Fic: By Some Unseen Light, 2/5
Part 1
It rains on the Monday that marks the start of the third week and Theo can’t help the apprehension twisting his gut. He still has to go to Dean’s haunted house - biking in the rain, oh joy - and he’s fairly certain that even Dean won’t send him out to build his shack in the storm, but ever since he broke some unspoken rule, every moment at Dean’s has been a nerve wracking ordeal.
It doesn’t help that he can’t stop thinking about what Evan and Jake told him, but he’s certain that Dean has nothing to do with it. The man is difficult to understand and often standoffish or downright frigid, but that could just be the way he is - or how he’s been made to be, if some of Dean’s militaristic actions can tell him anything.
Theo can’t condemn the man for his eccentricities, because the ice that sneaks up his spine and the way his heart quickens when he steps onto Dean’s land - it can’t mean anything, right?
But Theo doesn’t know what to do when he pulls his bike up next to the porch to find Dean standing outside, watching him.
Theo has seen that Dean is more than the rumours paint him to be. He’s rough edged and grim, but he can also be that considerate sort of guy that grudgingly gives Theo lemonade and fifteen minute breaks.
Then there are times like this.
Theo has nothing to compare to the static prickle that rolls through his skin when Dean is like this.
It’s happened twice now - when Dean had pulled something from the shed debris during the clean up and when Theo had invaded Dean’s sitting room - so if there is a time to be afraid of Dean, then it’s not when he’s got his knives laid out, but now - standing silent, gaze hooded, face unreadable - because it is like this that Theo feels something slide between his ribs when he shouldn’t feel anything at all.
Blank as Dean is, there is something that reminds him of any number of programs he’s seen on television. Like a wolf ensnared in metal jaws; a jaguar, eyes dull green behind bars. Like the thousand yard stare of war veterans; the numbing cloak of death row.
Something deadly, but no more.
“You’re early.”
Dean’s voice is soft, barely louder than the patter of rain on earth, but Theo feels the blood shrink back from his skin, leaving his already wet and cold extremities even colder - corpse cold.
“I thought my trip would be prolonged by the weather,” Theo says, somehow not stuttering though his bones thrum, tuning forks singing unheard.
Dean’s eyes scan Theo’s drenched frame with one quick up and down flick before he jerks his head ever so slightly back, motioning for Theo to follow him into the dark of the house.
Theo has to fight the urge to bolt - towards the house or away, he’s too high strung to know - and makes a conscious effort to breathe before he trails warily after the man, holding back a wince when he notices how much water he’s dripping all over the floor.
He’s so busy worrying about upsetting the thin plateau balancing him and Dean again, that it’s not until he’s standing in the dim kitchen with them that he realizes Dean has a visitor.
“Who’s the kid?” the man asks, hazel eyes falling from a great height to land on Theo.
The man is huge. Taller than Dean or Theo and built like a truck, broad shouldered with a strong jaw and a wide forehead, the friendly smile on his face looking out of place. There are a few strands of grey in his hair and there are more lines on his face - both laugh lines and frown lines - but Theo recognizes him from the photo in the sitting room.
Theo feels a little relieved at that.
Dean limps up to the counter to shovel spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug, somehow not dirtying the shirt sleeves that practically swallow his hands. He closes the lid of the can before replying dully, “Loflin’s kid.”
“Loflin?” the tall man’s brows rise in confusion before his forehead wrinkles in interest, “Melissa and... Jeremy?”
“Got it in one.”
“Seriously?” the tall man’s eyes dart between Theo and Dean, “He hardly looks like, uh, Jeremy.”
“Good for him.”
“So, is he maybe…” the tall man averts his eyes from Theo, instead fixing them on Dean as he trails off, one hand waving in a loose circle.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says, spooning brown powder from an unmarked can into a second mug.
“Doesn’t matter?” the tall man repeats, brows furrowing, incredulous, “Dean, I was with you after he-”
“Leave it,” Dean bites out, pressing the lid of the can shut.
“Why?” the tall man stretches his arms to his sides, as if to encompass everything into his question, “I mean, we’d narrowed it down to five, so why won’t you just try to reach-”
“Haven’t I fucked enough things up?” Dean shakes his head, face twisting, “I don’t even know how I thought this would work in the first place.”
“I - I hear you, okay,” the tall man sighs, “But at least find him - see him, just to say goodbye - for closure.”
“I don’t need closure, Sam.”
The tall man - Sam - snorts, long brown hair falling out of place from where it had been tucked behind his ears, “Bullshit. You think I can’t see how much you still miss him?”
Dean slams a cabinet door shut as he puts away his cans of drink mix. “Don’t you have a family you should be winning bread for?” he snaps, taking a kettle off the stove.
“Just because I’ve got a white picket fence and a dog doesn’t make you any less my family, Dean,” Sam frowns, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall.
“I didn’t say that,” Dean says evenly, though Theo isn’t sure he won’t hurl the kettle of hot water he’s holding, “But you don’t have to check up on me every other week. It’s not like I’m going to go on a killing spree when you’re not looking.”
There’s a long silence after that, Dean pouring hot water into his two mugs, pointedly watching the curl of steam while the other man stares intently at him.
The sound of rain drumming against the house fills the quiet of the kitchen though it does nothing to sooth the brittle atmosphere. The three of them - or perhaps only two, the men having sealed themselves in their own world - swim under the weight of the air.
Then the tall man steps away from the wall, reaching a hand out towards Dean’s hunched shape, but Dean flinches back. The kettle drops a short distance to the counter with a heavy thud as Dean’s hands retreat up his sleeves, his whole body seeming to shrink into his oversized flannel.
The other man pulls back hurriedly, glancing away. “Yeah,” Sam says at last, “I know.”
There’s another long pause in which Dean gradually uncoils, though he still seems smaller than before - smaller than Theo ever thought he could be - and then he’s carrying on as if nothing happened.
He takes the elastic off of a small plastic bag and picks out a large white lump, tearing it almost in half before fixing it against the edge of one of the cups like a margarita lime. He doesn’t look up as he stirs the drinks, “Saturday, right?”
Sam nods stiffly, letting the topic of conversation shift, “Sarah’s making roast.”
Dean hums in approval, “Then I’ll bring the pie.”
“Max’s got a new thing for blueberries.”
“Anything for my man, Max,” Dean lifts his head, a small smile on his lips - and it’s the first unshadowed smile Theo has ever seen on Dean’s face, tiny as it is.
Sam smiles back, a little surprised and a little uncertain, like he’s afraid the kitchen has a limit on the number of smiles that can be housed at a time, “Okay, well, I’ve gotta get to the university.”
“Another day of fuelling co-ed fantasies?” Dean chuckles dryly.
“Don’t be gross, Dean. I’m forty-two,” Sam huffs, “They’re genuinely interested in what I teach.”
“Right, ‘cause witchcraft and urban legends are so useful.”
Sam rolls his eyes, making his way out through the kitchen door, obviously having had this discussion before, “See you later, Dean.” Then he stops over the threshold, adds, “You need to get that shed fixed soon.”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tired, as the other man disappears out into the rain, and then he takes a clean looking dishtowel off a hook on the kitchen backsplash.
And the next thing Theo knows, the towel is draped over his wet hair.
In the few seconds it takes for him to wrestle the towel off his face, the thump of Dean’s cane has disappeared up the stairs and Theo is left alone in the kitchen.
He’s not sure what to do. Somehow the room still thrums with tension, like those words - a conversation held half in tongue and half in eye - have saturated the kitchen and stained the fabric of the area. A part of him wants to run up the stairs, to barge into Dean’s forbidden zone and ask him what the hell that had been about, but that same part cringes back, still held in the grip of Dean’s cold gaze, warning him away.
So he stands there, confused and on edge, like this house and its inhabitant tends to make him, wondering if he’s expected to go outside and work on the shed. And then he notices that one of Dean’s two mugs is still sitting, steaming on the counter.
Theo steps closer, towel clutched in his hand as he leans over to take a sniff.
It’s hot chocolate with a large marshmallow.
* * *
That evening, when Theo gets home, it takes a concerted effort to not bolt into the family room and start interrogating his mother. He forces himself to first shower and change out of his once again, rain soaked clothes, before calmly descending the stairs. He even manages to keep his fingers from gripping the banister like a life line and when he speaks, he sounds as bland as he does on any other given day.
“Mom.”
“Mhmm?” his mother doesn’t look up from the newspaper she reads, sitting on the sofa in front of the television which is turned on - something Theo never understands since she can’t be both reading and watching the news.
“I was born here, wasn’t I?” Theo asks, seating himself stiffly in a nearby armchair, eyes turned disinterestedly towards the television.
Apparently it’s a slow news day; the reporter on screen recycling the day’s news, starting with the huge thunderstorm in Topeka and the subsequent blackout.
Theo’s mother licks her thumb; turns the page in her paper, “In Lawrence, yes.”
“How long did we live here before moving?”
“We stayed about... four years after you were born,” his mother lowers the newspaper for a moment, head tipped back like the information she seeks is written on the ceiling. Then she nods, “Yeah. That sounds right.”
“Why did we move?”
“Do you like this place that much?” his mother smiles, amused.
“I’m just curious.”
“There was some faulty wiring in the house. We didn’t want to wait around for something bad to happen and I got that offer in New York, so it seemed like a good time.”
“Then… how do you know Dea-Plant - Mr. Plant?” Theo stumbles over the name, not sure if he’s being too casual or too formal.
His mother closes the paper, turning her full attention to him after the unusual fumble in his speech, “Is something wrong?”
Theo looks sideways at his mother, the fingers of one hand pulling at a loose thread in the armrest of his chair, “He made hot chocolate for me.”
One elegant eyebrow rises, “You’ve had hot chocolate before.”
“Yes, but… he made it the way I used to make it - with a large marshmallow on the lip of the cup,” Theo tries not to show how much it disturbs him.
His mother laughs, bringing a slender hand to her mouth, “I’m sure you weren’t the only child who had margarita inspired cocoa.”
Theo’s eyebrows would be rising into his hairline if he were anyone else because he’s quite certain that children making winter drinks modelled after alcoholic beverages are rare enough without adding a generational gap.
“So you don’t know him, yet you leave me alone with him behind closed doors in a scarcely populated area?”
Dark brown eyes return to her newspaper as his mother shakes out the creases. It takes her a lot longer than it should to give him a real answer, but when she does, Theo understands her discomfort on the subject, “He’s a friend of your father’s. That should explain the alcoholic theme.”
Theo huffs, not looking at the family portrait hanging awkwardly above the fireplace, “I thought you didn’t trust Dad or his friends.”
His mother frowns, the wrinkles appearing at the corners of her mouth betraying the thirty something years make up can’t hide, “Has Mr. Plant proven untrustworthy?”
Theo returns her frown and replies, “People say he’s responsible for the missing teens.”
“Do you think he is?”
Theo wants to say ‘yes’, if only to see how his mother would respond, but each time he tries to summon images of occult paraphernalia on the mantle, knives laid out in a row or the shivers that run through him when he steps on Dean’s property, all he can see are slumped shoulders and the smallest of smiles.
“No,” he says.
His mother nods, satisfied, “There we go.”
Then she’s leaning back into the sofa, smoothing a dyed blonde strand away from her forehead before continuing where she left off reading up on the market.
Theo tries to mirror his mother - watching the news recap on the ‘August abductions’. A third teen has disappeared - Ryan Brown - but Theo can’t say he’s particularly sorry to see that he’s missing. Watching his distraught relatives on television, talking about what a sweet child he is, Theo wonders if they know about his arrogant mean streak, not that he wishes any of them ill, especially after looking up the case from seven years ago.
Four children, two from Kansas City, one from Topeka and one from Lawrence, went missing on the same day. No connections could be drawn between them except that they were all the same age. Their bodies were found four days later in four separate locations centered around Lawrence - a hundred miles directly North, South, East, West of the city center. The killings had been ritualistic, the children lying as if sleeping within circles of black paint, strange symbols carved into their forearms - the wounds by which they bled to death.
Theo can see how Evan, having been personally affected, came to draw a connection between the past case and the ‘August abductions’ despite the differences between them. If there is a tie between the cases, then it’ll be difficult for officials to spot when the pattern has changed.
This time, all three missing teens come from the same Lawrence high school, and they haven’t all been taken at once. It’s like whoever is behind this is being more selective, slowly closing in on their end goal, whatever it may be.
So it shouldn’t be hard to focus on Brown when the news report hits so close to home, but Theo finds his eyes drifting inevitably to the family portrait.
It’s an ordinary photo shoot from when he was a boy. Six-year-old him sitting on his mother’s lap, the brown of her long hair melting in with his own dark locks, two sets of the same chocolate-hued eyes peering happily out from behind dusty glass. Theo always did take after his mother’s side of the family and he’s never met his father’s so he can’t make an accurate comparison.
Theo’s probably just projecting his current feelings onto the image, but even in the portrait of ten years ago, his father looks almost like a stranger. Despite the way he stands close behind them in the portrait, both hands resting gently on his mother’s shoulders, his father’s bright blue eyes seem to look far away, weary and too old.
“How does Dad know him?” Theo finds himself asking.
He doesn’t know why he bothers. Asking his mother about his father or vice versa is like doing dental surgery on a shark. It wasn’t always like this, as the family portrait so kindly reminds him, but lately, things have been falling apart.
Theo’s not so blind as to think his delinquency isn’t worsening matters, but he can’t find it in himself to look for alternative ways to feel alive. He has no goals, no sense of purpose or passion. It seems to be a common problem among his age group, but he feels lost and can’t quite bridge the distance between himself and the world, just like how his father can’t quite stop drinking and his mother can’t quite forgive the man for it.
His mother chews her lip, trying to find something to say, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Theo stands up, clicking the television off with a sharp jab of his finger to the remote.
Maybe he’s just being a whiny teen, angsting about his family, but it’s too much sometimes - being in the same room as them. The happy ghosts locked behind photo frames, the workaholic shell sitting on the sofa or the awkward mess sending one sentence emails from whatever city he’s working from this month.
Theo heads quietly out of the family room, seeking refuge in his bedroom - or the lattice outside his window, a godsend escape route.
He sighs as he ascends the stairs, “You could just admit you don’t know.”
* * *
Theo has a lot to think about in the days following Monday.
He doesn’t ask his mother again about anything regarding Dean, but he does send a few short messages to his father. He doesn’t expect to get a reply any time soon and he doesn’t.
He’s not even sure why he’s so curious. His mother’s probably right, and his father and Dean must share the marshmallow quirk, but that issue isn’t what’s fuelling his need to know. Something important was discussed in that kitchen, and while his parents’ names were only mentioned, he gets the feeling that the conversation was more pertinent to his family than he first assumed. But while he’s burning with curiosity, he doesn’t dare ask the source of all his anxiety. He’s not even sure if he can.
The minute shakes that start up in his hands when Dean’s nearby, the cold sweat that always breaks out on the back of his neck - all responses that seem to be as natural and ingrained as a rabbit’s fear of flying shadows.
The thing is, he’s not even sure if it’s fear, not after the sort of kindness Dean’s shown him, but what else could it be that makes him listen to the man when he’s never been so affected by anything?
There have always been authority figures - teachers, principles, and on one memorable occasion, officers - that try to intimidate him, talking down to him about being a punk or acting out. There have been kids his own age, wanna-be-bullies like Ryan Brown - whom Theo had easily ignored - and thugs like Nick Miller - whose motive on trying to stab him is still unknown to Theo.
Cool as a cucumber, his friend Justin had said of him, back when he’d lived in New York, before the mess with Nick Miller forced him to move. He wasn’t the one with the weapon, yet he’d still come out on top in that fight, so there have been plenty of situations for Theo to feel small or freaked out in, but he never had until Dean.
If fear is what this is.
Theo stands paralyzed in the back doorway, one foot in the kitchen and one foot still outside, blocking the screen door from closing behind him.
Dean is by the sink, one hand holding a mug of coffee frozen to his lips, the other with white knuckles, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter.
These are minor details Theo is only distantly aware of, because Dean isn’t wearing his usual jeans and oversized flannel. He’s wearing nothing but an AC/DC tee shirt and black boxer briefs.
And his skin.
Theo doesn’t have a hope in Hell of not staring, not when Dean is - his skin - it’s -
Theo’s seen pictures of burn victims and people who have been in really bad car crashes, but the scars Dean is covered in aren’t burn scars or thrown-through-a-window scars. There’s nothing accidental about the precise patterns carved in silver-red across Dean’s skin. Dean is far from mangled - more like he’s covered in tattoos - but something about the surgical lines makes Theo sick, gut roiling and his own skin feeling as if cold steel is tracing into him when he follows the marks down Dean’s arms, his legs, and-
His leg.
His leg is black.
Black like squid ink, like Dean stepped in black paint - sunk himself knee-deep in pitch - and it stained his flesh through and through.
Theo can’t look away, and fuck - he really, really needs to.
Their tableau breaks when Dean drops his mug.
The ceramic shatters on the tile floor and suddenly Dean is jolted into motion, stumbling back against the counter like a cornered animal, lips drawing up in a fanged snarl, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I - I always-”
“Don’t you read your fucking texts?” Dean spits, jaws snapping, “I told you not to come today!”
Shit, shit, shit. Theo had chucked his phone under his bed yesterday after Jake started sending him picture after picture of dicks, and that’s where his phone still is. He’s never felt such a strong simultaneous need to hide himself and hurt someone, and it keeps him trapped over the threshold like a fly sealed between glass panes.
“You fucking-” Dean starts, but then he slips in the coffee that’s splashed across the tile, and though he’s already braced against the counter, he slides down to the floor, knocking his head against the edge of the countertop with a sharp crack.
“Fuck!” Dean bellows, slumped against cabinet doors, head bowed and hand coming up to prod at the back of his skull, “Goddamnit! Fucking bullshit is c-”
And Dean was right. Theo’s not stupid. He’s got street smarts and he knows he could be book smart if he actually bothered with school, but all his intelligence seems to disappear watching Dean curled against the cabinets, cussing enough to make the paint on the walls peel.
Instead of fleeing like he should if he values his life, Theo approaches Dean. He falls to his knees by the man, hand reaching out and drawing back in alternating jerks, though he eventually manages to lay one hand on Dean’s shoulder. And Dean’s body is surprisingly cold - like he’s just stepped out of a freezer - even through a barrier of worn fabric.
Dean immediately falls silent and still like a switch has been flipped. He doesn’t look at the hand on the sleeve of his shirt, but he speaks icily, “Don’t touch me.”
Theo resists shivering and retracts his hand slowly, “Where… where is your first aid kit?”
Dean obviously wants to tell him to get the hell off his property and never show his face again - or crawl to the cutlery drawer to find a knife - but he can’t. Not when he’s half-sprawled on the floor, blood mixing with coffee as it trickles slowly from the gashes in the bottom of Dean’s feet.
Dean’s jaw works furiously, pride and anger and reason warring openly on his face. Then with a withering glare, he bites out, “Upstairs. Bathroom. First door on the left.”
Theo goes quickly, barely pausing at the foot of the stairs before taking the steps two at a time, entering the section of the house he’d been forbidden from. His head is spinning with the relentless waves of shit he just doesn’t understand. The photo, the scars, the leg - and though something about Dean’s flesh itches at the edge of his mind, nothing makes sense, so he stops thinking.
The bathroom is exactly where Dean said it would be and he wastes no time pulling open the medicine cabinet and grabbing the first aid kit.
When Theo returns to the kitchen, he sees that Dean has straightened himself against the cabinets and he glowers up at Theo like he curses the day Theo was conceived and all the years after.
“I - I’m-” Theo licks his lips uselessly, his tongue feeling like it’s covered in sand.
“Just toss the shit over, kid,” Dean grunts, waving a hand impatiently, the silver lines crawling up the back of his hand drawing Theo’s eyes like magnets.
“No, let me-” Theo crouches down to help Dean at the same time Dean jerks reflexively back, eyes wide and panicked as his voice cracks on a shouted protest.
But it’s too late.
Theo’s hand brushes against Dean’s skin and the world goes black.
Part 3