My heart bleeded, girl

Part 2

Year Twelve

Dean is so excited John almost changes his mind. He doesn't want to, they need to get this done, but he has to reel Dean in, or this hunt is gonna be over before it ever gets started.

"Dean, you need to calm the fuck down right now," John says. His voice is barely over a whisper, but Dean recognizes the tone of command and swallows hard.

"Yes, sir," he says. He stills himself, takes a couple of deep breaths and shakes his head slowly. He looks over at John and smiles a little, looking embarrassed. "Sorry."

John nods. In the back seat, Sammy stirs in his sleep.

It's not like this is Dean's first hunt. John has no idea what has him all fired up for this one. For all John knows, Dean's figuring on using the nighttime excursion as an excuse for not passing a history test or something. He'd wonder what Dean thinks he's going to tell his teacher except that he doesn't really give a fuck. He just wants Dean to focus.

"Okay, now, look, the full moon's gonna make it as easy for him to see us as it is for us to see him," John says, pulling the car onto the shoulder of the road. "So remember what we talked about."

The highway is deserted, and John eases the car between two trees that have gone rogue from the rest of the forest and are situated close to the road. "Dean."

Dean nods. "Yes, sir. We circle around behind it, make sure we stay upwind until we get close."

John nods back, satisfied. Their eyes meet, and John sees his perfect soldier looking back at him, focused at last. Dean looks determined and alert, and the small twitch at the side of his mouth is the only thing giving away how excited he is.

Leaning back over the seat, John nudges Sam's shoulder. "Sammy. Hey, Sammy, wake up." Sam opens his eyes and blinks up at his father.

"We here?" He sits up, peering out of the car at the dark woods. He frowns, looking doubtful.

John knows Sam's not afraid, at least not for himself. He worries about Dean getting hurt, worries that John will lead them into danger, and Sam will be left alone. John would be insulted if he didn’t know how easy it is to fuck up out here.

"Lock the doors and stay down, out of sight," John instructs. It's not like Sammy doesn't know this part, but John has to say it anyway. "I don't care what you hear, your ass stays in this car. We won't be gone long. Show me your gun."

Sammy reaches under the seat and pulls out John's second best handgun, the Beretta he's had since Caleb gave it to him ten years ago when he first showed up at his place, desperate for any help he could get.

Sammy checks it without being asked, says, "Two silver bullets."

"Okay. That's for just in case. Don't shoot your brother and me when we come back to the car." Sam scowls but doesn't say I'm not an idiot, which are the words that are clearly on the tip of his tongue. Thereby proving that no, in this instance anyway, he's not an idiot.

Dean and John get out of the car, and John listens as Sam locks the doors. He shoulders his crossbow, and they set off into the woods.

John's been teaching the boys how to move quietly in the woods for what seems like most of their lives. He and Dean move almost silently through the trees. They stop every few minutes, looking for tracks, listening for any sound that they shouldn't be hearing.

This can't be a normal werewolf they're hunting. Its behavior is too erratic and unpredictable, and for some reason, it's chosen to hole up in the woods. But there's a full moon tonight and erratic or not, it's still a werewolf. It won't be able to resist the smell of humans.

And then John hears the snap of a twig and the movement of branches in the dark. They're deep enough into the woods that the moon can barely penetrate the clearing where they find the hairy-ass son of a bitch just standing there, waiting for them.

John nudges Dean with his elbow, and when Dean turns his head, John wordlessly offers him the crossbow. Dean's eyes widen in the dim light, and John nods impatiently. Dean takes the crossbow almost reverently, and John pulls his gun out of the back of his waistband. He motions toward himself and then in a circle to the left.

Dean nods, and John slowly, stealthily moves sideways, away from Dean. He sees Dean raise the crossbow and take careful aim, just the way John taught him.

The werewolf hears John moving, and his head turns sharply in John's direction. Now, Dean, John thinks. Now would be good.

He hears the noise of the bow, and a split second later he sees the werewolf drop on the spot. Dean starts forward, and John gestures at him to wait. John approaches the pile of dirty rags on the forest floor slowly, carefully, but there's no movement, no sign of life.

Kicking the creature, he turns it flat on its back and squats down beside it to have a closer look. The silver-tipped arrow is embedded in its chest, straight and true. John looks up at Dean and nods.

Dean comes forward, and John straightens up and pats him once on the shoulder. Dean looks at John for permission and then tugs the arrow out of the body. It's harder than it looks, John knows this from experience, and Dean frowns a little as he uses both hands to pull it free of the dead thing on the ground.

Together they douse the werewolf with lighter fluid. John lets Dean do the honors with the matches. He pretty much ends up setting the whole book on fire, but John doesn't say anything. It works, and it's the kid's first big kill. He lets him have his moment.

They stand and watch it burn, the firelight reflected in Dean's eyes like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Dean loves to burn things, and John has no idea what that says about his son's psyche. Fire is how Dean lost his mother, how he lost his home and his childhood, but John got him and Sammy out before he actually saw his mother burning on the ceiling. Maybe that makes it okay.

John makes sure there's not anything left of the werewolf before they kick dirt over the ashes. As they head back to the car, Dean practically bounces at John's side. John gets it, he's familiar with the exhilaration Dean's feeling. Putting his hand on Dean's shoulder again, he presses down gently.

"Cool it, kid," he says, not unkindly. "We're still in the middle of the woods, and there's no guarantee we're alone. Don't get cocky."

"Yes, sir," Dean replies, and he manages to dial it down at least a notch or two.

When they get back to the car, Sammy is watching for them. The relief on his face punches John in the gut, but he still growls, "I thought I told you to stay down," when Sam unlocks the car door for them.

"I heard you coming," Sam says, his voice wavering, and John doesn't have the heart to give him any more shit about it.

"Follow orders next time," is all he says. Dean tosses the crossbow in the trunk and then gets himself buckled into the passenger seat. John's not sure why he's bothering to ride shotgun, he's going to be twisted around in his seat the whole way back to the motel, telling his brother all about the hunt, every detail of it.

Dean's trying to play it cool, like the whole thing was no big deal, and Sammy is too, trying to act unimpressed while his big brother tells him all about the werewolf he shot through the heart with unerring accuracy.

But neither one of them can keep up the façade for long, and John has to hide a smile at both Dean's enthusiasm and Sammy's hero worship. Sam may get pissy about their day-to-day lives and how much he hates the drudgery of hunting – he actually used that word the other day, drudgery, as if he were talking about doing the laundry or something equally mundane – but he admires the hell out of Dean and has a hard time hiding it.

John's just glad the hunt went as smoothly as it did. Dean got some experience, nobody got hurt, and Sammy got a reminder that it's not all drudgery, at least not when seen through his brother's eyes.

John watches the road disappear under them, right hand on the wheel, as he drives them back to the motel. His left hand fidgets on his thigh, his thumb working his wedding band around and around his finger.



Year Thirteen

John doesn't think he can remember a hotter summer. Indiana isn't really his favorite place in the world to begin with. It's hot, it's flat, and both the summers and the winters are brutal in their own way.

He and the boys are holed up for the summer in what is essentially an old barn, complete with outhouse. At some point someone added a shower stall outside, and there's an actual water pump in the yard.

There's something about showering outside that the boys think is the coolest thing ever, so John's not too worried about the accommodations. It's a good enough place to spend the summer.

The boys are shooting in the field next to the barn. They set up targets on hay bales that look as if they were baled several decades ago. Dean threw them down out of the hayloft and dragged them into the field, where Sammy drew targets on old newspaper and fastened them to the bales with pins.

There's no phone service here, although they do have electricity. Sammy had been very persuasive when he'd seen where they were going to be living, and he'd finally convinced John to get a cell phone. They managed to find one that wasn't as big as John's head, and John has to admit that Sam had been right. It's weird to be able to call people from anywhere he happens to be standing, but it sure is convenient.

"What'll they think of next?" John says, and Dean grins wide while Sammy rolls his eyes.

John leans in the open doorway of the barn and watches the boys as he calls Ellen Harvelle. He likes to keep in touch, check in with her every month or so. He'd never say it out loud where she could hear him, because she'd kick his ass, but he needs to make sure things are going okay for her and Jo. She forgave him a long time ago for what happened to Bill, but that doesn't mean John forgave himself.

"Hey, Ellen, it's John Winchester."

"Hey, John. How's things, sweetie?" Ellen never asks him where he is. "Boys doing okay?"

"Yeah, they're fine. Listen, I thought I'd let you know I got a cell phone, give you the number."

There's silence, then a soft chuckle. "A cell phone, huh?
Why, John Winchester, look at you. You joined the twentieth century almost in time for it to end."

"Sammy talked me into it. Kid was right, it's a handy thing to have."

There's another pause, then, "Listen, John, are you looking for something to do? 'Cause I got a case here seems right up your alley, if you're interested. Over in Ohio, towards Cleveland."

"Where and what is it?" John asks, already calculating the distance between here and Cleveland in his head.

"Seems like a vengeful spirit of some sort," Ellen says.

"Hang on, let me get something to write with," John says, ducking back into the barn.

Ellen tells him about something that's killing librarians in Cleveland, and John nods, writing it all down. "Okay, got it. Thanks, Ellen, I'll go check it out."

He hesitates. Ellen wouldn't be giving him information about a hunt and teasing him about his cell phone unless everything was okay, so it's best not to ask. It gets her a little touchy when he does that.

Instead he says, "How's Jo?"

"Trouble. That girl's gonna be the death of me yet. Twelve years old and already playing poker with the assholes who come in here. Got quite a lot of money in her college fund already." Ellen snorts. "Not that she wants to go to college, the little shit."

John laughs. "Give her a hug for me, and tell her to stay out of trouble."

"Hell of a lot of good it'll do me," Ellen says.

Later, after the boys have come back from the field, both of them claiming victory - Dean by reason of his superior skill and Sammy by reason of Dean being a dirty cheater, John tells them he's heading out for a couple of days.

"Some kind of spirit in Ohio. Killing librarians in Cleveland. Probably won't take me more than a couple of days." He'd take them with him but he wants to keep their claim on the barn for a while longer. He likes living here.

That thought surprises him. John doesn't give much thought to where they're living most of the time. Some places are nicer than others, some places are a real pain in the ass to deal with. Motels, trailers, abandoned barns, rundown houses, hell, even a tent in the woods, it's all the same to him.

None of those places will ever be home, so what does it matter? As long as they have the car, they have a home base.

"Oh, no, dork - librarians. That's right up your alley," Dean snickers, ruffling Sam's hair as he moves behind him, shotgun cradled in his right arm.

Sam bats at Dean. "Quit it, asshole."

"Knock it off," John growls. "Get those guns cleaned. Take care of your weapons…"

"…and they'll take care of you," Sam mutters. His shotgun is already on the old table shoved against the wall of the barn.

Goddamn smartass kid. Goddamn hormones. John wonders when he'll ever be free of hormones. "Sam! You want to clean all the weapons, whether they need it or not?" He glares at Sam, and Sam glares right back.

When Sam drops his eyes, John won't admit it out loud, but he's relieved Sam's not going to make an issue out of this. It's not like there's an actual issue for them to butt heads about in the first place.

Sometimes John thinks Sam argues with him for the sheer sport of it.

"No, sir," Sam says, and John can see the effort it costs him to give in, even a little bit. He shakes his head. He's proud of the kid, but, damn. A little less adolescent angst around here would be a helluva good thing.

John spends the evening watching the boys. There's not much to do at night in an abandoned barn out in the middle of nowhere, but after some (a lot) of initial bitching about no TV from Dean, they manage. There's light, and there's a battery-powered radio, and Sammy can read the stash of books he drags around with him. Dean tinkers and fiddles with an old broken Walkman and any other electronic crap he can find, and after a full day of training in the hot sun, they all tend to hit the literal hay pretty early.

John leaves at sunrise the next morning, Dean up to see him off. He knows Dean wants to come, but he doesn't argue, just nods and says, "Yes, sir," when John tells him not this time.

"It's a ghost of some sort. I can handle it. I know you'd have my back, but I need you here to make sure Sammy's safe."

"I will," Dean says.

Three days later John's back home, swearing the whole way at the goddamn holiday traffic. He hadn't even thought about it being the Fourth of July when he hit the road.

The barn is still standing, his children are alive and in one piece, no one is missing an eye or anything, so John can't figure out what the air of suppressed excitement emanating from Sam is all about.

Dean has an awesome poker face with everyone except his father, and Sammy still lets his annoyance show when he's trying not to give anything away. It gets him in trouble every time. This isn't annoyance, though, and the way Sam is acting reminds John of when the boys were younger, when John wasn't the worst father in the history of the world by Sam's standards. When Sam looked up to him, and they actually had fun once in a while. When moving was an adventure, not a perceived punishment.

Except whatever it is definitely doesn't involve John in any way. Sam keeps shooting looks at Dean, his eyes sparkling with suppressed glee.

But John doesn't figure out what they've been up to until he sees the field furthest out away from the barn. It looks like someone set fire to it, and he can only imagine what might or might not still be standing if it hadn't obviously been raining for the past day.

No one offers any information, and John doesn't ask. He finds the opportunity to poke around the blackened field, though, and he finds the remnants of fireworks.

Dean's doing, no doubt.

He spends a long time debating with himself about what he should do, whether he should say anything, but in the end he lets it go.

He's enjoying the smiles on his sons' faces too much to do anything else. It never would have happened if he had been here, but he decides to give them this one.



Year Fourteen

Fall finds them still in Indiana, but on the move again. John leaves the boys at a school named after a President – Truman, he thinks. He's only going to be gone a couple of weeks, so he sets them up in a motel at the edge of town.

"Dean, I know you're eighteen," John says as they check the trunk, making sure everything is in its place before he takes off. "But there are still rules."

"I know, Dad," Dean says, and he sounds content, happy even. Dean's a good kid, doesn't make a big deal out of stuff, just does what he's expected to do. What he's told. Dean does his job.

Sammy, on the other hand, seems to be put out about the fact that it's only November, and they're on their third school already. And it's not like John doesn't care, except that, honestly, he really doesn't. What the hell does it matter where they go to school?

They go, they learn to read and write and how to use a library, and then they graduate, and the Winchesters keep killing every evil son of a bitch out there that needs killing. Eventually, they'll find the thing that killed Mary. John can't see beyond that. He hasn't seen the point for a very long time.

None of the rest of it matters, and he's tired of hearing Sam bitch about it. It'll do him and John both good to spend a couple of weeks in separate states.

And it'll do Dean good, too, not to be caught in the middle. John isn't stupid. He's well aware of Dean's self-appointed role as family peacemaker.

"If we're just going to be here a couple of weeks, and you're going somewhere without us, I don't understand why we couldn’t have stayed where we were," Sam says, watching from the motel room door as Dean helps John unload their crap from the car.

"Sammy," Dean begins, his tone placating.

"It's Sam," the sullen fourteen-year old in the doorway says. "My name is Sam. I'm not a little kid."

"If you don't want to be called by a little kid's name, then quit acting like a little kid," John says. He sees Dean's shoulders tense up out of the corner of his eye. Tossing his duffel in the trunk on top of the stash of holy water and the first aid kit, John turns to glare at his youngest. "Knock it off with the attitude, Sam," he says. For Dean's sake, he refrains from calling the little punk "Sammy."

Without waiting for a response, because in spite of what his son thinks, he knows how to pick his battles, John turns to Dean. "Two weeks. You have the cell phone I got you. Only call if there's real trouble."

Dean nods to all of this, looking serious. Sam just looks mutinous and bored at the same time. It's a real talent.

"Get your backpacks, I'll drop you off at school on my way out of town. And watch what you say to people, the both of you."

Sammy grunts what could be "goodbye" as he slips out of the car at the school and slams the door, looking small and vulnerable under the weight of a backpack that's almost bigger than he is.

As Dean slides out of the passenger seat, John says, "Look after Sammy, Dean."

Dean closes the door with a little more care than Sam and sticks his head back in the open window. "You know I will, Dad." He hesitates and then says, "Be careful," as he pulls his head out of the car.

John watches them in the rearview mirror as he drives away. Sammy hasn't had much of a growth spurt yet, although John still thinks he's going to end up being taller than his brother, and won't Dean just love that. They walk up the steps of the school together, elbows bumping companionably.

John feels the usual combination of pride and fear that grabs him every time he leaves them.

It's a seven-hour drive from Sioux City, Indiana to Buffalo, New York. The job Bobby Singer filled him in on is in Ohio, but there are a few things in John's storage unit in Buffalo that he needs in order to do it properly. He also has another curse box to add to the collection he has stored there. It contains a rabbit's foot that apparently bestows good luck on the owner until they inevitably lose it, at which point they die.

John shakes his head at the kind of shit people insist on making. The foot will be safe in the storage unit, tucked away where no one can get to it and inadvertently win a million dollars and the girl of their dreams before they end up falling under a bus.

John pulls into the parking lot of Castle Storage and digs in his duffel for the key that opens the unit belonging to "Edgar Cayce."

He disarms the booby traps he set the last time he was here and sets the curse box down on the shelf with the others. Singer does nice work, John has to give him credit.

The storage unit is an odd conglomeration of things John's picked up along the way; the curse boxes, old artifacts, a few ancient texts he really ought to take to Bobby, and leftover crap from a life lived raising two sons on the road.

He hasn't been here in a couple of years, and as he tosses his duffel on the dirty floor, he looks around.

There's dust everywhere, which is a pretty convenient method of being able to tell if the place has been disturbed. Nothing looks out of place, and the amount of dust on everything looks fairly even.

John rummages around in his bag and digs out the soccer trophy Sam won a couple of years ago. They'd actually been able to stay in one place long enough for him to play on a team, and he was so goddamned proud of this trophy.

It seemed to represent something very important to Sam. John guesses it's the fact that he fit in somewhere, even if it was only for a short time. That desire to fit in is something John lost a long time ago. He can't think of anything less important, but he knows his life is very different from Sam's, even if they live them side-by-side.

John stares at the trophy; cheap, shiny plastic with the words District Soccer Champions, 1995 engraved on a small plaque screwed onto the side. They'd fought about it, him and Sam. John thought Sam could find about a hundred better uses for his time, but Sam was damned determined.

Dean had finally convinced John that all the running involved in the game was good training for Sam. John thought about Mary, could picture them together, watching Sammy play soccer, watching Dean do whatever he would have wanted to do if John hadn't turned him into a soldier by the time he hit the third grade.

They'd have been a family. The pain of that loss is still as solid in his belly as it's ever been. It's not as sharp now; it's been dulled and honed into something unyielding, something to be reckoned with.

John dashes a hand across his eyes and puts the trophy on a shelf next to Dean's first sawed-off shotgun. He'd made it himself, when he was around twelve.

At this moment, John has no idea which object means more, the trophy or the shotgun. One is emblematic of what they lost, the other of what they are now.

John grabs a couple of dusty old books from his collection as payment to Bobby for making the curse box. He sets up another trap in the entrance, a simple gun and trip-wire.

With a last glance around, he leaves, locking the door behind him.

He takes care of the job in Ohio, a nasty son of a bitch who'd been fond of killing prostitutes when he was alive and just kept right on doing it after he died.

Dean sounds relieved when John calls to tell him he's on his way back. He'd think about letting them stay a while longer, but he needs to get to Minnesota to see Jim. The boys have been to the school in Blue Earth before, and they can go there again.

Both boys seem subdued when he picks them up at the high school in Sioux City. Sam's his usual sullen self, although he seems truly worried about leaving someone behind. John overhears him talking to Dean about a kid named Barry while they're packing up the motel room.

Dean's pretty quiet, too, and John wonders what his problem is. What the hell could have happened in two weeks' time?

But he doesn't ask, and it seems as if Dean is steeling himself for a conversation he thinks his father isn't going to want to have.

They're still a day's drive away from Jim's when Dean finally brings up what's been eating him.

"Hey, Dad, I was thinking." He fidgets in the passenger seat, fingers restless on his thighs, knee bouncing. John watches as Dean makes himself relax. He can practically see the breathing exercises as they happen.

"Yeah? About what?" John has no idea where this is going. It's Dean. It could be going anywhere.

"I think I'm done with high school. I could take a test, get a G.E.D. when we get to Pastor Jim's." He sends a quick glance at John to see how he's taking this. John keeps his face expressionless, waiting for whatever else Dean might have to say.

After a moment or two of silence, Dean says, "So, what do you think? I could be doing other things with my time. Helping you, stuff like that."

He's right, John thinks. Dean's never been the world's best student, although he's a hell of a good pupil when it comes to the things he wants to learn. When it comes to the things John can teach him.

"You sure that's what you want? You don't want to walk down an aisle, wearing a cap and gown, waving a diploma around?" John's voice is light, almost teasing. He thinks it's a fine idea, but he wants Dean to be sure.

"Fuck, no," Dean says vehemently, and again John wonders what the hell went down while they were in Indiana. But he knows he won't get anything out of Dean just by looking at the set of his mouth, and if Dean won't tell John, then it doesn't have anything to do with the supernatural.

It's not really important, then, and John lets it go.

"Fine, if that's what you want," John says. He hears Sam snort from the back seat.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, and there's something in his voice that makes Sam do just that.



Year Fifteen

They've been in Colorado Springs for about a month, while John spends hours either on the phone with Bobby, Caleb and Jim, or at various libraries, doing research. The boys have been spending the time training. All in all, it's not been a bad place to spend the spring.

Things have been quiet for several weeks on the supernatural activity front, and John finds himself longing for the peace and quiet of hunting a pack of rabid werewolves. Or maybe a pissed off banshee, or a bored and mischievous poltergeist.

Any one of those things would be easier than dealing with a fifteen-year old Sam.

Even Dean has been coming under fire, and he walks around with a look of long-suffering resignation on his face. It takes a lot for Sam to reach Dean's breaking point, but he's been pushing buttons John didn't even know Dean had these past few months.

Sam seems hell-bent on making fifteen harder than it needs to be, which is really saying something, because as John remembers it, fifteen sucks.

Go to hell is in every glare Sam levels at John, except for when it's replaced by fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

John's had just about enough.

"Sam, goddammit, I’m not going to tell you again. I don't give a fuck what you did in gym class today, get your ass out there and run like I told you to. Three miles," he says through gritted teeth, then adds at Sam's glare, "Unless you'd like to go for five."

"Come on, Sammy, let's go," Dean says, using that coaxing tone of voice that makes John want to clock them both. It shouldn't be this hard to get Sam to go for a simple run. It shouldn't involve so much drama.

"Fuck off, Dean," Sam spits. "And my name is Sam."

John stands up, the newspapers he's been frantically searching for any hint of a case forgotten on the couch.

"Your name's gonna be mud if you don't move it," he threatens, and silently apologizes to his own father for pulling this same kind of crap when he was fifteen.

"Dad, we're going," Dean says, tugging on his brother's arm to get him moving.

If looks could kill, all three of them would be dead in the resultant explosion, John thinks, as he returns Sam's glare.

In the end, the boys do their run, Dean naturally accompanying Sam on the extra mile John tacked on for attitude. By the time Sam's done with adolescence, he's going to be able to run a marathon with no problem.

Taking advantage of the blessed silence and lack of teenage hormones polluting the apartment they've been living in for way too long, he calls Bobby to see if he knows of a case anywhere.

He and Sam need a break from each other. He's sure Dean would appreciate a temporary cessation of hostilities, too.

"There's been a couple'a suspicious deaths in Lincoln, Nebraska," Bobby tells him. John can almost hear him shrug over the phone. "Could be a wendigo, maybe a pissed off ghost." He sounds pretty doubtful that's it anything supernatural, but John doesn't care. He's desperate.

"I'll take it."

When the boys come in, sweaty and out of breath, Sam's laughing at whatever Dean's saying. Judging by the expression on Dean's face, it has to do with a girl. John's surprised that Sammy's laughing. He's usually a real prude when it comes to girls, which of course only makes Dean talk about them more.

John can only hope that at least half of the shit Dean slings on the subject isn't true.

He tells them he'll be leaving in the morning. The set of Sam's shoulders gives away his relief and John thinks, Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.

Dean wants to know all about where he's going, what he's hunting, and John has to embellish some details to make it sound like it's anything even interesting, let alone supernatural.

They spend the evening in what passes for harmony these days. John even orders pizza in some weird attempt to recreate the days when they were a real team, the days before Sam decided John was the biggest asshole on the planet.

If the weight he feels lifting off his shoulders as he drives away the next morning comes with a side of guilt, well, that's the way it goes.

Turns out there actually is a case in Nebraska. A wraith has been terrorizing the good people of a small neighborhood on the outskirts of North Platte, freaking them completely out and then feeding off of them.

John decides he could use some help, so he calls Daniel Elkins. Manning isn't that far away from North Platte and Daniel shows up the next day.

It takes them almost a week to find it and kill it, and if Daniel hadn't been there to pull his ass out of the fire, John would probably be dead. It wouldn't be the first time Daniel's saved John's bacon.

"So," John says over a bottle of Jack in his motel room after Daniel's shoved John's shoulder back into place. "Any word on the Colt?"

John's heard stories of a gun that can kill anything, even demons, and those same stories say Daniel Elkins knows all about it. They say Samuel Colt made this gun, and John wants it.

Daniel isn't any more forthcoming on the subject than he ever is, but John ends up learning some new things about vampire lore, so he counts it as a win.

In the morning, he slaps Elkins on the shoulder and drives back to Colorado.

Where he finds an absolutely frantic Dean.

"Dad, oh, shit, Dad," is all he manages when he sees John. John doesn't think he's ever seen Dean this terrified, not even when he was fourteen and a rawhead had him cornered, right before John killed it.

He's almost in shock, pale and speechless.

"What's wrong?" John growls, grabbing Dean's shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Dean! Where's Sam?"

Dean just stares at him wide-eyed, and John has to swallow down bile as his stomach lurches in fear.

"What happened? What did you do?" He's in Dean's face, hands fisted in the front of Dean's shirt, needing answers right fucking now.

"He's gone," Dean says hoarsely, and John has no goddamn idea what he means by that.

"What the hell do you mean, he's gone?" He shakes Dean again and then slams him into the wall. "Answer me, goddamn it! What do you mean?"

Dean's face is white as a sheet, and somewhere under his fear and anger John knows he should be concerned about his eldest son, but in the moment all he knows is that something has happened to Sam, and that's all he's can think about.

"He left. He ran away," Dean whispers, swallowing hard.

John is stunned into silence. Of all the terrible things he was imagining, this is so far from what he expected that he's having trouble processing it.

"He was pissed," Dean continues when John doesn't say anything. "He left me a note. A fucking note." And beneath the fear, John hears the bitter anger.

John slowly lets go of Dean's shirt, releases his son from his grip, but he doesn't take his eyes off Dean's face. "When did he leave? Where did you look for him? Why aren't you out looking for him right the fuck now?"

"Five days ago. I've been looking everywhere, Dad, but I can't find him." The desperation in Dean's voice grates.

John knows he should offer some comfort to Dean, assure him it's not his fault that his hardheaded brother decided to up the already high level of family drama. He should reassure Dean that they'll find Sammy, that they'll bring him home safe and sound. Dean doesn’t even have a car, and John wonders how the hell he's been searching for Sam.

But he can't. He can barely hear what Dean's saying through the white noise of rage roaring in his head. Sammy is gone, in God only knows what kind of danger, and it happened on Dean's watch.

"One job," John says, his voice deadly. "You have one job, and you can't manage to do it. Keep your brother safe, Dean, it's all I ask from you. How fucking stupid are you that you can't even do that one simple thing?"

Something is screaming in John's head, telling him to shut the fuck up right now. He knows he's going to regret this, but he can't stop, can't take it back.

Dean looks like John hit him, flinching back as if he'd been slapped. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, closing his eyes. He slides down the wall, landing on his ass, legs sprawled out in front of him.

John leaves him there, walks away and just leaves him sitting there on the kitchen floor.

It doesn't take John long to figure out that Sam probably went south. If he hitchhiked along the major highways, he could easily have gone to Flagstaff. Sam was always trying to get John to stop at the Grand Canyon whenever they were in Arizona, as if they had time to sightsee like they were tourists. As if they were on vacation like normal people.

He folds his map and goes back to the kitchen, but Dean's not there. John's fists clench, and he stands in the middle of the kitchen and yells his son's name.

"Dean! Where the fuck are you? Goddammit, answer me!"

Dean appears in the doorway, silent and pale.

"Pack your shit. We're heading out," John says, not looking at his son.

Dean slips away without a word, and ten minutes later both his and Sam's stuff is in the car. John looks around the apartment one last time to make sure they aren't leaving anything behind. It's too bad, he would like to have stayed here longer.

It takes ten hours to drive from Colorado Springs to Flagstaff. They stop once for gas and once to eat.

Neither one of them says a word the whole way.

It's another three days before they find Sam. John knows exactly the kind of places Sam would stay in, and sure enough, they finally find him squatting in an abandoned trailer, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and a Golden Retriever.

Sam's always wanted a dog. John had never considered saying yes.

John doesn't have any idea what to do with Sam now that he's found him. Sam seems happy enough to see them, says he's fine, hasn't run into any problems. He doesn't seem to be sorry at all.

He seems more upset at the prospect of leaving the damn dog than he does at the situation he finds himself in, which is that he ran away from his brother, and his father wants to strangle him.

John knows he and Sam both have a lot of work to do to make things up to Dean. What Sam did is almost unforgiveable, although all Dean did when he saw Sam was to grab him into a hug so tight Sam's face turned red, and then refuse to speak to him for the next two days.

John wasn't wrong in the things he said to Dean, but he wasn't right, either. If Sam was determined to go, there probably wasn't much Dean could have done to stop him.

Sam hadn’t taken a lot with him when he left, and John still has no idea what the hell he was thinking, but it doesn't take long to get his stuff in the car.

Sam's already in the back seat, and Dean reaches for the passenger side door. John hesitates, then says, "I'm gonna catch some z's. You want to drive for awhile?"

Dean looks at him for a long moment and then nods. John tosses him the keys as they pass each other going around the car.

It’s the best he can do, and it's going to have to be good enough for now.



Year Sixteen

"I don't know, Sammy. I'm not sure it's possible for you to be any more of a geek." Dean reaches out as he passes Sam, sitting at the kitchen table with what looks to be about twenty books spread out in front of him, and scatters the stack of papers he's been hunched over for the past hour.

"Quit it, asshole," Sam snarls, slapping at Dean and missing as Dean dances out of the way. "You're such a jerk, Dean."

John doesn't look up from his journal, just keeps making notes on the Devil's Gate in New Jersey he and Travis closed two days ago.

He'd been surprised when he got back to the boys and found that they thought he'd gone missing.

"Five days, Dad," Dean says. "It was five days after you said you'd be back, and you didn't call, or answer your phone." He doesn't sound accusing, he just sounds relieved.

John shrugs. "Shit happens, Dean, you know that." He studies Dean's face, sees the fear Dean is trying unsuccessfully to hide. "I should have called. I will next time."

Sam had just snorted.

"How do you ever expect to get laid, Sammy, with your nose in a book all the time?" Dean says. John recognizes Dean's I'm bored so I might as well annoy Sam voice.

"Maybe I don't want to sleep with every girl I meet, like you do, Dean, did you ever think of that? Maybe I'm not a man-whore." Sam sounds pretty sure of himself, but John can hear the mortification under the bravado. Sam stacks his papers neatly in front of him, hitting the edge of them on the table about a dozen times. It's a nervous tell of his. John's been watching him do it for years.

Dean grabs a beer out of the refrigerator. "Then you’re an even bigger freak than I thought," Dean says, grinning at his brother, letting the "man-whore" remark slide right off. The tips of Sam's ears are red, and that's John's cue to step in.

He slaps his journal down on the coffee table loud enough to make both boys jump.

"Dean, that's enough. Stop being an asshole. Did you clean the weapons like I told you to?" He uses his best drill sergeant voice, which never fails to gets Dean's immediate attention. Some days John swears Dean got stuck at age twelve, developmentally.

"Yes sir," Dean answers. John sees Sam smirk out of the corner of his eye and sends him a glare. Sam subsides back into his never-ending homework vortex, looking sullen. John doesn't really blame him, though. Dean can try the patience of a saint some days, and god knows neither John nor Sam is very saint-like.

"Okay, Travis is coming over tonight before he heads out. I want you boys on your best behavior." Seriously, he's been saying the same things to them for over fifteen years. Sometimes he feels like a broken record.

"Yes sir," Dean says again. Sam doesn't answer, but his nose is buried in his math book, so John lets it go.

"So, Sam, you're a Mathelete," Travis says a few hours and as many beers later.

Dean grins, and Sam turns red, looking as if he wishes the couch would swallow him whole, like he wants to just disappear into its depths and never come back out.

"Your dad mentioned it," Travis says, looking over at John, amusement on his face.

Sam and Dean both stare at Travis, then at John, then back at Travis again. It irritates the hell out of John. They act like he's never uttered a word of praise about either of them to another person in their lives.

"Whatever," he says gruffly. "I'm heading out again tomorrow." He puts up a hand to stall Dean's inevitable protest and request to go along. "I know, but I want you here with Sammy." He looks his son in the eye. "There'll be plenty of hunts, Dean. The world isn't going to run out of monsters."

John sees a tiny flicker of rebellion in Dean's eyes, and then he nods curtly at his father. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'm heading to Bobby's, won't be gone more than a week." He hauls himself up off the chair and gets two more beers from the fridge. He pauses, shrugs, and gets a third one out for Dean. Won't hurt to remind the kid that when he behaves like an adult, he gets treated like one.

He doesn't mention that there's no hunt. Bobby Singer called a while back and said he's got some information John needs to know, and he refused to talk about it over the phone. This is the first chance John's had to go see him without the boys.

John hopes it's about the thing that killed Mary.

He gets a lot more than he bargained for.

"John, the demon that killed Mary. It's more powerful than your ordinary, garden-variety demon. I don't know what it wants, but it's got a plan." Bobby throws back a mouthful of whiskey, and it doesn't escape John's notice that he's not looking at him. "There's something else you should know."

John waits, his own glass held tightly in his fist.

"It's got something to do with Sam."

Fear grips John, tightens his throat, makes his tongue thick. His worst fear is being confirmed.

"What?"

"I don't know what the demon wants, but the son of a bitch's got yellow eyes. Yellow, not black, not red. I ain't never seen that before, and I don't know of any other demon that's got that color eyes."

John stares at him blankly for a moment, then snaps, "I don't give a fuck what color his goddamned eyes are! What the hell does it have to do with Sam?"

"Hey, don't yell at me. I'm don’t make this stuff up for my own amusement, you know. But you'd better get on to Elkins again, see if he's any closer to finding that damn Colt." Bobby's watching him now, looking concerned.

"You know that son of a bitch won't tell me," John growls. "But you didn't answer my question, Singer." John makes his voice as menacing as he can. "What about Sam?"

Bobby looks down at the piles of notes and books and dusty old journals spread out on his desk. He puts his glass down, folds his hands, and looks straight at John.

"That yellow-eyed son of a bitch mighta done something to him that night. Something that'll maybe give him…" He trails off, looks down at his desk again. "Might be something dark. Powers." There's an even longer pause, as if Bobby is steeling himself. Then, "Has he ever manifested –"

And John's heard just about enough. The roaring in his ears keeps him from hearing the rest of Bobby's question, which is probably the only reason Bobby is still alive right now.

He won't apologize for that.

He's not even aware of getting to his feet, of the weight of his knife in his hand, but then Bobby knocks some sense back into him with the barrel of his shotgun right to the middle of John's chest.

"I just thought you should know what I found. If you're gonna shoot the messenger, then get the hell out of my house." John's heard that voice from Bobby before, but it's never been directed at him.

He knows better than to ignore it.

"If you say a word, tell a soul –" John doesn't even know how to finish that sentence. He gathers up his things, keeping one eye on the business end of Bobby's shotgun, and makes it out the front door, backing towards the Impala.

"You can go straight to hell if you think I'd tell anyone anything about this, Winchester. Now get the hell offa my property and don't come back, you hear me?"

Goddamn son of a bitch, John thinks as he peels out of Bobby's salvage yard, gravel flying from under the Impala's wheels. Bobby's always been a friend, and John is grateful for the information, but there was no way he was going to sit there and listen to the implications of what Bobby had to say.

He's fucking terrified, and he has no idea what the hell to do now.

John shakes his head ruefully as he barrels down the highway, back to his boys. Chalk another one up, add Bobby Singer to the list of hunters he's had a falling out with.

It's getting to be a long damn list, and he has a feeling it's only going to get longer before this is over. And that's fine. Word travels among hunters, and if anyone got even a whiff of there being something strange about one of John Winchester's boys, there'd be hell to pay.

He won't let this touch Sammy.


Part 4