A/N: Sorry if the story is a bit anachronistic. Also, thanks for the reviews, everyone! They make my day :)
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters don't belong to me.
October 5th, 1992
Horrible, grating screams filled the air as the wendigo went up in flames. It flailed around aimlessly, nearly trampling Dean in the process. John yanked him out of its path at the last second, sending them both crashing to the ground a few feet away. They were both exhausted and had used up the last of their energy on ganking the monster. John continued to lie there, mentally cataloging any injuries he'd sustained during the fight—a couple bruised ribs and a definite concussion, maybe, but nothing he couldn't handle—while Dean propped up on his elbow to watch the wendigo burn to a crisp in front of them. The smell alone was enough to make him want to retch, but it was also undoubtedly satisfying to watch the cannibalistic son of a bitch turn to ash.
"Eat that, you dick," Dean spat, slowly rolling over onto his knees and brushing the leaves off his shirt. John was already getting to his feet without so much as a wince, and he held out his hand. Dean grabbed it, and allowed himself to be lifted up with ease. "You good, Dad?" He asked, trying not to appear too concerned even as he snuck glances at his father. John hated coddling almost as much as he hated monsters.
John simply grunted, which Dean chose to take as a 'Yes, son, I'm great. Thanks for asking.'
"Good thing we brought that extra flamethrower, huh?" Dean remarked, walking over to the now smoldering remains of the wendigo. Yup—dead as a doornail. Both of their homemade weapons had been destroyed during the fight, but John had packed an extra in the duffel. He'd managed to fish it out while Dean played distraction. Dean would've liked to have been the one to kill it, but he wasn't going to complain. A dead monster is a win, plain and simple.
John placed a hand on his son's shoulder, drawing his attention. "Next time, you'll be the one to use it," he promised, reading Dean's thoughts.
"Too bad Caleb missed out. Dude sure loves a wendigo hunt." Dean chuckled, imagining the hunter's expression when he arrives only to find the job is done. He'd been a couple towns over finishing up a ghost hunt when the Winchesters had caught wind of the wendigo, so they'd invited him to tag along. They were quick to find its lair, though, and John refused to wait for the extra man-power, claiming he and Dean were more than capable of taking care of a single wendigo by themselves. Caleb was disappointed when he'd gotten the call this morning, but he said he'd still head over in case they ended up needing help after all.
"I'll call him when we get back to the motel," John said dismissively, stepping away to grab the duffel across the clearing. The forest was dark, only a sliver of moonlight managing to break through the treetops, so Dean could really only see his dad's outline. He looked around with a sigh, searching for the flashlight he'd dropped earlier.
Normally they wouldn't try to go on a wendigo hunt in the middle of the night, but the ranger had been a suspicious asshole. He would've followed them or barred them from the forest altogether if they tried to hike out here during daylight hours. Waiting for nightfall had been the best option.
"We should get back before Sam decides to come looking for us," Dean called out so his dad could hear him, letting out a quick 'aha!' when he finally found his flashlight and scooped it off the ground.
They'd left the kid in the Impala with a shotgun, a flashlight, and a nice book to read. He was too young to be a part of the hunt, but they had been bringing him along the past few months when he'd all but begged to come with them. He had to stay in the car, but he seemed to be content with that for now. Dean liked that his brother was close by, but he was also wary of the possible danger it posed. His dad had assured him Sam would be perfectly safe, though, so he supposed it was alright.
"You go," John directed, heaving the duffel over his shoulder. "I'm gonna check out the cave one more time, make sure we didn't miss anything." They hadn't found any survivors. All they'd seen was a couple of human skeletons.
"You can't go alone," Dean protested. He didn't often disobey an order, but if it had to do with his dad's safety, all bets were off. "Just go in the morning. Then you can take Caleb," Dean suggested, trying to use reason to his advantage.
"I'll be fine, Dean. It'll only take a min—" A figure blurred past with a furious screech, knocking into John with so much force he went flying into a tree a dozen feet away with an audible crack.
"Dad!" Dean shouted with panic, scrambling toward his father. He couldn't tell if he was conscious or not due to the lack of light. The figure—another wendigo, he realized with a sinking stomach—appeared directly in front of him, and he stumbled to a halt. Having no other weapons on him, he pulled his gun and unleashed a hail of bullets straight into the thing's ugly face. It wouldn't kill it, but it would surely be irritating.
The wendigo roared with fury, flinching away from the onslaught. When Dean heard the click of an empty magazine, he cursed aloud and dove to the side as the creature lunged for him. His motion sent a flurry of leaves and dirt into the night air, and he struggled to form a plan of attack even as he dodged another swipe of the wendigo's sharp claws.
Think, damn it! He scolded mentally. Okay, okay…he needed fire. He had no idea where his dad's flamethrower had ended up when he'd gotten thrown into the tree. It was too dark to search, not that he had time for that anyway. It might still be with or near his dad, but the wendigo still blocked his path over to his fallen father.
His eyes wandered around frantically for a moment before he noticed the duffel was in the same place his dad had picked it up, the bag having been jarred from his grip upon impact. That was his only chance. There had to be something in there he could use.
The wendigo charged once again, appearing to move with only blind rage, and Dean twisted at the last second. He was a beat too slow and the wendigo managed to clip his shoulder. It was enough to send him sprawling ungracefully to the ground, his head smacking painfully against the earth. Black spots danced in his vision as he dragged himself backwards toward the duffel bag. There was no way he'd get there in time. The wendigo was already moving in on him again, moving slower now that it knew Dean was pinned down.
A sudden shot rang out, eliciting another frustrated snarl from the emaciated monster. It spun around, effectively distracted as it honed in on its new target—John. Dean didn't understand how the man was even conscious, but he wasn't wasting the opportunity his dad had given him. As four more shots pierced the air, Dean scurried over to the duffel on his hands and knees, not quite able to get his vision to settle enough to stand just yet. Once it was in his reach, he unceremoniously dumped its contents all over the forest floor, desperately hoping there was some weapon he'd be able to use. For a few terrifying seconds, he was sure there was nothing. Then, just as his dad's agonized shout filled the air and practically froze his lungs, Dean spotted an old road flare that had probably been at the bottom of the bag for years. He'd forgotten it was in there, but he had no time to ponder over his luck.
"Hey, ugly!" Dean yelled, spinning around and jumping to his feet despite the protest from his aching skull. As hoped, the wendigo immediately abandoned John to resume his attack on the younger hunter. Dean smirked as the creature rushed toward him. In one smooth move, he uncapped the flare and lit it, trying not to squint at the harsh light. The wendigo bent over him with a menacing growl as Dean lifted the flare to its face, sticking the flame directly under its chin. Its extremely flammable skin caught instantly, and the wendigo howled as flames traveled from its face down to its feet in the blink of an eye. It shied away from Dean, scraping at its own skin in a useless attempt to put out the fire.
It wasn't long before the wendigo was the perfect imitation of its buddy—just another pile of ashes in the dirt. Dean let out a heavy breath, throwing the flare to the ground and stomping out the flame. He was fairly certain there wouldn't be a third wendigo. Their luck couldn't be that horrible.
Dean's thoughts automatically turned to his injured father, and he rushed over to where John was sitting propped up against a tree. The older hunter's arms hung limply at his sides, and the five gaping claw marks were impossible to ignore as Dean slid down next to him.
"Dad?" His voice dripped with fear as his hands hovered over the wound, unsure where to even begin triaging. This wasn't good. This was not good.
John's eyes tracked his oldest lazily as he tried his best to remain conscious. He needed to get up, they needed to…to…His mind drifted a bit, but Dean snapped his fingers directly in front of his nose, forcing him to focus.
"Dean," John started, the word coming out much weaker than he'd intended.
"Okay, it's okay. Um, I'm gonna—just, uh, here—" Dean stammered, hastily removing his coat, then his flannel, and pressing the light fabric against John's wound. In less than a minute, the piece of clothing was completely drenched. Blood was seeping out of John's side at an alarming rate. His pallor was already that of a ghost's.
"Dean," John tried again. He wanted to lift his hand, place it comfortingly on his son's shoulder, but he simply didn't have the energy. "Stop. Look at me," he instructed softly. His usual drill sergeant tone was escaping him, but Dean still obeyed without hesitation. Wide, scared eyes met John's, begging silently for some direction. "It's going to be okay, son," he said, putting on his most reassuring smile.
"Dad, you need a hospital," Dean insisted, shaking his head vigorously and completely ignoring the minor pain that accompanied the motion. He continued to keep pressure on the wound, even as blood began to seep through his fingers. How was he going to do this? He couldn't carry his dad, and the Impala was half a mile away! Their first aid kit would be of no help—his dad needed surgery, a-and a blood transfusion, and—
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," his dad told him with calm acceptance. His face was growing paler by the second.
"No!" Dean blurted angrily, his eyes welling up against his will. "You are not giving up! We're gonna get you to the hospital and they're gonna fix you up and everything will be fine and we'll forget this stupid hunt ever happened!" He ranted, on the edge of hyperventilating. His hands were covered in red. All he could see was red.
"Dean?"
The soft, terrified voice tore the older brother's watery gaze away from his dying father. Sam was hesitantly approaching them, one arm wrapped around his middle in an attempt at self-assurance. His other hand had the shotgun he'd been given in a loose grip, almost dragging along the ground. He was staring at the bloody scene with an expression that probably looked very similar to the one Dean was sporting—utter panic.
"Sam," Dean whispered, only managing to choke out the single word. He had no clue what his brother was doing out here, but at the moment he couldn't care less.
"Is—is Dad okay?" The younger boy questioned, his lip starting to quiver. He dropped the gun and sank down to his knees next to them, his cheeks losing their color as he digested the situation. He was only nine years old, but he was also unbelievably intelligent. Even if he wasn't, the amount of blood coating John's torso and Dean's hands was a pretty decent indicator of what was happening. Sam trained his puppy dog eyes on John, hoping for good news while knowing for a fact that he wouldn't receive any.
"Come—" John coughed once and wheezed in a breath— "Come sit with me, Sammy." If he had function of his limbs, he would've patted the empty space to his left. As it was, he just jerked his chin gently to the side. Sam froze in surprise at the request. John couldn't blame him for his reaction. He was hardly the most affectionate parent, save for a slap on the back after a good sparring session or something of the like.
Sam gulped and glanced at Dean, who had gone rigid with tension beside him, then slowly shuffled over until he was curled up against his father's side. He rested his head on John's shoulder, his small hand drifting down to grasp his dad's much larger one. In return, John let his head tilt until his cheek laid atop Sam's mop of brown hair. His short, gasping breaths ruffled the soft strands.
"Sam, Dean. I want…you boys to…listen to me," John stated, his eyelids drooping a bit with exhaustion. He wanted so badly to sleep, but he knew once his eyes closed, they wouldn't open again, and there were some things he needed them to know. It wasn't supposed to be like this. God, it wasn't supposed to be like this. But the dice had been rolled, and he didn't have time to cry about it.
Dean was shaking his head as his fists clenched against the fabric he still held to John's wound, his body language screaming denial. "You don't get to do this," he muttered, his voice cracking with emotion. "You don't get to leave us. Not now. Not after everything," he bit out.
"I know, Dean," John replied consolingly, his words tinged with sorrow. "It's not fair…to you or Sam. The way…I've raised you…isn't fair." His lungs ached with the effort of speaking, but he ignored the pain. "But I have to believe…that something good came out of it…something good can still come out of it. Watching how…you've grown over these past years, Dean…and—" John swallowed, forcing back tears— "how smart…and kind, and selfless you are, Sam—I'm so proud of you both. I've always been proud."
Sam crumbled, tears bursting forth like a flood as he shuddered with sobs. He squeezed his dad's hand and pressed himself against John as much as possible. All sense of comfort eluded him, but he soaked in his father's presence like it was a lifeline. The sudden grief hit him with the force of a semi truck, and he was sure he'd be crushed beneath the weight of it.
Dean fared no better in the aftermath of his dad's admission. His hands began to shake, and with a distraught yell that seemed to emanate from his very soul, he launched the blood-soaked shirt into the forest beyond. Immediately following the action, his shoulders hunched, and he curled in on himself. Teardrops ran down his cheeks and rolled off his jaw onto the dirt below, and he couldn't distinguish his own sobs from his brother's. His entire reality was collapsing around him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
"I f-failed, Dad," he cried, unable to straighten up and look his father in the eyes. He could barely breathe or move. All he could do was feel, and it was breaking him apart. "I'm s-so sorry! I'm sorry!" If only he'd been quicker or smarter or—
"Dean, this is not your fault. Understand? None…of it," John declared, tired but firm. "You're a damn fine hunter, and…and I have faith that one day…you'll be the best. Son, look at me." Dean's eyes squeezed together, and he wasn't completely certain that his insides weren't being torn out, but he raised his head so he could meet his dad's determined gaze. "This isn't your fault," John repeated. "Don't you dare go on thinking that. Promise me."
Dean bit his bottom lip, trying and failing to reign in his emotions. "I promise," he answered after a long period of silence, his voice shaky and uneven.
John appeared content enough with the response, and he let out a relieved sigh, his entire body slumping. "I love you boys," he said with a genuine smile briefly lighting his features. "Watch out…for each other, okay?" His eyes were becoming more and more unfocused as the seconds passed, and Dean inched closer, gripping his dad's shirt. Sam's eyes remained glued shut as his little body wracked with silent sobs, but he clung to John's arm with a vice-like grip as though he could sense the life draining from his father.
Dean could only watch as John's eyes finally closed, his chest rising with one last shallow breath before going completely still. No more raspy breathing, no more stuttering heartbeat. He was just gone. From that very instant, Sam and Dean Winchester were orphans.
Dean's brain short-circuited, and he let his weight rest on his heels as he stared unseeingly down at his bloody hands, scrubbing them against his pants roughly to clean off as much of the offensive substance as possible. Dad is dead, he thought blankly, trying to connect the words to the current moment. It had always been such an impossible idea. John Winchester was invincible, after all. But as much as Dean wanted to pinch himself to wake up from this nightmare, he knew that wasn't an option. There was only the truth. His dad was dead, and he was alone.
A harsh sniffle disrupted his thoughts, and he amended his mental statement. He wasn't alone—he still had his brother. Sam was all he had now. He was everything. He'd always been everything. His little brother was shattering in front of him, and Dean's entire being wanted Sam to be okay again.
"Sammy," Dean spoke softly so he didn't startle the kid, but Sam was hardly listening. His cries had faded—though his eyes were puffy and red—and he now stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Dean knew the look. Shock. He was feeling it himself, but it was easier to push it away since he had a little brother who needed him.
He moved forward, feeling sluggish with grief, and gently cradled his father's head between his hands and lifted it to rest against the tree instead of Sam. His brother's only reaction was to cling even tighter to John's arm. Dean took a moment to observe his dad's peaceful face, letting his thumb brush absentmindedly against his temple. He was so warm…How could he possibly be dead? This man who he'd looked up to his entire life—the man he trusted to always have his back, his safety net…just gone.
When despair threatened to swallow Dean whole, he forced himself to look away. He had to focus on one thing at a time. He carefully maneuvered over to John's other side where Sam sat and placed a hand lightly on the kid's shoulder.
"Sammy," he murmured, ducking down so he could see past the curtain of brown hair. When Sam made no indication he'd heard his name, Dean gulped nervously. He'd never seen his geeky little brother look so…empty. It chilled him to his core. "I need you to look at me, buddy, alright? Sam?" He moved his hand to the back of Sam's neck, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Jerking like he'd been electrocuted, Sam whipped his head up to look at Dean, his eyes once again filling with tears. "Dean?" He choked out, automatically reaching toward his big brother with both arms. The action reminded Dean of Sammy as a toddler, begging to be picked up—whether it be for comfort or cuddles. Dean had never refused him, and he wasn't going to start now. He grabbed Sam underneath the armpits, standing and lifting his lightweight brother in one motion. Sam was familiar with the drill, and wrapped his arms around Dean's neck and his legs around Dean's waist. Dean held him up with one hand and carded the other one through Sam's hair, shushing him like a mother would her newborn. The fierce protectiveness that flowed through him as Sam cried into his shoulder was so strong that he was sure his heart would burst.
"Shh, baby, it's okay. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Just breathe," he soothed, walking a few steps away so neither of them had to look at the grisly scene behind them for a few minutes. Sam's breath was hitching uncontrollably, so Dean rubbed his back, trying to let the young boy cry it out while also preventing him from hyperventilating.
"H-He's gone, Dean!" Sam sobbed, the words coming out muffled since his face was buried in Dean's shirt.
"I know, buddy, I know," he replied evenly, though internally he was falling apart. "Just keep breathing for me," he pressed, continuing to pace back and forth slowly. As exhausted as he was, he wasn't willing to sit down again unless it was in the comfort of the Impala.
Dean didn't know how much time had passed before Sam finally quieted. He hugged his brother once, then loosened his grip. "I gotta set you down for a second, Sammy," he said regretfully. The last thing he wanted was to have any separation from his brother, but it was necessary. Sam whimpered in protest, latching onto Dean like a baby koala. "I'll be right back. I promise," Dean told him, nuzzling into his little brother's hair. Sam hesitated for another couple seconds, then reluctantly let go and slid to the ground, standing on wobbly legs. His arms immediately wound around his own torso, and his gaze found his shoes.
"Stay here," Dean directed, then hurried back over to his dad. He bit his lip and snatched up John's pistol, studiously ignoring the sight in front of him. He tucked the gun into his waistband behind his back, took a deep breath in an effort to regain some semblance of strength, and strode back to his brother. As soon as he got close enough, he picked Sam up once more, resuming the position they had earlier. He was going to get his brother back to the car, then he was going to…figure everything else out. That was his job now.
"I'm gonna take you to the Impala so you can rest. We can deal with…everything later." Dean cleared his throat to keep it from closing up. He took Sam's silence as agreement. "Do you—" The sound of a branch snapping had Dean yanking the gun out in the blink of an eye, and he pointed it at the opposite side of the clearing. He continued to hold Sam in a tight grip, but turned his body to protectively shield him.
To his surprise, Caleb stepped into view with hands held up in cautious surrender. The hunter's wide-eyed gaze was flickering between the boys and John, complete disbelief written all over his features. As he got closer, his hands slowly lowered, expecting Dean's gun to do the same once recognition seeped in. But Dean's aim never wavered, and his threatening glare merely deepened with each step Caleb took towards them.
"Don't," he growled, causing the other hunter to halt in shock. Caleb had never heard such a dangerous tone from another person, not even John.
"Dean? What—" He squinted as he looked once again towards John, convinced his sight was failing him. Because surely that wasn't John Winchester lying there…dead. He swallowed thickly, cold realization settling in as he focused all his attention on the two boys. Dean's hostile expression made a lot more sense now. "What happened?" Caleb finished, keeping his tone calm in hopes of lessening the tension in the air.
Dean's jaw clenched, and only a trained eye could pick up the tremble in his gun hand. Sam had his face hidden in Dean's neck, more than willing to let his big brother take the lead. Both boys usually greeted Caleb with enthusiasm, but they felt no relief to see him now.
Sensing he wasn't going to get an answer out of either Winchester, Caleb tried a different approach. "Okay, Dean, it's fine. I'm just gonna take my weapons and lay them on the ground." He spoke the same way a negotiator would—with patience and reason. He knew Dean better than most. They'd gone on plenty of hunts together over the years. John's oldest was brave and cocky and well on his way to becoming one of the best hunters Caleb had ever seen. But Dean also idolized his father, and he had always been the obedient son. Now that Dean had lost his own personal hero, Caleb had no idea what he was capable of, especially seeing the way he was holding Sam. Lord knows, if there's anything in this world Dean would shoot a longtime friend over, it was his little brother. So Caleb had to tread carefully here.
Slowly, he pulled his pistol out of his waistband, along with the machete on his hip and the boot knife he always carried, and set them all on the ground in front of him. Dean eyed him like a hawk the whole time. Caleb raised his hands again, taking a step back. After what seemed like an eternity of staring, Dean reluctantly lowered his gun, though he didn't tuck it away. His glare faded, and his posture sagged slightly.
"My dad, he's…I couldn't—" He huffed, obviously irritated with his inability to get words out. Caleb could tell he was on the edge of a breakdown. By all means, the kid should have a breakdown.
"It wasn't your fault, Dean," Caleb insisted, even though he hadn't been a witness to the tragedy. Dean shook his head angrily, using the back of his hand to wipe away a stray tear. Sam pulled back just enough to look at his brother, his eyebrows scrunching with concern.
"The wendigo was coming after me. He shot at it to draw its attention. If I wasn't so slow, I could've—Dad would still be alive if it weren't for me!" Dean snapped, his voice catching at the end. Caleb took in the information in silence, overwhelmed with sympathy for the boy who had this kind of weight—undoubtedly misplaced—on his shoulders. He knew whatever arguments he made would fall on deaf ears. Feeling guilty for things beyond his control was Dean's fatal flaw.
Sam frowned, his eyes puffy from crying so much. It was hard to feel anything other than this crushing sadness, but he'd never been able to stand by while his brother was in pain. It also unsettled him to hear how close Dean had been to dying. He couldn't even entertain the thought.
"Don't do that, Dean. Please," he begged, subconsciously sporting his puppy dog eyes. The tears made it even more effective. "The monster killed Dad, not you. And…" He hesitated, afraid of sounding uncaring with his next statement. "I'm glad he saved you," he whispered, bowing his head in shame. He wanted his father to be alive more than he wanted the air in his lungs, but not at the expense of Dean. It was selfish, but undeniable.
Dean's simmering rage over his own failure dwindled at his brother's quiet confession. He sighed, casting a quick glance toward Caleb before putting his gun away so he could have both hands free, then wrapped his arms around Sam in a tight embrace. It conveyed everything he didn't say aloud. Thank you, Sammy. I love you, too, little brother. Based on how Sam's shoulders dropped with relief, it was clear he understood the unspoken message.
Caleb didn't want to interrupt the tender moment, but he had no choice. They only had so much time before the park opened and hikers or rangers would be making their way through. There was a lot of clean-up to do.
"Dean, you should head back to your car. At least for a little while," he suggested. Dean looked at him over Sam's shoulder, his hand resting on the back of the kid's neck. It was such a motherly hold that Caleb froze in place for a moment, shocked that a teenager could exhibit the behavior so effortlessly. "Um…" He searched for his lost train of thought. "I can…handle everything here. I'll come get you when it's done, and then…" He took a deep breath. "You can say goodbye."
Dean's forlorn expression would haunt him for the rest of his days, he was sure.
After the boys had left the clearing, all but dragging their feet as they struggled to leave their father behind, Caleb went to work. He gathered all the weapons, checked out the cave that had served as the wendigo's lair, and finally moved on to the tedious task of building a pyre. It took forever, but if anyone deserved a proper hunter's funeral, it was John Winchester. The man was a legend, and once the news got out that he was dead, well…hunters from all corners of the country would be shell-shocked.
Caleb had to go back to his truck to get some cloth and rope, and he brought John's duffel along with him, dumping it in the Impala's trunk. He didn't speak to Sam or Dean while he collected the necessary supplies, but he observed them as subtly as possible. Sam was resting in the backseat, his legs hanging out the side since the door was open. Dean was crouched in front of him, speaking too softly for Caleb to hear. Dean never lost contact with his brother. He was either holding Sam's hand or running a hand through his hair or squeezing his knee comfortingly. Sam was despondent, but he listened to Dean with dedicated attention.
Caleb headed back to the clearing without a word, letting them have their privacy. When he reached John, a wave of anguish swept over him, and he had to lean against a nearby tree for support. This was his friend. Caleb had lost people before, but this felt completely different. Hunters were untrusting by nature. To have a man like John to rely on—a good man—was a gift in and of itself. And now he was just another on a long list of fallen hunters.
Caleb knelt beside John, running a weary hand down his face. He was ghostly pale, his side torn to shreds and covered in blood. It was a bad way to go. Not that there was really any good way to go, not in their line of work.
"I'm sorry, John. I should've been here," he murmured regretfully, wishing like hell that he'd gotten here just a few hours earlier.
Silence was his only answer.
Dean gulped with anxiety when Caleb returned to inform them the pyre was ready to go. It might be ready, but he certainly wasn't. Nevertheless, he grabbed Sam's hand, rubbing his thumb over his brother's knuckles in a soothing gesture. Sam followed him away from the car, his gaze on his shoes. Dean shut the door, then nodded to Caleb to lead the way. The walk back felt similar to walking the plank on a pirate ship. It was short and disquieting, and at the end he knew he was going to fall into a dark abyss.
The sight of the pyre, a bundle of white set atop it, had Dean pressing his lips together to keep his emotions at bay. Sam, on the other hand, began to cry again immediately, though this time it was soundless. The tears simply rolled down his cheeks with only the occasional sniffle. Dean gripped his brother's hand firmly, hoping to lend him strength.
Caleb ended up being the one to set the pyre alight, as neither boy was willing to move any closer. Neither could take that final step. It was hard enough being in that godforsaken clearing at all.
Dean thought of many things he wanted to say to his dad—I love you, I miss you, I'm sorry—but he couldn't see the point. His dad wasn't there to hear him. So all three hunters watched the fire in complete silence, an air of hopelessness hanging like a heavy cloud over them.
When the fire had almost completely turned the pyre to ashes, Caleb's phone rang, the shrill noise making Sam jump and press himself closer to Dean. Caleb frowned, then sighed as he glanced at the caller ID, pressing the accept button.
"Jim," he greeted solemnly, walking a few steps away so their conversation was more private. Dean didn't really care to listen, but he couldn't help but overhear snippets of what Caleb was saying. He could tell it was mostly explaining the past few hours' events, and he definitely didn't need a rehash of that. He was just nudging Sam back towards the Impala when Caleb's voice raised with indignation.
"We can't separate them, Jim!" He hissed in disbelief.
Dean's entire body tensed, and his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt. Caleb didn't realize he'd been heard, as he continued his argument with Jim without a glance in their direction. Dean wasn't going to wait around to hear more of the men's plans for them, or for Caleb's opinion to be swayed. He didn't know what the future held anymore—in fact, it looked pretty damn bleak right now—but he knew one thing for certain. No one was going to take Sam away from him. Not Caleb, not Jim, not anyone.
Dean leaned over to whisper in Sam's ear. "Follow my lead." Sam tilted his head curiously, but nodded at the order. In a louder voice, Dean called out, "Hey, Caleb, we're gonna head back to the car. Take your time." Caleb took a moment to send them a sympathetic smile and nod, but quickly resumed talking to Jim. Dean walked with Sam back through the forest as calmly as he could, then pulled his brother into a faster pace once they were out of sight. They didn't have long.
"Dean? What's going on?" Sam questioned.
"We gotta go, Sammy. And Caleb can't know where we're going," Dean replied briskly, continuously peeking over his shoulder to make sure the hunter wasn't close.
"Why? He's our friend," Sam pointed out, his tone much more subdued than usual because of their dad's death.
"Just trust me, okay?" Dean pleaded.
Sam only considered his big brother for a split second. "Okay, Dean," he acquiesced. On a good day, Dean would've grinned at the easy acceptance.
When they finally reached the Impala, Dean directed Sam to sit in the back—safety first—then climbed into the driver's seat. Oh God, is this really happening? He'd always dreamed of driving this car—more than just the driving lessons his dad had given him for years. Of course, seeing his dad behind the wheel would be infinitely better.
"Keys?" He asked hurriedly.
"Glove compartment."
Dean opened it, pulled the keys out, and stuck them in the ignition, enjoying the rumble as the car fired up. "Hold on, Sammy," he warned, stepping on the gas. They lurched forward, and Dean whipped a u-ey to head out the way they'd come. It felt so utterly wrong to be leaving the place without their dad, and Dean's stomach roiled uneasily.
Priorities, Dean. Focus, he thought, gritting his teeth. When they came up beside Caleb's truck, Dean slowed, pulled out his pistol, and fired into the front and rear left tires. "Sorry, dude," he muttered under his breath, feeling genuinely remorseful for ditching his friend alone in the formerly wendigo-infested forest with two flat tires. But he was doing what he had to do.
Dean was Sam's caretaker now, and he was keeping it that way, come hell or high water.
Present Day
Dean sighed with frustration as he counted their cash a third time, wanting to be absolutely certain that he wasn't miscalculating. They had just enough to pay rent on Friday, but then they'd be broke again for the millionth time. He'd have to ask Anne if she had extra hours available, though he knew that was unlikely. He wasn't the only employee of hers trying to make ends meet.
He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, setting down the flashlight he'd been holding up to see everything laid out on the table in front of him. It was the middle of the night, but sleep had evaded him so he figured going over their funds would pass the time. He just didn't expect such depressing results.
Nightmares had woken him about an hour ago. They were always the same—his dad's death or CPS being called or starving to death because he was too young to have a freaking normal job. Sam luckily hadn't stirred when Dean untangled himself from his little brother and got up. The kid had nightmares even more often than Dean, so he needed the sleep.
Dean gathered the money and put it back in an envelope for safe-keeping, but stayed in his seat. He pressed experimentally against the fading bruise on his eye. It stung a bit, but not as much as it had a few days ago. It wouldn't deter him in a fight, and that's all that mattered.
He'd discovered a "fight club" of sorts during his initial scout of the area, but had only gotten involved himself when their savings had gotten low. Only a small group of people knew about it. They usually held the fights in a back alley or an abandoned building, depending on where the cops were hanging out that night.
Dean never had trouble winning, but he tried not to resort to fighting if he could help it. Not just because Sam had a problem with it, but because Dean enjoyed it, and that fact scared him more than anything else. With hunting, his fighting skills were used to help people, to protect them. But using those same skills to beat another guy to a pulp just for the money? That wasn't who he was…or, at least, it wasn't who he'd been. Now, after everything…he needed the release. He needed to punch something or else he would self-implode. It wasn't healthy, but it was effective.
Dean stared down at the table, lost in thought. A rustling noise behind him made him look over his shoulder. Sam had turned to face him, his hair messy and his eyes squinting against the brightness of the flashlight. He sat up on his elbows, glancing from Dean to the envelope and back, his brain fuzzily connecting the dots.
"Dean? What are you doing?" He asked, his voice quiet and scratchy with sleep.
Dean sent him a small smile, but it faded quickly. "Nothing, buddy. Just go back to sleep," he responded softly.
Sam bit his lip, then shook his head. "I can't sleep if you're over there," he argued, practically pouting. It was enough to elicit a chuckle from his big brother.
"Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you were sleeping just fine without me a minute ago," Dean teased lightly, even though he was well aware they both had issues sleeping when the other one was out of arm's reach. He'd foolishly hoped Sam wouldn't feel his absence.
Sam didn't acknowledge the playful remark. "We don't have enough money, do we?" He guessed with a frown. Dean let out a heavy breath, rubbing his forehead. No ten year old should be worrying about money. He was supposed to be taking care of Sam, but he was only letting him down.
"Sam…" he started, but trailed off, unsure what to say. Sam would see right through a lie.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you? Fighting again," the younger boy accused, standing up and walking over to the table with crossed arms. God, he's so skinny, Dean noted miserably.
"I don't have a choice, Sammy," Dean defended, but his words lacked any real conviction.
"Yes, you do. There's always another way," Sam protested.
"I know you don't like it—"
"I hate it!" Sam interrupted, tears building in his eyes. Crap. Dean could never withstand that look. "I just want you to be safe! I don't care if we have to live in a—in a tent!" Sam stammered, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his wrist. "Just…please don't fight again. I can't lose you, too." He ducked his head, hiding behind his hair.
Dean's will evaporated, and he cursed his inability to deny his brother anything. He gently lifted Sam's head up by the chin so he could see his face, then cupped his cheek. Sam leaned into the touch, automatically seeking out the comfort of his big brother.
"Okay, Sammy. I won't fight," Dean promised, hoping beyond hope that it was the truth.
If nothing else, at least he got to see some of the fear fade from Sammy's hazel eyes.
Bobby grunted in irritation as one of his many phones started ringing. He'd just sat down to enjoy some of his homemade stew. Could he not have one second to himself? He really should just shut down his operation and leave all the idiot hunters out there to fend for themselves, but sadly, helping others was ingrained in him. Lord knows they tested his patience on a daily basis, though.
He dropped his spoon back into his bowl with a loud clang, shoving his chair back to stand. When he got to the kitchen, he noticed the phone that was ringing was for personal business, so he didn't bother with his alias.
"What?" He grumbled, skipping the niceties.
"Bobby, I got it. I found them." Caleb's voice filtered through, hopeful excitement lacing every word, completely ignoring the older man's unpleasant greeting.
"What are you talking about, boy?" Bobby questioned, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
"Sam and Dean, Bobby! I found them!" Caleb practically shouted with a mixture of utter joy and impatience.
Bobby froze, hardly believing he was hearing right. It had been a whole year since they disappeared off the face of the earth. A year since he got the call about John Winchester dying. A year since he'd heard anything at all about the two boys he loved like sons. He hadn't seen them for much longer than that, thanks to a falling out with their daddy that Bobby regretted to this day, but his feelings towards them had never changed. And when he found out they were in the wind, he gladly joined Caleb in his search. He hadn't given up this past year, but he had started to doubt they'd ever be found. To say he was gobsmacked at Caleb's announcement was an understatement.
"You better not be screwin' around, kid," he growled, sitting in the chair closest to him so he didn't collapse.
"Bobby, I know how serious this is—I wouldn't be calling if I wasn't positive," Caleb retorted.
Bobby straightened, sliding a notebook in front of him and grabbing a nearby pen. He wanted to snatch up his keys and bolt out the door, but he couldn't go anywhere or do anything until he had the facts.
"Tell me everything," he demanded.
A/N: I have a feeling this story will have a lot of flashback scenes.
