Fic: Wild By Skye (15/27)
Dean was semi-conscious when Sam got out of the shower and barely aware of his brother moving around the room as he got dressed. They were familiar, non-threatening sounds to him, and he slept through them peacefully.
He thought he could probably sleep straight through to tomorrow morning without any trouble whatsoever. He felt like he was literally running on fumes. He'd been pushed beyond the boundaries of exhaustion on a hunt before. He'd nursed vicious wounds before, some even worse than the knife wound he received from his father in the woods. But this was the first time he'd had to flip flop between man and wolf to repair a severely damaged, already weakened body.
His first transformation, as he lay dying cradled in Skye's arms, had been different. He hadn't noticed the toll it physically took for the nerve-searing pain that had consumed him. Everything about that change had been horrific; it would have been impossible to pick apart all the different kinds of horrific and assign them different labels. It was easier to put aside the whole experience as the single most agonizing moment of his life.
Today had taken so much out of him. Far more than he would have expected when the change, since that first time, had become so effortless for him.
It made Dean aware of just how much energy and strength the transformation took, a feat he had taken for granted. The turning saved his life, but he'd barely made it to the bed before he collapsed and passed out more than fell asleep.
It seemed he'd just closed his eyes and fallen in a black void for only a few seconds before he heard the door lock click and opened his eyes to see Sam coming back to the room looking surly and broody.
It was Sam's John Winchester face, and Dean hadn't missed it since those days before Stanford when their family had been on the brink of self-destruction. Less than a day reunited with their dad and the look was back on Sam's face.
Sam suggested running. It was tempting, but Dean knew it wasn't a fix to any of his problems. It was just Sam's last resort to escaping the force of nature that was John Winchester. Dean knew how Sam felt; he was well aware of the tsunami their father's mere presence could be. Sam went the route of getting out of the path of the storm. Dean hunkered down to weather it. That was just the way they dealt with their father's almost superhuman effect.
But this time, running had been really tempting.
Dean didn't want to see that look of revulsion in John's eyes again (the look that John could not help - it was reflex to him as a seasoned hunter), but taking off without warning wouldn't change the fact that John knew. Knew that his oldest son, the boy he'd proudly made so much in his own image, was a creature.
The look on John's face had been as piercing as the bite of the knife slicing through Dean's flesh.
Dean dreaded seeing that look coming from their father again. The same flicker of disgust in those dark, penetrating eyes that Dean had seen aimed at unnatural, repugnant things that did not deserve to live (and by John's hand, would not) all his life. His dad would level that hateful gaze at him, and the thought crippled Dean.
Dean applied himself to not thinking about what he was going to do about their father. Not when his body was still sapped dry. Sam had warded him off, at least for a little while, and Dean would take it to recover.
In the edges of his awareness, Dean heard Sam leave to get dinner, and for a serene moment Dean reveled in the very heavy sound of his own breathing, his body seemingly a lead weight sunk into the mattress. He'd like nothing more than to fall back into painless oblivion, but lying around so long would not be in true Winchester fashion. Dean had already slept hours of the day away, and his injury was not even life-threatening anymore.
'I won't tolerate laziness in this family,' John's hard voice echoed in Dean's head.
Definitely time to get up.
Dean eased himself out of bed and rustled up some fairly decent clothes. He felt tired more than injured, which was promising. Hopefully a good night's sleep, a decent meal in his stomach, and he'd be well on the road back to fighting fit.
He might need to be in order to face his father.
A knock sounded at the door and Dean paused. It couldn't be Sam. Sam would just let himself in.
Swallowing his trepidation, Dean crossed the room to the door and peered out the peephole.
He hadn't expected John to show up so soon. John had timed his arrival to coincide with Sam's departure so perfectly that Dean wondered if John hadn't been hanging back, watching and waiting for Sam to clear out so he and Dean could be alone.
Dean sighed, steeled himself, and opened the door.
His father stood in the threshold, staring at him in silence. Dean didn't often see his dad lost for words. John had come, but he didn't really look like he knew where to go beyond knocking on the door.
Dean stepped back to allow John inside. "Didn't think you'd show this soon," Dean mumbled.
John entered the room and softly closed the door behind him. "Maybe I shouldn't have." Then silence. Uncomfortable, watchful silence.
Dean could feel John watching him, studying him… almost like he was hunting him.
"Sam went to get something to eat," Dean said hollowly as he moved toward his bed. He didn't want to face his father, didn't want to address this, sitting and looking so far up at his dad, but he wasn't going to keep the wobble out of his knees if he stood much longer.
Dean plopped down on his bed and waited with baited breath for John to make the next move.
John took a few steps closer then stopped. "Dean…"
Dean looked up and met a very guarded, controlled face. His father's mask. He usually got to look past that. It was gut-wrenching, but no less than what Dean had expected.
John gathered his resolve. "What…"
"Am I?" Dean finished wearily.
John nodded stolidly.
Dean answered reluctantly, "A lycanthrope."
He saw John stiffen, grow ramrod straight and Dean knew, for half a second, John longed for a weapon. A silver-bullet loaded gun. Dean felt the twist in his guts, sharp and strong, and he looked away from John as the source.
"God, Dean," John rasped, "I knew it was bad, but a damn werewolf…"
"I'm not a werewolf," Dean said.
John studied him intently.
"Lycanthrope, Dad… they're different."
John looked hesitant, but at least he was listening. "I didn't know that," he said after a long pause.
"Obscure, little-known fact in our line of work," Dean said with a tense one-shoulder shrug.
John continued to stand rooted to the spot, watching Dean with entirely too much intensity.
Dean finally said, "Could you sit down? I won't bite."
John flinched. Dean knew Sam would have smirked.
Slowly, John came closer, rounded Sam's bed, and sat on its edge facing Dean. He didn't lean forward with elbows on his knees like he usually would. He stayed upright, sitting back and watching Dean.
Dean hated it. He hated he was something his father couldn't understand.
"Sam said you've been like this for years."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, close to three now."
From the look that passed over John's face, Dean knew John was thinking back three years, to every moment he had spent with Dean and dissecting each for any sign that this was what had become of his son.
"What else did Sam tell you?" Dean asked, unable to stand the silent scrutiny any longer.
"Pathetic little," John groused, and Dean smiled faintly, despite himself.
"It was practically impossible to get any real answers out of him. Anything I said turned into him yelling at me. Honestly, he was too livid to talk to."
Dean looked up at that.
John shook his head. "Sam's always been a pit bull, but I've never seen him so aggressive toward protecting you." That, of course, had always been Dean's job when it came to Sam.
But Dean had a vague idea of what John meant. He'd noticed a change in his younger brother, too. When Sam found out Dean was a lycanthrope, after the shock passed, he was curious first, then accepting and adjusting, then he bled into staunchly protective. He made the keeping of Dean's secret come before all else (except, apparently, Dean's very life). Sam would give up ground on a hunt (to Dean's annoyance) if it was the only way to safeguard the secret of Dean's lycanthropy. Sam had taken it upon himself to be the guardian of Dean's secret, and Dean let him because there were just some things not worth fighting about when it came to Sam… Dad was right. Sam could be a pit bull.
It was a little irritating sometimes, but more than anything Dean found it reassuring. It hadn't been a mistake letting Sam find out. Sam didn't see him as any less of his brother for what he had become.
"Well," Dean said slowly, "Sam knows this is something that could get me killed." At that, Dean looked up pointedly at his father. It was then he noticed the bruise blooming on John's jaw. Dean narrowed his eyes, "Did Sam hit you?!"
John touched the bruise on his jaw and smirked. "Boy packs a wallop, I'll give him that."
"Sam just said you two argued…" Dean said lamely. He'd have to ask Sam later how 'argue' led to 'decking Dad'.
John lowered his hand and canted his head slightly. His voice dropped and that platoon commander turned father was back. "How did you let this happen?"
Dean stiffened. "I didn't have much choice," Dean almost whispered. "The alternative was death." Dean wouldn't elaborate unless Dad ordered him to. He couldn't make his father understand Skye. He would never understand Dean loving her, despite knowing what she was. It had been natural with Sam. Sam was a softie like that… he'd forgive just about anything if the rationale was rooted in love. It was sappy as hell, but it was true, and it was why Dean told Sam about Skye.
John Winchester wouldn't understand. He wouldn't think of Skye as a person, and therefore he had no right to know about her. Dean would protect her memory, the last precious thing of hers he had.
John sat very still and very quiet, processing that information. His son had opted for lycanthropy as an alternative to dying. Whether that was the right move or not took time for John to consider.
Finally, John gave a grave, if not reluctant, nod. "And in three years… you never found anything to undo this?"
The thought had never even crossed Dean's mind. So he could honestly answer, "No." Hadn't found it because he hadn't looked for it. Never wanted to.
Another in a long list of things he could not tell his father.
John mulled that over. "You should have come to me, Dean."
"Dad?" Dean asked, confused.
"It's going to be okay, son."
Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Uh… it is?"
John stood and began to pace the room. "Yes. I get it… this condition you have is rare. Not really surprising that in three years you couldn't find a cure. But I know a lot of people in the business. A lot more than you do. Give me some time, and I can probably track down an expert in anything and everything you can imagine. One of them might know of a way to get this out of you."
'But it is me!' Dean wanted to scream. The wolf wasn't an inflamed appendix that could be removed with a scalpel. Instead of trying to explain that to his father, Dean ducked his head and felt the hurt twisting him inside.
John was running under his own unstoppable power now. He had a plan of action, purpose, a goal, and his weapons were locked on target.
John moved toward Dean, coming closer than he had since the doorway. "It's going to be okay, Dean. I'm going to take care of this." John put a hand on his son's shoulder.
It felt so heavy. His father was dead set on tearing the wolf out of him. He wouldn't rest until he'd found a way to put Dean back the way he was before.
Dean didn't want to go back to that. He was the wolf. It was him, and Skye, and oneness and belonging to the world in a way Dean had never belonged anywhere before.
He was happy as he was.
But his father hadn't even touched him until he was confident Dean could be 'fixed'. If Dean even tried to tell John that he wanted to stay the way he was, a walker of two worlds…
John would disown him.
Dean had no delusions about how that would go. He'd seen John do it to Sam. The screaming match had been horrific. The words flung cut to the bone. Even now, years later, the ghost of what they had said to each other still haunted every moment John and Sam were in the same room together. They were never the same since then and never would be. John told Sam to leave and never come back; walk out the door and don't expect to be let back in. And really, Sam never had gone back and Dad made good on his threat. Sam turned his back on John's closed door and went to Dean's doorstep instead. The one door that was never locked.
Unless Dean wanted to have that door slammed in his face too, to be a misunderstood thing to his father, he would have to give up freedom. Joy. Peace. The legacy of Skye.
"Sure, Dad," Dean croaked. He'd had three years knowing what it meant to be content down to his soul. If not happy in having everything he could ever want, then at peace knowing he had found his place in the universe. That was three more than he'd ever expected in the first place. He'd have to learn to accept that.
Because he knew somehow, someway, his father would find a way to remove the wolf. John Winchester was nothing if not relentless. A lifetime hunting a demon to repay it for one fiery night was proof enough of that.
The motel room door lock turned and Dean looked up as Sam came into the room laden with fast food bags. He was already edgy; he had to have seen John's truck in the lot.
Sam's eyes shot darkly to John.
Before another fight could break down, Dean said, "Sam… it's all right."
Sam looked quickly down at Dean. He was trying to read his brother's face.
John made the next move. He stepped toward Sam. "Sam… don't worry about your disrespectful tone with me before. I understand now. I want you to know I'm proud of you."
Sam blinked, clearly shocked. "What?"
"You've been looking out for your brother, even through this," John motioned vaguely in Dean's direction. 'This', naturally, being the lycanthropy.
Sam gaped, looking between Dean and John. "Huh?"
Dean would have laughed if he didn't feel so broken.
John smirked. "I can't imagine it's been easy. But you should have come to me. Both of you. I take care of you boys, that's my job. And I'm going to take care of this, I promise."
Sam cast Dean a faint 'what the hell is he talking about?' look. Dean just shook his head. 'Don't,' he begged with his eyes.
Sam clamped his mouth shut and turned his attention back to his father.
John was moving for the door. "I better get going. I have some calls to make, old friends to visit, favors to call in. I'll be in touch; I'll let you know as soon as I have something. You boys watch out for each other." At the open door, John paused and looked at Sam, "Oh, and Sam? Next time you hit me, I'm hitting back."
Sam stiffened angrily and set his jaw in defiance.
John matched him, ire for ire, before he closed the door and was gone.
Sam turned to his brother, expression completely baffled. "What was that?"
Dean sighed. "Dad and his idea of helping."
Sam frowned. "What did you tell him, Dean?"
"The truth."
Sam didn't say anything for a moment, then he ventured, "And?"
Dean snorted. "And what do you think?"
Sam's face fell and his shifted uneasily a second. With a sigh, he approached the nightstand between the two beds and put down the food. He sat down wearily on his own bed and looked sympathetically at Dean. "What was all that talk about 'take care of this'?"
Dean dug into one of the bags and pulled out a greasy burger. "He thinks this is something that can be cured."
Sam became indignant, "Did you tell him-"
"No. And I'm not going to. And you better not, either."
"But-"
"I mean it, Sam. Not a word to Dad."
Sam blinked at him. "So if he comes walking through that door, or one just like it, two, three months from now with a cure-"
"He won't. Because there isn't one." Dean even sounded convincing to himself.
Sam paused and thought a second. "Did you tell him that?"
Dean shook his head. "Let him chase the idea. As long as he thinks he can 'cure' me, he doesn't hate me."
Sam scowled and clenched his jaw. Finally, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. I know what that's like."
Dean shrugged. Bitch of it was, Sam did know. Dean idly entertained the idea of naming his wolf 'Stanford', just for the poetic irony of it. Why did it seem so impossible to please their father?
He unwrapped the burger in his hand, but wasn't really hungry anymore. He looked up at Sam and asked, "So what's this about you hitting Dad?"
Sam smirked. "He had it coming."
Dean laughed. "Sammy… you've got brass ones, I'll grant you. Hitting Dad? I wouldn't."
Sam smiled. "You should… feels pretty good."
Dean threw his pillow at his brother. "That is just so wrong, dude."
Sam chuckled and reached into the sack for his own burger. After a couple of bites, he asked, "So… what are we going to do about Dad?"
Dean swallowed. "Nothing."
"You sure?"
Dean nodded. It was time to hunker down and brace for the storm. If he had his way, Sam would have them stand defiant in the gales, screaming rebellion, but Dean had seen the kind of hell that brought upon the family. He didn't want to be the reason his family began yelling at one another. He'd seen all the fighting and head-butting he could stomach watching Sam and John go at it for years.
Dean wouldn't invite that again. Once in a lifetime was enough.
He'd just have to hope it was a long, long time before John came across a way to rip the wolf from him. After all, a lot could happen between now and then.
Sixteen
He thought he could probably sleep straight through to tomorrow morning without any trouble whatsoever. He felt like he was literally running on fumes. He'd been pushed beyond the boundaries of exhaustion on a hunt before. He'd nursed vicious wounds before, some even worse than the knife wound he received from his father in the woods. But this was the first time he'd had to flip flop between man and wolf to repair a severely damaged, already weakened body.
His first transformation, as he lay dying cradled in Skye's arms, had been different. He hadn't noticed the toll it physically took for the nerve-searing pain that had consumed him. Everything about that change had been horrific; it would have been impossible to pick apart all the different kinds of horrific and assign them different labels. It was easier to put aside the whole experience as the single most agonizing moment of his life.
Today had taken so much out of him. Far more than he would have expected when the change, since that first time, had become so effortless for him.
It made Dean aware of just how much energy and strength the transformation took, a feat he had taken for granted. The turning saved his life, but he'd barely made it to the bed before he collapsed and passed out more than fell asleep.
It seemed he'd just closed his eyes and fallen in a black void for only a few seconds before he heard the door lock click and opened his eyes to see Sam coming back to the room looking surly and broody.
It was Sam's John Winchester face, and Dean hadn't missed it since those days before Stanford when their family had been on the brink of self-destruction. Less than a day reunited with their dad and the look was back on Sam's face.
Sam suggested running. It was tempting, but Dean knew it wasn't a fix to any of his problems. It was just Sam's last resort to escaping the force of nature that was John Winchester. Dean knew how Sam felt; he was well aware of the tsunami their father's mere presence could be. Sam went the route of getting out of the path of the storm. Dean hunkered down to weather it. That was just the way they dealt with their father's almost superhuman effect.
But this time, running had been really tempting.
Dean didn't want to see that look of revulsion in John's eyes again (the look that John could not help - it was reflex to him as a seasoned hunter), but taking off without warning wouldn't change the fact that John knew. Knew that his oldest son, the boy he'd proudly made so much in his own image, was a creature.
The look on John's face had been as piercing as the bite of the knife slicing through Dean's flesh.
Dean dreaded seeing that look coming from their father again. The same flicker of disgust in those dark, penetrating eyes that Dean had seen aimed at unnatural, repugnant things that did not deserve to live (and by John's hand, would not) all his life. His dad would level that hateful gaze at him, and the thought crippled Dean.
Dean applied himself to not thinking about what he was going to do about their father. Not when his body was still sapped dry. Sam had warded him off, at least for a little while, and Dean would take it to recover.
In the edges of his awareness, Dean heard Sam leave to get dinner, and for a serene moment Dean reveled in the very heavy sound of his own breathing, his body seemingly a lead weight sunk into the mattress. He'd like nothing more than to fall back into painless oblivion, but lying around so long would not be in true Winchester fashion. Dean had already slept hours of the day away, and his injury was not even life-threatening anymore.
'I won't tolerate laziness in this family,' John's hard voice echoed in Dean's head.
Definitely time to get up.
Dean eased himself out of bed and rustled up some fairly decent clothes. He felt tired more than injured, which was promising. Hopefully a good night's sleep, a decent meal in his stomach, and he'd be well on the road back to fighting fit.
He might need to be in order to face his father.
A knock sounded at the door and Dean paused. It couldn't be Sam. Sam would just let himself in.
Swallowing his trepidation, Dean crossed the room to the door and peered out the peephole.
He hadn't expected John to show up so soon. John had timed his arrival to coincide with Sam's departure so perfectly that Dean wondered if John hadn't been hanging back, watching and waiting for Sam to clear out so he and Dean could be alone.
Dean sighed, steeled himself, and opened the door.
His father stood in the threshold, staring at him in silence. Dean didn't often see his dad lost for words. John had come, but he didn't really look like he knew where to go beyond knocking on the door.
Dean stepped back to allow John inside. "Didn't think you'd show this soon," Dean mumbled.
John entered the room and softly closed the door behind him. "Maybe I shouldn't have." Then silence. Uncomfortable, watchful silence.
Dean could feel John watching him, studying him… almost like he was hunting him.
"Sam went to get something to eat," Dean said hollowly as he moved toward his bed. He didn't want to face his father, didn't want to address this, sitting and looking so far up at his dad, but he wasn't going to keep the wobble out of his knees if he stood much longer.
Dean plopped down on his bed and waited with baited breath for John to make the next move.
John took a few steps closer then stopped. "Dean…"
Dean looked up and met a very guarded, controlled face. His father's mask. He usually got to look past that. It was gut-wrenching, but no less than what Dean had expected.
John gathered his resolve. "What…"
"Am I?" Dean finished wearily.
John nodded stolidly.
Dean answered reluctantly, "A lycanthrope."
He saw John stiffen, grow ramrod straight and Dean knew, for half a second, John longed for a weapon. A silver-bullet loaded gun. Dean felt the twist in his guts, sharp and strong, and he looked away from John as the source.
"God, Dean," John rasped, "I knew it was bad, but a damn werewolf…"
"I'm not a werewolf," Dean said.
John studied him intently.
"Lycanthrope, Dad… they're different."
John looked hesitant, but at least he was listening. "I didn't know that," he said after a long pause.
"Obscure, little-known fact in our line of work," Dean said with a tense one-shoulder shrug.
John continued to stand rooted to the spot, watching Dean with entirely too much intensity.
Dean finally said, "Could you sit down? I won't bite."
John flinched. Dean knew Sam would have smirked.
Slowly, John came closer, rounded Sam's bed, and sat on its edge facing Dean. He didn't lean forward with elbows on his knees like he usually would. He stayed upright, sitting back and watching Dean.
Dean hated it. He hated he was something his father couldn't understand.
"Sam said you've been like this for years."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, close to three now."
From the look that passed over John's face, Dean knew John was thinking back three years, to every moment he had spent with Dean and dissecting each for any sign that this was what had become of his son.
"What else did Sam tell you?" Dean asked, unable to stand the silent scrutiny any longer.
"Pathetic little," John groused, and Dean smiled faintly, despite himself.
"It was practically impossible to get any real answers out of him. Anything I said turned into him yelling at me. Honestly, he was too livid to talk to."
Dean looked up at that.
John shook his head. "Sam's always been a pit bull, but I've never seen him so aggressive toward protecting you." That, of course, had always been Dean's job when it came to Sam.
But Dean had a vague idea of what John meant. He'd noticed a change in his younger brother, too. When Sam found out Dean was a lycanthrope, after the shock passed, he was curious first, then accepting and adjusting, then he bled into staunchly protective. He made the keeping of Dean's secret come before all else (except, apparently, Dean's very life). Sam would give up ground on a hunt (to Dean's annoyance) if it was the only way to safeguard the secret of Dean's lycanthropy. Sam had taken it upon himself to be the guardian of Dean's secret, and Dean let him because there were just some things not worth fighting about when it came to Sam… Dad was right. Sam could be a pit bull.
It was a little irritating sometimes, but more than anything Dean found it reassuring. It hadn't been a mistake letting Sam find out. Sam didn't see him as any less of his brother for what he had become.
"Well," Dean said slowly, "Sam knows this is something that could get me killed." At that, Dean looked up pointedly at his father. It was then he noticed the bruise blooming on John's jaw. Dean narrowed his eyes, "Did Sam hit you?!"
John touched the bruise on his jaw and smirked. "Boy packs a wallop, I'll give him that."
"Sam just said you two argued…" Dean said lamely. He'd have to ask Sam later how 'argue' led to 'decking Dad'.
John lowered his hand and canted his head slightly. His voice dropped and that platoon commander turned father was back. "How did you let this happen?"
Dean stiffened. "I didn't have much choice," Dean almost whispered. "The alternative was death." Dean wouldn't elaborate unless Dad ordered him to. He couldn't make his father understand Skye. He would never understand Dean loving her, despite knowing what she was. It had been natural with Sam. Sam was a softie like that… he'd forgive just about anything if the rationale was rooted in love. It was sappy as hell, but it was true, and it was why Dean told Sam about Skye.
John Winchester wouldn't understand. He wouldn't think of Skye as a person, and therefore he had no right to know about her. Dean would protect her memory, the last precious thing of hers he had.
John sat very still and very quiet, processing that information. His son had opted for lycanthropy as an alternative to dying. Whether that was the right move or not took time for John to consider.
Finally, John gave a grave, if not reluctant, nod. "And in three years… you never found anything to undo this?"
The thought had never even crossed Dean's mind. So he could honestly answer, "No." Hadn't found it because he hadn't looked for it. Never wanted to.
Another in a long list of things he could not tell his father.
John mulled that over. "You should have come to me, Dean."
"Dad?" Dean asked, confused.
"It's going to be okay, son."
Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Uh… it is?"
John stood and began to pace the room. "Yes. I get it… this condition you have is rare. Not really surprising that in three years you couldn't find a cure. But I know a lot of people in the business. A lot more than you do. Give me some time, and I can probably track down an expert in anything and everything you can imagine. One of them might know of a way to get this out of you."
'But it is me!' Dean wanted to scream. The wolf wasn't an inflamed appendix that could be removed with a scalpel. Instead of trying to explain that to his father, Dean ducked his head and felt the hurt twisting him inside.
John was running under his own unstoppable power now. He had a plan of action, purpose, a goal, and his weapons were locked on target.
John moved toward Dean, coming closer than he had since the doorway. "It's going to be okay, Dean. I'm going to take care of this." John put a hand on his son's shoulder.
It felt so heavy. His father was dead set on tearing the wolf out of him. He wouldn't rest until he'd found a way to put Dean back the way he was before.
Dean didn't want to go back to that. He was the wolf. It was him, and Skye, and oneness and belonging to the world in a way Dean had never belonged anywhere before.
He was happy as he was.
But his father hadn't even touched him until he was confident Dean could be 'fixed'. If Dean even tried to tell John that he wanted to stay the way he was, a walker of two worlds…
John would disown him.
Dean had no delusions about how that would go. He'd seen John do it to Sam. The screaming match had been horrific. The words flung cut to the bone. Even now, years later, the ghost of what they had said to each other still haunted every moment John and Sam were in the same room together. They were never the same since then and never would be. John told Sam to leave and never come back; walk out the door and don't expect to be let back in. And really, Sam never had gone back and Dad made good on his threat. Sam turned his back on John's closed door and went to Dean's doorstep instead. The one door that was never locked.
Unless Dean wanted to have that door slammed in his face too, to be a misunderstood thing to his father, he would have to give up freedom. Joy. Peace. The legacy of Skye.
"Sure, Dad," Dean croaked. He'd had three years knowing what it meant to be content down to his soul. If not happy in having everything he could ever want, then at peace knowing he had found his place in the universe. That was three more than he'd ever expected in the first place. He'd have to learn to accept that.
Because he knew somehow, someway, his father would find a way to remove the wolf. John Winchester was nothing if not relentless. A lifetime hunting a demon to repay it for one fiery night was proof enough of that.
The motel room door lock turned and Dean looked up as Sam came into the room laden with fast food bags. He was already edgy; he had to have seen John's truck in the lot.
Sam's eyes shot darkly to John.
Before another fight could break down, Dean said, "Sam… it's all right."
Sam looked quickly down at Dean. He was trying to read his brother's face.
John made the next move. He stepped toward Sam. "Sam… don't worry about your disrespectful tone with me before. I understand now. I want you to know I'm proud of you."
Sam blinked, clearly shocked. "What?"
"You've been looking out for your brother, even through this," John motioned vaguely in Dean's direction. 'This', naturally, being the lycanthropy.
Sam gaped, looking between Dean and John. "Huh?"
Dean would have laughed if he didn't feel so broken.
John smirked. "I can't imagine it's been easy. But you should have come to me. Both of you. I take care of you boys, that's my job. And I'm going to take care of this, I promise."
Sam cast Dean a faint 'what the hell is he talking about?' look. Dean just shook his head. 'Don't,' he begged with his eyes.
Sam clamped his mouth shut and turned his attention back to his father.
John was moving for the door. "I better get going. I have some calls to make, old friends to visit, favors to call in. I'll be in touch; I'll let you know as soon as I have something. You boys watch out for each other." At the open door, John paused and looked at Sam, "Oh, and Sam? Next time you hit me, I'm hitting back."
Sam stiffened angrily and set his jaw in defiance.
John matched him, ire for ire, before he closed the door and was gone.
Sam turned to his brother, expression completely baffled. "What was that?"
Dean sighed. "Dad and his idea of helping."
Sam frowned. "What did you tell him, Dean?"
"The truth."
Sam didn't say anything for a moment, then he ventured, "And?"
Dean snorted. "And what do you think?"
Sam's face fell and his shifted uneasily a second. With a sigh, he approached the nightstand between the two beds and put down the food. He sat down wearily on his own bed and looked sympathetically at Dean. "What was all that talk about 'take care of this'?"
Dean dug into one of the bags and pulled out a greasy burger. "He thinks this is something that can be cured."
Sam became indignant, "Did you tell him-"
"No. And I'm not going to. And you better not, either."
"But-"
"I mean it, Sam. Not a word to Dad."
Sam blinked at him. "So if he comes walking through that door, or one just like it, two, three months from now with a cure-"
"He won't. Because there isn't one." Dean even sounded convincing to himself.
Sam paused and thought a second. "Did you tell him that?"
Dean shook his head. "Let him chase the idea. As long as he thinks he can 'cure' me, he doesn't hate me."
Sam scowled and clenched his jaw. Finally, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. I know what that's like."
Dean shrugged. Bitch of it was, Sam did know. Dean idly entertained the idea of naming his wolf 'Stanford', just for the poetic irony of it. Why did it seem so impossible to please their father?
He unwrapped the burger in his hand, but wasn't really hungry anymore. He looked up at Sam and asked, "So what's this about you hitting Dad?"
Sam smirked. "He had it coming."
Dean laughed. "Sammy… you've got brass ones, I'll grant you. Hitting Dad? I wouldn't."
Sam smiled. "You should… feels pretty good."
Dean threw his pillow at his brother. "That is just so wrong, dude."
Sam chuckled and reached into the sack for his own burger. After a couple of bites, he asked, "So… what are we going to do about Dad?"
Dean swallowed. "Nothing."
"You sure?"
Dean nodded. It was time to hunker down and brace for the storm. If he had his way, Sam would have them stand defiant in the gales, screaming rebellion, but Dean had seen the kind of hell that brought upon the family. He didn't want to be the reason his family began yelling at one another. He'd seen all the fighting and head-butting he could stomach watching Sam and John go at it for years.
Dean wouldn't invite that again. Once in a lifetime was enough.
He'd just have to hope it was a long, long time before John came across a way to rip the wolf from him. After all, a lot could happen between now and then.
Sixteen