Author: Mirrordance
Title: Things We Know
Summary: A salute to the classic episode Faith... would Sam still have taken a dying Dean to Reverend Roy LeGrange even if he knew that to save his brother would be at the cost of a stranger's life? Alternate ending. Warning: Character death and language.
Note:
This is my first fic for Supernatural, and will be posted in 3 parts. Standard disclaimers apply. "Things We Know" is an homage to my favorite episode "Faith," and almost like a 'love song' for the entire series. Many of my favorite lines from the show will be recognized by fans as having been pulled from various episodes and then shoved into the fic's alternate situations (the reason why will be explained later). These will be attributed in the footnotes.
Lots of thanks to all readers and reviewers Flaming Telepaths, PADavis, Zuimar and Stoneage Woman. Every encouraging word counts, especially since this is my first shot at this universe. Anyway, here we go :)
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Chapter 2: Dean
Dean was getting nervous, because Sam was beginning to ask weird, perceptive, double-meaning questions. Like he did when he was five. He used to do that as a child, a habit he apparently never lost. The same way he never lost the habit of reading through their father's writings, especially the parts that were the most painful. Dean tended to shy away from those entries the same way Sam seemed to magnetize to them.
And biting his nails, Dean thought, Sam never got rid of that.
Sam was born agitated, Dean reflected, shaking legs and poor, nail-biting Sam.
"Helps me think," he had said distractedly by way of explanation, more than once, anytime Dean started looking at him funny.
"You believe in God?" Sam asked him, out of the blue. The sun was setting, and his chest was feeling heavy again. Sam could not have missed that. Dean slumped against four pillows that held-him-up-more-or-less.
"Do you like strawberry pie?" Dean asked him, wryly, trying to calm down, though Sam couldn't have missed the jump in the god-forsaken heart monitor either. It was like trying to pick up a girl in a bar while wearing a frigging lie detector tied around his neck.
"What?" Sam asked, confused.
"You know," Dean grinned, "Since we're being random."
"Seriously, Dean," Sam said, almost begging, "Do you?"
"I don't know," Dean said, quite honestly, shrugging, scratching his ear, "You believe in aliens?"
"Not the same thing," Sam snapped.
"Tell that to the Trekkies."
"No, seriously," Sam insisted.
"I am serious," Dean sighed, "I think about God like a really well-drawn rumor. Like the aliens."
Sammy's disappointed. It stings and softens Dean in a very familiar and predictable way.
"What?" Dean asked irritably, "You need me to believe or something? Does believing get me to heaven, after all this crap?"
"I just wanted to know," Sam said with a shrug. He looked like he was fucking eight years old, and Dean wanted to shoot himself in the foot for causing all of Sam's fears and hesitations.
"Why?" Dean asked, more carefully.
It took Sam a long moment before he could answer.
"Because I want to know you're not scared," he answered, looking out the window at the sun.
"I'm not scared," Dean promised him and lied, "I'm less scared than the people who do believe--"
"Dean, come on..."
"I wish to hell there was a God," Dean snapped, "Is that fine with you, Mother Teresa?"
"How could you be a skeptic?" Sam asked, "With the things we see everyday (1)?"
"Exactly, we see them, we know they're real (1)!" Dean retorted.
"But if you know evil is out there, how could you not believe good's out there too (1)?" Sam pointed out.
Dean looked at him for a long moment, saying, "'Cos I know what evil does to good people (1)."
Sam shifted, uncomfortably. His eyes were jerky and nervous. This look was familiar to Dean. This look was Stanford all over again, Sam and his secret wants and secret ways to get them. Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"Maybe God works in mysterious ways (1)," Sam offered, his mouth dry.
Dean stared at him for a long time. No, Sammy wasn't talking, not just yet. Dean decided to wait it out (he still had some time after all), not ask, and justdiffuse the thick air with a joke.
"Is that what you learned in Stanford, Ivy? Ask people questions and then bite their heads off when they answer?"
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Dean couldn't remember being dead, that's what scared the hell out of him. He could remember the pain that preceded it, the pain after. God, the pain. The memory of it was so accessible. All he had to do was breathe and there it came again. Easy as pie. Paralyzing, white hot pain, reverberating, throbbing, all-encompassing. It struck him all over and to the core. It was life amplified. You remember the little things. Damned if he did not think he could feel every nerve, every bone, every square inch of flesh.
So easy to remember, he thought, fiddling with the tubes that ran from his arm. He took a shaky breath, and pinched at one of them to block the flow, knowing it was the drug that kept the pain "manageable (Who the hell are they kidding?)." He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come. It did, it was easy, he had said, and he held his breath and let it stay as long as he could. He could hear the heart monitor beginning to sound in alarm, complain at the strain it was giving his failing body. He let go, let the painkillers flow freely back into him and do their sick magic, before those crazy nurses gave him hell again for the stupid trick. He never thought he'd go like this, tanked up on drugs and not lasting two minutes without them.
Anytime the pain came he knew the electrocution happened just like that. So easy to remember. But try as he might, death did not hold a memory. As if life could just be snuffed out. Like you just got plucked out. No light, no warmth, no singing angels or devil's whips. You just ended.
Maybe that's why there are ghosts who cling around here, he reflected, Maybe there really isn't anywhere decent to go. This. is. it.
How disappointing, he thought, wryly, Yeah. What an understatement.
Better not tell Sammy.
Sammy crossing his thoughts was as accessible as thinking about the pain. Not because he was Dean's pain-in-the-ass-little-brother (Which he was, incidentally) but... but because he was, well, Sammy. He was Dean's life, amplified and summarized. Everything that was the most beautiful and the most important. The brother he helped raise. The brother he kept safe. Leaving Sam was the most regretful thing he could think about in his life. Greatest achievement and greatest failure, all in one big package (No wonder he's sooooo unfairly tall).
Dean remembered the exact moment his life changed. His father had never used that tone and that look on him before, the way he sounded and looked when he shoved the Sammy-bundle into his older son's arms and told him to take him away, away somewhere safe. That moment, everything changed, and he clung to Sam because afterward and all around them, nothing else made sense.
I can't believe I'm leaving you here, alone. Wish dad was here. I know you're at each others throats a lot but at least you'd be distracted, ha!
God, Sam, he thought, grimacing, blinking at the tears that sprang to his eyes, I'm so fucking sorry.
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They let dying people get away with a lot of things, Dean reflected, as he placed his theoretically forbidden cellphone to his ear and dialed his father's number for the very first time since learning that his days were numbered. He caught the machine, the way he always did. He knew this would happen, of course, but a part of him had hoped, inescapably, that things would be different this time.
Just this one time, damn it...
"This is John Winchester. If it's an emergency, call my son Dean..."
Who does Dean get to call though?, he thought, with a sick, teary, self-deprecating grin.
"Dad," he paused, hesitating, finding his throat clogged, finding that this was as hard as thought it would be, knowing exactly why he'd kept himself from doing this for so long. He said nothing else, and hung up.
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Haunted Objects
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Sammy's reading again, he woke up thinking, and his brother's voice broke through the cobwebs in his head, like a ray of light stabbing through the depths of the sea, reaching the dark places where people just got lost until things like that told them which way was up again. One day, even that voice wouldn't be able to call him back, he knew, and he woke with that thought again, the same way he's been waking up for days now.
I'm about to get snuffed out, he thought, Damn that's irritating. But what the heck. He's pissed about it now 'cos he's alive enough to be pissed. When he's dead he won't – can't care. The idea was mildly comforting. And also massively disappointing.
"Dean, you awake?"
He must have grunted out some form of assent, because he heard the smile in his brother's voice, and Sam's voice rang out a little bit more loud, a little bit more sure, and oddly enough, sounding almost proud of himself. Like it was his personal achievement, having his brother awake.
Every night she tells the king a story...always trusting that his interest in her stories can keep her alive...
Too bad, Dean thought glumly, I don't have 1,001 nights.
Tonight's topic of choice was haunted objects. Dean slipped in and out of awareness, but knew enough about his father's writings and the events themselves to fill in the blanks most of the time.
I know this one, he thought with certainty, when the discussion on haunted houses began. He fell asleep. The next thing he knew, Sam was talking about a possessed doll. According to his father, material objects that had significant places in the lives of people who were not at peace after death used these objects as links to the world, and functioned as extensions of the body, like remains. He knew this for a fact, and knew also that he's salted and burned his share of weird, haunted objects.
Sam said that Dad had written about burning a cowboy hat that amplified men's feelings of infidelity.
"That was weird," Dean murmured in agreement.
"What was that?" Sam asked.
Damn you Sam, Dean thought, I can hear you when I'm half dead, the least you could do is strain yourself a little--
He raised up his hand, heavily, and placed his oxygen mask down to his chin, "Weird."
"I know," Sam agreed, "What's the weirdest one you had to burn?"
Dean thought about it for a moment, tempted to fall back into sleep, except Sam just looked so earnest and expectant. He was feeling dizzy, and Sam must have seen something in his face, raised up the oxygen mask for his big brother before putting it back down.
"Thanks," Dean muttered, trying not to sound too annoyed by the gesture, "Black underwear."
Sam choked on a laugh, "Excuse me?"
"Who says 'excuse me,' dude?" Dean moaned, "God, I can't believe we're even related (3)."
"Save your breath, jerk," Sam chuckled, "And just answer the question."
"Any girl who wore it suddenly became irresistible," Dean said, coughing lightly, "Had to burn it when it fell on a very successful Black Widow, if you know what I mean, which was bound to happen. She was working her way through husbands and their money and killing them after. Ordinary psycho with supernatural panties. Nasty. God knows where the hell that's been..." he blanched, and shuddered, melodramatically.
"How the hell could she not have gotten past you?" Sam asked, jabbing at his brother's tendency to chase anything in a skirt, which no doubt would have been amplified by an objectively, supernaturally irresistible woman.
"I thought she was hot," Dean conceded, "But I tell you, I've never seen dad interested in any woman after mom before. Pissed the hell out of me more, I guess, and he looked miserable and eaten, you know, like he was fighting it off and losing. Besides, I knew it was impossible. He wouldn'ta looked at anybody."
He took a deep breath, "Anyway, according to some legends, washing it hard core gets the powers out. Really gross to think it's never been washed before, by the way, and I had no plans on hitting the laundry with that shit. And then there was another legend..." Dean chuckled, "Said its powers would be gone if a guy wore it. That was the most tempted I'd ever been to call you and ask for your help on a hunt. Man... so dad and I just burned the thing. Did the trick real nice."
Sam smiled a little, but he was looking sad again.
Shouldn't have brought up dad, Dean thought.
"I would haunt the Impala," Dean said.
"I know," Sam said, sounding clipped and pissed again, no doubt thinking back to that morning when they first found out Dean was dying, and Dean had joked about how Sam had to take care of his car, or else be haunted.
That's not funny (1).
It's a little funny (1)Dean had said, coaxing a small smile from his brother, because he had always known what to do about Sam.
"If it was the other way around, you would probably haunt your laptop," Dean teased him, "Or for the heck of it, I would. Put up porn every time you were trying to study."
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Dean woke up, hours later, to find Sam asleep on a chair he had apparently pulled as close to Dean's bed as he possibly could.
God, you're impossibly tall, Dean thought, inanely, looking through Sam's seemingly splattered figure, limbs strewn out, head hanging. Damn chair was not made with you in mind, bro.
Their father's journal was on Dean's bed, next to his arm. He smiled a little as he reached for it, and he pulled himself up with a wince, as he sat up straighter to read through it a little bit. He was bored, and didn't feel like watching TV. Besides, he sure as hell didn't want to wake up Sam with the racket, since he looked beat.
He couldn't remember where he and Sam had stopped reading when he fell asleep. Having his brother around and yakking to or at him – whatever - was often enough to keep him calm and sane in this dreaded place and situation.
He began to flip through the well-used pages. Sam said he was turning dad's journal inside-out, and the internet, and, Dean guessed, everything else in the world, looking for something that could help Dean. Dean let him, even as knew there probably wouldn't be anything. In all the years he'd worked this job, there was nothing that could pull a guy from a Reaper's to-do list. A couple of dark jobs and black magic of course, but they seldom worked the way you wanted them, and they weren't supposed to be doing things like that anyway.
Dean flipped at the pages.
What the --
He noticed the torn edges of paper at the binding.
This wasn't here before, he thought, knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that he'd have noticed if it was, since he raked this thing through when he was looking for a way to find his father.
He glanced up at Sammy suspiciously.
His heart beat a little faster, as he struggled to remember what could have been written there.
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There were two more pages missing from John Winchester's precious little leather-bound journal by the time Dean was through with it. Dean knew this very well because this time around, he was the one who had torn them out.
It was about three hours into finding out that his brother may have removed an entry from their father's journal. Three hours he spent, fighting to stay awake, trying to think about what Sam would want to keep from him. In their current situation, he could only think of one thing.
Something that would help me, but would involve doing something nasty.
He racked his brain, trying to think about risky, dark things his father may have written about. There was this entry, he remembered, something about calling on a demon to make a deal... His father had also mentioned demon deals in his entry about suicide clusters after all.
He flipped at the pages and found what he was looking for, near the latter part of the book. If Sam was going through this thing systematically from the start, chances were he couldn't have gotten this far yet.
He glanced at his brother cautiously, and then tore the entry out without another thought. He shoved the entries into the cabinet by his bed, underneath some skin mags he had begged Sam for, in one of those days he was trying to annoy his brother into welcome distraction.
That takes care of that, he thought, satisfied, knowing that Sam wouldn't be getting anymore sick ideas into his crafty head.
But what had Sam torn out?
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He did not ask Sam, no, not right away.
Dean let the line run long, he sat it out and waited. He was impatient by nature, but God knew, he was trained as a hunter by one of the best too. He knew when to jump and when to stay still.
The days wore on the way they always did. The suckers went by really undetectably fast, seeming so slow and suddenly it was done, and then the weeks left to you and the rest of your miserable life began to melt away.
Along the course of these days, something had changed between the brothers in a very palpable way. Sam's nails were bit to as short as they could go, as deep as his teeth could get to. His eyes were jerky, testy. Quick to annoyance and fire, as if he was just aching for Dean to break, just so he finally could.
Dean guessed Sam had finally realized that Dean had torn two pages out from the journal too, and was by now calling out Dean's silent bluff. Neither of them knew what the other was hiding, but God were they hiding things or what. The staring game was on. They both moved forward, pretending they didn't know anything. Like a stick of dynamite with the fuse burning at both ends. It doesn't take a psychic to guess what happens next.
Boom...
They did whatever they usually did, talking (about everything except the things they really wanted to ask, of course), watching television, reading from their father's book.
On one of those days, the brothers read up on one of their father's favorite jobs. It was about a magician who really did know how to practice some magic. Simple stuff really, visual illusions, odd little sparks of fireworks, things like that. Impractical, useless, fluffy-bunny magic stuff. The man wasn't evil, wasn't using his skills unfairly. He was just a weird old man who did tricks for fun and alms.
"Why would you say that's dad's favorite?" Sam asked.
"Boggled the hell out of him," Dean said with a shrug, "Haven't seen him laugh that hard in awhile. He met the guy and just laughed and called him a knucklehead."
"Why's that?" Sam asked.
"A power is a power is a power, Sammy," Dean explained, "But all he wanted to do was do magic tricks on the street. We spent a good two weeks out there trying to figure out the angle, I mean, these demons are always in it for something, right? But zilch, man. Everyone in town knew him, some I bet even knew he was the real thing. But no one was giving him up. Besides, crime and disappearance rates there were even below par. The kids sure loved him. Their parents trusted him. We thought they were all crazy."
"And then you and dad just left?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," Dean said, adding, though he did not really mean it, "No kill, nothing. What a letdown."
"Guess you never can tell with these things," Sam said, his look pointed, "Some of them might even be helpful after all. You know, not evil. You just have to give them a chance. If you need it, you just have to look at it and give it a fighting chance--"
"You really wanna get into this now?" Dean asked, his brows raising as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Sam stared at him for long, quiet moment, jaws set, chewing the inside of his cheeks as he weighed his options. He tore his gaze away, and took a deep breath.
"What's your favorite job?" he asked, his tone lightening dramatically, forcefully.
Dean narrowed his eyes in irritation, but again, bid his time and bit his tongue. He knew the answer to this one right away. It was so easy to call up in his mind.
"You know the one in Boston?" he replied, a smile already tightening his lips even before he could say anything else, "The one in the law office?"
It was a recent job, one of their first since Dean stole Sam from Stanford when they were looking for their dad.
"Boring," Sam said with a blanch, looking quite honestly surprised that his insane brother would enjoy that un-exceptional gig above all else, "Why?"
"Secretaries really are hot," Dean murmured, rubbing his chin in remembrance, "And we dressed up like janitorial, and all these women in suits and stilettos really did have a kinky thing about power and working guys. And the things you can do with a photocopying machine--"
"That was your favorite because of the women?" Sam asked, his eyes glistening. Dean's grin widened, because this was the first time in days that their conversation had turned honestly light.
"Not entirely," Dean admitted, "We couldn't figure out who the ghost was for the longest time. We were even about to salt and burn the wrong guy when my genius baby brother--"
"Shut up, Dean!" Sam laughed, "I get it, I do. It's your favorite, 'cos I screwed up."
"Dude that totally doesn't make any sense," Dean told him, "Are you listening to this or what? So we were about to salt and burn the body of this poor dead lawyer 'cos everyone was sure the ghost had to be this uber smart lawyer guy who died a few months back, right? And they were so sure because weird notes and corrections kept appearing on those... those thingies--"
"The Briefs," Sam filled in, "Appeals? Memorandum..."
"Whatever, dude," Dean continued, distracted, "Anyway, I suspected it was you doing that, but you did not fess up until we were about to burn the poor guy's body. Turns out it's just my stupid brother-janitor doing a little good-will-hunting-slash-elves-and-the-shoemaker action, and the ghost was someone else, I don't know, I forget that part."
"Why would that be your favorite?" Sam asked, frowning.
"I don't know, man," Dean shrugged, averting his eyes, "If we were somebody else... I thought about it, Sam. How much this job's cost us. We've lost so much. We've sacrificed so much (3)."
Dean scratched the back of his neck, feeling embarrassed and at the same time compelled to speak, "Especially you. I'm pretty sure I'd have been a total waste of breath in normal circumstances but man...Those days there, I saw you looking through those sheets of paper, totally smacking these Harvard wusses on their asses. Brilliant, bro. It was another life, like standing at your graduation all over again. You must be pissed as hell I dragged you back out here. I'm sorry, Sam, I really am. But I know that after all this shit is done, you can still be somebody so, ah...don't do anything that would change you so much you couldn't go back to being Joe College, huh?"
The dark heaviness returned to Sam's gaze again. It was a mixture of the sadness of the probable loss of his brother, the anger at Dean for tearing out a potentially life-saving page from their father's journal, and the wistfulness of the past.
"Promise?" Dean pressed.
Sam kind of just gave him a small smile, and therefore gave him absolutely nothing.
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Dean gasped awake, and for a moment he thought he was still enmeshed in some sort of bad dream, except he was pretty damn sure the dark shadow across the wall really, truly meant that there was somebody standing there.
He tried to catch his breath. The heart monitor somewhere above his head was annoyingly echoing his efforts. Kind of reminded him of Sam, in afterthought, when Sam was a kid, trailing him around, repeating the things he was saying.
Annoying, he tried to convince himself.
"Who's there?" he rasped, pulling down his oxygen mask to make himself heard, and shakily lifting himself up to his elbows, trying to peer in the dark. It was off visiting hours, and the ICU held just him after that old guy at the corner kicked it a few days ago.
The shadow hesitated, at the very moment that Dean realized he knew precisely who would be standing there.
"Dad," he said, his face breaking wide open, he could feel it and could not stop it, how the guard just fell down and the tears welled and the lips broadened to a misplaced, schizophrenic grin. Damn but this stupid body did not feel like it was his anymore. He immediately fought to sit up.
"Dean, no," came that earthy and achingly familiar voice, and uncharacteristically gentle though it had been, there was an order there too, the kind he could never deny, doubly now because he felt dastardly dog-tired.
John Winchester stepped back from the darkened corner and into the dim light from the window, resting his hip by his son's arm, reminding Dean of Sam. John's arms looked awkward on his sides too, again like Sam.
Let me put you out of your misery, Dean decided, offering his father his right hand to shake. Relived, his old man took it warmly, and Dean clung tight, grunting, "Dad, pull me up a bit, wouldja? Helps me breathe."
"Yeah," John agreed, leaning forward and pulling up his son with one arm and supporting his back with the other, sneaking in a hug while he was at it. He fluffed Dean's pillows behind him twice, before letting him down heavily.
"Thanks," he told his father with a wheeze. He hated this damn body. Fricking deserter. He gets so tired trying to get up that once that's done all he wants to do is lie back down again. Can anybody explain that?
"You better get another whiff of that thing," John said, nodding toward the mask.
"Yeah," Dean admitted, thinly. God, he hated being hurt around his father. John had that same worried look Sam got. The kind that just didn't know to pretend that everything was going to be fine.
"Sam called," John said, nodding insistently at the mask. Dean sensed the marine emerging so he put it back over his face for a breath, before putting it down again.
"He would," Dean shrugged, "He knows you're here?"
John looked at his son pointedly.
"You gotta let him know, dad," Dean sighed, though he did not sound surprised, "He'll hate you if he thinks you never came for..." he waved his hand casually around to encapsulate the entire situation, "For all this."
John shrugged, noncommittal.
"Gah," Dean said wearily, again waving his hand dismissively, he'll take care of that later. Turn it into a dying wish or something, he'll get it for sure.
"How 'ya feeling dude (2)?" John asked.
Dean shrugged, "Been better, right?"
"Yeah," John said with a wince, turning to look outside the moonlit window.
I hate these guys, Dean thought miserably, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that his father and brother were so similar sometimes that he might as well rehash whatever it was he had told Sammy that morning they found out he was dying.
"What can I say, dad," he said, his mouth dry, "It's a tough gig. I drew the short straw (1)--"
"I know the damn line, Dean," John growled, looking back down at his son again. His eyes had deepened, shades darker and layers of tears lower. He swiped at them with more than a measure of spite.
"I'm gonna wring your brother's neck," John said with a hollow laugh, "Last message he left me said you were already dead."
Dean chuckled, "Good old Sam, clever as always. Got you out here didn't he?"
"He's pissed as hell at me," John said, "But then again that's not news, is it?"
"Where've you been all this time?" Dean asked, shifting uncomfortably, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.
"I'm coming damn close to finding the yellow-eyed demon," John replied, "I've never been so close."
"You ditched me (9)," Dean said, flatly, unable to help himself.
John set his jaws, "It was getting big, Dean. And too damn tight. Like he knows I'm coming for him. I can't think straight when it's this demon getting close to my family. I can't have you there."
"To keep me from danger, right?" Dean snapped, before breaking his rising anger with a sardonic grin, his dark humor appreciating the irony that he was left behind for his safety and now he was dying, "That's awesome."
"Well you asked," John said tightly, "And that was where I was before Sam called the first time. Since then I've been trying to look for a decent way to... to find some sort of a way to..." John's voice broke, and he paused to recover it, "I ran here when I thought I was too late."
"But you're still too late," Dean pointed out quietly, after a moment, reading his father's anguished face, "There is nothing anyone can do, right? I didn't think so. But Sammy's into his messianic thing again."
"What do you mean?"
"Thinks he can save me," Dean replied, "He read through your book, dad. He found something, and tore it out. I'm thinking he doesn't want me to find out about it. I'm thinking that only means it must be one of the dark stuff. You know which one I'm talking about?" Dean looked at his father long and hard. Almost daring him to lie.
John grimaced, "I might."
"If it's in your book you must have thought about it too," Dean guessed, "So ah... just to make it abundantly clear, I don't want to live if either of you are thinking of pulling any of that shit. I would literally and seriously shoot myself back to the dead, or worse. You won't have a damn strand of hair to re-bury--" he coughed, put the oxygen mask over his face for a breath, and then went on again, "Now you know I know so don't even think about it.
"No dark stuff," Dean insisted, "Promise me, dad. You'd kill me if you did anything like that. You'd kill me ten times worse than this. Promise. You know I don't have anything left, so I won't stop asking 'til you say 'yes.'"
"Damn it, Dean--"
"Promise me," Dean said, breathlessly, "Promise. Not like one of those lame-ass conditional ones you used to con Sam and me with. Make it like a real one. Like the ones you said to mom."
"Dean--"
"Dad, please (6)," Dean begged, "I've done everything you ever asked me. Everything. I've given everything I ever had (2). I've never asked you for anything, dad--"
"I promise," John growled. Breathless pleas from a desperately hurt son were deafening, and there was just no saying no.
"Good," Dean said, after staring at his father for a long moment, trying to figure out if he was lying (deciding the possibility was downright gigantic, but he couldn't do anything about that anymore), then taking a breath from his mask before continuing, "So now that I got you, I only have Sam to worry about. One way I read is to crack a deal with a demon. I tore those pages out, just so's he doesn't get any stupid ideas. But he tore something out too, something that he didn't want me to see. Do you know what that could be?"
John's brows furrowed. As if he contemplated lying.
"Dad," Dean said, almost pleading, "Do you know what that could be?"
"Faith healer," John replied, clipped and backed against a damn corner, exactly where Dean wanted him.
Dean's brows rose in surprise, saying, "Nebraska."
Dean remembered that one. He and his father were just thinking of taking it on when suddenly, John Winchester decided to vanish. And Dean couldn't stand to do any job until he found his father first. All efforts to dissect that mystery ceased, stopped in its tracks by the only thing that could ever move Dean Winchester to distraction. The safety of his family. He was so distraught he even forgot all about it until now.
"Why wouldn't Sam want me to know about some quack in a tent?" Dean asked.
John's eyes darkened all the more, pulled into a memory he seemed temporarily lost in. Dean knew the look very well, the shell-shocked version of his father, the scarred soldier retreating into himself and his pitch-black thoughts.
"It's okay, dad (2)."
"Yeah," John scoffed, eyes lonely, "Yeah... well the guy in Nebraska's a bust."
"You went back there?" Dean asked.
"First place I went to when I found out about..." he unknowingly echoed his son's casual wave, "All this."
"He was a fake?" Dean asked.
"That's not important now," John shrugged, averting his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath, "God, Dean."
Don't I know it...
And then in John Winchester's usual style, the worry merged with anger, "Water and electricity, Dean. Damn it."
Dean was pissed, but he kept his mouth shut. It was a dumb mistake, yes, dad, we know. I'm paying already, all right? God, and those f-ing machines started to beat in protest with his achingly restrained emotions.
John caught the machines, and then himself, and ran a hand through his hair. Dean watched him work through his unhappiness, all the while thinking how odd it was that this family never seemed to catch a decent break.
"I'm sorry," John said in a rushed breath, "You're a damn good hunter, son. I ain't supposed to be second-guessing what I would or would not have done if I was there. No one can tell you that crap."
Dean set his jaws, and let it go with a curt nod. Besides, what was there to say? And he was tiring...God, this body...impossible, impossible little freak. Cooperate. Damnitt.
"So I figured Sammy's gonna want to drag me to Nebraska in a few days," he said, "I know you're saying this guy's a fake but should I let him? Sam'll hate me if I don't give it a shot. But he'll hate himself more if he busts me out of here and I get killed out there on the road and the thing's a fluke. Dumbass will blame himself for sure--"
"I didn't say the faith healer was a fake," John told Dean.
Dean's brows furrowed, "He's not?"
And you're not taking me there? What is this...?
"Dad..." Dean began, tentatively. Sometimes he just had no idea what to do with his father.
"I'm sorry, Dean," John said, his voice breaking again, "God knows, I've never gone to a job wishing to hell I would fail, not until this one. I just up and kept wishing there was someone out there better than me, stronger, someone who could stop me, so I could say I tried my best, and failed."
"Dad, what are you talking about?"
"They were trading one life for another," John explained, "Playing God. Enslaved a reaper. For every person healed, someone else was killed, someone 'immoral.' I dug around there when I heard you were sick. Had to make sure this was the real deal, before we risked breaking you out AMA. I had to stop them, son. The moment I knew what was going on, I had to stop them. It was just wrong. But I swear to God I wished I would fail. I knew you and Sam would turn up at LeGrange's eventually. God, I wished so bad I would fail just so you could get to him. He would have been your only chance. And I had to stop them..."
Dean watched his father for a long, quiet moment, trying to decide how he felt about that.
You knew he could save me. And you stopped him. Because it's wrong. Because it's our job. Screw your son, right?
Your happiness for all those people's lives? No contest, right (3)?
The inanity of the situation was biting at him. He did not want to fucking die. He was pissed as hell about dying, and pissed as hell at his old man who was apparently willing enough to let it happen, if it meant saving other people's lives.
It's a price Sammy would be willing to pay for me, I bet, he thought, darkly, irrational and angry, It's a price I know I'd be willing to pay if it were the other way around. But not you, right, dad? Simply because it's wrong, right?
But why? Why is it our job to save these people? Why do we have to be some kind of hero? What about us, huh? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, dad (3)?
But there was no answer to that, there never was. Winchesters seemed to just be made that way. There was no answer to the question because it was like asking someone how to breathe. Or why Dean liked women and cars and chocolate bars. No answer. This was just who they were.
"You did the right thing, dad," he said, his voice low and sure, his eyes earnest and begging to be looked at. His father needed to know this, John had to know that Dean did not blame him, or hate him.
"It doesn't feel like it (1)," John said, after a long moment of thought.
"It's not supposed to," Dean told him, coming to the strange realization that John Winchester had a very serious problem. His problem was that he was a great man, batting for great causes, and understanding that all that crap came at great costs. He could actually imagine his father just like one of those sad mythical figures standing victorious on a ravaged battlefield, alone. Grimy, lonely, triumphant last man standing, who lost everything but won the war.
Kinda like Sam, Dean thought, reflecting that Sam had that focused, winning look too. It didn't matter if the item of concern was Algebra or Soccer or some monster from somewhere. Sam gave everything of himself. It was how he looked when he left for Stanford too, the image permanently ingrained in Dean's mind. Sam's back as he walked to the bus that would take him to California. Wrinkled jacket, battered rucksack, old shoes and squared shoulders. Triumphant but lonely.
I'm not like that, Dean reflected, just as he knew for certain that he was fine with that. The things he wanted were simpler. He wanted his mom and his dad and his brother and a cookie-cutter home. He once said he'd rather die than live that white-picket-fence life. He was lying of course, because in the inverted, supernatural world of the Winchesters, to want beautiful, normal things was not only weird, it was much, much harder to get.
"I'm sorry, son," John said.
"You shouldn't be," Dean assured him, "I get it, I do."
"You always have, Dean," John said, shaking his head in dismay at himself. He hesitated, and then sat by his son's arm.
"They taking good care of you here?"
"The nurses aren't hot," Dean replied with a slight smile, "But there is one who can talk really dirty. Said she put herself through school working a phone sex line."
John chuckled, "Your mother will wanna soap that barracks-mouth."
"Nah, she'll like me," Dean said confidently, "I'm sure."
The brief light in John's eyes vanished, realizing all that what Dean had said meant. That his son was dying and meeting up with his dead mother and introducing to her the man that he had become.
"She'll like Sammy more," John teased, cutting off his thoughts before they went deeper, "He has that honest look."
"She always liked wildflowers, dad," Dean said, chuckling and coughing, "Not pansies. I'll be her favorite."
John's brows furrowed, "You look beat, sport."
He was. Has been since they started and for days before that but damned if he was going back to sleep while his father was here.
"Last time I closed my eyes on you," Dean said, "You left."
"I will this time too, kiddo."
"I know," Dean said, "That's why I can't (4). Stay awhile, dad. Please. And Sam will want to see you."
"I can't stay, Dean," John said gently, "I don't want to put you and Sam in any more danger than I already have. If I were thinking straight I wouldn't have even gone here. But I had to see you."
Dean stared at his father for a long time, contemplating begging, and using his illness for leverage. But he understood how hard this was for his father too. He wished he didn't, but he did.
Lucky me (3), he thought miserably.
"Don't be alone too long, dad," Dean told him, wearily, "I know I'm totally useless but Sam... he's really good, dad. Give him a shot. Let him help you once in awhile, huh? And he needs you."
I need you.
We are stronger as a family (11)...
"I'll stay 'til you sleep," John told him, quietly.
"I'll stay awake 'til I'm dead," Dean joked, his eyelids already beginning to feel heavier.
"I don't doubt it."
Dean's eyes began to flutter close, but he fought them off with a sudden thought, "You need to leave me something."
"What?" John asked, rightfully confused.
"When I wake up tomorrow," Dean said, "I need to know this wasn't a dream. Please, dad. Leave me something. Something unmistakable."
John, after some consideration along the length of which Dean thought he would fall asleep, reached from the back of his neck and drew out his precious dogtags.
"Not that, dad..." Dean breathed, even as he knew he's had his eye on that thing since he was eight years old, "You love that thing."
John removed one of the two tags from the chain, and pressed it to Dean's palm. "The two's supposed to go together son. But I got one now, and you got the other."
"I'll get it back to you," Dean promised, closing his fingers around his precious new possession, closing his eyes as he grinned and muttered, "But you still should have left me the one with the chain. Chicks dig that."
"You're an idiot."
Dean smirked at his father, before his eyes opened again, looking deeper and darker. "You know who's a bigger idiot?"
"Who?"
"Sammy," Dean sighed, "What am I gonna do with him?"
"Same thing I've been asking myself since the two of you were born," John said with a small smile, "You know, he was the most skeptical-looking baby I've ever laid eyes on."
Dean snickered, "That would be him..."
"Look after him, dad," he said after a wistful moment, his voice drowning to a murmur as he began to fall asleep, "Promise. Promise me you will never, ever, let him do anything I'd regret. Take care of Sam."
John found that this was a much easier word to give.
"I promise," he said, without thought, without doubt, in truth and love and absolute, simple purity.
" " "
" " "
The next morning, Sam did not visit him at all. Dean knew then that his brother must have been busy preparing for Nebraska, and he was absolutely certain of it when he opened his eyes and gasped awake and sensed another shadow standing in the corner of his room at the end of visiting hours that night.
"You people," Dean groaned, "Trying to give me a heart attack--"
Sam ignored the complaint, and stepped forward silently, his face set and cold and decided. Dean has been dreading this, oh yes.
"Dean," he said, "I called up one of dad's contacts. There's this specialist in Nebraska who can help you."
Specialist, huh?, Dean could have laughed, Nice euphemism, you lying bastard (1). Absolutely awesome.
"Yeah?" Dean asked, pulling down his oxygen mask to beneath his chin, "Is that what they call them now?"
Sam's brows furrowed, "What?"
"Faith healers, Sammy," Dean sighed, taking a breath from the mask before putting it down again, "I know what's in the missing pages and no. We're not going."
"Why not?" Sam asked, "I looked him over, Dean. He's supposed to be the real deal."
Dean stared at him in a long, measuring way. Again, his heart picked up and he winced when Sam looked worriedly at the monitor. Hi hands were so damn cold, and for a long moment, he couldn't trust himself to speak. He knew, flat out, that his brother was willing to kill for his life. This realization was filling him with frigid fear.
"Sam...," he said, tentatively.
What was he supposed to say about that? God, he was scared. Scared for his brother's desperation, scared for his brother's soul. Easily, he knew that if their places were reversed, he wouldn't hesitate to die for Sam and kill for him. But this was not what he wanted for his brother, no. If there was something about him he never wished Sam would emulate, it was that blinded judgment.
You are not blackening out that soul on my watch and especially not on my account, Sammy...
True, it would just be easy to tell Sam that whatever was in Nebraska doesn't work anymore because of what their father had done, but Dean needed to know that Sammy was capable of saying no to this, of knowing it was wrong, of knowing where to draw the line. Dean needed to know that he was leaving a Sam who was capable of making the right decisions, stick to that same great path their father was walking.
Don't be like me, Sammy...
"They heal people and kill others in their place," Dean told his brother with simple, earnest quiet, "No one's going to die for me, Sam."
"We can ask them to pick someone who deserves to die," Sam filled in quickly, desperately, as if he'd already thought of that and convinced himself, "A criminal somewhere, something like that."
"You don't mean that," Dean said, "I know it doesn't seem fair, and I wish I could explain, but Roy is not the answer, I'm sorry (1). What's happening to us is horrible. But what are you gonna do? Let somebody else die to save me? You can't play God (1)."
Sam set his jaws, started shaking his leg in anxiety. Cat caught the lawyer's tongue and fricking ate it. It was hard to defend something you knew was dastardly wrong.
"Many more people deserve to die than you," Sam said darkly, "And someone will be killed anyway, it might as well be your life that's saved. I don't care who dies, they can pick me for all I care but--"
"That I will not have," Dean growled, "I'd rather die in the worst possible stinking way, Sam. If you do any shit like that, I swear to God and anyone else listening that I'm dragging you back here and everything will be ten times worse. So don't even go there. Leave this be. You gotta let me go, bro. And no more crazy ideas like this."
"You're my brother, Dean and no matter what you do I'm gonna try and save you (7)," Sam snapped.
Dean took a shaky breath, fearing the cold, determined darkness that was simmering in his brother's eyes, "Listen, Sammy. I'm not blind. I see what you're going through with this whole deal, me going away and all that. But you're gonna be okay (7)."
"You think so?"
"Yeah," Dean replied confidently, "You'll get over it. I want you to know I'm sorry. I' sorry for putting you through all this, I am (7). But you'll be fine."
"You know what, Dean?" Sam retorted, "Go screw yourself (7)."
"What?"
"I don't want an apology from you," Sam said, "And by the way, I'm a big boy now i can take care of myself (7)."
"Oh, well excuse me," Deam scoffed.
"So would you please quit worrying about me?" Sam asked, "I don't want you to worry about me, Dean. I want you to worry about you (7). Now would you please. Please. Just let me do this?"
"Listen to yourself, bro," Dean said, lowly, sounding anguished, "'Cos to me, it sure sounds like you seem less and less worried about offing people. It used to eat you up inside (8)."
"And what has that gotten me?"
"Nothing," Dean conceded, "But it's just what you're supposed to do, okay? We're supposed to drive in the freaking car and freaking argue about this stuff. You know, you go on about the sanctity of life and all that crap (8)."
"Wait," Sam asked, disbelieving, "So you're mad because I'm starting to agree with you (8)?"
"No," Dean replied, "I'm not mad, I'm...I'm worried, Sam. I'm worried cos you're not acting like yourself (8)."
"Yeah you're right, I'm not," Sam admitted, boldly, "I don't have a choice (8)."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look, Dean," Sam explained, "You're leaving, right? And I gotta stay here in this crap hole of a world alone so the way I see it, if I'm gonna make it, then I gotta change (8)."
"Change into what?"
"Into you," Sam said, with finality, chilling Dean to the bone, "I gotta be more like you (8)."
No one ever accused you of being an underachiever before, Sammy...
"Lofty ambition," Dean teased him, softly, trying to court a smile because he was robbed of words. Sam did not indulge him this time.
"You'd do the same for me, Dean and you know it," Sam said.
"No I won't," Dean lied, "I'd draw the line here."
"You wouldn't draw the line anywhere," Sam said, "You know it."
"Don't flatter yourself--"
"You're lying," Sam said, cutting him off, "And you may as well drop it cos I could see right through you (9)."
"And how do you know that?" Dean snapped.
"Because I know you (9)," Sam said, plainly, simply and Dean realized, quite tragically, truthfully.
"Really?" he asked, his mouth dry as he tried to keep his sarcasm, keep his game face on.
"Because I've been following you around my entire life," Sam said earnestly, employing that old trick of his, "I mean I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And I can't blame you (8). It's just... You know you'd do this for me, Dean. You know you would. So let me. Just... just let me."
"You know it's wrong, Sam," Dean said wearily, "You know it is."
"I don't care--"
"Then tell me this," Dean said, "Let's go your way then, bro. Let's flip this around. If you were in my position, wouldn't you do everything you could to stop me from doing what you're about to do right now?"
"Dean," Sam said, achingly, stepping forward, sitting by his brother's bed, grabbing his hand--
Pulling out all the stops, are you? Dean thought, Sorry kid, but no. This is one thing I'll be glad to deny you.
"Dean..."
"You know you would," Dean said.
Sam blinked at his tears, already resolved to find a different tack, "Then what about... about that other thing? The thing you tore out?"
"That," Dean grimaced, "Will be worse."
"Let me look at it," Sam insisted, "Even if it's dark stuff, it can at least give me a good starting point, Dean, I swear, just let me take a look."
Dean looked at his brother for a long moment.
No, he knew, would be the best answer to this one. Once the demon deal and how it works gets into Sam's head, it would be too tempting, too accessible, and once Dean releases that information, he wouldn't be able to stop his brother if Sam did choose to push through with it.
He took a deep shaky breath, and let his eyes drift around the room, aimlessly, begging for a weary sleep to take him over.
"Damn it, Dean," Sam growled, shaking him lightly, "Just tell me where it is."
"Tired," Dean bit out, not really lying, as he let his eyes drift close, "We can talk about this... tomorrow, Sammy."
"Good fucking night, bro," Sam growled at him, angry of course, exactly the way Dean had dreaded he would be. An ailing Dean was not in a magnanimous mood either.
He opened one eye, and then the other. Anger was a fuel, damned but it was. "Say that again."
Sam set his jaws, looking tempted as hell to get into this. But scared enough to glance at the heart monitors.
"Look at me," Dean snapped at him, "And to hell with that shit. Get mad at me, Sam, scream, whatever. I'm not handicapped. And I sure as hell ain't dead yet."
"Tell me where the damn sheet is."
"I ate it," Dean spat at him, "You can check at the autopsy."
Sam's face crumbled for a few seconds, hating that word, despising the very idea of what lay at the end of this road, until his anger reclaimed him even deeper, and he just set his jaws and headed for the nightstand. Without care or regard or respect for that the tiny cabinet that now represented everything Dean had left, he threw it open, and tossed out a miscellany of things. Skin mags, car mags... Dean watched the incredulous expression that battled Sam's furious expression as he drew out a soap opera guide?!, as if he was trying to stay angry. Sam snatched up small packets of salt (gathered from Dean's meal trays; it was a quirky habit), a small cross and a rosary, breath mints, a pack of gum, his wallet...
Sam tore into the wallet like a madman. He'd never gone through Dean's things like this. Angry, disrespectful, careless and desperate. Dean was getting pissed at the intrusion, but bit his tongue and let Sam work through his anger and helplessness.
Fake credit cards, fake insurance, fake identification, real hustling money, unfortunately not a lot. Receipts from a few days ago, and some from three years ago, God knows why. And then Sam took a shaky breath, more a sigh, really, and Dean knew he had found the pictures.
One was of the four Winchesters, complete, in happier times. One was of the two brothers as kids. One was of the three hunters by the Impala, taken because Dean wanted to have a picture of the car to drag around and take a look at every time he was lonely.
"Damn you, Dean," Sam said, his voice wavering.
God, you look young, Dean thought, I'm so so sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry. I'm a sorry fucking idiot all right...
"We, uh..." Sam said, taking a deep breath, trying to reclaim himself, "We shoulda taken more."
"What?" Dean asked confused.
"Went all around this country," Sam said, "We should have taken more pictures. Last one we took could have been mugshots, instead."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, smiling wearily.
Sam stared at him for a long moment, before sitting back down on his brother's bed, "You can't leave me here, Dean. Tell me. What do I have to do...?"
I'm gonna die (1).
You can't stop it...(1)
"I'll tell you where it is," Dean said, warily, "But you gotta promise something first."
"I won't do it, I get that," Sam said, quickly, earnestly, "I promise. I'll just use it as a starting point--"
"No dark stuff," Dean emphasized, "Nothing I would hate."
Sam frowned. That might be trickier. "Okay..."
"You're lying," Dean growled.
Sam didn't deny it. "How could I not try to save you, Dean? If there was a way...?"
"Sam..." Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, "What the hell am I going to do with you, huh? In that case then the answer is a big, resounding, Fuck. Off. You ain't getting at it."
Sam's eyes lit up, as if in an idea, before looking at Dean determinedly again. This was Sam in his most effective, Dean noted, not being a stranger to the expression. It looked like one of those comics with the light bulbs in the thought balloons.
"Dean," Sam began, looking earnest again, "What if it will be important one day? What if this is something I'll need to know in the future (9)? It's your job, right? As my big brother (9)--"
"Fuck off--"
"Dad wrote it down because it was important," Sam insisted, "It might save my life one day. I can't just not-know it until forever..."
Dean's eyes almost crossed with irritation. And defeat. Sam was being open-faced manipulative but he was also speaking the truth. Their father had written these things down as references. He'd hate to blindside his brother, fail to prepare him for something very dangerous in the future.
I can just tell him before I die... he thought, tentatively and that ended there. Fact was, he could die at anytime at this point; tonight in his sleep, tomorrow, in five minutes because he was so annoyed...
Besides, if Sam knew about demon deals even after his death, Sam could still do that and bring him back. Maybe it was best to tell him now, and then convince him not to go through with it.
"You are a conniving fucking asshole," Dean muttered at him. His younger brother grinned at him shamelessly.
"I was preparing to do this for a living, you know," Sam said.
"Damn it," Dean muttered, running a weary hand over his face, God, he should have just fallen asleep, "First thing you tossed out was the skin mag, geek boy. Last place you'd look when you're sensible, first place you'd look when you're lonely. That's where the paper is. And put it back in the book, while you're at it. Put yours back too. In your wallet, I bet. Have some originality, for chrissakes..."
He went on muttering as Sam practically dived at the magazine and flipped straight to a centerfold of last year's Miss December. He tossed the magazine aside and speed-read through their father's writing.
"Well?" Dean pressed, after a long moment. Sam was a fast reader, and looked as if he was just thinking and stalling.
Sam took a deep breath, and looked up to meet his brother's eyes head-on. "We can do this. Ten years is not a bad deal. And we'd have ten years to figure out how to get out of it--"
"No one ever has," Dean told him flatly, "You're not doing this, Sam. All right?"
"If anyone can do it..."
"No!" Dean said, his voice the loudest that he's heard it since he was admitted here. The machines around him were shouting too. "You'll kill me, Sammy, I swear to God," he gasped, trying to sit up straighter, "You are not trading your soul for me, I won't have it. You'll kill me, Sammy--"
"Damn it," Sam said, gripping his brother by the shoulders, trying to calm him down as he clawed, and gasped, and fought off his brother, "Dean..."
"Sam..." green eyes turned liquid, something that disarmed Sam in an unmatched way, "Sam..."
"Breathe easy, dude," Sam said, glancing up in relief at the nurses and doctors who had jogged into the room upon hearing the alarms.
Dean's grip on his arm was vise-like.
"I can't," he gasped, "I can't fucking do anything... anything but beg you, Sammy. I can't... do anything but... but beg you--"
Sam blinked at the tears in his eyes, and pulled his brother into a tight embrace, "All right," he said, his voice low and husky, "All right, you get your way, damn it."
Dean was fairly sure Sam was telling the truth, for now. So he sagged against his brother's arms, exhausted beyond measure, and satisfied, also for now. He also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was a promise Sam had every capacity to break, later. He'll convince himself Dean had coerced him unfairly into it, or something lawyer-ly like that. Dean had to come up with a different plan, especially because his dad also sounded like Sam tonight, which was truthful-for-now. Dean did not doubt that they meant to keep their promises at the time they gave them, but it might not hold true after. What had Sting sang before?
I never made promises lightly, and there have been some that I've broken, yeah...
And then suddenly, an idea popped into his head. He always knew Sam was smarter, but he had his moments, oh yes...
He remembered suddenly how his father had looked, when he asked him to take care of Sam.
"I promise," he said, without thought, without doubt, in truth and love and absolute, simple purity.
I know what to do, Dean decided, almost smiling, You don't want to take care of yourselves, huh? I'll make you take care of each other...
"Sam," Dean said, his voice raspy but his tone strong and very calm, as he let himself be pulled away by strangers' gentle hands, away from his brother, "You gotta do something for me."
"What?"
"You gotta take care of dad, man," Dean said, as he was pressed back down to bed, "Take care of dad. Don't let him do anything crazy, when he gets wind of all this. Find him, Sam. Take care of him, don't let him fight this thing alone, huh?"
Dean cheered inside, when Sam's tone and expression matched his father's to a t.
"I promise."
TO BE CONTINUED in a final chapter...
(1) Faith
(2) In My Time of Dying
(3) What Is and What Could Never Be
(4) A Very Supernatural Christmas
(5) Home
(6) Devil's Trap
(7) Red Sky at Morning
(8) Malleous Maleficarum
(9) Fresh Blood
(10) Dream a Little Dream
(11) Dead Man's Blood