SquidgeWorld Archive

Said I got thirteen months of bad luck,
Bound to be some pain...
Tombstone Shadow, stretching across my path.                 Creedance Clearwater Revival
                                            

                                                 ************** 

The road was shrouded in mist and fog, weather that seemed so totally appropriate to the young man leaning against the side of the huge, old black car. He sighed, casting a glance down the length of the single dirt lane. He was the solitary living soul on this godforsaken patch of roadway in this little backwater Montana town. After he and Dean had left Wyoming and parted ways from Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle they had wandered to Blue Earth, to the little parsonage that Pastor Jim had once inhabited. The old house stood empty, the grounds overgrown and neglected. It made Sam sad to see it that way, knowing how much Jim had loved the old place. He had many fond memories of himself and Dean staying with Pastor Jim when their father had been on an extended hunt. It was those memories that led to Sam standing here on the side of the road.

He had counted the days since he and Dean had left the cemetery in Wyoming to wander on their own, hunting the children of hell who had escaped when the gates had been flung open. Sam had tried to talk to his brother about the deal that Dean had made on many occasions, and Dean had shut him down each and every time. He knew that Dean could not break his deal, couldn't even make an attempt at breaking the deal. It was finished as far as his brother was concerned so Sam was taking matters into his own hands. Except what he intended to do left him cold, and more than half sick with dread. He wasn't going to let Dean sacrifice himself, if sacrifices had to be made well Sam was better suited for making them.

Picking up the box in the front seat of the car he rummaged through and chose one of the fake IDs that Dean had made for him. Ripping the card out of the plastic holder Sam walked to the center of the intersection of the two country lanes and dug a hole. Dropping the picture inside he covered the card and stood back, waiting. He didn't have long to wait.

Sam jerked back when a hand fell on his shoulder and he frowned, turning around to face the demon. The girl standing in front of him was a tall, thin, brunette, and Sam sighed. Leave it to Dean to make a deal with a hot chick, demon or otherwise. She tapped her foot on the sandy roadbed shrugging at him.

"So you called me here, do you want to tell me why?"

"Don't you already know why?" he asked with a grimace.

She grinned at him.

"Yeah, I was just yanking your chain. You want to make a deal, yada, yada, yada."

"Dean said you were a lot more cooperative with him," Sam snapped and she laughed then. Casting a glance at him from the corner of her eyes she looked him up and down.

"Well, look who I'm dealing with. Look sweetie, no offense, but your brother is seriously hot."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Can we just get on with it?"

The demon sighed.

"No sense of humor either.  Boy, you really are grim. Just why did he want you back again?"

"I want to make a deal to get my brother out of his deal."

"Look why should I make a deal for your soul? I mean, my boss is pretty sure you're working our side of the street already. It's just a matter of time, Sammy-boy," she replied. "Why should I cut you a deal for something that's pretty much ours already?"

"I'm not offering to sell you my soul," Sam snapped.

The demon paused eyes going wide. She stood back as if she was not sure what to make of that statement.

"I'm here to offer you a slightly different deal."

"Wow, I don't know what to say. I mean every damn time I come up here some poor slob is whining about selling me his worthless soul. It takes real balls to barter something you have no rights to."

Groaning Sam wrapped his arms around his chest regarding her through half-closed eyes.

"Look, as you point out I'm pretty much a given deal as it is, so I want to offer you a chance at a more appealing deal, a soul that I know that you can't pass up."

"All right you've got my attention, keep talking kid."

"What's more valuable to your…erm…boss, as you put it, than the soul of a worthy adversary… the soul of a man who laid down his life for another,” Sam said smiling, then he whispered, “The one that got away."

The demon gasped.

"You'd be willing to deliver him back to us? You really are working our side of the street, except that you can't deliver. He's beyond your reach, the same as he's beyond ours."

"Where he is now, he's beyond your reach. But if he was alive again, back in the game again. Well, a lot happens in this business."

"You'd deliver the fatal blow yourself?" she asked.

Sam shook his head, and the demon pursed her lips, frowning.

"No, and you can't either. He comes back with a clean slate, on a level playing field. You'd have to try to get him the same as you try to get me and Dean. We fight your kind everyday, and there's a hundred and fifty or so of your friends and family roaming around out there that wants us dead. He comes with us. You just have to hope someone gets him. And then you get your shot at getting hold of him, same as any other man.  No guarantee that he’s yours."

The demon grinned.

"Well, I have to say you boys are a real treat to work with. It would look good on my record if I could get him back. It's a real embarrassment that he made it out, we kind of pride ourselves on something like that not happening."

Sam grinned.

"So we have a deal?"

She leaned forward and Sam ducked down, the kiss was chaste, purely platonic and she looked less than enthusiastic but it sealed the deal.  With a shrug the demon pulled a piece of parchment out of thin air, handing it over to the young man.

"This is what you have to do. I'll check in once you get there."

Five days later…

Dean had called him sixty times in the last five days. He was spitting mad and Sam had finally just turned off his cell phone. He glanced at the duffle bag sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. It was a black bag with tan straps, one he was more than familiar with, and Sam had been pissed off that Dean hadn't gotten rid of it a year ago. Now Sam was glad of it. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror at the four fifty pound bags of clay nestled in the seat. There was a creek near the place so water would be no problem.

He pulled the car onto the road that led to Bobby's. He knew that Dean had probably called the older man, and Bobby was more than likely on the look out for him. Possibly Bobby had picked Dean up and they were both gunning for him. Sam didn’t know and didn’t care. Neither one would know where Sam had gone, at least, not until he was finished with what he had to do. He was not going to let Dean suffer in Hell for him.

Sam wasn't sure that he would remember the place, or how to get there, but in the end he found it without any trouble at all. That alone should have made him pause. Pulling the duffle bag out of the car Sam went around and opened the trunk. He got a shovel and hiked through the woods toward the spot.

It wasn't any different than it had been a year ago. The tree Dean had chosen as a marker was a bit bigger, the truck thicker, casting a long shadow on the slightly sunken area in the ground. Shivering Sam considered that length of shadow like a tombstone shadow over a shallow grave or an accusing finger pointing at him.  He pushed the thought aside. Sam paused pulling the parchment out of his pocket and unfolding it. He glanced at the sky, it was mid-afternoon and he had a lot of digging to do.

With a sigh Sam dumped the bag and the shovel and went back to the car for the clay. All two hundred pounds of it. The four fifty pound sacks took a lot longer to haul than Sam had thought and it was close to sunset when he was finished. The creek was still bubbling on the other side of the trees and he fetched a plastic bucket out of the trunk of the Impala. But Sam still had to open the grave. 

His back aching Sam picked up the shovel and broke the ground. It took him almost two hours to reach the blackened ashy soil that marked the pyre. The blanket that they had wrapped their father's body in had been cotton with a good deal of polyester blended in. It was durable and not nearly as combustible as Dean had wanted. Instead of burning completely away the blanket had melted around the body in a thin crust of ash and oily residue.

Kneeling Sam broke the crust, the sound reminding him of the crunch that a cockroach shell made when you stepped on it. He retched. Beneath the burnt polyester was a layer of gray ash, and larger chunks of bone. Sam sighed; the pyre was not nearly as hot as a crematorium fire. That bright blaze was over five hundred degrees and it rendered a human body into a fine white powder. This fire had burned their father's mortal remains but not nearly as efficiently. There were still recognizable pieces left, and Sam dug out the bits of skull, and ribs. Large pieces of bone soon littered the ground. Sam worked methodically not pausing to think about what he was doing. Carefully he scooped up all the ash that he could trying not to mix in the ash from the wood and cloth. He didn't need it all.

When he judged that he had enough Sam dumped out the first sack of dry clay working the ash and bone into it. He picked up a measuring tape and laid out a line on the ground measuring out the space of six feet and two inches then marking another line. With a sigh he went to the bag and pulled out a shirt. It was the gray shirt his father had been wearing when he died. Sam had been horrified a few weeks later when Dean had turned up one morning wearing the shirt. He had finally confiscated it when he was doing the laundry.

He laid the shirt out on the ground and marked the width of the shoulders beneath the line he had made for the top of his father's head. Then Sam began hauling water in from the creek working it into the pile of clay.

Slowly the figure began taking shape. Sam had never prided himself on being an artist, but it didn't have to be exact. He worked slowly and carefully although his back was aching and his chest was tight enough that he was sure he was going to have a heart attack. Once the basic form of a human being had been sculpted Sam went back and added the details. He worked his fingers into the clay digging out the eye sockets, ears, then forming a nose, mouth and lips. He blushed and worked the chest into two hard, flat mounds, tweaking the tips into points.

Then he moved lower. His face was flaming as he shaped the more intimate parts. He glanced down at the clay figure making sure that the twin globes were roughly equal in size and shape to his own then pulled a handful of clay and formed a cylinder. He glanced at the length then blushed and pinched off a bit more clay from the pile, adding about an inch and a half. If he was going to yank the man's soul out of its final resting place at least he should be compensated for it in some way.

Sam idly stood working the clay between his hands wondering when she was going to get there. Sam had read the instructions thoroughly and knew that his handiwork was adequate. He wasn't aware of the fact that he was still working the clay cylinder between his fingers until her voice dragged him out of his daze.

"Why Sammy, you want to give Daddy a hand with that? Somehow I thought that would be Dean."

He jerked around then flushed; carefully he placed the clay on the figure smoothing the cylinder into the rest of the body. He shot her a look and she shrugged.

"Hey, I'm just saying what we were all thinking."

When he was satisfied with the shape of the figure Sam washed his hands in the bucket of water and went to the duffle bag. Pulling out a hair brush he worked a clump of hair loose and patted it onto the figure's head. Stepping back he surveyed his night's work. With a grim smile Sam knelt running his finger lengthwise down the clay man’s right cheek, just scoring the surface in a thin scar.

"Ash, bone and hair, clay of the earth," he said quietly. Then Sam lifted the parchment and lit it with a match. The paper burned quickly and brightly and Sam scattered the ash of the parchment over the clay figure on the ground. "Soul, bright spark of life, abide here."

There was a suddenly stillness to the air, the sounds of the forest dimmed as Sam watched the clay grow fluid, warming in color. The figure shuddered violently then the clay glowed with a pale light. The eerie glow wrapped itself around the clay flowing and shimmering. Quickly the light brightened until Sam could no longer look at it. He threw his arm up shielding his eyes. When the light faded and he could see again Sam looked at the figure on the ground. He gasped.

He lay there naked as the day he was born, curled onto one side, covered in filth. Sam dropped to his knees heedless of the dirt and mud. Carefully he rolled his father onto his back, raking the clay off his face clearing his nose and mouth. John's chest heaved. Sam shivered watching as his father took his first breath.

Quickly Sam went to the bucket dipping out a handful of water. He washed his father's face as much as possible. He glanced up at the demon, "Is he whole, intact mentally? Why isn't he moving?"

"Whoa big fella, he's just been born. It's going to take a little while."

She looked up as something crashed in the brush, "Uh oh, looks like big brother wasn't so keen on waiting for you."

When Sam looked around again he was alone, except for the man on the ground. John still hadn't moved and Sam was getting worried. They were vulnerable out here and he hadn't even laid salt lines.

Quickly Sam rose and pulled a canister of salt out of the bag, pouring out a ring around the still figure on the ground. Other than the steady rise and fall of his chest John still wasn't moving. Sam sat down on the ground beside the still figure fishing the .38 he carried out of the waistband of his jeans.

He was staring at the brush listening intently as the footfalls came closer. Raising the gun his breath hitched in a deep sigh. And then Sam dropped the gun as Dean and Bobby appeared just beyond the tree that had marked John's grave. 

Bobby looked at the younger man, and then further down at the figure huddled on the ground. Dean shouldered his way past the older man, but Bobby grabbed his arm holding him back. Dean angrily shrugged him off.

“Sam what the hell do you think you’re doing, taking my car? Running off like that, you know it isn’t safe…”

His voice stuttered out as the naked man lying on the ground shuddered trying to curl in on himself. Dean staggered back a step colliding with Bobby and the older man’s hand came up grasping his arm, steadying him.

“What did you do?” Dean’s eyes were wide; mouth gaping open in a silent black O. Sam felt a shudder crawl down the length of his spine. “Sammy, what did you do?”

Sam bent down laying his hand on his father’s broad back, “He’s cold. Dean we need to get him back to Bobby’s place.”

Grunting Bobby leaned down placing his hand on the unmoving man’s flank. The skin was goosepimply and cool to the touch, but not unnaturally so. He was just an unconscious man suffering from exposure. Looking up at Dean from under the brim of his ball cap the older man shrugged, “We should take him inside. He’s getting hypothermic.”

Face pale Dean nodded; Bobby disappeared through the trees and returned and few minutes later with a blanket. For the second time in his life Dean Winchester wrapped his father’s cold, still form in a blanket and lifted him up. This time he and Sam carried their father to the back of Bobby’s truck. The older man followed along with the duffle bag slung over one arm, carrying the shovel.

At the house Bobby waved the boys into the bathroom and they placed John in the tub, carefully Bobby began running cool water over his friend’s body, washing the thin film of clay away. As they washed John he began moving, small movements, mostly reflexive actions trying to move away from the cool water, but as Bobby began warming the water he relaxed.

There were small changes; all the men noticed them right away. John’s body had been riddled with scars from long years of fighting, first in Vietnam then in a different sort of war. Now his body was smooth, clean of lines and marks except for the thin scar that bisected his right cheek, still as noticeable as before. Sammy must have remembered that one, Dean thought with a grim smile.

There were other things as well, his appendectomy scar was gone, and he was no longer circumcised. In fact, as Bobby continued methodically working his way down John’s body with a wash cloth he winced, “I don’t remember John being this well hung before.”

That statement was met with dead silence from both Dean and Sam, and Bobby looked up flinching.

“Uh…not that I would really be in a position to comment on that…”

Dean grinned.

“You’re just not commenting on that or you’ve never been in the position?”

Blushing furiously Bobby reached around and smacked him on the knee.

“Smart ass.”

He carefully slid John’s body around and began refilling the tub with hotter water, by the time he was finished John’s skin had pinked up nicely, and he was making small movements, hand briefly grasping at Bobby’s arm. Still the actions seemed more reflexive than anything conscious and Sam was worried that he had gotten John’s body without actually getting his soul.

Between the three of them they were able dry John off enough to get him out of the tub without dropping him. Bobby led the two younger men to a room in the back and they settled John in the bed, covering him a quilt.

Bobby pulled chairs up beside the bed and the boys sat by their father’s side. With a frown the older man motioned to the unconscious man in the bed.

“Well, Sam you want to explain this?”

Sam sighed rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced from Bobby to his brother and back again.

“I couldn’t let Dean go through with his deal, so I…”

Dean leapt to his feet.

“You brought Dad back to fight the demon? What the hell were you thinking? Is he a zombie? Is that what they got, to bring him back as something undead?”

“No, that wasn’t the deal. I didn’t bring Dad back as one of the undead. It’s sort of revenge for them, no longer at peace. He’s alive, soul and all.”

“Then why is he not waking up?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam hesitated. “The demon said that he had just been born, and to give him time.”

Bobby frowned.

“Well its true newborn babies spend most of their time asleep. I guess we’ll have to see what happens.”

They settled down beside the bed and waited. Dean paced the floor until Bobby got tired of watching him and sent him out to get them something to eat. Sam was huddled on the foot of the bed carefully watching his father’s face for some sign of impending awakening.

It was two hours later when John finally opened his eyes. His stare was vacant, empty of awareness, but he wriggled around on the bed, hands grasping at the hem of the blanket. Bobby rose bringing a bottle of water back from the kitchen. He sat down on the bed and put one arm behind John’s shoulders lifting him. John jerked and whimpered, but as soon as the bottle was pressed against his lips he opened his mouth and took a sip of the liquid. He took a few more sips until finally John jerked his head away. Bobby shrugged, until John made a distressed sound, a low half-whimper.

Sam looked at his father.

“I think he’s hungry.”

The older man nodded.

“What should we give him? Nothing too hard to get down, he’d choke to death.”

Sam nodded.

“It’ll have to be something liquid, but more substantial than water.”

Booby stood, picking up the water bottle. He motioned Sam into the kitchen and began pulling things out of the cabinets. He opened a can of condensed milk pouring some into the bottle. To that he added a large dollop of corn syrup and hot water. Testing the temperature on the back of his hand Bobby sighed.

“Basically its baby formula. I don’t know what else to give him. This is gonna go down good when he wakes up.”

“I think this will be the least of our problems when Dad comes too,” Dean said. “We got him out of wherever he was. Sam, he was at peace, beyond all the pain and fear, and you dragged him right back in.”

It took a while but between the three of them they managed to get all of the thick, warm liquid into John. He quieted down immediately and lay still.  He didn’t go back to sleep right away, but lay looking at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face. Sam was feeling more and more agitated by his decision.

If John didn’t regain his mental capacity they had two choices. Either they would have to care for him as an invalid the rest of his life or kill him again. Dean would never stand for that, and Sam couldn’t blame him.  John shuffled on the bed again, and this time he made a more pronounced sound, and then Bobby shot to his feet. Dean glared at the older man until Bobby went into the bathroom bringing out a wash cloth and towel, and Dean realized that whatever went into his father was eventually going to come out again.

Two weeks later and Sam was finally convinced that he had made the worst mistake of his life. Yes, John was alive, but he was helpless, completely dependant on Sam, Dean and Bobby. But each day John seemed more aware of his surroundings. He stayed awake for longer periods of time, and he seemed to respond to them, turning his head at the sound of their voices. And each day Sam felt a little more despair at what he had done.

Sam sat by the bed every day reading and watching John for any signs of improvement by the end of the second week he was sure that his father was going to remain semi-comatose for the rest of his life. With a long shuddering sob Sam pulled his legs up into the chair and propped his chin on one knee. He stared at the familiar figure nestled motionless in the bed. Suddenly John groaned and rolled onto one side, it was the most he had moved since they had brought him to Bobby’s.

When Sam looked up again his father’s eyes were open. He didn’t seem so vacant, and Sam sat forward hopeful that the worst was over. His heart jumped when John followed his movements as he rose and approached the bed. He smiled and John's brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Dad,” he asked cautiously.

John blinked wearily. Sam settled on the bed. Picking up his father’s hand he smiled.

“Dad, are you feeling better?”

“Sammy?” John frowned glancing down at the quilt. He nervously twisted his fingers into the soft fabric worrying a loose thread. Sam was horrified when he realized that the quilt was almost identical to the one they wrapped around John’s corpse when they had burned him.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Bobby’s house,” Dean’s voice carried through the room as he hurried over, dropping down on the bed beside the older man. John smiled weakly, as Sam rose off the side of the bed and moved around to stand beside his brother.

“Bobby’s?  Why are we here? I don’t understand. The last thing I clearly remember is being somewhere dark, very dark. And it hurt.”

“You’ve been…” Sam began but Dean slammed his shoulder into his younger brother’s hip.

“You’ve been sick, Dad, real sick.”

“Sick,” John echoed, a frown twisted the corner of his mouth. “I remember being some place…it hurt so much.”

“It’s all right now though, Dad.”

Dean’s smile was painfully hard, with a bitter edge to it that frightened Sam to the core of his being. He shot his older brother a look then nodded briefly.

“You had a fever, Dad. You were hurt real bad when we got the demon.”

John lifted his head.

“Got him? We got the bastard, the one that killed your mother?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Dean offered, “You whacked his ass good. You need anything. Are you hungry? We’ve sort of been feeding you liquids so I bet you’re starving.”

John shook his head. “Not right now. Wouldn’t mind some water though.”

Bobby was standing in the hall when Dean walked out. He pushed the younger man into a corner and frowned.

“God, this just keeps getting worse. First you make a deal with the demon for Sammy, and he makes a deal for you. Now you’re lying to John. What are you going to do when he remembers?”

“He might not, he doesn’t have to know. He’s alive, and he’s not some demon.”

Bobby nodded.

“I know he’s alive. And I know he’s not a demon. I’ve been putting holy water into the stuff we’ve been feeding him. If he was something undead it would have showed along time ago.”

“Bobby I can’t send him back,” Dean said.

“I’m not saying that, but you shouldn’t lie to him on top of it all. He’ll remember one of these days, and then you boys are going to have to deal with the fallout.”

John seemed to recover quickly after that. It was almost as if he had never been gone. Of course Dean tried to make it seem as if his father had never been anywhere but right there with them.  But even Sam could feel his story unravel after a while, so he knew that it must feel shaky to their father as well.

Bobby kept his mouth shut, but the looks he gave both younger men only served to remind them that they were only fooling themselves. None of them were prepared for John to notice the discrepancy in the date.

He was sitting at the table in Bobby’s kitchen eating breakfast when John decided that he and the boys had been idle long enough. With a sigh he folded out the paper and began scouring the headlines looking for something that was out of the ordinary, something for which the reporter had no explanation, and then he paused, sitting back in the chair. John folded the paper over and rubbed the crease on the tabletop, a nervous habit he had acquired years ago and never gotten over.

Bobby noticed the other man sitting awkwardly in the chair and swallowed. This was what he had been waiting for, the reason he had refused to hear of John and the boys going to a hotel. John was remembering.

“Bobby, look at the date on the paper, I think they made a mistake…”

“It’s not a mistake, John.”

John cast an annoyed glance at the older man. “It says 2007.”

“That’s because it is 2007, John. Look, maybe you should talk to Dean or Sam about this. I don’t think the boys…”

John waved him into a chair.

“It’s May 25 2006, I remember that on the admitting papers in….”

Bobby hedged. “Admitting papers?”

“Yeah, in the hospital, after the truck t-boned the Impala. But I saw the car, its right outside and it looks fine.”

John cocked his head, and Bobby shivered at the far away expression on his friend’s face.

“John, that was a while ago. You were in the hospital, but you…uh…got out.”

“Dean was dying, I remember that.”

John half rose out of the chair with an agitated expression on his face. He tried to dodge Bobby’s hands as the other man reached out for him. Bobby finally got his hands on the other man’s shoulders and pushed him back into his seat.

“Dean’s fine.”

“Because I…what did I do? Bobby, tell me what happened.”

Dean came into the room glaring at the older man, and Bobby’s mouth snapped shut. John turned to his older son a grimace twisting his features. Dean swallowed hard, wanting to walk away and knowing he couldn’t.

“I did something…have I been in a coma for over a year?”

“Dad, just give it a rest. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing about that matters now. You’re fine, we’re all fine, okay?”

Bobby shook his head, and Dean could tell he was mad, angrier than he had ever seen the older man. But he kept quiet. Dean’s hands were shaking and he slammed them into his pockets and walked out of the room.

Sam was standing in the hall just beyond the door to the kitchen and he stared at his older brother. They both knew it was just a matter of time. Their father wasn’t going to just let this go. He would worry it for awhile, then when he couldn’t stand it any more he’d take off looking for answers. And being John Winchester he’d fine them.

“Dean,” Sam hissed, “We’ve got to tell him.”

“No, he doesn’t need to know. It’ll blow over. He’ll…”

“He’ll what, Dean? Just give up. Come on this is Dad we’re talking about. The man kept after a demon for twenty-two years. He sold his soul to the demon he was hunting and then fought his way out of hell to finally kill the damn thing. Do you really think he’ll just let it go?”

Dean sighed.

“Hell no. Dad’ll find out. I just don’t know what he’ll do when he does. Whatever happens, Sammy, tell Dad I did it. I was the one who brought him back.”

“I’m not going to lie, Dean. No more than I already have.”

It was almost midnight when John struggled awake through the nightmare he was having. He was drenched in sweat, the t-shirt clinging to his skin in a sodden mass of cloth. He shrugged it over his head, tossing the damp fabric on the floor. The house was quiet, still and lifeless. The only anchor to the world of the living that John had was the deep sonorous sounds of Bobby’s snoring in the other bedroom.

The boys were camped out in the living room; Dean sprawled on the sofa and Sam’s lanky body swaddled in sleeping bags and a quilt on the floor. John paused, looking at the western design on the quilt. It was remarkably like the one on the bed John was sleeping in. Remarkably like something that John could remember seeing from some dark place far away.

A voice kept running through his head. “See that Johnny?”

The voice hissed. It was like silk sliding across his skin, smooth but with a bite of pain as the cloth cut into his flesh. He was standing beside a man, shorter, sandy-haired and amber eyes grinning at him in the dark. And John had nowhere to run.

 “See poor Dean. You just about broke that boy’s heart. He loved you so much…”The demon’s grin widened. “This is gonna kill him. You did it better than I ever could, John. Dropped your good little soldier right to his knees.” 

He stood looking at his boys as they slumbered on. Dean’s lazy sprawl and Sammy’s tight, almost fetal curl. John smiled, just like him, almost identical in fact. Why had he always butted heads with Sam? And, of course, he knew. They were just so much alike. John sighed; he could feel the tension between them. Dean had done something terrible and Sammy was shielding his brother from blame. Well, John had always taught them to watch each other’s backs, but this time he need to know what they were covering for each other.

And he knew Dean well enough to know that they had brought John to Bobby’s for a reason. All he had to do was find out what that was. John stepped over his younger son’s body and slipped out of the door. The sound of the lock clicking home brought Dean from sleep to wakefulness in just a few seconds. Sliding out of bed he rushed through the house to the back room. The bed was empty. His hoarse exclamation brought Sam and Bobby to the door.

“Where’s John?” the older man asked quickly.

Dean stood mute for a moment then he turned.

“He went outside. He’s gone looking.”

“Did you really think he wouldn’t?” Bobby asked. “Hell, it’s a full moon, light as day out there. He’ll find the place. We didn’t even try to cover our tracks. We’d better go after him ‘cause God knows what he’ll do when he finds the grave.”

The moonlight was bright enough that John had no trouble finding a path behind the house that led into the woods. It was a long hike, but he had taken a .45 from the bedside table. John didn’t know if the gun belonged to him or was one that belonged to Bobby. But he had found out that his truck and weapons were gone. That disturbed him. If he had been unconscious the boys would have left his things alone. Dean would have never let them go, so long as there was the remotest chance that his father would ever use them again. True, his duffle bag and journal were still there, but his wedding ring was missing as well. And John knew that the boys would never dare to lose that.

The ground was dry; it hadn’t rained in a while.  Although the footprints were old, and eroded they were still easy enough to find and follow.  The footprints were deep, turned out at the edges and hesitant. As if the two men had been carrying a heavy burden, but one they desperately didn’t want to drop. A body, living or otherwise, was what John suspected.

It took him a good half an hour to reach a clearing beside a young oak tree, green and supple with spring foliage. John could hear the faint bubbling of a creek nearby. This place would have been the perfect spot for a picnic, peaceful and quiet, or the perfect place for a grave. John turned around and there it was, a raw, gaping hole in the ground filled with black, oily ash.

John stood staring mutely at the mound of dried clay on the edge of the shallow pit. The tree cast its long shadow over the gaping hole in the ground, and John’s knees buckled. He fell.  At the bottom of the pit he could just make out a finer layer of gray ash, dotted with small pieces of bone. Someone had burned a body here. John leaned into the grave. Hands shaking John raked his fingers through the ash and saw something glinting in the moonlight. He picked it up. It was burned, ruined beyond repair, but he recogninsed it for what it was. A man’s wedding ring, a plain unadorned silver band.

With a muffled shout Dean burst out of the underbrush and grabbed his father’s arm. John looked up white-faced and shaking.

“You buried me here? You burned me first, didn’t you? I can see the pyre.”

Dean nodded wiping at the line of tears that streaked his face.

“Yeah, Sam and I brought you here, after…”

“I made a deal with the demon, and I remember. Oh god,” John covered his face with his hands. “I was in hell. I watched you afterwards. He let me see, when it was too late to do anything but watch. Dean I never meant to hurt you that way.”

Sobbing Dean reached out blindly but John shook him off.

“I remember when the gates opened; I saw you and Sammy there with the demon.”

“Yeah, you pulled that bastard right out of his skin so I could kill him.”

“Yes,” John smiled. “But afterwards. I felt the light. It was so warm, so peaceful. I have never felt anything like it, not since your mother was taken. It was every good dream I had ever had, about her and you boys and what things should have been like. And I think your mother was there.”

Sam staggered across the clearing dropping on the ground beside his father, clasping the older man’s shoulders. John was weeping openly now, and Sam shook with the force of his father’s sobs. John turned on his older son.

 “Oh God, Dean what did you do? Why, son, why did you do this to me?”

Sam flinched as Dean reached out for his father only to be pushed away.

He moaned, “Dean didn’t do this to you Dad. I was the one, I brought you back.”

“Why, Sammy? I didn’t think that you would miss me that much.”

With a sob Sam twisted his hand into his father’s shirt.

“I didn’t do it because I missed you. I did it because Dean made a deal with the demon to bring me back, and his time was almost up.”

John frowned. “You brought me back to fight the demon?”

“No! I bought you back to trade for Dean. They wanted you back in hell; you’re the one that got away, Dad. And they’d do anything to get you back. They couldn’t get at you where you were but now they’ve got the same chance of getting you as any other man.  No guarantees that they will and no guarantees that they won’t.  I brought you back as a sacrifice.”

Dean’s eyes widened and John could tell that even he didn’t know the truth behind his brother’s actions. John sat back, his chest tight enough that he had trouble drawing breath. He stared at his younger son, unable to fully comprehend what Sam was saying. Sam was panting, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked at his father as if he expected the man to, at least, turn away from him. John slumped back, his shoulders bent. He looked worn and ragged in a way that the younger man had never known before.

John sat up suddenly and Sam thought that his father might hit him. But the older man merely stared.

“At least I raised you boys to fight for each other. That’s all that I hoped for, that you stand up for good and protect each other. I got that.”

Dean jerked forward.

"Dad, whatever you're thinking, don't. Don't do it. Suicides go to hell, Dad. You know that."

"What can I do Dean? They'll be after us because of me. They'll come after you boys to get me to make a deal, better to just get it over with now."

“I won’t let you, Dad. I won’t stand here and watch you die again. Please don’t make me! You gave your life for me once, and it almost killed me. If you do it again I won’t make it, Dad,” Dean hissed.

John sat back white-faced and shaking. The demon’s voice ran through his head.

  “You did it better than me, John. Dropped your good little soldier right to his knees.” 

John wiped his hands across his face.  He couldn’t stand to see his eldest like this.  It had hurt, so much, when the demon had shown him Dean shattering inside.  To see him on the verge of breaking again was just too much.

Thinking on his feet, John made a decision quickly, as he’d done all his life.

"OK, we take our chances.  Fight the way we always have, and watch each other's backs.  But, no more dancing with the devil. If one of us falls then we let him go. Give him a chance to rest in peace. The way it was meant to be."

Nodding Dean settled down beside his father.

"Okay,” Dean agreed.  “No matter who it is. If one of us dies then the others carry on without him. No more deals for any of us."

"Then I say we do what we've always done. We kill every last one of those rat bastards," John said with a grim smile. He turned to his younger son.

"Sammy?"

"I'm with you, Dad."

The End