Chapter Three

2001

It was everything Dean expected, and all he dreaded. It came as no surprise. It came as no shock. But knowing what was coming, and living through it - enduring the anger, anguish, and pain even as he experienced his own - was wholly different from anticipating what it might be.

His father stood in the center of a small living room in a rented house. Yeah, he'd knocked back a couple of drinks; yet he was far from drunk. He was angry, and stunned, and afraid. And Dean knew it. Saw it for the first time. Afraid.

"I sent you after him, Dean! You were to talk him out of it, to bring him back!"

He'd known it then. He knew it now.

"Dean!"

"Yessir."

"You let him go?"

"I drove him to the bus station."

"Damn it, Dean—"

"Dad—he's dead-set on it. And I . . . well . . ."

"You didn't try, did you? Didn't even try to talk sense into him."

Dean disagreed. "I tried. And he heard me. But it doesn't matter, Dad. He wants something else. Something different."

"He needs to be here, Dean!"

For the first time, Dean asked it. "Why?"

It stopped John Winchester dead in his tracks. Dean looked into the familiar face—tanned skin, scruffy beard, dark eyes expressive enough to grab a man's soul—and realized that now, maybe, if he was lucky, his father would actually hear him.

"Dean—"

"I love that kid, Dad. He's an arm and a leg to me. Hell, he's my heart. But we can't keep trying to shove him into a box. You gave him brains, Dad, you and Mom—you gave him a mind to think with. And he knows this is not what he wants. Is that so bad? Is that so terrible? He's not going to another frickin' planet, Dad. He's going to California. Last I looked, it's part of the U.S. They have phones and everything." Dean didn't avoid the hard look in his father's eyes. "Look, Dad—you've got me. Okay? This is what I was meant to do. It's what I am, as much as you are. And that's okay. It's all good. I don't mean to sound like some emo chick-flick moment with 'nads in place of ovaries . . . but Dad, come on. One of the sons you made, you and Mom, is a loaded gun. Just aim me, okay? But let Sam . . . you know, just let Sam be what was good and kind in Mom. What was you before Mom died. Let him be something we aren't. Okay?"

He had never, ever, not once, poured his heart out to his father. Not like this. But as he stood there in the rental house, from which Sam had fled hours before on the heels of his father telling him not to come back if he walked out the door, he realized that what he said was the truth—and that he never could have said any of it before now.

Because now, Sam was gone. For the first time in eighteen years, there was no Sammy Winchester under their roof. Just John. Just Dean. The eldest. The chip off the old block. The apple that fell straight down from the tree, and didn't even bounce.

"Aren't I enough?" Dean asked. "I know you'll miss him. I'll miss him. But you and me, Dad . . . aren't we enough to take out that yellow-eyed son of a bitch? Can't we let Sammy be free of it? Free of that bastard? Do you have to sacrifice a third Winchester to obsession?"

Shock stunned John into absolutely stillness. "Jesus, Dean—"

"Think about it, Dad. You put that kid into my arms the night he turned six months old, and set me a task. Gave me a job: to get him safely from that house. Never once did you say we were to stop him from growing up. You didn't tell me it was a permanent job, that he'd never grow up and we'd keep him down on the farm. You wanted me to keep him safe, and I have. But you never said I was to stop him from going out into the world and trying to live a life. Maybe you never saw it, never expected it of him; maybe you thought he'd be just like me. But he's not, Dad. He's just Sam. Sammy. And he's smart, and good, and kind . . . and all the things we maybe might have been, you and me, if Mom hadn't died the way she did. There's no going back for you and me. There's only going forward. Going on. And that's okay by me. It's what I want. But I won't stand in the way of a kid who has the balls to not only want something different, but to go after it."

"Dean—"

"You've never laid a hand on me in anger," Dean said. "Not even when maybe I deserved it, not even when you were drunk. I know people may think it's otherwise, and I know CPS would stick their nose in and wonder about abuse, and I know there have been teachers who've looked at the bruises a frickin' ghost put on me and they've assumed the worst. And I know you've never, ever even thought of harming either of us. That's not Sam's issue. Sam's issue is he has a brain that works differently. And that's okay." Dean drew in a deep breath. "Dad—we don't live a normal life. No one but other hunters can ever possibly understand. You've done exactly what you had to do, you've been exactly what you've had to be, what any hunter with two young kids and a hard-on for revenge would have to be, and I get that. People are just wrong to think otherwise. But you can't expect Sammy to be just like you, or be just like me. He just isn't. Aren't I enough? Can't we let him go?"

To Dean's astonishment, tears welled in John's dark eyes. "I can't, Dean. How will I protect him? If he's not here . . . how can I keep him safe?"

"Dad—"

"He's my son, Dean. My boy. He's mine, and I love him. He's Mary's, and I love him. I can't do a damn thing for him if he's hundreds - or thousands - of miles away in California. I can't protect him."

'Protect.' His father had used that word twice within a minute or two. Never had Dean heard that word applied to Sam, coming from John. That he was to protect Sam; oh yes, that had been made clear. But he had never thought of it in terms of his dad.

He looked at his father and asked a question with his eyes.

And John Winchester understood it.

"Yes," he said. "I protect you, too. Much as I can. But you're good, Dean. Better than good. I trust you with my life every time we go on a hunt. I protect you—but you protect me."

Dean drew in a ragged breath. "You told me something once. About when you were in 'Nam. About how soldiers lost their way, or found their way."

John nodded.

"And you said that some soldiers found a way that was different from others, but that the way was no less important than what you did in the jungle, fighting the enemy."

"It wasn't," John said. "Took me awhile to see it, but I did. Some of us may take fire, but there are others who do the work, too. It's just a little different."

"That's Sam," Dean said. "That's Sam, Dad. You and me . . . well, we'll go out and take fire, okay? But it's time to trust that Sam's way is every bit as good. As valuable. It's just different."

After a moment, John Winchester turned away. But not before Dean saw the tears break free of his eyes.

# # #

Now

When Dean didn't take the Impala, Sam was fairly certain he knew where his brother had gone. It was classic Dean, after a shock, to look for a bar. And he didn't have far to go; a place called The Longhorn stood in a parking lot adjoining the motel's.

Sam debated leaving Dean to himself. And for awhile he did exactly that, because if Dean's sun-baked Swiss cheese brain still defaulted to before their father died, to when Sam was still at Stanford, he wouldn't recall the moment in 2005, in Chicago, after the daeva had torn them apart, when John Winchester had pulled his youngest son into his arms and clung to him, saying so much without uttering a single word. It was in his eyes, in his expression, in his posture. So many angry words between father and son over the years, so many marching orders Sam didn't want to follow; and yet, in that moment, Sam knew just how deeply his father loved him.

He hadn't known, when he left for Stanford that miserable night; in Chicago, all had come clear. But if Dean couldn't access the memories of their last five years together since their father's death, his recollection would be of knock-down, drag-out arguments, and himself trying to play peacemaker between two stubborn Winchester males.

Dean had just lost his father again. And didn't know how. Didn't know why.

Had no knowledge, either, of the deal his father had made to save his life.

For Sam, it had been difficult enough living through it once. But now? Again?

There was a saying: Ignorance is bliss.

For hunters, ignorance was deadly.

For Dean, in these circumstances . . . would ignorance of the details of their father's death, of the deal that bought him his life, provide any kind of balance? Reduce his grief?

Sam remembered the scene in Bobby's salvage yard when he'd confessed - in the face of his brother's unspoken but obvious desire to be left alone - that he missed his father. That he missed his father, that he felt guilty, that he was not all right.

That neither was Dean.

He had walked away from him then, because Dean's raw pain was too hurtful for a younger brother to witness.

This time, he couldn't do it. He wouldn't. He was no longer a kid lost in guilt and grief. He would go to his brother instead, and stay where he belonged.

# # #

Dean never paid attention to his watch, or the wall clock, when he camped out in a bar. He just found a stool on which to perch, or a table, or a booth, and drank. Maybe picked up a lady. Maybe went home with her. Shot pool. Drank more than he probably should.

Not this time. This time he sat in the back, in a booth, and drank one beer. One shot of whiskey. A second beer, second shot, sat on the table as rent for the booth. So long as he had booze in front of him, even if he didn't actually drink it, no one would make any noise about him leaving so someone else could have the table.

The rush of coldness, the weakness that had struck his knees when he realized, in the motel room, what Sam meant, that their father was dead, had passed. Now he was numb. So terribly numb.

You son of a bitch, he thought. How the hell could you go and die on me, Dad?

Impossible. Inconceivable.

Dean stared into a room he didn't see and tried to envision a world without John Winchester in it.

When Sam arrived at the booth and slid into it, Dean wasn't surprised. What did surprise him was that the kid, when he sat down across the table, wasn't a kid anymore. Gone were the heavy bangs hanging so low over his brow; he wore his hair longer yet, and parted. Gone, too, was the liquid-eyed innocence that had defined Sammy Winchester for so many years.

Dean couldn't help himself. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sam's brows rose. "Me? What do you mean?"

"You were a tall drink of water when you left for Standard, but you were all arms and legs, not shoulders and pecs. And I think you got taller. What are you now?"

Sam's smile twitched, and a dimple appeared. "Six-five. Two-twenty."

"Huh." Dean eyed him. "Be a bit tougher taking you in a sparring match, these days."

"A 'bit tougher?' Try impossible, Dean. Face it, you're the wuss now. The scrawny-ass Winchester." But Sam relented; his expression suggested it wasn't truly the right time for ragging on his brother. "Okay, I'm lying. Yeah, I take a match off you now and then, but you're still the toughest son of a bitch I know."

"Next to Dad—" And Dean stopped. He just stopped.

Sam knew what he needed. "Five years ago. We were in a wreck. The Impala was totaled, more or less. So were you, more or less. Dad was recovering, but then . . . " Sam shifted against vinyl, ill at ease. "The doctors said—"

"Aneurism. I got that from before. But I know you, Sammy—that look in your eyes says there was more to it than that."

Sam nodded. " Demon."

It was a shock. And not. "Not that yellow-eyed bastard."

"Yes."

"Oh, crap." Dean hooked an elbow on the table, rubbed his brow with one hand. "I've lost too much, Sam. What the hell happened to me?"

"I don't know, but we'll figure it out."

Dean grabbed the whiskey, knocked it back. Moved on to the beer, then signaled for refills for himself and fresh for Sam.

"It's three o'clock, Dean. In the afternoon."

"Close enough to five. Not that I ever paid attention to that." Dean stared at his brother. "We were ganking a poltergeist in Montana. Me and dad. You were at Stanford. What the hell happened in between, Sammy?"

"Here, we went out into the desert to take out a chupacabra, like I said. You disappeared from right in front of me, but I didn't see it because I was ducking salt rounds going off right over my head."

"That's not what I meant."

"I went to Stanford."

"I remember that part."

"We stopped talking for a couple of years."

Dean stared at him blankly. Stop talking? Him and Sammy? "Why in the hell would we do that?"

Sam shrugged. "It got really complicated. We just . . . we were different people. Really different."

"Years, Sam?"

"Then you came and got me, because Dad was missing."

"Didn't you go back?"

Sam said nothing as the cocktail waitress set down two shot glasses and two beer mugs. She cast a lingering glance at Dean, offered a smile, but he was focused on his brother. And his past.

"I went back," Sam said, once she departed. "I'd aced my LSATs, had an interview to apply to law school, but . . . " He picked up his whiskey, threw it back. Dean didn't recall ever seeing Sam drink whiskey with quite the same casual assertiveness. Like it was second nature.

"'But?'" Dean quoted. "Sam—you never wanted to be a hunter. You made that clear to both Dad and me. Why the hell would you run off to college, then quit after acing . . . whatever it was you aced."

Sam's eyes were on his beer. "I had a girlfriend."

Dean grinned. "Sammy had a girlfriend. How sweet. Did you take turns braiding one another's hair?"

No, there was no liquid innocence in Sam's eyes anymore; and no sign at all of the earnest puppy-dog expression. "She died. Demon got her the same way he got Mom. I never went back to school. We've been hunting ever since."

It took Dean's breath away. Demon. Fire. A woman dead. Again.

Too damn much for one family to deal with. The Winchester curse. "Oh, crap. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Her name was Jessica."

Dean felt helpless. Useless. Sam in pain was something he could not deal with. Never could. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I guess maybe I should."

Sam's brows knitted. "What?"

"Go to a doctor. Because this . . . because not knowing, losing things, losing time, losing memories, is dangerous. I don't want to live like this. I don't want surprises that cut you off at the knees. And while Dad wasn't much for hospitals and doctors, he always said we should rule out as much as possible first. So . . . " He caught Sam's glance. "Do we still have Elroy McGillicuddy's insurance?"

A smile tugged at Sam's mouth. "No. But we've got Dick Cheney's."

Dean said, "Who?" and saw the shocked widening of Sam's eyes. But then he relented, and smiled. "Yeah, I know. He's vice president."

"Was."

"Was?"

"It's 2010, Dean. We had another presidential election."

Dean rested his head in one hand and closed his eyes. "Shit. This is a pain in the ass, Sam."

"I guess if Bobby gets a new dog, it'll be Biden."

Dean frowned, lifted his head. "Bobby . . . Bobby Singer?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Bobby. " Then he stilled. "You don't remember Bobby?"

"Oh, I remember the son of a bitch who held a shotgun full of buckshot on Dad and ordered him off his property. That Bobby? Yeah, I remember."

Sam frowned in perplexion. "That was a long time ago. And it's all water under the bridge."

"Not under my bridge, it isn't. It's stone cold dry, Sam. You don't point a loaded gun at Dad and remain on my Christmas List."

Sam was clearly stunned. "You were fine with it, Dean! Or you got fine with it. Trust me. I don't know what's going on in your brain right now, but you and Bobby are close."

Dean frowned. "I don't remember it like that. Dad was pissed."

"Yeah, Dad was pissed! And maybe you were for awhile. But you're over it, Dean. Long over it. Bobby's a good friend. The best. After Dad died, he kind of stepped in, took—"

And the anger came rushing, hard and hot. "Don't you dare say he took Dad's place."

Irritation flashed in Sam's eyes. "No more than you did."

It was a gut-punch. "What did you say?"

"You didn't take his place either, Dean, even if you wanted to. Dad was Dad. Look, your brains are seriously screwed up right now, dude. I get that. But I don't want you bad-mouthing Bobby, because the man's done more for us than I can even begin to explain to anyone, let alone to someone missing five years of his life. You'd better trust me on this, because I remember better than you do. Besides . . ."

"Besides what?"

"I called him. And he's on his way here."