Chapter 29

John pulled his truck up in front of the house he and Mary had lived in with their boys so many years before and cut the engine. It felt weird to park out here on the street. He'd always parked up beside the house before, but there was a station wagon parked there now. A pink bicycle lay on its side on the lawn, mute evidence that a little girl lived here.

He pulled the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them. Jim looked over at him. "This is it?"

"This is it, and it doesn't look much different. Different color, tree's been trimmed, but not much else."

After another moment of immobility, Jim leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, John, waiting isn't going to make it any easier."

John nodded and opened the door of the truck. He and Jim headed up to the front door of the house where John, after a moment of steeling himself, knocked. They heard footsteps on the other side of the door, then it opened to reveal a woman of about thirty. She had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was dressed very casually. "Hi," she said. "Can I help you?"

John and Jim had discussed their best approach, and they'd come to the conclusion that as much of the simple truth as possible was the order of the day. "Hello. My name is John Winchester, and this is Reverend Jim Murphy. I –"

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled. "You used to live here, didn't you?" she said.

"I did," John replied, very startled. "How did you –" He shook his head in confusion. He wouldn't have thought anyone who remembered him around here would have told her anything that would lead her to welcome him like this.

"I found some things of yours in the basement," she said. "A box of photos." She glanced back and forth between them, then stepped back and held the door wide. "I'm Jenny. Come on in." John glanced at Jim and they walked inside. She shut the door behind them, then walked past and led them into the kitchen. As they approached the room, they could hear a very young voice calling the word 'juice' over and over again. When John emerged into the kitchen, it felt very strange. Nothing was the same, but everything was the same. The appliances were all different, but they were in the same places. The table was a different shade of wood, the chairs were a different style, but they all stood where their family table had so many years ago.

Jenny had sped up a bit and walked over to the fridge. John looked around. Off to their left there was a playpen in which a toddler bounced up and down demanding juice. He couldn't be much more than two, and he reminded John breathtakingly of Dean at that age. At the table, a girl of about seven or eight sat doing homework, her brown hair tied back from her face. She looked up at them curiously.

"That's Ritchie," Jenny said, grabbing a Sippy cup out of the fridge and hurrying over to hand it to her son. Walking back towards the table, she said, "Sairie, this is John Winchester and Reverend Murphy."

"Hello, Sairie," John said with a smile at the child. She looked very serious.

Smoothing her daughter's hair, Jenny said, "Mr. Winchester used to live here."

Sairie's eyes darted to his face again, then back down to her math book. John sensed some tension in her, but he didn't know the source. It was all too easy to make assumptions, but likely as not, she was simply alarmed by there being strangers in the house.

"You've just moved in, have you?" Jim asked.

"Yes, from Wichita."

"Do you have family in town?"

"No," she said, and she paused for a longish moment. "I just needed a . . . a new start. New town, new job." She shrugged. "When I find one."

"I can understand that," John said. He glanced around the room, attempting to simulate a fondness where all he felt was a sense of wrongness. "How do you like the old place?"

She grimaced. "Well, I don't want to badmouth your old home, but this house has a few issues."

"It always had a few issues," John replied with a chuckle. That made her smile. He glanced around the familiar, yet unfamiliar room, then back at her face. "What have you noticed?"

Shrugging, she glanced up at the ceiling. As John recalled, Sammy's nursery was right above this room. That gave him a bit of a quiver, which he ruthlessly repressed. "Oh, it's just an old house. The wiring is a little outdated, I think. We have flickers on an hourly basis." John didn't glance at Jim because he didn't want to telegraph his reaction to that news to her, but it didn't sound good. "The sink's blocked up for no reason I can determine."

John had a sudden flash of strangely doubled perception. He could see and hear Mary making that same complaint, and he remembered all the insanity they'd gone through to try and figure it out. Shaking his head to clear it, he realized gratefully that his recollection hadn't taken any time at all. Jim had probably noticed, but Jenny hadn't. He essayed a smile at her. "Back in my day, there was a tree root that broke into the pipe under the house," John said. "If I were you, that's where I'd start. The man who sold me the place told me it was a perpetual problem, but the tree causing the problem is on the next property, so we couldn't do anything about it. I'd been planning to put in a little retaining wall to block it, but . . ." He shrugged, looking away. That memory had ambushed him out of nowhere.

"But what?" Jenny asked in all innocence.

John bit his lip and turned away. He heard Jim cross the room to her and speak quietly. A tug on the sleeve of his jacket made him look down into the face of the little girl. "There's something in my closet," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"There's something in my closet. Was it here when you lived here?"

"No," John replied, squatting down in front of her. "What's in your closet?"

"Oh, sweetie," Jenny said with compassion. She came over and put her hand on Sairie's shoulder. "There's nothing in your closet." Giving her daughter a reassuring stroke down her back, she added, "She had a nightmare the other night."

"I wasn't dreaming," Sairie protested soberly. "It came into my bedroom. And it was on fire."

John felt as if his heart was going to stop beating. On fire? Jim handled things from there. He dimly heard his friend explaining that John's wife had died in a fire in the house, and Jenny exclaimed anxiously over him. Before he knew it, they were back in the truck with Jim driving them to a motel. John remained quiet until they got a room and went inside. Then he cleared his throat. "Sammy mentioned fire, but it sounded general, not quite this specific."

"Would you have expected him to?" Jim asked.

"His dreams and visions about Dean were detailed and specific. This seems very . . . fragmentary. Why so little?"

"Well, it does have some of the classic signs of a haunting."

"The flickers?" John asked.

"Yes, and she mentioned hearing scratching in the walls."

"We should go see Missouri," John said. "She might have some insight."

"And we should find out if anything else has happened in that house since you and the boys left it."

John nodded and they headed out.

Sam was fixing lunch when Dean emerged from the bedroom with a pillow. He put it up against the half wall that separated the living area from the driver's section and slumped down on the sofa, facing where Sam was working. "So, Sammy, what numbers should I choose for the lotto?"

"What?"

"You said you were psychic, Sammy. What numbers will win me a million bucks?"

"I don't know," Sam said, shaking his head. "It doesn't work that way. I don't see stuff on purpose, it just happens."

"What good is it, then?"

Sam shrugged. "It helped us find you."

Dean looked away uneasily. Then he looked back, grinning faintly. "To be honest, the angel found me first." His grin died. "Or . . . that was kind of my fault."

"What was your fault?" Sam asked, not sure what Dean meant.

"I kind of helped the demon summon him," Dean replied, looking down at his hands.

"How'd that happen?"

"He told me what I was doing would only hurt me, not anyone else, and I – stupidly – believed him."

"Did he hurt Cas?"

Dean blinked at his insane brother. "He trapped him there," he said slowly, enunciating the words carefully.

"But did he do anything else to him?"

"He tried," Dean said, distinctly unsettled. "And I think . . . it was weird. It was after I went inside the circle. Castiel stiffened like he was scared or something."

"What could a demon do to an angel?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Dean said. "But it was some kind of spell, Latin, but I didn't understand it."

"Do you remember any of the words?"

"I think . . . 'invoco' and 'abort terror', and I think the word for angel was in there somewhere."

"'Abort terror'?" Sam repeated.

"It sounded like that," Dean said. "Don't be a dick. I should remind you that I was in pain, freezing cold, and probably bleeding out." Sam's expression went anxious and pathetic. "Don't!" Dean growled.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam blurted, coming over to sit next to him on the sofa.

"I said 'don't,' damn it!" Dean said, shoving at his brother. "I'm fine. I'm not dying now."

"But, Dean, I –"

Dean gave Sammy an almighty shove and knocked him onto the floor. "Quit it. Stop trying to make me feel like I should feel bad."

Sam stared at him from the floor, his lips pursing in that pissy way that always got Dean's back up, then he shook his head, his face relaxing. "One minute you're mad because I'm being too judgy, the next because I'm too goopy. I don't know what the middle ground should be."

"There are other emotions in the world besides judgy and goopy," Dean pointed out irritably.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not ones you'll let me show," he retorted.

"You're just dumb, and that's a sad thing to say about a guy who graduated Stanford."

"I mean, how would you react if I told you I loved you, not goopy, just straightforward fact." Dean blinked in shock at his brother, the brother who'd hated him for the last five or six years. "I love you." He paused. "How would you react?"

Dean felt his eyes heat up and knew he was going to cry. "You know, Sammy," he said, desperately controlling a desire to sniff. "I haven't eaten in a long time. I didn't have much at breakfast."

"Oh, right." Sam scrambled to his feet, the emotional moment forgotten in his worry over Dean's diet. "I was just fixing lunch. I thought we'd have hamburgers."

"Sounds good."

While Sam got back to work, Dean struggled to keep from crying in front of him. That would send him goopy for sure. After a few minutes, when it became clear he wasn't going to prevent it, he got up and turned towards the door. "I need some air."

Sam turned. "You sure?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Well, make sure and wear your coat. I'll come check on you if you take too long."

"Thanks, Mama Sam," Dean said as he opened the door and went down the steps.

There were a few seats around, but Dean didn't want to settle. He'd get too cold too quick. Tears welled up and started to fall. He'd given up on Sammy, and he'd kind of assumed that this whole reaction was a combination of guilt and responsibility. He would never have expected Sammy to say that – and mean it – no matter what happened. His baby brother had never been able to lie for shit.

He needed to get this under control so he could go back inside. He hadn't put on the thermal pants under his jeans, so he was rapidly chilling.

Jo's voice came from behind him, the wrong direction since he was facing the Roadhouse. "Hey Dean," she said. "What are you doing out here?"

He looked down to hide his face. "I just needed some air," he said, his voice a bit husky.

"You sound like you need to go back inside," Jo said.

"I will soon."

"Dean, you sound hoarse. I really think you –"

Exasperated, Dean looked up and glared at her. "I'm fine."

Her eyes widened as she got a look at his face. "Dean, are you okay?"

"What did I just say?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "Dean, you're crying."

"Cold wind. Watering, not crying."

"There's no wind," Jo said matter-of-factly.

"Not now," Dean replied.

"There hasn't been any all day."

"There was a bit before you showed up."

"Dean, I've been outside awhile," she said, laughing. "It's not windy."

"Look, it was a freak thing," Dean growled. "Let it go."

"Dean, if you need to talk, I can –"

"Get off my back," he growled. "What are you out here for, anyway?

"I came out to get some boxes out of the shed." She gestured, and Dean glanced over where she was indicating.

"Where are the boxes?" he asked, looking at her unburdened state.

"There's something in the way, and I don't really want to move it. I was just going to get my mom to help me get them over."

"Don't bother your mom. I got this."

She protested, but Dean guided her back to the shed. "Where are these boxes?"

The thing she didn't want to move was an old motorcycle. She climbed over it and looked at him worriedly. "You take them from me and put them down. You're not carrying them any distance."

"I can carry –"

"If you make like you're going to carry anything, I'll go tell Sam."

"Cheater."

"Whatever. I mean it."

He shrugged and she turned to pick up a box. When she passed it over the back of the bike, Dean expected something heavy, but it weighed nothing at all. "Hey, what's in this?" he asked.

"Tree stuff," Jo said.

Dean looked down at the box and grinned. "Cool." He wondered suddenly what his dad had done with all their Christmas ornaments. He had vague memories of a glorious silver star, and being permitted to hang it on the tree under his mother's close supervision. He put the box down and turned towards Jo for another. They moved four fairly lightweight boxes this way, and then Jo climbed back over the motorcycle. "Whose bike is that?" Dean asked.

"Claude Jackson," she said, and he blinked at her. "He's a hunter who went off from here with some other guys and never came back. We didn't know what to do with it, but if we'd left it out in the weather it would have been destroyed, so we rolled it in here. That was back in the summer."

"What were they hunting?"

"I'm not sure, and none of them did come back." She shrugged, but Dean didn't think it was lack of concern, more like it was something that happened too often for her to expend a lot of energy on. She picked up a box and started across the yard. Dean picked up the next box down and followed her. "We get stuff like that sometimes," Jo continued, and Dean put on a bit of speed to catch up to her. "Guys ask us to hold onto something for them and then never come back." She shrugged and turned towards him. "Just usually –" Her eyes widened and she came to a dead stop. "You aren't supposed to be carrying anything!"

"It's fine, Jo," Dean said, not stopping. "You coming?"

"Your brother's going to skin me alive. Your father –" She seemed struck dumb by the thought of Dean's dad. "Dean, you put that down right now," she ordered.

"Here in the snow?" he asked lightly, not turning. "I don't think so. Come on, Jo, your mom's waiting."

"Dean Winchester, I have half a mind to go straight to that motor home and tell Sam on you."

"If you want to carry that thing twice as far, that's up to you."

"It's not like it weighs anything," Jo retorted.

"My own argument, made for me," Dean said with a grin. "Man, am I good."

"Jo!" The voice came from the back door to the kitchen. "You find those boxes yet?"

"Coming, Mom!" Jo yelled back. In a quieter voice, she added, "She'll set you straight."

Dean wondered if she would. Ellen had struck him thus far as a very practical woman with a deep understanding of people. They went around the corner and into Ellen's view. "Well, I see you drafted help."

"Actually, I volunteered against strong objections," Dean replied with a grin. "But it's not like it weighs anything." He hefted it lightly. "See?"

"Hey!" Ellen exclaimed. "Be careful, those are my tree ornaments."

Chastened, Dean pulled the box in closer to his chest and followed her into the house, Jo behind him. Bobby was setting up the tree in the living room upstairs with Lucy supervising. "Well, is it straight?" Bobby asked the dog sarcastically. Lucy tilted her head contemplatively, then gave one short – and Dean would swear – affirmative bark. Bobby rolled his eyes and tightened something, then stepped back. "Thanks, dog," he said gruffly.

Lucy gave a happy little yip, then trotted up to Dean's side to nuzzle his hand. He'd put the box down where Ellen had directed him to, so his hands were free to caress his dog's face and head. "I wondered where you'd run off to," he murmured to her.

"She couldn't let Bobby do this alone, you know," Ellen said. "He might get it wrong."

"Good girl," Dean said. "Keep Bobby on the straight and narrow."

Bobby gave him a mock glower, then said, "How many more boxes are there?"

"Two," Jo said.

"I'll come help you with them then."

"I can do it," Dean protested.

"Where's your brother, anyway?" Bobby asked.

Dean felt a stab of entirely stupid panic. "In the RV, making lunch," he said. "I'd better go." He took off out of the upstairs apartment and hurried down the stairs. Lucy accompanied him, and he got outside just in time to see Sam exiting the RV in search of him.

"Dean, where were you?" Sam demanded.

"He helped me carry Christmas boxes inside," Jo announced behind him.

"You did what?"

Dean let his baby brother lead him inside, lecturing all the way. It beat the other thing hands down. It didn't make Dean want to cry, it made him want to laugh.