In Memory (Part Three)
Part Three
John sat on the floor at the foot of the stairs with Dean cradled in his arms. They had been that way for hours and John’s grip only grew tighter around his injured son. He had one arm braced around Dean’s back and then other held tight across his chest so he could feel the movement of Dean’s breath and the beat of his heart. As long as both of those things were still happening then John could fix the rest. Dean was tough. He was a warrior. He was a hunter.
Dean was his son.
John squeezed Dean tighter, his throat locking up in terror. The thought of Dean not surviving was impossible to him. Not on his watch. Not when he had lost everyone else he’d ever cared about. Dean was going to be fine. He would make sure of it. Even if when all of this was over Dean decided to leave him and go be with Sam or go on some adventure of his own. That was okay with him. He’d be alive. That’s all that John cared about at the moment. He just wanted his boy to keep breathing.
A whisper of a moan drifted from Dean’s lips and his body shuddered a little.
“Dean,” John murmured, running a hand through the hair at the back of Dean’s neck.
“Hmmmm,” Dean groaned.
“That’s it, buddy. Come on, wake up for me.”
Dean shifted and burrowed himself closer to John as if he were seeking comfort. John took advantage of the rare opportunity and squeezed Dean tenderly, willing him strength and trying to take his pain away. “You’re okay, Dean. Wake up for me.”
“Hmmm... Uuuhhh… Sa… Sammy?”
The name stopped John cold for a second, his throat tightening. “No Dean, it’s dad.”
Dean groaned and then hissed in pain, his eyes fluttering but not opening. “Aahhhh… Sam… that you?”
John gave Dean a little nudge, growing increasingly uncomfortable. “Dean, it’s dad.”
“Sammy where you been?”
John could barely take it, the lump in his throat growing so big it was threatening to choke him. “Dean… come on… it’s dad,” he said louder, his voice shaking.
Dean curled tighter against him, his cheek nuzzling against John’s leg and it reminded him of when Dean had been a little boy right after Mary had died and would curl up against him every night, looking for comfort.
“Sam… miss you.”
John gripped Dean even tighter, his heart pounding, his eyes burning with tears. “Dean…”
“M’sorry, Sammy.”
“For what, Dean?” John asked, his heart ready to fall out of his chest.
“Sorry for whatever I did to make you leave.”
John sighed against the sudden pain that rippled through his body and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes dripped down his cheeks. He stopped holding Dean and began hugging him, letting his head rest against Dean’s neck, his face nuzzling the soft skin and sweaty hair there. “It wasn’t you, Dean,” John began. “It was dad. I left because of dad. It wasn’t you, bro. It was never because of you.”
Dean moaned, shifting painfully. “Miss you, Sammy. Miss you so much.”
“I miss you too, Dean,” said John, his voice a mere sliver of its usual self. “I miss you too.”
Dean went lax in his arms and John panicked until he felt the steady reassurance of Dean’s heart beating and the shallow but constant up and down movement of Dean’s chest as he breathed.
More time passed and John spent the time staring at his son, studying him, trying to memorize every laugh line, scar and freckle. He wanted to know his son, learn every piece of him before it was too late. He needed to know every detail so he would always be able to remember. So he’d have something to hold onto if anything ever happened.
He hadn’t done that with Sam. Sure he knew what his son looked like, could determine his moods by one look at his face, but he didn’t know the little details that made Sam, Sam and not some overly tall pain in the ass who had his own ideas on how to run his own life. He didn’t know the exact shade of Sam’s eyes. He knew they were brownish, but he didn’t know if they were light brown or dark brown, didn’t know if the color was broken up by a line of gold or a dollop of green or maybe both. He knew Sam, he loved Sam, and had probably spent more time with him then most parents spend with their children. But those small details that he never paid attention to or took for granted now haunted him and he didn’t know if he’d ever have the chance to see Sam again and satisfy that needy curiosity.
He refused to make that mistake with Dean. Not now. Not when he was so close to potentially losing both his sons. The mere thought of losing Dean, the admission that it was even a possibility sobered John’s thoughts right up. He would save Dean and get them the hell out of there. That was it. There was no question.
The only problem was he couldn’t remember the spell that could help them get past the lock on the last witch bottle. He could feel it in his brain, just on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t there. His mind went over and over every spell he’d ever learned, literally hundreds of words of Latin and other witch languages. He could tell you how to change a cat into a dog, a moose into a tiger, could start a fire with his thumb or turn a leaf pink. He could remember every single one, except the one they needed. It made his chest ache. He had to figure out the spell. He had to. It was Dean’s only hope. He decided his only recourse at this point was to let it go and hope that it would magically come to him. He prayed to god and the angels they he suspected walked among them. Might’ve even prayed to a few demons and witches too. Whatever worked.
He wasn’t sure of the extent of Dean’s injuries, he could only plead with the universe that they weren’t life threatening and if they were, that they would hold off on the life threatening part unil he had gotten his son to safety. A cursory exam had revealed a nasty bump on the back of Dean’s head that was still oozing a bit of blood, a dislocated shoulder that John had already popped back in to place with nary a grunt from Dean and some definite broken ribs. There were dark angry bruises all over his chest and back as well and it was hard to tell if they were from the fall or the fight with the witch or from the tree the day before or from the fight the day before that. He couldn’t keep track or catalog all of his son’s injuries anymore. He prayed that the deeper hued bruises weren’t indicative of some internal bleeding or other nasty injury that he was helpless to take care of. Dean’s breathing was a bit ragged and wheezy, but he was still getting air. And his heart was still beating. Dean was still alive and kicking.
Alive. Dean was alive.
And that’s when the spell flew into John’s mind, clear as day and he knew what he had to do.
“Dean,” John whispered urgently, running his hands over Dean’s pockets, trying to find the lighter he knew his son always kept on him. “Come on, dude, wake up.” He ran his palm over Dean’s stomach. “Sorry, son, but you gotta wake up. We gotta get out of here.” He applied pressure to the old bullet wound.
Dean grunted and stirred groggily. “Wha…”
“Dean you with me?” asked John, easing Dean into a sitting position. Dean’s eyes were cloudy and filled with pain. “Dean, I need you to focus now!” He commanded, raising his voice to its most authoritative tone.
Dean’s eyes cleared a little and he caught John’s eye. “Dad?” he panted weakly.
“Yeah?” said John, patting down Dean’s jacket pockets.
“You… ahhh frisking me?”
“Where’s your lighter?” John demanded, continuing to frisk his son.
Dean reached inside his jacket and produced the lighter, handing it to John. “Joey make it out?”
“He’s out.” John grabbed a thick tuft of Dean’s hair and yanked.
“Owww! What the…”
“I’ve got the spell,” John said, not so subtly nudging Dean to a standing position. “We stake out the top of the stairs and wait. When she opens the door, we overtake her and I get to the last witch bottle and work the spell.”
“What does the have to do with giving me a bald spot?”
John placed the hair he pulled from Dean’s hand in his palm and then set it on fire with the lighter. The hair burned out in his hand before disintegrating into a small pile of ash. “Need the ash of a victim under her spell. You’re under her spell. I rub this on the bottle, recite the incantation and she’s as good as human. Then we can kill her. You with me?”
Dean’s eyes cleared even more and despite the fact that he looked beat to hell and ready to pass out again, he firmly nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you.”
John hefted Dean to his feet and Dean listed to the side, his legs shaky, his body curled up on itself. “Can you make it up there?”
Dean let out a groan of both pain and determination. “Yeah, I’m good.”
John didn’t believe him for a second. So he wrapped his arm tightly around Dean’s waist and strung his eldest’s uninjured arm across his neck, gripping his hand in his own. Then he took the first step up. Dean pitched forward, his eyes clenching shut with a gasp of agony.
“Focus, Dean, focus. This might be our only chance out of here.”
“Ooooh… oh… yes sir,” Dean said, letting John lead him up one step and then another.
“That’s it son, that’s it. Only a few more steps.”
“Hmmmm,” Dean gasped, his jaw clenched in fierce determination. He was shaking now, clearly pushing to his limits. John hauled him two more, three more, four more steps and finally, they were at the top. John lowered Dean so he could sit on the steps, kneeling down with his son so he could still keep a firm hold on him.
“Just gotta wait her out. Anytime now,” said John.
Dean’s reply was a weak nod and a series of shallow wheezes that hung like barbed wire in the air. “Yeah, dad.”
Unsure of what to do, John rubbed his hand up and down Dean’s back, trying to provide comfort and reassure him; not let his weakened body give out on him too soon. “You did good today, Dean. You sacrificed yourself and you saved that boy’s life. That was… good job.”
Dean seemed to sit a little straighter at that. He flashed John a half smile. “Thanks.”
Then they both sat in silence and waited.
**
Dean shivered against the cold stone of the stairs, his body one gigantic ache from head to toe. He was vaguely nauseous and fuzzy, his pulse high and frenetic, his body gripped by fever. And he was weak. So damn weak. It reminded him of being shot those months before. He could tell he was fairly seriously hurt, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. While he wasn’t good enough to be on point or alert enough to take out the witch, he wasn’t even close to being at his worst. He was still there, he was still fighting and he was standing next to his father, who for the moment, didn’t think he totally sucked. Somehow having a job to do and doing it, knowing that his father was proud of him made the pain and discomfort of his injuries not so bad.
It also made Sam’s absence a little more tolerable.
He looked at his dad and though he couldn’t see much in the dim light, he could see John’s absolute determination to get the job done. Dean tried to take that strength from him and closed his eyes, trying to muster his own iron-clad resolve.
The pitter-pattering of footsteps wafted through the opening at the bottom of the door. Dean and John both snapped out their pre-game meditation and shared a glance.
“This is it, Dean,” John whispered. “Just get past her and hold tight. Leave the rest to me,” he said, cupping the ash from Dean’s burnt hair in his palm. “Still got the knife I gave you?”
Dean pulled the knife out of his back jacket pocket. “Check.”
“Good. Give it to me. Something tells me it’s going to take a lot to bring this bitch down.”
Dean handed over the knife and John tucked it in his jacket. Dean was suddenly struck with a complete panic of possibly losing his dad. Just like he’d lost Sammy. He hadn’t really gotten the chance to tell Sam everything that he had meant to him. He looked at his dad’s face, focusing where the light reflected off his barely visible eyes, wanted to tell him how much he loved him and how much he meant to him. How he was his hero. “Dad…”
“Don’t, Dean,” John responded, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. He patted his uninjured shoulder. “No need. Not today. You hear me?”
Dean nodded. The door knob began to twist.
“Sweeties, it’s time.”
“Damn right, it’s time,” muttered John.
The door opened and Dean felt John shoving him with all of his strength past the witch and through the doorway, managing to knock the witch off balance and take her down to the floor with him.
John scrambled past both of them and darted into the kitchen, straight for the witch bottle.
“No!” the witch screamed in a horrible, deafening shriek as she got back to her feet.
Dean put his foot out and tripped her, sending her to the ground like a bag of bones. Her impact hit him right in the gut and his air huffed out him. But it was worth it when he saw John reach the witch bottle, spread the ash from his hair across the outside of it and completed the incantation. The witch bottle glowed and then the light shimmered away like broken glass.
Before John had a chance to smash the bottle, the witch took a flying leap from the floor and tackled him to the ground. She pummeled John with punch after punch, Dean’s own hands aching from the onslaught against his father.
“Dad!”
John struggled against the witch, trying to bash himself against the shelf to get the bottle to fall. But it was no use, she kept pulling him away.
“Damn it, no!” murmured Dean. On shaky hands and knees, Dean crawled on the floor towards the shelf, feeling at once helpless and sad. He missed his brother and wanted things to go back the way they used to be, knowing that if Sam had been with them right now, his younger sibling would’ve already had the chance to break the witch bottle and Clara would be a smoldering pile of ash right now.
But now it was just him and dad. Maybe it wasn’t as good as the trio they had been, but it was something. They were still a family. That’s what mattered. And it would have to be good enough.
Dean slipped past the witch, who continued to throw punches and stood up, his hands securing tightly around the witch bottle like he’d found a golden ticket. Then he threw it so hard against the floor that shards of the glass bounced back up at him as more blood, urine and bones splashed all over the floor.
“Ahhhhhhh!” the witch screamed and her face wrinkled further, her bones protruding and her hair grew another five feet in a pure white color, her eyes almost dead, her clothes decaying until they were only hanging tatters of material, her pendant looking like it weighed so much it would break the frail neck it hung from.
“Time to see your son,Clara,” said John, securing his knife in his hand.
Clara could only wheeze, but a smile spread across her face as John stabbed the knife square in her chest.
Dean’s chest suddenly seized up with sharp pain and he doubled over, collapsing to the ground. He felt something warm and wet spread out from his chest. He put his hand where it felt like something was dripping and it came back covered in blood.
“Dad,” he tried to speak, but I was hard to take a breath. It was like he was breathing underwater. “Dad.”
John looked over at him then and did a double take when he saw the blood, his face collapsing into a look of so much horror it was almost comical. It was the last thing Dean saw before a wave of buzzing pain overtook his body and then he was out.
TBC
John sat on the floor at the foot of the stairs with Dean cradled in his arms. They had been that way for hours and John’s grip only grew tighter around his injured son. He had one arm braced around Dean’s back and then other held tight across his chest so he could feel the movement of Dean’s breath and the beat of his heart. As long as both of those things were still happening then John could fix the rest. Dean was tough. He was a warrior. He was a hunter.
Dean was his son.
John squeezed Dean tighter, his throat locking up in terror. The thought of Dean not surviving was impossible to him. Not on his watch. Not when he had lost everyone else he’d ever cared about. Dean was going to be fine. He would make sure of it. Even if when all of this was over Dean decided to leave him and go be with Sam or go on some adventure of his own. That was okay with him. He’d be alive. That’s all that John cared about at the moment. He just wanted his boy to keep breathing.
A whisper of a moan drifted from Dean’s lips and his body shuddered a little.
“Dean,” John murmured, running a hand through the hair at the back of Dean’s neck.
“Hmmmm,” Dean groaned.
“That’s it, buddy. Come on, wake up for me.”
Dean shifted and burrowed himself closer to John as if he were seeking comfort. John took advantage of the rare opportunity and squeezed Dean tenderly, willing him strength and trying to take his pain away. “You’re okay, Dean. Wake up for me.”
“Hmmm... Uuuhhh… Sa… Sammy?”
The name stopped John cold for a second, his throat tightening. “No Dean, it’s dad.”
Dean groaned and then hissed in pain, his eyes fluttering but not opening. “Aahhhh… Sam… that you?”
John gave Dean a little nudge, growing increasingly uncomfortable. “Dean, it’s dad.”
“Sammy where you been?”
John could barely take it, the lump in his throat growing so big it was threatening to choke him. “Dean… come on… it’s dad,” he said louder, his voice shaking.
Dean curled tighter against him, his cheek nuzzling against John’s leg and it reminded him of when Dean had been a little boy right after Mary had died and would curl up against him every night, looking for comfort.
“Sam… miss you.”
John gripped Dean even tighter, his heart pounding, his eyes burning with tears. “Dean…”
“M’sorry, Sammy.”
“For what, Dean?” John asked, his heart ready to fall out of his chest.
“Sorry for whatever I did to make you leave.”
John sighed against the sudden pain that rippled through his body and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes dripped down his cheeks. He stopped holding Dean and began hugging him, letting his head rest against Dean’s neck, his face nuzzling the soft skin and sweaty hair there. “It wasn’t you, Dean,” John began. “It was dad. I left because of dad. It wasn’t you, bro. It was never because of you.”
Dean moaned, shifting painfully. “Miss you, Sammy. Miss you so much.”
“I miss you too, Dean,” said John, his voice a mere sliver of its usual self. “I miss you too.”
Dean went lax in his arms and John panicked until he felt the steady reassurance of Dean’s heart beating and the shallow but constant up and down movement of Dean’s chest as he breathed.
More time passed and John spent the time staring at his son, studying him, trying to memorize every laugh line, scar and freckle. He wanted to know his son, learn every piece of him before it was too late. He needed to know every detail so he would always be able to remember. So he’d have something to hold onto if anything ever happened.
He hadn’t done that with Sam. Sure he knew what his son looked like, could determine his moods by one look at his face, but he didn’t know the little details that made Sam, Sam and not some overly tall pain in the ass who had his own ideas on how to run his own life. He didn’t know the exact shade of Sam’s eyes. He knew they were brownish, but he didn’t know if they were light brown or dark brown, didn’t know if the color was broken up by a line of gold or a dollop of green or maybe both. He knew Sam, he loved Sam, and had probably spent more time with him then most parents spend with their children. But those small details that he never paid attention to or took for granted now haunted him and he didn’t know if he’d ever have the chance to see Sam again and satisfy that needy curiosity.
He refused to make that mistake with Dean. Not now. Not when he was so close to potentially losing both his sons. The mere thought of losing Dean, the admission that it was even a possibility sobered John’s thoughts right up. He would save Dean and get them the hell out of there. That was it. There was no question.
The only problem was he couldn’t remember the spell that could help them get past the lock on the last witch bottle. He could feel it in his brain, just on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t there. His mind went over and over every spell he’d ever learned, literally hundreds of words of Latin and other witch languages. He could tell you how to change a cat into a dog, a moose into a tiger, could start a fire with his thumb or turn a leaf pink. He could remember every single one, except the one they needed. It made his chest ache. He had to figure out the spell. He had to. It was Dean’s only hope. He decided his only recourse at this point was to let it go and hope that it would magically come to him. He prayed to god and the angels they he suspected walked among them. Might’ve even prayed to a few demons and witches too. Whatever worked.
He wasn’t sure of the extent of Dean’s injuries, he could only plead with the universe that they weren’t life threatening and if they were, that they would hold off on the life threatening part unil he had gotten his son to safety. A cursory exam had revealed a nasty bump on the back of Dean’s head that was still oozing a bit of blood, a dislocated shoulder that John had already popped back in to place with nary a grunt from Dean and some definite broken ribs. There were dark angry bruises all over his chest and back as well and it was hard to tell if they were from the fall or the fight with the witch or from the tree the day before or from the fight the day before that. He couldn’t keep track or catalog all of his son’s injuries anymore. He prayed that the deeper hued bruises weren’t indicative of some internal bleeding or other nasty injury that he was helpless to take care of. Dean’s breathing was a bit ragged and wheezy, but he was still getting air. And his heart was still beating. Dean was still alive and kicking.
Alive. Dean was alive.
And that’s when the spell flew into John’s mind, clear as day and he knew what he had to do.
“Dean,” John whispered urgently, running his hands over Dean’s pockets, trying to find the lighter he knew his son always kept on him. “Come on, dude, wake up.” He ran his palm over Dean’s stomach. “Sorry, son, but you gotta wake up. We gotta get out of here.” He applied pressure to the old bullet wound.
Dean grunted and stirred groggily. “Wha…”
“Dean you with me?” asked John, easing Dean into a sitting position. Dean’s eyes were cloudy and filled with pain. “Dean, I need you to focus now!” He commanded, raising his voice to its most authoritative tone.
Dean’s eyes cleared a little and he caught John’s eye. “Dad?” he panted weakly.
“Yeah?” said John, patting down Dean’s jacket pockets.
“You… ahhh frisking me?”
“Where’s your lighter?” John demanded, continuing to frisk his son.
Dean reached inside his jacket and produced the lighter, handing it to John. “Joey make it out?”
“He’s out.” John grabbed a thick tuft of Dean’s hair and yanked.
“Owww! What the…”
“I’ve got the spell,” John said, not so subtly nudging Dean to a standing position. “We stake out the top of the stairs and wait. When she opens the door, we overtake her and I get to the last witch bottle and work the spell.”
“What does the have to do with giving me a bald spot?”
John placed the hair he pulled from Dean’s hand in his palm and then set it on fire with the lighter. The hair burned out in his hand before disintegrating into a small pile of ash. “Need the ash of a victim under her spell. You’re under her spell. I rub this on the bottle, recite the incantation and she’s as good as human. Then we can kill her. You with me?”
Dean’s eyes cleared even more and despite the fact that he looked beat to hell and ready to pass out again, he firmly nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you.”
John hefted Dean to his feet and Dean listed to the side, his legs shaky, his body curled up on itself. “Can you make it up there?”
Dean let out a groan of both pain and determination. “Yeah, I’m good.”
John didn’t believe him for a second. So he wrapped his arm tightly around Dean’s waist and strung his eldest’s uninjured arm across his neck, gripping his hand in his own. Then he took the first step up. Dean pitched forward, his eyes clenching shut with a gasp of agony.
“Focus, Dean, focus. This might be our only chance out of here.”
“Ooooh… oh… yes sir,” Dean said, letting John lead him up one step and then another.
“That’s it son, that’s it. Only a few more steps.”
“Hmmmm,” Dean gasped, his jaw clenched in fierce determination. He was shaking now, clearly pushing to his limits. John hauled him two more, three more, four more steps and finally, they were at the top. John lowered Dean so he could sit on the steps, kneeling down with his son so he could still keep a firm hold on him.
“Just gotta wait her out. Anytime now,” said John.
Dean’s reply was a weak nod and a series of shallow wheezes that hung like barbed wire in the air. “Yeah, dad.”
Unsure of what to do, John rubbed his hand up and down Dean’s back, trying to provide comfort and reassure him; not let his weakened body give out on him too soon. “You did good today, Dean. You sacrificed yourself and you saved that boy’s life. That was… good job.”
Dean seemed to sit a little straighter at that. He flashed John a half smile. “Thanks.”
Then they both sat in silence and waited.
**
Dean shivered against the cold stone of the stairs, his body one gigantic ache from head to toe. He was vaguely nauseous and fuzzy, his pulse high and frenetic, his body gripped by fever. And he was weak. So damn weak. It reminded him of being shot those months before. He could tell he was fairly seriously hurt, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. While he wasn’t good enough to be on point or alert enough to take out the witch, he wasn’t even close to being at his worst. He was still there, he was still fighting and he was standing next to his father, who for the moment, didn’t think he totally sucked. Somehow having a job to do and doing it, knowing that his father was proud of him made the pain and discomfort of his injuries not so bad.
It also made Sam’s absence a little more tolerable.
He looked at his dad and though he couldn’t see much in the dim light, he could see John’s absolute determination to get the job done. Dean tried to take that strength from him and closed his eyes, trying to muster his own iron-clad resolve.
The pitter-pattering of footsteps wafted through the opening at the bottom of the door. Dean and John both snapped out their pre-game meditation and shared a glance.
“This is it, Dean,” John whispered. “Just get past her and hold tight. Leave the rest to me,” he said, cupping the ash from Dean’s burnt hair in his palm. “Still got the knife I gave you?”
Dean pulled the knife out of his back jacket pocket. “Check.”
“Good. Give it to me. Something tells me it’s going to take a lot to bring this bitch down.”
Dean handed over the knife and John tucked it in his jacket. Dean was suddenly struck with a complete panic of possibly losing his dad. Just like he’d lost Sammy. He hadn’t really gotten the chance to tell Sam everything that he had meant to him. He looked at his dad’s face, focusing where the light reflected off his barely visible eyes, wanted to tell him how much he loved him and how much he meant to him. How he was his hero. “Dad…”
“Don’t, Dean,” John responded, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. He patted his uninjured shoulder. “No need. Not today. You hear me?”
Dean nodded. The door knob began to twist.
“Sweeties, it’s time.”
“Damn right, it’s time,” muttered John.
The door opened and Dean felt John shoving him with all of his strength past the witch and through the doorway, managing to knock the witch off balance and take her down to the floor with him.
John scrambled past both of them and darted into the kitchen, straight for the witch bottle.
“No!” the witch screamed in a horrible, deafening shriek as she got back to her feet.
Dean put his foot out and tripped her, sending her to the ground like a bag of bones. Her impact hit him right in the gut and his air huffed out him. But it was worth it when he saw John reach the witch bottle, spread the ash from his hair across the outside of it and completed the incantation. The witch bottle glowed and then the light shimmered away like broken glass.
Before John had a chance to smash the bottle, the witch took a flying leap from the floor and tackled him to the ground. She pummeled John with punch after punch, Dean’s own hands aching from the onslaught against his father.
“Dad!”
John struggled against the witch, trying to bash himself against the shelf to get the bottle to fall. But it was no use, she kept pulling him away.
“Damn it, no!” murmured Dean. On shaky hands and knees, Dean crawled on the floor towards the shelf, feeling at once helpless and sad. He missed his brother and wanted things to go back the way they used to be, knowing that if Sam had been with them right now, his younger sibling would’ve already had the chance to break the witch bottle and Clara would be a smoldering pile of ash right now.
But now it was just him and dad. Maybe it wasn’t as good as the trio they had been, but it was something. They were still a family. That’s what mattered. And it would have to be good enough.
Dean slipped past the witch, who continued to throw punches and stood up, his hands securing tightly around the witch bottle like he’d found a golden ticket. Then he threw it so hard against the floor that shards of the glass bounced back up at him as more blood, urine and bones splashed all over the floor.
“Ahhhhhhh!” the witch screamed and her face wrinkled further, her bones protruding and her hair grew another five feet in a pure white color, her eyes almost dead, her clothes decaying until they were only hanging tatters of material, her pendant looking like it weighed so much it would break the frail neck it hung from.
“Time to see your son,Clara,” said John, securing his knife in his hand.
Clara could only wheeze, but a smile spread across her face as John stabbed the knife square in her chest.
Dean’s chest suddenly seized up with sharp pain and he doubled over, collapsing to the ground. He felt something warm and wet spread out from his chest. He put his hand where it felt like something was dripping and it came back covered in blood.
“Dad,” he tried to speak, but I was hard to take a breath. It was like he was breathing underwater. “Dad.”
John looked over at him then and did a double take when he saw the blood, his face collapsing into a look of so much horror it was almost comical. It was the last thing Dean saw before a wave of buzzing pain overtook his body and then he was out.
TBC