Reassignment, for ficwriter1966
Title: Reassignment
Author: lolaann1
Recipient: ficwriter1966
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: ~1300
Summary: Based on the prompt - John not only kept Henry's journal all those years, he would have had to retrieve it from a burned-out house. Did he deliberately go back to find it, or did he stumble on it by accident? (And it obviously wasn't damaged in the fire. Is that because it was tucked somewhere safe, or is it... magical?)
Reassignment
The gap in the living room drapes provided a view of the small porch across the street.
Sitting on the porch steps wearing an oversized jacket over a stained t-shirt, his oldest resembled the traumatized refugee children so common in Vietnam more than a healthy, precocious all-American boy.
Formerly precocious, anyway.
When was the last time Dean had had a bath? Surely it wasn't before. It couldn't have been.
John knew he'd been fed since that night. The evidence was all over Dean's shirt. A shirt he'd dug out of a bag of used clothing delivered to their motel room by a Red Cross volunteer. He remembered the volunteer's name was also John. He'd been tall and mostly bald. A retired banker who had moved to Lawrence from Wichita to be closer to his oldest daughter and her children.
Remembering a useless detail like that and then forgetting to bathe his own grubby child had to be proof he was losing it. And now he stood like some peeping tom in his own damn house, hiding behind the smoke-scented drapes to watch his children as they sat with the neighbor across the street.
Old Mrs. Lane looked like she always did as she stood there holding Sammy, wearing the same housecoat with hair dyed-black and teased into the shape of a football helmet. If it hadn't been for the thick blanket the baby was wrapped in, John would be afraid she'd slice him open with her long nails, which were always kept perfectly polished to match the pale pink of her favorite housecoat.
Mary had always kept the woman at a polite distance. She didn't like her prying questions or the fact that she seemed to know everything about everyone on the street and made a habit of spreading other people's problems around under a guise of concern. Mary was convinced the woman spent much of her time in an upstairs window with a pair of binoculars.
John had never given much thought to the theory until the lady appeared almost the moment he pulled up in front of the house. He'd been attempting to reason with Dean and she had startled him. Automatically, he blurted out a four letter word and she took a couple of steps back in shock. She didn't retreat though, probably because her curiosity was far from satisfied. The woman reminded him of a dog that had spotted a juicy steak. Within two hours, everyone on the block would know how “worried” she was about poor John Winchester and the two little boys he was trying to drag inside the house where there mother had died.
Despite her nosiness, John realized he should be grateful she had appeared and suggested she look after the boys while he did whatever he needed to do inside the house. He knew he'd insulted her by deliberately evading her questions about why he was there and then insisting they remain outside and go no further than her front porch (another juicy tidbit for the gossip mill).
John was well aware of how it looked. If he was in his right mind, he wouldn't have brought the boys back here… especially not Dean. But he couldn't let them out of his sight. The idea terrified him more than any remaining shred of common sense or pang of conscience he may have. Besides, a small sleep-deprived part of him had half-believed this was all a nightmare and Mary would be waiting inside for them.
It was, no doubt, what Dean had believed. In the handful of days since the fire, he rarely spoke and, when he did, it was always the same five words: “I want to go home.” What had started out as a pitiful plea had quickly become a demand. But once the child spotted the nursery window with its covering of plastic and the soot that stained the side of the house, he'd become just as determined not to go inside.
Looking far too much like his mother, he'd clenched his jaw and shook his head silently. John had nearly lost his patience and hated himself for it. His kid's last hope had just been shattered, and part of him wanted to shake him and remind him that this was what he wanted, to yell at him and tell him to be reasonable. John had to go inside and he couldn't take his eyes off his boys to do it. Dean would just have to accept it. They were both going to have to accept a lot of things they didn't like. This was war and you did what you had to do. Nobody liked it. That's just the way it was.
Of course, he reminded himself for the millionth time, this wasn't war. This was suburban Kansas. They were far, far away from any military conflict. He was simply an unstable, paranoid Vietnam Vet now. The ultimate stereotype, a pathetic joke.
Maybe once he allowed himself to sleep this mad obsession of his would fade. Still, a large part of him remained convinced that this was a war. He may not know who he was fighting yet, but that didn't give him the luxury of pretending peace still existed in this little corner of the world. He had to follow his gut instinct, no matter how irrational it may seem. It had kept him alive during another war and it was the only thing left that he had faith in.
That was why he came back here, to this house, when it was the last place he ever wanted to see again. Upstairs, buried in his nightstand, was his best weapon. The only item of his absent father's he still possessed. And now he finally knew why he'd kept it all these years. That blank journal held his battle plans. It had to. And if it didn't, it was his ticket to insanity. One way or another it was the answer.
He eased back carefully from the window, hoping to keep his 'spying' a secret, and forced himself to mount the stairs. His stride was quick and efficient. His children would only be out of his sight long enough for him to retrieve the journal. There was time for nothing else.
As he moved through the house, he kept his mind carefully blank to anything that wasn't part of his goal.
He ignored the toy cars still strewn about the floor. He ignored the charred hallway, the melted light switches, the wooden floors ruined by water from the firemen's hose, and the smells his mind refused to identify.
When he spotted the half empty glass of water and the novel on Mary's nightstand, he nearly broke his concentration. The fact that both would be forever unfinished was irrefutable evidence of his wife's passing, even more so than the lingering evidence of the fire.
Yet, he did what he had to do, focusing on his goal with the discipline of a soldier. He had been reassigned and knew from experience that there was no arguing with an order. You do what you're told or people die. Only this time the loss of his fellow soldiers would be more than he could bear.
As his hand clasped the undamaged journal, buried deep inside the drawer of the nightstand - underneath car magazines and other remnants of his past life - he knew with a sickening certainty that this would not be the last time he would attempt to drag his boys into a burnt out building. But, next time, there would be no reprieve.
Not for any of them.
Author: lolaann1
Recipient: ficwriter1966
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: ~1300
Summary: Based on the prompt - John not only kept Henry's journal all those years, he would have had to retrieve it from a burned-out house. Did he deliberately go back to find it, or did he stumble on it by accident? (And it obviously wasn't damaged in the fire. Is that because it was tucked somewhere safe, or is it... magical?)
Reassignment
The gap in the living room drapes provided a view of the small porch across the street.
Sitting on the porch steps wearing an oversized jacket over a stained t-shirt, his oldest resembled the traumatized refugee children so common in Vietnam more than a healthy, precocious all-American boy.
Formerly precocious, anyway.
When was the last time Dean had had a bath? Surely it wasn't before. It couldn't have been.
John knew he'd been fed since that night. The evidence was all over Dean's shirt. A shirt he'd dug out of a bag of used clothing delivered to their motel room by a Red Cross volunteer. He remembered the volunteer's name was also John. He'd been tall and mostly bald. A retired banker who had moved to Lawrence from Wichita to be closer to his oldest daughter and her children.
Remembering a useless detail like that and then forgetting to bathe his own grubby child had to be proof he was losing it. And now he stood like some peeping tom in his own damn house, hiding behind the smoke-scented drapes to watch his children as they sat with the neighbor across the street.
Old Mrs. Lane looked like she always did as she stood there holding Sammy, wearing the same housecoat with hair dyed-black and teased into the shape of a football helmet. If it hadn't been for the thick blanket the baby was wrapped in, John would be afraid she'd slice him open with her long nails, which were always kept perfectly polished to match the pale pink of her favorite housecoat.
Mary had always kept the woman at a polite distance. She didn't like her prying questions or the fact that she seemed to know everything about everyone on the street and made a habit of spreading other people's problems around under a guise of concern. Mary was convinced the woman spent much of her time in an upstairs window with a pair of binoculars.
John had never given much thought to the theory until the lady appeared almost the moment he pulled up in front of the house. He'd been attempting to reason with Dean and she had startled him. Automatically, he blurted out a four letter word and she took a couple of steps back in shock. She didn't retreat though, probably because her curiosity was far from satisfied. The woman reminded him of a dog that had spotted a juicy steak. Within two hours, everyone on the block would know how “worried” she was about poor John Winchester and the two little boys he was trying to drag inside the house where there mother had died.
Despite her nosiness, John realized he should be grateful she had appeared and suggested she look after the boys while he did whatever he needed to do inside the house. He knew he'd insulted her by deliberately evading her questions about why he was there and then insisting they remain outside and go no further than her front porch (another juicy tidbit for the gossip mill).
John was well aware of how it looked. If he was in his right mind, he wouldn't have brought the boys back here… especially not Dean. But he couldn't let them out of his sight. The idea terrified him more than any remaining shred of common sense or pang of conscience he may have. Besides, a small sleep-deprived part of him had half-believed this was all a nightmare and Mary would be waiting inside for them.
It was, no doubt, what Dean had believed. In the handful of days since the fire, he rarely spoke and, when he did, it was always the same five words: “I want to go home.” What had started out as a pitiful plea had quickly become a demand. But once the child spotted the nursery window with its covering of plastic and the soot that stained the side of the house, he'd become just as determined not to go inside.
Looking far too much like his mother, he'd clenched his jaw and shook his head silently. John had nearly lost his patience and hated himself for it. His kid's last hope had just been shattered, and part of him wanted to shake him and remind him that this was what he wanted, to yell at him and tell him to be reasonable. John had to go inside and he couldn't take his eyes off his boys to do it. Dean would just have to accept it. They were both going to have to accept a lot of things they didn't like. This was war and you did what you had to do. Nobody liked it. That's just the way it was.
Of course, he reminded himself for the millionth time, this wasn't war. This was suburban Kansas. They were far, far away from any military conflict. He was simply an unstable, paranoid Vietnam Vet now. The ultimate stereotype, a pathetic joke.
Maybe once he allowed himself to sleep this mad obsession of his would fade. Still, a large part of him remained convinced that this was a war. He may not know who he was fighting yet, but that didn't give him the luxury of pretending peace still existed in this little corner of the world. He had to follow his gut instinct, no matter how irrational it may seem. It had kept him alive during another war and it was the only thing left that he had faith in.
That was why he came back here, to this house, when it was the last place he ever wanted to see again. Upstairs, buried in his nightstand, was his best weapon. The only item of his absent father's he still possessed. And now he finally knew why he'd kept it all these years. That blank journal held his battle plans. It had to. And if it didn't, it was his ticket to insanity. One way or another it was the answer.
He eased back carefully from the window, hoping to keep his 'spying' a secret, and forced himself to mount the stairs. His stride was quick and efficient. His children would only be out of his sight long enough for him to retrieve the journal. There was time for nothing else.
As he moved through the house, he kept his mind carefully blank to anything that wasn't part of his goal.
He ignored the toy cars still strewn about the floor. He ignored the charred hallway, the melted light switches, the wooden floors ruined by water from the firemen's hose, and the smells his mind refused to identify.
When he spotted the half empty glass of water and the novel on Mary's nightstand, he nearly broke his concentration. The fact that both would be forever unfinished was irrefutable evidence of his wife's passing, even more so than the lingering evidence of the fire.
Yet, he did what he had to do, focusing on his goal with the discipline of a soldier. He had been reassigned and knew from experience that there was no arguing with an order. You do what you're told or people die. Only this time the loss of his fellow soldiers would be more than he could bear.
As his hand clasped the undamaged journal, buried deep inside the drawer of the nightstand - underneath car magazines and other remnants of his past life - he knew with a sickening certainty that this would not be the last time he would attempt to drag his boys into a burnt out building. But, next time, there would be no reprieve.
Not for any of them.