"Looks like it's still here." John shoved the flask at him. "Holy water, drink it, maybe it'll help."
"Okay... yeah..." Sam's hand shot to his head. "NO...Dad!" It was a plea.
John began to search again. "Talk to me son, tell me what's going on."
Sam sank into a crouch, eyes closed.
His father pulled a pouch from an inner pocket and sprinkled salt liberally over Sam's hunched body, then drew a salt circle around him. "Keep your ass in there!"
The boy flopped onto his backside in the circle, trembling with fear.
John tore his way around the room, all care gone, upturning cushions, the couch. "This friend of yours, neat freak you said?"
"Yeah..." Sam replied distractedly from his captive spot.
"Where's he put coins, if you leave 'em around?"
"I don't know. I'm usually hard up for cash so I don't tend to leave money around."
"Hang in there." John began to tip out storage tins and containers.
Sam held his head again, wincing, the pain bordering on migraine level.
"Stay the fuck away from my boy!" John snarled savagely, rounding back over to Sam and sprinkling holy water around him. He found an old coin purse, dumped it eagerly; it was empty. "Fuck! Sam... think!"
"Dad!" The tone held real terror.
"What?"
"I'm still feeling it in the circle!" He was holding his head again. "It's like it's inside my mind." He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Sam…" John stepped inside the circle, pulling his son to his feet. He took his face in his hands, sought eye contact. "Look at me."
Sam's eyes were glazed. "Don't let it, Dad!"
His father's tone was reassuring. "It's not really here son. Nothing is going to happen. I won't let it. It's lying. I ganked the son of a bitch back in New Orleans."
"No." Sam's boyish features crumpled. "No, it's not!"
"All he's got left is his voice."
Sam whimpered a little.
"Dammit, Sam! Listen to me!"
"I'm seeing it though. What it wants to happen!" Sam's hands fisted into his father's jacket, his young face contorted in an expression of misery.
"I'm here and it's not gonna get you." John gave him a little shake. "Push it away with your mind; you're strong son. It can't do anything. Tell it to fuck the hell off." He cast a glance around the circle, muttering to himself. "How is it getting through the salt?"
"Dean!" The name peeled out of him. "Oh god!" Sam started to cry. There was no reserve, no macho front, just streaming tears.
"Sam… son... hang in there." John's brow furrowed. "Is the coin in your pocket or something?"
"I don't..." Sam panted, confused, unable to concentrate at all, tormented by a vision of some sort.
"Don't let it get to you. -Fuck off you bastard!"
"My wallet?" The voice was tentative.
"Where is it?"
Sam furrowed his brow trying to concentrate through the noise in his mind. "Back pocket."
John fumbled the wallet out, ripped it open. The coin fell out onto his palm and was instantly slammed down on the counter. In one swift movement, he drew his iron knife and stabbed it through the center of the coin, impaling it onto the surface.
Sam swallowed convulsively.
His father took a handful of salt, freed the coin and grabbed hold of it. "I got some battery acid in the truck... be just a minute... no goddammit, you come with me!" He took hold of Sam's arm and hauled him along.
Sam followed blindly, almost dry heaving, the contractions of his stomach making him stumble along, his father the only thing keeping him from falling on his face.
John ran him down the stairs, holding onto his biceps with a strong hand, reassurance flowing out of his mouth. "It's okay now son, gonna be okay." When they reached the truck, he propped Sam up against the side while he pulled out the container of acid. Within seconds the coin was sinking into the fluid and the top of the container was sealed tight.
Sam stood weakly, shaking, eyes closed.
His father took him by the shoulders, steadying him. "You okay there, buddy?"
Sam's lip trembled, lending him the illusion of being a frightened child.
John pushed the sweaty bangs aside and took hold of the back of his son's neck with a calloused palm. "Hey..." His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "It's okay buddy, I'm here, it's gone now."
Sam looked miserable and so young. So impossibly young.
"Sammy... come here." John visibly softened into a different man, someone Sam vaguely remembered from his youth. He pulled Sam into a hug and held him tight. "Shhh… it's okay, buddy."
The young man fell into the embrace and buried his head in his father's shoulder. John rubbed his back, soothing, calming.
"S...sorry," Sam hiccuped.
"What have you got to be sorry for? Wasn't your fault."
"I'm falling apart after a few minutes and Dean was with that thing for...days."
His father's voice caught. "That's why I gotta find him, Sam. But right now, you're not okay." His face twisted in a bitter grimace of self-reproach. "I thought I'd finished that bastard back in New Orleans… and I let it get to my boys. Of all people... my boys."
"I'm fine." Sam replied in an attempt to man up, even though he was shaking.
John huffed, a resigned smile dragging at his lips. "Yeah, we all say that... guess you're a Winchester through and through alright."
"It's not fair!" Sam shouted. "Why do things keep happening to Dean! It's not fair, Dad!" He pushed against the solid shoulder in a fit of childish temper.
"Think this one happened to you."
Sam rubbed his cheek against the rough material of John's weathered Carhartt jacket. He was still a little shaky. "Yeah. Okay Dad." He shook his head to clear it. "I feel like I got mind raped." He paused at the unfortunate word choice.
John sobered immediately. "What did you see?"
Sam's tone grew desperate, pleading. "Dad, we gotta...we gotta make Dean think it was all in his head, okay?" He grabbed the edge of his father's coat sleeve like a child begging for a lollipop. "Please? I don't care what the truth is, he's gotta think it was in his mind, okay?"
His father's eyes were full of pain. "I'm guessing he probably knows if it was in his head or not."
"No." Sam let him go, considering. "I don't know if he does. He was really confused. He can't know, Dad. He can't."
A calloused hand ran wearily through the dark scruff of hair. "Wish I knew where he was at."
"I should have followed up with him again. Couldn't get him to stay and then I figured he just needed some space." Sam drew a breath. "Just...just let's make him think it in his mind, okay? Lie to him. Lie if we have to." Sam met his father's eyes, suddenly every inch a man. "He doesn't need this...he doesn't."
"I hear what you're saying… but what if he knows something, thinks we're brushing it off?"
"We don't brush it off. We just try to assure him it was a mind fuck." Sam visibly winced at his unfortunate choice of words. "I mean maybe it was in his head..." he said, considering. "But those belt marks were real. The way he was moving and unable to... " Sam closed his eyes, forced the word out. "Sit and function...that was real." He paused. "Still don't feel well," he admitted.
John cast an arm around his shoulders, finding he had to reach up a little to do so. "C'mon, let's get you sitting down." He set off at a slow pace back towards the apartment door.
Sam nodded and allowed himself to be ushered inside and towards the futon. He flopped down, his teeth gritted. "Just not meant to see some things, you know?"
His father folded himself down into a low chair; he looked drained. "Maybe you'd better tell me."
Sam's posture betrayed his anxiety. "No. Please. I can't."
John picked his words carefully. "Might be easier to deal with Dean if I know what went on…"
His son swallowed and looked away. "I know you. If you went on the hunt you read the descriptions."
The color seeped away from his father's face. "Did, did that happen? Did you see that!"
Sam kept his gaze turned away. "I saw some stuff happening to me and, then flashes of boys I didn't recognize, and then Dean..."
John's throat moved convulsively. He leaned forwards in the chair, pushing for information he didn't want to hear. "Dean?"
"Yeah." The tone was distant. "Definitely Dean."
John was on his feet; swallowing heavily.
"It told me that," a tremble started in Sam's hand, he tried to hide it on his lap. "He was the prettiest with the most fight."
His father side-stepped into the bathroom, dropping awkwardly to his knees before the toilet. The splatter of vomit hitting the bowl with violent force was clearly audible.
"He should never have been there..." The choked voice was barely recognizable.
Sam had gone still on the couch, his head turned down. "Maybe, maybe it was all a lie." His voice was not convinced.
John made no reply. He stayed on his knees, his boots wedged uncomfortably up against the side of the bath as he cried silent, wrenching sobs into his hands.
"Dad?"
A broken whisper answered him. "I was always afraid of that."
"Afraid of what?" Sam's voice tried to shore up John's crumbling reserve. "John Winchester isn't afraid of anything, right?" Sam came over and crossed his arms, looked down at his father.
"For you boys, some of the places we lived..."
"Yeah." Sam studied the tiled floor. "Kinda dodgy. Some spots. Few close scrapes. Dean being the pretty boy didn't help in some of those bars."
John sat back on his heels, flushed the toilet, flopped sideways onto his ass on the bathroom floor. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Taught him to fight good for more than one reason..."
"But he knew how to fight, Dad. How to carry himself. He was always okay."
"He's not okay now." His father's eyes were wet as he kneaded brutally at his own forehead.
Sam studied his father and his eyes softened, his brows furrowed. He gave John a glimpse of his sweet boy that he hadn't seen in years. "You okay?"
John wouldn't meet his gaze. He shook his head. "That motherfucker hurt my boy... and if I hadn't got here today, he would've hurt my other boy."
The door to the apartment flew open, slammed back against the wall and rebounded with force. In that instant Dean, breathing heavily, was next to them, his eyes wide.
"Sam! Dad! What the fuck, Sam! Did you hit him?!"
Sam whirled in shock. "Dean!"
John's breath went out all at once in a harsh gasp; he struggled unsuccessfully in the limited space to pull himself up from the floor. "Dean!"
"Where were you?" Sam asked.
Dean looked shaken, his eyes shunting from one to the other. "I was doing my own thing…" He hauled his father onto his feet. "…'til I got a call from Bobby, telling me Dad was headin' here." He studied his father anxiously. "You okay there, Dad?"
John didn't answer but pulled him in with a hard desperate grip. Dean returned the hug, anxiety and tension leaking from every pore.
"Why aren't you answering your phone? I thought you were dead!" His father's voice had pitched into something scared and vulnerable.
"I'm not dead." Dean twisted his head to peer at his father up close. He frowned. "Hey man, this isn't like you."
"I've been looking for you for a month!" Suddenly ire seemed to overtake John's relief. "No word... nothing! You just take off after that hunt and ghost on me!"
His eldest stepped away, dropping his gaze as guilt flooded over his features. "Just needed some space, that's all." He turned to Sam, taking in the stress and tear stains. "Sammy, you okay?" His voice deepened. "Have you guys been fighting?"
John snorted softly.
Sam was standing to the side of the reunion, his chest puffed out, on the balls of his feet, ready to launch at his father at the slightest sign of threat to Dean.
"Sam." Dean insisted, incredulous. "Have you been… crying?"
Sam dashed the drying tears on his cheeks. "A little."
Bewildered, Dean turned back to his father, taking in the wreckage of his face. "Dad? What the hell is goin' on?" He kept bodily in between them, one hand on John's sleeve, the other on Sam's arm.
Both men looked away before John spoke. "The family reunion of our dreams, huh? Nothin.' Me and your brother can fight it out without you, kid."
Dean stared at him in disbelief. "Why are you here? In Stanford."
"Looking for you!" John tugged his sleeve out of Dean's grip. "I've been trying to track you down for a week. Even went to Singer's." He took a breath, composing his features. "I will never forgive you for making me talk to that old bastard."
His eldest stared at him. "So why did you go to Bobby's?"
"Thought maybe you were there. Bobby wasn't exactly going to answer a call from me." John looked pointedly at his youngest. "Neither was Sam. So I had to drive to both places."
Sam still looked protective. "Don't shout, Dad. He's here now."
"Not shouting, kid." John replied quietly.
Suddenly Dean was all awkwardness, deflection, his voice dropping to a mumble. "Lost my cell." He cleared his throat, took a breath. "So, what's got you all fired up?"
John's dark eyes welled and his voice dropped into an angry scold. "Don't ever go AWOL again on me, you hear me?"
"I'm sorry, sir." Dean looked desperately to his little brother for some explanation.
"We were worried about you. And...I kinda..." Sam dropped his gaze guiltily.
Dean's face went still. "You what?" He asked carefully.
"I forgot to get rid of the coin and Dad had to clean up the mess." He winced.
The reaction was that of a desperately scared man; it clashed violently with the familiar smart ass image as Dean turned chalk white, his eyes wide as he stared around the room. "Coin?" His voice sharpened, a note of panic in the background. "It's still here?"
John shook his head. "No we just took care of it."
"Sonofabitch! You just took care of it!" Dean turned horrified eyes towards his brother. "Did, did it…?"
Sam's lip trembled, even if his voice was steady. "It's been a bad day..."
Dean looked pleadingly at his father, wanting, needing to know the truth. "Dad, what happened?"
John remained silent and looked to his youngest. Sam bit his lip and looked down, hiding behind his shag of brown bangs. "Got in my head for a while, that's all." A shake ran through his legs and he swallowed.
John put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed with rough affection. "You're okay, kid."
Dean watched them, frowning, puzzled, not sure what had gone down between them that had changed things to such an extent that the caring exchange was even possible.
"He had a bit of a rough time with it."
"Dammit, Sam!" There was anger now in Dean's voice. "Why didn't you get rid of the friggin' thing?"
Sam's answer was sheepish, chastened. "Logan must have cleaned it up and I totally forgot."
"Fucking Logan."
Sam looked up with a bit of defensiveness. "Come on, man. Leave Logan alone."
His brother wasn't even listening. There was a plea in his eyes as he turned to John. "Is it gone?" The simple question was emphasized by the clenched fists and rigid posture.
"Yeah son, it is. I made sure it's gone. Unless dissolving it in battery acid doesn't work for some unknown reason." John turned his gaze to him, any trace of anger gone. "Dean...why did you do this to me? I've been so worried about you. You know better."
Dean took a deep breath, struggling for control and trying not to show it. "Hey... come on old man, you've been talking to Sam too long." The attempt at flippancy was completely off-key.
"I'm serious." He replied, the baritone holding a bit of a rebuke.
Sam glared at him. "Dad..." the word was was an unspoken warning. 'Don't you dare hurt my brother.'
Dean swallowed, speaking quietly. "Thought you might want me out the way for a bit... y'know…Ike." He looked up at John, misery in his green eyes. "I'm really sorry, Dad."
John softened once more. "I know you are, kid. So am I."
His son dropped his eyes. "It was my fault... Ike… it's on me."
"I got so many things on me it's like I'm dragging around a fucking building-" John started.
"That shoulda been me." It was said in an undertone.
"Don't you say that!" His father exploded in indignant anger.
Dean flinched.
"Don't you dare ever have the audacity to say that to me again!" John encroached on Dean's space, thoroughly affronted.
Sam pulled up his full height and stepped forward. "Lay off, Dad."
John turned on him, ready to go at someone. "Back off Sam."
Dean looked wildly from one to the other, bodily inserting himself between them again. "C'mon, knock it off!"
"You know what? Fuck you both!" John backed off, feeling unwanted. "I'm not in the mood to be ganged up on. You're both safe, I did my duty." He whirled off and stepped toward the door.
His eldest's flimsy grasp on any semblance of control shattered. "Dad? Dad! Wait up!" There was something childlike, frantic, in the shout.
John jogged angrily down the steps and out the front door, his boots heavy on the wood. Dean was right on his heels, almost falling on the steps. "I just got here!"
"And I'm just leaving." The voice was brusque. Dean obviously didn't need him. Sam didn't want him. His boys were better off on their own.
Dean's voice rose, hoarse. "Stop! Wait! Can't you two just get along…Dad, please!" He snatched at his father's retreating figure, catching hold of the back of his jacket.
John stopped and turned with the action. "What?"
"Don't… jeez, just don't…" The words were forced, choppy; Dean's breath coming harsh, fast.
Sam started down the steps after them, still in protective mode. He halted as he spotted Logan in the distance. "Shit." He started to play interference, heading to cut off the impending disaster.
Behind him, his brother doubled over abruptly, hands on his knees, his breath sawing in and out with a painful whistling sound.
Sam heard it. Turned his attention back. "Shit, Dean? Dad you got him?"
John waved him off. "I got him son, get that kid outta here."
Sam paused, brow furrowed in distress. "Be nice to him, Dad!" He stayed to watch the interaction for a moment, saw to it that his father being kind and jogged to Logan.
Dean swayed, gulping for air. John bent over, concern radiating off him at the uncharacteristic behavior. "Dean. Buddy. Hey." He set his hand on his boy's back.
Dean reached up with one hand, caught at his jacket again, fingers white with the force of the grip.
"It's okay, boy. Calm down. What's wrong?" The baritone was soft. Calming.
"Just… don't… go...okay."
"Okay. Okay. Not going. C'mere." John hauled Dean to his feet by his jacket. "Breathe, kiddo."
Dean swayed, panting, a look of desperation on his pale face.
John set a big hand on the back of his son's neck. He's leaned forward, his nose almost touching Dean's. The hazel eyes were honest. "I'm right here. Listen to my voice." He gave a weak smile. "Don't pass out and make me carry your ass up the stairs. I'm too old."
Dean's eyes met his as he fought for control. Gradually his breathing slowed. He shook his head in a dazed way, his eyelashes fluttering a little as he won his battle to fill his lungs with air.
"Easy boy." The hand tightened on the scruff of his neck. The deep voice was soothing, measured.
A few more breaths and Dean straightened up a little. His eyes were unguarded, frighteningly vulnerable. "You just got here." He blinked hard, trying desperately to man up in front of his father.
John tucked the smaller man under his arm, and started back up the stairs, eager to get the spectacle out of the view of the neighbors. He closed the door behind them. "Hey..." His tone was gentle. "What was that all about, huh?"
Dean shook his head, swallowing, unable to find the words to explain his behavior even to himself, let alone John Winchester.
"C'mon." John straightened the disheveled futon and pulled Dean onto it next to him.
A flush of embarrassment at his own weakness spread slowly over Dean's face. It made the shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the greater prominence of his cheekbones, suddenly all the more obvious.
His father pulled him into his chest a bit, and sat with him quietly, letting him feel the rise and fall of his breath. "Sorry I lost my temper back there. I was just so damn worried about you and then Sam going through that was not exactly a calming experience."
Dean nodded. Wordless, his jaw tight with suppressed emotion and guilt.
John leaned in and kissed the top of his boy's head.
Dean stared at him, shocked at the uncharacteristic display of affection.
"Been a bad month for all of us."
"Yeah." It was just a strained whisper. The expression on Dean's face showed just how bad it had been.
Thank you for all the great reviews! I, Celine, have been obnoxious about answering them but I will as soon as I get the chance. Please feel free to drop us a line, we love it.