Authors Notes

I always wondered how much John Winchester knew about Sam and how he found out. So I wrote this story.

The Devil You Know

Prologue

Whimpers from the small child disturbed the black silence of the cellar. Fright had long paralysed her will and she sat scrunched in a damp corner, knees up to her chest forehead pressed to the thin cotton of her Disney Princess night-dress. She snivelled again biting her lip against the sounds she made, sniffing up and swallowing trying to dislodge the lump in her throat.

Up above she could hear scraping, footsteps, muffled voices talking back and forth but she did not move.

They'd told her about strangers at school an' the nice policewoman had given them a talk about staying safe, about who they talked to an' about being careful when out. Since then she'd tried to be a good girl 'cos only naughty girls got taken but nobody had told her that the bad man would come into her house, into her room, put his hand over her nose and mouth and hold her so tightly that she couldn't breath or struggle.

She hadn't known anymore until she'd woken up in the cellar. The dark place had terrified her more than the man and she'd screamed herself hoarse. Shouting and crying out for her mother but no one had come not even the black-clothed man who'd taken her from her bed. She was alone.

Eventually, exhausted, she had crawled into the corner where she now sat unable to stop her body shivering with the cold and fear the hope that someone would rescue her gone.

A bolt grating in its metal bed slid back. She shrank inward trying to make herself smaller, throat tight and her eyes screwed shut. If she couldn't see… but a moan threatened and her breaths came harsh and shallow. In fearful panic she clamped her own small hand over her mouth; if she didn't make a noise, if she could hide in the shadow...

The door creaked and footsteps sounded on the wooden treads then on the stone floor getting nearer and nearer. Terror clutched tightly at her heart, its painful pounding shaking her body and at that moment she knew that she must have been a really bad girl because the man was coming for her.

"In the name of the father, his fallen son and the spirits of hell."

The black mantel flowed, its folds swishing together as the man genuflected touching his forehead, breastbone and then left and right shoulders in a mockery of the holy gestures.

"I believe in God the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Hell and in Satan his only true son…"

In his left hand he held the rosary a bead pressed between his finger and thumb the reversed cross dangling from the chain flashing obsidian as the stones swung in the flickering candlelight.

"…I believe in the forgiveness of sins, the restoration of the fallen son to life everlasting…"

The man had learnt the words by heart, repeating them over and over until they became part of him so that he didn't have to struggle to remember the new order as he had the old. He moved to the next bead and began the 'Our Father.'

His mother had given him the rosary for his first communion. Loving her religion more than him she had insisted on prayers three times a day, beaten him when he stumbled over his scripture and made him stand for hours in the cold back kitchen arms folded behind him, back arched painfully. He was supposed to be contemplating the Mysteries surround the Christ but as his body trembled with the stress of standing and his stomach growled with hunger all he could think of was his hatred for her.

He remembered the dark arousing joy when her spare tones reading from the leather-bound bible had stopped suddenly and how he'd stood over her as she'd died, her holy heart in its unloving piety abandoning life at his feet. He had done nothing to help her and it was then that she'd seen, she had realised what she'd created as he'd shown her his true self, curling his lips in a cruel triumphant smile as the light left her frightened eyes. She knew then that she was going to hell for the monster she'd created.

Hating her still and all those like her who professed a similar fervent sanctimonious faith the man had worked long and hard to get to the position where he could exact his revenge.

His fingers moved again, "I denounce Mary and damn her among women…." He raised his gaze from the chaplet to the young figure laid in front of him as he spoke. The girl seemed smaller than before as if the fear had somehow diminished what she was. Her immature body, naked now lay inert on the table. There were no restraints, he hadn't needed any, the sedative he'd given her held her pliant but awake. Her face slack but her eyes, wide with terror, were sparkling with tears.

The ritual he was planning could be performed with conventional elements, with standard components but he had eschewed the mainstream a long time ago in pursuit of dominion and power. He didn't regret the use of the child, of the children it would need because his Lord not only demanded excellence but deserved it.

"Glory be to the Father and to his son Lucifer and to the dark spirits released. As was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen."

The bead slipped through his fingers to be replaced with another.

"Oh my Lord Satan, forgive us our sins against you. Come forth from the fires of Hell and lead us into Heaven to your rightful place and let us take ours at your side."

Another bead passed and he continued on, lost in the litany, in the power of its words and the glory of its meaning.

Six more times he spoke the devotions as the black candles burnt lower guttering in the molten wax pooling at the base of their wicks. Completing the circle of the rosary he laid the chain reverently aside and stepped forward looming over the frightened child.

"In the name of the father, his fallen son and the spirits of hell. Amen."

The five acolytes around the table knelt as one and the man filled with the righteousness of hell picked up the double-sided knife, the Athame to claim the destiny that he believed was his.

The girl screamed only once, a long pitiful cry of pain and fear before it cut off abruptly her windpipe severed in one sure stroke.

Chapter 1

"Dean come get your brother off me."

John bent and attempted to prise open the fingers of his youngest from where they'd fastened around his leg.

"Dean!"

He looked up and into the expressive green eyes of his firstborn. A myriad of conflicting feelings, love and pride, fear, anger and betrayal glowed in their depths. John had the decency to feel guilty and turned away from their soundless accusation.

It had only been four days since he'd returned from a particularly difficult hunt involving a poltergeist. He'd left the boys thinking he would only be gone two days but it had ended up being a week and now he was leaving them again.

"Take us with you Dad, we'll be good, I promise, cross my heart."

Sammy snivelled, his misery apparent. Tears smeared over his face, lips pouting, turned down as he tightened his grip around his father's leg.

"Pleeeease Dad."

Softening slightly John bent ruffled Sam's hair and cupped his little chin with his callused fingers bringing his young sons eyes up to meet his own.

"I can't this time Sammy I don't know where I'll be and you like it here with Pastor Jim."

"I hate Pastor Jim."

"SAMMY!" There was a warning in John's voice. He didn't tolerate rudeness at anytime and especially not in front of other people. "You know better than that… apologise."

Sam refused to look up at him and instead buried his head in his father's thigh his too long hair falling forward partly obscuring is young pinched face. He gripped tighter and no apology came.

"Sam, you apologise NOW..."

John got no further because Dean appeared behind his brother bending and whispering, gently unwrapping the small tensed fingers from the material of his father's dirt spattered jeans. The older boy pulled the younger back against his chest and a small wobbly voice punctuated with several sniffs apologised.

"I's sorry Past'r Jim."

There were no words for him but John was used to the boys excluding him. Dean rarely initiated conversation with his father or anyone except Sam and he certainly wasn't the lively talkative child he'd been at four before Mary died. John swallowed quickly clamping down the emotions, which always arose unbidden when he thought of his wife. He lifted his bag from the driveway.

Usually John had no cause for complaint his two were good boys. It did concern him that they were on their own so much and John didn't like leaving them but he felt he had no choice and they nearly always had a sitter. Besides he'd also made damned sure they could fend for themselves.

Dean especially was turning into a good little soldier, skilled with a knife and a he could handle a gun like a grown man. Sammy was a little more reluctant but he was young yet and with a little more discipline and training he would be fine.

John had debated leaving his sons on their own again but Jim's place was on his way and he trusted the man to look out for his boys. He was one of the few men that John trusted completely, Caleb, Joshua, Bill Harville and Jim.

The Pastor had rescued John both physically and mentally and really he owed his life to the man. John had been hunting on his own for a year, obsessively researching, keeping notes and gathering together an arsenal of weapons that any Unit Commander would have been proud of. He wasn't oblivious to the hazardous nature of the work and he didn't disregard the danger but by focusing on the hunt and letting it fill his waking moments he'd kept himself going, kept himself away from the knife-edge of his grief.

John, leaving the boys with yet another sitter, had set out to exorcise a farmhouse inhabited by a bitter ghost who'd constantly hidden, moved and thrown objects. It had gone bad when he'd been caught in the shoulder by a kitchen knife launched by the angered spirit.

Jim had found John bleeding profusely and cursing fit to bust as he tried to unscrew the lid off a salt can with numb fingers. The hunter had dispatched the ghost quickly and efficiently, finding, salting and burning the bones while John had sat hand clutched against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.

The Pastor, John had been surprised at that one, had taken the injured hunter back to the motel and on discovering Dean and baby Sam in the room had loaded them all into the car and driven them back to the mission. Putting the boys to bed in soft, clean white sheets the man retrieved a bottle of peroxide, some dental floss and a needle and stitched up John's wound. He'd then spent the rest of the night talking with John, explaining and listening and then offering a haven.

He was the first hunter John had met. Missouri had hinted at such people but had not given him any more information so John had gone it alone. It surprised him at how extensive a network there was and that he'd never come across hunters before. Jim had introduced John to a few men, including Bill Harville who himself was a family man but part of John shied away from company and for the most he kept himself to himself.

John had stayed six months with Pastor Jim, learnt a tremendous amount and had his heart gladdened by the sound of his sons laughing. It was the closest John'd felt to anyone since the army and Mary. Eventually, with a lot of patience, Jim had got inside John's defences. They'd talked for hours; nights of talking and drinking and more talking and eventually John had let his guard down to the point where he'd cried for the first time since Mary had died.

Jim had sat with him, not speaking or offering comfort, somehow he'd known that John wouldn't accept that kind of help but it had helped and John was grateful to his new friend for understanding. It had assuaged but not banished the hollow feeling inside him and John had been able to continue hunting with a less frantic if not less obsessive frame of mind.

Since then he'd continued to hunt alone but now with the knowledge that he had someone at the end of a phone who would drop everything if he needed him to. Jim had also offered to find a foster home for the boys but John had given an implacable, "NO!"

He'd taken on board Jim's arguments about stability and consistency and the difficulty and dangers of taking two young boys on the road but John had flatly refused to contemplate even a short placement.

Sam and Dean were his and the only place he could keep them safe was with him and now five years later he'd never regretted that decision. It didn't mean that it hadn't been difficult or that he'd deliberately put his sons in the way of danger. He hadn't, didn't mean to leave them on their own so much but it happened and that was why they were now both staring accusingly at him for leaving them with Jim. John was not above feeling guilty and it came out not in hugs and promises but in a gruff, tough love way.

"You mind Dean now Sammy, do as your brother says and Dean..."

John felt a lump forming in his throat as he stared down at the two figures the one tall for his age, shoulders broadening, arms draped protectively around his younger brother. The other wiping his face with his sleeve and trying to look brave despite his hiccupping distress.

"...Look out for Sammy and make sure he does his reading every night."

"Yes sir."

Dean refused to look him in the eye and that annoyed John.

"Sam's your responsibility Dean. I don't want any slip-ups…"

Jim stepped into his sight-line, "They'll be fine John, I'll take care of them. Say goodbye to your Dad boys."

"Bye Dad." Sammy's thin voice piped up but Dean remained stubbornly silent. John sighed threw his bag into the back seat of the Impala and creaked the door shut. He shook hands with Jim and both men nodded a silent understanding. John was placing his most precious things in Jim's care.

"They'll be fine John, Martha's already baking a pie." John grimaced a smile, Jim's housekeeper was notorious for spoiling the boys whenever they visited and he quickly turned sliding into the worn driver's seat before he changed his mind about leaving them. A little softness wouldn't hurt and he would train them a little harder when he got back to make sure. He gunned the engine.

Gravel spurted as John pressed the accelerator and the car eased away from the driveway. Glancing into his rear view mirror John saw Dean was still standing his arm around Sam watching the car. He continued to watch as John turned the corner.