Push Comes to Shove

by Swellison

Missing scene from "Simon Said." Dean remembers not to take the easy way out. Originally appeared in Chinook #7, edited and published by Blackfly Presses.

Author's note:

It's been awhile, but I still remember my initial reaction to Dean's almost-suicide in SS. How could they—? Right after Dean breaks down and tells Sam that he should be dead in CSPWDT, they have him almost blowing his brains out, and resolve it off-screen?? After awhile, I calmed down and saw reason: they couldn't shift the focus and momentum from the action on the bridge. Besides, Dean's reaction would be mostly internal, and it's hard to show that on camera. So I started thinking, what would his reaction be? Eventually, I moved from plotting to writing and created this missing scene/flashback.

The television show Raven was shown in the US in 1993, episode quoted is "Something In the Closet" written by Lawrence Hertzog

(Missing scene for Simon Said)

by Swellison

"We can--we can push them. We can make them do whatever we want."

Webber, "Simon Said"

This is taking too long. Dean knew that there were good, solid reasons for him being relegated to rear backup status, hundreds of feet below the dam bridge, where all the action was. Where Sam had gone after Webber, with the dubious help of Andy, instead of his usual brotherly assistance. Screw this. Dean gathered his rifle from the Impala's trunk, and crept determinedly towards the cover of the trees. Even long distance backup was effective, with the right tools.

Dean cocked the rifle and brought it into position, sighting through the sniper's scope, searching for Andy's evil twin, Webber.

"I see you. Bye-bye."

Without skipping a beat, Dean calmly reversed the rifle and tucked it perpendicularly under his chin. He had to tilt his chin upwards to accommodate the length of the rifle. He slowly pulled the trigger back….

A shot rang out from the bridge.

Dean blinked, absorbing his upward-looking view of the night sky and the bridge above him. Gradually, he took in that his head was tilted upwards because he held a rifle pressed to the underside of his chin. Gone was the familiar ease of following orders that had permeated his mind only seconds ago, leaving him with his finger perched uncertainly on the trigger. It had felt so easy, so right. A chance to rectify his earlier wrongness. I was dead… I should've stayed dead. Stay dead… just pull the trigger and bam! Mission accomplished. It's all so easy…. Dean's twenty-seven years of Winchester-ness snorted. Easy? Life is never easy; I learned that a long time ago…

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Fourteen-year-old Dean entered the living room, his sharp eyes searching for the TV remote. It wasn't in what Sammy called its "designated place, " on the TV cart to the right of the 19-inch television set. He remembered OK'ing inside training today, since it had been raining steadily outside. Without Dad's watchful eye, their regimented martial arts session had degenerated into a rough-and-tumble free-for-all, and various pieces of furniture had been fallen over, stumbled against, and knocked around - including the flimsy TV cart. Dean crossed the rectangular room to the TV stand, scanning the area around it. He checked behind the TV and spotted the remote, resting against the baseboard. He retrieved it and glanced at the black cat twitching tail wall clock that he'd picked up on a whim a couple of months ago. "Sammy!" he yelled. "Raven's on in five minutes!" He clicked the remote, found the right channel - not hard to do with only TV antenna reception - and walked back towards the sofa, skirting Dad's second-hand recliner, placed in the middle of the room against the wall, for the best view of both the TV and the front door.

This recliner was brown leather, in fairly decent shape. It was Dad's private property: the one extravagance the hunter permitted himself. Previous incarnations of the reclining chair had been black, blue, red, green, striped, patterned - either upholstered, leather or vinyl. The original had been light blue or gray - Dean's memory was sketchy as to color, but crystal clear on content.

He remembered playing on the living room floor of their home in Lawrence, first with alphabet blocks and later, with his bulky plastic toy cars, and glancing up to see Dad and Mom, stretched out together on the recliner. Dad took most of the space, but Mom snuggled along his left side, head tucked underneath Dad's chin, her long blonde hair fanning out over their shoulders. Their feet were comfortably entwined, resting on the attached raised footstool and Dean could see the love sparkling in their eyes from half-way across the room as they smiled at him and his antics.

Dean frowned at the empty recliner as he sat on the sofa. He didn't usually indulge in past memories, the present was worrisome enough. But the recliner meant something else, besides the memories. It was a symbol of stability for Dean. Dad never carted furniture from place to place; if he bought a recliner, it meant that they were staying somewhere for longer than a couple of weeks, or a month. They'd been here, in this tiny but functional two-story house, since just after Christmas, and Dad had assured Sammy and Dean that they weren't moving before summer. That promise had brought Sammy around; he quit sulking about the friends and teacher he'd left behind at his old school in Colorado and started making friends and adjusting to the new school, in Podunk, Illinois. Okay, the town's name was Effingham, not Podunk - that was just Dean's name for the small, non-descript town where they currently resided.

Dad was big on promises, this year. Privately Dean thought it must've been Dad's New Year's Resolution for 1993, to keep his word. Dad made a concerted effort to limit his hunting to weekends, and to work closer to thirty hours than twenty hours as a mechanic at the local garage, easing their financial situation considerably. Still, his hunting weekends sometimes stretched into three- or four-day outings, adding Fridays and/or Mondays to the weekend. After Fort Douglas and the Shtriga three years before, Sam and Dean saw a lot more of Jefferson, Pastor Jim or Bobby, as Dad parked them with a friend while he hunted whatever he was pursuing at the time, alone. Dean figured he knew why - Dad no longer trusted Dean to look after Sammy on the road, and after the Shtriga incident, who could blame him?

Then Dad surprised him with a deal on Dean's fourteenth birthday. If, during the school year, Dean stayed in Podunk and looked after Sam while Dad left on his hunts, come summer, Dean could accompany Dad on his hunting trips--not just to ride herd on the weapons, but to do some real, front-line hunting with Dad, while Sammy was stashed safely with Bobby or Pastor Jim. Dean jumped at the deal, seeing not only a chance to do some real hunting, but also to prove that he could look after Sammy, and win back Dad's trust.

So life settled into a routine of school, Dad's weekend-plus hunts, and keeping an eye on Sammy. Speaking of which… "Sammy! One minute!"

"Coming!" his younger brother bellowed from upstairs, followed shortly by the rapid thudding of footsteps on the staircase.

The kid sure has a set of lungs on him, Dean thought as Sammy appeared at the entrance to the living room, flushed from his dash down the stairs. Sammy had grown a bunch recently, and now that he was old enough, they'd started doing a lot more training and exercise together, so he'd lost most of his baby fat. His hair was slightly longer - too long in Dean's opinion - and it still curled at the ends. Course, while Sammy had grown a couple of inches, Dean had added three inches to his slowly filling-out frame, maintaining his half-foot height advantage over his younger brother.

Sammy walked past the recliner and settled on the right-hand side of the sofa, since Dean was already occupying the left end. The opening teaser to Raven started, and the boys watched attentively, until the lead character kissed the blonde lady in the mini-skirted white business suit.

"Yuck," Sammy said, "not another girl friend episode."

Dean smiled, "When you're a little older, Squirt, you won't object so much to girl friend episodes."

Sammy scowled, the nickname and Dean's patronizing tone getting to him. "Hey, I'm only four years younger than you."

"Five years younger," Dean corrected, knowing it irked Sammy no end that for the space of a little over three months, Dean had that extra year on him, until May second, when Sammy was once again four years Dean's junior.

Sammy just rolled his eyes, trying not to fidget as the scene progressed. It seemed the lady was a television relationship expert, filming her show live on Waikiki Beach. Things started to get interesting when she received a vaguely threatening telephone call on the air, and then the scene cut to a hard-looking man being released from prison. Next, the opening credits flashed, including some kick-ass martial arts scenes, which was why they started watching this show in the first place. Part of their earlier rough-housing had been Dean trying to imitate Raven's split-leg jump, like he was vaulting an invisible pommel horse, from the opening credits. Dean almost had the move down, just as he'd almost landed on the sofa cushions they'd spread on the floor as padding when he'd attempted it this afternoon.

A few more minutes into the episode, Raven and the blonde were in the lady's dressing room, discussing her current situation.

"The network said they were willing to show re-runs all week. You don't have to do this," Raven said.

"Yes, I do. I can't keep running from this thing. I've run from one coast clear across another, all the way to Oahu. I'm all out of states." The girl -- Susan, Dean remembered -- spoke firmly.

"I'm not suggesting you run. I just thought that holding back on the public appearances, giving Hollow a chance to show his face, might not be a bad idea."

"It's another closet," Susan said firmly. "And it's one I've got to open."

"I'm sure one of us knows what you're talking about."

Susan laughed, reaching for Raven's chin. "One of us does, yes. When I was five years old, I--"

"Is this going to be a long story?"

"No. When I was five, I became obsessed, for some unknown reason, that there was something in my bedside closet. Something terrible and frightening."

"Huh," Dean breathed while Sammy's eyes widened.

"Well, that's not uncommon."

"Yeah, it was. I--I didn't sleep for weeks - at least, not if I could help it, anyway. I stayed awake all night - kept a light on by my bed and watched that door. I was fully convinced that at any moment, this horrible monster was going to step out and have me for dinner. This is above and beyond common."

"Well, you survived it."

"Yeah, I survived it. You know why?"

"No," Raven said, "why?"

"Because after three weeks, I got so fed up, I threw the covers off, walked up to the closet, threw open the door and literally stood in front of the thing and yelled. 'If you're gonna come out, come out now and get it over with.'"

"Wow," Sammy marveled. "That's so brave - and she was only five."

"Brave? She was stupid." Dean said sharply. "She opened herself up to whatever supernatural was out there. 'Come and get me' - what a load of crap." Dean turned his attention from the television to his brother, remembering that Sammy had only recently been complaining about something in his closet, too. "Don't you ever fling open your closet door and say that, y'hear me, Sammy? You use that revolver Dad gave you."

"Sure, Dean." Sammy rose from the sofa, having lost all interest in the TV show. "I'm gonna go back to my book."

It had been drilled into Sammy years ago that Dean or Dad always needed to know his whereabouts, every time, everywhere.

"Reading." Dean shook his head, puzzled by how much enjoyment Sammy could get from a stupid old book. Still, it proves Sammy's got smarts, he's reading way past his grade level - Hell, he reads past my grade level.

"Lights out at nine," he unnecessarily reminded his younger brother. Dad was strict on bedtime enforcement. Dean snorted mentally, Like he's loose on enforcing any rules.

Sammy walked out of the living room.

"Hey," Dean's voice stopped him. "I'll call you when they reach the ending fight scene." It was a compromise: if Sammy watched until the end of the show, he got extra time to get ready for and settled into bed.

"Okay." Sammy scampered up the stairs, and Dean went back to watching Raven.

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Having put Sammy to bed, Dean returned to the living room and continued watching television. He clicked the remote off, ending the news. He could care less about the local goings-on, but keeping an eye on Sammy encompassed tracking March's sometimes-unpredictable weathe- plus, there was always the sports , the front had blown through and tonight was clear and dry, after the day's rain.

Dean attempted to motivate himself to get started on that blasted English paper. He grimaced, easily picturing his friends' reaction to Dean Winchester, stuck doing homework on a Saturday night. More of Dad's rules. He was expected to do all his homework and maintain reasonable grades. Not Sammy's straight A's, at least. Dad's demanding, but he's a realist.

Knock knock knock. Pause.

Dean grabbed his favorite knife from the end table next to the sofa and headed for the front door.

Knock knock knock.

At the longer pause following this set of knocking, Dean relaxed, almost certain he knew who was at the door. He reached the entrance as one last rap sounded, checked the peephole and dropped his knife on the small bookcase placed next to the door to capture letters, school backpacks and the occasional discarded weapon. He opened the door. "Dad!"

John Winchester walked through the opened doorway, shouldering his weapons duffel over his brown leather jacket.

He turned left, entering their dining room, removing his duffel and placing it on the empty dining room table.

Dean trailed after him, surreptitiously scanning Dad's jeans and coat for rips, blood or other damage. Nothing except some splotches of mud on his boots and lower pants legs, which was only to be expected when hunting a lake phantom. "You're home early. The hunt must've been easier than you thought."

A shadow passed over John's eyes as he turned to face his son. "Hunting's never easy," he rebuked, then sighed. "I built in an extra day to track the lake phantom. Turned out it wasn't necessary--I took care of it just after dusk."

"You must be tired from all that driving, Dad... and hungry. Why don't you go relax and I'll heat up some dinner for you? There's still some Hamburger Helper left, okay?"

"Sounds good." John rubbed a hand over his eyes, then removed his jacket, placing it over the closest dining room chair back. "What flavor?"

"Cheeseburger macaroni." Dean said. It was Sammy's favorite, and they both knew that.

Dean watched as John left the dining room, then he entered the kitchen and started heating up the leftovers. In less than ten minutes, he'd put together a reasonable meal for John, adding a bowl of fruit cocktail and a large glass of milk to the plate of hot cheeseburger macaroni that he put on the breakfast tray.

Dean walked into the living room, spotting Dad stretched out in his recliner. He shifted the loaded tray to his right hand and spoke. "Dad." Sammy would just bound up into the recliner, leaping into Dad's lap, missing the fleeting look of pained sorrow in Dad's eyes. But Dean always spoke first, because he and Dad both remembered who rightfully should be sharing the recliner. Dean's left hand reached to pat John's shoulder as the hunter came quickly awake. "It's okay, Dad. I brought you supper."

"Smells good," John said, lowering the footstool so that the recliner was in its standard sitting position. He glanced at the black cat clock as Dean lowered the tray to his lap. "It's almost eleven, what're you doing still up?"

"I was working on my English paper."

"English paper, huh? When's it due?"

"Monday, sir."

"And how far along are you?" John asked as he picked up a fork and delved into the cheeseburger macaroni.

"I've done the research, just need to write it."

John finished swallowing his food. "I only did a cursory cleaning of my weapons, since I drove home after the hunt. You can finish cleaning them for me, and work on your paper tomorrow, if you want."

"Yes, sir!" Dean grinned, happy to shelve his homework and thrilled to be able to help with a hunt, even after the fact. He left Dad eating, snatched an old newspaper from the floor by the recliner, and strode into the dining room.

Depositing the weapons bag on the floor, Dean carefully spread several sheets of newspaper over the oak dining room table, then removed the gun cleaning kit, three revolvers and two shotguns from the weapons duffel. He lined the guns up and started cleaning them, methodically, one at a time, starting with the left-most revolver. As he cleaned them, he tried to piece together the hunt, based on the condition of the weapons used. He knew Dad hadn't used all of the guns, but Dad had taught him to clean every weapon, every time to insure that all weapons were equally ready for use, at any time.

Dean had just started cleaning the first shotgun when the telephone rang. He rose from his chair, walked into the kitchen and plucked the cordless phone from the inner kitchen wall, where it was conveniently mounted for easy access.

The phone continued to ring as Dean carried the it over to Dad, in the recliner. It was another hard and fast rule--if Dad was home, he answered the phone, always. They had learned the hard way that an adult voice on the telephone eased teachers' minds about who was looking after the boys, and prevented misunderstandings that occasionally spiraled into meetings with truant officers or worse, a state's Children's Social Services department.

Dean handed the phone to Dad and stood listening.

"Hello?" John spoke, then added, "Caleb! Good to hear from you."

Dean relaxed somewhat; Caleb was the son of Mark, Dad's go-to source for ammo. Caleb was nine years older than Dean, and a Marine to boot. He and Dad got along like wildfire, and Dean was sometimes just the teensiest bit jealous of that. Dean occasionally wondered if Dad was grooming him to join the Marines, like Caleb had followed Mark's footsteps into the Services. It'd be good training for being a hunter….

Hastily, Dean brought his thoughts back to the present, hearing his Dad's voice abruptly change in tone. The call ended shortly afterwards with Dad's curt "Good-bye."

John rose from the recliner, phone clutched in his right hand. He stalked into the kitchen and hung the receiver back on its base, Dean following anxiously behind. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." John said shortly.

Liar, Dean thought. He could almost see the waves of anger? pain? rolling off Dad's back - and his face was a thundercloud. John strode back into the dining room, grabbed his jacket from the chair he'd put it over, and slipped into it. "Where are you going?" Dean asked, worried.

"Out."

"Dad...." Dean reached for Dad's arm, stopping him. "Did something go wrong with the hunt? Do you have to go back?" Dean couldn't keep the worry out of his voice. It was a stupid question, he realized as his father had made no effort to grab any of the weapons still laid out on the oak table.

"No, Dean. The hunt's taken care of." Something crossed Dad's face, then vanished before Dean could identify it.

John stepped over to the door, opening it. "I'll be back later," he threw over his shoulder, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Dean glared at the front door, then shook himself. He turned the deadbolt on, then returned to the dining room table. He dropped into the nearest chair, picked up the first shotgun and resumed cleaning it, refusing to think about anything past the mechanics of gun-cleaning.

Still, he kept an eye on the time and at quarter to midnight, he set down the second shotgun and stood up, heading for the kitchen. He took the industrial-sized salt tin from the pantry and walked over to the front door. Dean carefully poured the salt in a half-circle on the wooden floor in front of the door, then salted all the first floor windows - two in the dining room, three in the living room, and the big window in the kitchen. He'd already salted the upstairs windows hours ago, ensuring that their house was completely protected before midnight, the bewitching hour.

Then he finished cleaning the last gun, and stashed all the weapons and the cleaning kit back in Dad's duffel. He bundled the now-oily newspapers up and stuffed them into the kitchen waste basket.

Dean returned to the front door, standing impatiently in front of it, tapping his foot and willing Dad to come home. After a few minutes, he sighed then walked into the living room. Crossing the room, he hauled a blanket from the well-scuffed cedar chest that served as their coffee table, and settled down on the couch, spreading the blanket over him. Dad hadn't said when he was returning, but living with Sammy had infused Dean with tons of patience and he could wait.

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Knock. Silence, then two more sharp raps sounded on the front door. Dean bolted awake, throwing the blanket off as he jumped to his feet. That wasn't Dad's knock, ran through Dean's head as he frantically opened the end table drawer, searching for his knife. He'd left the light on, so he could easily see that the knife wasn't in its accustomed place. Oh yeah, I left it by the door, he remembered.

Dean rose stealthily to his feet and stalked silently across the living room, to the front door. He retrieved the knife from the top of the bookcase, listening intently to whatever was happening on the other side of the door. "No, thasss wrong," he thought he heard his father's voice, "I shaid three t-times."

Knock knock knock.

Dean quietly tiptoed up to the door and peered through the spy hole. Dad and another man were standing outside, huddled on the postage-stamp sized front stoop. Knock knock knock. Dean threw the deadbolt back and was already opening the door when the last, single knock sounded.

Guy Farino, who Dean knew slightly from seeing him where Dad worked, stood on the outside, one hand wrapped around John's waist, keeping the eldest Winchester on his feet. Mr. Farino was in his early forties. He was a couple of inches shorter than John, but easily outweighed him. "Hi, Dean. Uh, your Dad's feeling a little under the weather, so I said I'd drop him home."

"C'mon in," Dean said, stepping back and opening the door to its fullest. He watched silently as Mr. Farino walked Dad into the living room and set him down on the leather recliner. Dean closed the door and walked over to the chair. "Thanks for bringing him home, Mr. Farino."

John's eyes were open and Dean knew he was tracking their conversation.

"Every soldier deserves that, Dean." Then he bent over to meet John's gaze. "Semper Fi, John."

"Semper Fi," John answered.

Mr. Farino straightened and turned to Dean. "Ah, d'you need any help getting him to bed?"

"I can manage," Dean said stiffly. He straightened to his full height as Mr. Farino looked him up and down.

"Yes, I believe you can, son."

Dean escorted Mr. Farino to the door, politely seeing him out. He closed and locked the door, returning the deadbolt to its place, then went back to Dad, sitting silently in the recliner. Dad rarely got drunk--except for November second. But it's March, what set him off? It had to be something Caleb said, earlier.

Speculation was pointless, so Dean turned to practical matters. He walked into the kitchen, removing a tumbler from the cabinet to the left of the sink. Dean filled the glass with cold water. Just as he turned the tap off, the phone started to ring.

Dean glanced at the ringing phone sharply. It was well after midnight, who could be calling? After the second ring, the phone suddenly stilled. Dean's eyebrows rose as he stared at the now-silent phone. A few beats later, it started to ring again. Pastor Jim. Dean glanced towards the living room, then grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

"Dean," Pastor Jim didn't seem surprised to be talking to Dean, despite knowing the Winchester's phone answering rules. "Is your father home yet?"

"He got back from the hunt about ten-thirty. He's... ah, indisposed at the moment, tho'."

"I see." Dean had the feeling that Pastor Jim was trying to find the right words to say next.

"What's going on? Dad got back early from his hunt, and he was fine, until Caleb called him."

"Caleb called your Dad?" Pastor Jim repeated.

"Yes, sir."

Pastor Jim sighed. "I was hoping I could reach him before Caleb did." He took a breath, then explained. "Ned Ryerson died tonight, Dean. He was a sergeant in your Dad's unit; they served together."

It was all starting to make sense to Dean. "Semper Fi," he whispered. Although Dad had left the Marines almost twenty years earlier, the Corps had never left him. No matter where they were, John kept himself in the loop with his Corps buddies.

"Sergeant Ryerson was a career soldier. He served in the Gulf War--both Desert Shield and Desert Storm--and it changed him...brought up memories of Viet Nam, I suppose. He committed suicide tonight, Dean. I wanted to be the one to break the news to your father, but Caleb must've told him first."

"Yeah. Thanks for telling me, Pastor Jim. I gotta go"--he broke off, having almost said "Gotta go take card of Dad"--"I gotta go now. 'Bye."

"Call me if you need anything."

"Yes, sir." And Dean hung up the phone. He picked up the glass of water he'd left on the countertop and walked into the dining room. Setting the glass down on the table, he extracted the first aid kit from Dad's weapons duffel and shook out two Tylenols, then took the pills and the water to his father.

Dean stood by the recliner, checking to see if Dad was still awake. He put a hand on John's shoulder. "Dad?"

John started. "Huh?"

Dean held out the pills. "Take these, Dad. You'll feel better."

John stared at the offered pills for a few seconds, then reluctantly held out his hand and Dean dropped the pills into his palm. He dry-swallowed both pills at once.

"Here, drink this," Dean held out the glass of water, careful not to spill it.

John sighed, then reached for the glass of water and slowly started drinking it. Dean watched silently until he'd drained the glass, then took the empty glass and set it on the floor. "Let's get you upstairs now, okay?"

With a considerable effort, Dean managed to haul Dad out of the recliner and negotiated the stairs, keeping Dad upright while doing it. They reached Dad's room and Dean gratefully let John sink onto the double bed. He got John out of his clothes and safely settled under the covers. Dean turned to leave, but he couldn't go without saying something.

"I know what happened to Sgt. Ryerson, Dad. I'm sorry."

John stared at Dean. "Ryerson quit--shot himself with his own gun. He was a Marine f'r God's sake, why'd he do that?" John's eyes pierced Dean's, strikingly sober. "Suicide. Why'd he quit, and take the coward's way out?"

Dean swallowed, wracking his brain for an answer, for something to say to Dad.

John's hand suddenly shot out from under the covers, grabbing Dean's wrist tightly. "You're a Winchester, Dean. And Winchesters don't quit--ever. Promise me, you won't quit--come hell or high water."

Dean winced, Dad's grip was tight enough to cause him pain. He gazed steadily into John's eyes. "I won't quit, Dad. I promise."

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Dean abruptly returned to the present. I won't quit, Dad. I promise. It didn't matter what he'd promised Dad... or even Sam. In the end, it was simpler than that. Dean loved his little brother. And Winchesters protected what they loved--fiercely, completely, and with everything they had. He'd learned that from Dad. That was reason enough to stick around, even after his lifespan had already been unnaturally extended twice--for Sam.

Dean's finger eased out of the trigger and he slowly lowered the rifle from under his chin. Then he sighted down the scope, checking on Sam. He focused on the bridge, then shifted the view, searching for Sam. He spotted his brother, leaning against Webber's car, talking to a much shorter man. Andy, Dean recognized with relief.

Where was Webber? He trailed the scope along the bridge's surface, and soon located Webber, stretched out on the road, a noticeable bullet hole in his chest.

Satisfied, Dean shifted the scope's focus back to Sam, this time making out the streaks of blood in Sam's hair and on his neck. Dean hastily lowered the rifle and rose to his feet, heading rapidly for the Impala. Sammy needed him, on the bridge. Dean was on his way in a heartbeat.