Authors Note: Okay: I owe everyone a huge apology. This has been one heck of a chaotic summer. Plus, my computer has crashed numerous times as well as picked up the tendency to give me the blue screen of death. This part has been written and rewritten close to a hundred times. I felt the first part was lacking in the usual detail that I write with, and I wanted to correct that in this piece. It works well as a stand-alone, but also works in tandem with Redemption.

"Please Understand" isn't a continuation of "I'm Sorry" (the first part of Filtered). What I wrote may have been a little misleading. Each of the three sections in Filtered could stand alone. But they're tied together by the times that Sam wrote letters to Dean, which is something that is mentioned within Redemption. You don't need to read Redemption to read Filtered. And you don't need to read Filtered to understand Redemption. You just need to read and enjoy. =)

I have no beta; so don't take me to be bad or sloppy with grammar and spelling. If you're a writer, you understand how mistakes can slip through when you've looked over something so many times. Not to mention Word changing spellings on you because it believes you to be wrong. If you find mistakes, please tell me, so I can go back and fix them. It would be much appreciated.

Again, I'm sorry this was such a wait. I promise to have the third and final part out sooner. Reviews = love!

Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I would no longer be in student debt. I'm just borrowing them.

Summary: Dean really hated letters from Sam. They never even said anything specific. Just: I'm sorry or please understand or I'll always be your brother.

Warnings: Teen!chester, pre-series, slight-AU, Rated T


Filtered


2. Please Understand

John rolled over on the lumpy leather couch and a spring dug into his side. He should have believed Dean when his oldest said the couch was damn uncomfortable. No one was there to see John move into the master bedroom of the apartment, but he was determined to show his boys that sleep was possible anywhere. So he ignored the lumps and the awkward sagging cushions and closed his eyes.

It was quiet; the only sound that of the cars passing by on the street. He usually relished the stillness. At the moment it just reminded him that Sam was late. An hour ago John had been irritated and angry. Now he was becoming worried. After all, his youngest was stubborn and wouldn't budge unless he knew why, but he wasn't reckless. He'd give Sam another hour to return home before going out looking.

But first John needed some sleep. He was tired. Not just tired: bone-deep weary. He was also sore, and relatively sure that he had cracked a rib.

The past three nights were spent protecting a family from an angry spirit while his sons had driven from cemetery to cemetery searching for bones to salt and burn. It had been a fruitless effort, but not from lack of trying. John had found the bones, quite accidentally, in the living room wall. When he made his discovery, the spirit launched him through the window on the other side of the room. After that it was just a matter of waiting for daylight when the spirit would be weaker and easier to get rid of.

He shifted slightly. A spring dug into his ribs and another into his hip. The entire couch smelled faintly of mildew. John thought that maybe Dean was right and it was time to rent newer places. Who knew what stale smoke, mold, and—more than likely—asbestos were doing to his family's lungs. Mary would kill him if she knew the types of places the boys had stayed in.

John was almost asleep when the key turned in the lock. The door had squeaked when they moved in, before Dean dumped close to a whole can of WD-40 on the hinges, claiming the noise was louder than the TV. So the door didn't squeak open. Instead the doorknob rattled, followed by quiet shuffling and the light thud of books on the wooden floorboards before the door softly clicked closed.

John let himself feel relief for the two minutes it took his son to get in the door before saying:"You're late, Sam. You were supposed to be home at five. It's seven."

"I told Dean to tell you," Sam said, his voice defensive, ready to fight. "He forgot, didn't he?" John didn't need to open his eyes to see his son's dismay. He did anyway.

Sam's new height still surprised him. His youngest still had his baby face but had grown tall and lanky; his arms and legs seeming too long for him, telling John that Sam still had more to grow. Which, John mused, wouldn't Sam being taller than Dean cause the older brother to bitch? The mud-spattered gym clothes Sam wore were hand-me-downs from Dean and himself. The shirt was close to threadbare, the shorts faded from their original navy blue. There was a bleeding gash on Sam's leg, and a newly forming black eye.

"I thought I told you no soccer at this school?" John asked. He hated when Sam got involved in sports or student government or anything, really. It made the boy attached, and for weeks before and after a move he would be near impossible to live with.

"No," Sam said, dabbing up the blood from his leg with the edge of the shorts. "You said no soccer team. You never said I couldn't practice with them."

John was too tired to argue the point, but it was a distinction he'd remember. "Your turn to make dinner," he said instead.

Sam nodded and headed into the kitchen area. A cabinet opened and closed, and there was a metallic clang followed by the unmistakable rattle of macaroni in a box. John was tempted to ask his son not to make Mac n' Cheese. At the sound of running water, John decided to let it go. He was too tired to care what he ate.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asked.

John didn't know why Sam bothered. They both knew where Dean was. It was the same place Dean had been every night for the past few weeks. "Where do you think? He's with what's-her-name." John said, closing his eyes again and throwing his hand over his face to block out the light from the kitchen. What's-her-name was the standard he used for any girl Dean was seeing. He had stopped keeping track of Dean's girlfriends when the boy was fifteen. There were just too many to count.

Sam huffed a laugh from the kitchen as he opened and closed cabinets. "God, I can't wait until we move."

For a moment, John thought he was in a parallel universe. Then he recovered. "Why's that?"

"Nothin'," Sam mumbled. The gas light clicked and the burner ignited with a whoosh.

"You have something against Dean's girlfriend?" John asked, belatedly wondering if he should have let his youngest shower before telling him to make dinner.

Sam sighed and John waited. "There's something wrong with this girl, Dad. I don't like her."

"And this is the first time you haven't liked someone your brother goes out with." John said skeptically. He could almost see the scowl on Sam's face, feel the glower. Sam hadn't liked the majority of the girls Dean saw, and they both knew it.

"This is different," his son said obstinately, and John wanted to roll his eyes.

"Dean's a big boy" John said. "He knows how to take care of himself." Ignoring Sam's snort, he rolled over onto his other side, facing the back of the couch. All he could smell was mold.


It was drizzling when John reached the camp grounds in the state forest. Most of the weather reports forecasted sun and high temperatures for the next week. This probably meant horrific downpours and a chance of snow in June. John didn't want to go camping in bad weather, but bad weather also meant fewer campers for a Wendigo to eat. He could hunt for its hideout without worry that the thing was off killing people he was trying to protect.

"Hey John, "Bobby said, pulling John's attention back to the phone conversation. John killed the truck and Bobby's voice was suddenly loud in the quiet cab. "Is there any reason why Sam would want to know about Succubae?"

John couldn't stop his surprised laugh, even as his sore ribs ached with the movement. "Dean's got a new girlfriend that Sam's taken a disliking to," John said, readjusting the cell phone against his ear as he looked around at the empty parking lot. "I guess he dislikes her more than I thought."

Bobby was silent on the other end. Then he asked: "Are you sure that's all it is? Sam sounded pretty upset."

"Yeah, don't worry about it, Bobby." John said, still amused and a little proud at his son's assumption. No, the supernatural was not going to take his family by surprise ever again.

"Well, I already got all the information," Bobby drawled and John could hear shuffling paper on the other end of the line, "so I might as well as tell the kid what he wants to know anyway. "

John huffed another laugh. "All right, I'm sure Sam will absorb the knowledge no matter. By the way, thanks for the info on the Wendigo, Bobby."

"No problem," Bobby said. "Now, I called you in on this one, so don't get yourself killed." And then the line was dead. The other man never had been much for good-byes. Not with John, anyway.

John watched the rain drops splatter on the windshield for a moment, his cell phone heavy in his hand. The clouds were gray on the horizon and not the black of a thunderstorm, so John supposed he should count himself lucky. He dialed the number to the apartment and held the phone to his ear. He had left too early in the morning for Dean to be awake and he hadn't seen Sam before he went to school. John had been in a rush to leave before morning traffic picked up, and had forgotten to leave a message telling his boys his plans.

Dean wouldn't be happy being left behind, but bringing Dean would have meant bringing Sam. And after the fights on the last hunt, he just didn't have the patience for Sam's disobedience. He loved his smart, quick-witted son, but wanted to throttle him most of the time recently. Dean would get over being left behind sooner than Sam would recover from John throttling him.

Dean picked up on the second ring with a growl of anger in his voice.

"Dean? Is everything okay?" John asked, his mind filling with emergencies and mental maps of the quickest road back to his boys.

"Yeah, everything's fine. What's up?" Dean asked. John didn't really believe him, but he trusted there was no emergency.

"I got a call from Bobby last night about a suspected Wendigo," John said. "Dried up husks have been appearing in the state forest. I'm going to be camping for a couple of days to try and get this thing before it kills again."

"You're going to hunt a Wendigo by yourself?" Dean's voice was thick with disapproval. John sometimes wondered who the parent was.

"Don't worry, I got backup with me," John lied, looking through the windshield at the wet pavement and nearly empty parking lot. "Where's your brother?"

"Off being a bitch somewhere," Dean growled into the other end of the phone. John thought that perhaps his youngest was going to get himself throttled no matter where he was. "We had a fight and he left."

John frowned. His sons fought a lot. Mostly over little things: computers, food, personal space. It came from living out of each other's pockets. His boys had their own methods of dealing and John tried not to interfere in that. But Sam wasn't one to storm out. Something felt off about it.

"Is this over the girl?" John asked.

There was a long pause and he had his answer.

"I really like her, Dad," Dean said, voice suddenly soft. John sighed. He had figured that. Dean went through girls like other people went through underwear. This girl had captured Dean's attention for close to a month. John almost hated to remind his son that they'd be leaving the area soon.

John scrubbed a hand down his face. "I can't tell you what's going through your brother's head. But try not to fight with him when I'm not around, okay?" Dean would never hurt Sam, but the pranks could escalate pretty quickly.

The answer was a sullen "Yes, sir."

"I'll be in touch. Oh, and enjoy that girl of yours for a little while longer, okay?" John said with a smile into the phone.

Dean chuckled a jovial answer, "Yes, sir."


Four days in the woods, three without his cell. It had died when he was trying to check his messages. Damn technology. John had all the information he needed for the hunt. He would just have to trust that Dean could take care of anything else that might come up.

It was cold for early summer with an off and on drizzle, and he was still far from where the bodies had been found. He wouldn't reach the area that day. He wasn't meaning to. He had spent the last three days circling the woods, looking for caves or an abandoned mine the monster would be living in. Hunting a Wendigo solo was not the smartest thing to do. It occurred to John that he should have brought Dean or at least actually have the backup he told his son he had. Too little too late, he decided as he trudged on.

A mosquito buzzed by his ear and he swatted at it, crushing it against his neck. Another took its place within moments. Even with the drizzling rain there was bird song in the trees, and small skittering things racing from place to place around him. Every few minutes an owl hooted. So much activity meant he wasn't near the creature he was hunting.

He hacked at the bushes on the trail in front of him. He had been in these woods before, hunted a witch on the other side of the forest. He didn't remember the brush being so thick. But then places tended to vary on location, and he was over a few miles away from the area he was familiar with. With one last hack, he unexpectedly broke through into a small clearing.

He shaded his eyes from sudden sunlight on his face and brushed leaves and pine needles from his hair. There was sap stuck on his hands and face; dry but still sticky. The area smelled like fresh tilled earth. When his eyes focused, John paused, cursed. He was too late; a body lay at the base of a large tree in the middle of the clearing.

John took a step closer, and cursed again, heart in his throat, hoping against hope that he was wrong. He took another step, praying that the clothing wasn't faded jeans smeared with grease stains and a torn red flannel shirt from Wal-mart. One more step, hoping that the curve of cheek and unruly brown hair weren't as familiar as he thought they were. His heart froze when he stood beside the body.

"Sammy?" he asked as his eyes scanned his son's still form. Dozens of notebooks and numerous pens were scattered around his son on the ground. Sam's hair was pushed back from his forehead and his hands were folded neatly on his stomach as if someone had readied him for death.

John knelt and pressed his fingers to cool skin to look for a pulse, still hoping for a bad dream, an illusion. It was a small eternity before he felt a thump against his fingers, then two. His heart lurched back to life to pound painfully against his ribs. Cupping the back of his Sam's neck, he frowned as he looked his son over.

Sam had lost weight; a lot of weight for only a few days. Before, he'd had the rounded cheeks of boyhood, the last of his baby fat still waiting to be shed. Now John could see his son's cheek bones, could see how he looked like he was being swallowed by his clothes. John placed his hand on Sam's chest and took comfort in the rise and fall of his breathing.

Slowly, John cradled Sam's head and upper body, tapped his son's cheek. "Sammy, you have to wake up, now, Son." He said. Someplace above him, the owl hooted and a small creature scurried through the leaves. The noise of the forest nearly swallowed his whisper. He cleared his throat to make his voice sterner. He failed with a weak: "Come on, wake up." And Sam didn't respond.

John's mind raced with a million different ways that this could have happened. None of them involved a Wendigo. Had it been Dean, John might have suspected he had been followed. But Sam didn't like hunting, wouldn't be eager to join his father in the woods if there were school and soccer and friends.

Looking at the notebooks on the ground, John swallowed thickly, knowing there was more going on than he knew. "What the hell happened, Sam?"


There were 15 thick notebooks. All but the last were completely full of Sam's handwriting. Nothing written was original. They were filled with Shakespeare and Wordsworth and T.S. Eliot; filled with Latin passages John used as lullabies for his boys when he was still learning to be a Hunter, John's own explanation on disassembling and reassembling a semi-automatic; pages filled with lyrics to the songs Dean listened to over and over again, Dean's favorite conquest stories and dirty jokes. Sometimes the words were nothing more than Dad, Dean, Dad, Dean, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad for pages. As if writing their names enough times would conjure the two people Sam had wanted to come for him more than anything else in the world.

John scrubbed a hand down his face, and just looked at the writing without reading it. He allowed his eyes to follow the curving swirling letters: the exaggerated S's, the bubbled B's, the softly rounded E's and Y's, the subtle tilt of all the words. John's heart ached.

He closed the blue notebook on the small nightstand in front of him and sighed as if it would dispel the pain. John let himself wish for a brief moment that he had done something differently. That he had woken up before Mary screamed; had kept a closer eye on Sam. He let himself wish that he would wake up and Sam would be awake and normal; not silent and still on the ragged twin bed.

Standing from his chair, John stretched, glancing at the fading daylight out the window.

The room was small: holding two small twin beds, a crooked bureau, a closet with no doors and the small nightstand piled with notebooks. Dean and John had fit chairs on either side of Sam's bed but just barely. The ancient AC window unit was puttering away on high, undoubtedly Dean's doing, and empty pizza boxes littered the floor. Half the small room looked like a closet had exploded. The other half had neat stacks of books organized by size along the wall. The entire room smelled of stale pizza, old sweat, and mildew. "Have you slept at all, Dean?" John asked.

Dean shrugged, his gaze returning to the paper he was flipping over and over in his hands.

John sat on the edge of Sam's bed by Dean, and ran a hand through his youngest son's hair. It had been two days since John had brought Sam back to the hotel, and Sam was no longer just underweight. He was gaunt. John kept thinking of pictures he had seen of Germany in World War II, and the concentration camps. Sam hadn't woken up once, wouldn't swallow food or water. He was dehydrated, malnourished, and dropping weight faster than he should.

"Did you find anything in the notebooks?" Dean asked, pulling John's attention away from Sam's too-still form.

John shook his head, his gaze still on Sam. "No," he said, "There were no answers in there. Just…I don't know. It's like he wrote down everything he ever read or heard in his life." John turned to face Dean, his hand resting on Sam's wrist, seeking his youngest son's weak pulse. He brought his other hand to rest on the back of Dean's neck, pulling Dean's attention to him. "What's on the paper, Dean?"

Dean stared at the paper for a moment before passing it over.

It was no more than a scrap, torn from some school worksheet or notice. It had been white and crisp two days before, but now it was flimsy and worn with a thousand creases. On one side, in bright blue ink and curving letters were the words: Please understand.

John's heart hurt and he must have made a sound because suddenly Dean's hand was a comforting weight on his shoulder. He met Dean's questioning stare. "He writes just like your mother," John said as if it explained everything. Dean nodded as if it did.

"What the hell does this mean?" John asked, holding up the paper.

Dean shook his head once slowly, back and forth. "I don't know," he said.


Sam had asked Bobby about succubae.

The thought came days later, after hiking through the woods with his unconscious son on his back as if Sam were 6 and not 16, after the long ride back to the hotel room to be met with a guilty and frantic Dean, after settling his son in bed and noticing that he was no longer just losing weight, but appearing absolutely gaunt. After recharging his cell phone and listening to the voice messages: Bobby, Sam, Dean, Dean, Dean.

Bobby had asked why Sam wanted to know about succubae. John had laughed, but Bobby hadn't. He hadn't said anything but that he'd give Sam a call. And then John found Sam passed out in the woods surrounded by notebooks.

"Hey Dean,' John said, scrolling through the numbers in his phone. "Where's your girl?" It passed for nonchalant, which was the best way to get information from Dean short of ordering it out of him. And John always felt badly after commanding his son to tell him something he didn't want to.

Dean paused in his new-found hobby of pacing to scowl. "She's gone."

It was raining again, and John could hear the sound on the roof over the clunking of the AC. "Her choice or yours?" John asked, earning another scowl, but ignoring it.

"Does it matter?" Dean asked with a swift gesture at Sam.

"It might, "John said, pushing the call button on Bobby's number. He raised his eyebrows at his son as he held the phone to his ear.

"Hers, I guess. I don't know—she just disappeared." Dean grumbled and continued his pacing: one, two, three, wall, turn, three, two, one, doorway, turn.

Bobby picked up on the third ring. "''yello?"

John didn't bother with niceties. "I found Sam passed out in the woods a few miles from the other bodies. He won't wake up."

"I thought you weren't takin' the boys with you?" Bobby asked. The connection had some static, but Bobby's confusion was tangible.

"I didn't." John said and explained.

Bobby swore. John waited, watching raindrops run down the window like tears on human cheeks.

"I need to know what you told Sam about succubae." John continued when the string of profanities started to sputter out.

His gaze had landed on his older son with the words. Dean stopped pacing and stared at him with wide eyes, mouthed the word 'succubae'. John watched him blanch of color and shake his head, slowly, in disbelief, as if a bad dream were coming true. Part of John wanted to console his son. Another part wanted to rip into him for bringing a supernatural danger to their door and never realizing it. John knew that neither action would be wholly fair so he turned back to the window and said nothing at all. Any damage he did to Dean's feelings could be fixed once they were sure Sam wouldn't die.

"It wasn't a succubus," Bobby said over the crackle in the connection. "Sam said so after I gave him the information. I didn't have anything else to do, so I kept digging. After what you said about the notebooks, I think I may know what you're dealing with."

"What?" John asked, listening to the rustling of papers on the other line. He didn't jump when the front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. Dean was gone; off to blow off steam and guilt in whatever way he knew how. John wished he could do the same, wished he could go to a bar and drink himself dumb. Instead he took a deep breath, held in a cough from the foul air, and then let it out.

"A sidhe," Bobby finally said, "a celtic faerie."

"A sidhe?" John had to keep his voice from being incredulous. He hadn't gone against one, but he had heard of them. They were intelligent and powerful. And damned near ancient. How the hell did his sons manage to tangle with a being most Hunters could never find? It had to be a talent.

"More particularly," Bobby continued, "one of their muses. She grants her victims eternal inspiration. Whatever works they do while under her influence become hugely famous. Unfortunately, her victims don't last long enough to enjoy their fame."

John's eyes travelled over Sam's form of skin and bones. "What do I need to take her out?"

"Well, if she's a sidhe," Bobby said with a sigh, "you need cold hard Iron. An iron knife to the chest, decapitation by an iron sword, or trapped in an iron cage and left to wither."

"Will it reverse what it's done to Sam?" John asked, wishing he knew a way to get his hands on an iron cage.

"I don't know," Bobby said. "But it will stop it from killing him."

"Good enough."


John liked guns. He had been around them all his life, and he was good with them. He liked that if it was done properly guns ended a life painlessly. He also liked that they were long range, and made it possible to stay away from whatever crazy supernatural thing he was after. Unfortunately, guns ran out of ammunition. And when the target moved a far sight faster than your vision, shooting it became difficult.

"You must be John Winchester." The voice came from the trees, and John aimed his gun at the branches above as if she would fall on him from the sky. "Father of Dean and Sam." The sidhe continued. She had a woman's voice; deep and husky. The kind of voice he had fantasized about as a teenager. "Your boys are delicious. So eager and bright. I especially liked Dean. He was going to be a singer and quite the lyricist. And then Darling Sam came along, and I just knew he had the gift of writing."

John was silent, eyes searching for his target. He had nothing to say to the creature that was feeding off his children. The woods were cool but muggy, and filled with the smell of ozone after all the rain. The sky was still overcast, dark clouds grouping in the west. Birdsong filled the trees, and John wondered if he was hearing the same owl as before.

"Do you know what I am, John?" she asked, voice echoing, bouncing away and back, confusing John's senses even more. Something scurried behind him, and he turned, gun aimed.

"I'm a muse," she said as if that explained everything. Once upon a time it probably had. "Unforgettable talent comes at a price. Samuel made an exchange: himself for his brother. I told him the craving would come. The one to write or paint or sing. It comes differently to everyone. It's the one thing I can offer those who help me live. It's their claim to fame."

"Sam won't become famous by what he's written." John's voice was steady, his aim more so. Even though he was aiming at a squirrel. The animal chattered and scurried away. John returned to scanning the area around him.

"Sam didn't want fame," the sidhe said, sounding like it was pouting. John thought muses must like to brag about what works they had inspired. "So I told him that he could do with the craving as he see fit: no one ever said that what was written had to be original."

And Sam had written. Sam who was always stuck in a book; Sam who could remember Latin verses in a night. He had written anything and everything he could remember: Latin exorcisms, pagan mythology, gun manuals, and Shakespearean plays. He had written any and everything except his own thoughts.

The Sidhe, when it stepped out from behind a tree, looked like Mary: long, blond hair, earnest eyes, and a bright smile. It was an illusion of course, but it still hurt. John willed himself to keep breathing, to remember why he was there. He reminded himself that if there were no supernatural things like muses in the world, he would still have his wife.

"What's your talent, John? Where is your artistic side?" The sidhe asked as she took slow steps towards him. She paused for a moment, eyes darkening. "Interesting," she said with Mary's smile and John focused his pain to anger and hate. "I'd never considered killing an art form." Her head tilted to the side, blonde curls brushing delicate shoulders. "But you do."

She continued her slow advance: one step toward John for every two steps back he took. "I can make you famous, John," she said, holding out a hand. The nails were bitten to the quick, just like John remembered. He wanted to scream at the thing to get out of his head.

"I'll give you one last warning," John said, proud of himself for the strength of his voice, "let go of Sam."

The muse laughed. It sounded like wind chimes. "Or you'll shoot me?"

With a slight shake of his head, John put his gun down. "I won't have to." John didn't take his eyes off the sidhe because he didn't want to alert the creature of what was about to happen. So he didn't see his eldest make his move, didn't wonder if Dean was seeing a different illusion, or worry that he would hesitate.

Dean would follow through because it was the only way to save Sam. John trusted that to be enough, even though he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to stab Mary's form through the heart—illusion or not. But perhaps Dean didn't see his mother, but the girl that he had been falling for, the girl who was siphoning life from Sam. Perhaps the betrayal was enough to deserve an iron short sword through the heart.

John didn't know, and as the blade sank home with a crack of bones and squish of metal slicing through meat and muscle, he wasn't going to ask. Dean was pale, but his jaw was set; his face a mix of pain, anger and hate that John could recognize anywhere. He saw it on his own face in the mirror every day.

John told himself that it was concern for his eldest son that kept him from watching the creature's final breath. It had nothing to do with not seeing the shock of death on his long-dead wife's face again. Nothing to do with wanting to rush over and catch his wife's form in his arms, brush the blonde hair behind an ear just one more time.

In death, where it laid on the ground, the sidhe didn't look like Mary or Dean's girlfriend. It didn't even look human. Its skin was brown and rough like tree bark, its eyes an eerie milky blue. Its hair was long and white-blond falling in spiraling curls. It was an odd mix between human and other that had been veiled with faerie magic.

The sword was still buried hilt-deep, and John pulled it free with one smooth yank. He held the blade in one hand and in the other he pulled up the head, stretching out the neck. It took a few good whacks and blood red as roses spattered both him and Dean by the end, but he was able to pass the head to Dean.

"We'll burn it to be sure," John said, and Dean nodded. John didn't know if salting and burning did anything to a sidhe, but it would feel good to watch it go up in flames.


"Going out again, Dean?" John caught his son before the door to the apartment closed.

For one brief second, he saw Dean's grimace before it was covered with a shit-eating grin and arrogance. "Well, you know," Dean said with a casual shrug, "Not much time left here, right? Figured I might as well enjoy the local delicacies."

John nodded, stood from the couch and tossed him a wad of bills. "Make some money while you're out there?"

Dean caught the money, smiled, nodded and then was gone.

With a sigh, John stretched and slowly walked to the back bedroom his boys shared. Sam had been asleep a little while before, but he would probably be awake now. Killing the sidhe hadn't given Sam back any of what he lost. He was skin and bones with barely enough energy to sit up on his own. Walking was out of the question. He slept and ate and slept some more and reminded John of when he was a newborn. It would be a long, slow climb to recovery, gaining weight back and then training for the muscle. It would be a while before he could take on a hunt, which left John a man short. It was inconvenient, but manageable.

John stood in the doorway of his sons' bedroom. The AC was off despite the recent spike in temperature, and John felt sweat drip down the back of his neck. Sam's eyes were closed but he wasn't sleeping. "You alright, Sam?" John asked.

"This sucks." Sam said, opening his eyes and looking over at his father. John could only imagine. His independent sixteen year old was reduced to relying on his father and brother for everything.

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for offering yourself as food for a supernatural creature," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets, and leaning against the door frame. He could admit to himself that he was a little glad that Sam was left in such a weakened state. John didn't ever want his youngest serving himself up as a sacrifice ever again.

"She was going to take Dean, Dad. She planned on keeping him, like a pet, but a pet that you would feed off of," Sam said, voice strong, defiant. John shuddered at the thought of his oldest son fettered by a magically induced love. "She told me so. I couldn't let it happen. Not to Dean." It wasn't a plea or even an apology. It was a statement.

John suddenly worried that perhaps Sam hadn't learned his lesson after all. His anger and frustration bubbled, and he pinched the bridge of his nose hoping to relieve some of the sudden tension. "So you made an exchange? How did you know she wasn't lying?"

Sam shrugged. "I did my homework," he said, "The sidhe can't lie. So I made her promise."

John ran a hand through his hair and didn't even want to count the ways it could have gone wrong. Had he been so foolhardy and cocksure when he was Sam's age? He couldn't remember, but he didn't think he had been. Dean had his moments, but always followed orders in the end. John rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. Seating himself beside Sam's bed, he changed the subject before the urge to throttle Sam fully bloomed. "How'd you end up in the woods?"

Sam shook his head, his gaze going from John to the ceiling and around the room until finally landing on John again. "I honestly have no idea. I don't remember. We made the deal here, after I trapped her in the Impala."

The response made John pause for a moment. The more he thought about it, the more ingenious an idea it was. John wished he had thought of it.

"Dad," Sam said, catching John's full attention again. Sam looked tired, beaten, and was giving the full on puppy dog gaze that had always gotten him anything he had wanted from his brother. "Dean won't even look at me." It was desperate, sad. A plea for John to fix it, but John didn't think he could.

"Just give him some time, son." John said, running his fingers through his son's hair, grateful that his youngest was alive. "He's working some things out." And looking at Sam brought all those things to the surface. John understood that all too well. For a long time after the fire, John hadn't been able to look at his youngest without seeing Mary and her death.

John cupped his son's face in his hand, and considered how many things could have gone differently in the past week. John could have still been out in the woods hunting a wendigo that didn't exist, and have never found Sam. Or Sam could have not made the deal, and Dean would be wasting away someplace. The pure luck involved in finding Sam in the woods to begin with was something he didn't want to think about. But if it hadn't been for Sam's suspecting succubae, John never would have known what they were after so quickly. He wouldn't have figured out how to kill it in time to save his sons.

"How'd you figure it out, Sammy?" John asked, pulling back from Sam and leaning back in the chair.

Sam snorted and looked at him incredulously. "Dean was writing poetry, Dad."

John tried to imagine Dean's major interests—cars, money, and large breasted women—fitting into poetry. He couldn't. "And?" John prompted Sam to continue with a raised eyebrow.

Sam looked exasperated for a moment. "They were love poems, Dad. Dean. Love poems. And it was decent iambic pentameter," Sam said, his expression pleading with his father to understand.

Finally, John cracked a smile. Dean was not one to write poetry. John wasn't even sure his eldest son had any idea what it was. "That would be a rather large tip-off, wouldn't it?" He said ruefully.

Sam grinned and shrugged. "It was either the girl or the end of the world. And I figure the end of the world won't end with love poems." Sam's eyelids were starting to droop, even a small conversation wearing on his short energy reserves.

"Get some rest, Sam," John said, patting his son on the shoulder as he stood up. Sam nodded, eyes already closed.

John watched his son for a minute, and listened to the silence, absorbed the stillness, used it to refocus himself.

Dean was safe.

Sam was safe.

The apartment still smelled like mildew, and when John closed his eyes at night, he could see the creature wearing his Mary's face. The trail for whatever thing had murdered his wife was cold, but he wouldn't give up. He'd been searching for far too long. If he stopped now, all the years would have been a waste.

Moving back to the living room, John picked up one of the newspapers in the pile he'd had Dean buy for him. One or two were local; all the others were from different sections of the state. He read the main headlines for a few minutes before throwing them in the trash. It was time to move on to another state, time to find more people to save from nightmares turned real. They were Hunters, that's what they did. And one day, John would find the thing that destroyed his life, and end what started so long ago.

In the morning, he'd pack up his boys; ask one of them for a direction and go, he decided as he stretched across the bed in the master bedroom. Content with the thought of being on the road again, John slid into sleep.


Fin.


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