The Way Home - Supernatural, PG-13, Keeper!Verse
Fandom: Supernatural, Keeper!Verse
Title: The Way Home
Pairings, Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Dana
Rating: PG-13-ish
Word Count: 3736
A/Ns & Warnings: This takes place in the early summer after Dana graduates from high school, and follows up on things which were revealed in Trust...Warnings...heavy duty angst, tears
Summary: Ever since Sam revealed his darkest secret, John has been searching for something. When he finds it, he brings it home to Sam. (trying not to be spoilery)
“I’m just saying, it’s funny how he’s been all secretive the last few weeks.” Dana said as she flopped onto the couch, long legs kicking up to land on the back. She popped the top of her soda and sipped at it. “He’s up to something.”
Dean pushed her feet off the back on the couch and ruffled her hair. “Doesn’t mean it’s a woman, Dana.”
She pouted up at him.
“Is she back on the girlfriend idea?” Sam asked as he came down the stairs, holding up the movie in his hands.
“Come on Sam, didn’t you get the little excitement, and the way he said, ‘No, it’s no problem. I can be there tonight.’ What else could it be?”
Dean frowned at her imitation of his father and shook his head. “It was probably a hunt.”
“No. He has a different voice when it’s a hunt…and I don’t sense hunty stuff….it’s personal.”
“Dana Winchester, get out of your Papa’s head.” Sam reprimanded as he handed the movie to Dean.
Dana squirmed in her spot. “I’m not in it…exactly. He’s too far away…and damn for a non-adept he’s got some good shields.”
“Dana.” Dean’s voice was more warning and she shook her head.
“I’m just making sure he’s-“
Sam’s hand came down on her shoulder. Stop. You know better.
She chewed on her lower lip and pouted. “Fine.”
“Good.”
“Whatever.”
“If you two are done, can we watch the movie now?” Dean asked. Sam settled into the opposite corner of the couch and Dana pouted for all of ten seconds before she gave up and smiled at him.
Dean started the movie and went to sit between them, ending up with his head on Sam’s shoulder and Dana’s feet in his lap. The couch really was too small for the three of them. She’ll be gone in a few months…and it’ll seem empty then. Sam thought at him. Dean responded by rubbing his hand along the inseam of Sam’s jeans. The movie started, and Dean turned to kiss Sam’s nose before settling in to watch. Family movie day wouldn’t be the same after she left for college.
John had hustled out of Lawrence rather abruptly, and he felt the tickle that he recognized as his granddaughter trying to get a read on where he was going and what he was up to. Truth of it was, he didn’t want to say anything until he knew for sure. Until he had what he was looking for.
So when he spotted a familiar beat up truck at the entrance to the cemetery, John pulled over, tamping down the hope that had flared that this was it. This was the third cemetery in a month. He saw Pastor Jim wave and he nodded in greeting as he got out of his own truck. They hugged tight and let go, stepping back. “So…?”
Jim nodded. “I’m sure this time. Come on, I’ll show you.”
John couldn’t begin to know what his friend was thinking, his expression carefully marshaled to a proper pastoral look. John had hesitated asking him for help…after all, he was asking the man who killed the boy to help him find him…but he’d already exhausted his own resources, and who better, really?
At first he hadn’t said why, hadn’t connected the dots, but when the last one had proven to not be Sam’s Michael, and John’s reaction had tipped even Jim’s patience for mystery, John had spilled the story. In all the years Sam had been part of their lives, John had kept the number of people who knew who he really was to Missouri and Dean and Dana. Not even Bobby knew that he was John’s son…only that he was the man Dean had chosen to spend his life with.
For what it was worth, Jim had taken it well, though John had choked up a bit when he saw the realization dawn on his friend’s face…the realization that he was responsible for killing John’s grandson. They stopped and Jim pointed.
It was a run down section of the cemetery where they buried vagrants and John Does. The markers were all old and worn, the ground sparsely covered in patches of weeds and brown grass. That much was good…it would make hiding their thievery easier. “Records say no one claimed the body.” Jim said. They stopped beside the grave. The stone was just a one foot by 6 inch rectangle set in the ground with the name Michael W. Isley.
“You’re sure?”
Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Michael Winchester Isley. Aged twelve. Found shot…” Jim swallowed and licked his lips. “Found shot once in the chest in Kansas City. Adoptive parents Margaret and Harry Isley reported him as a runaway two days before he was found.”
“They did that with Sam too.” John murmured, looking up when he felt Jim’s eyes. “The name, they kept Winchester. To remind them they didn’t belong.”
“You sure you want to do this John?”
John was trapped in a memory though, remembering the one time he’d seen the boy. He hadn’t known…hadn’t understood. He could see him though, clear as day, sitting across that barn, waiting for the winner to come claim him. It was the day he died.
“John?”
He inhaled and nodded. “Yeah. We’ll come back tonight. Take him home.”
He was getting too old to be climbing cemetery walls in the middle of the night. He had his old military duffle slung over his shoulder. It was big enough to carry a small body, or so he hoped. It wasn’t like this was his normal gig. Generally all he had to carry out was the tools he’d packed in.
Jim was already at work, the grave half dug. It wouldn’t be hard, likely not even a full six feet down. These were people with no family, no money. No one cared if their graves were proper.
John didn’t say a word, just picked up the other shovel and set to work. Four and a half feet down, they hit wood. It took another half hour or so to clear the top of the casket enough to open it.
Jim climbed out of the grave to offer him some privacy. John took a moment to open the duffle, pulling out a rolled up blanket. He unrolled it beside the grave, smoothing his hand over it. Then he pulled a second one out of the duffle. He looked up at Jim a little self consciously. “It…it was Dean’s. We brought him home from the hospital in it. Then…when it was Sam’s turn, I brought it so he could come home in it too. Seems only fitting that Michael should come home in it too.”
He sniffed a little before unfolding the faded mint green blanket and laying it out over the bigger one. It was only a baby blanket and would cradle what was left of his first born grandchild.
With a deep breath, John turned to the grave and opened the coffin. Inside a child’s skeleton lay, the skull turned to the side. The coffin wasn’t big enough and they’d bent his knees, turning him at an awkward angle to make him fit. It turned his stomach somehow. It wouldn’t be a comfortable position…and to think of Sam’s son in that eternal discomfort didn’t sit well with him. No effort had been made to preserve him and as John leaned down to determine the best way to move the body, he could see he hadn’t even been changed out of the clothes he died in.
He took a deep breath and reached down…it was awkward and Michael’s skull came off as he lifted. John cursed and shifted his weight to lift and turn. A foot fell and he hoped the clothes would keep him from falling apart completely. He got the body onto the blankets and turned back for the parts that fell out. John set the skull and foot carefully onto the blanket before closing the casket and climbing out.
Jim went about filling the grave back in while John sat beside the remains. It was almost impossible to fathom…that this was a part of him…a part of Sam…stolen from Sam just as Sam had been stolen from him. John carefully set the skull back where it belonged and slowly straightened out the legs, cringing as he felt the joints give way.
His eyes burned and he had to wipe at them more than once as he realized Michael, being Sam’s son, was too tall and he’d have to be folded up just like he’d been in the grave if John was going to fit him in the duffle. Behind him he could hear Jim working, pushing the dirt back into the grave. He knew he had to hurry. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he knew it was ridiculous. “I’m going to take you home.”
He folded in the corners of the baby blanket as though the skeleton actually were an infant, then followed with the more substantial blanket. “Let me give you a hand.” Jim said. John looked up and nodded, letting Jim handle one side of the bundle as they maneuvered it into the bag.
It didn’t seem right, but John didn’t know any other way. He surveyed Jim’s handy work. No one would even know they’d been there.
Or care, he realized.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and lifted the bag, settling the strap carefully over his shoulder and cradling the bag to him. He climbed into Jim’s truck and held the bag on his lap. Neither of them spoke as Jim drove them back to John’s truck. It wasn’t until they’d parked that Jim said anything.
“I’d like to meet this son of yours, John. I’d like to tell him I’m sorry.”
John didn’t look up, just cradled the duffle bag on his lap. “I don’t know, Jim…he’s…fragile. This is going to…I think maybe for now it should be just family, you know?”
Jim’s hand patted his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be now. I’d just like the chance.”
John opened his door. “I’ll call you. Thank you for this.”
It had been a lazy Sunday following Family movie Saturday…Dana was out walking the dog, Sam was on the other couch dozing…and Dean had the television on, but was watching Sam more than the screen. His phone vibrated on the table and he caught it just before it would have fallen off. He checked the caller id and made a face. “Dad?”
“Is your brother there?”
“Hello to you too.” Dean groused, frowning. “Yeah. He’s sleeping. What’s up?”
“I’m a few blocks away. Got something…wake him up. Is Dana there?”
Dean was starting to be concerned by the oddity of the call and the strain he could hear in his father’s voice. “You going to tell me what’s up?”
“I see Dana. I’ll pick her up. Five minutes.” And the phone went dead.
Dean stared at it a minute, then shook his head. “You’re getting weird in your old age Winchester,” he muttered. He sat up, then slid to his knees on the floor, moving over so that his face was just hovering beside Sam’s. “Hey, Sammy…” He kissed Sam lightly and felt him start to stir. “Hey, Sam…Dad called…he’s on his way over.”
“Dad?” Sam stretched, then settled back into the same position. “Thought he was hunting.” His voice was thick with sleep and if Dean weren’t suddenly worried about why his father wanted Dana there he’d have found it cute as hell. Sam must have sensed his worry over the tender connection between them because his eyes opened.
Before he could say anything, the front door was opening and Dana was letting Aristotle off her leash. His daughter’s face only confirmed that something serious was afoot. Aristotle came around the couch, pushing in between Dean and Sam to put her head on Sam’s chest. Sam scratched her head absently.
Dana was locked down, Dean could tell just from the look on her face. She had the wall up between herself and Sam and she wasn’t letting it down. Her eyes met his and she shook her head lightly. She came to the couch and leaned over the back of it to kiss Sam’s forehead. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Sam responded, but his face crinkled. “What’s going on?”
“Sit up, Sam.” John said from the doorway. Dean looked up and found his father holding his faded, worn military duffle. He hadn’t even been aware it was still around, hadn’t seen it since he was a kid. John was nervous. Dean didn’t need to be psychic to know that. Dana straightened, came around to Dean’s side and started to clear off the coffee table of stray magazines and the morning’s newspaper.
John didn’t speak as he put the duffle onto the table, his movements slow, precise…almost delicate, as if the bag held the most precious item in the world. Sam was sitting up, rubbing at sleepy eyes, but much more awake already. Dean could feel anxiety starting to thrum through him. He looked up at John. “Dad?”
John turned toward Sam, his back to the duffle now. He squatted beside Dean. “Sam. I-“ John stopped, licked his lips. He was beyond nervous. Dean hadn’t seen him like this since…well, he’d never seen his father behave quite like this. “I wasn’t out on a hunt. Not a traditional one anyway. I went to Kansas City.” He swallowed, sniffed.
Instinctively, Dean slid onto the couch beside Sam, his fingers twining through his brother’s. “I…I’ve been looking…for…for your son.”
“Michael.” Sam breathed the name, his eyes slightly unfocused. He leaned into Dean’s shoulder and slowly closed his eyes. “You found him.”
John nodded and blinked back tears. “Yeah…I…promised you I would. That we’d bring him home…bury him with Mary…she’d like that.”
Sam’s shoulder’s shook and his free hand rose to cover his face. The sobs were silent, but they rocked the couch and Aristotle’s whine as she put her head in his lap was punctuation to his silent grief. John’s hand rose to cradle Sam’s face and Dean could sense Dana behind him, her hands slipping onto Sam’s shoulders.
We’ve got you, it’s okay. Dean sent over the very tentative connection between them. Sam shuddered, then pulled Dean closer. Dean pressed a kiss to the side of his face. Sam’s hand fell away, revealing wet cheeks. He breathed in, slow and shaky.
“Is…is that…” He gestured at the duffle with his chin and John nodded. Sam pushed the dog off him first, then pulled forward so that Dana’s hands slipped off him. His eyes met John’s and John pulled his hand away from Sam’s face. “I…can I…” He sighed and shook his head. “Alone. I want to be alone with him.”
“Sam?” Dean wasn’t so sure alone was a good idea.
Sam raised their joined hands and kissed Dean’s. He didn’t speak, just nodded. “Okay.” Dean said, pulling their hands to him and kissing Sam’s in response. “We won’t be far.”
“Thank you.”
Dean extricated his hand from Sam’s and led his father and daughter out of the living room. Even Aristotle followed, though she looked back at Sam mournfully.
When they were gone, Sam sat and stared at the bag. The tears flowed freely, he couldn’t have stopped them and trying would only waste energy. Slowly, he slipped to his knees, grimacing a little as they protested. At first, it was all he could do to lay a hand on the bag.
“Michael.” The sound of his voice was almost startling. He wiped his chin as tears threatened to drip from it. He blew out and reached a shaking hand to the zipper of the bag. His stomach twisted. His hand brushed over the blanket. “I-I’m not sure what to say.”
There was a stirring, a feeling. Sam closed his eyes. He knew the feeling, he had felt it before…he didn’t want to see, didn’t want it to be real. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t…I didn’t find you…I let them take you…I’m sorry.”
His right hand slipped under the blanket, his fingers brushing bone. “I was trying to save you.”
The feeling of a hand brushed over his scarred hand, up to the elbow. “You were too late.”
The words were more in his head than anything, but they tore through him, wresting a sob from his chest as he opened his eyes at last. He looked the same as he had on that day…his eyes dark, his face pale. Sam wasn’t even sure if he was real…or just a projection of his own guilt and grief. He wasn’t sure it mattered.
“I’m not the same man I was then.” Sam’s fingers traced over a rib, stopping at the jagged hole where the bullet had ripped through him. “I…don’t expect forgiveness. Just…you should know.”
The odd feeling of his phantom hand moved over the scars and he cocked his head at Sam. “Who was he? The man who came for me?”
“My father…my real father…your grandfather.” Sam shook his head and slowly laid his head down on the table beside the bag holding Michael’s bones. Michael’s ghostly fingers brushed over his hair. Sam let his eyes roll closed, let the image come…it filled him…the barn, the yelling…the taste of blood, the pain…he could see himself in the ring…then saw John in the crowd, watching. He’d never known.
“He hurts.” Michael’s image was fading and Sam didn’t know if he wanted him to leave just yet. It hurt seeing him…burned away in the pit where he’d kept the memories for so long.
Sam lifted his head and reached for him, his hand passing through nothing, just cold air. “Please…” His voice was thin, racked with tears and fear.
The image flickered, his eyes meeting Sam’s. “Please…” He wanted to say “stay” or “don’t go” or more “sorry”…but it just wouldn’t come out…his voice just cracked, broke open like the rest of him and before he could take a breath, Michael was gone.
There was fire in his stomach…lanced by cold steel…Sam wrapped his arms around himself and rocked against it, as if cradling the pain into himself. He felt hands, warm, solid hands on his head…down to his shoulders. He didn’t look up, just lurched into his father’s arms, clinging to him as they sobbed together.
Sam didn’t have to read him to know the pain Michael spoke of…he’d felt it before…that he might have lost Sam the same way…that it wasn’t fair…it was something shared between them, something he could only ever share with John.
His father gasped as Sam reached for him mentally, opening himself and offering up that thought, the commonality and the comfort of knowing someone understood…and Sam got a rush of emotion back…images, memories…and unabashed love. He held John tighter and cried into his shoulder.
When the wave had subsided, they both sat back and wiped shaking hands over wet faces, pulling themselves together and looking up to find Dean and Dana, arms wrapped around each other, waiting.
“Hey.” Sam offered around a few sniffles.
Dean just nodded. Dana sniffled too and put her head on her father’s shoulder.
“We should…” Sam gestured vaguely at the bag. “Tonight.”
“Tonight.” John agreed.
John stood at Mary’s grave, waiting for Sam and Dean. He looked down at the stone and realized it had been a while since he’d been there. “I’m bringing you our grandson to look after. He’s…he had a rough go of it…and he needs you, okay?”
He took a deep breath to push back the emotion. “Sam…he…He’s a good man, Mary…I don’t tell him often enough…but, he should have had the chance to raise his boy…see him grow up.” He rubbed a dirty hand over the marker. “At least I got that chance.”
He’d already dug the hole, carefully carving out the sod so they could lay it back and leave no one the wiser. They’d lay him on top of her casket, so she could hold him. He heard them coming and looked up. They were silent, slowly setting the bag down and opening it to gently lift the remains. They handed the blanket wrapped bundle down to John, who in turn laid it gently atop the exposed coffin.
“Michael, this is your grandmother. She’s gonna take care of you now.” John said softly, opening the blanket so that he could straighten out the legs and pose the arms at his side. The soft green of the baby blanket was dirty now, but he tucked it around the thin frame before folding the larger blanket up to protect the boy’s body from the dirt they would soon be covering him with. He pressed one hand to his mouth, kissing the dirty fingers before pressing it to the top of the coffin, then covering Michael’s skull.
Dean reached down to help him up out of the grave and together they reached for shovels, just as Dana joined them, slipping her arm around Sam and holding him tight while John and Dean worked.
They rolled the sod back into place and stomped it down until you wouldn’t know anything had changed unless you looked really closely. Dean brushed a hand over the stone and murmured something John didn’t hear. When he moved back to Sam, and took Sam in his arms, Sam just melted against him. Dean kissed over his face and turned him to head back to the car.
Love you so much Sam. Dean sighed as he felt Dana slip in on Sam’s other side, slightly surprised to find that she’d brought their father in too.
Something passed specifically between Sam and John and Sam raised his head, licking his lips and nodding. I’m good…really. “I mean…I never expected…this.” He stopped them, pulling free to wipe his face on his jacket sleeve. “Thank you. All of you.” It was more than this…though this was more than he ever thought he’d get…it was everything…it was the way they had changed him…it was who he was because of them…it was the very happy feeling that was settling in over and around the lingering sadness.
He hadn’t been able to give that to Michael in life. But he’d have it now.
Sam squeezed Dean’s hand and kissed him lightly. “Let’s go home.”
Title: The Way Home
Pairings, Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Dana
Rating: PG-13-ish
Word Count: 3736
A/Ns & Warnings: This takes place in the early summer after Dana graduates from high school, and follows up on things which were revealed in Trust...Warnings...heavy duty angst, tears
Summary: Ever since Sam revealed his darkest secret, John has been searching for something. When he finds it, he brings it home to Sam. (trying not to be spoilery)
“I’m just saying, it’s funny how he’s been all secretive the last few weeks.” Dana said as she flopped onto the couch, long legs kicking up to land on the back. She popped the top of her soda and sipped at it. “He’s up to something.”
Dean pushed her feet off the back on the couch and ruffled her hair. “Doesn’t mean it’s a woman, Dana.”
She pouted up at him.
“Is she back on the girlfriend idea?” Sam asked as he came down the stairs, holding up the movie in his hands.
“Come on Sam, didn’t you get the little excitement, and the way he said, ‘No, it’s no problem. I can be there tonight.’ What else could it be?”
Dean frowned at her imitation of his father and shook his head. “It was probably a hunt.”
“No. He has a different voice when it’s a hunt…and I don’t sense hunty stuff….it’s personal.”
“Dana Winchester, get out of your Papa’s head.” Sam reprimanded as he handed the movie to Dean.
Dana squirmed in her spot. “I’m not in it…exactly. He’s too far away…and damn for a non-adept he’s got some good shields.”
“Dana.” Dean’s voice was more warning and she shook her head.
“I’m just making sure he’s-“
Sam’s hand came down on her shoulder. Stop. You know better.
She chewed on her lower lip and pouted. “Fine.”
“Good.”
“Whatever.”
“If you two are done, can we watch the movie now?” Dean asked. Sam settled into the opposite corner of the couch and Dana pouted for all of ten seconds before she gave up and smiled at him.
Dean started the movie and went to sit between them, ending up with his head on Sam’s shoulder and Dana’s feet in his lap. The couch really was too small for the three of them. She’ll be gone in a few months…and it’ll seem empty then. Sam thought at him. Dean responded by rubbing his hand along the inseam of Sam’s jeans. The movie started, and Dean turned to kiss Sam’s nose before settling in to watch. Family movie day wouldn’t be the same after she left for college.
John had hustled out of Lawrence rather abruptly, and he felt the tickle that he recognized as his granddaughter trying to get a read on where he was going and what he was up to. Truth of it was, he didn’t want to say anything until he knew for sure. Until he had what he was looking for.
So when he spotted a familiar beat up truck at the entrance to the cemetery, John pulled over, tamping down the hope that had flared that this was it. This was the third cemetery in a month. He saw Pastor Jim wave and he nodded in greeting as he got out of his own truck. They hugged tight and let go, stepping back. “So…?”
Jim nodded. “I’m sure this time. Come on, I’ll show you.”
John couldn’t begin to know what his friend was thinking, his expression carefully marshaled to a proper pastoral look. John had hesitated asking him for help…after all, he was asking the man who killed the boy to help him find him…but he’d already exhausted his own resources, and who better, really?
At first he hadn’t said why, hadn’t connected the dots, but when the last one had proven to not be Sam’s Michael, and John’s reaction had tipped even Jim’s patience for mystery, John had spilled the story. In all the years Sam had been part of their lives, John had kept the number of people who knew who he really was to Missouri and Dean and Dana. Not even Bobby knew that he was John’s son…only that he was the man Dean had chosen to spend his life with.
For what it was worth, Jim had taken it well, though John had choked up a bit when he saw the realization dawn on his friend’s face…the realization that he was responsible for killing John’s grandson. They stopped and Jim pointed.
It was a run down section of the cemetery where they buried vagrants and John Does. The markers were all old and worn, the ground sparsely covered in patches of weeds and brown grass. That much was good…it would make hiding their thievery easier. “Records say no one claimed the body.” Jim said. They stopped beside the grave. The stone was just a one foot by 6 inch rectangle set in the ground with the name Michael W. Isley.
“You’re sure?”
Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Michael Winchester Isley. Aged twelve. Found shot…” Jim swallowed and licked his lips. “Found shot once in the chest in Kansas City. Adoptive parents Margaret and Harry Isley reported him as a runaway two days before he was found.”
“They did that with Sam too.” John murmured, looking up when he felt Jim’s eyes. “The name, they kept Winchester. To remind them they didn’t belong.”
“You sure you want to do this John?”
John was trapped in a memory though, remembering the one time he’d seen the boy. He hadn’t known…hadn’t understood. He could see him though, clear as day, sitting across that barn, waiting for the winner to come claim him. It was the day he died.
“John?”
He inhaled and nodded. “Yeah. We’ll come back tonight. Take him home.”
He was getting too old to be climbing cemetery walls in the middle of the night. He had his old military duffle slung over his shoulder. It was big enough to carry a small body, or so he hoped. It wasn’t like this was his normal gig. Generally all he had to carry out was the tools he’d packed in.
Jim was already at work, the grave half dug. It wouldn’t be hard, likely not even a full six feet down. These were people with no family, no money. No one cared if their graves were proper.
John didn’t say a word, just picked up the other shovel and set to work. Four and a half feet down, they hit wood. It took another half hour or so to clear the top of the casket enough to open it.
Jim climbed out of the grave to offer him some privacy. John took a moment to open the duffle, pulling out a rolled up blanket. He unrolled it beside the grave, smoothing his hand over it. Then he pulled a second one out of the duffle. He looked up at Jim a little self consciously. “It…it was Dean’s. We brought him home from the hospital in it. Then…when it was Sam’s turn, I brought it so he could come home in it too. Seems only fitting that Michael should come home in it too.”
He sniffed a little before unfolding the faded mint green blanket and laying it out over the bigger one. It was only a baby blanket and would cradle what was left of his first born grandchild.
With a deep breath, John turned to the grave and opened the coffin. Inside a child’s skeleton lay, the skull turned to the side. The coffin wasn’t big enough and they’d bent his knees, turning him at an awkward angle to make him fit. It turned his stomach somehow. It wouldn’t be a comfortable position…and to think of Sam’s son in that eternal discomfort didn’t sit well with him. No effort had been made to preserve him and as John leaned down to determine the best way to move the body, he could see he hadn’t even been changed out of the clothes he died in.
He took a deep breath and reached down…it was awkward and Michael’s skull came off as he lifted. John cursed and shifted his weight to lift and turn. A foot fell and he hoped the clothes would keep him from falling apart completely. He got the body onto the blankets and turned back for the parts that fell out. John set the skull and foot carefully onto the blanket before closing the casket and climbing out.
Jim went about filling the grave back in while John sat beside the remains. It was almost impossible to fathom…that this was a part of him…a part of Sam…stolen from Sam just as Sam had been stolen from him. John carefully set the skull back where it belonged and slowly straightened out the legs, cringing as he felt the joints give way.
His eyes burned and he had to wipe at them more than once as he realized Michael, being Sam’s son, was too tall and he’d have to be folded up just like he’d been in the grave if John was going to fit him in the duffle. Behind him he could hear Jim working, pushing the dirt back into the grave. He knew he had to hurry. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he knew it was ridiculous. “I’m going to take you home.”
He folded in the corners of the baby blanket as though the skeleton actually were an infant, then followed with the more substantial blanket. “Let me give you a hand.” Jim said. John looked up and nodded, letting Jim handle one side of the bundle as they maneuvered it into the bag.
It didn’t seem right, but John didn’t know any other way. He surveyed Jim’s handy work. No one would even know they’d been there.
Or care, he realized.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and lifted the bag, settling the strap carefully over his shoulder and cradling the bag to him. He climbed into Jim’s truck and held the bag on his lap. Neither of them spoke as Jim drove them back to John’s truck. It wasn’t until they’d parked that Jim said anything.
“I’d like to meet this son of yours, John. I’d like to tell him I’m sorry.”
John didn’t look up, just cradled the duffle bag on his lap. “I don’t know, Jim…he’s…fragile. This is going to…I think maybe for now it should be just family, you know?”
Jim’s hand patted his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be now. I’d just like the chance.”
John opened his door. “I’ll call you. Thank you for this.”
It had been a lazy Sunday following Family movie Saturday…Dana was out walking the dog, Sam was on the other couch dozing…and Dean had the television on, but was watching Sam more than the screen. His phone vibrated on the table and he caught it just before it would have fallen off. He checked the caller id and made a face. “Dad?”
“Is your brother there?”
“Hello to you too.” Dean groused, frowning. “Yeah. He’s sleeping. What’s up?”
“I’m a few blocks away. Got something…wake him up. Is Dana there?”
Dean was starting to be concerned by the oddity of the call and the strain he could hear in his father’s voice. “You going to tell me what’s up?”
“I see Dana. I’ll pick her up. Five minutes.” And the phone went dead.
Dean stared at it a minute, then shook his head. “You’re getting weird in your old age Winchester,” he muttered. He sat up, then slid to his knees on the floor, moving over so that his face was just hovering beside Sam’s. “Hey, Sammy…” He kissed Sam lightly and felt him start to stir. “Hey, Sam…Dad called…he’s on his way over.”
“Dad?” Sam stretched, then settled back into the same position. “Thought he was hunting.” His voice was thick with sleep and if Dean weren’t suddenly worried about why his father wanted Dana there he’d have found it cute as hell. Sam must have sensed his worry over the tender connection between them because his eyes opened.
Before he could say anything, the front door was opening and Dana was letting Aristotle off her leash. His daughter’s face only confirmed that something serious was afoot. Aristotle came around the couch, pushing in between Dean and Sam to put her head on Sam’s chest. Sam scratched her head absently.
Dana was locked down, Dean could tell just from the look on her face. She had the wall up between herself and Sam and she wasn’t letting it down. Her eyes met his and she shook her head lightly. She came to the couch and leaned over the back of it to kiss Sam’s forehead. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Sam responded, but his face crinkled. “What’s going on?”
“Sit up, Sam.” John said from the doorway. Dean looked up and found his father holding his faded, worn military duffle. He hadn’t even been aware it was still around, hadn’t seen it since he was a kid. John was nervous. Dean didn’t need to be psychic to know that. Dana straightened, came around to Dean’s side and started to clear off the coffee table of stray magazines and the morning’s newspaper.
John didn’t speak as he put the duffle onto the table, his movements slow, precise…almost delicate, as if the bag held the most precious item in the world. Sam was sitting up, rubbing at sleepy eyes, but much more awake already. Dean could feel anxiety starting to thrum through him. He looked up at John. “Dad?”
John turned toward Sam, his back to the duffle now. He squatted beside Dean. “Sam. I-“ John stopped, licked his lips. He was beyond nervous. Dean hadn’t seen him like this since…well, he’d never seen his father behave quite like this. “I wasn’t out on a hunt. Not a traditional one anyway. I went to Kansas City.” He swallowed, sniffed.
Instinctively, Dean slid onto the couch beside Sam, his fingers twining through his brother’s. “I…I’ve been looking…for…for your son.”
“Michael.” Sam breathed the name, his eyes slightly unfocused. He leaned into Dean’s shoulder and slowly closed his eyes. “You found him.”
John nodded and blinked back tears. “Yeah…I…promised you I would. That we’d bring him home…bury him with Mary…she’d like that.”
Sam’s shoulder’s shook and his free hand rose to cover his face. The sobs were silent, but they rocked the couch and Aristotle’s whine as she put her head in his lap was punctuation to his silent grief. John’s hand rose to cradle Sam’s face and Dean could sense Dana behind him, her hands slipping onto Sam’s shoulders.
We’ve got you, it’s okay. Dean sent over the very tentative connection between them. Sam shuddered, then pulled Dean closer. Dean pressed a kiss to the side of his face. Sam’s hand fell away, revealing wet cheeks. He breathed in, slow and shaky.
“Is…is that…” He gestured at the duffle with his chin and John nodded. Sam pushed the dog off him first, then pulled forward so that Dana’s hands slipped off him. His eyes met John’s and John pulled his hand away from Sam’s face. “I…can I…” He sighed and shook his head. “Alone. I want to be alone with him.”
“Sam?” Dean wasn’t so sure alone was a good idea.
Sam raised their joined hands and kissed Dean’s. He didn’t speak, just nodded. “Okay.” Dean said, pulling their hands to him and kissing Sam’s in response. “We won’t be far.”
“Thank you.”
Dean extricated his hand from Sam’s and led his father and daughter out of the living room. Even Aristotle followed, though she looked back at Sam mournfully.
When they were gone, Sam sat and stared at the bag. The tears flowed freely, he couldn’t have stopped them and trying would only waste energy. Slowly, he slipped to his knees, grimacing a little as they protested. At first, it was all he could do to lay a hand on the bag.
“Michael.” The sound of his voice was almost startling. He wiped his chin as tears threatened to drip from it. He blew out and reached a shaking hand to the zipper of the bag. His stomach twisted. His hand brushed over the blanket. “I-I’m not sure what to say.”
There was a stirring, a feeling. Sam closed his eyes. He knew the feeling, he had felt it before…he didn’t want to see, didn’t want it to be real. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t…I didn’t find you…I let them take you…I’m sorry.”
His right hand slipped under the blanket, his fingers brushing bone. “I was trying to save you.”
The feeling of a hand brushed over his scarred hand, up to the elbow. “You were too late.”
The words were more in his head than anything, but they tore through him, wresting a sob from his chest as he opened his eyes at last. He looked the same as he had on that day…his eyes dark, his face pale. Sam wasn’t even sure if he was real…or just a projection of his own guilt and grief. He wasn’t sure it mattered.
“I’m not the same man I was then.” Sam’s fingers traced over a rib, stopping at the jagged hole where the bullet had ripped through him. “I…don’t expect forgiveness. Just…you should know.”
The odd feeling of his phantom hand moved over the scars and he cocked his head at Sam. “Who was he? The man who came for me?”
“My father…my real father…your grandfather.” Sam shook his head and slowly laid his head down on the table beside the bag holding Michael’s bones. Michael’s ghostly fingers brushed over his hair. Sam let his eyes roll closed, let the image come…it filled him…the barn, the yelling…the taste of blood, the pain…he could see himself in the ring…then saw John in the crowd, watching. He’d never known.
“He hurts.” Michael’s image was fading and Sam didn’t know if he wanted him to leave just yet. It hurt seeing him…burned away in the pit where he’d kept the memories for so long.
Sam lifted his head and reached for him, his hand passing through nothing, just cold air. “Please…” His voice was thin, racked with tears and fear.
The image flickered, his eyes meeting Sam’s. “Please…” He wanted to say “stay” or “don’t go” or more “sorry”…but it just wouldn’t come out…his voice just cracked, broke open like the rest of him and before he could take a breath, Michael was gone.
There was fire in his stomach…lanced by cold steel…Sam wrapped his arms around himself and rocked against it, as if cradling the pain into himself. He felt hands, warm, solid hands on his head…down to his shoulders. He didn’t look up, just lurched into his father’s arms, clinging to him as they sobbed together.
Sam didn’t have to read him to know the pain Michael spoke of…he’d felt it before…that he might have lost Sam the same way…that it wasn’t fair…it was something shared between them, something he could only ever share with John.
His father gasped as Sam reached for him mentally, opening himself and offering up that thought, the commonality and the comfort of knowing someone understood…and Sam got a rush of emotion back…images, memories…and unabashed love. He held John tighter and cried into his shoulder.
When the wave had subsided, they both sat back and wiped shaking hands over wet faces, pulling themselves together and looking up to find Dean and Dana, arms wrapped around each other, waiting.
“Hey.” Sam offered around a few sniffles.
Dean just nodded. Dana sniffled too and put her head on her father’s shoulder.
“We should…” Sam gestured vaguely at the bag. “Tonight.”
“Tonight.” John agreed.
John stood at Mary’s grave, waiting for Sam and Dean. He looked down at the stone and realized it had been a while since he’d been there. “I’m bringing you our grandson to look after. He’s…he had a rough go of it…and he needs you, okay?”
He took a deep breath to push back the emotion. “Sam…he…He’s a good man, Mary…I don’t tell him often enough…but, he should have had the chance to raise his boy…see him grow up.” He rubbed a dirty hand over the marker. “At least I got that chance.”
He’d already dug the hole, carefully carving out the sod so they could lay it back and leave no one the wiser. They’d lay him on top of her casket, so she could hold him. He heard them coming and looked up. They were silent, slowly setting the bag down and opening it to gently lift the remains. They handed the blanket wrapped bundle down to John, who in turn laid it gently atop the exposed coffin.
“Michael, this is your grandmother. She’s gonna take care of you now.” John said softly, opening the blanket so that he could straighten out the legs and pose the arms at his side. The soft green of the baby blanket was dirty now, but he tucked it around the thin frame before folding the larger blanket up to protect the boy’s body from the dirt they would soon be covering him with. He pressed one hand to his mouth, kissing the dirty fingers before pressing it to the top of the coffin, then covering Michael’s skull.
Dean reached down to help him up out of the grave and together they reached for shovels, just as Dana joined them, slipping her arm around Sam and holding him tight while John and Dean worked.
They rolled the sod back into place and stomped it down until you wouldn’t know anything had changed unless you looked really closely. Dean brushed a hand over the stone and murmured something John didn’t hear. When he moved back to Sam, and took Sam in his arms, Sam just melted against him. Dean kissed over his face and turned him to head back to the car.
Love you so much Sam. Dean sighed as he felt Dana slip in on Sam’s other side, slightly surprised to find that she’d brought their father in too.
Something passed specifically between Sam and John and Sam raised his head, licking his lips and nodding. I’m good…really. “I mean…I never expected…this.” He stopped them, pulling free to wipe his face on his jacket sleeve. “Thank you. All of you.” It was more than this…though this was more than he ever thought he’d get…it was everything…it was the way they had changed him…it was who he was because of them…it was the very happy feeling that was settling in over and around the lingering sadness.
He hadn’t been able to give that to Michael in life. But he’d have it now.
Sam squeezed Dean’s hand and kissed him lightly. “Let’s go home.”