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Dean feels the moment Allie wakes, her body squirming beside him. He lies very still, keeping his eyes closed, breathing evenly. The mattress sags, dips slightly by his left hip as he feels her climb up to her knees. Then there’s a tiny hand pressed against his head, fingers digging into his hair. He feels her lean over him and wills his breathing to almost stop. He can smell the sweet-sour scent of her, a combination of sweat and baby powder, soap and sunshine. There’s a pause, a hesitation, and then he feels very soft, very wet lips press against his in a close-mouthed, chaste kiss.
She pulls away but doesn’t move her hand.
Cracking open one eye, he sees she’s sitting cross-legged by his head, clad in the Pink Floyd prism-logo t-shirt she’d picked out on their Wal-Mart run back in Tucson over a week ago. It’s much too large on her, the short sleeves skimming her wrists, the hem reaching down to her calves. Her hair is knotty and tangled and stands out around her face like an electrified halo. Or maybe a really bad mullet rocker’s.
“Hey there baby girl,” he says, grinning at her.
She startles, jerking away her hand.
“It’s okay. You sleep good?” He keeps his voice even, soothing, nonthreatening.
Even though they’ve only been together for two weeks, ever since he got the phone call, ever since he boarded that Greyhound bus in Sioux Falls and took off for Tucson, ever since he met her in the social worker’s office in the hospital, she’s still wary, cautious around him, as though she doesn’t quite trust that he’s for real.
He can’t say he blames her, though. It isn’t easy losing a mother and having everything she’s ever known, including her home, ripped away overnight. Hell, he knows how she feels. She still hasn’t spoken a word, though, not to him, not to the social worker, not to anyone. He suspects it’s more because her voice went AWOL and she doesn’t feel like talking rather than a complete inability. He doesn’t blame her for that either.
She does reward him with a tentative nod, however.
He rolls to his left side, props himself up on his elbow, nuzzles her knee, kisses it through the black fabric and gets a shy smile in return. Already, she seems more relaxed than she’d been in the skeevy, cheap motel rooms in Tucson, as though she knows it’s safe here. Or at least she’s safe with him. And he knows he’s made the right decision coming here, calling Sam.
She puts one hand to her mouth, sucks on a finger. And he interprets the motion as a sign she’s hungry.
“What d’you say we go find some food? Think Uncle Sammy has some eggs and bacon?”
There’s a somber, wide-eyed green stare.
“Or do you think we’ll have to eat berries and other yucky things like the birds and squirrels?” He eases himself slowly upright, pushing up with his arms. His right thigh twinges sharply and he knows he’s going to need the painkillers before it gets really bad. A glance out the window reveals that it’s late afternoon, which means he’s missed a couple of doses already. Two. Maybe three.
Allie catches her lower lip, kneeling besides him as he massages his thigh with his hands, digging the heels of his palms into the twisted, wasted muscle through his sweatpants. He’d started wearing sweats after that first night they’d spent together and the sight of his scars and mangled upper leg sent her into abject terror. It’d taken hours to coax out of the corner and calm her enough to come near him again. He’s not about to put her through something like that again.
He reaches down, picks up his crutches and uses them to leverage himself upright, wedging the padding deep into his armpits.
She worms around onto her stomach, lowers herself slowly over the edge until her toes brush the floor and lets go.
“Ready?”
She reaches up and grabs the loose fabric of his sweatpants. He hops slowly, compensating for the tiny duckling trailing in his wake and twists open the door.
There’s a girl sitting at the kitchen table, blonde curls twisted up and clipped out of her face. She glances up from her notebook at the squeak of his crutches and grins. “Dean?” She’s prettier than he expected. Quite stunning, actually. Way out of Sam’s league for sure. “I’m Jess,” she says rising to her feet and coming over to him. She’s tall — Amazon-tall — and has a sweet rack beneath her tight Smurfs t-shirt. “Sam had to run over to the library to print something but he should be back soon. I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Sam. Welcome to Palo Alto.”
He’s taken aback by her candor, her open friendliness. He uncurls one hand from his crutch and extends it towards her. “In the flesh. Thanks for letting us crash. I appreciate it.” He shakes her hand in greeting before placing his own on top of his daughter’s head. “And this is my daughter, Allie.” He feels as though he should apologize for the imposition, but his throat dries up and the words die.
Jess crouches close to the floor, grins. “Hey there. Aren’t you a pretty one? You look just like your daddy.”
Allie flinches up against him.
“She’s a little shy,” Dean covers for her smoothly as Jess stands, and once again he’s taken aback that the top of her head clears his shoulder.
“I imagine you’d like to take a shower. Sam’s bringing back a pizza. Would you like to use the facilities while you’re waiting?”
Dean nods in relief. “Thanks.”
While the tub is filling and Allie is undressing herself in the bathroom, he slips into the bathroom and digs out the Percocet from the bottom of their communal duffle, dry-swallowing two pills before picking out a clean t-shirt and pair of purple jeans from her stash. He shoves the bottle deep in the depths of tangled dirty jeans next to a sheathed hunting knife. She isn’t allowed near their bag.
He licks his lips as he goes back into the bathroom, carrying the miniature outfit, where Allie is sitting patiently on the toilet seat cover. He ushers her into the tub, thinking of how his painkillers are running low and he doesn’t have any refills left. He makes a mental note to talk to Sam about finding out if there are any good doctors around and to look into claiming disability insurance with his shiny new, cleaned-up Social Security card, courtesy of the connections of one Bobby Singer before he runs out completely.
Thirty minutes later, the soapy gray water is draining and his shirt is dripping. He wipes his daughter’s freckled face with a towel provided by Jess. It’s soft and fluffy, far more luxurious than those he’s used in motels.
He supervises as she dresses herself and climbs onto the toilet to lean over the sink as she brushes her teeth.
It’s when he’s brushing out her hair that he suddenly feels out of his depth.
Hobbling out of the bathroom, he turns into the kitchen where Jess is still working on her homework. “Can—” Dean swallows, clears his throat. Jess looks up from her notebook. “Do you know how to braid?”
“You mean like hair? Yeah. Why? You need help?”
“I, uh…”
Jess grins, pushes back her chair. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to help.”
Three seconds later, Jess is sitting on the closed toilet seat with Allie standing in front of her.
She picks up a section of hair and brushes it out slowly, gently, working the hairbrush through the wet waves. She sweeps the mass up into a ponytail and glances at the rubber bands on the sink. “First rule of hair care: never, ever use rubber bands. They’re crap and they tangle and they rip out your hair. Always use the elastic bands you buy in stores. And it’s better to avoid the ones with metal in them.” She releases the girl’s hair and twists in her seat, reaching down and opening the cupboard under the sink. Pulling out a huge cloth makeup bag, she extracts a handful of highlighter-bright elastics and extends them in front of the four-year-old. “Pick one, sweetie. Any color.”
Allie tentatively points to a bright blue.
Jess gives her a broad, easy smile. “I like blue too. Now pick another one.”
Neon green.
“That’s going to look so pretty!” she exclaims, dumping the remainder in the sink and taking up the hairbrush in her hand. She expertly combs back the girl’s hair and secures it with the blue. “Now to braid, you need three sections—” She separates the ponytail into three segments. “And you cross the outside over the middle one, starting with the left. So it’s left over center, right over center, left over center…” She pauses halfway through and runs her fingers gently through the weave, undoing it. “Now you try,” she says, standing up and extending a hand to take the crutches from him as he lowers himself awkwardly onto the toilet, stretching out his right leg.
Dean’s attempt is much clumsier and Allie’s hair snags slightly against his calluses. The braid isn’t as snug as when Jess had done it.
“Not bad,” Jess says. “Don’t be afraid to tug it tighter. It can’t hurt her. That’s why I tied it up first.” Dean looks up and sees she’s got her arms crossed on the top of the crutches, chin resting on forearms. She smiles encouragingly. “Try again.”
He does, mentally reciting her instructions: left over center, right over center, left over center…. His second attempt turns out much better.
“There you go! You’ve got the hang of it. Now wrap the elastic on the end so it doesn’t go anywhere.”
Dean follows her orders and surveys his handiwork. It’s different than what he’s used to — gentler somehow, nothing to do with weaponry or mechanics or killing, and it’s something he never imagined himself doing. Yet he feels a greater sense of accomplishment when Allie twists around and gives him a spontaneous hug than he has in a long time.
When Dean comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a light gray t-shirt, he finds Allie kneeling on one of the kitchen chairs, busily coloring with some markers. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her temple before dropping into the chair besides her and sliding closer.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, laying his crutches on the floor behind him, pushing them against the wall where no one can trip over them. Allie looks up and slides the white computer paper towards him. “For me?” Dean asks.
A nod.
He picks it up, careful not to wrinkle the paper and holds it out before him. It’s a scribble and he has no idea what the hell it’s supposed to be.
“It’s beautiful,” he finally says, opting for a safe, vague answer, meeting her uncertain, worried frown with a grin. And it kind of is, if he squints and tilts his head and focuses on her color choices. “I – I love it.” A pause. Then: “Do you mind if I color too?”
Silently, the girl picks up several sheets of paper and hands it to him along with a purple Crayola marker.
He’s halfway through his third drawing, sketching out a crude and boxy Impala, coloring it purple since Allie refused to relinquish any of the other markers. He’s stealing glances longingly at the black one when Sam comes in, carrying two pizza boxes.
He sets them down on the kitchen counter and goes over to Jess, pressing his lips to the side of her head in a swift kiss. “How goes the environmental engineering?” he asks, pecking her again. He turns to Dean, “Sorry it took me so long…” He trails off and his eyes widen as he takes in the scene. “Dean. Are you drawing?”
Dean shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Sam leans over the table, picks up one of Dean’s drawings and peers critically over Allie’s shoulder at her green-and-yellow scribble. “Dude, she’s a better artist than you. At least she took lessons from Jackson Pollock. Purple stick figures? Seriously?”
“Shut up, Sam.”
Sam huffs a laugh, goes to the fridge, where he roots around the bottom shelf as Jess clears the table and sets out plates and silverware. “Beer?” Sam offers, emerging and shutting the door behind him as Dean cuts Allie’s slice into bite-sized pieces.
Dean shakes his head, puts down his knife. “No thanks. Can’t with the good painkillers.” He pats his thigh.
“Never stopped you before.”
“Never had a kid before.”
He sets his daughter’s plate in front of her and helps himself to two huge slices of cheese pizza.
“So. How long is your brother is going to stay here?” Jess whispers, resting her head on Sam’s shoulder, her hand splayed flat against his sternum. “Don’t get me wrong, but….”
“No. No. It’s okay. You’ve got a right to ask.” Sam exhales, runs his hand up and down her upper arm, tucking her closer to his side. He feels one of her long legs wrap over his, the contact of her warm skin against his. “Honestly, though, I don’t know. I told him he can stay as long as he needs.”
There’s a breath and he feels her shift, yellow, cherry-blossom-scented curls going into his mouth.
A pause. “It’s just that you never talk about your family and he shows up in the middle of the night… I mean… how do you feel about this whole thing?” She takes a breath. “I’m worried about you, Sam.”
“I’m okay.” He turns his head and presses his lips to her forehead. “Really. It’s complicated. We kind of grew up all over the place and we never had a home base. Dean doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Not really. And, well, he’s my brother.”
Jess nods against Sam’s chest, skims her hand against his abs. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I trust you.” She tilts her face upwards and kisses him. “Just… just tell me when you’re not okay with this.”
“Mmmm. I will. I promise,” Sam murmurs, drifting half asleep as her hand trails further south. “What would I do without you?”
“Crash and burn,” comes her familiar reply.
Then there’s an earsplitting, high-pitched scream that makes them both bolt upright.
A heartbeat later, they’re bursting into their living room-converted-into-bedroom.
Dean’s sitting upright on the futon, bad leg stretched out, left leg bent, and he’s curled around his sobbing daughter. He glances up, catches their worried frowns.
“Sorry,” he murmurs quietly, embarrassed. “She had a nightmare.” He turns back to Allie, whose arms are entwined around his neck in a stranglehold. She tightens her grip, doing her best to crawl inside him. “Shhhh. It’s all right, baby girl. It’s okay.” He spreads his legs wider, settles her more comfortably between them, arms squeezing her more tightly. “I’m here. Daddy’s got you. It’s gonna be okay. As long as I’m around, nothing bad is ever going to happen to you. I promise.”
Sam swallows thickly, remembering the nights Dean vowed that same thing to him when they were kids.
“Is there anything we can do?” he asks.
Dean shakes his head. “No. You can go back to bed. I got her. It’s going to take a while, but I don’t think she’s going to have another screaming fit. She usually only has one a night and she hasn’t had any in a few nights. Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault,” Sam tells his brother as Dean resumes his soothing babble. “Besides, we weren’t asleep. No harm done.” He ignores the way Dean’s head snaps up, the suggestive eyebrow-wriggle.
Allie’s arms tighten even further and Sam wonders how Dean is even breathing when Dean simply adjusts his hold and begins rubbing her back, humming softly. And Sam catches the tune. Stairway to Heaven. And this time he can’t bring himself to rib Dean about it.
The girl’s harsh sobs ease just as Jess reappears at his side, a mug in her hands, and he realizes that he never saw her slip away.
“Dean?” Jess’ voice is soft, uncertain.
Dean glances up and meets her gaze. Allie turns her face towards them but doesn’t lift it from where she’s mashed it into her father’s chest. In the glow of the hallway light, her face is flushed, freckles invisible, eyes and cheeks splotchy and swollen, tears still falling.
Jess steps closer. “Here’s some warm milk with lots of honey….” She falters.
“Thanks,” Dean says, leaning forward over his daughter and wiping Allie’s face with the pads of his thumbs. “Hey, baby girl. You okay? You want something to drink?”
Allie nods and slowly straightens, still sniffing back snot and smearing the hem of her sleeve underneath her nose.
Jess extends the mug and Allie takes it from her, wrapping tiny hands around it. Dean reaches out, cups the bottom of it, steadying it with strong fingers. Allie raises it to her lips and begins to slowly drink the warm liquid.
“C’mon, Sam,” Jess whispers. “Let’s go back to bed.” She takes his hand and tugs it gently, leading him out of the room, taking care to shut the door behind them.
Allie finishes the cupful of warmed milk and curls up against Dean as he sets the ceramic on the floor by his crutches.
She reaches up, snakes her arms around his neck again and presses closer.
Dean doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arms around her, hands rubbing her back in an up-and-down motion.
Quietly, so softly it’s more vibration than sound, he starts the song over from the beginning.