Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case).
Just thanks!
Chapter Six
Hours later, Dean rested comfortably in the bedroom, dressed, fed, and warm. Sam unpacked the duffel bag and placed the shotgun on the table for cleaning. He went outside and shoveled the steps, as well as a spot out front in case Bobby managed to make it through last night's storm. There was a hitch in his breathing and his head was throbbing steadily, but he ignored it. The occasional training accident hurt worse. He debated shoveling the driveway, but decided his head at least provided a good excuse not to deal with it.
Back inside, he cooked more soup and made Dean eat, sitting at the table, wrapped like a mummy in blankets. They both sat up straighter when they heard footsteps on the stairs outside. Sam reached for the shotgun even as Dean struggled out from the weight of the blankets.
Bobby's voice called, "Dean? Sam? Are you in there?"
Sam jumped up and ran to the door, passing the shotgun to his brother as he went.
"Bobby?"
"Yeah, Sam. It's me. Are you boys safe?"
"What's the password?" Dean called out.
"Dammit, you idjit boys. There is no password. Let me inside so I can see for myself you're okay. Then I'll tan your hides for scaring an old man half to death."
"You're not old, Bobby." Sam pulled open the door and found himself enveloped in a hug from the older hunter. "Ugh, but you are ripe. Phew." He pulled away and wrinkled his nose at Bobby.
Their 'uncle' made a face, but patted Sam on the head as he walked over to Dean. He looked the older boy up and down, hugged him briefly, then sat. Dropping his bag beside him, he motioned for Sam to join them after he closed the door.
"So boys, let's hear it. The whole story, please."
Their father showed up two days later. Dean heard the crunch of tires and looked out the front window. He motioned for Sam. They both knew the moment when John noticed Bobby's car parked in front of the cabin and worked through the implications of it. His face paled and he jammed the Impala to a stop. The engine cut off and he was out of the car, running to the cabin, leaving the driver's door standing open.
"Boys!" He shouted.
Bobby, standing at the stove, glanced over and saw them by the window. Dean nodded to his unspoken question just as John raced through the door.
"Hey Dad, we're fine," Dean told him. Both of them moved forward to meet him.
In spite of Dean's words, John checked his sons over silently, looking for injuries or harm. When he found the lump on Sam's head, he pulled him into his side, hugging him and eliciting a wince. He touched the scrapes on Dean's face, then cupped the back of Dean's neck and gently squeezed.
"Tell me what happened?"
"Turns out the cabin was haunted by a ghost triggered during bad snowstorms. Sam and I took care of it. Bobby came to help out at the end." Dean shrugged and tried to step away from John.
His father, however, pulled Dean closer, until he was hugging both boys at the same time.
"A ghost? Here? Are you kidding me?" Shock showed on John's face, only to be chased away by guilt. "Did I screw up. I'm so sorry, son. I'm just glad you're both safe. You did good. I'm proud of you. Both of you." John's hand trembled a bit as he finally released his sons. "Bobby, thank you for coming out to help. I can't believe I put them in danger like that."
"S'alright, John. Dean and Sam took care of it before I got here really. The snowstorm slowed me down. The salt and burn was finished by the time I showed up. Mostly been catching up with the boys and a vacation for me." Bobby turned back to the stove and focused intently on the chili he was making.
John smiled at his sons. "Will you tell me about the hunt? I'd like to know what you did."
Dean and Sam exchanged a look. Dean smiled, then told his father, "It was a pretty simple case, Dad. Once we figured out there was a ghost, Sam and I went to the library, figured out who it was, then salted and burned the body. Just like you taught us. No big deal."
Bobby glanced over at Sam, raising his eyebrows. The youngster pressed his lips together and shrugged a little. They would follow Dean's lead on this.
"It's a big deal to me, Dean. I'd like to hear about it. Why don't you boys help me get my gear from the car, and you can tell me about the ghost."
Late that night, after his sons were asleep, John carried a beer over to Bobby on the couch.
"What really happened, Bobby? I know they told you everything. Did Sam do something wrong? That's the only time Dean tries to keep something from me." John took a long sip from the bottle and waited for Bobby's answer.
"I swear, John Winchester, you are the biggest jackass I know. Those boys were in danger because of you, not because of anything they did. You're too tough on Dean. And why are you always blaming Sam when something bad happens? It's like you hold him responsible for Mary's death." Bobby looked over in time to see John flinch. He studied the boys' father for a moment then said, "That's it, isn't it? There's a part of you that does blame Sam for what happened."
John nodded, head down, unable to look at Bobby. Haltingly, he spoke. "I know Sam was a baby and isn't responsible. But a small part of me... if he hadn't been born... Mary and I were having trouble, even before Sam came along. I loved her and Dean, but things were hard. There were a lot of nights I spent away from home. When we found out she was pregnant again, and Sam was born we both tried, for the boys. It wasn't really working though. That night, I was asleep on the couch because I didn't want to face going upstairs and arguing again. If I had been upstairs, maybe things would have turned out differently. Or if Sam had never been born, Mary and I wouldn't have been trying so hard to stay together. I know it's really my fault she died that night. And the boys, I know she never would have wanted this for them. But I can't let it go, Bobby. They're my sons. Mary was my wife. I did love her, and I do love them. This life I lead, looking for what killed her, protecting them? It's all I have." His voice trailed off as he hunched his shoulders and buried his face in the crook of his arm.
Bobby glared at him for a minute, trying to process the guilty admission. "Sometimes it's all any of us have, John." He paused, phrasing his next words carefully in his mind before speaking. "You need to remember that they're your sons. They need you to be their father, not just their drill sergeant. And spending a little time with them once in a while might not be a bad idea, instead of chasing every single case you can find all across these United States." Then he grudgingly added, "Course, they're alive, in part, because of you too, so I guess I shouldn't be so hard on you."
"Tell me? Please. I want to know how Sam got the welts and the concussion. Why does he keep throwing blankets on top of Dean?"
Bobby told John about the Cohenbash, following Mathias, and Sam's trek through the woods with a chilled, unconscious Dean. If he was shaky on some of the details, it was only because the boys weren't exactly clear when they told him. Or so he told himself.
The following summer, John left the boys with Bobby while he worked a quick case. On the way back to the salvage yard, he stopped at the old cabin where he'd left the boys a few months before. He hunted through the woods until he found the gravesite for the rest of the Cohenbash family, then dug into the loam until he unearthed the bones of a young boy. Gently, he layered salt and gasoline on what he'd uncovered. Before striking the match in his hand, he looked at the open grave.
"I want to thank you for helping my boys. I'm sorry about what happened to you. Sam and Dean are fine, in part because of you. They both think you've passed on, maybe because of what your father did to you the night he attacked them. I don't know if that's true, but I wanted to make sure you could rest easy."
It was after dusk, and he glanced at the stars. When he bent his head to the matches in his hand, he saw the wavering form of a young boy standing nearby.
John gasped, then recovered.
"Are you Mathias?" he asked.
The boy smiled. He held up a small hand and moved his fingers up and down in a wave.
"I'm grateful to you." John nodded once, then lit the match and dropped it. Flames crackled and heated the air. Mathias slowly faded to ash.
On the drive back to Bobby's, John tried to think of something special he could do with the boys before they went together on their next case. When he pulled up to the house the next morning, Dean and Sam came racing through a row of cars, soaking wet and shrieking with laughter. Sam twisted as he ran and lobbed a water balloon right at his brother's face. Bobby was sitting on the porch, watching. John joined him.
"How long they been at it?"
Bobby shrugged. "About an hour. Got a bucket of ammunition here. They've got some hidden around the yard."
"What do you say we show them how it's done?" John raised his eyebrows and gave Bobby a look.
Bobby's answering grin was wicked. "I say that's a really good idea."
Both hunters picked up a water balloon in each hand and tracked the boys through the rows of cars.
Later, when the ammunition was depleted and the boys had eaten enough of Bobby's food to make their stomachs swell, John settled in front of the television with his sons. Bobby was in his den, researching something for someone. Dean picked a program to watch, then promptly fell asleep. Slowly, John became aware that Sam was uncomfortable. When he finally figured out Sam was uncomfortable being alone with him, without Dean awake to act as a buffer, he felt it like a blow to his gut. He was losing his youngest, losing one of his beautiful sons, all because he was a stubborn jackass who couldn't treat his eleven year old like an eleven year old.
John sighed, making Sam's head snap up from the book he'd pulled from behind the couch cushion.
"I borrowed it from Bobby. It's about folklore and legend. I'm studying." Sam held up the book as he churned out each excuse. A plaintive whine started on the word 'studying' that the boy quickly stifled.
"What? No. That's fine, Sam. Good choice. I'm glad you've got an interest in that sort of thing. Dean will need all the help he can get, since he can't seem to be bothered with research most of the time. It's good he's got you. You're going to be a great hunter someday – smart and strong and disciplined. I don't have a problem with you reading."
Apparently shocked into silence, his youngest just mouthed 'oh.' Dean rustled and turned in his sleep. Sam eyed him, but his brother didn't wake up.
John continued, "I was just thinking about you. Both of you. I know I make things hard, and I'm hard on you. I wish it could be different. Your mother was so much better at being a parent. But that – thing – took her away from us and I can't... I just can't let it go. You deserved your mother in your life, Sam. No matter how much I love you," at this, he stopped and looked at Sam closely. Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on Sam's head, stroking his hair. Still gazing at his son, he said, "I do love you, Sam. You and Dean. Very much. I want you to know that. I'd give anything, do anything for you boys. In a way, I do this to protect you. But no matter how much I love you, I can't bring her back. I can't give you a mom. The only thing I know how to do is find what killed her and make it pay. Do you understand?"
Sam nodded slowly, closing his book. "Tell me about her?" He looked hopefully at his father.
"Your mom?" John swallowed hard. When Sam just watched him, he asked, "What do you want to know about her?"
"Anything. Whatever you remember. Dean doesn't talk about her much. We only have one picture. How did you meet? What did she like to do? What were her favorite foods? Anything, Dad. Just talk about her, please." Sam scooted over so he was sitting alongside his father. John put his arm over the back of the couch, silently inviting his son to lean in. Instead, Sam put his feet up on the coffee table and placed his head on John's arm. He looked expectantly at John.
"What did you like about her the most, Dad?"
"The most? There were so many things... Her smile could make you feel like you were the most important thing in the world to her. You've got that smile. And she liked to sing, when she was doing something around the house, or putting you and Dean to sleep. Maybe that's where Dean gets it..." He kept talking, closing his eyes to remember the wife he loved, even still. Beside him, he felt Dean sit up and Sam move closer. John let the memories of Mary connect him to his boys and felt the pain of loss ease, just a bit.