Don't Feed After Midnight
Chapter 8
To everyone else, the word of god appeared as vaguely square lumps of stone covered in ancient writing.
Kevin knew that. He'd seen photographs. But that's not what he sees when he looks at them; what he sees… it's hard for him to put into words.
It's like layers of cloud moving in the sky. Each strata at a differing height, drifting different directions on the air currents, moving over and under each other.
Or, is it like a bucket of writhing word snakes, sliding over, under and through each other?
A three dimensional maze?
None of those descriptors satisfy him when he tries to put it into words, what he sees, when he stares at the word of god.
It's disorientating, sickening; gives him migraines and something that feels like motion sickness.
But it's also kind of beautiful, mesmerising and fascinating. It almost feels like there is an edge of addiction to it.
He is a prophet of the Lord, he sees what no one else can and despite himself, that makes him feel special.
God never figured in his plans, all he ever wanted, as far back as he can remember, was to become the first asian-American president.
In his most hopeful moments he can make himself believe he still might be, one day. But those moments are getting rare.
Kevin passes a hand over his dry eyes and reaches for the remaining half of the grilled cheese sandwich, on the plate by his elbow, finds the plate empty.
He could have sworn he hadn't finished it yet, but then, he does tend to lose himself while he's translating.
Instead he picks up the bottle of water Sam brought, and swallows down long gulping drafts, until the bottle crumples in his fist, empty.
Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he cradles his aching head and returns his gaze to the tablet.
Distantly he hears noise, tries to ignore it. It takes so much effort.
He misses Garth's house boat, the silence and lack of people.
How do these people expect him to concentrate, when they're forever interrupting and breaking his concentration?
If he can just get all these tablets translated, give the Winchester's what they need. Then maybe, he'll be allowed to get his life back.
To do that, he needs to concentrate, and he's finding that really hard with that damned noise going on.
Huffing out a harried breath of irritation Kevin grits his teeth. He needs space from people and their crap, to focus, to get the job done, that's why he sent Mom away—
Kevin stops the train of thought abruptly, but it's too late…. He sent Mom away, it's his fault she's dea—
The door to his room jerks open abruptly, scaring the crap out of him.
In the doorway looms Sam Winchester, tall and lanky, gun in hand, messy haired. Eyes wide and wild, searching the room agitatedly.
"Kevin, stay quiet, draw a devils trap, ring it with salt, get inside."
Kevin wipes at his eyes, "Wha—"
"Just do it!" Sam orders shortly.
Kevin climbs to his feet just as the door slams shut again.
Sam is gone.
He staggers to the door on rubbery legs, shoves a nearby chair against it, a hasty, pathetic attempt at a barrier. Heart hammering Kevin finds a sharpie on the desk along with a canister of salt.
He scrawls a devils trap on the floor, hands shaking with urgency. Rings it thickly in salt.
Snaps off the overhead light, thinking the light spilling into the hall might draw danger, but he leaves the desk lamp on, afraid to be alone in the dark.
Throwing himself inside the warding Kevin draws his knees up to his chest and curls in on himself, realises he's whimpering, and jams his hand over his mouth to muffle it, and his unbearably loud breathing.
Crowley is coming.
Crowley is coming.
Heart hammering with dread, he jerks his eyes around the room in apprehension, gaze jittering between the door and the deep shadows filling the room.
Until, his eyes stall on the angel and demon tablets.
The word of god is just sitting on the desk, illuminated in the glow of the desk lamp, like they're on display. Sitting there, out in the open.
He needs to get them.
It's his job.
He's the keeper of the word of god… But he just, can't move.
…ooo0ooo…
Sam straightens and stretches out his spine, trying to shift the ache that has settled into his lower back from manning the mop. He stoops once more and snags the handle of the galvanised bucket.
Carries it, and the mop back to the laundry room one final time, tipping it's contents down the drain with a sigh.
Wringing out the mop, he puts it and the bucket away where they came from.
Sighs again, shifts all the neglected wet clothing from the washer into the dryer, is just straightening up again when his eyes are drawn to the cause of all the mess and trouble.
It sits on a ledge above the laundry tub, one soggy balled up sock, surrounded by a small puddle of water.
Sam picks it up with a huff, is about to toss it in the dryer, to be with its mate.
Except, he frowns perplexed, the sock is blue, not the usual thick utilitarian black or grey he and Dean habitually wear.
It's blue, black and yellow.
Sam stretches it out realising what he's holding.
It's a novelty item that Dean bought him, along with a waffle maker, years back.
"Look at me. Getting all Married and Shit." Is written across the blue background in yellow.
"They're your somethin' blue Sammy."
"That's for the bride, Dean!"
"Yeah, I know… Bitch."
Dean's show of support and acceptance, for his little brothers out of the blue, Vegas marriage to Becky Rosin.
All caused by Becky's weird obsession and a love potion, complicated by a cross roads demon with aspirations.
The marriage had been annulled before it was even consummated. Thank god!
But he'd kept the socks, because Winchester's didn't do gifts often, and for all that Dean hadn't believed Sam's head long marriage to Becky had been kosher, Dean had actually tried to be supportive.
"I want you to get out. I want you to have a life, become a Man of Letters, whatever. You, with a wife and kids and- and- and grandkids, till you're fat and bald and chugging Viagra, that is my perfect ending."
The socks signified something to Sam.
He'd never worn them, but he'd carted them from place to place all these years in his duffle.
That's where this sock ought to be right now. In his duffel.
Holding the soggy sock in his fist, Sam made his way back to his room.
Dragging the bag out from under his bed, he rummaged through it, found the other half of the pair.
Pristine, still attached to the cardboard packaging.
How had one of the pair ended up in the laundry room jammed in the washer drain?
Bizarre!
But maybe not that bizarre…
Dean!
His big brother has a unique way of showing he cares at times, especially after periods of extreme stress.
Childish pranks… like missing yogurt and suddenly cold showers.
Dean's own unique, emotionally constipated, passive aggressive way of expressing how scared he'd been, and how relieved he is that things are going to be okay.
Nothing like needling his little brother, and starting a prank war.
Sam snorts in irritation, but his mouth forms a half smile.
This does call for retaliation. Of course, the best way to truely get back at Dean is to ignore his hijinks.
Then, when the Jerk least expects it, bam! One well thought out act of retribution.
Revenge is always best served cold.
In the meantime, it'll drive Dean batshit crazy if he doesn't react or appear to notice.
Yes, Sam decides with a smirk, not getting the anticipated rise out of little brother will drive Dean nuts.
…ooo0ooo…
Kevin loses track of how long he sits there paralysed, mesmerised by terror. Heart jack rabbiting and stomach sick with dread. Waiting for Crowley to stalk through the door like a hunting panther, to haul him away to some new horror.
Then, after an eternity, he hears footsteps.
Sees a shadow move in the hallway outside.
It breaks his paralysis.
Kevin springs to his feet and darts across the room to snatch up the tablets, before diving back inside the protection of his warding, mere moments later the door swings open, effortlessly sliding the chair across the concrete floor. No barrier at all.
Kevin whimpers, curls into a ball, clutching the tablets to his chest, white knuckled.
Shuts his eyes waiting for the pain to begin.
The overhead light flicks on.
"Kev?" Dean's voice made him open his eyes.
The older Winchester brother is standing over him, a red gasoline can in one hand, he looks perplexed. "You okay kid? Why…?"
"Sam said…"
A look of comprehension lights up Dean's handsome all-American features.
"An' you've been sittin' here all this time?"
Then, the bastard chuckled.
"False alarm kid.
Sammy overloaded the washer, we've been moppin' up for hours." He moved closer, grabbed a hold of Kevin's arm and lifted him effortlessly to his feet. Ruffled his hair like he was a kid.
"Sammy said—" Dean wandered over to the desk and picked up Kevin's cellphone, "yup there ya go.
Sam texted you the all clear. Guess he got so caught up cleanin' up his flood, he didn't get a chance to come tell you himself."
Dean huffed and handed him the phone, eyed him up and down.
"Maybe next time, keep ahold of your phone, huh?
Still, ya had the most important thing. Good job!"
Dean slapped him on the back with rough approval.
Kevin stared up at the hunter, mouth agape, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He'd cowered here for hours like a scared rabbit, terrified of an overloaded washing machine?! Stepping back he sunk dumbly to the bed, still cradling the tablets against his chest.
"How 'bout you take a break, you could do with a shower, a fresh change of clothes. You frickin' reek man."
"Yeah," he agreed wearily "Sam said something similar this morning."
…ooo0ooo…
The records room had been a total bitch to mop up.
Making sure the damp hadn't gotten into anything, humping all those boxes off the bottom shelves and checking for rising damp.
Sam talks about scanning everything, going through it and compiling a hunting resource which might even the odds between hunters and the monsters. Making it available to everyone that needs it.
That is a project that could take years, (one Dean dreads being bitched into helping with,) and until then, last thing they need is a case of black mould and rising damp turning everything into so many boxes of soggy wheaties.
Then, when he'd finally finished up all that shit, been about to head out, and get the impala back home. Before some millennial skid mark found her and did something that he'd have to rip their lungs out for. Sam had ran across him, and started bitching on 'bout how Kevin hadn't showered in days.
Apparently tackling reeking kid prophets fell into his wheelhouse, just call him den-mother Dean.
The last of the gas out of the can gurgles down into the Impala's tank while Dean muses on how Kevin looked. Like he needed a hell of a lot more than a shower. Kid needed some solid R&R … they all did!
Dean slid behind the wheel and bows his head laying his hand on the dash, in a moment of contrition.
He's treated his girl pretty damn crappy of late, letting his baby run out of gas, sheish!
"Please forgive me, I know not what I do." He rumbled the lyric and caught himself glancing over towards the passenger seat to clock Sam's bitchfaced reaction; over him singing Brian Adams, to the car. But Sammy's missed this awesome performance.
He twists the key in the ignition.
The engine turns over, rumbling a throaty purr.
Then the radio blares to life.
"… I was laughing, bitch—-"
The speakers shriek the line from the Black Sabbath song he'd been listening to, before she'd stalled.
Then the player made an aborted snarling sound and promptly ate his Black Sabbath tape.
Spat pieces of shattered plastic casing and tangled magnetic ribbon guts, into his lap.
"Everyone's a critic." He muttered, ruefully tossing the ruined tape into the passenger seat.
The impala didn't answer, though the rumble of her engine sounded almost smug.
-0-0-0-0-
Hi guys
Please don't forget to leave a comment if a fic has brightened up your day, or done something to make you feel less isolated in these trying times. Remember that a comment or a follow can do the same thing for the author.