Gonna go ahead and post this before I get my day going. I really appreciate everyone still giving this a chance - I'd love to know what you're thinking about the story. Thank you, truly. As always, Author Notes are in Chapter One.
CHAPTER SIX
Palo Alto, California
Sam raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. For just a second, he thought he'd seen, thought he'd heard…but that's impossible, for multiple reasons.
He's only weeks removed from being a hunter, but he feels good about his decision. Great, even. The statement he's made, the direction he's taken his life. Grabbed the wheel with both hands instead of backseat driving when he knows they're on the wrong road. But training won't be easy to kick, and his instincts are nagging. He can't shake the feeling he's being watched. Can't fight the urge to scan the outline of the quad. Doesn't know what it is he's searching out, but at the same time, knows exactly what he's looking for. Where everyone's hands are. Someone wearing a hood on such a hot day. General suspicious activity.
Just as he's turning away, his instincts take over, senses coming alive, tuned to his surroundings. A flash of sunshine reflecting off of smooth black metal, a familiar rumble of an engine that always sounds angry and impatient and like home.
Brady trots over with the bright orange disc, breaking into his reverie. He squints, craning his neck to follow Sam's line of sight. "What's up?"
Sam shakes his head. "Nothing, I guess. Thought I saw someone."
Brady bumps him with his elbow. "Found our Frisbee. Let's play."
Once he lands at his second stop, sunny Palo Alto, once he's on the campus he'd sworn not to give Samuel the satisfaction of visiting, it's easier to find his son than John is comfortable with, as a father and as a hunter. The boy's letting his defenses fall, letting go of years of hard work and training, and John feels a familiar anger inside, a trail of fire in his chest that has always preceded saying the kinds of things that are regretted the next morning.
He reins it in, stays in the car with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel while keeping his thoughts to himself for possibly the first time. Ever. Besides, Sammy seems okay for the time being. More than okay, if John's being honest with himself, tossing a Frisbee in the sunny quad with a couple of boys his age.
Not boys, John corrects himself. Young men. Sam is smiling, laughing, hair growing out and a healthy tan coloring his once-pale skin, already wearing clothes John has never seen, unfamiliar bright colors. Already a man John doesn't know and barely recognizes. He seems safe, but John trails him the rest of the day to make sure those bastards – whoever they are – have no idea where his son is; discretely, of course, in case he's got a tail of his own.
He should know, John tells himself. About Dean. An excuse to talk to his son, to give him grief about not being there? It's better for the both of them if he remains in the car.
They should both know about Adam. It's a thought that wanders in unbidden from time to time, and he shoves to the side almost too easily. That boy has every chance of living a normal life from start to finish, and if it means Dean and Sam don't know he's out there, then John can go on living just fine with that.
In two days' time he's contented with the fact his boys are all sleeping safely, for the time being. That's more than he could hope for.
John could do without another demon toying with his head; he has enough of his own already. But there's no more denying what's going on here, what's making threats against his children.
This threat has to be dispensed of, and he knows exactly who he needs to turn to. Marcus was right, and there's one man out there with more know-how about demons than anyone else. First-hand experience and more books in his home than there are stars in the sky. After he gets back to Dean, he'll continue to hunt, to ensure everyone else's children are sleeping safely. But after Dean's feeling well enough to travel, their next stop has to be Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Kennet, Missouri
A harsh knocking at the door of the room startles Dean awake. He jackknifes in bed, folding an arm against his side and loosing a pained cry. "Ah."
"Dean?" The voice is muffled by the door, the concern is not. "You in there, kid? It's Marcus."
It takes an embarrassingly long time to pull himself from the bed and drag his weary and wounded body across the room to the door. There's an anchor in his head weighing him down. Dean yanks on the handle before remembering the lock, knocking himself off-balance to the point of very nearly going all the way to the floor. He leans against the door for a moment, choo-choo-ing like a train and closing his eyes to let the room steady out again.
"Dean?"
"Yeah," he replies hoarsely, turning the lock and opening the door. He continues to lean heavily against the wood as he does. It doesn't take long to realize he's standing there in only boxer shorts and he draws quickly back into the room.
Marcus is a hulking, domineering shape on the stoop of the motel room, with the strap of Dean's duffel slung over his shoulder, awkwardly gripping a plastic shopping bag in his huge hand. "Brought you your clothes. And some grub." He cocks his head, and the naturally stoic nature of his face almost seems something more resembling concerned. "You doin' okay?"
Dean laughs, sort of, but it cuts to a grimace and he puts a palm tight against the bulky bandage taped to his side. The gauze is damp under his hand. "'M fine." Not his best performance, and he knows he's squinting from what little light there is to be found in the room.
Marcus frowns and shifts uncomfortably. The grocery bag swishes against the leg of his dark jeans. "Looks like you should be in bed, kid."
"I was."
"Sure."
Dean steps aside, bent awkwardly at the waist, and moves at a snail's pace back to the bed, lowers himself to the thin, unfortunately hard mattress. It takes some amount of effort not to topple over the rest of the way.
Marcus holds the bag out to him. "John said you'd appreciate some pie. Didn't say what kind. S'cherry."
Dean starts to smile, then catches himself, remembers the whole abandoned while slashed nearly in two thing. He clears his throat. "Thanks."
"There's more'n that in here. Man can't live off of pie alone." The big man sets the bag of food on the bureau and stands across the room, taking in the space. "So how's the, uh…" Clearly not comfortable with a conversation going on this long, or with anything resembling emotion, he finishes with a wave of his massive hand in Dean's general direction.
Dean can only assume he's referring to the near-disembowelment and what definitely feels like a concussion. He attempts to wipe the pain from his face. "I'm okay."
"I, uh, spoke with your dad just a little bit ago. Said he'll be back to ya tomorrow. Told me to tell you that."
Dean swallows, nods slowly. "What's he doing?" He presses an elbow into his side, doesn't shy away from displaying the wince the motion causes. He isn't in the least above taking a reckless shot at whatever sympathy he can garner from this friend of his father's.
"Didn't ask. Don't know if he'd tell me straight if I did, but I assume he's, uh…" He trails off, stuffs his big hands into the pockets of his Cargill jacket.
"Did you see what happened?"
Marcus squints. "I didn't. John said it was a hell of a fight you got yourself into, though. You get some rest, kid." Without segue or excuse after that, just immediately out of the room.
Dean falls asleep before he has time to be properly concerned or insulted.
Windom, Minnesota
There are a dozen ways this could go sideways, and he's aware of every single one.
John parks the car at the curb outside a brick one-story middle school, wincing at the high-pitched spin of metal against concrete when he pulls too close. Sorry, 'ol girl.
A group of girls skips down the steps in a giggling, hair-twirling pack, and three boys follow them out. One bumps another with his elbow, points out the Impala to his friends. The skinny blond boys nods, waves the other boys on and stops to bend and tie his shoe.
When the other children have moved down the sidewalk the boy straightens, searches around the area outside the school until he spots John on the bench. John would swear his narrow shoulders fall when their eyes meet. He grips the straps of his backpack and stalks over. He stops a good distance away, refuses to sit next to his father.
John offers the closest to a smile he can manage, given the circumstances. "You move onto to liking girls yet, instead of thinking they're gross?"
"I guess."
He jerks his head back in the direction of the dispersing children. "You like one of those girls?"
The boy looks back to where the other kids are walking off, talking and laughing. "Yeah. And one day I'm going to accidentally get her pregnant and spend one day a year with her and the baby because I feel guilty about it."
Ouch. His boys do get their smart mouths young. "Sit down a minute." John pats the rough wooden surface of the bench and Adam collapses next to him with an exaggerated pre-teen sigh that sounds too familiar. He hugs the railing, careful not to get too close to his father. John leans back, stretches his legs out in front of him.
"You missed my birthday."
"I know I did, kid. I'm sorry about that."
Adam kicks up a cloud of dirt with his sneaker, stares at the ground. "Mom said I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore."
John nods. "I figured as much. Called the house yesterday to talk to you and she hung up on me." He looks Adam up and down. "You look just like…" Your brothers. "Your mother," he finishes lamely. "How is she?"
"My mom? Your…whatever."
He and Sam would be great friends. John's needs never come into play, only theirs. "There's no circumstance I could see us working out, Adam."
Adam clenches his jaw, nods. They've had this conversation before, about fourteen months before, to be exact. And twelve months before that. "Are you here to take me to a game?"
"I can't right now. I've got…I brought you a present, though." John digs deep into the pocket of his leather coat, wrestles out the baseball mitt.
Adam takes the mitt, wrinkles his nose. "It's old."
"It was mine. But I don't have any use for it anymore. Think you could hang onto it for me?"
Every little boy loves a baseball mitt, at least every little boy of John's, and Adam nods, jams his hand into the glove, tests the worn leather.
John smiles, leans back and throws an arm over the back of the bench. He's broken the ice, can ask the questions he needs to now. "You doin' okay in school?"
"Yeah. It's stupid, though."
John jerks his head back toward the school building. "Havin' any trouble with any of the kids there?"
"No, they're okay."
"What about your teachers?"
"Mrs. Bradford gives us a lot of dumb reading assignments, but she's okay, I guess."
John nods, leans forward and clasps his hands between his knees. "You ever had anyone come up to you like this while you were out at school or the park?"
"Huh?"
"Ever had a stranger ask you a lot about yourself, or your mom?" He winces. "Or me?"
Adam looks confused, shakes his head.
John nods, relief spreading through him like sunshine. "Okay. Good."
"What's going on?"
"Nothing, kid."
"Am I gonna see you again?"
"Soon as I can, kiddo." John pulls Adam close, gives his head a glancing kiss. "Take care of your mom."
Adam pulls away, staring down at the mitt. "I do. I have to."
John nods. "I deserve that."
"Yeah." Adam stands and steps out of John's reach. He's grown up a lot in the last year, in profile shows hints of Dean's strength and Sam's anger, and everything else is from his mother. He has an eerily familiar expression on his face when he next speaks. "Don't come around us anymore, okay?" He tightens his grip around the straps of his backpack and turns to catch up with his friends.
John's left dumbstruck, watching another son walk away from him. The trill of his cell phone is an unexpected welcome relief from the emotion of the moment, until he sees the caller ID. He whips the phone open. "Please make the mistake of telling me where you are," he growls in a voice even he doesn't recognize as his own.
"I suppose no one's ever accused you of being a pleasant man, John Winchester."
"You know my name, about my sons. You have me at a disadvantage right now. And that isn't going to end well for you."
"I know more about your sons than you think. Their pasts, their futures…their likes and dislikes." The man sighs. "It's always sad to see such a pretty young thing go to waste."
He was there, watching them all. The puppet master, his girl putting her hand on Dean's arm and John sitting by without a clue across the room. John swallows roughly, an angry ball of heat settling in his gut. "She didn't go to waste, though, did she? You got exactly what you wanted out of it."
"That's true enough. I wanted to get your attention. Wanted to let you know who's in charge here."
"You or any of yours lay another hand on any one of my sons and it will be the last thing you ever do. I will end you," John promises, low and steady.
The threat is acknowledged with a chuckle. "We need to meet."
"We've met."
"Talk, then."
"I get close enough to talk to you, I'm likely to kill you."
"You're welcome to try, John. I'll send you my location shortly."
The call is disconnected.
Kennet, Missouri
Dean wakes slowly, painfully, with a dry mouth and heavy eyelids, limbs feeling unattached and floaty. He swallows a few times, making sure he isn't going to vomit. He won't really know for certain until he stands, which isn't really a problem because it isn't really a possibility. But at the same time, if the pressure in his bladder is any indication, he's been out for a while and needs to be dragging himself in that direction sooner, not later.
No single specific recollection is fighting its way to the forefront from the conflagration of images, places, and faces swarming in his mind. He knows he's hurt, knows it's serious enough, but couldn't say how he got this way. He remembers Dad, a bar, a girl, and…Sammy? While he's thinking he forgets himself long enough to attempt to sit up and the nauseating tug in his side, the pain that lances through his head, quickly brings him back. His hands tighten into fists as he rides out the wave, fingernails biting into his palms.
There was a girl. Oh, fuck yeah, there was a girl. Stuck him before he could stick her, so to speak. Dean's fingers cautiously probe the ground zero of pain while he catches his breath. There's not much to feel out on the surface; sticky edges of medical tape and soft, damp gauze. Ow.
"Da – " Dean tries, though little more than a pathetic puff of air leaves his chapped lips. "Dad?" he croaks weakly on his second attempt. His own voice echoes in his head, bouncing around long after he's let the word loose.
The room has a noticeably unfamiliar feel to it. He's done the unconsciously transported thing enough to know when he's been moved, and this is a different room than the one in St. Louis, dim but not dark. The curtains are pulled closed but there's a hint of sunlight peeking around the edges. The room is silent but for the hum of the air conditioner. He's alone.
Keeping a hand pressed to the gauze at his side, Dean moves his head to the right, blinking at the alarm clock in front of his face until it comes into focus. Apparently it's early afternoon, though he couldn't say of which day or how many days may have passed. There's a small, boxy object in front of the clock, and Dean's slowly exploring fingers discover his cell phone and a slip of paper beneath it. It takes longer than he will ever admit to work the phone open, and when he manages it the brightness of the screen stabs his eyes. He squints, and eventually makes out the text of the tiny letters on the screen: five missed calls. All from his father. He's touched.
The phone rings while Dean's holding it and he nearly drops the damned thing. He shakily brings the phone to his ear. "Dad?"
"Hey, kiddo. S'good to hear your voice." His father sounds strange, not nearly as rough as usual, a little manic, high-pitched.
"Where…" is all Dean can manage, before his strength is tapped. Light-headed, with limbs feeling heavy, it's all he can do to keep his grip on the phone.
"Just had to take care of some business. I'll be back before you know it. How you feelin'?"
"Alive. Dad, what…what happened?"
There's a pause, and Dean feels hot tears welling unbidden in his eyes. He's out of control, in unfamiliar territory, in a lot of pain and he's never been alone like this before, never been without a helping hand. He doesn't want to be here alone. The too-cold motel room A/C whispers uncomfortably across the exposed skin of his chest like a swarm of tiny ants he can't brush away.
"I'll catch ya up as soon as I make my way back, I promise."
"Where are you?"
"It's important, Dean. You know…I would be there otherwise. Get your strength back, and I'll check in with you in a bit. I'll be back by tomorrow night."
Tomorrow night. Dean's heart sinks, as if there's any place lower for it to go. "Yeah, okay."
"You'll be okay, Dean."
"Uh huh."
"Tomorrow night, kid, I swear it. Take it easy 'til then. Marcus is gonna check on ya, drop off your bag, and…and I left a list of local numbers if you need something before I can get there."
Like food? "Mm hmm."
"I'll check in soon."
Dean lets the phone fall to the mattress next to his head. The little strength he woke with is gone, and the only thing that currently matters is whether or not he can make it to the bathroom to take that leak.
He falls asleep before he decides.
St. Louis, Missouri
The previous night
"Hope you didn't give that temper to your boys, John. Sammy seemed so sweet."
The air goes out of the room, and John can't see anything beyond the hell behind those black eyes. Marcus frowns, his eyes flashing down to Dean on the floor, still vainly struggling to get his feet under him but dazed and bleeding a concerning but not life-threatening amount. "What's she yapping about, John?"
John doesn't answer, makes the decision to finish her off before getting Dean out of there, and steps forward as she's still brushing glass from her clothes, backhands her into the sink. She hits the porcelain hard enough to knock the faucet loose, and water shoots from the sink.
She laughs as she slumps to the floor, spits a mouthful of blood and one tooth to the tiled floor. She props herself up on her hands, preparing to stand, and John stomps on one, drawing out a crunch and a scream. "Who are you?" he demands.
Marcus lunges, grabs him by the upper arm. "John, stop."
John violently shrugs him off and whips a pistol from the small of his back, levels it calmly at the girl. "You wanna count how many times I'm gonna ask? Because it's not gonna happen again."
She looks up at him with a grin, revealing bloodstained teeth.
John's eyes narrow as he takes aim between her black eyes. "Give me a reason to do it."
She laughs, jerks her head in Dean's direction. "I thought I already had, John."
John's pulling the trigger when Marcus grabs his arm, drags it down, redirecting his aim harmlessly to the floor. He manages to keep from squeezing the shot off, whirls angrily to his friend.
"There's a demon in there, John," Marcus says, a bit too calmly, considering the circumstances. "S'just gonna be a dead girl if you shoot her."
John swallows, looks back at the girl. "Will it hurt the demon?"
"What?"
John's head bobs as he pulls back the hammer once more, aims it calmly at the girl's exposed thigh. "If I shoot her? Will the demon feel it?"
"John…"
His attention is drawn back to the girl as she pushes into a seated position. She's found her knife, the one that hurt his boy, and fists the hilt tightly in her unbroken hand, intention painted clearly across her face. John rushes forward, but he's just not fast enough. "No!"
He's not positive he would have pulled the trigger if the demon didn't choose that moment to escape its host and the room. He's not positive he wouldn't have, either. The knife twirls in her hand and cuts easily through clothing and flesh when she plunges it into her own chest, and blood is already bubbling from her lips as she collapses to the floor next to Dean. "Damn it."
There's nothing that John can do for her now, his priority had to be getting Dean out of there and patched up. "The girl?" he asks Marcus, working on pulling Dean up from the dirty floor. Come on, kiddo, help me out a little. But Dean's not up to helping, cries out as John pulls him to his feet.
Marcus straightens from his crouch beside the blonde, pulls his fingers away from her throat and shakes his head solemnly. "She's gone. Thing killed her." He moves to hold the door open for the two of them to get the hell out.
But John's frozen. He's gotten Dean upright and finds himself frightened and appalled by the blood pool that had been trapped under his son. They're going to be leaving a dead girl behind in the same room as Dean's DNA, and for a moment John can't move.
Marcus lays a hand on John's elbow, and he turns to him. "I'll take care of it, John. Just get Dean taken care of."
John nods and moves down the hall without a word. He kicks open the delivery entrance there in back and drags Dean to the car as gently as he can while also doing so urgently. He gets Dean situated in the back with something clean to put pressure on the wound, holds his own shaking hands over Dean's trembling ones for long enough to be comforted his boy can hold it there.
This was a bad idea from the jump, poorly executed, and they're getting the hell out of Dodge. It's his own fault for dragging Dean along, but damn if he didn't tell the kid to stay in the room. He keeps shooting glances at his son in the mirror. He's fading in and out, pale with dark circles under his eyes, smears of blood on his neck and jacket. Not great but not dying. Kid's tough, but he's showing all the signs of a concussion from that nasty crack to the head, so every time his eyes droop and his head rolls, John barks at him.
"Hey! Dean, remember this song?" And cranks the radio, drowning out his worries about Sam with guitar riffs and drum beats. After thirty minutes, though, Dean's head rolls and doesn't come back up when John whoops, yells, or honks the horn. Damn it.
He grabs a motel room at the very next exit and maneuvers Dean through the doorway, floppy limbs and pale face and John's heart is going a mile a minute. He was yelping before but now his son barely makes a sound as John lets him fall as gently as possible to the spread of the bed closest to the door. His head lolls to the side, mouth open, eyes gazing hooded and unfocused at the curtains pulled closed across the window.
"S'a demon," he mutters. "S'gonna come for us."
"Not tonight, it's not, bud," John says gently. This stunt has all but confirmed the demonic theories. Maybe Cam knows what he's talking about, and maybe Marcus was right, too, and it's well-past time he should bring in Singer on this one.
"How'd she – " Dean's question is cut off by a grunt as John prods the wound. "How'd she know your name?"
Now that's a good question. "I've pissed off a lot of people. Maybe not all of them were people."
"Demons."
John doesn't respond, just works away at the gash and Dean still him, grabs his arm with a white, shaking hand. "Dad?"
"Maybe," John relents.
There's fear in Dean's eyes, uncertainty. A demon is not a common hunt, nothing Dean's had to deal with before, and rarely ends well. That first failed exorcism that left him in traction and stole Dean's high school diploma.
"She said somethin' about Sam."
Sammy is the reason John needs to get Dean patched up quick. "Sammy seemed so sweet." Could mean nothing. Could mean everything. Could be they've got someone out there with him now. Or it could be bullshit meant only to get in his head, under his fingernails, throw him off of his game, like this attack on Dean. Maybe. Maybe he was just getting too close and they want him off their trail. And they will fail. John will make damned sure about that. First he has to make sure his boys are safe.
He pats Dean's cheek. "Hey, bud. Look at me a sec." John rummages through the bag he's tossed at the foot of the bed, coming up with their weighty and well-used first aid kit. "Any other day I'd be lettin' a real doctor do this. Tonight, you're gonna have to settle for me."
Dean's eyes are glassy, not really seeing him. His white hands hold John's shirt to his side without any real pressure behind it. The fabric is damp, sticky with blood, slowly staining his fingers. John swallows thickly and pulls Dean's hands away, gently lifts the hem of his shirt. It pulls away from the congealing blood with a soft, sickening sucking sound that leaves both of them hissing.
Dean's hands hang limply at half-mast for a moment before flopping heavily to his sides. The knife wound is narrow, and not as deep as he'd feared, and John breathes a sigh of relief. "Well, now, that's hardly worse than a paper cut," he drawls, placing a clean square of gauze over the deepest part, just below the curve of Dean's lowermost rib bone. A hollow feeling takes hold of his insides, seeing the array of bruises coloring his son's torso. Not all from tonight, but days olds, weeks old. He's damn near beat to hell.
Still fading in and out, Dean makes a sound that's almost a laugh, and John smiles, hearing it. He cleans the wound and applies a few stitches to close that deeper section, as gently as his large, rough hands will allow. He takes his time sewing and does his best to gauge the severity of Dean's head injury. He wants to be on the road as soon as possible, feels a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Sam so far away, unprotected and unaware. But he won't sacrifice one son for the safety of the other. Dean's got a hell of a goose egg in back and his pupils are sluggish but reactive, and though his complexion remains alarmingly pale, the bleeding had stopped some time ago.
John tapes another square of clean gauze over the tight line of stitches he's sewn into Dean's skin and sits next to his son for a moment or two, watching him sleep, relieved to see his features have somewhat relaxed. He'd given Dean a hard time back at the bar, and there is another discussion to be had when he's feeling better, but he can't really fault the kid for skulking off with an attractive girl who'd seemed interested. Since Sammy took off he's been battling his own feelings of loneliness and inadequacy, and there's also a way to look at this as entirely his fault. He should have told Dean what was out there, about the calls and the strange man outside their room in Maycomb. He can only assume now the man was also a demon, that everything that's transpired is somehow connected.
He scribbles out a note on the motel notepad and sets the pad, a glass of tap water and bottle of mild pain relievers, Dean's cell, and all of the cash he pulls from his pockets on the table next to Dean's head.
John hesitates in the doorway but only for a moment. Dean is tough, one of the strongest people he's ever known, and that's something else he inherited from Mary because he certainly didn't get it from John. Dean bounces back like a rubber band, and he'll understand why his father isn't there when he wakes up. Sam is two thousand miles away, more than a day's drive, without a care in the world with no idea something evil could come aknockin' at any moment.
He calls Marcus before he hits the interstate.
"You goin' after it?"
"Wouldn't know where to start." The depth of truth in the admission has John thumping a frustrated palm against the steering wheel. Damn it. "Gonna check in on Sam. Can you…can you look in on Dean?"
"Yeah, John. 'Course. Kid able to tell you anything more about her?"
"No."
"He remember?"
"He remember it now."
Marcus picks up on the implications. "John…"
"Just look in on my boy, Marcus. Please. And don't…if he doesn't remember, don't tell him."
There's a long, silent pause, in which John knows the big man's mind is anything but silent.
"Where's he at?"
John gives him the motel's name and address, then with an unwavering eye on the mirrors for a tail, he starts trying Dean's cell somewhere around Lincoln, Nebraska, but doesn't get an answer until Denver, his heart skipping guiltily the entire time.
It wouldn't have been his first ill-notioned romp in a barroom bathroom stall, but it will certainly be his last, he makes that promise to himself right now. John is a more than capable hunter, can very nearly sniff out any one of many varieties of beastie from a crowd, or a crowded room as it were. Very nearly. Dean is a pathetic amateur next to his father, hadn't had a clue until the bitch pulled the knife. Don't know where she had room to hide the friggin' thing anyway.
She'd taken the lead as soon as he'd flipped the lock, pressed tightly up against Dean and kissed him hungrily, flush against the wall. He wasn't paying attention to much of anything else before the flash of fire in his side as she pulled away. She smiled, blinked, and her eyes were obsidian orbs. A demon, clearly.
Dean knows JACK about demons. Besides the eyes, he knows they can be exorcised but not killed, and hasn't ever been faced with one before. Most importantly, he's never had to handle anything like this without his father leading the charge.
Last fucking time I fall for this shit, Dean thinks, struggling to pull himself upright, right hand slipping, leaving bright, bloody smears on the white pedestal sink. The fingers of his left hand fumble at his side, where the sharp metal of her weapon tagged him along the curve of his ribcage. He'd be dead if she intended it, very nearly caught with his pants literally down, but it wasn't meant to be a kill strike; the wound is not shallow but not immediately critical. He's been hurt badly enough to know the difference. He doesn't know what's about to happen, but he doesn't just yet think he's going to die in this dirty bathroom.
This bitch doesn't appear to be in any hurry to finish him off. She leans back casually against the wall, laughing to herself as she nonchalantly wipes the blade on the sleeve of her jacket, leaving a swipe of Dean's blood on the dark denim. With the black eyes and unflattering lighting, she's not looking nearly as attractive as she was just moments before. She eerily, casually shrugs out of the jacket one arm at a time, transferring control of the knife from one hand to the other. It's as big as the fucking Bowie he keeps under his pillow, doesn't know where in the hell she could have been hiding it. Jackass. Once removed, she crams the coat into the trash can by the door. There's a pounding behind her, the locked door bucking in its frame. Dad.
Dean frowns, straightens as much as the pain in his side will allow. He's a fighter, and he's not going to stand here and wait for her to decide to stick him again. He lunges at her blindly, without any real plan in the attack. She sidesteps his clumsy attempt easily, grabs the lapels of his coat and slams him bodily against the sink. His back connects first, and as gravity drags him down his head snaps back against a corner of porcelain. Lights pop in his field of vision and he crumbles, dazed, spent, and really wishing when he'd left the motel room he'd thought to bring a gun, a knife, SOMETHING. Never again.
"This is really kind of pathetic. The way they talk you Winchesters up downstairs, I expected more." She continues to laugh, a decidedly unattractive cackle. She's toying with him, having fun.
She's not laughing long, that's for damn sure. John splinters the door away from the jamb, tearing the lock free from the wall and slams into the bathroom. Without breaking stride he throws the bitch into the mirror over the sink. Glass explodes outward, raining over Dean, still curled dumbly on his side on the grimy floor.
She stands and shakes glass from her hair, the impact barely slowing her down. "Hope you didn't give that temper to your boys, John," she says with a pout. "Sammy seemed so nice."
There's a struggle happening above him, bodies converging and blows being thrown, three voices but Dean can't focus on any one of them long enough to know what anyone's saying anymore. He knows he's lying in a puddle of water, but the water is warm, and thick. He's clinging to consciousness but is starting to slip. The already dimly lit room is fading around the edges, and he blinks hard, feeling the pull, the need to close his eyes.
"No!" his father shouts suddenly, clear as a bell, and a body falls heavily to the floor in front of Dean.
The pretty blonde girl, on her side only inches away from him, her black eyes shining and a trickle of dark blood at the corner of her thick red lips. She smiles at Dean, lips contorted into an evil grin, then her expression changes, mouth falling open. Thick black smoke escapes in a rush as the demon exits her body.
The girl's now icy blue eyes lock on Dean's, wide and confused and afraid, and flutter closed. Only a few seconds have passed but it feels like hours as he stares, willing her eyes to open again.
"Damn it." Large hands fumble, rolling the girl to her side as Dean's vision blurs.
He cries out as John suddenly hauls him up from the floor, his surroundings snapping back into focus. The small bathroom is a battlefield laid to waste in mere minutes, shattered glass and water bursting from a broken faucet. His father swings him around and Dean sees the room in focus, the way the demon left the three men in a very suspicious circumstance. Next to her prone form is a second, smaller blood pool in a strange crescent shape. Dean frowns, connecting all of the dots. His father guides him quickly though not ungently out of the bathroom, where Marcus is there propping open the broken door.
"The girl?" John asks briskly as they pass, straight out of the alleyway delivery entrance at the end of the hall. Classic rock music blares loudly from the bar, something Dean figures should probably be familiar, and loud enough to have covered the sounds of the entire ordeal.
"She's gone," Marcus answers gravely. "Thing killed her."
They both sound much too business-like, and Dean wants to scream at the both of them.
"Son of a bitch." John adjusts his hold, pulling on Dean's arm draped over his shoulder.
He almost does scream then, bites his lips and fists his hand in his father's flannel shirt.
John keeps shaking his head as he hurries to load Dean into the Impala, strangely parked closer to the back of the bar than the front. He's muttering to himself. "Rookie move, Dean-o. Bush league. Trustin' a random girl in a bar."
Dean tries to reassure him that trust has nothing to do with it, starts to laugh but the piercing pain in his side and the steady throb in his head team up to put a quick stop to that.
His father deposits him onto his good side on the backseat, helps Dean curl his legs as gently as he can manage quickly, and stares down at him, definitely not laughing. He fishes out a clean shirt from his bag, which never made it out of the car when he dumped Dean back at that motel, and presses it to his side, holds his hands there around the fabric for a moment until he's satisfied Dean can keep the pressure on himself. John puts a rough hand on the side of Dean's face before throwing himself into the driver's seat.
"She said something…about Sam," Dean huffs out, trying to level up on an elbow but giving up quickly. His head feels about as heavy as a house.
"Keep pressure on that. I'll getcha sewn up soon's I can." He doesn't acknowledge what Dean said, and won't meet his eyes in the rearview.
Dean rolls his head against the bench seat and swallows roughly, panicking at John's lack of response. "Dad," he says louder. "Why did she say something about Sam?"
"I heard it, Dean. I heard." John rubs a hand roughly over his face. "I don't know why, but there's nothin' I can do until you're patched up and safe."
"I'm fine." Dean straightens from his slumped position in the seat and nearly blacks out. He's forced to rest his head back until the spots clear.
"Yeah, kid, you look it."
"Dad – what's going on? It was a demon, right?" Did he know? "Is that what Marcus…" It's not really an issue, because his strength is tapped halfway through his question. He collapses against the stiff leather, limp hands drifting away from the wound as his eyes fall closed.
"I gotta tell ya, John, you look like shit. Same goes for that boy of yours." The bench creaks under the weight of Marcus as he shifts in the booth.
John looks up from the smudged pages of his journal, raises his eyebrows. "Always a pleasure, Hicks."
Marcus brings a glass of cheap bourbon to his lips. "I'm just saying. It's well-past time you called in an extra set of hands."
"You called me."
"I'm just saying."
"Yeah."
Marcus shakes his head. "You talk to Ellen lately?"
John jerks his head at the mention of her, lowers his eyes and doesn't answer his friend. There are some closed doors that no good can come from opening again. Ellen Harvelle's is one of them.
"It's been five years, John. She doesn't blame you. You've gotta stop blaming yourself."
"Would you?"
Marcus narrows his eyes and relents with a sigh. "'Sides, I meant have you talked to her about this demon? You know she hears everything from everyone who passes through that bar of hers."
He's hell-bent on focusing on ANYTHING else, and a thought manifests in John's head. He cocks his head, squints at his old friend. "Who told you to call me?"
"What're you talking about?"
"Why'd you bring this to me? There's a handful of guys I know, good hunters, who are better versed in possessions."
"Some of those men may think otherwise, but I trust you, John. Lord help me."
John smiles sadly and salutes Marcus with his glass, thinking of Bill Harvelle. "Well, you know where trustin' me tends to get folks." Dead.
Marcus shakes his head. "I don't mean to wallow in a bar and rehash old mistakes. Somethin's going down, but John, I ain't the one best-suited to help you with all this. You know someone who WOULD know somethin' about trackin' demons?"
John sighs. "The thought had occurred to me."
"Then why're you sittin' here with me? Why ain't you eating pavement in the direction of South Dakota?"
"The boys have a relationship with Singer. He'd tell Dean about…" He gestures to the spread on the table, the weather and police reports, the well-marked map of demonic omens.
"That a problem? The way I hear it, you've raised a damn good hunter, there. And besides, don't you think he deserves to know what's going on?"
Something vibrates at his hip, and John retrieves the cell phone. He couldn't have asked for better timing. He frowns at the screen and makes no move to answer the call. Private caller.
Marcus frowns at John, motioning to the waitress for another round. "You screening calls?"
"Always. S'not the problem." John spins the phone so Marcus can read the screen before bringing the cell to his ear. "Yeah?"
"I thought I told you to keep Sam close."
"No, you didn't. And how the hell do you know anything about my son?"
Marcus rotates in the booth, glancing to where Dean is planted at the bar before turning back with a furrowed brow.
"I know a lot about both of your sons. I know Sam choose higher education over walking in your footsteps, probably extending his life by fifty or sixty years, and I know Dean has a thing for pretty blondes in short skirts."
Right or wrong, something about the specificity of the son of a bitch's observation tightens John's throat. He grips the phone, doesn't speak.
"You there, John?" Almost amused.
Marcus leans in, his features, usually rough as a rockface, are softened with obvious concern.
John raises his eyes to the bar, a crease deepening between his eyes. The phone falls away from his ear. "Where's Dean?"
Richmond, Indiana to St. Louis, Missouri
The darkness of the room confuses Dean to the time of day when the phone rings. It's early afternoon, according to the peek he sneaks at his watch. It had been a late night on the job tracking a Wendigo through dense forest. Turned out not to be a Wendigo as much as it did a tiny black bear cub, but the night still pushed well past midnight. The fortieth late night in a row.
John is gruff for the short duration of the phone call, growling in a low volume most likely meaning his father believes Dean's slept through the ring. He can't make out any of it, and when John's soft mumbling comes to an end he assumes the call is finished.
His father is still and silent for a long moment, then Dean hears a faint clatter coming from across the room. Sneaky bastard was out of bed before Dean even noticed. He rolls over just as John comes out of the bathroom, zipping closed his shaving kit.
He pauses only when he sees Dean is awake, blinks just once. "Marcus Hicks says he may have caught wind of…something, in town."
John is doing a poor job of masking his concern over the words exchanged in this conversation. He's certainly in a rush for a tip about "something." Dean frowns. "Where? What is it?"
"Nothing solid. But it's something back in St. Louis." John sinks to the edge of his bed.
Places and dates are swirling together like watercolor paints as Dean's exhausted brain attempts a proper recall. "We were just in St. Louis, what, less than a week ago?"
"Yeah."
"Ghost?"
"Poltergeist," John confirms.
"S'it back?"
"I don't know, Dean."
Dean's gut is nagging, but he can't put his finger on why. It's not like John to leave a job unfinished, but maybe they didn't clean up quite as well as they'd thought before blowing out of Missouri. "What are you thinking?"
"I don't know, Dean." Almost impatiently, almost angry. He's not telling Dean something, and there's nothing almost about that.
Dean has had this conversation with his father several times since he hit his late teens, since he dropped out of school and fully committed himself to hunting. Dad's always had a side agenda, researching the thing that killed Mom, and that's a fight he's always intended to take on solo. Dean's been involved in a lot of hunts, taken part in the killing of an array of nasty sons of bitches, and that's the way he's always wanted it. Wanting to assist and back up John, wanting to learn everything he could about everything they were hunting. But when it comes to Mom…that's a book, literal and metaphorical, that Dad slams closed, not even giving him or Sam a peek.
He can read his father pretty well, and his spidey-sense is tingling. He's also convinced his father would be on the road already if Dean hadn't been woken by the call. He'll be damned if he's left behind, concerned that may have been his father's intention.
Dean pulls himself fully upright and digs a calloused knuckle into his eye. "So when do we – "
"Right now."
Something that can't wait until morning. Can't be put on hold for sleep. The light between their heads snaps on suddenly, momentarily blinding Dean.
The other bed creaks as John heaves himself back toward the bathroom. "Pack. We leave in five minutes. If you're not in the car in five minutes, I will leave without you."
It sounds like a challenge, and Dean hustles to finagle a fresh t-shirt and clean-enough pair of jeans from his bag, replacing them with last night's muddy clothes, discarded in a pile at the foot of the bed. He pulls on his boots without tying the laces and switches places with his father as John hurries back into the main room.
They drop into the car simultaneously and John glances over. He nods, small and tight, its meaning a mystery to Dean. They hit the interstate right at afternoon rush hour, crawling at a snail's pace through three-lane blockage. John is as frustrated as Dean has ever seen him, cursing and pounding on the steering wheel.
If Dean wasn't in such a state of perpetual exhaustion he might take the time to appreciate the stunning sunset as they pull off the interstate into the heart of the city. The long-lost little boy in him straightens as they pass Busch Stadium. Always been a baseball fan.
The Impala rumbles into the lot of the first motel off of the exit ramp. Dean turns to his father with a frown.
John won't face him, stares straight ahead as the Impala idles in a parking stall outside of the manager's office. "I wanna meet Marcus alone. He's…jumpy."
Dean is pretty sure he's met Marcus. Pretty sure Marcus is a fellow ex-Marine and built like a house, maybe rough around the edges and been through a world of shit but certainly not jumpy. And whatever is going on in town, it's serious enough to have his dad spooked. John's seemed spooked for days but this look in his eyes takes the cake. Hell, no. He should be there. This is the kind of thing he's been working towards his entire life. He's proved himself time and again, all so that he wouldn't be benched when it really counts. "Dad – "
John roughly shifts the car into park. "This isn't up for discussion, Dean." He holds out one of the credit cards. "Get a room and I'll hook up with you in a few hours."
Dean clenches his jaw. He doesn't like the tone of his father's voice or the look in his eyes. He yanks the card from his father's hand and slams out of the car. The Impala squeals out of the parking lot and out of sight.
He does as he's told and gets a room, asks for extra towels and the location of the nearest laundromat, because he doesn't know any other way. He's too pissed to be tired now, too wired from the thought of John across town.
They aren't exactly ever looking for anything in particular, but the idea of the nameless, faceless something that ruined their lives is always hanging over their heads. John's obsession with finding the thing that killed their mother is what ultimately drove Sam away, what was at the heart of every argument. All that mattered, all that does still, and every job, every phone call that doesn't bring them closer to discovering the truth is a waste of time to his father. It's the only kind of tip that gets his father moving like this.
Even when they were young boys he would leave them without hesitation on a whim, for as long as was necessary, and would return to them furious and sullen for days when it didn't pan out. And it never did.
But things are supposed to be different now; he stood next to his father as Sam shouted insults and obscenities. He's left girls behind with so much as explanations, he left school, he's dedicated his all, given everything he has to his father's cause. He's not supposed to be left behind. He's answered his own question, and the realization hits him with a startling finality and the brute force of a barreling freight train: this is, as it has always been, his father's fight.
Dean sinks heavily onto one of the faded floral duvets only long enough to glimpse his reflection in the floor-length mirror across the room. He looks old, tired, and bruised. Exactly the way Sam always told him he would if he followed Dad down this road. That's not a train of thought he wants to hop onto right now, and he'll be damned if he's going to sit around feeling sorry for himself. A couple of cold beers sound amazing at the moment. Maybe his father will kill this goddamned thing, whatever it may be, and leave town for the next one in the queue, forgetting all about him.
He wants to forget that thought and maybe forget himself for a while, turns up the collar of his jacket and treks a few blocks through light drizzle to a seedy-looking biker bar. It's still relatively early in the evening, and he's alone at the counter, quickly makes his way through a tall draft beer and two shots of Jack. He's been drinking for years, but always favored a beer over the liquor his father poured himself. This far into the game, he figures, why the hell not? The exhaustion and doubt he was feeling is slowly becoming a warm and content sensation. A familiar, heavy hand falls on his shoulder, and it's now feeling like those shots were a goddamn fantastic idea.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" his father growls, his breath a hot, angry blast in his ear.
"Having a drink. I would think you'd recognize it," Dean drawls, emboldened by the liquor. He sips lazily from his second beer, not meeting John's eyes. He glances at his watch, surprised to see that more than an hour has passed since he sat down.
"We're on a job." Through gritted teeth, the pressure on Dean's shoulder increasing to the point of discomfort.
Dean jerks away from the hand. "No, Dad, you're on a job. I was just supposed to get a room at the motel, and now I'm celebrating my success," he says dryly, realizing John isn't alone. There's going to be hell to pay for this later. Not just for what he's saying but for saying it in front of someone his father has talked up as much as Marcus. Someone he clearly respects. Dean blinks, grabs the wheel with both hands and steers the moment elsewhere. "Tip didn't pan out?"
John's disappointment and annoyance are palpable. Behind him is Marcus, a tall man Dean vaguely remembers. He's husky with tanned skin and unruly hair, a full beard. His dark eyes are lined with crow's feet, and they narrow at Dean, looking just as pissed as John.
"Trail's cold," John says, can't seem to help himself from shooting an irritated glance at his bearlike friend. "Son of a bitch is still in town, though, somewhere."
Dean's given no more details than that. The son of a bitch in question could be anything from Godzilla to a unicorn. He straightens on the stool and sniffs. "You need me?"
"I need you safe." There's something off here, something in his father's shifty eyes, darting all over the crowded bar. "Stay here. We're gonna get a booth in back and review Marcus' notes."
Dean nods halfheartedly and turns back to the bar.
John grabs his arm forcefully but not painfully, whips Dean back to face him with such vigor he nearly comes right off of his stool. "I mean it," he says seriously. "Don't leave this bar."
Dean frowns and nods, grips the edge of the counter to steady himself. "Yeah, sure."
Marcus remains stoic and silent as John gestures to the back of the bar with his leather-bound journal. "S'where we'll be." The two men move away, and Dean motions for the bartender to bring him another shot.
By the time the drink arrives he's no longer alone at the counter. A girl, bottle-blonde and maybe his age, maybe a touch older, appears and pulls herself onto the stool right next to him. Her top is low-cut, leaving little to the imagination, and her legs go all the way down to the floor.
She's just as quickly appraising her new bar buddy, looking Dean up and down and grinning appreciatively. "What brings you in?" she asks by way of greeting, drawing her hair over one shoulder and leaning on an elbow.
Dean shoots a glance at the corner booth in back where his father and Marcus are already deep in conversation, pouring over the contents of the journal. Girls love guys with daddy issues. Dean's been trying to get Sammy to play that angle since he realized a nice set of boobs wasn't going to bite him. "My dad."
She follows his gaze, makes a face, and her eyelashes are a mile-long. "Looks a little rough. Nasty drunk?"
Dean shakes his head, wags a finger of the hand holding his glass for good measure. John Winchester might not be a saint by anyone's standards, but that's never been an impression he's been comfortable with people having. "Just a quiet one."
The bartender smiles and sets a bottled beer on the counter in front of her and Dean raises his eyebrows. Not only does she seem to be a regular in this dive but the brew is a decent one; most girls that look like she does wouldn't bother with anything more than a low-cal, low-carb bottle of piss water, if bothering with a beer at all.
She plays her fingers along the neck of the brown bottle and shifts on her stool, pressing a bare tan knee against his left thigh. "And what kind of drunk are you?"
Dean's eyes are fixated on the spot where their legs are touching. "The kind that usually regrets his decisions in the morning," he answers honestly.
She leans in, bats those long lashes, and he's as good as a fly caught in a web. "What if I can promise you won't regret anything?"
Dean's eyes once again tick over to where his father is still in heated conversation, doesn't even seem to remember Dean is here. "I don't even know your name," he drawls. "And I'm not supposed to leave this bar."
"Well, I don't think either of those things in a problem. Do you?"
Dean raises his eyebrows and grins lazily. He knocks back one last shot. If John had raised his eyes to his son just once, Dean wouldn't follow her but he does, down the narrow hall away from the counter to the otherwise empty men's room.
The week before
On the road
Dean throws a chair to the floor in Maycomb and John almost pops him one for it. He's just drunk enough that for a moment, a blink, really, it's not Dean he sees across the room but Samuel, and the image nearly has him crossing the space between them and knocking some sense into him. He surges, takes a step forward before the room rights itself and he sees it's Dean with him instead. John drags a hand over his eyes, takes a long breath, and when he opens them he's alone in the room.
Dean's not the leaving kind, so there's no worry that he won't be back. Just taking a walk to clear his head, to give John the chance to do the same. Dean will give you space where Sam will disrespect it.
It's stuffy in the small motel room. The A/C unit, jammed into the window with duct tape and a prayer, clicks, sputters, and then gives out completely. The artificial blast of icy air is replaced with a thick, invisible cloud of stiflingly hot summer air, and John throws open the door, doesn't bother to close it behind him as he leans on the railing outside their room. He takes deep breath, drawing fresh air into his lungs, clearing his head and washing out the anger that spiked at the imagined sight of Sam. A scuffle of boot sole on cement snaps open his eyes, whips his head to the left.
A man leans against the vending machine two doors down, puffing a cigarette. He exhales a bluish plume of smoke, and John finishes sobering up pretty damn quickly. The man's wearing an overcoat despite the high heat of mid-summer. Keeping to the shadows, his face hidden from view. Unable to be identified, but there's no way to tamp down the eerie sense of familiarity that feels like dread wrapped in a bowling ball in John's stomach. Whoever this may be, his presence here, now, is no mere coincidence.
John squints, shoots a cursory glance around the otherwise empty parking lot. Dean isn't anywhere in sight, and he hopes it stays that way as he moves closer to the stranger. "Mind if I bum one?"
The tip of the cigarette glows orange from the shadows as the man takes a drag, looses another puff of smoke. "Not at all." A package is extended, a hand the only thing coming out of the shadows.
John trusts his instincts above all else, reinforces the suspicion this meeting is no chance encounter. He pulls a cigarette free and tosses back the crinkly plastic pack. He roots into his pocket, feels past the pack of cigs he's been poorly hiding from Dean for the lighter there.
He takes a drag and, after a moment's contemplation, another step forward. As anticipated, the stranger retreats, draws further into the shadowy corner.
Suspicions confirmed, John exhales deeply, rocks back on his heels and chuckles. "Can I help you, friend?" Nothing friendly to be taken from his tone. He moves his left hand casually to his hip, comforted by the feel of the pistol tucked at the small of his back.
"You packing there, John?"
He raises an eyebrow, lets his hand drift away from the spot. "You have to ask, you already know the answer."
The man laughs. "Your boy there's got a temper, doesn't he?"
John nods, squints, feeling his blood boiling under his skin. "I feel like I'd better warn you, he gets it from his daddy. And he didn't get it all."
"And I feel I'd better warn you, don't think that information your friend Cam passed on to you is as worthless as other hunts he's sent you on in the past."
"And how do you know anything about Cam, what information he's given to me, or what we've done in the past."
"Ah, the million dollar question." The man throws his smoking cigarette butt to the cement, grinds out of the burning tip with the toe of his boot. "And one, I fear, you may not learn to the answer to for quite some time."
"Then why are you hanging around outside my motel room?"
"Just keeping you on the right track."
He turns to walk away, keeping to the shadows. John flicks his own cigarette away into the parking lot and surges forward, brought to a halt by a raised hand.
"Think of the children, John."
"You're not going to touch my children."
"We're getting well past the point where you have any say what happens to those boys, and I think you know it. I think you know that's how you've gotten here."
John's hand feels out the grip of the gun in his waistband, just as a police cruiser glides to a gentle stop at the edge of the parking lot. He frowns, releases the gun and steps back a bit into the shadows, himself.
The man chuckles. "I'll be seeing you, John. You and your boys."
John turns back, and the man is gone.
They take test fires out back at an abandoned factory down the road from the motel, a part of town where the sound of gunfire isn't a rarity. The hard-packed rock salt explodes against the concrete walls in a much larger diameter than a lead shot, a pock-marked crater beneath the dissipating cloud of dust.
John inspects the marks left behind with a low whistle. "Can't stand too close. It'll get a piece of ya."
"Yes, sir," Dean agrees, collecting spent shells from the gravel.
"Was a good idea." John nods to himself, thoughtfully rubbing the coarse stubble on his chin. "A real good idea."
Dean swallows, wanting to fight back the grin that aims to take over his face, but his father's praise is almost all he's ever wanted, since he first picked up a shotgun. "Thanks."
"Let's go try it out."
They stay up for hours packing shotgun shells with rock salt from the trunk, and John sniffs out another haunting in the next state to take this idea of Dean's on a test run. It should be concerning how easily his father finds jobs, but it's so nice to feel useful and important to John, he doesn't pause to think about it, just packs up the car once again.
This one is found through the grapevine, a wealthy, elderly widow catching sight of her recently deceased husband in their estate home. Not a particularly violent entity, but not a living person anymore, so Dean figures it isn't REALLY cruel when they both blast the old coot into next Wednesday.
John even lets out a joyful whoop as the wrinkled spirit dissipates like a wisp of smoke. He sets the timer on his wristwatch. The shot buys them more than enough time to perform a quick but not hurried salt and burn of the bones before the dearly departed Mr. McGregor makes a reappearance.
"Won't all be so easy, I suspect. He was fresh, so to speak."
"Yes, sir."
For the entire affair Dean earns a bone-crushing thump on the back. A hug, by John Winchester standards. His exhausted, sore body causes him to wince, but he's no longer capable of anything but beaming under his father's approval.
They stock up on rock salt and take the next night off to properly celebrate the best idea Dean's had since dropping out of school. The celebration is short-lived, and anything but. Two rounds in, they sit awkwardly at the center of a loud and crowded pool hall paying more attention to their drinks than to each other.
For a brief moment, things between them had been like old times. More than father-son; a healthy camaraderie, the partnership that had always made Sam jealous, despite his many arguments to the contrary. But something is different, and maybe their relationship isn't what it should be without Sammy there to balance it out. That must be it, and not all of the secrecy, because Dean should be used to that by now.
They continue on, the silence found in that bar booth, heavy and uncomfortable and unfamiliar, riding shotgun. John is growing more distant by the day, obviously hiding things from Dean, to the point it's no longer worth being upset about. He's more short-tempered then stoic, snapping at Dean for minor infractions, things he's never given a rat's ass about before. Changing the setting on the A/C in the room, leaving a towel on the floor of the bathroom. Dean catches the date on a newspaper in the gas station and it starts to make sense.
This must be it, mid-August, the predetermined deadline for Sam to come back, if there was a sliver of a hope of a chance he was going to. Colleges are starting up, kids moving in, getting settled, and if Sammy hasn't caught up with them yet, he isn't going to.
The next night John goes out and gives Dean a look that says in no uncertain terms that he is not welcome, which is just as well because going to the bar with the old man isn't nearly as much as it used to be. He dutifully stays behind in the room watching infomercials for various cooking appliances and nursing a six-pack of tall boys, is halfway through his fourth beer when he's startled upright be the sound of someone trying to break into the room. John fumbling with the lock and key. He could help his father, maybe should, but history gives him a better than even chance of pissing off the man more than anything else.
Once successfully navigating the lock, John comes in just as drunk as expected, but quite a bit calmer than anticipated. Dean watches with a wary, suddenly sober eye as his father shrugs out of his coat and travels in not so much a straight line to the sink in the bathroom, where he splashes his face with cold water. He reaches to pull a hand towel from the thin bar on the wall and his hand smacks the edge of the sink when he doesn't find one there. Dean tenses on instinct.
John eyes go to the pile of dirty towels on the bathroom floor and finally meet Dean's in the mirror. "Where's your brother?"
It's so calm and normal, like nothing has happened, and Dean can't actually respond. He gapes, floundering for words like a fish out of water.
John comes out of the bathroom without turning out the light. He holds Dean's gaze as he roughly shakes the water from his hands. The motion is enough to knock him off-balance, which only serves to further infuriate him. He catches himself against the corner of the wall. "Where," he repeats, "is your brother?"
Dean struggles for the right answer another long moment before speaking, can't do much more with what he's got than to say pitifully, "He left."
"When's he gonna be back?"
"Dad, he…he took off weeks ago. Remember?" He probably shouldn't have added that last part, as John stares, more angry than confused. Dean remains silent as it starts to sink in.
John sniffs but doesn't break eye contact. "Well, maybe if your brother was here we'd have some clean towels."
He turns back to the bathroom, trying to leave it with the last words firmly in his back pocket, but Dean finally snaps. The lingering pain in his healing, constantly itchy face, the hole in his heart that his baby brother has left, the beers…it all helps. "Yeah, maybe if Sam was here."
John lays an ungentle palm against the doorframe as he faces Dean. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Dean swallows. He understands in that instant; this is what Dad wants. Maybe what he needs. It's been weeks, frustration mounting, barely sharing words with each other and he needs a fight so badly he'll pick one with Dean. Dean could use a fight himself, but he's not sure he's up to it right now, doesn't want to do this with his father. "Nothing," he grits out. "I'll get some towels from the manager's office." It's an exercise in restraint, not giving into his father.
"Don't bother." John pats his face dry on a gray cotton t-shirt left crumpled at the foot of his bed, already on his way out the door.
"You just got back," Dean protests as his father stomps past him. "It's late."
Without so much as a look back, John closes the door in a calm, authoritative manner. Dean waits for the growl of the Impala's engine coming to life, leaning tensely against the dresser.
And there he goes. He turns and roughly kicks the waste basket. "Dammit, Sammy!"
The metal cylinder rebounds off of the thin wall, causing every crap piece of dusty décor to rattle and scatters the garbage from the can. Crumpled paper and empty beer cans spill across the short carpeting.
There is a returning pound of a fist on the wall from the next room, a muffled cry of "Keep it down!"
Dean's reflexes want him to go one room over and kick the shit out of the guy. He doesn't, because fighting is against the rules. There used to be a lot of rules.
No fighting, and that means you, Dean.
Keep the door closed at all times.
Don't let housekeeping in.
Never let Sammy out of your sight.
The last one is old, but it's the one Dean's thinking about now. Now that Sammy's out there on his own without anyone covering his six. How could it NOT be Dean's fault if something awful happens to his little brother?
Because it's Dad's.
Dean tells himself these aren't really his thoughts, just his brain filling in Sam's dialogue in his absence.
He almost starts to believe it, too.
Things between them are noticeably different after that night. John now knows he can get a little fight from Dean when he really needs it, and after his initial resistance, Dean finds himself all too happy to oblige. They get into it bad one night in Maycomb, Illinois, zigging and zagging back across the country as the calls come in, without a pattern or a path to follow.
John stumbles in at 3AM, closing time, and Dean's had just enough, himself, to call him on it before he has a chance to self-edit. Especially after sitting through years of self-righteous lectures and bullshit about staying sharp and alert. "Don't you think you're getting a little old to be out drinking all night?"
John's lip curls. "Watch your tone, boy. You have no idea what you're talking about."
Dean is so goddamned sick of watching his tone, he retorts in a volume he's never before reached with his father. "You know what, Dad? Considering recent events maybe you're the one who needs to think about what you're saying and how you're saying it."
Fueled by anger and alcohol, he goes so far as to knock a chair to the floor. Embarrassed, he stomps out of the motel room for a little self-imposed but well-deserved time out. He stays out until dawn, walking the cracked and pothole-riddled streets, thinking about what he'll do if the car isn't there when he gets back.
It is, and Dean has no explanation for the way his heart sinks when he sees it. John is asleep, or is at least pretending to be, and the chair is still on the floor. He's broken the salt line opening the door, and has to squat there in the dark, silent room to reapply it, knowing the whole time his father is probably watching him.
In the morning, John acts like nothing happened. Dean refuses to give in, another first, and the chair is still lying on the floor when they hit the road two days later.
The guilt that weighs on him afterward is like a third companion, but things slow down after that.
To be continued...