That first year John spent almost as much time eluding Margaret Copeland's private investigators as he did Hunting. Caleb taught him the fine art of identity theft. John figured out how to scam the credit card companies on his own. They stayed under the radar of both the authorities and Margaret. If anyone got too close, John would pull up stakes and move on, vanishing into the underground for months, sometimes years at a time.
During the first year there were many battles waged with Dean. John ruthlessly dictated his life from dawn until dusk, demanding adherence to "the rules," and making threats when they were not obeyed to the letter. If Dean didn't shape up he would be putting the whole family in jeopardy. If he jeopardized their safety, he would have to be sent back to Kansas.
Forcing the boy to become Sammy's surrogate mother, and when John was Hunting, surrogate father, helped keep Dean in line. He had no time to be depressed. The separation anxiety was crushed by the constant presence of a needy little brother. Ultimately puberty and a sudden interest in girls sent the anorexia packing once and for all.
John wanted the boys to be tough, strong, and able to fend for themselves, because every time he went out on a Hunt, he knew there was a chance he'd not make it back. He knew what was out there lurking in the shadows. It had taken his Mary. It would not take his children, no matter if he lived or not. John raised them to be soldiers because he truly believed it was a war they were fighting.
By the age of nine Dean was well versed in martial arts and weaponry. At the same age Sam could pick any lock John put in front of him. Dean had his father's mechanical talents, Sam inherited Mary's love of language. One regularly dismantled every electronic device he could get his hands on, the other became fluent in Latin, Greek and ancient Sumerian. Both of them became intimately familiar with the nasty things hiding in the dark corners of the world. They didn't have to encounter those things in person - John kept that from them as long as he possibly could - but they saw the haunted look in their father's eyes when he came home from a Hunt.
John continued to drill them mercilessly. No other soldier went through a twenty year boot-camp.
In return they kept him from losing his sanity when he came home bearing scars from the horrible things he'd seen and done. Dean's quiet reassurances and Sammy's silly smile, combined to chase the darkness away. He looked at them and everything was all right again. The boys, and his quest for justice, kept John going when he didn't think he could go on any longer. The three of them clung to each other when the going got rough and weathered a lot of storms. Life was difficult, but they had the strength of their little family to sustain them. Deep down inside, John knew it wouldn't last.
The "tough love" approach worked with Dean. It did not work at all with Sammy, but by the time he realized it, his methods were so ingrained John did not know any other way. He pushed. Sam pushed back harder. He made demands and Sam ignored them. He made rules, Sam broke them. Threats received counter-threats. John rapidly lost control.
And Sam escaped from him.
He was his mother's son.
John was thinking of Mary when he'd folded the obituary he'd clipped from the newspaper and sealed it into an envelope. Mary had escaped the world of her upper crust parents into John's blue collar existence. She'd become her own person, set her own rules, freed herself from the constraints of her former socioeconomic status.
After her death, John had fallen further away from her world. He left the comfortable macaroni and cheese place of the average Joe and slipped into a dark underground few people even knew existed. He dragged the boys down with him. They were content to stay with him until the day Mary's world came calling and Sammy could not resist its lure. He ran from the darkness back into the light while his father and brother rushed hell bent right into the most ominous shadows.
While Sam studied law and fell in love, Dean stuck to John's side like glue. They Hunted together for years before John stumbled upon something unexpected. The thing he'd encountered only once before, twenty-two years earlier, finally resurfaced. He slipped away from Dean and went after it. He learned its true nature, and a few other things that shook him to his very core. Still, he had made a vow, and he intended to keep it.
John grabbed a tiger by the tail. He and the demon played an intricate game of cat and mouse, chasing each other all over the country. John held on like a pit bull, ducking when the demon turned around and attacked him in an effort to shake itself loose. He fought to keep the boys out of the battle as long as he could. Ultimately he failed. The demon went after Sam.
If Dean's old issue with separation anxiety hadn't kicked in the minute John abandoned him, Sam might have been killed - or worse. As it happened, Dean was there to lead his brother out of the fire once again, but Sammy did not escape unscathed this time. Although they were distant, John felt his son's pain. He'd been living with the same agony for twenty-two years and he prayed to God it would be ending soon. The demon had to be destroyed – for Mary, for Jessica.
The two boys were now in it just as deep as their father, and things were escalating. The inevitable confrontation with their mother's killer was just around the corner.
When it ended, if John didn't survive (and he suspected he wouldn't) he wanted the boys to have some place to fall back to, to help them through their grief and build new futures for themselves. He didn't want them to continue Hunting. There were others to do that. Once the demon was gone, and the death's of their loved ones avenged, the boys had to move on.
They would need help, and when John saw the name at the top of the obituary column, he knew just where to go.
It was time to purchase insurance.
He arrived during the wake. She was shocked when he presented himself freshly shaved and wearing a suit, as if it hadn't been twenty plus years and there weren't bad blood between them. Under other circumstances John might have savored the fact he'd caught her off guard. Not many people could say they'd been able to take Margaret Copeland by surprise.
She excused herself from her crowd of guests to draw him off into a secluded corner of the large common room where everyone had gathered. There she raised her chin and lost the mask of propriety. John knew that look. She might have been grayer of hair, and more stooped of stature, but Margaret was still a force to be reckoned with and she was pissed.
"You have a lot of nerve," she snapped. "A lot of damn nerve."
"It's nice to see you again too, Margaret." John smiled. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Excuse me?"
"I heard you've been looking for me."
If looks could kill, John might have been dead, but he'd been looked at like that before by things a lot more frightening than his mother-in-law. She didn't phase him in the slightest.
"If you've come sniffing around for a hand-out, you're out of luck. The estate in its entirety goes to me."
John bristled despite the fact he'd expected this. "I don't want your money, Margaret. Is that so hard to believe? Despite what happened between us, I always respected your husband, and I came to pay my respects."
She was sharp. John had forgotten just how sharp. She didn't believe him for a minute. "You've been eluding me for two decades John Winchester. I'll be damned if I believe you're only here to pay your respects. What do you want?"
He smiled slightly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"I already believe you're insane so you might as well." She sniffed, and for a second a flash of pain crossed her face. "And it seems to be hereditary. I heard about Dean."
John frowned. "What about Dean?"
"I told you a long time ago the boy needed therapy..."
"What about Dean?" John demanded. Fear gripped him. He hadn't heard of, or from, the boys for months. Not since Chicago, and there he'd left them in pretty bad shape. Had the daevas returned? If Dean was in trouble, why hadn't Sammy called?
"He killed those girls in St. Louis," Margaret said softly. "My people sent me a copy of the police report, and the death certificate."
St. Louis. The shape shifter. John had heard about that one too. Dean had left him a voice mail. It had been short and to the point.
"The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
John let out a sigh of relief. He shook his head slowly. "That was a case of mistaken identity. Dean didn't kill anyone, and he's very much alive."
I hope.
"That," Margaret said shakily, reluctantly revealing her own relief. "Is good to hear."
"Despite what you might think, I would never let anything happen to those boys, Margaret. In fact, that's why I'm here."
John walked over to the piano, a baby grand that sat by the window. Mary had played. After her death no one had touched the instrument, and Margaret, as many people often did, now used it as a display table. There were photographs all along the music stand. They were all of Mary, from infant to...
He picked up the last picture, a portrait framed in pewter roses. Mary stood there in a three quarters pose, holding a bouquet. Her hair was done up off her shoulders, with curled tendrils hanging down around her face. A long, lace veil flowed down her back, pinned at the top of her head by a crystal tiara. Diamonds glittered in her ears and around her long, elegant neck. The diamonds had been borrowed from an aunt. They complimented the embroidered bodice of the long, white dress she wore. John remembered how soft the skin of her bare shoulders had been as he'd guided her into the awaiting car, and how she'd laughed as he'd unceremoniously shoved the train of her dress in through the door.
She smiled out at him, a beautiful memory frozen in time.
He blinked and it went up in flames. Suddenly all he could see were her wide open eyes staring down at him, her mouth open in a silent scream, and the way her flesh had melted from her bones. The roar of fire obliterated every sound. The stench of burning hair filled his nose, his mouth...
Margaret reached over and plucked the picture from his hands. She wordlessly replaced it on the piano.
John closed his eyes and took a trembling breath. "I've found it," he said.
"Found what?"
"What killed her. I have it in my sights. I'm going to destroy it."
With a scowl, Margaret tapped her long nails on the top of the piano. "And what is it?"
"If it matters, a demon."
"A demon." Margaret repeated, obviously unimpressed. "This is what you came here to tell me?"
"Partially. I knew you wouldn't believe me. It's not about that. It doesn't matter what it is, only that I'm going to kill it." He swallowed heavily. "It doesn't matter if you believe me anymore, Margaret. I'm only going to ask you for one thing."
"As if you have that right!"
"I probably won't survive this," John said bluntly. "If I kill it, there are others out there that will come for me. All I'm asking for..." He glanced toward the piano, taking strength from Mary's smile. "I cut you out, Margaret, and it wasn't because of the issues between us, but because you didn't believe. I knew you wouldn't be able to protect the boys from what's out there." Shaking his head, he smiled slightly, bitterly, as he turned back toward her. "I don't want your money. I'm inviting you back into the family, because if something happens to me - I want the boys to have someone."
Her brows knitted. He could see her struggling to determine his sincerity.
He struggled to keep his voice steady, managing a slight smile. "You should be proud of them Margaret. Sammy's graduated from Stanford, pre-law. And Dean, he..."
He hesitated. What could he say about Dean, who John forced to become his subservient drone, an obedient little soldier. John said jump and Dean asked how high. He survived by hiding his sensitive nature behind a flak jacket of attitude. His family and "the job" were all that he had and were all that he'd let himself have. John wasn't ignorant to what he'd done to the boy, and he wasn't proud of it either, but Dean lived and that's what counted. He was strong, brave, and determined. He worked hard, and played hard, always knowing when to abandon one for the other. When they'd worked together John never worried about his back because Dean always had it.
Pride swelled his heart.
Dean was...
Here?
John did a double take as he glanced toward the foyer. He thought he'd seen a familiar face, a towering figure among the throng of mourners. A second look confirmed it. At six four Sammy was hard to miss in a crowd. Both of them were hard to miss in fact, being clad in street clothes and looking as if they'd not had either sleep or showers in days.
Their father felt another surge of pride, followed by annoyance. They'd figured out his clues more quickly than he'd expected. By the time they decided to come to Topeka, John had thought he'd be long gone. He debated between staying and slipping away, but he wasn't quite finished with Margaret. He hadn't gotten a response from her.
He looked toward her and found she'd followed his gaze. From the sour look on her face she had pegged the ragged looking young men as party crashers. John didn't have a chance to say a word before she excused herself.
"What in the hell is this business? Dammit, I'll be right back." She shot John a nasty glare of her shoulder. "Don't you leave. This isn't finished."
John lingered near the piano as Margaret threaded her way through the crowd toward Sam. He saw her greet him angrily. Sammy was non-plussed, favoring her with a pleasant smile and whatever he said in reply to her seemed to immediately damper her negative emotion. John saw her frown and ducked behind another guest when she shot a quick look in his direction. Sam didn't notice, following obediently as Margaret took him by the arm and led him toward the den. The moment Sam and Margaret left the room, John realized Dean was no longer with them.
A chord played softly on the piano, reverberating along strings which had not sung in decades. John turned sharply at the sound, realizing he now had company. Again annoyance warred with pride. He'd not heard nor seen his eldest sneak up on him.
"You thought I wouldn't remember Grandma Margaret, didn't you." Dean said quietly.
He played another chord, and a few single notes. John didn't recognize the tune. He didn't know where or when Dean had learned to play either. It was probably one of a number of things he didn't know about the boys. He had raised them according to a certain plan, for a particular purpose. Any extra-curricular activities were taken on without his input, particularly after the huge blow up regarding Sam playing soccer. John hadn't known until the day the boy walked out the door that Sam had aced both the SAT and ACT and won a full ride to college - all on his own.
"I wasn't sure." John cleared his throat. "You tell Sammy?"
"No."
"What did he tell Margaret?"
"He told her we were FBI, working a cold case, trying to track down her kidnapped grandchildren. I think she's in there talking him into arresting you ."
"You did your research," John said, smiling slightly. "He'll know the truth the minute she tells him I'm here."
Dean looked up from the piano. "Yeah, Dad. He'll figure it out. He's not stupid." His gaze wandered toward the photographs, lingering on the portrait of Mary on her wedding day. After a moment of silence he regarded John somberly. "Why are you here? Why are we here?"
"Money."
"You'd never ask her for money. Tell me the truth."
John rolled his shoulders and sighed. "I'm closing in on it."
"The demon?"
"Yes."
"The demon."
"Yes." John paused, suddenly feeling a huge sense of relief. It would be over soon. All the pain, all the frustration and grief, it would soon be over. Mary would have justice. "And I came here because I thought your grandmother should know."
Dean didn't believe him, not entirely. John could see it in his eyes. "And?"
"And...in case something should..."
A discordant note sounded beneath Dean's fingertips. There was anger and fear in his voice. "Don't you go there. I don't want to freakin' hear that. Not from you, and not from him."
John's brow furrowed. "Sammy?"
"You're both ridin' the same one way ticket, Dad. Do you honestly think he's gonna let you take that thing on by yourself?"
"He'll never know."
"Yes he will," Dean said with conviction. "Trust me, he'll know, and he'll be right on your tail."
"And you're going to stop him," John ordered. "This is my fight."
"Why? Because you got hurt more?" There was a hitch in Dean's voice as he added. "She was our mother."
There was a flicker in John's vision, like time momentarily folded in on itself. Instead of the man standing before him, John saw the grief-stricken child with tears in his eyes. Instead of the strong young soldier, he saw the frail little boy slowly starving himself to death.
The old pain grabbed hold of him then, squeezing tight. He felt as if he were being crushed by it. "She was my soul," he said softly, brokenly. "And you can't possibly understand that."
"No. But Sammy does."
They stood there looking at one another for a long time before John cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the old mantle of pain and grief.
"I'm leaving," he said. "And the order still stands. Don't follow. Don't interfere. Do you understand me?"
There was no answer.
"Dean!" John barked. "Do you understand me?"
His son's voice was clippped. John knew he wanted to say more, and knew he wouldn't. Obedient to a fault, Dean lowered his eyes in acquiescence. "Yes sir. I understand perfectly." He struck one last chord, before turning away into the crowd.
It had been a long time since John had felt any guilt about the way he'd raised the boys. He'd done the best he could under the circumstances. He'd done the only thing he knew to keep them safe and make them strong. Yet he couldn't help wondering what their lives would have been like if he'd done things just a little differently, if he'd been more of a father.
He glanced over to the den and saw Sam and Margaret standing in the doorway. Sammy looked puzzled, completely shocked at the information Margaret was no doubt relaying to him. She had tears in her eyes as she reached out to touch his face. A moment later Dean appeared at his brother's side and Margaret threw her arms around him with a cry of joy.
It was the response John had hoped for.
He slipped away quietly. He didn't know if the boys would turn to their grandmother in the event of his death, but at least they now knew they were not alone. The thought brought to him a great deal of comfort. His truck was parked outside. He climbed into it and sat silently there watching the sun dip lower toward the horizon. Finally, with a quick flick of his hand, he pulled down the visor. In the fading light, John stared longingly at the smiling face looking back at him.
"They're good boys, Mary. They're very good boys. I just wish..."
There was a lot he could have wished for.
Sighing, John turned his gaze away from the photograph to the rear view mirror. In it a familiar grill snarled at him from among the blocky nosed Mercedes and BMWs crowding the driveway. For a brief second he thought he saw someone sitting in the driver's seat, her fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel as she peered anxiously out at him from behind a veil of long, blond hair. She smiled at him. He thought he heard the bleat of the Chevy's horn beneath her hand.
"Come on, let's go. I'm waiting..."
Slowly, she faded away.
John shivered, suddenly struck by a strong sense of foreboding.
This is it.
He closed his eyes.
Soon, Mary. I'll be there soon. Wait for me just a little while longer. I promise, just a little while longer.
