A Prayer Like Exorcism
Title: A Prayer Like Exorcism
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Genfic; slight Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John gets a lead on the demon that hits far too close to home.
Warnings: Violence and language. Also (spoilers for fic ahead): bad!John, child abuse, and character death.
A/N: Written for spn_reversebang. This story was written around the magnificent art created by bloopfish. PLEASE go look at her art and leave you feedback; it really is amazing work. This story was incredibly hard, as it is vastly different from anything else I've written. Suspense is difficult, people. Special beta thanks to thanku4thvenom, who is amazing and wonderful. Thank you so much for looking this over for me, love.
Word Count: 5,450
John gets a phone all in the middle of the night. They're in a cheap motel, which isn't anything new, but they're too low on money to even afford a cot for Sammy so he's sharing the second bed with Dean. The phone's shrill ringing wakes Dean up, but Sam just mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to his brother.
Dean raises his head to look at John, who talks quietly, briskly into the phone as he gets up, moves towards the bathroom. “Yes, yes, of course I'm interested. Just hang on a second,” John's eyes meet Dean's for a second before the bathroom door shuts and Dean can't make out what he's saying anymore.
He settles back down on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. Something is off. Dean's always had a sense of when things are going to go bad, a gut feeling that's never let him down. It's saved his life, Sam's life, and even John's life, too many times to count and Dean trusts his instincts.
His instincts are screaming for him to run, to take Sammy and get the fuck out of there. But that's stupid because he's their dad; he loves them, would do anything to protect them and keep them safe. John's not a danger to them, never will be.
But, still. Dean's muscles are wound up tight and he lays stiff as a board, ears straining to pick up sounds from the bathroom, but it's utterly pointless and all he can make out is the muffled sound of his dad's voice.
An hour later, John emerges from the bathroom, grabs his bag and his gun. He doesn't look at Dean when he speaks, just says gruffly, “I'll be back in a few days. Don't go anywhere.”
And that, right there, is what's wrong. John doesn't pause to kiss Sam's sleeping head, to ruffle Dean's hair. He doesn't say, be careful and take care of Sam. He doesn't check to make sure Dean's gun is cleaned in ready, that he has enough ammo, doesn't check the salt barrier, doesn't give him a list of names to call in case the shit hits the fan.
He just leaves.
Dean gently disentangles himself from Sam and moves about the room. He digs his gun out from his bag, checks it over carefully himself. He loads it, flips the safety on, and sticks it down the back of his pajama bottoms. His favorite knife is on the beside table but he leaves it there, where Sam can reach it if he needs to.
The salt line had broken when John had left and Dean carefully fixes it. He twists the lock and deadbolt on the door and then slides the chain into place. Then he drags a chair across the room and props it up beneath the handle. He checks to make sure the windows are locked and then to see if they have any food left; there's some bread that's getting a little stale, some meat and cheese, and a few cans of soda in the refrigerator the motel had provided. Dean knows how to make food last. If that fails, Dean has ten bucks tucked away and they'd passed a Pizza Hut coming into town.
Sammy loves pizza.
Dean's eyes drift back over to Sammy, still sleeping soundly. Without Dean there to take up space, Sam has sprawled out across the bed, his long, lanky limbs taking up as much of the bed as possible. Tiny snore-like noises are escaping his gaping mouth and he's drooling onto his pillow.
Christ, the kid'll be thirteen soon. To Dean, it's like one day Sam was a child, small and clinging to his hand as they crossed the street and the next he was twelve and teachers kept saying how gifted he was. Every single time, John went tense and his eyes went wild, but Dean doesn't have the heart to tell Sam to knock it off and pretend he's normal.
Sighing, Dean sits down at the table, lays his gun within easy reach. He pulls a book out of one of the bags Dad had left - the Prose Edda - and starts reading. He's too tense, too anxious, to go back to sleep.
Something really bad is about to happen. Dean can feel it.
Technically, Dean and Sam have school, but John's abrupt departure has left Dean nervous and on edge. He's not really comfortable letting Sam out of his sight, or even out of the motel room, until John gets back, so when Sam finally drags himself out of bed, its half-past ten and Dean's microwaving bologna for sandwiches.
“Where's Dad?” Sam asks, almost immediately.
Dean glances over and almost winces at Sam's face, drawn tight with worry. It's only been a few months since Sam got abruptly thrown into the world of hunting and realized exactly what his father and brother had been doing his whole life. The black dog they'd been hunting had nearly killed Sam too, but Dean would like to forget that ever happened.
“He went to check out a lead. He'll be back; its not even a hunt.”
Sam stares at Dean for a moment, eyes narrowed and considering. Dean doesn't lie, not to Sam, but he does have a tendency to leave out certain details. Finally, though, Sam nods curtly and grabs his bag from the floor.
“I'm gonna shower.”
“Go for it, you reek.”
Sam scowls and Dean grins and just like that, a little bit of Dean's nervousness fades away.
After two days cooped up, Sam is getting restless. Dean is, too, but he handles it better. Sam is sulky, spends most of his time glowering at the television or glaring at Dean. He snaps at Dean every time they talk, voice laced with too much teen angst for a twelve-year-old and sarcasm he picked up from Dean at an early age. Sam has a sharp tongue, quick and biting, and he wields it like an expert weapon.
Dean decides to go ahead and order pizza, a peace offering of sorts, and then asks Sam if he wants it delivered or wants to go eat in the restaurant. Sam's eyes practically light up at the idea of leaving their crummy, cramped motel room and he skips to the door.
The trip is a success; Sam gets some fresh air, the exercise helps relieve some of the tension that's been building in Dean, and the pizza is awesome. Dean's out fifteen bucks, but it was worth it.
They walk back home, pace slow and bellies full. Dean drapes an arm around Sam's shoulders and Sam leans into him, looks up at him with the smile Dean's been missing for the last few days, the one that makes Dean feel like he's fifty feet tall and indestructible, the one that Sam's been aiming his way, only his way, all his life.
Dean relaxes a little more, until they swing around the corner and Sam lets out a sound, a shocked gasp that might be a little pleased and a little sad at the same time. Dean looks up and spots the Impala immediately. He frowns because he loves that car, really he does, and its covered in dirt, caked with dust and mud and sludge, and then his stomach drops out and he realizes with a start that John's home and whatever Dean's been dreading for the last few days, its not coming anymore, its here.
Dean enters their room first, smile bright for John even though his palm is itching for his gun and he's not even sure why. John looks up, looks upset and furious, and Dean has to force himself to step aside and let Sam into the room.
“Where've you been?” John demands. He doesn't look at Sam, keeps his eyes focused firmly on Dean.
“Went out for pizza,” Dean shrugs, as if it's that easy, that simple. It's not, he knows it's not, but Dean's really good at playing pretend.
John studies him for a moment before turning away. He stuffs a book Dean had been reading into a bag and says, “Get packed. We're leaving.”
Sam moves automatically, gathering his clothes, his books and his hairbrush from the bathroom. Dean's rooted in place, staring at their father in shock.
It wasn't a big thing, not really. It was just pizza but Dean knows John, knows his father. Dean broke the rules, he disobeyed an order. Don't leave the room when John's gone. Don't leave Sammy unprotected. Don't waste money on anything but the necessities and pizza is not a necessity.
But John doesn't seem to care, which is... It's wrong. It's wrong because Sam is Sam and John's always gone out of his way to keep him safe, keep him happy, keep him protected. If his rules are strict and over-the-top, its because he loves his sons and wants to keep them safe and Dean put that in danger the moment he took Sam outside. John should be pissed, John should be yelling and lecturing and calling Dean irresponsible and reckless, but he's not and Dean doesn't know what to do with it.
“Dean.” John's voice is hard as steel and sharp as Dean's prized knife. It cuts through Dean's thoughts and the haze of confusion that's building up in him. “Get to work.”
Dean starts moving, but he can't shake the dread that's building.
They drive for hours. There is no music to break the silence, silence that is almost audible, that grates on Dean's nerves. There's just John, focused intently on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel and knuckles white. There's just Dean in the passenger seat, stung out, muscles tense, waiting. There's just Sam, little Sammy, in the back, confused and worried and face all pinched.
“Dad.” Sam's voice is a whisper, quiet and guilty, but its loud and jarring, breaking the silence. Dean twists to look at him, but the only sign that John's heard him is the way his hands tighten further around the wheel. Sam licks at his lips, eyes darting from the back of John's head to Dean and back. “Dad, I have to pee.”
John presses harder on the accelerator and Sam begins to look pained.
Dean bites at his lip, clears his throat. “Hey, um. Dad? Could we stop? I have to pee.”
John glances over at him, eyes flickering up to the rear view mirror, to Sam, and then back to Dean. “Almost there, Dean. Just wait.”
Dean is suddenly too aware of time, too aware of the passage of miles and minutes. He stares out the window and counts mile markers. At forty, Sam whimpers and from the corner of his eye, Dean can see him curl in on himself. Dean's hands curl into fists. At sixty, Sam's eyes are squeezed shut and his fingers are clawing at his pants. At ninety, Dean can smell piss, sharp and rancid, and Sam's face is red, his eyes downcast, shamed.
Dean stops counting because its obvious John isn't going to stop, not until they get wherever they're going. Dean stares out the window, sick with anger and fear and confusion.
Its nearly three more hours before John stops before a church. Large and impressive, with the sun setting behind its steeple and casting a large shadow across the ground. Dean doesn't like churches, doesn't like angels or God. His mom used to tell him, whispers into his hair before bed, that angels were watching over him but then Mom died and everything fell apart.
It must be a case, Dean decides. Churches usually mean graveyards; it could be a simple salt-and-burn. John gets out, moves towards the trunk, but Dean doesn't care about any of that. He scurries out, propping the seat forward and helping Sam climb out.
Sam's legs are shaky, his face wet and tear-streaked. His clothes are soaked and smelly, but Dean doesn't let it show on his face. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders, moves to help him inside, but John is suddenly there, hand wrapping tightly around Sam's bicep, jerking him away from Dean.
“You stay here, Dean.” John's voice is firm, void of emotion. He pushes Sam roughly into the church and Dean gets a glimpse of Sam's pale, frightened face before the heavy doors bang shut behind them.
At first, Dean paces. Back and forth, from end to end of the Impala, kicking up dust as he whirls around. He rakes his teeth across his lower lip, worrying skin that has already been worn thin and raw, until he tastes sharp, metallic copper on his tongue.
After what seems like ages, but is perhaps only a few minutes, Dean circles the church and finds a window to peer through. The stained glass distorts everything and Dean can just barely make out the shape of his father, large and looming over the smaller shadow of Sammy.
Dean doesn't understand what is going on. His mind whirls, latching on to the first thought that makes sense. Demon. A demon must have possessed their father, using him to go after Sammy. And Dean had been so stupid! All the training he's had, everything he knows, and he hadn't even noticed.
He immediately begins to move, circling the church. He finds a cellar door towards the back, picks the heavy wooden door from the ground, and descends the steps revealed. The cellar is musty, the air thick with dust. Dean muffles a cough into his shoulder and then pulls his jacket sleeve over his hand, using the material as a make-shift mask to breathe through.
Its hard to see, almost pitch-black in the darkness. The only light that shines through is from the open door behind Dean and the rapidly setting sun. Dean feels around the walls, hoping the cellar has an entrance from the church, and is rewarded when he finds a ladder. Climbing quickly, he eases the trapdoor above his head aside and peers out into the church.
John is pacing the floor, Sam nothing but a crumbled lump before the pews. There is a basin of water set into the ground, a shallow pool probably used for baptisms. A little behind it, there is an altar, a pedestal with a thick, heavy bible sat upon it, and a towering cross on the wall. The altar holds a few lit candles and a gleaming, polished statue of the Virgin Mary.
When John suddenly grabs Sam again, Dean hunkers lower, pulling the door back over his head. Dean's fingers tighten around the wooden handles of the ladder as John drags Sam across the floor, his chest tightening at Sam's small gasps and quiet whimpers of pain.
With a shock, Dean suddenly realizes that John is headed towards him, towards the cellar, and quickly fits the trapdoor into place and drops back down to the dirt floor below. He presses himself against a wall and hopes he's not noticed.
The door above him is ripped away and Dean catches a glimpse of John's angry, frighting face before Sammy is shoved through the opening. His small body lands on the floor with a muffled thump and a sharp cry of pain from Sam.
“Stay there,” John's voice is dangerous and Dean's eyes remain on Sam, taking in the trembling of his limbs. “If you run, I'll make you regret it.”
The last of the light goes away as John fits the door back into place and Dean quickly rushes to Sam's side, pulling him into his arms. Sam makes a soft sound, his body flinching before he weakly tries to pull away.
“Shush,” Dean tells him softly and Sam immediately stills. “It's okay.”
“Dean.” Sam croaks. “Dean, that's not Dad.”
“I know, Sammy. I know.” Dean presses a kiss to Sam's temple and runs his fingers through his hair. His brother feels frighteningly small in his arms, curling into the comfort of Dean's arms as he hasn't done in years, not since the nightmares of an eight-year-old had driven the boy into Dean's bed.
Dean hums Metallica, lips pressed to Sam's ear, and thinks frantically for a solution.
He could take Sam away now. Out the other door, up the stairs, into the Impala. Dean could drive away and leave John and this horribleness behind. But, then what? Where would they go, how could they be safe from the demon without their dad?
Bobby's. They could go to Bobby's. Dean knows Bobby would help, would know what to do and how to help Dad.
“We're going to get out of here, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother. “Okay?”
Sam looks up at Dean, eyes wide and trusting. Dean bends, pressing their lips together quickly and then pulling back to meet Sam's eyes again.
“Okay?”
Sam nods, slow and hesitant, and whispers, “Okay.”
“You aren't going anywhere, Dean.”
Dean twists, eyes going wide with horror, to see John standing behind them, in the archway of the door Dean had left open. He looks so large, so intimidating, and for the first time, Dean feels fear of his father. In his arms, Sam whispers and presses closer to Dean's side.
“Christo,” Dean says, voice barely loud enough to be heard.
John's laugh is frightening. “I'm not the one possessed, boy.”
Dean shakes his head, not understanding. John has to be possessed, has to be. He's their dad and he wouldn't do this to them, wouldn't hurt them like this. Not unless he was possessed.
John strides forward and Sam is ripped away from Dean again, strangled cry falling from both boys' lips. John drags Sam away and when Dean rushes after, its just for the door to slam closed above his head and when he pushes at the heavy weight, it won't budge.
Dean already knows that the trapdoor is blocked, as well.
Dean can hear Sammy shrieking for him, the sound suddenly cut off, and Dean finds himself on his hands and knees, throwing up what little is in his guts until exhaustion, fear, and helplessness overtakes Dean and he crumbles to his side.
Dean awakes much later with a jerk. It is impossible to know how much time has passed and he isn't sure what, exactly, had woken him. His throat and nose burn from his stomach acids, his eyes itch from tears he hadn't been aware of shedding, and his lips taste of salt. He struggles to his feet, wiping roughly at his face with one hand.
Dean knows, with startling clarity, that John is going to kill Sam and the only one that can save him, the only one that even knows Sam is in danger, is Dean. It isn't fair, the crossroads Dean finds himself standing before, this decision he must make. However, very little of Dean's life has been fair and Dean knows there really isn't any decision to make at all.
John Winchester has always been Dean's hero. John has always been the one pillar of support Dean had to depend on. He has always been the strength that Dean could draw from, the great warrior who battled the twisted, evil monsters that threatened everyone else, kids like Sammy and women like Mom, so that no other family had to withstand what they had, go through the hell they have. Dean has always followed his father blindly, has always believed in him with unwavering faith.
But for all the things John may be for Dean, Sam is so much more.
Sam is Dean's home, his heart. Sam is his own little bright spot of light in the dark world Dean lives in. Sam is the innocence that Dean doesn't have the ability to cling to, the purpose of Dean's very existence, his last, silent promise to their mother. Sam is everything.
Dean will stand against any enemy, protect Sam from any foe. Even if that means going up against John Winchester. And Dean knows that this is one fight he cannot afford to lose.
For an instant, Dean is tall, strong, and empowered, but then the silence is broken by a wailing scream, a cry Dean is familiar with from the nightmares that had plagued Sam through childhood. It chills Dean to his very core and he knows, quite suddenly, what had awakened him.
John had begun.
Dean stands frozen, terror clawing at him, helpless as he listens to his brother's screams. He has no way of knowing what John is subjecting Sam to, how long Sam even has before it becomes too much.
Its not something Dean likes to admit, but he knows how to hurt things. He's learned how to torture; monsters, demons, whatever, they all start squealing when you hurt them enough. And everything he knows, everything he's been taught, was at John's knee and he's not stupid enough to think John's shown him every trick in the book. Torture will eventually kill, but if done right, it can do a lot worse than that.
Pain can drive someone insane, break them in ways they had thought impossible. And Sam's just a kid. Sure, he's a tough sonofabitch and God knows he's stubborn as shit, but he's still just twelve years old and so, so easy to break.
Dean snarls at the thought, twists and slams his fist into the hard stone of the cellar's walls. Pain sears up his arm, the skin of his knuckles splitting, bones breaking and fracturing from the force. He yells, sound ripping from his throat with savage anger, a roar of desperation and fear. It does nothing to make him feel better, does nothing to get him out of his entrapment, and in the darkness, Dean hangs his head and fights the urge to crumble to the floor.
There has to be a way out. Dean isn't helpless, he's far from it. He's been raised since he was four to be ready for anything, a regular boyscout. He's more than competent at getting in and out of places he's not supposed to be and John may be good, but Dean's still slipped out from under his careful eye to have a tumble with a pretty girl more than a few times without getting caught. He can do this.
With a hand out before himself, Dean makes his way to the other side of the cellar. His hand his cold stone and he gropes for a minute before his fingers knock into the wooden bars and tangle with the coarse rope holding the ladder together.
He climbs it, quick and easy, and presses up with one hand. The trapdoor is blocked, something heavy atop it, and Dean climbs higher, shoving a shoulder up against the door. The angle is awkward, his head twisted uncomfortably between his body and the wall, and its hard to get the leverage he needs. He pushes and the shoves with all his might, jerking his body up and against the door.
It makes a loud noise, but the trapdoor moves and light suddenly blinds Dean. There's a large, heavy chandelier hanging from a thick wooden beam, admitting painfully bright light that stings Dean's eyes and makes them water.
Dean shoves himself up against the door again and it finally gives way enough for Dean to struggle out of the cellar. He looks up, still blinking away spots that leap and dance before his vision, just in time to roll away from John's foot, aimed at his head.
Their scuffle is short. Dean's young, and he's been trained well, but he's still stunned by the light and John's experience is just too great in comparison. Dean gets two solid punches in before John has him on the ground. There's a click of metal on metal and when John's weight shifts off of him, Dean moves to roll, only to find he can't. He's handcuffed to the church's alter, solid ring of metal around his wrist.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean spits out. John shakes his head, for a moment his eyes sad. Dean doesn't care, not when Sammy's crying softly not five feet from him and he's still unable to make it stop.
“You don't get it, do you, boy? Its not him, its not Sam. Its never been Sam.” John says. It doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. Dean doesn't understand what's going on, can't comprehend any reason John would be doing this to them, hurting Sam like he is, and his words do nothing to ease Dean's confusion.
“It should have occurred to me,” John continues. He moves away from Dean and Dean's eyes are drawn behind his father, to Sam.
John has tied Sammy to a chair, thick ropes around his shoulders, wrists, knees, and ankles. The chair is set in the middle of a symbol; Dean doesn't recognize it though it looks like there's some Sanskrit mixed into the intricate design. There is blood on Sam's face, dripping from his nose and mouth, teeth stained with it, and a nasty cut is sliced deeply across one palm. His skin is discolored with bruises, pale now as they just form, and one shoulder is clearly dislocated. Dean knows Sammy must have fought, and fought hard from the looks of it, and he wants to applaud.
“I should have seen it sooner,” John is saying and Dean struggles to focus on him, rather than Sammy, “That he wasn't really my son.”
Dean doesn't miss the way Sam flinches, as if he's been struck. There are tears, wet and shining, on Sam's face and Dean's heart aches for his brother.
“Don't you see, Dean? Its The Demon. He killed your mother and overtook your brother. He stole Sam away from us. But we'll get him back, son. Even if Sam's body has to die, it'll be better than him being possessed by that monster.”
Dean shakes so hard the chain lengths of the handcuffs around his wrist rattle. Sam's breathing hitches at the words and Dean wants to reassure him, tell him everything is going to be okay, but how can it possibly be okay ever again?
John turns away from Dean, towards Sam once again. He picks up a book from the floor and thumbs through it, holding it in one hand. With his other, he empties a canteen of water over Sam's head; it wets his hair and runs down his face, dripping onto his shoulders and down the front of his shirt, but it doesn't burn and Sam doesn't flinch. John frowns and begins to chant, Latin flowing from his lips.
Pastor Jim once told Dean that exorcisms are like prayers, bringing death to evil.
Dean is helpless, chained in place and unable to do anything to help his brother, forced to sit by and watch as their father makes plans to hurt, to kill, Sam.
The exorcism is long and John is drenched in sweat by the end of it. Sam's cries and whimpers have stopped and he sits, slack against his bindings, in the chair. He is unaffected by the words and water John had thrown at him, staring blankly at the floor.
John throws his book aside. He unties the ropes holding Sam in place quickly, jerking Sam up to his feet with an unforgiving hand about his arm.
“I will expel you from my son, you sonofabitch, even if I must destroy his body to give him that peace!” John roars. Dean jerks against the metal cuff so hard the skin at his wrist splits and begins to bleed.
John drags Sam down the long aisle of the church, past row after row of wooden pews. He kicks the door of the church open with a heavy boot and Dean flinches when the door swings shut behind them.
Dean yanks at the metal uselessly before he twists, eyes scanning the room for something of use to him. John's bag, open and overflowing with books, has been forgotten a few feet from Dean. Dean shuffles along the floor, stretching a leg out as far as he was able. His foot caught the strap of John's bag and Dean nearly wept with relief as he drew it towards him.
He was not lucky enough for the key to be laying within, but John's journal was. Dean slipped a paperclip from its pages and was made quick work of his lock, free within seconds.
There were no spare weapons to be found and Dean's eyes dart around before settling on the statue of Mary situated on the alter. He grabbed it, the weight heavy and solid in his hand, and took off after his father.
Dean circles around the church, eyes searching for his father. He can hear the sound of water, of splashing and his father's grunts, and just as he rounds the corner, he spots the dark shape of his father, knee deep in a man-made creek. His hands hold Sam under the water, rosary wrapped around his wrist as he spits Latin out. Dean doesn't even think, he just swings the statue in his hands and connects with the back of John's head.
John goes down instantly and Dean hauls his weight off of Sam. It wasn't a fatal blow, Dean knew that, but it could give them enough time to get free. Dean helps Sam, coughing and sputtering helplessly, from the water, eyes scanning his father's body quickly. John's jacket was absent and the keys to the Impala would be in one of its pockets.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother, supporting his weight as they climb from the bank and back towards the church. Inside, Dean sets Sam down on a pew, and starts searching for John's jacket.
“Hurry,” Sam croaks, voice sounding broken. Dean glances over, sees the bruises forming on his brother's throat, and feels rage red and hot like he's never known before.
“Just let me find the keys, Sammy,” Dean says, turning away and looking again. He finally spots the jacket, tossed aside on the pew nearest the chair John had tied Sam to. Dean snatches up and turns, immediately going still.
John's standing in the door of the church, gun leveled straight at Dean. “Can't let you do it, Dean. That monster killed your mom. You remember her, don't you, Dean?”
Dean's stomach tightens. Yeah, he remembers. Sometimes, he thinks he remembers better than John does. When John tells stories, drunk off his ass on Jack Daniels and Jim Bean, he talks about a beautiful woman that was his world, his perfect wife and their perfect marriage. It wasn't like that; Dean remembers them screaming and fighting long into the night, remembers how John's penchant for alcohol had started long before Mom had died.
Dean licks his lips, dry and chapped. “Dad. Dad, its. Its not the demon, okay? Its just, just Sam. Its Sammy.”
John shakes his head, “I'm sorry he's gotten to you, Dean. I'm so sorry, son.”
The gunshot echoes, pain searing through Dean's shoulder. He drops to the ground, gasping, and Sam's voice is suddenly loud and roaring, power laced through it as he screams in fury, “NO!”
The room explodes with heat, pews sudden ablaze. The fire spreads rapidly, burning and consuming, and Dean shoves himself to his feet. Sam's exactly where he left him, except his eyes are solid black and blazing like hellfire. It gives Dean a pause, but he's quickly over it, picking Sam up, shoulder protesting with sharp pain that has Dean screaming in his head.
John's against a wall, unconscious and surrounded by flame. Dean hesitates a moment, but Sam's hands clutch at his shirt, one curling around the amulet at Dean's throat, and he moves on. Dean gets in the Impala, digging keys out of John's jacket with one hand, the other curled protectively around Sammy's thin waist.
The car starts up, a purring sound that's as familiar as the sound of John's voice or Sam's laughter. The church is consumed completely in flame, no possible way that John's survived, and it hurts. They're orphaned, alone, and Sam's... Dean doesn't know what to think of Sam, what to do with this new part of Sam that John's let loose.
With no destination in mind, no safe place to run, Dean starts up the Impala and slides it into drive, a single tear rolling down his cheek as Sam smiles against his neck.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Genfic; slight Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John gets a lead on the demon that hits far too close to home.
Warnings: Violence and language. Also (spoilers for fic ahead): bad!John, child abuse, and character death.
A/N: Written for spn_reversebang. This story was written around the magnificent art created by bloopfish. PLEASE go look at her art and leave you feedback; it really is amazing work. This story was incredibly hard, as it is vastly different from anything else I've written. Suspense is difficult, people. Special beta thanks to thanku4thvenom, who is amazing and wonderful. Thank you so much for looking this over for me, love.
Word Count: 5,450
John gets a phone all in the middle of the night. They're in a cheap motel, which isn't anything new, but they're too low on money to even afford a cot for Sammy so he's sharing the second bed with Dean. The phone's shrill ringing wakes Dean up, but Sam just mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to his brother.
Dean raises his head to look at John, who talks quietly, briskly into the phone as he gets up, moves towards the bathroom. “Yes, yes, of course I'm interested. Just hang on a second,” John's eyes meet Dean's for a second before the bathroom door shuts and Dean can't make out what he's saying anymore.
He settles back down on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. Something is off. Dean's always had a sense of when things are going to go bad, a gut feeling that's never let him down. It's saved his life, Sam's life, and even John's life, too many times to count and Dean trusts his instincts.
His instincts are screaming for him to run, to take Sammy and get the fuck out of there. But that's stupid because he's their dad; he loves them, would do anything to protect them and keep them safe. John's not a danger to them, never will be.
But, still. Dean's muscles are wound up tight and he lays stiff as a board, ears straining to pick up sounds from the bathroom, but it's utterly pointless and all he can make out is the muffled sound of his dad's voice.
An hour later, John emerges from the bathroom, grabs his bag and his gun. He doesn't look at Dean when he speaks, just says gruffly, “I'll be back in a few days. Don't go anywhere.”
And that, right there, is what's wrong. John doesn't pause to kiss Sam's sleeping head, to ruffle Dean's hair. He doesn't say, be careful and take care of Sam. He doesn't check to make sure Dean's gun is cleaned in ready, that he has enough ammo, doesn't check the salt barrier, doesn't give him a list of names to call in case the shit hits the fan.
He just leaves.
Dean gently disentangles himself from Sam and moves about the room. He digs his gun out from his bag, checks it over carefully himself. He loads it, flips the safety on, and sticks it down the back of his pajama bottoms. His favorite knife is on the beside table but he leaves it there, where Sam can reach it if he needs to.
The salt line had broken when John had left and Dean carefully fixes it. He twists the lock and deadbolt on the door and then slides the chain into place. Then he drags a chair across the room and props it up beneath the handle. He checks to make sure the windows are locked and then to see if they have any food left; there's some bread that's getting a little stale, some meat and cheese, and a few cans of soda in the refrigerator the motel had provided. Dean knows how to make food last. If that fails, Dean has ten bucks tucked away and they'd passed a Pizza Hut coming into town.
Sammy loves pizza.
Dean's eyes drift back over to Sammy, still sleeping soundly. Without Dean there to take up space, Sam has sprawled out across the bed, his long, lanky limbs taking up as much of the bed as possible. Tiny snore-like noises are escaping his gaping mouth and he's drooling onto his pillow.
Christ, the kid'll be thirteen soon. To Dean, it's like one day Sam was a child, small and clinging to his hand as they crossed the street and the next he was twelve and teachers kept saying how gifted he was. Every single time, John went tense and his eyes went wild, but Dean doesn't have the heart to tell Sam to knock it off and pretend he's normal.
Sighing, Dean sits down at the table, lays his gun within easy reach. He pulls a book out of one of the bags Dad had left - the Prose Edda - and starts reading. He's too tense, too anxious, to go back to sleep.
Something really bad is about to happen. Dean can feel it.
Technically, Dean and Sam have school, but John's abrupt departure has left Dean nervous and on edge. He's not really comfortable letting Sam out of his sight, or even out of the motel room, until John gets back, so when Sam finally drags himself out of bed, its half-past ten and Dean's microwaving bologna for sandwiches.
“Where's Dad?” Sam asks, almost immediately.
Dean glances over and almost winces at Sam's face, drawn tight with worry. It's only been a few months since Sam got abruptly thrown into the world of hunting and realized exactly what his father and brother had been doing his whole life. The black dog they'd been hunting had nearly killed Sam too, but Dean would like to forget that ever happened.
“He went to check out a lead. He'll be back; its not even a hunt.”
Sam stares at Dean for a moment, eyes narrowed and considering. Dean doesn't lie, not to Sam, but he does have a tendency to leave out certain details. Finally, though, Sam nods curtly and grabs his bag from the floor.
“I'm gonna shower.”
“Go for it, you reek.”
Sam scowls and Dean grins and just like that, a little bit of Dean's nervousness fades away.
After two days cooped up, Sam is getting restless. Dean is, too, but he handles it better. Sam is sulky, spends most of his time glowering at the television or glaring at Dean. He snaps at Dean every time they talk, voice laced with too much teen angst for a twelve-year-old and sarcasm he picked up from Dean at an early age. Sam has a sharp tongue, quick and biting, and he wields it like an expert weapon.
Dean decides to go ahead and order pizza, a peace offering of sorts, and then asks Sam if he wants it delivered or wants to go eat in the restaurant. Sam's eyes practically light up at the idea of leaving their crummy, cramped motel room and he skips to the door.
The trip is a success; Sam gets some fresh air, the exercise helps relieve some of the tension that's been building in Dean, and the pizza is awesome. Dean's out fifteen bucks, but it was worth it.
They walk back home, pace slow and bellies full. Dean drapes an arm around Sam's shoulders and Sam leans into him, looks up at him with the smile Dean's been missing for the last few days, the one that makes Dean feel like he's fifty feet tall and indestructible, the one that Sam's been aiming his way, only his way, all his life.
Dean relaxes a little more, until they swing around the corner and Sam lets out a sound, a shocked gasp that might be a little pleased and a little sad at the same time. Dean looks up and spots the Impala immediately. He frowns because he loves that car, really he does, and its covered in dirt, caked with dust and mud and sludge, and then his stomach drops out and he realizes with a start that John's home and whatever Dean's been dreading for the last few days, its not coming anymore, its here.
Dean enters their room first, smile bright for John even though his palm is itching for his gun and he's not even sure why. John looks up, looks upset and furious, and Dean has to force himself to step aside and let Sam into the room.
“Where've you been?” John demands. He doesn't look at Sam, keeps his eyes focused firmly on Dean.
“Went out for pizza,” Dean shrugs, as if it's that easy, that simple. It's not, he knows it's not, but Dean's really good at playing pretend.
John studies him for a moment before turning away. He stuffs a book Dean had been reading into a bag and says, “Get packed. We're leaving.”
Sam moves automatically, gathering his clothes, his books and his hairbrush from the bathroom. Dean's rooted in place, staring at their father in shock.
It wasn't a big thing, not really. It was just pizza but Dean knows John, knows his father. Dean broke the rules, he disobeyed an order. Don't leave the room when John's gone. Don't leave Sammy unprotected. Don't waste money on anything but the necessities and pizza is not a necessity.
But John doesn't seem to care, which is... It's wrong. It's wrong because Sam is Sam and John's always gone out of his way to keep him safe, keep him happy, keep him protected. If his rules are strict and over-the-top, its because he loves his sons and wants to keep them safe and Dean put that in danger the moment he took Sam outside. John should be pissed, John should be yelling and lecturing and calling Dean irresponsible and reckless, but he's not and Dean doesn't know what to do with it.
“Dean.” John's voice is hard as steel and sharp as Dean's prized knife. It cuts through Dean's thoughts and the haze of confusion that's building up in him. “Get to work.”
Dean starts moving, but he can't shake the dread that's building.
They drive for hours. There is no music to break the silence, silence that is almost audible, that grates on Dean's nerves. There's just John, focused intently on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel and knuckles white. There's just Dean in the passenger seat, stung out, muscles tense, waiting. There's just Sam, little Sammy, in the back, confused and worried and face all pinched.
“Dad.” Sam's voice is a whisper, quiet and guilty, but its loud and jarring, breaking the silence. Dean twists to look at him, but the only sign that John's heard him is the way his hands tighten further around the wheel. Sam licks at his lips, eyes darting from the back of John's head to Dean and back. “Dad, I have to pee.”
John presses harder on the accelerator and Sam begins to look pained.
Dean bites at his lip, clears his throat. “Hey, um. Dad? Could we stop? I have to pee.”
John glances over at him, eyes flickering up to the rear view mirror, to Sam, and then back to Dean. “Almost there, Dean. Just wait.”
Dean is suddenly too aware of time, too aware of the passage of miles and minutes. He stares out the window and counts mile markers. At forty, Sam whimpers and from the corner of his eye, Dean can see him curl in on himself. Dean's hands curl into fists. At sixty, Sam's eyes are squeezed shut and his fingers are clawing at his pants. At ninety, Dean can smell piss, sharp and rancid, and Sam's face is red, his eyes downcast, shamed.
Dean stops counting because its obvious John isn't going to stop, not until they get wherever they're going. Dean stares out the window, sick with anger and fear and confusion.
Its nearly three more hours before John stops before a church. Large and impressive, with the sun setting behind its steeple and casting a large shadow across the ground. Dean doesn't like churches, doesn't like angels or God. His mom used to tell him, whispers into his hair before bed, that angels were watching over him but then Mom died and everything fell apart.
It must be a case, Dean decides. Churches usually mean graveyards; it could be a simple salt-and-burn. John gets out, moves towards the trunk, but Dean doesn't care about any of that. He scurries out, propping the seat forward and helping Sam climb out.
Sam's legs are shaky, his face wet and tear-streaked. His clothes are soaked and smelly, but Dean doesn't let it show on his face. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders, moves to help him inside, but John is suddenly there, hand wrapping tightly around Sam's bicep, jerking him away from Dean.
“You stay here, Dean.” John's voice is firm, void of emotion. He pushes Sam roughly into the church and Dean gets a glimpse of Sam's pale, frightened face before the heavy doors bang shut behind them.
At first, Dean paces. Back and forth, from end to end of the Impala, kicking up dust as he whirls around. He rakes his teeth across his lower lip, worrying skin that has already been worn thin and raw, until he tastes sharp, metallic copper on his tongue.
After what seems like ages, but is perhaps only a few minutes, Dean circles the church and finds a window to peer through. The stained glass distorts everything and Dean can just barely make out the shape of his father, large and looming over the smaller shadow of Sammy.
Dean doesn't understand what is going on. His mind whirls, latching on to the first thought that makes sense. Demon. A demon must have possessed their father, using him to go after Sammy. And Dean had been so stupid! All the training he's had, everything he knows, and he hadn't even noticed.
He immediately begins to move, circling the church. He finds a cellar door towards the back, picks the heavy wooden door from the ground, and descends the steps revealed. The cellar is musty, the air thick with dust. Dean muffles a cough into his shoulder and then pulls his jacket sleeve over his hand, using the material as a make-shift mask to breathe through.
Its hard to see, almost pitch-black in the darkness. The only light that shines through is from the open door behind Dean and the rapidly setting sun. Dean feels around the walls, hoping the cellar has an entrance from the church, and is rewarded when he finds a ladder. Climbing quickly, he eases the trapdoor above his head aside and peers out into the church.
John is pacing the floor, Sam nothing but a crumbled lump before the pews. There is a basin of water set into the ground, a shallow pool probably used for baptisms. A little behind it, there is an altar, a pedestal with a thick, heavy bible sat upon it, and a towering cross on the wall. The altar holds a few lit candles and a gleaming, polished statue of the Virgin Mary.
When John suddenly grabs Sam again, Dean hunkers lower, pulling the door back over his head. Dean's fingers tighten around the wooden handles of the ladder as John drags Sam across the floor, his chest tightening at Sam's small gasps and quiet whimpers of pain.
With a shock, Dean suddenly realizes that John is headed towards him, towards the cellar, and quickly fits the trapdoor into place and drops back down to the dirt floor below. He presses himself against a wall and hopes he's not noticed.
The door above him is ripped away and Dean catches a glimpse of John's angry, frighting face before Sammy is shoved through the opening. His small body lands on the floor with a muffled thump and a sharp cry of pain from Sam.
“Stay there,” John's voice is dangerous and Dean's eyes remain on Sam, taking in the trembling of his limbs. “If you run, I'll make you regret it.”
The last of the light goes away as John fits the door back into place and Dean quickly rushes to Sam's side, pulling him into his arms. Sam makes a soft sound, his body flinching before he weakly tries to pull away.
“Shush,” Dean tells him softly and Sam immediately stills. “It's okay.”
“Dean.” Sam croaks. “Dean, that's not Dad.”
“I know, Sammy. I know.” Dean presses a kiss to Sam's temple and runs his fingers through his hair. His brother feels frighteningly small in his arms, curling into the comfort of Dean's arms as he hasn't done in years, not since the nightmares of an eight-year-old had driven the boy into Dean's bed.
Dean hums Metallica, lips pressed to Sam's ear, and thinks frantically for a solution.
He could take Sam away now. Out the other door, up the stairs, into the Impala. Dean could drive away and leave John and this horribleness behind. But, then what? Where would they go, how could they be safe from the demon without their dad?
Bobby's. They could go to Bobby's. Dean knows Bobby would help, would know what to do and how to help Dad.
“We're going to get out of here, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother. “Okay?”
Sam looks up at Dean, eyes wide and trusting. Dean bends, pressing their lips together quickly and then pulling back to meet Sam's eyes again.
“Okay?”
Sam nods, slow and hesitant, and whispers, “Okay.”
“You aren't going anywhere, Dean.”
Dean twists, eyes going wide with horror, to see John standing behind them, in the archway of the door Dean had left open. He looks so large, so intimidating, and for the first time, Dean feels fear of his father. In his arms, Sam whispers and presses closer to Dean's side.
“Christo,” Dean says, voice barely loud enough to be heard.
John's laugh is frightening. “I'm not the one possessed, boy.”
Dean shakes his head, not understanding. John has to be possessed, has to be. He's their dad and he wouldn't do this to them, wouldn't hurt them like this. Not unless he was possessed.
John strides forward and Sam is ripped away from Dean again, strangled cry falling from both boys' lips. John drags Sam away and when Dean rushes after, its just for the door to slam closed above his head and when he pushes at the heavy weight, it won't budge.
Dean already knows that the trapdoor is blocked, as well.
Dean can hear Sammy shrieking for him, the sound suddenly cut off, and Dean finds himself on his hands and knees, throwing up what little is in his guts until exhaustion, fear, and helplessness overtakes Dean and he crumbles to his side.
Dean awakes much later with a jerk. It is impossible to know how much time has passed and he isn't sure what, exactly, had woken him. His throat and nose burn from his stomach acids, his eyes itch from tears he hadn't been aware of shedding, and his lips taste of salt. He struggles to his feet, wiping roughly at his face with one hand.
Dean knows, with startling clarity, that John is going to kill Sam and the only one that can save him, the only one that even knows Sam is in danger, is Dean. It isn't fair, the crossroads Dean finds himself standing before, this decision he must make. However, very little of Dean's life has been fair and Dean knows there really isn't any decision to make at all.
John Winchester has always been Dean's hero. John has always been the one pillar of support Dean had to depend on. He has always been the strength that Dean could draw from, the great warrior who battled the twisted, evil monsters that threatened everyone else, kids like Sammy and women like Mom, so that no other family had to withstand what they had, go through the hell they have. Dean has always followed his father blindly, has always believed in him with unwavering faith.
But for all the things John may be for Dean, Sam is so much more.
Sam is Dean's home, his heart. Sam is his own little bright spot of light in the dark world Dean lives in. Sam is the innocence that Dean doesn't have the ability to cling to, the purpose of Dean's very existence, his last, silent promise to their mother. Sam is everything.
Dean will stand against any enemy, protect Sam from any foe. Even if that means going up against John Winchester. And Dean knows that this is one fight he cannot afford to lose.
For an instant, Dean is tall, strong, and empowered, but then the silence is broken by a wailing scream, a cry Dean is familiar with from the nightmares that had plagued Sam through childhood. It chills Dean to his very core and he knows, quite suddenly, what had awakened him.
John had begun.
Dean stands frozen, terror clawing at him, helpless as he listens to his brother's screams. He has no way of knowing what John is subjecting Sam to, how long Sam even has before it becomes too much.
Its not something Dean likes to admit, but he knows how to hurt things. He's learned how to torture; monsters, demons, whatever, they all start squealing when you hurt them enough. And everything he knows, everything he's been taught, was at John's knee and he's not stupid enough to think John's shown him every trick in the book. Torture will eventually kill, but if done right, it can do a lot worse than that.
Pain can drive someone insane, break them in ways they had thought impossible. And Sam's just a kid. Sure, he's a tough sonofabitch and God knows he's stubborn as shit, but he's still just twelve years old and so, so easy to break.
Dean snarls at the thought, twists and slams his fist into the hard stone of the cellar's walls. Pain sears up his arm, the skin of his knuckles splitting, bones breaking and fracturing from the force. He yells, sound ripping from his throat with savage anger, a roar of desperation and fear. It does nothing to make him feel better, does nothing to get him out of his entrapment, and in the darkness, Dean hangs his head and fights the urge to crumble to the floor.
There has to be a way out. Dean isn't helpless, he's far from it. He's been raised since he was four to be ready for anything, a regular boyscout. He's more than competent at getting in and out of places he's not supposed to be and John may be good, but Dean's still slipped out from under his careful eye to have a tumble with a pretty girl more than a few times without getting caught. He can do this.
With a hand out before himself, Dean makes his way to the other side of the cellar. His hand his cold stone and he gropes for a minute before his fingers knock into the wooden bars and tangle with the coarse rope holding the ladder together.
He climbs it, quick and easy, and presses up with one hand. The trapdoor is blocked, something heavy atop it, and Dean climbs higher, shoving a shoulder up against the door. The angle is awkward, his head twisted uncomfortably between his body and the wall, and its hard to get the leverage he needs. He pushes and the shoves with all his might, jerking his body up and against the door.
It makes a loud noise, but the trapdoor moves and light suddenly blinds Dean. There's a large, heavy chandelier hanging from a thick wooden beam, admitting painfully bright light that stings Dean's eyes and makes them water.
Dean shoves himself up against the door again and it finally gives way enough for Dean to struggle out of the cellar. He looks up, still blinking away spots that leap and dance before his vision, just in time to roll away from John's foot, aimed at his head.
Their scuffle is short. Dean's young, and he's been trained well, but he's still stunned by the light and John's experience is just too great in comparison. Dean gets two solid punches in before John has him on the ground. There's a click of metal on metal and when John's weight shifts off of him, Dean moves to roll, only to find he can't. He's handcuffed to the church's alter, solid ring of metal around his wrist.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean spits out. John shakes his head, for a moment his eyes sad. Dean doesn't care, not when Sammy's crying softly not five feet from him and he's still unable to make it stop.
“You don't get it, do you, boy? Its not him, its not Sam. Its never been Sam.” John says. It doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. Dean doesn't understand what's going on, can't comprehend any reason John would be doing this to them, hurting Sam like he is, and his words do nothing to ease Dean's confusion.
“It should have occurred to me,” John continues. He moves away from Dean and Dean's eyes are drawn behind his father, to Sam.
John has tied Sammy to a chair, thick ropes around his shoulders, wrists, knees, and ankles. The chair is set in the middle of a symbol; Dean doesn't recognize it though it looks like there's some Sanskrit mixed into the intricate design. There is blood on Sam's face, dripping from his nose and mouth, teeth stained with it, and a nasty cut is sliced deeply across one palm. His skin is discolored with bruises, pale now as they just form, and one shoulder is clearly dislocated. Dean knows Sammy must have fought, and fought hard from the looks of it, and he wants to applaud.
“I should have seen it sooner,” John is saying and Dean struggles to focus on him, rather than Sammy, “That he wasn't really my son.”
Dean doesn't miss the way Sam flinches, as if he's been struck. There are tears, wet and shining, on Sam's face and Dean's heart aches for his brother.
“Don't you see, Dean? Its The Demon. He killed your mother and overtook your brother. He stole Sam away from us. But we'll get him back, son. Even if Sam's body has to die, it'll be better than him being possessed by that monster.”
Dean shakes so hard the chain lengths of the handcuffs around his wrist rattle. Sam's breathing hitches at the words and Dean wants to reassure him, tell him everything is going to be okay, but how can it possibly be okay ever again?
John turns away from Dean, towards Sam once again. He picks up a book from the floor and thumbs through it, holding it in one hand. With his other, he empties a canteen of water over Sam's head; it wets his hair and runs down his face, dripping onto his shoulders and down the front of his shirt, but it doesn't burn and Sam doesn't flinch. John frowns and begins to chant, Latin flowing from his lips.
Pastor Jim once told Dean that exorcisms are like prayers, bringing death to evil.
Dean is helpless, chained in place and unable to do anything to help his brother, forced to sit by and watch as their father makes plans to hurt, to kill, Sam.
The exorcism is long and John is drenched in sweat by the end of it. Sam's cries and whimpers have stopped and he sits, slack against his bindings, in the chair. He is unaffected by the words and water John had thrown at him, staring blankly at the floor.
John throws his book aside. He unties the ropes holding Sam in place quickly, jerking Sam up to his feet with an unforgiving hand about his arm.
“I will expel you from my son, you sonofabitch, even if I must destroy his body to give him that peace!” John roars. Dean jerks against the metal cuff so hard the skin at his wrist splits and begins to bleed.
John drags Sam down the long aisle of the church, past row after row of wooden pews. He kicks the door of the church open with a heavy boot and Dean flinches when the door swings shut behind them.
Dean yanks at the metal uselessly before he twists, eyes scanning the room for something of use to him. John's bag, open and overflowing with books, has been forgotten a few feet from Dean. Dean shuffles along the floor, stretching a leg out as far as he was able. His foot caught the strap of John's bag and Dean nearly wept with relief as he drew it towards him.
He was not lucky enough for the key to be laying within, but John's journal was. Dean slipped a paperclip from its pages and was made quick work of his lock, free within seconds.
There were no spare weapons to be found and Dean's eyes dart around before settling on the statue of Mary situated on the alter. He grabbed it, the weight heavy and solid in his hand, and took off after his father.
Dean circles around the church, eyes searching for his father. He can hear the sound of water, of splashing and his father's grunts, and just as he rounds the corner, he spots the dark shape of his father, knee deep in a man-made creek. His hands hold Sam under the water, rosary wrapped around his wrist as he spits Latin out. Dean doesn't even think, he just swings the statue in his hands and connects with the back of John's head.
John goes down instantly and Dean hauls his weight off of Sam. It wasn't a fatal blow, Dean knew that, but it could give them enough time to get free. Dean helps Sam, coughing and sputtering helplessly, from the water, eyes scanning his father's body quickly. John's jacket was absent and the keys to the Impala would be in one of its pockets.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother, supporting his weight as they climb from the bank and back towards the church. Inside, Dean sets Sam down on a pew, and starts searching for John's jacket.
“Hurry,” Sam croaks, voice sounding broken. Dean glances over, sees the bruises forming on his brother's throat, and feels rage red and hot like he's never known before.
“Just let me find the keys, Sammy,” Dean says, turning away and looking again. He finally spots the jacket, tossed aside on the pew nearest the chair John had tied Sam to. Dean snatches up and turns, immediately going still.
John's standing in the door of the church, gun leveled straight at Dean. “Can't let you do it, Dean. That monster killed your mom. You remember her, don't you, Dean?”
Dean's stomach tightens. Yeah, he remembers. Sometimes, he thinks he remembers better than John does. When John tells stories, drunk off his ass on Jack Daniels and Jim Bean, he talks about a beautiful woman that was his world, his perfect wife and their perfect marriage. It wasn't like that; Dean remembers them screaming and fighting long into the night, remembers how John's penchant for alcohol had started long before Mom had died.
Dean licks his lips, dry and chapped. “Dad. Dad, its. Its not the demon, okay? Its just, just Sam. Its Sammy.”
John shakes his head, “I'm sorry he's gotten to you, Dean. I'm so sorry, son.”
The gunshot echoes, pain searing through Dean's shoulder. He drops to the ground, gasping, and Sam's voice is suddenly loud and roaring, power laced through it as he screams in fury, “NO!”
The room explodes with heat, pews sudden ablaze. The fire spreads rapidly, burning and consuming, and Dean shoves himself to his feet. Sam's exactly where he left him, except his eyes are solid black and blazing like hellfire. It gives Dean a pause, but he's quickly over it, picking Sam up, shoulder protesting with sharp pain that has Dean screaming in his head.
John's against a wall, unconscious and surrounded by flame. Dean hesitates a moment, but Sam's hands clutch at his shirt, one curling around the amulet at Dean's throat, and he moves on. Dean gets in the Impala, digging keys out of John's jacket with one hand, the other curled protectively around Sammy's thin waist.
The car starts up, a purring sound that's as familiar as the sound of John's voice or Sam's laughter. The church is consumed completely in flame, no possible way that John's survived, and it hurts. They're orphaned, alone, and Sam's... Dean doesn't know what to think of Sam, what to do with this new part of Sam that John's let loose.
With no destination in mind, no safe place to run, Dean starts up the Impala and slides it into drive, a single tear rolling down his cheek as Sam smiles against his neck.