On Our Own, Epilogue, PG-13, Gen, AU
Hey everyone! Sorry the epilogue took a bit longer to post: my week got insane. But it's here, it's done, and I hope y'all enjoyed the ride. Thank you for all of the comments you've left! They've made me a very very giddy little writer.
This epilogue follows Ending 11B.
And OMFG lookit what digitalwave did for me!!!!!
Which is extra shiny because I WILL be doing timestamps. I've got a few planned out. :)
Title: On Our Own
Chapter: Epilogue
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, though especially for 5x04.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
Summary: AU. When Sam is fifteen, his dad makes a decision based on a dark future he was apparently shown by an 'angel': split his sons up and abandon his youngest to keep that future at bay. Dean refuses to let it happen, but if they want to stay together, there's only one option: run.
Wordcount: This chapter, 4,826. Total: 33,467.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11A
Part 11B
Seven years. Seven long years of searching, of keeping his ear to the ground, of doing everything in his power to find them, and they'd popped on his radar at last. Finally.
After seven years, John had found his sons.
They were in California, of all places. He'd caught wind of them being in Texas a few years ago, but when he'd gotten there, there'd been no trace of them. Sam had been in a high school there, but after he'd graduated, he'd left no forwarding address. Wherever Dean had worked, there'd been no address left, either. No such number, no such soul.
California, like Texas, was a big state. And the California tip-off had been a stroke of luck from one of the kids at the high school. Apparently Sam had gotten attached and given the kid his new address. The kid had joked with other friends that Sam was a lucky sonuvabitch who got to play with the hot Cali girls now, if his brother Dean didn't beat him to it. It was enough.
He'd moved his search to the golden state on the coast and started trying to piece together why they'd moved. Had they known he was coming? Had someone called them to tell them? Bobby hadn't heard from them for years, and John knew that Singer would never forgive him for it. Bobby loved the boys like they were his own, almost as much as John did.
Because he did. He loved the both of them. It had just taken seven long years to tell him how much.
Age now had brought his fiery temper to a slow burn. Oh, it was there, and if needed, any demonic son of a bitch in his path would meet it. Or the hunters who had hurt his sons: John swore his hand still hurt all these years later from laying them out before barking at them to help find his boys again, the night they'd slid out of the cabin. But he'd learned patience through the years, too. Listening before leaping.
Humility. Guilt. Grief. All feelings he'd had that he wanted to tell his sons about.
Except it had come three years too late by the time he'd made his realizations, and John had sworn he'd find them, if just to tell them for himself. He'd started two hunts then, the hunt for the demon that had taken his wife, and the hunt for his sons. And somewhere along the way, only the one hunt had remained: his boys, who had become more important than the demon. Like they should have been in the first place.
He sat now in his new black truck, watching the building across the way. One more light on the third floor had just switched off. He'd wait another fifteen, then head upstairs. To where his boys were both living, still together. They'd never separated.
God, what a fool he'd been. But when the angel had appeared to him and desperately shown him the future of his boys, John had panicked. Sam being worn like a cheap suit by the Devil himself, Dean alone, bitter, and suicidal...when Sam's foot had broken through his brother's neck, John had screamed himself hoarse until the angel had finally, mercifully, dropped him back in the motel room. To where his boys had been sleeping next to each other, young and innocent and peaceful.
He'd wanted them to remain that way. Parting them then instead of in the future would've stopped it from happening. He'd been so sure of it that it had engulfed him from head to toe, a raging fire that wouldn't be quenched.
But somehow, the boys had heard him that night when he'd told Singer to take Sam. Sam could've had all he wanted there: a steady life, a stable school system, a home. It would've made him happy. Dean would've gone on hunts with John like he loved to do, would've become a better hunter, would've been a strong man by the end. That had been his plan.
Except, somehow, he'd forgotten the one thing that made his boys the happiest the most: each other. He'd never understood it. He doubted he ever would. They were connected in a way that would never make sense to anyone except each other.
And like the fool he was, he'd tried to break it. He'd tested and tried that bond that night at Singer's, and he'd showed them how it couldn't break. How they would only end up stronger.
John took another sip of the strong brewed coffee before setting it back in the cup holder. He'd sworn off alcohol after they'd disappeared. Sober for seven years and counting. Swore he wouldn't take another drop until it was a celebratory drink that he'd found them. Until he'd explained himself, if they'd listen.
Because what he hadn't realized was that while he'd strengthened the both of them, he'd also destroyed any faith they'd had in him.
His memories through the years of Mary, his wedding, buying his first car, those were fading. But the memory of Sam sitting on the edge of that motel bed, broken and begging, begging John not to toss him away, would haunt John until his dying day. He'd glared at his baby boy, only able to see the cold Devil that would take and wear him. Glared because the angel had told him that Sam had given in, had offered himself up to Lucifer in exchange for what, they hadn't known. Sam had betrayed the human race.
Except he hadn't. John had had seven years to really think about it, and when he'd realized his mistake, one of them at any rate, he'd sat down and cried. Sam had given in because there'd been no one worth staying for. Dean had left him. John hadn't been there, neither had Bobby. Sam had taken the first out. He wondered if his older son had known that. If that was why Dean had looked so hollow, why he hadn't put up more of a fight against the Devil.
He'd turned away from them that day seven years ago. Dean had shouted at him to screw himself, Sam had pleaded with Dean to stop with sobs choking his frame, and John had been so damn determined to keep them all safe. Leaving Sam behind would be the safer route. If Sam stayed out of the damn hunting world, then he wouldn't get involved. He'd opened the door and asked if they were coming. His ears had popped for a moment, and he'd turned around when the boys didn't reply.
The room had been empty. That had been the last time he'd seen them...until now.
College. They'd left Texas for California because of college. Stanford University, where Sam had apparently gotten a full ride, according to the financial aid office. He was staying off-campus in a small apartment with Dean. They'd left a good life, a good job, for a smaller apartment in California where the rent was bound to be higher, all for Sam to go to school. John couldn't believe it.
It had made them easy to find, though. High schools weren't as rigorous about credit checks and identification checks, or transcripts, as a college was. They'd gotten clumsy about the paperwork, had given it all just for Sam to get in. And the paper trail had been easy enough to follow from there.
Now that he was here, outside of their building, though, all of John's confidence felt as it were slipping away. It wasn't a feeling he experienced a lot, and not one he really wanted to know. They were his kids; it shouldn't be this hard. Memories encroached again, reminding him that even before they'd disappeared and left him standing in the room alone, they'd been a united front against him. Sam, broken on the bed, but still looking to Dean for guidance. Dean, arguing with him, arguing, and shouting obscenities and hate-filled words all to try and keep the two of them together. He hadn't raised Dean that way. He hadn't raised Sam that way.
Somehow, they'd grown close together on their own. Somehow, they'd raised each other.
It was then that he realized all the lights were out in the apartment. They'd gone to bed early: good. He'd be able to sneak in now. He didn't really have a choice, he knew that. If he approached them, they'd just as soon shoot him or slam the door in his face without giving him a chance to talk. Better to catch them off guard this way.
He felt every year of his age as he stepped out of the truck. God, when had he gotten so old? Three years of worrying, of trying to hear anything of his sons, to just know they were alive, then four years of searching in California, and it had run him ragged. The gray in his beard wasn't so much a highlight as it was a permanent fixture in his hair now. There'd been hunts through the years, hunts without backup that had led to messed up knees and a back that wasn't always faithful about getting up in the morning.
But none of it compared to having his sons somewhere else. That had been like missing a limb.
He made his way into the building - and the fact that his boys had picked a place with a simple lock to protect them from the outside world disappointed him - and up the stairs until he reached their floor. Their apartment. This, too, also had a mere lock to guard them from the outside world, but the chain on the door was at least an attempt to deter those who wanted in. He snipped it easily and quietly and then stepped inside, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.
He'd barely made out the room around him before something came down on his head, and then it was all black.
When John came to, the world was still dark. The room held no light, and John realized he could be anywhere. The boys' apartment, the basement, a warehouse...
God, what if the boys had been taken as well? He'd assumed that no one else would be there except them, but what if someone else had beaten him to the punch? His blood ran cold at the thought, and he attempted to move, only to find his arms bound behind him where he sat in what he presumed was a wooden chair. His legs were similarly restrained, and his mind flew back over his own break-in. The lock had seemed awfully easy to pick, and his boys had to have other precautions then just a simple chain. Oh god, what if they were using the boys as leverage, somehow having found out that John had discovered their whereabouts and were just waiting for him-
“I think he's awake.”
The deep voice didn't help quell any of John's fears. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled. “Where are my boys?”
The choked off laugh only brought his anger fully to the surface. “Who the hell are you to ask the questions?” another deep voice asked. “You broke in here.”
Had he gotten the wrong address? Somehow, in his foolish pride, mixed it up? “Let's talk this over,” John said, attempting to be calm about it. The knots holding his hands were solid, though, and he couldn't even flex his wrists. “I think there's been a mistake.”
“Yeah,” the first voice said, right before there was a soft click and the lights came on. John blinked away the flare of pain at the brightness until he could focus. “There's been a lot of mistakes, John.”
Only then did he see them. A memory flashed through his mind, telling him he'd seen them before, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Two men standing in front of him, leaning back against a kitchen counter, unmistakably side by side. One was fairly tall, sharp jawline with green eyes that John would've known anywhere. The other one was taller than the first by a good several inches. He was slender but still built, hair still long and unmanageable. And his eyes, they were all...Mary's. In a split second John knew who each of them were, and how he'd seen them before: grown up, in a future that held nothing but evil.
“Sammy?” he whispered, shocked. “Dean?” By god they'd grown up. Somehow, John had thought they'd still be his boys. These weren't boys anymore. These were men before him now.
Dean, because it had to be Dean, stepped forward slowly, quietly and dangerously. His boy was all lethal grace, and it didn't escape John that he'd put himself between John and Sam. “Hi, Dad,” Dean drawled, and his lips turned up into a smile that held nothing nice in it. Dean followed John's gaze to Sam, then shrugged, all casual and calm. His eyes, though, burned as they stared John down. “I know, Sam's a surprise, isn't he? Kid grew up taller than me after all.” The burning faded for a quick moment as Dean cast a glance back at Sam, all false annoyance and real fondness. “Little bitch.”
“Think you mixed your adjectives up, little jerk,” Sam said, his lips turning up into a small grin. His voice was the first deep voice he'd heard, and god it was such a change that it almost stole John's breath away.
“Shut up,” Dean said, then turned back to John, and all traces of kindness were gone. “How ya been? It was kinda hot outside today, wasn't it? Gotta give you credit for staying out there that long. Sam suggested we bring you lemonade, but we didn't really have any, so, oops. Nice truck, by the way.”
They'd known he was there all day long. They'd outplayed him again, just as they had seven years ago. “It's new,” John said, unable to think of anything else. His entire plan was sinking fast, and he wasn't sure he could salvage it in any way. “I haven't seen the Impala. Did you sell her to afford this place?” Though what a 'place' it was. Nicer than anywhere he'd found for them as kids, but it was still small, and barely held any good hiding places or escapes.
“The Impala's parked in the parking lot for the apartment residents,” Sam said, speaking up. His voice was so much deeper that it still felt like a shock all over again to see him standing there, hearing him, tall and proud and confident in a way he hadn't been as a teen. He'd grown into his own skin, and John had no reservations as to who had helped him do it. “Thought you would've figured that out, considering you've been stalking us.”
“A man tries to find his own children and it's stalking?” John asked Sam, but it was Dean who answered him.
“When those two children want nothing to do with him? Yeah, it's stalking.”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” John began, but Sam cut him off.
“No, you wanted us to listen. Same as you always do. Did you have a sudden change of heart for some odd reason? Decided that maybe, maybe you could keep me around?”
John flushed with shame, another emotion he wasn't familiar with. “Look, I know what I said and did was wrong, and I'm sorry,” he said, and that at least got a reaction. From Sam, at least: Dean remained still, not looking impressed at all. Sam, on the other hand, shifted slightly, relaxed a little, and his face changed to something of hope and want. There, finally, John saw a remnant of the Sam he'd seen last, the pleading child who'd only wanted to stay with his family. This Sam obviously hadn't changed in that regard, and John pressed on eagerly. “I shouldn't have done what I did. I...I panicked, Sam. What I saw happen to you, to Dean, I didn't want that future for you. If I could take it back, I would-”
“Okay, that's enough,” Dean snapped, and John broke eye contact with Sam to face his oldest.
“Excuse me?”
“Don't you dare play that game with him,” Dean said, barely contained fury about to explode. “Don't you dare. You don't think you haven't toyed with him enough? Done enough to him? And now to play it like this?”
“Dean,” Sam said softly, and Dean pulled himself back, but only just. That didn't stop John from speaking his mind.
“You think I'm lying?” he asked incredulously. “That I'm what, saying-”
“I think you're telling him exactly what you know he wants,” Dean said, and his voice was dangerously low. “And it's a cheap shot, even for you.”
“I'm telling the truth!” John exclaimed. “I made a mistake, Dean, with both of you. I shouldn't have done what I did, said what I did. Seven years is a hell of a long time to think about the fucking worst mistake I ever did, and I've been trying to find you both to tell you that. God knows you two haven't made it easy, you laid low-”
“Gee, wonder why,” Dean said sarcastically.
“-Until you both decided to move for what, college?” John said, and he couldn't hide the disappointment or, god help him, the disgust. “What exactly is that going to do for you two?”
“It's gonna give Sam the future you almost destroyed,” Dean said, and his icy tone told John he'd screwed it up. “Did you ever look over any of his grades, any of his accomplishments, and realize just how freakin' smart your kid is?”
“Dean,” Sam called, but he was ignored this time, Dean too worked up to listen.
“Law school, Dad,” Dean said, “He's gonna be a lawyer, and probably one of the best ones a courtroom has ever seen. Helping people, making a difference. Just without a gun. I bet Mom would've been damn proud of him, because I know I am.”
It was a punch to the gut, and Dean had known it. John found all of his irritation falling away. “It's a hell of a thing, a full ride,” John admitted, and his sincerity must've finally, finally come through, because Dean's shoulders dropped a good inch. “You should be proud of yourself, Sam. And yes, your Mother would've been proud of you, too.” He took a deep breath, and for some reason, Sam looked like he was waiting for something else, so John kept going. “No, I didn't come here for that. I came here to ask for your forgiveness, to maybe, I don't know, be allowed to see my sons again. Just...just give an old man a chance.”
Dean looked, for the first time since John had seen him, unsure. But it was Sam who quietly snuffed out all of John's hopes, looking...disappointed? Resigned. “Why break in? Why not just come to us?”
“Because I knew you wouldn't let me talk to you,” John said wearily. The words were too late and he knew it. Dean was unapproachable once more, a solid wall between Sam and John, and Sam was starting to look like the same distraught, hopeless child he'd seen in the motel room that day.
And in one of those rare moments of clarity, John knew it was over. He knew they'd never believe him, never think that he'd changed his mind. No matter how many times he told them the truth, they'd always turn him away. God, had he been that much of a bastard? Was it that unconceivable that he'd apologize to them?
“I love you,” he whispered, looking from Dean to Sam and then back again. “If I've failed in all other regards, please believe me when I say that I've always loved the both of you.”
Dean huffed out a laugh, but it was a wistful, sad thing that tore at John to hear. “You probably do,” Dean admitted. “But you've always had a hell of a way of showing it.”
Sam said nothing, but he didn't need to. One look into his eyes and John suddenly found himself on the flip side of a memory: him glaring at Sam, Sam desperate to prove his worth, begging to be heard and loved. Now, it was Sam glaring at him with barely hidden disgust, eyes cold and disregarding. John could feel his face crumple, wondered if Sam had felt that same searing cut of pain that went straight through the soul.
“Leave us alone,” Dean said quietly. “We've got enough things in life to worry about without you being one of them. Sam's graduating this year, and I swear if you show at the ceremony, I will tear you a new one in front of a million people and God himself.”
The hunt to find his sons was over, but he still had the notes from the other demon. Maybe, if he took it out, kept it from reaching Sam, like it wanted to, maybe they'd believe him then. Maybe it would be enough.
He wondered if Sam had asked himself if he could do anything to not be cut out of John's life, seven years ago, and John could feel the pull of alcohol stronger in his veins than ever before, if just to drown the thought out.
Before he knew it, the door was shutting in his face, and the quiet click of several locks about undid him. There was nothing else John could do except bow his head and let another, new feeling fill him, one he hadn't felt since that night he'd lost Mary: grief.
“Hey.”
Sam kept his gaze locked outside the window, eyes focused on where the black truck had been. “Sammy,” Dean called softly, gently tugging Sam from the window.
Sam went without any sort of reluctance, letting Dean fold him onto the sofa, their sofa. The blanket he threw over Sam's shoulders was theirs, bought at a thrift store for two dollars. It had been lovingly sewn back up at least a dozen times, and Dean kept threatening to throw it out. Not tonight. Not for any time soon.
“Sammy,” Dean said again, and it meant comfort and concern and let Sam say it all.
“He wasn't proud.”
“What?”
“He...” And god, this was so stupid, not even the point, but it had been another hidden barb that dug deep into Sam's soul. “He said that you were proud, and that Mom would've been proud, and that I should be proud of getting in on a full ride. But he never said that he was proud.”
Dean's arm pulled him in with a regretful, “Aw, Sammy,” and Sam shut his eyes. He'd known that any confrontation with their dad wouldn't end well, and this one had ended probably the best it could've: Dean walking their dad to the door, Dad looking back with sorrow in his eyes that Sam had resolutely tried to ignore. And just like that, their dad was gone.
They sat on the sofa for a long time, staring at nothing. He could see why their dad hadn't approved of their tiny little space. By a hunter's standards, it wasn't safe.
They weren't hunters. They were just two brothers who lived together to make ends meet, and the little apartment had become home over the past four years, more than the place in Texas had been. It'd been great, sure, and they'd both made friends. But there'd always been this urgency thrumming deep inside of them, wondering when Dad would show and turn it all upside down.
A week before Sam's 18th birthday, the nightmares had started. Nightmares of Dad showing up and taking Sam away because, legally, he could. They'd never been able to transfer guardianship to Dean beyond a few forged papers for medical reasons. If Dad had shown up with all the real legal documents, which he still had, then it would be over. Sam's head at night had been plagued with Dad's wrenching grip tearing him away from Dean or, worse, Dad coaxing Dean away from him with the promise of a better life, of a hunting life that didn't involve a mechanic's nine to five job.
The day before his birthday, they'd found out that a man had come to town, older man, looking for them. Sam had wound up having a full panic attack until they'd found out it was Bobby who'd used a shadier source to find the both of them. He'd only come down to see with his own eyes that they were alive and well. He'd brought with him protection amulets for the both of them, and a blessed necklace for Sam. It'd been a good birthday, panic attack aside, even though Dean had all but threatened to dismember him if he ever kept nightmares like that from him again.
He was starting to feel that same tight feeling in his chest again. “God dammit,” Sam cursed, scrubbing at his burning eyes. The early morning hour wasn't helping with his tired eyes, but he knew that the tears were all to do with their dad. They'd been fine. Everything had been all right. Even that weird week of dreams he'd had a month ago had passed, once Bobby had warned them about the demonic omens around campus. They'd forded up and blocked them off, and the repetitive dreams, the realistic dreams, had all vanished. Whatever it had been, it had passed them by.
Except this.
“Should've let me key his truck,” Dean grumbled, and Sam snorted.
“And by 'key' you mean 'blow it up in some explosive fashion'.”
Dean had the good grace to look sheepish. “It would've been deserved,” was his counter argument. Sam merely shook his head and moved his gaze to his feet. They were covered in lame socks, Superman socks that Dean had bought him for Christmas. They'd have had no place in the hunting world, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You need sleep,” Dean said gently. “I've got all the locks on now. Why you didn't let me do that in the first place-”
“Because he would've broken them all to get in,” Sam said with a soft sigh. “Better to practically let him in then deal with needing a new door.”
“Yeah, all right, be logical,” Dean said, and Sam couldn't help the small grin at that.
“I'm practically getting a degree in it, you know.”
“I heard that somewhere,” Dean said, face lighting up. It never ceased to amaze Sam at how proud Dean really was of him, how Dean told everyone that his baby brother was going into law. When Dean said he was proud of Sam, he meant it with every fiber of his being, as he well should. He'd practically raised Sam even before they'd run away. He was the reason Sam had gotten into Stanford, no matter what his big brother might say.
Sam pushed himself off the sofa but kept the blanket with him. He had a feeling it was going to be one of those 'sit on the edge of Dean's bed and talk all night until they both passed out' nights, but he figured Dean would understand.
“You think...you think he meant it? Any of it?”
Sam turned around to where Dean was still sitting. Dean looked all of fifteen himself for a minute, growing into his own limbs, wanting to know how he stood with Dad. Sam wasn't the only one whose father had turned on him.
Still, he answered after a long moment of hesitation. “I think he thought he did,” Sam said. “I think he believed it. Which is the most anyone can do with their words. Seven years is a long time, Dean.”
“Yeah, it is,” Dean said pointedly, and the other side of that message was well heard. It had taken their dad seven years to come around and accept the fact that he'd screwed up.
Would there ever been any sort of reconciliation between them all? Probably not. Stranger things had happened, though.
Dean pushed himself off the sofa with a grace Sam envied at three in the morning. “C'mon, college geek,” Dean said affectionately, tussling Sam's hair as he passed him to head down the hall. “You need sleep. You've got finals in a month and a half.”
“Don't remind me,” Sam moaned. That would be a new fresh hell. This time, they were all that stood between him and the degree, making them loom even more viciously above him.
He glanced around their small apartment, eyes taking in the little knick-knacks they'd gathered through the years. Things that were theirs, that reminded him of newer memories they'd made as two brothers on their own. He let himself smile and pushed thoughts of Dad away.
He'd made it through worse with Dean's help. Finals would be nothing at all.
END
A/N: I want to thank you all for reading and following along and being just generally the fantastic people you are. I hope you enjoyed the ride!
~Nebula
This epilogue follows Ending 11B.
And OMFG lookit what digitalwave did for me!!!!!
Which is extra shiny because I WILL be doing timestamps. I've got a few planned out. :)
Title: On Our Own
Chapter: Epilogue
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, though especially for 5x04.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
Summary: AU. When Sam is fifteen, his dad makes a decision based on a dark future he was apparently shown by an 'angel': split his sons up and abandon his youngest to keep that future at bay. Dean refuses to let it happen, but if they want to stay together, there's only one option: run.
Wordcount: This chapter, 4,826. Total: 33,467.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11A
Part 11B
Seven years. Seven long years of searching, of keeping his ear to the ground, of doing everything in his power to find them, and they'd popped on his radar at last. Finally.
After seven years, John had found his sons.
They were in California, of all places. He'd caught wind of them being in Texas a few years ago, but when he'd gotten there, there'd been no trace of them. Sam had been in a high school there, but after he'd graduated, he'd left no forwarding address. Wherever Dean had worked, there'd been no address left, either. No such number, no such soul.
California, like Texas, was a big state. And the California tip-off had been a stroke of luck from one of the kids at the high school. Apparently Sam had gotten attached and given the kid his new address. The kid had joked with other friends that Sam was a lucky sonuvabitch who got to play with the hot Cali girls now, if his brother Dean didn't beat him to it. It was enough.
He'd moved his search to the golden state on the coast and started trying to piece together why they'd moved. Had they known he was coming? Had someone called them to tell them? Bobby hadn't heard from them for years, and John knew that Singer would never forgive him for it. Bobby loved the boys like they were his own, almost as much as John did.
Because he did. He loved the both of them. It had just taken seven long years to tell him how much.
Age now had brought his fiery temper to a slow burn. Oh, it was there, and if needed, any demonic son of a bitch in his path would meet it. Or the hunters who had hurt his sons: John swore his hand still hurt all these years later from laying them out before barking at them to help find his boys again, the night they'd slid out of the cabin. But he'd learned patience through the years, too. Listening before leaping.
Humility. Guilt. Grief. All feelings he'd had that he wanted to tell his sons about.
Except it had come three years too late by the time he'd made his realizations, and John had sworn he'd find them, if just to tell them for himself. He'd started two hunts then, the hunt for the demon that had taken his wife, and the hunt for his sons. And somewhere along the way, only the one hunt had remained: his boys, who had become more important than the demon. Like they should have been in the first place.
He sat now in his new black truck, watching the building across the way. One more light on the third floor had just switched off. He'd wait another fifteen, then head upstairs. To where his boys were both living, still together. They'd never separated.
God, what a fool he'd been. But when the angel had appeared to him and desperately shown him the future of his boys, John had panicked. Sam being worn like a cheap suit by the Devil himself, Dean alone, bitter, and suicidal...when Sam's foot had broken through his brother's neck, John had screamed himself hoarse until the angel had finally, mercifully, dropped him back in the motel room. To where his boys had been sleeping next to each other, young and innocent and peaceful.
He'd wanted them to remain that way. Parting them then instead of in the future would've stopped it from happening. He'd been so sure of it that it had engulfed him from head to toe, a raging fire that wouldn't be quenched.
But somehow, the boys had heard him that night when he'd told Singer to take Sam. Sam could've had all he wanted there: a steady life, a stable school system, a home. It would've made him happy. Dean would've gone on hunts with John like he loved to do, would've become a better hunter, would've been a strong man by the end. That had been his plan.
Except, somehow, he'd forgotten the one thing that made his boys the happiest the most: each other. He'd never understood it. He doubted he ever would. They were connected in a way that would never make sense to anyone except each other.
And like the fool he was, he'd tried to break it. He'd tested and tried that bond that night at Singer's, and he'd showed them how it couldn't break. How they would only end up stronger.
John took another sip of the strong brewed coffee before setting it back in the cup holder. He'd sworn off alcohol after they'd disappeared. Sober for seven years and counting. Swore he wouldn't take another drop until it was a celebratory drink that he'd found them. Until he'd explained himself, if they'd listen.
Because what he hadn't realized was that while he'd strengthened the both of them, he'd also destroyed any faith they'd had in him.
His memories through the years of Mary, his wedding, buying his first car, those were fading. But the memory of Sam sitting on the edge of that motel bed, broken and begging, begging John not to toss him away, would haunt John until his dying day. He'd glared at his baby boy, only able to see the cold Devil that would take and wear him. Glared because the angel had told him that Sam had given in, had offered himself up to Lucifer in exchange for what, they hadn't known. Sam had betrayed the human race.
Except he hadn't. John had had seven years to really think about it, and when he'd realized his mistake, one of them at any rate, he'd sat down and cried. Sam had given in because there'd been no one worth staying for. Dean had left him. John hadn't been there, neither had Bobby. Sam had taken the first out. He wondered if his older son had known that. If that was why Dean had looked so hollow, why he hadn't put up more of a fight against the Devil.
He'd turned away from them that day seven years ago. Dean had shouted at him to screw himself, Sam had pleaded with Dean to stop with sobs choking his frame, and John had been so damn determined to keep them all safe. Leaving Sam behind would be the safer route. If Sam stayed out of the damn hunting world, then he wouldn't get involved. He'd opened the door and asked if they were coming. His ears had popped for a moment, and he'd turned around when the boys didn't reply.
The room had been empty. That had been the last time he'd seen them...until now.
College. They'd left Texas for California because of college. Stanford University, where Sam had apparently gotten a full ride, according to the financial aid office. He was staying off-campus in a small apartment with Dean. They'd left a good life, a good job, for a smaller apartment in California where the rent was bound to be higher, all for Sam to go to school. John couldn't believe it.
It had made them easy to find, though. High schools weren't as rigorous about credit checks and identification checks, or transcripts, as a college was. They'd gotten clumsy about the paperwork, had given it all just for Sam to get in. And the paper trail had been easy enough to follow from there.
Now that he was here, outside of their building, though, all of John's confidence felt as it were slipping away. It wasn't a feeling he experienced a lot, and not one he really wanted to know. They were his kids; it shouldn't be this hard. Memories encroached again, reminding him that even before they'd disappeared and left him standing in the room alone, they'd been a united front against him. Sam, broken on the bed, but still looking to Dean for guidance. Dean, arguing with him, arguing, and shouting obscenities and hate-filled words all to try and keep the two of them together. He hadn't raised Dean that way. He hadn't raised Sam that way.
Somehow, they'd grown close together on their own. Somehow, they'd raised each other.
It was then that he realized all the lights were out in the apartment. They'd gone to bed early: good. He'd be able to sneak in now. He didn't really have a choice, he knew that. If he approached them, they'd just as soon shoot him or slam the door in his face without giving him a chance to talk. Better to catch them off guard this way.
He felt every year of his age as he stepped out of the truck. God, when had he gotten so old? Three years of worrying, of trying to hear anything of his sons, to just know they were alive, then four years of searching in California, and it had run him ragged. The gray in his beard wasn't so much a highlight as it was a permanent fixture in his hair now. There'd been hunts through the years, hunts without backup that had led to messed up knees and a back that wasn't always faithful about getting up in the morning.
But none of it compared to having his sons somewhere else. That had been like missing a limb.
He made his way into the building - and the fact that his boys had picked a place with a simple lock to protect them from the outside world disappointed him - and up the stairs until he reached their floor. Their apartment. This, too, also had a mere lock to guard them from the outside world, but the chain on the door was at least an attempt to deter those who wanted in. He snipped it easily and quietly and then stepped inside, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.
He'd barely made out the room around him before something came down on his head, and then it was all black.
When John came to, the world was still dark. The room held no light, and John realized he could be anywhere. The boys' apartment, the basement, a warehouse...
God, what if the boys had been taken as well? He'd assumed that no one else would be there except them, but what if someone else had beaten him to the punch? His blood ran cold at the thought, and he attempted to move, only to find his arms bound behind him where he sat in what he presumed was a wooden chair. His legs were similarly restrained, and his mind flew back over his own break-in. The lock had seemed awfully easy to pick, and his boys had to have other precautions then just a simple chain. Oh god, what if they were using the boys as leverage, somehow having found out that John had discovered their whereabouts and were just waiting for him-
“I think he's awake.”
The deep voice didn't help quell any of John's fears. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled. “Where are my boys?”
The choked off laugh only brought his anger fully to the surface. “Who the hell are you to ask the questions?” another deep voice asked. “You broke in here.”
Had he gotten the wrong address? Somehow, in his foolish pride, mixed it up? “Let's talk this over,” John said, attempting to be calm about it. The knots holding his hands were solid, though, and he couldn't even flex his wrists. “I think there's been a mistake.”
“Yeah,” the first voice said, right before there was a soft click and the lights came on. John blinked away the flare of pain at the brightness until he could focus. “There's been a lot of mistakes, John.”
Only then did he see them. A memory flashed through his mind, telling him he'd seen them before, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Two men standing in front of him, leaning back against a kitchen counter, unmistakably side by side. One was fairly tall, sharp jawline with green eyes that John would've known anywhere. The other one was taller than the first by a good several inches. He was slender but still built, hair still long and unmanageable. And his eyes, they were all...Mary's. In a split second John knew who each of them were, and how he'd seen them before: grown up, in a future that held nothing but evil.
“Sammy?” he whispered, shocked. “Dean?” By god they'd grown up. Somehow, John had thought they'd still be his boys. These weren't boys anymore. These were men before him now.
Dean, because it had to be Dean, stepped forward slowly, quietly and dangerously. His boy was all lethal grace, and it didn't escape John that he'd put himself between John and Sam. “Hi, Dad,” Dean drawled, and his lips turned up into a smile that held nothing nice in it. Dean followed John's gaze to Sam, then shrugged, all casual and calm. His eyes, though, burned as they stared John down. “I know, Sam's a surprise, isn't he? Kid grew up taller than me after all.” The burning faded for a quick moment as Dean cast a glance back at Sam, all false annoyance and real fondness. “Little bitch.”
“Think you mixed your adjectives up, little jerk,” Sam said, his lips turning up into a small grin. His voice was the first deep voice he'd heard, and god it was such a change that it almost stole John's breath away.
“Shut up,” Dean said, then turned back to John, and all traces of kindness were gone. “How ya been? It was kinda hot outside today, wasn't it? Gotta give you credit for staying out there that long. Sam suggested we bring you lemonade, but we didn't really have any, so, oops. Nice truck, by the way.”
They'd known he was there all day long. They'd outplayed him again, just as they had seven years ago. “It's new,” John said, unable to think of anything else. His entire plan was sinking fast, and he wasn't sure he could salvage it in any way. “I haven't seen the Impala. Did you sell her to afford this place?” Though what a 'place' it was. Nicer than anywhere he'd found for them as kids, but it was still small, and barely held any good hiding places or escapes.
“The Impala's parked in the parking lot for the apartment residents,” Sam said, speaking up. His voice was so much deeper that it still felt like a shock all over again to see him standing there, hearing him, tall and proud and confident in a way he hadn't been as a teen. He'd grown into his own skin, and John had no reservations as to who had helped him do it. “Thought you would've figured that out, considering you've been stalking us.”
“A man tries to find his own children and it's stalking?” John asked Sam, but it was Dean who answered him.
“When those two children want nothing to do with him? Yeah, it's stalking.”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” John began, but Sam cut him off.
“No, you wanted us to listen. Same as you always do. Did you have a sudden change of heart for some odd reason? Decided that maybe, maybe you could keep me around?”
John flushed with shame, another emotion he wasn't familiar with. “Look, I know what I said and did was wrong, and I'm sorry,” he said, and that at least got a reaction. From Sam, at least: Dean remained still, not looking impressed at all. Sam, on the other hand, shifted slightly, relaxed a little, and his face changed to something of hope and want. There, finally, John saw a remnant of the Sam he'd seen last, the pleading child who'd only wanted to stay with his family. This Sam obviously hadn't changed in that regard, and John pressed on eagerly. “I shouldn't have done what I did. I...I panicked, Sam. What I saw happen to you, to Dean, I didn't want that future for you. If I could take it back, I would-”
“Okay, that's enough,” Dean snapped, and John broke eye contact with Sam to face his oldest.
“Excuse me?”
“Don't you dare play that game with him,” Dean said, barely contained fury about to explode. “Don't you dare. You don't think you haven't toyed with him enough? Done enough to him? And now to play it like this?”
“Dean,” Sam said softly, and Dean pulled himself back, but only just. That didn't stop John from speaking his mind.
“You think I'm lying?” he asked incredulously. “That I'm what, saying-”
“I think you're telling him exactly what you know he wants,” Dean said, and his voice was dangerously low. “And it's a cheap shot, even for you.”
“I'm telling the truth!” John exclaimed. “I made a mistake, Dean, with both of you. I shouldn't have done what I did, said what I did. Seven years is a hell of a long time to think about the fucking worst mistake I ever did, and I've been trying to find you both to tell you that. God knows you two haven't made it easy, you laid low-”
“Gee, wonder why,” Dean said sarcastically.
“-Until you both decided to move for what, college?” John said, and he couldn't hide the disappointment or, god help him, the disgust. “What exactly is that going to do for you two?”
“It's gonna give Sam the future you almost destroyed,” Dean said, and his icy tone told John he'd screwed it up. “Did you ever look over any of his grades, any of his accomplishments, and realize just how freakin' smart your kid is?”
“Dean,” Sam called, but he was ignored this time, Dean too worked up to listen.
“Law school, Dad,” Dean said, “He's gonna be a lawyer, and probably one of the best ones a courtroom has ever seen. Helping people, making a difference. Just without a gun. I bet Mom would've been damn proud of him, because I know I am.”
It was a punch to the gut, and Dean had known it. John found all of his irritation falling away. “It's a hell of a thing, a full ride,” John admitted, and his sincerity must've finally, finally come through, because Dean's shoulders dropped a good inch. “You should be proud of yourself, Sam. And yes, your Mother would've been proud of you, too.” He took a deep breath, and for some reason, Sam looked like he was waiting for something else, so John kept going. “No, I didn't come here for that. I came here to ask for your forgiveness, to maybe, I don't know, be allowed to see my sons again. Just...just give an old man a chance.”
Dean looked, for the first time since John had seen him, unsure. But it was Sam who quietly snuffed out all of John's hopes, looking...disappointed? Resigned. “Why break in? Why not just come to us?”
“Because I knew you wouldn't let me talk to you,” John said wearily. The words were too late and he knew it. Dean was unapproachable once more, a solid wall between Sam and John, and Sam was starting to look like the same distraught, hopeless child he'd seen in the motel room that day.
And in one of those rare moments of clarity, John knew it was over. He knew they'd never believe him, never think that he'd changed his mind. No matter how many times he told them the truth, they'd always turn him away. God, had he been that much of a bastard? Was it that unconceivable that he'd apologize to them?
“I love you,” he whispered, looking from Dean to Sam and then back again. “If I've failed in all other regards, please believe me when I say that I've always loved the both of you.”
Dean huffed out a laugh, but it was a wistful, sad thing that tore at John to hear. “You probably do,” Dean admitted. “But you've always had a hell of a way of showing it.”
Sam said nothing, but he didn't need to. One look into his eyes and John suddenly found himself on the flip side of a memory: him glaring at Sam, Sam desperate to prove his worth, begging to be heard and loved. Now, it was Sam glaring at him with barely hidden disgust, eyes cold and disregarding. John could feel his face crumple, wondered if Sam had felt that same searing cut of pain that went straight through the soul.
“Leave us alone,” Dean said quietly. “We've got enough things in life to worry about without you being one of them. Sam's graduating this year, and I swear if you show at the ceremony, I will tear you a new one in front of a million people and God himself.”
The hunt to find his sons was over, but he still had the notes from the other demon. Maybe, if he took it out, kept it from reaching Sam, like it wanted to, maybe they'd believe him then. Maybe it would be enough.
He wondered if Sam had asked himself if he could do anything to not be cut out of John's life, seven years ago, and John could feel the pull of alcohol stronger in his veins than ever before, if just to drown the thought out.
Before he knew it, the door was shutting in his face, and the quiet click of several locks about undid him. There was nothing else John could do except bow his head and let another, new feeling fill him, one he hadn't felt since that night he'd lost Mary: grief.
“Hey.”
Sam kept his gaze locked outside the window, eyes focused on where the black truck had been. “Sammy,” Dean called softly, gently tugging Sam from the window.
Sam went without any sort of reluctance, letting Dean fold him onto the sofa, their sofa. The blanket he threw over Sam's shoulders was theirs, bought at a thrift store for two dollars. It had been lovingly sewn back up at least a dozen times, and Dean kept threatening to throw it out. Not tonight. Not for any time soon.
“Sammy,” Dean said again, and it meant comfort and concern and let Sam say it all.
“He wasn't proud.”
“What?”
“He...” And god, this was so stupid, not even the point, but it had been another hidden barb that dug deep into Sam's soul. “He said that you were proud, and that Mom would've been proud, and that I should be proud of getting in on a full ride. But he never said that he was proud.”
Dean's arm pulled him in with a regretful, “Aw, Sammy,” and Sam shut his eyes. He'd known that any confrontation with their dad wouldn't end well, and this one had ended probably the best it could've: Dean walking their dad to the door, Dad looking back with sorrow in his eyes that Sam had resolutely tried to ignore. And just like that, their dad was gone.
They sat on the sofa for a long time, staring at nothing. He could see why their dad hadn't approved of their tiny little space. By a hunter's standards, it wasn't safe.
They weren't hunters. They were just two brothers who lived together to make ends meet, and the little apartment had become home over the past four years, more than the place in Texas had been. It'd been great, sure, and they'd both made friends. But there'd always been this urgency thrumming deep inside of them, wondering when Dad would show and turn it all upside down.
A week before Sam's 18th birthday, the nightmares had started. Nightmares of Dad showing up and taking Sam away because, legally, he could. They'd never been able to transfer guardianship to Dean beyond a few forged papers for medical reasons. If Dad had shown up with all the real legal documents, which he still had, then it would be over. Sam's head at night had been plagued with Dad's wrenching grip tearing him away from Dean or, worse, Dad coaxing Dean away from him with the promise of a better life, of a hunting life that didn't involve a mechanic's nine to five job.
The day before his birthday, they'd found out that a man had come to town, older man, looking for them. Sam had wound up having a full panic attack until they'd found out it was Bobby who'd used a shadier source to find the both of them. He'd only come down to see with his own eyes that they were alive and well. He'd brought with him protection amulets for the both of them, and a blessed necklace for Sam. It'd been a good birthday, panic attack aside, even though Dean had all but threatened to dismember him if he ever kept nightmares like that from him again.
He was starting to feel that same tight feeling in his chest again. “God dammit,” Sam cursed, scrubbing at his burning eyes. The early morning hour wasn't helping with his tired eyes, but he knew that the tears were all to do with their dad. They'd been fine. Everything had been all right. Even that weird week of dreams he'd had a month ago had passed, once Bobby had warned them about the demonic omens around campus. They'd forded up and blocked them off, and the repetitive dreams, the realistic dreams, had all vanished. Whatever it had been, it had passed them by.
Except this.
“Should've let me key his truck,” Dean grumbled, and Sam snorted.
“And by 'key' you mean 'blow it up in some explosive fashion'.”
Dean had the good grace to look sheepish. “It would've been deserved,” was his counter argument. Sam merely shook his head and moved his gaze to his feet. They were covered in lame socks, Superman socks that Dean had bought him for Christmas. They'd have had no place in the hunting world, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You need sleep,” Dean said gently. “I've got all the locks on now. Why you didn't let me do that in the first place-”
“Because he would've broken them all to get in,” Sam said with a soft sigh. “Better to practically let him in then deal with needing a new door.”
“Yeah, all right, be logical,” Dean said, and Sam couldn't help the small grin at that.
“I'm practically getting a degree in it, you know.”
“I heard that somewhere,” Dean said, face lighting up. It never ceased to amaze Sam at how proud Dean really was of him, how Dean told everyone that his baby brother was going into law. When Dean said he was proud of Sam, he meant it with every fiber of his being, as he well should. He'd practically raised Sam even before they'd run away. He was the reason Sam had gotten into Stanford, no matter what his big brother might say.
Sam pushed himself off the sofa but kept the blanket with him. He had a feeling it was going to be one of those 'sit on the edge of Dean's bed and talk all night until they both passed out' nights, but he figured Dean would understand.
“You think...you think he meant it? Any of it?”
Sam turned around to where Dean was still sitting. Dean looked all of fifteen himself for a minute, growing into his own limbs, wanting to know how he stood with Dad. Sam wasn't the only one whose father had turned on him.
Still, he answered after a long moment of hesitation. “I think he thought he did,” Sam said. “I think he believed it. Which is the most anyone can do with their words. Seven years is a long time, Dean.”
“Yeah, it is,” Dean said pointedly, and the other side of that message was well heard. It had taken their dad seven years to come around and accept the fact that he'd screwed up.
Would there ever been any sort of reconciliation between them all? Probably not. Stranger things had happened, though.
Dean pushed himself off the sofa with a grace Sam envied at three in the morning. “C'mon, college geek,” Dean said affectionately, tussling Sam's hair as he passed him to head down the hall. “You need sleep. You've got finals in a month and a half.”
“Don't remind me,” Sam moaned. That would be a new fresh hell. This time, they were all that stood between him and the degree, making them loom even more viciously above him.
He glanced around their small apartment, eyes taking in the little knick-knacks they'd gathered through the years. Things that were theirs, that reminded him of newer memories they'd made as two brothers on their own. He let himself smile and pushed thoughts of Dad away.
He'd made it through worse with Dean's help. Finals would be nothing at all.
END
A/N: I want to thank you all for reading and following along and being just generally the fantastic people you are. I hope you enjoyed the ride!
~Nebula