Thanksgiving night 1988
Pastor Jim Murphy has been using his rearview mirror more for watching the little boys in the backseat of his sedan sleep than for keeping an eye on traffic on the drive up to Blue Earth, Minnesota, from Mason City, Iowa. With Sammy, it's most likely the tryptophan influence of the turkey dinner, but with Dean it's the cough syrup and Tylenol for his flu-like symptoms. Jim is kicking himself. He kind of wishes he could kick John Winchester too. After he finds him – please, merciful God – alive.
Having picked up the Winchester boys from the cabin their father left them in near Mason City, Iowa, twenty-four days ago, Jim is trying to get back to his rectory and get them tucked into bed so he can concentrate on finding John without having to worry about people overhearing him talk about supernatural possibilities. But that's not why Pastor Jim's kicking himself. He's beating himself up because he has been letting his anxiety sharpen his tongue when he talks to Dean, who is a nine-year-old adult actually. As sad as that is, it's the truth.
Jim was worried about Dean as far back as when John came to him a few months after Mary's death. At barely five, an obviously traumatized Dean had taken over the bulk of the care and feeding of baby Sammy. Jim remembers how back then the only sounds Dean made for months were whispers to his baby brother and murmured snatches of songs sung while he sat in the crib feeding his baby brother while rocking him to sleep. The Dean he had met before, before the fire, the cheerful little boy with big green eyes and Mary's golden curls was gone. In his place was a small solemn ghost.
Jim had helped John find other hunters to get training when John learned of the supernatural. He even learned himself, but was more of a resource and hub for hunters than an active hunter himself. Jim had allowed John to leave the boys with him sometimes, but three years ago he had cornered John about his long absences and excess drinking, and John had taken the boys and left. They kept in touch mostly by phone with occasional visits, only when John was injured and couldn't hunt.
Jim looks in his backseat again at what he has allowed to happen for five years. Dean looks almost gaunt, and the dark circles aren't just from illness. As far as clothing, Jim has seen pictures of kids from third world countries coming to the missions the church runs there dressed as well, or better. Jim wonders how Dean manages to keep Sammy well-clothed, and why he doesn't put the same effort into taking care of himself. Self-esteem issues? Problems with self-worth?
Dean's childhood is gone, and it is a miracle that the little boy has managed, somehow, to keep Sammy as innocent as he is. Jim had seen the despair in Dean's eyes when he said his father was going to be angry at him for needing help. Angry? With a little boy who has run out of rent money, and according to strangers searches for cans to recycle to keep himself and his brother fed.
What irreparable damage has been done to Dean? And where on earth has John gotten? Jim muses as he finally passes the statue of the Jolly Green Giant that stands tall in the flat Minnesota countryside.
Blue Earth is a small town of about 3,000, but it is the Faribault County seat, and the shopping hub for all the nearby farms. He's glad to be back, and cautions himself to be kinder to the scared boy who is sleeping with his little brother protectively in his arms. Dean could use a little kindness. Carefully maneuvering the car as close to the front door as the driveway allows, Jim turns it off and takes the boys' bags into the neat little three bedroom house behind the church. He comes back out and opens the back door. "Dean? Come on, buddy, we're here. Let me get Sammy so I can carry him in."
Dean's arms tighten around his little brother as he slowly blinks back awake. "Give him here. I'll put him inside and be right back for you." Dean blinks slowly again, but seems to process the information and loosens his hold on his brother. "I can walk, Dean says, shivering a little from the sudden blast of cold where his brother's warm body had been. He scampers out of the car and follows Jim into the house.
Jim tucks both boys into a single bed in his guest room, taking off coats and shoes, but leaving them dressed before pulling up the blankets. He sits in a chair next to the bed and runs his hand through both boy's hair, murmuring quiet prayers to Heaven for their protection. "Dear Lord, Send angels to look over these boys please. Keep them safe from harm. Please, Lord, help me be a healing presence in their lives. And, if possible, help me find their father. I don't think these boys can take another loss."
. . . . . . .
November 18, 1988
If there's a problem with the cave, it's that it is small and damp. But since the dampness comes from a small steady trickle of water that is keeping John alive, it makes that a problem he's willing to overlook. It looks to be about a fifteen foot drop onto the floor. Far enough that the Wendigo – and that's what it is – couldn't reach him. With the contents of his pack, his flamethrower, and his first aid kit, John has made himself as comfortable as he can.
"As well as can be expected," he mutters to himself harshly. One of those platitudes he learned when people asked him how he was doing when Mary died.
There's a list of good about the cave. It's protected from the weather, small enough to heat easily, has a clean water supply, between the opening at the top and the opening where the water streams out it has both good airflow and waste disposal. He has enough room to stretch out to sleep, a waterproof ground cover, a sleeping bag, and food supplies to last at least another week. With his broken fibula in a splint, John has time to wait and heal. Time to make a plan. And way too much time to think.
John tries hard to keep his thoughts to happy memories. Not his childhood. It was lonely and gray after his father left. Not the war. Not the five years since Mary died. He trains his thoughts to ten happy years. In his memories, he glosses over the fights that he and Mary sometimes had and plays over her smile, her happiness with motherhood, her insistence on being normal. His Mary. Decorating the nursery, baking pies, delighting over little things. He doesn't remember ever feeling at home except wrapped in Mary's arms.
Try as he might, John can't totally block out thoughts of his sons, Mary's sons. He sees so much of himself in Sammy and so much of Mary in Dean. Deep inside he's a little jealous; Sammy is still cocooned in love, wrapped in his brother's arms. John knows that process started in the dark days right after Mary's death. When the black cloud of anger and grief dissipated, John realized that Dean had clung to Sammy, and Sammy to Dean. He was an unwelcomed intrusion to his sons' lives, good only for signing paperwork and keeping them fed, clothed, and sheltered.
Well, if Dean wanted to take over parenting, John's willing to allow it…on his terms. Dean has to man up, obey orders, learn to keep Sammy safe. But even that litany doesn't soothe him. John has been keeping something from Dean, a deep, dark secret about Sammy and Mary's death. The kind of secret that breaks his heart every time he looks at his kids. And he knows, on the other hand, that his avoidance of them is not helping anyone.
. . . . . . .
November 25, 1988
Snow is falling again, and seems to have been most of the night based on the white drifts outside the window where pale light streams through into the cozy kitchen. Sammy is sitting at the table with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk. Dean is preparing coffee in the coffeemaker, his own bowl waiting for him on the table when Pastor Jim comes into the room yawning.
"Good morning, boys. You didn't need to make breakfast; I'd be glad to do that for you. How're you feeling, Dean?" Jim greets the boys, tousling Sammy's silky hair on his way toward Dean. The older boy strategically moves around the table and slips into his chair. "Dean?"
Unable to avoid answering any longer, Dean tries to clear his throat, eyes fluttering with pain, and croaks. "I'm fine." Jim manages to hold in his snort of disbelief, keeping his word to himself about how to deal with the nine-year-old.
"I'm fine, Pastor Jim." Sammy's chirpy even with his mouth full of breakfast. "I don't remember getting here, and I missed the Green Giant. Could you take me to see it today?" Jim tells Sammy he'll try but it will depend on the weather and the people he's expecting.
"Well, we'll check your temperature after breakfast, Dean. We've got a few hours before your dad's friends will be here." Dean looks up at him sharply, and it helps remind Jim to mind what he says in front of Sammy. "I thought maybe you boys could get hot baths. I know it must have been uncomfortable to sleep in your clothes."
Dean scrapes up the last of the oatmeal, swallowing it down before placing the bowl near the sink. "I'll go run Sammy's bath, Pastor Jim. And I'll be back to talk to you once he's in it."
Scrubbed clean, Sammy sprawls in front of the television watching Sesame Street and coloring. Without hurting Dean's feelings more, Jim gets him to shower and put on some sweats he had in a bin from church donations. Dean has been dosed with cold medicine and ordered to stretch out on the couch where he is fighting off sleep again.
Pastor Jim peeks in at them before heading in to make some calls to get a private investigator involved, and call in some favors to have law enforcement in Missouri on alert to be on the lookout for a very distinctive Chevy Impala. Just thinking of that jolts his memory, and he gets on the phone to Missouri Moseley. Nothing like having a psychic for an ally when someone goes missing. He is barely off the phone before he hears knocking at the door and hurries to open it.
"Christo it's good to see you," Pastor Jim greets Bill Harvelle, watching the man's eyes for any flicker of demonic possession. "You made great time up from Nebraska." He waits a minute for Ellen and the baby to catch up. He starts guiding Bill in. "Singer isn't here yet," he starts to add as a 1971 Chevelle pulls in behind Harvelle's pickup truck.
"You all go in. The boys are in front of the TV." Pastor Jim shuts the outside door to not let drafts in to the living room where the boys are. "Singer." His greeting is more terse. Pastor Jim was surprised the guy came. He knew that the wreckage yard operator had harsh words with John Winchester last time he saw him.
"Murphy." Bobby returns. Then pulls a silver knife to cut his hand and patiently waits for the muttered word to check for demon possession. "If we're good now, why don't you invite me in out of this goddamn cold."