Work Text:
Supernatural Mother's Day
Sam age 6, Dean age 10
It was just another boring ass day. Smash the hand on the battery powered alarm clock. Unzip Sammy's sleeping bag and toss back the corner, exposing him to the chilly morning air seeping under the door of our rustic cabin. Blast some rock. Push us both through the morning PT.
Sammy, per habit, bitched and suggested we just lie to Dad about completing the morning, crunches, pushups and run. I offered, "How about I just go suds up a bar of soap so you can have a lick of what's gonna happen if Dad catches us in a lie?"
"Dean, he insists that we lie. He makes us practice and everything."
"Never to him and only when he needs us to."
"But why does he need us to lie, Dean?"
"None of your beeswax. Just do the damn pushups, Sammy."
Sam backed down. He has a tendency to piss and moan, but he's had order of command enforced enough to know that when Dad's away I am the adult in his life. Doesn't matter that I'm 10. What matters is that Sammy is allowed to feel safe, secure and cared for; that for as long as possible, he's allowed to be a kid. That means that when it's just the two of us, I'm the adult that enforces bedtimes, gets us both off to school, and maintains regiments.
Sammy claims to hate the regimentations and wants to know, "Why the hell we don't behave like the kids on TV? Why do we have to have a bedtime and do all of this other crap if Dad isn't around to enforce it?"
Reality check. We both need the regiment.
Three weeks ago Sammy and I were sharing a couch at the house of some lady Dad had helped out. Before there, it was a week of camping under the stars and sleeping in the Impala on the night it rained. Prior to that, 3 nights in a skeevy motel in Dallas, 5 days squatting in a formerly haunted hovel, 3 weeks at… House and home weren't stable realities for us.
Now and then, usually around the start of the school year, Dad would try to settle for a time working as a mechanic and setup house in a pre-furnished rental. But he'd rent by the month, and you couldn't trust that you'd be there for the full 30 days. More than once, I'd been carried to the Impala while I slept or shaken awake and ordered to get Sammy packed and in the car.
Meals weren't a guarantee either. Hunting doesn't pay. There have been a whole hell of a lot of PB&Js, off brand soups, and generic cereals in our diet.
Dad does what he can and he's been teaching me the ropes.
The three of us play poker at night. Great times! But though Sammy has started to catch on that there are times we let him win, he hasn't snagged on to the fact that the purpose of our games is so I can perfect hiding my tells, so when I'm old enough to go bar hopping, I'll have the skill to reel the suckers in, making them think they have superior skills before I take the whole pot.
But there have been nights where its best not to mention food or hunger. I can tell when because Dad avoids looking at us. Dad'll take off looking for a poker or pool table and order me to look after Sammy.
If the car is near E, Dad'll take us out fishing or hunting. Real hunting. Not that either Sammy or I would ever shoot Bambi, but we'll eat her if that's the food that's set on the plate in front of us.
If there's gas in the car, and we're close enough, Dad'll drop us off at Bobby's and leave it to Uncle Bobby to feed us. Then there's times like now, where Dad rushed off to help someone and then got called out on another hunt while away, leaving me in charge and our food supplies dwindling.
I do what I have to for Sammy, which this morning meant lying through my teeth about having a few handfuls of cereal while Sam was out taking a piss. I can go longer without eating than he can and doing so is part of giving him that safety and security.
Sammy doesn't know the truth about how Mom died. He doesn't know that witches, werewolves and ghost are all real, along with dozens of other scary ass monsters. He doesn't know how broke we sometimes are. Sammy thinks Dad is a traveling salesman. And Dad and I are determined to keep the truth from him for as long as possible.
The only secure pattern we have in our lives is the regimen. Set bedtimes. Set morning procedures. Set chores. Set order of command. I needed the security of their stability, and as much as Sammy bitches about them, he needs them too.
"Hurry it up, Sammy. If we're not at the bus stop in 2 minutes we're going to be hoofing it."
He got it in gear, knowing I'd get him up early for extra PT if he made us late again.
We tromped into big yellow and I tried to ditch him with some kid named Mike that was sitting up front, but Sammy tends to get clingy when Dad's out of town. Literally. His hand was grasped tightly to the back of my jacket, ensuring I wouldn't leave him behind when I went to the back to sit with the older kids. I shoved him into the seat first so I could at least pretend he wasn't there for the 12 minute bus ride. Sammy doesn't seem to care that I don't pay attention to him on the bus; he just needs the security of being near me. He tends to nerd it out reading whichever book he has stashed in his backpack that day.
Sammy had had a full-on meltdown when we got to a new state and he discovered he had a library book he wasn't able to return. Seriously, he'd collapsed on the floor of our newest motel room and cried, kicked, and begged Dad to return the book. Dad told him to, "Man up. It's a book they lend out for free. Just keep the damn thing." Sammy had responded by yelling at Dad, calling him a thief. The spanking that followed wasn't pretty. Dad had given it because you do not yell at your commanding officer or throw tantrums, but I think Sammy used it to assuage his guilt for what he thought of as stealing a book.
The damn kid is going to have one hell of a crisis of conscience when the beans do get spilled and he discovers we live off scammed credit cards and poker winnings and that Dad has already taught me how to picklocks and sneak into places to snag things he needs for a hunt.
The bus pulled up to the school and I sighed as I felt his fingers lace with mine. We were miles away in age. I was at the age where this moment was going to be used against me during recess by those that liked to pick on the new kids in school. Sammy was at the age where he desperately needed to know that when Dad was gone I was there to look out for him. Meaning that I had to walk the twerp to 1st grade and promise to be at his classroom to pick him up at the end of the day. It was part of our regiment.
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Dean left me in Ms. Hastings class so he could go to 5th grade. Ms. Hastings announced that Sunday is Mother's Day and that for morning circle we should each share whether our mothers had a job and what their job was.
I sat in the circle rubbing my hands on my jeans, waiting for it to come around to my turn. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to confess to everyone that Mom's dead? Should I claim I need to use the bathroom and then sneak down to Dean's classroom and ask him what Mom's job was so I could share the correct answer? I wasn't paying attention to what everyone else said until they were all staring at me. I couldn't squeeze any words out. I put my feet on the floor and bent my legs so I could wrap my arms around them and just shook my head no to the teacher's prompting.
She said, "Sarah go ahead, it seems Sammy is going to pass."
I was relieved Ms. Hastings didn't push. I knew she didn't know that Mom's dead because she'd asked, "Sammy, what does your Mom do?" Not, "Sammy, did your Mom have a job?"
Next, she read us the book, "Are you my Mother?" by Doctor Seuss. The momma bird left to get food, then the baby hatched. The little bird fell out of the nest and walked around asking everyone and everything if it was his mom because it didn't know what its mom looked like. Then a person used a crane to put the baby bird back in its nest and then its mom got home.
It hurt. I've only seen one picture of my Mom, so I barely know what she looks like. I don't have a nest to go back to where she can find me.
I'd tested out calling a babysitter mom once. Dean had gone into commanding office mode and stated, "That is Miss Anna. You will call her Miss Anna." But behind the stern voice I could see his lip waver before he turned and left the room.
We don't have a home. We don't have a Mom. And some weeks, like this one, we don't have a Dad. It's just Dean and me.
Most of the time, it's okay. Until I got into school, I was just a dumb little kid and didn't know it was odd to travel all the time. It was like we were constantly on vacation, seeing different places. Then Dad rented a house and put me in kindergarten. That's where I found out that other kids lived like the people in sitcoms. They had homes and the same bed every night and they didn't have to follow rules like, "You're not allowed to tell anyone that I'm not home. Not even other kids."
Dad and Dean both explained it was a stranger danger thing. Adults might come and take Dean and me if they thought Dean was too young to be looking after me. I said I'd just explain that Dean did a great job of taking care of me! Because he does. But they both got their angry stern faces and said that that rule was just as important as the ones about salt on windows and doorways and the one where I'm not allowed to touch Dean's gun.
Ms. Hastings gave us a heart with lines on it and we're supposed to be writing to our moms for Mother's Day. My stomach hurts. I don't have anything to say to her. Am I supposed to write a letter to her in heaven? Is she even there? What if there isn't a heaven? What if her spirit went away with her body in the fire?
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Most of the students were focused on their cards. I was making them write at least 4 lines before I handed over crayons for the decorative part. Sam was a new student, only in our class a few weeks. Normally he followed all instructions and seemed to enjoy class. Today he'd been sullen, silent, and just stared at the paper on his desk.
I'd started to wonder, but how do you ask a 6 year-old, 'Sammy, do you have a Mom?'
I glanced over. He was progressing from silent to distraught. A tear was shimmering on his lashes, he was murmuring something, his arms were wrapped in a self-hug, and he was rocking forward and backwards.
I asked "Sammy, are you okay?"
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I needed out. Now. My hand shot up. "Mrs. Almont, may I use the restroom."
"After I finish giving instructions. Everyone write MOTHER down the side of your page. For each letter write something special about your mom."
Another flash of flame. Blood dripping from her slashed stomach. Fire engulfing her body. I'd only seen it for a fraction of a second, but I couldn't unsee it. I wanted to puke. My hands gripped the seat of my chair. If I squeezed hard enough maybe I could squeeze away the trembling in my fingers.
I miss Mom. I want back all those things that were special about her. I want her to be there to be in charge of meals and bedtimes and raising Sammy. I swallowed hard. I just needed to keep my eyes dry until Mrs. Almont let me flee to the bathroom.
Knock, knock. Mrs. Almont opened the door.
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I needed Dean. My teacher tried to ask me what was wrong, but all I could get out was, "Need Dean." I said it over and over. Ms. Hastings tried to put her arm around me, but I freaked out and pushed at her, which pushed me out of my chair and onto the floor, because she's bigger than me so I'm the one that moved. I'd pushed because I don't need another Miss Anna pretending to fill the mom roll. I don't want pats and cuddles from someone who doesn't even know why I'm mad and sad. Ms. Hastings tried to get close to me again. I kicked my feet to scare her away and did my best to yell out what I needed through my tears, "De… Dean, need Dean." Maybe if I yelled loud enough he'd hear me. "DEAN!"
SNSNSNSNSNSNSN
Emotions run high in 5 and 6 year olds. Thankfully, most of the time they exude the happier emotions, finding excitement and humor in everything new. There was the occasional clash of wills over a toy, or tears to wipe after a scrapped knee. But a full-blown tantrum was actually rather rare.
I decided an extra recess was in order, for everyone but Sammy. I sent the children outdoors with the parent volunteer and sent Ms. Juniper, my assistant, to retrieve Dean. I know as an adult that I should be the one taking charge of the 6 year-old's emotional state, but other than to allow him to cry himself into exhaustion I didn't know what to do. Perhaps his brother would know how to handle him.
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The teacher called my name, "Dean," and nodded her head towards the door. I walked over. The lady that helps in my brother's room was standing there.
"Your brother," that was as much as it took to snap me out of my own woes. I had to suck it in and be the adult that he needed me to be. He was my responsibility. The lady continued, "is quite upset. He's asking for you. We were" I was already jogging down the hall before she could finish asking.
I opened the door to his classroom and heard him crying my name. I slid to the floor next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Sammy, I'm here. I'm here."
"Dean!"
He clambered into my lap and started rambling gibberish about a nest and a bird and then finally said at least one thing that made sense. Sort of. "Where did Mom work?"
I closed my eyes. So that was it. He was going through the same heartbreak I was. "Mom worked on a farm, with the horses mostly. That was before I was born, but she took me out to that farm a few times to go riding. She stayed home with me until I was about 2, then she took a job doing secretary type stuff. When you came along, she quit, and she was just home with the both of us all day."
I was going to suffer my own breakdown if I didn't move things along. If that happened, the dominos would fall. Sammy might say something he shouldn't. The school would try to call Dad and fail to get through. Our number 2 and 3 contacts were several states away. Child Protective Services might get called. We'd be separated and put in a stranger's house with no salt lines and no weapons.
I leaned down to Sam's ear and whispered, but with a firm tone, "Alright, Sam. I'm going to give you some orders and I expect them to be followed. Understood?"
He gave a serious nod.
"On your feet." He climbed out of my lap. "Go wash your face." He went over to the sink and scrubbed at his face then dried it with one of the crunchy, brown paper towels supplied by schools. He came back over and looked at me with such trust that I could and would fix everything.
It made it all the harder to take that next step, because sometimes fixing things hurts. "Sammy, I know why you're upset and I understand. But you are too old for tantrums. You've disrupted your teacher's lessons. Go to the corner," I pointed to the corner. "Stand there and think of other ways to express your emotions. In 6 minutes you'll come back over here and apologize to Ms. Hastings. Understood?"
He nodded.
I shook my head no, "More than a nod this time, Sammy."
He swallowed. "Yes, sir." Then he shuffled off towards where I had directed him.
I hated when he called me sir, but it's the procedure Dad insisted we follow when either of us were in trouble. I glanced at the clock, marking the time.
I could tell that Ms. Hastings had wanted to interrupt, probably with one of those chick-flick moments of saying emotions get the best of us all and that punishment wasn't needed. But it was necessary. I'd been on the edge of my own freak out, but I'd held it together because adults would insist on getting other adults involved which all lead down a trail to us being taken from Dad. It'd also lead to the other kids teasing and bullying us. I could hold my own against them in any fight but depending on the school that always ended one of two ways… a call to Dad or a paddle or ruler to the ass by a teacher or principal.
Ms. Hastings asked, "What happened to your Mom?"
I had to struggle not to glare. Like the bitch couldn't conclude for herself that our Mom was gone. Asking was just looking for gory details to gossip about that were none of her fucking business. I didn't say any of that. I didn't say anything.
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His silence was answer enough. Oh, I was still curious how their mother had met her demise, but I no longer had suspicions of this being a divorce or abduction by parent situation.
Siblings help care for younger siblings, particularly in single parent households. Dean was quite adept at it, making me feel superfluous. I fished again, "He responds to you."
"Yes, ma'am."
I lifted the heart with the empty lines from Sam's desk. "Perhaps you could stay and help him write something to your Mom."
SNSNSNSNSNSN
I swallowed hard. Why did she have to ask that? I'd tried to give her the Ignorance is Bliss Pass by not explaining about Mom's death. But Ms. Haskins just had to play the Your Brother Needs Your Help Card.
"I really should get back to class after his timeout is done." I glanced at the clock, less than a minute to go. Better to end the time early than talk to an adult. "Sammy, turn around. Come over here."
Tears had stained his cheeks. I wanted to cry my own. I wanted to hold them back by closing my eyes for a moment and swallowing hard. But I didn't. I forced them to stay dry and to stay in charge.
"What did you come up with?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"Unless you need another 6 minutes you better have a better answer than huh. You're too old for tantrums. What're you gonna do instead?"
"Dean," he whined.
"Come up with an answer or go back to the corner."
"Keep it in."
I nodded, "What else?"
"Ask the teacher to get you."
I glanced at Ms. Haskins for permission. She gave a nod, so I gave one to Sammy. "And?"
"I don't know, Dean."
"How about scribble until the whole page is covered in crayon. Not on assignments though, that'll piss teachers off."
Sam's eyes got wide and darted to Ms. Haskins to see if she'd react to my improper language, but her reprimand was minor: a raised brow, a twitch of the lips showing she was holding back humor, and the single stern word, "Language."
"It's time you apologized to your teacher, Sam."
"Sorry for disrupting your class, Ms. Haskins."
"Apology accepted."
"Alright Sam, I've got to," but that was as far as I got before his hand was in mine.
"No, Dean. Stay."
I looked around, hoping Ms. Haskins would lend some support in insisting it was time I returned to class. We had gym at 10:30 and then math, and then lunch, so I knew I was safe to return to class and not have to do the awful poem. But Ms. Haskins wasn't behind me. She was ushering her students back into the room, to their seats, and back to work on their Mother's Day hearts.
And Sam had me by the hand and was tugging me to his desk, trusting that his problem was something I could fix and that I would help him with it.
I wanted to bolt. Get the hell away from the red and pink hearts and the murmurs of 6 year-olds asking how to spell pot roast or pleading that they were done writing and could they please have the crayons.
But my six-year-old was there with hope in his eyes, waiting for me to help him. Reluctantly, I sat in one of the tiny blue chairs. "So, what are we writing."
Sammy shrugged.
"Write Hi Mom." He did, then looked to me for more. Red hot flames. Dad yelling, 'Take your brother to safety.' Crust cut off bread. Sitting next to Mom in church. Rock songs sung at bedtime. Mom stuck to the ceiling, blood dripping out of her guts, body on fire. My breath started to hitch.
Then I felt his tiny fingers on my hand pulling my fingers open and putting something between them. A green crayon. "Here, Dean. You can be like the Hulk and rage out with green all over this paper." He slid a blank piece of paper in front of me.
"Thanks, squirt," I ran my fingers through his hair. I drew in a breath and let it out slow, "but let's get back to the letter. How about you tell her about us?"
"Okay."
Sammy seemed to have some ideas then so I let him write while I started sketching the Hulk with the green crayon. I peeked over to see what he'd written but he'd covered it with another piece of paper. "What'd you write, Sammy?"
Sam whispered, "Bewitched."
Bewitched was code for, 'Our home life is no one else's business and can't be talked about in public,' like in the T.V. show.
I sighed, "You can't put that stuff on schoolwork."
"It isn't schoolwork, Dean. It's a letter for Mom."
I'd already learned how to tread the line to keep Child Protective Services away. But Sammy was 6 and didn't grasp the nuances yet. When I was younger I'd made some slips that had lead to us ditching town before the authorities could do a check-in or me calling and begging Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby to come pretend to be our sitter for an inspection. I didn't make those kinds of errors anymore, but Sammy was only 6 and didn't even know why we had the Bewitched code. He just knew he was supposed to follow it.
If I insisted on reading it Sam would likely get angry and say, "No!" which would definitely lead to an adult intervening to see what he had written. So I let him keep his secret and played referee when Ms. Haskins came to check on his progress. "Sammy finished writing, Ms. Haskins, but the message is kind of private. Do you have an envelope we can put it in?"
Ms. Haskins brought us an envelope. I carefully folded the heart, keeping Sammy's words covered with the paper he'd been using to hide them with, and put them in the envelope.
"Where's Mom?"
I was startled by the question.
"Mom died in the fire. You know that, Sammy."
"No, I mean where's her body at? Can we send the letter to her there?"
I just about choked. But there was my little Sammy looking up at me again, trusting me to solve his problems. It was my job to take care of him, even when it hurt. So I nodded and said, "I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, Dean."
"I've got to get back to class, Sammy. I'll be back here after the last bell rings to pick you up."
"Okay."
I thanked Ms. Haskins for letting me stay. I took Sammy's letter with me to keep it safe and out of the hands of curious teachers.
The math lesson was on a full roll when I slide into my seat. Hopping schools month-to-month, I was used to joining into a lesson half-way through and muddling my way through on my own using the book's examples. Besides, as long as I pulled a C+ or higher Dad didn't harp on me about grades. So I wasn't concerned about missing a few minutes of long division.
My focus was on the lined paper I'd left on my desk before going to help Sammy. I now had a letter written by Sammy that I'd promised to find a way to mail. And god, just thinking about that made me want to up-chuck. But I'd promised, so I'd do it.
It wasn't right for Mom to get something from only one of us. But there was no Mom. Mom was gone. If she were a ghost Dad would've said so. So there is no Mom. The angels didn't protect us like she said they would. Conclusion: angels don't exist. Just like Mom no longer exist.
I couldn't breakdown in class and I couldn't list the top You were a fabulous Mom list without breaking down. But I had to write something. I flipped to the back of the Hulk picture.
I miss you Mom.
Love,
Dean
The bell rung and I went to pick up Sammy. My hand slipped in my pocket and I felt the serrated edge of the silver quarter. It had been part of a collection of loose change I'd gathered in junkers at Bobby's. Most of it had been spent on candy, but the one quarter I had left was meant for Sammy. I saved it so if he lost a tooth while Dad's out of town the tooth fairy would still arrive.
The letter to Mom was equally important.
Our current residence was a cabin in the woods, miles out of town. I'd tried to work it out all afternoon, but there was just no way for the two of us to go to the post office on our own.
I went up to Ms. Haskins and held out the quarter, "Ma'am, can I buy a stamp from you?"
She seemed startled, but agreed, going to dig a stamp out of her purse.
My hands were shaky as I labeled the envelop but I got it addressed.
Mary Winchester
Cemetery
Lawrence, Kansas
"Sammy, lick the stamp and stick it here. Be quick about it. We have to get to the bus."
He did as told.
I grabbed Sam's hand and we ran, not to the bus, but to the mailbox on the corner in front of the school. I shoved it in the box then we made use of our daily PT to book it to the steps of the bus, arriving just as the driver had started to shut the door.
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I may have guns and machetes in the trunk of the Impala, but those are tools I've taught Dean to use and will be teaching Sammy to use. But I'm not ready to show either of my boys how to use grenades, bouncing Betties, or other tools of war. Maybe when they hit their teens, but not yet. Also, in my line of work, I come across jinxed and cursed objects I can't haul about the country along with two curious, bored children. I have a storage unit in Kansas, where I keep the tools of war and cursed objects.
A jinxed shoe had come into my possession, and as the damn thing wouldn't burn, I'd made a trip to store it away. But first, I had to take a side trip to help another hunter, extending my time away from my boys.
The cabin the boys were staying in had 4 walls, a roof, a wood floor, and a wood burning stove. The only other adornments were they boy's sleeping bags and duffle bags.
Cell phones were this magical thing that the uber-wealthy had in their convertibles and limousines. I hated not being able to talk to my boys on a daily basis. It was easier when we stayed in motels. But that wasn't where my boys were laying their heads this week.
Our communication was limited to me sending coded messages to Dean through the school's secretary. "Please tell my son Dean that when they get off the bus they need to head to Mrs. Suets."
"We'll get him the message, sir."
Suet is our anagram for Tuesday. We had a code name for each day of the week, Monday- Mr. Monk, Wednesday- Ms. Wendy, and so forth. Whichever one I told the secretary matched the day I'd be home. I could hear in the secretary's sigh indicating she wondered why I didn't give my children this information before they went off to school instead of calling her daily.
I couldn't let a secretary's judgement of me stop me from letting Dean know that I was alive and well and when to expect me back. I already put too much pressure on his shoulders. He tended to his brother without complaint and without being told to do so. I hadn't been able to prevent him from knowing about the supernatural and I harbored a level of guilt that I'd burdened him with the knowledge I continually gained of it. But I couldn't be there with them every moment of the day. It was vital I not lose another family member, so it was vital Dean knew of the dangers and of how to use weapons so he could protect himself and his brother.
This was the longest I'd left the two of them alone. I needed to get back to them. But I couldn't simply drive pass Lawrence without stopping at my wife's grave. I wheeled the Impala through the gates and down the dirt road that wove between the headstones, stopping near Mary's gravestone.
I felt my rage and anger boil up at the memory of her being taken from us. I needed to destroy something. I'd be keeping my eyes out for a hunt on my way back to my boys, and an eye out for any information I could find on the son-of-a-bitch.
I hadn't gotten out of the car and nearly put my foot to the pedal to roar back out of this field of stone markers, but an envelope, held down by a rock, in front of Mary's gravestone had me unbuckling and getting out.
I bent to one knee and removed the rock. My breath caught in my throat at seeing my son's handwriting. I plopped back on to my butt and tore open the envelope.
I looked first at the green drawing of the Hulk and the simple words that accompanied it.
I miss you Mom.
Love,
Dean
I cried as I touched his words, feeling their strength. I closed my eyes and sucked it in. There was a longer letter to read. I unfolded the paper heart and read the letter glued to the inside.
Hi Mom,
My teacher wanted us to write what's special about our moms, but I don't know you. Dean told me a little, but he told me I should tell you about us instead of following the teacher's instructions.
His orders top all other orders (except Dad's) so that's what I'm going to do, tell you about us.
Dad's a salesman but no one will tell me what he sells. We move around a lot but wherever we go Dean takes care of me. We're going fishing after school, and we have to eat whatever we catch because the cabin doesn't have a fridge.
Dean makes me get ready for bed at 8:00 and either sings rock songs to me or tells me kick-ass bedtime stories (his words, because he says bedtime stories shouldn't be about princesses kissing frogs), and sometimes he reads his comic books to me. Sometimes they give me nightmares and he rubs my back and lets me curl up next to him instead of shoving me away and telling me he needs his space, like he does on nights when I'm not scared.
I wish you were here, but I want you to know we're safe.
Love,
Sammy
I covered my eyes and crumbled into tears.
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"Sammy, go gather kindling."
I hauled the pot of river water back into the cabin, setting it on the wood burning stove. God, I hope our next migration is to a motel. I do not like roughing it 1800s style. I grabbed a couple logs and shoved them in through the metal door, along with Sammy's kindling, then lit the wood.
We left it to boil, then went fishing for our supper.
Fish over an open fire taste awesome. On day one. 7 meals in a row and yet another day without Dad, we were both feeling cranky.
"Is Dad ever coming home?"
"Tuesday, Sammy."
"But I want him home now."
"Me too." I hadn't meant to say it. Saying sad things makes you sad. But it was just the two of us. No adults around to get panicky about two kids living on their own. So I let the tears fall while Sammy cuddled into my chest and let his own fall.
When we'd pulled ourselves together, I ordered him, "Toilet, then pjs, kiddo. Nights coming and I don't want you going out after the sun's down."
"Dean," he whined, "I'm sick of outhouses."
You and me both, kiddo, but Dad was taking advantage of the use of an acquaintance's cabin to avoid motel cost, so you make do with what you got.
I had to nip the complaining in the butt if I didn't want to be working him down from another tantrum. Dad's right, Sammy bitches a lot. I had the same complaints, but it's pointless to complain about something that can't be fixed, so I told him so.
"Sam, enough of the complaining. If you've got something I can fix, you let me know, but there is just no point in getting worked up over something neither of us can do anything about. Now, if you want a story, you'll get your butt out there, take care of business, get your pjs on and get in your sleeping bag. You hear me?"
"Yes, Dean."
I re-salted the doorway and window, added a few logs to the fire, and got ready for bed myself. I miss TV, and electricity, and running water, and the sounds of cars, letting you know you were only a few feet from civilization. But like I said to Sammy, there was no point bitching about it. Just as there was little point in staying up pass sundown when you didn't have any of that stuff to distract you from life.
Sammy moved his sleeping bag so it practically overlapped mine, then rested his head on my arm. I began that night's tale. "Spiderman shot out a web. It stuck to a skyscraper. He lept from the rooftop and flew above the city streets, spying for crime."
After the story, I rubbed Sammy's back and sang to him until he'd gone under. Then it was just me and the sounds of the forest at night.