It's Dean's fifth birthday, and he still isn't talking.
He walks around the small motel room they'd just begun staying in, often times holding baby Sammy, not saying a word, gazing at everyone with those large, imploring eyes. It near breaks John's heart. He doesn't know how to bring up the issue of Dean's birthday. Past birthdays were celebrated with cake and streamers and balloons and Mary. All things John couldn't acquire this year. He had no gifts for his boy, nor the money to buy any. They'd had a small bike with training wheels in the garage of their house. Mary had been so happy to find it at a garage sale a month earlier, and they were going to give it to Dean on his fifth birthday, the day he became a big boy, in Mary's words. For some reason, she'd seen it unfit to give a four year-old a bike for that Christmas, but it was okay for their five year-old to have it. Something about him growing up. John didn't understand it, as he'd wanted to just let him have it for the winter holiday, but he wasn't one to argue with Mary when she had her mind set to something. Once she wanted something, you'd better believe she wouldn't quit until she got it. It was that determination and fire that led John to proposing. Her spark was what completed him.
But now, it looks like Dean won't be getting anything for his birthday, much less a bike. John's heart aches for the best for his boys, but it's hard to give them that when they have next to nothing. He's eternally grateful for Mike and Kate's generosity in letting them stay in their house for as long as they did, but they had long overstayed their welcome. John had them holed up at the cheapest place he could find between here and Topeka, in hopes that he could scrounge up some money before they could scramble off and leave this mess behind them. John thinks that if he can get away from the source of his despair, maybe he can live a relatively normal life and care for his boys and just push all of the evil memories out of his mind. He can find a job, or open his own garage. He can give his sons birthdays.
Except he doubts that they will ever live a happy life after this. He went to the psychic, Missouri Moseley, last month and she told him the truth. There were monsters in this world. Vampires and werewolves and ghosts and demons and pagan gods and who the heck knows what else. He knew that Mary's death hadn't been natural, and now he was going to kill the thing that did it. He got shivers at thinking about what had the power to pin a woman to the ceiling before setting her on fire. How could he fight such a being? For now, all he could do was research and training, all the better to prepare him for the day when he could kill the thing that had destroyed his life. That destroyed all of their lives. The need for revenge has consumed him. He needs to avenge Mary's death, and then he and his boys will be at peace. The smallest part of his mind tell him that Mary would disapprove of his actions, be he can't bring himself to care. The grief cripples him, a hellhound clawing away in his chest. Every morning when he wakes up to see the bed still and forever empty beside him are the mornings he finds himself pouring a fifth of whiskey in his morning coffee. He can't deal like this forever, so he knows having the head of Mary's killer will solve everything.
John looks sadly at Dean. He's just sitting on the grimy motel floor, watching his baby brother attempt to commando crawl around the room. His face is blank, devoid of any and all emotion. John hates seeing his boy like that. He remembers the Dean from months before, who was as hyperactive as kids got and never shut up, whether he was talking about Sammy or cars or dinosaurs. Going out and tossing around a football with his son after work had been one of the things John had looked forward to at the end of each day. Dean running into his arms, squealing, "Daddy!" made all the hardships he faced at work bearable. Just to know that his son loved him that much always made the hardened Marine close to tearing up. Now, he's just sitting there, not saying a single word and barely daring to look his father in the eye. All John wants is to wake up from this nightmare with Mary laying in bed next to him and Dean asking when breakfast is going to be. Sam would cry to be held, and Mary would soothe him with a hummed tune. All would be quiet and peaceful in the Winchester household.
John turns back to his book, sighing. He could dream as much as he liked, but it would never become a reality. This, he thinks as he studies a gruesome image of a creature called a wraith, is my new reality. Monsters and ghosts are what his life is now. No longer is he a happily married mechanic from Lawrence, but a widower and hunter of the supernatural.
He's distracted from his heavy reading by a tug on his pants leg. Dean is staring at him with those soulful, green eyes (Mary's eyes, he has Mary's ravishing, green eyes), begging for him to see something. He's pointing back to Sammy, who has stopped his modified crawling and is now sitting on his rump, a frustrated expression growing on his face. John frowns. This doesn't look good.
"What's up with him?" he asks, though he knows no one's going to answer. A small spark of hope swells in his chest every time he asks Dean a question like this, the miniscule hope that his son will actually acknowledge him and respond to his query. However, that spark is put out quickly when Dean doesn't even look at him, never can look at him, only turns back to Sam as if he can further assess the situation. John dog-ears the page he's on and kneels down next to the small child. Immediately, he figures out what the problem is. No wonder Dean fetched him, this one smells like a doozy.
"Alright, come here, Sammy." John lifts the squirming baby, who's starting to complain about what's in his diaper, into his arm, using a free hand to plug his nose. Somehow, this tiny kid with an ever-growing head of dark hair could sure pull a stinky one. John grabs the diapers and starts changing his baby boy out of his soiled garment on the carpeted motel floor, aware of his eldest's presence hovering over his shoulder. He's paying attention for next time, so he won't have to ask his father for help. John swallows thickly. He doesn't want his son to have to be prepared for next time, because he'll always be there for his sons. Dean won't ever have to change a dirty diaper because his father will be there to take care of it.
John sets Sam back down, rear all clean, before returing to the table and opening his book again. His eyes are reading the words, but he isn't taking any of it in. His gaze keeps drifting back to his sons. Dean is now laying on his stomach on one of the two beds, rubbing his eyes wearily as he watches Sammy do his thing. John exhales and wipes his hand over his face. The clock reads just past eight pm. Maybe it's time for the boys to get to bed. He often has to remind himself that his boys are still practically babies. They can't be going to bed at two in the morning like he was becoming accustomed to doing. He closes his book, finding himself sick of all the disturbing images and monstrous descriptions. He rises from his seat and ruffles Dean's hair on his way to picking up Sammy. The baby coos, and John lays him down in the coccoon of blankets Dean had created the night before for him to sleep in so he wouldn't roll off of the bed. He's a smart kid. Within minutes, Sam had dozed off, most likely only to wake again in a few hours because he's hungry or has dirtied his diaper again. Between that and Dean's reoccurring bad dreams, John never gets a full night of sleep. Not that he's been sleeping much.
"Your turn, kiddo," he says, watching as Dean's head begins to droop in exhaustion. The ghost of a smile appears on his face, and he picks up his now five year-old. Dean holds onto his father with a tense grip, as if afraid that he would leave him. John doesn't blame him; his mother had vanished just like that, so the fear that his father might do the same wasn't too irrational in his young mind. John hates that such a fear is aroused in his son. "I've got you, Dean," he whispers, and his son clutches him even tighter, if that was possible. He snuggles his soft, downey head into John's shoulder, and in this moment John doesn't want to let him go. He doesn't think Dean wants to be put down either. So, he stands there, cradling his son until he hears his breaths even out and feels a decrease in the severity of his son's grasp on his shoulders. John lays his son on the bed next to Sammy and tucks him in under the fluffy covers. Even in his sleep, his oldest somehow finds Sam and clutches him in his little arms like a teddy bear. Just like he'd clutched him the night of the fire, after John had thrust the six month-old into his arms so maybe his sons could get out while he tried to save Mary. But he'd failed miserably, and now he's left with two motherless boys, one of whom is surely scarred for life. John blinks the hot tears out of his eyes. At least he still has them. They both could have easily died in the fire, but they hadn't. They're still alive, and John can't ask for anything more. He wishes for his wife back, yes, like an ever gnawing pain in his gut, but at least he still has some of his family. He doesn't know where he would be if they hadn't gotten out of the burning house. He doesn't want to think about it.
John shakes his head. And with that happy thought, he might as well stay up a bit more. He has a whole collection of books to read about the supernatural, and he wants to learn as much as he can as quickly as he can. There's a whole ten volume set about demons, and another five books about how exorcisms and demon traps worked. John massages his temples. He sometimes wonders why he's forcing himself to go through this, but his mind's only response is the image of Mary's horrified face as she burned alive. She is his whole reason for doing this.
He reads for about four hours before the light begins to hurt his eyes and all of the words are jumbling. It doesn't help that half of the text is in Latin at this point. John pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking it might be about time for him to stop. He pulls himself to the sink and grabs a glass of sink water. It scratches his throat as it goes down, but he can't quite bring himself to care at this point. He's about to change into his sweats so he can go to bed, but he hears the sound of someone shifting under the covers. He listens, hoping it's just Dean getting comfortable, but the rustling sound doesn't stop. Great, he's having a nightmare. John can see his son's squirming figure, tiny fists gripping the white sheets. He's making a soft keening sound, and John's heart clenches painfully. The fact that this occurrence wasn't unusual makes him want to break something. He hates how his son suffers every night with the same agonizing phantasms. John doesn't have to be a genius to guess what they're about.
He goes to his son and tries to shake him out of his dream. The boy is writhing, twisting as if in pain. In some ways, John figures he is. Finally, Dean's whimpering subsides a bit and John can see his eyes open in the dim light. There are those eyes again. Pleading, wishing for something that John can't provide. John knows this, and scoops up his son in his arms for the second time this night. Dean is shaking, sobbing soundlessly as he curls up against his father's chest. John rubs his back, runs his hand through his boy's hair, does everything he can do to soothe his son. Dean clenches his fists in his dad's shirt, and John can feel the wetness of tears seep through the thin fabric to his skin. He wants to take away his son's pain, to make it all better, but he knows that this sort of thing will take time. Someday he will hear his son's beautiful voice again. He's not sure when, but he knows he will.
"It's okay, Dean," he murmurs after Dean's breathing is back to normal and he isn't convulsing as much. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going to leave."
Dean lets out a shaky breath and John feels his head nod against his chest. John holds him tighter than he had before. He needs his son's contact as much as Dean needs his. Finally, Dean pulls away, wiping his eyes, and settles back into his bed. John knows that the only reason he let go was because he was tired and didn't want to fall asleep in his father's arms again. John doesn't know why Dean's mind thinks that, but he lets him. This is a nightly routine now, so he knows the ritual and what comes next. Sometimes this happens twice in a night, if the dreams are bad enough. He doesn't know exactly what Dean's dreams are about, but he can guess.
Once Dean is asleep again, John decides to change before pouring over the books again. He doesn't know if he can go to sleep just yet, so he might as well get some more reading done. His eyes roll over the Latin demon rituals. He knows he'll have to memorize them all some day, but preferably not at one in the morning.
He rises from his seat again to go use the head. Dang it, he hates how utterly disgusting this motel is. There's maids that come by, but John's convinced that they don't actually do anything but empty the trash bins. The mirror has a huge crack running through it, and the tile floor is almost indistinguishable as tile due to all the mold growing on it. John hasn't let his kids stay in here for longer than necessary, in fear that they'll catch an outrageous fungal infection. That's the last thing he needs right now. The shower is dank and slimy, and John's grateful that he hasn't slipped and cracked his skull yet. John washes his face and brushes his teeth swiftly after doing his business, then goes back into the room, determined to actually go to bed this time.
That is, until he sees Dean sitting in his chair looking at one of his books. John runs to him and, to his despair, he sees that the book is open to a gory depiction of a demon's face. Dean's just looking at the picture with that vacant expression he always wears nowadays. John hates that blank expression. "Dean," he chokes out, pulling his son out of the chair and away from the book of evil, "don't look at my things, please. I don't want you to have bad dreams."
He realizes the horrible irony of his words and wants to slap himself. Yeah, right. Dean already has to live through nightly terrors of his burning mother, an image of which would make most grown men cower in fear. What's a little demon to him? But John doesn't want his sons to be exposed to all of this, not yet at least.
He's about to put Dean to bed for the third time tonight, but his son points to the table where the book sits, a puzzled look on his face. John sees no fear in his eyes, just question and wonder. John closes his eyes for a moment when he sees that his son actually wants to look at the book with him, scary images or not. Because nothing can be more frightening than losing your mother. John sighs. He feels for the little man; all of this monster stuff is nothing to him, not after what he'd seen the night of the fire. "Come here, bud." He pulls his son into his arms then sits, letting Dean sit on his lap. The boy leans his head on his father's chest, eyes never leaving the demon book. John rubs the nape of his son's neck comfortingly, flipping the page of the book to be confronted with an even more horrible image of a demonic figure being exorcised and sent to Hell. He hears Dean's breath hitch a bit, but the boy doesn't look like he wants his dad to stop. John flips on, revealing images getting more and more gruesome with demons killing and raping, but Dean still stays there. Father and son look at the book until it's over. John feels Dean's tiny fingernails digging into his arms as the boy hangs on for dear life. His green eyes look up at John, this time scared, but still asking him something. John hears the silent question: Why? Dean wants to know why all of these awful images are in this book. John doesn't have an answer, instead hugs his boy as tight as humanly possible.
"Are you scared, Dean?" he asks quietly. Dean nods. John smiles sadly. "It's alright, I am too." Dean's eyes grow wide, as if the possibility of his dad being scared of something was impossible. "But you don't need to worry, because I'm going to protect you from the monsters. Both you and Sammy." Dean nods again, this time John sees what might pass as the tiniest of smiles on his face. "You ready to go to bed yet?" Dean shakes his head rapidly, and John chides himself for showing a child macabre images right before bedtime. Of course Dean doesn't want to sleep, he knows he'll only wake up from new nightmares, ones with new disturbing images. John sure deserves that parent of the year award now.
Dean wraps his arms around John's neck, and he sees his son's game. The boy wants to be held again. Part of John's mind wonders when he'll grow out of this clingy stage, but his logical side reminds him that Dean is a traumatized little boy. He deserves all the comfort he can get at this point. "You know what? How 'bout you sleep with me tonight, huh?" John says. Dean bows his head in agreement, and the two of them settle down on the boys' bed. John lays down, and Dean, now holding his still sleeping brother, snuggles against his father's chest. Baby Sammy gurgles in his sleep, but thankfully doesn't wake up. John has an arm wrapped around the two of them, and arm that will shield them from the evil world and the monsters that live in it. He looks at Dean's angel face, the boy looking peaceful for once as he falls asleep. John can't remember a time after the fire where Dean has smiled, but he swears he sees the corners of his mouth turning up as he sleeps in his father's hold. John turns his neck awkwardly in order to kiss the top of Dean's head. "Happy birthday, son," he murmurs, before letting the sweet pulls of unconsciousness take him as well.
Out there in the spotlight, you're a million miles away,
Every ounce of energy, you try to give away,
And the sweat pours out your body, like the music that you play.
Later in the evening, as you lie awake in bed,
As the echoes of the amplifiers, ringin' in your head,
You smoke the day's last cigarette, rememberin' what she said.
What she said.
- Turn the Page, Bob Seger
Well that was sweet, I hope. And just for the record, I like Metallica's rendition of Turn the Page better than Bob Seger's original.
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