Warnings: This story mentions and reference events of WWII. It also contains some culturally sensitive words and themes. It also has religious references.
Author's Notes for Chapter Three:
WASP- White Anglo-Saxon Protestant
WOP- Short for 'Without Papers'- It's a derogatory slang term for Italians.
Dino- Italian for Dean. Pronounced: Dee-no
Ave Caesar, morituri te salutamus- "Hail, Caesar; we who are about to die salute you."
John's cooking- References Sammy stating John could barely operate a toaster oven in the pilot episode.
Jim's hall closet of doom- Is a little bow to T's story, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman". Mac in that story went digging in Jim's hall closet and ended up getting knocked cold when something fell on his head. That story implied our Merlin might be a wee bit of pack-rat. I'm having a little fun with it.
Dean finding a broadsword- Clichéd, I know. But I simply could not help myself.
For all of you that asked about Isis- I know. I know. I promised it as my next update. Don't ask. I'm starting to think this next chapter is cursed. Does anyone have some good HooDoo they can send its way?
Lawrence Kansas - 1984
Thus says the LORD, "Let My people go, so that they may serve ME." - Exodus 8:20
"Dean's not responding to his medications."
"You don't think I know this?" John Winchester fought down the urge to throw a pill bottle across the kitchen at Mark Wallace, his brother-in-law. "You can not force me to lock Dean away in a private hospital."
"Yes, I can." Mark replied matter-of-fact.
With blonde hair and winter blue eyes, Mary's half-brother, was a handsome man. He resembled Mary's father. The fact that Connor, Mary's dad, had refused to acknowledge Mark as his son had to be one of jokes of the universe in John's humble opinion. Not only was Mark the spitting image of the old bastard but he carried that same privileged, WASP mind-set that drove John crazy.
John looked down at the long line of Dean's prescription bottles lined up on the table. How in the hell did one pill turn into ten? John didn't know. The months since Mary's death were nothing but an unfocused blur. All his energy and purpose directed at merely putting one stumbling foot in front of the other and getting through one more day.
"I picked up some brochures for some private hospitals," Mark began quietly. "I want you to look them over. I know how you feel about this. However, I want you to think of what Mary would want."
John blinked in disbelief. "Do you really think Mary would want us to do this?"
"Dean needs more help than you can give him, John." Mark's wintry blue eyes met his.
"You're so wrong," John stated quietly. "Being taken away from Sammy is the worst possible thing we could do right now. Sammy is the only person Dean is responding to. Sammy is the only thing anchoring Dean here."
"I am not wrong about this," Mark replied. "For Christ Sake, Dean hasn't said a word in three months. When the boy does sleep, he's clawing himself bloody at night with his nightmares. He draws pictures of people cut open and bleeding. Dean needs help. If you fight me on this, Kate and I will go to court. And we will win."
"Of course you will," John stated coldly. "Judge Wilson is your golf buddy and his wife serves on town council with Kate. It doesn't matter. I am going to get a lawyer."
"Go ahead. You know you won't win,"
John knew Mark didn't like him.
Never had.
John had hit the bias enough to actually wonder if it was him Mark had issue with or the lineage floating around in his veins. Throw them back twenty or so years and John was positive Mark would have been a proud member of a country club that would have had 'No Jews or Colored Persons Allowed' posted up smugly on the front gates. It was how Mark looked down at Dean at times, or how he made excuses for Dean's facial features that didn't quite fit Mary's to his friends. The upward, cat-like slant to Dean's eyes was a rather blatant reminder that John wasn't all white bread.
"Are you really trying to help Dean?" John demanded softly. "Or are you punishing the stupid WOP for not being able to save your sister that night?"
Mark shrugged. "Honestly? Maybe a little of both."
John gestured towards the rows of pill bottles on the table. "You want to know what Dino needs?" John felt a small gleam of satisfaction as he watched his brother-law flinch at Dean's name in Italian. "Dean needs off all these damned pills. They're only making him worse. Hell, he's developed a twitch." John picked up a bottle. "This one is to help battle the depression and withdraw. The little blue ones are to counter the effects of the antidepressants that make him anxious and won't let him sleep. Every time we go to that quack we come back with more pills."
"Dr. Harrison is highly respected in his field. He feels it would be in Dean's best interest for him to stay at a private hospital. There they can give Dean much more intensive one-on-one therapy."
John closed his eyes. "Well, the quack is wrong. We send Dean away and it's over. My little boy will never come home. He'll just fade away."
"Read over the brochures," Mark insisted. "Once you narrow it down to two or three places, we can go tour them together."
"I am not going to let you do this." John stated softly, deadly like a cold Arctic wind.
"You don't have any choice. Fight me on this and I will take the boys from you," His brother-in-law stated matter of fact as he headed towards the door of the hotel room. As Mark slowly closed the door he added over his shoulder "This is for Dean's own good, John. You need to believe that."
Grabbing an empty pill bottle off the table John let it fly at the now closed door. He watched in passing contentment as the bottle smashed against the door and the lid went flying off.
He was not letting them take Dean away.
No way in hell.
He'd fight the bastards with everything he had.
It was Sammy's sudden howling that sent him in to the other room. The baby's cry was different, more urgent.
Something was wrong.
"Dean?" He called softly to the second figure sleeping in the crib. Dean had climbed in to the crib again. From across the room, Sammy was waving his hands and feet, and wailing at the top of his lungs. Dean, on the other hand, was completely still. When no response came from the older boy John reached in and scooped the motionless five year-old up. "Ace? Can you hear me? Come on kiddo, wake up."
Sammy howled harder.
"Dean!" John said more urgently as he gently shook the fragile, still child in his arms. He was moments from reaching the phone to call 911 when flickers of green eyes met his. John sighed in relief and laid his forehead against Dean's. Face the fact John muttered, "Thank God. Don't do that to me again. I don't think your old man's heart could take it."
Dean blinked owlishly for a few moments. His head jerked. Then he squirmed out of his father's arms, and headed straight towards Sammy in the crib. The boy groggily reached his arm in and Sammy grabbed his fingers and stopped crying. Dean had only eyes for the baby in the crib.
John asked Dean, "You want me to lift the Rug-rat out?"
Dean didn't respond. The little boy didn't even look at him. Dean had once again withdrawn in to his own little icy world. It was a world where the only person that existed was Sammy.
"Come on, Dean," John begged. "Do you want me to take Sammy out of the crib? Please just look at me and nod. Let me know you recognize I'm here."
The five year old didn't react or meet his eyes.
Caleb Reaves covered his face with his hands and slunk down lower in the hospital lounge chair. He wished he could melt in to the floor about right now. The teen shot the very pretty nurse that walked past a reassuring, I-am-so-not-with-these-crazy-people smile.
He loved his family and friends.
After years in the foster care system Caleb counted himself damned lucky to have them.
He knew they were worried about Deuce.
But still…
Why did they always do this in hospital waiting rooms?
"What do you mean we should remodel my kitchen?" Jim Murphy huffed. "This nesting phase of yours, Mackland, has gotten out of hand."
"I only suggested we look in to the option," Mac replied coolly. "And I am not 'nesting' as you so delicately put it.
'Look in to the option' in Mac talk, Caleb knew, meant the doctor had already hired the architect, had the plans drawn out, and had several bids on the job already.
"There is nothing wrong with my kitchen," Jim insisted. "So keep your organizing instincts away from my house."
"Jim, you're a packrat."
"I am not. You just never know when you might need something," Jim countered.
Mac rolled his eyes. "Ignoring the fact your kitchen pantry is a speculated gateway to other dimensions because once something is placed in it, it's never seen again. The kitchen overall is dated, cramped, and inefficient for the number of people that typically use it."
"Ah, come on, Mac," John chimed in. "The kitchen has mystery and character."
"So does a black hole," Mac replied dryly.
"Would you believe, I found a shrunken head in that pantry once," John added matter-of-fact. "Going in there is like going to the carnival without have to pay for it. You just never know what you might find or walk out with."
Jim turned and glared at John. "Are you done?"
Sammy looked up at his father. "I found a crystal ball and Dean found a broadsword. We were looking for the chocolate chips."
Caleb smirked at Jim. "And you claim you don't know where Excalibur is hidden."
"I have no idea how those items got in there." Jim looked sheepish. "I blame Robert." Then he crossed his arms over his chest. "As for you John Winchester, when was the last time you even stepped foot in my kitchen."
"Dean grounded Daddy from the kitchen after he nearly burned the farm down," Sammy informed the pastor helpfully. "That's why Daddy hung the big picture on the kitchen wall for you."
"I love kids. They share everything." John muttered under his breath. "Communicable diseases. Detail for detail what you shouldn't have done."
Sammy blinked at his father confused. "But you said the picture would hide the hole and the scorch marks."
"Ave Caesar, morituri te salutamus," John muttered at Jim's murderous expression.
"Only if any of us are forced to eat your cooking," Mac deadpanned.
John responded to Mac with a one-figured gesture for that comment. Next he shot Jim an indignant look. "The last time I was allowed in the kitchen I tried to play nice and make coffee for Tricky Dicky."
"Excuse me?" Jim glared, "You handed Harland a jar of instant coffee and a spoon."
"This is why kitchen rhymes with 'bitchin'," John grumbled. "Sawyer is such a pussy. I can't believe he actually whined for hot water."
"Oh, the nerve," Jim replied sarcastically.
"Okay where were we, Kiddo?" John turned his attention back to his youngest son. "Oh yes… Do you like green eggs and ham? I do not like them, Sam-I-am."
"You're not reading it right," Sammy informed his father. "You need to make the voices and the faces like Dean does."
John took a deep breath. You could tell the man was digging for patience. "Tonight is not the night. Okay Sammy?"
"See, I told you," Mac turned to Jim. "The kitchen does need a remodel. Then we can start on the hall closet of doom."
Sammy looked over at Mac. "Can we get two ovens for the kitchen? That way we can make bread and cupcakes at the same time." Then he looked at his father. "I think Santa likes cupcakes better than cookies."
"I spawned such adorable little jackals." John grumbled.
Mac's lip twitched. "Peter called them 'Children of the Corn'".
"Oh, can Peter come back to play with us again?" Sammy asked his father happily. "He was fun."
"Jackals I'll give him." John shot Mac an offended look. "But devil-spawned, Children of the Corn? Absolutely not. The fact that Dean and Sammy managed to tie Peter up and gag him only goes to show the Brotherhood needs better training. Junior could have slipped those knots in his sleep."
Sammy chewed on his lip. Then he looked at his father and asked, "Dad, is Dean going to be okay?"
All activity in the hospital lounge suddenly stopped.
"I hope so, Sammy," John replied quietly.
Caleb knew as he studied the adult's guarded expressions.
It was going to be a long night.