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Summary: Sometimes you think you're hunting a demon, when in actuality, the demon is hunting you.
Author's Notes: This is wildly AU at Dead Man's Blood.
* * *
They buried him in Lawrence, next to their mother.
The stone was simple-John Patrick Winchester, April 22nd, 1957-October 7th, 2006. It was set with a celtic sigil for peace. There was no inscription. Neither of the boys could sum up their feelings for their father in a single sentence. At least, not one that should be displayed in public.
Pastor Jim came for the service, a simple one at the gravesite. The only other people in attendance were the boys and Missouri Moseley.
"Come on back to my house," she said after Pastor Jim had dribbled a handful of dirt onto the casket. "You boys ought to stay a few days and rest."
"No, we have to be going," Sam insisted in the blank, polite voice that he'd been using since they'd found John's body by the side of the road in Manning. "We have vampires to hunt."
"Sammy, Dad said-"
"Fuck what Dad said, Dean!" His face was so twisted with rage that he was ugly for the first time in Dean's memory. "We followed Dad's orders, and it got him killed!" Suddenly he was calm again, and that emptiness was just as eerily disturbing as his sudden loss of control. His eyes were as dark as the prarie thunderstorm building overhead. "I'm going. Now. You can stay here if you want," he added indifferently.
Sam was halfway back to the car before what he was doing penetrated Dean's haze of numb shock. He ran Sam down and threw him against the hood of the Impala. Some inner part of him not consumed with rage and an almost feral panic winced at the blow, knowing just from the sound of the thud that it would leave a dent. "You want to abandon all the rules, Sam?" he hollered, and he was so furious that his voice dropped a register, a roar of pain that he knew would leave him mute tomorrow. "Well, that's fine! I will fucking drag you back if you leave me again! I will drag you! Fuck patience, fuck free will, and fuck you! You're all I've got, and I'm not going to stand at your grave!"
"Don't come to the funeral, then," Sam replied, still eerily blank. It had taken a long pause for him to speak, like there was a time delay between his brain and the rest of the world. "I'll be dead. I won't care."
"You think this will make it better, Sam? You think if you get killed on some idiotic mission of vengeance it will make up for what happened?"
"We knew it was gonna go sideways," he said softly, and the ice in his eyes broke at the same time as the sky opened up. Dean couldn't tell if he was crying, or if the rain was tracing ghosts of the tears he couldn't shed on his face. "We knew it would, Dean, you and me, don't try to tell me we didn't."
"Yeah," he admitted in a rough whisper, eyes unseeing as he absently traced the Sam-shaped dent in the hood. "We did."
"Following orders was just an excuse. We went back to the motel like we were told, knowing we should have been there to back him up. Six months ago we would have been. Instead we let Dad bleed out on the side of the road so you could screw me blind in the shower." The rage was back in his eyes, and a trembling edge in his voice, but his face was still as blank and pale as a white sheet of paper.
"There's a helluva difference between sideways and dead, Sam," Dean pointed out, knowing that Sam saw the guilt he felt; he did feel it, no matter what he said. "I never thought for a second he'd get them to give up the Colt, but I would've been right there with him if I'd even suspected he was gonna die. Probably would have died with him," he added with a bitter laugh. "But I would've been there."
"Look me in the eye and tell me that you didn't think this...thing betweeen us was gonna kill Dad. You said it to me that first night. 'This will kill Dad when he finds out.' "
"I didn't mean it literally, Sam."
"I did. Either we would have got distracted on a hunt with him, or knowing would've messed with his head and he would have been careless. I knew, Dean," he added fiercely, with emphasis on the word so there could be no mistaking what he meant. "Not a vision, not as clear as that; but I knew we were heading down a road that would have Dad's grave at the end of it, and I kissed you back anyway because I didn't care. I wanted you more than I needed him. Well, I care now."
"Sam," Dean said repressively, because he'd been patient and supportive for five days and he was past his tolerance limit for Sam's destructive moods. "Be careful that you don't say something you can't take back. After all this...I'll never fucking forgive you if you leave me again, and it's got nothing to do with whether you're still in the car."
"I'm saying. Don't. Touch me. Again," he replied with deliberate emphasis, a challenging angle to his chin, as though inviting Dean to fight back. "Remembering what we did while he was dying makes me sick."
Dean felt hollow and still, as though he'd been shattered and sewn back together with tiny silk thread, and the slightest movement would break him apart again. He could hear the pleading behind Sam's angry words. Tell me we didn't kill our father. Tell me that we aren't being punished by God. Tell me that we're not damned or evil for loving each other. But Dean couldn't tell him that. He didn't have the strength to be the older brother right now, to make everything better and keep Sam with him. He'd never been good at keeping people to begin with, and he refused to keep Sam with what he suspected were lies.
Sam waited for a small eternity while the rain poured down and turned freshly turned soil into mud. He knew he would always carry bits of his father's grave dirt with him on his old Timberlands now. He was pretty sure that was some serious black magic. From the helpless look in Dean's eyes, that was just one more sin on a long and twisted list, beginning with the first time he'd cursed his father's name and ending with the pint of John Winchester's blood that was hidden in the trunk of the car.
It felt like a good time to be hunting vampires. Because the advantage vampires had in a fight was that they couldn't die. And a death wish had the same reckless upper hand as immortality.
***
I'm thinking maybe ten chapters right now. It depends on how soon I can write something other than angst, and what kind of response I get.
* * *
They buried him in Lawrence, next to their mother.
The stone was simple-John Patrick Winchester, April 22nd, 1957-October 7th, 2006. It was set with a celtic sigil for peace. There was no inscription. Neither of the boys could sum up their feelings for their father in a single sentence. At least, not one that should be displayed in public.
Pastor Jim came for the service, a simple one at the gravesite. The only other people in attendance were the boys and Missouri Moseley.
"Come on back to my house," she said after Pastor Jim had dribbled a handful of dirt onto the casket. "You boys ought to stay a few days and rest."
"No, we have to be going," Sam insisted in the blank, polite voice that he'd been using since they'd found John's body by the side of the road in Manning. "We have vampires to hunt."
"Sammy, Dad said-"
"Fuck what Dad said, Dean!" His face was so twisted with rage that he was ugly for the first time in Dean's memory. "We followed Dad's orders, and it got him killed!" Suddenly he was calm again, and that emptiness was just as eerily disturbing as his sudden loss of control. His eyes were as dark as the prarie thunderstorm building overhead. "I'm going. Now. You can stay here if you want," he added indifferently.
Sam was halfway back to the car before what he was doing penetrated Dean's haze of numb shock. He ran Sam down and threw him against the hood of the Impala. Some inner part of him not consumed with rage and an almost feral panic winced at the blow, knowing just from the sound of the thud that it would leave a dent. "You want to abandon all the rules, Sam?" he hollered, and he was so furious that his voice dropped a register, a roar of pain that he knew would leave him mute tomorrow. "Well, that's fine! I will fucking drag you back if you leave me again! I will drag you! Fuck patience, fuck free will, and fuck you! You're all I've got, and I'm not going to stand at your grave!"
"Don't come to the funeral, then," Sam replied, still eerily blank. It had taken a long pause for him to speak, like there was a time delay between his brain and the rest of the world. "I'll be dead. I won't care."
"You think this will make it better, Sam? You think if you get killed on some idiotic mission of vengeance it will make up for what happened?"
"We knew it was gonna go sideways," he said softly, and the ice in his eyes broke at the same time as the sky opened up. Dean couldn't tell if he was crying, or if the rain was tracing ghosts of the tears he couldn't shed on his face. "We knew it would, Dean, you and me, don't try to tell me we didn't."
"Yeah," he admitted in a rough whisper, eyes unseeing as he absently traced the Sam-shaped dent in the hood. "We did."
"Following orders was just an excuse. We went back to the motel like we were told, knowing we should have been there to back him up. Six months ago we would have been. Instead we let Dad bleed out on the side of the road so you could screw me blind in the shower." The rage was back in his eyes, and a trembling edge in his voice, but his face was still as blank and pale as a white sheet of paper.
"There's a helluva difference between sideways and dead, Sam," Dean pointed out, knowing that Sam saw the guilt he felt; he did feel it, no matter what he said. "I never thought for a second he'd get them to give up the Colt, but I would've been right there with him if I'd even suspected he was gonna die. Probably would have died with him," he added with a bitter laugh. "But I would've been there."
"Look me in the eye and tell me that you didn't think this...thing betweeen us was gonna kill Dad. You said it to me that first night. 'This will kill Dad when he finds out.' "
"I didn't mean it literally, Sam."
"I did. Either we would have got distracted on a hunt with him, or knowing would've messed with his head and he would have been careless. I knew, Dean," he added fiercely, with emphasis on the word so there could be no mistaking what he meant. "Not a vision, not as clear as that; but I knew we were heading down a road that would have Dad's grave at the end of it, and I kissed you back anyway because I didn't care. I wanted you more than I needed him. Well, I care now."
"Sam," Dean said repressively, because he'd been patient and supportive for five days and he was past his tolerance limit for Sam's destructive moods. "Be careful that you don't say something you can't take back. After all this...I'll never fucking forgive you if you leave me again, and it's got nothing to do with whether you're still in the car."
"I'm saying. Don't. Touch me. Again," he replied with deliberate emphasis, a challenging angle to his chin, as though inviting Dean to fight back. "Remembering what we did while he was dying makes me sick."
Dean felt hollow and still, as though he'd been shattered and sewn back together with tiny silk thread, and the slightest movement would break him apart again. He could hear the pleading behind Sam's angry words. Tell me we didn't kill our father. Tell me that we aren't being punished by God. Tell me that we're not damned or evil for loving each other. But Dean couldn't tell him that. He didn't have the strength to be the older brother right now, to make everything better and keep Sam with him. He'd never been good at keeping people to begin with, and he refused to keep Sam with what he suspected were lies.
Sam waited for a small eternity while the rain poured down and turned freshly turned soil into mud. He knew he would always carry bits of his father's grave dirt with him on his old Timberlands now. He was pretty sure that was some serious black magic. From the helpless look in Dean's eyes, that was just one more sin on a long and twisted list, beginning with the first time he'd cursed his father's name and ending with the pint of John Winchester's blood that was hidden in the trunk of the car.
It felt like a good time to be hunting vampires. Because the advantage vampires had in a fight was that they couldn't die. And a death wish had the same reckless upper hand as immortality.
***
I'm thinking maybe ten chapters right now. It depends on how soon I can write something other than angst, and what kind of response I get.
* * *
Sam had always thought the phrase 'sick with guilt' was an expression. But he actually tasted bile in the back of his throat when he thought too long about why they were standing next to a long wooden box, watching it descend into a gaping hole. Dean kept trying to touch him, comfort him, and he felt his gorge rise with each reminder of how he'd failed until he spewed guilt and blame and fury instead of breakfast.
Now Dean wasn't talking to him, and he'd forgotten how loud his brother's angry silences could be. The tension in his shoulders and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel screamed at Sam in the absence of loud, gritty classic rock. Let's see, it's 10:27 now, so Dean might forgive me...carry the one, right, okay, the day after never.
He put his focus on the passenger side window, and saw kids swimming in a river under the bridge they were rolling across. It was a Tuesday, and he was distracted by that for a full minute until he puzzled out that it was August. He'd forgotten how, on the hunt, days blurred into years against a backdrop of shabby motel rooms, until your memories were sorted by where instead of when. November, December, January, turned into Jericho, Metutchen, Toledo. And now Manning would be the dividing line, the anno domini of his own personal history.
Or whatever was left of it.
They'd had word of the vampires-well, of Kate anyway-in Truth Or Consequences. Apparently there'd been a wildcat attack, the body left in the scrub on the far side of the Grey St. Bridge. The victim had last been seen at Rocky's Lounge, and had left with a woman matching Kate's description.
* * *
They got to Truth Or Consequences just after last call, too late to do anything but check in to the nearest motel and get some sleep. Dean pulled in at the Honey Doo Inn. Sam would have objected, but Dean got out of the car without comment. Apparently they were still maintaining radio silence.
He came back with a key and a scowl and started unloading the trunk. Sam joined him. "We have to do laundry soon."
Silence.
"So, do you want to stake out Rocky's tomorrow night, or try to find their nest?"
Silence.
"You know, Dean, if we're going to do this without getting killed, you have to actually talk to me."
Their eyes met, Dean doing his level best to glare a hole in Sam. He didn't say a word, and Sam felt his stomach drop. Dean knew he didn't intend to live through this, and he wasn't planning on letting his brother make the trip to hell alone.
"Dean, you've-" got a lot to live for. It was such bullshit, Sam suspected if he'd actually voiced the reflex thought, lightning would have struck him down. Dean lived for his family, and the last of that family was planning to throw himself to the lions.
"Fuck you, Sammy," he said in a low, deadly voice. "If you wanna die, there are a helluva lot of cleaner ways than turning in to something I'll have to hunt."
"Dean, I'm-"
"Sorry? If you're sorry, then DON'T FUCKING LEAVE ME!"
It was Sam's turn to be silent.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
* * *
The room was decorated in frilly florals and peeling white wicker. A week ago, they would have laughed about it. Now they only stared at the lone king-sized bed, too defeated to argue anymore.
Sam resolved the situation by taking the bedspread and wrapping up in it on the cabbage-rose carpet, using his duffel as a pillow. He closed his eyes and faked sleep, knowing he wasn't fooling anybody.
He heard long silence, could almost hear the gears turning in Dean's head. Then he heard soft footsteps, the rustling of clothes as he undressed, and the squealing of old springs when he got into bed.
Sam was intimately acquainted with Dean's breathing patterns, usually measured in muffled huffs against damp skin. He knew he wouldn't sleep without his brother curled around him, the skin on his back missing Dean so badly it was painful, like the ghost of a lost limb. His breathing slowed and evened out, skin twitching with dreams or nightmares.
Sam got up and moved to one of the wicker chairs, taking a bag of weapons with him. He waited for dawn, watched Dean sleep, and methodically filled the hollow points of .38's with a dead man's blood and sealed them with wax, just like Pastor Jim had shown him, working by the harsh glare of a streetlight.
Sam had always thought the phrase 'sick with guilt' was an expression. But he actually tasted bile in the back of his throat when he thought too long about why they were standing next to a long wooden box, watching it descend into a gaping hole. Dean kept trying to touch him, comfort him, and he felt his gorge rise with each reminder of how he'd failed until he spewed guilt and blame and fury instead of breakfast.
Now Dean wasn't talking to him, and he'd forgotten how loud his brother's angry silences could be. The tension in his shoulders and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel screamed at Sam in the absence of loud, gritty classic rock. Let's see, it's 10:27 now, so Dean might forgive me...carry the one, right, okay, the day after never.
He put his focus on the passenger side window, and saw kids swimming in a river under the bridge they were rolling across. It was a Tuesday, and he was distracted by that for a full minute until he puzzled out that it was August. He'd forgotten how, on the hunt, days blurred into years against a backdrop of shabby motel rooms, until your memories were sorted by where instead of when. November, December, January, turned into Jericho, Metutchen, Toledo. And now Manning would be the dividing line, the anno domini of his own personal history.
Or whatever was left of it.
They'd had word of the vampires-well, of Kate anyway-in Truth Or Consequences. Apparently there'd been a wildcat attack, the body left in the scrub on the far side of the Grey St. Bridge. The victim had last been seen at Rocky's Lounge, and had left with a woman matching Kate's description.
* * *
They got to Truth Or Consequences just after last call, too late to do anything but check in to the nearest motel and get some sleep. Dean pulled in at the Honey Doo Inn. Sam would have objected, but Dean got out of the car without comment. Apparently they were still maintaining radio silence.
He came back with a key and a scowl and started unloading the trunk. Sam joined him. "We have to do laundry soon."
Silence.
"So, do you want to stake out Rocky's tomorrow night, or try to find their nest?"
Silence.
"You know, Dean, if we're going to do this without getting killed, you have to actually talk to me."
Their eyes met, Dean doing his level best to glare a hole in Sam. He didn't say a word, and Sam felt his stomach drop. Dean knew he didn't intend to live through this, and he wasn't planning on letting his brother make the trip to hell alone.
"Dean, you've-" got a lot to live for. It was such bullshit, Sam suspected if he'd actually voiced the reflex thought, lightning would have struck him down. Dean lived for his family, and the last of that family was planning to throw himself to the lions.
"Fuck you, Sammy," he said in a low, deadly voice. "If you wanna die, there are a helluva lot of cleaner ways than turning in to something I'll have to hunt."
"Dean, I'm-"
"Sorry? If you're sorry, then DON'T FUCKING LEAVE ME!"
It was Sam's turn to be silent.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
* * *
The room was decorated in frilly florals and peeling white wicker. A week ago, they would have laughed about it. Now they only stared at the lone king-sized bed, too defeated to argue anymore.
Sam resolved the situation by taking the bedspread and wrapping up in it on the cabbage-rose carpet, using his duffel as a pillow. He closed his eyes and faked sleep, knowing he wasn't fooling anybody.
He heard long silence, could almost hear the gears turning in Dean's head. Then he heard soft footsteps, the rustling of clothes as he undressed, and the squealing of old springs when he got into bed.
Sam was intimately acquainted with Dean's breathing patterns, usually measured in muffled huffs against damp skin. He knew he wouldn't sleep without his brother curled around him, the skin on his back missing Dean so badly it was painful, like the ghost of a lost limb. His breathing slowed and evened out, skin twitching with dreams or nightmares.
Sam got up and moved to one of the wicker chairs, taking a bag of weapons with him. He waited for dawn, watched Dean sleep, and methodically filled the hollow points of .38's with a dead man's blood and sealed them with wax, just like Pastor Jim had shown him, working by the harsh glare of a streetlight.
