A/N: THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH FOR YOUR RESPONSE, AWESOME READERS! You make us so happy! Muah!
So here's the update! On the topic of updates, there will be two every week, Wednesdays and Sundays. Story is complete!
In light of what's happening on Tumblr, we hope everyone here is doing okay. I just lost some more of my faith in humanity, to say the least. If anyone wants to talk, though, both Sanjana (SPNxBookworm) and I (Chronic Potterphile) are here.
Take care, everyone!
Also, sorry about the poor formatting. My iPad is being a pain. D:
JUST WALK BESIDE ME
Interlude: A Long Way Home
The previous day
John
"I'm not lost," John mutters to himself uncertainly, not sure whether he's even convincing himself. He looks around, hoping to spot something that indicates that he'd been tracking his sons right. He pulls out the notebook he'd managed to snag from a stationary shop and reads over his notes again. He's followed every alias he knows his boys could have, and after connecting the dots here and there, he's positive that he's in the right place. Although, he's wondering what they're doing in Lebanon, Kansas.
But why does it seem like his boys have never been here?
John groans inwardly as he walks for a few blocks, hoping to spot a motel or something that will give him even the tiniest of signs that his sons are here, that they're alive. He refuses to think of anything else. If they were dead, he would have known. With his deep-seated instincts, he'd have known.
He walks along for a while. Sees several faces which are not familiar. The instinct in him burns, and tells him his boys are here, but he doesn't know anymore. A newspaper he stole a few hours ago informed him that the year is 2016. That makes it a whole ten years since he gave up his life to save Dean. He wonders what became of the demon, and he wonders if Dean was able to save Sam in time. The last memory he recalls is the intense, white hot pain in his chest, his inability to breathe and finally everything going black, and that was the day he sold his soul for Dean — and there are some more vague flashes, of him holding amorphous demon smoke and Sam and Dean's very distraught faces looking at him…
… He's not sure what those other flashes are of.
He is rounding a corner, lost in thought, when the sight of something makes John stop in his tracks. He looks at the object, dumbfounded. It's the Impala. The plates are not the same, but it's a '67 Chevy Impala and John would recognise it blind. What's even more surprising is that it looks exactly like the Impala.
She's standing there before him in the parking lot of the convenience store, majestic and gleaming, reminding him of Sammy's baby days and Dean strapped up in his car seat at the back, occasionally pushing a milk bottle or a pacifier between Sam's little lips to get him to calm down. Dean would be so quiet… so quiet, his voice low, only meant for Sam to hear, and Sam only listening to Dean.
It's surprising to John that the Impala has been around this long. He cautiously walks up to it, almost expecting a trap. Nearing it, he just knows that he's right. It is his. It's the car that never failed them, that held each of them wounded at one point or another and always got them to their destinations in one piece.
His fingers are barely brushing over the hood of the car when he hears a man clear his throat from behind him. He turns around, and his jaw almost drops in shock at what he's seeing.
It's Sam.
John may have been a shitty parent, but he'll recognise his boys anywhere. Sam looks so different than he'd last seen him when he'd sold his soul to save Dean's life — older, tired-looking, better built… and… what has the kid done to his hair? And John knows, for sure, that this is his son. The son he never had a chance to explain himself to. The son he'd never really known because his work had been more important than giving the kid a decent childhood. Something that he had failed at, and Dean had to step in for.
He almost expects Sam to greet him. But he knows better. He puts up his hands in surrender, showing that he means no harm, when Sam immediately drops the supplies in his hand and pulls out a gun.
"What do you want?" Sam asks; there's nothing but pure hate in his voice and it shocks John.
John purses his lips, wondering how to explain it to his son without getting shot in the head.
"Sammy..."
"Don't you call me that, you bastard!"
John nods, stepping away, knowing he's treading a minefield here. "Okay. I won't call you that. I know how bad this looks, son. But it's me. I promise you, it is me."
Sam hesitates for a few seconds, but doesn't lower the gun. "My father is dead."
John nods again. "Yes. Until yesterday, I would have said that to myself too, Sam. But it's me, it's really me."
John's hope falls as Sam's expression remains unchanged, disbelief etching every inch of his features. Of course Sam doesn't believe him. How many monsters out there could claim exactly that? John looks away for a second, trying to think of how to prove it to him and that's when he realises he's made a mistake.
You never turn your back on anything you don't trust.
The last thing John sees is the asphalt coming closer and closer to his face as blinding pain shoots through his left temple and black creeps out of the corner of his eyes to obscure his vision.
~o~
"Is it really him?"
"I don't know."
John's feet are scraping against… something, as a strong pair of hands hold him by the armpits, dragging him through somewhere. Lights dim and brighten in the world beyond his eyelids, but John can't get himself to open his eyes.
He feels himself drift off again as he listens to another part of the bizarre conversation.
"It's not the angels, Sam, I'd have felt the lingering grace."
"Who is it then, Cas? I don't—" a sigh. "Crowley?"
"He has no motives."
There is a pause. "I guess we'll just have to ask… well, my dad, then…"
~o~
Cold water is the next thing he feels. The chill of it bites, as a wave of wetness hits his face. Spluttering and coughing, John blinks against the pounding in his head to see Sam sitting on a small stool in a corner of the room and an unfamiliar man holding an empty metal bucket. Sam's companion has striking blue eyes and black hair, and is wearing what appears to be a tan coloured trench-coat over a white shirt and black suit pants.
John also realises that his hands are cuffed to a steel chair. He relaxes and doesn't even try to fight, knowing it wouldn't work anyway.
His gaze roams around the room to see chains dangling on the walls with cuffs attached to them. There are demon traps and other sigils carved into them. John shudders involuntarily. Where the hell is he? Some sort of torture dungeon? What's the matter with his boys? Have they started learning how to torture?
When John looks down, he realizes that his chair is set in the middle of a large demon trap and that the cuffs on his own hands have similar sigils carved into them too. The room is dark and grey with just one bulb of light which hangs above him, giving him the feel of being in a very old interrogation room.
As he looks back up, the trench-coated man pulls out a flask and sprays some water on John. He then uses a silver knife to make a small cut on John's hand, ignoring the hiss of pain. The man is testing John — finding out if he's human. John feels his chest inflate. He's taught his boys well, although he has no clue why Sam has a guy hired for this stuff. Where'd they get all the money anyway?
"It's really him, Sam," the blue-eyed stranger says suddenly, in a very gravelly voice.
John squints at his son, who still seems uncertain. Sam gets up tentatively from his place and walks over to John with the stool in hand before setting it in front of him and sitting on it. He is staring at John now, utter disbelief written on his face.
"Convinced?" John croaks out. He's still proud of Sam, but a side of his mind also wants Sam to just understand and hear him out.
"No," Sam answers. John notices for the first time that Sam's voice sounds different too — although only slightly. At twenty-three, Sammy had sounded like a young man. Now, he's all grown up, sceptical, with lines on his face, and maturity and experience shining through every angle. Sammy grew up a lot—without him.
Sam, ignoring John's scrutiny, looks to the unknown man in the room. "Do it, Cas."
John frowns at the statement. "Do what?" he asks with trepidation. The man, 'Cas,' looks hesitantly at Sam before proceeding towards John.
"What are you—?" John is cut off as a wad of folded cloth is shoved into his mouth.
He can see an apologetic look on Cas's face as the man says, "Bite down on that. It'll help a little."
Before John can even try and understand what is going on, Cas plunges his hand into the centre of his chest and John feels unimaginable pain. There are white hot rods, shoved into him over and over and then, a block of ice, and the rods again… then a poker drilling through him, tearing at his chest…
He yells in anguish, biting down on the cloth so hard he feels like his jaw might break any second.
And just when he feels he can't take it anymore, the pain in gone and he's gasping, torrents of sweat flowing down his face as he tries to regain his bearings. He spits out the cloth and looks up at Sam, wondering if he'll ever believe him.
"Well?" Sam asks, turning to Cas.
Cas nods. "It's him."
Sam looks flabbergasted. "But...how...?"
"I can explain," John gasps, still trying to overcome the lingering ache in his chest.
Sam looks sceptical. "I don't believe this," he mutters. He gets up, takes a key out of his pocket and hands it to Cas.
"Free him," he says before walking out.
John closes his eyes and groans with the fresh pain pounding in his head, thanks to whatever the stranger did to him. He slowly opens them to see Cas occupying the stool Sam had been on and staring at him with a look of almost curiosity on his face.
"You really are John Winchester," says Cas.
"Yup," John answers.
They sit in silence for a few seconds until John can't take it anymore. "What are you?" he asks. He knows that no ordinary human being would have been able to make his hand go through someone's body like that. In fact, that's what demons and spirits do, but they always killed. Why didn't this entity's action kill John?
"I'm an angel," Cas answers, his sharp voice cutting through John's thoughts. John blinks. Angels? Impossible.
John can't decide whether the man is joking or not, so he settles for believing him. For now. He will get the whole story later. He's just not in the mood for anything except getting out of the handcuffs and chains and explaining himself. So he turns his eyes to the 'angel'.
"Can you get these off?" he requests, wary.
Cas nods and in a few seconds, John is free. He massages his aching wrists and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees with his face in his hands.
"Can I ask you something?" John questions in a muffled voice.
"Yes."
"What the hell did you do to me?"
Cas smiles a little. "I felt your soul," he says simply.
John just stares at the angel. This just keeps getting weirder and weirder, he thinks.
"Can I ask you something?" says Cas.
John nods, still trying to figure out the man in front of him.
"How are you alive?" Cas asks.
John sighs. "Honestly? I don't know. I woke up to find myself tied to a chair, just like this one, by an old Chinese shaman who wanted my blood. I managed to escape and track the boys, and I ended up here."
Cas squints, tilting his head to the side and he seems to analyse the man in front of him. "Why did the shaman want your blood?"
John reaches inside his coat pocket and frowns. He gets more and more anxious as he searches the rest of his pockets in his coat and pants but doesn't find what he's looking for.
"Looking for this?" Sam asks as he walks in, holding out a small glass vial. The bottle is slightly bigger than John's hand and is made of tinted black glass. Ancient sigils cover the outside, carved into the material. They stand out stark white against the slight glow of the soul trapped in it, illuminating the inside of the bottle. The lid is golden and it seems to be attached to the vessel, as though a continuous part of it. On top of the lid, yet another sigil is carved and painted over in deep red.
"Be careful with that, Sam," John warns.
"Why? What's in it?" Sam asks, frowning.
"The shaman that brought me back? His son is trapped in there. It used to be in my storage locker but he must have got hold of it somehow. It had taken me and four other hunters to bind the son into this bottle." John stops, spotting the glare Sam's giving him. When no one speaks, John continues.
"He was wreaking havoc over towns, killing for the pleasure of it and apparently, I seem to have pissed off the dad. He resurrected me because my blood is what completely seals this thing," John explains, holding his hand out for the bottle.
Sam still doesn't look convinced and John's groans in exasperation. "I don't know how else to convince you it's me, Sam. But I'm not lying. You have to believe me."
Sam nods thoughtfully as he scrutinizes the vial for a few seconds, turning it over and over between his fingers before finally handing it to John.
"I guess I believe you, then. We'll…we'll check this out. Since you took the one thing this shaman brought you to life for, there's no doubt he'll come after you. We'll do something," Sam says.
John agrees. He looks properly at his son and realises that Sam has bags under his eyes, is dishevelled, and seems to be edgy. Well… he did look tired even before he knocked John out. He probably got back from a hunt and didn't sleep. At least, John hopes that it's as simple as that. But instinct tells him that something huge has happened here.
"You really grew out your hair, didn't you?" John asks after a moment of silence, trying to start out with light conversation.
Sam doesn't exactly bite. He just snorts. "Wow, Dad. After all that's happened, that's what you notice?"
John shrugs. "Hey, it's not every day that you get to come back to life and see your boys."
Sam chuckles. There is an awkward silence between them. They never really got on well when John was alive and he can still feel the tension in the air.
"So, where's Dean?" John asks.
Sam stiffens slightly, as though he doesn't want to reveal Dean's whereabouts, or even talk about Dean. A flurry of fatherly thoughts and worries begin to stream in and out of John's mind, but he is cut off by someone.
"Here," says a voice from the entrance. It's familiar, and John knows that it belongs to Dean, although his voice seems so much more gravelly and tired than John remembers. It's as if Dean is struggling to speak again. Like… after Mary.
John's heart breaks. So something big did happen. Maybe more than one big thing — he doesn't know, but he will find out. Pulse starting to quicken, John looks around Sam's shoulder to see Cas supporting Dean while they walk into the room.
And Dean… oh God, John has to hold back a gasp. Dean looks… sick. His clothes are hanging loose from a body that John had known to be well-built. His eyes are a muted green — they've lost all their shine. He has more lines on his face than John can count. And his expression is wary, although his face does split into a tired grin at the sight of John.
"Hey, Dad."
John feels relief through the sadness. His boys are alive, albeit slightly worse for the wear. John frowns as he eyes the bruises on Dean's hands, the cuts on his face and the way he's limping.
"What happened to you?" he asks Dean, his voice coming out more worried than he expected. "Are you sick, son?"
Dean becomes rigid and avoids eye contact with his father. John is taken aback when Sam cuts in with a sharp tone. "He's not sick, and there's nothing here you need to know right now. Okay, how about you and I get going and we figure out how to get rid of this problem? Cas can stay here with Dean."
John's frown deepens even further. "And Dean is okay with not coming?" Because Dean had come hunting with pneumonia once, and another time, had chased down a werewolf despite having a bullet wound in his leg from just two days before. So if Dean is still the same…
"No." Sam says stubbornly, although Dean is glaring from behind him. "Dean needs his rest—" he is cut off abruptly by his brother.
"Dude, if you think you're just gonna leave me here, you've gotta be stupid. I'm coming with, whether you like it or not," Dean states.
Sam looks almost helpless as he shakes his head at his brother. "Dean, you almost died. This could be dangerous—"
"That's exactly why I'm not letting you and Dad go out there alone again," Dean argues, slightly unsteady on his feet as he leans into Castiel.
"But, Dean—"
"Enough, Sam. I said I'm coming with you and that's final."
And yes, John decides, he still knows his sons pretty well.
A/N: reviews? :D
