AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this shortly after Devil's Trap aired, thinking that if the show were to end there, this is how I would put it. Of course, things turned out differently, but if you want a short version and a partly satisfying ending, go ahead and give it a read.
SPOILERS for Season One - Devil's Trap.
"911. What's your emergency?"
"I was just in a car accident."
"What is your location?"
"Highway 93, mile marker 107, east bound. Please hurry."
The fire truck was the first to arrive. The chief saw the giant truck blocking the highway and at its front end was an old Chevy Impala. The crash looked bad, but the trucker was outside of his vehicle, shaken, and with no visible injuries.
"I . . . I must have fallen asleep," the trucker said, shaking his head in shock. "I don't even remember hitting them. I just woke up and there it was."
The chief didn't answer the old man, noting he looked fine, then moving to look at the Impala.
The thing was a tank. The truck had hit it broadside on the passenger side. The roof was bent and the paneling on the right was wrecked, but it looked salvageable. He was surprised that a car that size had survived the truck's impact, but the cars from that era were tough.
The chief pulled out his flashlight and let its light fill the inside of the car. There were three men, all appeared to be unconscious, all were bloody.
The whine of the ambulance siren cut through the air, and the chief motioned his men over and began directing orders.
"Get this guy out. He's the only one on the passenger side. He probably got hit the worst. Check the others for vitals."
Surprisingly, they didn't need to force the door. The man on the passenger side was unresponsive, and they had him transferred to a backboard before the ambulance arrived. Another ambulance arrived shortly after the first.
The other two were different problems. The young man in the back seat had lost blood from an ugly wound in his chest, and the medics were unable to get a response from him. His pulse was weak and they moved him out of the car immediately, sending him off in the first ambulance with the other man.
The driver's face was caked with blood, and when they started to move him, he flailed, waking up and nearly socking one of the medics.
"It's okay, calm down!" one of the medics assured the man. "You're all right, now."
"Dean? Where's Dean? Where's my Dad?" The young man was frantic and barely coherent.
"Don't worry about them. You're all right now." The medic and his team had wrestled the young man onto a stretcher and a sedative was being prepared. "What's your name, son?"
The young man looked at him, the right side of his face swollen and covered in blood. Confusion was in his eyes. "Sam . . ." he said finally. "Sam Winchester."
It was painful to wake.
He lay still for a long time, concentrating on just breathing and slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. The slow, steady beep above his head reminded him of the hospital, and he managed to crack his eyes open. Images swam in his vision, then righted themselves as he blinked to clear his sight.
"Hey."
He peered at the person staring at him, perched on a chair next to his bed. It took a moment for him to register the face, and then he relaxed. "Sammy . . ."
"It's not—" There was a pause, then the dark head bowed as he decided not to finish the thought.
"Where's Dad?"
Sam raised his head to look at his brother. "Not here right now. Just rest. You're in rough shape, Dean."
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Sam again. "What about you?"
"Hm?"
Dean managed the strength to lift his left hand and felt the pull of multiple needles and IV's in his arm as he pointed at Sam's head. "You don't look too hot yourself, bro."
Sam scratched the bandage wrapped around his head and was reminded of the numerous bruises and stitches darkening his face. "Concussion. Some cuts and bruises. I'll survive."
"Where's Dad?"
"I already told you, Dean."
"No . . . you didn't."
"You have a concussion, too, Dean. Worse than mine, I think. You're not going to even remember this conversation in a while."
"What?"
"Precisely."
Dean closed his eyes again, and Sam looked at him, worried.
When he had first awoken in the hospital, his first thought was of his father. The doctor had talked to him almost immediately, quiet and calm. John Winchester had multiple broken ribs, a broken leg, a cracked spinal vertebra, and the gunshot wound in his right thigh. The best story Sam could come up with was that they had been staying in their hunting cabin, and John had been shot accidentally. They were on their way to the hospital when the truck hit them. For the most part, the story was true, and the doctors bought it. John was recovering quickly, and had been moved out of ICU. He had just started walking with the aid of crutches, and was cursing the brace he had to wear around his neck.
The doctor had told Sam that Dean was in ICU with internal injuries and an infection that had caused a high fever. Sam had recovered quickly, and the Vykadine had helped the pounding headache he still suffered from.
It had been two weeks, however, that Dean had lain motionless on the hospital bed, unresponsive to anything around him. The doctors had told Sam he wasn't in a coma, but he was near to it, and when Dean had finally opened his eyes, Sam had to hide the grin that nearly spread across his face.
"Sammy . . ."
"Yeah, Dean?"
"Where's Dad?"
"Go back to sleep, Dean."
"Sam."
"Yeah."
"How's my car?"
Sam let the grin slip through.
The Impala hadn't been a total loss. By all accounts it had been totaled, but it was a classic, and it was reparable for a price. The Winchester's themselves were also on the mend. Dean spent another three weeks in the hospital before finally recovering sufficiently from his concussion and internal injuries, and Sam and John had their stitches removed from their various cuts and abrasions. Dean was itching to leave the hospital, and as soon as he was able and the Impala was ready, they left.
They knew the demon was going to come for them. The accident had been in the papers. The driver had claimed he must have fallen asleep, but the Winchester's didn't press charges. They knew it wasn't his fault. They knew he had been possessed. The papers had said that everyone had survived the crash with minor injuries. The scars from the crash would not be forgotten, however. John, Dean, and Sam left the hospital wary of everyone around them. John had one more week to wear the neck brace and splints, and it was all Sam could do to keep it on him.
John suggested returning to the cabin. "We need time to regroup, to think. We only have one bullet left, now. The demon might not think of searching for us there right away."
Sam drove the Impala to the mountains with all of them apprehensive and staring with wide open eyes at the cars on the road with them. Surprisingly, they reached the cabin without incident.
John had not spoken beyond a few necessary words and had started a habit of uncomfortably pulling at the brace around his neck every few minutes. Sam and Dean had hardly spoken to each other since they had left the hospital. When they reached the cabin, John turned to Sam.
"We're going to need some supplies. I'm planning on staying here a few days before we move again. Would you run into town and get some things?"
"Sure." Sam looked at Dean, an eyebrow slightly raised. Dean ignored him, and threw their bags down on the wooden table near the window. John threw Sam the keys and the younger Winchester ducked out of the cabin.
Dean swept the room with a calculating eye. The two-room cabin hadn't changed since he had been there before Sam went to college, and their last visit had altered nothing except the addition of furniture, which Dean didn't remember from before. The furniture and bare shelves were dusty, the floor creaky and dirty. A lone, naked light bulb shone in the middle of the cabin. A small table, the one he had thrown their bags down on, sat near the window straight ahead of him and furthest from the door. A bedroom and bathroom were off to the left. The bedroom had a bunk and a twin sized bed shoved against the walls. To his right was a kitchen sink and small countertop. He checked the cupboards and found a large bag of salt, but nothing more. There were three chairs around the table and an old lumpy red plaid sofa against the window opposite the table. The television was missing.
"Took the television with me when we left here five years ago," John said as he noticed Dean looking at the blank spot on the floor. "I came up here last week to make sure everything was tight and pulled the furniture out of the back room. Added the bag of salt under the counter."
"Plumbing still work?" Dean asked.
"It should."
Dean pulled the bag of salt out of the cupboard and began pouring it around the baseboards of the cabin, making sure to cover the windowsill and doorstep.
"You think that will keep him out?" John asked.
Dean threw the empty bag under one of the cupboards. "It did last time. He had to go through the floorboards." He stood still for a few seconds, pondering, then added grimly, "He won't get away next time."
"Dean . . . about what the demon said—"
Dean waved his arm at John and turned his back on him. "It was the demon talking, Dad, not you."
"Dean, I just wanted you to know . . . he meant every word of it." John's voice had deepened considerably.
Dean froze, his mind racing, and then as quick as lightening, he had reached for the knife at his belt and spun around to meet his father. John's eyes had taken on the unearthly color they had when the demon had possessed him, and he sprang to meet Dean, matching his every stroke of the knife with powerful blocks. Dean managed to catch John across the arm and as the blood dripped freely, the demon inside hissed in pain, and with a roar, it threw Dean across the room to lay stunned against the wall, the knife, glistening with blood, lying on the floor at John's feet.
"Hurts, huh?" Dean grinned up at the demon. "I guess a weapon dipped in holy water hurts more than the water itself."
John stepped over the knife and grabbed Dean by the throat, pulling him to his knees and then pressing his face close. "I meant every word I said, Dean Winchester," he hissed. "Your father doesn't have the guts to tell you everything that he really feels. The truth is, however, that those few nights ago when I had you all together, I attacked you first, Dean, because you are the strongest. Your father and brother draw their strength from you. You are the one that keeps them going. Sam . . ." the demon laughed as it shook its head. "He's the special one. He's the chosen, one of those possessing the gift. Without you . . . he's nothing. Because of that, you're the first I have to destroy. If you're gone, your father and brother are worthless, and the plans I have for Sammy boy will be unstoppable."
Dean had listened to the demon's words quietly, his anger expressed only in his eyes, but he spoke now, his voice strained. "You're wrong."
"I'm not wrong, Dean. I'm never wrong. You know it deep in your gut. It's the hunter's instinct that tells you that I am right. You know that every word I have said to you is the truth."
Dean felt a sickening lurch in his gut, but he denied all the words he had heard the demon say and focused all of his energy into action. With a swift, powerful move, he knocked John's hands away from his throat with his forearms, and twisting around, kicked John solidly in the chest with a side kick. Scrambling to his feet, he lunged for his bag and unzipped one of the side pockets, pulling out his cell phone and glancing back at John who was staggering to his feet. Dean flipped the cell open and dialed Sam's number. John lunged for him again, and he sidestepped, swiping the forgotten knife off of the floor and holding it in his other hand.
"Hello?"
"Sam! Do not come back to the cabin! The demon's back—"
An unseen force threw Dean against the wall, and the cell phone lay open on the floor. The knife clattered to the floor at Dean's feet as the unseen force pried it painfully from his grasp.
John stepped on the cell phone, crushing it under his heel.
"You're cheating," the demon growled.
"Dad . . . listen to me," Dean pleaded, the scene feeling strangely familiar.
"That isn't going to work a second time," the demon laughed. He released the invisible hold on Dean, causing him to stagger away from the wall as the pressure released on his chest.
John took hold of Dean's shoulders, his grip strangely tender, then he forcefully kneed him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. Dean collapsed to his knees, feeling ribs crack and unable to breathe. The old injuries from a month before reopened.
"I like causing pain, Dean," the demon said casually. "Why do you think I burn people instead of killing them quick?" He kicked Dean in the shoulder, flipping him over onto his back. Sharp needles of pain drove themselves into the muscles of his shoulder and back, and then John kicked him in the head, stunning him. The facial wounds that had just begun to heal from the accident reopened, and blood poured down his face.
"I don't think I'll kill you right away, Dean," John said, getting down onto his knees next to Dean. "It might be more fun for you to watch your father and brother die." He laughed, an eerie light in his eyes. "Heck, it'd be fun to watch any one of you sit there, helpless, as your family expires right before your eyes."
Anger burning through his body, Dean lunged up from the floor against the demon, but John caught him, grabbing both wrists in an inhumanly strong grip and pinning them to the floor. Dean kicked out, trying to catch John in the head with his heavy boots, but the demon dug a knee into his right hip, bearing down with his full weight and effectively pinning him. Dean fought, kicking uselessly against John, then ceased, panting, when he realized it was fruitless.
"That's it, there you go, boy," John said soothingly. "You can't fight me. No use wasting your energy."
Dean renewed his struggle with the challenge and John stared at him, eyes glowing, until he stopped, breathing heavily.
"Sammy's going to come back for you, you know," he smiled.
"No." Dean shook his head. "He's too smart for that."
"His love for his family will bring him," the demon growled. "He can't stay put and know that his father and brother are in danger. He will come."
Sam received the frantic phone call from his brother barely ten minutes after he had left. His first thought was of John Winchester. Had the demon somehow possessed him again without their realizing it, or was it something else entirely? If it was the demon, Sam doubted it would kill Dean right away. It wanted to use his brother as bait.
Dean's order to not come back to the cabin burned in Sam's mind, but he knew he had to do something, knowing that Dean was in danger, and possibly his father as well. His next thought was of the Colt. Had Dean left it in the trunk of the car? He pulled over to the side of the road and found it where it had been left under the Devil's Trap symbol. He left it where it was and paced near the car.
"What to do . . . what to do . . . ?" he muttered to himself. Time was against him, but the tip he had received would prove to be infinitely invaluable.
Dean came to still sprawled on the floor. The blood had dried on his face, sticky and crackling with his movements. He must have been out for a long time. What had the demon done to him? He turned his head, trying to open his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he could see John sitting in a chair at the other end of the room, watching him. He had removed the brace from around his neck.
"You know," John said quietly, "humans are so fragile. I actually had to hold back from killing you. I could have killed you without a thought. One blow is all it takes."
Dean felt blood rise in the back of his throat, and he shifted, testing his strength. He felt strangely weary, as though he had just run a marathon and had collapsed to the ground after the race. His lungs felt full of liquid and he coughed, shivering in agony when pain raked burning fingers through his chest.
"Fragile." John shook his head and rose, approaching Dean. "Even now, your body is breaking down. You're going to die, Dean. I could leave you here now to die a slow, agonizing death, drowned in your own blood . . . but it will be much more fun to see the entire Winchester family die together."
"You son of a—"
John kicked Dean viciously in the head, flipping the younger man over and causing him to black out momentarily. He knelt and gripped Dean's hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to look John in the eye.
"You killed my family. My children. You, Dean, are solely responsible. You and your family are going to pay for what you have done."
Dean spat out blood, then glared into the demon's yellow eyes. "We didn't start this rampage," he replied. "If I remember correctly, I was four years old when you first waltzed into our life. We didn't know anything about you or what we've gotten involved in."
The demon within his father smiled. "This only makes my revenge that much more sweet."
He pushed Dean back to the ground and walked a few paces away. Dean sank back, his thoughts going to Sam. Would his brother listen to him? Would he stay away? No. If he knew his brother well enough, Sam would come back. Dean knew that he would come back. Hopefully, though, Sam would come back after devising a plan. He was the thinker of the family.
"Thinking of your Sammy boy?" John sneered. "Yeah, your father's thinking about him too. It's amazing what faith you have in that kid. He could be powerful, you know. Given a few years, he might be able to stop even me . . . but I'm not going to give him that chance. As soon as he walks through that door, I am going to drain every drop of blood from his body right in front of you, Dean, and your father's going to suffer through it all. Then I'm going to kill you . . . and then . . ." The demon laughed. "Well . . . if anyone comes out here and finds your bodies rotting in this cabin . . . it's going to look like your daddy killed you two then killed himself." He flung his arms out wide, spinning slowly. "Then I can continue in my work, and no one will be able to stop me."
Dean glared at him silently from where he lay on the floor, letting the demon rage. Words boiled through his mind of the deep cutting barbs he could throw at the demon, but he remained silent, the pain in his body causing him to keep it in.
John stooped down and looked Dean in the eye. "What's the matter? Nothing to say, hunter? No remarks? Aren't you angry that your family line is going to end tonight? Your mother, you know, died screaming. I made sure she died in excruciating pain . . . just as you and the rest of the Winchester's are going to die."
Dean lunged up from the floor at John and was flung back by the invisible force, pinned against the floor as John stalked over to him.
"You think you can fight me?" Spit was flying from John's lips with the force of his words. "You think you can destroy me? You tried! You failed! You are going to fail again!" He stalked over to Dean and grabbed him by the throat, dragging him to his feet. Dean choked, struggling against the hold. "You are a failure, Dean. Everything you've done, everything you've fought for, everyone you've killed . . . it doesn't matter. It was all for nothing. All those times you saved your brother, saved your father . . . it was pointless. It was all leading up to this night, this time, where you are all going to die together! You should have saved your brother the pain. You should have let him die all those times before. He should have let you die. Your father should have let you both alone to die."
"Our father would never let something like that happen."
The voice was quiet, but recognizably Sam.
The demon turned slowly, releasing his stranglehold on Dean. Sam stood in the open doorway, the light of the fading sun drifting over his shoulder. He stood weaponless, his hands empty and at his sides. His eyes were burning dark in anger.
"So . . . the prodigal son returns." The demon laughed, an evil sneer on his lips. "I'm glad the whole family is here. This will be a reunion the Winchester's will never forget."
Sam smiled wryly. "You've got that right."
The demon advanced towards him, then stopped short. His eyes widened.
"What's the matter?" Sam edged around the side of the cabin, the smile still playing on his lips.
John again tried to advance towards Sam, but was brought up short as though he had walked against an invisible wall. "What did you do?" he demanded fiercely.
Sam was getting closer to Dean, now, and he looked up at the ceiling. "Ever heard of a containment circle?"
The demon growled as the realization hit him.
"We caught Meg in one of these, you know," Sam said. "While you were busy down here waiting around for me, I was busy on the roof."
The elaborate circle had been painted over the roof of the cabin with black oil paint. Sam had worked quickly and quietly, praying the circle would work on the demon and praying that he would complete it without being discovered. The demon had been too concerned with Dean to pay any attention to the soft noises on the roof.
The demon screamed, an inhuman sound ripping from John's throat.
Sam had reached Dean and gently probed his brother's injuries. "Dean, are you okay?"
"Sammy . . . The Colt. Where is it?" Dean asked faintly.
"I have it. Don't worry, Dean."
Dean shook his head, agony in his eyes. "You can't shoot Dad."
Sam gripped his brother's shoulders in assurance. "I won't, Dean. I won't. I can't. I couldn't do that . . . no matter what happened."
"What are you going to do, then, Sammy boy?" the demon said darkly from within the circle. "Are you going to keep me here in this body forever? Are you going to sit here and watch your father waste away?"
Sam pushed himself to his feet. "No." His voice was calm, and Dean was surprised, even through his haze of pain, to note that Sam's voice was devoid of the anger he had expressed all those days ago when they had last encountered the demon.
"No. I'm going to end this."
Sam pulled the book of Solomon out of his jacket and flipped it open. Dean struggled to sit up, to ignore the pain that licked its way throughout his body. His brother was going to try to exorcise the demon.
"Sammy . . ."
His warning came too late. The demon convulsed within their father's body, causing John to collapse and then scream as they had seen him do all those days before, and then the demon poured from John's body in a black cloud, filling the circular space, and unable to escape. The cloud moved fast, whirling around the circle. It would be impossible to shoot it at the speed it was moving at. John lay unconscious on the floor within the circle, and Sam started for him.
"No! Sam!" Dean had pushed himself up to his knees, now. "It will get you, too."
"Dean, we can't exorcise it if it isn't possessing anyone," Sam replied, his eyes never leaving the churning mass of black.
"And you aren't going to get yourself possessed, either." The last argument had taken much out of Dean, and he coughed in pain, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. "Sam, go get the toolbox out of the back shed."
"Dean . . ."
"Do it, Sam!"
Sam jumped at the vehemence in his brother's voice, then disappeared out the door, knowing that Dean must have a plan. Dean fell back against the wall, staring at the churning mass inside the entrapment circle and his father's unconscious body inside. Sam returned a moment later, the toolbox in hand.
"Empty all the tools out," Dean instructed.
Sam dumped the tools onto the floor next to Dean, then crouched next to him. "I think I know what you want to do."
"You think it will work?"
Sam shook his head. "I don't know."
Dean pushed against the wall, trying to stand. "We have to do it fast, before it gets to Dad."
Sam reached into his jacket, pulled the Colt out and handed it to Dean. "Here." He met his brother's eyes, then added, "Just in case."
The entity had been busy trying to find a hole in the containment circle, battering itself against the invisible barrier and causing an icy wind to whip through the cabin in its fury. An unearthly scream was whistling through the air as the demon verbalized its wrath.
Quickly, Sam drew the Devil's Trap on the lid of the toolbox and then on all sides. The toolbox was heavy, waterproof, and airtight. It had held all the tools that Sam had dumped for years and they still looked brand new, without rust. The locks were heavy and unbreakable.
"We have to drive it inside, Sammy," Dean whispered, his breathing strained. "We have to make it realize that this is the only safe place for it to hide."
Sam pulled Dean to his feet, wincing when Dean hissed in pain. Blood was dripping from his face and he seemed weak and unable to stay upright. Sam allowed Dean to lean on him, and then he opened the book of Solomon, finding the right page.
"Non nobis Domine."
The demon raged, pounding on the barrier, and Sam edged the open toolbox into the circle with the toe of his boot.
"Senta, Padre Santo."
It was an ancient chant in a mixture of Latin and Italian from the churches that were first established by the Christians nearly two thousand years ago. The oldest chants were the most potent, and the demon knew it, twisting in agony. The scream reached an uncomfortable pitch, and the wind kicked up. Sam had to brace himself against the wind in order to stay upright, and Dean leaned on him heavily.
"Il gridare della chiesa. . ."
With the last words of the ancient chant, the demon let loose a whirlwind, the scream deafening, and then dove into the toolbox. Sam quickly slammed the lid down on top of it and clicked the locks in place.
Dean stood swaying when Sam had dove forward and he managed to stay upright as Sam pressed his hands down on the lid. A deafening silence hit them as the wind disappeared and the scream faded, cut short as though shut off with a switch. There was no sound, no movement, no indication the demon had ever been in the cabin.
Sam rushed over to John and turned him over. A small trickle of blood was running from his nose, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.
"Dad? Dad, wake up. Come on, Dad." He shook John, trying to wake him and was met with a groan.
Dean slowly sank to his knees next to the toolbox, the Colt in his hand. He was conscious of the fact that there was only one bullet in the gun. There was only one bullet to bring this demon down.
"Sam . . . ?"
John looked groggy and he squinted up at his youngest son.
"Hey Dad." Sam grinned. "We got it. It's trapped."
"What?" John struggled to sit up.
"The Devil's Trap . . . remember?" Sam tipped his head to look in his father's eyes. "It's in the toolbox . . . Trapped. Can't get out."
John looked over at Dean and saw the toolbox next to his son. "You didn't kill it?" he asked quietly.
Dean met his gaze solemnly. "Dad . . . is it really going to die if we shoot it?"
It wasn't really a question, and John Winchester knew it. He heaved a deep sigh, feeling the burn of tears in the corner of his eye.
"No." He shook his head. "It can't die like that."
Sam looked at him sharply.
"The Colt's only going to work on it if we let it possess someone. As an ethereal entity . . . I've never known a bullet to work on something like that. They can move too fast. They can dematerialize."
Dean shook his head. "No. It can't be that way."
"Sacrifice, Dean," John pushed himself to his feet. "Someone has to die for the good of the people."
"No. No one is going to die. If that happens . . . the demon will have won." Dean was mustering strength from sources he didn't know he had. Sam left John to stand by his side. "This demon has thrived on death and destruction. This isn't the way it was meant to be." Blood was filling the back of his throat, but he swallowed, trying to hide the pain. "We take the box and bury it. We're out in the wilderness. No one is going to find it for a long time . . . and maybe by then we'll have figured out a way to get rid of it forever."
"Yeah . . . Dad," Sam was sharing some of Dean's enthusiasm. "We can find another way. It can't get out of that box now. We could leave it buried there forever if we had to. We could leave it here until—"
"Until what?" John turned on his sons. "Until some unsuspecting hiker or archaeologist digs it up and unleashes it again? It's going to sit in that box fuming and scheming and we aren't going to be able to stop it next time. It was in my head! It knows us inside and out! It knows what we have to fight against it, and it knows that that isn't much. We have to kill it now."
Dean and Sam were silent.
"Boys . . ." John's voice was quiet, calm. "I'm not asking you to make this sacrifice."
"We know what you're asking, Dad," Sam answered, just as quietly. "We can't let you do that."
"Dean . . . Sam . . . I've lived a full life."
"No." Sam left Dean's side and approached his father. "I'm not going to let you do this."
With a powerful blow, Sam hooked John's temple, knocking him flat onto his back on the floor, out cold.
"Nice," Dean murmured. "Now what?"
John was next aware of white, pristine walls and a soft bed. A soft beeping of a monitor over his head nearly lulled him back to sleep, but then he saw a dark head next to his bed, brown eyes peering at him filled with concern.
"Hey Dad," Sam said softly.
"Sammy . . . What happened?"
Sam looked sheepish. "I um, I kind of knocked you out . . . gave you a mild concussion."
Awareness of his situation was slowly coming, along with his memory.
"Where's Dean?" he slurred.
"Right here, Dad."
John turned his head to the right and saw his son lying in a hospital bed next to him. A bandage was wrapped around his head and IV's were linked to his arms.
"We in a hospital?"
"Yeah, Dad. I brought you here yesterday."
"Yesterday?" John turned his head to look back at Dean. "How's Dean?"
"He's okay, Dad. He was pretty knocked up, worse than you . . . but he's okay now."
Suddenly, John jerked upright, his eyes frantic. "Where's the demon? What happened?"
Sam pressed his father back into the bed, throwing a cautious glance at his brother. "We killed it, Dad."
John looked at him, confused.
"The bullet . . . we shot it into the toolbox, and the demon died. It's gone, Dad. It's gone forever. Nothing to worry about anymore."
"Really?" John's voice was a whisper, his eyes desperate and burning with frustrated tears. "It's gone?"
"Yeah," Sam said hoarsely. "It's dead. Mom and Jess . . . they're avenged, Dad."
"Oh, God," John was crying now. "It's really gone?"
"Yeah, Dad. It's gone."
John Winchester never returned to hunting the supernatural, but his sons continued, knowing that the sacrifice they had made was in not telling their father that the demon that had nearly destroyed their family was still alive.
Sam and Dean buried the toolbox deep in the woods outside of their cabin and spread salt over the ground to keep other spirits and demons away. They knew their father would not stop on his destructive path until he had destroyed this demon, and they knew that they could not allow him to continue knowing that he was willing to sacrifice his life.
The Winchester brothers continued hunting the supernatural, knowing that somewhere the secret to destroying the demon would be found, and knowing that time was running short. The demon would not remain locked up forever.