A/N: Hugh McDonald plays bass for Bon Jovi.


Chapter 36 - man in the mirror

The more things change, the more they stayed the same.

Sam turned away from the Roadhouse. He could barely stand to look at the place before, and now he just couldn't stand the sight of it anymore. Somewhere in the field behind the building Dean was drinking himself stupid, and John Winchester, Great White Hunter and Piss Poor Excuse for a Father, was letting his eldest son do just that.

His jaw and chest ached, but Sam ignored it. Dean hit me. He hit me, and I deserved it.

Sam took a really deep breath to settle himself. He slipped his cell out of his pocket and punched in a number he hadn't called in four years. The call would show up on Missouri's caller ID as Hugh McDonald.

"Hello,Sam."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. Oh. Psychic. Right.

"Uh huh," Sam said out loud. The silence that followed stretched out long and awkward.

"Well, you called me, so you must have something on your mind." Missouri's soft drawl was tinged with amusement.

"Dad said you were working on a way to cure Dean. He told us about the spirit residue, " Sam said flatly. Inwardly he cringed at the tone in his voice. He was trying to get information out of someone he hadn't spoken to in four years, and instead of trying to finesse the information out of her by being friendly and charming and engaging, he sounded like a bad actor in one of those dumbass cop movies Dean used to like.

"I've called around, done some research." Missouri replied mildly. She didn't react negatively to Sam's tone; she didn't seem to notice it at all. "Removing the spirit is relatively easy. Living with the after effects is hard."

Sam huffed bitterly. "You couldn't even lie about that, huh? I know you lie to some of your clients."

"I sometimes tell people what they want to hear, because their minds are closed and they wouldn't hear the truth anyway." Sam could visualize Missouri's shrug on the other end. "I'm not going to lie to you, Sam. Dean's stronger than you think he is. A lesser person would have…" Missouri's voice trailed off, as if she was afraid of saying too much.

"A lesser person would have what?" Sam's tone sharpened.

"Gabriel Bender was a dark creature filled with anger and hate. He was everything your brother isn't. Dean somehow withstood that all these years. Most people don't survive that long, much less in their right mind like that."

"Dean's not in his right mind."

"You know that's not true. Sometimes he slips away, but he's here most of the time. He loves you and John very much."

Huh. Dad. Yeah, great father image. Lets his son drown himself inside a bottle of Jack. Sam sent the thought out hard enough, hoping that Missouri would pick up on that, at least.

She didn't. Or maybe she ignored it. "Well?"

Sam stared down at his boots. "Dean's having some, uh, problems."

"After the last four years, I imagine he would be," Missouri said quietly.

Another awkward silence. This was a damned bad idea. Maybe he should have called Bobby.

"Dean spends a lot of time in the shower, doesn't he?"

Sam nodded.

"He's trying to peel back the layers. Gabriel's layers. Dean wants to be himself again. That's a very good sign, Sam. Some victims…"

"Dean's not a victim," Sam heard himself mutter darkly.

"Some people try to cut their bodies open to get relief. Has Dean been violent lately?"

Sam nodded. "He hit Ellen. He fought me and Dad. He…he was wild. He thought he was back at Sweetbriar."

"In his mind, he was. What Gabriel left behind keys off negative emotions. Violent activity might burn some of it off, but that might not help Dean in the long run."

He was jolted to hear the next words that came out of Missouri's mouth. "Sam," she said primly, with just a hint of disapproval in her voice, "I know about the deal you made with that demon."

There it was, out in the open at last.

"I know you think you have the answer to Dean's problem at your fingertips." Missouri sighed. "You don't. You can't help Dean that way. You'd be damning yourself, and Dean wouldn't want that for you. He never did. You'll only make things worse."

Sam's lips drew back in a bitter, tight smile, even though he knew Missouri couldn't see his expression. "Dad told you, huh?"

"No, he didn't. I'm a psychic, remember? You're thinking about hanging up on me right now, you rude boy. That's all right."

What the hell. Sam flipped the phone shut.

The life lines of his right palm flexed a little, open and then shut, as did the clawmarks over his left hip. Sam froze at the sensation. His skin tingled, sharp needles of electricity that prickled his skin from his head down to his toes.

Somewhere Lim was laughing its ass off.


Dean finally ran out of words.

His voice, eerily calm and somehow childlike, echoed inside John's head like the ghostly ocean echo inside a seashell. John recognized the tone. He'd heard it before, but he couldn't place it.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Dean stared at him, calmly, dully, those impossibly long eyelashes of his dark and sooty against his pale, freckled skin. His head bobbled slightly as his shoulders slumped. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he used what little energy he had left to focus on John. Dean had always trusted John with a certainty that was absolutely terrifying sometimes. John knew the look on Dean's face; he knew it all too well.

Dad was here. Everything was fine now.

That never bothered John before, but it did now.

I don't deserve this. Couldn't stop any of this from happening. Couldn't get to you before now.

That drowsy, yet somehow alert look of Dean's prickled John's skin, made him feel anxious and uneasy.

"Woke up in that place," Dean whispered in John's memory. "I didn't get it at first. Missy wasn't around. First one I saw was Beck."

"Come on, kiddo," John heard himself say as he stood up. In his mind's eye he locked away the images and sounds that Dean's voice had conjured up, locked away images of Nathan Beck, smiling and smug, like a miser hoards away gold coins.

"It's all right, Dean," John murmured softly. "You're okay now."

Part of that was a lie. John hated himself for that, but it was all he had to offer his eldest son right now.

"Let's get you inside, okay?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Head hurts," he whispered roughly.

"You're fine now. You're safe. Let me help you up."

Five minutes later Dean slept curled up on his side. John kept watch, and the sound of Dean's voice was a low murmur inside the space behind John's eyes. It was the softest sound John had ever heard, and it was the loudest.

"He said I was pretty."

John watched Dean sleep, listened to the slight whistling sound Dean made as he breathed.

"I wanted to kick his ass, but I couldn't move."

Something swelled up inside John's chest and throat, something huge that pushed hard. It wanted to be let out, needed to be released, but he couldn't do that, not yet. The room blurred around him as John blinked away the grittiness at the corners of his eyes. Dean's image wavered, went from the tall, broad-shouldered man sleeping before him, became a small blond haired boy instead. That was better, until Dean's voice rose up again, soft and somehow gentle.

"They strapped me down."

No. John blinked again. The room came back into focus.

"I burned up when they shocked me."

John put his hands flat against his thighs. His palms tensed up, he dug his fingernails into the rough fabric of his jeans.

John breathed, and he listened.

"Beck pushed me face first into the wall…"

Sam stalked into the room sometime later. It might have been minutes or hours later. John couldn't tell. He didn't miss the scowl Sam aimed in his direction, the way Sam's chin lifted and tilted defiantly. Sam's expression softened when he looked at Dean. "Dad?"

Jesus. Not now.

John stood up.

His movements were unhurried and controlled as he stood up and turned for the door, Sam's glare at his back, heavy and disapproving.

Can't deal with that now. I can't.

He was on auto pilot now. John never remembered walking downstairs. He didn't even blink as he walked out of the back door into the sunlight moments later.

" He said…Beck said he liked to hear me scream…"

The sound of Dean's voice bore down on him, pressed down on his shoulders. John stumbled as he walked past Ellen's white van. He broke into a run at the edge of the parking lot.

"It hurt. I wasn't gonna scream."

"I'm sorry," John said out loud. He shook his head as tears streamed down his face.

They shocked me too.

It's okay, Dad.

John plunged forward, stumbled in the tall grass in the field behind the Roadhouse.

"He gave me pills. I got stuck with needles a lot."

John's heart and stomach lurched downwards, hard. He fell to his knees but just as quickly, scrambled back up.

"All that fucked with my head. Pushed me down inside. I went away."

"Dean…I'm so damned sorry…"

"He told me I was his good little bitch."

Nathan Beck kissed Dean.

It's all right.

Nathan Beck smiled as he fucked Dean, over and over again.

It's okay, Dad.

Another stumble step, and John threw his arms out in front of him. He didn't fall. His palms smacked hard against the same tree trunk that Dean sat down against an hour before. John's gaze flickered downward. He reached down, picked up Dean's empty whiskey and slung it into the tall grass beyond.

Sunlight glinted off clear glass as the bottle tumbled end over end in mid-air. It landed with a thump out of sight in the tall grass, but it didn't break. Even if it had, it wasn't enough. The rage and sorrow inside John pushed outwards against the boundaries of his skin. He needed to see blood. He had to see it.

John knew why Dean sounded like that. Knew where he'd heard that before. He threw his head back and bellowed, a deep throated cry of rage and despair. His right hand curled up into a fist and at the last moment he pulled his punch, succeeded in only skinning his knuckles against the rough tree bark.

He needed to save his hands.

Needed them for Beck.

It's okay, Dad.

Again, with his left.

It's all right.

In his mind's eye John saw himself stumble back home, from some hunt, from somewhere, blood splattered, weary with fatigue and pain, his mind nearly blank from the horror he'd seen and the things he'd done. He moved quietly, but his legs were stiff and even so, Dean would have woken up anyway. The kid was like that, always vigilant, and sure enough, as soon as John sat down on the couch Dean was there, standing right in front of him, looking fragile and gangly in that oversized t shirt and faded pajama bottoms he wore when he was a kid.

Dean put out one hand, slowly, carefully, and his fingers lightly touched John's shoulder.

"It's okay, Dad," Dean whispered. "It's all right."

It wasn't the first time Dean had done this, and it wasn't the last.

Dean's voice from an hour before. John knew it all along. His son, his adult son, wanted John to know what happened to him in Sweetbriar. He wanted John to know it was all right.

"It's not…" John sobbed. "It's not all right."

John sank down on his knees. His face was wet. His throat hitched as he gulped in great lungfuls of air. His broad shoulders shivered and shook as he knelt there. He stared at the blood on his knuckles.

His blood for now. He deserved that much, at least. This was good for a start. His fingers weren't broken.

The corners of John's lips twitched upwards in a wolfish grin. Good.

He needed to save his hands for Beck.


Sam stood frozen at the edge of the field. This wasn't what he expected, not at all. The hair at the back of his neck stood straight up and out. The sensation was almost painful. A part of him wanted to walk forward, and kneel down next to Dad, but this was Dad, after all. Sam's heartbeat slowed, and his fingers uncurled. He was prepared for a fight, another argument, a really loud one, like they always were, but this stopped him dead in his tracks.

All Sam could do was stand there and watch.


It's all right, Dean. You're okay.

Dean opened his eyes.

Dad wasn't around. That was funny. Funny peculiar, because he could have sworn he heard Dad's voice inside his head.

Huh.

Sammy wasn't around either.

Dean moved slowly. He rolled over on his right side and pushed himself upright. He wobbled a little from side to side before he finally found his center. His head lolled forward. It took an effort, but he raised both arms and rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He felt tired. Worn out. That was nothing new nowadays. His skin felt drawn too tight over his bones.

Nature was calling and he had to take a leak.

The tile floor was cool against the soles of his feet. Dean washed his hands, then stared at himself in the mirror.

He wasn't sorry about Ellen. Not at all. She wasn't family. Dad let her cut his own hair, but that didn't matter. In a couple of months Dad was going to be shaggy too. Dean wondered why they'd gone to all that trouble anyway. Wouldn't have happened if Dad had cut his hair.

Dean frowned up at a distant memory of a smoke detector going off, Dad yelling and a blackened frying pan.

Well, maybe not. Dude didn't know his way around a toaster, either.

Dean leaned into the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair, searching for a hint of dark blond at the roots.

Nothing.

Fucking Gabriel had burned him white down to his core.

Dean curled his lip up in disgust. Taking inventory was getting to be a friggin' habit.

Same spray of freckles across his nose, his chest and upper arms. He ran his fingers down that slash mark down his right cheek and brow. The bruises were fading out. He was lucky, he always healed up nice and smooth, with minimal scarring. Dean wore his scars like a badge of honor, his scars, not Gabriel's.

And anyway, chicks dig scars.

He stared at his jawline. Dean nodded in satisfaction. Stubble was growing back. Not as heavy as Dad's, but it was just enough to toughen him up, make him look older. Just enough to give notice that he was not to be fucked with. Looking all fresh-faced and innocent was Sammy's department.

Missy liked stubble, but back at Sweetbriar they'd kept him too smooth. Beck liked him better that way. A shudder twitched its way underneath Dean's skin at the memory.

"Freckles. Nice." Beck murmured softly.

Sometimes he'd paint Dean's freckles with his tongue.

Beck enjoyed staring at Dean's face. He'd run his fingertips over Dean's lips and the cleft in his chin. Dean got it. He knew. All of that was a gesture of ownership.

You ass belongs to me now, boy.

There weren't enough drugs in the world to make him forget that.

Friggin' emo crap. Dean snorted, low and disgusted. It was time to hit the shower, but he stopped short when he saw that brightly colored box sitting on top of the bath towels.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You gotta be fucking kidding me," Dean rumbled.

There was a dude's picture on the front of the box, but Dean wasn't fooled. This was hair color. Fucking hair color. He squinted at the color swatch on the upper right hand corner of the box. Didn't look like the color he'd had once. He couldn't remember exactly.

Fuck. Dean laughed, a short, sharp burst of sound. Dyeing his hair was something that a chick would do. He wrinkled his nose slightly.

Must be Dad's idea, all right. John Winchester, style consultant. Who knew the old man had it in him?

Sandy blond. That was Gabriel's hair color. Even with the cut, that was still Gabriel's hair. It was a lead pipe clinch that hillbilly cannibal freak had never cut his hair this short before.

Dean turned the box in his hands over to the back, stared hard at the directions. Seemed easy enough. Hell, if he could swap parts for the Impala and field strip weapons, how freaking hard could this be?

Dean looked in the mirror, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk.


A/N: I forgot how long this chapter was. I know you like the story, and I'm very grateful for that, but a 20 page chapter is way too long to me. Here's half now, and the other half will be posted Saturday. Bobby's in there, so is Jimmy, Castiel, and Hendricksen.