AN: For disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

Much love to all readers (and especially reviewers 😚 😚 😚) I hope you enjoy.

Losing My Religion

Previously:

Taking a moment to compose himself, John turned to look at his son. He knew Dean had been hurt but it was not so bad that the boy couldn't move. He wanted to bask in the relief of seeing him alive, of being certain, whatever the damage, he would be ok. He wasn't prepared for what he found when he turned.

Chapter 7: Brought me to My Knees

Previously: Taking a moment to compose himself, John turned to look at his son. He knew Dean had been hurt but it was not so bad that the boy couldn't move. He wanted to bask in the relief of seeing him alive, of being certain, whatever the damage, he would be ok. He wasn't prepared for what he found when he turned.

Dean was on his feet, barely keeping himself upright. But he was frozen in place, his eyes fixed on Hank.

Hank was rigid, the thunder in his face so dark it was almost as if the dark clouds of black smoke billowing around them were coming from him. One hand had a painfully tight grip on his daughter's elbow. There were tear tracks on her cheeks and terror in her eyes. In his other hand, Hank held a pistol. In the flickering light John quickly identified it as Dean's. And it was Dean's heart it was pointed directly at.

Hank's hair was in disarray, the robe he had donned for his sick ritual hung open and askew. The rune embroidered silken stole had slipped to the floor and was crumpled beneath his feet. His eyes were bulging.

He was staring with abject fury at Dean, like the molten lava was in him now, though John knew this was a purely human rage.

Hank didn't speak, he didn't make demands or threats, he simply squeezed.

Before John's mouth had even fully dropped open, a blast echoed around the space like the ball in a pinball machine. Dean was thrown backwards off his feet, crashing to the floor a moment later.

"NOOOO!" roared John, moving forward.

But he barely got a step, and his own gun out, before Hank turned on him, madness gleaming in his eyes, blocking John's way and keeping him from his son.

Runoff from the cherufe had caught several scattered loose wooden planks, flickering fires lit the scene as smoke started to gather above them. As John and Hank held each other at gunpoint, it was hard to tell which was more furious.

Ignoring the gun trained on him, John curled a lip and cocked the hammer of his Beretta with murderous intent.

Sanity seemed to leak into Hank's eyes as recognition replaced lividity. Mari took advantage of her father's distraction and twisted her arm free.

"Dean!" she called, running to the fallen figure.

Keeping the gun level with one hand, Hank held the other palm up.

"It's not what you think, I can explain."

"Explain?" John snarled. "Explain summoning a cherufe and shooting a kid?"

Hank flinched, as far as he knew, he'd been the only one that knew what the 'demon' really was. But he swallowed and gathered himself.

"Like we said, anything to keep our children safe, right?" he urged for understanding. "I made a mistake with the demon, I admit, … but that tramp -" Hank paused, breathing out hard through his nose and he tried to rein in his emotions. "It rejected that filthy scum because he defiled my daughter. And so I am just doing what I need to, to protect her." Hank looked beseechingly into John's angry face.

Beyond him his daughter fluttered ineffectually at Dean's side. John was desperate to get to his son himself but he stayed focused on Hank.

"You would do the same, wouldn't you?" Hank was continuing. "I saw it in your eyes. Like me, you will do whatever needs to be done."

John gave a bitter smile, crazy fucker though he obviously was, the man wasn't completely wrong.

"I thought I'd have more time before it demanded more sacrifice. Time to figure out how to banish the demon. But its appetite …" Hank shook his head, looking genuinely upset. "But now you have fixed that," he smiled broadly at John. "The way you dealt with that thing. Don't you see? You and I, together we could make this a safe place. I just need to finish what I started. What is the loss of a bum like him in the face of our children?"

Hank seemed to relax a little, but didn't yet lower his gun, perhaps because John's was still aimed right for his heart.

"There is just one problem," John said, coldly.

Hank's face queried, hope still lighting his eyes.

"That 'bum' is my son," John growled.

Hank's eyes widened in shock but he understood the situation immediately. He had, after all, found a kindred spirit. One just as prepared as he was to step into the darkness in the name of what he loved. He glanced towards the fallen boy and his daughter but had his eyes back on John before the Marine could take advantage. As he looked into the murderous stare of the man before him, he paused. He was not sure in that moment which one of them was the abyss. Then resolve settled in his stance.

Hank's eyes flashed maliciously, as he lifted the gun so it was no longer pointing at John. John watched him cautiously. Something was off.

Hank fired.

The blast was accompanied by a deep crack. John managed to dive aside just in time. Rocks pummelled down where he had been standing. He rolled further, covering his head as debris cascaded over him, filling the air with choking dust.

As the rocks started to settle, he tried to squint through the haze to where Hank had been but couldn't see through the dust.

Getting to his feet, he coughed and swiped aside the blood trickling down his face. There were large rocks and piles of rubble that separated him from Hank and Dean. Worse was that John couldn't see Hank.

The dust thinned and he could make out the girl, John didn't know her name, but she was curled over Dean, shielding him with her body as best she could. As far as John knew, Dean had neither moved nor made a sound since he was shot, but her defensive posture gave him hope. Surely she wouldn't do that to a corpse.

"Get out of the way Mariam," Hank was saying to his daughter. John still couldn't see him but he knew the man was advancing on his son, determined to finish the job.

He started frantically clambering over and through the rocks and rubble.

"Dad, no. Please," Mari was begging. John could see she was now trying to shield his boy from worse than rocks and dust. "Don't hurt him, Dad. Please."

"I said MOVE," Hank's roar echoed around the space, causing more rubble to dislodge.

All too aware he still had no clear line of sight on the deranged leader, John vaulted over a large boulder. Finally, through the haze, he could make out Hank. But before John could steady his aim, Hank's whole body went rigid. John paused, not sure what was happening. Then, with a crackle, the cult leader's body jerked and in the next moment he dropped to the floor where he started twitching.

John stared at the strange apparition.

Blinking through the remaining dust, he realised that with Hank down, he could see the small figure that had been behind the cult leader. A silhouette lit by the flickering flames that still burned in several areas. John did not know how he had got there, or when he had arrived, but even through the smoke and the dust and the blood pounding in his ears, he knew his youngest.

It was a miracle that the combination of relief and brand new terrors didn't stop his heart. But there was work to do, he could fall apart later. Sammy dropped to his knees and John could see he was shaking, but the little boy's finger remained on the trigger so the current continued to pump into Hank.

John forced himself to move. Sammy looked as shocked as his victim, though it was just the situation holding him frozen with his mouth part open. John crouched beside him and gently relieved him of the Taser. His eyes swept worriedly over his youngest, but Sammy wasn't hurt and the shock would pass.

"Dean?" John called. There was no immediate answer. "Dean," he called more urgently. But still he heard nothing in response.

"Sammy," John spoke gently, nudging instead of demanding. "Sammy, look at me." When John's finger brushed his cheek, Sam finally moved. "You ok?"

Sam nodded but his eyes still had that distant look.

"Dean, talk to me, Kiddo" John called out again, looking that way. Desperation leaked into the order, even as he tried to stay calm for Sam.

A few feet away, Hank's daughter was still kneeling over his son. As he watched, a tear fell from her cheek, dripping onto Dean's chest. Dean let out a hiss to match the one of water hitting his charred skin.

Both Mari and John let out shaky breaths of relief.

"Check on your brother," John nudged Sam. "I've got our monster summoning friend here." He pulled out handcuffs to secure Hank.

Sam took a breath, still looking at his father. Eventually, he nodded again and turned towards Dean but didn't move closer.

With a groan, Dean lifted his head, winced in pain and dropped it back down. A hand came up towards his shoulder. Sam finally animated and staggered slightly and he hurried over.

"Dean! Oh my God, you've been shot," he said, staring down at the blood-soaked teen. Dean gave him a pain ridden, yet somehow still sardonic, look.

"Really, you think Sammy? I hadn't noticed." He gasped before closing his eyes and groaning again.

Once under control, Dean forced a smile for his brother. Sam had knelt beside him but looked scared to touch. His worried eyes were fixed on the blood oozing from the bullet wound in Dean's shoulder. The eleven-year-old was deathly white, fear and panic warring for dominance.

"I'm fine Sammy, Dad will be able to fix it." Dean pressed his hands to the bullet wound, trying to limit the bleeding, and looked at Mari who was kneeling by his head. "Are you ok?" he asked, his face softening away from his own pain for a moment.

She blinked. "I'm fine," she said, shaking her head to the contrary.

Sam's eyes also went to the strange girl, frowning at the way her hands were on his brother. If he had another Taser, he might shoot her too. Dean was blinking, taking hitching breaths. Blood was seeping from beneath Dean's fingers, and the girl was stroking his hair in a way Sam was certain Dean wouldn't permit if he was in any position to stop it. He scowled at her on his brother's behalf.

"Turns out there might be advantages to fighting beasts naked after all," Dean grinned with a glance at the remains of his shirt stuck to the burns on his chest.

A sob-laugh choked from the girl and she shook her head again, rejecting his attempt to distract with humour. The tear stains on her cheeks glistened in the flickering light. "I can't believe my dad shot you."

Sam snorted. All the death, destruction, and a lava monster, and that was what she was shocked about. From what Dad warned Dean about regularly, dads wanting to shoot teenage boys who knew their daughters was pretty normal by comparison.

"Don't sweat it, I'm good," Dean tried to grin bravely, but he wasn't fooling anyone.

"I'm so sorry," Mari's eyes met his intensely. He tried to shrug but the movement made him grimace and he rested his head back on the floor, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

When his eyes opened, they went first to Sam who continued to stare at his brother, making Dean uncomfortable. So the older boy placed a hand over Sammy's face and lightly pushed it away. Unfortunately, it was a hand covered in blood and left a print.

"Ew," Sam said, feeling the sticky wetness and pulling away from his brother's touch. Dean's lips twitched. His pain brightened gaze softened to humour. Then, unable to hold it back, he started to laugh, even though it made him wince. Sam rolled his eyes but it seemed to pull the younger boy from his shock. He started checking Dean for a head wound.

A combination of laughter and a groan had Dean pressing his hands back to his shoulder while keeping his masking smile in place. "You look like you're wearing warpaint, Crazy Horse."

"You're the one that's been impaled," Sam pointed out, wiping blood from the back of Dean's hands and painting a stripe down his big brother's forehead and nose.

"Hey," Dean complained, but the pain on his face was seasoned with mirth as Sam cracked a grin. Dean tried to add more to Sam's blood-paint but Sam leant back and held him off while trying to add more streaks to Dean's cheek.

John joined them at that point, carrying a torch he'd made from a branch and a strip of his shirt. He had put out most of the fires but left one small, contained pile of wood for heat and to add more light to that provided by the braziers. Holding up his torch to get a clear look at his sons, he was taken aback to see the blood on both of them, the laughter, and especially the struggle of each to put more blood on the other.

"Enough," he barked, getting an instant reaction from his children. While their source continued to supply, it wasn't limitless. "Dean, pressure. Sam, grab my duffle." John, managed to wedge his torch between some rocks and then knelt by his eldest, trying to evaluate the damage. He understood Dean's focus on the bullet wound but he was more worried about the burns, shock and infection being a big risk.

"I'm fine, nothing vital –" Dean started, but his dad interrupted him.

"You are in no position to determine whether you are fine or not," John said sternly. Dean rolled his eyes dramatically then realised his brother wasn't there to share the silent comment and Mari was looking at him like he might be as nuts as her monster summoning father. John carefully kept his face under control. "Given the behaviour, I don't trust your judgement right now," he said in measured tones.

Dean however decided John needed some war-paint of his own and patted his father's cheek reassuringly.

"I'm alright Dad, really," he said, trying to hide his grin at the bloody smudge now adorning half of John's face. Sam returned with the duffle. His lips twitched at the sight of his father now having war paint of his own, but he dropped his head when his dad glared at him, so his hair hid most of his face.

John gave his eldest the silent cease and desist, wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist to stop any further antics. It was typical of his eldest to make light of his own injuries, anything to stop his family worrying. But in John's book, any junior Winchester blood not inside the junior Winchester was a bad thing. He passed control of Dean's wrist to Sam, noticing the weakness of the resistance as he did and hiding the frown it induced behind a grim smile at his youngest.

"Sammy, try to keep your brother under control while I check this wound."

Dean's grin soon faded as John started to probe around his shoulder with firm fingers. Sam kept a tight grip on Dean's hand, trying to help him keep still as per the restraining act ordered by their dad, and also as an offer of support.

John removed as many of the remaining loose fragments of Dean's shirt as possible and laid gauze over the burn area to protect it as best he could in the short term. He pressed more gauze to the still seeping bullet wound.

"Keep pressure on that," he ordered his eldest sternly. Dean did as he was told as John moved away leading Sam by the elbow. "You'll need to go and get the car," he said in quiet serious tones.

"What? Why?" Sam whined.

"Because I need to get the bullet out and we need more first aid supplies than we have with us." Sam's complaint quickly turned to concern. "Your brother's still losing blood and the risk of infection is high. When I'm done patching him up, we need to get him out of here."

"But …" There was a longing look from the younger boy at Dean.

"Sam, I know you want to help. Sometimes helping is doing what's needed, not what feels good, understand?" John knew that, when scared or unsure, Sam still clung to his big brother, just as he had done as a toddler, offering and receiving comfort in equal measure. But comfort was not going to keep Dean alive.

"Yes, Sir," Sam said with a nod. He didn't like it but he knew the situation was serious and he didn't want to delay by arguing. John glanced over and saw the girl mopping Dean's brow with the hem of her skirt.

"Take her with you," he said brusquely, "and get the car as close as you can."

Sam's expression had John half prepared for some comment about cooties, but whatever thoughts he was having, Sam kept to himself.

ℼℼℼ

Mari followed silently as the young boy led the way. She hadn't dared dispute the barking order from the large General of a man that she understood to be Dean's father, even though she hadn't wanted to leave. The 'General' was equal parts scary and impressive, certainly not someone to argue with.

She kept glancing sideways at the boy next to her. He moved with determination and confidence, apparently oblivious to the blood that still marred his young face. He had a somewhat wiry frame and shaggy hair that gave the impression of a young child. But the movements and expression were of a boy much older. The glance he had thrown at Dean before they left had been almost ancient. Overall, she guessed his age at pre-teen. She'd matured young too.

"Your family is pretty screwed up," she commented casually, unable to bear the silence any longer.

Sam snorted. "Said the girl whose dad summoned a lava monster and shot my brother."

Mari stopped dead. The boy turned to look at her, a strange combination of worry and calculation on his face. It was as if he felt he'd committed some faux pas but was prepared to try and take her down if the result was her trying to leave. She remembered his scoff regarding her dad shooting his brother. No doubt he held her responsible.

"I didn't … I mean … I wasn't …I didn't know what he was doing."

She was surprised when the small smile he gave her was understanding. "I know."

That surprised her even more. "How? I mean, to you I must seem …"

"I trust Dean, and Dean trusts you," Sam shrugged. On some level it really was that simple.

"You trust the guy who uses his own blood for a family face-painting session?" she teased.

"What can I say, screwed up families have screwed up coping mechanisms."

Mari blinked at him. "You're a weird kid."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Sam started walking again and Mari followed.

"It's ok, I was a weird kid too."

"Dean says all the best people are."

They walked on in silence for a bit but now it was more comfortable.

"Maybe that's why he did it," Mari mused. Sam glanced sideways at her. "My dad. He's not evil, you know?" She said quietly. "I mean, I know what he did was so awful," she shuddered. "But …"

"You can love someone without loving everything they do," Sam said quietly, more to himself than her.

ℼℼℼ

John wasn't sure if it was all parents or just him but he spent a lot of time not sure if he wanted to hug or throttle his off-spring. Dean had gone rogue and now was in one hell of a state. If the damn boy would just stick to the plan once in a while, they would all be better off. It was a fucking miracle that he was still alive.

John forced his thoughts away from the reason for that and focused on the present. He needed to get the bullet out. It wasn't going to be pleasant and that had been a big part of his motivation for removing Sammy and the girl. Now he needed to distract Dean.

"Okay, Son, let me look," he said, prying Dean's hand from the wound.

Dean was taking shallow breaths, his eyes scrunched closed. John could see him desperately clinging to his brave front, even as tremors shuddered his body. He was coming down from his adrenalin high and there was a real risk of him succumbing to his injuries. John needed to keep him on alert, cruel as that might seem.

"What's the first rule when we're on a job?" he barked, keeping his gaze from Dean's shocked expression at being chided while at risk of bleeding out. "Come on, what's the rule?" he demanded, looking more closely at the wound.

"No hunting alone," Dean said, his face flushing as his heart rate increased again. He gave a sharp gasp as John poked the flesh by the bullet hole.

On the plus side, it didn't seem the bullet had hit anything vital and the wound was relatively clean, as gunshots go.

"Exactly. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't …" Another gasp cut Dean off.

"Thinking?" John teased with an affectionately stern glance.

"Hunting!" Dean defended, before John offered his belt for Dean to bite down on. There was a brief stand-off. Dean seemed to think rejecting the belt would prevent the field surgery. The expression on his father's face quickly purged the misconception and he clamped the leather between his teeth. With a small glance of regret, John dug into the hole in his son's shoulder with some tweezers. Dean's eyes glistened with pain, a strangled cry came from his throat. John himself was desperately trying to hold it together.

"So, you just nearly ended up monster chow by accident?" He challenged, keeping his voice even. He'd paused in his digging, having found what he was looking for.

Dean tried to say something but it was little more than indistinct sounds through the pain and the belt in his mouth.

"I know about the drifters," John replied, guessing what his son's defence would be and softening for a moment in the face of his pain. "I'm sorry, Son. I wouldn't have left you in that squat if I'd known." Once Dean seemed to have caught his breath, John dug again, deeper this time. Dean tried to twist away from the pain and John's other large hand held him still. "But that's not how you ended up here."

He pulled the bullet from the wound. A moment later, Dean spat the belt from his mouth. "Fuck!"

They both looked at the small projectile that had caused so much pain and threatened something much worse. From eye contact alone, Dean understood that, while his father really wasn't happy he'd gone off-plan, distraction had been the main purpose of the lecture.

"I was looking for you," he panted as John pressed gauze against the wound trying to stop or at least slow the bleeding. "To tell you what I found."

"We had a meet up planned," John disputed, leaning back to grab more gauze. "You were checking on me."

"You were in the compound of a crazy …" Dean seemed to realise he was perilously close to insubordination and bit his lip. John taped the fresh gauze over the wound, without a word. Realising he'd get neither approbation nor a rebuke, either of which would ease his conscience, Dean changed the subject. "What was it anyway?"

"Ask your brother, he's the one who identified it." John gave him a significant look.

Dean understood, Sammy was going to need some serious quality time after this. Poor kid must have been scared out of his mind. "And Mari's dad?"

"In better shape than you," John said, tucking the bullet into Dean's pocket. You only got shot for the first time once, he should keep that.

ℼℼℼ

AN: Apologies for Dean's potty mouth.

BOBBY SINGER: "... [Sam's] been running into burning buildings since he was, what, 12?"

DEAN: "Pretty much."

(Ok so he was 11 and it was a burning cave, but close enough 😁)

John's torch is dedicated to Timelady66 who requested it 😊

Thank you for reading and if you have a mo, please do drop me a line. All feedback helps me improve and even a quick thumbs up can really make my day xx Love and hugs to all.