New SPN story: The Night Country 2/2

[destina]

Notes and warnings here; part one here.


The Night Country
by Destina

Part Two

The field behind Don's All-Service Station was a long strip of tall grass going fallow, maybe waiting for the next year's crop to go in. Even in the pre-dawn hours, Sam could hear farm machinery in the distance, and he could picture bleary-eyed farmers with half-empty thermoses. Completely normal, mundane lives, same routine, day in, day out. At that moment, he would have given anything to trade places with one of them.

Dean eased the Impala off the road and into the dirt, not too far into the field, but far enough that any curious passers-by would keep going and not stop to offer help. Dean pushed open the door, the creak of its hinges pronounced in the early morning chill, and said, "Sam, you stay in the car."

Sam stared at him. It was just like Dean to try that false bravado crap now, after everything they'd been through. "Like hell I will," Sam said, and opened the door. He'd barely gotten his feet under him before Dean was stalking around the car, his jaw set, looking for confrontation. Sam slammed the door shut and cut him off before he could even get started. "Look, Dean, we have to stay together. You know that's how this works."

"We don't even know if the damn thing will work at all."

"If it doesn't-then it doesn't matter where I am."

"Then you should take the car and go." Dean's expression was resolute.

"If I do, you won't be protected," Sam said softly, and watched Dean struggle with it, watched as he broke the stare rather than let Sam see what he was feeling. More gently, Sam added, "I'm not leaving. Forget it."

"This is the dumbest damn idea we have ever had," Dean muttered, and turned to lean on the side of the car.

Sam swallowed and nodded. When he eased his own body back against the cold metal, grateful for its support, fatigue rushed over him.

"Shouldn't I feel something? I don't feel anything. Do you?" Dean asked, scratching absently at his chest like he had a hundred times since Bobby worked the magic.

"No....maybe. I don't know. Bobby knows what he's doing." It was thin reassurance, but it seemed to ease Dean's restlessness, because he stopped rubbing his chest. Sam glanced over Dean's head at the road. "Dean."

Dean glanced up at him, then turned his head to see what Sam was staring at. In the distance, a dot was barreling toward them down the unpaved rural route, kicking up a thin cloud of dirt. They watched as it came closer, until Sam could actually make out the truck itself; light blue, and it had seen better days. It was probably older than Sam and Dean put together.

Dean moved around to the front of the Impala, waiting.

When it was near enough to see the driver, Sam went to Dean's side and stepped close. Dean's body tensed.

"Whatever happens, you stay clear, you hear me?" Dean's voice was low and rough, and Sam wondered how many different weapons he had concealed. Not that they'd do any good, but they were a part of Dean's invisible armor, and they straightened his spine.

The truck pulled into the dirt, brakes putting up a protest at the hard stop. John Winchester, or whatever was wearing his body, opened the door and stepped out.

"Boys," John said. His hands were shoved down into his coat, arms as stiff as new wire; he looked at Dean like there was no one else standing in that road. Something about it made Sam want to step between them, which made no sense at all, except to the portion of his brain that was running on pure adrenaline, fight or flight.

Sam swallowed hard and resisted the impulse to look at Dean. "What happened to the Colt?" he asked evenly.

"I don't know," John said. "I can't remember anything after I...It left me in the middle of the woods, and I...Oh, my God. Dean." The raw, unvarnished grief beneath the words struck Sam's heart and skidded over it.

Sam did look at Dean, then; he couldn't help himself. When he saw how pale Dean's skin was, the way all expression seemed to have left his face, he turned back to John. "Stop it," he ordered, surprised to hear how low and angry his voice sounded. Beyond his control. "Don't say anything else. Just get in the truck and follow us."

He expected an argument, a rebuttal, questions for Dean, but John only nodded and looked away.

As soon as they were back in the car, Dean turned to Sam. "Sammy, what do you..." He shook his head, jaw clenched, and Sam stared out the windshield at the truck as John climbed into the driver's side.

"It feels wrong," he said simply, and Dean nodded. Nothing else to say. Sam wasn't sure if the gut-deep sense of dread was because of what he'd seen, how he'd seen Dean hurt, or because this thing wasn't Dad, but at least it hadn't tried to make a move.

Maybe it was waiting.

Maybe the protection charm hadn't really been tested yet.

"Just drive," he said, so low that his words were almost soundless, but Dean already had the car in gear, and they peeled out in a half-circle onto the road. In the side mirror, the truck appeared behind them at a respectable distance, not too close, not nearly far enough away.

They drove straight through, stopping only once for gas. Dean stayed in the car, both hands on the wheel, while John's truck idled on the road outside the station and Sam filled the tank. Sam opened the driver's side door to take over the driving and Dean slid over without a word between them.

They waited on the road while John filled up. Then it was straight on to Bobby's, into the same gravel they'd walked across the day before.

"Let's do this," Dean said, more to himself than Sam, and popped open the door.

**

They stood twenty feet apart on the open gravel, staring at each other, Bobby's side door the halfway point between. No one moved until Bobby opened the door and stepped out, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Dean recognized it; he remembered helping to saw down the barrel himself years ago. It had been a valuable lesson.

"John," Bobby said, his voice hard and not at all neutral. "Long time no see. If it is you, that is, John." His mouth twisted into a thin line, and he lifted the shotgun just a notch. "Let's take this party inside, shall we?"

None of them moved.

Sam stiffened. He met John's eyes over the distance and said, "After you."

Dean stood still as a statue while John approached. Sam's hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. No platitudes, just a push in the direction of Bobby's front door. He gave his head a little shake and started moving, anything to get this over with.

Bobby's house, which was huge but cluttered, seemed to shrink with the four of them in that confined space. John stood there, obviously trying not to look at Dean, and the tightness in Dean's throat was choking him.

"Bobby," John said. He lifted his head slowly and looked at Bobby, hands still in his pockets. "I know it's been a long time, but it's me."

"So you say." Bobby didn't budge. Dean felt a ridiculous surge of gratitude.

"And if it wasn't me-" John nodded toward the shotgun. "--that wouldn't do you a damn bit of good."

"It makes me feel better," Bobby said, patting the top of the gun fondly. "How about if you have a seat right there and we do a little voodoo?"

John looked back at the chair, then up at the ceiling. Dean forced himself to breathe; there didn't seem to be any air in the goddamned room. "If it makes you feel better," he said.

Beside Dean, Sam shifted, restless, and Dean could feel it in his own skin, that sense of wrongness. John lowered his head, and turned away toward the chair.

Sam suddenly raised a hand to his chest, brushing hard over his shirt and staring down at his chest. "What the hell," he gasped, stepping back.

"Sam!" Dean turned toward Sam, and then it hit him: fire, from somewhere inside his chest, pushing out, a radiating heat that wasn't pain, just discomfort and fear. He grabbed Sam's arm, gripping hard enough to bruise, and shot a glance at John, who was standing still as a statue, his head still lowered. But Dean could see the corner of his mouth lifted, could just make out...

...a smile.

"I knew it," he said, low, furious. "You son of a bitch."

"You boys are tricky ones," the demon said, and when it lifted its head, the yellow in its eyes was pronounced. The sensation on Dean's skin began to pull back inside him, like water rolling away from land. Sam shook off his hand. "What is that, some kind of protection charm?"

"You didn't think I would let you have him, did you?" Sam's voice was vibrating with anger. "Do you think we're stupid?"

"Sammy," the demon said, and it sounded almost fond. Bile rose in Dean's throat. "It wasn't Dean I planned to have this time."

Dean was five steps across the room before he even realized he was in motion, but his brother's arms went around his chest, and Sam used bodily force to drag him back. The demon chuckled, shaking its head.

"Boys, boys." It tilted its head, examining them.

Dean gritted his teeth and stared it down.

Sam made no move to release Dean, and finally Dean hissed, "Let go, dammit." Sam pulled away reluctantly, and Dean shrugged his jacket back down across his shoulders, ignoring the pain as it scraped over his wounds.

From somewhere to the left, Latin words, phrases: Bobby, and the exorcism ritual. The demon's head snapped right and it lifted its chin. Bobby stopped, the words dragging out haltingly for the length of one phrase, and then he went on. "You, too, you old bastard?" The demon turned its gaze back to Sam and Dean. "I can see you went to a lot of trouble to get the old man back. You sure you really want him? I think he wants you, Dean." Its voice dropped low on the last, so low that Dean couldn't repress a shudder.

Sam shouldered in front of him, and Dean had the urge to yank him back. "What did you do with the Colt?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The demon stepped closer, and Sam stepped back. It moved straight toward them, more and more quickly with each step. Dean's heart was banging its way out of his chest. He flailed for Sam's arm, connecting just a second before the demon stopped, quivering with effort, less than a foot away.

Dean wrapped his fingers around Sam's elbow and held on. He forced himself to look at it, to see it, to know that it wasn't his father, that maybe his father was dead, or still in there, but this wasn't him. Beneath his hand, Sam was shaking.

"Ah, Dean." It moved its head left, then right; it was staring at Dean's lips. "The things I had planned for you tonight...It's a damn shame. You would have enjoyed them. In there, with me." He looked up at Sam, then back at Dean. "I should have known. You Winchesters are really starting to piss me off."

"Maybe we can help you get over that," Dean said, and the words came out level. He backed up and slipped sideways, pulling Sam with him, putting himself and his brother between the door and the demon.

Its expression changed, complete annoyance manifesting in its frown. Bobby's voice droned on behind it. "Don't test me, boys."

"What're you going to do?" Dean sneered. "Go through us? Oh, wait. You can't. But thanks for playing." Behind it, Bobby was moving, putting himself between the demon and the back door.

It smiled then. "There are always ways," it said. "There are so many of us, and you're not that hard to find." It jerked its head toward Bobby. "Now we know how to find him, too. You're not as smart as you think."

"Smarter than you, you fuck," Sam hissed.

The sound of its laugh, their father's laugh perverted into something like razor blades on wire, made Dean hold his breath. "Maybe today," it said. Then its gaze fell on Dean, and it looked at every inch of him. Dean narrowed his eyes and withstood its scrutiny. "Just think, Dean. You'll never know, will you? I can come for you anywhere, anytime, in any form. You can never trust your father again." It glanced at Sam, its gaze scrubbing over him, overtly appraising. "This quaint little charm won't last forever."

"We'll be ready for you," Sam said, with a hell of a lot more confidence than Dean was feeling.

"Sure you will." It grinned at them, and then, in a conspiratorial hush: "I'll whisper that back to you the next time we meet."

It lowered its head again, and the room around them seemed to snap with electricity, invisible sparks popping in the air. With a grunt, it fell to the floor, then rolled on its back, and its face contorted. Mouth open, hands clenched, and then it vacated John's body, a roaring black mass of demon-essence, swirling in the air, oddly beautiful and disgusting. It seemed to hover there between them for a long moment, and then it crept toward the windows, oozing out of the cracks and crevasses in the old house's siding.

The burning sensation in Dean's chest left him entirely. He let go of Sam's arm and they stood staring at their father. "Dad?" Sam said, voice breaking.

John sat up and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, Dean heard it, faint but unmistakable: one sob, caught at the back of John's throat, as if it had been ripped out of him.

Dean turned around, looking for a chair, a table, anything. He sat down on the coffee table, knocking over books in his way. Sam crouched down beside him. "Dean? Dean." So insistent, and Dean had no voice, nothing to say at all in response. He shook his head. Sam rested his hand on Dean's knee, then sat down on the ground beside him.

"John." Bobby approached him from the side, knelt near him, and then Dean realized the charm was still active, that none of them could touch him. "John?"

John drew in one long, shaky breath and lifted his head. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and looked at Bobby, nodded once.

Then he looked at Dean, eyes full of tears and grief, a hundred desperate apologies written there.

Dean's eyes were stinging with tears. He bit his lip hard enough to cause pain, to draw blood. He could feel himself withdrawing, pulling away one piece at a time, everything going underground into vaults and caves, away from that agonized look on his father's face. He could pretend it never happened, that he wasn't hurt, that nothing happened. They'd move on. They'd get through it.

You can never trust your father again.

"How long did you say this charm lasts?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"Couple days," Bobby answered. "At the most."

Dean nodded, never taking his eyes off his father. John put a hand down to the floor, lifted himself unsteadily to his feet, and Bobby rose with him. John stood there, swaying, and something made Sam stand as well, all of them silent.

Then John made his way to the door and knocked it open, flinging himself outside. Bobby put down both the shotgun and the book, and followed slowly behind.

Dean put his head down and ran his hands over his skull, as if he could hold everything inside, all the things that were bursting out of him. "Sam," he said, and Sam dropped to one knee beside him, all his attention focused on Dean. "I want to be gone before this thing wears off."

"Okay," Sam said, not a hint of argument in his voice. "Whatever you want."

"Okay," Dean said. He listened to the sounds of his father retching outside. "Okay."

**

Dean was in full retreat.

Sam didn't know what else to call it, how else to think of it. Dean went to the back of the house, into the spare bedroom Bobby provided, and made a show of how tired he was, how much he needed sleep. But it was barely dark, and although Sam's own exhaustion was tugging at him like a riptide, there was no way he could sleep.

Sam sat on the end of the bed and watched Dean toss and turn, watched him tear off his shirt and complain of the heat, then pull it back on slowly, as if the effort caused him pain.

"Do you want me to stay?" Sam asked finally, though he'd been there for an hour, shoes still on, perched on the edge of the bed as if he could leap up any minute.

Dean rolled on his side and swallowed, then met his eyes. "No," he said finally, but it wasn't convincing.

"I'm going to sleep in here tonight," Sam said. No asking permission, no checking for agreement. Sam was tempted to say he didn't plan to sleep, but he knew he was on the thin edge of falling apart and would have to close his eyes. A shadow of relief passed over Dean's face, so subtle he might have been embarrassed to know Sam had recognized it, and he put his face back down into the pillow.

"Whatever," he said, and closed his eyes. Sam waited until the restless shifting passed, and when Dean's breathing slowed and his lashes stopped fluttering against his bruised face, Sam left him in peace, the door cracked open. Just in case.

Bobby was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a whiskey bottle both at hand. Sam suspected there was more of the latter than the former in the cup. "Where's Dad?" he asked, as he lifted a glass from the strainer.

"Still outside." Bobby pushed the whiskey toward Sam with one finger, and Sam poured what would have been about six expensive shots into his glass.

"He might as well come in," Sam said. He stared down into the glass, and then up at Bobby's patient face. "It's not like he can avoid us forever."

"He needs a little time," Bobby said, which of course Sam already knew.

"You give him some of this?" he asked, and swallowed a long gulp of the whiskey; it burned a line straight down his throat.

"Tried. He wouldn't take it."

"I'm sure he'll change his mind," Sam said.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping and listening. Sam half expected Dean to come out and join them, mumbling about not being able to sleep, but there was no sign of him. "I should check on Dean," he said finally, and Bobby's fingers closed over his wrist, holding him there at the table.

"You should let him be," Bobby said. Just then the screen door opened, the creak of it overly loud in the artificial quiet. Bobby moved his hand. "Got work to do," he said. He stood, grabbed a clean glass, and put it down on the table. Then he left Sam sitting there.

John came as far as the kitchen doorway, but no further. He hovered, not quite inside the room, and Sam knew he was waiting - for permission, maybe, or for something a lot more complicated. Something Sam couldn't give him.

Sam picked up the bottle, , ,poured a shot almost as deep as the one he'd poured for himself, and set the glass on the opposite end of the table.

John rubbed a hand over his face, then pulled out a chair. He sat, awkward, and picked up the glass.

More silence. Sam thought his heart was going to burst from the pressure of it, and then John said, "You boys shouldn't have come for me."

"I didn't do it for you," Sam said, without a thought for how harsh that truth was, and John looked away. A twinge of guilt gnawed at Sam, and he said, more gently, "Dad. I know it wasn't you that did this. So does Dean."

"Doesn't make any difference." John tossed back the whiskey, in a way Sam hadn't seen him drink in over a decade. "What I did to him. What it..." He trailed off, and Sam wished desperately that it didn't have to be him, that he didn't have to hear the confession, but he tightened his grip on his glass and waited. He could feel the grief pouring off his father, all the pent-up truths, the things the demon had shoved down inside him. "What it made me do." His voice cracked, and Sam bowed his head.

If he looked at his father's face, he would lose it; he would break open and everything would spill out, and he couldn't afford that. Not now.

"Dean's all right." Sam refilled John's glass, and then his own.

"Come on, Sammy." Raw, flat truth underscored with impatience. "Did you at least take him to a hospital?"

Now Sam did look up, because the flare of anger made it bearable to see John's face. "You're kidding, right? Dean? Do you think he would ever let a doctor see something like that?" He held his father's gaze until it wavered, until John's blustering attempt at regaining control crumpled and caved, and then he said, "You know better than anyone how bad it was."

"Jesus." The choked sound of it startled Sam. "I wish it..." John's voice trailed off, but the tone...Goose bumps rose on Sam's arms.

"You wish...what?" Sam's voice rose. "You think it would be better for Dean if it took you away from us, too?"

"It doesn't matter." The words came out dull, flat. "What he sees when he looks at me...That won't ever go away."

Not much he could say in response to that blunt horror, so Sam just drank his whiskey.

"I'll stay out of his way," John said. "Until he's ready to see me."

"We won't be here when the charm wears off," Sam said, and let the weight of the unsaid settle onto John's shoulders.

John flinched when it hit him. "Your brother's idea?" he asked slowly.

Sam nodded.

"What it said to you, about trusting me." John slumped back in the chair. "You know it was right."

"Bullshit," Sam said, with all the conviction he could muster. "There's a way to make sure this doesn't happen again, and we're going to find it."

"There aren't charms like that, Sam." That was familiar, that father-knows-best-and-he'll-tell-you tone. "I'd have heard about them by now. Demons can move freely from body to-"

"You don't know everything," Sam hissed. "You didn't know about this, or it would have known, too."

John's eyes darkened. "Maybe it's better if you and your brother do leave, if you have some foolish idea that you can-"

"Can't get him away fast enough, can you?" Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. "It's always this way, isn't it, Dad? You don't show up for the hard stuff. You're only here now because it made you come here."

"That's crap," John said. There was the beginning of a dangerous look in his eyes, but Sam ignored it. Not like John could touch him; not like Sam wouldn't enjoy proving to him what a bad idea it was if he could.

"That's fact," Sam said. He shook his head. "You do what you want. We'll be gone tomorrow anyway." He picked up his glass and flung it into the sink; droplets of whiskey sprayed across the floor as it arced, jangling into the metal basin. He was tired, and all he wanted to do was lie down and not worry anymore. They still had a little time, and he could rest, for just a while. Just enough to get his strength back, so he could watch over Dean.

Dean would think that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Which was why Sam would never tell him.

The door to Dean's room was cracked open a little wider than when Sam left, and for a moment, all his senses went into overdrive.

I left Dad in the kitchen.

No reason for it, but he was scared suddenly, and he pushed the door open.

The puppy had clambered up with Dean somehow and was nestled in the curve of his arm where it disappeared under the pillow. Sam grinned; he couldn't help it. He closed the door softly, kicked off his shoes, stripped down to his jeans and socks, and crawled onto the other side of the bed. The puppy lifted its head and looked at him, as if deciding whether Sam would be warmer than his current human blanket.

By the time it put its head back down, Sam was asleep.

**

Face. Wet. Whimpering.

Dean cracked open one eye and got a tiny, eager tongue in it for his trouble. "Ugh," he said, and lifted the puppy by the scruff of its neck, earning a whimper for his rejection. He leaned over the bed and set the puppy down gently on the floor. "Go pick on someone your own size," he told it, and steadfastly ignored any cuteness it was trying to inflict on him.

He wiped his face and put his head back down on the pillow, but he was awake now. It was dark outside; at least he'd managed to sleep through the evening and part of the night. The house was quiet, and--

--he twisted and looked over his shoulder. Sam was sprawled out on the other half of the bed, on top of the covers, dead to the world. Dean took a deep breath. Sam had been running on empty since it happened, and Dean had been waiting for him to crash. He looked half-sick in the dim light, too pale, too tired.

Right on cue, Sam stirred. Ever since they were kids, he'd always known somehow when someone was watching him. It was one of the creepier things about him. "Dammit," Dean whispered. "Go back to sleep, Sam."

"Dean?" Sam opened his eyes, blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry," Dean said. He rolled onto his back, and then onto his other side, facing Sam. "Seriously, go back to sleep."

"Nah, s'okay." Sam looked completely wrecked, fogged over by sleep and too much responsibility. He shifted around and settled on his back, hands folded over his stomach. "You sleep?"

"Yeah."

The puppy yipped, and Dean winced. Sam grinned. "Dump your girlfriend?"

"Shut up," Dean answered, but his chest felt about ten pounds lighter.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, braced on his elbows. "You want to hit the road?"

"Hell, no," Dean said. He put his hand on the center of Sam's chest and pushed him down, not gently. Sam let him. "Sleep."

"Then why'd you wake me up?" Sam squinted at him, still locked in the fuzzy place of not-awake.

Dean sighed. "I didn't. Not on purpose."

"Oh." Sam closed his eyes. Dean could see how much he wanted to go back to sleep, but for some reason, he was fighting it.

"I'm okay," Dean said, searching for the piece that would fit and lock and let Sam give up the burden for a couple hours.

"I know," Sam said. He turned a sleepy smile on Dean, and just like that, he was out. Dean shook his head and smiled, and rolled on his back.

There was something unnatural about the quiet in the place. He hated it. Dean could feel the itch to get back on the road and kill something; the Impala was calling to him, and he really wanted to get under her skin as soon as possible. They hadn't even unpacked; all their crap was still in the car.

Maybe they should leave now.

He put that thought out of his head as soon as it entered. Sam was going to get some sleep even if Dean had to tie him to the bed. He cracked his neck from side to side, ignoring the twinges and pulls, and sat up carefully, so as not to set Sam off again.

He didn't actually remember much of the layout of Bobby's house, so it was a challenge to find his way to the kitchen, but he managed. All the while, in the back of his brain, warning signals fired--

he's here he's here he's here

--but he ignored those, too. It wasn't like he could go on being a sheltered little bitch forever. He was going to have to suck it up and deal.

He pulled bologna and cheese out of the fridge, checking that strong sensation of danger, completely disregarding the impulse to grab something sharp out of Bobby's arsenal and do a sweep of the house. The only things there to find were his father - and that was a known quantity - and two people who'd done everything, including risk their own lives, to help him. To help John.

With deftness born of practice, he rolled up a piece of cheese in a slice of bologna and took a bite, then rummaged through the fridge until he found some milk, which he drank straight out of the carton. Not like anyone here would care. He wondered if Sam had eaten anything.

He made one more roll-up, then put the food back and closed the fridge.

There was a clock ticking somewhere in the kitchen, which seemed abnormally loud.

If he listened hard enough, he was pretty sure he'd be able to hear his father breathing.

Fuck it. He shivered off the willies and padded back into the hallway, down toward the living room.

John was in a chair pulled close to the fire, bent forward, staring into the flames, hands clasped. There was a bottle on the hearth; the firelight caught in the liquid, turning it fiery gold. Dean watched him for a long moment. His father looked fresh-scrubbed, as though he'd just come out of the shower; his hair was still wet. The thought slithered through Dean's mind--

he had to scrub you off him

--and he ignored that, too. Only way to get by.

When Dean cleared his throat, John stirred, slowly, as if he'd been roused from a deep sleep. He turned his head to look at Dean in the doorway, and Dean carefully composed himself at the strange mixture of dread and hope in his father's eyes. "I thought you might be gone by now," Dean said.

"Was thinkin' about it," John said. He looked away, back into the fire.

Dean's chest was tight. He wanted to ask - why didn't you - but the answer would be something that had to do with the demon, or work, or any of a hundred things that had nothing to do with him, so he didn't bother. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck where it worried the worst of the bites, forcing back a flare of restless irritation. The room was too small, the fire too warm.

"Sam said you were leaving," John said quietly.

"We are," Dean said. "Sam needs some rest first."

"What about you?"

A simple question, the kind of thing his father had asked him a hundred times in different ways over years on the road. Always, it had been about moving on; always, he wanted to hear them say I'm fine and I can do it, Dad, and anything else had been met with a dark stare and quiet disapproval. Be strong, boys. Don't complain unless you're really hurt. You can push through tired.

Dean shrugged and said nothing. He focused his attention on the snapping fire, hyper-conscious of the silence.

"I asked you a question, son." His father's voice was so gentle, it made Dean shiver.

"I don't think you get to ask me questions right now," Dean said, equally as soft. He looked at the back of John's head, at his shoulders, and saw him flinch, but he wasn't sorry.

John put his hands on the arms of the chair, gripping hard, and then stood up. He moved slowly, but that didn't change the fact that Dean's heart was suddenly off like a fucking racehorse. He forced himself not to move, not to react. "Dean," John said. "If I could have stopped it, I would. I would never have hurt you, never-"

"But you did," Dean said. John closed his mouth, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost in the chill of the moment. Dean struggled for his own words, for ways to say it, and all he could muster up was, "Sam was begging you to stop." But not me. I didn't beg. Some residual pride there, one thing he could keep of himself.

"I couldn't stop it." The words burst out of John, and now it was Dean's turn to flinch. "You think I wanted to be in there while it took its time with you? My own son? Jesus, Dean. Anything but that, God. Anything."

Anything. It took a moment for the full implications to register. Dean stared at his father. "So killing me would have been better? Easier for you?"

John turned pale, all the blood draining from his face. "No. I didn't mean that." His throat worked. "I thought...I believed I'd have to watch you die."

"If you had stopped it-"

"I tried to stop it." John's voice, not quite a shout, rang through the room.

"You didn't try hard enough, goddammit!" Dean realized then that he'd moved, that he was only a foot away from John, and oh how he wanted to knock him down, to beat some of that rage out of his blood, let it sink back into his father where it belonged.

John nodded, and wiped a hand over his eyes, once, twice, but he didn't make any more fucking excuses. Dean was oddly disappointed. And then, the words bubbled up, ugly, raw, from somewhere in his gut, and he didn't try to pull them back. "How much of what it said was true, anyway?"

"What?" John was staring at him like he was a freak, something alien he didn't recognize, and Dean smiled, a vicious twist of his lips.

"How much? Did you want to hurt me? Did you get off on it?"

Oh, he could see it on John's face. There was a war going on in there, kid gloves vs. big guns, and John's eyes were flashing with anger, and a level of hurt Dean hadn't seen in years, maybe since his mother died. John's lips worked, but he didn't speak, and then: "I understand that you're hurt, Dean, but-"

"You don't understand at all," Dean snarled. "How much of it could you feel?"

John bowed his head, and when he looked up, his face was blank, a poker face any man could be proud of. "Everything."

"Christ," Dean hissed, nausea welling up again, slipping up his spine like vertigo, on the back of his tongue.

"Dean-"

"All those years you kept us on the run and trained us and never let us be normal, all of it, and you couldn't do anything when it mattered." He crushed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, bruising back tears, and then he said, "It was me. I should have known. I should have shot you. That's what you wanted, right? For me to kill you, when I knew?"

John said nothing. Dean looked up, and just then John reached out a hand. Dean reacted without thinking, just a reflex of self-protection; he blocked John's arm and knocked his hand away. Before it even registered, he saw John's eyes widen, felt his own heartbeat speed, and he scrambled backward, knocking over a chair in the process.

No barrier. No protection.

"Stay away," he said, one arm outstretched, his hand twitching.

In that moment, John went completely still, as if he'd been turned to stone. For Dean, it was the moment before a cat pounces on the mouse; he waited, barely able to breathe.

"Dad? Dean?" Sam's voice, rough with sleep, from the doorway behind Dean.

"It's worn off," Dean said, his own voice low.

Sam moved fast, putting himself between Dean and John, but he was facing Dean. "It's okay," he said softly, putting his hand on Dean's arm. "There are salt lines across every threshold, every door and window. I put them there myself. Dean. It can't get back in. It's okay."

Sam's urgent tone penetrated Dean's low-level fear, easing it into submission. Dean took hold of Sam's shoulders, squeezing once, and then moved him aside. John was still standing there, but now his posture had changed; his shoulders were down, his hands in his pockets. "You didn't answer me," Dean pressed. "That's what you wanted, right?"

"I wanted you to kill the demon," John said. "It didn't matter if it cost me my life. Not if it saved yours." He took a step forward. Sam stepped forward at the same moment; John stopped.

"And if I had, it would have been over." The room was swimming in Dean's field of vision, twisted and tipped sideways. "It wouldn't have happened."

"This isn't your fault," Sam said, bracing him, but Dean shrugged him off and looked at his father, at the tears now shining in his eyes, and through hate and resentment and heart-deep hurt, he said,

"This isn't about vengeance anymore, Dad. You wanted me to trade your life for a couple of bites and bruises that'll heal? That was what I was supposed to do? Trade your life so you didn't have to watch me suffer?"

John shook his head, a vicious movement, and then he said, "Yes."

Dean gritted his teeth and willed himself not to split in two. He looked up at his father, everything, everything showing, and John took a tentative step forward. Beside Dean, Sam sucked in a tiny breath, his entire body tensed. But Dean was so fucking tired. The fight was flowing out of him. He blinked once and closed his eyes, and though he couldn't see it, he felt his father's presence draw nearer, and then John's hand was on Dean's head, his fingers in Dean's hair, stroking. It was for that moment just as it had been when Dean was small, before his mother died, before the entire world went to hell.

"All these years. All the things I've done, all the creatures I've killed, and it was for nothing," John said. "If I could..." His voice broke. "I'd do anything to undo what I did to you."

Dean tried to say that it was too late the moment he was born, or maybe the moment Sam was born, but John chose that moment to slide his arms around his son. Dean jerked back, fighting warring impulses to shove him away and to let himself be comforted. He stood there a moment, waiting for the flood of recent memory to overtake him, but instead he was thrown back to his childhood, John carrying him through Sam's nursery, and Sam in his crib, smiling up at them.

"It wasn't for nothing," Dean choked, and fisted his hands in his father's jacket.

Sam's warm hand settled on Dean's shoulder, and stayed there, until Dean pulled away from John, still not quite able to look him in the eye. For a moment he thought John was going to hold on, and he pulled back harder, the need to get free sharp and strong within him. They stepped apart, Dean and Sam side by side, John opposite them.

"Things change," Dean said, staring at the floor. Sam moved closer to him, until their shoulders touched. "You can't undo it."

Long, awkward silence, and then John said, "I know." In his voice, Dean heard echoes of how it had been when he was younger - when he'd thought his father was the one constant in the universe, the one safe thing he'd ever had, aside from Sam. It was his father who'd killed the things in the dark and taught him not to fear the darkness.

Now it was his father who'd brought the darkness home.

It wasn't his fault, but everything had been irrevocably changed, now. It was an irony Dean could appreciate; all he'd wanted was to have his family back, but they could never go back to the way things were before.

"Dad. Maybe it'd be better if you..." Sam stopped, then crossed his arms over his chest, subtly edging in front of Dean. "Dean and I can stay here, do some research. See if there's a way to stop a demon from possessing a human permanently."

"I don't want to leave you here." John's voice was hoarse, and still Dean couldn't bring himself to look his father in the eye. "Not until I know you'll be all right."

"We're fine," Dean said, and then he did look up, directly into John's eyes, daring John to contradict him.

John nodded, looked away. "You boys know I have to track that Colt down."

Dean heard all the things his father didn't say; they had worked too closely for him not to know that this was about more than his mother now. More than decades-old revenge. He wished he could believe it would matter, in the end, but right now it didn't seem important, and something inside him pushed back against the cold deadness of that feeling. He needed to find something to hunt.

Something he could make pay.

Sam nudged him. "Dean? You okay with staying here a few more days?"

Dean had the itch to get back on the road, but the restless need to get away from John was easing. "Yeah," he said finally. "For a few days."

"When I leave this house, I won't be coming back." John was already looking at the door. This, at least, they still had in common.

"But you'll be here in the morning?" Dean asked quietly.

John met his eyes, nodded.

Sam was swaying in place, and Dean looked at his face. He swallowed hard and said, "You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Uh-huh." Sam uncrossed his arms and hooked a finger hooked in Dean's collar. "I'm hungry," he said, and then he was pulling Dean backwards toward the kitchen, a not-so-subtle hint.

Dean felt a pang of honest-to-goodness hunger of his own for the first time in days. He let Sam lead the way; he was getting used to it. It wasn't so bad.

At the doorway, they paused, turning back. John was watching them, his face hard to read in the shadows. Sam glanced at Dean, and then at John. Waiting. Nowhere to go but forward; nothing to do but keep moving.

The Winchesters were experts at finding their way through the dark.

end
August-October 2006