P2
The atmosphere once again settled back to a place where everything was disjointed, emotions weighed down by grief. It was a feeling he remembered. It was a vacuum, an open vastness of emotions, feeling everything, feeling crushed, overwhelmed, physically jammed into a small space, walled in and claustrophobic. A space where every second slowly ticked by, filled with the awareness of being trapped by the sorrow as it wrapped around him. He felt it now, that excruciating slowness of every breath, of every movement as if time had stopped or was slowing for his benefit, and he was forced to relive those last moments that flashed through his mind, the flicker of each torturing flame. He had to cope with the acute realization that Mary had been his other half, his center. She had been the one who made him feel whole, and, without her, he was feeling so lost that he might as well have tipped off the edge and into the abyss.
Only Dean and Sammy anchored him. With the innate demand of extreme youth, Sammy's cries for attention continually drew John back to the now; his son's need to be fed, need to be changed, kept John grounded and guided him forward.
What finally dragged John's attention to the world around him was when Mike rolled a crib into their room. John finally objected, telling Mike that it was too much, that what he and Kate were doing was overly generous, and Mike needed to take money from the shop's till to pay for it. Mike dismissed John's objections. Someone had dropped the crib by earlier that morning, but it had needed to be put together. It had been almost non-stop; people had been dropping off things since Wednesday morning. With Sammy sound asleep in the rocker and Mike sitting watchfully nearby, John picked up Dean and headed downstairs to investigate. Walking into the family-room, John eyed the bags scattered all over the place. He found them packed to the brim with everything from pants, tops, sweaters, shoes, boots, socks, and underwear, even a few winder jackets. A few other bags were filled with toys and various stuffed animals of every shape and size. John didn't know what to say: the amount in the room nearly exceeded what they had originally owned.
John turned as he heard Mike joining him. Mike held the rocker where Sammy slept soundly on. Though John couldn't find the words, some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face. Mike gently put the rocker down on the table. Giving them both a moment to compose themselves, Mike stared at the packages and said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "People care, John. To some folks, Lawrence might not be considered a small town, but seeing you and the boys on the news... People recognize when someone, one of their own, is in need."
Mike's hand clamped onto John's shoulder squeezing, then let go as he moved toward the kitchen calling out, "Beer?" Mike didn't wait for a reply. A minute later, Mike returned with an open bottle of beer for John and a soda for Dean. Nodding his thanks, John put Dean down and took the beer. Dean pressed against his leg, and John left his other hand caressing Dean's neck.
Mike plunged ahead through the awkward silence and pulled a bag toward him. Setting his beer to the side, he started to empty the bag, letting John see the contents. "I don't know… I think people just guessed on the sizes. Most seem to be hand-me-downs, but some of 'em…" Mike trailed off holding up a pair of jeans that still had the tags dangling from them.
The front door opened, and Kate walked in carrying a stack of clothes on hangers draped over one arm and a couple of small bags in the other hand. Upon seeing John, Kate smiled. "Oh, John, Dean, it's good to see you both downstairs." Setting the bags down on the counter, she hung the clothes on the hook that jutted out from the door that led to the garage.
"I saw Jake, and, well, I took the liberty..." she flushed and quickly turned away from the men as she started to unzip the bag she still carried. "I wasn't sure exactly what sizes, so I got three in three different colors."
John stared at the suits, and felt overwhelmed. "I talked to the shop owner, Phyllis Conner, she knew…" Glancing back, Kate's eyes fell on Dean. She closed her mouth; obviously changing whatever she had originally intended to say. "She assured me that she could accommodate any size in any color here that you like, for either of you." Kate separated a few hangers and pulled out another suit, then held it out for John to see a suit close to Dean's size. "You'll both need to try them on and let me know…"
Everything was moving too fast with hurricane Kate leading the way. John's first thought was he wanted to tell her to go to hell- to just leave them alone. Yet Kate was handling everything, all the details, people, calls, their suits, everything he couldn't deal with. Grimly, John nodded and stood up, "Come on, kiddo." Taking one suit from Kate and gathering the others on their hangers, John grabbed the rocker's handle and headed toward the stairs. Dean trailed faithfully along behind him. Guilt and gratitude hit him at the door; and John paused to offer Kate a firm, "Thanks."
Once they were back in the safety of their room, John laid the suits out over the bed. Wide-awake, Sammy shifted restlessly in the rocker, so John placed him in the crib. Sammy stood immediately at the railing, rocking, standing up on his toes, bending down on his knees and bouncing before he wobbled and fell. A few days ago John would have laughed, maybe been overly enthusiastic, and encouraged Sammy to try again. Now he could only offer a small smile before turning away at the thought that Mary would never see Sammy's first steps.
Looking at the bed and the suits lying there, John sighed, "Better see if they fit." Pulling one to the side for himself, a dark charcoal gray, he then pulled out a smaller suit and draped it close enough for Dean to reach. John was about to prompt Dean to undress, when a knock interrupted them.
John walked to the door and opened it to find Kate there, offering him the other bags she had come in with earlier. "I also got you shirts and a few ties. Only thing I didn't get was shoes. Once you decide on the colors for your suits, just let me know your shoe sizes, and I'll go pick them up."
Feeling besieged by Kate's kindness, John nodded and took the bags, his hands shaking so that he wound up jerking them away. Whatever it was that she saw in his face, Kate's kind smile softened, and her hand reached out to clasp his forearm. She squeezed it and ran her fingers in a comforting caress before pulling away. As she turned away abruptly, Kate's eyes glistened, and she left him standing in the doorway.
Closing the door, John made his way back inside, tossed the bags on the bed, and silently started to undress. Following his lead, Dean did the same.
Kate had done a good job. The first suit didn't fit very well - too tight through the shoulders - but the second one did. Shirts were easier. Picking through the wrapped and folded selection, John found his size in both plain white and pinstripes. Still dressed, John turned his focus to Dean. Dean had better luck with the first suit fit though it was obvious Dean hated it and couldn't stop fidgeting. It was a black suit, and very similar to the one John was wearing; Dean looked good, handsome - perfect. Staring at their reflections in the mirror, John could almost see Mary's reaction, her smile as she took in their appearance… if only they had been going to a wedding. The image faded as John remembered the actual circumstances.
Catching Dean's gaze in the mirror, John's hand dropped onto Dean's shoulder, and his smile twisted grimly as he stepped back and took off the jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean do the same.
Hours later, but still early in the day, Jake swung by the house to give him the news that the hospital would release Mary's remains on that day or the next, at the latest. He needed to know what John wanted to do.
What John wanted - to return to his intact home with his living, breathing wife - wasn't going to happen. The next best thing would to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible – there was no reason to forestall the inevitable - not when Mary's uncle wasn't going to come. John only had to consider Dean's needs and he was sure Dean didn't want to draw this out any more than he did.
With that in mind, John asked if they could John didn't care about the rest of the details, so he let Jake decide. Jake promised to call later as soon as he knew more, shaking John's hand on his way out.
They heard the downstairs phone ring again. John let it ring - it wasn't his phone anyway. Jake clasped John's shoulder in a comforting gesture. At least, considering the attention they had received in the news, the short notice would mean that the funeral would attract a smaller crowd.
John nodded, watched Jake go down the stairs, then closed the door to muffle out the phone's insistent ring. John still hadn't read or watched the news, but Kate's phone continued to ring off the hook.
John stood midway down the stairs. He didn't need to turn around to know Dean was watching him, anxiety and fear of being left along etched in that little face. Kate stood a couple steps below him, waiting. At his hesitation, she reassured him, "I'll leave the door open." John's eyes met hers; and a small smile graced his lips in thanks, and he continued down the stairs to see Greg.
Reaching the bottom, John held out his hand. Greg returned the gesture and nodded, his face grim. "John, I'm real sorry, but I'm here officially. I have to ask you a few questions."
John glanced at the other man, also in uniform, who stood behind Lt. Greg Faber. A creak sounded. John knew it was Dean, but he also knew Dean would stay where he was as long as he could see John. Greg didn't say anything, but he seemed to understand as he motioned that they should move into the living room.
Before they sat down, Greg gestured to the other man, introducing him. "John, this is Lee Harper, my new partner." Lee only inclined his chin in greeting.
John nodded back at Lee and took the same seat he had used when he had called Jake, so Dean would be able to see him easily from his perch at the top of the stairs. Greg pulled an ottoman over to sit across from John. John glanced behind Greg to his partner, but Greg held up a placating hand. "Don't worry about him, he's just here to observe."
Greg paused and took a breath, turning his cap over in his hands. "Listen, John, I really wish I didn't have to do this, but I need you to walk me through what happened." Greg licked his lips, and prompted John. "That night." Suddenly feeling all the exhaustion that came with his grief, John had no choice but to push it away and deal with the present. He nodded and clasped his hands together tightly.
Greg gave him a friendly smile. "Just take a deep breath and exhale. Then you can start at the beginning, and tell me what you can remember.
John rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned over and cleared his throat. "I- uh, I, mean, I don't know what happened. Everything was basically normal. I got in late, after dinner. Mary was putting Sammy down. I took Dean to put him down, and then I, uh, I told him a bedtime story. Downstairs Mary was writing in her journal. After Dean went down, I flipped on the TV in the living room and started watching a movie. Shortly afterwards Mary-" his breath caught as he said Mary's name. A moment later John pushed through, "she went up to bed. I must have fallen asleep on the recliner. Next thing, I- I woke up when I heard her scream. I ran up the stairs, I …"
He couldn't finish the sentence - not with the image of Mary there on the ceiling playing in his brain - he couldn't tell them that. They wouldn't believe it. Hell, he didn't believe it, and he'd seen it; he knew it happened. Twisting his hands and looking down, John mentally back-pedaled to try and figure out something else to say instead.
"The fire was everywhere - the heat; I tried to reach her… I fell back against the crib, that's when I remembered Sammy. I picked him up and ran outside into the hall. Dean was there, and I passed Sammy to him." His voice choked, remembering the scene as he spoke, "Told him to take Sammy, to run… to not look back." John smiled with pride even as the tears fell, chanced a glance up towards his son, but couldn't get a clear look at the boy's face. "He did. He just ran. I went back in, the fire.. I couldn't, I tried, I tried…"
John's fingers were interlaced, the palms pressed together, and the pressure increased until his arms shook.
Greg reached out and laid his hand on John's shoulder, trying to offer him some kind of comfort. "All right, John, I think that's good for now."
John looked up, his eyes shifting over to Greg's partner. The man just stared John down, glaring, no sign of empathy or compassion in his eyes. John held Lee's gaze, refusing to pull away – it was Greg that broke their connection when he stood and got between them.
"If I have any other questions, I'll let you know. And, John… I'm really sorry."
Time crawled.
Only the routine of changing and feeding Sammy seemed to indicate its passage. Later in the day, Jake called to let John know that the hospital had released the remains. If it still was what John wanted, services could be arranged for Saturday morning.
John readily agreed, feeling a scant moment's worth of relief as he hung up. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, to get past the funeral. In his heart, John knew he'd never let Mary go, not really. John had never let his mom or Frankie go, or, for that matter, Pop or the dozen fellow marines John had seen fall and had left behind in 'Nam.
In retrospect, John was grateful that he'd always had someone to comfort him though the grief: Mary and Pop when he returned from 'Nam and then Mary had been his rock through Pop's death.
With Mary's death, losing his other half, his boy's mother John felt shattered.
Though he had friends, Jake, Mike and Kate, this time it was really only for his boys that John was able to hold it together. It was a sobering thought, but one he'd abide by. He had to be strong for his boys, to live in the now, and to live and push for their future. Mary would want that, demand that of John, and he couldn't let her down any more than he had already - couldn't let his boys down.
November 5, 1983
The weather on the morning of the funeral - gray and cold - reflected John's mood. After John had showered and changed, he dressed Sammy before turning his attention to Dean.
Once he had Dean dressed, John only had to brush Dean's hair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with Sammy standing in the crib watching, John pulled Dean toward him and then gently turned him around to brush his hair. John tackled the knotted bed-head tangles from Dean's longer blond locks. Once John had made several passes, until Dean's hair was tangle-free - but he didn't stop.
Finally John's hand stilled. He had stalled all morning, trying to find the right words, but nothing had come to him, and he was out of time. Quietly he asked, "You know why we're getting dressed, where we're going?"
Dean only nodded. John turned him around. He had to make sure Dean understood - had to make sure that he wasn't making a mistake by letting Dean and Sammy go to the funeral. Kate and Mike had already questioned him, concerned that Dean was too young. He was too young, Mary was too young, but John vividly remembered going to his mother's funeral. Granted, he had been slightly older, but John couldn't imagine if Pop would have denied him the chance to go, to say a final good-bye. "Mommy, she's not coming back. Today we're going to the cemetery to say good-bye."
Wide-eyed, Dean stared at him blankly. John lifted his hand, threading his fingers through Dean's hair then caressed down the side of Dean's face, settling his hand firmly on his shoulder. "Remember Mr. Bumps, when we had to say good-bye?" Dean's chin trembled as he nodded again, remembering the little ceremony they'd held in the back yard for the gerbil. "The fire…" John choked, as the memories of Mary's and his mother's death collided, as he remembered Pop talking to him, the weight of Pop's voice. John's own voice was hoarse as he whispered the same words to Dean, "We have to be brave and say good-bye to Mommy; ito be brave soldiers/i."
Dean crushed his body to John, hiding his face, small hiccups escaping. Reflexively, John's hand moved in soothing circles over his son's back.
They stayed huddled together until John heard Kate's soft knock and slowly pulled away – it was time.
Thinking back, John can barely remember the ceremony, or who spoke, or at the end when a line of people who wanted to offer their condolences before they left formed. Mercifully, John is too numb and grief-stricken to register most of the words. Dean ignores them and stays leaning into John's side while he continues staring at the casket.
Most people recognize the platitudes, and thanks John mumbles as they move on.
It's difficult enduring people's condolences; John only wants to be alone with his boys and refuses to let anyone help – to take and hold Sammy, who continues to be fussy. It might be selfish, but John knows he's using his son as a shield, a barrier to detach himself from the people he and Mary grew up with. John knows probably ninety percent of the people there, either friends or had been friends and acquaintances with them in the past, but John doesn't care. He uses handshakes to maintain a physical distance from everyone, especially those who felt an impulsive need to hug him. While he holds Sammy, Dean uses John. His small frame clutches John's leg and he hides his face behind it whenever anyone bends down trying to get close in order to talk to him.
For most it's Sam's cries that really get people to move on. To John, Sam's cries are a soothing echo of what he's feeling while to everyone else Sammy's sharp cries cut through the wind to ward them away.
Sadly, a few obtuse people hold their ground. They stand there telling him stories about Mary, crying their sorrow, almost as if they're waiting for him to console them on their loss. Mercifully, Kate, Mike, or Jake are nearby to intervene, to grip the offending party's elbow and maneuver them away.
As the line disperses, Mike lets John know that he and Kate will wait by the car to leave him and the boys a moment alone.
John isn't sure how long they stand there before John squats down, blocking the sun from his son's face. Dean's eyes relax enough that John can see the strain the day has been on his son. John shifts to clamp a hand on Dean's shoulder, his thumb rubbing back and forth as he tries to find something to say.
Trapped between them Sammy's cries deafen John's ear, and Sam squirms within John's hold. Dean reaches out to pat Sammy's face. Almost instantly Sammy's cries quiet down into small hiccups, Dean's small hand grasped within Sammy's. John notices a movement in the corner of his eyes: Dean's thumb dancing over Sammy's hand – offering the same comfort John is offering Dean. His heart swells, and he nods silently. It isn't what either of them wants, but they both recognize they have each other, and John has to hold on to that.
Eventually Sammy quiets and slips into sleep, exhausted from his crying. Dean nods at his father, and John rises. He pauses to glance one last time at the casket before he takes Dean's hand and turns to leave.
Once they get back, John escapes upstairs with the boys. Noise drifts up from downstairs, even with the door closed, to the point where he can hear Mike and Kate talking to people who hadn't realized there'd be no reception. The front door opens and closes as people come and go. At some point, Kate brings up a tray of food. John doesn't have the heart to force Dean to eat; both feel languid and too despondent to do anything. Their emotions are so over-strung that eventually they collapse into a fitful sleep.
At some point during the night John wakes and can't go back to sleep. Leaving the door open, John quietly heads downstairs and makes his way over to the wet bar in the living room to pour a hefty drink.
Kate is either already up, or he woke her.
When she approaches, John's eyes shift to see her silhouette reflected in the sliding glass door. He doesn't turn around; he just stands there staring out the window. A cold chill emanates through the window, the sparse moonlight sprinkled over the yard leaves an eeriness that suits John's dark mood.
In the reflection, he sees Kate start to reach out before pulling back. Inwardly he feels pleased. John doesn't want to hurt her, but right now he can't handle any offer of comfort or sympathy. He takes another sip of his drink.
John can't see her face - but her voice is hesitant, lost, when it breaks through his thoughts. "It doesn't seem like it now, but in time, John..." John flinches and straightens his stance. He doesn't want to be angry, but he is, and he doesn't want the banality that everything was going to be all right- not now, not ever... without Mary nothing will ever be all right; time will never heal this wound.
Even as he thinks it, even as angry as he is, John also knows that thought is a lie; this realization only fuels his anger.
Time does go on, whether he wants it to or not, and time... well, maybe it doesn't heal everything, but over time, things hurt less. At the moment, John doesn't want it to hurt less. He wants the pain, wants to wallow in it, to punish himself for not saving Mary. He takes another swallow of his drink, and the liquor burns its way down his throat. Struggling not to say something he shouldn't, something he'd regret, John closes his eyes and simply growls, "Couldn't sleep."
Kate chokes out, "I know- I still..." her voice trailing off with the pain at the loss of her friend evident in every hitch and hesitation. It's painful to hear, to suddenly be aware of. Since that night he has cocooned himself with the boys, has ignored everyone else's pain including Mike and Kate's. Intellectually John knows they're in shock, grieving as much he is, but it has been easier to push them away - he can't deal with their pain too.
John hears a shuffle; he opens his eyes to see Mike standing behind Kate, an arm laid across her chest, gently pulling her back to him and offering comfort. The image pains John to see - memories start to flood his mind, and he has to close his eyes and shove the mental images down. Taking another sip, John opens his eyes and purposefully avoids looking behind him.
John feels rather than sees the shift when Mike decides to speak, his voice gravelly, "John..."
John doesn't let him say whatever he's going to say. Instead John lifts his drink, "Just going to finish this to help me sleep, then go back upstairs to the boys. I don't want Dean to wake..." He can't help remembering how Dean woke up the other day- terrified that John wasn't there. John's stomach sinks at the thought, and he barely resists the impulse to run back upstairs.
Once more, John senses rather than sees Mike's nod of acceptance, hears rather than watches as Mike steers Kate away.
John takes another mouthful. Mike calls out, "I'll leave the hall light on, just hit it when you come up."
John holds up his drink in reply. What he said about Dean is true, and he isn't going to stay down here long for that very reason. After a moment, he swirls the last swallow around the glass, staring at the liquor before gulping it down. The burn lingers, leaving him momentarily content. He isn't tired, not in body anyway, but it doesn't matter; Dean needs him. Turning, he places the glass back on the bar and heads for the stairs. Upon reaching the top, he turns the light off and stands at the threshold of their room. His eyes move to Dean's still form on the bed, sound asleep. John exhales the breath he has been holding in relief.
Hearing a gurgle from Sam, John moves toward the crib. When he reaches the crib, he has a sudden flashback to that night. It's like the memories are always right there, hovering on the edge, waiting for him to slip and let his guard down.
The images wash over him, grabbing hold. They are vivid and lucid within his minds-eye. For this moment, he's an outsider observing how everything unfolded, how John had fallen asleep watching a movie in the chair downstairs and was startled awake by Mary's scream, how he had raced up the stairs in the direction of Mary's scream, how the drop of red had splattered on Sammy's face, how he'd looked up to see Mary...
Clenching his eyes closed John tries to halt the memory, the image already ingrained in his mind. It stops momentarily only to re-loop to when John was once again racing back up the stairs until he stood beside Sammy's crib as he was now.
There he had seen nothing; it had been quiet, peaceful, and serene. Just as it is now. When he'd walked over to the crib he'd found Sammy awake, smiling, and undisturbed. Just as he is now. John had smiled, figuring the scream had been part of a nightmare, probably something from the movie had triggered a memory, something from his tour in 'Nam. He'd had nightmares before. They'd never completely gone away, but they were less frequent these days.
Then that drop of red had splattered on Sammy's face. His finger had moved toward it, his mind numb, confused as he'd turned looking up toward the source only to be horrified to see Mary there, spread out on the ceiling, cut open; the crimson blood spreading, soaking the white of her nightgown.
John jerks, looking down at Sammy, who's grinning and trying to get John's attention. Sammy wraps his fist around John's finger and pulls. John stares down at his son, wondering what he is missing- there is something there in that terrible memory, something important.
Dissatisfied with anything less than John's full attention, Sammy cries out. At that cry, a realization hits John like a bullet to his gut. What had happened to Mary had happened in Sammy's room. Whoever, whatever, had done this hadn't been after Mary, he- it- whatever it was - had been after Sammy. Mary wouldn't have gone to Sammy's room in the middle of the night unless she had heard Sammy, unless she had needed to check on him. John pulls back, his hand slipping away from Sam. He grips the railing of the crib, his mind whirling as he puts pieces together, as he recalls Mary's eyes imploring him, trying to tell him something vital. Sammy's here. She protected Sammy, stopped… – something… at the cost of her life. Mentally he screams, stopped what?
He doesn't have an answer, doesn't know what, why, or how he/she/it could have put Mary on the ceiling. It's still a mystery. Nevertheless, he feels that one piece settle into place, believes against logic with all of his heart and knows without a doubt that Mary died protecting her son, her family.
John unclenches his grip and lets go of the crib's rail to graze his finger over Sammy's cheek in comfort. Pleased with the attention, Sammy squeals in delight as he reestablishes his hold on John's finger.
The next morning starts early with an official visit by Greg and his partner. Once in the living room, Greg informs him that now that they have the initial forensic results back, and they have to go over John's account of events again. John has been waiting for news, hoping they will have a lead on who and what started the fire.
His high expectation for answers must show on his face because Greg just grimaces and shakes his head. "We didn't-"
John's legs give out from under him, and he sits down, looking back up at his friend in disbelief. "What? You didn't what?"
"There was no evidence of a break in, no evidence of arson, no faulty wiring, nothing to explain what happened, why or how the fire started."
John opens his mouth then closes it.
"We need you to clarify a few things." Greg says, steadily staring at John.
Slowly John nods.
Harper returns the nod and steps forward to take over the conversation. "Good. Now let's start at the beginning." He flips through his pad and stops before saying, "You mentioned you were downstairs watching TV?"
"I fell asleep."
"What were you watching?"
"Excuse me?" Harper's voice has cold a sharp edge, "Mr. Winchester, answer the question," even when belatedly he adds, "please."
John glances at Greg, who is now refusing to look at John. It's obvious that Harper is taking the lead from here. John huffs in anger then swipes a hand over his face, "I don't know. It was some a war flick."
"So was that the habit after you moved back in, you sleeping downstairs?"
Startled John glances at the man and whispers, "What?"
"Several sources mentioned that you and your wife were having problems, that you left your wife. Did you?"
The question just hangs there while John stares, floored by the sudden turn of questions. Heatedly, barely containing his temper, John angrily replies, "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
Greg answers first, "Just answer the question, John."
John unclasps his hands and grips his knees, then flexes his arms; the tendons pop while he tries to contain his rage. Through clenched teeth, he answers, "All right, we had a few problems. Who doesn't?"
Harper pushes, "What exactly were those problems?"
John glares, but Harper only waits. Finally John understands: Harper doesn't just dislike him; he thinks John started the fire and killed Mary. John blanches at the idea before dropping his head into his hands and muttering, "Money and time, like most couples."
"Care to explain?"
Sighing, John shrugs and shakes his head. "When Mary told me she was pregnant with Sammy, business at the garage wasn't good - especially after buying the house. I got nervous, thought that I'd lose the garage or the house, that I wouldn't be able to provide for my family. Things were financially tight enough that I took Mike on as a partner and then started to spend more time at the garage to build up the business. I didn't want Mary to worry. I got carried away and spent too much time at work. I didn't delegate enough things to Mike… I wasn't spending enough time with Dean or with Sammy after he was born."
John concentrates on his breathing, inhales then exhales, emotionally collapsing as he remembers the fights. It's true he had spent too much time at work trying to rebuild the business, but that wasn't what they had fought about – that wasn't what had forced him to move out. No. Mary had been supportive of John building up the business. In fact it had been her idea to let Mike buy in as a partner. It was also true that she wanted him home more, for her and for the boys, but she had never given him any kind of an ultimatum.
Thinking back, as many of the arguments had been over Mary's erratic behavior: strange fits of paranoia she'd refused to explain, of acting uncharacteristically skittish and overly protective of the boys. In the last month she'd refused to take them anywhere that wasn't necessary. It had escalated one day when he came home early. He'd sent the sitter home and had taken the boys to the park without her knowledge. Mary had had a fit. After that, there had been salt lines in every room, at every entrance and every window, additional carvings and little satchels found throughout the house. Whenever he had asked or outright confronted her, she'd just told him not to worry, that it was nothing. It had been obvious that she'd been lying or, at least, lying by omission. When he'd pushed for the truth, though, she'd only pushed back with a stronger refusal. He hadn't understood why she would lie to him. He still didn't. Why she couldn't trust him? Whatever it was, she had been adamant that it was better that he not know – had been adamant that he'd have to trust her. That was what had made him walk – the lack of trust.
It had hurt enough that he'd had to leave – especially when he had seen how it had been affecting Dean. Their fighting had reached a boiling point, and it had taken a toll. They had intentionally never fought in front of Dean, though he'd seemed have the knack of overhearing them, of walking in whenever it had started to get heated.
Suddenly aware of his long lapse into his own thoughts, John's throat tightens as he chokes out, "She wanted me home more. For her, for Dean…"
Seemingly unmoved Harper inquires, "Where did you stay? Here?"
John slumps and shakes his head, "No, the garage."
"How long before you moved back in?"
"I was only gone a few days. I just needed to clear my head… Dean had heard us fighting - it wasn't good. I, er, we had never wanted do that, not in front of the boys. A couple of days later, I think I was at Carson's Drugs when I saw all the Halloween costumes. When I'd left, Dean hadn't decided on a costume yet. We had talked about Batman, but I wasn't sure… so I bought a dozen, then swung by after dinner. Afterwards, I stayed."
"Did you sleep downstairs?"
"None of your fu…" John stops abruptly when he sees Greg nod toward the stairs. Cursing under his breath, he belatedly remembers that Dean is watching and possibly hearing everything.
John shifts his gaze back to Greg's partner to see Harper's brow rise, his mouth quirking expectantly. "Actually, now it is my business."
Frustrated, John is unable to dampen the threatening edge of his tone as he answers, "No, I slept upstairs, in bed, with my wife."
He can see Harper is about to ask something else, but Greg intervenes. "I think that's enough for now." Harper is about to protest, but Greg's eyes pointedly shift toward the stairs. All three of them look; Dean stands there, agitated. With one foot already on the second step, ready, about to spring down the stairs.
Reluctantly Harper nods, conceding the point. As he turns to leave, he asks John, "And you'll be staying here?" The tone and implication are apparent; Harper thinks John is lying. The implicit order to not leave town is abundantly clear. John stands; they're toe to toe as John glares his own distrust and growing hatred back toward Harper.
Harper is the first to flinch and step back, a smirk in place as he states, "I'm glad we understand each other." He turns around and heads out. Greg lingers, like he wants to say something, like he wants to say that he's sorry about this, about everything. John doesn't want to hear it, so he walks to the door and holds it open. With a sigh of regret, Greg nods, quietly turns and leaves. John doesn't deliberately slam the door, but, still, it vibrates as it bangs closed.
A moment later, Sammy starts crying. John moves up the stairs, but Dean is faster and propels himself into John's waiting arms half-way down. Dean reassumes his new favorite position, wrapping his legs around John's waist and clutching tight as John makes it the rest of the way up the stairs.