We Will Organize Our Children - Part 4

[withdiamonds]

Part 3

Year Seventeen

"What do you think, Dad?" Sam's voice cracks on the last word and he scowls. Dean shifts restlessly against Sam, and his breath catches on a groan. As John watches in the rearview mirror, Sam's scowl disappears, replaced by a look of alarm. "Hospital?"

John shakes his head. As far as he can tell, Dean has a dislocated shoulder and probably a mild concussion. There's a lot of blood, but scalp wounds always bleed enough that they seem worse than they really are.

It's unfortunate that most of that blood is all over Sam. Sam's stoic as hell when he's the one who's injured, but when it comes to Dean or John getting hurt, Sam has a tendency to freak out.

"Dad –"

"Don't look at the damn blood, Sam," John says sharply. "It's a head wound, it's gonna bleed." He makes an effort to soften his voice. "Just keep his shoulder and arm from moving around too much."

Just as he says that, the Impala hits a bump and Dean lets out another groan, something he'd never do over something as minor as a dislocated shoulder if he didn't have a head injury, too. John tightens his hands on the wheel and drives, ignoring the reproachful look Sam sends him from the back seat.

Reaching the trailer they're calling home this month, John pulls the Impala to a stop. Together he and Sam manhandle Dean as gently as they can out of the car and up the two steps into the trailer. Sam keeps Dean's arm immobilized at his side, and John makes sure Dean stays upright.

"Put him here, on the couch," John says, and they lower Dean into a sitting position. He immediately starts to tip over to the side. "Dammit, Sam, hold him."

Sam tightens his lips, but doesn't say anything. John goes to the back bedroom and comes out with the duffel bag that serves as their first aid kit.

"Okay, first I'm going to put his shoulder back," he says to Sam. No point in saying it to Dean, who's more out of it than John's really comfortable with. "Keep him still."

This should get Dean's attention and wake him up. Then John can better evaluate his head wound.

With an ease born of too much practice, John positions Dean against his chest, Sam on his other side, and gives a sharp shove, pushing Dean's dislocated shoulder back where it belongs.

Dean gives a yelp, sounding more surprised than anything, and he stares at his father indignantly, if a bit fuzzily. Even though there's nothing funny about the situation, John gives him a grim smile.

"You with me, son?" John asks. "Dean, hey, you hear me?" He digs around in the duffel and finds a black cotton sling that's seen a hell of a lot of wear over the years. They've made good use of it since they first got it when…John can't really remember who was the first of them to dislocate a shoulder, but suffice it to say, the sling's been used a lot.

"Don't needa damn sling," Dean says woozily. "Slings're for wusses. Slings're for Sammy," and he giggles as he tilts to the side. If John didn't know any better, he'd have sworn Dean was as high as a kite.

But John hasn't given him any pain pills at all, not with a concussion. So it must be the hit on the head that's making Dean revert to age twelve. John sighs.

"Sam, help me get him undressed. We're going to have to take shifts, keep him awake and check his pupils every hour." John shuts up. Sam knows the drill as well as John does.

"Yes, sir," Sam says. Sam has two modes whenever Dean is hurt. He either follows every order without question, or he lashes out and fights John every step of the way. It all depends on if he blames John for the injury or not.

Apparently the sins of the ghost of a child molester who was killing his former victims aren't going to be laid at John's door by his youngest son.

How nice. It makes John feel all warm and fuzzy inside, really.

Working together, which they do very well when they allow themselves to, John and Sam strip Dean down to his t-shirt and boxers and arrange the sling to keep his arm and shoulder nicely tucked into place. They get him settled on the twin bed in the small bedroom where Sam's been sleeping, pillows stuffed behind him.

"I'll take the first shift," John says, and Sam nods. He heads into the living room to stretch out on the couch Dean's been using as a bed since they moved in here. It's nice to take a break from motels, but John has to admit the trailer is pretty cramped with the three of them.

"Wake me up when you need me," Sam says, with a last worried look at his brother. John nods.

It's a long night. John and Sam trade places every few hours, making sure Dean's okay. Dean gets more annoyed every time they wake him up to shine a flashlight in his eyes and ask him what year it is, which John takes as a good sign.

"I don't give a fuck who the President of the goddamn United States is," John hears him bellow at Sam. "And why're you asking me anyway, Sam? I thought you were so fucking smart, don't you know?"

John looks at his watch. It's five in the morning, and the sky has the almost imperceptible aura of coming dawn when he pulls back the curtains.

Sam's voice is tired and frustrated when he answers Dean, although John can't make out the words. He hauls himself up off the couch and makes his way into the back bedroom.

The sight that greets him is enough to make him smile for the first time in over twelve hours.

Dean's pushed himself into a sitting position, cradling his arm across his chest. There's a pout on his face that makes him look five years old.

Sam looks equally stubborn when he says, "Okay, I'll give you a hint." He affects an absurdly bad Southern accent when he says, head tilted to the side, "Ah did not have sex with that woman."

Dean's eyes light up, and he points a triumphant finger at Sam. "Bill Clinton!" The sudden movement seems to make his head hurt, because he frowns and rubs at his right temple. "Ow."

Sam smiles at him and says, "Okay, now what year did the first Star Wars movie come out?"

Dean frowns again. "Sam, you fucker, you're making my head hurt."

John walks in the room, and both boys turn to look at him. They frown in unison. "Hey, what did I do?" he asks.

"My head hurts and Sam won't let me sleep it off," Dean complains. He's still pale, but nothing like he was last night. He has dark circles under his eyes, which are bloodshot and exhausted looking. John figures he can conservatively lay at least half the blame for his appearance on lack of sleep rather than brain damage.

"You've got a hard head, son," he says. "I think we'll count this one as a win." John turns to Sam. "Sam, go get your brother some orange juice and make him some toast."

Sam's frown doesn't lighten up as he turns to leave the room, and John barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Now that the danger's past, apparently he and Sam are assuming their usual adversarial roles.

John approaches the bed. "You need to take a leak?" he asks, and Dean looks like he's giving it some thought. Finally he nods and then winces.

"Okay, let's go," John says, and he helps Dean out of bed. He stands there weaving like a drunk on a bender, and John grabs his uninjured arm so he doesn't face-plant right there in the bedroom.

"So, do you remember what happened?" John asks as he steers Dean toward the bathroom.

Dean frowns again, and John wants to tell him to stop, he'll make his headache worse, but he doesn't. He just waits Dean out.

"There was a spirit," Dean starts as John delivers him to the bathroom door. "It was pretty pissed off."

"Uh, huh," John says. That could be any one of a hundred cases. He needs a few more details to determine just how scrambled Dean's brains are, but he gives him a gentle push toward the toilet.

"Right," Dean says with a grin. They've all peed in much more dire circumstances than one-handed in a real bathroom, so Dean doesn't need any assistance until he's done, when he wants help getting toothpaste on his toothbrush after he declares his mouth tastes like warmed-over shit.

Sam's back in the bedroom with buttered toast, a glass of orange juice, and the same frown. It lifts though, when he sees Dean up and walking.

"A mere flesh wound, Sammy," Dean says as he settles back on the bed. Sam grins at him.

John hates to bring Sam's frown back, but he needs to know just how clear Dean's head is this morning.

"So, Dean, tell me what happened last night," he says, tone sharp like it always is when he's asking for a report.

Dean straightens, and to John's surprise, Sam doesn't scowl at him. He looks at Dean with the same intensity John feels. They both wait for Dean to speak.

"There was a pissed off ghost," Dean says again. He's speaking slowly, like he's trying to remember the details. "And he was killing people he'd hurt when he was alive. Dad, you and Sam were digging up the grave, and I was just waiting with the lighter fluid and the matches. I had the shotgun, loaded with rounds of salt." He's gaining confidence as he remembers, and then he looks up at John. "Fucker caught me off-guard," he says, the tips of his ears turning pink.

John nods. "You weren't paying attention," he says, but it's a mild reproof, nothing compared to what he would have had to say if Dean wasn't suffering from a concussion. They'll discuss it in depth when Dean doesn't feel like his head is going to explode.

It's not mild enough for Sammy, however. "We should have been watching out for him, too," he says, glaring at John.

"Sam," Dean starts.

"We were doing our jobs, Sam," John snaps. "And I expected Dean to be doing his."

"Dad's right," Dean says, his eyes pleading with Sam to drop it. Sam opens his mouth to argue, but John beats him to it.

"Enough, Sam. Your brother needs some pain pills and some sleep." He nods at the untouched toast on the nightstand. "Eat that and I think we can even break out the Vicodin. I'd say your head's clear enough."

John turns to look at his toughest critic. "Sam? Vicodin?"

Sam looks guilty, like he forgot Dean probably has the headache from hell and that none of them got much sleep last night. He nods and turns on his heel to go in search of the pain pills.

John moves over to the bed and rests his hand on Dean's cheek. He tilts his head to the side and looks at the small cut behind his ear. Running his hand gently over the top of Dean's head, he says, "Didn't even need stitches. Like I said, you got a hard head, kiddo."

Dean smiles tiredly back at him and takes a bite of toast.



Year Eighteen

"Excuse me, what did you just say to me?"

"I said, I don't give a fuck what you want, I'm going!"

John doesn't think he's ever been more terrified in his life, except for the night Mary died. That fear fuels his anger, making it burn red behind his eyes.

He and Sam are toe-to-toe, almost nose-to-nose, and it's all John can do to keep his hands off his son.

He wants to grab those broad shoulders, shake some sense into Sam, shake him until he takes it back.

"You're not going! There's no fucking way I’m letting you go to college! To Stanford." Somewhere in the dim recesses of John's mind, he recognizes how ridiculous it is to make Stanford sound like the deepest pits of Hell. In another life, he and Mary would have been proud to have a son who scored a full ride to Stanford.

But this isn't another life. This is a life where a yellow-eyed demon has designs on his son, and John will be damned if he's going to let him out of his sight for four days, let alone four fucking years. Sam's safety matters more than Sam's need to get away.

John does grab Sam then, fists the front of his shirt and shakes him. "You are not leaving this family!" he shouts. "That is not happening, do you understand me?"

John's aware of Dean hovering on the periphery of the argument, and he shoves Sam away, turning on Dean in a fury.

"How the hell did this happen? What the fuck were you thinking, letting him –"

He doesn't get any farther because Sam's suddenly between them, pushing John away from Dean. John gets only a glimpse of Dean's stricken expression before Sam's back in his face, so angry spittle flies when he yells at his father.

"Don't you dare blame him for this. Don't you fucking dare." There's enough guilt in the depths of Sam's eyes, blazing with fury, that John immediately understands that Dean didn't know anything about this. This is as much of a shock to Dean as it is to John. Something twists in his chest. How could Sam do this to Dean, of all people.

"You secretive bastard," John snarls, shoving Sam again. "You're a selfish prick."

"Oh, what, like if I'd told you, you'd have helped me fill out the financial aid paperwork?" Sam sneers, shoving John right back.

John looks around at Dean again, realizing he's been subconsciously waiting for him to intervene the way he usually does when John and Sam fight.

Dean's gone.

Sam's still yelling. "Secretive, Dad? Who the hell do you think I learned that from, huh, you and your need to know bullshit?" John takes a step forward, making himself as intimidating as he knows how.

"You're not going. You're not leaving this family. If you walk out that door," he says, stabbing a finger in Sam's face, "don't bother coming back."

Somewhere lurking in the last vestiges of John's common sense, he knows that was a damned stupid thing to say. Nothing sets Sam's back up like an ultimatum. John's learned that from bitter experience.

But he can't keep the words from spilling out, and he can't force them back in once he's said them.

Sam looks at him, stunned into momentary silence. John catches a glimpse of his sweet little boy, his Sammy, and then it's gone, replaced by the ugly, stubborn rage of this man-child who thinks he's ready to go out into the world by himself.

"Fine," Sam says. "If that's the way you want it." And he walks away from his father, walks into the back of the house, to the bedroom he shares with Dean, and slams the door.

John wants to go after Sam, tell him no, of course that's not the way he wants it, but his anger holds him back.

He's still shaking with fear and rage when he pushes open the front door to find Dean standing on the sagging porch, elbows planted on the rough wooden railing. He turns his head, but when he sees that it's John who's come after him, he turns back without a word, looking out over the neglected yard.

The sun is just dipping below the horizon, and it's too dark to see Dean's face. John joins him at the railing, tilting his head up to watch the stars appear, one by one.

"When's he leaving?" Dean asks, his voice dull.

John feels a flash of irritation that Dean's given up so easily.

"He's not." It's a statement and a promise.

Dean doesn't answer him.

John and Sam don't exchange more than a handful of words over the next week. He has no idea what Sam has been saying to Dean, but Dean's been walking around looking sick and somber and like somebody fucking died, and John is goddamn tired of it.

And then on Saturday morning the boys disappear in the Impala without a word to John. He watches until the dust she kicks up settles before he goes back inside and pours himself a cup of coffee.

He knows he blew it. John knows there had to have been a way to keep Sam with them, but turns out it was a task far beyond what he's capable of.

Mary would have known what to do. Mary could have made him stay.

When Dean comes back alone a few hours later, his eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is pale.

They don't talk about it.



Year Nineteen

Turns out John and Dean make a hell of a team. Not that John's surprised by this. He trusts everything Dean knows because John's the one who taught him.

Dean's his perfect soldier, the one who respects the chain of command, who knows the importance of following orders and having your partner's back.

But Dean's not blindly obedient, not by any stretch of the imagination. He has his own thoughts and ideas, and John values his input. Dean is also perfectly capable of communicating those thoughts and ideas without getting in John's face, or arguing over every detail, or questioning every word that comes out of John's mouth.

They work together like a well-oiled machine. It's smooth and easy, and John likes it.

He's been keeping track of Sam, of course. Whenever they're in California he manages to swing by Stanford and check up on him. Sam never notices him, probably wouldn't think to look for him. Sam probably assumes John doesn't want to see him again, and that hurts, but John knows full well whose fault that is.

He'll make it up to Sam one day. John's got some leads on the yellow-eyed demon, got a few ideas of his own about what's going on. He's learned a lot over the years, learned a lot from Bobby Singer especially, about tracking demonic activity.

He'll figure it out, and then Sam can have his education and that normal life he wants so badly. Maybe Dean can have a family of his own some day, if that's what he wants.

John will take care of this first, and then he'll make it up to his boys.

Meanwhile, they've been in Athens, Ohio for a couple of weeks, and Dean's acting weird. The only word John can think of to describe it is cheerful. He hasn't seen much of that from Dean since Sam left.

John's decided it must be a girl. He's even seen her once or twice. She's beautiful, John thinks, dark skin, long dark hair. She seems classy, not Dean's usual type. John thinks her name is Cassie.

Athens is a college town, and John's not surprised to see Dean hook up. There's a lot to choose from and Dean's never been hesitant about taking advantage of any opportunity, however fleeting. He never lets it distract him from the job, and that's all John really cares about.

The job is over, though, and it's time to head out. He's been on the phone with Ellen, and there's something in Kentucky she wants them to check out. He and Dean are close enough to drive there in a day if they get on the road soon enough.

"What?" Dean looks at John as if the idea of them moving on had never occurred to him.

"I want to get an early start in the morning," John says again, impatiently. It's not like Dean to make him repeat himself. They could even leave now, but Ellen said it wasn't urgent enough to drive all night. Just a routine haunting, she said.

"How do you even know there's something in Kentucky?"

"I got a phone call," John tells him. He doesn't mention Ellen by name. The boys have never met her, or most of the dozens of other hunters out on the circuit. Not everyone who hangs out at the Roadhouse is a friend.

Dean nods slowly. "Okay. I'm gonna head out. I'll be back in time to load up in the morning."

John lets him go, doesn't argue. He has no problem with Dean having a last night with his girl. He spends the evening packing, gathering up the debris of two weeks in a motel room.

He's startled awake at midnight by the sound of Dean coming in. It's a hell of a lot earlier than John expected to see him.

"Dean?" he says, on the alert for problems, although he can't imagine what they could be.

"It's fine," Dean says. His voice says things are far from fine, though. There's something there, hurt, maybe anger, discernible even in those two words.

John listens to him move around the room, pulling off his jacket, hears his boots hit the floor with two quick thumps in succession. John's lived in close quarters with Dean for a very long time, and he can tell when he's upset. His movements sound agitated, and he's doing a lot of sighing and cursing under his breath.

It takes Dean some tossing and turning and pillow-punching to fall asleep. John's just about to tell him to knock it the hell off when he finally settles and begins snoring softly.

John expects a lot of bitching and moaning the next morning, but Dean's quiet while they load up the car. He's quiet during breakfast and picks at his food while downing three cups of coffee.

He hides behind a pair of sunglasses and pretends to sleep while they make their way across Ohio and down into Kentucky.

The job turns out to be a water wraith, and that's different enough from their usual cases that John's surprised at Dean's lack of enthusiasm.

He never does spill about whatever or whoever it was in Athens that got him so bent out of shape, but it's not as if he and John are the sharing and caring type, at least not with words.

John gives him space, doesn't call him on his moods, and eventually, Dean's back in the same quiet, subdued place he's been in since Sam left.

After a while, John forgets all about it.



Year Twenty

John can't remember the last time he and Dean stayed in one place for more than a week. Right now they're somewhere in Pennsylvania, dealing with a poltergeist that's been kicking their asses.

"Fucking poltergeists," Dean grumbles as he ties off the last bag of Angelica root, graveyard dirt, and the rest of the pile of crap that goes into poltergeist-repelling bags.

He's right, this one's been a little rougher to deal with than most, but John's more than confident that after tonight they'll have rid Jerry Panowski's home of its unwelcome visitor.

He and Dean shoo Jerry's family out of the house, and John tells him he'll call when it's over.

The poltergeist does everything in its power to prevent John and Dean from placing the bags where they need to, but in the end, it's driven out of the house, screaming in fury.

"Jesus Christ," Dean pants, looking up at John from the floor behind the couch, where the poltergeist last tossed him.

John nods and extends a hand to Dean, hauling him up and checking for injuries. They're both a little banged up, but it's nothing more than some minor cuts and bruises, really.

"Thank God," Jerry says when John calls him. While they wait for Jerry and his family to come back home, John and Dean straighten the house up a bit, righting the toppled bookcase, shoving the furniture back into place.

"Thank you so much," Jerry says gratefully, shaking John's hand and still looking a little wide-eyed at the whole affair. He glances at John curiously, waving his hand, including Dean in the gesture. "So, you and your son do this sort of thing all the time? Just the two of you?"

Dean looks down at the floor, and John clears his throat. "Yeah. Dean's brother used to help us out, but he's away at college right now."

Dean looks up at John, surprised. John smiles at him.

"Yeah, Sam's at Stanford," Dean says, allowing a note of pride in his voice.

"Wow," Jerry says, looking impressed.

"Sammy's pretty damned smart," John says. Dean cocks an eyebrow at him and smiles back.

'Well, thanks, the both of you, seriously. I've got your number if I ever need your help again," Jerry says. "Which I pray I never do, no offense." He laughs nervously.

"None taken," John says. He nods at Dean. "Ready, Dean?"

They shake hands all around, and John and Dean head out.

John's been thinking lately that he and Dean could use two vehicles, but it's the letter he finds in the PO box in Ohio that makes the decision for him.

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know we agreed that Adam would be better off if you two didn't meet, given what you do, how dangerous it is – which I know firsthand – and how impossible it is for you to stay in one place for very long.

But Adam is twelve now and asking a lot of questions. So many questions. I can't help but think that if he could just meet you, just once, it would help so much. You could explain how things are yourself. I'm not sure he believes me anymore about why you're not here, or if you even exist.

If you can't, I understand, but I was just really hoping. I won't expect an answer, but I'll be looking out the window occasionally, hoping to see that big, black car of yours.

Kate

So John takes out a loan that he has no intention of paying back, using the name "Howard Wilson," and buys a truck for himself.

When he hands Dean the keys to the Impala, Dean looks dumbstruck and thrilled at the same time, and John can't help his smile of amusement as Dean stares down at the keys.

"Really?"

"Well, I can't drive two vehicles at the same time, now can I?" He gives Dean a stern look. "Take care of her."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, his eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree.

So they drive in tandem, and if Dean says Looks like we got us a convoy!" enough times that John worries for his sanity, well, he enjoys seeing Dean happy, so he tries not to bitch too much.

"Hey, Dean," John says, about a month after he gets the letter from Kate. He digs around in the old green cooler that belonged to Mary's dad and pulls out a beer. He hands it to Dean and says, "You know that haunted campground in Arkansas we've been looking into? I want you to go take care of that."

It's not the first time Dean's gone on a hunt by himself, but there haven't been very many, and John was always nearby.

Dean looks surprised for a minute, and then more delighted than a person should look because they're going to go get rid of a ghost.

He grins and says, "Yes, sir. Where are you going?"

"There's a case in Minnesota," John says. "It's, well, it's complicated." Dean opens his mouth to ask, so John quickly says, "It's a ghoul."

"Okay," Dean says. John pretends not to notice the weird looks Dean is giving him, and they finish their beers talking about the best way to kill a ghoul.

They go their separate ways in the morning, arranging to meet back up in Chicago in six days' time.

John spends the drive trying not to think about what he's doing. Or rather, why he's doing it. He has no idea how the boys would feel about having a younger brother. They know he's hooked up with women every now and then. Mary was his whole life but he's still a man, and occasionally he's given in to the needs of his body.

He thinks Mary would forgive him.

Sammy, on the other hand…John laughs quietly as he remembers the time in Jolene when he wasn't as circumspect as he should have been, and Sam caught him leaving his motel room early in the morning to drive – damned if he can remember her name, but she was a sweet redhead who didn’t make him feel like too much of a schmuck.

Anyway, he was going to drive her home, and Sammy must have heard the car start up. He poked his head out of the separate room John had gotten for the boys and seen them, John rumpled and rough-looking, a pretty woman beside him in the car.

Sam was probably about twelve, and Jesus, John thought he'd never hear the end of it. Dean didn't say much, but he finally told Sam to shut the fuck up, that it wasn't any of their business, but if that was any indication of what their reaction would have been to a brother in fucking Minnesota of all places, well, John didn't want to find out.

He's been determined to stay away from Kate and Adam, in a large part for their safety, and Kate understood completely. After all, he'd met her in the hospital when that damned ghoul had tried to eat him, and it was pretty hard to keep it a secret from her. She knew what had happened, what he and Joe Barton had killed.

He hadn't stayed in the hospital long, but by the time he'd gotten out, he and Kate were fast friends. John spent a week in her house and her bed, knowing the boys were safe with Jim Murphy.

If he had come around to see them, Kate and Adam, John would have had no choice but to try and teach Adam the things he'd taught Sam and Dean. It was selfish of him, he knew, but he wanted one son who he could be just a father to, even an absent one, instead of a commanding officer.

He's curious about Adam and anxious to see Kate, though, now that he's finally decided to go.

John expects some hostility from the boy when he meets him, but all he gets is a nod and a handshake. He's not sure what Kate's told Adam about him, about why he's never there.

Kate looks good and John tells her so. She smiles and John thinks maybe he's missed her. "Adam," she says, motioning between them, "this is John."

John ends up staying a little more than a week, calling Dean to tell him he'll be a couple of days late. Dean doesn't seem bothered by that. He tells John he took care of the vengeful spirit, and that there are plenty of things to occupy his time in Chicago.

John can only imagine. He tells him to have fun but to be careful, to pay attention to what he's doing and to what's going on around him. It occurs to John that it was Sam's birthday a few days ago, but neither one of them mentions it.

He wonders if Dean had tried to call Sam.

Adam's a nice kid. He's quiet like Sammy, but with a sense of humor that reminds John of Dean. He looks more like Dean, John thinks, and then the light will hit his face at a certain angle, and he'll look just like Sam.

John misses Sam with both an ache that never goes away and a constant, underlying fear. He knows he's partially to blame for the continued silence between Sam and his family, but for now John is content to gather as much information as he can and let Sam be at Stanford.

Adam likes to fish, so he and John spend a lazy afternoon on the bank of a small stream, fishing and getting used to each other.

John takes him to a baseball game, a couple of local teams playing on a sunny Saturday morning. They chat a bit. Adam talks about school, tells John he wants to be a doctor when he grows up.

Kate cooks dinner every night, and it's the most surreal week John's had in a very long time. He stays at her house and he intends to stay out of her bed, because there's no need to make things any more complicated than they are.

But Kate has other ideas, and his resolve doesn't last past the first night.

John leaves with a promise to keep in touch, and he means it. He won't be a part of Adam's life, that's much too dangerous, but he can't see the harm in dropping by once in a while.

He's not sure Adam believes that John will be back, though, and he drives away with a feeling of guilt that he has no idea what to do with.



Year Twenty-One

Dean's in Indianapolis investigating a cursed object that's making people run each other over with their cars, and John is in Oklahoma on the trail of a nest of vampires.

It's unfortunate that he and Daniel Elkins parted on such…unfriendly terms. If anyone could help John with this, it would be Daniel. John's never met anyone who knows more about vampires than Daniel does.

John's convinced Daniel knows more about Samuel Colt's gun than he's letting on, too, and that irritates the hell out of him. He's pretty damned sure the time's coming when he's going to need that gun, and Elkins' refusal to tell John where it is just pisses him off.

It's obvious that there's another hunter in town, although he and John haven't actually met. He seems to be after the same nest John is.

John thinks it's about time for them to have a conversation.

The vampire nest is on the outskirts of town. John's been doing some reconnaissance, and he figures there are three males and four females. That's a lot for one man to take out, and maybe he could use the help, but he also doesn't want this other guy to get in his way.

He's pretty much ready to make his move, and he waits in the shadowed parking lot of the other hunter's motel, still and quiet.

He doesn't have to wait long. Tall and black, the other man moves gracefully from his car to the door of his room. John takes a step forward and freezes when the guy turns around and says, "You might as well come in and have a drink while we figure this out."

John's pretty damned impressed. He's never seen this guy before, but he's obviously sharp. Moving out of the shadows of the building, John nods and follows him into his room, alert and wary, his hand on his gun.

"Gordon Walker," the guy says, not offering to shake John's hand. "And you're John Winchester."

"I am," John says, trying not to let his surprise at being known show.

"Please," Walker says. "You have quite a reputation, John. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn’t know who you were." He picks up a bottle of whiskey from the dresser and pours them each a drink after unwrapping the plastic wrappers from a couple of motel glasses.

There's a table in the room, and they each take a chair, seated on opposite sides, sizing each other up.

"Lotta hunters don't think vampires are real," Gordon says with a friendly smile. "Gotta figure you'd know all about them, though."

John really doesn’t like the way Walker has the advantage here. Not knowing everyone out there is one of the downsides of avoiding hunter hangouts like the Roadhouse.

He sizes Walker up and decides he neither likes nor trusts him. Not that this guy seems incompetent; just the opposite. He's a little too arrogant, seems almost evangelical when he talks about killing vamps.

But they're both here, and it goes without saying that neither one of them is going to bow out gracefully. It's a big nest, and John decides they might as well go in together.

They make their plans, and the next night they carry them off without a hitch. Seven dead vamps, nest all cleaned out. But John decides he was right in his first impression of Walker.

The guy seemed to get an awful lot of pleasure out of killing the vampires. John likes to kill monsters, he enjoys ridding the world of evil, making it safer for those who are weak or helpless.

But he doesn't get off on the kill itself. It's clear Walker does, or maybe it's just something about vampires. Either way, John doesn't like it.

"Good working with you, John," Gordon says, holding out his hand. John shakes it and nods.

"You, too." He climbs into his truck and drives away, leaves Walker looking after him. The back of his neck tingles until he's out of sight.

John stops for a couple of nights in a run-down motel outside of Tulsa. He needs to organize his thoughts, but first he needs to organize his evidence.

He hears things. He talks to people. Whatever friends he has in the hunting world are well aware of what he's after.

John's been tracking signs of demonic activity for almost a year now. It feels as if he's chasing his tail, but there are patterns emerging, both old and new. There are cattle mutilations, electrical storms, and temperature fluctuations, all the things that happened in Lawrence before Mary died.

Now they're happening again.

His phone rings and he looks up, startled by the noise.

He's covered the walls with paper; charts and pictures and news articles, string and thumbtacks everywhere. It makes so much more sense to look at things this way.

Dean is on the phone for their usual check-in. John thinks about telling Dean to stay away from Gordon Walker, but he's distracted by what he's seeing on the walls, and he lets it go.

He listens with half an ear to Dean's report about what he did in Indianapolis and says he doesn't know where he's heading next. They agree to talk again in three days' time.

John spends most of the night studying his walls, moving things around to get a clearer picture, and by morning he's come to several inescapable conclusions.

Sammy is in danger, but no more than he has been all along. John is content to leave him at Stanford for now. Or maybe, if John disappears, Dean will go get his brother. That would be best.

The yellow-eyed demon knows John's after it. It knows that John is looking for a way to kill it. John thinks he's found a way, but that's going to take some time. Elkins has already proven himself to be uncooperative.

The thing that's the hardest, the thing he doesn’t want to do, is to leave Dean. But he needs to do this by himself. Dean will make him more vulnerable; it's one of the reasons John is leaving Sam alone.

His children are a weakness he can't afford. He can't be reckless with their lives and expose them to the demon before he's found a way to kill it.

He stopped feeling guilty a long time ago for the life his boys have led. He didn’t ask for this, none of them did. When that yellow-eyed son of a bitch killed Mary, it made certain things inevitable. His sons being raised as hunters was one of them.

But he doesn't think he's ever been deliberately careless with their lives, and he won't start now.

John begins to poke around, looking for a hunt in California. He may be okay with Sam staying in school, but he'd prefer it if Dean were around to keep an eye on him. It's time they got back in touch with each other.

It's easy enough to find the trail of a woman in white in Jericho, not too far from Palo Alto.

He meets up with Dean and shows him a couple of newspaper articles about men who've been killed outside of Jericho. John tells Dean he's going to go check it out, tells him there's a voodoo thing happening in New Orleans, and maybe Dean would be interested in seeing what's going on down there.

Dean agrees. On impulse, John pulls him into a hug when he leaves. "Be careful, son," he says.

Dean nods and pats him on the back before he lets go. "You, too, Dad." He looks curious but doesn't ask any questions.

It's a simple matter after that for John to find a motel room in Jericho, plaster the walls with the information he's gathered, and leave Dean a voicemail with EMF on it.

He debates a long time about leaving his journal behind. Everything is in there, everything he's learned about every evil creature in existence. He finally decides his boys should have it. After all, he won't be hunting anything now except the thing that killed Mary.

And then he turns off his phone.



Year Twenty-two

"Dad? I know I've left you messages before. I don't even know if you get 'em. But I'm with Sam. And we're in Lawrence. And there's something in our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed mom or not, but…I don't know what to do. So, whatever you're doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad."

John listens to Dean's voice break as he pleads with his father for help. All of Dean's grief for his mother is there in John's ear, and hearing it only makes him more determined to see this through to the end.

He allows himself to go to Lawrence, but he doesn't reveal his presence to his boys. Whatever is in their old house, it's not the demon. He trusts Missouri to help them figure it out.

She gives him holy hell for that.

"John Winchester, I could just slap you. Why won't you go talk to your children?" Missouri's glare is formidable, but it's no match for John's resolve to keep the boys safe. If he sees them now, if he talks to them, it'll be too hard to convince them to let him go again.

"I want to. You have no idea how much I want to see them. But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know the truth."

There are other phone calls, other pleas, from Dean and Sammy both. John keeps tabs, he has his network, and he always knows they're okay.

John has faith in Sam and Dean's hunting skills. What kind of teacher would he be if he didn’t?

He heads straight for Nebraska when Sam calls and says Dean is dying, but then he hears about a preacher's wife controlling a reaper, and how it had brought about the saving of one life over another. John's not interested in who has to die so that Dean can live, only that someone does.

He knows Sam will make sure of it, and he turns around and goes back to hunting the demon.

There's a trap set for him in Chicago, not the first one by any means, but it's the first time they use the boys as bait.

God, it's so good to see Sam again, to wrap his arms around him and hold on, to feel that he's real and warm and alive after all this time. Their angry words from the last time they saw each other finally fade away.

John lets himself be tempted by the idea of the three of them hunting the demon together, but as usual, Dean sees what Sammy doesn't want to.

"Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He's stronger when we're not around."

It was never supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be stronger together, not apart.

John finally gets his hands on the Colt. That son-of-a-bitch Elkins had been holding out on him all this time. He's sure the gun will kill anything, and he proves that it will at least kill vampires.

He's back with the boys again, and he can't kid himself – in spite of the circumstances, John welcomes it.

The tension is running high between the three of them, though. Dean doesn't automatically fall into line when John speaks, and that's unexpected. It shouldn't be, the boys have been on their own for a while now, and John did effectively ditch Dean, but it's jarring.

Still reeling from Jessica's death, Sammy obviously hasn't let go of his anger, and he's pissed at being left out of the demon hunt on top of that. He's stubborn and determined not to let John get away with a thing.

It's like looking in a mirror.

Dean's in the middle, as always, and John can see the weariness in his eyes. All Dean's ever wanted is his family intact, and that's something John's never been able to give him.

Naturally, Sam wants to blame himself for Mary and Jessica's death. Kid's flair for the dramatic hasn't eased up any in the years they've been apart, that's for sure.

Sam and Dean make a hell of a team, but John wouldn't expect anything less. The deference he's used to from Dean seems pretty rough around the edges, worn thin by the stress of the past couple of months. John's willing to let it go for now.

When Caleb calls to tell him that they've killed Jim Murphy, it's the closest John's come to losing it since Mary died. He drives alone in his truck, grieving for his friend. When he glances in the rearview mirror and sees the Impala behind him, he remembers the day he loaded up the boys and drove that car to Blue Earth, desperately hoping that Missouri was sending him to the right place. That Jim could help him, give him the knowledge John needed to find he answers he wanted.

It seems so long ago that John had sat at Jim's kitchen table, Sammy on his lap, Dean watching him carefully. Jim had proven to be one of the truest friends John's ever had, and he will not let those demonic sons of bitches get away with killing him.

Whatever it takes, by any means necessary.

He honest-to-God believes, just for one brief, shining moment, that if they can do this, if they can kill this demon, his boys can have the lives it's been impossible for him to allow them to have. Sammy can go back to school, Dean can settle down, make a home somewhere.

John is completely ready to sacrifice himself for that. It's the least he can do.

Sammy's visions come as a nasty shock, and John is terrified for his son. He's so consumed with grief and fear and rage after listening to Caleb die that he gets reckless.

He's almost not surprised that the chance to kill the demon comes down to his boys. It's what he raised them to do, after all, what he spent their entire lives preparing them for. It's not as hard to walk away as it should be.

Things go south quickly in Jefferson City, and as John slowly regains consciousness, he's horrified to realize someone else has control over his body. Something else.

Azazel. The demon's name is Azazel. And it's got such a hard-on for Sammy that John wants to throw up. Only he can't, because his body isn't his anymore.

Azazel is strong, too strong for John to break through. The son of a bitch laughs and tells him to be patient, that he'll be seeing his boys soon enough.

That he'll be watching them die.

And when he does see them, it breaks his heart. They're so strong, so good at their jobs. Dean knows, senses that something's off. But he's wrong about why. John's not upset that Dean used a bullet from the Colt to save Sam's life.

That's Dean's job, to save his brother's life. Killing the demon is more important than John's life, but he's not about to sacrifice his sons to it. John's willing to die to make sure of it.

He thought Sam understood that. He thought they saw eye-to-eye on this thing.

When Azazel shreds Dean, both emotionally and physically, it makes John strong enough to wrest control from the demon. He needs that son of a bitch to die now.

But Sam listens to his brother, not his father. Sam lets the demon go rather than kill John.

After all these years, how does Sam not know John better than that?

He has the boys and he has the Colt, but the demon is still out there.

And then a semi broadsides the Impala, and Dean lies dying in a hospital bed. John will do whatever's necessary to save his life.

He's known all along that it would come down to a choice. He knew the demon wasn't going to just let him waltz in with the Colt and kill it.

There are different ways to set a trap, though, and John can only pray that he gets this one right. He doesn't want to surrender before he can kill the demon, but he knows that sooner or later, the boys will get the job done.

This is more important, this is Dean's life, and the decision comes easily.

The worse part is not knowing if he's done enough. John has spent the past twenty-six years teaching and training and talking. Persuading and convincing. Making sure that Dean accepts whatever John tells him without question, especially when it comes to Sam. That he only asks how high when John says jump.

He hasn't been as successful with Sam, but that doesn't matter as much. John knows he never really stood a chance with Sam. Looking at Sam is like looking in a mirror, and that scares the hell out of John.

So he puts it all on Dean. Mary will never forgive him for that, but John knows now that there will be no happy meeting in the afterlife for Mary and him.

He doesn't fool himself that Dean won't figure out what he's done. He loves Dean more than his own life, and that alone is enough to make this deal a no-brainer. But John also knows that Dean will do everything in his power to insure Sam's safety.

John has faith.

He has faith in Dean's ability to do what's necessary if he has to, to deal with the worse case scenario that's been haunting John's dreams ever since he learned the truth about Sammy. It's a chance he has no choice but to take.

If he tells Dean that if he can't save Sam, he has to kill him, he knows Dean will save him.

John has all the faith in the world.

He and Sam argue, and John is just so tired of it. He wants to tell Sammy goodbye, doesn't want their last words to each other to be spoken in anger.

"Can we not fight? You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy, I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"

Sam looks surprised, and he backs off. John asks him to go get some coffee. He takes one last look at Sam's face, the angles and planes of it, and smiles.

He tells Dean how much he loves him, how proud he is of him.

"Dad, you're scaring me."

As he bends down to whisper in Dean's ear, he pushes all thoughts of his dead wife out of his mind. She'd never understand what he's asking Dean to do, what seeds he's planting in her son's head. She could never comprehend that sometimes saying "the lesser of two evils" means just that, and that sometimes a deal has to be made with something that truly is evil.

Dean pulls his head back, shock and confusion on his face.

John nods and smiles. His eyes burn as he gazes at his beloved first-born for the last time, then he slips out the door, Dean's wide-eyed stare following him.

"Okay," he says, and he places the Colt on the table.

The demon smiles and John takes his last breath.




Year Twenty-three

Take care of your brother, Dean. Watch out for Sammy. Keep him safe. He's your responsibility. It's your job, Dean.

Dean slowly straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looks around the crossroads, watches the clouds scud across the sky, obscuring the moon. There's no light pollution out here, and the stars shine in the black sky.

Life without his brother is unthinkable. No price is too high to pay.

Frantic despair fills him, and he spins around. "Show your face, you bitch!" His voice reverberates in the empty air.

When she shows, eyes glowing red, and the deal is done, Dean thinks his father would be proud of him.



Year Twenty-four

Sam doesn't understand. Maybe Ruby could explain, but she won't. She just looks at him with that mixture of impatience and pity that he's gotten used to over the summer.

His mother made a deal. In fact, she made a deal with Azazel, which Sam thinks is pretty damned impressive. Mary Campbell didn't just promise to stay out of the way of any ordinary, run-of-the-mill demon, no, ma'am, she made a deal with old Yellow Eyes himself.

She was desperate, she would have done anything to save the man she loved. She didn't think about the consequences, she couldn't have known what they would be. Could she? Would she have still done it if she'd known what would happen to her second-born son?

Sam takes another swig from the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. He can't put it down on the table. He made that mistake earlier, learned his lesson, yes, sir. You put a bottle of whiskey down on a table, chances are you'll knock it over when you go to reach for it again. No, better to just hold onto it, that way you're sure it's always gonna be right there in your hand when you need it.

John, now he made a deal with old Yellow Eyes, too. He traded away the Colt, the only weapon that could kill the son-of-a-bitch.

The son-of-a-bitch that killed Mom and Jess.

Sam kicks out at the chair next to him, and it skids across the floor with a sharp sound. His whole life, that's all he heard.

"Gotta find the thing that killed Mom, Sammy."

"Gotta find the thing that killed your mother, son."

After a while, Sam didn't know who was parroting whom, Dad or Dean. And then, after Jess, Sam started talking that way, too. The thing that killed Mom and Jess. The Winchester version of the Holy Grail.

Sam thinks about Jess, poor innocent Jess. Collateral damage in a world she never knew about, used as bait to pull Sam back in.

And when Dad had the chance, he gave the Colt away to save Dean. He could have just shot Azazel and been done with it. But in the end, he cared more about Dean than about revenge. Sam almost couldn't breathe at the idea of that kind of love, but he understands it now.

It was for Dean.

Saving Dean was worth any sacrifice.

It still is.

Saving Sam wasn't worth sacrificing Dean. The idea that Dean didn't know that cuts into Sam like a knife. He failed. He failed at the most important thing he's ever had to do in his life. He failed to make Dean understand how loved he is. How essential to Sam's very existence he is.

Sam blinks the sweat out of his eyes. This shithole dump where he's squatting is hotter than fuck, and Sam would trade his soul for a nice breeze, he really would.

But no one will take his soul. No one will make a deal with him. No one is interested in sending him to Hell in his brother's place.

This is the lesson he learned from his family. From his parents, from his brother. The consequences don't matter. Fuck the consequences. There is always a way to save someone you love. There is always a deal to be made.

Except when there isn't.

"Sam?" Ruby takes the bottle out of Sam's hand. He thinks about fighting her for it, but he doesn't have the energy. "Sam, it's time to stop this. Time for you to get your shit together."

Sam tries to tune her out, but her voice is soft and persuasive. He lets her help him stumble to the filthy mattress on the floor. Rolling away from her, he closes his eyes, drifting off when the mattress stops spinning.

There's always a deal to be made.

Except when there isn't.