"Whatever you do, whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, you will always end up…here."
Except there was one detail, one choice that was made which, if made differently, could have drastically changed everything that happened after it. Early on, at the end of Devil's Trap, Sam Winchester pointed a gun at his father, who was begging his son to shoot him, to destroy the demon possessing him. Sam hadn't been able to do it, and he'd lowered his weapon—but what if he'd made the other choice? What if he'd shot his father, killing both him and Azazel?
If he'd fired, John Winchester would have died in that cabin instead of in a hospital several days later. If he'd fired, the demon would be dead, and Sam's visions wouldn't have continued. If Sam had fired, he wouldn't have gotten caught in the demon's game at Cold Oak, and he wouldn't have been killed from a knife to his back. And if Sam hadn't been killed, Dean wouldn't have sold his soul to save him, and he wouldn't have gone to hell a year later.
If Dean hadn't gone to hell, he wouldn't have broken the first seal. He wouldn't have left Sam spiraling into depression and thirsting for revenge, and so Sam wouldn't have turned to Ruby, wouldn't have gotten addicted to demon blood. And, having no desire to kill Lilith, Sam wouldn't have broken the final seal.
The Apocalypse wouldn't have happened at all.
Or would it?
Sam gripped the Colt between two shaking hands, face drawn into a grimace as he held it pointed at his father's chest, who was on the floor of the cabin, teeth gritted, determination flaming in his eyes.
"Do it! Now!"
A softer voice came from the wall behind Sam, counteracting the rage of his father's voice: "Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it!"
"Sam, you gotta hurry. I can't hold onto him much longer!"
Sam's throat tightened and his heart pounded, his hands gripping the gun like a lifeline. Indecision warred inside him and he felt like collapsing. He wanted to listen to Dean, listen to the agonized pleas to spare their father's life, but another part of him, a part burrowed so deep it felt like it had been there forever, wanted nothing more than to see this demon dead—the demon that had killed his mother, killed Jess, pulled him away from his happy life he'd been dreaming of for years—
"You shoot me, son! Shoot me!" John's voice was strained with the effort to hold back the demon. "Son, I'm beggin' you, we can end this here and now. Sammy!"
"Sam, no," Dean whispered, but Sam didn't hear it, because he'd already fired.
The bullet from the Colt entered John's chest, and crackled with energy as it destroyed the demon from the inside. A yell escaped John's mouth—though whether it was John or the demon shouting Sam wasn't sure—and Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the last of the demon's remaining life force burnt out…along with his father's.
It was quiet. Sam opened his eyes. The only sounds in the room was Dean's ragged breathing nearby and Sam's heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was over. The yellow-eyed demon was dead. It was really, really over.
Relief now battled with pain inside Sam's chest. He dropped the Colt to the ground and fell to his knees beside it, staring at his father's corpse as tears welled up in his eyes.
Sam blinked, remembering his brother, and turned to look at Dean.
He wasn't prepared for the raw anguish and disappointment that met his gaze. The look in Dean's eyes said, plainly, How could you do this?
Now that he'd done it, Sam wasn't sure. All he knew was that killing this demon had been John's only ambition in life, and if he died completing it he would die happy.
Sam got to his feet, feeling numb all over, and approached Dean, who was still huddled against the wall. "Dean, we need to get you to a hospital…"
"I'm fine." Dean pushed himself up, away from the wall, grimacing.
"No, you're not, you lost a ton of blood—"
"I said I'm fine, Sam," Dean said roughly, pushing Sam's hand away as he reached out to help him. As he stood, however, his legs buckled underneath him and he stumbled into Sam, who wrapped an arm instinctively around his back, holding him up. "Dean? Dean!" Dean had fallen unconscious, his breathing ragged as he slumped against Sam. Sam cursed and lowered his brother to the ground, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. With icy fingers, he dialed 9-1-1.
Dean awoke to the beeping of a heart monitor and the distinct, sterile smell of a hospital room. He groaned softly and turned his head, remembering what happened, remembering the cabin, the demon, the pain, the blood, the shot.
Dad was dead.
"Dean?" a soft voice said.
Dean opened his eyes, looking towards the side of the bed where Sam sat, hands clenched at the edge of Dean's mattress, his pain and guilt-filled gaze telling Dean that he definitely hadn't dreamed up the whole thing.
"Sam?" Dean said, his voice raspy and his throat feeling like sandpaper. He swallowed. "What happened?"
"You were…you passed out. I called for help. Are you feeling okay?"
Dean chose not to answer that, opting instead to swallow again, hard, and force the question out: "Dad?"
Dean watched the emotions flash once more across Sam's face—sorrow, guilt, pain, relief, unease, and finally apology. "He didn't…he's gone. I'm sorry, Dean."
Dean felt a clenching feeling in his chest, painful and constricting and heavy. He was gone. Dad was gone. Sam had killed him.
Sam had killed him.
All his life Dean had put his family first, and he'd thought Sam felt the same way—that as much as that damn demon had put them through, it didn't come before everything. It didn't come before family.
But Sam had made his choice. He had chosen revenge. And he'd taken the shot.
"It was what Dad wanted," Sam whispered as Dean looked away, unable to hold Sam's eyes. "I couldn't…he begged me to, dude. I had to…"
"Yeah, whatever Sam," Dean said quietly, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispered. Dean didn't answer, a thousand different emotions churning in his stomach—if he spoke, he was worried he'd just end up yelling at his brother, which wouldn't make this situation any better, and besides, Dean didn't have the energy to yell…or speak.
Sam exhaled in a shaky breath and stood up. "I'm, uh…I'm going to go tell the doctor you're awake. See how long before you can leave."
He stood up and exited the room without a backward glance. Dean felt tears well up in his eyes and fought them back bitterly. All of a sudden he felt a great hollow emptiness yawn inside him—a loss he knew he was only beginning to feel.
"Dammit, dad," he whispered, fisting the sheets beneath him. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
Dean was released from the hospital the next day—a blood transfusion and some sleep had put him back to normal…physically, anyway.
He and Sam gave John a hunter's funeral, burning his body, watching in silence as the flames consumed their father. And then they went back to Bobby's, having nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Neither of them felt up to a case and Sam had no motivation to find one.
They spent the days in tense silence, unspoken things passing between them at all hours of the day through averted glances and deliberate avoidance and strained silences. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before Dean's repressed emotions came out and the accusatory glances were voiced.
Bobby wasn't oblivious to the tension either. He'd taken John's death with a fair amount of regret but had gotten past it quickly, noting that the brothers' need was greater than his.
He approached Dean a week later, settling at the table in his study across from him and handing him a glass of whiskey.
"Thanks," Dean said dully, taking the glass and swirling it but not taking a drink. Bobby stared at him with a slight frown but Dean didn't meet his gaze, which instead remained fixed on the table littered with books and papers.
"So," Bobby said pointedly. "How you doing, kid?"
"I'm fine," Dean said, raising his eyes to look at Bobby at last.
"And Sam?" Bobby said slowly. "How's he?"
Dean shrugged, the warning look in his eyes flashing again. If his gaze had been hard before, it was now positively icy. But Bobby didn't relent. "Talk to me, Dean. I know you're taking this harder than you want to admit. You can't let it simmer like this."
Dean scowled. "Watch me."
Bobby leaned forward, frowning slightly. "You know your brother needs you right now. He's barely said a word all week. The guilt must be eating him up."
"Yeah? Well maybe he asked for it."
"You know you don't really believe that."
"Don't I?" Dean's jaw worked. "He made the choice, Bobby, and he chose revenge over his own father. How am I supposed to trust him now?"
"Sam didn't make that choice, not really. This was what John wanted. Sam did exactly what John told him to. Put yourself in Sam's shoes—what would you have done?"
"I would have found another way!"
"Even if that same demon had killed your girlfriend and pulled you out of the life you wanted? Killing that demon was what had consumed John his whole life, and it was consuming Sam, too. Maybe now Sam can truly heal, but he can't do it unless you show him you forgive him."
Dean scoffed and shook his head, taking a drink of his whiskey, but Bobby kept his eyes fixed on him. "It's better this way, Dean."
"For who?" Dean snapped. "For who, exactly? Because where I'm standing all I see is a dead father and a brother who killed him. Our family is even more screwed up than before, and you want me to just look past that—look past what Sam did—and just…keep going? Keep going where?" Dean broke off and ran his fingers through his hair, then tossed back the remaining whiskey. He shoved his chair back and stalked out of the room.
Bobby sighed, considering it at least a small victory that Dean had sat and listened to what he had to say. Maybe he'd think about it, think about talking to Sam. That was all he could hope for.
As it turned out, Sam came up to Dean before Dean could come up to Sam.
Dean was outside, tinkering with the Impala, when Sam approached him, holding a phone in one hand. Dean looked up and Sam felt his chest tighten when he saw Dean's face harden but he swallowed the hurt and stepped closer to the hood.
"Hey," he said. "How's the car?"
Dean wiped his hands off on a cloth resting on the top of the car and stared at Sam, not answer. Sam swallowed hard.
"So, uh…" he said. He held up the phone. "It's Dad's. It took me a while, but I managed to hack into his voicemail. Listen to this." He pressed play on the keyboard.
John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me.
Sam pocketed the phone. "That message is four months old."
Dean frowned. "Dad saved that chick's message for four months?"
"Yeah," Sam replied, relieved that his brother was speaking to him.
"Well, who's Ellen?" Dean asked. "Any mention of her in Dad's journal?"
"No, but I ran a trace on her number and I got an address."
A beat of silence passed, during which they avoided each other's eyes, tension and uncertainty rippling out between them. "Okay," Dean said. "So…you want to go find this woman or what?"
"Yeah, I thought…I mean, maybe we should tell her what happened to Dad. If, you know…she knew him."
Dean stared at him for another beat of silence and then nodded. "Okay. Let's go."
Sam exhaled, relieved, and was about to say something else, but his brother had already turned back to the Impala, closing the hood, and was digging his keys out of his pocket. Without a word he opened the driver's door and slid in, looking expectantly at Sam to do the same.
They pulled up later in front of a small, run-down building labeled as The Roadhouse. Inside was a bar and several tables, but it was completely empty. Sam went around the bar and disappeared through the door against the wall. Dean made to follow him but felt something press against his back and stopped cold, realizing what it was.
"Oh god, please let that be a rifle," he muttered.
The gun cocked threateningly. "No, I'm just real happy to see you," a distinctly female voice said from behind Dean, surprising him. He made to turn around to get a better look at her face and she poked him again with the rifle. "Don't move."
"Not moving," Dean assured her. "Copy that. You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don't want to put it right against their back. Because it makes it real easy to do…" He turned fluidly, catching the gun as he went and snatching it from the girl's hands. He cocked it and raised his eyebrows. "That."
He'd only gotten a glimpse of the slender blonde when the heel of her hand came up, colliding with his nose. The gun was yanked back and Dean doubled over, giving a choked cry as his hand flew to his face. He considered calling for Sam but stopped himself just in time. "I can't see," he muttered in shock. "I can't even see."
"Dean?"
Dean heard the door behind him open and turned to look; Sam stepped through with his hands over his head.
"Sam? What—" Dean wanted to groan as he saw a woman follow Sam out with a handgun pointed at his brother's head. They were really screwed now.
The woman frowned, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She was in her forties, with sleek, shoulder-length brown hair. "Sam? Dean?" She said. "Winchester?"
"Yeah," Sam and Dean said together, and looked at each other briefly, then back at the woman holding the gun.
"Son of a bitch," she said, looking at the brothers in amazement.
"Mom, you know these guys?" the blonde said, her own weapon still trained on Dean.
"Yeah, I think these are John Winchester's boys," the other woman said. She looked at the two of them for another moment silent, and then abruptly she lowered her gun, laughing. "Hey, I'm Ellen. This is my daughter, Jo."
Jo, looking mildly confused, lowered the rifle. "Hey," she said uncertainly.
Sam had dropped his hands, but Dean kept his eyes on Jo. "You're not gonna hit me again, are you?"
Dean sat at the bar with an ice pack pressed to his nose, Sam sitting nearby and Jo and Ellen standing on either side of them.
"You called our dad," said Dean. "Said you could help. Help with what?"
"Well, the demon, of course," Ellen said. "I heard he was closing in on it."
"The demon is dead," Dean said, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended. "We killed it ourselves."
Ellen's eyes widened. "It's…in that case, why are you two here? John wouldn't have sent you if—" She stopped, watching the way the brothers lowered their eyes, and realization slowly stole over her. "He didn't send you."
Neither one of them answered. Ellen swallowed.
"He's all right, isn't he?"
A pained look crossed Sam's face and dread worked its way into the pit of Ellen's stomach. She knew how these boys had grown up, taking care of each other, looking out for each other—she'd figured them to be pretty close, but looking at them now, there was something obviously wrong. The way they were avoiding each other's eyes, the look of complete guilt in Sam's expression—she could almost feel the tension rolling off them in waves.
And she had an inkling where it might be coming from.
"He's dead," Dean said, confirming her suspicions and cementing the feeling of dread. "He died with the demon inside him."
Ellen was speechless for a moment. She watched as Sam closed his eyes and ducked his head, the brief look Dean cast his brother before he looked down again. These poor boys looked like they'd been through hell. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
"It's okay," Dean said with a small shake of his head, and it was clearly a lie, but Ellen knew that pushing these two to tell her what really happened would only make things worse.
Later, however, when Jo and Dean were sitting over by the window, taking quietly, she saw herself facing Sam across the bar, looking at his broody eyes behind a curtain of hair, and made a weak gesture to help.
"You sure you're doin' okay, Sam?" she asked. "I know it must be hard."
"Yeah, well. I'm just…" he glanced over at his brother, then again down at the table. He half-smiled and his eyes fell on something behind Ellen, against the back wall.
"Hey Ellen," he said, clearly fighting to keep is voice light. "What's that?"
Ellen glanced back at the wall. "It's a police scanner. I just run the saloon here, but we keep tabs on things."
Sam frowned. "No, the—" He broke off and frowned. "You keep an eye on things? And you knew our dad, did you keep tabs on him, too? Is that how you knew about the demon?"
Ellen almost smiled. "Hunters have been known to pass through now and again. Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once."
"He never mentioned you before."
Ellen shrugged. She didn't reply.
Sam cleared his throat. "Well, um…anyway, I was talking about the, um…" he pointed. "That folder."
Ellen glanced at it. "Uh, I was gonna give this to a friend of mine. But…take a look, if you want."
She took the folder off the wall and placed it on the table in front of Sam. It had newspaper clippings attached to it and written in red marker on the front: COUPLE MURDERED. CHILD LEFT ALIVE. MEDFORD, WISC.
Sam leafed through the folder. "This a hunt?"
"Looks like it," Ellen said. "A few murders, not far from here. You and Dean could take a look if you want."
Sam's face lit up for a moment, a look of eagerness to get back out on a hunt, but the look died a moment later. He glanced, once again, over at his brother, and swallowed. "I, um…I dunno. I'll have to talk to Dean."
Ellen hesitated, not wanting to intrude but watching that brooding look slowly overshadow Sam's face again. She frowned. "Sam, I understand your father's death must be hard to cope with, but…is something wrong with you and Dean? You're acting awfully edgy."
"It's fine," Sam said. "We're fine. It's nothing."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Sam turned slightly, not quite looking at his brother, and called. "Dean."
Dean looked up automatically. "What?"
"Come check this out, it's something Ellen caught wind of. I think it's a hunt."
Dean frowned. "Yeah. So?"
"So…why don't we go check it out?"
Dean scratched the back of his neck, sighing softly. "I, uh…I dunno, Sam."
"Come on, you boys need to get back out there," Ellen said. "It won't take long, just go check it out. It will make a good distraction."
She watched as Sam and Dean exchanged another tension-filled glance, but Dean relented. He stood up. "Yeah, yeah, all right. Fine. Let's just go."
"You gotta be kidding me," Dean said as he and Sam rode through darkened, rain-swept streets. Sam had just given him the lowdown on the case, and—"Killer clown?"
"Yeah," Sam replied. "He left the daughter unharmed, and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually."
"And the family was at some kind of carnival that night?" Dean clarified.
"Right, right, the…Cooper Carnival."
"So how do you know we're not dealing with some psycho carni in a clown suit?"
"Well the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop. Alibis, all around."
Sam chanced a glance in Dean's direction. He sat with his eyes fixed on the road, expression vaguely thoughtful but mostly blank. He continued, fighting to keep the mood light—as he'd been working to do all evening. "Plus the girl—said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course…"
"Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam," Dean said, surprising Sam by addressing him directly, and surprising him even more when Dean looked over at his brother with a slight smirk. "Why did it have to be clowns?"
"Give me a break," Sam said, and he was relieved when Dean chuckled.
"You didn't think I remembered, did you?" he said. His smirk returned. "I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald Mcdonald on the television."
"At least I'm not afraid of flying," Sam said.
"Planes crash!"
"And apparently, clowns kill!"
Dean's smirk had faded, but the easy banter had taken the edge off, at least temporarily.
"So these types of murders, they ever happened before?"
"Uh…" Sam looked down at the papers. "According to the file, 1981…the Bunker Brothers Circus, it happened three different times, three different locales."
"It's weird though, I mean, if it is a spirit, it's usually bound to a specific locale. You know, a house, or a town."
"So how's this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?" Sam agreed.
"Cursed object maybe," said Dean. "Spirit attaches itself to something, and the carnival carries it around with it."
"Great," Sam said sarcastically. "Paranormal scavenger hunt."
"This case was your idea," Dean reminded him. There was a beat of silence. "By the way, why is that? You were awfully quick to jump on this job."
Sam glanced at Dean. "So?"
"It's just not like you, that's all," Dean said, keeping his gaze fixed on the road. Although now, I'm not sure how well I really know you anymore at all, he thought to himself.
Sam swallowed. "Yeah, well, you were pretty reluctant to take it up, that's not really like you either."
"Yeah, well, maybe I wasn't sure I was ready to take a case with you just yet. Maybe I'm still coming to terms with…this…whatever it is."
Sam knew what Dean was really trying to say—Dean didn't trust him enough right now to work a case with him, not after what Sam had done. And he figured he didn't deserve anything different, but it hurt to hear Dean say it nevertheless.
He would make it up to his brother. He'd show him that he was still the same person, that he could still be trusted.
AN: So, maybe this has already been done before. But in my time browsing the Supernatural fandom on here and on Tumblr, thinking about how every single thing that happened in the Winchesters' lives led up to the apocalypse, nobody mentioned this little detail that could've changed everything. If anyone has suggestions I'm all ears, but I'll probably continue this later on once I get a better idea of where I'm going with this. So please, review and let me know what you think!