SPN: "Through the Fire and Flames," Chapter 2
Since borgmama1of5 gave me such a lovely ego boost this morning, I decided not to wait till Sunday. :)
Chapter 1
Dad had already made the nightly rounds, so Rissa, thinking to savor the treat of a Saturday night when she didn't have to get up early the next morning, had pulled out one of the books Aunt Kim had loaned her on the sly and was reading it when there was a knock. "Hey, baby girl," Mom said, poking her head in. "All packed? Mosquito spray?"
She managed not to groan. "Mom."
"Yeah, your dad said you wouldn't see the humor in that," Mom said, misunderstanding. "Got all your threads and needles organized, then?" She slipped in, closing the door behind her, and came over and sat down on edge of the bed. Rissa slid over an inch or so to make sure she had room. "It's not too late. You can still go with us." Mom grinned. "I think we still have a couple of inches on top of the van. I swear, your dad and his insistence on being prepared for everything, like we're going to need four fire extinguishers and three cans of salt, and do not get me started on his plans for Anasazi glyphs around the campsite."
"No thanks." Rissa hesitated, then asked, "Mom, does it have to be him?"
"Sweetheart-" Mom sighed, and pushed her hair behind one ear. "I know you'd rather stay with Hannah, but Sam's going to be over there just as much as he is here, and Hannah's got a new job to straighten out."
"She works for Grandpa."
"Just because she's related to him doesn't mean he can't be a mean boss. Trust me on that one."
Rissa wasn't young enough to believe that. Everybody knew Grandpa spent more time on the golf course than in his office. "Uh-huh."
"It's a new position. She has to create the whole thing from scratch, and it all needs to be done before the wedding. She has a better chance of doing that while Grandpa's not breathing down her neck."
"I guess."
"Just give him a chance, okay? I promise, he's not going to hurt you."
Rissa managed not to roll her eyes. "Mom, you don't like him."
That seemed to catch Mom by surprise. Like it was that hard to figure out. He and Mom spent less time in the same room than she and he did. Mom just got to blame hers on work. "Rissa, hon, it- Sam and I have some bad history, that's all. It's not that I don't like him, he just did some things when your dad and I got married that-that haven't been easy to get past. But he would not be in this house if he was a danger to you-any of you. I wouldn't allow it. Neither would your dad. And I sure as hell wouldn't let my baby sister marry him."
"Why doesn't Dad make him apologize?" She knew her mother. If it were just stupidity, or a clash of personalities, an apology would set it right. At least on Mom's end.
Mom sighed. "When we have a couple of months free, my little phoenix, I will attempt to explain to you the tangled, twisted mess that is the relationship between your father and uncle. But the short story is that of all the kids your dad's raised, he's great with you guys, but he has never been able to discipline Sam, and that came out with a completely different mental image than I expected." Rissa just looked blankly at her. "In a few years, you'll remember this conversation and wince, baby girl."
"Dad raised him?"
"They had a-rough childhood. Nothing like mine. Nothing like yours, even. They- It was a complicated situation, but pretty much it was just them. That led to-weirdness."
Weirdness? "Is that why nobody talks about our grandparents on his side?" They were dead, she knew that much, they'd died before Dad ever met Mom-but she also knew, if their parents didn't, that Maggie pulled new arrivals aside and told them flat-out not to ask about Dad's family. Dad made sure the kids remembered their birth families, but he never, ever mentioned his, beyond...him.
"That's exactly why, smart girl. Of course, you could ask your uncle-" Rissa made a face, and Mom chuckled, but then was serious again. "Are you really that scared of him, sweetheart?" Rissa nodded, and Mom thought a moment, nibbling at her lower lip. "Tell you what. Just for this, because we won't be here and everybody's out of town, I'll issue a general exception. If Sam does anything that is remotely threatening, you can lock your door against him. But you call Hannah immediately, no matter what time it is, and you let her handle it. How's that sound?"
"Dad won't let-"
"This is only if you get scared of Sam. Not for nightmares. And not just because. I expect you to be as civil as you would be with any other adult, okay?"
It wasn't much, but it was more than she had hoped for. Not that a lock would stop him. "Okay."
"Now, put up that b- Spangle? Who let you have that?"
Dammit. She should have shoved it under the covers as soon as Mom came in. "Aunt Kim."
"Remind me to smack the sh- Um, remind me to smack her when she comes back from Michigan. You are way too young to be reading Gary Jennings."
"Dad said-"
"Your dad hasn't read it." She sighed. "Where's the others?"
"Others?" Rissa asked innocently.
"Aztec, The Journeyer, and Raptor. I know your aunt's collection, Rissa. I had to go through this with her and Maggie."
Rissa sighed. She'd been hoping to have them to read while everybody was gone. She had to do something when her hands started cramping up from the stitching. "Desk. Bottom drawer."
"Oh, playing the sneak, are we?"
"Aunt Kim said I had to."
Mom muttered something that she was definitely not supposed to say in front of kids. "Why she insists on doing this to me- I'll let you finish that one, but only because I know how much of a pain it is to stop a book halfway through. And I am going to kill that woman. C'mon, now, bedtime." She took the book out of Rissa's hands, ending any argument, and set it on the nightstand.
"Can't I stay up late?"
"Consider it your punishment for going along with Aunt Kim's scheming," Mom said dryly. "Besides, you've got to get up early to wave goodbye to everybody. You can nap if you need it."
"Oh, ick," Rissa grumbled. She hated naps.
Mom just laughed and tucked her in and gave her a kiss. "Well, nap, knit a scarf, whatever makes you feel rested. Sleep well, little phoenix. Love you."
"Love you too."
Mom got the rest of Aunt Kim's books out of the desk, but stopped at the door, one hand on the light switch. "You know, sweetie, some day you're going to have to let us know why you're scared of him."
The words were gentle, not condemning at all, and Mom turned the lights off and closed the door right after she said them, but it wasn't enough to stop the surge of sheer terror that swamped Rissa. The room contracted around her, the air went hot and thick with remembered smoke, and she felt her lungs fighting to breathe. Pain danced up the scars on her arm and leg, stabbed into her bad eye. Fire flickered around her.
No, she thought desperately, trying to hold onto reality by sheer stubbornness and the tips of her mental fingers. Her meds were in the drawer, within easy reach, but she hated them, hated the way they slowed everything down. If she could just-
Her lungs finally expanded, and the world went properly dark and cool again, allowing her eyes to adjust and see the familiar confines of her room, rather than a tangle of remembered debris.
This time, she'd won. Her arm ached from the spasming of the damaged muscles, and it would probably hurt all day tomorrow, but she could handle that. She'd stay up here and rest, like Mom said. There was no reason she should have to interact with him before Monday, unless he tried to force the issue, and he hadn't tried force so far.
But tomorrow, there wouldn't be anybody to stop him.
Rissa reached for Beowulf and clutched him tight. Usually, the octopus ruled her room from a perch on the headboard. She didn't usually need to cling to him, not any more, not even after attacks. Especially not at night.
The darkness was safe. Darkness was always safe. Nothing could sneak up on her in the dark. And Mom and Dad let her have that safety without questioning it. Not like some of the families she'd been with.
But they didn't understand. They couldn't see.
Fire was dangerous. Fire had always been the danger. Fire had taken everything from her, over and over again.
And fire surrounded him.
***
Marcy had carted everybody who was so inclined to the Saturday vigil Mass so that they could leave early on Sunday morning, and after an amount of chaos that was staggering even for this house-complete with an accidental black eye and possible sprained finger after Kara collided with Mikey, and Sam hoped this much-ballyhooed campground had a decent medical clinic-they were gone, leaving the house actually quiet for the first time since Sam had moved in. He hadn't realized how much noise the brats generated just by being awake, not to mention the noise once they got going.
Rissa retreated to her room as soon as her parents and siblings were gone, without a word. Sam suspected that was going to be the norm during this little vacation.
But she was twelve. Maybe even thirteen; he'd have to check his calendar to be sure. Unlike the Trio, she didn't need somebody to entertain her 24/7. He was just here to make sure she got fed, got to camp and back, and didn't get in trouble. Hell, when he was twelve? He would have killed for this kind of break from Dad and Dean.
Sam sighed, and went back into his room. Somewhere in here, there was a bed, not that you could see it for the damn boxes.
Moving in with Hannah was not supposed to be this kind of production. He didn't own that much, after all, and most of it fit in the Impala with plenty of room left over for Maggie, Kevin, and Johnny. He'd acquired some extra things in the past six months-his own television, since there hadn't been one in here, some linens, and extra pillows so that when Ananda stole his he still had one-but he didn't even have enough stuff to fill one side of his closet. Packing should have taken a couple of hours, at most, and that only if he stopped for lunch or the Terrible Trio decided to "help."
Then, two weeks ago, UPS had dropped off seventeen massive packing boxes stuffed to the brim with assorted junk, all neatly addressed to him, from Lisa.
He'd called immediately. She'd been thinking about moving back to California since before they split, and had finally gotten a job that let her. "It's the shit you left," she told him.
As if Sam had ever owned seventeen boxes of stuff, even at Stanford, even before the fire.
No, the boxes were full of shit left behind from other boyfriends and-if the smell of mothballs and denture cream meant anything-things she'd cleaned out of her grandmother's house. The only thing Sam had found that could even remotely be considered "his" was a gris-gris left over from when he warded the house. Most of this crap-and it was crap-was from the piles of "to be donated" stuff that she'd never gotten around to carting off. He was the one who'd been doing that, a box at a time on the weekends, trying to clean out the spare room so he could have a home office, which was the only reason he could think of for her to associate any of this with him.
He would've sent it straight back to her, except she had-very wisely-not given him her forwarding address, and UPS wouldn't accept a "return to sender" on a shipment this size. She'd also made a point of telling him there were already new people living in her house. She knew he wouldn't inflict this junk on unsuspecting strangers. And she knew he wouldn't just toss any of this stuff, either, that he'd insist on going through and sorting out recyclables and possible valuables that might have accidentally gotten left in there.
Not that he was going to let her know if he did. Pawn it, maybe. He should get something for his trouble.
Still, it left him with a room that was rapidly starting to smell like a decaying nursing home, no room to get anywhere except from his bed to the bathroom and hardly room to get out-the door to the garage was blocked by a stack three high-and three eager little helpers who had damned near gotten way more of an education than anybody wanted when it turned out that the box of antique toys they were gleefully ripping apart also held a stash of horrifically bad porn, courtesy of Gabe, three boyfriends before Sam.
Hannah thought it was hilarious. The traitor.
Sam was going to have a bonfire to make sure none of that stuff came back to haunt him. He was kind of insulted that Lisa thought that was his. Even Dean had higher standards than Gabe.
And just in case there was more porn-or worse-in this mess, he really needed to get it done before the Reynolds-Winchester Roadshow returned.
He worked for a couple of hours, until his stomach started protesting, then went to find lunch. By the looks of what had been an unopened loaf of bread, Rissa had slipped down and made lunch for herself already. He hadn't expected to be notified, but he was surprised that he hadn't heard her. Maybe it was possible for one of Dean's kids to do things quietly after all.
Sam fixed himself a sandwich, then decided to indulge himself: a beer and an R-rated movie on the big TV in the living room while it was still daylight, with the added bonus of getting to sprawl all over the couch without anybody climbing on him or protesting that he was taking up too much space. It wasn't pure laziness, though; he had the paperwork Dean and Marcy had left to go through, to make sure he had the right directions to campus and things for camp registration in the morning, plus Rissa's file. He'd glanced over it briefly when Dean had first handed it over, but then everybody had gotten caught up in the madness of the end of the school year and trip planning and the boxes had arrived, and the file had been left on his nightstand gathering dust.
It was uncomfortable reading. Unlike Hannah, who attracted any poltergeist that floated by, Rissa had been the favored target of a single, very determined poltergeist, and a rare fire poltergeist at that. There was more fire in her history than there was in his. It had killed her parents when she was two, burned her out of half a dozen foster homes before she was seven, and at seven, one of those fires had seared the right side of her body, leaving her heavily scarred and blind in that eye.
That was when Bill had brought in Dean and Marcy. By that point, it hadn't been just about getting rid of the poltergeist; it had been about saving a little girl, not just from the supernatural, but from what appeared to be a death wish. She'd gotten hurt when she ran back into the burning house.
There was a giant lavender Post-It on that page, with block printing he recognized as Dean's: THOUGHT SOMEBODY WAS LEFT.
Good God. She'd gone back in because she thought somebody had been left inside. That-
That was something Dean would do.
But at seven? Even Dean wouldn't-
The hell he wouldn't. He never did have any sense when he thought Dad or I was in trouble.
Sam hadn't known any of this before now. Dean had undoubtedly mentioned it, and Sam had filed away "burned" somewhere in his mind, at least enough that he hadn't been terribly shocked at seeing Rissa's scars, but ever since they started taking in kids, even on his best days, Sam had tended to zone out when Dean started talking about them, and if he was estimating the timeline right, those had not been his best days. The scheduling at work and home for those first couple of years of Rissa's stay had been abysmal-two moves, a job change, dealing with Renee-so Sam's visits had been rushed at best. Rissa's penchant for hiding meant he didn't remember meeting her, not at Christmas, not when he came down to help after Dean damn near killed himself in that wreck, not even at her adoption party. Had he even gotten down here for that? He didn't remember. He usually did, but it had been so crazy....
He stopped and checked the kiddie cheat sheet he kept on his phone. The only things he had for Rissa were her birthday and three store names-Michael's, AC Moore, and a website called ABCstitch. The list was even updated through this past Christmas. Apparently, he'd never bought her an actual present, just gift cards. Clearly the right gift cards, or he would've heard about it from Dean, but no presents at all, and that was just weird. She'd been what, eight when she got out of the hospital and came to live here? Surely she hadn't been so into yarn and thread then. She must have wanted books or toys or-or something. A lot of kids arrived here too old for their age, but that quickly got countered by Dean's perpetual inner child. Was Rissa just more resistant? Had she just been through too much to regress that far?
Or was it something else entirely, like being an introvert in an asylum of extroverts? Rissa faded into the background-probably intentionally, given the scarring. Considering the way Dean and Marcy tended to cure shyness, Sam hated to think what Rissa had been like when she first got here. He wondered how she handled her cousins, or the kids at school. Would Hannah know? Hannah hadn't been here, either, but at some point, she and Rissa had apparently bonded. Maybe Hannah had just been smart enough to visit at times other than Christmas.
Nothing in the file, though, explained why she froze in terror at the sight of him, why she'd stared at him like he was the monster from her worst nightmare, why she wouldn't even call him by name. If there had been mistreatment in any of her previous foster homes, it hadn't been bad enough to get noticed or reported. The only reason she'd been taken out of any of them was because her foster parents couldn't keep any kids after the house burned down.
The movie ended, and Sam closed the folder. No answers. Not that he'd really expected any, but.... He'd hoped. Hostility, he could handle, but fear? How was he supposed to handle a little girl who was so blatantly terrified of him?
Dean was right. He wasn't licensed for this.
***
The woman handling the R-Z table at registration must have met Rissa before, because she didn't react at all to Rissa's scars or bad eye. Sam had learned a few things about how people reacted to facial scars since he acquired his, and nobody took it that well the first time around.
"Rissa Winchester-here you are." The woman handed Rissa a nametag and a folder. "Your schedule's in there. Now go make some friends." She waited until Rissa had gotten out of hearing, then said, in a much sharper voice, "You're not Mr. Winchester."
Oh, yeah. She had definitely met them. "Actually, I am. I'm Sam. Dean's brother." He handed her the paperwork Dean had given him-legalese that Ally had drawn up so that the camp wouldn't bitch about dealing with him if anything happened. He had several copies in case he had to take Rissa to the hospital or a doctor. "Dean and Marcy are out of town for the next couple of weeks, so I'm looking after Rissa until they get back."
She gave him a skeptical look, and he was pretty sure she read everything on that paper, down to the fine print. "Here, then. Give us your contact information." She shoved a clipboard at him so he could scrawl his numbers. "Will they be back before the end of camp?"
"I think so," he said. Truth was, he wasn't sure; the dates for both trip and camp were on the big family calendar on the wall outside the playrooms, but he hadn't paid much attention to anything but the start dates. It wasn't like he'd be able to miss their return. No group of people that noisy could sneak.
She gave him another frosty look, and handed him a thick folder of information. "Well, I hope so. It would be awful if her parents missed the showcase."
Showcase? Sam opened his mouth to ask, but another kid pushed up beside him to register, and the lady turned her attention to her, so he tucked it away to ask about later and turned away, looking for his niece.
Rissa was in a knot of other kids-girls mostly, and one boy on crutches who had a backpack trailing what looked like a half-finished scarf. By the way she was talking to them, animated and smiling like he'd never seen, she knew them. Dean had said something about other friends going to the first session, so maybe those were the friends in question. She wasn't as careful about keeping her hair over the burned side of her face with them.
At least she had friends. He'd been afraid that she didn't. Kids were mean about differences. He'd caught hell for his thrift store wardrobe, especially once he started growing out of it every six weeks; he didn't want to think what that kind of brat would do to a kid as scarred as Rissa. She might have it a little easier, not being a nomad and perpetual new kid, but undoubtedly a few classmates remembered that she'd been a foster kid, and that carried its own kind of stigma. So might being adopted. He remembered getting a pretty good amount of hell for not having a mother. He'd only been in school the week before Mother's Day once, and after that, he'd never complained when Dad dragged them out of school a month early, even if it did mean missing the chance at birthday-kid perks.
With one of the other kids, he would have waited, would have caught her eye and given her a little wave to let her know he was leaving. Rissa, though.... She not only wouldn't care, he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't already put him out of her mind for the day.
A gaggle of older kids walked by Rissa and her friends-and two of them stopped and stared at Rissa. One opened her mouth to say something, but the kid on crutches snapped something that sounded rude, and the two older kids quickly chased after their friends.
Why did people always act like there was something shameful about scars? It had never made any sense to him, even before he'd acquired one that couldn't be hidden. Nobody got through life without a few scars, after all-
Was that it? Was it his scar that spooked her? It had faded over the years, but it was still obvious-it always would be, though at least it wasn't purple anymore, and Sam had reached a point where he hardly even noticed it in the mirror. It shouldn't be the problem, since scars were nothing in the Winchester house. Dean not only had the scars he'd picked up while hunting, but his legs were now criss-crossed with scars from various surgeries to repair broken bones. Marcy had her own collection of surgical scars, Maggie had vampire bites on her neck, Kara had stabbed herself in the leg playing psychic-fetch with a butcher knife before she was old enough to know better. And that wasn't even counting the normal scars, like the accidental brands Johnny and Kevin had from an ill-conceived science experiment or the permanent dark marks on Mikey's arm from upholstery-burn in the car crash that had killed his birth parents.
But if there was one thing Sam had learned over the last decade, it was that even the most accepting people looked twice at facial scars, like they were some kind of indication of a spiritual defect. The thin line across his face was nowhere near as bad as Rissa's burns, but it was still something that should have been a bond between them, the way the poltergeists were between Rissa and Hannah. If anybody else could understand what it was like....
Maybe it reminded her of something? Somebody in her pre-Winchester life? Or she associated it with something terrible? If that were the case....
Sam couldn't hide his scar any more than she could hide hers, but if that was the root cause of Rissa's fear, he could work with it. He just had to think on it.
He flipped through the packet as he walked back to the Impala. As usual with the kids' activities, Dean had understated the case. (He'd referred to Johnny and Kevin's state-championship soccer game as "the season finale" and said it was "a couple of towns over," which happened to be a four-hour drive.) This wasn't a camp, per se; this was a high-intensity month-long art course for teens. Not the traditional "high art" of museums, like painting and sculpture, but crafts taken to the artistic level, well beyond what you found in hobby store classes. Rissa was in the fiber arts track (not to be confused with sewing or costuming), and from the looks of this schedule, she'd be learning about everything from embroidery to weaving. The list of planned projects was a page long, the lecture and demonstration schedule took up two, and there were field trips on Saturdays.
They were off on Sundays, though; that meant he'd have to figure out three meals that day. Normally, there would be the family dinner at Third and Anne's place, but with everybody gone, that was off the calendar. He'd have to remember to keep up the milk supply, because what was in the fridge wouldn't last that long. And check the cereal and sandwich supplies. Maybe he could get Rissa into a grocery store to pick out some things. She wouldn't have to talk to him for that, he could just give her a basket-or a cart, maybe, he didn't know if she could handle a basket with that bad arm-let her roam the store for her own goodies, and meet him at the register.
This was a freakin' nightmare.
Welcome to daddyhood, he heard Dean say in the back of his head, see where you'll be in thirteen years?
"Oh, shut up," Sam muttered as he slid behind the wheel.
***
People were funneling from the registration tables towards the auditorium. Rissa lagged back to avoid more stares from strangers, and to keep Sage company. It had been two weeks, and he was still having trouble with his crutches. No wonder his ankle wasn't healed. He was going to wind up having surgery on it yet. "Who was that?" he asked, edging around a massive potted plant.
"Who?"
"The giant who dropped you off, Risible." Sage tried to poke her, but nearly lost his grip on one crutch, got his half-finished Fourth Doctor scarf tangled around the other one, and would have gone down if she hadn't caught him.
"You're a menace, Sagebrush," Rissa scolded, getting him straightened out and upright. "Stand still a minute." She rolled the trailing scarf up and stuffed it into his backpack.
"So? Who is he?"
She sighed. "My father's brother. He lives with us now."
Sage gave her a look. "You sound like my mom talking about her uncle, and he molested her."
"It's nothing like that!"
"Good, 'cause I can take him." That was so ridiculous-Sage was shorter than she was and skinny, not to mention the broken ankle-that she laughed. "Hey!"
"Sorry," she said, but still grinning. Sage could always make her laugh. "You know my dad would kill anybody who even thought about hurting us."
Sage considered. "Is he as scary as your dad?"
"Dad's not scary!"
Sage snorted. "Obviously he's never pulled a knife on you."
"He worries!" Sage just looked at her. "Not to anybody else," she admitted. "Everybody else loves him. Move it, or we're not going to get good seats."
"We don't need good seats. It's a speech, not a movie." He took a hesitant step. "Is it the scar?" he asked. "It's kinda scary-looking. Not like yours."
Rissa could feel the blood rushing to the unmarked side of her face, and she quickly looked down, so her hair fell and hid it. Sage was the only person besides her parents who had never even blinked at her scars. "No. He just-" She hesitated, but Sage knew, and nobody was close enough to hear. "There's fire around him," she whispered.
"Did you tell-"
"No! They can't know!"
Sage stopped, right in the middle of traffic, and gave her the full force of his best glare. "Seriously, Rissa? All the shit you've told me about in your family, and this makes you freeze up? You have no sense at all."
"Oh, go knit a tea cozy."
"It's on the to-do list." She held the door open for him. "You're stuck with him while they're on vacation, aren't you?"
"Yep."
"What about your aunt? The fun one? Isn't she living here now?"
"She's marrying him." Rissa still didn't understand that. Aunt Hannah was all laughter and sunshine, as fiercely protective as Dad, and perfectly safe. Rissa had no idea what she saw in someone as dangerous as him. And adults said teenagers were hard to figure out. "Mom said even if Aunt Hannah had the time, I'd still see him just as much, because they've got a wedding to straighten out by October."
"October? And he just moved in at Christmas?" Sage frowned. "Are you getting a cousin?"
Rissa froze. "Oh, God. You don't think- That- Ew!"
"That's what grown-ups do, you know."
"I know, but- Aunt Hannah? With him?"
Sage's eyes widened. "Damn. I've never heard you screech before."
"Move it before I stab you with one of your own knitting needles."
"Use the plastic ones, please, so that my grandma didn't spend the five bucks needlessly."
She laughed. "You think I can get a plastic knitting needle between your ribs?" Two older kids and an adult jerked around to stare at them as they entered the auditorium.
"Risible, I've met your dad. I think he teaches you guys to stab anyone with anything if necessary." There was no arguing with that, especially since he was right. "Let's just sit here. If I try to get down these steps-"
"You'll break your neck." She claimed two seats on the end of the back row-and then caught him before he managed to whack three people in the head with the crutches. "Maybe I should bring you one of my dad's old chairs."
"Might be easier," Sage admitted, and managed to get himself lowered into the seat, his injured leg sticking out into the aisle. Rissa stashed the crutches in the empty seat on her other side just as Mrs. Stapper stepped up to the podium.
She barely heard any of the welcome speeches, though, her mind caught on something Sage had said.
Was that why Hannah was marrying him? Because of a baby? Had she actually-
Oh, God. I think I'm going to be sick.
***
They quickly fell into a routine.
The camp supplied breakfast, lunch, and an afternoon snack, so at least he didn't have to worry about feeding anybody first thing in the morning, just making sure they were at campus by 7:30. Sam dropped Rissa off after a painfully silent drive, went back to the house to work on the boxes or nap or run errands, had lunch with Hannah if she didn't have a meeting, spent the afternoon swearing at the boxes some more, and was back at campus to pick Rissa up at six for another silent, awkward drive.
Dinner was the hard part. He couldn't really cook-at least, nothing fit for a growing kid; he somehow doubted Dean and Marcy would appreciate him feeding their daughter canned soup or Chef Boyardee every night, especially considering the sheer amount of money they'd left as a meal fund. Rissa, unlike any other kid her age, wouldn't give him a single suggestion, wouldn't even take advantage of the opportunity to get pizza at every meal. She wouldn't even tell him what she liked on her pizza. If she had, he would've felt a lot more guilty and a lot less pissed at the silent, dramatic removal of the peppers and onions from each slice.
Conversation during meals was out of the question, of course, just like during the drives. The two of them sat at the kitchen table, since it didn't make sense to mess up the dining room for two, eating the night's takeout, and he tried to get a conversation going and she just ate and cleared her plate and vanished into her room, presumably to work on her "homework"-some of those projects were apparently take-home. He'd hear one of the upstairs showers running later, and when he went to bed in his borrowed bedroom across the hall from hers (he'd agreed to sleep upstairs just in case she had one of her nightmares, because he wouldn't hear it downstairs, and besides, it didn't smell like mothballs), there would be no lights under her door.
And so it went, every day, like clockwork, until Saturday evening.
They were back to pizza again-plain pepperoni this time, he'd learned his lesson-but Rissa didn't immediately disappear after dumping her paper plate into the recycling bin. She stood near the door for a few minutes, looking uneasy. "Something wrong?" Sam finally asked.
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
"Yes, it is." Why was she-
"Are you supposed to take me to Mass?"
Mass? That hadn't even occurred to him. Dean hadn't mentioned it, of course, because Dean just didn't think about that kind of thing, and Marcy- Well. "I can, if you want," he said finally.
Sam should have thought of this earlier, but not all the kids were Catholic. Johnny and Maggie were-Johnny's early placements had been with Catholic families because he was Vietnamese and that was as close to a same-culture placement as the system had been able to manage, and Maggie had chosen to convert after they adopted her-but Kevin had even more contempt for religion than Dean, and Mikey only seemed to go to Mass when he felt like it. Kara and Ananda had both been baptized as part of their adoptions, but they were also a lot younger than Dean and Marcy usually adopted. As for the fosters, the local demographics meant that most of them were Protestant, and the things they'd been through meant that a lot of them, especially the older ones, were as skeptical about religion as Dean.
"Would you like to ask Hannah instead?" he asked, and tried very hard not to be hurt at the sheer relief in her good eye. "If she's not going, I'll take you." Hannah didn't go every Sunday, despite the obligation, but for Rissa, she might, if she didn't have other plans. Sam- Well, unlike Dean, he had no particular objections to sitting in a church for an hour or so. If Rissa was a believer-and it seemed she was-this came under the heading of "taking care of her." It wasn't like she could drive herself, and even if she knew somebody else she could call for a ride, Dean would kill him if Sam let her go off with them.
She went off, probably to use the landline in the hall upstairs; Dean and Marcy were kind of strict about the kids using cell phones at home, and Rissa wasn't one for flouting the rules. He sat there, picking at his pizza, for ten minutes, until his cell rang. Hannah, exactly when he'd expected.
"Sam, Rissa just called me-"
"About Mass tomorrow, I know. You going?"
"I told her I'd take her. You're not?"
He hesitated. "I will if I have to, but I think it might be better if she had a different chauffeur for one day, at least."
"Still not going well?"
"She hasn't come out and told me she hates my guts, so that's something. I thought maybe you two could go out to lunch or a late breakfast. A little treat for her while the family's gone."
"And maybe over pancakes I can kinda sorta figure out what the hell bugs her so much about you?" Hannah asked dryly.
He did not breathe a sigh of relief. "You said it, I didn't."
"Don't hold your breath, Sam, but- I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
***
What did I ever see in this woman? Sam thought, tossing another magazine towards the recycle box, using a spark of telekinesis to make sure it landed inside and didn't fall out.
Box #13 was proving to be mainly magazines. No wonder the poor UPS guy had had trouble lifting it. Lisa must have hired people for every other move. Anybody who'd ever had to do their own lifting would know better than to pack a box this size with reading material.
He reached in for another stack of magazines. Renee she wasn't, but Sam was feeling much better about his breakup with Lisa, and not just because it had led, no matter how indirectly, to him meeting Hannah. Re-meeting. Whatever.
"Our kid's not going to be a teenager, right?"
Sam glanced up. Hannah was standing in the doorway, looking exhausted. "Well, she won't be at first," he finally said, not really sure how to take that question. "I don't think we can stop it from happening eventually, though."
She threaded her way into his room, wrinkling her nose. "You know, Sam, I try not to judge, but your last girlfriend smells like a little old lady."
"It's not her stuff, it's the stuff she got out of her grandmother's house- Hey! You're wrecking my system!"
Hannah shot him a sour look. "Sam, just trash all this crap already." She shoved a stack of fishing magazines (Doug, somewhere between him and Gabe) off Sam's pillow so she could recline on it. "Even if some of this stuff is valuable, trust me, it's not the six years of Bassmasters."
"I'm trying to make sure she didn't stick somebody's birth certificate or passport or the deed to the Louisiana Purchase in here with them," he said. "I had to rent a PO box to keep her from misplacing my bills. I don't want to donate or trash these things and find out I've aided in identity theft."
"You are way too nice, Sam."
"So I keep hearing."
"One of us should be, I guess. What do you want me to do?" He raised an eyebrow. "What? The quicker you get through this, the quicker you move, the quicker I'm the only girl you find in bed with you in the morning."
He chuckled. "Work on the fishing stuff, if you want. Look out for fishhooks."
"Are you-" He held up a bandaged finger. "Jesus. There was something wrong with that woman."
"I hear that a lot about the women I date."
"Mm- Hey!" He ducked the pillow she threw at him, laughing, but she settled back down to flip through the fishing magazines.
"So, why are we wishing perpetual childhood on our offspring before she's even old enough for a sonogram?" he asked. Fishing, gardening, more fishing, hunting, crocheting- "Does Rissa like crochet?"
"If it involves needles and threads, she's into it."
"It's not really a needle, and it's yarn-"
"Yarn is just a kind of thread. Crochet's the one with just the one needle, right?"
"Why are you asking me?" He flipped through the magazine, found a picture. "Um, it looks like this."
She squinted at it. "Yeah, I think that's crochet. Knitting has two and they're pointy, I remember that much. Are you going to try turning crochet magazines into a peace offering?"
"No. I just thought she might be interested."
"Sam, you can't buy-"
"I'm not trying to, honestly! I just don't know anybody else who'd want this kind of stuff! What am I going to do, give them to Dean for Christmas?"
Hannah snorted. "I'd pay money to see that." She leaned back against the headboard, flipping through another issue. "I think she's more into knitting, but you could offer." She sighed. "I didn't get anywhere, by the way. Every time I brought it up, she clammed up. You know, the way teenagers get when they think something's obvious and the grown-ups are being intentionally dense. I'd really like to avoid that with ours."
Sam chose not to make any observations on the likelihood of a peaceful adolescence with a child who had both Reynolds and Winchester DNA. "So this is something we're all supposed to magically know."
"Maybe." Swish went a magazine. "She's scared of you."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I knew that."
"No, I mean she's scared of you. Not because you're a stranger or because you're a giant or because you've got a scar. She's afraid of you because you're you, if that makes any sense. Recycle box?" He pointed, and she dumped a stack of magazines into it. "I'm not really sure if it's can't or won't, but either way, she's not articulating why she's scared of you. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was scared to tell me why she's scared of you."
"Would she be?"
"She shouldn't. She knows she can tell me anything. And if she can't tell me, she can tell Dean and Marcy." Another magazine went flying. "Is there anything in here besides fishing, hunting, and knitting?"
"The porn's already been tossed." He glanced up in time to see a decidedly unhappy expression cross his fiancée's face, and he smiled. "Feel free to open up a box and start spelunking."
She eyed #14, #5, and #8, which were the three blocking the door to the garage. "Are they all magazines?"
"Most of them haven't been. A few here or there, but not as solidly packed. The porn was in with Lisa's sister's Strawberry Shortcake collection."
"I begin to see why this relationship didn't work out." Hannah unfolded herself and went to examine the stack. "Hey, I can lift this one."
"Lucky you. There's a box cutter on the nightstand."
Hannah lugged the box over to the bed and sliced through the packing tape. Lisa had gotten a little tape-happy, undoubtedly to lessen the risk that any of the boxes would get sent back to her. "Oooh."
Sam winced. That was not a sound you wanted to hear out of a Reynolds.
Chapter 3
Chapter 1
Dad had already made the nightly rounds, so Rissa, thinking to savor the treat of a Saturday night when she didn't have to get up early the next morning, had pulled out one of the books Aunt Kim had loaned her on the sly and was reading it when there was a knock. "Hey, baby girl," Mom said, poking her head in. "All packed? Mosquito spray?"
She managed not to groan. "Mom."
"Yeah, your dad said you wouldn't see the humor in that," Mom said, misunderstanding. "Got all your threads and needles organized, then?" She slipped in, closing the door behind her, and came over and sat down on edge of the bed. Rissa slid over an inch or so to make sure she had room. "It's not too late. You can still go with us." Mom grinned. "I think we still have a couple of inches on top of the van. I swear, your dad and his insistence on being prepared for everything, like we're going to need four fire extinguishers and three cans of salt, and do not get me started on his plans for Anasazi glyphs around the campsite."
"No thanks." Rissa hesitated, then asked, "Mom, does it have to be him?"
"Sweetheart-" Mom sighed, and pushed her hair behind one ear. "I know you'd rather stay with Hannah, but Sam's going to be over there just as much as he is here, and Hannah's got a new job to straighten out."
"She works for Grandpa."
"Just because she's related to him doesn't mean he can't be a mean boss. Trust me on that one."
Rissa wasn't young enough to believe that. Everybody knew Grandpa spent more time on the golf course than in his office. "Uh-huh."
"It's a new position. She has to create the whole thing from scratch, and it all needs to be done before the wedding. She has a better chance of doing that while Grandpa's not breathing down her neck."
"I guess."
"Just give him a chance, okay? I promise, he's not going to hurt you."
Rissa managed not to roll her eyes. "Mom, you don't like him."
That seemed to catch Mom by surprise. Like it was that hard to figure out. He and Mom spent less time in the same room than she and he did. Mom just got to blame hers on work. "Rissa, hon, it- Sam and I have some bad history, that's all. It's not that I don't like him, he just did some things when your dad and I got married that-that haven't been easy to get past. But he would not be in this house if he was a danger to you-any of you. I wouldn't allow it. Neither would your dad. And I sure as hell wouldn't let my baby sister marry him."
"Why doesn't Dad make him apologize?" She knew her mother. If it were just stupidity, or a clash of personalities, an apology would set it right. At least on Mom's end.
Mom sighed. "When we have a couple of months free, my little phoenix, I will attempt to explain to you the tangled, twisted mess that is the relationship between your father and uncle. But the short story is that of all the kids your dad's raised, he's great with you guys, but he has never been able to discipline Sam, and that came out with a completely different mental image than I expected." Rissa just looked blankly at her. "In a few years, you'll remember this conversation and wince, baby girl."
"Dad raised him?"
"They had a-rough childhood. Nothing like mine. Nothing like yours, even. They- It was a complicated situation, but pretty much it was just them. That led to-weirdness."
Weirdness? "Is that why nobody talks about our grandparents on his side?" They were dead, she knew that much, they'd died before Dad ever met Mom-but she also knew, if their parents didn't, that Maggie pulled new arrivals aside and told them flat-out not to ask about Dad's family. Dad made sure the kids remembered their birth families, but he never, ever mentioned his, beyond...him.
"That's exactly why, smart girl. Of course, you could ask your uncle-" Rissa made a face, and Mom chuckled, but then was serious again. "Are you really that scared of him, sweetheart?" Rissa nodded, and Mom thought a moment, nibbling at her lower lip. "Tell you what. Just for this, because we won't be here and everybody's out of town, I'll issue a general exception. If Sam does anything that is remotely threatening, you can lock your door against him. But you call Hannah immediately, no matter what time it is, and you let her handle it. How's that sound?"
"Dad won't let-"
"This is only if you get scared of Sam. Not for nightmares. And not just because. I expect you to be as civil as you would be with any other adult, okay?"
It wasn't much, but it was more than she had hoped for. Not that a lock would stop him. "Okay."
"Now, put up that b- Spangle? Who let you have that?"
Dammit. She should have shoved it under the covers as soon as Mom came in. "Aunt Kim."
"Remind me to smack the sh- Um, remind me to smack her when she comes back from Michigan. You are way too young to be reading Gary Jennings."
"Dad said-"
"Your dad hasn't read it." She sighed. "Where's the others?"
"Others?" Rissa asked innocently.
"Aztec, The Journeyer, and Raptor. I know your aunt's collection, Rissa. I had to go through this with her and Maggie."
Rissa sighed. She'd been hoping to have them to read while everybody was gone. She had to do something when her hands started cramping up from the stitching. "Desk. Bottom drawer."
"Oh, playing the sneak, are we?"
"Aunt Kim said I had to."
Mom muttered something that she was definitely not supposed to say in front of kids. "Why she insists on doing this to me- I'll let you finish that one, but only because I know how much of a pain it is to stop a book halfway through. And I am going to kill that woman. C'mon, now, bedtime." She took the book out of Rissa's hands, ending any argument, and set it on the nightstand.
"Can't I stay up late?"
"Consider it your punishment for going along with Aunt Kim's scheming," Mom said dryly. "Besides, you've got to get up early to wave goodbye to everybody. You can nap if you need it."
"Oh, ick," Rissa grumbled. She hated naps.
Mom just laughed and tucked her in and gave her a kiss. "Well, nap, knit a scarf, whatever makes you feel rested. Sleep well, little phoenix. Love you."
"Love you too."
Mom got the rest of Aunt Kim's books out of the desk, but stopped at the door, one hand on the light switch. "You know, sweetie, some day you're going to have to let us know why you're scared of him."
The words were gentle, not condemning at all, and Mom turned the lights off and closed the door right after she said them, but it wasn't enough to stop the surge of sheer terror that swamped Rissa. The room contracted around her, the air went hot and thick with remembered smoke, and she felt her lungs fighting to breathe. Pain danced up the scars on her arm and leg, stabbed into her bad eye. Fire flickered around her.
No, she thought desperately, trying to hold onto reality by sheer stubbornness and the tips of her mental fingers. Her meds were in the drawer, within easy reach, but she hated them, hated the way they slowed everything down. If she could just-
Her lungs finally expanded, and the world went properly dark and cool again, allowing her eyes to adjust and see the familiar confines of her room, rather than a tangle of remembered debris.
This time, she'd won. Her arm ached from the spasming of the damaged muscles, and it would probably hurt all day tomorrow, but she could handle that. She'd stay up here and rest, like Mom said. There was no reason she should have to interact with him before Monday, unless he tried to force the issue, and he hadn't tried force so far.
But tomorrow, there wouldn't be anybody to stop him.
Rissa reached for Beowulf and clutched him tight. Usually, the octopus ruled her room from a perch on the headboard. She didn't usually need to cling to him, not any more, not even after attacks. Especially not at night.
The darkness was safe. Darkness was always safe. Nothing could sneak up on her in the dark. And Mom and Dad let her have that safety without questioning it. Not like some of the families she'd been with.
But they didn't understand. They couldn't see.
Fire was dangerous. Fire had always been the danger. Fire had taken everything from her, over and over again.
And fire surrounded him.
***
Marcy had carted everybody who was so inclined to the Saturday vigil Mass so that they could leave early on Sunday morning, and after an amount of chaos that was staggering even for this house-complete with an accidental black eye and possible sprained finger after Kara collided with Mikey, and Sam hoped this much-ballyhooed campground had a decent medical clinic-they were gone, leaving the house actually quiet for the first time since Sam had moved in. He hadn't realized how much noise the brats generated just by being awake, not to mention the noise once they got going.
Rissa retreated to her room as soon as her parents and siblings were gone, without a word. Sam suspected that was going to be the norm during this little vacation.
But she was twelve. Maybe even thirteen; he'd have to check his calendar to be sure. Unlike the Trio, she didn't need somebody to entertain her 24/7. He was just here to make sure she got fed, got to camp and back, and didn't get in trouble. Hell, when he was twelve? He would have killed for this kind of break from Dad and Dean.
Sam sighed, and went back into his room. Somewhere in here, there was a bed, not that you could see it for the damn boxes.
Moving in with Hannah was not supposed to be this kind of production. He didn't own that much, after all, and most of it fit in the Impala with plenty of room left over for Maggie, Kevin, and Johnny. He'd acquired some extra things in the past six months-his own television, since there hadn't been one in here, some linens, and extra pillows so that when Ananda stole his he still had one-but he didn't even have enough stuff to fill one side of his closet. Packing should have taken a couple of hours, at most, and that only if he stopped for lunch or the Terrible Trio decided to "help."
Then, two weeks ago, UPS had dropped off seventeen massive packing boxes stuffed to the brim with assorted junk, all neatly addressed to him, from Lisa.
He'd called immediately. She'd been thinking about moving back to California since before they split, and had finally gotten a job that let her. "It's the shit you left," she told him.
As if Sam had ever owned seventeen boxes of stuff, even at Stanford, even before the fire.
No, the boxes were full of shit left behind from other boyfriends and-if the smell of mothballs and denture cream meant anything-things she'd cleaned out of her grandmother's house. The only thing Sam had found that could even remotely be considered "his" was a gris-gris left over from when he warded the house. Most of this crap-and it was crap-was from the piles of "to be donated" stuff that she'd never gotten around to carting off. He was the one who'd been doing that, a box at a time on the weekends, trying to clean out the spare room so he could have a home office, which was the only reason he could think of for her to associate any of this with him.
He would've sent it straight back to her, except she had-very wisely-not given him her forwarding address, and UPS wouldn't accept a "return to sender" on a shipment this size. She'd also made a point of telling him there were already new people living in her house. She knew he wouldn't inflict this junk on unsuspecting strangers. And she knew he wouldn't just toss any of this stuff, either, that he'd insist on going through and sorting out recyclables and possible valuables that might have accidentally gotten left in there.
Not that he was going to let her know if he did. Pawn it, maybe. He should get something for his trouble.
Still, it left him with a room that was rapidly starting to smell like a decaying nursing home, no room to get anywhere except from his bed to the bathroom and hardly room to get out-the door to the garage was blocked by a stack three high-and three eager little helpers who had damned near gotten way more of an education than anybody wanted when it turned out that the box of antique toys they were gleefully ripping apart also held a stash of horrifically bad porn, courtesy of Gabe, three boyfriends before Sam.
Hannah thought it was hilarious. The traitor.
Sam was going to have a bonfire to make sure none of that stuff came back to haunt him. He was kind of insulted that Lisa thought that was his. Even Dean had higher standards than Gabe.
And just in case there was more porn-or worse-in this mess, he really needed to get it done before the Reynolds-Winchester Roadshow returned.
He worked for a couple of hours, until his stomach started protesting, then went to find lunch. By the looks of what had been an unopened loaf of bread, Rissa had slipped down and made lunch for herself already. He hadn't expected to be notified, but he was surprised that he hadn't heard her. Maybe it was possible for one of Dean's kids to do things quietly after all.
Sam fixed himself a sandwich, then decided to indulge himself: a beer and an R-rated movie on the big TV in the living room while it was still daylight, with the added bonus of getting to sprawl all over the couch without anybody climbing on him or protesting that he was taking up too much space. It wasn't pure laziness, though; he had the paperwork Dean and Marcy had left to go through, to make sure he had the right directions to campus and things for camp registration in the morning, plus Rissa's file. He'd glanced over it briefly when Dean had first handed it over, but then everybody had gotten caught up in the madness of the end of the school year and trip planning and the boxes had arrived, and the file had been left on his nightstand gathering dust.
It was uncomfortable reading. Unlike Hannah, who attracted any poltergeist that floated by, Rissa had been the favored target of a single, very determined poltergeist, and a rare fire poltergeist at that. There was more fire in her history than there was in his. It had killed her parents when she was two, burned her out of half a dozen foster homes before she was seven, and at seven, one of those fires had seared the right side of her body, leaving her heavily scarred and blind in that eye.
That was when Bill had brought in Dean and Marcy. By that point, it hadn't been just about getting rid of the poltergeist; it had been about saving a little girl, not just from the supernatural, but from what appeared to be a death wish. She'd gotten hurt when she ran back into the burning house.
There was a giant lavender Post-It on that page, with block printing he recognized as Dean's: THOUGHT SOMEBODY WAS LEFT.
Good God. She'd gone back in because she thought somebody had been left inside. That-
That was something Dean would do.
But at seven? Even Dean wouldn't-
The hell he wouldn't. He never did have any sense when he thought Dad or I was in trouble.
Sam hadn't known any of this before now. Dean had undoubtedly mentioned it, and Sam had filed away "burned" somewhere in his mind, at least enough that he hadn't been terribly shocked at seeing Rissa's scars, but ever since they started taking in kids, even on his best days, Sam had tended to zone out when Dean started talking about them, and if he was estimating the timeline right, those had not been his best days. The scheduling at work and home for those first couple of years of Rissa's stay had been abysmal-two moves, a job change, dealing with Renee-so Sam's visits had been rushed at best. Rissa's penchant for hiding meant he didn't remember meeting her, not at Christmas, not when he came down to help after Dean damn near killed himself in that wreck, not even at her adoption party. Had he even gotten down here for that? He didn't remember. He usually did, but it had been so crazy....
He stopped and checked the kiddie cheat sheet he kept on his phone. The only things he had for Rissa were her birthday and three store names-Michael's, AC Moore, and a website called ABCstitch. The list was even updated through this past Christmas. Apparently, he'd never bought her an actual present, just gift cards. Clearly the right gift cards, or he would've heard about it from Dean, but no presents at all, and that was just weird. She'd been what, eight when she got out of the hospital and came to live here? Surely she hadn't been so into yarn and thread then. She must have wanted books or toys or-or something. A lot of kids arrived here too old for their age, but that quickly got countered by Dean's perpetual inner child. Was Rissa just more resistant? Had she just been through too much to regress that far?
Or was it something else entirely, like being an introvert in an asylum of extroverts? Rissa faded into the background-probably intentionally, given the scarring. Considering the way Dean and Marcy tended to cure shyness, Sam hated to think what Rissa had been like when she first got here. He wondered how she handled her cousins, or the kids at school. Would Hannah know? Hannah hadn't been here, either, but at some point, she and Rissa had apparently bonded. Maybe Hannah had just been smart enough to visit at times other than Christmas.
Nothing in the file, though, explained why she froze in terror at the sight of him, why she'd stared at him like he was the monster from her worst nightmare, why she wouldn't even call him by name. If there had been mistreatment in any of her previous foster homes, it hadn't been bad enough to get noticed or reported. The only reason she'd been taken out of any of them was because her foster parents couldn't keep any kids after the house burned down.
The movie ended, and Sam closed the folder. No answers. Not that he'd really expected any, but.... He'd hoped. Hostility, he could handle, but fear? How was he supposed to handle a little girl who was so blatantly terrified of him?
Dean was right. He wasn't licensed for this.
***
The woman handling the R-Z table at registration must have met Rissa before, because she didn't react at all to Rissa's scars or bad eye. Sam had learned a few things about how people reacted to facial scars since he acquired his, and nobody took it that well the first time around.
"Rissa Winchester-here you are." The woman handed Rissa a nametag and a folder. "Your schedule's in there. Now go make some friends." She waited until Rissa had gotten out of hearing, then said, in a much sharper voice, "You're not Mr. Winchester."
Oh, yeah. She had definitely met them. "Actually, I am. I'm Sam. Dean's brother." He handed her the paperwork Dean had given him-legalese that Ally had drawn up so that the camp wouldn't bitch about dealing with him if anything happened. He had several copies in case he had to take Rissa to the hospital or a doctor. "Dean and Marcy are out of town for the next couple of weeks, so I'm looking after Rissa until they get back."
She gave him a skeptical look, and he was pretty sure she read everything on that paper, down to the fine print. "Here, then. Give us your contact information." She shoved a clipboard at him so he could scrawl his numbers. "Will they be back before the end of camp?"
"I think so," he said. Truth was, he wasn't sure; the dates for both trip and camp were on the big family calendar on the wall outside the playrooms, but he hadn't paid much attention to anything but the start dates. It wasn't like he'd be able to miss their return. No group of people that noisy could sneak.
She gave him another frosty look, and handed him a thick folder of information. "Well, I hope so. It would be awful if her parents missed the showcase."
Showcase? Sam opened his mouth to ask, but another kid pushed up beside him to register, and the lady turned her attention to her, so he tucked it away to ask about later and turned away, looking for his niece.
Rissa was in a knot of other kids-girls mostly, and one boy on crutches who had a backpack trailing what looked like a half-finished scarf. By the way she was talking to them, animated and smiling like he'd never seen, she knew them. Dean had said something about other friends going to the first session, so maybe those were the friends in question. She wasn't as careful about keeping her hair over the burned side of her face with them.
At least she had friends. He'd been afraid that she didn't. Kids were mean about differences. He'd caught hell for his thrift store wardrobe, especially once he started growing out of it every six weeks; he didn't want to think what that kind of brat would do to a kid as scarred as Rissa. She might have it a little easier, not being a nomad and perpetual new kid, but undoubtedly a few classmates remembered that she'd been a foster kid, and that carried its own kind of stigma. So might being adopted. He remembered getting a pretty good amount of hell for not having a mother. He'd only been in school the week before Mother's Day once, and after that, he'd never complained when Dad dragged them out of school a month early, even if it did mean missing the chance at birthday-kid perks.
With one of the other kids, he would have waited, would have caught her eye and given her a little wave to let her know he was leaving. Rissa, though.... She not only wouldn't care, he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't already put him out of her mind for the day.
A gaggle of older kids walked by Rissa and her friends-and two of them stopped and stared at Rissa. One opened her mouth to say something, but the kid on crutches snapped something that sounded rude, and the two older kids quickly chased after their friends.
Why did people always act like there was something shameful about scars? It had never made any sense to him, even before he'd acquired one that couldn't be hidden. Nobody got through life without a few scars, after all-
Was that it? Was it his scar that spooked her? It had faded over the years, but it was still obvious-it always would be, though at least it wasn't purple anymore, and Sam had reached a point where he hardly even noticed it in the mirror. It shouldn't be the problem, since scars were nothing in the Winchester house. Dean not only had the scars he'd picked up while hunting, but his legs were now criss-crossed with scars from various surgeries to repair broken bones. Marcy had her own collection of surgical scars, Maggie had vampire bites on her neck, Kara had stabbed herself in the leg playing psychic-fetch with a butcher knife before she was old enough to know better. And that wasn't even counting the normal scars, like the accidental brands Johnny and Kevin had from an ill-conceived science experiment or the permanent dark marks on Mikey's arm from upholstery-burn in the car crash that had killed his birth parents.
But if there was one thing Sam had learned over the last decade, it was that even the most accepting people looked twice at facial scars, like they were some kind of indication of a spiritual defect. The thin line across his face was nowhere near as bad as Rissa's burns, but it was still something that should have been a bond between them, the way the poltergeists were between Rissa and Hannah. If anybody else could understand what it was like....
Maybe it reminded her of something? Somebody in her pre-Winchester life? Or she associated it with something terrible? If that were the case....
Sam couldn't hide his scar any more than she could hide hers, but if that was the root cause of Rissa's fear, he could work with it. He just had to think on it.
He flipped through the packet as he walked back to the Impala. As usual with the kids' activities, Dean had understated the case. (He'd referred to Johnny and Kevin's state-championship soccer game as "the season finale" and said it was "a couple of towns over," which happened to be a four-hour drive.) This wasn't a camp, per se; this was a high-intensity month-long art course for teens. Not the traditional "high art" of museums, like painting and sculpture, but crafts taken to the artistic level, well beyond what you found in hobby store classes. Rissa was in the fiber arts track (not to be confused with sewing or costuming), and from the looks of this schedule, she'd be learning about everything from embroidery to weaving. The list of planned projects was a page long, the lecture and demonstration schedule took up two, and there were field trips on Saturdays.
They were off on Sundays, though; that meant he'd have to figure out three meals that day. Normally, there would be the family dinner at Third and Anne's place, but with everybody gone, that was off the calendar. He'd have to remember to keep up the milk supply, because what was in the fridge wouldn't last that long. And check the cereal and sandwich supplies. Maybe he could get Rissa into a grocery store to pick out some things. She wouldn't have to talk to him for that, he could just give her a basket-or a cart, maybe, he didn't know if she could handle a basket with that bad arm-let her roam the store for her own goodies, and meet him at the register.
This was a freakin' nightmare.
Welcome to daddyhood, he heard Dean say in the back of his head, see where you'll be in thirteen years?
"Oh, shut up," Sam muttered as he slid behind the wheel.
***
People were funneling from the registration tables towards the auditorium. Rissa lagged back to avoid more stares from strangers, and to keep Sage company. It had been two weeks, and he was still having trouble with his crutches. No wonder his ankle wasn't healed. He was going to wind up having surgery on it yet. "Who was that?" he asked, edging around a massive potted plant.
"Who?"
"The giant who dropped you off, Risible." Sage tried to poke her, but nearly lost his grip on one crutch, got his half-finished Fourth Doctor scarf tangled around the other one, and would have gone down if she hadn't caught him.
"You're a menace, Sagebrush," Rissa scolded, getting him straightened out and upright. "Stand still a minute." She rolled the trailing scarf up and stuffed it into his backpack.
"So? Who is he?"
She sighed. "My father's brother. He lives with us now."
Sage gave her a look. "You sound like my mom talking about her uncle, and he molested her."
"It's nothing like that!"
"Good, 'cause I can take him." That was so ridiculous-Sage was shorter than she was and skinny, not to mention the broken ankle-that she laughed. "Hey!"
"Sorry," she said, but still grinning. Sage could always make her laugh. "You know my dad would kill anybody who even thought about hurting us."
Sage considered. "Is he as scary as your dad?"
"Dad's not scary!"
Sage snorted. "Obviously he's never pulled a knife on you."
"He worries!" Sage just looked at her. "Not to anybody else," she admitted. "Everybody else loves him. Move it, or we're not going to get good seats."
"We don't need good seats. It's a speech, not a movie." He took a hesitant step. "Is it the scar?" he asked. "It's kinda scary-looking. Not like yours."
Rissa could feel the blood rushing to the unmarked side of her face, and she quickly looked down, so her hair fell and hid it. Sage was the only person besides her parents who had never even blinked at her scars. "No. He just-" She hesitated, but Sage knew, and nobody was close enough to hear. "There's fire around him," she whispered.
"Did you tell-"
"No! They can't know!"
Sage stopped, right in the middle of traffic, and gave her the full force of his best glare. "Seriously, Rissa? All the shit you've told me about in your family, and this makes you freeze up? You have no sense at all."
"Oh, go knit a tea cozy."
"It's on the to-do list." She held the door open for him. "You're stuck with him while they're on vacation, aren't you?"
"Yep."
"What about your aunt? The fun one? Isn't she living here now?"
"She's marrying him." Rissa still didn't understand that. Aunt Hannah was all laughter and sunshine, as fiercely protective as Dad, and perfectly safe. Rissa had no idea what she saw in someone as dangerous as him. And adults said teenagers were hard to figure out. "Mom said even if Aunt Hannah had the time, I'd still see him just as much, because they've got a wedding to straighten out by October."
"October? And he just moved in at Christmas?" Sage frowned. "Are you getting a cousin?"
Rissa froze. "Oh, God. You don't think- That- Ew!"
"That's what grown-ups do, you know."
"I know, but- Aunt Hannah? With him?"
Sage's eyes widened. "Damn. I've never heard you screech before."
"Move it before I stab you with one of your own knitting needles."
"Use the plastic ones, please, so that my grandma didn't spend the five bucks needlessly."
She laughed. "You think I can get a plastic knitting needle between your ribs?" Two older kids and an adult jerked around to stare at them as they entered the auditorium.
"Risible, I've met your dad. I think he teaches you guys to stab anyone with anything if necessary." There was no arguing with that, especially since he was right. "Let's just sit here. If I try to get down these steps-"
"You'll break your neck." She claimed two seats on the end of the back row-and then caught him before he managed to whack three people in the head with the crutches. "Maybe I should bring you one of my dad's old chairs."
"Might be easier," Sage admitted, and managed to get himself lowered into the seat, his injured leg sticking out into the aisle. Rissa stashed the crutches in the empty seat on her other side just as Mrs. Stapper stepped up to the podium.
She barely heard any of the welcome speeches, though, her mind caught on something Sage had said.
Was that why Hannah was marrying him? Because of a baby? Had she actually-
Oh, God. I think I'm going to be sick.
***
They quickly fell into a routine.
The camp supplied breakfast, lunch, and an afternoon snack, so at least he didn't have to worry about feeding anybody first thing in the morning, just making sure they were at campus by 7:30. Sam dropped Rissa off after a painfully silent drive, went back to the house to work on the boxes or nap or run errands, had lunch with Hannah if she didn't have a meeting, spent the afternoon swearing at the boxes some more, and was back at campus to pick Rissa up at six for another silent, awkward drive.
Dinner was the hard part. He couldn't really cook-at least, nothing fit for a growing kid; he somehow doubted Dean and Marcy would appreciate him feeding their daughter canned soup or Chef Boyardee every night, especially considering the sheer amount of money they'd left as a meal fund. Rissa, unlike any other kid her age, wouldn't give him a single suggestion, wouldn't even take advantage of the opportunity to get pizza at every meal. She wouldn't even tell him what she liked on her pizza. If she had, he would've felt a lot more guilty and a lot less pissed at the silent, dramatic removal of the peppers and onions from each slice.
Conversation during meals was out of the question, of course, just like during the drives. The two of them sat at the kitchen table, since it didn't make sense to mess up the dining room for two, eating the night's takeout, and he tried to get a conversation going and she just ate and cleared her plate and vanished into her room, presumably to work on her "homework"-some of those projects were apparently take-home. He'd hear one of the upstairs showers running later, and when he went to bed in his borrowed bedroom across the hall from hers (he'd agreed to sleep upstairs just in case she had one of her nightmares, because he wouldn't hear it downstairs, and besides, it didn't smell like mothballs), there would be no lights under her door.
And so it went, every day, like clockwork, until Saturday evening.
They were back to pizza again-plain pepperoni this time, he'd learned his lesson-but Rissa didn't immediately disappear after dumping her paper plate into the recycling bin. She stood near the door for a few minutes, looking uneasy. "Something wrong?" Sam finally asked.
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
"Yes, it is." Why was she-
"Are you supposed to take me to Mass?"
Mass? That hadn't even occurred to him. Dean hadn't mentioned it, of course, because Dean just didn't think about that kind of thing, and Marcy- Well. "I can, if you want," he said finally.
Sam should have thought of this earlier, but not all the kids were Catholic. Johnny and Maggie were-Johnny's early placements had been with Catholic families because he was Vietnamese and that was as close to a same-culture placement as the system had been able to manage, and Maggie had chosen to convert after they adopted her-but Kevin had even more contempt for religion than Dean, and Mikey only seemed to go to Mass when he felt like it. Kara and Ananda had both been baptized as part of their adoptions, but they were also a lot younger than Dean and Marcy usually adopted. As for the fosters, the local demographics meant that most of them were Protestant, and the things they'd been through meant that a lot of them, especially the older ones, were as skeptical about religion as Dean.
"Would you like to ask Hannah instead?" he asked, and tried very hard not to be hurt at the sheer relief in her good eye. "If she's not going, I'll take you." Hannah didn't go every Sunday, despite the obligation, but for Rissa, she might, if she didn't have other plans. Sam- Well, unlike Dean, he had no particular objections to sitting in a church for an hour or so. If Rissa was a believer-and it seemed she was-this came under the heading of "taking care of her." It wasn't like she could drive herself, and even if she knew somebody else she could call for a ride, Dean would kill him if Sam let her go off with them.
She went off, probably to use the landline in the hall upstairs; Dean and Marcy were kind of strict about the kids using cell phones at home, and Rissa wasn't one for flouting the rules. He sat there, picking at his pizza, for ten minutes, until his cell rang. Hannah, exactly when he'd expected.
"Sam, Rissa just called me-"
"About Mass tomorrow, I know. You going?"
"I told her I'd take her. You're not?"
He hesitated. "I will if I have to, but I think it might be better if she had a different chauffeur for one day, at least."
"Still not going well?"
"She hasn't come out and told me she hates my guts, so that's something. I thought maybe you two could go out to lunch or a late breakfast. A little treat for her while the family's gone."
"And maybe over pancakes I can kinda sorta figure out what the hell bugs her so much about you?" Hannah asked dryly.
He did not breathe a sigh of relief. "You said it, I didn't."
"Don't hold your breath, Sam, but- I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
***
What did I ever see in this woman? Sam thought, tossing another magazine towards the recycle box, using a spark of telekinesis to make sure it landed inside and didn't fall out.
Box #13 was proving to be mainly magazines. No wonder the poor UPS guy had had trouble lifting it. Lisa must have hired people for every other move. Anybody who'd ever had to do their own lifting would know better than to pack a box this size with reading material.
He reached in for another stack of magazines. Renee she wasn't, but Sam was feeling much better about his breakup with Lisa, and not just because it had led, no matter how indirectly, to him meeting Hannah. Re-meeting. Whatever.
"Our kid's not going to be a teenager, right?"
Sam glanced up. Hannah was standing in the doorway, looking exhausted. "Well, she won't be at first," he finally said, not really sure how to take that question. "I don't think we can stop it from happening eventually, though."
She threaded her way into his room, wrinkling her nose. "You know, Sam, I try not to judge, but your last girlfriend smells like a little old lady."
"It's not her stuff, it's the stuff she got out of her grandmother's house- Hey! You're wrecking my system!"
Hannah shot him a sour look. "Sam, just trash all this crap already." She shoved a stack of fishing magazines (Doug, somewhere between him and Gabe) off Sam's pillow so she could recline on it. "Even if some of this stuff is valuable, trust me, it's not the six years of Bassmasters."
"I'm trying to make sure she didn't stick somebody's birth certificate or passport or the deed to the Louisiana Purchase in here with them," he said. "I had to rent a PO box to keep her from misplacing my bills. I don't want to donate or trash these things and find out I've aided in identity theft."
"You are way too nice, Sam."
"So I keep hearing."
"One of us should be, I guess. What do you want me to do?" He raised an eyebrow. "What? The quicker you get through this, the quicker you move, the quicker I'm the only girl you find in bed with you in the morning."
He chuckled. "Work on the fishing stuff, if you want. Look out for fishhooks."
"Are you-" He held up a bandaged finger. "Jesus. There was something wrong with that woman."
"I hear that a lot about the women I date."
"Mm- Hey!" He ducked the pillow she threw at him, laughing, but she settled back down to flip through the fishing magazines.
"So, why are we wishing perpetual childhood on our offspring before she's even old enough for a sonogram?" he asked. Fishing, gardening, more fishing, hunting, crocheting- "Does Rissa like crochet?"
"If it involves needles and threads, she's into it."
"It's not really a needle, and it's yarn-"
"Yarn is just a kind of thread. Crochet's the one with just the one needle, right?"
"Why are you asking me?" He flipped through the magazine, found a picture. "Um, it looks like this."
She squinted at it. "Yeah, I think that's crochet. Knitting has two and they're pointy, I remember that much. Are you going to try turning crochet magazines into a peace offering?"
"No. I just thought she might be interested."
"Sam, you can't buy-"
"I'm not trying to, honestly! I just don't know anybody else who'd want this kind of stuff! What am I going to do, give them to Dean for Christmas?"
Hannah snorted. "I'd pay money to see that." She leaned back against the headboard, flipping through another issue. "I think she's more into knitting, but you could offer." She sighed. "I didn't get anywhere, by the way. Every time I brought it up, she clammed up. You know, the way teenagers get when they think something's obvious and the grown-ups are being intentionally dense. I'd really like to avoid that with ours."
Sam chose not to make any observations on the likelihood of a peaceful adolescence with a child who had both Reynolds and Winchester DNA. "So this is something we're all supposed to magically know."
"Maybe." Swish went a magazine. "She's scared of you."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I knew that."
"No, I mean she's scared of you. Not because you're a stranger or because you're a giant or because you've got a scar. She's afraid of you because you're you, if that makes any sense. Recycle box?" He pointed, and she dumped a stack of magazines into it. "I'm not really sure if it's can't or won't, but either way, she's not articulating why she's scared of you. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was scared to tell me why she's scared of you."
"Would she be?"
"She shouldn't. She knows she can tell me anything. And if she can't tell me, she can tell Dean and Marcy." Another magazine went flying. "Is there anything in here besides fishing, hunting, and knitting?"
"The porn's already been tossed." He glanced up in time to see a decidedly unhappy expression cross his fiancée's face, and he smiled. "Feel free to open up a box and start spelunking."
She eyed #14, #5, and #8, which were the three blocking the door to the garage. "Are they all magazines?"
"Most of them haven't been. A few here or there, but not as solidly packed. The porn was in with Lisa's sister's Strawberry Shortcake collection."
"I begin to see why this relationship didn't work out." Hannah unfolded herself and went to examine the stack. "Hey, I can lift this one."
"Lucky you. There's a box cutter on the nightstand."
Hannah lugged the box over to the bed and sliced through the packing tape. Lisa had gotten a little tape-happy, undoubtedly to lessen the risk that any of the boxes would get sent back to her. "Oooh."
Sam winced. That was not a sound you wanted to hear out of a Reynolds.
Chapter 3