SPN, "Through the Fire and Flames," Chapter 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The Tuesday afternoon wedding panic was not going well.
Sam was starting to have second thoughts. Not about Hannah-he was sure about her, in a way he hadn't been about anybody since Jess, not even Sarah-but about the wedding. This was the twenty-first century; there wasn't any real reason why they had to get married before the baby arrived, and waiting until next summer meant they would be able to take their time with the planning, rather than this mad rush to get all the ducks lined up. It wasn't like Third and Anne had threatened him with a shotgun. Anne was actually on his side on the topic. No, this was all Hannah's hang-up, and no matter what he tried, he couldn't get her to change her mind.
And the stress.... Hannah was a lot like Dean pre-Marcy: she communicated mainly through sarcasm, innuendo, and bad jokes. Under stress, that sarcasm became knife-sharp, and her temper, already short, became worse. Mix in pregnancy hormones and a fiancé who had no idea how to handle wedding prep or large, nosy families....
Sam was trying very hard to be a supportive fiancé and steady voice of reason, but right now, reason just kinda...bounced.
Sam stifled a sigh and looked up at the pictures that decorated the hall. He'd been here when he answered his phone, and Hannah had the most unnerving knack of knowing when he was trying to do two things at once, so he'd just sat down until the call was over. Images of Dean and Marcy's wedding stared back at him.
Dean and Marcy had done this. Not with a baby on the way, true, but they'd put together a wedding in less time. If Dean could do it, Sam could.
"You know, this would be easier if you'd put some input into this," Hannah snapped.
How the hell had Dean and Marcy done this? She'd gotten Dean into a church wedding, for Christ's sake. Dean!
"I gave you my idea," he replied evenly. "We could surprise everybody when they get ba-"
"Reynoldses do not elope."
The opening was too good to resist. "Marcy did." Sure, that had been her first marriage, and the guy was an ass, and it had imploded rather spectacularly from everything Sam had put together, but the fact remained: Marcy had eloped. Precedent was important to the Reynoldses. Sam had learned that much.
"Yeah, and we all saw how well that one worked out. I want this to stick, Sam. Like Marcy and Dean."
He rubbed his temples, silently wishing for a drink. "You know, I don't think the one actually has anything to do with the other."
"Sam."
"I don't have any ideas. I told you. I don't know about this kind of thing."
"You've been engaged three times-"
"They never got to this point." Probably just as well, because Renee would have turned into a bridezilla of epic proportions, given that personality about-face she'd suffered after they were official. "We never even got around to setting a date."
"None of them?"
"None of them. I swear to God, Hannah, you're my only wedding. First and last."
She sighed. "Fine. But if you wind up in a pink tux, I don't want to hear a word."
He snorted. "If you pick pink tuxes, it's not me you're going to have to worry about. Dean will skin you alive."
"Oh, come on." There was less stress and more humor in her voice now. Good. "Dean likes me."
"I'm not sure he'd wear pink for Marcy, and remember, he actually knows how to skin-" His phone beeped. "Hang on." He didn't recognize the number, but the caller ID said "Continuing Ed," and Rissa's camp was at a college. "I think the camp's calling me. I'll try to make a decision. Other than to keep the pastels away from the tuxes."
She laughed. "You better."
He chuckled and hung up on her so that he could answer the second call. "Sam Winchester."
"Is this Rissa's uncle?"
"Yes-"
"Oh, good. This is Mrs. Stapper, I'm the camp coordinator- I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but we need you to come and get Rissa."
He glanced at his watch. Barely three-thirty. "Now?" he asked, pushing himself up off the floor. "Is she all right?"
"She had a-a panic attack, I think. During this afternoon's demonstration." Her voice shook a bit as she told him which building she was in and where to park. Whatever had happened, she had not been prepared for it, even after all Dean's warnings. "Please hurry."
***
Mrs. Stapper turned out to be the lady from registration, and she was anxiously waiting for him in the lobby of one of the main office buildings. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She's resting in my office. She said she needed it dark and quiet, so I thought I'd meet you here and discuss it first."
"What happened?"
Mrs. Stapper looked uncomfortable. "We have demonstrations after lunch, before they settle down into the afternoon workshop. Usually science-type things, or things too complicated or dangerous for us to teach them, just so the kids can get a look at it. Today, the fiber and fabric kids had a museum expert showing them a burn test-"
"A burn test?" Christ, couldn't the woman figure out that a kid as fire-traumatized as Rissa didn't need to be exposed to anything called a burn test? He knew Dean and Marcy had warned them, he'd seen the paperwork. Not to mention, Rissa's scars were fucking obvious. Nothing but fire or acid could have caused them, even to a civilian's inexperienced eye.
"It's a method of determining the fiber content in an unknown fabric." At his blank look, she went on, "Cotton burns differently than wool , and both are different from polyester, and so on. If you know what you're doing, it can be very definitive. It's only a small sample that's burned, hardly an inch square, and they seldom burst into actual flame or anything, so I didn't think- Maybe it was the smell. I just don't know. Mr. Winchester had warned us about Rissa's-condition-but I didn't think it would be enough. She handled the fire at the blacksmithing demonstration just fine-"
A forge wouldn't have produced the same smell as burning fabric-a stink Rissa would be very familiar with, after all those house fires. And smell could provoke a memory much more strongly than sight.
"One of her friends knew what was going on, and helped us calm her down some. He's still in there, she wouldn't let him leave. He's the one who found her medication and told us to call you before we had even figured out what was going on."
Made sense. A close friend would have probably seen Rissa have one of these attacks before. Probably kept it from getting a lot worse, or at least helped bring her out of it. "So she's had her meds?" That was the important part. Dean had been very clear on that. Without them, she'd just keep having attacks, sometimes for days-an insane level of stress for a healthy adult; for a child with Rissa's issues....
"Yes. Almost immediately. As soon as they found them and got her something to wash them down with. She seemed a little out of it by the time we got her here, I assumed because of their effects-"
"Probably." Sam couldn't be sure on that, because to the best of his knowledge, he'd never seen Rissa after an attack, but it was a good bet. "Where's your office?"
"Just over here." Mrs. Stapper led him down a hall and pushed open a door with her name on it. It was dark and gloomy inside, the blinds pulled and the lights off, but there was enough light for him to see that Mrs. Stapper must be fairly important in the school, as her office was big enough for a couch and small conference table in addition to a large executive desk.
Rissa was lying on the couch, eyes closed, a damp paper towel on her forehead. The boy with the crutches was sitting in one of the chairs from the table, holding her good hand, and the look he shot Sam was so fiercely protective that it took everything Sam had not to laugh. He wondered if Dean and Marcy knew that Rissa had a friend.
"Risible?" the boy whispered. He had his own nickname for Rissa? Rissa was going to be in so much trouble when Dean and Marcy found out about this. Dean could barely stomach the idea of Maggie dating. (The overreaction to junior prom had been epic.) "He's here."
She opened her eyes and squinted through the gloom-and did not look happy to see him. She set the paper towel neatly aside and levered herself up carefully, like an old woman, like every muscle and joint ached. Her friend scrambled to get up on his feet so that he could help her up.
"Hey, Rissa," Sam said, as gently as he could, and got an incredibly nasty look for the effort. From both of them. "Let's get you home, okay?"
She said nothing, just pushed herself off the couch, using her friend's hand for leverage. "My bags-"
"He's got it." The friend shot Sam a glare and jerked his head towards the desk. Sam took the hint and picked up Rissa's backpack and stitch bag. Plainly, Rissa wasn't going to let him help her, and just as plainly, the boy wasn't about to let Sam horn in on being helpful.
She walked like she'd taken a beatdown-which Sam supposed was true enough, in a way. The limp that was normally hardly noticeable had become pronounced. And she stumbled over every uneven spot, but that was probably because of the meds. Dean had gone over them with him twice, because they weren't the kind of thing usually prescribed to kids her age, and because the side effects were pretty severe. To be honest, Sam was surprised she could walk at all.
The boy apparently had similar thoughts, because he limped beside Rissa all the way to the car, catching her whenever she stumbled. Three times Sam started to say something about how it would be smarter to let Rissa lean on him and let the kid on crutches handle the backpacks, but he never got more than a syllable out before he got another death-glare. Sam finally just gave up and walked ahead to get the Impala unlocked and make sure the door was open for her.
All that, and the boy didn't even hug her. Teenagers.
"I'll call you later," the boy said, and closed the Impala's door with a glare at Sam that left no doubt-to Sam, anyway-as to why he was saying that. That was an I'm checking up on her, so you better treat her right threat if ever he'd seen one.
He didn't laugh. He felt his lips twitch, but he managed not to laugh. This was like being threatened by a kitten. Granted, the kitten could probably get in a good whack with one of those crutches, but considering that he could barely use them to walk....
Sam waited to make sure the kid got himself back up on the sidewalk and was safely limping back to the building before he got into the car. "You okay?" he asked Rissa as he started the engine. That got him a glare that even he could interpret as no, you dumbass. "We can go get something to-"
"I'm fine."
Well, that was more than he usually got. "Would you like to stop by Hannah's? Or I can ask her to-"
"I'm fine."
Sam had a sudden flash of sympathy for his father. Had he been like this?
"And I'm not hungry," she added, to his surprise. "So don't ask me about food."
"You sure-"
"No food," she said between clenched teeth.
Maybe nausea was one of the side effects. Dean had only specifically mentioned that she shouldn't be trusted around anything more complicated than a lamp for several hours, and should probably be supervised with the lamp. "I'll get you home so you can lie down," he said. If she was still stumbling that badly when they got home, she probably wouldn't be able to manage the stairs, but he could carry her up. If she gave him any shit about it, he'd put her in the damn stairlift. Dean never used them, but Sam was pretty sure the thing had seat belts. Lacking that, there were jump ropes in the playroom. The Trio had tied him to a chair a few weeks back.
He pushed the speed limits as far as he dared and they made record time back to the house. Without the van and Bruce in the garage, there was room for him to park the Impala however necessary, so he got the passenger side as close to the interior door as he could and still have room to get Rissa out. "I'll get your stuff," he said when it looked like she might reach over the seat to get her bags. "You just get in and get to bed."
How the hell did Marcy teach all of them to give him that same death-glare? "I need my bags."
Fortunately, since he'd put them in the car, the bags were behind the driver's seat and out of her reach, unless she climbed half over the seat. To keep her from doing that, Sam simply went around the car and opened the door and waited. "Come on."
She was seething now. "I want my bags."
No, that stubbornness wasn't Marcy's influence, it was Dean's. Sam had long ago lost count of the number of times he'd had to bully his brother into not doing things that were beyond his current health status. More than once he'd had to wrestle the Impala's keys away from Dean when he was drugged to the gills after a fight, which was pretty close to this situation. Dean never wanted to behave for his own good either. "Rissa, you don't need the bags right now, you need to lie down and rest."
"I. Want. My. Bags," she ground out.
Think like a parent, Sam. "I'll bring them in, but they're staying downstairs," he said, trying to say it the way Dean would. "You don't need them right now, and I don't want you tempted."
The hate-filled glare told him that he'd gotten the tone mostly right, anyway.
He held out his arm, but she refused to take it. No surprise there. She clung to the Impala's door, pulling herself slowly out of the car, and for a second he thought her bad leg might actually buckle beneath her, but she grabbed on to the door with both hands and kept herself from crashing to the concrete. He took the opportunity to unlock the kitchen door, and then got out of her way, reaching in to get her bags out of the car. She might have relaxed, just a bit, when she saw that he was keeping his word. Sam couldn't be sure.
That left him nothing to do but to trail behind her as she limped through the kitchen and past the dining room to the stairs. "You want me to turn on the-"
"I don't need any help!" she snapped. Her hand clenched on the stair railing and she began climbing-one step at a time, agonizingly slow, with such a death-grip on the banister that Sam was surprised she wasn't leaving marks in the wood. How did Dean manage this?
She was probably more cooperative with Dean. And Dean probably managed to get the poor kid to bed before shoving meds into her. Had Dean said when the last attack was? There had been the one over the wedding. Before that? Probably before he moved in.
"Okay," he said, feeling helpless, and set her bags in the chairlift seat.
It hurt to watch her climb the stairs. Twice her bad leg buckled, and Sam had to restrain himself from chasing up the stairs after her. Bad as this was, if he forced his assistance on her, it might spark nightmares, and that was something neither one of them wanted.
Rissa stopped a moment at the top of the stairs, wobbling a little, and for a second Sam thought he was going to have to put her to bed after all. But she only turned around long enough to growl, "See? Fine," before she stumbled off to her room.
Oh, you're Dean Winchester's kid, all right.
He waited until he heard her door close, then pulled out his phone and punched in a number.
"Reynolds Carolina Enterprises."
"Hannah Reynolds, please." He was going to be so happy when they got her line set up so he could dial straight in. She wouldn't answer her cell during work hours, the result being that half the company switchboard knew him by voice, and he was pretty sure they thought he was either completely lovesick or overly possessive, given the number of times a day he was calling. The fact that at least seven of the receptionists and switchboard operators were cousins did not help. They take this whole "family business" idea way too seriously.
The irony did not escape him.
"Hi, Sam," the voice on the other end said, proving his point. "Just a minute."
At least RCE sprang for good hold music. Nothing vocal, all instrumental-didn't want to offend anybody here in the Bible Belt-but "instrumental" covered a wide range, and he was pretty sure the song playing in his ear was one of those symphonic metal bands that Firth liked so much.
A voice cut through the guitars. "Hel-lo, beloved!"
Sam blinked. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Hannah answer the phone with such a chipper voice. Definitely not in the last few weeks. "Somebody's in a better mood," he said, feeling some of his own tension ebb.
"I got to order my own shiny new furniture instead of getting everybody else's hand-me-downs. It's a first for me." He smiled at that, understanding; he'd hated the extra expense, but he'd felt the same way when he had to buy new textbooks instead of used. "Rissa okay?"
"She had an attack. What are you doing tonight?"
"Tonight? Nothing. Why?"
"Do you have any idea what her favorite food is?"
"KFC. Why, Sam?"
"Bring it when you come over for dinner."
"I'm coming over for dinner?"
"At the least. She's scared of me, remember? I'm afraid I'm gonna push her over the edge into another attack no matter what I do." He looked up the stairs. "And I think Dean said something about how her attacks spark nightmares sometimes-"
"Every time," Hannah corrected. "At least one." Sam would love to know how Hannah knew that when she hadn't been here any more than he had in the last ten years, but now was not the time. "Lemme check- I can be there about sixish. Too late?"
"She doesn't even get out of camp until six, so that would actually be earlier than we usually eat."
"Then let's push it to seven. It takes at least three hours before she's ready to eat, but she'll be starving when she does, and I've gotta call B- A very cranky man in another time zone about something." She paused. "You're wanting me to stay the night, aren't you?"
He managed not to beg. "Can you?"
There was a sound of tapping keys, then some rustling papers. She must have gotten her computer set up. "I think I can. If no emergencies come up." Sam didn't ask what kind of emergency. If he showed too much interest, Third might offer Sam a job, and Sam would feel obligated to take it, and as much as he loved Hannah, he did not want to wind up working with her. They weren't like Dean and Marcy; they needed the insulation of a little mystery. "I'll bring food and we'll figure it out from there, how's that sound?"
"Perfect." He glanced up the stairway. "Is there anything I-"
"Don't lock yourself in your room. You need to be able to hear in case she falls."
"Falls?" Dean hadn't mentioned falls. Dean had mentioned meds and supervision and nightmares.
"The meds throw her off enough that sometimes she forgets to compensate for her bad leg. Dean never thinks to warn people about it because he has the same issue sometimes. Last year when I was here, she did that, and she landed kinda twisted and couldn't get up without help."
"Oh. Okay."
"Find something you can do in the living room. Hell, go to the room you're using and take a nap."
Made sense. "An afternoon without the boxes will probably do me good," he said, and she laughed.
Sam called Dean and left a message about Rissa's attack; he'd half hoped Dean or Marcy would answer, but Dean must have been right about Marcy forcing him to leave the phone in the van, where it couldn't be a distraction. They were probably only checking for messages once a day or so, which meant he likely wouldn't hear from Dean until tomorrow morning. No help for tonight.
Sam wound up sitting on the couch, going through Rissa's file again, then re-reading one of the Harry Potter books snagged from the older kids' playroom, one ear cocked for any unusual noises, but the upstairs remained silent. The house was so quiet that when the kitchen door opened and Hannah called out his name, Sam was so startled that he actually lost his hold on the book. It skittered away, and he had to get on his hands and knees to excavate under one of the love seats for it.
"Not the view I was expecting," Hannah's voice said approvingly somewhere behind him, just as his fingers managed to find the book.
"Hannah!"
"What?" she asked innocently. "I didn't say it was a bad view."
Sam got to his feet and tossed the book onto the couch. "Minx. Why do I put up with you?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a thorough kiss. "Because I brought supper," she said when she finally let go. "Duh."
"Is this one of those 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach' things?"
"Silly man. The way to a man's heart is between the fourth and fifth ribs." That came with a poke in that general area. "You should know that."
He laughed. "Have I told you that you worry me?"
"Frequently. Is she up?"
"Not that I've heard."
Hannah nodded. "Sounds about right. You go set everything out, and I'll go get her. If she's asleep-"
He flinched. He could just imagine what Rissa's reaction would be to waking up with him leaning over her. "I'm not arguing. Oh, and take her bags upstairs, will you? They're on the stairlift."
Hannah grinned. "Tried to carry them up herself, didn't she?"
"It's like Dean's stubbornness is fucking contagious. And somehow I don't think Marcy helps."
"You are learning, lover mine. And Marcy said nothing would get through that Winchester skull." He made a face at her, and she smacked his ass before heading upstairs.
***
It was like there was a completely different girl sitting at the kitchen table that night. She was still tense, and wouldn't look at him, let alone address him directly, but she gave Hannah bright smiles, if a little lopsided because of the scarring on the right side of her face, and even laughed a couple of times. Because the drugs were still in Rissa's system and limiting her dexterity, Hannah had opted for finger foods, potato wedges and chicken strips, rather than anything on the bone or requiring utensils. To Sam's surprise, they even had a playful fight over the last biscuit.
This is how she's supposed to be, he thought, a little sadly. This was a Rissa he'd never seen. This was the Rissa who was supposed to be his niece, and it made his heart ache that he didn't know this girl.
"Hey, squirt," Hannah said casually, freezing Rissa as she tried to make her escape. "Mind if I spend the night?"
Rissa gave her a look. It took the rest of the family two working eyes to convey that much sarcasm. "Like I could stop you."
"You say the word, I go home."
Rissa's gaze flicked to Sam, so quickly that he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it. "Keep the noise down," she said finally-channeling both parents again-and she was gone.
"You sure about this?" Hannah asked quietly.
"You're the one who said she always has a nightmare after. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to calm her out of it. I tried to help her up the stairs and she nearly had a meltdown."
"Not arguing, but having me spend the night? Didn't Dean and Marcy leave orders about that?"
"Yeah. They said not to wake her up." Hannah snorted. "Also there was something about staying out of their bed, but I really didn't think that would be an issue."
"You have absolutely no sense of adventure, Sam Winchester."
"Sure I do. I agreed to marry you, didn't I?" She gave him a look. "We are not having sex in my brother's bed!"
"Prude."
"I don't think a prude could keep up with you," he said dryly, and she laughed and leaned over for a kiss.
She'd made it all the way into his lap when a young voice said "Ew," and they broke apart to find Rissa standing there, a glass in one hand.
"You'll change your mind eventually, squirt," Hannah teased, earning herself a skeptical look that made Sam choke on laughter. Rissa rolled her eyes, put the glass in the sink, and made another hasty exit.
Hannah waited until Rissa's footsteps were going up the stairs. "Seriously, though," she said, "our surprise isn't going to be a teenager. Right?"
***
The room he'd claimed was one of the "older kid" rooms, for kids too old or too big-or too damaged-to share, across the hall from Rissa's. Sam hadn't thought about Hannah staying the night when he claimed it.
He'd gotten used to having the king bed downstairs mostly to himself-or sharing the queen mattress at Hannah's place-and had completely forgotten how annoying it was to cram two adults onto a full mattress. He'd managed with Jess, though, and every time he brought a girlfriend down for Christmas, so he and Hannah could manage for one night. She was a cuddler, anyway, so it wasn't like there was going to be a lot of space between them, even if the bed had been three times as large.
"God, I wish Marcy had better taste in nightshirts."
Sam swallowed a grin. Hannah hadn't stopped at the apartment, since it was out of the way, so she'd broken into Marcy's closet to find something to sleep in. They were about the same size, but Marcy apparently favored long, extra loose shirts for sleeping, and Hannah preferred...not so much. And Marcy was a bit more, um-
"Quit staring at my tits, Sam."
"I was looking at your anti-possession tattoo," he defended himself, trying not to laugh. "Although if that collar comes any farther down-" She automatically hitched the shirt's neckline up on one shoulder, causing it to fall further down the other one, and he had to laugh.
"I feel ridiculous," Hannah grumbled. "And quit laughing at me," she added, smacking him on the arm.
"I'm not laughing," he protested. She snarled at him. "No, really, it just reminds me of when Ananda stole one of my T-shirts a few weeks ago." Her eyes widened. "And yes, she was going around the house wearing it."
Hannah just stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Oh, my God," she finally managed, falling into bed beside him. "She must have looked like she was wearing a circus tent."
"Oh, she did."
"How did she even keep it on?"
"She got two of the bag clips out of the kitchen and used them to hold up the extra fabric around the neck." He chuckled, remembering. "I'm not sure who was more shocked, Dean or Marcy."
"Not you?"
"With Ananda? At this point, I'm getting used to it."
Hannah dialed down the lamp. "Well, at least there's one good thing about our cramped quarters," she muttered, sliding her arms around him and hooking one leg over his. "So, what'd they do?"
"Well, there was a point to be made about stealing people's clothes, of course."
"Of course. Poor Ananda."
Sam smiled. "Once we were pretty sure she'd gotten the message, I talked Anne into altering it, and gave it to her. It's now her favorite nightgown and Marcy is extremely pissed at me-"
"You mean more?"
He ignored the comment. "-because she won't wear another one long enough to get that one washed."
"You big softie."
"She kept looking at me like I'd stomped on her puppy. She didn't even break into my room for a week."
Hannah laughed. "She so has you wrapped around her little finger."
"Jealous?" he asked lightly.
"Not as long as there's enough of you to wrap around mine. And our surprise's." She chuckled. "Admit it, Sam. You love your little parasite."
"There's something wrong with that child," he grumbled, "and yes, I do. Dammit."
"Being Uncle Sammy fits you, you know."
"Sure it does," he said, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Just ask Rissa."
"Sam." She pushed herself up. "It doesn't work that way."
"What doesn't?"
"Family." She sighed. "Look, I love Dean like a brother, you know that, but the man has got some serious issues in this area, and he made sure you got them too. Maybe because of the way you two grew up, just you and your dad and never being quite safe, but- In a normal family, there's going to be people you don't get along with. People you love but don't like. Maybe even people you don't love. Look at Marcy and Sean."
"If it involves Sean, I'd really rather not." Sam had never seen two siblings who disliked each other that much, not without some significant history between them. Marcy and Sean didn't have that. By all reports, Marcy and Sean had simply hated each other since Sean was big enough to toddle after her.
"You know what I mean. You and Ananda are one extreme, and you and Rissa are the other. It might be that all you can hope for is neutrality."
"But-"
"Sam, what if it turns out that the reason she's scared of you is because you look like somebody in one of her foster homes that tried to molest her? Are you going to try to force her to be your best friend then?"
"I'm not trying to do that now!" he said, stung. "I just want her to stop acting like I'm going to hurt her! She's safe with me!"
"But she doesn't know that yet," Hannah pointed out. "It's only been six months."
"She's been adopted-"
"You haven't been here but six months, all told," Hannah corrected, "and you know damn well that there are plenty of monsters that manage to camouflage themselves for that long. Including the human kind. Fixing this between you, if it even can be fixed- It's going to take time, a lot of it, and I wish to God she hadn't had that attack today because one wrong word is just going to set you two back another year or more, but this- It's what we got, Sam. There's no point in wishing for something different."
Maybe not. But he couldn't help it.
***
Sam jerked awake, and didn't know why.
Hannah moved faster than he did, mentally and physically; she was over him and out the door before his brain woke up enough to realize that there had been a scream. He staggered out of bed after her, fumbling for the lights. By the time he got to Rissa's room and turned on the lights, Hannah had gotten her awake, and Rissa had her face buried in her aunt's shoulder.
Sam stood helplessly in the doorway, watching as Hannah rocked Rissa in her arms. Part of his mind kept saying that he should be doing that-but he knew that if he tried, it would just make Rissa worse. After all, this was why he'd asked Hannah to stay the night in the first place.
He slipped back to bed to wait for Hannah. It took longer than he expected; he'd dozed off, despite the lamp, and woke up when she slid back under the covers. He glanced at the clock. Nearly two hours. "Hey," he said, pulling her close.
She laid her head on his shoulder. "I don't know," she answered his unspoken question. "It's different, this time. I've seen her nightmares before, and this time.... Something's wrong."
"At the risk of sounding egotistical-"
"It might be you. It might be something else. There's so much she won't tell anybody, even now- When it comes to you, she's kinda weird."
"No shit."
"Also, she knows."
"Knows what?"
Hannah chuckled. "She knows, Sam."
He sat up. "What? How?"
"Don't ask me." She tugged him back down. "Maybe-"
"No. No way. Dean wouldn't-"
"I'm pretty sure he didn't. I know Marcy didn't. But once I got her calmed down and tucked back in, she looked up at me, I thought she was just going to say good night, and instead she-um-asked if I was pregnant."
That um spoke volumes. "That's not how she said it, is it?"
"No. And you don't want to-"
He sighed. "What did she call me?"
"Well, it was more along the lines of 'how could you possibly agree to fuck Satan and carry his spawn,' only more polite, because this is Rissa and not Maggie, but.... Hell, Sam, she doesn't-"
"I know, I know." He sighed. "I wish she'd tell me what I did."
"You may not have done anything. PTSD is a funny thing. And at least half of it was that sex-is-icky attitude that kids have before they discover hormones."
"So I'm only half Satan?"
"Three fifths?" He groaned, and she laughed. "Hey, a month ago, you weren't human. You're making progress."
"Yay me."
"Give it time, Sam." She was quiet then, for so long that he'd nearly dozed off, and her voice startled him. "You know, it's weird, but I just noticed. She doesn't have any light in her room."
"Of course-"
"No, she has the lamps and the overhead light, but you turn those off, and there's no light at all. Her clock's one of those old-fashioned ones with hands, it doesn't even glow in the dark, and she keeps the electronics in a drawer when she's not using them. She's taped off the indicator lights on the chargers and cords that have them. She's got blackout curtains on the windows, and I remember Marcy saying something about how Rissa kept complaining that the rooms were too bright until they finally put her in that one, since it faces the backyard and doesn't get anything from the security light, and even then, they had to put something on the bottom of the door to block out light from the hall. Turn off the lights, close the door, and it's pitch black in there."
"I don't-"
"She asked me about the baby after the lights were out."
Chapter 4
Chapter 2
The Tuesday afternoon wedding panic was not going well.
Sam was starting to have second thoughts. Not about Hannah-he was sure about her, in a way he hadn't been about anybody since Jess, not even Sarah-but about the wedding. This was the twenty-first century; there wasn't any real reason why they had to get married before the baby arrived, and waiting until next summer meant they would be able to take their time with the planning, rather than this mad rush to get all the ducks lined up. It wasn't like Third and Anne had threatened him with a shotgun. Anne was actually on his side on the topic. No, this was all Hannah's hang-up, and no matter what he tried, he couldn't get her to change her mind.
And the stress.... Hannah was a lot like Dean pre-Marcy: she communicated mainly through sarcasm, innuendo, and bad jokes. Under stress, that sarcasm became knife-sharp, and her temper, already short, became worse. Mix in pregnancy hormones and a fiancé who had no idea how to handle wedding prep or large, nosy families....
Sam was trying very hard to be a supportive fiancé and steady voice of reason, but right now, reason just kinda...bounced.
Sam stifled a sigh and looked up at the pictures that decorated the hall. He'd been here when he answered his phone, and Hannah had the most unnerving knack of knowing when he was trying to do two things at once, so he'd just sat down until the call was over. Images of Dean and Marcy's wedding stared back at him.
Dean and Marcy had done this. Not with a baby on the way, true, but they'd put together a wedding in less time. If Dean could do it, Sam could.
"You know, this would be easier if you'd put some input into this," Hannah snapped.
How the hell had Dean and Marcy done this? She'd gotten Dean into a church wedding, for Christ's sake. Dean!
"I gave you my idea," he replied evenly. "We could surprise everybody when they get ba-"
"Reynoldses do not elope."
The opening was too good to resist. "Marcy did." Sure, that had been her first marriage, and the guy was an ass, and it had imploded rather spectacularly from everything Sam had put together, but the fact remained: Marcy had eloped. Precedent was important to the Reynoldses. Sam had learned that much.
"Yeah, and we all saw how well that one worked out. I want this to stick, Sam. Like Marcy and Dean."
He rubbed his temples, silently wishing for a drink. "You know, I don't think the one actually has anything to do with the other."
"Sam."
"I don't have any ideas. I told you. I don't know about this kind of thing."
"You've been engaged three times-"
"They never got to this point." Probably just as well, because Renee would have turned into a bridezilla of epic proportions, given that personality about-face she'd suffered after they were official. "We never even got around to setting a date."
"None of them?"
"None of them. I swear to God, Hannah, you're my only wedding. First and last."
She sighed. "Fine. But if you wind up in a pink tux, I don't want to hear a word."
He snorted. "If you pick pink tuxes, it's not me you're going to have to worry about. Dean will skin you alive."
"Oh, come on." There was less stress and more humor in her voice now. Good. "Dean likes me."
"I'm not sure he'd wear pink for Marcy, and remember, he actually knows how to skin-" His phone beeped. "Hang on." He didn't recognize the number, but the caller ID said "Continuing Ed," and Rissa's camp was at a college. "I think the camp's calling me. I'll try to make a decision. Other than to keep the pastels away from the tuxes."
She laughed. "You better."
He chuckled and hung up on her so that he could answer the second call. "Sam Winchester."
"Is this Rissa's uncle?"
"Yes-"
"Oh, good. This is Mrs. Stapper, I'm the camp coordinator- I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but we need you to come and get Rissa."
He glanced at his watch. Barely three-thirty. "Now?" he asked, pushing himself up off the floor. "Is she all right?"
"She had a-a panic attack, I think. During this afternoon's demonstration." Her voice shook a bit as she told him which building she was in and where to park. Whatever had happened, she had not been prepared for it, even after all Dean's warnings. "Please hurry."
***
Mrs. Stapper turned out to be the lady from registration, and she was anxiously waiting for him in the lobby of one of the main office buildings. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She's resting in my office. She said she needed it dark and quiet, so I thought I'd meet you here and discuss it first."
"What happened?"
Mrs. Stapper looked uncomfortable. "We have demonstrations after lunch, before they settle down into the afternoon workshop. Usually science-type things, or things too complicated or dangerous for us to teach them, just so the kids can get a look at it. Today, the fiber and fabric kids had a museum expert showing them a burn test-"
"A burn test?" Christ, couldn't the woman figure out that a kid as fire-traumatized as Rissa didn't need to be exposed to anything called a burn test? He knew Dean and Marcy had warned them, he'd seen the paperwork. Not to mention, Rissa's scars were fucking obvious. Nothing but fire or acid could have caused them, even to a civilian's inexperienced eye.
"It's a method of determining the fiber content in an unknown fabric." At his blank look, she went on, "Cotton burns differently than wool , and both are different from polyester, and so on. If you know what you're doing, it can be very definitive. It's only a small sample that's burned, hardly an inch square, and they seldom burst into actual flame or anything, so I didn't think- Maybe it was the smell. I just don't know. Mr. Winchester had warned us about Rissa's-condition-but I didn't think it would be enough. She handled the fire at the blacksmithing demonstration just fine-"
A forge wouldn't have produced the same smell as burning fabric-a stink Rissa would be very familiar with, after all those house fires. And smell could provoke a memory much more strongly than sight.
"One of her friends knew what was going on, and helped us calm her down some. He's still in there, she wouldn't let him leave. He's the one who found her medication and told us to call you before we had even figured out what was going on."
Made sense. A close friend would have probably seen Rissa have one of these attacks before. Probably kept it from getting a lot worse, or at least helped bring her out of it. "So she's had her meds?" That was the important part. Dean had been very clear on that. Without them, she'd just keep having attacks, sometimes for days-an insane level of stress for a healthy adult; for a child with Rissa's issues....
"Yes. Almost immediately. As soon as they found them and got her something to wash them down with. She seemed a little out of it by the time we got her here, I assumed because of their effects-"
"Probably." Sam couldn't be sure on that, because to the best of his knowledge, he'd never seen Rissa after an attack, but it was a good bet. "Where's your office?"
"Just over here." Mrs. Stapper led him down a hall and pushed open a door with her name on it. It was dark and gloomy inside, the blinds pulled and the lights off, but there was enough light for him to see that Mrs. Stapper must be fairly important in the school, as her office was big enough for a couch and small conference table in addition to a large executive desk.
Rissa was lying on the couch, eyes closed, a damp paper towel on her forehead. The boy with the crutches was sitting in one of the chairs from the table, holding her good hand, and the look he shot Sam was so fiercely protective that it took everything Sam had not to laugh. He wondered if Dean and Marcy knew that Rissa had a friend.
"Risible?" the boy whispered. He had his own nickname for Rissa? Rissa was going to be in so much trouble when Dean and Marcy found out about this. Dean could barely stomach the idea of Maggie dating. (The overreaction to junior prom had been epic.) "He's here."
She opened her eyes and squinted through the gloom-and did not look happy to see him. She set the paper towel neatly aside and levered herself up carefully, like an old woman, like every muscle and joint ached. Her friend scrambled to get up on his feet so that he could help her up.
"Hey, Rissa," Sam said, as gently as he could, and got an incredibly nasty look for the effort. From both of them. "Let's get you home, okay?"
She said nothing, just pushed herself off the couch, using her friend's hand for leverage. "My bags-"
"He's got it." The friend shot Sam a glare and jerked his head towards the desk. Sam took the hint and picked up Rissa's backpack and stitch bag. Plainly, Rissa wasn't going to let him help her, and just as plainly, the boy wasn't about to let Sam horn in on being helpful.
She walked like she'd taken a beatdown-which Sam supposed was true enough, in a way. The limp that was normally hardly noticeable had become pronounced. And she stumbled over every uneven spot, but that was probably because of the meds. Dean had gone over them with him twice, because they weren't the kind of thing usually prescribed to kids her age, and because the side effects were pretty severe. To be honest, Sam was surprised she could walk at all.
The boy apparently had similar thoughts, because he limped beside Rissa all the way to the car, catching her whenever she stumbled. Three times Sam started to say something about how it would be smarter to let Rissa lean on him and let the kid on crutches handle the backpacks, but he never got more than a syllable out before he got another death-glare. Sam finally just gave up and walked ahead to get the Impala unlocked and make sure the door was open for her.
All that, and the boy didn't even hug her. Teenagers.
"I'll call you later," the boy said, and closed the Impala's door with a glare at Sam that left no doubt-to Sam, anyway-as to why he was saying that. That was an I'm checking up on her, so you better treat her right threat if ever he'd seen one.
He didn't laugh. He felt his lips twitch, but he managed not to laugh. This was like being threatened by a kitten. Granted, the kitten could probably get in a good whack with one of those crutches, but considering that he could barely use them to walk....
Sam waited to make sure the kid got himself back up on the sidewalk and was safely limping back to the building before he got into the car. "You okay?" he asked Rissa as he started the engine. That got him a glare that even he could interpret as no, you dumbass. "We can go get something to-"
"I'm fine."
Well, that was more than he usually got. "Would you like to stop by Hannah's? Or I can ask her to-"
"I'm fine."
Sam had a sudden flash of sympathy for his father. Had he been like this?
"And I'm not hungry," she added, to his surprise. "So don't ask me about food."
"You sure-"
"No food," she said between clenched teeth.
Maybe nausea was one of the side effects. Dean had only specifically mentioned that she shouldn't be trusted around anything more complicated than a lamp for several hours, and should probably be supervised with the lamp. "I'll get you home so you can lie down," he said. If she was still stumbling that badly when they got home, she probably wouldn't be able to manage the stairs, but he could carry her up. If she gave him any shit about it, he'd put her in the damn stairlift. Dean never used them, but Sam was pretty sure the thing had seat belts. Lacking that, there were jump ropes in the playroom. The Trio had tied him to a chair a few weeks back.
He pushed the speed limits as far as he dared and they made record time back to the house. Without the van and Bruce in the garage, there was room for him to park the Impala however necessary, so he got the passenger side as close to the interior door as he could and still have room to get Rissa out. "I'll get your stuff," he said when it looked like she might reach over the seat to get her bags. "You just get in and get to bed."
How the hell did Marcy teach all of them to give him that same death-glare? "I need my bags."
Fortunately, since he'd put them in the car, the bags were behind the driver's seat and out of her reach, unless she climbed half over the seat. To keep her from doing that, Sam simply went around the car and opened the door and waited. "Come on."
She was seething now. "I want my bags."
No, that stubbornness wasn't Marcy's influence, it was Dean's. Sam had long ago lost count of the number of times he'd had to bully his brother into not doing things that were beyond his current health status. More than once he'd had to wrestle the Impala's keys away from Dean when he was drugged to the gills after a fight, which was pretty close to this situation. Dean never wanted to behave for his own good either. "Rissa, you don't need the bags right now, you need to lie down and rest."
"I. Want. My. Bags," she ground out.
Think like a parent, Sam. "I'll bring them in, but they're staying downstairs," he said, trying to say it the way Dean would. "You don't need them right now, and I don't want you tempted."
The hate-filled glare told him that he'd gotten the tone mostly right, anyway.
He held out his arm, but she refused to take it. No surprise there. She clung to the Impala's door, pulling herself slowly out of the car, and for a second he thought her bad leg might actually buckle beneath her, but she grabbed on to the door with both hands and kept herself from crashing to the concrete. He took the opportunity to unlock the kitchen door, and then got out of her way, reaching in to get her bags out of the car. She might have relaxed, just a bit, when she saw that he was keeping his word. Sam couldn't be sure.
That left him nothing to do but to trail behind her as she limped through the kitchen and past the dining room to the stairs. "You want me to turn on the-"
"I don't need any help!" she snapped. Her hand clenched on the stair railing and she began climbing-one step at a time, agonizingly slow, with such a death-grip on the banister that Sam was surprised she wasn't leaving marks in the wood. How did Dean manage this?
She was probably more cooperative with Dean. And Dean probably managed to get the poor kid to bed before shoving meds into her. Had Dean said when the last attack was? There had been the one over the wedding. Before that? Probably before he moved in.
"Okay," he said, feeling helpless, and set her bags in the chairlift seat.
It hurt to watch her climb the stairs. Twice her bad leg buckled, and Sam had to restrain himself from chasing up the stairs after her. Bad as this was, if he forced his assistance on her, it might spark nightmares, and that was something neither one of them wanted.
Rissa stopped a moment at the top of the stairs, wobbling a little, and for a second Sam thought he was going to have to put her to bed after all. But she only turned around long enough to growl, "See? Fine," before she stumbled off to her room.
Oh, you're Dean Winchester's kid, all right.
He waited until he heard her door close, then pulled out his phone and punched in a number.
"Reynolds Carolina Enterprises."
"Hannah Reynolds, please." He was going to be so happy when they got her line set up so he could dial straight in. She wouldn't answer her cell during work hours, the result being that half the company switchboard knew him by voice, and he was pretty sure they thought he was either completely lovesick or overly possessive, given the number of times a day he was calling. The fact that at least seven of the receptionists and switchboard operators were cousins did not help. They take this whole "family business" idea way too seriously.
The irony did not escape him.
"Hi, Sam," the voice on the other end said, proving his point. "Just a minute."
At least RCE sprang for good hold music. Nothing vocal, all instrumental-didn't want to offend anybody here in the Bible Belt-but "instrumental" covered a wide range, and he was pretty sure the song playing in his ear was one of those symphonic metal bands that Firth liked so much.
A voice cut through the guitars. "Hel-lo, beloved!"
Sam blinked. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Hannah answer the phone with such a chipper voice. Definitely not in the last few weeks. "Somebody's in a better mood," he said, feeling some of his own tension ebb.
"I got to order my own shiny new furniture instead of getting everybody else's hand-me-downs. It's a first for me." He smiled at that, understanding; he'd hated the extra expense, but he'd felt the same way when he had to buy new textbooks instead of used. "Rissa okay?"
"She had an attack. What are you doing tonight?"
"Tonight? Nothing. Why?"
"Do you have any idea what her favorite food is?"
"KFC. Why, Sam?"
"Bring it when you come over for dinner."
"I'm coming over for dinner?"
"At the least. She's scared of me, remember? I'm afraid I'm gonna push her over the edge into another attack no matter what I do." He looked up the stairs. "And I think Dean said something about how her attacks spark nightmares sometimes-"
"Every time," Hannah corrected. "At least one." Sam would love to know how Hannah knew that when she hadn't been here any more than he had in the last ten years, but now was not the time. "Lemme check- I can be there about sixish. Too late?"
"She doesn't even get out of camp until six, so that would actually be earlier than we usually eat."
"Then let's push it to seven. It takes at least three hours before she's ready to eat, but she'll be starving when she does, and I've gotta call B- A very cranky man in another time zone about something." She paused. "You're wanting me to stay the night, aren't you?"
He managed not to beg. "Can you?"
There was a sound of tapping keys, then some rustling papers. She must have gotten her computer set up. "I think I can. If no emergencies come up." Sam didn't ask what kind of emergency. If he showed too much interest, Third might offer Sam a job, and Sam would feel obligated to take it, and as much as he loved Hannah, he did not want to wind up working with her. They weren't like Dean and Marcy; they needed the insulation of a little mystery. "I'll bring food and we'll figure it out from there, how's that sound?"
"Perfect." He glanced up the stairway. "Is there anything I-"
"Don't lock yourself in your room. You need to be able to hear in case she falls."
"Falls?" Dean hadn't mentioned falls. Dean had mentioned meds and supervision and nightmares.
"The meds throw her off enough that sometimes she forgets to compensate for her bad leg. Dean never thinks to warn people about it because he has the same issue sometimes. Last year when I was here, she did that, and she landed kinda twisted and couldn't get up without help."
"Oh. Okay."
"Find something you can do in the living room. Hell, go to the room you're using and take a nap."
Made sense. "An afternoon without the boxes will probably do me good," he said, and she laughed.
Sam called Dean and left a message about Rissa's attack; he'd half hoped Dean or Marcy would answer, but Dean must have been right about Marcy forcing him to leave the phone in the van, where it couldn't be a distraction. They were probably only checking for messages once a day or so, which meant he likely wouldn't hear from Dean until tomorrow morning. No help for tonight.
Sam wound up sitting on the couch, going through Rissa's file again, then re-reading one of the Harry Potter books snagged from the older kids' playroom, one ear cocked for any unusual noises, but the upstairs remained silent. The house was so quiet that when the kitchen door opened and Hannah called out his name, Sam was so startled that he actually lost his hold on the book. It skittered away, and he had to get on his hands and knees to excavate under one of the love seats for it.
"Not the view I was expecting," Hannah's voice said approvingly somewhere behind him, just as his fingers managed to find the book.
"Hannah!"
"What?" she asked innocently. "I didn't say it was a bad view."
Sam got to his feet and tossed the book onto the couch. "Minx. Why do I put up with you?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a thorough kiss. "Because I brought supper," she said when she finally let go. "Duh."
"Is this one of those 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach' things?"
"Silly man. The way to a man's heart is between the fourth and fifth ribs." That came with a poke in that general area. "You should know that."
He laughed. "Have I told you that you worry me?"
"Frequently. Is she up?"
"Not that I've heard."
Hannah nodded. "Sounds about right. You go set everything out, and I'll go get her. If she's asleep-"
He flinched. He could just imagine what Rissa's reaction would be to waking up with him leaning over her. "I'm not arguing. Oh, and take her bags upstairs, will you? They're on the stairlift."
Hannah grinned. "Tried to carry them up herself, didn't she?"
"It's like Dean's stubbornness is fucking contagious. And somehow I don't think Marcy helps."
"You are learning, lover mine. And Marcy said nothing would get through that Winchester skull." He made a face at her, and she smacked his ass before heading upstairs.
***
It was like there was a completely different girl sitting at the kitchen table that night. She was still tense, and wouldn't look at him, let alone address him directly, but she gave Hannah bright smiles, if a little lopsided because of the scarring on the right side of her face, and even laughed a couple of times. Because the drugs were still in Rissa's system and limiting her dexterity, Hannah had opted for finger foods, potato wedges and chicken strips, rather than anything on the bone or requiring utensils. To Sam's surprise, they even had a playful fight over the last biscuit.
This is how she's supposed to be, he thought, a little sadly. This was a Rissa he'd never seen. This was the Rissa who was supposed to be his niece, and it made his heart ache that he didn't know this girl.
"Hey, squirt," Hannah said casually, freezing Rissa as she tried to make her escape. "Mind if I spend the night?"
Rissa gave her a look. It took the rest of the family two working eyes to convey that much sarcasm. "Like I could stop you."
"You say the word, I go home."
Rissa's gaze flicked to Sam, so quickly that he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it. "Keep the noise down," she said finally-channeling both parents again-and she was gone.
"You sure about this?" Hannah asked quietly.
"You're the one who said she always has a nightmare after. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to calm her out of it. I tried to help her up the stairs and she nearly had a meltdown."
"Not arguing, but having me spend the night? Didn't Dean and Marcy leave orders about that?"
"Yeah. They said not to wake her up." Hannah snorted. "Also there was something about staying out of their bed, but I really didn't think that would be an issue."
"You have absolutely no sense of adventure, Sam Winchester."
"Sure I do. I agreed to marry you, didn't I?" She gave him a look. "We are not having sex in my brother's bed!"
"Prude."
"I don't think a prude could keep up with you," he said dryly, and she laughed and leaned over for a kiss.
She'd made it all the way into his lap when a young voice said "Ew," and they broke apart to find Rissa standing there, a glass in one hand.
"You'll change your mind eventually, squirt," Hannah teased, earning herself a skeptical look that made Sam choke on laughter. Rissa rolled her eyes, put the glass in the sink, and made another hasty exit.
Hannah waited until Rissa's footsteps were going up the stairs. "Seriously, though," she said, "our surprise isn't going to be a teenager. Right?"
***
The room he'd claimed was one of the "older kid" rooms, for kids too old or too big-or too damaged-to share, across the hall from Rissa's. Sam hadn't thought about Hannah staying the night when he claimed it.
He'd gotten used to having the king bed downstairs mostly to himself-or sharing the queen mattress at Hannah's place-and had completely forgotten how annoying it was to cram two adults onto a full mattress. He'd managed with Jess, though, and every time he brought a girlfriend down for Christmas, so he and Hannah could manage for one night. She was a cuddler, anyway, so it wasn't like there was going to be a lot of space between them, even if the bed had been three times as large.
"God, I wish Marcy had better taste in nightshirts."
Sam swallowed a grin. Hannah hadn't stopped at the apartment, since it was out of the way, so she'd broken into Marcy's closet to find something to sleep in. They were about the same size, but Marcy apparently favored long, extra loose shirts for sleeping, and Hannah preferred...not so much. And Marcy was a bit more, um-
"Quit staring at my tits, Sam."
"I was looking at your anti-possession tattoo," he defended himself, trying not to laugh. "Although if that collar comes any farther down-" She automatically hitched the shirt's neckline up on one shoulder, causing it to fall further down the other one, and he had to laugh.
"I feel ridiculous," Hannah grumbled. "And quit laughing at me," she added, smacking him on the arm.
"I'm not laughing," he protested. She snarled at him. "No, really, it just reminds me of when Ananda stole one of my T-shirts a few weeks ago." Her eyes widened. "And yes, she was going around the house wearing it."
Hannah just stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Oh, my God," she finally managed, falling into bed beside him. "She must have looked like she was wearing a circus tent."
"Oh, she did."
"How did she even keep it on?"
"She got two of the bag clips out of the kitchen and used them to hold up the extra fabric around the neck." He chuckled, remembering. "I'm not sure who was more shocked, Dean or Marcy."
"Not you?"
"With Ananda? At this point, I'm getting used to it."
Hannah dialed down the lamp. "Well, at least there's one good thing about our cramped quarters," she muttered, sliding her arms around him and hooking one leg over his. "So, what'd they do?"
"Well, there was a point to be made about stealing people's clothes, of course."
"Of course. Poor Ananda."
Sam smiled. "Once we were pretty sure she'd gotten the message, I talked Anne into altering it, and gave it to her. It's now her favorite nightgown and Marcy is extremely pissed at me-"
"You mean more?"
He ignored the comment. "-because she won't wear another one long enough to get that one washed."
"You big softie."
"She kept looking at me like I'd stomped on her puppy. She didn't even break into my room for a week."
Hannah laughed. "She so has you wrapped around her little finger."
"Jealous?" he asked lightly.
"Not as long as there's enough of you to wrap around mine. And our surprise's." She chuckled. "Admit it, Sam. You love your little parasite."
"There's something wrong with that child," he grumbled, "and yes, I do. Dammit."
"Being Uncle Sammy fits you, you know."
"Sure it does," he said, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Just ask Rissa."
"Sam." She pushed herself up. "It doesn't work that way."
"What doesn't?"
"Family." She sighed. "Look, I love Dean like a brother, you know that, but the man has got some serious issues in this area, and he made sure you got them too. Maybe because of the way you two grew up, just you and your dad and never being quite safe, but- In a normal family, there's going to be people you don't get along with. People you love but don't like. Maybe even people you don't love. Look at Marcy and Sean."
"If it involves Sean, I'd really rather not." Sam had never seen two siblings who disliked each other that much, not without some significant history between them. Marcy and Sean didn't have that. By all reports, Marcy and Sean had simply hated each other since Sean was big enough to toddle after her.
"You know what I mean. You and Ananda are one extreme, and you and Rissa are the other. It might be that all you can hope for is neutrality."
"But-"
"Sam, what if it turns out that the reason she's scared of you is because you look like somebody in one of her foster homes that tried to molest her? Are you going to try to force her to be your best friend then?"
"I'm not trying to do that now!" he said, stung. "I just want her to stop acting like I'm going to hurt her! She's safe with me!"
"But she doesn't know that yet," Hannah pointed out. "It's only been six months."
"She's been adopted-"
"You haven't been here but six months, all told," Hannah corrected, "and you know damn well that there are plenty of monsters that manage to camouflage themselves for that long. Including the human kind. Fixing this between you, if it even can be fixed- It's going to take time, a lot of it, and I wish to God she hadn't had that attack today because one wrong word is just going to set you two back another year or more, but this- It's what we got, Sam. There's no point in wishing for something different."
Maybe not. But he couldn't help it.
***
Sam jerked awake, and didn't know why.
Hannah moved faster than he did, mentally and physically; she was over him and out the door before his brain woke up enough to realize that there had been a scream. He staggered out of bed after her, fumbling for the lights. By the time he got to Rissa's room and turned on the lights, Hannah had gotten her awake, and Rissa had her face buried in her aunt's shoulder.
Sam stood helplessly in the doorway, watching as Hannah rocked Rissa in her arms. Part of his mind kept saying that he should be doing that-but he knew that if he tried, it would just make Rissa worse. After all, this was why he'd asked Hannah to stay the night in the first place.
He slipped back to bed to wait for Hannah. It took longer than he expected; he'd dozed off, despite the lamp, and woke up when she slid back under the covers. He glanced at the clock. Nearly two hours. "Hey," he said, pulling her close.
She laid her head on his shoulder. "I don't know," she answered his unspoken question. "It's different, this time. I've seen her nightmares before, and this time.... Something's wrong."
"At the risk of sounding egotistical-"
"It might be you. It might be something else. There's so much she won't tell anybody, even now- When it comes to you, she's kinda weird."
"No shit."
"Also, she knows."
"Knows what?"
Hannah chuckled. "She knows, Sam."
He sat up. "What? How?"
"Don't ask me." She tugged him back down. "Maybe-"
"No. No way. Dean wouldn't-"
"I'm pretty sure he didn't. I know Marcy didn't. But once I got her calmed down and tucked back in, she looked up at me, I thought she was just going to say good night, and instead she-um-asked if I was pregnant."
That um spoke volumes. "That's not how she said it, is it?"
"No. And you don't want to-"
He sighed. "What did she call me?"
"Well, it was more along the lines of 'how could you possibly agree to fuck Satan and carry his spawn,' only more polite, because this is Rissa and not Maggie, but.... Hell, Sam, she doesn't-"
"I know, I know." He sighed. "I wish she'd tell me what I did."
"You may not have done anything. PTSD is a funny thing. And at least half of it was that sex-is-icky attitude that kids have before they discover hormones."
"So I'm only half Satan?"
"Three fifths?" He groaned, and she laughed. "Hey, a month ago, you weren't human. You're making progress."
"Yay me."
"Give it time, Sam." She was quiet then, for so long that he'd nearly dozed off, and her voice startled him. "You know, it's weird, but I just noticed. She doesn't have any light in her room."
"Of course-"
"No, she has the lamps and the overhead light, but you turn those off, and there's no light at all. Her clock's one of those old-fashioned ones with hands, it doesn't even glow in the dark, and she keeps the electronics in a drawer when she's not using them. She's taped off the indicator lights on the chargers and cords that have them. She's got blackout curtains on the windows, and I remember Marcy saying something about how Rissa kept complaining that the rooms were too bright until they finally put her in that one, since it faces the backyard and doesn't get anything from the security light, and even then, they had to put something on the bottom of the door to block out light from the hall. Turn off the lights, close the door, and it's pitch black in there."
"I don't-"
"She asked me about the baby after the lights were out."
Chapter 4