FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 32/36

[nilchance]

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors: 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.



By the time John got up the next day, the sun had risen high overhead. He blinked muzzily, confused for a moment. Jesus. Was it really almost eleven? The hell was wrong with him?

Memory returned a moment later, and he relaxed, suddenly understanding why he'd gotten the best night of sleep he could remember. No more demon. Nothing to hunt.

He got himself out of bed and slid the prosthetic on, wincing as it bit into the sore flesh. He should probably call the VA, schedule up a check up, get going on the PT soon. Once, it would have sounded like the most boring life imaginable. Still did, actually. But he'd deal-maybe get back into fixing cars. Classics, like the Impala.

Sam was sitting at the table when he made it downstairs. He looked like he'd just woken up. "Dean went jogging, according to his note."

"Dean went... jogging," John said. "As in running. When nothing was chasing him?"

"Yeah. Imagine that." Sam shook his head. "I'm pretty sure it's not the best thing for his ribs."

"Probably not," John said, picking up a cup and pouring some coffee. "You go ahead and tell him that."

Sam didn't bother to answer, or look up from his toast as he made a face. "If you have a list of shit we need from the grocery store, I'll go get it while you're having a chat with Dean."

"Thanks. I'll make one up." John shook his head and grabbed a pen and piece of paper. "Never thought I'd say those words. Grocery list. Just doesn't have the ring of ammo inventory."

Sam smiled wryly. "Yeah. It's been... weird, staying here for two weeks. I'm used to spending a few days, a long weekend and then moving on."

"Yeah. There you go," John muttered, shoving the slip of paper at him. "Can you read that?"

Sam squinted. "I don't think so. Unless that really says salad."

"Hey, I know about the food groups. All..." John stopped, thought. "Five of them."

"Jack Daniels? Not a food group." Sam's lopsided smile took the sting out of those words.

"Chloe said it'd help with the PT if I lost a few pounds." John scratched at his jaw, not meeting Sam's eyes. "And I'm not getting any younger."

"In this family, you never know. You could be." Sam finished his toast, folded the paper up and stood. "I'll head up the road. Hey, Dean."

Damn, John's instincts were getting dull. He didn't even hear Dean come in from the side door. Dean gave them both an absent wave, sliding past Sam to get to the fridge. Dean grabbed the carton of orange juice. His shirt was dark with sweat, his hair sticking up in places, and he was still breathing unsteadily.

"Glass," John said, when Dean started to drink straight from the carton.

Dean gave him a look, but complied, moving carefully to keep from turning his back on either of them.

Glancing at Sam, John said, "Add orange juice to that list."

Dean raised an eyebrow, finishing his glass. "Where you headed?"

"Groceries," Sam replied. "You need anything? Other than deodorant?"

"A replacement little brother. Less annoying model." Dean refilled. "Beer. Thanks. I can go with you."

Sam smiled. "Nah, I got it. Might stop on the way and get my hair trimmed."

"About time." Dean gave Sam a fond smirk. "Dude, you look like a frigging yak."

"Says the man with blue hair who hasn't shaved in three days. Shower, okay? And get some sleep."

"I slept," Dean said.

"In the car," Sam shot back.

Dean scowled, glanced at John, then muttered something that may have been 'narc'. "Just... beer, Sam. Cheap is fine."

"Got it." Sam looked at their father. "Call me if you need anything else. I have my cell phone on."

If Dean bugged out. Yeah, John knew. He had the sedative cocktail syringe filled, capped and safely in his pocket. John nodded at Sam and tossed him the keys to the van. "Don't use the handicapped tag and get gas while you're out."

Rolling his eyes, Sam left. John didn't bother waiting until he heard the van pull out. Sam probably didn't even make it off the porch before he stopped to eavesdrop, and Dean wouldn't hang around that long anyway.

"We need to talk," John said, setting his coffee cup aside.

Dean glanced away, grabbing the juice carton and pulling the fridge door open. He didn't answer, and for a moment John could convince himself that this would go easy. Then Dean put on that smile. "Ever notice how conversations that start out that way never go well?"

"Dean-"

"Because I have. So if it's all the same to you, I'd rather skip this round." Dean pushed himself up off the counter. "Or at least shower first."

Fine. "It's not all the same to me," John said, keeping his voice even. "Sit down."

Dean gave him a sidelong, wary look that made John's heart seize in his chest. "Really, it'll just take me a few minutes. I managed 30 seconds once, but that was a 'shower first or you're not touching me' thing with Katya after a fire imp-"

"You don't remember everything." When Dean stopped short, John leaned back in his chair to continue, "Maybe not even most things. Might explain why you think you can bullshit me, but I'm here to tell you, you can't."

"Bullshit you about what?" Dean asked, a dangerous undercurrent to his voice.

"You being all right. Acting like you're fine." John shook his head. "You're not. Not even close."

"Yeah, funny how that works after I nearly died three or four times." Dean sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Okay, look. I'm glad you and Sam worked out your magical mystical therapy tour, or whatever the hell it is you two did to make you start doing this, but that's not how it works with us. I'm not Sam."

"I noticed that," John said dryly.

"Did you? That's a first." Dean winced, raising his glass to press it against the bridge of his nose. "Sorry," he said after a moment. "But, um. You and me, we don't do this. We understand each other."

"Do we? That's funny," John said, "because I'm pretty damned sure I told you to fall back. And I've got no fucking idea where you got the notion that it was all right to walk into hell."

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched. He swallowed, set down his glass and strode out of the kitchen.

Oh, fucking nice. With a shake of his head, John got up from the kitchen chair and followed. The prosthetic made enough noise to warn Dean that John was coming up behind him.

That John was behind him. John had fixed the gears once, quieted them, and wandered into the kitchen. Without the warning squeak of metal, Dean had damned near crawled on the counter to get away from him. It'd taken Dean a moment to recognize that it was John, another few seconds to put down the steak knife he'd automatically gone for. John had tightened the screws up again. Better to let him have the warning.

"Dean," John repeated, letting his irritation slip into his voice.

Dean let out a long suffering sigh, but sat on the edge of the sofa. "What?"

"I'm waiting for an answer. Do you really think I wouldn't care if you walked into hell?" John asked.

"I know you care," Dean said slowly.

John sighed. "But you don't give a flying fuck whether you live. That about right?"

"Jesus," Dean spat, standing up and turning towards the stairs. "We're done with this."

John grabbed Dean before he could get past, his hand clamping on Dean's good shoulder. "Like hell we are. Sit your ass on that sofa."

Dean tensed, breath coming faster.

John turned him forcibly, giving him a little shove onto the sofa. "Park it. And stop fucking looking at me like I'm about to break out my belt. Only one time in your life have I raised a hand to you, and I'm not going to do it now."

Dean swallowed hard, staring up at him. "Fine. What the hell do you want from me? Do you want me to say that I don't remember everything? I don't. Happy now?"

"Damn it, stop trying to tell me what you think I want to hear. I want to know where the hell you got the idea that I don't give a damn about you," John demanded.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "I know you care," he repeated. "But we both know the score. You've made my job in the family clear. I follow orders, I guard Sam. If one of us has to go, it's me."

John closed his eyes, counting to ten. He made three before his temper snapped. "You think you're expendable! Jesus, Dean! You think that I could let the son who I've spent most of my life with, who I've nursed through fevers, and patched up, watched grow up- you think I could let you walk into hell and get over it? Like if you hadn't walked through that gate, I wouldn't have been one step behind you all the way down?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply and John cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand.

"You think I wanted you to put in a gun in your mouth?" When Dean flinched, John drew in a breath and made himself soften his voice. Not by much, but enough that Dean stopped trying to move back through the couch. "Do you think it wouldn't kill me? I woke up in the hospital a week after the accident to be told that you were dead, and Sam was in a coma. I wanted to roll over in that bed and die. The only reason I didn't was because Sam needed someone to fight for him. And then, I had to tell Sam that you were dead, that we'd never hear your voice, never see the smile you give him when you think he's not looking."

"Dad-"

"Shut up," John snapped. "That's not something I can get back up from, boy. You are not expendable. I will not lose you because you think I can handle it. I told you to protect Sam because I knew you were stronger, older. Because you could, not because I valued him more than you!" John yelled, tears in his eyes.

Dean felt something in his chest crack, some puzzle piece sliding into place with a wrench of pain.

"You know what? I told your brother that I'd tell you this, so I'm going to. The demon was right back in that cabin. All that shit it told you before you realized that it wasn't me? It was right, and worse, it was pulling the words out of my head, all the things I thought you knew, because we understood each other."

Dean blinked hard. "What?"

"You're what keeps this family together. That's why he went after you first. Knock out the support, and Sam and I would fall. He wanted to use me, my body. He wanted to wipe out the rest of the hunters. Katya, Bobby, all of them. But he knew I might be able to stop him for a second or two at a crucial moment. He offered me a deal. Your life for theirs." John closed his eyes, the memory too fresh to meet his son's eyes.

"He had to know you wouldn't-" Dean started.

John shook his head. "If I hadn't been able to get control when I did, I would have agreed."

Dean's eyes went wide with shock.

"There is nothing I would not do, no one I will not sacrifice for you two," John said. "So don't think I don't understand wanting to end things. But it's my job to protect you. And if I say 'fall back,' I expect you to fall fucking back. If I say 'stand down' I expect you to do it! And if you ever disobey a direct order in a firefight again, I will tan your hide, do you understand?"

Dean's head fell forward on a soft noise, then came back up. He met John's hard gaze with over bright eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I understand."

John sent a silent prayer of thanks to his wife. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, and thumped his closed fist gently, fondly on Dean's knee. "And?"

Dean glanced at him, then back down. "It won't happen again."

"Don't give me that." When Dean gave him a startled look, John shook his head. "I've been in the same deep water you're in now, Dean. It won't be the gun in your mouth or the gate of hell, but it'll be something. Just promise me you'll think about your brother or me before you decide you've got to carry that kind of weight on your own."

"I had to-" Dean started, then shut up as John raised an eyebrow.

"Could've gone to Bobby," John noted simply. "Could've called me. Jesus, I'm your damn father, not the other way around."

"Binding it with blood was my fuck up," Dean said. "I should've been able to handle it."

"You made a tactical call in the field with what information you had. If you had just done an elemental binding, that thing would've come back around and fucking killed you. And you know damned well you wouldn't accept 'I should've handled it' from Sammy or me. You made the call, we cleaned it up, and it's over. Stop twisting the knife on yourself."

Dean made a harsh noise that could've been a laugh. "I let it in. Yeah, sure. Let's throw a goddamn parade."

"You survived," John said. "You lived until we could get to you. The rest of it doesn't matter."

"I killed four people, I wrecked a trauma ward, I beat the shit out of Bobby, I took power from a demon and I cracked Sam's ribs! What the fuck part of that doesn't-" Sitting back, Dean dragged a hand through his hair and looked away. After a moment, he swallowed, blinking fast, and said, "I pinned a woman to the ceiling."

"I know," John said, soft and careful. "The demon-"

"I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to watch her die." Dean's expression was distant, somewhere in a hell John couldn't reach. "Sometimes I still hear her screaming in my head."

Fuck. "Dean," John murmured, "it was a harpy."

After a long second, Dean shook his head, coming back to the living room. His voice was light, but unsteady on its edges. "That's a little old fashioned. If you're going to call her anything, you might as well call her a bitch."

"Harpy in the classic sense," John said dryly. "For fuck's sake, Dean, it sank fang in your shoulder. You had venom in your system and the demon took its cheap shot. That's all."

"I thought about it." Dean glanced down at his hand, absently rubbing the wrist brace with his other hand. "I came damned close."

Sitting back, John looked at his son for a long moment. "Jim had a saying," he said finally. "The road to hell isn't a step. It's choices. Man has to choose every single goddamn day not to walk on that road. Sometimes good men get lost. Sometimes bad men make a lucky call. But that bad step is just one in a thousand, and you've got plenty of chances to go back."

"That's a long saying."

"Yeah, well. That was Jim." When Dean didn't look up at him, John said quietly, "Hey. You're my boy. I know you."

Dean stared at the floor, at the pale scars on his father's hands. Then he nodded, grudgingly.

"All right." Bracing his hands on his knees, John said, "We're done, if you've got any smartass comments waiting."

"You've never yelled at me before," Dean said softly.

John snorted. "The hell I haven't."

"Because I cocked up a hunt or left Sam unprotected. Not because you were worried."

And that was what John got for subscribing to the 'getting mauled, pistolwhipped or shot is punishment enough' theory. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me."

Dean nodded absently. Somewhere deep inside, that fucked up part of his brain said that John only yelled at Sam. Since John loved Sam, yelling meant love. Which meant that his father loved him.

Great. So he needed more therapy than he'd guessed.

"Besides, I never had to. You were my easy son," John said, ruefully.

"Shows what you know."

"Apparently. There's one other thing, Dean."

Dean tensed, waiting for the inevitable yelling. "Sir?"

"I'm sorry," John murmured. "For the way I handled the binding. You had control of exactly one thing in the last two weeks, and I took that away. I should have brought it up before, should have told you. My only excuse is that I was afraid for you. If you hadn't agreed, it would have had to wait another month, until next new moon, and I didn't think you could hold out that long, but I handled it badly."

"Mm." Dean looked down at his hands, absently rubbing the wrist brace. Part of him wanted to say that it was okay, because Jesus, that was the most he'd ever heard his father say in one sitting without strategy coming into it. But it wasn't okay. For reasons he'd be damned if he'd ever say to Dad or to Sam... it hadn't been okay. Exhaling hard, he looked back up at his father. "I'm going camping."

If that was abrupt for them, John didn't seem to notice. He nodded, watching Dean in that way that Dean was kind of starting to hate. The way that said his father was working out that some of this damage might take more than duct tape, motor oil, yelling and beer to patch up.

Not that Dean wanted it patched up for him. Not that he really expected there to be any way to patch it up. He'd just deal with it, like he remembered dealing with everything else. Take a few days off, get magnificently drunk, and get back on your feet, soldier.

"You hate camping," John said after a minute. Not like an accusation. More like he figured he'd remind Dean, in case those memories hadn't come back.

Dean shrugged, looking down again. "I know. Figure it's a few days to get my shit together."

John felt his mouth curve on a bittersweet smile. "It'll take more than days, son. You're not okay. We both know it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said reflexively.

"Figured as much. Maybe when you get back."

"Maybe," Dean said. Meaning: fuck, no.

From the quirk of John's mouth, he'd pretty much figured that out, too. He stood, brushing himself off and grimacing as he put weight on the bad leg. "Missouri has camping stuff in her basement. There's a sleeping bag, might be a tent. If not, it's not the first time you've slept out."

"Yeah." Memory struck Dean, and he added, half in hope and half in concession, "Usually on your jacket."

His father's smile was genuine that time. "I think there's a backpack in the closet. I'll pack you some food. Not that I think you're going to eat much, but if you lose any more weight, I will smack you upside the head."

"Thanks, Dad. Any chance of you making that drink?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Three wise men go hunting?" John asked.

"Um." Dean thought for a moment. "Tastes like ass, but burns all the way?"

"That would be it." John nodded. "Yeah, I can make you a batch. Now go shower. Otherwise, you know Sam'll be able to track you by the smell."

"Yeah. Don't suppose you'd chain him to the chair?" Dean asked, smirking.

"I could try, but I'm pretty sure he'd gnaw the wood," John muttered. "Fucking stubborn little shit."

"Wonder where he got that from," Dean said dryly.

"Your mother, son," John returned. "Definitely her."

Flashing a quick smile, Dean headed up the stairs. John waited until he cleared the landing and turned, walking to the side door.

Sam looked up guiltily as John jerked the door open. "Um. I dropped the keys?"

John rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Should I have just put it on speakerphone?"

"It would have helped," Sam muttered. "I didn't get anything after you stopped bellowing."

John shook his head. "Go get me salad, boy," he said, a smile touching his mouth.

"Think I'll have time to get a hair cut?"

"We'll manage without you for an hour or two," John smiled. "Don't forget Dean's beer. But not the cheap stuff. Gives me, er, him a headache."

Sam gave John a quick hug and turned, heading for the van. "Whatever."

John closed the door and limped over to the closet, quickly grabbing the backpack. On impulse, he grabbed his coat, stuffing it into the bottom of the pack.

Heading back to the kitchen, added a handful of protein bars, some jerky, a few apples. Then he quickly grabbed two empty two liter bottles out of the recycling bin. One, he filled with water. The other he grabbed a funnel and opened the liquor cabinet. Jack, check. Jose, check. Jim, check. And to top it off, a nice measure of wild turkey.

He'd just added waterproof matches and zipped up the bag when Dean came jogging down the stairs. "If you head east along the road, then go north after you pass the three mile mark, also known as the Gas and Go, you'll hit a little spring, where you can fill up the water bottle again. There's plenty of cover, and the grounds a rocky mess, so it'll be harder for Sam to track you. Especially since you always had to lie about him letting you teach him."

Dean paused, wincing as memories burned their way through another block. "God, he was such a little whiny bitch," he said huskily, lips curling in a smile. "But I think he got the basics down. As much as he griped, he was listening."

"Just cover your tracks, and it'll be good. I'll try to keep him from following for as long as I can. Don't bet on more than a half-day." John held out the backpack, not quite managing to mask his surprise when Dean turned, letting John ease it onto his shoulders.

"Thanks. Anything else?"

"Two things." John held out a cell phone. "If you're going to be more than two days, call. If you need anything, call. If you want to talk, call."

"Got it. What's the other?"

John held out a small square box of ammo. "This."

"No gun." Dean smiled as John held out the thirty eight. "You found it?"

"Yeah. Sam pocketed it while you were out of it. Didn't think you needed a loaded firearm to be lethal," John said. "He was right. You were... amazing, son. I might have thought you were being a damn fool, but you fought like nothing I've ever seen before. I was proud to have had a hand in training you."

Dean looked down, adjusting the straps. "Have a hand in it? Dad, c'mon. If I know it, there's a good chance you taught it to me, or mentioned it."

John let the weight down slowly, waiting until Dean nodded to let go. "I never remember telling you to hold fire until the Chimera's mouth was practically on the gun."

"You told me they were extinct," Dean said. "So, I improvised." He turned around, giving John a quick thumbs up. "Thanks.

John glanced at the door, then back at Dean. "Do you- Can I-"

"Spit it out."

"Is it okay if I hug you?" John asked awkwardly.

Dean stared for a moment, uncertain, then nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

John leaned forward, looping one arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him close. After a long moment, when Dean didn't flinch, John brought his other arm up, folding his son into a hug.

When Dean's hand fisted in John's shirt, John had to bite back the sigh of relief. Wasn't perfect. Dean was still whipcord tense, and John knew damned well that he had his eyes fixed on the door. Still, as starts went, they'd had worse. "Go," he said gruffly, releasing Dean and stepping back. "I'll try to hold your brother off as long as I can."

Dean nodded, loosening his grip on John's shirt. He smoothed it down absently, and muttered at it something that could have been translated from Winchester into English as 'love you'. Then, slightly clearer, "I am coming back."

"You better be," John said. "Can't fix the Impala by myself."

Dean grinned.