1989
Fort Douglas, Wisconsin

Dean had always known that there was something different about his big brother. Jimmy was...strange. He did things and said things that just weren't normal. Dean was used to it, couldn't even remember life without Jimmy, without this occasionally fierce, occasionally abstract presence beside him, around him, over him. He knew, though, that Dad didn't really get Jimmy, that he got weirded out by the oldest Winchester boy on a regular basis. Jimmy would make one of his weird comments, give one of his faraway looks, and Dad would stare at him sideways, eyes wide and face blank. He didn't know how to deal with it, so he mostly ignored these things when they happened.

Dean didn't really understand Jimmy either—sometimes he was just too weird, too out there, as if he was from another planet or something—but he accepted him. Jimmy was his big brother and he loved him just much as he loved Sammy, though in a different way. So Dean listened hard to Dad's instructions and tried to follow them, for both their sakes.

"And if someone calls..." Dad said, waiting for Dean to finish the familiar rule.

"Don't answer," Dean repeated patiently.

Dad shook his head. "What's the rest? Dude, this is important. If it's me, I'll let it ring once, then..."

"I know! Yeah, you'll ring once, then call again."

"If I'm not back by Sunday night..."

"Get Jimmy to call Pastor Jim." Dean stifled a giggle at this. He and Sammy still thought it was pretty funny, how their brother and their dad's friend had almost the same name. The two had some similar ideas, too, a similar seriousness about God and faith and religion, though Dean had heard them debating theology behind a closed door once and quickly found something else to do. That stuff made his head hurt.

"And if someone tries to break in?" Dad asked, nudging his shoulder.

"Shoot first, ask questions later," Dean said promptly. That was his favorite of Dad's rules, because it made the most sense.

"All right. That's good, buddy." Dad looked over to where Sammy sat on the leather armchair, watching Thundercats. He loved that show, was totally engrossed it. Didn't even notice that Dad was leaving them again, but later there would be tons of questions and whining and complaining and demanding that Jimmy sing to him or Dean tell him a story or something. Sammy was annoying like that.

Dad put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "And most importantly?"

"Listen to Jimmy, look out for Sammy."

"That's my boy." Dad's hand circled around the back of Dean's neck and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm gonna go outside and talk to your brother before I go. Have a good weekend."

"Sure, Dad."

Dad scooped up his heavy duffel in one hand (always impressive to Dean—he had to use two hands and always grunted a lot when he tried to carry Dad's bag) and went out the door. Dean turned the lock behind him, even though he would have to open it again when Jimmy came in, and went to the window to watch Dad go. Jimmy stood by the open hood of the Impala, doing some last-minute maintenance. Jimmy didn't love cars, not the way Dean did, but he knew his way around them, and he always insisted on checking the engine before Dad took off for a few days. It was his way of taking care of Dad and making sure he came back to them.

Dad paused by the side of the car as Jimmy straightened up, facing him. They left a few feet of space between them, way more than when Dad talked to Dean or Sam. They spoke for a few minutes, probably the same instructions, Dad doing most of the talking while Jimmy nodded solemnly, closed the hood, wiped his hands on a shop rag. Right at the end Dad took a step forward and put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, moving slowly and making sure Jimmy could see it coming. Jimmy still flinched, though. He almost always flinched when Dad touched him. That was why Dad didn't do it very often, Dean figured.

Dad looked sad at that, like he always did. Dean wanted to tell him not to give up, that it was gonna be okay. It had taken Jimmy a long time to get used to Dean and Sam hugging him, tackling him, wrestling him to the floor and covering him with tickles until he all but choked on his laughter. Surely he would get used to Dad too, eventually.

But Dad just stepped back and opened the driver's door, giving Jimmy a last wave before closing the door and driving away. Jimmy stood watching him go, then turned back to the motel.

"Hey, where's Dad?" Sammy asked suddenly, and Dean turned around, already rolling his eyes. Of course the kid had to notice now. "Did he leave again?"

"He'll be back in a couple of days, short stuff. You know he will. We told you what was going on just a little while ago, remember?" Dean moved to the door to unlock it for Jimmy.

"I thought you were talking about tomorrow." Sammy's little face scrunched up in displeasure.

Dean huffed, already tired of it. "Today, Sammy! It's today! Jeez, why can't you listen to Dad like the rest of us do? This stuff is important!"

Jimmy came in and closed the door behind him. He knew at a glance exactly what was going on, of course. He always did. "You should pay more attention," he told Sammy, in that super-serious way he had, blue eyes big and round, mouth pulled down in a tiny circle. Dean wasn't off the hook, though—Jimmy turned to him and tilted his head, giving him that same serious frown. "You should be a little more patient. He's only a child."

"I know." Dean turned away and scuffed his shoe on the carpet, feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks. Jimmy was just as good as Dad at making him feel awful with just a look, a few words. Dad had never needed to spank them, though Dean privately thought that Sammy could have used it once or twice—that disapproving glare and disappointed tone were plenty punishment enough.

Sam shuffled over to put a hand on Jimmy's arm, looking up at him with his big, pleading eyes. "Can we have saghettios for supper?"

Of course Jimmy said yes. Dean couldn't blame him, though. He couldn't say no to Sammy when he looked up at him like that, either. Even their dad had problems with that look.

Dean cooked for them. Jimmy had burned their dinner once too often when he got distracted with something. Usually he was very responsible, and he watched over Dean and Sam like a spiky-haired hawk, but ordinary, everyday tasks escaped him sometimes. Dean didn't mind. He felt important and grown-up, standing at the stove, stirring the canned food every now and then until it was hot. Jimmy was busy with his own project, anyway.

He did it in every new motel. Got out his little pot of homemade ink and slender paintbrush and went around the room, thorough and exact. He painted symbols on the door jambs, on the windowsills, in each corner of every room. It was better than salt, he said, more permanent and effective. Usually he did his best to hide the symbols in places people wouldn't see, so they wouldn't get painted over or cleaned off, so the next people who used this room would be protected, too. It took a long time.

"They won't keep everything out," he'd told Dean once a couple years ago, when Dean was in a phase of following his big brother around, watching everything he did and trying to get involved. "These are symbols from one religion, only. I don't know any more than that. But they will protect us from many things."

Dean had wrapped his little fingers in the hem of Jimmy's shirt and held on tight, a lump rising in his throat. "From the thing that killed my mommy?"

Jimmy looked down at him very solemnly, nodding his head slowly. He always treated Dean with great gravity, as if everything he had to say was important, worth listening to, as if every question he had was worth an answer. Even Dad wasn't always that great at listening to Dean and answering him, and he was the best dad in the world, for sure, just like Jimmy was the best big brother and Sammy was the best little brother.

"The symbols will protect us from that, yes. And also from the thing that killed my parents. That is their main function."

Jimmy's voice always quivered a little when he spoke of his parents, gone long before he had become Dean and Sammy's brother, but Dean knew that they had died around the same time as his mommy had. Then Jimmy had had a bad family, one that hurt him, and then he ran away and came to them, and Dean was awfully glad about that.

He wrapped his arms around Jimmy's waist and squeezed him tight, and Jimmy hesitated, then hugged him back with one arm, holding his ink-stained fingers above Dean's head. They never talked about that again, but the knowledge was always clear and sharp between them. They knew what the bad things in the world were; they knew what they could do and they knew to be afraid.

Sammy didn't know. Dean didn't want to him to. Neither did Jimmy and Dad. That was another silent understanding they had, among the three of them. It was kind of a Winchester thing.

Jimmy was just finishing up when Dean finally decided the Spaghettios were ready. He called Sammy to the table, and Jimmy poured the milk while Dean spooned the pasta and sauce into three bowls. It just figured, of course, that Sammy decided then that he didn't want "saghettios" after all. He wanted Lucky Charms.

"There aren't any Lucky Charms!" Dean burst out, losing his patience again. He didn't want to, but Sammy just brought it out in him sometimes.

"Yes, there are, I saw them," Sammy said.

"Well, maybe there are, but there's only enough for one bowl, and Jimmy hasn't had any!"

Jimmy blinked at him. "I thought you were saving those for yourself."

"Yeah, but..." If they were just for himself, Dean would give the Lucky Charms to Sammy, no problem. He'd give anything to Sammy, though he would mutter about it and stomp around some to make his point. And Jimmy would give anything to him, he knew that, and he didn't complain about it either. So by trying to save something for Jimmy, was Dean saving something for himself, too? But then, if Dean didn't stand up for Jimmy, no one would, because Jimmy sure didn't do it for himself.

This was complicated.

Jimmy shook his head. "In any case," and he gave Sammy a stern look, "it doesn't matter, because we are not having Lucky Charms for supper. We are having Spaghettios."

And that was pretty much it. Jimmy's word was law when Dad wasn't there, and Sammy knew it.

He ate his Spaghettios.

X

By Sunday, Dean was climbing the walls. They hadn't left this room in three whole days. And as much as they liked each other, they didn't like each other that much.

"Can I please go play at the arcade?" he asked again. "It's just next door. I won't be gone for long."

Jimmy was having one of his abstract phases, laying on the floor with his arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling as if he could see something beyond it. When Dean asked what he was doing during this he usually said "praying" or "meditating," but it was weird that he seemed to prefer to do it with his eyes open. Jimmy was just plain weird, sometimes. He was fifteen, but sometimes he seemed to be way, way older. Like, forty-five, or something.

Occasionally Dean could get away with something while Jimmy was like this. Not this time, though. "No," he said softly, absently, blinking serenely at the ceiling as if it had some kind of secret to tell him. "No, you shouldn't leave. It's dangerous."

"But, Jimmy..."

"No." This was more firm, and Jimmy gave him one of his gentle little glares, which was the closest he ever got to saying, Fuck off, you pest. I'm busy. "Sammy's ready for bed and he wants you to tell him a story. Mine are boring."

"Okay, okay! Jeez." Dean waved his hands in the air and stomped to the bedroom off the main living area. Sammy was already tucked in, washed and brushed and in his jammies, waiting expectantly for Dean, his big eyes and his chubby round cheeks peeking above the covers.

Dean told him a story full of guns and ghosts and pirates and beautiful damsels in distress, with plenty of explosions and fighting and bloody wounds. Sammy ate it up, as always, and asked for another one, but Dean told him "no" in the sternest Jimmy-Dad voice he could manage. He pulled the covers up around Sammy's shoulders and turned off the light, ruffling the kid's hair all over the place as he stood.

In the main area, Jimmy's arms were folded over his chest, his eyes closed as he hummed to himself. It sounded like one of those hymns he liked so much. Dean stood there for a little while, watching Jimmy's fingers curl and tremble at the edges of his ribcage, as if he was struggling, fighting, as if prayer and meditation was this active thing that took up all of his concentration and will. Which must be true in a way, he realized. Jimmy was always way tired after one these times, as if he'd been running for miles or doing push-ups until his arms were noodles, not lying on the floor or staring out a window.

Dean sneaked past him and gently, carefully turned the lock on the door. It opened with only the barest hint of a click, and he turned the door knob with the same care, holding his breath. Jimmy didn't notice, didn't stir. He just kept humming, low and almost breathless. Dean stepped carefully outside, lifting the key from the counter as he went, and closed the door behind him.

Then he breathed out in relief, listening to the crickets sing, smelling the asphalt and the crisp evening air. Free. Probably for just an hour or so—he'd have to get back before Jimmy noticed—but he was free.

Dean didn't get much pocket change, so he had learned to make one quarter go for a long, long time. He didn't realize how much time was passing, busy killing aliens and defending the home planet, and he startled near out of his skin when the owner of the arcade leaned in the door and told him it was closing time. Dean glanced guiltily at the clock. Damn, it was late.

Maybe Jimmy hadn't noticed. Maybe he was still busy doing his thing. Surely he would have stalked over and dragged Dean back if he'd noticed he was gone. But then again, maybe he hadn't wanted to leave Sam alone. He said it was dangerous out—maybe he wouldn't risk leaving the six-year-old alone to go after a disobedient little sneak.

Dean wouldn't blame him for being mad. He kinda wanted to beat himself up for being such an idiot. His sneakers slapped on the blacktop as he rushed back to their motel.

No Impala in the lot, so at least Dad wouldn't be there to chew him out for this astonishing breach of Winchester rules. Dean let out a breath of relief as he turned the key in the lock and let himself in.

And then he halted in the doorway, staring, feeling the blood drain away from his face.

Jimmy was nowhere in sight, and something was going on in the bedroom. The door was only partly ajar, but Dean saw a sickly white light inside the smaller room, heard a weird sucking noise like a wind blowing through a cave. Something was happening and his brothers, his brothers were both in there. They were both in there and Dean had left them alone and how could he, how could he have done that? It was dangerous out tonight, Jimmy said, and the symbols didn't protect against everything, and Dean had left them to go play...

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean stepped toward the bedroom. He reached carefully for the sawed-off in the corner, lifted it to his shoulder with one hand while he touched the door with the other. Slowly, silently, he pushed the door open, letting out more light and sound. And he stared, gulping.

Jimmy was kneeling on the bed over Sammy, who was still asleep on top of the covers. The older boy's back was bowed in tension, fighting to maintain his grip, absolutely still, pushing against... He was pushing against a big...thing in a black robe, his hands on the creature's chest, holding it still. It was a monster, and its mouth was open, the source of the strange white light, impossibly long, sharp fingers curved around Jimmy's shoulders as if holding him still. They were locked in some strange, stiff-armed wrestling hold, keeping each other off, fighting with their eyes.

Because, because... Dean's mind stuttered, unable to take it in. Jimmy's eyes were glowing, white too, but pure and intense and holy, not at all like the sickly radiance in the creature's mouth. He panted, sweat sliding down his forehead and pale cheeks, throat convulsing as he swallowed as if trying to keep himself from being sick.

As Dean stared, the monster jerked its face forward, closer into Jimmy's space, and Jimmy's mouth began to open, too. There was light in there, white and pure, and the monster was sucking it, it was sucking it out of Jimmy and into itself, it was eating Jimmy, it was eating him...

"Dean, get down!"

Dad's huge hand landed on Dean's shoulder and shoved him out of the way, roughly enough that it made Dean stumble, and then Dad was shooting, striding into the room with his gun held out straight from his body and shooting, shooting, shooting. Dean hit the door jamb, the sawed-off falling from his numb hands, clattering on the floor. Just as Dad shot, Jimmy seemed to just...push with his hands, and there was an explosion of awful white light. Dean and Dad both fell back, shielding their eyes. In a small, clear snapshot of shock just as his eyelids slammed shut, Dean saw Jimmy's painted symbol on the windowsill, now scratched through as if by a long, evil fingernail.

The creature shrieked, a horrible sound, like a million nails being scraped over a million chalkboards. It went higher and higher and then it just...stopped. Cut off right in the middle, as if it had been sliced by a knife. The light beyond Dean's shielding hand diminished just as suddenly, winking out like a firefly. Dean raised his hand and looked, blinking dazedly at the bright spots that clouded his vision.

He was just in time to watch Jimmy collapse, falling over Sammy to lay terribly, scarily still on the bed. Dad scrambled to his feet and was there in a second, tossing his gun aside and hauling Jimmy up in his arms. "Dean, get Sam!"

His breath loud and rasping in his throat, Dean moved, pulling Sammy out from under their older brother and cradling him in his arms. Sammy had slept through the whole thing, he saw, a small corner of his brain laughing high and wild in hysterical relief. Still innocent of the darkness, the youngest Winchester was, even though it had been standing right over his bed.

Oh, holy shit.

Sammy woke up as Dean accidentally gripped him too tight, startling in his arms and looking wildly around. Dean sat on the bed and held him, watched their Dad holding Jimmy. Jimmy's nose was bleeding and his eyes were shut.

"C'mon, kiddo," Dad muttered, noticing the thick trail of bright red just as Dean did. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to Jimmy's nose, pinching his nostrils shut to stop the bleeding. He looked at Dean, his dark eyes abruptly sharp and hard. "What happened?"

"I...I went out," Dean stuttered. The thought of lying never crossed his mind. He couldn't lie, not about this, not to his dad. "Just for a minute! I didn't...Dad, I swear..."

"Dean?" Sammy's voice was high with fright as he jerked in Dean's arms. He wrapped his hands around Dean's forearms and dug in deep, making him wince. "What's going on? Is Jimmy okay?"

"Shhh, he's fine," Dad said, his voice going soft, just for Sammy. Dean knew he was just saying that, couldn't possibly know if Jimmy was going to be okay, lying so still and pale against Dad's chest with blood spattered over his collar and down his front. He would never let Dad hold him like that if he was awake, would never...

Dean could feel his heart hammering, trying to crawl up his throat. Surely Sam had to be able to feel that too, pressed so tight in Dean's arms. "Come...come on, Sammy," he said. "Let's go to the living room and see if there's anything good on TV. Dad'll take care of Jimmy."

Dad gave him a grateful look, still mixed with anger that Dean had disobeyed strict orders like that, that he had failed his family to utterly and completely. Dean lifted Sammy off the bed and led him into the living room, shutting the door behind them, getting out of the way. At least he could do that right.

Nothing was good on TV and Sammy didn't want to settle, kept straining toward the bedroom, wanting to see what was going on with their brother. Truthfully, Dean wanted to be over there, too, standing with his ear pressed to the closed door. But he forced himself to stay, to entertain Sammy. He tried coloring books and puzzles and their few toys, even tried a couple of stories Sammy didn't want to listen to, then finally started singing one of Jimmy's hymns. He got all the words mixed up and he couldn't remember some of the tune, but he did his best, and Sammy finally leaned against him, listening. The kid had worn himself out with anxiety and wondering, and he fell asleep, finally, lolling on Dean's arm. Dean sat there, supporting him, tension drawing his shoulders up and tightening his neck, listening for any kind of sound from beyond that door.

He heard some soft murmurs now and then, but he couldn't tell if they were coming from his father or his brother. Once he got past the squeaky stage of being a teenage boy, Jimmy's voice had gotten pretty deep, almost like Dad's.

After what felt like a long, long time, the door finally opened and Dad stepped out, his eyes immediately finding Dean where he sat in the leather armchair, Sammy curled up against him. Dean gulped, expecting to be chewed out, but Dad just gave him a slow, sad smile, little more than a twist of the lips. "He's gonna be okay. Just really, really tired. C'mon, let's get you guys to bed."

Dad scooped up Sammy in his arms, careful and slow, trying not to wake him, and carried him back toward the beds. Dean followed at his heels, eager to see his big brother. A little bit of the tension holding him strung tight as a wire had leaked out at his father's words, but not very much.

Jimmy lay limp and pale in the bed that was usually Dad's, his eyes only half open. At least the bleeding had stopped, though, and he wore a clean shirt, somewhat askew on his chest as if he hadn't been the one to dress himself. He smiled, weary and half-absent, when Dean rushed to his side and grabbed his hand. "Jimmy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Shh," Jimmy said, his voice a low, throaty murmur, as if he was too tired to talk very much or very loud. "It's all right. I'm glad you weren't here. It might have gone after you."

"But I didn't... I shouldn't have..." Dean started, helplessly.

"It's over now," Jimmy said soothingly, wrapping Dean's fingers around his and squeezing them close and warm. "The creature is dead. It will never harm another child."

"What was that thing? What did you do? I saw this flash of light, and...and then..."

"Hey now." Dad's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm. Dean looked over, saw that Dad had tucked Sammy into the other bed. The little guy was fast asleep, arms curled up under his head. "We can talk about that tomorrow. Jimmy really needs to rest."

"Okay," Dean said miserably, unconsciously leaning away from his father with his hip on the edge of Jimmy's bed. He glanced over at the fold-up cot in the corner, the one Jimmy would usually take when all four of them were together. "Dad, can I...?"

Dad sighed, understanding right away. "Sure, buddy, you can sleep with Jimmy tonight. I'll cuddle up with Sam."

Dean nodded gratefully. Dad went out to unpack the Impala while Dean slipped out of his clothes and into his PJs. Then he crawled in with Jimmy, who was already dozing, his cheek pale and smooth against the pillow. Dean took his hand again and curled up close, curving himself into his big brother. Close enough to feel the warmth and weight of him, strangely lightened now, as if the evening's events had taken something substantial away from him, something vital.

"You really gonna be okay?" he whispered, needing to hear it from Jimmy's lips.

The older boy's dark eyelashes fluttered before he forced them up halfway to look at Dean, his blue eyes faded and dull in the light from the single lamp Dad had left shining. "I will be as okay as I can be."

And that was as good as a promise.

It still took Dean a long time to fall asleep.