Title: Hunter's Crossing
Author: Signs of Sun
Note: Holy busy! Sorry about the gap in postings there. Been straight out workin'.
Two for one deal today! I went to edit and proof this chapter and realized it looked awful long. At first I just tried to edit stuff out, but eventually I decided it would just have to be two chapters instead. So you get two chapters posted at one time! Aren't you excited? LOL! Now I just have to remember to renumber all the later chapters or all I'll accomplish is confusing everyone.
Anyway, here's Chapters 6 AND 7!
Thanks for reading!
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Hunter's Crossing
Chapter 6
The crunch of tires on gravel jerked Sam's attention away from the calm water of the lake over to the road. The narrow private drive was lined with densely packed woods and the sound of a vehicle approaching lasted a few more seconds before Sam caught sight of the familiar black truck.
"Couldn't be?" he whispered, rising from his seat on the steps. Their father wasn't due for two days yet. John Winchester was rarely earlier, unless of course it was for the deliberate element of surprise. But as the truck rolled to a stop directly behind the Impala's bumper Sam could see that it was in fact their father.
"Hey Sam!" his father called over through the open driver's side window.
"Dad? Dad! What are the hell you doing here?" Sam called out, jogging down the stairs as John climbed from the cab of his vehicle. The chuckle that escaped the eldest Winchester was loud enough for Sam to catch from a few feet away.
"Sorry. I didn't mean it quite like that."
"Surprise! I'm here!" his father sang out with a grin then snatched his son into a dramatic swaying bear hug. The action took Sam off guard, not his father's normal M.O.. The thought occurred to the youngest Winchester as his father was crushing every last ounce of oxygen from him that John Winchester could be kind of a ham if he wanted to be. But Sam was dead certain that he shouldn't let that tidbit of intel get out. It really wasn't something the great John Winchester would want spread around the supernatural hunting community. There was a reputation to maintain after all. But it did explain a few things about his brother though. The goof ball that was Dean had been inherited from some long forgotten and sedated part of their father. There had been only a handful of times that Sam had witnessed it, but when it had come out, when John had allowed it out or when it escaped briefly, it was obliviously a natural part of him. Sam suspected it was a fleeting glimpse into the person John Winchester had been before hunting evil consumed his life.
"Dad."
"Yes, son?" John replied, a grin in his voice, and stopped their silly swaying from side to side, but maintained the vicelike embrace.
"I…can't …breath," Sam sputtered.
"You were always kind of high maintenance," his father responded, releasing him and stepping back.
"Yeah, that whole needing oxygen to survive thing makes me real demanding, doesn't it?" Sam teased out.
"It's good to see you, Sammy."
"You too Dad," Sam replied softly.
"I brought coffee," John commented, turned back to the open drivers side of the truck, and leaned into its cab. When he reappeared he produced the peace offering, three large cups stuffed into a cardboard beverage carrier. To the Winchester men the coffee inside was as good as gold. It had rescued them on many a long night of hunting, especially since not every evil being was always on time.
"Oh coffee. Sweet glorious coffee. I'll take that. Hand it over."
"I got one for your brother too. It ain't exactly great so he better at least get it while it's hot," John said, passing one of the coffees to his son.
"I'll take that one too," Sam responded eagerly holding out his unoccupied left hand.
"It's for Dean," John replied, withholding the cup from his son's outstretched hand.
"I seriously doubt that Dean's going to be interested in anything in the hot department about now." This prompted John to squint in confusion at his youngest son.
"Since when does Dean turn down coffee? Or anything in the hot department for that matter?"
"Well, that's kind of a long story," Sam replied taking a extended savory sip from his cup. The time it took was too great for his impatient father and John was about to request he report the entire tale but the squeak of the cabin's screen door opening drew his attention away from Sam. Dean had stepped out on to the porch and was making his way sluggishly down the steps, clad only in boots and a very faded and ragged pair of jeans. He was bare chested and John could immediately surmise why. Both of Dean's arms sported a shocking red color. The right side of his neck was a close shade, only slightly less intense. A shirt would have been torture to put on, much less wear for any extended length of time.
"Sam, why does your brother look like he fell asleep down there on the dock for about a week?" John inquired, glancing briefly from his eldest to his youngest.
"Fire. He got a little too up close and personal with some," Sam answered in between needy sips of his coffee.
"Excuse me?" he snapped, looking over at Sam. The boy didn't respond though and quite possibly hadn't even heard what his dad had said. He was deaf to the world temporarily, lost in a caffeine induced bliss.
"Hey Dad!" Dean interjected as he arrived at the pair. There was a brief flash of a smile given to his father, but his expression fell quickly back to discomfort.
"What the hell happened to you? Your brother was rambling something about fire."
"Yeah I sorta caught on fire. Not as bad as it looks. My shirt, however, didn't make it. Very tragic."
"You caught on fire? Jesus, Dean, you have to be more careful."
"What?"
"You gotta pay better attention. You can't let stuff like that happen. You've got a job to do and it doesn't sound like you're very prepared."
"You think I let myself catch on fire? You're kidding me, right?"
"Clearly you weren't prepared or it wouldn't have happened," John stated matter of factly. Dean opened his mouth to reply, but the words were sluggish reaching his lips. Sam jumped in before Dean's voice arrived.
"Dad, it wasn't his fault. This thing, this spirit, caught me off guard and knocked me down a flight of stairs. Dean was helping me when it attacked again. And that's how Dean got burnt." John looked at him for a silent second before turning his attention to his eldest son.
"Where exactly were you when your brother got attacked by the thing?" he inquired of Dean, accusation thick in his voice. The expression on Dean's face dropped from frustration and disbelief to one that combined the frustration with sadness. Sam glanced his way and caught it. He also witnessed the struggle his brother was fighting mentally. Sam had seen it on occasion, certainly not often though. Dean was weighing one set of emotions against another, deciding whether to fight back against his father or to concede to the verbal lashing obediently.
"Well, I'm waiting Dean."
"Dad, I went ahead an…"
"I'm asking your brother, Sam."
"It's real nice to see you too Dad!" Dean snapped out loudly.
"Don't give me attitude."
"The thing came out of nowhere and attacked both of us. We didn't have a hell of a lot of time to react. I was prepared. I didn't go in there unarmed. I…."
"This thing that attacked you, it's still out there?"
"Yeah. We'll get it though."
"If it's still out there you weren't prepared and you didn't do your job."
"You know what…"
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"What Dean?"
"Can we take this conversation inside? This sun's a bitch!" Dean stated and started back towards the house. The discomfort had grown and he was unable to keep it from being fully displayed on his face.
"We're going to finish this discussion later you know!" John called out after him sternly.
"Looking forward to it!" Dean threw back.
"He didn't get much sleep last night," Sam offered quietly as his father headed towards the house.
"Sleep or no sleep. Attitude...disrespect…is unacceptable. Dean knows better."
"I don't know if you noticed, but we're adults now," Sam commented, catching up to him at the top of the steps
"Believe me I noticed."
Sam trailed his father through the door into the living room. John set the beverage carrier down on the end table and pulled the two remaining cups out, carrying one in each hand.
"A cabin huh?" he commented, glancing around.
"Yeah tell me about it. I wonder what his actual house looks like?"
"Trust me it makes this place look about as big as a hall closet. I know. I've seen it."
"Is that where you did the job for this guy who owns the house?"
"Yeah. He lives down in New York. Speaking of jobs. Mind telling me just exactly what happened that deep fried your brother?"
"Uh...yeah…that."
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Dean pressed the sweaty side of the glass in his hand up against his right cheek and let a contented whispered yes escape past his lips. He had refilled it to top with a combination of cold water and crushed ice and the intense coolness contacting his skin verged on orgasmic. Where the outdoors had been first too chilly then too sunny the house was oppressively balmy and Dean had decided there was no straight out winning. A round about method to comfort would need to be found. The icy glass of water was a start since he hadn't come up with the rest. Yet, anyway. It would come to him. It always did.
"You're supposed to drink from the glass not try to it in soak through your pores," Sam commented, trailing into the room just behind his father.
"Dude, lay off. It's all part of my bigger plan."
"Your plan for what exactly?" Sam chuckled out. Dean was leaned back against the edge of the sink and Sam plopped down on one of the stools across the island from him. The words of the comment were there, but the tone had been too flat. Dean thought at first his brother looked tired, but a second glance revealed distraction. The gears in Sam's head were grinding away at something he could tell, but their father was in the room and there were some conversations that stayed between brothers. He'd get Sammy talking later.
Their father stopped at the edge of the island in the center of the kitchen and held out the coffee grasped in his left hand in Dean's direction.
"No. I'm good," Dean replied, finally removing the glass from its position against his face. John pivoted around, leaned across the island, and delivered the large cup smack in front of Sam.
"Told ya, but, no, nobody listens to Sam," the youngest Winchester mumbled out. But his half joking half serious grumblings were silenced when he picked up the coffee and took the first sip. John turned back around, facing Dean, and leaned up against the island's countertop.
"Your brother told me what went down. And…"
"And?"
"It sounds like we have research to do."
"Right. Right research. History of the house?"
"Yep."
"Sam, did you notice those headstones last night?" Dean asked after a beat of tense silence.
"What about 'em?"
"A lot of them. Actually most of them had the same date of death, November 22, 1934."
"Same as Lucas Weller."
"Right. Something must have happened here on that date. Something took a lot of lives."
"Sounds like a good place to start," Dean stated and took a long sip from his water.
"That and the history of that house should give us something," John responded confidently. Dean swallowed down a oversized gulp of liquid and replied.
"I'm on that. I'll take a drive back over there as well as asking around with the locals. See if anybody knows something useful."
"No. You won't."
"Why not?"
"Because Sam and I will take care of it. You stay here and get some R&R. I need you ready when the time comes."
"What happened to greater manpower, greater results?"
"It was replaced with more rest, less margin for error."
"Come on."
"You're staying here Dean. That's final. We'll be back in a little while," John replied. He gestured with his left hand for Sam to get moving then exited the room. Sam rose from the stool, offered a brief understanding look to Dean, and followed their father into the living room.
A few short moments later the sound of the front door closing arrived.
Dean straightened up from leaning against the edge of the kitchen sink and looked out the window. Taking another long drink he watched Sam climb into the passenger seat of the truck.
"Like hell I'm stayin' here!" Dean stated as he watched the black truck reverse away from the Impala then swing around to speed off down the road. Once it was out of sight he headed for the bedroom. His black and red shirt lay thrown over his duffle bag and Dean scooped it up. Standing in front of the mirror he shook out the shirt hoping it might cure at least one or two of the numerous wrinkles, but the action was rather pointless he knew and it served more as a delay from having to put the shirt on. But it had to put done since walking around town shirtless and handsome would most definitely draw attention. Not necessarily all of it unwanted attention, but attention nonetheless. Gingerly he pulled the shirt on and buttoned it up. The fabric against his burnt skin might as well have been sandpaper and Dean squeezed his eyes closed and focused on breathing for a moment. The chanted thought that he would get used to it and this was doable was forcefully marched back and forth from one side of his mind to the other. There was no way he was being sidelined from this job. He'd find the son of a bitch that did this and see how it liked being flame broiled. Turn around was fair play.
"Sorry Dad," he whispered and headed out.
The short drive in the Impala back to Greenwood Cemetery was spent fidgeting in the drivers seat, searching from some miniscule level of comfort. The previous day had been a perfect seventy five degrees, its follower offered a sweltering dry heat. Even with both front windows rolled down so they were flush with the frame there was no air in the car. By the time Dean parked and cut the engine wide streams of sweat trickled down along his skin. He used the cuff of his shirt sleeve to swipe away the salty moisture from his forehead and cheeks, but they were immediately wet again. He shifted his gaze from the cemetery laid out before him to the rear view mirror. The reflection of himself that met his eyes told the story. The encounter with the fire, the lack of quality sleep, and the heat had taken a toll. Even more frustrating though was how scarlet the skin on the right side of his neck was. As well as the slightly lighter red that covered the far right side of his cheek all the way back to his ear. He realized that going into town and subtly interrogating the locals was probably out. His burns would raise questions and the last thing they needed was people digging too deep. He decided though he could at least check out the house and the surrounding property. With that thought he flung open the drivers side door and dragged himself out of the car.
The walk along the path up the hillside into the cemetery left him trudging forward by the time he reached the top. As he headed northeast, cutting through the rows of headstones towards the house, he scanned the dates again. On average three out of every four had the same date: November 22, 1934. There was no doubt in his mind that something deeply evil had happened in this town all those years ago. And there was a growing need inside his gut to find out what. There was a thought gnawing away at him, alerting him that something had returned here, something dark and unfriendly.
"So much for that idea," he stated to himself, stopping as the house came into view. He surveyed the property slowly. Two fire trucks and a sheriff's squad stood parked at the top of the long driveway. Firefighters filtered in and out of the building and two police officers wandered the yard and the edge of the woods. The fire was out, but had claimed a fair section of the house's first floor. FD was probably there ensuring there were no hidden dangers remaining, normal follow up procedure after the flames were out. And the officers were most likely looking for signs of anyone that may have been there. Dean realized the lighter he had been carrying had been left behind. So had been one of their flashlights. Police and fire probably had figured out that the fire had been set and were searching for evidence to identify the persons. It sealed the reality that with his burns there was no way he could go scouting for information and it was probably wise not to even be seen around town until the lovely shade of red he was wearing had faded considerably.
After watching for another few seconds he turned around and headed back through the maze of graves. He spotted the headstone they had sought out the night before and stopped at it. Dean's gaze studied the stone.
"Lucas Mathew Weller, October 24 1902-November 22 1934, A soul this world should have been blessed with longer. You washed away the darkness. And fought the good fight."
The words struck Dean just as strongly the second time round. He couldn't place it exactly but he felt connected to this man somehow, more than any other name on a headstone he'd ever come across in his days of hunting, and there had been many. The essence of the epitaph felt not only etched into the stone in front of his eyes but into his own soul too.
"You washed away the darkness. And fought the good fight."
Those words, simply and few, summed up what it was all for, what it all came down to.
Dean's gaze drifted to the left at the headstone that stood invasively close to Lucas'. Something, exhaustion or Sam's moodiness, had distracted him enough the night before that he hadn't registered the name on the stone.
Emma Lynn Weller, July 16 1905-May 23 1934.
The two best guesses that presented themselves in Dean's brain were that Emma had either been Lucas' wife or sister. Lucas had died that same day that most of the graveyards occupants had so whatever evil had touched this town had taken him too. But Emma Lynn had passed before it all happened which meant Lucas had suffered her loss if they had been close. Or, even possibly, if they weren't close Lucas had somehow played a role in her death.
Dean tilted his head back to the baking sun rapidly working its way to its peak in the sky. Again he used his right shirt sleeve to dab at the rivers of sweat flowing down over the skin of his face and neck. He managed to clean some of it away before it trickled under the line of his shirt collar. The salty moisture on the skin of his severely burnt arms was not helping his search for some level of comfort. He squinted up at the bright rays and decided it was time to move on.
"I hope you found some light Lucas Mathew Weller," Dean whispered and in the next breath he was off down the path away from the headstone.
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
"That book would be easier to read if you opened the cover Sam," John whispered from his seat across the library's back table. Sam jerked his gaze from the closed book in front of him up to his father. He'd set it down on the table and his mind had wandered, eventually making loops of thought that ended where they began. The initial shock of seeing his father had washed away and reality had settled in. The vision he had had of Dean played endlessly in his memory. And even harder was the knowledge that the time he hoped he had in which to find a solution had been stolen from him. There had been the two days he thought he had because his father had been in the vision and wasn't due for a while. But now his father was sitting directly across from him and that meant Dean's time was short. The vision was a ticking time bomb.
"Sam?"
"Huh?"
"You with me?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Just…uh…working on a theory."
"Care to share?"
"Still putting it together. Still has holes, but I'm working on it."
John nodded but didn't immediately take his gaze from his son. Instead he studied him for a few breaths. Sam stared back, making a tired effort at covering his concern. Somewhere in those circles of thought he had lost track of whether he had chosen to tell his father about the premonition or not. He'd have to search for the decision again. That was if he had even had it in his grasp in the first place.
"You'll let me know?"
"Yeah. I'll let you know."
The words were code and had been for as long as Sam could remember. His father had picked up that something besides the current job was tumbling around inside Sam's head. And the words, "You'll let me know?", were a disguised offer that if his son needed to talk he was all ears. John accepted Sam's response, at least for the moment, and returned to scanning through the pages of the town's log. Sam flipped open the cover of the one that sat in front of him and started skimming the entries.
"Got it! Take a look," his father's voice broke the silence with a few minutes later.
"232 Langley Road. Property owned by Edwin Tymson," he continued when Sam looked up. John slid the book across the surface of the table, turning it so Sam could see the entry he indicated with his finger. Sam read it over and looked up.
"So now we just need to see what we can dig up on Edwin."
"I'll go see what I can find. Keep looking through these in case there's anything else useful. Maybe something else he owned," John instructed, pushing back his chair and standing.
"Okay," Sam simply replied and returning to scrutinizing the worn pages in front of him. It was quiet for less than a minute before his cell began ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the display. He returned his gaze to the book while he flipped open the phone and answered.
"Hey!"
"Hey! Anything?" Dean's voice asked.
"Yeah. We've got a name of who owned the property. Not much else yet."
"Well, that's something I guess."
"Apparently the library closes early in the summer though so we'll be heading back out soon."
"Exactly why I called. It's lunch time and I'm starving. On the way back stop and get some steaks."
"You wouldn't even consider eating the breakfast I offered to make earlier now you want steaks."
"What can I say my stomach has a mind of its own."
"Alright. You got it! I'm starving too. Dad practically shoved me out the door. I never got to eat anything."
"Yeah I think that if Dad didn't have a plate set in front of him once in awhile he'd forget he is supposed to eat."
Sam let out a chuckle, earned by the truth in Dean's words.
"Talk to you later," he replied.
"Oh Sam. You still there?"
"Yeah."
"And get beer."
"Dean, get off you ass and look in the refrigerator for crying out loud. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."
"Let me guess there's designer beer in there?"
"Designer beer?"
"Yeah, ya know the good….never mind."
"Okay."
"Later!"
"Later!"
"Designer beer?" John asked with raised eyebrows, arriving back at the table.
"Don't ask. It's …it's a Deanism."
"Sounds like a long story."
"Definitely. He wants us to stop and pick up steaks." John nodded that he heard and studied the papers in his hand.
"What are those?"
"I found a little on our Mr. Tymson. All I could photocopy before I was informed by the librarian that we've been kicked out."
"I can research online when we get back and look over that stuff."
"Let's head out," John instructed, spotting the librarian, sporting an impatient expression, making her way to their table. Sam trailed his father back through the small building and out into the sunlight. They had been the last visitors to the library and as Sam walked down the steps he could hear the staff member locking the door at their backs. She hadn't wasted a second, but it was understandable. It was a gorgeous day, much like the day before, not too warm not to cold. The little old lady had probably wanted to get outside. That thought triggered his thoughts back to Dean. There had been a smile on his brother's face when he had suggested that maybe after their job here was done they could hang out for a few days. It had only been recently that Sam realized something. The times when Dean had suggested a little "shore leave" or a day off Sam had always redirected him back to the job at hand. For some reason it had taken almost a year to realize that for Dean to request it was different than if he himself had. The whole time they'd been back together this had been a mission for Sam, something to put all efforts into, resolve, and then return to living life. But it was different for Dean. For Dean this was living life and his brother's small request for a day off, hell even a few hours off, was the same as someone working a nine to five job requesting a vacation day. Like everyone Dean deserved a break once in a while. Sam simply hadn't looked at it from that perspective. For him, the plan had always been to plow through the mission nonstop. There would be time for rest when it was done. But hunting was Dean's life, not just a single mission, and he'd been without much of a break the entire time they'd been riding together.
Dean deserved a lot more than he got and Sam hoped there would be a chance to offer it to his big brother.
"Wanna drive?" John asked and held out the keys to his son.
"You're going to let me drive your truck?"
"Sure. Sides I drove all last night. I'm kinda beat." Sam instantly snatched the keys and climbed into the drivers seat. His father settled into the other side and leaned his head against the window. As Sam was checking that he was clear to pull out he noticed his father had his eyes closed.
The downtown of Hunter's Crossing wasn't particularly large and Sam pulled into the busy parking lot of the Shaw's supermarket that stood only three buildings down the street from the library.
"I'm going to grab the food," he stated as he parked the truck and opened the drivers side door. He left the engine running so his father could snooze in air conditioned comfort.
"I'll be here," John mumbled, shifting to a slouched position against the passenger side door.
Sam left the truck and his father behind and joined the herd of shoppers, many of which were easily identified as tourists. Their out of state accents gave them away instantly. That was a residual benefit of crisscrossing the country, he could tell a Michigander from a Kentuckian and a Minnesotan from a Wisconsiner and a Mainer from a Massachussettsite without blinking an eye The store was packed and Sam rushed to gather what they needed. He had never been a lover of crowds. Something he felt came from a level of sensory overload he experienced while in the middle of them. He'd had wondered on many an occasion but probably would never know for sure if that was because he just naturally was uncomfortable around so many people all at once or if it had been learned. Learned from growing up having the constant reminder that you always have to be acutely aware of what and who was around you, to be on guard at all times. The cashier giving him his total broke him free of his pondering and he paid for the groceries with just a simple thank you. Less than two minutes later he was back in the truck, pulling out of the parking spot. His father had opened his eyes briefly, checking that it was in fact Sam that had arrived and not something else then had returned to his rest.
So Sam drove for a silent minute before finally committing to the decision that this was the most privacy they would get.
"Dad," he said quietly.
"Yeah Sam," his father mumbled back.
"I think I need to tell you something."
"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what you're about to say?" John inquired quietly, groggily.
"Because you're not. Hell I don't."
"I guess we should get it over with then. Put both of us out of our misery. What is it Sammy?"
"I had a vision."
"About the demon?" John inquired. His eyes opened and he straightening up in the seat.
"No, actually…it was about Dean."
"Dean?"
"Yeah."
"What did you see?" Sam suddenly couldn't get a good enough hold around the words to force them out of his mouth. He stared at the road ahead and a tense silence gripped the interior of the truck.
"Sam, what did you see?" John asked with increased gentleness.
"He was burned. Really burned."
"So you had the vision before what happened last night then."
"No. I had it this morning. Just after I woke up."
"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure you were awake Sam?"
"I was awake as I am right now. Dad, Dean's in danger. I mean it. Real trouble."
"Now wait a minute son. Didn't you tell me that these visions of yours were linked to the demon?"
"Usually they are. I don't know. Maybe they're growing, ya know, expanding to include other stuff."
"Okay, Sammy, tell me exactly what you saw. Don't leave anything out no matter how insignificant it seems."
"There was…" Sam began to reply but the ringing of his cell cut his speaking short Leaving one hand on the wheel he tugged the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
"Hey!" he said, knowing it had to be Dean.
"Dude, what's taking you guys so long with those steaks."
"On the way back right now. It's only been like ten minutes Dean."
"Well, I'm starting the grill so it'll be ready when you guys finally decide to show up."
"The grill?"
"There is this kick ass grill out in the back yard of this place. We're going to eat like kings tonight Sammy boy."
"No Dean. Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't start the grill. Whatever you do, Dean, do not light it."
"Why?"
"Just please Dean wait until we get there. Dad or I will do it. Promise me."
"I think it'll be okay Sam. I think I can operate a grill without burning down the back yard and char broiling all the little squirrels in the neighborhood. Now hurry up with my steaks."
"Dean, don't…!" Sam insisted, but he realized that the call had been disconnected already.
"No no no no! Dammit Dean!" Sam cursed out in a panic and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. He frantically scrolled through the numbers in memory on his cell and selected his brother's.
"Pick up the phone Dean!" Sam grumbled, simultaneously careening the truck into a left turn. By the time he straightened out a little in the lane Dean's cell had rung three times. After the fourth voice mail would pick up.
"Answer the phone Dean!" Sam demanded out into the air. The voice mail message started to play and Sam ended the call. He hit the button immediately to redial the number. The truck veered a little left over the yellow line as Sam glanced down at the display and John held out his hand, requesting the phone be handed over to him. Sam complied and returned his right hand to the steering wheel. John put the phone to his ear and listened to it ringing, but again the voice mail picked up.
"Dean, this is your father. The grill is off limits to you. When I get there I better not see you within twenty feet of the thing. And that's an order!" he commanded calmly to his son's voicemail and then flipped the phone closed. Sam executed the right turn onto the private drive that lead to the cabin rather wildly, forcing his father to brace himself with an outstretched hand against the dashboard.
"Take it easy. He'll be fine," John offered quietly.
To Be Continued…