A Cleansing for My Humanity
Jul. 31st, 2009 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maychorianFandom: Supernatural
Title: A Cleansing for My Humanity
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Castiel
Category: Gen, AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG13
Warning: (skip) References to child abuse. Dark themes. Language.
Spoilers: Through S4
Summary: It was a coping mechanism, Bobby figured. The personality shifts were a little disturbing, though.
Word Count: 4800
Disclaimer: I would be delighted to be Mrs. Maychorian Kripke, but I don't think he would have me. :(
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU.
A Cleansing for My Humanity
The first day, Bobby let Jimmy sleep all afternoon, but finally went and woke him up around supper time. The boy had accepted an old nightshirt of Bobby's and managed to change into it before falling into the spare room's bed, though it was clear that he would have been perfectly willing to go to sleep right there in his wet clothes, he was so completely done in. He only allowed Bobby to catch a fleeting glimpse of the injuries that covered him from head to toe, getting out of the wet clothes and throwing on the nightshirt it what seemed just a blink of the eye. Bobby had kept his eyes wide open, though, so he didn't miss it.
The boy slept curled up on his side, face toward the door. Bobby watched him for a moment, saw the dark circles of weariness under his eyes, and didn't want to wake him. Eventually, though, he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, patting a blanket-covered knee. "Jimmy, boy. Time to wake up."
Jimmy didn't start when he woke, but an intense stillness came over him. The kid was holding his breath. Waiting.
Bobby puffed out a sigh. "It's just me, kid. There's soup downstairs, but I want you to give me a look at those bruises, first."
Jimmy turned his head slowly up and stared at Bobby warily, only his nose and eyes and a tuft of dark, tangled hair showing above the blanket.
Bobby held up the camera in his right hand. "For the police. You want that bastard to get what he's got comin', doncha?"
The boy held absolutely still, his breath barely even shifting the blanket up and down. The words were a whisper, still and rabbit-scared. "Please don't send me away."
"Not planning to." Bobby squeezed the knee his hand still rested on. "I'll send 'em in anonymously. But folks need to know, so no other foster kids get placed with him."
Jimmy was a brave kid, of course he was, Bobby had expected nothing less. With this reasoning he nodded and sat up, grunting with the effort but managing it on his own. The blanket pooled around his waist and the old shirt hung off one shoulder, showing a red-blue smudge on the bare chest.
Bobby reached out slowly, tacitly asking permission, and Jimmy nodded and looked away. The man got his fingers under the hem of fabric and pulled the shirt off, taking his time, letting the boy gradually come to terms with his wounds being seen by another person. Every inch of flesh thus revealed bore more contusions, more marks, more evidence of brutal, long-term abuse. Individually none of them looked all that bad, really, most already well on the way to healing. But taken collectively, and in these patterns...
The hunter really wanted to head to central Illinois, now, even though he knew that there was no hunt there, no demon, no ghost. He wanted to punch Les Baker in the face. And put a load of rock salt in his ass. And just, well, maybe break all of his fingers, make sure he could never do this to another person ever again.
Jimmy's breathing was ragged and rushed, his eyes wide, looking anywhere but at the man who was studying him and carefully running his knuckles over the bruises on his side.
"Shhh," Bobby said, gentling him the way he would a half-wild puppy. He packed away the anger for now, aware that it was no good here. "I gotta check your ribs for breaks. It's gonna hurt, I'm sorry, but you might need more help than I can give you."
"None of the bones are moving around anymore," Jimmy said, almost formally. "I'm in no danger."
"You let me be the judge of that, all right?"
Jimmy nodded and fixed his eyes on the blanket in his lap, and Bobby began the long, painful process of testing each bone for weakness, for cracks, pressing on the bruised flesh and feeling the give of the bone beneath. Before long the boy was panting harshly, gulping down the pain, and Bobby wished with all his heart that he could go faster and get this over with.
The thin little body suddenly went still under Bobby's hands. Jimmy sat up a little straighter, muscles relaxed and loose, letting the man work. Bobby looked up and found the blue eyes curious and detached, the face expressionless.
"Jimmy?"
"Yes?" The voice seemed different, too, but Bobby couldn't say how.
"Just checking," he muttered, and got back to it.
"There's no need for this, truly," Jimmy said, his voice calm and infinitely rational. "I'm going to be just fine."
"Yeah, well, humor me anyway."
A gentle sigh. "As you wish."
The kid was stoic for the rest of the exam, flinching only when Bobby skirted around a particularly nasty welt on his left shoulder blade. When Bobby lifted the camera again he just nodded and let the man take as many pictures as he needed, lifting his arms or tilting his head as requested. His face remained eerily smooth throughout.
Only when they went downstairs and Bobby ladeled up two huge bowls of his best minestrone soup, when Jimmy again sat at the kitchen table wrapped up in the old quilt that had probably been the first bit of comfort he'd been allowed in far too long... Only then did the ice melt. The shoulders came down and the expression lightened and the wary little boy returned, sniffing cautiously at his soup, then digging in with obvious relish. He took all the crackers and cheese and carrot sticks and juice that Bobby offered him, enjoying the food in a finger-licking, lip-smacking, leg-swinging way that did the man's heart good.
It was a coping mechanism, Bobby reasoned. Things got to be too much for the child and he just...took himself away for a little while. He certainly couldn't blame the kid for doing whatever it took to survive the things that had happened to him, that had been done to him.
Perhaps as Jimmy began to feel safe here, began to trust that he had found a harbor at last, the need for this would fade.
X
Bobby put his feelers out in the hunting community, but no one had heard of John Winchester. The name didn't ring a bell anywhere, but he got promises from all and sundry that they would contact Bobby Singer the second Winchester showed his head. Despite the lack of evidence, Bobby didn't doubt that he existed, and if Jimmy said he needed to talk to the guy, then he needed to talk to the guy.
It took him awhile to figure out which Lawrence the kid had been talking about, but he finally hit pay dirt after three days of calling around. "John Winchester?" said a psychic named Missouri Mosely in Lawrence, Kansas, her voice rich and warm even over the tinny distance of the telephone. "Yes, I know your boy. He came to me wanting to know what had killed his wife."
"Did you tell him?" Bobby asked. He felt a little shaky with victory, with vindication. Here was proof that Jimmy Novak knew what he was talking about. Well, proof beyond that telekinetic trick that had left the boy with a bloody nose.
"Didn't know," Missouri said frankly. "Knew it was somethin' evil, though. Mm hmm. Somethin' real bad. Told him a little about what's out there in the dark. Mercy, you never saw such a determined look in any man's eye, that I'll warrant you."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I'm sorry to tell you no, Mr. Singer. John Winchester took his boys and he headed right on out of Lawrence. Don't know where exactly, but I know he was going out to find more answers than I could give him."
Bobby paused. "His boys, you say?"
"Two little sons. Poor man, lost his wife and his boys' mother and his home and his purpose all in one night."
"Thank you, ma'am." Bobby poured all the gratitude he had into his voice. "You've been a big help. You ever hear from him again, you'll call me, won't you?"
She gave him her word and he gave her his number. When he lowered the phone, Jimmy was standing there, pale as deep winter, skinny arms wrapped as far around his middle as they would go.
"I know what killed his wife," the boy said, and stopped, swaying.
Bobby put down the phone and stood up from the desk, moving forward to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me."
Jimmy craned his head to look up at him, tilting it calmly to the side. "Part of me wants to," he said. "Part of me wants to tell you everything. Isn't that strange?"
Bobby gave him a smile, but he knew it was sad, hardly even wrinkling around his eyes. "Not so strange. You've been alone for a long time. Of course you want to talk to someone."
The boy nodded thoughtfully, looking away.
"But listen now, Jimmy." Bobby knelt on one knee, bring their eyes more on level. "You can tell me anything you want to, anytime you want to. You hear me? Anything you got to say, I want to hear it."
Jimmy nodded solemnly. "You're a good man, Bobby Singer."
Bobby had to clear his throat. "Kind of you to say."
He ruffled the boy's hair, and Jimmy didn't flinch away from his hand.
That was a good thing. Jimmy still slept curled up in a little ball and hugged himself a lot and looked worried most of the time, but it had only been three days and he had already stopped flinching when Bobby touched him.
X
The day after that was sunny, fluffy clouds sailing the blue sky, steady breeze ruffling the leaves in the trees around Bobby's property. Jimmy spent most of the day sitting under an old oak in the backyard, his back against the shaggy trunk, Bartholomew's head in his lap. The old dog had taken to the newcomer instantly, following the boy practically everywhere he went. Bobby might have been a little miffed at his old companion's abandonment if it hadn't been so obvious that this was exactly what Jimmy needed.
When sunset fell in shades of gold and crimson, the boy and dog moved inside, curling up next to the fire that Bobby lit every night, now. Jimmy always seemed to lean toward the flames the way a flower leaned toward the sun, basking in the glow and listening to the crackle. It was the only time Bobby had seen him smile yet, laying there with his head on Bartholomew's stomach and firelight playing over his face.
Bobby carried the book he'd been studying into the main room and sat down in an armchair next to the fire, watching them. The bruises on Jimmy's face and arms were almost completely faded now, but sometimes Bobby thought he could still see them. Jimmy glanced at him, then looked back to the fire.
"This fire is so tame," he said, reaching out a hand as if to test the warmth, then drawing it back. "So gentle and kind. Not at all like the fire that killed...that killed my parents."
Bobby shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't been expecting that at all.
"It's amazing," Jimmy went on, dreamily. "The way you curb this destructive power, make it suitable for your use. I'm constantly astonished by human ingenuity."
"That's a big word for a little boy," Bobby said lightly, not sure what to do with that.
"Is it?" Jimmy looked at him, a wrinkle appearing on his smooth forehead. He seemed to be filing that away. Then he looked back to the fire. "You don't have to try to hide that book you're holding in your hand. I know it's a demonology text."
Bobby looked down at the book, realizing that he had spread his hands over the cover, shielding it. He huffed a little at his own squeamishness and moved his hand away. "You know demonology, do you?"
"I know all the demons," Jimmy said calmly. "Abbadon, Abraxas, Acham, Adramalech, Agares, Ahriman, Alastor, Alrinach, Alloces..."
"Okay, enough," Bobby cut in. Gooseflesh burned across the back of his neck and his upper arms, sharp and icy. "Is this part of the stuff you 'just know?'"
Jimmy looked at him over his shoulder. His blue eyes were strange in the firelight, dark, old, fey. "I know all the angels, too, if you'd rather hear about them."
"That's all right." Bobby shook his head. Angels weren't real. This must be Jimmy's idea of a joke.
Well, this side of Jimmy, anyway. The aspect that Bobby was beginning to think of as "old Jimmy," with his ancient eyes and his eerie calm. He much preferred young Jimmy, honestly. This persona was unsettling, held an edge of danger to him. Young Jimmy was sweet and gentle, whispering prayers and singing snatches of old hymns and Sunday School songs, delighted by food and the sunlight on his face, looking to Bobby as if he was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Old Jimmy, this shield, hardly seemed to belong in the world at all.
Jimmy let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes in a long, slow blink. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"'S not your fault," Bobby said gruffly. He hesitated, then got off his chair and sat next to Jimmy's legs on the floor, reaching out to give his ankle a warm squeeze. "No need to apologize, kiddo. I just want you to be yourself, that's all."
Jimmy turned over on his back, making Bartholomew huff when his head hit the dog's stomach in a different place. His eyes were huge, and Bobby felt like he might get trapped in them. "I am being myself, truly. This is who I am now. I can do things that shouldn't be possible and I know things that little boys shouldn't know, and...and..." He stopped, choking on it all, and closed his eyes.
"And it's all right." Bobby rubbed his ankle. "It is. You've been through things that no one should have to go through and it messed you up a little, but that's all right. There's nothing wrong with you. So you can move a saltshaker without touching it." He scoffed and made a motion with his hand as if tossing the idea away, useless. "No skin off my nose. So you know the names of the demons, and probably lots of other things about them that would make a grown man's head spin. Not hurting anybody, is it? It's just some esoteric knowledge, that's all. I study it all the time. Nothing strange about it."
Jimmy had opened his eyes to watch the man's little performance of Irritable Curmudgeon Talks About Telekinesis and Demonology, and now he gave Bobby a smile, the first one that had ever been just for him. "I know about angels, too, don't forget. And a lot about the future."
"Ain't no thing." Bobby smiled back, warm all the way through. "Do you know where John Winchester is?"
He meant it to be teasing, but Jimmy took the question seriously, sighing and looking away again. "I know a lot of things, Uncle Bobby," he said mournfully. "Probably too much. But I don't know everything."
"Well, that's all right, too," Bobby said.
And he thought that maybe the boy was beginning to believe it.
X
About a week and a half after Jimmy started living the spare room, Bobby got tired of constantly washing and re-washing the same stained, ragged little-boy outfit and took him shopping in Sioux Falls. Jimmy's bruises were all but gone then and he had shed some of his hunted look, his animal wariness, though he didn't stray from Bobby's side for the entirety of the trip. Still, shopping was exhausting and the kid was sleeping in the truck by the end when Bobby made his usual rounds of the used bookstores, looking for volumes he was missing.
Almost as an afterthought, he stopped at a Barnes & Noble, too, well-aware that they wouldn't have any of the old books he was looking for. He picked up a few books about child abuse and its effects, and a copy of The Chronicles of Narnia for Jimmy. It seemed like something the kid would like.
Later that evening when Bobby presented him with the boxed set, Jimmy just stood still, staring, for what seemed like a very long time. Bobby started to think that maybe he had picked the wrong books. Or maybe the kid didn't even like books. But that was almost impossible for Bobby to contemplate.
Then the boy reached forward and slowly traced the spines with hesitant fingers. "These are my favorite books in the whole world. My mom used to read them to me all the time. Mine burned up in the fire."
He looked up, his eyes bright with tears, but he was smiling. "Thank you, Uncle Bobby."
He threw his arms around Bobby's gut in a fierce hug, so hard it made the man grunt, then ran off with the books so fast that Bobby hardly had time to gasp out a "Welcome!" before the boy was gone.
Later, when he was putting away Jimmy's new clothes, Bobby saw The Chronicles of Narnia standing in a place of high prominence on the spare room's dresser. It made him smile, though he quickly cleared his throat and hid it away. He also found a stash of crackers, two apples, and a banana hidden in the dresser drawers, but he left those alone.
X
Jimmy usually made himself scarce when Bobby had customers. Bobby certainly understood this, since most of the folks who came to the junkyard for parts or service were rough-looking, rough-talking men who probably had more than a passing resemblance to Les Baker, that bastard. It was miracle enough that the boy had taken to Bobby, let alone any random stranger who came to Singer Salvage.
This customer was a lady, though, looking for a new side mirror for her beat-up old Ford. She had her daughter with her, maybe four years old, pigtails and ribbons and a teddy bear clutched under one arm. Bobby saw Jimmy peeking around the corner of the house, watching with a fixed fascination that might have been disturbing if it wasn't so innocently curious.
While Bobby took the customer around the yard to look at likely candidates, Jimmy made his way toward the little girl with halting steps, Bartholomew pressing against his legs in silent support. The adults returned from their tour of rusting steel to find the boy kneeling in the dirt, entertaining the little girl with finger games. The girl-child laughed and clapped, wiped her snotty nose on her arm, and ended it by giving Jimmy a grubby, sticky kiss right on the lips. The mother bought a mirror that Bobby wasn't even sure would work for her car. Bobby smiled, hoping it was hidden in his beard.
This turned out to be a bad thing. By the next morning Jimmy was coughing, sneezing, shivering and sweating, somehow managing to do all four at the same time. He'd obviously caught some deadly disease from that little rugrat, and Bobby cursed the day he hadn't put up signs that said NO CHILDREN ALLOWED all around the salvage yard.
Even old Jimmy was no match for the common cold, it seemed. The stoic persona was already in place by the time Bobby went upstairs to find out why his young guest was taking so long to come down for breakfast. (It was the child's third favorite time of day, only narrowly beaten by lunch and supper, so Bobby knew something was up when he was late.) He found the boy pale and shaking, eyes red with sleeplessness and a pile of used tissues on the floor.
Old Jimmy told him, quite pathetically, "This is extremely miserable, Uncle Bobby," then immediately doubled over in a coughing fit.
"I know. I know, kid." Bobby patted his back sympathetically, then went downstairs for supplies.
Young Jimmy didn't come back until it was safe, three days later. Bobby missed him, but he found himself warming to old Jimmy in the meantime. The poor kid was just so gol-durned grateful for every little thing Bobby did, continually astonished that the man would do anything to care for him.
Which made sense, Bobby supposed, for a personality that had obviously come into being for the sole purpose of protecting young Jimmy. He was certain that old Jimmy had been the one who beat up that bastard and got them away from that place. And protecting young Jimmy was a mission Bobby could get behind, so they had that in common.
He sat by the bed with his hand on the boy's hot forehead, singing all the Johnny Cash he could remember, which included a few hymns. Old Jimmy closed his eyes and hummed along, sometimes weak and sometimes strong, sometimes in unison and sometimes in harmony, his voice phlegmy and choked but still sweet for all that. And Bobby knew that he had gotten in way over his head.
X
It all went to hell the night Bobby got drunk. He hadn't meant to do it. He always had a little nip of whiskey before he went to bed, which was usually long after Jimmy had already retired to his room. That night, though, he was thinking about things he shouldn't think about, getting all wrapped up in old grief, old guilt, and one thing led to another. He had far more than one nip, and he went over the edge from buzzed to tipsy to God-damned inebriated much more quickly than he usually did.
Then, through bleary vision, he saw Jimmy standing in front of him, young face terrible with displeasure. This was old Jimmy, Bobby knew, even through the haze of drink. Most people probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but Bobby Singer was a scholar, and he'd been studying Jimmy Novak for three weeks now.
"Bobby Singer, you must stop this," the boy declared, and Bobby automatically sat up straighter.
"What now?"
"Please, Mr. Singer, stop!" His face crumpled and his voice heightened and this was young Jimmy, small and scared and tearful. "Please, please stop. Don't be like Mr. Baker, please don't!"
Bobby had never wanted to see that expression on the kid's face again, let alone be the cause of it. And Jimmy hadn't called him "Mr. Singer" since that first day. It was always "Uncle" now, and Bobby liked that, damn it, he really liked it and he didn't want it to go away.
"Jimmy..." He reached out, clumsy, heart sinking like stone in his chest. "Kid..."
Jimmy stumbled away from his hand, flinching again, and Bobby grunted in pain and curled the hand back in toward himself. He waited for old Jimmy to return, to protect young Jimmy from this pain, too, but the shield didn't show up. It was Jimmy, just Jimmy, panting and white-faced, pressed against the wall. "Don't touch me, please don't touch me." And his voice was shrill with terror.
"Jimmy, Jimmy, I'd never hurt ya, swear, I wou...I woudn', Jimmy, I would never." Bobby heard the desperation in his voice, too.
Jimmy shook his head from side to side, almost convulsively. "Mr. Baker was nice at first, too. He was nice. He didn't hurt me for almost two weeks. And then he got drunk, he got drunk and it started and it never stopped. It never stopped!"
"Jimmy..." Bobby's hand clenched in his hair, just needing something to clutch, to tear. The pain in his scalp brought him back to himself a little more. "That bastard... That bastard isn' me, Jimmy. We..." He concentrated on enunciation, making each syllable precise. "We are not the same. I would never hurt you. Not sober, not drunk, not ever."
The boy shook his head again, so hard that Bobby's head ached in sympathy. "How can I believe that? How I can believe anything you say? You're a drunk."
"Only sometimes," Bobby said earnestly. "I never lied to ya, Jimmy. I never lied and I ain't gonna start now."
Jimmy just kept shaking his head, looking away in despair. He slid sideways along the wall, as far from Bobby as he could get. "Cast...Castiel says I should give you another chance but I don't know, Mr. Singer, I don't know. I'm going back to bed. Please don't follow me." As soon as he was far enough away he ran, clattering up the stairs in a total panic.
Bobby stared after him, almost entirely sober again. The old grief and guilt were sharp now, new.
He'd ruined everything.
He got up and poured all the whiskey down the kitchen sink. Then he went through the cupboards and threw out the rest of the alcohol, too. There was quite a bit of it. He hadn't realized that he'd amassed such a stash. Jimmy wasn't the only one hoarding, it seemed.
Bobby fell asleep on the couch, mind still whirling with sick, insistent pain, trying to find a way out of this mess. Trying to figure out when the kid had become so important to him, and what he was supposed to do about it. If Jimmy flinched away from him, if he didn't call him "Uncle" anymore... Bobby didn't know what he would do. He was a broken-down old man at the age of thirty-four and he didn't know what he would do if this weird, schizo, half-psychic kid was afraid of him and never trusted him again.
Three hours later he was woken by a scream and stumbled automatically to his feet, looking for his shotgun. He felt sober now, adrenaline rushing through his veins, and that scream had come from Jimmy. Couldn't find the shotgun fast enough so he grabbed a Bowie knife from the middle desk drawer and took the stairs two at a time.
He flipped on the light in Jimmy's room to find the boy sitting up, bowed over, hands covering his face, shaking and sweating. Bobby swept the room with a glance and didn't see a threat, just night-time shadows and the oak tree standing sentinel outside the window. Bartholomew had been sleeping at the foot of Jimmy's bed, and he was turning circles on the floor, whining, but not pointing at any danger. Just upset because the kid was upset, because Jimmy had had a nightmare.
Bobby put down the knife and approached the bed slowly, one hand outstretched in cautious offering. "Jimmy? Hey, boy, it's just me..."
Jimmy pulled his hands down his face, revealing tear-filled eyes. "Uncle Bobby?"
Bobby's heart just about broke, and he crossed the remaining distance in about one step. "I'm here. I'm here, Jimmy, I'm not going anywhere."
"They died in the smoke, Uncle Bobby," the boy sobbed, completely unable to cope with this, not now, not ever. For once Bobby couldn't tell if this was old Jimmy or young Jimmy or maybe both and it didn't matter, it didn't matter, no kid could deal with this. "My mommy and my daddy, they died in the smoke. And my sisters and brothers... They're all gone, they're all gone and I'm all that's left and I'm not enough. I'm not enough."
"Aw, Jimmy, Jimmy..." Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped the boy up and Jimmy didn't resist, didn't flinch. "'Course you are, Jimmy, 'course you're enough. You're more than enough. You're Jimmy Novak and you're...you're some kid, that's what you are. You're Jimmy, you're my Jimmy, and you're more than enough for anybody. You really are."
It took a long time, but eventually it seemed like maybe Jimmy believed it. Or at least Bobby's words were enough, for now.
X
Much later, Bobby looked it up, and found out that Castiel was the angel of Thursday. And Jimmy had never had any siblings.
That was much later, though.
X
When four weeks had passed and it became painfully clear that Bobby didn't want Jimmy to leave and Jimmy didn't want to leave, either, Robert Singer petitioned the state of Illinois for custody rights and guardianship of James Novak.
(End)
Next story in 'verse: While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Detour to the missing scene: Rain Falling Down Short #1
Title: A Cleansing for My Humanity
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Castiel
Category: Gen, AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG13
Warning: (skip) References to child abuse. Dark themes. Language.
Spoilers: Through S4
Summary: It was a coping mechanism, Bobby figured. The personality shifts were a little disturbing, though.
Word Count: 4800
Disclaimer: I would be delighted to be Mrs. Maychorian Kripke, but I don't think he would have me. :(
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU.
A Cleansing for My HumanityThe first day, Bobby let Jimmy sleep all afternoon, but finally went and woke him up around supper time. The boy had accepted an old nightshirt of Bobby's and managed to change into it before falling into the spare room's bed, though it was clear that he would have been perfectly willing to go to sleep right there in his wet clothes, he was so completely done in. He only allowed Bobby to catch a fleeting glimpse of the injuries that covered him from head to toe, getting out of the wet clothes and throwing on the nightshirt it what seemed just a blink of the eye. Bobby had kept his eyes wide open, though, so he didn't miss it.
The boy slept curled up on his side, face toward the door. Bobby watched him for a moment, saw the dark circles of weariness under his eyes, and didn't want to wake him. Eventually, though, he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, patting a blanket-covered knee. "Jimmy, boy. Time to wake up."
Jimmy didn't start when he woke, but an intense stillness came over him. The kid was holding his breath. Waiting.
Bobby puffed out a sigh. "It's just me, kid. There's soup downstairs, but I want you to give me a look at those bruises, first."
Jimmy turned his head slowly up and stared at Bobby warily, only his nose and eyes and a tuft of dark, tangled hair showing above the blanket.
Bobby held up the camera in his right hand. "For the police. You want that bastard to get what he's got comin', doncha?"
The boy held absolutely still, his breath barely even shifting the blanket up and down. The words were a whisper, still and rabbit-scared. "Please don't send me away."
"Not planning to." Bobby squeezed the knee his hand still rested on. "I'll send 'em in anonymously. But folks need to know, so no other foster kids get placed with him."
Jimmy was a brave kid, of course he was, Bobby had expected nothing less. With this reasoning he nodded and sat up, grunting with the effort but managing it on his own. The blanket pooled around his waist and the old shirt hung off one shoulder, showing a red-blue smudge on the bare chest.
Bobby reached out slowly, tacitly asking permission, and Jimmy nodded and looked away. The man got his fingers under the hem of fabric and pulled the shirt off, taking his time, letting the boy gradually come to terms with his wounds being seen by another person. Every inch of flesh thus revealed bore more contusions, more marks, more evidence of brutal, long-term abuse. Individually none of them looked all that bad, really, most already well on the way to healing. But taken collectively, and in these patterns...
The hunter really wanted to head to central Illinois, now, even though he knew that there was no hunt there, no demon, no ghost. He wanted to punch Les Baker in the face. And put a load of rock salt in his ass. And just, well, maybe break all of his fingers, make sure he could never do this to another person ever again.
Jimmy's breathing was ragged and rushed, his eyes wide, looking anywhere but at the man who was studying him and carefully running his knuckles over the bruises on his side.
"Shhh," Bobby said, gentling him the way he would a half-wild puppy. He packed away the anger for now, aware that it was no good here. "I gotta check your ribs for breaks. It's gonna hurt, I'm sorry, but you might need more help than I can give you."
"None of the bones are moving around anymore," Jimmy said, almost formally. "I'm in no danger."
"You let me be the judge of that, all right?"
Jimmy nodded and fixed his eyes on the blanket in his lap, and Bobby began the long, painful process of testing each bone for weakness, for cracks, pressing on the bruised flesh and feeling the give of the bone beneath. Before long the boy was panting harshly, gulping down the pain, and Bobby wished with all his heart that he could go faster and get this over with.
The thin little body suddenly went still under Bobby's hands. Jimmy sat up a little straighter, muscles relaxed and loose, letting the man work. Bobby looked up and found the blue eyes curious and detached, the face expressionless.
"Jimmy?"
"Yes?" The voice seemed different, too, but Bobby couldn't say how.
"Just checking," he muttered, and got back to it.
"There's no need for this, truly," Jimmy said, his voice calm and infinitely rational. "I'm going to be just fine."
"Yeah, well, humor me anyway."
A gentle sigh. "As you wish."
The kid was stoic for the rest of the exam, flinching only when Bobby skirted around a particularly nasty welt on his left shoulder blade. When Bobby lifted the camera again he just nodded and let the man take as many pictures as he needed, lifting his arms or tilting his head as requested. His face remained eerily smooth throughout.
Only when they went downstairs and Bobby ladeled up two huge bowls of his best minestrone soup, when Jimmy again sat at the kitchen table wrapped up in the old quilt that had probably been the first bit of comfort he'd been allowed in far too long... Only then did the ice melt. The shoulders came down and the expression lightened and the wary little boy returned, sniffing cautiously at his soup, then digging in with obvious relish. He took all the crackers and cheese and carrot sticks and juice that Bobby offered him, enjoying the food in a finger-licking, lip-smacking, leg-swinging way that did the man's heart good.
It was a coping mechanism, Bobby reasoned. Things got to be too much for the child and he just...took himself away for a little while. He certainly couldn't blame the kid for doing whatever it took to survive the things that had happened to him, that had been done to him.
Perhaps as Jimmy began to feel safe here, began to trust that he had found a harbor at last, the need for this would fade.
X
Bobby put his feelers out in the hunting community, but no one had heard of John Winchester. The name didn't ring a bell anywhere, but he got promises from all and sundry that they would contact Bobby Singer the second Winchester showed his head. Despite the lack of evidence, Bobby didn't doubt that he existed, and if Jimmy said he needed to talk to the guy, then he needed to talk to the guy.
It took him awhile to figure out which Lawrence the kid had been talking about, but he finally hit pay dirt after three days of calling around. "John Winchester?" said a psychic named Missouri Mosely in Lawrence, Kansas, her voice rich and warm even over the tinny distance of the telephone. "Yes, I know your boy. He came to me wanting to know what had killed his wife."
"Did you tell him?" Bobby asked. He felt a little shaky with victory, with vindication. Here was proof that Jimmy Novak knew what he was talking about. Well, proof beyond that telekinetic trick that had left the boy with a bloody nose.
"Didn't know," Missouri said frankly. "Knew it was somethin' evil, though. Mm hmm. Somethin' real bad. Told him a little about what's out there in the dark. Mercy, you never saw such a determined look in any man's eye, that I'll warrant you."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I'm sorry to tell you no, Mr. Singer. John Winchester took his boys and he headed right on out of Lawrence. Don't know where exactly, but I know he was going out to find more answers than I could give him."
Bobby paused. "His boys, you say?"
"Two little sons. Poor man, lost his wife and his boys' mother and his home and his purpose all in one night."
"Thank you, ma'am." Bobby poured all the gratitude he had into his voice. "You've been a big help. You ever hear from him again, you'll call me, won't you?"
She gave him her word and he gave her his number. When he lowered the phone, Jimmy was standing there, pale as deep winter, skinny arms wrapped as far around his middle as they would go.
"I know what killed his wife," the boy said, and stopped, swaying.
Bobby put down the phone and stood up from the desk, moving forward to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me."
Jimmy craned his head to look up at him, tilting it calmly to the side. "Part of me wants to," he said. "Part of me wants to tell you everything. Isn't that strange?"
Bobby gave him a smile, but he knew it was sad, hardly even wrinkling around his eyes. "Not so strange. You've been alone for a long time. Of course you want to talk to someone."
The boy nodded thoughtfully, looking away.
"But listen now, Jimmy." Bobby knelt on one knee, bring their eyes more on level. "You can tell me anything you want to, anytime you want to. You hear me? Anything you got to say, I want to hear it."
Jimmy nodded solemnly. "You're a good man, Bobby Singer."
Bobby had to clear his throat. "Kind of you to say."
He ruffled the boy's hair, and Jimmy didn't flinch away from his hand.
That was a good thing. Jimmy still slept curled up in a little ball and hugged himself a lot and looked worried most of the time, but it had only been three days and he had already stopped flinching when Bobby touched him.
X
The day after that was sunny, fluffy clouds sailing the blue sky, steady breeze ruffling the leaves in the trees around Bobby's property. Jimmy spent most of the day sitting under an old oak in the backyard, his back against the shaggy trunk, Bartholomew's head in his lap. The old dog had taken to the newcomer instantly, following the boy practically everywhere he went. Bobby might have been a little miffed at his old companion's abandonment if it hadn't been so obvious that this was exactly what Jimmy needed.
When sunset fell in shades of gold and crimson, the boy and dog moved inside, curling up next to the fire that Bobby lit every night, now. Jimmy always seemed to lean toward the flames the way a flower leaned toward the sun, basking in the glow and listening to the crackle. It was the only time Bobby had seen him smile yet, laying there with his head on Bartholomew's stomach and firelight playing over his face.
Bobby carried the book he'd been studying into the main room and sat down in an armchair next to the fire, watching them. The bruises on Jimmy's face and arms were almost completely faded now, but sometimes Bobby thought he could still see them. Jimmy glanced at him, then looked back to the fire.
"This fire is so tame," he said, reaching out a hand as if to test the warmth, then drawing it back. "So gentle and kind. Not at all like the fire that killed...that killed my parents."
Bobby shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't been expecting that at all.
"It's amazing," Jimmy went on, dreamily. "The way you curb this destructive power, make it suitable for your use. I'm constantly astonished by human ingenuity."
"That's a big word for a little boy," Bobby said lightly, not sure what to do with that.
"Is it?" Jimmy looked at him, a wrinkle appearing on his smooth forehead. He seemed to be filing that away. Then he looked back to the fire. "You don't have to try to hide that book you're holding in your hand. I know it's a demonology text."
Bobby looked down at the book, realizing that he had spread his hands over the cover, shielding it. He huffed a little at his own squeamishness and moved his hand away. "You know demonology, do you?"
"I know all the demons," Jimmy said calmly. "Abbadon, Abraxas, Acham, Adramalech, Agares, Ahriman, Alastor, Alrinach, Alloces..."
"Okay, enough," Bobby cut in. Gooseflesh burned across the back of his neck and his upper arms, sharp and icy. "Is this part of the stuff you 'just know?'"
Jimmy looked at him over his shoulder. His blue eyes were strange in the firelight, dark, old, fey. "I know all the angels, too, if you'd rather hear about them."
"That's all right." Bobby shook his head. Angels weren't real. This must be Jimmy's idea of a joke.
Well, this side of Jimmy, anyway. The aspect that Bobby was beginning to think of as "old Jimmy," with his ancient eyes and his eerie calm. He much preferred young Jimmy, honestly. This persona was unsettling, held an edge of danger to him. Young Jimmy was sweet and gentle, whispering prayers and singing snatches of old hymns and Sunday School songs, delighted by food and the sunlight on his face, looking to Bobby as if he was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Old Jimmy, this shield, hardly seemed to belong in the world at all.
Jimmy let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes in a long, slow blink. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"'S not your fault," Bobby said gruffly. He hesitated, then got off his chair and sat next to Jimmy's legs on the floor, reaching out to give his ankle a warm squeeze. "No need to apologize, kiddo. I just want you to be yourself, that's all."
Jimmy turned over on his back, making Bartholomew huff when his head hit the dog's stomach in a different place. His eyes were huge, and Bobby felt like he might get trapped in them. "I am being myself, truly. This is who I am now. I can do things that shouldn't be possible and I know things that little boys shouldn't know, and...and..." He stopped, choking on it all, and closed his eyes.
"And it's all right." Bobby rubbed his ankle. "It is. You've been through things that no one should have to go through and it messed you up a little, but that's all right. There's nothing wrong with you. So you can move a saltshaker without touching it." He scoffed and made a motion with his hand as if tossing the idea away, useless. "No skin off my nose. So you know the names of the demons, and probably lots of other things about them that would make a grown man's head spin. Not hurting anybody, is it? It's just some esoteric knowledge, that's all. I study it all the time. Nothing strange about it."
Jimmy had opened his eyes to watch the man's little performance of Irritable Curmudgeon Talks About Telekinesis and Demonology, and now he gave Bobby a smile, the first one that had ever been just for him. "I know about angels, too, don't forget. And a lot about the future."
"Ain't no thing." Bobby smiled back, warm all the way through. "Do you know where John Winchester is?"
He meant it to be teasing, but Jimmy took the question seriously, sighing and looking away again. "I know a lot of things, Uncle Bobby," he said mournfully. "Probably too much. But I don't know everything."
"Well, that's all right, too," Bobby said.
And he thought that maybe the boy was beginning to believe it.
X
About a week and a half after Jimmy started living the spare room, Bobby got tired of constantly washing and re-washing the same stained, ragged little-boy outfit and took him shopping in Sioux Falls. Jimmy's bruises were all but gone then and he had shed some of his hunted look, his animal wariness, though he didn't stray from Bobby's side for the entirety of the trip. Still, shopping was exhausting and the kid was sleeping in the truck by the end when Bobby made his usual rounds of the used bookstores, looking for volumes he was missing.
Almost as an afterthought, he stopped at a Barnes & Noble, too, well-aware that they wouldn't have any of the old books he was looking for. He picked up a few books about child abuse and its effects, and a copy of The Chronicles of Narnia for Jimmy. It seemed like something the kid would like.
Later that evening when Bobby presented him with the boxed set, Jimmy just stood still, staring, for what seemed like a very long time. Bobby started to think that maybe he had picked the wrong books. Or maybe the kid didn't even like books. But that was almost impossible for Bobby to contemplate.
Then the boy reached forward and slowly traced the spines with hesitant fingers. "These are my favorite books in the whole world. My mom used to read them to me all the time. Mine burned up in the fire."
He looked up, his eyes bright with tears, but he was smiling. "Thank you, Uncle Bobby."
He threw his arms around Bobby's gut in a fierce hug, so hard it made the man grunt, then ran off with the books so fast that Bobby hardly had time to gasp out a "Welcome!" before the boy was gone.
Later, when he was putting away Jimmy's new clothes, Bobby saw The Chronicles of Narnia standing in a place of high prominence on the spare room's dresser. It made him smile, though he quickly cleared his throat and hid it away. He also found a stash of crackers, two apples, and a banana hidden in the dresser drawers, but he left those alone.
X
Jimmy usually made himself scarce when Bobby had customers. Bobby certainly understood this, since most of the folks who came to the junkyard for parts or service were rough-looking, rough-talking men who probably had more than a passing resemblance to Les Baker, that bastard. It was miracle enough that the boy had taken to Bobby, let alone any random stranger who came to Singer Salvage.
This customer was a lady, though, looking for a new side mirror for her beat-up old Ford. She had her daughter with her, maybe four years old, pigtails and ribbons and a teddy bear clutched under one arm. Bobby saw Jimmy peeking around the corner of the house, watching with a fixed fascination that might have been disturbing if it wasn't so innocently curious.
While Bobby took the customer around the yard to look at likely candidates, Jimmy made his way toward the little girl with halting steps, Bartholomew pressing against his legs in silent support. The adults returned from their tour of rusting steel to find the boy kneeling in the dirt, entertaining the little girl with finger games. The girl-child laughed and clapped, wiped her snotty nose on her arm, and ended it by giving Jimmy a grubby, sticky kiss right on the lips. The mother bought a mirror that Bobby wasn't even sure would work for her car. Bobby smiled, hoping it was hidden in his beard.
This turned out to be a bad thing. By the next morning Jimmy was coughing, sneezing, shivering and sweating, somehow managing to do all four at the same time. He'd obviously caught some deadly disease from that little rugrat, and Bobby cursed the day he hadn't put up signs that said NO CHILDREN ALLOWED all around the salvage yard.
Even old Jimmy was no match for the common cold, it seemed. The stoic persona was already in place by the time Bobby went upstairs to find out why his young guest was taking so long to come down for breakfast. (It was the child's third favorite time of day, only narrowly beaten by lunch and supper, so Bobby knew something was up when he was late.) He found the boy pale and shaking, eyes red with sleeplessness and a pile of used tissues on the floor.
Old Jimmy told him, quite pathetically, "This is extremely miserable, Uncle Bobby," then immediately doubled over in a coughing fit.
"I know. I know, kid." Bobby patted his back sympathetically, then went downstairs for supplies.
Young Jimmy didn't come back until it was safe, three days later. Bobby missed him, but he found himself warming to old Jimmy in the meantime. The poor kid was just so gol-durned grateful for every little thing Bobby did, continually astonished that the man would do anything to care for him.
Which made sense, Bobby supposed, for a personality that had obviously come into being for the sole purpose of protecting young Jimmy. He was certain that old Jimmy had been the one who beat up that bastard and got them away from that place. And protecting young Jimmy was a mission Bobby could get behind, so they had that in common.
He sat by the bed with his hand on the boy's hot forehead, singing all the Johnny Cash he could remember, which included a few hymns. Old Jimmy closed his eyes and hummed along, sometimes weak and sometimes strong, sometimes in unison and sometimes in harmony, his voice phlegmy and choked but still sweet for all that. And Bobby knew that he had gotten in way over his head.
X
It all went to hell the night Bobby got drunk. He hadn't meant to do it. He always had a little nip of whiskey before he went to bed, which was usually long after Jimmy had already retired to his room. That night, though, he was thinking about things he shouldn't think about, getting all wrapped up in old grief, old guilt, and one thing led to another. He had far more than one nip, and he went over the edge from buzzed to tipsy to God-damned inebriated much more quickly than he usually did.
Then, through bleary vision, he saw Jimmy standing in front of him, young face terrible with displeasure. This was old Jimmy, Bobby knew, even through the haze of drink. Most people probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but Bobby Singer was a scholar, and he'd been studying Jimmy Novak for three weeks now.
"Bobby Singer, you must stop this," the boy declared, and Bobby automatically sat up straighter.
"What now?"
"Please, Mr. Singer, stop!" His face crumpled and his voice heightened and this was young Jimmy, small and scared and tearful. "Please, please stop. Don't be like Mr. Baker, please don't!"
Bobby had never wanted to see that expression on the kid's face again, let alone be the cause of it. And Jimmy hadn't called him "Mr. Singer" since that first day. It was always "Uncle" now, and Bobby liked that, damn it, he really liked it and he didn't want it to go away.
"Jimmy..." He reached out, clumsy, heart sinking like stone in his chest. "Kid..."
Jimmy stumbled away from his hand, flinching again, and Bobby grunted in pain and curled the hand back in toward himself. He waited for old Jimmy to return, to protect young Jimmy from this pain, too, but the shield didn't show up. It was Jimmy, just Jimmy, panting and white-faced, pressed against the wall. "Don't touch me, please don't touch me." And his voice was shrill with terror.
"Jimmy, Jimmy, I'd never hurt ya, swear, I wou...I woudn', Jimmy, I would never." Bobby heard the desperation in his voice, too.
Jimmy shook his head from side to side, almost convulsively. "Mr. Baker was nice at first, too. He was nice. He didn't hurt me for almost two weeks. And then he got drunk, he got drunk and it started and it never stopped. It never stopped!"
"Jimmy..." Bobby's hand clenched in his hair, just needing something to clutch, to tear. The pain in his scalp brought him back to himself a little more. "That bastard... That bastard isn' me, Jimmy. We..." He concentrated on enunciation, making each syllable precise. "We are not the same. I would never hurt you. Not sober, not drunk, not ever."
The boy shook his head again, so hard that Bobby's head ached in sympathy. "How can I believe that? How I can believe anything you say? You're a drunk."
"Only sometimes," Bobby said earnestly. "I never lied to ya, Jimmy. I never lied and I ain't gonna start now."
Jimmy just kept shaking his head, looking away in despair. He slid sideways along the wall, as far from Bobby as he could get. "Cast...Castiel says I should give you another chance but I don't know, Mr. Singer, I don't know. I'm going back to bed. Please don't follow me." As soon as he was far enough away he ran, clattering up the stairs in a total panic.
Bobby stared after him, almost entirely sober again. The old grief and guilt were sharp now, new.
He'd ruined everything.
He got up and poured all the whiskey down the kitchen sink. Then he went through the cupboards and threw out the rest of the alcohol, too. There was quite a bit of it. He hadn't realized that he'd amassed such a stash. Jimmy wasn't the only one hoarding, it seemed.
Bobby fell asleep on the couch, mind still whirling with sick, insistent pain, trying to find a way out of this mess. Trying to figure out when the kid had become so important to him, and what he was supposed to do about it. If Jimmy flinched away from him, if he didn't call him "Uncle" anymore... Bobby didn't know what he would do. He was a broken-down old man at the age of thirty-four and he didn't know what he would do if this weird, schizo, half-psychic kid was afraid of him and never trusted him again.
Three hours later he was woken by a scream and stumbled automatically to his feet, looking for his shotgun. He felt sober now, adrenaline rushing through his veins, and that scream had come from Jimmy. Couldn't find the shotgun fast enough so he grabbed a Bowie knife from the middle desk drawer and took the stairs two at a time.
He flipped on the light in Jimmy's room to find the boy sitting up, bowed over, hands covering his face, shaking and sweating. Bobby swept the room with a glance and didn't see a threat, just night-time shadows and the oak tree standing sentinel outside the window. Bartholomew had been sleeping at the foot of Jimmy's bed, and he was turning circles on the floor, whining, but not pointing at any danger. Just upset because the kid was upset, because Jimmy had had a nightmare.
Bobby put down the knife and approached the bed slowly, one hand outstretched in cautious offering. "Jimmy? Hey, boy, it's just me..."
Jimmy pulled his hands down his face, revealing tear-filled eyes. "Uncle Bobby?"
Bobby's heart just about broke, and he crossed the remaining distance in about one step. "I'm here. I'm here, Jimmy, I'm not going anywhere."
"They died in the smoke, Uncle Bobby," the boy sobbed, completely unable to cope with this, not now, not ever. For once Bobby couldn't tell if this was old Jimmy or young Jimmy or maybe both and it didn't matter, it didn't matter, no kid could deal with this. "My mommy and my daddy, they died in the smoke. And my sisters and brothers... They're all gone, they're all gone and I'm all that's left and I'm not enough. I'm not enough."
"Aw, Jimmy, Jimmy..." Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped the boy up and Jimmy didn't resist, didn't flinch. "'Course you are, Jimmy, 'course you're enough. You're more than enough. You're Jimmy Novak and you're...you're some kid, that's what you are. You're Jimmy, you're my Jimmy, and you're more than enough for anybody. You really are."
It took a long time, but eventually it seemed like maybe Jimmy believed it. Or at least Bobby's words were enough, for now.
X
Much later, Bobby looked it up, and found out that Castiel was the angel of Thursday. And Jimmy had never had any siblings.
That was much later, though.
X
When four weeks had passed and it became painfully clear that Bobby didn't want Jimmy to leave and Jimmy didn't want to leave, either, Robert Singer petitioned the state of Illinois for custody rights and guardianship of James Novak.
(End)
Next story in 'verse: While Children Softly Fold Away Their Years
Detour to the missing scene: Rain Falling Down Short #1
