The television was blaring, just shy of a volume guaranteed to have the neighbors complaining. Dean sat on the sofa chewing his lip, tugging at the charm around his neck, and staring blankly at the t.v. screen. It didn't matter what was on - currently it was Wheel of Fortune - he stared at the set the same way for any program. The brief moment of normalcy John had witnessed in Minnesota had not been repeated. Upon their return home Dean began an even sharper decline. He'd spoken not a word in days. His nightmares returned full force. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat.
John sat at the kitchen plotting the quickest route to Pierre, South Dakota from Lawrence. He'd received word that Daniel Elkins had holed up just outside the city and John had an appointment with the man. He felt it urgent he meet up with the man as soon as possible. It had occurred to him to wonder if whatever malevolent force had taken Mary hadn't done something to Dean as well. Grief couldn't run so deeply, do so much damage.
Could it?
He glanced over at the sofa. An evil curse would be the easy way out though, a rationalization to cover his own ineptitude as a father. John simply could not handle the emotional needs of a child scarred so badly by tragedy he was starving himself to death. He'd barely gotten through high school. His own grief threatened to overwhelm him every minute of every day. How could he possibly know what to do? Not for the first time he considered turning the children over to Margaret while he took care of business elsewhere. Dr. Copeland would know what to do for Dean.
Only one thing stopped him.
What if IT came back?
A knock interrupted his thoughts - a sharp rap on the door. John put down his pen in favor of the gun sitting beside him on the table. He gathered it up in his hand as he made his way slowly toward the door.
"Dean," he hissed. "Dean, get your brother and go in the other room."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean's terrified face. The child had gone white. He immediately scrambled down from the sofa and hurried to where Sam sat in his walker making a gooey mess with animal crackers. The baby giggled as Dean shoved the walker, with Sam still in it, into the bedroom. A moment later Dean's eyes appeared around the doorframe. He watched as John went to the door and peered out the peep hole.
He lowered the gun. "What does she want?" he growled.
"Who is it?" Dean whispered from the bedroom.
"Your grandmother."
John clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it into his belt under his shirt before he opened the door. He unlocked the door. He only opened it a crack.
"Margaret," he said.
"Let me in, John. I need to talk to you."
He knew he should have left her in the hallway, but the look on her face convinced him to open the door and let her in anyway. He'd seen a crack in her armor that hadn't been there before. The death of her only child weighed heavily on her, even if she wouldn't admit it. If she needed to talk, John would humor her. It wouldn't matter what she said anyway, he'd be gone in the morning.
The state of the apartment was appalling. Dishes were piled high in the sink. The trash was overflowing. Clothes, toys, and crumbs were strewn all over the carpet in the living room. The kitchen floor was sticky and the place stunk of spoiled milk and god knew what else. He'd let the place go south during the past several weeks. The decision had been made. Everything would be left behind except the bare essentials. Housekeeping was the least of John's worries.
Margaret looked around with a pained expression as John turned off the television. Dean crept cautiously out of the bedroom, followed by Sammy bouncing along in the walker. They remained near the bedroom door, both of them staring out at their grandmother with wary expressions. John winced. Sammy wore nothing but a diaper and the sticky remains of his cookie. Dean's pajamas, which he hadn't bothered to change out of that day, were on inside out. Both were badly in need of baths - and haircuts. Dean's hair was as long as a girls and tangled up in snarls.
"I didn't want to believe it," Margaret said, her expression going cool. The crack vanished. "But I see with my own eyes that it's true."
"What's true? What do you want Margaret?"
She turned her attention from the boys to their father. "This," she said, gesturing around her. "I got a call today, John, from a friend of mine with county Social Services. She wanted to give me a heads up. Not one, but two complaints were filed against you. Child neglect, child endangerment..."
John laughed with bitter irony. All that he was doing was meant to protect his family. So what if at the moment they were a little grubby, so was he. "Endangerment. You honestly think I'd let anything happen to my kids?"
"I'm seeing it with my own eyes!" Margaret retorted sharply. "My husband is a physician. You think I can't recognize what's happening here?" She gestured toward Dean. "Is that normal? He needs help."
"He needs his father."
"He needs his mother."
For a moment John thought Margaret was going to break down and reveal the true depth of her grief. She was good at masking her emotions. She had never shown, especially in front of John, how much Mary's death had truly affected her. He watched her struggle to compose herself and hardened himself against feeling sympathy for her. She hated him. She'd always hated him. For years she had been forced to accept him because he held both her daughter and her grandchildren hostage. John knew she would take every opportunity to wrest that power away from him.
"I have," she said quietly, coolly. "The name and number of a child psychologist. I want you to make an appointment and I want you to take Dean. I've already contacted a service about a nanny - I will pay for it of course..."
"You're not giving me demands, Margaret."
She ignored him, raising her voice over his. "I've found a house, not far from here. You can return my deposit money when the old house is sold."
"No."
"You have no choice."
"That's bull."
Margaret gave no quarter. John met her head on as she took a step toward him.
"This is a small town," she said, her tone growing even more chill. "I may live miles away, but I still have friends here, and they hear things. I know what insane claims you've been making, blaming my daughter's death on some thing that came in the night. One word from me and Social Services will be down on you so fast it will make your head spin." She cocked her own head and smiled a mean little smile. "And don't think for a minute they won't award me custody, John Winchester, not after I tell them how you've lost your mind. Not after they come in here and see this mess. I'm giving you a chance. For your sake you better listen to me, because if you don't straighten up and do right by these boys, I will take them, and you will never see them again."
"Don't you dare threaten me," John growled. "Don't you dare threaten my children."
"Threaten you. You call this a threat?" Margaret finally cracked, losing her control. She gestured angrily toward Dean. "You're killing that boy, you ignorant bastard! Is that what Maribeth would have wanted?"
"You don't know what Mary wanted, you never did! You never gave a rat's ass about what she thought."
"And you did?"
"I loved her, dammit!"
Pain stabbed him in the heart. He had to turn away, bite his lip to keep the grief in check. Like her, he would not let the enemy see him break down.
Unfortunately he chose the wrong direction in which to look. He turned toward the bedroom, where Dean stood staring at the combatants in wide-eyed terror. Even Sam was quiet, but no less upset. Huge, round, tear drops were running down his pudgy cheeks.
"Daddy," Dean said hoarsely. His paralysis broke as he rushed into his father's arms. "Don't let them take us away! I don't want to go away!" He wrapped his arms around John's neck and buried his face in his father's shoulder. John could feel him shaking. "I don't want to go. Don't make me."
John returned his attention to his mother in law with a grim expression. Any thought of leaving the boys behind was crushed. He'd kill before he let anyone lay a hand on them.
"You do whatever you want Margaret, but I promise you, you will not take my boys from me."
She raised her chin. Her voice was like ice as she turned to let herself out.
"We'll see about that."
The door slammed behind her.
With a deep sigh, John composed himself.
"Dean," he said gruffly. "It's okay. We're leaving. Right now."
It was cool and crisp outside. Fall stood poised on the threshold of winter. John had spent the day hunched over a rusted-up water pump while a space heater threatened to set his calves on fire and the rest of him was freezing. He and Vince warmed up at their favorite watering hole after the shop closed for the evening. John called to tell Mary not to worry, that he wouldn't be out too late, and he stayed for a couple hands of poker. It was his lucky night. He won a hundred bucks before he called it quits and went home.
Mary had made him a meat loaf sandwich. It was still warm and he sat down to eat it, listening to the sounds coming from upstairs. The kids were having their bath. Mary was singing "Row, row, your boat..." and attempting, with much laughter and splashing, to teach Dean the concept of a "round."
"No, silly. Wait until I say boat before you start."
" 'kay."
"Ready?"
"Uh-huh."
"Row, row, row your..."
"Boat!" Dean howled, already forgetting his instructions. "Merrily, merrily..."
Mary's laugh made John smile. He polished off his dinner and left the kitchen to stand at the foot of the stairs. The singing lesson continued, with Sammy joining in with happy squeals and splashing. John washed up in the downstairs bathroom before meandering upstairs to shed his work clothes. He went into the nursery after he'd changed. The welcome was exuberant; Dean rushed across the room to greet him, grinning from ear to ear.
"Daddy!"
"Dean." Grinning, he scooped the boy up into his arms. "So, what do you think? Sammy ready to toss around a football yet?"
"No, Daddy!" Dean shook his head and laughed at the very idea. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed pink. He rested his head on John's shoulder and hugged him.
John gave him a return squeeze. "Come on, bedtime."
Dean yawned hugely. Down the hall Mary turned down his bed and picked up his toys. John tucked him in beneath the covers. Despite asking for a story - around yet another yawn - the child was very quickly asleep. Mary kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and followed John back to the door.
He caught her up in his arms and leaned his chin on her shoulder as they stood in the doorway watching their son sleep.
"Miss me?" he asked softly.
"Always," she whispered. She turned her face up toward him. He bent to kiss her. "Are you coming to bed?"
"It's early."
"I'm exhausted. The boys ran me ragged today."
John rubbed her shoulders. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Impregnating you with little heathens."
Mary laughed. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I love my little heathens." She patted his hands and nodded toward the bed where Dean lay curled around a stuffed dog, his consolation prize for having to have a brother instead of a puppy. "Is there anything more precious?" she asked softly.
"There's another one down the hall," John teased, hugging her tightly. Her hair was soft against his cheek. It smelled of baby powder. "Just as cute."
"My, how did we manage to pull that off?"
"I could show you."
"Naughty, and in front of the children!"
John chuckled and drew her off into the hallway, away from Dean's door, where he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her like he meant it. He did mean it. Judging by the way she kissed back, she meant it too.
They parted lips slowly, savoringly. John rested his forehead against hers. She smiled at him, coyly, like a young girl.
"Eight years, two kids and it's still the same," he murmured.
"What's the same?"
He gazed into her eyes. His hands rose to her face, pushing back her hair, gently caressing the curve of her lips.
"How much I love you."
Her smile broadened. "Really? That's a lot I think."
"It is. You're very rich."
"Not with money."
"Not with money." John lowered his hands to her hips. "Something better."
Mary wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest, holding him with all her strength. "Very rich," she breathed. "Oh, so very rich." Abruptly she looked up at him, and a mischievous glint filled her eyes. "Say, Mr. Winchester?"
"Yes, Mrs. Winchester?"
"Let's go make a girl."
John paused for a moment, considering. It didn't take him long to make his decision.
"You're on."
