The Road to Nowhere (leads to Me) -- 2/?
There’s a low groan somewhere next to him, someone is in pain. At first John thinks it might have come from his own throat, he feels like he’s been hit by a truck and run over a couple of times, just for the fun of it. He’s hot, dizzy, and every time he takes a breath something pulls deep in his side, making him grit his teeth against the pain. It is dulled, isn’t as sharp as before, but it still makes him wish he could just stop breathing altogether. His arms don’t move an inch when he tries to lift them and that’s starting to piss him off in a weirdly, disconnected way, though he isn’t awake enough, yet, to understand why.
For a moment he is content to just lie there, drifting, thoughts coming and going, never loud enough to penetrate the hazy fog of his awareness. But then there is a voice, next to him.
“Hold still, I’m almost done.”
It’s followed by a pained hiss, a strained, deep breath. Then it’s silent again.
He frowns, turns his head in the direction of the voice and opens his eyes. Wherever he is, there’s bright light, too bright. His sight is off, blurry, everything around him is shapes that don’t make sense. He blinks, tries to clear his vision and it works, a little, gradually things come into focus, he is able to make out some details. He is in a motel room, the only light comes from a bedside lamp. There’s stuff everywhere; jackets on the floor, a duffel, open, various clothes visible, a torn jeans, a dark hoodie, his own muddy shoes next to them. Books are piled on the table near the room’s only window, some of them open, pieces of paper sticking out of them, a flat, metallic case on top of them.
And then there are the two human-shaped shadows. Both of them barely move which is why he doesn’t really notice them at first. One is straddling a chair backwards, arms resting on the back of it and his dark-haired head resting on them. He isn’t wearing a shirt and that makes it kind of impossible to ignore the bloody mess that is his back. Three long, parallel, deep gashes run from his right shoulder down to his waist, the skin around them red and torn, blood gleaming in the low light. Small tremors ripple through the bowed back, muscles twitching restlessly as the man visibly fights to hold still.
There’s a second person next to him, leaning over the wound, doing something John can’t see from his angle, though he is willing to bet he’s cleaning the gashes and dressing them. And the weird thing is this is familiar. Wounds like that should be treated in a sterile hospital by doctors and nurses who are trained for this, not in a motel room that reeks of blood and sweat and pain, but still this, here, feels right. If you get past the thought that nobody should be injured like that in the first place.
As he watches the injured man suddenly tenses, back snapping straight as he strains to twist to the side, giving a strangled groan. The other man reaches up, hand going for the sweaty neck and he squeezes, pulling it back toward the light of the lamp.
“Hold still.”
There’s a huff of breath, an almost growl-like groan and the back relaxes a little.
“’sucks…” a breathless voice rasps and the hand moves from his neck to his uninjured shoulder, pats it lightly, before it goes back to dressing the wound.
“Almost done.”
John remembers the hunt then, a brief flash of claws, teeth, shadows moving toward him, throwing him against a wall, out of the way, pulling him down as something dark and heavy and lethal sails over him and crashes into something at the very corner of his awareness, moving, blackout.
A wave of dizziness washes his awareness away for a moment and he almost goes under, too bruised and tired to fight for consciousness. But even as he feels reality slipping away there’s a persistent itch at the back of his mind that won’t go away, he’s missing something, forgetting something, something important. He must have made a sound of some sort, when the world stops spinning he can feel someone’s attention on him. Instinct and training have him freeze for a second, unwilling to give away the fact that he is conscious in the presence of strangers.
“How are you feeling?”
So much for that.
John cracks open his eyes and blinks against the light, tries to focus on the man and gets a flash of worried frown and honest concern.
“’m fine,” he grunts out, somewhat pleased that he doesn’t sound as crappy as he feels. “How long was I out?”
“About three hours straight, you didn’t wake up ‘til now. At all.” There’s reproach in the voice, anger even, and that strikes him as odd, he doesn’t even know who he is talking to.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, just to make sure his message gets across, and then starts the slow process of sitting up. It hurts. Badly. His vision, or what’s left of it, whites out, his side starts burning and there’s a hot poker stuck somewhere deep behind his left eye, pulsating in time with his heartbeat. Just staying conscious is almost more than he can handle at that point.
“You could have got yourself killed in there… you almost did. Why didn’t you wait for us?” The voice gets louder, more intense. Angrier. He doesn’t get it, blinks against the pain and the light and a weird sense of familiarity, but something in those words has him snap back, almost reflexively.
“Mind your tongue with me, boy.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“He’s right, the ritual wouldn’t have worked.” It’s the other guy, his voice is low, tired, pained. When John finally finds enough energy to open his eyes again he sees they are both looking at him, although their faces are nothing more than two blurry, bright spots in front of an even more fuzzy black shadow.
“What the-” he starts, not even trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “What are you talking about?”
A soft sigh. “Caleb called, the ritual won’t work without some kind of root. He said he could get some of it in a couple of days.”
Caleb? He hasn’t heard from the man in months and he sure as hell wouldn’t send people after him. Even if he had known about this hunt.
“What does Caleb have to do with anything?” He feels more awake now, alert, there’s something about all of this that clears his head and has his hackles up at the same time, something’s weird. John feels himself tense, instantly shifting into hunter mode, a little worried about the fact that his vision is working against him. He’s not feeling threatened, more irritated; after all the strangers had saved his ass and apparently looked after his wounds.
But, they are silent now, not answering, and that is something he never reacted well to. “How did you know where to find me? Caleb didn’t know about the hunt.” He squints, focuses on the left face, the one who had spoken first, and is rewarded with a non-blurry flash of short, dark hair and a perplexed frown. “Who are you?”
There is what feels like a stunned silence and neither of them moves.
“What?”
He reaches up and gingerly runs a hand over his eyes, is about to massage his temple when he touches something that covers the side of his head. Another bandage, covering his forehead and the left side of his head. Right, there is a reason why thinking clearly right now is a bit of a challenge. He sighs inwardly, concentrating for a moment.
The boys.
That thought instantly clears the remaining dizziness from his head and he sits up straighter, his eyes scanning the room. “I need to make a phone call.”
They are still not talking and when he squints at them both are looking at him funny, as if he’s said something unbelievably weird. “What?” he growls, annoyed.
“Who you gonna call?” the left one asks in a tone so bewildered it makes John feel uneasy.
“That’s none of your business,” he snaps, watching the guy wince slightly. And John’s hackles just keep on bristling. “Listen, I really appreciate your help and patching me up, but I gotta go now, there’s people I have to-“
“You don’t remember?” the second one-Scratches, he names him spontaneously- asks, incredulous, and John’s eyes snap to him.
“I don’t remember what?”
The young man stares at him for a second, then makes a vague gesture, pointing at himself and the other. “Us.”
Both are studying him intently, now, and that sends his skin crawling. “Who are you?” he asks, warily, and then watches how their gazes simultaneously wander to the left side of his head. It feels like some kind of twisted sitcom-joke when their eyes go wide in perfect synch with what seems to be sudden understanding.
“Oh God,” sighs Scratches, while the other sags in his chair, muttering “You gotta be kidding me…” under his breath.
John feels like the punch line to some gag he doesn’t understand. “What the hell is your problem?” he growls and that seems to snap Scratches out of his daze.
“What do you remember?” the young man asks softly.
“About what?” he asks back, sensing there’s obviously something he’s missing.
“Your name? The date, maybe?” Scratches ventures helpfully, studying him closely. And John knows that game, head injuries, you gotta check people who got hit for certain info to make sure they are still on track.
“John Winchester, November… 1988.” He’s always been bad with dates; he usually goes by the days of the week and has been known to mess them up on occasion when a hunt took longer than he’d planned. He never missed certain dates, though, like the day Mary died or the boy’s birthdays-
“Sonofabitch…” The soft exclamation pulls him out of his musings and he looks up in time to see them share a meaningful look.
“Concussion?” Left asks and Scratches nods slowly, gives a soft sigh. “Yeah, looks like it… Must have taken one hell of a hit-“
“You mind filling me in on this?” John asks impatiently and frowns at how both of them jump at his voice. And then they are back at staring at him, both of them clearly feeling uncomfortable. Scratches is looking for words while Left is simply watching him.
“Uhm, listen, John, you were injured, you took a hit to the head on that hunt and, uhm…” Scratches nudges Left slightly when he snorts and mumbles “One hell of a hit” under his breath, before he goes on, “It’s not exactly 1988 anymore, John, it’s more like 2001…”
That's a good one. Not exactly what he’d call funny, but he’d give them bonus points for trying, for almost making him laugh. He looks up at Scratches, keeping his face as neutral as he can. “I need to make a call.”
Both of them stare back, then Left rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse, while Scratches sight softly. “Look, John…” he starts and then breaks off. The way he says his name feels wrong, just wrong, as if he shouldn’t be calling him that at all and somehow the young man doesn’t look comfortable using it.
Left holds up his hand then, to stop the other, focusing his gaze on John. “Your name is John Eric Winchester, your wife’s name was Mary. She was killed by something supernatural and you’ve been hunting it-“
“You leave her out of this!” John is no longer leaning against the headrest, he’s upright and glaring at the other, voice loud enough to be heard in the next room but he doesn’t care, this is enough, they’ve gone too far. Whatever sick game they are playing, he’s having none of it and he won't allow them to drag Mary into this.
Both of them had flinched back at his outburst and while Scratches is watching him with wide eyes, the other raises his hands in apology, backing off a little. “I’m sorry, but you need to understand, you have a concussion, you’ve been injured, he wasn’t lying before, you’re thirteen years behind right now.”
He’s talking in a low but steady voice, obviously needing John to believe him. And John feels himself hesitate, takes a moment to think about it.
He feels fine. A little-a lot-banged up and not exactly fit enough to go on the next hunt maybe, but he’s had far worse and survived it. Shouldn’t he be feeling different if it is true? Like something is missing? He doesn’t. He remembers the day clearly; Dean saying “yes, Sir” to his orders before he left, he remembers Sam staring at him with that unhappy frown on his face moments before he closed the door, remembers the Impala’s leather seats as he pulls out of the parking lot-
“You’re allergic to shell-fish.”
It's such an odd thing to say that it gets his attention because it’s true, he can’t eat that stuff without throwing up all night. They couldn't have found that out anywhere, it’s way too intimate to be a lucky guess. And he sure as hell hadn’t told anybody about this-
“You always keep the radio on, even at night… or the police scanner…” That’s Scratches again, and something in his voice makes John look up. He shouldn’t know that, nobody should, nobody but him and the… and the-
“Who-“ he starts, but then, just like that, he knows, he knows. And it can’t be, no way-
“Sammy?”
The name falls from his lips even though his thoughts are still caught in an endless loop of can’t-be-no way-not possible. Dark eyes widen at his question and then he smiles a little and the dimples, the way his eyes soften… John knows he’s right, he doesn’t need to hear the soft confirmation.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s us.”
Immediately John’s eyes snap to L-Dean- and his young son is looking back at him through unfamiliar eyes. But it is Dean, it’s him, John can see his kid in the man before him and for some reason that scares him. He’s been in enough weird situations to realize that he’s screwed this time.
“How are you feeling?”
Sam-Sam again, watching him closely, always watching, gaze just as intense as… always…
John is lost. He doesn’t know what to do. How do you-what is he supposed to do, to feel? Right now he’s numb, overwhelmed, still not sure what exactly is happening to him. He has never been in a situation like this and his first instinct is to clamp up, get a grip on himself, not let his bo-the two men-strangers-see how confused (scared) he is.
“Dad?”
Dean is studying him, looking expectant, waiting for a clue on how to react. Because that’s what Dean does when he’s lost, look back at him and wait for orders. Orders John doesn’t have, directions he can’t give because he is lost, too. He can’t even improvise, because, if this is real, if this is really what happened there is nothing he can do.
And that terrifies him.
“Are you okay?”
Sam.
Or, not-Sam. Too old, too big, not real.
John wants to leave, he needs to go. He doesn’t know where-or why, he won’t find answers anywhere because they are right there, in front of him. His boys, wearing the faces of strangers who look so unbelievably familiar it takes his breath away.
They are still looking at him, watching his every move. He has never felt this weak, this unsure of himself before, and it takes him a long moment to realize, to understand that this is why he needs to get away from them, he can’t bear to have them look at him right now. He needs a break.
He needs-
“My journal…”
John looks around, searches the room, but it isn’t there, he can’t find it. He needs it, everything-his whole life is in there-
“In your room I guess… You have the one next to us.” Dean exchanges a quick glance with Sam, then gestures at Sam’s back. “Look, let me get this done and then I’ll get it, okay?”
John remembers the shredded back then, the blood that was-and is still flowing freely down the pale skin, the gasps of pain he’d heard when he had woken up. And he doesn’t know why, but that’s it, Sam is hurt. His boy-his kid-five years, innocent, big eyes-
It’s more than he can take, for the first time since he can remember-and the irony of that thought is not lost on him-he gives up, he just wants out, he can’t deal with this, doesn’t know how. It was only two months ago that Sam had almost been killed by a shtriga, that he’d come home to find this monster leaning over his kid, sucking the life out of him, feeding off him. John knows he has never really recovered from that, he still can’t sleep in a different room at nights, if he can sleep at all, and he won’t go on hunts that would keep him away from them more than a few hours. And he had sworn to himself he would never let anything happen to them ever again.
And now Sam is hurt, again, and he couldn’t stop it and even as some voice at the back of the mind tries to tell him that it’s different this time and that he couldn’t have done anything, he does something he has never done before.
He flees.
John has no idea how he gets to his feet, doesn’t feel pain at all and blames that on adrenaline that must be rushing through is veins just as he is rushing to the door. Sam says something, but he doesn’t listen, he needs out, needs some air, needs to breathe-
And there it is.
The car, his car, the Impala, parked only a few feet away from the door, gleaming softly under the light of a streetlamp. John feels drawn to it like a wolf to the full moon and he takes a swaying step to it, runs his hand over the cold steel. He idly notes that the paintjob is a lot cleaner than he remembers, his hand doesn’t come away as dirty as it normally does. Someone is obviously taking care of it. And somehow he couldn’t care less; he isn’t as deeply attached to the car as other men he’s met during his days as a mechanic. He remembers a lot of them giving their cars names, talking to them, even treating them with a lot more respect than they did their girls. He’d never got that, mostly because hadn’t seen them as more than a means of transport. Mary would have had his head for speaking of a car like that. And after she’d died… He didn’t have that much affection left to spare on anything that didn’t involve the boys.
And still, when he looks at it now, the first thing that is familiar since he opened his eyes, he can’t help but feel like coming home. He takes a deep breath, rides out the resulting flash of pain with clenched teeth and sinks down on the hood, no longer finding enough strength in his legs to remain standing. His weary gaze wanders over to the motel room he’s left behind.
What is he supposed to do now? There are so many things he needs to know, questions he needs answered. Starting with why the boys-the boys-had been out there, saving his ass? How much do they know about what he is hunting? Deep, deep down inside he knows the answer, he isn’t naïve enough to believe it was only a coincidence. He’s seen them work together, having each other’s backs. And saving his at the same time.
Hunting.
He’s seen them hunting, and that both terrifies him and makes him incredibly proud. He’s never wanted to see them like this, this isn’t the life he wants for them, ever. He’s never wanted to seem them capable of killing monsters, patching each other up after getting hurt. He can’t think of any reason he would do that to them, raise them like that.
No reason.
Except one.
And, right now, even the slightest possibility that it might be for that one reason is too much for him to handle. Because it would mean that he hasn’t found and killed the thing that is responsible for everything, for destroying his life, and he’s wasted thirteen years of his life and gotten nowhere.
Thirteen years.
He can’t do that, can’t really process that-can’t accept that.
And he wants out.
God forgive him, but he wants out, out of this life, out of this vicious circle that sucks him in again and again and again, sinks its poisonous claws into him every time he tries to put an end to this. He can’t do this anymore, this life, this curse has taken everything he’s ever had, there’s nothing left to give. He’s held on so long because he had believed there would be an end to it, the fear, the need for revenge, the horror, the pain, the loneliness.
There isn’t.
And if there is… he just can’t see it.
He’s tired, he’s so fucking exhausted he just wants to crawl under the car, pass out and never wake up again. He knows part of that comes from the concussion he can feel tearing through his skull with every beat of his heart. He should go inside, lie down and get some rest. Get a break. And maybe, just maybe he wakes up and the world makes sense again, maybe everything will be back to normal and this is just a dream. A nightmare.
He feels his thoughts start to drift, torn between remembering what isn’t anymore right now and where he doesn’t want to be.
“Do me a favour and watch the paintjob, okay? Took me days to buff the scratches out from that phantom-panther we killed in Indiana…”
It takes him a moment to blink Dean into focus and he finds his son-his son-studying him openly from a few steps away. The expression on his face is totally unknown to him and at the same time he is so easy to read that John just stares, caught in the familiarity of a stranger. He has a brief moment of wondering why Dean is so obsessed about his car, but then he is talking again and John finds himself having problems with following more than one train of thought.
“You wanna come inside? It’s easier to keep an eye on both of you when you’re in the same room…” Lefty, Dean, who-ever is trying to sound matter-of-fact, but John can sense the underlying unease easily. That still doesn’t stop him from grumbling under his breath in annoyance.
“Keep an eye on me?” He frowns when he hears how tired his voice sounds, but he’ll be damned if he admits to how crappy he’s feeling right now. Not in front of his ki-son. “I’m fine.” And even as he says it he knows he wouldn’t believe himself at the moment. He sighs softly, running a hand over his face. God, he is so tired…
Dean takes a step closer. “Look, I know this must be hard for you, I can’t even begin to understand this… But, man, you took one hell of a hit, you need to lie down. You were out for over three hours, we couldn’t wake you. It’s either observation-time in there or I’m calling an ambulance. Your choice.”
John is stunned. He recognizes this, the way Dean shifts nervously but still stands his ground, worry written all over his face. This is exactly how his kid would look at him.
“How’s Sam?” It’s not exactly what he’s meant to say, but at least it gets Dean’s attention away from him for a moment.
Dean shrugs. “That thing did a number on his back, but he was lucky- no muscle-damage as far as I can tell. He’s sleeping now, meds knocked him out…”
‘My son is five years old, this is all wrong' his mind immediately screams at him and for a second that’s all he can think until he pushes it aside. “That’s good,” he mumbles and shifts a little, frowning when his world starts to go unfocused around the edges. And then there’s this pain in his head and it’s getting more and more intense and Dean’s face becomes all blurry and he thinks he sways a little. Dean is talking again, sounding closer than before.
“That’s it, big guy, time for bed…”
He has no idea how it works, but his son is supporting him and he is walking and it shouldn’t be possible his boy isn't strong enough to hold him up... but it is and he can and there’s a bed and it’s so warm and he is so tired-
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chapter 3
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