Author's Note: As always, comments appreciated.


Chapter 3

Of all the new things John decides to teach him, Dean likes guns best. Knives can do serious damage, but damage isn't what Dean wants. Damage leaves room for error. Guns get the job done quicker, especially since Dean's good at aiming. He's damn good. By the end of the summer he can hit a moving target in the head from a good twenty feet away and he's getting better.

It's animals mostly and empty bottles when it's not. They take Sammy with them and John calls it hunting with a smirk that Sammy doesn't get, but the joke is for Dean – a play on what his dad would have been teaching him if the demon hadn't weaseled his way into some crack in the armor and made itself at home. It stings more then it should, or maybe less, because when John reaches over and tugs at Dean's hair and tells him he did good, it sounds like praise and Dean doesn't want to like that, not from this thing, but he almost can't help it.

Overall, he's relieved when school starts again. School is boring and monotonous and mostly meaningless, but it's a break from the crazy, especially now that Sammy's in Kindergarten. With them both in school, John doesn't have to worry about nosy daycare workers wanting to brief him on Sammy's progress every day and after the first few weeks, they even let Dean walk Sammy home, so John doesn't need to be there at the end of each day.

It shouldn't come as a surprise the first time John leaves for two days over a weekend. John says he'll be back and walks out Friday night, then doesn't walk back in until dawn Monday morning as Dean's trying to get them out the door. He stops Dean on his way out the door with Sammy, one hand on his shoulder and asks, "Any problems?"

Dean looks at up, confused by what he means. Sammy's never a problem and two days isn't that long. Even when John was there, it isn't like he actively participates in anything, so he isn't sure what kind of problems he expected there to be, but either way, Dean shakes his head. "No."

"Good."

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly before letting go and Dean takes the opportunity to all but run out the door. It isn't that he thinks John will hurt him – the incident with the table aside, John's never hit either of them or even threatened violence. Not that Dean doesn't think he would or even that he didn't want to. John's a demon and those hours listening to Carl Worth scream were enough to convince Dean of what he's capable of, but if they started showing up with bruises, people might ask questions. Social Services would make house calls. John could soothe some things over, but too many red flags and things could get out of hand. Dean doesn't like to think about what that would mean.

So, he doesn't think the hand on his shoulder is a warning, or a threat or anything like that, it's that the whole physical contact thing is new. John's never been much on touching either of them unless he has to, but ever since he started teaching Dean the finer arts of killing things bloody, he's been a little freer with it. The hardest part is that Dean can't say he doesn't like it. It's not his dad touching him, but it's his dad's hand and there's too much approval behind it, something he wishes he could get from his real dad, but John is the only thing he has next to Sammy.

He hates it. Hates the demon. Hates his dad, sometimes, too. Hates himself more. He hates that he doesn't know what to do, but that he can't just sit around doing nothing. He hates that he's only nine and no one would take him seriously. He hates that he's afraid to try, because what if they did? What if they tried to take Sammy and him away from John? What would John do to them and what would he do to Dean for it? Carl was a Hunter and John didn't break a sweat taking him down. There has to be a way. He knows there's a way, he just doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know how to start looking for it.

When Sammy's asleep later, John sits him down.

"I have another job." He stiffens. "I don't need your help just yet, but I will be gone a lot. You'll have to keep your head down, keep it quiet – don't give anyone a reason to come poking around. Think you can do that?"

Dean nods slowly as John reaches into a duffel bag he's set on the table. Dean's seen that bag before, usually locked in the car, because he doesn't want Dean getting into it. It's what his dad kept their weapons in, an old army surplus bag that he brought home with him from his days in the military. It's almost sacrilegious that John uses it now, but somehow Dean doubts the demon cares about that.

He takes a gun off the top and hands it over. Dean automatically checks the clip and finds it loaded. "You shouldn't need this, but in case anyone tries to break in, you'll have it."

Right, because, once again, they aren't settled into the best area of town. The next thing he pulls out is a knife, but it isn't like any knife Dean's seen before. It's got symbols carved up the blade and John holds it a second, as if he's reconsidering, before taking the blade end and holding it out for Dean to take.

"This is pure silver. It won't hurt a demon, but other supernatural creatures have something like an allergy to silver. It'll kill some of them."

The symbols aren't any language Dean recognizes, it could be Chinese or Japanese, but he isn't exactly well versed in languages, so he can't even begin to guess what they mean or where they're from. One side is serrated, one is smooth and it hooks strangely at the end.

"I haven't gotten word that there's anything else gunning for us, but before I took over Daddy managed to make a few enemies and I haven't exactly kept his nose clean since then." Dean scowls at that, but if John notices, he doesn't say anything. "If something comes through that door, you do what you have to, to get Sammy out and hide. I'll find you."

Of course he will. It's a promise and a threat. Don't run because I'll find you, but if you have to, don't worry, I'll find you. Dean doesn't want that to be comforting, but he can't say that it isn't. He sets the weapons on the table as John shoulders the bag. "I'll be back by the end of the week."

Life without John around is relaxing. It's waking up in time to get them to school, coming home, helping Sammy with his homework and then vegging out in front of the television with Sammy until they can't keep their eyes open. The thing is, it isn't even that much different from what they do when John's there, except Dean doesn't feel the constant thrum in the back of his head that comes from being watched. He doesn't feel the pressure behind his eyes from putting up a front for his brother that everything is okay, because without John there, it kind of is.

For the next several months, John is out more then he's in. He comes back, crashes for a few days, stocks the fridge and leaves again. They flip towns three times before Christmas. Sammy makes friends every time, but the superficial kind that he doesn't talk about once they get out of school and Dean only knows about them, because he sees Sammy in the halls sometimes. It's purely selfish, but he doesn't ask about the friends because he doesn't want to hear about them. He asks about the teachers and homework and Sammy shows off words that he can read. His favorite one is Dean.

"D. E. N… No! D. E. A. N. Dean!"

John scoffs in the kitchen and Dean glares at him, which turns the scoff into a chuckle and screw it and screw him. This has nothing to do with him. They're a week away from Christmas and with the holidays fast approaching, he's stopped leaving. One neighbor has already made some half assed remark about not seeing him around lately, only cementing what John believes about being in the apartment for the four week surrounding Christmas and New Years.

John raises an eyebrow at Dean's glare, "Sammy." Sammy looks over, eyes wide with a kind of shell shock and being addressed directly by John. "Can you spell anything else?"

Sammy looks at Dean for approval and Dean shrugs. "Um… cat? C. A. T. and Dog. D. O. G."

There's a moment of silence, then, "How about gun?"

Sammy frowns and his brows drew together, oblivious to Dean's redoubled glare at John. "Gun? Guh… guh… G. uh. U. Gun. nn. nnn N. G. U. N. Gun."

John smiles, "Not bad."

Sammy beams and Dean grits his teeth, because John can't do that. He can't just step in, say a few words, and get Sammy to smile like that. It isn't fair, especially when he's already walking out and Sammy looks a little hurt at the sudden dismissal, but mostly confused. Dean sighs and redirects, "Hey, how about pig?"

Sometimes he wants to tell Sammy about John so badly it's a physical ache in his chest. He can't stand the look on Sammy's face when John ignores him, because Sammy is starting to get old enough to know that isn't the way it's supposed to be. He's started to notice other father's picking their kids up and hugging them and tickling them and he's starting to wonder what's wrong with them that John doesn't do that.

He doesn't ask about it, just like Dean doesn't ask things, because there are some answers you don't want to hear. Dean tries to come up with a lie, but he doesn't know where to begin, so he tries to tell him the truth, only that's worse. Sammy's only five and if Dean was five when the demon first came home wearing their dad, then that was fucked up, but it doesn't mean he has to pass that on to Sammy. Better to let Sammy live with the half truth that the thing they think is their father is a neglectful piece of shit. Dean just has to mitigate the damage by being the best big brother he can, which isn't hard, because Sammy is the best little brother he could hope for.

"I made something for you!" Sammy throws his bag on the sofa and sits next to it, digging through the mess of crumbled papers and comes up with a plastic beaded bracelet strung on a black cleaner. "It's a birthday present!"

Dean turns it over in his hand and he couldn't be prouder. It's a bracelet of wooden beads, most natural, pale brown, but a few stained in orange and green.

Sammy sits on his knees on the sofa, elbows pressed into the back while he watches Dean, waiting anxiously for a reaction. "I thought maybe you could wear it if you went hunting again? For good luck."

It was a little big when he slipped it on, but he shoves Sammy's bag aside and sits on the sofa, pulling Sammy into a hug. "Love it, Sammy. I'll have to restring it on leather, okay? So, it doesn't break."

Sammy smiles so big its all dimples and teeth and they settle in for a night of forgetting to do their homework and watching late night cartoons.

Long after Sammy's passed out with his head resting on Dean's thigh, he lays back against the arm of the sofa and looks at the bracelet hanging too loosely on his wrist. Eventually, John's going to drag him out again. They haven't talked about it, but Dean isn't quite naïve enough to convince himself that John taught him to shoot a gun just so he can protect Sammy. He had a reason, he still does, and Dean's one hundred percent sure he's not going to like it. It's going to be messy and bloody and it's going to involve leaving Sammy behind again. This, though? If he has to sit there and listen to another person being tortured, at least he has this to remind himself why he's doing it. More importantly, though, it's the first birthday present he's gotten in five years and he's never taking it off.

"I hope you understand, Mr. Winchester. I don't take this lightly."

Dean's so screwed.

"Bringing a weapon to school is a very serious offense."

So, so screwed. John's eyeing the knife laid out on the desk in front of him, his hands and eye twitch like he wants to grab for it, but is just managing to restrain himself.

"The only reason I haven't written this up is that I don't think he intended to use it, but I can't ignore it, either."

He glances sidelong at John, but the demon's eyes are fixed on the blade and Dean swallows thick. He fucked up and John's going to get rid of him now. He's going to decide keeping Dean around isn't worth the entertainment value if it gets him called out to the school for a conference about why Dean brought a freaking knife and not just any knife. Maybe if it was a little Boy Scout switch blade, he'd be okay, but it was the one John had given him to protect Sammy, with the six inch blade and the serrated edge and the curved tip that could slide into someone's gut like it was made of butter. Somehow the fact that it's been laid out with the symbols facing up makes it worse.

John finally manages to drag his eyes from the knife to the teacher and his features smooth out into his usual, charming, apologetic smile and Dean isn't fooled for a second, he's still screwed to hell and back – probably literally.

"I apologize, Ms…?"

"Yates, Mr. Winchester."

"Yes, Ms. Yates, of course. You said you haven't reported this?"

She hesitates, because it doesn't take much imagination to know where this is going. "No."

"Like I said, I apologize. The knife is a sort of family heirloom. My father brought it back with him from the war and Dean's always been a bit curious about it. He must have snuck it out of the house this morning. I hope no one got hurt."

It shouldn't, but it always amazes Dean how seamlessly the demon can lie. He always feels like he can see straight through it and he doesn't understand why no one else can.

"No, of course, not. I can assure you this would be an entirely different conversation if they had."

"Good. If you don't mind, I'd like to try and deal with this on my own. Dean's a good kid, but with his mom dead and me working so much, it's hard on him."

"I don't know. This is serious. Mr. Winchester, if it gets back that I…"

"It won't." He reaches a hand out and takes hers, earnest smile and creased cheeks and Dean can see her melt.

"All right. Just this once, but if I catch him with it again, I'll have to file a report. With the police."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." They talk for a while longer, about Dean's anti-social behavior since his mother's death, about Sammy, about how hard it's been on John raising the boys on his own and how much he appreciates everything the school does for them and how nice it is that there are teachers here who really care. It's the same pandering load of bullshit that John fed every daycare worker over the last few years and just like them, Ms. Yates eats it right out of his hand until she's blushing softly and walking them to the door with a smile.

As soon as she's out of sight, the smile drops like a mask from John's face and Dean's chest tightens in apprehension. "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

"Shut up, Dean. Get in the car."

Silently, he slips into the seat and John closes the passenger door behind him. He doesn't know what to say or do. He wants to run, because he really, really doesn't want to die. He can't leave Sammy alone to this. God, if he dies, Sammy won't even know what he's dealing with, because Dean hasn't told him. John will tell him there was an accident and Sammy will believe it, because he doesn't have a reason not to. John's their father and with the exception of one incident last year that Sammy didn't even see, he's never hurt them.

A hand grabs his face, forces his head around to look at John with eyes wide, unfocused. He's hyperventilating. He can't breathe and John squeezes his jaw so tight it's bruising and he manages to pull one long, slow breath in, then another and John nods approvingly before letting go.

"I wasn't…"

"You either shut your mouth or I shut it for you."

In the absence of words, Dean closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. In and out, slow and steady, his mind running through every stupid thing John could and probably intends to do to him. He hadn't thought… He's been carrying the stupid knife all year. It hasn't left his bag, because John said that if something tries to get in, get Sammy out and run and he wanted to be ready for that. There's thirty bucks in there, too, stuck in the front pocket of his binder. The gun stays under his pillow.

Now that he's been caught, he realizes that maybe carrying a hunting knife in a worn out bag with a busted zipper was a bad idea, but he hadn't counted on getting into a fight. He keeps his head down, doesn't talk much, and doesn't bother anyone. He's not sure why assholes one and two decided he was an easy target or why they thought it was funny to shove him from behind. He's also not sure what prompted him to punch asshole one in the face or kick asshole two in the stomach when he rushed forward to help his friend, but he is sure that when they fell in a tangle of fists onto the ground and the knife fell out of his bag, he hadn't been picking it up to use it. He wasn't even going to threaten them. He was going to put it in his bag and run. He isn't stupid, he knew how much trouble he'd be in if he was caught with a knife, but then Ms. Yates came around the corner and it was in his hand and the guys were freaking out and everything just went downhill from there.

As far as he knows, John took Sammy home before coming back to have his discussion with the teacher, but he knows they aren't heading home now. They're going in the opposite direction of the little apartment a few blocks from the school. Then they're getting on the freeway and Dean can't stop himself from saying, "What about Sammy?"

"He's being taken care of."

That isn't what he meant, but he nods anyway, because he isn't sure he won't start trying to beg if he opens his mouth again. The words are right there in the back of his mouth, waiting to come out. Please, don't kill me. I won't do it again. I can do better. I'll stay in the apartment. I won't even go back to school. Anything, please, just don't take me away from Sammy. He swallows them down, because he can and it won't be long before he won't be able to stop himself.

The problem with begging is, it won't get him anywhere. He knows this, because John doesn't have a soul, or a conscience. He keeps Dean around so that he doesn't have to take care of Sammy and because Dean's entertaining, but Dean ceases to be entertaining when he starts being a nuisance and Sammy's getting old enough to take care of himself. Killing Dean won't affect John anymore then killing Carl did. The only difference is he'll have to put up with a very emotional Sammy after, but Dean doesn't think for a minute that'll stop John.

So, by the time they pull up to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night, Dean's mostly managed to tap down on that instinctive urge to beg. His stomach is so twisted in knots, he's going to throw up. He's going to lose it all over the inside of the car and he wonders if that's even going to make a difference. Will it make his death slower and more painful, or…?

John opens the passenger door and yanks Dean out by his arm, hard enough that the flash of pain couples with the tension and Dean does throw up. Thankfully, not on John's shoes, because the demon lets him go a second later, apparently sensing what's about to happen. He drops to knees and barely manages to stay upright through the heaves until he's spitting up bile and then nothing. He gags once more, on nothing, before coughing into the back of his hand and then he just kneels over the rancid smell of vomit, panting and shaking.

Beg, cry or throw up, he isn't sure which is worse, but he's kind of glad his body went with throw up, because he doubts John will think less of him for it and why does he even care about that? John isn't his dad, he isn't even a person, he's a demon and what he does or doesn't think about Dean shouldn't matter.

Except when John kneels down and puts a hand on Dean's back and asks, "You done?" It isn't harsh. It isn't kind, either, but he doesn't sound pissed or disgusted.

After another deep breath, Dean nods and John takes his arm again, just as hard, but he lets Dean follow him this time. The skies lighting up bright with a storm that's moving in, but it's the wrong color, almost like the lightening is tinting orange red instead of white.

John looks at it and there's a smirk on his mouth and a twinkle in his eye as he says, "Storms coming."

Before Dean can ask what that means – because it has to mean something – they're at the door. John doesn't let go of Dean as he pulls a large double barrel riffle out of the back of his jeans with his free hand and a second later the metal doors of the warehouse blow open. Actually, no, they blow off the rails entirely, fall with heavy thuds onto the floor and Dean flinches, despite himself, despite knowing better.

Inside, there are two men, a load of weapons and a book open on a crate between them. They're eyes are fixed on John and Dean, frozen at the sudden entrance. John tips his head at them and raises the rifle. A second later, the head of the right one blows open like the doors and Dean can't help trying to pull away now, really try, not just from reflex. John lets him go and he scrambles back against the wall, pressing himself there while John keeps moving.

"Bill! Long time no see."

The Hunter left is standing, gun raised, but he isn't firing, because Dean's guessing he knows it won't do any good. The man isn't as tall as John, but he's built. His features are sharp and angular, his blond hair clipped short, and he looks all kind of mean glaring at John. When he speaks, his voice is deep and confident, "You aren't Winchester."

John stops a few feet away, smiling, "I am now."

Bill looks over at Dean where he's trying to make himself as small as he can against the wall. He doesn't know what this is about, but he knows he wants to run and he can't. He stands still as Bill's eyes settle on him. "You're Dean, right?"

When Dean stays silent and unmoving, John chimes in. "You can answer him, son."

"He is not your son!" Bill's gun cocks. "Dean, is your brother still alive?"

This time he does nod, because John said it was okay and maybe… maybe this isn't about him, not like he was afraid it was. Maybe John isn't going to kill him.

John throws Dean an approving glance before turning back to Bill, whose attention is shifting continuously between the two of them. "Now that's out of the way, let's get down to business."

"What business?"

"Dean has a bad habit of not thinking things through, but you know, I think that might be my fault. See, I didn't explain things to him properly. Like about how demons and monsters aren't the only things tracking us. Isn't that right, Bill?"

Bill's finger tightens on the trigger and Dean thinks he might actually shoot and wonders if the demon is fast enough to get out of the way of the bullet or if he'll even bother. Then he throws the gun to the side and John's eyes automatically move to track it, just for a moment, which is more then enough time for Bill to pull a flask out of his back pocket and thumb it open, tossing the contents of what Dean knows has to be holy water, because it sizzles on the demon's skin and John's eyes go black as he snarls.

For a second, all Dean can think is that he's really glad he never tried holy water, because John looks pissed. Christo might have been annoying, but it never hurt, this looks like it actually hurts him. Then the gun goes off in John's hand and Bill's on the ground clutching his knee, or what's left of it.

John steps forward, straddling Bill's legs and aims the gun at his gut. "Now that wasn't very nice. I only came here to chat."

"You killed Anthony."

"I've killed a lot of people. Now, about that chat."

"Go to hell."

"Been there, done that, moving on. Tell Dean over there about the other thing tracking us."

Bill looks as confused as Dean feels, but when he looks at Dean, there's also determination. "I didn't know your dad very long, Dean, only met him a few times, but he was a good man."

"Blah, blah, blah, get to the point."

He ignored the demon, still looking at Dean like these are dying words and they probably are. "We've been looking for you. Word got out John had been possessed and we've been looking ever since. We weren't even sure you were alive until about a year ago. Surveillance at Worth's place picked you up."

There are Hunters looking for them? It makes sense, actually, because he'd thought John being able to leave them alone for longer stretches might mean they'd move a little less, but if anything, they'd moved more that year. Like they were running from something, or hiding. That's exactly what they've been doing. Carl had cameras and now they know John's possessed and that at least Dean is alive. John has been moving them around to keep Hunters from finding them, but why would he tell him? All that does is give Dean a better idea of what to do to get Sammy and him out.

He knows he can't run and hide on his own, but a Hunter could help. Maybe. Probably. They'd have a better chance than Dean alone. Of course, John's killed two Hunters without breaking a sweat and Dean doesn't think he's going to leave Bill alive. So, maybe not. Still, if he got desperate enough, this tells him that there's help out there, that someone is looking for him and all he has to do is look back.

Bill sucks in breath as John shoves his wounded leg with a foot. "Fuck, John, I know you're in there. We will not stop looking for your boys. You fight that son of a bitch, but we will not stop looking. We will find them and we will…"

"Shut up, Bill, or kiss your other knee goodbye. How many of you are there? Or, were there?"

"Six."

"Right, so that would be you, Anthony, Carl, Bobby, Jim and Caleb. Did you forget that little psychic back in Lawrence? I hear she keeps an ear to the ground, too."

"Seven."

"With you gone, that means they're down to four. How much luck do you think three Hunters and a psychic are gonna have against me?"

"A lot more then you'll give them credit for."

John's smile falters and he rests the barrel of the rifle on Bill's forehead. "Maybe. Maybe I should go ahead and hunt them down."

"Maybe you should try." It's a dare and a stupid one, but Dean's grateful for it, because Bill knows more than Dean what demons can do and if he's willing to put his friends in the line of fire, maybe they do stand a chance.

"Maybe." John leans his weight on the barrel hard enough to drive Bill's head back into the ground, then backs off, "Maybe I'll just visit that wife of yours? Your pretty little girl? Last time John saw them, she was in diapers. How old is she now?"

"You stay away from them!"

A howl cut him off and John frowns, "Looks like our time's almost up. I stay away from them if you and yours stay away from what's mine."

"Those boys aren't yours!"

"They are now!" John's dropped down, his nose inches away from Bill's. Even from this far away, Dean can see the black in his eyes. "I give it five minutes before the Black Dogs get here, which means you have five minutes to leave that message. If a Hunter lays one finger on my boys, I will lay a world of hurt on your family."

John backs up and he's a good ten feet away before he turns his back to Bill and lifts Dean up by his arm again, half walking, half dragging him out. Dean can see eyes in the distance, red and floating in the dark of the trees a ways off. John stops long enough to stare back at them and they blink away, presumably back into the trees. "They'll be back. Black Dogs can smell blood, but they can smell demons too and they aren't stupid enough to go after their makers."

"Makers?"

"Black Dogs aren't anything more then the half breed bastard offspring of Hell Hounds." Dean isn't sure how that happens, but he is sure he doesn't want to know. "They come with the lightening. Bill's been tracking this storm for days now, waiting for an opportunity to put himself in front of it."

He's all but shoved into the car and he can hear the unearthly howl on the other side of the glass as John turns the engine and starts driving off. "They'll kill him, won't they?"

"Oh, yeah." John grins, more to himself and the open road then to Dean. "They'll eat him. If he's lucky, they're half starved enough to make it quick."

Dean fought to feel anything other then numb. "How's he gonna tell them to leave us alone if he's dead?"

"He'll write a note. It may take a few weeks for them to find the body, but they will and if he's smart, there'll be a note with his name and his family's contact number on it."

"If he's not?"

"Then we'll be taking another field trip in the near future."

It's not that Dean thinks he deserved it, because Bill was one of a few people that apparently cared enough about them and about Dean's dad to actually look for them. Sometimes Dean feels like a ghost, like he's just trying to get by without anyone noticing them, because when they do, bad things happen and he wants out. He really, really does, but he can't keep going on hope alone. John isn't so bad, really and Dean has absolutely no delusions about what he's capable of. He doesn't think John cares about them the way his father or even those Hunters do. Sammy is an assignment and Dean is useful and entertaining, but… but Dean can't stop hearing it. Bill saying, 'they aren't your boys' and John saying 'they are now,' eyes black, his face twisted in something that might have been anger, but Dean was too far away to tell for sure and when it's just them, John isn't bad. When Dean does what he's told and doesn't pull stupid stunts like getting caught with a knife at school, things are actually pretty good.

He's not giving up on getting his dad back, he can't do that, he won't, but Dean thinks maybe, just for a little while, he needs to keep his head down and go with it. They pull up to the little week to week apartment and John turns off the engine, but doesn't get out of the car.

Dean looks at the single window, light filtering in through the heavy curtains drawn over it and sighs. "If Hunters come, I'll take Sammy and hide. You'll find us."

He glances over, out of the corner of his eye, and John's smiling. "I'll always find you, Dean."

That shouldn't be as reassuring as it is.

-tbc-