Unforgivable
Summary: Post Devil's Trap, some things said and left unsaid remain unforgivable.
"No one just fights off demon possession," Bobby insisted. He sat opposite Dean on his back porch, cleaning off the day's accumulation of grease and oil with gritty soap.
Bobby had found them even before any of the Winchesters were able to reach out from their hospital beds. A '67 Impala wreck tended to attract his attention, he said. Always on the lookout for parts. It was never a question that they would come back to recover and recoup at his place. He was the only one that could offer any protection in case the Demon was still after them. Bobby doubted it. Even a glancing blow from Samuel Colt's gun would have given it something to think about.
Dean sat in one of Bobby's wooden deck chairs, a wooden contraption that squeaked and complained at his weight, threatening to fall apart at every moment, his legs stretched out and his head fell back against the high back. The false warmth of a sunny November afternoon was fading rapidly into the more realistic chill of an almost winter evening. Thanksgiving was next week. No snow yet, but it wouldn't be long. Dean pulled his coat closer.
"He did," Dean said. "Saved all our lives."
Bobby tilted back the last of his beer. "Your father is probably the one person I'd believe it of. Just outta sheer cussedness."
Dean let a grin curl around his lips, acknowledging the truth of that as Miranda put her wet nose in his hand, resting bonelessly over the armrest, then tossed her head to make it fall around her ears. Dean rubbed the dog's head. "Who's the mighty hunter now," he murmured, as the huge animal scooted closer to him, raising a paw on the chair, and her eyes going nearly cross-eyed with pleasure. After six weeks of hiding out and healing up, Bobby's best Rottweiler bitch seemed to think she was a lapdog. Dean's lapdog.
"No, you may not," he told her, to her begging. The animal weighed almost a hundred pounds. Though her massive head only came up to his thigh, she was solid muscle from blunt nose to abbreviated tail. For all that the dog begged unashamedly for petting, and moaned ridiculously when she got it, he'd seen her crack open an enormous thigh bone like a walnut with her teeth. She could think she was a lapdog until the cows came home. No one would ever mistake her for anything but a killer.
Besides, his lap was currently occupied, holding a wooden case about sixteen inches by eight inches, four inches deep on the outside, hiding and holding the reason they were all still there at all.
Bobby didn't press for the story. Not very hard anyway. It was like he was waiting. Dean couldn't have said for what, and maybe Bobby himself didn't know. Thanksgiving, maybe. He offered them refuge with a quiet steady strength that Dean grew to appreciate more every day as his father grew more and more restless.
The comment on John's possession was about as far as he'd gone, and followed a day with Bobby and John sniping at each other while working together on the car, while Dean tried to stay out of the way. John's black moods had not been tempered any by the pain of his injuries, the betrayal of his sons, and the charity he was forced to accept from a man even he called a friend.
Dean still didn't know exactly what the fight between Bobby and John had been about, years ago, the one that had led to drunken shouts, a cocked shotgun and Dean and Sam piled into the Impala from a dead sleep at three in the morning. He'd asked Bobby, a couple weeks ago, when he'd found a moment alone with him. The two of them were considering the twisted wreckage of the Impala and whether it was worth trying to bring her back to life. Sam was still in the hospital, his father gone for parts in his recovered pickup, and Dean itched uncomfortably, caught between Bobby's automatic generosity and the stormy unresolved history between the other two men. "Rotties versus pit bulls," was all Bobby admitted to. And the training thereof.
"Did you finish it?"
Instead of answering, Dean handed over the wooden box on his lap.
Bobby glanced at him before taking it, and ran his hands down jeaned thighs before receiving it carefully, one hand on top, one on the bottom. His fingers ran carefully over the polished surface, the wood rubbed and oiled to velvet smoothness. His thumbs touched the corners, and his glance moved up to Dean again. "May I?"
"Of course." Carelessly.
Bobby opened the case, and drew in breath to see the Colt revolver inside it already. And the single silver bullet remaining secured in a row that could hold twenty more. He tilted it slightly, and saw the powerful devil's trap sigil inlaid in silver on the inside of the lid.
"You put it on the inside?"
"Think it'll work?"
"It'll work," Bobby assured him. "But why?"
Another unanalyzed impulse. Certainly covering up his inexperience in the complicated inlay process was part of it. Dean felt exposed enough after the past several weeks and the flaws in the work shouted at him. Besides, hiding what really mattered was first instinct and second nature to a Winchester.
"No need to tempt the curious." From the outside the box might have been a jewelry case. Or a set of silver tableware. Something pretty on the outside to protect the delicate and valuable within. Only this case was made to hide as much as to protect, and it carried something deadly. The gun was beautiful, a true work of the gunsmith's art, but no one would call it delicate. Value… to be determined.
"Dean, this is…"
Dean looked away, focused on the dog, as Bobby's voice turned reverential. While Bobby and John worked their magic with things metal and mechanical, Dean found wood more responsive to his hands. Alive somehow, and willing to both listen and talk back to him, respond to his touch like it knew what he wanted and wanted it too. He knew his car inside and out. He'd listened and learned as his father had drilled mechanics and electronics into them the same as he had with weapons, fighting and credit card scams. Partly because it was necessary, need to know stuff, and partly because it was his father talking and looking at him and expecting of him. The brief flare of pleasure in his father's eyes when Dean mastered a new task reflected ten times in Dean's own heart.
Sit. Stay. Beg.
Miranda cocked her head at him, making him laugh softly.
Actually making something, though, creating something new was a new experience for Dean, and he didn't know quite how he felt about it. For it, too, could be taken away from him. But there was joy, and pride, in the mere act of creation. Bringing something new into the world that had never been before.
He didn't often get the chance to practice woodworking. He'd acquired the basic skills in the catch as catch can pattern like the rest of their lives; woodshop in high school, hunting cabins loaned for the price of free repairs. Then when three quickly became a crowd under the Impala's hood, Dean had found Bobby's fully equipped shop. The man was nothing if not self-sufficient.
He replaced Bobby's flattened bookshelf first, as was only fair, then re-hung the back door that managed to both scrape along the floor when opened, and left a half inch gap at the bottom when closed. The gun case had started with turning over in his hands the beautiful but raw pieces of wood that he found in Bobby's shop, and an unanalyzed impulse to make something. It didn't occur to him until days later that he was making a present for his father, hoping for something that would please him.
"It's yew on the outside, rowan on the inside. Supposed to hold the spell better." That is, the concealment spell Bobby and Sam had cooked up out of old books and three drops of Dean's blood, hoping that merely possessing the gun would not give them away to the enemy.
Bobby's gaze slid to Dean and away again, something like impatience crossing his expression. "I was going to say, this is amazing."
Dean watched the way Bobby eyed the Colt. "Go ahead," he said.
Bobby hesitated, then closed the case and handed it back to Dean. He shook his head slowly. "That thing is way outta my league, son, and I'm just smart enough to know it."
The corner of Dean's mouth quirked as he took the case back. It wasn't any sort of compliment. Maybe the Winchesters just weren't smart enough.
Dean felt Miranda's hackles rise under his hand as John approached, working a rag through his hands to remove the grease from working on the car. The dog backed even closer into his chair, and Dean stroked her neck to calm her. All Bobby's dogs were trained to hunt with him. They could smell demons, see them, know them well before any human could detect or see. Came in useful when it was so hard to tell friend from foe. Dean figured Miranda was just reacting to the possession his father had suffered weeks ago. He didn't like to think that the Demon had left some trace behind in his father, but if he'd truly been still possessed Miranda and her five brothers and sisters would have taken John down the minute he set foot on the property.
Dean tried not to watch as John lowered himself into the last remaining chair on the porch. He moved like an old man, Dean thought, and the realization hit him like a kick in the gut. His broken bones were healed, mostly, same as Dean's, and they both needed time to regain strength and mobility. But for John, the twenty-five year difference in age was, perhaps, finally starting to tell. Not that he'd ever listen, let alone admit it, but a long day even just working on the car, still left him exhausted and his skin tinged with grey.
So six weeks later they were all still alive and breathing, and even the Impala was starting to look like she would live to fight again. Bobby and John had worked a small miracle there, Dean had no doubt.
"Is that it?"
Dean handed his father the box. John's breath hitched out once, taking it, then he opened it and traced his fingers along the gun. "Good," was all he said.
Bobby pushed himself out of his chair and muttered something about dinner. And old fools.
His father threw him the keys to the Impala. Dean caught them against his chest with one hand, something warm blooming there, questions and doubts on his face.
"Got her running this afternoon. Still needs some paint, some touch ups. But she's running."
So.
It would be all right again.
So.
He almost didn't, wouldn't, believe it. All three of them were alive and anything else seemed like a blessing he didn't deserve. Like he was asking for too much. He would have willingly given his car for any one of them and now… now how was he supposed to feel about having his car back, too?
Miranda put her head on his knee, wide brown eyes studying him.
How about that, then? It would all go back to what it was? Like the accident had never happened. Like they hadn't been shredded to ribbons beforehand? No. They were alive. But it was not going to be like before. Some things were shattered beyond repair.
How silly was it, to be proud of a wooden box? Compare to such a little thing, what kind of joy and pride was there, Dean wondered, in bringing a family into the world? What kind of devastating loss when that family was torn asunder? How does a man survive that? What price for a man who did so willingly, knowingly?
"Sammy's looking stronger."
Dean nodded again. Sam had managed to sit up for two hours in a row yesterday. That came under the heading of stronger, certainly, but it in no way qualified as strong in Dean's mind. He knew it was a miracle any of them had made it out of the accident alive. The doctors had told him repeatedly how lucky they were. Dean didn't care how much he was pushing his luck wishing that Sammy wasn't the one who had suffered worst. But a pelvis broken into three pieces just took forever to heal.
"We should be able to get back on the road fairly soon."
Dean sighed, and bit his lip. He'd been expecting it. Here it was. "Sam's not ready."
"Not now. But soon."
Dean shook his head. "No."
John didn't respond right away. He looked from Dean down to the dog, who was now watching him steadily. Rottweilers typically did not growl or snarl before they attacked, making some people think them unpredictable and dangerous. But warnings only served the enemy. If you were paying attention, their boundaries were clearly defined and you crossed them at your peril. John sat back in his chair and forced his voice to calmness. "What did you say?"
"No. Sam's not ready." He might not be for months. He might never be ready again.
"Sammy's going to be fine."
Dean nodded. "Yes, he is." If he had anything to say about it. And if Sam wanted to go back on the road, that is what they would do. If Sam wanted to go back to Stanford and resume his 'normal' life, then that is what they would do. Both of them. And whatever firm hired Samuel Winchester, Attorney at Law, would find themselves one helluva private investigator included in the package. If Sam wanted to spend the rest of his life flopped out on a beach in Hawaii then Dean would grit his teeth, close his eyes and hold his breath for the entire flight to make that happen.
'H-he's different.'
Sam had taken one look between them and stepped to Dean's side. No questions asked. Sam and John had had their differences, granted. But it had always seemed to Dean to stem from a too similar outlook rather than a true difference of opinion. But when it came down to it, his baby brother seemed gifted with a wisdom and strength that Dean could only hope to imitate. Dean had torn himself in two between the two of them, more times than he could count, but in nearly the same position Sam had chosen easily, almost instantly. Had chosen Dean.
How many times had Sam asked him for support in their war of loyalties, asking him to choose sides? If Dean closely examined his past, he could see he had, almost always, chosen his father. He played peacemaker, he remained cool when they were hot, but when it came down to it, Dad was Dad and he was… Dad. The one that took care of them. Mother, father, and leader of the pack all in one, and Dean had rolled over for it, every time.
Dean remembered begging Sam not to shoot their father. Begging. For himself, for John, but also for Sam. That one shot would blow them all apart, never to be put back together again. And despite everything, despite John's commands, despite the blood pooling in his lungs that robbed Dean's voice of anything beyond a whisper, Sam had heard him. Heard, and chosen what Dean wanted.
"I should never have let you two spend so much time alone together." John stretched out his legs.
Alone together. Amen, Dean thought.
"Why didn't you just leave him in California?" John accused.
Dean sighed, out through his nose. Because you let go. Pulled between father and brother for so many years, it was like the recoil of an elastic, or the release of a pulled bow. It was like going home, or what he'd always associated with going home when other people mentioned it, that assured sense of belonging, that sense of rest and security.
"He was safe there, Dean. He was doing well there."
"He wasn't safe. None of us are." You know that. You of all people should know that.
"You would have both been free. We would have all been free."
As suicides went, it was remarkably vindictive, Dean thought.
"Did you ever think of what that would have done to Sam? He lost his mother, he lost his girlfriend – he was going to marry her, Dad. What would it have done to him to lose you too? To be the one who pulled the trigger? He would have had to live with that for the rest of his life."
He didn't miss how his father still held the gun case in his lap, his fingers going white in its grip.
"You asked him to kill you. You ordered him shoot you in the heart. That wasn't the demon doing that, it was you."
What if it had been one of us? Dean wondered. Would you have pulled the trigger then? Dean didn't know the answer to that anymore. He wanted to believe John would have spared them, but he didn't know. Not anymore.
The deal was: Dean fought and protected and his family survived. He obeyed, and they stayed together. Simple, really. It was more than a promise. It was a covenant. Formed on that one painful night he could barely comprehend, like he'd come into being for that moment, or been reborn in the flames they'd barely escaped, and reinforced over and over again over the years. Take care of your little brother, Dean. You have to watch Sammy, Dean. Hunt with me, Dean, and I will love and approve of you. Learn to kill with ease and skill, Dean, and you'll never be alone.
No more.
John had broken the deal, leaving Dean alone. John had broken everything, demanding Sammy shoot him.
They had never talked about that terrible night. 'What was it like to be possessed, Dad? By the very demon you've been hunting for almost half your life? How did it feel to watch it deceive and torment us?' No, it was unthinkable.
'I know my father better than anyone. You're not him.'
He did know. He knew that John Winchester would never have said those words of praise and support, the same way he knew that his father would, impossibly, find the strength to fight off the possession long enough to give him and Sam a fighting chance. Dean also knew that they weren't forgiven for choosing John's life over the Demon's death.
"And all this time, I thought you were the one who understood." John still didn't look at him. "I should have seen it. Back in Salvation, I could see you were on his side."
Why hadn't he noticed before, Dean wondered a bit distantly, that it wasn't just Sam constantly demanding that he choose sides?
"You should take that," he said, nodding at the gun and its case. "Go ahead. If we can catch up, we will."
"Dean, I –"
"Me, too." It didn't really matter what his father was trying to say, but couldn't. It would always be 'me, too'.
"What will you tell Sammy?" his father asked, not looking up from his hands.
It was acceptance. Dean's breath huffed out, surprised despite himself. "I'll think of something."
John levered himself out of the chair. Dean raised his hand, either to object or assist, he didn't know. He hadn't meant now.
In either case, John ignored him, went inside the house. Bobby's voice turned questioning, then angry. Dean sat, his head down, listening as John moved around inside, and then emerged minutes later with a single bag packed. Dean's fists clenched to stop himself from calling his words back.
Bobby joined Dean on the porch, in time to see John throw the bag in the front seat of his pickup, and slowly pull himself in behind the wheel. "Where's he going?"
Dean shook his head. He had no clue.
Bobby looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. "You two finally had it out?" Dean didn't answer, which Bobby took as confirmation. "'Bout time."
The pickup turned around, jumped into forward gear and accelerated.
"You're welcome!" Bobby shouted at the dissipating cloud of dust. After long exposure, he was utterly unimpressed with the Winchester dramas. He shook his head. "Goddamn pit bulls. No fucking off-switch."
"I thought I was the pit bull," Dean said, looking up sideways up at him. Rotties vs. pit bulls. That was what the fight had been about, wasn't it? And the training thereof?
"You?" Bobby said, surprised. "You, boy, you're pure Rottie through and through. You and your brother." The screen door slammed behind him as he went back inside. "Don't know where you got it from."
Miranda still sat beside Dean's chair, her head following voices and movement, if not meaning. Dean stroked the animal's fur, feeling the tension in her ease, reassured at his touch. Dean knew how Bobby felt about his dogs. It was high praise indeed.
"I've got ham steak for dinner if you boys're interested."
Dean followed Bobby inside, moving automatically to Sam's room, finding his brother trying his best to read one of Bobby's large tomes while laying flat on his back. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and Sam propped it up against him almost without thinking, his head falling back to the pillow more comfortably. His eyes continued to track the text as he asked "Was that Dad leaving?"
"Yes."
Something in his voice must have got loose, because Sam stilled in mid-Latin, looked up at him.
"Did you show him the case?"
"Yes."
"Did he tell you how unbelievably beautiful it was?" Sam already knew the answer to that one.
Oh, Sammy, forgive me, I sent him away. "He took it with him."
"He took it with him," Sam repeated, meaning dawning slowly. "He's not coming back."
Neither of them commented on John not saying goodbye. Goodbyes only led to arguments and shouts and 'don't come back.' Or even worse, hugs.
"I don't think so."
"So it's just you and me again." Sam's voice was unconcerned.
"Looks that way."
Sam made an accepting noise, hmmph, and went back to the book. Dean looked away, finding the dust from those old books made his eyes burn. 'Just you and me again.' Like it wasn't even a question in Sam's mind. "Did you ever want to go to Hawaii?"
"What? Why would I want to go to Hawaii?"
"Answer the question, bitch."
"Dean, listening to your bitching for eight hours on a plane would make the Dalai Lama homicidal. No, I don't want to go to Hawaii."
Dean smiled. "I didn't say I was going."
Sam's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then I'm not going, either. He may as well have said it aloud for how easily it read on his face. "What's in Hawaii?"
"I hear the beaches are nice."
"Fine, don't tell me. I still don't want to go."
Dean smiled again. "Did you do your rehab?"
"It hurts."
"It's supposed to hurt, wuss." He took the book away from Sam, who objected with a stronger grip, then released it with a sigh. He offered his brother a hand up, wrist to elbow, and steadied him as he stood, wobbly and still weak.
'I want Dean to have a home.'
Already there, Dad.
The hunt never ended. If it wasn't this Demon, it would be the next one. Samuel Colt had made that gun in 1835 for a man that traveled on horseback instead of the interstate, and it had been passed down from hunter to hunter ever since. They fought and they sacrificed and they took mere survival as victory. The only grace granted them was each other. One day, perhaps, Dean would have the chance to remind his father of that.
Until then, Dean chose Sam's side, without question, hesitation or explanation.
-fin-a/n Groveling thanks to BigPink, an amazing beta, for pushing and pulling just the right amount.