Noon - November 25, 1988.
"Dean?" Pastor Jim knocks softly on the locked bathroom door. "Hey, kiddo. Open the door please. I don't want to talk through it, we might wake the baby."
The soft snick of the door unlocking heralds the boy's appearance. Dean didn't look especially well this morning, now he looks terrible. His eyes are red and swollen, his cheeks tear-stained, he's still pale underneath the fever flush. His mouth is trembling, "I'm sorry, sir. I'll just go to my room." It's a painfully polite dismissal whispered from a little boy who is holding himself rigidly, and Jim is torn. Pushing the boy right now is not a good idea. He nods and gives ground, allowing Dean to pass.
Jim walks back into the kitchen and glares at Bobby until Bobby feels it without words. The older hunter looks up from his soup bowl. "How's the kid?" Guilt drips from his question and his facial expressions. Jim pointedly looks over to Sammy instead of answering. Bobby rolls his eyes, gets up and heads for the door with Pastor Jim and Bill Harvelle following. Once outside, the three huddle using Harvelle's truck to block the cold wind.
"You are going to have to fix this, Singer." The preacher says adamantly. "Bill here doesn't know him as well as we do, and I've already said too much of the wrong thing. That little boy is going to think he has no one he can trust or turn to. So you do what you've got to do, but make this right."
Bobby huffs out, a white cloud obscuring his features for a moment. "Well, if I do what I gotta do, I don't want any shit from either of you. Agreed?" Because Bobby knows how this is going to end up now, if he has to go mend fences with Dean. Even years later he'll wonder if they got played by a prepubescent Dean Winchester.
Once the other men mumble agreement, Bobby heads back to the house. He stops long enough to pick up his soup bowl and finish off the contents. "That's good, Ellen. Thanks." He gently ruffles Sammy's mop as a reminder.
"Oh this is the best soup ever," Sammy chimes in, earning a big thank you hug from the woman. "Aunt Ellen, Uncle Bobby, is Dean okay?" Sammy turns mournful eyes on them. "I know he's sick, but we're okay now. Right? And Daddy will know where to find us?" Ellen soothes the little boy with promises of helping little Jo learn to color without eating the crayons after lunch, and then reminds him to finish up.
Bobby puts his bowl by the sink, still thinking things through. "Well, I'm going to go talk to Dean a minute. I'll bring him out for some lunch as soon as we're through." Ellen casts worried eyes his way. When the other two hunters tramp back in, Ellen excuses herself to go get two-year-old Jo and she follows Bobby into the hall. Ellen pats his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze before they turn different directions in the hallway.
Bobby pushes open the door to the room where the boys are staying with just a gentle tap to announce him. In a way, that's fair. He's supposed to take the other single bed in the room to sleep tonight, so it's his room too. Dean is face down on the bed. "Dean. It's Uncle Bobby, kiddo. I think we need to talk."
Sitting up slowly, Dean turns slightly to face Bobby. His eyes are downcast and his lower lip trembles until he bites down on it. "Yessir." Dean responds in a near whisper, a well-trained soldier. Bobby pushes down that thought as he searches through what he knows about this little boy.
"Well, hell. First, I'm apologizing. I know you'd never steal from family, and Jim's family. I was trying to talk to ya, and things just starting coming out all wrong." Bobby moves closer, but Dean turns his head away and tucks it into his own shoulder. Bobby thinks how appropriate the pose is. Dean is like a broken bird trying to tuck his head into a wing.
Bobby eases on the bed to sit next to him, not touching, but close enough that they are sharing body heat. Too much body heat. Bobby reaches a cautious hand to Dean's forehead. Too warm. Dean doesn't jerk away. Bobby uses his other hand to cup the back of the boy's head lightly. "Hey, Buddy, you need more medicine for that fever. You need to eat too, some of that soup Ellen made. You want to get well, don't you?" He tickles the fringe of hair on Dean's neck. "Talk to me."
The snuffling sounds from Dean have Bobby scrambling to his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and sliding it into Dean's hand. "Here. Blow your nose." Bobby somehow finds his footing again with the small gesture and is relieved to see bright green eyes looking directly at him. "There now. Don't cry."
"I'm not crying!" Dean's torn voice says indignantly. "I'm sick."
"Right." Bobby snorts at him. "You're not crying." Dean glares, and Bobby sighs. "It's okay for a guy to cry, Dean."
"Nuh-uh. Dad says only babies cry."
Bobby can't bite it back. "Well that's horse shit, Dean. God knows I cried plenty in my life. Besides that, you're sick. Being sick gives you a pass on that."
Dean narrows his eyes at Bobby. "Dad said if you're not dying you gotta man up and do what you gotta do." Before Bobby can say anything, Dean continues challengingly. "And my Dad is a hero, he'd know."
The area in his head where Bobby stores stuff he doesn't want to deal with right away is getting pretty full of John Winchester's macho bullshit, Bobby thinks. He'll just add telling a sick little boy to man up to his list of reasons to kick that man's ass someday. Or just shoot him. It's pretty obvious John could own him in a physical confrontation. Bobby gathers his wandering thoughts and tries again.
"Well, I bet your dad tells you you've got to eat right and take your medicine, don't he?" Dean nods, and Bobby takes advantage of that small inroad. "But first. We gotta figure out what we're gonna do about this situation in finding your dad." Bobby pauses, hoping Dean will feel the need to fill in the empty air; Dean watches him. "You're not planning to do what I ask and stay here quietly, are you?
Dean's head shake is dramatically slow and exaggerated. Bobby sighs.
"Anybody ever tell you you're a stubborn little cuss?" He asks rhetorically, and has to bite back a laugh as Dean's nod is even more dramatic and exaggerated.
"Okay, Stud. What are we going to do about this situation? I can't have you sneaking off trying to get to Missouri the minute I hit the road."
"Take me with you?" It's said like a prayer. "Please. I can help."
"Dean, you're too young for this kind of hunt."
"But…I can be the guy at the check-in point. Once people split up, lines of communication go down. If we have walkie-talkies – the teams need to be on different frequencies, I can be the hub. I wouldn't even have to leave the car." Dean stops short of begging, but not by much. Bobby's eyeing him differently. That's actually a damn good point about communications. The guys are recruiting other hunters and still waiting to hear from the psychic Missouri Moseley before they set out.
"You know I'd have conditions you'd have to swear to?" Bobby's afraid Dean will hurt himself with how hard he's nodding his head now. "You have to do exactly what I tell you to do there – when I tell you to do it. Plus, you've got to eat and take your medicine, and try to get better before we leave. And lie down and sleep as much as you can in the car." The rest of the conditions are muffled as Dean wraps his arms around the old hunter, squeezing him in a fierce hug.
. . . . . . .
November 22, 1988
One full week. That's a good enough start to mending a broken leg that John's pretty sure he can use it for essentials – like getting the hell out of this hole in the ground. Plus, he can't just sit here anymore. Rent on the cabin will be due, and the boys will be worried. He normally would have checked in with them long before now, but you can't just call kids and say "Everything's fine. I'm just at the bottom of a cave a monster dropped me in."
John hopes Dean has the sense to call Pastor Jim – or, hell, even that old drunk, Bobby Singer, when the landlady comes knocking. He doesn't want the kids tangled up with Child Protective Services. John shakes his head. If they do, he's got no one to blame but himself. He knows he left the five year anniversary of Mary's death throw him off his game. "Sorry, Mary." John whispers. It's the only kind of prayer he allows himself.
Sitting in this dank hole thinking about how to get out has occupied much of John's time this week. He has loosened trees roots, used his parachute cord, and currently has a kind of ladder built. While he was at it, he cobbled together a crutch and strengthened the splint he has on the leg. He plans to refill his canteens before he leaves and leave as in as direct a route as he can manage. There's still some fuel in the flame thrower; he just needs to figure out how to make sure he can carry out his pack, be prepared to defend himself, and do it all one handed if he's using a crutch.
"Suck it up Winchester. Whining's for babies."
The Wendigo hasn't shown up in a couple days; and John's wondering if it gave up on him, or if it's just waiting for him to pop up like some kind of whack-a-mole. John figures he'll leave a bunch of his stuff behind to be able to travel faster. Tonight, he'll try to get some shut eye. He plans to start at first light.
First though, he needs to write a note to Sam and Dean in the hopes that if he doesn't make it, they'll find out what happened someday.
Dear Dean and Sam, I hope you never see this letter. I hope I'm just being a little pessimistic and that I will be with you before Thanksgiving. But I needed to write this, in case. Dean, you know the deal about your Mom, and some day you're going to explain it to Sammy. I know your lives have not been easy or normal, but I have always tried to keep you safe. It's a hard thing for a man to realize he's not doing the best job of that.
Your Mom and I – we had big plans for you boys. Colleges, careers, families. Things just haven't turned out the way we planned at all. I know though how proud your Mom would be of you boys. I know I'm proud of you. I wish things could have been different for all of us, and I'll love you both forever. Your dad.