Chapter 25: Issues
John sat at the cheap motel room table with today's paper spread in front of him while Dean's light breathing filled the room. Adam had worn poor Dean out, his oldest had crashed within minutes of arriving in their motel room. It had been a good weekend, but tomorrow they would head back to that Institute. All right, fine, so they had been a little helpful with finding ways for Dean to cope with his 'mutant' gene and ability. John was certain between him and Bobby they would have figured out how to deal with it on their own, just maybe not as quickly.
Again the image of Dean outside the bar, as sharp and clear as shattered crystal, burst forth in his mind. Eyes glazed over. Still. Dead.
Then again, maybe this Institute thing had been a blessing in disguise. John sighed and rubbed his temples in slow circles. Issues between them John had never seen, much less attempted to reconcile, had come up in Dean's therapy sessions. They still had a long way to go, but John could not help but feel they had already traveled a good way up the road toward a healthy relationship. God, he was starting to sound like McCoy. So much had happened in the last month, it felt more like years had passed since the day he had discovered his son carried a mutant gene.
Out of earshot of the boys, John had told Kate that a genetic disease had been found in his family and he wanted to screen Adam. She had promised to take a blood sample and send it for analysis to one of the labs from a list Xavier had given him. John honestly hoped the gene came from his wife's side of the family or that Dean's was an isolated first generation mutation. They had not found in it his blood-work, but McCoy had said it could not rule him out as the carrier.
Jesus, what if it had come from his wife? Or him? That meant Sammy might carry it too. What if it hit Sam with the same intensity it had hit Dean? There was no one there to look after him, to understand...
"Stop it," Dean mumbled in his sleep.
John pushed his worry deep down and focused on his memory of his oldest as a happy toddler. He watched as the tension in Dean's body drifted away, the set of his shoulders relaxing and the stress lines in his face disappearing. John waited several minutes to be certain it had worked before returning his focus to the newspaper.
A familiar rock tune emanated from beside Dean's bed. His son sat bolt upright with bleary eyes. "Got it," he muttered, his hand slapping in the general area of his cell phone. He picked it up and snapped it open without looking at the screen. "Yeah?"
John watched curiously to see who was calling, if it might be Adam already. He certainly wouldn't put it past the boy.
"Wait a minute. Hold on." Dean dropped the phone to rub both hands over his face. He shook his head sharply before picking up the phone again. "Come again?" His eyes were more focused now.
Deep lines appeared in his brow and between his eyes as he listened. "No," Dean finally replied, "that doesn't sound good. Okay, here's what I want you to do. Go find salt, and I mean a lot of it. I want you to pour a solid ring of salt around her bed, and make sure there aren't any breaks in it. Then put a line of salt across her windowsill and doorway." He listened again. "Salt is pure, it keeps out a lot of things. Dad and I will head out now, but we won't be there before tomorrow night. It's a twenty hour drive."
They were leaving now? John gathered up and stacked his newspaper. Once it was in a decent pile, he headed to the bathroom to collect his and Dean's toiletries, all the while keeping an ear tuned to Dean's conversation.
"Do you have Bobby's number? You might be able to talk him into flying out tomorrow," Dean suggested. "Yeah, okay, I'll call him for you. No problem. … What for? … What kind of recon mission?"
John froze with his hand deep in his duffel, shoving items inside. He waited, heart pounding in his chest with his eyes resting on his son. Recon? Maybe he had been partially right and this Institute was a cover for a mutant army, and now they thought they had recruited Dean.
Dean met his gaze and shrugged. "Guess I'll find out when we get there. … Check in? Dude, get real. But seriously, call me if Kitty or anyone else has more of these dreams or if there are any flickering lights or scratching noises like rats in the walls. … Dead serious. I think Dad is packed, so we'll hit the road. See ya tomorrow night. … You too."
"Him too what?" John tried to ask casually.
"Be careful," Dean said with a deadly serious face. "What do you think? One of the kids is dreaming of fire and a man with yellow eyes who is telling her to do some pretty nasty things."
"I think we need to hit the road," John said, hefting his duffel over his shoulder. "I'll drive while you call Bobby. He might have some ideas."
"Did you get all of my stuff?" Dean asked nodding at the bathroom.
"Even your new shampoo," John promised.
"Good." Dean hit the floor with socked feet, otherwise still fully dressed. He grabbed his boots with one hand and his duffel with the other. "Let's go. I have a bad feeling about this." Dean looked him in the eye. "And so do you."
"You know," John said as he followed his son out into the night, "I think I liked it better when you pretended you didn't know how I felt."
"Yeah, well, life sucks," Dean snapped. He tossed his duffel in the back.
"I think you're more irritable now, too," John observed as he added his duffel to the back seat.
Dean grunted as he dropped into the passenger seat, phone in hand.
"Maybe you just need more beauty sleep," John added as he slipped behind the wheel.
Dean rolled his eyes as he pressed the phone to ear. John decided to ponder the question of if his son required more sleep in addition to more food while Dean called Bobby. Considering how little attention Dean had required growing up, he was certainly making up for it now. In spades.
"Are you sure about this?" Kitty asked warily.
Logan shrugged. "It's what Dean, I mean Hunter, said to do. Trust me, he'd know." He had already pulled Kitty's bed away from the wall. Now he opened the salt container to pour a thick line around her bed. Easier said than done. About halfway around, he ran out of salt.
"We better go see if we c'n find some more," Logan grumbled.
"What is salt supposed to do?" Kitty pestered as they headed back for the kitchens.
"Keep out bad stuff," Logan told her.
"Bad dreams?" she pressed. "How can salt help with bad dreams?"
"Yes, Logan," Xavier's voice broke into their conversation. "How is salt supposed to help with nightmares?"
Logan paused in his trek to turn and face the Professor. "I ain't sure it's just a dream," he admitted reluctantly. The more Kitty told him, the more it sounded like it was one of Dean's jobs.
"Nonsense," Xavier snapped. "Kitty dear, will you allow me to prove this is simply a dream?" Kitty glanced nervously between them. "I promise, it won't hurt and it will only take a moment. To put both yours and Logan's minds at ease?" He smiled sweetly and Logan watched her cave to Xavier's request.
"Come here," the Professor instructed. Kitty stepped forward slowly. When she stood by his chair, she closed her eyes. "I see you've been eavesdropping on some of my sessions again."
Kitty giggled as Xavier lifted his hands to her head. He placed two fingers to each of her temples. "Now think about your dream, Kitty." His voice was real soft and gentle.
Kitty clasped her hands in front of her as her expression changed with concentration. Her thin pale hands clutched tightly together, her knuckles white from the strain. Kitty's soft pink lower lip disappeared under her front teeth as her eyes squeezed closed, creating wrinkles at the corners. The Professor's usually calm face twisted in a grimace until his hands dropped away.
"Logan?" he asked in a soft voice. "When is Hunter due to return?"
"Sometime t'morrow night," Logan stated as the Professor's eyes slowly opened.
"He gave you instructions regarding Kitty's dreams?" Xavier asked in the same voice.
"Yeah, ta put a circle of salt around her bed, and a line in front of her window and door." Logan waited while the Professor sat thinking with his hands steepled. He was just startin' to wonder if Xavier heard him when the steepled fingers dropped.
"Logan," Xavier said as his eyes turned on him, "I believe we will require quite a bit more salt than is currently available in the kitchens."
"Great, Bobby. Thanks. We won't be there until late tomorrow night," Dean was saying. "I really appreciate it. See ya then."
He closed his cell and slumped back against the seat. "God, if it's not one thing it's another," he groused, one fist rubbing at his eye. "Can't I have just one god-damn good day?"
"Did you?" John asked, surprised. "Have a good day, I mean."
He waited in a strained silence until Dean finally huffed, "Yeah. Guess I did." His oldest shrugged. "You were right, he is a good kid."
Dean's cell went off again. He looked at the screen and frowned before sliding it open. "Yeah? … How many more?" He groaned as his head slammed back against the seat. "Okay, stay by the phone. I'm going to call you back in about two minutes."
Dean lowered the cell to disconnect the call and choose another number.
"More problems?" John asked.
"It's the whole damn school," he growled. "They're all having dreams of fire, and about a dozen of 'em are dreaming of the man with yellow eyes. Oh, this really sucks." He pressed the phone back against his ear. "Come on, Bobby. Pick up."
John silently agreed. He had had no idea what they were getting into with this whole Institute business. Every one of his instincts had screamed at him it was a bad idea, and now he knew why. Fire and yellow eyes? Uh-oh. He must be tired, it took him too long to make this connection.
"Dean? Son? I think we need to talk for a minute," John said slowly.
Dean's head snapped to the side. "Bobby? I'm going to call you right back. Stay by the phone, it's important." He closed his cell with a definitive snap. "What?"
John breathed deeply before plunging in. "It's a demon."
He could feel Dean's scouring gaze. "What's a demon?"
"The fire? And yellow eyes? It's a demon," John repeated. He took a deep breath before continuing. "The same one who killed your mother."
John braced himself for the backlash from this one. The only sounds in the car were from the steady hum of the Impala's engine and the road rolling beneath them. Then he heard the click of Dean's cell opening.
"Bobby? It's a demon. I need the title and page number of any books you have on defensive wards for demons. … No, I want the exact page number, go look it up." Dean dug through his glove compartment until he found some paper and a pen. "Yeah, I'm ready, go ahead. … What will that one do? … Really? Cool. What else do you have? … Awesome. How long? … Well, that sucks. Talk to the professor when you get there. Maybe he has some connections and can get them faster. … Great. See you then."
Dean hung up with Bobby and redialed the Institute. "Yeah, it's me. I need you to find Libby. … You know, The Librarian? Libby. I'll wait."
"The Librarian?" John asked, astounded by the lack of imagination in these stupid names.
"Yeah, I know," Dean replied with a shrug. "You'd think a guy who is around kids all the time would be a little more creative." His fingers drummed on the door armrest while he waited. "So how long have you been holding out on me with this demon business?"
John debated on whether or not to answer truthfully, despite the fact Dean would undoubtedly know the instant he lied.
"Libby?" Dean's voice shut down his internal dialogue. "Awesome. Listen, picture the book Demonic Lore and the Catholic Church. Got it? … Great. Now page three hundred sixty-seven. Is there a big symbol there, a circle with a pentagram and whole bunch of squiggly looking things in the spaces? … Great. On page five-ninety-one there's another symbol. Here's what we need you to do. Draw those symbols for Xavier. It needs to be a perfect copy of what's on that pages of the book. All right? … Yeah, it's important. Now put Xavier back on. … Professor, the first symbol Libby is going to draw for you will trap a demon. If you can paint that on the floor or ceiling in front of every outer door and window of the mansion, a demon might get in, but it won't be going anywhere. The second symbol is a general protective ward. Bobby's heading your way too. He's flying in, so he'll be there first thing in the morning. Have Logan pick him up, he has the keys to Dad's truck. … Yeah, I think the salt will keep 'em out, this is just in case that doesn't work." Dean grunted. "Actually, I might have an idea. By the time we arrive, Dad and I should have a plan. Let me know if the situation changes."
Dean set his cell on the seat between them. "We're going to pretend I never asked how long you were holding out on me," he said slowly. "Now I'm going to catch a little sleep before the sun comes up, because your kid freaking wore me out."
John flinched at the overt accusation. Dean had a point. Why couldn't they be allowed one good day without some supernatural crap to ruin it?
"When I wake up, we're going to talk about ways of demon-proofing the mansion. Bobby has a line on some kind of charm that protects the wearer from possession, but to get enough for all the kids could take months. So until I wake up, get rid of those guilty feelings. You being gooey is easier to deal with," he snapped.
So John did what had been working the past few days, the memory of Dean right after he learned to walk. Chubby toddler bow-legs clomping all around the house while the baby boy clutched his favorite toy, a plastic fire-truck, with his roly-poly arms and fat fingers.
"Better," Dean mumbled, his head dropping until his chin dug into his chest with his eyes closed.
John sighed as he reached over to grab his son by the shoulder. "Come here," he said gruffly. "Lie down."
"Dad, I'm too big to-" Dean started to protest.
"You're still my kid," John snapped as he gently shoved Dean's head on to his thigh. "Now go to sleep."
He concentrated on that image of cute little Dean while his son stared up at him before those green eyes closed and soft snores rose from below his right arm. Dean slept soundly while John concentrated on driving and not feeling guilty. His solution of thinking of Dean as a toddler wouldn't work forever. To clear up his guilt, John would have to come clean with Dean at some point. During the drive? It could be the last opportunity they would have to be alone for a while. John sighed heavily as he lowered his hand to rub his fingers over his son's short hair.
"Gooey," Dean mumbled in his sleep.
John had to smile at that. "Better believe it," he whispered.