We Will Organize Our Children - Part 2

[withdiamonds]

Part 1

Year Six

Six years. It's been six years to the day since Mary was killed. It seems like a lifetime ago. John almost can't remember what it was like when he had more than memories, when the warm, sweet smell of his Mary was more than something he can only have when he dreams.

It actually was a lifetime ago – Sammy's lifetime. Sammy has no recollection of his mother at all. Sometimes John envies him for that. He didn't know Mary, so he can't feel any grief over her loss. He talks about her without pain.

He'll occasionally ask why the other kids at school have mommies and he doesn't, but because he never knew her, Sam has no idea of the magnitude of what he's missing.

Dean, now. Dean knows. Dean knows what they lost that night in the fire.

"Goddammit," John growls. "Goddamn piece of shit furnace." He bangs a big-ass wrench futilely on the old furnace, which doesn't do much more than wheeze in response. "Fuck!"

John may or may not be three sheets to the wind, but he knows his boys have to stay warm, and he knows it's fucking cold in Montana at night in November, so he has to fix this fucking furnace right fucking now.

There's a part of his brain, the part that's not numbed by a combination of grief and Jack Daniels, that's trying to tell him he might have better luck fixing the furnace when he's not hammered. He tells that part to go fuck itself and tips the bottle up one more time, draining the last of the whiskey.

He hears footsteps on the basement stairs and tenses up, ready for either fight or flight. God alone knows what could be down here. The house is old and falling down around them, but with old shirts stuffed in the gaps around the windows, he hopes they can weather the winter here.

If he can fix the fucking furnace.

He sways as he hefts the wrench, holding it at shoulder level, poised and ready for whatever is heading down the stairs.

"Dad?" Dean's head appears around the corner at the bottom of the steps. "Are you okay? Sammy heard a noise."

John lets out a breath and drops the hand holding the wrench. "Goddammit, Dean!"

Dean stops, looking from John's face to the wrench in his hand. He looks wary but not afraid.

"Fucking furnace," John mumbles as he sways on his feet again. He feels light-headed, and he lets Dean take the wrench out of his hand and put it carefully on the floor near the furnace.

"It's okay, Dad. Sammy just heard a noise down here. I knew you were fixing the furnace." Dean places a hand on John's arm and tugs him towards the stairs.

John jerks his arm out of Dean's grasp. "It's cold," he says, and the feeling of failure is overwhelming. He couldn't save Mary, and now he can't even take care of her sons.

"It's okay, Dad. Me and Sammy got out the sleeping bags. It's pretty warm in the bedroom." Dean tentatively reaches out to take John's arm again. "Let's go to bed. We can fix the furnace in the morning."

He tugs once more, and this time John lets himself be led up the stairs. He stumbles a few times and lets Dean support more of his weight than he should. Dean doesn't let him fall, though, and John is grateful.

He knows he'll be ashamed in the morning, ashamed that he allowed his ten-year old son put him to bed, but the knowledge is distant and unimportant. Right now he lets Dean settle him under the sleeping bag that's spread on top of his bed, lets Dean pull off his boots and roll him onto his side.

The room spins as John closes his eyes, and he hangs onto the bed, riding it until it stops moving. He dozes, then passes out, sleeping fitfully. Every time he shifts his position, he sees Dean huddled in his own sleeping bag, sound asleep in the threadbare armchair that he's pulled into the doorway of John's bedroom from the living room.

Mary, John thinks as he loses consciousness again. I’m sorry.

John wakes up to the sun stabbing his eyeballs with laser beams of fire, and he clutches at his head. Looking around, he sees that the armchair is no longer in the bedroom doorway and he smells the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

God, he wants to stay here all day, stay here and wallow for his dead wife and for the life he's forcing her boys to live. But the boys are out there, waiting for him to wake up, to get up and reassure them that it was only this one night, this one night when everything closed in on him to the point where he had to escape it.

Disappearing into a bottle of Jack once a year is a less than healthy way to deal, but at least he doesn't do it every night. John knows some hunters, he knows men he served with in Viet Nam, who need the anesthesia of alcohol every damn day.

John has to be stronger than that. He has Sammy and Dean, and he has vengeance to keep him focused.

Dragging himself out of bed, John pushes aside the sleeping bag that's doing its best to suffocate him. It's warmer this morning than it was last night, but he knows he has to get the furnace in working order. He can't subject his boys to a Montana winter without proper heat.

Staggering into the bathroom, John studies himself in the mirror. It's not a pretty sight. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles, pasty color, rough stubble. Pissing, he debates throwing up and decides it's a bad idea. He splashes water on his face instead.

The smell of coffee and bacon draws John to the kitchen, where he finds the boys parked at the table, Dean with a battered Superman comic book John knows for a fact that he's already read a million times, and Sammy with a pad of paper and a pencil, practicing writing his name.

They both look up at him with identical expressions of sympathy, and it almost sends him to his knees. He's their father, their teacher, the person who's going to keep them safe at any cost, but on this one day a year, he's a man who lets grief and anger and loss overwhelm him, take all control away from him, and turn him into someone his children have to care for and be wary of.

Somehow, he doesn't think Mary would be impressed by the way he honors her memory, and he resolves to do better next year.

It's the same promise he makes to himself every November. He has yet to keep it.



Year Seven

John watches his boys chase each other around the motel pool, running barefoot on the hot concrete. He tries to ignore the fact that the water is a shade of green it probably shouldn't be and is also a little more opaque than he'd like. The usual smell of swimming pool chlorine is noticeable only by its absence.

Dean is sturdy and strong, his lean muscles working hard as he runs after Sammy. Sam screeches as Dean reaches out, plants a hand between his shoulder blades, and shoves.

Sammy's arms windmill as he goes flying into the pool. He comes up sputtering and spitting and again, John tries to keep his mind away from bacteria. It's good for the boys to rough it, and a little dirty water isn't going to kill them.

He hopes.

"Dean, you jerk!" Sammy yells as he scrambles up the ladder and out of the pool. He resumes pursuit of his brother as if the game hadn't been interrupted by his detour into the pool.

"Try and catch me, you little dweeb," Dean laughs, and to John's surprise, Sammy manages to do just that. The look of shock on Dean's face as Sammy tackles him and they both fall into the pool is priceless.

John turns his attention back to his journal, trying to get the details of the wendigo he killed two days ago as precise as he can. The sun beats down on the top of his head, and he thinks for a moment about joining the boys in the pool. Mississippi in July is a bitch.

But he needs to get this down while it's all still fresh in his mind. And then he needs to figure out where they're going to go next, or if they can stay here for another few days.

He'd like to stay. There're some woods nearby, and a dusty, deserted road alongside the motel. If the questionable bacteria level of the pool doesn't bother the boys, he'd like to do a bit of training. He wants to work on their physical stamina and the current heat wave is just the thing, while having the pool ready and waiting for them afterwards is ideal.

John lets his mind wander to the nurse he'd met in Minnesota, which has been happening more often than he's comfortable with lately. It's the heat of summer, he knows, slowing the world down. He thinks about Kate, about what it would be like to have a place to go back to when this is all over.

He knows other hunters who stay in one spot. Jim Murphy, Caleb, Bobby, they have homes; some of them even have families.

Bill Harvelle had a family.

There are other hunters more like John, who keep traveling. People like Travis, or Creevey and his RV, who are always on the move.

Restless.

And they're not the kind of hunters John is ever going to expose his boys to.

But John can't imagine staying in one place. He knows that's hard on the boys, especially now that they're in school. Sammy in particular fights it, always wants to stay wherever they are, no matter where it is or what it's like.

But John can't do it. He needs to keep moving. He feels like he's two steps behind the thing that killed Mary, and if he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, someday, maybe someday soon, he'll be two steps ahead.

Kate had provided a warm smile and a warm bed, and for just a moment, John had been tempted. They've exchanged the occasional phone call since he left, but he doesn't honestly think he'll ever go back.

Sammy's shriek of protest makes John look up from his nearly finished sketch of the wendigo. Dean has his brother in a headlock and is apparently attempting to drown him. But Sammy's quick and clever and slippery, and John feels a clench of satisfaction when Sam escapes with a twist and a well-placed elbow to Dean's head.

Dean's none too pleased by that. John shuts his journal and tucks it away in his jacket pocket, which he leaves draped over the back of his chair. No way is his journal getting anywhere near the pool. He stands up and puts two fingers to his lips, gives a piercing whistle. They boys stop what they're doing quickly enough at the signal that John doesn't bitch at them, considering they were half underwater when he whistled.

"Yes, sir," Dean says, bobbing in the pool and sending a glare at Sammy.

John waits for Sammy to catch his breath so he can add, "Yes, sir?"

"Time to get out of the water. Come on, lunchtime. Then I have some training drills I want you boys to do."

Dean looks happy enough at the thought of food that the idea of training doesn't seem to faze him in the least, but John hears a suppressed groan from Sammy.

John's not stupid, he knows Sammy is only seven years old and has no idea why they do what they do. He doesn't know why they move around so much, or what John does when he goes away for days at a time, when he leaves them alone with Dean in charge. He doesn't know why John drops them off to spend time with Jim or Caleb or Bobby.

And he sure as hell doesn't know why every once in a while his father wants him and his brother to run sprints down a deserted road or around a motel parking lot, or practice wrestling sticks away from each other.

There's no way John wants him to know, either. Dean knows John will kick his ass if he tells Sammy, and Dean seems to want to protect Sam from the knowledge as much as John does.

There are things John suspects about the night Mary died, things involving Sammy, that scare the shit out of him, but the longer his baby can stay innocent, the happier John will be.

So he and Dean operate in a constant state of conspiracy to keep Sammy in the dark for as long as they can.

That doesn't mean John can't make a game of training and teaching them how to survive, how to hunt. Dean's already got impressive skills with a gun, and while Sammy's shown no interest there, John's sure he won’t want to be outshone by his big brother forever.

The three of them troop back to their room. The air conditioner immediately raises goose bumps on the boys' wet skin, and John throws them a couple of towels from the bathroom. "Okay, go get your sneakers on. Leave your shorts on, they'll dry after we've been in the sun for awhile."

After a quick lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, wolfed down at the table by the pool and washed down with canned lemonade, they're ready to go.

They cross the motel parking lot and walk a ways down the dirt road, raising clouds of dust in their wake. John draws a line across the road with the toe of his boot and tells them to wait there. He walks another hundred yards and draws another line.

"Ready, set, go!" he hollers, and they take off in a flail of limbs and dirt. Of course Dean wins, but Sammy's used to that, and while Dean may be pleased with himself, he doesn't gloat. John nods down the road toward the first line. "Back you go." The boys run back down the road, Sammy a little closer to Dean this time.

John has mixed feelings about setting them against each other. On the one hand, he wants the boys to do their best every time, and he thinks the competition is good for them. But if Dean always wins, just because he's older and bigger, Sam's going to stop trying, and John doesn't want that.

He knows Dean lets Sammy win once in a while, and he figures as long as it's not too often, he'll let it happen. Someday Sammy's going to surpass his brother in height, John can see it in the shape of his feet and the length of his fingers. Dean won't be holding back then, John knows.

"Again," he calls. And "again."

Dean's face is red and shiny with sweat before John declares it enough. Sammy's breathing hard, but he's young enough that running is still pure joy and energy. "Okay," John says, pointing to the woods across the road. "Now, head on in there, and pay special attention to the trees. First one to bring me a leaf from five different kinds of trees gets to cool off in the pool." Sammy's eyes get wide. He knows what John's not saying. The loser has to stay hot and sweaty, watching his brother enjoy the water.

The boys take off running again. John trusts they won't go far enough into the woods to get lost. There are about ten different kinds of trees that he can see from here. They'll be fine.

He can hear them calling to each other, not in order to cooperate, but just to keep track of each other. Sometimes John sets them tasks that require them to work together to succeed, sometimes he encourages them to compete.

It only takes Dean ten minutes to emerge triumphantly from the woods and cross the road back to his father, waving a handful of leaves over his head like a conquering hero. He hands them to John and waits while John checks them out.

"Do you know what you've got here, Dean?" John asks.

Dean carefully studies the leaves in his hand. "This one's an oak leaf," he says slowly. "And maple?"

John nods. "Right. And this is from a hickory tree, and this one's an elm leaf, and here's a cypress."

Sammy comes puffing up to them, looking disappointed and frustrated. He's got four leaves clutched in his hand, and he thrusts them at his father. "Here."

John's eyes narrow at the attitude, and Sammy amends, "Here's my leaves, Dad." John nods in approval, and Sam looks a little less sullen.

"Let's see what you've got. Hmm, hickory, oak, maple, elm, same as Dean. But look here, Sammy, Dean found a cypress leaf." John makes himself sound impressed, and both boys smile widely.

They're covered in dirt, with that sweaty crease around the front of their necks that all boys seem to acquire every time they leave the house. The three of them cross the road back to the motel, and at John's nod, Dean toes off his shoes, gives a loud whoop and cannonballs into the pool.

Cool water hits the concrete around the pool and immediately starts to evaporate in the mid-afternoon sun. Sammy seems to wilt at John's side as he watches his brother horse around. He takes his sneakers off, probably just in case John changes his mind, but doesn't say anything.

John sweeps Sammy up in his arms without warning and tosses him into the pool. The water closes over his shocked face, and he comes up grinning and spluttering.

John grins back. His boys did good today. He sits down at the rusty metal table under the wobbly umbrella and starts to think about maybe having pizza for supper.

Two weeks later John drives to Jackson to check the PO box he's got set up there. He finds a letter from Kate, a letter that tells him he has another son.

He finds a bench to sit on and doesn't move for an hour.

She says they're fine without him. She says that he has important work to do, and he should do it. She promises to let him know if they're ever in real trouble. She wishes him well.

John doesn't know if that makes it easier or harder for him to stay away from Minnesota.



Year Eight

John grits his teeth as another wave of nausea hits. He swallows and takes a deep breath and swallows again, waiting for it to pass.

His right hand grips the wheel as the road curves more sharply than he'd expected, his left hand useless in his lap. He's right on the edge of driving too fast to be able to control the car with one hand, but he's so close now he can't slow down. If he slows down he'll never get there, and he has to get there.

He holds onto that thought - he has to get there. He has to get to Bobby Singer's house before he passes out from blood loss or pain or whatever the fuck is making him so goddamn light-headed.

He's on the deserted roads of rural South Dakota, with two terrified boys in the back seat, and he has to get to Bobby's.

He should have let Dean ride up front the way he wanted to. John can't remember why he didn't let him. Something about blood, or maybe not wanting Dean to realize what bad shape John was really in.

But now he could use some support, maybe some help holding the wheel steady, or something. Shaking his head to clear it only makes things worse. There's fog creeping in around the edges of his vision, and it's all he can do to keep his focus on the road ahead of him.

When this is over, he's going to teach Dean how to drive, even if he is only twelve.

The boys are whispering in the back seat, Dean reassuring Sammy that everything is going to be fine. John has no idea what story Dean is telling Sam about what happened while John was out on a "business call."

There's not a shred of doubt in Dean's voice as he talks to Sam, John can hear that even with the state he's in. He knows every nuance of Dean's voice, and while Dean is scared, he's still got all the faith in the world in his old man's ability to get out of a tight situation.

It makes John feel like an asshole even as it gives him the strength he needs to go the last mile. The pain in his arm and shoulder is so bad by the time the car skids to a stop in Bobby's yard that John vomits as soon as he gets the car door open, narrowly missing his boots.

"Shit," he mumbles. He practically falls out of the car, but there are two sturdy arms to keep him from face-planting in his own puke.

"Come on, Dad, steady, it's okay," Dean says. "Sammy, go get Uncle Bobby. Now!"

John hears Sammy scurry off, setting Bobby's mongrel dogs to barking. He stumbles, and Dean's grip on his good arm tightens. "Easy, Dad."

Just as his vision grays out completely, Bobby is there. John sinks gratefully into oblivion as he hears Bobby say, "Dammit, John, now what have you gone and done to yourself?"

When John comes to, he's laid out his side on Bobby's lumpy couch. His eyes water from the years of dust that have settled over every surface in the house, and his nose itches from the countless piles of musty old books.

There's a hand holding a cool cloth on his head, and someone is shoving a red-hot poker into his left shoulder.

"Dad?"

"Son of a bitch," John says, and he tries to sit up and take a swing at whoever is trying to rip off his arm. It’s a pretty clumsy swing, and it glances off someone behind him.

"Goddammit, John, hold the hell still. Dean don't need no more bruises." It's Bobby, and he sounds pissed. The hand with the cool cloth disappears with a small ow.

"Shit," John mumbles. "What the fuck, Bobby?"

"You 'bout tore your arm clean off," Bobby says. Small hands hold John steady while the fog in his brain lifts some, and John realizes the red-hot poker is actually a needle. "Just puttin' a few stitches in. Stop wiggling around before I sew your shoulder to your ass."

John leans into Dean. He guesses he's lost even more blood than he'd known if he's weak enough to need Dean's support for a couple of stitches.

"Damn fool, driving in that condition. I'm surprised you didn't run yourself and those boys of yours right off the road. You got any idea a' how much blood you lost?" Bobby keeps up a running commentary while he works the needle in and out of John's skin.

After what feels like an hour, Bobby finishes taping down a dressing, and together he and Dean arrange John more comfortably on the couch. Dean pulls a ratty old blanket up to his chin, and Bobby presses a glass of some foul-tasting liquid to John's lips and tells him to drink it in a voice that brooks no argument. John does, and then exhaustion washes over him, and he closes his eyes.

The next time he wakes up, John feels sunlight on his face. It's pretty feeble, filtering through Bobby's dirty windows, but it's warm and almost cheerful enough to make opening his eyes worth the effort.

He has to piss, so he pushes himself up into a sitting position, remembering enough of what went on yesterday that he doesn't use his left arm to do it.

Fucking rawhead.

Rubbing his good arm over his face, John's trying to decide how likely he is to fall on his face if he tries to stand up, when he hears Dean's voice.

"Dad?"

"Dean? What are you doing down here?" The boys sleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms when they're at Bobby's, and it seems pretty early for Dean to be up.

"Just making sure you're okay," Dean answers. "Just felt like sleeping down here." He sounds unsure, like maybe John's going to be mad at him for worrying.

"You slept down here? All night?" John's bladder is not happy with the delay in getting to the bathroom, and he moves carefully to the edge of the couch.

"Yeah." Dean waits, but John doesn't really know what to say. He feels shitty enough that he's grateful for Dean's presence. For his care. That's what Winchesters do, they look out for each other, and Dean is a Winchester through and through.

"What about your brother?" John asks.

"He slept with Uncle Bobby." John bets Bobby enjoyed that. Dean hesitates. "I told Sam you fell down some stairs."

That's pretty unimaginative for Dean. John would have expected a better story than that. "Yeah? He buy it?"

"Yeah," Dean says. He shrugs. "I didn't want to make up anything too scary."

"Good thinking," John says. "Hey, Dean, give your old man a hand up, would you?"

Dean's face lights up at the fact that John needs him, but then he looks doubtful. "Why do you need to get up?" he asks.

"I need to piss, son, and the longer I sit here, the more likely it'll be that Bobby's couch will smell worse than it already does."

Dean makes a face at that. "Ew. Okay. Here, put your good hand on my shoulder, that should work."

Together they manage to get John into the bathroom. Dean looks doubtful again, and John has to admit he has a point. John feels like someone spent the night beating him with a tire iron, and his left shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch.

"Just get my belt buckle, would you, Dean? And maybe get the zipper started? I can take it from there."

Dean nods, all business, his face serious as he reaches for John's belt.

"Hey," John says, and Dean looks up. "Thanks, dude."

Dean smiles. "Sure, Dad."

The boys are happy to stay at Bobby's while John's arm heals up enough for him to drive. John's grateful for a few days' rest.

He wasn't kidding about teaching Dean to drive, either. Bobby's place is perfect for that. John considers using one of the many junkers sitting around, then decides if Dean needs to drive in an emergency, he might as well learn how in the Impala.

It's a big car for a twelve-year old to handle, but Dean's a fast learner, not to mention fucking thrilled at the whole idea.

It's probably a good thing that John's left arm is injured, because it makes it harder for him to just reach out and grab the wheel whenever Dean looks like he might drive them off into the cornfields.

"Turn left! No, your other left! The brake, Dean, hit the brake!"

Dean grins. His feet barely reach the pedals, even with the seat shoved forward as far as it will go.

"This is awesome, Dad!"

John guesses it is. He returns Dean's grin as they swerve down the road.

Bobby's place isn't exactly the Hilton, but its comfortable and familiar. On the fourth day, John pronounces his arm healed and says they'll be heading out in the morning, right after Bobby takes out his stitches.

Sammy's face falls, and Dean looks anxiously between his father and his brother. Bobby doesn't say much of anything, just sits back and watches.

"Dad," Dean says. He hesitates a minute, then looks up at John with determination. "Dad, can I talk to you in the other room?"

John feels a little irritated by all the mystery, but he follows Dean into Bobby's cluttered living room.

"What?"

He doesn't mean it to come out so brusquely, but really, his stitches itch, and Dean's playing games here.

"Could we stay another day?" Dean looks up at him pleadingly. "Bobby was going to go into town and get pizza and a cake tomorrow."

"What the hell do we need a cake fo –" John starts, and then it hits him. A cake. Of course. Tomorrow is Sammy's birthday.

John rubs a hand over his face. He's an idiot. "Sure we can, Dean." There's no way he's going to admit he'd forgotten Sam's birthday. He hadn't really been paying attention to the date, but that's no excuse, and he knows it.

"Do you think if Bobby lets you go into town with him, you can find a card or something for your brother?"

Dean grins happily. "Yeah, sure," he nods.

In the morning, Dean and Bobby head off in one of Bobby's beat up old cars, while John and Sammy hang out at the house. Sam's not pleased to be left behind at first, but John makes some sandwiches, fills their canteens with iced tea, and they sit at an old picnic table together, outside next to the Impala.

John listens while Sammy chatters about everything under the sun. The kid sure can talk. It's actually pretty impressive.

When Sam pauses to take a breath, John tells him a couple of stories about Mary. They don't talk about her often, because it seems to bother Dean, but John thinks Sam should know about his mother. So every once in a while, when Dean's not around, John talks to Sam, shares his memories about the mother Sammy'll never know.

"She was beautiful, Sam, and she loved to grow flowers. She had this garden, right outside the kitchen door." John smiles, thinking of how Mary's hair gleamed in the sunshine when she worked in her garden.

Sam nods, his eyes rapt. John imagines Sam feels left out sometimes, the way John and Dean each have things they remember about Mary, while Sam doesn't have anything but the things they tell him and a few faded photographs.

"She loved you very much, son." She died protecting you. Sam's not ready to hear that yet, so instead John tells him the story of the abandoned kitten Mary found in the alley two blocks down from their house, how she brought it home and nursed it back to health.

"She named it Mr. Socks," John says, rolling his eyes, and Sam laughs.

When Dean and Bobby get back, they sit around Bobby's kitchen table and eat pizza and birthday cake.

"Happy Birthday, Sammy," John says, ruffling Sam's hair.

"Thanks, Dad," Sam says.



Year Nine

John has no idea what Sammy thinks is living in his closet. It's one of those rare times when they're actually living in a house. It's even a house that isn't falling down around them, which John has to admit is nice for a change.

There was a guy who'd been pretty damn grateful when John got rid of the vengeful spirit wreaking havoc in the stairwell of his newly acquired apartment building, and he'd offered John the use of his second vacation home in Phoenix for the summer.

Never mind that Phoenix in the summer is hotter than hell, or that Sammy had been none too pleased at being dragged away from the summer soccer league he'd been hoping to play for in Nebraska.

It's a house, it's pretty damn nice, and it's free.

It's even air-conditioned, and there are enough bedrooms that the boys don't have to share. The way Dean's dealing with puberty puts John in mind of a bull in a china shop, and he would have thought Sammy would be grateful for the opportunity to escape from his brother and his raging hormones once in a while.

Sam apparently is grateful, at least at first, and there's relative peace and quiet after the boys go to bed at night.

Dean thinks he's too old to have a set "bedtime," and while John pretty much agrees, he's not about to slack off on the idea of having a regular routine. Routine is important; it's how you get things done, and it's how you know when something is out of the ordinary.

Something that might be a threat.

John puts up with the eye rolls when he sends Dean off to bed because he remembers being thirteen. Thirteen to fifteen is some rough going, but John knows when Dean comes out on the other side of all those hormones, he'll be a man John can count on and be proud of.

Around midnight, after he locks the doors and salts the windows and turns off the lights, John heads to bed himself. Poking his head into the boys' rooms to check on them, he realizes Sam's room is empty. He finds Sammy in bed with Dean, curled up sound asleep.

John shrugs. It doesn't matter to him if Sam wants to sleep with Dean, as long as Dean doesn’t care. He just doesn't want any fighting about it.

In the morning, though, that's exactly what he gets.

"Get off me, you dork," Dean yells. "Why are you in here? You have your own room, which should make you happy, since you're such a little girl."

"Shut up, jerk," Sammy says, giving Dean a shove just as John shows up in the doorway.

"Hey," he says sharply. "What the hell is going on in here?"

"Sammy keeps coming in my room," Dean says, as if the presence of his brother in his bedroom is a violation of some major international treaty. "The little dweeb is afraid to sleep alone," he adds, his voice rising in pitch. John isn’t sure if he's making fun of Sam, or if it's just the hormones fucking with his voice.

"You're such a jerk, Dean," Sammy yells. He obviously has no problem deciding that Dean is mocking him. "I hate you." Under all the righteous indignation, John can hear real fear.

"Sammy?" he says.

"It's nothing," Sammy mumbles, not looking at Dean. The tips of his ears are red.

"The little –" Dean starts.

"Dean, that's enough," John says mildly enough, but the warning is there. It's time for Dean to shut up, maybe take his newly acquired testosterone for a run. "Why don't you get in a couple of miles before breakfast." It's not a punishment, it's just to help him let off a little steam, and Dean takes it in the spirit in which it's meant.

"Sure," he says. "Gladly." He rummages around under his bed, emerging triumphantly with his sneakers, glaring at his brother.

"Sammy, let's you and me fix some breakfast," John suggests. Sam nods without saying another word and follows John into the kitchen.

They rub along together fairly comfortably, Sammy getting eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator, watching the toast while John scrambles the eggs, and pouring orange juice into three glasses while John gets down some plates.

John pours two cups of coffee, leaving plenty of room for milk in the cup he sets by Dean's plate. Dean's all about drinking coffee these days, now that he's all grown up. Sammy looks at the cup and rolls his eyes.

That's the opening John's been waiting for. "So, kiddo, spill. What's going on with you and your brother?"

"He's a je –"

"Besides the fact that he's a jerk," John interrupts. "I already got that part."

"Well, he is," Sam says. John just looks at him, and Sam sighs. "You're gonna think this is stupid." He shakes his head. "But there's something in my closet."

John waits for more, but no more seems to be forthcoming.

"I'd guess there's a lot of things in your closet, son," he says. "Your clothes, your shoes, couple of soccer balls." John winces slightly, not wanting to revisit that sore subject. "I'm not sure what you're getting at here, Sammy."

Sam is staring down at his plate. "Something scary. It makes noises at night. I look in there during the day, and I don't see anything. It's only at night," he adds defensively, like he doesn't think John will believe him. Like he expects John to call him a dweeb or a baby, too.

"What kind of noises?" is all John says. Sam looks up, surprised at being taken seriously.

"Scratching noises. Sometimes it thumps, and sometimes it sounds like it's whispering." Sam's watching John like he's still waiting to be accused of being a girl again.

John nods. "Okay. Wait here." John leaves the table and goes up to his bedroom, dragging the duffel bag of weapons out from under the bed. He sits and looks through the different guns for a minute before choosing a small sawed off shotgun. It's a lot like the one Dean made last year when he was in the sixth grade. John heads back to the kitchen to find Sammy still sitting at the table, staring at John's empty chair.

His eyes widen when he sees what's in John's hand. "Here. After breakfast I'll show you how to use it."

John has to hide a smile at the expression on Sam's face. He'd hoped handing Sammy a gun in such a matter-of-fact way would take his mind off whatever was in his closet, and it looks like it's working.

"A gun? You're giving me a gun?" Tentatively, Sam reaches out to touch the gun, looking uncertainly up at John.

John nods encouragement. "Yep. Keep it in your room, and if whatever's in your closet bothers you, blow its head off. If it has a head," he adds as an afterthought.

Sammy looks incredulous. "Dad, you're supposed to tell me there's nothing in my closet, and that there's no reason to be afraid!" He seems pretty indignant that John's not offering meaningless platitudes, but John supposes that's natural, since Sammy has no reason to think there's anything more scary in his closet than a spider or two.

He's going to have to tell him the truth sooner or later, John knows, but he wants to keep Sam innocent just a little bit longer. He's only nine years old, and while Dean's known more or less from the beginning, Dean also remembers the night his mother died.

Dean watched his father's evolution from grieving widower to a hunter determined to find and kill whatever murdered Mary. And they've both been complicit in protecting Sammy from that.

John's going to have to have a talk with Dean, though, find out why, instead of taking his brother seriously, he'd made fun of him. If anyone knows enough to be afraid of what's waiting in the dark, it's Dean.

But still, the day is coming when they're going to have to let Sammy in on the family secrets.

In the meantime, after breakfast he'll teach Sammy how to handle the shotgun, and then while Sam and Dean hang around outside before the heat becomes unbearable, John will check out Sammy's closet and get rid of whatever supernatural son of a bitch is lurking in there, trying to scare his son.



Year Ten

"Okay," Sammy says. His eyes are hooded, and John knows damn well that Sam doesn't believe a word John is saying. He feels the muscle in his jaw twitch – the one that he's taken to calling the Sam muscle.

Sam hasn't even thought about puberty yet, and John thinks he'll be lucky if he gets through the next few years without developing either TMJ or chronic headaches from all the jaw clenching he's already doing.

They have a different perspective on things, he and Sam.

John has no idea how Sammy figured out the hunting thing, but he did.

A few months ago, just before Christmas, John had been on a hunt, tracking a crocotta through Nebraska. The damn thing had been elusive as hell and John had been gone longer than he'd planned.

When he finally made it back to the boys, after taking the time to stop at a Walmart to pick up a few presents along the way, it was to find Sam giving him the cold shoulder.

At first John thought it was because he'd missed Christmas, and he figured he owed Sam for that, so he let Sam sulk and ignore him for a few days. He noticed the brass amulet Dean was wearing, and he was under no illusions about whom it had originally been meant as a present for.

That was fine, Sam was still a kid, and Christmas was still important to him. He was allowed to be pissed at his old man.

But finally John had enough of the attitude, and he and Sam had words. Somehow Sam had found out about hunting, and he accused John of lying to him his entire life, which, he wasn't wrong, but John doesn't know what Sam expects him to do about it now.

Dean swears he didn't tell him anything, or at least that he didn't volunteer the information. John believes that. But Sammy apparently figured something was up and managed to somehow coerce, or more likely, coax, the rest of it out of his brother.

In spite of all his bluster, Dean never can resist Sam when Sam really wants something.

So, Sammy is calling it lying. John calls it shielding him from certain disturbing information. They've been at an impasse since Christmastime.

And John is damned if he knows how Sammy can make him feel like such an asshole when he was only trying to protect him. Now he knows how Dean feels when Sam manipulates him into getting his way.

"Sammy," John says. "I'll be back in two days. I have to pick up some supplies in Saginaw." Sam's stony face gazes back at him.

"Okay," Sam says. John's actually impressed with how much scorn Sam can pack into that one word.

Dean's watching them quietly, his stance guarded as his eyes travel back and forth between his father and his brother. He looks anxious. John can't say as he blames him. Every time he and Sam butt heads, Dean seems to get caught in the middle. Or maybe he puts himself there, John isn't always sure.

Whichever it is, John doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything that disrupts the dynamic between what he hopes to someday be able to call a well-oiled fighting machine.

"Sam, just where exactly is it you think I'm going, if you don't think I'm going to get supplies?" John demands.

"I think you're going after some monster. I think you're going out to hunt something. Something that could hurt you, or follow you back here and hurt Dean and me." Sam doesn't blink, doesn't look away, just meets John's eyes and gives it to him straight. As annoying as that it, John has to admire it.

"No, I'm not." John holds up a hand to forestall Sam's protest. "Not this time. But the next time I do, I'll be sure and let you know." Part of John wants to blast Sam for his insolence, but the fair part of him knows he has no one to blame but himself. Sam never did take well to being lied to.

"I promise," John adds.

And that Sammy has to believe. John's never said that before and not meant it.

"Like you promised you'd be back in time for Christmas? Like you promised we could stay in Tulsa for the rest of the school year?" Now Sam's arms are folded across his chest, and his chin juts out defiantly.

John hears Dean sigh. "Sammy."

Okay, John always means his promises, but occasionally he's not always able to keep them. Trust Sammy not to cut him any slack on that.

He gives up. He doesn't have time for this. It's easier to leave than it is to keep arguing.

"I'll be back in two days. Dean, look after your brother." John slings his backpack over his shoulder, grabs his shotgun off the table, and walks out the door of their motel room.

Three days later, he walks back in. Or rather, he limps back in, his hat pulled down to hide the gash on his forehead.

It's not his fault there was a chupacabra outside of Saginaw. Damn thing was hanging around a petting zoo, taking a goat or two a night. There were kids around. He doesn't know what Sammy would have expected him to do.

Both boys are sitting on the bed, an enormous bag of potato chips between them. The TV is loud enough to explain why neither one of them heard the Impala pull up. She's not exactly a quiet car.

John slams the door behind him, and the boys look up at him guiltily. He takes a quick step into the room to dump his backpack on the bed and hears Dean gasp. He's up off the bed in two seconds.

"Dad? Are you all right? What happened?" Dean already has John's jacket halfway off, running his hands over John's shoulders, checking for injuries.

"I'm fine, Dean," John says, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, his left leg out in front of him. "Just a couple of scratches." He avoids even looking at Sammy. It was a hell of a drive back from Saginaw, and he really doesn't have the energy for a showdown with his ten-year old.

"Take your jeans off, Dad," Dean says. "Let me look at it." John feels a swell of pride when he looks at Dean's face. While it's obvious that John's not gravely injured, there's no trace of panic, no fear; just a determination to fix what needs to be fixed.

John stands up, finds himself wobbling just a little. There's a hand at the small of his back, steadying him. He looks down at Sam, and there's so much fear and anger in his face that John swallows. He nods his thanks, and Sammy nods back.

John slips his jeans down his legs and sits back down, Sam's hands still around his waist for support. Dean unties his boots and pulls them off, then studies the long tear that spirals from the middle of John's thigh to the back of his knee.

Standing up, Dean asks, "How's your head?" He pokes gently at the cut on John's forehead.

"It's good, just needs to be cleaned up a bit. The leg might need a stitch or two."

"Sammy, go get the first aid kit," Dean says, and Sam obeys without question.

Dean shows Sam how to clean the cut on John's head, shows him what to use and how to fix a couple of butterfly bandages across it, then leaves him to it.

When he's done, Sam watches Dean clean up the wound on John's leg, a mixture of fascination and revulsion on his face. John knows they're not done with this, and he's proven right once Dean's put a few stitches where the wound is deep, covering them up with a clean bandage.

"So, what was it?" There's accusation in Sam's voice, and betrayal, although the fear is gone.

"A chupacabra," John answers simply. He nods at his duffel. "There's a book in there, mentions them some. Bobby's got better books. You can read up on 'em next time we're there."

Sam looks thoughtful. "Okay." He deals better with things when he can read about them in books. Books seem to convince Sam that John's not just making shit up.

"Sammy, I didn't go after it. I mean, I did, but I didn't know it was there until I got to Saginaw and heard about it. I really did go for supplies." He watches Sam, gauging the expression on his face. It tells him nothing.

Dean watches them as if the outcome of this conversation is the most important thing in the world. Maybe it is.

"There were kids, Sammy. It was at a petting zoo, and there were kids, and it could have hurt them."

This is everything right here. Why he does what he does, and it's a plea for Sam's understanding.

Sam stares at him a moment longer, then shrugs. "I'm glad you're not hurt worse," he says.

John thinks that may be the best he can ask for.



Year Eleven

John's got PO boxes all over the country. He has people he stays in touch with, and each PO box brings news and information from different sources.

The one in Topeka almost always has a letter from Deacon in it. Deacon doesn't live anywhere near Kansas, but that's the address John gave him. It's not like Deacon doesn't know that John never stays in one place for very long.

The letter is as chatty as Deacon ever gets, which isn't much. He talks a bit about his wife, updates John on some of their old Marine buddies. Looks like Jack Green finally gave up on trying and drove his car off a bridge. The only thing surprising about it is that it took him so long. Patty Green's been grieving for the boy she knew before he went to Viet Nam for a long time now.

Deacon's wife just had another kid. That makes a grand total of five, which John can barely imagine.

That's five more souls in the world, John, than there would have been if you hadn't been there to save my life, Deacon writes.

They don't often talk about Nam, but it's there in their conversations anyway.

So is the usual invitation to stop by, come and see the kids, if ever there's a crazy ghost in Little Rock.

Thinking about Nam always puts him on edge, in a way monsters no longer do.

John flips through the rest of his mail while the boys are next door at the laundromat. They were more than overdue for clean clothes, and Sam and Dean have been at it for over an hour. John pushes open the door, the tinkling of the bell and the smell of detergent in the warm, damp air of the place all threatening to overload his senses for a minute.

He makes a face, and Dean looks up at him and grimaces his sympathy. "Last load's almost done, Dad."

Sammy pauses in his sock-matching to ask, "Anything good in the mail?"

Sam can be like a gossipy old woman sometimes, but John supposes it's because, as Sam never gets tired of reminding him, John always forces him to leave his friends right after he makes them. So Sammy likes to hear news about the people that are constants in his life, like Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer. Or Deacon. People that when Sam leaves them, he knows there's a chance he'll maybe see them again.

John joins Sam at the big table where he's working. He picks up a sock and begins searching for its mate.

"Deacon's wife had another baby. Little girl this time," John says.

Sam wrinkles his nose at that. "That's three girls to two boys." Sam doesn't mind girls, but he doesn't yet have the appreciation for them that his older brother does.

"You think they should have another boy?" John asks as he finally finds two socks that match and rolls them into a ball.

Sam shrugs. "I think six kids would be a lot of kids to have." His voice is wistful, like the idea of being surrounded by a houseful of siblings sounds like the best thing ever.

It probably does. Dean makes friends easily, but he also leaves them just as easily. He doesn't get attached to teachers or yearn to play team sports. He's only fifteen but he seems to have a girlfriend everywhere they go, cute little things that cling to his arm and smile up at him like they can't believe their luck. John doesn't remember girls being quite so…hot when he was fifteen. He remembers braces and pimples and awkward attempts at cleavage.

Dean's good at loving 'em and leaving 'em.

Sam, though, every friend Sam makes is for life in his mind. John wants to shout at him to get a clue, there is no forever in this life they lead, and there never will be. There's only blood and death and vengeance, and the sooner Sam realizes that, the better.

John looks at his son, pawing through a pile of grayish-white socks with holes at the heels, frowning in concentration at such a mundane task, and he feels guilty. It's an unaccustomed feeling these days. Life is what it is.

But his boys, his babies, aren't supposed to be living a life of blood and death and vengeance. They're supposed to be living the life Sam thinks is so important.

A life of permanence.

Sam looks up at John and grins in triumph at having matched up all the socks with no leftovers. His smile falters at whatever he sees in John's face, and John shakes himself out of it and smiles back.

"Deacon says they named her Jennifer." Sam smiles and nods his approval.

They make their way to Des Moines after John gets word of something he suspects is a rawhead holed up in a farmhouse. It's already taken two kids, and as they speed along the highway, Dean sprawled asleep in the backseat, Sam curled up in the passenger seat beside John with his eyelids drooping as he gazes out into the night, John vows there won't be a third.

There isn't, and when John gets back to their motel room, both boys look at him with pride as he tells them it's done. He spends some time discussing rawheads and how to kill the sons of bitches. Dean is fascinated, as always. Sam gives him the impression he'd rather be doing algebra homework, but when John quizzes him on the information, he's obviously been paying attention.

John frowns at him anyway. "This is important, Sammy."

"I know, Dad," Sam says, and John guesses he does.

It's September, and John thinks maybe they should stick around for a while. There's nowhere else he needs to be right now, and the boys might as well get a few weeks of school under their belts before there's another monster to see to someplace else.

John uses the time to do research, perusing the local library and picking up some extra cash working a few shifts at a small auto repair shop.

At some point during the last couple of years he'd finally given in and started filling out the credit card applications that sometimes show up in his PO boxes. He uses fake names, and after a while he can't remember why he was so reluctant to do it. It makes life on the road a hell of a lot easier.

By the second day of school, Dean has a girlfriend. She's a tiny thing, blonde and perky, and the top of her head barely reaches Dean's chin. John meets her because she and Dean are joined at the hip and apparently can't bear to spend any time apart.

She peers around at the house John's renting by the month, looking somewhat dubious at the beat up furniture that came with the place, until Dean tugs on her hand and says, "Wanna come see the back yard?"

Her smile brightens, and they spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in the old glider at the edge of the lawn, making out.

John thinks her name is Brandi with an "i," and he wonders if she dots that "i" with a heart. She goes home at five o'clock, declining his invitation to stay for supper. Dean grins at him after she leaves, his lips red and smeared with lip-gloss.

John shakes his head as he stirs orange cheese powder into the pot with the macaroni. "Watch those hot dogs," is all he says, pointing to the frying pan.

They see a lot of Brandi over the next two months. If she's not at their house, Dean is at hers. John has threatened Dean within an inch of his life about using condoms – his version of a safe sex talk – so he's not too worried about becoming a grandfather just yet.

Sam seems content at school, coming home and talking John's ear off about this kid or that, his awesome math teacher, the school play he might try out for.

The only thing that seems off is Sam's unexpected hostility toward Brandi. He usually ignores Dean's girlfriends, rolling his eyes and saying, "Gross," whenever Dean talks about what a ladies' man he is.

But Sammy really doesn't like Brandi, and John is just bored enough with all this domesticity that he tries to figure out why.

"C'mon, Dean," and it's almost a whine.

"I said no, and stop whining like a little bitch," Dean says, pushing Sammy out of the way as he tries to get to the front door.

Sammy plants his hands between Dean's shoulder blades and pushes back. Dean stumbles a bit before he catches himself, and he whirls on his brother, fists raised.

"You little jerk," he snarls. Sam just glares up at him, not backing down an inch.

"Hey," John says sharply. "Not in the house. If you're gonna fight, you can spar in the backyard. Do it right or don't waste the energy."

"I gotta go," Dean says, lowering his hands.

John considers making him stay, making him and Sam really do some sparring out back. But Sam's just pissed enough that it would get ugly, and that's not really the point of the physical training he wants the boys to do.

Sometimes when they're at each other's throats due to living on top of each other, a little hand-to-hand helps them blow off steam, but it doesn't feel like that would help much in this instance.

So he lets Dean go and watches Sam scowl after him. "Stupid Brandi," he mumbles as he flops down on the couch.

John knows better than to try a direct question. Sammy's the king of stonewalling, and John likes to think he's smart enough not to beat his head against a wall. He likes to think he's smarter than his youngest kid.

"I like her," John says offhandedly, casually flipping through the pages of his journal. He sits at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee and some notes Bobby Singer sent him about how to track demon activity. "She's kind of cute."

Sam stares at him like he's grown a couple of extra heads and for a moment, John wonders which way it's going to go. It hangs in the balance until Sam seems to decide he's pissed enough that even his father will make an acceptable audience for his grievances.

"She's always around! If she's not here, he's at her house. She doesn't even talk much, she just stares at him with that stupid expression, like Dean is God or something!" Sam sounds ten kinds of indignant, and John tries to hide his smile.

Sammy is jealous. He's used to being the main focus of Dean's attention. He's not used to sharing his brother quite this much.

John gets it, he really does, but it's not like Dean is doing anything wrong. Sam's just not quite there yet when it comes to girls.

He grabs his journal and gets up from the table. Motioning to Sam, he says, "Come on. I'll show you how to track a black dog."

Sam looks rebellious for a moment, but then his curiosity gets the better of him, and he follows John down the hall to the biggest bedroom, the one John claimed as his own.

The walls are papered with drawings and news articles and diagrams. John's been perfecting his system of laying out a case, clues and reports and pictures that to his eye, tell a clear story, once he gets them in the right order.

Then the pattern is obvious.

"Here, Sammy, pay attention. See if you can figure out where the most recent sighting was." John stands back and watches as Sam studies the wall.

He turns and looks at John with dawning comprehension. "Albuquerque? Are we leaving?"

Sammy is nothing if not direct. John nods. "I think so. Probably in a couple of days." He waits. This is usually the point when Sam gets pissed and starts listing all the reasons why he doesn't want to move again. "Maybe we'll go visit Deacon after that," John offers, hoping to forestall an argument.

But Sam just nods and turns back to the wall. "Cool," is all he says, as he stares at a drawing of an ugly-as-fuck dog, with blood-flecked black fur and drool dripping off its sharp canine teeth.

Dean's just as cool about leaving as Sam is. There's a part of John that's disturbed by how easily Dean's ready to go, as if he hadn't just spent the past two months doing a masterful impression of a man head over heels in love. He wonders about Dean's ability to connect with anyone besides his father and brother.

But mostly John's glad to see it. This life certainly doesn't lend itself to long-lasting relationships, so it's just as well if Dean doesn't form them.

Besides, the kid's only fifteen. It's not like he and Brandi with an "i" were a love story for the ages, anyway.


Part 3