"One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his greatest surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't." - Henry Ford

Chapter Two – Discovery

"Dean, I was cleaning out a back room and I found something, you wanna come look?"

Ellen had waited until Sam was distracted with Ash, waited until Dean was alone to bring up the subject. She wasn't quite sure what might happen when Dean confronted her find, she just wanted to give him the benefit of privacy. As much as he claimed he was all right after John's death, she knew the close bond he shared with his dad and she knew how painful that loss could ultimately be.

Losing a father is never easy, hell she knew that from experience, but to lose the one man you had to depend on, the only man you ever depended on? The only man you had ever looked up to and respected….worshiped even? She couldn't begin to fathom that. Dean was strong. John had told her over and over again how strong his son was. John's stories of Dean had made her cringe on more than one occasion. How strong and in control his son was, how strong and fearless he was, how strong.…how strong.…how strong.… Damn it, John!

She knew strength sometimes comes from fear and a desperate need to protect the fragile. Dean had a tough exterior, that was evident. Years of hunting and need having hardened him to the pain, but even the roughest geode will split right in two with a solid tap in just the right spot, displaying the brilliant, unique crystals within: crystals formed when severe weather conditions and the intense pressures of nature conspire to transform a plain hollow rock into a maze of complexity and hidden beauty.

She wondered if Dean could survive such a fracture; if the two halves of his personality could co-exist exposed to the elements, rendered bare in the harsh glare of daylight, no longer safely hidden in the depths of darkness, no longer protected by the hard exterior rock.

She had been fascinated by geodes since she was a little girl and found her first one, discovering it by accident amid a stack of similar looking rocks, nothing on the surface indicating to the untrained eye the wonder within. Her dad had shown her how to identify the signs indicating a plain, average rock might be a hidden treasure, and then how to study the rock determining the best spot to tap to expose the beauty within. She had delighted in discovering so many hidden facets, dazzling colorful glass spires shuttered away for generations before skilled hands set them free.

And then on her fifth geode she had watched in horror as it shattered to pieces when the tap brought about its destruction. Jagged shards of rock and crystal scattered across the table, a puzzle too intricate to ever reassemble. An early reminder that sometimes there is no saving the fragile beauty buried inside. Sometimes the only way for the rock to survive is to be left alone, intact, protected by its hard, rough exterior shell. The essence too delicate and brittle to survive exposed to the harsh elements that had once formed it. In those rare cases its only chance to exist was to just let it be.

She knew Dean was a geode; his tough facade protecting the hidden facets of his intricate personality, a fragile maze created by the intense pressures of his childhood and this Demon curse that dogged the Winchesters. His fate in the hands of an unseen force, slowly but surely tapping on that hard exterior rock. When the time came for the deciding blow, would he shatter and be destroyed? Or would he finally open up and reveal the wondrous beauty buried within? Was it worth the risk to try and free his inner spirit or would he be better served by just letting him be, as is, incomplete and fractured, but alive and mostly sane?

She knew Dean appeared strong, even impenetrable at times. Being John's son he had to be strong, as much from necessity as from inherent strength. But even the strongest can break if faced with an unbearable destiny, an unimaginable burden. Had Dean continued on from a foundation of strength or based solely on a child's determination? How much longer could he suffer the horrendous pain, bear the burden and keep trudging onward? How much can one man take?

John was a complex man; he had a strange ability to ignore what he didn't want to face, especially concerning his sons. He had spent years traveling the country fighting the good fight and facing down evil, but had he given his sons the attention they deserved? Had he tended to their needs, addressed their sorrows, and nurtured their souls? Hell, that was anyone's guess. His family life with his sons was all but a mystery, but if she was a betting person, she would have to bet against it. She just knew John and she wished she knew Dean better, to gauge how he might react to her find.

Dean sat nursing his beer at the end of the bar. No time like the present to find out. With his brother temporarily occupied, she motioned to the back room.

"What is it?"

"Just give me a hand, will ya?"

Dean looked hesitant, already suspicious, glancing at his brother stooped over Ash's shoulder intently observing the computer screen before them.

Hunter instincts already on alert.

He took one last swig of his beer, leaving the half empty bottle on the bar. "Sure."

Dean followed her into the spare room and she closed the door behind them. He gave a concerned look back at her as he straightened up to his full height, his shoulders already appearing tense, arms rigid, muscles flexing as his hands nervously tapped the sides of his legs.

"Look Dean, I'm not going to pull any punches."

He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration and his jaw jutted out, almost like he could sense what was coming, as if he were bracing for a swift right hook. His chest expanded as he took in a deep breath, already steeling his mind for whatever pain was waiting, setting his feet so he was ready to withstand the blow.

"What is it? Just hit me with it." His voice low and sure, for a minute almost sounding like John. His silhouette from the glare of the harsh light behind him reminding her that he was John's son, his stance so familiar, yet at the same time different…, hesitant, lost.

"Your dad left some things here when he left after…." Ellen's voice hitched, the pain of losing Bill again at the forefront of her mind, intermingling with the emotions that welled in her every time she looked into Dean's eyes and saw his grief. Damn, it's hell being the ones left behind. She fixed her eyes on him and took a deep, steadying breath, "I never paid any attention…. Dean, I just discovered the bag. I thought you might want to go through it. I mean…, it could just be his dirty clothes, I don't know."

Ellen stood for a moment waiting for some response, some indication of how he might handle this discovery. Dean revealed nothing, his expression solid and empty. His false front plastered in place protecting his thoughts and feelings, his eyes the only window inside the stoic hunter, a slight flicker almost revealing his pain before he locked the shutters and retreated within. She waited a moment, finally settling for a simple nod before quietly closing the door on her way out. She returned to the bar and poured herself a drink.

Dean swallowed….hard. There had been blessedly little to sort through after Dad died. Not much to show for a life spent vanquishing evil. He had thought at the time that was good, all the better to move on. Ignore the hole, bury the past. It made it easier to pretend it never happened, that Dad was still out there somewhere fighting the good fight, even though he had salted and burned the body on the pyre, even though he had assured his brother he was facing Dad's death, had accepted it and moved on. Yeah, right!

John's wallet was the one item Dean had gone through, and that was three weeks after the fact. One night when he couldn't sleep he had silently risen and with Sam sound asleep on the next bed he had finally worked up the courage to see what the wallet had to say about the man he had worshiped his entire life. Actually, it turned out to not be much; but then again, that in itself said a lot.

The wallet contained a grand total of twenty-six dollars, four fraudulent credit cards, one fake insurance card, a forged California driver's license and three scraps of paper with phone numbers and addresses that turned out to be nothing more than remnants of old cases. The only revealing insight into the man himself were two old photographs, their edges frayed, the pictures themselves starting to fade and wear as if they had been tenderly taken out and caressed again and again over the years.

The first photograph showed a young John Winchester, smiling and carefree with his beautiful bride radiant on her wedding day. Dean stared at that photo a long time; the Mom he remembered was older, not as girlish looking as this picture, although the smile was the same. His dad was clean shaven, so vibrant and alive. His expressive eyes filled with wonder and joy, his grin displaying a devil-may-care cockiness; vastly different from the man Dean had known most of his life, a man weathered and beaten, worn down by the constant pain and the never-ending fight.

This was a picture of a time he was never aware of, had never before been exposed to. Most all their photos having been consumed in the fire. He had fleeting memories of Mom, but this was different; she was even younger here, and they looked so happy, so blissful, and it hurt to see that and to think Dad carried that picture with him all this time. A picture of hope and promise, a couple just starting their life together, totally unaware of the tragic ending to their journey.

The second was a photograph of his sons, a long forgotten snapshot in time taken just weeks before Sam announced he was leaving for college. A friend of his had gotten a new camera for graduation and snapped some pictures of the brothers roughhousing in front of the Impala. Dean couldn't recall ever seeing this photograph before and he wondered how his dad came to own it. It was folded over to fit the sleeve, the image of the brothers just filling the allotted space.

Dean barely remembered that time, being happy and content. Grinning wildly with his brother, before his heart was ripped from his chest when Sammy left and his world collapsed. They both looked so young, almost innocent, yet Dean knew better. It was less than five years ago, but it seemed a lifetime.

He stared at that picture for two hours that night, until Sammy stirred with the morning light and asked, "What the hell you doing, Dean?" Silently he put the photo away, not wanting to hide it from Sam exactly, just not ready to share. The wounds still raw and painful, not yet able to admit how much he missed that time. How he missed that Sammy, the brother who would never leave him, never hurt him. How he missed not having his family whole and how in a deep, buried part of his soul he blamed Sam for that, for sending them down this long, hurtful road. How he still resented him for leaving them in the first place, and how he dreaded the day he would again leave.

Dean involuntarily shuddered, confronted with more painful thoughts to hide away in that dark place where he'd buried all his childhood terrors. He glanced back at the closed door and briefly considered if Sam should be included in this latest find, after all, he was his dad too. That option was quickly dismissed as he decided it was his responsibility, his job to handle this. Sammy was already drowning in grief over Dad's death; besides, he couldn't risk exposing his own fragile state, not knowing what he might find and further fearing how he would react to it. Still unsure if his heart could handle another blow.

Kneeling down next to the green duffel his hand softly traced the worn lettering on the top of the bag, John Winchester. He hefted the worn duffel up onto the army cot in the middle of the room and it felt like a bag of clothes, nothing more. So why were his hands shaking as he unzipped the bag? Why was there a pit in the depths of his belly, aching amid the hollow, warning him danger was near?

What the hell is wrong with you, Winchester? This bag's been here what? Almost fifteen years? Maybe more, considering when Ellen said she last saw Dad. What could possibly be here that would mean anything? Just a bag of dirty laundry, no doubt.

He pulled out the first t-shirt and nervously grinned, a green USMC t-shirt, figures. Still, he clutched it in his hands, starting to lay it aside when he inexplicably brought it up to his face, inhaling the musty smell. It smelled like years old sweat and grime and he laughed at his folly. What the hell did you think? It would still smell like Dad? You a pervert or what, Winchester? Smelling a t-shirt like a girl would? Come on!

He relaxed a little, resigning himself to an old duffel of worn, dirty clothes. Not like this was going to reveal any deep, hidden secrets or bring enlightenment to his memories of Dad. This was not going to be any different than the wallet. You get yourself all worked up over nothing. He had already determined most of the items would be headed for the dumpster, not worth the effort to wash and dry them. I'll probably keep the USMC tee just because.… but the rest, no value at all.

He dug into the bag retrieving a hardened pair of jeans, ripe with grime and sweat, and by the looks of it some creature's dried blood and guts. He hastily deposited them on the floor in the salt and burn pile. He grimaced then as he reconsidered and knelt down next to the disgusting remains and checked the pockets….nothing. Again the jeans dropped to the floor. Ellen had a vat out back to burn off garbage; that would be his next stop after he finished going through this bag. Might as well dump the whole bag in, just to be rid of it. The fire will purge everything; cleanse it once and for all. It's over, let it go.

Dean grimly continued on, his heart clenched tight, his nerves on edge, hoping something of value would be discovered, yet praying nothing would be there to disturb the calm he had finally managed to achieve. Well not exactly a calm, more a deathly still, an empty nothing that shielded his heart from the searing pain.

Item after item proved to be of little or no worth. Most ended up on the floor in the burn pile, a few select items were laid on the cot: another USMC t-shirt Sammy might want and a worn, but nice, button down denim shirt. Washed up with a little of Ellen's fabric softener to erase the musty smell and they still had a little life left in them. Dean had often taken his dad's castoff hand-me-downs. He still wore the leather jacket his dad rejected years ago when he acquired a new one. That was one memento from his dad Dean knew he would never surrender. One connection to the past and the father who now existed only in his memories.

The bag was almost empty now, all his trepidation and anxiety appeared to be for naught, just a bag of dirty laundry like Ellen had thought. Nothing Dad would have ever missed. No reason for him to ever retrieve this bag, everything in it easily replaced with a quick trip to the Salvation Army. As he dug out the last of the soiled clothing his hand brushed against the hard edge of something and his heart faltered. He felt around the shape, determining it wasn't very big and grabbed hold of it, pulling it to the surface. Clasped in his hand was a square white box covered with a pink paper fragile with age, folded over with a broken rubber band partially stuck to it. His nail flicked off the remains of the rubber band and he unfolded the paper.

Koltz Jewelry – Antique Watch Repair and Sales

1457 E. Hampton Ave.

Middleton, Iowa

Special Instructions: Repair music and time mechanism.

The repair order was dated January 24, 1990.

Dad took it for repairs on my birthday….my eleventh birthday. Ten years before….

Dean sank to his knees and started to shake uncontrollably. He could hear the object rattling in the box. Fearful it might break again, he quickly laid it on the floor before him and sat staring at it.

-------------------------

"Dean, where'd you put my watch?"

"On the dresser." Dean yelled from the shower.

"Not there."

John was rummaging through his duffel bag, digging through to the bottom and glancing around the room searching in vain for his watch.

Dean turned off the shower and quickly dried. He came out of the bathroom with his jeans plastered to his still damp skin while his wet hair brought a steady stream of cool water down his back soaking through his t-shirt. He gave a quick look at the dresser before realization crossed his face and he headed to his brother on the floor of the motel. Grasped in Sammy's hand was the watch, the cover open but the music no longer playing. He gently extracted it from his brother's tight grip and inspected the damage. No music, but worse still, no gentle ticking as the seconds passed.

Dean's heart clenched, crushed the heirloom was broken. Not quite understanding why it disturbed him so, just knowing he should have kept a better eye on his brother. He should have known the watch was too mesmerizing for a curious toddler to resist. He should have been more responsible and put it somewhere safe, out of reach, out of danger.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"Dean, what?" John stopped digging through his duffel and turned towards his son.

"It's broke. It's my fault."

John studied the situation before him. Sammy was grinning and again reaching for the watch Dean held just out of grasp. An intense, pained expression reflected in his older son's solemn eyes, a look that made John's own heart falter. Three long strides across the floor to reach his sons and Dean placed the broken watch in his outstretched hand. John carefully wound the mechanism and held the watch to his ear, nothing.

"Dean, you broke it?" He questioned.

"It was my fault. I didn't put it away." Dean's voice so soft and fragile, cracking with emotion, "I shouldn't have been playing with it."

"Weren't you trying to quiet Sammy? So I could sleep?"

Dean looked guilty, and so repentant. Why the hell does he look guilty? I know it was Sammy who broke it, that's obvious.

"I was careless, it's my fault. I should have put it up."

John sat down at the foot of the bed, cradling the watch in his hand, intently staring at it, memories bombarding his mind. It is just a watch…, just a watch. In the grand scheme of things it don't mean nothin'. He looked at the anguish consuming his older son's face, guilt and hurt converging there.

"Son, it's only a watch."

Tears were forming in Dean's eyes, in young eyes that rarely allowed tears, that steadfastly weathered so much with stoic determination. "No, Dad. It's your watch." One day, it's supposed to be my watch.

"Dean, it's all right. It was old. It doesn't matter. I should have pawned it back when it was still working. We could have gotten a couple hundred bucks for it. Now it's worthless."

No Daddy, it's not.

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Dean pulled his knees up to his chest and sat there wrapped in on himself, small and insignificant again, a little boy confronted with something overwhelming, wishing he could just disappear into the woodwork. He sat staring at the small plain box, his body starting to spasm as he remembered all the times Dad sat and held him as he told the story, the history, the meaning of the trinket inside. He found himself closing his eyes and wishing for Dad's strong arms to hold him now and show him the way.

He was so tired. So weary of having the weight of the world and the fate of his brother heaped on his shoulders. Just so God damn tired of it all. The road he had traveled his entire life so long, so arduous, and it stretched on before him endlessly, no relief in sight, no respite from the journey. He stared at the box holding the gold pocket watch and with it all the hopes and dreams he'd lost along the way. His future overpowered by the pain and agony that descended on him, burying him under a ton of torment that just wouldn't end.

The painful events of his life stacked one on top of the other and ascending to the heavens in a precarious pile of stone. Each rock a hurt or terror he had endured over the course of his life. Ranging in size from pebbles to boulders, all possibly manageable on their own, but when piled together representing a mountain of pain. A mountain threatening to topple and bury him alive.

He remembered the promise of how it was supposed to be, back before Mom died and the life they should have lived went up in smoke forever blackened by the Demon's curse. Back before he stared into his father's face and the Demon's eyes stared back, taunting him with all the emotions and fears he'd kept buried deep within, exposing them to the light of day and wielding them against him. Back before Dad told him that terrible crushing secret and gave him that last God awful order that no father should ever lay on his own son.

Back before Dad did the unthinkable, the unbearable, the unforgivable and sacrificed himself in a deal with the Demon so he could live…, live with that knowledge and pain and guilt. Back before Sammy looked at him with those desperate, pleading eyes and begged him to kill him if he ever went Darkside, making him promise. A promise now implicitly given to both his brother and his dad, and he knew it would kill him if it ever came to pass and hell, it can't, I won't let it. I'm going to save you Sammy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to save you.

Faced with his life spiraling ever downward beyond all control, he gasped from the sheer weight of it. His lungs struggling against the pressure to draw in any air, his mind lost in a thick haze unable to form a coherent thought. His burden so heavy, pounding him down, down to the depths of Hell and it was all out of his control and too much, just too much and he needed to be released from this purgatory. I just want it to be over.

His agitated body started rocking back and forth, absently humming Metallica, but the comfort song wasn't working, unable to ease this anxiety, instead only heightening his pain when he stopped and the quiet again threatened to consume him. Oh God, I can't do this, not again, not like this. I'm not that strong, Dad.

The silence embraced him, a deathly still seemed to drag him into a vacuum and he couldn't breathe, all air sucked from his lungs. His heart constricting as he gasped once, a small hopeless last gasp, and he sat there not moving, not breathing until the lack of oxygen blurred his vision as black dots danced across his consciousness and he almost passed out. With a huge gulp he sucked in fresh air, his body's reflexes forcing him to breathe, driving him onward while his heart only wanted the pain to end. Damn it all!

He stared at the box on the floor before him, its contents calling to him, beckoning him forward, refusing to allow him any peace. He sat there for a long time, the pit in his stomach growing, devouring him, leaving a vast, empty numbness in its wake. Tears welled in his eyes, the intense pressure forcing them out, bringing to the surface all the years of pain and denial and guilt and terror and Oh God, everything he had feared and kept hidden. He was trying to hold them back, desperately trying to keep them buried deep in that dark place, that black abyss that had consumed his feelings for so long and let him forge on pretending to be all right.

Faced with the alternative he was stubbornly trying to hold on to the numbness, the emptiness; cause he could handle that, had handled it for so much of his life, learning from a young age how to bury the hurt and deny his pain. He just needed to do that again, cause he couldn't face the other, not now, not like this. He felt all the emotions, the hurts and disappointments, the memories, rising up, battering his defenses, demanding their time, screaming to be heard. He fought with all his might to control them, to shove them back down. Suddenly his fist tightened and before he knew what was happening he hit the floor once, twice.…over and over and over and over his fist impacted with the wood floor.

Blood spilled from the splits in his knuckles, his fingers swelling and battered and bruised; but he couldn't feel that pain, it wasn't enough to surpass the pain in his gut, the pain that wrapped tight around his chest and squeezed like a python in a death grip. He finally stopped, no longer possessing the strength to continue on. Again silently wrapping his arms around his legs, his face buried at his knees, making himself ever smaller, hoping he could just disappear; just diminish like the incredible shrinking man until there was nothing left and escape this harsh reality.

A deathly calm descended on him, temporarily offering up some semblance of control, or so he thought. The panic at bay for the moment, waiting while his mind grappled with the reality he found himself immersed in. His mind again racing as his body stilled, his thoughts bouncing off of all his memories and fears and hopes and dreams long lost and forgotten. Every wish and belief shattered with the realization he was never in control, never truly strong, and his fate was sealed. He was doomed to lose everyone he ever loved. He'd lost Mom, and now Dad, and Sammy was marked and he couldn't protect him. He couldn't save him, cause he wasn't strong enough. He was never strong enough. They were cursed and it was predestined he would fail; cause he wasn't good enough, he just wasn't good enough.

He started to laugh, unrestrained and frantic, desperate. The sharp edge of his emotions shifting from tears to laughter, trying to strike a balance; but the knife was too sharp, too smooth, expertly slicing through his defenses. Desperately he hung on, summoning all his reserves, fortifying his exterior shell, trying anything to steer clear of that dreaded emotional meltdown, fearing he would never recover, never again regain control.

He forced his hands to release from his legs and nervously cradled the box in his palm, the blood from his knuckles staining the white of the box. He took in a deep, purposeful breath and with trembling fingers he managed to lift the lid off of the box flicking it casually to the floor to reveal the familiar object. Tears again welled in his eyes before overcoming the confines and trickling down his cheeks, the emotions of his youth revisiting him full force as his shaking hand grasped the chain and lifted the pocket watch out of the box.

Dean shuddered and again fell silent, years and growth not relieving the hollow feeling in his gut as the deep abyss of emotions battered his defenses down, triumphantly flowing from his soul. His bleary eyes focused on the gold watch spinning on the sturdy chain, the shiny metal mesmerizing….taking him back to another time, another place, another life. He shivered and a ragged gasp escaped his lips, trying one last time to hold back his raging emotions, hopelessly trying to be strong.

Damn it, it's just a watch….Dad's watch….now, at last….my watch.

TBC

Thanks to everyone who so kindly left a review. Any and all comments are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, B.J.