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xantissaFull archive of my stories is here on LJ and here IJ
By Xantissa
Summary: Out of the whole Winchester family, John always expected Dean to be the one to accept the inevitable death, the loses their fight brought. He never expected Dean to fight like this. To turn for help to the very same powers he fought before. But it seemed, John didn’t know a whole lot about his sons…
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Fandom: Supernatural.
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me and I’m not making any money on this.
Rating: 18+ (just to be sure)
Warnings: You should know me by now. Of course there’s warnings. Violence. Dead people- children but nothing too graphic. And oddly enough, no graphic sex. Lot’s of angst though.
Prologue
John stared at the glowing end of his cigarette as it made a graceful arc in the air before hitting the asphalt, where the rain extinguished the light quickly. He leaned back on the wall, the flimsy roof of the motel barely managing to keep him from getting wet.
He stopped smoking over twenty-eight years ago, when Mary was pregnant with Dean. Starting now seemed like a small betrayal, but it was too late to feel any regret. After all, he no longer had a family.
He closed his eyes, thinking back to that dreadful night over eight months ago.
To that night, when the light burned out forever, snuffed by the semi that smashed into the Impala and robbed him of what was left of his family.
Sam died. The doctors said it was instant. Head trauma, they called it. Must have hit his head during the crash…
But that wasn’t the truth.
John actually remembered the moment the semi smashed into them; remembered it with surprising clarity. He could see every single second in his mind as clear as if it were some sort of horror show he was watching on TV.
Just before the truck hit, Sam turned and screamed “No!” There was terror and rage in his voice, a sound he thought he would never forget. But what was the most clear, and what he remembered the most often was the strange sensation of something passing over him.
Later the doctors said that it was a miracle he and Dean had survived. No one could explain it, but it seemed that some kind of force had stopped the metal of the Impala from twisting around their fragile bodies. Because the car should have been bent in half, they should have been pressed into nothing more than bloody pulp. Yet , inside the car was almost intact. The only injuries Dean and he had were the ones they’d gotten before getting into the car.
Sam, Sammy, his baby. His youngest son was dead.
John’s hands shook as he reached for another cigarette. He wanted to cry, to release that festering pain. But there were no tears left in him, only that aching emptiness, the stillness and screaming silence that dogged his every step.
Sammy had somehow used his developing powers to save them. But it killed him. All the power that he had to use to stop that semi had burst something vital inside of him.
John lit up another cigarette and fingered the half empty pack. He would finish it before dawn came, he knew it. But he needed something to occupy him during nights like this, when the loneliness and pain got the better of him. When there was nothing left for him but memories. Sleep was a ghost of happier times, a surcease of sorrow that his guilt wouldn’t allow.
He had so many regrets. Not about the life he led; that was his choice. One he made a long time ago and he had made his peace with it long ago as well. No, he regretted all the times he had hurt his sons with harsh words and his distance. Regretted being more of a drill sergeant than a father. He regretted never really making peace with Sammy. With his bright, loving son; the only one of the Winchesters that still held some kind of innocence inside of him.
No father should ever outlive a child.
Inhaling the stinging smoke, he thought about Dean.
His older son, the one that always listened to him; surprised him beyond anything he expected of him. After waking up in the hospital, his body battered and bleeding after what the Demon had done to him, his eldest son went insane.
Completely, totally insane.
When John told him about Sam he went into some kind of shock. Dean was never one to show his feelings, so it meant that much more when he started screaming and thrashing, trying to scream his soul out it seemed. The pain, the total terror and suffering in that scream made John feel inadequate, made John’s own grief seem stupidly shallow.
The doctors had no use for him, threw him out, rushing into the room and trying to sedate his son.
When John came back an hour later, he wasn’t allowed to see Dean. His son had forbidden him entry. It took John two days before he felt well enough to sneak into Dean’s room. But there was no one there. At first, John thought that Dean was also gone, just like Sam. But a few questions later gave him information he should have expected, really.
Dean had checked himself out from the hospital.
John went in pursuit, expecting to find Dean within a few days. As hurt as he was, he needed to ask some of their contacts for help. Yet, as the days and then weeks went by, there was no trace of him. John never expected Dean to be able to hide from him so effectively. Week after week, John had searched. He still hadn’t found a thing. Not a trace, not even a sign of his son. It was as if Dean was dead. But that wasn’t something that John was prepared to face. He needed to know that at least one of his children was still alive. He preferred to think that Dean was somewhere out there, hiding. Doing… Something.
Thinking back to the state his son was in, John was terrified to think just what Dean might be doing. But as long as he was still alive.
He kept remembering the stillness that enveloped him in the funeral home as he watched his youngest son’s body being burned to ashes. He was alone there, Dean never even asked if, or where his brother was going to be buried.
It hurt more than he expected.
One son lost to death, one by choice.
By the time he realized that Dean just didn’t want to be found and obviously had enough resources to disappear completely, the trail of the Demon had gone completely cold. He was left with nothing. No family, no leads to follow... just pain and emptiness.
His cell rang.
It was such a rare occurrence these days it startled him, almost making him drop the cigarette. John pulled the phone out and for a moment stared at the display.
Unknown
Not really expecting anything, John threw the cigarette away and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
There was silence on the other side, but there was someone there. John could hear faint breathing.
“Hello?” He repeated again, glancing at his watch. If someone was tracing the call, John would know when to disconnect.
“Morton, Mississippi. You have two days to get there.”
John nearly dropped the phone. He knew this voice, had known it for over twenty-seven years.
“Dean?” There was so much he wanted to tell him, ask him. But more than that, he just wanted to hear his voice and know that he was okay. “Dean, son. Is it you? Are you all right? Answer me, damn it! Where the hell have you been! What…” He couldn’t stop the tide of words that he knew would push his son away.
“Two days. I’ll call.” Dean cut the connection.
John stared at the phone.
Dean was alive. His knees bucked and he sank to the damp, cold ground, weak with relief.
Oh God, Dean was alive.
But he sounded different. Harder. It was difficult to judge from the few words he had said, but John had a feeling somewhere deep in his gut that something was fundamentally wrong with Dean.
Still, he was alive. For now, it was all John needed.
He raised himself from the ground, trying to shake off the shock. He needed to pack. Find his maps. Find Morton, Mississippi and get there as fast as he possibly could. Questions could wait till later. For once in his life, he wasn’t the one giving orders in this family, but he didn’t mind. He would go to Hell and back for his son. It was time he proved it.
* * *
He opened his eyes.
It was dark, so dark like emptiness, nothingness. Endlessness…
Cold. Yes, he thought he could feel the cold, or maybe that was just his soul. He felt like he was encased in ice.
His ears strained to hear something, anything; but all he could hear was the screaming silence and the faint echo of the drip of water. And that sound, it would have almost been better if it had let the silence echo into his ears until they bled.
The smell was familiar. Musty, earthy and coppery. He knew it should mean something to him, it sparked the beginnings of something, something he knew that he needed, but it was dark to him, just like everything else.
There were a lot of things he should remember.
But he didn’t.
He was missing something.
Someone.
* * *
He reached Morton at one in the morning, tired and hungry after two days of almost constant driving. All he wanted right then was to just fall face down onto a bed and sleep for a few hours. He planned on showing Dean’s photo around, to try and figure out if his son was already there.
But first he headed for the nearest, cheap motel and rented a room for a night. He didn’t know how long he was going to be there, after all.
That wasn’t, however, how his son had planned it.
Four hours later a knock to his door woke him up.
Still groggy and tired, he took out his blessed Glock, the one with silver bullets and approached the door as silently as possible. He checked the lines of salt on the floor and windowsills, making sure they were undisturbed. Then he spared a glance at the carefully drawn sigils on the glass. Sometimes he didn’t even know why he bothered anymore. It wasn’t like anything was after him. It seemed that with Sam’s death everything ended. But he found comfort in the repetition of those old rituals, comfort that some things were forever. And that it all meant something.
After making sure all the lines of defense were okay, John tried to look out through the window to see who was there. In the pre dawn gray of the world, all he could see was a vaguely familiar silhouette of a man in a long, dark coat. For a moment, he had a flashback to the Demon, but it was unlikely that a supernatural, evil being, would knock at his door and wait patiently until he opened.
Making sure the gun wasn’t visible, he pulled the flimsy excuse of a door open.
“Who...” once again he wasn’t allowed to finish his question.
He didn’t need to ask any more. The man in a leather coat was his son.
Dean.
But he looked different. His face was pale, dark shadows under his eyes. His green eyes dark and dulled, tired. His hair was longer than John ever remembered it being before, but it was dull, split ends making the once carefully groomed hair look dirty and uninviting. Dean was standing still, letting John look at him. Even in that stillness, there was a kind of frantic energy buzzing just under the surface. Something feverish and dangerous.
Even in these few, brief moments John could see that Dean had changed.
Drastically.
This wasn’t his fun-loving, good-hearted son who just wanted to help people, hunt things. It was a dark, dangerous stranger with something unhealthy about him. Something wrong. Something dark.
“Dean?” John croaked finally, because damn it, he was still his son. The only one he had left.
“Hi, Dad.”
John was surprised to hear Dean’s voice. It was low and hoarse, so unlike his son’s smooth tenor from before. Unable to hold back any longer, John stepped out and opened his arms, enveloping his son in a powerful, desperate hug, feeling just how much weight Dean had lost. How fragile he seemed. He was now all angular lines, rangy muscles and bones.
“Son. Jesus. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you too.” It hurt that it took Dean a minute to respond to the hug and embrace John back.
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath and whispered against John’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
There was something dark and desperate in his son’s voice and John pulled back, needing to look Dean in the eyes.
“For what? Leaving me like that?” John’s anger flared. “I had to bury Sam alone, for Christ’s sake!”
Dean flinched at Sam’s name but remained looking at John steadily. Something painful flickered in his shadowed eyes.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”
John had a feeling Dean wasn’t talking about leaving and disappearing without a word for eight months.
His hunter instincts, honed to perfection by army first and then over twenty years of hunting kicked in finally. The edgy, uneasy feeling crept up his spine on spidery legs. His heart rate jumped up, his body tensed and it took John a moment to understand what was going on. His subconscious, his instinct was treating Dean as a threat. Which was ridiculous; except there was darkness in his eyes, tension in his body language and shadows on his too-thin face.
“Come in, son.” John invited, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
When Dean moved, John noticed that he was obviously trying to protect his left arm. He cursed the leather coat hiding his son’s body, making it harder to tell if it was an injury he was hiding or something else.
John noticed, even though he wished not to, how Dean winced while crossing the salt line. He pulled his left arm closer to his body in an obvious, but unrealized, action. Dean probably wasn’t even aware of it. John watched as his son kicked at the salt line, breaking it and then stalked to the window. Licking his finger he dragged it through the sigil, messing up the intricate design.
“Dean.” It was half-question, half-warning.
His son avoided looking into his eyes.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll explain later.”
And John hesitated. All his training, his experience told him to pull the trigger, screamed that hesitation would get him killed, yet he stood still.
All logic be damned, he couldn’t do it. Dean was all the family he had left, his only son that was still alive. He owed Dean the benefit of doubt; owed him that much at least.
With a growing feeling of unease, John watched as Dean destroyed every sigil, every ward in the room. With every broken symbol some tension left Dean’s face and it occurred to John that they were hurting him. The wards were hurting his son. Jesus. Just what had his son done; what had he become?
“Dean.” This time it was a warning. John pulled the gun out of the waistband of his pants. He wasn’t pointing it at Dean, but he was quite obviously holding it at the ready. “What did you do?”
Dean shot him a strange look, but before John had a chance to decipher it, Dean looked away.
“All those years of hunting... we had to learn things, just to be able to recognize them and counteract, right?” Dean asked, sitting on the only chair in the room. It creaked under his weight and he shifted.
John stared at his son, with his feverish eyes and slightly unkept hair for a very long, painful moment.
“Black magic,” John breathed out, more disappointed than shocked.
Dean shook his head.
“Not exactly.” His son hesitated. “There are shades of gray...”
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’? You reacted to the sigils for God’s sake! It say’s clearly that there are no shades of grey. It’s all black and white, life and death.” John watched the slump of his son’s shoulders, read the defeat there. “What happened?” He asked gently this time.
“They took Sammy. I failed to protect him, and it was my damn responsibility!”
John sighed.
“There was nothing you could have done. He died because he overused his powers.”
Dean’s eyes shot up to him.
“You don’t know what happened in the car, Dad. You were unconscious then. I...” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I saw them come for Sammy.”
John sucked his breath in with a loud hiss.
“Who?” He asked dreading the answer.
Dean went to the window and looked out, his eyes focusing on something that probably wasn’t even there. The harsh, blue light of a street lantern illuminated his drawn, gray face, giving him an even more sick and tired look.
“It’s children. Demons. The possessed ones. I don’t know. But they weren’t humans. No human could wield that kind of magic.” Dean’s voice was hoarse and painful. John felt a slow terror creep over him, sticky and hungry.
There were thousands of questions John wanted to ask, but he stayed quiet. After a while Dean continued.
“Sam was still alive then. I could feel it, hear it, Dad. His breath was shallow and weak, and he was doing a strange gurgling sound every second exhale but he was alive!” Dean swallowed loudly, all the fight seemed to go out of him. “Then they came. Two men. Young. Looked ordinary. At first I thought they came to help, passersby or something. Then I saw one of them simply rip out the crushed-in driver’s door. All I could hear was the screech of metal. And I knew what they were.”
Dean looked back at John, his hazel eyes now black and unfathomable. “They didn’t know I was still alive and awake. Or maybe they just didn’t care. I don’t know. But I heard them. Heard the spell they chanted and saw... something, something bright and beautiful leave Sam’s body only to be locked in a black crystal. One of them said that Sam was dying, incomplete somehow, but the other claimed it was okay. That it would be easier to change him this way. That if he didn’t want to lead like them, then he would serve their purpose as a tool.”
“Jesus.” Whispered John, the enormity of what Dean was saying not hitting him yet. “Why didn’t you tell me, Dean?! All this time... we should have been looking for him! We…”
“Let me finish!” Dean’s voice was strong and cold and it cut John off instantly. His son had changed, definitely.
“What they didn’t know was that Sam had seen it. SEEN them taking away his... soul. And he was never wrong, Dad. Never. So, we researched the spell. He didn’t know when it would happen, but Sam was sure he needed to stop it from happening.”
“What did you do?” John wanted to yell, to demand to know why neither of his children called him, asked him for help, told him what was going on... But he managed to curb his anger. It was much too late for that.
Dean smiled, a small honest smile. His eyes crinkled in the corners in a way that was obvious; they hadn’t in a while.
“We found a witch. A very, very powerful one.” Dean silenced John’s unvoiced protests with one, hard glare. “And we made her bind our souls together. One can’t live without the other and we can always counteract any influence, at least to some extent. Basically, it boils down to the fact that while they have Sammy, they can’t control him.” Dean smiled in a disturbing, twisted way. “But they learned that after it was too late. He’s been causing trouble, Dad.”
John had an uneasy feeling.
“How do you know it worked? If they are demons, they could have broken any spell a witch cast on you.”
“An ordinary spell, yes. A living spell? No.”
With that Dean started to undress. He pulled his shirt off and stepped into the spot of light coming in from the window.
John gasped and took a step back. Jesus Christ. It was... horrible.
“A living spell, Dad. A bond granted by the Four Guardians.”
John was speechless, staring at his son’s horribly mutilated body. Dean’s whole left arm was covered in living, pulsing burns and blisters. The skin was inflamed, the infected wounds constantly oozing blood and something worse. The wounds covered every single square inch of Dean’s arm from his wrist up to his shoulder. Thin burns reaching even up to his collarbone. Even now, staring at them, John saw them move and pulsate with an odd rhythm.
“God, Dean, what have you done?” He whispered.
“Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just the price. It won’t kill me. And I’ve gotten used to the pain.”
John wondered how anyone could get used to something like this.
“The spell works both ways. Sam is connected to me, but I am connected to him, also. Ever since... the accident, I gained some abilities. Handy ones.”
John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s arm. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know, but the part of him that was his father made him look, made him see what he’d forced his child to do. He knew there was more, but couldn’t bring himself to ask, though the bile rose in his throat and the guilt was suffocating him.
“I can use magic, Dad. The kind of magic simple people, humans, can’t.” With that Dean turned around and showed John his back covered with a huge tattoo.
Dean’s back was covered in a terrifying, but strangely beautiful, tattoo. The large, wingless dragon sat curled on the small of Dean’s back, its large head, mouth filled with dozens of wickedly sharp teeth, was turned upward towards his son’s neck. The thin, forked tongue sneaking out as if to taste Dean’s flesh. Its eyes were red and big, the only spot of color. It covered most of Dean’s back.
However, the most eye catching element of the whole tattoo was not the teeth filled mouth, but the unnaturally long, veined arms of the creature with its deadly claws in stead of fingers. Those limbs were now curled, crossed in front of the creature. Relaxed, but ready to move at any moment. There was something menacing about the tattoo. Something powerful. It actually took John a moment to see the magic symbols hidden between the carefully drawn scales of the dragon, masked in the shadows of its body.
Those weren’t the run of the mill, simple symbols that any wannabe witch would know. These were rare, powerful symbols mixed together in a pattern John didn’t recognize.
His eyes were drawn to the red, almost growing eyes. Suddenly, incredibly, the eyes shifted, as if looking straight at him. He jerked back, cursing loudly under his breath; his hand reaching for his gun automatically.
“Jesus CHRIST, Dean, what the hell have you done to yourself?!” He screamed, unable to hold onto any kind of semblance of control.
Dean flinched and the play of muscles under the tattooed skin made it look like the dragon had moved again.
Dean pulled his shirt on again, not quite managing to hide the pain his arm caused him.
Some part of John, the distant, analytic part of John Winchester marveled at the scope of pain Dean was willing to suffer. The other, more sane part of him, however, was disturbed. No, terrified. And bewildered that Dean would turn to something he had despised his whole life.
“What have you done...” Repeated John brokenly, longing to take his son into his arms and erase the pain that he’d suffered, that he was still suffering.
“Necessity.” Answered Dean.
John was quickly learning to loathe the harsh coldness of his voice.
“But why this? You could have come to me, Dean. I would have helped you find and free Sam. He’s my child, you know?”
Dean shifted his eyes away from John, avoiding looking at him for the first time since this conversation started. He was hiding something.
“I know.” He answered hoarsely, something strange in his voice. “But sometimes it felt like... like he was mine, you know? Just mine.”
And, Jesus, but John knew. He had made Dean responsible for Sammy at the tender age of four. When John suddenly found himself alone with two small children, his wife brutally killed by something supernatural, he was at a loss. He was afraid he would lose control over this whole situation. He also needed help, no matter how loathed he was to admit it. So, he turned to Dean; his son that behaved like he was fourteen rather than four.
Dean took the responsibility to heart. Much more than John had expected. He thought that Dean would rebel eventually at having his younger brother with him all the time. But that never happened. Even while being a teenager, Dean never complained about Sammy. He took pride in taking care of his little brother, judged his worthiness by the way Sammy saw him. Somewhere along the way, he became to Sammy what John should have been if he had stayed home long enough.
John was aware that there was a special, unique bond between his sons. There were dozens of proofs. The fact that Sam actually came with Dean when John was missing. The fact that Dean actually stood up in his face to defend Sam, and of course that little bit about Sam having visions and being able to move objects without touching them. Dean knew about it all. He, their Dad, got to know it only when there simply wasn’t any other choice.
John was aware that he had lost something with his youngest son. A kind of connection, understanding, trust between them. He was too proud to explain himself to Sam, disappointed that Sam didn’t behave like Dean, didn’t follow orders. And Sam was too angry, too bitter and too stubborn to listen, really listen to John, too hurt to see the love he had for both his sons.
“You shouldn’t have left, Dean; you shouldn’t have to deal with the grief alone. No one should.”
Dean looked at him with something strange, something foreign in his eyes. For a moment the hunter part of John told him that Dean was hiding something. A dark, uneasy feeling came over him.
Even now, colder and more bitter than John has ever seen him, Dean still wasn’t really able to lie to him. It was comforting in a way, to know that there was still something he knew for sure about his eldest son.
Dean was planning something, but he wasn’t going to let his father in on it.
“What do you want, Dean?” He asked gently, still trying to come to grips with the pure desperation that forced Dean to take such drastic steps.
“I want to save Sam.”
John wanted it too, wanted it so bad his chest ached. But, still, he hesitated to believe Dean. The way he spoke about Sam, it was like he believed Sam was still alive. And that wasn’t true, because John had watched his son’s body burn to ashes. He was the one to scatter the ashes. Alone. Feeling betrayed by Dean’s absence. There was also a shade of shame in that anger. Because not so long ago, his son had to bury his girlfriend and John wasn’t there either. There were so many things he did wrong with Sam. He would give anything to have a chance to talk to Sammy just one more time. To tell him that he loved him. To hug him. To say he was proud of him, of the caring, brave, strong man he became.
“What would you sacrifice to save him?” Asked Dean in a strangely quiet voice. It was a scary question, because it was said so very seriously. ‘I gave my pain.’ Went unsaid, but John heard it anyway. Saw it in the unconscious way Dean cradled his left arm. The memory of those living, vicious burns forever burned into his mind.
“Would you give your blood for him?” Dean was completely serious now. It wasn’t an idle talk. It meant something to Dean. Something John didn’t understand yet.
“In a heartbeat.” He answered honestly, without hesitation. “I would give my life for him. For any of you.” Something softer flickered in Dean’s eyes, but was gone before John could decipher it.
“Good. Then you’ll have a chance to prove it.”
“What do you mean?” Asked John. “Why do you need my help now, after eight months?” It was driving John crazy, not to know everything. He started to understand the frustration his children suffered when he went all cryptic on them.
Dean’s lips curled into a bitter parody of a smile, something that hurt to look at.
“Because the wards that are keeping Sammy inside are keeping me out.”
“You tried already.” It wasn’t a question.
Dean only nodded.
“I need you to go in and destroy the wards. Only a non-magical being can pass the wards safely.”
John opened his mouth to ask a dozen questions but then he remembered all the times Dean had just obeyed him. In matters so much less important, Dean never doubted him, never hesitated, never questioned. He always trusted John’s judgment.
Now, it was the time to do the same for Dean, show him that the trust was never one sided. Even if Dean was wrong about Sam. It was something Dean needed to know. That in every situation, his son could count on him. If not before, then now. John would be damned if he let his only living son slip away too.
“Okay.” It was such a simple word, but in that moment it was probably the most important thing he had ever said to his son.
“I must admit, it went down much easier than I had expected.”
John looked at his son silently, willing himself to say all those words he never had. Even when he should have.
“I trust you, Dean. I’m proud of the man you have become, how strong and loyal you are. I’m proud of you.”
Something flashed in Dean’s eyes and he almost flinched from John at his last words. He knew why. The last time Dean heard John say these words, The Demon had possessed his body.
Suddenly, Dean approached him in two angry strides, his almost too thin body vibrating with anger. But John had a feeling it was anger directed at himself rather than John.
Dean jerked his shirt down from his left shoulder, exposing a bit of the mutilated flesh.
“Even with this?” He almost yelled.
John kept his gaze calm and sure. He was not going to fail with Dean like he had failed with Sam. Even if Dean was obviously disturbed and unstable.
“Yes. There is nothing you could do that would make me turn away from you.”
Dean worked his jaw like he wanted to say something but swallowed the angry words.
“Well, you might change your mind yet, Dad.”
John didn’t know how to explain that after losing one son, his priorities had changed. He promised himself that he would never let Dean down if he ever found him again. Now he had his chance.
“I doubt that, son.” John said calmly, sensing the fight going on in his older son.
“We’ll see.” Dean turned away, jerking the shirt back on with a hiss of pain. The confrontation was over.
“We’ll get some supplies tomorrow and head out the day after.” John didn’t respond other than nodding his head. Dean sounded like he knew what he was doing and he owed him the benefit of doubt.
“Pack your stuff. I got us a double.”
With that Dean left the room, leaving John alone.
* * *
It was dark.
Cold.
The time had no meaning for him anymore.
His body was tight. Cold. Powerful.
He didn’t feel anything.
He moved, his fingers stretching, watched as his flesh began to tear, skin pulled apart, rippling and surrendering to the pressure.
He didn’t feel pain.
He didn’t even bleed.
So much cold, inside.
Dark.
The wound healed before he closed his eyes again.
More darkness.
* * *
Dean watched his father unpack. There was something comforting in the way he moved, the familiar smell of his clothes.
Dean missed him. Missed the quiet strength his father exuded, the way he would take responsibility for everything, freeing Dean to simply be happy. Most of all he missed the comfort a simple hug could give him.
After the first two weeks passed, when he could finally think clearly, he realized he had left his father alone. Left him with Sam’s body to bury and with a broken body. He was ashamed now of his selfishness. But given the chance to start again, he would have done the same. He knew Dad wouldn’t have let him cast all those spells. He would have balked at the idea of Dean promising his pain for the help of supernatural powers. Dean flexed his left arm, the skin burning and tugging at the vicious burns. The pain flared, from his wrist to his collarbone. It was so bad it made his stomach rebel and his chest compress. He didn’t lie. He was getting used to it. But his body wasn’t taking it well. He could barely eat. Even the smell of food made him nauseous and it was beginning to show. He lost weight and had constant shadows under his eyes; his skin was sickly pain. He was also running a low grade fever all the time. He knew it had to end soon. That his body wouldn’t be able to stand the abuse much longer. That was why he spelled the dragon onto his skin. The creature fought the supernatural, making him almost immune to it. What he said to Dad was true, though. He was connected to Sam now. Because instead of taking it’s payment in Dean’s life force, the dragon was sustained by something else. Something that hadn’t come from Dean.
There was also that little fact that the binding spell was only designed for lovers. Whatever John thought he could forgive his son for, Dean doubted it included incest. No matter now old Sammy was, Dean will always be the older one, the responsible one. It was his duty to protect Sammy... not fuck him.
He wanted to tell Dad everything so badly. Wanted to tell him about the dreams, the pain and sheer fucking terror he suffered every day for Sam. Not that he would give away this only chance at finding Sammy, but he would like some comfort. He wanted somebody to listen to him, someone to understand the need he had to save Sammy. But it was too much to ask. John Winchester would never agree to what Dean was planning. He would never let Dean try this kind of magic; it could lead to all kinds of dark, dangerous things...
Dean sat down on his bed, his clothes still firmly on and pretended to clean his favorite shotgun. The awkwardness between them was a solid person now, sharing the room with them. The air was heavy and still, filled with thousands of unasked questions.
He watched his father from the corner of his eye; he saw the changed way he moved, probably due to the injuries he had suffered in the crash. It stung that Dean wasn’t even sure what they were.
He saw the careful way his Dad wasn’t looking at him. The way he concentrated on folding his clothes and stuffing them back into the duffel bag. Along with Sammy, he lost something more. The easy connection he used to share with his father. The trust.
That was why he was still unsure of Dad’s reasons to actually go with him. Because he sure as Hell didn’t believe that Sammy’s soul was kept imprisoned somewhere.
After running out of things to do, John stood up and approached the windows looking at the sigils Dean had drawn. Sammy was the one who found them actually, in some old, dusty tome he so loved. They were hard as hell to draw, all little curls and crossing lines. But if done correctly they gave a helluva better protection than anything they knew before. And it was easier to explain than lines of salt on the floor and windowsills.
“You should put salt here, too.” Dad said, turning away from the sigils he had been studying for some time now.
“Not necessary anymore, it was Sammy who found the sigils. It’s some powerful shit.”
“I haven’t seen them before.” The ‘I don’t trust it’ hung unsaid in the air. But Dean didn’t mind. He did exactly the same thing when Sammy drew them for the first time. And the second and tenth. Finally he had changed his mind; he couldn’t expect his father to be any different.
Dean watched his Dad, obviously at a loss, make his retreat to the tiny bathroom. It seemed that they needed Sammy to force them to talk. Without him, they both preferred a tactical retreat and denial.
As the door closed, Dean was again alone in the room. It was so long now since he had any company. First they were all together. Family. Then, when Sammy left, it was him and Dad. He wasn’t alone for more than three weeks at a time. And when Dad went missing he was with Sam again. Only after the crash, after he escaped from the hospital leaving Dad behind, did he feel alone. Truly alone.
He’d never admit it out loud but he stole some of Sammy’s clothes from the hospital. He needed something, anything to make him feel closer to his little brother. His clothes had still smelled of him: his sweat, his aftershave.
More than anything, Dean was afraid that he would forget Sammy. That the memory of his smell, of the way his skin felt under his tongue would fade away. Dean knew how fallible human memory could be, and the prospect of losing all those small things that in his mind connected into ‘Sammy’ was terrifying.
Only after Sam was gone did Dean start to realize how many things they had missed, let slip through their fingers.
The memory of the commitment he denied Sam, because he was afraid of what it would entail, still stung. It was so useless. So stupid.
Stupid little things were what he regretted the most. All those pictures he never let Sammy take. They had stupid, funny ones of each other on their phones but not one of them together since Sammy had reached the age of nine.
It always seemed so stupid to let somebody take their picture. But now, alone, in pain, he would give a lot to be able to look at something that would remind him of the bond they shared. Had shared.
He also regretted that he never agreed to be exclusive. He made it a mission of his to pick up as many waitresses as possible, to go out and encourage Sammy to do the same. At the time he saw it as way of protecting his little brother, of giving him a choice. A chance to back out of their twisted relationship. Now, after having eight months to think it through, Dean realized that he caused more hurt than anything else with his behavior. Sam hid how badly it hurt him to see Dean come back from somebody else’s bed. Hid how much he felt betrayed. Dean never stopped to think that his brother might be as afraid of loosing Dean as he was of loosing Sam.
Now, almost eight months later Sammy’s clothes no longer smelled like him and Dean couldn’t trust his memory any longer, the longing twisting his memories into fantasies. He wasn’t sure what was a real memory and what was just a figment of his imagination. He longed to hear Sam again, hear the stupid, mushy things his brother would whisper to him when he thought Dean was asleep. He would do anything just to hear his voice again...
“Dean?” He opened his eyes to see John standing in front of him, changed and still damp from his shower. On his right cheek were two shallow cuts from shaving. He was probably too shaken to pay attention to the razor.
“Yeah?” He asked, still half in his memories.
“You going to take a shower?” There was concern in his Dad’s voice.
Damn, he must look pretty rough.
“Sure.”
With a hiss he stood up, his left arm burning with sickening pain. He pretended not to notice John hovering over him as he made his careful way to the bathroom. He had a mission to accomplish.
Making sure the door was closed he pulled a small, plastic baggie from his jeans. Kneeling on the floor was not an easy task when one’s arm was out of order. Panting though the pain of inevitably jarred shoulder, he reached for the small trashcan. Hopefully Dad used the toilet paper to stop the bleeding.
Quick perusal of the almost empty container proved him right. Under a few pieces of plastic wrapper were two pieces of toilet paper smeared with a few drops of blood.
Careful not to touch the blood itself, Dean took the paper out and put the pieces into the plastic baggie.
He remembered the way he maneuvered his Dad to give him the last ingredient for the most complicated and most important spell of his life.
“Would you give your blood for him?”
“In a heartbeat.”
It was the last sacrifice.
For the spell to work, he needed all family members to sacrifice something for Sam. In his case it was rather easy. Everyone connected to Sam by blood or heart sacrificed something.
Mom gave her life for Sammy.
Jess, almost a wife, gave her life for Sam too.
Bobby gave Sam his most praised possession.
He gave his pain for Sam, the living burns a testimony to it.
Pastor Jim gave his life in a fight that wasn’t his. A fight that revolved around Sammy. But he didn’t blame the youngest Winchester for anything. A sacrifice then.
The one person he wasn’t sure of was Sarah. Sam felt something for that girl which made her almost family. So, he went to her and explained things. Then he asked her the same question he asked Dad. Would she give her blood for Sam? He never said how much he needed. Never said if it would be dangerous for her. He couldn’t. The only sacrifice that had a meaning was one made despite fear. When one could lose something.
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, all elegant beauty and slender lines and then she just said “Okay. Take whatever you need.”
It humbled him. Just how much of an impression Sam had made. He never even slept with Sarah. They just kissed once. And she was willing to risk her life for him a year later.
Dean was sure none of his one night stands would move a finger to help him.
That left John. The father. When Dean asked about his sacrifice, John was honest and truthful. He would sacrifice his life if there wasn’t any other way.
He didn’t need to know that a single drop of blood was all it took.
* * *
He wasn’t alone anymore.
His eyes were open, body thrumming with anticipation.
His empty mind screaming “Yes!” and “Finally!”
It was a girl.
Young.
A blackness in her eyes.
She wasn’t what he was waiting for.
He watched her soft, pink lips open in an O of surprise.
Watched her eyes, black and surprised, still.
Watched her blood drip, drip slowly from his hands.
Warm.
Coppery.
He didn’t feel anything.
It was dark here.
Cold.
Wet.
The only sound was the water drip, dripping somewhere close.
He closed his eyes.
He waited.
* * *
They say there is a first time for everything. Well, it was definitely a first for John to be instructed, like an inexperienced civilian, by his own son.
“Whatever happens, don’t leave the car. I’ve drawn the protective symbols on every side of it, so inside you are safe.” Dean repeated once again.
“I get that.” John snapped impatiently. The necessity of taking the back seat and letting his son lead was frying his nerves. He hasn’t taken orders like that since he was in the Marines.
“It’s really important, Dad. After you take care of the wards, we will both head down into the caves. But it’s very, very important that you not approach Sam alone. He may kill you. I don’t know what they did to him, but they’ve changed him.” Dean sounded deadly serious.
“How can he hurt me? You said they only took his soul. You think he might manifest like a spirit would?” John was lost, hating the fact that Dean obviously wasn’t telling him everything.
He watched, filled with a horrible mixture of awe and disgust as Dean got out of the car and shed his jacket and both shirts.
They were alone, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Montana. They haven’t passed any other car ever since they turned into this old, half overgrown road. There was no one besides John to see the horribly scarred arm, the burns still fresh and oozing, or the frighteningly beautiful tattoo on Dean’s back.
Now, in the light of day, John could clearly see how his son’s body changed. The muscles seemed even more pronounced because the skin clung to it without the necessary, thin layer of fat that should be there. It made him look strange, his body no longer smooth and healthy looking. When he moved, John could see a faint outline of ribs and too sharp shoulder blades. It looked as if John’s body was eating itself.
“You don’t have to watch.” Dean said quietly. “I’ll understand.” The unsaid ‘that you’re disgusted with me’ hung heavily in the air. It seemed that Dean has changed, but his insecurities were still the same. He was still afraid of his father’s disapproval.
“I already told you son, there’s nothing you could do that would make me turn away from you.”
There it was again, a flicker of something in Dean’s eyes. A secret. And then his face was closed to John once again. It stung, hurt even, that he couldn’t read his son as easily as he could before. It showed how far they had drifted apart.
Dean smiled, that pitiful excuse of a smile he only seemed to manage these days and turned away from the car.
The forest was silent around them. Too silent. There were no sounds of birds or any other animal, nor the usual creak and rustle the woods should be echoing with.
Nothing.
Just this deadly silence that could mean only one thing.
They weren’t alone any more.
“There is something evil here.” John said softly, reaching for his shotgun.
“There’s more than one,” Dean answered over his shoulder before taking two more steps away from the car.
From the position he was looking at Dean, John couldn’t tell for sure, but he had the impression that Dean was saying something. Suddenly, he spread his arms wide, threw his head back and screamed until the forest echoed back.
As he watched, John saw the dragon on his son’s back shift, stretch its body. He saw the skin under the tattoo twitch and ripple and then the dragon moved. Literally. Its red eyes glowed fiercely and blinked. Then its body twisted around.
In equal measure mesmerized and terrified John watched as the head with a mouth filled with dozens of huge, sharp teeth, rested on Dean’s head. It enveloped him, like a helmet. An armor of sorts. John could see the double image clearly. The hideous head with red, glowing eyes and serpent tongue and underneath it, his son’s face. His short, dirty blond hair and tired hazel eyes.
The dragon kept twisting, uncurling and stretching until its clawed paws covered Dean’s arms perfectly, the claws resting right over his fingers.
That was some powerful warlock magic there. John could feel the energy cracking in the air, making the hair on the nape of his head stand up and goose bumps appear all over his arms. Right now, John was forced to agree that, maybe, he was way out of his league here.
He wasn’t the only one reacting to the magic though. In the shadows between the trees, John could see rapid movements. Something was out there. Something dark and angry.
Dean flexed his fingers and the claws moved with him like a ghost armor. Then he started running towards the tree line, his movements an easy, effortless jog that shouldn’t be possible by such a broken body. He was hunting now and he was more dangerous than ever.
the second part here:
http://xantissa.livejournal.com/7058.html#cutid1
Second Chances
By Xantissa
Summary: Out of the whole Winchester family, John always expected Dean to be the one to accept the inevitable death, the loses their fight brought. He never expected Dean to fight like this. To turn for help to the very same powers he fought before. But it seemed, John didn’t know a whole lot about his sons…
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Fandom: Supernatural.
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me and I’m not making any money on this.
Rating: 18+ (just to be sure)
Warnings: You should know me by now. Of course there’s warnings. Violence. Dead people- children but nothing too graphic. And oddly enough, no graphic sex. Lot’s of angst though.
Prologue
John stared at the glowing end of his cigarette as it made a graceful arc in the air before hitting the asphalt, where the rain extinguished the light quickly. He leaned back on the wall, the flimsy roof of the motel barely managing to keep him from getting wet.
He stopped smoking over twenty-eight years ago, when Mary was pregnant with Dean. Starting now seemed like a small betrayal, but it was too late to feel any regret. After all, he no longer had a family.
He closed his eyes, thinking back to that dreadful night over eight months ago.
To that night, when the light burned out forever, snuffed by the semi that smashed into the Impala and robbed him of what was left of his family.
Sam died. The doctors said it was instant. Head trauma, they called it. Must have hit his head during the crash…
But that wasn’t the truth.
John actually remembered the moment the semi smashed into them; remembered it with surprising clarity. He could see every single second in his mind as clear as if it were some sort of horror show he was watching on TV.
Just before the truck hit, Sam turned and screamed “No!” There was terror and rage in his voice, a sound he thought he would never forget. But what was the most clear, and what he remembered the most often was the strange sensation of something passing over him.
Later the doctors said that it was a miracle he and Dean had survived. No one could explain it, but it seemed that some kind of force had stopped the metal of the Impala from twisting around their fragile bodies. Because the car should have been bent in half, they should have been pressed into nothing more than bloody pulp. Yet , inside the car was almost intact. The only injuries Dean and he had were the ones they’d gotten before getting into the car.
Sam, Sammy, his baby. His youngest son was dead.
John’s hands shook as he reached for another cigarette. He wanted to cry, to release that festering pain. But there were no tears left in him, only that aching emptiness, the stillness and screaming silence that dogged his every step.
Sammy had somehow used his developing powers to save them. But it killed him. All the power that he had to use to stop that semi had burst something vital inside of him.
John lit up another cigarette and fingered the half empty pack. He would finish it before dawn came, he knew it. But he needed something to occupy him during nights like this, when the loneliness and pain got the better of him. When there was nothing left for him but memories. Sleep was a ghost of happier times, a surcease of sorrow that his guilt wouldn’t allow.
He had so many regrets. Not about the life he led; that was his choice. One he made a long time ago and he had made his peace with it long ago as well. No, he regretted all the times he had hurt his sons with harsh words and his distance. Regretted being more of a drill sergeant than a father. He regretted never really making peace with Sammy. With his bright, loving son; the only one of the Winchesters that still held some kind of innocence inside of him.
No father should ever outlive a child.
Inhaling the stinging smoke, he thought about Dean.
His older son, the one that always listened to him; surprised him beyond anything he expected of him. After waking up in the hospital, his body battered and bleeding after what the Demon had done to him, his eldest son went insane.
Completely, totally insane.
When John told him about Sam he went into some kind of shock. Dean was never one to show his feelings, so it meant that much more when he started screaming and thrashing, trying to scream his soul out it seemed. The pain, the total terror and suffering in that scream made John feel inadequate, made John’s own grief seem stupidly shallow.
The doctors had no use for him, threw him out, rushing into the room and trying to sedate his son.
When John came back an hour later, he wasn’t allowed to see Dean. His son had forbidden him entry. It took John two days before he felt well enough to sneak into Dean’s room. But there was no one there. At first, John thought that Dean was also gone, just like Sam. But a few questions later gave him information he should have expected, really.
Dean had checked himself out from the hospital.
John went in pursuit, expecting to find Dean within a few days. As hurt as he was, he needed to ask some of their contacts for help. Yet, as the days and then weeks went by, there was no trace of him. John never expected Dean to be able to hide from him so effectively. Week after week, John had searched. He still hadn’t found a thing. Not a trace, not even a sign of his son. It was as if Dean was dead. But that wasn’t something that John was prepared to face. He needed to know that at least one of his children was still alive. He preferred to think that Dean was somewhere out there, hiding. Doing… Something.
Thinking back to the state his son was in, John was terrified to think just what Dean might be doing. But as long as he was still alive.
He kept remembering the stillness that enveloped him in the funeral home as he watched his youngest son’s body being burned to ashes. He was alone there, Dean never even asked if, or where his brother was going to be buried.
It hurt more than he expected.
One son lost to death, one by choice.
By the time he realized that Dean just didn’t want to be found and obviously had enough resources to disappear completely, the trail of the Demon had gone completely cold. He was left with nothing. No family, no leads to follow... just pain and emptiness.
His cell rang.
It was such a rare occurrence these days it startled him, almost making him drop the cigarette. John pulled the phone out and for a moment stared at the display.
Unknown
Not really expecting anything, John threw the cigarette away and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
There was silence on the other side, but there was someone there. John could hear faint breathing.
“Hello?” He repeated again, glancing at his watch. If someone was tracing the call, John would know when to disconnect.
“Morton, Mississippi. You have two days to get there.”
John nearly dropped the phone. He knew this voice, had known it for over twenty-seven years.
“Dean?” There was so much he wanted to tell him, ask him. But more than that, he just wanted to hear his voice and know that he was okay. “Dean, son. Is it you? Are you all right? Answer me, damn it! Where the hell have you been! What…” He couldn’t stop the tide of words that he knew would push his son away.
“Two days. I’ll call.” Dean cut the connection.
John stared at the phone.
Dean was alive. His knees bucked and he sank to the damp, cold ground, weak with relief.
Oh God, Dean was alive.
But he sounded different. Harder. It was difficult to judge from the few words he had said, but John had a feeling somewhere deep in his gut that something was fundamentally wrong with Dean.
Still, he was alive. For now, it was all John needed.
He raised himself from the ground, trying to shake off the shock. He needed to pack. Find his maps. Find Morton, Mississippi and get there as fast as he possibly could. Questions could wait till later. For once in his life, he wasn’t the one giving orders in this family, but he didn’t mind. He would go to Hell and back for his son. It was time he proved it.
* * *
He opened his eyes.
It was dark, so dark like emptiness, nothingness. Endlessness…
Cold. Yes, he thought he could feel the cold, or maybe that was just his soul. He felt like he was encased in ice.
His ears strained to hear something, anything; but all he could hear was the screaming silence and the faint echo of the drip of water. And that sound, it would have almost been better if it had let the silence echo into his ears until they bled.
The smell was familiar. Musty, earthy and coppery. He knew it should mean something to him, it sparked the beginnings of something, something he knew that he needed, but it was dark to him, just like everything else.
There were a lot of things he should remember.
But he didn’t.
He was missing something.
Someone.
* * *
He reached Morton at one in the morning, tired and hungry after two days of almost constant driving. All he wanted right then was to just fall face down onto a bed and sleep for a few hours. He planned on showing Dean’s photo around, to try and figure out if his son was already there.
But first he headed for the nearest, cheap motel and rented a room for a night. He didn’t know how long he was going to be there, after all.
That wasn’t, however, how his son had planned it.
Four hours later a knock to his door woke him up.
Still groggy and tired, he took out his blessed Glock, the one with silver bullets and approached the door as silently as possible. He checked the lines of salt on the floor and windowsills, making sure they were undisturbed. Then he spared a glance at the carefully drawn sigils on the glass. Sometimes he didn’t even know why he bothered anymore. It wasn’t like anything was after him. It seemed that with Sam’s death everything ended. But he found comfort in the repetition of those old rituals, comfort that some things were forever. And that it all meant something.
After making sure all the lines of defense were okay, John tried to look out through the window to see who was there. In the pre dawn gray of the world, all he could see was a vaguely familiar silhouette of a man in a long, dark coat. For a moment, he had a flashback to the Demon, but it was unlikely that a supernatural, evil being, would knock at his door and wait patiently until he opened.
Making sure the gun wasn’t visible, he pulled the flimsy excuse of a door open.
“Who...” once again he wasn’t allowed to finish his question.
He didn’t need to ask any more. The man in a leather coat was his son.
Dean.
But he looked different. His face was pale, dark shadows under his eyes. His green eyes dark and dulled, tired. His hair was longer than John ever remembered it being before, but it was dull, split ends making the once carefully groomed hair look dirty and uninviting. Dean was standing still, letting John look at him. Even in that stillness, there was a kind of frantic energy buzzing just under the surface. Something feverish and dangerous.
Even in these few, brief moments John could see that Dean had changed.
Drastically.
This wasn’t his fun-loving, good-hearted son who just wanted to help people, hunt things. It was a dark, dangerous stranger with something unhealthy about him. Something wrong. Something dark.
“Dean?” John croaked finally, because damn it, he was still his son. The only one he had left.
“Hi, Dad.”
John was surprised to hear Dean’s voice. It was low and hoarse, so unlike his son’s smooth tenor from before. Unable to hold back any longer, John stepped out and opened his arms, enveloping his son in a powerful, desperate hug, feeling just how much weight Dean had lost. How fragile he seemed. He was now all angular lines, rangy muscles and bones.
“Son. Jesus. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you too.” It hurt that it took Dean a minute to respond to the hug and embrace John back.
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath and whispered against John’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
There was something dark and desperate in his son’s voice and John pulled back, needing to look Dean in the eyes.
“For what? Leaving me like that?” John’s anger flared. “I had to bury Sam alone, for Christ’s sake!”
Dean flinched at Sam’s name but remained looking at John steadily. Something painful flickered in his shadowed eyes.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”
John had a feeling Dean wasn’t talking about leaving and disappearing without a word for eight months.
His hunter instincts, honed to perfection by army first and then over twenty years of hunting kicked in finally. The edgy, uneasy feeling crept up his spine on spidery legs. His heart rate jumped up, his body tensed and it took John a moment to understand what was going on. His subconscious, his instinct was treating Dean as a threat. Which was ridiculous; except there was darkness in his eyes, tension in his body language and shadows on his too-thin face.
“Come in, son.” John invited, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”
When Dean moved, John noticed that he was obviously trying to protect his left arm. He cursed the leather coat hiding his son’s body, making it harder to tell if it was an injury he was hiding or something else.
John noticed, even though he wished not to, how Dean winced while crossing the salt line. He pulled his left arm closer to his body in an obvious, but unrealized, action. Dean probably wasn’t even aware of it. John watched as his son kicked at the salt line, breaking it and then stalked to the window. Licking his finger he dragged it through the sigil, messing up the intricate design.
“Dean.” It was half-question, half-warning.
His son avoided looking into his eyes.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll explain later.”
And John hesitated. All his training, his experience told him to pull the trigger, screamed that hesitation would get him killed, yet he stood still.
All logic be damned, he couldn’t do it. Dean was all the family he had left, his only son that was still alive. He owed Dean the benefit of doubt; owed him that much at least.
With a growing feeling of unease, John watched as Dean destroyed every sigil, every ward in the room. With every broken symbol some tension left Dean’s face and it occurred to John that they were hurting him. The wards were hurting his son. Jesus. Just what had his son done; what had he become?
“Dean.” This time it was a warning. John pulled the gun out of the waistband of his pants. He wasn’t pointing it at Dean, but he was quite obviously holding it at the ready. “What did you do?”
Dean shot him a strange look, but before John had a chance to decipher it, Dean looked away.
“All those years of hunting... we had to learn things, just to be able to recognize them and counteract, right?” Dean asked, sitting on the only chair in the room. It creaked under his weight and he shifted.
John stared at his son, with his feverish eyes and slightly unkept hair for a very long, painful moment.
“Black magic,” John breathed out, more disappointed than shocked.
Dean shook his head.
“Not exactly.” His son hesitated. “There are shades of gray...”
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’? You reacted to the sigils for God’s sake! It say’s clearly that there are no shades of grey. It’s all black and white, life and death.” John watched the slump of his son’s shoulders, read the defeat there. “What happened?” He asked gently this time.
“They took Sammy. I failed to protect him, and it was my damn responsibility!”
John sighed.
“There was nothing you could have done. He died because he overused his powers.”
Dean’s eyes shot up to him.
“You don’t know what happened in the car, Dad. You were unconscious then. I...” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I saw them come for Sammy.”
John sucked his breath in with a loud hiss.
“Who?” He asked dreading the answer.
Dean went to the window and looked out, his eyes focusing on something that probably wasn’t even there. The harsh, blue light of a street lantern illuminated his drawn, gray face, giving him an even more sick and tired look.
“It’s children. Demons. The possessed ones. I don’t know. But they weren’t humans. No human could wield that kind of magic.” Dean’s voice was hoarse and painful. John felt a slow terror creep over him, sticky and hungry.
There were thousands of questions John wanted to ask, but he stayed quiet. After a while Dean continued.
“Sam was still alive then. I could feel it, hear it, Dad. His breath was shallow and weak, and he was doing a strange gurgling sound every second exhale but he was alive!” Dean swallowed loudly, all the fight seemed to go out of him. “Then they came. Two men. Young. Looked ordinary. At first I thought they came to help, passersby or something. Then I saw one of them simply rip out the crushed-in driver’s door. All I could hear was the screech of metal. And I knew what they were.”
Dean looked back at John, his hazel eyes now black and unfathomable. “They didn’t know I was still alive and awake. Or maybe they just didn’t care. I don’t know. But I heard them. Heard the spell they chanted and saw... something, something bright and beautiful leave Sam’s body only to be locked in a black crystal. One of them said that Sam was dying, incomplete somehow, but the other claimed it was okay. That it would be easier to change him this way. That if he didn’t want to lead like them, then he would serve their purpose as a tool.”
“Jesus.” Whispered John, the enormity of what Dean was saying not hitting him yet. “Why didn’t you tell me, Dean?! All this time... we should have been looking for him! We…”
“Let me finish!” Dean’s voice was strong and cold and it cut John off instantly. His son had changed, definitely.
“What they didn’t know was that Sam had seen it. SEEN them taking away his... soul. And he was never wrong, Dad. Never. So, we researched the spell. He didn’t know when it would happen, but Sam was sure he needed to stop it from happening.”
“What did you do?” John wanted to yell, to demand to know why neither of his children called him, asked him for help, told him what was going on... But he managed to curb his anger. It was much too late for that.
Dean smiled, a small honest smile. His eyes crinkled in the corners in a way that was obvious; they hadn’t in a while.
“We found a witch. A very, very powerful one.” Dean silenced John’s unvoiced protests with one, hard glare. “And we made her bind our souls together. One can’t live without the other and we can always counteract any influence, at least to some extent. Basically, it boils down to the fact that while they have Sammy, they can’t control him.” Dean smiled in a disturbing, twisted way. “But they learned that after it was too late. He’s been causing trouble, Dad.”
John had an uneasy feeling.
“How do you know it worked? If they are demons, they could have broken any spell a witch cast on you.”
“An ordinary spell, yes. A living spell? No.”
With that Dean started to undress. He pulled his shirt off and stepped into the spot of light coming in from the window.
John gasped and took a step back. Jesus Christ. It was... horrible.
“A living spell, Dad. A bond granted by the Four Guardians.”
John was speechless, staring at his son’s horribly mutilated body. Dean’s whole left arm was covered in living, pulsing burns and blisters. The skin was inflamed, the infected wounds constantly oozing blood and something worse. The wounds covered every single square inch of Dean’s arm from his wrist up to his shoulder. Thin burns reaching even up to his collarbone. Even now, staring at them, John saw them move and pulsate with an odd rhythm.
“God, Dean, what have you done?” He whispered.
“Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just the price. It won’t kill me. And I’ve gotten used to the pain.”
John wondered how anyone could get used to something like this.
“The spell works both ways. Sam is connected to me, but I am connected to him, also. Ever since... the accident, I gained some abilities. Handy ones.”
John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s arm. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know, but the part of him that was his father made him look, made him see what he’d forced his child to do. He knew there was more, but couldn’t bring himself to ask, though the bile rose in his throat and the guilt was suffocating him.
“I can use magic, Dad. The kind of magic simple people, humans, can’t.” With that Dean turned around and showed John his back covered with a huge tattoo.
Dean’s back was covered in a terrifying, but strangely beautiful, tattoo. The large, wingless dragon sat curled on the small of Dean’s back, its large head, mouth filled with dozens of wickedly sharp teeth, was turned upward towards his son’s neck. The thin, forked tongue sneaking out as if to taste Dean’s flesh. Its eyes were red and big, the only spot of color. It covered most of Dean’s back.
However, the most eye catching element of the whole tattoo was not the teeth filled mouth, but the unnaturally long, veined arms of the creature with its deadly claws in stead of fingers. Those limbs were now curled, crossed in front of the creature. Relaxed, but ready to move at any moment. There was something menacing about the tattoo. Something powerful. It actually took John a moment to see the magic symbols hidden between the carefully drawn scales of the dragon, masked in the shadows of its body.
Those weren’t the run of the mill, simple symbols that any wannabe witch would know. These were rare, powerful symbols mixed together in a pattern John didn’t recognize.
His eyes were drawn to the red, almost growing eyes. Suddenly, incredibly, the eyes shifted, as if looking straight at him. He jerked back, cursing loudly under his breath; his hand reaching for his gun automatically.
“Jesus CHRIST, Dean, what the hell have you done to yourself?!” He screamed, unable to hold onto any kind of semblance of control.
Dean flinched and the play of muscles under the tattooed skin made it look like the dragon had moved again.
Dean pulled his shirt on again, not quite managing to hide the pain his arm caused him.
Some part of John, the distant, analytic part of John Winchester marveled at the scope of pain Dean was willing to suffer. The other, more sane part of him, however, was disturbed. No, terrified. And bewildered that Dean would turn to something he had despised his whole life.
“What have you done...” Repeated John brokenly, longing to take his son into his arms and erase the pain that he’d suffered, that he was still suffering.
“Necessity.” Answered Dean.
John was quickly learning to loathe the harsh coldness of his voice.
“But why this? You could have come to me, Dean. I would have helped you find and free Sam. He’s my child, you know?”
Dean shifted his eyes away from John, avoiding looking at him for the first time since this conversation started. He was hiding something.
“I know.” He answered hoarsely, something strange in his voice. “But sometimes it felt like... like he was mine, you know? Just mine.”
And, Jesus, but John knew. He had made Dean responsible for Sammy at the tender age of four. When John suddenly found himself alone with two small children, his wife brutally killed by something supernatural, he was at a loss. He was afraid he would lose control over this whole situation. He also needed help, no matter how loathed he was to admit it. So, he turned to Dean; his son that behaved like he was fourteen rather than four.
Dean took the responsibility to heart. Much more than John had expected. He thought that Dean would rebel eventually at having his younger brother with him all the time. But that never happened. Even while being a teenager, Dean never complained about Sammy. He took pride in taking care of his little brother, judged his worthiness by the way Sammy saw him. Somewhere along the way, he became to Sammy what John should have been if he had stayed home long enough.
John was aware that there was a special, unique bond between his sons. There were dozens of proofs. The fact that Sam actually came with Dean when John was missing. The fact that Dean actually stood up in his face to defend Sam, and of course that little bit about Sam having visions and being able to move objects without touching them. Dean knew about it all. He, their Dad, got to know it only when there simply wasn’t any other choice.
John was aware that he had lost something with his youngest son. A kind of connection, understanding, trust between them. He was too proud to explain himself to Sam, disappointed that Sam didn’t behave like Dean, didn’t follow orders. And Sam was too angry, too bitter and too stubborn to listen, really listen to John, too hurt to see the love he had for both his sons.
“You shouldn’t have left, Dean; you shouldn’t have to deal with the grief alone. No one should.”
Dean looked at him with something strange, something foreign in his eyes. For a moment the hunter part of John told him that Dean was hiding something. A dark, uneasy feeling came over him.
Even now, colder and more bitter than John has ever seen him, Dean still wasn’t really able to lie to him. It was comforting in a way, to know that there was still something he knew for sure about his eldest son.
Dean was planning something, but he wasn’t going to let his father in on it.
“What do you want, Dean?” He asked gently, still trying to come to grips with the pure desperation that forced Dean to take such drastic steps.
“I want to save Sam.”
John wanted it too, wanted it so bad his chest ached. But, still, he hesitated to believe Dean. The way he spoke about Sam, it was like he believed Sam was still alive. And that wasn’t true, because John had watched his son’s body burn to ashes. He was the one to scatter the ashes. Alone. Feeling betrayed by Dean’s absence. There was also a shade of shame in that anger. Because not so long ago, his son had to bury his girlfriend and John wasn’t there either. There were so many things he did wrong with Sam. He would give anything to have a chance to talk to Sammy just one more time. To tell him that he loved him. To hug him. To say he was proud of him, of the caring, brave, strong man he became.
“What would you sacrifice to save him?” Asked Dean in a strangely quiet voice. It was a scary question, because it was said so very seriously. ‘I gave my pain.’ Went unsaid, but John heard it anyway. Saw it in the unconscious way Dean cradled his left arm. The memory of those living, vicious burns forever burned into his mind.
“Would you give your blood for him?” Dean was completely serious now. It wasn’t an idle talk. It meant something to Dean. Something John didn’t understand yet.
“In a heartbeat.” He answered honestly, without hesitation. “I would give my life for him. For any of you.” Something softer flickered in Dean’s eyes, but was gone before John could decipher it.
“Good. Then you’ll have a chance to prove it.”
“What do you mean?” Asked John. “Why do you need my help now, after eight months?” It was driving John crazy, not to know everything. He started to understand the frustration his children suffered when he went all cryptic on them.
Dean’s lips curled into a bitter parody of a smile, something that hurt to look at.
“Because the wards that are keeping Sammy inside are keeping me out.”
“You tried already.” It wasn’t a question.
Dean only nodded.
“I need you to go in and destroy the wards. Only a non-magical being can pass the wards safely.”
John opened his mouth to ask a dozen questions but then he remembered all the times Dean had just obeyed him. In matters so much less important, Dean never doubted him, never hesitated, never questioned. He always trusted John’s judgment.
Now, it was the time to do the same for Dean, show him that the trust was never one sided. Even if Dean was wrong about Sam. It was something Dean needed to know. That in every situation, his son could count on him. If not before, then now. John would be damned if he let his only living son slip away too.
“Okay.” It was such a simple word, but in that moment it was probably the most important thing he had ever said to his son.
“I must admit, it went down much easier than I had expected.”
John looked at his son silently, willing himself to say all those words he never had. Even when he should have.
“I trust you, Dean. I’m proud of the man you have become, how strong and loyal you are. I’m proud of you.”
Something flashed in Dean’s eyes and he almost flinched from John at his last words. He knew why. The last time Dean heard John say these words, The Demon had possessed his body.
Suddenly, Dean approached him in two angry strides, his almost too thin body vibrating with anger. But John had a feeling it was anger directed at himself rather than John.
Dean jerked his shirt down from his left shoulder, exposing a bit of the mutilated flesh.
“Even with this?” He almost yelled.
John kept his gaze calm and sure. He was not going to fail with Dean like he had failed with Sam. Even if Dean was obviously disturbed and unstable.
“Yes. There is nothing you could do that would make me turn away from you.”
Dean worked his jaw like he wanted to say something but swallowed the angry words.
“Well, you might change your mind yet, Dad.”
John didn’t know how to explain that after losing one son, his priorities had changed. He promised himself that he would never let Dean down if he ever found him again. Now he had his chance.
“I doubt that, son.” John said calmly, sensing the fight going on in his older son.
“We’ll see.” Dean turned away, jerking the shirt back on with a hiss of pain. The confrontation was over.
“We’ll get some supplies tomorrow and head out the day after.” John didn’t respond other than nodding his head. Dean sounded like he knew what he was doing and he owed him the benefit of doubt.
“Pack your stuff. I got us a double.”
With that Dean left the room, leaving John alone.
* * *
It was dark.
Cold.
The time had no meaning for him anymore.
His body was tight. Cold. Powerful.
He didn’t feel anything.
He moved, his fingers stretching, watched as his flesh began to tear, skin pulled apart, rippling and surrendering to the pressure.
He didn’t feel pain.
He didn’t even bleed.
So much cold, inside.
Dark.
The wound healed before he closed his eyes again.
More darkness.
* * *
Dean watched his father unpack. There was something comforting in the way he moved, the familiar smell of his clothes.
Dean missed him. Missed the quiet strength his father exuded, the way he would take responsibility for everything, freeing Dean to simply be happy. Most of all he missed the comfort a simple hug could give him.
After the first two weeks passed, when he could finally think clearly, he realized he had left his father alone. Left him with Sam’s body to bury and with a broken body. He was ashamed now of his selfishness. But given the chance to start again, he would have done the same. He knew Dad wouldn’t have let him cast all those spells. He would have balked at the idea of Dean promising his pain for the help of supernatural powers. Dean flexed his left arm, the skin burning and tugging at the vicious burns. The pain flared, from his wrist to his collarbone. It was so bad it made his stomach rebel and his chest compress. He didn’t lie. He was getting used to it. But his body wasn’t taking it well. He could barely eat. Even the smell of food made him nauseous and it was beginning to show. He lost weight and had constant shadows under his eyes; his skin was sickly pain. He was also running a low grade fever all the time. He knew it had to end soon. That his body wouldn’t be able to stand the abuse much longer. That was why he spelled the dragon onto his skin. The creature fought the supernatural, making him almost immune to it. What he said to Dad was true, though. He was connected to Sam now. Because instead of taking it’s payment in Dean’s life force, the dragon was sustained by something else. Something that hadn’t come from Dean.
There was also that little fact that the binding spell was only designed for lovers. Whatever John thought he could forgive his son for, Dean doubted it included incest. No matter now old Sammy was, Dean will always be the older one, the responsible one. It was his duty to protect Sammy... not fuck him.
He wanted to tell Dad everything so badly. Wanted to tell him about the dreams, the pain and sheer fucking terror he suffered every day for Sam. Not that he would give away this only chance at finding Sammy, but he would like some comfort. He wanted somebody to listen to him, someone to understand the need he had to save Sammy. But it was too much to ask. John Winchester would never agree to what Dean was planning. He would never let Dean try this kind of magic; it could lead to all kinds of dark, dangerous things...
Dean sat down on his bed, his clothes still firmly on and pretended to clean his favorite shotgun. The awkwardness between them was a solid person now, sharing the room with them. The air was heavy and still, filled with thousands of unasked questions.
He watched his father from the corner of his eye; he saw the changed way he moved, probably due to the injuries he had suffered in the crash. It stung that Dean wasn’t even sure what they were.
He saw the careful way his Dad wasn’t looking at him. The way he concentrated on folding his clothes and stuffing them back into the duffel bag. Along with Sammy, he lost something more. The easy connection he used to share with his father. The trust.
That was why he was still unsure of Dad’s reasons to actually go with him. Because he sure as Hell didn’t believe that Sammy’s soul was kept imprisoned somewhere.
After running out of things to do, John stood up and approached the windows looking at the sigils Dean had drawn. Sammy was the one who found them actually, in some old, dusty tome he so loved. They were hard as hell to draw, all little curls and crossing lines. But if done correctly they gave a helluva better protection than anything they knew before. And it was easier to explain than lines of salt on the floor and windowsills.
“You should put salt here, too.” Dad said, turning away from the sigils he had been studying for some time now.
“Not necessary anymore, it was Sammy who found the sigils. It’s some powerful shit.”
“I haven’t seen them before.” The ‘I don’t trust it’ hung unsaid in the air. But Dean didn’t mind. He did exactly the same thing when Sammy drew them for the first time. And the second and tenth. Finally he had changed his mind; he couldn’t expect his father to be any different.
Dean watched his Dad, obviously at a loss, make his retreat to the tiny bathroom. It seemed that they needed Sammy to force them to talk. Without him, they both preferred a tactical retreat and denial.
As the door closed, Dean was again alone in the room. It was so long now since he had any company. First they were all together. Family. Then, when Sammy left, it was him and Dad. He wasn’t alone for more than three weeks at a time. And when Dad went missing he was with Sam again. Only after the crash, after he escaped from the hospital leaving Dad behind, did he feel alone. Truly alone.
He’d never admit it out loud but he stole some of Sammy’s clothes from the hospital. He needed something, anything to make him feel closer to his little brother. His clothes had still smelled of him: his sweat, his aftershave.
More than anything, Dean was afraid that he would forget Sammy. That the memory of his smell, of the way his skin felt under his tongue would fade away. Dean knew how fallible human memory could be, and the prospect of losing all those small things that in his mind connected into ‘Sammy’ was terrifying.
Only after Sam was gone did Dean start to realize how many things they had missed, let slip through their fingers.
The memory of the commitment he denied Sam, because he was afraid of what it would entail, still stung. It was so useless. So stupid.
Stupid little things were what he regretted the most. All those pictures he never let Sammy take. They had stupid, funny ones of each other on their phones but not one of them together since Sammy had reached the age of nine.
It always seemed so stupid to let somebody take their picture. But now, alone, in pain, he would give a lot to be able to look at something that would remind him of the bond they shared. Had shared.
He also regretted that he never agreed to be exclusive. He made it a mission of his to pick up as many waitresses as possible, to go out and encourage Sammy to do the same. At the time he saw it as way of protecting his little brother, of giving him a choice. A chance to back out of their twisted relationship. Now, after having eight months to think it through, Dean realized that he caused more hurt than anything else with his behavior. Sam hid how badly it hurt him to see Dean come back from somebody else’s bed. Hid how much he felt betrayed. Dean never stopped to think that his brother might be as afraid of loosing Dean as he was of loosing Sam.
Now, almost eight months later Sammy’s clothes no longer smelled like him and Dean couldn’t trust his memory any longer, the longing twisting his memories into fantasies. He wasn’t sure what was a real memory and what was just a figment of his imagination. He longed to hear Sam again, hear the stupid, mushy things his brother would whisper to him when he thought Dean was asleep. He would do anything just to hear his voice again...
“Dean?” He opened his eyes to see John standing in front of him, changed and still damp from his shower. On his right cheek were two shallow cuts from shaving. He was probably too shaken to pay attention to the razor.
“Yeah?” He asked, still half in his memories.
“You going to take a shower?” There was concern in his Dad’s voice.
Damn, he must look pretty rough.
“Sure.”
With a hiss he stood up, his left arm burning with sickening pain. He pretended not to notice John hovering over him as he made his careful way to the bathroom. He had a mission to accomplish.
Making sure the door was closed he pulled a small, plastic baggie from his jeans. Kneeling on the floor was not an easy task when one’s arm was out of order. Panting though the pain of inevitably jarred shoulder, he reached for the small trashcan. Hopefully Dad used the toilet paper to stop the bleeding.
Quick perusal of the almost empty container proved him right. Under a few pieces of plastic wrapper were two pieces of toilet paper smeared with a few drops of blood.
Careful not to touch the blood itself, Dean took the paper out and put the pieces into the plastic baggie.
He remembered the way he maneuvered his Dad to give him the last ingredient for the most complicated and most important spell of his life.
“Would you give your blood for him?”
“In a heartbeat.”
It was the last sacrifice.
For the spell to work, he needed all family members to sacrifice something for Sam. In his case it was rather easy. Everyone connected to Sam by blood or heart sacrificed something.
Mom gave her life for Sammy.
Jess, almost a wife, gave her life for Sam too.
Bobby gave Sam his most praised possession.
He gave his pain for Sam, the living burns a testimony to it.
Pastor Jim gave his life in a fight that wasn’t his. A fight that revolved around Sammy. But he didn’t blame the youngest Winchester for anything. A sacrifice then.
The one person he wasn’t sure of was Sarah. Sam felt something for that girl which made her almost family. So, he went to her and explained things. Then he asked her the same question he asked Dad. Would she give her blood for Sam? He never said how much he needed. Never said if it would be dangerous for her. He couldn’t. The only sacrifice that had a meaning was one made despite fear. When one could lose something.
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, all elegant beauty and slender lines and then she just said “Okay. Take whatever you need.”
It humbled him. Just how much of an impression Sam had made. He never even slept with Sarah. They just kissed once. And she was willing to risk her life for him a year later.
Dean was sure none of his one night stands would move a finger to help him.
That left John. The father. When Dean asked about his sacrifice, John was honest and truthful. He would sacrifice his life if there wasn’t any other way.
He didn’t need to know that a single drop of blood was all it took.
* * *
He wasn’t alone anymore.
His eyes were open, body thrumming with anticipation.
His empty mind screaming “Yes!” and “Finally!”
It was a girl.
Young.
A blackness in her eyes.
She wasn’t what he was waiting for.
He watched her soft, pink lips open in an O of surprise.
Watched her eyes, black and surprised, still.
Watched her blood drip, drip slowly from his hands.
Warm.
Coppery.
He didn’t feel anything.
It was dark here.
Cold.
Wet.
The only sound was the water drip, dripping somewhere close.
He closed his eyes.
He waited.
* * *
They say there is a first time for everything. Well, it was definitely a first for John to be instructed, like an inexperienced civilian, by his own son.
“Whatever happens, don’t leave the car. I’ve drawn the protective symbols on every side of it, so inside you are safe.” Dean repeated once again.
“I get that.” John snapped impatiently. The necessity of taking the back seat and letting his son lead was frying his nerves. He hasn’t taken orders like that since he was in the Marines.
“It’s really important, Dad. After you take care of the wards, we will both head down into the caves. But it’s very, very important that you not approach Sam alone. He may kill you. I don’t know what they did to him, but they’ve changed him.” Dean sounded deadly serious.
“How can he hurt me? You said they only took his soul. You think he might manifest like a spirit would?” John was lost, hating the fact that Dean obviously wasn’t telling him everything.
He watched, filled with a horrible mixture of awe and disgust as Dean got out of the car and shed his jacket and both shirts.
They were alone, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Montana. They haven’t passed any other car ever since they turned into this old, half overgrown road. There was no one besides John to see the horribly scarred arm, the burns still fresh and oozing, or the frighteningly beautiful tattoo on Dean’s back.
Now, in the light of day, John could clearly see how his son’s body changed. The muscles seemed even more pronounced because the skin clung to it without the necessary, thin layer of fat that should be there. It made him look strange, his body no longer smooth and healthy looking. When he moved, John could see a faint outline of ribs and too sharp shoulder blades. It looked as if John’s body was eating itself.
“You don’t have to watch.” Dean said quietly. “I’ll understand.” The unsaid ‘that you’re disgusted with me’ hung heavily in the air. It seemed that Dean has changed, but his insecurities were still the same. He was still afraid of his father’s disapproval.
“I already told you son, there’s nothing you could do that would make me turn away from you.”
There it was again, a flicker of something in Dean’s eyes. A secret. And then his face was closed to John once again. It stung, hurt even, that he couldn’t read his son as easily as he could before. It showed how far they had drifted apart.
Dean smiled, that pitiful excuse of a smile he only seemed to manage these days and turned away from the car.
The forest was silent around them. Too silent. There were no sounds of birds or any other animal, nor the usual creak and rustle the woods should be echoing with.
Nothing.
Just this deadly silence that could mean only one thing.
They weren’t alone any more.
“There is something evil here.” John said softly, reaching for his shotgun.
“There’s more than one,” Dean answered over his shoulder before taking two more steps away from the car.
From the position he was looking at Dean, John couldn’t tell for sure, but he had the impression that Dean was saying something. Suddenly, he spread his arms wide, threw his head back and screamed until the forest echoed back.
As he watched, John saw the dragon on his son’s back shift, stretch its body. He saw the skin under the tattoo twitch and ripple and then the dragon moved. Literally. Its red eyes glowed fiercely and blinked. Then its body twisted around.
In equal measure mesmerized and terrified John watched as the head with a mouth filled with dozens of huge, sharp teeth, rested on Dean’s head. It enveloped him, like a helmet. An armor of sorts. John could see the double image clearly. The hideous head with red, glowing eyes and serpent tongue and underneath it, his son’s face. His short, dirty blond hair and tired hazel eyes.
The dragon kept twisting, uncurling and stretching until its clawed paws covered Dean’s arms perfectly, the claws resting right over his fingers.
That was some powerful warlock magic there. John could feel the energy cracking in the air, making the hair on the nape of his head stand up and goose bumps appear all over his arms. Right now, John was forced to agree that, maybe, he was way out of his league here.
He wasn’t the only one reacting to the magic though. In the shadows between the trees, John could see rapid movements. Something was out there. Something dark and angry.
Dean flexed his fingers and the claws moved with him like a ghost armor. Then he started running towards the tree line, his movements an easy, effortless jog that shouldn’t be possible by such a broken body. He was hunting now and he was more dangerous than ever.
the second part here:
http://xantissa.livejournal.com/7058.html#cutid1
