FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 35/36

[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.



Two weeks flew by before John knew it. The house was mostly back in shape, though the basement had required Andrew's help to clean, much to Sam's annoyance. After two days of backbreaking cleaning, it still smelled like brimstone and rot. With an annoyed call from Missouri still ringing in his ears-damned psychics-John had called in the expert.

Five minutes later, the basement was back to normal, and smelled faintly like sunshine and wildflowers.

The bathroom, they finally had to concede, was dead. Very, very dead. John called in a home remodeling company and paid for a new tub, and fixtures. Turned out, zombie blood really didn't react well with tile.

Dean...well. Dean was trying. Oh God was he trying, some days. They had good days and bad days, still, but the good were starting to outweigh the bad, up until the last day or so. Then, he had started to get restless, nervous. His daily jogs had become longer, trying to burn off the excess energy.

John couldn't say he'd blamed him. Two weeks. Bobby's allotted deadline. John had taken to wearing the shoulder holster constantly, even while he slept, which wasn't much; a couple of hours here and there in the recliner downstairs. The leg was hurting like a bitch most of the time, but the woman at the VA had said that was good. If it hadn't been hurting, it would have meant that he'd probably done un-healable damage, which would have meant further amputation.

In the hopes of taking Dean's mind off things, Sam had started sparring with Dean, burning off his own nervous energy in the process. Dean was proving to be an excellent tutor, knowing when to push Sam, and when to back off and let him figure things out on his own. Since their fight, Dean seemed to possess infinite patience with Sam, never losing control during their matches.

John was on his way towards the stairs, listening to Sam thunder along the hallway, having changed into comfortable clothes when a knock at the door stopped him. He changed directions, warily approaching the door. A glance through the window showed Bobby's familiar trucker hat.

Damn.

John had kept his ear to the ground in the last few weeks, as had Andrew, and so they'd heard everything Bobby had done (up to and including threatening to start a war in their fucked up little fraternity) to be sure no one tried for Dean. John was pretty certain some had still tried, because he'd heard enough reports of people 'just happening' to be around Lawrence, only to find themselves driving right past, or forgetting where they'd been going in the first place. Missouri's doing.

Stupidly, John had let himself hope that meant Bobby wouldn't make his way to them, either.

The rhythmic thump of Dean in the basement, warming up for sparring by beating the hell out of a punching bag, was only slightly reassuring. Bobby would have to get through both John and Sam to get to Dean, but if Dean heard shots fired...

Setting his jaw, John opened the front door.

Bobby met John's eyes evenly. He looked like shit, dark circles under his eyes and hollows in places where he'd lost some weight. "Hey, John," Bobby rasped tiredly.

"Bobby," John returned, not giving an inch.

With a sigh, Bobby reached up and took off his hat. "Your boy around?"

"Yeah. He and Sam are getting set to spar."

"Mm. That'd be the Sam sitting on the stairwell with a sniper rifle trained on me?"

John felt his lips curl in a fond smile. "Yeah, that'd be him."

Bobby barked a laugh. "You trusting him to fire over your shoulder?"

"Boy's a crack shot. You should've seen the one he made with the Colt. It was a thing of beauty." John scratched his jaw, careful not to move his head to block Sam's shot. "Don't know when they started teaching sniping at Stanford."

"Basket weaving was full." Dean's voice came from the basement door.

Bobby's eyes jerked sideways. He blinked hard. Then a slow, lopsided smile broke across his weathered face. "Well, I'll be damned. Look at you."

"Does that mean you're not shooting me?" Dean eased up into the doorway beside him, standing with a cocky smirk between Bobby and the barrel of Sam's gun. "Because if you are, I want to kick Sam's skinny ass one last time before I go."

"Dean," Sam growled, putting the rifle up, uncocking it. "Thanks for blocking my shot, asshole."

"Sam," Dean said patiently. "Man's doing a job. Rather it be him than Jericho, or worse." He looked at Bobby. "You coming in, or is Dad making you stand on the porch now?"

John shot Dean a look, but moved to the side, letting Bobby past.

Bobby seemed taken aback by Dean's calm. "You look a damn sight better than the last time I saw you."

Dean shrugged. "I'm working on it." He headed back towards the basement, glancing back at Sam. "You still getting your panties in that wad, or are we sparring?"

Sam glared, but laid the rifle down and followed Dean down the stairs.

John started to follow, then realized that Bobby wasn't beside him. He glanced back, finding Bobby leaning against the wall, looking pale and shaky. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Jesus, John. I thought-"

John nodded. "I know."

Bobby fished in his pocket, pulling out a small, thin book. "Here."

John took it, looked down. The brown cover was embossed with gold lettering, and the seal of Mexico. "What's-" He flipped it open, seeing Dean's face looking back at him, with the name Paolo Murphy beneath. "A passport?"

"I couldn't do it, John. Just...damn it, I've watched that boy grow up. I'd sooner put a bullet in my own head. Was going to tell him to run for it. Head for Central America. Most of our kind won't bother outside of the US."

John shook his head, a smile touching his lips. "You're going soft, Bobby." He looped his arm around Bobby's shoulder, steering them towards the stairs.

"Hell, I love those boys, you know that." Bobby hesitated for a moment. "Off the record, how is he?"

John considered lying, but Bobby needed to know. "Not great yet. He's getting there, but I think there's a couple more rough patches to go."

Bobby absorbed this and nodded. "Okay. Call me if you need me. How's the Impala doing?"

"Jesus, what a mess," John groaned. "I think we replaced half the damn car, but it's up and running again."

Bobby winced. "So, Dean'll be heading out soon?"

John nodded, eyes shadowed. "Yeah. Doctor says he's healed, though he's making him wear a brace on the wrist when he spars or hits the bag. Nothing to hold him here."

Bobby stopped, turning to face John. "Feeling sorry for yourself, I see."

"A little," John admitted. "What the hell am I supposed to do, just sit at home and watch the soaps?"

Bobby snorted. "Like that would happen. You'll manage, John. Do research, keep an eye on that gate, and then, who the hell knows?"

John nodded. "I want to keep an eye on Andrew, too." He considered telling Bobby his suspicions, but Bobby would just go shoot the kid. He wasn't going to examine why the thought bothered him, but it did. "I promised Jim I'd take care of him if anything happened."

Bobby nodded. "Sounds like a good project for you. So what's the problem?"

"I just hate sending my boys out-"

"Both of them? What happened to Stanford?" Bobby asked. "Figured Sam would want to get back now that things are settled." When John shook his head, Bobby sighed. "Damn, I'm sorry. I know you wanted more for him."

"For them both," John replied softly. "Hell, Bobby, they both had lives waiting. Sam had Stanford, and Dean..."

Bobby frowned at him. "Dean what?"

John stared down the steps, then sighed and closed the door to the basement most of the way. Dropping his voice, he said softly, "Dean's last year of high school, we stayed put, same as with Sam. Guidance counselor nagged Dean into sending out applications. His science teacher threw weight behind him, and Dean rigged up some crazy-ass instrument from a busted TV monitor, and he got offered a full ride to MIT. I nearly got myself and Sammy killed on a hunt that year. So Dean got spooked about leaving us, turned them down. Stayed." John closed his eyes. "Never been more relieved in my life, but up till recently that was as tempted as I've ever been to turn him over my knee. He's lucky he's too tall for it."

Bobby made a rude noise. "You ever met that boy of yours? Because damn, John, you must be the only one around who didn't know Dean was born for this."

"You're talking fate now. Jim would smack you." The sound of Sam's laughter made John glance down the stairs. He sighed. "If Mary hadn't died, if I hadn't gotten so damned obsessed..."

"Mary or not, you or not, he'd have found his way here anyhow. All that means is that he'd be on his own. No backup. None he trusts like you two, anyway." There was a loud 'thud' from downstairs, Sam's cursing and Dean's bark of laughter. Bobby cracked a grin. "All right, John, I'm going down there. Got to see what Dean can do when he's kicking someone else's ass."

"Sam does okay," John murmured generously, and opened the door.

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, John's boys were in full swing. Dean wasn't going full tilt, not yet, but he was going a damn sight faster than he had been a few days ago. Sam was watching Dean, learning, adapting, quick mind ticking away as he held back a few seconds. Dean gave him the space to consider. That'd change soon.

Some days, they could go for ten minutes without either of them taking a real hit. Blocking, sliding out of the way, sidestepping, rolling. A graceful, slightly terrifying dance.

Dean smirked at Sam as John and Bobby settled into the camping chairs at the other end of the basement-close enough to watch, not close enough to hear everything. "Okay, that's enough warm up. Come get some."

Sam waited that extra heartbeat, straining to figure out what Dean was going to do. Then, it came in an easy flash of power, accompanied by a mental image of Dean's fist flying from Dean's perspective, that startled him so much he nearly walked into it. Goddamn it. Of all the crappy times for his brain to come back online...

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked.

"Sorry," Sam muttered. "Wasn't quite ready." He dropped back into the defensive stance, trying to open his mind to Dean's, to read what he was about to do.

The power came again, a flash of movement. He flung his arm up, and promptly got clocked in the cheek. "Ow."

"Am I boring you?" Dean asked sarcastically.

Sam shook his head, trying again. This time, it was a leg sweep that he didn't quite avoid, taking him down, Dean letting his heel tap Sam's chest, a warning.

"Stop trying to psychic it, and watch me, dumbass," Dean hissed. He kipped up, glaring down at Sam. "Don't make me kick your ass to make a point, dude."

"How'd you know?" Sam murmured.

"You looked like you were constipated, dude. Now, are you ready or not?" Dean stepped forward before he could answer, moving smoothly, faster than Sam had expected.

Dean wasn't playing anymore, that much was obvious. Sam had been on the floor no less than eight times within half an hour. Finally, he held up a hand. "Done."

"Wuss," Dean muttered. "You're getting better, but you've gotta watch your left. You drop it right before you take a swing, and I can hit you nine out of ten right then." He lowered his voice. "And stop trying to use your power during a fight. You don't have the control for it."

Sam flipped him off, rubbing his thigh as he walked towards his father and Bobby.

Dean grinned at Bobby. "Want a rematch?"

"Hell no," Bobby drawled. "I like my bones internal."

Eyes lazy and challenging, Dean looked at his father.

John raised an eyebrow at Dean.

Sam glared at Dean. "That's not-"

"You're on," John murmured, pushing himself upright.

Bobby touched his wrist. "Not to tell you how to do things, John, but you have heard the saying about a one-legged man in an asskicking contest?"

John grinned at him for a second, then turned back to Dean, walking slowly over to him. "You up for this?" he asked.

"I was kidding, Dad," Dean murmured. "You shouldn't-"

"I didn't ask that, son. Are you okay with this?" John asked, faintly exasperated.

"Yeah. I can if you can." Dean dropped back into his fighting stance, mirroring his father.

Dean wasn't quite sure how it happened. One moment, he was throwing a roundhouse punch at his father. The next he was on his ass, blinking at the ceiling. Dad had done it kind of gently, as far as these things went, but his pride stung like hell.

Okay. That'd been a fluke, a consequence of Dean not taking the fight seriously. He knew better.

Rolling back up to his knees, then to his feet, Dean shook himself and slid back into a defensive stance. They circled, wary and slow, Dean's eyes locked on the center of his father's body. Dad watched, waited, and damn it, this was his father. Dean would not be afraid.

Concentrate. Breathe. Watch.

His father's eyes sharpened slightly, searching Dean's face. He tilted his head, a silent offer: say the word and we'll call it.

Dean slept in layers of clothes now. He took a knife with him to shower. He didn't sleep until he was too exhausted or too drunk to dream. He made himself say the name of God every morning, staring in the bathroom mirror, searching for a telltale flicker of black in his eyes. He ran past the cemetery every day, pausing to be sure that the rubble hadn't stirred. He still tasted gunmetal and brimstone sometimes, still wanted to scream. He practiced with the power in the basement, before Dad or Sam woke, practiced until his head was swimming and he saw double with pain, until he knew the power was his weapon and not the other way around.

He'd changed bone-deep, lost things he loved, gained things he never wanted. But he would be damned if he lost this. There were too many good memories tied into sparring with his father, and they had to outweigh the bad.

Flashing his father a cocky grin he didn't feel, Dean relaxed into the stance. Sank deeper into it, lived in the quiet moment of waiting to see what his opponent would do.

"Good," John murmured, absent approval. "Don't rush into it."

Dean made a face, like the praise hadn't inexplicably warmed him. "You going to try something, or are you tired already?"

"Some of us don't waste moves just to look pretty." John nodded at Dean's feet. "Footwork's getting sloppy, son. Best watch that."

"My footwork's fine. Next you'll tell me my shoe's untied. C'mon, old man."

John's answer was a slow smile. There was only a slight hitch to his movements, betraying that the prosthetic was new. If Dean hadn't been looking, he wouldn't have seen it. The man was a master, finding his new center of gravity and compensating without even bitching once.

Shifting on his feet, Dean watched for the hitch, the slight break in the pattern. Came for Dad then, fast and smooth, and if it'd been Sam, it might've worked. If it'd been a demon, it definitely would have worked. Since it was John, Dean got hip-tossed to the floor.

Dad didn't follow him down, didn't crowd him. His mistake. Hooking a foot behind his father's knee, Dean swept him down.

Catching himself on his hands, John gave a startled, delighted laugh. Then he swatted Dean's arm. "Help me up, you little bastard."

Dean bent, pulling John's weight up with ease. Amazing the difference chopping off a few pounds of leg would do. "You ready to go again?" John asked.

"Yeah. How'd you do that?"

John hesitated, then shrugged. "Stance left a couple of spots uncovered." He tapped Dean's hip, then his good shoulder, then his stomach, careful to be gentle, careful to leave Dean room to back away before he made contact. "Tuck this shoulder more, protect your stomach, and we'll go again."

Dean stood calmly, nodding at each touch. "Got it. Let's go." He relaxed, watching John closely.

It was damned sad, Dean thought later, to get your ass kicked eight out of ten times by a one legged man double your age. The only thing that took some of the sting out was that it was by John Winchester.

Bobby begged off from dinner and a movie, saying that he needed to get back, call Katya and tell her not to hit Jericho with a tranq dart. Apparently, he'd been getting damned restless over the two week stay of judgement Bobby had imposed.

Sam lost at rock, paper, scissors and was sent out for dinner and a movie. "No girly shit," Dean ordered.

He came back with Chinese food and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Dean grinned like Sam had brought back the Holy Grail.

Dinner was... different. Wonderful. After the fire, food had tasted like ashes in John's mouth. Eating turned into an inconvenient matter of survival interfering with revenge. He ate quickly, when he remembered at all. He'd fed the boys a steady diet of diner food and drive-through crap on the road. When they were stationary, it was whatever was cheap, fast and easy for little hands to prepare if Daddy wasn't home, until Dean got old enough to take over all the grocery shopping. There was little joy in it.

Now?

John sat back, eating out of the take-out carton with chopsticks, drinking cold beer. Watched with a crooked smile as Sam tried to convince Dean that sushi wasn't toxic ("Dad, back me up here, you served in Japan for a few months..."), and as Dean made a crude crack about raw fish that prompted Sam to smack his knuckles with a chopstick. Sam stole pieces of Dean's bourbon chicken, and Dean snuck sips of Sam's beer. John ate a piece of the sushi, not bothering to tell Sam that he hadn't exactly eaten off-base when he was in Okinawa for a whole two weeks on Uncle Sam's bill. Which was fair, because apparently Sam didn't feel like telling his old man that the green wallpaper paste was made out of fucking napalm.

When John swore and grabbed Sam's beer, finishing off the bottle as Sam made indignant noises, Dean laughed, genuine and delighted. Then, still chuckling, he got up to get another round of bottles without being asked.

A rich, quiet happiness welled up in John's chest, in the space that was almost always hollow.

After a companionable dinner, they wandered over to the living room. Sam settled in one corner of the couch, the spot he'd claimed as his, and put his socked feet up on the table. Dean paused for a heartbeat, his eyes ticking to the armchair beside the couch. Then he set his jaw, put his beer down and flopped down beside Sam. Sam grunted, but he was smiling as he reached his arm out along the back of the couch, across Dean's shoulders.

"Okay," Dean said without looking away from the television, "but you're not getting past first base. I'm not that kind of girl. If that's your smooth approach, Sammy, it's no wonder you never get laid."

Sam smacked him on the side of the head. "Jackass." Curling his arm back, he messed up Dean's hair, then laid his hand on the nape of Dean's neck. Sam pressed the heel of his hand in, made a face. "Dude. Did they not do PT on you? Your neck's all screwed up."

"Yeah, you know, hospital stays for felons are so cushy." Dean kicked Sam's foot. "Some of us didn't get hot PT girl rubbing us down every day, you lucky bitch."

"Not so much rubbing down as making up for all the torture," Sam said wryly. "When it came down to it, she was like Torquemada in Snoopy scrubs."

"Some people would pay good money for that," Dean mused, then grimaced. "Okay, ow."

"Found a cord," Sam said, with a perverse sort of little brother glee. Rubbing his thumb across it, he tilted his head. "Wow. Can you hear that? It sproings."

"Sammy, stop playing Freebird on your brother's tendons," John said mildly, opening the DVD case. He put the disk in Missouri's player, considered the remote for a bewildered moment, and then tossed it to Sam. He could've fixed the player with his eyes closed, but that didn't mean he knew how to work the damn thing.

John went to sit in the armchair, but as he passed the couch Dean reached out and grabbed his shirt. Dean just looked up at him. Didn't say a word. Didn't have to.

John told Dean, "Shift over."

The couch wasn't made for three good-sized men to fit on it at once, but they managed. A comfortable quiet fell once they got past the trailers for shitty movies John had never even heard of. As the opening titles started, Sam squinted at the light-switch on the far wall. It clicked off.

"Show-off," Dean muttered.

Sam grinned, shifting so that his arm was stretched loosely around Dean's shoulders. Dean squirmed, but didn't push Sam off.

The movie was as comfortable as an old flannel shirt, well-worn. John had seen pieces of it half a dozen times when they were on the road, so it didn't demand much thought. After a few minutes, he glanced over at his boys. Found Sam focused on the screen, as close to oblivious to his surroundings as any of them ever were, and Dean obliviously struggling to keep his eyes open. That wasn't surprising, considering. John had heard him pacing the house at all hours the last few weeks, restless as a feral cat that suddenly found itself shut in. Checking and re-checking Sam's room at all hours, hovering in the doorway of the living room where John was sleeping in the armchair; Dean spent his nights doing pretty much anything but sleep.

John went back to the movie. When he looked at Dean again, he wasn't shocked to find that Dean was dozing, leaning heavily into Sam. Sam caught John's eyes, gave him a lopsided smile. Without a word, John smiled back and passed Sam one of the throw pillows. Sam shifted quietly, carefully, lowering Dean's head onto the pillow on his lap. Dean twitched, mumbling something, his expression troubled; Sam murmured, "I've got watch, dude."

With a hard sigh, Dean sank back into sleep like something was weighing him down.

John looked at Sam, considering. Sam didn't look back at him. After a moment, John reached down, grabbed Dean's legs, and swung them up onto his lap. Dean didn't stir.

His boys, John thought, wistful. He'd had the feeling, since the moment the Impala had roared to life two days ago, that his time with them was running out. It wasn't that he blamed them, but he'd miss them.

In a lot of ways, he felt like he'd just found them.

When the movie ended, John slid out from under Dean's feet, glanced at Sam. "You sleeping there?" he whispered.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Dad-"

For once, he and his youngest understood each other perfectly. John murmured, "I know. Take care of him. As much as he'll let you, anyway."

Sam nodded. "Will do."

John bent over, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam's head. "Love you, boy."

"Love you, too, sir."

John looked down at Dean, the gouges sleeplessness had left, the weight lost, and still somehow only saw the little four year old holding his brother for dear life while their world shattered around them.

"Love you, too," he whispered, bending to press a gentle kiss on Dean's cheek.

Dean squirmed in his sleep, swatting vaguely at John.

"I'll put the coffee pot on," John whispered, looking at Sam. "Rules are, you call me every three days. If I do not hear from you, I'm coming for you. And really, you don't want that. Cause I'll show up in the bright red van, and I will put a horn on it that plays Dixie or something annoying. And don't think I won't find you. Bobby put a GPS on the Impala."

"Got it, sir," Sam said. He looked down at Dean, smiled as Dean drowsily growled at something. "We'll try to swing back around every month or two."

"I know," John murmured. "I'm going to go up now. You should probably try to get some sleep. You're gonna have a hell of a fight come morning."

"Yeah," Sam said. Then he grinned. "But I'll win."