Thanks to Mish for the beta as per usual. This Chapter...just go with me on this guys. It's part of the master-plan, and it goes from general irritation with John to fluff. I promise I don't think John is evil, and you won't continue to see that in this fic. If you are, I'm not getting my point across anyway, but still. Either way, if you want more review. I so far have about 3 of 4 more chapters done...that I may never post. So...
Chapter 10
Dean woke up when his father burst into the room he and Sam shared. John glanced at Sam's sleeping form, and jerked his head at Dean. Slipping his legs out of the warmth of the covers, he bit his lip when his bare toes touched the freezing floor. Cement. Boiling water turning to ice against his skin...he shuddered. Following his father silently from the room, he looked at the older man in confusion.
Rubbing at one eye, "What's up?" he asked.
"Get dressed, gonna time you running."
"What?" Dean refrained from asking 'now!?' like he wanted to. "Time me running what?"
"A mile, and I want you back here in eight minutes. No later than nine if you expect to not do this again any time soon."
Dean stared blankly at his father. A good mile was six minutes. An average mile was eight. He usually ran them in around eight, considering he was more built for sprinting. Dean had a feeling even with Sam being as young as he was, if they had to perform some kind of test of endurance, Sam would win the running bit. Nodding, "yes sir," he mumbled.
John watched Dean go get ready, and shut his eyes. In boot, they pushed you further than you ever thought you could go, to the breaking point, and then you realized you could do it, and that you'd made it through unbroken. It was what he was trying to do for Dean, to make him realize that Amos hadn't changed anything, that his boy was still strong. At least John told himself that he was proving it to his son, not himself.
When Dean reappeared in sweats and a grey hoodie, John sighed. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but it was too late to go back now. Showing doubt inspired doubt in your troops. Feeling sick again, he watched Dean glance at him apprehensively before walking out the door. John didn't bother with a stop watch, he just wanted Dean to come back to him. He felt that if Dean really…if he wanted, he could just leave. This way. John would come after him, of course. But he'd let him have a head start. Get to Bobby's or Jim's before he decided to drag his ass back.
He didn't notice Sam slip out the door, too, since he was busy freeing the clip from his favorite hand gun, and then checked the bolt on his rifle. Dean tended to favor that one, probably because it was a little heavier for the type of shells, so it was steadier.
Sam caught up to Dean, it wasn't like his brother was moving fast, or even trying to. He was moving pretty slow, an easy jog, but he was still barely picking his legs up. It was chilly out, almost cold, and Sam knew full well Dean never breathed well in cold air. It seared his throat and lungs and he would start to cough and then his breathing would get worse and worse…Sam eyed him. He knew Dean knew he was there. But they were both agreeing to ignore each other. Dean's stride was longer, even as stilted as it was, and Sam stayed behind him, given the difference in their strides normally, things were just about even at that point. Aware of his legs burning, his lungs aching, and the fact his mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow and his throat was on fire, his insides hurt. Everything was getting ragged, his breath, his running, his vision. Stopping, he bent over, hands on his knees, he gasped in air, before gathering enough to throw up. It was just dry heaving, but all the same Sam was panicking.
"Dean, Dean!" Looking at his brother, he was able to herd Dean off the road at least, "Dean, stay here, stay here! I'll get Dad," Sam said, face white.
"No," Dean heaved, "Don't, don't tell Dad. He'll just get angry, I'm okay. I'm okay, I can finish the run."
"I swear to god, I will knock you out myself," Sam growled. Dean's eyes widened a little, and he nodded, hauling his knees up to his aching chest, and feeling various hurts scream out at him for attention. Instead he pressed his forehead to his knees, trying to keep himself calm, and centered. He didn't want to feel the pain.
Looking at Dean, shaking despite his arms wrapped tight around his drawn legs, his brother was already coated in sweat. Generally Dean did okay with the runs, didn't breathe too hard, nothing. Sam ran full out, feeling like he'd never run that fast in his life.
When he banged through the door John actually pulled a gun on him.
"Sam, what the hell?" John snapped.
"Dean," Sam gasped, trying to convey his urgency.
"Damn," already on his feet, John let the gun stay on the table, already running, the door swung open on its hinges, slamming the door so hard it snapped shut, almost on Sam. He wrenched the door back open, and shot after his father, already breathing so hard he could barely run. His legs burned. It wasn't like they'd gotten more than what, half a mile? But Sam didn't usually sprint that fast for any reason, much less that far. The 50 yard dash was no half mile.
Dean had crawled further away from the road, choosing some grass over the sidewalk. He'd decided soft and wet was better than hard, cold, and wet.
John made it, chest heaving with panic more than anything else, "Dean, you okay?" he said, "get up," he needed to know Dean was okay, needed to know he could stand. Dean looked hazily up at him, smiled weakly.
"I'm okay, Dad, just…don't think I can get up yet."
John crouched down, catching Dean's chin gently, "What'd you do? Hit your face?" he asked, and when Dean looked at him in confusion, John lightly ran his thumb across Dean's chin just under his lip, before showing his son the fresh coating of crimson staining the whorls of his thumb. Dean's eyes darted to the side, and John looked over, seeing what he'd missed. A small puddle of blood on an otherwise pristine dew covered sidewalk. "Alright, let's get you out of here. Get you two to Bobby's for a while," he said softly, pulling Dean's arms until his eldest was up on his feet. Dean swayed, and John hooked an arm under his knees, lifting him easily,
"I'm fine, Dad," Dean groused, but before John had even taken three steps Dean was out cold, face pressed into his father's thin white under-tee. Sam followed behind, brooding. There was no other word for it. Bobby's, at least.
"Rather go to Pastor Jim's," Sam piped up.
"Jim?"
"Yeah. Might be better for Dean, too," he added.
"How?"
"We know people at the church," Sam said pointedly. As if highlighting all that their father kept taking away from them. "They like it when we visit, and Dean actually seems to like them." Given Dean's complete rejection of all people unrelated to hunting, outside of the rare times he made friends at school, this was saying something.
"Bobby's is closer," John said gruffly.
"You just want what's best for you. If anything happened, Jim's closer to a hospital than Bobby, Jim's closer to food, he's got a home that's not filled with demon stuff, he's got more than just a house and some junk cars." Sam loved Bobby, loved Bobby's house. Did not change that Jim would be the better choice. "He's got actual beds for us, stuff to do at the church, even if we're not religious, I mean even Dean'll do the youth group stuff…" Dean hated church. He'd never say why, but he did. Sam knew it. But for Jim's sake Dean participated in the things Jim had to. Such as youth group, or church. If Jim had to go, Dean and Sam had to go. "I miss my friends, and I bet Dean does, too, bad enough we had to lose Lily and Pete," Sam added miserably. That was going to hurt for a while. Especially Dean.
Sam wasn't sure how much more Dean could take, and would rather be around more distractions, and more people who were likely to get his brother out of the funk he'd been in since they'd left. And it wasn't like Bobby was someone who was likely to sit Dean down and talk to him. Bobby tended to let things be more. Not like it was bad thing, it let Dean heal on his own time, but Jim was better at getting things out of both him and Dean. And if nothing else, Sam could talk to him and try to get some of this weight off his chest. The anger at his father, the resentment, too. He needed some forgiveness and Jim was always good at making him feel forgiven. Sam liked church, he liked the idea of someone watching over him, someone other than Dean and his father. Not that Dean wasn't good enough, but Dean wasn't all seeing or all knowing. And he certainly didn't like talking about things, and didn't like listening to things, either. Outside of orders, it seemed.
John sighed, "We're making a stop at Bobby's, there's a hunt there, and then I'll take you both to Pastor Jim's."
Sam sighed, glad when they finally reached the shithole they were staying in. John dumped Dean onto his bed rather unceremoniously, and he stared at Sam until he got the hint and left the room.
"Dean, wake up son."
"What?" Dean asked, starting to sit up before he got dizzy and ended up right back on the bed. "How'd we get back here?" he asked, only slightly slurring his words. His lip and chin were lightly coated with traces of blood. As it had dried it had mostly flaked off. Rubbing at his face a little before knuckling his eye, he stared at his father. "What?" he repeated, tone borderline annoyed. He rubbed absently at his knees, before yanking up the leg of his sweatpants and stared at his knees. They were a little scraped up, but there wasn't much in the way of blood, but there were swollen bruises raising up on his kneecaps. It would hurt to walk for a day or two, or at least until he got used to the pain. One or the other, it wasn't like more pain was going to change anything. Apparently he was still throwing up blood. He'd kind of hoping it'd stopped already. Although it wasn't like the stitches…he still felt horrible. Still had trouble moving around. Chrissakes Sam had to help him get his shirt on. Whatever, it'd be fine. It always was. And if they went to Jim's, Dean was sure he'd heard Jim's name when he'd been half passed out, he could ask for some medical attention without feeling guilty. Considering Jim had made him promise to tell the truth about being hurt. And it felt really wrong to lie to a preacher, forget break a promise.
Besides, if he didn't say something Sam would, and then he'd have to face Jim's disappointment, which was worse than his father's anger. Anger he could handle, disappointment? Not so much. It was so much worse than anything else he could imagine. Then again, he never seemed to do anything right anyway, so why try to start now?
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"You still with me here buddy?"
"Yeah Dad," he sounded almost impatient, causing John to frown.
"I said you up for school today?"
Dean looked at him, half in shock.
"Sam doesn't want to go, and I figure if you didn't either, you could babysit the little pain in the ass."
"Yeah, I'll stay. Not like I enjoy going anyway," he said dryly. He ignored his father's frown. It wasn't a big deal, they moved schools so many times he had little to no use for them anymore, and if John hadn't threatened so many different forms of punishment, Dean would have dropped out, or skipped classes. But after John had carried out two of his various threats, Dean had stopped skipping. Or had been more careful about it so no one tried to call 'home'. Or better yet, he waited until John was long gone on a hunt, and was completely out of reach. The invention of cell phones really put a crimp in Dean's social life, but thank god the reception was crappy while he was still in school.
When John finally exited the room, Sam came back in, looking at his brother in concern. "You okay?" he asked.
"I'm always fine, Sam."
"You weren't," Sam said softly. "You were hurt bad, Dean. You fell, you don't look fine. There's blood on your face, and you threw up blood after you dry heaved."
Staring at his brother, Dean wondered when the hell Sammy had decided to start being perceptive.
"You…" Sam wanted to say 'you cried, you know that? Cry in your sleep, too, know that?' "You don't look good, and you just passed out!" he argued.
"Dude, stop trying to mother me, alright? I can take care of myself!"
"Yeah, clearly!" Sam bit off.
"Leave me alone, just go!" Dean snapped. Sam gave him one hurt glance before shooting off. John saw Sam blow past him, slamming the front door before probably running off to sulk.
"What the hell did you say to him?" John said bursting into Dean's room, before noting the tears running over his eldest's cheeks. "Dean…" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping an arm around his boy's shoulders. It wasn't like he could fix this.
"Don't touch me," Dean said softly, standing up and wrapping his arms around his middle, remembering. "You don't know what it's like, you and Sam, you both act like there's something wrong with me…and you have no clue what it's like," he bit off. "Just act like if you push me hard enough I'll forget, or get over it, or get better, or whatever stupid thing you've managed to convince yourself is your goal. You don't give a damn about me. You just want to make yourself feel better, tell yourself all you want it's about me, and it's always about you. Just like this time. All about you. Thanks Dad," he said bitterly. "You've done a damn good job screwing this all to hell."
John sat there, waiting. It seemed like Dean was done. "Dean, it's not like I'm going to pretend I understand what it feels like, but a lot of people get hurt, and he could have killed you," he started, before Dean cut him off sharply.
"Oh, yeah? Like you'd be able to say that if you had a clue! Anyone ever nail your hands to a table? Or press...press…up against you? You know what that's like? Knowing that it's just a matter of time before it's inside you, instead of against you? Huh? How dare you tell me that being dead would be worse! Ever have a screwdriver pushed into your leg? Don't think so. Some guy…some guy grate a saw against your thighs? Kick you so hard you pissed yourself? Go to hell," Dean said, before storming unsteadily out of the house.
John sat there, and dragged his hand across his face. Running a hand through his hair, he let it rest on the back of his neck, both his sons out of the house. Perhaps Jim's place was the best bet, especially if Dean was going to act like that. Not that John blamed him. It wasn't like he knew what it felt like. The knife cuts, sure, he'd been clawed enough to know that he'd felt worse than that razor blade across his skin. But, no, he didn't know what Dean had gone through. And he didn't know if he could have held on the way Dean had, he was pretty sure he would have broken, and Dean hadn't. Not all the way, at least. "God," he whispered softly, pressing a hand to his forehead, rubbing at his temples with his middle finger and thumb.
Sam came back inside first, Dean a few minutes after, clearly they hadn't spoken to each other, and neither one was aware of the other. John saw Dean come back in. "Dean," he said quietly, "I called Jim, he'll come pick you up, and I'll drop Sam off in a few days, give you some time to cool down. You're right, we don't understand, but it's not like it's fair to take it out on Sam, either." He said it softly, tried to let Dean know he wasn't being punished.
"So what you're getting rid of me now!? Gonna let me wait three days again for you to come?" Dean's voice cracked. "Just…just gonna leave me there, hope that I'm okay when you finally get there, didn't work so great last time, did it Dad?"
Then John realized Dean wanted him to get angry, so that he could keep shouting and not have to feel bad about it. So he could try to deal with this. "Dean," he wasn't going to get mad at him. "Yell at me all you want, it's not going to change anything. I'm sorry," he watched Dean's face carefully. "I'm sorry I wasn't there in time, I'm sorry I couldn't make the pain stop, and I'm sorry that I can't make this pain stop, I'm sorry I can't stop the nightmares, and I'm sorry that you don't think I love you, but you're not letting me fix that."
Dean bit down on his lip, staring at his father, "I hate you." Seeming shocked at his own words, Dean decided to plow on, and John just let him. "Try to make me look like the ass? If you'd just recognized him, he sure as hell knew who you were! Or hell, if you'd just done what you always do, he would have been dead!"
"I don't kill people!" John snapped.
"Just monsters, right? I know you killed Amos, I know you burned his house down after you shot him in the knee! Salt and burned the area again, too! Seems to me like you kill people!"
"You prefer I let him live?" John asked, finally rising to the bait.
"No, I don't!" Dean half screamed, and John could see he was shaking, trying to hold the tears in. He walked over, pulling Dean into a tight hug before his son could move away. Dean worked his arms free, trying to push away. "Don't touch me! Get the hell off!"
John let him push away. "You think this is the way to fix things?"
"It's how you fix things, right?" Dean glared, "Just make things worse all the time? 'Cause y'know, it's worked so well for you, figured I'd give it a shot."
That was when John almost hit him. But he stopped himself, and Dean knew.
"Go'n, do it. See who'll win this one."
"Dean, I could knock you over without trying. You're still hurt."
"So that's why you're pushing me so hard? If you can hurt me worse, maybe I'll get better? Reverse psychology on injuries, dunno if they understand, Dad," he snapped, turning 'dad' into the vilest swearword John had heard in a long time.
"Try and take me," John told him, Dean needed something to hit. "Go ahead, you think you're so damn amazing, try it. I'll even give you a free shot." He hated this, hated that Dean couldn't just act like he had when he was younger, that a hug wouldn't even begin to fix things. He'd never felt so shocked in his life when Dean broke down instead of flying at him. "Dean," he said quietly, and his son looked up, eyes full of tears.
"I don't hate you," he said thickly, apologizing for the entire mess with those four words.
"I know," and he pulled Dean into a hug, and this time he wasn't rejected. They stood for a long time, until Dean's legs started to shake and John noticed. "C'mon, sit down, 'bout time you'n Sam ate something, don't you think?"
Dean was still snuffling a little and rubbing at his eyes. "When's Jim coming?"
"However long it takes him to drive. Bobby's closer, but Sam wanted to go to Jim's."
"I'm fine with Bobby's."
"Too late now, dude. And I wasn't asking, Sam's right, Jim's is the best place for you two right now." He wasn't much of a cook, but he did his best. Sandwiches were pretty hard to ruin. "Sam!" he called, somewhat surprised that his youngest appeared without a fight. His eyes were a little red, and John knew that he wasn't the only one Dean had hurt that day.
When Jim finally showed up, John wasn't sure who was most relieved, him or Dean. Dean had already stuffed his duffle with everything he owned, and had been sitting outside waiting for the past hour. He practically ran to the car, not even giving Jim a chance to get out or pop the trunk before he was behind the car waiting. Jim obliged him by getting out, and walking to the back using his key to open it, rather than the lever upfront. "You really think I'm going to leave without saying anything to your dad or Sam?"
"No," Dean said quietly. "Doesn't mean I want to say anything to them," he added bitterly.
"You realize we're going to have to talk, eventually, right? Before John drops Sam off?"
"Doesn't mean I have to look forward to it."
Jim sighed a little, gripping Dean's shoulder before he went inside, and talked with John. "He okay?"
"He will be," but what John meant was 'I hope so.' And Jim could hear it in his voice. He nodded a little.
"Hey Sam," Jim smiled warmly. "See you in a few days right? I'll let Meredith know she has to start baking cookies, although you gotta promise to actually eat veggies, too," he laughed. Dean was the pain in the butt about food, Sam was pretty happy to eat anything not from a can or a diner. Sam grinned back, relieved. Jim would fix things. He always did. He nodded, and Jim understood, and held out an arm, Sam flung himself into the hug, needing it badly. It wasn't something he was going to get from his father, and they all knew it. Jim lightly patted Sam's back, before ruffling his hair. "Believe it or not, Dean does say goodbye," he told them, before gently pulling away from Sam. He looked at John, "Take care," he said softly, before heading back to the car; Dean was already in the passenger seat and had buckled his seatbelt without a fuss.
"We leaving now?"
"Yeah, we're leaving. Hope you already ate 'cause we're not stopping until it gets dark."
"Yeah, I ate."
"You wanna tell me why Sam looks like he's been crying?"
Dean flashed Jim a guilty look, and then looked down at his knees. "Sam said some stuff, and I just wanted him to stop, didn't figure he was gonna cry," Dean mumbled. Jim nodded.
"Yeah? Looks like you shook your dad up good, too." Easiest way to get Dean to talk was to make him defend himself. Not that he was ever that far in the wrong, and they both knew it, since Jim usually told him so. Every once in a while Dean did deserve being snapped at or told he was in the wrong, but most times he was just reacting.
"He said some stuff, too."
"You wanna tell me what kind of stuff?"
"Not really."
"Well I'm guessing that he didn't deserve whatever you said, then."
"He didn't tell you?" Dean asked, surprised.
"Told him I'd rather hear it from you. Besides, I don't think he wanted to talk about it any more than you do." He watched Dean stared out the window for a while, and Jim knew he was mulling it over.
"Dad tried to act like he understood," Dean said about half an hour later.
"And Sam?"
"Tried to act like he could take care of me, or fix it or something stupid."
"Yeah, so you punished him for loving you?" Jim knew what he was doing, and in some ways he needed to get Dean to forgive Sam, and then maybe he could forgive his father.
"He was mad at me, like it was my fault I'm not better, or that…I just, it's not…"
"It's not your fault, and Sam doesn't think it is, either. He's just as scared as you are- No, let me finish," Jim told Dean when he opened his mouth to protest. "He's scared he's losing you, scared that you're not getting better, and that you won't, because he doesn't understand. Sam's young enough to know he can't empathize with you, and he's not trying to. He knows he doesn't know enough about any of what you went through, other than it hurt. And that you're not yourself, and that he's angry, too. Your dad? He's gone through hell, Dean, and sometimes adults figure that since they've experienced more than kids have, that they can understand anything. Other times they're so scared they try to tell themselves they understand so that they can deal with it."
Dean was silent for several more hours, just mulling it over. He knew better than to swear in front of Pastor Jim, and he wasn't about to, but he was trying to figure out how to say what he needed to without swearing. And it was hard. "Dad…he can't…"
Jim glanced at him, before pulling into the shoulder of the road. He stayed quiet, letting Dean work it out. However long it took.
"You know what that guy did to me?" Dean asked quietly, lips going flat against his teeth as he pressed them together to stop from crying. "You have any idea?"
"I know he tortured you, I know he threw something on you that burned your skin, I know that you're going to have scars on your palms the rest of your life, I know that he probably used the entire contents of a tool box to see how much he could make you hurt. I know that you didn't get any water, or food. I know he broke your skull, and that everything he's done has been giving you nightmares so you can't sleep. Know he kicked you, didn't let you anywhere near a bathroom, and probably poisoned you with something, since the doctors wanted to know if you did any drugs."
Dean stared at him. "My dad know all that, too?"
"We put it together, between the two of us. John also told me something I didn't mention. You want to tell me?"
"Not really."
"That's the part you have the nightmares about the most, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Guess so."
"I'd like to say it'll get better, but I don't know. I think it will, Dean. Most people recover, maybe not all the way, but they do. Things get better. I think once your body heals, it'll get easier. And I think once you forgive your dad, it'll be easier, too."
"You always tell me to forgive people, but it never does me any good."
"That's because you're not really forgiving them," Jim pointed out. Dean flushed a little. "And it's hard, I'm not telling you any of this is easy. We'll talk more later, okay?" He waited until Dean nodded, and lightly patted his knee. "It'll get better. Things always do."
Dean fell asleep as they drove, not stirring except when the car stopped, Jim having pulled into a parking lot near a diner. Dean woke up and looked around, dazed.
"I know, another diner. You must be so sick of these," he smiled. Dean nodded, and then shrugged. Jim chuckled quietly, before getting out of the car, Dean a few steps behind him. "I figure we'll see if we can get it go, since I'd rather get back as soon as possible, if you're okay with that?" He saw Dean nod, and smiled. They grabbed some food, and Dean, as always, was shocked to know that the money was real, and not stolen. It always seemed so strange. The rest of the drive passed without incident, and Dean went back to sleep.
Finally arriving, Dean didn't even stir, and Jim lifted him out of the car and carried him inside, settling him in the guest room of the small house. There were beds in the church for the nights people either stayed, or people came seeking refuge, and Dean had slept in one of those beds more times than he could count. He'd never actually been inside Jim's house, he didn't think. At least he didn't remember, if he had.
Jim sat down in a chair after settling Dean on the bed, pulling a blanket over him so he'd stay warm and making sure the shades were closed to keep the sun out. He had no idea when the last time was that Dean had truly slept, and he hoped that being far away from where it all went down would help with that. Running his hands over his face and then through his hair, he sighed, wondering how on earth these things always seemed to happen to the people who least deserved them. Just once it would be nice if someone really bad had something crappy happen to them. Not some fourteen year old boy who'd already lost his mother, and was slowly losing his father. Had given up every friend he'd made, and was probably losing himself to the same vendetta that was slowly killing his father. He prayed for a long time, he knew better than to ask for understanding, instead he asked for protection, and comfort, and healing. Especially healing of the mind and soul, the body would heal in its own time with or without God's help. He asked God to watch over John and Sam, and to grant full and true rest for all of them before he went to bed.
Dean woke up in a state of confusion. The room he found himself in was nice enough, no water stains on the ceiling, no cheap wallpaper curling off the wall, no horrible decorations or especially scary carpet-stains. Just a normal room, a comfortable bed, a light blue knit blanket tossed over his legs –since he'd pushed most of it off himself sitting up- plain white curtains pulled over the kind of shades that go up and aren't separate pieces of plastic. The carpet was a green color, and it looked soft. Not like the shag carpet in some motels where you stepped on it barefoot and could feel years of god only knew what under your feet buried in the carpeting. Or the kind of carpet that was so matted down from time it felt like cement, only cement was more forgiving if you fell on it. There was even a nightstand of a light wood with a dullish gloss so that it wasn't obnoxiously shiny. Dean saw that his duffel was next to it on the floor. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he quickly took his shoes off, feeling almost sacrilegious. Especially when he noticed the simple cross over the door, and took his socks off, too, desperate to feel real carpeting under his feet. Unsure if Jim was awake Dean was as quiet as his father had trained him to be, and noted there was salt in the scoop of the window where when you shut it, the window settled down into. He smiled, figuring Jim had worked hard on figuring out a way to hide the salt so no one asked questions without having to give up on having it. He half wondered if the metal strip separating the carpet inside the room from the carpeting in the hall had salt underneath it. Opening the door, he noted it didn't creak, and the floor didn't seem to much, either. Cement instead of wood underneath the carpet pads? In the hallway, he twisted back and realized that the walls in the room were a faint blue, while the hallway was just plain white.
After a much needed trip to the bathroom, he prowled the house, feeling strangely out of place. For one, what on earth was Jim doing in a place like this? It didn't seem to fit with the acetic vision Dean had of the man, given how his office in the church looked. And it really didn't match up with the room full of weapons down in the lower floor of the church. Grinning a little, he wondered where Jim's weapons cache was in the house. The kitchen was small, again with both curtains and shades. Dean curiously opened the shades in the kitchen, just to see outside. Not much to see, just some grass, some weeds, and a few more houses scattered around. He let the shade down quietly. The small table, seating two, was in front of the window, another door behind the table, and countertops behind the other end. Correctly guessing the door led to the washroom, Dean noted the cheap countertops. Probably what came with the house, it was that plasticy stuff. All the same it was clean, and not stained. A kind of beige-like color, he figured. The walls had some sort of tint to them, but Dean wasn't sure because of how dark the room was. Continuing his prowl, he realized that the wall the stove and microwave was on, opposite the counter, was open on both sides, so he could go in a complete circle without opening anything. There was a sort of weird space between the kitchen and another door. The space contained a sliding glass door a matter of feet from where the counter stopped. He felt the change from linoleum to wood under the pads of his feet, and glanced at another small table. Probably could stuff four people if you really needed to. This one had a tablecloth, and Dean knew that Jim probably never ever used it to eat unless he was forced to. Taking a left, rather than seeing if the door in front of him led to the garage, assuming Jim had one, he saw a couch, felt different carpeting than the kind in the hall and bedroom –it was softer, and saw a T.V. in front of an overstuffed chair. He grinned, noting the ottoman, or foot rest, as he'd consider it, in front of the chair. The T.V. wasn't anything special, but Dean did notice the cable box, and shook his head a little. He hadn't expected that.
There was another large window, and Dean figured he was seeing the front of the house, given there was a normal wood door with the funny little windows at the top. Dean had never understood that, it seemed dangerous to him. Better to have a small peep-hole. Like in the motels. Not that he really wanted to live in one. The wall on the same side as what he was guessing was the garage door had a fireplace, and a mantle above it. Nothing on the mantle, and the fireplace didn't look used. In fact as he poked around in the room he noticed there was a lot of dust…clearly Jim didn't really spend a lot of time in that house. There was a cross on the same wall that housed the stove on the other side, a simple wooden one, well, not quite simple, it had a slight flare to it, but Dean had to admit it was elegant. A small table with a lamp sat near the window, a chair on either side, probably not as comfortable as the one in front of the television, but not cheap wood or plastic chairs, at least. The house was small, the 'tour' taking well under ten minutes. Heading back down the hall, he noticed there was a room with the door open, and curiously peered inside. Bookshelf. And yet another window. Did Jim realize that his house was a danger? Then again the man never really stayed there, did he? But, bookshelves and a closet. Probably was supposed to be a bedroom, not that Dean gave a damn. The bathroom door, this room, and then another shut door seemed to alternate down the hall, until at the very end was the room Dean had come from. Yawning, he re-entered it, shucked his jeans off, and crawled under the covers, falling asleep again quickly.
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