[FIC] Father's Gun (14/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
After lunch, John disappears to parts unknown with his bottle of booze, leaving Dean, Ellen, and Jo to clean up the wings and pizza as Sam and Ash jabber in fluent geek at the bar.
Dean could call his brother over, make him take care of his fair share of pizza boxes and chicken bones, but Sammy doesn't get a chance to let his inner nerd run free very often and, at the very latest, they'll be out of here come daybreak, so it's better to let his little brother get all the time he can with this Ash dude.
After all, Sam's a sociable kid. He makes friends easy, fits right in with the smart, squeaky clean crowd, and if this Ash guy is a little short on the squeaky clean, he more than makes up for it with smarts, if the sheer volume of alien computer speak those two are spouting is any indication. And as a bonus, he already knows about hunting all the creepy, crawly shit that goes bump in the night. He’s in good with Ellen, seems like an alright guy, and push comes to shove, he could probably help them out with research sometime, they need it bad enough.
For that, and for the sake of Sammy having a friend he doesn't have to constantly lie to, Dean can clean up a few greasy cardboard boxes and some empty beer bottles.
“Thank you, honey,” Ellen says as he helps her get rid of the last of the mess from lunch. “You really didn't have to pitch in like that.”
“The hell I didn't,” Dean grins, because he does genuinely like this woman. She's smart and sharp and doesn't take shit from anyone, and she's navigating the minefield that is the Winchester family soap opera like a pro, so really, she's good in his book. “You fed me and Sammy, let us make a mess of your morning. It's the least I can do.”
“Well that's awful sweet of you, Dean,” Ellen smiles, “but I gotta ask, you boys are after this demon, right?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Dean nods, not really following her logic here.
“You usin' any protection?” she asks, and the look in her eye, the crossed arms, the no-nonsense line of her mouth? It is all John Winchester catching Dean in the back of the Impala with Amy Mebbersen in the seventh grade.
“Protection like what?” Dean asks carefully, more than a little afraid of the answer.
“John Winchester and his goddamn need-to-know fixation,” Ellen grumbles, rolling her eyes and digging a couple of dime-sized amulets strung up like necklaces out of her shirt pocket.
“Anti-Possession charms,” she supplies, slapping them into Dean's palm. “Noticed the holy water and Latin class back upstairs, thought I'd ask. You boys got demon troubles? Well, an ounce of prevention's worth a pound of exorcism any day.”
“There's only two here,” Dean notes, looking from the charms in his hand to Ellen.
“And if I thought John'd take one, I'd give you three,” Ellen nods. “He's either kept up with the one he picked up years ago or decided that he's invincible and precaution can go to hell. Either way, I'm not gonna bother diggin' up a third one just for him to throw it back in my face the second he sees it.”
“Fair enough,” Dean agrees, turning the charms over in his palm, the flaming pentagram etched on them glinting in the dim light of the bar.
“Thanks, Ellen.”
“Don't mention it, honey.” She shakes her head, giving him a nudge in Sam and Ash's direction. “Just go give one of those to your brother, make sure he and Ash don't go markin' up my bar. I got a business to run, and we open in an hour.”
By the time Dean gets Sam to quit speaking geek with Ash long enough to pass on the charm along with Ellen's explanation, their dad is stormin' back into the bar, scowl on his face and severely depleted bottle in hand, snapping at Dean and Sam to get their things and get a move on.
“You alright to drive, Dad?” Dean asks under his breath as Sammy's digging the map out from the Impala's glove box.
“M'fine,” John grumbles. “Now why don’t you get that address from your smartass brother so we can get this show on the road?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean bites out, digging the bag with the journal out of the back and resting it on the trunk so he can fish out the book, reading off the address in a short, clipped voice.
He knows Sam is at his shoulder, map in hand and on high alert, knows Dad’s not gonna like the look in his eye, the barely leashed resentment, the frustration, because Sammy worked his ass off, got them this goddamn lead, and now- now-
He just wants to be out of here. To be back in the driver’s seat, his baby burning up the dusty Kansas blacktop beneath her tires, Sammy next to him, researching and bitching and refusing to get some sleep, despite the fact that he’s been up and going for the better part of two days now.
He wants normal, goddammit, or their version of it at least. And he absolutely hates that having their dad here, having the family together, just doesn’t fucking fit into that anymore.
“That all you need?” Dean demands when their dad’s done getting the address and route down.
“What I need is for you to stow this piss-poor new attitude of yours. Stop talkin’ back and show your father some goddamn respect,” John snaps, steps into Dean’s face, and Dean can feel Sam bristle behind him, puts a hand out to keep him back, to keep this from getting any more out of hand.
“And let me tell you,” John continues heatedly. “Running off in the middle of the night? Me havin’ to chase your asses here, there, and yonder? That shit stops right the hell now, got it? You fall in line and you follow orders or your ass is on the bench, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers tightly, teeth clenched, swallowing against so many things he wants to say, can’t say, is never gonna say, and he wonders, he wonders so hard, how Sammy managed this for all those years.
“Sam?” Dad barks, glaring at Sammy over Dean's shoulder when he remains silent, and it is so, so hard for Dean not to step further in front of his little brother when he hears the hard, sharp tone in their Dad’s voice, to plaster himself in front of him like he had in Ellen Harvelle’s living room, because nothing good could come from that voice, not when it’s their dad using it.
Not when it's aimed at Sammy.
“Yeah?” Sam grits out, every bit as hard and sharp as John.
Dad’s eyes go from Dean to Sam to the open laptop bag sitting on the trunk, computer and journals in plain view.
“I’m taking this,” he snaps, snatching up the worn, amber journal. “Would have never given it to you two if I knew you were this irresponsible. From here on out, you use my research, go by my rules, follow my lead. You don’t like it, you can park your ass here and serve drinks with Ellen Goddamn Harvelle, you understand?”
He looks from Dean to Sam, glaring.
“I get any more backtalk,” he threatens, “any more attitude, any more stunts like the one you two pulled last night, your asses are out. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean agrees.
He has to, because if Sammy is determined to do this, is dead set on hunting down this thing and using Dad’s math to do it, they need more time, need to stick with him, and the only way in hell that’s happening is if Dean’s beside his brother, watching Sammy’s back and making sure things between he and Dad don’t get too out of hand.
Making sure that little scene in Ellen Harvelle's living room - the one that's gonna be starring in Dean's nightmares for, oh, ever? - never happens again, and if it does, that Dean's there to cool things down. To make sure everything works out.
To keep his brother safe.
He can stow his issues for that, can buckle down and just deal if it means getting Sammy the time he needs with Dad's research, if it means getting a lead on the thing that killed Mom, the monster that took Jess from Sammy.
He can deal. He can do this. If it’s for Sammy, for Mom and Jess and ending this?
He can do this.
“Sam?” John prompts, waiting expectantly, and Dean’s not sure if he’s expecting Sam to agree or disagree, but his dad has a look, a quirk in his eye that says there’s an answer he’s pretty sure he’s gonna hear.
Dean knows what it is, and he hates it. He sees the fire in Sam’s eyes now, the curl to his lip and the tense line of his shoulders, the clenched fists and the set jaw, and knows research or no, hunt or no, plan or no, this is it.
This is where Sam tells Dad to go fuck himself, to take his high and mighty commands and his controlling bullshit and fuck right off, because they did good work today and they don’t need Dad’s rules or his shit. This is where Sam tells Dad to leave him the fuck alone, to stop dragging him into a life he hates and a family he can't stand and now Dean's going to have to choose, again, between a job he was built to do and a brother he was born to protect.
But this time there won’t be any hushed phone calls late at night, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, and there won’t be any visits or letters, half mocking, half serious, with pictures and dumb jokes and ironic sign offs that always seem to come off unironically anyway, because Dad doesn’t do that shit. He doesn’t keep people in his life after he’s written them off. He just burns that bridge and fires up the engine and tears off, so if Dean has to choose, is forced to choose -
Except… Except that's not happening?
“Crystal,” Sam enunciates, slowly and carefully, every syllable controlled, and Dean can feel the tension in him, strung tight, too tight, just about to snap.
“Good,” John snaps. “And it's 'sir.' I'm your father, I deserve some goddamn respect.”
There's a long, tense pause.
“Crystal clear,” Sam repeats tightly, his jaw set so hard it must ache, “sir.”
Dean blinks. Watches as John spins on his heel, striding to the truck and climbing in, tossing his old journal aside before cranking up and skidding out of the parking lot, wheels kicking up gravel.
Sam keeps his mouth shut, just grabs his bag and flings himself into the passenger seat, tense, too tense, simmering, his mouth working and his hands fidgeting, worrying this and that, like they want to do something, anything, but can’t, like he’s building up to an outburst but isn’t quite there yet.
Dean keeps an eyes on Sammy as they pull out after Dad, watches him try and channel some of his anger into taking notes, scribbling long furious lines of print on a legal pad balanced precariously on his lap, but even with that distraction, it’s only a matter of time.
Dean just hopes that when the time comes, Sam doesn’t let it get too out of hand. He’s gotta let this shit out, and Dean fucking respects that. Better here with him than with Dad, and better sooner than later, but so help him if Sam’s bitchfit messes up his car?
Well, if that happens, it’s gonna be a long damn ride.
The Stones have just started jamming over the radio, Dean’s baby purring as she hits open road when Sammy finally hits his boiling point.
“That selfish, unbalanced, paranoid bastard!” Sam bursts out, practically spitting the words, slapping the dash as he spikes his notes into the floorboard.
“Dude,” Dean warns, starting. “Watch the car, Sam! Dammit…”
“Not mature enough?” Sam fumes. “Not mature enough my ass. This is from a guy who thinks ‘because I said so’ is the be-all-end-all of any fucking argument.”
“Sam,” Dean starts, but Sammy’s cutting him off, not having any of it.
“I know you’re about to say ‘calm down,’ Dean! Don’t tell me to fucking calm down, not when he- Did you see-?!”
“I saw,” Dean nods, and yeah, he should have known better than to try and tell Sammy to calm down like that. You can't try that shit when he gets like this, it only get him more whipped up. “I saw, Sam. I know. But it’ll be okay, we’ve got our notes from Harvelle’s journal, we’ve got Bobby’s library, we-”
“God, that’s not even what this is about, Dean!” Sam interrupts, derailing Dean completely.
“Well if you’re not mad about the journal, what the hell are you hittin' my car for then?” Dean demands.
“Of course I’m mad about the journal!” Sam snaps. “It was a dick move and a cheap power play, just him being an ass because he can and because it’ll twist the fucking knife, but it’s a book, Dean. Paper and ink soaked in a hell of a lot of gunpowder and whisky. The second I found a working scanner, I put every page of that dusty son-of-a-bitch on a USB drive and uploaded it to remote storage. It’s 2006, dude. Someone in this family had to get with the fucking times.”
“So, lemme get this straight,” Dean blinks, taking a second. “You're not mad that the book’s gone, you’re mad that he took it.”
“Yeah, I'm mad he took it,” Sam nods, scooping his notes from the floorboards and smacking the dust from them. “I'm mad he took it and I'm pissed that he had to give us that fucking speech and put us in our fucking place and make it goddamn clear that he's the fucking boss, and that he had to do that by taking that goddamn journal. What, it wasn't enough we had to swear fucking fealty, he has to take the book too? He has to make fucking sure we're blind except for his goddamn research? Really? Really?”
Dean nods, lets himself process. It makes sense. Underneath the swearing and rage and resentment, he can get why Sam's upset.
Sam’s always been the brains of their operation, has been their first line in research since his pre-teens. Taking away the journal, their one steady source of been-there-done-that, of reliable leads and solid lore, all their contacts and resources and tips, it’s hitting at Sammy right where he lives, right in his element.
And Sam’s right. It was a punishment, a power-play. A cheap shot, fired off because John’s finger was on the trigger and he was pissed.
And because he knew it would hurt, would leave Sam just like this, angry and impotent and forced to rely on John even more for leads, for directions.
It's taking everything Sam's made for himself, the identity he built in the ashes of Palo Alto, and it's tearing it down, sending him back to square one, back to being one of Dad's soldiers, a strongback and a sidearm, a puppet just waiting for someone to pull the strings.
Tearing Sam down just so John doesn't have to deal with the hunter he's become.
“You uploaded Dad’s journal?” Dean asks, because that he doesn’t understand and because focusing on Sam’s weird, geeky info-dumping is a hell of a lot more productive than getting pissed at Dad for shit he can’t change. “To where? CreepyMysticShit.Com?”
“Cloud storage, Dean,” Sam laughs, still heated, still bitter, but some of the anger, the tension in him bleeding away as he explains. “Each page is a tagged file. I can search keywords, topic, monster, culture of origin....”
“Yeah, but come on,” Dean snorts, going through the possibility in his head. “That must have taken weeks. When the hell did you have the time?”
“You know all the nights you spend hitting on girls in bars?” Sam asks flatly, raising an eyebrow, and instead of anger there's just the barest hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth now, just a little bit of the teasing, smartass little brother sneaking back into his voice.
“Ah,” Dean nods, getting it, relaxing as the tension abates, washed away by familiar jibes and the steady, familiar hum of his baby powering over blacktop, the pulse of classic rock on the radio.
“Yeah,” Sam laughs.
He sets his notes aside and digs the anti-possession charm out of his pocket, turning it over in his fingers and examining the design in the afternoon sun.
“Hey, Dean,” he begins thoughtfully. “You know any good tattoo parlors near here?”
“Clean cut little Sammy, wantin’ to get inked up? Never thought I’d see the day,” he laughs, leaning over to nudge Sammy’s shoulder playfully. “Whatcha thinkin' Sam? Flaming skull? Pinup girl? I could lend you some skin mags, you need a little inspiration.”
“Dude,” Sam blushes, shaking his head and pushing Dean back to his side of the car. “It’s for the hunt. Now that we’re on this demon thing...”
He turns the charm over in his fingers, thoughtful.
“I mean, these are great and all, but strings break. Chains snap. Amulets come off, you know?” he muses. “Tattoos don’t, and if they were somewhere subtle, somewhere covered? People, demons, whatever, wouldn’t even know we had ‘em.”
“Matching tats? Pretty serious, Sammy. You're not gonna give me your jacket first, maybe a class ring?” Dean teases.
“Come on, man,” Sam snorts, shoving Dean's shoulder. “Be serious.”
“It’s a good idea, Sammy,” Dean agrees. It’s kinda genius, actually. A talisman everywhere they go? Something secret and permanent? Sounds fucking awesome, especially when the monster could be anyone or everyone, anywhere and everywhere, always looking for an opening, a chink in the armor. “But you know Dad’s never gonna go for it.”
Sam blows out a breath, his face telling Dean that he remembers their dad’s “No Identifying Marks of Any Kind” rants from when they were kids, the weight he put on blending in, of being able to pass as anything, anywhere, anytime.
The one time Sam had pointed out Dad’s Corps ink during one of those speeches, Sam’d been on double PT and weapons cleaning duty for a month.
“I know, I know,” he sighs, looks up at Dean. “You think maybe…”
“What?” Dean laughs. “We throw away all of Dad’s new rules, sneak out, get inked up in secret? Hope he doesn’t notice the big ass bandages and our sudden love for A&D? Sammy, come on. You saw him today. That was after we called him, left a note, and went after a lead on the case. And he still tore across three states, kicked down Ellen’s door, held a gun on you, gave me a holy water facial, and read us the fucking riot act.”
“Yeah…” Sam admits, little frustrated twist at the edge of his mouth, looking down to where he’s toying with the charm between his fingers.
“What do you think he’s gonna do if we sneak out in the middle of the night and he finds us in some seedy tattoo joint getting matching occult symbols inked over our hearts?” Dean challenges, raising an eyebrow, because Sam has to understand this, has to get exactly why this would be the worst idea right now, but the kid’s every bit as stubborn as he’s always been.
“They’re anti-possession-”
“Yeah, ‘cause Dad’s gonna stop and whip out his little pocket dictionary, look up which symbol it is before he plugs us both?” Dean asks with a bitter laugh. “Sam, it’s a good idea, really, it is, but now’s not the time. Not yet.”
“But soon?” Sam pushes. “First chance we get?”
“Well, most people woulda gunned for Disneyland,” Dean teases, smirking, relieved that Sam'll let this one rest, just a little, just until things calm down. “But yeah, Sammy. You got it. Soon as Dad cools down? You, me, and matchin’ anti-demon ink.”
“And hey,” he adds, shooting Sam a smartass grin. “Maybe you ask nice, I’ll have ‘em put my initials under yours, so those black eyed sons-of-bitches know just whose little brother they’re messin’ with.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sam laughs, shoving Dean in the arm again and going back to his notes, but the smile sticks, lingers at the corner of Sammy’s mouth as they roll through Kansas, southwest towards Colorado.
Towards Colorado and Elkins and answers about this fucking gun, towards solving this thing and killing this demon and hopefully, fucking hopefully, finding a way to work together with Dad without anyone getting their fucking brains blown out.
Chapter 15
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
After lunch, John disappears to parts unknown with his bottle of booze, leaving Dean, Ellen, and Jo to clean up the wings and pizza as Sam and Ash jabber in fluent geek at the bar.
Dean could call his brother over, make him take care of his fair share of pizza boxes and chicken bones, but Sammy doesn't get a chance to let his inner nerd run free very often and, at the very latest, they'll be out of here come daybreak, so it's better to let his little brother get all the time he can with this Ash dude.
After all, Sam's a sociable kid. He makes friends easy, fits right in with the smart, squeaky clean crowd, and if this Ash guy is a little short on the squeaky clean, he more than makes up for it with smarts, if the sheer volume of alien computer speak those two are spouting is any indication. And as a bonus, he already knows about hunting all the creepy, crawly shit that goes bump in the night. He’s in good with Ellen, seems like an alright guy, and push comes to shove, he could probably help them out with research sometime, they need it bad enough.
For that, and for the sake of Sammy having a friend he doesn't have to constantly lie to, Dean can clean up a few greasy cardboard boxes and some empty beer bottles.
“Thank you, honey,” Ellen says as he helps her get rid of the last of the mess from lunch. “You really didn't have to pitch in like that.”
“The hell I didn't,” Dean grins, because he does genuinely like this woman. She's smart and sharp and doesn't take shit from anyone, and she's navigating the minefield that is the Winchester family soap opera like a pro, so really, she's good in his book. “You fed me and Sammy, let us make a mess of your morning. It's the least I can do.”
“Well that's awful sweet of you, Dean,” Ellen smiles, “but I gotta ask, you boys are after this demon, right?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Dean nods, not really following her logic here.
“You usin' any protection?” she asks, and the look in her eye, the crossed arms, the no-nonsense line of her mouth? It is all John Winchester catching Dean in the back of the Impala with Amy Mebbersen in the seventh grade.
“Protection like what?” Dean asks carefully, more than a little afraid of the answer.
“John Winchester and his goddamn need-to-know fixation,” Ellen grumbles, rolling her eyes and digging a couple of dime-sized amulets strung up like necklaces out of her shirt pocket.
“Anti-Possession charms,” she supplies, slapping them into Dean's palm. “Noticed the holy water and Latin class back upstairs, thought I'd ask. You boys got demon troubles? Well, an ounce of prevention's worth a pound of exorcism any day.”
“There's only two here,” Dean notes, looking from the charms in his hand to Ellen.
“And if I thought John'd take one, I'd give you three,” Ellen nods. “He's either kept up with the one he picked up years ago or decided that he's invincible and precaution can go to hell. Either way, I'm not gonna bother diggin' up a third one just for him to throw it back in my face the second he sees it.”
“Fair enough,” Dean agrees, turning the charms over in his palm, the flaming pentagram etched on them glinting in the dim light of the bar.
“Thanks, Ellen.”
“Don't mention it, honey.” She shakes her head, giving him a nudge in Sam and Ash's direction. “Just go give one of those to your brother, make sure he and Ash don't go markin' up my bar. I got a business to run, and we open in an hour.”
By the time Dean gets Sam to quit speaking geek with Ash long enough to pass on the charm along with Ellen's explanation, their dad is stormin' back into the bar, scowl on his face and severely depleted bottle in hand, snapping at Dean and Sam to get their things and get a move on.
“You alright to drive, Dad?” Dean asks under his breath as Sammy's digging the map out from the Impala's glove box.
“M'fine,” John grumbles. “Now why don’t you get that address from your smartass brother so we can get this show on the road?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean bites out, digging the bag with the journal out of the back and resting it on the trunk so he can fish out the book, reading off the address in a short, clipped voice.
He knows Sam is at his shoulder, map in hand and on high alert, knows Dad’s not gonna like the look in his eye, the barely leashed resentment, the frustration, because Sammy worked his ass off, got them this goddamn lead, and now- now-
He just wants to be out of here. To be back in the driver’s seat, his baby burning up the dusty Kansas blacktop beneath her tires, Sammy next to him, researching and bitching and refusing to get some sleep, despite the fact that he’s been up and going for the better part of two days now.
He wants normal, goddammit, or their version of it at least. And he absolutely hates that having their dad here, having the family together, just doesn’t fucking fit into that anymore.
“That all you need?” Dean demands when their dad’s done getting the address and route down.
“What I need is for you to stow this piss-poor new attitude of yours. Stop talkin’ back and show your father some goddamn respect,” John snaps, steps into Dean’s face, and Dean can feel Sam bristle behind him, puts a hand out to keep him back, to keep this from getting any more out of hand.
“And let me tell you,” John continues heatedly. “Running off in the middle of the night? Me havin’ to chase your asses here, there, and yonder? That shit stops right the hell now, got it? You fall in line and you follow orders or your ass is on the bench, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers tightly, teeth clenched, swallowing against so many things he wants to say, can’t say, is never gonna say, and he wonders, he wonders so hard, how Sammy managed this for all those years.
“Sam?” Dad barks, glaring at Sammy over Dean's shoulder when he remains silent, and it is so, so hard for Dean not to step further in front of his little brother when he hears the hard, sharp tone in their Dad’s voice, to plaster himself in front of him like he had in Ellen Harvelle’s living room, because nothing good could come from that voice, not when it’s their dad using it.
Not when it's aimed at Sammy.
“Yeah?” Sam grits out, every bit as hard and sharp as John.
Dad’s eyes go from Dean to Sam to the open laptop bag sitting on the trunk, computer and journals in plain view.
“I’m taking this,” he snaps, snatching up the worn, amber journal. “Would have never given it to you two if I knew you were this irresponsible. From here on out, you use my research, go by my rules, follow my lead. You don’t like it, you can park your ass here and serve drinks with Ellen Goddamn Harvelle, you understand?”
He looks from Dean to Sam, glaring.
“I get any more backtalk,” he threatens, “any more attitude, any more stunts like the one you two pulled last night, your asses are out. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean agrees.
He has to, because if Sammy is determined to do this, is dead set on hunting down this thing and using Dad’s math to do it, they need more time, need to stick with him, and the only way in hell that’s happening is if Dean’s beside his brother, watching Sammy’s back and making sure things between he and Dad don’t get too out of hand.
Making sure that little scene in Ellen Harvelle's living room - the one that's gonna be starring in Dean's nightmares for, oh, ever? - never happens again, and if it does, that Dean's there to cool things down. To make sure everything works out.
To keep his brother safe.
He can stow his issues for that, can buckle down and just deal if it means getting Sammy the time he needs with Dad's research, if it means getting a lead on the thing that killed Mom, the monster that took Jess from Sammy.
He can deal. He can do this. If it’s for Sammy, for Mom and Jess and ending this?
He can do this.
“Sam?” John prompts, waiting expectantly, and Dean’s not sure if he’s expecting Sam to agree or disagree, but his dad has a look, a quirk in his eye that says there’s an answer he’s pretty sure he’s gonna hear.
Dean knows what it is, and he hates it. He sees the fire in Sam’s eyes now, the curl to his lip and the tense line of his shoulders, the clenched fists and the set jaw, and knows research or no, hunt or no, plan or no, this is it.
This is where Sam tells Dad to go fuck himself, to take his high and mighty commands and his controlling bullshit and fuck right off, because they did good work today and they don’t need Dad’s rules or his shit. This is where Sam tells Dad to leave him the fuck alone, to stop dragging him into a life he hates and a family he can't stand and now Dean's going to have to choose, again, between a job he was built to do and a brother he was born to protect.
But this time there won’t be any hushed phone calls late at night, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, and there won’t be any visits or letters, half mocking, half serious, with pictures and dumb jokes and ironic sign offs that always seem to come off unironically anyway, because Dad doesn’t do that shit. He doesn’t keep people in his life after he’s written them off. He just burns that bridge and fires up the engine and tears off, so if Dean has to choose, is forced to choose -
Except… Except that's not happening?
“Crystal,” Sam enunciates, slowly and carefully, every syllable controlled, and Dean can feel the tension in him, strung tight, too tight, just about to snap.
“Good,” John snaps. “And it's 'sir.' I'm your father, I deserve some goddamn respect.”
There's a long, tense pause.
“Crystal clear,” Sam repeats tightly, his jaw set so hard it must ache, “sir.”
Dean blinks. Watches as John spins on his heel, striding to the truck and climbing in, tossing his old journal aside before cranking up and skidding out of the parking lot, wheels kicking up gravel.
Sam keeps his mouth shut, just grabs his bag and flings himself into the passenger seat, tense, too tense, simmering, his mouth working and his hands fidgeting, worrying this and that, like they want to do something, anything, but can’t, like he’s building up to an outburst but isn’t quite there yet.
Dean keeps an eyes on Sammy as they pull out after Dad, watches him try and channel some of his anger into taking notes, scribbling long furious lines of print on a legal pad balanced precariously on his lap, but even with that distraction, it’s only a matter of time.
Dean just hopes that when the time comes, Sam doesn’t let it get too out of hand. He’s gotta let this shit out, and Dean fucking respects that. Better here with him than with Dad, and better sooner than later, but so help him if Sam’s bitchfit messes up his car?
Well, if that happens, it’s gonna be a long damn ride.
The Stones have just started jamming over the radio, Dean’s baby purring as she hits open road when Sammy finally hits his boiling point.
“That selfish, unbalanced, paranoid bastard!” Sam bursts out, practically spitting the words, slapping the dash as he spikes his notes into the floorboard.
“Dude,” Dean warns, starting. “Watch the car, Sam! Dammit…”
“Not mature enough?” Sam fumes. “Not mature enough my ass. This is from a guy who thinks ‘because I said so’ is the be-all-end-all of any fucking argument.”
“Sam,” Dean starts, but Sammy’s cutting him off, not having any of it.
“I know you’re about to say ‘calm down,’ Dean! Don’t tell me to fucking calm down, not when he- Did you see-?!”
“I saw,” Dean nods, and yeah, he should have known better than to try and tell Sammy to calm down like that. You can't try that shit when he gets like this, it only get him more whipped up. “I saw, Sam. I know. But it’ll be okay, we’ve got our notes from Harvelle’s journal, we’ve got Bobby’s library, we-”
“God, that’s not even what this is about, Dean!” Sam interrupts, derailing Dean completely.
“Well if you’re not mad about the journal, what the hell are you hittin' my car for then?” Dean demands.
“Of course I’m mad about the journal!” Sam snaps. “It was a dick move and a cheap power play, just him being an ass because he can and because it’ll twist the fucking knife, but it’s a book, Dean. Paper and ink soaked in a hell of a lot of gunpowder and whisky. The second I found a working scanner, I put every page of that dusty son-of-a-bitch on a USB drive and uploaded it to remote storage. It’s 2006, dude. Someone in this family had to get with the fucking times.”
“So, lemme get this straight,” Dean blinks, taking a second. “You're not mad that the book’s gone, you’re mad that he took it.”
“Yeah, I'm mad he took it,” Sam nods, scooping his notes from the floorboards and smacking the dust from them. “I'm mad he took it and I'm pissed that he had to give us that fucking speech and put us in our fucking place and make it goddamn clear that he's the fucking boss, and that he had to do that by taking that goddamn journal. What, it wasn't enough we had to swear fucking fealty, he has to take the book too? He has to make fucking sure we're blind except for his goddamn research? Really? Really?”
Dean nods, lets himself process. It makes sense. Underneath the swearing and rage and resentment, he can get why Sam's upset.
Sam’s always been the brains of their operation, has been their first line in research since his pre-teens. Taking away the journal, their one steady source of been-there-done-that, of reliable leads and solid lore, all their contacts and resources and tips, it’s hitting at Sammy right where he lives, right in his element.
And Sam’s right. It was a punishment, a power-play. A cheap shot, fired off because John’s finger was on the trigger and he was pissed.
And because he knew it would hurt, would leave Sam just like this, angry and impotent and forced to rely on John even more for leads, for directions.
It's taking everything Sam's made for himself, the identity he built in the ashes of Palo Alto, and it's tearing it down, sending him back to square one, back to being one of Dad's soldiers, a strongback and a sidearm, a puppet just waiting for someone to pull the strings.
Tearing Sam down just so John doesn't have to deal with the hunter he's become.
“You uploaded Dad’s journal?” Dean asks, because that he doesn’t understand and because focusing on Sam’s weird, geeky info-dumping is a hell of a lot more productive than getting pissed at Dad for shit he can’t change. “To where? CreepyMysticShit.Com?”
“Cloud storage, Dean,” Sam laughs, still heated, still bitter, but some of the anger, the tension in him bleeding away as he explains. “Each page is a tagged file. I can search keywords, topic, monster, culture of origin....”
“Yeah, but come on,” Dean snorts, going through the possibility in his head. “That must have taken weeks. When the hell did you have the time?”
“You know all the nights you spend hitting on girls in bars?” Sam asks flatly, raising an eyebrow, and instead of anger there's just the barest hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth now, just a little bit of the teasing, smartass little brother sneaking back into his voice.
“Ah,” Dean nods, getting it, relaxing as the tension abates, washed away by familiar jibes and the steady, familiar hum of his baby powering over blacktop, the pulse of classic rock on the radio.
“Yeah,” Sam laughs.
He sets his notes aside and digs the anti-possession charm out of his pocket, turning it over in his fingers and examining the design in the afternoon sun.
“Hey, Dean,” he begins thoughtfully. “You know any good tattoo parlors near here?”
“Clean cut little Sammy, wantin’ to get inked up? Never thought I’d see the day,” he laughs, leaning over to nudge Sammy’s shoulder playfully. “Whatcha thinkin' Sam? Flaming skull? Pinup girl? I could lend you some skin mags, you need a little inspiration.”
“Dude,” Sam blushes, shaking his head and pushing Dean back to his side of the car. “It’s for the hunt. Now that we’re on this demon thing...”
He turns the charm over in his fingers, thoughtful.
“I mean, these are great and all, but strings break. Chains snap. Amulets come off, you know?” he muses. “Tattoos don’t, and if they were somewhere subtle, somewhere covered? People, demons, whatever, wouldn’t even know we had ‘em.”
“Matching tats? Pretty serious, Sammy. You're not gonna give me your jacket first, maybe a class ring?” Dean teases.
“Come on, man,” Sam snorts, shoving Dean's shoulder. “Be serious.”
“It’s a good idea, Sammy,” Dean agrees. It’s kinda genius, actually. A talisman everywhere they go? Something secret and permanent? Sounds fucking awesome, especially when the monster could be anyone or everyone, anywhere and everywhere, always looking for an opening, a chink in the armor. “But you know Dad’s never gonna go for it.”
Sam blows out a breath, his face telling Dean that he remembers their dad’s “No Identifying Marks of Any Kind” rants from when they were kids, the weight he put on blending in, of being able to pass as anything, anywhere, anytime.
The one time Sam had pointed out Dad’s Corps ink during one of those speeches, Sam’d been on double PT and weapons cleaning duty for a month.
“I know, I know,” he sighs, looks up at Dean. “You think maybe…”
“What?” Dean laughs. “We throw away all of Dad’s new rules, sneak out, get inked up in secret? Hope he doesn’t notice the big ass bandages and our sudden love for A&D? Sammy, come on. You saw him today. That was after we called him, left a note, and went after a lead on the case. And he still tore across three states, kicked down Ellen’s door, held a gun on you, gave me a holy water facial, and read us the fucking riot act.”
“Yeah…” Sam admits, little frustrated twist at the edge of his mouth, looking down to where he’s toying with the charm between his fingers.
“What do you think he’s gonna do if we sneak out in the middle of the night and he finds us in some seedy tattoo joint getting matching occult symbols inked over our hearts?” Dean challenges, raising an eyebrow, because Sam has to understand this, has to get exactly why this would be the worst idea right now, but the kid’s every bit as stubborn as he’s always been.
“They’re anti-possession-”
“Yeah, ‘cause Dad’s gonna stop and whip out his little pocket dictionary, look up which symbol it is before he plugs us both?” Dean asks with a bitter laugh. “Sam, it’s a good idea, really, it is, but now’s not the time. Not yet.”
“But soon?” Sam pushes. “First chance we get?”
“Well, most people woulda gunned for Disneyland,” Dean teases, smirking, relieved that Sam'll let this one rest, just a little, just until things calm down. “But yeah, Sammy. You got it. Soon as Dad cools down? You, me, and matchin’ anti-demon ink.”
“And hey,” he adds, shooting Sam a smartass grin. “Maybe you ask nice, I’ll have ‘em put my initials under yours, so those black eyed sons-of-bitches know just whose little brother they’re messin’ with.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sam laughs, shoving Dean in the arm again and going back to his notes, but the smile sticks, lingers at the corner of Sammy’s mouth as they roll through Kansas, southwest towards Colorado.
Towards Colorado and Elkins and answers about this fucking gun, towards solving this thing and killing this demon and hopefully, fucking hopefully, finding a way to work together with Dad without anyone getting their fucking brains blown out.
Chapter 15