Crows in the Wheatfield

Chapter 21

He was floating.

It felt like that lake they'd once stopped at during one of their trips through southern Florida in the middle of a heat-wave. Dad had actually stopped and let them cool down at that crystal blue pool of cool wetness for an hour or two before they'd been stuck in the oven-like heat of the Impala again.

Dean had floated on his back, the sun on his face yet his body had remained comfortably cool as the water sloshed over him in lazy waves, carrying him effortlessly, taking that weight off his shoulders as if it was nothing at all. Even back then, some four or five years ago Dean had felt heavy and the baggage hadn't necessarily gotten any lighter since.

Maybe he was there again now, Dean mused quietly, too comfortable still to open his eyes and just check.

Yeah, that had to be it.

He felt as unburdened as he hadn't in a long, long time.

Dad had to have taken them back there once he'd realized that Dean's body had just gotten too heavy, too much fucking weight added to the amount he'd been carrying around with him already, adding up and up and up until it threatened to smother him, to trip him and make him fall.

And god, had he fallen.

Dean remembered being so cold, inside and out, remembered his body quivering from the assault of forces that threatened to tear him apart and still holding himself together, if only barely so. He remembered pain beyond words and desperation so deep, so absolute it had almost paralyzed him. He remembered hope, too, but it had been smashed time and time again, stomped deeper and deeper into the ground until there was barely anything left anymore.

Dean remembered all that without any clear concept as to what had happened. All he knew was that he felt pretty comfortable right where he was. He had no plans of moving anytime soon.

He kept floating for a while, listening to the rhythmic sound of the waves brushing against the shore, musing about how it sounded almost like someone breathing right next to him. The slow, steady cadence felt strangely familiar and Dean gave in to the soothing pull far too easily, let it carry him away some more.

He kept drifting a little longer and as time wore on the comfortable feeling slowly but surely started to change. It wasn't anything Dean could name, wasn't sudden, nothing he could pin down to a certain point in time but suddenly the water felt less warm, felt less soft on his skin.

The soothing balm the water had provided turned into a coarse tickle, nothing painful or uncomfortable in the strict sense of the word, but there clearly was something wrong.

Dean furrowed his brows, still unwilling to give in quite as easily, refusing to be coaxed away from the peaceful memory. But the scratching sensation against his skin became annoying far too soon, turning into an almost burning ache which sent trails of goosebumps all over his limbs and into his very core. Slowly, a dull ache started to settle over the left side of his body from his ear down to the tips of his toes.

What the hell…?

With effort Dean managed to tear his eyes open, had to draw his brows up into his hairline almost until heavy and stubborn as hell lids finally chose to follow.

The sky above him was bright blue and blinding.

He managed to turn his head to the side and blinked sluggishly as he recognized his surroundings. The water he'd been floating on had somehow disappeared, had turned into the golden-green stalks of the wheatfield.

God no, not again…

With considerable effort Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, muscles trembling even though he wasn't in pain yet. He almost dreaded what the damn bird wanted to show him this time. Because this certainly could only be another damn vision, a foreseeing dream, just like the ones he'd had before. But, as much as it hurt Dean to admit it, he wasn't ready for the next fight, the next battle. Not yet.

Dean turned as far as his sitting position would let him, checking the field that stretched to the horizon and beyond with squinted eyes.

The crow was nowhere to be seen.

The air was absolutely still, the field not moving even though the swishing sound was still audible in the surrounding silence. It sounded almost like the field was breathing around him, a steady beat, lulling and worrying at the same time.

Wearily, Dean struggled to his feet, once again realizing that his chest and feet were bare, his leg free of the cast, his side and shoulder unblemished. He felt the pressure in the places he knew the injuries to be in, but the skin appeared to be untouched, unbroken.

"Some kind of piss-poor make belief, if I still know I'll be hurting when I wake up again…" Dean cursed quietly, keeping his left arm close to his body, just to be sure. He knew that this was nothing but a dream, knew he wouldn't remain in this state of blissful absence of pain for very long. But he had to make sure he read the signs right before he was plunged right back into the painful reality again, so he drew himself together, squared his shoulders a little more.

"Where the hell are you?" he called, his voice rough and a little hoarse, the words swallowed by the vast expanse of golden green surrounding him as soon as they left his mouth. The field remained deathly calm, the sky devoid of the crow's dark body.

What was this supposed to mean now?

"So what, you ran out of premonitions to lay on me? Or you simply tired of bullying me around, trying to make it appear as if it's all my own decision while in reality you're pulling all the damn strings like I'm some sick kind of puppet in this little show of yours?"

Dean turned himself in a slow circle, trying to back up the bravado he wanted to express with his words by keeping his voice even, unwavering. Inside, though, he was bristling, trembling from the effort it took to hold his body steady, to keep his hands from reaching up towards his face to try and rub the ticking sensation of unease from his face.

"Or does this mean it's over? Just like that - you just disappear on me, don't even say goodbye?" Dean mocked the emptiness around him but this time his voice cracked, catching in his throat in unfamiliar ways. He wasn't used to this uncertainty, the tingling nervousness that started in the base of his stomach to slowly crawl his way up to his throat.

He didn't know why he was so nervous, didn't know why he should be. After everything that he'd been through already, it couldn't really get much worse now, could it?

But maybe this was just it. The damn crow – spirit animal or whatever the hell else – dropped him off right where it had picked him up in the first place just to tell him it was over now. Dean's job done, his purpose served. Time to part ways again.

For a gut-wrenching second Dean couldn't help but see the damn pattern of his life here – everybody just leaving him…

Dean closed his eyes and took a breath that stuttered and caught inside his chest but in the end accomplished what Dean had aimed for. It pushed the panic back down, reigned the terror of loss back in effectively. One second, then another, and Dean had the walls back in place – or maybe it was just a folding screen made of paper like he'd seen in some of those massage parlors. It was basically see-through, sure, but still it kept the most intimate secrets hidden to anyone daring to peek in, obscuring the facts so they could be explained away easily enough.

It would have to make do for the moment.

Dean dropped his head, closing his eyes to the sight of infinite nothingness surrounding him and reached up a hand to scrub it over his weary face. The moment his hand covered his eyes, his lashes flattening against his cheeks, the vacuum around him was suddenly pierced by a sound.

It was just one note, really, a low, throaty croak that immediately turned Dean's insides into a tight knot, had him keep his hand almost frozen to his face for a second before dropping it down. He swirled around in one fluid motion, subconsciously taking notice of how easy moving was, in his dream at least, bristling at the thought of the constant struggle it had become to simply walk in real life.

His head spun with the motion long after his body had stopped already which was why it took a moment for him to focus on the figure standing across the clearing, all the way at the edge of his field of vision. There was no way he would have been able to distinguish the person standing there by just looking, the distance between them too great to make out any details at all. All he could see was a dark figure with indistinguishable features, but Dean didn't need to see the face to know who it was.

He would have known the person anywhere.

The figure stood tall even though his shoulders were slightly bent forward as if trying to make himself smaller than he really was, to seem less conspicuous.

"Sam…" the word was merely a breath of sound, easily swallowed by the oppressing silence encompassing the scene around him, seemingly permeating his very being.

Before Dean could think about it, he was moving, running through the field that still looked like a freeze-frame photograph. The stalks didn't even part when he dashed through them, he was simply melting through them as if they were nothing but air.

But every step that should have gotten him closer to his brother felt like it got slower, harder. It felt as if he was moving through molasses, the air seemingly getting thicker and thicker, parting more and more reluctantly to let him through. Every step he took seemed to bring back a tiny shred of pain to his body. It started with a dull throb in his shoulder, eating its way down and into his abdomen, crawling across his hip and down his thigh before wrapping like molten heat over his left leg.

The moment the full pain hit his lower limb, he went down. He thought he cried out as his body hit the ground hard, the wheat immediately sucking him under, swallowing him whole.

No…

"Sam!"

The darkness surrounding him was completely, suffocating in its intensity and Dean reached out a hand, fighting the paralyzing pain to reach up over his head, trying to part the thick blanket of stalks holding him prisoner, gripping him tight with greedy fingers.

"Sam, I'm here. Don't go. Please…"

His fingers breached the cover of darkness, a tiny sliver of bright blue sky slicing through the black surrounding him. Instinctively, Dean squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden intrusion of light.

When he opened them again the world chose this exact moment to tilt crazily, threatening to topple Dean right over its edge.

The sky above him changed into the safe house's off-white water-spotted ceiling, the ground he'd been lying on replaced by the slightly too soft and scratchy cushions of the living room sofa.

Dean waited until his vision settled on only one reality, his breath coming in short, quick bursts as the dots of bright blue sky still bouncing around the stained ceiling retreating all the way to the edges of his vision, coalescing with the black spots waiting there to pull him back under again.

Dean gulped in a shaking breath, then another before pushing himself into a sitting position with as subdued a groan of pain as he could manage. He immediately swiped bleary eyes across the room, his gaze settling on a makeshift bed on the floor next to the sofa. There was a bunched up pillow and a rumpled blanket on top of one of the bunk-bed's mattresses, indicating that someone had indeed slept there at some point. But the bedding was empty now.

For a second Dean could do nothing but blink at the setting, trying to get his memories back into decent order. He remembered – little dream-like sequences intersecting his feverish nightmares, waking up to find his father sleeping on the floor next to the sofa, laying sprawled all over the mattress. Sam always slept like that and for an insane, feverish second or two after opening his eyes Dean had thought that his brother had come back, finally.

But it had always been John who had been there whenever Dean as much as blinked himself into consciousness, always ready to reach out and touch Dean's shoulder, holding on to him when the dreams had become too vivid, too real.

Dad had been here, all this time – however long that really was. Dean somehow had lost all concept of time, lately.

But he was gone now.

Dean looked around the room, realizing that he was all alone in the house. The den seemed to be empty and he couldn't see into the bathroom, but the door was ajar and the room beyond dark and silent, so it was a safe bet John wasn't in there either.

A clump of cold dread started to form in the pit of Dean's stomach, warring for attention with the by now all too familiar pull of raw and tender flesh, of old wounds that seemed to once again be desperate to make themselves known to Dean with all the ferocity they could muster. Unconsciously, Dean ran his right hand over his chest and down towards his belly, fingertips brushing over the padded scars that were terribly sensitive to the touch still. He found no new stitches, but from the feel of it some of the already healed wounds had at least partially re-opened again, the skin around the edges hot and swollen once again. Well, it wasn't like he was going to win any beauty-competition with the scars he already carried.

His skin still tickled at the touch, but the telltale oversensitivity that he always felt when having a fever was heavily subdued now, so he had to be doing better – or was on his way there, at least.

Sitting up was awkward, the way his body folded when he pulled himself up with his cast-covered leg still stretched out on the sofa, his belly and side squeezed in uncomfortably.

Dean kept his hand pressed against his belly as if physically able to keep the pain inside, to hold himself together. He hurt, pain shivering in liquid waves through his body, but after a minute or two Dean was able to control the sea-sick-like nausea that resulted from the change in elevation, managed to once again open his eyes and look around the room.

His crutches lay propped against the side of the sofa and Dean was about to reach over he realized that his left arm was bound against his chest, a roll of gauze wrapped around his upper arm and torso keeping the arm more or less immobilized. However his dad had managed to do that Dean had no idea. But he wouldn't be able to walk like this, Dean realized, since he would not be able to hold on to the crutches, so the supporting bandages would have to go.

It took a while to unwind the bandages but once the arm was free Dean realized that it hadn't been such a great idea really. The arm seemed to hang from his shoulder with impossible weight, pulling at the raw wounds and tender flesh surrounding it.

Dean concluded that he wouldn't be able to handle the crutches like this, either, so he ended up holding the arm closely to his side, supporting both his shoulder as well as the upper parts of his torso.

It took almost superhuman effort to pull himself upright and onto his good leg from the low perch on the threadbare sofa with the aid of only the right crutch. But once standing more or less upright Dean was satisfied to notice that, while his head spun and his vision wavered, he remained standing at least.

The dream still lingered at the edges of Dean's awareness, lurking on the sidelines as if ready to jump him the moment he let down his guard. He tried not to think about it as he started hobbling his way across the room, the air feeling stuffy, his ears clogged up with the remnant of the deafening silence that had enveloped him just minutes ago.

It was slow going – the steady plop-swish his crutch and right leg made against the plastic floor like a steady beat that Dean concentrated on to keep himself moving. He felt parched, skin dry and pulled taut over his frame, bone and muscle rattling underneath.

His left leg was heavy, the cast wearing his side down like a lead-weight and for an insane second Dean thought how someone could drop him in the ocean now without having to bother with one of those cement-blocks around the feet to make him go under.

With that picture still lingering in his head, successfully blanking out all other thought for a moment Dean finally reached the door that separated the kitchen from the back porch. One part of the double door was open, only the screen door still in place, diffusing his view of the outside.

It seemed to be early morning, but of what day Dean had absolutely no idea. It was all the same to him. He wouldn't be leaving here anytime soon anyways.

Dean caught sight of his father just at the bottom of the steps that led into the yard.

John stood there clad in sweat-pants and a t-shirt, neither shoes nor socks adorning his bare feet.

It made him look strangely…vulnerable, almost, the way he was standing there bare-footed and dressed in pretty much his sleep-wear. Dean realized that he hadn't seen his dad "unready" to fight at any given time for a long, long time now. He seemed to always be focused, always ready for battle, sometimes even sleeping fully dressed as if he was prepared to get up and leave any second if necessary.

Dean wasn't sure what to make of this.

For some sick and disturbing reason the sight of his father standing in the yard, toes digging into the dirt underneath his feet made Dean feel safe almost instantly. Surely his dad wasn't going to walk out on him without his shoes on…right?

John stood with his back to the house, the fingers of his left hand seemingly absentmindedly picking at the wound at the back of his head while with the other he held a phone clutched close to his ear. Dean could make out the bandage adorning his father's right forearm, felt an inexplicable pang of guilt as he realized that he'd not been the one that had taken care of John's wounds for him.

John shifted seemingly casually, but Dean immediately perked up.

There was something about the way John stood there, about the way he carried himself, his back too straight, his fingers incessantly worrying the gash on the back of his head… Dean had studied his father's body-language all his life. He'd wanted to be just like him ever since he was a little boy, had tried to copy many of his movements, his habits and succeeded in adopting at least some of them for himself. It was the reason Dean didn't miss the way his father's posture wasn't as relaxed as he appeared at first sight.

A prickling trail of goosebumps chased down Dean's back, teasing the still fever sensitive skin and making the hair at the back of his head feel as if they literally were standing on end.

Because Dad on the phone could only mean one thing, really.

Dean couldn't believe it had taken him so long to pick up on it.

John never picked up his phone unless he was researching a hunt, waiting for news or information.

Dean took one shuffling step closer to the door so he could lean his shoulder against the wall next to the screen, using the sturdy support of the wooden frame to pull himself upright some more, to straighten his somewhat slouched pose while leaning on the crutch.

He transferred the walking aid to his left hand, nimble fingers closing around the handle tentatively as he reached out his good arm, ready to pull the door open when something held him back, his fingers stopping in mid-movement on their way towards the knob.

He couldn't be sure if he'd heard right, but Dean thought he heard his father talking about a hunt…about leaving.

"Dean'll be fine on his own…"

Dean's heart clenched, then roughly stuttered back to life inside his chest.

Dad was planning to leave again. They hadn't even cleared away the debris of their last hunt, and already John was planning on leaving again?

Dean had never been good at confronting his father, head on, had always reprimanded his little brother for being so ready to stand up to their father when he hadn't even heard the older Winchester's side of the story, always interpreting things the way they first appeared to him.

But this…

…this was something different altogether.

This was about finding out if he'd be left on his own once again.

And Dean was so damn tired of always just sitting around waiting, accepting his fate, swallowing down his own anger in favor of someone else's feelings.

He was done with being the one always pretending he was OK with whatever decision either his father or his little brother made without ever consulting him in the first place.

Dean was done hiding.

Decisively, Dean pushed his hand forward, swinging the screen door open with a high pitched creaking sound.

And when he lifted his face to meet his father's surprised gaze, he didn't fight the feelings of betrayal and abandonment to show in eyes, for once.

OoOoOoO

Dean's fever raged for the best part of the day and well into the night following their return to the safe house.

When John's butt fell asleep from sitting on the hard kitchen chair next to the sofa, he dragged one of the lumpy mattresses from the den and put it on the floor next to his sleeping son, not wanting to leave Dean alone in the room any longer than it took him to go to the bathroom. It was far from comfortable still, the mattress so old and lumpy he could as well have lain on the floor, John thought, but he'd slept in worse places than this. And he was as close to Dean as he possible could without actually laying on the sofa next him.

Whenever Dean woke up, John was there and while it didn't leave him with much rest, in the end, it still was worth it. Later, when the fever finally went and stayed down John woke from sleep a couple of times only to find Dean staring at him through bleary, fever-dazed eyes – just staring at him. It was disconcerting to say the least, but the kid didn't react to John's questions if he was alright and soon drifted off again.

After that, he slept like dead. He hardly ever moved, even, and even though it was a relief to his former thrashing and tossing, it didn't feel like such a good trade, John had to admit. Before, he'd at least had gotten a sign that Dean was still breathing, wasn't left with this constant panic that his son simply drifted off, leaving him. It was illogical, John knew that, because Dean didn't need the strain the fever put on his body, couldn't afford the stress his sluggish and incoherent movements put on his already battered body. But this silence…it once again weighed on John's nerves more heavily than his son's sounds of struggle had.

But now John was stuck with checking Dean's pulse every half hour, coaxing him to drink or listening to him breathing when there was nothing else he could do anymore.

When sleep finally claimed John it did so with an almost violent pull, and he didn't find it in him to fight it anymore. He hadn't realized how much his body craved the rest until he finally, consciously chose to pay attention to it.

John slept so deeply, at first he didn't recognize the sound that sluggishly penetrated the fog clouding his brain and slowing his senses. It started with a faint, far-off melody that he took as part of his dream, background music to a strangely distorted dream about wolf and women and a flock of scavengers circling lazily over the gutted body of a black dog lying in the middle of a huge garden filled with welted roses.

The melody ended, then started again and it took about four or five tries until John realized that he actually heard his phone ringing.

He was up and on his feet before the action even registered, was moving towards the table where he'd stashed both their mobiles before he realized his legs were actually moving. As John reached the table he heard Dean stir in reaction to the disturbance, rolling his head sluggishly against the cushion and mumbling something underneath his breath.

John didn't understand what he was saying, praying that he still was sleeping too deeply to really wake up.

The kid still needed the rest, needed every precious minute he could possibly squeeze out.

John grabbed the phone off the table and pressed the green button that accepted the call quickly. Before he had the phone up and at his ear, he was already moving through the kitchen's back entrance, walking out of the house as quietly as possible.

"Yes," John snapped at the unsuspecting caller, automatically annoyed at whoever dared to interrupt their much-needed healing time, mad at himself for not turning the phone off, letting whoever called go straight to voicemail.

The word left him in a rush, on an exhale as he stepped out into what he recognized as the early morning light of the new day, easing the screen door shut behind him before crossing the two steps to the stairs that led down into the ill-kept yard. A warm breeze ruffled through his messy hair and the feeling of dry grass underneath his bare feet was strangely intoxicating.

"Hey, John,"

The voice on the other end of the line quickly rid John of the last remnants of sleep that still clung to his brain.

"Caleb," John breathed, shoulder automatically squaring, trying to infuse strength into his voice with the tensing of his muscles.

He had to prepared for this, no matter the time or the situation. He had to always be ready.

His right hand still clutching the phone John raised his left arm up to run slightly shaking fingers through his hair and over his skull until the movement was stopped when his fingers came in contact with the swollen edges of the wound at near his neck. Unconsciously he started picking at the scabs of dried blood still clinging to his hair and skin, reveling the pain the touch caused, knowing it would help him focus, to sharpen his brain.

"You Ok, John? I have kinda been expecting your call, although I have to admit I'm surprised you even picked up. You've been playing pretty hard to get lately…"

John shifted on his feet, dry grass and dusty earth pressing up between his toes.

"Well, I've been busy. What is it you want?" he interrupted his friend's teasing banter, cutting to the chase. He wanted to turn back time, never pick up the damn phone like he apparently had a history of doing when he wasn't in the mood – or the condition to take on yet another hunt.

There was the beat of a pause as Caleb apparently digested John's bluntness, no doubt contemplating if he should call his old friend on it or just let it pass. Luckily, he seemed to decide on the second option.

"I heard someone took care of a werewolf, down near Perry." Caleb said calmly.

John blinked in irritation and surprise.

"Yeah well…only that it wasn't a werewolf but a skinwalker. But we took it out alright," he said, not sure if he should be flattered or concerned that the news had travelled this fast.

Caleb stayed silent, so John barged on ahead, suddenly uneasy about staying out of the house too long, wanting to be at his son's side again when he woke up.

"That the only reason you called, to compliment me on a successful hunt?" he asked, fully aware of how snappish he sounded, knowing that Caleb didn't deserve that. None of what made John lose his patience lately was anyone's fault but his own, really.

"Well, actually no. Bobby called me a couple of days ago. Told me about your car still waiting in that lot where you left it some weeks ago to get it fixed after you ran over the chupacabra. Looks like you've got one of the old man's fake numbers on the insurance form, so they called him and asked him if he wanted to sell it, since nobody seems to want it anymore…"

Jeez – the truck. John had almost forgotten about it, what with everything else going on.

"Right, the truck," was all John had to offer, thinking furiously how much he could tell Caleb, how much he should tell him. Because, ultimately, Bobby's would get wind of it, and John had a pretty good idea what the other hunter would have to say about the current mess John had gotten both himself and his eldest into.

Bobby always had had a special relationship with both his boys but Dean especially had apparently triggered the old man's protective instincts. He had been protective towards both Dean and Sam in ways that John had found slightly irritating, considering that they were talking about his boys here.

They'd had a falling out about something well over a year ago. John still remembered the fight he and Bobby had gotten into, right after Sam had left. They hadn't talked since and Dean hadn't so much as mentioned Bobby's name so far, but John knew the kid missed the older hunter fiercely. Dean had always looked forward to the days or weeks or sometimes even months they'd spent at his junkyard.

John knew that Bobby still cared deeply for his boys – and maybe even a little bit for him, too. If it wasn't for both their egos they would most likely still be friends – or at least still talking. But John always had been thankful, despite turning away from his old friend when he had stuck his nose in matters that were none of his business, knowing that both Sam and Dean had someone to turn to in case he himself wouldn't make it back to them, one day.

"John, you still there? Is everything alright?"

Caleb's voice ripped John out of his thoughts and he momentarily blinked into the early morning sun, swallowing the lump that just wouldn't leave his goddamn throat anymore.

We're so far from alright, I can't even see it from where we're standing...

"We've been…kinda laid up here for a while," John trailed off, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling the stubbly growth of beard tease his tongue.

Caleb was silent for a beat.

"How's Dean?" he finally asked, a low rumble of worry making the question sound like a statement, almost. As if he knew damn well that something was wrong.

John dropped his chin to his chest, his hand slipping from the back of his head to hang limply at his side.

"He's…" John was groping for words to describe the situation appropriately without giving too much away. First, because he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate being exposed like that to a fellow hunter and secondly because John was too ashamed to admit that he'd let it all happen in the first place.

"We ran into a black dog – two, actually, and then there was that werewolf that really was a skinwalker. He got a little messed up," and that easily had to be the understatement of the year. "But he's hanging in there. You know Dean…"

"Too stubborn to go down," Caleb conceded, knowingly, and John nodded to himself.

"Yeah. Looks like we will be stuck here for a while, though."

It was as close to an admission of how serious the situation really was as John was going to offer, and apparently Caleb knew that, too. John could hear him take a deep breath and he could basically hear the wheels in his friends head turning.

"Those leads you had me check out, about The Demon…they dead ended," Caleb finally offered, and John felt like a giant boulder had been lifted off his shoulders all of a sudden.

He loved his son more fiercely than he could ever express, was planning on sitting this out with him, to see him get better. But there was this other need, this urge that had been so deeply ingrained into his very being by now – the need to find Mary's killer. As if in finding it and killing it he could atone for all the faults he'd committed, all the wrong he'd done to his boys. As if by extinguishing the force that had driven him all those years would give him time to make for all the time he'd lost.

He knew that, no matter how much he wanted to stay with Dean, how much every fiber of his body needed to stay with his ailing son, he still wouldn't be able to turn down a lead, a chance to kill the thing that had torn his family to pieces. Even if it meant leaving behind the one person still sticking with him, despite all the shit he'd pulled.

As much as he wanted to hunt the demon down, right now he knew he owed it to both Dean and especially Mary to step back down for a little while at least.

"Ok, alright. So…we figure out something else," John said, shifting his weight, feeling tired muscles and aching joints beg him to lie back down. "That lead I told you about in Washington State - we should take another look at that guy, see if we can come up with an identity after all. Maybe we can talk to him…"

He didn't feel like he had the right to ask his friend to do this for him, yet again, following another lead in a personal war that Caleb had no ties to other than the overall fight for good and against evil. So he didn't ask, but sure enough his friend caught his meaning.

"Yeah, how about I look into this some more. You guys stay where you are. I got this hunt I need to take care of. It's not that far from where you're staying so maybe I'll pay you a visit once I'm done, see if I can maybe take you to pick up your truck."

"You need help with the hunt? I'm sure Dean will be fine for a couple of days…" John asked, knowing that he needed to ask, hoping that Caleb would not take him up on the offer.

"No, that one I can handle by myself. You stay with your boy, tie him down if you need to."

John breathed a sigh of relief, glad beyond words that he hadn't been forced to choose. Because, honestly, right this moment, with Dean still out and so far from alright, John had no idea what he would done if Caleb had indeed asked for his help.

"Alright, if you're sure…"

A high-pitched creaking sound at his back had John whirling around, all senses, no matter how tired and beaten he was instantly on high alert. He didn't have any weapons on him, his hand immediately going to the waistband of his sweats only to come up empty.

It took him only a second to realize that a weapon was needless though.

Dean stood in the partly open doorway, the screen held open by his shoulder, right hand gripped tightly around the plastic handle of his crutch while the other arm he held close to his body. He looked…drawn, hollowed out, almost.

His posture was slightly stooped, shoulders rolled forward as if folding underneath a weight John couldn't see but knew to be there – now more so than ever. He was wearing his sweats only, his chest heaving as if the short walk from the sofa to the back door had exerted him completely. His cheeks were sunken, eyes deep and shadowed by those ridiculously long lashes, his forehead drawn into the ever present frown of pain, the crinkles around his eyes that used to be laugh-lines suspiciously looking like worry-lines by now.

The arm that carried his weight with the help of the crutch was shaking slightly, as did his good leg and the pants John had so painstakingly pulled up his narrow hips just hours ago hung low on his waist.

The moment Dean raised his eyes slightly, chin still dipped low and the vibrant green of his eyes met John's brown ones, John realized what his son must have heard – or what he thought he'd heard. Knowing Dean – and knowing John's luck in general, he'd only heard parts of the conversation, had drawn his own conclusions. He'd heard John offering his help on a hunt, just hours after messing up the last one, hours after promising to stay with his son until he got better.

"Dean, wait," John tried to placate, lowering the phone and taking a step towards his son.

Dean made to move back into the house when suddenly he froze, all movement halting, his head suddenly snapping around to look behind his back, reacting to something inside the house John couldn't hear or see.

The movement was controlled, fluid, devoid of any pain, any stiffness of muscles or marred by fevered chills. John immediately realized that something was wrong.

He realized he'd stopped breathing, was about to drag in a breath, tell Caleb that he'd call him back when Dean's head whipped back around lightening fast, his formerly shadowed eyes wide open, all pupils and bright green, latching onto his father with alarming clarity.

John saw Dean's body tense, saw his shoulder roll back from the doorjamb, back into the house, shifting the crutch into his good hand as he did so. His stance, albeit still compromised by his battered and fever-wrecked body, was one of high alarm and at the same time it was the stance of a hunter, of being ready to fight.

He mouthed two words that John was barely able to hear but could practically feel coming from his own mouth as his lips automatically mimicked his son's expression, trying to comprehend was he was seeing.

Front door.

There was someone at the door.

John didn't bother to say goodbye to Caleb and simply ended the call before crossing the distance to the porch with a couple of long strides. He hauled himself of the four steps with agility born out of year of hunting, of being able to push his body past its own tiredness, its own pain. John shoved at the creaking screen-door, rushing into the room to find his son standing a couple of steps in front of him in the section that divided the open kitchen from the living room, facing the house's front entrance with keen concentration.

He looked poised and ready, despite being anything but, and John was acutely aware that neither of them had any kind of weapon on them. Dean's eyes never left the front door, pinning the doorknob as if by sheer will he could force whoever was out there to either reveal himself or turn around and leave them be.

John heard a scuffle from outside, someone fumbling with the ancient lock but not being particularly quiet about it.

One long stride brought him to the kitchen counter, his hand automatically abandoning the phone and closing around the hilt of the large kitchen knife, pulling it out and holding it at the ready. It might not have been very sharp, and while John had always preferred hand on hand combat to wielding or even throwing a knife, he knew he'd be able to put the weapon to good use. If anything, it would slow the intruder down until either he or Dean could reach the duffel with their guns.

As the front door opened with an almost ominous creak John pushed his body between the entrance and his son, intent on standing between him and whoever would walk in on them.

This time, he would not let anything get past him.

OoOoOoO

tbc

AN:

I owe all of you a big thanks for your wonderful support and the awesome, encouraging reviews. I am very much aware of how lucky I am to have found this site - and all of you, who make me feel less like i'm a freak for writing these stories.

I owe another big thanks to Nalanzu, who beta'ed this chapter for me, but all mistakes that are still in there will remain mine, since i can't help it but change stuff even after she corrects the parts I sent her.

Also, thanks to all those who put this story on their favorites without reviewing - this way I never get to thank you in person - which is why i'm doing it right here.

The next week is a very busy one for me, and i'm pretty sure i won't manage to post next weeks chapter in time, since it's nowhere near done yet. I know it sucks, especially with the cliffie I left you with and all, but I hope you'll forgive me and not hold it against me. i'm off the week after this one, so I'll have plenty of time to write - and hopefully make this as good as possible.

i'm eagerly awaiting your reactions to this cliffie, that's for sure. I would like to know what you think and if i'm on the right track the way I wanted to continue this... Your reviews, i firmly believe, make me a better writer - and they sure as hell make writing and posting a whole lot easier on me!

thank you all so much and take care!