What Should Have Never Been Pt 3
Author: Linda Atkinson
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: FRT
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, OCs
Warnings: Completely AU after What Is and What Should Never Be, some rough language, violence, angst, Drug-use, abuse, Evil Sam(maybe).
Summary: Dean is so shaken by events in What Is and What Should Have Been that he makes a deal with the cross-roads demon to change the past so that his father doesn't become a hunter and ends up in a alternate world where things are radically different, except that he alone can remember the original time-line.
Many thanks to Sioux_Sioux for the lovely beta on the story.
Dean turned resting his hip against the split rail fence separating the jogging path he was currently standing on and the fishing pond that didn't seem to actually contain any fish. He looked down the path where his father was making slow but steady progress up the hill. The older man was panting, and sweating heavily, but he hadn't stopped running. Dean smiled.
It had been almost a month since Dean had walked into this living nightmare of a world. It seemed that he could never catch a break, but he should have known not to trust a demon. When he asked for his Dad alive, for a normal childhood, for Sammy in college he had been thinking The Brady Bunch, he had gotten Nightmare on Elm Street, but that was okay. Dean could deal.
He watched as John staggered to a halt beside him dragging the hem of his t-shirt over his face. His father was out of shape, or at least he had been. Once Dean had started dumping John's anti-psychotic medicine the older man had become more focused. He had clearer recall and without the appetite suppressing effects he was at a normal weight for his height. So Dean had set about getting John back into fighting shape. They had been coming to the park every morning to run. John had bitched and whined about it at first, but now he was actually smiling at his son.
"Good job today, Dad," Dean said smiling.
He really needed to keep John at ease especially when they got around to the next bout of training exercises that Dean had in mind. He had gotten the first batch of credit cards in the mail at the post office box he had rented with one of his phony IDs. Michael Weaver had a nice credit history and he was about to buy a couple of guns.
But for now Dean was sticking to PT and getting John back up to speed fitness-wise. It wasn't actually that hard, even with the years of hard living, his father had never really looked or acted his age in the other time line, at fifty-two his father could still kick ass. Here, John had not spent the years fighting and drinking, but was also healthier, without the debilitating effects of the medications.
They finished their morning exercise and headed back to the Impala. John slid behind the wheel, looking nervously at his son. Dean smiled encouragingly.
"Go ahead, Dad. You remember how to drive."
"I haven't done it in twenty-three years. I'm not sure that I can, and I don't have a license anymore."
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," Dean winced pawing through the glove compartment. "You do have a license, just not as John Winchester. For the time being we're John and Dean Porter, father and son recently out of Fort Myers, Florida."
"You have fraudulent ids?" John asked gaping like a fish out of water. Dean frowned.
"Who do you think taught me how to make them? We also have birth certificates, gun permits and credit cards."
John looked at him shocked, and if Dean had to honestly admit it, a little awed. The older man smiled.
"What kind of life have you had? What kind of man was I?"
"You were a bad-ass sonofabitch, Dad. A demon hunter; the one everybody called when the shit hit the fan and no one else could clean it up."
"You knew it was real, and you let them put me in that place. You let them give me electric shock therapy. You let them drug me out of my mind, and you didn't say anything?"
"Not me, I'm the good guy here. The other guy, the one we don't talk about, he let them do that. I'm trying to fix it 'cause those demons and shit are really out there. And we can do something about it."
"Okay, where do we go?"
Dean smiled. "Saint Francis of Rome, first off. We need to pick up a few things. We'll get some holy water, until you learn how to do it again. I've never had the knack myself. A couple of rosaries and a couple of Latin prayer books. I'm going to teach you Latin, Sammy and I were both fluent in it by the time we were twelve. You'll pick it up again."
They stopped by the Goodwill shop and Dean got John a few cotton work shirts. They were frayed around the cuffs and collars but still wearable. He talked his father into ditching the chambray button down in favor of a black t-shirt and grey cotton garage shirt with the sleeves rolled a quarter of the way up. And they dumped his sneakers in favor of a pair of steel-toed work boots. Dean grinned. He was also glad that Sammy made their dad use an electric razor; it never did more than trim his beard down to a few days stubble. Looking over at the man behind the wheel he smiled. This was his father, not that poor drugged-up sap he had first met.
They passed the sign for an Albertsons and Dean motioned for his Dad to pull into the parking lot. John parked the car and followed the younger man inside. Dean dragged his father through the isles picking up a half a dozen cans of lighter fluid and a huge box of matches.
"We're gonna start you off easy. Just a quick salt and burn. It'll be no problemo," Dean said smiling. "Got it Dad?"
"Yeah, no problem, er, no problemo, son," John frowned. "Just what am I salting and burning? I've never been diagnosed as a pyromaniac."
"Dad, keep it down. You should have never been diagnosed as anything. There's nothing wrong with you, okay."
"My doctor won a Nobel prize in psychiatry."
Dean sneered, "That doctor is a skanky-assed quack."
"Yeah," John echoed. "Skanky-assed quack."
"Dad, you don't have to agree with everything I say."
"Okay, you're right, son."
Dean sighed.
"Don't agree with me all the time. It's annoying. Let's just get this stuff. You go down that isle, get four bags of rock salt and bring them to me in picnic supplies."
"Hell no, fuck that…"
"Dad, what the hell is your problem?" Dean snapped and John flinched.
"You said not to agree with you all the time."
"Get the damned salt, Dad."
Once the supplies had been purchased and stored in the car's trunk, Dean directed John to their next stop. John nodded worriedly then pulled the car onto the freeway, heading to the older section of town near the railroad tracks. The Impala bumped over the tracks and he made a right turn into a parking lot. Dean smiled, and climbed out. John sat behind the wheel staring at the row of glittering chrome and leather motorcycles lined up in front of the rough, wood-beam building.
A green neon sign flashed above the car on a tall pole, even taking into account for the burned out R in one of the words the sign still read, Dirrrty Joe's.
John shuffled in the seat behind the wheel looking up at his son standing beside the door. With a grimace he watched as Dean tugged the handle and the door swung outward. Steeling himself John stepped out into the hot, late afternoon sun.
"I haven't been to a place like this since before I married your mother. She wouldn't let me go, and now I can't drink because of my meds."
"See that's where you're wrong, Dad. No more meds. Come one we're wasting good drinking time."
John swallowed hard, sliding up beside the younger man. He watched two bearded well muscled men of the no-neck variety walk out the door. Grabbing Dean's hand John waded to the door pale-faced, and shaking. Dean looked down at his father's fingers intertwined with his own and sighed.
"Dude, you can't hold my hand, it's not that kind of bar."
John dropped his hand smiling grimly. With a sigh John hissed, "I don't know Dean. Some of these people look pretty disreputable."
"Dad," Dean said with a grin. "You used to be the most disreputable guy in the place."
Dean parked John at the bar and ordered a couple of Corona Golds. John took the sweaty, glistening bottle and tipped it up. The cool liquid flowed smoothly over his tongue. It was crisp and cold and took his breath away, but it felt so right. He smiled, watching as Dean strutted around the pool table, and nod at the guy holding the cue.
An hour later Dean was up by two hundred bucks and John was on his fourth beer. He slurped it a little as he up-ended the bottle too quickly and the fluid dribbled over his chin. Quickly John swiped the cuff of his shirtsleeve over his face. Belching loudly he leaned back against the bar and watched as the ceiling did a sharp turn to the right.
Suddenly there was a loud noise to his left, and John turned just in time to see the large guy with a black tattoo of a bulldog on his bicep swing the cue at his son. With a snarl John leapt forward his foot caught on the barstool and he fell back hitting the bar. The stool whirled across the floor catching the guy in the thigh bringing him to his knees. Dean grinned and clipped the guy right in the temple with a hard right hook. John grinned until one of the guy's buddies took exception to the two men tag-teaming his friend and waded into the fray. John managed to duck the punch thrown at his jaw and smashed the nearly empty bottle on the friend's forehead. The guy went down like a poled ox.
Mourning the remains of his beer John staggered away from the guy he had just cold-cocked with the bottle. There was a shout from behind the bar, and John walked into a sucker punch thrown by the bartender. He cringed, yelling and spitting blood on the man standing beside him. The guy jumped back a frown twisting his face. John managed to get one steel-toed boot into the guy's instep and a knee in his groin purely by accident, and then jerked when a hand fell on his shoulder. It was Dean.
The crowd was milling around as if trying to make head or tails of the situation at the pool table, and Dean pocketed his money, threw a barstool into the center isle and tugged his father to the door.
They made it to the car just as the first faint sounds of sirens split the air. Grinning from ear to ear Dean jumped behind the wheel and cranked the engine. The Impala turned over with an impressive roar and the car hit the street long before the first flashing lights painted the twilight sky.
John was laughing uncontrollably and Dean went right along with him. He looked over at the man in the car feeling a warm sense of familiarity. John smiled at him, the first warm, genuine smile that Dean had seen, and it hit him right in the gut. His father was staring at the windshield, eyes wide, the crimson stain on his cheeks stood out like the bright stripes of a fever. Dean looked down, and then blushed himself; apparently John had enjoyed the fight very much.
Quickly Dean turned the car down Madison Avenue. He remembered the area from the few times he and John had driven through Palo Alto checking on Sammy. He hoped that things hadn't changed that much in this reality. Dean was gratified to see that they hadn't.
On the curb just in front of a worn down theater were several young women, all garishly made up and scantily clad. Pulling the car up he motioned one of the girls over. She looked to be about twenty-five from a distance but up-close Dean could tell she was pushing thirty. That was okay, his Dad wouldn't be comfortable with one of the teen-aged girls. Pulling twenty-five dollars out of his pocket he whispered in her ear. Shrugging she went around the car and opened John's door, tugging him out of the seat. He glanced over at Dean and when the younger man nodded he disappeared into the alley with the girl.
It didn't take long, and John was back at the door, face crimson with embarrassment. Dean looked over at him, and if possible his father blushed even more. Settling into the car, Dean smiled at the other man.
"Nice girl?" he asked.
John nodded.
"Yeah, very… cooperative." Glancing back as the girls vanished into the twilight John sighed. "They were hookers weren't they?"
"Does it matter? She was nice to you wasn't she?"
John blushed again. "Yeah… really, really nice. She should have a pillow in the alley; 'cause I bet her knees get sore…"
"Dad, please!" Dean hissed and it was his turn to blush.
John looked over at him a gentle smile curling his lip. Dean sighed. He cranked the window down and the radio up, and let the cool night breeze just flow over him.
Sam was waiting at the door when Dean and John got in. He took one look at John's worn, second hand shirt, flushed face and slightly out of focus eyes and screamed at Dean.
"Where the hell have you been? What have you had him up too?"
John frowned.
"I'm an adult Sammy, I can speak for myself." His speech was still a bit slurred although most of the alcohol he had consumed had worn off leaving him slightly hung-over but none the less exhilarated.
"I was talking to Dean, Dad."
John rounded on him.
"And I was talking to you, Sam."
"You have some nerve coming in my house, where I support your lazy ass and talking to me like that,"
John frowned.
"I know that Roger gave you the money for this house, and I know that he cashed in your mother's life insurance policy to do it. That was my money, my property, not part of the estate he got when he took conservatorship, the court had that set aside for me, for if I ever got well enough to live on my own. Well, I'm well enough now. He raided the bank account. You're the big shot law clerk you ask someone at the fancy office of yours what'll happen if I make an issue out if it. Whose house do you think it'll be then?"
Sam's face went white. His back was rigid, but he stepped back not accustomed to this wild-eyed stranger in his father's clothes. Dean's eyes were bright, his face flushed red and a smile crept across his lips. Sam whirled on his brother.
"You did this, you got him all riled up." Then turning back to his father Sam growled." I can't believe that you'd act like this Dad. After everything that I've done for you…"
John scoffed. "You had me locked up Sam. In some damned nuthouse. You let them give me eclectic shock treatments when there was nothing wrong with me…"
"And Dean beat you; at least I was trying to help you."
"Oh for God's sake Sammy. He beat me because you asked him to. He's different, he's changed. He took me out, got me drunk and in a bar fight and got me laid all in one night." John held up his hands in a rough imitation of scales balancing. "I'm looking at the two and from where I stand he's looking pretty good for my vote for favorite son right now."
With a grunt Sam jerked back. "It's almost one in the morning. You two had better get to bed. Don't think I won't call Roger in the morning."
John smiled wolfishly. "Do that 'cause I've got a lot to say to him."
Dean flopped down on the bed smiling. He and his Dad hadn't had a night like that in a long time. He remembered the slow summer nights of drinking and hustling pool, waiting in some back water little no-name town for another hunt to come up. He remembered the bottle of Jack Daniels resting by his father's elbow and, on some occasions, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, but by the time Dean had gone to fetch Sam from Palo Alto, by the time they had gotten back together with Dad all that had passed.
Then he remembered standing in the forest behind Bobby Singer's place watching a pyre burn. Shivering Dean rolled over closing his eyes against the pain. That was then, this is now. He father was warm and alive, and more himself than he had been at the end in the other time-line.
So maybe they couldn't have that white picket fence with him and Dad and Sammy all living happily ever after. This Sam was a self-righteous asshole. Of course, Dad had pretty much decided the other one was too. And truthfully even Dean had gotten weary of Sammy's constant bitching about "normal." Normal was whatever you had, when you had it. Dean always figured.
Sighing Dean lay back, letting his eyes drift close. He and Dad had screwed up a little. Sam was pissed off. Dean hadn't wanted to try and move on until his father was a little better trained, but they could get a hotel room somewhere, lay up for a while. Maybe even look up Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer see if they were still hunting. Dean was willing to bet they were, they had been at it longer than the Winchesters. He drifted to sleep.
John finished his shower. It was late, then glancing at the clock on the bedside table he amended that to it was early. But he was far too wound-up to sleep. He had enjoyed himself tonight, and he was wondering just what that meant about him. He had always thought of himself as a meek person, afraid of everything. But he had gotten drunk, beat up a guy in a bar and had sex with a prostitute, sort of. He wasn't sure if what she had done to him technically counted as sex. This man who called himself his son, this Dean, from who knew where, was a bad influence and John liked it just fine.
Smiling he pulled on his boxers and a t-shirt. Tossing the crisply starched cotton pajamas into the hamper he sat down on the edge of the bed. Quietly John rose from his seat and bent down by the dresser pulling out a photograph album. Flipping through the book John's hand settled on a large, fading picture of Mary and him, at their wedding. He looked so young and earnest in his dress-uniform gazing dazedly at the pretty girl who would be his wife.
He quickly flipped through the other pages, Mary and him at their tiny apartment, Mary pregnant, the house in Lawrence, and finally of Dean, his first birthday cake smeared from one end of his body to the other and John laughing beside him, chocolate handprints adorning both cheeks.
His fingers fell on the wisp of blond curl fastened to the page with tape, and a picture of Dean sitting on a horse shaped seat at Gilbert's barbershop in Lawrence, his first haircut. How had that doe-eyed baby boy become the hard-case pool hustling man who had dragged John to a biker bar? Had he done that? Was he that kind of man?
The door to the room swung inward, and his daughter-in-law slipped inside. She was dressed in her nightgown and robe, bare feet whispering over the floor. John looked up a tiny, embarrassed smile creeping across his face.
"Sara I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to upset Sammy. Of course I won't take the house from you, and him. Annie needs a home to live in…"
Sara cocked her head, and John stuttered to a halt. Something in the young woman's face sent a chill through him. He rose shakily and backed away, wanting to get to Dean. Before he could move Sara raised her hand and John found himself flung through the air, body thudding against the far wall. He groaned as he slid up the wall arms splayed to the side.
With a grim smile Sara walked forward, her robe swished quietly in the still air. John tried to struggle, jerking helplessly as unseen hands held him suspended in mid-air. The girl shook her head as her eyes flashed amber in the dim light.
"You should have just kept your mouth shut, John. As long as you were quiet and well behaved and didn't get in the way I didn't care if you lived or died. I don't know what the hell happened, but Dean just got you in deep shit, John."
Sara raised a hand and John caught the gleam of cold metal in her slender hand. She walked calmly toward him, face serene, and slashed the knife at him. The blade bit into his skin, across his arm but she aimed poorly and the gash didn't hit his wrist. With a hiss of anger Sara slashed at John's other arm. He winced trying to cry out. Dropping the knife on the floor Sara stepped back and John dropped heavily to the floor.
In his room Dean jerked awake, he sat up straining his ears to hear what had disturbed him. From down the hall, in his father's room, Dean heard the faint babble of voices then a loud thump. He sprang out of bed running for the door.
Sara was in the hall, looking in the door of John's room. Sam appeared at the door of their bedroom looking muddled and sleepy. He watched mutely as Dean shot past Sara and ran into John's room.
His father was lying on the floor and Dean gaped. John rolled over bringing his arms up and Dean dropped to his knees. He cradled John's head in his lap screaming over his shoulder,
"Sammy, call 911!"
"Oh god Dad, this is my fault. I shouldn't have taken you out today. It was too much," Dean murmured looking back at Sara as she stood grim faced and silent in the doorway. He bent down pressing a kiss to his father's temple. Whispering he pulled John further onto his lap, blocking Sara's view.
"She did this didn't she?"
John moaned nodding, "Her eyes were yellow."
Dean stood watching as the ambulance pulled away. Sam was following the paramedics in his car. He turned, and the girl smiled. Dean felt his blood run cold.
"They're going to put him away for good this time Dean. He'll never see the light of day. You'll be lucky if they don't lobotomize him now."
Grinning she stepped back as Dean whirled on her. He raised a hand, but dropped back when his eyes fell on the door to the nursery. His niece needed her mother, for now. With a smirk he shrugged.
"Don't count on it, bitch. I'm going to the hospital. If you're here when we get back, I'm exorcising your ass back to hell. Sammy will back me up on this one. Especially when I show him what you are."
With a low chuckle Sara shot Dean a look of her own.
"Don't count on it, Dean. You're in for one hell of a surprise."
TBC