Headful of Ghosts
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Headful of Ghosts
Category: Gen; drama, angst, humor (the holy trinity ;)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: I like John, I really do, but I can't help but think he's also something of a bastard in many ways, so if you can't take a less than entirely sympathetic portrayal, don't come here.
Spoilers: Yeah, they're mostly vague for S4, but they're there, and the seasons before that, as well.
Summary: The first thing Sam said to his father after he died was, "What the hell are you?"
A/N: This is one of the six stories I was trying to write back when the block was so bad I was whining about it. ;) It's sort of based on Due South, but only in a mild way, and you don't have to know a thing about that show to follow along. Thanks to the intrepid cool_tre_cool and birggitt for being the victims beta-readers on this. I tried to follow their suggestions, but I don't think I fully succeeded. It should at least be readable, however. ;)
Ooh, and look, we're back to Bush for the title again. *snork*
~*~
The last thing Sam said to his father before he died was, "Yeah, sure," when he'd been asked to fetch coffee.
The first thing Sam said to his father after he died was, "What the hell are you?"
~*~
When he'd first shown back up again, long after escaping hell and disappearing in a flash of light, Sam had assumed it was just another supernatural nasty trying to pull a fast one. Like the Crocotta, only in his face. It was okay, though, because the last year (including the six months that hadn't technically happened) had made Sam pretty blasé about dealing with that type of thing. (One day he really would have to tell Dean about the skinwalker in Arizona, because it was kind of a funny story even if Dean would smack him in the head for what he'd done.) And since Dean had lent him the car for some errands, he had plenty of salt, silver, and iron in his armory.
But after the salt, silver, iron, and a host of other improvised wards and weapons hadn't had any effect, Sam had resorted to something he'd grown out of practice using: words. "Right. A ghost. That's why the salt didn't touch you."
That sideways I know something you don't, and if you'd only paid attention to me like I told you to, you'd know it, too grin was just as frustrating on the alleged ghost's face as it had been on his father's. Sam refrained from trying to punch it off, though. Barely.
"I am a ghost, Sammy. Just another… level of one. Not one we'd encountered before, because there's nothing malevolent in it. And because only loved ones can see them."
The idea of another side to the supernatural, benevolent, rational, welcome, and nothing they would ever have come across in their fucked up lives, was almost as disappointing as meeting angels, but Sam bit it back. "Has Dean seen you yet?"
The grin slid away into true remorse. "No. I… I could only choose one of you. He... he won't be able to see me."
The thing that might be a friendly ghost, that might be his father, had chosen him over Dean? Legs shaky, Sam sat back on the Impala, letting the familiar warmth of its engine-heated hood ground him while his views of the world shook a little on their axes. "You chose me?"
"I thought you needed me more. You've been off your game a little here lately, Sam."
The mild rebuke, well-remembered from his childhood, was irritating, but oddly comforting all the same. Friendly ghost or not, this definitely was his father. And he was just as much a jerk dead as he'd been alive. "You never did understand either one of us, did you?"
~*~
By the second day, Sam had sort of gotten used to it. He no longer started at the shadow at the corner of his eye. That poetically, if not quite literally, was a shadow, and apparently was there to stay.
He'd found that if he thought of it as John rather than as his father, he freaked out about that slightly less than he would have.
Sam had also learned to not answer when John talked to him, at least not when Dean was around, and at least not verbally. All those years riding in the backseat, shooting Dean the most universal of hand gestures, and not getting caught, turned out to be great practice for this. And maybe it was childish (which John was quick to point out), but Sam hated it when he slipped up and responded to something that Dean couldn't hear, because he really hated the look Dean got when he did it. Sam probably was crazy (and, really, he thought he was doing well just by not curling in a ball and crying all day long, so he deserved at least some kind of break here), but he was tired of the combined worried/always thought so look that's been on Dean's face so much recently.
So he waited until Dean was out of the car, making his pit stop at the Gas'n'Sip outside the Memphis limits, before he asked, "Why now?"
John cocked his head, curious, as if he were truly stumped by the plethora of possibilities Sam could be asking about. "What do you mean, why now?"
Sam willed himself not to give into pique. "Well, it's been two years since we saw you go…" and he hated to say it, feeling like he channeling John Edward, but, "into the light. Why show back up now, and not before, when…" Dean really needed you, before Dean went to Hell, before everything went to hell, is what he wanted to say, but not even John Edward was getting that past the lump in Sam's throat.
But John just looked surprised. "Has it? Been two years. I thought it had only been a couple of weeks. Time moves differently in… other places."
Sam sighed as he watched Dean make his way back to the car. "Yeah, I'd heard that," was all he answered.
~*~
In the week that followed, Sam found he sort of liked it. He still felt a little weird that his father hadn't chosen Dean, who so obviously needed something right now, but it was almost like getting a second chance at something he'd never had much of a first chance at.
Of course he still didn't know why his father had chosen to come back, either, but then John had always worked on a need to know basis, with himself as the only one who needed to know. But then John was the one who had taught Dean everything he knew about repression and denial, so Sam was well-used to dealing with it.
Dean was out at a bar, supposedly picking them up a little extra cash, but more likely picking something up for himself (though, with Dean's way with women, and his sometimes outrageously pragmatic take on life, it might be both, but Sam really didn't want to know).
Sam was on the hotel bed, cleaning their weapons, like he did most nights (though that wasn't a sign of OCD, no matter what Dean had said). John sat on the bed opposite, cleaning his own weapons in companionable silence. Sam didn't know if John's weapons would have any impact on the (and he hated this term, feeling like he was in either a Piers Anthony novel or Harry Potter) mundane world, but he couldn't fault the man's maintenance of them. He did wonder how he'd come by them, in a mild way, but, really, if anyone could have figured out a way to slip a gun into and out of (what was possibly) heaven, it would have been his father.
They were quiet with each other as they'd rarely been in life, no lectures from John, no attitude from Sam, and it felt good. Sam wondered if this was the John Dean had seen; less intense, more familial.
"You know, that would work better if you oiled just the front end of the chamois before you pulled it through."
And yet still just as irritating as Sam remembered.
~*~
"It's a bad idea."
And it was a bad idea, but Sam was still almost positive he should go through with it. Because, really, who better to tell Sam whether he should tell Dean about his father than Dean himself. And just the convoluted grammar of that thought was making Sam's head hurt.
He'd tried to work it out for himself, pros and cons. Telling Dean, and having the fact that John had chosen Sam over him reinforce the belief (the one that Sam had never got) that John loved Sam more. Or not telling Dean, and having it become yet one more item on Dean's List of Things Sammy Kept From Him. Honestly, with the way that Dean tended to react when something else got added to The List, Sam was leaning towards the first.
But… but Sam couldn't do it, not without knowing that Dean would be happier about the thought that John was still around, than sad about the fact that he couldn't see him. But… but there was no way to drop So, hey, how would you feel if you found out that our father was haunting us, but, really, he's a total Casper, except, well, only I can see him, sorry about that and all into casual conversation, either.
Which left working his way up to it in a subtle manner. However, with subtlety not being his strong suit, and -- "Sam, will you listen to me for once. It's a really bad idea." -- the constant heckling not helping any, all Sam could come up with was, "Um, Dean? If you, you know, were to come across like a medium, and she, sort of, said that she could put you in, um, touch with Dad, would you? You know, would you want her to?" And Sam didn't even need his father's snort, or Dean's for that matter, to know how lame it was.
Dean just shook his head. "My God, could you be more of a Valley Girl? You've been watching Clueless again, haven't you? How many times have you got to watch that, Princess, before you finally believe that Paul Rudd's not going to go for you."
Sam had always denied that he had anything that could be classified as a 'bitch face', but he had to admit that he might have made one there. He shot what was likely another one at his father to stop whatever comment he'd been about to make. But he wasn't quite ready to admit defeat yet. "No, seriously, if someone had a way of letting you talk to Dad, would you want to know about it… or, you know," and he cringed at that, not needing to hand Dean any more ammunition, "would it be easier to just, you-… let it go."
Sam half expected Dean to just parrot Seriously, dude? back at him, but what he got was a moment of silence. Unusual enough, especially when Sam had pretty much fed him the straight line, but more so because Sam could see Dean was thinking about it.
It didn't last too long, though, Dean shaking his head again. The sorrow that used to line his face when he talked about John was gone, replaced with the habitual cynicism and, maybe, a touch of regret. "Nah. I don't think either of us want to be hearing anything he'd have to say about us here lately, Sammy."
John chose to see that as a validation of his own argument. He had his brows raised and his index finger pointing at Dean with sharp emphasis, for once not saying anything, but everything about him filling in the "I told you so" for him.
In eerie imitation, Dean raised his brows, finger pointing, his own rough growl deepening into John's. "Dean, I thought I taught you better than this. Dean, I told you to look after your brother, and if you couldn't, I told you what you had to do. When I give you an order, I expect you to obey it."
It was sad, and it said a lot about how fucked up their lives were that Dean, who'd loved John more than almost anything (just not, quite, more than he loved Sam), obviously wasn't remembering that more familial side to John that Sam had only recently had a chance to see. Instead he seemed to be channeling Sam (Sam before John had died, and stolen all his chances to find peace with his father. Sam before John came back and co-opted most of the peace he'd managed to find without his father).
It was also kind of funny -- "I don't sound anything like that!" -- and Sam couldn't help but laugh. It was a rare thing, in these days when neither one of them was doing what their father would have wanted, and Sam almost stopped, slightly shocked by how odd it felt. But then Dean joined in, not knowing why Sam was laughing, but drawn in by the pleasure of it.
It was like a snapshot of a childhood long gone, the two of them in the backseat laughing while their father looked put out, the sense of family so strong to Sam that he had to keep laughing just so he wouldn't do something much worse.
~*~
Being around Bobby when he truly got drunk was never a good experience. It usually involved unfortunate attempts at Waylon Jennings classics, unfortunate attempts at keeping his balance, and unfortunate attempts at expressing how much he loved everyone. Bobby was much better in all his sarcastic, more sober glory, and he'd always been the first one to agree, especially the day after. So if Sam had known that Bobby had taken the whole bottle of Jack with him out on the porch, he would have avoided it like the plague.
He never did figure out if John had either managed to get the whiskey into himself in some way or if it was like the guns somehow (and, again, if someone could have managed to smuggle whiskey into the afterlife, it would have been his father), but he did find out one thing. Not even Bobby in full on I love you, man was as scary as Bobby and John, full of love for their fellow man and smiling at Sam like he was the best thing since a full bottle of Jack, and belting out unfortunate renditions of It Won't Hurt (When I Fall Down From This Barstool).
He managed to get off the porch before they caught him, but it was a close call all the same.
~*~
After that, there was nothing for it; he was going to have to tell Dean. It wasn't like Bobby was going to remember what happened the next day (not so he'd believe it, at any rate), but it was only a matter of time before Dean got drunk (enough), and then he'd see (because, yeah, right, like John would take the high road, and stay out of sight while that was going on).
Sam could only add yet one more (potential) mark in his book against (what might be) Heaven -- listed right after Uriel's name -- that they had some fucked up rule that no one but Sam could see John, right, so that he went around looking like a crazy person if he answered when the asshole talked to him, but, oh, then they decided to add a fucked up loophole that that only counted as long as no one else was drunk. Dean was right, they really were dicks.
And no way was Dean going to dismiss it as a drunken fantasy the next day. Dean's cynicism about what his father would say to him now aside, Sam remembered the rush to belief that Dean had done when the Crocotta had offered the possibility. He might be thinking his father would judge him harshly about what he'd done in Hell -- and considering John had been there a non-Hell year to Dean's non-Hell four months, Sam had his doubts about John having the right to cast stones (or anyone else for that matter) -- and Dean had made denial into an art, but he'd never turn a blind eye to something supernatural that was right up in it. And once Dean knew, he was going to figure out what that conversation Sam had almost had with him had been about, and then The List was going to come into play, and Sam's lip was already throbbing in memory of the last time that had happened.
So, yeah, he had to tell him.
~*~
Two weeks later, and Dean still didn't know. It had had been a close call this night, though, with their hunt gone bad and kids involved, which was usually enough to drive Dean to the nearest bar. But Sam had managed to avert the potential disaster, keeping John distracted by using a dry stone to sharpen his hunting blade, and then ignoring the angle of the edge. It had been an old blade, one that was getting too brittle, so Sam didn't mind that he'd hastened its demise, and it had kept John's mind off Dean. (And, yes, he'd have thought John would remember that he'd taught Sam how to sharpen a blade when he'd been nine, but the lesson had been kind of nice, anyway, the rasp of stone to blade an almost zen-like counterpoint to their easy conversation). But he knew his luck wouldn't hold forever.
He didn't even know why he hadn't done it yet at this point. Once he'd decided Dean was likely to find out regardless, the argument about keeping quiet to maybe save Dean's feelings had become pretty moot. And yet. And yet, much as Sam wanted to deny it, as fucking petty as it was, he sort of thought it might have something to do with the fact that this was something of their father that Sam had and Dean didn't.
And if Sam hadn't spent pretty much most of the last two years (and so much longer) trying not to hate what he was, that would have certainly done the trick, there.
But as much as he hated it, as much as he hated what it said about him, it was hard not to be jealous of Dean. Of the memories Dean had of John and their mother, both from childhood, and, for a brief moment, as they were before Azazel had touched any of their lives.
That last a gift of an angel, sent by God, because Dean (who'd played it fast and loose with pretty much every rule he'd ever come across, sometimes flirting awfully close to that line that Gordon had crossed) was their chosen agent. While Sam (who used to try his best, who'd loved the rules, and the peace the were supposed to bring) got the ghost of his mother telling him she was sorry, a dead father who was often as critical in the afterlife as he'd been before, and that same angel giving him the cut direct. And he got Dean, who loved him fiercely, would die for him, would go to Hell for him, and yet… I would want to hunt you.
Sam loved his brother, too. It was the single most important fact about him. He loved Dean. Would die for him. Would take his place in Hell without hesitation. Would take every fear and hurt and pain Dean had on top of his own and consider it a good deal if it helped. But nothing -- not his father's conditional love, not his mother's choice, not Jess the time she'd been so mad at him (at the secrets she'd later learned to accept) she'd cheated on him, not even the demon that had stolen everything, including Sam's chance at peace in this life or the next -- could cut him the way Dean could.
And when Dean got in later that night, drunk enough to avoid walking through John, but still enough in control that he couldn't see him, Sam helped him pull off his boots, settled him in the bed furthest from the door, and pulled the covers up to make sure he was warm.
But all he said was, "Good night."
~*~
Three days later, while they were still doing research on the next hunt, John found out about Ruby. About what Ruby was teaching him. He apparently already knew what Castiel and Uriel thought of the whole thing.
"I should have put a stop to this years ago."
Sam hadn't even considered that his father might find out. Dean, yes, he'd been more than a little terrified of that (and yet partly tempted to try to explain, which, considering he couldn't even tell Dean about John, was just another example of how fucked up Sam was). But John rarely showed up when Dean wasn't around, and Sam had just… not thought. "It's the only way to stop Lilith. She's breaking the Seals, faster than anyone can stop her. And… I don't know, maybe Castiel negated her bargain with Dean when he pulled him out of Hell, but I'd rather not take that chance. I won't let her take him back again."
He might as well not have bothered, he could tell by the intractable set to John's jaw. Sam had known it before he'd even tried, really, able to count on no fingers the number of times he'd won an argument with the man, at least not without Dean helping. But he'd hoped that at least that last point would mean something to him, considering the bargain he'd made himself.
"I'd thought if I came to you, I could maybe keep you off this path. But you're just dead set on it, aren't you? Always so sure that you know better than anyone else."
That stung (as it might have been meant to), the knowledge that John hadn't chosen to come back just to be with Sam, but rather to keep him in line. He should have guessed. The bitterness of it burned in his stomach, mixing with the irony of John lecturing anyone on always thinking they knew better than anyone else. That was almost enough to make Sam laugh, but he just turned and left, heading back to the hotel room and Dean, hoping his father wouldn't follow.
He got his wish almost all the way back, but John was waiting for him in front of the room, looking grimmer than Sam had ever seen. "If they tell him to kill you, Sam, what do you think that would do to him? Did you ever think about that?"
Sam had thought about it. It always left him hunched over the toilet, mostly sure Dean wouldn't do it. He didn't bother telling John that, though, because he knew this was just an opening gambit. He'd had years of experience in getting chewed out.
"Even if they do it themselves, Sam, it's always going to haunt him. Your mother, Jess… how many more lives have to be destroyed trying to keep you safe and human? You've always been selfish, Sam, but pull your head out of your ass for once and realize that you're not always right, and that doing what you're told isn't a goddamn sin!"
When Sam had been fifteen and hadn't done (been) what his father wanted, he'd had to run laps. Miles upon miles on top of all the other training his father insisted on. Sometimes he'd come back to the house so tired his legs shook beneath him, and there hadn't been enough water in the world to fill the dry empty hole inside him where he'd figured his father's acceptance would have lived (if only he'd been Dean). It had hurt, knowing his father was never going to really like him, was never going to consider Sam's view of the world as having any value.
It didn't hurt this time, the cut thin and deep, right to the heart of the guilt Sam had lived with since he'd first figured out what his father did, since he'd first worked out how his mother died. So thin and deep, the sharpest of blades, so that the nerves couldn't even process it yet. Sam could tell, though, could see the outlines of what it would be like when it finally felt real.
The only comfort he had was John shutting up as Dean appeared in the doorway, ready to head down to the library as they'd planned. He started for the car at his usual fast pace, but then slowed down, falling into step with Sam, looking concerned. "What is it, Sammy?"
He usually disliked the nickname, he really did, but at times like this he could almost cry hearing it. Not that he'd ever tell Dean that, anymore than he'd tell him that he was the only mother Sam had ever really known, gruff and sometimes an asshole, but always more attuned to Sam's well-being than his own. Even at the worst of times, that had been true.
And what could he answer now? He hadn't told Dean about John, so how did he tell him that even with the comfort Dean (always) had given him, even with Dean learning at four how to be the parent that John couldn’t quite bring himself to be, that even with all the shit in their lives they were having to deal with (like, say, the approaching Apocalypse), that it still fucking hurt the way his father looked at him?
Sam just shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter. Just the seafood taco. You were right, it was a bad idea."
The concerned look morphed into the bastard mix of worry and amusement that was Dean's alone. "Maybe you should sack out in the back while we drive. Keep the windows down, though, 'cause I do not want to be breathing bad tuna fish for the rest of the afternoon."
He did lie down in back, watching Dean drive, his father's ghost (disapproving) in the passenger seat. It was like some strange transposition of the childhood he'd been thinking too much about, lately.
Sam should tell his father to leave. Should say fuck his disapproval, fuck the fact that part of Sam was afraid he might be right, fuck the fact that he was always going to want something from John that John couldn't ever give to him. Just say, Go.
But even the Dean back from Hell, the one that didn't fully believe anymore that Sam wasn't going to turn (wasn't maybe already) evil, still loved him, more than anyone else ever had. Still laughed with him at things only the two of them were ever going to understand, their lives the ultimate in in-jokes. Still looked at him in the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to make sure he hadn't died from a bad seafood taco. And Dean had always given his all for his family, even to the point of letting Sam say goodbye once. Sam could give him this one small thing back, this piece of his life that Dean had grieved to lose.
"Um, Dean. You remember that thing I asked you about… about Dad?"
~*~
It was only later, while he was nursing a headache and watching Dean freak out more about the damage to the Impala than his own cut forehead (and deliberately not looking at where Sam had told him John was still sitting (sulking) in the car, even with it being half in a ditch), that Sam thought that maybe timing wasn't his strong suit either.
/story
Enjoy!
Title: Headful of Ghosts
Category: Gen; drama, angst, humor (the holy trinity ;)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: I like John, I really do, but I can't help but think he's also something of a bastard in many ways, so if you can't take a less than entirely sympathetic portrayal, don't come here.
Spoilers: Yeah, they're mostly vague for S4, but they're there, and the seasons before that, as well.
Summary: The first thing Sam said to his father after he died was, "What the hell are you?"
A/N: This is one of the six stories I was trying to write back when the block was so bad I was whining about it. ;) It's sort of based on Due South, but only in a mild way, and you don't have to know a thing about that show to follow along. Thanks to the intrepid cool_tre_cool and birggitt for being the victims beta-readers on this. I tried to follow their suggestions, but I don't think I fully succeeded. It should at least be readable, however. ;)
Ooh, and look, we're back to Bush for the title again. *snork*
~*~
The last thing Sam said to his father before he died was, "Yeah, sure," when he'd been asked to fetch coffee.
The first thing Sam said to his father after he died was, "What the hell are you?"
~*~
When he'd first shown back up again, long after escaping hell and disappearing in a flash of light, Sam had assumed it was just another supernatural nasty trying to pull a fast one. Like the Crocotta, only in his face. It was okay, though, because the last year (including the six months that hadn't technically happened) had made Sam pretty blasé about dealing with that type of thing. (One day he really would have to tell Dean about the skinwalker in Arizona, because it was kind of a funny story even if Dean would smack him in the head for what he'd done.) And since Dean had lent him the car for some errands, he had plenty of salt, silver, and iron in his armory.
But after the salt, silver, iron, and a host of other improvised wards and weapons hadn't had any effect, Sam had resorted to something he'd grown out of practice using: words. "Right. A ghost. That's why the salt didn't touch you."
That sideways I know something you don't, and if you'd only paid attention to me like I told you to, you'd know it, too grin was just as frustrating on the alleged ghost's face as it had been on his father's. Sam refrained from trying to punch it off, though. Barely.
"I am a ghost, Sammy. Just another… level of one. Not one we'd encountered before, because there's nothing malevolent in it. And because only loved ones can see them."
The idea of another side to the supernatural, benevolent, rational, welcome, and nothing they would ever have come across in their fucked up lives, was almost as disappointing as meeting angels, but Sam bit it back. "Has Dean seen you yet?"
The grin slid away into true remorse. "No. I… I could only choose one of you. He... he won't be able to see me."
The thing that might be a friendly ghost, that might be his father, had chosen him over Dean? Legs shaky, Sam sat back on the Impala, letting the familiar warmth of its engine-heated hood ground him while his views of the world shook a little on their axes. "You chose me?"
"I thought you needed me more. You've been off your game a little here lately, Sam."
The mild rebuke, well-remembered from his childhood, was irritating, but oddly comforting all the same. Friendly ghost or not, this definitely was his father. And he was just as much a jerk dead as he'd been alive. "You never did understand either one of us, did you?"
~*~
By the second day, Sam had sort of gotten used to it. He no longer started at the shadow at the corner of his eye. That poetically, if not quite literally, was a shadow, and apparently was there to stay.
He'd found that if he thought of it as John rather than as his father, he freaked out about that slightly less than he would have.
Sam had also learned to not answer when John talked to him, at least not when Dean was around, and at least not verbally. All those years riding in the backseat, shooting Dean the most universal of hand gestures, and not getting caught, turned out to be great practice for this. And maybe it was childish (which John was quick to point out), but Sam hated it when he slipped up and responded to something that Dean couldn't hear, because he really hated the look Dean got when he did it. Sam probably was crazy (and, really, he thought he was doing well just by not curling in a ball and crying all day long, so he deserved at least some kind of break here), but he was tired of the combined worried/always thought so look that's been on Dean's face so much recently.
So he waited until Dean was out of the car, making his pit stop at the Gas'n'Sip outside the Memphis limits, before he asked, "Why now?"
John cocked his head, curious, as if he were truly stumped by the plethora of possibilities Sam could be asking about. "What do you mean, why now?"
Sam willed himself not to give into pique. "Well, it's been two years since we saw you go…" and he hated to say it, feeling like he channeling John Edward, but, "into the light. Why show back up now, and not before, when…" Dean really needed you, before Dean went to Hell, before everything went to hell, is what he wanted to say, but not even John Edward was getting that past the lump in Sam's throat.
But John just looked surprised. "Has it? Been two years. I thought it had only been a couple of weeks. Time moves differently in… other places."
Sam sighed as he watched Dean make his way back to the car. "Yeah, I'd heard that," was all he answered.
~*~
In the week that followed, Sam found he sort of liked it. He still felt a little weird that his father hadn't chosen Dean, who so obviously needed something right now, but it was almost like getting a second chance at something he'd never had much of a first chance at.
Of course he still didn't know why his father had chosen to come back, either, but then John had always worked on a need to know basis, with himself as the only one who needed to know. But then John was the one who had taught Dean everything he knew about repression and denial, so Sam was well-used to dealing with it.
Dean was out at a bar, supposedly picking them up a little extra cash, but more likely picking something up for himself (though, with Dean's way with women, and his sometimes outrageously pragmatic take on life, it might be both, but Sam really didn't want to know).
Sam was on the hotel bed, cleaning their weapons, like he did most nights (though that wasn't a sign of OCD, no matter what Dean had said). John sat on the bed opposite, cleaning his own weapons in companionable silence. Sam didn't know if John's weapons would have any impact on the (and he hated this term, feeling like he was in either a Piers Anthony novel or Harry Potter) mundane world, but he couldn't fault the man's maintenance of them. He did wonder how he'd come by them, in a mild way, but, really, if anyone could have figured out a way to slip a gun into and out of (what was possibly) heaven, it would have been his father.
They were quiet with each other as they'd rarely been in life, no lectures from John, no attitude from Sam, and it felt good. Sam wondered if this was the John Dean had seen; less intense, more familial.
"You know, that would work better if you oiled just the front end of the chamois before you pulled it through."
And yet still just as irritating as Sam remembered.
~*~
"It's a bad idea."
And it was a bad idea, but Sam was still almost positive he should go through with it. Because, really, who better to tell Sam whether he should tell Dean about his father than Dean himself. And just the convoluted grammar of that thought was making Sam's head hurt.
He'd tried to work it out for himself, pros and cons. Telling Dean, and having the fact that John had chosen Sam over him reinforce the belief (the one that Sam had never got) that John loved Sam more. Or not telling Dean, and having it become yet one more item on Dean's List of Things Sammy Kept From Him. Honestly, with the way that Dean tended to react when something else got added to The List, Sam was leaning towards the first.
But… but Sam couldn't do it, not without knowing that Dean would be happier about the thought that John was still around, than sad about the fact that he couldn't see him. But… but there was no way to drop So, hey, how would you feel if you found out that our father was haunting us, but, really, he's a total Casper, except, well, only I can see him, sorry about that and all into casual conversation, either.
Which left working his way up to it in a subtle manner. However, with subtlety not being his strong suit, and -- "Sam, will you listen to me for once. It's a really bad idea." -- the constant heckling not helping any, all Sam could come up with was, "Um, Dean? If you, you know, were to come across like a medium, and she, sort of, said that she could put you in, um, touch with Dad, would you? You know, would you want her to?" And Sam didn't even need his father's snort, or Dean's for that matter, to know how lame it was.
Dean just shook his head. "My God, could you be more of a Valley Girl? You've been watching Clueless again, haven't you? How many times have you got to watch that, Princess, before you finally believe that Paul Rudd's not going to go for you."
Sam had always denied that he had anything that could be classified as a 'bitch face', but he had to admit that he might have made one there. He shot what was likely another one at his father to stop whatever comment he'd been about to make. But he wasn't quite ready to admit defeat yet. "No, seriously, if someone had a way of letting you talk to Dad, would you want to know about it… or, you know," and he cringed at that, not needing to hand Dean any more ammunition, "would it be easier to just, you-… let it go."
Sam half expected Dean to just parrot Seriously, dude? back at him, but what he got was a moment of silence. Unusual enough, especially when Sam had pretty much fed him the straight line, but more so because Sam could see Dean was thinking about it.
It didn't last too long, though, Dean shaking his head again. The sorrow that used to line his face when he talked about John was gone, replaced with the habitual cynicism and, maybe, a touch of regret. "Nah. I don't think either of us want to be hearing anything he'd have to say about us here lately, Sammy."
John chose to see that as a validation of his own argument. He had his brows raised and his index finger pointing at Dean with sharp emphasis, for once not saying anything, but everything about him filling in the "I told you so" for him.
In eerie imitation, Dean raised his brows, finger pointing, his own rough growl deepening into John's. "Dean, I thought I taught you better than this. Dean, I told you to look after your brother, and if you couldn't, I told you what you had to do. When I give you an order, I expect you to obey it."
It was sad, and it said a lot about how fucked up their lives were that Dean, who'd loved John more than almost anything (just not, quite, more than he loved Sam), obviously wasn't remembering that more familial side to John that Sam had only recently had a chance to see. Instead he seemed to be channeling Sam (Sam before John had died, and stolen all his chances to find peace with his father. Sam before John came back and co-opted most of the peace he'd managed to find without his father).
It was also kind of funny -- "I don't sound anything like that!" -- and Sam couldn't help but laugh. It was a rare thing, in these days when neither one of them was doing what their father would have wanted, and Sam almost stopped, slightly shocked by how odd it felt. But then Dean joined in, not knowing why Sam was laughing, but drawn in by the pleasure of it.
It was like a snapshot of a childhood long gone, the two of them in the backseat laughing while their father looked put out, the sense of family so strong to Sam that he had to keep laughing just so he wouldn't do something much worse.
~*~
Being around Bobby when he truly got drunk was never a good experience. It usually involved unfortunate attempts at Waylon Jennings classics, unfortunate attempts at keeping his balance, and unfortunate attempts at expressing how much he loved everyone. Bobby was much better in all his sarcastic, more sober glory, and he'd always been the first one to agree, especially the day after. So if Sam had known that Bobby had taken the whole bottle of Jack with him out on the porch, he would have avoided it like the plague.
He never did figure out if John had either managed to get the whiskey into himself in some way or if it was like the guns somehow (and, again, if someone could have managed to smuggle whiskey into the afterlife, it would have been his father), but he did find out one thing. Not even Bobby in full on I love you, man was as scary as Bobby and John, full of love for their fellow man and smiling at Sam like he was the best thing since a full bottle of Jack, and belting out unfortunate renditions of It Won't Hurt (When I Fall Down From This Barstool).
He managed to get off the porch before they caught him, but it was a close call all the same.
~*~
After that, there was nothing for it; he was going to have to tell Dean. It wasn't like Bobby was going to remember what happened the next day (not so he'd believe it, at any rate), but it was only a matter of time before Dean got drunk (enough), and then he'd see (because, yeah, right, like John would take the high road, and stay out of sight while that was going on).
Sam could only add yet one more (potential) mark in his book against (what might be) Heaven -- listed right after Uriel's name -- that they had some fucked up rule that no one but Sam could see John, right, so that he went around looking like a crazy person if he answered when the asshole talked to him, but, oh, then they decided to add a fucked up loophole that that only counted as long as no one else was drunk. Dean was right, they really were dicks.
And no way was Dean going to dismiss it as a drunken fantasy the next day. Dean's cynicism about what his father would say to him now aside, Sam remembered the rush to belief that Dean had done when the Crocotta had offered the possibility. He might be thinking his father would judge him harshly about what he'd done in Hell -- and considering John had been there a non-Hell year to Dean's non-Hell four months, Sam had his doubts about John having the right to cast stones (or anyone else for that matter) -- and Dean had made denial into an art, but he'd never turn a blind eye to something supernatural that was right up in it. And once Dean knew, he was going to figure out what that conversation Sam had almost had with him had been about, and then The List was going to come into play, and Sam's lip was already throbbing in memory of the last time that had happened.
So, yeah, he had to tell him.
~*~
Two weeks later, and Dean still didn't know. It had had been a close call this night, though, with their hunt gone bad and kids involved, which was usually enough to drive Dean to the nearest bar. But Sam had managed to avert the potential disaster, keeping John distracted by using a dry stone to sharpen his hunting blade, and then ignoring the angle of the edge. It had been an old blade, one that was getting too brittle, so Sam didn't mind that he'd hastened its demise, and it had kept John's mind off Dean. (And, yes, he'd have thought John would remember that he'd taught Sam how to sharpen a blade when he'd been nine, but the lesson had been kind of nice, anyway, the rasp of stone to blade an almost zen-like counterpoint to their easy conversation). But he knew his luck wouldn't hold forever.
He didn't even know why he hadn't done it yet at this point. Once he'd decided Dean was likely to find out regardless, the argument about keeping quiet to maybe save Dean's feelings had become pretty moot. And yet. And yet, much as Sam wanted to deny it, as fucking petty as it was, he sort of thought it might have something to do with the fact that this was something of their father that Sam had and Dean didn't.
And if Sam hadn't spent pretty much most of the last two years (and so much longer) trying not to hate what he was, that would have certainly done the trick, there.
But as much as he hated it, as much as he hated what it said about him, it was hard not to be jealous of Dean. Of the memories Dean had of John and their mother, both from childhood, and, for a brief moment, as they were before Azazel had touched any of their lives.
That last a gift of an angel, sent by God, because Dean (who'd played it fast and loose with pretty much every rule he'd ever come across, sometimes flirting awfully close to that line that Gordon had crossed) was their chosen agent. While Sam (who used to try his best, who'd loved the rules, and the peace the were supposed to bring) got the ghost of his mother telling him she was sorry, a dead father who was often as critical in the afterlife as he'd been before, and that same angel giving him the cut direct. And he got Dean, who loved him fiercely, would die for him, would go to Hell for him, and yet… I would want to hunt you.
Sam loved his brother, too. It was the single most important fact about him. He loved Dean. Would die for him. Would take his place in Hell without hesitation. Would take every fear and hurt and pain Dean had on top of his own and consider it a good deal if it helped. But nothing -- not his father's conditional love, not his mother's choice, not Jess the time she'd been so mad at him (at the secrets she'd later learned to accept) she'd cheated on him, not even the demon that had stolen everything, including Sam's chance at peace in this life or the next -- could cut him the way Dean could.
And when Dean got in later that night, drunk enough to avoid walking through John, but still enough in control that he couldn't see him, Sam helped him pull off his boots, settled him in the bed furthest from the door, and pulled the covers up to make sure he was warm.
But all he said was, "Good night."
~*~
Three days later, while they were still doing research on the next hunt, John found out about Ruby. About what Ruby was teaching him. He apparently already knew what Castiel and Uriel thought of the whole thing.
"I should have put a stop to this years ago."
Sam hadn't even considered that his father might find out. Dean, yes, he'd been more than a little terrified of that (and yet partly tempted to try to explain, which, considering he couldn't even tell Dean about John, was just another example of how fucked up Sam was). But John rarely showed up when Dean wasn't around, and Sam had just… not thought. "It's the only way to stop Lilith. She's breaking the Seals, faster than anyone can stop her. And… I don't know, maybe Castiel negated her bargain with Dean when he pulled him out of Hell, but I'd rather not take that chance. I won't let her take him back again."
He might as well not have bothered, he could tell by the intractable set to John's jaw. Sam had known it before he'd even tried, really, able to count on no fingers the number of times he'd won an argument with the man, at least not without Dean helping. But he'd hoped that at least that last point would mean something to him, considering the bargain he'd made himself.
"I'd thought if I came to you, I could maybe keep you off this path. But you're just dead set on it, aren't you? Always so sure that you know better than anyone else."
That stung (as it might have been meant to), the knowledge that John hadn't chosen to come back just to be with Sam, but rather to keep him in line. He should have guessed. The bitterness of it burned in his stomach, mixing with the irony of John lecturing anyone on always thinking they knew better than anyone else. That was almost enough to make Sam laugh, but he just turned and left, heading back to the hotel room and Dean, hoping his father wouldn't follow.
He got his wish almost all the way back, but John was waiting for him in front of the room, looking grimmer than Sam had ever seen. "If they tell him to kill you, Sam, what do you think that would do to him? Did you ever think about that?"
Sam had thought about it. It always left him hunched over the toilet, mostly sure Dean wouldn't do it. He didn't bother telling John that, though, because he knew this was just an opening gambit. He'd had years of experience in getting chewed out.
"Even if they do it themselves, Sam, it's always going to haunt him. Your mother, Jess… how many more lives have to be destroyed trying to keep you safe and human? You've always been selfish, Sam, but pull your head out of your ass for once and realize that you're not always right, and that doing what you're told isn't a goddamn sin!"
When Sam had been fifteen and hadn't done (been) what his father wanted, he'd had to run laps. Miles upon miles on top of all the other training his father insisted on. Sometimes he'd come back to the house so tired his legs shook beneath him, and there hadn't been enough water in the world to fill the dry empty hole inside him where he'd figured his father's acceptance would have lived (if only he'd been Dean). It had hurt, knowing his father was never going to really like him, was never going to consider Sam's view of the world as having any value.
It didn't hurt this time, the cut thin and deep, right to the heart of the guilt Sam had lived with since he'd first figured out what his father did, since he'd first worked out how his mother died. So thin and deep, the sharpest of blades, so that the nerves couldn't even process it yet. Sam could tell, though, could see the outlines of what it would be like when it finally felt real.
The only comfort he had was John shutting up as Dean appeared in the doorway, ready to head down to the library as they'd planned. He started for the car at his usual fast pace, but then slowed down, falling into step with Sam, looking concerned. "What is it, Sammy?"
He usually disliked the nickname, he really did, but at times like this he could almost cry hearing it. Not that he'd ever tell Dean that, anymore than he'd tell him that he was the only mother Sam had ever really known, gruff and sometimes an asshole, but always more attuned to Sam's well-being than his own. Even at the worst of times, that had been true.
And what could he answer now? He hadn't told Dean about John, so how did he tell him that even with the comfort Dean (always) had given him, even with Dean learning at four how to be the parent that John couldn’t quite bring himself to be, that even with all the shit in their lives they were having to deal with (like, say, the approaching Apocalypse), that it still fucking hurt the way his father looked at him?
Sam just shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter. Just the seafood taco. You were right, it was a bad idea."
The concerned look morphed into the bastard mix of worry and amusement that was Dean's alone. "Maybe you should sack out in the back while we drive. Keep the windows down, though, 'cause I do not want to be breathing bad tuna fish for the rest of the afternoon."
He did lie down in back, watching Dean drive, his father's ghost (disapproving) in the passenger seat. It was like some strange transposition of the childhood he'd been thinking too much about, lately.
Sam should tell his father to leave. Should say fuck his disapproval, fuck the fact that part of Sam was afraid he might be right, fuck the fact that he was always going to want something from John that John couldn't ever give to him. Just say, Go.
But even the Dean back from Hell, the one that didn't fully believe anymore that Sam wasn't going to turn (wasn't maybe already) evil, still loved him, more than anyone else ever had. Still laughed with him at things only the two of them were ever going to understand, their lives the ultimate in in-jokes. Still looked at him in the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to make sure he hadn't died from a bad seafood taco. And Dean had always given his all for his family, even to the point of letting Sam say goodbye once. Sam could give him this one small thing back, this piece of his life that Dean had grieved to lose.
"Um, Dean. You remember that thing I asked you about… about Dad?"
~*~
It was only later, while he was nursing a headache and watching Dean freak out more about the damage to the Impala than his own cut forehead (and deliberately not looking at where Sam had told him John was still sitting (sulking) in the car, even with it being half in a ditch), that Sam thought that maybe timing wasn't his strong suit either.
/story
Enjoy!