AN: This ended up as a kind of meandering character study. I hope you don't find it OOC. As usual, it's waaaay too long, but that's my MO I guess. By the way, I use a word in this fic that I absolutely detest. For me, it's right up there with racial slurs in how furious it makes me. But I only use it to show how ignorant and cruel a character and would never, EVER use the word "retard" myself, just FYI.
My random observation for today is that Pastor Joe fron the brand new episode is Dr. Sexy! Ha!
ETA this is set preseries, shortly before Dean's 21st birthday.
The prompt options for today were: Lost / Field Medicine / Medieval.
Lena: I will definitely do one with Jack! It won't be tomorrow…I have to find the right prompt for it. I adore your thoughts on chapter 17. Poor Dean; I wasn't very nice to him. And thanks too for your words about chapter 19. Season 5 is so sad. I keep looking to see if you have any SPN fics out there, but I'll be patient! And I am deliberately avoiding your plot bunnies so I don't get sidetracked. LOL But there is a little shout-out to you in tomorrow's chapter. Oh, and it makes me SO HAPPY that you watch for updates! I get very happy when I wake up to a review from you. *happy, sappy Woomie*
Stormysea-breaks: Your words and insight are so touching and helpful to me! I know you love "the boys" as much as I do. I've toyed with the connection between physical and emotional pain in my writing before, and it's a hard balance to walk, so gracias again for your words.
syvia37: I smiled through the whole movie, and not just because I love anything with Will Smith. I forgot just how fun it is! I'm sorry that I made you cry, but perversely, I consider it a compliment. Does that make me a bad person? LOL
In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost. – Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, part 1: The Inferno
John Winchester was not an introspective man. That didn't mean he was the kind of man who could sit and think about nothing, because he was completely incapable of that. He was pretty certain he'd shared that particular malady with his younger son. In moments of quiet, John's mind would inevitably find some kind of puzzle to work on; there was always something to think about and plan. When he looked at the past, it wasn't with nostalgia, but rather to evaluate past battles and plans and actions to consider what could have been done better and consider future ramifications. He couldn't turn it off general mentality.
There was plenty that had gone wrong on this hunt, every single thing was something that Bobby Singer had warned him against years and years ago. Many talented hunters had helped and taught John: Bill Harvelle could track a field mice across a concrete floor, Jim Murphy could spend five minutes with a reluctant witness and get them to spill their life story, Danny Elkins could spot a pattern that NASA couldn't have identified, and Jefferson Dawes knew how to kill anything and everything. But nobody had helped as much as Bobby had. John didn't always get along with the older man; they were both strong personalities and didn't hesitate to express their opinions. But he certainly respected what Bobby had to say, especially with regard to hunting.
Never go in blind. He hadn't gone in blind, exactly, but he hadn't been sure. He'd convinced himself that he knew what he was hunting and that it was perfectly safe to go scouting alone. After all, it wasn't the right phase of the moon for the werewolves to shift. But of course, he hadn't done enough research.
Don't hunt alone. Yeah, John broke that rule all the time, though a lot less now that his boys were so big. Hell, Sam had passed him in height over the last few months. When had that happened? Dean was a few months away from being an adult in the eyes of the law, but he'd been a man in all other respects for a couple of years now. Not to be arrogant, but John was used to garnering both a certain intimidation factor and feminine appreciation, and Dean seemed to naturally draw both as well. But in the most recent diner the three Winchesters had frequented, John noticed that the greasy owner's nervous glance had included the lanky 16-year old too, and it had been Sam that the young waitress had made eyes at. Sam truly was a Winchester.
Look at that. John could be introspective. At least while he was bleeding out on the forest floor.
He wished he'd taken Dean with him. John might be the general, and Sam might be the master of research, but Dean was the king of improvisation. Nobody could evaluate a changing situation and formulate a new plan on the fly as fast as Dean could. He wished he'd told the boys exactly where he'd been going, but he hadn't been sure. Doing some scouting was the only message he'd left.
Always keep track of your surroundings. Bobby hadn't needed to tell John that. He'd always had a great sense of direction. Better than great. In Vietnam, he'd quickly become known for being able to navigate through any jungle. And yet, apparently, he could get lost too. He'd been ambushed and the fight had ranged over a large area before he'd killed all of his attackers – except the one in charge. With a grin, the man had simply walked away, assuming John was fatally injured.
John sighed tiredly. The guy might not be wrong. Blood loss was starting to weigh on John. He looked wearily around the little clearing where he'd been jumped. Most people thought he was a hard-hearted bastard, and maybe he was, but he regretted having to kill the wolves. They weren't in control of themselves. John shifted, pressing his back harder against the tree that was the only thing keeping him sitting up. It caused pain to flare up, but he was glad for it, because it kept him awake. He couldn't walk at all, and he didn't have any reason to expect a rescue, but that didn't mean he was going to just give up and die. To keep his focus, he went over the fight itself in his mind.
John had been searching the woods for close to three hours and not found a trace of werewolves. Though they had human level intelligence, weres couldn't resist marking their territory. If they occupied a house, there would be gouges on the door frames. If they lived in the woods, like he suspected this one (or possibly more than one) did, there would be trees scratched up, every time. It was a primal dominance display, a look how big my claws are. But John had seen nothing like that, and he was beginning to believe that he was hunting the wrong thing.
That was when he felt the eyes on him. He didn't change his gait in any way, but he slipped his handgun into place, angling his torso to hide the motion. Then he felt gazes from two more places. Wonderful. Three werewolves was a lot to take on…if they were werewolves.
John stopped in the center of a small clearing to give himself a more space to maneuver and force his attackers to cross a little open space to get to him. It wasn't much of an advantage, but he'd exploit anything to keep himself alive. Singer didn't have to teach the former Marine that lesson.
From behind him and to his right, something burst out of the trees. John spun and fired twice, ducking as a heavy body flew over his head, the bullets not able to stop its momentum. It was…a wolf? As far as he could tell with his split-second evaluation, it was an ordinary wolf. But they were rare in this area, and certainly wouldn't hunt a human unless they were starving. A second wolf darted in and as John brought his gun to bear, he noted that the wolves looked well-fed, healthy.
John's shot only nicked the new attacker, because its charge was only a feint and it veered off even as he shot. A heavy weight struck John's back as the third wolf came into play. Of course. They were pack hunters. John stabbed up with his knife as he fell and buried it in the wolf's side just behind its shoulder. At almost the same time, vicious teeth closed on John's upper arm. The impact with the ground was brutal with 150 lbs landing on top of him., but John rolled as they landed so he and the wolf were side by side. He'd lost hold of the knife, and his left arm was basically useless, but he put the gun against the wolf's chest and fired twice. It fell lax with its jaws inches from his face.
There was still one wolf left, and John located it at the opposite side of the clearing. He raised his gun, but the animal was backing away. John would have happily let it go, but something moved in the trees to his right behind the wolf. It was a man who was so pale he was nearly an albino, watching him intently. The man lifted a hand and called, "umbringen!" Blue light flew from its hand to engulf the wolf, and it abruptly stopped its retreat to dive at John. Without a choice, John emptied his clip. The wolf was dead before it reached him, but his injuries were slowing him down, and this time he wasn't fast enough to avoid the still-moving body. He moved enough that it clipped his shoulder, its momentum sending him head first into a very inconveniently located oak. Fucking inertia.
By the time John's head cleared enough for him to see, the pale man was standing over him. An expression of superiority colored his features. John brought up the gun uselessly, and the man laughed. "You're out, hunter." And he casually walked away. With double vision and only one usable arm, it took John a long time to reload, and by then, the man was long gone. Fastening a barely adequate tourniquet just below his left shoulder took even longer, but he'd be damned if he would die on another man's schedule.
He wasn't afraid of the dying part, but damn if he didn't want to leave his boys alone. He wanted to continue to teach them, protect them. He wanted more time with them.
And that was when he'd reminded himself that John Winchester was not an introspective man.
John hadn't even made it out of the clearing, which was a bit pathetic, he thought. He was supposed to go down swinging. He hoped his boys would go to Bobby. He might disagree with the cranky hunter, and he might have ignored a lot of his rules today, but he knew Singer would look after them. There were others who'd take them in, most notably Jim Murphy, but John thought Bobby would protect them better than anyone else.
His thoughts were both hazy and maudlin, and John tipped his head back to look at the sunlight trickling through the leaf cover above him, not sure how much longer he'd be awake to enjoy it.
He didn't remember closing his eyes, but they shot open at the sound of someone nearby. He turned the gun he held on his lap toward the sound, unable to even lift it. Then he wondered if he were dreaming when he saw his sons step into view.
"Dad?" Sam's voice cracked on the word. Then Dean was at his side and ordering Sam to keep watch.
"Not werewolves," said John, trying to speak clearly through growing lethargy.
"Yeah, Sam talked to the witness' kid at school today. He said his dad swore there was a pale guy controlling the wolves," reported Dean, lowering John to lie flat. The older man wanted to protest, but he could barely even move.
Dean eased off his dad's jacket and flannel shirt, mumbling what was probably an apology. John was trying too hard to breathe through the pain to catch it exactly. He heard Sam's reaction to seeing the bite, though. "Oh, God. Dean – "
"It's okay, Sammy. Keep an eye out." Dean loosened John's tourniquet, and things whited out for a while.
When John opened his eyes again, Dean was stitching his arm, which felt like it was on fire. Sam had a knee on John's chest and across his good arm, and John realized he must have been bucking or fighting. He looked up at Sam's pale face, trying to blink away the pain and weakness. He needed to distract himself. "D'you figure out what it is?" he asked, not sounding as clear as he would have liked.
The question startled Sam, who jumped. Seeing John's eyes open, he stopped pinning him. "Uh, yes sir. I think. I think it's a Wolfssegner." He pronounced the "w" with a "v" sound. "It's just a person who performed a spell so he can force wolves to come to him and obey him."
"And he's using them to kill people for him." John's words ran together, but he thought both boys probably understood him. "G'job, S'm." John couldn't quite make himself smile, but he didn't miss the proud look on Dean's face. "Howdyafindme?"
Dean kept torturing John's arm, so Sam answered again. "When you didn't check in, Dean went over your map and guessed where you must have gone. We found the car and he tracked you here." Sam grinned wide enough that all his dimples came out. John wasn't sure Dean saw it, but Sam was just as proud of his older brother as Dean was of him.
"G'work." John hoped Dean understood that, because he didn't have a whole lot of words left before passing out. He could feel it coming. And how many stitches was he getting, anyway?
Dean finally paused, his head coming up as if he caught a scent. Sam adopted the same pose, then both boys pulled their guns. Finally, John could hear what had caught their attention: growling. By the sounds of it, there were a lot more than three wolves this time. Perfectly in sync, a whole circle of wolves took a step toward the three Winchesters. John used his good arm to push himself to a seated position and gave Sam the signal to hand over his gun. He let out a pained breath when Sam complied without hesitation and even leaned in to brace his shoulder. The kid could be damned obstinate, and John was relieved that he was not choosing to argue right at this moment. John wouldn't have had the energy for it. He just had to stay conscious long enough to shoot the asshole that was threatening his family.
Dean was calm, but he kept changing his aim, not knowing which wolf to point at. There were too many of them.
Every wolf stopped and John thought the pale, arrogant jackass was savoring the moment. He was right. A laugh rang out. "What is this, bring your kid to hunt day?"
Suddenly, Sam yelled, "Liber generationis Jesu Christi!" The wolves all startled, like they were scared or confused, then began to run off in a muddled flurry.
"No!" screamed the Wolfssegner, suddenly not so cocky. In his fury or fear, he stepped into sight. Dean was ready, but he'd had to kill so much already, and John didn't want him to have to kill a human being. He found that he had the strength to raise the gun, and that his aim was still good enough when he was down a few pints – at least it was when his boys were threatened. Satisfied, John finally let darkness drag him under.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
John dreamed. And remembered.
Sammy had fallen asleep I the car, and John wearily wondered if he'd be up during the night because of it. But what could he do? He couldn't force a 20-month-old to stay awake on a long drive. Dean played quietly, driving a car Jim Murphy had given him back and forth on his legs and on the seat next to him. It was a black Grand Marquis, close enough to the Impala to have become his favorite toy. The soft vrooming noise he was making made John smile a little.
John was exhausted, overwhelmed. He was trying to track monsters and learn about them and make a living and care for two little boys. Jim, an old friend, helped, but John needed someone with more information. That Jim was hoping he'd give up on hunting was obvious. But when it became clear that John wouldn't do that, he gave him a name: Bobby Singer.
John knew his old friend didn't understand. But how could John ever look in his boys' eyes if he gave up on trying to find their mother's killer?
Finally, an old sign for Singer Salvage came into view. "Dean, we're going to meet a friend of Pastor Jim's. PJ says he's a good man, and I want you to be polite. His name is Mr. Singer."
"Okay," agreed Dean easily.
He had Sam unbuckled by the time John had the back door open. "I'll carry him, Dad." How a child of almost six could be so protective John would never know, but he allowed it. To be honest, it made his life easier, and he needed a little bit of "easier" in his life.
As John strode up the steps of the wooden porch with Dean carrying a yawning Sammy behind him, a bearded man in a John Deere trucker's cap opened the door. "Winchester?" He looked over the little family for a minute, then held out his hand for John to shake.
"I'm John, and these are my boys. Dean's the older one, Sam's the little one."
"Hullo, boys."
Sam waved sleepily, but Dean just glared. John sighed. "Dean's a little protective of his brother." A large dog on a chain growled, and Dean…growled back. Bobby's mouth twitched under his moustache.
"I can see that."
He was on a bed. He was hurt. He couldn't quite wake up. He wondered how his boys had gotten him out of the woods. They must have made a travois and dragged him all the way out. He was impressed, but before he could open his eyes to tell them, he was dreaming again.
John ran up the steps to the tiny second floor apartment he'd been renting for the last month. He'd gotten a call from the baby-sitter that he had to come back immediately, then she'd hung up and hadn't answered when he called back. He was imagining all kinds of nightmare scenarios. Had one of the boys gotten hurt? Wandered off? The old woman probably wasn't the greatest option for babysitter, since all she did was chain smoke and watch daytime television, but she was cheap and always available. And Dean was more responsible than any 8-year-old had a right to be. He took care of Sammy a lot more than Gretchen did, John was sure.
John burst through the door to see all three affected parties in various states of pouting. The little old lady, whose skin was so leathery and wrinkled she reminded John of a mummy, was pulling heavily on her cigarette and her drawn tighter than a cat's asshole. Dean was scowling, arms akimbo, a red mark on his cheek. Sammy crouched on top of the entertainment center, glaring daggers at the baby-sitter.
"What…" John took a long breath and held it for five seconds, willing the adrenaline to fade away. He looked at Gretchen, giving her the courtesy of talking first. "What happened? What's the emergency?"
He must not have softened his voice as much as he intended, because the old lady flinched a little. "This one – " she stabbed a nicotine-stained finger toward Dean, "gave me lip. When I punished him for it, the little demon attacked me!"
John clenched his fists behind his back. I will not hit an old lady. I will not hit an old lady. I will not hit an old lady. "Dean?"
Dean was almost in tears, but John could tell it was from anger. "She said Sammy was…was a retard. And I got angry and yelled at her. And she slapped me. Then," Dean looked down, visibly trying not to smile, "then Sammy bit her."
Gretchen pulled up a pant leg to show actual teeth marks on her skinny ankle. John didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Then I told Sammy to climb where she couldn't reach him so she didn't hit him too."
Sam was a bright child but too afraid of Gretchen to talk in her presence. Obviously, she'd thought him stupid and said as much in the most ignorant way possible in front of his brother.
Just to give himself a moment to calm down, John turned to his younger son. "Sammy, what do you have to say about what happened?"
"Miss Gretch hit De in the face and grown-ups are supposed to know better. So I bited her because she hurt my De." And Sammy, who was so tender-hearted that he'd once cried because he'd accidentally stepped on a bug, bared his teeth like he wanted to bite her again. John reached up and plucked Sam from his perch, popping the boy on his hip. Gretchen stared at the child, whether in shock to hear him talk – and so clearly for a child his age – or because of the feral face he was pulling, John didn't know.
"Let me get this straight," said John as slowly as he could make himself talk. "You called my 3-year-old a retard, then struck my 8-year-old across the face for complaining about it. When the 3-year-old tried to defend his brother against you, a grown ass woman, the only way he knew how, you scared both the boys enough that they felt that Sam wasn't safe around you? And then you referred to Sam as a demon to me, his father? Did I miss anything?"
Gretchen's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It seemed to occur to her for the first time that John was not on her side. Before she could work out what to say, John roared, "GET OUT!"
Gretchen left so fast she dropped her cigarette, and they could hear her stumbling down the stairs. Dean looked at John with shining eyes. "Dad, that was awesome!"
"Are you boys okay?" John wanted to know, placing a hand against Dean's red cheek. Dean nodded nonchalantly. "Sammy?"
"Yup." Sam was calm now. He leaned in like he was going to tell John a secret. "But she tasted really icky."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
John had been dreaming, thinking about how protective his boys were of each other, remembering things he'd long forgotten. But awareness was returning slowly. He couldn't get his eyes open but he could hear an argument in progress.
"…eat that. There's no meat!"
"There's chicken on the top. Besides, their ziti chicken parmesan is supposedly famous."
"Who told you that, lover boy? Dina? I noticed she didn't stop looking at you the whole time she took our order yesterday."
"Shut up, Dean." A pause. "But yes. And she gave us dessert for free."
"Oooh, Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammy."
"Shut up or I won't give you any. And it's peach pie."
"Oh, yes you will."
"I don't think so, shorty!"
"The hell you call me?!" There were some shuffling noises.
Then a hissed, "You can't do anything about it cuz you'll wake up Dad."
"Oh, yeah? I can kill you without making a sound little brother."
More shuffling noises. A crunch, and the sound of something – probably bodies – hitting the wall. Then absolute silence. John fought a very uncharacteristic desire to laugh. He'd enjoyed hearing his boys so at ease. They were never that way with him. Oh, neither was disrespectful or disobedient as a rule, but the effortless camaraderie was something they only had with each other.
John and Dean had a shared understanding, a shared attitude about life and hunting. Their conversation simply flowed, their silence was light. John and Sam…not as much. The cheerful, loquacious child had turned into a complex, obstinate teen, and it sometimes felt like they spoke a different language. John wondered occasionally if he was losing his baby. But Dean spoke fluent Sam, and Sam spoke fluent Dean, and John was glad for it even as he wished he could be part of it.
Shit, he was being introspective again. And the boys were (no surprise) arguing again.
"…can't have two pieces. What if Dad wants one when he wakes up?"
"He doesn't have to know there were three pieces." Dean's voice was cajoling. "Besides, I don't think he even likes peach pie."
"I love peach pie," growled John, hiding a smile at the silence that fell.
His arm was torn to shit, and he knew it would be a long recovery, but the bad guy was dead, and his boys were alright.
John Winchester's life was in order, as much as it ever was.
AN deux: The Wolfssegner is a Bavarian legend. It was thought there was a spell that could call wolves down from the mountains to attack your enemy's cattle or even family. Sam yells the first part of Matthew 1 from the Bible, which was recited around Christmas time to counteract the spell. There were other Wolfbanns, or counter spells, but this is the simplest one I found.
After this I've put the words to the song that's my newest obsession: To Leave Something Behind by Sean Rowe. It's really long, but I wrote the whole thing out because I swear it could be John Winchester's theme. Seriously, so much of it applies, but I stuck it way at the end because it is freaking long and I didn't want to be annoying.
I cannot say that I know you well
But you can't lie to me with these books that you sell
I'm not trying to follow you to the end of the world
I'm just trying to leave something behind
Words have come from men and mouse
But I can't help thinking I've heard the wrong crowd
When all the water is gone my job will be too
And I'm trying to leave something behind
Oh money is free but love costs more than our bread
And the ceiling is hard to reach
Oh the future ahead is broken and red
But I'm trying to leave something behind
This whole world is a foreign land
We swallow the moon but we don't know our own hand
We're running with the case but we ain't got the gold
Yet we're trying to leave something behind
My friends I believe we are at the wrong fight
And I cannot read what I did not write
I've been to his house but the master is gone
But I'd like to leave something behind
There is a beast that has taken my blame
You can put me to bed but you can't feel my pain
When the machine has taken the soul from the man
It's time to leave something behind
Oh money is free but love costs more than our bread
And the ceiling is hard to reach
Oh the future ahead is already dead
And I'm trying to leave something behind
I got this feeling that I'm still at the shore
And pockets don't know what it means to be poor
I can get through the wall if you give me a door
So I can leave something behind
Oh wisdom is lost in the trees somewhere
You're not going to find it in some mental gray hair
It's locked up from those who hurry ahead
And it's time to leave something behind
Oh money is free but love costs more than our bread
And the ceiling is hard to reach
When my son is a man he will know what I meant
I'm just trying to leave something behind