A/N: After way too long, I've returned to this AU series. Thanks for everyone who kept sending me messages asking for this new installment. I heard you. I appreciate you. I dedicate this one to you.
For those just discovering the series, it makes the most sense when you read the stories in order:
IN THE WIND
IN THE WOODS
IN THE BEGINNING
-oOoOoOo-
300 Polly Decker Road
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
6 p.m., December 20, 1998
Lucy Reese shook the cold from her bones as she stepped into the colossal mess that was the renovations of the former Simpson house. The home was long abandoned, since some time in the mid-1950s according to local stories and records. Lucy, a newly engaged 20-year-old, recently licensed real estate agent stopped by the house on her way home as the sun set and ominous clouds threatened yet another snow storm.
Her fiancé, Roy Halston, was the lead carpenter in charge of the renovations of the dilapidated Gothic Victorian structure. His father was the head contractor on the project; his mother (Lucy's boss) was the realtor who was going to oversee the sale once all the refurbishing was complete. It was a real family affair with the Halston's. Lucy avoided this property normally, but her job for this one night was simple: Drop by the house and make sure the work crew turned on the taps to a trickle so the pipes wouldn't freeze at night if the heater failed (which it did constantly as it was in dire need of replacing). During the day, the pipes were fine. The workers made sure the heater stayed on; at night, it was a ticking time bomb with the early 20th-century plumbing in need of replacement.
She never liked the house. She felt unwelcome the moment she crossed the threshold in November after it's sale to her soon-to-be in-laws. Even growing up in Sioux Falls, she found the place creepy. She always thought it odd that there it was no local story about a bloody murder occurring there for it certainly looked like it should be haunted. Maybe it was the vine-covered exterior. Maybe it was the worn-gray clapboards that gave it an eerie pallor. Whatever the case, she never liked being there and she especially did not like going there in the evening when the work crews were gone.
As she entered the home, two things struck her instantly. The first was the mingling smells of freshly sawed wood and slowly drying paint. The next was the chill. She reached for the switch on the wall to throw some light on the hallway, but the bulbs flickered briefly then went out entirely. She scoffed and gritted her teeth. Without light, she was not going to the basement to check the fuse box.
"I'd have made a rotten boy scout," she muttered.
She then giggled as her words unearthed a memory about her high school fling and his idea of "always prepared." She felt guilty about the warm flush that rushed to her cheeks as she thought of him. Publicly, they had been casual friends who left people wondering whether there was an itch between them or just suggestive teasing. Privately, they ditched their virginity together in the back of her father's pickup truck while parked at an abandoned quarry the summer before their junior year and continued the routine until graduation night when they said their farewells. She never knew until that last night that how much she liked the music of Led Zeppelin. Nearly two years later, she still couldn't hear D'yer Maker, read the band's name, or even see a faded concert T-shirt without her panties growing moist.
She blushed with the memory and sighed longingly over it as she hurried up the stairs to turn on the faucet in the upstairs bathroom.
"Roy's got more money, but he'll never be fun like you, Dean," she said softly.
As she reached the upper floor, Lucy felt the oppressive chill deepen. The air around her grew far colder than the rest of the house. She thought it felt even colder than the air outside as she was suddenly able to see her breath. She was just starting to wonder how that was possible when icy fingers gripped her neck and brutally squeezed.
-oOoOoOo-
1157 Benson Road
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
12:30 a.m., December 22, 1998
The little house, the one that once housed the now-defunct structure for St. Gabriel's Parish, stood at the edge of town. The landscape was mostly dark as thick, white flakes fluttered down from the steel gray clouds. The chilly night hampered nearly all sound. Everyone in the tiny house should have been sleeping. However, two people were stirring: one in the orange bedroom on the second floor and the other in the slightly larger room just down the hall.
In that larger room, Mary Winchester woke from her sleep bathed in a cold sweat. She sat up and gasped for breath as she shook with fear. Beside her, her husband John groaned quietly and reached a hand toward her. He clumsily patted her arm in a half-conscious effort at comfort.
"Mary?" John mumbled half-asleep still. "What is it?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, catching her breath and pressing her hand to her fluttering heart.
John rolled onto his side and squinted at her through the darkness. He then sighed in understanding and frustration. This was not a new occurrence for them. It just hadn't happened in a few years.
"Stop worrying," he said calmly through a yawn. "Dean's fine."
"You don't know that," she shook her head as her chest heaved with fright while her heart hammered against her ribs. She ran her hands over her face then sloppily through her hair. "He wasn't there either time I called him last week. He didn't return the messages I left him. He didn't answer today when I called. He was supposed to call us and verify his flight information. He didn't."
John growled, partly over the interruption in his sleep and partly in frustration with his oldest son. The first half Dean's life (and that of his little brother Sam) was stolen from the family. Dean disappeared without a trace at age four with his baby brother and remained missing for a decade. Fate and a few powers John didn't like to think about returned the boys but also left the Winchester family with a one unwritten (and until two years earlier, unbreakable) rule: Never be unreachable.
His latest stretch of absence was not so mysterious, but it came with its own unique pain—one of aggravation and disappointment. Until that fall, John felt certain that Dean's days of stretching his father's patience and well-set boundaries for acceptable behavior were over. The boy's desire to act out simply out of the need for rebellion ended when Mary was diagnosed with cancer during Dean's sophomore year in high school. Her rapid decline and near-death shook those urges out of the teen and forced a maturity on him (or awoke a dormant one) that left him as John's reliable second-hand, particularly where family matters and responsibilities were concerned. But both high school and Mary's illness were in the rear view mirror. Dean was away from home and engaged in radio silence at odd intervals. He would pop up on the parental radar eventually and never had what sounded like a good excuse to either John or Mary. None of his reasons were ever unbelievable for the average 19-year-old, but Dean Winchester was hardly average.
"Something's wrong," Mary insisted. "I know it."
"Yeah, so do I," John said. "We trusted him to act like a mature adult. That was a mistake."
"He should have called," she said.
"Yeah, but he didn't," John rumbled tiredly. "Face it, Dean excels at three things: talking back, his ninja jujitsu thing, and avoiding anything that makes him uncomfortable. He's scoring high on that third one this week."
"What could he possibly be avoiding?" she demanded. "He practically lived on the streets for 10 years. Being at home is something he likes."
"Being at home, yes," he agreed. "Coming home is another story—and I don't think Dean's the whole problem here."
John sighed. Two things were bothering her, and only one involved their oldest son. That problem was tagged as a few missed phone calls, but mostly what bothered Mary was that her son was not at home full time. Period. It was Mary's desire that Dean go to college. She just never prepared herself for how it would feel when he did what she asked. He made his mother a promise on what he feared was her deathbed and made good on it.
The other problem was tragic news in the paper that morning. A 20-year-old woman, still not publicly identified, was found dead outside a house in town. The initial story in the paper held that she died after slipping on the ice and hitting her head then laying exposed to the elements over a frigid night. Out of caution (and probably habit), Mary made a few discreet inquiries. She was told basically what the paper reported: The death was unfortunate did not appear suspicious. Still, hearing about the death of any person in the age range of her sons always put Mary on edge.
"That girl dying, whoever she was, was a terrible thing for her family, and I feel for them but it was an accident," he said. "Not every bad thing that happens to someone with a family is suspicious, and it certainly doesn't make it evil. Don't put yourself through this, Mary. The boys are fine. Not everything bad that happens is a sign that something worse is coming for us."
He placed a consoling hand on her shoulder only to feel her go rigid at his touch. He read the reaction for what it was, reluctance to agree with him simply because she had whipped herself into a hurricane of worry. Her storm would only subside once she heard Dean's voice telling her when he would be home.
"It's not normal that he didn't call," she persisted.
"What constitutes normal for Dean has gone through a bit of a shift since the fall," John noted. "His radio silence isn't appreciated, but this week its predictable when you remember that he's afraid of flying. Face it, our self-proclaimed badass son is what is more commonly called a coward when it comes to airplanes. Just talking about flying makes him nervous. Not confirming his flight until the absolute last second is his version of curling up into a ball and sucking his thumb."
She huffed and reiterated her bone-deep feeling there was something more going on than her age-old worries bubbling to the surface simply because her son skipped a check-in call. She also doubted something as small as a plane flight would cripple his ability to communicate. She scowled at the thought of the tired smirk she knew was on his face despite not being able to see his expression through the dark. One of the things she first loved about John Winchester was his innocence, his lack of knowledge about the dark and clawing things that lived in the shadows. Even after learning that things that go bump in the night were just as likely to be toothy as be nothing, he refused to see that there were things to fear, things he did not understand. Both her hunter's instincts and her mother's intuition were telling her there was a reason to worry.
"We haven't spoken to Dean in a month," Mary said with her voice growing brittle.
"We've heard from him," John offered.
"All we get are the messages he leaves with whoever answers the phone at the shop for you or whoever answered the phone for me at the library," she worried. "There's more going on than a fear of flying. I can feel in my bones."
John groaned softly. The only feeling in his bones was an ache from spending all day elbow-deep in a Chevy half-ton pickup that needed a new transmission. He didn't want to tackle a job that big just as the holiday arrived, but money was tight now that he had just expanded in their automotive repair garage. Of course, money was always tight for the Winchesters. John knew they were lucky Dean was managing to hold on to his financial aid. In fact, John considered it an outright miracle Dean got the sweet deal that first got him accepted at Notre Dame and next landed him an exceptionally generous scholarship, grant, and loan package.
He remained skeptical on Dean's dedication to repaying the loans. Of course, he also never thought Dean would stick with college through the first weeks of his freshman year much less see his sophomore year. That accomplishment left John open to the possibility Dean could still surprise him. After all, he got into a top university (and was pretty frank with his father that he only applied because his history teacher offered to let him out of a week of detention if he did it). Dean was street smart and mechanically gifted, but Sam was the scholar in the family.
"You're worrying for nothing," he attempted to soothe his wife. "If you have to worry about something, worry about the boys ending this stupid silent feud they've had going. I've got no patience for Dean's sulking while claiming it doesn't bother him, and Sammy's pissy attitude about all things involving his brother got old back in June. He hasn't asked me once when Dean's expected home. Did he ask you?"
She shook her head. For two boys who previously could not be separated without both showing signs of withdrawal, the distance between them was both astounding and heartbreaking. Both parents saw it for what it was: a bad take on separation anxiety. The trouble was, the boys needed to go through it. Each reacted so differently it morphed into a battle of wills between them. Both parents knew that Sam missed his brother deeply and resented that Dean only spent a week of his summer vacation at home due to needing to retake a class (and work to pay for it) back at the Indiana university. In the midst of a minor squabble that brief visit home, Dean got an earful from Sam about how much better life was now that his overbearing, suffocating, troublesome older brother was no longer a part of his daily life. Dean took the words more closely to the heart than Sam intended them. As a result, he departed for school a day earlier than planned and never said goodbye to his little brother. Sam took that as a slap in the face and declaration that Dean had outgrown his interest in being the big brother. In retaliation, Sam made sure he was not around any time Dean called home after that. The upcoming holiday would be the first time the brothers would see or speak to each other in seven months. For two boys who had never spent more than 24 hours apart in their lives previously, it was as if a lifetime had passed.
"If this bullshit tantrum between them doesn't end quickly, I'm locking them in the basement so they can beat whatever their problems are out of each other," John vowed.
Mary shook her head signaling her lack of agreement with the plan as much as her termination of the discussion. Then she reached for the phone. John quickly reached across the bed and pulled her back, hanging up the phone she was about to dial.
"Just go back to sleep."
"It's after midnight," she objected. "He should be at his apartment. Don't tell me I shouldn't wake him. Dean's a night owl. He won't mind."
"He may not be alone," John pointed out and received a stony glare. "He lives above a priest's garage, but Dean didn't become a monk. Now, you know that if there was anything wrong, Father Reardon would call us. Dean's no angel, but he's got a Jesuit priest for a landlord so I'm fairly confident he's got the right supervision. Now, let's get some sleep. Dean will call tomorrow, at the last possible minute, letting us know he's at the airport and what time he'll be landing. Once he's home, you can lecture him until your heart is content. He'll like that. It'll give him a reason to grumble while at the same time showing him how much you missed him. Now, stop expecting the worst and trust him."
"Trust him?" she repeated and leveled a hard gaze back at him. "You're the one preparing the responsible adult speech for him."
"That's different," John yawned, tugging her and her reluctant pout back into the bed. "When I speak to him, it won't be a speech. I'll say what I have to say and that will be that. You still call him your baby, but Dean's not a kid anymore. He's going to be 20 next month. Now, tell me the truth. What really woke you up? Was it that dream?"
She nodded as he draped his arm protectively over her shoulders. It was the same dream she always had, the same nightmare, whenever she worried about her children. It wasn't so much a dream as it was replaying her real-life nightmare: the night her sons were taken. She would find herself running down the hallway of their house in Lawrence, Kansas, to find beds empty and no sign of her little boys anywhere. She would then race down a hallway that turned eerily dark and insanely long and each room she checked along the way was cold and empty—precisely how she felt each time awoke in a cold sweat.
"Sam is in his room sleeping, probably cuddling his Latin textbook," John predicted. "Dean is in South Bend, possibly out with friends or in bed with whatever girl caught his eye this month."
Mary offered him her flat stare once more. John shrugged. He stood by his offering; no one who knew him would call Dean Winchester a saint. When he was his oldest son's age, John was at Paris Island getting ready to head off to war. Between the two choices, he was glad Dean was doing whatever was taking up his time.
Mary did not like hearing logic when her nerves were rattled and her bones tingling with worry. She detested having her children away from home for even a night—having one living 10 hours away by car every day was hard for her. What was equally as hard was knowing that Dean did cope just fine without his mother there to look after him. John and Mary's first-born had been on his own since he was virtually a toddler. Dean was self-reliant and extremely capable in most situations. School, studying, and routine were the things that he generally avoided, but he could manage them when it was required. It was Mary who found it hard to adjust to life without both of her sons under her roof; John feared how she would react in a few more years when Sam went off to school as well.
As if reading his mind, she abruptly got out of bed and snatched her robe from the closet.
"I'm going to check on Sam," she said. Before he could object, she started down the hallway.
-oOoOoOo-
Fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester crouched low as he turned the corner away from the stairs on the ground floor of his family's home. He found himself on the ground floor after an uncharacteristic spurt of adventure seized him. Not 10 minutes after he turned out the light in his room, he spied the dual headlight beams of a car outside his window. They were not close to the house. The driveway to the former-church turned into a home was long and curved halfway down its lazy stretch. Cars sometimes pulled into the mouth of the driveway, roughly a football field away from the actual structure, when the drivers realized they were on the wrong road and needed to turn around, but in general there was very little traffic this far down on the road. Most cars heading in this direction stopped half a mile east at the adjacent salvage yard, but no one even did that after dark in the sleepy city of Sioux Falls. That was why Sam couldn't ignore the lights. He peeked out his window and would have paid the brief flash of lights no mind as they began to review and turn around, except he saw a shadow cut into the beams as the car returned to the road. From his darkened bedroom window, the high school sophomore peered closely into the inky, snowy night. Through his limited visibility, he saw something approaching the house.
As his heart hammered and his nerves tingled, he took stock of the situation. There were no weapons in the house (nor did he know how to handle any), but there were locks on all the doors and windows. His ears perked as he poked his head into the hallway. He thought he heard his mother gasp in her sleep down the hallway, and that made him scowl. She was restless lately, and Sam knew whose fault that was. His lip curled in anger at the thought of his selfish and inconsiderate brother. Sam waited another minute but saw no lights from his parents' room so he figured they were asleep. As he made that assessment, he heard a metallic click of a door latch on the lower floor.
His instincts told him he was not imagining things. He knew the smart thing to do would be to wake his father who was after all a Marine… Well, technically he was a former Marine—the guy just didn't act like he accepted the "former" part of it when he was in full-on, protective Dad mode. But Sam didn't feel like running to his father. Sam was no longer a child; he didn't need a protector—he'd proven that over the last year of surviving high school without his brother acting like a self-righteous, overbearing, brutish bodyguard. He hadn't needed Dean, not even once, and that taught Sam what he now had decided that he always suspected: He didn't need Dean, either.
With his newfound confidence, he felt a thrill deep in his gut that sent him slinking down the stairs to investigate. Although his heart raced, he reminded himself that he was smart and capable. He might not be as schooled as his older brother in physical fighting, but Sam was far from helpless and never need to punch his way out of situations like Dean did since Sam could think his way through them with greater (and less painful) success. After all, Sam was the reigning South Dakota High School Chess Champion (and ranked 14th nationally for players age 15-20, which was none too shabby considering he only learned to play his freshman year).
He was also nearly six feet tall after a painful and nearly embarrassing growth spurt over the summer. He might not play a contact sport, but he was not a 98-pound weakling either. Just because happened to be the newly elected Vice President of the Latin Club didn't mean he had no strength. Attending high school with those kinds of academic credentials attracted bullies. Being without his big brother for the first time to slam anyone into a locker who tried to pick on him for it made Sam learned to stand up for himself. While he didn't have Dean's menacing stare or his older brother's willingness to throw down with anyone who he saw as a potential threat, Sam held his own using logic and as much understanding as he could muster. He was loath to admit that some of Dean's lessons also proved helpful, like how to take a punch and how to protect himself if attacked. What Sam didn't do was throw the first punch or any retaliating punches. He was studying Gandhi and believed in passive resistance; it just didn't hurt that he knew how to protect vital organs and not leave himself overly vulnerable to attacks.
He was proud of himself of how he faced down those who tried to intimidate him and even prouder that it offered the final proof that he was much more capable than his sibling. Dean was apt to get himself in over his head with his thoughtless and aggressive approach to tense and dangerous situations, mouthing off and stoking a smoldering situation into a conflagration with rude quips and antagonizing sarcasm. Sam didn't suffer from those flaws. The more he thought about it during his brother's absence, the more Sam wondered if his brother's impulsive streak was evidence of more than just immaturity and a hot head. Sam suspected lately (when he could swallow his raging feelings of anger toward Dean long enough to let his worry bleed through) that his brother had a death wish.
However, Sam assured himself was not being reckless by investigating suspicious sounds in the house. First, he was home. There was nowhere on the planet where he could be safer. Next, he was just being diligent. He reasoned (commending himself for doing that when his brother wouldn't) that the shadow was probably nothing, thus no reason to wake his parents (who worked hard and deserved a good night's sleep). And, since these noises that made the hairs on his neck prickle were nothing, it was fine that he didn't arm himself by grabbing one of the baseball bats from Dean's room. Sam reasoned he was being considerate and mature doing this trip the silent and stealthy way. A little look around and he'd be back in bed in two minutes. Sam could handle this recon mission on his own. This was just a little stroll down the stairs.
Except when he reached the bottom, a chill slithered down his spine as he realized he wasn't the only person on the ground floor.
Without thinking why he was doing it, Sam kept low and crossed the living room, making certain to avoid the two creaking boards near the fireplace. The intruder, he realized, was in the small room off the kitchen that held the washer and dryer. He thought it odd that a burglar would come to their house (it was small and obviously not opulent) and go to the laundry room. As he approached, Sam could hear the teeth of a zipper and the rustling sound of something being removed from a bag.
Feeling his element of surprise might not last much longer, he launched himself at the man, taking a swing at his head. The initial, grunt of surprise he heard excited Sam as his fist collided with the intruder's ear. The man stumbled, but the blow did not knock him out. The blow wounded only. A hiss of pain and anger sounded as Sam pulled back for another shot but found his wrists quickly tangled and twisted. The man's grip was brutal as Sam got spun around and held in a sort of headlock/choke hold that instantly dropped him to his knees. He struggled until a familiar and slightly pissed off but winded voice scoffed in his ear.
"You wanna be careful jumping someone if you aren't sure what they might do in retaliation, Sammy," the raspy tones of his older brother's voice warned as he released the hold and pushed the younger Winchester away gently.
Rage, shock, and embarrassment coursed through his veins and made him pop quickly to his feet. Sam spun around and shoved Dean hard into the washing machine. The resounding thud loosed deep wince of pain followed by a loud curse from Dean elicited a quick bark of surprise from the upper floor as their parents were roused.
"Whoa, hey," Dean chided as he gasped and clawed the appliances to get back on his feet. "Easy there, tiger. Are you being a dick because you want me to kick your ass?"
Sam reached for the wall switch and snapped on the light to see his brother standing before him wearing a pained but mocking smirk.
"Dean?" Sam's chest heaved as his eyes adjusted in the light.
"No, I'm a stranger breaking in to do laundry," Dean grumbled and stiff-armed his brother backward. "You're lucky I don't beat the crap out of you just on principle. Why the hell did you hit me?"
"What the hell is right," Sam snarled. "What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too," he mumbled.
Dean massaged this ribs briefly then rubbed the aching spot behind his hear where his younger brother tagged him. He clenched his jaw as the physical pain he was feeling flared alongside another sharper and deeper pain caused by the fury he saw in his little brother's eyes.
"That bitchy order you laid on me in May is still your deal: We're brothers in name only now?" Dean scoffed. "Awesome. So our 'divorce' didn't give me visiting rights with Dad and Mom?"
"Oh, do you even want to see them?" Sam huffed. "You haven't talked to either of them in months."
His eyes narrowed in anger that let his brother know his edict regarding their status as no longer close friends and brothers in the eyes of the law (and biology) only had not altered as his frosty attitude toward his older brother had not warmed. Dean shook his head but regretted the motion as his stomach flipped and the world spun. He forced a deep (if painful) breath and leaned on the dryer to keep his balance. He kept his arm tightly to his side and was thankful the hoodie he wore was black. It would hide whatever blood was leaking from his self-sewn stitches in his side after Sam's blitz attack likely pulled a few of them loose. Pressing his elbow more tightly to his side sent a burning sensation along his ribs, but the sensation cleared his mind and helped him focus. As he blinked his vision clear and his eyes fully adjusted to the light, he looked at Sam and gaped. His "little" brother now stood nearly eye to eye with him.
"Holy crap," Dean said. "What are they feeding you? Miracle-Gro? You're like a foot taller."
"Well, I haven't seen you since the spring, genius," Sam taunted. "Do the math if you can manage it."
"Depends," Dean quipped. "Do I get to use my fingers for this test?"
He sneered then offered a single digit as a suggestion on what Sam could do with both his attitude and slight. Before the discussion could escalate (or devolve) further, feet suddenly sounded on the stairs. Within seconds, lights in the living room and kitchen flipped on as the worried tones of their mother's voice carried toward them.
"Sam?" Mary asked, hurrying toward the back of the house. "What's wrong? What's…? Dean!"
"Hi," Dean waved with a small movement and tried to ignore the radiating from pain his side. "Surprise. I'm home. Sammy's being pissy."
Mary crossed the room, ignoring the comments and the harsh looks exchanged by her sons. She reached for Dean and pulled him into a tight hug that left him suppressing a deeper wince.
"Sweetheart," she gaped. "This is why you didn't answer when I called. You weren't at your apartment; you were already at the airport. When did you get here? I thought your flight was tomorrow. Did you leave school early? Why didn't you call us to tell us when you'd be arriving?"
Dean vaguely explained that he arranged to take his last of his exam earlier than scheduled. With the hot chicks across the street already gone home for the holiday, Dean saw no reason to stick around Indiana. Each was a smooth lie laced with bits of truth. Thankfully, the late hour and joy of seeing her wayward son left Mary oblivious to the untruths he paraded for her.
"Changing your flight must have been expensive," she observed, pointedly ignoring the comment about neighborhood eye candy. "How did you afford that?"
"By cashing in the open ticket you booked for me and not taking a flight to get here," Dean offered as he stepped back from her embrace. "I took a bus instead. It's an 11 hour ride, but it's cheaper."
"And it's not nearly as terrifying," Sam said and received a hard glare from his brother.
"Did she forget to change your diaper and that's why you're awake so late, little boy?" Dean asked then turned his back on Sam. "I called Chuck Pratt when I got to the bus station. So, if your super spy net in town tells you I got brought home in a cop car, that's only technically true. Chuck took his work cruiser because it's got better tires on it than his piece of crap truck."
Mary nodded, unconcerned that Dean's high school cohort (conveniently now a deputy sheriff and the son of the former county sheriff) had violated the law and used county property to act as a taxi driver. As she pushed those concerns out of her mind, heavier footsteps were heard descending the stairs. John, bleary and weary, stepping into the light and looked at the trio of his family with a confused expression.
"You forget how to use a phone?" he asked his oldest.
"Forget, no," Dean shook his head. "Have the money to actually dial home? Uh, that would be another no. I kind of had to use some of the money for the plane ticket for other stuff, you know like food and electricity. I figured out a whole scheme to use all those credit card offers the companies send everyone. I could score a dozen cards in someone else's name, and no one would know it. I could keep them tied in knots for years before they could track me down and to make me pay."
"Why are you telling me this?" John asked.
"I'd like you to know that I figured out how, but I haven't resorted to doing it to cover my living expenses," Dean smiled. "It's the second part that I thought would impress you."
John eyed his son flatly in a look of displeasure that still managed to draw a broad grin on Dean's face.
"Your resistance to becoming a felon always makes me proud," John replied only widening his son's toothy expression that erased much of the frustration and fatigue in his features.
Mary beamed at her oldest as though he had just won a great prize. Sam glowered silently to the side. John sighed, knowing his wife's smile was less to do with the proclaimed virtue of avoiding credit card fraud and more to do with the fact Dean was home and offering his typical cheeky responses. John, too, was glad to see him, but he seeds of worry were germinating in his mind.
The boy looked tired, like he had not slept often in weeks. Dark circles ringed his eyes and there was a dusky hue along his hairline that looked suspiciously like a healing bruise. He also looked pale—even for his normally fair complexion—and thin, like someone recovering from a recent but powerful illness. John didn't expect that his son was living on a healthy diet. He was a college student eking by with whatever he could afford from the job he held while taking a full load of classes. Still, the worn and thin look was more than just a bare college cupboard visage. There was a hardness and a weariness John sensed that was at odds with the shit-eating grin the kid wore.
John wondered if the pressure of school was proving too much for Dean. He was never much of a student unless it involved the study of coeds or Krav Maga, a fairly exotic and highly dangerous martial art he began learning during his childhood. The intense, and, at times brutal workouts to practice the martial art usually kept his body toned and agile, but it never left him looking wispy or withered. It kept him fit, but it also cleared his mind and settled the many troubling thoughts that rattled around in his angst-prone brain. What John saw in front of him looked more like a man struggling to get over a lingering illness. Unwittingly, his mind harkened back to the days when Mary was battling with cancer. It took her months to get her strength back and regain the weight she lost. Dean sported a similar wan pallor that spoke of grueling stress on a body. It was further accentuated when viewed beside the thriving and still growing physique of his younger brother.
They were very different young men. Sam was growing into a very tall and lanky young man with long arms, floppy feet, and hair that was in serious need of a weed-whacker in John's opinion. He was a health nut who liked salad and fruit. Junk food was rarely his preference. He was developing an interest in yoga (of all things) and his preferred hobby was reading. Dean liked to live on sugar, caffeine, and grease usually. He'd rather punch something than twist himself in a pretzel and meditate on it. Reading only held his interest when it was about classic cars and engines (regardless of his claims to appreciate the journalism in the stack of skin magazines in his closet). Previously, John would have also said Dean was the stronger of the two boys, but looking at them in the back room, he was surprised Sam didn't hurt Dean with his surprise attack as Dean looked noticeably frail.
There were other differences between the two as well, particularly in temperament. It was surprising that Sam tried to blitz attack in the dark. That was more of a Dean maneuver. The two boys approached most every situation in nearly polar opposite ways, yet there were threads that did bind them, making them two halves of the same whole. Where Dean would worry, Sam would merely ponder and question. The younger Winchester liked to research things to understand them. He had confidence in his knowledge and felt comfortable going his own way. He could do that because he knew, certainly subconsciously, that someone always had his back. He may have spent his first 10 years living as an orphan but his brother acted as a parent. He took care of his younger brother, looked after him and protected him, allowing the boy to be just that, a boy. It gave Sam a confidence that some mistook as arrogance, but that was merely an assurance that someone, somewhere, would be proud of him no matter what he did and (if anything went wrong) that someone would swoop in and make a bad situation better.
Dean did not have that sense of security. He had a hard time learning to trust his parents again after being returned to them following their kidnapping. During the decade without his parents, Dean learned to function on instinct. It taught him many valuable lessons (self-reliance and responsibility for his brother). He wadded all that he knew into one sense of purpose: Look after Sammy. His baby brother was his life, or had been until they were reunited with their parents. Since having that responsibility stripped from his shoulders, Dean had floundered a bit. He continued to believe his only worth was in taking care of his brother and when relieved of that duty, felt he had none whatsoever. The fracture in the boys' relationship the previous spring hurt him as badly as any physical injury ever had. Looking at his oldest that evening, John began to doubt his earlier assurances to his wife. He found he could not ignore how haggard his oldest looked.
"I'm so glad you're home, sweetheart," Mary said, cupping his cheek lovingly. "You look so tired, and your cheeks are hollow. Have you eaten today? Are you feeling okay? Should I get you in to see the doctor? Are your glands swollen? Have you been running a fever? When did you sleep last?"
She placed her hands along his neck and checked for bumps. There was a barely perceptible pinch to Dean's eyes and a clench to his jaw as he pulled her hand back. He then sighed in a predictably exasperated fashion.
"I couldn't sleep on the bus," he replied— prying himself gingerly from her grasp. "I didn't want to get molested by a pervy passenger. And the driver was a woman with man hands; she was checking me out in the rearview mirror. I had peanut M&M's for lunch and dinner. I even ate the green ones so it was healthy—practically a salad. I'm not sick, Mom. It was just a long ride."
"You always say you're not sick even when you are," Mary noted. "You sound a congested and hoarse."
"Maybe I've taken up smoking," Dean joked then rolled his eyes at her stern expression. "Mom, it's a cold. Everyone in the friggin' country has one in December. It's nothing."
"For most people, a cold is nothing," Mary said. "You are not most people."
"Yeah, you're the freak missing an organ," Sam smirked. Dean glared at him. Sam, who previously would have cowered under the hard look, shrugged smugly. "Or are you still claiming that losing your spleen made you 'special' not a freak?"
"I can still kick your ass," Dean grumbled.
"Didn't seem like it five minutes ago," Sam taunted confidently.
John stepped into the space between his sons, fearing a scuffle was on the cusp of erupting. He also wanted to cut off any discussion regarding a taboo subject in the house.
"I'll be the one kicking asses if this bickering continues and there is anymore talk about removed organs without prior authorization from your mother or me," he groaned, citing one of the more bizarre family rules he created since being reunited with his sons. "It's late. Everyone needs to go to bed. Mary, you can diagnose Dean with the plague in the morning as you make him a four course breakfast. Sam, you're off guard duty…"
"If we had a dog…," Sam began hopefully.
"Why get a dog when they've got you?" Dean grinned nastily at his brother as he ruffled his hand through Sam's long locks. "If you curl this mop, you could be their poodle, Sammy."
"It's Sam," his brother snarled.
"And it's late," John said forcefully. "Dean, you can explain to me why you didn't bother to tell us your travel plans after I've had my second cup of coffee. For now, everyone: upstairs or I promise I won't be my normal cheerful self after the sun is up."
The boys exchanged looks with their mother, each acknowledging that neither of them was going to argue when John used his Marine voice. Predictably, Dean caved to the order first (saluting in a mocking fashion) as he passed between his parents and headed upstairs. Sam glared at his brother's back then slouched in defeat and tromped after him, scuffing his long feet unnecessarily and grating on his father's nerves. This was one of Sam's latest new habits. It was as if he wasn't comfortable with his sudden growth spurt so slouching and dragging his feet was an effort to shrink himself.
John shook his head and resigned himself to leaving his family's quirks for another day to figure out. He followed his wife upstairs, but first checked that the door was locked. Dean, he noted, had at least fastened the lock after he entered. That he got into the house so silently was something that nagged a bit at John, as did the suspicion about how Dean got into the house at all without a key; his set to the house was left behind with his car keys when he went to school. John was also certain he had locked the door when he turned in for the night but was starting to doubt himself. As he pondered the possibility that he forgot, he peered out the window and noted snow was falling yet again. There would be another few inches on the ground by sunrise. Shaking his head at the weather, he yawned then trudged up the stairs. As he reached the upper floor, he spotted the light seeping from Dean's room. He nudged open the door to find his son standing at his window, peering into the darkness with a pensive expression.
"I said its time to turn in," John remarked entering the room. "That means crawling in the bed and going to sleep, or is there another definition for it at Notre Dame?"
Dean looked at him sullenly then shook his head. There was a dark and uncertain shadow to his son's eyes. John approached him and put his hand on his shoulder out a sudden surge of concern. Dean swallowed hard and simply shook his head.
"Hey, look at me," John remarked and moved his hand to the back of Dean's neck, coaxing his son to look at him directly. "What's wrong? Is there something going on I should know about?"
"No, just… the world's a pretty fucked up place," Dean said in a low voice. "I get why some people go off on their own to live in the middle of nowhere away from everything."
"Dean?" John questioned.
"It's nothing; I'm just tired," he replied as he sat on his bed then reached to turn out his light.
John stepped into the hallway with a knot cinching tight in his chest as a sobering realization struck him: Mary wasn't imagining things; something was wrong.
-OoOoOoOo-
A/N: More to come…