t h e . s t a r s . a r e . s m a l l . a n d . r i n g e d . w i t h . o u r . c o n f u s i o n

The stars are small and ringed with our confusion
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: "Tell me about the great hunter. Tell me how he killed the monsters."

Spoilers: Through 2.01: "In My Time of Dying."

Notes: Thanks to amberlynne and luzdeestrellas for handholding.

Date: October 4, 2006

They take Dad's ashes back to Lawrence, have them put in the ground next to what's left of their mother. As the urn is lowered into the hole, Dean thinks he's going to puke, just lose it right there in front of Sam and Missouri and the gravedigger. He hasn't thrown up on a hunt since he was fifteen, and he doesn't now, but he comes closer than he has in a long while. The collar of his new shirt itches, his tie feels like a noose, and only Sam's hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight enough to bruise through the thin material of his suit jacket, keeps him from embarrassing himself.

In the shower later, he'll stare at the long finger-shaped marks on his skin, and remind himself that he has to hold it together, because he's all Sam's got now, and he can't fail to follow Dad's final orders.

Missouri flutters around them like a sharp-tongued butterfly, alternately offering comfort and reminding them of how much work they have to do. Dean is grateful for the sting, the goad, the reminder that he can't just stumble around blindly, crying for his daddy--there is work to do and no one else to do it.

That first night, they let her feed them meatloaf and mashed potatoes and sweet tea, a steady diet of quiet comfort they can't find anywhere else. Sam is hollow-eyed and silent; he sits on the back porch in the grey November evening and stares off into the distance, huddled in a jacket that's too light for the weather. Dean doesn't ask what he sees. Doesn't want to know if he's figured out what Dad really did, and why. Doesn't want Sam to hate him for it, though he won't blame him if he does.

She puts them in separate rooms, and Dean can't remember why he ever wanted that as a kid, why he used to bitch to Dad about having to share once he was old enough to jerk off every night, because he can't hear Sam's breathing down the hall, can't be sure he's not being smothered in his sleep or tormented by nightmares.

He slips down the dark hallway and into Sam's room, sinks down onto the floor with his back against the bed and lets Sam's steady, rhythmic breathing lull him into a doze.

Sam wakes once, and says, in a voice thick with sleep, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

But Sam doesn't say anything else; his breathing evens out again, and he sleeps through the rest of the night.

The second day, Sam sits at the piano, long fingers lying silent on the keys. He doesn't know how to play, at least not as far as Dean knows, but he stares at the sheet music propped on the music-stand as if he can read it, as if it's telling him some secret he needs to know.

"Sam?" Sam doesn't answer, so he tries again. "Sammy? You all right?"

Sam gives him a sad smile, because of course he's not all right. What kind of fucking stupid question was that, anyway, dumbass?

"Hanging in," is what Sam says, and then he turns back to the music, shutting Dean out as effectively as if there were a door between them.

So Dean follows Missouri around, gets underfoot, hoping to spark something more than sympathy or annoyance, hoping she'll give him something--anything--he can use. For what, he isn't quite sure.

"You are the noisiest boy I've ever met," she finally says to him, though he hasn't said a word in what feels like hours. "The backyard needs raking, and then you can go down to the supermarket and pick up something for dinner. And don't let that Cathy Mahoney distract you. Girl's got trouble written all over her, seems to attract boys like you."

Cathy Mahoney is exactly what Missouri promised, all sweet, hot come-on in her eyes, in the jut of her hips, and Dean's not the one who's dead, but he knows even as she writes her number on his palm after she checks him out (and rings up his groceries) that he's never going to call her, that the last thing he wants is one more person in Lawrence who thinks she has a claim on him.

He goes to Wal-Mart then, tries to replace some of the things they've lost--underwear, boots, a copy of Metallica's black album. He rakes the backyard, does laundry, cleans his guns, and tinkers with the truck, itching to get back to Bobby's, to the Impala. His girl needs fixing and he needs to be with her--even as mangled as she is, she's home more than anyplace else has been the last twenty-three years. But Sam's still staring off into space, and Missouri's watching him expectantly. Dean knows enough to keep quiet for once, to wait for whatever sign Missouri's looking for.

While she meets with clients and Sam vegetates, Dean fries up onions and peppers, browns the sweet Italian sausage he bought, and then puts it in to bake. He moves around Missouri's kitchen like he's lived there for years, opening cabinets and poking through the fridge when he can't find what he needs. He hasn't cooked in forever, but he hasn't forgotten how, and the familiarity of it calms the jitters under his skin, for a while at least.

He washes the frying pan, fiddles with the radio, reads the old copies of Ladies' Home Journal and House and Garden lying on the coffee table.

The forty minutes don't pass as quickly as he'd like, leaving him too much time to think, to grieve. He pulls Dad's wedding band out of his pocket, slips it on and off, wondering if Dad would be pissed they buried him without it. But Dean couldn't let it go; Mom had picked it out, had had it engraved (All my love, M, 7-25-77), had slipped it onto Dad's finger the day they got married, and as far back as Dean can remember, Dad had never taken it off. Until they prepared his body for the fire. Dean knows keeping it is probably a mistake--it's the kind of object spirits can attach to, and there's no way he wants his father's ghost haunting them. They salted the body (not Dad, not anymore) before they burned it, but even so, he shouldn't have kept the ring.

He finds he doesn't care. He slips it back into his pocket, one more talisman against the darkness.

The time does pass eventually, though, and he returns to the kitchen, lays the peppers and onions on top of the sausage, adds some red wine, and shoves it back into the oven.

When her last client leaves, Missouri joins him in the kitchen. He's at the sink, rinsing lettuce, and he tenses, waiting for her to start yelling. She cocks her head and sniffs.

"Smells good," she says, and he relaxes, shoots her a grin like he wasn't worried at all. She rolls her eyes and taps the china cabinet. "Use the good china when you set the table." Her look warns him off complaining that he shouldn't have to set the table if he's cooking.

They don't talk much while they eat; Sam cleans his plate, and looks like he's there, like he's paying attention, instead of being lost inside himself, off somewhere Dean can't reach him.

After dinner, Dean grabs one of the new blankets he bought, a red and grey fleece thing that gets staticky and clings to his jeans when he walks, and lays it down in the flatbed of the truck. It's cold now that the sun has gone down. The moon is waxing gibbous and the few stars he can see look very far away. He doesn't know what he's doing out there, but the house is starting to stifle him.

Sam clambers up beside him, and for a few minutes, they lie there in silence.

"The Pleiades," Dean says when he can't take the quiet anymore, "were the daughters of Atlas and Pleione." He raises his arm to point to the barely visible constellation. "Seven beautiful sisters who served Artemis. The mighty hunter Orion, who was one of Artemis' favorites, caught sight of them while they bathed, and decided he wanted them, but they weren't exactly flattered by the attention. They prayed to Zeus to rescue them, and for once, the big guy came through. He turned them into doves, and then stars, and placed them in the night sky, where they were safe. But there's Orion, still chasing after them."

"In one version of the story." Sam shifts slightly, his head resting against Dean's shoulder now, the smell of Missouri's fancy shampoo making Dean's nose itch.

Dean nods. "In one version of the story."

Dad had drilled them both in astronomy, as well as astrology and the mythology behind it. They used to lie under the stars like this sometimes, out in the country where there were no lights to interfere, and billions of stars were visible, and Dean would tell Sam the stories Dad had told him, at first in whispered tones of awe, and then later, when he was older, he'd had a lot of fun telling Sam the more adult versions of the myths, making Sam squirm uncomfortably and blush whenever he talked about Zeus getting busy with some nymph or boy.

Sometimes, he'd just make up his own stories, stories about two brothers who fought monsters and saved their mother from demons, stories where the great hunter wasn't Orion but John Winchester, armed with rock salt and silver bullets. When they got older, that had bothered Sam, as well. "Don't glorify him, Dean," he'd say after he and Dad had another fight. "He doesn't deserve it."

Now, Sam leans against him and says, "Tell me about the great hunter, Dean. Tell me how he killed the monsters."

And Dean does, his voice hoarse and shaking with grief.

They're both chilled to the bone when Missouri calls them inside, but she's got three mugs of hot chocolate sitting on the kitchen table, and that, along with the stories she tells them, is enough to warm them up.

"Oh, you were the sweetest baby," she says, taking Sam's hand and squeezing it. "The first time your daddy brought you here, you sat on my lap all afternoon and smiled." He gives an embarrassed little laugh and looks down at their joined hands, half-smile lingering on his face. "And you," here she turns to Dean, who chokes on the sip of hot chocolate he's just taken, ready to defend himself, "you were so curious and so brave." She shakes her head and sniffs. "You didn't stop talking, told me all about what you wanted for Christmas. Told me you just wanted your mother back."

He remembers, vaguely, the first few weeks after Mom's death. Feelings, mostly--fear, worry, the need to protect Sam, to make sure Dad was all right. And the smell of smoke, filling his throat, choking him.

"And maybe a fireman's helmet," he whispers, remembering.

"That's right," she says softly. "You wanted your momma, and a fireman's helmet, and some toys for Sam. Lord, you were a protective child." She smiles, eyes overbright, and it's his turn to stare down into his mug, because his eyes are stinging with tears and he is not going to cry, not now, not anymore. "Oh, Dean, your father loved you boys more than life itself, even if he sometimes had a strange way of showing it." She takes his hand now, warm fingers wrapping around his and squeezing tight, connecting all three of them for a quick second before she lets go of him. "He was always so proud of you both. You should mourn him. And you should do your best to keep making him proud." She lets go of Sam's hand, slowly rises to her feet with a sigh, and gathers their now empty mugs and puts them in the sink. "Have a good night, boys." She ruffles Sam's hair, cups the back of Dean's head gently, and heads upstairs.

They follow a few minutes later, though first Dean walks through the house, checking the locks on all the doors and the windows, nodding with approval at the runes carved into the wood, the spirit pouches hanging from the lintels.

When they get to Sam's room, there's a sleeping bag and a mound of pillows on the floor. Dean opens his mouth to convince Sam to let him stay, but Sam just says, "I'll be done in a minute," before heading into the bathroom.

After they're bedded down for the night, Sam turns out the light and mumbles, "Night, Dean."

"Night, Sammy." Dean rearranges the pillows, trying to get comfortable. When he rolls over, in the weak light filtering in through the curtains, he notices the dreamcatcher hanging above the bed, and smiles.

Dean wakes when Sam steps over him and leaves the room. He forces himself to lie still, to not get up and follow. He tells himself Sam is not sneaking out, not leaving him behind. The door to the bathroom closes with a click and Dean relaxes and smiles, imagining Sam's outrage if he had followed.

He pulls on some clothes and follows the scent of coffee downstairs to find Missouri already up, wrapped in a fluffy blue bathrobe, fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Coffee's ready," she says. "Pancakes or eggs?"

"Both?" Sam asks hopefully, coming down the stairs like a herd of buffalo, a little off-balance because his hands are behind his back. He gives her the puppy-dog eyes, and she sighs in defeat. When she opens the refrigerator, Dean flashes him the thumbs up, knowing that if he'd asked, she'd probably have told him to cook it himself.

He does, anyway, pours himself some coffee and then gets down to whipping up some pancake batter while she scrambles the eggs. Sam sits at the table drinking coffee, hair all tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep, leaning his chin on his hand, looking like the overgrown kid he still is in some ways.

Missouri slides the platter of eggs onto the table, and Dean follows a little while later with a stack of pancakes.

"There you go, Sam-I-am," he says, grinning, and for a second, it feels like home, but when he turns, it's not Dad sitting at the head of the table, but Missouri, and Dad's absence hits him like a kick in the balls, white-hot and fresh. He forces himself to keep the smile on his face while they're looking at him, and then he hides the way it fades behind his mug of coffee, pretends to be too interested in the food that now holds no appeal.

Missouri glances at him, and he knows she knows, but she lets him pretend. She starts chattering to Sam about the peach preserves she put up over the summer. "And the McKinley orchard is still open. You could go apple-picking and we could bake a pie."

Dean shivers, remembering the orchard in Burkitsville, and Sam shakes his head. He pulls something off the chair beside him, lays it on the table.

It's the dreamcatcher, the feathers soft and bright in the warm light of the kitchen.

Sam runs his fingers along the hoop. "Thank you for this."

"You're welcome," she says. "Just doing my best to help."

He nods, wearing an earnest expression that makes him look about twelve. "And you did."

They look at each other for a long moment, and Dean shifts, uncomfortably aware that there's some sort of conversation happening that he isn't in on. Or maybe they just want him to think they're being profound or something. He gets up, refills his mug, and leans against the counter, waiting.

"So what's on the menu for today?" he says when he can't take it anymore. "Gutters need cleaning? You got a car? I could change your oil."

Missouri turns and gives him the no-nonsense look that usually comes right before she yells at him. "You need to pack your bags, Dean Winchester, and get back out on the road," she says, and he straightens and stops fidgeting, the way he would've for Dad. "There's evil to be fought, and you're not getting it done sitting in my kitchen, eating me out of house and home."

He grins, surprised at how much it feels like a blessing he hadn't thought he'd wanted and never thought he'd get. "You hear that, Sammy? We've got evil to fight."

"That's what they tell me," Sam answers, and his smile is sad, but it's still a smile, and that's good enough for Dean.

They don't have much to pack, even with the supplies Dean bought yesterday, so after a quick shower, he's ready to go.

Before they get in the truck, Missouri hands Sam a cooler with some sandwiches for the trip and kisses him goodbye. She waves them off when they try to thank her.

"You want to thank me, Sam, get a haircut. You look like a sheepdog. Can't see the world clearly with all that hair in your eyes. And you," she turns to Dean, who's leaning against the side of the truck, arms crossed over his chest, grinning again. "You need to stop slouching around like a juvenile delinquent trying to impress the girls on the corner. Maybe it was cute at seventeen, but at twenty-seven it's not working for you anymore." He opens his mouth to say it's worked so far, but she smiles and rubs his arm to take the sting away, and then presses a kiss to his cheek.

Instead he says, "Be careful." He doesn't want to come back here for another funeral.

She pats his cheek. "You, too. Stay safe. And come back soon. You boys will always have a place under my roof."

They thank her again, and Dean pulls out before any of them start crying, because there's no way he'd live that down.

They fall back into the routine: research, hunt, kill, drive. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

It's what he does, what they do, though he can't help but wonder when Sam will leave again. He pushes that thought away, the way he pushes everything else away. The hunt is what matters, the hunt and protecting Sam, and those are the two things Dean has always been best at.

Everything will seem fine, routine, for stretches of time--sometimes as long as twenty minutes--but then he'll reach out to change the tape and remember the truck has a CD player, and the only CDs they have are Dad's.

Dean's never been able to listen to Patsy Cline without wanting to cry, her voice hitting him right in the chest when she falls to pieces, but now he can't listen to Johnny Cash anymore, either. Not without wanting to curl up into a ball and die. Which is just one more thing he can't tell Sam. Add it to the ever-growing list.

He starts running again. He likes the rhythm of it, the steady pounding of feet against pavement, heart thumping a heavy bass line, breath loud in his ears. He likes the way his focus narrows, turns inward, until he can feel every muscle moving, every capillary expanding and contracting, his whole body pushing forward, well-oiled machinery straining to break free of gravity. It makes him miss the Impala fiercely, and he calls Bobby every couple of days, demanding progress reports on his baby.

He's not sleeping, so it's easy to be up early, a time of day he generally hates with a passion usually reserved for easy listening music and the New York Yankees; the cold snap in the air keeps him from drowsing, even as the rhythm lulls him into something resembling peace.

Sam's not sleeping either, and Dean knows it's going to catch up with them, make them a half-second too slow one night when that half-second means the difference between living and dying, but he's not ready yet to start considering drugs. He hangs the dreamcatcher over Sam's bed each night, though Sam shakes his head, says it's not going to help. But Dean figures it can't hurt.

The first couple of mornings, he hesitates before heading out, worries about leaving Sam alone, but since they left Lawrence, he's been pouring salt across the door and windows every night, carving devil's traps and other protective sigils into the lintel of each room they've stayed in, and at this hour, most of what they hunt is calling it a night, anyway.

He goes because sometimes he has to get out, get away. He wants to forget, wants to shrug off the weight of grief and breathe free, though he's also afraid of forgetting, of what it will mean the day thinking of Dad doesn't hurt worse than being clawed by a wendigo. He knows it will come eventually, the way thinking of Mom now is a muted ache, more the memory of pain than pain itself most of the time, though he still reminds himself everyday to be brave for her, to make her proud, but he doesn't think he'll be able to stand it when it does.

And he wants to forget not only what they've lost, but the knowledge he's gained because of it. Sometimes he wishes Dad were alive not because he misses him like a constant sharp ache in his bones, but so he could yell at him for leaving them alone in this mess.

When he comes back to the room, Sam is huddled over the new laptop, bought with Harvey Yarbrough's credit card right after they left Lawrence. There are newspapers piled at the end of the bed, waiting for Dean to sort through them.

When he comes out of the shower, Sam has coffee and breakfast waiting, but the jelly doughnut has no taste in his mouth and sits like lead in his stomach. Sam's talking, but Dean can't make himself pay attention.

"Zombies in Fort Myers," Sam is saying when Dean finally tunes in again.

"Zombies?" he asks, interested. They've never run into Romero-style zombies, aren't even sure they actually exist, but he's wanted to since he was old enough to sit through Night of the Living Dead on the late late movie, waiting for Dad to come home, Sam curled up asleep beside him.

"No, not really, but it's one of the only words that automatically gets your attention."

He throws the plastic cover of his coffee cup at Sam. "Bitch."

Sam wings it back at him, laughing. "Jerk."

And for a moment, everything is the way it should be.

end

Note 1: After writing this, and building bits of it around the idea that they were using John's truck while the Impala was incapacitated, I watched the preview for Thursday night again, and it looks like they've got a random SUV instead. Sigh. Secondly, you can totally cook sausage and peppers the way Dean does. Thirdly, the title was inspired by Denise Levertov's "September 1961."

Note 2: According to the journal entry for December 17, 1983, Dean did in fact speak to Missouri: Sammy sat in her lap the whole time, smiling, and Dean talked nonstop... he never does that anymore. I realize it's grey canon, as it hasn't been on the show, but...

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