Pit Stops on the Road to Hell, for caithream (gen, PG-13)
Title: Pit Stops on the Road to Hell
Author: meredevachon / The Mamas and the Papas
Recipient: caithream
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Author's Notes: 11,000 words. First of all, many thanks to ignipes & mahoni for running this challenge. Some dialogue taken directly from various episodes, but I think it should be fairly obvious when that happens.
Summary: John had no idea how hard it would be raising twins.
~
"They’re so tiny." John couldn’t tear his eyes from the two sleeping infants, his hand reaching out, stopping only inches above one fuzzy head.
"They’ll grow. They’re going to be big and strong and brave, just like their daddy. Just you wait and see."
Mary sounded tired - and lord knew she had reason to be - but more than that, she seemed… content. Of course, that could’ve been the drugs, but John thought it had a lot more to do with the "bundles of joy" in the clear plastic bassinet than the Stadol.
"You okay, Mama?" John finally pulled his gaze from his sons and turned to his wife, gently brushing a lock of hair off of her face.
She reached up, grasping his hand, and kissed his palm before answering. "Yeah. I’m good. They really are beautiful, aren’t they."
"Just like their mama," John leaned against the side of the hospital bed and looked back to his boys, his brow crinkling in confusion. "Why just one basket? What? Bringing in separate beds was too much trouble or something?"
"The nurse said sometimes it’s better with twins, to keep them together. She said this one…" Mary pointed to the larger of the two, "Kept crying when they were separated, but put them together and he calmed right down and went to sleep. She said she’d seen it before, and sometimes, if one twin was sick, keeping them in the same crib helped the sick one get better faster. Not that there’s anything wrong with our boys, thank God. But the babies seem to like it better that way, so I say we go with it… for now, anyway."
"Hey, if it works for you, and it works for our boys, then it works for me. You know, eventually we’re going to have to name these boys. Can’t just keep calling them This One and That One, or everybody’ll be confused."
"I thought we already had the names picked out. Sam and Dean, after my grandfathers."
"Yeah, we got that far. But you never told me who was who. So… what do you think?"
Mary paused for a minute, considering. "Hmmm… decisions, decisions. Well, Gramps was always the first to raise a fuss, but he got over it pretty quick too. And he was older. So how about calling This One," she smiled down on the one she’d pointed at a moment ago, "Dean, and his baby brother by nineteen minutes will be our little Sammy."
*****
Missouri sensed him before he’d even opened the door. Grief most of all, thick and suffocating. And in that fog of loss - confusion, uncertainty, fear, and an anger so cold it burned. But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on and so faint she wasn’t even sure she’d felt it to begin with. She babbled something about only being able to find love when you’re able to give it. True enough for advice, but really she just wanted the young woman sitting across from her - one of those regular paying customers who just wanted someone to pat them on the head and say everything was going to be all right - just wanted her to leave, before the trouble outside walked through her door. She hustled the girl out, Yes, two weeks from today. See you then, honey, and then stood holding the door open.
He wasn’t quite what she’d expected. Not reaching into the backseat of some black, bad boy car, and even less when he pulled out not one but two car seat-baby carriers and headed for her front porch. He paused when he saw her watching him, and the uncertainty she’d felt earlier flared up, then he straightened his shoulders in a way that said he’d probably been in service - so many of the ones his age had, though - and with that resolve, he climbed the steps to meet her.
"John Winchester. Well come on in." Names were easy, a person’s whole life, whole identity wrapped up in just a few words, and Missouri could pick them out almost without effort. But it could be a good first move, let them get a sense she could do what she said she could do. She thought he might need that. And yeah, there was the confusion and the fear, followed by the tiniest bit of relief.
"You know my name."
It wasn’t exactly a question, but Missouri decided to treat it like one. After all, the man had come for answers.
"Of course I know your name. That’s part of my job… knowing things. Now you go on, bring those boys of yours inside, and we’ll talk."
He followed her into the parlor where she normally did her consultations, refusing her offer to carry one of the babies for him. As soon as he was settled on the couch, he unhooked the restraints on the seats and held the babies on his lap. One nestled down deep in the crook of his arm, while the other looked wide-eyed around the room and at Missouri. The unknown sensation she’d felt earlier was back… power, from one of them at least, but she couldn’t be sure who.
"They’re beautiful boys."
"This is Sammy, and that’s Dean. They’re… uh… they’re… six months old." His answer seemed mindless, rote. Like he’d heard the question so many times he answered without being asked.
"Six months. I bet they’re growing so fast you can’t even believe it. But you didn’t come here today just to show off your babies. Something happened. Something bad. And you’re hoping I can help you understand."
He nodded, never taking his eyes off the twins. "My wife… Mary. She… There was a fire. They say it was an accident, faulty wiring in the… in the nursery. But she was… she was… Oh, god!"
The memory of what he had witnessed that night flooded over Missouri as tears began to stream down his face. Mary bleeding and pinned to the ceiling. The heat of the fire and smell of the smoke. The babies crying. The overwhelming helplessness as John scooped up his sons and ran from the room, looking back at the woman he loved and was unable to save.
"You saved her boys… her babies. That’s what she wanted you to do."
He looked up then, and Missouri couldn’t help but scoot back in her chair, away from the rage written so plain across his face.
"I want to know. I need to know what happened to Mary. Can you help me?"
Missouri looked deep, studying the man before her, learning him, judging what kind of man he was. Then she turned her attention to the baby boys in his arms.
"Of course, baby. I’ll tell you all I can."
*****
John flipped through his journal carefully. He knew he’d stuck the slip of paper in there somewhere… along with a couple dozen others. He hadn’t wanted to take it in the first place. But she’d insisted. Said one day he might decide he needed it. Said he was a stubborn, mule-headed fool for even thinking about doing it all on his own with two young boys to look after.
Missouri Mosely could’ve put a few DIs he knew to shame, if she wanted to.
He hadn’t spoken to her since he left Lawrence. Didn’t really want to speak to her even then, not once he heard what she had to say. She told him about the things nobody talked about, that most people didn’t believe in. About spirits and demons and the forces of darkness. About the thing that killed Mary. She told him his boys were special, and they were in danger. She told him a lot of things. Then there were the things she didn’t say. The sad smile as she bounced Dean on her knee. The sigh she tried to hide as she watched John give Sammy a bottle.
He’d gone to see her as often as he could in the first few weeks after the fire, wanting to learn everything she could tell him about the world he didn’t know. But there was only so much she could tell him. Or maybe only so much she would tell him. She said she couldn’t really tell the future, but he got the feeling she knew more than she let on, future or not. The last time he’d visited, she handed him a list of names. People she knew. People who might could help. She said that was what they did. There weren’t many people who knew about the things that went bump in the night, and even fewer who did something about it. Most of those who did knew each other, or at least knew of each other.
The names on the list were some of those people… hunters. Missouri said they were the ones most likely to be of help to John and his boys. John only took the list because she insisted. Sat right there in her parlor glaring him into submission until he put the damn thing in the journal he’d started after his first conversation with her. She seemed satisfied with that, and it didn’t hurt to have it. John still never planned on tracking down any of the people on the list.
He wanted to keep his boys safe, and there was no way anybody could convince him they’d be safe anywhere but with him. He took the boys and they hit the road, rarely staying in one place for more than a few weeks. He read every book he could get his hands on that talked about any kind of supernatural activity: hauntings, possessions, vampires, shapeshifters, cryptids, you name it. He met with houngans and medicine men and psychics like Missouri, trying to find out more about the threat to his boys and, more importantly, ways to protect them.
But he didn’t even consider contacting the people on Missouri’s list. One look at the first name and he thought he had a pretty good idea what he would be dealing with if he did. Father Jim Murphy, Blue Earth, Minnesota, it said. John could just see it; some scrawny, Max von Sydow guy in a Roman collar, surrounded by books, presiding over a some kind of conclave or something. A bunch of people getting together once a year or something to argue about whether salt or goofer dust was better for repelling ghosts, or if banshees were merely death omens or if they actually caused the person to die. These weren’t the kind of people who could help his boys.
Months passed, then a year, and the more John learned, the more he discovered running wasn’t enough. Life on the road was hard enough on its own. Add in trying to raise two young boys, and fend off the forces of evil, and it became too much. Run and hide wasn’t enough any more, and John had long been of the opinion that a good offense was the best defense. He didn’t need just to protect his sons from whatever came after them; he needed to wipe out anything that might be a threat. As much as he hated to do it, John had to admit Missouri might have had a point. Maybe he’d just been being stubborn when he thought he could do it all on his own. And that’s how he ended up digging through his journal trying to find a single folded page of monogrammed stationery.
Ah! Finally. He found it.
Father Jim Murphy - Blue Earth, Minnesota
Bobby Singer - Lawrence County, South Dakota
Bill & Ellen Harvelle - Chase County, Nebraska
Daniel Elkins - Manning, Colorado
He wasn’t going to go to the priest. Not if he could help it. Last time he’d been in a church was for Mary’s funeral, and he didn’t see any reason to change that any time soon. Looking further down the list, John noticed for the first time there was a woman’s name as well. Wife? Sister? Not that it really mattered, John supposed, but it felt different somehow. He grabbed the road atlas from his duffle bag and started to plan out his route. Even with stops for the boys, they should be able to get there in a day, maybe less if he pushed hard.
His mind made up, John threw the last few toys and clothes and things into various bags, then loaded the gear and the boys into the car. He’d learned in his time on the road it was easier to do most of his driving at night. The roads were less crowded - in the places where that was an issue - and the boys were more likely to sleep in the backseat. They’d stop in the day and get a room somewhere. He’d get what sleep he could - hopefully while the boys napped - and then they’d play and read stories and do all the normal kid stuff. When they drove during the day, the boys usually were awake and miserable in their car seats… and that made John just as miserable.
Sam and Dean were already nodding off when he buckled them into the car seats, and by the time he hit the highway, they were both sound asleep. He turned the radio on low, rested his elbow on the open window, and headed for Nebraska.
They made good time, even with stopping to eat and sleep and just move around, and it was late afternoon when John saw the Now Entering Chase County sign… and not a hundred yards past that, a sign advertising Harvelle’s Roadhouse. John figured it was as good a place as any to try to find Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Even if they weren’t there, he’d bet his best shotgun somebody there would know where they’d be.
The signs were easy to follow, and soon John was parking the car outside a rough looking wooden building that looked like pretty much every small town bar he’d ever seen. The place didn’t look too busy. John parked next to a beat up, blue Ford pick-up, and around the side of the building was another truck only a few years newer and covered in mud. With Sam on his left hip and Dean on his right, and the duffle he used as a diaper bag-slash-carryall hanging across his back, John opened the door and went inside. The woman behind the bar gave him a strange look when she saw the boys, then nodded and moved over by the taps.
"Just passing through?"
Her voice was low, kind of rough, and John thought he heard a hint of something more than just friendly service and small talk behind her question.
"Looking for someone, actually. Mind if I…?" John pointed towards one of the small booths and then jostled Sam a little, tickling him at the same time to make him giggle.
She smiled, "Sure, have a seat. Can I get y’all anything?"
"Just water for the boys. I’ve got cups around here… somewhere. And I sure could use a cold beer." John looked up once he’d found the sippy cups - they’d ended up at the bottom of the bag, just like whatever he was looking for always did - and the woman had come out from behind the bar, beer in hand, and was halfway across the room to the table. He hadn’t been able to see it before, hidden by the bar, but now he could tell she was pregnant. Not like she was going to pop any day now, but obviously with a baby on the way.
She set down the beer, then knelt down a bit so she could be at eye level with the boys. John was surprised at how gracefully she moved, but planned to give her a hand up when she tried to stand again. He remembered what a hard time Mary had had getting around once she started to get big.
"Well, aren’t you two a couple of cutie-pies."
"This is Dean, and that’s Sammy. They’ll be two next month."
"Well, they’re adorable," she paused, shifting to look up at John, "You said you were looking for somebody?"
"Yeah. Trying to track down Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Figured this was a good place to start."
"It could be at that. You a friend of Bill’s?"
The question was a test; John could tell. Answer wrong, and he’d never see Bill Harvelle… and that mysterious group on Missouri’s list would probably never help him. So he decided to go for the truth.
"Not exactly. Never met the man. Got his name from Missouri Mosely. She said he might be able to help. Name’s John, by the way."
The woman relaxed then, and offered John her hand. "Ellen Harvelle. Nice to meet you, John. My Bill’s out on a hunt, should be back in a couple of days. You and your boys are more than welcome to stay if you want. We’ve got a couple of rooms out back. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean… and safe. Or if it’s something you think can’t wait that long, well… you tell me what your trouble is, I might could tell you who to talk to." She might have glanced at two men playing pool at the back of the bar, but John wasn’t sure.
One thing he did know, he felt a lot more comfortable here than he had in a long while on the road and on the run. Maybe Missouri’d been right after all. Maybe he didn’t have to do it all alone.
*****
Bobby rubbed his hand back and forth across his chin, the rasp of stubble sounding loud in his ears before it was drowned out by the bang, bang, bang, pause, bang, bang, bang, pause of the boys’ target practice. He watched from the shaded, almost-comfort of the porch, sipping occasionally from a silvered flask. He didn’t bother to look up when the screen door squealed open behind him.
"Find what you were looking for?"
John handed Bobby a cold beer and leaned against the railing next to him.
"Maybe. Not entirely sure what I’m trying to find, to tell the truth. Jotted a few things down I thought might help. Thanks for letting me go through your library."
"Any time, John, you know that. You and the boys are always welcome here. Don’t see ‘em often enough as it is. Not that I don’t understand. I do. When they were little, just made more sense to let them run around with Jo where Ellen could keep an eye on all three of ‘em. And Jim Murphy’s got his congregation to make sure they eat their fill when they visit him for a week or two, plus more kids for the boys to play with. And I’m what I am. Not exactly the father type. Still, I like having Sam and Dean around from time to time. I swear, they’ll either keep me young or send me to an early grave, but they’re something, you know?"
John smiled then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Bobby wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, so he just went on with what he’d been saying.
"They’re naturals, too, when it comes to hunting. Give ‘em a few more years, I don’t know that there’s anything they can’t take on together. I’d heard about twins, how they sometimes just know what the other’s doing, but I swear I never knew it could be like those two. I was watching them spar a little bit ago, and the way they moved… hell, the way they finish each other’s sentences, toss weapons. It’s a sight. I don’t think either one of them’s missed a target all day, and I still can’t tell how they decide what they’re gonna shoot at next, or with what. But they know."
Bobby took another sip of his beer, then continued, "Sam hesitates sometimes when he shouldn’t. I saw that last night when you were working with both the boys, but once he gets past whatever’s holding him back, he’s better than a lot of guys I knew in the service. Efficient. Calculating. And Dean… he just moves. So different, you’d think they wouldn’t fight well together, but they do. They take their cues from each other, ‘though I’ll be damned if I can see how, and it just works."
The tension in John’s jaw had been getting tighter and tighter as Bobby spoke, but he didn’t say a word until after they’d drunk in silence for a long moment.
"I’m not disagreeing with anything you said; they are something special. But I get the feeling there’s something else. You got something you wanna say to me, Bobby?"
John’s voice was low, little more than a growl, but Bobby didn’t scare easy. He’d faced down scarier things than John Winchester, and had the scars to prove it.
"I don’t wanna tell you how to raise your boys…"
"Then don’t."
"… but I don’t know how smart it is to take those boys with you when you go after that werewolf next week. They’re gonna be some of the best hunters I’ve ever seen, but they’re still boys. They’re young, and that means they’re stupid when it comes to taking chances. If anything were to happen to one, it’d just about kill the other. And you know it. You want to take them on a real hunt, fine. But make it something a little less dangerous. Weres are strong and fast and unpredictable. And even if the boys don’t get killed, all it would take is one bite. You don’t want that. You don’t want to have to put one of ‘em down like a rabid dog. How would you live with yourself after? There’s plenty of other things they can go after for a first hunt. The boys can stay here with me over the full moon; you go do what needs to be done. Then after, they can help out with a poltergeist or something simple. Don’t go throwin’ ‘em in the deep end right off the bat."
*****
"All I’m saying is you could take my side once in awhile!"
John had gotten to the end of the block when he realized he’d left his cell phone on the kitchen table. Not good considering Caleb was supposed to call about some new ammo he wanted to try out. So he’d turned around and come back. He hadn’t expected to walk in on one of Sam’s tirades, though. As far as John knew, those were saved for him alone. But that was definitely Sam’s voice in full It’s not fair. You can’t tell me what to do. I know better than everybody else mode. And for once, John wasn’t the target of Sam’s anger.
Dean must have said something in reply, but since he wasn’t the one yelling fit to wake the dead, John couldn’t make out any words.
"God, Dean. He says ‘jump,’ you don’t even bother asking ‘how high?’ you just jump and then worry it’s not high enough. Lemme tell you something. It’s always high enough. You’re Dad’s perfect little soldier. Not that he’ll tell you that, but you never do anything wrong in his eyes. Such a little suck up. Are you ever going to grow a pair? Or are you going to let Dad lead you around by your balls your whole life?"
John heard a dull thud then, heavy, and moved down the hall to see what was going on. As he got closer he could hear Dean, his words interspersed with more thuds and bangs and grunts that told him the fight had moved beyond just talking.
"I’m not taking… anybody’s side… damn it. Just… want you… both to get… your… heads… out of your… asses. Dad tells us to… do things his… way for… a reason."
Whatever Sam was about to say was drowned out by a sound that could only have been the bookcase overturning and everything crammed on the shelves crashing to the floor.
Not that Sam let that stop him; he just started over once the noise died down.
"Maybe he does have his reasons, but he never tells us what they are. I will never understand the blind faith you have in him. But that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I try to ask a simple question, he jumps all over me, and then you don’t back me up. You’re always picking his side. Now can I let you up, or are you gonna take another swing at me?"
It got quiet then, and John crept closer to the cracked door of the boys’ room. He wasn’t going to apologize for the things he’d done - and would continue to do - to keep his boys safe. And if Sammy didn’t like that, too bad. But the boys had always been so close, two sides of the same coin, and if they were really fighting now… well, maybe he would have to say something.
"I am on your side. You and me… always and against all comers, right? I just don’t see how yelling at Dad does anybody any good. He’s going to do things his way, and we have to too. Fighting over every little detail just pisses him off… at both of us. When we’re out on a hunt we don’t have time to run everything by committee. If you’d just keep your fucking mouth shut once in awhile, he’d probably listen a little better when you did have something to say. And I’m tired of it. It’s like you can’t even be in the same room any more without fighting about whether to have bacon or sausage for breakfast when it doesn't even matter 'cause we're out of both.
Jim had been telling John for almost a year he’d gotten lucky with his boys. He had plenty of teenage rebellion horror stories culled from his congregation to share. Sam always made honor roll at whatever school they were at - and John had determined to stay in one place for a couple more years so the boys could finish out high school without any more transfers. And Dean always did what John asked of him, most of the time without even being asked. It could have been a lot worse. Hell, ever since the boys were born, people’d been warning him how bad it would be having twin teenaged boys. But Sam’s not-so-civil civil disobedience - and how much did John hate how well Sam learned that particular history lesson - was making him want to put his fist through a few walls. Not that Dean was some kind of angel; John was pretty sure he skipped more school than just the days they missed for hunts, and his total disdain for any authority who wasn’t John Winchester was going to get him in real trouble if he wasn’t careful.
John was so caught up in his thoughts, he missed whatever Sam said next and the stomping footsteps that preceded the bedroom door being flung open. Dean stormed out of the room, narrowly avoiding smacking into John just outside the door. Dean’s eyes widened for a moment, until his features settled back into the poker face John had taught him years before. He didn’t stop, didn’t make eye contact after that first brief glimpse, just continued down the hall and out the front door. Not wanting to start up the next round of Winchester Death Match with Sam, John grabbed his phone and headed out too.
His boys would figure it out. He just needed to give them time.
*****
Sam had been checking the mail every afternoon for almost a month. He knew Dean thought it was so he could put off training; he’d even gone so far as to drop a few hints about it. He didn’t want Dean - or even worse, Dad - asking any questions.
But the day had finally come. His future, and Dean’s, lying in the palm of his hand; a couple of thick, cream colored envelopes that could be a better life for both of them. Thick was good, right? It only took a single sheet of paper to say Sorry. You’re an idiot. We don’t want you at our school. Thick meant lots of pages… so it probably wasn’t a rejection letter. But…
He couldn’t do it. After all his hard work and all the time spent waiting, he couldn’t open the damn things. Tracking a werewolf back to its lair, that he could do, and not nervous at all. But opening a piece of mail, when the biggest physical danger was a paper cut, and he chickened out.
All the way back from the post office, all Sam could think about were those letters. By the time he walked in the front door, he felt like he’d run a marathon in full gear in the middle of summer. He could hear Dean in the kitchen, singing along to the radio, and he decided to let Dean do the hard part. That was fair, right? Sam had done all the rest of it. All Dean had to do was slice open an envelope and read what was inside.
Sam tossed one of the envelopes on table in front of Dean. "Open that."
Dean looked at the envelope and then up at Sam, a Dagwood-worthy sandwich halfway between his mouth and the paper towel in front of him. "What? All the sudden you can’t open the mail by yourself, Sam?"
"It’s not addressed to me, Shorty. Just open it already."
"Shorty? I might not be Sasquatch tall, but I’m not short where it counts, if you know what I mean."
"Everybody knows what you mean, Dean. You’re not exactly subtle. Now are you gonna open the damn thing or what?"
Dean put down the sandwich and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he picked up the envelope, read what was printed on its front, and frowned at the red tree logo on the left hand corner.
"Stanford University? What the hell is Stanford mailing me for? You’re the one who got all those recruitment letters. Not me."
A heavy, queasy feeling was building in Sam’s gut, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait for Dean to read what was inside. He shifted uneasily from side to side, bouncing a little on his heels, stopping when Dean gave him a look that said What the fuck is wrong with you? plain as day.
Dean pulled a knife from his back pocket and slid it along one edge of the envelope. He skimmed over the contents, then set the pages on the table without saying a word. Sam could see Dean’s jaw clenching and unclenching, and he waited for what would come next.
Minutes passed, but they felt like years to Sam, and when Dean finally opened his mouth to say something, Sam thought he was going to pass out.
"Apparently," Dean paused, "Apparently I’ve been accepted to Stanford. Which is kind of funny, seeing as how I never applied to Stanford… or anywhere else for that matter. What’d they do, get our names mixed up somewhere along the line? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m not Stanford material. You’re the geek in this family. Then again, since I know you’re not stupid enough to have applied to college, it can’t be for you either. Can it?"
Sam didn’t meet Dean’s eyes, kept his gaze squarely on his shoes. He was going to need new ones soon; the outer sole had started to peel away at the toes. He didn’t say anything either, just pulled the second envelope - identical to the first, except for the first name in the address field - from his backpack and tossed it down next to Dean’s.
"This is a joke, right? Some kind of really lame practical joke that nobody in the world would think is funny except for you. And frankly, this is a sad excuse for a prank even for you."
The look in Dean’s eyes begged Sam to admit it was all a joke, and Sam didn’t know who he hated more: Dean for not wanting what Sam wanted more than anything, or himself for thinking Dean would share his dreams. He fumbled for the chair, sitting down before he did something really stupid, like run from the room in tears or punch his brother in the face.
He opened the second envelope - no reason to be afraid of words on a page now - his hands trembling as he pulled out the acceptance letter. The acceptance letter. He’d hoped. He’d maybe even expected, on his good days. But there it was, and it didn’t even seem real.
"It’s… uh… it’s not a joke, Dean. We got… we got into Stanford. Both of us."
"No." Dean pushed away from the table and started to pace around the tiny kitchen.
"No? What do you mean, ‘no’? We got in. The acceptance letters are right here. Don’t you see? We don’t have to live like this any more. We can have a normal life. Go to college. Make something of ourselves. We can-"
"Make something of ourselves? What the hell is that supposed to mean? We don’t have to live this way… How can we not? This is… this is all we know, Sam. You and me and Dad. That’s it. You know what’s out there. How can we not live like this? You wanna just run off? Leave Dad to track down the thing that killed our mom all by himself? ‘Cause I can’t do that. This is where we’re supposed to be. This is what we’re supposed to be doing. Why won’t you see that?"
"Why won’t you see we don’t deserve to live like this? He’s just using us Dean. We’re just his little soldiers. Cannon fodder in his own personal war. And we’ve never seen or heard anything about whatever it was he thinks killed Mom. Not like we even knew her to begin with. She’s just some woman in a few pictures. Whatever drunken memories we could pry from him those few nights he let himself go. So why do we have to be the ones to fight?"
"Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that. Dad loves us. He’s just trying to keep us safe. Keep other people safe. And that thing… that’s the reason we never got to have a mom. That’s why we have to do what we do. We’re the only ones who can. And you just wanna throw all that away on some pipe dream. We wouldn’t fit in there, Sam. We don’t belong. Hell, if they knew anything about who we really are, there’s no way they would let us in."
"They would." Sam’s voice was tiny and tight, not a whisper, but so faint it almost didn’t carry the short distance to Dean.
"Oh really? So how exactly did I manage to win the approval of the great Stanford University, huh? ‘Cause I’ve seen my grades. Had to burn both our report cards last quarter just to keep Dad from seeing them. Not to mention… I never applied. Somehow I kind of think they like to get an application from someone before saying Welcome."
"Imighthavefilledoutanapplicationforyouandsentitin."
"You wanna run that by me again, Auctioneer Bob?"
"I filled out an application for you, okay? I asked around, got some teachers to write you recommendations - Ms. Kolena was so happy you’d changed your mind about applying, by the way - and your SAT scores were good… really good, even. Why didn’t you tell me you scored higher than me?"
Dean continued to pace, an arc left and then right, always keeping the table between him and Sam.
"Geez, Sam, what is… It didn’t matter, all right? I only took the damn thing ‘cause you were such a freakazoid about it, and Dad wouldn’t let you take it unless I did too. I didn’t care what I got on it. ‘Cause it didn’t matter what I got. I’m not going to college, and neither are you. So why did you even try in the first place? And if you just had to try, why’d you have to drag me into it?"
"You and me, always and against all comers, right? I need this, Dean. And I need you with me."
"Well, it doesn’t matter what you need. Dad’s never gonna let you go off to school somewhere. You got in. Good for you. And, you know, you got me in too. I don’t know how you did it without hacking into the school’s computers and… Holy crap! You hacked into the school’s computers, didn’t you? To change my grades. After all the flak you give Dad about ‘cheating the system’ and how ‘the ends don’t justify the means,’ you went and forged my transcript, so you could forge - there’s that word again - an application in my name. And what good’s it going to do? We’re not going anywhere except where Dad says."
"We could."
"Well, I don’t want to."
"Don’t make me do this alone, Dean. Please. I don’t know if I can do this without you."
Dean paused. It was all Sam could do to keep his mouth shut and just wait for Dean’s decision. And if it was the wrong one, well, Sam still had time to work on him. But he hoped Dean would see things his way if he was patient and gave him time to think.
"No."
"No, what? No, you won’t make me do this alone, or no, you aren’t going to go?" Sam thought he knew the answer… was sure he did. But he had to ask, had to hear it from Dean.
"No, I’m not going. There are people out there that depend on us, people who need protection, and they don’t even know from what. And you’re not going either. Dad would have a friggin’ cow if he found out you even applied. No, Sam."
"Dean…" Sam couldn’t seem to find the words; he was so stunned that Dean wouldn’t even listen to him. He just needed more time. "So don’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know, right? Not if we’re not going."
*****
The house seemed quiet after the yelling, so much yelling, and John realized he didn’t know what to do. Sam and Dean had stormed out in a thunder of stomping boots and slamming doors, and then headed down the road on the rumble of the Impala’s engine. Once the sounds of their flight died down, the only thing John could hear was the sound of his own voice in his head, If you leave now, that’s it. Don’t come back.
He hadn’t meant it. He’d never wanted to say it. Never wanted to throw his father’s words back at one of his own children. He had wanted to ask how he was supposed to protect Sam if he wasn’t around to be looked after. He’d wanted to tell his boy how dangerous the world was - but Sam already knew that, better than most boys their age - and how much more dangerous it would be for Sam. But the boys didn’t know. He’d never told them the harsh secret Missouri had hinted at long ago with words like destiny and sacrifice, or the legends he’d read later when digging through Bobby’s books, and Jim’s. He hadn’t told them a terrible fate lay waiting for one of them… or that he didn’t know which one. How could he?
But then Sam had to go and announce he’d been accepted to Stanford - full ride - and John’s world had fallen out from under him. Dean hadn’t been surprised at the news, a little confused maybe, but not surprised, and John wondered just how long his boys had been waiting to spring this on him. Didn’t colleges send out letters in the spring? But then Sam said he had a bus ticket and was leaving in the morning, and there was no way Dean had been expecting that. Not if the wild punch he threw was any indication.
They were all yelling then, and none of them listening. John ordering Sam not to go - like that was going to work. Sam adamant he didn’t have to listen to a man who treated him more like a grunt than a son. Dean trying in vain to get them both to shut up, to just wait a minute.
They’d left maybe half an hour ago. Dean had been no more able to convince Sam to stay than John had, but he’d at least had the courage to drive him to the bus station, to be with his brother just that little bit longer. And John wondered if that would be enough. Would Dean come back, hurt and pissed off and ready to fight or fuck whatever got in his way? Or would saying good-bye be more than he could bear? The boys had never been apart. Not a single night. Even that time Dean ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, Sam had stayed at his side, sleeping curled up in that impossibly hard chair with his head on Dean’s bed. They had never been apart, ever. And now Sam wanted to go halfway across the country without his brother. What did John have to offer that could compete with that kind of bond?
Nothing, that’s what.
He could just picture it. Dean would put up a good fight at first, but as they got closer to the bus terminal, he’d soften. Or maybe it would be while they were sitting around waiting for the bus. Sam wouldn’t say anything; they’d just look at each other from time to time, looking away when the other one noticed. And they’d realize they couldn’t be apart. Dean would think about all the hunts that went wrong, the long days and nights on the road. Then, in that not-quite-spooky way they had of knowing what the other one was thinking, they’d get back in the Impala and head west. If he was lucky, John might get a phone call when they got to California, letting him know they were okay… and giving Sam another chance to get in one more dig.
Yeah, Dean had argued long and hard that Sam should stay. He’d promised John over and over he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’d be back once he took Sam to the station. But John was just their father… and a pretty sorry one at that, if he was being honest with himself. Sam was his brother. His twin. His world. Dean wouldn’t give that up.
But what if he did? Wouldn’t that be worse? Separating them couldn’t be better than keeping them together, could it? At least if they were together, they could watch out for each other. And John could settle down, only take jobs near Palo Alto for a few years, keep an eye out for whatever was coming for them down the line. If Dean did come back, Sam really would be all on his own.
If only John knew. Missouri had been pretty vague about what had killed Mary and why, but she’d said it had something to do with the boys. That one of them would have to give himself to save the other from the armies of hell. If John just knew which one, then he could protect them both by protecting the one the demon wanted. He thought about calling her, but knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything she hadn’t said a dozen times before. She would have called if she’d found out something.
And Bobby couldn’t tell him anything. As much as Bobby cared about the boys, John hadn’t quite trusted him enough to tell him everything. Bobby knew more about demons than just about anybody living, but he’d earned that knowledge the hard way. He hadn’t survived by giving anything the benefit of the doubt.
Jim Murphy knew though, knew everything John had been able to piece together over the years. John still couldn’t believe that way back when, he hadn’t wanted to meet the man just because he was a man of the cloth. Jim had become his closest friend and confidante over the years. Maybe he would know what to do. He usually did, or at least, he could talk things over until John figured stuff out for himself. Yeah, calling Jim was the smart thing to do. If nothing else, it would keep John from getting in his truck, racing to the bus terminal, and dragging both boys back by their ears… or knocking them unconscious, throwing them over his shoulders, and carrying them back like sacks of flour.
John had the phone in his hand, the number dialed and everything, and his thumb hovered over the Send button. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to hear what he thought Jim might have to say, but knew he’d feel better once he did. He was still sitting like that when Dean stalked through the front door and on back down the hallway to the boys’ room… Dean’s room, now. John hadn’t even heard the car pull up. He did hear Dean slam the bedroom door shut and crank his stereo up as loud as it would go, though.
With a sigh, John pushed the final button and waited for his friend to answer.
*****
Dean wasn’t surprised at how easy it was hunting with Sam again. Yeah, Sam was wrecked after Jess died, but Dean got that. Sam blamed himself, and no matter what Dean said he couldn’t convince him all the blame belonged on the thing that had killed their mom. So what if Sam was a little quieter than Dean remembered; it wasn’t anywhere near as quiet as Dean on the road alone.
It was pretty much like old times, Sam and Dean taking on the world together. At least Dean thought it was. Until he found out Sam was keeping secrets from him. Not little stuff like using Dean’s favorite Metallica t-shirt to clean his guns or telling the waitress in the diner two towns back Dean wasn’t really interested in girls, if she knew what he meant. Big, how-the-hell-do-you-keep-this-a-secret secrets. I’m-having-prophetic-dreams secrets.
But Dean figured they’d cope. They could handle anything as long as they were together. Sam did tell him eventually - when he had no choice. Then when the nightmares became waking visions… well, they handled that too.
Then the creepy-ass visions led them to Max. Talk about creepy-ass, that boy could use some sun… and a personality. Max, whose mother had died in a nursery fire just like theirs. Max, who could kill people with his brain, and had. Dean would have said telekinesis would be a really cool power, much better than Sam’s skull shattering visions, but it was kind of hard to see the fun when there was a gun fucking hovering in midair aimed at your head.
At least it was over. Not exactly a Disney ending, but he and Sam were okay, and that was the important thing. All that was left to do was pack up and head out for the next job.
"Dean, I’ve been thinking."
Uh-oh "Well that’s never a good thing."
Dean glanced up at Sam, then went back to stuffing shirts in his duffle bag.
"I’m serious. I’ve been thinking… why would this demon - or whatever it is - why would it Mom and Jessica and Max’ mother, you know? What does it want?"
Dean had been wondering the same thing, but no way he was going to admit that to Sam. That wasn’t what he needed to hear.
"No idea."
"Well, you think maybe it was after us? After Max and me?"
Again with the why. Sam had always been like that. He didn’t get that you just went with what was, dealt with it, and moved on. He had to understand why things happened. Made things a lot more complicated than they had to be, that’d been half his problem with Dad. But Dean had learned a long time ago letting Sam talk through things that confused him was a whole lot faster and easier than ignoring them. He just wished Dad had figured out the same thing.
"Why would you say that?"
"I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know? Maybe it was after us for some reason."
Dean geared himself up for Round 391 of It’s not your fault, hoping this time it would finally sink in. "Sam, if it wanted you, it would’ve just taken you, okay? This is not your fault. It’s not about you."
Sam sighed. "Then what is it about?"
"It’s about the damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we’re gonna find. The thing that we’re gonna kill. And that’s all."
Sam got kind of quiet then; if Dean didn’t know better he would have said embarrassed even.
"Actually, there’s… uh… there’s something else, too."
"Oh, geez, what?"
"When Max locked me in that closet… that big cabinet against the door… I… uh… moved it."
Dean laughed. He couldn’t help it. Here he was thinking there was some big terrible thing Sam was all worried about, and it turned out to be nothing. Sam really could be such a drama queen sometimes.
"You’ve got a little bit more upper body strength than I gave you credit for."
Yep, that was definitely embarrassment. Sam was blushing.
"No, man. I moved it. Like Max."
"Oh, right." Like Dean knew what to say to that. He knew he probably sounded like an idiot, but seriously, out of left field much, Sam?
"Yeah."
Sam still wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and it was starting to freak Dean out. Seeing a spoon in the motel room’s tiny kitchenette area, he grabbed it and held it out towards Sam.
"Bend this."
"Dean, I’m serious."
"So am I, dude. We could make a fortune if we play this right."
"And you’re not worried? I mean, me… Max, getting these weird psychic abilities all the sudden. Why us? I mean, why not you? You aren’t turning into some kind of supernatural freak."
"Says you. You think being this inhumanly handsome comes natural?"
Dean struck a pose, his lips curling into the smirk that had all the women falling into his arms. The last thing he wanted to do was let Sam know he was a little weirded out by the whole thing… and maybe just a bit jealous, too.
"Besides, anything happens to you, happens to me too. Just keep your telekinetic mojo off my stuff, you hear."
Sam shook his head and headed for the door.
Dean couldn’t resist one last jab to get Sam out of his emo funk. "Now then, I know what we need to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go."
"Where?"
God, Sam was so easy sometimes. Dean would almost feel guilty about it, but that’s what brothers were for, right?
"Vegas."
Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the car. He never could appreciate the finer things in life.
"What? C’mon man. Craps table. We’d clean up."
Following his brother out to the car, Dean closed the door behind him. All that he had left to do was flash his girl’s taillights at Saginaw on their way out of town.
*****
The first thing John remembered after Meg’s demon buddy pinned him to the wall was seeing his boys standing over him and the voice of the demon echoing in his head.
They’re not gonna know what hit ‘em, Johnny-boy.
Sorriest thing was that demonic bastard had been right… for awhile at least. But John knew he’d trained his boys right, had faith they would recognize the danger before it was too late. Plus, Sam had those psychic abilities that had made him a target for the demon in the first place, and Dean… well, Dean had always had a pretty good sense of when things were off. For a time, John had figured Dean was probably the one with the power and the destiny Missouri had told him about. Then the boys told him about Sam’s visions, how they related to the demon, and John began to rethink things. The demon just confirmed it for him, in thoughts and flashes and images of what it had in store for Sam when the time came.
It was Dean who figured it out first, and to John’s shame it was the words a good father would say to his son that tipped Dean off. Sam sided with Dean, like John knew he would, merely because it was Dean, not because of any real evidence, not that it mattered. John was just glad it would be over soon. Dean had the gun. The demon was in his sights. One pull of the trigger and the demon would be dead and John’s struggle would end.
I’m surprised at you, John. Never thought you were that naïve. Do you actually think your boy can shoot you point blank. No. He’s weak. He’ll hesitate. And then he’ll die. By your hand.
John knew when the demon revealed itself, taunting him as much as the boys. Then it pinned them to the cabin walls, and John struggled that much harder to break free, to break through.
It went after Dean first, toying with him, and Dean was right there with it, jibe for jibe. That was Dean. He’d always had a smart mouth, but John knew there was more to it than that. Dean was the flash, the barker, the distraction. He would do whatever he had to do to get and keep all the attention on him, giving Sam time to figure out what to do next. Only this time, there was nothing Sam could do.
So, in typical Sam fashion, he did what he’d wanted to do anyway.
"I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?"
That got the demon’s attention right quick, and it turned to Sam, all the while tormenting John with images of Sam standing over the bodies of their friends and of innocents, leading an army of demons out of hell.
"You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty, little Jess?"
John didn’t really hear what they said next. Oh, he caught some reference to Sam and the others like him, but the details didn’t filter through. He was too busy trying to find some weakness, some way to break free long enough to help his boys. Besides, by that point he had a real good idea what the demon’s plans were for Sam.
Better listen up, John. You might learn a thing or two.
The demon was standing in front of Dean again. Hell, it was practically on top of him.
"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam - he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you. Nobody needs you, Dean. You were nothing more than an accident of fate. Only Sam matters. The only reason you’re still alive is I want to make you pay for what you took from me. But soon you’ll be dead, and Sam will be mine. You’ll be nothing but a faded memory of a piss-poor petty crook."
That’s when John knew what he had been missing all along. Just the tiniest flicker of fear the demon couldn’t hide from him, and John understood. Demons lied. He’d taught the boys that long ago, and hammered the lesson home every chance he got. And the best lies were the ones people wanted or were ready to believe.
Yeah, the demon wanted Dean dead, but not for anything as fleeting as revenge. Its arrogance was the only thing that had kept Dean alive to this point. Because if it were really smart, it would have killed Dean the second it got the chance.
Dean was no accident, although John thought fate might have had a hand in his birth. Somebody - or something - up there just might have given Sammy a little help. John had never met anyone with Dean’s luck, and he was starting to think that might be the key. Dean was going to be his brother’s salvation. As long as the demon didn’t kill him first. He had a knack for always being just where he needed to be, making the impossible shot, getting that one-in-a-million hand in poker just when he needed it most, and as far as John could tell all it took was Dean’s belief that it would happen.
"Dad! Dad, don’t you let it kill me!"
John watched the blood pouring out of his son, the muscles straining in agony, and the certainty in his eyes that his father would somehow save him.
"Dad, please."
Suddenly John felt the hold the demon had over him slipping, just as a surge of energy filled him, allowing him to take control for just a minute.
Within seconds the demon was back, but it had been enough. Sam had the gun. He would shoot where Dean had been unable to.
Don’t be so sure.
"You kill me, you kill Daddy."
"I know."
John had never been more proud of Sam, his finger tightening on the trigger, but then his aim shifted. The next thing John knew, he was on his back on the floor, fire racing through his leg and the demon struggling to escape.
John ordered Sam to shoot, to end this thing once and for all. Sam wanted it as badly as he did, right? Sam and Dean would both be safe. The thing that killed Mary and Jessica would be dead. Things could go back to the way they were supposed to be. And if John were very, very lucky, he might get to be with Mary once again.
But in the background, so faint John could barely hear it over his own ragged breathing, there was Dean, begging Sam not to shoot. John tried to hold on, but part of him knew it was a lost cause.
He should have known how it would go.
Sam and Dean… always, and against all comers. Even their own father.
*****
Nobody’d been more surprised than Ellen when Sam and Dean Winchester walked into the Roadhouse, but probably nobody’d been gladder to see them there either. She felt like she’d practically raised those boys when they were little, and as much as it had been her decision, not being able to see the boys after… after what happened to Bill, it had been hard.
But these weren’t the little boys whose faces she’d washed before letting them in for supper, the ones she’d watched sleeping curled together in a twin bed, the rambunctious troublemakers who’d climbed into the Roadhouse’s rafters to swing down on unsuspecting customers. These were grown men, who had lived hard lives and lost too much in their twenty-three years, even for hunters.
She didn’t bring up the falling out between her and John, and the boys didn’t ask. It didn’t seem all that important now that John was dead, and she didn’t see any reason to tarnish the boys’ memories of him. Jo’s hero worship grew into a full-blown crush for awhile, and Ellen got a little worried, but they quickly settled back into something like a grown-up version of the sibling rivalry they’d had as kids. And just that easy, things were normal again.
Sam and Ash would huddle in the corner - or in Ash’s so-called office - for hours searching the internet and pouring over John’s notes about the demon. The first time, Dean and Ellen had split a bottle of Johnny Walker between them, and Dean told her everything. Sam going off to college, John disappearing, finding him again and closing in on the demon, John’s death. He told her about Sam’s visions, that the demon had plans for Sam. He told her there were more people out there whose mothers had been killed by the demon the same way theirs had. He told her he didn’t know why he had been spared.
He was even more confused after the combination of Sam’s visions and Ash’s computer skills turned up another one of the Special Children. Only it wasn’t just one. The guy they thought was killing people hadn’t done any such thing, but his twin - whom he didn’t even know existed - had been. Both of them had psychic abilities. The same ability, even. It didn’t make any sense. One set of twins where both of them were psychic, and another where only one of them seemed to have an ability.
Ellen wondered if there was more to Dean than meets the eye, but no chance she was going to say anything. It was still strange enough thinking about Sam having premonitions. On the other hand, she thought it was possible the inconsistency made sense in some twisted way. It wasn’t the only one they found out about that trip. And trying to track down kids whose mothers had died in nursery fires in 1983 when the kid was six months old would be a whole hell of a lot easier than trying to find people the right age with psychic abilities. Ellen wasn’t sure how they were going to manage that one. But if anybody could do it, it would be Ash.
Even if they found the others like Sam, that didn’t mean a thing unless they could figure out what the demon wanted with them all. Best they could guess, it was building some kind of army, but how and why, they didn’t know. John’s notes weren’t any help - not that anybody but Dean and Sam could decipher most of them - and Ellen and the boys called in every favor and resource and contact they could without giving too much away.
She was worried. Dean seemed like he was on a more even keel the past few weeks, and she hoped he was getting past the worst of his grief. Or maybe it was just getting pushed aside by his fears for Sam. Sam who was coming apart at the edges, becoming more and more obsessed with the demon and its plans. She did what she could to help them both, but things were unraveling faster than she could patch them up. She and Bobby talked at least once a week, sometimes more, trying to figure out what to do about the boys, how to help, how to keep them safe. But she was afraid nothing would be enough, and if the boys couldn’t save themselves and each other, the world might be in a heap of hurt.
*****
John had heard the rumors. Gossip was just as rampant in hell as it was on Earth. And John knew how to listen. Plus, that yellow-eyed bastard came by every chance it got to taunt him with all the things it was going to do with Sammy at its side. John had even been able to piece together enough things that weren’t quite said to have some idea of how things were really going for his boys.
And it wasn’t good.
He heard about what was going on at Cold Oak long before Sam was sent there. The demon was saving his favorite for last. Hell, half the demons and damned spirits he came in contact with were in on the pool to see who would be the last kid standing. That Ava girl was pretty good, in a heartless, calculating kind of way. But his Sam was smarter than that. And Sam and Dean together would figure out some way to either get everybody out, or take out the demon instead. John was sure of it.
He worried about his boys, yeah, he always would, but right then he had other things to occupy his attention, so he trusted Sam and Dean could take care of each other. The time was getting close, and if somehow the demon managed to open the gate, John needed to be ready to fight his way out. That’s why he almost didn’t notice when the rumors started that another Winchester had bit the dust. He did hear it eventually, though, Meg - or the demon who’d been in her, and later Sam - made sure to tell him all about his boy getting stabbed in the back and bleeding out in his brother’s arms. She never said anything about what happened to Sam then, though. John was glad about that; if Sam had somehow been damned, she would have been sure to tell John all about the torments Sam was suffering. There was little that would hurt John more, and hell was all about inflicting pain.
Some time later - time was hard to gauge in hell, everything seemed to last forever - John got wind of another rumor. And if it hadn’t come after news of Sam’s death, John never would have believed it. Apparently some crossroads demon had made one hell - pardon the pun - of a deal, and in a year’s time there would be another Winchester in hell.
Yeah, right. Not if John had anything to say about that.
He understood why Dean had done it. Once again, Missouri’s words from so long ago echoed in John’s head. Destiny. Sacrifice From everything he heard, Dean had at least struck a better bargain than John himself had. Didn’t mean John planned on letting Dean burn in hell.
Besides, who knew? Dean might have just a bit of that luck of his left.
the end
Author: meredevachon / The Mamas and the Papas
Recipient: caithream
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Author's Notes: 11,000 words. First of all, many thanks to ignipes & mahoni for running this challenge. Some dialogue taken directly from various episodes, but I think it should be fairly obvious when that happens.
Summary: John had no idea how hard it would be raising twins.
~
"They’re so tiny." John couldn’t tear his eyes from the two sleeping infants, his hand reaching out, stopping only inches above one fuzzy head.
"They’ll grow. They’re going to be big and strong and brave, just like their daddy. Just you wait and see."
Mary sounded tired - and lord knew she had reason to be - but more than that, she seemed… content. Of course, that could’ve been the drugs, but John thought it had a lot more to do with the "bundles of joy" in the clear plastic bassinet than the Stadol.
"You okay, Mama?" John finally pulled his gaze from his sons and turned to his wife, gently brushing a lock of hair off of her face.
She reached up, grasping his hand, and kissed his palm before answering. "Yeah. I’m good. They really are beautiful, aren’t they."
"Just like their mama," John leaned against the side of the hospital bed and looked back to his boys, his brow crinkling in confusion. "Why just one basket? What? Bringing in separate beds was too much trouble or something?"
"The nurse said sometimes it’s better with twins, to keep them together. She said this one…" Mary pointed to the larger of the two, "Kept crying when they were separated, but put them together and he calmed right down and went to sleep. She said she’d seen it before, and sometimes, if one twin was sick, keeping them in the same crib helped the sick one get better faster. Not that there’s anything wrong with our boys, thank God. But the babies seem to like it better that way, so I say we go with it… for now, anyway."
"Hey, if it works for you, and it works for our boys, then it works for me. You know, eventually we’re going to have to name these boys. Can’t just keep calling them This One and That One, or everybody’ll be confused."
"I thought we already had the names picked out. Sam and Dean, after my grandfathers."
"Yeah, we got that far. But you never told me who was who. So… what do you think?"
Mary paused for a minute, considering. "Hmmm… decisions, decisions. Well, Gramps was always the first to raise a fuss, but he got over it pretty quick too. And he was older. So how about calling This One," she smiled down on the one she’d pointed at a moment ago, "Dean, and his baby brother by nineteen minutes will be our little Sammy."
*****
Missouri sensed him before he’d even opened the door. Grief most of all, thick and suffocating. And in that fog of loss - confusion, uncertainty, fear, and an anger so cold it burned. But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on and so faint she wasn’t even sure she’d felt it to begin with. She babbled something about only being able to find love when you’re able to give it. True enough for advice, but really she just wanted the young woman sitting across from her - one of those regular paying customers who just wanted someone to pat them on the head and say everything was going to be all right - just wanted her to leave, before the trouble outside walked through her door. She hustled the girl out, Yes, two weeks from today. See you then, honey, and then stood holding the door open.
He wasn’t quite what she’d expected. Not reaching into the backseat of some black, bad boy car, and even less when he pulled out not one but two car seat-baby carriers and headed for her front porch. He paused when he saw her watching him, and the uncertainty she’d felt earlier flared up, then he straightened his shoulders in a way that said he’d probably been in service - so many of the ones his age had, though - and with that resolve, he climbed the steps to meet her.
"John Winchester. Well come on in." Names were easy, a person’s whole life, whole identity wrapped up in just a few words, and Missouri could pick them out almost without effort. But it could be a good first move, let them get a sense she could do what she said she could do. She thought he might need that. And yeah, there was the confusion and the fear, followed by the tiniest bit of relief.
"You know my name."
It wasn’t exactly a question, but Missouri decided to treat it like one. After all, the man had come for answers.
"Of course I know your name. That’s part of my job… knowing things. Now you go on, bring those boys of yours inside, and we’ll talk."
He followed her into the parlor where she normally did her consultations, refusing her offer to carry one of the babies for him. As soon as he was settled on the couch, he unhooked the restraints on the seats and held the babies on his lap. One nestled down deep in the crook of his arm, while the other looked wide-eyed around the room and at Missouri. The unknown sensation she’d felt earlier was back… power, from one of them at least, but she couldn’t be sure who.
"They’re beautiful boys."
"This is Sammy, and that’s Dean. They’re… uh… they’re… six months old." His answer seemed mindless, rote. Like he’d heard the question so many times he answered without being asked.
"Six months. I bet they’re growing so fast you can’t even believe it. But you didn’t come here today just to show off your babies. Something happened. Something bad. And you’re hoping I can help you understand."
He nodded, never taking his eyes off the twins. "My wife… Mary. She… There was a fire. They say it was an accident, faulty wiring in the… in the nursery. But she was… she was… Oh, god!"
The memory of what he had witnessed that night flooded over Missouri as tears began to stream down his face. Mary bleeding and pinned to the ceiling. The heat of the fire and smell of the smoke. The babies crying. The overwhelming helplessness as John scooped up his sons and ran from the room, looking back at the woman he loved and was unable to save.
"You saved her boys… her babies. That’s what she wanted you to do."
He looked up then, and Missouri couldn’t help but scoot back in her chair, away from the rage written so plain across his face.
"I want to know. I need to know what happened to Mary. Can you help me?"
Missouri looked deep, studying the man before her, learning him, judging what kind of man he was. Then she turned her attention to the baby boys in his arms.
"Of course, baby. I’ll tell you all I can."
*****
John flipped through his journal carefully. He knew he’d stuck the slip of paper in there somewhere… along with a couple dozen others. He hadn’t wanted to take it in the first place. But she’d insisted. Said one day he might decide he needed it. Said he was a stubborn, mule-headed fool for even thinking about doing it all on his own with two young boys to look after.
Missouri Mosely could’ve put a few DIs he knew to shame, if she wanted to.
He hadn’t spoken to her since he left Lawrence. Didn’t really want to speak to her even then, not once he heard what she had to say. She told him about the things nobody talked about, that most people didn’t believe in. About spirits and demons and the forces of darkness. About the thing that killed Mary. She told him his boys were special, and they were in danger. She told him a lot of things. Then there were the things she didn’t say. The sad smile as she bounced Dean on her knee. The sigh she tried to hide as she watched John give Sammy a bottle.
He’d gone to see her as often as he could in the first few weeks after the fire, wanting to learn everything she could tell him about the world he didn’t know. But there was only so much she could tell him. Or maybe only so much she would tell him. She said she couldn’t really tell the future, but he got the feeling she knew more than she let on, future or not. The last time he’d visited, she handed him a list of names. People she knew. People who might could help. She said that was what they did. There weren’t many people who knew about the things that went bump in the night, and even fewer who did something about it. Most of those who did knew each other, or at least knew of each other.
The names on the list were some of those people… hunters. Missouri said they were the ones most likely to be of help to John and his boys. John only took the list because she insisted. Sat right there in her parlor glaring him into submission until he put the damn thing in the journal he’d started after his first conversation with her. She seemed satisfied with that, and it didn’t hurt to have it. John still never planned on tracking down any of the people on the list.
He wanted to keep his boys safe, and there was no way anybody could convince him they’d be safe anywhere but with him. He took the boys and they hit the road, rarely staying in one place for more than a few weeks. He read every book he could get his hands on that talked about any kind of supernatural activity: hauntings, possessions, vampires, shapeshifters, cryptids, you name it. He met with houngans and medicine men and psychics like Missouri, trying to find out more about the threat to his boys and, more importantly, ways to protect them.
But he didn’t even consider contacting the people on Missouri’s list. One look at the first name and he thought he had a pretty good idea what he would be dealing with if he did. Father Jim Murphy, Blue Earth, Minnesota, it said. John could just see it; some scrawny, Max von Sydow guy in a Roman collar, surrounded by books, presiding over a some kind of conclave or something. A bunch of people getting together once a year or something to argue about whether salt or goofer dust was better for repelling ghosts, or if banshees were merely death omens or if they actually caused the person to die. These weren’t the kind of people who could help his boys.
Months passed, then a year, and the more John learned, the more he discovered running wasn’t enough. Life on the road was hard enough on its own. Add in trying to raise two young boys, and fend off the forces of evil, and it became too much. Run and hide wasn’t enough any more, and John had long been of the opinion that a good offense was the best defense. He didn’t need just to protect his sons from whatever came after them; he needed to wipe out anything that might be a threat. As much as he hated to do it, John had to admit Missouri might have had a point. Maybe he’d just been being stubborn when he thought he could do it all on his own. And that’s how he ended up digging through his journal trying to find a single folded page of monogrammed stationery.
Ah! Finally. He found it.
Father Jim Murphy - Blue Earth, Minnesota
Bobby Singer - Lawrence County, South Dakota
Bill & Ellen Harvelle - Chase County, Nebraska
Daniel Elkins - Manning, Colorado
He wasn’t going to go to the priest. Not if he could help it. Last time he’d been in a church was for Mary’s funeral, and he didn’t see any reason to change that any time soon. Looking further down the list, John noticed for the first time there was a woman’s name as well. Wife? Sister? Not that it really mattered, John supposed, but it felt different somehow. He grabbed the road atlas from his duffle bag and started to plan out his route. Even with stops for the boys, they should be able to get there in a day, maybe less if he pushed hard.
His mind made up, John threw the last few toys and clothes and things into various bags, then loaded the gear and the boys into the car. He’d learned in his time on the road it was easier to do most of his driving at night. The roads were less crowded - in the places where that was an issue - and the boys were more likely to sleep in the backseat. They’d stop in the day and get a room somewhere. He’d get what sleep he could - hopefully while the boys napped - and then they’d play and read stories and do all the normal kid stuff. When they drove during the day, the boys usually were awake and miserable in their car seats… and that made John just as miserable.
Sam and Dean were already nodding off when he buckled them into the car seats, and by the time he hit the highway, they were both sound asleep. He turned the radio on low, rested his elbow on the open window, and headed for Nebraska.
They made good time, even with stopping to eat and sleep and just move around, and it was late afternoon when John saw the Now Entering Chase County sign… and not a hundred yards past that, a sign advertising Harvelle’s Roadhouse. John figured it was as good a place as any to try to find Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Even if they weren’t there, he’d bet his best shotgun somebody there would know where they’d be.
The signs were easy to follow, and soon John was parking the car outside a rough looking wooden building that looked like pretty much every small town bar he’d ever seen. The place didn’t look too busy. John parked next to a beat up, blue Ford pick-up, and around the side of the building was another truck only a few years newer and covered in mud. With Sam on his left hip and Dean on his right, and the duffle he used as a diaper bag-slash-carryall hanging across his back, John opened the door and went inside. The woman behind the bar gave him a strange look when she saw the boys, then nodded and moved over by the taps.
"Just passing through?"
Her voice was low, kind of rough, and John thought he heard a hint of something more than just friendly service and small talk behind her question.
"Looking for someone, actually. Mind if I…?" John pointed towards one of the small booths and then jostled Sam a little, tickling him at the same time to make him giggle.
She smiled, "Sure, have a seat. Can I get y’all anything?"
"Just water for the boys. I’ve got cups around here… somewhere. And I sure could use a cold beer." John looked up once he’d found the sippy cups - they’d ended up at the bottom of the bag, just like whatever he was looking for always did - and the woman had come out from behind the bar, beer in hand, and was halfway across the room to the table. He hadn’t been able to see it before, hidden by the bar, but now he could tell she was pregnant. Not like she was going to pop any day now, but obviously with a baby on the way.
She set down the beer, then knelt down a bit so she could be at eye level with the boys. John was surprised at how gracefully she moved, but planned to give her a hand up when she tried to stand again. He remembered what a hard time Mary had had getting around once she started to get big.
"Well, aren’t you two a couple of cutie-pies."
"This is Dean, and that’s Sammy. They’ll be two next month."
"Well, they’re adorable," she paused, shifting to look up at John, "You said you were looking for somebody?"
"Yeah. Trying to track down Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Figured this was a good place to start."
"It could be at that. You a friend of Bill’s?"
The question was a test; John could tell. Answer wrong, and he’d never see Bill Harvelle… and that mysterious group on Missouri’s list would probably never help him. So he decided to go for the truth.
"Not exactly. Never met the man. Got his name from Missouri Mosely. She said he might be able to help. Name’s John, by the way."
The woman relaxed then, and offered John her hand. "Ellen Harvelle. Nice to meet you, John. My Bill’s out on a hunt, should be back in a couple of days. You and your boys are more than welcome to stay if you want. We’ve got a couple of rooms out back. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean… and safe. Or if it’s something you think can’t wait that long, well… you tell me what your trouble is, I might could tell you who to talk to." She might have glanced at two men playing pool at the back of the bar, but John wasn’t sure.
One thing he did know, he felt a lot more comfortable here than he had in a long while on the road and on the run. Maybe Missouri’d been right after all. Maybe he didn’t have to do it all alone.
*****
Bobby rubbed his hand back and forth across his chin, the rasp of stubble sounding loud in his ears before it was drowned out by the bang, bang, bang, pause, bang, bang, bang, pause of the boys’ target practice. He watched from the shaded, almost-comfort of the porch, sipping occasionally from a silvered flask. He didn’t bother to look up when the screen door squealed open behind him.
"Find what you were looking for?"
John handed Bobby a cold beer and leaned against the railing next to him.
"Maybe. Not entirely sure what I’m trying to find, to tell the truth. Jotted a few things down I thought might help. Thanks for letting me go through your library."
"Any time, John, you know that. You and the boys are always welcome here. Don’t see ‘em often enough as it is. Not that I don’t understand. I do. When they were little, just made more sense to let them run around with Jo where Ellen could keep an eye on all three of ‘em. And Jim Murphy’s got his congregation to make sure they eat their fill when they visit him for a week or two, plus more kids for the boys to play with. And I’m what I am. Not exactly the father type. Still, I like having Sam and Dean around from time to time. I swear, they’ll either keep me young or send me to an early grave, but they’re something, you know?"
John smiled then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Bobby wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, so he just went on with what he’d been saying.
"They’re naturals, too, when it comes to hunting. Give ‘em a few more years, I don’t know that there’s anything they can’t take on together. I’d heard about twins, how they sometimes just know what the other’s doing, but I swear I never knew it could be like those two. I was watching them spar a little bit ago, and the way they moved… hell, the way they finish each other’s sentences, toss weapons. It’s a sight. I don’t think either one of them’s missed a target all day, and I still can’t tell how they decide what they’re gonna shoot at next, or with what. But they know."
Bobby took another sip of his beer, then continued, "Sam hesitates sometimes when he shouldn’t. I saw that last night when you were working with both the boys, but once he gets past whatever’s holding him back, he’s better than a lot of guys I knew in the service. Efficient. Calculating. And Dean… he just moves. So different, you’d think they wouldn’t fight well together, but they do. They take their cues from each other, ‘though I’ll be damned if I can see how, and it just works."
The tension in John’s jaw had been getting tighter and tighter as Bobby spoke, but he didn’t say a word until after they’d drunk in silence for a long moment.
"I’m not disagreeing with anything you said; they are something special. But I get the feeling there’s something else. You got something you wanna say to me, Bobby?"
John’s voice was low, little more than a growl, but Bobby didn’t scare easy. He’d faced down scarier things than John Winchester, and had the scars to prove it.
"I don’t wanna tell you how to raise your boys…"
"Then don’t."
"… but I don’t know how smart it is to take those boys with you when you go after that werewolf next week. They’re gonna be some of the best hunters I’ve ever seen, but they’re still boys. They’re young, and that means they’re stupid when it comes to taking chances. If anything were to happen to one, it’d just about kill the other. And you know it. You want to take them on a real hunt, fine. But make it something a little less dangerous. Weres are strong and fast and unpredictable. And even if the boys don’t get killed, all it would take is one bite. You don’t want that. You don’t want to have to put one of ‘em down like a rabid dog. How would you live with yourself after? There’s plenty of other things they can go after for a first hunt. The boys can stay here with me over the full moon; you go do what needs to be done. Then after, they can help out with a poltergeist or something simple. Don’t go throwin’ ‘em in the deep end right off the bat."
*****
"All I’m saying is you could take my side once in awhile!"
John had gotten to the end of the block when he realized he’d left his cell phone on the kitchen table. Not good considering Caleb was supposed to call about some new ammo he wanted to try out. So he’d turned around and come back. He hadn’t expected to walk in on one of Sam’s tirades, though. As far as John knew, those were saved for him alone. But that was definitely Sam’s voice in full It’s not fair. You can’t tell me what to do. I know better than everybody else mode. And for once, John wasn’t the target of Sam’s anger.
Dean must have said something in reply, but since he wasn’t the one yelling fit to wake the dead, John couldn’t make out any words.
"God, Dean. He says ‘jump,’ you don’t even bother asking ‘how high?’ you just jump and then worry it’s not high enough. Lemme tell you something. It’s always high enough. You’re Dad’s perfect little soldier. Not that he’ll tell you that, but you never do anything wrong in his eyes. Such a little suck up. Are you ever going to grow a pair? Or are you going to let Dad lead you around by your balls your whole life?"
John heard a dull thud then, heavy, and moved down the hall to see what was going on. As he got closer he could hear Dean, his words interspersed with more thuds and bangs and grunts that told him the fight had moved beyond just talking.
"I’m not taking… anybody’s side… damn it. Just… want you… both to get… your… heads… out of your… asses. Dad tells us to… do things his… way for… a reason."
Whatever Sam was about to say was drowned out by a sound that could only have been the bookcase overturning and everything crammed on the shelves crashing to the floor.
Not that Sam let that stop him; he just started over once the noise died down.
"Maybe he does have his reasons, but he never tells us what they are. I will never understand the blind faith you have in him. But that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I try to ask a simple question, he jumps all over me, and then you don’t back me up. You’re always picking his side. Now can I let you up, or are you gonna take another swing at me?"
It got quiet then, and John crept closer to the cracked door of the boys’ room. He wasn’t going to apologize for the things he’d done - and would continue to do - to keep his boys safe. And if Sammy didn’t like that, too bad. But the boys had always been so close, two sides of the same coin, and if they were really fighting now… well, maybe he would have to say something.
"I am on your side. You and me… always and against all comers, right? I just don’t see how yelling at Dad does anybody any good. He’s going to do things his way, and we have to too. Fighting over every little detail just pisses him off… at both of us. When we’re out on a hunt we don’t have time to run everything by committee. If you’d just keep your fucking mouth shut once in awhile, he’d probably listen a little better when you did have something to say. And I’m tired of it. It’s like you can’t even be in the same room any more without fighting about whether to have bacon or sausage for breakfast when it doesn't even matter 'cause we're out of both.
Jim had been telling John for almost a year he’d gotten lucky with his boys. He had plenty of teenage rebellion horror stories culled from his congregation to share. Sam always made honor roll at whatever school they were at - and John had determined to stay in one place for a couple more years so the boys could finish out high school without any more transfers. And Dean always did what John asked of him, most of the time without even being asked. It could have been a lot worse. Hell, ever since the boys were born, people’d been warning him how bad it would be having twin teenaged boys. But Sam’s not-so-civil civil disobedience - and how much did John hate how well Sam learned that particular history lesson - was making him want to put his fist through a few walls. Not that Dean was some kind of angel; John was pretty sure he skipped more school than just the days they missed for hunts, and his total disdain for any authority who wasn’t John Winchester was going to get him in real trouble if he wasn’t careful.
John was so caught up in his thoughts, he missed whatever Sam said next and the stomping footsteps that preceded the bedroom door being flung open. Dean stormed out of the room, narrowly avoiding smacking into John just outside the door. Dean’s eyes widened for a moment, until his features settled back into the poker face John had taught him years before. He didn’t stop, didn’t make eye contact after that first brief glimpse, just continued down the hall and out the front door. Not wanting to start up the next round of Winchester Death Match with Sam, John grabbed his phone and headed out too.
His boys would figure it out. He just needed to give them time.
*****
Sam had been checking the mail every afternoon for almost a month. He knew Dean thought it was so he could put off training; he’d even gone so far as to drop a few hints about it. He didn’t want Dean - or even worse, Dad - asking any questions.
But the day had finally come. His future, and Dean’s, lying in the palm of his hand; a couple of thick, cream colored envelopes that could be a better life for both of them. Thick was good, right? It only took a single sheet of paper to say Sorry. You’re an idiot. We don’t want you at our school. Thick meant lots of pages… so it probably wasn’t a rejection letter. But…
He couldn’t do it. After all his hard work and all the time spent waiting, he couldn’t open the damn things. Tracking a werewolf back to its lair, that he could do, and not nervous at all. But opening a piece of mail, when the biggest physical danger was a paper cut, and he chickened out.
All the way back from the post office, all Sam could think about were those letters. By the time he walked in the front door, he felt like he’d run a marathon in full gear in the middle of summer. He could hear Dean in the kitchen, singing along to the radio, and he decided to let Dean do the hard part. That was fair, right? Sam had done all the rest of it. All Dean had to do was slice open an envelope and read what was inside.
Sam tossed one of the envelopes on table in front of Dean. "Open that."
Dean looked at the envelope and then up at Sam, a Dagwood-worthy sandwich halfway between his mouth and the paper towel in front of him. "What? All the sudden you can’t open the mail by yourself, Sam?"
"It’s not addressed to me, Shorty. Just open it already."
"Shorty? I might not be Sasquatch tall, but I’m not short where it counts, if you know what I mean."
"Everybody knows what you mean, Dean. You’re not exactly subtle. Now are you gonna open the damn thing or what?"
Dean put down the sandwich and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he picked up the envelope, read what was printed on its front, and frowned at the red tree logo on the left hand corner.
"Stanford University? What the hell is Stanford mailing me for? You’re the one who got all those recruitment letters. Not me."
A heavy, queasy feeling was building in Sam’s gut, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait for Dean to read what was inside. He shifted uneasily from side to side, bouncing a little on his heels, stopping when Dean gave him a look that said What the fuck is wrong with you? plain as day.
Dean pulled a knife from his back pocket and slid it along one edge of the envelope. He skimmed over the contents, then set the pages on the table without saying a word. Sam could see Dean’s jaw clenching and unclenching, and he waited for what would come next.
Minutes passed, but they felt like years to Sam, and when Dean finally opened his mouth to say something, Sam thought he was going to pass out.
"Apparently," Dean paused, "Apparently I’ve been accepted to Stanford. Which is kind of funny, seeing as how I never applied to Stanford… or anywhere else for that matter. What’d they do, get our names mixed up somewhere along the line? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m not Stanford material. You’re the geek in this family. Then again, since I know you’re not stupid enough to have applied to college, it can’t be for you either. Can it?"
Sam didn’t meet Dean’s eyes, kept his gaze squarely on his shoes. He was going to need new ones soon; the outer sole had started to peel away at the toes. He didn’t say anything either, just pulled the second envelope - identical to the first, except for the first name in the address field - from his backpack and tossed it down next to Dean’s.
"This is a joke, right? Some kind of really lame practical joke that nobody in the world would think is funny except for you. And frankly, this is a sad excuse for a prank even for you."
The look in Dean’s eyes begged Sam to admit it was all a joke, and Sam didn’t know who he hated more: Dean for not wanting what Sam wanted more than anything, or himself for thinking Dean would share his dreams. He fumbled for the chair, sitting down before he did something really stupid, like run from the room in tears or punch his brother in the face.
He opened the second envelope - no reason to be afraid of words on a page now - his hands trembling as he pulled out the acceptance letter. The acceptance letter. He’d hoped. He’d maybe even expected, on his good days. But there it was, and it didn’t even seem real.
"It’s… uh… it’s not a joke, Dean. We got… we got into Stanford. Both of us."
"No." Dean pushed away from the table and started to pace around the tiny kitchen.
"No? What do you mean, ‘no’? We got in. The acceptance letters are right here. Don’t you see? We don’t have to live like this any more. We can have a normal life. Go to college. Make something of ourselves. We can-"
"Make something of ourselves? What the hell is that supposed to mean? We don’t have to live this way… How can we not? This is… this is all we know, Sam. You and me and Dad. That’s it. You know what’s out there. How can we not live like this? You wanna just run off? Leave Dad to track down the thing that killed our mom all by himself? ‘Cause I can’t do that. This is where we’re supposed to be. This is what we’re supposed to be doing. Why won’t you see that?"
"Why won’t you see we don’t deserve to live like this? He’s just using us Dean. We’re just his little soldiers. Cannon fodder in his own personal war. And we’ve never seen or heard anything about whatever it was he thinks killed Mom. Not like we even knew her to begin with. She’s just some woman in a few pictures. Whatever drunken memories we could pry from him those few nights he let himself go. So why do we have to be the ones to fight?"
"Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that. Dad loves us. He’s just trying to keep us safe. Keep other people safe. And that thing… that’s the reason we never got to have a mom. That’s why we have to do what we do. We’re the only ones who can. And you just wanna throw all that away on some pipe dream. We wouldn’t fit in there, Sam. We don’t belong. Hell, if they knew anything about who we really are, there’s no way they would let us in."
"They would." Sam’s voice was tiny and tight, not a whisper, but so faint it almost didn’t carry the short distance to Dean.
"Oh really? So how exactly did I manage to win the approval of the great Stanford University, huh? ‘Cause I’ve seen my grades. Had to burn both our report cards last quarter just to keep Dad from seeing them. Not to mention… I never applied. Somehow I kind of think they like to get an application from someone before saying Welcome."
"Imighthavefilledoutanapplicationforyouandsentitin."
"You wanna run that by me again, Auctioneer Bob?"
"I filled out an application for you, okay? I asked around, got some teachers to write you recommendations - Ms. Kolena was so happy you’d changed your mind about applying, by the way - and your SAT scores were good… really good, even. Why didn’t you tell me you scored higher than me?"
Dean continued to pace, an arc left and then right, always keeping the table between him and Sam.
"Geez, Sam, what is… It didn’t matter, all right? I only took the damn thing ‘cause you were such a freakazoid about it, and Dad wouldn’t let you take it unless I did too. I didn’t care what I got on it. ‘Cause it didn’t matter what I got. I’m not going to college, and neither are you. So why did you even try in the first place? And if you just had to try, why’d you have to drag me into it?"
"You and me, always and against all comers, right? I need this, Dean. And I need you with me."
"Well, it doesn’t matter what you need. Dad’s never gonna let you go off to school somewhere. You got in. Good for you. And, you know, you got me in too. I don’t know how you did it without hacking into the school’s computers and… Holy crap! You hacked into the school’s computers, didn’t you? To change my grades. After all the flak you give Dad about ‘cheating the system’ and how ‘the ends don’t justify the means,’ you went and forged my transcript, so you could forge - there’s that word again - an application in my name. And what good’s it going to do? We’re not going anywhere except where Dad says."
"We could."
"Well, I don’t want to."
"Don’t make me do this alone, Dean. Please. I don’t know if I can do this without you."
Dean paused. It was all Sam could do to keep his mouth shut and just wait for Dean’s decision. And if it was the wrong one, well, Sam still had time to work on him. But he hoped Dean would see things his way if he was patient and gave him time to think.
"No."
"No, what? No, you won’t make me do this alone, or no, you aren’t going to go?" Sam thought he knew the answer… was sure he did. But he had to ask, had to hear it from Dean.
"No, I’m not going. There are people out there that depend on us, people who need protection, and they don’t even know from what. And you’re not going either. Dad would have a friggin’ cow if he found out you even applied. No, Sam."
"Dean…" Sam couldn’t seem to find the words; he was so stunned that Dean wouldn’t even listen to him. He just needed more time. "So don’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know, right? Not if we’re not going."
*****
The house seemed quiet after the yelling, so much yelling, and John realized he didn’t know what to do. Sam and Dean had stormed out in a thunder of stomping boots and slamming doors, and then headed down the road on the rumble of the Impala’s engine. Once the sounds of their flight died down, the only thing John could hear was the sound of his own voice in his head, If you leave now, that’s it. Don’t come back.
He hadn’t meant it. He’d never wanted to say it. Never wanted to throw his father’s words back at one of his own children. He had wanted to ask how he was supposed to protect Sam if he wasn’t around to be looked after. He’d wanted to tell his boy how dangerous the world was - but Sam already knew that, better than most boys their age - and how much more dangerous it would be for Sam. But the boys didn’t know. He’d never told them the harsh secret Missouri had hinted at long ago with words like destiny and sacrifice, or the legends he’d read later when digging through Bobby’s books, and Jim’s. He hadn’t told them a terrible fate lay waiting for one of them… or that he didn’t know which one. How could he?
But then Sam had to go and announce he’d been accepted to Stanford - full ride - and John’s world had fallen out from under him. Dean hadn’t been surprised at the news, a little confused maybe, but not surprised, and John wondered just how long his boys had been waiting to spring this on him. Didn’t colleges send out letters in the spring? But then Sam said he had a bus ticket and was leaving in the morning, and there was no way Dean had been expecting that. Not if the wild punch he threw was any indication.
They were all yelling then, and none of them listening. John ordering Sam not to go - like that was going to work. Sam adamant he didn’t have to listen to a man who treated him more like a grunt than a son. Dean trying in vain to get them both to shut up, to just wait a minute.
They’d left maybe half an hour ago. Dean had been no more able to convince Sam to stay than John had, but he’d at least had the courage to drive him to the bus station, to be with his brother just that little bit longer. And John wondered if that would be enough. Would Dean come back, hurt and pissed off and ready to fight or fuck whatever got in his way? Or would saying good-bye be more than he could bear? The boys had never been apart. Not a single night. Even that time Dean ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, Sam had stayed at his side, sleeping curled up in that impossibly hard chair with his head on Dean’s bed. They had never been apart, ever. And now Sam wanted to go halfway across the country without his brother. What did John have to offer that could compete with that kind of bond?
Nothing, that’s what.
He could just picture it. Dean would put up a good fight at first, but as they got closer to the bus terminal, he’d soften. Or maybe it would be while they were sitting around waiting for the bus. Sam wouldn’t say anything; they’d just look at each other from time to time, looking away when the other one noticed. And they’d realize they couldn’t be apart. Dean would think about all the hunts that went wrong, the long days and nights on the road. Then, in that not-quite-spooky way they had of knowing what the other one was thinking, they’d get back in the Impala and head west. If he was lucky, John might get a phone call when they got to California, letting him know they were okay… and giving Sam another chance to get in one more dig.
Yeah, Dean had argued long and hard that Sam should stay. He’d promised John over and over he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’d be back once he took Sam to the station. But John was just their father… and a pretty sorry one at that, if he was being honest with himself. Sam was his brother. His twin. His world. Dean wouldn’t give that up.
But what if he did? Wouldn’t that be worse? Separating them couldn’t be better than keeping them together, could it? At least if they were together, they could watch out for each other. And John could settle down, only take jobs near Palo Alto for a few years, keep an eye out for whatever was coming for them down the line. If Dean did come back, Sam really would be all on his own.
If only John knew. Missouri had been pretty vague about what had killed Mary and why, but she’d said it had something to do with the boys. That one of them would have to give himself to save the other from the armies of hell. If John just knew which one, then he could protect them both by protecting the one the demon wanted. He thought about calling her, but knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything she hadn’t said a dozen times before. She would have called if she’d found out something.
And Bobby couldn’t tell him anything. As much as Bobby cared about the boys, John hadn’t quite trusted him enough to tell him everything. Bobby knew more about demons than just about anybody living, but he’d earned that knowledge the hard way. He hadn’t survived by giving anything the benefit of the doubt.
Jim Murphy knew though, knew everything John had been able to piece together over the years. John still couldn’t believe that way back when, he hadn’t wanted to meet the man just because he was a man of the cloth. Jim had become his closest friend and confidante over the years. Maybe he would know what to do. He usually did, or at least, he could talk things over until John figured stuff out for himself. Yeah, calling Jim was the smart thing to do. If nothing else, it would keep John from getting in his truck, racing to the bus terminal, and dragging both boys back by their ears… or knocking them unconscious, throwing them over his shoulders, and carrying them back like sacks of flour.
John had the phone in his hand, the number dialed and everything, and his thumb hovered over the Send button. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to hear what he thought Jim might have to say, but knew he’d feel better once he did. He was still sitting like that when Dean stalked through the front door and on back down the hallway to the boys’ room… Dean’s room, now. John hadn’t even heard the car pull up. He did hear Dean slam the bedroom door shut and crank his stereo up as loud as it would go, though.
With a sigh, John pushed the final button and waited for his friend to answer.
*****
Dean wasn’t surprised at how easy it was hunting with Sam again. Yeah, Sam was wrecked after Jess died, but Dean got that. Sam blamed himself, and no matter what Dean said he couldn’t convince him all the blame belonged on the thing that had killed their mom. So what if Sam was a little quieter than Dean remembered; it wasn’t anywhere near as quiet as Dean on the road alone.
It was pretty much like old times, Sam and Dean taking on the world together. At least Dean thought it was. Until he found out Sam was keeping secrets from him. Not little stuff like using Dean’s favorite Metallica t-shirt to clean his guns or telling the waitress in the diner two towns back Dean wasn’t really interested in girls, if she knew what he meant. Big, how-the-hell-do-you-keep-this-a-secret secrets. I’m-having-prophetic-dreams secrets.
But Dean figured they’d cope. They could handle anything as long as they were together. Sam did tell him eventually - when he had no choice. Then when the nightmares became waking visions… well, they handled that too.
Then the creepy-ass visions led them to Max. Talk about creepy-ass, that boy could use some sun… and a personality. Max, whose mother had died in a nursery fire just like theirs. Max, who could kill people with his brain, and had. Dean would have said telekinesis would be a really cool power, much better than Sam’s skull shattering visions, but it was kind of hard to see the fun when there was a gun fucking hovering in midair aimed at your head.
At least it was over. Not exactly a Disney ending, but he and Sam were okay, and that was the important thing. All that was left to do was pack up and head out for the next job.
"Dean, I’ve been thinking."
Uh-oh "Well that’s never a good thing."
Dean glanced up at Sam, then went back to stuffing shirts in his duffle bag.
"I’m serious. I’ve been thinking… why would this demon - or whatever it is - why would it Mom and Jessica and Max’ mother, you know? What does it want?"
Dean had been wondering the same thing, but no way he was going to admit that to Sam. That wasn’t what he needed to hear.
"No idea."
"Well, you think maybe it was after us? After Max and me?"
Again with the why. Sam had always been like that. He didn’t get that you just went with what was, dealt with it, and moved on. He had to understand why things happened. Made things a lot more complicated than they had to be, that’d been half his problem with Dad. But Dean had learned a long time ago letting Sam talk through things that confused him was a whole lot faster and easier than ignoring them. He just wished Dad had figured out the same thing.
"Why would you say that?"
"I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know? Maybe it was after us for some reason."
Dean geared himself up for Round 391 of It’s not your fault, hoping this time it would finally sink in. "Sam, if it wanted you, it would’ve just taken you, okay? This is not your fault. It’s not about you."
Sam sighed. "Then what is it about?"
"It’s about the damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we’re gonna find. The thing that we’re gonna kill. And that’s all."
Sam got kind of quiet then; if Dean didn’t know better he would have said embarrassed even.
"Actually, there’s… uh… there’s something else, too."
"Oh, geez, what?"
"When Max locked me in that closet… that big cabinet against the door… I… uh… moved it."
Dean laughed. He couldn’t help it. Here he was thinking there was some big terrible thing Sam was all worried about, and it turned out to be nothing. Sam really could be such a drama queen sometimes.
"You’ve got a little bit more upper body strength than I gave you credit for."
Yep, that was definitely embarrassment. Sam was blushing.
"No, man. I moved it. Like Max."
"Oh, right." Like Dean knew what to say to that. He knew he probably sounded like an idiot, but seriously, out of left field much, Sam?
"Yeah."
Sam still wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, and it was starting to freak Dean out. Seeing a spoon in the motel room’s tiny kitchenette area, he grabbed it and held it out towards Sam.
"Bend this."
"Dean, I’m serious."
"So am I, dude. We could make a fortune if we play this right."
"And you’re not worried? I mean, me… Max, getting these weird psychic abilities all the sudden. Why us? I mean, why not you? You aren’t turning into some kind of supernatural freak."
"Says you. You think being this inhumanly handsome comes natural?"
Dean struck a pose, his lips curling into the smirk that had all the women falling into his arms. The last thing he wanted to do was let Sam know he was a little weirded out by the whole thing… and maybe just a bit jealous, too.
"Besides, anything happens to you, happens to me too. Just keep your telekinetic mojo off my stuff, you hear."
Sam shook his head and headed for the door.
Dean couldn’t resist one last jab to get Sam out of his emo funk. "Now then, I know what we need to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go."
"Where?"
God, Sam was so easy sometimes. Dean would almost feel guilty about it, but that’s what brothers were for, right?
"Vegas."
Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the car. He never could appreciate the finer things in life.
"What? C’mon man. Craps table. We’d clean up."
Following his brother out to the car, Dean closed the door behind him. All that he had left to do was flash his girl’s taillights at Saginaw on their way out of town.
*****
The first thing John remembered after Meg’s demon buddy pinned him to the wall was seeing his boys standing over him and the voice of the demon echoing in his head.
They’re not gonna know what hit ‘em, Johnny-boy.
Sorriest thing was that demonic bastard had been right… for awhile at least. But John knew he’d trained his boys right, had faith they would recognize the danger before it was too late. Plus, Sam had those psychic abilities that had made him a target for the demon in the first place, and Dean… well, Dean had always had a pretty good sense of when things were off. For a time, John had figured Dean was probably the one with the power and the destiny Missouri had told him about. Then the boys told him about Sam’s visions, how they related to the demon, and John began to rethink things. The demon just confirmed it for him, in thoughts and flashes and images of what it had in store for Sam when the time came.
It was Dean who figured it out first, and to John’s shame it was the words a good father would say to his son that tipped Dean off. Sam sided with Dean, like John knew he would, merely because it was Dean, not because of any real evidence, not that it mattered. John was just glad it would be over soon. Dean had the gun. The demon was in his sights. One pull of the trigger and the demon would be dead and John’s struggle would end.
I’m surprised at you, John. Never thought you were that naïve. Do you actually think your boy can shoot you point blank. No. He’s weak. He’ll hesitate. And then he’ll die. By your hand.
John knew when the demon revealed itself, taunting him as much as the boys. Then it pinned them to the cabin walls, and John struggled that much harder to break free, to break through.
It went after Dean first, toying with him, and Dean was right there with it, jibe for jibe. That was Dean. He’d always had a smart mouth, but John knew there was more to it than that. Dean was the flash, the barker, the distraction. He would do whatever he had to do to get and keep all the attention on him, giving Sam time to figure out what to do next. Only this time, there was nothing Sam could do.
So, in typical Sam fashion, he did what he’d wanted to do anyway.
"I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?"
That got the demon’s attention right quick, and it turned to Sam, all the while tormenting John with images of Sam standing over the bodies of their friends and of innocents, leading an army of demons out of hell.
"You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty, little Jess?"
John didn’t really hear what they said next. Oh, he caught some reference to Sam and the others like him, but the details didn’t filter through. He was too busy trying to find some weakness, some way to break free long enough to help his boys. Besides, by that point he had a real good idea what the demon’s plans were for Sam.
Better listen up, John. You might learn a thing or two.
The demon was standing in front of Dean again. Hell, it was practically on top of him.
"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam - he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you. Nobody needs you, Dean. You were nothing more than an accident of fate. Only Sam matters. The only reason you’re still alive is I want to make you pay for what you took from me. But soon you’ll be dead, and Sam will be mine. You’ll be nothing but a faded memory of a piss-poor petty crook."
That’s when John knew what he had been missing all along. Just the tiniest flicker of fear the demon couldn’t hide from him, and John understood. Demons lied. He’d taught the boys that long ago, and hammered the lesson home every chance he got. And the best lies were the ones people wanted or were ready to believe.
Yeah, the demon wanted Dean dead, but not for anything as fleeting as revenge. Its arrogance was the only thing that had kept Dean alive to this point. Because if it were really smart, it would have killed Dean the second it got the chance.
Dean was no accident, although John thought fate might have had a hand in his birth. Somebody - or something - up there just might have given Sammy a little help. John had never met anyone with Dean’s luck, and he was starting to think that might be the key. Dean was going to be his brother’s salvation. As long as the demon didn’t kill him first. He had a knack for always being just where he needed to be, making the impossible shot, getting that one-in-a-million hand in poker just when he needed it most, and as far as John could tell all it took was Dean’s belief that it would happen.
"Dad! Dad, don’t you let it kill me!"
John watched the blood pouring out of his son, the muscles straining in agony, and the certainty in his eyes that his father would somehow save him.
"Dad, please."
Suddenly John felt the hold the demon had over him slipping, just as a surge of energy filled him, allowing him to take control for just a minute.
Within seconds the demon was back, but it had been enough. Sam had the gun. He would shoot where Dean had been unable to.
Don’t be so sure.
"You kill me, you kill Daddy."
"I know."
John had never been more proud of Sam, his finger tightening on the trigger, but then his aim shifted. The next thing John knew, he was on his back on the floor, fire racing through his leg and the demon struggling to escape.
John ordered Sam to shoot, to end this thing once and for all. Sam wanted it as badly as he did, right? Sam and Dean would both be safe. The thing that killed Mary and Jessica would be dead. Things could go back to the way they were supposed to be. And if John were very, very lucky, he might get to be with Mary once again.
But in the background, so faint John could barely hear it over his own ragged breathing, there was Dean, begging Sam not to shoot. John tried to hold on, but part of him knew it was a lost cause.
He should have known how it would go.
Sam and Dean… always, and against all comers. Even their own father.
*****
Nobody’d been more surprised than Ellen when Sam and Dean Winchester walked into the Roadhouse, but probably nobody’d been gladder to see them there either. She felt like she’d practically raised those boys when they were little, and as much as it had been her decision, not being able to see the boys after… after what happened to Bill, it had been hard.
But these weren’t the little boys whose faces she’d washed before letting them in for supper, the ones she’d watched sleeping curled together in a twin bed, the rambunctious troublemakers who’d climbed into the Roadhouse’s rafters to swing down on unsuspecting customers. These were grown men, who had lived hard lives and lost too much in their twenty-three years, even for hunters.
She didn’t bring up the falling out between her and John, and the boys didn’t ask. It didn’t seem all that important now that John was dead, and she didn’t see any reason to tarnish the boys’ memories of him. Jo’s hero worship grew into a full-blown crush for awhile, and Ellen got a little worried, but they quickly settled back into something like a grown-up version of the sibling rivalry they’d had as kids. And just that easy, things were normal again.
Sam and Ash would huddle in the corner - or in Ash’s so-called office - for hours searching the internet and pouring over John’s notes about the demon. The first time, Dean and Ellen had split a bottle of Johnny Walker between them, and Dean told her everything. Sam going off to college, John disappearing, finding him again and closing in on the demon, John’s death. He told her about Sam’s visions, that the demon had plans for Sam. He told her there were more people out there whose mothers had been killed by the demon the same way theirs had. He told her he didn’t know why he had been spared.
He was even more confused after the combination of Sam’s visions and Ash’s computer skills turned up another one of the Special Children. Only it wasn’t just one. The guy they thought was killing people hadn’t done any such thing, but his twin - whom he didn’t even know existed - had been. Both of them had psychic abilities. The same ability, even. It didn’t make any sense. One set of twins where both of them were psychic, and another where only one of them seemed to have an ability.
Ellen wondered if there was more to Dean than meets the eye, but no chance she was going to say anything. It was still strange enough thinking about Sam having premonitions. On the other hand, she thought it was possible the inconsistency made sense in some twisted way. It wasn’t the only one they found out about that trip. And trying to track down kids whose mothers had died in nursery fires in 1983 when the kid was six months old would be a whole hell of a lot easier than trying to find people the right age with psychic abilities. Ellen wasn’t sure how they were going to manage that one. But if anybody could do it, it would be Ash.
Even if they found the others like Sam, that didn’t mean a thing unless they could figure out what the demon wanted with them all. Best they could guess, it was building some kind of army, but how and why, they didn’t know. John’s notes weren’t any help - not that anybody but Dean and Sam could decipher most of them - and Ellen and the boys called in every favor and resource and contact they could without giving too much away.
She was worried. Dean seemed like he was on a more even keel the past few weeks, and she hoped he was getting past the worst of his grief. Or maybe it was just getting pushed aside by his fears for Sam. Sam who was coming apart at the edges, becoming more and more obsessed with the demon and its plans. She did what she could to help them both, but things were unraveling faster than she could patch them up. She and Bobby talked at least once a week, sometimes more, trying to figure out what to do about the boys, how to help, how to keep them safe. But she was afraid nothing would be enough, and if the boys couldn’t save themselves and each other, the world might be in a heap of hurt.
*****
John had heard the rumors. Gossip was just as rampant in hell as it was on Earth. And John knew how to listen. Plus, that yellow-eyed bastard came by every chance it got to taunt him with all the things it was going to do with Sammy at its side. John had even been able to piece together enough things that weren’t quite said to have some idea of how things were really going for his boys.
And it wasn’t good.
He heard about what was going on at Cold Oak long before Sam was sent there. The demon was saving his favorite for last. Hell, half the demons and damned spirits he came in contact with were in on the pool to see who would be the last kid standing. That Ava girl was pretty good, in a heartless, calculating kind of way. But his Sam was smarter than that. And Sam and Dean together would figure out some way to either get everybody out, or take out the demon instead. John was sure of it.
He worried about his boys, yeah, he always would, but right then he had other things to occupy his attention, so he trusted Sam and Dean could take care of each other. The time was getting close, and if somehow the demon managed to open the gate, John needed to be ready to fight his way out. That’s why he almost didn’t notice when the rumors started that another Winchester had bit the dust. He did hear it eventually, though, Meg - or the demon who’d been in her, and later Sam - made sure to tell him all about his boy getting stabbed in the back and bleeding out in his brother’s arms. She never said anything about what happened to Sam then, though. John was glad about that; if Sam had somehow been damned, she would have been sure to tell John all about the torments Sam was suffering. There was little that would hurt John more, and hell was all about inflicting pain.
Some time later - time was hard to gauge in hell, everything seemed to last forever - John got wind of another rumor. And if it hadn’t come after news of Sam’s death, John never would have believed it. Apparently some crossroads demon had made one hell - pardon the pun - of a deal, and in a year’s time there would be another Winchester in hell.
Yeah, right. Not if John had anything to say about that.
He understood why Dean had done it. Once again, Missouri’s words from so long ago echoed in John’s head. Destiny. Sacrifice From everything he heard, Dean had at least struck a better bargain than John himself had. Didn’t mean John planned on letting Dean burn in hell.
Besides, who knew? Dean might have just a bit of that luck of his left.
the end