Fic: Of Bastard Saints, 28
Jun. 3rd, 2006 07:06 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, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Three days. Three of the roughest days Sam had ever lived, and there was a lot of competition.
The drug cocktail kicked Dean's ass. The demon was kicking it harder.
Sam had hauled a cot up from Missouri's cellar, though it had damned near required bouncing Dad off the wall before he'd let Sam carry it. It was there in the room in case either of them took a break long enough to sleep. That stayed theoretical, because Sam couldn't make himself move away from Dean's bed.
The spare bed was a twin, barely big enough for Dean. Sam had to wedge himself against the wall, but he managed to crowd in on Dean's right side without touching. He'd learned that lesson the first night.
Awake, Dean could fake it. Drugged, he didn't know them. He recoiled from Sam and flinched from their father. Dad said something about the pain, maybe spasms from healing, the fever. But Sam knew nightmares when he saw them.
That thing in the basement was bound not to hurt Dean anymore. But God, it'd done its damage, and now Dean was where they couldn't touch him.
Sam hated this. It was like Dean dying all over again, this time in slow motion isolation. He laid up nights and watched the iv drip, counted the bruises and the wounds, listened as Dean's breath hitched in his sleep. After the first night, he knew the pattern; the closer Dean got to waking, the worse those noises got.
Dad only let him get that close to conscious once, around the second day. Bad timing; it'd been about the same time as a fever spike. The ragged, wounded sounds had been bad enough. Dean fighting like hell, fighting to survive, when Dad went to re-up the meds had been worse. It'd taken both Dad and Sam holding him down to get the needle in. More bruises on all of them, but they'd stopped Dean before he could get a hold of the knife on the nightstand.
Dean had stared at their father, feverish hate in his eyes, as the drug took him down again. They got more careful with the drugs.
Which explained why they were here now, Dad on the end of the bed, Sam sprawled beside Dean, watching as Dean started to come out of it again. Their father had another syringe ready, waiting quietly.
It'd been a slow morning. Sam had a lot of time to study Dean's breathing, dozing off occasionally only to twitch awake as the pattern changed. Every time he looked at their father, he hadn't so much as blinked. After a while, Sam curled his fingers around Dean's good wrist. The pulse there was steady, comforting.
Sam didn't get a lot of thinking done. Too tired. He spent most of his time in a gray twilight zone, not entirely awake or asleep. His mind felt raw and strained, like a muscle that was shaky from overuse. He'd done too much in the cemetery, fought too hard for the visions.
A slight shift in Dean's breathing made Sam glance at him again, just checking. He found Dean's eyes open, watching him tiredly.
Sam smiled, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Hey."
"We married now?" Dean rasped.
Wrinkling his nose, Sam felt Dean's face. Still hot, but better than it had been. When Dean grimaced and moved his head away, Sam let him go. "You want some water? There's soup downstairs."
"Dude," Dean said, an entire essay of disturbed in the one word. "Settle down there, Florence. Give me a minute."
"Sorry." Sam searched Dean's face, the weary smile, the dark circles still under his eyes. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Kittens scare the hell out of you."
Sam smiled. "I'm not allowed to tell you anything, am I?"
"Not if it belongs on a Hallmark card."
"I don't think there's a card for 'thank you for saving my life.' Or 'sorry demons almost killed you.'" Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. "Or how about 'sorry you almost walked into hell, you jackass'? That might be handy."
Dean sighed, reaching up to grind his palm into his eye. "Sammy, you really need to work on your timing. Later, okay? When I'm not fucking doped up."
Later seemed to mean 'never, now shut up about it' in Dean's native language. Still, looking at Dean, Sam couldn't make himself argue. "Okay. It's been a minute. You need anything?"
"Yeah. For you to go shower or something. You reek." Dean managed a lopsided smirk. "Bring me back a beer, honey."
"Freak," Sam sighed. Careful not to jar Dean, he climbed down the bed and got to his feet. "Don't go anywhere."
Dean rolled his eyes, like that didn't even dignify a response. Sam didn't buy it for a second, but the rough sound of Dean poking at him was reassuring enough that Sam could make himself leave the room.
As the sound of footsteps faded, John looked at his son. Watched Dean fade when Sam wasn't there to reassure. Dean looked like hell, suddenly young as he closed his eyes.
John considered asking how Dean was, really. The chances that he'd get an honest answer were too low for him to go through with it. Besides which, just looking at Dean told him pretty clearly.
"How many days?" Dean asked finally.
"Three."
Dean grunted, opening his eyes to look at the syringe by John's leg. He smiled, not like it was funny. "That for me?"
"I'll let you know." When Dean started to say something, John held up a hand. "That's not open for negotiation. I know you, son. You'd try to butch out being skinned alive if it meant you could keep an eye on Sammy."
"Sam," Dean murmured. "He can handle himself all right."
"Yeah, I kind of got that."
"Okay." Dean laid his head back on the pillow, said with false calm, "So. That exorcism."
John sighed and shifted to his feet, limping badly on the first step. He went to the head of the bed, standing quietly between Dean and the door. When Dean didn't edge away, John laid his hand on Dean's forehead. "You're not okay for this," John said. "Give it another few days."
"Few more bad days. Doped up with that thing whispering in my head." Dean shook his head, meeting John's eyes. There was a raw desperation under his smile. "No, Dad. I can't."
"Dean, this isn't-" John stopped, considering the stubborn set of his son's jaw, and tried again from another angle. "This could kill you if I'm not careful."
"I know." Dean's smile was bitter. "I know how bad it is. I don't want you to do it. Call Andrew or... somebody. Jim, or- "
Damn. John'd underestimated the fever. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving the bottle of holy water, the rosary he kept in the change-pocket of his wallet. "Jim died, Dean. I'm doing this. Don't trust anybody else with your life."
"And when I die on you?" Dean bit off. "Dad-"
"Nobody's dying." John wound the rosary around his fingers, not looking at Dean's face. "Not today."
"I let it in." Dean's voice was raw. "It's too deep. Just-... there's one more bullet in the Colt."
John watched the cross dangle on the end of its chain, swinging gently, casting its shadow across Dean's pale face. He remembered asking- hell, begging Sam for the same. He remembered that exhaustion, the disgust of what he had done and almost done to his boys. And he remembered Dean, ordering Sam to hold fire.
He raised his eyes from the cross, fixing his attention on Dean. He held Dean's eyes, steady, not blinking, until he saw that Dean knew he couldn't be convinced otherwise. Until they understood each other, at least that much.
Dean's mouth curved, not a smile. He closed his eyes, but not before John saw they were too bright. "Dad, I'm sorry."
John reached out, pushing the hair out of Dean's face with the back of his fingers. He noted the thin scar at Dean's hairline, spoke quietly. "It'll hurt like a bitch. Do you want anything?"
Dean's mouth was a thin, pale line. He shook his head fiercely, drawing in a shaky breath as he opened his eyes again. "I'm not dying in my sleep," he said roughly. "Love you. Tell Sam..."
"I will if I have to," John murmured.
"You don't have to," said Sam's voice from the doorway. "Thin walls."
Dean closed his eyes. "Sam, you don't need to see this-"
"I'm not leaving," Sam muttered. "Asshole." He slipped past John and squirmed onto the bed, gently nudging Dean's head up, onto Sam's lap.
"Dude," Dean gritted. "What the hell?"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam said sharply. "Just deal." Sam didn't bother saying that if this was it, Dean wasn't dying alone, without comfort.
John took a deep breath. "Ready?"
Dean glanced around the room, eyes landing on the leather wallet laying on the nightstand. "Borrow your wallet?"
Sam handed it to him without comment, and Dean clutched it. "Ready."
John nodded, murmuring a silent prayer to whoever was listening, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei. Patris omnipotentis," John murmured, gently making the sign of the cross on Dean's forehead, watching as his jaw tightened. "Et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti."
Dean's body arched, his breath sucking in with an agonized noise, and John paused, hating this, hating himself for what he was doing to his boy.
Dean's eyes met his, a command in them, and John nodded, his fingers gentle on Dean's forehead as he made another cross. "Ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est."
Little noises were escaping Dean now, tiny sounds that he couldn't quite choke back. He glared at John. "Finish it," he rasped, shoving the wallet between his teeth and biting down.
I'm sorry, Dean, so sorry. I should have gotten there sooner, should have been a better father, John thought.
"Ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum."
Dean screamed, his body seizing painfully, and John bit his lip until he tasted blood. He glanced at Sam, and his eyes widened. Sam's hands were clamped on either side of Dean's head, his eyes fixed on something John couldn't see. A thin trickle of blood was sliding out of his nose. Most disturbing though, was the thin red cord that Vahalla's grandmother had given him. It was slowly turning black, eaten up by whatever Sam was doing.
John considered punching Sam again, demanding that he not risk himself, but really it was a little late for that. If this was Sam's battlefield, so be it. He wet his finger with holy water and brushed it steadily over Dean's forehead, his eyes, his lips, and his heart. "Qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem." As the final word slid out of his mouth, Dean seized again, and John grabbed his arm, holding on. If this was it, Dean would know he was there.
Dean's breath hitched, and John's grip tightened. Then, it slowed, steadied, and Sam's head flopped back against the headboard.
John reached up with a washcloth and wiped the blood off Sam's upper lip, and Sam lifted his head, regarding John with tired eyes. "Nice job, Dad."
"You too."
"What about me?" Dean groaned, spitting Sam's wallet onto the pillow. "Wow, that sucked." Sam tried not to look at the deep set of grooves Dean had bitten into the leather in his pain.
"Sorry about that," John murmured. "Need some pain meds?"
"Not yet," Dean said softly. "I just." He took a shallow breath, wincing as the ribs caught him. "No. I'm okay."
"Yeah," John said. "You are. Now get some rest. I'm going to grab a shower. If you need the meds, take them." He rumpled Dean's hair and limped from the room.
After a long minute, Dean looked up at Sam. "Dude. The black choker? A little 1980s."
Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Jerk."
"Bitch," Dean replied automatically. "Do me a favor?"
"Sure. What?"
"Go check on Dad," Dean said. "I'll be fine for a couple minutes, I promise." When Sam simply eyed him suspiciously, Dean hissed out a breath. "Just do it, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere except back to sleep."
Sam finally nodded, slowly uncurling his legs and coming to his feet. "I'll be right back."
"Got it. You're such a fucking girl."
It took a few minutes to find their father. Sam finally found him, sitting on the back porch, staring at nothing, and shaking like a leaf. "You okay?"
John nodded. "How close to the line were we?" he asked quietly, touching the blackened cord around Sam's neck.
"About twenty feet on the wrong side," Sam admitted, shaking his head. "Jesus, that thing is nasty. We've gotta get rid of it somehow, as far away from him as we can."
John nodded. "I'm working on it. Once Dean's on his feet, I'll call Andrew, see if he has any options."
"I did my best, but I'm pretty sure the son of a bitch took some of him with it. Some of Dean." Sam undid the blackened cord with shaky fingers. "Shit. If that was helping with the pain, I don't want to know."
John rumpled his hair gently. "Do you need some of the painkillers? We've got plain old codeine, you know."
"Yeah, I might grab something." Sam smiled tiredly. "I think I'm going to go check Dean, maybe get some sleep."
"Sounds like a plan. Won't be far behind." When Sam offered his hand, John accepted, letting his boy pull him to his feet. "Sam."
"Yeah?"
John pulled him into a quick, hard hug. "Good work, son."
"We got him back," Sam said. "No other option, right sir?"
John smiled. "None."
Dean barely stirred as Sam slid back onto the bed. It wasn't until Sam's breathing slowed that he gave up feigning sleep and stared at the ceiling. He almost missed the demon. At least then he didn't have to listen to his own thoughts. Recriminations swirled in his head, dancing among the handful of memories he'd regained.
So little for twenty seven years. Snippets. And almost none of the emotion had come with them. Which was weird. He'd have sworn he remembered more, felt more before the demon had gone. Fear, pain, sadness, loneliness-god, the loneliness-the empty hole where the pieces should fit. And under it all, a simmering rage. Not the demon's, no. This was all his own. Something he could lay claim to, say "this is me."
He'd scared both of them with his disappearing act, with the fight in the graveyard. Dean could see that much, but damned if it made any sense to him. They were hunters. They'd lost track of each other before. They were in the field, of course they'd take damage, of course-
And none of that had mattered to Dean when he'd thought he'd lost Sam.
Damn it, this didn't make any sense. Guns made sense. Killing made sense. Not trying to figure out why they hadn't let him finish it for Mom, for all of them. Instead there was this, the exorcism, the IVs, the demon bound in the basement.
He'd been done.
Dean wasn't sorry that he lived. He liked living, liked pretty girls and Sam's grin and sunlight and the rumble of passing cars. He liked breathing and a comfortable bed. But what he liked didn't matter here.
That thing was still alive. Waiting. Watching. In the basement, close enough to touch.
Close enough that he still heard it whispering every time he closed his eyes, soft words that tempted him to listen. It had a lot of knowledge it could give him. Power. The strength to finish this for Sam, for their dad, if Dean just would let it back in...
Missouri's house was old, settling into its foundations. Its floorboards creaked as his father came back into the room. His gait wasn't steady, a subtle careful wrongness. Dean turned his head to frown at him, and murmured, "You okay?"
John raised an eyebrow, lowering himself painfully to the edge of the cot. "Thought you were going to try to sleep."
"I didn't say that." Dean shifted a little, wincing as his ribs protested, and frowned at his father. "Didn't see you take a hit to the leg."
The crooked smile ran away from John's face. He looked at Dean for a long, regretful moment. Then he sighed and leaned down, knocking his knuckles against his leg with a hollow, metallic sound. "The wreck. Pinned between the door and the dash. They couldn't save it. Tried, but it was too screwed up. I was lucky, though. I had the tourniquet on from the gunshot, so I didn't bleed much."
"Oh." Dean distantly heard how choked he sounded. Memory hit him, and he tensed. "Oh, God. You turned around in the seat."
Pained, John closed his eyes. Of all the fucking things he had to remember...
"You turned around to- to put on pressure, to tell me it was-" Dean swallowed convulsively. "Your leg was pinned, and you ripped it out of- they could've saved it if you hadn't-"
"I did what I had to," John said evenly. "Wouldn't change a damned thing."
Half a dozen responses swam through Dean's mind, beginning with 'you should've helped Sam' and ending with cursing for a long while. He stuck with a simple, "Oh, fuck. Dad."
John sat on the edge of the bed with a soft sigh. "It's okay." Dean's incredulous face almost made him smile. "I mean, it's not my first choice, but I'm dealing with it. Hell, it's a couple more places to hide an extra clip."
Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry." The memory of the crash was still fresh, the pain from the demon's torture, the noise, the impact. And then, his father's bloody face, the strong hand pressing over his stomach, keeping him from bleeding out. That hoarse voice, ordering Dean to stay with him, that it was barely a scratch, dammit.
John brushed his fingers over Dean's cheek, ignoring the flinch. "Dean. I mean it. If I could go back, I wouldn't change a damned thing. You and your brother are the most important things in my life."
Dean didn't respond, just stared at the ceiling with haunted eyes.
"We thought you were dead, you know," John said softly. "They messed up your paperwork with a drug dealer who'd been in a collision with a bus. He didn't make it."
Dean's eyes were on him now. "That's why you were a day behind me."
"Yeah. That and I taught you how to find cover a little too well." John shook his head. "Your brother though...he wouldn't believe it. And then, we found that picture of Moose Days."
Dean's lips curled up in a faint, distant smile.
John took a deep breath. "I- God. I thought that as long as I got that demon, anything was justified, any sacrifice worth it. Then, I woke up in a hospital with one leg to be told that you were dead, and Sammy was in a coma, and they didn't know if he'd wake up- or if he'd still be Sam when he did."
Dean's eyes sharpened, glancing over at Sam. "He's okay, right?"
John nodded. "Yeah. He's a Winchester," he said simply.
Dean breathed a little easier. "Yeah."
"It wasn't worth it," John said abruptly. "It wasn't worth your life. Your brother was right. Some things are more important."
"Are you possessed again?" Dean asked flatly.
John forced a faint smile. "Nope."
"Okay." When it looked like John was about to continue, Dean sighed, wincing theatrically. "I think I'm ready for the drugs again."
John's eyes narrowed, but he still eased the needle into Dean's arm, watched him as he slid into sleep. Things would get better. They would make Dean see what he meant to them. Fix the holes the demon had left inside his son.
Patch up the wounds John had made himself.
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, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Three days. Three of the roughest days Sam had ever lived, and there was a lot of competition.
The drug cocktail kicked Dean's ass. The demon was kicking it harder.
Sam had hauled a cot up from Missouri's cellar, though it had damned near required bouncing Dad off the wall before he'd let Sam carry it. It was there in the room in case either of them took a break long enough to sleep. That stayed theoretical, because Sam couldn't make himself move away from Dean's bed.
The spare bed was a twin, barely big enough for Dean. Sam had to wedge himself against the wall, but he managed to crowd in on Dean's right side without touching. He'd learned that lesson the first night.
Awake, Dean could fake it. Drugged, he didn't know them. He recoiled from Sam and flinched from their father. Dad said something about the pain, maybe spasms from healing, the fever. But Sam knew nightmares when he saw them.
That thing in the basement was bound not to hurt Dean anymore. But God, it'd done its damage, and now Dean was where they couldn't touch him.
Sam hated this. It was like Dean dying all over again, this time in slow motion isolation. He laid up nights and watched the iv drip, counted the bruises and the wounds, listened as Dean's breath hitched in his sleep. After the first night, he knew the pattern; the closer Dean got to waking, the worse those noises got.
Dad only let him get that close to conscious once, around the second day. Bad timing; it'd been about the same time as a fever spike. The ragged, wounded sounds had been bad enough. Dean fighting like hell, fighting to survive, when Dad went to re-up the meds had been worse. It'd taken both Dad and Sam holding him down to get the needle in. More bruises on all of them, but they'd stopped Dean before he could get a hold of the knife on the nightstand.
Dean had stared at their father, feverish hate in his eyes, as the drug took him down again. They got more careful with the drugs.
Which explained why they were here now, Dad on the end of the bed, Sam sprawled beside Dean, watching as Dean started to come out of it again. Their father had another syringe ready, waiting quietly.
It'd been a slow morning. Sam had a lot of time to study Dean's breathing, dozing off occasionally only to twitch awake as the pattern changed. Every time he looked at their father, he hadn't so much as blinked. After a while, Sam curled his fingers around Dean's good wrist. The pulse there was steady, comforting.
Sam didn't get a lot of thinking done. Too tired. He spent most of his time in a gray twilight zone, not entirely awake or asleep. His mind felt raw and strained, like a muscle that was shaky from overuse. He'd done too much in the cemetery, fought too hard for the visions.
A slight shift in Dean's breathing made Sam glance at him again, just checking. He found Dean's eyes open, watching him tiredly.
Sam smiled, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Hey."
"We married now?" Dean rasped.
Wrinkling his nose, Sam felt Dean's face. Still hot, but better than it had been. When Dean grimaced and moved his head away, Sam let him go. "You want some water? There's soup downstairs."
"Dude," Dean said, an entire essay of disturbed in the one word. "Settle down there, Florence. Give me a minute."
"Sorry." Sam searched Dean's face, the weary smile, the dark circles still under his eyes. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Kittens scare the hell out of you."
Sam smiled. "I'm not allowed to tell you anything, am I?"
"Not if it belongs on a Hallmark card."
"I don't think there's a card for 'thank you for saving my life.' Or 'sorry demons almost killed you.'" Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. "Or how about 'sorry you almost walked into hell, you jackass'? That might be handy."
Dean sighed, reaching up to grind his palm into his eye. "Sammy, you really need to work on your timing. Later, okay? When I'm not fucking doped up."
Later seemed to mean 'never, now shut up about it' in Dean's native language. Still, looking at Dean, Sam couldn't make himself argue. "Okay. It's been a minute. You need anything?"
"Yeah. For you to go shower or something. You reek." Dean managed a lopsided smirk. "Bring me back a beer, honey."
"Freak," Sam sighed. Careful not to jar Dean, he climbed down the bed and got to his feet. "Don't go anywhere."
Dean rolled his eyes, like that didn't even dignify a response. Sam didn't buy it for a second, but the rough sound of Dean poking at him was reassuring enough that Sam could make himself leave the room.
As the sound of footsteps faded, John looked at his son. Watched Dean fade when Sam wasn't there to reassure. Dean looked like hell, suddenly young as he closed his eyes.
John considered asking how Dean was, really. The chances that he'd get an honest answer were too low for him to go through with it. Besides which, just looking at Dean told him pretty clearly.
"How many days?" Dean asked finally.
"Three."
Dean grunted, opening his eyes to look at the syringe by John's leg. He smiled, not like it was funny. "That for me?"
"I'll let you know." When Dean started to say something, John held up a hand. "That's not open for negotiation. I know you, son. You'd try to butch out being skinned alive if it meant you could keep an eye on Sammy."
"Sam," Dean murmured. "He can handle himself all right."
"Yeah, I kind of got that."
"Okay." Dean laid his head back on the pillow, said with false calm, "So. That exorcism."
John sighed and shifted to his feet, limping badly on the first step. He went to the head of the bed, standing quietly between Dean and the door. When Dean didn't edge away, John laid his hand on Dean's forehead. "You're not okay for this," John said. "Give it another few days."
"Few more bad days. Doped up with that thing whispering in my head." Dean shook his head, meeting John's eyes. There was a raw desperation under his smile. "No, Dad. I can't."
"Dean, this isn't-" John stopped, considering the stubborn set of his son's jaw, and tried again from another angle. "This could kill you if I'm not careful."
"I know." Dean's smile was bitter. "I know how bad it is. I don't want you to do it. Call Andrew or... somebody. Jim, or- "
Damn. John'd underestimated the fever. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving the bottle of holy water, the rosary he kept in the change-pocket of his wallet. "Jim died, Dean. I'm doing this. Don't trust anybody else with your life."
"And when I die on you?" Dean bit off. "Dad-"
"Nobody's dying." John wound the rosary around his fingers, not looking at Dean's face. "Not today."
"I let it in." Dean's voice was raw. "It's too deep. Just-... there's one more bullet in the Colt."
John watched the cross dangle on the end of its chain, swinging gently, casting its shadow across Dean's pale face. He remembered asking- hell, begging Sam for the same. He remembered that exhaustion, the disgust of what he had done and almost done to his boys. And he remembered Dean, ordering Sam to hold fire.
He raised his eyes from the cross, fixing his attention on Dean. He held Dean's eyes, steady, not blinking, until he saw that Dean knew he couldn't be convinced otherwise. Until they understood each other, at least that much.
Dean's mouth curved, not a smile. He closed his eyes, but not before John saw they were too bright. "Dad, I'm sorry."
John reached out, pushing the hair out of Dean's face with the back of his fingers. He noted the thin scar at Dean's hairline, spoke quietly. "It'll hurt like a bitch. Do you want anything?"
Dean's mouth was a thin, pale line. He shook his head fiercely, drawing in a shaky breath as he opened his eyes again. "I'm not dying in my sleep," he said roughly. "Love you. Tell Sam..."
"I will if I have to," John murmured.
"You don't have to," said Sam's voice from the doorway. "Thin walls."
Dean closed his eyes. "Sam, you don't need to see this-"
"I'm not leaving," Sam muttered. "Asshole." He slipped past John and squirmed onto the bed, gently nudging Dean's head up, onto Sam's lap.
"Dude," Dean gritted. "What the hell?"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam said sharply. "Just deal." Sam didn't bother saying that if this was it, Dean wasn't dying alone, without comfort.
John took a deep breath. "Ready?"
Dean glanced around the room, eyes landing on the leather wallet laying on the nightstand. "Borrow your wallet?"
Sam handed it to him without comment, and Dean clutched it. "Ready."
John nodded, murmuring a silent prayer to whoever was listening, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei. Patris omnipotentis," John murmured, gently making the sign of the cross on Dean's forehead, watching as his jaw tightened. "Et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti."
Dean's body arched, his breath sucking in with an agonized noise, and John paused, hating this, hating himself for what he was doing to his boy.
Dean's eyes met his, a command in them, and John nodded, his fingers gentle on Dean's forehead as he made another cross. "Ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est."
Little noises were escaping Dean now, tiny sounds that he couldn't quite choke back. He glared at John. "Finish it," he rasped, shoving the wallet between his teeth and biting down.
I'm sorry, Dean, so sorry. I should have gotten there sooner, should have been a better father, John thought.
"Ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum."
Dean screamed, his body seizing painfully, and John bit his lip until he tasted blood. He glanced at Sam, and his eyes widened. Sam's hands were clamped on either side of Dean's head, his eyes fixed on something John couldn't see. A thin trickle of blood was sliding out of his nose. Most disturbing though, was the thin red cord that Vahalla's grandmother had given him. It was slowly turning black, eaten up by whatever Sam was doing.
John considered punching Sam again, demanding that he not risk himself, but really it was a little late for that. If this was Sam's battlefield, so be it. He wet his finger with holy water and brushed it steadily over Dean's forehead, his eyes, his lips, and his heart. "Qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem." As the final word slid out of his mouth, Dean seized again, and John grabbed his arm, holding on. If this was it, Dean would know he was there.
Dean's breath hitched, and John's grip tightened. Then, it slowed, steadied, and Sam's head flopped back against the headboard.
John reached up with a washcloth and wiped the blood off Sam's upper lip, and Sam lifted his head, regarding John with tired eyes. "Nice job, Dad."
"You too."
"What about me?" Dean groaned, spitting Sam's wallet onto the pillow. "Wow, that sucked." Sam tried not to look at the deep set of grooves Dean had bitten into the leather in his pain.
"Sorry about that," John murmured. "Need some pain meds?"
"Not yet," Dean said softly. "I just." He took a shallow breath, wincing as the ribs caught him. "No. I'm okay."
"Yeah," John said. "You are. Now get some rest. I'm going to grab a shower. If you need the meds, take them." He rumpled Dean's hair and limped from the room.
After a long minute, Dean looked up at Sam. "Dude. The black choker? A little 1980s."
Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Jerk."
"Bitch," Dean replied automatically. "Do me a favor?"
"Sure. What?"
"Go check on Dad," Dean said. "I'll be fine for a couple minutes, I promise." When Sam simply eyed him suspiciously, Dean hissed out a breath. "Just do it, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere except back to sleep."
Sam finally nodded, slowly uncurling his legs and coming to his feet. "I'll be right back."
"Got it. You're such a fucking girl."
It took a few minutes to find their father. Sam finally found him, sitting on the back porch, staring at nothing, and shaking like a leaf. "You okay?"
John nodded. "How close to the line were we?" he asked quietly, touching the blackened cord around Sam's neck.
"About twenty feet on the wrong side," Sam admitted, shaking his head. "Jesus, that thing is nasty. We've gotta get rid of it somehow, as far away from him as we can."
John nodded. "I'm working on it. Once Dean's on his feet, I'll call Andrew, see if he has any options."
"I did my best, but I'm pretty sure the son of a bitch took some of him with it. Some of Dean." Sam undid the blackened cord with shaky fingers. "Shit. If that was helping with the pain, I don't want to know."
John rumpled his hair gently. "Do you need some of the painkillers? We've got plain old codeine, you know."
"Yeah, I might grab something." Sam smiled tiredly. "I think I'm going to go check Dean, maybe get some sleep."
"Sounds like a plan. Won't be far behind." When Sam offered his hand, John accepted, letting his boy pull him to his feet. "Sam."
"Yeah?"
John pulled him into a quick, hard hug. "Good work, son."
"We got him back," Sam said. "No other option, right sir?"
John smiled. "None."
Dean barely stirred as Sam slid back onto the bed. It wasn't until Sam's breathing slowed that he gave up feigning sleep and stared at the ceiling. He almost missed the demon. At least then he didn't have to listen to his own thoughts. Recriminations swirled in his head, dancing among the handful of memories he'd regained.
So little for twenty seven years. Snippets. And almost none of the emotion had come with them. Which was weird. He'd have sworn he remembered more, felt more before the demon had gone. Fear, pain, sadness, loneliness-god, the loneliness-the empty hole where the pieces should fit. And under it all, a simmering rage. Not the demon's, no. This was all his own. Something he could lay claim to, say "this is me."
He'd scared both of them with his disappearing act, with the fight in the graveyard. Dean could see that much, but damned if it made any sense to him. They were hunters. They'd lost track of each other before. They were in the field, of course they'd take damage, of course-
And none of that had mattered to Dean when he'd thought he'd lost Sam.
Damn it, this didn't make any sense. Guns made sense. Killing made sense. Not trying to figure out why they hadn't let him finish it for Mom, for all of them. Instead there was this, the exorcism, the IVs, the demon bound in the basement.
He'd been done.
Dean wasn't sorry that he lived. He liked living, liked pretty girls and Sam's grin and sunlight and the rumble of passing cars. He liked breathing and a comfortable bed. But what he liked didn't matter here.
That thing was still alive. Waiting. Watching. In the basement, close enough to touch.
Close enough that he still heard it whispering every time he closed his eyes, soft words that tempted him to listen. It had a lot of knowledge it could give him. Power. The strength to finish this for Sam, for their dad, if Dean just would let it back in...
Missouri's house was old, settling into its foundations. Its floorboards creaked as his father came back into the room. His gait wasn't steady, a subtle careful wrongness. Dean turned his head to frown at him, and murmured, "You okay?"
John raised an eyebrow, lowering himself painfully to the edge of the cot. "Thought you were going to try to sleep."
"I didn't say that." Dean shifted a little, wincing as his ribs protested, and frowned at his father. "Didn't see you take a hit to the leg."
The crooked smile ran away from John's face. He looked at Dean for a long, regretful moment. Then he sighed and leaned down, knocking his knuckles against his leg with a hollow, metallic sound. "The wreck. Pinned between the door and the dash. They couldn't save it. Tried, but it was too screwed up. I was lucky, though. I had the tourniquet on from the gunshot, so I didn't bleed much."
"Oh." Dean distantly heard how choked he sounded. Memory hit him, and he tensed. "Oh, God. You turned around in the seat."
Pained, John closed his eyes. Of all the fucking things he had to remember...
"You turned around to- to put on pressure, to tell me it was-" Dean swallowed convulsively. "Your leg was pinned, and you ripped it out of- they could've saved it if you hadn't-"
"I did what I had to," John said evenly. "Wouldn't change a damned thing."
Half a dozen responses swam through Dean's mind, beginning with 'you should've helped Sam' and ending with cursing for a long while. He stuck with a simple, "Oh, fuck. Dad."
John sat on the edge of the bed with a soft sigh. "It's okay." Dean's incredulous face almost made him smile. "I mean, it's not my first choice, but I'm dealing with it. Hell, it's a couple more places to hide an extra clip."
Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry." The memory of the crash was still fresh, the pain from the demon's torture, the noise, the impact. And then, his father's bloody face, the strong hand pressing over his stomach, keeping him from bleeding out. That hoarse voice, ordering Dean to stay with him, that it was barely a scratch, dammit.
John brushed his fingers over Dean's cheek, ignoring the flinch. "Dean. I mean it. If I could go back, I wouldn't change a damned thing. You and your brother are the most important things in my life."
Dean didn't respond, just stared at the ceiling with haunted eyes.
"We thought you were dead, you know," John said softly. "They messed up your paperwork with a drug dealer who'd been in a collision with a bus. He didn't make it."
Dean's eyes were on him now. "That's why you were a day behind me."
"Yeah. That and I taught you how to find cover a little too well." John shook his head. "Your brother though...he wouldn't believe it. And then, we found that picture of Moose Days."
Dean's lips curled up in a faint, distant smile.
John took a deep breath. "I- God. I thought that as long as I got that demon, anything was justified, any sacrifice worth it. Then, I woke up in a hospital with one leg to be told that you were dead, and Sammy was in a coma, and they didn't know if he'd wake up- or if he'd still be Sam when he did."
Dean's eyes sharpened, glancing over at Sam. "He's okay, right?"
John nodded. "Yeah. He's a Winchester," he said simply.
Dean breathed a little easier. "Yeah."
"It wasn't worth it," John said abruptly. "It wasn't worth your life. Your brother was right. Some things are more important."
"Are you possessed again?" Dean asked flatly.
John forced a faint smile. "Nope."
"Okay." When it looked like John was about to continue, Dean sighed, wincing theatrically. "I think I'm ready for the drugs again."
John's eyes narrowed, but he still eased the needle into Dean's arm, watched him as he slid into sleep. Things would get better. They would make Dean see what he meant to them. Fix the holes the demon had left inside his son.
Patch up the wounds John had made himself.