Chapter 4.
John pours all of his lighter fluid out on the large, fury corpse and enjoys giving it one last kick as he scratches his matches to spark and the fire whooshes to life over the deceivingly innocent looking layer of white salt. The flames rise angry and hot and John holds out his cold hands, rubbing them together. God, what a night.
The weather had been vindictive almost, and John was VERY suspicious. He hated being subject to such fear and suspicion but he had no doubt in his mind this had been a very meaningful night in his youngest son's life. And he hated to think what it could mean for him that the very weather objected.
John shakes his head free from the gloomy thoughts, though standing alone over a burning carcass what kind of thoughts are you supposed to have? He uses his boot toe to kick a hole in the soft ground. Dean had done well, better than John had expected, since honestly the whole thing had been a bitch for him. But Sam had done even better. Had embraced it like a pro.
Sure his reaction to killing was stronger than Dean's, but Sam was a gentle boy, loving and all smiles. But the black dog had hurt Dean, that had given Sam full, clear conscious to brutally kill it. It showed a sense of justice, an anger that had to be appeased. A wrong had to be righted, Sam wanted blood for blood. That reflected his passion, the strength of his personality and character. Sam would not be denied justice.
And that was why the black dog had to die, bloody and gruesome. It attacked Dean, it threw him into a tree, narrowly missed tearing his throat out. And Sam wouldn't have that, Dean wouldn't be taken from him, he wouldn't stand for it. So the black dog died. John saw the stubbornness and determination that it reflected from his son's soul, and he knew that he and his youngest had more in common than he once thought.
Dean believed a wrong could be made right...by a right. That's not the way it works, John thinks. A wrong merits another wrong. Blood is repaid in blood. Death is rewarded with a death. THAT is justice.
That is Winchester justice.
Dean was one of the finest, damnedest hunters John knew and the kid was only thirteen, with his instincts and seemingly perfect marksmanship, his commitment to the innocents, and his pure hatred for the evil sons of bitches. But Dean, bless him, had inherited Mary's delicate features, telling eyes, and, even softer heart. Mark John's words, Dean's heart will be his ruin.
John and Sam's hearts...well, let's just say, they got what they wanted or else there was hell to pay.
(John didn't take into account what this meant for Mary or Dean. But one can hardly blame the man for not looking that far ahead...or behind can we?)
Basically...the hunt had been a success. John smiles over the bones crumbling to ash, and thinks proudly how his young son is a hunter now. He doesn't think how he was forced into it to save his brother's life. Doesn't think how maybe the reason why Dean is so good is because he's trying to save his little brother. Doesn't see any other future, only sees...saving people, hunting things, the family business. Sammy's so good at it, how could he ever want anything else?
Dean would never leave them, he loves them so. The loyalty to him and and loving protection to Sam make John sure. Sam was John, younger, but still hungry for justice and blood. They would be together, they would be hunters...they would be Winchesters.
...
Beside him in the back seat of the impala, Sam is still shivering. He had drifted off a little but now he jerks awake clutching Dean's pullover in his tiny fist. His breaths are a little fast, but Dean knows his brother is calming, will soon be drowsy and ready for a full night's rest. All the excitement and adrenaline and crying takes its toll and Sam will be sleeping deeply quicker than he killed the black dog.
But in the mean time he needs to comforted, he needs to be held close and precious. Dean can see Sam growing up and out of this cuddling in a blink of an eye now that he's begun to hunt. Damn it, this will change everything, he is sure. He finds his arms snaking around Sammy tighter, his chin coming to rest on the tousled mop of hair.
"Dean?" Comes the muffled question.
"Yeah buddy?" He answers, a hand coming to push the hair from his face as Dean tries to catch a look at it.
"I did good?" It's slurred, not quite coherent, Dean thinks he's mostly asleep, but it warms the eldest Winchester brother's heart right up. John might have given him approval, Sam might have seen the evil beast killed himself, but he still wanted Dean's assurance.
"Yeah, you did." He comforts, pulling him even closer, "Ya' did good Sammy, I'm proud, knew you would make me proud."
"T, tried," Sammy stutters out through still slightly chattering teeth, Dean rubs up and down his arm vigorously for a moment to generate some warmth.
"Always do, kiddo," he whispers reassuringly. "Always make me proud." He mumbles into Sam's hair, before pressing a kiss to his ear.
Sam cuddles deeper into Dean's chest, slowly feeling better about himself and what he's done. He's in Dean's arms, he's safe, Dean's safe...he's okay. John is proud, impressed even, maybe. That could be discussed, but Sam's ready to delay that debate for another day when Dean isn't so warm and firm behind him, and when his burning, puffy eyes are winning the losing battle to stay open.
"Thanks Dean," he whispers.
"Anytime, Sammy." Dean returns. Head resting against the back of the seat as soon as he feels Sam relax against him again. Deep breaths, he tells himself, everything is going to be fine. This is all under control. Sam wasn't a killer, he just wasn't. He had acted for Dean, had spilt blood for Dean. Had sullied his soul and hands to protect Dean. And Dean can't help the sick, guilty feeling rising in him. But also a little proud, a little extra loved. Sam would kill for him, Sam trusted him to be worth the blood he spilt...without a second thought.
And damned if he wouldn't be.
...
The cold slowly recedes from Dean's numb bones bringing a warm tingling and buzzing to his frozen skin. It's then that he feels it. At first it's just an annoying itching that won't go away and worsens with the heat. He doesn't want to move at the risk of waking Sam so he bears it out. It isn't until he feels something warm and slick running down his arm towards his elbow that he realizes maybe that black dog had got him more than he thought.
Shit.
Just what he needs. (Being deeply sarcastic) Blood and pain, equals more trauma for Sammy. Which they did not need. This reflects on his state of mind while hunting, and that he did not need John to see. Now that Sam was hunting Dean had to be in EVERY fricking gig EVERY fricking time. He can do it, he can stand it. He's been through much worse than anything life could dish out to keep him from a hunt, keep him from Sam.
Time passes on as Dean waits for John to return. The warmer he gets the more feeling is returning to Dean. His arm is now on fire, it feels as if someone has branded him. He shifts a little, biting his lip at the pain. Slowly and gently he shifts Sam just a little, so his forehead rests on his chest and not his shoulder. He reaches across his littler brother's body to his other arm.
His slips shaking fingers into the tears in his clothes, he knows the exact minute they come into contact with the wound. One; his fingers are immediately coated with warm wet, two; the enflamed pain that washes over his left arm and side of his body. A hiss slips through his lips before he's even aware. He finds his fingers sliding through the slick, hot gouge in his arm.
He feels the size of the wound, grimacing at the depth. God, he hates bites. When those bastards sink their teeth into you, they shut their mouths and lock their jaws and then they rip out the flesh. He thinks, seriously, it must be the most painful way to hurt someone or kill them. He'll stand by his conviction that the teeth wielding baddies are the worst.
And boy, does Dean love some good old fashioned vamp hunts, or werewolf for that matter. Loves to chop those heads off, loves to empty his clip into a wolf's heart and then carve it out to salt and burn and bury the ashes. That might sound a little sadistic, but for real, those teeth.
It's how Dean comforts himself, as his heart beat exhilarates, breathing through the pain, as he sits under his littler brother's sleeping form. Thinking about taking him down some vamps or wolves, or hell, even another black dog looks really good right now. It's how Dean deals in general, turns the hurt and pain into anger, into determination...into something useful. Something he can use against his enemies, against the bad guys.
Dean pulls his fingers out of the wound rubbing his fingers together hoping to remove the tackiness and tell tale stain. He wipes it off on the inside paneling of his jean jacket, fingers of the other hand carding lazily through Sam's hair. It should probably worry him how calm he takes discovering a pretty deep and heavily bleeding wound on his arm. But as it is he is happy to wait for much needed medical attention until the job is done and Sam is home safe in bed.
His tape has ended now, so he steadies himself and keeps Sam company by humming the comforting tune under his breath. Keeping his breathing in time with the humming is helping him focus and stay calm, even as he feels more warm blood run over his skin towards his elbow. Damn, he hopes it doesn't soak through.
Sam rubs his face deeper into Dean's chest in his sleep, his fingers flexing and releasing in Dean's pullover, but not letting go all the way. Nor is the almost imperceptible frightened-sounding whimper lost on Dean. He smiles as it fades out to be echoed by a contented sigh. The warmth of which spreads from the surface of Dean's pullover, through, and down into his heart.
...
John tosses the shovel into the back of the impala, after responsibly laying his rifle down in their weapons cache. He sees Dean startle a little through the windshield when he slams the trunk closed, smiles when he sees the dark, tousled head resting against his chest.
He walks around the car and opens the door. Sighs with relief as he sits and the warmth closes around him when he closes the door. He rubs his hands together for a second to warm them, blows some warm air on them. He slides the impala out of park and sets his hands on the wheel.
"You boys good?" He asks over his shoulder.
"Yeah, we're good," Dean answers, keeping his voice down. "You finished?"
"Yeah, it's done." John answers, his and Dean's eyes meeting in their rear view mirror. John can't help but notice the finality in his son's gaze. As if more than just a simple hunt is done with, something bigger. As if something more important is done with and thrown away.
Dean can't help but be annoyed with the flippant way John asks them if their good. For god's sake, Sammy was asleep in his arms only after crying himself exhausted. HE, most assuredly was good, he was always good, as the blood still seeping from the wound in his arm attested.
But its the sinking feeling that something has died in his little brother that causes the finality in his eyes. Dean knows a little piece of Sam's innocence as been lost tonight. A little piece of him. A piece of him that he was never meant to lose, or break. He was never meant to kill anything. Never meant to have his life and Dean's in his hands, never meant to be supposed to save them. And Dean can't help but feel like a failure. Feels like he should have been more alert, somehow...more.
He feels like he should have been strong enough to kill the black dog and protect himself and Sammy. Even feels as if he should have known already what direction it would take. He knew it would come for their left sides. He heaves a big sigh into Sam's hair as John backs the impala out of the muddy dirt road and pulls out onto the highway.
He knows now, after his first hunt, Sam might be different to himself now, be different to John now. But to Dean Sam will always be the same. Will always be the innocent that he himself sacrificed all of his innocence for. It's true. Dean let go of the childish part of him, let go of conscience hate of blood and gore, of cold and pain. He let go of his own education, his own future, gave himself over to John and his crusade.
Did it for Sam. So that his little brother could hang on to all those things. Could be innocent, could throw up at the sight of blood and death. Could be a child, could dream of brighter horizons, could work at his education so he could obtain those dreams. He paid that price, he'd be damned if Sam's innocence was so ruined that he gave up hope like Dean.
Gave up hope of ever knowing something else, gave up just because he felt he was too dirty, and too different to be worthy of anyone or anything else. Dean would preserve that self-pride and confidence in his little brother, so that someday when Sam's chance came he would feel worthy. And he'll go.
And riding there in the impala, holding Sammy in his arms he knows it's going to hurt like hell. Knows when it happens it'll be the Hiroshima of the Winchester family...but he knows for certain, Sam will be brave enough, will be taught to fight for himself.
Because bottom line that's what Dean teaches him. Doesn't matter what it's for, doesn't matter who it's against. Sam should always know he is worth fighting for, and he should know no one is going to fight for Sam except Sam. No one knows what Sam wants, what Sam needs like Sam does.
And all though it kills Dean to think he won't always be able to fight for Sam he knows that's the price. Dean Winchester will soldier for his father, but with the silent, blooming hope that Sammy will be free someday. The hope that Dean will be enough and that the blood lusting Winchester line will be content with his.
He will never hate his father for being his unwitting task master, or the one who enslaves him in this losing battle, on this road ending in only one way. Dean's heart is filled with a rare unconditional love, for John, for Sam. He understands both their needs. He does his best to achieve both things. John needs revenge, John needs to avenge Mary. And Dean figures that this deal is good. He remembers and loves his mother, that bastard should die. Sammy should have what he wants. It's just the way Dean sees it, and though Sam might think he wants to hunt, Dean knows his heart is not there, knows the discontentedness that shadows his little brother's young heart.
Sam WILL go someday...and Dean will have to let him go.
Dean is shaken out of his reverie by the impala coming to a cruel stop in front of the motel room. Seems John is more than anxious to call it a night. Dean scrubs a hand down his face and over his burning, dry eyes. The back door squeaks as it opens and John leans in gently, shaking Sammy awake and taking his hands to pull him off Dean and out of the car. Sam complies while sending a sleepy glance over his shoulder.
"Dean?" He asks.
"I'm commin'," Dean assures with a tired smile on his face. "Right behind you." He adds, more to himself.
John leads Sam to the door and bends to unlock it, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to climb from the car, and have a moment to collect himself. The world only spins momentarily, though his stomach doesn't recede it's rolling. He swallows thickly and hisses when his jolts his arm. He prays to whoever may be listening that the blood hasn't soaked through all the layers of his clothes. With pleading eyes making a silent petition up at the moonless and starless sky, Dean makes his way to the motel room door left open for him.
"Sammy, you get first shower," John is saying, already flipping through his journal, looking for his page about black dogs so he can write down whatever revelations he had. Dean doesn't really get the whole journal thing. You kill the thing, and you burn it, what else is his dad going to write?
Sam is making his way to the bathroom rubbing his eyes. Dean follows, but stops off at Sam's bag to grab clean clothes. He leaves them on the closed toilet lid.
"Sammy, got you some clothes here." He says over the running water, he hears something mumbled between 'thanks' and 'alright' and then he leaves the bathroom after fishing out Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste.
When Sam comes out of the bathroom in a matter of minutes, still rubbing his eyes, Dean is having doubts about his washing job. But it can't be helped, his little brother looks dead on his feet. Dean jerks the blanket back from their bed, making way for Sam. He's rewarded with a soft, sleepy smile as Sam climbs up onto the bed and rubs the side of his face into the pillow after he flopped down on it with a slight 'oomph' of air.
"You go 'head dad," Dean says, nodding towards the shower.
John grunts his thanks, closing the bathroom door behind him with a handful of clothes.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed on his side, looking over at Sam, who is rolled facing him, eyes coasting open and closed lazily.
"Hey Sammy," he whispers, "You feeling better?"
"Yeah, I feel better." Sam says, just as quietly, talking, honestly, would take too much energy. "You sure you're alright?" He mumbles, "It hit you pretty hard, heard your head." Dean watches smiling as Sam's eyes close and stay shut even as he asks the question.
"I'm fine, little brother." He returns, a hand pushing that too long hair away from Sam's face one last time.
"You coming, right?" Sam asks, already sounding slurred and asleep.
"Yeah," Dean says, hand patting him gently on the chest, "I'll be in in a bit, gotta shower."
Sam hums and Dean watches as the tendrils of sleep wrap the rest of their way around him. His little body entirely relaxes against the mattress, his breath becoming gentle and regular. His hands release their tight hold on the sheets, though the one is still reached out towards Dean.
Dean sighs standing, walking to the mirror hanging on the back of the closed bathroom door. He fingers the torn cloth of his jacket, angling his body so maybe he catch a look at the mauled limb. He grimaces even at that slight pressure his fingers give, he finds red coating his fingers once again, he rubs them together, feeling the warm slickness.
"Gotta take care of this bitch first," he says to himself grimly.
tbc...
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