A/N: Yeah, okay, I lied. I'm just going to post a chapter per day. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, and keeps my muse pushing out stories.
Author Note at Chapter One explains how the story is told. (i.e. in reverse.)
7/27/15 - Updated to fix a missing scene break, which would have accounted for some FB regarding this section reading weird. My apologies.
CHAPTER TWO
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean does his best to follow the conversation going on between Bobby and his father but he's having a hell of a time concentrating on what's happening around him, the spoken words and getting all of the colors right. The random slips into double-vision aren't helping matters, and every time he blinks to clear it, the room taunts him and swings around nauseatingly.
John stands abruptly from the table and Dean's been playing tough but his brain has a hard time catching up, a stuttered filmstrip that grays out for a long moment. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, taking deep breaths, willing the room to have righted itself when he opens them again. It has, but that only means he can now clearly see the expression on his father's face as the man rushes toward Dean.
"M'okay," he forces out, wishing he was feeling up to moving fast enough to get up from the chair and run to another room. Anything to escape this pitiful look on big bad John Winchester's face. He tries to move but his father's large hands are encircling his face, and a chill runs down Dean's spine at the contact. He hurt me, he remembers. Knocked me out. He gave his dad one back though, that's for sure. John's left eye is impressively blackened, ringed with a perfectly fist-sized splash of swollen purple discoloration.
Dean jerks away again, more violently, and this time John lets him, draws his hands away to hang awkwardly at his sides as he stares helplessly and helplessly remorseful. Knowing he went too far, no matter the circumstances. Dean has no use for his remorse. He's sorry for what happened but his father rendered him unconscious twice and kicked him across a room, breaking two ribs in the process. Two, based on Bobby's best guess, on a cursory, experienced examination.
He wavers on unsteady legs in the middle of the kitchen, both older men looking at him with wide eyes, waiting to see what happens next, waiting for Dean to make a move. He bails out, averts his gaze and excuses himself with a mumble. "I'm gonna get some air."
Bobby nods kindly. "Sure thing, son. Take your time."
Dean doesn't have to be looking at his father to know that Bobby's words have ruffled all kinds of feathers. He tucks his arm into his side like an injured wing and moves as swiftly as he can manage through the house, bursting out onto the front porch and filling his lungs with crisp autumn air. The scent of fallen dead leaves stings his nostrils and his ribs growl at him as his lungs expand. Pinpricks of discomfort draw his attention like a cat's kneading claws.
He leans on the railing, slowing his breathing to a more normal, less painful rhythm. You can stay, he thinks, surprising himself. For a moment, he wonders if the job isn't over, if the ghost isn't still influencing his thoughts, because these can't be his thoughts. But they are. You can let Dad go, and stay here with Bobby. Help him with the cars. He shakes his head, pounds a fist on the railing because, no, he can't.
"You put all this in his head!"
The yelling is what draws Dean back inside, barely muffled through the rooms and boards of the house. He quietly opens the front door and stops just inside, carefully eyeing the back of his father's head. If Bobby sees him there in the hallway, he does well not to tip John off.
"Don't you put this on me, John. That ghost was going to get your boy with or without me in the picture."
What? Dean takes careful steps down the hallway, closing in on the conversation, drawn in like a moth to a flame.
"Maybe that's so, but you pouring drinks and filling his head with ideas of 'what should have been' and blaming his life on me certainly didn't help matters any."
"John, if you feel guilty about something, about the way your boys were raised, then maybe that's just how you feel. Stop trying to put it on everyone else."
"I'm not putting anything on anyone."
Bobby scoffs. "The way I hear it, you're runnin' off friends left and right. Am I to be next?"
"Depends on what next comes out of your mouth, I s'pose."
Dean has never heard his father speak to Bobby like this. It's enough to paralyze his brain, root his feet in place while he tries to make sense of what's happening.
"Sam's left – "
Oh, shit. Dean takes a cautious step forward, because this is his cue to step in, this is when he defends Dad, but something stops him before he crosses the threshold.
" – and rather than pause a moment to quietly reflect on what a sonuvabitch you truly are, you just started haulin' Dean's ass all over the damn place."
As Bobby's voice rises in volume and pitch, John's remains low and calm. "I would like to think you of all people would have a little sympathy for my situation, Bobby."
Bobby is pacing in the kitchen, coming in and out of Dean's line of sight. "Me of all…John, when you lost Mary you still had those boys. You still had a family."
"And what I do with my family is my business."
"When you brought that kid through my door dead on his feet and lookin' backed over by a damn cement truck, you made it MY business." Bobby punctuates his statements with an uncharacteristic finger jabbed at John. "I can't believe you, coming here lookin' to pick my brain, thought I was so addle-minded I wouldn't catch on."
John tenses, and Dean doesn't dare breathe. "What are you talking about?"
"You knew. You knew exactly what that ghost was doin' from the jump, and you went lookin' for it! You knew you might as well have had bait on a hook."
Dean's head whips from Bobby to his father. John's jaw is set, no reaction in his face to what he's just been accused of. No denying it, either. A silent moments passes between the men that speaks volumes.
Bobby is undeterred. "You're so damned MAD, John. At Sam, at the world, at yourself. And now lookit you. You couldn't take it out on Sam and you might as well have handed Dean to that ghost on a goddamned silver platter, just to see if he was thinkin' the same sorts of things."
John's shoulders tense; the accusation isn't in the way he looks back at Dean but in the way he doesn't. He doesn't seem to think there's anything worth saying on the matter. Doesn't deny it, just sits stonily while Bobby continues.
"Seein' you treat your boys this way, it's an insult to those of us who never HAD a chance to have a family."
Like every pulled elastic band, John has a breaking point. Like every bending stick, he had to snap eventually.
He drums his fingertips on the tabletop and releases a low, humorless chuckle. The calm before the storm, and even a stranger would have known to heed the warnings. "Don't you do that. Don't villainize me that way, Singer. You had EVERY chance to have a family."
Bobby wears his emotions much more visibly than John. Something about John's words has violently struck a chord with the older hunter. He stares with wide, horrified eyes, and rocks back a step as though physically shoved. He reaches out a hand to the tabletop, unsteady on his heavily booted feet. "How'd you know about that?"
Dean spots an unfamiliar ferocity in his father's eyes as he levels his gaze at his old friend. "People talk, Bob. And when it comes to you, they even talk to me."
Dean steps back, feeling just as horrified as Bobby looks. He knows his dad can be cold, is capable of playing dirty, of hitting below the belt, but has never witnessed him turning on a friend like this. Bobby is a private man, even more so when it comes to his life prior to becoming a hunter. They've never pried, but John has certainly uncovered some story from his past and is chucking it at Bobby just like a boot to the gut.
Bobby glances down, catches sight of at an old turkey-shooter propped up in the corner collecting dust, and it's in his hands as quickly as though it had materialized there. His eyes are dark, wet. "I've got a thick skin, and I can get over the things you've said to me, but I won't stand by and watch you single-handedly destroy all you have left in this world, John. Get."
There may be a reason or an excuse or, hell, even an apology in John's mind, but certainly not on his lips. Not when he so clearly knows Dean is standing right behind him.
One day they'll chuckle over this, the two of them. Dean will make light of the moment for Sammy's sake and Bobby will let him, but in the moment he feels like they're all standing on a ledge, waiting each other out.
"Get the hell outta my house." Bobby cocks the shotgun. "You're welcome back here when you treat that boy like he's your son, not your damned soldier. Not a pig sent to slaughter."
John stands, and before Dean can blink he's disarmed Bobby, almost too easily. Another patented, unnecessary John Winchester show of power. He expels the loaded cartridge and throws the gun to the table with a sneer, for the first time allowing his eyes to flick Dean's direction and acknowledge he was there the entire time. "If you're gonna shoot a man, shoot him. Don't talk about it first." He says it like he's teaching Bobby a lesson, but Bobby taught him everything he knows, and Dean knows his father will never be welcomed back here.
Bobby was never really going to shoot him and they all know it, it's just Dad being a dick, and Dean steps forward now, wanting to end this before the situation becomes as irreparable as he fears, moving to intervene the same way he's always had to with Sammy. Being the good son means his place is between Dad and whoever he's yelling at, no matter what they're yelling about. Good son, or good little soldier? "Dad…" But the thought is enough to stop him, and he retreats.
Bobby shakes his head, settles into a chair and drags the half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey towards himself. "This is a damn pity, John. This path you're on is gonna kill you."
What path? Dean thinks, a rise of panic in his chest, the creeping suspicion that this was never just another hunt has just been confirmed. He's been out of the loop on something since they pulled into the driveway, possibly and probably long before. What's he talking about? "Dad, what – "
"Pack up the car, Dean," John orders through clenched teeth. The bruises on his face are creating strange shadows and contours, an unfamiliar, villainous mask that's overtaken his already rough features. "We're leaving."
He brushes down the hall past Dean but Dean doesn't jump this time, for maybe the first time. He looks helplessly at Bobby.
Bobby isn't going to bail him out of this one. He shakes his head and runs a hand over the whiskers on his chin, gives a barely perceptible raise of his shoulders, like, ah, hell, kid. He wants Dean to make a choice.
"Dean!"
Dean startles and bumps into the table, jostling his cracked ribs. He jams an elbow into his side and backtracks down the hall, the fall of his boots echoing, rebounding off of the narrow walls. "Yeah…yes, sir."
He notes that John's things have already been cleaned out, and a quick glance out of the window confirms that he'd been packed already, his bag resting in the gravel at his feet as he rearranges things in the trunk. Ready to flee at a moment's notice, as always. Dean crams his soiled clothing and toiletries into his own bag and hefts the duffels in one go, stumbling back with a grunt when his abused body protests. Idiot.
Bobby's leaning in the hall as Dean steps gingerly down the stairs, balancing bags like a high wire walker. He can hear the thuds and clanks of John loading weapons into the car outside in the drive. Dean stops in front of Bobby but can't look him in the eyes. Knows he's embarrassingly out of the loop on something brewing between the two men, and knows with an even fiercer certainty that he's disappointed the man who's always been there for him when his father wasn't around.
Bobby reaches out, a warm, firm hand on his upper arm, and Dean looks up. "John's a good man, Dean, and I don't ever want you to think that I don't know that. I don't ever want to be the reason you think unfavorably of your father."
Dean nods.
Bobby's fingers flex around Dean's arm as his face softens. "All the same, you're welcome to stay."
Dean gathers every ounce of strength he's still clinging to and hefts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, wincing at the pull in his side. "I…can't, Bobby. But thanks for the offer."
Bobby smiles, small and maybe sad, and nods. "I had to. Don't let it be too long before I see you again."
"I won't, Bobby." All the same, they both know if Dean walks out that door now, it's not really up to him.
"Keep you and your daddy in one piece, and don't be mad at your brother."
"Yeah."
Dean pushes out of the house, the hinge of the screened door squeaking and rousing the attention of Rumsfeld from his nap on the porch. The big dog's tail wags once back and forth as he raises his head, and he whines as Dean stomps down the steps.
John is already behind the wheel, engine running and face set. Dean feels there's a timer running on him and he doesn't bother unloading his bag into the back seat, just drops onto the bench next to his father, dragging the duffel onto his lap. "Dad…"
"Don't." John jerks the car into 'reverse' but pauses with his hand there on the gearshift, car idling in the driveway. His eyes drift up to gaze out of the windshield, staring at the spot where Bobby is watching them from a rigid lean on the porch railing.
Dean frowns. "Dad, come on. Bobby's like family."
John swallows hard. "Yeah, well, I don't think we need any more family." A spray of gravel and a plume of dust kick up as John stomps on the gas pedal, lays it to the floor mat.
With a set jaw and determined steps, Bobby leads the way into the dark house, flipping light switches and grabbing up supplies as he passes them scattered on whatever flat surface was most convenient last time he needed antiseptic or a clean piece of gauze. The Winchesters follow on legs shaky for different reasons, and John hovers close enough to catch his son if he can't make it. But Dean's a tough, stubborn kid and mad as hell, and he weaves a fairly straight line into the kitchen. Bobby makes John wait for additional treatment while he tends to Dean, and he leans against the counter with a clean kitchen towel pressed to the reopened wound across his arm and a couple of aspirin down the hatch, a warm whiskey chaser with a follow-up poured and placed next to him. The least Bobby could do, and the least he deserves right now.
The job is finished, for good this time, and the whole group's been through the ringer. Streaked with blood, dust and dirt and all of them soaking wet and shivering. Bobby's hat is still saturated with rainwater, drying in small random patches of discoloration around the brim. For the moment the house is quiet but for the faint plips of cold water dropping from their clothes to the linoleum, a long, lingering clap of thunder from miles away. The storm outside has passed.
Bobby is oddly silent, picking out the things he'll need to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. He's clearly nursing a few aches and pains of his own, thrown head-first into a wall by a ghost-dazed Dean, and he's no young man. His joints protest and creak as he moves about and he's been short-changed on sleep the past few nights, John keeping him busy researching the Turner job and those demonic subjects they're keeping more off-book.
His old friend's face is a marbled pattern of dirt and sweat, and he's working on his second glassful of his favorite pain relief already, clearly either building the nerve or squashing the need to say something they'd all be uncomfortable with. Most likely the squashing, because Bobby's not typically lacking for nerve.
Dean is standing at the table, just barely keeping his legs under him but fighting not to show it. He leans heavily on his hands, bites his lip and stares down at the tabletop, at the glass of whiskey in front of him, debating the drink but something is stopping him. John's pretty sure his son has, at least temporarily, stopped giving a damn what his father thinks of him, so it must be the thought of Bobby's disapproval that's giving him pause. And John figures he's earned that. For the time being, at least.
John keeps his eyes steady on his son, absently picking at a splinter in the pad of his right index finger. Looking suddenly young and pale and ready to fall over, he's keeping plenty of distance between himself and his father, and John can't blame him. He's expected to apologize now, to beg for forgiveness from both of them, but his actions were self-defense, not unwarranted, and influenced by experience gained during this hunt that Dean would sure have a go at killing him if given the opportunity.
Dean's in some pain now, but he's alive, and so is John, so he can't say that he would have done anything differently. Broken bones heal, sometimes even quicker than bruised egos and hurt feelings, and there's plenty of all to go around in this room.
Dean's skin is a veritable palette of bruise hues. Older, yellowing splotches on his cheekbone and temple, and probably his arms, from tangling with the beast in Missouri. The abrasions from the car door have gone without the cover of a bandage the past couple of days, leaving a visible wound at his temple, shallow and scabbing. And itching, clearly, as Dean wiggles his nose and scratches quickly at the hair over his left ear. It isn't so easy to spot his newest injuries. The collar of his jacket is partially concealing the fresher discoloration ringing his throat, from being hooked in John's choke hold earlier in the day. Any additional bruising, of which John is sure there is plenty, is thankfully buried under his clothes.
But the bruises aren't the only obvious evidence of the violence that's taken place. A faint outline of a dusty boot print is drawn on the dark fabric of Dean's canvas jacket, right over the source of Dean's most obvious pain.
Bobby grasps the hem of Dean's charcoal gray t-shirt, lifts the fabric gingerly, and John averts his eyes when he first catches sight of the tightly sewn row of stitches repairing the knife wound that seems to have taken place a lifetime ago, followed immediately by the coloring of Dean's abused ribcage, a deeply shaded blossoming explosion of reds and blues and purples like one of the finger-paintings Sam made in kindergarten. Guilt gnaws in the pit of his stomach, an empathetic flare of pain in his own chest. He doesn't have to see the disgusted look Bobby gives him to feel it, reminds himself again with a painful swallow that the strike was self-defense.
Bobby winces and drops the shirt. He takes a step back and keeps his large, clumsy hands at a distance, not looking to risk inflicting further pain.
"There anything you can do?" John asks in a voice so rough he doesn't immediately recognize it as his own.
Bobby shakes his head. "Wrap 'im up. Stabilize the breaks the best I can. I'd suggest you limit movement for a coupla days, at least."
Breaks. Hurt feeling are one thing, but John's now well and truly injured his boy. His mouth tastes foul, blood and dirt and other less definable things.
Bobby plants his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes. "That's assuming you're too damn stubborn to take the both of you to a real doctor."
Dean shakes his head before John has a chance to speak. "No, Bobby, it's okay." He straightens, biting his lip and shrugs out of his jacket, finally putting on full display the pale purple markings left by John's choke hold. For maybe the first time ever, Dean isn't attempting to hide his injuries or pain from his father. He's flaunting it, maybe even wanting John to feel guilty for what he's done. As if he needs any help feeling horrible.
"Jesus, kid," Bobby says, releasing a low whistle, hands falling uselessly to his sides like two deflated footballs. "There any part of you that DON'T hurt?"
That manages to bring a smile to Dean's lips. John feels an intense, short-lived pang of envy. He hasn't made Dean smile in weeks.
"Yeah, my right pinky toe. I'm okay, Bobby," Dean says, in a voice that's almost strong enough to be convincing.
The bleeding of John's arm hasn't come to a complete stop, but it's slowed, and he pulls the towel away, the coarse fabric tacky and wanting to stick to the wound. Small black silk strands hang from his tanned skin where they've popped, and he picks at them, hissing at the feeling of the thread pulling through sensitive skin.
"Quit bein' a baby," Bobby chides, not playfully but annoyed. "I'll fix that up in a minute." He pulls out an unopened package of Ace bandaging, tearing into the plastic. "Arms up," he orders Dean, much more gentle in tone.
John wants to step in, needs to fix what he's done, but knows in truth there are far greater offenses he'll have to answer for, he'll have to fix. He watches silently as Bobby gingerly wraps the bandage around Dean's ribcage, cradling the worst of the bruising, the damage.
Bobby attaches a butterfly clasp and steps back, nudging the glass on the table. "Why don't you take that drink now?"
"Yeah." Even so, Dean hesitates before lifting the glass to his lips. He takes a small sip, meeting John's eyes over the rim. Averting his gaze, he catches sight of his own dirty knuckles grasping the glass and sets it down on the tabletop. "I'm gonna wash up a little, I think."
"Good idea." Bobby gestures for John to join him at the table. "We're almost finished down here. Why don't you get some rest? I 'spose you'll be heading out first thing tomorrow." He looks to John, who nods a confirmation.
Dean slowly and stiffly disappears down the hall, and the two men wait not just for the door to creak closed but for the sound of running water before either of them moves again.
"Sit," Bobby orders with a sniff.
John obliges, and Bobby yanks roughly on his injured arm, inspects the area quickly and waves a dismissive hand. "I'll rinse it out, sew you back up and you'll be right as rain."
Bobby washes his hands thoroughly at the sink before coming back to the table, and John appreciates the forethought. Last thing he needs right now is an infection. Bobby removes the remnants of his previous sutures, sterilizes the open wound and goes about resetting the stitches. And does it all silently, without a word.
When he finally draws his hands away from his work, he rubs the bruise at the base of his jaw, rolls his neck and sighs wearily. He spares one quick glance into the hallway for Dean, but they can still hear running water from the bathroom. "Here's what I've got for ya. All that I know and that I've dug up." Bobby leans with a creak from the wooden chair and pulls a thin, leather-bound notebook from atop a towering stack of books and loose papers and slams it onto the table between them. He flips through pages covered in freshly scrawled notes, pausing to point out a rough sketch. "This's a devil's trap." He flips to another page, taps a second drawing roughly. "This, too."
John leans in, palming the fresh bandage on his arm. "What's a devil's trap?"
"What's it sound like? S'a trap."
"What about warding off possession? You find anything there?"
"Not yet. But I've got calls out."
John nods, scrutinizing the pages. "What about drawing one to you?"
Bobby snorts. "It's not exactly like ordering a pizza. There's gotta be a chink in the armor for the demon to get through. A person's gotta be feeling some sort of vulnerability. So I figure gettin' possessed isn't anything you need to be losin' sleep over."
John glares up at Bobby. "I do something to piss you off, Singer?"
"What makes you think that?" Bobby taps the drawing. "Like I was sayin', it's a trap," he repeats. "This one will keep a demon in." John's fingers press into the page, studying the symbol, but Bobby rips the notebook from under his hand and displays a second drawing. "And this one will keep a demon out. Create a kind of lockbox for things you don't want them gettin' their hands on."
"That could be useful," John says with a nod.
Bobby closes the notebook, leaves it in front of John. "Keep that copy if you like. I've already made dozens."
"'Course you have," John says with a fond smirk, but Bobby seems unamused. He walks slowly to the sink, removes his trucker hat, shakes out some remaining water and runs a hand through his unruly hair. John frowns. "There something you're wanting to say to me?"
Bobby chuckles darkly. "Oh, there's a lot I want to say to you, John."
John leans back in his chair. He can take a hint, but this isn't a hint, this is a flashing neon sign. "Then say it."
"You show up at my house like this, without warning and talkin' about demons, actin' like a damn...how do I know you ain't possessed already?"
"Come on, now, Bobby."
Bobby shakes his head, frames the sink with his hands and leans there heavily, like there's a weight pressing down on his shoulders. "John, you're a decent man, a good father, and a great hunter. And I know you won't let the unimportant stuff get in the way of what matters, will you?"
Dean stumbles back into the room, not showing any indication he's heard anything they've said, but John quickly draws the notebook from the tabletop into his lap, earning a sideways glance from Bobby telling him in no uncertain terms, this conversation isn't over. He's not your child, Bob.
"Stubbed that toe," Dean jokes to no one in particular as he limps over to the table. "So I've got that going for me now."
"You ever listen when someone tells you to rest?" John asks sharply but not entirely ungently. "Why don't you go on and get some sleep." That part's hardly a suggestion.
Dean smiles wryly, sinking gingerly into a chair. "Sounds like you guys are still working," he says, actively avoiding making eye contact with John. "And lying down on the job is something I've done more than enough of lately." He's scrubbed his face and arms, the absence of dirt and grime drawing even more attention to the damage done, the color of his bruises more stark and vibrant against his pale skin. He looks like the world has caught up with him, not just the full-body knockdown he's taken the last couple of weeks. He shoots a questioning glance at Bobby, who smiles warmly and nods at the whiskey bottle in the center of the table.
"I think you've earned it," he says.
Dean returns the smile, weary as it may be, and pours himself a small glass. His eyes are bright, and if he weren't in the shape he's in, John would think he was looking for a fight. "So what are we talking about?"
Earlier that night
Dean leans heavily against the stone fireplace, lets what little structural integrity the house has left support most of his weight, because his legs are shouting an emphatic, nuh uh. Not gonna do it. Uneven pieces of stacked rock bite into his back but those tiny spots of pain are a cakewalk compared to the persistent, ravaged scream in his ribcage. He's not a rookie and is more than capable of playing through pain, and cracked ribs are almost commonplace in their lives, but this is no crack.
A gray haze clouds his vision, pain and smoke from the small fire burning to his right, a flimsy door scratched and marked by small fingernails desperately searching for escape decades ago, now warping and splintering as the flames they've set eat it up, various pops and cracks coming from the wood. He wants to get up and get the hell out of this basement, but knows how badly that's going to hurt, so he stays where he is for the moment.
John doesn't seem in any rush to Dean's side, but even in the dim lighting his face is easy to read, even if it's strange to be seeing the emotions there that he is. Concern, sorrow, maybe even regret. These are all foreign to John Winchester. Dean's own heavy heart, and hopefully the expression on his face, is the antithesis of his feelings. Betrayed, hurt, angry.
John finally starts to rise from the dirty concrete floor and Dean shakes his head roughly because he can't just yet move quickly enough to run away from his father's obvious intent. He pants, biting his lip to ride out a sudden, sharp stab of pain in his chest. "Don't," he says, the break in his voice betraying him.
The rain picks up again, a low grumble of faraway thunder accompanying the increase of precipitation. The rainwater falling unobstructed through the holes in the roof is chilling Dean and running into his eyes, adding to his discomfort. He shifts in the direction of cover, attempting to stabilize his broken rib with a shaky hand pressed to his side, finds that only increases the pain.
He reaches over his head, blindly searching for a handhold to pull himself upright. His fingers slip from an edge of stone and he drops painfully back to one knee, the impact grinding splintered bone. He cries out and a curtain falls over his vision for a moment. When his surroundings come back into focus his father, however unwanted, is there, hands strong and gripping him by the shoulders, steadying him.
"Dean? You with me?"
Dean doesn't trust himself to speak, nods his head slowly and tries to pull away. John won't allow it. He wraps his uninjured arm around Dean. "Here we go." And rises steadily but gently, bringing both of them to their feet. Once they're upright he refuses to let go. Dean fights it, but can't help but lean into his father. No matter how badly he wants to shove John away, he could use the assist.
Shuffling, uneven steps approach from overhead, and John looks up as they make their way slowly across the basement. "Bobby? That you banging around?"
Punch-drunk on his feet, Bobby slips and slams into the doorframe at the top of the staircase. "Ow. Everyone okay down there?"
John keeps his gaze steady, grips tightly on Dean's arm. "Yeah, couple of scrapes and bruises, but we'll be okay."
Dean would laugh if he wasn't concerned the motion would force a jagged edge of fractured rib bone through his skin. Scrapes and bruises? Blood drips steadily from his father's arm to the uneven concrete floor of the basement, mixing with puddles of rainwater. Dean wants to feel bad, he really does, but then he sucks in a breath and it feels like he's being stabbed in the chest with a hundred tiny knives with a few large shards of glass thrown in for good measure. Broken by his own father, so instead he's fighting a satisfied smile that John is feeling his own pain, caused by Dean's hand. The fuchsia discoloration coming to color high on his left cheekbone is Dean's handiwork, too. Karma's a bitch, huh, Dad?
All of a sudden the thought settles in his mind and he pulls away from his father, hands searching for the nearest wall to steady himself. "I hurt you, you hurt me?" he spits angrily. "Is that it?"
John recoils. "No, Dean, of course not…son, I – "
"Don't," Dean repeats forcefully. He uses the wall as a guide and a support to find his way back to the staircase solo. He can feel his father hovering close behind him, but refuses any help as he gingerly ascends the stairs.
The presence he's sensing is a familiar yet threatening one, and John's next movements are dictated solely by reflex. There isn't time for brains, or interpretation. The steps creak behind him and on instinct that danger is closing in he spins, has a boot planted in a way that means business, square in Dean's middle before he realizes it was his son who was coming up behind him.
Dean cries out at he's shoved backwards, flailing as his feet slip away, as his back and shoulders impact the stairs, but he manages to secure a grip on the thin railing as he goes down, likely saving himself a cracked vertebrae. He sags at an awkward angle against the wall, hand clutching the railing above his head like a lifeline.
Remorse falls over John like a heavy wool blanket. Fumbling for words, for an appropriate apology, he drops his shoulder and moves toward his son. Dean pulls away, wincing as the edge of the steps dig into his back.
"Dad?" Dean croaks, confused and wheezing and attempting to curl to his side, where John's boot had connected.
"Dean, I – "
Like a small tornado has whipped past, John is ripped away from his son without warning and face-planted into the damp concrete floor. Ears ringing, he shoves up on his elbows. Caught off-guard but never with his pants completely down, experience and an iron-clad grip kept the shotgun in hand. He pulls himself to his feet, spits blood from a split lip to the side and grins, lining up a shot on the specter across the basement. Not so stealthy, kid. "I've got you now."
Looking over John's head, the dead boy's eyes sparkle with a disturbing liveliness. With intent. It's unsettling, how much he resembles a much younger Sam. "Not if he gets you first."
He's got a finger on the trigger, twitching, knowing he's damn close to ending this, but there's something about the confident, fearless look in the spirit's eye that causes John's shoulder to drop. Despite his better judgment he turns just enough to follow the boy's line of sight. Behind him, Dean wavers where he's now standing at the foot of the staircase, blinking hard like the room is coming in and out of focus.
Aw, hell, Dean. John doesn't dare take his eyes off of his boy, watching his hands. "Leave him alone." There's no response, and his eyes slide to the side. The ghost is gone.
"You don't have to listen to his lies anymore. You don't have to let him hurt you anymore."
John's head snaps back. Little Isaiah is now standing next to Dean, one translucent pearly hand resting lightly on his son's forearm. He's speaking to Dean in a low, soothing tone, and Dean twitches as though electrically shocked, shakes his head. He winces, takes a couple of shaky steps away from the ghost with a hand held out for balance.
That's it, Dean-o. Give 'im hell. "I'd never hurt him." John swallows. Well, that's just not as true as it used to be, is it?
Cold dead eyes meet his, and blue lips twist into a knowing grin. "Maybe not with your fists. Maybe not on purpose."
John's attention is split, and in a dark blur illuminated by a flash of lightning Dean advances quicker than he should be currently capable of, spins and throws an elbow back, knocks John in the chin and he staggers backward. He gets another jab in under his left eye before John's able to get a gentle but firm grip on his shoulders and shove him away. He brings a hand up to his throbbing jaw. "Damn it, Dean! Enough with this shit!"
Dean brings his fists up in an offensive fighting stance. His wounded body is tense, a coiled spring ready to come loose for a spot of violence, but his green eyes remain bright and shifty, uncertain of what he's doing.
Wishful thinking, Winchester. Dean may very well know exactly what he's doing. John works his sore jaw and tucks his gun away, wanting it out of play. He raises his hands in front of him. "Son, I want you to listen to me. Whatever that boy's been telling you, it's bullshit. All of it. You KNOW that."
Dean shakes his head like he has water in his ears. He blinks hard and meets John's eyes in a comforting moment of clarity, and lowers his fisted hands. "Dad?"
John won't allow himself a sigh of relief, not yet. Dean's eyes are clear but he's got his head cocked, listening to something. To someone. "Dean!" John barks, drawing his son's attention back. "Eyes on me." Kid never should have come here.
John blinks and suddenly he's there, the boy, Isaiah. The spirit responsible for this entire mess. "Get away from my son," John growls, reaching once again for the worn stock of his shotgun. He wants to blast this spook into next Wednesday for manipulating his boy, for pumping him full of these lies and bullshit.
"I only told him what he already knew. Like all of them."
"Horse shit." He brings the gun back up. "Back away. Now." He would never, has never given a spook this kind of warning, this amount of time to heed his words, but the thing is still awfully close to Dean and from this range even the rock salt will hurt like hell. Otherwise he would have already pulled the trigger.
Suddenly Dean rushes him like a linebacker, drives John back into a support beam with enough force to rattle the house's skeletal remains. His grip on the gun finally fails, and the weapon clatters to the concrete.
"Damn it, Dean, you're going to bring this whole goddamn house down on us!"
"You made Sammy leave!" Dean yells, taking a clumsy, drunken swing that John evades easily. "He's the only person who's always been there for me. What am I supposed to do now, Dad?"
Oh, for the love of… "Dean! Dean, listen to me!" John pushes Dean away, steps forward and grabs him roughly by the shoulders, shakes his son until he meets his eyes. That's it, eyes on me. Keep 'em on me. "I know you're upset, kid. And I know the past couple months haven't been easy, I know it. I know you're hurt. But he left both of us, Dean."
"No – " Dean tries to jerk away, brings his arms up to knock loose his father's hold, but in this moment, John is much stronger than his son. "No, you – "
"YES, Dean…" John grips the sides of Dean's neck, thumbs pressing insistently against his jawline, forcing him to maintain eye contact. The kid's pulse is racing and he's pale as a ghost, himself, pupils blown to hell. "HE left US."
Dean stills, clenches his jaw and breathes heavily. "You told him to stay gone," he accuses, low and even.
John recoils as though the words were another physical blow, another unexpected attack.
"You did this, Dad." Dean's voice finally breaks, and John's heart goes right over the edge with it. "You did it." This isn't the ghost. This is all Dean talking, and maybe he isn't wrong. In fact, John knows he isn't.
Feeling the truth of it gnawing in the back of his throat like a cry wanting to escape, John adjusts his grip and pulls Dean closer. "You're right, Dean. I did. And that's something I have to live with now."
"No." Dean shakes his head, eyes watery. He takes another deep breath, pulls it together enough to keep the tears from spilling. "I have to live with it, too."
"You're right, Dean." John swallows. He doesn't know how much he means it, but he has to bring Dean back to him. "You're right. We'll figure this out, I promise."
The air goes out of Dean like a deflated beach ball. He slumps, seemingly reliant on John's hold to remain upright. Like a sudden gust of wind could blow him away completely, and John grips him tighter to ensure that can't happen. Dean nods slowly, without blinking.
Damn ghost knows when to pick his moments. John hands are ripped violently away from Dean as he's thrown back into the basement's solid stone wall. Fireworks explode before his eyes as his head strikes the cinder block. He slides to the floor and shakes his head, waiting for the sparks to recede. For a moment, John had forgotten about the spirit in the room, but the boy hadn't forgotten about them. Hadn't forgotten how very dead he intended John to be. But he's taken away the spook's weapon, brought Dean back to him. Isaiah's lost his advantage and, backed into a corner, switches to Plan B. Which, really, was Plan A. Raw, physical, first-hand violence. Sloppier, but just as effective as using his son's hands to hurt him.
"Dean?" John calls as his hands search instinctively for the gun.
"Dad…"
The dark room comes slowly into focus, and John can make out Dean crouched in the center of the room, arms wrapped around his head, trying to keep the boy's voice out. The spirit is nowhere to be seen.
The room is tipping sideways and slipping in and out of focus. John drags himself to his feet and staggers toward Dean, collapsing on his knees next to him. He pulls Dean's arms away from his ears, and the kid cautiously brings his head up.
John wishes there was an easy way to fix this. "Dean, there is something in this house that is keeping Isaiah's spirit around. I need you to keep it together long enough to help me find it and this will all be over, okay?"
Dean winces and nods. He hides it well, but he's just as much a stubborn ass as the rest of his family. He's clearly still battling the ghost's influence, but he's sure putting up one hell of a fight.
"Okay." John pats Dean's cheek, gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile. "Okay. He died here in the basement, yeah? So whatever it is, it has to be here." That also means, as has already been made painfully apparent, that his influence will be the strongest here, and he can't afford for Dean to fall prey to the spirit again.
Dean rubs the back of his neck and straightens. There's a distrust persisting in his eyes, a physical and emotional hurt. It's no wonder. John can't stop reliving their encounter on the stairs. He's a hunter and an ex-Marine, and Dean knows better than to sneak up behind him. Or should. Or would, under any other circumstances.
"What do you want me to look for?"
"Blood, probably. Some other kind of remains. And watch out for him, you hear?"
"Yeah, Dad, I got it." No attitude in his weary tone, just exhaustion, pure and simple and catching up with his boy in a for-real way he isn't going to easily shake off. But he needs to, because this isn't over.
"You with me, kid?"
"Yeah."
In a show of trust he hopes won't leave him both wrong and riddled with holes, John hands over his shotgun, knowing the rock salt pellets won't kill him if Dean goes postal again. Won't feel great, though, that's for damn sure.
Dean's hesitant to take the weapon but does, gripping the stock lightly like he's afraid of it and didn't first throw targets into the sky at seven years old. John spots his discarded duffel, dropped during Dean's attack, and moves quickly across the floor. He crouches and drags a second gun from the bag.
They search the burned-out remains of the basement for what feels like hours but is probably mere minutes, each one passing without incident. It's slow-going in the dark, though, with little idea what they're looking for. John steps back to the center of the room and runs his wrist across his sweaty forehead, leaving a gritty smear of soot and dirt. On the wall opposite the staircase is the entrance to another room, a door so dirty it nearly blends in the wall, managed to go by unnoticed until now. He sweeps the space with the beam of his flashlight.
"Ah, God." The words exit his lips like an involuntary sigh. John moves toward the thin door, keeping the beam steady. He pulls open the door and swings swiftly to the other side, easily spots the brown smear, the old blood staining the wood, a fragment of a small fingernail caught in the grain.
Of course. Something so small as to go unnoticed has caused all of this. "Dean," he calls quietly. "Come and help me with this."
But – son of a bitch – Dean's not home right now.
He hears Dean's heavy, stuttered footsteps. They stop abruptly and an icy breeze rustles the hair at the nape of John's neck. "Dean?"
"Dad. I can't…" The response is strangled, a fight with himself to force the words out.
John's ears perk to the sound behind him, the shotgun he'd given Dean being brought up. He whirls, eyes widening. The double barrel is only inches from his face, and at this range, he thinks even the rock salt might kill him.
Isaiah's influence makes these boys violent, sure, but sloppy and childlike in their attack. Dean doesn't pull the trigger but takes a swing at John's head with the shotgun and he easily ducks under the strike. The metal of the barrel skims his hair as Dean leaves himself open and vulnerable in the middle.
John tears the gun away from him with one hand. "Dean, get it together right now!" A line of fire rips down his arm, across the row of Bobby's sutures as the rough motion abuses his existing injury.
Dean doesn't back down, lunges again and John is forced to kick him away with an audible crunch from his son's chest that does all sorts of things to John's insides that he doesn't have words for.
Dean, weaker than ever, cries out and stumbles back, wheezing painfully. He grunts and folds in half, sucking in deep, whimpering breaths with his hands braced on his knees.
John's heart hurts at least as bad as the reopened wound in his arm, but he's through wasting time. His paternal instinct draws him to Dean like a tractor beam but he's turned away with a sharp, betrayed look, so he returns his attention to where he now knows the boy's remains are located. One problem at a time, as always.
John's hands skim the frame of the door, getting at least one splinter for his troubles but he locates the rusty, damaged hinges in the dark. The feeling of fire spreads down his injured arm and there's a persistent warm tickle distracting him. He shakes out the arm and hears the faint splat of blood drops smacking the concrete. He pulls roughly on the door, a firm grip on the edges of the aged wood. It's one, two, three, four yanks before the rusted hinges give, splintering from the frame. Each yank is a fresh unleashing of hell on his wounded, bleeding arm. The door is heavy as a baby grand piano in his sore, tired grip and he quickly lets it drop with a clatter.
Dean comes up behind him, braces a hand on the wall. "This is your fault, Dad. All of it." The grimace, the pain on his face and the awkward way he holds himself leaves a guilty pit in John's stomach.
Isaiah stands next to him, a mischievous smile contorting his cold, pale face, and the weapons bag containing the lighter fluid and salt can lies discarded and unnoticed near Dean's feet.
John swallows. "Dean, I need the things in that bag. If you help me, I'll end this, right now. You'll never hear the bastard again, I swear."
Dean shakes his head. "It's not going to end with this, Dad."
John meets Dean's eyes. "I know, kiddo. I know."
Dean bends and reaches for the bag but stops, biting his lip against pretty obvious pain. He gives up on that idea and instead nudges the bag with his foot, shoves it across the floor with a rough scrape and his arm wrapped around his middle.
John drops to the bag and is immediately thrown hard the rest of the way to the floor, his head connecting with the pock-mocked concrete before he can get his hands down to brace his fall.
Dean slides down the wall to the floor, the heels of his boots skidding as his legs shoot out in front of him. His head falls back against the floor-to-ceiling stone face of the fireplace and he exhales roughly, an arm wrapped tightly around his middle. "Dad, I can't…I can't keep him out."
"I know, Dean. It's almost over." Nearly equal parts concern and frustration. Nearly.
John shoves himself upright and digs into the guts of his duffel. He flings the lighter fluid over the surface of the door, soaking into every crack and crevice, concentrating the spray on the spot where he'd located the boy's remains.
"Stop him."
John's head whips up at the sound of the boy's voice.
"Please. Don't let him hurt me."
Isaiah crouches next to Dean. Dean rocks with his hands pressed tightly to his ears, but even in the dark John can see it isn't helping.
And then in what is nearly a growl, deep and threatening and not inviting options: "Stop him."
Dean's hand scrabbles across the floor next to his leg, searching for anything he can use as a weapon.
John pulls his lighter from his jacket pocket. "This is the last time I'm going to tell you." He flicks the flint, bringing a flame to life. "Get the hell away from my boy." And lets it fly.
The door goes up in flames immediately, and John steps back until he connects with the wall behind him, slides down to match Dean's pose across the room. An unearthly howl surrounds them, echoes through the space and exits through the open air above.
John clamps a tight hand over the reopened, bleeding wound in his arm, while he waits for the last shoe to drop.
"Dad?"
John breathes a sigh of relief. "S'just you in there, kid?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I don't hear him anymore."
John rests his head against the wall. The cool rain against his face lends a misleading calm to the situation. The rain picks up force, attempting to tamp out the remaining flames eating up what's left of the door, but he's soaked it good. "Well," he says, "that's something."
Bobby's been in this game long enough to sense when something's gone sideways behind him.
He pauses at the cellar door, seemingly the only one in the house that has remained intact, shotgun at the ready. He still can't hear John in the house, which is concerning enough, but now he can no longer hear Dean. "Dean?"
No answer from the kid. Ah, damn it all to hell. Sometimes he really hates being right.
Bobby rotates slowly in the narrow hallway, lowering the gun but ready for anything he may find himself faced with.
Except an empty hallway where Dean should be.
"Dean?" Bobby calls again, taking a step back, eyes as alert in the dark as possible. His ears perk; the sounds a shotgun makes are unmistakable, to a hunter of any kind. He ducks just as the wall behind him explodes with pellets of rock salt. Better'n buckshot.
He's straightening, working to get his bearings, when Dean comes at him from the side.
The Turner house is nearly exactly what Bobby's picture had suggested, with the exception of a few less walls and roof beams than when the photograph had been taken in the seventies, weakened supports that have eroded and fallen prey to the years that have passed.
Beneath a steady rainfall they climb the steps to the sagging front porch and enter the house's skeleton through an open archway where the front door used to be.
"Homey," Bobby comments drily, taking cautious steps like the floorboards are in immediate danger of shattering like a thin sheet of ice under his boots.
Probably not a terrible idea, and Dean treads just as lightly as he follows. "Cellar?" He turns to Bobby for confirmation.
The older hunter nods. "That'd be my guess. S'where the boy died."
"Dad?" Dean calls tentatively, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to the fact of their arrival. He has a firm grip on the stock of the double-barrel. The dark wood is smooth from heavy use, worn into the shape of his palm, a comfort to have in hand.
The inky blackness of an early, stormy nightfall and the collapsed, damaged walls make the house seem bigger than it actually is, and difficult to navigate. There's no response from his father but with the Impala parked at the curb it's obvious he's here. Or was. "Dad?" he tries again, louder.
Bobby grabs his upper arm, firmly but not ungently. Dean turns to him, sees his eyebrows pulled together in concern.
"I'm thinkin' stealth is our best option here, Dean," he cautions quietly.
Dean nods, feeling foolish and anxious, and turns back toward the narrow hallway. He steps gingerly around rotted, charred pieces of fallen roof beam, water-damaged and moldy chunks of broken ceiling. A weak spot in the floorboards splinters like glass under Dean's boot, sinking him in the blink of an eye up to his knee.
Bobby rushes up behind him and quickly, quietly helps him to extricate himself. He grips Dean by the back of the neck. "You okay?"
It wasn't a particularly jarring impact, but Dean's ears are nonetheless ringing. He's unhurt but shaky, embarrassed. He nods and collects the gun that had slipped from his grasp.
Bobby pulls a flashlight from an inside coat pocket and illuminates the way ahead. "Let's find the way to the cellar. And John."
Dean steps aside and lets Bobby take the lead, pauses a moment to collect himself.
"I don't hear John anywhere. You?"
Dean shakes his head, steadying himself against a wall as the motion nearly sends him to the floor. "No."
Bobby doesn't seem to notice. "S'that a bit out of the ordinary? Your dad ain't exactly a quiet sort of man."
Dean doesn't hear his father, but he does hear something. Light, high-pitched, a voice emerging from the lingering ringing in his head. It's startlingly, frighteningly familiar. "Bobby," he whispers, wanting to warn his friend.
Bobby doesn't hear him, though, turning a corner toward the heart of the house.
The chill falls over Dean like a curtain of rain. He shivers, tenses reflexively, ears perked.
"The mean man is in the basement."
Nothing louder than a whisper of wind whistling through the house, but it stops Dean in his tracks. He stands immobile, frozen, unable to do anything to prevent the ghost of this boy from sliding into his head like a wisp of smoke under a closed door.
His mind goes blank.
From the curb at the end of a long, winding gravel drive, the house appears just as quiet and calm as any other night there aren't drunk or stupid teenagers sneaking inside to get high. Two levels, including the cellar, built of wood and cinder block with uneven shutters hanging over the windows, the wood no longer holding any trace of what paint job may have been. From the black and white photographs from the papers the day after the boy was found, it's difficult to deduce their original color. Probably some warm hue lending a homier, more welcoming feel to the house than it presently exudes. It was never anything fancy and the structure is showing its years in a bad way.
Blocks have fallen from the outer walls, mortar suffering the elements, wearing away and leaving them loose and vulnerable, exposing insulation and plywood. There have been camping tents made of sturdier stuff. The roof wasn't constructed for the snow weight it eventually carried, wasn't slanted to a degree allowing for proper runoff. Exposure to such excessive moisture and weight has left the covering fallen in chunks to the interior of the home, and eternally weak, at constant threat of collapse everywhere else.
The gathering storm clouds have grown darker, the first raindrops of the night speckling the road and sidewalk leading to the porch, a wet, cold nuisance but still just a sprinkle.
John violently throws the car into 'park', rimming the curb with a metallic spin that causes him to cringe. It'll leave a mark, a scar on something he's spent more than half his life keeping in pristine condition.
A fairly new strip of police tape is strung across the front door, but remnants of older police lines, ropes and yellow ribbons dirty and shredded litter the front porch. Years' worth. John rips the tape away easily and tosses it aside, adding to the pile.
The front door is already hanging from one hinge; John rears back and kicks it in with enough force to knock it to the floor completely, taking a no-nonsense approach to what remains of this job. A cloud of dust plumes upward as the old wood splits down the middle from an old, deep crack.
He shouldn't have let things get this far. Had an itch, of course, that he knew where this was headed but needed to see the hand played out. Was arrogant, didn't want to believe Dean was harboring enough anger or resentment for this spirit to latch onto. That, too, was a show of arrogance. But it's not arrogant to say without a shred of doubt Dean will be heading this way as soon as he wakes. There isn't time to spare being gentle and slow-moving about this. John is swallowed by the remains of the house as he crosses the threshold and steps swiftly down the hall.
Others would explore but John doesn't possess much curiosity, and he trusts his gut to tell him where he needs to be, moves in the direction he expects to lead him to the cellar. Rotted boards creak and buckle underfoot, but hold his weight. His shotgun hangs loosely at his side, loaded with rock salt-packed shells. Proud of Dean for the idea, annoyed he didn't think it up himself.
His senses are on high-alert for the typical warning shots fired by a poltergeist or otherwise violent spirit. A noticeable drop in air temperature, that's the first to manifest, easiest to pick up. Of course, it's difficult for John to distinguish a ghostly chill from the natural dip in stormy air outside the house, lacking roof cover in sizeable pieces. He exhales forcefully through his mouth, eyes alert and searching for the telltale moisture cloud. There isn't one, and his hand twitches in the direction of the EMF detector in his jacket pocket.
John shifts the grip of his shotgun from both hands to one, testing the cellar door with his right. The knob turns in his hand but the door won't budge. Stuck shut, but not locked. That's something. The wood has swollen and gotten caught in the frame, and that's a problem he's quick to solve.
He doesn't put the gun, his only protection, aside but pulls back his foot. It takes three solid kicks before the frame splinters and the door pops inward a few inches. Irritated, John shoves his shoulder into the door and muscles his way onto the narrow landing, catching himself with his free hand against cool stone before taking a header into the basement. An overwhelming stench of wood rot overtakes him, and he takes a few slow breaths through his mouth before pressing on. The flashlight's beam reveals a steep, narrow staircase, and he begins his cautious descent down creaky, uneven steps. Some aren't even wide enough to bear the full length of his boot, the toe hanging over the edge. There's a thin layer of carpeting, brown in color or matted with mud.
At the bottom of the staircase John drops his bag to the floor and realizes this mission isn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. The basement easily covers the same square footage as the main floor of the house, divided into multiple rooms. Directly across from the stairs is a door, and an open space off to the right. He wanders cautiously in that direction, the beam of his light revealing a second living room of sorts, a dusty tattered couch pointed at a strangely located fireplace. John shakes his head. This really would have been a nice home. He moves back to the door at the foot of the stairs, ajar a few inches. His footsteps echo in the empty subterranean room.
Earlier that evening
Dean's senses come back in stages. Hearing is first: Bobby puttering around in the kitchen, the rubber soles of his boots squeaking occasionally on the linoleum. Running water from the tap, the refrigerator door opening and closing, cabinet doors doing the same. Bobby's moved on from drink, and he's going to throw food at the problem.
Speaking of the problem…pain is next. An overload of all of his nerve endings, the relentless gnaw of bruises. Old, new, everywhere. Familiar tenderness in his ribs and a fresh ache in his back, aggravated by his currently horizontal position. The healing wound in his side might as well be minutes old as opposed to days. A new persistent throb at the base of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. He's convinced the pounding in his head can only be exacerbated by opening his eyes, so he decides to leave them closed for the time being, spends a moment listening to Bobby fiddle around like an old housewife.
His head aches, beats a steady rhythm to match the pounding of his heart. Dean shifts his weight, feels the gap between the cushions and recognizes the texture of the couch against the exposed skin of his arms.
Dad.
Dean's eyes snap open and he struggles to rise, moving slowly from the injuries piling on like a toddler's building blocks. It's not too long to go before one hit is one too many. He braces himself with an arm over the back of the sofa and swings his legs around. A boot connects with a wayward stack of thick, hardbound books and sends them thudding across the wooden floorboards. Every minute sound echoes in Dean's throbbing head like a clanging gong.
Bobby leans in the doorway, drying a cloudy glass with a blue and white checked dishtowel. "Short nap," he comments. "Feelin' any better?"
Nap? Dean shakes his head, then after that proves to be a really horrible idea, drops it into his hands. "Not really, no."
"Sorry to say I missed the show, but it was a hell of an after-party."
"Yeah, sorry, I don't…" Dean brings his head up, looks wildly around the room. "Where's my dad?"
"He's trying out Plan B. Obviously, burnin' the bones didn't have the desired effect so he's inspecting the old house for any physical remains tyin' the spirit to the house. Blood, or tissue, or…"
"Hair. Yeah, yeah." Dean stands quickly. Also not an A-plus sort of idea. "Bobby, this kid really doesn't like my dad."
Bobby chuckles. "Must've met him then."
"I'm serious, Bobby. He's going to get himself killed."
"Well, he's under the impression YOU'RE gonna get himself killed."
"Bobby, this kid is dangerous. He's a violent spirit with a chip on his shoulder the size of a redwood, who's already tried once to take my dad out of the picture. It has to be because he knows we're trying to put him to rest."
Bobby tosses the towel down to the tabletop. "Well, you're not wrong." He puts his hands on his hips and sighs.
"He needs backup. We've got to get to that house." Dean winces, moves to rub that tender spot at his collarbone.
Bobby's eyes narrow at the motion and he sighs. "Listen, Dean. Your old man, he, uh, he just…"
Dean blinks wearily. "Yeah, Bobby, how about you don't make excuses for him anymore, and neither will I?"
Bobby stares a moment, then cracks a small, sad smile. "Deal."
John squints, his uninjured arm keeping a firm grip on Dean's shoulder as his head falls forward, chin coming to rest on his chest. His fingers shift just enough to feel out a strong, steady pulse beneath his jaw, and he breathes a slow sigh of relief. "Sorry, kiddo, but I'm gonna need you to sit this one out."
He drags Dean's limp arm over his shoulder and hauls him up from the chair with a grunt. He's spent years encouraging Dean to bulk up, gain muscle mass, but regrets it for the moment as he heaves his heavy son across the room to the couch. He frowns and hastily swipes stray pages from the cushions. They float to the floor in a messy disarray as John lets Dean fall to the couch as gently as possible.
Bobby's always had a knack for horrible timing. He enters the room with a clear plastic grocery bag as John is arranging Dean's limbs into a more comfortable position. He withdraws his hands before Bobby raises his eyes. "Got those things for your arm." His beady eyes never stray from Dean's prone form. "Kid okay?"
John smiles, or attempts to. "Yeah, just needs rest."
"Sure, sure." Bobby gestures with the bag. "Why don't you let me fix that arm up proper?"
John winces, sneaks a glance at his watch. "Yeah, if you can make it quick. I want this over."
"Well, you won't do much good bleedin' out like a stuck pig." Bobby guides him to the kitchen table, to where he puts out an array of first aid supplies like a fucking Sunday brunch buffet.
John sits tensely on the edge of a chair and stretches his arm out for his friend, who carefully peels away the bit of gauze he'd applied earlier.
Bobby tsks. "Yeah, he gotcha good." Funny how he doesn't seem all that concerned about it. He rotates John's arm, eliciting a wince, but confirms the wound isn't dangerously deep. "No nerve damage."
He meets John's eyes and John nods in agreement.
Bobby settles back in his chair. "I'll stitch it up."
John shoots a glance in the direction of the other room. He feels no guilt over what he's done, but all the same, he'd rather not be around when Dean comes to. More than anything, he doesn't want to chance Dean following him to the Turner house. "Okay. Hurry."
Bobby sighs and nods. "Yeah, sure."
"Talk to me about the house. Can we get in?"
Bobby slips a glass of whiskey into his good hand. "Easily enough, I'd assume. S'been abandoned ever since Turner went off to prison for the murder. City tried to auction it off, but I guess there were no takers."
"On a house where a young boy died slowly and horribly of neglect?" John snorts, tosses back the drink too quickly. He winces, drops the glass to the table. "I'd be surprised if there were. Can you get me the address?"
Bobby wipes roughly at the laceration with an antiseptic wipe, sending a sharp sting beneath John's skin, cutting a hiss through his teeth. "What's that?" he asks, distracted or stalling.
"The address of Turner's house, where they found the kid's body. The same house we've been talking about this whole time."
Bobby sighs, his head bobbing knowingly, maybe relenting. "You're thinkin' if the usual salt and burn gig didn't work then there must be something left behind."
John grimaces as Bobby's curved needle pierces his skin. First one's the worst one. "Yeah."
"I taught you that."
"Yeah, I know."
"I can get you the address, but I'm going with you."
"No, I need you to stay here with Dean."
"You need backup, John, and he's not a child – "
He's my child. "No," John argues, "he's a ticking time bomb, Bobby. I don't have time to argue this with you. This was my hunt, and we're going to do things my way."
"Damn it, John, will you stop and think about what's important for just one minute? This spirit you're after has a very specific M.O."
John sucks in a breath, tells himself that he believes the words he's about to say. "Dean doesn't fit the M.O. He was just an opportunity to get to me. To stop me."
"You are the most stubborn a jackass there ever was. And I don't think you believe a damn word you're sayin,' John."
"Bobby, why and how are very low on my list of priorities right now. I'm more worried about when."
"What?"
"He's a damn sleeper, Bobby!" John pulls his arm away from his friend, pats down a bandage over the stitches himself. "That kid's gotten into his head, and we don't know what's going to set him off or when, but we do know he's going to keep trying to kill me until I take care of this spirit for good. Now, can you get me that address or not?"
Bobby sits back is his chair, staring down at the thin wicks of drying blood on his fingertips. "Yeah. I can get it."
Dean's head hurts enough, it's entirely possible the pain alone is what brings him around. A blossoming pulse of agony at the base of his skull, a patch of heat like he's laid back against a hot stovetop. He groans and shifts, finding his limbs stiff, slow to respond, and surprisingly restrained. His hands are bound securely but not too tightly behind his back with something thin, like a shoelace. His pounding head clears slightly and he discovers he's tied to a chair in the middle of Bobby's living room, staring down at a messy pile of books, a stack forcefully knocked to its side atop a rug shoved off-center. One corner is bunched against the wall like a mid-step caterpillar.
John's coming into the room, patting a large bandage down on his forearm. "Morning, Sunshine," he says drily, without looking up. He flexes his fingers with a wince. "How's the head?"
"Okay," Dean lies, feeling the pulse of his heart in his eyeballs. "Dad…" he starts, but he doesn't know where to go from there. The beginning of the excuse lies uselessly between them.
John, it turns out, does know where to go. "Thought I told you to watch out for him."
Dean turns his eyes downward, wrinkles his nose at a few stiff, red spots of drying blood on his shirtfront. He doesn't feel fresh pain anywhere other than his head, matches the blood to the bandage on his father's arm. His heart drops, and he swallows. "We did the salt and burn…I figured it was…I thought it was all clear."
"Looks like you thought wrong." John sits on the edge of the desk, hands resting lightly on his thighs. For show, Dean knows. He's tense, in attack position.
Dean feels a muscle in his jaw jump, a flush of heat in his cheeks, but doesn't avert his eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Or do you really just want to kill me?"
Dean squirms uncomfortably, laces pinching his wrists. "No."
John squints with his arms crossed, staring for a long moment. Dean has to look away now, lets his eyes stray guiltily to the bandage on his father's arm, a wound from the knife he'd wielded. "So what the hell happened?"
"Wha – Dad…"
"No, Dean. You're the best eye witness we're gonna get to these killings, and we obviously missed something. You need to tell me what happened. What made you do it?"
Guilt pressing him like a rock on his chest, Dean resists. "I don't…"
John slaps a heavy palm on the desktop. "Damn it, Dean, you could have killed me! I'm done playing games. What did you hear? What did you see?"
Dean bites his lip, thinking, remembering. Putting days' worth of thoughts and feelings into context. The other night, with the journal and the whiskey… "It was a kid," he says finally. "I saw a kid."
"Who? Isaiah Turner?"
Dean nods. "Earlier this morning."
"Was this the only time you saw him?"
Dean knows his face gives him away immediately. There's no point in lying now. "No."
"No?" John straightens, shifts his weight on the desk but doesn't rise. "You've seen him before?"
This is the same line of leading questions John had always given Sammy; questions he knows the answers to already. Dean frowns, feeling like he's being played. "Just once." He swallows. "Two nights ago."
John's eyes sharpen. There's something there, but Dean guesses it could be something as simple as his own guilt. "What happened?"
"Nothing, he was just…there. Here. In the room with me."
"And you didn't think that was something worth mentioning?"
Dean squirms. "Where's Bobby?"
"Fetching some supplies. Answer me."
An unfamiliar anger heats his chest. Like Dad's never kept anything a secret. "It was late, and dark, and I, uh…wasn't thinkin' straight. Thought it was Sammy. Thought I was just…seein' things."
"I remember. You'd been drinking."
Dean squints. "Yes, sir."
"And today? What did he say to you?"
Dean shakes his head roughly, sending a spike of pain through his skull. "I don't remember – "
"Then think harder!" John shouts, coming off of the desk and stepping forward.
It's only his father but Dean pulls away on instinct, mashing against the chair, straining his arms and twisting his wrists.
John stops a mere foot from the chair, leans down to meet Dean's eyes. "Dean, you almost killed me tonight. That's exactly this spirit's M.O. Whatever's been happening to these boys happened to you, except you've been trained to deal with this. So I need you to think harder."
Dean nods slowly. He shifts in the chair, restraints biting into the tender skin of the undersides of his wrists. "I, uh, remember getting angry. Like, really angry." He swallows. "With you."
"You've been pissy with me for months, Dean. You're gonna have to do better than that."
Dean grinds his teeth, his cheeks flushing, this particular heat an unassisted flare of anger directed towards his father. "It was like remembering and feeling everything that's ever made me angry, all at once."
John nods. "Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. That lines up with fathers being attacked for things they did years ago." He walks a slow circuit of the room. "How're you feeling now? Aside from the goose egg."
Dean shrugs. "Fine. Normal, I guess."
"No homicidal thoughts? Even when I was yellin' just now?"
"No."
"Temporary effect, just like the others. This fits the pattern exactly, so this still has to be the Turner kid, right?"
He thought maybe it was just me? No room here to be offended, Dean nods his reluctant confirmation. "It was him."
"Well, if the salt and burn didn't work, then we need to dig deeper into the story. Something, some physical remain of the boy is keeping him from moving on." John stops his pacing and turns to face Dean, his face a stoic mask. "If I let you out of that chair, you're not going to try to kill me, are you?"
Dean feels the blood rush to his cheeks. "No, sir."
John nods and moves behind him, behind the chair. Dean tenses, then feels the restraints fall away. He was right, sees a pair of dirty old shoelaces in his dad's hands. He tentatively rotates his arms, careful not to make any quick, rash movements near his father right now. Can't ever forget the man was a Marine even before he was a hunter.
Dean slowly moves his arms around to rest on his thighs, studying the abrasions encircling his wrists. Gentle as ever, Dad. Though, to be fair, the damage is owing more to his own thrashing about than from the knots his father tied.
John stays behind him, leaving Dean feeling very uneasy. "Dad…what…" Dean swallows. "What're we gonna do now?"
"Now I'm gonna put this kid to rest." John's large, rough hand falls heavily on Dean's shoulder in a gesture he can't easily interpret. "For good."
The persistent pounding in Dean's head isn't really helping in the department of quick-thinking. It takes a moment for him to even muster a hesitant, "Okay. I'll come with you."
John's fingers squeeze gently, almost affectionately at the tense muscle above his collarbone. "Not this time, kid." Then he pinches the joint of his neck and shoulder with sudden, surprising force.
A lance of icy pain shoots through Dean. "Dad, wha – ow!"
And then the lights go out.
To be continued tomorrow...