Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (14/17)

[gwendolyngrace]

Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 14/17)
Author: 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 4,905
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: This week has been a doozy, and I have SO MUCH to do before the end of the next week, but hey, I have my priorities straight! etakyma keeps reminding me that this is not a dialogue-fic and therefore I do need to include physical descriptions during those long stretches of conversation. I'm not sure about the EyeCon finish line, with so much to do, but I'll try to keep it moving. The next chapter is short, though (well, it is currently, but I haven't got it back from the awesome beta of awesomeness, yet), so I may even be able to post it tomorrow. No promises, sorry!

From the Top

Then


Now:


“Dean! Dean!” Sammy’s high voice cut through all the electronic clamor of the arcade. He was already calling his brother’s name before he’d figured out where to start looking for him.

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean breathed. He had to force himself not to look around for his brother, keep his eye on the screen. He’d lasted nearly 25 minutes on a single token. He had only three fights left before his final bonus round and he was within 5,000 points of the top ten. Luckily, Sam’s cries sounded more like elation than distress, which was more than could be said about the griping that trailed after him as he pushed his way through the aisles.

“Dean! Just wait ‘til you hear! You’ll never believe it!”

Dean twitched at the total dorkitude of Sam’s excitement (and the accompanying chorus of comments about Sam’s dorkitude) and his timing got off. He missed the punch. “Crap.” He got back into his rhythm on the kick, but he was running out of health and needed a power-up if he was going to get through the level.

“Dean!” Sammy spied him and came running. “Dean! It was amazing—he really was Santa!”

“Hey, douchebag, quitcher racket—tryna play here,” a large boy at the next game to the right said menacingly. Sam had brushed past him, but now froze. He must have backed away from the kid’s machine, because Dean felt Sam’s hair brush up against his arm for a second before Sam gave him space to work the buttons.

“Leave m’brother alone,” Dean said evenly, without looking away from his screen. Adon was almost down for the count. Just a little more and he’d be done with the match.

The big kid abandoned his joystick—though from the sound of it, his game may have tanked before he released the controls—and stepped in. “Or you’ll what, pipsqueak?”

Dean delivered a final karate chop and Adon dropped for good. He could take a short break now, during the animation. He took stock of Sammy first, noting that his chatter had stopped instantly, as much because of the other kid’s complaint as to wait for Dean to clear the level. But Sam was smart enough not to turn his back on the bully, and he kept his weight on the balls of his feet, like Dad had taught them, so he could move quickly if Dean needed him to. Just the fact that he’d clammed up so suddenly betrayed his concern about getting either of them into a fight, but his stance confirmed that this kid scared him a little.

Dean looked up at the source of the insult—way up. Sam’s would-be tormentor had to have six inches on Dean, not to mention about 30 pounds. He was older, too, probably fourteen at least. He wore a ball cap backward over short hair, a single diamond earring in his left ear, and a football jersey over low-slung jeans and designer sneakers.

Dean couldn’t help letting his eyebrows rise a little at the sight of the dude. He wished Mike had hung around a little longer instead of deciding to take his tokens up to the counter for a prize. A third body would have helped the intimidation factor. Sam sure knew how to pick them.

Without hesitation, Dean pivoted away from the console to put himself between Sam and the bully. Sam took a step backward to give him room, disappearing behind him. Dean squared his shoulders and fixed the huge kid with his Clint Eastwood squint. “Or I’ll drag your ass outside and leave you head first in a snowbank.”

Ninety percent of any confrontation was won by establishing one’s dominance right off the bat. It may not have worked on Mrs. Fontana, but Dean could tell from his eyes the moment the teenager flinched. Dean drew himself up taller.

The teen didn’t know that he was already beat, though. He made a grab for Dean’s collar. Dean dodged. The bully lurched forward. Dean swung himself around, but by then, Sammy had found a grown-up.

“See? He’s attacking m’brother,” Sammy accused.

The adult had on an apron over his button-down shirt and chinos. His nametag said “Terry, Gen. Manager” and he clearly knew the kid. “Sorenson! What’ve I told you about picking on the little kids in here?”

“He’s—”

“He’s what? Three years younger than you?” Terry the General Manager stepped in to place his hand in front of the bully’s chest, blocking him bodily. “Beat it.”

“But—”

“Get the hell outta here, Sorenson,” Terry insisted. He pointed to the open mall with his free hand, pushing slightly with the other one. Sorenson gave ground. He backed up two steps before turning to slink away. The manager sighed. “Sorry, kid. Watch yourself when you leave—he has buddies.”

Dean smirked. “Oh, we’ll be careful out there,” he quoted, palm raised in his best imitation of Sgt. Jablonski.

“Thank you, sir,” Sammy said over Dean’s silliness.

Terry pulled a token out from his pocket. “Here. Your game’s timing out.” He pointed to Dean’s screen, which was counting down. It offered 20 seconds to continue…15….

“Cool, thanks,” Dean said. He was about to put the token in the slot when Sammy touched his hand.

“No, Dean—wait—you gotta come back with me.”

“Sam, I’m not going to watch you play a scene out of Miracle on 34th Street.” Ten seconds….

“But—”

“No way, doofus.”

“Dean, he knew what I wanted!” Sam tugged on Dean’s sleeve. The game timed out.

“Sammy! Look what you did,” Dean complained. “So he guessed Transformers, so what?” The game prompted him to enter his initials. “Man, I was about to take first place,” he continued to grumble when he saw his score in the standings.

“Shut up!” Sam fired, arms splaying out to either side. “Who cares about your stupid game, Dean? I’m talking real Santa Claus, here.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why. ’Cause he not real? He is. He proved it.” Sam’s head bobbled in the way that made him look like a bird, emphasizing his point.

Dean shook his head. “Sammy, it’s just a guy, okay? He made a lucky guess. Not like five out of seven kids want Transformers this year, or anything,” he said under his breath.

“NO!” Sam contended, agitation raising both volume and pitch. “You don’t understand—he knew your name!”

“He what?” Dean stammered. He forgot his annoyance about the interrupted game instantly. This was important—and seriously weird.

“He said your name. I didn’t tell him or anything. He’s the real Santa. He said he goes around and takes one of his deputy’s places every day—an’ I found him!” He tugged Dean’s arm again, all trace of prissy anger gone now that he had Dean’s full attention. “C’mon, I want you to see!”

Dean followed Sam out of the arcade. Ms. Stakowski was waiting with Mike. “There you are!” she said brightly. “I was about to brave going in after you. Then Mike would’ve had to disown me and you two’d be walking home!” She faltered at the look on Dean’s face. “What?”

“I wanna show Dean something, back at the Santa Claus’s Workshop,” Sam told her.

“Uh…okay…” she said. “The, uh…the line was getting really long again, pumpkin, so…you don’t want to go back through it, do you?” she frowned at Dean. “Dean, honey, are you feeling okay? You know, your dad said to bring you home if you were feeling tired.”

Dean recognized that along with real concern, Ms. Stakowski was offering him a way to avoid going on Sam’s wild goose chase. But the idea that a stranger—in the mall of all places—knew enough about them to recognize Sam and put him together with Dean? That made him nervous. If they were in Saginaw, Dean knew, it was so Dad could hunt. And if Dad was hunting, that meant something supernatural in the area—something that might want to hurt Dad…maybe by hurting them.

Common sense told him they should walk the other way and just tell Dad about it later.

But Dean’s instincts—and his curiosity—told him he should check it out himself. That way, he’d be able to give Dad a better report. He could prove to Dad that he knew how to look for the monsters—and how to identify them—without getting hurt.

“Nah,” he told Ms. Stakowski. “I’m okay. Besides, when he gets in a snit like this, he won’t let it go. He’ll just be a whiney little punk until he shows me whatever it is.”

Ms. Stakowski looked like she really didn’t want to go back to the North Pole area, but it was on their way to the A&W in the mall, he remembered from his and Mike’s Recon.

“Look, we said lunch after, right? So we can go by on the way and Sam can show me what’s got his panties in a bunch.”

“Yeah, Mom. If it doesn’t take too long, A&W may not even be crowded.”

“Okay.”

They fought the tide back toward the center of the mall. Dean really was starting to tucker out, but it wasn’t the walking, or even the people. It was the noise. Between the constant echo of people’s chatter, kids screaming, the water from the various fountains, and the stupid Christmas musak, he was getting a headache.

“Hey, Dean—that’s the song!” Sam said. He sounded surprised.

“Huh?”

“Listen.” Sam cocked his head toward the ceiling. He waited until the music came around and chanted along. “Oat, ann and balm, oat, ann and balm, We troy sint eye ner bladder.”

Dean and Mike both lost it. Sam’s chirpy little voice and the nonsense lyrics combined to make the scene the silliest thing Sam had ever done, and that included the time Dean had caught him letting Carrie Weintraub dress him up as Laura Ingalls when he was three.

Before long Dean noticed: his laughter sounded very loud. The mall around them had grown quiet, right around the time Sam heard the music clearly and sang along to it. People around them had divided into two groups—one rushing away and one heading in, toward the Workshop.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked. No one answered, no matter how much he asked. He took Sammy’s hand and plunged into the crowd of onlookers.

He ducked through and around the adults, tugging Sam after him. He heard Mike close behind and more faintly behind that, Ms. Stakowski excusing herself (and them) for pushing through. At last, he reached the front of what turned out to be a shifting perimeter of spectators around the North Pole.

He’d been right on both his suspicion and his doubts: There was definitely something going on at Santa’s Workshop that Dad ought to be informed about. And Dad definitely wouldn’t want him or Sammy anywhere near that something. He didn’t particularly want to be near it, himself, but he forced down his old fear.

The archway had caught fire. Compared to the relative silence down the mall pathway, the scene here was extra loud and totally chaotic. It was crazier than his dim memories of that night so many years ago, but the fire itself looked a lot smaller than the one that had consumed their home. And Mom.

Dean didn’t want to think about that. He focused on taking a professional assessment of the situation, gathering the details to decide whether they needed to bug out immediately or if he could risk staying to put together a better report for Dad. But things were moving so quickly that Dean barely had time to choose. Parents and children were running in every direction to get away, trampling the display decorations to make new paths. The guy working as Santa was trying to put out the flames without much success. While Dean was still processing everyone’s status, a man standing next to “Santa” flew through the air as if an invisible hand had swatted him away. Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder to confirm that he was safe, not about to run out into the mess or anything stupid.

“Santa’s gonna stop the fire, right?” Sam asked him nervously. Dean nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak.

Someone in red tights and a green tunic ran out of the little shed closest to where Dean and Sam were standing, getting jostled by the escaping crowds. The elf’s bells jingled while she carried a fire extinguisher around to the arch, but the sound was lost amid the noise of fire and frightened shoppers. The man in the Santa suit whipped around, scanning the field and the mob. Something about the way he moved made Dean think of John Wayne.

“Look!” Sam pointed. “See, Dean! There he is. He’s gonna fix it!”

A bunch of people came rushing past Dean, bolting away from the flames. He squirmed sideways with Sam in tow to let them get through. Then, before the hole they’d made could close up again, he ducked back out, back to the front where he could see. By that time “Santa,” who had taken off his hat and wig, saw them standing in the crowd.

“Dean? Sam?” Ms. Stakowski said breathlessly behind them. “Come on, this is no place—”

“It’s okay. Santa knows us,” Sam said, looking up at Dean.

He sure did. Dad didn’t need to be told what was going on at the mall; apparently, Dad already knew. In the next instant, “Santa’s” mouth opened and a booming sound came out. Dean couldn’t understand through the crowd and the fire, but he had a feeling he knew what he was saying, anyway.

Dad waved him off and jabbed a pointing finger away. This time, the sound reached them.

“GET AWAY, DEAN, GO!”

Dad kept waving and yelling. Dean nodded and pulled Sammy to the left, away from the fire. The elf made it around.

“C’mon, Sammy, we gotta get clear!” Dean said.

Dean heard the fire extinguisher go off as they retreated. He navigated on auto-pilot around the panicking crowds. He hoped Mike and Ms. Stakowski were behind him, but didn’t dare go back to find them if they weren’t. Dad had given him an order; Dad needed him to get Sam to safety; that was the only thing that mattered.

He’d sort out the incongruity of Dad in a Santa suit later.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam asked.

“Dunno, but we gotta move.” Everyone else had the same idea, though. They risked getting trampled by the adults stampeding away. “In here,” Dean decided, ducking them into the store nearest to the edge of the crowd. It was a clever choice, even if it was a women’s shoe store. Two seconds later the sprinklers went off in the mall. But the stores were on separate triggers. They stayed dry. The people in the corridor were not so lucky.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Santa sound like Dad?”

“Yes, Sammy,” Dean admitted sadly. He’d hoped Sam hadn’t noticed all that much, with the fire and everything distracting him.

“He kinda looked like him too, without the white hair.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” He sighed. Sam had been watching Santa like a hawk. He should have known that Sam would choose now to be more observant than any other little kid. He probably could have come up with a story to tell, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was too tired to think up a lie. He pushed aside a pair of shoes to sit on the display counter, pulling Sam over beside him. “That’s because it was Dad.”

“Oh.” Sam studied a shoe as if he could x-ray it. A muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

Dean waited for Sam to get angry or upset. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Sammy chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. Dean braced himself for the inevitable question. But then Sam looked up with a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me Dad was one of Santa’s deputies?”

Dean laughed. “Sorry, Sammy. Sometimes Dad keeps secrets from me, too.”

~*~

The mall management company convinced Sears and Macy’s to provide towels and changes of clothing to everyone who got caught by the sprinkler system. Police, fire, and EMS arrived. The police wanted to interview everyone involved. John accepted the free clothes, but ducked into the locker room to change to his own old jeans and flannel shirts. At least the Santa boots fit so tightly that he had no water inside them. Every other part of him was drenched.

When he came out, Stacy, Kate, and Gina were all leaving the ladies’ locker room. Kate and Stacy had their own clothes, but Gina wore one of the tracksuits that Macy’s had supplied on short notice.

“Listen,” he told them quietly, “don’t mention ghosts or anything to the cops.”

“Do we look crazy? But what are we supposed to tell them?”

“Just tell them there was a woman where she shouldn’t have been. I’ll handle the rest.”

“John, what’s really going on?” Gina asked.

John shook his head. “I need to check on a couple things and then I can tell you.”

“You said you knew!” Kate accused.

“I think I do; I just want to make sure. Gina, do you think I could get in tonight, after hours?”

“I suppose. I could meet you.”

“Okay.” John wrote down his number in his little notebook and tore the page out. “Gimme yours?” he requested.

Gina simpered. “Why, John, I didn’t think you liked me that way.”

Kate and Stacy giggled with her. John was happy to let them have their joke at his expense, but felt too grim to join in beyond a rueful smile. Once he had the number, he left, conveniently skipping the part where he gave his statement to the cops.

He walked back to the display. The fire, the sprinklers, the bystanders, and the effects of the spirit had pretty well destroyed the place. A news crew was already filming a report for the evening show. There was no sign of the spirit, for the moment. Danger over for the time being, his concern turned back to the boys.

He knew that Dean had heard him. He saw them take off through the mall, so he was sure they were safe from the fire. But had they escaped the water? Had they been jostled, knocked over, or hurt by panicked shoppers? He suspected not, but he’d have liked to know for sure. Of course, he had no way to reach them—and even if they and the Stakowskis had left immediately, they couldn’t be home yet.

So he walked down the mall in the direction he’d last seen Dean go. He never should have let them come in the first place. He’d been so sure that he could keep things under control. He’d imagined that Dean’s adolescent scorn would convince Sam he was too old to come see Santa. Probably, he shouldn’t have played it up so much. He was certain Sam had dragged Dean back so he could show Dean the “real” Santa.

On the other hand, the look on Sam’s face…he wouldn’t have traded that for anything.

He went slowly, checking both sides of the mall for any trace of them.

“Dad!”

His head snapped toward the sound. Sammy was running to him, Dean just a step behind. John saw the way Sam’s legs pumped. He braced for a flying tackle half a second before Sammy launched himself.

“Oof! Hey, champ,” he said, trying not to stagger. “Getting too big for me to catch you like that.”

Sammy was talking over his grumble. “Are you okay? We saw you fighting the fire. What happened? Why—”

“Hey, whoa….” John laughed. He put Sam down. “Are you two okay? You didn’t get wet?”

Sam turned his beaming, toothy smile onto his brother. “Dean pushed us into the shoe store. The sprinklers didn’t go off in there.”

John beckoned Dean over to rest his hand on his shoulder. “Good work, son.” He checked them both for injuries, just to be sure. “How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

“’M okay,” Dean insisted, though he looked a little pale.

“Dad?” Sammy called. “You were Santa, weren’t you?”

John drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. I’m sorry for tricking you, buddy.”

“That’s okay.”

“It is?” Historically, Sam hated being “lied to” and sometimes had a hard time with the distinction between lies and protection from truth.

“Sure, you’re a hero!” Sam exclaimed, hugging John’s waist. “If you hadn’t’a been there, the whole mall prob’ly woulda burned down.” He stepped back to look up at his father. “Why didn’t you tell us that you’re working as Santa’s deputy, though?” He grinned, practically jumping in excitement. “Now I know where the gifts come from and why he can always find us! And there’s no way, after you saved all those people, that Santa won’t give you Dean’s and my presents, right? As a bonus!”

John was about to reply noncommittally, something to buy himself time to interpret the onslaught of Sammy-logic, but another voice interrupted.

“Sam? Sam Winchester?”

They turned as a unit. Standing in Macy’s-issued clothes, her wet coat over one arm, hair quite bedraggled, was Mrs. Farnsworth.

John smiled, not too friendly, but friendly enough.

“I thought that was you. Mr. Winchester,” she greeted him with a nod. “Are you all all right?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” John answered for them all.

“This must be Dean,” she observed. “How did you all manage not to get wet?”

“The stores are on different triggers,” John commented.

“We just ducked at the right time,” Dean added with a discomfited shrug.

“I see. I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Sam,” she continued, crouching a bit to bring herself to his eye level.

“They came with friends,” John explained He wasn’t sure why Sam’s teacher would be so interested, but perhaps it was just her version of small talk. “Speaking of which, Dean, where did you last see Monica and Mike?”

Dean glanced around. “I…I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t….”

“Not an indictment, son,” John said softly, eyes on Mrs. Farnsworth. She was a sharp one, though not as unholy perceptive as Dean’s teacher, Mrs. Fontana.

Sure enough, Mrs. Farnsworth had noticed the quiet exchange and the wheels appeared to be turning in her head.

Dean’s smile was a little fake. “Guess we should’ve put bells on us instead of the elves, huh, Dad?” he joked in a forced tone.

John simply rolled his eyes. “Well, we should find them. Then I’ll take you home. Excuse—”

At that moment, the loudspeaker in the mall went off. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Attention. Will the following people please come to the information desk: Jeannie Trotten, George Park, Anne Spencer, Becky’s parents, Sam and Dean Winchester….”

John laughed at Dean’s shocked face. “Sounds like Monica’s looking for you, too.”

“Mr. Winchester,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “May I have a word?”

The boys held back. John read their faces, and suddenly, with perfect clarity, he knew that somehow her curiosity was connected to the pageant. It was as if now that the case had come together, he could finally focus on all the things he’d wanted to ask the boys earlier to get to the bottom of Sam’s school issues. Sam himself blinked up at him doe-eyed and innocent. But Dean, for all that he feigned indifference, was far too interested in a private conversation between Sam’s teacher and his father. John saw it in the momentary freeze of Dean’s joints, like an honest person’s instant of shock at the sight of flashing police lights in a rearview. It was a hesitation that said, Is that because of me?

John barked, “Boys, hang a second.” Without checking to make sure they would obey, he nodded to Mrs. Farnsworth. “I’d like that, Mrs. Farnsworth.”

Mrs. Farnsworth spared a quizzical glance at Sam, who stood frozen beside Dean. “Well…” she began, obviously a little surprised by the boys’ instant compliance, “…it’s just that…. Would you mind very much clarifying for me…. What brings you to the mall, Mr. Winchester?”

“Work, Mrs. Farnsworth. Was there confusion on that?” he asked, suppressing a flirtatious grin.

“There’s confusion about Sam, apparently,” she rejoined wryly. “Mr. Winchester, I find it hard to believe that given your… your affiliations, you would work in retail at Christmas time. Let alone that you allowed your sons to come…holiday shopping.”

From the way she stressed the words Christmas and holiday, John had the distinct feeling it was key to Sam’s squirrelishness over the pageant. But he didn’t care to keep talking around the topic, even if he’d had all the time in the world. It was like the teachers in Saginaw had all had an in-service on circumscribing any subject of conversation.

“What affiliations? Mrs. Farnsworth, if there’s a direct question you’re dancing around, I really do wish you’d just ask it.”

“Very well, Mr. Winchester…. I had been told that you are a Jehovah’s Witness and therefore don’t celebrate holidays in any form. Is that true?”

“A Jeho….” John’s jaw slackened and his head bent forward in disbelief. Air forced itself out of his throat in a shocked, half-amused, huff. “Who told you that and how, Mrs. Farnsworth? Did Sammy tell you that?”

“So it’s not true?” she asked sharply.

“No, it’s not true!” It all fell into place. He wiped his forehead angrily. “Dammit, so that’s what that nonsense with Miss Johnson was all about.” He looked heavenward, then noted her expectant gaze still on him. “Look, don’t take it personally. Little scoundrel lied to me, too.” He looked over where the boys were waiting…correction: had been waiting. They must have beat it to escape with Monica. Which meant Dean knew…Dean knew and had covered up for Sam. He looked back at Mrs. Farnsworth with a smile that was anything but pleasant. “The joys of single parenting.” Holding up one finger, he told her, “I think I know where they squirmed off to. Don’t worry, we’ll see you Monday to resolve this.”

Daddy. Sam had called him Daddy and he’d fallen for it. Should have tipped him right off. And Dean acting innocent: “If he’s in something, do we have to go see him?” Christ. Did they think they would get away with it?

Of course, what really rankled was: they almost did.

He lengthened his stride as he approached the information desk. Monica and Mike stood to one side. Dean and Sam waved and ran up to them. Mike began speaking immediately to Dean. John raised his voice.

“DEAN! SAM!”

They both turned instantly. Dean’s expression was dodgy and guilt-ridden; Sam’s sullen.

“You two stay right there.” Dammit, John thought. He didn’t have time for their shenanigans. He had a hunt to finish ASAP.

“I thought that might have been you,” Monica said brightly into the tension. “Sam was so excited when he got done with Santa—”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was. Listen,” John interrupted, barely acknowledging her, “thanks for bringing them out. But I’ll get them home. We need to have a little…family time.”

He saw Dean gulp. Sam looked up, then dropped his eyes, pale as Dean had been earlier in the week.

“Uh…okay,” Monica said. She felt for Mike’s hand and pulled him toward her. “Sorry about the fire,” she offered weakly over her shoulder as they turned.

“See you at school?” Mike asked Dean quickly and confidentially.

“Sure,” Dean told him, with a shrug that John interpreted to mean, if I’m still alive.

John waited until Mike and his mother had left. He said nothing other than, “Fall in,” and led them back to the service corridor closest to where he’d parked. He pulled on his hat and muffler, then automatically ordered Dean to help Sam zip up his coat. He checked them both with a cursory glance, opened the door, and led them into the snow.

It was already getting dark. He opened up the back, let them climb in, and turned the motor over. He got back out to clean off the glass. His hair was still wet enough to freeze in places, and frozen ice pellets formed from the drops of water on his head to drip onto his coat. His nose turned red and runny by the time he’d scraped the windows enough to see. He scraped a little harder than strictly necessary.

He sank back into the driver’s seat wearily, flipped the wipers on, and drove home in utter silence.

As he pulled up to the apartment door, he asked, “Got your key?” At Dean’s nod, he continued, “You two go upstairs and wait for me there.”

“Yessir,” they chorused, shuffling out of the car. Dean turned back. “Dad?”

“I’ll be home soon,” John told him. “If you’re hungry, fix yourself something.”

Dean sucked his lips in and bit them nervously. He was trying to apologize, John knew, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. Not when he could finish up this hunt if he just had a few hours’ peace to do it.

“Cold’s gettin’ in, son,” he said to prompt Dean to shut the door.

Dean pulled himself together—no tears, no excuses—he just nodded curtly and slammed the door so John could drive away.


Continue to Chapter Fifteen