The next morning came way too fucking early, as far as Dean was concerned.
Still, there was coffee—good coffee, too. Once he figured out how to work Kate Milligan's machine, the fresh-brewed smell filled the place and made Dean feel better about being alive and here in Minnesota with his father's freaking love child. As long as he didn't look out the window to see even more snow drifting down, it was all good.
A cup and a half later, he opened his phone. He didn't have to wait long for Jim Murphy to answer. It was seven o'clock and the pastor would've already been up for at least two hours.
"Good morning," said Jim's familiar voice. "How may I be of service?"
"Hey, Jim. It's Dean."
"Dean! Well, my goodness, it's been a while since we last spoke. Where are you? How's the weather down there?"
"Uh…" What was it with Minnesotans obsession with the weather? "Actually, we're only about an hour away, over in Windom. It's snowing."
"Windom, my word. We're practically neighbors." There was a wealth of warmth and acceptance in the preacher's voice. "Whatcha doing up there?"
Suddenly, Dean wasn't sure about this. Was it Dad's story to tell? Was it Adam's? Or theirs? Did he have the right to bring an outsider into Winchester family business? Dad would be pissed if he found out—and he probably would—and that on top of having another little kid around.
Screw it, Dean decided. Adam was just a frigging baby and some damn thing was hunting him. His father's pride had got no place in that equation.
When he couldn't figure out how to start the conversation, he fell back on his preferred method: he dove in at the deep end.
"Did you know Dad had a kid up here?"
The stunned silence on the other end of the phone was all the answer Dean needed.
"It's likely Dad didn't know either," Dean added. It eased them over the first awkward bit, and allowed him to throw out the second one: "Doesn't matter much now: the mother's dead."
Jim made a low, sympathetic sound.
"Yeah, it pretty much sucks," Dean drawled. "But it's why me and Sam are in Windom. Came up to take care of Adam; turns out it's a bit more complicated than we thought." Dean proceeded to outline the rest of the situation. Dad being on a hunt, the terms of the will, the house, Adam seeing creepy little grey creatures following him—he even threw in Sammy's exams and the nasty effect of salt and gravel on his baby.
"It sounds like it's been stressful for you," Jim said when Dean wound down.
Stressful? Maybe, but there was fuck-all he could do about it. "Whatever. We'll deal," he said. "If we can figure out what's stalking the kid."
"Can you send me a copy of Adam's drawings?"
"You know he's about seven," Dean said. "His drawings are stick figures."
"Even so, he will have included the most noteworthy of features," Jim said. "For instance, the grey skin."
Dean snorted. "Dunno, man. Maybe he just likes grey."
"No kid likes grey, son. Trust me," and Dean had to concede that one. Grey had always been the last crayon to be used in any box they'd ever found.
"What color did he make the eyes?" Jim asked.
Dean picked up one of the drawings. The thing was frigging tiny, but he dutifully squinted at it. "Black, it looks like. It looks like he gave it a green mouth."
"A green mouth?" Jim sounded surprised.
Dean sorted through, hoping for a bigger picture, and came across one where there were two of the things and they were huge. They were looming over little stick figure on a bed, and more eyes and mouths filled in the picture. A nightmare, Dean guessed. If this is what Adam dreamed last night, it was no wonder he'd been willing to crawl into bed with Dean.
"Yeah," Dean said. "Definitely green, with sharp teeth. It's also got red irises and no white in its eyes."
"Well, hmm," Jim said softly. "That's ringing some bells, for sure." Dean could hear pages rustling as the pastor looked in his books for more information.
"Sam figures it's a Hollow Child," Dean said. Speak of the Devil: Sam was trudging into the kitchen, Adam by his side. They both looked tired. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "You want eggs?" he asked. Sam shook his head and jerked his chin at Adam who was already setting the table, studiously adding up the number of bowls and spoons and glasses as he put them out.
"Porridge," Sam replied.
Dean mimed throwing up. "Pancakes?" he suggested hopefully. "Sorry, what was that, Jim?"
"I said it could be that or a Hungry Child. Or even an Empty Child, although those are rare; thank the Lord."
"There's a difference?" he asked Jim.
"Minor ones," Jim said. "But important in terms of approach. Both the Hollow Child and the Hungry Child fixate on a particular target. They won't move on until their chosen victim is dead. An Empty Child is an opportunistic killer. It's not looking for anything specific, it just wants more," he explained. "The biggest difference is in how they kill. A Hollow Child kills slowly, trying to retain the thing it wants. An Empty or Hungry Child will kill quickly, as if sucking down more of what they don't have will eventually fix them."
Dean whistled at Sam who straightened from his search of the cupboards. "Adam still wants porridge. It's what his mom would make him after a bad night."
Dean grimaced. "Fucking sludge, but whatever. How did those others die? Fast or slow?"
Sam shot a look over at Adam, who was carrying a container of brown sugar to the table that was nearly as big around as his chest. He took a step closer to Dean. "Slow," he answered in a low voice. "Mummified from the outside in. Last things to go were the heart and brain."
"Seriously?" Dean murmured.
Sam nodded.
"Shit." Dean looked at Adam and tried not to picture him like that—drying out cell by cell and limb by limb. He lifted the phone to his mouth. "Looks like it's a Hollow Child. Four victims, all slow deaths."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Pastor Jim said with a sad sigh. "Those poor families."
"Actually…" Dean thought. "Maybe that's how it chose them. The families were either AWOL or dead, Sam said. Those kids were essentially alone."
"It could be."
"But Adam's not alone anymore, so he should be safe."
"I'm sorry, Dean," Jim said in his soft preacher-giving-bad-news voice. "If it is a Hollow Child, it won't matter. It's chosen its victim and it won't move to someone else just because the boy's circumstances have changed."
Dean swore loud and viciously in his head. Oh well, back to Plan A. "So how do we kill it?"
"Ah, well, that's tricky." Jim sounded scarily hesitant.
"They can be killed, right?"
"I personally know that being stabbed with a bone from one of its victims will kill an Empty Child, and I've been told that shooting a Hungry Child with an iron round while it's feeding will kill it, but I've also been told that it has to be beheaded with a bronze blade."
"And a Hollow Child?"
Jim cleared his throat. "Yah, well. Hollow Children are the rarest of all of them, so I've never met anyone who's hunted one."
Dean squeezed the bridge of his nose. The way Jim was tap-dancing was giving Dean a bad feeling. "Can they be killed?" Dean repeated.
"Not that I know of," Jim admitted. "But like I said, I don't know anybody in North America who's fought one. Doesn't mean nobody has. It might be enough to just remove Adam from its vicinity. It works with a Hungry Child." But they both knew they weren't dealing with a Hungry Child. Pastor Jim cleared his throat. "Let me make a few calls, ask around," he offered.
"We'd appreciate it," Dean said.
"For now, perhaps the best way to fight for your brother is to make him feel loved, and safe, and wanted."
"I'm having freaking oatmeal for the kid," Dean growled.
"A noble sacrifice, for sure," Jim laughed. "You always did refuse to eat oatmeal, no matter how your father dressed it up. Remember that time he tried frying it with onions and potatoes?"
Dean shuddered, right down to his gut. "That kind of sacrifice has got to prove something, right?" he asked. It was whining, or close enough to make Dean wince at himself, but it was freaking oatmeal. It just made Jim laugh harder.
"I'm sorry, son," he said once he'd settled down. "But sometimes you just have to say the words."
They chatted a little more about nothing much. Jim offered to try and make time to come and help, or maybe just visit, but January was a busy time for him, lots of babies born, lots of christenings, so Dean said no, not unless they needed the help.
"Okay, son. You take care of yourself and look after your brothers," Jim said before he hung up.
Dean stood there, dead phone to his ear. The pastor's words struck him: Look after your brothers.
His first impulse had been to ask, "My brother's what?" but then he'd understood. He had two brothers now, not just one. It was true, he knew it was, but it didn't feel true.
With Sam… They had a history, days and weeks and years of memories building on each other. He knew Sam. Understood, or at least recognized, most of his twitches and quirks. Adam was an unknown. He didn't know him from, well… Adam. Now he was expected to make the kid feel "loved, wanted and safe"?
Safe. Safe he could do in his sleep. He was Dean Winchester, for Christ's sake. He was a bad-ass mofo who hunted monsters. If he couldn't make the munchkin feel safe, who could?
Loved and wanted, though…
He couldn't say the words to Sammy let alone some little sprog he'd just met.
"Oatmeal's ready," Sam announced, breaking into Dean's thoughts.
Oh, fuck no. Not even to keep all the world's children safe.
"You guys go ahead, enjoy it. I'm gonna… um, call Joe; see if Adam's supposed to be in school." Yeah, that would work.
Sam shot him a knowing smirk. "We'll save you some, won't we, Adam?
Adam nodded hard enough to make his hair fly. "It fills you up 'n' makes you feel better."
"I'll give you the first one, kid," Dean said as he left the kitchen, and the smell, behind. He called Joe like he'd said he would. The first thing the deputy did was ask if Adam was okay, and had they figured out what was killing the children. Dean explained their current theory and how other kids would be okay because it had picked Adam as its target.
"Lordy jeez. I'm not sure if that makes me feel better."
"I know," Dean agreed, running a rough hand over his head. "We've got someone looking into it. Maybe we can figure something out." On the other end, Joe grunted hopefully. "Actually, I'm calling for more... mundane reasons," Dean said. "Does Adam have to go to school? He's in grade one, right?"
"Grade two, yah, but he doesn't have to go in until next week."
Dean let out a relieved puff. "Great, cool."
"The funeral's today though."
Shit.
"Funeral?"
"Cremation, actually," Joe confirmed. "I talked Kate into it after seeing what those ghouls did. You bet I did. And then there's an appointment with the lawyer."
Dean sighed unhappily: cops, social workers, and lawyers. Three things his father had warned him to avoid at all costs, and he was neck deep in them.
He thought of Adam, creeping into his bedroom last night, eyes wide and scared and innocent. Even if he hadn't been their father's son, Dean couldn't have abandoned him. "Hang on," he said to Deputy Joe. "Let me write this down," and he dutifully noted the details of times, places, and even that Adam's suit was hanging in his mom's closet and his shoes were on the upper shelf.
"Great, super. Two o'clock. We'll be there." Jesus, he didn't want to go to the service. He hadn't known her, didn't want to make nice to her friends or family, and didn't want anything to do with taking his half-brother to his mom's funeral. He'd dealt with lots of dead bodies, but this? This was something completely out of his comfort zone. It was going to suck so frigging hard…
He gave his face and scalp a vigorous scrub, hoping it would make things look better or something. It didn't, but who cared? It was still good to be doing something.
He'd barely hung up the phone when it rang again. It was a number he didn't recognize. He pressed the talk button. "Yeah."
"Dean Winchester? It's Lisa Sharpe; we met last night." "
"I remember, Miz Sharpe," he answered. "How'd you get this number?" because he sure as shit hadn't given it to her.
"Deputy Barton added it to Adam's file," Miz Sharpe said in her crisp voice. "Is that a problem?"
Only if my father finds out, Dean thought. "No, not at all. Just nobody told me."
She hummed almost, but not quite, suspiciously. "Can Adam come to the phone?"
"Sure," Dean said, swallowing his growl. "But he's got a mouthful of oatmeal." He held the phone out over the table. "Adam, say 'hello' to Miz Sharpe."
Adam made an indistinguishable sound that could've been hello.
When Dean put the phone back to his ear Miz Sharpe was laughing uncomfortable. "He sounds good," she said "Just make sure he has some fruit with that, yah? He needs to have balanced meals."
Dean held out his phone, stared at it, and counted to five.
"He'll have a banana for dessert," he said dryly. "Look, is there a reason you called?"
"Oh, for sure. I called is to inform you that there's a meeting with Kate's lawyer today at two."
"I am aware of it," he said. "And we're definitely planning on being there."
"Excellent," she said brightly. "Well, then, I'll let you get back to your oatmeal. Don't forget to dress Adam up warmly. It's going to be another cold one out there." The phone clicked in Dean's ear before he'd finished saying good-bye.
She'd been checking up on them, Dean realized. Making sure Adam wasn't being abused. For whatever reason, Joe's ex-girlfriend had taken a dislike to him. She had it fixed in her brain that he was going to, dunno, pimp him out or some damn thing. He wasn't the bad guy, Dean knew. He was the fucking hero.
He stretched out his neck a bit, rotated his shoulders, paced, and tried to think happy, calming thoughts.
He really wanted to punch something.
"So," Sam said from the doorway, Adam at his side. "Did you get everything sorted out?"
Dean put on his smile. "Of course I did, Sammy. It's what awesome big brothers are for."
"I'm sure I'll find out when I get one of those," Sam said.
"We saved you oatmeal," Adam said. He was still in the spaceman pajamas Dean had picked last night as the least lame the kid had. Who dressed a boy in lambs and rainbows?
"Thanks, kid. I appreciate that." Dean tried to sound a little appreciative. The munchkin looked at him with big happy eyes and it gave Dean an idea. He crouched down in front of him. "Hey, kid—Adam," he corrected when Sam kicked him in the thigh. "Last night, that grey thing was in your room, right?"
Big eyes, Sammy's eyes, now sad and slightly scared, went up and down.
"You did the right thing, coming to me," Dean assured him. "Now, I need you to do something else. If you can."
Again with the eyes.
"Can you draw a bigger picture of it?" Dean asked. "Nobody else in the pictures, just that thing. Think you can do that?"
The kid looked away and shrugged his shoulders.
"Either Sammy or I will sit beside you," Dean assured the little guy, but he didn't look reassured. "Your pictures; they're going to be clues, and we're like… Like Deputy Joe trying to figure things out from the clues. That's cool, huh?"
Adam's face brightened. "Like Steve? Looking for clues?"
Dean snuck a look at his brother who was, unfortunately, standing right there. "Yeah, exactly like Blue's Clues." Dean ignored Sam's laughter—it wasn't like there was a lot of choice of what to watch at the dumps they stayed at. Instead, he kept his focus on Adam. "The thing is, the grey dude isn't as nice as Blue, so you can't play with it, or encourage—try to make friends—with it. If it shows up, you'll tell me or Sam right away, okay?"
"Okay," Adam replied solemnly.
"Pinky swear," Sam said from beside them. He held out his baby finger, crooked and waiting. "You promise to tell us, and we promise to keep you safe."
Adam's eyes got wider as he realized how serious they were. He locked his finger with Sam's. One shake, up-down, and it was done. Adam looked like they'd taken a weight off him.
Unfortunately, now Dean felt weighted down, because he had to figure out how to make good on Sam's promise.
~o0o~
"Winchester."
"Dean, it's Jim, Jim Murphy."
Like he couldn't recognize the pastor's voice. "Hey, back. You got good news for us?"
"That picture really helped narrow it down," he said. "So I've got news. I'm not sure if you'll consider it 'good'," Jim temporized.
"It can't be killed."
"It can't be killed," Jim confirmed. "However, it can die. I spoke to a couple people in Europe, and it seems that once a Hollow Child chooses its target, it literally can't pick someone else."
"That's good news?"
"Have patience, son. If their target hits puberty without giving in to the Hollow Child, it dies. Just poof!"
"Poof?" Dean asked skeptically.
"It's a technical term."
"The thing is it'll step up both the frequency and the intensity of its attacks. Every mental and emotional weakness that Adam got, it'll try to exploit."
Dean clenched his jaw. Puberty! Why couldn't it have just been some bizarre holy object and an arcane ritual? "Guess I'd better get used to sharing my bed with a munchkin."
"Yah, guess you'd better," Jim said with a light laugh. "And don't be shy about asking for help. If Adam's attacked hard, you have to fight back equally hard. Surround him with everything and everyone who feels the slightest bit fond of him, you hear?"
"Yeah, I got it." Dean took a quick look into the living room where Sam and Adam were watching cartoons. He switched the phone to his other hand, and moved to where they wouldn't be able to hear him. "Did your contacts mention that these things can talk to their target? Like, telepathically?" he asked.
"Well, no," Jim drawled out slow, giving the words about five syllables each. "They surely didn't."
Dean hummed confirmation. "It's done it a few times now."
"That's good information, Dean," Jim said. "I'll make sure that it gets out there."
Into the wider hunter community Jim meant, and that was great but it didn't help Dean with his immediate problem of keeping his newest brother alive. "Good, great. And if anyone can think of a way to block it that would be great, too."
"Have you tried aluminum foil? I hear that's good for stopping all sorts of signals."
"Ha, ha," Dean said without humor.
"Sorry," Jim said. "Couldn't resist. I will ask, and if anyone has any halfway decent suggestions, I'll let you know."
"Thanks, Jim. 'Preciate the help."
"It'll be alright," Jim said. "With you and Sam looking after him, your brother will be alright."
They said goodbye, making tentative arrangements to get together when things were more settled. Dean gently put the phone back in its cradle. Then he leaned over and put his face in his hands. The pastor's voice had been filled with conviction. He truly believed that they could save Adam just by being here. Maybe it was part of being a Man of the Cloth, but Dean couldn't join him in that faith.
It would be really useful to have Dad here right about now, no matter how pissed Dean was at him.
~o0o~
Joe Barton showed up around noon carrying a suit bag. "You're about the same size as my brothers."
"Oh, hell no," Dean said.
"Just jackets and ties," Joe replied. "So you don't stand out too much." Which was about the only argument he could've used to get Dean into one of those monkey outfits.
Forty-five minutes before the start of the service, Dean started the Impala to warm the engine. It took some doing; he had to turn the ignition over, again and again, but eventually she stayed going. If they were going to stay in Minnesota, he'd have to invest in a block heater.
Twenty minutes before the start of the service, they were piled in the Impala, Sam and Adam in the back, and followed Deputy Joe's county vehicle to the funeral home. A home for funerals. Dean hadn't ever been in one during daylight hours, and he could only hope that the sun would keep the ghosts down to a minimum.
"Pastor Jim got those pictures you sent by email," he told Sam, because it was better than thinking about having to sit through a freaky ceremony with gross music and strangers, while trying to ignore any dead people hanging around.
"Yeah, I know," Sam replied. "He sent me a confirmation. I told you it was better than snail mail."
"Yeah, you did tell me that," Dean conceded.
"And I was right," Sam gloated. "The World Wide Web is gonna completely change how we do stuff. I mean, sending stuff over the internet is so much faster than regular mail. One day, we won't need the post office at all."
"And how would we get our credit cards, huh?" Dean asked. "I don't think they can send actual plastic through the telephone wires."
Sam shrugged. "You can't deny it's completely changing things. Making a lot of things easier and quicker."
Dean shrugged. He had no interest in denying it. Instead he focused on driving. The plows had been out, and the sanding truck, so the roads were pretty good except at the intersections. In the back seat, Sammy and Adam played 'I Spy' and the variation of 'Punch-Buggy' they'd developed years ago that used doubles of anything. Sam had changed it up again, choosing to tickle instead of hit. It was wussy but Adam looked like he was having fun, which meant, hopefully, no little grey kids hanging around.
The funeral home's parking lot was mostly empty, so Dean was surprised when he walked into a packed room. Dark red velvet drapes lined the walls of the dimly lit room. Dean supposed it was to make the place look cozy, but in his opinion, all it did was make it look dark and filled with shadows.
A neatly dressed man in a jacket with the funeral home's logo ushered them to the front. The people stared at Adam as they passed; their expressions were of either sadness or pity, and they made Adam shrink down and grow quiet again.
It made Dean want to snarl.
He gave a nod to Sam, and his little brother planted himself on Adam's other side. No way were those vultures getting their emotional hooks into Adam. The kid was going to have a hard enough time getting through this.
The usher pointed them to some empty chairs close to an elderly couple that Dean guessed were Adam's grandparents. Dean let Sammy sit closest to them—he didn't do well with old people. Adam was next; then he sat next to Adam. He sat while people he didn't know droned on about a woman he hadn't known (but that his father had known too well) and tried to convince himself that Sam's arguments about Mom having been dead a long time were totally valid, and that Dean had no right to judge their father, considering how much Dean liked female company.
He tried to tell himself all that.
He shivered, and knew it wasn't from the air conditioning. It wasn't from actual ghosts either—he knew what those felt like. It was just some lingering presence saying someone had been alive once but no longer was. It was just as well he wasn't carrying an EMF meter.
Adam tugged on his sleeve. "Is that… Is that my mom in the box?"
Dean looked at the pale wood casket. It was pretty plain, suitable for a cremation, he supposed, although considering it was going to burn, they could've used a canvas bag. The tops were down. He wondered if Deputy Joe had managed to put salt in with her.
"Yeah," he said to the kid. "Yeah, your mom's body is in there. Hopefully, your mom's someplace else, someplace nice."
Some lady who had worked with Adam's mom was up there now, talking about selflessness and sacrifice, blah, blah, blah.
Another tug on his sleeve. "I don't want Mom to be in a box."
Dean leaned down. "Kid, if I were dead, I wouldn't want to be in a box either."
Adam obviously didn't get the humor. His eyes grew even bigger and filled with tears. Dean did not want the kid to break out the waterworks in here. He leaned over to tell him so when Adam's eyes slid past him and widened. Every hair on Dean's body stood up, and his blood hummed.
"Is it here?" he asked. Adam nodded. Dean gave Sam a low whistle. When Sam looked at him, he jerked his chin in that direction even as he picked the little sprog up.
Sam's eyes widened in comprehension, and he looked where Dean had indicated. Sam looked at the spot straight on, he looked at it sideways, he looked away and back, away and back, trying to catch a glimmer or a distortion or anything that would indicate a supernatural presence. Finally, he turned back to Dean and had to shake his head to his brother's raised eyebrow. He could hear his big brother whispering to Adam, something reassuring and tough.
"Your brother's very good with the boy."
Mr. Milligan had to repeat it a couple times before Sam understood what he'd said. The stroke had affected not just his speech center but the muscles on one side of his face. That, combined with a thick 'Minnesootan' accent made him virtually unintelligible to Sam. Mrs. Milligan was nice, but she'd forgotten his name within minutes of him having told it to her. And he'd told it to her twice so far.
Sam kept up a stilted conversation with Adam's grandfather while sneaking looks at the other children in the room. There weren't many, and none of them seemed to be looking at whatever Adam had seen. But then, none of the other kids were targeted.
"Is it getting closer?" he heard Dean ask. He saw Adam shake his head. "Is it going away?" was Dean's next question. Again, Adam shook his head. So not awful, but not great either.
"How about," Dean said. "When this is over, we go out for hamburgers?"
Adam shook his head. "Ice cream."
"Ice cream?" Dean said in horrified shock. "It's colder than penguin snot out there, and you want ice cream?" Sam snickered at the same time Adam giggled. The only ones who didn't seem to appreciate Dean's humor were… everyone else, really. The person up front stared at him. Mr. Milligan tilted his head Dean's way. The people behind them muttered.
Dean, never one to accept a rebuke from anyone but Dad, looked around. "What?" he challenged in a too-loud voice. "You think she'd want her son to be all emo and crying? He misses her. You'd better believe he misses his mom, and he shouldn't need to bawl his eyes out to prove it to you all."
There was coughing and shifting and whispering in the room around them. Dean ignored it to speak to the person at the front of the room—Kate's shift supervisor or something. "Well, get on with it. The kid wants ice cream and we got a meeting with a lawyer after this."
More whispering, shifting, and coughing. Above it, Sam heard Adam's voice, high and clear. "It's gone now."
~o0o~
For the most part, the lawyer's meeting went better than Sam expected, meaning Dean didn't blow up at anyone when the terms of the will were confirmed. The house was Adam's. He could move out without selling when he turned eighteen. If they shifted him before then, it would be sold and the money put in an account for Adam's use. The Winchesters "wouldn't see a penny."
Dean shrugged—they'd never had money and didn't need buckets of it now. Sam brightened—he couldn't remember having a home and being forced to stay in one place didn't seem like a hardship. Considering the surprise on the lawyer's face when Dean shrugged and Sam smiled, Sam thought maybe he'd been expecting a different reaction,
After that, the lawyer droned on about the conditions, inspections, supervisors, and minimum requirements. Then there were exceptions, provisions, and addendums. Sam eventually tuned it out in favor of playing patty-cake with Adam who was even more bored than Dean.
Finally, the lawyer stood up and the meeting was over.
"Thank Christ," Dean muttered. "Now we can get out of these frigging monkey suits."
"And ice cream," Sam reminded him. "Maybe a burger?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "You and your mutant growth genes," he mocked lightly.
Sam grinned. "Gonna be taller than you."
"I'm still gonna be your big brother," Dean scowled in return. "Still gonna be able to kick your ass."
Dean's fierceness was kind of lost in the whole 'helping the seven-year-old put on his boots' thing Dean had going. It made Sam smile. How many days had Dean done the same thing for him? Bundling him up and bitching him out at the same time.
Not that he was going to bring up anything so sappy. "Can't kick my ass if you can't reach it."
And on that triumphant (and totally true) statement, Sam exited the lawyer's offices. He rarely got the last word and he wanted to enjoy it.
They went back to Adam's house to remove the 'monkey suits' and to pick up the bags they'd packed for their trip to Lincoln. Adam just watched, looking nervous. He'd never been outside of Windom before, but both Dean and Sam joked with him, and told road stories until he looked better. Then they went to the local Biggerson's to eat.
And eat…
Turned out, it wasn't just Sam who needed massive levels of fuel. Adam went back to the kid's menu three times before slowing down.
"Jesus, kid. That's impressive," Dean said in awe. Adam burped. Then blushed when Dean laughed. "Kid, you got style."
The third helping meant it was dark by the time they left Windom.
"At least it's not snowing," was all Dean said before he cranked up the stereo.
Sam was in the back with Adam. He'd set up the portable light that shone down on the seat so that he and Adam could do stuff in the back without messing up Dean's night vision. An arrangement Dean had figured out a few years ago when it had been the two of them in the back and John driving. They'd played cards, practicing their Poker and Blackjack, beating each other up over War until their dad had growled at them to keep it down.
Sam was kind of surprised that it wasn't a bad memory; it didn't make him angry. Sure, the reason they were in the back seat driving through the night was usually because Dad was moving them again, but the actual memory was… pretty nice.
Dean so sucked at Rock-Paper-Scissors.
Tonight, though, Sam was cramming his Spanish. He was sure he had the Biology locked—it was just memorization—but there was an oral component to the Spanish test, and his accent sucked. Beside him Adam was looking at a Star Wars comic book, narrating the story to himself.
It was weird to have a small child in the car—like they'd stepped back ten years to when Dean had still been relegated to the back seat with him, but it also felt… right. Like the car itself had missed it. Outside it was dark and cold, but inside the Impala it was warm and safe, just like it had always been.
They had a home now. A home that wasn't a motel room, or a musty rental: a real home.
They could afford to keep books and lists and more books about whatever they wanted. They didn't even have to be supernatural related, although they could definitely build up a collection to rival Pastor Jim's, or maybe even Bobby Singer's. Both those old hunters knew so much they were like the reference section of the public library, giving out information for free to anybody who asked.
He could do that.
They'd get a phone call, and he'd do the research while Dean made supper. John wouldn't be there—he'd be off on a hunt someplace—but it would still be okay. They didn't really need him anyway. Not for that kind of life.
The surprisingly domestic daydream kept Sam's mind off his Spanish declensions well into Nebraska. He fell asleep with the imagined sound of a lawnmower as a lullaby.
[13]