This chapter contains some dialogue from 11.08 "Just My Imagination". No copy right intended.
Chapter 1.
November, 1992.
Dean had been putting it off. Been avoiding it for as long as he could. But Sam was a stubborn kid. He didn't mind if he had to ask a trillion times, he would get his answer. Every time the two older Winchester's went on a hunt he'd ask Dean to ask their dad if he could come, and Dean would say he'd try his best, and that would be the end of it. Dean would say John said no, and he'd leave Sam with shoulders slumped, and hazel eyes dull with disappointment. It hurt Dean to see how it hurt his little brother, but better his preteen pride wounded than getting killed.
Dean hated lying to Sam. He really did. It wasn't his fault that life seemed intent on making him a dishonest person. But Dean would go to any extent to keep Sam safe, lying being one of the least rash things he'd do. And as a thirteen year old hunter, Dean Winchester could get pretty desperate.
Every time John came to him with a new hunt Dean's heart was in his mouth expecting His dad to say, "Go get Sammy, he's coming on this one." And every time John said nothing, Dean said nothing about Sam's request to tag alone. He'd say he had to call and check up on him, and then he'd tell Sam John said no, he'd say he was sorry and that he'd tried his best for Sam. And God help him, he WAS trying to do his best by Sam. Trying to shield him from this ugly part of life; this dirty, bloody life.
Dean knew the day was coming, knew he couldn't put it off forever. But like most of those inevitable things in life Dean pushes it back in his mind as much as he can. He fights the stress and worry by throwing himself into hunting...into making himself as good as he can so there would be no need for Sam. Hoping that John would feel that when he hunted he only needed Dean, and Sam would be safe wherever they were temporarily calling home.
It was a fool's hope.
The realization of his fear was near, and Dean was in denial. Time, John, and Sam were not on his side.
...
John Winchester walks into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. Dean looks up from a couple of files spread out in front of him on the table, watching his father stalk into the room pulling at the tie that he mumbles is 'strangling' him. Dean smirks. John always gets ill when he has to dress up in his 'monkey suit' as he calls it.
John gives him a severe look, efficiently wiping the smug look from his son's face. Dean ducks his head and gets back to scanning over the varied police reports in front of him as his father comes to stand over his shoulder.
"Anything new?" John asks, flipping through a few pictures and then tossing back on the table.
Dean scowls and gathers up the photographs and places each back with their file. "No sir," he answers, "All suspected animal attacks, and all taking place in the same stretch of woods, so..."
"So potential hunting grounds." John finishes, nodding. "What I found at the mortuary goes along with that, that doctor would NOT shut up."
Dean snickers a little, still taking one last look over the information they have. If there's one thing he's learned over his short hunting experience, it's that the last thing you want is to be ill informed, and God forbid, surprised.
You are going to need the element of surprise to take down most of the evil sons of bitches out there.
"What're you thinking it is?" He asks, as John sheds the starchy white button up and toes off his black dress shoes.
John shrugs, stepping out of his slacks and slipping back into his comfortable jeans, sliding a jean shirt over his white t-shirt. "We'll know more after we check out those woods, but I'mma guess a black dog. Kill was messy, even for a werewolf."
Dean grimaces looking at the crime scene photos, messy didn't really do it justice.
"You ready now?" Dean asks, knowing his father all too well.
"Yeah," John affirms, checking over his favorite hand gun, freshly cleaned by Dean earlier that morning. He slides a loaded clip into it. "Let's go check it out while it's still light, just to be on the safe side."
Dean nods, shutting the files and going for his coat and gun, "Lemme call Sammy and then I'll be ready."
"Okay, hurry it up." John says, sitting to tie on his boots.
John follows Dean out of the room, locking it behind him. He sits heavily in the impala, cranking it up, watching Dean slip quarters into the payphone and give a precautionary look around as he waits for Sam to pick up.
It always causes something unpleasant to rise up in John when his oldest son displays such suspicion and worry. Dean never relaxed now, not even around him. There was a predatory attitude that had come to turn his gait into a stalk, and a dangerous gleam that shone from his green eyes. They only took on warmth like Mary's when Sam was there. His lips only turned up into a sincere smile when Sam was beside him.
He sighs, running a hand over his forehead...he knew he screwed up Dean's childhood royally. And the only reason he felt slightly better about Sam was because Dean petted and nurtured him plenty for the both of his 'absent' parents. Really it was time for Sammy to get out in the REAL world more.
Sam needs to get out from under his big brother's wing, the worrying question was would John have to tear off the wing in the process?
Dean waits for a few more rings than usual, getting a little anxious, but smiling when he hears Sam's voice on the other end of the line.
"Dean?"
"Hey," Dean says, relieved.
"Didja' ask?" Sam sounds so hopeful. Dean hates to tear him down.
"Yeah," he says, pursing his lips, and looking over his shoulder, half afraid his lies are going to find him out. "It's not gonna happen."
"Come on." Sam says, sounding about three years old and like a whining puppy dog at the same time. "You said!"
The whining tells on Dean's already on edge nerves. If this goes on much longer Sam's going to ask John himself. The Dean'll be busted. "Look, I said I would ask. Dad said no, what do you want me to do about it?"
"But...I've been shooting and I can run two miles..." Sam sounds frustrated and like he's desperately grasping at straws. "I know silver kills werewolves, and," he finishes, failing miserably at trying to sound impressive.
"Sammy," Dean says, trying to absolve his little brother.
"No fair!" Sam bursts out, sounding so miserable it pulls on Dean's heart. "You were hunting when you were younger than me!" He tells Dean petulantly.
Dean finds his temper slipping away from him, "Yeah, well I never had an imaginary friend," he hisses back, knowing it's a low blow.
The silence on the other end of the phone reflects how much it hurt his little brother, Dean sighs, "Look," he backtracks, "I'll keep working on dad alright? Maybe you can come next time," he soothes.
"Yeah," Sam answers, sounding doubtful. Good.
"Alright, I gotta go, call you in a coupla' days."
"Yeah, I'll just be..." Dean hangs up before Sam can finish his pity party answer, and runs to join his impatient father in the impala.
He sighs, looking up to the sky, watching the gloomy weather increase.
"Well, we can blow the tracking idea." He mumbles, watching the rain torrent down heavier.
John grunts, "Damned rain," Dean cocks a brow at his father, watching the usually focused man drive distractedly towards their destination. The look that falls over John's eyes show Dean his parent is far away, or at least his mind is.
John being preoccupied means Dean has a few minutes to himself. He settles into the impala's seat, probably his favorite place to be, and reflects on his little brother.
There's really no way to keep Sam away. His father will, one day, be ready for the youngest Winchester, and will call him out to join their ranks. And it will be soon. Because Sam's right. He is ready, he is strong. Well, has much as any nine year old could be. And Dean IS frigging proud. Sam is the apple of his eye, he's pretty much Dean's.
He remembers the first time he held Sam. He remembers wrapping his arms tightly around his little brother's tiny form and running for both their lives from the house that stole their mother, and killed their chance at happiness. He remembers consoling a screaming baby those first few weeks when both brothers couldn't comprehend what happened to their beautiful, loving mother. Or when this distracted, grim man replaced the soft eyed father they knew.
Dean remembers being the one warming bottles of milk, climbing into Sam's playpen and shushing him into slumber with pets and whispered promises of sunshine and safety. He knows the dependency a child feels, the burden that it lays on Dean's shoulders. The shuddering sobs during the night, wiping tears from chilled cheeks, and pulling a little body under the cover beside him. The cold toes slipping under the hem of his pajama pants seeking out warmth, sending goosebumps down Dean's whole body and jerking him from sleep.
He's been there through every frustrated tear, and he is the one who helps Sam keep his grades up. He's the one that keeps records from all his schools. He kept the drawing for 2nd grade art glass, he has the first math test Sam got an honorary mention for. He keeps them because he knows Sam won't be stuck here, knows his little brother just isn't cut out for this. Will have all this information when Sam needs it, when Sam's ready to go out on his own. College, a job, normalcy, safety.
All this, all he's done, all Sam has done, it has made the Winchester brother's who they are. Dean is proud of that, of Sam, of himself. He doesn't know what the future holds, but surely if he kept Sam alive through the most critical parts of his young life he can do so for the rest of his life too? He has yet to screw up with Sam, he doesn't want to start now.
Dean can't say what the future holds, but he knows for now he can only do his best in the present day. So for today, he's kept Sam from the hunt, for today Sam is innocent and safe and bored and probably pissed as hell, but Dean has learned sometimes loving someone is hurting them, just a touch. In this instance, Sam is just gonna have to freaking live with it.
John pulls his car into a muddy dirt road leading to the woods, with a chain linked around two trees on the opposite sides of the road blocking the way. He frowns.
"I guess we'll have to leave the car here."
Dean frowns too, climbing out of the impala, he likes the idea even less than his father.
Father and son both tuck their guns into the backs of their jeans, John throwing Dean a silver dagger, which the younger tucks into the ankle of his boot. They trek into the woods, soon disappearing in the midst of the tree trunks.
Dean doesn't like the woods. Too quiet. Too easy for the young hunter to make some sort of unnatural noise to draw attention to himself. With his senses turned up high, he can feel everything, if there anything bigger than an earth worm looking at him Dean gets a prickly, suspicious sensation that won't go away.
He spots what is currently causing the feeling, a squirrel, perched on a limb about three feet away and six feet up in a tree. It's a sign of lacking in the extra terrestrial if wild life is still hanging around. He keeps a wary eye out, nodding and agreeing with his father's instructions to move ahead with hand motions.
He and John creep noiselessly over the forest floor, guns now held low by their legs when things drop quiet around them. Dean stumbles on some gruesome proof. One of the missing people reported and unfound. The body lays what's left of it, contorted and mauled, mostly frozen, with crystal rain drops running over the white skin, and reflecting the dark red of dried blood. The pale white of the rib cage and hip bones are curving out of the demolished flesh.
Dean fingers long, blood matted hair, and decides it must be Brandy Hare, the only woman taken. He grimaces at the state of her corpse, obviously this black dog was no pup, he seems to enjoy tearing his victims apart. He sends up a low whistle to his father, and John appears by his side a few moments later. The eldest Winchester looking as grey and grim as the gloomy, rainy day.
John is of the same opinion as Dean. They proceed with caution, hoping to find a lair. But with the bad weather and it already being afternoon, light is fading fast. John whistles to bring Dean over to him. Even in the darkening woods, both make out the copper stained dirt and ferns leading towards an old ramshackle shed, surrounded by rusting barrels. Rotting pieces of tarp are slung over them in an attempt to protect them. The whole place generally looks disgusting, and like the perfect place for some rabid, supernatural beast to make a home base.
John and Dean circle the structure, taking note of the jagged hole torn in the bottom of the door. More characteristic of an animal than a werewolf. It was definitely looking like a black dog. Dean knows no hunting will be done tonight. Their scout out is complete. They know where to find the thing.
Now they go home, get a good night's sleep, study up a little bit more and clean the weapons. Make a stake out in the woods with hand guns and rifles loaded with silver tomorrow and then from there they wait for the thing to come out or come back in the guise of night.
He follows his father back the way they came. Each keeping his own council until birds are singing over them again, and Dean stops waiting for his father to join him under the tree where the squirrel had stared at him.
John comes to a stand still by his son, looking back the way they came, "Good eye Dean." He says, meaning the corpse he discovered.
Dean nods back in thanks, watching water drop from rain heavy branches reflecting the last ray of light. He follows as John starts the walk back towards the car. He feels some tension in the air, notices it in his father's shoulder's.
Dean is usually pretty on top of his father, his mood, his feelings. But John has lost him. He was just praising him, now...? He knows this feeling. Something hanging inevitable between them. It's always awkward, always hard as hell and...always, always, always about Sam.
He sighs deeply, stuffing chilled hands in his pockets and keeps his eyes on the way the wet ferns are soaking his pant legs, sending chills up his body. He's not looking forward to this.
"Dean?"
"Yeah dad?" He asks, looking up to try and read John's face.
"Sammy ever say anything about hunting? You think he wants to?" John doesn't look back again, leaving Dean kind of hanging.
Dean hesitates. Lying to Sam about their dad was one thing, but lying to his dad about Sam? Dean couldn't lie to John, he wasn't raised for it, it's not in his blood...or whatever. The two have been hunting together for a while now, they depend on each other's senses and instincts as much as their own. They depend on the other's and words and presence to keep loneliness at bay.
John may not be the best dad, but hell, if he isn't there when Dean needs him.
John stops at Dean's silence and waits for his eldest child to catch up to him. He studies his face carefully as he joins him. Dean stops before his father with his heart beating unsteadily, breath ripping though his lungs and leaving his mouth in white clouds, hanging in the air.
He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets and ducks ins head under his father's intense gaze.
"Dean?" John asks, wondering what the unusually guilty and...sneaky look is doing on his son's face?
Dean let's out a sigh, "What, dad?"
John looks at him sharply, raising his eyebrows, a hand on Dean's back leading him on the way back towards the impala. "About Sammy?"
"Oh yeah," Dean chuckles a little nervously, "Sammy and hunting." He shrugs, "I dunno dad, I mean it's Sammy, he gets what he wants, even from you so..."
John looks down at his oldest son, clever answer, he thinks.
"So," John watches Dean carefully, as they look at each other over the impala's roof. "He hasn't said anything?"
Dean freezes, what brought this on? Had Sam said something to John? "Has he said anything to you?" He asks, opening the door and following his dad's example of shutting his door against the cold and rain. And turns up the heat as soon as John cranks the car.
"I think I was the one asking the questions here," John rumbles out, sending Dean a stern look.
Dean gulps, "Um, I mean he's said a few things...he trains good, but Sam's just a kid, he still needs some time."
"I'll be the judge of that," John says, keeping his tone light, while pushing in a tape. "So a few things, huh? What's he say, he want to hunt?"
"Dad, seriously he's nine. If I told him suicide was in, he'd probably do it." Dean tries to calm himself over on his side of the seat where his heart is currently attempting to beat out of his chest.
"So your saying Sam wants to hunt, because we...you do?"
Dean says nothing.
"I just haven't said anything, because he never did." John says, watching the wet roads. "I was sure he'd say something when the time came, I didn't want to start him earlier than he was ready."
Dean looks down at his hands. He never meant to rob his father of information he needed, didn't want to take any part of his youngest son from him. (Though John would argue, Dean always meant more to Sam then his father. And he was probably right.)
John looks at Dean watching his face, seeing the emotion wash over it.
"You little bastard," he breathes out, and Dean winces. "He's been asking you this whole time, hasn't he?"
Dean bites his lip, and John lands a heavy hand in the middle of his chest across the seat. "Hasn't he?" John asks again, voice dropping, dripping with an unspoken threat.
Dean shrugs, "You never asked dad!" He burst out as an excuse.
John pauses, true. But still...
"He's been asking you to ask ME, hasn't he?" He asks, feeling even a little bit more anger bubbling up.
"What did you want me to do, dad?" Dean asks, finally losing it with all the questions. "My nine year old little brother wants to know if he can come along when we hunt down scary ass monsters eating people, and I'm just supposed to be cool with that?! Sam is too young!"
"That's not your call to make!" John returns, his voice rising. "You over stepped my authority, son." Silence reigns for a few tense minutes, with Dean feeling he's being rebuked unjustly. "You were younger than Sammy when you started hunting." John says, slightly calmer.
He knows the strength of his son's bond. He was the one who started the whole mess by thrusting his baby boy into Dean's arms, and then engraving into his soul, "Look after Sammy." It is Dean's purpose in life, it's the end he works towards. John actually respects that this commitment would cause Dean to keep something from him, but it still pisses him off.
"So why you? Why you not Sam?" He asks, pulling up in front of their room, but leaves the car on, as he takes in the way Dean's shivering a little.
"Because I'm me!" Dean nearly shouts. "I'm me, and Sam's Sam! He's not ready, dad."
"So what?" John asks a little more heatedly, "You worthy and Sam's not?"
John is amazed but the complete hurt look on his eldest face, the way his entire form slumps. "No," Dean says calmer, "No, it's not that...its just, he's smaller, and weaker and..." John watches as he can nearly feel Dean's heart race faster, and his breath getting shorter. "He is not anything like how I was dad, and he's just... He's just not ready!"
John watches the unexpected emotions pour over Dean's face in waves. Fear. Love. Insecurity.
John sighs, knowing his fears are being brought to life. There no way to remove Sam from this comfort zone without hurting Dean BAD in the process.
He gives his son a comforting pat on the chest, "You shouldn't have kept that from me, Dean." He says more gently, "But I think I understand why you did."
Dean looks up quickly, hope written over his features. John holds up his hand, to halt him.
"How long has he been asking, son?" He asks, deathly seriousness glinting hard in his eyes.
Dean swallows, "Since that vamp hunt in Virginia." He mumbled.
He watches John clench his jaw, and his hands fist around the impala's steering wheel. "Six months, you been keeping this from me for six months? And let me guess you been lying to Sammy too?" He looks at his boy in disbelief.
Dean says nothing, just looks down, and away out his window.
John knows an unrepentant soul when he sees one.
He huffs a dry laugh and shakes his head, "You know what? Whatever." Dean looks out his window as John climbs from the impala, and jumps a little as his dad slams the door shut. His red, dry, burning eyes turn to follow his father's figure through the pouring rain until it disappears into their room.
Dean hates not being in control. Hates, hates, hates it when it all goes spiraling out of his hands. He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. He decides to give his dad some breathing space, and heaven knows he could use some quiet time. The impala offers the perfect haven for his bewildered mind and soul that are having trouble catching up.
He lets his head fall against the back of the black leather seat. What is John going to do now? What is HE going to do now?
tbc...
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