Chapter Text
Dean hated concussions, not the least of which because it meant he couldn’t drive his Baby. Right now, his vision was swimming a little too much to see the road, so he relied on Sam to get them back to the motel in one piece. Sam kept casting covert glances out of the corner of his eye that Dean was starting to take offense to.
“Alright, Mom, you can knock of the surveillance; I’m fine. I’ve taken harder hits then this.” Sam returned to watching the road, but he didn’t look happy about it.
“Dean, you got knocked through the banister and fell from the second floor.” Admittedly, this particular hunt wouldn’t be making the highlight reel any time soon. The job had been going well until Dean had lost his machete and been forced to resort to bashing the ghoul’s brains in with a rotted piece of the banister that had come down with him. This, of course, had left him covered in gore and sporting the aforementioned concussion. Even so, he refused to concede to Sam’s mother-henning.
"And I still managed to kill my ghoul before you. What’s a’matter, Sammy? You getting rusty in your old age?” Sam reached over to shove his shoulder—much gentler than he normally would’ve but his aching head was grateful for the consideration.
“If I’m old, what does that make you?” Now Sam was smirking and Dean scrambled for a clever response.
“Shut up.” Ok, not his best work. Dean turned to face the window with a not-at-all petulant expression and valiantly resisted the urge to slug Sam in the shoulder when the younger snorted. Dean let his mind wander as he stared out the window, losing track of time until they were pulling into the motel parking lot. He grabbed the duffel bag at his feet that was full of the used weapons that needed cleaning and hefted it on his shoulder as he climbed out into the offensively bright sunlight. Sam climbed out after him but Dean waved him off.
“No, no, I told you, I’m fine. You go grab us some chow; I’m gonna pop a few pain pills and hit the shower.” Sam—unlike Dean—had actually managed to behead his ghoul cleanly, and therefore only smelled slightly of the musty, abandoned house the ghouls had been camped out in. Dean—on the other hand—smelled like microwaved roadkill; he didn’t even want to think about trying to order at a diner without getting the cops called on him.
“Are you sure? I might need to stay to make sure you don’t fall asleep with that concussion.” Dean waved off the concern, already heading toward the room as he called over his shoulder.
“I’m not gonna fall asleep. I’m just gonna get a shower and watch some TJ Hooker reruns or something. If you’re so worried, hurry up with the burgers and beer. Oh! And get me some pie too!” Sam chuckled behind him, gravel shifting under his boots as he heading back to the Impala.
“You know, you’re not supposed to drink with a concussion either.” The tone was cheeky and teasing, and Dean was glad to hear it. With John and Gordon and pretty much the whole of the hunter community now gunning for him, Sam hadn’t had much opportunity to relax these days. It was nice to see him get the chance to let down his hair and just laugh again. Metaphorically, of course; his hair was always down, no matter how many times Dean offered to cut it.
“Yeah, ok, Nurse Chapel.” The Impala’s door creaked open and shut, the engine roaring to life as Dean got the motel door unlocked and stepped in without bothering with the lights. The window blinds were drawn, casting the room in soothing shadows that his aching head appreciated. He dropped the duffel carelessly by the door, beelining for the painkillers on the bathroom counter when something told him to duck. He couldn’t have said later what exactly had tipped him off—perhaps there was some kind of noise, or maybe he’d felt the air displace by his head, but regardless, Dean had learned early on in life not to question when his gut told him to move. Without conscious thought, he dropped to a crouch, the punch aimed for his temple passing harmlessly overhead. Muscle memory took over and Dean dove to the side to avoid the kick that sailed toward him, wrestling to pull his gun out of his waistband despite the lack of coordination caused by the concussion. He would later blame the concussion for his slowed reflexes when the gun was swiftly kicked from his hand to land somewhere in the darkness. The intruder pulled him up by the collar, throwing another punch at Dean that the hunter blocked. As the two grappled, Dean judged his assailant to be a man around his height and build, equally—if not more—skilled than Dean at close combat. With his injuries hampering his speed, Dean could do little more than fend the man off as he fought to gain some kind of ground against the proficient opponent. Suddenly, the man went low and lunged forward, catching Dean around the waist and then leveraging himself up to bring Dean down with himself on top. As he slammed into the ground, Dean’s vision whited out as the pain in his head peaked. Before his vision even returned, Dean fumbled a small knife—hardly more than a penknife—from his boot, slashing it blindly across what he hoped was the aggressor’s face. A grunt and splash of blood across his fingers was the only indication that the hit had landed. A moment later, his vision cleared, and in the dim shade of light coming through the blinds, Dean caught his first glimpse of his attacker.
“Dad?” He shouldn’t have hesitated. Without a word, John pistol-whipped Dean across the face. Dean only had a fraction of a second to think, Sammy’s gonna be pissed I’m sleeping on a double concussion, before he lost the fight with consciousness.
The Impala rumbled into the parking lot some time later, any smell Sam’s boxed salad might’ve had completely obscured by the pervading scent of Dean’s burgers and pie. The smell of greasy diner food was much more Dean’s thing than Sam’s, and Sam was glad to finally be out of the car and in the fresh air. Grabbing the take-out bags and six-pack, Sam fumbled with the motel key, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab the food and beer with his nondominant hand. Once he managed to open the door with his off-hand, Sam entered quietly, conscious of Dean’s whopper headache. He took notice of the darkness and hoped Dean hadn’t ignore his instructions and decided to nap anyway; they were lucky that none of their thousands of collective concussions had led to a brain bleed before, but there was a first time for everything.
He was just setting the bags aside on the motel kitchen’s tiny dining table when he heard an odd sound. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was real, or just part of the sounds of the take-out bags rustling, but he set down the bags and he stood stock-still to listen. The once innocent silence now felt thick and foreboding, like the shadows on a hunt that could hold any one of a thousand creatures just waiting for the right moment to strike. Without warning, Sam was pulled into someone’s mind, feelings of visceral hate and sadism and just a touch of ambition flooding his senses until he couldn’t tell where his own thoughts ended and the mystery mind’s began. Almost as soon as it began, it was over and Sam was back in his body, fighting down the reflex to gasp from the whiplash of it. Sam had only connected to someone’s mind a handful of times before, but the rarely used ability still had a pattern, and he had never connected to the mind of someone who he wasn’t in the room with. The only person supposed to be there was Dean, and Sam knew that those weren’t Dean’s thoughts. Sam didn’t believe that his brother was even capable of such malevolent intentions, and especially not toward him.
Suddenly, the noise came again, a muffled, desperate sound, like someone trying to speak through a gag. Without a second’s pause, Sam pulled his gun and cautiously moved around the only blind corner where someone could be hiding, staying low in case someone had a gun aimed where his head would be. The moment he took the first step around the corner, Sam knew it was a mistake. He felt his power being drained like water through a sieve—seeping away till he felt almost weak from the lack of it. He’d gotten too comfortable, using his powers freely with Dean till he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be normal; powerless. Regardless, he kept his gun up and trained on the intruder he could now see, standing next to Dean, who was tied hand and foot to a swivel chair. John stood with a hand on Dean’s shoulder while his left hand pressed the Colt hard against Dean’s temple. Dean was struggling furiously but he didn’t seem to be making much headway, every jerking movement simply sending the desk chair rolling a few inches in any direction. John’s hand was keeping him from moving away from the gun barrel, despite Dean’s determined effort to buck his father’s hold.
“Hey there, Sammy.” His da— John’s voice was laced with scorn and disgust as he sneered at Sam, trapped where he was like a pinned down bug. With an almost casual gesture, John flicked up the corner of the throw rug with the toe of his boot, revealing the devil’s trap painted underneath in a mocking yellow color. “Now, normally in a situation like this, I’d worry about a creature like you being able to beat me to the trigger, but with that Devil’s Trap slowing you up, I think we both know which of us would come out on top if it came to a showdown.” Sam hated that John was right; he could feel the Devil’s Trap sapping his inhuman speed, and he wasn’t confident in his ability to beat the man who’d first taught him how to hold a gun without some kind of advantage.
“You don’t want to kill Dean,” Sam tried to reason. He hoped some part of John was still willing to listen, but he was starting to think the man was beyond reason. “He’s the good son.”
“My only son,” John interrupted with a scowl, hand tightening a fraction on Dean’s shoulder. Sam tried not to show how the venom in his tone felt like a punch to the gut.
“He’s your son,” Sam course corrected. “He’s human. You don’t want to kill him.” For a moment, a look of genuine regret crossed John’s face before he hid it away behind a hard mask.
“You’re right, I don’t. But it seems I don’t have much of a choice. Dean wouldn’t want me to leave him to suffer whatever kind of mind control or manipulation you have him under. I’d put him out of his misery before I’ll ever leave him like this.” Dean’s muffled protests broke in as if to vehemently disagree with this plan. Sam would be willing to bet that Dean was using every swear he knew in his head as he glared daggers at his dad. “So either you throw your gun and any other weapons you have outside the circle, or I end Dean’s suffering right now.”
“How do I know you won’t just kill him anyway.” John looked at him like he was stupid. So maybe he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he normally would (he was kind of in the middle of panicking, here), but he had to be sure.
“Once I kill you, whatever hold you have on Dean will be broken and I won’t have to kill him.” Sam resisted the urge to say that being told he’s about to die is a terrible motivator for throwing his gun away. He didn’t really think John would do it, if for no other reason than the Colt only had one bullet left, and if he used it on Dean, he didn’t have any other weapon that he knew could kill Sam. But logic and reason didn’t matter right now, because Dean was in danger, and Sam refused to take that risk.
“Alright, you win.” Slowly moving his finger off the trigger, Sam flipped on the safety and tossed the gun on the nearest bed, torturously out of reach. Dean protested loudly, meeting Sam’s eye with a helpless frustration as he continued to struggle.
“Blades too. I know you have some on you. Don’t forget who taught you how to conceal weapons.” The unexpected reminder of his childhood brought a sudden moisture to Sam’s eyes and a choking lump in his throat. Sometimes, Sam wished he could go back to that time when he was human and normal; when he knew his dad loved him even if he was gruff and had a hard time showing it. That life may have been a lie, but it was a comfortable lie, and maybe it was wrong, but sometimes Sam preferred a comfortable lie to a painful truth. Ignoring the burning behind his eyes, Sam pulled a knife from his boot and one from his belt, tossing both alongside the gun. Only then, did John remove the revolver from Dean’s head. The bound hunter was no less pissed by its absence, especially when it turned to face his brother instead. With nothing left to stop John from blowing a hole in Sam’s skull, the young hunter had only one option left: stall. Stall for what exactly, Sam didn’t know. Maybe for Dean to finally work his knots loose and swoop in to save Sam at the last second like he’d done so many times before (including the last time John had held a gun on him), maybe for an earthquake to come along and cause a rupture in the ground, breaking the Devil’s Trap and its restraining magic. Sam knew his chances were slimmer than slim, but he didn’t really see another option.
“So, what happens if you kill me and Dean still isn’t back to normal? You going to kill him anyway?” Sam met his brother’s eye with a look that he hoped conveyed you better lie like your life depends on it, but Dean just scowled at him, unhappy with the topic and probably the entire situation. John didn’t answer him right off, instead he paced slightly with the Colt only generally pointed in Sam’s direction. Sam’s impotence had apparently armed John with the confidence to relax his single-minded focus.
“You know, Dean was good before he started hunting with you. Obedient, loyal, respectful; a perfect soldier.” Dean’s lips curled in disgust around the gag, scowling at his dad like he wanted to borrow Sam’s ability to control fire to set John ablaze with his mind. “But I left you two alone for too long; that was my first mistake. My second was not shooting you between the eyes the moment you told me about your visions.” Sam hadn’t taken John for the evil monologue type, but he guessed he’d never really known him at all. “I should’ve known then you weren’t my Sammy; maybe you never were. Maybe you’ve been rotten since birth, but I can’t change the past, I can only fix the future. Maybe you’ve got your claws dug so far in Dean that even your death won’t release him, but there’s other stuff I can try if this doesn’t work; psychics, shamans, maybe there’s even a spell or two somewhere that I can dig up. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it, because that’s what you do for family.” John huffed a humorless chuckle. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
John pulled the hammer back and the revolver clicked menacingly. Sam was beyond pretending he wasn’t terrified. He couldn’t even focus enough to think of any way to stall longer. Dean was no closer to getting loose than he had been when Sam had first come back from the diner (a hysterical part in the back of Sam’s brain worried about his salad going bad), and an earthquake was unlikely to occur in rural North Dakota. Sam was screwed, and his heart was just starting to catch up with what his brain already knew, hammering at double-time as he fought to control his breathing; he refused to give John the satisfaction of knowing the monster was scared of him.
“Goodbye, Sam. Tell your daddy I said hi.” With that, the Colt leveled straight at Sam’s face and the relaxed grip John had had on it turned resolute as his finger slid to rest over the trigger. Dean was working himself into a frenzy, bucking and writhing like he could break through the ropes with sheer force of will, face red and sweating from the strain. Sam stared down the barrel and wondered for not the first time where creatures like him went when they died. Would be be reborn in Hell as a low level demon with no memory of his past life? Would he end up as nothing but a rotting corpse, not even worthy of a hunter’s funeral? Which side would win out when determining where he wound up in death, his mother’s human soul or his father’s noxious blood? Sam wasn’t anxious to find out, but when had what Sam wanted ever mattered anyway? Sam had wanted to go to college and be normal, but look how that turned out. Sam had wanted to love and be loved in return, but he guessed hellspawn weren’t deserving of that. Sam wanted a supportive family who would accept the parts of himself he couldn’t change, but.... well, he supposed he got half of that one, at least.
Staring down the man he’d once called father—who gazed back at him with hate in his eyes—Sam swallowed hard and determined to meet his death head-on; no flinching, no tears, and absolutely no surrender. Sam waited. And he waited. He waited long enough for Dean to stop his frantic struggle to gaze at the two of them with confusion. He waited long enough to wonder if he’d maybe developed the ability to stop time somewhere during his panic. What finally caught his attention was the barrel of the Colt—still pointed directly at him—suddenly had an almost imperceptible quiver to its aim. His gaze traveled up the gun to the hand holding it to find John’s hand shaking with the strain of holding the gun steady. Now it was Sam’s turn to look confused; the veteran hunter’s hands never shook on a hunt. When hunting, the man’s attention became laser focused and his nerves steeled till he was almost unnaturally calm. There was no room for hesitation, no room for error or second guessing. Sam wasn’t sure what was going through the hunter’s head right now, but he knew it wasn’t normal.
As the brothers watched, the quaking increased, spreading up his arm until his whole body was wracked with tremors. The man’s breathing was becoming more and more labored as a sheen of sweat broke out across the skin of his forehead. His brows furrowed in intense concentration while his eyes took on an almost frantic fury. As the brothers watched—dumbstruck—the gun barrel began to shift, John’s arm rotating at a snail’s pace till the gun was no longer aimed at Sam. Then—with shock so vivid it almost took Sam’s breath away—the arm kept turning until the Colt came to rest against John’s own head. The brothers stared wide-eyed, unsure how to respond to this startling development. Sam found himself casting his eyes about rapidly for the source of whatever was influencing John’s drastic change of heart, but found nothing willing to take credit for the sudden case of mind control or whatever was happening. The shaking increased dramatically as John continued to stare at Sam in rage, but now, a hint of fear was mixed in. Did John think that Sam was doing this? Somehow controlling him despite the Devil’s Trap’s total hold on his powers? He watched in stunned fascination as sweat began to drip down John’s face from the effort he was making to fight off whatever had seized control of him. Sam exchanged looks with Dean and found the elder brother just as lost about what to do other than gape in abject bafflement. The episode was reaching a fever pitch, sweat pouring down the man’s face like a faucet, shaking so intense, Sam worried the man may be somehow having a seizure standing up. Finally, as a trickle of blood slipped down across John’s lip, two words put an end to it all.
“ALRIGHT, FINE!” John barked the words out with force, panic lacing his tone as he seemed to stare through Sam rather than at him. The Colt was dropped to the floor, but Sam barely paid attention to it as John’s eyes rolled back in his head and he leveled Sam with a milky-eyed stare that seemed to freeze him in place. A wicked grin spread across his face, revealing more teeth than a natural smile ever would.
“Guess it’s your lucky day, Sam. Until next time.” The words—though still in John’s voice—were spoken with an unfamiliar cadence, seeming almost to reverberate with an unearthly echo. Sam only had a second to consider this before John threw his head back with a scream as black smoke poured from his mouth to escape under the door and outside. John fell to the floor with a hacking cough, fighting to catch his breath as Sam tried to wrap his head around what he’d just witnessed. John had been possessed by a demon, but for how long? It had been months since they’d last seen him, trying to kill Sam with Gordon as backup. It had been months before that when he’d first tried to kill Sam in Rosie’s nursery. Could the hunter have possibly been possessed all that time? But then, why would another demon kill Azazel? Wouldn’t his master plan to start the apocalypse benefit all demons? No, that part had to have been John, which meant John still wanted to kill him for being a monster who’s corrupted Dean. But then, what had all that been about just now? Had the demon wanted to spare him so Sam could carry out Azazel’s master plan after his death? And what kind of demon had white eyes instead of black? Sam had never encountered that in his thirty years in Hell; he’d never even heard of it! This was all too confusing for Sam, and he was starting to give himself a headache trying to puzzle it all out.
Before he could find a satisfying answer to even one of his questions, John finally managed to breathe again and reached into his pocket, pulling out a knife and scraping it across the paint of the Devil’s Trap with uncoordinated movements. The moment the trap’s hold on him broke, Sam was off toward Dean, telekinesis calling one of his discarded knives to him to slice cleanly through his brother’s restraints. Dean reached up to whip the gag from his mouth and promptly began checking Sam over for injuries, even though he’d watched the whole thing and knew Sam hadn’t been hurt. Sam suspected the ritual was more of a calming technique for Dean; a way to feel useful and in control of the situation after being made to sit helplessly on the sidelines. It occurred to Sam that he should probably check over Dean’s concussion, which couldn’t have been helped by the conspicuous black eye Dean was sporting. Before he could do that, a groan came from the floor as John levered himself up to rise to his feet. Dean immediately positioned himself between Sam and John, swiftly moving to scoop the abandoned Colt from the ground, not yet aimed at John, but ready to be raised and fired at a moment’s notice.
No one spoke as the seasoned hunter managed to get his feet under him, swaying for a moment before seeming to rally his strength to stand up straight. Dean—though still holding the gun down—looked braced for a fight, unsure how to respond to the scene they’d just witnessed but unwilling to take the chance of relaxing his vigil. With the feeling of powerlessness evaporating with every second spent outside the Devil’s Trap, Sam decided to take the initiative to start the conversation that needed to be had.
“What was all that about, John? How long have you been possessed?” John turned to face Sam with an inscrutable expression, and the young man was surprised to notice a wet sheen had overtaken the man’s eyes. John took a slow step toward Sam. Then another. Dean’s grip on the Colt tightened, the barrel shifting upwards ever so slightly. Sam wanted to move backwards as John silently advanced within reaching distance, but he refused to let himself be cowed. If he could stand tall and look death in the eye with a gun in his face, he could do it again now with his opponent disarmed and Dean as his defense.
“Look, John—” Without a word, John reached around Dean and pulled Sam forward, the young man not even having the chance to brace before he was dragged into a hug. Sam tensed, waiting for the trick or strike now that Sam was within stabbing range, but John only placed his hand on the back of Sam’s head and held on tight. The hug felt like a father’s would; warm, and strong, and safe—like the combined powers of Heaven and Hell couldn’t reach Sam while John’s arms held him close. Against his better judgment, Sam found himself melting into the hold, feeling tears spring to his eyes as he felt John’s hand tighten further, arm wrapped around him with aching familiarity.
“You are not a monster!” John’s first words that were truly his own startled both brothers, Sam attempting to shift back, but the elder man refused to budge. “You hear me, Sammy? You’re not a monster or a creature or anything else.” John finally pulled away, but only far enough to see Sam face to face. The sheen in John’s eyes was more defined than before, water threatening to spill over the rim. Sam started to feel a hot prickle behind his own eyes, swallowing hard around a sudden knot in his throat. Reaching out slowly, John cupped a hand to the side of Sam’s face, the other resting firmly on his shoulder. For the first in what felt like years, John looked straight at Sam with love in his eyes. “But even if you were, none of that matters. You could be a demon, vampire, or the Loch Ness Monster, I don’t give a crap! Before everything else, you are my boy. That yellow-eyed bastard was not your father, I am your father. You’ve got your mother’s cleft chin and you’ve got my pig-headed stubbornness, but you don’t have nothing of his, you understand me? Nothing that matters.” A sob tore itself out of Sam’s throat, the tears he’d been holding back cascading down his cheeks with abandon. A matching tear slipped free of John’s own eye as he smiled at him with the acceptance and love Sam would have begged for on his knees, but that his dad gave freely.
“S-so, it was the demon this whole time?” Sam swiped a hand across his face, the effort doing nothing to stem the steady flow. “Even.... even when we killed Azazel?” Sam watched as genuine remorse crossed his dad’s face, smile turning rueful.
“It was all the demon, Sammy. I don’t know what her game is, but killing Yellow-Eyes and tearing our family apart was a piece of it.” John squeezed Sam’s shoulder, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. “But I’m sorry that I ever gave you boys call to think I could ever kill you. Everything I’ve done since your mother died has been to protect you boys, but I know I didn’t do as good a job as I should’ve. I’m sorry that I ever gave you reason to doubt me.” Sam wished he could let it go—just drop it and pretend the last year never happened—but Sam had never been good at knowing when to quit.
“But, what about the prophesy? My destiny to-to lead armies in Hell a-and rule beside Lucifer? What if it’s safer for everyone if I’m just not a player in this game anymore?” Sam could hardly breathe, waiting on anxious tenterhooks for his dad to remember his destiny, rejection already burning a brand on his soul before he’d even received it. For the first time since the demon had fled, John looked truly angry, eyebrows furrowed together in something close to a scowl as Sam’s hopes plummeted.
“Bull. Crap.” Sam blinked, stunned as he tried to wrap his head around his father’s odd proclamation. John’s gaze was intensity and steel as he held Sam’s eye, refusing to let the young man look away. “Just because some lunatic demon says your destined to be king of Hell, I’m supposed to believe that the boy who cried the first time Bobby took him deer hunting, because he didn’t want to kill the blasted animal, is fated to lead demonic armies? You’re tell me that the kid who joined every club he could just so he could make more friends before we had to skip town is supposed to lay waste to humanity?! Cause I don’t buy it, Sam! Sounds like some grade-A, demonic bullcrap to me, and I don’t ever want to hear you repeating it, you understand me?!” That was one thing that John and Dean had in common: they both got angry when they were scared. Sam could see Azazel’s words had affected John—he could see his dad was scared, maybe even terrified—but it brought a fuzzy kind of warmth to Sam’s chest to know that his dad was scared for him and not of him.
“Yes sir.” Sam smiled with a sniffle, and John’s mouth upturned slightly to match, cuffing the side of Sam’s neck affectionately.
“No matter what’s coming now—no matter what kind of plans the demons have for you—me and Dean and Bobby, we’re not giving up on you. We’re not cutting you out; not ever.” With another wretched sob, Sam threw himself at his dad, holding on for dear life as John’s arms circled him in an iron grip, holding Sam together even as he fell apart. His dad still loved him; apparently, always had! It had all been a demon’s trick, and Sam fell for it. After thirty years in Hell, you’d think he’d know enough about demons to not be deceived so easily, but Sam didn’t even care. His dad had saved his life, willing to turn the Colt on himself rather than hurt Sam, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder now how he’d every doubted him. Waves of relief crashed over him as he cried, the man who raised him and loved him his whole life holding him safe and secure like an anchor in a storm as he weathered the maelstrom of emotions. He buried his head in his father’s shoulder and wept, releasing every roiling emotion he’d been holding onto for so long, because his dad still loved him.
When Sam finally felt like he could breathe without breaking down, he pulled away to wipe at his face, heart feeling lighter than it had since he’d run away to Stanford all those years ago, positive that no one in his family could accept what he was. His dad smiled at him with warmth, his watery gaze having let a few more tears slip in the interim. With one more affectionate pat, John turned his attention to Dean, who Sam had actually managed to forget was there. He’d faded seamlessly into the background once John had started talking, but his own teary expression was enough indication that he’d still heard every word. Moving the few steps toward Dean, John gently threaded one hand around the back of his neck, holding him steady as he gazed at Dean like he hung the moon; it was a look oddly reminiscent of how Dean always used to look at John before the man (or demon, as it turned out) had shattered Dean’s image of his father. Now, with the truth revealed, that awed look was back in full swing.
“I am so proud of you, Dean.” Sam watched his brother falter, caught completely off guard by the last thing he ever expected John to say, shaking his head in denial of his father’s esteem.
“But I doubted you. I should’ve known it wasn’t you; I should’ve known something was wrong.” But John only smiled wider, clapping a strong hand to Dean’s shoulder.
“You know, when you were a kid, I never had to tell you to watch out for Sammy, you just took that job on yourself like it was what you were born to do.” Here, John paused, letting the sentence hang in the air between them. “Me and Sammy, we were always butting heads, but you... you obeyed me without question. I’d say ‘shoot’ and you’d say ‘silver or salt rounds’. I never had to worry about you questioning me, ‘cause I always knew that you would do what I said without needing to know why; until the day we killed Yellow-Eyes.” Silence filled the charged air of the motel room as a look of shame crossed Dean’s face. His eyes skittered away, unable to meet his dad’s steady gaze and the accusation he feared he’d find in them, but John gave the hand behind Dean’s neck a gentle squeeze before continuing.
“Growing up, I always put too much on your shoulders. But you never balked; you never let me down, even when I let you down. That day in that baby’s nursery, you disobeyed a direct order, you put yourself between me and Sam, you chose Sam over me.... and I have never been more proud of you.” Dean’s eyes shot back to his father’s, equal parts disbelieving and hopeful. “You were willing to stand up to me and tell me I was wrong. It’s the mark of a true man to stand up for what he knows is right, even when everything else is saying different.” As Sam watched a single tear drip down Dean’s cheek—the elder brother’s attempts at stoicism cracking—he thought fondly of how Dean would copy their dad in everything he did; even the way he cried.
“Thanks, Dad.” With a parting squeeze, John let go of Dean and stepped back, grinning at both boys, who returned the gesture.
“You should’a heard how pissed that demon was when you stepped in front of the gun; screaming about how you were ruining the plan! Well, whatever plan she had, it wasn’t anything good. I heard bits and pieces here and there, but from what I remember, it’s starting to form a picture I really don’t like. We need to get over to Bobby’s—look through some of his lore books and hopefully find some answers to what the demons are planning.” John moved with the efficiency of a soldier, packing weapons and supplies into a duffel that neither brother had even noticed stashed beside the nearest bed, and the unspoken expectation that the boys would follow his lead. After a moment, the two joined him in packing up their own gear, the three men surreptitiously wiping away the evidence of the emotional scene.
“So!” Dean broke the silence when it became too thick to let stand. “You, like, had a girl all up inside you for like a year.” With a cheeky grin firmly in place and eyes sparkling with humor, Sam hadn’t seen Dean so relaxed since the day in Rosie’s nursery. With Sam having being the focus of who he thought to be his dad’s murderous fury, it had been easy for Sam to forget that it wasn’t just him who thought he’d lost his father forever that day. He was more glad than he could say to see Dean getting his mojo back. Their dad looked equally relaxed, chuckling along with Dean’s antics, though making no commentary of his own; not that Dean seemed to need a response. Dean chattered on—making jabs and cracking jokes, Sam relaxing little by little from the terrifying ordeal and the subsequent emotional revelation until he was laughing along with him. Through it all, John looked on with a contented smile, grateful to have his family back together after that demon tried so hard to tear it apart.
“Sam, keys.” Dean held out his hand to catch the keys that Sam had absolutely no intention of throwing to him.
“Dude, you’re not good to drive yet. You forget about your concussion?” Dean made a show of knocking on his head a few times with his knuckles, goofy grin still plastered on his face.
“Nah, I’m fine! I think that demon skank healed my head. Probably wanted to make sure I didn’t cash in my chips early.” Sam considered him for a moment, but he really did seem to be doing better, other than the impressive shiner on his left eye. He didn’t look to be off-balance or dizzy, didn’t seem like he was in much pain, and his pupils had returned to being the same size. Sam hoped he wasn’t going to regret it later as he fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them over, Dean grinning over getting his Baby back.
“I’ll call Bobby on the way over,” Dean commented once the three were packed and ready to go—the food Sam had brought reheated to be eaten on the drive, “give him the lowdown on what happened. Hopefully he won’t greet you with a shotgun full of buckshot.” John shot the boys a tired, rueful smile.
“Can’t say I’d blame him; kinda wanted to shoot myself there for a minute. Anyway, we’d better get moving; got a long way to go to Sioux Falls. And on the way there, you boys can tell me all about that vamp nest you helped escape in Red Lodge.” The brothers exchanged glances, communicating through a look the question of how best to handle the situation, but John chuckled before the tension could mount too high.
“Look, I don’t like it, but maybe my worldview’s shifted a bit in the last year.” He studied each of his boys—both men in their own right—and the same pride as before shone in his eyes. “You tell me the truth and I’ll listen.” Both brothers grinned, slinging their bags over their shoulders on their way out the door.
“Well, it started when psychic-boy here was stupid enough to get jumped.”