A/N
Oh yes I did.
¯\_（´◔౪◔）_/¯
I tried to make Dean look like half his face is... well... in the picture, so there's that. Hope it worked ;)
All I Know
John knows he screwed up. He knew it twelve years ago when he took his firstborn for a drive and came back home by himself, and he knows it now, doing the one thing these twelve years have been spent trying to avoid.
"Dean," he says, but Dean doesn't look at him. He looks into the empty air floatingly. John clears his throat, and tries again. "Do you know who I am, Dean?"
All I've seen since eighteen hours ago is green eyes and freckles and your smile in the back of my mind – Taylor Swift & Ed Sheeran / "Everything Has Changed"
The bumps and dents of the two-lane, potholed road make the Impala jerk and jump under John and he grumbles in dissatisfaction with the way things turned out. Bobby is in the passenger seat talking to Sam, who seats at the back as usual, frown plastered on as usual and glaring daggers at the back of John's head, as usual. He's fourteen, and there's a spot reserved on John's nerves just for him.
John thinks back again, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when things had taken a turn for, well, John wouldn't say the "worst", but it's definitely in there with adjectives like "rotten" and "triggering". It had probably been the conversation with Bobby that had spurned Sam's investigative nature into action, but how the kid managed to get from a few half-whispered words exchanged between him and Bobby on the topic of the weather to pulling an all-nighter and sifting through John's old documents looking for his birth certificate only to find his brother's, is a turn of events so coincidental John is perfectly comfortable blaming it on nonexistent higher beings instead of examining the chain of fuckups leading up to this little road trip.
John knows he screwed up. He knew it twelve years ago when he took his firstborn for a drive and came back home by himself, and he knows it now, doing the one thing these twelve years have been spent trying to avoid.
They stop in front of the looming entrance of the place, posters advertising the dangers of driving while tired or intoxicated half-ripped and re-taped to the yellow gate, and John is greeted by the night-shift's Dorito breath when the underpaid forty-something bends down to ask who he's here to see.
John gives his last name and shows his drivers' license for identification, and he sees Sam huff in the rearview mirror as the man outside grunts into his Motorola and gets an affirmative static in response, before the mechanic gate creaks sideways enough for a car to pass through.
He parks in one of the empty spots near the entrance, dread heavy in the pit of his gut and one misplaced word away from snapping and shifting into reverse and stepping on it. The idea of pulling out of the lot and back onto the road, of taking them out of there and back home where it's safe, safer for everyone involved, really, is so tempting John has to grit his teeth and watch as his knuckles turn white from the force of his grip on the steering wheel to keep it at bay. He can't do that. He's got responsibilities. He makes himself open the door and get out of the car. His legs feel like they're made of lead, stiff and creaking when he straightens them.
His back cracks in three places and he sees Sam unfold long, lanky limbs out of the car with a wince. The boy is growing too damn fast. Over the roof of the car John catches Bobby's eyes as the man re-arranges his hat and tugs the hem of his plaid button down over the gun he's got tucked into his waistband. John doesn't ask about the gun. He never has. And he's got a feeling that even if he does ask, he won't get a straight answer. The scrap yard owner can be as tight-lipped as a goddamn security vault. Bobby gives him an encouraging nod-shrug, though it's Bobby, so it's probably more like a resigned Whaddu'ya gonna do?
Sam is a ball of silent fury as he falls into step with Bobby and John, the latter of which leading them through the front door and greeting the receptionist with a tight smile and his ID. She tells them to wait a few minutes while they get him ready and offers them tea that they all politely refuse. Hospital tea is bad, but this stuff… It ought to be hunted down, till the very last teabag.
Bobby deposits his gun at the front desk with clear instructions for the staff to keep their hands off it and a sharp, assessing look at the security manager, who assures Bobby that she will personally see to it. John willfully ignores the interested look Bobby sends her, and the flutter of eyelashes he gets in response. If Bobby wants to hit on the head of security while John is having a family crisis, there's really no reason why he shouldn't. At least this visit would be pleasant for one of them.
Doctor Reece steps out of a door that John knows leads to the staff's offices. John had met Dr. Reece when Dean had first been admitted here. He doesn't remember much from the meeting itself, since he'd been distracted by the way Dean had kept fidgeting with the hem of his black Pink-Floyd shirt as his betrayed, angry green eyes, Mary's eyes, had stayed firmly fixed on his worn sneakers.
That had been a year ago, and John is unsurprised that the man with the receding hairline and blue-rimmed square glasses, clad in a smart nausea-green button-down under a white coat with the words 'Dr. Timothy Reece' sewn in curling purple italics onto the pocket lapel, has not changed one bit.
Sam glares all throughout the introductions, and Dr. Reece looks surprised at the arrival of the unexpected young visitor. John has, up until now, been adamant in his refusal of ever letting Sam meet Dean. Whatever little progress has been made with Dean would surely reverse when the object of Dean's obsession, the kid whose name had triggered so many outbursts and regressions, walked into Dean's line of sight. Surely, Dean would revert back to death threats and firestorm eyes and insistence that they wanna hurt Sammy I have to stop them Dad please we have to kill-
Bobby nudges him with his shoulder, looking expectantly up at him and John just sighs and follows Sam where the boy is already tailing Dr. Reece around a corner.
John catches up with Sam just as Dr. Reece leads them through a doorway and into a room that looks like somebody thought a bunch of couches and colorful tables would hide the barred windows and the fact that John can't find a single sharp object in it. Even the tables are round, in a parody of an enlarged kindergarten playroom. The only thing that is missing is a heap of stuffed animals to go with it. John eyes the board games stacked in a corner of the room and thinks they might not be that far off.
John takes a seat next to Sam on one of the couches, heroically refraining from rolling his eyes when the boy scoots further away on the couch with a huff that is all teenage agitation. There used to be a time when Sam had plastered himself to John's side without care for grudge or appearances. He'd been four when he'd started it, and John isn't under any delusion as to the cause of the sudden clinginess, since it had followed more or less directly after Dean's institutionalization. Sam had kept some of his affection at bay, affection John suspects he had reserved for Dean, but most of it had been directed at John in Dean's absence. Sometimes, John misses the easy way he used to interact with Sam, when it had been a matter of a few words and the promise of ice cream to make Sam dimple up with brilliant, dazzling smiles that made the world look less horrible than John knew it to be, if only for a moment.
Bobby stands not far away across from them, but the distance is enough to send John a clear message of 'your mess, not mine'. Good for nothing pain in the ass, is what Bobby is.
They don't have to wait for long.
The door opens and John immediately turns his head to watch as two orderlies nudge Dean into the room.
The first thing John notices about his boy is the dark bruise marring his beautiful face along his right cheek. He bites back a snarl at the thought of anyone hurting his boy. A set of red scratch marks streaks the other side of his face and neck, disappearing beneath a black t-shirt. His hair has grown longer since John has last seen him, but in comparison to Sam's adolescent rebellion against scissors, it looks cropped short like a soldier's. His shoulders are hunched, in what John has learned to recognize as eternal paranoia. His eyes, green and lively and oh, so much like Mary's, dart around the room without focusing on anything long enough to be considered anything but a brief glance. John wonders if he even sees them at all.
The orderlies help Dean into an armchair to John's right, and Dean sneers up at the pair without restraint.
John hears Sam gasp beside him, but he can't take his eyes off his firstborn. He is thinner than the last time he saw him. Is he not eating well? Did he get sick? His freckles are standing out noticeably against his fair skin, making John wonder if Dean had been denied time outside and why. The shirt John had bought for him three months ago hangs from his bowed shoulders.
John braces himself.
"Dean," he says, but Dean doesn't look at him. He looks into the empty air floatingly. John clears his throat, and tries again. "Do you know who I am, Dean?"
Dean does look at him then, eyes full of accusations and barely-contained rage as the boy bares his teeth and growls at him. His eyes slip then, just a fraction, but enough that his eye catches Sam's figure beside John.
John bites his lip.
"Dean," Sam says, sounding unsure and hesitant. His eyes glance sideways to meet John's before he re-focuses on his older brother with renewed determination. Dean watches Sam with an unwavering gaze, seemingly captured by Sam's voice.
John starts when Sam stands up slowly, taking a small step towards Dean. The orderlies take a step forward as well, to stop Dean in case he lashes out. Dr. Reece waves them away with his hand, looking unworried and curious.
"Do you- um." Sam stops when Dean's eyes lock with his own, and John can see the exact moment recognition slams into Dean because the boy lets out a sharp exhale like it had been punched out of him and his eyebrows pull together in the same confused, desperate manner John remembers from long visits explaining to Dean why he couldn't come home yet, why he couldn't see Sammy yet. "Do you know who I am?"
Dean extends his hand in Sam's direction, and Sam is just close enough for their fingers to touch. Sam gasps and looks at Dean and John thinks he's going to pass out any second now, because those are his boys, in the same room, together.
Sam takes another half a step closer, and Dean tangles their fingers together and pulls him the rest of the way until John's youngest is standing directly in front of Dean, a hair's breadth away.
Dean brings his and Sam's interlocked fingers up and John can feel his eyes stinging as Dean's green irises disappear behind freckled eyelids and the boy inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of his brother for the first time in twelve years. It's not normal by any standards for a nineteen year old to sniff his brother, but John can ignore the way Sam shudders for now because his boys, together. He has never thought he'd see this again. Never thought he'd witness his family, united at last.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam positively melts into Dean's embrace when the latter opens his arms and buries his face in Sam's blue American Eagle t-shirt.
Sam raises one hand and rests it on Dean's head, fingers weaving into the short strands as his brother quivers and shakes with soft sobs and howls like a wounded animal.
After Dean quiets down, Sam takes half a step back. "What happened to your face?" he asks, running a hand down Dean's purple cheek gently, fingers catching the tears as they drop.
John's eldest son quirks a smile that still manages to look cocky, tears and all. "You should see the other guy," he quips, and John turns his head to raise an eyebrow at Dr. Reece, who sighs in defeat.
"Did you beat someone up?" Sam continues to trail his fingers up and down the bruised portion of Dean's face, and John's jaw tightens when Dean sucks in a breath, a shudder shaking his shoulders and his eyes closing as he leans into Sam's touch.
"Asshole deserved it, way he was roughing up Cas," he breathes, one long exhale, eyes fluttering open again when Sam retrieves his hand.
"Who's Cas?"
John watches them, gradually relaxing as the tension in the room dissipates, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Bobby taking a couple of steps back to lean against a wall.
"Friend o' mine," Dean mumbles, eyes narrowing as he takes in the other people in the room, as if seeing them for the first time. "He's an angel," he says decisively, daring anyone to contradict him.
John swallows down his sigh.
Sam, however, only looks more curious. John had explained Dean's condition to Sam in detail before coming here, had talked about his delusions, his explosive, violent fits, his hallucinations, but none of that seems to deter Sam now. If anything, Sam looks awed at Dean's twisted concept of reality.
"Can't Cas defend himself?" Sam asks, a bit indignantly, eyes latching onto Dean's scratched neck.
"His powers got taken away."
John can still remember the day Dean had told him about his new friend, an angel who had been stripped of his powers and forced to take over the body of one Jimmy Novak, a blue-eyed teen with a strange speech pattern and an aversion to touch. John had met the boy twice, the first time when he'd been dragged by the arm by an enthusiastic Dean who had babbled incessantly about introducing them, and the second time when he had been waiting for Dean in his room and the small boy had poked his head inside and inquired about Dean's whereabouts. The overall impression John has of the boy is a grudging sort of acceptance that this is Dean's life now. Still, he worries. It doesn't help that Jimmy shares Dean's delusion, thinking that he is an angel.
"Oh," Sam wrinkles his nose in confusion, and John warned him about this. He shouldn't be surprised. Shouldn't look so disappointed behind the stubborn mask of forced composure. Dean misses the way Sam frowns and looks at John like he's five years old again and waiting for John to fix it. It hurts watching his youngest struggle with things no fourteen year old should be dealing with. John tries to smile, tries to reassure him everything's fine. Sam breathes in deeply before turning back to Dean. "Why?"
"He tried to save the world from-" Dean's gaze lands on John again, and John can tell he's contemplating whether to tell Sam his truth or pretend for his little brother's sake that everything is normal. That little spark of Dean, how his caring for his brother manages to show through the insanity and the mess that is Dean's head, is like a drop of water in an otherwise dry desert. John is desperate for it.
Sam waits patiently, so mature for his age, and when he tentatively touches Dean's shoulder, Dean shifts unconsciously towards him. "It's okay. You don't have to-"
"Demons," Dean blurts out, wide eyes darting between Sam's and John's faces and John knows what he sees there, knows the sadness and defeat in his own eyes. "They were planning an apocalypse, takin' over the world an' all that jazz. Cas stood up to them, but the other angels didn't like that, 'cause they wanted to take over the world, too."
"I thought angels are supposed to be good," Sam mutters.
"Most of 'em are total dicks," Dean says seriously, and Sam lets out a small laugh. John finds himself smiling along. It's either this or burst into tears at how far gone his son is. "Cas is decent, though."
John sits there while the conversation continues. At some point, Sam perches himself at the cushioned armrest of the chair Dean is sitting in, and Dean's arm wraps around Sam's waist, bringing him closer as he talks about ghosts and demons, about a shapeshifter who had pretended to be one of the nurses and about the demon Dean had exorcised when he'd first arrived here, and so on.
Sam listens, eyes wide and tragic, humming and nodding when the story warrants it, keeping quick, sideway glances and an avid, twitching ear on John's whispered conversation with the doctor (Dean's been doing better, socializing more – the new medication lacks the side effects the previous had, but they're still monitoring him for apathy and depression – he still talks about Sam on group therapy sessions, still asks when he can see him again) and Bobby's occasional pipe-in.
Dean doesn't seem to realize what is going on outside of his conversation with Sam. He completely ignores all of them, eyes on the little brother he has been denied for over a decade. His hand is clutching Sam's shirt where it's wrapped around the boy, and when they laugh, they lean into each other, heads intimately close together.
Eventually, it's time for them to go. Dinner at the institute is approaching and they have to keep Dean on a strict schedule, because patterns are the one thing that John has learned calms Dean down. Therapy and medication only bring him so far. The repetition and routine are what takes the stress off Dean's shoulders and allows him to think clearly more often than not. John half-suspects that Dean's rant about monsters today was caused by the deviation from his usual daily routine.
Dean hadn't understood that their time was limited, and it proves to be a problem when, at Dr. Reece's announcement that the Winchesters would be leaving now, Dean growls at the man and stands up, bringing Sam closer so his back is flush against Dean's chest, Sam's brown hair – John needs to cut it, damn thing keeps getting in his eyes like he's some teen heartthrob – brushing against the short stubble Dean has grown since he had shaved this morning.
"We will be back, son," John promises, eyeing the security men when they make to come closer. This is family business, but John is not above using offered assistance wherever Sam's safety is concerned.
"You ain't gonna take him, you sonofabitch!"
Sam's eyes are wide and, for the first time today, there is a hint of fear in them. This is what John had been afraid of, all these years ago. Still is afraid of. Now more than ever, with Dean's muscular arm across Sam's chest, so close to his throat.
"Dean," John speaks softly.
"No!"
"Dean," Dr. Reece's low voice carries through the room, and Dean freezes, eyebrows pulling together in confusion, as if he can't relate Sam's presence and the memories it stirs with the reality of his mental health facility institutionalization and the doctors that come with it. "You're scaring Sam."
Dean frowns in incomprehension.
Sam sucks in a stuttering breath when Dean squeezes him tighter against his chest. Dean purses his lips, mind going a mile a minute behind confused eyes as John watches, fascinated, how his firstborn tries to make sense of the situation. Finally, he seems to settle on a conclusion, because and leans his head forward, lips at Sam's ear, and whispers something so quietly John can't pick it up. Sam's eyes widen some more, a red tinge to his cheeks as Dean drags his lips across the skin as he talks, and John has to bite at the inside of his cheek and press blunt fingernails into the skin of his palms through fisted hands to keep from lashing out in protest.
Just when John thinks he is going to storm over to them and wrench them apart, Dean disentangles himself from Sam, stepping backwards with his hands raised in surrender.
Sam stays frozen is place, back rigid and blinking rapidly, and John shuffles forward barely an inch before the boy closes the distance between them and steps around John to hide himself behind John's back.
Dean's eyes never leave Sam as what this place's security has to offer escort him out, his gaze intense and unwavering, focused in an unnatural way, an unhealthy way, and John feels a drop of sweat bead at his temple when he catches sight of Dean licking his lower lip a moment before the stare is broken when they push him out of the door.
John remains tense until Bobby comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder, eyes sympathetic but resolute moving back and forth between John and Sam, the latter of which is breathing shallow, quick breathes and looking like he's seconds away from a meltdown.
John reaches for his son, clamping a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into his chest. The boy comes without protest, huddling close through his shock.
"S'okay, kiddo," John murmurs into his hair.
A few moments later, Sam nods and pulls back, taking a huge breath and collecting himself. His eyelashes clump with tiny tear drops, and his eyes are glassy. "Can we come back?" he asks.
John hesitates. Dean's fixation on Sam is extremely unhealthy. He knows that. He also knows that Sam might never forgive him if he doesn't allow him to see his newly discovered brother ever again. A part of him, one that he had and has and is unsuccessfully trying to stifle for Sam's sake, one he knows he can never truly get over, whispers in the back of his mind that he can't take Sam away from Dean, either. Can't do that to his eldest, can't hurt him like that. Can't hurt him more.
But…
"Yes, we can come back," he says, despite knowing that he shouldn't. Bobby's face is indecipherable, but Sam's is glowing through his tears, cheeks wet and flushed, a hint of a smile like a light at the end of this dark, crumbling tunnel.
But… the look on Sam's face when Dean held him forcefully, the confusion, the shock, the pain…
John can't forgive himself for putting them there, for bringing Sam to this place, showing him this Dean, this version of Dean, so lost in his own twisted reality that he can't even recognize his own father, so lost in his own obsession that he knows Sam even after all these years.
"You still thinkin' it was a good idea to bring Sam here?" John grumbles to Bobby as they walk back to the car, hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching Sam's back as the kid saunters ahead in front of them.
Bobby adjusts his hat on his head and clears his throat. John ignores the way Bobby pats his pocket into which John had seen the head of security slip a business card with a cellphone number scrawled in a blue pen on it. "'least 'e got to meet 'is brother."
John looks over at Sam where he stands near the Impala's slick back door, impatiently tapping his foot on the pavement, sour-faced and glaring daggers and so much John's son that his heart aches.
John doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. He doesn't know if he's not hurting his boys more by keeping them apart than he would have by keeping them together. He doesn't know if Dean will ever be completely lucid. He doesn't know how this would end.
All John knows is that today he saw his boys together and, for the first time in twelve years, they felt like a family.