Fic: Of Bastard Saints, 7
May. 14th, 2006 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
"Come on, Dad. You can do it."
John barely glanced up at Sam, who was waiting at the end of the walkway as John continued to struggle with each step. "I'm working on it." His hands hovered over the parallel bars, fighting to walk without support.
"Jesus, you call that walking? Grandma Moses moves faster, and she's dead," Sam snarked.
John's head came up, eyes finally focusing on Sam. "Screw you, son. You're not too old for me to put over my knee."
"Fine. Go for it. But I'm not coming to you."
"I'm," John began to step forward again, picking up the pace. "Going. To. Wring. Your. Scrawny. Little. Neck." Each word was punctuated with a step. It was a halting, painful step, but it was movement. Finally he stood in front of Sam, breathing hard, arms shaking with effort.
"See, wasn't that hard, was it?" Sam taunted. "I'm sure you can make another lap."
"Sam-"
Sam hurried back to the other end, flashing Chloe a smile. She'd long since given up on them. Now, she just sat back and enjoyed the free entertainment.
"C'mon, old man."
"Going to spike your food with Benadryl, I swear. Too damn much energy." Despite the words, John turned and began the halting walk back to the other end. He couldn't even work up much annoyance at Sam. It made him so damned happy to taunt his father into pushing himself. It was better than the all-consuming drive John got subjected to the rest of the time.
And it was definitely better than the bouts of rage or despair that Sam seemed to be more and more prone to with each passing week. Now it was John reminding Sam that Dean was still out there, waiting for them. Sam didn't seem to really believe any more. John never really had. This wasn't fair to either of them, the false hope, the bullshit faith, but-
But John could see the strain written on Sam's pale face, and he couldn't bring himself to let Sam bear the full weight of Dean's death. Not yet.
One late night, as they both sat awake, staring at the ceiling, Sam's grief had boiled over. "Why hasn't he called? Sent a message somehow? It's not like Dean."
"I know. Maybe he can't, though. We don't know what kind of shape he's in. We'll find him," John had said softly. One way or another. Either somewhere out there, or in the County Morgue. At this point, John wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that the sliver of hope was keeping Sam going, keeping him from losing it completely. There was vengeance, and then there was complete self-destruction. John knew the latter too well not to recognize it now.
If Sam was wrong, if John had misjudged what Sam needed, this would get ugly.
John shook his head, coming back to the shabby PT room. He pulled himself to the end of the bars, and Sam was there, offering his arm so that John could turn himself and ease into the wheelchair. The prosthetic had come in last week, finally. The trucking company had paid for the top of the line, anything so that they didn't sue for Dean's wrongful death at one of their driver's hands. The prosthetic was flesh colored with gleaming joints, made to his body's specifications. John hated it. It wasn't just the pain where the plastic cut in, wasn't the clumsiness. He hated that it marked him as less. As a cripple.
Despite that, he was getting pretty good with it. He could walk fairly well with crutches, but he was determined not to need them.
Sam thumped John's shoulder and headed for the door, his own limp still evident. Jesus. They were a pair.
"I'm going to go hit the 'net café® I'll be back in a few. All right?"
John nodded. "If you see any interesting stories, print them out."
Sam nodded and left. When he was clear of his father's watchful eyes, he exhaled slowly. It was one thing to know that his father had lost his leg. It was another to watch Dad fight his way back, the pain as Chloe made him stretch and walk. Every inch of ground they gained was earned with hours of agony.
Sam limped down the corridor, flashing the nurses a quick smile. They gave him their best professional smile back. Dean would have had them all charmed within a day. Shame he wasn't here, instead. Sam could use help trying to convince them that he had been taking his painkillers, not palming them until he could get to the bathroom and flush the damned things. It hurt, sure, but at least that way his head was clear.
The computer room was about empty when he got there. It suited Sam fine. The kind of things he was going to look up didn't need an audience. He quickly went to one of the news search engines and put in familiar terms, looking for anything paranormal.
Three hits came up. The first was a bullshit website, no better than the geeks he and Dean had tangled with. God only knew what these idiots were going to end up creating. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the site. Just to be on the safe side.
The second was a Minnesota paper, something about a wolf attack in a local bar. That sounded promising. Maybe a lycanthrope? Clicking the button, Sam printed it out the two pages.
The third was a dead link. Was evil on its winter vacation? That old cliché ¡bout things being quiet, too quiet, preyed on Sam at night. Where was the demon? Why wait to hit them again when now would be the perfect time? Even his visions had been fewer and fewer.
With a sigh, Sam paid the surly attendant and took his print-outs. Briefly skimming, and a glance at the pictures accompanying the article, told Sam everything he needed to know. For one thing, the wreckage in no way looked like the aftermath of a lycanthrope attack. Aside from bruises and property loss, there had been little damage. A lycanthrope would've torn the occupants apart and eaten half the remains.
No, the bruises one man was proudly showing off was definitely from a long, blunt object. Probably a pool cue. Still, the sight of these people in Viking helmets and trucker hats proudly trying to cover their barfight with a complete BS story made Sam smile.
He headed back to the room with the story in hand, glancing in first to be sure Dad was mostly together. His father preferred that Sam give him room to recover after a PT session, a brief time to hurt where Sam couldn't see him. If the curtain was closed, Sam gave him space. Dad gave him the same courtesy when Sam had PT. Fucked up, maybe, but it left them some pride.
The curtain was open. Sam wandered in and flopped on the edge of his father's bed, careful of the other man's legs. He slapped the article down. "Quiet newsday in Minnesota. There's a sighting of the mysterious Viking truckers."
John snorted, paging through the article. Sam watched him read, noting the tired smile on his father's face as he saw the horned helmets. Especially the one tall guy in front of the truck.
"Hey." Sam leaned into John, frowning at the picture. "What's that by the truck?"
Raising his head, John blinked at the picture. Then he pushed it at Sam. "You've got better eyes."
Sam took the page, bringing it up close to squint at it. There was a figure by the truck. Too big to be an animal, and Sam figured that an animal wouldn't be wearing boots anyway. Or a denim jacket. Or...
Or...
His father's voice broke the sudden quiet. "What is it?"
Sam wondered when his hand started shaking. He lunged over John, fumbling for the red pen on the nightstand, and circled the figure. Then he pushed it at John, managing a choked, "Look closer."
John gave him a long, gauging look. Then he nodded and brought the picture up, studying it with all the focus Sam had seen him give a rifle scope. For a long second, nothing. John frowned, leaning in closer.
Sam knew the moment it clicked, watching the color drain from his father's face. John lowered the picture to his lap, letting it slide from his nerveless fingers. He drew in a slow, shaky breath, nodded, and looked up at Sam. His eyes shone, but the tears didn't spill over as he met Sam's eyes.
"All right," John said.
"Dean's alive," Sam murmured. He wanted it said, wanted to be sure he wasn't losing his mind. "He's in Minnesota."
An uneven smile tugged at John's mouth. He nodded, slowly, and looked back at the picture. His fingertips brushed the figure's face, as if he was afraid that it would disappear if he touched it too hard. "Adopted by Vikings. Only your brother."
Sam's laugh was a little hysterical. He leaned hard against his father, cautiously covering his hand on the picture.
With a sidelong glance, John felt a fond smile tug at his mouth. "There'll be no living with you after this, will there?"
"Won't rub it in too much." Sam closed his eyes. "Dad, why hasn't he-"
John didn't stop to think about it. He just slid an arm around Sam and shook him a little. "We'll deal with it, Sammy. Whatever it is, we can deal."
"Not from here."
"No. It'll be a couple days. We'll need a car. Get the doctor to check on you one more time."
"Dad, I'm-" John gave him a look. Sam muttered, "Yessir."
"Damn right." John went back to the paper. There was Dean's face, blurry but real. Alive. With a bad dye job, but whole. John trusted it enough to close his eyes, to think. "Okay. I'll call in contacts. Bobby's got our weapons. My journal."
"Oh! The body." Sam's head snapped up. "They've got somebody in the morgue, Dad. Some guy whose family doesn't know. We can't take off without at least telling them."
"Right. Settlement money. And they've probably got access to the handicapped vans-" John blinked at Sam. "That's... not what you meant, was it?"
Sam shook his head, slowly. "Not really, no." Then he grinned. "And I was the one heading for law school."
"Funny. Smartass." Against his side, John felt the slow tremors slide through Sam. He looked at the top of Sam's head. "Hey."
Sam opened his mouth to say he was fine, but he couldn't manage the words. He breathed out, slowly, and leaned his head on his father's shoulder. The picture of Dean's face got blurrier.
John studied Sam, the weight he'd lost, the bandages and the scars. He remembered the chunks they'd torn out of each other before Stanford, and again in their grief. Now he had Sam leaning on him, and for the first time, they could understand each other in silence. With a sigh, John gave in. Like he hadn't in years, since Sam was old enough to yowl and squirm away, he kissed the top of his boy's head.
Sam stilled, breath hitching in his throat.
John laid his chin on Sam's head. "You did good, Sammy."
Sam let his breath out slowly, his body relaxing in a way it hadn't in weeks. Probably longer.
John laid his head back, arm still firmly around Sam and closed his eyes. His boys. Both of them. You'd be so proud of them, Mary, he thought. Sam's got your good heart and my stubbornness, and Dean's got his... He thought for a moment, trying to summarize Dean into a few words, gave up. Dean's got his Dean-ness. The thought trailed off and he smiled, finally feeling the tears slide from the corners of his eyes. Dean. Alive. Whole.
His boys.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
"Come on, Dad. You can do it."
John barely glanced up at Sam, who was waiting at the end of the walkway as John continued to struggle with each step. "I'm working on it." His hands hovered over the parallel bars, fighting to walk without support.
"Jesus, you call that walking? Grandma Moses moves faster, and she's dead," Sam snarked.
John's head came up, eyes finally focusing on Sam. "Screw you, son. You're not too old for me to put over my knee."
"Fine. Go for it. But I'm not coming to you."
"I'm," John began to step forward again, picking up the pace. "Going. To. Wring. Your. Scrawny. Little. Neck." Each word was punctuated with a step. It was a halting, painful step, but it was movement. Finally he stood in front of Sam, breathing hard, arms shaking with effort.
"See, wasn't that hard, was it?" Sam taunted. "I'm sure you can make another lap."
"Sam-"
Sam hurried back to the other end, flashing Chloe a smile. She'd long since given up on them. Now, she just sat back and enjoyed the free entertainment.
"C'mon, old man."
"Going to spike your food with Benadryl, I swear. Too damn much energy." Despite the words, John turned and began the halting walk back to the other end. He couldn't even work up much annoyance at Sam. It made him so damned happy to taunt his father into pushing himself. It was better than the all-consuming drive John got subjected to the rest of the time.
And it was definitely better than the bouts of rage or despair that Sam seemed to be more and more prone to with each passing week. Now it was John reminding Sam that Dean was still out there, waiting for them. Sam didn't seem to really believe any more. John never really had. This wasn't fair to either of them, the false hope, the bullshit faith, but-
But John could see the strain written on Sam's pale face, and he couldn't bring himself to let Sam bear the full weight of Dean's death. Not yet.
One late night, as they both sat awake, staring at the ceiling, Sam's grief had boiled over. "Why hasn't he called? Sent a message somehow? It's not like Dean."
"I know. Maybe he can't, though. We don't know what kind of shape he's in. We'll find him," John had said softly. One way or another. Either somewhere out there, or in the County Morgue. At this point, John wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that the sliver of hope was keeping Sam going, keeping him from losing it completely. There was vengeance, and then there was complete self-destruction. John knew the latter too well not to recognize it now.
If Sam was wrong, if John had misjudged what Sam needed, this would get ugly.
John shook his head, coming back to the shabby PT room. He pulled himself to the end of the bars, and Sam was there, offering his arm so that John could turn himself and ease into the wheelchair. The prosthetic had come in last week, finally. The trucking company had paid for the top of the line, anything so that they didn't sue for Dean's wrongful death at one of their driver's hands. The prosthetic was flesh colored with gleaming joints, made to his body's specifications. John hated it. It wasn't just the pain where the plastic cut in, wasn't the clumsiness. He hated that it marked him as less. As a cripple.
Despite that, he was getting pretty good with it. He could walk fairly well with crutches, but he was determined not to need them.
Sam thumped John's shoulder and headed for the door, his own limp still evident. Jesus. They were a pair.
"I'm going to go hit the 'net café® I'll be back in a few. All right?"
John nodded. "If you see any interesting stories, print them out."
Sam nodded and left. When he was clear of his father's watchful eyes, he exhaled slowly. It was one thing to know that his father had lost his leg. It was another to watch Dad fight his way back, the pain as Chloe made him stretch and walk. Every inch of ground they gained was earned with hours of agony.
Sam limped down the corridor, flashing the nurses a quick smile. They gave him their best professional smile back. Dean would have had them all charmed within a day. Shame he wasn't here, instead. Sam could use help trying to convince them that he had been taking his painkillers, not palming them until he could get to the bathroom and flush the damned things. It hurt, sure, but at least that way his head was clear.
The computer room was about empty when he got there. It suited Sam fine. The kind of things he was going to look up didn't need an audience. He quickly went to one of the news search engines and put in familiar terms, looking for anything paranormal.
Three hits came up. The first was a bullshit website, no better than the geeks he and Dean had tangled with. God only knew what these idiots were going to end up creating. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the site. Just to be on the safe side.
The second was a Minnesota paper, something about a wolf attack in a local bar. That sounded promising. Maybe a lycanthrope? Clicking the button, Sam printed it out the two pages.
The third was a dead link. Was evil on its winter vacation? That old cliché ¡bout things being quiet, too quiet, preyed on Sam at night. Where was the demon? Why wait to hit them again when now would be the perfect time? Even his visions had been fewer and fewer.
With a sigh, Sam paid the surly attendant and took his print-outs. Briefly skimming, and a glance at the pictures accompanying the article, told Sam everything he needed to know. For one thing, the wreckage in no way looked like the aftermath of a lycanthrope attack. Aside from bruises and property loss, there had been little damage. A lycanthrope would've torn the occupants apart and eaten half the remains.
No, the bruises one man was proudly showing off was definitely from a long, blunt object. Probably a pool cue. Still, the sight of these people in Viking helmets and trucker hats proudly trying to cover their barfight with a complete BS story made Sam smile.
He headed back to the room with the story in hand, glancing in first to be sure Dad was mostly together. His father preferred that Sam give him room to recover after a PT session, a brief time to hurt where Sam couldn't see him. If the curtain was closed, Sam gave him space. Dad gave him the same courtesy when Sam had PT. Fucked up, maybe, but it left them some pride.
The curtain was open. Sam wandered in and flopped on the edge of his father's bed, careful of the other man's legs. He slapped the article down. "Quiet newsday in Minnesota. There's a sighting of the mysterious Viking truckers."
John snorted, paging through the article. Sam watched him read, noting the tired smile on his father's face as he saw the horned helmets. Especially the one tall guy in front of the truck.
"Hey." Sam leaned into John, frowning at the picture. "What's that by the truck?"
Raising his head, John blinked at the picture. Then he pushed it at Sam. "You've got better eyes."
Sam took the page, bringing it up close to squint at it. There was a figure by the truck. Too big to be an animal, and Sam figured that an animal wouldn't be wearing boots anyway. Or a denim jacket. Or...
Or...
His father's voice broke the sudden quiet. "What is it?"
Sam wondered when his hand started shaking. He lunged over John, fumbling for the red pen on the nightstand, and circled the figure. Then he pushed it at John, managing a choked, "Look closer."
John gave him a long, gauging look. Then he nodded and brought the picture up, studying it with all the focus Sam had seen him give a rifle scope. For a long second, nothing. John frowned, leaning in closer.
Sam knew the moment it clicked, watching the color drain from his father's face. John lowered the picture to his lap, letting it slide from his nerveless fingers. He drew in a slow, shaky breath, nodded, and looked up at Sam. His eyes shone, but the tears didn't spill over as he met Sam's eyes.
"All right," John said.
"Dean's alive," Sam murmured. He wanted it said, wanted to be sure he wasn't losing his mind. "He's in Minnesota."
An uneven smile tugged at John's mouth. He nodded, slowly, and looked back at the picture. His fingertips brushed the figure's face, as if he was afraid that it would disappear if he touched it too hard. "Adopted by Vikings. Only your brother."
Sam's laugh was a little hysterical. He leaned hard against his father, cautiously covering his hand on the picture.
With a sidelong glance, John felt a fond smile tug at his mouth. "There'll be no living with you after this, will there?"
"Won't rub it in too much." Sam closed his eyes. "Dad, why hasn't he-"
John didn't stop to think about it. He just slid an arm around Sam and shook him a little. "We'll deal with it, Sammy. Whatever it is, we can deal."
"Not from here."
"No. It'll be a couple days. We'll need a car. Get the doctor to check on you one more time."
"Dad, I'm-" John gave him a look. Sam muttered, "Yessir."
"Damn right." John went back to the paper. There was Dean's face, blurry but real. Alive. With a bad dye job, but whole. John trusted it enough to close his eyes, to think. "Okay. I'll call in contacts. Bobby's got our weapons. My journal."
"Oh! The body." Sam's head snapped up. "They've got somebody in the morgue, Dad. Some guy whose family doesn't know. We can't take off without at least telling them."
"Right. Settlement money. And they've probably got access to the handicapped vans-" John blinked at Sam. "That's... not what you meant, was it?"
Sam shook his head, slowly. "Not really, no." Then he grinned. "And I was the one heading for law school."
"Funny. Smartass." Against his side, John felt the slow tremors slide through Sam. He looked at the top of Sam's head. "Hey."
Sam opened his mouth to say he was fine, but he couldn't manage the words. He breathed out, slowly, and leaned his head on his father's shoulder. The picture of Dean's face got blurrier.
John studied Sam, the weight he'd lost, the bandages and the scars. He remembered the chunks they'd torn out of each other before Stanford, and again in their grief. Now he had Sam leaning on him, and for the first time, they could understand each other in silence. With a sigh, John gave in. Like he hadn't in years, since Sam was old enough to yowl and squirm away, he kissed the top of his boy's head.
Sam stilled, breath hitching in his throat.
John laid his chin on Sam's head. "You did good, Sammy."
Sam let his breath out slowly, his body relaxing in a way it hadn't in weeks. Probably longer.
John laid his head back, arm still firmly around Sam and closed his eyes. His boys. Both of them. You'd be so proud of them, Mary, he thought. Sam's got your good heart and my stubbornness, and Dean's got his... He thought for a moment, trying to summarize Dean into a few words, gave up. Dean's got his Dean-ness. The thought trailed off and he smiled, finally feeling the tears slide from the corners of his eyes. Dean. Alive. Whole.
His boys.