Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (Chapter 3/?)
Dec. 30th, 2007 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceTitle: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 3/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gwendolyngrace
Recipient:celtic_cookie
Request terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,770
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: I'm thinking this will probably wind up being about 12-14 chapters altogether. Thanks as always toetakyma, beta extraordinaire.
Then
Dean sulked through the rest of the morning. It wasn’t fair that Mrs. Fontana was forcing him to give a present to someone in class. He hadn’t looked at his slip of paper, more out of defiance than anything else. He couldn’t even do anything about it, because…well, because she had called his bluff. The last teacher who hadn’t believed him had been Ms. Wexler, his second third grade teacher (after Mrs. Durang, before Mrs. Holland). But Ms. Wexler had also been challenging in a good way. She was funny and she made him think, and when he answered her questions, she had really listened to what he had to say. Mrs. Fontana was just…annoying. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she had pulled off her glasses and made nice as a trick of her own. And that was so not fair. Teachers were supposed to be trustworthy. The whole thing made his stomach turn a little and gave him a headache.
When he opened his lunch bag, his stomach protested at the mere thought of bologna and cheese. He managed to trade it for peanut butter. He choked down half the sandwich, but the peanut butter made his throat hurt, and didn’t feel too good landing, either, so he set the rest aside in case he got hungry later.
Mr. Jasper and Ms. DeLuca made them all bundle up for recess. By the time they all had their boots, coats, scarves, and hats on, they only had half the time left. Dean wandered out onto the snow-covered playing field, in no mood to play.
With all his snow gear on, Dean’s peripheral vision wasn’t the greatest. The first inkling he had that anyone was plotting against him was the smack of a snowball against his ear. Dean whirled around toward the source. Mike Stakowski waved at him merrily.
Dean responded quickly. The nearby jungle gym provided good cover, but less snow within easy reach meant less ammo. Dean opted instead for the see-saw base. He ducked behind it just as Mike lobbed a second snowball.
“Hey, Dean!” Jill Hingenberg called out, skidding to her knees in the snow next to him. “I can help you stockpile.” She started scooping up snow and rounding it into missiles before he could answer.
Mike soon had a partner, too, and within five minutes they each had a couple more reinforcements. Over on “Dean’s team,” Jill turned out snowballs at a prodigious rate, Kevin Lansing’s aim was almost as good as Dean’s, and Nate Durang threw his snowballs as fast as he could make them. Mike’s team, based off the sandbox area, consisted of Natalie Griffin, Rebecca Rosenburg, and Jason Cartwright. Natalie’s speed wasn’t as high as Mike’s, but her aim was deadly. Dean popped his head up to check range at one point and Natalie had been waiting. The snowball hit him smack in the face before he had a chance to duck away.
“Whoa!” Kevin laughed while Dean spit snow out of his mouth.
“Right, gonna be that way about it?” Dean muttered. He picked up two snowballs and broke cover. He swerved in a running crouch for the closer vantage point of the swingset, using the thick A-frame poles for protection. Natalie leaned out from her corner of the sandbox to aim. Dean lobbed one of the snowballs toward her and immediately ran forward again, low to the ground the way Dad had taught him.
“He’s going in!” Dean heard Nate yell. He hooked around to the side of the sandbox. At point blank range, he threw the snowball at Mike, then scooped more snow into his arms and tossed it toward the little army without bothering to mold it first. The effect was not unlike splashing in a pool.
Rebecca shrieked in excited fear, Natalie tried making a snowball but was overwhelmed by snow, and Jason tackled Dean to the snow. Seconds later, the rest of Dean’s squadron arrived, abandoning their base to back him up. Jill alone stayed behind to offer covering fire. She threw a snowball and made two more while the others reinforced Dean.
Dean wrapped his leg around Jason and flipped the other boy into the snow. He scrambled away, but in the snow, he couldn’t get any leverage. Mike caught his ankle and tried to pull his leg out from under him. Dean twisted, but the snow shifted underneath him and he fell despite his effort to shake Mike off. As soon as he hit the spongy ground, he rolled away.
A shrill whistle disrupted them from any further horseplay. Ms. DeLuca was waving at them to come in. Dean climbed to his feet and offered a hand to Mike.
Mike’s eyes widened at something behind Dean. Before Dean could decide whether Mike was bluffing, he felt severe cold on his neck. It was wet and so cold it almost burned. Dean gasped and whirled around. Jason was cackling like a maniac, brushing snow off his gloves.
“Sorry!” Jason choked out between bouts of laughter. “Couldn’t resist!”
“Yeah, no problem,” Dean said, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I probably woulda done the same thing.”
The whistle blew again. Mr. Jasper started walking toward them. “Come on, we better go in,” Natalie said, tugging on Nate’s arm.
“That was awesome! Dude, where’d you learn all that stuff—d’you take karate?” Mike asked Dean as they headed inside.
“My dad was a Marine,” Dean said proudly. The snow down his back was melting slowly, but not slowly enough. Dean pulled his jacket away from his back and dug with wet gloves for the tail of his shirt.
“Cool,” Mike said, his eyes widening in admiration. He grinned. “Jason really got you, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Here,” Mike pulled off his gloves to help. They got the snow out, but not before Dean’s shirt had been pretty well wet down.
Later that afternoon, Mike sat next to Dean in Social Studies. It was kinda cool to hang out with someone else his own age. Jill and Natalie also volunteered to join Mike and Dean in a group discussion in class, and instead of talking about Civic Responsibility, they relived the battle.
The back of Dean’s shirt was still damp. Though the classroom was warm, his back felt cold. He shivered through Jill’s improvised answers to Mr. Burleigh’s questions about the benefits of energy conservation.
“How about you, Dean?” Mr. Burleigh asked.
“Huh?”
“Do you agree with Jill about fossil fuels?”
Dean sneezed.
“We’ll take that as a comment on the weather and not Jill’s position,” Mr. Burleigh said to the amusement of the class. “What other forms of energy do we use all the time?”
Dean stammered an answer. In his next class, he sat as close to the heat register as he could get.
At last the end of the day arrived. Dean’s coat hadn’t dried completely, but he put it on stoically. He found the driest part of his scarf to wind around his neck. Mike found him just as he was shaking out his hat.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You look at your Secret Santa thing?”
“Nope,” Dean confided.
“Heh, yeah.” Mike pulled his coat on. “You walk, don’t you?”
“Yup.” Dean wasn’t sure where Mike was going. But more than that; he wasn’t sure how to talk to Mike about much other than snowball fighting tactics. He certainly wasn’t interested in revealing family secrets to a relative stranger.
Mike sensed his reluctance. “’R you mad?”
“No,” Dean said quickly. ‘Just…I gotta pick up my kid brother on the way home. An’ I don’t feel good.” As the words slipped out, Dean realized they were true. He didn’t feel good. He was still shivering inside his coat and his head and stomach still felt a little achy. They had Tylenol at home; he decided he’d take some when they got there.
“Oh. Sorry. See you tomorrow?” Mike asked hopefully.
“Yeah,” Dean said. He gave Mike a weak smile. “See ya.”
He walked briskly down Elm and Division, and was sweating by the time he reached Sam’s school. Sammy was waiting just inside the door. He had put his snow pants on over his jeans, but his coat was draped over a bench near the entrance. Dean came inside and pushed past Sam, bending over the drinking fountain. “Get your jacket on,” Dean said, swiping at his forehead, which was beaded with sweat.
Sam pulled his coat on and laboriously struggled with the zipper. Dean wanted nothing more than to open his own zips, but he hoped he could get Sam ready and get back outside before he overheated. He pulled Sam’s hood up and tugged on his brother’s idiot mittens.
“Ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Come on,” Dean said brusquely. He grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged him along behind him.
“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam asked as they left the building.
“Nothin’, I just wanna get home,” Dean muttered.
“Do we get to order pizza?” Sam asked.
“I dunno yet,” Dean snapped.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine!”
Sam stopped in his tracks, slipping his hand out of Dean’s. Dean took three additional steps before he realized Sam had halted. He turned.
“You don’t sound fine,” Sam observed. “You’re mad.”
“I’m tired, Sammy. Come on.”
“It hasn’t started snowing,” Sam pointed out. “You said it was gonna snow.”
“I said it was s’posed to, that’s not the same thing.”
They made it home, but not before Dean’s throat had begun to tickle and burn a little. Dean told Sam to do his homework in front of the TV. He stripped off and changed into his PJs, digging out a warm pair of rag wool socks, and pulled on sweats as a makeshift bathrobe. He sat on the sofa with Sam for a while, trying to do his homework.
“Tylenol!” he said to himself, and shuffled to the bathroom for the pills. He was used to getting painkillers for Dad, but usually when he had a pain or something, his father gave him one pill, so he opened the bottle and shook out a single capsule. He swallowed it down with a little tap water. When he came back, Sam said, “I’m hungry.” Sighing, he checked the cupboard: Dad had stocked the shelves with chicken flavor Ramen, more canned ravioli, and even regular pasta and sauce.
“Ramen or ravioli, Sam?” Dean called from the kitchen.
“Is it chicken Ramen?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay….” Dean pulled out two packages and poured water for a double batch. The tickle in the back of his throat had turned to an ache. He was still shivering in his layers. While the water was boiling, he crept into his father’s room and found an oversized flannel shirt, which he added to his sweats.
He went back to the kitchen just as the water started bubbling. He tipped in the noodles and stirred them, then sat at the counter until the noodles were done. He tore open the bullion packets and stirred again.
“Sammy, come eat.”
Dean gave Sam all the noodles and just enough broth to cover them. He kept the rest of the broth for himself. It was salty and hot, and made the back of his throat feel numb going down.
It took him a few minutes after drinking the broth to feel like he could move again. He was so tired, and while his throat had benefited from the steam and the salt, his tummy didn’t seem to appreciate it when it hit bottom. He told himself he just needed to lie down. He put his bowl in the sink. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” he told Sam.
“What about you?”
“M’goin’a bed.” Dean burped; his stomach lurched and he hurried to the bathroom. Sam jumped out of his seat and followed him.
“R’you sick?” he asked unnecessarily. Dean lunged for the toilet, making it just in time. Sammy hovered over him, unsure what to do. Eventually Sam dragged the step-stool over to the sink and poured a glass of water.
Sam held out the cup. “D’you want this?”
“Guh…No.” Dean leaned against the wall. He was so tired and his mouth tasted metallic, like acid. He fumbled for the lever and flushed the toilet. “Sam, look in the med kit. See if we still have that bottle of grape stuff.”
“From when I was sick last year?”
“Yeah.”
Sam dug under the sink for the bag of their extensive medical supplies. He pushed aside Ace bandages, hoarded Darvocet and assorted heavy-duty painkillers, and even a few bags of saline and ringers pilfered from an incident two years ago when Dad had stayed overnight in an Emergency Room. Dean braced himself for Sam to ask about that, what had been wrong and why Dad had been so injured, but he must have seen that Dean was in no shape to answer, because Sam merely pushed past them and dug deeper in the bag. In the far corner, he found a plastic bottle of children’s cold medicine. The plastic dispenser cup had cracked, but the bottle was still half full. “Here!” He held it up triumphantly.
“Great. Hand it over,” Dean instructed weakly.
“The cup’s broke,” Sam said.
“Don’t care.” Dean twisted the childproof cap, but the syrupy liquid had dried inside and made the seal sticky. “Shit.”
“Here,” Sammy held out his hand. He didn’t even point out that Dean wasn’t supposed to swear. Dean surrendered the bottle. Sam pressed down and applied pressure. The cap twisted free. He handed the bottle back and Dean swigged directly from it.
“Blech,” he said.
“R’you gonna be okay?” Sam asked tentatively. He took the bottle and put it down on the sink, next to the toothpaste.
“Yeah. Just need to get some sleep, I think.”
“R’you gonna yark again?”
“Dunno. Hope not.”
“Need help?”
“Nah,” Dean said. He forced himself to his feet and stumbled across the hall to their room, collapsing onto the mattress.
Sam pulled one of the blankets over his big brother. “Want me to bring a bucket over?” he asked.
Dean groaned. Sam brought a garbage pail.
“It’s right here, okay?”
Dean muttered something that might have been “Thanks.” Sam stood by the bed, biting his lip. Dean could hear him breathing, trying to be quiet.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m here. Whaddaya need?”
“Go ’way.”
“You sure?”
“Lemme sleep, Sammy.”
Sam shuffled his feet. “Oh. Okay.” He moved around the room. “I’m just gonna change into my PJ’s now, okay? So I don’t bug you later.”
“Good plan. Hey.”
“What?”
“Go to bed in Dad’s room. I don’t want you getting this.”
“M’not s’posed to go in Dad’s room. His stuff’s in there and so’s the fire escape. Someone could get in that way.” Sam recited this like a litany, and Dean couldn’t decide whether his brother was just being deliberately difficult or genuinely thought he was being tested.
“I know. S'okay this one time.”
“Oh. Sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Just turn off the light, Sammy.”
“Sorry.”
Dean grunted appreciatively. He settled the blanket around himself and felt little hands tucking the ends around him. “Sammy…get out.”
“Just tryna help,” Sam said. His voice quavered as he spoke.
Dean took a deep breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. “Sammy, m’gonna be fine, okay? Just need to sleep.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” Small feet padded away from the mattress and the light clicked out.
~*~
John went to the store shortly after seeing the boys off, put away the groceries, then grabbed his costume in its garment bag and headed to the mall to poke around before his store shift. He dropped off his suit in the locker room so he wouldn’t have to carry it around with him. He found the manager in charge of hiring for Santa’s Workshop, a balding pencil-pusher in his fifties whose name was Lyle Olohan, and asked about whether they’d found a replacement for the injured Santa yet.
“You’re not one of mine,” Lyle said.
John explained that he’d been working at the Macy’s, but that he could use the extra work. “Two kids with pretty big Christmas lists,” he said. “I can’t get overtime there.”
The manager lit up a cigarette and puffed before answering. “Okay. So happens I haven’t found anyone to replace Del. Can you cover this Saturday, 10-6?”
John pulled out his journal and flipped to the page where he’d noted down his store shifts. “Yes.” He’d hoped to take the boys to the firing range, but the job came first.
“You’re hired.”
“Thanks.” They spent a few minutes filling out basic paperwork. John stood as if to leave, turned back in a classic “Columbo” maneuver. “Is the guy…Del? Is he going to be okay?”
Lyle sighed. “He’s in pretty bad shape. But he’s supposed to check out from St. Mary’s tomorrow.”
“I heard he said a bunch of the ornaments came flying at him. Is…I mean, does he drink?”
“Del?” Lyle frowned. “Not’s I know of. Truth is, we’ve had a run of bad luck this season.”
John played dumb. “What kind of bad luck?”
“Pranks, I think, mostly. But some weird coincidences. Mothers tripping on our wiring, even after I know it’s been taped down. Maintenance moving the trash cans into our stanchion lines. One woman wants us to pay for her fur cleaning bill—says it’s our fault someone bumped into her and spilled hot coffee on her mink.”
“Why you, huh?” John commiserated.
“Tell me about it. If I were a superstitious man, I’d say we’ve been cursed.”
“So,” John said, grinning conspiratorially, “the pay for this gig. It’s cash, right?”
The manager laughed. “I like you, Winchester. Good to have a sense of humor for this job. Tell ya, the main reason I have to let people go isn’t the drinking. It’s that they lose their cool around the kids.”
John smiled. “Like I said, got two of my own. They try a man’s patience, but they’re good kids.”
“Not all ours are. And the mothers! Jesus God, I think the kids wouldn’t behave half so badly if it weren’t for the mothers. Ask me, most of’em deserve to be tripped, or whatever.”
“You said you think it’s pranksters? Not anyone who works for you, though?”
“Cold feet?” Lyle lit another cigarette. He offered the pack to John, who refused politely. “I been doin’ this for almost twenty years. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiring people who can take the pressure. I know the difference between an employee blowing off steam and someone who’s out for mischief. The stuff going on here, this year? It’s mischief.”
“Anything like this happen before?”
“Five or six years ago, there was a rash of pranks, but nothing like this. Harmless stuff—mustaches painted on the skating girls, graffiti on the signs, even an inflatable sex doll stuffed into the Workshop window. Turned out it was one of the college fraternities—they’d bribed the guard to refocus the security cameras while they were up to their tricks. No evidence of that, this time, though. Nothing shows up on the security tapes at all. I dunno. Whoever’s behind this stuff has a beef of some kind, I think. I’ve tried to tell the sheriff, but he thinks it’s another bunch of teenagers.”
“Well, if I see anything suspicious, I’ll be sure to point it out.”
“Thanks.”
They chatted for a while longer until John could bring the conversation around to the decorations, specifically the animatronic skaters.
“We’ve had those decorations for probably fifteen years. Bought ’em from a mall that was closing—they got killed during the oil crisis—and they’re kinda dated, but they work. I been asking the mall management for an update and they keep telling me ‘next year, maybe.’” He shook his head. “Somehow when budget season rolls around, in June, no one’s thinking about Christmas.”
“I hear ya,” John said, and found himself talking about an age-old argument he and Mike could never settle, about just when they were going to add a collision bay to the garage. John had figured the money to be made in a limited collision enterprise would justify the expense and one or two extra mechanics. Mike wasn’t interested in diversifying. It seemed like another lifetime now, but the anecdote forged a connection, convinced Lyle that John was just a regular guy who’d fallen on some hard times. Nothing to see here, John thought, move along. Or as Dean and Sam might have put it, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”
~*~
John left the office with enough time to take a stroll past the area before reporting for his shift. His conversation with the manager had effectively put the kibosh on his theory about the animatronic decorations. For one thing, they’d had the decorations for years, and never had an incident before; for another, the only “history” of accidents had turned out to be mundane vandals. But Santa’s Workshop was unmistakably the locus for the paranormal activity, so the only thing to do was go back to the drawing board: time for Surveillance and Recon.
He picked up a cup of coffee at the Food Court and wandered in search of a good vantage point. Right across from the open area where the village sat under skylights, there was a low wall that enclosed one of the running fountains. Finding an open section of wall, John seated himself and pulled out his journal. He looked over his sketch, adding to it and noting behavior of interest as he watched the line progress.
In the little department store outfit, Santa more or less remained in the children’s section. There was only one photographer on at any time, and there were only three or four elves to work the diminutive crowds. The operation was rinky-dink compared to the central village. On peak hours here, as many as ten elves—in this case, they ranged from teenaged young men to coeds from Valley State, and even a few “Mrs. Claus” candidates—monitored the lines and kept the kids entertained while waiting for the main event. Three photographers and their assistants took turns snapping pictures and taking orders for prints to send out along with Christmas cards and thank-you notes. It seemed to John more like an enterprising conglomerate than a small-time treat for kids.
Lyle Olohan had been certain the pranks weren’t being caused by one of his employees. But, as John watched, he saw a number of people who might be able to shed light on the situation, even if they weren’t part of the occurrences themselves. He made some notes.
After two hours and at least three mothers wanting to know why he was watching the children so intently, it was just about time for John’s paying gig. He stood up and turned to throw away his coffee cup…and heard someone scream.
John whipped back around to see that a mother had coiled her leg in the rope and tripped over one of the stanchion posts. The heavy pole had hit her leg and pinned it. A crowd started to gather around her. John pushed his way in.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“It hurts…God…I think I broke something.”
“Someone call 911,” John barked. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“I was…ow…I was waiting for Timmy to get his picture…. Timmy? Where’s Timmy?” An elf appeared with a little boy about Sammy’s age.
“What happened to her?” Timmy asked. He grabbed John’s sleeve. “Is she okay? Mom?”
“She’ll be all right, just… Could you all give us some room?” John looked up at the elf who had brought the kid. “Why don’t you get Timmy here another candy cane?” John suggested. The elf, a rather pretty, young brunette, nodded with wide eyes and brightly invited Timmy to go with her back to the sleigh, where they handed out the tiny candy canes as a reward for being good while in line.
John carefully lifted the pole from the woman’s ankle. Someone produced a coat to use as a pillow and he laid her foot down gently onto it. From the way the bones crunched and she moaned, she’d definitely broken a few bones. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
“It’s shock. Hey, you,” he pointed to another elf standing over them, “go get another coat or a blanket or something. And you,” he continued to another woman who had been standing next to the victim, “see if there’s anything in the sleigh we can use as a pillow. We’ll make you a little more comfortable until the paramedics get here,” he said to the hapless woman.
“How on earth did you get tangled in the ropes like that?” he asked kindly.
“I really don’t know,” she told him. “I was…waiting…and I rummaged through my purse for a cigarette…I must have taken a step or something, and not seen the rope, because the next thing I knew, I was falling.”
“Huh. Had you…spoken to any of the staff here before it happened?”
“No. Well, yes. I had ordered our prints. But that’s all. Where’s Timmy?”
John looked around and made a mental note of the three people working the photography ordering stations. He’d interview them later. He caught sight of the brunette and the teary-eyed kid, slurping on a candy cane near the rope line exit. “Timmy’s fine. He’s with one of the girls. They’ll keep him distracted.” John looked up at one of the elves. “Where are the medics?”
“Cindy called them; they’re on their way.”
John looked at his watch. His shift started in five minutes, and he still had to change. He smiled at Timmy’s mother. “Listen, I have to go,” he told both her and the elf standing nearby. “Keep her warm, keep the foot immobile and elevated, and don’t give her anything for the pain yet. Let the medics do that.” To the woman, he said, “I’d like to be able to check on you later, make sure you got fixed up okay. Do you mind if I write down your name and a number where I can get in touch?”
He pulled out his journal and wrote down the information she gave him. “Thanks, Jane. I’ll call tomorrow and see how you’re doing. Is that all right?”
“It’ll make an interesting conversation with my husband, but yes. Thank you.”
John got to his feet and dashed across the mall to the Macy’s. He let himself back into the store locker room, changed, and relieved the haggard Santa (a 60-something guy by the name of Glenn). It was just his luck, first that the incident had occurred the moment he’d looked away, and second that it happened just when he couldn’t stay around to look into it. But he had a few people to follow-up on, and he’d call the woman back to press her for more details after she got fixed up. At least her injury wasn’t fatal. Hard as it was, he had to move thoughts of the investigation to the back burner for the next few hours.
As a progression of tots was brought to him, he listened to their requests. Half the time, he wished he’d been able to do this kind of thing for the boys, in their school or even the community center Mary had wanted them to join. The rest of the time he was glad he’d concealed the details of this job from them. He could think of no quicker way to disillusion Sam about the mysteries of Christmas than to reveal that his old man was masquerading as Santa for money; Dean would never let him live down the indignity. John could just imagine the ways in which his boy would find the opportunity to subtly needle him about it for the rest of their natural lives. Whether or not Dean still believed in Santa, he would never characterize their current source of income as “cool.”
If nothing else, the kids’ wish lists convinced John that he wasn’t doing such a horrible job as a father. The gift on the top of Sam’s list was one of the most requested toys that season. John figured he’d better get the store to hold one for him if he wanted to be able to lay his hands on it. It was good to know that, despite everything, the boys were still normal enough to want what the other kids wanted.
Continue to Chapter 4
Author:
gwendolyngraceRecipient:
celtic_cookieRequest terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,770
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: I'm thinking this will probably wind up being about 12-14 chapters altogether. Thanks as always to
etakyma, beta extraordinaire. Then
Dean sulked through the rest of the morning. It wasn’t fair that Mrs. Fontana was forcing him to give a present to someone in class. He hadn’t looked at his slip of paper, more out of defiance than anything else. He couldn’t even do anything about it, because…well, because she had called his bluff. The last teacher who hadn’t believed him had been Ms. Wexler, his second third grade teacher (after Mrs. Durang, before Mrs. Holland). But Ms. Wexler had also been challenging in a good way. She was funny and she made him think, and when he answered her questions, she had really listened to what he had to say. Mrs. Fontana was just…annoying. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she had pulled off her glasses and made nice as a trick of her own. And that was so not fair. Teachers were supposed to be trustworthy. The whole thing made his stomach turn a little and gave him a headache.
When he opened his lunch bag, his stomach protested at the mere thought of bologna and cheese. He managed to trade it for peanut butter. He choked down half the sandwich, but the peanut butter made his throat hurt, and didn’t feel too good landing, either, so he set the rest aside in case he got hungry later.
Mr. Jasper and Ms. DeLuca made them all bundle up for recess. By the time they all had their boots, coats, scarves, and hats on, they only had half the time left. Dean wandered out onto the snow-covered playing field, in no mood to play.
With all his snow gear on, Dean’s peripheral vision wasn’t the greatest. The first inkling he had that anyone was plotting against him was the smack of a snowball against his ear. Dean whirled around toward the source. Mike Stakowski waved at him merrily.
Dean responded quickly. The nearby jungle gym provided good cover, but less snow within easy reach meant less ammo. Dean opted instead for the see-saw base. He ducked behind it just as Mike lobbed a second snowball.
“Hey, Dean!” Jill Hingenberg called out, skidding to her knees in the snow next to him. “I can help you stockpile.” She started scooping up snow and rounding it into missiles before he could answer.
Mike soon had a partner, too, and within five minutes they each had a couple more reinforcements. Over on “Dean’s team,” Jill turned out snowballs at a prodigious rate, Kevin Lansing’s aim was almost as good as Dean’s, and Nate Durang threw his snowballs as fast as he could make them. Mike’s team, based off the sandbox area, consisted of Natalie Griffin, Rebecca Rosenburg, and Jason Cartwright. Natalie’s speed wasn’t as high as Mike’s, but her aim was deadly. Dean popped his head up to check range at one point and Natalie had been waiting. The snowball hit him smack in the face before he had a chance to duck away.
“Whoa!” Kevin laughed while Dean spit snow out of his mouth.
“Right, gonna be that way about it?” Dean muttered. He picked up two snowballs and broke cover. He swerved in a running crouch for the closer vantage point of the swingset, using the thick A-frame poles for protection. Natalie leaned out from her corner of the sandbox to aim. Dean lobbed one of the snowballs toward her and immediately ran forward again, low to the ground the way Dad had taught him.
“He’s going in!” Dean heard Nate yell. He hooked around to the side of the sandbox. At point blank range, he threw the snowball at Mike, then scooped more snow into his arms and tossed it toward the little army without bothering to mold it first. The effect was not unlike splashing in a pool.
Rebecca shrieked in excited fear, Natalie tried making a snowball but was overwhelmed by snow, and Jason tackled Dean to the snow. Seconds later, the rest of Dean’s squadron arrived, abandoning their base to back him up. Jill alone stayed behind to offer covering fire. She threw a snowball and made two more while the others reinforced Dean.
Dean wrapped his leg around Jason and flipped the other boy into the snow. He scrambled away, but in the snow, he couldn’t get any leverage. Mike caught his ankle and tried to pull his leg out from under him. Dean twisted, but the snow shifted underneath him and he fell despite his effort to shake Mike off. As soon as he hit the spongy ground, he rolled away.
A shrill whistle disrupted them from any further horseplay. Ms. DeLuca was waving at them to come in. Dean climbed to his feet and offered a hand to Mike.
Mike’s eyes widened at something behind Dean. Before Dean could decide whether Mike was bluffing, he felt severe cold on his neck. It was wet and so cold it almost burned. Dean gasped and whirled around. Jason was cackling like a maniac, brushing snow off his gloves.
“Sorry!” Jason choked out between bouts of laughter. “Couldn’t resist!”
“Yeah, no problem,” Dean said, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I probably woulda done the same thing.”
The whistle blew again. Mr. Jasper started walking toward them. “Come on, we better go in,” Natalie said, tugging on Nate’s arm.
“That was awesome! Dude, where’d you learn all that stuff—d’you take karate?” Mike asked Dean as they headed inside.
“My dad was a Marine,” Dean said proudly. The snow down his back was melting slowly, but not slowly enough. Dean pulled his jacket away from his back and dug with wet gloves for the tail of his shirt.
“Cool,” Mike said, his eyes widening in admiration. He grinned. “Jason really got you, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Here,” Mike pulled off his gloves to help. They got the snow out, but not before Dean’s shirt had been pretty well wet down.
Later that afternoon, Mike sat next to Dean in Social Studies. It was kinda cool to hang out with someone else his own age. Jill and Natalie also volunteered to join Mike and Dean in a group discussion in class, and instead of talking about Civic Responsibility, they relived the battle.
The back of Dean’s shirt was still damp. Though the classroom was warm, his back felt cold. He shivered through Jill’s improvised answers to Mr. Burleigh’s questions about the benefits of energy conservation.
“How about you, Dean?” Mr. Burleigh asked.
“Huh?”
“Do you agree with Jill about fossil fuels?”
Dean sneezed.
“We’ll take that as a comment on the weather and not Jill’s position,” Mr. Burleigh said to the amusement of the class. “What other forms of energy do we use all the time?”
Dean stammered an answer. In his next class, he sat as close to the heat register as he could get.
At last the end of the day arrived. Dean’s coat hadn’t dried completely, but he put it on stoically. He found the driest part of his scarf to wind around his neck. Mike found him just as he was shaking out his hat.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You look at your Secret Santa thing?”
“Nope,” Dean confided.
“Heh, yeah.” Mike pulled his coat on. “You walk, don’t you?”
“Yup.” Dean wasn’t sure where Mike was going. But more than that; he wasn’t sure how to talk to Mike about much other than snowball fighting tactics. He certainly wasn’t interested in revealing family secrets to a relative stranger.
Mike sensed his reluctance. “’R you mad?”
“No,” Dean said quickly. ‘Just…I gotta pick up my kid brother on the way home. An’ I don’t feel good.” As the words slipped out, Dean realized they were true. He didn’t feel good. He was still shivering inside his coat and his head and stomach still felt a little achy. They had Tylenol at home; he decided he’d take some when they got there.
“Oh. Sorry. See you tomorrow?” Mike asked hopefully.
“Yeah,” Dean said. He gave Mike a weak smile. “See ya.”
He walked briskly down Elm and Division, and was sweating by the time he reached Sam’s school. Sammy was waiting just inside the door. He had put his snow pants on over his jeans, but his coat was draped over a bench near the entrance. Dean came inside and pushed past Sam, bending over the drinking fountain. “Get your jacket on,” Dean said, swiping at his forehead, which was beaded with sweat.
Sam pulled his coat on and laboriously struggled with the zipper. Dean wanted nothing more than to open his own zips, but he hoped he could get Sam ready and get back outside before he overheated. He pulled Sam’s hood up and tugged on his brother’s idiot mittens.
“Ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Come on,” Dean said brusquely. He grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged him along behind him.
“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam asked as they left the building.
“Nothin’, I just wanna get home,” Dean muttered.
“Do we get to order pizza?” Sam asked.
“I dunno yet,” Dean snapped.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine!”
Sam stopped in his tracks, slipping his hand out of Dean’s. Dean took three additional steps before he realized Sam had halted. He turned.
“You don’t sound fine,” Sam observed. “You’re mad.”
“I’m tired, Sammy. Come on.”
“It hasn’t started snowing,” Sam pointed out. “You said it was gonna snow.”
“I said it was s’posed to, that’s not the same thing.”
They made it home, but not before Dean’s throat had begun to tickle and burn a little. Dean told Sam to do his homework in front of the TV. He stripped off and changed into his PJs, digging out a warm pair of rag wool socks, and pulled on sweats as a makeshift bathrobe. He sat on the sofa with Sam for a while, trying to do his homework.
“Tylenol!” he said to himself, and shuffled to the bathroom for the pills. He was used to getting painkillers for Dad, but usually when he had a pain or something, his father gave him one pill, so he opened the bottle and shook out a single capsule. He swallowed it down with a little tap water. When he came back, Sam said, “I’m hungry.” Sighing, he checked the cupboard: Dad had stocked the shelves with chicken flavor Ramen, more canned ravioli, and even regular pasta and sauce.
“Ramen or ravioli, Sam?” Dean called from the kitchen.
“Is it chicken Ramen?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay….” Dean pulled out two packages and poured water for a double batch. The tickle in the back of his throat had turned to an ache. He was still shivering in his layers. While the water was boiling, he crept into his father’s room and found an oversized flannel shirt, which he added to his sweats.
He went back to the kitchen just as the water started bubbling. He tipped in the noodles and stirred them, then sat at the counter until the noodles were done. He tore open the bullion packets and stirred again.
“Sammy, come eat.”
Dean gave Sam all the noodles and just enough broth to cover them. He kept the rest of the broth for himself. It was salty and hot, and made the back of his throat feel numb going down.
It took him a few minutes after drinking the broth to feel like he could move again. He was so tired, and while his throat had benefited from the steam and the salt, his tummy didn’t seem to appreciate it when it hit bottom. He told himself he just needed to lie down. He put his bowl in the sink. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” he told Sam.
“What about you?”
“M’goin’a bed.” Dean burped; his stomach lurched and he hurried to the bathroom. Sam jumped out of his seat and followed him.
“R’you sick?” he asked unnecessarily. Dean lunged for the toilet, making it just in time. Sammy hovered over him, unsure what to do. Eventually Sam dragged the step-stool over to the sink and poured a glass of water.
Sam held out the cup. “D’you want this?”
“Guh…No.” Dean leaned against the wall. He was so tired and his mouth tasted metallic, like acid. He fumbled for the lever and flushed the toilet. “Sam, look in the med kit. See if we still have that bottle of grape stuff.”
“From when I was sick last year?”
“Yeah.”
Sam dug under the sink for the bag of their extensive medical supplies. He pushed aside Ace bandages, hoarded Darvocet and assorted heavy-duty painkillers, and even a few bags of saline and ringers pilfered from an incident two years ago when Dad had stayed overnight in an Emergency Room. Dean braced himself for Sam to ask about that, what had been wrong and why Dad had been so injured, but he must have seen that Dean was in no shape to answer, because Sam merely pushed past them and dug deeper in the bag. In the far corner, he found a plastic bottle of children’s cold medicine. The plastic dispenser cup had cracked, but the bottle was still half full. “Here!” He held it up triumphantly.
“Great. Hand it over,” Dean instructed weakly.
“The cup’s broke,” Sam said.
“Don’t care.” Dean twisted the childproof cap, but the syrupy liquid had dried inside and made the seal sticky. “Shit.”
“Here,” Sammy held out his hand. He didn’t even point out that Dean wasn’t supposed to swear. Dean surrendered the bottle. Sam pressed down and applied pressure. The cap twisted free. He handed the bottle back and Dean swigged directly from it.
“Blech,” he said.
“R’you gonna be okay?” Sam asked tentatively. He took the bottle and put it down on the sink, next to the toothpaste.
“Yeah. Just need to get some sleep, I think.”
“R’you gonna yark again?”
“Dunno. Hope not.”
“Need help?”
“Nah,” Dean said. He forced himself to his feet and stumbled across the hall to their room, collapsing onto the mattress.
Sam pulled one of the blankets over his big brother. “Want me to bring a bucket over?” he asked.
Dean groaned. Sam brought a garbage pail.
“It’s right here, okay?”
Dean muttered something that might have been “Thanks.” Sam stood by the bed, biting his lip. Dean could hear him breathing, trying to be quiet.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m here. Whaddaya need?”
“Go ’way.”
“You sure?”
“Lemme sleep, Sammy.”
Sam shuffled his feet. “Oh. Okay.” He moved around the room. “I’m just gonna change into my PJ’s now, okay? So I don’t bug you later.”
“Good plan. Hey.”
“What?”
“Go to bed in Dad’s room. I don’t want you getting this.”
“M’not s’posed to go in Dad’s room. His stuff’s in there and so’s the fire escape. Someone could get in that way.” Sam recited this like a litany, and Dean couldn’t decide whether his brother was just being deliberately difficult or genuinely thought he was being tested.
“I know. S'okay this one time.”
“Oh. Sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Just turn off the light, Sammy.”
“Sorry.”
Dean grunted appreciatively. He settled the blanket around himself and felt little hands tucking the ends around him. “Sammy…get out.”
“Just tryna help,” Sam said. His voice quavered as he spoke.
Dean took a deep breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. “Sammy, m’gonna be fine, okay? Just need to sleep.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” Small feet padded away from the mattress and the light clicked out.
~*~
John went to the store shortly after seeing the boys off, put away the groceries, then grabbed his costume in its garment bag and headed to the mall to poke around before his store shift. He dropped off his suit in the locker room so he wouldn’t have to carry it around with him. He found the manager in charge of hiring for Santa’s Workshop, a balding pencil-pusher in his fifties whose name was Lyle Olohan, and asked about whether they’d found a replacement for the injured Santa yet.
“You’re not one of mine,” Lyle said.
John explained that he’d been working at the Macy’s, but that he could use the extra work. “Two kids with pretty big Christmas lists,” he said. “I can’t get overtime there.”
The manager lit up a cigarette and puffed before answering. “Okay. So happens I haven’t found anyone to replace Del. Can you cover this Saturday, 10-6?”
John pulled out his journal and flipped to the page where he’d noted down his store shifts. “Yes.” He’d hoped to take the boys to the firing range, but the job came first.
“You’re hired.”
“Thanks.” They spent a few minutes filling out basic paperwork. John stood as if to leave, turned back in a classic “Columbo” maneuver. “Is the guy…Del? Is he going to be okay?”
Lyle sighed. “He’s in pretty bad shape. But he’s supposed to check out from St. Mary’s tomorrow.”
“I heard he said a bunch of the ornaments came flying at him. Is…I mean, does he drink?”
“Del?” Lyle frowned. “Not’s I know of. Truth is, we’ve had a run of bad luck this season.”
John played dumb. “What kind of bad luck?”
“Pranks, I think, mostly. But some weird coincidences. Mothers tripping on our wiring, even after I know it’s been taped down. Maintenance moving the trash cans into our stanchion lines. One woman wants us to pay for her fur cleaning bill—says it’s our fault someone bumped into her and spilled hot coffee on her mink.”
“Why you, huh?” John commiserated.
“Tell me about it. If I were a superstitious man, I’d say we’ve been cursed.”
“So,” John said, grinning conspiratorially, “the pay for this gig. It’s cash, right?”
The manager laughed. “I like you, Winchester. Good to have a sense of humor for this job. Tell ya, the main reason I have to let people go isn’t the drinking. It’s that they lose their cool around the kids.”
John smiled. “Like I said, got two of my own. They try a man’s patience, but they’re good kids.”
“Not all ours are. And the mothers! Jesus God, I think the kids wouldn’t behave half so badly if it weren’t for the mothers. Ask me, most of’em deserve to be tripped, or whatever.”
“You said you think it’s pranksters? Not anyone who works for you, though?”
“Cold feet?” Lyle lit another cigarette. He offered the pack to John, who refused politely. “I been doin’ this for almost twenty years. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiring people who can take the pressure. I know the difference between an employee blowing off steam and someone who’s out for mischief. The stuff going on here, this year? It’s mischief.”
“Anything like this happen before?”
“Five or six years ago, there was a rash of pranks, but nothing like this. Harmless stuff—mustaches painted on the skating girls, graffiti on the signs, even an inflatable sex doll stuffed into the Workshop window. Turned out it was one of the college fraternities—they’d bribed the guard to refocus the security cameras while they were up to their tricks. No evidence of that, this time, though. Nothing shows up on the security tapes at all. I dunno. Whoever’s behind this stuff has a beef of some kind, I think. I’ve tried to tell the sheriff, but he thinks it’s another bunch of teenagers.”
“Well, if I see anything suspicious, I’ll be sure to point it out.”
“Thanks.”
They chatted for a while longer until John could bring the conversation around to the decorations, specifically the animatronic skaters.
“We’ve had those decorations for probably fifteen years. Bought ’em from a mall that was closing—they got killed during the oil crisis—and they’re kinda dated, but they work. I been asking the mall management for an update and they keep telling me ‘next year, maybe.’” He shook his head. “Somehow when budget season rolls around, in June, no one’s thinking about Christmas.”
“I hear ya,” John said, and found himself talking about an age-old argument he and Mike could never settle, about just when they were going to add a collision bay to the garage. John had figured the money to be made in a limited collision enterprise would justify the expense and one or two extra mechanics. Mike wasn’t interested in diversifying. It seemed like another lifetime now, but the anecdote forged a connection, convinced Lyle that John was just a regular guy who’d fallen on some hard times. Nothing to see here, John thought, move along. Or as Dean and Sam might have put it, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”
~*~
John left the office with enough time to take a stroll past the area before reporting for his shift. His conversation with the manager had effectively put the kibosh on his theory about the animatronic decorations. For one thing, they’d had the decorations for years, and never had an incident before; for another, the only “history” of accidents had turned out to be mundane vandals. But Santa’s Workshop was unmistakably the locus for the paranormal activity, so the only thing to do was go back to the drawing board: time for Surveillance and Recon.
He picked up a cup of coffee at the Food Court and wandered in search of a good vantage point. Right across from the open area where the village sat under skylights, there was a low wall that enclosed one of the running fountains. Finding an open section of wall, John seated himself and pulled out his journal. He looked over his sketch, adding to it and noting behavior of interest as he watched the line progress.
In the little department store outfit, Santa more or less remained in the children’s section. There was only one photographer on at any time, and there were only three or four elves to work the diminutive crowds. The operation was rinky-dink compared to the central village. On peak hours here, as many as ten elves—in this case, they ranged from teenaged young men to coeds from Valley State, and even a few “Mrs. Claus” candidates—monitored the lines and kept the kids entertained while waiting for the main event. Three photographers and their assistants took turns snapping pictures and taking orders for prints to send out along with Christmas cards and thank-you notes. It seemed to John more like an enterprising conglomerate than a small-time treat for kids.
Lyle Olohan had been certain the pranks weren’t being caused by one of his employees. But, as John watched, he saw a number of people who might be able to shed light on the situation, even if they weren’t part of the occurrences themselves. He made some notes.
After two hours and at least three mothers wanting to know why he was watching the children so intently, it was just about time for John’s paying gig. He stood up and turned to throw away his coffee cup…and heard someone scream.
John whipped back around to see that a mother had coiled her leg in the rope and tripped over one of the stanchion posts. The heavy pole had hit her leg and pinned it. A crowd started to gather around her. John pushed his way in.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“It hurts…God…I think I broke something.”
“Someone call 911,” John barked. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“I was…ow…I was waiting for Timmy to get his picture…. Timmy? Where’s Timmy?” An elf appeared with a little boy about Sammy’s age.
“What happened to her?” Timmy asked. He grabbed John’s sleeve. “Is she okay? Mom?”
“She’ll be all right, just… Could you all give us some room?” John looked up at the elf who had brought the kid. “Why don’t you get Timmy here another candy cane?” John suggested. The elf, a rather pretty, young brunette, nodded with wide eyes and brightly invited Timmy to go with her back to the sleigh, where they handed out the tiny candy canes as a reward for being good while in line.
John carefully lifted the pole from the woman’s ankle. Someone produced a coat to use as a pillow and he laid her foot down gently onto it. From the way the bones crunched and she moaned, she’d definitely broken a few bones. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
“It’s shock. Hey, you,” he pointed to another elf standing over them, “go get another coat or a blanket or something. And you,” he continued to another woman who had been standing next to the victim, “see if there’s anything in the sleigh we can use as a pillow. We’ll make you a little more comfortable until the paramedics get here,” he said to the hapless woman.
“How on earth did you get tangled in the ropes like that?” he asked kindly.
“I really don’t know,” she told him. “I was…waiting…and I rummaged through my purse for a cigarette…I must have taken a step or something, and not seen the rope, because the next thing I knew, I was falling.”
“Huh. Had you…spoken to any of the staff here before it happened?”
“No. Well, yes. I had ordered our prints. But that’s all. Where’s Timmy?”
John looked around and made a mental note of the three people working the photography ordering stations. He’d interview them later. He caught sight of the brunette and the teary-eyed kid, slurping on a candy cane near the rope line exit. “Timmy’s fine. He’s with one of the girls. They’ll keep him distracted.” John looked up at one of the elves. “Where are the medics?”
“Cindy called them; they’re on their way.”
John looked at his watch. His shift started in five minutes, and he still had to change. He smiled at Timmy’s mother. “Listen, I have to go,” he told both her and the elf standing nearby. “Keep her warm, keep the foot immobile and elevated, and don’t give her anything for the pain yet. Let the medics do that.” To the woman, he said, “I’d like to be able to check on you later, make sure you got fixed up okay. Do you mind if I write down your name and a number where I can get in touch?”
He pulled out his journal and wrote down the information she gave him. “Thanks, Jane. I’ll call tomorrow and see how you’re doing. Is that all right?”
“It’ll make an interesting conversation with my husband, but yes. Thank you.”
John got to his feet and dashed across the mall to the Macy’s. He let himself back into the store locker room, changed, and relieved the haggard Santa (a 60-something guy by the name of Glenn). It was just his luck, first that the incident had occurred the moment he’d looked away, and second that it happened just when he couldn’t stay around to look into it. But he had a few people to follow-up on, and he’d call the woman back to press her for more details after she got fixed up. At least her injury wasn’t fatal. Hard as it was, he had to move thoughts of the investigation to the back burner for the next few hours.
As a progression of tots was brought to him, he listened to their requests. Half the time, he wished he’d been able to do this kind of thing for the boys, in their school or even the community center Mary had wanted them to join. The rest of the time he was glad he’d concealed the details of this job from them. He could think of no quicker way to disillusion Sam about the mysteries of Christmas than to reveal that his old man was masquerading as Santa for money; Dean would never let him live down the indignity. John could just imagine the ways in which his boy would find the opportunity to subtly needle him about it for the rest of their natural lives. Whether or not Dean still believed in Santa, he would never characterize their current source of income as “cool.”
If nothing else, the kids’ wish lists convinced John that he wasn’t doing such a horrible job as a father. The gift on the top of Sam’s list was one of the most requested toys that season. John figured he’d better get the store to hold one for him if he wanted to be able to lay his hands on it. It was good to know that, despite everything, the boys were still normal enough to want what the other kids wanted.
Continue to Chapter 4
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no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 03:19 pm (UTC)I think the more we learn about their childhood, the more it seems John really did try to keep them *out* of hunting at least until they were old enough to hold their own. It makes perfect sense, but it's contrary to about 80% of the fanfic out there, it seems sometimes.
Without spoiling, I think you'll find that since they are our heroes, the boys will maintain a fair amount of screen time in this - and they'll continue to intersect with John and balance that "normal" and "not normal" as they go along.
Glad you're enjoying it!
no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 09:22 am (UTC)And Dean's sick, oh noes!
:)
Good stuff. I liked the snowball fight, the kids so intense - fun fun.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 03:22 pm (UTC)Dean's sick. Poor w00by. Y'know, hey, kids get sick, and I loved playing with worry-wart!Sam hovering and not quite knowing how to take care of his indestructible Big Bro.
Thanks for your comments - it's still only Chapter 3 and I'm still just laying groundwork, but as the pipe gets put in place, the story can chug forward....
Glad you liked this installment.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 03:24 pm (UTC)Glad you're liking it so far. Stay tuned!