Title: Into Ashes

Summary: "Come on, you can't…you can't leave me here, alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that." What if Dean had died before the deal could be made? What would John and Sam do without him? IMTOD AU.

Spoilers: More mentions of Devil's Trap in this chapter, and vague references to Salvation and Dead Man's Blood.

Disclaimer: Dean…I mean, Supernatural, is still not mine. ;)

A/N: If you'd like to see a video for Into Ashes, you can see one on my website here: http:// www. freewebs. com/ laughtersmelody/ supernatural. htm Just take out the spaces and scroll to the bottom of the page. :) The video quality isn't the best (it's the first time I've used Windows Movie maker and my website was arguing, lol) but I hope you enjoy it!

A/N2: THANK YOU to my beta, Darth Mom! She was incredibly kind and after some trial and error and figured out how she could look at the computer screen without problems. I could not have posted this without her.

I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think. :)

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Into Ashes

The light from the afternoon sun filtered into the room, its rays highlighting the dust that filled the air. Sam watched absently, gaze flickering to the window then back again. A moment later, he let his eyes drift to the large stack of books in the corner. He'd always looked forward to going to Bobby's as a kid. Bobby had the biggest supernatural library Sam had ever seen and he'd loved to pour over the countless pages and ancient texts.

For a brief moment, Sam thought about getting up, thought about picking his way through the shelves to see what was there, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come. There wouldn't be any point, anyway. Dean was gone, and nothing Sam could do would bring him back.

The hollow space where his big brother should have been throbbed sharply, and Sam closed his eyes.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but time was only making this worse. The four days since Dean had died made him feel like he'd been gutted. He couldn't imagine what years would be like…let alone a lifetime.

He missed his brother.

He missed his voice, his laugh, his smirk. He missed the pointless conversations and inside jokes, the stupid arguments and easy friendship, and a thousand other things he couldn't put into words.

And now, Dean wasn't just a call away like he had been at Stanford. Sam couldn't tell himself that Dean was on a hunt somewhere, or playing pool, or on the way to his next job.

Sam was alone.

Dread settled in his stomach, running through his veins like ice. Suddenly, the room was empty and forbidding, feeling more like a prison than a sanctuary. Before he even realized it, he was moving, his legs carrying him out the door, through Bobby's house and out into the yard.

He didn't know where he was headed until he saw the light glinting off the now-dulled surface of the Impala. His gaze drifted to the crushed passenger side, the shape of the semi's front end clearly visible in the warped metal, and he felt himself flinch, memories of that night playing in his thoughts once again. His legs seemed to have a mind of their own, though, and he stepped closer, swallowing convulsively.

His foot hit something, and he paused.

It was a bottle. A beer bottle.

He blinked, automatically following the trail…one bottle, then another, and another…until he found himself face to face with his father.

Sam froze.

His father's frame was bent, shoulders slumped and head bowed, red, swollen eyes staring blankly at the Impala. Always a hunter, he sensed Sam's presence and turned.

"Sammy?" he asked, his voice rough.

Sam wasn't sure what happened next…couldn't even begin to describe it. But suddenly, all the anger and bitterness he'd held back for the last four days came rushing to the surface, making his heart hammer in his chest and his vision turn red.

He reached down for the bottle at his feet and threw it as hard as he could, watching with satisfaction as it hit the side of an old truck and shattered in an explosion of glass.

The sound was enough to break through the haze of rage surrounding him for a moment and Sam glanced at his father. He saw his shock and confusion and turned to leave, moving as fast as he could, the need to get away now resounding loudly in his mind.

He couldn't do this. They couldn't do this. If they did, it would be over. This would be it, the fight, the one that would leave wounds so deep they'd never heal, never be forgiven.

"Sam!"

He heard his father's shout, but didn't look back.

"What was that?!"

Sam recognized the worry in the question, but he'd also recognized the order underneath, and red tinged his vision once more. He kept walking.

"Sam! Answer me!"

His rage simmered closer to the surface.

"Where are you going?!"

Sam paused, fists clenched at his side.

"A motel," he bit out finally.

"What?!" his father demanded. "Why?!"

"Because I can't stay here any more."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

It was all the answer he could give, but of course it wasn't good enough for his father. Nothing ever was.

"You'd better think of a better explanation than that real fast!"

"Or what, Dad?" he sneered. "You'll court-martial me?"

He felt his temper unraveling, his control slipping, and get away drummed in his consciousness once again. He turned once more, but a grip on his shoulder stopped him. Sam wrenched out of father's grasp, using his forearm to break the hold.

His dad looked startled again for a second, but anger quickly replaced his surprise.

"Sam!" he barked.

Sam hated it when is father did that, used his name like it was his rank, like he was Sam the lowly soldier, not Sam his son.

And that was all it took.

All thoughts of holding back vanished in an instant, and that red haze clouded his vision until it was hard to see anything else.

"I don't have to tell you anything!" he spat.

"Fine, Sam," his dad snarled back. "Walk away. Abandon everything! Abandon your family! That's what you're good at, isn't it?"

"Oh, that's rich, Dad, coming from you! I'm not the only one who walked out, or did you forget?"

"That was different!"

"How?! Because you did it for your great crusade?!"

"Because I had to protect you! Keep you safe!"

"Safe?" Sam demanded incredulously. "You mean like you kept us safe? Like you kept Dean safe?"

John stilled, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

He saw his father's jaw clench, hard eyes flashing at the familiar words and the challenge they implied. Sam knew what he was doing, knew that neither of them would back down now.

And this time, Dean wasn't there to step in between them.

"Don't," his father warned, voice low.

"Don't what? Tell the truth?!" Even through the red haze, Sam caught the flicker of hurt in his father's eyes buried under layers of anger. Somehow, that only made Sam's own anger burn hotter. "This is your fault! If you'd just let mom go, stopped thinking of yourself and thought about what she would have wanted, Dean would still be here!"

"And if you had just done what I ordered you to do-"

Sam gave a strangled, bitter laugh.

"I wish I had, you know that? I really wish I had." That flicker of hurt returned, staying longer this time, and a not-so-small part of Sam was glad to see it. A darker part of him wanted to see it again. "But I didn't. Guess we've both made mistakes, huh?"

Mockery practically dripped off the question, and Sam saw his father's fist clench at his side. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized what that meant, knew where this would end, and he spun away, trying to put some distance between them.

"Don't you turn your back on me!" his father roared.

The words made Sam freeze, and he faced his father again, a sneer twisting his features.

"Why not? You did it enough times!"

"What is that supposed to mean?!"

"You turned your back on us, on Dean! He needed you! But all that mattered to you was revenge! You let him die!"

Dean had always been a weapon both knew how to wield expertly in their arguments, but this was different. This time, the pain was too new, too raw…

But Sam couldn't stop.

"All his life, he did what you wanted, what you ordered him to do! He stopped being your son a long time ago, Dad! Do you even care that he's dead?! Or are you just sorry you lost one of your soldiers?!"

The blow, when it came, surprised them both. John Winchester was a lot of things, but he had never, never, hit one of his sons before. The blow had been hard enough that Sam had lost his footing and lay sprawled on the ground. He could already feel the bruise forming.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, hand coming reflexively to his now-throbbing jaw. He tasted copper in his mouth, and spit, not surprised to see the red tinge of blood in the saliva. His father hadn't pulled that punch.

John, for his part, stood frozen, looking at his fist as though it belonged to someone else.

"Sammy…" he tried at last, the name a plea…an apology.

"Don't you dare call me that," Sam said lowly. "Don't you dare."

He spun away from his father then, the only sound that of the gravel beneath his feet echoing in the silent yard.

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John stared at Sam's retreating back numbly, the ache in his chest growing with every step his youngest son took.

He walked unsteadily back to the hood of the run-down car he'd claimed. His legs gave out, and he sat down hard, running a shaking hand over his face. Four days worth of stubble met his trembling fingers.

He'd hit his son.

As a hunter, he'd done things…crossed so many lines…but never this. He'd never hurt one of his boys.

Not true, a voice in his head mocked, a voice that sounded like a warped version of his own, echoing the demon's taunting. You hurt Dean.

He wanted to deny it…wanted to scream that it hadn't been him, it was the demon who had tortured his oldest son, but that didn't matter, not really. It had been his body, his words -- twisted, but still his -- that had hurt Dean.

"Dad…Dad, don't you let it kill me!"

He'd never heard his son sound like that before, so desperate, so terrified…terrified, not for himself, but for his family.

"Dad, please…"

But he had heard the faith there too, the simple faith his son had always had in him, a faith John knew he'd never been worthy of.

He'd fought, fought with everything he had…but it hadn't been enough.

"Dean…" His son's name slipped past his lips, voice breaking.

"Don't get yourself killed, alright? You're no good to us dead."

"Same goes for you."

Those had been his last words to his oldest son, the last thing he'd said to Dean before the demon had possessed him. There was so much he could have said…so much he should have said, but he hadn't.

"I'm proud of you…you know, Sam and I…we can get pretty obsessed. But you, you…you watch out for this family. You always have."

The demon had ripped that from his heart, said out loud what he had never been able to, and Dean hadn't believed it. But John had seen in his eyes that he had believed something else:

"You know, you fight and fight for this family, but the truth is…they don't need you. Not like you need them."

Had his son died thinking that? That his family didn't need him? That he was worthless?

Tears burned in his throat.

When he thought of his son, he remembered a little boy with wide, trusting eyes and an easy smile, a little boy who laughed and played and wasn't afraid to dream.

But now, he remembered when that had all changed, when those trusting eyes had grown old and world-weary, when a real smile had become something rare, and his dreams had been forgotten.

Pain pierced John's heart and he closed his eyes tightly.

Sam was right. It was his fault. All of it.

Sammy…

"A week," he whispered, wishing Dean could hear him. "Sammy and I didn't even last a week without you."

The demon was still out there, still ready to destroy his youngest son, and now John couldn't protect him. Sam was leaving…and this time, he wouldn't be coming back.

John had lost one son, and now he'd just lost the other -- both by his own hand.

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Sam stormed into his room, snatching his duffle from the floor where it sat near the wall. He gathered his few possessions -- even fewer since the crash -- stuffing them into the bag. He grabbed a couple knives, his handgun, and a flask of holy water, shoving them in roughly.

When he was sure he had everything, he slung the duffle over his shoulder, and headed for the door. He'd ask Bobby if he could use one of his old cars. If not, then he'd walk.

He didn't know where he was going…he didn't have any place to be, no people to help, no leads to follow.

But that didn't matter, as long as it wasn't here.

He strode past the maze of books littering the room, not really caring when his bag hit one of the stacks, sending a few of the books to the floor. One fell at his feet, the cover falling open.

Sam moved to step over it, but…something caught his eye. He bent down to pick the book up, then straightened slowly, smoothing the pages unconsciously. It was a picture of a crossroads…

TBC

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A/N: Yes, I know it's a cliff-hanger…but I couldn't resist! (ducks the rotten fruit being thrown at her) ;) The next chapter should be up in a couple days.

Thanks for reading! Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)