Title: Through Autumn's Golden Gown
Author: Wysawyg
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean, their Dad, Bobby, Caleb and Pastor Jim all belong to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: An ordinary black dog hunt turns problematic when Dean disappears half-way through. Wee!Chester fic. Some Hurt!Dean and Worried!Everyone Else.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to TraSan for the wonderful beta'ing and no, she doesn't really torture ducks in her spare time... Sams and Deans are fair game though.
---
Caleb had never exactly been popular in the hunting community. It was probably that while most hunters used a thrice-blessed blade of pure moon-forged silver, Caleb preferred a hand grenade and while just about every hunter had a small compartment in his car for weapons, Caleb had a small compartment in his car for driving.
So when Caleb went out to bag a black dog and found a bleeding teenager, he wasn't sure who to contact. He could have just left it in the forest, someone else's problem, but given the look of the boy and the chill of the night then that would have been tantamount to murder. Caleb may've been no pacifist but he'd never taken a human life either and didn't intend to break that streak, especially not with a child.
He could have just dropped the boy off at the nearest hospital except it was fairly clear the numerous injuries were black dog inflicted and would need careful watching of the kind only a hunter could do. There was also the fact that Caleb's suspicions might've been wrong and it was a werewolf instead of a black dog. The imprint of teeth were clear on the boy's damaged foot and Caleb never shied from doing what'd be necessary.
In the end, there was no choice at all. There was already the beginning of a fever brewing by the time Caleb got back to his cheap motel room. It was the small hours of the morning so fortunately there was no-one to see him carry a limp form in from the car.
The boy barely stirred as Caleb laid him out on the bed and Caleb sat back to examine his new temporary responsibility. It was coated in thick mud from what Caleb suspected was dark blonde hair down to his boots. Hardly surprisingly when Caleb had hauled the boy out of a small hole in the ground, a hole that'd seemed far too small for its occupant.
It had been sheer luck—Good or bad Caleb hadn't decided yet—that had led to Caleb checking the cubby hole which was clearly too small for the bulk of a black dog to get into. The chewed mess of the boy's left foot said the black dog hadn't let go of its prey without a fight.
Fortunately that had been the worst of the injuries and Caleb set about trying to repair the damage with dozens of tiny stitches. Caleb may have preferred power over finesse when it comes to weaponry but he wasn't dumb enough to apply the same philosophy to medical matters. He wasn't comfortable patching up other people but a quick search had failed to locate the boy's parents and he could hardly wait. Even the hardiest constitution would have trouble with a cold night in a damp, muddy hole.
It took near enough two hours to clean, stitch, bathe in holy water then cover every wound and the only noise the shrimp made was a low moan as the needle dug in deep and the clatter of teeth as his feverish shaking increased. Repair work done, Caleb piled blankets onto the small form and settled back in a chair to think.
His teachers had often said that thinking wasn't something came natural to Caleb but that he could achieve much if he put his mind to it. Chemistry had taught Caleb to achieve big explosions. Physics (and experience) had taught Caleb to keep a fair distance back. Nothing had taught Caleb to deal with children, especially not very sick teenagers hogging his bed.
What did kids eat these days anyway? If he believed the media, they survived on a diet of fat, sugar and caffeine. The brat on the bed hardly looked like a poster child for the fast food generation. If anything, he was a bit skinny. At least that meant he would be low maintenance for however long Caleb had to look after him.
On the other hand, if the kid was being starved at home, Caleb felt he should try to stuff the boy full of food while he could. The question was rhetorical until the boy woke up. Caleb trusted himself to most medical matters but using one of the nasty nasal tubes, even if he'd had one, was far beyond his realm of expertise.
He settled for crunching up an antibiotic and a mild painkiller into a glass of water and tipping it down the boy's throat with only a little spilling down his chin. Finally Caleb settled back in the chair, propped his feet on the bed and fell asleep.
---
It wasn't far off the track that the signs of a scuffle were evident and John desperately scanned the ground for any sign that Dean had come off the winner. Instead he found Dean's dropped gun and two blood-soaked patches of ground. A quick check of the clip revealed all bullets present. He tucked it into his primary holster, moving his own gun to a secondary holster, tucked in the waistband at the back of his jeans.
"Dog went this way," Bobby motioned to a patch of disturbed undergrowth, not needing to point out the drag marks that indicated it had taken a body with it.
John took the safety off Dean's gun and quickly familiarised himself with the different weight, "Then we follow."
It was about two minutes down the track, Bobby leading, that John heard the other hunter's sharp intake of breath, "I'll be damned!"
"What?" John scrambled up to where signs of another struggle painted themselves upon the ground. "Dean?" He asked, unable to make sense of the mess of tracks in the ever-dimming light.
"Dean," Bobby confirmed, a touch of awe in his voice. "Boy musta played dead. He got free," Bobby stepped about the prints, following the sequence of events as if they were playing out in front of him. "He ran off this way."
"He ran?" John swiped at his eyes, denying the tiredness-spun tears and the surge of hope, at least until his boy was back in front of him. "Why the hell you standing there? Follow."
Bobby didn't need telling twice as he set a swift pace following almost invisible signs. The pair of hunters ducked and weaved under branches and through the overgrowth, tracing the frantic flight of a frightened thirteen year old.
John nearly ran into the back of the hunter when Bobby stopped dead. "Why the fuck you stopped?" He snarled.
Bobby just gripped John's shirt and tugged him forwards, pointing downwards to a small hole barely visible, "It stops there."
John crouched by the burrow. It was far too small for John to fit and for John's memory of Dean's size though he supposed desperation could inspire stranger feats. "Dean!" He yelled down into the empty darkness.
"John," John didn't like the regretful note in Bobby's voice. "These marks…" He rubbed blunt fingernails through scrapes in the tunnel wall, "Dean got in but got pulled out."
"Not fucking fair," The words tore out of John, taking his heart with them. "He got away, he fucking got away. The monster doesn't get to have him back."
John was about to continue his tirade when he saw fiery red eyes gleaming in the darkness. John span with the gun and fired a bullet on to a point between the glowing orbs. He didn't wait to see if he hit before firing another and another, stepping closer with every bullet, until Dean's clip was emptied. Then he pulled his own gun out, loomed over the monster's twitching body and emptied that clip too.
"Hmmm," Bobby said, moving up to stand next to John, his own gun at the ready in case John's hadn't been enough.
"That thing killed my boy and all you can say is 'Hmmm'?" John turned on Bobby, raising a fist to strike.
Bobby wasn't willing to be hit this time as he blocked the blow with a hefty forearm and wrapped his fingers around John's arm, "I'm not so sure."
John stumbled back, steadied by Bobby's grip, "What?"
"If the dog got Dean, why was it back here? If it heard us, you know it would have avoided the area. Black dogs like small prey or one at a time." Bobby walked back down to the hole, crouched on his haunches and peered in, flicking a small flashlight around the inside.
John walked back feeling a shaky quiver in his limbs, "If the dog didn't pull Dean out, what did?"
"Now that's the question we need to answer."
---
Pastor Jim faced a dilemma, a dilemma shaped like a nine year old who was currently curled up on his couch. He'd just got off the phone to Bobby who'd updated him on the new situation and the tiny thread of hope for Dean, a thread so thin, so fragile, so likely to be snapped.
He walked through the living room and stared down at the face peeking out of the blankets, calm in sleep but with dried tear tracks coursing thick down his face. Could he give Sam hope at the risk of having it ripped away? Was it better not to know? It was a choice John should've been making but he was focusing on his eldest to the exclusion of anything else as evidenced by the fact it was Bobby keeping him up-to-date.
Just to make the decision harder, hazel-blue eyes opened up to stare at him. "Pastor Jim?" Sam's sleep-muzzied voice piped, "Wha's going on?"
It was the undiminished thread of hope he could see running through Sam that made his decision. "Just got off the phone to Bobby."
"They found Dean?" Sam sat up, blankets pooling down to his waist.
Pastor Jim shook his head, "No, but they have a clearer idea of what happened." He took a deep breath and blurted out the words, trying to temper their severity with a soft expression, "It looks like Dean managed to get away from the black dog and found a hiding place. The problem is that your father and Bobby found evidence that says something pulled Dean out of it. Bobby thinks it was not the black dog as it returned to the site." He caught Sam's fearful start and quickly added, "Your father has killed the black dog."
"Good," Sam stated, an uncommon vicious gleam to the boy's eyes. Pastor Jim couldn't bring himself to worry about that. "So if it wasn't the dog, what took Dean out?"
"Now that is the million dollar question," Pastor Jim said, feeling the weariness of his years. "Bobby called me from the apartment. They are going to get some sleep then start checking all the hospitals in the morning. He said he would ring with an update around midday."
"So what do we do now?" Sam asked, pulling the blankets tight around himself, protection against the chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature.
"We do the hardest thing of all," Pastor Jim answered, tucking the blanket in around the boy. "We wait."
---
Caleb woke to the mutterings of a nightmare-tossed teenager. He peered bleary-eyed at the clock which blinked six a.m. at him and he cursed, his quick shut-eye had lasted all day and night. He was well-used to crashing after a hard night but he rarely had anyone to worry about but himself, not to mention the awkward angle of the chair set an ache in his back and shoulders.
He hurried to check on the boy, the squeaks and moans at least making it clear that he was among the living. The boy's skin was sheen pale except for the red flush across the top of his cheeks and brow. The skin was burning to the touch.
Caleb peeled off the gauze and checked each injury, finding no sign of infection. The fever was easily explainable as the effect of a cold night in the damp woods but it made it no easier to treat.
It was enough to worry Caleb. He hauled out his thermometer and took a reading. 102.6 beeped back at him, dangerous for a man let alone a boy. He headed into the bathroom and got the creaky shower running to a temperature a few degrees above freezing then headed back into the bedroom. He peeled the boy out of mud-splattered clothes down to his boxers and hoisted him up into his arms, wincing at the unfamiliar weight. The boy was no help, just lolled limply with no sign of waking up.
The cold water hit him like a fist as he stepped into the shower and a shiver ran through his body. The boy quivered in his arms, the water making him slippery as an eel. Caleb suspected he was adding bruises to the boy as he kept hold but it was better than him crashing to the tiles.
The water seemed to bring the boy out of his stupor and arms—surprisingly muscled for a teenager—came up to cling to Caleb, a figment of security for a man not present. "Daaad," The words whined out.
Caleb was unsure of how the boy's father sounded or even if he should pretend. The last thing he needed was an armful of a panicking child though so made an educated guess. "Easy, kiddo. Need to bring your temperature down."
The guess was fair enough as the boy stilled in his arms, apart from the fever tremors, "S'hurts."
Caleb winced, "I know, son. Just need to get the fever down then I can give you something." Caleb wasn't sure what in his mobile pharmacy was suitable for teenage boys: the big guns would probably be too strong for him but the milder ones would barely take the edge off. He decided to keep to the milder: better in pain than dead even if it didn't feel like it at the time.
When the lad's damp skin felt cool enough, he stepped out of the shower, his clothes sodden, and tucked the kid back under blankets to sleep. He took a change of clothes into the bathroom and rapidly changed before checking on his becoming less unwelcome guest. He'd faded into sleep but his skin had a healthier cast.
Caleb changed the damp dressings again and sat down on the edge of the bed to think. If he was a father, where'd he look for a missing son? The hospital was a safe bet except there were two in the local area so he couldn't stake out both. Going into a hospital and asking if your son'd been brought in was reasonable enough. Going in and asking if anyone had been asking if their son was there would likely raise more than a few eyebrows.
His best option was to wait for the boy to be cogent enough to give out his name and phone number. He was in need of some supplies, not least his depleted first-aid kit. After reassuring himself the boy was dead to the world, he slunk out the door.
---
Bobby Singer hated pretending to be a doctor. For one thing it meant dressing up in a white coat and smartening up. The white coat always covered his clothes in white fluff and the collar itched and scratched against his neck. For another, it was high-risk. Just one person asking something in medicalese and their cover was blown out of the water. Despite this, he found himself stood next to John for the second time at a reception desk.
"I'm Doctor Fry, this is Doctor Laurie. We're from the CDC." He flashed a badge as fake as the nurse's hair colour. "Animal control caught a rabid dog and we need to check any bites you got for signs of rabies."
John was fidgeting from side to side which wasn't helping Bobby's nerves.
The sun-haired nurse didn't seem to notice as she smiled at the pair, moreso John than Bobby. "I just came on shift," She said, explaining why she could still be so cheerful. "Let me check for you." She tapped away at the computer then looked up. "You're in luck," The nurse said and Bobby's heart surged. "No bites."
Bobby couldn't help the sink of disappointment. Of course no rabid bites would be good news. Next to him, John sighed earning a confused look from the nurse. Bobby hastily cobbled together an explanation, "There was evidence the dog'd bitten someone. We hoped they'd sought medical assistance."
"Oh," The nurse said sadly. "There's another hospital across town, St. Hilda's."
"We've been there," John morosely stated.
"He takes the job very seriously," Bobby excused his partner.
"Ah," The nurse said and her face softened, flirtatious warmth directed at John.
Usually John would have made a token flirtation back but the man was more father than hunter at that moment so he didn't even look at the nurse, just turned to Bobby and said, "Let's go."
Bobby shrugged an apology at the nurse and trailed his friend out of the hospital.
"Any more bright ideas?" John asked as soon as the pair cleared the sliding doors.
"Don't give me that tone," Bobby snarled. "I didn't see you coming up with anything. That was our best shot but not the only. The question is: why'd someone rescue Dean and then not take him to a hospital?"
Bobby could tell John's mind had gone to the worst explanation by the way thunder brewed in dark eyes, "I'll kill him."
"Hold a sec, John," Bobby stated. "May not be that. Mighta just been someone who coulda looked after Dean as well or better than a hospital, someone who recognised the injuries for their cause."
"Another hunter?" John said though he hardly sounded cheerful at the prospect. Sadly hunter too infrequently correlated with good person, too many out there with blood lust.
"That's my best guess. I don't know of any said they were coming this way but I wouldn't rule it out." Bobby ran through a list of those he knew. "We should go back to the apartment and I'll ring those I know and we can wait for whoever got Dean to find us."
John's dour face showed exactly what he thought of that but at this point they hardly had a choice.
---
When Caleb returned to the motel room, arms full of brown bags, he found the boy's bed empty. He took two panicked footsteps before a harsh retching cough from the bathroom reached his ears. He dumped the bags down on the nearest clear surface and hurried into the bathroom.
A sickly smell swirled into his nose as soon as he crossed the threshold. Two wide-open green eyes stared at him then the boy scrabbled to the back of the bathroom, back pressed against the cool tiled wall, "Who the fuck are you?" The strong words were followed by a wracking cough that had the boy curling in on himself, tears stinging his eyes.
"M'name's Caleb," Caleb didn't try to get any closer, giving the boy space much the same as any cornered animal. "I found you out in the forest and patched you up. You better not've torn any of the stitches." He kept his voice light and teasing.
The boy's teeth bit into his lip making it clear that whatever pain relief Caleb had given wasn't enough. "Thanks," The boy grudgingly stated though Caleb noted he didn't offer his own name. "If you let me out, I'll find my own way home from here."
Caleb snorted, "You try and walk out that door and you'll fall flat on your face. I'm amazed you made it to the bathroom." Caleb suspected it'd only been on hands and knees.
"You saying I can't go?" Distrust warred with pain in the boy's unfocused gaze.
"I'm saying it'd be irresponsible of me to patch you up then let you go out and get yourself killed," Caleb answered, more and more sure that this must be a hunter's boy. It'd explain what he'd been doing in the wood and why he didn't whine more about the wounds. "You need to take another antibiotic and I got some painkillers you can take too."
"I'm fine," The boy said even if every line of pain on his face said otherwise.
"Don't be stupid. You think your dad'd want you getting yourself more sick like that?"
"How do you know I got a dad?" The boy stared at Caleb, the hazy gaze still piercing. Caleb just gave him a look and the boy looked abashed. "Stupid question," He muttered.
"Give me your dad's phone number and I'll ring it," Caleb offered.
The boy stared down at his bare knees, "Don't know it." When Caleb looked disbelieving, the boy added, "Dad just changed his cell and I ain't memorised his new number."
"Well, shit," Caleb said. "That makes things tricky. Look, I'll put some soup on, you need to eat then you and me can figure what to do next."
"Soup?" The boy sounded disgusted like the teenager he was.
"Soup," Caleb agreed though he wasn't too happy with it either. "You keep that down and I'll get something nicer. You need some food in you, body needs fuel to mend itself."
The boy lurched up to his feet and Caleb wasn't sure if he was going to make a run for it or head into the kitchen. Either attempt was short-lived as the kid's left foot buckled from the pressure and the boy let out a pain-filled cry, tipping forwards. Caleb darted forward and caught him, sweeping a hand under his knees for a simple lift.
"That was dumb," He told the boy who had his face scrunched to fight back the pain. He carried the boy through to the main room and deposited him at a seat at the table. "I'll see if I can find anything for you to use as a walking stick if you are going to insist on trying to walk. You need to keep the weight off that foot." Caleb poured a glass of water and fished out his painkiller bottles, "What's safe for you to take?"
The boy scanned the pill bottles with a practiced eye and settled on the Percocet, "Can take one of those."
Caleb popped open the lid and took out a pill, putting it next to the water and then placed one of the antibiotics next to it. He left the boy to it as he opened up a can of soup, poured it into a pan and placed it on the hob. The label said chunky vegetable but the contents bore an uncanny resemblance to what the boy had deposited in the toilet. He chose not to mention that as the aim was for the boy to keep the food down.
Five minutes later he put a bowl in front of the boy and himself, adding half a plain of salt to his. "You got a name?"
"David," The boy quickly answered, poking his spoon at what Caleb thought was squash, pushing the block to the bottom of the bowl and watching it bob back up.
"A real name?" Caleb prompted, chuckling as the boy narrowed his eyes. "Fine, David, it is."
Caleb scooped a mouthful in, wishing he'd thought to blow on it first as the soup scorched his cheeks. He opened his mouth to try and suck cooler air in to vent it.
'David' grinned and carefully did his spoonful and blew across it before jammed the spoon in and slurping its contents down.
Caleb stuck the tip of his tongue out in response. "So how do I go about getting you back to your daddy?"
David pondered that, chewing on a mouthful of soup. "I said you just let me go and I'll find my way."
"Ain't happening, kiddo." Caleb served himself a more cautious mouthful. "I may not be a father but I know better than to boot a boy out of my door and hope he becomes a homing pigeon. Especially not with a duff foot."
"I ain't telling you where I live," The boy sounded almost apologetic. Caleb wasn't sure what the big deal was. The boy's dad could likely take care of himself so there was no danger in Caleb knowing his homebase, seeing as it was only likely to be temporary lodgings. He knew better than to push though.
"Then I guess we're at an impasse."
A mouthful of soup went in the boy's mouth and splattered out as another cough racketed through the boy's body. He could see the boy's eyelids drooping, just the effort to stay awake taking its toll. "How about you let me worry about it? What else are adults for?"
The boy just nodded, a sure sign of just how tired he was, and sagged a little in his chair. "Now, we should get you back to bed before you end up with a faceful of soup." David had probably only had three or four mouthfuls but at least that lowered the risk of his stomach rejecting it.
The boy stood, all his weight resting on his good foot. Caleb walked about the table to the boy's bad side and offered an arm to lean on. A halting hop carried the boy to the bed and back under blankets. Caleb picked up the previously discarded t-shirt and jeans, dumping them in the sink and scrubbing the worst of the dirt off before draping them over the heater to dry.
The boy was asleep when Caleb sat himself by the phone, trying to decide who to call first.
---
Pastor Jim's church had been Sam's favourite playground as a boy. The eaves and pews were perfect for hide and seek, the two long aisles good measures for races and the stained glass windows served as ample inspiration for stories. Not to mention an impressive array of hidden weapons.
Sam would never forget the look on the Pastor's Jim the day he'd left them playing safely in the church and come back to find them playing Cowboys and Indians with real guns and knives. Sam felt it was his own fault to making the weapons cabinet easy enough to break into for two bored, devious Winchesters.
It had earned both boys a stern thirty minute lecture on how 'Weapons are not toys.' Dean had barely listened before defending himself by saying he'd had the safety on. Pastor Jim had not been appeased.
Sam had tried to help by pointing out Dean would never accidentally shoot or hurt his brother, his brother was a great marksman. He told Pastor Jim all about how just last week Dean'd re-created William Tell's famous stunt using Sam, an apple and their Dad's favourite knife.
Oddly enough, that hadn't appeased Pastor Jim either. If anything, it had made him angrier. He'd made both boys promise not to go near the weapons unless either Pastor Jim or their dad was there or if a demon was attacking.
Now the church was just cold, empty stone, even with Pastor Jim's warm presence beside him. Going to the church had been Sam's idea and for one reason and one reason only.
At the side of the church was a small table. The table itself was ordinary, available dime a dozen at a thrift store. Plain dark wood, four slightly curved legs, nothing special. What made it special was its burden. Upon its surface, shelves of tealight candles flickered and guttered, the spark of lives that the Pastor's flock were praying for.
Sam picked up a small candle from the unlit stack and cupped it in his hands, examining it carefully for any flaw that could make the difference. The first one was discarded for a short wick, the second for a gouge in the wax until Sam finally passed a candle as perfect enough. He placed it carefully in the central position on the top row.
Next he picked up one of the tapers and examined the existing lights, finding the one with the boldest flame and lighting the taper from that, hoping some of its strength would pass along to the one he was watching. It seemed to work as he placed the lit taper against Dean's wick and the little tealight roared into life, a yellow flame stretching upwards and then settling to a dancing, vivacious fire.
Sam grinned and turned to Pastor Jim. "Did you see that? Dean's lit right off. That's a good sign."
Sam could see Pastor Jim's expression, ready to tell him something comforting but non-committal until he saw the little candle that could, "Well, I'd say someone wants us to know they are watching over your brother."
Sam cupped his hands around the little flame and smiled as the yellow expanded out to his fingers. Sam briefly entertained the idea that Dean had been reincarnated as the tiny flame. "Can I stay here until Dean's back?"
The Pastor shook his head, "You need a good night's sleep. Whatever comes, your dad or your brother'll need someone to look after them so you need to be top of your game."
"Can we stay a bit longer?" Sam bargained, not tearing his eyes from the display.
"Of course," Pastor Jim put a hand on the boy's shoulder and together they held vigil.
---
It was only pointing out to John that he stunk worse than the pariah of the skunk community that persuaded him into the shower, leaving Bobby to make his phone calls in peace.
Bobby's tight-strung nerves wouldn't have coped with John's frustration each time one of his calls drew a blank. Bobby's nerves were barely coping on their own. It seemed the hunting community had chosen today to participate in some complex game of Chinese whispers as each call directed him to someone 'in the area' who would turn out to be nowhere near but claimed to know someone who was. Bobby's temper was two rings away from explosion.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," He finally barked at a hunter called Matheson who was 'sure' Caleb was in the area which would be a recipe for disaster in the unlikely event it was true. He hung up the phone just as John emerged from the shower, naked hope on his face. Bobby just shook his head and watched John's face come close to crumpling.
"I should get back to Sammy," The acknowledgment of his youngest son's existence was the closest John'd ever come to admitting defeat.
Bobby found his position reversed from being the one offering John an ice cold dose of reality to being the one clinging to hope. "We may as well stay one more night. Give Dean a chance to find us."
John rolled his eyes, "Knew you were soft. I'll go grab us a bite to eat. Burger good?"
"Good enough," Bobby replied.
---
When Caleb thought about it, there was only one obvious person to try and he picked up the phone a little hesitant and dialled.
"Harvelle's Roadhouse, Ellen speaking," came the voice down the line.
"Ellen, it's Caleb," Caleb immediately found himself on the other end of a dial tone. He had expected that.
He cursed and dialled again. At Ellen's greeting, he rapidly said, "Wait, please don't hang up."
"If you are trying to persuade me to un-bar you, I'll tell you straight that it ain't happening," Ellen's southern burr came clear down the line.
"Jeez, one little accident," Caleb muttered.
"You blew out half the roadhouse wall!"
"I didn't," Caleb protested. "That idiot that didn't listen to what I said about blast radius did." Before Ellen could hang up again, Caleb added, "Anyway it's not about that, I need some help."
A throaty laugh greeted that statement, "The cheek of you never fails to amaze me."
"It's not for me, least not really."
"Hmm," Ellen sounded intrigued. "You got my attention so start talking."
"I was on the trail of a black dog in the forest, followed some tracks to a hole. Thought it was too small for the dog and I was right, went to bag a dog and got a boy instead." Caleb said the words in a rush, trying to get them out before Ellen could dismiss him.
"Werewolf?" Ellen asked regretfully.
"Nope, just a mostly ordinary kid. Guess he scurried in to get away from the dog."
"So?" Ellen asked.
"So I hauled him out…"
"Caleb," Ellen half-growled. "You telling me you got a kid in that scuzzy motel room with you?"
Caleb was glad Ellen finally twigged to the problem, "Yup and I think he's a hunter's get so I'd rather track down his father before his father tracks down me."
"No shit," Ellen drawled. "Fine, drop the kid off here and I'll look after him."
"No!" Caleb recoiled from that.
"Caleb, you are barely capable of looking after yourself. I'm damn well not letting you mess up with a kid."
Caleb remembered why he hated talking to Ellen, kept having to remind himself he wasn't five years old anymore. "Still not gonna happen. I think the kid's father was based local and the boy's a wildcat, even injured. I don't stand a chance of persuading him into my car and I ain't risking terrorising him by hauling him into it."
"So what do you want me to do?" Ellen asked. "You know you can't keep him if no-one shows up to claim him for ten days."
"It's already been three," Caleb glanced to the bed where the boy stirred in restless slumber. "I just want to get him back to his dad. I wondered if you heard of any hunters misplaced a son?"
"Would've mentioned already if I had," Ellen chided. "But I'll keep an ear out. You tried Bobby Singer? He tends to have his finger on the pulse."
Caleb cleared his throat, "Me 'n' Bobby had a bit of a falling out, I doubt he'll help me."
He could almost hear Ellen roll her eyes, "What of his did you blow up?" Before Caleb could raise a protest, Ellen continued, "Nevermind. It's still worth a try in case Bobby likes the boy's father better 'n' you. There's only so many hunters with brats, even fewer that still get to be around them. What's he look like?"
"A kid?" Caleb ventured before peering over to where a head poked out from a mound of blankets. "Erm, darkish blonde hair, might be brown, short cut." He stepped over and carefully opened the boy's eyelids, trying not to disturb him too much. "Very green eyes. I'd guess he's in his early teens. Damn brave for a kid."
Ellen's laughter rung down the line, "Getting broody, Caleb? He don't sound like any of the boys I've met but I know some of the hunters keep their young'uns clear of the roadhouse and other hunters. Wish I had the same option with my Jo somedays."
Caleb didn't know what to say to that, well-aware that he was one of the hunters that Ellen'd rather keep her daughter away from. "I'd best get to ringing Bobby," Caleb said with the dread of a man marching to the gallows.
"Do that," Ellen chuckled. "And let me know when you find his dad. If you can't, the roadhouse offer is still open. Who knows, maybe I'll even let you stay too."