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beansideTitle: Saint of Me
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beanside &nilchance
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adult-mentions of slash.
Disclaimer: We don't own the Supernatural boys, I'm afraid. This is strictly for entertainment purposes, no money is made.
Summary: Prequel to Of Bastard Saints. A little more about Andrew and the Winchesters.
How could he have forgotten how bad it was? How did any of them forget?
Pain, terrifying voices, lights. God, pain. Like being frozen, like being burned alive. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat was agony. Thrust from His absence into a world that bore His fingerprints everywhere. Noise and chaos and screaming and gunshots, wailing women and dying children, the living with their laughter and sweat.
Then it was gone, and the only sound was the low rumble of thunder. The chill of the rain falling on his battered body seemed to wipe it all away. He sank into it, relieved and shivering. Let it take the memories. Just for a moment. Just for...
Moving slowly, the child came to his feet, looking at the stone church across the street. Shivering, muscles seizing from cold and pain, he stumbled towards it, towards the warm light from its windows. There were bushes. It’d give him somewhere to sleep, just until…
Until what? He wasn’t sure.
He scrabbled through the bushes, listening to the dry scrape of the branches on the chapel windows. The confusion was fading now, and he remembered the pain. He rubbed his chest with half-numb fingers, trying to quiet the pounding against his ribs. He swallowed hard, again, again, against the ragged sobbing of his breathing.
When the sobbing of his breathing wouldn’t stop, he shoved his thumb in his mouth. There was blood on his hands, blood everywhere.
His stomach clenched, gnawing at him. He closed his eyes, pushing his back further against the stone. Nothing could get him here. Safe.
It didn’t matter why he was bloody. It didn’t matter why he was afraid. He hurt, all over. He was tired. He couldn’t remember being anything but tired.
He couldn’t remember anything.
“Hello? Is anyone out there?” a soft voice called. A man’s voice.
The child stiffened, backing up into the corner where the wall met the church steps. He didn’t think he made a noise, but suddenly a man was there. The light trained on him, pinned him. It hurt his eyes, made him cringe back into the stone.
“Oh, Lord,” the man murmured, lowering the light. He knelt. The child couldn’t see his face, only the white place at his throat, the black of his clothes. Priest. Man of God. The child whimpered, not sure why. The man set the light down and held out his hands, showing that they were empty. The man spoke again, his voice kind. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you all right?”
The boy nodded, watching the silhouette behind the light cautiously.
“Do you want to come out? You’re welcome inside, everyone’s welcome-” the man asked, breaking off as the child shook his head frantically. “Okay. Shh, now, I won’t make you.” He shrugged off his coat, and held it out to the child. “Here, you have to be freezing. Put this on.”
The child reached out a shaking hand and snatched the coat, huddling back against the wall with it. He was shivering as he burrowed deep into it, the borrowed warmth of the man’s body. He smelled smoke, cigarettes and incense.
The man didn’t say anything for a while, kneeling there in the rain with his shoulder propped against the church. It was a thoughtful quiet, though. The child could see the man, the priest, thinking hard. There were scars on his steepled fingers.
“Are you hungry?” the man asked finally.
After a long moment, the child nodded.
“If I run in, get you some hot cocoa and cookies, will you stay here?”
The child shoved his thumb back in his mouth, then nodded solemnly. Watched the priest get up, leaving him the flashlight and the coat. As the door opened, the child got a fleeting taste of warmth.
This was a safe place. The man was safe.
As soon as the nice man disappeared into the church, the child carefully uncurled himself from his knot of limbs. He crept out from behind the bushes, the priest’s coat catching on thorns. He moved cautiously, braced to bolt, to the shelter of the open doorway. Through it, he could see all the light and warmth of the flickering candles. They drew him closer, into the church.
You shouldn’t be here, something whispered in his head.
No. No, the man had said it was okay. Still, he kept his guard up, ready to tear back out the door in case anyone saw him. Inch by inch, twitching at the loud noises coming from somewhere deep in the church, he moved in.
Then he saw the statue. The bronze angel pinned to the wall, wings and hands outspread.
For some reason, the beautiful winged figure made him terribly sad. Reminded him of something…horrible. Tears welled up in his eyes, coursing down his dirty, bruised cheeks, and the boy shuddered, pulling the nice man’s coat tighter around him.
“Hey,” the man said what seemed like a moment later. “It’s all right.”
He’d sat down. When did he sit down?
Sniffing, he wiped at his face and rubbed his nose with the sleeve of the priest’s coat. The priest looked at him, then sat on the floor a safe distance away. The priest pushed a chipped mug across the tile floor, then set a plate with half a sandwich and some cookies hastily stacked up.
“It’s not much,” the priest said. “But it’s food.”
The boy ate. Carefully at first, until the gnawing in his stomach got to him and he was devouring the sandwich like something half-feral. The priest didn’t comment, just watched him with tired eyes.
Finally, the food was gone. The boy stared at the crumbs on the plate, kind of wanting to lick them off.
“Better?” the priest asked gently.
Yes. No. With the hunger gone, he could feel every ache and chill. He sniffed and shrugged a little.
“Is there someone you want me to call? Your parents?” When the boy shook his head, the nice man sighed. “Is somebody looking for you?”
The shudder wracked the boy suddenly, no reason. Maybe fear. Sliding cautiously up onto his knees, he crept forward until his knees bumped the priests. He hunched there, shivering and miserable.
“Okay,” the priest said grimly. “Okay.”
The boy stiffened, tensing to move back from the edge of anger in the priest’s voice. Then the priest laid a hand on his arm. Swallowing back a noise, the boy wavered, then lunged into the priest’s arms hard enough to make the priest grunt.
Warm arms slid around the boy, lifted him onto a lap, and pressed the mug of hot cocoa into his hands.
After he’d finished the cookies and cocoa, sitting there warm and drowsy, the man had tilted his head at him. “How old are you?” he asked, still using that kind, gentle voice.
Hesitantly, the boy held up eight fingers.
“Eight,” the man murmured, surprised. Then he sighed again, said half to himself, “Of course. Hasn’t eaten enough, it stunted his growth. Damn.”
The boy stared at him, eyes narrowed. That had sounded suspiciously like a growl. If the man started growling…
Catching that look, the priest sighed and thumped him awkwardly. “My name’s Jim Murphy. Do you know your name?”
The boy nodded, making a face at the stupid question, but didn’t offer anything further.
“Hm. Do you know your alphabet?”
The boy nodded again, face serious.
“All right. We’ll try a game. Does your name start with the letter ‘A’?”
Favoring the man with a slight smile, he nodded.
“Okay. Hmmm. Let’s see. Anthony, Aaron, Albert, Andrew-“
The child tugged on his sleeve, and Jim stopped. “Andrew?”
This time the smile was wider.
“All right, Andrew. Tomorrow, we’ll have to look into what to do about you, but for now, you look tired. Would you like to take a nap?”
Yawning guiltily, the boy nodded again.
“I have a sofa in the rectory that should fit you nicely,” Jim murmured, coming to his feet with Andrew hoisted against his side. “Come on, Andrew. I think it’s bedtime.”
Laying his face against Jim’s shoulder, Andrew felt the thoughts settle. So much he felt like he should remember, but for now, he was safe. That was enough.
****
At first, Jim had thought the low rumble was distant thunder. It'd started while he was in confession with one of his parishioner’s kids, a teenager who needed a stern talking to and possibly an IV of Ritalin rather than divine intervention.
Hell. He barely liked other people's children, more suffering them than seeing how a squirming banshee-howling red-faced thing was supposed to lead them. Jim had served as a Chaplain in Vietnam. He'd seen starving children holding guns, their haunted eyes daring him to think of them as innocents. Children had potential, yes, but it was potential for as many terrible things as great. How was he supposed to raise one? Let alone one like Andrew, the bruised skinny ghost who shied away from everyone but Jim, who was silent unless he was waking from a nightmare, screaming with a pain that broke Jim's damned heart. Andrew, who hid every time Jim moved towards the phone now, who'd disappeared for three days the first time Jim called Social Services and returned skittish and shaky.
Jim had faith in God, but it didn't make him immune to doubt. Jim's church was the first off the main road, the only one with thick enough rose bushes to hide Andrew from sight. Only the first available sanctuary. No fate, no divine plan. Only coincidence.
Which didn't explain why Jim's stomach wrenched quite so hard when he returned to find a huge man crouched over the front row of pews, speaking to someone beneath them. As Jim moved up the aisle, he caught sight of Andrew's hair, his small hands clenched on the pew like he was afraid the huge man might drag him out.
"-all right, little brother," the big man was saying softly, his voice almost deep enough to be felt like an earthquake. "You know me. I'm here to-"
"Excuse me," Jim said, sharply. "Can I help you?"
The huge man paused, still looming over Andrew, then raised himself. Straightened up, he seemed even bigger. His skin was dark and rich against the black of his expensive suit, beads clicking softly on the ends of his dreadlocks. His eyes slid over Jim, silently assessing with the lazy intensity of a predator.
There was a scuffling sound. Then Andrew darted from beneath the pew, lunging behind Jim. Jim felt something in his heart lurch painfully. He laid a hand on Andrew's head, absently brushing the dust out of his hair, and stared back at the huge man. Repeated, sternly, "Can I help you?"
Impossibly, the mountain cracked a smile. "So it seems," he rumbled. "My name is Levi. I represent the boy's father."
Jim swallowed back a handful of stupid replies that wanted to come tearing up his throat, starting with a protest and ending with a snarl. Holding Levi's eyes, half-afraid to blink, Jim said, "Andrew, I need you to go in my office for a minute. Stay there until I come for you. All right?"
Andrew didn't make a sound. Might've been easier if he had, rather than clutching silently at Jim's jacket.
"Go," Jim said firmly. And surprisingly enough, Andrew went.
Levi watched them both, tracking Andrew with a narrow-eyed focus that made Jim uneasy. To his credit, he waited until Andrew was gone before speaking again. "He's a cute kid. I hadn't expected that."
"Enough," Jim said sharply. "You're not taking him back."
Levi tilted his head. "Who said anything about taking him, Father Murphy?"
After years in the military, and more than a few in church politics, Jim liked to think he had a highly attuned sense of when to duck. That sense was screaming at him now, paranoia tightening his spine. Jim took a careful step back and asked, evenly, "What?"
Levi smiled, folding his long limbs down into the pew. He wasn't a bulky man. Solid, but he moved with a grace that belied his bulk. His hands were scarred and callused, fingers crooked from past breaks. He steepled them on his lap, watching Jim, a silent invitation to let his guard down. Jim didn't. "Your name," Levi rumbled, "is James Murphy. You were trained by Bishop Abe Morgan, one of the last men actively performing exorcisms in the church. He taught you to exorcise demons-"
"We spent one day on it. I've never actually had to-"
"Hush," Levi said mildly. "You held the hands of the dying in the rice fields of Vietnam. Not just your own dying, Father Murphy. The men who had killed your brothers in arms. You ministered to them not as a Christian holy man, not in the name of the Christian God-"
"They dropped the desertion charges."
"- But in their own faith, or their absence of faith. As someone who couldn't watch his fellow man die alone." Levi watched him, tapping his fingertips gently, rhythmically. "We've been watching you a long time."
"So I see." Jim gripped the pew, hard. "Who are you?"
Levi smiled. "I have many aliases. You wouldn't recognize any of them. In any case, it's not about me. It's about who I represent. The boy's father."
"Right. So who is he?" Patience worn, Jim growled, "Because I wouldn't treat a dog that poorly, let alone a child. He's starved, beaten-"
"The situation is complicated," Levi murmured. "The boy-"
"Andrew."
"Andrew," Levi repeated, like the name was foreign in his mouth, "is not an asset his father seeks to retrieve. He's in no position to raise him. His mother is ill."
"So you dropped him off here? Because I held the hand of a few dying Viet-Cong soldiers years ago? That's horseshit. What the hell is going on?"
Levi blinked. Once. Something odd happened behind his eyes, a quiet something that made Jim want to back down the aisle. “Believe me when I tell you that you’d prefer plausible deniability in this case, Father Murphy. We recognize that we’ve put you in an awkward position. You have time to choose. If you don’t want the boy, I’d be happy to raise him myself.”
For a traitorous heartbeat, Jim was tempted. Damned tempted.
Levi would raise him. There had been affection in the way he looked after Andrew, even if it was layered thick with… not a sexual hunger, nothing like that, but a subtext that Jim didn’t understand.
The man that had sent Andrew cowering under a pew would take him off Jim’s hands.
Hell.
“Come back in a few weeks,” Jim said tightly.
Levi saluted, sardonically, and rose. “It was good to meet you, Father Murphy. Go retrieve our boy from your office. Please give him my apology for unnerving him.”
‘Our boy’. The protest was on Jim’s lips, choked off as Levi stepped between one pillar and another and simply ceased to be in the church. No sign of his passing, not so much as a ripple of disturbed air. Nothing. Silence.
Forget fire. Forget gnashing of teeth. Forget Dante. All of it, complete nonsense. Hell, Jim… the ghost of Abe in Jim’s mind shook his cane, scowling as he recited the lecture Jim had burned into his memory. Hell is absence. Hell is lack. Are you listening? Because if you aren’t prepared-
I’m listening, sir.
If you’re not prepared, Abe had said darkly, people are going to die.
Shaking off the chill, Jim went to unlock his office door. Andrew was crouched behind his desk, clutching Jim’s letter-opener in small white-knuckled hands. He didn’t lower it right away on seeing that it was Jim.
“You’re safe,” Jim said mildly. “Would you like to tell me what that was about?”
Andrew blinked, then lowered the letter-opener. Then he slid under the cover of Jim’s desk.
“No,” Jim sighed. “I kind of thought not.”
****
There was someone in the church, Andrew realized as he slid through the cold hallway, looking for Jim, wanting him to come chase away the monster at his window.
Moving quietly, he slid past the pews until he could see the man by the bowl thing of holy water. For a moment, Andrew nearly bolted, afraid that the dark man had come back for him.
No. This man was taller by far than Jim, and wider, but not as big as the dark man. His clothes weren’t as nice. His jaw was covered with dark stubble.
The man moved, pulling out a small bottle, dipping it in the holy water, and Andrew caught a flash of silver hanging from his hip—a crucifix, like the one over the altar. The man turned again, and Andrew saw more silver, this time in the curve of the gun nestled at his hip.
Suddenly afraid, Andrew shrank back, eyes wide. The man caught the movement. His head swiveled, dark eyes sliding over the church. “Hello?” he rumbled, voice hoarse and low.
Andrew stared, seeing the thick trickle of blood flowing down the man’s forehead, almost obscuring the clear dark eyes. Kind eyes. Like Jim’s. But he had a gun. Maybe he could make the monster go away. Maybe he would believe him, not say stuff about old foundations and creepy shadows.
Andrew shuddered, thinking of the sound of the thing, scraping against his window with spindly legs. Before he could let himself chicken out, he scurried along the aisle until he was next to the big man. He reached up, tugging hesitantly on the big man’s jacket.
Those kind eyes looked down at him, and Andrew tugged again.
“Hey, little man. What’s up?” the man asked gently.
A scrape of claws on glass came from the rectory. Andrew’s eyes widened, and he started tugging harder.
The man had heard it too. “Show me,” he said firmly, letting Andrew lead him through the dark, cold hallways.
Unfortunately, that was about when Jim stuck his head out of his office. “Andrew,” he began, then noticed the man Andrew had in tow. Jim said sharply, “Who the hell are you? Get away from him-”
The man didn’t answer, just let Andrew drag him along the hall to his room. The scraping, skittery noises were louder now. The man stopped Andrew before he could reach for the doorknob, nudging Andrew behind him. The man kicked the door open, reaching a hand in to turn on the lights.
Jim made a soft, horrified noise at the creature within. The twisted spider-like thing, eyes glowing red.
The man didn’t hesitate, giving Andrew a little shove towards Jim and drawing his gun. “Cover your ears,” he ordered, voice thundering.
Even through Jim’s hands, Andrew heard the shots. He peeked through his hands to see the monster twist on itself as the man pulled a container from his belt, dumping a white powder on the creature.
A moment later, there was nothing left but a stain on the carpet.
Jim stood, lifting Andrew. “What-“ he took a deep breath, looking at the man. “You’re bleeding. I have a first aid kit in my office-“
The man reached up, wiping his forehead. “It’s not serious.”
“I-What was that?” Jim said softly.
“Spider demon. Nasty little bas-“ he broke off, looking at Andrew. “Buggers.”
“Demon,” Jim murmured. “Okay. That’s…unexpected. Can I offer you a drink at least? I owe you that much.”
The man hesitated. “I shouldn’t. Should-“
“You’re wounded, look like you haven’t slept in a week, and you just saved our lives. The least I can offer you is a beer and a place to rest. Plus, I’d like a little more information about that thing, if you don’t mind.”
After a long minute, the man nodded. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
“Of course.” Jim led the way to his office. “I’m Jim Murphy. This is Andrew.”
“Your son?”
“Not in so many words,” Jim murmured. “But yes.”
The man looked at Andrew, then got down to his level. He wiped one big hand on his jeans, then offered his hand to Andrew. “Pleased to meet you, Andrew. I’m John. John Winchester.”
Andrew smiled, sticking out his hand to be engulfed by the other man’s.
John looked seriously at the bruises on the pale inside of Andrew’s wrist, then at Jim. When Jim shrugged, his eyes shadowed, John nodded grimly and looked back at Andrew. “You did a good job back there.”
“He doesn’t speak,” Jim murmured.
The shadow of something crossed John’s face. Then he smiled tightly and said, “That’s all right, son. Too many people talk too damn much anyway.”
Andrew grinned.
****
Three days later, John had returned for the weekend to give Jim the quick and dirty version on how to protect yourself against things that went bump in the night. He hadn’t come alone.
Andrew had heard them before he saw them. A young voice raised in a near-whine, and another, laughing and bright. He opened the rectory door, looking up at John with a smile.
“Hey, Andrew. How’re you doing?” John asked. “These are my sons, the ones I told you about.” Which, Jim noted wryly, were two more sons than Jim had heard about. “The younger one is Sammy.” He pointed at the sulking child with the mop of dark hair hiding a sweet face. “He’s three.”
Jim felt his mouth curve on a smile, and bent to get to Sam’s level. “Hi there, Sam. I’m Jim.”
Sam peeked at him through ridiculous eyelashes, sniffed warily and scooted back into John.
John came to his feet, Sam against his hip, and offered Jim his hand. “Good to see you again, Pastor Murphy. Sorry about this. They kind of commandeered my backseat.”
“It’s all right.” Jim took his hand, shook firmly, and tried not to smile as Sam peered at him from the safety of John’s arms. That answered the enigma of John’s wedding ring. The boys had no mother to look after them, obviously, or John wouldn’t have brought them. A widower, then. “We have plenty of room.”
The other boy, who was a good four inches taller than Andrew, stepped forward, offering his hand with a confidence that made Jim’s chest hurt. “I’m Dean,” he said, smiling. “I’m seven.”
“Andrew doesn’t talk,” Jim said softly.
Andrew smiled a thank you at Jim.
Dean nodded. “That’s okay. Do you want to go play?” He glanced at John for permission. “Unless you need me,” he added.
“No, go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on Sammy,” John said. “It’s his naptime.”
“That’s why he’s a cranky bitch,” Dean whispered.
John made a noise that could have been a cough, but sounded like a laugh to Jim. “Go play. Come back in before sunset.”
“Yes sir,” Dean said crisply.
****
Andrew led him out back, where Jim had set up a small swingset once it had become obvious that Andrew wasn’t going anywhere.
When the authorities would show up, Andrew would disappear, returning once they’d left. After a while, Jim had given up, picked up a bed from the local discounters and cleared out the second bedroom. He said they’d have to eventually do paperwork, but he was going to talk to one of the parishioners- a lawyer- about the best way to do it.
Dean sat on the swingset. “So, you don’t talk.”
Andrew shook his head.
Dean nodded wisely. “I get it.” He shrugged, and Andrew gave him a smile. “It’s okay. Sometimes you just hurt too much.”
Andrew nodded, and Dean looked at the swing. “Think I could push you so high you’d go over?”
After the sun set, and they had eaten dinner, John went out to look for the spider demon’s mate.
“I want to go with you,” Dean said stubbornly.
Andrew watched him, wondering why he wasn’t afraid of the spider-thing. He was afraid of it, Andrew thought. And he was a year older than Dean.
John rumpled Dean’s hair. “Dean, Jim doesn’t know enough.”
“Dad,” Dean whispered, looking down.
John’s face softened. “I need you here, to protect Jim, Sammy and Andrew,” he said softly. “I’ll be back before long.”
Jim smiled. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
John’s lip lifted in a smile. “Mind Pastor Jim, then, Dean.” He bent, speaking softly to Dean, and Dean’s spine straightened.
“Yes sir,” Dean said.
John had been gone no more than an hour when the doors to the church shuddered under a heavy weight.
Jim went pale, grabbing Sam and Andrew. “Dean, we have to-“
Dean stepped away, in front of them. “Get them behind the altar,” he ordered.
“Dean-“ Jim protested. Then, the doors flew open, an enormous spider demon skittering in to the church. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“Behind the altar,” Dean barked, his voice high and tight. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small handgun and aiming carefully.
The gun’s bark was softer than John’s had been, but no less effective. Before the ringing died from Andrew’s ears, the spider was on its back, legs twitching spasmodically.
Dean held the gun steady, pulling out a packet of salt from his other pocket. As he ripped it open with his teeth, John skidded through the front door, eyes wide, terrified.
He halted, staring at Dean, watching as he poured salt on the creature, gun never wavering until it was dissolved.
Andrew saw John’s face slide through a myriad of emotions in the half second before Dean looked up. Relief, pride, love, sadness. It was all there on display.
Then, Dean looked up and John smiled, expression settling into one of quiet pride. “Good job, Dean.”
Dean lit up, holstering the gun. “Thanks, Dad.” He looked back, going over to where Sam and Andrew were sitting next to the altar. “You okay Sammy? You okay Andrew?”
“That was awesome!” Andrew said brightly. “You’re like Rambo!”
Jim’s head snapped around, staring at the boy. “Andrew?”
John thumped Jim’s shoulder with a closed fist, and said something low that sounded suspiciously like, “Good luck getting him to shut up now.”
Jim choked on a laugh.
“Rambo!” Sam chirped, reaching out to grab at Dean’s shirt.
Dean laughed and scooped Sam up onto his lap, squeezing him hard enough to make Sam squeak a protest and start squirming. With his face half-hidden by Sam’s mop of hair, he closed his eyes.
And Andrew kind of got it, then. That Dean was scared, as scared as Andrew, as scared as Jim.
Something tugged at Andrew’s mind, nagging like a toothache. He shook his head and grabbed Dean’s sleeve. Sam clamored off Dean’s lap and went to grab John’s hand, frowning at the tangle of sludge and hairy limbs on the church floor.
Dean shrugged. “It’s just what we’ve got to do. Kill them all.”
Which sounded so much more cool than hiding under the altar while Jim said mass. Setting his jaw, Andrew said, “Teach me how.”
Dean grinned.
****
TBC
Authors:
beanside &nilchanceFandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adult-mentions of slash.
Disclaimer: We don't own the Supernatural boys, I'm afraid. This is strictly for entertainment purposes, no money is made.
Summary: Prequel to Of Bastard Saints. A little more about Andrew and the Winchesters.
How could he have forgotten how bad it was? How did any of them forget?
Pain, terrifying voices, lights. God, pain. Like being frozen, like being burned alive. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat was agony. Thrust from His absence into a world that bore His fingerprints everywhere. Noise and chaos and screaming and gunshots, wailing women and dying children, the living with their laughter and sweat.
Then it was gone, and the only sound was the low rumble of thunder. The chill of the rain falling on his battered body seemed to wipe it all away. He sank into it, relieved and shivering. Let it take the memories. Just for a moment. Just for...
Moving slowly, the child came to his feet, looking at the stone church across the street. Shivering, muscles seizing from cold and pain, he stumbled towards it, towards the warm light from its windows. There were bushes. It’d give him somewhere to sleep, just until…
Until what? He wasn’t sure.
He scrabbled through the bushes, listening to the dry scrape of the branches on the chapel windows. The confusion was fading now, and he remembered the pain. He rubbed his chest with half-numb fingers, trying to quiet the pounding against his ribs. He swallowed hard, again, again, against the ragged sobbing of his breathing.
When the sobbing of his breathing wouldn’t stop, he shoved his thumb in his mouth. There was blood on his hands, blood everywhere.
His stomach clenched, gnawing at him. He closed his eyes, pushing his back further against the stone. Nothing could get him here. Safe.
It didn’t matter why he was bloody. It didn’t matter why he was afraid. He hurt, all over. He was tired. He couldn’t remember being anything but tired.
He couldn’t remember anything.
“Hello? Is anyone out there?” a soft voice called. A man’s voice.
The child stiffened, backing up into the corner where the wall met the church steps. He didn’t think he made a noise, but suddenly a man was there. The light trained on him, pinned him. It hurt his eyes, made him cringe back into the stone.
“Oh, Lord,” the man murmured, lowering the light. He knelt. The child couldn’t see his face, only the white place at his throat, the black of his clothes. Priest. Man of God. The child whimpered, not sure why. The man set the light down and held out his hands, showing that they were empty. The man spoke again, his voice kind. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you all right?”
The boy nodded, watching the silhouette behind the light cautiously.
“Do you want to come out? You’re welcome inside, everyone’s welcome-” the man asked, breaking off as the child shook his head frantically. “Okay. Shh, now, I won’t make you.” He shrugged off his coat, and held it out to the child. “Here, you have to be freezing. Put this on.”
The child reached out a shaking hand and snatched the coat, huddling back against the wall with it. He was shivering as he burrowed deep into it, the borrowed warmth of the man’s body. He smelled smoke, cigarettes and incense.
The man didn’t say anything for a while, kneeling there in the rain with his shoulder propped against the church. It was a thoughtful quiet, though. The child could see the man, the priest, thinking hard. There were scars on his steepled fingers.
“Are you hungry?” the man asked finally.
After a long moment, the child nodded.
“If I run in, get you some hot cocoa and cookies, will you stay here?”
The child shoved his thumb back in his mouth, then nodded solemnly. Watched the priest get up, leaving him the flashlight and the coat. As the door opened, the child got a fleeting taste of warmth.
This was a safe place. The man was safe.
As soon as the nice man disappeared into the church, the child carefully uncurled himself from his knot of limbs. He crept out from behind the bushes, the priest’s coat catching on thorns. He moved cautiously, braced to bolt, to the shelter of the open doorway. Through it, he could see all the light and warmth of the flickering candles. They drew him closer, into the church.
You shouldn’t be here, something whispered in his head.
No. No, the man had said it was okay. Still, he kept his guard up, ready to tear back out the door in case anyone saw him. Inch by inch, twitching at the loud noises coming from somewhere deep in the church, he moved in.
Then he saw the statue. The bronze angel pinned to the wall, wings and hands outspread.
For some reason, the beautiful winged figure made him terribly sad. Reminded him of something…horrible. Tears welled up in his eyes, coursing down his dirty, bruised cheeks, and the boy shuddered, pulling the nice man’s coat tighter around him.
“Hey,” the man said what seemed like a moment later. “It’s all right.”
He’d sat down. When did he sit down?
Sniffing, he wiped at his face and rubbed his nose with the sleeve of the priest’s coat. The priest looked at him, then sat on the floor a safe distance away. The priest pushed a chipped mug across the tile floor, then set a plate with half a sandwich and some cookies hastily stacked up.
“It’s not much,” the priest said. “But it’s food.”
The boy ate. Carefully at first, until the gnawing in his stomach got to him and he was devouring the sandwich like something half-feral. The priest didn’t comment, just watched him with tired eyes.
Finally, the food was gone. The boy stared at the crumbs on the plate, kind of wanting to lick them off.
“Better?” the priest asked gently.
Yes. No. With the hunger gone, he could feel every ache and chill. He sniffed and shrugged a little.
“Is there someone you want me to call? Your parents?” When the boy shook his head, the nice man sighed. “Is somebody looking for you?”
The shudder wracked the boy suddenly, no reason. Maybe fear. Sliding cautiously up onto his knees, he crept forward until his knees bumped the priests. He hunched there, shivering and miserable.
“Okay,” the priest said grimly. “Okay.”
The boy stiffened, tensing to move back from the edge of anger in the priest’s voice. Then the priest laid a hand on his arm. Swallowing back a noise, the boy wavered, then lunged into the priest’s arms hard enough to make the priest grunt.
Warm arms slid around the boy, lifted him onto a lap, and pressed the mug of hot cocoa into his hands.
After he’d finished the cookies and cocoa, sitting there warm and drowsy, the man had tilted his head at him. “How old are you?” he asked, still using that kind, gentle voice.
Hesitantly, the boy held up eight fingers.
“Eight,” the man murmured, surprised. Then he sighed again, said half to himself, “Of course. Hasn’t eaten enough, it stunted his growth. Damn.”
The boy stared at him, eyes narrowed. That had sounded suspiciously like a growl. If the man started growling…
Catching that look, the priest sighed and thumped him awkwardly. “My name’s Jim Murphy. Do you know your name?”
The boy nodded, making a face at the stupid question, but didn’t offer anything further.
“Hm. Do you know your alphabet?”
The boy nodded again, face serious.
“All right. We’ll try a game. Does your name start with the letter ‘A’?”
Favoring the man with a slight smile, he nodded.
“Okay. Hmmm. Let’s see. Anthony, Aaron, Albert, Andrew-“
The child tugged on his sleeve, and Jim stopped. “Andrew?”
This time the smile was wider.
“All right, Andrew. Tomorrow, we’ll have to look into what to do about you, but for now, you look tired. Would you like to take a nap?”
Yawning guiltily, the boy nodded again.
“I have a sofa in the rectory that should fit you nicely,” Jim murmured, coming to his feet with Andrew hoisted against his side. “Come on, Andrew. I think it’s bedtime.”
Laying his face against Jim’s shoulder, Andrew felt the thoughts settle. So much he felt like he should remember, but for now, he was safe. That was enough.
****
At first, Jim had thought the low rumble was distant thunder. It'd started while he was in confession with one of his parishioner’s kids, a teenager who needed a stern talking to and possibly an IV of Ritalin rather than divine intervention.
Hell. He barely liked other people's children, more suffering them than seeing how a squirming banshee-howling red-faced thing was supposed to lead them. Jim had served as a Chaplain in Vietnam. He'd seen starving children holding guns, their haunted eyes daring him to think of them as innocents. Children had potential, yes, but it was potential for as many terrible things as great. How was he supposed to raise one? Let alone one like Andrew, the bruised skinny ghost who shied away from everyone but Jim, who was silent unless he was waking from a nightmare, screaming with a pain that broke Jim's damned heart. Andrew, who hid every time Jim moved towards the phone now, who'd disappeared for three days the first time Jim called Social Services and returned skittish and shaky.
Jim had faith in God, but it didn't make him immune to doubt. Jim's church was the first off the main road, the only one with thick enough rose bushes to hide Andrew from sight. Only the first available sanctuary. No fate, no divine plan. Only coincidence.
Which didn't explain why Jim's stomach wrenched quite so hard when he returned to find a huge man crouched over the front row of pews, speaking to someone beneath them. As Jim moved up the aisle, he caught sight of Andrew's hair, his small hands clenched on the pew like he was afraid the huge man might drag him out.
"-all right, little brother," the big man was saying softly, his voice almost deep enough to be felt like an earthquake. "You know me. I'm here to-"
"Excuse me," Jim said, sharply. "Can I help you?"
The huge man paused, still looming over Andrew, then raised himself. Straightened up, he seemed even bigger. His skin was dark and rich against the black of his expensive suit, beads clicking softly on the ends of his dreadlocks. His eyes slid over Jim, silently assessing with the lazy intensity of a predator.
There was a scuffling sound. Then Andrew darted from beneath the pew, lunging behind Jim. Jim felt something in his heart lurch painfully. He laid a hand on Andrew's head, absently brushing the dust out of his hair, and stared back at the huge man. Repeated, sternly, "Can I help you?"
Impossibly, the mountain cracked a smile. "So it seems," he rumbled. "My name is Levi. I represent the boy's father."
Jim swallowed back a handful of stupid replies that wanted to come tearing up his throat, starting with a protest and ending with a snarl. Holding Levi's eyes, half-afraid to blink, Jim said, "Andrew, I need you to go in my office for a minute. Stay there until I come for you. All right?"
Andrew didn't make a sound. Might've been easier if he had, rather than clutching silently at Jim's jacket.
"Go," Jim said firmly. And surprisingly enough, Andrew went.
Levi watched them both, tracking Andrew with a narrow-eyed focus that made Jim uneasy. To his credit, he waited until Andrew was gone before speaking again. "He's a cute kid. I hadn't expected that."
"Enough," Jim said sharply. "You're not taking him back."
Levi tilted his head. "Who said anything about taking him, Father Murphy?"
After years in the military, and more than a few in church politics, Jim liked to think he had a highly attuned sense of when to duck. That sense was screaming at him now, paranoia tightening his spine. Jim took a careful step back and asked, evenly, "What?"
Levi smiled, folding his long limbs down into the pew. He wasn't a bulky man. Solid, but he moved with a grace that belied his bulk. His hands were scarred and callused, fingers crooked from past breaks. He steepled them on his lap, watching Jim, a silent invitation to let his guard down. Jim didn't. "Your name," Levi rumbled, "is James Murphy. You were trained by Bishop Abe Morgan, one of the last men actively performing exorcisms in the church. He taught you to exorcise demons-"
"We spent one day on it. I've never actually had to-"
"Hush," Levi said mildly. "You held the hands of the dying in the rice fields of Vietnam. Not just your own dying, Father Murphy. The men who had killed your brothers in arms. You ministered to them not as a Christian holy man, not in the name of the Christian God-"
"They dropped the desertion charges."
"- But in their own faith, or their absence of faith. As someone who couldn't watch his fellow man die alone." Levi watched him, tapping his fingertips gently, rhythmically. "We've been watching you a long time."
"So I see." Jim gripped the pew, hard. "Who are you?"
Levi smiled. "I have many aliases. You wouldn't recognize any of them. In any case, it's not about me. It's about who I represent. The boy's father."
"Right. So who is he?" Patience worn, Jim growled, "Because I wouldn't treat a dog that poorly, let alone a child. He's starved, beaten-"
"The situation is complicated," Levi murmured. "The boy-"
"Andrew."
"Andrew," Levi repeated, like the name was foreign in his mouth, "is not an asset his father seeks to retrieve. He's in no position to raise him. His mother is ill."
"So you dropped him off here? Because I held the hand of a few dying Viet-Cong soldiers years ago? That's horseshit. What the hell is going on?"
Levi blinked. Once. Something odd happened behind his eyes, a quiet something that made Jim want to back down the aisle. “Believe me when I tell you that you’d prefer plausible deniability in this case, Father Murphy. We recognize that we’ve put you in an awkward position. You have time to choose. If you don’t want the boy, I’d be happy to raise him myself.”
For a traitorous heartbeat, Jim was tempted. Damned tempted.
Levi would raise him. There had been affection in the way he looked after Andrew, even if it was layered thick with… not a sexual hunger, nothing like that, but a subtext that Jim didn’t understand.
The man that had sent Andrew cowering under a pew would take him off Jim’s hands.
Hell.
“Come back in a few weeks,” Jim said tightly.
Levi saluted, sardonically, and rose. “It was good to meet you, Father Murphy. Go retrieve our boy from your office. Please give him my apology for unnerving him.”
‘Our boy’. The protest was on Jim’s lips, choked off as Levi stepped between one pillar and another and simply ceased to be in the church. No sign of his passing, not so much as a ripple of disturbed air. Nothing. Silence.
Forget fire. Forget gnashing of teeth. Forget Dante. All of it, complete nonsense. Hell, Jim… the ghost of Abe in Jim’s mind shook his cane, scowling as he recited the lecture Jim had burned into his memory. Hell is absence. Hell is lack. Are you listening? Because if you aren’t prepared-
I’m listening, sir.
If you’re not prepared, Abe had said darkly, people are going to die.
Shaking off the chill, Jim went to unlock his office door. Andrew was crouched behind his desk, clutching Jim’s letter-opener in small white-knuckled hands. He didn’t lower it right away on seeing that it was Jim.
“You’re safe,” Jim said mildly. “Would you like to tell me what that was about?”
Andrew blinked, then lowered the letter-opener. Then he slid under the cover of Jim’s desk.
“No,” Jim sighed. “I kind of thought not.”
****
There was someone in the church, Andrew realized as he slid through the cold hallway, looking for Jim, wanting him to come chase away the monster at his window.
Moving quietly, he slid past the pews until he could see the man by the bowl thing of holy water. For a moment, Andrew nearly bolted, afraid that the dark man had come back for him.
No. This man was taller by far than Jim, and wider, but not as big as the dark man. His clothes weren’t as nice. His jaw was covered with dark stubble.
The man moved, pulling out a small bottle, dipping it in the holy water, and Andrew caught a flash of silver hanging from his hip—a crucifix, like the one over the altar. The man turned again, and Andrew saw more silver, this time in the curve of the gun nestled at his hip.
Suddenly afraid, Andrew shrank back, eyes wide. The man caught the movement. His head swiveled, dark eyes sliding over the church. “Hello?” he rumbled, voice hoarse and low.
Andrew stared, seeing the thick trickle of blood flowing down the man’s forehead, almost obscuring the clear dark eyes. Kind eyes. Like Jim’s. But he had a gun. Maybe he could make the monster go away. Maybe he would believe him, not say stuff about old foundations and creepy shadows.
Andrew shuddered, thinking of the sound of the thing, scraping against his window with spindly legs. Before he could let himself chicken out, he scurried along the aisle until he was next to the big man. He reached up, tugging hesitantly on the big man’s jacket.
Those kind eyes looked down at him, and Andrew tugged again.
“Hey, little man. What’s up?” the man asked gently.
A scrape of claws on glass came from the rectory. Andrew’s eyes widened, and he started tugging harder.
The man had heard it too. “Show me,” he said firmly, letting Andrew lead him through the dark, cold hallways.
Unfortunately, that was about when Jim stuck his head out of his office. “Andrew,” he began, then noticed the man Andrew had in tow. Jim said sharply, “Who the hell are you? Get away from him-”
The man didn’t answer, just let Andrew drag him along the hall to his room. The scraping, skittery noises were louder now. The man stopped Andrew before he could reach for the doorknob, nudging Andrew behind him. The man kicked the door open, reaching a hand in to turn on the lights.
Jim made a soft, horrified noise at the creature within. The twisted spider-like thing, eyes glowing red.
The man didn’t hesitate, giving Andrew a little shove towards Jim and drawing his gun. “Cover your ears,” he ordered, voice thundering.
Even through Jim’s hands, Andrew heard the shots. He peeked through his hands to see the monster twist on itself as the man pulled a container from his belt, dumping a white powder on the creature.
A moment later, there was nothing left but a stain on the carpet.
Jim stood, lifting Andrew. “What-“ he took a deep breath, looking at the man. “You’re bleeding. I have a first aid kit in my office-“
The man reached up, wiping his forehead. “It’s not serious.”
“I-What was that?” Jim said softly.
“Spider demon. Nasty little bas-“ he broke off, looking at Andrew. “Buggers.”
“Demon,” Jim murmured. “Okay. That’s…unexpected. Can I offer you a drink at least? I owe you that much.”
The man hesitated. “I shouldn’t. Should-“
“You’re wounded, look like you haven’t slept in a week, and you just saved our lives. The least I can offer you is a beer and a place to rest. Plus, I’d like a little more information about that thing, if you don’t mind.”
After a long minute, the man nodded. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
“Of course.” Jim led the way to his office. “I’m Jim Murphy. This is Andrew.”
“Your son?”
“Not in so many words,” Jim murmured. “But yes.”
The man looked at Andrew, then got down to his level. He wiped one big hand on his jeans, then offered his hand to Andrew. “Pleased to meet you, Andrew. I’m John. John Winchester.”
Andrew smiled, sticking out his hand to be engulfed by the other man’s.
John looked seriously at the bruises on the pale inside of Andrew’s wrist, then at Jim. When Jim shrugged, his eyes shadowed, John nodded grimly and looked back at Andrew. “You did a good job back there.”
“He doesn’t speak,” Jim murmured.
The shadow of something crossed John’s face. Then he smiled tightly and said, “That’s all right, son. Too many people talk too damn much anyway.”
Andrew grinned.
****
Three days later, John had returned for the weekend to give Jim the quick and dirty version on how to protect yourself against things that went bump in the night. He hadn’t come alone.
Andrew had heard them before he saw them. A young voice raised in a near-whine, and another, laughing and bright. He opened the rectory door, looking up at John with a smile.
“Hey, Andrew. How’re you doing?” John asked. “These are my sons, the ones I told you about.” Which, Jim noted wryly, were two more sons than Jim had heard about. “The younger one is Sammy.” He pointed at the sulking child with the mop of dark hair hiding a sweet face. “He’s three.”
Jim felt his mouth curve on a smile, and bent to get to Sam’s level. “Hi there, Sam. I’m Jim.”
Sam peeked at him through ridiculous eyelashes, sniffed warily and scooted back into John.
John came to his feet, Sam against his hip, and offered Jim his hand. “Good to see you again, Pastor Murphy. Sorry about this. They kind of commandeered my backseat.”
“It’s all right.” Jim took his hand, shook firmly, and tried not to smile as Sam peered at him from the safety of John’s arms. That answered the enigma of John’s wedding ring. The boys had no mother to look after them, obviously, or John wouldn’t have brought them. A widower, then. “We have plenty of room.”
The other boy, who was a good four inches taller than Andrew, stepped forward, offering his hand with a confidence that made Jim’s chest hurt. “I’m Dean,” he said, smiling. “I’m seven.”
“Andrew doesn’t talk,” Jim said softly.
Andrew smiled a thank you at Jim.
Dean nodded. “That’s okay. Do you want to go play?” He glanced at John for permission. “Unless you need me,” he added.
“No, go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on Sammy,” John said. “It’s his naptime.”
“That’s why he’s a cranky bitch,” Dean whispered.
John made a noise that could have been a cough, but sounded like a laugh to Jim. “Go play. Come back in before sunset.”
“Yes sir,” Dean said crisply.
****
Andrew led him out back, where Jim had set up a small swingset once it had become obvious that Andrew wasn’t going anywhere.
When the authorities would show up, Andrew would disappear, returning once they’d left. After a while, Jim had given up, picked up a bed from the local discounters and cleared out the second bedroom. He said they’d have to eventually do paperwork, but he was going to talk to one of the parishioners- a lawyer- about the best way to do it.
Dean sat on the swingset. “So, you don’t talk.”
Andrew shook his head.
Dean nodded wisely. “I get it.” He shrugged, and Andrew gave him a smile. “It’s okay. Sometimes you just hurt too much.”
Andrew nodded, and Dean looked at the swing. “Think I could push you so high you’d go over?”
After the sun set, and they had eaten dinner, John went out to look for the spider demon’s mate.
“I want to go with you,” Dean said stubbornly.
Andrew watched him, wondering why he wasn’t afraid of the spider-thing. He was afraid of it, Andrew thought. And he was a year older than Dean.
John rumpled Dean’s hair. “Dean, Jim doesn’t know enough.”
“Dad,” Dean whispered, looking down.
John’s face softened. “I need you here, to protect Jim, Sammy and Andrew,” he said softly. “I’ll be back before long.”
Jim smiled. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
John’s lip lifted in a smile. “Mind Pastor Jim, then, Dean.” He bent, speaking softly to Dean, and Dean’s spine straightened.
“Yes sir,” Dean said.
John had been gone no more than an hour when the doors to the church shuddered under a heavy weight.
Jim went pale, grabbing Sam and Andrew. “Dean, we have to-“
Dean stepped away, in front of them. “Get them behind the altar,” he ordered.
“Dean-“ Jim protested. Then, the doors flew open, an enormous spider demon skittering in to the church. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“Behind the altar,” Dean barked, his voice high and tight. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small handgun and aiming carefully.
The gun’s bark was softer than John’s had been, but no less effective. Before the ringing died from Andrew’s ears, the spider was on its back, legs twitching spasmodically.
Dean held the gun steady, pulling out a packet of salt from his other pocket. As he ripped it open with his teeth, John skidded through the front door, eyes wide, terrified.
He halted, staring at Dean, watching as he poured salt on the creature, gun never wavering until it was dissolved.
Andrew saw John’s face slide through a myriad of emotions in the half second before Dean looked up. Relief, pride, love, sadness. It was all there on display.
Then, Dean looked up and John smiled, expression settling into one of quiet pride. “Good job, Dean.”
Dean lit up, holstering the gun. “Thanks, Dad.” He looked back, going over to where Sam and Andrew were sitting next to the altar. “You okay Sammy? You okay Andrew?”
“That was awesome!” Andrew said brightly. “You’re like Rambo!”
Jim’s head snapped around, staring at the boy. “Andrew?”
John thumped Jim’s shoulder with a closed fist, and said something low that sounded suspiciously like, “Good luck getting him to shut up now.”
Jim choked on a laugh.
“Rambo!” Sam chirped, reaching out to grab at Dean’s shirt.
Dean laughed and scooped Sam up onto his lap, squeezing him hard enough to make Sam squeak a protest and start squirming. With his face half-hidden by Sam’s mop of hair, he closed his eyes.
And Andrew kind of got it, then. That Dean was scared, as scared as Andrew, as scared as Jim.
Something tugged at Andrew’s mind, nagging like a toothache. He shook his head and grabbed Dean’s sleeve. Sam clamored off Dean’s lap and went to grab John’s hand, frowning at the tangle of sludge and hairy limbs on the church floor.
Dean shrugged. “It’s just what we’ve got to do. Kill them all.”
Which sounded so much more cool than hiding under the altar while Jim said mass. Setting his jaw, Andrew said, “Teach me how.”
Dean grinned.
****
TBC
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Date: 2006-07-21 01:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-21 12:38 pm (UTC)Thank you!