Carry On... Episode 6: Long Days Upon the Land Part 3
Here is the third part of episode 6 of Carry On...
Episode 6: Long Days Upon the Land
Original airdate: 2010.02.22.
Summary:
When the boys finally get a trail on their father, Sam and Dean embark on a dangerous journey to find him. However, with Sam preparing for the worst, Dean must ask himself if he can still follow his father’s orders, even if it could cost him everything he has.
Excerpt:
He glanced back at the screen, focusing again, as a dark figure came into the picture.
There was something strangely familiar about it--the way it moved, the shape of it.
The way it wielded the knife as it sliced the guard’s throat.
Sam whispered something like a prayer--or a curse, Dean wasn’t sure which.
In the back of his mind, Dean wondered what the point was. It wasn’t like faith had gotten Sam very far at this point.
Just then, the figure turned to the camera, saluting them. Bobby hit pause on John Winchester’s smiling face caught mid-gesture.
Written by: faye_dartmouth and pinkphoenix1985
Artist: faye_dartmouth
PART THREE
There was always something quiet about driving at night.
They often stuck to the county roads, long stretches of two-lane highway that wound through the countryside of America. The Impala’s lone pair of headlights cut through the darkness with a starkness that did nothing to ease the encompassing nature of it all.
Sometimes, it felt peaceful. Sam had to admit there were times when driving through the stillness was like a waking dream, a venture into soft nothingness to give him rest. He could sleep with his eyes open and trust that when the daylight broke, he would be where he needed to be.
But other times--
Other times, it was like an endless nightmare. The darkness had no beginning, no end. It just was, vast and empty and growing deeper with every mile they pushed ahead, as though they could get lost in it.
Tonight, it wasn’t quite either. It was something worse.
The infinite blackness was just a guise this time. A short-term reprieve, both a heaven and a hell, before they faced the conflict on the other end.
Their father.
Sam had faced many conflicts with his father over his lifetime. From fights over the purpose of hunting to arguments regarding Sam’s school commitments, he had braced for the worst and fought his way through them all.
He could even remember the cold bleakness of their drive to save Dad in Missouri. The barren nothingness of the drive away from the hospital where their father died.
Nothing compared to this.
Facing Dad now--what he had become--Sam wasn’t sure he was ready for this. It was enough dealing with what he’d been through, but facing the idea that Dad could be a demon? More than that, that he might be trying to bring about the apocalypse?
Family secrets you don’t want to deal with for six hundred, Alex.
Nervous, Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was sitting rigidly in the driver’s seat, fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel.
As hard as this was on Sam, it was clearly harder on Dean. His older brother hadn’t said a word this entire trip. He hadn’t turned on the radio, hadn’t shoved in a cassette tape--he hadn’t even looked at Sam.
Which didn’t do anything for Sam’s nerves. Though he would never admit it, his brother’s cool and calm disposition was something he counted on. It made him feel better, even when he knew it was a lie.
The fact that Dean wasn’t even taking the time to put on a facade was an indication of just how serious this was.
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, chewing absently at the inside of his lip. To make matters that much worse, they didn’t even have a plan that was any good. Their mission was part rescue, part interception, and entirely flimsy.
It wasn’t any good and it wasn’t right. Dean knew better than this. He knew better than to charge in, half-cocked. He knew better than to go in without appropriate backup. He knew better than to plan a hunt without the proper contingencies in place.
Except this was Dad.
Sam flattened his mouth grimly. This was Dad, and it was always the same old story when it came to Dad and Dean.
He sighed. He had resented their closeness for years. Though he had spent his teen years pretending like it didn’t matter, his father’s trust and approval of Dean was always a bitter pill to swallow.
Sam had always wanted to prove himself somehow, to make his father proud.
It had ended too little, too late.
But maybe not this time.
Quelling his frustration, Sam looked at his notes again. Sifting through them, he pulled out the map, double-checking their destination. He and Bobby had plotted the demonic omens around White Sulfur Springs and had come up with a fairly centralized location. Though there had been a number of viable buildings, they’d all agreed on an old warehouse in the industrialized edge of town. It was a bit of a long shot, but it fit the general location they had pinpointed and it had the right MO. Secluded, abandoned, large--a perfect place for a demonic army. A soldier as capable as their father would know that.
It made sense. It was the best logic they could employ among the three of them. But there was still something about this Sam didn’t like. Something fundamentally wrong.
Why had Dad called them? He wanted to trust that Dean had told him everything about the phone call, but none of it made any sense. Why would Dad warn them to stay away? If he was really concerned about their safety, why wouldn’t he take more care not to attract attention?
No, Sam had seen his father’s eyes back in Wyoming. The demonic omens were impossible to deny. Their father wasn’t up to any good in White Sulfur Springs. Even if the plan wasn’t to raise a demonic army, Sam didn’t doubt that it was something evil.
Which again, begged the question: why call? Was their father afraid that they’d be able to stop him? Or was he simply afraid they’d try?
Was Dad even really still Dad? How could he be? It didn’t make any sense. They’d burned him. Sam had helped build the pyre. He’d watched the body go up in flames until there was nothing left but ash. John Winchester was dead, and he had no body left to offer.
Which meant he was something else. A shapeshifter of sorts was possible, but not likely. It knew too much.
Besides, it turned out that coming back from the dead wasn’t so impossible after all.
Like father, like son.
Which was just one more reason to worry. Sam knew what it was like to have something inside that he couldn’t control. He knew what it was like to have the darkness of death taint him. If his father had really been to Hell, then there was no telling what had happened to him--what changes had been wrought.
Swallowing hard, Sam licked his lips, trying to square his shoulders a bit. “Are you really sure about this?” he asked finally, his voice cutting into the darkness.
Dean glanced at him briefly, his eyes dark. Looking back at the road, he nodded curtly. “What’s not to be sure about?” he asked, his voice clipped.
It wasn’t the encouraging answer Sam had been hoping for. “It’s just...something doesn’t feel off about this to you?”
At that, Dean gave a bark of laughter. “A lot feels off about this,” he said sharply. “Like the fact that we’re tracking Dad by demonic omens. Or maybe the fact that you’re looking at exorcisms to use on him.”
Sam felt his cheeks flush. He looked down at the page of Latin partially hidden behind his map. He hadn’t told Dean about the exorcism--it had been his worst case scenario. His own version of a backup plan, even if Dean didn’t want to talk about it.
It wasn’t easy to admit, but it was better to get it out in the open. “We can’t be sure,” Sam said softly.
“He’s not possessed,” Dean said, as a matter of fact. “We burned his body--so whatever happened, something brought him back from nothing.”
“What if it’s something else?”
“Shapeshifters need their victims to be alive,” Dean said.
“There are other--”
Dean gave Sam a hard look. “You know it’s him just as well as I do.”
To that, Sam had no argument. “So what about the black eyes?”
It was Dean’s turned to be silent. He shrugged.
Sam sighed. His brother was going to be stubborn about this--he always was when it came to their father. If Sam didn’t proceed carefully, his brother would explode at him, which wasn’t something any of them needed. “None of it explains why he would call you.”
“He wanted to warn us,” Dean said simply, eyes still on the road.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Sam persisted. They were all stubborn in the end.
“It makes perfect sense,” Dean said. “He doesn’t want us to get hurt.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile with twisted amusement. “Yeah, because raising a demon army sounds like a surefire way to make certain we’re safe.”
Dean’s face hardened even more. “We don’t know he’s doing that.”
“But then why would he want us to be safe?”
Dean’s face twisted, his lips turned in a frustrated sneer. “I don’t know, Sam.” Exasperated sarcasm colored his brother’s voice. “But I do know Dad. I know he’s spent his entire life fighting for what was right--looking out for us. Even when he died. He went to Hell to keep us safe, so I sort of have to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one.”
The argument was too familiar. The same one Dean had been giving him since he was eight years old. “You really think it’s still a good idea to have blind faith in the man?”
Dean glared at him, eyes cold and deadly. “After everything, you’re still not ready to be the good son?” he asked. Then he shook his head, an expression of disgust on his features. “You were too little, too late the first time around, Sammy. You really want to risk it again?”
That thought had gone through Sam’s head more than once. But hearing it out loud--out of his brother’s mouth with such malice--was another thing entirely. Because Sam could remember it like it was yesterday--the cold shock of walking in and finding his father dead on the ground. Being there and not being able to do anything. Not able to save him, not able to comfort him, not able to tell him that he was sorry, that he loved him.
And finding out that it had been a deal that had taken Dad’s life? Made it worse. Not just because John should have known better, not even because he had bartered with the very thing that had taken their mother--but because he’d known what was coming and had asked Sam to leave. He’d sent Sam on a coffee run knowing they’d never see each other again.
Dad hadn’t trusted him. It was the confirmation of all Sam’s doubts and worst fears. He was the lesser son, the one that wasn’t good enough, the pathetic little kid who couldn’t even be a part of his own destiny.
The guilt and shame made Sam shrink in on himself and he looked down at the papers on his lap.
It didn’t surprise Sam that it was Dean their father called. Dad had believed that Sam might need to be put down like a rabid dog, and apparently some things never changed, no matter which side of the afterlife they might be on.
Silence stretched between them as Sam’s spirits plunged deeper into the darkness.
In the seat across from him, Dean cleared his throat. When Sam looked up, Dean met his eye, and there was a shadow of an apology there.
“So,” Dean asked, clearing his throat a little. “Do you, uh, know what our turnoff is?”
It was a meager peace offering at best, but Sam recognized it for what it was. Feeling numb, he looked blankly back at the map and tried to find an answer as they forged ahead into the night.
-o-
The morning sun was glaringly bright, coming at them low above the horizon. The sharp rays did nothing to ease the coolness in the air, which seemed to be tinged with mountain frost.
Dean wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the situation, though. He felt numb inside and even the hair on his arms was on edge beneath the warm cover of his leather jacket.
Hell, it could have been one hundred degrees and Dean’s reaction would have been the same. It wasn’t because of the elevation, it wasn’t because of the early hour: it was because of their father.
Dad was here--doing what, Dean couldn’t be sure (refused to be sure), but doing something all the same.
Squinting over the landscape, Dean couldn’t get over how normal it seemed. The area was industrialized, just like Sam had said, but, from the looks of it, it was way past its prime. The buildings nearby were fenced off but mostly ramshackle, and any one of them seemed like possible candidates for whatever demonic activity was going down in the area. The one Sam and Bobby had marked as their primary target wasn’t much better, and Dean understood quickly why they had narrowed their search to this one.
It was made of brick, with two rows of windows across its front. It was sizable--easily the largest one in the area--but over half the windows were blown out or cracked. The yard was in shambles, littered with stones of all sizes, jumbled bits of trash and scraggly, wayward weeds.
Dean had parked just outside--far enough away to hide their approach but close enough to scope it out. The chain link fence surrounding the place still had barbed wire around the top, but the gate itself swung drunkenly on its hinges.
“So, what do you think?” Sam asked, straining his neck to give it a look. “You think we have a winner?”
Dean gave the rest of the buildings on the street a glance. Some were too small, others were still too well protected. This one was perfect in terms of size and security. There was no doubt in his mind: this would be the one his father would pick.
Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I think you’re right. This is it.”
For once, Sam didn’t contradict him. Instead, he opened his door, closing it carefully behind him.
By the time Dean followed suit, Sam had the trunk open and was rummaging through it. Preparing.
Which made sense. They had to prep for any hunt, and this was no exception. But Dean didn’t even know where to begin. How did he prepare for this? The most twisted family reunion in the world?
Sam, however, seemed to be taking everything and the kitchen sink. He packed his bag with candles, chalk, and holy water, even strapping a blade to his belt. It fit with Sam’s anal retentive ways, but when Sam reached for a pistol, it crossed a line from preparedness to what the hell.
Dean scoffed, pinning his younger brother with condemning eyes.
Pausing, Sam looked up. “What?”
“A gun? Really, Sammy?”
Sam looked back at him, a little blank. “Why not?”
“Dude, we’re going after Dad,” Dean reminded him. “Our endgame is not to kill him.”
A muscle twitched in Sam’s jaw, almost imperceptibly, but Dean saw it nonetheless and recognized it for what it was: defiance. Raising his head a little, Sam squared himself against Dean. “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
Dean didn’t let his gaze waver, even though there was truth to that. The whole thing could be a trap and it could be a trap from some thing that wasn’t their dad. But that didn’t change the fact that it could be Dad, and there was no way in hell Dean was letting his little brother charge in there with guns blazing.
After all, he’d seen the throw downs between his brother and his father before, and they had never been pretty. And with Sam’s newly ramped up powers? Dean just didn’t want to know.
Which was why in this case, less was more. Face puckered in annoyance, Dean reached purposefully in front of his brother, pulling out the shotgun filled with rock salt. “If he’s demonic, regular bullets won’t do squat anyway.”
Sam remained rigid, clearly unconvinced. Which was just like Sam. The kid always wanted answers, but if the answers weren’t the ones he wanted, he defied them anyway.
To prove the point, Dean watched as his brother pocketed the pistol anyway, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Then, Sam reached for the shotgun, taking it up in his right hand. “We need to be prepared for anything,” Sam said, his voice terse. “We don’t know what he is.”
Sam focused on the negative--always one of his worst flaws. Where Sam saw years without a home address, Dean could see years of freedom. Where Sam saw classes he could never finish, Dean saw homework he never had to do. It had been more than a little frustrating during their teen years--with Sam as a constant downer to Dean’s meager attempts to make something good out of the situation they were in. Dean wanted to make lemonade. Sam just wanted to suck lemons.
No wonder his bitchface was so damn good.
The stakes had been high enough back then, but now? As bad as the break for Stanford had been, it would be nothing compared to this.
After all, Sam was preparing to waste Dad if necessary.
Dean was going to make sure that didn’t happen. Not on his watch. He may have screwed up and let Sam go to Stanford. He may have missed the mark in Missouri when their father was possessed. But he would not--could not--screw it all up now.
“Yeah,” Dean said, pulling out some holy water for himself. He forced himself to stay calm. “But we do know we don’t want to kill him.”
Dean’s conciliatory tone must have had its effect, because Sam nodded a little. It was clear the kid still wasn’t convinced, but it was something at least. Sam was listening, which meant he would think before he acted. That would always work in Dean’s favor. It had been enough to stop Sam from shooting Dad once; Dean had to hope he could do it again. For all their sakes.
Sam squinted at the building, using one hand to block the morning sun from his eyes. “So how do we know we’re not too late?” he asked.
Dean followed his brother’s gaze and looked at the dormant building. Despite the fact it was clearly rundown, it was still intact. Though Dean didn’t know the ritual that would be used, he was pretty sure it would make more of a mess than that. “Do you see a demonic army?” he asked, his tone edged with sarcasm.
Sam smirked a little. “No.”
Dean shrugged. “Then I’m thinking we’re probably not too late,” he said. “What do you think, college boy?”
Sam returned his shrug half-heartedly. “We probably would have seen other signs, too,” he agreed. “That much power out of Hell, it’s going to affect the weather and the landscape. Bobby said the night Jake opened the Hell Gate, there were reports of lightning storms across the entire state.”
“Which means we’ve still got time,” Dean concluded. “Whatever’s going down, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“No, but it’s probably going to happen soon,” Sam said.
“Which means we’d better hurry.”
Sam gestured with one hand toward the building. “After you.”
Sam’s voice was partially mocking, but Dean could see the seriousness of it, too. Sam was letting him take the lead on this one. Dean knew his brother didn’t agree with him completely, but Sam trusted him. He trusted him to get this one right.
Dean couldn’t let him down. Not this time. Even if was the last thing he did.
-o-
Sam had been following orders all his life. That didn’t mean it got any easier.
Especially when he knew the orders weren’t always right.
Not that Dean was wrong. But Dean was focused on the wrong thing.
It wasn’t that Sam wanted to go in and pick a fight with Dad. It wasn’t that Sam wanted to kill him. But Sam had fought fair before--and lost. He had lost when he got kicked out for college. He had lost in Missouri when he didn’t killed Azazel when he’d had the chance. And he had lost big in Cold Oak with a knife in the back.
Playing fair was in Sam’s nature, but he’d learned the hard way that it didn’t usually get him very far. While that was okay for him, it wasn’t okay for those around him.
It had cost Jess. It had almost cost Dean. It had cost his father once.
There was a bigger picture. Sam couldn’t be sure what was going on with Dad, but he did know what was going on with Dean. Sam’s first goal had to be to protect his brother--even at the expense of whatever it was their father was now.
Sam watched his brother’s back as he snaked through the open gate. Dean ran lightly, and Sam stepped carefully in his wake. It was a tricky business--trying to protect his brother physically and emotionally. Which was why he was following Dean’s lead on this one--but why the gun in his pocket was still fully loaded.
Moving across the yard, Sam felt his stomach turn. Then, he realized why.
The air was thick with a foul smell. Mineral and putrid.
Sulfur.
With a name like White Sulfur Springs, it might not have been a surprise. But Sam knew the sulfur in the area wasn’t naturally occurring. It was too strong--too distinct. And the fact was, they weren’t that lucky.
Whatever was here--it was big.
When they got to the building, Dean hedged close to it, and Sam fell in line behind him. Glancing at him, Dean made eye contact, silently communicating that Sam needed to stay close.
Sam nodded, nervously readjusting his grip on the shotgun. His palms felt sweaty and his face was flushed with anxiety, but his entire body felt as cold as ice.
Dean moved low, pausing at the first window they came up to. He went to the far side of it, peeking his head around to get a look inside. Sam sidled up on the other side of the window, craning his neck carefully to catch his own glimpse of the interior.
At first, it was hard to make out. Despite the morning rays, the inside was dark. Sam could make out a few rows of tires, one partially tipped. On one wall there was an array of shelves shoved to the side, some fallen.
There appeared to be some offices in the back, but they were blackened, too dark to make out.
Sam’s eyes shifted across the room, careful and discerning, and then he saw it.
It was partially obscured by another scattered arrangement of shelves, but the flickering light of candles was unmistakable.
He looked at his brother, catching Dean’s eyes and nodding toward the candles. Dean had to shift positions to see, but when he did, his face hardened grimly.
From their location, it was impossible to see anything else. Dean met his gaze again, nodding them forward.
Heart pounding, Sam followed suit, keeping as low as he could. There was something here, and while Sam had suspected as much all along, it was unnerving to have it confirmed. Especially when that something could be Dad.
They turned the corner; there were fewer windows on this side. There was, however, a series of double doors. Though two were still bolted shut, the third was partially ajar.
Tense, they both slowed, carefully inching closer carefully. As sure as this was their best bet to gauge what was going on, it would also make them vulnerable.
But it was a risk they had to take.
Pressed along the wall just next to the door, Dean gave Sam a knowing look. With a deep breath, Sam nodded, and they moved into position.
It wasn’t easy to see, and they were so close together that Sam could hear Dean’s stifled breathing. But the circle of candles was much closer now, and Sam was able to pick out more details than before.
There were more than candles. In the center of the circle was an altar. It was lined with candles itself, and carefully arranged with a number of other things. They were still too far away to make out the details, but squinting, Sam could see the worm pipe.
Dean tapped him lightly on the arm, and Sam knew it was time to move. They’d found what they were looking for. Whatever doubts either of them may have had, there was no denying it now.
Sam’s nerves sprang to life with new vigor, and his stomach twisted again. He was sure this was the place, but he still had no answer to who would be waiting for them when they finally went inside.
-o-
Dean had never been one for the details.
Sure, he paid attention to them as needed, but they’d never been what he enjoyed most. Things like research and prep work--they were the boring part of hunting. Those kinds of tasks were slow and monotonous, and nothing like the hunt itself. He understood their importance, of course, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.
In comparison, though, no hunt had ever been as painfully slow and interminable as this time. The lines of salt were familiar enough, but the distance around the building was long. Both he and Sam were adept at making devil’s traps, but it had still taken nearly an hour to inscribe the markings on all the entrances. Sam had insisted on consecrating the yard, in the hope that even if all other barriers were breached, they would have one last ditch effort to stop anything demonic from getting too far.
And even though Dean would never admit it, he knew these measures were meager at best. The fact was, they were horrifically unprepared for this hunt. The plan was makeshift at best. Trying to trap whatever was in there was a good idea, but they had no way of knowing for sure if anyone was home at all. At least with the strong scent of sulfur in the air, there was a good bet that the sigils they’d chosen would do the trick.
All the entrances were marked and they’d inscribed what they could on the walls, just in case. Of course, if the whole roof got blown off, it’d be a moot point, but hey, no one could accuse them of not putting in some effort.
Though anyone could point out the flaws with the plan that far exceeded that effort. After all, what if there was more than one demon? What if Dad had backup that decided to stop by after the fact? What if there was no one in there at all, just some candles? Dean wanted to believe the best about John, but at this point, Sam’s suspicions had some weight. Dean wouldn’t concede yet, but the gnawing sense of doubt in the back of his mind could not be squelched.
More than that, what if there was someone in there--someone besides their dad? When it came to inside the warehouse, they were virtually defenseless. Holy water would do some good and salt would repel lower level demons, but against something bigger?
Hell, what if old Yellow Eyes had decided to show up? Even their holy water would be useless then. They could be walking into the biggest trap in the world and all they’d done was create a closed buffet for whatever it was to choose from.
But it didn’t matter. These protective measures were just the backup plan, and Dean had to remember that.
The real goal--the only goal--was to find Dad and take him home--together.
Feeling tense, Dean rocked back on his heels and looked down at the symbol on the ground. Spray paint was rudimentary, but it would do. They had no way of hiding the markings, but if they were taking things outside, then being discreet was the least of their problems.
Sighing, he pushed to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked down the side of the building and saw Sam finishing his own devil’s trap in front of the last remaining door. They were lucky--there hadn’t been many exits, but that made sense. If Dad was planning on raising some kind of demon army, he wouldn’t want anyone to just wander in.
But what would their father say about this plan?
Dean almost had to smile.
John would chew his ass out for this, and not just because he was disobeying a direct order. But because Dean was being reckless and stupid--
Never hunt without resting first.
Except for when the risks were too great not to.
Measure twice, cut once. Over plan, and finish all right.
Except for when there just wasn’t any other choice.
Trust your gut, but back it up with research.
Except for when your gut was right.
For all the rules and lessons and orders, John had taught one very important thing: always do what was best for the family. It was a balancing act, a tentative tightrope between sacrificing too much and giving up what didn’t really matter. That was what the hunt was about. They were already in jeopardy, even when living a quiet, simple, family life. What was worse--the risk of being unprepared or the risk of going out with guns blazing?
Winchesters didn’t always win, but they always went out fighting. If destiny wasn’t theirs to change, then it sure as hell was theirs to fight.
Dean looked back at the warehouse, feeling something solidify inside of him. He remembered Dad’s voice on the phone. He remembered the cold words.
He knew his father. Dean had spent a lifetime following that man’s orders, figuring out when to hold position and when to fall back. No one knew John Winchester like Dean did. He knew when his father was too tired to be argued with. He knew when his father was too hurt to back down. He knew when his father needed support and when he needed to be questioned.
Dean knew the difference between hard and fast orders and reverse psychology. It was inevitable. After a lifetime of being the best damn soldier he could be, Dean’s instincts were honed.
The obvious demonic omens, the ominous endgame, the cryptic phone call--they were all decoys. His dad set this up so everything said stay away, but that wasn’t what he really wanted.
No, John wanted them here. Dean was sure of it.
What he wanted them here for--Dean was not so sure about that.
He had to believe, though. No matter what Sam said, Dean had to believe Dad would never harm them. Even when he was possessed by Azazel, John had been strong enough to fight back for a moment, just long enough to save Dean’s life.
Dean let his eyes linger on his brother once again. Sam was nervous, that much was clear. But Sam was trusting him on this--despite everything. It was that trust Dean couldn’t betray.
And he wouldn’t. Dean could fix this. He could make them a family again--once and for always. He was always the one to pull them together, even when Sam and Dad didn’t know they wanted it. He’d failed when Sam left for college. He’d failed in Missouri when their father had been possessed.
He would not fail this time.
If you’re going to do something, you do it all the way. Commit to it. No turning back. Remember, Dean, determination is half the battle.
Dean pulled himself together. He was halfway to victory already.
Sam stood, eyeing his work before glancing Dean’s way. When their eyes locked, Dean could see Sam’s doubts there.
Stuffing his spray paint into his pack, Dean moved toward his brother. With a nod, they pulled away from the building, retreating toward the end of the yard behind an abandoned dumpster.
“So you ready to do this?” Dean asked.
Sam looked back nervously, peeking out from behind the dumpster. “If there’s something demonic in there, it’s going to have to work pretty hard to get out,” his brother said.
“Do you want to go in together or at separate entrances?” Dean asked.
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure you want to go in?”
“Well, we didn’t come all this way just to sit on our asses.”
Sam made a face. “I meant maybe we should lure whatever is in there out,” he said. “Get it in the open so we’re not trapped in there with it.”
“It could be Dad,” Dean reminded him. “We need to show him that we’re not here to hurt him.”
A flash of incredulity spread across Sam’s face. “Dean, we need to be realistic about this,” he said.
“What, you want to go in packing?” Dean asked, nodding toward Sam’s pocket. “Shoot first and ask questions later and hope that Dad’s still alive long enough to get some answers?”
Sam’s features hardened. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” Dean snapped.
“I just--don’t want to put us in more danger than we have to,” Sam said, his head dipping down, before tentatively meeting Dean’s gaze again.
Sam’s mind was in the right place--and so was his heart.
Dean shook his head, his tone softening. “We don’t know what’s happened to him. If we go in there, guns blazing or with lies and deceit, then he’s not going to know he can trust us.”
“Dean, you saw him on the security tape,” Sam said. “And you heard him in the phone call.”
“No,” Dean said. “We go in there like men. This is about family, man. Family.”
Dean watched as the emotions shifted in Sam’s eyes. The fear and uncertainty were still there, but so was something else: trust.
Finally, Sam nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But we’re taking protection.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t plan on hooking up with anyone in there.”
“Dean, I’m serious,” Sam said.
“Okay, okay,” Dean said. He pulled the shotgun from his pack and held it up for Sam’s approval. “Happy?”
Sam pursed his lips, picking up his own shotgun. “Let’s do this.”
Dean didn’t have to be told twice. Leaving their packs, Dean led them back toward the warehouse, sliding along the edge until they reached the door that had been ajar. Apart from the devil’s trap scrawled on the dirt, it looked much like they had left it.
With one last glance at his brother, Dean pushed the door open slightly. When no reaction came from within, he gave Sam a hard look and went inside.
He pressed against the wall immediately, staying to the shadows. Without looking, he knew that Sam was close behind him.
The inched forward, and Dean kept his eyes wide and wary for any sign of movement.
As they moved ahead, the altar came into view. Illuminated by the candlelight, it was possible to see what was on it. The worm pipe was still in place, but it was joined by other objects--hex bags, some bones, and some things Dean didn’t recognize. Some things he didn’t want to recognize.
It was pretty clear, though, that this was some dark stuff. Darker than Dean wanted to admit to.
Then, there was a noise.
Dean tensed, looking into the stillness of the warehouse. The early morning sunlight brightened the far end, but there was still no sign of life.
Looking back, he met Sam’s eyes. Sam’s face was white in the shadows, and Dean could see a line of perspiration collecting beneath Sam’s bangs.
Sam was more than nervous--he was actually scared.
That fact was enough to erode away at Dean’s sense of control. This was a risk--a huge one--and a gamble that he was throwing both of them into without reservations. But his step of blind faith wasn’t just for him--it was for Sam, too. The little brother he just got back.
But they were too far in to back out now.
Dean steeled himself, easing away from the wall.
He saw a flash of movement. There, on the other side of the candles.
Behind him, Sam froze.
Then Dean realized why.
Even in the flickering shadows, it was unmistakable.
It was Dad.
Dean swallowed hard against the emotion in his throat and willed himself to stay still.
As a slow grin spread across John’s face, Dean realized that their stealth was all for naught.
“Come on out, boys,” John said, his voice sending an icy shiver down Dean’s spine. “It’s about time for a Winchester family reunion.”
End of Part 3
Episode 6: Long Days Upon the Land
Original airdate: 2010.02.22.
Summary:
When the boys finally get a trail on their father, Sam and Dean embark on a dangerous journey to find him. However, with Sam preparing for the worst, Dean must ask himself if he can still follow his father’s orders, even if it could cost him everything he has.
Excerpt:
He glanced back at the screen, focusing again, as a dark figure came into the picture.
There was something strangely familiar about it--the way it moved, the shape of it.
The way it wielded the knife as it sliced the guard’s throat.
Sam whispered something like a prayer--or a curse, Dean wasn’t sure which.
In the back of his mind, Dean wondered what the point was. It wasn’t like faith had gotten Sam very far at this point.
Just then, the figure turned to the camera, saluting them. Bobby hit pause on John Winchester’s smiling face caught mid-gesture.
Written by: faye_dartmouth and pinkphoenix1985
Artist: faye_dartmouth
PART THREE
There was always something quiet about driving at night.
They often stuck to the county roads, long stretches of two-lane highway that wound through the countryside of America. The Impala’s lone pair of headlights cut through the darkness with a starkness that did nothing to ease the encompassing nature of it all.
Sometimes, it felt peaceful. Sam had to admit there were times when driving through the stillness was like a waking dream, a venture into soft nothingness to give him rest. He could sleep with his eyes open and trust that when the daylight broke, he would be where he needed to be.
But other times--
Other times, it was like an endless nightmare. The darkness had no beginning, no end. It just was, vast and empty and growing deeper with every mile they pushed ahead, as though they could get lost in it.
Tonight, it wasn’t quite either. It was something worse.
The infinite blackness was just a guise this time. A short-term reprieve, both a heaven and a hell, before they faced the conflict on the other end.
Their father.
Sam had faced many conflicts with his father over his lifetime. From fights over the purpose of hunting to arguments regarding Sam’s school commitments, he had braced for the worst and fought his way through them all.
He could even remember the cold bleakness of their drive to save Dad in Missouri. The barren nothingness of the drive away from the hospital where their father died.
Nothing compared to this.
Facing Dad now--what he had become--Sam wasn’t sure he was ready for this. It was enough dealing with what he’d been through, but facing the idea that Dad could be a demon? More than that, that he might be trying to bring about the apocalypse?
Family secrets you don’t want to deal with for six hundred, Alex.
Nervous, Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was sitting rigidly in the driver’s seat, fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel.
As hard as this was on Sam, it was clearly harder on Dean. His older brother hadn’t said a word this entire trip. He hadn’t turned on the radio, hadn’t shoved in a cassette tape--he hadn’t even looked at Sam.
Which didn’t do anything for Sam’s nerves. Though he would never admit it, his brother’s cool and calm disposition was something he counted on. It made him feel better, even when he knew it was a lie.
The fact that Dean wasn’t even taking the time to put on a facade was an indication of just how serious this was.
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, chewing absently at the inside of his lip. To make matters that much worse, they didn’t even have a plan that was any good. Their mission was part rescue, part interception, and entirely flimsy.
It wasn’t any good and it wasn’t right. Dean knew better than this. He knew better than to charge in, half-cocked. He knew better than to go in without appropriate backup. He knew better than to plan a hunt without the proper contingencies in place.
Except this was Dad.
Sam flattened his mouth grimly. This was Dad, and it was always the same old story when it came to Dad and Dean.
He sighed. He had resented their closeness for years. Though he had spent his teen years pretending like it didn’t matter, his father’s trust and approval of Dean was always a bitter pill to swallow.
Sam had always wanted to prove himself somehow, to make his father proud.
It had ended too little, too late.
But maybe not this time.
Quelling his frustration, Sam looked at his notes again. Sifting through them, he pulled out the map, double-checking their destination. He and Bobby had plotted the demonic omens around White Sulfur Springs and had come up with a fairly centralized location. Though there had been a number of viable buildings, they’d all agreed on an old warehouse in the industrialized edge of town. It was a bit of a long shot, but it fit the general location they had pinpointed and it had the right MO. Secluded, abandoned, large--a perfect place for a demonic army. A soldier as capable as their father would know that.
It made sense. It was the best logic they could employ among the three of them. But there was still something about this Sam didn’t like. Something fundamentally wrong.
Why had Dad called them? He wanted to trust that Dean had told him everything about the phone call, but none of it made any sense. Why would Dad warn them to stay away? If he was really concerned about their safety, why wouldn’t he take more care not to attract attention?
No, Sam had seen his father’s eyes back in Wyoming. The demonic omens were impossible to deny. Their father wasn’t up to any good in White Sulfur Springs. Even if the plan wasn’t to raise a demonic army, Sam didn’t doubt that it was something evil.
Which again, begged the question: why call? Was their father afraid that they’d be able to stop him? Or was he simply afraid they’d try?
Was Dad even really still Dad? How could he be? It didn’t make any sense. They’d burned him. Sam had helped build the pyre. He’d watched the body go up in flames until there was nothing left but ash. John Winchester was dead, and he had no body left to offer.
Which meant he was something else. A shapeshifter of sorts was possible, but not likely. It knew too much.
Besides, it turned out that coming back from the dead wasn’t so impossible after all.
Like father, like son.
Which was just one more reason to worry. Sam knew what it was like to have something inside that he couldn’t control. He knew what it was like to have the darkness of death taint him. If his father had really been to Hell, then there was no telling what had happened to him--what changes had been wrought.
Swallowing hard, Sam licked his lips, trying to square his shoulders a bit. “Are you really sure about this?” he asked finally, his voice cutting into the darkness.
Dean glanced at him briefly, his eyes dark. Looking back at the road, he nodded curtly. “What’s not to be sure about?” he asked, his voice clipped.
It wasn’t the encouraging answer Sam had been hoping for. “It’s just...something doesn’t feel off about this to you?”
At that, Dean gave a bark of laughter. “A lot feels off about this,” he said sharply. “Like the fact that we’re tracking Dad by demonic omens. Or maybe the fact that you’re looking at exorcisms to use on him.”
Sam felt his cheeks flush. He looked down at the page of Latin partially hidden behind his map. He hadn’t told Dean about the exorcism--it had been his worst case scenario. His own version of a backup plan, even if Dean didn’t want to talk about it.
It wasn’t easy to admit, but it was better to get it out in the open. “We can’t be sure,” Sam said softly.
“He’s not possessed,” Dean said, as a matter of fact. “We burned his body--so whatever happened, something brought him back from nothing.”
“What if it’s something else?”
“Shapeshifters need their victims to be alive,” Dean said.
“There are other--”
Dean gave Sam a hard look. “You know it’s him just as well as I do.”
To that, Sam had no argument. “So what about the black eyes?”
It was Dean’s turned to be silent. He shrugged.
Sam sighed. His brother was going to be stubborn about this--he always was when it came to their father. If Sam didn’t proceed carefully, his brother would explode at him, which wasn’t something any of them needed. “None of it explains why he would call you.”
“He wanted to warn us,” Dean said simply, eyes still on the road.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Sam persisted. They were all stubborn in the end.
“It makes perfect sense,” Dean said. “He doesn’t want us to get hurt.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile with twisted amusement. “Yeah, because raising a demon army sounds like a surefire way to make certain we’re safe.”
Dean’s face hardened even more. “We don’t know he’s doing that.”
“But then why would he want us to be safe?”
Dean’s face twisted, his lips turned in a frustrated sneer. “I don’t know, Sam.” Exasperated sarcasm colored his brother’s voice. “But I do know Dad. I know he’s spent his entire life fighting for what was right--looking out for us. Even when he died. He went to Hell to keep us safe, so I sort of have to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one.”
The argument was too familiar. The same one Dean had been giving him since he was eight years old. “You really think it’s still a good idea to have blind faith in the man?”
Dean glared at him, eyes cold and deadly. “After everything, you’re still not ready to be the good son?” he asked. Then he shook his head, an expression of disgust on his features. “You were too little, too late the first time around, Sammy. You really want to risk it again?”
That thought had gone through Sam’s head more than once. But hearing it out loud--out of his brother’s mouth with such malice--was another thing entirely. Because Sam could remember it like it was yesterday--the cold shock of walking in and finding his father dead on the ground. Being there and not being able to do anything. Not able to save him, not able to comfort him, not able to tell him that he was sorry, that he loved him.
And finding out that it had been a deal that had taken Dad’s life? Made it worse. Not just because John should have known better, not even because he had bartered with the very thing that had taken their mother--but because he’d known what was coming and had asked Sam to leave. He’d sent Sam on a coffee run knowing they’d never see each other again.
Dad hadn’t trusted him. It was the confirmation of all Sam’s doubts and worst fears. He was the lesser son, the one that wasn’t good enough, the pathetic little kid who couldn’t even be a part of his own destiny.
The guilt and shame made Sam shrink in on himself and he looked down at the papers on his lap.
It didn’t surprise Sam that it was Dean their father called. Dad had believed that Sam might need to be put down like a rabid dog, and apparently some things never changed, no matter which side of the afterlife they might be on.
Silence stretched between them as Sam’s spirits plunged deeper into the darkness.
In the seat across from him, Dean cleared his throat. When Sam looked up, Dean met his eye, and there was a shadow of an apology there.
“So,” Dean asked, clearing his throat a little. “Do you, uh, know what our turnoff is?”
It was a meager peace offering at best, but Sam recognized it for what it was. Feeling numb, he looked blankly back at the map and tried to find an answer as they forged ahead into the night.
-o-
The morning sun was glaringly bright, coming at them low above the horizon. The sharp rays did nothing to ease the coolness in the air, which seemed to be tinged with mountain frost.
Dean wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the situation, though. He felt numb inside and even the hair on his arms was on edge beneath the warm cover of his leather jacket.
Hell, it could have been one hundred degrees and Dean’s reaction would have been the same. It wasn’t because of the elevation, it wasn’t because of the early hour: it was because of their father.
Dad was here--doing what, Dean couldn’t be sure (refused to be sure), but doing something all the same.
Squinting over the landscape, Dean couldn’t get over how normal it seemed. The area was industrialized, just like Sam had said, but, from the looks of it, it was way past its prime. The buildings nearby were fenced off but mostly ramshackle, and any one of them seemed like possible candidates for whatever demonic activity was going down in the area. The one Sam and Bobby had marked as their primary target wasn’t much better, and Dean understood quickly why they had narrowed their search to this one.
It was made of brick, with two rows of windows across its front. It was sizable--easily the largest one in the area--but over half the windows were blown out or cracked. The yard was in shambles, littered with stones of all sizes, jumbled bits of trash and scraggly, wayward weeds.
Dean had parked just outside--far enough away to hide their approach but close enough to scope it out. The chain link fence surrounding the place still had barbed wire around the top, but the gate itself swung drunkenly on its hinges.
“So, what do you think?” Sam asked, straining his neck to give it a look. “You think we have a winner?”
Dean gave the rest of the buildings on the street a glance. Some were too small, others were still too well protected. This one was perfect in terms of size and security. There was no doubt in his mind: this would be the one his father would pick.
Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I think you’re right. This is it.”
For once, Sam didn’t contradict him. Instead, he opened his door, closing it carefully behind him.
By the time Dean followed suit, Sam had the trunk open and was rummaging through it. Preparing.
Which made sense. They had to prep for any hunt, and this was no exception. But Dean didn’t even know where to begin. How did he prepare for this? The most twisted family reunion in the world?
Sam, however, seemed to be taking everything and the kitchen sink. He packed his bag with candles, chalk, and holy water, even strapping a blade to his belt. It fit with Sam’s anal retentive ways, but when Sam reached for a pistol, it crossed a line from preparedness to what the hell.
Dean scoffed, pinning his younger brother with condemning eyes.
Pausing, Sam looked up. “What?”
“A gun? Really, Sammy?”
Sam looked back at him, a little blank. “Why not?”
“Dude, we’re going after Dad,” Dean reminded him. “Our endgame is not to kill him.”
A muscle twitched in Sam’s jaw, almost imperceptibly, but Dean saw it nonetheless and recognized it for what it was: defiance. Raising his head a little, Sam squared himself against Dean. “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
Dean didn’t let his gaze waver, even though there was truth to that. The whole thing could be a trap and it could be a trap from some thing that wasn’t their dad. But that didn’t change the fact that it could be Dad, and there was no way in hell Dean was letting his little brother charge in there with guns blazing.
After all, he’d seen the throw downs between his brother and his father before, and they had never been pretty. And with Sam’s newly ramped up powers? Dean just didn’t want to know.
Which was why in this case, less was more. Face puckered in annoyance, Dean reached purposefully in front of his brother, pulling out the shotgun filled with rock salt. “If he’s demonic, regular bullets won’t do squat anyway.”
Sam remained rigid, clearly unconvinced. Which was just like Sam. The kid always wanted answers, but if the answers weren’t the ones he wanted, he defied them anyway.
To prove the point, Dean watched as his brother pocketed the pistol anyway, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Then, Sam reached for the shotgun, taking it up in his right hand. “We need to be prepared for anything,” Sam said, his voice terse. “We don’t know what he is.”
Sam focused on the negative--always one of his worst flaws. Where Sam saw years without a home address, Dean could see years of freedom. Where Sam saw classes he could never finish, Dean saw homework he never had to do. It had been more than a little frustrating during their teen years--with Sam as a constant downer to Dean’s meager attempts to make something good out of the situation they were in. Dean wanted to make lemonade. Sam just wanted to suck lemons.
No wonder his bitchface was so damn good.
The stakes had been high enough back then, but now? As bad as the break for Stanford had been, it would be nothing compared to this.
After all, Sam was preparing to waste Dad if necessary.
Dean was going to make sure that didn’t happen. Not on his watch. He may have screwed up and let Sam go to Stanford. He may have missed the mark in Missouri when their father was possessed. But he would not--could not--screw it all up now.
“Yeah,” Dean said, pulling out some holy water for himself. He forced himself to stay calm. “But we do know we don’t want to kill him.”
Dean’s conciliatory tone must have had its effect, because Sam nodded a little. It was clear the kid still wasn’t convinced, but it was something at least. Sam was listening, which meant he would think before he acted. That would always work in Dean’s favor. It had been enough to stop Sam from shooting Dad once; Dean had to hope he could do it again. For all their sakes.
Sam squinted at the building, using one hand to block the morning sun from his eyes. “So how do we know we’re not too late?” he asked.
Dean followed his brother’s gaze and looked at the dormant building. Despite the fact it was clearly rundown, it was still intact. Though Dean didn’t know the ritual that would be used, he was pretty sure it would make more of a mess than that. “Do you see a demonic army?” he asked, his tone edged with sarcasm.
Sam smirked a little. “No.”
Dean shrugged. “Then I’m thinking we’re probably not too late,” he said. “What do you think, college boy?”
Sam returned his shrug half-heartedly. “We probably would have seen other signs, too,” he agreed. “That much power out of Hell, it’s going to affect the weather and the landscape. Bobby said the night Jake opened the Hell Gate, there were reports of lightning storms across the entire state.”
“Which means we’ve still got time,” Dean concluded. “Whatever’s going down, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“No, but it’s probably going to happen soon,” Sam said.
“Which means we’d better hurry.”
Sam gestured with one hand toward the building. “After you.”
Sam’s voice was partially mocking, but Dean could see the seriousness of it, too. Sam was letting him take the lead on this one. Dean knew his brother didn’t agree with him completely, but Sam trusted him. He trusted him to get this one right.
Dean couldn’t let him down. Not this time. Even if was the last thing he did.
-o-
Sam had been following orders all his life. That didn’t mean it got any easier.
Especially when he knew the orders weren’t always right.
Not that Dean was wrong. But Dean was focused on the wrong thing.
It wasn’t that Sam wanted to go in and pick a fight with Dad. It wasn’t that Sam wanted to kill him. But Sam had fought fair before--and lost. He had lost when he got kicked out for college. He had lost in Missouri when he didn’t killed Azazel when he’d had the chance. And he had lost big in Cold Oak with a knife in the back.
Playing fair was in Sam’s nature, but he’d learned the hard way that it didn’t usually get him very far. While that was okay for him, it wasn’t okay for those around him.
It had cost Jess. It had almost cost Dean. It had cost his father once.
There was a bigger picture. Sam couldn’t be sure what was going on with Dad, but he did know what was going on with Dean. Sam’s first goal had to be to protect his brother--even at the expense of whatever it was their father was now.
Sam watched his brother’s back as he snaked through the open gate. Dean ran lightly, and Sam stepped carefully in his wake. It was a tricky business--trying to protect his brother physically and emotionally. Which was why he was following Dean’s lead on this one--but why the gun in his pocket was still fully loaded.
Moving across the yard, Sam felt his stomach turn. Then, he realized why.
The air was thick with a foul smell. Mineral and putrid.
Sulfur.
With a name like White Sulfur Springs, it might not have been a surprise. But Sam knew the sulfur in the area wasn’t naturally occurring. It was too strong--too distinct. And the fact was, they weren’t that lucky.
Whatever was here--it was big.
When they got to the building, Dean hedged close to it, and Sam fell in line behind him. Glancing at him, Dean made eye contact, silently communicating that Sam needed to stay close.
Sam nodded, nervously readjusting his grip on the shotgun. His palms felt sweaty and his face was flushed with anxiety, but his entire body felt as cold as ice.
Dean moved low, pausing at the first window they came up to. He went to the far side of it, peeking his head around to get a look inside. Sam sidled up on the other side of the window, craning his neck carefully to catch his own glimpse of the interior.
At first, it was hard to make out. Despite the morning rays, the inside was dark. Sam could make out a few rows of tires, one partially tipped. On one wall there was an array of shelves shoved to the side, some fallen.
There appeared to be some offices in the back, but they were blackened, too dark to make out.
Sam’s eyes shifted across the room, careful and discerning, and then he saw it.
It was partially obscured by another scattered arrangement of shelves, but the flickering light of candles was unmistakable.
He looked at his brother, catching Dean’s eyes and nodding toward the candles. Dean had to shift positions to see, but when he did, his face hardened grimly.
From their location, it was impossible to see anything else. Dean met his gaze again, nodding them forward.
Heart pounding, Sam followed suit, keeping as low as he could. There was something here, and while Sam had suspected as much all along, it was unnerving to have it confirmed. Especially when that something could be Dad.
They turned the corner; there were fewer windows on this side. There was, however, a series of double doors. Though two were still bolted shut, the third was partially ajar.
Tense, they both slowed, carefully inching closer carefully. As sure as this was their best bet to gauge what was going on, it would also make them vulnerable.
But it was a risk they had to take.
Pressed along the wall just next to the door, Dean gave Sam a knowing look. With a deep breath, Sam nodded, and they moved into position.
It wasn’t easy to see, and they were so close together that Sam could hear Dean’s stifled breathing. But the circle of candles was much closer now, and Sam was able to pick out more details than before.
There were more than candles. In the center of the circle was an altar. It was lined with candles itself, and carefully arranged with a number of other things. They were still too far away to make out the details, but squinting, Sam could see the worm pipe.
Dean tapped him lightly on the arm, and Sam knew it was time to move. They’d found what they were looking for. Whatever doubts either of them may have had, there was no denying it now.
Sam’s nerves sprang to life with new vigor, and his stomach twisted again. He was sure this was the place, but he still had no answer to who would be waiting for them when they finally went inside.
-o-
Dean had never been one for the details.
Sure, he paid attention to them as needed, but they’d never been what he enjoyed most. Things like research and prep work--they were the boring part of hunting. Those kinds of tasks were slow and monotonous, and nothing like the hunt itself. He understood their importance, of course, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.
In comparison, though, no hunt had ever been as painfully slow and interminable as this time. The lines of salt were familiar enough, but the distance around the building was long. Both he and Sam were adept at making devil’s traps, but it had still taken nearly an hour to inscribe the markings on all the entrances. Sam had insisted on consecrating the yard, in the hope that even if all other barriers were breached, they would have one last ditch effort to stop anything demonic from getting too far.
And even though Dean would never admit it, he knew these measures were meager at best. The fact was, they were horrifically unprepared for this hunt. The plan was makeshift at best. Trying to trap whatever was in there was a good idea, but they had no way of knowing for sure if anyone was home at all. At least with the strong scent of sulfur in the air, there was a good bet that the sigils they’d chosen would do the trick.
All the entrances were marked and they’d inscribed what they could on the walls, just in case. Of course, if the whole roof got blown off, it’d be a moot point, but hey, no one could accuse them of not putting in some effort.
Though anyone could point out the flaws with the plan that far exceeded that effort. After all, what if there was more than one demon? What if Dad had backup that decided to stop by after the fact? What if there was no one in there at all, just some candles? Dean wanted to believe the best about John, but at this point, Sam’s suspicions had some weight. Dean wouldn’t concede yet, but the gnawing sense of doubt in the back of his mind could not be squelched.
More than that, what if there was someone in there--someone besides their dad? When it came to inside the warehouse, they were virtually defenseless. Holy water would do some good and salt would repel lower level demons, but against something bigger?
Hell, what if old Yellow Eyes had decided to show up? Even their holy water would be useless then. They could be walking into the biggest trap in the world and all they’d done was create a closed buffet for whatever it was to choose from.
But it didn’t matter. These protective measures were just the backup plan, and Dean had to remember that.
The real goal--the only goal--was to find Dad and take him home--together.
Feeling tense, Dean rocked back on his heels and looked down at the symbol on the ground. Spray paint was rudimentary, but it would do. They had no way of hiding the markings, but if they were taking things outside, then being discreet was the least of their problems.
Sighing, he pushed to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked down the side of the building and saw Sam finishing his own devil’s trap in front of the last remaining door. They were lucky--there hadn’t been many exits, but that made sense. If Dad was planning on raising some kind of demon army, he wouldn’t want anyone to just wander in.
But what would their father say about this plan?
Dean almost had to smile.
John would chew his ass out for this, and not just because he was disobeying a direct order. But because Dean was being reckless and stupid--
Never hunt without resting first.
Except for when the risks were too great not to.
Measure twice, cut once. Over plan, and finish all right.
Except for when there just wasn’t any other choice.
Trust your gut, but back it up with research.
Except for when your gut was right.
For all the rules and lessons and orders, John had taught one very important thing: always do what was best for the family. It was a balancing act, a tentative tightrope between sacrificing too much and giving up what didn’t really matter. That was what the hunt was about. They were already in jeopardy, even when living a quiet, simple, family life. What was worse--the risk of being unprepared or the risk of going out with guns blazing?
Winchesters didn’t always win, but they always went out fighting. If destiny wasn’t theirs to change, then it sure as hell was theirs to fight.
Dean looked back at the warehouse, feeling something solidify inside of him. He remembered Dad’s voice on the phone. He remembered the cold words.
He knew his father. Dean had spent a lifetime following that man’s orders, figuring out when to hold position and when to fall back. No one knew John Winchester like Dean did. He knew when his father was too tired to be argued with. He knew when his father was too hurt to back down. He knew when his father needed support and when he needed to be questioned.
Dean knew the difference between hard and fast orders and reverse psychology. It was inevitable. After a lifetime of being the best damn soldier he could be, Dean’s instincts were honed.
The obvious demonic omens, the ominous endgame, the cryptic phone call--they were all decoys. His dad set this up so everything said stay away, but that wasn’t what he really wanted.
No, John wanted them here. Dean was sure of it.
What he wanted them here for--Dean was not so sure about that.
He had to believe, though. No matter what Sam said, Dean had to believe Dad would never harm them. Even when he was possessed by Azazel, John had been strong enough to fight back for a moment, just long enough to save Dean’s life.
Dean let his eyes linger on his brother once again. Sam was nervous, that much was clear. But Sam was trusting him on this--despite everything. It was that trust Dean couldn’t betray.
And he wouldn’t. Dean could fix this. He could make them a family again--once and for always. He was always the one to pull them together, even when Sam and Dad didn’t know they wanted it. He’d failed when Sam left for college. He’d failed in Missouri when their father had been possessed.
He would not fail this time.
If you’re going to do something, you do it all the way. Commit to it. No turning back. Remember, Dean, determination is half the battle.
Dean pulled himself together. He was halfway to victory already.
Sam stood, eyeing his work before glancing Dean’s way. When their eyes locked, Dean could see Sam’s doubts there.
Stuffing his spray paint into his pack, Dean moved toward his brother. With a nod, they pulled away from the building, retreating toward the end of the yard behind an abandoned dumpster.
“So you ready to do this?” Dean asked.
Sam looked back nervously, peeking out from behind the dumpster. “If there’s something demonic in there, it’s going to have to work pretty hard to get out,” his brother said.
“Do you want to go in together or at separate entrances?” Dean asked.
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure you want to go in?”
“Well, we didn’t come all this way just to sit on our asses.”
Sam made a face. “I meant maybe we should lure whatever is in there out,” he said. “Get it in the open so we’re not trapped in there with it.”
“It could be Dad,” Dean reminded him. “We need to show him that we’re not here to hurt him.”
A flash of incredulity spread across Sam’s face. “Dean, we need to be realistic about this,” he said.
“What, you want to go in packing?” Dean asked, nodding toward Sam’s pocket. “Shoot first and ask questions later and hope that Dad’s still alive long enough to get some answers?”
Sam’s features hardened. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” Dean snapped.
“I just--don’t want to put us in more danger than we have to,” Sam said, his head dipping down, before tentatively meeting Dean’s gaze again.
Sam’s mind was in the right place--and so was his heart.
Dean shook his head, his tone softening. “We don’t know what’s happened to him. If we go in there, guns blazing or with lies and deceit, then he’s not going to know he can trust us.”
“Dean, you saw him on the security tape,” Sam said. “And you heard him in the phone call.”
“No,” Dean said. “We go in there like men. This is about family, man. Family.”
Dean watched as the emotions shifted in Sam’s eyes. The fear and uncertainty were still there, but so was something else: trust.
Finally, Sam nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But we’re taking protection.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t plan on hooking up with anyone in there.”
“Dean, I’m serious,” Sam said.
“Okay, okay,” Dean said. He pulled the shotgun from his pack and held it up for Sam’s approval. “Happy?”
Sam pursed his lips, picking up his own shotgun. “Let’s do this.”
Dean didn’t have to be told twice. Leaving their packs, Dean led them back toward the warehouse, sliding along the edge until they reached the door that had been ajar. Apart from the devil’s trap scrawled on the dirt, it looked much like they had left it.
With one last glance at his brother, Dean pushed the door open slightly. When no reaction came from within, he gave Sam a hard look and went inside.
He pressed against the wall immediately, staying to the shadows. Without looking, he knew that Sam was close behind him.
The inched forward, and Dean kept his eyes wide and wary for any sign of movement.
As they moved ahead, the altar came into view. Illuminated by the candlelight, it was possible to see what was on it. The worm pipe was still in place, but it was joined by other objects--hex bags, some bones, and some things Dean didn’t recognize. Some things he didn’t want to recognize.
It was pretty clear, though, that this was some dark stuff. Darker than Dean wanted to admit to.
Then, there was a noise.
Dean tensed, looking into the stillness of the warehouse. The early morning sunlight brightened the far end, but there was still no sign of life.
Looking back, he met Sam’s eyes. Sam’s face was white in the shadows, and Dean could see a line of perspiration collecting beneath Sam’s bangs.
Sam was more than nervous--he was actually scared.
That fact was enough to erode away at Dean’s sense of control. This was a risk--a huge one--and a gamble that he was throwing both of them into without reservations. But his step of blind faith wasn’t just for him--it was for Sam, too. The little brother he just got back.
But they were too far in to back out now.
Dean steeled himself, easing away from the wall.
He saw a flash of movement. There, on the other side of the candles.
Behind him, Sam froze.
Then Dean realized why.
Even in the flickering shadows, it was unmistakable.
It was Dad.
Dean swallowed hard against the emotion in his throat and willed himself to stay still.
As a slow grin spread across John’s face, Dean realized that their stealth was all for naught.
“Come on out, boys,” John said, his voice sending an icy shiver down Dean’s spine. “It’s about time for a Winchester family reunion.”
End of Part 3