"So? You said sumat about a reward?"
John Winchester had taken an instant dislike to the obviously bitter woman. In her early sixties, she looked a decade older at least and just about ready for a grave. The nicotine yellow of her remaining teeth was only overshadowed by the two, almost orange, fingers on her right hand, hovering before her mouth, the smoke causing her eyes to squint.
He would have been loath to sit on the stained, possibly flea ridden sofa, even if the option had been offered. He stood just inside the door to the bungalow and considered that he had eradicated spirits in abandoned and dilapidated houses cleaner than this. He breathed in through his mouth, determined to ignore just what he was taking in, but he could not bare the smell. Old cooking, un-emptied trash bins and the total purveyance of nicotine and cigarette smoke.
Even with his distaste for the boy whore, he felt a pang of sympathy if Dean's fuck toy had been brought up in this place, with this woman. He was here to discover the kid's origins. He did not really care overly much but if his son was going to insist that he became part of their everyday life, he wanted to know everything he could about him.
It had taken him a while and a lot of hard work to track down this address. Starting from the stamp on the back of that photo, he had managed to find three possibilities but after a large phone bill and hours of frustration they had all come to nothing. Then, of all things, he had seen the envelope that Sam had not manage to hide quickly enough from him as he entered the kitchen.
He remembered the look of horror on the boy's face as Dean had called for him, sweeping through the kitchen and, not taking no for an answer, had dragged him from the room and the house. The address had not been complete but at least he had had enough to find himself here.
The coincidences did not bare thinking about. Just the mere fact that he was back here in Lawrence was causing havoc with his insides. And the boy's apparent age too. It just brought the grief back and he had to know. Had to put a stop to the what ifs that had been circling around the back of his mind. He had to know. To put that small ridiculous questions to rest.
And that this crone should sit here, eagerly waiting for what she wanted to hear. To hear of reward money. He suspected that she had in part driven her family from her. She disgusted him.
"Yes, Ma'am. If I can authenticate the boy's identity, my client is willing to give a substantial remittance to any one proving helpful to the investigation."
She nodded rapidly. "So what's he done?"
"I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to say. All I can tell you," as if he was in a conspiracy with her, making it clear he believed the boy had done something wrong, "is that I need to verify the boy's identity either as who he is, or…who he is not."
She nodded again, this time trying to appear sage. Lighting another cigarette from the butt of the last, she told him with certainty, "I always knew that brat was nothing but trouble. Destroyed my family he did. I have to take two buses, the train then another bus to get to my boy thanks to that little bastard. My boy dint do nothin' that bitch dint deserve. It was lies. Nothin' but lies. The fuckin' lyin' bastard!" and she stared off, possibly into the past at the version she recalled, one that John did not find hard to believe would be different to the truth.
"And why was that ma'am? What did the boy do? What did he lie about?" knowing not to accuse the kid's father, this woman's precious son, of any wrong doing if she was not to clam up on him.
"Told you. Bastard lied. Told the cops it was my boy, my son, that was which killed his whore slut of a mother. Could have been anyone. Always dressin' up in her fancy clothes. Always thinking she were good enough. Not for my boy. I told him, but he wouldn't listen. Listened to that prick of his though. Only married her cause he was a respectful boy, stood up to his responsibilities. Knew the child would need a father. I still don't believe that kid is from my blood. Din't look like anyone of us." Now she was really warming up to her theme.
"Think my boy knew it too. Soon as she was back from the hospital with the brat. Big it was. Never seen a new baby that big before. How it came out of that skinny slut I don't know. S'pous they must of feed it well at the hospital."
John had so many questions he wanted to ask but thought better just to let her chain smoke and ramble on.
"Kept it in for a month. Sumat wrong with it's lungs. Never stopped the thing from screaming it's guts out once they brought it home. Anyone would think we were torturin' the kid. Setting fire to it. Every time I lit a match it would start screamin' the house down. Never did find out why. Soon stopped after Jonas used to, well, my son had a way with the kid. Got it to shut up."
John went cold.
"That bitch sort of loved it though. Give her that. She was useless as a mother. Always cryin', sayin' it won't her kid. Whose the fuck else's would it be? Post… Party…um… Depression, they said. My ass. It was that kid. It would lie there and just stare at you. Never laughed like normal babies. Just lay there starin'. Stopped cryin' after it learnt it were no use.
"No. It were that baby. Born evil, I reckon. Grew up into an evil lyin' no good little bastard too. Good riddance to it."
The blood was pounding inside John's head. It was ridiculous. There was no way what he was thinking could be true. It was ludicrous. But if Daniel Watson's own grandmother called him an 'it', no wonder he had run away and changed his name. But it was all too preposterous to even credit the idea.
Just because that waitress had mistaken Sam for his son did not make it true. He needed more before his imagination led him places he did not want to go. DNA test results would be conclusive but whatever the result, he knew Dean would not give the kid up. He needed to know as much as he could. "When was Danny born, Mrs Wilson?"
"It was cold. I remember that. December of eighty... three. No, no. That was when my boy brought the brat home. November. November the fourth, no, the third. That was it," looking pleased with herself for actually remembering.
John's stomach heaved. The room was claustrophobic and he had to get out of there. He loosened the tie at his throat and fought the impulse to faint. It was beyond belief but he felt like he was going to pass out. "Could I get a glass of water, Ma'am?" he needed time, needed to think what to do.
"Sure," waving the cigarette towards the arch to the kitchen not bothering to move, not caring that the man looked to be ill.
John stumbled to the sink searching for a clean glass, settling for a cracked mug on the drainer.
The whore was his son! He closed his eyes. No. It was not possible. It was just a coincidence. Had to be. Please let it be. But he knew, somehow he knew it was true. His hand shook as it rubbed over his face.
How the fuck had his son ended up in this hell hole? What the hell had happened between him being taken from Dean's arms into the ambulance and him being shown the small pathetic body he could barely look at through his grief and tears?
Someone had stolen his son from him and the life he should have had from Sammy. He needed to go see the 'father'. He prayed there would be glass between them at the prison or he would kill the bastard. He slowly got himself under control. Sammy. The life the boy had led. It broke his heart. That such things had happened to him.
He bent double as his stomach rebelled once again at the realisation. He had raped his own son! Repeatedly. And Dean. What about Dean? He was in love with the boy. He was in love with his own brother!
No. No. It was all mistake. He would go to the jail and find out the truth. Find out that the boy was not his lost child. He was just some poor bastard who life had fucked with. Somehow though, he would make amends for treating him like that, just like all those other freaks he had had to bend over for. He would make it right for him, for both him and his son, for Dean. Somehow he would give them the life they deserved. To be happy. Somehow.
"You okay in there?" called from the couch.
"Yes, Ma'am. Thankyou. I'll just be a minute." Standing straight, he caught sight of the eyes staring at him from around a door barely opened. "Hello?" he smile, speaking quietly to the young girl. "I bet you're Ginny, aren't you? Danny's sister?"
The door opened fractionally more to reveal a skinny girl looking much younger than the stated thirteen years belonging to Danny Watson's sister. She was nothing like all those pubescent teens at the mall, hair and makeup and the latest fashion. She was small and scared looking.
She glanced around furtively then up at him, something like hope tearing her eyes, "You know Danny?" spoken in a whisper.
He nodded but said nothing. He did not know what to say to her.
Very quietly she asked, "Doesn't he like me anymore?"
"Why do you ask that?" knowing the boy must love his sister, the worn, well hidden photo proved that. "Didn't you get the letter he sent you last week?" That was how he had found out about this family after all. The address written on the envelope that Sam had not hidden well enough from his prying eyes.
She shook her head but then looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes, "Has he come back for me? He promised."
Looking down at her, it was times like this that John Winchester knew that there was no God. How could there be when little girls were so scared that they were waiting on a promise from an abused boy who ran a way from home to a better life on the streets as a hooker?
"I'm sorry, honey. Not today. But I'll come back and bring him with me soon. Can you wait a little longer? Will you be alright?" But would he be leaving her to a fate as bad as Sam's?
"You get away from her! Princess, go back inside. Shut your door." And the woman swung around to face up to John. "Get away from her, no one touches my angel!" and looking at her, seeing the venom and fury on her face, John believed it.
There was a commotion coming from the front room. "Ma? You in?" and a hulking blond staggered into the kitchen. John could smell the sweat and beer as soon as the bearded man entered. The figure came up short seeing him.
He was big but John knew he would be an inconvenience, not a problem. He was not drunk but not far from it but he seemed curious more than angry at his presence. "Who you?"
"He's here to find out about that brat nephew of yours," the old seeming woman answered for him.
"Ah!" and a kind of glint appeared in his eye. "Know him do ya? Is he finally coming home?"
John shook his head but before he could say anything the woman interrupted again. "I'll not have that bastard under this roof."
"Now, Ma. You know the only one responsible for Jonas been in jail is 'imself."
"You shut your mouth. Don't you speak of your brother like that." And with that she stormed off back to the living room and John heard the mumbling invective then, "And you can fuck off if'in you're here to help the bastard," as she returned pointing at John with a glass of rum in her hand.
"No, Ma'am. As I said, I'm making inquiries for an interested party. The information you have already given me will be useful, but if you could see your way...?"
"I told you enough. Now you pay me and if'in I ever catch you looking at my angel again, I'll do for ya'. You understand me?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
John fished out his wallet as he made to leave, wanting out of this place. He would have to go and see this Jonas person and somehow get the truth from him. He pulled out his cash and counted out one hundred dollars, thinking that was way more than enough. He noticed the other man watching him with interest and, as he moved through to the front door, dropping the money by a bottle of Morgan's, he noticed, Rum, the man followed saying, "Wait up there."
Once outside, the other shut the door behind them and John breathed in the fresh air thankfully. He turned his regard to the other who was stood as if debating something. He just turned and moved to the street, knowing the man would follow. He obviously had more to say.
"So?" the man said casually, "You interested in little Ginny?"
Anger flared behind John's eyes but he held it in and turned to the man, raising his brows and asked, "And if I am?"
"Well, maybe I can help with that," and looked at him in mock conspiracy as if he had found a kindred spirit.
"Yeah?" with not too much interest but with enough.
"Yeah. Lets say we go get out of here and talk about it."
John looked around as if thinking, "Sure. You know somewhere out of the way? Somewhere where no one knows you?"
The man looked at him knowingly, wagging a finger at him, "Good thinking. Yeah, there's a roadhouse about twenty miles out of town, up on the highway. They don't know anyone if you get me meanin'?"
"Get in," was the only response and John climbed behind the wheel of the 'borrowed' truck and pulled from the curb.
==000==
Sat by the side of the road, John had the truck parked far enough along the street not to be noticed but close enough to see the unfolding events. It had been remarkably swift. Lawrence was, on the whole, a law abiding town and things like this were not welcome here. Once they were discovered of course. It was unbelievable what could happen behind respectable white picket fences. This was not a respectable looking house but much had happened both known and not.
Yesterday a man had been found drunk, beaten and drowned in a road side ditch. A call had been placed to the appropriate authorities with just the right amount of suspicion about the safety of a teenage girl and as the two proved to be connected, the wheels actually turned swiftly.
He watched as the too quite girl was led from the house. She did not look back even at the screaming harpy begging them not to take her Angel away. Was not it enough that some bastard had killed her son. Why was this happening to her?
John turned over the ignition and pulled away, heading slowly past. As he drew level with the car holding the girl, she looked up and he nodded at her. She did not smile but she gave a slight nod in return then looked down quickly as the woman from child services got in beside her.
He drove away. He would head 'home' soon. That was what Dean wanted the house they were renting to be, a home. He would try. He would somehow try to mend all the hurt the boy, Sam, his boy, had suffered. He knew it was impossible, but he would try. But first he had to make sure that the girl was safe.
==000==
Four days and over two thousand miles later, John let himself in the back door of the house leading into the kitchen. Sam was sat in his accustomed place at the table, books open in front of him, pen poised over paper as he looked up at the intrusion.
Moving to the refrigerator, John got himself a beer and leaning against the now closed door, announced, "Daniel. You're Uncle's dead. Your sister, Jennifer, has been taken into foster care and I told her you would be there to see her next week."
Sam's shocked wide eyes followed John as he calmly walked from room.
==000==
TBC…
A/N
I apologise for the speech pattern. I have no clue as to what a 'common' Lawrence, Kansas accent sounds like but I wanted her to appear 'whitetrash'. That's the term? So I hope you indulged me.