Chapter 11
Bobby went to get the phone on the day after Christmas, expecting it was someone needing a tow. Holidays were always big times for tow truck drivers. "Singer Salvage."
An automated female voice came on the line. "You are receiving a collect call. Caller, will you please state your name?" Then a very familiar voice. "Sam Winchester." "Will you accept the –"
Bobby cut off the automated voice with a curt, "Yes."
"Bobby?"
"Sam, is something wrong?" Bobby demanded.
"No, Bobby, I just wanted to talk to you."
"You just talked to me yesterday," Bobby said, coming down off his alarm. "What is it?"
"Nothing, I just . . . Dad and Dean went off together and they wouldn't let me come, so I figured I'd call you since we really didn't get to talk much yesterday."
"Oh." Bobby grimaced. Dad and Dean indeed. This got better with everything he heard. "Where'd they go?"
"Garrettville," Sam said. "They're doing research in the police station or something, and they didn't want to leave me in the car."
"I see."
"Anything new happening at your place?"
"Not so much," Bobby said. "The Talmadges moved, and another family moved into their place, they've got a son about your age." Sam made a noncommittal noise at news that would have thrilled him two years before. "So tell me about this Dean character."
That elicited a lot more enthusiasm. "He's totally cool," Sam said. "He's almost eighteen, and he's great. We started hanging out together about two weeks ago, after school."
"Hanging out together?" Bobby asked. "An eighteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old?"
"Well, he thought I was fourteen," Sam said.
Bobby shook his head. "Lyin' about your age again, huh?"
"Yeah, of course," Sam said. "So, Dean and me, we did a hunt together, and after that I took him shooting and stuff. He took me with him to the garage where he works, and I got to help out. It was awesome."
Bobby took a deep breath. "Look, what does this kid's family think of him leaving with you guys?"
"He doesn't have a family, Bobby," Sam said. "He was living with an abusive foster father until Dad took him away." Bobby blinked. That did sound like John. "The guy made him break his arm," Sam said, sounding outraged. "And I saw him shove him into a wall."
"Hell," Bobby said. "Yeah, you've got to get him out of there."
"Oh, he's out. We just had the best Christmas ever!" Sam announced. "And when Dean's eighteen, we're going to come to see you. I think maybe we'll stop by Pastor Jim's on the way, but –"
"Jim's out of town right now," Bobby said. The best Christmas, huh? That had him worried. "You should just come straight here. Why are you guys waiting till the second?"
"Dean's got something he's got to do, something about being on probation. I guess he ran away and got caught in a stolen car or something. He has to stick around till after his eighteenth birthday, on the first."
"Well, then, I'll see you sometime on the third or fourth, I guess."
"Yeah. What do you want for Christmas, Bobby?"
"I don't need nothing, Sammy."
"I didn't ask what you need, Bobby," Sam said. "And it's Sam, okay?"
"Yeah, okay, Sam," Bobby said with emphasis. "I don't –"
"What do you want, Bobby?" Sam asked determinedly.
"A pony," Bobby said facetiously.
"A pony?" Sam asked incredulously. "You don't have enough grass for a pony to graze."
"Well, maybe not a pony. Sam, I'm fine. I don't need anything."
"What'd you do yesterday?"
Bobby shrugged. "I went out and picked up a couple who got their car stuck in a ditch, and I made myself some pot roast. Oh, and I talked to this really annoying kid who used to live with me."
Sam laughed. "Do I know him?" he asked.
"You might just," Bobby replied.
"Do you miss having me around?" Sam asked.
Bobby made a face. How did he answer that without making the kid feel bad? Either way was bound to make him worry. "Yeah, sometimes. When the dishes need done," he said gruffly.
"I miss you sometimes, too," Sam said. Bobby imagined he did, especially when John went off on hunts alone like he tended to.
"How long were you alone this time?" Bobby asked.
"Only a few days," Sam said. "I mean, Dad was gone almost a week, but Dean stayed with me on Saturday and Sunday nights, and Dad came back for the night on Monday because a kid died in town and he got all worried."
"Oh." Bobby grimaced. "Dean stayed with you? How long have you known this kid?"
"We've had the same PE class since I came to Fort William," Sam said. "But we only really started talking like two weeks ago yesterday. I know it sounds fast, but, Bobby, if you hunt with someone, it gets a bunch of stuff out of the way. I mean, you can't spend a night digging up a grave with a guy without getting past the awkward stuff."
"No, I guess not," Bobby said.
"I mean, he told me knock-knock jokes while he dug her up, and then she almost killed him. I saved his life. If we weren't friends after that, don't you think it would be kind of weird?"
"Put like that, I can see your point," Bobby said.
"Well, this is your dime, so I'd better go."
"Take care of yourself, Sam."
"Always do."
Dean sighed. The police reports had been a total bust, and the detective he remembered talking to was long gone, moved to California. The only address they had for George Hendley and his wife was from 1991, which may have been only five years ago, but people moved all the time.
He headed out to the car with John, who didn't even ask. He just started driving towards the address they had for the Hendleys. "I was really hoping they had more information that they hadn't felt the need to pass on to Social Services," Dean said.
"It was worth a try. It's a shame that detective is gone. He might have been useful."
"I suppose I could try calling him. Fresno, California."
"Or we could go out there, after visiting Bobby."
Dean turned to him. "Seriously?"
"Why not?" John asked. "There are ghosts and demons and scary things all over the country. I wasn't kidding when I said I could help you find your family while I train you to hunt."
Dean leaned back in the seat and shook his head. "John, what are you getting out of this?"
John didn't answer instantly, which made Dean turn and look at him. An immediate answer would have made him leery, but he really did want to know what John had to say. He was finding this whole situation a little surreal. He liked it, but he was afraid he was getting in too deep and didn't quite understand what John's motives were. Sam's he understood perfectly, Sam wanted an older brother. Dean was happy to fill that role so long as Sam realized he wasn't replacing the brother he'd lost. John was harder.
"My son disappeared," John said at length. "And I'd like to think that someone would do the same for him as I'm doing for you."
Deans brow's knit. "Oh." He shook his head. "Sammy said you thought he was dead."
John nodded. "Yeah, but I could be wrong, and if I am, I'd hope that someone would take good care of him."
That explained all the glittering eyes and emotional moments. "I'm not him, you know," Dean said.
John didn't say anything for a moment, but at the next stoplight, he turned to face Dean. "I don't expect you to be anyone you're not, Dean," John said. "But don't worry, my intentions are exactly what I stated. I want to train you, I want you to finish school and keep an eye on Sammy for me, and I want to help you rejoin your family."
Dean nodded slowly. "Thank you."
John shrugged, and they continued in silence the rest of the way to the Hendleys' place. John pulled up in front of the house, and Dean looked out the window. The house was a different color now, and the paint looked new. He really hoped that didn't mean that new people had moved in. He opened the car door and got out, and he heard John get out of the car behind him. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and pushed the door bell.
A few moments later, he heard footsteps, and a woman opened the door. "Yes, may I help you?" she asked. Dean stared at her, dumbstruck. It was the face that occupied his dreams, the face that heralded the end of the nightmare.
"Hello, are you Cora Hendley?" John asked, and it was good he did, because Dean was incapable of speech.
"I am. You are?"
"I'm Dean," Dean said, and her eyes turned towards him. "More than five years ago, you and your husband, you found me . . ." His hand did the talking for him, pointing to the flower bed in front of the window.
Her eyes widened. "My God, is it really . . . it is." She pushed the screen door open and stepped to the side of the frame. "Come in, young man, please." Dean followed her inside, looking around. All his memories of this house were fragmented, jigsaw puzzle pieces that he couldn't connect together. She walked over to a staircase. "George!" she called. "George, come down here." Turning back to them, she said, "Look at you, all grown up. I'm so glad to see you again. They told us you lived, but they said they were afraid that if you saw us it would bring the memories back."
Dean shook his head. "You . . . sometimes I have a nightmare about . . . that . . . I see you – your face – at the end, and I know I'm safe."
She cupped her hand over her mouth, and he saw tears start in her eyes. He was holding them back himself. Seeing her again, knowing that she was real, it was an incredible feeling.
George came down the stairs, and Dean immediately recognized him, too. However, George just saw two men he didn't know and his wife crying. "Cora, what's wrong?"
"Wrong? Nothing. George, it's that boy, Dean." She took Dean's shoulder and turned him towards her husband.
George turned to Dean and stared at him. "My God, it is," he breathed. He closed the distance between them and put his hands on Dean's shoulders. It was odd to realize that they were almost the same height. "It's good to see you, boy. I've always wondered what happened to you, if you were okay."
"I'm good," Dean said. "I'm great, actually. I just . . . I wanted to thank you for all you did."
"We didn't do much," George said. "Just what anyone would do."
"I don't think just anyone would put a bloody stranger on one of their own beds," Dean said. "And you made me feel safe, which I hadn't for a . . . awhile. It meant a lot."
"Well, I can tell you, it means a lot to me to know that you've grown up into a fine young man," George said. "And I see you found your father."
Dean turned toward John, startled and embarrassed, but John immediately stepped forward, putting out a hand. "Yes, he has, and I wanted to thank you myself. And don't say it was nothing, because it wasn't."
"Please, won't you both come into the living room and sit down?" Dean followed John into the living room, not sure what to feel. He could see that George and Cora were pleased, though, and he did want to leave them happy. The adults talked and he sort of listened. John was spinning some tale about how they'd just been reunited.
"Can I see the room you put me down in?" he said suddenly. "I don't know, maybe it sounds weird, but my memory of that night is so splintered that I'd like to see things whole if I can."
"Of course," Cora said. "It's right along back here." She stood up and led them all down a hallway. Dean saw a photograph on the wall that he remembered seeing when the paramedics rolled him out of the house on their gurney. The room was almost exactly as he remembered it. "It's my niece Sarah's room," Cora said. "When she comes to stay with us, that is."
Dean looked around. "It's a really nice room," he said. "I hope I didn't screw up the bed too much."
"Nothing worth speaking of," George said, waving his hand. "So, did they catch the guy?"
Dean shook his head. "No, never," he said. "They labeled it a cold case and filed it a couple of years ago."
"We're going to see what we can do to remedy that," John said.
"Good," Cora pronounced. "Someone like that should be gotten off the streets."
"Hell, he should be put down," George said.
Cora put a restraining hand on her husband's arm. "Your son was a mess when he turned up here, poor thing."
Dean shivered slightly and walked over to look out the window. He felt his shoulders tense. "I . . . I remember that," he said, staring at an ornate, wrought iron fence behind the house. It ran along the street as well. "I saw that before."
John was beside him in an instant. "What?"
"That fence. I walked by it, I think."
"The police never could backtrack your steps," George said, joining them at the window. "It was already sprinkling when you showed up, and then the rain started coming down in buckets. Any trace you might have left was gone before anyone got here to look."
"And I wasn't in any condition to help," Dean said. "Not for months after, and by then they just wanted to help me move on because any reminder sent me hysterical."
John put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and he could feel the boy's tremors. "Maybe we should go, son," he said. There was a frenetic energy under Dean's exterior that worried John.
"No, I want to see if we can find it. The place." Dean looked up at him, eyes pleading. "I want to look."
"Dean, are you sure you're up to it?" Dean nodded earnestly. "He won't be there now, it's been five years."
"I need to know, and if we find it, we can tell the cops. It will give them something more to go on."
"Dean –" John started, but Dean interrupted him.
"I have to know."
John squeezed Dean's shoulder. "I understand, son. We can give it a try, but if I say it's time to stop, we stop." Dean nodded quickly, clearly eager to agree to whatever it would take for John to go for it. Pushing his misgivings aside, John turned to the Hendleys. "Do you mind if I leave my car out front?"
George Hendley shook his head, and John could tell that the other man recognized John's dilemma. "Do whatever you need to do, John," he said. "We'll be here if you need anything."
"Thanks," John said. Dean was impatient to be gone, but John held him back to his own pace, not wanting him to get ahead and out of control without back up.
They went outside and around the corner. The fence was around some kind of old industrial complex, it looked like the buildings dated from the twenties or thirties. Dean looked up at the street lights. "It was dark," he said. "The only lights came from above." He sounded very disturbed, and John squeezed his shoulder again, keeping Dean close beside him.
"We don't have to do this, Dean," John said.
"I do," Dean replied. "I . . ." He pulled them forward and John sped up his steps, trying to keep up. His son was still shaking, but he was also determined. John knew stubbornness intimately. His boys got it from both sides. The road led between warehouses, and even on this day after Christmas, things were busy. When Dean had come down this sidewalk five years before, though, it had been deep in the night between Saturday and Sunday.
"Was there anyone around?" John asked.
Dean shook his head. "It was like there was no one on earth but me," he said. "But I knew if I kept going long enough, I would find other people, and I had to get away."
John nodded. Worried as he was about Dean's reactions, this was knowledge they needed to figure out what had happened to him, to find out who or what had done it. They kept going. Dean seemed to be oblivious to side streets, just going steadily forward, his hand going out from time to time, reaching for chain link fences, low walls, all things he might have used to help him keep moving in that nightmare past.
John himself was looking around. It was exactly the kind of area monsters and serial killers tended to choose for their haunts. Places where people weren't around at night, and where the daytime was noisy. A truck's lift jolted into motion beside them, and Dean jumped like he'd been struck by the sound. "Dean, are you okay?"
Dean didn't answer, he just kept pressing on. John wondered how much or little these buildings had changed in five years. None of them appeared to be newly painted, not like the Hendley's house. They'd gone twelve blocks already, and they were long blocks. "Are you sure we haven't come too far?" he asked, recalling the severity of Dean's injuries. How far could he really have walked in that state?
"I remember it," Dean said. They had reached a corner and he turned around, pointing at an open dock that had a semi backed up against it. "There was a car parked there, under the dock, a Honda, and I remember wishing I was tall enough to drive it because I had to get farther away fast."
John nodded. "Okay."
Dean looked up at him. "You believe me, don't you?"
"Of course, I do," John said, and he put his arm around Dean, squeezing. Emotions were churning through him. John had spent that week in May of 1991 at the Roadhouse. At that point, Dean had been gone for almost two months, and John was giving his picture to every hunter he met, telling them the story and asking for their help. Hunters tended to be a surly, gruff lot, but a missing kid got to the worst of them, and a missing hunter's kid made them listen. Everyone got into hunting somehow, and most of them had lost someone to some supernatural danger. To then lose a child to an unknown threat . . .
And during that week, Dean had escaped his captor and walked, bleeding and in pain, as far as he could until he'd collapsed in the Hendley's front yard.
They kept going, and John began to marvel at his young son's endurance. More of the warehouses were vacant now, with broken or boarded up windows. A couple were in use, but John wasn't altogether comfortable with the look of those who were around them. John was about to call a halt to the proceedings till they could go back for the car and the weapons cache. He hadn't rearmed after their visit to the police station, and he felt undergunned for this area.
Abruptly, Dean stopped dead in his tracks, practically vibrating with emotion. John looked down at him. "Dean?"
"That's it," Dean said, pointing at the building across the street. It was derelict. Most of the windows were covered with boards, and there was a large piece of weathered plywood covering half of one of the wooden rollaway doors. Dean didn't appear to be wanting to move any closer. "There was a hole at the bottom of that door. I squeezed through it."
John estimated that they might have come five or more miles on this walk. He wondered if the cops had even gotten out this far. He wouldn't have guessed that an injured and bleeding twelve-year-old could have come this distance, not even his son.
John started to suggest that they come back later, with the car and more tools, but Dean suddenly bolted forward, out of the comforting circle of John's arm. He ran across to the plywood patch, and John hurried after him. When he reached him, the boy had dug his fingers under the edge of the patch, not difficult with the way it and the wood of the door had warped over years in this damp climate, and was pulling with all his might. John could hear the squeal of nails being wrenched out of long entrenched places. Knowing that he wouldn't be able to stop Dean, he lent his own strength to the effort and together they dragged the patch off the door. The hole beneath it extended irregularly up the length of the door on the wall end, but it was partially covered on the other side with another, more solid piece of wood. The gap beneath the inner patch was narrow, and John shook his head.
"I fit," Dean insisted. "I did."
"I believe you, Dean," John said, putting his hand on Dean's cheek, cupping it. "I believe you, I'm just appalled by . . . by what you had to do."
Dean stared at him for a moment, then stepped back, examining the building for a way in. The doors they were facing were held shut with an old, rusty padlock. John dug in his inside jacket pocket for his picks. Within moments, he had it unlocked, but getting the hasp to release its rusty hold took some effort. John finally managed to get it loose and pulled the lock out of the latch. The doors didn't want to move. The right hand door was blocked by the interior patch, and the wheels on the left-hand door were frozen in place. Between them, they finally managed to move it a few feet, wide enough for John to squeeze through. With the door open in front of them, Dean seemed to hesitate.
"You don't have to go in," John said. "I could leave you with the Hendleys and come back with the car."
Dean shook his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out the penlight John had given him for Christmas. John held him back when he started to go in. "I'm going," Dean said, glaring at him, daring him to deny his right. John was tempted to stop him. He was clearly on a razor's edge emotionally, and there was an alarming wildness in his eyes. Nevertheless, John didn't feel able to stand in the kid's way. He clearly felt he needed this, and while John wasn't sure it was the smartest idea, Dean was fully capable of coming back on his own. John wanted to be present for any trips down this particular memory lane.
"It's not that," John said. "I'd just rather go first."
Dean bit his lip and nodded. John pulled a slightly more substantial flashlight out of his jeans pocket and stepped through into stygian darkness. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness like a knife, but there wasn't much spread to it. It lit what it was pointed at and nothing more. Dean came in behind him, his penlight flitting from place to place.
The warehouse appeared to be largely empty, and the floor had kind of a spongy feel to it. "Be careful, I'm not sure how solid the footing is," he said. Just as he said that, Dean darted off across the warehouse floor. John flashed his light along his path and saw Dean disappear around a pillar. It looked like someone had built a wall between the pillars along a straight line down that end of the building. "Dean!" he called, and he chased after him.
He nearly ran into Dean, who had stopped just out of sight, his penlight shining on a wall straight in front of him. There was some kind of design painted on there, and John pointed his flashlight at it to illuminate more of it. It was some kind of sigil, about five foot by five foot. John took a step back and tried to expand the pool of light his flashlight threw so he could get a clearer view of the whole design. "What is it?" he asked.
"I don't know, but he painted it everywhere we went," Dean said, his voice peculiarly flat.
John took a deep breath. "He?"
"The man," Dean said. He turned right and walked around the wall. John followed, feeling a little undone. He was standing in the place where his son had been tortured. A sort of three-walled enclosure was built between two pillars, and the walls of it were painted black. Dean stopped, staring at a dark stain on the floor. "Here." He pointed. "Only there were . . . chains before."
"You were chained?"
Dean nodded. "I . . . I . . ." He shook his head and fell to his knees, hunching his back and rocking.
John dropped to his knees beside Dean and put his arm around him. "Dean? It's okay, you're safe, you're with me." Dean didn't respond, he just huddled in John's arms and leaned closer. John held him tightly and kept repeating the mantra of safety. After awhile, he said, "Dean? We need to get out of here."
"John?" Dean pulled away. Heart struck to the quick by the name, John let him go. Why he'd been hoping that Dean would suddenly remember him now was beyond him, he only knew he had been. "I'm sorry."
"It's not a problem, Dean," John said. "But it's getting cold and the Hendleys are probably worried sick about us by now."
"It was here," Dean said.
"I know, Dean, I believe you."
Dean allowed John to pull him to his feet and guide him out of the building. As they walked past the sigil, John wished he had a camera, but maybe he could come back before they drove back to Fort William. He had a camera and a bright light source in the car.
It was dark by the time they finished the long walk back. George Hendley emerged from the house when they reached the car. John got Dean into the car and walked over. "Did you find anything?" George asked.
"Nothing conclusive," John said, shaking his head. "But Dean's worn out. I'm taking him home. Thank you again."
"I couldn't have done anything else," George said, glancing at Dean in the car. "The only thing he said to me was his name and 'where's my dad?' I'm glad he found you."
John nodded, a lump in his throat. "Me too."
They shook hands. "Take care of him," George said.
"I will," John replied. He went back to the car and got in on the driver's side.
