so, another chappy...hopefully everyone is still enjoying...thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews!! they really mean the world to me!! bambers;)
Chapter Thirty-three
Dean stood looking at his reflection in the small vanity mirror in the motel bathroom, and couldn't help the involuntary shudder that washed over him. Beneath the beginnings of a scruffy beard, his face was gaunt and lacked any color that would make him appear healthy in the slightest. His cheeks were hollowed, cheekbones predominate, making his lifeless green eyes appear all the larger. Dark smudges ringed his eyes, attesting to the severe lack of sleep, and he knew if he didn't get some serious rest soon, he was going to crash.
It had been at least four days since John had brought him here, and between the eldest Winchester, Bobby, and Deacon, hadn't allowed him much more sleep than he'd gotten while staying at the compound. The only thing that brought a slight smile to his haggard features was the fact that they were starting to look almost as bad off as he felt.
Scrubbing his fingers through the bristly stubble on the top of his head, Dean's stomach churned violently as a waved of panic consumed him. Quickly turning on his heel, he frantically searched for a shaver to remove the dark growth of hair, but only spotted a bar of soap and shampoo in the shower. Reluctantly, he shrugged out of his clothes, careful not to look at all the marbleized bruising on his chest or the word that had been etched into his skin, and stepped into the bathtub.
As the hot water hit his bruised and battered body, another tremor of fear worked its way down his spine, and he shivered despite of the steamy heat. Grabbing his toothbrush off the ledge, he hastily began brushing his teeth as he simultaneously scrubbed his body with the bar of soap. Come on, Dean, you only got five minutes, work faster or you're not gonna finish. He threw the toothbrush down and quickly grabbed for the shampoo, still working to scrub his aching body clean, but knew he was rapidly running out of time. His breath came in short panted bursts as he glanced toward the door, fearing that the Father would enter the room at any moment and torture him again for not doing the task fast enough.
With the soap barely out of his hair, he promptly turned the water off, and nearly tripped in his race to get out of the tub as quickly as he possibly could. Shaking uncontrollably, he grabbed for the towel on the rack, and wiped the remaining soap from his overly-thin frame. Fearfully, he looked to the door once more, and released a grateful sigh that he'd managed to complete the task without further punishment.
His hand slipped across the word etched on his chest, and not having the strength any longer to fight it back, tears welled in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. Knees buckling, he crumbled to the ground and began to cry in earnest as his thoughts turned to Sam.
Not once in all the time since John had found him had Sam come to see if he was all right. He's waited, had held his breath every time someone had walked through the front door, but any hope that he might have had that Sam still cared, always ended in crushing heartache.
Every time Dean had brought his little brother up to John, the eldest Winchester diverted the conversation back to him. Of course, Dean knew in his anger and pain, he had cruelly called Sam every name possible to hurt John, and could see it was taking a toll on the older man. And for what it was worth, Dean realized that John was beginning to look just as worn out and haggard as Dean knew he appeared.
Dean's thoughts circled back to Sam, wondering where he was at the moment, and grimaced at the idea that he'd probably hightailed it back to Stanford. As he brushed away the tears streaking down his face, he imagined Sam sitting in some classroom, laughing and smiling with friends as Dean struggled through the cold-sweats and crippling fear the mere thought of taking a shower unwillingly evoked. But the sad truth was, no matter if Sam had left him behind to suffer cruelly at the hand of the Father, Dean would have gladly endured it all again to see Sam walk through the door at that moment. And he knew that made the Father right about him, knew that made him weak and pathetic, but Sam was all that he had ever had, and although those feelings could be pushed aside for a while, they never completely disappeared.
Yet, for as much as he wished to see his little brother again, just the mere thought of him brought about such feelings of intense hurt, anger and betrayal that it nearly staggered Dean. Sam hadn't cared, hadn't even tried to find him in all the time he was missing. John's unwillingness to talk about Sam spoke in utter volumes about Sam's lack of concern, and further confirmed the Father's goading that no one cared if Dean lived or died.
Sure, John could pretend as if he cared now, but Dean understood from a lifetime of experience that it wouldn't be long before the older man disappeared out his life again. Dean had given away everything he had, or ever wanted for himself for the sake of family, and they'd all betrayed him in the end. There was really nothing John could say or think to say that would change that, and it made him believe all the more in what the Father had offered him.
Slowly, Dean rose to his feet, and got dressed. With head hung low, he mentally prepared himself for another round of arguing with John and Bobby as exited the bathroom. The moment Dean walked into the outer room, John was on his feet and heading toward him with Bobby following close behind.
"Take a seat, Dean," John nudged his head toward the chair that they had placed in the middle of the room.
"You ain't callin' me Dominic, I ain't takin' a damn seat anywhere," Dean hissed through clenched teeth.
"You are gonna do just like I told ya to do," John snapped, and grabbed hold of Dean by the arm, dragging him over to the chair.
"Huh, didn't eat jus' cause you told me to, so what the hell makes you think you can get me to sit down just cause you demand it, John."
"Dean, jus' take a seat," Bobby grumbled, his voice thick and strained with weariness, "cause if I have to, I'll tie ya to the damn chair myself."
Grudgingly, Dean slumped down onto the chair, then crossed his arms and glared defiantly at both men. "What the hell are you even still stickin' around for, John? Aren't there demons that need your attention?"
"Whether you like it or not, Dean, that's what we do. We hunt demons an' other things to keep people safe." John looked him square in the eye, almost daring him to look away as he further added, "That's who you are, that's all you've ever known. Learn it, deal with it, because it isn't gonna change just cause some bastard came along and screwed with your freakin' head."
"Huh, deal with it the way Sam did?" Dean quirked a brow, "hell, that freakin' coward ran off twice, an' I don't see ya chasin' after his sorry ass." That said, Dean flinched, holding his breath as he noticed John clench a fist, certain the older man was going to strike him in anger.
"We aren't talkin' about him," John replied in a deadly calm voice, "an' for what it's worth, he only left once."
Dean hesitated several moments, confused about what John had said, and hoped he would say more about Sam, but John turned his back on him. "You mean he only left you once, but that bastard's left me twice now . . . an' no matter you try an' say, I will never forgive him for that."
"Boy," Bobby broke in on their heated exchance, his own voice rising in anger, "that's your brother your talkin' about, an' I won't let ya talk bad about him again."
"What ya gonna do, Bobby?" Dean turned questioning eyes to the older hunter, "Gonna hit me," he splayed out his arms, showing that he wouldn't even try and defend himself if Bobby did, "hell, go right ahead, it isn't gonna change the truth. Was missin' for a helluva long time, an' he never came for me."
Bobby gripped hold of Dean's shoulders, fingernails biting deep into his skin, and shook him throughly. "Did ya ever stop jus' once to think that maybe he couldn't?"
"What the hell's that suppose to mean?"
"Bobby," John call out, clear warning in his tone as he shook his head. "This isn't about Sam."
"The hell it isn't, John," Bobby swung to face John, and for a briefest of moments, Dean really believed he was going to punch John in the face. "We've done this your freakin' way for four days now . . . haven't brought up Sam once since that first time, an' what's it got us?" The older hunter stood his ground as John took a step closer to him, his own fists clenching. "Dean's more pissed off than ever, an' hell if we're gonna be truthful, Sam's just barely hangin' on."
"What's wrong with Sam?" The words slipped out before Dean could stop them, and although he hated himself for worrying, the second Bobby had said he was barely hanging on, Dean's protective mode kicked in. "Is something wrong with Sammy?" he asked again when neither John or Bobby answered him.
"He did come after you, Dean," Bobby finally responded, apparently knowing that John wouldn't. But once he said this, John couldn't stop him from further adding, "He's in the hospital . . . Dominic an' his men beat the hell out of him, tortured and drugged him . . . an' if we hadn't gotten to him when we did, he would be dead now."
"No . . . no . . no . . . ." Dean shook his head as he began to tremble uncontrollably, his stomach heaving as th bile rose in his throat. "He didn't come after me . . . I - I would've . . . he wasn't there."
"They kept him a separate compound," John stated as he tried to place a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, only to have Dean jerk away from him. "From everything we've gathered, Dominic planned on killing him and wanted to keep you as one of his children."
Tears welled in Dean's eyes, but he refused to shed them. To do that would mean he believed Sam had come to rescue him. If Dean believed that he had, that would mean that he'd betrayed his little brother in the worst possible way, had cursed him, hated him and wished that he were dead because he was too weak to stand up to Dominic. And if that were true, then Dean knew he would never be able to live with himself.
"No, you're wrong," Dean shook his head more emphatically, "you're tryin' to trick me. Tryin' to make me turn against my family."
"Is it so damn hard for you to believe that Dominic would try an' kill your brother," John snapped, his anger returning full-force as he gripped hold of Dean's shirt and yanked him off the chair. "I mean, the freakin' man killed his own daughter, so what the hell makes you think he wouldn't kill someone else?"
"Sam was never there," Dean desperately tried to break free of the grip John had on him but was too weak to manage it. "He wasn't there."
"He was there, Dean," Bobby argued, not bothering to try and stop John from tightening his grasp on Dean's shirt to pull him even closer. "Tried to save you, an' they beat the crap out of him."
"He was never there . . . I know he wasn't." Dean tilted his head to the side, so he wouldn't have to look John in the eyes or the older man would see how close he was to breaking down. "You can't make me believe it."
John pushed him slightly away, tightened his hold on the collar of Dean's shirt, and ripped it apart. "That freakin' bastard carved . . . ." John's voice trailed off as he got his first good look at all the bruises and healing wounds on Dean's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed his father's lips were trembling and his eyes were brimming with tears. "H-he carved the word 'evil' into your brother's chest, just like burned that word into yours."
"You're lying . . . y-you have to be lying." Dean pushed away from John, and this time the older man let him go. Pulling the tattered edges of his t-shirt back together to hide the hideous mark on his chest, Dean slowly backed away from the two hunters. "He wasn't there . . . the Father's word is law . . . I - I'm not gonna believe you . . . can't believe you." Backed into the corner, Dean slid down the wall, curling his arms over his head as he began to recite the words he'd heard while he was kept locked away in the cell. "My Father's word is law. I will obey the Father. I am nothing without the Father to guide me. I live to serve only the Father . . . My Father's word is law. I will obey the Father. I am nothing without the Father to guide me. I live to serve only the Father . . . ."
Dean's gaze darted around the room, eyes wild and cagey, and Bobby could see how close the younger man was to breaking apart, and also noticed John open his mouth to say something more. Bobby grasped a hold his friend's arm, and gave a firm shake of his head.
"That's enough, John." He nudged his head in Dean's direction. "If we keep goin' the way we are, his freakin' mind's gonna snap, an' if it does, I don't think anything will bring him back from it."
"Damn it, Bobby," glaring at him, John jerked free of his grasp, "we're so damn close. We stop now an' we'll lose everything we've accomplished today."
"You gotta give him time to work through this on his own." Bobby eyed Dean, and inwardly cringed when he saw the younger man, who was more like a son to him, rocking back and forth with his head buried beneath his arms. "He needs time to make sense of everything."
"I'm tellin' ya we need to push him harder cause we already told him all this once before, an' he's actin' as if it's the first time he's heard it."
"You push him any harder, you're gonna break him beyond repair, an' I'm not gonna help you do that to him." With one last look in Dean's direction, Bobby strode to the door, flung it open, and stormed away.
For several long moments, John stared at the doorway, and then finally his gaze shifted to Dean. So lost in his own pain, Dean didn't even seem to realized John was in the room any longer, and anger and sadness welled deep inside John's heart for all his son was suffering. With an unsureness that he'd never before experienced, John trudged to where his son sat curled in a tight ball, and took a seat beside him.
Hesitantly, John lifted a hand and tentatively placed it on Dean's shoulder, but hastily removed it when Dean flinched upon contact. John drew up his knees, and rested his forearms on them as he glanced around the room, searching for the right words to say to reach his eldest son.
"You may not remember this," John began, a ghost of a smile gracing his worn and tired features, "but we used to play baseball together in the backyard of our home almost every night when you were only four." His fingertips trailed a back a forth path across his knee as the memory came into clearer focus. "An' you were really good. Like you were jus' made to play the game." John's hand slid over to touch the top of Dean's right knee, tracing over the long scar he knew was hidden beneath his son's jeans. "But, then you slipped when you were sliding into second base, an' your knee got all torn up on a jagged rock." He let out a wry laugh, thinking how terrified he'd been at that moment when he had seen blood dripping from his little boy's leg, and now the sight of his child in pain and bleeding was so commonplace that it hardly fazed him. "Eighteen stitches, eight internal, ten external, an' even back then you were so damn good at hiding all the pain you were in."
Although Dean didn't act as if he'd even heard a word John was saying, he leaned a little closer to him, and it gave John the encouragement he needed to proceed onward. "On the way home from the hospital, you grabbed hold of my arm, an' as I turned to look at you, I noticed that you were crying for the first time since you hurt your knee. An' then you asked me something I'll never forget for as long as I live." Dean tilted his head to the side, and stared into John's eyes, and to John it almost seemed as if his oldest son was remembering that long ago day as well. "You asked me if God really loved you, why would he allow you to get hurt . . . never really knew the answer to that one back then, Dean, but I think I might've figured it now. Guess the easy answer would be to say that if we can endure the suffering, it makes us stronger. But that's always just been copout answer, an' it's been the answer I've always clung to as I've stood by and watched you get hurt over an' over again. An' in some small way it always alleviated a little of the guilt I'd felt for raising you boys the way I did."
"Felt that if I . . . ." John scrubbed a hand across his bearded face as he tried to rationalize his actions, but could no longer deny all the damage he had done to his children. "You're my son, Dean. One of the only truly good things I've ever done with my life . . . an' I know I've messed up a lot along the way, an' I've hurt you in the process, an' I'm sorry . . . so, damn sorry. An' I know it's too late in coming, an' I don't expect you to forgive me, but I just wanted you to know that I . . . ." John swallowed hard, the words he wanted to say, catching in his throat. He brushed away a stray tear slipping down his cheek as he pushed onward, "I love you an' your brother more than anything else his whole damn world, an' I want both my sons back even if I don't deserve it."
For several very long moments, Dean bit pensively at his lower lip as if mulling over what John had said, and then finally said in a softly whispered voice, "I remember that day." A sad frown creased Dean's brow as he rested his head against the wall. "You said that God was so busy and couldn't always be around to protect people from getting hurt, and so that's what Dad's were for. Yet, even Dad's screw up sometimes, but you'd always be there to keep me from any pain if it was in your power to do so."
"Guess for all I've learned in the last twenty-two years, I was a helluva lot smarter back then."
"Well, I'm a helluva lot smarter now, cause I actually believed you when you said that." Dean pushed himself to his feet, and turned his back on John. "But sometimes when a father screws up continuously like you do, it just goes to prove you don't give a damn."
"If I didn't give a damn, Dean, I wouldn't be here right now." John got to his feet, and grasping hold of Dean's arm, he swung his son to face him. "An' if you an' Sam weren't my whole damn world, I've would've stayed right there inside that freakin' house with Mary an' burned alive along with her."
"Maybe we would've been better off if you had," Dean snapped, but the instant he's said, it, John caught sight of the look of regret in his son's green eyes before they were once again enshrouded in pain and anger.
Although John knew his son more than likely didn't mean it, those words cut deeper into his heart than any other thing that anyone had ever said to him before. "You know what, you're probably right," was all he could think to mutter as he turned on his heel and lumbered out of the motel room.