The most awesome thing about their new home was the two full bathrooms.
Sammy was practically a chick considering how much time he spent getting ready in the morning. Of course, that was to be expected when your little brother had a My Little Pony mane of hair that had to be maintained.
Well, when you had a little brother that used to have a My Little Pony mane of hair anyways.
House Rules #26 now prohibited said little brother from having hair longer than two inches above his shirt collar. Sam had tried unsuccessfully to argue the merits of that particular decree when Dad had sat them both down to go over the list of non-negotiable terms of their school year residence in Sioux Falls.
Sammy had bitched. John was unmoved. Sammy had crossed his arms and glared. John had crossed his and cocked a threatening eyebrow, and by the time it was all over, Sam's allowable hair length had been shortened by another inch.
Theoretically, the House Rules were drawn up as security measures to appease John that his boys would be safe and careful in the first long term home they would be living in since the family house in Lawrence. They also contained a fair number of rules designed to impress upon Sam the reality that his upbringing, though strict in its own unique way, had been fairly lax as to a number of restrictions that normal kids were subjected to by their parents.
Although Dean was pretty sure that Dad had added the haircut rule for his own amusement to just to piss Sam off.
To everyone's satisfaction, now that the boys had access to two showers in the small house, it meant that after their early morning run (House Rules #3), Dean could jump in, wash up, and be dressed without needing to wait for Sam and his never-ending grooming regimen to finish. Which also meant a ceasefire to the daily fights between the brothers that usually ended up with threats, slammed doors, snapped towels and noogies.
The fact that the second full bath was down in their slightly Silence of the Lambs style basement did nothing to dull Dean's happiness to use it.
What had been creatively described to him and Dad by the landlady as an 'in-law suite' was, in reality, a partially finished concrete room with a utilitarian toilet and shower room off to the side. Dean didn't know who these in-laws were, but he suspected that they were the kind you didn't want to feel welcomed.
Dean had been initially excited with the description of the house that claimed it to have three bedrooms. One the primary requirements of his Sammy-is-normal plan was that his little brother finally have a room all of his own, without a father or big brother, or both, a foot away and tripping over each other. So he had been a little disappointed to see that the third bedroom was more of a hopeful concept of renovation than an actual room.
Surprisingly, Dad hadn't been too bent out of shape about it. Dean was already mentally measuring the smaller second floor bedroom to see if another bed could be added, perfectly willing to share a room with his old man during John's occasional stays. His father had point blank refused, reminding his eldest son that he had bunked down in worse places than a stark gray basement, only getting Dean to agree when John assured his boy that it wouldn't take much to fix it up a little.
Three weeks later, Dean was still having a hard time processing how grudgingly agreeable Dad had eventually become to considering the new living arrangement. Not that it hadn't taken some doing on Dean's part but, after the initial atomic bomb level blowout, John had surprised his oldest by pointing out several basic flaws in his plan that Dean had never even thought of.
The firstborn Winchester brother had never needed to have practical experience of setting up an actual long term residence, so it was a good thing that his father, although woefully out of practice as a civilian, still remembered the basics.
/
The night Dad and Bobby returned from the hunt that his father still refused to talk about, Dean lay awake all night in a fretful and contemplative restlessness. Unlike Sammy, Dean had long ago learned how to feign sleep, so that his father and brother would never know how troubled his thoughts occasionally were in the dark hours of the night. It was laughable how unsuccessfully his little brother tried to trick Dean during fights at bedtime over the years.
Dean had been putting the kid to bed his entire life, and was usually sleeping inches away from him. He knew every breathing sound and facial twitch Sammy had. Little brother hadn't even been trying to hide his turmoil that night, and when he crawled out of bed and slipped downstairs, Dean was alert and trailing him instantly. John was clearly in a bad way, and the last thing their family needed that night was an emotionally turbocharged war between the oldest and youngest Winchesters.
Bobby's place was one of the closet things the boys had to a home growing up. With Pastor Jim's house and the Impala herself ranking neck and neck along with it. Dean knew every creaking floorboard and loose stair tread, and was as stealthy as a Navy SEAL, thanks to his father's training. He silently ghosted Sam's movements as he went down to the living room, taking pains to keep himself hidden. Normally, Dean would never willingly intrude on a private conversation between his father and brother, but Dad had him on edge with his erratic behavior that evening.
Between his father struggling to keep his panic in check, and Sammy's almost childlike hesitation and fear, Dean could barely draw enough air into his lungs to keep from passing out in the shadowy darkness of the hallway. He managed to dart back up to the shared bedroom before his little brother sneaked back in, smoothing out his breathing with a well practiced calming exercise, even as his body lay as tense as a bow string under the summer weight blanket.
After a while Sam had fallen into a fitful slumber, but Dean had lain awake and alert until the first rays of dawn filtered in through the faded bedroom curtains. Moving soundlessly, so as not to disturb what paltry rest his little brother was getting, Dean quickly donned his sweats and sneakers, and when Dad headed for the front door for his early morning run, his oldest son was dressed and waiting to join him.
They didn't speak as they stretched in the crisp morning air, the yard dogs idly watching them with minimal interest as they lazed about on the front porch. Years of habit kept their warm up in sync without needing to exchange words, and when they were limbered up, father and son shot off onto the road. They moved in unison as they ran, a companionable silence between them, a shared sense of urgency propelling them.
Dean welcomed the clarity of thought the adrenaline brought him, the feeling that at least this one thing was manageable, in control. They ran until his muscles burned and streams of heavy sweat pulled the whiskey out of John's system. The sun had moved noticeably higher on the horizon when they made it back to the salvage yard, the house quiet with the other occupants still asleep. John helped his son stretch as they cooled down and eventually they had dropped to sit side by side on the porch steps.
In silence, they contemplated their own thoughts, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of a passing car or chirping from the birds in the trees surrounding the yard. Dean didn't know how much time had passed as he struggled to approach his father with his concerns. He easily recognized the look on John's face as his dad absently twisted his wedding ring. A unconscious habit the man always had when he was beyond stressed about something.
Eventually, Dad had broken their quiet reverie by nudging Dean's knee, jerking his chin towards a group of banged up cars across the yard from the porch.
"You recognize that car, Son? Blue, second from the right."
Dean looked up and squinted in the sunlight, hesitating for the briefest of seconds before answering.
"Yes, sir. That's a seventy-two Camaro."
John had nodded, pride of his son's knowledge mingled with the sadness of painful memories. His smile was wistful as he clapped his son on the shoulder.
"Good job, Kiddo."
The heavy silence returned for a few more seconds, and Dean stared off into the distance before being brought back by his father's deep rumbling voice.
"Your mother had one just like it once."
Dean had turned towards his dad in surprise, because it was hard to get him to speak about Mom unless he was deep in a bottle with a boatload of tequila loosening his tongue. But one look on his father's face told Dean that he should shut his cakehole and let the man reminisce.
"She loved that thing. Every once in while, she would just take off for a few days. Even after you came along."
John threw his son an affectionate look when the boy started in surprise over that new tidbit of information. He winked, and nudged Dean's shoulder with his own.
"Bet you didn't know your old man occasionally had diaper duty with just you and me."
Startled, Dean shook his head, looking so achingly young that John reached over and ran a hand across the top of the boy's short cropped hair.
"Til you were about a year old. Then one day, she just stopped. Said it was time. I didn't know what she meant by it."
John's voice had an undertone of long term confusion as he turned away, rubbing his hands together, his brow furrowed in memories.
"Put the car up for sale, and we used the money to invest in the garage with Mike. She never talked about it again."
With that, John grew quiet again, and Dean wasn't going to push. These moments of caring and sharing about life before were rare, and usually only reared themselves up during times of great turmoil in his dad's life.
Dean hadn't wanted to add to his father's worries, because God knew the man obviously had enough on his mind as it was. But John's heartfelt declarations to Sam in the late hours of the previous evening had unnerved Dean to the point that he instinctively knew that his window of opportunity to make his case was rapidly closing.
Dad was scared. Not just scared, petrified. Of what, his oldest son had no idea, but he needed to man up and take a last stand before John bolted again, taking his kids with him to parts unknown and destroying all possibility of the carefully constructed proposal that had been at the forefront of Dean's mind since the car ride to Blue Earth.
He had practiced a dozen time as to how he would broach the topic. What persuasive opening salvo he could volley that would sway his unbending father to positively consider his words. As Dean grew older, John was taking his son's opinions on jobs seriously because he respected the hunter that Dean was becoming.
When it came to Sam, their dad was less likely to yield, even though Dean knew that John was perfectly aware of how much better his oldest was in tune with his youngest. Whether it was a fear of losing his hold over his children, or a reluctance to acknowledge them as growing up, Dean didn't know. What he did know was that Sam was slowly but surely slipping away from them, and Dean couldn't imagine a life without his little brother by his side.
John was staring off into the distance as they sat, shoulders touching, his hair as dark and wild as Sam's ever was. Dean nervously rubbed his damp palms on the sides of his sweats, fingers clenching repeatedly in the soft folds of the fabric, until his father looked over at him expectantly. Calmly waiting against the backdrop of sunrise for his son to finally speak his mind. Dean had swallowed hard and braced himself for the fallout.
"Dad, we're gonna lose Sammy."
After that, the rest of that morning had been a surreal blur. That one simple sentence brought a raging river of emotions flooding over his father's face. Dean had begun speaking quickly, his practiced arguments spilling out of his mouth in an emotional ramble that tripped over his tongue without his consent or any rhyme or reason. The whole plan burst out of him like a punch, and when he was finally spent, he quieted, chest heaving and begging with his eyes for understanding while his father sat in a speechless daze.
For about five seconds.
Then John had raged. He roared, literally roared. He was furious by what he perceived to be Dean's betrayal of going behind his back and making plans for the brothers without even attempting to consult him. The earlier peace of their shared morning forgotten, a string of vicious and unfounded accusations spewed forth from his mouth, laying waste to his firstborn. Dean had physically reeled from each verbal blow, like a punch drunk boxer on his last leg in the ring. Unable to fight back and curling in on himself to protect whatever vital organs he could from the onslaught.
When the Dad in John regained control, his son was a shuddering mess, unable to meet his father's eyes. Holding his gut with both arms as he sat hunched on the stair, swallowing repeatedly as he struggled to regain his composure. Whispering crushing, desperate apologies, and watery pleas for understanding. Looking so much like a kicked pup that a wave of stomach acid burned its way up John's throat from the guilt of his attack.
Dean had been petrified to even suggest such drastic action. John had heard it in his boy's voice as it quivered with a wet undercurrent of tears when he told his father what the man had already known.
That they were in danger of losing their youngest. That Sammy needed to be kept safe and close to them.
John's own fears released themselves in the wholly brutal tirade he had lashed out at his son. Blind panic that their world as a family was shifting, and the Winchester patriarch didn't seem to be able to wrest control over that eventuality from anyone including, apparently, his kids.
Almost immediately, John had reined his anger back in. Faced with the devastation and defeat on his son's beautiful young face, looking so much like his mother that it physically hurt, he had reached out to put an arm around his boy's shaking shoulders and drew him close, relieved when Dean allowed it without a trace of recrimination in his eyes.
Because that's what his child always did. Dean was the family sounding board. The means through which the oldest and youngest Winchesters vented their multitude of frustrations over life in general. They ranted and raved and laid all of their accumulated crap at Dean's feet for him to sort out and deal with, because that was what they had come to expect.
It took a lot of energy to stand on the moral high ground, after all, and usually John and Sam couldn't be bothered with other things.
And Dean had always accommodated them, pushing aside his own frustrations and fears for the good of the family, and refusing to see the damage it was doing to his own psyche. Because denial was a river in Egypt, and Dean Winchester was its King.
Hot tempered, loose tongued and occasionally mean spirited, John and Sam both had a bad tendency to lash out at the one person who lived for their happiness and safety. John wasn't so obtuse that he didn't see it happen, didn't feel the heavy weight of guilt that came from unloading his stress driven anxiety on his oldest son. Because deep down he knew that Dean would always forgive him. Always excuse the lapses in John's tenuous grip on fatherhood because his firstborn had nothing but unconditional love for his father and little brother.
Even when, especially when, they didn't deserve it. Dean's singular regard for his family was absolute and unwavering.
Ultimately, that was what had turned the tide for John that early morning.
The Marine turned Hunter kicked in. Always calculating and planning, John backed down, for the first time ever, and consented to the overall idea. If his agreement came after his son's fervent assurances that Dean had spoken of his plans with absolutely no one until approaching his dad, John wouldn't admit that to anyone. It didn't speak to John's credit if he admitted that his anger was partially fueled by originally suspecting that others in their family circle were aware of the idea before he himself was privy.
By the time Bobby was awake and brewing coffee, John was fine tuning some of the logistics and adding many conditions of his own. Bobby's offer of his own place was politely declined, but he did have a contact for housing. A woman nearby was renting out a house that her tenant had recently vacated because of a job transfer. She knew the score on hunting because the ghost of her teenage son had been haunting her for almost a year after his death in a car accident. Bobby had salted and burned the bones of the boy when he had become vengeful. The salvage man had given her The Talk, and kept in touch for the past few years.
Now moving with purpose, John strong armed an early morning showing with the landlady, who was flirted with and flattered into a small monthly discount by John's considerable charm, and the added incentive of the roll of bills for first and last that he had acquired through the risky maneuver of cash advances from his two current credit cards.
Dean had felt guilty from the knowledge of how strapped for funds his father would be for a while after maxing out his current credit, but Dad had insisted, stressing to his son in no uncertain terms that he would be covering the monthly rent for his kids. Nothing was going to induce Dean to strip his father of the man's pride, so he hadn't pushed, comforted with the assurance that his father would be saving on his own motel expenses with an occasional stay at the house.
Because he had already spent the past few weeks in the planning stages, Dean had been aggressively hustling to build up a bankroll, taking some considerable chances that would have earned him ear blistering reprimands if his father had any idea of how fast and loose he had been playing. It had been his intention to present the idea to his father as a fait accompli, proving that the finances were manageable, but John was firm about how much he would be covering himself.
There were still plenty of other expenses for Dean to worry about.
For safety reasons, Sam was enrolled in a private Catholic school with a manageable tuition that could be paid on a monthly basis. Dean had taken a stab at working up a rough budget, and the school could be afforded if they scrimped. The house was partially furnished, and they would be able to make do until they could slowly acquire extras. The utilities were all on budget plans, and their landlady had consented to pay the monthly water bill in exchange for the boys mowing her grass and shoveling her drive when it snowed.
The boys would spend the school week at home in Sioux Falls, following the House Rules and keeping up with their daily training regimen. On the weekends they would drive to meet John to back him up on hunts if he was within a reasonable distance.
Dean was pretty confident that his father would ensure that he would be relatively close by for the duration of the year, and it was this thought that had the older brother hoping that maybe time and distance during the week would lessen the tensions between his two family members. Enough that when Sam graduated, his resentment of John and Dean and their life together as a family wouldn't be strong enough to make him run away again.
Money was going to be tight. Fraudulent cards wouldn't fly in a town where they were establishing a permanent residence. Hustling locally wasn't an option either, although the weekend trips would hopefully bring opportunity for extra cash. Dean had known he would need to find a real job, and he was happy to do it if it meant keeping Sammy close and making the kid smile. He satisfied himself that he could hunt on the weekends, needing it like he needed oxygen.
But his brother came first.
Originally, Dean had planned on applying at a few of the local garages, because Dad had taught him everything there was to know about cars and he loved to work on them, but then Bobby offered to employ him at the salvage yard. It wasn't a pity employment, no matter what Dean originally suspected.
When he voiced this concern, Bobby had whipped his ball cap off and smacked the back of Dean's head with it, telling the boy with the cripplingly low self esteem that his yard was chock full of vehicles itching to be rebuilt and sold for a good chunk of cash, and that Dean wasn't just as good as his daddy, he was better. A goddamn genius of Auto Mechanics, and the fervent declaration had caused Dean's entire face and neck to blush crimson.
With that settled, Dean had a steady paycheck that was probably more than generous under the circumstances. A boss that would understand Dean's need to work around a school schedule and a hunting trip. As well as a work space where he could wear his Colt without a problem, in the safety of a heavily warded environment.
It was this last perk that had John biting his tongue about the jealousy he was harboring over the idea that it wouldn't him working side by side with his boy on a rebuild.
The safety of his children trumped John's need to be the center of their universe. In another life, one where there were no fires or demons or evil, John would have passed his garage down to his talented eldest. If that was what Dean had wanted. Or he would have proudly paid for his firstborn to go to college and become an engineer or architect or whatever else might have caught his fancy, because Dean was every bit as smart as Sammy and could have been anything besides the highly capable hunter he was evolving into.
In another life, John would have not only supported Sam's passion for soccer, he would have volunteered to coach the team. He would have cheered him on at the academic competitions that his youngest always seemed to qualify for, but could never attend because they would move again before they were held. John would struggle and puzzle like any parent trying to help his kid with book reports and test reviews instead of yelling and threatening orders over research.
Those possibilities were forever lost, but he could still give his boys this one year of stability.
/
Dean heard the upstairs shower turn off, propelling him to amble into the kitchen to make breakfast. Even Princess Samuela would be done primping by the time the food was cooked, and big brother was going to make sure that the string bean ate a decent meal on his first day at the new school. He was still getting used to the concept of cooking full meals, finally having an actual kitchen instead of a motel kitchenette with a hot plate.
By the time Sam came tromping down the stairs, hefting his new backpack already full to bursting, with what exactly, Dean had no clue, the whole house was blanketed in the heady aroma of breakfast. Sam loped into the kitchen, dropped his backpack on one of the chairs and pulled open the fridge, grabbing the juice carton and taking a long swig as he stood standing with the door open. Immediately, Dean's hand came up and cuffed his brother on the back of his head.
"Glass!"
"Ow!" Sam protested, scowling as he rubbed the sting away. "What was that for?"
It's not like his big brother hadn't done that little maneuver himself a million times over the years. At least Sam was careful not to backwash, unlike Dean who was so gross sometimes that Sam would drink questionable tap water over what was lurking in the motel mini-fridges.
"You weren't raised in a barn, Sammy," Dean grumbled, snagging a clean glass from the cabinet and shoving at him.
Sam huffed derisively and rolled his eyes. Pretty close to it sometimes, he thought uncharitably, even as he filled the glass from the container he still held.
"We're respectable now," Dean informed him, the lilt in his voice a tad on the grandiose side as he scooped food from the pans on the stove onto two plates.
There was a huge shit eating grin on his big brother's face as he placed the plates on the table, and Sam couldn't help but laugh as he replaced the juice container and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. Flopping down in his usual chair, he took one look at the breakfast in front of him and felt his stomach flip from the heavy duty case of nerves that had been slowly building up since he first woke up. Groaning a little, he pushed the plate away, eliciting a frown from his brother.
"Eat, Sam."
Dean's voice was patient, but unyielding. Sam peeked up at him from under his bangs, still long enough to cover his eyes even though the back was cut short, puppy dog eyes in full force.
"My stomach is queasy," he said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice and failing. "Besides," he countered, glancing at the wall clock, "we're going to be late."
Big brother had been dealing with Sam's petulance since the kid was in diapers, so he wasn't fooled. He tapped meaningfully on the side of the plate before fixing himself a cup of coffee.
"You're nervous, not sick. We have plenty of time. And everyone loves bacon, Sammy. Eat."
Defeated, Sam picked up the fork and threw his brother his best bitchface, scooping up some scrambled eggs and forcing them in his mouth. If he was inwardly pleased that Dean had made them with milk, the way Sam liked them, he wasn't going to let it show, because his brother was a pushy jerk and wasn't going to get the satisfaction of being right.
He let out an affronted sniff, annoyed because his brother just smiled at him knowingly, and then grabbed two pieces of bacon from Dean's plate and shoved them in his mouth, daring the older boy to do something about it.
"Like I wasn't expecting that." Dean smirked and went back to the stove, pulling more bacon strips from the pan to throw on his own plate before dumping the rest on his brother's. "Who do you think you are dealing with here, kiddo?"
Fifteen minutes later, Dean herded his little brother into the car, bulging backpack and all, and headed towards the school. Sam had grown pensive in the passenger seat, subconsciously resisting the urge to chew on his pinkie nail as he picked at an invisible thread on his new khakis. Dean glanced over and smiled at the kid, looking sharp and grown up in his new threads.
That was another benefit of the private school. Uniforms. Pale blue polo shirts with the school crest and khakis for the boys in the warmer months, with v-neck pullover sweaters with the crest for the winter. Everyone dressed the same, and there would be no visual clues that Sam's family wasn't materially well off. Which was one of the things Dean knew his little brother was self conscious about at every new school they had attended.
Sam had always hated the stigma that had come with thrift store clothes that might have already been passed down from his older brother in the first place. The shirts and khakis had been another expense, but Dean had it covered, and even had enough left in the clothing budget he had put aside to get Sam some new street wear to use on his downtime. Just some basics from the local Target, but they were brand new, and not necessarily the usual sturdy hunter's gear. It was important that Sam feel like a normal kid Monday thru Friday.
Dean pulled the Impala into the school parking lot at precisely 7:45. The first bell was at 8:00 and classes went until 2:45. There was an extracurricular period from 3:00 to 3:45, and then a second one from 4:00 to 4:45. Dean would return at precisely 5:00 to pick Sam up, and not a minute later. House Rules #15.
He glided the car over to the drop off curb, and put the gear shift in park, letting Baby's engine idle. Sam was still in the passenger seat, staring at the front door of the school like he was getting ready to go to the dentist's office. Clearly, big brother was going to have to shove him a little out the door.
"Got your books?"
"Yeah."
"Pencils?"
"Yeah."
"Knife?"
"Dean..."
"Geek boy pocket protector?"
"Dean.."
Sam turned around and shot him a heated scowl, but at least the kid had stopped the wary stalker stare at the door. There were a few dozen other students milling around the entrance, smiling and talking. As the car purred, a group of very pretty young ladies in sinfully short plaid skirts bounced by Sam's window and Dean wagged his eyebrows at his brother suggestively.
"Catholic schoolgirls, Sammy. Every teenage boy's wet dream. Go get'em, Romeo. Make the Winchester name proud."
Sam glared with the long practiced impatience over his brother's general male slutty behavior. Dean just grinned, because he loved to get his prudish little brother riled up. One of these days the kid was going to realize that he had grown out of the awkward nerd in the short body phase, and into a fairly decent looking guy.
Not as devilishly handsome as his older brother, of course, because there were only just so many hot genes for their parents to pass on, and Dean was claiming the lion's share for himself.
But the younger boy was obviously nervous and struggling with the ability to open the freakin' door, so Dean decided to back off.
"Yeah, okay, Sammy. But you do have your knife though, right?"
Dean's voice went from teasing to serious, his little brother's ability to defend himself primary on his list of concerns. Not that Sammy really needed the knife to protect himself. Underneath his gangling, shy, cherubic-like exterior, Sam Winchester possessed a large repertoire of self defense skills that would make grown men wary.
"Yeah, Dean, I've got it," he sighed, avoiding his brother's penetrating stare and gazing out the window towards the flood of other students.
He didn't want to let his big brother see the wave of anxiety that passed over his face as he realized that there would be no second chances to make a first impression this year. That had been the one check mark in the plus column of their frequent moves.
There had been instances at various schools when things hadn't gone well, because kids could be cruel to outsiders, and Sam was nerdy and quiet, usually keeping to himself. There had been a lot of teasing over the years that developed into something more aggressive. The only comforting thought at times like that had been the certainty that he would be leaving soon.
Dean reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. Pulling a twenty from the billfold, he shoved it towards Sam.
"Here's a couple of bucks for lunch. Make sure you eat something, okay?"
Sam rolled his eyes, but he took the offered bill and smiled. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."
At a loss of what else to say, Dean absently rubbed his hands on the steering wheel. Sam was looking at the school as if he were a man on his way to his execution now. For some reason, Dean had been sure that his little brother would have leaped from the car like a gazelle as soon as they pulled into the parking lot.
"You know, Sammy, you don't have to do this if you don't want to, " he started cautiously, trying hard to gauge his brother's mood. "Just say the word, kiddo. It's not too late to change your mind."
Finally startled out of his thoughts, Sam looked at his older brother as if he had just sprouted another head.
"What? No. No, I want to do this, Dean," he responded quickly, his voice taking on a slightly higher pitch in its insistence.
Holding his hands up in surrender, Dean sought to calm the kid down.
"Alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. Just don't want you to feel like you don't have a choice here."
Sam took a deep breath, relaxing a little. His brother always had his back, no matter what. Even with all Dean had been forced to do to get Dad to agree to this arrangement, with all the work it had taken to get the little rented house set up, Sam knew that if he did say the word, his brother would pack everything up and take him back to join their father without a word of complaint.
He had always put Sam's wants and needs first, regardless of what it did to him personally. The knowledge of that lifelong constant both warmed Sam's heart and crushed him with guilt.
"Well, go if you're going then, Sammy. Can't have you late on your first day."
"It's Sam," the boy insisted, the dark eyebrows on his elfin face narrowed in irritation.
"Yeah, whatever, bitch," Dean teased smirking, gently shoving his little brother towards the door.
Sam scowled and shoved back. "Cut it out, jerk," he hissed as he grabbed for the door handle.
"Hey!" Dean called as Sam got out of the car. "Remember, I'll be here at five, so don't keep me waiting."
Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I know," he answered wearily, bristling at reminder of the laundry list of rules that John had drummed into both of their heads over the last few weeks.
The blatant unfairness of them smacked Sam in the face every time he had to obey one. When Dean was seventeen, he had already been in charge of them both, on his own, for weeks at time, for years. Sam, it seemed, was now incapable of getting himself home from school on his own these days, even though an activities bus could drop him off a block from their house.
"Have fun, Sammy," Dean said, his voice much more soft than before.
Sam gave him a half smile, his hazel green eyes lighting up for the first time that morning in appreciation of all that his brother was doing to make today possible.
"Yeah. Thanks."
Both brothers knew that the two little words held more meaning than just appreciation of Dean's previous sentiment.
Dean watched the kid's retreating back until Sam was at the entrance. His little brother, ever the gentleman held open the door for two of the girls from the little gaggle that had passed by earlier, and they smiled hugely at him, clearly appreciative of his thoughtfulness and cute face. Even from the distance, Dean could see his brother blush, but he also smiled back and chatted with them as he followed them inside.
"That's my boy."
Dean smiled fondly, and put the car in gear, driving slowly to make one full pass of the school grounds as he scanned the area to make sure that he didn't catch any hint of a threat.
He and Dad had already scoped out the entire campus on more than one occasion in the previous weeks to get a good feel for the layout, because one could never be too cautious. Finally satisfying himself that Sam was as safe as he was going to get today, he pulled back out into the street, the Impala's engine growling as it tore up the asphalt underneath him.
/
John's whole body was thrumming with a caffeine buzz as he drove. It was a long drive to New Mexico, but Singer had been insistent that the Navajo seer he had dealings with in the past might be able to work a ritual giving them insight as to the demon's cryptic and disturbing rants. John hadn't wanted to be so far away from his kids right now, and his frenzy to keep close to them had him struggling to make the trip.
In the end, his desperate need for information won out. He had left his boys as safe as they could be anywhere at the moment, except for right at his side. The knowledge that their long term safety depended on his ability to permanently neutralize the threat against his youngest son was currently superseding all other desires he had for their well being and immediate proximity.
The threats to his kids weren't just strictly arbitrary anymore. If the black eyed bastard was to be believed, however minutely, Hell itself was circling for his Sammy, like vultures about to descend on carrion. The boys needed more than salt lines and cats eye shells and the generalized hope that bouncing around enough would slow down any filth that hunted the little family.
As much as John disliked the idea of them stationary at the little house in Sioux Falls, and really, the entire concept made his trigger finger twitchy, at least the place could be protected far more than a random motel room.
John was pretty sure that they had wiped out the neighborhood Walmart of its cheap area rugs. Every room in the little house had one. Not for aesthetic reasons, of course, although they did warm up the overall look of the place. They also covered the carefully spray painted devil's traps that now graced as much of the floor space as John could manage. If one of Hell's minions did manage to infiltrate his children's home, the bastard wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.
A sympathetic landlady also meant that John had no compunction about carving a multitude of warding and protection sigils in the wooden trim that ran around the edges of the doors, ceilings and floors. Dean had been adamant about keeping the visible damage to a minimum. A stubborn insistence that had made John's temper flare in annoyance over the boy's priorities but, eventually, his son's calm reasoning had reminded John that while Sammy's safety was paramount, there was also the equally important consideration of keeping him with them.
Sam might balk at feeling comfortable inviting friends home if the place looked like something the Manson family might live in. And while John was perfectly okay with his youngest not encouraging strangers visiting the house, he had grudgingly agreed with Dean that it was far better that whatever socializing Sammy did was better engaged in at the protected house rather than somewhere else that could leave him vulnerable.
Thick salt lines had permanent residence artfully hidden behind sheer drapes on all the windows. A handful of ceramic beaded rosaries thrown into the house's water tank with the appropriate blessings ensured that his boys would be drinking and bathing in holy water all year. Dean knew to offer any visiting school friend a nice glass of ice water to welcome kids into their home.
Sam himself now sported a silver bracelet (House Rules #21) that he was forbidden by his father to remove which bore the marking of Saint Amabilis of Riom on the front. The patron saint against fires and snakebites, he was also invoked against demonic possession. During John's meeting with Sam's school principal, it had been made extremely clear that his son be allowed to wear it at all times. Sam's mother had died in a fire when he was an infant, it was explained, and the boy's comfort and spirituality depended on the security the medal brought him.
Faced with such a firm and determined demand, the principal had consented, quite possibly because John Winchester's basic presence could scare the shit out of any normal man. John didn't feel the need to inform the priest that the underside of the flat silver badge contained actual anti-possession engravings, and not the just theoretical hope of them.
He couldn't remember the last time he had met with a school official for one of his boys. They moved so much that there wasn't usually time for any reason to get friendly with the locals. Dean had the drill down to a science when it came to enrolling himself and his brother by the time he was eleven years old. John didn't let himself often dwell on the niggling little fact that he dumped all of the school responsibilities on his oldest son.
Dean's suggestion of Holy Rosary Academy for his brother had been nothing short of brilliant on the boy's part, John had to admit. He wouldn't have given a moment's consideration to his kids staying put for a year without his eldest son's convincing argument about the increase in Sam's overall safety from the supernatural by being a student at a school with the unique feature of having the entire campus built on consecrated ground.
Apparently Singer had mentioned it once, out of hand, as an unusual occurrence, and Dean, sponge that his was, had filed away that trivia for later use. Even Catholic schools were just regular run of the mill buildings for the most part, but Holy Rosary Academy was physically connected to the church that gave it its name. The church also had crypts underneath its floor, thus demanding consecration of the grounds surrounding them.
It was a layer of protection that was rare, and the practical side of John couldn't dismiss it. Especially with this new knowledge breathing down his neck.
As the Sierra ate up the miles, John felt the deep ache in his gut from missing his boys. Honestly, he didn't think they had any idea how much it tore him up to be constantly separated from them. There were simply no easy answers for his little family.
What was he supposed to do, the day after watching his wife burn on the ceiling? Should he have accepted the official explanation of bad wiring in the house, like the fire inspector desperately tried to drive down his throat?
It didn't take the fire in Lawrence to convince John that the average person naturally had a mental default to simply explain away the horrible things in life that they weren't capable of comprehending. The things he had seen in Vietnam made shells of men who lost their tenuous grips on sanity there. He had struggled with it himself, and it had only been his beautiful Mary that had become the calm in his storm.
After her death, when all concept of rationality had flown out the window like a monsoon, there had simply been no choice for him. It wasn't just her death that had paralyzed him in terror. She had burned in their baby boy's bedroom, and John had never been able to shake the lingering dread that lurked in the corner of his mind that the evil that had claimed her wasn't there solely for his wife.
John's actions since that fateful night had been not just for the resolution of his wife's murder, because she was dead and there was no changing that fact, and yes, she would be avenged. But his living children needed his protection more, and he needed them to be able to protect themselves. Because he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that he wouldn't never make it through the unendurable agony of losing one of his babies.
The moment those two beautiful creatures had been placed in his arms, he swore to each of them in their turn that he would be the best father he could be. He knew what a bad father was like, because he had had one. So when Mike and Kathy had begun to not-so-subtly suggest that he leave the boys with them if he was determined to chase down some crazy idea of what had actually started the fire, he grabbed his children with both hands and walked away.
Henry Winchester may have abandoned his son, but John wasn't his father, and he would never walk away from his boys.
John rubbed his eyes as he noticed the sign for the upcoming travel center. He was fairly broke at the moment, having used all his available credit for the house, but he was okay with that. More than okay, because as long as his kids had a comfortable roof over their heads, it was more than he could ask in life most days.
He still had a card designated solely for gas, and enough cash for some cheap food. It wouldn't be the first time he slept in his car for a couple of weeks. The travel centers catered to truck drivers, and for a few bucks, he could grab a shower every couple of days. One of the benefits of driving to New Mexico was that he had two new cards that would be showing up any day at the latest post office box in Colorado. If he was lucky, he could hit it on the way back and be flush again.
Against his will, his thoughts kept returning to his absentee father. John barely remembered him by that point. It's not like five year olds had a particularly large capacity for long term memories, and if it wasn't for the occasional lapse in thought that had him humming that damn song from his old music box, he probably wouldn't even remember as much as he did.
What he did know was that Henry had devastated John's mother. She spent the next twenty years of her life blaming herself for his disappearing act. If only she had been a better wife. If only she had kept a tidier house. John still gritted his teeth over that one, because his mother was an impeccable housekeeper and you could eat off the goddamn floors. Millie belonged to a generation where women were taught to consider themselves less than if they were not the perfect wives and mothers.
The scandal of being abandoned by her husband had broken her. Ultimately, unable to withstand the stigma of being a social pariah, she had packed up their home in Normal, and moved John back to her parent's home in Lawrence. Even there she had be the subject of ridicule, because her marital status was in question. Henry never even had the decency to formally apply for divorce, and eventually, Millie had been able to have her marriage terminated on the basis of abandonment.
When John was ten, Millie married a former schoolmate from her high school days. John's stepfather was a good man, even if Millie's parents looked down on him for being a loud, brash and decidedly blue collar mechanic. Henry Winchester had been cultured and well educated, presenting himself as the perfect gentleman, and even through his desertion, he still set the bar in what they had wanted to see in a son-in-law.
John had loved his mother's second husband. For all of their fights and clashes in temper, his stepfather was stable, a good provider, and he took a fatherless boy under his wing and taught John everything that a father should. John would have been honored to take his name, but Millie had been insistent that he stay a Winchester. John's stepfather had never pushed the issue, but John knew it had hurt the man deep down to be denied.
To make up for it, John turned his back on his biological father's seemingly refined and educated background, choosing to eschew college for the military. If college educated men walked away from their families without a backwards glance, John didn't plan on becoming one of them. He survived the war, went home and worked hard. He married his love and doted on his kids.
And when his entire world blew up in front of him, he clutched his children in his arms and never looked back. Nothing would have ever induced him to leave them behind. John wasn't Henry, and never would be.
With his thoughts of family restlessly churning in his head, John glanced at his watch and realized that it was already late morning. He knew that Sammy was starting his first day of school today and he had meant to call Dean and make sure that everything had gone smoothly. He dug his cell from his pants pocket and hit the first speed dial, not surprised when his son picked up on the first ring.
"Hey, Dad," Dean answered cheerfully, and John had to smile from the warmth he heard in his son's tone.
"Hey, Kiddo. How's everything going?"
"Yeah, everything's good, Dad. How about with you?"
"I'm on my way to New Mexico to talk to that seer Bobby mentioned. Then I'm meeting up with Caleb. We're going to check out a possible angry spirit outside of Denver. Should be routine. Caleb's only joining me because he has a new source for some good lore books that we're gonna stop by to see on the way back to Lincoln."
John forced his mouth shut because he knew that he was rambling. Something he only did when he was nervous, and his eldest son knew it, but fortunately Dean didn't call him on it.
"Hopefully, we'll be back to his place by Friday. If we are, I'll be expecting you boys to meet up with us there," John ordered, a little more gruffly than he had intended.
"Yes, sir. We will," Dean answered smartly, ever the obedient soldier.
A few tense seconds of silence passed before John manage to speak again. A little more softly this time, leaving Dean in no doubt that this was the true reason for the call.
"Did Sammy get off to school this morning okay?"
John could swear that he heard Dean smile on the other side of the line. Kid knew his old man better than anyone. Little shit, he thought fondly.
"Yes, sir. Took him myself and stayed to make sure that he was out of harm's way before I left."
"That's my boy," John said, his voice warm with affection for his son.
"Ooh, Dad, you should have seen the hotties at Sammy's school. Kid is in for a great time this year."
That did get a laugh out of John, because his oldest was randy little bugger. If Dean didn't have at least one kid out there somewhere, John would eat Bobby's grubby ball cap.
"Listen, Dean, I gotta go, but I'll see you boys in a few days. Watch out for Sammy, kiddo. I'm counting on you."
"Yes, sir. You know I will. Take care of yourself, Dad."
"Yeah, you too, Son."
John ended the call just in time to signal his exit for the travel center. He needed a hot shower and a quick bite to settle the caffeinated acid in his stomach. His kids were counting on him to keep them safe, and he would.
Or he would die trying.
/
Holy Rosary Academy was one of the nicer schools Sam had ever been able to attend. The architecture was an eclectic mix of classic Gothic wood and modern glass and chrome. He wouldn't have thought that the two mediums of design could compliment each other, but somehow they worked here. Obviously, when building the school, someone had paid a lot of money for the talent that created it.
It was a good size in student body as well. Big enough that it offered a large list of extracurricular activities, but still small enough that the student/teacher ratio allowed a lot of individual attention. The classes were competitive, offering AP everything, college prep courses and hard working student advisers. The school had a near perfect graduation rate, and the percentage of seniors that were accepted at their first pick universities was blindingly high.
As he walked along the pristine hallway, he felt like he was in a dream. Just a few weeks ago, he had been depressed. Struggling for a way to get himself out of the hunting life without decimating his family in the process. All Dean had said, as they stood in the living room of what was now their home for the year, was that sometimes birthday wishes did come true.
Sam had never loved his big brother more than he had in that moment.
He didn't know how he would ever begin to repay his brother for making this happen. He wasn't selfish enough to not know what it was costing Dean personally. It wasn't even about all the money it was going to take every month for all of the expenses they were going to have, because his big brother had always made sure that they were okay when Dad wasn't around. In the end, it was really more about what it was costing Dean mentally and emotionally.
As much as Sam hated it, his brother lived for the hunt. Not like Dad did, because for John it was all about revenge. For Dean it was about helping people, and there wasn't any other way to look at it. He could say that it was about revenge for Mom all he wanted to, but Sam knew him better than that. What Dean really meant when he talked about doing it for Mom, was doing it for Dad. Because Dad would never rest until he fulfilled his mission, and Dean wanted his living parent alive and safe.
So if that meant hunting until their mother's killer was taken down, then that is what Dean would do.
Until then, Dean would hunt to save people he didn't even know, because that's just who he was. He watched out for everyone. Took care of everyone. Even when it was at his own expense. Sam most of all. Sam didn't even know what it had taken to convince Dad to allow this to happen, but he suspected that it had come at the price of another chunk of his brother's heart at some point in the process. All Sam could do now was work his ass off to make his brother proud of the sacrifices he was making.
Dad had been different lately too.
After that one scary night, Sam had gotten more and more glimpses of the father that John must have been before the fire. Not in any dramatic turn over a new leaf kind of way. More like a this is the person I used to be and I haven't quite forgotten completely kind of way. Not that Sam hadn't been pleased by the new insight into his father's latent personality, but it actually made him sad to realize how different things might have been between the two of them under different circumstances.
Sam didn't want all of the fighting and tension between them, but most of the time he just couldn't help it. He felt himself being so angry all of the time at his dad, and he usually couldn't even explain why. The anger was just there, lying in wait under the surface of their interactions. The last few weeks, as he watched his father help them set up the house, painting the trim work and even fucking mowing the lawn, it had been like watching some kind of parody of their lives where John Winchester was just a regular dad.
And it broke Sam's heart a little.
Dad had even brought him to school for his interview, which had been mind blowingly surreal. Of course, he was sure that his father had ulterior motives because, seriously, Sam wasn't buying the idea that Dad had wanted a tour of the grounds to see the architectural attributes. There was paperwork involved, and Dean had joined them too, because there were now legitimate documents that listed his big brother as an additional legal guardian of Sam in their father's absence. John had made sure that there would be no questions regarding Dean's ability to act in his stead in case of a problem.
That was another new thing for Sam to wrap his head around.
Not like his brother hadn't been playing the role for years already, but there was something decidedly different about it being done above board. When Sam had asked his brother why such a drastic measure was enacted now so late in the game, Dean didn't have a satisfactory answer to give. Only that Dad had insisted, and Sam was pretty sure that his brother was joining in his worry about exactly why their father suddenly felt the need to make sure everything was neat and tidy without requiring his presence.
The documents themselves were another intriguing piece to the puzzle. Occasionally hunters needed the real deal for one reason or another, although most of them were quite talented in skirting the usual legal requirements on a job. Dad's hunting buddy Travis, who both the brothers had met on several occasions, had a brother of his own who was a lawyer. He didn't hunt, but he did work for hunters when they needed it. It had been a sort of epiphany for Sam, and he was beginning to wonder if that is how he could finally find his place in his father's and brother's world without having to pick up a machete himself.
It was a new world with exciting possibilities, and Sam was beginning to see light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.
/
The house still reeked of burnt chicken and barbecue sauce, no matter how much air freshener Sam had sprayed after dinner. As he sat at the kitchen table and worked on his homework, he smiled because Dean was trying so hard to cook new things for them.
"Sonofabitch! My eyes are watering."
Dean was at the kitchen door that led to their decent sized back yard. Attempting to vent the lingering smokey smell, he was pushing the door open and closed repeatedly.
"Aww, it's okay, big brother. You'll make someone a pretty little wife someday. Don't worry."
Sam's eyes were twinkling mischievously as he teased his brother, who immediately threw a dishtowel at his head.
"Shut your face."
There was no heat in Dean's words, and his mouth was turned up in a crooked little grin as he took the teasing in stride. Sam smiled to himself because his brother had been more lighthearted than usual since they moved in and, inwardly, he was pleased to see that maybe this plan was going to be good for Dean too.
Giving up the hope of clear air for the moment, Dean shut the door and locked it up tight, years of ingrained habit working from muscle memory. He sat down at the table and gave the pile of books spread around his little brother an incredulous stare.
"Man. That much homework on the first day? I would feel bad for you, but this is probably a wish come true in your world."
Sam rolled his eyes and finished the review sheet he had been filling out, neatly putting that section away in his bag. Actually, his assigned work had been done for an hour already, but it never hurt to get ahead.
"All AP classes, Dean," he reminded his brother. Plus the Latin that Dad's making me take.
Dean just shook his head and got up from the table to grab a beer out of the fridge.
"Well, whatever it is, it's time to put it away. It's almost ten, dude."
Sam huffed and reluctantly began to load everything into his bulging backpack. House Rules #12 was the most ridiculous one of them all.
"This is so stupid. Since when does Dad care what time we go to bed?"
Dean laughed as he walked into the living room and turned on the TV that Bobby had lent them. He flopped down on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table as he looked for the right channel.
"Since he told you to hit the rack at eleven and you argued with him," Dean reminded his stubborn little brother. "It's your fault it's ten now, Sammy."
The discussion of House Rules #12 had been another pissing contest that Sam had lost, just like the haircuts. Fortunately, he had managed to keep his mouth shut about the rest of the rules because clearly Dad hadn't been messing around.
"Yeah, if you live in Donna Reed world," Sam grumped, heading for the stairs.
Dean had already made it clear that Dad's rules were going to be enforced to the letter. Although he had also casually bought Sam a new high powered flashlight. Reminding his little brother pointedly that the rule only required Sam to be in bed with the lights off by ten. Not that he had to be asleep.
"Besides," Dean continued, taking a large swig of beer. "Now that we have to have our happy asses up by oh-five-thirty to run in the morning, I'll probably be going to bed right behind you."
Sam had to agree with that one. They had a five mile run to do every morning before school, plus their full drill of PT before dinner. Sam had also tried out for the soccer team today, and if he made it, it was going to mean practice three times a week for that as well. The extra sleep was starting to not look so bad. From the television, Sam heard the telltale sounds of the Law and Order: SVU chimes.
"Now get out of here, Sammy. Mariska and I need some alone time."
Sam shook his head as he smiled at his big brother, who was wagging his eyebrows lasciviously. As he headed upstairs, he could hear Dean enjoying the beginning of the show.
"Oof, Detective Benson. You naughty little minx. I'd let you cuff me anytime."
Entering his bedroom, Sam flipped on the overhead light and reached into the dresser to get a clean tee and sleep pants. His room wasn't anything fancy. Just a double bed with a slightly scarred antique wood frame. A dresser with a decent sized mirror attached to the back that matched the nightstand off to the side. Dad had actually built a couple of bookshelves for him from plain wood they got at the nearby lumber yard. They were heavily engraved with protection sigils, but you didn't really notice them unless you looked hard.
The room still smelled vaguely of new paint. Dean had wanted him to like it, so Sam was allowed to pick the color and the two brothers had spent a companionable afternoon covering the walls. Luckily Dean could be meticulous about certain things, and it looked pretty good.
This was home. A real home. At least for awhile. And that was all he had ever really wanted.