Chapter Text
"...Myling. Scandinavian child spirit, also called utburd. Typically the souls of murdered children, or children who died unbaptized. They will ride travelers at night and demand to be taken to a graveyard so they can rest, but they get heavier and heavier as the graveyard gets closer until the person carrying them is driven under the earth by their weight. This belief is derived from the practice of leaving unwanted or deformed infants out to die of exposure. Generally they haunt the location where they were abandoned, but folklore also notes their presence in the dwellings of those who killed them—usually a family member. If their remains can be located and buried in hallowed ground, they will disappear."
- John Winchester's journal, January 24, 1985
Jim was pacing in front of his church, restless.
It wasn’t something new, for John Winchester to drop by like that thing the cat dragged in, running from a nameless and faceless threat in the middle of the night, he and his offspring by his side.
No, it’s the fact that he actually took the time to call him and inform him, and even to mention an approximate time of their inevitable arrival - well, that was new.
News in his line of work were never a good thing. Only more trouble.
In fact, Jim lived by the credo - “No news is good news”. And as any other conviction in his life - he took it seriously.
The quiet of the pending midnight didn’t help, either.
Something is coming, and I won’t like it.
Soon enough he heard it.
The growl.
A mechanical growl. So deep, as if it was coming straight from hell itself.
He sighed. How a person could possibly drive this thing and not go mad, the noise alone could screw with one's mind.
With a sharp turn and a muffled crackle of the snow, the black, sleek metal monster of a car entered his driveway and stopped right at the fence, with the precision of an engineer, as if there was a ruler telling the specific distance that should be kept away from it. Then, the car went silent, in total contrast to the great noise it came with.
Silence fell on the church's hallowed grounds.
Jim tried to brush away the unease he felt, crawling up my spine.
Damn John Winchester, taking the toll on him, and he barely knew the man for less then three years. Met him maybe once in a blue moon, too.
As he was thinking his grim thoughts, the driver’s door opened and John Winchester stepped out, a heavy, dark figure - out of place, out of time.
He walked around and slowly began carving his way towards Jim, leaving behind a black, ominous trail in the virginal white.
He seemed a bit out of it, as if he came with a mission he didn’t really want to take part in.
Makes sense, considering the terms on which we met in the first place.
Jim shivered.
Well, at least there is no blood on him, that’s a plus.
This man drags misery and misfortune with him wherever he goes, no church can ease the pain of this soul.
This is not right I shouldn’t be thinking this.
Oh, Lord forgive me.
John closed in on him as he reached the stairs of the church, where he stopped and looked up. Jim stared down, now still and alert.
There was pure, stubborn determination on the man’s face, some desperation, too - though not unusual - but the ferocity of it - that’s what was so overwhelming.
Whatever it was that occupied John’s mind - he drove all the way from Nebraska with it, and it was eating him alive from the inside out.
And as much as Jim could tell from his previous interactions with John Winchester - was, that this man was a religiously convicted person, as much as his own self, if not even more, and whatever this was, it was important.
This is a man The Lord would’ve liked to have by his side. If he had any say so on the matter, that is.
Jim blinked at his own blasphemous thought.
John was standing at the stairs, watching him from below. Jim took a breath of frozen air, and did everything he could to keep his composure.
“Hey there, Jim.” John said.
“Welcome, John.” Jim answered, shaking himself off and trying to resume his focus. He probably looked confused and rattled, because John carefully turned around, not loosing eye contact at first, then walked away as he came, as if changing his mind.
For a second, Jim was baffled. Then, he mentally cursed himself. John was getting back to his car.
Of course. The kids.
Get a grip.
Making his way through the snow, John grumbled, “Wanna help me here...? They are getting heavier by the day, and I don’t wanna disturb their sleep... God knows they need it. I mean, yeah well... you know...”
“Yeah, I, sure...” Said Jim. Frowning, he followed the hunching figure through the thick snow. The ex-marine made it seem easy, which was just not true: each step through the snow required a great deal of willpower.
Or it’s just my mind, being so heavy with presumptions and hesitations.
John walked around, and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Jim waited.
“Go on, open the other one. I’ll drag Dean, it’s for the greater - umm - good....” John coughed. “Anyway. He is heavier, obviously. You take Sammy. Be gentle though, and let me take Dean out first. Got it?” He commanded, as if on his own turf and by his own right.
Jim nodded. “Sure.”
He himself was a leader, but he knew when it was the time to switch titles and let others take the reins over specific situations. And that was just one of those situations.
Jim opened the other back door.
And at that moment, he felt his mind shift gears from obedient precaution to a disturbing kind of wonder:
Inside, there was a mess of pillows and blankets thrown in complete disarray - all the shades and patterns a hundred motels across the great USA could provide, if there was anything to go by - the ones in the middle sunken and absolutely out of shape, the ones on the edges rising up forming some sort of soft, rounding fortress. A battered toy firetruck could be seen amidst the folds, belly up and missing a wheel. A few comic books were scattered around.
A mental institution.
But then, Jim noticed.
No. It’s a nest.
Inside the cacophony of shapes and colors were two bodies - a kid and a toddler, huddled together under a heavy, puffy checkered comforter.
The toddler's face was buried in the kid’s neck, and his little hands held the kid’s sweater, clutching it. The kid was sleeping on his side, covering the toddler with his right hand, his left curving from underneath the small body, protective; his little fingers barely touching the toddler’s fair hair, a wrist so small and gentle, so fragile, you could mistake it for a doll’s.
Both were very silent, breathing inaudibly, chests barely moving.
Too silent. Two dolls.
...A cuckoo's nest.
It suddenly occurred to Jim, that those kids were deep asleep, and that the growl of the car was a sound they were so used too, it probably registered to them as pure comfort.
Much like the church bells to me and my flock, this is theirs highway lullaby.
And this is their cradle, on the road.
Jim sighed.
He saw John’s kids before, but not for a very long time now. And they grew. A bit, yeah, the older one - Dean, was it? - a bit skinnier then the usual six years old, but still, and the small one - so tiny - seemed to be so out of place in this big, black monster of a vehicle - also not the baby he remembered.
But something else was bothering Jim much more, and it wasn’t the seemingly helpless little bodies in their makeshift beds, oh no, it was that even now, in the dim, almost non-existent wintered Minnesota light, he could tell the kids were pale.
Not malnutrition-wise, sickly kind of pale though, he noticed.
But the creature-of-the-night kind of pale.
These children of God are being brought up under the most artificial, heavy, yellow grace of the standard light bulb... the piercing, unnatural light of the fluorescent lamp. The feeble rays that a partially clouded moon emits, indifferent and cold... these are their sources of melanin, this is what their eyes are used to.
John moves them in and out at nightfall, for some time now. They don’t go out. They don’t see the sun...
...Do they even know what a sun is...?
A sudden, yet gentle movement, brought Jim back to his senses. John was cautiously reaching towards his sons.
As he carefully lifted Dean’s arm and placed it behind his tiny back, as if diffusing a bomb, a sudden, irrational little voice - from far away, through the thickest of fogs, sinister and pure - reached and whispered in Jim’s mind:
“Do not move them apart. Do not separate them.”
The thought was so strange and uncalled for, so foreign, Jim could swear it was not his own. It left an aftertaste in his mouth, a mix of apples and myrrh.
He tried to shrug it off. He was nervous enough as it was without hearing voices and tasting weird cocktails of Godly intent.
At that, Jim fell into a mild stupor, feeling violated. These thoughts are not mine.
“...I’ma gonna drag Dean here, and you go in and scoop up Sammy. Can you do that?” Asked John, his voice piercing Jim’s thoughts. He blinked, as if trying to wake up after a particularly eerie dream. He stared ahead, at the pile of fabric in front of him.
John was now working on removing Dean’s other hand from beneath his baby brother.
The little limp bodies drew closer, as if on instinct. John sighed and shifted positions, now placing his palms under the kid’s armpits, pulling slowly. Dean twitched in his sleep.
“Now, Jim, you go for Sammy before they grab each other again. Go on. You frozen all of a sudden...?” Hissed John.
Jim realized this was probably routine - John driving far and long, the kids are in the back, asleep, and by the time they reach a stop, a motel - John gets to repeat all of this, over and over again.
No wonder he is so tired and out of it.
Jim leaned in. “Right, sorry, I was.. never mind.” He whispered.
He carefully lifted the toddler to his chest and walked away from the car while John carried his other boy cradled in his one hand and closed the back door with the other.
“Do you... have a spare bed or something? A couch? Anything. Just for them. I don’t intend on sleeping much anyway.” Whispered John while they walked ahead.
“I... you do remember there is a guest house on the property, in the back...” Said Jim.
“Right. Ummm. If it’s ok by you.” Said John, a bit distracted.
“Of course. Go there, and I’ll meet you with the keys.” Jim reassured him.
John stiffened and stopped. He turned to look at the pastor, his entire body tense and ready to fight or flight.
It occurred to Jim he was still holding the man’s youngest. He cursed himself. John wouldn’t let him walk two steps away from him with his son in his hands. This was an actual case of justified paranoia, which Jim was privy to from the very beginning.
Well, I should have thought before talking right here...
Jim cleared his throat. “Or, I... could show you where it is, and you all can wait for me while I go get the keys. All three of you.” He punctuated.
John watched Jim intently, studying him. “Yeah, yeah. That. That is... a.. thank you. Here, pass him over to me.” John's free hand - the one resting on his eldest's head - reached to pick up his youngest.
“Hey there little guy, I‘ve got you, shh, shh..” John whispered as he reached for his other boy.
Sam twitched and turned mid air, restless, his little hands seeking, brushing, finally landing on Dean’s worn sweater.
The little fists embedded themselves into the fabric and the toddler calmed down.
John sighed and took a deep breath.
“...I’ll be back in a second,” Said Jim, “there are towels and spare sheets there. Running water. A kettle. Built-in salt-lines. My second armory is there, too. Anything you might need?” Jim offered, trying to sound friendly and reassuring over somewhat disturbed, somewhat forgetting the fact that John wasn’t new to the perimeter.
“No... no, it would be, uhh, enough. Just... wanna put ‘em to rest, is all. Anything else can wait ‘till mornin’. Thank you.” Said John in a drawl, and began shuffling through the heavy snow on his way to the guest house, the boy’s heads resting on his shoulders, white, silent, porcelain dolls.
Jim watched John’s wide back disappearing behind the church’s corner, a crease between his eyes. He winced, slight annoyance creeping through his overall discomfort and unease.
Well his back is never gonna be wide enough, all that porcelain to carry - it will crush him, or it will crush on itself. God help this shadow of a man and his fine china.
He sighed and turned around, mindlessly rubbing at the side of his neck, picking at his collar, feeling irrelevant in someone else’s war, wanting to help but unable.
Incapable.
All he could do was judge, and that was definitely out of the question and absolutely contradicted his job description. So Jim chose not to.
He walked back to his study, trying desperately to ignore the unnerving prickle haunting his nape.
It began snowing.
Dean silently watched the pastor vanishing from his eyesight as his father moved ahead, his irises carefully sheltered behind his doll-like eyelashes; the gentle sways of John’s heavy steps lulling him back to sleep.