Title:
Complications
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: DJ
Sparkles
Rating: FRAO (language, mostly, so far)
Disclaimer: I no own,
you no sue. I'll put them back when I'm done.
Spoiler
Warning: Um, possible spoilers for all seasons so far… don't want
spoiled, don't read. BIG spoilers for In My Time of Dying, Heart,
All Hell Breaks Loose, Parts 1&2, and season 3.
Timeline:
Diverges from Canon after episode 3x03, Bad Day at Black Rock. This
means it's AU, folks. Alternate Universe. Some facts, features,
and faces might be different than in canon. Don't like? Don't
read. You've been warned.
Beta: Ithil-valon,
River. You ladies just ROCK, you know that?
Pairings: None so
far.
Part Nine
It was a nice picture, Bobby thought as he watched them: father, son, and family pet, except he knew that pet was actually the other son. He kept his grip on the shotgun but lowered it carefully. Still, he kept his finger on the trigger. He knew he wouldn't have to use it, but it was always smart to keep an ace in the hole. John was thunderstruck, Sam was watchful, and Dean… well, who knew what went on in Dean's head when he was himself, let alone now. "Now that you guys have the pissing contest crap out of the way, get in here. It's cold out. These old bones don't take it as well as they used to."
John was first to react, rising from the ground, one hand outstretched toward his boys. His boys, he reminded himself. His boys, though one of them was wearing a fur coat and the other looked like he'd rather be ANYWHERE but there just at that moment. "Come on. Bobby's right, we need to be inside." He knew they would understand. There were protections in there, protections from the horrors that walked the night, and he had a sudden twinge when he realized Dean now numbered among them. A werewolf. He couldn't get his mind around the concept. Common sense said that he should take that shotgun from Singer and put the thing down, but his heart… well, his heart wasn't listening. That was his son, and he'd be DAMNED if he'd commit that sin as well as all the others he was guilty of. "Sam? Come on. You can tell me exactly how this happened. We'll figure a way to fix it."
Sam nodded and followed his father, his mind spinning with questions he wanted to ask and didn't quite have the courage for. If this was really his dad, why wasn't he trying to kill Dean? Werewolves, John had always taught them, were beyond redemption. Period. He felt rather than saw Dean padding along beside him, but he didn't dare look down. They were already in enough trouble. John had ordered Dean, before he died, to look out for Sam. To protect him… and to KILL him if he went darkside. The thought beat at him, that his own father had given a command to kill him. Granted, it was only a last ditch measure, but it still didn't sit well with Sam. He couldn't get the thought out of his head. Still, he summoned a half smile for the older hunter. "You're not old, Bobby." He touched Bobby's shoulder as he passed, simultaneously offering support and asking for it in return. He had no idea what was going to happen next but he was starting to get that familiar helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach. The one he always had when his father was about to lecture him on his shortcomings.
He spent the better part of the next hour going over everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours, in order, out of order, all around the order, backward, forward, and everything in between until Bobby finally broke in and demanded a halt. "It ain't gonna matter how many times he goes over it, jackass, the story won't change. Sam, bed. It's late. Dean--"
"No." It was Dean's voice, but lower, rougher, more guttural than it had ever been before. The others turned to regard him with varying expressions of dismay.
He'd been behind the couch during Sam's entire recital, but he hadn't been idle. He'd managed somehow to shift himself partway back to human, enough to make himself understood, anyway. "It wasn't... his fault." It was obviously taking an enormous effort just to hold the transition to be able to speak. He was shaking and appeared exhausted already, but he wouldn't stop. "My job... take care of Sam. My fault."
Bobby shook his head but said nothing. That was Dean, clear through. Sam was always foremost in his mind, always his first concern. John had fostered that all his life, and Dean had soaked it up like a sponge.
Sam glared at Dean. "No. Not your fault. Mine. I didn't check the equipment, Dean. Dad's right, this time, it's my fault." He would make no comment about the control his brother was exerting over the condition; it was a mark of his faith in Dean that he'd known it would come to this. That Dean would control the wolf, rather than the other way around. And Sam would take the responsibility for his mistake. He'd grown enough to know when he had to face up to his screw-ups, whether his dad understood that or not. He wasn't 18 any more, desperate to be normal. He was a hunter, for good and all, and he knew he'd screwed up. He was just glad Dean was still alive.
Dean had to hold onto the back of the couch to be able to stand, but he was nearly all human again. Two hours to dawn, and he'd controlled the change. He'd brought himself back. He counted it a major victory, but he wasn't sure he was going to be able to let go and walk to a bed. "Fine. You screwed up. But it's working out. Big question now, people... how the hell is Dad alive and here?" He gave a pointed glance at his father. "We can worry about the werewolf thing later."
"We can worry about all of it later," Bobby said firmly. "Bed. All of ya. This place is as safe as I can make it, and we're coming up on daylight which is less dangerous, but still could be bad. Get some sleep and we'll suss things out when we wake up." He knew there was a lot to discuss. John's presence was one thing, Dean's deal was another. He didn't have that much longer before that bitch came to collect. But they'd all do well for some sleep. John looked about to fall over and he was hurt besides. Dean was barely keeping his feet, and Sam... Sam was a mess of insecurity and guilt right now and didn't need anyone making it worse. "John, that couch is still a good place to sleep. The boys'll be upstairs in the guest room. Now let's get some rest and come at this with fresh heads in the morning."