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Tempering the Blades

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From: Anael, First Seraphim of the 10th Garrison
To: Michael, regent of heaven, Zachariah, second seraphim and first Clerk of the 10th Garrison , Raphael, master of the storms and guardian of the prophets
Sent: Mon, Mar 23, 1992 3:30 pm
Subject: Urgent developments in the Winchester observation
My lord Michael,

I understand business on earth is not your priority, especially now that the multidimensional wavelength channel has been activated. But I fear that my lord’s bloodline may be in danger.

Further instructions would be appreciated.

First Seraphim of the 10th Garrison

PS: Do any of you know how hard it is to get those knuckleheads over at the human police force to take you seriously when you try to tell them a bunch of skinwalkers has attacked some kids? I had to find a Vessel, which is not that easy to do, and they actually thought I was making a prank call.



He’d faced ghouls less scary than the sight that awaited him behind the closed door. Sam seemed small, sitting there on a chair in front of the principal’s desk. His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack that Dean had found for him at their latest trip to the Salvation Army stood at the foot of his chair. Sam froze when he saw Dean coming in and almost dropped the chocolate chip cookie he was eating. His eyes went wide for a moment, before he sat up; only the principal’s motion kept him in the chair. Dean considered just grabbing Sam’s hand, pulling his kid brother out of the far too cozy chair and making a run for it. If they got to the motel, he had about a hundred dollars waiting in the cutlery drawer. It was supposed to be for rent money, but Dad would understand if he used it to get to uncle Bobby’s instead.

Dean put down his bag and cringed at the change of weight on his unharmed shoulder as it moved through to the other side. Sam seemed ready to get out of his chair and help out, but Dean quickly glared at him to stay put. Dean’s collarbone had been busted pretty bad when they went up against those skinwalkers last week. Dad had bound it up pretty tight before he left and Sam had helped him keep it clean. But it still hurt. Sam wasn’t as good at bandaging as Dad was. Not that Dean would tell him that. Sam had been so proud to help out, Dean wasn’t going to be a crybaby and make Sam feel bad.

Unfortunately it seemed that the stupid woman had noticed his cringe. Why couldn’t she just pretend she hadn’t seen anything? Why did that stupid teacher start nagging him about his bruises anyway? They weren’t really that bad, just the small cut at his lips and come coloration around his left eye and the bruise on his forehead, but… He wouldn’t have even bothered coming to school if it had really been as bad as all that. Just the collarbone, just the headache, if he couldn’t even handle that, then how could he ever be a Hunter? Just too bad that the Advil wasn’t working.

The principal said something about trying to reach their dad all day. Dean tried to pretend that he wasn’t worried. But he knew well enough how bad cell reception could get once you were in the woods. But what else was Dad supposed to do? They’d arrived in the area thinking there was only one werewolf. They hadn’t been expecting a whole pack of skinwalkers instead. Nothing they couldn’t handle, they’d gotten away after all.

Sure Dean got bruised up a bit, but at least he’d gotten Sam to the car before anything really bad had happened to him. He’d managed to shoot two of the skinwalkers before they got too close, but it was hard shooting at moving targets, especially when you were running. Dean was out of ammo before he managed to get himself into the car. The damn thing had even managed to get its claws on him, he’d had to bat the last one off with the butt of his shotgun.

Dad hadn’t been too happy about that either.

Not that he could tell the principal about that. No, as far as his principal knew, he’d fallen off of his bike. Even if he didn’t have a bike to fall off from. But she didn’t need to know that either.

Not like he should even expect his dad to answer his phone. Even if the call did get through, it wasn’t like he could take time out of watching for skinwalkers while he was in the middle of a hunt. He probably had his phone turned off so it wouldn’t give away his position.

There was a soft knock on the door, before it opened to show a short black woman with a file folder in her hands. Light brown hair circling her face like a crown. She would have been pretty if Dean didn’t have a good idea of who, or more accurately what, she was, and what she’d come here to do.

“Dean, Sam,” the principal said, Dean glared at her, “this is Mrs. Turner from Child Protective Services. She would like to ask you and your brother some questions.” No, Dean definitely didn’t think she was pretty, even if she did smile at him and Sam, no matter how those dimples played on her chin, or how she reminded him of Denise Huxtable. He wished he could just tell Sam to stop smiling back at her. He was eight now, he should know better than to smile at social workers. They were evil. As evil as ghouls. Worse. Ghouls just tried to eat you, social workers split up families.

They all tried to be so nice, pretended they were your new best friends. That they were just here to help you and everything would be fine if you only just cooperated. Even Sam knew better than to trust one of them. And that kid would trust anyone. Dean still had to pull him away from old men in raincoats and make sure he didn’t take candy from strangers. Hell, he’d accepted a treat from the principal while he waited for Dean to get pulled out of class as well. Sam was stupid that way.
So Dean did the only thing he could do, he crossed his arms, refused to answer questions and when he did it was with the most smart-ass reply he could come up with. He wanted them to hate his guts, so they’d leave him and Sammy alone.

He needed Dad.



From: Michael, regent of heaven
To: Anael, First Seraphim of the 10th Garrison
Zachariah, second seraphim and first Clerk of the 10th Garrison , Raphael, master of the storms and guardian of the prophets
Sent: mon, Mar 23, 1992 5:30 pm
Subject: re: Urgent developments in the Winchester observation

Dearest sister,
I understand your urgency in this matter. But as you are well aware the multidimensional wavelength channel may be essential in our victory against that vile betrayer of all we stand for, the dark stain upon our kindred and enemy of all that exists. Only proper communication can ensure the defeat of our lost brother. It was good of our brother Zachariah to ensure that deal with the human Bill Gates to build this channel in exchange for his welfare on earth and in heaven.

We will keep the situation with the children of the bloodline in mind, their safety is as always paramount in our efforts.

Regent of heaven, First Archangel of the ranks, commander of the Garrisons.

PS: humans can be … odd. It may be best to simply point a hunter or two at the area, shine a few Omens their way. They seem to like that kind of stuff.




Daisy hated it when she was the enemy. She’d gone into this job to help children like she herself had been: desperate for help, but too scared to ask for it. She remembered those days, sitting quiet in the back, straightening her hair like mommy told her, because it would make her more easily accepted. Because it was hard enough being mulatto without putting an emphasis on her black heritage. Because black women who kept their hair natural were making a statement. And in her father’s home, making a statement had been the last thing she’d ever wanted to do.

All that had changed when her grandmother finally stopped in and rescued her and her brother. From her father’s fists and her mother’s passiveness in allowing her children to be hurt, as long as she herself was safe. Grandma had always told her to be proud of who and what she was. That she had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d loved those days, sitting in her grandmother’s lap, while grandma took care of her hair, braiding it, teaching her to love every curl as a part of herself.
As much as the nose on her face and the nails on her fingers.

These days she’d get comments on her hair at times, other women, even black women, telling her she should straighten her hair, that it’d make her look more professional, less radical. She shrugged them off and did what she wanted to do. It was her hair and no one could tell her what to do with it, but her. How could the children trust her, if she couldn’t even be honest to herself about who and what she was?

The Winchester boys. Two children, age thirteen and eight who were flagged in six states, and that’s just the ones that bothered to investigate beyond an initial call. Seems like the father had caused warning signs in dozens of towns and states, but tended to grab his boys and run before anyone could call him on it.

The boys had to have been in over eight schools in the past five years alone, and at the pace it was going, that number would only increase.

Both boys were often seen with bruises or other injuries, especially the oldest one, Dean. Dean had been caught shoplifting at least twice. The father had said it was simply a matter of children being children, and that he’d be grounded for it. But she couldn’t stop questioning the statement, since he hadn’t tried to steal just toys or candy, but plain old bread and peanut butter. What kid went to shoplift and tried to slip out with apples? He’d been eight the first time, ten, the second time. Another report mentioned the theft of Christmas presents at the home right next to the one the Winchesters had been renting only a few months back. And those were the ones on report. Who knows how many times the boy had to steal food just to feed himself and his brother and he hadn’t been caught. And how many shop owners might have looked away, thinking ‘it was just a kid’.

Neither of the boys looked starved, but Daisy knew few children that could withstand the temptation of Principal Merton’s cookies. A child that could sit there, ignoring them, was not a healthy child.

Dean wasn’t looking good, and Daisy wondered what the boy had done ‘wrong’ to end up as beaten up as he was. What kind of parent could do that to their own child and then just… leave?

John Winchester had left three days ago. She knew this, because she’d asked the police to keep an eye on the motel that the family was staying at as soon as they’d gotten their first report on Winchester. The motel clerk didn’t have a single good thing to say about the man. Said he paid from week to week, and usually sent in the kid to pay for him. The only time he did show up, he was often covered in a heavy coat and had a look on his face that made you want to run and hide. He said the man wore a scowl as was etched on his face. Was he the same way around his children? Did they ever get to see him smile, or be happy? What was he like in private?

The bruises were bad enough, but she wished she knew what other injuries the kids were hiding under their layers of threadbare clothing. She wondered if either of the boys had ever possessed anything that was new, rather than pulled out of the racks at the Salvation Army. Not that that was something you could judge them on. There were plenty of loving, caring parents who just didn’t have the funds to give their children the best of the best. And she’d seen homes in the best neighborhoods, with children given every toy in existence, but who beat up their children as soon as the doors hid them from sight. Her own parents had given her and her brother all they wanted or needed, everything except for safety. Even knowing that, the look of them was worrisome.

Two children, no permanent address, a dead mother, a father pulled out of his roots by disaster. She knew she had to save them, even if it did mean taking them away from the only home they had left.

The father’s abandonment—and what else would you call it when a man left two children on their own for three days—was enough to get her a court order to pull them out of the house and a warrant to check their living environment. She’d hoped to talk to the man first, give him a chance to explain himself. But it seemed even that was impossible.

She just wished she could save them. Somebody had to.




From: Michael, regent of heaven
To:, Zachariah, second seraphim and first Clerk of the 10th Garrison, , , Raphael, master of the storms and guardian of the prophets , Azazel, recipient of sin Sent: mon, Mar 23, 1992 5:30 pm
Subject: re: Urgent developments in the Winchester observation


It seems we have a problem.

Regent of heaven, First Archangel of the ranks, commander of the Garrisons.




The social worker wouldn’t even let them go home on their own. Seems like they were a ‘flight risk’. Damn right they were. First chance they got, they were out of there. Dean had even considered an escape attempt when they stopped off in the bathroom before leaving school. But then he’d checked outside the door, while Sam was washing his hands and noticed that there was a cop on watch for them. They needed to find Dad. Even if they couldn’t find him, if Dean got his hands on a phone, he might have been able to reach Pastor Jim, Caleb or Uncle Bobby.

There was a cop with them when they got to go back home to get some of their stuff. The Impala wasn’t there, so no Dad. Dean held himself strong, but he was still shivering after the visit to the doctor’s office. He’d tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care when they catalogued his bruises and checked him for other injuries. He knew he didn’t imagine the nurse's eyes tearing up when she saw some of the scars on his back and legs. He wanted to yell at her, tell her they were nothing to pity him over. They were marks of pride, damn it. He got them protecting people, taking care of Sammy, watching his dad’s back.

They meant he was a hero, like Dad! But he couldn’t tell them that. They’d never believe him.
Sam was following his lead, but Dean had no idea what way he should be leading. The cops wouldn’t let them out of their sight long enough to get away and even if they did, where would they even go?
Dean opened the door to the motel room and went in to get his stuff. The social worker froze in the door. Sam instantly moved to the bed, grabbing his favorite book from underneath his pillow. Dean wanted to tell him to go to the kitchen and get their money, but he wasn’t sure how that would be taken. He was looking over his shoulder as he went there and took the envelope out of the drawer. He quickly turned around to see what the woman was doing— seemed like she was just standing there while Sam pulled their bags from under the bed. He wished he knew what she was thinking. Sure, the place smelled, but that wasn’t his fault.

He’d done what he could to keep the place up, washing the sheets after they got here, cleaning the floors and closets. It wasn’t his fault there was mold on the walls of the bedroom as well as the bathroom. He’d tried to wipe it off—Sammy had helped—but his arm had hurt too much and it kept coming back no matter what he did.

Sam was having trouble getting the bags, so Dean bowed down next to him to help him out. He almost shrieked in pain as he did so, accidentally dislodging the sawed-off shotgun that lay next to the bag. The cop stared at that, but Dean just pulled it out, checked if it was loaded and put it on the bed, ready to put it in his bag.

“You can leave the gun, Dean.” He glared at the social worker, looking away from Sam as he did so. But he could hear Sam bounce on the bed. He silently begged Sam to just keep his mouth shut and let Dean handle this.

“But that’s mine,” Dean couldn’t stop himself from saying. “You said I could get my stuff, and that’s ‘my stuff’. I sawed it off myself.” It was his first attempt at it and Dad had only told him what to do while he’d been working on it.

“Dean, could you please, take all your weapons out of your bag, please.” She sounded awkward, he had no idea what was up with that. Dad would have just ordered him to take them out, not like she couldn’t just do the same, pretending to be all nice with her please and ‘could you’ only made it look as if she was pretending he actually had a choice here. But it was clear she was insisting.
He shrugged it off, how literal should he take her anyway. If she said his bag, that mean he could leave Sammy’s untouched, right?

“You wouldn’t want one of the other children in the foster home to hurt themselves, would you?” Dean glared at her. “I’ll keep them safe, I promise, but it’s better if you don’t take them.”
Dean pouted at her, hoping to change her mind. “But they’re mine.” He knew she wasn’t going to change her mind on this. And he remembered Dad’s words about not calling attention to them. About how people might not understand about kids handling weapons and they might cause issues about it, like calling CPS.

Well, CPS was here now and they were taking issue with it, and if he kept refusing, they might get even more suspicious.

So he opened his bag and started pulling out some of his stuff: the throwing knife he’d gotten last year and his silver knives. He left his matches and was hoping she didn’t notice his bag of lock picks. Then he opened Sam’s bag and took out his brother’s knife as well. He was just glad that no one noticed the pack of salt, still at the bottom of the bag.

The woman was staring at him and Dean bit his lip, wondering what else she was going to ask about. “Anything else, Dean?”

He looked down and pulled his Swiss army knife out of his pocket. “It was a birthday present,“ he said. Which wasn’t a lie, Pastor Jim had given it to him, about a month after his birthday last year. The knife was silver and there was a crucifix embossed into the pure steel of the heft. The pastor had given it to him right before they headed out after that werewolf. Dean hadn’t been able to use it then, but it had been a comfort to have it on him.

“Are there any toys you want to take?”

Yes, he wanted his knives, thank you very much. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t what she meant. So instead he grabbed Sammy’s toy cars and his own comic books. Sammy naturally grabbed his school books and they were ready to go.

Dean was glad they’d only just done the laundry, even though the place next door was charging an arm and a leg for even a single load. And there was that creepy guy who always seemed to show up as soon as they sat down at the Laundromat, just staring at them.

The woman was pushing her fingers through the salt at the windows. Dean wished he could wipe that look off her face, her pretending she understood. She didn’t understand squat.




From: Azazel, recipient of sin
To: Alistair
Sent: mon, Mar 23, 1992 6:30 pm
Subject: re: Urgent developments in the Winchester observation


My good friend,

I hope this message finds you well.

Thank you so much for that recipe you sent me in your last response. The children were highly appreciative of your kind gifts towards them.

I understand that Lilith may have been causing you some troubles, I give you my world that if plans fall as they should, she will be out of your way in a few more years. I do hope that you will be able to keep her entertained for a few more centuries. I assure you, it will all be worth it in the end.

I’ll ensure to send you those hellhound puppies you asked for, along with them I have sent a selection of pink ribbons and supplies for cake batter. Our father says that those will be highly successful to keep our dearest mother’s mind off her upcoming celebration.

But back to business,

I have been alerted of a small snag in our plans in preparing our father’s Vessel. I would considerably appreciate your aid in handling the situation on earth.

I would have sent the kids, but I fear that my daughter might be a bit too… impulsive to handle a matter this delicate. As for the boy...

I eagerly await your response.





Daisy had stayed with Sam while the doctor was looking over Dean’s injuries. Sam kept darting looks over to the examination room. She could imagine that the little boy believed that if he didn’t keep his eyes on his brother, then Dean would be taken away from him.

She wished she could promise that nobody would ever separate them. It was hard to find families that were willing to take two children in at the same time. But she made a silent vow to do anything in her power to keep them together.

Dean visibly winced when the doctor made him take off his shirt for examination. The doctor removed Dean’s bandages, checked over the boy’s collarbone and replaced the wrapping that was supposed to keep his arm in place. Daisy turned her eyes away from the older boy and returned her attention to Sam. “He’ll be fine, Sam. No need to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Sam lied. Daisy didn’t call him on it; children hated it when you did that.
“So how did your brother hurt himself?” she asked, not really hoping to get a real answer from the younger boy. She knew better than to expect the truth.

“He fell. Dad took care of him.”

“He fell?”

Sam just nodded. “He fell off his bike.” Yes, the mysterious bike that he never came to school with. “It broke,” Sam continued. “Dad took him to his doctor.”

“Where’s your father, Sam?”

“At work.” Instant answer, no hesitation. “He’ll be home soon.”

Daisy was sure he would be. Eventually. Winchester would come back for his kids, in the past he always had. She knew his kind of men. It’s not that they didn’t love their children—she was sure that in his mind, he did—but they weren’t his priority. Other things in his life were more important to him, but that didn’t mean that he’d give them up even if it would give them a better life if he did.

“Dad works a lot, so that he can take care of us and keep us safe,” Sam stated, while biting his lip. It felt like a standard answer that had been repeated to him a couple dozens of times whenever he himself would ask where Daddy was and why he wasn’t home yet.

“I’m sure he does, Sam. “

It took almost half an hour longer before the doctor was done. He motioned at her that he needed to talk to her, while the nurse, and the police officer stood at the door in case Dean tried to bolt, kept an eye on the two kids. She didn’t even want to consider where he’d try to run to.
She closed the door behind her while he moved to his desk.


“It’s not looking good, Mrs. Turner.” She’d been worried about that. Daisy knew the doctor quite well. Matt Green was a good man; he had children of his own and would have loved to be able to tell her that everthing was fine with the boy and that she should just send him home with his dad.

“Aside from the obvious bruises, and the busted collarbone, which was not set professionally, he’s got several more scrapes and scars spread over his body. Some of them older, others more recent. The boy’s also suffering from malnutrition.”

“He doesn’t look it.”

“Oh, it’s not that he hasn’t been fed regularly, I’m sure his father left them enough money to eat on a daily basis. But he’s a thirteen year old boy, and thirteen year olds are not known for their balanced diets at the best of times. He’s probably been feeding himself and his brother on whatever looked good and was cheap enough to afford. The only reason he isn’t overweight, is because his father has had him on a strict exercise regimen that would make a grown marine worry.“

“That’s hardly a reason to…”

“Oh, I know, if malnutrition were abuse, half the kids in the country would have to be taken from their homes.” Matt grinned as he said that. “The problem is that in the long run it will stunt his growth and cause many health problems if it isn’t dealt with on time. But the malnutrition isn’t the real issue. I took a set of x-rays while I was taking care of his collarbone. The boy shows signs of several previous breaks in his bones. His left arm has been reset at least twice and his right leg was broken no more than two years ago. I found fractures in his skull, that would point towards him having a mild concussion. When I asked him if he blacked out after he fell off his bike, he refused to answer.”

Daisy shivered. Three days, the boys had been alone for three days, and all that time the boy had been suffering from a possible concussion. And his father hadn’t even noticed or cared. She prayed to God it wasn’t the second.

“Is he...”

“He’s fine now, he got lucky. But it could have been a lot worse.” Matt sounded angry, but Daisy couldn’t blame him for it. “He’s a tough kid, he’ll probably get over it.” But she couldn’t help read the 'but he shouldn’t have to' line underneath what Matt actually said.

“I’ll do what I can, Doctor Green.”

“I’ll write up a note for his medication. Make sure that he takes it. He’ll also need to wear a sling and have someone keep an eye on his bandages, see that he doesn’t move his arm. It’s probably best to make sure he has a nurse over at least once a week and I expect to see him back in two weeks or so.”

“I’ll make an appointment for him with the desk.”


“So how’s Carl and the kids?” he asked her. She couldn’t help a smile as she thought about her own children. The twins were with their grandmother while she ws at work and she was sure the poor woman was having a hard time dealing with both of them.

She wished she could talk about them and spend some time chatting with Matt, but she couldn’t. Not when there were two kids waiting for her attention. Even if they did want her gone. But they had to go get their stuff at home. She was almost hopeful that their father would have arrived by now. That maybe somehow the man had returned and she could ask him questions about what he’d been doing and what had been so important that it had made him leave as he had.

But he wasn’t.

She’d known what motel the boys had been staying in, but even knowing that hadn’t prepared her for the horror of the place. The motel did allow for long term occupants, sure you had your typical rent-per-hour rooms, but it also rented units like this one, with built-in kitchens. She couldn’t help notice the state of the place, or the hookers hanging around out front. There was a laundry place next door with boarded off windows and graffiti on the walls.

It made the hairs on her back stand up. She wanted to grab the boys, put them back in the car and get them out of here as soon as she could.

Three days, on their own. She knew of at least one sexual offender staying in the immediate area. It made her sick.

When the door opened, the first thing she noticed was the stench.

Oh, the room was clean, the floor was clearly washed and she could see that the kitchen cabinets had been wiped down, at least up to the level that a thirteen year old could reach. The sheets smelled fresh, even if she couldn’t help but notice dark stains that had been given up on ten turns in the washer ago. She noticed carvings in the door stiles, but shrugged them off.
The room was mostly bare: there were books stacked up on the desk, and if it weren’t for a few comics on one of the beds and some toys on the kitchen table, she wouldn’t have known that two children lived here.

Dean immediately headed to the kitchen while Sam headed for the bed closest to the door and pulled a duffel bag out from under the bed. They hadn’t even unpacked their clothes, not that she’d trust the cleanliness of the cupboards either if she were them. Dean came to help Sam, pulling out a second one when she noticed something getting pulled out along with the bags.

Oh god no, Dean didn’t even hesitate when the gun was pulled out in the open. He just pulled it out, and opened it up. Daisy couldn’t help staring at this young child, handling a weapon like that as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He was a thirteen years old with no parental guidance, and a gun under his bed.

She pulled together all the courage she could find and took a step forward.

“You can leave the gun behind, Dean.”

“But that’s mine. You said I could get my stuff, and that’s ‘my stuff’. I sawed it off myself.” It broke her heart how proud he sounded over it. She could almost imagine it, a father and son sharing a moment together, teaching the boy how to handle a gun. Hell, in this neighborhood it might have even saved their lives eventually. But it was still a gun and if this was the one he kept in plain sight, then what else was there?

“Dean, could you please, take all your weapons out of your bag, please.” She was almost surprised that her voice didn’t break on the words. She wished she sounded confident about it. But all she could think of, was how no foster parents would let them into the house if they had any weapons with them. And if there was any chance to get these kids in a normal family rather than in an institution, she’d take it. Because they both so desperately needed it. Even if, especially if neither of them realized it. “You wouldn’t want one of the other children in the foster home to hurt themselves, would you?” Because if she told them the truth, that the judge would sooner separate them, than let Dean keep his weapons, who knows what he’d do in his panic? She recognized the kind of kid Dean was. He was the protector, the caretaker. Give him a chance to think of others and he’d grab it.... “I’ll keep them safe, I promise, but it’s better if you don’t take them.”

“But they’re mine.” The poor kid sounded as heartbroken about the weapons, as that one kid last year who’d been told he had to leave his dog behind, because the new foster home couldn’t allow pets. She’d managed to arrange for another family that would allow the animal then. It was lucky that the officer was still there, or she’d have given in to Dean’s face as well.

In the end, Dean was the one who gave in, but it came close.

The young boy opened up his duffel bag and pulled out a couple of knives from amongst a series of shirts, jeans and underpants that seemed to be all he owned. She figured he’d leave it at that, but then he opened his brother’s bag and pulled a knife out of that one as well. Sam was only eight. She glanced over at the little boy who had sat down on the other bed right behind Dean. Sam sat there, his arms crossed and his eyes darting between her and his brother. Sam didn’t say a word, but you could see him daring her to accuse them of something, anything. On an adult, his look might have been scary, on a child, it was weirdly adorable.

“Anything else, Dean?” she barely got the words out, hoping they’d caught it all. But then the boy’s eyes turned downwards and he pulled a pocket knife out of his jacket.

“It was a birthday present. “ It was all he said as he pulled out a concealed weapon that was illegal to be brought to school in pretty much most states.

She wanted to stroke her hand through his hair, to pull him into a hug and tell him there were things other than guns and knives and weapons in the world that you could get attached to. To tell him that he didn’t need to defend Sammy and himself anymore, that he’d be safe and everything would be alright. But he wouldn’t believe it. Not yet, she hoped that some day soon, that would change. “Are there any toys you want to take?”

As he went for the comics, and while Sam grabbed some of the toy cars, she couldn’t help but look away and take a closer look at the books on the desk. The names were… odd. Not all of them were in English, but she could see pentagrams on at least two of the covers. The more she saw of the room, the more it told her about the kind of man John Winchester was and the more she feared for the boy’s safety with that kind of man in their life.

She moved to the window, hoping beyond hope to see the black Impala drive up on the parking lot. Winchester still had a chance, all he had to do, was to arrive now, and have a decent explanation for why he left two underage boys alone in a motel room like this for three days. Just one half way good excuse, and the judge would probably take his side and let him keep the kids for at least a while longer. Despite common beliefs, CPS didn’t really take your kids away for the least half bit of an excuse. Sure, the Winchesters might get some more home visits, be advised on counseling options and parenting classes, but it took a lot before CPS could actually remove children from their natural parents. Sometimes she felt it took too much.

But Winchester didn’t arrive, instead she wondered about the dust on the windowsills. No, not dust. For a moment she felt an even worse terror grip her heart and she picked some up, wishing she knew more about heroine or other drugs. Did they look like this? She wouldn’t know, she’d never seen any outside of the movies. It couldn’t be, could it? No matter how much of a smart-ass Dean could be, if there were any drugs in the room, she was sure he’d act more worried about it. But he hadn’t even tried to wipe it away before she could see it.

Sam was clinging on to Dean’s shirt, carrying the biggest bag. The police officer stopped them and grabbed both bags before Dean could take one of his own. It saved Daisy from doing so. Dean shouldn’t be doing any lifting at the moment, in fact he should be wearing the sling Dr. Green had given him; she just wished she knew what he’d done with the thing.

She shook her head and led her way to the car. Still no John Winchester. She wondered when the man would even find out that his children had been removed from his custody.