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Chapter 3

Sam had been quiet since Dean returned from the bar last night, and he wasn't too sure how he was supposed to handle it.

Maybe Sam was mad at him for some reason? Maybe he hadn't wanted Dean to go to the bar without him. Dean huffed air through his nose and shifted gears, the Impala putting on a burst of speed in response. But Sam would have said something if he hadn't wanted Dean to go, wouldn't he?

Except this was Sam, Dean reminded himself, and Sam didn't always make his feelings known. For possibly the millionth time Dean cursed Jim Miller in his head. Fixing Sam after a lifetime of abuse was an ongoing process, and sometimes he forgot just how badly the kid had been hurt. Sam was good at keeping up appearances.

"Sammy?"

Sam sat up straighter in the passenger seat, rubbing at his eyes. "Huh?"

Dean tried to think of a subtle way to ask, and then thought screw it. "Are you pissed at me?" He glanced over, trying to judge Sam's reaction.

Sam blinked, frowning a little. "What? Why would I be pissed at you?"

"I dunno. You just…seem pissed" he ended lamely. Christ, he sounded like a girl. Apparently Sam had stolen his balls at some point during the night.

"I'm fine." Sam flashed a smile that didn't quite fit. "Not pissed at you."

"Yeah. Okay." Dean faced the road again, watching the thankfully almost-empty road. And then turned back to Sam a few seconds later. "Are you sure? You're really…quiet." He winced internally as he said it. This talking shit was like having his teeth drilled without novocaine.

"Seriously, I'm fine. Just tired. Didn't sleep too well last night."

"I noticed." Dean sighed heavily. "Sam…"

Sam cut him off. "Can we stop? I'm kinda hungry."

Dean looked over at the kid. He was staring blankly ahead, his face closed. Shaggy bangs fell forward into his eyes, longer than they'd been when Dean first met Sam.

"Yeah. Yeah okay." He bit his lip, resolving to pick the subject up later.

Dean's awkward questioning just made Sam feel even worse. The headache had persisted for a few hours after Dean returned, keeping him awake. Not that he'd have been able to sleep soundly after…that.

He was convinced the vision didn't mean anything. He had enough mental problems as it was, why not hallucinations as well? After everything he'd seen in his life - families attacked by monsters, women torn apart, children hunted and killed - there was bound to be some after-effects.

But what if it were real? What if he'd seen something that was about to happen and he did nothing? He pushed the thought aside. Even if it was true, there was no way of finding this strange woman. All he'd seen was a bedroom, which could have been anywhere, in any state. Hell, it could have taken place in Japan for all he knew.

Dean indicated off the road, turning into the parking lot of a roadside diner. Sam frowned for a second, then remembered his request for food.

He doubted he'd be able to eat much.

"Sammy?" Sam looked up from his examination of the plastic booth they were seated in, the formica table in front of him scratched and chipped from thousands of previous uses. The waitress stood in front of the table, pen poised over a tiny pad.

"Uh, yeah. Can I have a coffee, black."

"That it? I thought you were hungry?" Dean was watching him with concern on the opposite side of the booth.

"Yeah. Uh, burger and fries." Spending money always made Sam feel guilty. It was never his money to spend, from all the fake credit cards to the conned money Dean won at poker games and pool. It was easier to get money now he was with Dean. Before, he'd had to rely on his father for most of his income. Or his father's mail boxes, at least.

The waitress took their orders and walked off with a flash of red lips for Dean and soft eyes for Sam. Dean was watching him and Sam focused his attention on the salt and pepper shakers on the table, idly poking at them with fingertips.

"So how long will it take us to get to New Hampstead?" Sam asked before Dean could start asking how he was again.

"We'll be there tomorrow, tonight if we drive fast. We can stop at a motel though, if you're tired."

Sam glanced up, a smile drifting onto his lips. Dean could be very sweet, in his own clumsy way. "I don't mind sleeping in the car if you wanna get there fast."

Dean raised his eyebrows in an are-you-kidding expression, quickly wiped away with a faint blush. "No, you hate sleeping in the car. We can stop."

"For my comfort, huh? Nothing to do with delaying the inevitable." Sam said with a half-smile. Dean grinned and looked faintly embarrassed, as if he hadn't realised his motivations were that obvious.

"Of course."

Sam held his gaze, enjoying the moment of tension-free atmosphere. The waitress returned with mugs of hot coffee, placing them on the table with an exaggerated flourish that involved bending over low enough for Dean and the entire parking lot to get a good look down her top. Sam covered his grin with a hand and wondered what she'd say if he demanded she get her breasts out of his boyfriend's face. Then he wondered what Dean would say if Sam referred to him as his boyfriend.

She departed with a smile for Sam that said she thought he was the cutest thing ever. It never failed to amuse him. Or Dean, apparently, from the wide spread of teeth he was shining at Sam.

The motel for the night was run by two old ladies that giggled and called Dean sweetheart. He booked a room and got out of the office quick, before they started pinching his cheeks.

The room itself was decorated in chintz and displayed pictures of watering cans with pink flowers. The bedcovers were pink to match with massive frills along each of the edges. It all made him rather nauseous. Sam hid an amused look as he stepped in the room, and Dean thought it was worth the discomfort just to see the kid looking happy again.

Dean could have driven for another few hours and reached New Hampshire that night, but he wanted some time to himself before he saw his father again. To prepare, or something. Not that an extra night would give him time to figure out what he wanted to say to the man after eight years apart.

It wouldn't seem so hard if he knew what to expect. John hadn't seemed angry or upset on the phone, but Dean of all people knew how well John could deceive. Maybe John was having as hard a time as Dean was, nervous about seeing his only family again after so long. More likely the older man was focused on whatever he wanted from Dean, whatever assistance his son could bring to the cause.

Sam was quiet, sitting slouched on the bed with his head down. Dean wished he knew what was going on with the kid today. One minute he seemed like his usual self, the next it was as if his dog had been run over. It was messing with Dean's head, and his head was already screwed up as it was.

He sighed and climbed into bed, tossing an arm over Sam and pulling him down. After a token resistance, Sam allowed himself to be positioned like a doll, snuggling into Dean's side and poking the tip of his nose into the curve of neck just below his jaw with a tiny puff of breath, like the space right there was the only place Sam could relax.

Dean slid a flat palm up the back of his shirt, following Sam's spine, feeling each bone and dip and stretch. The incredible heat Sam's body put out made everything seem close and sharp. They were touching from head to foot, every inch of them joined by skin and through thin cloth. Dean wished for a second that he were a little less concerned with Sam's mental health, because he hadn't had a chance to take care of business in the shower that morning and his dick was definitely taking notice of Sam's proximity.

He shifted backward a little, hiding his body's reaction from Sam. The kid made a sleepy noise and nuzzled his jaw again. Dean fell asleep, his head spinning with conflicting emotions.

"Dad. Just got here. Where are you?" Dean heard the curt tone of his voice, briefly closing his eyes. Hopefully his dad wouldn't notice.

The morning was clear and bright, the sky a warm peach lining the horizon. Dean couldn't remember ever stopping by in New Hampshire before. It was surprisingly similar to Elmstead; large redbrick houses with neat lawns and expensive cars parked outside. They drove past the local school, the car idling along as big people-carriers dropped off children carrying heavy bags and shouting to each other in shrill voices. It was deja-vu inducing, and Dean almost felt as if he should be one of those teachers marching across the parking lot, their shoulders set, steeling themselves in preparation for another day's work.

"Dean." John's voice in his ear snapped Dean out of his daze. " I'll meet you at the Starbucks in town in twenty. Can you get there?"

"Yeah, no problem." He hung up. Sam was watching him, eyes shyly peeking out from under his hair.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Dean tried on a shaky smile and Sam reached out a hand, squeezing his arm. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

"I can wait in the car if you want…"

"No, you…you're with me, my dad should…know that." Dean cringed at his fumbling words, but from the way Sam's smile brightened, apparently it was the right thing to say. He started the Impala and headed down pristine streets toward the main town.

Sam wanted to tell Dean to relax, it would all be fine. Wanted to reach out and hug the other man, just to smooth away a few of those tense muscles. But he was pretty sure Dean would laugh self-consciously and shove him away with a slap on the back, sneaking looks to either side to make sure no one saw.

John wasn't in the coffee shop when they arrived. Dean ordered two coffees and they sat at one of the little tables set up outside, one without a stripy parasol, because apparently parasols weren't manly enough for Dean. Privately amused, Sam wondered how Dean ever justified being in a gay almost-relationship to himself if he couldn't even stand the threat a parasol presented to his masculinity.

The thought was pushed aside as the older man began jittering his leg against the underside of the table.

"Dean! Calm down, it's gonna be fine." Dean stopped jittering long enough to shoot Sam a glare.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, okay. Sure. Just…drink your coffee." Dean huffed, his leg bouncing hard enough to spill Sam's drink.

Sam kicked him under the table.

Dean kicked him back, resulting in a minor foot-scuffle that almost upended the table and muffled yelps as they trod on each others' toes. The two women sitting at the next table along looked at them disapprovingly, as if they were naughty children.

"Dean?" The deep voice from above them drew Dean's attention up. As Sam watched, his face closed up. He followed the line of Dean's gaze.

John Winchester wasn't what Sam had expected. The man was tall and broad in the shoulders, his face covered by a greying beard. He was looking at Dean with half-concealed apprehension, but Sam could read the love and fondness he obviously felt for his son, the unbelieving you're really here emotion. Obscurely, it put him in mind of his own father and the lengths he would go to, trying to provoke that same response. The endless hunts, the passive submission, the unquestioning obedience to every order.

Dean wasn't speaking, was just staring at his father like he was seeing Jesus walking on water. John glanced over at him and Sam looked down at the coffee-stained tabletop, feeling like an intruder.

His dad was here. His dad was here, and smiling at him in that way that made Dean feel like a little kid again. Dean couldn't look away, not for a second. His mouth was attempting to form words, but the sound wouldn't come out.

"Dean. Son. How've you been?" John's voice was deep and warm.

He didn't know how he was supposed to respond. How had he been? After being thrown out by his father, after stumbling through college, work, women, and anything else he could find to distract himself, after screwing everything up so bad, and his father wanted to know how he'd been?

Dean wanted to break down and cry. He wanted to be four years old again, crawling into his parents' bed after a nightmare and finding warm arms to hug him and tell him everything was okay.

"I'm fine." The words were spoken calmly, spoken like he meant them.

"Good." John looked at him for a second longer, then glanced over at Sam. The kid was scrunched up small in his chair, staring at his hands and trying to be invisible. Dean's own issues were forgotten momentarily.

"Dad, this is Sam."

Sam looked up at the sound of his name, his eyes wide and scared before the mask came down and he met John's eyes, mumbling a quiet greeting. "Uh, hi. It's good to meet you."

John nodded at Sam, glancing around and locating another chair. "Can I join you?"

"You're the one who asked us to come." The words were sharp and Dean flushed as they left his mouth. John seemed to find them surprising as well, but the older man didn't say anything as he pulled up another chair.

His father looked older. The grey lining his hair and beard spoke of just how much time had passed since Dean last saw him, physical evidence that made the whole situation real. His face was heavier, creases like crevasses that deepened into a frown.

"Dean, I need to talk to you." A glance over at Sam, who still wasn't meeting anyone's eyes.

"Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of Sam."

John let out a heavy exhalation. "Yeah, I thought so. I take it you boys are hunting together?"

"Yes sir." Dean said firmly, earning a quick smile from Sam.

"I heard you were working with someone." John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and for a second Dean was seized with ice-cold fear like water dripping down his back. What else had John heard about Sam? Did he know?

He couldn't know. No one had seen them together, no one knew. Dean took a breath.

"So how exactly did you persuade my son to start hunting again?" John asked Sam. The words were tinged with bitterness.

Sam glanced over at Dean before he started to answer. "It was a werewolf. I needed his help to take care of it."

"Sam saved my life." Dean cut in. "I had to help." He heard himself saying the words, making them sound like guilty excuses, and wanted to bang his head against the table. His dad was suddenly back in his life, and he'd reverted to being eighteen years old, trying to justify every action he made. A part of him recognised John's resentment. A few months with Sam had been enough to convince Dean to hunt again, willingly, while John himself was never able to. But he didn't need to defend Sam's honour with his father. Dean bit his lower lip and forged ahead. "Dad, you didn't come to talk about why I started hunting again. You came to ask me something."

John turned in the chair until his whole body faced Dean. "Yes I did." The older man met Dean's eyes, staring hard like he was trying to find something inside Dean that would prove him worthy.

"I've tracked down the demon that killed your mother. I need your help to destroy it."