Aw thanks guys, you are all so awesome ❤️❤️.

So here is the last chapter of this one (though I may play with alternative versions at some time in the future, feel free to make suggestions.)

Disclaimer - I do not own any supernatural characters just playing with Kripke's toys 😊.

Chapter 3: The Culprit

Previously:

"So, let me get this right," Bobby interrupted, deliberately tossing his own gun onto the table. "Travis wanted to teach him a lesson after the elf hunt, Martin wanted to send a warning about hunting with the boys, Dean wanted the black beauty and Sammy just thought it might be fun?"

"When you've all finished working out who would most enjoy shooting me, can we get back to the issue that someone actually did."

Sam's stomach growled loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. After a pause they all lowered their weapons and laughed, especially as Sam had turned bright red.

Now:

"I'll go pick up some food , assuming I can trust you all not to shoot each other while I'm gone … any more that is," Bobby smirked. There wouldn't be much open at this time of night, even if they had been within easy distance of civilization. But Bobby had spotted a small greasy spoon perched along the bare highway, which presumably survived by being on a truck route and having no competition.

John jerked his head towards the door indicating Bobby should go.

Bobby frowned as he closed the door behind him, something had been missing from that exit and it didn't sit well with him.

"Travis, Martin, you'd better sort out some bunks," John ordered. Down or not, he was still in command. For once neither man seemed to mind Winchester's corporal routine. They glanced at each other, then at the small family, nodded and headed deeper into the cabin to see what they could sort to make everyone more comfortable until morning. "Sammy, see if you can locate a clean water source," John said, still commanding but with less bite.

"Don't go too far," Dean added.

Sam rolled his eyes. But then looked between his brother and father. He'd been 'sent on an errand' often enough to know when they were just trying to get rid of him. He frowned but after his father's stern gaze didn't waver, headed through the door that led to what had once been a kitchen.

"We need to talk," John said, looking at his eldest.

Dean nodded, not managing to get out his usual 'Yes, Sir.'

"Look, I would never have volunteered to be bait, not like that anyway, but once it happened you should have made use of the advantage. Instead, you risked the whole hunt by losing your head."

Dean's head shot up. It was not what he'd been expecting. "What?"

"That stunt, breaking cover, running into the line of fire, what the hell were you thinking?" John demanded.

Dean's shock quickly shifted to anger. "I was thinking you were hurt!" he shot back, his eyes glaring at his dad.

"I am going to drum this into you one way or another. YOU DON'T BREAK RANK, not until the threat is dealt with, no matter what happens, not ever!"

"But …"

"You left Sammy exposed. Do you realise that? You were supposed to be his cover – at your insistence I might add – Then you just desert him?"

"You broke rank first! You were supposed to be north-west! If you hadn't …" Dean blanched.

John's eyes widened as confirmation fell into place.

"I was north-west," he'd softened his reprimand. "We turned at the gully, remember?"

Dean's eyes danced as he reran the route in this head, the position of all the players. Then he looked down and swallowed hard.

"Yes, Sir."

John sighed, he pushed himself to sit more upright and ducked his head under the boy's downcast face to make him look at him.

"Dean, listen. The point I am trying to make is that you exposed yourself to great danger. That can't happen again. You hear me? That thing was nearly on you and your presence made it harder for the others to take their shots. Sammy didn't dare shoot at all."

"But it was coming for you, you were …" Dean's pain-filled eyes looked at his dad. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are, kiddo," John rested his hand on Dean's neck, pulling his face in so their foreheads touched for a moment. When they pulled back, Dean perched on the edge of the couch by his dad's hip. "You get too jumpy when Sammy's out with us." John's eyes were gentle. In some ways the answer was a relief. His family was not in danger from those he counted as friends. "You need to trust us Dean."

"I do!"

"No, you don't. You don't trust Sammy to cover his own ass and you don't trust that my plan doesn't put him at risk."

"It's not that."

"Yes, it is. And I get it, Son, believe me. You get your control freak tendencies from me in case you hadn't noticed. And believe me, I made the same mistakes when you first started coming along."

Dean frowned at that. Dad admitting to a mistake was rare. Besides, he wasn't Sammy, it was different.

John's expression suggested he had a good idea of what was running through his son's mind. He shook his head.

"He's saved your butt before. And mine," John shrugged diffidently. "He might baulk the reins a little but he's one of us."

"Yeah, I know that."

John shifted, trying to get more comfortable, wincing as his stitches pulled.

Dean reached out his hand, distress on his face. John waved him off.

"I'm fine. You did a good job of patching me up."

"I told you he was after the car. He probably just did it so he could drive," Sam said, coming forward with some pain killers in hand. He had obviously been eavesdropping and didn't look the slightest bit contrite about it.

John contemplated his eldest as if seriously considering this possibility. Dean scowled at his brother, snatching up the pills to pass to their dad.

"That's not funny," Dean grumbled. But he did look a little less tense.

John and Sam laughed.

"If you're driving you need to get some sleep," John commanded. Dean had been running on fumes and guilt for hours. He looked like he might dispute but John set his face. "You need to trust us," he reiterated.

"Yeah, okay." Dean stood. "Sammy, watch for fever and inflammation. Dad, no hiding things," he instructed firmly. John and Sammy gave twin eye-rolls and mini salutes. Dean turned and left the room.

Once he was gone Sam turned on John.

"I told you it wasn't me."

"I never said it was."

"But you thought it."

John sighed heavily. "I figured out the direction, approximately. Which was the sector you and Dean were covering. And let's face it, the odds weren't exactly 50-50." His son was watching him with those wide unblinking eyes that reminded John of when Sammy was five. "Who would you have put your money on?" John challenged.

Finally, Sam blinked and then shrugged. "Dean didn't mean to do it." John opened his mouth but Sam rushed on with his defence. "He was really upset and –"

"I know, Sam." John raised his voice to stop Sam rambling on. "But running out in the middle of a hunt and nearly getting himself taken out by the barghest, that can't happen. The rules have reasons, all the rules, even the ones you don't like or don't understand."

"Like shoot first, ask questions later," Sam challenged. "Which is exactly what Dean did."

"He broke cover and ran right into the path of a charging monster."

Sam opened his mouth, closed it again, and then his shoulders slumped.

"I see Dean's left his post," Bobby interrupted. Sam wasn't sure when he'd come in. "I guess that means you've identified our shooter."

"Accidental," John grunted, shifting again as his stitches pulled and itched. Bobby raised his eyebrow at Sam and Sam huffed.

"Why does everybody just assume it was me?"

"Because if I was to put together a list of people likely to non-fatally shoot John Winchester, you'd be near the top," Bobby said forthrightly.

"Yeah, well it wasn't me, it was Dean."

Bobby looked truly shocked for the first time since it had happened.

"His internal compass was off after we turned at the gully," John explained defensively.

"Damn. I knew something was off."

"Since when?"

"Since he didn't ask for pie when I left on the food run. He only doesn't when he's in trouble or expects to be," Bobby said seriously. You never needed to deprive Dean of treats, he tended to do it to himself when things went wrong. "How's he doing?"

"He won't make that mistake again. And by the time I'm done with him he won't be breaking rank again, no matter who's been shot."

Sam gave his dad an angry look, protective of his brother. Bobby just snorted sceptically.

ℼℼℼ

Bobby watched Dean trying to clean the blood from beneath his nails using the cold water that he'd managed to coerce from the rusty old tap. There was tension in his shoulders and he was scrubbing a little too vigorously. They'd boiled water to clean the wound but they only had a small trail stove and he wasn't going to waste the propane for the sake of his hands.

The eighteen-year-old had been hiding out in the kitchen for a while now, though from guilt or just an attempt to outlast his family in the sleep department, so he could keep watch against orders, Bobby couldn't be sure.

He'd seen the fear in the kid's eyes when trying to stem John's bleeding; The barely contained panic as he dug into his father's flesh to remove the bullet; Not to mention how pale he still was. But none of that worried Bobby as much as the comment Dean had made to Martin earlier.

"You need a bosom for a pillow, Kid, 'cause Travis has a pretty nice pair," was his teasing way of asking Dean if he was ok.

"I like a nice C-cup as much as the next man, but I prefer it without the fuzz thanks," Dean answered lightly.

Bobby snorted. Dean had mastered deflecting from his feelings at a young age. Only those closest to him had the slightest chance of breaking through that armour but John wasn't inclined to try and Sam wasn't ready to delve into the darker side of his brother's soft underbelly. The fourteen-year-old was not quite secure enough in himself, to trust he could accept his hero was fallible and still see him as a hero.

Bobby did what he could to leave the conversational door open for Dean, but he wasn't about to place any bets on the kid walking through it.

"Is Sammy okay?" Dean checked.

Bobby shook his head. It wasn't being in an abandoned cabin in the woods, with a group of armed men who had spent the past several hours threatening to shoot each other, that had Dean worrying about his little brother, even though he was just in the next room. It was residual muscle memory that if Sammy had been out of sight and quiet for too long, he was probably up to mischief.

"He's watching your dad, we sorted out beds for them both."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes went instantly to the door beyond which was his small family. "He'll be asleep soon."

"No, he won't be, and I'm staying up with him. You on the other hand are going to sleep. Your only choice is whether you do so voluntarily."

"What?"

"Unless you want to talk about what's crawling around in that messed up noggin of yours?"

Dean rolled his eyes and moved towards the door but Bobby blocked his way.

"For the record, you would forgive someone who shot your dad."

Dean's look became dark.

"Not me maybe," Bobby mitigated. "And not those two bozos who lugged his heavy ass five miles across rugged terrain, even though he was growling obscenities at them the whole way."

Dean looked away, unable to refute the point that his dad would probably make the top ten list of most difficult people to get along with on the planet.

"But if it had been Sammy, you'd forgive him. And if it had been the other way around and your dad had shot you, you'd forgive him."

"I'm guessing this hallmark moment is supposed to have a point," Dean huffed.

"You ain't special."

"Thanks," Dean grumbled sarcastically.

Bobby held a hand up, demanding to finish his point. "So you don't get special treatment. Not better and not worse either. You're a pain-in-the-ass Winchester, the same as those other two pain-in-ass Winchesters in the next room. If they can be forgiven, so can you."

Dean opened his mouth to dispute but Bobby rebutted before he could.

"Unless you're going to tell me you are special?" His tone was just the right mix to challenge Dean's infuriating refusal to see himself as anything but average, alongside a teasing dig utilising the somewhat offensive version of "special". The latter both softened the emotional invasion and warded off any cocky 'Hell yeah, I'm special' response the boy might try to hide behind.

"So I get a bed?"

Bobby couldn't completely prevent the smile that threatened. Hell yeah, Dean was special. Without a blink he had simultaneously moved them away from the caring and sharing crap he hated and pointed out that he actually didn't get the same treatment as his father and brother, generally speaking. "Martin's set you up on the couch," Bobby conceded.

None of them had even considered giving Dean one of the beds. "You can see your dad and brother from there." It was at least a partial defence. Dean wouldn't let an injured John, or Sammy, take the couch and he wouldn't even attempt to sleep anywhere that didn't allow him to keep an eye on them. "But I want at least four hours," the salvager added firmly in his best attempt at a dad voice. He wasn't convinced he'd got the hang of that though, maybe you only developed one if you actually had kids.

Bobby finally moved out of the way and held the door open so Dean could move back to the main space.

Sam was sitting up on one of two rusty metal spring beds that had been dragged into the space. He was holding one of Bobby's lore books, the corner of one of Dean's comics peaking tellingly over the top. His legs were tucked into his sleeping bag with both his and Dean's jackets adding extra warmth.

John was in the other bed, knocked out by a combination of painkillers and whiskey. His sleeping bag was covered by several threadbare, rodent chewed, blankets. Travis and Martin had disappeared to a passable room towards the back of the cabin. And Bobby had placed one of the wooden dining chairs between the two beds where he now moved to sit down.

Dean frowned. He knew his dad would be out for a while, between the blood loss and the drugs. Sammy was easy to nudge into sleep, Dean had been practising that skill for fourteen years, he was a blackbelt. But Bobby wasn't to be threatened, bribed, or cajoled once he'd set his mind, much like Dean.

Sighing in defeat, Dean went to the couch and glared at the crackling fire beside it for its audacity in warming him when he didn't deserve it. Bobby cleared his throat pointedly and Dean slipped into his sleeping bag. To Bobby's surprise he was out almost immediately, the wake of the adrenalin and emotions, taking its toll on the young man.

ℼℼℼ

Dean was surprised too, when he woke several hours later to find he'd slept. It was morning and a whispered verbal sparring match was going on across the room. He kept still, not wanting to give away that he was awake, and listening.

Opening his eyes no more than a slit, he could see his father was sitting up and Bobby, sitting in the wooden chair beside the bed, was handing him coffee. The takeout cup suggested someone had done a breakfast run.

"Maybe it wasn't entirely accidental," Bobby teased. "Let's face it John, Dean's not sloppy."

"Are you kidding? Dean's plenty sloppy," John growled, not liking what Bobby was suggesting.

Neither of the teasing men saw the young man behind them blanch as he overheard the comments but Martin, who was unloading breakfast sandwiches from a paper bag, did.

"I agree the kid's not too bright," Bobby frowned and scratched his beard. "I mean he thinks the sun shines out of your ass, which is pretty much conclusive evidence of some sort of brain defect."

John scoffed a laugh, despite the insult.

Martin went over to Dean, pushing his legs off the couch and forcing him to sit up. As he blinked in the bright, morning light, Dean noticed that now it was a reasonable hour of the day they'd also managed to pick up a gallon of water and some extra propane. He would be able to clean his dad's wound before they headed out. Martin handed him a coffee with an understanding expression.

"If that," Martin waved over to the conversation still taking place between John and Bobby, "doesn't make you feel less bad about shooting him, it should," Martin teased. Dean's eyes met his with that disarming openness the kid displayed when vulnerability prevented him from locking it down. "Hey, they're just busting each other's balls. It has nothing to do with you, you know that, right?"

"I guess." The shutters came down and Dean took a deep swig of his coffee. "Trust me, what comes out of Dad's ass is not sunshine, especially when he's had beans!" he grumbled.

ℼℼℼ

On better terms than they'd all been in a while, the hunters cleaned and stored their weapons and packed up their vehicles. Dean did everything of the Winchesters' insisting his father rest and eat something, and his brother watch their father and eat something. Whether it was his dark mood, his strained voice, or the pain in his eyes, neither disputed, though they did share a look.

Eventually it was time to load up and say their farewells. Bobby was heading home, he still had a business to run and no doubt had at least three desperate messages from hunters wanting research done. Martin had heard of a possible case up in Vermont and was heading that way. Travis was heading to Oklahoma, where apparently he had a lady-friend desperate to see him.

Dean was driving the Winchesters to the nearest safe town where he could access decent medical supplies, set them up in reasonable comfort for his father to continue his recovery, and find a school for Sammy. Bobby had offered for them to come to his, but Dean insisted he could manage. Bobby had to give the kid credit, he wasn't going to hide out fixing cars in the yard and let someone else play nurse, he was going to deal the consequences himself.

Once in the car, the small family travelled in silence. Though John knew his eldest was more than proficient, he still had trouble relaxing whenever Dean was driving. It wasn't the speed or occasional aggressive move that bothered John, he was guilty of both himself. It was nothing more or less than he was the parent, Dean was the child, and even at eighteen part of John wanted to strap him into a safety seat.

Sam, who had curled up in the back, was buried in a book. But he was conscious enough of the atmosphere, heavy with unsaid thoughts and unfinished business, to glance occasionally at the backs of the heads in the front seat.

Dean was so tense, had locked himself down so tightly, that it was amazing he could move enough to drive the car. He wouldn't look at his dad or his brother, didn't speak a word and hadn't even put music on.

Eventually John started to fiddle with the radio, anything to disperse the oppressive atmosphere. There were several conversations that would need to be had and he was already planning an extensive training plan to drum more than one lesson into the hard-headed young man. He was worried about the risks from that sort of mistake but he felt no animosity towards his son. He knew it had been an accident. He wished Dean would ease up on himself so he'd be receptive to the lessons that were needed.

Still turning the radio dial, he smirked when he heard a familiar riff. Turning the volume up, he began to sing along.

Bang bang, he shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, my baby shot me down

"That's not funny," Dean grumbled. But there was the first hint of a genuine smile that any of them had seen on his face in days.

John and Sammy laughed.

The End

AN: Well, I hope you enjoyed it :) All comments/reviews eagerly received 😊😊.

Thank you again to the wonderful Meilean for her help and support.

Much love to all and I hope you are all well ❤️.