[fanfic] SPN "Do Dandelions Roar" Chpt 4 Title: Do Dandelions Roar: Chapter Four Author:kuwamiko Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John, Bobby Rating: R-NC17 Spoilers: nothing major (set in pre-series AU) Summary: Two years ago Dean disappeared. Now John and Sam have gotten him back. But how will the three of them deal with the unexpected changes his trials in the time between have effected? Warnings: Nongraphic references to non-con sex and underage prostitution. Violence. Language. Incest (duh). Author's Note: This is AU, utter self indulgence, and has massive Dean!whumpage. Will contain Wincest eventually. Set about a year before the pilot, with some major differences. [chpt 1] [chpt 2] [chpt 3] [chpt 4] [chpt 5] [chpt 6] [chpt 7] [chpt 8] [chpt 9] [chpt 10] [chpt 11] [chpt 12] [chpt 13] [chpt 14] [chpt 15] [chpt 16] [chpt 17] [chpt 18] [chpt 19] [chpt 20] [chpt 21] [chpt 22] [chpt 23] [chpt 24] [chpt 25] [chpt 26] [chpt 27] [chpt 28] [chpt 28] [chpt 29] [chpt 30] [chpt 31]
"Do Dandelions Roar"
- Chapter Four - by KnM
It turned out that John had brought back a hell of a lot more than just coffee. Even though Sam could have sworn that they were in the ass crack of nowhere, his father had managed to find a super store that carried clothing, and a diner that was open and producing hot breakfast foods, packed with care in oversized styrofoam boxes.
When he saw that their father had actually gotten his hands on a Led Zeppelin shirt in Dean's size, Sam thought that his heart was going to burst inside his chest. John hadn't forgotten anything; there were teeshirts, flannel button-ups, jeans, sweats, underwear, socks, a pair of sneakers, and two sets of pajamas, even though Sam knew that Dean hadn't worn anything but boxers and teeshirts to bed since he had been ten.
There was coffee -- enough for all of them, freshly brewed -- orange juice for Dean, and the food was good and hearty enough to more than make up for the bad Chinese the night before. Bobby and Sam tucked into it with nothing approaching restraint, and John almost accidentally made the discovery that if Dean was given a direct order to "eat", he would do it. Sam initially bristled, but with a glance at Bobby, he stuck his nose back into his own breakfast, and after he realized that it was working he let most of his resentment melt away.
Dean still didn't eat as much as any of them felt he should, but at least John had been more successful than Sam had been the night before. And Sam was so pleased to see his brother eating that he managed to not let that fact get to him too much.
Once they had demolished their breakfast, Bobby bullied John into the shower. "Check out's at eleven, and you stink," was the subtle way the grizzled Hunter put it.
This was news to Sam. "We're not staying here?" he asked as his father grabbed a change of clothes and shut himself in the bathroom.
"Naw. Your Dad'n me decided it's best we keep moving," Bobby answered, drinking the last of his coffee. "If we left enough in the church that the authorities can figure out what those bastards were doing, they'll be looking for your brother. The cops won't know his name, but they did have Dean's face out there on the internet."
"Shit." Sam bit his lip, his brow creasing. He hadn't thought of that. There were a lot of things he hadn't thought of, apparently. This situation was complicated and only getting more so. All he wanted to do was find a safe haven for Dean, and concentrate on getting him back to his old self... but how would this idea mesh with whatever their father was planning? And exactly what was John planning? Did he even have a plan?
"Why don't you cut some tags offa the clothes and get your brother dressed," Bobby suggested mildly. "I'll get things packed and ready to go."
Sam nodded, realizing that part of the reason Bobby had chased his Dad into the shower might have been to get him out of the way so that they wouldn't fight over who got to choose Dean's clothes and get him into them.
Knowing that Bobby would prefer it if he didn't say anything aloud, he decided to show his gratitude by doing as their friend had instructed.
Dean was sitting at the table again, where John had planted him to eat his breakfast, watching Bobby moving around, stuffing things in bags and carrying the luggage outside with more of a spark of interest in his wide green eyes than Sam had yet seen him evince. Sam took this as a good sign and quickly snipped the tags off of a pair of jeans, the Zeppelin teeshirt, and the sneakers. Liberating a pair of socks and a pair of boxers from their respective packages, he took a deep breath, readying himself for the strange torment of dressing his brother as though he was a life-sized mannequin.
It had been disturbing the night before, manipulating Dean's lax limbs into his own clothing, though part of that might have been the fact of what had nearly happened in the shower just before that. At least, Sam hoped so. But he knew that, in large part, it was because this was Dean, and his big brother had never taken anything so passively, been so helpless, not even when he had been badly wounded on a Hunt, as had happened more than once. It was just another thing that underlined how much things had changed.
"Come on, Dean," he urged, leading the boy over to one of the beds. He sat on the edge of the mattress, positioning Dean between his knees and stripping the sweatshirt off as carefully as he could. Dean seemed to be steadier on his feet than he had been the evening before, for which Sam was grateful.
It took some doing, getting Dean into the teeshirt, and he almost seemed to be actively attempting to thwart Sam. He stepped out of the borrowed boxers readily enough, but was less willing to step into the new pair that John had purchased. Sam got those settled, then coaxed Dean into the jeans. That was the hardest part by far, as Dean seemed determined to wriggle away. There was nothing Sam could pin down as outright rebellion, but it shouldn't have been as hard as it was to get Dean dressed. It certainly hadn't been the night before.
"Havin' some trouble?" Bobby sounded amused, glancing over as he cleaned up the breakfast containers.
Sam pulled a face in his direction, while not taking his attention off of his brother. "No, we're doing fine," he said, managing to keep his voice level. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Dean when he seemed to be doing better.
Reversing their positions, kneeling before Dean after seating him on the edge of the mattress, Sam wrestled his brother's feet into the socks, and wasn't that a pain? It would have been hard even if Dean hadn't been wiggling his toes, twitching his ankles, and doing everything but yanking his feet away. It wasn't until Dean's leg jerked while Sam was trying to get a sneaker on, kicking the shoe off and into Sam's chest, that he broke.
"Dammit, Dean!" he snapped, instantly contrite when Dean curled into a quivering ball on the bed, but it was too late to apologize. "Shit...."
"Sam." Bobby didn't have to say anything more; the censor in his voice was loud and clear.
Grimacing, Sam rose and bent over Dean where he was huddled on the bed. He was reaching for his brother, trying to think what he could say to mend the damage he'd done, when something caught his eye, diverting his hand.
"Hey, Bobby," he said, the tone of his voice alerting the older Hunter and bringing him over. Sam carefully brushed the soft curls away from the nape of his brother's neck, perching beside Dean's trembling body, leaning to peer more closely. "What is this?" And why hadn't he noticed it the night before?
It wasn't quite like a tattoo, or quite like a scar. It was a part of Dean's skin, dark, not raised, smooth and almost natural in appearance. But Sam knew his brother had never borne a mark like that before. It was a strange thin, delicate sweep, then a back-sweep, then another sweep that curled into a loose spiral.... In some way it reminded Sam of a stylized wave. It was pretty, but there was something about it that disturbed him; and not just because it freaked him out to find an unexpected symbol set in his brother's flesh.
Sam pulled Dean into his lap, tilting his brother's head onto his shoulder, and baring the nape of his neck so that Bobby could see clearly.
Bobby squinted at the mark, then his face puckered. "If I had to venture a guess," he drawled, rubbing at the back of his own neck. "I'd say that's where that salt-water bitch marked your brother."
"Marked?"
Sam and Bobby both turned their attention to John. They hadn't heard him exit the bathroom, but there he was, hair wet, dark eyes intense.
Sam unconsciously tucked Dean in closer to his chest before he caught himself.
"Looks like the Melusine marked your boy," Bobby said, frowning and rubbing at his beard. "Which would explain why his head is such a mess right now, I guess."
"I must have missed it last night because I was so tired," Sam said, trying not to sound defensive. "And his hair's been covering it since then."
"I bought a pair of scissors," John said absently, kneeling and tracing his fingertips over the mark, as Sam hadn't dared to do. He could feel Dean shiver and shrink away in his arms at this touch, and it was only because John pulled his hand back and because he caught Bobby's warning scowl out of the corner of his eye that Sam managed to hold his tongue.
"No time for that," Bobby inserted, saving Sam from having to say anything. He didn't want John to just arbitrarily lop all Dean's hair off without consulting the boy first. Besides... it was weird, but he kind of liked Dean's soft curls. "Why don't you help Sam get Dean's shoes on, then we can get moving."
John grunted, seeming perfectly willing to go along with Bobby's suggestion, much to Sam's relief. He grasped Dean's ankles, sliding the sneakers onto his son's now unresisting feet with a gentleness that surprised Sam.
"So we think it's her mark on Dean that's the issue?" Bobby asked. Evidently they had time enough to discuss this even if there wasn't time for an impromptu haircut.
"You're the one that said it," John rumbled, double-knotting the laces in the way that Sam remembered from his childhood. "But, yes, I think you're probably right."
"It would explain a lot," Bobby pondered, his gaze distant. "Why he let those bastards hold him and use him like that. Why he doesn't seem to recognize any of us. Why he's so confused and lost."
"He's not talking," Sam inserted, a little unnecessarily. He didn't want to be left out of this conversation, even though he didn't have anything he could really add. "He hasn't said a word since we got him back."
John rose to his feet just as Bobby sat on the bed opposite Sam's. Evidently they weren't leaving immediately.
"I need to take him to Missouri," John said, running a hand over Dean's head where it rested on Sam's shoulder.
"What's in Missouri?" Sam asked, confused. He couldn't recall if they'd ever even been to that state during his childhood.
John snorted, a sound that was almost a laugh, though he wasn't smiling. "Not the state, Sam. Missouri Mosely. She's a psychic in Lawrence -- the real deal, not a fake. She's the one who got me set on the right path when I was lost. And she's the one who got Dean talking again after... after the fire."
Sam surmised that his father meant the fire that had taken their house after the Yellow-Eyed-Demon had killed his mother. "I didn't know Dean stopped talking," he said, tipping his head down to rest his chin on top of his brother's head.
"He did," John verified. "You don't remember her because you were less than a year old, but Missouri was a comfort to both you boys. And she's a psychic, so maybe she can tell us what's going on in Dean's head."
"Hope she's a strong woman," Bobby inserted dryly.
"She is." John sounded certain.
Sam frowned, unsure of whether this was a good idea, but it was something to look forward to, something to do. Better than just flailing around aimlessly, traveling just to avoid the authorities. It was a better idea than any he might be able to come up with.
"Well, it's gonna take at least three days to get there," Bobby said, standing. "And I think we'd best take it easy, not rush things. For Dean's sake."
John was nodding. "You coming with us all the way, Bobby?"
"A'course," Bobby said, glaring at the other man. "You ain't gettin' rid of me 'til I know all three a'you Winchesters are in good hands."
Sam smiled into Dean's soft hair, then rose, setting Dean on his feet. Though he hadn't shown any interest in the recent conversation, Dean balanced easily enough. He seemed to be coming out of the fugue Sam's reprimand had sent him into.
"Let's go," Sam said decisively. If this Missouri Mosely could help his brother, then he was all about getting to her, and the sooner the better.
John grabbed his bag, the last one left in the room. Bobby threw the door open.
"Ah, shit. Figures it's raining."
John chuckled, a sound Sam hadn't heard from his Dad in longer than he could remember. "Well, we are in the Pacific Northwest."
It was really coming down, in sheets. Sam grimaced, but his jacket was in his father's truck. Bobby dashed for his own vehicle.
"Here. Get your brother in the truck while I take the key back to the office," John instructed, pressing his keyring into Sam's hand.
Sam grimaced, but at least the truck was parked right in front of the hotel room. While John trudged away into the downpour, collar pulled up, Sam led Dean toward the big black behemoth. There wasn't going to be any running; Dean was wobbly on his feet as it was.
The rain didn't seem to bother Dean, though it plastered Sam's hair almost immediately to his scalp, his bangs trickling into his eyes and making him blink. He shook his head, clearing his sight, and then he looked again.
Surely he was imagining things....
It was as though the rain was bouncing in a halo just before it hit his brother's head. Dean raised his face into the rain as Sam paused a moment before the passenger side, holding the keys, not moving to unlock the door, just looking down at his brother.
Dean's long, thick lashes were starred with moisture, and so Sam thought that he must be imagining things. But then Dean lifted his left hand -- the one Sam wasn't clasping -- and the raindrops danced above his fingertips.
Sam shook his head again, then hastily unlocked the door and hefted Dean bodily into the vehicle. Climbing in after him he closed them inside. The rain pattered on the roof of the truck, ran down the windshield, and Sam was drenched but Dean's hair was dry, curling around his face, and his Led Zeppelin shirt was only a little damp on the shoulders.
"Okay...."
Sam started when his father knocked briskly on the driver's side window, and he leaned across to unlock the door.
"Sorry." He handed John the keys, and a moment later they were on their way, Bobby's truck behind them as they took the exit onto the freeway.
Sam didn't mention the phenomenon to their father. Dean had enough to deal with right now; he didn't need John riding him because he might have some supernatural powers....
Sam had to be imagining things, anyway. Dean might not be entirely himself right now, but he was just Dean. Nothing more than that. Just Dean.
That was all he needed to be.
***
Tik-tik-tik, the wipers counted off the miles. It was a sound that was embedded into so many of Sam's childhood memories; hours upon hours in the car, curled against Dean in the backseat, wondering when they would finally reach their destination. How many times had he given up, deciding that the answer was "never", settling into the rolling illusion of driving forever.... It hadn't seemed so impossible when he had been six years old and a ten hour drive had been a lifetime in length.
They always did stop, though; at another cheap hotel or a friend of their Dad's place. The journey was never endless, it only seemed that way. And Sam discovered once he was old enough to take his turn driving that the miles stretched just as long when he was in control of the vehicle. But at least when he was driving he could dictate when they stopped.
His father and Dean had always seemed to insist on blazing through state after state without making even logical pit stops for food, drink, and restrooms. When the car needed refueling, they'd get all of the above at the gas station, but Sam was the only one who was willing to stop at rest stops. That was what they were there for, after all, he'd always reasoned.
And that was why he was surprised when John nodded to indicate a blue sign that glowed through the grey curtain of falling rain. "Think we should stop?"
Sam nodded, glancing at Dean, who was sitting silent and still between them. Dean was broken and John would stop at a rest stop for him when he had never stopped for Sam's six-year old bladder. Not that Sam was resentful. He was honestly grateful that John was willing to stop now, instead of just blasting through to Kansas. Especially since the coffee he'd had this morning had definitely worked its way through his system.
The day outside the cab of the truck was still grey, rain falling steadily from the sky, but there were a few spots of blue on the eastern horizon. Sam thought that it might clear up later, but at eleven-thirty the rain was still cascading down the windshield, pattering on the roof, and underneath everything was the steady 'shush'ing of the tires churning over wet asphalt. It was a sound as familiar to Sam as anything from his childhood, as familiar as listening to Dean breathing next to him.
Dean was next to him, sitting still and silent, hands clasped in his lap, face forward. His eyes were fixed on the windshield, glazed over. But not quite in that scary disconnected way from the night before; more as though he had been hypnotized by the regular motion of the wipers.
Sam could understand that. He found himself alternately unable to drag his gaze away from Dean -- just so grateful to have his brother back -- and unable to look at him -- overwhelmed by fear and guilt and uncertainty. That was when the regular sweep of the wipers caught and held his own attention.
Staring at them, he felt disconnected, as though he was trapped in a little bubble of unreality, suspended between the past and the present. He knew they were heading into the future but right now he felt as though there was no forward motion at all.
It hurt to see Dean the way he had become. So much like Sam remembered from ten, eleven years ago, and yet completely different. There was an ache in Sam's chest and a lump in his throat that wouldn't ease no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down, no matter how many times he told himself that things were going to be okay. Because looking at Dean, at his pale face and his dark eyes... Sam didn't see any way that things could be okay. Unless this Missouri was a miracle worker. He hoped she was a miracle worker. Because right now that was what they all needed.
Dragging his eyes away from the wipers, he found his gaze fixed on his brother again. It never failed to startle him in that first moment. His brain said "Dean" and he expected to see his brother the way he had looked the last time he had seen him, twenty-three years old and cocky in a way that only came from complete self-confidence. Now he looked lost and vulnerable, something he hadn't been when he had been fourteen, or ten, or at any time as far back as Sam's memory went. Dean had always been in control of any situation, and even when he wasn't, he exuded the assurance that he would soon have things pulled back together.
Sam had occasionally found this attitude to be maddening, especially when he had reached his mid-teens and begun trying to carve out his own niche in the world, free of his big brother's shadow. Everywhere they went, Dean was first. He was faster, stronger, more charming. It didn't matter that Sam was smarter and, after hitting his growth spurt, taller. He'd put on muscle, even after he had stopped Hunting, and refused to call it overcompensating. He'd shamelessly used some of Dean's smoother, less crass lines on Jess and the girls before her, and they'd thought him quite personable. Sam had actually managed to become his own person during his years in Stanford, but by then he hadn't cared, had only wanted Dean back after the Melusine had taken him.
Now he had Dean back, and Sam held more of Dean's own personality than the broken boy sitting beside him did.
That wasn't completely true, though. He couldn't just give up all hope. Dean was different than he had been, but he didn't have the right to assume that this made Dean less than he had been before. A large part of Dean's strange behavior and blank stares, if his father and Bobby were right, could be attributed to the mark that the sea-bitch had left in him. Sam was perfectly willing to believe that, because there was no way, otherwise, that Dean would have allowed those bastards back at the church in Seattle to use his body for sex.
And once the mark was removed -- because there must be a way to remove it, and John Winchester would find that way, Sam had no doubts -- maybe his brother would come back to himself a little. He wouldn't ever be the same young man that Sam had left behind for college... but he wasn't completely lost. Sam was sure that his real brother was in there somewhere. And he would do whatever he could to get him back, and in the meantime he would be the strong, confident one for Dean, the way Dean had always been for him growing up.
He'd never really noticed before that Dean had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Growing up together, Dean had always just been "Dean". But he noticed now, and wondered how he had missed it all those years. He'd never realized before, either, how long and thick Dean's lashes were. It was a weird thing to take note of, he thought, and yet this close to Dean, confined, captivated, how could he not see it?
He wondered what was going on in Dean's head, what was behind those wide green eyes. But he thought that maybe it was better he didn't know. Because the things that Dean had been through, in the last two years.... He shuddered to contemplate.
Sam had never really, seriously, contemplated sex with a male before. Not even when he was feeling his most experimental in college. To be forced to it, as Dean had been, was something that he couldn't even imagine, didn't want to imagine, for fear of throwing up again or weeping uncontrollably. He was doing his best to keep the thoughts far from his mind, but for Dean it had been a constant reality, and the memories were in his head, never to leave.
Sam couldn't stand the thought, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to fix things. The truth was that it had happened, and ignoring it wouldn't make it go away. It might, however, keep him sane.
Suddenly needing to touch, to clasp the reality of Dean beside him, here and safe and not going away ever again, Sam grabbed a hold of his brother's hand, holding it tightly, squeezing the lax fingers in his own great paw. And he didn't care what their father thought. If their Dad even noticed; he seemed pretty intent on his driving. Maybe John was having his own problems dealing with the changes in his eldest son.
"Dad," Sam started, "About this Missouri...."
"Hang on. We're here," John interrupted, pulling into a parking space. "We'll talk about things after you and your brother use the restroom, okay?"
Sam shrugged. Not as though his father ever gave him a choice, even when he offered one. "Okay," he said. And he took comfort from the knowledge that even if he had no real leverage with his father, Bobby would make sure that John didn't weasel his way out of answering the important questions.
***
John stood beside the driver's side door, watching as Sam helped his brother down from the high cab and led him toward the men's restroom. The rain was only sprinkling down now, and there were definite breaks in the cloud cover to the northeast, a bit of sunlight struggling to break through.
Bobby's truck rumbled into the parking space beside his, the door squealing and slamming. A moment later Bobby joined him, his cap shielding his face from the rain.
"So, how are you doing?" Bobby asked, shooting a glance in John's direction that was far too shrewd and penetrating.
John thought about bluffing or bullshitting or even flat-out lying, but decided it wouldn't be worth the inevitable argument. He was too tired, too drained for that. "I'm hanging in there," he replied, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "And I haven't started any fights with Sam, you'll notice," he couldn't help but add wryly, giving Bobby a sidelong glare.
Bobby snorted, not quite a laugh. "I've noticed. But I hope you ain't expecting a pat on the back for sumthin' that ought to be a given."
John growled in Bobby's direction, but he was just too exhausted, mentally and physically, to truly take offense.
"So, what happened last night?" Bobby asked, mercifully changing the subject. "I didn't get involved 'cause I didn't want to spook Dean, but I did wake up. Boy went wandering, did he?"
"I don't know," John answered, feeling the helplessness rising up in him strong and bitter, like a taste of acid. "I mean, yes, he did, but I don't know why, or what he was doing." He dragged a hand over his face. "I don't know what's wrong with my boy or what I can do to fix it. And if Missouri can't help, then I'm-- then we're all fucked."
Bobby clapped a hand to his shoulder, carefully brief, but warm and welcome nonetheless. John let out a breath, feeling a little of the tension that had built up during the silent drive slip away.
"That don't sound like the John Winchester I know," Bobby said, his drawl easy and relaxed. "I think you're more likely to move heaven and hell and tip the world on its side to get your boy back. You're just feelin' a little stress right now. It'll pass."
John nodded, knowing that Bobby was absolutely correct, but he was just too tired now to make plans or resolutions. "My boy is broken, Bobby," he said mournfully. He wanted to say more, but the words piled up on the back of his tongue, choking him with their weight.
"Ain't nothin' we can't fix," Bobby soothed, sounding so confident that John wished he could believe him. "And you ain't in this alone. Sam's back from school now, and you couldn't pry him away from Dean's side with a crowbar. You got both your boys back and Sam'll help with Dean... s'long's you let him."
"I'm letting him," John replied, his eyes fixing on his two sons as they exited the restroom and moved back toward the trucks. Dean looked so tiny next to Sam. He'd been shorter than his younger brother for years, of course. But now it was different. A good ten years' worth of difference. John wondered if he'd ever get used to this bizarre change. He'd already watched Dean grow from a boy to a man once; now the progress was lost and the process would have to be undergone all over again.
"Looks like he's doin' a little better already," Bobby said, his jade eyes bright as he also watched the two young men approaching. "Walkin' on his own. 'Course, that's what he did last night...."
John could hear the question that he hadn't answered yet in Bobby's voice, and he had no reason not to address it. "He didn't go any further than the truck. Last night. Dean. He was standing beside the truck when I went out. I think... maybe... you think he was looking for the Impala?"
Bobby nodded. "That's a distinct possibility. 'Specially if he's tryin' to come back, fightin' the Melusine's mark. Would help if he were talkin', though. Help us figure out what's goin' on in his head."
John just shrugged, because Sam and Dean had nearly reached them, and there wasn't really much else he could say. Bobby was right on all counts. Missouri would be able to help them, he was sure of it. He had to be sure of this one thing, because there wasn't anything else that he was sure of.
"Well, I'm gonna hit the head," Bobby announced, giving Sam and Dean a crooked grin. He stretched noisily. "Why don't you boys go and nail down one'a those picnic tables under a shelter. We need to have a little pow-wow before we hit the road again."
Sam glanced at John, his brows raised, and John took a certain grim satisfaction in nodding his agreement. He'd been made abundantly aware recently, by both Sam and Bobby, that he had a problem with communicating. While he didn't feel the need for a hugely radical change, he did recognize the fact that the three of them ought to sit and have a serious talk before they went much further.
Trusting Sam to look after his brother, much as he had trusted Dean to watch little Sammy in the past, John joined Bobby in a trip to the restroom. Like any Hunter worth his -- or her -- salt, John had long since trained his bladder to obey him, not the other way around. But that didn't mean that he wasn't going to take advantage of this stop. Especially considering the fact that he'd had his own and Dean's share of the coffee this morning, in anticipation of a day's long drive.
He and Bobby were silent as they used the facilities. Back outside, the rain was beginning to come down harder again and John wished that it would just make up its mind already. They had enough problems without the inclement weather on top of everything else.
Dean was sitting on the bench, hands folded on the table top. Sam was perched on the edge of the table, long legs stretched out before him. Dean was watching them approach, almost seeming interested, and Sam was watching Dean, keeping a close eye on his brother. That made John feel a little easier. He knew how much Sam loved his brother, how intense his emotions had become after Dean had been abducted while protecting him, and yet there was something reassuring about being able to see with his own eyes just how attentive Sam was being.
John felt at something of a disconnect, so far as the entire situation was concerned. He had gotten Dean back, gotten his son back after two years of uncertainty, fear, and fruitless searching. Two years of not knowing where Dean was or what he was doing. Two years in which he could do absolutely nothing to protect his child. He wanted to grab Dean and hold him. Hold on tight and never let go. And that was why he couldn't.
His sons, both of them, needed him to be strong. If he let go his control for even an instant he might never get it back. He had to be the support that they needed. He didn't dare risk breaking down.
"So, this Missouri Mosely," Sam started, as soon as John and Bobby stepped under the shelter. John could see that Sam had been mulling things over the way he did, and he realized that this was part of the reason that this discussion was such a good idea. "Who is she, Dad? How do you know her? You say she's a psychic? How come you think she'll be able to help Dean?"
"Aside from the fact that she did before?" John asked dryly, seating himself across from Dean. Sam slid onto the bench beside his brother, and Bobby leaned against the other end of the table, his arms folded, all too obviously ready to play arbitrator should the need arise.
"Well, yeah.... But that time it was different," Sam persisted. John had to remind himself that his son wasn't trying to pick a fight. It just seemed that way.
"Not so different," John replied, keeping his voice level. "Sure, there was no supernatural influence. But your brother was hurting and Missouri was the only one who could reach him."
"How did she do that?" Sam persisted. John wanted to ask his son to just trust him, to go on faith, to believe that John was doing what was best for Dean... but he also realized that it would set Sam's mind to rest if he took a moment to explain things a little more clearly.
"She's a mind reader," he said. As he'd half expected, Sam looked less than credulous. John's mouth quirked in a crooked not-smile. He'd find out, the moment he met her; Missouri would see to that. "She is," he insisted quietly but firmly. "She also senses spirits, and knows how to deal with those that are unfriendly. I don't know if she'll be able to do anything about the Melusine's mark. I kind of doubt it, since it's well outside her area of expertise. But if she can get Dean talking again, that'll be good enough for me."
Sam still didn't look convinced, but he was nodding along at that last. They might have different ideas of how to get there, but at least John could be sure that they both wanted the same things for Dean.
He glanced at his son, wondering suddenly how Dean was taking being talked about as though he wasn't there. Dean's attention, however, had wandered. His gaze was fixed on the field behind the picnic shelter, a lush emerald lawn that swept away and down, into a stand of short trees. John would say one thing about the Northwest; it was as green as it was wet. Of course, the former was likely due in large part to the latter.
Confident that Dean wasn't paying them any attention, John pulled out the map he'd shoved in his pocket before leaving the truck. It was time to plot out their route to Kansas. Caravaning with Bobby might make it a little more difficult than it would otherwise be, but he wouldn't have to worry about the two vehicles being separated if they'd already decided which way they were going.
They pored over the map, their three heads together, arguing, each of them having his own idea of what way was the best to go. Sam wanted to stick to highways because they would be faster. John wanted to avoid well-traveled areas, because he wasn't sure how well Dean would do, and they couldn't be sure that they'd rescued him without leaving any traces. Bobby recommended a combination of the two extremes, largely out of his stubborn insistence that he knew the best way to cross the Midwest, not so much out of a desire to get them to compromise.
In then end they chose Bobby's route on the map. John was exasperated, but he had to admit that the older man had managed to come up with valid arguments for virtually every mile of the trip. John could indeed be a stubborn ass, but he was also smart enough to recognize and admit when someone else was right. Even if he absolutely hated doing so.
John folded the map, sticking it back in his pocket, and that was the moment when Sam asked, his voice sudden and sharp, "Wait-- where's Dean?!"
"Shit!" Bobby swore, but John's panic swelled too large inside him to let any words out. They'd all been so focused on mapping out their route that they'd failed to watch Dean the way that his wandering the night before should have indicated to John the boy clearly needed.
"Dammit!" Sam swore, getting up so quickly that he must have bruised his knees on the table top. "Dad!"
"Dammit, Sam!" John snapped back, already on his feet without realizing he was standing. He'd trusted Sam to watch Dean, and now this--!
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and it was only Bobby's hastily barked commands that kept him from voicing them. "I'll go check by the truck. Sam, you try the restrooms, both of them! John, you go to the river!"
It was then that John realized that the stand of trees just beyond hid running water, and his blood froze in his veins. He and Sam exchanged a wide-eyed look, and any harsh words were summarily forgotten. The three men scattered, shooting away in different directions.
John made a beeline for the water. He knew that he was on the right track when he found a pair of brand new sneakers and socks tumbled in the grass. Leaving them where they lay, he turned and bellowed, hoping that one of the other two would hear him. He could pull out his phone and call Sam or Bobby, would in just a moment, but right now he had to find Dean. His boy was out there, in the rain and wilderness, alone and vulnerable, damaged, and John had to find him now, immediately, three minutes ago!
By the time he shoved his way through the underbrush and found the water's edge, he's passed Dean's new jacket, his Zeppelin teeshirt, and finally his jeans. While it was good to know that he was on the right track, John was more than a little freaked out by the realization that his son was now naked, or close to it, and lost in the woods.
Forging onward, John finally came out of the trees, skidding to a stop at the shore of the river.
Dean was all right. He was knee-deep in the water, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and an expression that John couldn't read, but he was okay. John tried to control his frantic breathing, calm the pounding of his heart, but he wasn't going to be all right until he had his boy back in his arms.
"Dean," he called, wading into the water, feeling it leak into his boots, soaking his socks. It was frigid, chilling him quickly, and Dean was out in it. "Dean!"
Dean turned his head, looking at John curiously. His hair curled around his face, the tips golden, even though John's own dark hair was plastered to his head in the rain that was still sprinkling down. John discarded that realization as irrelevant, holding out a hand that he had to fight to keep steady.
"Dean, come here." He wanted to pound out there, snag Dean before he was taken away again, before he floated away in the flow of the river, but he didn't dare do anything that might spook his son. "Dean, please."
He risked a few steps further out, then stopped when Dean's gaze flickered. His hand was still outstretched. "Dean...."
As though in slow motion, Dean stepped toward him, slowly, cautiously. The water eddied around his shins, then his ankles, and then he was close enough for John to grab, and he did just that, drawing the boy close and clasping him to his chest.
"Shit, Dean," he managed, the words tangled together with the tears that he could no longer keep at bay, and he buried his face in his son's hair, clutching him tightly to him and sobbing uncontrollably. The dam had been broken, and he couldn't be the strong one anymore.
He was vaguely aware of Sam and Bobby emerging from the bushes, both of them carrying Dean's discarded clothing. He could feel a hand hesitantly patting his back, and he knew that he ought to be thrilled that Dean was responsive enough to try offering him comfort. This was the first time he had cried in front of the boys since they were old enough to remember. Now, though, nothing else mattered. Nothing but the pain his heart, the warmth of his boy in his arms, and the knowledge that he had failed to protect Dean, could do nothing now to fix him.
John held Dean close and wept for everything he hadn't done in the past and for the uncertainty of the future.
***
Sam wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. John Winchester, the man he had always known as a Hunter first, a retired but lifelong Marine second, and his father a distant third, had broken down in tears, not even trying to hide them or slow the flow of his grief.
He had known, objectively, that all of this must be as hard on his Dad as it was on him, if not more so. He'd had his own small breakdown in the bathroom the night before, with only Dean to witness it. But to see how much this was hurting John.... Well, he wasn't sure what he thought about that, how it made him feel.
Bobby thrust the clothing he'd collected into Sam's hands, muttering something about waiting at the trucks. This was clearly a Winchester moment. Actually, if he could in good conscience slip away himself, Sam would have. It was a little like feeling another cornerstone of his childhood crumbling away, to see his father weeping like this. First he had lost Dean, then he had gotten his brother back, only broken, and now he was losing the comforting "iron man" image of John that he had grown up with.
It made him feel as though he was adrift, lost, and a little afraid. To find out that there was something that could bring his father down like this shook him more than he liked to admit.
As unexpected as the storm had been, it passed quickly and John waded out of the water, Dean in tow. It was impossible to distinguish the tears from the rain pouring down John's face. And Sam was a little relieved to note that Dean's hair was dampening now, growing dark, curls clinging to his cheeks.
Wordlessly, the two of them wrestled Dean back into his teeshirt. The jeans were more difficult, because Dean's legs were soaked and the denim was damp from the rain, but eventually they got him clothed. John wrapped his son in his jacket, then in the circle of his arm, and Sam didn't say anything. Not that there was anything he could say. Dean belonged to John as much as he did to Sam.... If anything John held more of a claim, since he wasn't the one who had run off to college.
Well, really, Dean belonged only to himself. Even broken and helpless as he was now. Sam was a little surprised by the surge of possessiveness; not to mention a little disconcerted. He had no desire to view Dean as a belonging, really he didn't. Dean had been treated as a plaything for two years, by men who misused him terribly. Sam just wanted to protect his brother. To look out for him. To help him to come back from wherever it was he had gone. Even if that meant sharing him with their father. Because like it or not, John had always meant as much to Dean as Sam had.
Leaving the river behind, Sam carried Dean's sneakers and socks as they walked back to the parking lot. Dean didn't seem to be troubled by his lack of footwear -- if anything his steps were more steady and confidence than earlier, when he'd had the shoes on.
Bobby raised a hand as they hove into view, then climbed into his own truck. It was at that moment that the skies decided to open up and release a raging torrent, right on top of their heads. Making a dash for the truck, they clambered inside.
They were sheltered from the downpour now, but it hardly mattered since the three of them were already drenched.
John started the truck, his jaw set grimly, and Sam tucked Dean up close to his side. He'd been terrified when Dean had gone missing, and finding him safe but almost naked in the water hadn't done a whole lot to set his mind at ease.
The sooner they could get to this Missouri and find out what was going on in Dean's head the better.
Because there was no way he -- they -- would be able to protect Dean, the way he was now.