Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.
The Three Faces of Winchester - Chapter Two
Once the Winchesters arrived in Jericho a bizarre series of coincidences had led to a run-in with a Woman in White, a river dunking, and the fortuitous chance discovery of their father's motel room.
The state of the room had bothered Dean, it had obviously not been cleaned for a while - which was standard operating procedure, after all you don't want the maid messing about with your weapon collection - but his Dad had always remained a true marine at heart and had run a very tight ship - bunk inspections had been a way of life growing up.
Sam had dismissed Dean's concerns out of hand, which frankly pissed Dean off, but then Sam was too OCD-agitated by the smell from the dunking to focus on what Dean was saying, "Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Samantha," teased Dean, his tone a little nastier than intended, as he'd limped and squelched his way to the bathroom.
The big girl was still pouting - and hadn't even managed to discover anything useful - by the time Dean had finished showering and had gotten dressed. Dean was ravenously hungry, it felt like days since his last meal, but Sam had just pulled his usual bitch face at the offer of food. How that Sasquatch got so freakishly big when he never seems to eat anything is a real mystery, thought Dean.
Dean pulled on his jacket and left in search of something to eat, still distracted by the unlikeliness of his sudden good fortune and the unanswered questions buzzing around in his head, Something too good to be true usually is, he mused.
The universe was obviously listening; as Dean walked into the car park he was just in time to see the motel clerk pointing a couple of Deputies in his direction.
"So you've got the faces of ten missing persons and a whole lot of satanic mumbo-jumbo taped to your wall. You do realize you're a suspect?" asked Sheriff Pierce.
Dean, handcuffed to the interview table, rolled his eyes, but didn't respond.
"I know you've got a partner, an older guy," continued the Sheriff.
Dean tried to hide his obvious relief that Sam must have somehow sneaked out of the room without detection, but wondered how and what they knew about his father.
The Sheriff slammed a brown leather journal down on the table, "So is this his?" he asked, "Dean."
Pierce smiled at the surprised expression on his suspect's face, as he opened the journal to the last entry that read simply DEAN 35-111 and had been circled several times in red.
The door opened and a deputy called in, "We've just had an anonymous call about shots being fired."
As the Sheriff hurriedly left the room, Dean eyed a paper clip attached to the journal and grinned.
John slipped the cell phone into his pocket. He stood unseen in the shadows, and watched grimly as his wayward son made his escape from the police station.
With a heavy sigh, he gave a shake as if to wake himself from a deep slumber, then turned and walked away without allowing himself the luxury of a backward glance.
Dean pulled up in the Impala outside Sam's apartment. Laying the Woman in White to rest hadn't been easy, but it had been a picnic compared to the tense stone-cold silence in the car between the brothers following Sam's stubborn insistence that he stop searching for Dad and go back to college for his interview.
Dean sat and closed his eyes for a moment; his pounding head, feelings of nausea, and sketchy memory of the past couple of hours making him suspect he had a concussion.
Gradually realizing he was alone in the car and that it was now dark outside, Dean sat up, rubbing his face with his hands and wondering just how long he'd been sitting there on his own without Sam. With a strange sense of foreboding, he got out of the car and let himself into the apartment.
As Dean walked cautiously through the unlit lounge he felt his spider senses not so much tingling as screaming at the top of their voices. A door at the end of the hall opened and a sleepy looking Jess walked through, the look of alarm on her face quickly replaced with a beaming smile,
"Sam!" Jess called with great affection in her voice.
"It's Dean," he replied with embarrassment.
Jess' face screwed up in confusion, "What about him?"
Something large and dark lurched towards him, and Dean was lost to unconsciousness.
Sam lay back on his bed with a sigh of contentment, he had stood up to his brother - it had been tough - and Dean had made him feel as guilty as hell, but he'd done it. Ok, so Dad was still missing, but then he'd pulled similar stunts in the past, and for a lot, lot longer, before he'd returned and started throwing his weight around. There certainly wasn't any great familial love lost there.
The thought was interrupted by a sudden spatter of liquid on his face; Sam opened his eyes and yelled in horror at the sight of Jess hanging suspended from the ceiling, blood dripping from a wound in her stomach. The ceiling behind her seemed to fill suddenly with flames, as Sam lay frozen in terror on the bed. Eyes wide open, but sightless in shock, he distantly heard his brother call him by name and was barely aware of him as he was dragged from the apartment.
As Sam watched the apartment burn he could feel his own heart turn to ash with it. He realized that there was never going to be an escape from his unwanted life of secrets and monsters and pain and death. Part of him wished he'd died in the fire with Jessica, but they were never going to let him go; his brother was always going to drag him back to this so-called life.
"Let's go find Dad," he said finally.
Standing hidden in plain view among the gathered crowds of onlookers who had come to gawp at the unfolding tragedy, John Winchester smiled to himself and waited patiently as the Impala drove away.