until Bobby’s phone rings. Three minutes later Bobby takes a sharp right and steps on the gas. Apparently, the radio is broken, but that doesn’t matter anymore because the container once more has been sighted. They are going to Ravenswood, West Virgina.

go back (part five) || Masterpost || continue (part seven)