A/N OMG had it really been almost two months since I posted?! I am soooo sorry. My only excuse is that this one really was difficult for me. What stayed the same, what changed? What did I need to show, what could I leave in shadows? How much did I want to cover in one chapter?
In the end I'm reasonably satisfied with it.
Also, a note about the episode Shadow (s1e16). The reunion scene between the boys and John was very different, but only in dialogue, not in intent or result. So, I'm not going to include that here. Just know that whole "we had a hell of a fight" "it's been too long" Sam and John hug thing didn't happen.
This Chapter will cover the episodes Dead Man's Blood (s1e20), Devil's Trap (s1e22), In My Time of Dying (s2e1) and the final scene in Everybody Loves a Clown (s1e2). Skipping Salvation (s1e21), because the only change is that Sam is the one who picks up the fake Colt. Nothing in Everybody Loves a Clown really changes except the final scene, but again I felt it was too important to not address (see my end notes for more on that).
I'm still not doing the entire episodes, just where there are major changes. I've added a few scenes, reworked others to reflect the impact of Powers!Witch!Sam on the story. The parts I'm covering are, I think, too important not to show, even if the only dialogue changes. Even with my changes, lyou'll recognize some of the dialogue here (because the original scripts were so brilliant). It probably goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that any scene I don't show happened the way it happened in the show.
Hopefully, that all makes sense and you'll ride with me on this one.
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DEAD MAN'S BLOOD
INTERIOR IMPALA (after John has talked to cops about the 911 call)
Dean looked over at his brother's profile, noting the tension in the kid's shoulders, the hard set of his jaw, and the whiteness of his knuckles as Sam clenched his hands on the steering wheel.
Being with - actually Hunting with — their father with Sammy at his side was throwing Dean for a loop. Given what had happened the last time Dad and Sammy had hunted together, he couldn't even begin to guess how Sammy was feeling about it.
"Hey," he said quietly, and Sammy's eyes flickered over to him then back to the road. Dean had seen enough in them, though, in that half-second. Sammy was tense, and a little scared. "You okay with this?"
"With being treated like a child?" Sam threw out. "No, not really, but it's Dad, it's not like he's ever going to cut us a break and treat us as…as even…a-a-apprentices, much less equals."
"Well, we're not his equals," Dean shrugged. "He's the best Hunter in the world."
"Maybe, but he trained us," Sammy countered. "Trained you, anyway. And you trained me. He should have a little more respect for our skill sets, doncha think?"
"Yeah, probably," Dean conceded, "And you know damned well that's not what I'm talking about."
"Yeah, well I don't want to talk about what you're talking about."
"Tough! We're going after a group of vampires, here, Sammy. Something we've never faced before. From the sounds of it, something Dad's never faced before. I need to know that you're good with this, that your head's in the game, or somebody's going to get hurt. So, talk to me, dammit. How do you feel about Hunting with Dad again? This bringing up any shit we need to deal with?"
"Of course, it is," Sammy shrugged. "Every time he gets behind me, my skin crawls. And the way he talks to us, both of us, just expecting us to fall in line without a question or a thought of our own…it makes me want to punch him in the face." Dean snorted and Sam shot Dean a sour look. "Come on, Dean, you've seen it. He's treating us like no time has passed since the last Hunt, like we're 15 and 19 again. I'm 22! I'm old enough to drink, and he's talking to me like I'm not old enough to drive, and…"
He paused and forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath which, he was sad to note, did him no good whatsoever.
"But," he continued, "something tells me this Colt he's going after is important, and if the Colt, or Dad, gets me one step closer to killing that Yellow-Eyed bastard…I can suck it up."
"Yeah?" Dean said softly.
"Yeah," Sammy confirmed, and flicked his eyes over to Dean again, catching the arms crossed over the flannel covered shirt and the skeptical look. "What?"
"So that's it? You're just going to suck up working with the guy who fucking abused you for years and almost killed you the last time you spent more than five minutes with him?"
"You said he changed."
Dan shrugged and dropped his hands to his knees. "His opinions changed," he admitted. "But Dad never does. And like I said before, at any moment, his opinion could change back."
Sam frowned and turned his head briefly to glare. "Yeah, way to keep me calm, Dean."
"I'm sorry! I just…I know finding him is all we've been trying to do, but now he's here, and I'm remembering all the very good reasons I don't want him anywhere near you."
"Yeah, well that makes two of us," Sam sighed. "But right now, that's the gig. He's our best lead on the demon, and… Man, we just gotta deal, you know? Put it all behind us and work together to save the missing people, then kill the bastard that killed Mom and Jess."
Sam didn't have to look to feel the heavy, skeptical look his brother was giving him. "Just put it behind you? He killed you, Sam."
Sam shrugged. "Okay, well, then, then I'll have nightmares for a little while after, okay? It's not like that's anything new, and at least this shit'll be over and we can get back to real life."
"I'm not sure college counts as real life, but…yeah." Dean sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself for the next part of the conversation. "Listen, Sam…"
"I know," Sam interrupted. "I have to be careful. I can't give him the slightest ammunition to use against me, or he may turn the Colt on me when he gets his hands on the damn thing. I know better than to…do anything around him."
Dean nodded. "And what if you get another vision?"
"Let's hope I don't. And if I do…well," Sam shrugged again. "We all know I have Demon blood in me. He's gotta be expecting some effect from that, right?"
"Yeah." Dean shook his head. "I just…He's still Dad, you know? And I mean, best fuckin' Hunter on the planet, but…"
"But he's DAD," Sam repeated. "And he's still drinking, you know."
"I know," Dean acknowledged, "I smelled it on him, too. Which just makes the whole thing fuckin' worse. 'Cause, I mean…even before he thought you were an actual demon, you were his favorite punching bag. I just…Sammy, you can't provoke him, man."
"I mean, I'll try not to, Dean, but…you know how he gets," Sammy shrugged. "Doesn't take much for me to provoke him. Some days, all I had to do was fuckin' breathe."
"I know," Dean sighed, "but…"
"Look, Dean, I know you're trying to keep me safe, I get that, I do." Another quick look at his big brother, then Sam squared his shoulders. "But we've been through too much in the last year to walk away now. And I'm not that scared little kid, anymore. I haven't been for a while."
"I know you're not," Dean agreed. "But there are lives at stake, here, Sammy, and…"
"I know there are lives at stake, Dean!" Sammy snapped back. "I'm a Hunter, too! I know as well as you or Dad what's at stake. But don't you see, that's the point. I mean, I know I'm not anywhere near the Hunter you or Dad are — you're not wrong about him being the best, and he trained you damned well, Dean. I figure you're about number two, right now…"
Dean frowned, and wondered briefly how his baby brother would react if he pointed out that Sammy had had the same training, and that if Dean was the second best, that pretty much made Sammy third. He didn't say anything, though. Sammy'd probably strain something rolling his eyes that hard.
"…but, even so," Sam continued, "I'm not half bad, either, and the one thing I know, for absolutely sure, is that Hunting without all the pertinent information is the best way to not only fail to stop whatever you're after, but to get yourself or your partner hurt. Or killed."
Dean nodded, reluctantly. Kid wasn't wrong, but he didn't like where this was going.
"So, no, Dean, I'm not going to deliberately provoke Dad," Sam nodded and turned his head to look in Dean's eyes for a moment, before turning back to the road. "But I'm not just going to take whatever he says as law, either. We've been Hunting together, you and me, a long fuckin' time, Dean. Other than those last two years at, at S-Stanford," he added, and Dean didn't miss the slight stammer at the very word, at the memories it no doubt brought up, "we've been Hunting as a team, solid, since I was 15. And the one thing we never do, is keep shit from each other. Not about a Hunt. Never about a Hunt. We'd've both been dead a dozen times over if we had. And I'm not going to let him put you or me, or him, for that matter, at risk because he still thinks we're kids and don't have a fucking need to know."
Dean sighed and gave a half-shrug. "So, you will provoke him, then," he said drily.
Sam chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, probably," he admitted, and gave Dean another side-eyed look. "But I won't provoke him just to provoke him, okay? I mean, if there's something that needs to be questioned, I'm questioning."
Now it was Dean's turn to chuckle. "Of course, you are. You've been questioning everything from the color of the sky to how fish breathe since you could talk."
Sam shrugged carelessly. No use in denying the truth. "I'll try to be respectful about it," he offered.
Dean scoffed. "No, you won't!" he laughed, and raised a hand to stop Sammy's protest. "Not that you won't try to," he admitted, "but he just…look, man, he's…there's just…He's Dad," he finished, lamey, but he could see that Sammy got it just the same.
"The minute you open your mouth to say anything other than 'Yes, Sir', you're being disrespectful," Sammy acknowledged. "And then he gets that tone," he continued, and Dean wondered if the kid even knew he was talking through clenched teeth, "like you're a misbehaving toddler, and…"
"And that hits every fuckin' button you got," Dean completed softly. "I know the drill, Sammy. Just…try not to make him want to shoot you, okay?"
Sam laughed at that, dimples flashing. "Oh, Dean," he said indulgently, "he's wanted to shoot me since he knocked on the car window. You know it, I know it, and he's frankly not doing much to hide it." He shook his head and laughed a little more.
"What?" Dean frowned.
"You remember that so-called ghost hunt he had me research when I, like, ten?" Sam wondered. "It was the first time he really let me do heavy research on a Hunt."
Dean's brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember. Turned out it wasn't a ghost at all. It was a ghoul, right?"
Sam nodded. "Uh-huh. And as soon as I told him he was wrong, he beat me fuckin' senseless," he laughed again, and Dean barely suppressed the wince at both the memory of the beating — one of, if not the first time Dad had broken one of Sammy's ribs — and the realization that at some point, the memory had become somehow laughable. To Sammy, at least. "You believed me," Sam remembered and the smile he shot his brother was frankly dazzling.
"I always believe you, Sammy," Dean assured. "Especially when it comes to research."
Sam nodded, and if anything the smile just got wider. "You put real shells in your shotgun, instead of just salt."
"And you swapped out Dad's ammo," Dean recalled, amazed. "Damn, he worked you over when he realized what you'd done."
Sam laughed again. "And that was after the switch had saved both your lives. Can you imagine what would've happened if I'd been wrong?"
"Dad and I couldn't've protected ourselves from a pissed off ghost. We probably would've died,"
"Well, yeah, but after that!" Sam grinned. "My point is," he continued, "it doesn't matter what I say, or do, or know. Dad's still gonna hate me, and he still wants me dead, and nothing is going to change that, and I don't care what you or he says about a 'change of heart'. At some point, he's going to try to hit me, if not kill me, so I might as well do what I believe is right. Do whatever gives the three of us the best chance at stopping these fucking vampires and coming out the other side with our throats intact, you know?"
Reluctantly, Dean nodded. "I get it, Sammy. I just…watch your back, right?"
"I don't have to," Sam shrugged and smiled that megawatt smile again, this time aiming it directly at his brother, and Dean's breath caught at the hero-worship so clearly reflected in his brother's eyes. "I got you for that."
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Dean braced himself against the dashboard as Sam slammed on the brakes, putting the Impala crosswise to the highway, and directly in the path of John's truck.
"So much for not provoking him!" he yelled, even as Sammy opened the driver's door and stepped into the road, heading back to meet their father between the two cars.
Dean scrambled out to join the two posturing men, trying to figure out how to keep them from killing each other, less than a day after they'd started to work together again.
It had been a lot easier when Sam was small enough he could just pick the little shit up and get him out of the line of fire.
"What the hell are you doing?" John demanded, loudly
"We need to talk," Sam said, keeping his voice deliberately level and calm.
"About what!" John continued to yell.
"If we're getting close to the vampires," Sam explained, forcing himself to remain grounded and calm, "I think we need to know a little more about what intel you have on them, and it'd be good to understand how you got the info. And I think it's time you told us what the deal is about this gun."
"You think," John repeated. "YOU think?! You little shit, what makes you think anything you think counts?"
"Dad," Dean interjected, trying to step between the two of them. "It's not unreasonable…"
"Of course, you take his side," John scoffed. "You always coddled him!'
"It's not coddling to tell a Hunter what they're up against," Sam countered, his voice just a bit less calm. "It's just smart. If we were any other Hunters…"
"You're not any other Hunters. Dean's my son, and you, you're not a Hunter at all, you arrogant little…"
"Dad, Sammy's your son, too," Dean reminded, not even caring that his statement sounded more like a desperate plea.
"Dean," Sam said softly, "keep out of it."
"Keep…? Sam!"
"Well, that's the first smart thing you've said," John scoffed. "Keep out of it, Dean. This is between me and…him.
"You have questions, do you?" John challenged.
"I do, yes," Sam said coolly.
"And what makes you think your questions matter?"
"To you?" Sam challenged. "They don't. To keeping those missing people alive? To killing the thing that killed Mom and Jess? They matter."
"Listen, you little bastard," John growled and stepped forward so his nose was almost touching Sam's (or would've been if the damn kid didn't have 3 inches on him), "you don't get to decide what matters. I do. And you don't. Question. Your commanding officer."
Sammy's jaw tensed and his hands balled into fists. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. Should've worried more about Dad provoking Sammy, apparently.
"We're not in the Marines, Dad!" Sam yelled.
"Damn right you're not," John agreed. "They'd never take a weak, sniveling, undisciplined, ungrateful, fucking useless little freak like you!" he shouted.
"Dad, no!" he heard Dean yell, and felt his son's hand on his bicep, even as his fist came to a crashing halt, held by a brick wall masquerading as Sam's hand, not two inches from the boy's face.
Sam stood in front of him, panting. "Not this time," he said softly. "You won't beat me down this time. Not ever again."
John took a step back, and looked between the two boys — men, he acknowledged to himself — taking in the quiet determination on Sam's face; the barely concealed disappointment (or was that disgust?) on Dean's.
What had just happened? John wondered. Yes, he was angry with Sammy — he couldn't really remember a time when he wasn't angry with Sammy, the kid's disrespectful attitude just pressed his buttons like nothing else — but he hadn't intended to hit the kid. He'd had a long, long time to think about how he'd treated Sammy since Dean had grabbed his little brother and run to Singer's place.
In the past seven years, he'd realized he'd been wrong about what Sammy was, about his role in Mary's death. He shouldn't have hit him, ever, and he'd vowed to never do so again. John prided himself on his self-control, especially under combat conditions like this. So why was he standing in front of his youngest son, his fist stinging, with both his sons looking so…disappointed?
John dropped his hand to his side and took a step back. "I—I don't know wh…I, I didn't mean…"
"Yes, you did," Sam said with the saddest smiled that John had ever seen. "You always do."
"All right, that's enough." Dean stepped between the pair, and gently pushed Sam towards the Impala. "We're clearly not talking about anything, now, so let's just go get that couple out of the vampires' nest," he suggested and, to John's amazement, Sam nodded and went back to the car.
Dean turned towards his father, his eyes dark and his face grim. "Just for the record," he said softly, "Sammy ain't wrong. You owe us an explanation. And a little of the fucking respect due one Hunter to another."
John shook his head, sadly, and resisted the urge to shake his still stinging hand. He'd never show that kind of weakness in front of Dean, and he'd damn sure never give Sam the satisfaction. "He's changed you, Dean. You used to respect me. Respect the chain of command."
"Sam didn't change me, Dad," Dean said quietly. "I just opened my eyes. And respect is earned." He jerked his chin towards John's truck, still idling in the middle of road. "Go ahead. We'll follow you," he assured his father and turned away.
"Dean…"
Dean shook his head. "Don't want to hear it," he said without looking back, and John could only watch the son he loved more than life just walk away.
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John stopped pacing between the motel beds and turned towards his son. "This is taking too long," he grumbled.
"Sammy's got it," Dean assured him, calmly.
"I'd feel better if you'd gone. Why couldn't you go, like I asked?"
Dean shrugged. "Well, for one thing, Sammy's better with locks and alarms than I am." Not that he was going to tell Dad why Sammy was better with locks and alarms. Somehow, he didn't think Dad would be quite as enthusiastic as Dean was that the youngest Winchester was a Jedi Knight. "For another…I'm not leaving you alone with him," he said coldly. "Like, ever."
John sighed and sat in the other chair at the table. "Dean," he said reasonably, "we talked about this. I was working from bad intel."
"Bad intel," Dean scoffed. "Man, you can't even come up with a decent excuse, even after all these years. It's still just bad intel. Well, guess what, Dad," Dean challenged, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward. "Bad intel didn't almost kill my little brother. You did."
"Dean…"
"You know, he's forgiven you?"
John blinked. "I…he…what?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "He tried to get me to look at it from your point of view. Said you weren't trying to kill him, Sam, you were trying to kill something that you thought had already killed Sam."
John looked somewhere between stunned and relieved. "I didn't…I didn't think he'd understand," he admitted.
"Oh, Sammy's very understanding," Dean admitted. "Me? Kinda less so. 'Cause, me? I think that's a fucking cop out and you should've known better than to believe bad intel. First thing you ever taught us about research, Dad — hearsay can't be trusted. Unless it's an official document, or an eyewitness, you need a second source. Except, apparently, when somebody you don't even know says your own son is a fucking Demon. That you can just believe right away. Ain't that right, Dad?"
"You watch your tone."
"My tone?" Dean laughed, and stood. "You need to worry a little less about my tone and a little more about my fists, at this point," he warned, his tightly closed hands held close to his sides against the overwhelming urge to hit.
No, not hit, not after what had happened on the road earlier. The urge to pummel.
John stood slowly. "Dean, I am genuinely sorry I hit your brother back then. And I'm sorry I tried to hit him earlier on the road. I shouldn't have. And you're right, I don't have a good reason. But I think you're blowing what happened in Asheville a bit out of proportion, Dean. I roughed him up some, but…"
"Roughed him up?" Dean repeated his voice catching. "You…You don't even know, do you?" he marveled. "You knew he'd gone to the hospital, it was in the papers CPS served you when I filed for custody. I know it was, I got a copy. But you never checked, did you? Never looked at the medical reports they'd sent? Never checked how bad his injuries were? What you really did to him?"
John looked down, and that was enough confirmation for Dean.
"We won't talk about the multiple broken bones in his arm, or the injured foot, or the cracked skull. We'll skip over all of that. He had internal bleeding, Dad. From where you kicked him. It was seven hours in surgery for them to fix him. He almost bled out on the table, and you never even checked."
"Dean," John whispered brokenly. "I didn't…I didn't think I…"
"No, you didn't. You never think when it comes to Sammy. You never have," Dean sighed. "You just…you needed someone to blame. And I get that, I do. I just don't see how you could blame a six-month old infant. But I guess it was easier than blaming yourself."
John flinched.
"You couldn't keep your family safe," Dean persisted. "You couldn't keep Sammy safe, you couldn't keep Mom alive. Big, badass Marine, and you couldn't do shit. Didn't do shit. But you'll never take that on, will you? Well, don't worry, Dad. You don't have to shoulder that blame. Not for the fire, or Mom dying, or even all the times you beat Sammy unconscious. 'Cause I blame you enough for both of us."
John swallowed and willed back the moisture inexplicably building in his eyes. "Dean, I…"
The door opened and Sammy walked in, smiling broadly, a jar of red liquid in his hand. "Got it," he said, and stopped just inside the threshold. "Am I…interrupting something?" he asked cautiously, his eyes darting between them, taking in the frown on his father's face and the rigid double-fisted stance of his brother. "Dean?" he said cautiously, and put the jar of viscous liquid on the little table by the door. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, Sam," Dean assured him, his voice shaking slightly with what 22 years worth of experience told Sam was anger. "Peachy."
"What took so long?" John wondered, trying to keep his voice even and without judgment. The glare Dean sent him as he crossed to his brother's side told him he'd failed.
"They had guards," Sam explained. "Not…sure why," he admitted, "since it's just a bunch of dead people, but I figured it was better to wait until they left on their rounds than risk getting caught or having to disable them. Figured we didn't want the attention. Was I wrong?" he asked, mildly, and struggled to hold back the smile when Dean gave him a disgusted look.
Thought we weren't provoking him, Sammy, he heard his brother's voice in his head.
Like you could've resisted, Sammy shot back and Dean barely suppressed a snort, hiding it behind a cough.
John looked between Dean and…between his sons, he corrected himself, and then nodded.
"Good call, Sammy," he said, his tone matching Sam's nonchalance.
Both boys turned to stare at him like he'd grown a second head.
For a moment, John thought about apologizing for what had happened on the road. Sammy had had the right, as a hunter, to request information, and Dean had been right to request the basic respect he'd give any hunter he worked with, even one he'd just met.
But that would just teach his boys that weakness was acceptable, and anything that made them weak, he couldn't do. They needed to be strong, especially Sammy, with what was coming for him.
"Okay," he said instead, suddenly all business. "You know what to do."
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DEVIL'S TRAP
Sam finished the salt lines along the cabin windows, and stopped, just staring out the window at the Impala, parked in front.
Something was wrong here, something was very, very wrong.
He'd made sure they'd tested Dad with Holy Water before they'd untied him, but something deep inside him kept insisting that's not Dad.
A line from a favorite movie flitted through his brain. I sense something, a presence I've not felt since…
"Sammy?"
Sam almost jumped out of his skin, and forced himself to seem calm. "How is he?"
Dean frowned, noting how tense and jumpy his little brother was. "Just needs some rest. What's up with you?"
"Huh? Nothing, I'm fine," Sam assured and even he admitted it wasn't very convincing.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean rolled his eyes. "I know something's wrong. When was the last time I was able to sneak up on you, man? What's going on?"
Sam sighed and crossed to the little table in the cabin's small kitchen/dining area to rest one hip on the edge of the table. "Dean, I…Do you trust me?"
Dean gave him a disgusted look. "What the fuck kind of question is that? 'Course, I trust you. Nobody in the world I trust more."
Even under the current dangerous conditions, the immediate response brought a smile to Sam's face, lending a lightness to his eyes that warmed Dean.
"Good," Sam said simply. "Because I'm going to say something that's not going to make much sense to you," he explained, glancing at the closed bedroom behind which John was resting.
"So what else is new?" Dean said with a crooked smile that morphed into a wide grin when Sammy shot him a bitchface (#33 - Oh for Fuck's sake - making another of its frequent appearances).
Sam stood up straight and pulled Dean over to the back door of the cabin, as far away from the bedroom as they could get and still be inside.
"That's not Dad," he said, simply.
"What…how..?" Dean stammered for a moment, before it all fell into place. "The Holy Water didn't do anything," he pointed out, a trifle desperately. He didn't want Sammy to be right, Sammy couldn't be right, if Sammy were right…
Sam shrugged. "Dad said it's the most powerful demon he's ever heard of. Why would something as simple as Holy Water work on something like that?"
Dean nodded. That actually made sense. Damn it. "Are you sure?" he couldn't stop himself from asking.
Sammy nodded, slowly. "I know Dad's mind, Dean. I know what it feels like, almost as well as I know yours or Bobby's. And it's in there," he hastened to add, "I'm not saying he's gone, but…he ain't alone. And he's not in control. And…" He hesitated a moment, chewing on his bottom lip, and Dean had a second to wonder what Sammy could say that would be worse than Dad's possessed.
"I recognize it, Dean," Sam said softly and swallowed, hard. "It's—it's the same thing that was at my door. In Erie. Remember?"
Oh. Okay, yeah, that's worse.
Dean just nodded. Of course he remembered, he'd had countless nightmares, since Sammy had told him about the way he'd found out he was telekinetic, dreams where the Demon had made it through the door and taken his brother home.
Soft, slow clapping came from behind them, and the brother's turned to see their father standing behind them.
Except they both knew it wasn't their father. Even if Dean hadn't believed Sammy — and he did, unfortunately — the yellow eyes would've been a give away.
"Very good, Sammy," the Demon said with a smile nothing short of feral. "So gratifying to know you remember me so well. And now, so will Johnny," he added and took a step forward. "I told him all about us, you know. What I did. What you did."
Dean slid in front of his brother, holding the Colt at his side.
"Dean, no," Sam said quietly and pulled on his brother's sleeve.
"Yeah, Dean," the Demon agreed. "This is between me and Sammy," he explained and lifted his chin slightly
The Colt clattered to the ground as Dean flew across the room, into the wall, pain evident in his every breath as a giant hand he couldn't see seemed to pin him there.
Sam breathed heavily. "Let him go."
"Or what?" The Demon wondered. "What can you, do to me?" he scoffed and flicked his hand negligently towards him, sending Sammy flying to the wall to hang beside his brother.
"I'll kill you," Sam vowed.
John's face smiled at his son, with more warmth than Sam could remember seeing on his father's face in years.
"Now, Sammy," John's voice said, gently and Sam shuddered when John's hand gently cupped his face. "Is that any way to talk to your father?"
"You're not my father."
"Oh, that's right," John grinned. "You consider Dean to be your real father figure, don't you?" He frowned at Sam, his brow wrinkling in a familiar way, and Dean finally figured out where Sammy got his puppy dog eyes. "That hurt Johnny's feelings, you know," he said, his voice dripping fake emotion, something so strange from John's body. The Demon grinned widely. "Not as much as it will hurt him to tear Dean apart," he added, as Dean began to scream and blood started pouring from Dean's chest, down his shirt to fall to the floor in an ever-growing puddle.
"DEAN!"
The Demon crossed to stand looking up at Dean, smiling as the blood continued to flow. "I have a score to settle with you. You know that exorcism you did? That was my daughter."
"Meg?" Dean stared.
"And that was my boy you killed in that alley," the Demon growled.
Dean forced his head up. "Good," he whispered as blood started to dribble from his lips. "Bastard was going to beat my brother to death. Nobody does that. Nobody. As for Meg? I hope the little skank never gets back out." He screamed again as twin wounds opened up on his sides.
"Leave him alone," Sammy panted.
"As for you," the Demon continued and crossed to stare up — and up — at Sam. "You have been a bigger pain in my ass than I ever expected," he admitted. "I should've dragged you to hell when I had you trapped in Erie."
"But you couldn't," Sam countered. "I stopped you then. I'll stop you now."
"Will you?" John's face grinned up at him. "How?"
Sam struggled, but couldn't break himself free.
"I wish I could kill you," the Demon said, in a voice much too much like John's. "Johnny would like that, too, you know. He dreams about it, standing over your corpse. Wakes up all tingly!"
"Tell me something I don't know," Sam scoffed.
"How about this," John's voice was low and gloating. "It's. Your. Fault."
"What?"
"Sammy, don't you listen to him," Dean called out, and screamed again as another deep gash appeared across his stomach.
"Your Mommy? Pretty, little Jess? They died because of you."
"Sam!" Dean yelled. "It's not true. He did it, it's his fau—" Dean's voice choked off as his head was suddenly slammed back against the wall.
"Dean!" Sam yelled and tried again to free himself.
"They got in my way," the Demon snarled.
"Of what?" Sam frowned.
"Of my plans for you, and all the children like you," the Demon said and ran a hand gently down Sam's cheek. "But you, Sammy. You're special. Oh, we have big plans for you, in Hell. Big Plans!"
"G't 'way frm 'im…" Dean ground out, barely able to talk.
The Demon gave Sam a disgusted look, raised a finger — wait here — and turned back to Dean.
"You know, I've had about enough of you," he decided, and clenched a fist in front of Dean's face.
Something in Dean's chest went crunch, and Dean gurgled out what could have been a scream if it weren't choked by the blood bubbling up out of his throat.
"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Sam yelled and suddenly found himself free.
"Get away from him," Sam ordered and flung a hand out, sending the Demon, if not flying across the room, at least stumbling back a step.
"What?" The Demon stared at him. "You can't…I didn't…"
The second of confusion and inattention was all it took.
Dean slid bonelessly to the floor with a dull thud and a squish.
"Dean!" Sam turned slightly, every instinct insisting that he check on his brother even at the cost of his own safety.
"You little…" the Demon growled — and there was nothing unfamiliar about that tone from his Dad.
Sam didn't think, he just did, and the Colt was suddenly flying into his hand from the floor. Like a lightsaber from the snow in a cave. Huh, he thought. Maybe it is the Force.
The Demon stood before him, Yellow Eyes glowing with power. "Shoot me, shoot your Daddy," he reminded.
"Not a problem," Sam assured him, and pulled the trigger, sending John crashing to the floor with a bullet in his thigh.
I'll kill you for that, Sammy, a voice echoed in his head, a soft, low sound of multiple voices speaking that was all too familiar, even 12 years later. Or, I'll let Johnny do it, like he's wanted to for so long.
For just a moment, Sam was frozen in place, his mind so easily reliving the trauma of that night as the blizzard began.
Then, from behind him came a soft whimper. "S'mmy."
He shoved the Colt into the back of his jeans and raced to his brother's side, dropping to his knees to gently place one hand on the pale face, the other on Dean's chest.
Dean tried to keep his eyes open, tried to find something to say that could reassure his baby brother that he was all right, but all he could manage was a sickly, gurgling wheeze as his lungs struggled to draw breath into a space that was already full of his own blood.
"I'm here, Dean," Sam promised and closed his eyes, taking quick stock of the worst of Dean's injuries.
"Don'." Dean forced the words out, little bubbles of blood punctuating them as he forced himself to speak . "S'mmy, don', y'll hur' y'rsel 'g'in."
"Shut up," was Sam's only response and Dean gasped as there was a spike of pain and he could suddenly take a proper breath again.
Dean grabbed the hand Sammy held against his chest, tried to pull it away.
"Don't…"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam repeated. "I'm just making sure you don't die before I can get you to a hospital."
Dean didn't have the strength to continue to argue.
"Is Dad…"
"I just hit his leg," Sam promised. "He's still alive."
Dean managed a nod. He was about to close his eyes when he saw a a movement over Sammy's shoulder.
Dean opened his mouth to warn his brother, but it all seemed to happen too fast for his concussed, blood-deprived brain to take it in.
The Demon struggled to his feet and reached a hand out towards the pair on the floor…
The gun in Sammy's waist band flew across the room into the Demon John's waiting hand…
"I"m going to kill you both," the Demon vowed, "and drag both your souls to Hell."
The Gun raised in their father's hand, taking aim at Dean's forehead, and all Dean could do was stare as his father's own finger tightened on the trigger…
"NO!" John shouted and the gun shifted suddenly up, the bullet embedding itself a scant few inches above Dean's head.
"Dad?" Dean panted and watched John drop to one knee, gasping.
"I've got him," John panted. "I've got him," he assured them both and slowly stood once more.
Sam patted Dean's cheek gently. "You'll be okay," he whispered and glanced over his shoulder at their dad, before facing Dean again. "I've got him, too," Sam smiled and Dean looked up at him, eyes wide.
"Sam?"
"He made a mistake, Dean," Sam said calmly, and stood slowly. "He went into my mind," he explained. "Thought he could intimidate me, I think. All he did," he continued, "was leave me a trail," he turned slowly to face their father again, took a confident step towards him.
"Sammy, what the hell?" John sputtered and tried to drop back a step, retreating from his advancing son, only to find that his feet wouldn't move.
"I can feel you," Sam said to thing inside their father. "And if I can feel you," he smiled widely, "I can touch you." Sam lifted his hand towards John.
"Sam, what are…." John began, only to begin coughing.
"And if I can touch you," Sam went on as if John hadn't said a word, "I can do this," he completed and slammed his hand into a fist, pulling it towards himself. "I sent you back to hell once, you son of a bitch, I'll do it again. Now, get. Out. Of my Dad," he ground out between gritted teeth.
John coughed and dribbles of black smoke began to escape him.
"Sammy?" Dean gasped, pushing himself up on his elbows.
"I got him," Sam assured his brother and gave another tug with his mind and his fist and black smoke shot out of John's mouth into the cabin.
For a moment, it seemed to gather itself into a column and head for Dean, but Sam flung his arm out again, fingers spread wide and pushed slowly down toward the floor. "Go back to hell," Sam spat, and the smoke sank like stone to the floor, where it was suddenly enveloped in a bright, red light…and was gone.
Sam turned back to Dean and knelt at his side again.
"Dean," he said and took his brother's pale face in his big hands. "Oh, god, look at you. You've lost a lot of blood. I can't…there's nothing I can do about that. We have to get you to a hospital."
Dean's eyes strayed passed his brother's broad shoulders and widened.
John Winchester stood behind his brother, balanced carefully on one leg, pointing the Colt at Sam's back and fired.
Dean opened his mouth to warn his brother, raised his hand to try to pull him down, and just stared as Sammy's hand lifted casually and the bullet stopped an inch from the base of his skull.
Sam crooked a finger and the Colt flew out of John's hand and came to a rest gently next to Sam on the cabin floor.
John pulled a second gun from his back and fired again, emptying his clip in quick succession at the boy kneeling in front of his true son, doing God alone knew what to him.
The bullets fell harmlessly to the floor with the bullet from the Colt.
John sank slowly back to the floor, clutching his leg.
Sam picked up the bullets, stood and walked over to his father.
John looked up at him as Sam dumped the expended bullets into his lap. "What are you?" he whispered.
Sam just shook his head with a sad, gentle smile. "On your side," he promised and reached out a hand. "Come on. We gotta you both to a hospital. Somebody's gotta get that bullet outa you, and Dean's lost a lot of blood."
For a moment, John just stared up at him, then looked across the room at his eldest son lying, panting in a pool of blood on the rough wood floor.
He took the hand.
=====SPN=====SPN====SPN====SPN====
The Impala sped through the night, Sam at the wheel, his father beside him, and the man who'd raised him in the back seat behind him, barely conscious and leaning against the back door.
"I want to know what you are," John demanded — not for the first time since Sam had hauled his Dad and brother out of the cabin. "Why did you let that thing go?"
"What was I supposed to do, Dad? I'd've had to use a head or heart shot to kill it. What was I supposed to do, kill you, too?"
"Yes!" John yelled and winced as they hit a pothole. "Yes, dammit. Killing me is nothing if it kills that Yellow-Eyed bastard. And I'd've thought you'd jump at the chance to be rid of me," John taunted.
"Well, you're wrong," Sam said quietly, but John continued on and Sam wondered if he'd even heard. Probably not. John — Dad — never had listened to him.
"Killing that thing, ending this, that's more important than anything," John argued.
"No, sir," Sam counted, glancing in his rearview mirror at Dean, meeting the pain-filled eyes he knew better than his own. "Not anything."
"How did you get it out of me?" John demanded. "What the hell did you do? And why the fuck didn't you destroy it?"
Sam sighed. "It's called telekinesis. And I'm not actually sure how I did it. I just…did it. And I'm not strong enough to just destroy it," he admitted, and glanced at Dean again. "Not right now," he added and regretted nothing.
John glared at him. "Would you? Even if you could have, would you kill it?"
Sam opened his mouth to answer — of course he would — but the world exploded into light and glass and rending metal and pain…
And no one in the Impala said another word.
=====SPN===SPN====SPN====SPN===
IN MY TIME OF DYING
"Son, you need to get back in bed," the doctor ordered. "You took a beating, and have a Grade II concussion."
Tell me something I don't know, Sam thought and just looked at the doctor as he pulled his blood-spattered jeans on over his boxer shorts. "Look, Doc, I appreciate the concern," he lied, "but it's not like I'm going far. My brother and my Dad are here, and I'm not leaving them."
"Be that as it may, you need to rest."
Sam shook his head. "I need to look after my family," he countered, carefully pulling his shirt on, forbidding himself from wincing at the motion that was sending pain radiating across his sore back and arms and chest and…fuck it: everything. "But I tell you what, if I start to feel nauseated, or dizzy or anything, I'll let you know," he lied again, pulling his jacket on over the shirt. Why did hospitals always keep it so fucking cold?
"You really —-"
"Doc," Sam interrupted. "You can sign off, or you can sign me out Against Medical Advice. I don't really give a damn. But I'm not staying in this room while my brother is unconscious and my dad has broken bones and is recovering from a gunshot wound!"
Apparently, the doctor knew when to quit and just sighed. "Just let us know if you experience any symptoms."
Sam nodded, curtly. "Fine. Now, where's my brother?"
Five minutes later, he was at his brother's side. "Oh god," he whispered and crossed to stand by Dean's bed, gently placing a hand on his brother's forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought…I thought I saved you. That I healed you enough. I can't do anymore, Dean," he admitted as the tears began to fall. "I got my bell rung when that semi hit us, and I…I can't. I can't heal, not me or you. I can't do anything. Even my telepathy is down. I don't even know if you're in there. I'm so sorry."
Standing beside him, the Dean that was Dean, and not just a body in a bed, shook his head. "No, don't…it's not your fault, Sammy. I'll be okay."
"Jesus, Dean. What am I supposed to do here?" Sam sighed and wiped roughly at his eyes before tears had a chance to form.
"Sammy?" Dean repeated. "You can hear me, right, Sam?"
"Your father is awake," a voice from the door caught their attention. "You can see him, if you want," the doctor — a different doctor than had argued with Sam in the ER — added, as if wanting to see their father was a foregone conclusion.
Sam turned his attention back to the still form in front of him. "What about my brother, Doc?"
"He's very seriously injured. Severe blood loss, contusions to his kidney and liver. Were you aware that his ribs had been broken recently?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, he knows," Dean smirked. "He fixed 'em, right, Sammy?"
"There's some scarring on his lungs, as well, and he seems to have lost some elasticity in the lower lobes, particularly on the left side. He'll probably need to be on the ventilator for…a while."
Sam frowned and looked at the doctor. "How long is a while?" he asked, trying — failing — to keep his voice from shaking.
"It's hard to say. But…truthfully, son, he'd need the ventilator even if his lungs were fine."
"What?" Dean snapped. "Hey, don't listen to him, Sammy, I'm fine. I'll be waking up any time now."
"Why?" Sammy's voice was barely audible, full of pain and way too much guilt for Dean's liking.
The doctor looked at the still body on the bed, then back at the battered boy standing before him. "His head trauma is…there's early signs of cerebral edema. Swelling, in the…"
"I know the term," Sam snapped. After a lifetime with — and as — a hunter, there weren't a ton of medical terms he wasn't familiar with. At least, not the terms dealing with trauma. "What does it mean for Dean?"
The doctor shook his head apologetically. "I don't know, not for sure. We won't know un-until he wakes up."
"What aren't you saying?" Sam demanded.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this — and given his own injuries, we haven't felt it wise to tell your father, either. But…truthfully, son, it's a miracle he's alive at all."
"Meaning?" Sam's voice was flat, emotionless and frankly scaring Dean.
"Don't you listen to him, Sammy," Dean insisted. "He's just some quack. I'm fine. I'll be fine. "
"Meaning, I honestly have very little expectation that your brother ever will wake up. And if he does, I would expect some…consequences."
"Consequences," Sam repeated in the same non-tone.
"He's unlikely to…be fully functional. Mentally. Or, physically for that matter."
Sam nodded. "So you have no hope," he interpreted.
"I didn't say that," the doctor backpedaled. "Honestly, I've never seen a patient this badly injured survive this long, so…he's definitely a fighter."
"Damn straight," Dean nodded.
"And I've seen the brain do amazing things."
"We know all about that, don't we, Sammy?" Dean grinned for a second then frowned at the bleak look in his baby brother's eyes. "Sam?"
"But, realistically," the doctor continued, "you…you need to be prepared for…all the possibilities."
"Possibilities? Fuck you, Doc!" Dean spat. "Ignore him, Sammy. I'm waking up and I'll be good as ever. Hell, better. This is probably the best sleep I've had in years, right, Sam? Sam? Sammy?!" he called as Sam just nodded at the doc and headed out the door.
====SPSN====SPN=====SPN====SPN===
Sam found the nearest restroom and locked the door behind him, before leaning against the sink and resting his head against the cool surface of the mirror. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his racing heart and mind, to keep the overwhelming emotion from taking over; used every technique he'd ever learned in his college psych class, or the therapy that had lasted way longer than he'd ever let on to Dean, or the methods he'd taught himself to keep his brain from frying or doing things he didn't want.
It didn't help. The emotions hit him like the truck that had brought them here in the first place.
"Fuck," he whispered and sunk to his knees, pressing his palms into his eyes in a futile bid to stop the tears cascading down his face. "Dean…"
"I'm here, Sammy," his brother responded, even though he knew now that Sammy couldn't see or hear him at all. "I'm right here," he promised and sat cross legged beside his sobbing kid.
"Don't you leave me," Sam begged, dropping his hands and staring at the ceiling. "Don't you do that, you Jerk."
"I won't, Bitch. I promise."
For long minutes, Dean sat his brother's side, while Sam just cried like his heart was breaking.
Finally, the sobs turned to hiccups and Sam forced himself back to his feet, grabbing a few paper towels and running them under cold water before holding them to his swollen eyes.
"You okay, kid?" Dean asked, feeling useless and stupid as he did so.
"I'm okay," Sam sighed and nodded at the mirror. "I'm okay."
"You gotta pull yourself together, Sammy," Dean encouraged. "Can't go to Dad looking weak."
"Come on, Sam," the boy encouraged the image in the mirror. "Gotta pull yourself together. Can't go to Dad looking weak," he nodded, and walked out of the room.
"Huh." Dean huffed and followed.
====SPN======SPN======SPN====
"Elroy McGillicutty?" Sam scoffed at the insurance card their dad handed over.
"And his two…loving sons," John agreed.
"Dad…"
"What else did the doctors say about your brother?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing," he lied. If the doctors didn't feel it was safe to tell him, who was he to argue? Besides, the less Dad knew about the details, the less he could question what would be Dean's miraculous recovery when Sam's concussion resolved itself.
"We need to talk," John said coldly.
"Oh, here we go," Dean rolled his eyes.
"What about?" Sam replied, his voice no warmer than their father's
"You never answered my question," John reminded him.
"What question?" Sam asked resignedly.
"Would you have killed it, if you could?"
"In a heartbeat," Sam swore, meeting his father's gaze without hesitation.
"Then why the hell…."
"But not at the cost of Dean's life," Sam qualified, "or yours."
"It told me what you are."
Sam sighed. "Yeah? What did it say?"
"You're halfway to being a Demon already. And the visions? The telekinesis? Just part of what you can do."
"Right," Sam closed his eyes. "Because demons never lie." He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a headache that could have been the concussion, but was probably just A Conversation with John Winchester.
"What else can you do, Sammy?"
"Don't tell him," Dean warned.
Sam shook his head, and opened his eyes to meet John's accusatory glare. "Nothing."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
"It told me what happened in Erie," John continued. "Why didn't you? Why didn't you mention it when it happened, when we picked you up after the storm?"
Sam laughed. "Right! Tell the father who hated me something that would absolutely convince him I was the monster he already thought I was," Sam scoffed. "I was nine, Dad. I wasn't stupid."
"Or suicidal," Dean added.
"Or suicidal," Sam added. Dean looked at him sharply.
John sighed and nodded slowly. "You're right."
"He is?" Dean marveled.
"I am?"
"I probably would've thought the same thing, if i were you," John admitted. "Let's, let's just put that behind us, and deal with what's in front of us."
"Like…."
"Where's the Colt?"
"SERiOUSLY? Dean — the son you actually claim to give a shit about — may be dying, and you're worried about the COLT?!"
"Sam, I think it's pretty clear that we're not the only ones hunting, here. We're after the Demon, but he's after us," John pointed out. "That Colt is the only viable weapon we have."
Sam sighed and nodded, reluctantly. "It's in the trunk. They dragged the car to a yard off of I-83. I called Bobby. He's on his way to pick it up, about an hour out. He'll tow it back ho—to his place."
"And in the meantime, the demon could just open the trunk and…"
"No," Sam shook his head. "I warded the trunk."
"How?" John asked, intrigued despite himself.
Sam shrugged. "I put a devil's trap on the underside of the lid of the hidden compartment. No demon can get inside."
John nodded. "Demonic lockbox. That's good, Sammy. I'm impressed."
"That's my brother," Dean beamed. "The family genius."
Sam blushed.
"Go meet Bobby, bring me the Colt."
Sam stood and looked down at him. "Promise not to shoot me with it?" he asked drily.
"I promise," John smiled. "Oh, and here's a list," he added and handed Sam a folded piece of paper. "Ask Singer to pick this stuff up for me."
"What's it for?" Sam wondered, and slipped it into his pocket without looking.
"Protection," John told him. "We're none of us at our best right now."
Sam nodded, and hesitated at the door. "Dad?"
"Yeah, Sammy?"
"The Demon. He said…he said he had plans. For me. For the other kids like me. Do you…do you know what he was talking about?"
John shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."
Sam nodded and left the room.
Dean glared at his father. "You know something."
=====SPN=======SPN=======SPN======
"You have some kind of angel watching over you," the doctor smiled and put the chart back on the end of the bed.
"Thanks, doc," Dean nodded and watched to be sure the doctor was out of earshot before turning to his brother, who was perched on the edge of his bed. "A reaper?"
"Yeah," Sam sighed, "and I don't know how you beat it, man."
"Wait, you mean you didn't…" Dean frowned. "I — I mean, I just assumed you…"
Sam shook his head, looking as guilty as if he'd been caught stealing Dean's porn. "I tried, but…man, that damn truck, it knocked me around pretty good. I've got a Grade II concussion, and every fuckin' things offline, even the telepathy. Dude, you can't make fun of me for this, but I had to use a spirit board to talk to you."
"Seriously?! Man, those things are dangerous, you could've let anything through."
Sam shrugged. "Well, I was pretty sure you were around, and if you were, you were definitely trying to get my attention. With me offline, what choice did I have? And anyway, I took precautions."
"Like what?"
Sam shook his head, lowering his voice. "Just a small spell. For protection."
"I thought you were offline."
"Yeah, well, apparently even a concussion can't shut that down. You seriously don't remember anything?"
Dean shook his head. "Nuthin', but Dude, I'm tell you…There's a reaper after me, now I'm okay, and you didn't do it? I mean, what the fuck? That can't be right."
"What isn't right?" their father's voice interrupted from the doorway.
The boys shared a nervous look before they both turned their attention to him.
"Hey, Dad," Sam said and moved away from the bed, his posture instantly changing from relaxed to stiff.
Combat ready, John thought and wondered how he'd let them get here, where his own son was afraid of him. Not that I didn't earn that.
"Hey, Sammy," John nodded to him and tried a small smile.
Sam nodded and just looked…confused.
If I had more time, John thought, I'd make it right.
But he didn't and he couldn't, so he turned to smile warmly at the son lying fully healed and conscious in the bed. "Hey, Dude. How you feeling?"
Dean shrugged. "I'm alive, so I guess I'm okay."
"That's the only important thing," John agreed.
"Yeah, but we can't figure out how," Sam interjected, his voice an iceberg floating between them. "The doctors are calling it a miracle."
John smiled, and crossed to the bed, gently putting a hand on Dean's arm. "This family's due one, don't you think?"
Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "Except the thing is, Dad…I went to your room last night."
"Sam?" Dean frowned at him.
"You weren't there," Sam continued, and John could hear the anger building. "So where were you?"
"I had some things to take care of," John replied calmly.
"Well, that's specific. What, more of your need to know crap?"
"Sammy, come on," Dean tried to soothe.
"Did you go after the demon, Dad?" Sam demanded, his voice shaking just a little. "I mean, you promised you wouldn't, but…"
"Sammy…"
"It's okay, Dean," John smiled and turned to face his younger son, fully. "I really haven't done anything to earn his trust, have I? I didn't go after the Demon."
"Why don't I believe you, right now?"
"Probably because I've treated you so badly your whole life," John chuckled, fighting back tears he'd never let see the light. "Sammy," he said and crossed to stand looking up at Mary's boy. "I know you don't trust me," he began and smiled when Sam looked away embarrassed, "and I don't blame you. But I wasn't hunting the Demon. I told you I wouldn't hunt it until Dean was okay, and I didn't."
Sam frowned. "What did you do?" he breathed, and this time it was John that looked away.
"I just needed some time," John explained. "Dean was…and you…God, you got all grown up, didn't you?" He raised a hand to lightly touch Sam's cheek and had to swallow hard to stop a sob when Sam couldn't quite stop the flinch. "I don't want to fight with you, Sam. I don't want to fight with you ever again. I wish I could make it up to you…both of you," he added, glancing at Dean, whose mouth was open in shock, "for all the things I did. All I put you through. I was wrong the way I treated you, and you'll never know how sorry I am."
"You…I…" Sam closed his eyes and just reached out, slowly, hesitantly with one shaking hand.
John blinked and for just a second, the boy before him wasn't a grown man, taller than his father and brother, so capable, and harder than he should be, and hurt. For just a second, Sam was Sammy again, the little toddler who would run into his arms with a delighted Daddy! You're home! and John would pick him up and raise him high above his head, then pull him down to hold him at his side like a football, spinning him and laughing. There's my big boy! he'd say and Sammy would laugh and laugh and Dean would look happy for once.
John pulled his big boy into his arms, gently cradling the back of Sam's head in one hand, like he used to do so very long ago, as the boy bent slightly to lean his tousled head against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he whispered and placed a tiny kiss on the bowed head. "My baby boy."
Sam nodded, unable to speak, and after a moment, pulled away, running a hand down his face to cover up wiping away the tears. "Sure you're not still possessed?" he laughed softly, and — wonder of wonders — John laughed with him.
"No! But I am tired. Can't get decent shut eye around this place. In fact, could you maybe get me a cup of caffeine, son? If you don't mind?"
Sam nodded, smiling and glanced at Dean, who nodded back. "Sure, Dad," he said and clapped a hand on John's shoulder before leaving the room.
Dean frowned, watching his father watch his brother walk from the room, noting the infinite sadness on John's face with puzzlement and a little fear. "Dad…"
"Dean," John took a deep breath and faced him. "I need you to know…I know how badly I messed up with you, too."
"Dad," Dean started to shake his head.
"When you were a kid, I'd come home for a hunt, and I'd be…I'd be wrecked. What I saw. What I had to do. But you," he smiled and his voice shook a little, "you'd come up to me you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd…you'd say It's Okay, Dad." He shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Dean."
"What?"
"You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should've been saying it to you. You know, I put, I put too much on your shoulders, made you grow up too fast. You took care of me, you took care of Sammy. You protected Sammy. Even from me. You shouldn't have had to do that, not any of it. You just did it, and you never complained, not until I hurt Sam. And I'm…I'm so proud of you, Dean. So proud to call you my son." He smiled, at little wetly. "I should've told Sammy, I'm proud of him, too. He's such…you taught him to be a good man, Dean. You're both good men. I couldn't be prouder of my boys."
Dean frowned, a little frightened. "Sammy's right," he said. "I think you are still possessed."
"No," John chuckled. "I'm just…I'm so glad you're okay."
"Dad," Dean said softly. "I don't…man, you're freaking me out, here."
"I don't mean to," John assured him. "But I've been thinking about…what you said…when we went after those vampires. That I could never shoulder the blame for what I did. For what I didn't do." John nodded slowly. "I'm shouldering it, Dean. I need you to know that. I'm taking responsibility for everything. Your Mom's death, my obsession. What I did to Sammy. The ways I…what I did to you…"
"To me? You didn't…"
"I take responsibility for everything, Dean. For everything. You understand me?"
"Yeah, Dad, but…"
"You remember that. And no matter what happens, you just…You keep doing what you do. You watch out for Sammy."
"You know I will. Dad…"
"Something's coming for him, son."
"The Demon, " Dean nodded, "I know. Dad, why are you saying all this? What's gonna happen?"
"If the Demon gets him, Dean, you…we won't have any choice. we'll have to kill him."
"What? Dad, I can't…"
John shook his head with a look of such despair that for a moment Dean couldn't breathe. "I don't know everything, Dean. I don't know exactly what the demon has planned for Sammy, for the other special children. But I know this: Sammy is…powerful. More than the others. And whatever the Demon wants with him…if he gets Sammy…
…Sammy can end the world."
"No," Dean choked. "Dad, why would you…"
"I love you, Dean," he said and — for the only time in his life that Dean could recall — gently kissed his forehead.
"Dad…"
"It's okay, Dean," John smiled, showing the dimples that so much care and worry had long hidden away, dimples Dean saw everyday in John Winchester's youngest son. "Just rest. We'll talk about all this later. You. Me. Sammy. We'll work it all out," he lied. "We'll be a family again. Just rest now," he repeated and left the room.
Even as Dean lay in the bed, panting and still weakened from blood loss, some deep unacknowledged part of him already knew he'd never see his father alive again.
=====SPN=======SPN=======SPN======SPN
EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN
(Final scene)
Sam paced, while Dean worked on his baby.
The car was starting to come together, again, starting to look like an actual car instead of just junk. It was a relief to Sam, really.
For one thing, he knew being active — being physical, making a difference, whether that meant saving someone or fixing something — was always his brother's best therapy.
For another, seeing the Impala damaged was a punch to the gut. He'd never admit it, not even to Dean, but for Sam, seeing the Impala wrecked was like he knew seeing a house on fire was for Dean. Worse maybe. For Dean, a house fire was a visceral reminder of the happy home he'd lost so many years ago. For Sam, damage to the Impala was a hit to the gut. It always made him feel lost, drifting, anchorless.
Like Dean, he'd taken to referring to Bobby's as home. But it wasn't. Home was still exactly what Dean had said to Dad that time Dad had come to the house: Dean, Sam and the Impala. The only things they'd ever been able to count on.
A ton and a half of metal, four wheels, glass and more memories than there were stars in the sky.
Sam never felt as safe, slept as well or relaxed quite as much as he did riding shotgun in the car his brother was tightening a wheel on.
Sam knew, had always known, what home meant to him. Who it meant.
Or he'd thought so at least.
"You were right," he sighed and Dean shot him a brief look.
"About what?"
"About me and Dad."
Dean stopped and faced him, listening as closely and as seriously as Sam had ever seen him do.
"I'm sorry that the last time I saw him, I tired to pick a fight. I'm sorry we never…that I never got him to…He never knew who I am," Sam sighed and chuckled briefly. "What I am. What I can do. And I know, I know, okay? Telling him was too dangerous, and it, it was the right call, I know that, but…Almost every memory I have of him, is him yelling. Or, or putting me down. Or…beating the shit out of me. The last time I saw him…that's the only memory I have of him just…holding me. Of him not…so obviously hating me."
Dean looked down, unable to bear the hurt in his brother's eyes.
"And I gotta tell you, man. In my whole life, I only felt hate — real hate — twice. For the Demon. And for Dad," he breathed and blinked quickly as a tear slid down his face. "Except I don't," he whispered. "I don't hate him at all. Turns out, even after everything, I just…I still love him, Dean. He was my Dad, and no matter what else happened, I still loved him. And it scares me, and it hurts and I'm not okay. I'm not. Not at all. But, Dean," he added, his voice catching on the sobs he was trying to keep inside.
Dean looked up at the tear streaked face and swallowed.
"Neither are you," Sam said softly. "That much I know. I don't know how to help. I don't know how to help me, I sure the fuck don't know how to help you. But if you need me, just to talk, or sit, or…punch!" he laughed softly. "I'm around.". Sam took a deep breath and turned way. "I'll let you get back to work."
Dean watched his kid walk away. For a moment, it was as if Sammy's words had frozen him.
He couldn't move, he could barely breathe.
He could feel it building in him, the anger, the violence, the pain at his loss, at Sammy's loss.
Sammy was right, he had every reason to hate their father. They both did. John himself had practically said as much when he and Dean had been alone in the hospital. The man had put him — put both of them — through so much shit in their lives.
Sam should hate him, Dean should hate him.
God, he wanted to hate him, wanted to so much, but…
Dean didn't even remember picking up the crowbar, but the sound of glass shattering, the feel of his muscles coiling and letting loose was almost freeing.
He paused for a second, and hefted the crowbar again, his gaze falling on the half-reconstructed car before him.
And in that moment, as his arms raised and lowered like a machine run on hate and rage, it wasn't his baby, wasn't a car at all.
It was the Demon, that stole his Mom (and the crowbar slammed into the matte black of the trunk).
It was his father, downing his second bottle of whiskey while his four year old tried to get his infant brother to sleep. (Slam)
It was the owner of another sleazy hotel, making sleazy remarks to a ten year old, licking his lips while looking at his six year old brother, while his father was off chasing yet another lead on the Demon. (Slam)
It was the school bully, who sent Sammy home with a shiner, time and again, school after school, town after town. (Slam. Slam)
It was the petty store owner, who sent him to jail for stealing bread and peanut butter because his little brother hadn't eaten in two days. (Slam Slam)
It was his father, beating his baby brother into unconsciousness over and over and over again, hunt after hunt, month after month, year after year (Slam Slam)
It was the black-eyed bastard who'd driven a truck into them, bringing Dean to the brink of death (Slam Slam Slam)
It was the fucking Colt, so precious the Demon had been willing to trade it for Dean's life - because the Colt was gone and Dean was alive, what else could have happened? (Slam Slam Slam)
It was his Dad, who never said a tender word, telling him how proud he was of his boys; then telling him that they — that Dean — would have to kill Sam if the Demon got him, that his sweet (Force connected), innocent (telekinetic), gentle (psychic), tender-hearted (healing), genius (witch) brother could destroy the world.
His arms finally gave out and the crowbar clattered to the ground, leaving Dean panting and looking down the winding junk yard path where Sammy had disappeared.
He wondered if Sammy had figured it out, yet: that Dad hadn't been murdered by the Demon when the Yellow-Eyed bastard stole the Colt; he'd traded himself for Dean.
He wondered what Sammy would say if Dean told him the truth: Sammy never hated their father at all — but Dean always had.
He didn't follow to find out.
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A/N
The movie quote Sam thinks of in the cabin is from Star Wars IV: A New Hope (the original movie). The line is spoken by Darth Vader when he orders the Millenium Falcon to be searched. It is a reference to him knowing Obi-Wan Kenobi and recognizing his old teacher through the Force.
The thought Sam has that maybe it is the Force comes from Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back. After Luke is attacked by the snow creature, and is left to hang upside down in the ice cave, he sees his lightsaber stuck in the snow and tries to reach it with his hand, only to realize it is too far away. He then uses the Force to pull the weapon to his hand.
It's been interesting working on this section. So much changes, yet nothing does — the end result is the same, but the emotional beats are very different, because the relationship between Sam and Dean and John is so very different.
Everybody Loves a Clown was a challenge — there was no way that I could let Sam's finally speech stand, it was so wrong for Powers!Witch!Sam. But that led into that heart wrenching scene of Dean beating a crowbar into (through) the trunk of his beloved baby. And then I got to thinking — what was Dean really beating? What was he thinking about, what was he seeing when he brought the iron down? And I had to run with it. I'd love to hear what you thought of it!
