Some days, I'm lonely
And some days I'm not
Some days, I am only
A little bit sad, not a lot
How do you?
How do you make a home?
What to do?
Cause I never stay too long
Every house looks the same in my dreams
Every house feels like home for a couple weeks
I've been running 'round trying to find a place where I can breathe
But me, oh my, I found you under an April sky
And you feel like city life, apple pie baked just right
Home is wherever you are tonight
…
Some days feel empty
And some days feel whole
Some day we can be in the same city
Some day, we'll be grown
And I'll be fine with packing up
Cardboard boxes filled and sad farewells
And I'll be fine with that goodbye
As long as I don't say goodbye to you as well
…
Let's rent a place
Two rooms and a window facing
Buildings and fire escapes
Might be no AC, a little bit cramped
But see, if I'm with you, it's okay
Me, oh my, I found you under an April sky
And you feel like city life, apple pie baked just right
Home is wherever you are tonight
Lizzy McAlpine — Apple Pie
A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight, forming a blanket of white across the ground. In the primary bedroom of a quaint two-story home, a couple slept on a bed outfitted with baby blue sheets and a quilted comforter in a darker shade of the same color. Peter awoke first, staring at the ceiling even though he'd fallen asleep on his side. He was a restless sleeper, unlike his wife, who had fallen asleep in the exact position she remained in now. It was five days before Christmas, Rose's favorite holiday. She had been running herself ragged, understandably so. This was their first Christmas with the new addition that unexpectedly completed their family. Not a day went by that Rose didn't look into that little girl's eyes and think of her mother. They were a different shade—Victoria's was an arctic blue, her mother's fern green—but they held the same waves of kindness.
Whenever Rose looked at that tiny blonde, her heart ached for a friend she'd thought was gone until five months ago. Elizabeth Anderson was optimistic, maybe even slightly naive, but strong-willed. Despite living on the road, her flaxen blonde hair was always tidy—swept in curls that fanned like feathers or hung straight around her shoulders. However, this time, Elizabeth's hair was ragged; frayed ends stuck out widely, matching the fear-charged electric shock in her watery green eyes. The change in her was unforgettable; she constantly looked over her shoulder as she passed a sound-asleep little girl through the doorway, along with the opal pendant that usually hung around her neck, apologizing for the intrusion and explaining tearfully the two-year-old child's birthday and name; Victoria, born March fifteenth, nineteen-eighty-one.
When asked what caused this, Elizabeth would only share that she needed someone she trusted to care for her baby girl because she could no longer. The couple had given up hunting and everything that came with it, but that night, Rose packed and placed a hex bag in each corner of every room for protection while Peter drew sigils behind paintings and under furniture and rugs. Rose thought it to have been some sort of manic episode, and she figured Elizabeth would return in a few days to retrieve her child, but days passed with no word. Although it terrified them, the couple couldn't simply pass Victoria along to someone else when Elizabeth entrusted them with her wellbeing, but the situation scraped at relatively fresh wounds. Like most other young couples, the Evans wanted to start a family but vowed not to while leading the lives they did. On a hunt that nearly cost Rose her life, they made the decision to stop.
It was bittersweet. Sometimes, Rose wondered if it was right to give up that life. They helped many people. Peter held no qualms. He couldn't risk her life again. He wouldn't. Eventually, his wife came to a conclusion—that was then, and this is now. It was their turn to be happy. Almost immediately, they tried for a baby. As a result, Rose suffered multiple losses. They both did. She'd resigned to never fulfilling her dream of being a mother until she looked into Victoria's bright eyes, and her entire world changed.
Surprisingly, today felt peaceful, unlike the others, but they couldn't pinpoint why. Perhaps it was because Victoria didn't wake up at three o'clock in the morning crying like she had been. For once, all three of them had gotten a good night's rest. Peter snuggled up behind Rose and kissed her shoulder as she stirred. They said their good mornings to each other and remained in bed for a few minutes, enjoying each other's presence before starting their day. While Peter got ready for work, Rose put her dark brown shoulder-length hair into a casual ponytail that hung loosely at the nape of her neck and dressed an uncharacteristically bubbly Victoria in a striped sweater and a pair of overalls. Despite everyone's collective happiness, as Rose ventured downstairs, she wondered whether or not the little girl in her arms felt at home. Just as she pondered that, Victoria snuggled closer and rested her head gently on Rose's shoulder, and a wave of calm took over. She knew she could never replace Victoria's birth mother, but she'd get as close as the tiny blonde allowed.
While Rose fixed breakfast, Victoria played animatedly on the kitchen floor with her toys. The phone rang when Peter, whose bedhead was now swooped in short dark brown waves, reached the bottom of the steps, still adjusting his tie. He froze, as did his wife. "Are you expecting a call?" she asked.
"No. are you?" he wondered.
Rose shook her head and took the pan filled with scrambled eggs from the stovetop. Peter crossed the room and plucked the receiver from the wall. "Hello?" Too far away, Rose couldn't make out the voice on the other end, but her husband's slack-jawed response made her spine straighten. "We're done with that, Missouri," Peter stated wearily.
Missouri? Rose thought. Missouri Mosley? They hadn't heard from her in months. She was a kind woman—trustworthy. The only person from their previous life they trusted enough to give their current phone number and address. She was among the few who brought good memories of their time as hunters.
"And who is this person?" Peter asked, motioning for Rose to give him a pen and paper. She took a notepad and pencil from the junk drawer and handed them over. Peter scribbled a name on the bright yellow paper—John Winchester. "What is his number?"
Missouri told him, and he jotted it down beside the name. Whatever she said next drained all the color from Peter's face. "I see," he mumbled, tapping the eraser end of the pencil on the paper. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll talk to Rose," he said and smiled after Missouri spoke. "I'll tell her. I hope we can talk again soon."
"What happened?" Rose asked no later than one second after her husband hung up. "Is she okay?"
Peter cleared his throat and leaned against the counter with a hesitant smile. "She's fine. Told me to tell you she misses your voice."
"That's sweet." Rose smiled, but it was strained. She was more concerned with the information passed and pointed to the note with the spatula. "Who is that?"
Peter didn't want to tell her the request Missouri made, but he resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to eventually. Might as well get it over with. "He got in contact with Missouri about a day ago. She wanted to know if we could talk to him. About… hunting," he said the word quietly as if it were a curse he didn't want to pierce Victoria's ears.
"Hunting?" Rose asked brazenly. The toaster popped, and the sudden sound made her jump. She turned to take out the bread and cursed under her breath at its nearly burnt state. "Why on earth would we do that?"
"Well, his wife just died. He believes it was something supernatural that caused it."
Rose sighed and rested her hands on the countertop. "Why?"
"I don't know. Missouri went to his house, where it happened—said she felt nothing but pure evil."
Those words were like a bucket of ice water poured over Rose's head. "We're done with all that."
"I know. We're not going back in, trust me," Peter reassured. "He wants to do it; he wants to know how."
"Why would I introduce someone to something we fought so hard to escape?" Rose smeared butter on the toast more aggressively than necessary, ripping holes in the fragile bread.
"Well, we wouldn't."
In her agitated state, she didn't notice his reply and kept going. "We don't even know this man, what his true intentions are–"
"Honey–"
"How could Missouri do this? She knows–"
"Rosie!" Peter spoke a bit louder to force her out of her own head. It worked. Rose finally noticed the tear in the piece of toast she continually scraped with a butter knife and set the silver utensil down. She released a calming breath. "I think we should invite him over to try and talk him out of it."
"I'll think about it." That's what she always said when she wanted a conversation to be over. She usually never again thought about whatever topic she dismissed. However, this time, she couldn't shake it.
They all ate breakfast and sent Peter off to work with hugs and kisses. Before their trip to the grocery store, Rose bundled Victoria in a snowsuit so stuffed with warm fluff that she could barely move. Perhaps Rose was overly cautious but wasn't about to risk this little girl getting sick. So, even if they'd only be gone an hour, Victoria was wearing it. Back home, after she put all the groceries away, Rose sat on the sofa with Victoria tucked into her side, thinking about how this was the most relaxed either of them had been in quite some time. Yet, even after leaving hunting, that insecurity still rested on the brunette's shoulders like a weight. She never thought it would go—and it probably wouldn't, not entirely—but it was lesser, and that's all she really could ask for.
And then she wondered, could she really sit idly by while someone else, stranger or not, ruined their life? Could she live with herself if she didn't at least try to intervene with this John Winchester person? No, she couldn't.
The two girls dosed off on the comfortable couch with the TV lulling in the background. Rose woke a few hours later, just in time to start dinner. Usually, when Peter returned, Victoria was reserved, but today, she bounced over to him and jumped in his arms. It surprised him, but he recovered quickly and scooped her up in a hug. After dinner and putting Victoria to bed, the couple returned downstairs and sat on the couch. "I thought about it," Rose said suddenly.
Peter's eyebrows flew up. "You did?" he asked, surprised.
"We should talk to him—that Winchester person. We need to."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. That life is too hard to get out of, and by the time he realizes it, it may be too late."
A proud smile tugged on the corner of Peter's lips. He knew she would make the right decision; she always did. "You're right."
"Oh, please," she waved him off, "Spare me."
Peter chuckled and leaned closer. "I love you."
Rose sighed, fighting a smile of her own. "I love you, too."
The following day, Peter called Missouri before work and told her to tell John Winchester he could stop by the next day after four p.m. Of course, Missouri knew they would say yes. Rose stood beside the phone this time to hear Missouri's response, not shocked at all when her feathery voice said, "Don't you just stand there eavesdroppin', Rosie, you say hi to me!"
Since their conversation continued longer than initially thought, Peter finished breakfast. This day went about the same as the one before. Rose tried to untie the knot in her stomach over their impending meeting with this mystery man. What would he be like? Grief-stricken, she was sure of that, at least. At four o'clock sharp, a black Chevy Impala pulled into the driveway. The driver turned off its roaring engine and stepped out. He was a tall, dark-haired man with shaded bags beneath his eyes and a scruffy beard. He wore a leather jacket over a wrinkled t-shirt and crumpled jeans. The man looked a mess, just like Rose had anticipated. What she didn't imagine in a million years, however, was him reaching into the backseat to pull out a young, caramel-color-haired boy and a car seat with a bundled baby inside. Peter stiffened beside his wife at the sight. He couldn't seem to pull air through the thump in his throat. It was suffocating him.
"Is this a joke?" Rose asked her husband.
"I sure hope so," he choked out.
"You're–?" she trailed off as the gruff man tentatively approached. Perhaps he took a wrong turn and needed directions. Whatever the case, Rose hoped he would say a different name from the one messily scribbled on the notepad in their kitchen.
"John Winchester," he finished, flashing a tired smile and releasing the toddler's grip to outstretch his hand. For once, Rose was rendered speechless. How could he hope to get involved with such brutality when he had kids?
"I'm Peter. This is my wife, Rose." Peter grasped John's hand in a hearty shake. How he kept his composure, Rose would never know. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." John extended his hand toward Rose. She wanted to cross her arms to avoid the interaction altogether, but her Mother taught her better than that, so she shook his hand.
"Let's get you out of the cold," her husband offered, opening their home to John and his children. "How was your drive?"
"Fine. Thank you."
Rose's jaw clenched at the free-flowing conversation until the little boy's footsteps crunching in the snow that had blown onto their patio took her out of the haze of disbelief she'd fallen into. Once inside, she crouched down in front of the timid child. "What's your name?" she asked. He clammed up, tucking his face into his jacket and slinking halfway behind his father's leg.
"That's Dean," John answered.
"Hi, Dean," Rose smiled and stood, not wanting to further his discomfort.
"He's been a little quiet since…" John wavered off in a similar fashion to his son, eyes glazing over. Finally, he cleared his throat, snapping back to reality, and lifted the baby carrier, saying, "And this is Sammy."
"We have a little girl, Victoria. She's around Dean's age," Peter announced. "They could meet if that's all right with you."
"Sure," John agreed happily. "It'll be good for him."
The couple led John and his boys into the living room, where Victoria sat in the middle of a large playpen, playing with a few of her toys. She looked up as they approached but didn't mind their presence, except when her eyes landed on Dean, and she smiled. John gently instructed his son to go ahead and play with her and lifted him inside. It was impossible for Rose not to notice how reserved and quiet this boy was, even with someone his age. He backed off into the corner of the playpen and stayed there. Despite her youth, Victoria caringly brought over a few toys before returning to her spot, somehow sensing she needed to give this shy child space.
"Can we get you anything?" Peter offered. "Coffee? Water?"
Rose scoffed internally. This man looked more like the type to take a glass of whiskey.
"Oh, no, that's okay," John declined, too proud to take anything, even a cup of coffee, from someone he didn't know. It was already difficult enough reaching out for help.
"Have they eaten?" Rose asked about the boys.
John furrowed his brow and puffed out his chest, offended by the assumption he wouldn't feed his children. "Of course."
"I'm just asking. I could make something."
"No, that's all right. Thank you."
"Let's discuss what you came here for in the kitchen," Peter said. With the lack of walls between the two rooms, they could keep an eye on the kids while ensuring they couldn't hear. It had taken some time, but Dean warmed up to Victoria and scooted closer to her, fidgeting with one of the toys. Despite his refusal, Peter poured John a cup of coffee. He took it black, just as Peter thought he would. They sat at the kitchen table, a still-sleeping Sam's carrier propped on one of the chairs, unaware of the catastrophe surrounding him. Dean, Rose noticed, seemed far less sheltered from the tragedy. She clasped her hands atop the table, telling herself to remain calm and let Peter take hold of the conversation. He was always more level-headed, anyway.
"What did Missouri tell you?" Peter asked, nursing his cup to keep his hands busy.
"About what's out there…" John chuckled humorlessly. "I don't even know if I believe it. I sure as hell wouldn't if I hadn't—" he stopped and swallowed hard.
Peter let John's words linger for a moment before talking again. "So, you know what we used to do?"
John shook his head no. "She only said you'd be able to help."
"I see. Well, do you mind if I ask what happened?"
He nodded once. "I do."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's not something I want to talk about."
"We can't help you unless we know."
"Listen, I don't know you–"
"And we don't know you," Rose interjected, unable to keep quiet. "Yet, here you are, sitting in our kitchen."
While John didn't appreciate her tone, he couldn't argue much. She was right. So whether or not he wanted to recount that night, he had to respect them enough to give a little. "I was asleep on the couch, didn't hear anyone come in. Mary screamed, and I ran upstairs," he swallowed his emotions, "and she was dead. On the ceiling. The whole room caught fire."
Rose shared a look with Peter. Nothing that she knew of did that, and neither did he. If they didn't know what John was up against, it was another reason for him not to delve further. It appeared far more dangerous than a routine hunt—as though there was such a thing as a routine hunt. "And you said you heard nothing?" Peter clarified.
"Nothing."
"You felt no cold spots or heard weird sounds in the middle of the night?"
"Other than my wife screaming bloody murder?" John spat and snapped his mouth shut. He looked apologetic and mumbled, "No. There's gotta be something you know that I don't."
"Why do you want to do this?" Rose wondered. She already knew the answer. It'd be the same as hers and every other hunter on the planet: revenge.
"That thing, whatever it was, killed my wife, the mother of my kids," John said tightly. His sorrow fastly twisted into anger. "I gotta find it."
"John, you should think about this," Peter implored.
"I have."
"I don't think so. Hunting is dangerous—" Peter began. Rose shot him a look as the word escaped his mouth, and he bit the inside of his lip in regret.
"Hunting?" John asked in slight disbelief.
"That's what it's called," Peter explained, too deep in to back out. "There are things out there—"
"I gathered one of them killed my wife!" he exclaimed.
Rose shushed him, eyes darting to the kids in the living room. Thankfully, they didn't seem to hear. "You don't know what you're up against," she said.
"But you do."
"We don't do that anymore," Peter stood his ground. "And for a good reason. You've got two little kids—"
"I can keep them safe."
"That's what everybody thinks. And at first, they're right. But then they get comfortable… they make mistakes."
"I won't," John insisted. His composure was a breaking dam held together by a bandaid. "Don't tell me not to do this."
"They need their father, John," Rose tried to reason with the bereaved man before her. Beneath his intensity, there seemed to be a well-intentioned person. She hoped to find him with her words. "You should focus on them, not this insane goal of revenge."
"Insane?" he scoffed.
"It's not? You have no idea what this life entails."
"You two seem to be doing well enough," he argued. Why were they trying so hard to discourage him? They just didn't understand; that was it. "I need to find this thing."
"You need to be a father."
"I can do both," John stated, not allowing her words to sink in.
"Can you?" she challenged. His ignorance was a match that lit a fuse in her, and she couldn't seem to stop the blunt way her words exited. "Really? When was the last time Dean ate a homecooked meal?"
John's fatigued eyes wrinkled. "I'm trying my best," he breathed tiredly. Since Mary died, he'd slept a handful of hours, unable to close his eyes without seeing—without feeling—the heat from the fire that consumed her. Even with that, he did the best he could; at least, that's what he told himself.
"Getting into this life would not be your best. Your best would be to take all of that resentment and throw it away. Your best would be to pour yourself into caring for those kids. They need you now more than ever."
Before John could speak, Peter played the middle ground. "I understand why you want to do this," he said. "We're just trying to make sure you understand what you're getting yourself into—"
"But it doesn't matter what you are getting into," Rose interrupted, jutting a finger on the table. "It matters what you're getting those babies into."
"I don't want to do this forever," John conceded. All he wanted—no, all he needed—was to put a bullet into whoever, or whatever, took Mary from him. The boys were young enough; he convinced himself they wouldn't remember any of it. "I just want to find whatever did this. And then, I'll be done."
"If you're so deadset–" Peter ripped a piece of paper from the notepad, and the pencil lying next to it and scribbled their number down, ignoring the glare from his wife as he passed it across the table. "Here. Call if you need anything."
Life after that dreary day went on as usual for the Evans. They celebrated the holiday by baking cookies and spending extra time together. Six more months had passed, and they had yet to hear a word from John Winchester. Missouri said the last she'd heard of him, he put the house up for sale and left Lawrence. Peter had hoped to get at least one call from him, if for nothing more than to know they were all right. Whether Rose wanted to or not, she often thought about that disgruntled man and his sons. She couldn't help but wonder where they were. A month later, the phone rang, and it was John. The Evans were both alleviated and uncertain about hearing from him. Why would he bother to check in now after all this time? To ask for advice on a hunt, of course. Still, relief charged through them so hard it nearly knocked them back. The boys were alive, at least.
Each time John announced that he had caught a hunt, Rose was appalled at the ease with which those words came from someone oblivious to this world a year prior. After that, these calls became routine. However, each conversation was cut shorter and shorter. Questions about the children were reduced to one-word answers. "How are the boys?" "Fine." Begrudgingly, when Peter wasn't home, Rose answered John's calls and told him what he needed to know. If she couldn't stop him, the least she could do was ensure he was safe and not going in blind. While she sympathized with his situation, it wasn't John that Rose fretted over; it was those kids. They weren't hers; perhaps it shouldn't bother her, but she couldn't rid herself of the pit in her stomach.
Nevertheless, the little girl that was hers was growing like a weed. Victoria's hair, which she refused to have cut, was flowing long and wavy and had settled from a bright blonde into a warm, sandy color. Her eyes, somehow, only got bluer by the day. It was impossible for Rose not to feel sadness at how quickly her daughter had changed in a matter of months.
The phone rang while Rose was busy baking a cake for Peter's birthday. She gently lifted Victoria from the stepstool so she wouldn't be concerned with her falling and crossed the kitchen to answer the call. The petite blonde looked at her flour-covered hands with mischief in her eyes, ready to smear it all over the dark wood cabinets, when her mother's voice scolded, "Don't you think about it!" from above.
Victoria peered from around the island and pouted. "Sorry, Mommy."
Rose barely hid her smile and plucked the receiver from its cradle. "Hello?"
"Rose?" a gruff voice barked through the static.
"Who is this?" she countered, all traces of amusement falling from her face.
"John Winchester," he said tiredly, voice becoming clearer.
For a moment, Rose held her breath. She certainly didn't relish these calls, forced to dig up memories she'd much rather suppress. "What do you need?"
"None of my usual contacts are available—"
"I thought you said you would stop hunting, John," Rose cut him off unabashedly. All of this had gone on far too long.
"Only when I'm finished," he replied staunchly. His tone was much different from how she remembered. He wasn't particularly friendly then, but even this short time spent hunting had eradicated nearly all traces of optimism. "I need a favor."
"John–"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't need to." John Winchester was a prideful man that much Rose gathered from their first and only in-person meeting to date. If he were asking for help, chances are he desperately needed it.
"What is it?" she relented, resting a hand on the counter to hold herself up.
"I'm about a day's drive out from New Harmony; I was wondering if you and Peter wouldn't mind me dropping off the boys for a day or two?" he asked and was met with silence. Rose nearly swallowed her tongue at the proposition. Perhaps she should have hung up and called Peter, but she already knew his answer, in a heartbeat, would be yes. So, that's what she did. In spite of the nagging feeling at the back of her mind telling her to stay out of it, she said yes. John thanked her and hung up. Rose put the phone back on the wall with a weighted sigh and rubbed her temples to clear her head so she could finish the cake without alerting Victoria to anything amiss.
When Victoria smeared strawberry frosting all over her face, Rose forgot all her troubles, unable to fight her joy at watching this little girl giggle so hard her entire body shook. After Peter arrived, the table was set with his favorite meal. Rose put off telling him about the Winchesters' impending arrival until after they ate. They gave him his present that Victoria insisted on helping wrap, along with the card she drew. Half of the wrapping paper was hanging open, and most of the card was filled with scribbles, but the blonde was thrilled with her work, and her father couldn't have been more proud.
Much like their last conversation about John happened after Rose put Victoria to bed, they sat on the couch, sharing another slice of cake when she decided to inform him, "John Winchester called."
"He did?" Peter asked, perking up. First and foremost, he was surprised. But then, worry flashed in his dark eyes as he ran through every horrible scenario possible. "Why?"
"He wanted to know if we could watch his boys for a couple of days."
Thank God they were all right, was all he could think, quickly followed by the hope his wife agreed. "And you said…?"
"Yes, of course. How could I say no?" She put the plate with the half-eaten slice of cake down on the coffee table. "I don't know where they would end up if I didn't."
Peter figured her correct; who knows what they've gone through since they'd seen them last. "Well, I should get the spare room ready. When will they be here?"
"Tomorrow."
The next day came in the blink of an eye. Peter had spent much of the night preparing the extra bedroom for the boys. Finally, at two PM, exactly twenty-four hours after the call from John, he arrived in the driveway. Rose cringed at the sound of the engine charging down their otherwise quiet street, only releasing her frown when it cut off. A knock on their door was abrupt and shook the stained-red wood. Even Peter rolled his eyes at that one. Upon opening it, Rose first noticed how big Sam had gotten. He was now the same age as Victoria the last time they'd met and big enough to be propped on John's hip. His bangs hung into his eyes, and his thumb was planted in his mouth. Dean was no longer holding his father's hand; he stood beside him on his own, spine straight and shoulders squared. Rose quickly did the math; he was only six, but his eyes appeared much older.
"Thanks for this," John uttered painfully like it was challenging to say the words in person.
"Of course." Peter took a bag from him, presumably of the boys' belongings. "Anytime."
"All right, Sammy." John placed his youngest down and patted his back to get him to walk inside. "Go ahead."
"Would you like to stay for a bit?" Rose offered. She didn't want the boys to feel like they were being dumped.
"No," John declined. "I have to get going."
"You're sure?" Peter asked.
"I'm sure," he confirmed and tapped the shoulder of the little boy beside him. "Go in, Dean."
On heavy legs, Dean trudged inside and stood beside Sam, and John returned to that obnoxious car, announcing, "I'll call when I'm done."
Knowing they most likely wouldn't remember their last meeting, Rose and Peter introduce the kids again. Four-year-old Victoria didn't recognize the children in her home, but it didn't matter. She was excited to see them all the same. Sam's hands were mainly stationed in his mouth. Dean watched him like a hawk, only taking his eyes away when he needed to blink. Sam was his brother's shadow. Whenever Dean moved, so did he. Even if it was the slightest change in posture, Sam copied him, so they both ended up stationary. Peter asked if they wanted anything, but they refused. He didn't expect them to be lively by any means but perhaps a bit more animated than this.
After the boys remained unmoving for so long, Victoria decided to climb up on the couch and plonk between them like she'd been doing it forever. "Hi," she smiled widely, swinging her feet that dangled over the cushions.
"Hi," Dean replied timidly. Something about her, whether their closeness in age or her sun-like spirit, made him more comfortable. Victoria wasted no time talking about her latest obsession, the stuffed white bunny she received as a gift for her birthday. Eventually, she got Dean talking about things he liked as well. Sam interjected with some of the few words he knew, but neither of the older kids minded and included him. When their conversation quieted down, it wasn't due to discomfort. In fact, this was practically the most comfortable the boys had felt in some time. Dean didn't quite know what to do with that. However, he did know that his stomach began grumbling when he smelled the food being prepared in the kitchen.
Rose cooked a larger dinner than usual, ensuring she had enough to feed two extra mouths. Peter retrieved Victoria's old high chair from the garage and set it at the table for Sam. When the time came, Dean clasped his baby brother's hand and followed Rose to the dining room. Dean was weary; he couldn't remember the last time he sat at a large dinner table. He didn't want to do something wrong. You'd think he'd have been used to it by now, being in a new place. It wasn't easy, but he had to be strong for Sam.
"Come on, honey, hike up here." Rose smiled warmly, patting the dining chair's cushion. Her gentle voice was a comfort Dean had gone a long time without.
Once the sandy-haired boy reached his third plate of food, Rose was glad she had made extra. He seemed to be a bottomless pit. Sam, on the other hand, could barely finish one serving. Like always, Victoria ate everything on her plate but didn't ask for more. Wanting the kids to feel as welcomed as possible, Rose made sundaes and allowed them to eat the dessert on the couch. Although he tried hard to stay awake, Dean's eyes started drifting shut. Usually, he found it difficult to sleep in unfamiliar spaces, but he couldn't fight his heavy eyelids. Eventually, the adults in the house announced it was time for bed. Rose put Victoria into her pajamas and tucked her in, reading her a quick bedtime story before kissing her goodnight. Peter was about to assist Sam in getting ready for bed, but Dean was adamant that he could do it, so Peter let him. Rose left the light on when she exited the blush-pink bedroom so her husband could say goodnight to their daughter and crossed the hall to the spare bedroom now occupied by the Winchesters.
"Can I get you boys anything?" she asked from the doorway.
"No thanks," Dean said politely.
"If you need us, we're just down the hall, okay?"
"Okay."
"Goodnight," she smiled, shut the light, and backed from the room. Fabric rustled on the other side of the door. Rose halted and peered back inside, finding Dean beside Sam's bed.
"Night, Sammy," he smiled at his fast-asleep baby brother, bending down to kiss his forehead. It was clear to her that Dean, even at his young age, was Sam's primary caretaker. Their bond was substantial, strengthened by shared trauma, but more importantly, love. There was plenty of time today that she caught Dean looking unsure until Sam started watching him. It was almost a knee-jerk reaction, how he tightened up and put on a brave face. Rose waited for Dean to return to his bed before slipping away. When she finally laid down, it hit her how exhausted she was. She and her husband fell asleep in no time.
After the first few days of cautiousness, the boys came out of their shells considerably. A couple of days out of the week, Rose brought them to a local playground. They spent hours together and never seemed tired of each other's presence. Whether it was due to Dean's age, his shyness, or just because he liked how easily it rolled off his tongue, he called Victoria Tor. Things like that made Rose realize how easily the boys blended into their lives. You couldn't tell who was meant to be there temporarily and who wasn't. Rose was happy with her life and small family, but she did enjoy the extra giggles and pitter-patter of feet. Rather than stressful, Peter found it relaxing to come home to a packed house. It was something he'd always dreamed of, anyhow.
When the time came to say goodbye, Rose didn't want to let the boys go, and Peter made it a point to tell John to bring them back soon. The cryptic man only nodded and corralled his sons into the noisy Impala. Before he got in, Dean waved goodbye, and Sam copied. Victoria waved enthusiastically. Not even thirty seconds after they disappeared down the road, she asked when they were coming back.
It turned out that the Evans wouldn't see the Winchesters for quite some time. John called for advice less and less, having made other connections in the hunting realm and beginning to pave his own way. Peter got a new job, and Victoria started kindergarten. The Evans celebrated the New Year by barbecuing. Peter wasn't the best cook—something his wife playfully teased him about—but he could get by making burgers and hot dogs on the grill. Rose baked far too many desserts for the occasion, but she needed something to preoccupy her thoughts. Victoria spent a good amount of time playing with sparklers. Something about the crackle, the smell of smoke, and how the tiny embers exploded and vanished into thin air before hitting the ground fascinated her.
Sometimes, when she was home alone, Rose felt swallowed by the empty space and wished for something to fill it. It would be nice for Victoria to have a sibling, but it was out of the cards. She'd tried and failed too many times to attempt it again. By the time her family was home, Rose tried to hide her sadness, but Peter saw straight through her. He never mentioned it, though. Talking about it would only hurt her.
About four months later, they received an out-of-the-blue call from John asking if he could bring the boys to stay for a couple of days. For him, that meant a week, if not more. Peter didn't want to put extra weight on his wife's shoulders without asking, so he held the receiver loosely and quietly asked Rose for her opinion. Her heart leaped at the idea, to her surprise, and Rose agreed. Though they were hazy, Victoria held memories of the two boys who spent a week and a half at her house months ago, only to leave and never return. She was excited to see them again, and when the day came, she bounded to the door and waited for her Mom to open it. As Dean got out of the car, his hair shorter and a darker shade, Rose took note of how much he had grown, now towering over his little brother. On the other hand, Sam didn't appear to change much. His hair was still shaggy and hanging in his eyes. When their father exited the car, Victoria gave him a small smile. It was infectious, but John struggled to reciprocate. Still, he tried, and that seemed enough for the little girl.
"Hi, boys," Rose addressed them happily.
"Hi, Mrs. Evans," Dean replied, hiking a bag onto his shoulder. Sam took a smaller version of the duffle and attempted to do the same but nearly dropped it. Sam still looked at his big brother like he held the entire world on his shoulders. And perhaps he did.
Rose allowed her folded arms to loosen. "You coming in, John?"
"I gotta get going," he said, remaining by the car. Dean nearly passed by until John barked his name, and he turned at attention. "You be good, all right?"
Dean nodded curtly. "Yes, sir." Sir? Rose's eyebrows flew up without her permission. She put her tongue between her teeth and bit down. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep her mouth shut.
"See you soon," John added, pulling Dean in for a tight hug.
"Bye, Daddy!" Sam beamed, still struggling to hold his bag as he reached for a hug from his father. John bent down, squeezing his youngest son in his arms. But, even with the hugs, their goodbyes were short. Rose couldn't imagine taking so little time to say goodbye to her daughter, especially not with the possibility of being unable to return for her for so prevalent.
"Come on, Sammy." Dean gently moved him away from the car as their father pulled out of the driveway.
"Hi, Sam!" Victoria chirped and bounded over to hug him. Sam returned the embrace happily, but when the blonde got to Dean, he seemed much less enthusiastic about the whole thing. He wanted to be just as excitable as his brother but didn't allow himself. Something deep inside told him that he could very easily get attached to this girl and her family, and getting that close to people was a big no-no. Dean had learned that early on. Victoria noticed his trepidation and clasped her hands in front of her, rocking back and forth on her feet. "Hi, Dean."
"Hey, Tor," he said, his nickname for her leaving his mouth easily. Time had passed, but he couldn't forget it. Victoria smiled brightly, hearing it. He was the only one who called her that.
"You boys hungry?" Rose asked. "I can whip up some sandwiches."
Dean thought about it for a moment, then nodded enthusiastically. Victoria stayed alongside them as they went upstairs to drop off their bags. Dean sat on the edge of the couch in the living room, watching the two younger kids dig through Victoria's toybox. He was too old for that, he decided. That was little kid stuff. Sam reached for Victoria's favorite stuffed bunny, and seeing how happy it made him, she didn't put up a fuss over it.
Having a sneaking suspicion they'd be hungry, Rose made extra sandwiches. She was right; Dean ate two, and Sam had one and a half. Rose inspected them a bit closer from her spot at the head of the table. The boys didn't appear malnourished, and they had no cuts or bruises. Not even scrapes. At least he hasn't taken them hunting, she thought. While she cleaned up the kitchen, Rose instructed the kids to bundle up and go outside to play on the new swingset they purchased. She watched from the window as her daughter helped Dean lift Sam into the toddler swing. Victoria sat and kicked her feet high, giggling as she swayed. Instead of taking his own seat, Dean remained behind Sam and pushed his swing. He didn't look like he knew how to be a kid. Rose supposed he never was.
Later that night, Peter arrived home and happily greeted everyone. When dinner was nearly ready, Dean offered to help Rose set the table. Despite the archaic way his father acted, he was a polite little boy—she hoped he stayed that way and didn't become influenced by the brash world he had no choice but to live in. The two didn't say much to each other, but neither minded, and they finished in no time.
"So, Dean, what have you been up to since last I saw you?" Peter asked, cutting into his steak. The question was posed as a joke, but it lingered in his mind since they agreed to watch the boys again. He wanted a genuine answer.
"Um…" Dean shrugged and took a sip of water to both wash down the food in his mouth and stall. John knew Rose and Peter wanted their daughter kept from hunting. He gave his son very clear instructions. 'Mr. and Mrs. Evans knew what they did, but Victoria did not. And she, under no circumstances, could find out,' so Dean had to be careful with what he said. "Nothing, really. It's just school stuff. I have some homework."
Peter smiled. "If you need some help, I'll be happy to."
Dean was taken aback by the sincere interest in the man's dark eyes. "Thanks," he muttered and stuffed a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth to avoid more talking.
A week and a half had flown by, and John was currently on his way back to pick up the boys. Rather unusually, he kept in heavy contact with the Evans, practically letting them know his every move. With a sigh, Dean set his and Sam's duffel bags by the door. Being here, he let his guard down. He didn't feel he had to triple-check any doors or locks or look over his shoulder. He liked it… a lot. More than he should; he knew that much.
"You'll come back soon, right?" Victoria asked, her hopeful eyes shining an electric blue.
"Yeah, sure," Dean reassured, though he didn't know if it was true. He knew better than to get his hopes up too high. When the Impala's engine revved in the driveway, Rose begrudgingly ushered the children outside. John grumpily stepped from the equally dreary car with a fresh cut on his face. It was barely bandaged, and blood was soaking through. Although he downed six pills, his head still pounded from getting knocked into a wall. Dean immediately grew concerned when he saw the state his father was in. "Are you okay, Dad?"
"Yeah, I'm all right, bud," John replied, patting his son's shoulder. He met Rose's eyes. "Did they behave?"
"They were angels," she declared. It was nothing but the truth.
"Good. Take your brother to the car, Dean," John instructed.
"Yes, sir," Dean replied like a soldier, leading Sam away. Rose and Victoria watched all three Winchesters pile into the Impala and drive off. However, this time, Dean didn't take his eyes off the house until trees blocked his way, and he could no longer see it.
Months passed, and life went on as normal. Well, as normal as the lives of a hunter's children could be. Since he turned eight, John decided Dean was old enough to watch Sam while he went on hunts, so long as it was an easy job that didn't require him to stay away from the motel for more than a day at a time. Anything he deemed too much, or if he were in the vicinity, they'd be left in the care of a hunter-turned-pastor named Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer, another fellow hunter who had taken John under his wing after a rough hunt in South Dakota. He was only four years older and hadn't been hunting much longer, but he knew more—a lot more. The man was nearly a walking encyclopedia. On the rare occasion John couldn't figure something out himself and couldn't get in contact with Bobby, he would call the Evans.
Chasing down a job in the midwest meant he was once again close to New Harmony. John had barely gotten the opportunity to put gas in the car, let alone get a motel room, so he found a payphone and dialed a number he filed along with the other important ones. This time, Rose answered. "Hello?"
"It's John. Look, I'm in a tough spot, and–"
"You can bring them whenever," she interrupted, already knowing his question. Her willingness took John aback.
"Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."
"Well, that's new," Rose quipped, and John sneered. "Really. Whenever," she repeated. "We'd love to have them."
When John informed the boys they'd be staying with the Evans, they were exceptionally excited by the news. It'd been months since they were last there. They liked Pastor Jim, but he couldn't cook, and all his furniture was lumpy. And they adored their Uncle Bobby but didn't get to see him much, either. Not to mention, it'd been some time since they had a hot meal that didn't come from a gas station. Most importantly, they missed the Evans and the comfort being with them brought.
For a brief moment, when Rose exited her Halloween-decorated house to greet them, John thought of his own wife. They weren't all that similar, but he knew Mary would have liked her. They would've been friends, and the thought made him want to peel out of the driveway. Everyone missed out, and that's why he needed to keep going. He couldn't rest until whatever killed her suffered the same—if not worse—fate.
During this visit, there was barely any warming-up period. Sam and Dean were already comfortable in the Evans' home, and being here was like breathing. On the first night, the kids had fallen asleep on the couch. Instead of waking them up or moving them, Rose and Peter decided to leave them there and draped a large fluffy blanket over them. They woke up the next morning to the smell of pancakes and groggily stumbled into the kitchen. One night during the week, they visited a local fair. The kids won a goldfish they named "Ozzy" upon Dean's insistence. They didn't stop talking about the fun they had for days afterward. John came to retrieve them two weeks later. It was the longest they'd spent so far, but none of them complained.
There hadn't been a peep from John for four months when a knock sounded on the door. Peter answered, shocked to find the Winchesters on the other side. He welcomed them in, and for the first time in years, John entered. He didn't stay long, but the ever-positive Peter felt it was progress, anyhow. After about a week, Rose and Peter assembled a big collective party for all three kids. Being her cynical self, Rose was sure Sam and Dean had barely ever celebrated. And she was right. John got something small for the kids whenever their birthdays rolled around, but he was sometimes too overtaken with hunting to remember until the day of. So, for the first time, the boys had a real birthday party. Dean would lie through his teeth if someone asked if that had made him emotional. When the time came for John to retrieve them, Dean didn't wait by the door for their father to arrive. Instead, he sat on the couch with Victoria and Sam and soaked up every last second he could of whatever this feeling was.
"Why do you always have to leave?" Victoria wondered out of the blue. She never entirely understood why they'd come and go the way they did. The boys seemed to get whisked away by the time they started having fun.
Of course, Dean couldn't tell her what his Dad did; he didn't want to. She shouldn't know. "We just do," he replied.
"Is it bad?" she asked far too perspective for someone her age.
Dean shook his head no. "My Dad helps people. It's good, actually."
"Then, if it's good, why can't you tell me?"
"Because I just can't, Tor."
Victoria rolled her eyes and sank back onto the couch. "I'll find out."
"No," he chuckled, "you won't."
"Yes, I will," she argued, sitting up petulantly. "Eventually."
Dean couldn't help but smile. "Sure," he retorted sarcastically.
In the kitchen, Rose packed multiple slices of vanilla and chocolate cake and cherry pie—the same desserts they had last night—into a Tupperware container and snapped the lid shut. She didn't want the boys to leave without more of it and thought it would be some kind of peace offering. Maybe if their father felt included, he'd be more inclined to bring Sam and Dean back. They seemed happy here. When John arrived and piled out of the car, Rose closed the space between them to hand over the container. "What's this?" he asked, peering into the clear plastic.
"We had a birthday party for the kids last night; I hope that's all right?" Rose challenged subtly.
Deep in his stomach, John felt a twinge of anger. Not because Rose and Peter had done something nice for his kids. On the contrary, he was grateful for it. He was frustrated with himself. It was something he should've done but couldn't. "You didn't have to do that," was all he could get out.
"Yes, we did," she argued gently. Why shouldn't they get to celebrate their birthdays?
"It was awesome," Dean beamed.
Rose witnessed a rare, sweet interaction between the two when John cracked a smile at his son. "Yeah? The pie was yours, huh?" he asked.
Dean chuckled and nodded. After a few beats of inconsequential small talk, John told Dean to get Sam into the car, but before the boy went, he turned back to say goodbye to Rose and then Victoria. Unlike before, there was hope in his heart that it wouldn't be the last time he saw them. The blonde smiled to hide the somber mood creeping into her chest. She didn't want either of them to go. In her mind, there was no reason they couldn't say. Still, she and Sam shared a goodbye hug, and they left.
Despite being psychically absent for five months, John called the Evans to check in periodically. He even let the kids talk to each other over the phone a couple of times. "The dessert worked," Rose joked to Peter one night about the stacks of cake and pie she sent the Winchesters off with in hopes John would allow them to remain in each other's lives. One day, he casually said he'd drop them off if that were okay. Rose went grocery shopping to stock up on the items the kids gravitated toward and arrived home in time to find John in the driveway. Each time, she'd silently inspect the boys for anything amiss. There was never anything besides the usual scrapes children accumulate. This time, however, her heart plummeted when she saw a large bandage wrapped multiple times around Sam's tiny hand. John didn't say much either, not even bothering to get out of the car.
While Sam colored at the kitchen table, Dean and Victoria helped Rose put away the groceries. The brunette was nearly sweating from the stressful thoughts littering her mind. What could've possibly happened to warrant that bandage? She wanted to know; she had to know. Expressing her concern to her husband over the phone, Peter asked her to wait for him to arrive. It was difficult, but she obliged. Rose felt bad for the pressure she was about to put on the dewy-eyed child sitting alone on their couch. Shooing Victoria away from Dean was a challenge in itself, but thankfully Peter was able to coax her and Sam outside. Rose sat on the opposite end of the couch, ensuring she left enough room between her and Dean. He wasn't very clingy, and she didn't want to make him uneasy. "Honey, what happened to Sam's hand?" she asked gently.
Immediately, the golden brown-haired boy clammed up, suddenly becoming very interested in his bootlaces. "Nothing."
"It's no big deal. I just want to know. I'm sure that bandage needs to be changed."
"I got it covered."
Rose sighed, "I know. But I can help you with it."
"Dad doesn't want me to say," Dean eventually uttered.
Heat flowed through Rose head-to-toe, but somehow, she hid her aggravation. "Dean, you can tell me; it's okay."
"It's my fault," he mumbled, glancing up at her for a split second before returning to his feet.
"Why do you think that?"
"I left a hunting knife on the table, and Sam grabbed it."
"Where was your father?"
"Out. It was my fault." This wasn't a child simply reciting something told to him. Dean was matter-of-fact and believed every word, which only served to anger Rose more. Nearly every fiber of her being wanted to call that man and rip him to shreds. She didn't because she knew he'd show up on their doorstep and take the boys. They needed a break, even if only for a few days.
With the kids—and her husband—preoccupied with some cartoon, ironically enough about monsters and a talking dog, Rose retreated to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. One quickly turned to three. Even on her most demanding day of hunting, alcohol wasn't the answer. Regardless, this situation was worth turning to a bottle. Peter entered to refill Victoria's cup of water, pausing halfway to the refrigerator. It wasn't difficult to sense his wife's anger; it dripped from her pores. "What's the problem?" he asked.
She downed the wine in one gulp. "John Winchester," she spat.
"Did he call?"
"No. Dean told me why Sam's hand is bandaged." She pressed the rim of the wine glass against her lips to stifle her aggravation. Peter patiently awaited the answer. If she was this angry, he knew it wasn't good. "He said he left a knife out, and Sam got a hold of it," Rose explained. "He blames himself; can you believe that? He's eight. He shouldn't even have a knife, let alone think it's his responsibility when something goes wrong."
"Why on earth would he have a knife?" Peter pondered. Never, in a million years, would he think of giving one to their daughter. At least, not until she was a teenager and could adequately learn how to use it for defense and keep it safe. "Did you tell him it wasn't?"
"Of course I did. But he didn't want to hear it." Rose crossed her arms but still cradled the glass in her hand. She tapped her toe on the tile floor. "His father blamed him; I just know it."
"Sweetheart, Dean is very protective of Sam. It wouldn't matter what anybody said. He'd blame himself anyhow."
"You can't seriously believe that, Peter."
"I do."
"You didn't see his face; he looked terrified." Rose poured more wine. "They're staying here," she decided.
Peter's eyebrows shot up. "We can't take his kids."
Rose released a shaky breath. "We need to do something."
"We will." Peter put Victoria's cup down to reassuringly hold the tops of his wife's arms. "When he comes to pick them up, we'll sit down and have a civilized conversation."
"Civilized?" Rose scoffed. "With John Winchester? Am I the one drinking, or are you?" she asked. Although she knew it was hopeless, his words diminished her anger. He had a way of doing that.
Peter chuckled, then turned serious. "We'll get it all figured out. I promise."
"Daddy!" Victoria called from the living room.
"Go," Rose smiled, pushing his chest gently. Peter bent down to kiss her, breaking away much sooner than he'd have liked to refill his daughter's drink and return it to her. He settled on the armchair beside the couch all the kids were piled upon. Always finding the good in people, Peter believed a portion of John that would do anything to keep his children safe and cared for. But then his eyes focused on Sam's bandage, and those hopes washed away. Peter understood all too well the break that occurred when you lost someone to tragedy, but it was no excuse for how these kids were living.
Just before bed, Peter and Rose persuaded the boys to allow them to check Sam's wound. The gash in his small palm wasn't very long, but it was fairly deep, and Peter, who typically remained collected, felt an overwhelming sense of outrage. There was no place for a child in the world John had jumped headfirst in. There had never been; there never would be.
About a week turned into almost four with barely a peep from the boys' father. That wasn't something he usually did, and at this point, Rose assumed something had happened. No child should lose a parent, especially the only one they have left. And certainly not today. Because when Rose awoke and looked at the calendar, she took a moment of silence. November second. She didn't know Mary Winchester, but being around her children, she felt a small connection—enough of one that her heart ached for their mother. If the boys were upset, they didn't show it. While dinner was cooking, the kids played in the backyard. this time, they each sat in their own seat on the swing set, talking animatedly. Rose couldn't help but smile, wondering what their conversation entailed. Any sense of lightheartedness crashed around her when an engine revved outside their home. Rose recognized the sound immediately. John and that obnoxious car of his, she thought angrily, tossing down the dishrag she was drying her hands with. She and Peter were supposed to speak to him together, but it didn't look to be going that way. Her husband wouldn't arrive for another half hour.
Long before John reached their porch, Rose was at the door. "Nice to hear from you," she said, attempting to reign her cynical tone.
"I couldn't get to a phone," he replied nonchalantly.
"You have our pager," she reminded him.
John froze on the bottom step. "I forgot."
Internally, she sneered; externally, she kept her composure. "Peter will be home soon. We were just about to have dinner. Pot roast. You're welcome to join."
"Can't."
"Can't?" Rose repeated incredulously. Her cool facade was melting fast.
"We have to get going."
"John, don't be ridiculous. Let the boys eat first."
"I'll get them something on the way."
Rose scoffed out a laugh. "Food from a gas station is not a meal." She was trying to be cordial for the benefit of Sam and Dean. John had no idea the power it took for her to speak this nicely to him.
"Where are they?" he asked, about to push inside.
"In the backyard." Rose held up a hand to stop him, shutting the door and stepping onto the porch. She attempted to devise a decent approach to the subject, finally landing on one. "John, listen. Let them stay a little longer."
"What?" he barked.
"Victoria lights up whenever they come over, you know. They all do when they see each other. It makes them happy."
John at least had the decency to look a bit regretful. "No, I can't do that."
"What's so important?"
"They're my kids. I won't just abandon them," John said haughtily, as though he was Father of the Year.
Maybe you should, she thought, thankfully catching herself before the words left her lips. Rose pulled in a breath that she released as she spoke, "We have to talk."
"We do?"
"Yes, John, we do. Sam and Dean, they can't go on like this."
"Like what?"
Rose slumped. "Running around without a home. Using Dean as a babysitter when he still needs one himself." The list could go on, but she stopped herself. "Sam got hurt–"
John's irritation flared. "Did Dean tell you?"
"When I asked him to, yes. He blames himself; do you know that?"
"It was his knife."
Despite the temperamental man towering over her, Rose was unafraid to speak her mind. "Do you hear yourself? You're blaming a child. You're the goddamn adult; take some responsibility!"
"Don't tell me how to handle my children. I'm their father–!"
"Then act like it!" Rose demanded heatedly.
Turing fast on his heel, John stomped down the steps, heading for the backyard, yelling, "Boys!" There was no doubt in Rose's mind his mood was affected by the date. She realized she'd gone too far and quickly followed, calling for him to stop, to no avail. John swung the gate open, startling the kids.
Dean jumped out of his skin but smiled upon seeing his father. "Dad?"
"We're leaving," John announced, unmoved by his son's joy. Victoria tentatively hopped off the swing, looking to her mother for an answer. Rose looked away, unable to take the confused disappointment in her daughter's eyes. Victoria knew the boys couldn't stay; they never did, but it'd been so long now, in her mind, they had endless time.
"Why?" Sam inquired, clutching the swing's chains tightly. He didn't want to go; that much was obvious.
John's teeth clamped. "Because I said so."
"Come on, Sammy," Dean coaxed his brother off the swing because he was the only one who could.
"Go inside and get your things," John demanded of the boys. Dean squared his shoulders and nodded once. Gone was the carefree child he'd been moments ago, replaced with a soldier. He took a reluctant Sam by the arm to lead him into the house. Victoria followed after the boys. She stopped and lingered in the doorway, catching John's irritable eyes with her uncertain ones, and his expression softened, if only for a moment, until she left his view.
"Please, think about this," Rose whispered after the kids disappeared inside. There were tears in her deep eyes; this was a side of Rose that John had never seen before—vulnerable. Somewhere deep inside, he contemplated this decision. He knew they would be better off here. But his ego pushed those fragile thoughts away. Ultimately, it didn't matter. He'd made up his mind.
"I've thought about it," he said coldly. It was a mistake, and he knew that. But he'd dug himself too deep now to go back; he'd look foolish—more than he already did.
Rose wasn't one to grovel, but these kids deserved any chance she could get. "Whatever happened before, it's not their fault," she pleaded.
John knew what she meant. But, of course, it wasn't Sam and Dean's fault… is that what he was doing, blaming them? No. That's not it. He needed this; they all did. Once that thing paid for what it did, they could return to how they were before. "I'm doing this for them."
Rose continued through gritted teeth to hold back her escalating emotions. "We both know that's a lie. John, they deserve a good life."
"And I can't give that to them?"
"Not right now, you can't. Please," Rose tried again, but he wouldn't budge, and she saw red. "You know, Peter thinks you're a good person deep down. I think I did, too, once. If that's true, you'll regret this. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But someday, you will. You'll see what you've done to them, to yourself. But by then, it'll be too late, John."
The dark-haired man tried to shake off her words, knowing he couldn't allow them to sink because of the truthful weight they held.
Inside the house, Dean was gathering their things while Sam sat on the edge of the bed, too upset to pack. Every time Victoria saw the boy's father, his intimidating presence made her a little nervous. He wasn't very welcoming, but this was a different side of him. It scared her. She had no clue how Dean or Sam were so unphased by it all. "Are you okay, Dean?" Victoria asked, her voice small.
"I'm fine," he replied stoically.
"You don't seem fine."
"I am, Tor. We just gotta go. It's the same thing."
Victoria timidly played with the edge of her shirt. "I wish you could stay." Her words caught Dean off-guard, but the emotion in her wide, sapphire eyes really took him by surprise.
"Me too," he admitted quietly, afraid his father would hear if he spoke above a whisper.
If they were going to leave again, this time, Victoria wouldn't let them go without something to remember her by, and she knew exactly what. "Wait here," she told the boys before leaving for her room. Knowing how much Dean loved music, she reached into the jewelry box on her dresser and took out the necklace given to her by her parents for her birthday, adorned with two silver musical notes that connected to each other with magnets. Since she'd taken a newfound interest in music over the last year, Rose and Peter thought it to be the perfect gift. Now, Victoria took one of the notes for Dean and placed the other back into the box with the chain. For Sam, she plucked the stuffed bunny he always loved from her bed and brought both items back into the boy's room, holding them out to the Winchesters.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked, looking at the charm like it was about to bite him.
"Take these," she insisted, pushing them closer.
Tentatively, Sam took the bunny from her. "Are you sure?" he asked in a small voice.
"Yes, I'm sure." Victoria smiled. When Dean didn't take the musical note, Victoria opened his hand and placed it on his palm. "I don't want you to forget me."
Knowing his voice would crack if he spoke, Dean just nodded and stuffed the charm into his back pocket. It felt heavy, like a brick filled with dismay. Instead of bounding down the steps, the kids ambled. The sound of the back door opening forced attention from Rose and John's heated conversation to the kids exiting the home. Dean held two packed bags, one for him and one for his brother. It was the most drawn-in Rose had seen Dean—like he was doing his best not to focus on reality. Sam was pouty, arms folded across his chest tightly. Leading up the back of their line, Victoria was crestfallen.
"Let's go," John urged, heading for the gate.
"At least let them say goodbye," Rose implored with disgust.
"Make it quick," he ordered his boys, though his tone was much softer than before. He wasn't stupid; he saw their sadness, but finishing what he set out to do—fixing his family—was more important. They were tough, and they'd be all right.
Victoria wasted no time hugging Sam, and he squeezed her just as hard without hesitation. Dean was nervous watching them, kicking the toe of his boot into the ground. He should be used to goodbyes, but he'd never been all that good with them. And this one was especially tough, though he wasn't really sure why. Victoria didn't mind his weariness, and she knew if she waited for him, she'd be waiting forever, so for the first time, she hugged him. It took Dean a moment, but eventually, he wrapped his arms around her small frame. He didn't hold her too tightly, though. If he did, he'd never rid himself of the memory; he couldn't live with that. Like always, Victoria watched the black car pull out of their driveway and down the road until it disappeared. Tears filled her eyes without her realizing it until they rolled down her face. Somehow, deep down inside, she knew this was the last time. Rose blamed herself, and no convincing from her husband could persuade her. If she hadn't opened her mouth when she did, if she had waited for Peter, perhaps things would have gone differently.
Over the next two years, not a day went by that Rose didn't worry about those kids. Victoria asked every day when the boys would be coming back, and her parents never quite knew how to tell her the truth. Eventually, she stopped asking. She got the hint. They wouldn't.
Early one summer morning, Victoria was cleaning her room when a Polaroid fluttered from the disturbed clutter atop her desk and landed photo-side down on the carpet. She picked it up and turned it over. A bittersweet smile stretched across her lips. On the day it was taken, her parents had decided that a celebration was in order. She'd overheard them talking about how "those boys don't even get to celebrate their birthdays." Victoria thought it was sad then, but the idea didn't linger. She and Sam were playing a board game, and she got distracted. Now, at twelve years old, she realized how miserable that was, and she understood why her parents insisted on throwing a collective party. She remembered how when her Mom made her favorite chocolate cake and Sam's favorite—vanilla, Dean asked for a cherry pie, which the blonde thought odd. But he was so happy, she didn't care. Victoria didn't know why she liked to see him smile so much, just that she did. And when her Dad snapped that picture, it was the widest she'd ever seen Dean's grin stretch from ear to ear.
Looking at it now, even years later, filled her heart with joy. Victoria almost thought she'd made those two boys up, but this was physical proof of them in the best form possible—something she could cherish. Careful not to touch the tacky surface so no fingerprints would mark the only photograph she had of them, Victoria blinked away unshed emotions and pinned the photo to the corkboard above her desk.
A little more backstory ;)
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