Raised Like Warriors

Part XI. The Safe Place


Pastor Jim: This is hallowed ground.
August 3, 1984

This is no ordinary Minnesota lighting show, thought Jim to himself as he stood up from his desk, the electricity surging through the humid air making him cautious. He went to the window, looking out at the angry sky. The man was no psychic, but something about this night wasn't sitting right with him. The EMF meter buzzed in confusion, Jim glanced at the erratic readings before he turned the thing off. Carefully returning the tome he had been translating to its place on the shelf, Jim quickly collected a few supplies—books, medallions, holy water and, after a thought, he concealed a sacred dagger beneath his clerical garb. He closed the shutters to his office windows, checking the perimeter of salt. An orphan of the supernatural, Jim knew the price of sloppiness and wasn't about to take any chances.

Jim came from a long line of Pastors, a select order. Paladins, they used to be called, before their duties also involved Christmas Pageants and Parish Councils. He had been trained in the ancient, secret traditions of the church. He had accepted his assignment with open eyes and, ever since he had taken his vows, fought with mind, body and spirit against the forces of evil in all of their varied and horrible forms.

Climbing the stairs to the church, Jim paused at the threshold, feeling the stillness of the sacred place at war with the malevolent wind that was sweeping in from some unknown source. Jim, with a practiced hand, opened his notes to the correct page and proceeded to reinforce the seals on the sacred grounds. He made the rounds slowly, carefully, and then ritualistically focused on the altar. With each gesture and blessing, Jim re-forged the ancient bonds of this place with the past. He could feel the presence of his predecessors as his hands retraced theirs, making the correct motions, signifying humility before God, resistance of temptation, deliverance from evil, courage before the fires of Hell…

It was as he spoke these last words, the Latin ringing in the empty space, that the doors of the church burst open, letting in the angry winds. The church's electrical light flickered angrily, confirming John's suspicions about the supernatural origin of the storm. Jim's eyes snapped forward alertly as the candles flickered angrily in the sudden darkness. His voice didn't falter as he took in the curious sight of the man and child who were together struggling to close the heavy doors. Jim knew that evil would not have made it past the threshold, but the family's (he now saw there were three, not two) ominous arrival was not lost on Jim.

Silence fell as Jim finished steadily, dispelling the remnants of evil that withered and died in the church's dusty interior. He felt the strangers´ eyes upon him, the father and his too-old children. Even the toddler was solemn as he clung desperately to his father's shoulder, eyes wide.

Receiving a nod from his father, the boy, who couldn't be more than six, set down his heavy burden and sat down in a chair in the back of the church with an audible sigh, legs swinging as his eyes took in the church's interior. Soon his eyes returned curiously to Jim, who was now fully illuminated as the electric lights calmed.

Jim cautiously approached the trio, knowing that they were spooked and wanting to portray a friendly demeanor. Often times Jim sheltered the misfortunate refugees of the supernatural, whose instincts brought them here, to this place of security, without really knowing why or even what they were fleeing.

The demeanor of this man, however, bespoke a terrible knowledge that was all too recognizable. And the children? They were all too aware, though now, in the quiet of the church, life returned to the pale faced toddler and he squirmed in his father's arms, wanting to explore this new space, which had an air about it that he had never felt in all of his young life. The man held the boy firmly, ignoring the disapproving tone that entered the baby's nonsensical babble.

"Down," pleaded Sam, trying out the word of the week.

"Hush." John ordered without taking his eyes off Jim.

Suddenly, Jim knew who this man was. Winchester. The man had worked with Daniel Elkins before taking off. News traveled fast among his brotherhood and their various contacts, their few friends. Last that had been heard of John, the grief crazed widower with two young boys, he had been recklessly freelancing. Jim tried to remember what he had heard about this man. Ex-marine? That he could believe from the man's military stance.

But what drew Jim's attention was not just the protective fierceness of the man's stance, but the two young cubs he was protecting. Dean stood up, but stayed close behind his father, waiting for John to pass judgment. The boys had been little more than a footnote in the tall tales of this young hunter, but now that they stood before him, Jim could see that here was something that rarely entered his solitary world. A family. For better or worse.

Perhaps it was exhaustion, but John showed less of his usual reserve when he turned to the pastor. "Is it safe?" He asked rawly.

"This is a safe place," Jim answered, "but I wouldn't venture out into the storm tonight if I were you."

John didn't say anything, but he took a bottle of water from the bag, giving it to Sam first, then Dean, before drinking deeply. The sedentary peace of the holy place, stronger than most because of Jim's conscientious upkeep, was evident even to John, who was not a regular church goer and whose faith had been shattered along with everything else with the death of his wife. Despite himself, John began to relax and even freed his squirming son, signaling with a look for Dean to keep his brother close. He internally prepared himself for a siege of sorts, keeping an eye on the Pastor, who despite his kind eyes and gentle manner, was still a stranger.

The two hunters fell back on old rituals, exchanging firm handshakes, names, half truths. Dean soon lost interest and wandered off after his curious younger brother to explore the chapel.

"What dat?" Demanded Sam time and time again, pointing at hymnals, alters, statues, pews, carpets, stained glass, and vaguely indicating the world at large. Dean did his best to explain, though it was foreign territory for him as well. More often than not he would look at the strange object and shrug, quickly distracting Sam before the curious boy could make a fuss over it. Sam had a tendency to obsess a little, his curiosity drawing him to touch, smell and taste everything he could get his drooly little mouth around. Most of Dean's job as older brother was to keep Sam from eating the furniture, or that's what Dad said.

Sam could walk now, though it took all his concentration and he preferred to wrap his little hand around one of his father's fingers or use his brother as a crutch. He cried less now and was beginning to show signs of stubbornness, insisting "ME!" when he wanted to try and do it himself, which was a lot. Quite precocious, he got his first time-out a week ago when he threw a tantrum because John wouldn't let him scale the toilet in the bathroom of the hotel room where they were staying.

Hunger soon brought the boys back to their father, who had arranged with Jim to stay the night in the rectory. The two hunters were discussing the origin of the storm, which John believed was caused by the malevolent energy released when the poltergeist he had been hunting was finally put to rest. Jim spook animatedly about the supernatural theories, John listening thoughtfully as he scooped up his toddler, who was leaning against his father's legs, indicating his desire to be picked up.

Dean looked shyly at the pastor, shook his hand when Jim offered. "Hello, Sir."

"Pastor Jim," Pastor Jim corrected.


Author's note: Thought it was time to bring in Pastor Jim! Hope it makes sense for you and there are lots more stories to come, just gotta write them!