Chapter 7 Baseballs and Goblins
Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives.
~ Richard Bach
1988. Spirit Lake, Iowa.
John spread the sheets out along the long table in the closed-in sunroom at the side of the house. Each sheet represented a year of data; and he could see clearly the years where the data had fluctuated, well beyond the normal parameters. He stretched the graph paper on the board and plotted out the correlations, discarding those that were too vague for accuracy. On one wall of the sunroom, a corkboard was covered by a large map of the US, strings going from towns to case reports over the same time period.
The meteorological data was national, covering systems, aberrations, and overlaid by transparent sheets showing the averages over the same time period. Again, the anomalies stood out, and he pulled out the state by state data sheets, starting with 1960 in Washington state, and working through them west to east, then year by year. Separate piles on the desk at the end of the room held national agricultural results, geological analyses, crime and death reports.
He looked up when it was too dark to read the small numbers and realised that he'd been working on the data all day. His eyes were sore and itchy, and his head was pounding, but looking at the graph, even now he could see where the yellow-eyed bastard had been, Frank had been right about that – and soon, one day soon, he would know where he was heading.
Flipping on the light switch, he laid the dust cloth over the top of the long table. He would need a computer before too much longer, he realised. Although the plotting and graphing were easy enough to do manually, statistical evaluation and correlation would be another matter. A computer, even a very basic one, would do the calculations that would take him hours, in microseconds.
He opened the door that led from the sunroom into the living room, surprised to find that the room was dark as well. Moving more quickly, he flicked on the lights as he went from room to room in the small house he'd rented for the autumn and winter. The boys weren't downstairs at all. He headed up the stairs at a run, hitting the bedroom door with his shoulder as he wrenched the knob.
Dean and Sammy looked up at the entrance, frozen in what they were doing. Dean held the pieces of a clock, and a screwdriver. Sam was most of the way through his book.
"Sorry." John took a deep breath, letting the fear subside. "It's past six o'clock, you boys forget about dinner?"
"We thought you didn't want to be disturbed." Dean looked down at the collection of springs and wheels and gears in his hands.
"Is it dinner time?" Sammy asked.
"Geny, I can hardly hear you." John stood in the living room with the phone handset pressed hard against his ear. "Where?"
Dean looked at Sammy. Phone calls like these usually presaged a change of location, and he wondered if they'd be going with Dad, or left with someone else. Sam was reading, oblivious to the call. He'd started school this year and his teachers had been impressed by his aptitude to everything.
"Alright." John looked down at his sons and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm leaving now." He put the handset down and looked at Dean.
"Geny needs some help with something. I've got to go for a couple of weeks." He picked up the phone again, and dialled the number, holding the handset against his ear, listening to it ring.
"Bobby? It's John." He took a deep breath. "Going to take you up on your offer."
Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
In all, it had taken them an hour to pack everything they needed for a couple of weeks, and another hour to drive to Sioux Falls. Dean stood next to Bobby and watched his father backing out of the narrow laneway, turning the car carefully, then drive out of the yard. He felt his breath go out of him.
Bobby looked down at the unhappy faces of the two boys, a trickle of unease making him shiver. What the hell had he been thinking, offering to take the boys? What did he know about kids? He'd made a decision, long ago, not to have his own, a decision that had cost him everything he'd held dear – and here he was, with complete charge over a five-year old and a nine-year old. He shook his head slightly.
"Well, it's almost lunch time, you two have a preference?"
Dean looked up at him, and shook his head. Any other time and an invitation like that would have been too easy. But he didn't feel hungry, just worried. About Dad. Sammy turned away and walked up the steps to the front door, going inside without saying a word. Bobby looked after him, the uneasiness slowly turning to nervousness. What was he supposed to do?
Dean watched his little brother go as well, and looked at Bobby's face – he could see concern and worry on it.
"Don't worry about him, Bobby. He's always like that when Dad goes." He shrugged. Sammy had just begun to start taking an interest in what Dad did, where he went, where Mom was and what had happened to their family. It was a pain in the butt answering, or rather, refusing to answer the little pest's questions. Sooner or later he'd get mad because Sam never took 'no' for an answer.
"Well, that's understandable, I guess." Bobby turned to the house. "It's not an easy life, for your Dad or for you guys."
"Yeah." Dean followed him as he walked up the steps. "It'd be nice to stay in one place, for a little while."
"What do you boys like to do?" Bobby closed the front door behind them, and walked down to the kitchen. He figured sandwiches might be a good start.
"Uh … lots of stuff. Dad's been teaching me to shoot, a bit. And I can field-strip the guns in eight minutes now."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Well, that's handy and useful an' all, but what about fun?"
"That is fun," Dean said, looking up at him. "We've been practising in the woods behind the house, hiding from each other and walking silently and stuff."
"Well, grouse season starts in a couple of days. Do you want to go bird hunting?"
"Yeah! That'd be great." He sat down at the table while Bobby went to the counter, pulling out a loaf of bread, butter, cheese and ham.
"Like cheese and ham sandwiches?" He looked over his shoulder at the boy. Dean nodded.
"What about Sam?"
"He likes cheese and pickle."
Okay, then, Bobby thought, making up a half dozen sandwiches of both kinds. Always plenty of pickle here.
"What about baseball or football?" he asked, picking up the plate and carrying it to the table.
"Well, I sort of started at some of the schools, but it got hard to practice and different schools like different sports, so I haven't really done much."
"We could throw some around, if you want." Bobby sat down and picked up a sandwich, biting into it. Dean reached out and picked up one too, and Bobby had to hide a smile as he noticed Dean mirroring himself on the other side of the table, taking big bites with his elbows on the table.
"That'd be alright," Dean managed to get out, between bites. "I could, uh, help you with fixing the cars, if you wanted."
Bobby looked up, recognising the plea thinly disguised as an offer, and grinned at him.
"I can always use a hand with the cars." He took another bite. "You any good with cars?"
"I could learn." Dean stopped chewing, tucking the bite into his cheek as he looked at Bobby. "You could teach me."
"I guess I could."
They finished their sandwiches in companionable silence, and Bobby felt himself starting to relax. Maybe it wouldn't be too hard.
Sammy had gone up to their bedroom, and was sitting on his bed, alternatively building things with the Lego blocks and then drawing them in his sketch pad, when Dean brought a sandwich up for him.
"Sam, it doesn't matter how bad you feel about Dad, it's pretty lame to be rude to Bobby when he's looking after us."
The little boy nodded, his chin tucked against his chest. "I know. I just thought we were going to be in the house for a while."
"Me too." Dean shrugged, putting the plate on the nightstand and sitting on the end of the bed. "And we will, when Dad gets back. But in the meantime, Bobby's a pretty cool guy and he made it easy for Dad to help out Geny, so we have to pull our weight around here, help out where we can."
"Okay."
"Eat your lunch, and bring your plate down when you're done," Dean told him, a warning in his voice as he got to his feet. Sam nodded again, frowning at the side of the Lego building, noticing a shadow that lay like a triangle down the side. He looked at his drawing and added it quickly.
Dean and Bobby stood in the rough grassy field to one side of the yard. Bobby held the football in both hands, the red pigskin roughly cleaned of several years of dust and cobwebs.
"So, because of the shape, you gotta give it a little spin when you throw it, so it'll go straight – like a bullet coming out of a rifle." Bobby demonstrated, throwing the ball to Dean.
"Bullets spin when they come out of the barrel?" Dean caught the ball, and looked at him.
"Sure, inside the barrel there are grooves cut, like little hills and valleys, which make it spin when it's pushed through by the charge." Bobby clapped his hands impatiently. "C'mon, throw it back."
Dean threw it back as hard as he could, ducking his head to hide the fast smile when he heard the smack of the leather hit Bobby's hands.
"Yeah, ha ha … okay, you got a good arm like that, move back about ten yards."
They spent an hour throwing the ball back and forth across the field, moving further apart, then practising throwing it straight while they were moving – or at least Dean had to move, Bobby claimed that he'd break an ankle if he ran around in the field. Sammy watched from the bonnet of one of the junkers for a while, then slid off, wandering down one alley of cars and up another, looking at all the different vehicles Bobby Singer had in his yard. A few would make pretty good cubby houses, he thought, especially the little caravan that was tucked under half a dozen other cars. He could just see a part of it, from the edge of the piled line. He'd have to climb over the cars if he wanted to get closer.
Without any further thought, he climbed over the trunk of the nearest car, and slithered and scrambled his way over, under and through the balanced, rusty bodies of the cars in between, sliding off the roof of the last one to land in front of the van door. He looked back, and realised that he was completely hidden here, he could spend all day in here and no one would know where he was. It was a strange thought, both exciting and revolting, the idea of being hidden, warring with the realisation that his brother and Uncle Bobby would be very worried about him if he ever did such a thing.
He reached out for the door and eased it open, peering inside. The van was only quite small, set up for someone on their own, or maybe a couple, to travel around in. There was a tiny kitchenette at one end, and a bed at the other, and a small area with a long couch and a drop down table for eating, in the middle. It smelled a little musty, but fresh enough. No rain had penetrated and the fabric of the mattress and the couch weren't mouldy or damp.
Stepping up and inside, Sam half-closed the door behind him, and felt a tremor of doubt hit as he realised how dim it was in there with the door nearly shut. The windows were caked in grime, both inside and outside, letting in very little light. The musty smell had gotten a little stronger, and he could smell something else, something he didn't recognise, a strange bitter smell, almost like oranges that had just become too soft to eat.
He looked around, opening the cupboards in the kitchenette, lifting the seat of the couch, looking under the bed but he couldn't find the source of the smell in the van. Maybe it wasn't in the van, he thought. A rustle behind him made him jump and he spun around, expecting to see … something, something he didn't want to see. But there was nothing beside or on or under the bed, and the little wardrobe and set of drawers were shut tight and too small to hold a real monster.
Leaning over the couch, he wound open the windows there, moving to the windows on the other side to do the same. Maybe that would help.
He lifted his head as he heard a distant call. Dean. He looked around again, and slipped out, closing the door firmly behind him. It would be his place.
"Bobby, can you read me a bedtime story?" Sam looked up at Bobby pleadingly. Dean turned around, his expression a mixture of surprise and hurt. He read the stories to Sammy at night, sometimes Dad.
"Sure, Sam." Bobby looked around the room. "Ya got a favourite?"
"I found this. Downstairs." Sam lifted the book from beneath his pillow, holding it out. Bobby took the book and ran his hand over the cover. He hadn't seen this in a long time. He opened the cover and looked down at the inscription on the first page, feeling his throat close up and tears pricking at the back of his eyes.
It had been Karen's and she'd kept it. To read to their children, she'd told him, on the fall evening she'd decided to bring up the subject. He could still see her face, the shock in her eyes, when he'd told her. He wished he couldn't. He touched the inscription lightly, and turned the page.
"Dutch Fairy Tales for Young Folks," he read the title page slowly, swallowing as he pushed the memory and the pain and the grief away, forcing himself to concentrate on the pages, on the words.
Sam settled back against the pillow, snuggling down under the covers as he closed his eyes. Bobby glanced at him, and the shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He felt his chest lighten a little as he began the first story.
When he finished the first tale, he looked up. Sam was asleep, long lashes feathered against the curve of his cheek. He glanced at Dean, and his smile got wider. Dean had curled up to listen too, and like his little brother, was asleep, curled under the quilts.
Bobby stood up carefully and leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp. He backed out of the room, standing by the door for a minute, watching them. He'd had no idea of what it would be like, the way they looked at him, listened to him, their eyes wide and trusting. I'm so sorry, Karen. I didn't know. I just didn't want to be like … him.
The kitchen was filled with the very pale wash of morning sunlight when Bobby walked into it. Looking around, he realised he was seeing it differently now. It was no longer just a place to cook something to eat, distractedly, burning the pans and making do, leaving the dust and grime until he ran out of dishes and had to clean them all, the dresser and table and chairs covered in books and notes and junk mail tossed there and forgotten.
Maybe he was seeing it as she had seen it, as the heart of the home, he thought vaguely, his expression unconsciously screwed up as he cleared the surfaces and collected and stacked every dish and glass and cup on the counter, filling the sink and adding detergent and washing until they were all clean, stacked on the drainer, sparkling. The table was wiped clean and a fresh cloth spread over it. The counters were polished and empty.
He looked around, shaking his head slightly as he put the coffee pot on the stove. It didn't look the way she'd kept, but it wasn't that bad.
Going to the fridge, he pulled out bacon, eggs, milk, butter. He could hear soft thuds from upstairs, reliable indicators that his guests were up and would be downstairs in a few minutes. The bacon went under the broiler and the eggs were scrambled into the pan, and when Dean and Sam emerged, dressed but still yawning, he gestured to the table, and set their plates in front of them.
"Dean, you still want to help me pull apart an engine?" Bobby asked diffidently, sipping his coffee, his face half-shadowed by the cap he wore everywhere – well, almost everywhere.
"Yes, sir." Dean looked up, excitement filling his eyes.
"What about you, Sammy? Interested in seeing how a car engine is built?"
Sam looked down at his plate for a moment. He wasn't, really. "Uh … no. Not really."
Bobby laughed. "Fair enough. What do you want to do today, Sam?"
"Can I … uh," Sam thought hard about asking for permission to play in the yard. If Bobby said no, then he would be really disobeying an order if he did. But if he didn't ask, then he wasn't. "Uh … just read and draw for a while?"
"Sure, you know how to read already?" Bobby's eyebrows lifted. "Thought you just started school this fall?"
"Sammy's really smart, Bobby. He could read at four and a half," Dean told him, his pride in his little brother bursting in his voice.
"Four and a half? That so?" Bobby nodded. "Well, you must be pretty smart, Sam. Who taught you to read?"
"Dean," Sammy said, smiling guilelessly at him.
"I guess Dean's not dumb either then?"
"No, sir." Sam looked at his brother, who was looking down at his plate.
"Dad did all the hard stuff, Sammy, I just helped you practice," Dean mumbled to his breakfast. Bobby looked at the boy thoughtfully. He would crow about some of his achievements till the cows came home, he thought, but not others. He wondered why.
"All right. Let's get the dishes cleared away and then me and Dean'll go and fix a car, and you can keep an eye on things here, Sam – sound like a plan?"
The boys nodded and picked up their plates, taking them to the sink. Dean ran the hot water over them, adding detergent while Sam found a small step ladder so that he could reach into the sink to rinse as his brother washed. Bobby watched, half-amused, half-astonished, as they fell into their jobs automatically, no bickering, just getting on with it. They weren't going to be much trouble; he'd have to remember to tell John.
In the shade of the big workshop, Bobby walked around the car that was ready for surgery, gesturing at the open engine bay. "Right, now this engine needs a total rebuild, so we're going to have to take it out of the car."
Dean looked up at the chain haul suspended from the iron rafters above them. Bobby followed his gaze and nodded. "Yep, going to use that to lift it and move it over there." He pointed to the low table a few feet away. "But first we have to unbolt it from the mounting beds, and disconnect all the bits and pieces that are attached to the car."
He looked over to the workbench. "Get me the socket set, on the bench."
Dean slid off the low stool and walked to the bench, picking up the metal box that held the set and carrying it back to the car. It was a full set and a heavy sonofabitch and Bobby couldn't hide his smile of admiration at the boy's enthusiasm and ability.
"We need a nine-sixteenths socket for the engine mount bolts. Might be bigger or smaller, but we'll start with that 'cos they're often that size."
Dean looked carefully at the socket heads, their sizes engraved on their sides, until he found the right one. He picked up the handle and fitted the head onto it, spinning it once to make sure it was moving in the right direction, then handed it to Bobby.
"Good job. Right, for this bit we're going to spend a bit of time under the car, and leaning all over the top, so let's get ourselves organised and figure out what we need to hand to get on with the job. We gotta disconnect a whole lot of things before we can lift it out, and we'll go through 'em one by one, okay?"
Dean nodded, his eyes alight with curiosity and excitement. He'd helped his father a few times now, working on the Impala, but this … this was the real stuff, taking a whole engine to pieces and fixing it and then putting it back together. He felt his heart racing at the prospect of it.
Bobby looked at his face, seeing the familiar car-fanaticism that had shone in his very own when he'd been not much older. There were some people who just were that way inclined, he thought. Who needed to know how things worked. And how to fix them. And how to make 'em work better. He looked at Dean's eyes, and would have bet an even grand right there that this kid was one of them.
Sam waited until Bobby and his brother had left the house then hurried upstairs. Their bedroom was clean and tidy, containing the necessities for guests but not much more. But the room next to theirs was a different matter. He'd looked in there yesterday, opening the wrong door by mistake, and had found a room filled with furniture, boxes, old trunks and cases, books, linen, piled higgedly-piggedly together, filling the floor from wall to wall. He opened the door quietly now and slipped through, and began to look through the contents for what he needed to make the van comfortable and cosy.
He staggered downstairs a half hour later with his arms full of blankets, cushions and books. In the kitchen he took a box of candles and a book of matches, some apples, a packet of cookies, a glass, and a bottle of milk. He stacked it all on the kitchen table and decided to make himself a couple of sandwiches, just in case he felt a bit hungry later.
Between the food and everything else, he was going to have to make a few trips, he thought with a flash of disappointment. Getting over and through the cars needed at least one free hand, he remembered.
He could hear Bobby and his brother working on the car in the cover of the shed as he slipped out with the first lot of things. He was going in the opposite direction, so unless one of them had a reason to come out, he didn't think they'd see him. He couldn't come up with any explanation of what he was doing anyway.
It didn't take as long as he'd thought it would, and he opened the van door, and lugged the stuff inside, piece by piece. He spread the blankets out on the bed and one for the couch, put the cushions on both, set the food on the counter in the kitchenette. He'd just decided to have a glass of milk and a sandwich, when he noticed the windows. They were shut.
Sam looked at them for a long time. Maybe he'd shut them again before he'd left? He couldn't remember doing that. He looked around the van slowly again. It was empty. Not even a spider was inside.
He opened the waxed paper that held his sandwich, and carefully opened the bottle of milk, setting aside the little foil cap as he poured the milk into his glass, then replacing it. He wasn't sure if he should be feeling worried or not. Maybe Bobby had noticed that the windows had been left open and had come and closed them himself?
"Sam?"
At the familiar shout, he turned to the door, squeezing out and scrambling back through the junkers to the alleyway as he heard his brother calling out again. Running down the alley to the workshop, he was relieved to see that Dean and Bobby were both still inside.
"What's wrong?" he panted as he came into shadowy shed.
"Uh, nothing." Dean frowned at his brother. "Can you get us a couple of sodas from the kitchen?"
Sam looked at him, then remembered he was supposed to be playing in the house. He nodded, and ran to the kitchen, grabbing the cans and tucking them against one arm, then walked back to the shed.
"Thanks Sam," Bobby's voice came from under the car. "Dean, can you get the adjustable wrench and pass it to me?"
Dean took the sodas from his little brother as he walked to the bench, and Sam watched them for a moment longer before turning away and hurrying back to the van.
When he got back inside, he went straight to the counter and stopped. The glass was empty. The sandwich, which he knew he'd left beside it, was gone.
"Okay. Come out." He looked around the empty space, feeling a cold spot move up the back of his neck. "I know you're here, just come out."
His eye was caught by a sparkle in the corner, over the couch. The sparkle thickened as the light picked up more substance underneath, turning greenish, becoming lumpy.
Sam stared at the small creature crouching on the corner of the couch, his mouth opening a little in amazement. He was sure Bobby didn't know about this.
"What are you doing here?" He looked down at the misshapen form, long arms and short legs, a round stomach protruding between them, wrinkled, bumpy skin, large bluebell-blue eyes peering at him from either side of a long very pointed nose. The ears captivated him the most; they were long and pointed as well, standing out from the skull like a bat's. The goblin looked back at him.
"I needed a place to stay, of course." It lifted its arm and turned slightly, and Sam could see a deep cut, along the back of the arm, from shoulder to elbow, the edges torn, greenish blood dripping out. He leaned closer, frowning.
"You should really bandage that. My Dad says that open wounds are dangerous."
"Got anything to fix it with?" the goblin asked sharply, twisting his head and arm to look at the cut.
Sam remembered seeing the first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. "In the house," he told the little monster. "Stay here, I'll be right back."
"As if I have anywhere else to go," the goblin muttered. Sam stopped by the door.
"If you're still hungry, you could have the other sandwich – and some cookies." He gestured to the kitchenette. The goblin looked over to the food longingly but didn't move. Sammy frowned at it then walked to the couch, letting down the drop-leaf table down and returning to the counter to grab the food and bottle of milk. "Can't you move?"
The goblin looked up at him as its long fingers swiped a cookie and stuffed it into its mouth, crumbs scattering as the cookie was devoured.
Sammy looked at it disapprovingly. You were supposed to chew food with your mouth closed. "I won't be long."
Sitting on the couch next to the goblin ten minutes later, his lip caught between his teeth as he looked at the long, nasty cut on the creature's arm, Sammy remembered what his Dad had taught him and Dean a couple of months ago about field dressings. The wound had to be clean, that was the most important thing, any dirt in it would mean an infection.
Bobby's kit contained a small bottle of clear alcohol and he picked it up, unscrewing the lid as he looked at the open wound. There were grains of dirt in there, he could see, and threads of what might have been cloth trapped as well. Alcohol sterilises wounds, he could hear his father's voice in his memory. That means it kills all the things that might cause the wound to get infected.
"Hold your arm out, I have to use this to clean it out," he instructed the goblin, who looked suspiciously at him.
"If there's dirt in there, it won't get better," he added sternly.
The goblin knew that much. The cut had begun to ache more deeply in the last day. He reluctantly extended his arm over the table. Sam tipped up the bottle and the pure alcohol trickled into the open flesh.
"ARGGHHHHHHHH!" The goblin snatched his arm away, staring in fury at the boy, tears running from its eyes down its face from the agonising pain.
"Sorry!" Sam shrank back from its expression, holding the bottle up defensively. "You want it to get better, don't you?"
"Not if the pain is going to kill me anyway!" the goblin retorted. It looked down at the cut and slowly stretched out its arm again.
Sammy peered into the cut again. The dirt was gone, and the threads. The strangely coloured flesh of the goblin was clean.
Putting the lid back on the bottle, he looked back into the kit and pulled out a pack of butterfly closures, his lips moving as he read the words hesitantly on the wrapping. His father had shown them the curved needles and the long suture thread but had only talked about sewing a wound shut. The closures were only tape, and he could see Bobby had needles and thread in the kit as well, but he couldn't imagine trying to stitch the cut together, his stomach giving a slow roll at the thought, and the tape would hold the edges together for a while.
Dad had said that wounds healed better if the cut was closed so that no dirt could get into it. He chewed worriedly on the edge of his lip and opened the pack, peeled the backing off the first, his fingers fumbling a little as he drew the two edges of flesh together and put the tape over it. It held and he quickly took out more, spacing them evenly as he worked down the cut. The sterile gauze pad went over them, and then he took the bandage, and wound it around the arm, remembering how his father had done it, not too tight, but just firm. He cut the end of the bandage into two strips and tied them around the arm.
"There."
The goblin looked down at the white bandage, standing out brightly against his greenish skin. It felt better, even with the after burn of the liquid, it had to admit. Flexing the arm slightly, it wriggled its fingers. The bandage didn't move.
"Thank you." It looked at the boy reluctantly, and realised that the child had no idea of what he'd done – of the debt that it owed him now.
"I'm Sam." Sam told it, putting the contents of the kit away and closing the lid.
"Hello, Sam," it said cautiously. "My name is Taswellweejullan."
Sam smiled uncertainly at it. "That's a long name."
The goblin nodded. "You can call me Tas."
"What happened?" Sam asked, pointing to the bandage.
"It's a long story." It sighed. "And a complicated one. Suffice to say that I'm cured of my curiosity about humans."
Bobby yanked at the ladder that gave access to the attic, climbing cautiously up once it was straight and solid on the floor. His flashlight beam gleamed on the things that had been stored up there so long he no longer recognised them.
"Should be with the ski gear," he mumbled as he climbed through the trap-door and stepped onto the floorboards. The days' heat filled the space, bringing a light sheen of sweat to his face as he picked his way around and over the detritus of a life he'd lost years ago.
After a few moments rummaging around in the big steamer trunk next to the two sets of cross-country skis, he found them. The leather had dried and hardened, but a good soaking in oil would fix that, he thought. He came down the ladder and folded it back, shutting the ceiling door.
Dean looked down at the gloves, taking the larger one and turning it over in his hands. They were old but well made.
"Needs oil," Bobby said shortly, walking down the stairs. "Come on."
In the kitchen, Sam looked up as Bobby gave him the second glove, turning it over his hands.
Bobby picked up a couple of old newspapers from the recycling box in the corner, spreading them over half the kitchen table. He looked in the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a bottle of neatsfoot oil, setting it on the table.
"Pour it on, and rub it into the leather, then pour some more on until the leather feels soft again. You have to work the leather slowly, or it'll crack."
The boys poured the oil carefully over the gloves, rubbing it in and working them back and forth, the leather darkening to a very deep brown as it drank in the oil, filling the warm room with the slightly off scent. Leaning back against the counter, watching them as they diligently worked the leather, Bobby felt his chest contract a little. He was no longer nervous about them, no longer worried he was going to do or say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
When the gloves started to drip, he found a couple of old balls, setting them on the table as he looked over the job the boys had done. He was satisfied that the gloves couldn't take any more oil and he showed them how to put the balls into the palms of the gloves and wrap the mitt around them, tying them into shape.
"Should be able to start using them tomorrow." He glanced up at the clock. Past nine and Dean and Sammy were yawning. Another day gone.
Tas ate everything Sam brought, and Sam changed the dressing every day. Taking the bandage off and looking at the wound, he could see it was growing together again, and the goblin had told him that it felt much better.
Watching the little boy as he set out the day's food, the creature silently debated the pros and cons of telling the human child about the blood debt – it didn't like to be beholden to anyone, but least of all this child. On the other hand, it couldn't ignore it. There were rules, and it knew the penalties of betraying a blood debt.
Bobby had read all of the fairy tale book to Sam, and Sam had a pretty good idea about the lore of goblins. Tas hadn't mentioned the debt between them, but he thought that the goblin would honour it, if it were ever needed.
Bobby and Dean had lifted out the engine and worked on it every day, finishing near sunset covered in grease and oil, as they cleaned and rebored the pistons, replacing the worn out parts one by one, Dean's mind absorbing everything he was learning, seeing how the engine fit together, seeing how it worked, seeing how it could be improved.
Bobby watched the sponge-like absorption of the knowledge with amusement, letting the boy do more and more of the work, seeing Dean's confidence get stronger and surer with every job successfully completed. He could be impulsive, acting before thinking, but not here, Bobby noticed. Dean took the time to work out the right way to do something before he started and he thought through what he needed. Mechanical work had a way of instilling that steadiness of thought, paying attention to logical progression.
The three of them walked out through the misty fields in the mornings, Dean with a .22 rifle, Bobby with his shotgun and shells filled with birdshot, Sam carrying the bag of spare ammunition. He taught them how to move quietly enough through the long grass and puddled marshes to avoid alarming the wildlife, taught them where the birds would be, and where the animals hid, taught them to find and recognise the spoor of the creatures that lived in the woods and the marshes, and where they came to drink and eat, and why.
Dean loved the quiet walks, the heavy stock of the gun smooth against his hands, the man beside him explaining the habits and behaviour of each of the animals they came across. Sam just liked the quiet of it, and learning about the animals, absorbing the information Bobby gave out with the effortless capacity of the very young.
In the late golden afternoons, they went to the field and threw the baseball to each other, learning about trajectory and force and the way the air acted on the seams of the ball, and how to throw it so that it sped fast and straight into the catcher's glove, or moved slowly and randomly through the air, or dipped and swooped, depending on the spin it was given by the pitcher. Both boys had good hand-eye coordination, Bobby thought as he watched them critically, and they were developing a real skill at making the balls do what they wanted, allowing for wind resistance and pressure, translating their learned skills to instinctive reactions with each session.
It was like rebuilding a car, in some ways. Taking the pains to make sure every piece fit together, watching carefully for any signs that something was wrong. His heart ached when he watched them, and he did his best not to acknowledge that. The past was done and gone and there was nothing he could do to ever bring it back, to make things right or different.
Bobby sat at the table, looking around the warmly lit kitchen. Sam and Dean were bent over their plates, eating as fast as he remembered himself doing when he was a kid. The room was clean, the whole house was pretty clean, he thought with a moment's surprise, clean and tidy and homey.
Aside from a single glass, after the boys had gone to bed and he returned to his study to read up on something or do some research, the whiskey bottle went untouched. Having the boys here with him had made him calmer, had steadied him in some way, he realised, rather than making him more worried. He hadn't seen that coming. The fear he'd had when he'd told his wife that her dream would never come true seemed like a terrible joke now.
The everyday stuff, cooking them dinner, making sure they ate properly, getting them into baths, doing the laundry even … had made a solid foundation, one that he kept feeling was getting thicker and more solid by the day. He enjoyed, no, that was too tame a word for what he was feeling, he loved teaching Dean about cars and hunting, reading to Sam at the end of the day, watching over them and listening to them, and having them here in this too-big house, their voices and laughter filling the rooms, their needs demanding more of him, but at the same time, making him feel more like a man, like a worthwhile man, than he'd felt in years.
His heartache had never left, never healed properly. He would always miss her, and would always feel the guilt of the last conversation they'd had. Now, it was worse, because he was finding out what she'd already known – family was the only thing that mattered in this wide world. Love, that intangible force that made people try to be better, try to be stronger, more caring of each other, was all about family, about connection and roots and making a safe haven for the people you loved against whatever was out there in the darkness.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly as the boys picked up their clean plates and carried them to the sink. I'm so sorry Karen.
Sam could hear the deep growling rising through his dream. He turned his head on the pillow, his legs moving restlessly, wanting to be running, running away from the growling. His eyes flew open and he sat up, chest heaving as the tendrils of the dream faded away. But the growling remained, deep and savage and unmistakably from the yard. He turned his head slowly, looking at the window and he could hear the heavy pads of the dog outside thumping on the gravel, the basso pitch rattling the panes of glass.
Sliding silently out of the bed, he walked to the window, pressing against the cold glass to look down. The sky was clear, the moon sailing high above them against the black sky, and he saw it, pacing in front of the house, a monstrous black dog. It stopped and looked up at him, red eyes glowing against the black fur, and he stumbled backwards, away from the window, his muscles seizing up with fear.
Bobby turned from side to side in his bed, his face twisted into an expression of agony, his legs caught in the tangle of sheets that had migrated to the end of the bed. He moaned softly as the dream moved toward the known climax.
Karen stood by the bed, staring at him, her body shaking with the force of her feelings. "I can't believe you. I hate you." She dragged in a breath, "Everything's a lie. Our whole life, our vows ... everything. You knew I wanted kids. Why didn't you just sit me down and say..."
Bobby looked at her, his heart pounding against his ribs. Say something, his mind screamed at him, say something to fix this! Sweat was coating his hands, trickling down his back. One minute it had been a conversation, now he was looking down at the devastation and debris of the end of the world, the end of his world.
She shook her head. "I don't understand. You're a good man. You'd be a good dad."
She was waiting, he knew, waiting for him to explain, to help her understand. But his throat was frozen, and the words were locked in his head, inexpressible, wrapped in fear and memory, so that he couldn't explain it, could only feel it.
Her face screwed up as she screamed at him, "What does that even mean, you break everything you touch? What kind of excuse is that?"
She turned away from him, and stepped onto the broken shards of the glass. The gasp of pain as she twisted and fell onto the bed brought him a little closer to coming back to her, a little further out of his head. He took a step toward her as she lifted her foot, looking at the glass protruding from the sole. She looked up at him, and her face twisted suddenly.
"Just stay away from me! You broke my heart, Bobby! You happy? Just go away!"
He felt his heart stop, felt it shatter inside him as he watched her suck in a breath, her shoulders shaking and the tears filled her eyes, spilling over and splashing down onto her arms, her lap. He watched her twist away, curling up over herself, her hands clenching on the bed covers, her pain and her grief a palpable wall around her, a wall he couldn't touch, couldn't break down or through.
The dream morphed, in the way that dreams do, into another memory, another time, and she stood before him, her eyes black from corner to corner, the demon laughing through her mouth, ripping shreds from his soul as it tossed the conversation back at him, her memory of her pain held out to him like a sacrifice, dripping with her blood and tears.
Sam huddled in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up, elbows over them, head bent into them. He could hear the thundering booms from downstairs as the dog hit the front door, again and again, the impact shaking the walls, making the pictures rattle and jump. He was shaking and he could feel a wetness in his pyjama pants as fear took hold and held him tight.
He screamed when the door exploded, and Dean sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide as he looked around, finally spotting Sam in the corner.
"What's wrong?" He scrambled from the bed, sliding as he ran for Sam, his hands touching his brother's shoulders. "Sammy, what's wrong?"
The growling was louder, inside the house, echoing from the walls and ceilings and floors. Dean's head snapped up as he heard it, turning to the bedroom door, knowing that there was nothing in the way of protection in the room, the salt was downstairs, where the creature was, he had to get Sam to someplace safe.
He stood, pulling Sam up, and pushed his brother toward the door. As he opened it, Sam pulled back and Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, half-dragging him out of the room and along the hall to Bobby's room.
"Come on, Bobby will know what to do!" he whispered hoarsely, fear thrumming through muscle and tendon as he heard the heavy breathing down the stairs.
Sam ran with him, reluctantly. He didn't think Bobby would be able to protect them from the dog, it wasn't a real dog; he understood somewhere in his heart, guns wouldn't stop it.
Dean opened the door to Bobby's room and could smell the rank scent of sweat in the close air. Bobby turned on the bed, deeply asleep, his eyes shifting rapidly beneath the closed lids. Thrusting his little brother toward the bed, he looked around the room, spotting the hessian sack of salt beside the window with a violent surge of relief. He ran and grabbed it, carrying it back to the door and tipping it up to pour a thick salt line across the threshold. He looked around, carrying the half-empty bag to the windows and pouring salt over the sills, his gaze feverishly darting around the bedroom, looking for any other possible entry point.
Sam sat on the end of the bed, curled up against himself, watching his brother moving around the room. He glanced at Bobby, wondering why he hadn't woken, why he was still sleeping through the growls and grunts, the smashing of the door, the intrusion of the boys into the room. His eyes widened slightly as he wondered if it was Bobby's dreaming that had brought the creature to the house.
Dean put down the empty sack and ran to the side of the bed, grabbing Bobby's arm and shaking him as hard as he could.
"Bobby, wake up! Wake up, we're in trouble," he panted, his fingers biting into the man's arm. "Sam, help me wake him."
Sam crawled reluctantly down the bed, and started shaking Bobby. "Bobby, wake up!"
He half expected the growling and the thudding of the paws on the timber floorboards to disappear when Bobby's eyes opened. But they didn't. That was worse, a lot worse.
"What's going on?" Bobby struggled to sit up, kicking at the sheets around his legs as consciousness returned and he saw both boys on the bed beside him. "What's wrong?"
"Something's in the house, Bobby, something bad." Dean looked at the door, then at Sam. "I put salt in front of the door and the windows but it's inside."
Bobby frowned as his senses belatedly registered the noise coming from the hallway. Dog, he thought automatically, as the growling got louder, interspersed with heavy panting, and the click of claws on the hardwood boards.
"What the hell?" He slid off the bed, going to the closet and pulling out a shotgun. He broke the gun and checked that it was loaded. The salt-packed shells were there.
"What is it? D'ja see it?" Bobby looked from Dean to Sam. Dean shook his head. Sam was looking down at the bedspread. He nodded slowly.
"It was a big, black dog," he said quietly. "It had red eyes."
Bobby frowned. Black dogs were spirits, not actual creatures. They were death omens, guardians and hunters of the souls that were at the end of their time … or, he suddenly remembered, that had been cursed to die. He felt a trickle of fear slip down his spine. Had he been cursed? It couldn't be the boys.
Taswellweejullan sat in the van, debating with itself over going to help the boy who held the blood debt, or just remaining here, out of sight. It sighed after a few moments, knowing full well it couldn't just sit here safely while the boy was in danger. It wondered momentarily about the appearance of the dog, specifically which human in the house was the target. Then it shrugged the thought off. It wasn't that important.
Opening the door to the van, the goblin slipped out, crouching in the shadows of the cars, feeling the night for anything else that might be lurking, might be waiting for it. There was nothing else abroad in the night, but it could feel the dog moving through the house, searching for the soul it had come to take.
Humans were forever meddling in things that they were better off not messing with, it thought, slipping between the car bodies and keeping to the shadows as it crept closer to the house. The dog was there on command, targeting the older human. But it could kill the two younger ones as easily if they came between it and its prey.
Looking at the destruction of the front door, it sighed and cocked its head, listening to the life within the house. The three humans were on the second floor, it could feel their fear from here. The dog was prowling the hallway, because it couldn't get to them, some barrier had been put into place, holding it back. The goblin nodded approvingly as it caught the scent of the salt, covering all the possible entrances to the room.
A curse dog was more powerful than a death apparition. They were solid, made actual in the real world. The salt was a powerful wall but not an invincible one, and sooner or later the dog would break through. Sighing vexedly again, and scuttled up the staircase, looking around the banisters as it reached the top. There it was, pacing up and down in front of the door. The goblin ducked quickly as the door opened, and the older human appeared, the double barrels of the gun crossing the line. The massive boom of the gun filled the hallway, the dog howling in pain and outrage when the salt pellets sprayed it.
Tas shook its head disbelievingly. As if that would do anything but enrage the dog!
It ran down the hallway as the dog shook itself and leapt through the open doorway, the salt peppered in its flesh now providing a key to breeching the salt line that covered the threshold. The goblin reached the doorway as the dog brought the older human down, its jaws poised above the man's throat. Waving its hand imperiously, the salt line shivered and broke in the centre, and Tas raced into the room, leaping onto the dog's back as the teeth closed.
The dog disappeared, leaving a wet pool of saliva dripping down the man's neck, and the goblin sitting on his chest. It looked up at Sam.
"Are we even now, Sam?" it asked. "The debt between us is paid?"
Sam nodded, wide-eyed.
"Good." The goblin climbed off Bobby's chest, looking around the room. "It would be better, I think, if this was forgotten. Whoever raised that curse against the man will not be able to raise another." It bent over Bobby, who was starting to struggle up and touched him on the forehead. Bobby fell back, his eyes closed, asleep.
It walked to Dean, who was sitting behind Sam, staring at the goblin with undisguised fascination and a lot of suspicion. The goblin extended a long finger and touched the older boy on the forehead and he fell sideways onto the bed, asleep.
"Will I forget all of it?" Sam asked softly.
"Not all of it. Just this part of it." The goblin looked at him. "Sometime in the future, you might have need of your memories. They'll come back to you, if that happens."
It touched Sam's forehead, and Sam toppled over onto the bed.
Taswellweejullan stared around the room and clapped three times. The man and the two boys lay on the bed, the covers pulled over them, sleeping peacefully. The salt once again filled the hessian sack beside the window, the lines gone from door and window. The gun sat loaded in the closet.
The goblin went down the stairs, checking that the claw marks from the dog had gone from the floorboards. It opened the front door, and walked through, closing and locking it behind it.
It stood in the yard and looked up at the moon. Enough interfering with humans, it thought. Time to go home.
Bobby woke at dawn, feeling strangely tired, but also somehow released and empty. He rolled onto his side, and looked down in surprise at Dean's dark head, resting on the pillow beside him. A glance over his shoulder told him Sam was sleeping on the other side, only his tousled hair showing, the rest a lump beneath the covers.
Had the boys had nightmares last night? He couldn't remember waking, couldn't remember anything after turning out the lamp and closing his eyes. He wriggled up and eased himself over the sleeping boy, looking around the room. Everything was the same as he'd seen it the night before.
Pulling on his clothes, he slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. The boys' room looked all right, he thought, peering in. Sam's bedding was a tangled mess at the foot of his bed, but other than that, there was no sign of any disturbance.
Maybe Sam had a nightmare and Dean had taken him down the hall? He'd ask them when they woke. In the meantime he was hungry, and he headed down the stairs.
Dean opened his eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room bleary-eyed. What was he doing in Bobby's room? He rolled over and saw his brother on the far side of the bed. What was Sam doing here? He couldn't remember anything after he'd snuggled into his own bed, Bobby's voice reading making him sleepy as he'd listened.
"Sam, Sammy." He reached out to shake his brother's shoulder. "Sam?"
"Wha –" Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the covers more firmly over his shoulder.
"Sam, did you have a nightmare last night?" Dean wriggled closer, shaking Sam harder.
"No." Sam opened his eyes reluctantly, then sat up as he realised he wasn't in their room, or his own bed. "Why're we in Bobby's room?"
"No clue." Dean pushed the covers back, and got off the bed. "Thought maybe you had a bad dream and wanted to be here."
"I don't remember." Sam pushed the covers back and got out as well, shivering slightly as the cool air hit his warm skin.
"Oh well, come on, let's get dressed and get some breakfast." Dean shrugged it off. They must have come in through the night, and Sam sometimes had pretty bad nightmares.
The low throbbing growl echoing through the alley of cars made both Dean and Sam's head lift suddenly. They knew that growl.
"Dad!" Dean ran out of the shed, as the Impala pulled up in front of the workshop, Sam close behind him.
John opened the door and climbed out, the skin of his face red and cracked, a little thinner than he'd been before he'd left, but otherwise whole and himself. He spread his arms and crouched down as the boys barrelled toward him, enfolding them both in a hug.
Bobby walked out of the shed slowly, grinning at John over the boys' heads as he caught sight of him. The wash of disappointment he felt was overlaid by an understanding happiness that the boys had their dad back, safe again, and he pushed his feelings aside as he saw their unalloyed joy in that.
"Pretty bad one?" Bobby poured an inch of whiskey into a glass and handed it to John. The boys were in bed, their excitement at their father's return having finally tired them out enough to ensure a good night's sleep. The men were in the living room, and John accepted the glass, stretching out against the back of the long couch, allowing himself the luxury of relaxing fully.
"Yeah, pretty bad," John agreed, sipping the whiskey. "Tsuakerag about a hundred miles from Yellowknife, attacked a mining exploration camp, just about wiped everyone out. Geny and I killed it, but it wasn't an easy job."
Bobby nodded. He'd first heard of the creatures about five years ago, working up in Canada with Rufus on a wendigo hunt. They were only present in the far north, but were vicious creatures with appetites that made a wendigo look like a cocker spaniel.
"How was it here? Boys give you any trouble?" John looked over to him. Bobby smiled and shook his head.
"Not at all. Dean helped me strip down an engine, we did a bit of bird hunting in the marshes and woods, they cleaned up after themselves – they're great kids, John. You've done a hell of a job raising them."
John smiled, closing his eyes. "Mary did all the groundwork, at least with Dean. And Dean did most of the groundwork with Sammy." His face tightened slightly as his memories brought her back to him. Bobby saw his expression change. He wondered what had happened to John's wife, what had driven the man into hunting with two small boys to look after at the same time.
As if he sensed Bobby's thoughts, John turned his head slightly, his eyes opening as he looked at the older man.
"Mary made a deal." The quiet words floated in the air between them for a long moment, Bobby's shock evident in his face. John's mouth twisted up. He still hadn't completely reconciled his feelings about the past, about what had happened, but he was living better with it now.
"She made a deal to save me." He closed his eyes. "A demon, Azazel, killed me in 1973, and offered her a deal – save my life, bring me back from the dead, in return for a visit in ten year's time. She made the deal to save me, I guess she thought she could deal with the demon when it returned." He opened his eyes, staring down into his glass. "I didn't find out till later, but she was a hunter. She thought she knew what she was doing."
He didn't see Bobby's shocked look at the name of the demon, nor the compassion that filled his eyes as he realised the devastation John must have felt on learning this about the woman he seemed to still love. John kept talking, feeling his memories and emotions rising and falling – the impossible conflict that still ate at him. Dead or alive, there had been no way to either justify her decision or blame her for it.
"If we love, there's always hostages to fortune, John," Bobby said quietly when John fell silent.
"My wife, Karen …" he stopped on her name, the familiar grief closing his throat. He took a breath, focussing on pulling the air into his lungs, pushing it out again. "She was possessed by a demon, in '78. Jim told me that a gate opened near here, that year. Must have been one of the strays."
"I didn't know what was going on, I was just a mechanic, what the hell did I know?" He topped up his glass, knowing that telling the story again was going to need some dutch courage. It never got any easier.
John listened with growing horror to Bobby's dry rendition of the events that had torn his life apart. His heart clenched as the other man described what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do, in his ignorance and his fear, seeing the woman he'd loved turn into something that had been far beyond his worst nightmares. He understood the bond between Bobby and Rufus, when Bobby told him about Rufus' appearance, his help, his knowledge and skill and his compassion for a man who'd been pushed far, far out over the edge.
He understood Bobby's need to become a hunter, and was envious of the partnership that had formed between the experienced hunter and his new protégé; he could have used that help himself in the first year; he wished every day that Deke hadn't been killed, that they were still hunting together, despite how far he'd come on his own, the friends he'd been glad to find along the way.
Bobby looked down at the bottle on the table as the thin grey light edged its way around the curtains. It was empty, perhaps understandably. They'd talked the night away, talk that had been so full of pain and grief and anger and helplessness, that it was inevitable they'd needed the help of the whiskey to keep going, to get it out.
He envied John his boys, he knew that. He would never say it to the man, he knew that too. But if it came down to it, he'd give up his life in a second for them, or their father, to protect them, to keep them as safe as was possible in the life they led. He'd given up his chance for family. He couldn't turn away from this one.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes, pushing the sentimental feelings back down. He was getting too old to be pulling these all-nighters.
It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.
~Johann Schiller
