"Better?" Sam asked incredulously, huffing a little.
Whatever sympathy Dad had had for Sam's choice seemed to be evaporating quickly. "Yeah. I said better."
"This isn't your decision," Sam said.
John rubbed at his temples, then closed his eyes briefly, an obvious attempt at patience. "I know what I'm talking about, son." His voice came out in a low growl.
Dean watched the exchange dispassionately. Sam's irritation seemed to be building, and Dean waited for the inevitable explosion. He remembered that once upon a time, he'd cared a lot about Dad and Sam fighting. That in years prior he'd have stepped in already, trying to cool them down, to get Dad to see that Sam had a point and to get Sam to see that Dad was just looking out for him. But between what Dad had done, and whoever Sam had somehow become in just six months, he found he just didn't care. No, not that he didn't care. He wanted them to go at each other, because he couldn't lash out himself - not without spilling way more than he wanted to to Sam and Kevin - and, hell, they both deserved it.
"Look, I just said I'm willing to leave all of this behind, for you," Sam pointed out testily, the words chasing one another . "And I'm really glad you're back. It's awesome. It's a, a miracle even. And I'm trying to be patient, I really am." He took a deep breath, as if to prove his point. "But we're not going back to what we were. I don't care if Dean's been taking orders from you, I'm not going to. Is that clear?"
Dean rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he was being the good little soldier, but didn't say anything. To be honest he wasn't sure what he was doing. He knew he was angry, of course, for what John had done to Benny and to him and to Sam for their whole lives, but that god damned sense of obligation to John hadn't disappeared. That was why he needed Sam. To put Dad in his place.
"It's clear." John's eyes narrowed.
He and Sam stared at each other intently for a few moments, but to Dean's surprise, the argument didn't escalate. A disembodied voice in the back of his head thought Sammy's grown up. Or maybe, Dad had. Either way, it left him still frustrated and in need of a release. He wondered vaguely if Sam had any alcohol in his homey little motel room, but it didn't seem quite the right time to get up and start looking for it. Poor Kevin was staring at the remaining puddle of syrup on his plate and looking deeply like he wanted to be anywhere else, and Dean could relate.
Sam actually managed a smile. A slightly wobbly one, but a smile nonetheless. "You know, Dad," he, in his most conciliatory you-can-trust-me Sam voice, "When Dean and I went back and met you and Mom, in the seventies, I got to talk to you for a little while alone. And you know that I did then? I told you I forgave you. That I get why you did what you did. That's still true. I just... it has to be different this time. It-"
He broke off, because John was staring at him with utter disbelief. A slack jaw and everything. Dean felt an odd warmth creeping up his own cheeks, because he hadn't mentioned this at all to John. Meeting Mary, he'd supposed, fell into that category of subjects that'd probably still be too weird and painful to breach with John.
But of course, Sam hadn't known that, because Dean had only told him he'd "filled Dad in on everything."
"You met me and Mary."
"Yeah," Sam said, glancing at Dean for help, confused. "Dean didn't tell you?"
"No," Dean grunted. His gut twisted uncomfortably, and he stared at the patterned linoleum tabletop. He hadn't told John any of what they'd learned of Mary. Not that she'd been a hunter, that she'd made a deal with Azazel for John's life, or that she'd wanted anything but for her children to be raised in the life. That Mary hadn't really loved John, not until some cupid had stepped in and made her think she did.
"When did this happen?" John's voice was calm, no doubt deceptively so.
"Couple years ago," Sam said with another glance at Dean, seemingly perplexed - and mildly irritated - that Dean hadn't mentioned this already. "Dean went once, met you and Mom, then he and I both got sent back there. I...figured you knew. That it was, you know, pretty important." Another accusatory look at Dean.
Dean folded his arms. "I didn't think he needed to know," he said, then addressed John. "Look. Dad. It's really not that important. We just, we met you, that's all."
John scrubbed a hand down his face but didn't say anything. John's features were taking on empty look like he wanted to cry but couldn't. It was a look Dean hadn't seen since on his dad's face in a long time, and his twisted gut twisted even more. Even the inner voice that told him, You wanted him to feel the pain you're feeling, now here's your chance, sounded hollow.
The seconds stretched on, and Dean played with the too-long sleeve of Sam's borrowed shirt. Sam's eyes were locked on John, his brows pulled together in sympathy. Kevin's uncomfortable stare at his sticky plate got deeper. Only Cas seemed unaffected, his eyes roving curiously between John and Dean and Sam. Dean took a moment to remember how much simpler life had been when all he'd wanted was to find Cas and get back to Sam. He felt an odd surge of annoyance at John, as if it were his fault for showing up in Purgatory and throwing everything off balance.
Because it was off balance, he realized. His issues with John aside, John's presence had tilted everything, ever so slightly. What might've been a happy reunion with Sam, Sam's not looking for him aside, was strained and awkward and weird. His relationship with Cas - who he'd finally gotten back after that horrible year of thinking Cas was dead and then Cas's insanity and disappearance in Purgatory - had simply stalled, while Dean dealt with John and Cas harbored that inexplicable sympathy for him. The two people Dean cared most about, and John being here had messed it all up.
"So," John said finally, looking slowly between Dean and Sam. "What did you think of your mother?"
Dean and Sam traded glances. Dean kept his mouth shut, still not sure what he wanted to happen. It had been stupid of Sam to bring Mary up in the first place - but then there Dean was, mad at Sam, again, because of John. It wasn't right.
"She was beautiful," Sam said after a moment. John's shoulders sagged at the word beautiful. "And very...kind," Sam added. "And she kinda kicked ass. I mean, as a hunter, yeah, but just as a person too."
"As a what?" John echoed incredulously. He'd had his fingers pressed to his temple, like he had a headache, but he dropped his hand now and stared them down. "Mary was a what?"
"A hunter," Dean said shortly. "Yeah. Sorry I didn't mention it."
"She was raised in the life," Sam added gently. "Her dad. Samuel. He was a hunter too. That's why...I spent that whole year with him when I lost my soul." He squinted, as if unsure what John thought he'd been doing. Dean had conveniently forgotten to mention that Samuel had been a blood relation.
John opened his mouth, then closed it, his eyes focusing on a faraway memory before burning into Dean and Sam again. "Is that why Yellow-Eyes killed her?"
Dean and Sam exchanged quick glances. Dean could see no reason to tell Dad that Mary, in fact, had been the first Winchester (in a way) to make a bad deal with the devil. Sam nodded imperceptibly - more a function of moving his eyes and his eyebrows than actually tilting his head - and Dean knew they were on the same page for once.
"I don't know," Sam said.
"Why did she leave the life?" John asked.
"She wanted a normal life," Sam said sympathetically. Dean thought of the argument that Sam and John had just been having, and wondered how Sam was managing to stay so neutral. "She wanted to have a family that could be safe and, and happy." He shook his head. "She thought you could give that to her."
"She..." John trailed off, and Dean could practically see years of guilt, of wondering if he was doing the right thing, wondering whether Mary would have approved, settling on his shoulders and pressing them down. He put his head in his hands again and took a deep breath.
After a moment's hesitation, Dean got up and moved behind John's chair, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. Seeing John like this... it didn't matter how pissed he was. He couldn't help himself from wanting to comfort him, to keep his dad together like he always had. Under his hand, he could feel the quick rise and fall of his breaths.
"It doesn't matter," Dean said aloud, hating himself a little for pretending it didn't. But he knew what Dad needed to hear.
"Like hell it doesn't!" John said, his voice breaking slightly and he dropped his hands to the table again, violently enough to make the silverware clatter. Kevin jumped, but John seemed unaware of anything but Dean and Sam and the words he had probably never wanted to hear. He glanced at his hands and Dean noticed, for the first time, that the wedding band was gone.
Dean felt a wave of pity mixed with frustration at himself. Again and again, he'd tried to be angry—about their childhoods, about leaving him to hunt Azazel, about how John had stared barking orders and criticizing him the second he'd found him, and of course, more than anything else, about what he'd done to Benny. But again and again, he hadn't been able to keep it up because John needed him. It was exactly the same as when he'd been a kid. Dad needed him to keep it together, and he needed Dad. Only now, he didn't need Dad to survive to or take care of Sam, and he still couldn't help himself from putting John first and letting that screw up everything he'd had with everyone else.
"You couldn't've known," Dean added, hating himself a little more with each word. "There was no way."
"He's right," Sam said. "I resented you for a long time for how you raised us," he said, the harsh words discordant with his placating tone. "But what you did, raising us in the life…yeah, it wasn't what Mom wanted. And it screwed us up. In a lot of ways. But it's also the reason we're still breathing. So, whatever else Mom might've wanted, I think… I think that's a good thing."
Dean nodded, aware John couldn't see him at this angle. But he didn't quite trust himself to say anything else.
"Is there anything else?" John asked, his voice thick.
No one said anything. Even Cas seemed to be avoiding everyone's eyes.
"Of course," John said bitterly, apparently taking Sam and Dean's silence to mean exactly what it did mean.
The silence stretched out.
John finally spoke again in a gruff voice that didn't quite belie the emotion still behind it. "Well if that's all." He stared around the table once more, his frustration palpable, then seemed to visibly bury it, shutting down all the emotion on his face. It left behind a pinched look, like he was in pain. Then he started barking out orders like nothing had happened. "Sam, get your stuff. Dean and I'll start packing up in here. Angel, prophet...check to make sure we haven't had any other black-eyed visitors."
Dean glanced around at Sam, Cas, and Kevin, but it seemed no one had the heart to argue with John's clear and somewhat desperate attempt to regain some kind of control. He wondered if John was keeping him behind because there was something he wanted to say to him- chew him out for not bringing up Mary, maybe? - or if Dean was simply the only one he felt comfortable showing so much anguish to.
"Sure, Dad," Sam said gently. A few seconds later, Dean and John were alone together.
Then he rested his elbows on the slightly wobbly table and putting his head between his hands again. He was grimacing, and Dean felt a stab of new worry - was all this pain emotional, or was there something wrong with him?
Unsure, Dean hovered awkwardly. His dad's face, though mostly covered by his hands, remained tense. Dean had just turned to start gathering some of Sam's crap to pack it, when the plunk of a drop of liquid hitting the surface of the table caught his attention. He pivoted. He hadn't seen Dad cry - really cry - in a long, long time.
But it hadn't been a tear that had landed on the patterned tabletop. It was blood, and it was quickly followed by another, and another.
"Dad?" Dean asked, moving toward him.
When John didn't answer Dean pulled his hands away. Blood was pouring out of John's nose, what didn't get caught in his beard plunking against the linoleum tabletop. John's eyes were closed tightly and his jaw was clenched tightly.
"I'm—fine—Dean," he ground out unconvincingly. It struck Dean more as a reflexive response to Dean's concern than an actual assertion that nothing was wrong.
"Dad, what's going on?" Dean tried again, shoving down steadily rising panic. His mind flicked through the options—witches, demon mojo, angel mojo, a stroke?—but there were no obvious foes around and he felt blank. Cas, get your ass back here, he prayed. His dad had pressed a hand to his head again and the blood was drip-drip-dripping faster onto the table. Hex bags, he thought. He couldn't think of any damn reason a witch would be after them but spewing blood from any orifice for no reason usually meant something witchy and it wasn't like he had anywhere else to start.
Dean straightened abruptly, and started rummaging through the drawers and under the rumpled blankets and pillows. He's just torn the sheet off John's bed when John straightened up, eyes wide and unseeing though he was staring straight at Dean. Dean halted in his search.
"It's him," John gritted suddenly through clenched teeth. Then his eyes rolled back and his body slumped bonelessly out of the chair, hitting the tile of the motel room with a thud.