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Self defense day at the park. Dean Winchester, what on earth were you thinking? Or at least that’s what Dean asked himself about the fifth time he almost got kicked, kneed, or punched in the balls while trying to teach a rowdy group of preadolescents the basics of self defense.
He couldn’t possibly have been this uncoordinated when his dad had taught him these very same moves at this age. Dean was almost completely baffled until he remembered when John tried to teach Sam the same moves. Ten minutes into the lesson John had turned Sam’s instruction over to Dean after spending five minutes rolling around on the ground with his hands covering his nuts because of a well, though accidently, placed kick from Sam’s clumsy flailing legs.
Dean smirked with the memory as he adjusted Clark’s stance for the sixth time. That had been a memorable afternoon.
“Okay, kids. Now remember, if someone tries to grab you, the first thing you should always do is…”
“Scream like hell and run away!” Came the chorus from eight excited, sugar hyped kids.
Maybe he shouldn’t have let them all have ice-cream before going to the park.
Dean shook his head and focused back on the expectant faces in front of him. “That’s right,” he praised. “But sometimes you can’t just scream and run away. What do you do if the bad guy grabs you and won’t let go?”
“Kick him in the nuts?” Melanie piped up from the front row looking completely adorable and girly in her pink sundress and blond braids.
Stunned for a moment hearing the word nuts come out of such a tiny innocent looking little girl, Dean had to suppress his urge to burst out laughing and pinch the kid’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Dean drawled trying to keep a straight face while the kids giggled, “That would certainly be affective, but it’s not always an option.” He continued determined to at least teach these kids to throw a punch without breaking their own thumbs.
An hour later Dean had the makings of a truly beautiful black eye, a pair of severely unhappy balls and a new respect for the elasticity of preadolescent limbs and the sharpness of little kid elbows and knees.
All in all the afternoon wasn’t a total bust and Dean felt he and kids had earned a little break from all the hard work.
Okay, Dean wasn’t just the tiniest bit ashamed to admit he was the one that needed the break. Who would have thought that teaching eight completely inexhaustible, excitable kids self defense was more treacherous than hunting a wendigo? He was sporting more sore spots and bone deep bruises than he’d had in a long time.
And it felt fucking amazing.
“Alright kids. Here are the balls. Go play and try to keep from breaking anything or bleeding out for the next hour or so.” Dean ordered as he dropped the bag of various sports related paraphernalia that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in Lisa’s garage.
The kids fell on the equipment like a plague of locusts and Dean collapsed on the bench off to one side to watch over them from afar. The way those kids were screaming and running around already only a suicidal idiot would try and get in the middle of whatever game they were devising.
It was another thirty minutes of nursing his abused spots and his wounded pride at having been out lasted by elementary school kids while making sure the kids didn’t kill themselves before he actually noticed the guy.
There wasn’t anything really strange about him. He looked like a normal guy just out to enjoy the summer sunlight and the warm summer air. He sat on a bench on the other side of the field, had a newspaper open in front of him, a pair of conservative sunglasses for the sun, and he was wearing khakis and a dark colored polo shirt. His hair was clean cut and combed to the side. His shoes were sensible and comfortable.
There really was nothing strange about him. Really, nothing at all. No one else would have thought anything about him. They would have nodded to him as they passed him on their circuit around the path in the park. They would have let their eyes skate right over him without a second glance. They would have ignored him.
He was completely normal.
Except his paper was a week old, he hadn’t turned a page in the last twenty minutes, and his face was tilted unwaveringly toward the nine children all running around in front of him.
The hair on the back of Dean’s neck went up and the skin on his arms prickled in that way that usually meant a ghost was about to materialize out of nowhere and throw someone into a wall. Muscles tensing, Dean moved to his feet fast and smooth.
“Okay, kids!” He yelled over the din of screaming and laughing. “Let’s pack up. It’s almost home time.” It wasn’t. They still had another three hours before the parents were due to pick up their kids at Lisa’s.
“But it’s still early!” Ben whined from the opposite side of the field where he, Errol, and Clark had been kicking a ball back and forth. “We’ve got like three more hours.” He shook his brand-new watch in the air to emphasize that he knew what he was talking about.
Dean silently cursed himself for having the brilliant idea of getting it for the kid’s birthday. He didn’t exactly have the time or the patience right now to negotiate with a pack of kids. He just wanted them all lined up and walking back to Lisa’s, and far, far away from creepy newspaper guy within the next five minutes.
“I said it’s time to go, Ben.” He repeated, voice deadly serious, the sound of it causing a ripple of surprise and unease to travel through the kids. “Collect the balls and line up over here, now.”
With that command the kids suddenly jerked into motion and Dean was cursing again as he struggled to keep track of all the kids. Cary and Hugh had the ball bag held between them and all the kids were tossing the various sports and game paraphernalia inside it. Dean was counting heads every two seconds to make sure he had one eye on all the kids and one eye on the guy across the field.
He should have known this afternoon had been going too smoothly.
Thomas tripped over his perpetually trailing shoelaces and Dean stooped to help him to his feet. In that split second he lost visuals on Sydney as she sprinted across the field to collect a runaway Frisbee.
The back of Dean’s neck prickled almost painfully and he jerked his head up just in time to see newspaper guy snag Sydney around the waist and try to make a run for it.
“Ben! Watch the kids!” Dean barked, shocking all the kids into a stand still as he shot back to his feet and took off.
Newspaper guy had an entire field and five running jogs for a head start, but Dean had a fierce burning rage searing in his belly and the protective instincts of a mama bear on zilla-roids. Plus Sydney wasn’t exactly making the guy’s abduction attempt easy on him.
She was screaming bloody murder drawing the attention of nearly everyone within the park’s half mile radius all the while twisting and squirming and fighting anyway she could.
If Dean wasn’t so focused on ripping the bastard apart limb from limb he would have taken the time to be proud of her.
Dean was three feet from the creepy fucker when the guy lost his grip on Sydney and her feet hit the ground with a solid thump. She struggled to get away, tried to twist and kick at him, but he had a hard bruising grip on her arm and didn’t seem to want to let go.
Gritting his teeth, Dean felt the handle of the knife he kept strapped to his leg inside his boot hard and heavy in his hand like it was a part of him. He made it to the guy, wrapped an unforgiving arm around the guy’s throat jerking him back against his chest and growled like a fucking hellhound.
“Get your hands off my kid!”
Newspaper guy froze and Sydney suddenly dissolved into scared, nearly uncontrollable sobs.
“Hey, man. This isn’t what it looks like.” Newspaper guy started in that reasonable, harmless tone of voice. Like if he just explained it would make up for the fact that he’d touched one of Dean’s kids. Put hands on them with intent and purpose.
“It looks like you’re trying to kidnap my kid.” Dean said, his tone cold and hard and terrifying, the tip of his bowie knife held steady and unwavering under the guy’s chin, his bicep flexing tight around the guy’s throat. “Let go of her, now, or I will make you.” He warned, meaning the threat down to his bones.
This time the guy just smirked uneasily. Dean could just see the curl of his lips even with the guy still facing away from him.
“Come on, man. You’ve got eight of them. I just wanted this one. Besides,” he chuckled nervously, sweat starting to break out on his brow, “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
The guy was stupid as well as sick. Dean’s lip lifted up in a silent snarl and he pressed the razor sharp edge of his twelve inch bowie knife tighter to the tender, delicate skin underneath the guy’s jaw.
“I will slit your throat from ear to ear right here in front of God and everyone and I will smile while your blood pours out onto the ground.”
There was a moment of absolute and total stillness as the guy finally registered that the press of cool steel against his skin wasn’t a bluff. The fingers he had wrapped bruisingly tight around Sydney’s arm spasmed once then loosened and let go completely.
The girl hurriedly stumbled away from the creep and almost fell to her knees in her haste to get behind Dean. She latched onto the back of Dean’s shirt with shaking hands and buried her face into the small of his back her entire body quivering like a leaf on the breeze.
Removing his arm from around the guy’s throat knowing that with the bowie knife under his chin he wouldn’t be going anywhere, Dean reached back and cradled the back of Sydney’s head with his hand pressing it closer to him for a steadying moment before he eased his hold and awkwardly stroked her hair.
“Sydney,” He said, tone steady and calm demanding her attention, his entire body still poised and focused on the sick fuck frozen on his knife’s edge. “Go back to the kids and stay there.”
“Dean…” Her breath hitched and she started to shake her head.
“Now, Sydney.” He cut her off before she could beg to stay with him. Her voice was watery and terrified, just the sound of his name coming from her at that moment almost made him drop everything and pull her into his arms. But he had something he needed to take care of first.
“Turn around, Sydney. Find Errol with your eyes.” Dean felt her jerkily uncurl her death grip from his shirt and turn slowly around, her back still pressed against him as much as possible. Dean squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “Good girl. Now, walk to him. Don’t stop walking until you can touch him and stay with him until I get there.”
Sydney made a heart wrenching, sobbing sound and Dean just squeezed her shoulder again before gently pushing her away from him. “Go, now, Sydney.”
Another sob escaped from her as she suddenly took off running toward her friends. Dean stayed completely still until he heard her footsteps stop and the sound of children all talking at once reached his ears.
“Are you going to let me go now?” The guy asked sounding as if that was a completely reasonable conclusion to his fubar kidnapping attempt.
Dean turned the entirety of his attention back to his captive and the seething rage in his gut burned hot and choking.
“No.” Dean said, feeling malicious and so very angry. “I’m going to make you wish you had never laid an eye on a little girl, a little kid in your life.”
“What?” The guy gasped out, nearly laughing with his stunned incredulity.
Dean tightened the knife’s position and the blade nicked the skin underneath the guy’s jaw. A thick line of blood trickled down his neck and the guy hissed in surprise, his body stiffening in self preservation.
“I’m going to make you wish you had never even gone through puberty, because you really shouldn’t have touched one of my kids. You really fucking shouldn’t have.”
The guy opened his mouth as if to protest or question, but he never got the chance.
Lighting fast, Dean slid his knife away from the guy’s throat and up between his legs. A swift flick of the wrist, a quick jerk and pull and the guy was rolling around on the ground screaming bloody murder his hands cupping the quickly spreading patch of dark red at his crotch.
Dean flicked his wrist again sending the excess blood on his blade spraying the grass as he watched the writhing mass of sorry excuse for a human being at his feet dispassionately.
“You won’t bleed out.” He informed the sobbing man calmly. “Hell, you might not even lose your balls, but I want you to remember this the next time you even think about a child. I want you to remember the feeling of my blade slicing you open, the sound of my voice, the look on my face.”
The guy’s eyes were big as saucers now, but Dean wasn’t finished yet. He’d heard the footsteps as an older man stepped up from the side within his visual range, but Dean didn’t acknowledge him just yet.
Dean lifted his booted foot, stepped on the guy’s shoulder and applied pressure until he was uncurled enough to look up at Dean’s face. “I want you to remember this and know that I’ll be watching you from now on. If you make it out of jail, remember that if you even look at a child the wrong way I’ll be there to finish the job I started.”
He tapped his bloody knife on the guy’s bleeding crotch painfully for emphasis before spiriting it away and turning around to finally address the older man standing behind him.
The man had been taking a leisurely afternoon stroll with his wife when the trouble had gone down and now he was watching Dean with a calm, unreadable expression his cell phone still open in his hand.
Dean raised an eyebrow at him promptingly.
“The police have been called.” The man said. “They’ve been informed of an attempted abduction and subsequent apprehension of the perpetrator. They should be here soon.”
He spoke like a man of authority. Maybe retired military. Probably an ex-cop. Dean didn’t particularly care. He just nodded. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”
The old man nodded then looked around Dean at the bleeding child abductor on the ground. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Snorting contemptuously, Dean shrugged carelessly. “Didn’t hit nothing vital.” He smirked maliciously. “Or, at least, nothing he can’t live without. You mind keeping an eye on him until five-oh gets here? I’ve got eight freaked out kids I need to see to.”
The older man’s mouth curled almost companionably before he nodded his ascent. “No problem. Go do what you need to do.”
*
The flashing red and blue lights were distracting and casting a seizure like quality to the already chaotic surroundings. Dean was sitting on a park bench with a shaking, crying, clinging Sydney wrapped around him like a koala bear. Clark hadn’t moved more than two feet away from his sister since Dean had picked her up, running his hands over her in an automatic search for injuries.
Thomas, Melanie, Cary and Hugh had already been picked up by their frantic, freaked out parents. Now, those had been some interesting phone conversations. Dean had spent two of those conversations reassuring terrified mothers and fathers, one of those being cried at, and one being lectured and screamed at in turn, but eventually everyone had calmed down enough to do what needed to be done and come get their kids from the park.
The cops hadn’t let Dean and Sydney out of their immediate vicinity. Dean was starting to get twitchy being surrounded by enough cops to make his natural aversion to law enforcement and his psych ward worthy phobia of prison start acting up. But he held it together even while trying to keep track of a gaggle of frightened kids, three of which wouldn’t step more than an arm’s length away from him.
“Ben, would you, Errol, and Clark go and sit down at the other end of the bench for me.” Dean ordered more than asked, his patience with the entire ordeal wearing thin. Ben looked like he wanted to protest, but Dean cut him off. “I wasn’t asking, Ben.”
The three boys quietly, reluctantly scooted the three feet down the bench and sat tense and curled in on themselves.
Dean spared a moment to feel bad about that, but he didn’t think Sydney would appreciate them being right on top of her while the pretty EMT lady asked all kinds of awkward embarrassing questions.
“Hi, Sydney. I’m Corrina.” The dark skinned EMT introduced herself as she knelt down ending up a little bit bellow eyelevel with Sydney who was still perched on Dean’s lap. “I’m going to check you over to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere. Tell me if you feel any pain, okay?”
Sydney didn’t seem to want to even pull her face away from where it had taken up permanent residence pressed uncomfortably hard against Dean’s shoulder. He shook that shoulder cajolingly and murmured, “Come on, Sydney darling. Miss Corrina needs you to look at her so she can help you.”
The little girl reluctantly untangled herself from Dean enough that the EMT could do a cursory examination.
“That’s my brave girl.” Dean murmured into Sydney’s hair while he rubbed a hand in soothing circles on her back and watched the EMT with sharp warning eyes.
Corrina flashed a light in Sydney’s eyes, checked her temperature, and gently felt around for any broken ribs or bones all the while asking her easy yes or no questions about how the little girl felt. Her dark eyes flashed at the sight of the rapidly reddening hand shaped bruise on Sydney’s arm, but she just noted it on her clipboard and moved on.
“Well, for right now you seem perfectly healthy.” Corrina announced a few moments later smiling warmly at Sydney. Standing up, she turned her professional gaze on Dean, “We’re going to wait for Sydney’s mother before we do a more thorough examination.”
Dean nodded and adjusted Sydney to his left leg when she hurriedly curled herself into him again. His right leg had long since fallen asleep.
“I think that’s a good idea. I don’t want anyone asking her any hard questions until her parents get here.”
Corrina stepped away and Dean was left to fend off three more attempts from cops to get statements from Sydney before the screeching of breaks and the calling of Sydney and Clark’s names caught everyone’s attention.
“Sydney!” Madison Strait screamed frantically as she launched herself out of her husband’s still moving vehicle. “Clark!”
Stiffening a split second before she hurriedly untangled herself from Dean, Sydney scrambled off his lap and ran toward her mom, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. Madison caught her daughter and swept her up in a crushing embrace, her hands moving frantically over her child and her face buried in Sydney’s wind swept, tangled hair.
Don Strait stayed in the car long enough to make sure it was put in park and wouldn’t roll away anytime soon before he too was out of the car and racing toward the rest of his family. Clark couldn’t contain himself anymore and met him halfway.
Dean watched the scene for a few minutes before he bit the bullet and stood up. On his way passed he stroked reassuring hands over Ben and Errol’s heads as he walked toward the Straits.
Madison saw him coming first. Dean stopped a few steps away and shifted guiltily, one hand rubbing nervously at his neck. “Madison, I am so sorry-”
“Not one more word, Dean Campbell, or I really will have to hit you.” She warned, stunning Dean into silence before she reached out a hand and grabbed him by the front of his snot covered, tear stained t-shirt and pulled him to her.
Frozen in surprise, Dean glanced over at Don only to find such a look of gratefulness on the man’s face as he cradled Clark against his chest that Dean had to look away. Madison suddenly shuddered in a sob against him and Dean awkwardly brought a hand up to pat at her back soothingly.
“It’s alright, Maddie.” He murmured as she clenched a fist against his back, Sydney still squished between them and not seeming to mind. “Sydney’s alright. She’s going to be alright. I wouldn’t have let that bastard hurt her.”
The woman choked back a sob and pulled away, releasing Dean from the embrace as she wiped futilely at her wet cheeks. She smiled waveringly at him before she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Dean. There aren’t words for how thankful we are.” Madison said, her entire being just positively radiating the sentiment.
Mouth open to protest, Dean was silenced when Don reached over and clapped a hard, heavy hand on his shoulder, giving it an almost painful squeeze. “Dean, she’s our daughter.” Don said like that explained the nearly overwhelming weight of their terror and gratefulness that they were heaping on Dean’s shoulders.
Dean looked back at the little girl clinging desperately to her mother, face buried in her neck, one eye peaking out just enough to look at Dean like he was a freaking superhero. He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand through his hair. Yeah, okay. So he got it.
The Straits were beset upon by detectives and EMTs once more and Dean sat with Ben and Errol, one boy on each side and his arms around their shoulders. Lisa was out of town visiting her sister and Errol’s mother was out of the country. They were stuck with Dean for as long as he was stuck by the cops.
“Excuse me, Mr. Campbell?” A detective maybe a decade older than Dean captured his attention when he stepped up to their bench. “I’m Detective Hart. Can I ask you a few questions about what happened today?”
It wasn’t a question and Dean wasn’t too keen on seeing how far he could push a cop’s patience so he nodded stiffly and stood up. Telling Ben and Errol to stay on the bench Dean gestured for the detective to take a few steps away with him.
They stood ten feet away, well within hearing distance if one of the boys needed Dean.
“Can we make this quick, Detective?” Dean asked, just the barest hint of annoyance in his voice. “I would like to take the boys home sometime soon.”
Detective Hart nodded understandingly and Dean got the impression the guy had kids of his own. “This shouldn’t take long. Just a few follow up questions.”
“Shoot.”
“There’s been some discrepancy in the witness statements as to what happened when you stopped Mr. Bates from taking Sydney. Could you clarify on how exactly Mr. Bates received a partially severed scrotum?”
Wow. Creepy child abductor was named Bates. Just wow. Irony much?
Dean shrugged, and flashed the detective a rather poor imitation of one of Sammy’s most innocent, concerned citizen looks. “It must have happened in the scuffle.”
“Scuffle?” Hart repeated dubiously, obviously not buying Dean’s look for one moment.
“Yeah, after he let go of Sydney he tried to run. I stopped him. There was a scuffle.” Dean clarified with an indolent flip of his hand.
His explanation seemed to impress the detective none at all. “Mr. Campbell, three of the witnesses interviewed claimed that you pulled a very large knife on Mr. Bates and proceeded to threaten him before stabbing him in the groin.”
Dean just raised an eyebrow at that, not particularly worried about being arrested. Bates had been seen by all five of the witnesses attempting to abduct a child and not a jury in the country would convict Dean of assault after being told that.
“What did the other two witnesses say?” He asked, pretty sure he already knew.
Hart almost scowled. “They were uncompromisingly vague on the details after you apprehended Bates.”
He couldn’t help it. Dean felt a grin start to curve smugly at his lips. It seemed the old probably-ex-cop and his wife approved of his methods.
Abruptly, Hart’s expression froze and the detective took a mental step back and looked at Dean again from a more detached perspective. His keen eyes searched Dean’s face, his expression, his body language as if looking for something he just realized should have been right out in the open.
A wary tenseness swept over Dean and he unconsciously adjusted his body as if expecting an attack, his expression shifting to blank and watchful.
Unfortunately, that shift seemed to be what tipped the detective’s mental scales from suspicion to surety.
Adjusting his own stance, Hart nonchalantly dropped his right hand to hang limply at his hip were his gun rested heavy and reassuring in its holster. He knew the movement hadn’t escaped Dean’s notice, but didn’t move his hand away.
“You know,” Hart started casually, though there was nothing casual about either man at the moment, “you hold a striking resemblance to a man named Winchester.”
“Is that so?” Dean shifted his stance minutely putting his weight on the balls of his feet, his hands at his sides, loose and ready.
“Yeah,” Hart said, voice pitched low so only they were privy to the conversation. “But Winchester is supposed to have died three years back.”
“I just have one of those faces.” His voice was flat and cold. Dean watched the detective, just waiting.
Hart tilted his head and watched Dean with shrewd eyes. “The thing is,” He continued, not wanting to let it go, “Winchester was smart and dangerous. He’d been declared dead once before, and yet he came back to be declared a second time.”
There was silence for a long moment. Dean watched the detective as the detective watched him; watched as the detective came to the correct and dangerous conclusion.
“Dean Winchester has been dead a long time.” Dean finally said, breaking the silence. “I’m just Dean Campbell. I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
Detective Hart studied Campbell’s face, the utterly emotionless expression on the man’s face as he waited for him to say something. He looked at the snot and tear stained t-shirt the man was wearing. He thought about the lethal precision of the cut on Bates, the utter uncontrollable terror on the man’s face when asked for his statement. He thought about the sight of the man before him cradling a frightened little girl to his chest even as he continuously counted the other children gathered around him like ribbons on a maypole seemingly unable to keep his eyes off them lest one of them be snatched up again. He thought about the fierce, almost frightening look in the man’s eyes anytime anyone, police officer, EMT, or concerned citizen came near his charges before they were all retrieved by their parents.
Detective Hart looked into Dean Campbell’s shadowed, familiar green eyes and said, “No, I suppose you’re not. Thank you, Mr. Campbell. If there are anymore questions the department will contact you.”
For a moment, by the suspicious, surprised look on Campbell’s face, Hart thought he was going to say something, but he just nodded stiffly, bid him a good day and turned back toward the two boys watching them with open trepidation on their young faces.
As Hart watched Campbell rub gentle practiced hands over the boys’ heads, one of the boys looked up at him then back at Hart with wary suspicion in his eyes.
“Dean?” He sounded worried and all too knowing.
Campbell just smiled tiredly, reassuringly down at the boy. “It’s alright, Ben. It’s time to go home.”
The kid deflated in relief and jumped down from the bench fitting himself up against Campbell’s side like a puzzle piece. The other boy did much the same, both of their young faces showing the strain of the day as Campbell expertly walked the three of them out of the park and down the street toward home.
Hart watched them until he couldn’t see them anymore and thought it’s a pity he’s going to have to spill coffee on Campbell’s contact information, his chief really hates it when shit like that happens.
*
END.