Author:Mirrordance
Title: Home Road
Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.
" " "
Home Road
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14
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Indiana
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A Few Months Later
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Brennan hadn't been pussy-footing around when he said the road was going to be long and hard. But as Bobby once told Sam, The people who love you, the people who believe in you, they got a right to expect impossible things from you. And Sam was expecting the very best from Dean, and Dean has never let him down before.
Still... there were no magical gasps back into the world of the living this time, no devil deals or guardian angels watching, no magical healing touches from a guy who heals people out of a tent. It was just a man fighting for the survival of his ailing brother, and a body getting its strength back - 'ordinary,' 'natural' miracles, really, just everyday struggles and stories of everyday men.
Once in awhile, Sam found it frustrating that of all the supernatural things around them, the one everyday thing was their human capacity (and occasional incapacity) to heal. But still, one took whatever one could, and he fought everyday to give his brother the best possible chance.
A few hundred dollars trickled down to Sam's new bank account once a month, courtesy of the Ghostfacers and that new DVD he had given them the material for. They had over-dramatized the simple salt-and-burn, drawn it out, but the group did come out intact and in fact even succeeded, and they had a flair for a kind-of absurd, endearing drama that people were apparently finding endearing and not just tolerable; the checks just kept coming, and was occasionally, surprisingly large. They've been ragging on him for a new case ever since, and he's been sifting out jobs for them; not very many was ever easy in their line of work, so mostly he's been giving jobs to Bobby's more seasoned network of hunters, but the Ghostfacers were, weirdly enough now, well-entrenched into Sam's consideration set both as a means for income and as a legitimate solution to hunting issues.
His Ghostfacers consultant's incomewas enough for smaller living expenses like utilities, food, clothing and vices like candy, or weird trinkets he would put on Dean out of fun (like the Hannah Montana wristband he was presently bound to) just because. The finances for Dean's recovery he had raised from proceeds stemming from the sale of some of his father's things, like some replaceable (at least in terms of function) antique weapons, a few protective charms and amulets, nothing dangerous or controversial or morally questionable. He even had funds enough to rent a modest apartment near the extended-care facility where he had entrusted his brother's care. He spent his days living around Dean's visiting hours, and spent the rest of the time studying short courses in a nearby local college, just trying to get the feel of possibly going back to school on a more extended period.
In his visits, Sam would bring in a miscellany of memorabilia documenting his curious life without Dean, and would tape them to his hospital room walls. His life wasn't like it had been when Dean was dead in that sick world of the Trickster's. It was just-as filled with longing for his brother's companionship and well-being, sure. But it didn't feel as lonely, and hardly as dark. It didn't feel like a dead-end. It was hopeful, and life-filled, not driven by revenge and death. Soon, Dean's walls looked like their's or their dad's when they were projecting a case except this time, the project was Sam's life.
"First honest-to-goodness phone number," he had grinned, manically, raising up the tissue paper where the number was scrawled. The girl had been very hot and intelligent, looked like Sam's WASP-y archetype. He taped that to the wall, and taped the receipt for the coffee they had together shortly afterwards.
"Check this out," he said, pinning his first Ghostfacers paystub on the wall on another day, "They didn't do so bad and they came out alive."
"Bro, look," he said another time, pinning a copy of his apartment lease agreement, "I'm stuck here for a year."
He pinned his standard-excellent school records from his short courses, certificates of completion and merit. He pinned a photo of a mangled baked pasta dish that he had learned to cook ("Dean, it looks like shit but it's really good, not that you've ever been picky.")...
Dean met his brother halfway finally and just opened his eyes one day, slow and indulgent, pretty-as-you-please, and would stay that way for hours at a time. He was not all there, not by a long shot; the gaze was hazy and empty, could have been closed for all the awareness registered in them, like a newborn child's, but they were open, and it was a fair enough start. In Sam's mind, this was his brother making the first step into reconnecting with the world. The eyes were the window to the soul, and though still veiled, Dean's were there again after what felt like forever.
Brennan dropped by every few days as promised, doing his routine checks. Bobby visited at least once a week to see how Dean was doing and to help Sam with all his financial activities. Missouri and the Harvelles couldn't travel as much, but would keep Sam and Dean company for hours whenever they could visit.
Dean's body had withered some, unavoidably. He was thin, and sunken, and was seemingly shrinking, as his muscles began to suffer from not being used, despite the exercises done for him by the nurses. They avoided the most major threats stemming from his prolonged confinement though, like bed sores and infections, or pneumonia. His organs also began to recover from the strain of the drugs and machinery they gradually weaned Dean from, and soon, he was extubated and breathing on his own.
The milestones came slowly, but surely, for both of them. As Sam's life-wall expanded alongside his achievements, Dean's eyes suddenly looked full and aware one evening, and Sam could tell the difference right away, the very moment the change occurred, and he held Dean's weary but unquestionably present stare with tear-filled eyes.
"Hey, hey," Sam breathed, grabbing his forearm, clinging tight. Dean didn't stay awake long, apparently couldn't say a thing, but he was undeniably back, and Sam had a feeling that with Dean's insatiable presence, everything was going to start moving much faster now--
Dean's fingers twitched, but Sam saw the minuscule movement easily as if it were a scream and a shout, and he reached for his brother's hand hungrily. His older brother's stiff fingers curled weakly against his. There was barely any control there, but that was okay; it was a fair start, and Sam could carry them the rest of the way now.
" " "
His eyes stayed open and aware for hours at a time, watching everything going around him with caution and curiosity. He was too weak yet to speak, but his eyes were deep with comprehension, he was responsive, and even the neurologist who came in to see him said he had an excellent chance at recovering fully.
It did not take Sam to realize, though, that while a soul can (sometimes) be taken out of hell, the hell cannot completely be taken out of the soul.
The nightmares started coming as soon as the awareness came. It was as if Dean reclaiming himself inextricably included the darkness that had become a part of him.
Late one night, Sam got an urgent call from the hospital, telling him to come over. Dean had woken up harshly from a nightmare, and they needed him there to calm his brother, or else they'd have to sedate him, which they did not want to have to do in his barely-recovered condition.
He burst into his brother's room and found him breathing hard, lying on his side, staring at the window listlessly as tears fell freely from his haunted eyes.
"Sam-" Dean's nurse, a beautiful redhead named Diane appeared by the door, apparently having just heard that Sam had arrived and wanting to brief him. But she did not have to; Bring him back was part of Sam's job description now, he's known that for awhile.
"I'll take care of it," he murmured at her, distractedly. She nodded and left the brothers alone, as Sam sat on his usual chair by Dean's view.
"Hey," he greeted his brother with a tentative smile, putting a calming hand to Dean's, and curving his brother's fingers right over the amulet resting on Dean's chest, "Hey."
The emptily staring eyes drifted toward his, shined all the brighter for a moment, in what looked like relief.
"Sammy," came the hoarse whisper.
Dean's first word in this life, broken-sounding because the life-saving tubes that had run down his throat had done it's share of damage too.
"Yeah," Sam said with an assuring smile, "That's me. I'm right here. You're okay."
Dean blinked at him and nodded, and let his eyes drift close, as he fell back to sleep.
" " "
Many days ended like that, in nightmares and assurances and exhausted sleeping, especially after Sam got a special pass, courtesy of the resident shrink in the facility who had recommended that Sam be allowed in on all hours for the improvement of the patient. He was very, very eager to get his hands on Dean, as soon as the speech therapist cleared him for talking. In the meantime, words would come out more and more, as its bearer gained more and more strength.
"Sammy," had lengthened to "Thought you were dead," which soon expanded to "I knew you weren't, but I keep seeing..."
In those strange hours was the only time Dean was disarmed enough to clue Sam in about the things he had seen in hell. Sometimes, he would wake up, urgently saying his stomach was bleeding, or that he was burning, or that his back hurt and that the pain was white hot. It didn't take Sam too long to realize how familiar these things were, and whose deaths Dean was reliving.
That was Dean's hell, the deaths of his family. The rest of the day, though... he worked on raising his own.
He made friends oddly easily, even without much use of his still-scarred voice. He pioneered the (now-banned) Hallway Wheelchair Races, wherein he and his manual wheelchair raced alongside the octogenarians with their fancy motorized chairs with fricking baskets.
He was found passed out in the gym one morning, where it was discovered he'd been spending some non-regulation hours trying to gain back his strength and mobility, not to mention to distract himself from the nightly nightmares he knew would be coming. They confiscated his wheelchair every night before he went to bed to avoid such a stunt in the future.
Sam still dropped by a good number of hours each day, updating his life-wall and adding Dean's own achievements. One morning, he caught Dean up on miserably-shaking legs, arms strained and braced against the back of a seat as he peered closely and frowned at the items on the wall.
"The hell, Sam?" Dean growled, nodding jerkily at the profoundly amateurish finger-painting of a vase of flowers with his name written on a shaky scrawl on the upper-right corner.
"I got it from your art therapy class," Sam said with a shrug, "It's nice."
"Take down," Dean told him irritably, cutting back on as many words as he could so as to keep his throat from hurting, "Stupid I had to do in first place and now I gotta look it every day? 'm not five."
"It was hard getting back the strength in your hands, Dean," Sam sighed, "I'm glad it's up there 'cos it shows how well you're improving, right?"
"What next, origami?" Dean snapped, "Cross stitching?"
"I wish they did your speech therapy last," Sam grinned at his brother cheekily, "Rest your voice, Dean. The artwork stays. Such as it is."
Dean just glared at him, and accepted his help back to bed. A week later, Sam entered the room, then stared at the wall with mouth agape. It was crowded with white sheets of paper signed by Linda, Gerry, Harold, Janice and a few other of Dean's older companions in the facility, of drawings all labeled "Sam." Apparently, at Dean's suggestion, the most recent art class had focused on a human subject whom everyone in the home was familiar with, since he visited everyday. He flushed slightly in embarrassment, noting that the drawings all focused on his most apparent attributes: height, shagging hair and an abundance of bulky jackets and striped polos.
"You must be proud of yourself," Sam told his smug brother, dryly.
"I think Gerry got best," Dean said, brows raised.
Sam glanced at the old man's portrait of him. It looked like the portrayal of an urban homeless man. Stooped shoulders, over-sized clothes, more hair than face.
"Right," Sam snorted.
" " "
You can take the boy outta hell but you can't take the hell outta the boy.
It didn't take him too long to figure that out.
The nights were a bitch, and he set aside his pride for awhile and let them give his kid brother a pass to come see him whenever it got bad, let Sam take care of him. Sam's gone to hell and back for him for crying out loud, a short walk to the hospital from his apartment shouldn't be so bad, right? 'Sides, it was a safe neighborhood, he had asked Bobby to check, and it was fairly safe running around there at night.
Still, if he could keep the screaming and the crying to a minimum he was good, they didn't need to bother Sam anymore. Besides, it also didn't take his psychotic shrink too long to revoke Sam's nightly passes; as soon as he could talk, Sam's nightly privileges were taken away to force Dean to talk to the irritatingly calm son-of-a-bitch instead. So far, he's been keeping his mouth shut; whatever he had to say was gonna get him in a straight-jacket. Lately though, he's been debating making up something soap-operatic, just to get the dude off his back.
The nightmares came at night, in his sleep. As it had been in hell, they cycled around his mom on the ceiling, his dad on the ground, Sam on his knees, and then Dean taking over all their roles of victims and grievers. He woke up thinking he was bleeding from the stomach, burning in hell, stabbed in the back. He woke up knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was all alone. He woke up screaming and crying and not caring, because he was alone, before the rest of the world would descend on him, crashing, light from overhead snapped open, nurses and doctors in white rushing in, white sheets, white curtains, his white clothes, and the only things that made sense, his amulet in his hands and the wacky wall on his line of sight, shouting out life, and family, and friendship.
When he was alone at night and knew that the nightmares would soon start, he would struggle to remain awake and sit in front of that wall and stare at it, hours on end, trying to convince himself that he couldn't have all of those and be alone and nothing and hurting and dying, could he?
Sometimes, the sun would rise and find him sitting there, staring. And he would shakily drag himself back to bed, sleep at last, knowing Sam was coming soon, and that though the nightmares can break him in his sleep, it wouldn't take his brother long to appear in his line of vision, and show him everything was all right again.
" " "
"I had a long talk with Brennan," Sam told Bobby over coffee at the shop across from the facility, "He's been putting together how things look for Dean."
The two hunters had settled at the shop the way they've been doing the last few times they visited Dean together, because he was always asleep and exhausted lately.
"You don't sound happy," Bobby pointed out.
"I asked him why Dean looks worse and not better," Sam said, grimacing over the too-hot coffee, "Lately it's like he's just always asleep whenever we're here."
"What did the doc say?"
"Damn nightmares are keeping him up," Sam said, "They said he refuses to sleep at night. He was open to getting sleeping aids after awhile, anything to make it better. But the dreams didn't go away, and the pills just kept him under longer, making him unable to pull himself out. That first dose nearly killed him, they said, he just couldn't breathe and couldn't wake up. They haven't put him on them since, and because he sleeps in the day, all his therapy's stalled."
"What are they gonna do about it?"
"They're definitely letting me back in at night," said Sam, "So that's one. Maybe he'll sleep, just so's he can get back to working out in the day. Once he's stronger, I want to get him out of here, you know. Get him back in his car, go to the Grand Canyon or something, anything, to get his mind on other things.Brennan said his body can probably handle it in a few more weeks. He's healing all right, but he'll never be the same as before."
"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.
"There was some organ damage," Sam said, "The drugs, you know. Nothing fatal, thank god. But he's not gonna be scaling walls and digging graves without consequences."
"And the rest of him?"
"I don't know," Sam sighed, "I mean, he's reacting exactly how a guy pulled out of hell should, right? The nightmares, the trauma... it's just that the shrink keeps telling me the most assuring thing for Dean right now is for me to assure him everything's fine by going back to his normal situation. I'm definitely not going to let him hunt, but on the road with me is about as normal as we get."
"Then I guess that's how it's gotta be," Bobby agreed, looking at Sam closely, "But are you good with that?"
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, "Of course I'm good with that."
"You're digging in roots here, kid," said Bobby, "You got that lease--"
"Expires in two months," Sam pointed out.
"--Been going to school--"
"Certificate courses," Sam said, "I'll take fast tracks, I can be done by the time Dean's ready to leave. And before you say it, no serious girls, all right?"
"I'm not talking about function, boy," Bobby growled, "I'm talking about what you want. 'Cos Dean sure as hell's gonna know if you're not happy about pulling out roots again. And he's gonna hate it, and he's gonna try and make up for it, and he's not gonna get better any sooner, and that's just no good for anybody."
"I want what he wants which is what I want which is what he wants," Sam said with a dry look, and there was a private joke Bobby couldn't catch just yet, "Would you believe me if I told you I might have had this conversation before?"
"Between the two of you," Bobby sighed, "Hell yeah." He hesitated for a long moment, "Wasn't always that way though."
"What do you mean?"
Bobby smiled at him tightly, "Now I'm not sayin' you didn't love your brother, or loved him less, or didn't care about what he wanted. But before you went to college, you've always known what you wanted, and moved heaven and earth and even your father and brother to get it. Dean caves in all the time."
"So what are you saying?" Sam asked.
"I'm saying you've changed," Bobby said, simply, "And maybe he has too. Maybe he'll let you cave this time, huh? Let you help, let you catch him. And when he's all better... you can both figure out how to live with each other."
"Hard to teach an old dog new tricks," Sam said with a small smile, inexplicably relieved by the thought, "And Dean's as stubborn as they come. But...you're right. Maybe."
" " "
The nurse told Bobby that Dean wormed his way out of his scheduled psych therapy, saying he felt a little bit ill. The news made him suspicious; Dean would say anything to get out of a shrink's office. Still... given the last few months, and the undeniable fragility he still radiated even after he regained the use of his motor mouth, Bobby walked faster toward Dean's room, worriedly.
"Hey Bobby," Dean greeted him with a weary smile, but then lately that's all he ever looked like.
"Nurse said you were sick," Bobby said, stepping into the room and shaking Dean's proffered hand warmly.
"Shoulda let her finish," Dean said with a more characteristic smirk, "Sick of therapy."
"Still getting nightmares?"
"Sam's got a big mouth."
Bobby started to say something in defense of that, but Dean raised up his hand and waved away the issue, saying, "Never mind, I know, I know. He's gotta talk to someone. I'm sorry, Bobby. You are family. It's just... I don't know."
Bobby commandeered the chair beside Dean's bed, the one that belonged to Sam. He had a weathered manila envelope on him, something he handed over to Dean.
"Remember that?"
"How could I forget," Dean said, opening it gingerly and peering at the contents.
"It's all there," Bobby assured him, "Decided to bring it over now, while Sam's still in class. I wasn't sure you ever told him about it. It's untouched. I never had the chance to give it to Sam, when you were away."
Dean drew out the battered registration to the Impala, and he looked wistful, remembering the time a few hours before his death that he had given it to Bobby to give to his brother, for when it was all over and he was gone. To do with as he pleased. Slipped inside was a note, care instructions interspersed with Dean's thoughts and thanks and apologies and wishes.
Bobby watched his face, saw the thoughts race across his eyes: fear of those last hours, worry for the brother he was leaving behind, trust in this man to look out for Sam in his stead.
"I couldn't do it," Bobby said, "Couldn't give it to him, not when he was trying so hard to keep you around. 'Sides... he woulda cut me. It would've looked like we were giving up."
Dean's lips curved upward. "Yeah. 's why I had you do it, and not me. Thanks, Bobby. You know," he chuckled, "If you gave it to him, he'd be giving me hell about how it was his car now, just to rile me up. Good call."
"There was no reasoning with him when you were away, Dean," Bobby said, shifting a little, "He was just so sure he was gonna get you back, and that was that. He held civvies at gunpoint, threatened kids, endangered those idiot Ghostfacers... he wasn't gonna stop for anything."
"He didn't tell me about that," Dean's eyes clouded, and he subconsciously wrung his wrists at the scars there, "Lots of things he doesn't tell me about. I guess it's a good time to be slinking to normal then."
"Yeah," Bobby agreed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean also understood that this time of recovery belonged as much to Sam too, "Give him time. You both got that now, right?"
"I guess," Dean said, pausing, "I'm glad you were there for him, Bobby. Really. It easily coulda gone all sorts of wrong."
"Barely had to do anything," Bobby said with a grunt. He was about as comfortable receiving thanks as Dean was in giving it. Still, Dean was getting better and better at saying thanks to him, and he could get better about receiving them too. As he told Sam, they were all changing.
"So what?" Bobby asked, "We gonna be seeing you on your feet soon?"
"I don't know," Dean said, "I think they're trying to do that last, to keep me in here. I got a shrink, I got a brain doctor, I got a nurse, I got a speech therapist, I got a counselor guy, a diet guy, a drug guy and a general guy. But my PT's been a bitch about the legs, man. Wouldn't be surprised if this is all Sam's fault."
"You gotta let them get you better," Bobby said, simply, "And that's just that."
"I know," Dean said, shrugging, "I'm not crazy. I know I'm fucked, and Sam's gonna be the one getting the shit-end of that stick if I continue being fucked so it's just what it is."
"You got a foul mouth."
"It's a foul situation," Dean grinned, before his look softened, "Hey, Bobby... any of you ever heard from that Ruby chick?"
"She got out, 's all I can say," Bobby answered.
"Flash of light?"
"Hm?"
"In a kind of light?" Dean asked.
"Nah," Bobby replied, "Black cloud outta hell, just like the rest of 'em. She's out here, somewhere."
"Hm," Dean said, thoughtfully, before saying, "Hey Bobby."
"What?"
"Ever been to the Grand Canyon?" Dean asked, "Soon as I'm good to go out of here, Sam promised."
"Sounds good," Bobby said with a nod, "Then you boys come see me, stay a bit longer, huh? Got a few beauties that can use your hands."
"You gonna pay me?" Dean asked, wiggling his brows.
"If you don't mess it up," Bobby retorted, "Should give you two time to figure out what you wanna do with yourselves now that you're, you know, old and retired."
"You're old," Dean pointed out, grinning, "Sounds good, man. Thanks."
" " "
She visited the day before he was set to leave.
Functionally mobile but still wheelchair-bound in a final show of good behavior to ensure that his next-day check-out would not be revoked by his army of doctors or, the strictest of them all, his uptight younger brother, he sat on a far corner of the manicured grounds, just looking over the small rolling hills of the gardens, thoughtfully. He was thinking about leaving the safety of the place, leaving the good people he'd probably never see again, about going back out the rest of the world.
He thought about his future; odd, to actually have one, now. To find that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't running away from or chasing after anything. Wasn't looking for dad, wasn't hunting down his mother's killer, wasn't worrying about Sam's destiny, wasn't trying to duck out of hell. He was kind of just... alive, and it felt very wide open and fearful, in that bungee-jump kind of way, terrifyingly, mind-numbingly freeing.
He felt her come up behind him then, all casual-like, 'cos she wasn't trying to hide or anything like that.
"Nice wheels," Ruby commented, lightly nudging the wheelchair with the tip of her boot.
"Watch the merchandise, honey," Dean told her, wryly, looking up. She had apparently recovered that same body from the morgue back in New Harmony.
"You get easily attached to things that roll around," she said, sitting down on the grass next to his arm, stretching her legs out in front of her, indulgently, "Nice view too. You've been cushy out here, huh?"
"Waldorf-Astoria?" he asked.
"Compared to where you've been?" she snorted, "I guess so."
"Hey, Sam's taking me to the Grand Canyon," Dean bragged.
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow," Dean said, "I'm outta here tomorrow."
"Maybe he'll push you on your wheelchair over the rocks," she said, brows raised.
"Why so snide?" he asked her, pretending offense, "And I'm the one who's supposed to be upset, it took you this long to visit."
"I've been around," she said, waving her hand vaguely, "Got this meatsuit back the moment I got out. They kept her shut out in the morgue. Kinda gross, but I didn't think God-or-whomever will be too pleased with me if I took over someone alive again. If I'm gonna animate a corpse I might as well get this one."
"God-or-whomever?"
"We're trying to get into the white light, remember?" she rolled her eyes and motioned at him, "That's also why I'm visiting the goddamn sick. There's this list of good deeds or something."
"The Ten Commandments?" he asked, brows furrowing in thought.
"No, something about something-attitudes," she replied, "I forget. So. The Grand Canyon, huh? Well, well. Good for you."
"I can't hunt yet," he said, shifting uncomfortably, a little embarrassed.
"And you shouldn't have to," she told him, "Lucian'll stand by his word, I can guarantee you that. No trouble from him 'til 2061. He'll be damned good by then, but that's some time away and maybe the rest of us will be better too. There's still the bit-players, of course, but those can wait or be taken care of by others. Your brother, I don't know if he told you this, but he told me that there are many people fighting this war. But you're all he's got and he's all you got. The world shouldn't all depend on the things you do, and times like these come and you just gotta take care of yourselves first."
"I told him that," Dean said with a small grin. He told Sam that a few hours after he got him back from the dead, and that was not a great memory at all, but at least...
Remember what I taught you...
"He's got a thick skull," Dean added, "So it's nice to see he actually retains anything."
She shrugged, "But you're going back to hunting?"
"I don't know," Dean admitted, "I'm not sure I know to do anything else. But I'm also not fool enough to know it won't be for awhile, and by that time I won't be at the same level as before. They told me I've busted up some things real bad it's practically like I'm an old man in here. I mean, not as old as you--"
"Ha, ha," she said, dryly, "What did Sam say?"
"We haven't talked about hunting, actually," Dean realized, "I think he thinks it might piss me off, not to be able to go back and do the same things anymore."
"Are you pissed off?"
"I think I should be," he admitted, "I think I will be sometimes. But I'm alive, my brother's alive, we've staved off the baddies for decades, my dad's in the light, my mom's killer is dead... It's actually a pretty solid checklist."
"Plus, you're going to the Canyon," she pointed out, good-naturedly.
"Right on," he agreed, "In my hot car. 'Sides... maybe this way, Sam can go back to school, you know, do the stuff he's always wanted to do."
She looked wistfully out at the grounds.
"I'm uh..." he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck, "Kinda excited too, actually. Who am I gonna be."
"Who'd you want?" she asked.
"Haven't figured that yet," he said, "But Ill get it."
"I bet," she said, quietly, "Say... you can probably throw some jobs at me."
"Yeah?"
"You got humans on hell's side," she said, "Maybe you can use someone like me out here for the small jobs. Especially since, you know, the Great, Glittering Winchesters are on the bench."
"Still chasing after the light?"
"Always," she said, gravely, before adding, "I don't want to have been nice to you for nothing."
"I'm good company," he argued.
She didn't indulge him, just stared him down until he sighed.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, "We'll keep you in mind. You're gonna be sick of us sending you out to jobs. A full-on ex-witch demon, battling a little chuppacabra or knee-deep in mud on a rainy salt and burn, things like that. You'd be pissed as hell after awhile."
"Yeah, I heard the road to heaven really sucks."
"Find a friend," Dean suggested, wryly, "Drag him around. It'll be more fun that way."
" " "
Check-out was not the uneventful, quiet exit Dean had expected. After he and Sam boxed up the memorabilia from his room wall, they sent him off with pomp and punch, and he realized he could learn to expect bigger things, better things, grander things, now.
They sent him off with a bang, good food and great wishes and happy old people and pretty nurses, and relieved doctors and he really, really thought he was gonna be a wuss about it and start weeping right then and there. His younger brother was grinning like a doofus and Sam, well he lost it, all gooey-eyes and tear-streaks as he pushed his older brother's wheelchair toward the Impala waiting at the rotunda. This was as much his road as it was Dean's, after all, and they were almost home.
"Ready, bro?" Sam asked, parking the wheelchair right by the open passenger's side door.
"Been ready for months, Sammy," Dean grinned, slapping on the arm rests enthusiastically and rising up on his own, as Sam unsurprisingly spotted him. He gave his facility-friends a cheery, drunken wave, as Sam pushed the wheelchair toward a waiting orderly, out of the way of the car.
Dean slid into the seat and waved Sam away as he closed his own door. Sam watched him settle, before jogging to the driver's side.
Dean breathed in the scent of the car, closed his eyes in pleasure as the engine started and the road rumbled beneath him. He opened them again and glanced at his brother, who was hastily wiping at his eyes and focusing on the road ahead, a small smile still lodged on his lips.
The two of them and the car and a long road...
"Like old times, huh?" Dean asked him.
"Better," Sam said, grinning. They were both in unquestionably high spirits, "You good so far? You want some water? You want some snacks? Doc said you might have trouble with the motion so I also got you--"
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean assured him, "Really."
"You cold?" Sam asked, "Hot? Want a pillow--"
"Good god," Dean breathed, exaggerating his awe, "This is gonna be a long damned road."
"Well we haven't been--" Sam hesitated, "I just wanted to be sure--"
"I'm good, Sammy," Dean said, "Really. I'm sure you have everything down. Relax, bro, I'm not gonna fricking melt."
"But you'll tell me if--"
"I will."
"You're lying--"
"It's not lying if I don't tell you 'cos I'm sure you'd know," Dean told him, "Right? 'Cos you always know, okay? So relax, bro."
"Okay," Sam breathed, focusing on his driving, "I can do that."
"I doubt it," said Dean, wryly, "But I'd love to see you try."
Sam smiled slightly at that, "You're not gonna love it if I fail, 'cos I'm gonna end up pestering you."
"Well you're gonna hate me when I'm pestered," Dean guaranteed him, "So be a smart guy, and just nip this at the bud, right? Just. Fricking. Relax."
"You shoulda been a lawyer," Sam teased.
"I shoulda been many things," Dean told him.
"You can now," Sam said, turning serious.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, matching his mood, "I guess I can."
That was weirder than anything else, actually. He didn't think he'd make it at all, much less be... more-or-less whole. He still had a busted body and a fucked-up head, but he was getting better, he was. Against all odds, both he and Sam, right now, were back on the road, back in the car, back together, back home.
"You too," Dean added, cheerfully.
"Weird, huh?"
"But it's all right," Dean said, smiling, reaching for the car radio, "I'm gonna go put something on."
THE END
August 11, 2008
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AFTERWORD
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Contents
I. The Ending and an Alternate Ending
II. The Mythology of Home Road
a. Halley's Comet
b. Colt's Gun and Gate
c. The Amulet
III. The Characters
a. The Darker Side of Sammy
b. Dean's Hell
c. Ruby and the Gamble of Kripke's Female Characters
d. Bobby and the Company
e. The Original Characters
IV. Massive Thanks and Replies
V. Next Project: The Least I Can Do
I. The Ending and an Alternate Ending
There actually is an alternate ending that I obviously eventually scratched. In a nutshell: Ruby hadn't been part of the deal Sam made with Lucian, so Lucian tells Sam he'll set her free if Sam gives up his powers. The only way to do that is to give it up to the Watcher and exchange it for an answer to any question he might have. Sam abides by his promise to take care of Ruby if she looks after Dean, and does give up his powers. But he twists it around to his advantage by asking the Watcher how to defeat Lucian in the end. The Watcher tells him that by setting Ruby free, he already has, and I figured the next Halley sighting will find Sam old and probably not able to defeat Lucian, but the un-dead Ruby can.
I scrapped this ending maybe because I was lazy, haha, or maybe I didn't like how it veered too much toward the arc and not as much on the brotherly drama. The story was supposed to close-in on how nothing else mattered without each other, that these boys were willing to tear down everything in their way to save each other, and shoving this part into the tale felt misplaced. It was a fun thought while it lasted, but that's all that it was.
Now the actual ending I found more intriguing, at least from the family / drama perspective. I'm kind of new to this fandom still, but I pick up snatches of people wondering what would eventually push the brothers to retire from the hunt. I figured the answer would be a combination of (1) physical incapacity; and (2) lessening of responsibilities stemming from, in this case, having a community of fighters and a time of actual peace. Home Road puts all these together in that the boys can quit (at least for awhile, haha) as Dean recovers, and they can afford the time because they have allies and are in the middle of a truce. I liked the open feeling of the ending, that they could have lives beyond hunting if they wanted, or that there was a kind of reprieve from the dark themes of their lives. At the same time, the ending closes the previous loose ends: season two ended the life of their mother's killer and freed their father from hell. Home Road ends Dean's deal and Sam's responsibilities to the world. If they'd ever have a shot at a normal life, haha, the end of Home Road allows that.
The whole ability to have a second shot at life was fascinating to me too, particularly because I liked the role reversal of the brothers. This time, it was Sam remembering Dean's first word, the milestones in his life, carrying him away from a fire... everything Dean had once done for him.
The title Home Road also has a double-meaning in terms of talking about the ending of this story. The first meaning is that the story chronicles the road out of hell, like, this is the road going home. The second, likely less-apparent meaning is that the road is home, like the word "home" is an adjective to the noun, "road." The story, after all, ends openly and on the road, the road that is familiar to them, which is where their home mostly was.
II. The Mythology of Home Road
a. Halley's Comet
I wondered what the relevance was, for it to be mentioned in Supernatural that the Colt and bullets were made during the regular run of Halley's Comet. I looked it up, about how comets were traditionally perceived as the precursor of a lot of natural and social tragedies across history (volcanic explosions, flood, wars and, as also mentioned in Supernatural, the Alamo).Literature on this is mapped all across the Internet - focusing on its fallacy, of course, but still very interesting.
The view that fascinated me most, though, was the idea that it signaled the beginning of wars, because they looked like the swords of gods. So I guess that's the thought I latched onto; when Colt made the gun and the bullets, it signaled the beginning of a war between good and evil, reminiscent of what Meg said to John in the episode Salvation: "We know you have the gun... as far as we're concerned, you've just declared war."
b. Colt's Gun and Gate
After I linked the power to the comet, I then wondered about (1) how Colt could have known about the supernatural world and (2)the relevance of the 13 bullets. I guess it's kind of a cop-out but I just shoved in a foreigner with knowledge of ancient magic (it felt kind of right, at least in terms of the level of old world mysticism assigned to foreign cultures at the time of Colt) into his workforce and thought that guy could be the link to how he knew about this world. It was also fun thinking that the very exact number of bullets – 13 – must correspond to 13 nasty demons. Originally, Home Road was supposed to be a larger myth-arc, and one of the 13 bullets were meant to be for Azazel's heir; Sam. But I got tired off that arc and thought I'd just focus on Sam fighting to get his brother back and letting nothing stop him, instead of infusing the usual conflict of him going dark-side.
c. The Amulet
That darn necklace, haha... A Very Supernatural Christmas gave us the family-oriented origin but since I was going crazy with the myths I thought I might as well have fun with this too. I thought Bobby wouldn't give the kids anything risky so it might have just started as a toy, but the boys assigned so much importance on that thing that it just evolved, kind of like that house in Hell House. I tried searching online though, for any traditional god or creature that had similar features. I only found dissected similarities with masks from African, North American and even Asian art, though. But no one really knows where Kripke picks up his pop-culture genius writers and artists and where else they pick up inspiration from. Maybe the amulet really does just depict the half-bull god, like the general consensus goes. It's fun to think of it as powerful because of belief, though, like a little supernatural contribution of the Winchesters to the supernatural world. Besides, protective amulets from loved ones pepper the superstitions of warriors across history. You've got people carrying around their mother's tears, their lovers' hair, things like that. I guess it's fitting for Dean, who's a lot like a soldier, to have a similar superstition and protective amulet.
III. The Characters
a. The Darker Side of Sammy
I'm a Dean-girl through and through but for some reason, I find more inspiration in writing things from Sam's view. I guess that can be attributed to the fact that I can relate more to Sam's heroic perspective of his older brother than I could relate with Dean. And I guess I also find his potential to be a much darker character very intriguing. They did such a good job in Supernatural that this potential for darkness doesn't seem alien at all, it just feels like an actual, actual part of Sam: that he's driven by revenge, that he's always been single-minded, that he's an indulged younger brother who has the capacity for principled selfishness, that has the capacity to threaten and kill. I liked drawing these sides out, and they are just illustrations of how good intentions can really be achieved through dark ways, how hell can be paved with it, how a good man can become a bad one out of love.
b. Dean's Hell
I was wondering if my depiction of hell was too mild in this fic; I mean, where's the flames and the whips and all the other stuff? The most graphic depiction of hell I could think of was from the film What Dreams May Come. Creepy, intricate visuals there, just awe-inspiring. I was gonna use that as a springboard, until I decided Dean's never flinched at the physical torture, but found the non-physical ones more damaging. With that in mind, the hell bits became a study on how to break a soul instead.
I also hope I made the breakdown logical and sensible. I mean, it starts out with visions of his mom whom he loved but never got the chance to love as much as brother or father. And then moved onto his father, whose loss was tainted both by the loss-itself and by his guilt. And then by Sam, whom he loved above all else. I thought their losses would be magnified if Dean was treated to a more intimate knowledge of them first, so I added that in. After magnifying the loss, Dean decides he finds it less painful to suffer in their place than to live with them dead, so he appropriates all of their deaths as his own. In dying though, he recognizes that he'll hurt those he leaves behind so he appropriates that pain too. This makes him hyper-isolated, turning himself into the one dying and the one suffering the loss. And, in isolation, he just decides it's better not to have been born. So in so many words, that's how I decided to break him down, ending in a kind of spiritual suicide.
The part I find intriguing is that Dean's the one in hell but it's Sam who turns darker. As I wrote at the start of the fic, Dean's coping style was a sense of suicide and Sam's was murder. I guess Home Road shows my perspective that as long as one of the brothers are in hell, then ultimately they both are. The different ways the two of them changed was an illustration of my theory in Chapter 6, where Dean was wondering what kind of demon he would be: the vicious, relentless one or that broken shell one. They both went to hell, they both became demonic (Sam as the dark, relentless and Dean as the broken shell), and in the end, they were both recovering, although Sam might not have known it.
c. Ruby and the Gamble of Kripke's Female Characters
Like many a rabid fangirl, I have the tendency to have reckless disdain for new female characters with extended, recurring and possibly-romantic interactions with the Winchesters. Oddly enough, after watching No Rest for the Wicked, the Ruby character turned fascinating for me not from a romantic angle, but it felt kind of like she just fit into their world, somehow. I've been trying to fish around in my head why... I guess I find the idea of her treading the line between good and evil and being a demon but also being different fascinating... and therefore, after he goes to hell, applicable to Dean (that he can both be categorically demonic and good at the same time). And so the character of Ruby came alive for me, because her being around gave a unique insight into one of the main characters that we love.
I was cautious as hell shoving her into the story but I figured, as long as I manage to convey that she fits in only as a salute to Dean, I should be safe, haha. Besides, note how Home Road never even shows things from her perspective. The hell views are always from Dean's, I guess because I don't really understand this character or her true motivations. I just depicted her as far as it was relevant to the Winchesters.
d. Bobby and the Company
I actually almost regret the inclusion of Missouri and the Harvelles in this story which in afterthought, feels pronounced as they made their bulked, kind-of carelessly-written absence in the end. Originally, I put them there because the Lilith confrontation was supposed to be more tumultuous, with Bobby and Sam coming to get Dean in hell and the rest of the household protecting Dean's body in the house. I originally intended a big showdown, but went the quieter route.
On a lighter note, there's never ever any regretting the inclusion of Bobby Singer in a fic, haha. There's something about this actor and this character, I don't know, haha. The tough love, the gruff exterior but the unquestionable affection... he's just so distinctly homey and assuring that I not only included him, the fic begins with Bobby's eyes, and is often told from how he looks at the world.
e. The Original Characters
As always, my main concern is just to ensure they're not intrusive or unnecessary. Of course the doctor and the EMTs were important in terms of medical function. They also served to highlight Sam's emerging darkness, his desperation, and this included endangering the annoying teenager. Jessie Brennan was also used functionally as a handle on her father, and creatively as an illustration of Sam's capacity for danger, and also just to show a sense of karma to Sam's precocious little-brother nature.
Down in hell, the notable figures would be the Watcher and Lucian. I found the idea of a Watcher fascinating, reminiscent of those quirky characters from The Matrix series who are just around really and know a ton of stuff. I have an appreciation for campy quirkiness, and if you've read my other fic One Week, you might actually recognize that the Watcher of Home Road is a lot like the Dissatisfied Crossroads Demon of that fic.
Lucian, on the other hand, is a cool hand, much like Azazel had been. Now, I'm a very independent, empowered modern gal, but that also means I'm self-aware enough to admit that while I might be sounding a little chauvinistic, I had been hoping for a big male baddie instead of little Lilith. I don't know... I guess I wasn't comfortable with the idea of our heroes pounding on a little girl, undying evil bitch though she may be. So Lucian is a throwback to the more strategic, more compelling villainous figure of the YED, who's willing to bide his time, and seal deals and not just be a brutal killer. In the episode Sin City, the demon told Dean they weren't very different from humans, and that they too, were just fighting for their beliefs. I couldn't imagine Lilith having these attributes, I just found her impulsive and senselessly violent, as opposed to YED's grander schemes. That's what I set out to make Lucian like, and I guess that's what makes a villain more terrifying, if he had a very tight sense of control and a cool head.
IV. Massive Thanks and Replies
Want to give a shout out to who all who took the time to read the story. It's long, it's intricate, it's flawed and everyone's busy so I'm very thankful for anyone who took the time to read, and especially to all who reviewed. As always, I want to make absolute certain sure I get to mention everybody, so if I got cross-eyed and missed your name, please call me out on it!
Massive thanks to reviewers: allison lightning, apieceofcake, cursedgirl, helinahandcart, kirallie, kristy, Ms. Severus Kenobi, SciFiRN and zuimar!
Thanks also go out to the following reviewers, with some notes on some of their commentary:
Krimson: Thanks for the constructive crit on the omniscient writer thing. I promise I'll keep it in mind, especially as it's very empowering and liberating, haha! I also know what you meant when you said you almost didn't read this because you don't usually read fics without Dean; I feel the same way, haha :) As I mentioned in the afterword, though, I like him as a reader but as I writer I keep going Sam's way, haha, oh well :) I'm glad you found my summary interesting enough to give Home Road a shot; it's the summary I originally wanted but I changed it when it wasn't drawing readers in. I still haven't drawn a lot in, haha, but the change might have had some impact, haha.
Lyin': I'm very, very happy you find my version of extreme Sam dead-on. It's relieving to me because he's just so nuanced and difficult to portray, haha. Dean as he is depicted in the last three seasons is so straightforward in his love for his family and the things he's willing to do for them (not-so-straightforward starting season 4 and its mysteries it seems from Kripke and co.'s teasers, of course, but still, so far); Sam is just so much harder to figure out, especially this dark-side thing, which is always a gamble, so thank you for letting me know you find my version acceptable :) On another matter, thanks also for being open to my original characters. The show has tons of people with whom the Winchesters run into, so I find them inevitable in fan-dom, and the most that I can do is to just make them as un-intrusive as possible, and make sure they have functions in the story to justify their place.
Mandy/PhoenixDragonDreamer: Thank you so so so so incredibly much for the constant support and the passion. You're one of my major fuels and I'm just so worried that I'll reach a point of disappointing you, haha, but thank you. One note, though: you asked how Kripke is gonna top this and my answer is: Easy, haha! He always manages to put one over us. I don't know how, but he just does, doesn't he?
Neonchica: Thank you for taking the considerable time to share your posting advice. Timing is very important indeed, and I have made changes since reading your input. I think there have been improvements. Thank you!
PADavis: I am as thankful as always for your support and perceptive comments. They really make me think, and they really inspire me to work. The same parts you cited as enjoying are the ones that I myself consider some of my favorite parts! The description of Sam as a naturally self-absorbed baby brother thing, for instance I just could see that same trait in so many indulged little brothers I've run across in real life, haha, so that description had to make its way into the story. I also felt it was fair and realistic to instill in him a kind-of helpless selfishness and determination. I mean I love Dean, but Sam is just a joy to write, haha. On another note, I did enjoy writing Dean's decline too... as I mentioned above, I was concerned that the progression of his decision wouldn't be logical so I really worked hard on that and I'm glad you appreciate it. Oh! And I am sorry about the stocky-thing... I guess I use the adjective loosely. I know he's tall, we all know they're gorgeous and I'll stop before I steal your soap box, haha, but you know what I mean :)
Rhesa: You are one rare fan-girl, haha! Appreciating original characters and Ruby? I think we're both odd, haha :) But thank you... that's a relief to hear. It's always tricky, putting outsiders in the very clique-ish Winchester world and I guess I took that risk and I appreciate the support :)
Stoneage Woman: Hello there, old friend! You mentioned you found the interaction between Dean and Ruby interesting. I had the best time writing that down (I think you can tell, haha) since it was an outlet for just being clever since the verbal sparring is a very intricate game to them in Home Road. As they talk, they're juggling hope and distrust, a bad history, a turbulent future, internal and external struggle and, of course, they're just trying to keep a handle on their pride. You can't seem too needy, you can't be disarmed, even as the hellish situation drove you helpless to your knees. It was a crazy exercise, drove me nuts, trying to find a way to make them get along without fans raising their eyebrows and finding it improbable. Thank you for reading through and letting me know what you thought about it.
Von: One of the things you said amused me so much because it had a ring of undeniable truth: you said that no matter the outcome, as long as the brothers were together, getting out of hell or staying, you were up for it. Imagine, part of the consideration set in happy endings is for the characters to remain in hell :) And yet in this fan-dom, many would seriously, seriously agree, including me. The brotherly dynamic is just so well-drawn that ultimately, hell is only hell if they're apart, and the Supernatural team's talent in developing that relationship to the point where hell becomes bearable depending on the company just deserves a standing ovation! Thank you for sharing the comment and your perception :)
V. My Next Project
Well I kind of have a tricky track record actualizing this, haha, but nevertheless, this is the new story keeping me up at night, which may or may not be continued or concluded. It's about 90 percent done, I think, but I can't seem to find a way to end it. Anyway, hope to see you if it does come up. 'Til the next post!
Author:Mirrordance
Title: The Least I Can Do
Summary:Whenever he doubted himself, he drew on the memory of his son, battered but unbeaten on the stand,telling Social Services to give him back to the best dad in the world. Dean is 16 and Sam is 12. The Winchesters fight to stay together.
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The Least I Can Do
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PREVIEW
" " "
"Coffee?" Sam asked him. John looked past the cup up to the already-considerable height of his twelve-year-old.
"Thanks, son," he said gruffly, taking the cup from the other's hand. He took a good, scalding gulp. It was hot and strong, more caffeine that coffee, more bitter than flavorful. It was not quite the way he liked his coffee, but just the way he got used to it. He put it down on the table beside him, only to find there was almost no room, what with six cups already sitting there, all in some form of middle-finish. His brows rose in surprise.
"Sorry dad," Sam said with a grimace, and he was moving so jerkily he wouldn't even sit down with his father in the waiting room, "I was walking around, kept thinking I must have been gone a long time, thought I'd get you something. I guess I haven't been gone that long after all."
"You should lay off of these for awhile," John said, mildly.
"What? -Oh," said Sam, "I actually haven't had any yet."
"At the rate you're going?" John asked, "That's a bitch."
Sam smiled, marginally, before his face shrank into itself again, "What's taking them so long?" He growled, sat down beside his father for two seconds, before he popped back up to his face and began to pace again. Again. This was not a new conversation. John watched him dart back and forth. Sam did not go from one end of the waiting room to the other, but set up invisible lines that he kept to religiously. Once, a nurse got in his way. He literally paused, and waited for her to move aside, before continuing in the same, trodden path. His Sam was really an odd one.
"Where'd you get all the money from, anyway?" John asked, in an effort to calm his son a little bit.
"I didn't have any," Sam said with a distracted shrug, walking, walking. John thought there was something about him that was Napoleonic, intense and young and restless, "I just stood there pretending I lost my buck. Someone's always willing to give a kid a cup of coffee for his dad."
"Seven times?" John asked, skeptically, not sounding impressed.
"Of course not," Sam replied, still preoccupied, "The other times I hung out at the cancer wing, let people there make their own conclusions and feel sorry for me and whomever I'm visiting there."
Shaggy hair and sad eyes. Yeah, John thought, That would do it. Sam tended to have that intelligent, precocious orphan look.
"There are eight floors to this hospital, dad," Sam rambled, "About three machines to a floor so that's twenty-four vending machines in total to try something new with. Not counting charitable cafeteria ladies and fully-stocked doctor's lounges."
I think I raised a con-man.
Or Dean did, John corrected himself.
He had to stop kidding himself that Dean hadn't done most of the rearing on this one, for all its good and bad. He felt really sour about that, sure. What father wouldn't, especially after that last slip-up, Sam calling Dean "dad." But then again, he had made Dean, didn't he, so there must have been a certain level of transference there.
Dean...
God.
Sammy's right. What the hell is taking so long?
"Mister Winchester?"
He jumped right off of his seat. It still surprised him sometimes, being called by his real name. They were in the middle of one of their rare forays into semi-normalcy. John was nursing an injury, and Dean was working up to finish high school. It made sense to just lie low for a little while. As much as possible, he fought for his boys to finish high school under their real names. While he wanted them on the road with him, he also found their studies important and useful for the job. That it lent them have some semblance of normal for the present and a chance at normal for the future closed the deal. It tended to be damned inconvenient, but when was his life ever easy?
"How is he?" Sam blurted out, breathless, as if he was bursting out of his skin.
"He's stable," the doctor said, and John allowed himself a single breath of relief before he made a step toward the doctor.
"I wanna see him."
"Mister Winchester..." the doctor hesitated, biting at the corner of his lip, and motioning for John to sit back down.
"Everything else can wait, doc," Sam added literally shaking a leg in anxiety, "Is there something wrong with him? Can't we see him now?"
John watched the doctor's face carefully. He's done enough investigations to know when he was about to hear something he may not want to. The doctor before him was young, had a kind of careful fire in his eyes, as if he was angry and reining it in just-barely. He expected this, somewhere deep inside, that one place where his father's heart feared and cowered. That one place he was helpless. It's just that he did not let himself think about it until he was sure Dean was going to be fine. But this was not the first time he'd been looked at like this, no. Like he was some kind of a criminal.
John jerked his head at Sam. "You can go ahead, son."
Ever-perceptive, Sam's brows furrowed. "Dad...?"
"Sam," John said, sternly, "Your brother needs you, all right? Let me just talk to his doc here for a moment."
It was easy as pie to get rid of Sam even at his nosiest. All he had to say was Your brother needs you and it was a card John could always, always rely on.
"Where?" Sam urgently asked the doctor. The man called for a nurse and gave her instructions to bring Sam to the recovery room, before he turned toward John.
"Mister Winchester," he said, setting his jaws, "I think you know what this is going to be about."
John put his hands up in a kind-of resigned manner. "It's not the first time I've run into a well-intentioned idiot who tells me I can't look after my boys."
The doctor crossed his arms over his chest. "So you know I have to ask you questions."
"Yeah..." John said, sinking back to his seat. His knees felt weak, weary from the injury he's been nursing for days and the worry he's been strangled with the last few hours.
"How exactly did your son become injured?" the doctor – Doctor Dante, his name tag read – asked him, as he settled down a seat away from John, clipboard and pen and paper in hand.
There was this haunted house, John's mind filled in, wearily dry, I thought it was a fairly easy job, that even on the mend I could handle it. 'Sides, I was pissed as hell at both my sons so I left 'em behind, thought I'd do this one on my own. I was kissing my ass goodbye when I realized that he followed me, and his impressionable younger brother followed him. He saved my life. Just before the roof fell right under his feet. Kid tended to be unlucky that way...
"He's a kid," John grunted, "It's an abandoned house with a local legend. These two things have a way of finding each other. And then he fell."
"He tends to fall down a lot," Dante said with a decidedly suspicious frown, "There's a lot of damage on his body, Mister Winchester, some very serious and many more from long before tonight's fall. I consulted with a forensic doctor. But if you can furnish us with medical records--"
"I'm not good at keeping 'em," John said.
"Then we can go through a detailed medical history together," said Dante.
"What?" John snapped, "Gimme enough rope to hang myself with? You ask me, I tell you what's going on, you twist it around... like I said, this isn't the first time I've run into the likes of you."
"You were investigated several years ago. They said that you were an acceptable father," Dante said, "I looked your file up."
'Acceptable' father, John thought sadly, feeling as if he was stabbed in the gut.
"Same thing's gonna come up this time," John said, though he had a cold feeling about this round. Falling under the eye of Family Services a second time never turned out very well for anybody.
"I have to let you know," said Dante, "That I'm filing a child abuse complaint against you with protective services."
"You are?" snapped John sarcastically, "That's surprising."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Dante, "But I am doing what I think is best for your children."
"A life without me, right?" growled John, wanting to floor the bastard, "That's fucking grand of you." His mind was a whirl, he was going to start throwing punches except that would have made things infinitely worse. He rose to his feet and took a deep, calming breath.
"If you don't got anything else to say," he growled, "Take me to my son."
TO BE CONTINUED...