Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter, thank you KeepTrucking, Shazza19, Kathy, carrie4262, VirchowsTriadDuet, MicheleChadwick, VegasGranny, AmaraRae, MarbleWolf and Peril2. I hope that you will enjoy this next chapter.
2: Lost
"Bobby, you don't understand what I'm saying!" John was not a man to hide his temper, and the full force of his anger was evident in his tone. "I would not forget if I had another son. Dean is the most important thing in my life. I could not forget him. If I didn't have Dean, I'd be a different man."
"Yer not listening to me, John!" Bobby didn't hold back either, and John could hear the slap of Bobby's ball cap against the desk as he took out his frustration. "Use your head! Or has all that time off addled your brain? Which makes more sense? That some witch or somethin' hexed me and made me think you had another kid? What good would that do?"
"I couldn't forget my own son." John held fast to the one thing about this crazy conversation he knew to be true.
"So explain to me," Bobby's words were slow, and John wasn't sure if he was holding back his impatience or simply trying to work through the puzzle himself. "Why did you decide to stop hunting?"
John paused. He had asked himself the same question in reverse over and over these past few months. Why did I hunt for so long? Why would I pull my child into this life? "There didn't seem to be a reason anymore," John said. "Revenge didn't seem like a good inheritance for my son."
"Revenge ain't the only game in town," Bobby replied. "You had a different reason for hunting, John, and you lost it when you lost Sam."
Sam. Bobby leaned into the word as if it should mean something. It meant nothing special to John no matter how many times he heard it.
"Sam," he repeated. "Mary's father was named Samuel." The dots connected reluctantly, and John's head began to ache. As if something inside protested. As if something inside didn't want him to know.
Bobby let out an exasperated growl. "I'm comin' down there and we're going to get to the bottom of this. You trying putting your thinking cap on and see if you can figure out where this all started."
The line went dead. John set the phone down slowly and looked around the small apartment. It wasn't anything special. Not very big and not in the best part of town, it was still a significant a step up from the roach-infested motels he and Dean often stayed at. What was more important, John had taken steps to make this place feel like a home. Tangible signs to let Dean know that they belonged in this place, that it belonged to them, that it was home.
All of the furniture was second hand, but John had chosen a cozy color scheme, doing his best to make it all match. He had even sprung for a quilt and a few throw pillows to 'tie it all together' as the retail clerk suggested. Of course there were the Winchesters touches as well. An AC/DC poster hung on the wall, Dean's choice, and a photograph of Mary stood framed on the coffee table.
John had made a silent promise to her when he moved into this place. He would stop drinking so much. He would stop spending so much time away from his son. He would build a real life for them, the life Dean should have had from the start.
Dean. His only son.
The frame came apart easily in John's hands. Underneath Mary he had stored a few other photos. In one, John sat on the Impala's hood with his arm around Dean and another boy. Just a playmate Dean had met on the road, John had thought. Now, he wasn't so sure. The boy had Mary's smile.
I could not forget my own son. John was sure of this fact. Certain. The single most important thing in his life was his son.
He glared at the phone, Bobby's words ringing in his ears. What would be the point of making a hunter imagine a child existed? Not much. What would be the point of making a hunter forget his son?
John's blood ran cold at the thought. If someone made him forget Dean, and took Dean… John picked up the handset again and dialed another familiar number.
"Hi, Jim."
"John! Always good to hear from you. How are you and the boys?"
The boys. Plural. "I've got a question to ask you, Jim. Might seem a bit strange. How many sons do I have?"
An hour later, John finally set the phone down for the last time. He had called every number he knew, spoken with every hunter he could name. They all said the same thing. John Winchester had two sons.
John ran his hands through his hair and finally stopped to look around the apartment. It was dark, quiet, empty. Dean hadn't come home from school yet, and John remembered vaguely being told of a party. The clock on the wall glowed, only eight o'clock. Still two hours away from Dean's curfew. It was far too early to go scare a gathering of half-drunk teens. Far too early to drag his son home by the ear.
It didn't matter. John shrugged into his coat and grabbed his keys. He fired up the Impala's engine, grateful for her heavy frame and strong speed. He could take on the world in this car.
Right now, he had only one thought. I need to find my son.
o0o
Dean had always been most comfortable at night. Most people feared the night. Even those who didn't believe in monsters thought the darkness was dangerous, but it had never frightened Dean. He knew how to use shotgun, machete and salt to keep the danger at bay and keep himself safe. As safe as possible anyway. Safe was an illusion, never fully reliable. Day or night, bad things could happen. Dean was ready to handle whatever trouble came his way even now that they had stopped hunting. The night was no more threatening than the day.
It was more interesting. The world came alive at night. Day was slow and plodding, bogged down by work or school. Night was when people lowered their inhibitions, lowered their expectations, and truly let themselves live. Nightlife was the word for it, and the night life was the good life.
Whether he was busy winning at poker or beer pong, making out with a girl, or just enjoying the music, everything else faded away. When they were hunters, the nightlife had been his refuge. Now that they were retired, it was his distraction. It filled up that strange sense of something missing, and for a few hours Dean could forget whatever it was he didn't know he was looking for.
Tonight promised to be no exception. It was Friday and Riley Stevens' parents were out of town. Josh Huckins had an older brother who had a valid booze purchasing ID, so there was a decent supply of the good stuff. The local garage band, which had aspirations at making real money out of their art someday, were setting up in the living room. To top it all off, Dean had spotted a girl who he knew didn't have a boyfriend. Yet.
All of the ingredients for a perfect evening.
Dean was halfway to the kitchen, where the keg had just been tapped, when the sight of a tousled head of brown hair stopped him short. It was a kid, no more than ten years old, with an expression set to whine.
Riley Stevens did not look happy to see his little brother had left the designated little brother stay out of my way space upstairs. He made a shooting motion. Little brother shook his head, stamped his foot, and invoked the tattle tale threat. Riley face turned red as the circle of friends around him booted with laughter, but an ice cream sandwich and the handover of a game boy sent little brother away satisfied.
"Hey, Winchester, you want some of this?" Josh called.
Dean pulled his gaze away from the stairs where the kid had vanished with his treats. For a moment, the world had felt...incomplete. Something tearing at the edges, warning him something was wrong. His thoughts froze, stuck against a wall that refused to budge. Like when he had too much to drink and couldn't recall last night's events, Dean felt there was something missing. Something he should know that he had forgotten.
But what did that have to do with Riley's little brother?
"No. Do you know how much community service you'll be stuck with if you get caught with that?" Before, Dean would not have cared. Before, they wouldn't have been in town long enough to go to trial, much less log any service hours. When they moved into the new apartment, Dad had gone over the entire local rule book with Dean and made it clear that he who got caught paid his dues.
"Do you care?" Josh shot back. It hadn't taken long for one con artist to spot another. Josh had Dean pegged the first time he saw him.
Dean took the cup of beer Josh offered and lifted the glass in toast before taking a long drink. If this party got busted, Dean was pretty sure that he could run faster than anyone else present. He hadn't been retired from hunting long enough to go that soft.
He turned to survey the room again. A cluster had formed around the coffee table, where one kid was raking in the cash with a series of card tricks.
Tricks. Ha! Time to teach the small town show off the beauty of poker. Dean grabbed a few cups of beer for his opponents and sauntered over with a smile on his face.
"Parent alert!" The call went up from the doorway. Dean hastily shoved the beer cups away and pulled out a stick of gum. No evidence on his breath meant no arrest.
"No way!" Riley bolted to the window. "My parents are gone until Sunday." A crowd gathered around him, trying to see who was coming up the drive.
"Not your parents, man! I don't know who-"
"Dude, he looks pissed!"
"Someone is in trouble!"
The door rattled as a fist pounded on the wood, then pushed open without waiting for an answer. A man with dark hair, a trim beard, and fire in his eyes stepped through. Everyone in the living room took a step back.
"Dad!" Dean bolted to his feet. He checked the time: barely eight thirty, hours before curfew. The look on Dad's face said this was about more than a being home on time. Dad looked wary, as if something had spooked him.
It was not easy to spook John Winchester.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked.
John strode across the room and rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. He drew in a deep breath of relief, which somehow scared Dean even more.
"It's time to go home."
"Yes, sir." His father's tone of voice ignited the old hunting reflexes, and Dean moved to follow the order without a second thought.
The crowd of teenagers stared, wide-eyed and gaping. This would be all over school on Monday. Who knew what wild theories they would devise tonight on why Dean Winchester was being hauled home early.
Dean turned to favor the room with one last grin and a wink. "Well, it was fun while it lasted. You guys might wanna go clean up the kitchen."
Riley and Josh shared a look, then bolted toward the keg and the line of cups sitting out, filled with evidence.
John marched Dean to the car, his hand never leaving his son's shoulder until Dean was settled in his seat. John climbed in the driver's seat and paused for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, and gave Dean one last look. As if to reassure himself that his son was still there.
"Dad?" Dean's tone was cautious. "What's wrong?"
"Uncle Bobby says there's trouble in town, and I want you home until we sort it out."
o0o
Sam woke to the sound of a car door slamming. He shifted, dislodging the old sleeping bag he had found abandoned near the local tent city. Cast off even by the homeless, it smelled like cigarettes and pee and was shot through with holes, but it had kept him warm. His eyes were bleary and full of grit, and his stomach still grumbled, having been less-than-satisfied the evening before.
The world looked slightly better in the morning light. Night was always a dark, unhappy time when dark, unhappy things happened. Night was when Dad was gone on hunts. Night was when Sam sat waiting up, wondering if Dad would come back. Night was when Dean got angry and frustrated, wishing he could go out with the other kids instead of being stuck watching his kid brother.
Morning changed everything. The world was brighter, the way forward was visible, and people were often friendlier. After they had had their coffee.
Coffee. Sam rubbed his grumbling stomach. He was almost out of cash and didn't know how to get more. No one was going to hire a twelve-year-old, and if he tried begging he would get picked up and sent to social services. They would put him with a family that would provide a warm house and adequate food. But that was all they would provide, Sam had learned. They weren't a real family, weren't his family.
They weren't willing to rob the house down the street to make sure he had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. They didn't check on him in his bed after a long night on the job, no matter how late they came in or how beat up they were. They didn't know what to say to help him feel better when the kids at school rejected him. They didn't know how to make him feel safe simply by being present.
Footsteps clattered on the walkway outside. Sam started and scrambled to the window to peer out. Was the owner of this old shack finally coming home, or did he have competition for the space?
"Sam!" The voice was warm, cheery, hopeful. It belonged to a woman in gray slacks and a colorful top with a relentlessly professional expression. It didn't matter whether or not she wanted to be tromping around an abandoned house at seven am, it was the job and she was going to do it with a smile on her face.
Dean's smile was never professional, never appropriate. It was always 100% real. Dad's smile was sometimes forced, only because it masked deep wounds that would never heal, but it always meant far more than he could say with words.
The social worker's smile said she had a job to do, and she was going to get it done. She would come back with Sam Winchester in tow one way or the other.
Uh-oh. Sam ducked below the window, mind churning.
How did she find me? The foster family Sam had ditched had been in Moberly, a good half-hour drive away. Yet here she was, calling out his name as if she knew he was here. Apparently, someone was watching what happened in this old house.
Things like this never happened when Dad picked a place for them to squat.
He could stand up, show himself, and get in the car with the nice lady. Sam's stomach roared in agreement with this idea.
Sam closed his eyes, remembering all of the reasons he had left the foster home, and shook his head. No. Not going back. Sam tucked himself down as small as he could make himself and crawled along the edge of the wall so he would not be visible from the windows. The door handle turned. He wasn't going to get out that way, and Sam already knew that the back door was stuck. Dean might have been able to bust through it, but Sam didn't have time to try.
The best escape window was in the kitchen. The social worker couldn't see it when she pushed through the creaking front door, and the screen had fallen out long ago. Sam scrambled over the remains of last night's macaroni and cheese sitting in the sink. The glorious mess a glorious reminder of everything he had managed to screw up these past few months. The dry, crusted noodles lay in a miserable pile, taunting him.
Sam shoved the pot aside and clambered onto the counter to access the window. It slid open with a squeak.
"Sam?" The social worker's voice was cautiously optimistic as she moved slowly through the house. Sam heard the crinkle of a paper bag and smelled ham, eggs, and cheese. His mouth watered. "I brought some breakfast for us. Maybe we could have a talk while we eat?"
No. Sam shook his head and turned to the window. If he was going to be miserable, then he would be miserable alone. On his own terms. In the places that felt most familiar. In the places where he could hide.
He wasn't going back. He swung one leg out the window, then the other. There were bushes beneath him, but Sam didn't care. He plunged feet-first into the brambles. Thorns tore through his clothes, scratching his skin as he fought his way through. What were a few scratches when he had helped stitch up the jagged cuts left by in long claws?
A blue light flashed above the hedge that had overgrown the fence surrounding the house. Sam froze and dropped to the ground again. The social worker had brought back-up. If her friendly smile and bribe of food didn't work, there were others waiting to swoop in and haul him back whether Sam wanted to go or not.
Sam snorted. No cop was going to make him do anything he didn't want to. No cop had been to John Winchester's school of monster slaying. Sam picked up a branch and tossed it at the fence. Both cops' heads swung around at the sound. Oldest trick in the book, but it still worked every time.
Sam seized his moment to dart through the opening and around the corner. Treading softly so no one would hear him. Dad had taught him so many things. Dad would have had a way out of this mess. This stupid, terrible mess that was all Sam's fault. But now Dad was gone and Dean with him, and there was no one left to clean up after Sam.
I can't do this on my own. It was only a matter of time before Sam landed himself in trouble again. It was only a matter of time before someone far worse than the social worker found him.
Foster families couldn't help him, but Sam knew someone who could. He should have called ages ago when the trouble first started, but he'd still had hope then. Hope that things could get better. Hope that this rotten plan might work out somehow. But that hope was gone, dried up and left behind in the abandoned house, in the foster family's hurtful words, in the social workers office and all the horrible things that had happened before that.
Sam knew the number. Dad had drilled him until he couldn't forget even if he tried. Bobby. Pastor Jim. Caleb. John Winchester had made sure that if anything happened to him, his boys would have a place to go. Sam had thought it an excuse before, something to make his father feel better about abandoning his sons on a regular basis to chase disaster. Now, he felt a warm surge of gratitude as he dropped a quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number. Dad might not be here, but he was still taking care of his son. He had provided Sam with what he needed to get himself out of this mess. If there was a way out at all.
Sam listened anxiously as the phone began to ring. Please, Uncle Bobby, be home!
o0o
Escaped. The witch glowered at the corpse at her feet. Blood still slowly trickled out of his mouth to puddle on his blue uniform. Useless. The man had known nothing. Nothing that would help her find out where the runaway was likely to go next. No way to track him.
She reached down and plucked the hex-bag out of his pocket where she had slipped it when the man started to babble about 'confidentiality' and how he couldn't release information about a missing child. Choking on his own bile had made him more talkative, but it hadn't earned her any useful information.
No matter. The boy had left everything that she would need. Manicured fingernails plucked a strand of hair from the folds of the sleeping bag. Not much, but it would do. People left bits of themselves all over without realizing it. Without realizing what a witch could do with them.
In times long gone, people had been more careful, back when the world had believed in magic and been properly scared of her kind. These days, no one believed. No one but the filthy hunters who chased them down without mercy. They came and killed without any thought to what they left behind. The family of the dead. Bits of themselves.
She smiled and wrapped the hair in a tissue. What they left behind could be their undoing.
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