(no subject)
The Knuckles of Skinnybone Tree
Chapter 2
Dean dreams of the desert sometimes, stretching out empty and cold even when an impossible sun beats down on the back of his neck. He’s always alone in these dreams, the certainty of it so deep in his bones that he never calls out, never thinks of looking for his dad or for Sammy. Two boys six and two stirred memories in some long forgotten corner of his brain, of being left at the edge of a wasteland with a pack of dogs and the reminder to make sure that the baby always wore his hat in the sun. He spent most of that week or two looking after Sam, time a little hazy that far back, making sure Sam was clean and drank lots of water and never stayed out in the heat for too long. It surprises him a little that he forgot about that, god, they left the car with Bill and his dogs not even a week ago. They got the horses from Bill, too, stocked up on supplies and filled up on information.
Dean likes the desert when he’s awake, likes wide-open lonely spaces. He likes New Mexico. He’d been sitting in that damn circle for three days with no food or shelter, just a lot of water and maybe an HJ or three from Sam when he got bored, and he hadn’t gotten sick of the view by the time that thing showed up, wearing his dad's face.
There are mountains in the distance that look like they were made on some other planet, cut with great valleys where rain fell hard enough to scar the ground. There are boulders balanced on top of thin chimney stacks of rock that make him worry about how near they are to California earthquakes. It’s quiet enough that they can hear rabbits and mice scuttling under what little brush there is and when the wind is right, the entire desert disappears under clouds of dust. The sand’s the sort of white that makes him think of beaches on the other side of oceans he'll never cross.
He doesn’t mind the heat, either. Sam bitches but Sam bitches about everything. Dean sorta likes the way it makes them slow and sticky, how every hour feels like the afterward of awesome sex, stretched out and not talking. The morning’s the best time, though. When he wakes up, the light is pink and gray and Dean’s so fucking glad not to be outside anymore that for a little while he actually forgets what walked out of the desert two nights ago.
He rolls closer to Sam, presses his nose into the skin between Sam’s shoulder blades. He’s still a little careful of the scars on Sam’s back, even though they’re old enough to be almost as tan as the rest of Sam’s skin. Sam smells like sweat and worse. The last time they saw a shower they were sharing it, the day before they hit Billy’s and from there the desert, and they’re both gamy. Sam’s skin is damp against his mouth and face.
Sam’s slow to wake and he tugs one of Dean’s hands up over his chest and exhales, a long, thoughtful hmmmmm.
“Hmmm,” Dean mimics, moving his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Should I blow Dean or should I fuck him? Hmmmmm.” He feels Sam laughing, a rumble of air underneath his hand.
“Hmmm,” Sam says again, shifting around until he’s more or less facing Dean, his chin tipped towards his chest, bumping against Dean’s forehead. It’s too hot to be doing this, hot enough that their skin sticks together as Sam slides his hips against Dean’s, Sam’s hair already damp when Dean closes his fingers around it. They don’t kiss, definitely too hot for that, both of them tasting like dust and morning breath and that’s just gross. Sam hitches Dean’s leg up over his hip and pushes a finger in, laughs when Dean hisses. Bites back. Moving together, then, when Sam’s finally in and they stop swearing and start groaning, Dean’s back arching, seeking friction. Sam’s reach long enough to wrap around his shoulder even when he’s bent all the way back, teeth bared.
“Dean,” Sammy says, urgently. “Fuck fuck fuck,” chanting it.
They lay next to each other for a while, afterwards, not touching, trying to get their breath back. They clean up with socks already crusty from the days they’ve been out here. And then, after they’re dressed and smell checked and Dean’s tugging on his shoes, Sam leans down and kisses him. Just presses their mouths together and breathes Dean in, and then lets him go and grins down at Dean as if he didn’t just make it impossible for Dean to breathe anymore, that fucker.
He’s still a little breathless when they step out into the sunlight. It feels a little weird to be walking around again. He wasn’t mobile long enough to get the lay of the land or figure out where the hiding places were, and he’s looking around instead of where he’s going and gives Sam a flat tire before he realizes Sam’s not walking anymore.
He has to sidestep a little to be able to see over Sam’s shoulder. The fire’s going, burned down just to coals, and Dad is kneeling at the edge of it keeping watch over the pot of cowboy coffee and the little grill, focused enough that he gives them the barest of nods before turning back and nudging at the edge of a piece of toast.
“Uh,” Dean says. John glances back up.
“Morning,” he amends, and grins up at them in a friendly, lopsided sort of way. His lips are still cracked but otherwise he looks pretty good, younger but still Dad, feeling fine after a good hunt. It makes Dean’s stomach clench.
“Mighta put too much cold water into the coffee,” John says. “Been a while since I’ve been camping. Your gear's a little unfamiliar.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’m gonna go - over there. Catch you cats on the flip side.”
Sam grabs him by the elbow as he tries to escape. “Dean,” he hisses, his mouth almost up against Dean’s ear. It hasn’t been long enough since Sam was tangled around him for that light touch not to be humiliatingly hot, and Dean freezes. "Come on,” Sam says lightly, as if his fingers weren’t digging into the soft skin on the inside of Dean’s arm. “Sit down, we need to figure out our next step.”
Dean hunkers, scowling, Sam settling between him and the thing that looks like their dad. They dug the fire pit in the lee of the buildings and it’s still in the shade. The sand is nearly cool underneath his hands.
“So,” Dean says, and it’s a physical effort not to punctuate the sentence with a pointed Sammy, “What’s our next step.”
John glances up and then back down. “Well, the vision quest is a bust,” Sam says, snapping Dean’s attention back to his brother. “We’d have to start all over again and we don’t have enough supplies for that.”
“It wasn’t working anyway,” Dean says.
Sam ignores him. “So we go with your plan.”
“Would’ve been quicker anyway.”
“Michael’s in El Paso, last time I heard. We can ask him to pick it up for us. He’ll know where to find something like that.”
“Don’t sound so prissy, Jimmy,” Dean says. “And why the hell is Mikey in Texas? Bobby actually letting the kid out of his sight these days?”
“I guess so, if he’s in Texas. Ask him when he gets here, Robert.”
John clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’re you two hunting?”
“Jackalope,” Dean says, at the same time that Sam says, “We don’t know yet.” They glare at each other for a long moment.
“We’re not really sure,” Sam says again. “There’ve been reports of some disturbances in the area - we have a friend who comes out here to do ceremonies, and something chased him off the land this month. There’s nothing that turns up in any history - no massacres, no mysterious deaths, nothing. Just -” he waves helplessly, and John surprises them both by speaking.
“It’s the badlands,” he says.
“Yeah,” Sam says slowly. “Pretty much. That’s why we came on horses. You’re not allowed to bring cars out here.”
John laughs. “I brought mine.”
Dean kinda has to laugh at that, the thought of the Imapala rolling over the desert as if it owned the land, the engine’s growl echoing off the mountains. Yeah, that was good. But - “So why were you walking, then?”
John shrugs. “She died about an hour in. Didn’t overheat, had plenty of water, plenty of gas. She just stopped. Figured it was something in the area so I took what I needed and started walking.”
“Should’ve brought a horse,” Dean says. “Strapped it to the roof or something. Could’ve rode shotgun. If Jimmy can fit in there -” He breaks off abruptly. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him but John’s staring off into the distance, squinting. The sun’s up over the horizon. There’s sweat drawing down the line of John’s temple and Dean wants to scream. John should’ve taken one look at them and seen Mary’s eyes and his own jaw set in stubborn lines. It’s been a lot of years and a lot of miles since Dean’s seen his dad’s face outside of a photograph but he knew John even before Sammy dragged his body into the circle of light. Knew his dad in the ragged jeans John was wearing, in the shape of his shoulder, just visible past Sam’s bulk.
“What?” John asks, absently.
“Oh,” Dean says. He flaps a hand at Sam. “Sasquatch here has trouble with doors sometimes.”
“Once,” Sam says under his breath, and John chuckles. It’s an indulgent sound, the sort he used to make when they were fighting in the backseat and hadn’t pissed him off yet, and Dean glances away, blinks hard.
“Toast’s up,” John says. “Coffee, too. Where do you keep your cups?”
Sam grimaces. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna give Michael a call, set everything up.”
“Robert?” John asks.
“Sure,” Dean says, and goes to dig some cups out of their gear. Sam’s already on the satellite phone when he gets back, pacing circles a few yards away from the fire John’s putting out. He crunches a piece of toast between his teeth, barely noticing how avidly John’s watching Sam. It’s just a little burnt, the way they always had to eat it before Dean learned how to cook, and he can almost hear Sammy bitching about carcinogens before John taps him on the shoulder with the back of two fingers.
“What is that?” he asks. “Some sort of radio or something?”
For a moment Dean just looks at him, not quite getting it, then he looks from Sam’s phone to John to the phone again. “Oh fuck,” he blurts, flinching instinctively, still expecting a wallop on the back of the head for language. John just looks at him, only vaguely curious. It’s the first time he’s looked into his dad’s eyes since John stumbled out of the desert and his mind goes blank. “You’re in the future,” he says, and winces. “Wow, this is awkward.”
“What?” John says blankly.
“Yeah,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess you didn’t see any DeLoreans out there in the badlands, huh?”
“I - what?” John says again, his voice getting louder. He’s flexing his hands around the coffee cup, which was never a good sign.
Behind him, he hears Sam say, “Hey, Michael, lemme call you back. Something’s come up.”
“Guess that’s not out yet where you come from,” Dean says. “You should give it a go when you get back. Take your kids. They’ll dig it. Seriously.”
“This isn’t possible,” John says. “It’s not possible.”
“Well, it’s better than demonic manifestation, which was what we were originally thinking,” Dean says thoughtfully.
“No,” John says. He looks between Dean and Sam, his eyes wider than Dean’s ever seen. “No, this isn’t possible. I have to get back, my boys - I’m all they have, I have to get back to them!”
Dean blinks. It’s not what he’s expecting. Sam settles next to John, his hand extended as if to offer comfort. He puts it back against his own knee, hesitantly, looking at Dean. “I’m sure they’re okay,” he says softly. “We’ll find a way to get you back.”
“How do you know?” John asks. "Why didn't you say anything?" The appeal goes to Sam, which - hurts a little bit. But this guy, whoever he is, whatever he is, it’s not Dad, Dean thinks. Doesn’t matter anyway what he thinks or who he’s talking to. Dean has to admit he hadn’t gone out of his way to make a friend. Sammy’s eyes widen a bit, glancing back to Dean again; because you’re our dad would need a lot of explaining. But Dean’s been lying for his entire life, and the man who trained him - or at least, some version of him - is sitting right there, waiting for an answer.
“We went through your wallet after Jimmy knocked you out,” Dean says. “Your driver’s license expires in 1986, and so does the uh, condom we found in there.”
John doesn’t say anything, his shoulders curling in on themselves, his head down between his hands. He just breathes for a moment, and Sam and Dean stare at each other, at a loss.
“Look,” Sam tries, “have you thought that maybe you’re ... on a parallel track or ... or you got back in time and nothing changed? Because if - if you’re John Winchester, then we’ve heard of you. And your boys. So - it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
John’s head lifts, slowly. He’s got the look of a drowning man on his face, but he fixes Sam with a look that once made Sam cry. “You’ve heard of us?” he asks slowly.
“Yeah,” Sam says comfortingly, “haven’t we, Robert?”
Dean could kill Sam sometimes, he really could. John’s looking at Dean now, his eyes hard. “Sure,” he says, and then ups the ante. “We met your sons a few years back, actually. They’re pretty famous, in the uh, hunting world. Kill any evil son of a bitch that crosses their path.” John's got an unfamiliar look on his face, blank and nameless, something Dean’s never seen before. But John says nothing, just blinks at him, and Dean keeps talking, tries to fill up that silence.
“We’d just come off a job ourselves and were holed up at a friend’s place, Jim Murphey’s, don’t know if you know him yet or anything.”
“Yeah,” John says. It’s nearly a whisper. “Yeah, Jim’s a good friend.”
“He’s a good man. Old friend of the Winchesters, I guess, they went back a long time. You - John - showed up with the boys, threw your stuff around as if you owned the place -”
John cuts him off abruptly. “What are their names?” he asks sharply. “You keep saying the boys. If you’ve met them, then what are their names?”
And for a long moment, Dean just looks at him. He can feel the words in his throat, just beneath his tongue. They’re easy words. He’s been saying them all his life. Only a couple of syllables, one more if he says Sammy rather than just Sam. He licks his dry lips.
“Dean,” Sam says. “And Sam. Sam’s the younger one. Dean looks a lot like you do. They’re strong. They’d just come from a job, where they’d gotten pinned down in an old office building just outside of Topeka, separated there.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He’d almost forgotten about that. They’d flushed out a den of werewolves and managed to cross a state line before the cops showed up, both from the town they’d just come from and the one they’d been run to ground in. Dean spent six hours in an air duct - John had had the sense to clear out immediately and had holed up in a park nearby. They'd both thought Sam was with the other.
“Sam made some dumb mistake, gave himself away to the cops, but they only had him for an hour or so when Dean showed up at the local precinct, telling them he was an agent with the FBI. Kept them busy just long enough for John - you - to slip in the back way and get Sam out.” Sam’s staring at his hands by the time he finishes the story, a wry little smile playing around his lips that makes Dean want to slap it off of him, certain Sam’ll give the game away.
Sam looks up again. “They’re good, John. Real good. You should be proud.”
But John’s looking away from them, hardly seeing, and suddenly it’s his dad that Dean wants to slap. Or punch, or grab tight and never let go because goddammit, he always looked that way, his eyes following the next horizon or the next bend of the road.
And then John smiles. Slow, private, another expression Dean’s never seen on his dad’s face. “So they’re okay,” John says. “They’re alive. Good. That’s good.”
Sam nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
**
Sometimes, it’s all that John can think about. His sons taken away from him, in the hands of strangers. Sometimes, most of the time, he knows that maybe it would've been better if he’d left them with his sister or their grandmother or even just threw up his hands and gave the baby, at least, to Social Services, but even the thought of it makes his heart feel like it could burst right open and run like melted wax down his chest. He thinks about Sammy growing up and John never knowing what he looked like, of Dean losing all that baby fat and freckles.
John sits by the ashes of the campfire while Jimmy and Robert bustle around him, cleaning things up and making plans. Someone called Michael is due the next day and Robert’s unhappy about it, at a loss for things to do out in the badlands but all that John can do is prop his back against a rock and think, okay. They’re okay. He hasn’t spent more than a few days away from them for over two years, since before Mary was murdered, since before Sammy was born. The sun climbs high overhead and John thinks that maybe he should offer to help out with something, something that needs doing or cleaning, maybe just to say thanks because his momma raised him right, but he just sits and stares and eventually they all shuffle out of the sun and into the shade where the air smells like dust and stone.
It’s a good kind of heat, almost; with two other people near him, sweat pouring off of them, it’s wet enough that breathing doesn’t hurt, doesn’t have that dry twinge to it that makes him want to hold his nose closed, afraid of another nosebleed. He sweats enough that he starts to feel clean, and they shoot the shit and Jimmy and Robert tell him of hunts and chases and the things they’ve done. He can believe that they’ve been hunting their whole lives even though he knows that Jimmy and Robert aren’t their real names, knows that they’ve probably got their own reasons for not telling him what their mothers call them when they come home.
And it’s strange, watching them, watching them together. John’s never really been around queers before, never knew them outside of grainy images on a television screen, broadcast from faraway California. There were two guys in his unit in Vietnam, but that was desperation, hard times away from women that you didn’t have to pay for, same as prison inmates. This is different, strange to him. And it’s weird that they’re not wearing dresses, that they don’t lisp but have the same sort of accent that he does, flat Midwest until he’s tired or trying to get something and then the drawl comes out. Jim’s been trying to teach him to drop the accent, blend in with any state, mimic any witness but it’s been just as hard as everything else he does these days.
What’s irritating is how he can’t stop thinking about it, that he turns to talk to Jimmy and his brain stutters out queer, full stop, no thought or malice behind it, just ... the fact of it. That these two men, one of whom put him on the ground faster than anybody in John’s life, do ... that.
Which is another thing he can’t quit thinking about. They’re good. The kind of good that he wants to believe his sons will grow up to be. Way better then John is. He’s had some close scrapes in the last two years, beginner mistakes, stupid ones.
He doesn’t want to ask. Asking leaves the option of saying no and John’s a prideful bastard, always has been. But if it’s about protecting his boys, then it’s not about options or choices.
They’re talking over him, carrying on some conversation or other. Jimmy called Michael back on his cell phone - John almost can’t believe it’s a real phone, not some kid’s toy, it’s so small; Dean had one just like it, only his was bright green plastic and burned with the house and Mary - and Michael would be arriving sometime the next day, if he managed to stop bitching about having to ride a horse.
“Nice kid,” Robert says, by way of introduction and explanation. “A few fries short of a Happy Meal, maybe.”
He’d be bringing them more supplies - Robert and Jimmy were vague about how much longer they were going to be out in the badlands, vague about being able to return John from where he came, and the sons of bitches just grinned when John asked what the hell they’d really asked Michael to get.
There's a whiteout around twelve hundred hours and they crouch under blankets until it passes, sneezing and laughing. They check the gear and the horses and when everything's put to right, Robert breaks out the whiskey.
They alternate water and shots. It’s heady, drinking outdoors, shrinking from the sun. It’s at least 100, some sort of hell temperature that John can’t even compare to Vietnam but Robert and Jimmy bear up with it more or less stoically, stripping off their shirts and tipping water over their head. They laugh a lot, even though John can see the tension in the set of their shoulders, in the way their heads turn to follow every sound, absently. They’ve got more stories than most of John’s war buddies.
When John takes his own shirt off, Robert’s eyes move up and down John’s body, his eyebrows drawn together. Not exactly looking him over, not the way a woman would, just ... looking. Lingering a little on the healing dimples on John’s chest, where Jimmy shot him full of rock salt. It’s hard for John not to put the shirt right back on but they’ve got the right idea of it and after a moment, he tosses the shirt through the doorway they’re sitting next to. And it’s hard not to look himself when Robert’s turned back to Jimmy, track a bead of sweat sliding down his throat. It’s not the way a woman would look. It’s not the way that John looks at women. It’s just looking.
“Just sitting around on my ass is driving me nuts, dude,” Robert gripes, his vowels lazy and stretched. “All I’ve done since we got here is sit on my ass, when the hell are we going to go kill something? This sucks.”
“Go beat off,” Jimmy says, without looking up from his notebook. John snorts. Robert’s eyes flicker over to him and then away, wide as if he was shocked that John laughed.
“Yeah,” he says, “and that’ll kill ten minutes -”
“That’s optimistic,” Jimmy mutters.
“ - shut the fuck up, but then what? Can’t Mikey get here any faster?”
“Wanna fight a bit?”
The words are out before John knows he’s talking, loose with beer and whiskey and company. “I’m serious,” he says. “It’ll kill some time, wear you out, and I want to know what you know.”
They glance at each other and then back at him. “What do you mean?” Jimmy asks, warily.
John is quiet for a long moment, considering his words. They’ve been on his mind since Jimmy put him on the ground faster than anybody since John’s daddy, giving John his whacks for picking on his little sisters. “You guys are good,” he says slowly. “You’ve been in this game for a long time. I haven’t, and that cost me the other night.” He rubs a hand over his chest and Jimmy winces. “I’m trying - I’m trying to keep my family safe. So while I’m here, drinking your water, eating your food, horning in on your hunt, there’s something else I gotta be a pain in your ass about, and that’s it. Teach me.”
They’re quiet for a long time, then Robert tips his bottle back and empties it, his throat working. “Wow,” he says. “I haven’t heard monologuing like that since you first started going all Haley Joel on me, Jimmy.”
Jimmy’s just looking at Robert, his eyes troubled. He meets John’s gaze without flinching but there’s a lot in there that John can’t read. “John,” he says, and then Robert cuts him off, grinning.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go. I haven’t kicked a Marine’s ass in a while.”
**
At the end of the ghost town, meager collection of buildings that it is, there’s a barn, with high, dusty rafters and a hard packed floor. It sits in the lee of the tallest hill in the narrow valley that their camp sits in and in the afternoon the shadows stretch forward and cover it from top to bottom. It still smells a little of horses, some gamy trace of something living lingering in the narrow stalls, in wood sucked bare of all moisture.
Robert circles John, his arms relaxed at his sides, watchful. Jimmy settles against the entrance of a stall, arms folded over his chest. The expression on his face isn’t a threat, not exactly.
It’s been a long time since John’s had his ass kicked good and proper and he thinks he’s kind of looking forward to it.
The first strike comes hard and fast, Robert shifting back onto one leg before John even realized he was within range, his foot snapping forward and up in a roundhouse kick. It slices through the air only inches from where John’s kidneys should’ve been. John twists back just in time and goes stumbling against the stalls.
Robert’s bouncing a little on his feet now, his hands up and ready. “Chuck Norris checks his closet for me at night,” he says, grinning, and launches himself forward.
John fights the way he’s been taught, heavy on the offense, targeting the soft places on a man’s body, the throat, the belly, the testicles. Robert steps around John like he’s moving in slow motion, not dancing but just moving, heavy in his shoulders and joints like an animal, just waiting for the right moment to strike. He teases John a little, snaps out the heel of his palm and gets John right on the chin, sending him stumbling again. This time he hits the stall next to Jimmy, who gives John a push back up. John gets his first good hit to Robert’s belly and the grunt it forces out of Robert is almost worth the ache that’s already stiffening up John’s jaw.
“Where’d you learn this?” he huffs out.
“Some guy,” Robert grunts.
John’s winded but grinning, laughing outright, breathless. It gets a bit of a grin out of Robert, whose mouth twists as he bounces on his feet, too impatient to wait for John’s next move. John sees his opportunity and takes it, grabbing Robert’s arm above the wrist as the next punch comes for him, aiming to twist it up and away from Robert’s body, far enough away to get a shot near his armpit. For a moment he’s sure he’s gotten a good shot in, fucking finally, and then he feels Robert’s muscles lock and his bulk thrown forward, hard against John’s side, and then away, yanking them both forward. And he knows what’s going to happen, can feel it even as his fingers loosen and Robert’s legs spread to brace them both and then Robert’s arm is around his neck and it’s too late to do anything.
He’s behind John before John’s even realized his hands are clenched around air, one arm thrown around John’s throat and the other pressed against the side of John’s skull, completing the loop of muscle and bone cutting John’s air off. He scrabbles instinctively, his blunt fingernails digging into Robert’s forearm. His knees hit the dirt and his hands go up in surrender at the same time, but it’s a long, breathless moment before Robert releases him and steps back.
“Damn,” John wheezes. “Damn.”
He’s got both palms flat on the ground. Robert’s boots clump a wide, wary circle around him. “Sorry,” he blurts, and John’s surprised enough to glance up. “Sorry,” Robert says again, flinching back.
“Sorry for what?” John asks, coughing. “Help me up, you son of a bitch.”
Jimmy’s the one that takes John’s hand and hauls him to his feet. Robert claps a hand to John’s shoulder like his smile isn’t twitching at both ends. “They leave out submission holds in Boot Camp?”
“Been a couple years and two kids since then,” John says, offering a grin back, watches Robert’s get even stiffer. He blinks a couple times, and for the first time they look at each other, really look each other right in the face, and John sees that Robert’s eyes are the same shade of green that Mary’s were. He hasn’t looked for her in other people in a long while and it staggers him a little, standing close enough to Robert that he can smell the other man’s sweat.
Queer, his brain whispers.
Jimmy shifts a little bit closer to Robert, puts one hand out between their bodies and rests the tips of his fingers in the small of Robert’s back, subtle, like John’s not supposed to notice. He doesn’t, not really, doesn’t even glance down, just meets Robert’s eyes, Mary’s eyes, and waits for his heart to stop beating so goddamn fast.
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
Dean dreams of the desert sometimes, stretching out empty and cold even when an impossible sun beats down on the back of his neck. He’s always alone in these dreams, the certainty of it so deep in his bones that he never calls out, never thinks of looking for his dad or for Sammy. Two boys six and two stirred memories in some long forgotten corner of his brain, of being left at the edge of a wasteland with a pack of dogs and the reminder to make sure that the baby always wore his hat in the sun. He spent most of that week or two looking after Sam, time a little hazy that far back, making sure Sam was clean and drank lots of water and never stayed out in the heat for too long. It surprises him a little that he forgot about that, god, they left the car with Bill and his dogs not even a week ago. They got the horses from Bill, too, stocked up on supplies and filled up on information.
Dean likes the desert when he’s awake, likes wide-open lonely spaces. He likes New Mexico. He’d been sitting in that damn circle for three days with no food or shelter, just a lot of water and maybe an HJ or three from Sam when he got bored, and he hadn’t gotten sick of the view by the time that thing showed up, wearing his dad's face.
There are mountains in the distance that look like they were made on some other planet, cut with great valleys where rain fell hard enough to scar the ground. There are boulders balanced on top of thin chimney stacks of rock that make him worry about how near they are to California earthquakes. It’s quiet enough that they can hear rabbits and mice scuttling under what little brush there is and when the wind is right, the entire desert disappears under clouds of dust. The sand’s the sort of white that makes him think of beaches on the other side of oceans he'll never cross.
He doesn’t mind the heat, either. Sam bitches but Sam bitches about everything. Dean sorta likes the way it makes them slow and sticky, how every hour feels like the afterward of awesome sex, stretched out and not talking. The morning’s the best time, though. When he wakes up, the light is pink and gray and Dean’s so fucking glad not to be outside anymore that for a little while he actually forgets what walked out of the desert two nights ago.
He rolls closer to Sam, presses his nose into the skin between Sam’s shoulder blades. He’s still a little careful of the scars on Sam’s back, even though they’re old enough to be almost as tan as the rest of Sam’s skin. Sam smells like sweat and worse. The last time they saw a shower they were sharing it, the day before they hit Billy’s and from there the desert, and they’re both gamy. Sam’s skin is damp against his mouth and face.
Sam’s slow to wake and he tugs one of Dean’s hands up over his chest and exhales, a long, thoughtful hmmmmm.
“Hmmm,” Dean mimics, moving his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Should I blow Dean or should I fuck him? Hmmmmm.” He feels Sam laughing, a rumble of air underneath his hand.
“Hmmm,” Sam says again, shifting around until he’s more or less facing Dean, his chin tipped towards his chest, bumping against Dean’s forehead. It’s too hot to be doing this, hot enough that their skin sticks together as Sam slides his hips against Dean’s, Sam’s hair already damp when Dean closes his fingers around it. They don’t kiss, definitely too hot for that, both of them tasting like dust and morning breath and that’s just gross. Sam hitches Dean’s leg up over his hip and pushes a finger in, laughs when Dean hisses. Bites back. Moving together, then, when Sam’s finally in and they stop swearing and start groaning, Dean’s back arching, seeking friction. Sam’s reach long enough to wrap around his shoulder even when he’s bent all the way back, teeth bared.
“Dean,” Sammy says, urgently. “Fuck fuck fuck,” chanting it.
They lay next to each other for a while, afterwards, not touching, trying to get their breath back. They clean up with socks already crusty from the days they’ve been out here. And then, after they’re dressed and smell checked and Dean’s tugging on his shoes, Sam leans down and kisses him. Just presses their mouths together and breathes Dean in, and then lets him go and grins down at Dean as if he didn’t just make it impossible for Dean to breathe anymore, that fucker.
He’s still a little breathless when they step out into the sunlight. It feels a little weird to be walking around again. He wasn’t mobile long enough to get the lay of the land or figure out where the hiding places were, and he’s looking around instead of where he’s going and gives Sam a flat tire before he realizes Sam’s not walking anymore.
He has to sidestep a little to be able to see over Sam’s shoulder. The fire’s going, burned down just to coals, and Dad is kneeling at the edge of it keeping watch over the pot of cowboy coffee and the little grill, focused enough that he gives them the barest of nods before turning back and nudging at the edge of a piece of toast.
“Uh,” Dean says. John glances back up.
“Morning,” he amends, and grins up at them in a friendly, lopsided sort of way. His lips are still cracked but otherwise he looks pretty good, younger but still Dad, feeling fine after a good hunt. It makes Dean’s stomach clench.
“Mighta put too much cold water into the coffee,” John says. “Been a while since I’ve been camping. Your gear's a little unfamiliar.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’m gonna go - over there. Catch you cats on the flip side.”
Sam grabs him by the elbow as he tries to escape. “Dean,” he hisses, his mouth almost up against Dean’s ear. It hasn’t been long enough since Sam was tangled around him for that light touch not to be humiliatingly hot, and Dean freezes. "Come on,” Sam says lightly, as if his fingers weren’t digging into the soft skin on the inside of Dean’s arm. “Sit down, we need to figure out our next step.”
Dean hunkers, scowling, Sam settling between him and the thing that looks like their dad. They dug the fire pit in the lee of the buildings and it’s still in the shade. The sand is nearly cool underneath his hands.
“So,” Dean says, and it’s a physical effort not to punctuate the sentence with a pointed Sammy, “What’s our next step.”
John glances up and then back down. “Well, the vision quest is a bust,” Sam says, snapping Dean’s attention back to his brother. “We’d have to start all over again and we don’t have enough supplies for that.”
“It wasn’t working anyway,” Dean says.
Sam ignores him. “So we go with your plan.”
“Would’ve been quicker anyway.”
“Michael’s in El Paso, last time I heard. We can ask him to pick it up for us. He’ll know where to find something like that.”
“Don’t sound so prissy, Jimmy,” Dean says. “And why the hell is Mikey in Texas? Bobby actually letting the kid out of his sight these days?”
“I guess so, if he’s in Texas. Ask him when he gets here, Robert.”
John clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’re you two hunting?”
“Jackalope,” Dean says, at the same time that Sam says, “We don’t know yet.” They glare at each other for a long moment.
“We’re not really sure,” Sam says again. “There’ve been reports of some disturbances in the area - we have a friend who comes out here to do ceremonies, and something chased him off the land this month. There’s nothing that turns up in any history - no massacres, no mysterious deaths, nothing. Just -” he waves helplessly, and John surprises them both by speaking.
“It’s the badlands,” he says.
“Yeah,” Sam says slowly. “Pretty much. That’s why we came on horses. You’re not allowed to bring cars out here.”
John laughs. “I brought mine.”
Dean kinda has to laugh at that, the thought of the Imapala rolling over the desert as if it owned the land, the engine’s growl echoing off the mountains. Yeah, that was good. But - “So why were you walking, then?”
John shrugs. “She died about an hour in. Didn’t overheat, had plenty of water, plenty of gas. She just stopped. Figured it was something in the area so I took what I needed and started walking.”
“Should’ve brought a horse,” Dean says. “Strapped it to the roof or something. Could’ve rode shotgun. If Jimmy can fit in there -” He breaks off abruptly. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him but John’s staring off into the distance, squinting. The sun’s up over the horizon. There’s sweat drawing down the line of John’s temple and Dean wants to scream. John should’ve taken one look at them and seen Mary’s eyes and his own jaw set in stubborn lines. It’s been a lot of years and a lot of miles since Dean’s seen his dad’s face outside of a photograph but he knew John even before Sammy dragged his body into the circle of light. Knew his dad in the ragged jeans John was wearing, in the shape of his shoulder, just visible past Sam’s bulk.
“What?” John asks, absently.
“Oh,” Dean says. He flaps a hand at Sam. “Sasquatch here has trouble with doors sometimes.”
“Once,” Sam says under his breath, and John chuckles. It’s an indulgent sound, the sort he used to make when they were fighting in the backseat and hadn’t pissed him off yet, and Dean glances away, blinks hard.
“Toast’s up,” John says. “Coffee, too. Where do you keep your cups?”
Sam grimaces. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna give Michael a call, set everything up.”
“Robert?” John asks.
“Sure,” Dean says, and goes to dig some cups out of their gear. Sam’s already on the satellite phone when he gets back, pacing circles a few yards away from the fire John’s putting out. He crunches a piece of toast between his teeth, barely noticing how avidly John’s watching Sam. It’s just a little burnt, the way they always had to eat it before Dean learned how to cook, and he can almost hear Sammy bitching about carcinogens before John taps him on the shoulder with the back of two fingers.
“What is that?” he asks. “Some sort of radio or something?”
For a moment Dean just looks at him, not quite getting it, then he looks from Sam’s phone to John to the phone again. “Oh fuck,” he blurts, flinching instinctively, still expecting a wallop on the back of the head for language. John just looks at him, only vaguely curious. It’s the first time he’s looked into his dad’s eyes since John stumbled out of the desert and his mind goes blank. “You’re in the future,” he says, and winces. “Wow, this is awkward.”
“What?” John says blankly.
“Yeah,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess you didn’t see any DeLoreans out there in the badlands, huh?”
“I - what?” John says again, his voice getting louder. He’s flexing his hands around the coffee cup, which was never a good sign.
Behind him, he hears Sam say, “Hey, Michael, lemme call you back. Something’s come up.”
“Guess that’s not out yet where you come from,” Dean says. “You should give it a go when you get back. Take your kids. They’ll dig it. Seriously.”
“This isn’t possible,” John says. “It’s not possible.”
“Well, it’s better than demonic manifestation, which was what we were originally thinking,” Dean says thoughtfully.
“No,” John says. He looks between Dean and Sam, his eyes wider than Dean’s ever seen. “No, this isn’t possible. I have to get back, my boys - I’m all they have, I have to get back to them!”
Dean blinks. It’s not what he’s expecting. Sam settles next to John, his hand extended as if to offer comfort. He puts it back against his own knee, hesitantly, looking at Dean. “I’m sure they’re okay,” he says softly. “We’ll find a way to get you back.”
“How do you know?” John asks. "Why didn't you say anything?" The appeal goes to Sam, which - hurts a little bit. But this guy, whoever he is, whatever he is, it’s not Dad, Dean thinks. Doesn’t matter anyway what he thinks or who he’s talking to. Dean has to admit he hadn’t gone out of his way to make a friend. Sammy’s eyes widen a bit, glancing back to Dean again; because you’re our dad would need a lot of explaining. But Dean’s been lying for his entire life, and the man who trained him - or at least, some version of him - is sitting right there, waiting for an answer.
“We went through your wallet after Jimmy knocked you out,” Dean says. “Your driver’s license expires in 1986, and so does the uh, condom we found in there.”
John doesn’t say anything, his shoulders curling in on themselves, his head down between his hands. He just breathes for a moment, and Sam and Dean stare at each other, at a loss.
“Look,” Sam tries, “have you thought that maybe you’re ... on a parallel track or ... or you got back in time and nothing changed? Because if - if you’re John Winchester, then we’ve heard of you. And your boys. So - it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
John’s head lifts, slowly. He’s got the look of a drowning man on his face, but he fixes Sam with a look that once made Sam cry. “You’ve heard of us?” he asks slowly.
“Yeah,” Sam says comfortingly, “haven’t we, Robert?”
Dean could kill Sam sometimes, he really could. John’s looking at Dean now, his eyes hard. “Sure,” he says, and then ups the ante. “We met your sons a few years back, actually. They’re pretty famous, in the uh, hunting world. Kill any evil son of a bitch that crosses their path.” John's got an unfamiliar look on his face, blank and nameless, something Dean’s never seen before. But John says nothing, just blinks at him, and Dean keeps talking, tries to fill up that silence.
“We’d just come off a job ourselves and were holed up at a friend’s place, Jim Murphey’s, don’t know if you know him yet or anything.”
“Yeah,” John says. It’s nearly a whisper. “Yeah, Jim’s a good friend.”
“He’s a good man. Old friend of the Winchesters, I guess, they went back a long time. You - John - showed up with the boys, threw your stuff around as if you owned the place -”
John cuts him off abruptly. “What are their names?” he asks sharply. “You keep saying the boys. If you’ve met them, then what are their names?”
And for a long moment, Dean just looks at him. He can feel the words in his throat, just beneath his tongue. They’re easy words. He’s been saying them all his life. Only a couple of syllables, one more if he says Sammy rather than just Sam. He licks his dry lips.
“Dean,” Sam says. “And Sam. Sam’s the younger one. Dean looks a lot like you do. They’re strong. They’d just come from a job, where they’d gotten pinned down in an old office building just outside of Topeka, separated there.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He’d almost forgotten about that. They’d flushed out a den of werewolves and managed to cross a state line before the cops showed up, both from the town they’d just come from and the one they’d been run to ground in. Dean spent six hours in an air duct - John had had the sense to clear out immediately and had holed up in a park nearby. They'd both thought Sam was with the other.
“Sam made some dumb mistake, gave himself away to the cops, but they only had him for an hour or so when Dean showed up at the local precinct, telling them he was an agent with the FBI. Kept them busy just long enough for John - you - to slip in the back way and get Sam out.” Sam’s staring at his hands by the time he finishes the story, a wry little smile playing around his lips that makes Dean want to slap it off of him, certain Sam’ll give the game away.
Sam looks up again. “They’re good, John. Real good. You should be proud.”
But John’s looking away from them, hardly seeing, and suddenly it’s his dad that Dean wants to slap. Or punch, or grab tight and never let go because goddammit, he always looked that way, his eyes following the next horizon or the next bend of the road.
And then John smiles. Slow, private, another expression Dean’s never seen on his dad’s face. “So they’re okay,” John says. “They’re alive. Good. That’s good.”
Sam nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
**
Sometimes, it’s all that John can think about. His sons taken away from him, in the hands of strangers. Sometimes, most of the time, he knows that maybe it would've been better if he’d left them with his sister or their grandmother or even just threw up his hands and gave the baby, at least, to Social Services, but even the thought of it makes his heart feel like it could burst right open and run like melted wax down his chest. He thinks about Sammy growing up and John never knowing what he looked like, of Dean losing all that baby fat and freckles.
John sits by the ashes of the campfire while Jimmy and Robert bustle around him, cleaning things up and making plans. Someone called Michael is due the next day and Robert’s unhappy about it, at a loss for things to do out in the badlands but all that John can do is prop his back against a rock and think, okay. They’re okay. He hasn’t spent more than a few days away from them for over two years, since before Mary was murdered, since before Sammy was born. The sun climbs high overhead and John thinks that maybe he should offer to help out with something, something that needs doing or cleaning, maybe just to say thanks because his momma raised him right, but he just sits and stares and eventually they all shuffle out of the sun and into the shade where the air smells like dust and stone.
It’s a good kind of heat, almost; with two other people near him, sweat pouring off of them, it’s wet enough that breathing doesn’t hurt, doesn’t have that dry twinge to it that makes him want to hold his nose closed, afraid of another nosebleed. He sweats enough that he starts to feel clean, and they shoot the shit and Jimmy and Robert tell him of hunts and chases and the things they’ve done. He can believe that they’ve been hunting their whole lives even though he knows that Jimmy and Robert aren’t their real names, knows that they’ve probably got their own reasons for not telling him what their mothers call them when they come home.
And it’s strange, watching them, watching them together. John’s never really been around queers before, never knew them outside of grainy images on a television screen, broadcast from faraway California. There were two guys in his unit in Vietnam, but that was desperation, hard times away from women that you didn’t have to pay for, same as prison inmates. This is different, strange to him. And it’s weird that they’re not wearing dresses, that they don’t lisp but have the same sort of accent that he does, flat Midwest until he’s tired or trying to get something and then the drawl comes out. Jim’s been trying to teach him to drop the accent, blend in with any state, mimic any witness but it’s been just as hard as everything else he does these days.
What’s irritating is how he can’t stop thinking about it, that he turns to talk to Jimmy and his brain stutters out queer, full stop, no thought or malice behind it, just ... the fact of it. That these two men, one of whom put him on the ground faster than anybody in John’s life, do ... that.
Which is another thing he can’t quit thinking about. They’re good. The kind of good that he wants to believe his sons will grow up to be. Way better then John is. He’s had some close scrapes in the last two years, beginner mistakes, stupid ones.
He doesn’t want to ask. Asking leaves the option of saying no and John’s a prideful bastard, always has been. But if it’s about protecting his boys, then it’s not about options or choices.
They’re talking over him, carrying on some conversation or other. Jimmy called Michael back on his cell phone - John almost can’t believe it’s a real phone, not some kid’s toy, it’s so small; Dean had one just like it, only his was bright green plastic and burned with the house and Mary - and Michael would be arriving sometime the next day, if he managed to stop bitching about having to ride a horse.
“Nice kid,” Robert says, by way of introduction and explanation. “A few fries short of a Happy Meal, maybe.”
He’d be bringing them more supplies - Robert and Jimmy were vague about how much longer they were going to be out in the badlands, vague about being able to return John from where he came, and the sons of bitches just grinned when John asked what the hell they’d really asked Michael to get.
There's a whiteout around twelve hundred hours and they crouch under blankets until it passes, sneezing and laughing. They check the gear and the horses and when everything's put to right, Robert breaks out the whiskey.
They alternate water and shots. It’s heady, drinking outdoors, shrinking from the sun. It’s at least 100, some sort of hell temperature that John can’t even compare to Vietnam but Robert and Jimmy bear up with it more or less stoically, stripping off their shirts and tipping water over their head. They laugh a lot, even though John can see the tension in the set of their shoulders, in the way their heads turn to follow every sound, absently. They’ve got more stories than most of John’s war buddies.
When John takes his own shirt off, Robert’s eyes move up and down John’s body, his eyebrows drawn together. Not exactly looking him over, not the way a woman would, just ... looking. Lingering a little on the healing dimples on John’s chest, where Jimmy shot him full of rock salt. It’s hard for John not to put the shirt right back on but they’ve got the right idea of it and after a moment, he tosses the shirt through the doorway they’re sitting next to. And it’s hard not to look himself when Robert’s turned back to Jimmy, track a bead of sweat sliding down his throat. It’s not the way a woman would look. It’s not the way that John looks at women. It’s just looking.
“Just sitting around on my ass is driving me nuts, dude,” Robert gripes, his vowels lazy and stretched. “All I’ve done since we got here is sit on my ass, when the hell are we going to go kill something? This sucks.”
“Go beat off,” Jimmy says, without looking up from his notebook. John snorts. Robert’s eyes flicker over to him and then away, wide as if he was shocked that John laughed.
“Yeah,” he says, “and that’ll kill ten minutes -”
“That’s optimistic,” Jimmy mutters.
“ - shut the fuck up, but then what? Can’t Mikey get here any faster?”
“Wanna fight a bit?”
The words are out before John knows he’s talking, loose with beer and whiskey and company. “I’m serious,” he says. “It’ll kill some time, wear you out, and I want to know what you know.”
They glance at each other and then back at him. “What do you mean?” Jimmy asks, warily.
John is quiet for a long moment, considering his words. They’ve been on his mind since Jimmy put him on the ground faster than anybody since John’s daddy, giving John his whacks for picking on his little sisters. “You guys are good,” he says slowly. “You’ve been in this game for a long time. I haven’t, and that cost me the other night.” He rubs a hand over his chest and Jimmy winces. “I’m trying - I’m trying to keep my family safe. So while I’m here, drinking your water, eating your food, horning in on your hunt, there’s something else I gotta be a pain in your ass about, and that’s it. Teach me.”
They’re quiet for a long time, then Robert tips his bottle back and empties it, his throat working. “Wow,” he says. “I haven’t heard monologuing like that since you first started going all Haley Joel on me, Jimmy.”
Jimmy’s just looking at Robert, his eyes troubled. He meets John’s gaze without flinching but there’s a lot in there that John can’t read. “John,” he says, and then Robert cuts him off, grinning.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go. I haven’t kicked a Marine’s ass in a while.”
**
At the end of the ghost town, meager collection of buildings that it is, there’s a barn, with high, dusty rafters and a hard packed floor. It sits in the lee of the tallest hill in the narrow valley that their camp sits in and in the afternoon the shadows stretch forward and cover it from top to bottom. It still smells a little of horses, some gamy trace of something living lingering in the narrow stalls, in wood sucked bare of all moisture.
Robert circles John, his arms relaxed at his sides, watchful. Jimmy settles against the entrance of a stall, arms folded over his chest. The expression on his face isn’t a threat, not exactly.
It’s been a long time since John’s had his ass kicked good and proper and he thinks he’s kind of looking forward to it.
The first strike comes hard and fast, Robert shifting back onto one leg before John even realized he was within range, his foot snapping forward and up in a roundhouse kick. It slices through the air only inches from where John’s kidneys should’ve been. John twists back just in time and goes stumbling against the stalls.
Robert’s bouncing a little on his feet now, his hands up and ready. “Chuck Norris checks his closet for me at night,” he says, grinning, and launches himself forward.
John fights the way he’s been taught, heavy on the offense, targeting the soft places on a man’s body, the throat, the belly, the testicles. Robert steps around John like he’s moving in slow motion, not dancing but just moving, heavy in his shoulders and joints like an animal, just waiting for the right moment to strike. He teases John a little, snaps out the heel of his palm and gets John right on the chin, sending him stumbling again. This time he hits the stall next to Jimmy, who gives John a push back up. John gets his first good hit to Robert’s belly and the grunt it forces out of Robert is almost worth the ache that’s already stiffening up John’s jaw.
“Where’d you learn this?” he huffs out.
“Some guy,” Robert grunts.
John’s winded but grinning, laughing outright, breathless. It gets a bit of a grin out of Robert, whose mouth twists as he bounces on his feet, too impatient to wait for John’s next move. John sees his opportunity and takes it, grabbing Robert’s arm above the wrist as the next punch comes for him, aiming to twist it up and away from Robert’s body, far enough away to get a shot near his armpit. For a moment he’s sure he’s gotten a good shot in, fucking finally, and then he feels Robert’s muscles lock and his bulk thrown forward, hard against John’s side, and then away, yanking them both forward. And he knows what’s going to happen, can feel it even as his fingers loosen and Robert’s legs spread to brace them both and then Robert’s arm is around his neck and it’s too late to do anything.
He’s behind John before John’s even realized his hands are clenched around air, one arm thrown around John’s throat and the other pressed against the side of John’s skull, completing the loop of muscle and bone cutting John’s air off. He scrabbles instinctively, his blunt fingernails digging into Robert’s forearm. His knees hit the dirt and his hands go up in surrender at the same time, but it’s a long, breathless moment before Robert releases him and steps back.
“Damn,” John wheezes. “Damn.”
He’s got both palms flat on the ground. Robert’s boots clump a wide, wary circle around him. “Sorry,” he blurts, and John’s surprised enough to glance up. “Sorry,” Robert says again, flinching back.
“Sorry for what?” John asks, coughing. “Help me up, you son of a bitch.”
Jimmy’s the one that takes John’s hand and hauls him to his feet. Robert claps a hand to John’s shoulder like his smile isn’t twitching at both ends. “They leave out submission holds in Boot Camp?”
“Been a couple years and two kids since then,” John says, offering a grin back, watches Robert’s get even stiffer. He blinks a couple times, and for the first time they look at each other, really look each other right in the face, and John sees that Robert’s eyes are the same shade of green that Mary’s were. He hasn’t looked for her in other people in a long while and it staggers him a little, standing close enough to Robert that he can smell the other man’s sweat.
Queer, his brain whispers.
Jimmy shifts a little bit closer to Robert, puts one hand out between their bodies and rests the tips of his fingers in the small of Robert’s back, subtle, like John’s not supposed to notice. He doesn’t, not really, doesn’t even glance down, just meets Robert’s eyes, Mary’s eyes, and waits for his heart to stop beating so goddamn fast.
Chapter 3