Hold On Until Dawn Chapter 19A/19 COMPLETE
It had been two days since the confrontation with Schneider. After Castiel flitted Nathan to angels-only-knew-where, he came back to find the three Winchesters still clinging to each other. He considered them with his cool gaze, disappearing and reappearing directly in front of them. The last thing Dean remembered was the angel’s gravelly voice saying ‘It’s time to rest’ then blackness. Dean was getting a little tired of the seraphic whammy every time Cas felt like it. He’d woken the next morning, curled protectively around Sam, in their bedroom at the Roadhouse, the Impala shining like polished onyx outside the window.
Sam had spent the majority of the last couple days sleeping, made difficult by the nightmares that plagued him, as his body futilely tried to catch up on the rest he’d lost over the entirety of their time in Pike Creek. Tonight was the first time he’d ventured out of their room for any length of time, Ash cornering him as soon as he stepped into the bar to talk about the new program he’d designed to hack into government databases. Dean had grown tired of the conversation and sought the refuge of being outside, knowing Sam would come find him when Ash inevitably got distracted by a pretty girl.
The door opened, the screen creaking on tight, rusty hinges, and Dean knew by the heavy tread that it wasn’t Sam. For a man of his brother’s size, Sam was surprisingly light-footed, striding with the grace, ease and surety of a cat - albeit a large cat. John moved stiffly to one of the crates that had once been home to a case of Jim Beam, but now stood on end to serve as a stool, and slowly lowered himself down. Rubbing at his leg, he tilted a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels in Dean’s direction by way of offering and shrugged when his oldest shook his head.
Dean watched his father take a long draw from the bottle with a practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity. After the accident, John had given up alcohol for the most part, the liquor mixing badly with the cocktail of painkillers he’d been prescribed, but it seemed desperate times called for desperate measures. It hadn’t escaped Dean’s notice that Sam wasn’t the only one scarce over the past couple days. He’d rarely seen his father and spoken to him even less. He knew John had a lot on his mind, a shit-ton of guilt and revelations to weed through - hell, they all did - but this level of avoidance made Dean uneasy. The fact that the man had purposefully sought him out and was drinking like Lynchburg was closing up shop didn’t bode well, and Dean’s unease only intensified.
“Dean,” John sighed, eyes sober and voice strong, and Dean relaxed marginally knowing that John’s bender had just started. If this conversation went the way Dean thought it would, he at least had in his favor that it wouldn’t turn violent. “I don’t know what’s worse about this whole fucked up mess. That you’re fucking your little brother or that the feathery bastard knew and is okay with it,” John took another swig from the bottle, “How could you do that to Sam? Whatever possessed you to fuck your little brother?” Another swallow, liquid courage to help him continue, “Jesus, Dean, what were you thinking? Were you bored one day and looked over at Sam doing research and thought I wonder what he’d feel like bent over that table?”
Any hope for keeping this civil went flying out the window at that and Dean could feel his anger careening though his veins. He kicked off the wall and stared down at his father. “Now wait a goddamn minute! Don’t talk about us like that!”
“Like what?” John’s laugh was just this side of manic, “Like its dirty? It is dirty, Dean. Hell, its illegal.”
“What do you want me to say? You want me to ask for your forgiveness? Your absolution?” Dean’s eyes went cold, “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. Is that what you need to hear?”
John stood, squaring off against his eldest son, everything he’d been bottling up for the last few days rushing to the surface now that it had an outlet. They stared at each other, breaths snorting harshly. One a powder keg the other a closely hovering match, each possessing a dangerous potential in their own right, but together an explosive combination that could destroy any and all ties that bound them. Their stares held and Dean’s skin prickled at the tension.
John was the first to break the gaze, shoulders slumping and breath leaving him in a weary rush. “Can we not, Dean? Not right now.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, dropping back down on the crate.
“I really don’t think waiting is going to make this go any easier. If that’s what you want, though, Sam and I could take off for a while.” Dean eyed the bottle of Jack, now sitting half-full by this father’s worn boot, longingly.
“No! I just got you and your brother back, safe and sound. I…” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “Can you understand that this might be a little hard for a parent to accept? To understand? Even with our lives…”
Dean plopped down on the steps, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling between his spread thighs. He stared off into the dark night and sighed, threading his fingers together. “I wasn’t bored one day. It wasn’t sudden or because he was convenient or because I was convenient. Sam says it was organic,” he hung his head and shook it slowly.
“What do you say?”
Dean tracked the meandering path of an ant across the wooden step. “I, it’s…it’s just us.”
“You love him?”
Dean huffed a laugh, one side of his mouth twitching up. “All his life.”
John released a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I meant, Dean.”
Dean tilted his head up and stared at the stars. “I know what you meant. Doesn’t change the answer. I can’t give him up, I won’t. I refuse, so don’t bother asking.” He leaned back, stretched out and, reaching back blindly, snagged the bottle. He took a slow sip, letting the alcohol burn his throat on the way down. “I found my line.”
They were quiet for a long time, Dean taking occasional sips from the bottle and waiting for his dad to process everything. He was fully prepared to take Sam and leave, drive until their father’s disapproval was a distant point in the rearview mirror. He’d walk through fire for John, but he wouldn’t walk away from Sam for him.
The jukebox inside cycled through two songs, only recognizable from where they were by the change in the syncopated bass line from one to the next, before John finally spoke. “What about the wrathful cherub? He really okay with this?” John shifted and Dean heard his boots scuff along the weathered wood as he stretched his legs back out.
“Yeah. Almost disturbingly so. Not sure the whys or hows, but he’s good with it. Something about Babylon and pure blood lines and I think, maybe, a hammer?” He shrugged and shook his head fondly.
“Hammurabi.”
Dean swiveled around, his father doing the same, to find Sam standing in the doorway, the screen hazing the kitchen light backlighting him so he appeared to be surrounded by an ethereal glow. With a groan of protest from the aged door springs and a handful of light footfalls, Sam sat next to Dean on the step.
“Geekboy,” Dean nudged him with his shoulder, tender smile changing the insult to an endearment.
“Jerk.” Sam jostled back, plucking the bottle of whisky from Dean’s lax grasp to set on the porch behind them.
“Bitch.”
“Your bitch,” Sam answered, the easy banter falling effortlessly from his lips without thought.
The weight of their father’s gaze felt heavy on the back of Dean’s neck and he turned to see John regarding them with an odd look. His smile faltered and, eyes locked with John’s, he purposefully took Sam’s hand in his, linking their fingers together. Sam stiffened beside him, muscles tensing in preparation of the backlash, and Dean gently squeezed his hand.
In the quiet of the night, when Sam lay awake with dry, tired eyes afraid to close and provide a blank canvas for his nightmares to paint, they’d talked about their father and his recent insight in their relationship. After Dean’s impassioned outburst and Castiel’s subsequent confirmation, deniability was no longer an option. That left them at the proverbial fork in the road, one bifurcation separating them for the sake of their father, the other possibly separating them from their father for the sake of them. Dean had already made it clear that the former was unacceptable.
His eyes were drawn back to Sam’s face, his brother’s gaze intent on him with eyes and lips softened into an affectionate expression that made Dean’s breath hitch and catch in his throat. Their relationship wasn’t about the sex - although that aspect of it was phenomenal - it was about this right here. This was what Dean was willing to turn his back on his father for, his life for. This was what was worth fighting for, dying for, killing for. This look in Sam’s eyes and the one Dean knew was mirrored in his own, looks they reserved only for each other. Love, transcending the bonds of brothers. All encompassing, all consuming, breathe for it, bleed for it, live for it, die without it, love. Sex was just a happy side effect.
John stared as his sons got lost in each other. He felt like a voyeur, an intruder in an intimate moment being shared by…his mind shuddered away from the word. As quietly as his gimp legs would allow, he rose to his feet, hooked the neck of the bottle with his index and middle finger and made his way back into the bar. Ellen eyed him warily as he crossed to the hallway where the bedrooms were housed, taking in the half-full bottle cradled to his chest with a quirked eyebrow. He dismissed her concern with a solemn shake of his head and continued on until the noise of the bar was shut behind the door of his room. He set the bottle on his dresser and flicked on the small lamp to light the night-dark space. Movement in the mirror caught his attention and he spun, ever-present gun aimed in the direction of danger.
“Jesus Christ,” he swore, uncocking the hammer on the gun and lowering it. “You know, Dean might not mind you popping out of his ass,” he winced slightly at the visual that conjured, “but I do. What the hell do you want, cherub?” He threw the nickname in just to see the tightening it caused around those steel hard eyes, forgoing his vow to not make the angel mad. He was tired and angry and lost. He wanted - needed - to vent the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
“Cherub?” Water blue eyes narrowed in the desired effect and the unassuming form straightened to its full height as energy crackled through the room - ozone and static thickening at the angel’s displeasure. “I am the angel of Thursday, one of the seven named by God to stand before his throne.” Large black shadows danced across the walls, unfurling and spreading to display an impressive feathered wingspan. “I am older and more powerful than you can imagine. I bore witness to the great war in Heaven, watched as the Morningstar fell, and as the first gray fish heaved itself out of the water and onto land. And, less you forget, I am the one that raised your sons from the brink of death and restored them to life and to you.” He cleared his throat and the shadow disappeared between one blink and the next. The angel continued in a calm voice, “You should show me some respect, John Winchester.”
John stood there and stared, refusing to give any form of apology. He’d handed out a precious few ‘I’m sorry’s over the years and he’d be damned if the angel that has taken his place in his children’s lives received one.
Castiel heaved what could only be considered an irritated sigh when John didn’t respond. “I have come to speak with you concerning Dean and Sam.”
“What about my sons?” John picked up the bottle and sat on the bed.
“I can sense your trepidation at the nature of their relationship and wished to talk with you about it.” Steps sounded in the hallway outside and the door across the hall closed quietly - Sam and Dean retiring for the night.
“Nature of their relationship,” John snorted, swiping a calloused hand down his face. The look the two men shared outside floated to the forefront of his mind. His eyes narrowed and he peered over at the angel. “How are you so fucking okay about it? Shouldn’t you be smiting them or something?”
“You are confusing the laws of man with the laws of God. Incest is a mortal objection not a divine one. The greater sin is for humankind to believe they know the will of God. It was Hammurabi who deemed it …”
“Spare me the History of Law lecture,” John interrupted.
“As you wish. Just know my Father has never placed limitations on love in any form. There are worse things in Heaven and Hell, John Winchester,” Castiel stated sagely.
“I find that hard to believe. What can be worse than -,” he pointed in the direction of his sons’ bedroom with the neck of the bottle.
Those cool blue eyes focused on him, assessing and calculating, the intense scrutiny enough to make him shift nervously on the bed. “Seeing is believing, Thomas.” Castiel stepped forward and laid gentle fingers against John’s temple.
John was bombarded with images: Dean and Sam kneeling face to face on muddy ground, Sam’s mouth open and head lolling, Dean holding him with blood on his hand; Dean standing at a moonlit crossroads kissing a beautiful brunette with red eyes; Sam cradling Dean in an unfamiliar home, Dean’s clothes and body shredded, lifeless eyes set in a pale face splattered in red; Sam with a petite dark-haired woman, hand held out to a bound man under a devil’s trap, nose running red; Dean slowly emerging from the ground, nails ripped and knuckles bloody from digging his way to the surface; Sam shallowly slicing the arm of the dark-haired woman and lapping at the line of red that appeared as her eyes turned black. The scenes came quicker, flashing faster. The boys fighting and Dean repeating words John himself regretted saying long ago, the earth splitting in an old church and white light basking their petrified faces, distrustful looks in the Impala and then everything stopped on the image of Sam in a lush, green garden.
Sam stood tall near a rosebush, face calm and serene with an underlying hint of arrogance and pride. The ruby red petals of the blossoms contrasted sharply against his crisp white suit. Over his shoulder, John saw Dean - older, harder, war-weary - pointing The Colt at the back of Sam’s head. Dean’s finger curled over the trigger, intent etched in every feature.
“Dean,” Sam’s voice was quiet and conversational and Dean’s face betrayed his surprise at having his presence detected, “it is only out of deference to Sam that I haven’t killed you, but that regard will only get you so far.” John frowned at the wording - deference to Sam?
Dean cocked the gun, the muscles in his jaw ticking with stress. “My brother is dead. You killed him and now I’m going to kill you.”
“I may have been the weapon, but you pulled the trigger.” Sam turned to face his brother, his impassive expression meeting Dean’s enraged one, and John was struck at how different it was from the loving looks they exchanged earlier on the back porch. “Sam was mine from the moment you turned your back on him. I consider myself an expert on fraternal betrayal and even I think that was excessive.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed and he pulled the trigger. John gasped and then blinked in surprise when the bullet sailed through open air. Sam was no longer there, but standing behind Dean. Dean spun around and with a quick move Sam leveled him to the ground, one white patent leather loafer pressing against his throat.
“Good-bye, Dean.” Sam pressed down and John flinched at the resounding crack of Dean’s neck breaking.
Part B
Sam had spent the majority of the last couple days sleeping, made difficult by the nightmares that plagued him, as his body futilely tried to catch up on the rest he’d lost over the entirety of their time in Pike Creek. Tonight was the first time he’d ventured out of their room for any length of time, Ash cornering him as soon as he stepped into the bar to talk about the new program he’d designed to hack into government databases. Dean had grown tired of the conversation and sought the refuge of being outside, knowing Sam would come find him when Ash inevitably got distracted by a pretty girl.
The door opened, the screen creaking on tight, rusty hinges, and Dean knew by the heavy tread that it wasn’t Sam. For a man of his brother’s size, Sam was surprisingly light-footed, striding with the grace, ease and surety of a cat - albeit a large cat. John moved stiffly to one of the crates that had once been home to a case of Jim Beam, but now stood on end to serve as a stool, and slowly lowered himself down. Rubbing at his leg, he tilted a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels in Dean’s direction by way of offering and shrugged when his oldest shook his head.
Dean watched his father take a long draw from the bottle with a practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity. After the accident, John had given up alcohol for the most part, the liquor mixing badly with the cocktail of painkillers he’d been prescribed, but it seemed desperate times called for desperate measures. It hadn’t escaped Dean’s notice that Sam wasn’t the only one scarce over the past couple days. He’d rarely seen his father and spoken to him even less. He knew John had a lot on his mind, a shit-ton of guilt and revelations to weed through - hell, they all did - but this level of avoidance made Dean uneasy. The fact that the man had purposefully sought him out and was drinking like Lynchburg was closing up shop didn’t bode well, and Dean’s unease only intensified.
“Dean,” John sighed, eyes sober and voice strong, and Dean relaxed marginally knowing that John’s bender had just started. If this conversation went the way Dean thought it would, he at least had in his favor that it wouldn’t turn violent. “I don’t know what’s worse about this whole fucked up mess. That you’re fucking your little brother or that the feathery bastard knew and is okay with it,” John took another swig from the bottle, “How could you do that to Sam? Whatever possessed you to fuck your little brother?” Another swallow, liquid courage to help him continue, “Jesus, Dean, what were you thinking? Were you bored one day and looked over at Sam doing research and thought I wonder what he’d feel like bent over that table?”
Any hope for keeping this civil went flying out the window at that and Dean could feel his anger careening though his veins. He kicked off the wall and stared down at his father. “Now wait a goddamn minute! Don’t talk about us like that!”
“Like what?” John’s laugh was just this side of manic, “Like its dirty? It is dirty, Dean. Hell, its illegal.”
“What do you want me to say? You want me to ask for your forgiveness? Your absolution?” Dean’s eyes went cold, “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. Is that what you need to hear?”
John stood, squaring off against his eldest son, everything he’d been bottling up for the last few days rushing to the surface now that it had an outlet. They stared at each other, breaths snorting harshly. One a powder keg the other a closely hovering match, each possessing a dangerous potential in their own right, but together an explosive combination that could destroy any and all ties that bound them. Their stares held and Dean’s skin prickled at the tension.
John was the first to break the gaze, shoulders slumping and breath leaving him in a weary rush. “Can we not, Dean? Not right now.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, dropping back down on the crate.
“I really don’t think waiting is going to make this go any easier. If that’s what you want, though, Sam and I could take off for a while.” Dean eyed the bottle of Jack, now sitting half-full by this father’s worn boot, longingly.
“No! I just got you and your brother back, safe and sound. I…” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “Can you understand that this might be a little hard for a parent to accept? To understand? Even with our lives…”
Dean plopped down on the steps, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling between his spread thighs. He stared off into the dark night and sighed, threading his fingers together. “I wasn’t bored one day. It wasn’t sudden or because he was convenient or because I was convenient. Sam says it was organic,” he hung his head and shook it slowly.
“What do you say?”
Dean tracked the meandering path of an ant across the wooden step. “I, it’s…it’s just us.”
“You love him?”
Dean huffed a laugh, one side of his mouth twitching up. “All his life.”
John released a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I meant, Dean.”
Dean tilted his head up and stared at the stars. “I know what you meant. Doesn’t change the answer. I can’t give him up, I won’t. I refuse, so don’t bother asking.” He leaned back, stretched out and, reaching back blindly, snagged the bottle. He took a slow sip, letting the alcohol burn his throat on the way down. “I found my line.”
They were quiet for a long time, Dean taking occasional sips from the bottle and waiting for his dad to process everything. He was fully prepared to take Sam and leave, drive until their father’s disapproval was a distant point in the rearview mirror. He’d walk through fire for John, but he wouldn’t walk away from Sam for him.
The jukebox inside cycled through two songs, only recognizable from where they were by the change in the syncopated bass line from one to the next, before John finally spoke. “What about the wrathful cherub? He really okay with this?” John shifted and Dean heard his boots scuff along the weathered wood as he stretched his legs back out.
“Yeah. Almost disturbingly so. Not sure the whys or hows, but he’s good with it. Something about Babylon and pure blood lines and I think, maybe, a hammer?” He shrugged and shook his head fondly.
“Hammurabi.”
Dean swiveled around, his father doing the same, to find Sam standing in the doorway, the screen hazing the kitchen light backlighting him so he appeared to be surrounded by an ethereal glow. With a groan of protest from the aged door springs and a handful of light footfalls, Sam sat next to Dean on the step.
“Geekboy,” Dean nudged him with his shoulder, tender smile changing the insult to an endearment.
“Jerk.” Sam jostled back, plucking the bottle of whisky from Dean’s lax grasp to set on the porch behind them.
“Bitch.”
“Your bitch,” Sam answered, the easy banter falling effortlessly from his lips without thought.
The weight of their father’s gaze felt heavy on the back of Dean’s neck and he turned to see John regarding them with an odd look. His smile faltered and, eyes locked with John’s, he purposefully took Sam’s hand in his, linking their fingers together. Sam stiffened beside him, muscles tensing in preparation of the backlash, and Dean gently squeezed his hand.
In the quiet of the night, when Sam lay awake with dry, tired eyes afraid to close and provide a blank canvas for his nightmares to paint, they’d talked about their father and his recent insight in their relationship. After Dean’s impassioned outburst and Castiel’s subsequent confirmation, deniability was no longer an option. That left them at the proverbial fork in the road, one bifurcation separating them for the sake of their father, the other possibly separating them from their father for the sake of them. Dean had already made it clear that the former was unacceptable.
His eyes were drawn back to Sam’s face, his brother’s gaze intent on him with eyes and lips softened into an affectionate expression that made Dean’s breath hitch and catch in his throat. Their relationship wasn’t about the sex - although that aspect of it was phenomenal - it was about this right here. This was what Dean was willing to turn his back on his father for, his life for. This was what was worth fighting for, dying for, killing for. This look in Sam’s eyes and the one Dean knew was mirrored in his own, looks they reserved only for each other. Love, transcending the bonds of brothers. All encompassing, all consuming, breathe for it, bleed for it, live for it, die without it, love. Sex was just a happy side effect.
John stared as his sons got lost in each other. He felt like a voyeur, an intruder in an intimate moment being shared by…his mind shuddered away from the word. As quietly as his gimp legs would allow, he rose to his feet, hooked the neck of the bottle with his index and middle finger and made his way back into the bar. Ellen eyed him warily as he crossed to the hallway where the bedrooms were housed, taking in the half-full bottle cradled to his chest with a quirked eyebrow. He dismissed her concern with a solemn shake of his head and continued on until the noise of the bar was shut behind the door of his room. He set the bottle on his dresser and flicked on the small lamp to light the night-dark space. Movement in the mirror caught his attention and he spun, ever-present gun aimed in the direction of danger.
“Jesus Christ,” he swore, uncocking the hammer on the gun and lowering it. “You know, Dean might not mind you popping out of his ass,” he winced slightly at the visual that conjured, “but I do. What the hell do you want, cherub?” He threw the nickname in just to see the tightening it caused around those steel hard eyes, forgoing his vow to not make the angel mad. He was tired and angry and lost. He wanted - needed - to vent the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
“Cherub?” Water blue eyes narrowed in the desired effect and the unassuming form straightened to its full height as energy crackled through the room - ozone and static thickening at the angel’s displeasure. “I am the angel of Thursday, one of the seven named by God to stand before his throne.” Large black shadows danced across the walls, unfurling and spreading to display an impressive feathered wingspan. “I am older and more powerful than you can imagine. I bore witness to the great war in Heaven, watched as the Morningstar fell, and as the first gray fish heaved itself out of the water and onto land. And, less you forget, I am the one that raised your sons from the brink of death and restored them to life and to you.” He cleared his throat and the shadow disappeared between one blink and the next. The angel continued in a calm voice, “You should show me some respect, John Winchester.”
John stood there and stared, refusing to give any form of apology. He’d handed out a precious few ‘I’m sorry’s over the years and he’d be damned if the angel that has taken his place in his children’s lives received one.
Castiel heaved what could only be considered an irritated sigh when John didn’t respond. “I have come to speak with you concerning Dean and Sam.”
“What about my sons?” John picked up the bottle and sat on the bed.
“I can sense your trepidation at the nature of their relationship and wished to talk with you about it.” Steps sounded in the hallway outside and the door across the hall closed quietly - Sam and Dean retiring for the night.
“Nature of their relationship,” John snorted, swiping a calloused hand down his face. The look the two men shared outside floated to the forefront of his mind. His eyes narrowed and he peered over at the angel. “How are you so fucking okay about it? Shouldn’t you be smiting them or something?”
“You are confusing the laws of man with the laws of God. Incest is a mortal objection not a divine one. The greater sin is for humankind to believe they know the will of God. It was Hammurabi who deemed it …”
“Spare me the History of Law lecture,” John interrupted.
“As you wish. Just know my Father has never placed limitations on love in any form. There are worse things in Heaven and Hell, John Winchester,” Castiel stated sagely.
“I find that hard to believe. What can be worse than -,” he pointed in the direction of his sons’ bedroom with the neck of the bottle.
Those cool blue eyes focused on him, assessing and calculating, the intense scrutiny enough to make him shift nervously on the bed. “Seeing is believing, Thomas.” Castiel stepped forward and laid gentle fingers against John’s temple.
John was bombarded with images: Dean and Sam kneeling face to face on muddy ground, Sam’s mouth open and head lolling, Dean holding him with blood on his hand; Dean standing at a moonlit crossroads kissing a beautiful brunette with red eyes; Sam cradling Dean in an unfamiliar home, Dean’s clothes and body shredded, lifeless eyes set in a pale face splattered in red; Sam with a petite dark-haired woman, hand held out to a bound man under a devil’s trap, nose running red; Dean slowly emerging from the ground, nails ripped and knuckles bloody from digging his way to the surface; Sam shallowly slicing the arm of the dark-haired woman and lapping at the line of red that appeared as her eyes turned black. The scenes came quicker, flashing faster. The boys fighting and Dean repeating words John himself regretted saying long ago, the earth splitting in an old church and white light basking their petrified faces, distrustful looks in the Impala and then everything stopped on the image of Sam in a lush, green garden.
Sam stood tall near a rosebush, face calm and serene with an underlying hint of arrogance and pride. The ruby red petals of the blossoms contrasted sharply against his crisp white suit. Over his shoulder, John saw Dean - older, harder, war-weary - pointing The Colt at the back of Sam’s head. Dean’s finger curled over the trigger, intent etched in every feature.
“Dean,” Sam’s voice was quiet and conversational and Dean’s face betrayed his surprise at having his presence detected, “it is only out of deference to Sam that I haven’t killed you, but that regard will only get you so far.” John frowned at the wording - deference to Sam?
Dean cocked the gun, the muscles in his jaw ticking with stress. “My brother is dead. You killed him and now I’m going to kill you.”
“I may have been the weapon, but you pulled the trigger.” Sam turned to face his brother, his impassive expression meeting Dean’s enraged one, and John was struck at how different it was from the loving looks they exchanged earlier on the back porch. “Sam was mine from the moment you turned your back on him. I consider myself an expert on fraternal betrayal and even I think that was excessive.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed and he pulled the trigger. John gasped and then blinked in surprise when the bullet sailed through open air. Sam was no longer there, but standing behind Dean. Dean spun around and with a quick move Sam leveled him to the ground, one white patent leather loafer pressing against his throat.
“Good-bye, Dean.” Sam pressed down and John flinched at the resounding crack of Dean’s neck breaking.
Part B