John set the wheels in motion on Christmas Eve - literally. He packed provisions for a road trip, bundled the boys up in their warmest winter clothes, and drove from Lawrence, Kansas to Blue Earth, Minnesota. He arrived after dark, pulling up in the parking lot of a small Lutheran Church just as Christmas Eve services were ending. From inside the brightly lit building he could hear the faint strains of Christmas hymns being played on an organ as people began spilling out the front doors into the snowy parking lot.
In the back seat of the car Dean lay curled up beneath a blanket, sleeping off the exhaustion of a long, nerve-wracking drive through the snowy weather. He clutched the charm Missouri had given him in one hand. It seemed to be helping with the nightmares far more than the sedatives had. The boy slept quietly, despite the fact his eyes and mouth were pinched tight with fear, and a deeply-set worry line creased his forehead. John watched him with concern. He'd eaten only a few crackers and a cup of juice in the past twenty-four hours.
At the opposite end of the scale was Sammy, who had not only eaten rather robustly, but had cried for more. He'd slept through the harrowing drive, and was now wide awake. Oddly, he made very little fuss, although John could tell he needed changing and his bottle was past due. Instead of crying he peered out at the church from the depths of his car seat with wide-eyed wonder, contentedly sucking on his fist.
"That's the man we're here to see," John said quietly.
Sammy turned to look at him, attracted by the sound of the familiar voice. He smiled up at his father around his hand. John couldn't help but smile back.
"You're a silly baby," he said softly, and chucked Sammy under the chin with a finger, making the baby grin and giggle.
They turned their attention back to the man in the doorway. The last of the congregation were exiting the church, each pausing to shake hands with the minister. The music died, and after a moment a heavy-set woman puffed down the steps clutching a sheaf of sheet music to her chest. Behind her the doors closed.
John waited until all but one of the cars were gone before rousing Dean. "We're here. Put your hat and mittens on."
Dean obeyed slowly, yawning hugely as he groped for his mittens. He was still half asleep and John took pity on him. The trek across the slippery parking lot was made more perilous as John carried both boys in his arms. Dean rested his head on his father's shoulder, eyes closed and arms hanging limp at his sides. He'd fallen asleep again almost immediately.
At the door, John had to knock with the toe of his boot. He heard the sound echo inside the church as the steel toed workboot thudded against the heavy wooden door. After a second try, he heard the sound of the latch clicking, and the door creaked open. A man roughly John's age wearing a clerical collar stood within the bright rectangle of light streaming out of the door. John cleared his throat before speaking.
"Are you Jim Murphy?"
"John Winchester I presume?" Jim smiled and reached out his arms. John hesitated only a moment before depositing Sammy into them. "Come in, come in."
The church was warm and cozy. Jim's small apartment at the rear of the building was cozier still. Consisting only of a decent sized sitting area, a tiny bedroom and even tinier bathroom and kitchen, it was little more than a cottage. Its furnishings were worn but clean and tidy, well suited to a bachelor minister serving a small community, and probably had been donated to him from said community.
"He needs changing," John said apologetically.
He set the bag slung over his shoulder onto the floor. Before he could say a word Jim had procured a diaper and was changing the baby himself. Through the open door of the bedroom John could see him sitting on the bed with Sam. The minister carried on with the conversation quite casually, as if he spent most of his day changing the diapers of squirmy infants.
"You can bring your other boy in here to sleep if you like."
John carried Dean into the bedroom and lay him down on the bed next to his brother. He and Jim stripped the boys of their coats and mittens. Dean grumbled a little at the manhandling, but didn't wake. They left him there. Sammy, wide awake and now demanding his bottle, went with them into the living room. Jim settled into a rocking chair with the bottle John gave him and the baby cradled in the crook of his arm.
He smiled and shrugged. "I've done some babysitting in my time," he explained."I come from a large family. My youngest sister is seventeen years younger than I am."
"Missouri said you could help me," John said quietly, shedding his coat and taking a seat on the sofa.
Jim raised an eyebrow. "You cut right to the chase don't you?"
"Can you?"
The young minister gave his visitor a long, appraising look. "Do you believe in God, John?" he asked finally, softly. It wasn't something John hadn't expected.
John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. In his mind's eye Mary's death played over and over again like a tape recording stuck in a never ending loop - a never ending nightmare. His voice was rough.
"How can there be a God?" he asked, trying and failing to keep the anger and bitterness from his voice. "You tell me, huh? How could God let my wife die like she did? How could God have done this to these children?"
"I don't think what happened to your wife was the work of God," Jim replied calmly. "In fact, I'm sure of it."
"What was it then?"
"Precisely? I don't know." Jim switched Sammy over to his other arm and continued to rock. Sam looked all around as he ate, completely at ease. "Generally?" The minister shrugged. "There are dark things in the world, John. Some of them are very powerful, powerful enough to spit in His eye, and bring pain and horror into the lives of innocents like you and your boys."
"Missouri said you could help me," John repeated.
Jim's eyes grew hard. The benign minister momentarily disappeared, replaced by a man John wasn't sure he would want to take on in a fight. Here was the soldier Missouri had made him out to be, a soldier of God, a soldier of good.
"I can help you help yourself," Jim replied. "There are men out there who have taken up arms against the evil in the world, myself included. We know what's really out there, and we know how to combat it. Join us and we can teach you how to protect yourself and your children."
John leaned back against the sofa cushions. "I want that. I want my boys to be safe, but I also want the thing that killed my wife." His jaw clenched tight. "I want it dead."
"We can also teach you where to look for it. And how to destroy it." Rising, Jim handed Sam back over to John before going over to his desk and pulling out a notebook.. "You have your doubts about God, but not evil?"
"Yes."
Something in his voice must have sounded odd, for Jim turned from leafing through the book in order to look at him. They were both silent for a moment.
"Of course," Jim's tone was apologetic. "Because you've seen it, been touched by it." He pulled out a scrap of paper with two names and two numbers written on it. "This man in Nebraska, Caleb, he sells munitions. He can show you what you need, and how to use it. Are you familiar with firearms?"
"I was in the Marines."
"Somewhat helpful," Jim smiled. "But we do things a little unconventionally." He tapped the second name and number on the paper. "Once you get yourself armed, hook up with this man, Daniel Elkins. He's the best there is in this business. He'll teach you everything you need to know about what's out there in the dark."
John took the paper and folded it in half before tucking it into his pocket.
"You'll need money. Caleb doesn't come cheap."
"I can get money."
He'd made sure of that before he left, going to Vince and offering his partner his share of their business. The shop was doing well, and John knew Vince had good enough credit to take out a loan. He made his friend a generous offer. Vince hadn't been able to refuse. As soon as Christmas was over, they would draft up the paperwork, and Vince would buy him out
"Are you sure, John?" Vince had asked. "Maybe you should take some time. You're still in mourning..."
"No." John had replied. "This is what I want to do."
He reaffirmed that sentiment to Jim Murphy as he quietly, haltingly, told him what had happened that night. This time he kept absolutely no detail to himself. What had happened to Mary was no accident. He knew that with conviction.
"You say it was in the nursery?" Jim asked. He raised a brow as he glanced at the child in John's arms. "It was after the baby?"
"I don't know. I don't know what it wanted, or why. I don't care either, as long as it never comes near my family again."
John started to say more, to tell him how the pain never went away, and would never go away until Mary's death was avenged. She had given his life purpose. From the day they'd met until the day she died his entire life had revolved around her. Without her he was nothing.
Nothing.
He didn't say it. One reason was because he couldn't find the words. Everything seemed ill suited to express the agony her death had caused in him, and describe the lingering pain. Nothing at all could describe how much he loved her. The second reason was because of an interruption. A soft sound from the bedroom distracted the men from their conversation. Dean stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"Daddy?"
"I'm right here, Dean."
The boy hurried across the room and climbed up on the couch, snuggling close to his father with a wary eye turned on Jim. He yawned hugely, obviously still very tired, and was echoed by Sammy who punctuated his yawn with a burp. Dean continued to stare at Jim owlishly.
"Do you know what tonight is, Dean?" Jim asked softly.
Dean shook his head.
"It's the night when long ago, three wise men brought gifts to the baby Jesus. It's because of them that we give and receive presents on Christmas. It's Christmas Eve."
Turning his wide-eyed gaze up to his father, Dean asked. "Santa is coming?"
John sighed. He hadn't thought much about the holiday. He hadn't planned anything and secretly had hoped Dean would forget. Jim had put him in a tricky situation.
Before he could answer, Jim said. "Of course!" His attention fell on John. "The church hosts a community turkey dinner on Christmas day, for those who may not be able to have their own for one reason or another. You will stay of course. I wouldn't want you on the roads tonight. It was bad enough for you getting over here."
"I couldn't..."
"Could. And will." Jim insisted. "The sofa folds out. You and the boys will be fine here." He grinned at Dean. "And I'm sure Santa will find you."
"That's okay," Dean said quietly, after a moment's quiet contemplation. "He doesn't have to come."
"No? Why not?"
" 'cause he can't bring what I want."
The minister's expression softened. He knew, much as John did, what the child would say if he were to ask the obvious question.
"I think you're right, Dean," he replied. "I'm sorry."
" 's okay." Dean sniffed, but he didn't cry. Instead he turned his attention to his little brother's toes, which were poking out from under his blanket. Sammy had somehow lost one sock. He giggled as Dean tickled his bare foot. The boy was thinking as he tickled. After a while he looked up at Jim again. "He can bring Sammy sumthin'."
"And what would Sammy like?"
Dean shrugged. "Anything," he said softly. This time tears did come to his eyes. "He doesn't have nuthin'. It all got burnded up with Mommy."
John's stomach did a slow, queasy roll as the memories came rushing back at him. He remembered very clearly the stench of burning hair mingling with that of melting plastic as the fire surged around the nursery, devouring everything in its path. They'd gone to a hotel that night, and although the boy cried and protested, John had given Dean a bath and thoroughly washed his hair over and over again. Afterward he'd taken his own shower, scrubbing himself raw.
They'd taken the stench of death away with them.
"John?"
He opened his eyes to find Jim looking at him with concern. He cleared his throat. "If it won't be too much trouble, yeah, we'll stay."
"No trouble at all. Let me go round up some bedding. I'm sure you're all very tired."
"Thank you," John murmured.
That first, lonely Christmas the three Winchesters slept crowded together on Jim Murphy's sleeper sofa. The night was cold and the apartment's heater was taxed to its limit so they didn't mind the close quarters. Dean curled protectively around the baby, preventing him from rolling out of the bed, and pressed his back firmly against his father's. John could feel his slow, steady breathing. Thankfully, Dean slept quite soundly through the night.
Despite the foul memories and fear for the future weighing heavily on his mind, John slept well too, very well. It was perhaps the best night of sleep he'd gotten since Mary's death. Lying there on hallowed ground, in the company of a man of God, he felt for the first time that he and the boys were undeniably safe from harm.
Sammy's happy squeal woke him up the next morning.
Rolling over with a groan, he saw both boys sitting beside a tiny Christmas tree that had not been there the night before. There was torn paper and boxes all around them. Sam had a bow stuck to the top of his head. Sometime during the night Santa Claus, a.k.a. Pastor Jim Murphy, had paid them a visit.
As John watched Dean very carefully built a tower with large wooden alphabet blocks. When he'd used all the blocks, making the tower as high as he could without it falling down, he sat back and nodded with satisfaction. Sammy clapped his hands and blew a raspberry.
"Okay, go!" Dean said.
Sammy lunged at the tower and sent the blocks flying.
Both of them giggled.
Jim stood leaning in the doorway leading into the kitchen. He met John's eye.
"Don't let the darkness obscure the light, John," he said softly. "Always remember that."
Mary's parents had planned to relocate to Topeka after the wedding. The city had more opportunities for Margaret in the real estate business, and Dr. Copeland had been offered a prominent position at a hospital there. When Mary announced her pregnancy, they thought about staying. Mary convinced them to go anyway, and for that John would be eternally grateful.
Of course they insisted Mary visit them, and based on the doctor's predictions, they felt relatively safe doing so even well into Mary's ninth month of pregnancy. The baby wasn't due for another two weeks. There was also a break in the winter weather, allowing a window of opportunity safe for driving. John and Mary set out for Topeka early on a Saturday morning. They would stay for a chill, but civil visit, and then head for home on Sunday afternoon.
Sunday afternoon, in the middle of a traffic jam caused by an overturned stock trailer, Dean Winchester decided he was done with hanging out in his mother's womb. He wanted out, and he wanted out NOW. Apparently the sight of several Kansas state police officers attempting to round up a herd of cows running amok on the snowy highway was something Dean didn't want to miss. Therefore, like a spawning salmon, he attempted to return to the place of his conception, i.e. the back seat of a 1967 Chevy Impala lovingly restored to mint condition by his father.
John was not only worried about his wife and child, but the Chevy's upholstery. He escaped onto the berm, despite being threatened by the cops and a rogue heifer, and drove like a bat out of hell past the traffic until he could turn around and high tail it back to Topeka. Screeching up to the emergency room doors of the nearest hospital, he almost took out an ambulance, but he got there just in time. Mary was not five minutes into a delivery room before the baby arrived.
He was wrinkled and pink with a swirl of dark hair, and judging by the noise he made all the way from the delivery room to the nursery, he was regretting his decision to arrive two weeks early.
The Copelands, typically, had nothing but criticism. Dr. Copeland went to have a talk with the attending physician about Dean's nutritional needs, convinced that even at only two weeks premature, Dean was much too small. Margaret attempted to rename the child.
"Dean? Dean what?" she demanded, as she and John stood at the nursery window watching Dean sucking contentedly on his fist as he slept.
"Just Dean."
"No middle name?"
"I don't have a middle name," John stated. "Suits me just fine."
"What kind of name is Dean?"
"A perfectly good one."
Margaret snorted. "Dean Winchester. Sounds like a gunslinger from a bad western movie."
John grinned. He hadn't thought of that, but he liked it. Mary liked it too when he told her what her mother had said, and immediately upon arriving home she changed Dean's nursery theme from clowns to cowboys. When Margaret came to visit she did not find the joke funny.
They had always heard that a child could make or break a marriage. John hadn't thought it possible for him to love Mary more than he already did, but after the birth of their first child things changed. He loved her even more. A precious little being now existed, borne of their affection, made of a union between their physical selves in a literal sense. Here was Mary, here was John, and here was the two of them combined into a whole other little person.
It was hard to leave for work in the morning. Mary often brought Dean into bed with them, and John would lay there watching her play with him, adoring the way she looked when she smiled down at their baby with so much love in her eyes. When she lifted her face up to her husband the love remained. He would gather her in his arms, baby and all, and hold her tight. John had come from a more or less broken home due to his father's drinking. Nothing meant more to him than being part of a family. For the first time in his life he felt whole.
Coming home in the evenings was no less pleasant. Money was tight, but Mary was able to stay home with Dean. John came home to find her singing as she made dinner and a happy, laughing, baby careening around the kitchen in his walker. It was a surreal scene of domestic bliss one usually only saw on television. John jokingly called Mary "Mrs. Cleaver" until she threatened him with one. He took it away from her and pressed her up against the basement door. They made out to the sound of spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove while Dean kept up a mean back-beat on a pair of pot lids.
"He's going to be a rock and roll drummer," John teased.
"God forbid," Mary laughed, wriggling out of his grasp to rescue her spaghetti sauce. "My mother would have a coronary if someone doesn't end up in medical school."
John made a sour face, and handed Dean a wooden spoon. The decibel level rose considerably, much to the child's delight.
"You're bad, John Winchester."
He was bad. Having a little kid gave him a chance to be a little kid himself for once. As time went by, and Dean learned first to crawl, then to walk, and then to run, John's joy in what he and Mary had made grew in leaps and bounds. He loved to hear Dean shout "Daddy!" when he came home, listen to him giggle and laugh as John tickled him, watch him play out in the yard...
Many years later he would stop and ask himself why he never thought things were too good, why he didn't expect the bomb to drop. Maybe he did know some rain would eventually fall on their lives, but he had no idea it how devastating it would be when it came.
The countdown started fourteen months prior to that awful night, at dinner, when Mary sat back in her chair, smiling at her boys as they polished off a special desert of strawberry shortcake. Dean was four and judging by his reaction to her announcement, he'd had something on his mind for a while, but just had not found the opportunity to bring it up.
"I went to the doctor today," she said quietly. "We're going to get an addition to the family."
There was a momentary pause as John and Dean processed this information.
Dean recovered before his father did, throwing up his arms and shouting.
"YAY! A PUPPY!"
