Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The figure was tall, imposing, shoulders broad and hunched below a rough brown jacket. Dean squinted in the darkness because the shape was familiar, and it pulled at something far back in Dean’s heart and mind.

He took a step forward, turning his head to try and see the figures face. But it was too dark. Then suddenly the figure turned. The moon escaped from behind its cloud and Dean couldn’t help the gasping question that slipped from his lips.

“Dad?”

It was impossible, ridiculous. It just couldn’t be. His dad was dead. Had been for years.  Dean had been there, had seen the body, had lit the pyre.

Yet there, stood amongst the tall grass and the flowers, was John Winchester.

“Dad?” he asked again taking a stumbling step forward because… this was… this couldn’t be real… right?

“Dean?” the figure asked, loosening his defensive position slightly. “That you?”

When Amara had said ‘I’m going to give you want you need the most,’ Dean had thought she meant something along the lines of a holiday to Aruba. Not ‘here’s your long-lost father back from the dead’.

Dean blinked at the man… his Dad…

 and realised he was just stood there, mouth agape and staring.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, shaking his head, still not entirely sure this was real. “Yeah Dad, it’s me.”

Thankfully John seemed to be having just as much trouble catching up with the situation as Dean was. He looked around, up at the trees, down at the grass, up into the night sky, all the while frowning in confusion.

“What happened?” John asked. “Where are we?”

“What do you remember?”

“I-“

Dean could tell the moment that the memories slammed back into John’s brain. He blinked rapidly and stumbled slightly. Dean was there in an instant, placing a steady hand under John’s elbow.

“I was dead,” John said gruffly, his frowning stare turning on Dean.

“Yeah, you were,” Dean said warily, watching his Dad with hawk eyes. “Have been for a while now actually.”

John just nodded and visibly pulled himself back together. Dean let his hand fall away from John’s arm and for a moment felt adrift.

Dean watched his dad cycle through his thoughts, placing each one into their rightful place. Then the man’s bright eyes turned onto Dean, wide and boring and intense, just like always. Dean was pined under that gaze. He had always been.

“Dean.”

John stepped forward and with no other warning wrapped Dean up in two strong arms.

Encompassed in the sturdy arms of his father Dean felt just a small fraction of that weight that had built up on him over the decade crumble away. He let himself, just for a second, give his weight over to his dad, leaning into the sure steady embrace.

With a small and final squeeze John pulled away holding Dean at arm’s length. He seemed to be assessing him and Dean unconsciously straightened his shoulders ready for inspection.

“You look good,” John said with a smile.

Dean had no earthly idea how to respond to that so he just snorted and pulled all the way away. He needed some space… just a bit. He needed to breathe… and pinch himself. This was so surreal.

“Where’s Sam?”

Dean looked back up at his dad then. He had asked it like a man awaiting a blow, steadying himself in preparation for the hurt. Dean couldn’t help the relieved huff of a laugh that escaped his mouth.  

“He’s good Dad,” he said with a smile. “He’s...” Dean sobered slightly at the memory of their last conversation. The itch in the back of his mind to find Sam (always present when they were out of line of sight) twitched impatiently. But he willed it down. “He’s probably really pissed at me but what’s new eh?”

John’s shoulders sagged. “You saved him.”

And wasn’t that a blast into the past. That conversation with his dad (the last conversation they ever had) was never something that Dean could forget. And the argument that ensued when he confessed John’s final wishes to Sam wasn’t something easily forgettable either.

But as Dean thought back over the past ten plus years - to the demon blood, detoxing, Lucifer, the cage, the hallucinations, the Trials, Gadreel, the Mark of Cain, Death, the Darkness – and thought of Sam, how he pulled himself back up by the scruff of his own neck every time and came back up fighting… well Dean couldn’t find it in himself to take the credit.

“Nah,” he said with the shake of his head and a small, private smile. “He saved himself.”

-

They managed to find an old pickup parked in a layby. The judging by the dog bowl and blanket in the bed the owners were likely out walking their dog, but Dean had long ago stopped feeling guilt about jacking a ride when he needed it.

The first thing Dean did when he got onto the road was call Sam.

It went to voicemail.

No big deal.

So, he left it a few miles and tried again. Then he tried Cas. Then Sam. After the tenth call in a row to go unanswered the annoyance he felt at having his ‘Hey guys, I didn’t die!’ speech derailed acquired a tinge of worry.

“So where are we headed?” John’s voice pulled him out of his head.

“Back to the bunker. That’s where Sam’s hold up.”

“Bunker?” John asked in confusion.

A sudden jolt of awareness went through Dean as he remembered the Bunker and - in particular - its significance to John Winchester

“Yeah.” Dean cut his eyes over to his Dad and readied himself. “Look Dad, there’s something I need to tell you…”

When Dean had finished telling his Dad about the time travelling trip of Henry Winchester, the Men of Letters and their legacy John looked as close to lost and confused as Dean had ever seen him.

He let the silence permeate for a minute, casting sidelong glances at his Dad’s face.

“Dad. You alright?”

“Yeah,” John croaked out and cleared his throat. “Yes just... Give me a minute.”

He turned then, clenching his jaw and staring out of the window at the passing landscape. Dean had a sudden image of Sam doing exactly the same thing over the years and had to force his tired mind to suppress a snort of laughter. They were so alike it was crazy.

The thought of Sam had Dean pulling out his mobile again and pressing his speed dial. After only a few rings Sam’s phone went thorough to voicemail. Again. Dean pressed the end call button in frustration and tried not to let his worry show on his face.

As always John Winchester read him as easy as an open book.

“Problem?”

Dean breathed and contemplated the merits of lying. But in his experience lying to John Winchester was not a sensible option.

“Sam’s not answering his phone.”

John (who’s last real memory of Sam was of a tumultuous twenty-year-old) just shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Maybe he’s busy. Or asleep.”

Dean didn’t mention that it would be a damn miracle if Sam slept deep enough to miss the buzzing of his phone. Instead he nodded, staring resolutely out the front windscreen and pressed his foot harder against the accelerator.

“But you don’t think so,” his dad said after a moment.

Dean shot John a side long glance. “We don’t have the best of luck. And... Amara was kind of a suicide mission. I’d kinda like to tell him I’m not dead and you know…”

“Warn him about me.”

“Pretty much,” Dean admitted.

John frowned in the corner of Dean’s vision. “You don’t think he’ll take it very well?”

“No, it’s not that…” Dean hedged trying to find a way to explain to his dad the tenuous connection Sam had to reality. That Dean was aware of at least one occasion where the devil had already used John’s face to trick Sam and that was only thee time Sam had told him about. That Sam would take one look at Dad and press his thumb into that damn palm so hard it would bleed. But he couldn’t. Not without disclosing a story that wasn’t really his to tell. Instead he shrugged and pasted on a fake grin.

“Just don’t want your first chat in ten years to start with him shooting you.”

John laughed a short deep bark of a laugh. Just like Dean remembered.

A warm feeling filled his chest and he wondered if for once everything was going to be alright.

-

That feeling lasted until they got back to the bunker.

If the unanswered phone calls hadn’t been warning enough, the still and silent atmosphere of the Bunker would have been. Dean was vaguely aware of John behind him, looking around and taking in the place his children now lived; the place his father had once occupied too. But Dean was too busy scanning the library for any signs of life.

And then when he got to the bottom of the stairs he stuttered to a stop.

“Dean,” John started to say from behind him, but Dean had already seen it. The blood.

Dean’s gun was in his hand before he really thought about it.

His eyes followed the trail of puddles on the floor, smeared in strokes like someone had been dragged. Dean’s vision was suddenly filled with a vivid picture of Sam bleeding, hurt and alone, being dragged through the library by some unknown foe. Then his eyes found the blood painted sigil on the wall.

“Dean,” John said again, dragging Dean from his nightmare.

Dean blinked away the terror and allowed a steely anger to take its place. If someone had broken into their home… if someone had hurt Sam… then they’d better hope they weren’t still here.

“Stay here,” Dean instructed harshly, already moving swiftly into the library.

“Like hell!” John exclaimed going to follow.

Dean bit off a curse and took a deep breath willing his patience to overcome the roaring urge to tell his Dad to shut up and sit down. But he bit his tongue.

“This is the only exit,” he explained in a rough voice. Reaching under the war room table he pulled out the revolver they kept hidden underneath. “If anyone’s here I’ll flush them out to you.”

John took the revolver readily and at least seemed placated as he settled his shoulders into a ready stance

With a nod Dean turned and disappeared into the sprawling hallways of the bunker.

-

“Sam,” he whispered harshly into the darkness. He daren’t call out louder, he didn’t want to alert anyone to his presence. But with each step he took the reverberation of ‘Sam Sam Sam’ echoed through his mind.

Kitchen. Shower room. Weapons room. Sam’s room. His own room. All clear and showing no signs of being used in the last few days.

That meant that whoever’s blood that was (not Sam’s, please not Sam’s) hadn’t made it further than the library.

His mind was busy running through all possible scenarios and discarding them one by. What scenarios would leave Sam and Cas unable to answer their phones, a puddle of blood in the library and an empty bunker? The answer to that question left cold sweat prickling at Dean’s brow.

A gun shot firing had Dean running the last few meters back to the library and spilling into the map room, gun drawn.

His shoulder’s sagged in relief as soon as he recognised the being stood at the business end of his Dad’s gun.

“Cas!” he sighed, his gun already dropping down to his side. 

Castiel’s wide eyes pivoted quickly to Dean, widening in shock. “Dean,” he said, relief pouring from his voice. Before Dean could even protest, he had been caught in a clamping angel hug.

He really wanted to complain at the invasion of his personal space but, in fairness the last time Cas had seen him he thought he was going to his death. Dean allowed the hug, bringing a hand up to pat at Cas’s back.

“Alright,” he sighed, a reluctant smile forming on his face.

“Dean,” Cas sighed again before pushing Dean away. “You’re alive? But what about the bomb and darkness. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” Dean promised but there were far more pressing issues to deal with first. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’s not here.”

Dean hadn’t missed the way that Cas’ face closed off at that. The angel turned eyes scanning the bunker, avoiding Dean’s eyes. And that sent all of Dean’s mental alarm bells going. But before he could launch into his interrogation a gruff voice interrupted from the side-lines.

“Someone wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Dean blinked back to his dad, almost forgetting he was there for a moment.

“Er, this is Cas,” he supplied lamely. “He’s a friend of ours.”

“Hunter?”

“No, he’s an Angel,” he and Cas said at the same time.

Later on - when his inward panic and confusion had died away - Dean would laugh at the incredulous look his dad gave him then. But right then he didn’t have the time. Sam was missing.

“Angel. With a capital A,” Dean explained quickly, not having time for mildness. “You know wings, harp.”

“I don’t have a harp,” Cas cut in with an eye roll.

“Right,” John murmured, looking back and forth between Dean and Cas. Dean could tell just from his dad’s face he didn’t believe that for one minute. He probably thought Dean had gone crazy since he had died. Or was playing some kind of elaborate prank. Whatever it was Dead would deal with it later.

“Cas,” he said turning back to his friend. “This is John… Winchester.”

It took a moment for recognition to light in Cas’ eyes but when it did his eyes swivelled to John. “Your father,” he muttered with reverence.

To be fair it wasn’t Cas’ fault. Both he and Sam had told stories of their father in the years they had known Cas. In each of them he was the hero, saving the day, killing the bad guy, solving the puzzle and teaching them all they knew.

John opened his mouth but Dean jumped in quickly. They had wasted enough time as it was.

He turned back to Cas, eyes dark and promising and serious.

“So where is Sam?”

-

Dean was willing the panic down in his chest as he hastily grabbed a bag, handed his dad a fresh gun from the armoury and rushed up to the garage. Some son of a bitch had broken into their home and snatched his brother, doing enough damage to leave a trail of blood through the library.

John was hot on Dean’s heels as they quickly ascended the stairs to the garage. Dean flicked on the lights, his heart lightening at the sight of the Impala sat gleaming below the fluorescent lights.

He heard a small intake of breath behind him and turned to see his dad staring, eyes a little wide and a lot fond at his old car. His one treasured possession.

“You’ve kept her in good shape,” he said, his voice a little rough.

Dean shrugged, fighting down the pleased surge of pride at that small nugget of praise.

“Had to rebuild her a few times but she’s still standing.”

Hesitantly, almost as if he thought the car might disappear if he moved too fast John stepped forward, his large hand brushing gently over the polished black bonnet of the car, his fingers following the gentle curves of the car as it flowed up to meet the windscreen.

“I can see that.” Then he looked up at Dean over the car, his eyes lighting with an old spark. “Now how about we go get your brother?”

Chapter Text

The hacked traffic cams sent them on a merry chase from the idiot driver to diplomatically sealed flight plans to the dick vet Dr. Gregory Marion.

It had been laughably easy overpowering the good vet. And it had felt good, Dean had felt like he was doing something, something to channel his racing heart and frying nerves. The story the vet spun them didn’t really do anything to alleviate that though.

“So, you dug the bullet out of his leg no questions asked?” Dean asked. His hands clenched against his rib cage, hidden from view beneath his crossed arms.

“She offered me 100 Grand,” the guy explained, as if that explained anything at all.

Dean clenched his jaw and felt his dad shift beside him. Whatever image they gave made the vet twitch in his seat. He swallowed, just once and looked between the two men staring him down.

“Student loans are a bitch.”

Cas started forward but Dean had barely placed a straining hand on his chest before another figure – larger and far more intimidating – marched forward, gun out and aimed lethally steadily and between the vet’s eyes.

“Hey, hey!” the guy squeaked, jumping back in his chair and throwing his hands up in defence.

John just looked blandly down the line of his gun at the man. “See, here’s my problem,” he explained calmly. “I’ve had a long day. I haven’t seen my son in a long time. I come home, only to find him gone and a pool of blood on the floor. Now I hear that you were the last known person to see him alive. And you are telling me you know nothing?”

“They just showed up!” the guy yelped. “She didn’t even give me a name. I helped him. Stitched him up. Then the driver bailed. Some other chick shows up and they all drove away! There was nothing I could do!”

“That’s bull,” John growled, cocking back the safety on his gun. “Now I am gonna ask you this one more time; where is my son?”

“A phone number! A phone number,” the Greg babbled, his voice high a squeaky. “Ok? Look, I don’t know where they are but she called me a couple of hours ago… a few hours ago asking about the sedative I gave the guy. So, I got her phone number!”

There was a beat, then another where no one breathed. Dean looked between his dad – poised, calm and deadly – and the sweating mess of the vet. And then John took a breath, flicking his gun to safety and stepping back.

“There,” he said evenly. “That wasn’t so hard was it. Now that phone number?”

-

“Dean!” John’s voice called after Dean as he stormed from the vets office.

Dean barely waited for the man and Cas to catch up before he was slamming closed the door of the Impala and wheel spinning away.

Breaking the vet’s phone with his bare hands had been satisfying but it had not even made a dent in the vat of burning rage in his chest.

They had taken Sam. They had broken into their home and taken Sam. They had shot him and then got some crack pot vet to stich him up again.

The one positive Dean was taking from the whole situation was that they clearly didn’t want Sam dead. He was still alive and waiting for Dean to save him.

“Dean,” his Dad’s voice interrupted his raging thoughts. “What’s the plan?”

The plan? What plan? Dean had blown the only lead they had to finding Sam and the frosty British Bitch on the phone had given him nothing to go on.

“Dean!” his dad barked again.

“What?!”

John levelled a glare at Dean from the passenger seat that could bring a vampire to its knees. “What. Is. The. Plan?”

“There’s no plan alright? The bitch gave me nothing and I’m no closer to finding Sam than I was an hour ago!” Dean shouted, his anger and frustration getting the better of him. “I’ve got no leads, no ideas and you asking me every five minutes is not helping!”

Dean took a deep breath as soon as he had finished his tirade and silence rung through the car. The space was quiet save for Dean’s labouring breaths.

“You done?” John asked, unimpressed. Dean took a steadying breath and glance at his dad from the corner of his eye. John was staring back at him, cool and collected and with that spark in his eye that betrayed his stubborn strength. Sam looked at him like that some times; when the world was falling down around their ears and Dean wanted to fall with it.

Dean took that look and took a breath. He nodded slightly.

“Good,” John said. “We got her number. Surely we can trace that with some of the computer power you have back in that basement of yours. We find her location and we find Sam.”

He said it with such conviction and surety that Dean couldn’t help but nod. It was like when they were kids, Dean would trust that John would make it alright. And nine times out of ten he would. He had to believe he could do it again this time.

Miles chewed up underneath the Impala’s tired and Dean’s red hot rage simmered slowly in the background, lowering to a background hum.  

“Sorry… about before,” he said once the burning kump had gone from his throat. “With the phone. I just…” Dean tapered off,

“It’s alright son,” John said quietly. “I’ve been gone a while. You boys… you’ve been looking out for each other.”

Dean could feel his dad’s gaze on the side of his head. He focused on the road, not sure he wanted to see what look he was getting.

“Yeah,” Dean said in the end. Not sure what else to say.

“I’m glad.”

They sat in silence for a while. The roar of the Impala’s engine and the wind rushing past the open windows the only backdrop. But Dean’s mind was buzzing.

Some random bitch has his brother. She had shot him, got some crack pot vet to dig out the bullet and … then what? What did she want with Sam? Dean had no idea but he wasn’t going to stop until he found out. He didn’t beat the darkness, get his dad back only to lose his brother. No way.

They would head back to the bunker, but a trace on the call and they would find him.

Then the world exploded around him.

-

The almighty crash reverberated through the car. Shattered glass flew through the air and it was all Dean could do to hold the steering wheel steady as the Impala swirled and spun against the asphalt. Gripping the wheel and with both feet on the brake Dean braced himself, waiting for the next hit.

When the world stopped spinning Dean blinked, his ears ringing.

He glanced to the side and his heart seized in his chest when he saw his dad laid out across the seat, eyes closed and blood painting the side of his face.  

“Dad!” he called,

Cas appeared from the back passenger seat laying a gentle hand on his dad’s large shoulder. “He’s unconscious but there’s no serious damage.”

That was something at least. Dean took a breath. “Alright, help him.”

Scrambling around the back of the car Dean groaned at the dent in her rear bumper. This was so not what he needed right now.

“Dean Winchester?” a pompous British voice called out. Far too close an accent to the woman who had his brother. Slowly, he turned to see a tall woman leaning causally against the rear of the truck that had slammed into them. Far too casually for someone who had just caused a traffic accident. “I presume?” the woman continued. “You should be more carful with your location services on your phone.”

Dean said nothing and took the woman in. Tall, poised, with a deadly calm that told Dean this was not someone you messed with lightly. But her accent, her being here, knowing his name… it was all too much of a coincidence. She had something to do with Sam.  

“Are you one of them?”

Thankfully she didn’t play dumb. Dean could respect that. “I’m one of them,” she said with a small nod.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. Looked like he was going to have to do this. “You tell me where my brother is and I might take it easy on you.”

“Oh, please don’t.”

The next few minutes were a blur of fists and feet as Dean grappled with the British ninja.

The bitch managed to floor him, floor Cas and steal his gun. Fucking knuckle dusters, seriously. That wasn’t cool.

When Dean lay against the hot tarmac facing down the barrel of his own gun all he could think was that Sammy would never let him live this down.

“You know,” she said, staring down the barrel at Dean on the floor. “I would have thought for two strapping lads like yourselves you would have lasted a tad longer. Ah, you know what they say: good things come to those who-“

Her monologue ended with a sickening squelch. Dean looked on with wide eyes as the British Bitch’s eyes bugled and the silver tip of an angel blade slipped out through the front of her coat. He ducked to the side quickly as her gun went off, one last try for the kill before she slumped to the ground dead.

John Winchester stood before Dean, face calm, eyes steady, bloody knife in his hand.

“Thanks Dad,” Dean couldn’t help but quip. Then the passive stance broke, and John quirked a smile.

“Couldn’t let you get your ass handed to you by a girl. Your brother would have a field day with that.”

Dean let out a laugh, slightly hysterical. Yeah, he needed to get his brother back.

Chapter Text

Life with his dad in the Bunker was… weird. There was no other word for it.

And it was weird that it was weird.

This was something that Dean had longed for, something that he had asked for and prayed for in the deepest depths of despair; his Dad, John Winchester, back from the dead, fighting alongside him.

But it felt too surreal.

It wouldn’t feel real until Sam was back. When Sam was back and it was the three of them, the Winchester boys once more, then Dean could freak out or cry or celebrate or whatever the hell kind of reaction his screwed-up subconscious came up with. But until then it was just like this… weird.

Dean had given John a room, had showed him where the kitchen and shower was, had shown him where the spare bedding was and had furnished John’s wardrobe with some of Sam’s old clothes.

“This is my room,” he said, gesturing at the partially open door as they walked through the halls on their whistle stop tour of the bunker.

Dean had said it as a throw away, so that John knew where he would be if he needed him. But John stopped and with a quick glance at Dean pushed the door further open.

Dean had no idea what was running through his dad’s mind as he looked around his eldest son’s room. Suddenly Dean was gripped with an insecurity that his dad would find something lacking. Something he should have but didn’t, something he should have done but hadn’t.

He watched with a strange nervousness as John’s eyes skimmed over the wall mounted weapons, the stacks of magazines, the shelves of records. His dad’s eyes caught on the photos on his bedside and Dean held his breath. He watched his dad look at the photo of his mom and Dean, Sam and Bobby and then catch and land on the photo of Sam and Dean.

It was an old photo, taken in the years before hell and before Lucifer. Before Leviathans and before Gadreel and before the Trials. In it Dean was laughing, looking down to the side at something Sam had said. Sam was outright laughing, his face pulled into a broad smile that shone out from the frame and made you want to smile along with him.

These were the boys that John had left when he had sold his soul. These are the people Sam and Dean used to be back when their dad knew them last.

Dean was vain enough to know he didn’t look too much different to that Dean, just a few more lines across his face and a lot more nightmares under his belt. But Sam… sometimes Dean looked at this photo of his brother and didn’t recognise the man that sat next to him. Gone was that boyish face and the easy smile. Now dragging a proper smile out of Sam was like its own little miracle, but it was there if you tried hard enough.

“Looks good. You’ve made a home here,” John said in the end, turning to look at Dean.

“It is technically ours, yours too.”

“Right,” John said awkwardly, looking away.

Dean got it. Sam had been the same when faced with the prospect of having a home after all those years adrift on the roads of the US.

“Sam’s room is round the corner,” Dean explained, already moving away. "Closer to the library.”

John chuckled as they carried on walking. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Yeah,” Dean said in relief, that odd tension dissipating. “I’m pretty sure it was just the first room he came across when he was too exhausted to read anymore and collapsed into it. But he’s stuck with it.”

He nodded toward the closed door with the ornate 21 on the surface. The door was firmly shut, as Sam always left it, protective of whatever meagre privacy he had. But Dean saw no harm in opening it for their dad.

Dean flipped the switch, showering the space in artificial orange light.

John poked his head in the door, glanced around and frowned.

“He moving out?”

Dean winced internally. The space Sam slept in wasn’t exactly well loved. It lacked much in the terms of personal possessions or luxury – save for the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Old archive boxes and index card boxes littered the floors and shelves in the room. No pictures or personal effects took up any space. Instead, the desk had a number of large books open with Sam’s haphazard notes or translations scribbled on paper.

“No, Sam he’s just…” Dean trailed off. “He just hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with is space yet. Plus, he spends most of his time in the library so...”

They both looked back into the almost bare room, both overly aware of the person that should be occupying it. The person that should be with them.

“So, we got a lead on where to start looking for your brother?” John said in the end.

He turned and looked at Dean and Dean knew that look. That was the patented Winchester ‘let’s get to work look’. Dean could definitely get on board with that.

“Aldridge Missouri,” Dean said with a nod. “It was the last call the British bitch made before you kebabed her. Pretty sure Sam will be around there.”

-

They researched, they ate, they slept. Of course, they talked. But not about anything meaningful. They didn’t talk about what Sam and Dean had been up to the last eleven years. They didn’t talk about the apocalypse and their destinies and demon blood and deals. They needed to, that Dean knew, but he couldn’t… not without Sam.

That was why it took Dean by surprise when John blindsided him in the library about four evenings into their search for Sam.

Dean had a glass of cheap scotch in hand and what seemed like an endless stream of CCTV footage on his computer. John had a book open in front of him. Dean didn’t ask what he was reading up on. It was one of Sam’s books which meant it was in a ridiculous language that had died a long time ago (Dean had given up trying to keep up with the languages Sam tried his hand at years ago).

“Are you gonna tell me what happened with the demon at any point?”

Dean blinked up from the light of his screen to see his Dad looking at him shrewdly, the book in front of him forgotten.

Dean was tired, worried about his brother and half way to drunk so he forgave himself for the few moments it took to catch up with what his Dad was asking.

“Azazel?” he asked incredulously because damn, Dean hadn’t thought about that son of a bitch in a while. The Yellow Eyed Demon that had dominated his entire childhood was now small fry compared to some of the things they had faced in recent years.

“The demon had a name?”

“Yeah... huh, yeah he’s gone,” Dean shrugged. “Killed him about.... ten years ago now.”

John blinked and Dean wished he could have thought of a better way to say it; ‘Yeah, your entire life’s mission is dead. What are you gonna do now?’… Sam would have known the words to pick. But Sam wasn’t here right now.

“Good,” John murmured, almost to himself. “Good.”

“Did you know?” Dean blurted out. At John’s quizzical eyebrow Dean pulled back his immediate response of anger and took a deep breath. “About the other stuff. Angels, demon blood… Lucifer?”

Dean’s voice cracked on that final syllable. That final name. He wasn’t used to saying it out loud; too used to swallowing it back.

“I had an idea,” John admitted with a small nod. “But I had faith in you.”

The snort escaped Dean’s nose almost involuntarily. “Yeah. So much faith that you told me to kill Sam.”

“I told you to save him.”

“Or kill him.”

“I knew you’d never do that. But you had to be prepared. In case.”

Dean clenched his jaw against the deluge that wanted to spill out. Now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to find Sam, bring him home and patch him up. Then they could deal with the colossal crap show that was their family. Instead, Dean let his anger power him into standing. In two swift strides he was in front of the whisky, pouring himself another generous helping. He could feel his Dad’s gaze on his back but he didn’t turn. Didn’t offer him a glass either.

“If you’ve got something to say son, then say it.”

Dean swallowed the glass down in one, relishing in the burn at the back of his throat. He didn’t want to do this now. He wanted to find Sam. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to get wasted.

He poured himself another glass and felt his Dad’s eyes still boring into the back of his skull.

“That was a shitty thing to lay on me before handing your soul over to a demon.”

John was silent for so long that Dean thought he might have left but when he plucked up the courage to turn it was to find John staring steadily back at Dean. There was something in his Dad’s face that Dean didn’t quite recognise. Something strange and out of place there. If Dean were a betting man he might have said it was remorse.

His Dad waited until Dean met his eyes and he gave one solemn nod. “You’re right. It was.”

Whatever possible response Dean may have been able to come up with for that was cut off by the shrill ringing of his phone. Diving for the distraction Dean almost cried with relief at Cas’s news.

They’d found Sam.

Chapter Text

The farmhouse Dean pulled up outside of sure didn’t look like the powerful impenetrable fortress Cas had made it out to be on the phone. In fact, it looked so normal Dean was half sure the angel had to be wrong.

He pulled himself out of the car and felt, more than saw, his dad do the same on the other side.

“Where’s all this warding you mentioned?” Dean called as he approached Cas. The angel barely acknowledged his presence, keeping them blue eyes fixed on the house.

“It’s cloaked,” Cas said with a sigh. “Very powerful.”

“Can you break it?” John asked, coming to stand between Dean and Cas as they surveyed the property.

“No. It is a mixture of Enochian and some Sumerian. There is no way anything supernatural would be able to get any closer to the house than we are now.”

“Good thing you invited us then,” John said faux jovially, clapping Dean on the back as he walked forward.

“Woah!” Dean called. “Where do you think you’re going?” He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth and was well prepared for the highly unimpressed glare John Winchester shot him.

“I’m going to get my son. You got a problem with that?”

Trying a different tactic Dean sighed, trying to even out his voice.

“Dad, we don’t even know if the place is empty.”

“I’ve seen no evidence of any occupants,” Cas cut in. “The agent said the lease was handled long distance but someone warded the house.”

Dean nodded and looked back to his dad. “I’ll take a closer look then we can sort a game plan.”

But John Winchester just folded his arms. “We can look together.”

Frustration bubbled in Dean’s chest. They were wasting time.

His baby brother might or might not be held within the flaking white walls of that farmhouse. If he was, Dean needed to be in there pronto. If he wasn’t in there, Dean needed to figure that out as quickly as possible so they stopped wasting time on a dud lead.

And he didn’t need his dad slowing him down, questioning his moves and generally hanging around like a chaperoning parent.

“Dad, just let me go take a look!”

“You seriously think I am letting you go in there alone?”

“Sam is in there!”

“And it will take both of us to get him out!”

“Me and Sam have been looking after ourselves just fine without you.”

“You get involved with God’s crazy sister and Sam gets himself kidnapped. Yeah I can see you’re doing real good.”

“Hey!” Cas’s voice cut through the red fog in Dean’s mind. A hand was shoved against Dean’s chest and it took Dean a few moments to realise that Cas was pushing him back from where he had ended up toe to toe with his Dad.

“Sam needs all of our help,” Cas said sternly, his flinty blue eyes wiping from Dean to his dad and back again. “So put whatever this is on hold until we have him back. John can help me patrol the perimeter. Dean can take a closer look.”

-

Dean’s gut sunk the more he looked around the clearly abandoned property. There was nothing here and hadn’t been in some time. This was just another dead end.

He tugged ineffectually at the cellar hatch doors, feeling the resistance of a hold fast bolt lock on the inside. There was nothing here.

But just as he was about to give up a faint sizzling moved through the air. Looking down at his feet he saw a bright orange light emitting from the floor.

“Son of a bitch.”

Then the world dissolved into a haze of orange.

-

When Dean came back to himself he blinked the vestiges of orange light from his eyes and quickly realised he was fucked. Slumped against the peeling wallpaper of what used to be a kitchen wall Dean took in the chains binding his wrist and ankles.

Whoever this was was no amateur. He wasn’t getting out of these without a key.

“Hello Dean.”

A figure walked into his line of sight, small, prim and blond. And the voice… it was the same posh British voice from the phone.

“I am not sure how you found us but this is most fortuitous. My usual methods of extracting information have been less than effective so far. Your brother is a very stubborn man.”

Dean almost grinned at that.

“But with you…” the woman continued. Before Dean could even start to guess what she meant he was pulled upright roughly. The lady might look small but she was no weakling.

He was dragged, stumbling through the hallways of the house until they got to a small wooden door. The blond paused, pulling open the door and looking down the rickety wooden stairs that led downwards.

And then a voice – an exhausted, rough but wonderful voice sounded from the dark depths.

“Screw yourself.”

Dean’s legs nearly gave out from relief. That was Sam. And from the sounds of it he was tired, he was in pain, but damn his brother was still alive.

Before he could even power through the immense relief coursing through his veins the blond had grabbed Dean’s wrists, dragging him with her to the doorway.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice called from within the darkness.

The basement smelt like blood and sweat and piss and it took everything Dean had not to trip as he was manhandled down the stairs.

“I’m as happy to see him as you are,” the blond said. “Because… well, you may be able to withstand me severing apart your body joint by joint. But can you watch it happen to Dean?”

As Dean’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see Sam sat at the centre of the dank basement, his legs and arms strapped down to a wooden chair. Just a passing sweep of him as Dean was dragged past was enough to have rage course through his head.

Sam had been beaten, badly by the looks of the wounds on his face. His torso was covered in blood, his hair matted with sweat, his feet bare against the cold concrete floor. But the worst part was the look Sam was shooting him. Like heartbreak, hope and grief all rolled into one.

Then pain exploded in Dean’s jaw and it took him a minute to realise the blond had punched him. Again with the knuckle dusters. His ears rang but he fought to keep his consciousness as the blond spoke to Sammy.

“Passcodes Sam,” she spoke in that bored patronising tone of a teacher dealing with an errant child.

Sam’s eyes flicked to him and Dean managed to give was he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t give them anything Sammy’ he tried to say with his eyes. ‘Help is on its way little brother. I’m here’.

-

Dean had to hand it to the blond; she was good. Maybe not all that imaginative but she managed to get that little metal wrapped ball of her wrist into every sensitive spot on Dean’s torso without breaking a sweat. Another blow to his head made the world go fuzzy for a while and when he blinked his eyes open again the blond was gone and the basement door closed once more.

“Dean?”

Sam’s tired voice pulled him back to the horrible present, to the basement and the pain and the smell. He opened his eyes and saw Sam looking up at him.

“Hey,” he said, a smile gracing his face.

Sam’s eyes were wide and confused,

“I thought you were dead.”

Dean huffed a laugh, looking around at the dingy basement. “I’m not sure that I’m not.”

“So-” Sam started. But Dean could see him and he couldn’t be sure that barbie wasn’t listening at the door.

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything okay? First off, who’s Angry Spice?”

As Sam explained Dean catalogued. The stuttering, the incomplete sentences, the slurred words. It was not good. Whether it was exhaustion or blood loss or dehydration or the beautiful trifecta of all three; all Dean knew was that Sam needed to get out of here. And fast.

‘Just keep him talking’ a voice sounded in the back of Dean’s mind, sounding oddly like their dad’s.

Then Sam flinched. A full body flinch that told of untold pain as the cellar door creaked open again.

“Oh god,” Dean groaned. He wasn’t ready for another round. And Sam sure as hell couldn’t take another beating right now. He was so done with this whole shit show. He just wanted to get his brother out of here. He just wanted to take him home.  

“Gentlemen,” Toni greeted cheerfully as she trotted down the stairs in those ridiculous shoes. Dean hoped she tripped and broke that ridiculously long neck of hers.

But then she picked up the pick.

Dean hated that he knew how painful they were.

“The Men of Letters has a long tradition of intellectual excellence. In London, we’ve undertaken exhaustive studies of even the most arcane topics.”

Think Dean, think. He admonished himself as Toni advanced towards him, like a lion stalking their prey. If the prey was tied up like a prize pig waiting to be plucked. There had to be a way out. There always was.

“For example,” the blond continued, advancing on Dean with a manically gleeful look in her eye, “parts of the body most sensitive to intense pain. The eardrum, decaying tooth, below the belt of course. And my favourite. Under the eyelid.” Her blade hovered above Dean’s eye. “Did you know it’s possible to die from pain?”

“Well that sure is interesting,” said a deep voice from above the darkness along with the tell-tale sound of a safety clicking. “Now get away from my boys.”

Dean took a breath shuddering breath as the blade dropped away from his eye. That voice calling out in the darkness like it so often had throughout his life.

Toni turned to look at the newcomer.

There John Winchester stood in all his glory, tall, wide, gun cocked and raw cold fury in his eyes.

They were safe.

“Dad?” Sam’s quiet voice asked.

Dean caught Sam’s wide eyes and offered the most comforting smile he could muster. “Yeah.”

He could see the questions in Sam’s eyes. The confusion and the shock. Dean imagined he had looked somewhat similar when he had recognised his Dad emerging from the trees in that clearing. But Sam’s eyes held something more, something dangerous and unsure.

Shit, Dean thought, looking quickly between Sam and his Dad.

“It’s fine Sammy,” Dean said quickly, in the calmest possible of voices. Willing his brother to believe him. “It’s just Dad. I swear.”

“I said get away from them,” John said coldly. “Or do I need to ask you again?”

But the blond just stared back. Dean almost felt bad for her. No one disobeyed John Winchester.

With a move as fast as a man half John’s age he lunged forward just as Toni did. The butt of his gun slammed without mercy against the blonde’s temple and she crumbled to the floor with a cry, like a puppet with its strings cut.

The gun was back pointed at her head before she could even think about moving. Without taking his eyes of the woman John reached his hand to her table of toys and fished out a set of keys.

“Get you and your brother out of here,” John said tersely, throwing the keys with precision into Dean’s hands. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

More than happy to comply with that particular order Dean unlocked his wrists as quickly as his shaking hands allowed. He was by Sam’s side in an instant, kneeling by the chair.

“Dean,” Sam asked shakily, his intense stare boring in the side of Dean’s skull. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll explain it all little brother, let’s just get you outta here first.”

Dean could feel the minute tremors running through Sam’s huge frame as he uncuffed his hands, one by one. He could see the glassy edge to Sam’s eyes, and he could tell that Sam was holding himself together with sheer determination and willpower… just like always. All he could think about was getting Sam up and out and away from this dank cellar.

An involuntary grunt of pain left Sam’s lips when his hands were free, letting his shoulders relax. That old injury had never healed properly, Dean still hadn’t got the full story of how it had happened either. Sam screwed his eyes shut against the burn and Dean gave him a moment, letting his hand rest on the back of Sam’s neck.

“Dean, how’s your brother?” John asked, lifting his eyes a fraction from the blond knelt at his gun point.

Mindful of Sam’s torturer knelt there in the dirt, looking smug despite her position, Dean swallowed down his initial assessment.

“He could do with getting out of here,” he said blandly instead, sending a meaningful look his father’s way. By the darkening of John’s eyes Dean knew he had caught Dean’s underlying message; ‘he’ll live but it’s not pretty’.

Another grunt snapped Dean’s attention back to his brother who was valiantly (idiotically, stupidly, bravely) trying to stand.

“Woah,” Dean called as Sam teetered half out of the chair. He was in front of his brother in a flash, tucking himself under Sam’s good shoulder and pressing a levelling hand against Sam’s broad chest.

Dean could read his brother well enough to know what he needed, and he quickly turned them both until Sam’s back was no longer to his torturer.

He was favouring one leg and when Dean looked down he nearly gagged at the charred flesh of Sam’s foot. Rage speed through him once more and he glared at the blond bitch knelt on the floor at the business end of his dad’s gun.

“Well played,” a new voice said through the room. Sam startled badly, his face grimacing with a wince as he pulled as his injuries.

Dean looked up to see a bearded man stood on the staircase surveying the scene with a look of mild interest. The only thing that stopped Dean from attacking him was Cas stood stoically and unharmed as the strangers back.

John seemed to have no such restraint. Without wavering or lowering the gun pointed at Toni’s head he whipped a second gun from the back of his jeans aiming it with deadly certainty to the new man’s head.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The new guy at least seemed to have slightly less of a suicidal streak than the blond. He raised his hands gently.

“Now, now. No need for all that.”

“No need?” Dean raged, his shivering bleeding brother at his shoulder.

“Mick Davies,” the man said as if Dean hadn’t spoken. As if John’s gun wasn’t trained between his eyes. “British Men of Letters. I see you have met my colleague, Lady Toni Bevel.”

“You’ve mistaken me for a man who gives a damn,” John growled. “Now give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet into both of your skulls?”

“There is no argument that Lady Bevel went too far. I deeply apologise. She will be dealt with accordingly; you have my word.”

“The word of a man who allowed my son to be captured and tortured?”

“Please understand that if I wanted to hurt you there were a dozen ways I could have come in here and taken you all prisoner. Instead of being unarmed. We want to work with you.” 

“Work with you?” John Winchester growled. His hand tightening on the but of his gun.

“Look,” Mick sighed, rolling his eyes as if this was all just far too tedious for him. “My number,” he held out a business card to Cas. “Take your time. Cool down. And just think it over. Now if you could,” Mick nodded at Bevel who was still knelt on the floor under the singular eye of John’s gun.

Reluctantly John stepped back, lowering his weapon slightly. It was hardly a retreat, but it was the most that a man like John Winchester would muster. Bevel took the opportunity and scurried quickly to her feet and to Mick’s side.

It went against every fibre of Dean’s being to let her walk out of here. He almost stepped forward, gun in hand to end the bitch right there. He had seen her table of toys, and he had been in her custody for long enough to know that she was an amateur. Dean was just itching to teach her what a professional could do.

Her and Mick disappeared around the doorway and out of sight. All Dean had to do was follow and she would be begging for the end.

That was the moment Sam chose to collapse.

-

Dean reacted instinctively, grabbing Sam around the waist to stop him from plummeting to the floor. John was there in an instant propping up Sam’s other side.

“Mind his shoulder,” Dean warned. “He busted it a few years ago.”

John immediately corrected his stance gripping at Sam’s waist instead. “Being chained up for a few days won’t have helped it,” John diagnosed, altering his footing to take more of Sam’s bulk. “Jesus, he got big!”

A natural laugh sprung from Dean’s mouth.

“This?” he asked sardonically. “This is nothing. You shoulda seen him a few years ago. Cas,” he huffed, putting his shoulder a little further under Sam. “A little help here?”

Without a pause Cas stepped forward and pressed two fingers to Sam’s forehead and two on Dean’s. Dean felt the rush of angelic grace wash over him, instantly erasing all the cuts and burns and bruises that littered his and his brother’s body. And just like that Dean’s shoulder’s felt a little looser and his heart a little lighter.

“Uh…” John blinked from Sam’s healed body to Cas staring impassively back. “Useful trick.”

“It isn’t a trick. It’s the grace of the lord.”

Dean, who was just as used to Cas’ lack of humour or people skills as he was to John Winchester’s sharp tongue, stepped in quickly.

“Right,” he announced, breaking the tension. “Anyone fancy helping me get him up these stairs?”

-

Sam was loaded into the back of the Impala, still gripped by an exhausted sleep. Dean strapped himself into the Impala’s driving seat quickly and tore out onto the freeway, eager to put as much distance between his brother and that hell hole as possible.

He didn’t turn the music on, not wanting to disturb Sam’s much needed sleep. Instead the rumbling sound of the Impala’s engine and the gritty sound of the tires on tarmac was their backing track.

“Is he going to be alright?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder at Sam every few moments.

Dean took a moment to look at Sam in the rear-view mirror. His injuries were gone but the blood and grime that had built up on his skin over the days he had been captive were still present. Beneath the grime exhaustion marred his face, bruising under his eyes and paling the colour of his skin. But Dean knew that after a few days those signs would fade, and after a shower and a change of clothes no one would be any the wiser as to what Sam had endured.

But he had.

And it would be the memories that would last.

Just like always.

Swallowing down his anger and pain Dean grit his jaw and nodded. “Yeah he’ll be fine.”

Chapter Text

Sam slept for 18 hours. Well… he was in bed for 18 hours, switching between unconsciousness, alert and confused and some strange in-between state where he only spoke in what sounded like Enochian. Dean wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

The British arseholes had drugged him with something, Dean was sure. This wasn’t a normal ‘I got tortured for days’ come down. And it said something fucked up about their lives that Dean could tell the difference.

All he could do was keep Sammy hydrated and safe until whatever it was made its way out of his system, and they could go back to the normal state of fucked up.

And dad… hovered.

That in itself wasn’t totally unusual. When either of them had been sick when they were teens, dad had learnt to stay out the way and let them deal with it. But he had always been there in the background, watching as Dean replaced the cold cloth on Sam’s head or draping a blanket over Sammy when he fell asleep in the chair next to Dean’s sick bed.

But this seemed more than their usual family balance.

John seemed… unsure. Wary. Like Sam was going to notice he was there and tell him to fuck off.

Maybe a few years ago Dean would have worried about the same thing. But not anymore.

“Not real,” Sam mumbled barely coherent as Dean stripped off the sweat-soaked sheets that were clinging to his brother’s body.

“This is about as real as it gets little brother,” Dean said with a grimace, throwing the gross sheets into the corner of the room.

“I’m not… telling you… anything.”

“Sam,” Dean said seriously, gripping Sam’s chin, trying to make his eyes focus in on him. “Whatever is going on in that melon, it’s not real. You don’t have to tell me anything alright? We just gotta wait this out until whatever junk is out of your system. Ok?”

Sam shivered. “Iovch nah heem,” he said huskily. Dean flinched, knowing he wasn’t going to be getting anything coherent out of Sam for a while now. “Dean nah hirr. Iov kant treex mah,” Sam continued.

But he went pliantly at least as Dean gently pushed him back onto the fresh sheets and pulled the blanket over his shivering body.

“Ee cnovv its iov,” Sam mumbled one more time, his eyes half closing as he fell into another restless sleep.

John was hovering in the hallway again as Dean quietly backed out of Sam’s room.

“What language is that?” John asked as soon as the door was clicked shut.

“Uh?” Dean asked eloquently, pushing past his dad’s hulking frame.

“What Sam is speaking. What language is it?”

Dean kept walking down the corridor, hearing his dad’s steps following him.

Now that was a question. How was he supposed to answer it without explaining how Sam learnt it? Because – although Sam had never actually told him where his fluent knowledge of the angelic language had come from – there was only one place he could have learnt it.

The light of the kitchen turned on automatically as Dean entered and he went straight to the fridge, grabbing two beers and kicking the door shut.

When he turned his dad was looking at him expectantly, arms crossed over his chest. His face saying without words that he wanted and answer. And wanted it now.

“It’s Enochian,” he said as blandly as possible.

Dean handed his dad a beer who accepted it wordlessly and took his own seat at the dining table, twisting the top of the bottle and taking a swig.

“Enochian?” John asked, a frown on his face.

“Yeah, it’s the language the angels use. We’ve had enough run ins with them over the years to hear it around.”

There we go. A simple explanation with no further information required. If only Dean was that lucky.

“An ancient angelic language that Sam is fluent enough in to speak it when half unconscious?”

Dean sighed. He was just too tired for this shit right now.

“Look dad. There are some things that you should hear from Sam. There’s only so much I can tell you without him. It wouldn’t be right.”

John was frustrated, Dean could tell. This was not a man used to not getting his own way.

But before his dad could voice his displeasure a clumsy clatter from the hallway made both their eyes swivel quickly to the doorway. To Sam stood blearily staring at them.

His eyes were wide, clearly not still totally with it, as they tracked from Dean back to their dad and back again.

Dean stilled, watching Sam cautiously as his little brother surveyed them both. ‘Play it cool. Play it cool’, Dean incanted in his head. But his dad obviously didn’t get the memo.

“Sam,” John said eagerly, relief pouring from every letter. He moved, attempting to stand up and Dean cursed, knowing before it happened what would happen next .

Sure enough, Sam’s eyes widened and he bolted.

-

There were only so many places that Sam would retreat to when feeling cornered or scared. So it didn’t take Dean long to track him down. He had run past Sam’s room, the door open wide and room empty – before correcting course and heading back to his own.

Sure enough, when he pushed the door open gently there was Sam. He was sat hunched over on the bed, staring at Dean’s discarded boots left haphazardly in the corner. But he didn’t look like he was close to bolting. Dean gently stepped forward.  

Sam looked down at his hands twisted together against the blanket. Dean waited for whatever big thought was brewing in Sam’s head to bubble over.

“Is…,” Sam started, clearing his throat before continuing. “Is this real?”

Something in Dean broke sending shards of twisted pain through his chest. He leaned forward insistently and gripped Sam’s hands, stopping his thumb from pressing into the scar on his palm.

“Yes Sam,” he said fiercely, willing with everything he had for Sam to believe him. “Yes, this is real. You are here. Home. Safe. I am here. And dad is here.”

“You died,” Sam continued in a voice so small and helpless that it made Dean want to punch something. “You went off on a suicide mission against Amara and left me here-“

“But I didn’t die. And I came back and saved your ass.”

“And now dad’s back?”

“Yeah.”

“And that doesn’t strike you as unbelievable?” Sam scoffed.

“Oh absolutely,” Dean chuckled darkly. “But since when is this the first unbelievable thing that has happened to us?”

He could see Sam thinking over the logic. His big brain trying to think through every possible situation and scenario, discounting one after the other in a fraction of a second.

Then Sam took a quiet breath and looked up.

“Okay,” he said with a simple nod.

Dean waited a moment, watching his brother carefully waiting for something else. But Sam just looked steadily back.

“Okay?”

“I believe you,” Sam said with a shrug. “Stone number one and all that.”

Dean could have cried in relief.

“Alright then… You ready to see dad?”

Sam let out a disbelieving bark of laughter that Dean couldn’t help but mirror.

-

They sat in the map room later that evening.

They got chicken from one of the places in town. One of the places that sold the wraps Sam liked and the deep fried goodness that Dean liked. They got enough to feed five thousand but Dean argued that Sam needed the strength and he hadn’t exactly had a proper appetite in the last crazy week.

But now it was real. Now it was a tangible fact; his dad was back. He was alive. And Sam was here and in one piece.

Tears pricked at the back of Dean’s eyes and he blinked them away.

Sam was sat at the head of the map table, freshly showered and shaved, smiling widely at something their dad had said. Their dad was smiling too, chuckling lowly and deeply in his chest as he recounted one of his many hunting tales.

Dad hit the punchline and Sam cackled, that old full body laugh that Dean had almost forgotten Sam could make. Dean belated realised that he was supposed to be listening too and chuckled along although he had no idea what the story had been about.

He didn’t particularly care either.

The world would find some other way to try and kick their asses. It was the way things were. But right now he had his brother, he had his dad, he had a full stomach and he had a bottle of beer.  

Dean lifted his bottle to the centre of the table, catching Sam’s eye as he did.

Sam smiled, soft and warm and did the same. After just a moment John did too.

Their bottles clinked together between them.

“To family,” Dean said.

Sam nodded. “To us,” he murmured thickly.

“To you boys,” John supplied, looking at them both with proud fierce eyes.

Silently they all lifted their drinks to their lips, drinking the brown liquid down in unison and ready for whatever the next day might bring.

Chapter Text

His dad was back. John Winchester was alive.

Sometimes Sam had to repeat that to himself a few times before he left his room in the morning.

Once he had bumped into his dad in the kitchen, terror and shock gripping at his heart as the repeating and manic thought of ‘Lucifer’ tumbled over and over in his trauma damaged mind. It had only been when John’s smile morphed into something verging on concern that Sam had been able to pull himself back, remembering that Lucifer wasn’t here, and John was alive before he could shake it off.

But it still felt awkward.

Dean swore he had told John nothing. Said it hadn’t felt right to have that talk without Sam there which Sam was grateful for. But a part of him wished that Dean had already done it. That Dean had already explained to their dad about the demon blood and Lilith and the apocalypse and Lucifer. And then the trials and purgatory and the mark and Amara without Sam having to be there. Without Sam having to see the look on his dad’s face.

He took a breath as he rounded the corner of the bunker hallway, seeing the door he was headed for slightly open ahead of him.

Sam knocked on the open door, waiting until John looked up before stepping gingerly into the small space.

“Hey Dad,” he murmured. “You, um… settling in?”

John eyed the spread of newspapers clippings on the wall and the dismantled gun on the bed before him.

“To a fashion,” he said with a small quirk of his lips.

Sam couldn’t help but return it. After so many years having only Lucifer’s version of his dad in his head he had forgotten about his dad’s humour. About how the feel of him in a room made Sam feel safe in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.

“Here, this might help.”

Before he could loose his nerve Sam stepped forward holding his hand out before him and the old beaten-up leather journal clasped within it. By the way John’s eyes widened slightly Sam knew he recognised it: John’s old journal.

John took it carefully, running his hands over the smooth brown leather casing.

“I’ve um… tried to keep it as up to date as I can,” Sam explained, watching as John flipped it open. “Things have been a little crazy so... We’ve learnt a lot. Done a lot too.”

John’s eyes scanned over the pages quickly, no doubt noting Sam’s annotations in the margins, the clarifications of things they had discovered over the years, the new ways to combat the creatures they had been fighting their whole lives.

Sam itched to say more but he didn’t. He just stood and watched as his dad flicked through the pages with interest.

“Sam, this is impressive,” John said after a moment, lifting his head from his pursual. “Curing a vampire bite?”

“Yeah,” Sam chuckled ruefully. “Had to learn how to do that the hard way.”

“You?”

“Dean,” he said succinctly. There was more to that story he could add, but John would read about it in the journal at some point. And Sam didn’t want to think about that time in their history, when he was the cold-blooded monster his father and brother had always feared he would become. “There’s more in the archives that I can show you later... if you want.”

“That would be good son. I’d like that.”

That was it. That was all Sam came here to do. With a small smile Sam turned, leaving his dad to his new space. But before he left Sam turned back one more time.

“Just when you’re reading...” he started, not quite being able to meet his dad’s eyes. “I know that I can’t excuse a lot of what I’ve done but... I’ve always tried to remember what you taught us. Tried to save people.”

John watched him shrewdly but nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay.”

Sam stood there for a moment more. He should really go now. He had stayed for long enough.

With one last awkward smile he turned to leave, but this time John’s voice stopped him.

“Sam.”

Sam turned back to his father. The journal had been placed carefully on the small desk and John took a careful step forward.

“You know with all the excitement I forgot something.”

Sam’s mind flicked quickly over the things that John might need. He had clothes, bedding, the kitchen was stocked, he had picked a favourite truck from the garage, he knew where the showers were, the armoury, the shooting range.

“What do you need?”

John took a step forward and then he was in Sam’s space and his arms were on Sam and it was tight.

Sam tensed instinctively, readying himself for fight or flight. It took his mind and body to recognise what was happening. A hug.

His dad’s arms were wrapped around him, his hand curled upward and half buried in the hair at the bottom of Sam’s neck. It was tight and secure and warm. Sam felt his eyes start to burn as he brought his hands up to his dad’s back in return.

“It’s good to see you again,” John murmured quietly.

Sam felt his breath stutter in his chest. John’s arms tightened around him.

“You did good Sam,” his dad said again. ”You did so well.”

“Dad,” Sam started, needing to explain. But John just gave him a gentle jostle, not loosening his hold.  

“You beat him. You didn’t let him win.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Sam choked out, all his guilt and remorse clogging his throat. “It will never be enough.”

“It’s enough for me. I’m so proud of you.”

Something broke in Sam’s chest then, something old and painful. His breath hitched and he felt a small current of tears drip down his cheek. Blinking rapidly, he willed them back. ‘Don’t cry’, his dad had tutored him all through his childhood. ‘Tears don’t fix anything’.

When John pulled back Sam had managed to get himself under some modicum of control. His dad smiled cupping Sam’s face gives it a pat,

“Why don’t you go to bed. You’re still recovering. You should sleep.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, nodding in agreement. “Yeah I’ll leave you to it.”

Out in the hallway Sam took a breath. He probably looked a mess, eyes red and puffy from tears but his heart felt lighter in a way it hadn’t in years.

Footsteps echoing around the corner pulled Sam from his thoughts and he pushed away from the wall.

Dean’s eyes flashed from Sam’s face to their dad’s closed door and narrowed in concern. “Everything alright?”

Sam found his face pulling with a smile.

“Yeah,” he said to his brother. “Yes everything is good.”

And for once it was actually true.