Yeah, I'm back. I know it's been a long, long delay, and I really need to apologize, altough I don't really have anything to say in my defense.

I just had a bunch of stuff to deal with and it couldn't be ignored any longer...work was killing me, and I just couldn't shake an illness that's been with me for weeks now. And that's jsut a tiny part of it. I was so done in that I thought I'd never be able to write again...and then the most amazing thing happened. I managed to center myself again and before I knew it, I was writing again. Couldn't stop anymore. So...I can pretty much promise you that it's not going to come to such long delays anymore and hope you'll belive me.

I hope you haven't given up on this story and are still with me.

'nuff said for now. I hope you'll enjoy:

Crows in the wheatfield

the road so far:

Dean shifted in sleep, body slipping into deeper slumber as the tension of his muscles eased off, face going slack. John got up, arranged his son's leg on a pillow, rearranging his limbs until he didn't look like he was twisted up like a pretzel, like he could actually sleep through the night without giving him frozen neck-muscles to add to his problems.

He knew he should be doing a whole lot of things before going to sleep himself, knew he should get the house reasonably clean, for starters, get the fridge running and some supplies to fill it. He should chop some wood, get a fire going, maybe put some new wards and spells up while he was at it. There was a thousand things to do still, but for the first time in maybe years John knew that they were going to stay here for a while.

Maybe the time together did them good, in the end, managed to reestablish some of what they'd seemed to have lost, lately, lost somewhere along the miles and miles they'd travelled ever since Sam had left.

Like road rash - each mile on the road scraping another tiny little piece off their relationship…

So, a couple of days or weeks of laying low, of reconstructing their partnership – it was nothing compared to what Dean had sacrificed already, was it?

John could deal with that.

It was a small price to pay for his son's life.

A price John was more than willing to pay.

OoOoOoO

Chapter 12

He woke to a soft, humming sound, a distorted melody that filled the otherwise quiet room with a warm sense of familiarity, of home, immediately setting his otherwise muddled mind at ease a little.

Dean had never done good with waking up in places he didn't remember going to sleep in, knew it only happened when he was completely out of it - which could only mean one of two things – drunk or injured.

Neither option was good.

But the humming had him settling down immediately, told him that he wasn't alone, first and foremost, and that he was with someone that knew and cared about him enough to do this for him.

Dean had always, ever since he was a little boy, used music as a pacifier, as a means of reassurance and calming. Maybe it was a last remnant of his mom, singing him to sleep, humming to him whenever he was sick or scared or simply not feeling well. He didn't consciously remember much of those days long lost, but it was the parts he did remember that had him clinging to what little was still lodged in his brain. Her singing had always helped and, he had to admit it, the approach still worked on him now, 24 years old and all grown up for sure.

For a couple of minutes Dean just lay there, letting his mind settle, his memories fill in some of the blank spots that had gathered around the frayed edges of his dreams.

Black dog.

The field.

Hospital.

It came back too fast, almost, swamping his tired brain with unpleasant images, with feelings of pain and helplessness, both inside and out.

Dean shifted a little, carefully testing his bodies boundaries, finding the limitations of moving without any kind of discomfort pretty darn close to his initial position, but also detecting that he was able to push past said barriers easily enough, persuading his body to keep moving without too much of a hassle. This pain he knew how to handle – always had. Had even welcomed it at times, using the feeling to ground himself, to tether himself to reality when his brain threatened to overflow with emotions that had no right to be there whatsoever.

Dean tried to roll himself over and to the side, trying to get closer to the source of the humming. It was like a siren's pull, almost, drawing him closer…

He gasped as his side pulled taut in protest, his broken leg slipping off the pillow it had obviously been bedded on, thudding a little too heavily to the mattress underneath.

There were heavy steps coming towards him and Dean instinctively drew back, his back pressing into something soft, worked on opening his eyes which seemed to be cemented shut by thick grit, making it almost impossible to pry his eyes apart. This wasn't the usual wake-up-after-a-night's-sleep-grit he was talking about here, it was a very insistent, very determined grit that he only ever knew after days spent in a coma-like, fever induced slumber.

The steps stopped right in front of him and Dean braced himself for the contact he knew was about to come, unconsciously knowing that it could only be one person, really, that only one person had stood by him all this time and yet he couldn't get himself to ease off. He didn't like being touched out of the blue. And he still feared that somehow his dad had managed to cheat him with feelings of false security and hope and had left him after all, that it would be somebody else's hand bearing down on him.

But instead of the anticipated touch came…nothing, no physical contact at least, and Dean heard floorboard creak and groan as someone shifted his weight in front of him before a faint warm swell of air rushed over Dean's face.

"Hey there, you with me again?"

Dad.

Of course dad – there'd been no other option, really.

For a second or two Dean contemplated faking sleep, reveling in the peace he found lying here, just knowing that he wasn't alone, ignoring the world just a little longer. But hiding had never been his MO – unfortunately.

"Dean, come on. I know you're awake – don't you think you're overdoing it a little with all the beauty sleep lately?"

There was soft warmth in John's voice, tinged with something akin to worry, but dad wouldn't worry, would he? Besides, why the hell would he worry? Just because he'd caught up on some sleep after taking a freaking trip across country, fresh out of the hospital and all…

"Come on…Dean…"

The warm air on his face was dad's breath, Dean realized, wincing a little at the thought of his father practically leaning in his face.

"Dad?" Dean breathed out, surprised at how rough and painful his own voice sounded, as if he'd chewed on sandpaper for hours straight.

Floorboards groaned again and Dean finally managed to work open a tiny slit in his tangled lashes, making out a very fuzzy yet unmistakable figure looming in front of him.

"Yeah it's me. Who else did you expect?" John questioned quietly.

It wasn't as much who he'd been expecting, but who he'd been hoping for…

But instead of coming back with some smart remark about a pretty blonde, doing what he did best – diverting attention away from himself with humor, Dean heard himself say the next words as if someone else was saying them.

"You're still here…"

The silence that followed his statement was palpable, and while Dean didn't really grasp what he'd just said, what those innocent words could mean to his father. He was oblivious to the punch he'd dealt, was only aware that something was wrong when his father didn't say anything for a seemingly endless amount of time.

The pause in conversation at least served to give Dean time to pry apart his glued lashes, finally able to open both his eyes all the way and blink himself fully back to awareness.

So, this definitely was real.

Dad right in front of him, face way to close for comfort, was a disconcerting yet undeniable proof of that.

"Where else would I be?" John asked, a little too calmly, maybe, and Dean had to think for a moment till he remembered the question he himself had posed just seconds ago.

Huh, now. What could he say to that?

Thankfully though, his dad decided then and there to defuse the clearly uncomfortable situation, give Dean the much needed way out – sparing himself the answer to his own question, maybe.

"You going to stay awake for longer than a minute at a time now? Because I really did start to think that I'd have to start checking you for pressure sores there."

Dean decided that this was a good a time as any to try and sit up, realizing that, while his arms were a little shaky and weak still, his breath stuttering a little as the change in position pulled at his injuries as well as on muscles he hadn't been aware he had, he actually was able to shift position without passing out from pain. Which was a big improvement. Way better than he remembered being just…

…how long ago? And what the hell was that about pressure sores?

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position and John didn't help, just kept a steadying hand at his back, levering him as he shuffled back a little, then pushing a pillow against his back with his free hand.

Not smothering, not crowding him, just being there, a reassuring presence.

Just being there.

"You good like this?" John asked and the answer came as easily as if it was an automated reaction.

"Fine, I'm fine."

John just sighed a little.

"So…why am I…" Dean looked around for the first time, recognizing the surroundings as if they hadn't changed at all in the years since he'd last been here.

"Why am I lying on the sofa…in the living room?"

He distinctively remembered lying down on the bed in the den, waiting for sleep – or unconsciousness to finally claim him – whichever happened to get there first.

John sat back on his haunches, leaning towards the little table besides the couch and grabbing a bottle of water standing there.

"You had a pretty high fever."

As if that explained everything.

Dean rolled his head a little, feeling the muscles and bones in his neck pop and pull, felt the familiar tickle of post-feverish skin, the slightly stale smell of sweat clinging to his body, to his very core. So – high fever…yeah, might explain a couple of things, actually, but not how he'd somehow ended up on the threadbare sofa.

"And I couldn't just stay in my bed, why?"

John uncapped the bottle of water, handing it to Dean and holding on to it just long enough till he was sure that he had a firm enough grip on it. Somehow Dean was incredibly thankful for the very simple gesture, being granted whatever tiny little piece of independence the mere act of drinking a bottle of water by himself provided him with.

"You know how you get with a fever…" John stalled, looking at Dean with a tiny smile on his lips.

"Yeah? How do I get?" Dean asked against his better knowledge, needing to know the details, needing to fill in the blanks still dominating his mind.

"Well…you tend to…you get a bit…you insisted that there were…graboids in the mattress. I had to move you out here because you wouldn't stay in the damn bed…"

Dean couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the explanation, almost choking on a mouthful of water in his surprise.

"Graboids?" he asked, a little baffled.

He wouldn't have been able to name the damn creatures consciously if he'd tried…

"Yeah. Made me promise I had to burn the mattress out back, too."

"Ok, yeah…sounds reasonable though, doesn't it?"

Again John smiled, taking the now empty bottle from Dean, who longingly looked around the room, knuckles of his right hand trying to dislodge still stubbornly tangled lashes, vision still a little fuzzy as he searched for something else to drink. His throat was dry, his body seemingly parched. He felt like he hadn't had anything to drink in a week.

"How long have I been out?" he finally asked, recognizing the signs his body sent out, realizing that he didn't feel this spent and fuzzy after a mere night of fever – no matter the how bad it had been.

John's face scrunched up and for a moment he looked so beat, so tired…so much older than Dean ever remembered him looking, ever before. He'd always pictured his dad as this invincible force, this never-aging warrior, undefeatable and unimpressionable by anything. Right now he looked like he was pretty much at the end of his strength, though.

It seemed as if, lately, Dean discovered a lot of things about John that had him doubting his former unrelenting faith in his father's abilities. He didn't like to think that way, fought it with all his might. He'd always berated Sam for being so damn questioning, so doubting…

John pushed himself to his feet, joints popping, crossed the way to the kitchen with long strides, opening a cupboard above the sink. He took out a bottle of some soda, wrenching it open while making his way back to Dean's side.

He handed Dean the drink, quietly instructing him to go slowly.

"Dad, how long?" Dean insisted, having to fight the urge to drown the whole damn bottle with one big gulp, only succeeding in taking small sips because he knew that he was going to make himself sick if drinking too much too fast.

"This is day 3 now. You've been out for two days and three nights since we arrived. You've been awake, mind you, but I guess you weren't really there – were delirious. I kept thinking that those pills I got you wouldn't work at all, thought I'd have to take you back to the hospital…"

Dean sat up a little straighter, trying to take his dad's words in.

More than two days. Damn. He must have been doing just about as bad as he'd actually felt…

"Dean, be honest with me. How are you feeling? And remember, I'm your father, I know when you're lying. And I can still ground your ass if you do…" John pressed, his tone a mixture of gentle teasing and actual threat.

Dean decided that there wasn't really a way out of this. Not this time. Not after everything John had seen, not after everything that had happened.

He took a moment to assess his body more carefully, taking stock of himself.

His head hurt a bit, fuzzy and doped still, his shoulder and side, his hip and thigh burning and throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but the deep, bone-charring ache he remembered had been reduced to an actually tolerable level. His leg…well…the leg still hurt a fair bit more - a constant pressure radiating out from his shin to sneak up towards his hip and down to his ankle, but again – it was background noise, more or less bearable at the moment. Dean had no doubt that the drugs were to be given credit for that, but it sure as hell was something Dean was more than willing to accept.

"I'm better." Was all he could come up with, but he knew that John would be able to read the answer for what it was worth. It was as honest as Dean could play it.

And it was the truth, actually. He knew he was far from being alright, knew he still had a way to go, but for the first time in weeks he was convinced that he might be able to make it after all.

OoOoOoO

John watched Dean go about his days with barely contained patience.

It wasn't so much impatience with his son's condition, but impatience with the whole situation in general. This had to be the longest they'd ever stayed dormant for the past…well, John didn't even remember the number of years anymore.

Once, when Dean must have been around 18, he'd broken his collar bone and had been laid up for a number of weeks, but after the first week of tending to his son's injuries, John had been able to set out and hunt again on his own, at least. Dean had needed help, sure, but back then Sam had still been there to help his brother, helped him deal with the things he couldn't do himself at the time.

It was funny how lately, the reasons for why they had been dealing so much better as a threesome came rushing back at John, ready and more than willing to bite him in the ass.

Dean was doing better now but still John knew that he was far from ready to hit the road again any time soon. Not until his wounds were healed – certainly not until he would be able to at least walk on that wretched leg of his'.

If anything, the past two days of Dean struggling to reconstruct some of his old routines, of their old routines, showed how far from back to normal they still were.

Dean insisted on making them dinner – with what little supplies they had still left, but John was surprised once again when his son came up with a surprisingly vast variety of different sandwiched that he'd somehow managed to scrape up from what he'd found in the pantries.

Dean was making them with steady hands, standing at the kitchen counter, hip canted against the wood to keep from falling over, his hands working steadily, only the hard set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his back betraying how even standing up still proved to be a hassle. And he had to rely on John to carry the plate over, had to let John clear the table and grab their drinks as well.

John knew Dean tried his best to reestablish some semblance of normal, but unfortunately the normal he was aiming for was so far off from what their normal had been for the past months, or even years, if he was just a bit honest with himself.

He watched his son, incredulously, until Dean squirmed and writhed underneath John's gaze, clearly uncomfortable with being watched so intently, and John once again limited his observations to secrecy, giving in to his son's need to stay under the radar. He himself had raised his son to shy away from the prying eyes of others, always conscious to appear normal where in reality he was anything but.

But this…this felt kinda nice, John had to admit that. Hurt like hell, too. Like a prying, stabbing, piercing reminder of what he'd lost…or missed out on. Of what could have been…

When they'd eaten, John waited the barely 30 minutes he knew his son would be able to pull off before excusing himself, mumbling a barely audible string of apologies before retreating to the den once more.

He still tired easily.

And he was far from fine, as he so often tried to reassure his father.

But he was once again able and willing to try and play strong in front of his father, and that told John that at least they were moving in the right direction now.

Once Dean was out of the room, the door behind his back closed so John wouldn't hear him huffing and puffing his way into bed, needing a while till his next round of meds pulled him off to sleep again, John got up, cleared away the dishes and quietly slipped out the back door, hoping that Dean wouldn't hear the creaking hinges.

Only outside he was finally able to pull a decent breath, letting it out with a stuttering sigh as he was, for the first time in weeks, able to let his own guard down a little as well. When being with his son, he needed to be strong, needed to appear as if he knew exactly what he was doing, as if he knew what was the best for Dean, the best for himself. He couldn't afford for Dean to find out that John Winchester had no clue whatsoever, really, that he was just as lost as Dean was.

With one last look at the house, John shrugged off all feelings of guilt, of responsibility and walked away into the trees surrounding the property.

OoOoOoO

Dean stood in the middle of a seemingly endless ocean of wheat.

Standing tall, both his legs easily carrying his weight, body held upright without any effort, back straight and strong, chest light and unburdened. His lungs pulled oxygen so effortlessly, it felt strangely foreign, inexplicably easy.

He felt…almost too much at peace, with himself and the world in general.

Dean knew he shouldn't be feeling like this, knew it wasn't normal, but for once he couldn't get himself to care.

This was just too…too intoxicatingly perfect to shatter the moment of peace that had him under its spell as if he'd been drugged.

Well, there had to be worse things in the world, right?

The greenish golden stalks reached up to Dean's mid chest, tips of the scratchy ears brushing lightly against his body, teasing his skin with the faintest of tickling touches. Unconsciously, Dean reached a hand towards his pecs, feeling the swaying stalks glide through his fingers, caressing his skin with a gentleness that was both foreign and all too familiar to him. Like a woman's touch, almost, and the contrast of soft, velvety feminine lips to the coarse whiskers of the wheat-heads sent a small wave of goose-bumps chasing down his body.

The wind was picking up a little, the stalks moving as if they were one big, giant being, crowding in around him, like people on a dance floor closing in on a solitary dancer, attempting to swallow him whole, make him part of the pulsing, vibrant crowd.

It was the same field, Dean realized, the same field that had swallowed him whole once before already, that had barely let him go again, spitting him out into the gruesome reality that was his life.

Their life.

Dean shook his head as a small twinge crept its way up his spine and right into his brain at the thought. But as soon as the thought had appeared it was gone again, dropping Dean right back into the same void he'd just barely peeked out from. He blinked his lids sluggishly, raising his head to let his gaze roam over the field all around him.

The same field, but the terror that had gone down here was strangely absent, as if this was just a copy, an imitation. As if someone had plucked the memory from his dreams, had raided his brain for the image to duplicate it, bringing it all to life…only without the life.

Without the emotion…

Dean looked down on himself, having to brush away the stalks growing so close to him that he couldn't see much farther than his upper chest. With a jolt of surprise he realized that he was wasn't wearing a shirt, but a more thorough investigation revealed that, much to his relief, he did have his jeans on at least. His shoes and socks were missing, but Dean wasn't cold, barely felt anything else but the sensation of the wheat snuggling up against him.

He knew that this wasn't real.

Just a dream – although a different one than the ones before.

And because he knew, Dean was even more curious as to why he was here – if only in his dream – to what he was doing here.

He gave up the inspection of his own body, dropping his arms to his sides, feeling the stalks closing in around him once more, like a welcoming blanket, providing safety and comfort, almost. When he returned his eyes to the horizon, he suddenly realized that the field wasn't as empty as it had looked at first sight.

In the distance a flock of crows was circling low over the field, so far away that Dean could only make them out as black pinpoints against the grey-blue sky, but they were unmistakable nonetheless.

Suddenly, there was a deep, grating pressure filling into the pit of his stomach, ever growing until the tendrils of dread reached up to claw their way into his chest, wrapping greedy fingers around his heart in a vice like grip.

It became hard to breathe again…

And then he was running.

His bare feet seemed to barely touch ground as Dean ran, strong, long strides propelling him forward, the sea of wheat parting just barely to let him pass through before drifting closed again against his back, deleting any trace that he'd ever been there.

His heart was thudding more and more loudly inside his chest but it wasn't due to physical exertion – the physical aspect was strangely absent still. It was something deeper, something more visceral…

The crows.

Dean ran without even consciously being aware of it, his body strong and untiring, yet somehow he didn't seem to get any closer to his destination, the crows still as far away as they'd been minutes ago already.

And still he didn't stop, kept going with all he had.

This was a dream…just a dream, Dean tried over and over to remind himself, tried to make his legs stop moving, tried to stop his body's relentless forward-motion. Just one of those dreams where you could run all you wanted, but you'd never arrive or escape, no matter how hard you tried.

Never.

Just a goddamn dream…

And still he couldn't stop trying, couldn't keep his focus off the goal, persuade his legs to cease their incessant pumping.

He had to get closer, had to find out what the birds were circling above, what they wanted to show him…

And then one of the crows broke free of the group, came soaring straight towards Dean. The fact that Dean seemingly didn't move one single inch closer to his goal didn't apply to the bird, apparently, as it flapped its large wings merely a handful of times before it was clearly distinguishable, its black feathers reflecting the diffuse sunlight. It was so close, Dean thought he could make out an object that was dangling from the birds beak, something small and white attached to a string of leather…

Dean had stopped running, finally, his muscles still twitching as if they didn't agree with the sudden change in movement.

The crow again…that same crow he kept seeing in his dreams, that he kept remembering whenever his memories drifted back to that night…

The woman appeared out of nowhere, stepping in Dean's path just a couple of feet in front of him as if she was just casually strolling along a deserted sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to Dean's presence.

Dean's head snapped towards the figure so quickly, his neck gave an audible pop as muscle and vertebras protested the movement viciously. For a second, his vision tunneled, heat washing up his neck and seemingly straight into his brain. But Dean refused to abandon his quest, didn't give in to the vicious urge to cradle his head in his hands, dig strong fingers into his skull to stop the pounding there.

When he could see clearly again the crow was gone, vanished maybe into the field, but for the moment Dean hardly even noticed. Instead he was left to watch in rapt fascination as the seemingly naked woman slowly walked past him, only a couple of feet in front of him, back straight, only the top curve of her full breasts peeking out from the wheat's swaying heads.

As much as his body had refused to stop moving before he now found himself almost completely paralyzed, seemingly even as much as able to move one single muscle.

Dean just stood and stared, mesmerized by her graceful and fluid motions, the thick cover of stalks almost making it look like she was just a disconnected head and shoulders floating above the green-golden heads of the wheat.

Her skin was smooth, a light golden brown illuminated by the sun at her back, the fine hair on her skin appearing to form a halo around her. Her shoulders hung low and relaxed, her collar bone standing out against the otherwise smooth curve of her upper body. Even though squinting against the sun Dean could clearly make out the thin band of leather laying around her slender neck, a small object, something white wrapped into something furry, the package resting just at the juncture between her breasts.

It looked almost like the same necklace the crow had been carrying…

When she turned her head towards him, slowly and almost trance like, yet faster than Dean could manage, unable to avert his gaze in time, suddenly finding himself eye to eye with her. Dean felt his heart-beat speed up once more, felt the pulse beating through the skin on his neck.

Those eyes…

They were murky brown, amazingly unremarkable in color or setting, her face anything but pretty, yet there was something about her that had Dean's breath stuttering inside his chest, puffing out of his lips in almost painful bursts. For seconds or minutes or years there was nothing but her face, filling Dean's whole vision, his whole being.

Dean felt himself faltering, his body trembling, ready to drop, but it was as if her gaze was holding him captive, pulling him closer, even, his body swaying as he fought against her pull, hands spreading out to his sides a little, trying to tether himself to the spot. There was no sound anymore, not around him, not inside him, his chest and head so silent, it was almost deafening.

She kept moving, walking very slowly but steadily and while she was still holding his gaze she suddenly started to change. Slowly, ever so slowly her features seemed to pull taut over her bones , seemed to spread and melt and lose shape, morphing into something different than the woman she'd been just seconds ago.

Dean felt every muscle in his body go even more rigid then before, doubling his efforts to pull away from her, to move away but still he couldn't, couldn't even turn his head to break eye-contact, to not witness the disturbing transformation happening right before his very eyes. He watched her with a mixture of fascination and terror, saw her humanity slowly bleed away, her face becoming grayish in color, her hair frizzling out, becoming shorter and coarser, the whole shape of her head changing into that of a…

…a wolf.

Dean blinked in terrified surprise as she transformed completely, her head that of a wolf, not a woman anymore, right down to the piercing amber eyes, the small, pointy ears, the long muzzled snout, tips of two long and deadly sharp canine teeth protruding from the black muzzles.

The muscles on the back of Dean's neck screamed in pain as he fought to draw back his head, snap out of the deadly paralysis, and he felt his lips pulling taut over his teeth as he groaned with the effort, nostrils flaring. She was going to get him, was going to attack him and all he could do was stand there and…

…she was gone so abruptly, the sudden emptiness around him made him stumble, made him gulp in a surprised gasp. Just as suddenly, his body seemed to be released from the invisible hold that had paralyzed him and Dean literally stumbled backwards, his muscles unable to shut off the information Dean's brain had been sending their way for seemingly endless minutes till now.

Dean flailed backwards, arms spreading out yet unable to remain his equilibrium and he tumbled to the ground, falling into a dark pit it almost seemed, as the stalks of wheat immediately closed over his head, like a giant mouth swallowing him whole.

Despite his still trembling muscles Dean was on his feet again within seconds, spinning in a slow circle, trying to figure out where she had gone, where the wolf had gone. But the wheat around him remained closed off - undisturbed, the air around him almost too still despite his own heavy breathing. She...it was gone. Gone.

What the hell had that been all about?

What…

Dean had turned himself in another full circle and again was thrown totally off kilter when all of a sudden, upon turning the direction he'd been facing before, the flock of crows was right in front of him, a mere couple of feet away from his location.

A dream…just a dream… Dean reminded himself over and over, his eyes flickering between the birds and the surrounding field, still unsure of the wolf's whereabouts, still unsure what to make of it. But the wolf…the creature was gone, as if it had never even been here in the first place. If it wasn't for the crows, Dean would be completely alone again.

Dean didn't know what to do, wanted desperately to wake up, escape this weird as hell dream and be done with it, go back to the nightmare that was his life.

Again, one of the crows broke away from the group circling overhead, and while there was no way to distinguish the animals by look alone, no way to be sure that this was the same bird as before, Dean felt a nervous flutter chase down low into his gut, felt his eyes glued to the animal as it descended upon the ground a couple of feet in front of him.

Out of sight…

…as if it was trying to make him go there, lure him to whatever the birds were circling above…

Dean took an experimental step forward, tasted the scent of damp earth on his palate, the slightly sweeter scent of the warming air around him. But somewhere close by there was something else invading his senses, a tangy scent that was but a faint idea at first, but quickly developed into a full on, breath-taking stench, making him gag involuntarily, his eyes starting to water. At the same time, it sent Dean's heartbeat into overdrive again, because as disgusting and unbelievable the reek was, he unfortunately knew it better than he would have liked, better than he ever cared to know.

Blood.

Lots of it.

Too much to be explained away noncommittally.

Which might explain the crows interest – and still left open too many questions to count.

Dean took a reluctant step forward, then another one, carefully parting the thick curtain of wheat with his hands, reluctant to just bash through – dreading what he would walk into.

Finally, his fingers parted the last patch of wheat, sliding into the cool air of nothing beyond, revealing a little clearing, a patch of stalks flattened by something heavy lying on top of them, folding them to the ground.

Dean stumbled to the ground, his hands slipping in the pool of blood that surrounded his father's lifeless body, trying to touch him, to grab him, to pull him up and against his chest. He knew it couldn't be true, knew that it was just a dream, that, all logic considered, this couldn't be real.

It couldn't be real.

And still it felt real, felt so damn real.

Dean sat crouched on the ground next to his father's fallen form, hands roaming over the cold and lifeless body, searching for a sign of life that he knew he wouldn't find.

His trembling fingers neared the gashing teeth marks on John's neck, trying feverishly to find a way to stop the bleeding, knowing full well that it wouldn't change anything, that it wouldn't get his father back. But there had to be a way. There had to be…

"It's not real." Dean whispered to himself, flinching at the tremor chasing through his own voice, the very edge of panic he was balancing on.

"It's not real…not real. This can't be real. It can't be – it won't."

His fingers lay against John's throat, slick with blood, the skin underneath cold and clammy.

"It can't…I won't let it be real…"

He almost fell back on his haunches when suddenly the skin underneath his fingers started to ripple, coarse stubble of John's beard scraping against his hand as the lifeless body started moving, neck-muscles shifting as John turned his head.

Dean snatched his hand away from his father as if he'd been burned, body tense and coiled, ready to spring into action, to assist his father or turn away and run.

Then John's face turned towards Dean, deep brown eyes very much alive locking with Dean's.

"Dad…" Dean croaked, voice rough, tears springing to his eyes.

"You're alive…"

John just stared at him, his lips starting to move, forming unheard words.

Dean shimmied closer again, bracing his hands on the blood-soaked damp ground, leaning forward until he was only inches from his father's face.

John's voice was barely audible, a sickening, gurgling sound accompanying each word as blood continued to press out of the deep bite marks on his neck and shoulder.

"Save me…"

Dean felt his blood run cold, could have sworn it stopped pumping through his body altogether for a second or two at least.

"Save me…" John repeated, and Dean's mouth opened, but like a fish on dry land no word made it past his numb lips.

"You have to save me, Dean…"

Dean choked out a sound between a sob and a moan, nodding his head furiously as he swallowed hard, refusing to let out the desperate cry that wanted to push up from deep within his chest.

"Of course…of course I will. I'm going to get you out…"

Dean reached forward, intent on grabbing his father, on pulling him off the ground, on carrying him if he had to, when John's hand suddenly snapped up with impossible speed and strength, grabbing hold of Dean's biceps and clamping down hard, pulling him down. Dean barely was able to keep himself from toppling forward, bracing his other hand against the ground.

And then, right before his eyes, John's face started to change, transforming from the soft and familiar features of his father to the sharp, long, dark head of the crow.

Dean jerked back, one hand automatically reaching behind his back, for his gun, only to find out he'd come here unarmed. He tried to pull himself backwards, away from the abomination of the only person he still had left on this planet, tried to break free, but his father's grip was unrelenting, iron-nails digging into the soft skin on his inner arm.

"Save me!" his father's voice once again demanded out of the bird's sharp black beak, then the fingers around Dean's arm loosened and he tumbled backwards, hitting the ground hard.

It took him only seconds to gather himself up on his feet again, moving back a step to bring some space between himself and the creature that had taken over his dad's body when once again he was totally thrown off track by the sight that met his eyes.

The ground in front of him was empty, his dad – the crow – whatever it had actually been gone, the only sign that Dean hadn't just imagined it all the big pool of blood that stained the bent and broken stalks of wheat a deep, dark red.

But John was gone, and the only sound that was left in the still of the field was Dean's shattering cry of despair as he realized that another life had been ripped out of his grasp.

OoOoOoO

AN:

So...I hope you weren't dissapointed, weren't waiting so long just to find this sucking all the way through.

I'm going to cut this short - after such a long time not posting, I feel the need to get this out there and get working on the next chapter as soon as possible.

Please, find that little extra minute to just drop me a review, let me know if you're still reading and if you liked it, just so I know I haven't lost you all with my involuntary hiatus. It would mean especially much to me at this point.

Thanks for reading and till next week (promise - cross my heart!)

Take care!