There was something about those Winchester boys, something that made Fran Mendel's skin crawl.
They had moved into the house across the street not that long ago. The only thing attractive about that old pile of half-rotten boards and dust was it's rent. It was no place to raise children, that was for sure, and Fran made sure her son stayed well away from it. Then again, the man that rented the place didn't look to be much for raising children, either.
The day they moved in was a Sunday, and Fran had been so startled by the low rumble that was their car's engine that she nearly dropped her just-out-of-the-oven peanut butter cookies all over the floor. Not that dropping them on the floor would have made them inedible, because Miss Fran Mendel was one of those people who kept her kitchen tiles clean enough to eat mashed potatoes off of. Even so, Fran thanked God she was holding the tray over the counter when the fancy black car pulled into the cracked driveway of the empty house.
No one in Fran's town had a car even remotely like that, unless you counted Old Farmer Jimmy's ancient Ford that only saw the light of day when he had to drive up to town for supplies. It wasn't really fair to lump their car in with Jimmy's rustbucket, though, because it gleamed in the late afternoon light like something out of a fairytale. Yes, the low, sleek black vehicle could have rolled right off the set of some Hollywood movie with a growl that resonated somewhere deep in your chest and a wild dream of open roads and freedom.
The level of care obvious in the smooth glide of the car just didn't match up to the house it was parked at, but the man who owned both tied the two right together. On the surface, the man who stepped out of the car was rough, grimy, and broken. There was despair and exhaustion in the lines on his face, pain in the scars on his bare forearms, and hopelessness in the tear stains on his shirt. But in his stance there was power, raw and ready, like a panther, a predator. There was danger in those muscles and willpower in his expression, freedom in the tears on his jacket and determination in the thread that stitched them back together. The growl of the car's engine was echoed in his very being.
If that was all there was, a world weary man, a house falling apart, and a car from an age long gone by, Fran thought it would have been fine. But no, because after the chevy pulled into the driveway and rumbled to a stop, out came a boy who couldn't be much older than her Andy, twelve, thirteen at most. His clothes, like his father's, spoke of neglect and hardship, but that same raw power burned under the surface, untouched by the toils of time and experience. He was muscled and lean instead of gangly like most boys his age. It showed in the smooth, even steps that made his walk a confident stroll that Fran couldn't help but compare to the car he had just exited. He looked like he belonged there next to the old house, sleek car, and threadbare man, standing in too-big combat boots with sad eyes and proud shoulders
Then the third member of the little family had tumbled out of the back seat. He was a tiny thing, all floppy brown hair and stick figure limbs wrapped up in an oversized flannel. He didn't seem to notice his bare feet or the bangs that kept falling in front of his eyes, which was about as much as could be expected from a boy as young as him. He stood watching his brother and father unload bags from the car (surely a moving van was coming, that couldn't be all there was) for only a moment before joining in, and it was then that Fran realized the youngest boy was too strong not to have the same muscles as his older brother, despite his skinny frame. He picked up a duffle nearly as big as himself, swung it over his shoulder, and carried it inside without the smallest hint of a stumble.
And thus, the Winchester brothers moved into town. Their father disappeared early in the morning and didn't return until well after Andy's bedtime and never seemed to hire a babysitter for his boys, but Fran supposed the elder child was old enough to care for himself and his brother. Still, the lack of concern Mr. Winchester had for his sons was slightly worrisome. For goodness sakes, they weren't even in school!
Then Andy started coming home with stories of a boy, Dean, who had taken the school by storm with wild stories and leather jackets and cuss words and sarcastic remarks, a boy who had gotten himself more days of detention then he had yet been in school. A boy Andy wanted to invite over for dinner, because he was awesome and popular and stood up to the bullies that would have otherwise thrown Andy's bag into the mud.
Fran refused, obviously. She didn't want that kind of influence around her son. But God bless the fellow that could withstand Andy's puppy dog eyes for any length of time. Fran certainly couldn't. So plans were made for that Friday.
"Is it alright if Sam comes too? Dean says he can't leave his brother home alone, and I swear, Sam is a good kid. He's quiet and nice and smart and I promise he won't be any trouble!"
Fran just sighed and planned to make another serving of mashed potatoes. It was Thursday, she couldn't very well say no now.
Friday evening at exactly five-thirty there was a knock on the door. Fran ignored Andy's "I'll get it!" and abandoned her wooden spoon and apron to get her first real look at the Winchester boys.
Dean was a little tall for his age, and his strength was obvious even through thick flannel and baggy jeans. He had fiery emerald eyes that were too old for his youthful features, features that were pretty enough to be almost feminine. He was going to be a real looker when he grew up, that was for sure. Dean's smile was knife-sharp and secretive, a smile that could make a girl's (or boy's, for that matter) heart flutter, a smile that could strip away defences and make you believe anything he said. It put Fran completely at ease, which was an immediate warning sign.
Then there was Sam. Sam had dimples and hazel eyes and a cherub's face, and he looked so sickeningly adorable in his brother's oversized jacket that Fan almost broke down on the spot. He was holding on to the edge of his brother's shirt like it was the only rock in a hurricane, like it was the only thing protecting him from getting swept away. Even so, he had that same blazing confidence in his eyes, a surety in himself and his brother that came from hardship and pain and tears and knowing that no matter what the world threw at you, you weren't alone.
It was terrifying. Fran was a small-town girl. She had left her birthplace a total of eight times, and she was perfectly okay with that. Fran was willing to admit to herself that she didn't like being reminded of the big picture, of mortality, of the dangers and suffering and hate and pain in the world. It was all too easy to forget what was outside the town borders. There was security in ignorance. But these boys-these two young, pure, innocent boys-they were real. There was something about them, about their presence, that stripped away the daily lies and routine. It was comforting, in a way, but terrifying all the same. It brought back all the bad things and all the good and laid them out like it was somehow their right to see through the assumptions and stretched truths and misleading memories. It was reality undiluted.
Fran greeted them with a smile even as her mind recoiled, and Dean gave her a smile in return that said he knew what was going through her mind. Fran wished more than anything that she could turn them away, yell gitout, go home, shoo, like they were a couple of stray dogs begging for scraps at her doorstep. With the hunger in their frail frames and the danger in their military stances, with the smiles that were seconds away from bared teeth and the predatory glint in their disturbingly intelligent eyes, they might as well have been.
There should have been some stirring of motherly instincts, some nudge in the back of her head that made her want to feed and hold and coddle the Winchester brothers. It was obvious that they didn't know a mother's love, obvious in the way Sam's sleeves needed to be rolled up, Dean's scrapes needed to be bandaged, both boys needed to be hugged. But no.
Instead, her instincts screamed to protect her own. Her mind urged to take Andy in her arms and drive those starving dogs away with a frying pan. Her fingers clenched around a non-existent weapon, ready to force them out of her home.
But Andy was bouncing on the balls of his feet a few steps behind her. The oven dinged. Sam gave her a nervous smile. And against her better judgement, she beckoned them inside.
The trio hurried upstairs to Andy's room. Fran retreated to the kitchen. She clutched the countertop, knuckles going white, and took deep breaths. What had come over her? They were just two little boys, not unlike her own. Just two hungry little boys. Two ragged, powerful, feral little boys. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
She called them down to dinner not too much later. It was simple enough, just mashed potatoes, green peas, sliced carrots, leftover turkey, and rolls, but from the look on Sam and Dean's faces you might have thought she'd just handed them the moon on a silver platter. Something told her they didn't get home cooked meals often.
"This is fantastic, Mrs. Mendel!" Dean said enthusiastically.
"Thank you, Dean," she said, and since it looked like they were about to start shoveling food into their plates reminded them, "Now, let's all join hands and say grace."
Neither Sam nor Dean closed their eyes, but at least Sam had the decency to look down. The chorus of "Amen"s at the end seemed oddly reluctant. Fran didn't comment.
Dean, instead of immediately piling food on his plate like Fran had suspected he'd do, grabbed Sam's plate and started serving up large portions of everything available. Sam didn't protest. It seemed this was a normal occurrence.
The huge amounts of food both boys consumed (Dean only starting in on his after he'd observed that Sam had more than enough) ruined Fran's plans of copious leftovers. They far surpassed Andy, which was pretty hard to do. Fran would have been worried if she weren't so busy trying to convince herself that they weren't in any way, shape, or form dangerous to her and Andy.
They politely thanked her after the meal, offering to help clean up, and then took their leave at her refusal, much to Andy's disappointment. It was only after they'd left that Fran let herself recount the evening.
She noted the way Sam hadn't rebuked his vegetables, seemingly enjoying them just as much as the rest of his meal. She recalled Dean's jacket around Sam's shoulders, Dean's protective arm around his brother, the bruises on Dean's uncovered arms. She shuddered at the thought of their near-concave stomachs, at the protective way Dean guarded Sam with his every movement, at the practiced way Sam let him. And she sighed, rubbed the creases on her forehead, promised herself that she'd visit them tomorrow with leftovers and send an invite to another dinner with Andy.
She never got the chance.
Fran was so startled by the low rumble that was their car's engine that she stumbled right out of bed at five o'clock in the morning to see what was going on. Mr. Winchester had returned, and she set a mental reminder to go and give him a piece of her mind. It didn't matter what her personal thoughts on the Winchester brothers were, no child should be treated that way. They needed proper care, and it was obvious they weren't getting it.
She was stopped in her trek back to bed by their door slamming open and two boys, now recognizable as Sam and Dean, waddling through, limbs decorated with duffle bags bigger than their torsos. They popped the trunk and tossed the bags in before climbing in themselves and driving off into the night.
Fran would wonder about those boys for years to come. She'd wonder sitting on her porch sipping lemonade in her forties, rocking in her chair in the living room in her fifties, baking cookies in the kitchen in her sixties, laying in bed sick as a dog in her seventies, and in her eighties...well, by the time her eighties were over, she wouldn't be worrying about anything. Now, though, she just sat back down on her bed and wondered why she hadn't sent them off with extra servings of the rolls they'd seemed to enjoy so much.
