So it's been a really long time since I last posted a chapter for this story and I'm not sure if anyone is still reading, but I promised myself I would finish all my unfinished stories which I guess will take some time. Somewhere along the lines I got discouraged with my own writing, never thinking it was good enough, and so I walked away from fanfic. I don't want to make excuses, but I think it had a lot to do with another site I posted on and how someone wrote on the opening page a long list of reasons why I was a terrible writer and that just never went away. It didn't matter that I got reviews or that people liked my stories, all I could think of was the utter humiliation I felt when I saw the post. Anywho, I am sorry for leaving this story unfinished for so long...thanks for reading...bambers2

Chapter Eighteen

John felt himself quickly drowning beneath the violent current of both of his sons' depression. Nothing he said or did was right, and more than once he wondered if he should just leave them with Pastor Jim as at least they would talk to him without every conversation turning into an argument. He was ashamed to admit that twice when he went to the store to get groceries, he almost kept going, and had to talk himself into turning around to head back to the cottage. It would be so easy to leave a place where he was clearly not wanted by either of his sons, and get back to hunting the demon. At least he understood the demon in a way he never understood either of his children.

It was painful to look at Sammy. It hurt too much. His son, his beautiful, intelligent child was hurting in a way that he couldn't even begin to fathom, and he didn't know how to fix what was wrong. Since Mary died his answer to a problem was to kill it, and every ingrained instinct shouted at him to track down Driscoll and put a bullet in his head. No matter how much he might have wanted to do just that, he couldn't and that left him with only one choice and that was to move.

Any other parent would have stayed and went to the police to have Driscoll arrested and made sure he was locked up so he didn't hurt anyone else. John's answer to the problem was to send his nineteen year old son to watch Driscoll while he packed up to move them to another state.

Why can't I be like other parents just once? Why can't I be what Sam and Dean need me to be right now? Instead they both blamed him for what happened to Sam, and it was so damn easy to do. Maybe if he was home with them instead of off chasing the demon, Sam wouldn't have…no, he couldn't travel down the road of what ifs. If he did, he would end up joining Dean in drowning his pain in a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Dean….

Whatever was going on with Dean had to be bad, and he didn't want to think about it too much or he might start looking into Driscoll's whereabouts. Yes, Dean could've gone to a bar, gotten drunk and ended up in a fight like he said. Or he could have taken it upon himself to deal with the man who hurt his brother, and now he was spiraling downward because of what the older man had done to him. Of the two, the latter seemed more likely as his eldest son never disobeyed a direct order. He wouldn't have gone out to get drunk at a bar when his brother's attacker was free to hurt someone else. He just wouldn't, and now with the way he was acting out, John feared the same thing happened to him as it did to Sam.

Damn it, Dean. You should have let me deal with Driscoll.

The night Mary died he thrust Sam into Dean's arms, and once Dean had run for the front door, he reached for Mary, arms outstretched with fire dancing along the ceiling and her body pinned to the heart of the fiery blaze. He couldn't reach her just like he couldn't reach either of his sons, and the horribly deep ache in his chest that stayed with him throughout the day and followed him to bed at night was a reminder that he'd already lost his sons like he'd lost the love of his life.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, wiping away the tears that he kept at bay until he was alone in the church, and looked up at the wooden cross through watery eyes. "I'm tryin' so damn hard," he whispered hoarsely, grounding his palms onto his eyes. "Why can't they see that I'm trying to be what they need me to be? Yes, I thought about staying away when I heard what happened to Sammy, but I didn't. I came home and that only made things worse…Please, I'm beggin' you to tell me what I need to do to make things –"

Better? He shook his head. That wasn't even remotely possible. Things would never be better. Not for their family. Normal? Again, not possible. Being normal wasn't in their wheelhouse. So if their lives couldn't get any better or somewhat normal, what was left? "I don't know how to handle this," he said, swallowing hard against the thick knot in his throat. "It doesn't feel like I'm saying the wrong things, but no matter what I say it always ends up with Sam or Dean angry and walking away from me."

We're here right now 'cause you didn't do your goddamn job. So don't stand here tellin' me how you're out there fighting the good fight an' saving lives when all I can see is how royally you've fucked up everything that matters. Dean's angry, incriminating words ricocheted through his brain like a bullet, tearing gaping holes in every good thing he'd ever thought he'd done. "I should just leave. They've both made it very clear they don't want me here."

"They do," came Pastor Jim's quiet, reassuring voice from the back of the church. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he added as he walked down the aisle and came to sit beside John. Resting his clasped hands on his lap, he studied the cross as he gathered his thoughts. "It's not an easy thing to do, but sometimes you have to bear the burden of someone's anger when they are in pain. What Sam is dealing with isn't an injury from a hunt. You can't stitch together the wound and hope it heals properly. You have to listen and pay attention to not only what he's saying, but the visual clues he's giving you as well. His mind is at odds with itself right now. He wants the comfort of his family and yet the thought of being touched brings back the memory of the man who hurt him."

"I get that, Jim, but it's like they've taken their hatred for Driscoll and transferred it onto me," he said with a bone-weary sigh. "They blame me and they have every right to feel that way. I wasn't there when they needed me – when Sam needed me, and no amount of apologizing or sticking around after the fact is going to make up for what I've done to them."

"I know you and Dean want to blame yourselves, that's only natural when someone you love has been violated." He shifted to face John and rested a hand on his arm. "It's not your fault, John. Dean is so angry right now and he's lashing out at you because for the first time in his life he's realized you're human. His anger is reinforcing your belief that you could have somehow prevented this from happening if you were home. The sad undeniable truth though is that people are raped every day, and you may not want to hear this, but their families are secondary victims of the crime as they endure the heartbreak and pain of watching their loved one suffer."

"It shouldn't have happened. If I had trained them more…if I had –"

"No, this isn't your fault," Jim cut in, giving John's arm a gentle squeeze. "I've counseled men in prison who've been raped and they were much bigger than Sam, and to look at some of them you wouldn't think anyone would dare to violate them. There are always going to be evil people who prey on those they feel are weaker than themselves. If you're going to help Sam then you have to stop paralyzing yourself with blame."

"I sent Dean to keep an eye on the coach," he whispered after a lengthy pause, a knife of guilt stabbing into his heart. "H-he was gone all night and – and I didn't think," he swallowed down the acrid bile rising up in the back of his throat, "you've seen the bruises on his face, but you haven't seen the ones on his body."

Jim cursed under his breath. "You think he was raped, too?"

Staring down at his open palms, John gave a curt nod. "His shirt was – it was ripped open, the buttons missing, and even through the whiskey I could smell this horrible musky cologne on his clothes. The Dean who left the house wasn't the same Dean who returned." He glanced sidelong at Pastor Jim then looked down at his hands again as if they might hold the answers he needed. "It's not as if I didn't know that Dean drinks …it's his way of coping with everything he keeps bottled up inside of him, but this is different and I don't want my son to think that alcohol solves every problem."

"You think he has a drinking problem." It wasn't a question and for some reason it sounded so much worse when the pastor said it aloud.

"Hunters drink, Jim, that's what gets them through the pain," he said in defense of his actions and his son's.

"He's only nineteen, John," he countered smoothly, and yet there was no condemnation in his tone. "Your son abuses alcohol much in the same way that you do. You believe it gets you through the pain, and that makes it so much easier to take the next drink."

"We're not alcoholics," John said, shaking his head emphatically. "Yes, I drink and so does Dean, but we're in control. I don't drink all the time and neither does he, and we get the job done. Alcohol has never gotten in the way of that."

"There is such a thing as a high functioning alcoholic," he said, blowing out a heavy breath, and held up a hand to stop me from denying his accusations. "If something did happen to Dean then mixing that kind of emotional pain with alcohol is going to lead him down a very dark road. Sure, alcohol numbs the pain for a while, but as you well know, once the drunken haze has passed then the pain returns with a vengeance. It's a vicious cycle, and I don't want to see Dean end up unable to get through the day without needing to drink."

"That would never happen." John pushed to his feet, and stuffed his trembling hands into the pockets of his jacket. It means that I've been drinking since I was twelve, and had you shown the slightest bit of interest you might've realized it. But then that would take time away from the one thing you do notice, an' God forbid me or Sam should ever come first over your damn demon. Dean's words came back to haunt him as he looked at the statues of two archangels flanking the altar, their sightless eyes condemning him for not taking care of both his sons the way he was supposed to do, and his shoulders drooped. "I have to take Sam to register for school. Can you keep an eye on Dean for me?"

"Yeah, I can do that." He stood and his hand came to rest on John's shoulder in what he must have considered a comforting gesture. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but things will get better. My suggestion to you would be to take this time to show your sons that you love them and would do anything for them. In Dean's case that may mean getting him into an AA program along with counseling to deal with whatever happened to him."

"I'm not putting my son in some damn program he doesn't need." Shirking free of Jim's light grasp, he strode away only to pause at the entrance of the nave to look back at the pastor. "I do appreciate everything you've done for us. It's not that I don't, but I have enough to worry about right now without having to be concerned about my son's drinking. Kids his age drink, Jim, it's what they do, and I wouldn't say he does it anymore excessively than any other guys his age."

"That may be true." Jim sighed and shook his head. "The difference is that Dean uses alcohol as a way to cope with and hide his problems. Tell me, would you feel the same way if Sam was kicking back with a bottle of Jack to deal with what Driscoll did to him?"

"That's different and you know it! Sam's only fifteen years old!" His voice rose in anger as a sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. "Dean's old enough to decide on his own if he wants to have a drink or not!"

"But he wasn't always old enough to make that decision, was he?" He turned his back on John and looked up at the wooden cross. "I can only give you advice, what you choose to do with it is up to you."

XxXxXxX

John left without saying another word, leaving Jim to wonder if he pushed too hard. It was never easy dealing with families in crisis and the Winchesters were especially difficult to handle. Their entire lives were built on carefully constructed lies – the ones they told themselves and ones they shared with the rest of the world to keep their family's secrets. He wanted to help them before they moved on to the next town or state, which was inevitable considering John's demon hunting obsession, but feared it wouldn't make a bit of difference. The only thing that would truly change their lives for the better was if John stopped hunting and that would never happen.

He prayed for some sort of guidance and wisdom as to how to handle each Winchester then left the church to find Dean. With John and Sam gone for a while, it would give him the opportunity to access Dean's mental state and hopefully get some insight as to what happened with the coach. He didn't want to consider the possibility that both boys had been sexually assaulted by Driscoll, but from everything he had witnessed since Dean's arrival he knew there was something definitely wrong with John's eldest son.

He found Dean sitting on one of the swings at the park where Chaser and his gang of friends usually hung out after the park closed, and although it was only a little afternoon Dean appeared as if he was already well on his way to being drunk. "Mind if I take a seat?" he said, motioning to the empty swing beside Dean. When Dean made no attempt to acknowledge his presence either by words or action, he slumped onto the swing and grasped hold of the metal chains. In the grass about twenty feet away he spied an empty bottle of whiskey, confirming his suspicions that Dean had been drinking before he arrived. "What happened to your brother wasn't your fault, Dean," he added as Dean slowly rocked back and forth on the swing with a faraway look in his glassy, red-rimmed eyes. "As I already told your brother, anything you say to me is confidential." He pointed at the sky. "It's a part of the deal I made with God when I became a pastor. So if you need to talk about anything, I want you to feel comfortable in the knowledge that I won't ever tell another living soul and that includes your father."

"There is one thing that's been really bothering me," Dean said, twisting the swing to face him, and cracked a smile. "I haven't found one restaurant in this town that serves a good piece of apple pie. Mmm…I love me some good apple pie."

Jim understood Dean's need to deflect the conversation away from anything related to Driscoll and the painful memories he evoked. It always took time to build trust with anyone who'd been through physical or emotional trauma and with Sam and Dean it would almost take a miracle to get them to open up to him. From the time they were little they were trained by John to keep the family's secrets and that made his job nearly impossible especially when it came to Dean.

"I thought the same thing myself many times," he chuckled lightly in an attempt to set Dean at ease. "You should try the banana cream pie at Mable's Diner. Within one bite you'll swear off apple pie and become a banana cream pie guy."

"I'll have to remember that." Dean stared at the empty whiskey bottle in the grass, rubbed at his eyes, and winced as his fingers pressed against the bruises on his face. "Did my dad take Sam to register for school?"

"Yeah, he did," Jim said, scrubbing a hand through his beard. "I know you don't agree with the idea of Sam going back to school, but you have to let him make this decision on his own and be supportive. And I think he's making the right decision. The longer he stays away from school, the harder it will be for him to go back, and then that fear will follow him through the rest of his life."

"I can't protect him when he's in school," he mumbled as he toyed with the amulet Sam had given him. "With Sam in school, dad will hightail it outta here as fast as he can, and I'll be the one responsible if anything bad happens to him again."

"Are you angry at Sam?" Jim said, twisting the chains of the swing to turn and face Dean.

"Why would I be mad at Sammy? He didn't do anything wrong," he said, and pushing out of the swing, he started walking away.

Jim got to his feet and followed, catching up with the younger man's longer strides. "I know he didn't do anything wrong, Dean. It's just that emotions run very high when a loved one has been sexually assaulted, and I would imagine you are feeling a myriad of emotions right now, and that's okay. It's also perfectly normal to be angry at yourself along with anyone else you feel wasn't there to protect him."

"I'm not angry at Sammy," he repeated through gritted teeth, hands clenching and unclenching. "I get what you're tryin' to do, but I'm not the one who needs counseling. So save it for Sammy."

"What happened the night that you got beat up?" Jim said, catching hold of Dean's arm to stop him from running off as he looked ready to do. "John sent you to watch Driscoll, and instead of doing that you went to a bar?"

He shrugged and forced a smile to his lips. "It was lady's night and this pretty little brunette was into me until her boyfriend showed up and kicked my ass."

It was a lie, and not a very good one. With the way John trained them to hunt and kill monsters, he would have walked away from any bar fight with hardly a scratch unless someone attacked him from behind and he was stunned from the initial blow, but he didn't say that. "I don't think that's what happened at all," Jim said, treading very carefully to get the answers that might eventually lead to some sort of meaningful recovery. "I think you followed your father's orders as you were raised to do and then something went terribly wrong…something you weren't prepared for and that's how you ended up with all the bruises and cracked ribs."

Dean's face paled considerably, the marbled bruises standing out in stark contrast, and from what Jim could recall of John's oldest son, this was the first time he ever appeared truly vulnerable. Within a heartbeat the vulnerability was gone and the hardened resolve of a seasoned hunter took its place. "You don't know what you're talking about. I told you what happened. The girl's name was Veronica, we made out in the bathroom, and then her boyfriend broke the door down and beat the hell outta me. End of story."

"Dean, you –"

"No, were done here," he cut in, pulling free of Jim's grasp on his arm. "We're here for you to help Sam. That's the only reason so stay the hell out of my business and concentrate on the Winchester who needs your help."

When he strode away this time, Jim let him go. He couldn't force him to explain what happened in those hours when he was missing or how he ended up with all the bruises and cuts. For now it had to be enough that Dean realized his story hadn't fooled anyone, and maybe that would eventually give him the courage he needed to tell the truth about the night his father sent him to watch Driscoll. In the meantime, he and John would make certain Driscoll went to prison for his crimes.