When John Winchester finally managed to pry his eyes open, his head pounding like that damned demon had ripped it apart piece by piece, he noticed several things all at once.
The first was that he was tied to a chair. He gave an experimental wriggle, but the knots held fast. Almost like something Dean would have done- the kid was a fucking Boy Scout when it came to knots.
The second was that there was blood seeping through a bandage on his arm, and his shirt was wet with water and something that smelled like drain cleaner. There was a devil's trap carved into the floor under his feet, and he almost sagged with relief. Hunters, then. He could deal with hunters.
The third was there were two very familiar men staring at him with unreadable expressions. One was about average height, the other taller. Both possessed the worn and beaten look that John often saw in hunters too long on the road without enough victories to make up for the losses, and both held themselves, seemingly unconsciously, in a tense and ready stance. The taller was toying with the hilt of what appeared to be a knife on his belt, but looked up when the shorter nudged him to attention.
"He's awake."
John stilled. The kid was good. He hadn't so much as breathed loudly since becoming conscious, but evidently he'd still given himself away. He glanced up and blinked a few times, trying to appear as confused as he felt, but neither appeared impressed. The shorter got down on his haunches so he was eye-level with John.
"What are you?" he demanded, voice surprisingly cold. John was taken aback, but answered the question honestly. The tall one looked a bit too eager to use that knife.
"Human. Hunter, like you. Name's John Winchester."
"No," the tall one with the long hair said, speaking for the first time and damn if that voice wasn't familiar. Much deeper, of course, and flat and matter-of-fact instead of overly emotional, but he sounded like Sammy. "John Winchester," he said slowly, "is dead. He's been dead for going on nine years."
The shorter one nodded in agreement. "Exactly. I mean, I know Winchesters have a bad habit of not staying dead-" was he talking about the deal he made to save Dean? Was that common knowledge now? Or was that some sort of a veiled threat toward his boys? "-but he's dead. I think we'd know if he wasn't. So. What are you and how did you get in here? Who sent you? Crowley?"
Clearly these two had mistaken him for someone else. Everything got a bit hazy after making the deal with Yellow-Eyes and then whispering his final warning into Dean's ear (he was fairly certain there had been a lot of pain) but he hadn't died. He'd know if he had.
"I told you," he bit out. "My name is John Winchester. My wife was named Mary. I have two sons-"
"Three," the tall quiet one said from the back of the room (dungeon, he noted, taking in the engraved chains and wall of weapons for the first time).
His eyebrows reached his hairline. "What?"
"Adam Milligan ring any bells? Wow, you really did not do your research, did you?" the shorter one picked up again, his easy smile vaguely threatening, twirling what looked like a short four-sided sword between his fingers. John had no idea where he had produced it from. But more importantly, how did they know about Adam?
"How do you know about Adam?" he snarled, or tried to. The short one looked utterly unimpressed.
"Why should I tell you anything?"
"Because he's my son. I need to know if he's in danger."
The shorter one's lips twitched up in something that might have been amusement, and the tall one, who John had all but forgotten during his interrogation, suddenly snorted with skeptical laughter. "Yeah. Sure. We all know how good you are about not endangering your sons, John," he said, placing heavy sarcastic emphasis on his name as though to drive home that he didn't believe it was really his. It was the most words he'd heard the tall one speak since waking up.
But more worrisome, when on Earth had his life become hunter gossip? He didn't even interact with the community except when necessary. Sure, he'd hung around the Roadhouse a few times, but that was all. Who were these mystery hunters to tie him up and judge his parenting?
"What are you even talking about?"
The short one just shook his head, and when he did something familiar and bronze glinted around his neck. An amulet. One he'd seen a thousand times before, and all of a sudden all he could do was stare, at Dean, his boy, which mean the tall one with the long hair was Sam, had to be.
"Dean?" he asked hesitantly, and for a second he thought he saw something flash across his son's face before it hardened again. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam and they seemed to share a silent conversation before both rose as one and make for the door, which he noticed now seemed to just be a gap between two file cabinets.
"Sam?" he tried, and was rewarded with a shudder that ran across his younger son's shoulders, but he didn't turn around. Dean seemed to notice the involuntary action and wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders. At least Dean was still looking after his brother.
"Let me go, boys. That's an order!"
The file cabinets slid together with a crash and then John was alone, but he could still hear the voices fading in the distance and damn it, how had he not recognized them as his sons? The voices were deeper, yes, and rougher with emotion and years, but unmistakably theirs.
"...on his way, he'll help us find out for sure... not a demon?" That was Dean, talking in the same hushed and reassuring tones he'd use when Sammy woke up from a nightmare.
"I'm sure... sense it. ...is it then? ...just like him. Dean, could it..."
Then the voices were out of range and the lights flipped off, plunging him into darkness.
He wasn't sure how long he sat in the pitch-black dungeon, hearing only faint echoes as the boys went about their lives, and wondered when he had become such a ghost to them that they would just leave him here and go about more important things. His reasoning told him it couldn't have been that long, because he didn't feel hungry or anything, but he felt like it might have been forever before finally, the lights flicked on, stunning his eyes, and a moment later the door creaked open.
Sam and Dean walked in with a third man in tow, who looked rather plain, like an accountant or something, but John could almost sense the waves of power coming off of him and as the unnaturally blue eyes bored into him he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"This is Castiel," Dean said by way of introduction. Sam had reclaimed his post leaning against the back wall, and John wondered why his younger son didn't seem to want to be near him. "He's going to find out if you are who you say you are."
He noticed for the first time that 'Castiel' (and what sort of a name was that?) was holding a belt loosely, and for a moment entertained the notion that he was going to be whipped before his son forced his mouth open and slid the leather between his teeth.
"This is going to hurt," Castiel spoke for the first time, rolling up his sleeves and sounding like he'd been gargling gravel, and that was all the warning he got before the man's (definitely not a man) hand shoved into his chest with a flashing light and a searing, burning, agonizing pain. He tried not to scream, but he shook from head to toe and a groan worked its way through the belt.
And just like that, it was over. Sam and Dean looked apprehensive, and Castiel looked stunned. "It's him," he intoned in that gravelly voice.
"What do you mean, it's him? It's who?"
"It's John Winchester. This man is your father."
Both boys looked like they'd been slapped. John thought they'd be happier.
"How?" was all Dean said, and the thing just shook its head.
"I... don't know. After being dead for so long... I'm not sure what would have the power to return a human from heaven, especially without a body for it to return to and especially when the soul should by rights belong to hell... I'm sorry, Dean, I'll look into it."
"Alright, thanks Cas. Good luck."
Then there was a sound like fluttering wings and Castiel vanished, and John thought his eyes might have popped out of their sockets. True teleportation... only very powerful demons could do that without being summoned. His sons were working with a demon, and not just any demon, maybe one of the most powerful alive. Must have been Sam's idea, with the demon taint running through his veins, and he must have corrupted Dean. He should have known Dean couldn't kill his brother, even under direct orders from his father. Should've killed the boy himself. Things had clearly fallen apart without him, but now he was back it was time for him to set things right, and that would start with his boys remembering their blasted respect.
Both of his sons stared at him for moment before Dean silently moved forward and sliced through the ropes with a flick of a knife, before returning to his brother's side and watching as John rubbed some of the circulation back into his wrists.
"Dad?" his older son finally asked, his voice breaking a little, and when John nodded Dean grabbed him in a hug. It took him a moment to realize his shoulder was wet- Dean was crying.
It took him a moment longer to realize that Sam had remained by the wall. Dean seemed to notice all of a sudden too, and beaconed his brother forwards. "Co'mere, Sammy. He won't bite."
Sam looked more than slightly disbelieving of that fact, but shyly slid forward and joined the huddle and for a moment, before he could think of anything else, John could almost think they were a family again.
The boys were on one side of the table, having a hurried conversation, apparently arguing about where to start some story. John just wanted to know why they had a demon helping him, and he intended to ask so, in a decidedly drill-sergeant fashion, right after he was caught up on what had happened after he was... gone. He refused to say dead. The boys had gotten lax in his absence, that much was painfully clear.
"...guess we should start with Cold Oak," Dean said reluctantly, and Sam frowned but didn't argue the point, and then both the boys turned back towards him.
"What did you know about Azazel and his special children?" Sam asked, his voice flat.
Azazel. Yellow Eyes?
"Yellow Eyes? I know he contaminated them with demon blood-" and Sam flinched backwards at the word 'contaminated' "-he was building an army."
Sam was slowly shaking his head, his shoulders trembling. "You knew," he said, softly, so John could barely hear it. "And you didn't tell me."
Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, shooting an irritated glare at his father across the table, and John was taken aback. What had he done for Dean to show that kind of disrespect? Maybe they didn't remember how things worked around here- after all, he had been gone a long time. But Dean had to understand his motivations in not telling Sammy. The boy was a danger to himself and others.
"Well," Dean said, looking distinctly uncomfortable, "a bunch of those special children, Sammy included, were kidnapped and taken to this place called Cold Oak where they were supposed to..."
"Fight," Sam interjected. "To the death. There was this guy named Andy we'd met before, and he could broadcast thoughts, put images in people's heads, so he sent Dean a vision of where we were. But before he could get there, a girl named Ava killed off the others and then died herself so it was only me and a soldier named Jake."
He swallowed uncomfortably. "And he killed me."
He looked expectantly at Dean, while John's head was reeling. How was Sam alive?
Dean sighed, chewing on his lower lip. "Three days. He was dead... three days before I cracked. I went to the crossroads."
"You made a deal?" John demanded, horrified but not all that surprised, already doing the math. Standard deal was ten years, and how long did they say it had been, eight? Nine? Dean must be running low on time. "How much time do you have left?" And why would you sell yourself for your tainted brother? he thought but didn't say. You're the good one, the pure one.
Sam shook for a moment when the thought crossed his mind and shied away from him, and for a hysterical moment he wondered if Sam could hear his thoughts.
"Dad," his younger son said in a low voice. "Dean didn't get ten years. He only got one."
John did a double take. Dean's face was shadowed and he couldn't meet his eyes. How did he get out of his deal? Unless...
"You went to Hell?"
Dean gave a short, curt nod. Sam sent him a sympathetic look, and John wondered how his tainted son could ever... how dare he. Dean had gone to Hell because of him. Sam could never understand how much his brother, the one that didn't belong in Hell, had sacrificed and suffered for him.
Sam stood and stalked out of the room. Dean sent a look after him, then frowned accusation at his father, as though Sam's mercurial moods were somehow his fault. After a long, awkward silence, he continued the story. John tried to keep his eyebrows from disappearing as Dean launched into a section about angels. Sure, he'd heard of them, but like unicorns and Bigfoot they were some of the myths that were just that- myths.
Dean talking about making his deal, killing the demon, chasing down another named Lilith who held the contract but getting dragged into Hell. He wouldn't say anything about what it was down there despite John's cajoling, or how long he was there, just looked away in something like shame. He mentioned the angels and said that Sam had gone 'off the rails' while he was 'downstairs,' but wouldn't give any details, which worried John. What had Sam done that was so bad his elder son couldn't even talk about it? He added it to the swiftly growing list of things to confront Sam about.
Dean told him about hunting the demon, Lilith, who was steadily breaking the seals to free Lucifer from Hell, and she eventually succeeded, though Sam apparently killed her in the process. His face went dark as he described the Apocalypse- hunting for the Four Horsemen as the devil laid waste to the world. He gave Sam credit for stopping it, though John thought that couldn't be right. Talked about Purgatory, monsters John had never heard of called Leviathan and Eve. Told him about those lost in the fight, Bobby Singer and the Harvelles.
There were holes in the story, John could tell. He wouldn't give any details about how the Apocalypse had been started or ended, wouldn't say what exactly had happened to Sam when he was alone, refused to talk about Hell, and John wondered what could have made his son distrust him so much.
They gave him a vacant room, and John tried not to notice that it was about as far away from Sam's as possible. The message there was clear, and as he fell asleep he wondered when his sons had drifted so far away.