All right. Time for more from the Winchesters. Let's jsut see how Johnny takes this little split...

The man in the bloodstained clothes began to stir, turning over in the bed and moaning softly as his father and brother watched him. Slowly, his hazel eyes opened and he rubbed his head, feeling the large bump that had formed. He looked around at the motel room, at his family, and smiled.

"Hey," he muttered, sitting up and closing his eyes as the room began to spin, "you hit me kind of hard."

John just glanced at Dean before turning to Sam. "Now will you explain this to me?"

Reluctantly, Sammy nodded. "About a month ago," he began, sitting down at the foot of his brother's bed, "Dean and I tried to stop a crazy man from blowing up a hospital ion Onyx, Montana, and-"

"The same Onyx where seven blonde women were killed around that time?"

"Yeah, that Onyx, and we-"

"You found the thing that killed them and got rid of it, right?"

"Actually," Dean said, grinning sheepishly as he joined his brother at the foot of the bed, "I was the thing that killed them. It was the other me."

John closed his eyes and sighed, taking a seat on the room's other bed. "I got ahead of myself there, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "kind of. See, when the room exploded, Dean pushed me out into the hallway. The man that blew up the room, a guy with multiple personality disorder, was killed in the blast. I guess some of his energy got transferred to Dean in the explosion and split him in two."

"Two different personalities?"

"Good and evil," Dean nodded, "really evil. He killed those women, attacked and kidnapped me and Sam, and would have killed him if his plan hadn't worked."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you just told me that you tried to kill your brother," John mumbled, refusing to look at his oldest son, "and ask what the plan was."

"We blew up another room," Sam answered, "when both of him were inside fighting. It got him back together, though now we know it wasn't good enough. There've been two different personalities living in his head for the past month, I guess, and that's why he split again when he blew up the tank in the warehouse the other day."

John nodded, beginning to get the gist of what his sons were telling him, but still having trouble believing it. "So, this two different personality thing, can you explain it to me?"

Dean shrugged. "Both halves of me are made up of different parts of my normal personality, I think. The other me's the one that likes to kill, likes to torture. I can't even think of doing something like that unless I absolutely have to."

"He's the protective one," Sam explained, pointing to the man beside him, "a little more emotional, too. He won't let anything happen to us."

Sighing, John stood up. "So," he mumbled, running his rough hands through his graying hair, "what you're telling me is that the man that tied me up could have killed me, and will probably kill anyway, and the guy sitting on the bed won't kill because he's too good?"

"I could," Dean began, noting the quick flicker of disappointment in his father's eyes, "I remember how. It's just that murder, taking someone's life, it seems wrong now. It's never been an issue before, but-"

"He'll kill if he has to," Sam said, coming to his brother's rescue, "if worse comes to worse."

"And if one of them gets hurt?" John asked.

"Both of us feel it," Dean nodded, "that's why I passed out and it's why my hand's bleeding now."

The oldest hunter nodded, rubbing his face distractedly. "We need to find a way to put you back right," he said, glancing at the door, "I need some time to think. I'll just be outside." He grabbed his jacket from the bed it had been lying on and walked toward the door.

"Dad," Dean began softly. His father turned. "I'm sorry. For what that guy did to you back there. What he said, it was way off-line. I don't feel like that, and I never have. And I would never try to hurt Sam."

John glanced at the floor. "That's not true, son. That thing's a part of you, and it tried to kill us both. Obviously, you have some unresolved issues with your brother and I. It said Sam had died in the explosion in the warehouse. I assume you set of that explosion."

"When I was one person, yeah. Something just told me to. It killed the werewolf, and I got Sam out before anything happened-"

"That was pretty stupid, Dean," John said, his voice low, "something I would expect you to do only as a last-ditch effort. Never draw attention to yourself or the site, son, I've told you that a thousand times. You put your brother's life in danger."

"I'm sorry, sir," Dean muttered, looking down at the floor, "I didn't think-"

"You hardly ever do, Dean," John sighed, shaking his head. He turned back to the door and walked out of the room.

Sam looked at his brother, who hadn't taken his eyes from the floor. "I didn't mean to put you in danger," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," Sammy said, watching the older man closely. He was convinced his brother was crying and trying hard to hide it, "really. I'm gonna go talk to dad, OK. Why don't you lay back down and get some sleep. I have a feeling we've got a long hunt ahead of us."

Dean nodded slowly, swiping a hand quickly over his eyes as his brother left the room. Sam turned in the doorway in time to watch his brother really break down.

John Winchester stood with his back to the motel, watching the sun set as a nasty storm rolled in. He heard footsteps crunching in the gravel behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He knew who it was.

"Please tell me this is a joke," he said, never tearing his eyes from the horizon.

"See for yourself," Sam offered, stepping aside so that his father could see clearly into the room through the window.

Slowly, John turned, looking in through the window to see his oldest son, his perfect soldier, wiping his eyes as tears fell freely onto his tattered, bloodstained jeans. "That's not my son," the hunter mumbled, "it can't be."

"So, you'd rather sit across from the psychopathic murderer at Thanksgiving?" Sam asked.

"No. It's not Dean, neither of them are. I know my son."

"Maybe not as well as you think. Look at him, dad. It's Dean. I've spent more time with him than you have in the past couple of years, and I know him pretty well. I've hardly ever seen him like this. He doesn't show emotion like other people, but it's there. It seeps through sometimes, not often, mind you, but enough.

"And the other him? That's the guy we get to see most often. He's the one that pulls the trigger, he's the one that sleeps with every pretty girl he sees, he's the one you trained."

"Your brother isn't weak like that, Sammy, he doesn't cry."

"Showing emotion isn't a sign of weakness, dad. It's a sign of humanity. To be honest with you, it's actually kind of nice to see him let it out every now and then. If he didn't, I suppose he'd just keep it bottled up all the time, and that's not healthy."

John just shook his head. "That's not the man I raised, Sam. I taught him to be strong, and resourceful, and fearless. This isn't Dean."

Sam stared at the older man, his eyes hardening in the light of the setting sun. "It's Dean. And you probably shouldn't let him hear you talking like that. It'll mess him up bad."

"Mess him worse, you mean," John stated flatly, "it's already bad. He can't do his job anymore, Sammy, he can't kill. He can't protect you if anything happens to me. He's useless like this."

Before he realized what was happening, John found himself pinned up against the wall, staring into his youngest son's green eyes. "What did you call him?" Sam asked, breathing hard through clenched teeth as his eyes narrowed.

"He's useless now, Sam. Your brother can't possibly be any help to us when he's like this. You know that."

"No, dad," Sam growled, "he's not useless. He'll kill. He'll kill if we ask him to. If you tell him to. That's just the way Dean is. I think it's high time you learn that." The young hunter let his father go and stalked back into the room, leaving the door open a crack.

John sighed, running a hand over his face, and looked into the room. Sam went to sit beside his brother, who was still situated at the foot of the bed. He wrapped an arm around his older brother and pulled him close. Their father barely stifled as gasp as he watched the oldest man return the hug.

"He hates me," he heard Dean mutter, "he's always hated me. The shtriga thing just gave him an excuse to openly hate me."

"It's all right," Sam replied, "he'll come around. Sooner or later, he'll come around."

John closed the door, turning back to the darkness of early night, and fought back his own tears.