Father, Remove this Cup From Me

"Who Art Thou, My Son?"

And he came unto his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here am I; who art thou, my son?"

Genesis 27:18

It was an old, irascible hunter by the name of Bobby Singer who said it first. A friend of a friend of Missouri's had given me the address, claiming this man to be the closest thing to an Encyclopedia for hunters, and that was before he started opening his books.

The house was a decrepit dump, the man even more so. In the three months since The Fire, I had realized the men and women fighting these bastards were the forgotten remnants of society's rejects, which only made them more lethal.

That being said…this drunkard…the holy grail of knowledge about the nightmares that hid in the dark?

I nearly climbed right back into the Impala, but the man was already hollering curses and waving a shot gun in my face, and it was damn freezing, Dean had barely spoken five sentences since The Fire, Sammy hadn't stopped fussing for the past three-hundred miles, and I was no closer to finding the son-of-a-bitch who had set my life ablaze. The drunk bum whom I had driven four hundred miles to see was still spitting curses in my face, and I was either going break down sobbing or start hollering back, so I started hollering, and we kept shouting at each other until we were both going hoarse and the man finally stopped mid-curse and said, in a voice that was gruff but suddenly, inexplicably calm, "Feelin' better?"

I stared stupidly at him for a moment, and was just about ready to start into another stream of curses when the man said in the same matter-of-fact voice, "I would keep on goin', sure looks like you could use another fifteen minutes or so of pointless shouting, but your kid in there's screamin' up a storm, and I doubt your little boy knows how to handle it."

I turned to look and, sure enough, I could just make out Sammy's wails over the sound of the South Dakota wind.

"Damn it," I grunted because what kind of father leaves his two small sons in the car in February so he can have a shouting match with a pot-bellied red-neck?

"It's alright," Bobby grunts, "They're bundled up, and your oldest just put another blanket on that baby. You might as well come in, we can shout again later." With that, he walked past me towards the Impala. I tensed and instinctively outpaced him. Pulling the door open, I was immediately overwhelmed by Sammy's howls.

"Come on out, Dean!" I called.

Dean frowned and shook his head. His pudgy hand was clasped around Sammy's fingers.

"I'll get him, come on out! We're going to stay with Mr. Singer for a while."

Bobby grunted in amusement—presumably at being called 'Mr. Singer' "Do you want me to carry your older one in, keep him out of the snow?"

I hesitated. No one besides me had touched my boys since that night…barely even the EMTs at the scene. The look on Bobby's face told me he knew that. I glanced from the man, to Dean, to the 18 inches of snow, and back to Bobby. Then I nodded. "Come here, Dean," I said, pulling the boy out of the back of the car, "Go see Mr. Singer for a bit, okay?"

Dean frowned when I handed him to the Bobby, who held him in a secure, albeit slightly uncomfortable, grip, but did not object.

"Hey there, kid," Bobby grunted. Dean scowled and turned his attention back to the car…to Sammy.

He was still wailing when I pulled him out of his car seat, remembering at the last second to grab the diaper bag before slamming the door shut. Bobby did not wait another instant—the wind was picking up and I was finally realizing that it wasn't just damn cold…it was damn freezing, so I matched Bobby's brisk pace as we marched into house.

The interior of Bobby's house was just and dingy and decrepit as the outside, but when I looked carefully, I also saw the weapons stashed strategically in every corner, the piles of books that lay beneath the whiskey bottles, and the strange markings painted on the ceiling.

"Devil's trap?" I confirmed, glancing at the circular inscription painted on the ceiling above my head.

"You're catching on," Bobby said as he made his way into the kitchen, "Would you like some hot cocoa, kid?" he asked as he set Dean down.

Dean's face lit up, but he turned to me with wide, eager eyes.

"Go ahead, Dean," I said as I unbuttoned Sammy's coat. He was fussing less now, obviously wanting out of the car more than anything. He was probably due for a diaper change, though.

"There's some cold pizza in the fridge," Bobby said, "You can fill up on that until the hot chocolate's done."

Dean didn't need to be told twice; he wrenched the door open, pulled out the box with his two small hands like it was a precious jewel, set it on the table, got up on a chair, and started eating.

I had forgotten how much kids sometimes ate: I hadn't been hungry in months.

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs," Bobby said, still intent on the small pot of milk he was heating on the stove, "I figure we get your boys tucked away, then we'll have a proper talk. It'll take a while, and it isn't really for small ears."

I nodded, even though there's no way Bobby could see me. My throat was clenched uncomfortably, and I couldn't tell if it was because I was grateful to the man or because I was pissed with both of us that a drunk hermit seemed more capable of caring for my children than me. But Dean was chewing happily and gave Bobby a genuine smile when a cup of steaming cocoa was placed in front of him. Sammy was finally able to have his diaper changed somewhere besides the back of the Impala, and Bobby's expression when he set a beer on the table in front of me wasn't condescending. It was a lot the looks my buddies and I exchanged when we were under fire … when we both knew we were in hell, but we were in it together, and that counted for something.

I damn near broke down right there. Fortunately, Sam took that moment to make it clear that yes he was hungry too, and the tears had to be put on hold in favor of putting together a bottle.

Two hours later the boys were fed, bathed, and sleeping contentedly in Bobby's spare bedroom, Dean's arm slung around Sam's little body, as had become their custom over the past three months. I even told them a story, a short one, but Dean's shy smile had been real.

"Now," Bobby said as he sat down at a desk in the living room, motioned for me to join him, and poured us both generous shots of whiskey, "Let's talk. Tell me what you saw."

"You know, don't you?" I grunted, taking a sip of whiskey. Cheap, but strong: I had a feeling that was what we both preferred.

"I've heard rumors," Bobby admitted, "Stories of what happened have been spreading like wildfire among hunters."

"Why?"

"Why?" Bobby repeated incredulously, "Because nothing like this…nothing as audaciously evil as this has happened for as long as any of us can remember. Things that hide in the dark like to do just that….stay hidden. Sure, they want to spread chaos and violence, but not so much that the general public will become aware of what's happening. So for anything to be powerful enough to do something so blatantly evil and not even be afraid of the consequences…it's got a lot of us more than a little nervous." He leaned forward, "I know right now the hate and the guilt is about all there is in your world right now, outside of your boys, but this thing is a hell of a lot bigger than you. Now…tell me everything that happened."

I took a deep, shuddering breath and another gulp of whiskey. Whoever says this type of story gets easier with each telling is a liar, but Bobby's the first person since Missouri who seemed like he actually might be able to help, so I opened my mouth and let the words spill out.

Bobby didn't try to interrupt, he just looked solemnly at me until my voice finally trailed off and I drained the last of my whiskey.

"Do you know what did it?" I asked as he refilled both our glasses.

"No," he admitted, "I have a couple of books we can take a look at, but I doubt we'll find anything."

"It has to be somewhere," I growled, "Something did it, and there's gotta be a way to kill it."

"I'm not arguing with you," Bobby said, "I'm just saying, whatever bastard did this is above most hunters' pay grades, and definitely above yours."

"Are you saying I let the bastard go?" My fingers clenched around the glass. Bobby wouldn't be the first man I'd hit recently, but I had just enough sense (just enough of Mary) left in me to hold back…for now.

"I'm saying unless you're smart about this, your boys are going to end up orphans," Bobby hissed, "Now I know all you can think about is killing this thing, and I'm not saying you shouldn't, but if you think you'll be able to hunt this bastard in a couple of weeks and then go back to living a normal life, you're fooling yourself!"

"I don't care how long it takes."

"You mean that?" And damn, someone who'd downed as much whiskey in the past five hours as this man had should not be able to glare like that. "Twenty, thirty years down the line, will you still be working to kill this thing?"

I remembered the scorching heat of fire on my face, Dean's sad, eyes and deafening silence, how Sammy would never remember the look of Mary's face or the sound of her voice. I remembered my last glimpse of my wife, her eyes dead and empty and in pain . . . and the moment I realized I would never see those eyes again.

"I will do whatever it takes."

For a long moment, Bobby narrowed his eyes and didn't respond. Finally, he sighed, "Alright," he said, "The first thing we need to decide is what this thing is."

"I thought you said you didn't know."

"I don't," Bobby agreed, "But we can figure out some of the things it ain't."

"It's not a spirit," I murmured, "Missouri seemed sure of that."

"She's not often wrong," Bobby agreed, "Besides, a ghost wouldn't destroy the place it's haunting. It could be some type of monster…but not one I've ever heard of."

"You saying we need to look in some of those books you mentioned."

"Probably," Bobby agreed, "But for now, I think it's safe to guess you're probably dealing with some type of demon."

"A demon," I murmured, and the word rang true. Surely only something from the pits of hell would be able to make my life a living version of the place that, until recently, I had not believed in. "How do you kill one?"

"You don't," Bobby said frankly, "The most any hunter can do is exorcise it…send it back to hell."

"Not good enough."

"John," Bobby's sigh was tired and sad. I'd seen that look too, in weary generals and shattered boys with ancient eyes, "You can't kill the most low-level demon, much less this thing. I'm not sure it can even be exorcised properly."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember what I said about the amount of power that thing must have had to attack you the way it did? Now demons are evil sons of bitches that love to spread death and chaos whenever they can, but they try to keep things quiet…possess someone here, make a deal for someone's soul there, but what this thing did…I haven't heard of a demon doing anything this big in decades. Demons are evil, but whatever attacked your family is far beyond plain evil." Bobby sighed, "Which begs the question, what was it doing in your son's nursery?"

"What?" I tried to sound gruff and belligerent, but I'm pretty sure the strangled sound that forced its way out of my throat sounded much more like Dean's terrified squeak…back when Dean spoke.

"I mean it. What they hell was something like that doing in your kid's bedroom?"

"You aren't seriously suggesting I had anything to do with this," I growled, finally regaining use of my voice. Human encyclopedia or no, I would knock this man out if he kept up this sort of talk.

"No," Bobby said, "I've already tested you and your boys for demonic possession…I lace all my food with holy water," he explained, in response to my furious glare, "But that don't answer the question. What did that demon want with your son?"

"Nothing," I protested breathlessly. If this man, this expert was very close to voicing the same, paranoid nightmares that hounded me to sleep every night . . . that made them less of the terrified ramblings of a grief-stricken widower and much more the cold reality. "Perhaps it wanted Mary," I whispered, hating myself for even saying it, for considering this the better alternative, "Maybe it came for Mary."

"Maybe," Bobby acquiesced, "But that raises another sticky issue … why is Sam even alive?"

I launched to my feet, sending the chair clattering to the floor, and leaned toward him. "The hell are you implying?"

"I'm sorry to bring it up," Bobby met my eyes unflinchingly, "But if that demon really wanted to kill Mary, why did it leave Sam alive? If it had started that fire even seconds before you got there, it would have been too late."

"It had no reason to touch Sam,"

"No reason to leave him alive, either," Bobby said gently, "And demons kill for fun."

"Stop it," I growled, resisting the urge to run up to the boys' room, clutch Sammy to my chest and never, ever let him go.

"If the demon wanted Mary," continued, "Why didn't he find her in her room? Why'd he wait for her to go to Sam?"

"Shut. Up." My face was inches from the hermit now.

"I'm sorry, John, but we need to look at all the options. We need to consider that the demon was not after Mary, but that for some reason, it wanted Sam, and it might still want him."

He had said it, the only words that could still mangle my hellish world, given life to the thought that would not leave my mind, but that I refused to allow myself to consider. Now, it was inescapable, cold and hard and permanent, as if there was a third person in the room.

I believed in trusting my gut, but this truth was simply too hard to accept, "If it wanted Sammy, why didn't it kill him?"

"I don't know," Bobby admitted, "But demons, especially very powerful ones, are smart…geniuses even. They can create plans that take decades, even centuries, to play out." He sighed again, "Look, I'm not one for crying wolf when it ain't there…I figure there's enough evil in the world before we start making up our own, but I'm telling ya to be careful and to watch out for those boys of yours…especially Sam."

I nodded, because there wasn't really anything left to say…all the fear and guilt and pain was distilling into a bitter wine I could not refuse.

Mary was half a thought away, my need to avenge her a constant fire in my blood, but my boys . . . they were my oxygen.

Some demonic son of a bitch had killed my wife; I was never going to let him lay a finger on my sons.

Dean's arm was still tucked tightly around little Sammy when I entered the room. I stood there for a moment, watching the steady in and out of their breathing.

Breathing in unison, actually; I couldn't help but smile at that.

Sam had become Dean's security blanket from the moment I shoved the infant into his arms and screamed for him to get out of the house. Dean had apparently taken that to mean he should never let Sam go. Tonight, however, I needed to hold my baby boy. I tried to gently unwrap Dean's arms from around Sam's small body, but Dean's grip only tightened and his eyes flew open, "No!" It was his first word of the day.

"Shhh, Dean," I whispered, "It's Dad. Everything's okay. I'm just going to take Sammy for a bit, okay?"

Dean frowned, "Sleepin'" he muttered.

"I know he's sleeping," I smiled, "Don't worry, I'll be careful not to wake him."

The frown deepened, but Dean withdrew his arm from around Sam's waist, "Kay."

"Thanks, bud," I said, wondering vaguely when I started needing a four-year-old's permission to hold my own son, but I carefully scooped Sam up and rested him against my chest. He stirred a little, and for a second I worried that I actually would wake him, but he just settled his head against my chest, pressing his little ear just above my heart.

Mary had once said babies liked hearing peoples' heart beats. It supposedly reminded them of their time in the womb. The thought makes my throat close up a little.

I got into the other bed, propping my head against the headboard in an uncomfortable half-sitting, half-laying position that wasn't exactly conducive to sleeping, but I wasn't tired anyway. I sat on the bed, staring into the blackness while Sammy slept to the sound of my heart beat and feeling the expansion and contraction of his small chest.

I gently rubbed my thumb over one of Sammy's tiny hands. Everything about him was small and precious and innocent. Four months ago, I would have said that a moment like this was heavenly . . . a brief respite from the mundane madness of the real world.

I knew better now.

I knew that this, the feel of his lungs expanding and contracting, the tiny thud of his heart, the irrefutable knowledge that my son was alive, that he was safe was a necessity . . . the only necessity. Until the Fire, and in some ways, until tonight, I assumed my duty as a parent was to provide for my boys, teach them right from wrong, and help them become good men with college degrees and jobs and families of their own.

In reality, my sole duty was to keep my sons alive, to keep them breathing from one day to the next, to protect them from darkness and monsters and whatever the demon wanted from them…wanted from Sam. I needed to keep the boys alive. Anything else was a bonus.

One thing was certain, I could not keep my boys alive, could not teach them to keep themselves alive, in a cookie cutter house in suburbia. They needed to be strong: Marine strong, hunter strong, strong in a way I wasn't…not yet anyway.

I didn't feel the tear until it nearly reached my chin, but in the darkness I found I couldn't care enough to wipe it away. There was no one to hide them from, and in this one moment, this black minute in time where I silently traded my old dreams for my boys, dreams of Boy Scouts and Prom and College and wives and grandchildren for hiding and training and fighting and all the things I never wanted for them, that I knew Mary never wanted for them, I could forgive my tears.

But they would live.

I felt something tugging at my arm and lash out my fist instinctively, stopping just before it connected with Dean's face.

I didn't know if Dean's eyes were wide and afraid before, but they certainly were now.

"Sorry, Dean," I said, relaxing my fist and instead laying my arm around Dean's shoulders. Dean relaxed a little, but the wide-eyed look did not go away, "I didn't see you," I offered pathetically.

Dean did not respond; he just looked meaningfully at me, at the bed, at Sammy.

I sighed, "Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?"

Without even bothering to nod, Dean clambered into the bed and tried to slide under the blanket. I hadn't bothered with it, but I stood up—taking care not to startle Sam awake- and let Dean climb under the covers. Once he was settled, I climbed in after him and carefully laid Sammy in between us, pulling the ratty quilt up to his armpits. "Just tonight," I said, "Tomorrow you sleep in your own bed." Dean nodded, wrapped his arm around the sleeping baby, and closed his eyes. I turned on my side—facing the boys and the door-and wrapped my arm above their heads, so that my fingertips were barely brushing Dean's shoulder.

I laid there for a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of my boys' chests, listening to the sounds of their breathing, assuring myself over and over that yes they are okay they are alive they are safe.

I looked at my sons, safe and wrapped in each others' arms, and knew I was looking at the only thing in the universe that mattered.

"Just tonight," I repeated. Just tonight to let my boys sleep my bed, to let them be just kids, to let myself be just Dad. Just tonight to mourn the futures Mary and I had always imagined for them, the ones they would never have. Just tonight to cry.

Tomorrow the training would begin. We would stay with Bobby for a while. I needed to learn everything I could, about survival, about hunting from him. Then we would set out on our own. Tomorrow the tears would end, and the battle would begin.

Tomorrow I needed to teach Dean to shoot a 22.

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading!

This series will track the evolution of John's relationship with himself, hunting, and, most importantly, his sons, in a series of stand-alone one-shots. I will play with Christian themes a little as I do so, but hopefully in a way that is respectful to people of any, or no, faith.

The verse in Genesis is from the story of Jacob and Esau, when Jacob disguised himself as his brother Esau in order to receive a greater blessing from their father, Isaac. Isaac is blind and does not recognize his son, and he is horrified when he later learns who Jacob really is.