Title: Point of Know Return

Author: Lucky Gun

Beta: Spenchester

Summary: Red is everywhere. It's all John can see. It's what's covering Dean. After Sam leaves for Stanford, the balance teeters violently, until father and son finally find themselves on the same page. hurt!defiant!Dean, abusive!repentant!John. Prompt summary inside. Warnings: Graphic Language & Violence. *Complete*

A/N: I've never understood the look on Dean's face in the pilot when he dropped his head and smirked at Sam's 'Miller Time' comment. I've never understood why John doesn't touch a drop of alcohol throughout the series. I've always been intrigued by that family dynamic and the fact that Sam doesn't know anything about the family since he left for Stanford lets me play a little bit. Enjoy.

Timeline: Dean is 22 and Sam is 18.

It was the sound of absolutely nothing at all that woke him up.

The dim rays of sun that streamed through moth-eaten curtains may have had something to do with it, though. The flipping of his stomach possibly contributed. The fact that he felt like his bladder was going to explode and take him out – along with a small town – probably added to it, too.

He was one hundred percent certain, however, that the fact that his head felt like it was about to fall off his shoulders had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Well, as certain as he could be when dealing with what he assumed was one helluva hangover.

John groaned as he tried raising his head off of the bed, blinking blearily in the light. He was on his stomach on a king size mattress, his mouth open, a large puddle of drool gumming up the side of his face. He slammed his eyes shut as vertigo momentarily overwhelmed him at his movements, his stomach making a cheerful attempt to crawl up his esophagus and happily strangle him. Moaning, he grabbed his head with one hand and cracked open an eye, fixing his gaze on the wooden wall across from him to settle his spinning brain.

The stark disrepair of the house was nothing new to him, and he found his mind ghosting over the past week he and his boys had spent at the dilapidated mansion. They'd been hunting a poltergeist in the place that had turned out to be two poltergeists, and a haunted mirror, to boot. The job done, they'd taken up temporary residence, unconcerned with being disturbed. The grounds had been vacant for almost five years and it was three counties from the closest high school, so there weren't too many kids looking for cheap thrills. The usual graffiti, condom wrappers, and empty bottles were missing from this particular haunted house, proving that there wasn't a lot of traffic in the area. That was all around good news for the hunters, who thrived on anonymity and seclusion.

The sounds of chirping birds and the wind rustling in the trees wasn't enough to distract John from the horrible taste in his mouth, the faint trace of copper on his tongue making him wonder if something had actually crawled in there and died. Running a hand over his face as he pushed himself to sitting with his other, he hissed as a head to toe ache awoke with him. A few of his ribs felt bruised and a tightness in his cheek told of a fairly good run-in with either a wall or a table. The tenderness in his knuckles proved he'd fallen a few times and tried to catch himself while failing in a more than miserable fashion. A similar throbbing at his throat meant he'd slept awkwardly and nearly strangled himself with his arm; he'd done the same thing a few months before. A few other random pains told of further clumsiness in the grips of alcohol, a shallow slice in his arm scabbed over and raw. His back felt like someone had been jumping on it. He honestly wasn't too surprised.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his boots hit the floor with a thump that was too loud for his sensitive hearing to take. Wincing, John let his chin fall to his chest and kept his eyes locked on his bootlaces, unsurprised to find himself still fully dressed. After the night he'd had, he wouldn't have expected any less.

Because last night, his baby boy had told him to go fuck himself and had walked out the door, his acceptance letter to Stanford falling to the ground between them with all the finality of an iron curtain snapping into place.

The hot wave of anger and hurt that welled up through him wasn't unexpected, but the burn was sharper than he expected it to be. The shock of his boy's leaving hadn't soaked into him until about an hour after Sam had left. He had spent that hour pacing the front hallway, a bottle of Old Crow in his hand, and the contents had rapidly disappeared down his throat. His oldest had sat on the stairs, eyes locked on the door, his expression somehow simultaneously shuttered but miserable. He had only opened his mouth once, but before he could even get one syllable out, John had whirled and thrown the empty bottle of rotgut across the room, the glass shattering the silence in a beautiful manner.

"Don't say it, Dean. I swear to God, you open your mouth again and I'll fucking shoot you."

Grimacing, John squeezed his eyes shut as the remembered growls of his own words echoed through his pounding head. The rest of the evening disappeared behind the taste of Kentucky Gentleman and Yukon Jack, the incessant sounds of bootfalls against wood thundering in his head in time with his pulse. He wondered how long it had taken him to pass out and whether Dean had gotten the glass cleaned up. God knows the kid needed to do something get his mind off his brother leaving.

Frowning as he finally managed to stand, John belched softly into a closed fist as he stumbled into the bathroom attached to the bedroom. The owners had cleared out in a hurry after a few too many run-ins with their otherworldly roommates and had left a generous amount of furniture and other amenities (they'd taken all the mirrors except for the haunted one, though). They had also left the power and water on, something that John had neither understood nor questioned. So he sighed in relief as he took care of business only to freeze and then promptly throw up in the toilet a moment later. Gagging on the God awful taste of Old Crow at the back of his throat, John belched again and slammed his eyes shut as his stomach twisted painfully. Thick saliva coated his mouth and he ducked his head again, vomiting nothing but bitter bile. Heaving a final time, John finally slapped the flush lever and leaned back against the ceramic tub behind him, relishing the cold that seeped through his shirt and calmed the burning in his muscles.

It couldn't numb the fire in his heart, though.

Standing as gingerly as he could, leaning heavily on the wall, John staggered to the duffel that was sitting atop the dresser in the room. He mindlessly grabbed a change of clothes and a bar of soap. He kept his eyes halfway shut as he moved, finding steadiness in a distant stare.

Turning his head towards the door, he called, "Dean?"

Even the halfhearted volume of his own voice was enough to make his head pound, and he cocked his head slightly to alleviate the abrupt new throbbing between his ears.

Hearing nothing, John glanced at his watch and blinked in surprise at the time. It was after nine in the morning; he blamed the rain outside for the lethargic lighting in the room. Deciding that was enough of a lie in, he looked back towards the door and raised his voice and tone to Marine-grade.

"Boots down, Dean! Get some joe perking, boy!" he shouted, not bothering to wait for a response.

Getting into the shower was an interesting endeavor. He puked twice more before finally stepping into the scalding hot spray, thanking God for small favors before silently demanding a reasonable explanation for his son's abandonment. Of course, as always, the heavens were silent, and John sighed tiredly as he ducked under the water. Scrubbing himself to a relatively clean state, his fingernails digging into the beard he figured could stay a few more days, John let the water roll over him, head down, eyes locked on the drain. The heavy hangover was slowly slipping from him the same way the bright pink water was swirling down the piping.

John blinked and snorted a bit of water as he focused carefully on the bottom of the shower, looking for the rosy hue against the white tub again. After several seconds, there was nothing, and he shook his head carefully, hating the low lighting in the bathroom. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he wondered what had possessed the owners to put damned Tiffany pendant lights in the master bathroom. Shrugging mentally, John spun the temperature dials until the cascade stopped. He stepped out and dried himself haphazardly with a towel that smelled mostly clean. Then he pulled on his clothes and ruffled his hair with his old tee shirt, dropping the dirty linens in a pile beside his duffel. His gun was the first thing he grabbed its place on the bed; he never let himself go unarmed for more than a few minutes. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of socks and his boots, rifling through his bag for a bottle of aspirin when he finished.

He was just thinking about how good that aspirin would taste with his cup of coffee when he realized he didn't smell any coffee.

A flicker of concern washed through him before he could stop it. John knew Dean was going to take this hard, but if there was one thing Dean wanted from the world, it was for it to leave his brother alone. And, right hand to God, John couldn't figure a better way to protect Sam than to have him safely ensconced in college. The kid might be able to have a life there, something other than what they led, and out of all of them, John felt Sam was the one who could adapt to it the best. John couldn't pretend to be normal, Dean didn't want to be normal, and Sam's heart had never been into hunting, anyway. So there was no reason for Dean to be depressed about this, he decided firmly. And he wasn't so much of a hypocrite that he wouldn't take his own advice. He didn't agree with what Sam had said or done or the way he'd gone about – not in any way, shape, or fucking form – and he didn't appreciate the way his boy had talked back to him.

But Sam was still his boy, and damned if he didn't want what was best for him. When he'd been nine and afraid of something he thought he'd seen in his closet, a pistol had been best for him. Now he was eighteen, and Stanford was the new .45.

Determined not to let the family business fall apart without the youngest Winchester, and equally determined that there'd be something for him to come back to, should he want to, John pushed away the pain pounding through his skull and stood with a purpose. He'd get the bit back in Dean's mouth if he had to hogtie him in order to do it.

Leaving the large room at the far end of the top floor, John walked to the edge of the walkway that gave a view straight down three floors to the main entryway, his hands resting lightly on the banister. Eyes tracking what he could see and finding no movement, John started downstairs.

"Dean? Where the hell you at?" he called, his steps taking him towards the kitchen.

He was halfway there when the sound of glass crunching under his boots brought him to an abrupt halt. Frowning, John took a step back, looking down at the cracked and ripped label of the liquor bottle, his innards twisting at the crow winking up at him. He distantly swore he'd never drink that shit again.

"Thought you would clean this up," he said loudly, kicking the sharp remains away from him, the tinkling sound echoing eerily in the quiet house.

He made a beeline and reached the kitchen without finding his eldest wayward son, huffing loudly as he fixed the abandoned coffeemaker with supplies they'd brought with them. On the list of quintessential supplies for hunters, caffeine came in at number three, right under weapons and first aid. Tea would do in a pinch, but the visual almost disgusted John; what the hell kind of hunter would be caught, even dead, drinking from a frilly pink cup with a saucer held oh so delicately underneath?

Leaning his back against the counter, John crossed his arms and bit his tongue firmly between his teeth as the desire to threaten Dean into appearing almost became overbearing. He knew the kid was probably pissed as hell at him for getting plastered the night before, and God knew he had to be even more ticked off for the words that he'd had for his brother. Eyebrows knitting together, John skipped over the drink-muddled brownout haze that obscured most of his memory and found the one he was looking for.

John stared at the acceptance letter in his hand with no small amount of shock, some tiny part of him leaping with pride. The larger, more visible, and infinitely angrier part was swearing up and down at the smirk on his boy's face.

"You think you're just going to waltz out that door and ride off into the sunset and have an apple pie life? You think it's that fucking easy?" he shouted, and that same proud part of him gave a smug grin at the way Sam held his ground.

"Yeah, I do, actually. You can play cowboys and Indians with all the evil bastards of the world to your heart's content, dad, but I'm out. I quit."

Sam turned and placed a hand on the door knob in front of him. John felt his hands clench into fists and he took a threatening step forward.

"That's it? After all the training, all the work, you're just walking out on this? You don't know how to be normal, Sam; none of us do! And when you walk through that door you're not gonna know where you are or how to act. You''d better figure out how to make it on your own, cause I'm not gonna come rescue you when you call. You understand me, Samuel?" he snapped, and damned if the smile on Sam's face didn't get bigger as he looked over his shoulder, not even bothering to glance at his shocked brother in a goodbye.

"Hold you to it, dad. See you around."

Wincing appropriately, John realized that Sam had played him like a solid gold fiddle, the both of them, actually. He'd already been three sheets to the wind, drunk enough that Dean had given him a wide berth and settled himself in the dining room at the far end of the house, cleaning weapons with a practiced hand. Sam had known exactly what he'd been doing, the quick exchange taking no longer than a minute. It was a short enough time that Dean, ever the peacekeeper between him and Sam, hadn't even been able to get a word in edgewise. Hell, he hadn't even known anything was more wrong than usual until the words 'I quit' had gone over like a lead balloon. So he'd just managed to drop the knife he was sharpening, get to the entry, and give his brother a fearful and wounded look before that door had clicked shut like a blast door.

Shaking his head, John left the coffee to finish perking, determined to search out his oldest son and get his head on straight. Depressed and off-kilter or no, Dean knew better than to ignore his father so blatantly. It was getting darker in the house as a storm continued on, the light shower becoming a heavy rain. The weather was unusual; John knew from experience that this area of the state got very little rain, but he shrugged it off. He snugged his thermal a little closer to his skin as he wandered into the central hall and glanced around, his eyes straying to the front door. Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind without warning.

He slammed Dean against the door, his fists wrapped around the collars of his son's layered flannel shirts, the red in his vision washing out the red dripping from Dean's split lip. He shook him hard, screaming something incoherent, pulling his son back only to ram him against the door again. One hand left Dean's shirt and smashed into his chin instead, the split lip widening, the blood pouring faster, and he punched him again, and again, and again.

John jerked backwards and stumbled into one of the end post of the central stair's banister. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, trying desperately to scrap the image of Dean staring at him with fear and pain. Breathing harshly as he rubbed a hand over his face, he tried to figure where that particular impression had come from. Probably from a dream he'd had; if he'd gotten drunk enough, he knew his subconscious wouldn't have been kind.

Still, there was a nagging in his gut that had nothing to do with his hangover, and he stood upright and walked closer to the front door, eyes ghosting over the dingy white surface. After several seconds, he found nothing, and he laughed softly to himself for his foolishness. As he took a step back, though, his eyes caught something on the ground, and he froze instantly, the smile slipping from his features.

There were three perfectly round drops of blood on the dusty hardwood floor that sure as fuck hadn't been there the night before.

Swallowing hard against a throat that was suddenly too tight, John whirled and shouted, "Dean? Dean, answer me!"

His words went unanswered and he hurried into the dining room, stopping short when he realized the place looked like a tornado had hit it. His gaze darted over the wooden carnage, breaths getting quicker in his chest. The huge dining table had been shoved to the end of the room, scratches marring its surface. Chairs had been kicked over, some shattered against the wall, and John's attention went back to the table that was laying on its side. He stepped closer so he could run a finger over a particular one of the gashes. It was deeper and smaller than the rest, the raw wood stained a dark red. Abruptly, he saw the room from a different view.

He threw off the arm that was pinning him to the wall by his throat with an inhuman roar, throwing Dean across the room with strength he always had and usually hid. The younger man hit the sharp corner with a loud cry, doubling over as his tender left side was crushed into the solid wood. John didn't give him a chance to recover and slashed at him with a wicked hunting knife, the serrations gleaming in the light. Dean bent backwards onto the table, rolling left and right to avoid the blade, the knife leaving gouges in the tabletop instead. Until he was a split second too slow and the knife sunk through the skin in his right hand, pinning his palm to the wood, his shout rending the air perfectly. John hesitated, the red receding slightly, and Dean took the chance to grab the knife, pull it from his skin, and lash out with his own attack. The move almost caught John off guard, the silver edge kissing his arm in a mockery of a wound. The red returned, deeper and darker than before, and John lost himself to it.

Breathing harshly, John forced himself back to awareness, shaking fingers quivering as they ran over his mouth, that copper taste coming back so bitterly that he gagged. He pressed his forearm against his face and glanced over the floor, taking in the weapons there, comparing inventories. Everything was there except for the knife. Leaving the rest of the gear where it lay, John tore down the hallway that led across the rear of the home, flashes coming faster now, images and feelings raging through his head.

He ducked a fist meant for his throat and returned it with one of his own, catching Dean in the gut, right where the table had gouged him. Blood spurted across the room in a tragic imitation of a rainbow.

John looked sharply to the right and saw a wide arc of crimson against the wall, a toppled sofa table breaking the image, and he saw a ghostly vision of it falling to the side as Dean pushed him into it. Wincing and rubbing his thigh as phantom pain flared up, John continued on, bile burning the back of his tongue.

Dean abruptly went on the offensive, dropping and spinning on his hands, taking out John's delicate drunken balance with a sloppily executed leg sweep. Arms waving almost comically, the older man fell backwards into a china hutch, a few pieces of glass and already broken china raining down over his shoulders. He glared up at his son who was already backing away, a red coated hand clutched to his equally carmine stomach, a plea of stop wordless on his bloodied lips. John pushed himself to his feet and started forward again, the haze in his vision thickening.

Stalking past the shattered curio, John shouted, "Dean, for God's sake, answer me! Where are you?"

There was no answer, and the hot pit of guilt and fear that had encompassed his heart started choking John inside, tightening his lungs until he could barely breathe. He turned, desperation clear on his face for no one to see, and his gaze lingered on the french doors that led to the expansive backyard that had been beautifully manicured once upon a time (or as well manicured as one can get in Nevada). They'd parked the Impala back there in case a cop did a welfare check of the property, and it was situated a good two hundred and fifty yards outside the home underneath a particularly large white pine. The evergreen was heavy with rain, and the spring air between him and it wet and heavy.

Unbidden, another memory came to him, one that sucked whatever remaining breath he had from his chest.

"Don't say it, Dean. I swear to God, you open your mouth again and I'll fucking shoot you."

Horror froze his heart and he pulled his gun, the dark black Beretta sitting innocently in his hands. With jerky movements, he ejected the clip from the chamber and thumbed out the bullets rapidly, counting as he went. He reached the last one and stopped, his eyes flooding with hot tears, and he dropped to his knees and scooped the bullets to him again, counting slower this time, his hands trembling incessantly.

"No. No, no. Oh God, there are only twelve. Twelve. I loaded it last night. I'm missing three. Oh, God," he whispered, gaze darting around.

The light caught something sitting just outside on the covered patio and he scrambled over the floor, yanking open the doors without finesse. His sharp inhalation was almost a whimper as he slowly reached out and picked up the familiar shell casing, his eyes catching sight of two more just out of reach. The sound of a gunshot thrummed through his memories and he jerked backwards as though he'd been burned, the scene playing out in front of him over the images reality gave.

Dean jolted as the careless kick that was meant for his kidney found the back of his knee instead, and he rolled as he went down, crawling forward one handed as he maintained his momentum. He reached the french door and pulled hard, stumbling out into the safety of the darkness. John fell against the doorjamb and pulled his gun from the back of his pants, holding it unsteadily as he screamed something into the night. Just as Dean disappeared from sight, he pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, the rapid shots burning his ears. He stared out into the dim evening for a long minute, waiting, and nothing happened. Finally, operating on some hidden signal, John shut the doors and dragged himself upstairs, falling onto the bed, his face buried in his pillow and his gun resting on the mattress beside him. And he slept the sleep of the damned.

The thick gall was there before he could stop it and he threw himself sideways, retching off the side of the patio, the cold rain pelting the back of his head unmercifully. He gagged again and again, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the tears that dropped from his eyes didn't shame him. No, he felt he had enough shame on his own. So he raised himself up on jello legs and stood on the edge of the terrace, staring out at the car. He squinted, aging eyes dissecting the best route to the vehicle, and then he felt his heart leap into his throat.

Halfway between the house and the car, there was a dark smudge on the landscape.

Fear and joy intermingled in his voice as he screamed, "DEAN!"

He didn't wait for an answer and began sprinting through the rain towards his boy, sliding in the mud that was quick to form under the storm. He caught himself on his hands a few times as he fell, his eyes never leaving his son's unmoving body. It took too long to get to him, and he dropped to his knees beside him, tears and rain mixing on his face.

"Oh, God...Dean? Sweet Jesus," he whispered as he took in the hunter's sorry state.

He was laying on his stomach, his injured hand peeking out from underneath his side, and his face was tilted sideways, flecks of mud and grass dotting his pale face. Moving carefully, John rolled him over into his lap, shifting his son so that his head was nestled in the crook of his elbow. He bent over to block the rain falling on Dean's face and pressed fingers icy with terror to the side of his neck.

"Please oh please oh please," he prayed softly, his other arm wrapping around Dean's chest and holding him gently.

There were a few seconds of nothing before a soft beat pounded against his skin. A sob tore itself from somewhere deep within him and he hugged his boy close to him, rocking him in the rain, pressing his cheek to Dean's forehead.

"It's okay, Dean. I've got you," he whispered, leaning back slightly to get a good look at his son's face.

Tracing a finger down the skin that was mottled and bruised by his own hand, John forced himself to check over the rest of him. Mud and gore were splattered over the front of him from his torso to his jeans, and the older hunter bit his knuckle hard as he found a dark ragged hole in the bottom of his left leg, the red telling. He shifted to check it and his hand was already bloody when he moved it from his son's chest. Staring dumbly, John looked at Dean's left shoulder and found a similar ruddy hole there, as well. Breathing through his nose to keep the nausea at bay, John quickly checked over the rest of him, swallowing hard when he found no other gunshot wounds. The third shot must've gone wild.

He did find the missing knife, though, tucked carefully in the back of Dean's waistband, and his right hand had an unconscious death grip on his cell phone. John carefully worked it free of his frozen fingers and glanced at the screen, reading through the water streaming over the plastic.

[Call Bobby?]

A wave of panic almost drowned John as he quickly checked the call history. For better or worse, his boy hadn't managed to make the call before passing out. Closing the phone and sliding it into his shirt pocket, John felt a new worry pulling at him as he realized how cold the other hunter was, his lips a light shade of blue and his body barely shaking with shivers. Shifting, he prepared to stand.

What he didn't prepare for was Dean groaning at the motion and tensing up.

Freezing, he ducked again so that the rain was deflected and asked softly, "Dean? Can you hear me, son?"

He was so used to his boy's steadiness, his unflagging strength and brick-like fortitude, that the depths of pain and fear in his son's glazed green eyes broke his heart. Those eyes got a little bit wider when Dean realized who was looming over him, and he started struggling slightly, his movements uncoordinated.

"Shh shh shh, Dean," John whispered, a hand coming up to cup his son's cheek, the diluted blood on it streaming down pallid skin. "It's okay, it's okay. I've got you."

Dean paused and sunk into John's embrace, too worn out to do anything but give in. After a moment of careful studying, he seemed to be trying to talk, and his father bent closer and turned his head so he could hear.

"...you...'kay?"

Startled, the older hunter drew back forcefully, fresh tears spilling down his face, and he gave his boy a tight, genuine smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay, Dean. You?"

The question was meant to be ironic, but Dean shuddered once before his eyes slid shut and he murmured, "'M cold. Hurt."

Worrying his lip with his teeth at the admission that John never, ever meant to get from his son, he nodded uselessly and responded, "I know, Dean. I know. I've got you now, okay? I've got you. But I need your eyes open, son. You stay with me, okay?"

Dean's eyes drifted open once more, the suffering soul-deep, and he whispered, "S'ry."

Shaking his head emphatically, John growled, "No, you hear me, Dean? No, don't you dare say that!"

But the other hunter's eyes had already closed again, his body slowly relaxing in his father's grasp, and John's hand snapped back to his neck, fingers pressing with almost bruising force against his carotid. For a long few seconds, there was nothing. Then an unsteady thrum tickled his nerves and he nearly howled his relief. Refusing to waste anymore precious time, he gently laid Dean back on the ground and then stood, digging his feet into the mud to get good purchase. Then he knelt and lifted his son's torso from the ground, pulling him up and across his shoulders in a perfect fireman carry, his back twinging a bit as he straightened. Paying it no attention, John started towards the mansion, his thoughts on helping his boy only.

Not on the life he could feel trickling from his son's stomach over his shoulders.

Not on the iciness he could feel from the wrist he had clasped in his hand.

Not on the hellfires he could feel burning his skin everywhere Dean's blood was touching.

He couldn't keep it together if he focused on those. So he kept his mind on putting one foot in front of the other, drawing him ever closer to the house. When he reached it he kicked the french doors shut and moved immediately to the bathroom on the second floor. Mud and red and water dripped from both of them as he walked, their trail painting a dark picture through the even darker mansion.

When he reached the bathroom he toed the door closed and looked around the bathroom. It was one he'd designated for his boys when they'd arrived, a large vanity and a claw tub on one side of the room, a massive built-in shower taking up the other wall. The black slate tile was spread over the entire shower, including the bench that had been integrated into the shower. The frameless glass door held the gritty smear his hand left as he palmed it open and carefully stepped inside, bumping it shut with his hip. He stepped out of the line of the rain-style shower head and and turned on the water, getting it just a hint above warm. Then he eased Dean down to the floor, sliding behind him, leaning his son back against him as the warm water cascaded over both of them.

The younger hunter hissed and arched unconsciously against the water as it flowed over his wounds, and John held him tightly, one arm above the seeping stomach wound, the other shielding Dean's eyes from the spray.

"It's okay, Dean. I've got you. Just let it warm you up," he murmured into his ear, and whether from obedience or lack of cognizance, Dean sunk back against his father, going boneless in his grasp.

The water sprayed gently over them for a dozen minutes before John risked turning it a little hotter. Steam lightened the black tile a bit and John gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks when Dean started shivering in his grasp. Exhaling sharply, he grabbed the knife he'd swiped from his son's possession and carefully began cutting his twin flannels from him, the expertly sharpened blade slicing through the fabric with ease. His impassive facade broke as he opened the soaked shirts to reveal the chunk of skin that was just missing from Dean's side, blood spilling from the wound faster as his body temperature came closer to normal. Swallowing back his emotions, John continued on, finally getting the rest of the tops off of him.

The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, thank God, and he continued his inspection. There were a few shallow cuts along his upper and lower arms, though whether they were from the knife or debris during the fight, he didn't know. Bruises on his torso and the jerky motion of his lungs proved he had at least a few cracked ribs, maybe broken. But John counted his lucky stars that his boy didn't seem to have suffered any serious head wounds, despite the repeated punches to the head. Reaching down, John gingerly lifted up the sodden pant leg that was permanently ruined, his breath exhaling in a rush when he saw the thick scoreline across the side of Dean's calf, the gaping gash weeping blood but mostly clean. His fingers brushed lightly over the wound, knocking off a piece of a leaf that had stuck to it, and Dean twitched in his arms.

"Shot me," he said under his breath almost soundlessly, voice flat.

Shuddering with choked feelings, John started mindlessly rocking Dean again, his mind transported to a time long before. Dean had been two and had fallen and busted open his head, scaring John half to death while giving Mary a heart attack. Three stitches later, they'd been home and he'd spent the entire night holding Dean, rocking him in the chair in the nursery. He remembered whispering that nothing bad was going to ever happen to him again, that he would never let it happen. He remembered Dean giving him a sleepy smile and snuggling into his arms, a lisped request for a song on his lips. He remembered singing Too Much Heaven by the Bee Gees to him until he fell asleep. He wasn't much for disco, but the song had been the number one hit just days after Dean had been born, overplaying on the radio burning it into his head.

Eyes misty, John whispered a poor imitation of the song, his deep tones echoing in the shower.

"Nobody gets too much heaven no more
It's much harder to come by
I'm waiting in line
Nobody gets too much love anymore
It's as high as a mountain..."

His voice trailed off as his eyes burned, and he was quiet for a moment. Then, miraculously, a strained voice picked up where he'd left off.

"And...harder...to climb."

John froze and then ducked his head against Dean's, his cheek against his son's hair, a soft grin playing over his face. He couldn't see his boy's face, but he could feel a bit of the tightness in the noose around his throat loosen slightly. He rocked Dean for maybe an hour, the water finally turning cold. By that time, the hunter's body temperature was much higher than it should've been, consciousness fading to silent delirium, and John cursed the wet ground and exposure he'd been subject to all night.

Shaking the water from his hair, John stood and brought Dean with him, most of the mud having been washed away from their skin, leaving nothing but gore. Starting to mentally distance himself from the situation, John did a buddy drag from the bathroom to the bedroom across the hall, the shock of the cold air in the hallway startling him. He carefully laid Dean across the bare bed and turned on the electric baseboard heat in the room, shutting the door as he dashed back out. The trip to the car was quicker this time around, and he said to hell with the cops and drove it back to the house, almost parking it on the back porch. Two trips inside had the first aid kit and everything else he thought he would need settled neatly in the bedroom that was quickly heating up.

John took a minute the dart upstairs and change out of his soaked clothes, grabbing the bottle of top-shelf vodka he'd had squirreled away in his duffel. Returning to the second floor bedroom, he set out the supplies he needed on a bedside table he had brought close. Dean hadn't moved from his place on the bed, water droplets beading on his chest, his body burning with fever. The redness from the temperature he was fighting warred with the paleness from blood loss, the battle turning his cheeks a soft rose color. Shaking his head, John wiped his hands down with disinfectant and then reached for Dean's stomach.

A strong hand gripped his wrist in a bone-crushing grasp before he could get halfway there and his eyes darted to his son's face, startled.

"Dean?" he hazarded, seeing very little recognition in his boy's focus.

Indeed, there were several seconds of confused glaring before some semblance of consciousness entered his gaze.

"Dad?" he asked softly, grip loosening slightly.

Nodding, John patted his arm gently, moving his son's hold from his wrist to his hand, and said, "Yeah, dude. I'm here. Gonna get you patched up, okay? Just relax for a bit."

Green eyes narrowed, Dean lifted his head, working to get to his father. John shushed him and tried to push him back down, but his son was bound and determined, so he gave in and finally helped him sit up, legs swinging over the side of the bed. Dean fell forward a bit and John caught him carefully with his left arm, worry obvious on his face. The ever-present pendant around his neck swung freely for a moment, the shiny gold surface tainted and tarnished.

"It's okay, Dean. I promise it's gonna be okay."

Shivering with his mangled hand pressed mindlessly to his side, Dean nonetheless attempted to stand, John finally stopping him forcefully. His eyes took in the raw gunshot wound in his shoulder that was leaking blood and plasma, rivulets of red trailing down his chest. The entire bottom section of his torso was a crimson flare, the top of his pants stained a russet color, the abdominal muscles so toned by John's drills soaked in amber. Red and purple bruises wrapped around his chest and side, disappearing around to his back. Glancing down, John swallowed hard as he saw a steady drip drop of blood from Dean's left boot to the floor just below it, the enlarging puddle making his stomach twist. His son tried to stand again, and again he held him still.

"Don't do that, son. You've gotta lie down so I can take care of you, you hear me?" he ordered halfheartedly, and Dean made no indication he had.

He just kept trying to get up, straining weakly against John's restraining hands, a low cadence falling from his lips. John held his breath so he could hear it, his eyes closing tightly when he could make it out.

"Gotta find Sammy. Where's Sammy? Gotta find Sammy, dad. Where is he?"

His jaw was clenched tight as he leaned forward to speak softly, trying not to startle the younger hunter.

"Sam's fine, Dean. He's gone to college, remember? He's fine."

As he spoke, he continued applying gentle pressure to the least injured-looking part of Dean's chest, pushing him back onto the bed, trying not to hear the breathless gasps of pain that slipped from his boy's broken lips. Dean continued to mindlessly struggle against him, eyes darting around blankly, looking for someone who wouldn't be there to pull him back from the brink this time.

"Gotta protect Sammy, dad. It's all I know how to do. I gotta protect him," Dean moaned as his injured shoulder touched the bed, his voice pitched low.

Moving quickly, John rolled Dean slightly onto his side, shoving an old pillow underneath his back with his free hand to keep him angled off the mattress a bit. As he worked, he felt his throat working with suppressed emotions, guilt and self-loathing burning at the edges of his psyche, the smell of brimstone choking him.

"It's okay, Dean. We trained him well, remember? He'll be okay. He's gonna be fine. He can protect himself now."

His tone was hollow and the words tasted sour, but John forced them out anyway, determined to find a way to break through Dean's looping logic.

Then Dean turned almost-aware, fever-bright eyes to his father's face and his voice was strangled as he replied, "Protect him...from you."

John stopped moving, his muscles locking, and he couldn't drop his own gaze from his son's, the desperate strength in them seeming to bind him in place.

"Leave him alone, dad. Promise me," Dean begged softly, a dribble of blood trailing down his cheek from his lips, and John couldn't answer, pinned by the green eyes that were daggers in his soul. "Hurt me, not him. Promise me. Hurt me, dad. Don't ever hurt him. Please."

It was the final plea that undid the older man, and it wasn't until Dean tightened his grip that John realized there were twin tear tracks marking their way down his face. Nodding slightly, he reached up and clasped Dean's hand between his own two palms. Squeezing slightly, he nodded as he bit his lip hard.

"I promise, Dean. I won't hurt him again. Not unless it'll save him," he swore, but Dean didn't relax yet. Tugging on John's hands firmly, his voice was almost inaudible as he whispered emphatically, "No more hunting for him, not ever."

Frowning, his father bent closer to him and said, "Dean, I can't promise that. He's got his own life, his own choices, remember? But I can promise I'll never ask him to do it, not unless he comes back on his own. That work?"

Dean nodded slightly, and John smiled faintly as he said, "Then I promise that."

The hunter held his gaze for only a moment before a long-suppressed shudder swept through his limbs, wracking his body with obvious pain. His muscles flexed in a long spasm, his back arched as every wound reawakened in a bloody hiss, and his veins throbbed mercilessly under his skin. His hand slipped from his father's and clenched into a fist, pressing hard on the bed below him. His other hand jerked and twisted on his stomach, and then he did something that his father never thought he'd do.

His perfect soldier, his little Marine, his son, his Dean, screamed.

"Dean!" John shouted as he jumped up, pinning his son to the bed as the shiver became a convulsion, the scream cutting off.

The sheer amount of heat radiating from Dean's body took him by surprise, and he emphatically cursed himself under his breath. Seizures due to fever weren't uncommon, but it had been in the service when he'd last had to deal with them. Remembering his own military training, he immediately began timing the seizure, causes and complications running through his head. He passed thirty seconds, then a minute, then a minute and a half, his own muscles trembling with the exertion of holding Dean down.

"Come on, Dean. Don't do this to me, boy. Breathe through it, son. Come on, come on," John whispered, half praying the words.

Almost two minutes after the shaking had started, it finally stopped, Dean falling still with a sharp gasp. John hurried into action as the bed around his son's body started to bloom red, every wound demanding attention. He turned and grabbed the bottle of vodka sitting on the table, unscrewing the cap with a practiced hand before turning back to the bed.

Slipping a hand underneath Dean's head, he leaned him forward slightly and put the bottle to his lips, tipping the clear container carefully. The first splash of alcohol brought tears to the corners of Dean's eyes, the vodka burning his mouth like a brand, and he sobbed around the taste. John hushed him gently and murmured soothing words.

"Drink it down, Dean. One sip at a time, my boy," he cajoled as he slowly poured the vodka down his throat.

Dean swallowed a few times before he coughed and choked, spitting red-tinted saliva back into the bottle. John pulled the drink back and laid the hunter's head back down on the flat mattress, setting the alcohol aside. He watched Dean pull harsh breaths in for a few seconds before he ducked down, getting directly in his son's line of vision. He gripped the sides of his face and held him steady, waiting until Dean's eyes opened to slits.

"This is all gonna hurt like a bitch, Dean. But I swear that I'm not trying to hurt you. You understand me? I'm helping you," he said softly, putting as much sincerity into his voice as possible.

The hazed eyes that were barely focused on him disappeared for a moment before Dean managed to reopen them. He shifted his head just slightly, but it was enough of a permission for John. Nodding, he leaned back and reached for the medical kit sitting beside him, thanking Providence and his own paranoia that it was ridiculously well stocked. He glanced over the inventory before he looked back at his son, matching treatments and supplies to the wounds, and then rolled his neck and got to work.

His first priority was the gaping wound in his son's left side. It was just below his bottom rib, a huge gouge that stretched a good four inches long and two inches wide. Palpating the area gently while wincing at Dean's sharp inhalation, he watched as the edges puckered up a bit, revealing dirt and a few blades of grass lodged within it, floating in a layer of pus. Tendrils of hot red flame were licking out from around the wound in the skin, telling the story John had no desire to read. Biting his lip, he glanced at his son and gave him an unhappy look.

"It's pretty infected, Dean. It's gonna hurt."

The shaky breath and twitch of his uninjured hand was all the acknowledgment he would get, and John knew it. He grabbed several squares of gauze and soaked them in rubbing alcohol, pausing for just a moment to breathe long and deep. Then, without giving himself time to balk, he brought the white pads to Dean's side.

Nothing could've prepared him for the blood curdling howl that exploded from his boy's mouth, a long note that faded in just two seconds as Dean's head lolled to the side and he lost consciousness. Freezing only long enough to check for a pulse, John plowed ahead, forcing himself to continue what he'd started, in every way that mattered.

He owed it to Dean.

So he carefully and gently worked on his son's injuries, taking every stitch to his own heart, feeling his heart bleed with every prick of the needle. He didn't know how long he worked, his intent and focus becoming not unlike tunnel vision. He busied himself with each wound until there was nothing more he could do, moving onto the next one immediately. The pile of soiled gauze grew larger with each passing minute, a few white bandages on Dean's skin multiplying into dozens, and John embroiled himself in the monotony. As he worked, the day dragged on, the rain continued to fall, and the fever still climbed.

Dean had long been lost to the quiet mania of the fire in his skin, his head tossing side to side, his hair spiked and drenched in sweat. He was completely unaware of John's ministrations, of the stitches, the debriding, the calloused fingers over raw skin.

But John was.

He felt all of it, his own mind taking up Dean's suffering, wearing it like a dark cloak on a darker night. He knew his drinking had been getting out of hand over the past several months; the tension between him and Sam reached a crescendo nightly, and alcohol was about the only thing that dimmed it. He'd had blackouts, brownouts, and on one particularly stressful night, he'd woken up in the ER getting his stomach pumped. Squeezing his eyes shut as he remembered the pitying look on the nurse's face when she talked to his boys, he couldn't block out the sound of Dean's dead response to her questioning.

"He's just never been the same, not since our mom died."

There had been a pause before the nurse had asked something else, something too low for his addled brain to understand.

And Sam had simply answered, "Nah, he's too selfish to suicide."

And God bless Dean, he'd put on his soldier's mask, given a quick flip of a correction, and things had gotten back to some semblance of fine. They'd hauled him home without a word, nothing said to ease the strangeness that had enveloped them. Looking back, John frowned as he realized he could see the biting edge of his youngest increase exponentially after that, and he'd bet his best gun that he had sent off his application to Stanford that next day.

Blinking away a hard burn in his eyes, John glanced up and realized that the storm was still going strong, streaks of lightning illuminating the dimness in the room every few seconds. Rubbing his face with one hand that was painted with red, he rolled his neck, easing some of the tension that had descended upon him after hours of sitting in the same place. He glanced back over his boy, swallowing stiffly at the shivers that were still shaking his form every few seconds. Glancing at his watch, John's eyes widened when he realized it was almost five at night; he'd forced half a dose of antipyretics into Dean almost four hours prior, but he didn't think he'd be able to wake him up for it this time.

Still, it was worth a shot.

Shifting on the bed, John leaned over his son and gripped his uninjured shoulder gently, shaking him minutely.

"Dean? Son, can you hear me?" he called softly, eyes locked on the other hunter's face.

There was nothing in response save for a particularly violent shudder that washed over him, and his head rolled to the side, a low moan escaping him. Frowning, John rested his palm on Dean's forehead for a moment, wincing at the heat rising from his skin. Sighing softly, he let his hand rest there for a moment, his fingers moving of their own volition as they started carding through his son's hair. He brushed the damp locks from his face and blinked when he saw the crimson on his hand glare red against the snowy pallor of Dean's skin that was marred by dark bruises.

A flash of memory assaulted him, the suddenness sucking his breath.

Dean looked up at him, an impish grin over his face as he tossed the football from hand to hand, pants grass-stained and muddy.

"What's black and white and red all over, daddy?"

Yanking his hand back, John breathed short and quick for a moment, staring at his hands, wringing them a few times, eyes tracing over the flaky red dust that was cracking off of his skin. A tight tremble ran from the base of his neck down his spine, feeling like a runaway freight train over his bones. The distance he'd managed to maintain for the day was cut down like wheat before the blade. Jumping up from the bed, he realized he needed to get the blood off of him.

He needed it off now.

He nearly ran from the room, barely remembering to shut the door behind him, and darted into the huge bathroom, palming on the water mindlessly while he started tearing off his clothes with the other. Shirt sleeves were stained, pants were stained – it was in his hair, under his nails, beneath his skin, in his soul.

Dean was of his own blood and now he was wearing it.

Naked as a babe, John stumbled into the shower and dropped to his hands and knees, vomiting bitter bile into the drain. Sobs and tears clawed their hard-fought way from somewhere deep inside him, and they rained down with the steaming water that haloed around his head. He mindlessly began scratching at his arms, his hands, his fingers, scraping off the blood. The castoff mixed with the water and created a long, chunky, roiling river of red down the drain. He slammed his eyes shut, unable to look at it, and kept scrubbing. It wasn't too long before his own blood started mixing with it, and he couldn't even tell the difference.

He didn't know how long he cried out the broken pieces of himself while he bled out the rest, curled in a ball on the hard floor of the shower, but it was long after the water grew cold that he finally crawled to his feet. He couldn't even think straight as he stumbled out of the bathroom to his own room, leaving a dripping pink trail in his wake. He dressed mindlessly, pulling on clothes of a random assortment, and he walked back to the second floor. He stood there for a moment, staring over the banister down to the den that was just visible on the first floor. Lightning struck somewhere close by, and it lit up the crystalline bottles lined up on the corner table like soldiers on a battlefield.

Swallowing reflexively, John felt the overwhelming urge to chug every drop from those beautiful decanters ring in his head. It rang louder, louder, louder...

And then he realized it was something completely different that was ringing.

Head whipping to the side, John stared at the open bathroom door that still billowed steam, and he hurried towards it, stopping at the jamb. He stared down at the pile of clothes, the thin melody emanating from it, the phone he'd remembered to keep on him earlier ringing in the quiet. Slipping slightly through the wetness on the floor, his socked feet scrabbling over the tile, he snagged it from his discarded pants pocket. He flipped it open and squinted at the bright light in the dark.

[Answer Sam?]

Iciness that had nothing to do with the temperature of the house slid along his skin and locked up his muscles. It was only after several seconds that he realized that he still had Dean's phone.

The thought of his oldest son made him turn slightly, eyes landing on the closed bedroom door as the ringing continued. He waited, hesitated, thoughts chasing each other as fast as they could spawn, and he grabbed one before it could slip away.

Protect Sam.

He and Dean were finally on the same page.

Pressing the glowing green button, he used a shaky hand to bring the phone to his ear and he immediately muttered a gruff, "Hello?"

The startled silence was easy to hear.

"Uh, dad? Where's Dean?"

His gaze skittered to the door again.

"He's not available right now, Sam."

There were a few more seconds of silence before Sam managed to get that indignation back from wherever John's greeting had sent it.

"Yeah, well, he's not unavailable to me. Give him the damned phone, will you?"

Feeling familiar anger rise up, John used it and snapped, "He doesn't want to talk to you, Sam. What did you expect, with the way you abandoned him?"

Abandoned us.

It was unspoken, but it was there. And it was obvious that Sam was able to hear it, because his sails deflated instantly.

"Well...just tell him...I mean, I made it." John did the math; northwest of Elko, Nevada to Stanford was doable, either hitchhiking or on a bus. "Got most of the paperwork and stuff done today. Qualified for a bunch of aid, so I should be all right."

John honestly wasn't sure what he should say, so he kept quiet.

"I didn't mean..."

From the sound of it, Sam didn't really know what to say, either.

Clearing his throat, John said, "I'll tell him, Sam."

There was a brief hesitation before Sam started, "Maybe I ought to come back, just for a bit."

Panic blinded John, fear rolling up to smother him in a wave. The thought of Sam seeing Dean, knowing what John had done, knowing about the three spent bullets, the dulled knife, the scraped knuckles...

"No!" he snapped, barely restraining himself from shouting. "No, if you're gonna go, you stay gone, you hear me?"

Stunned hurt broadcast easily in the light static.

The silence was reaching a peak, and the ex-hunter softly asked, "Well, you guys...you're gonna be all right, right? I mean, you'll keep in touch?"

That smug part of him was itching to get free, but John bit it back and responded stiffly, "Should've wondered all that before you took off, Sam." There was pain and regret in what Sam couldn't say, and the father in John softened a bit as he added hesitantly, "We're hunters. We'll do what we do. You do what you do."

The coming goodbye was imminent, and Sam asked quickly, "Wait, you'll keep in touch. Right? Not gonna do anything stupid, right, dad?"

Protect Sam.

"Bye, son."

John said it as quickly and tersely as he could, snapping the phone shut with a finality that startled even himself. He stared at the plastic casing for a moment before he dismantled it, popping off the back and ejecting the battery and SIM card, dropping the former and snapping the latter in half. He let the parts fall to the ground before he leaned against the doorjamb and exhaled forcefully. He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced as his sleeves tugged at his skin, the bloody gouges he'd scratched into himself drying against the shirt he wore. Shrugging off the discomfort, John closed the bathroom door and headed back into the warm bedroom. Turning after he shut the door, he stopped in his tracks.

The bed was empty.

Eyes immediately darting around, John made quick work of determining Dean wasn't anywhere in the room.

"Oh, shit. Not again," John murmured, stomach turning to stone as he wondered if he actually had drunk the liquor in the den, passed out, and it was the next day.

"Dean? Dammit, Dean, answer me!" he shouted as he threw open the door and stalked down the hallway, panic obvious in his voice.

Then he paused when he thought he heard something, his head cocking to the side, tracking the sound expertly. A moment later he was darting downstairs, shouting his son's name all the while, and his long legs brought him to the dining room only a few moments later. He stumbled to a halt at the door, heart stopping for a moment as he took in the scene.

Dean had somehow managed to get a shirt on, get to the ground floor, get the table reset and the weapons reorganized, and was cleaning them with a single-minded focus that seriously worried his father. He was hunched over the table carefully, relieving the strain on his wrapped midsection and ribs, and he had his left leg propped up on an adjacent chair. The white bandage that had been fastened around his doubly stitched hand was missing, and the angry red line with its twin bullet points every few centimeters mocked him silently. Dean's features were pinched and his eyes were heavy as he worked on the Desert Eagle in front of him, hands trembling slightly as they moved.

Breaking from his stupor, John hurried to the table and grabbed his son's arm, carefully missing the bandages and the wounds that were underneath.

"Dean?" he asked softly, and there were a few seconds of silence before the other hunter raised tired, unsure eyes to him.

"Dad? Sorry – I'll get it done."

John frowned and glanced at the weapons on the table before looking back to his boy, opening his mouth to speak before Dean beat him to it.

Looking forlornly at his injured hand, Dean said softly, "I don't know...I can't remember what happened. It's slowing me down. I'll get it done, though."

Shaking his head, John said, "Dean, don't worry about the guns, okay? I'll take care of them. You need to get back to bed, son. You lost a lot of blood, and you need some sleep."

Blinking rapidly, Dean stared at John quizzically for a moment before he drew back in a way John just knew had to hurt.

"What did you say?"

Trying again, John repeated, "You need to get some rest, son."

Dropping the pistol he'd been cleaning, Dean leaned back as far from his father as he could, scrutinizing him carefully with illness in his eyes before he said lowly, "Christo."

Frozen in place, John couldn't help but scream in his head at the realization of his son's line of thought.

He didn't trust his father's concern.

Sighing instead of screaming, John pulled up the Marine in him and snapped, "Not funny, Dean. And I'm not going to tell you again. Hit the rack, soldier. You're going to ruin the firing pin shaking like you are, and if I've gotta replace it, I'll take it out of you ass. Get to bed, now."

Flinching against the harsh tone, Dean nonetheless stood immediately, wincing and staggering as he put weight on his left leg. John was instantly there, taking half his weight, managing to keep up the macho facade he was wearing. Dean gave an abject apology, one that John was desperate to soothe away but found himself unable to do so in the face of his son's blatant mistrust.

It took only a few minutes to get Dean back to the room and get his hand rewrapped before dosing him with antipyretics, painkillers, and a heavy shot of antihistamine; John was determined to keep the younger hunter in bed. Already John could see the effects of the walkabout: the shivers were worse, his temperature was higher, his skin was paler, and his discomfort had peaked. Standing from the bed, John warred with himself before deciding that a cup of coffee was worth the risk. He waited until Dean fell into some version of sleep before hurrying downstairs, grabbing the pot and a cup, and returning to the bedroom. Fortunately, Dean was unmoved. Sighing deeply, John reclaimed his seat in the wingback chair beside the bed and smacked off the ceiling light, opting for the smaller table lamp. Pouring himself a cup, John leaned back in the chair and set his pistol on his lap.

The night was uneventful, Dean staying mostly quiet under the mound of blankets John had piled on him, and for that he was thankful. A quick midnight check of bandages revealed, surprisingly, that the infection in the stomach wound was battled back into a near-submissive state. It took only a few minutes for John to finally stitch it up after debriding it once more, and subsequent checks of the other wounds revealed little to no infection. Thanking God for whatever good luck they were blessed with, for once, John dosed Dean again and settled back into the chair in a doze.

Good sleep didn't come, though, fatigued as he was. Tremors ran through him at odd intervals and his heart thundered unevenly in his ears. When he did dip down below consciousness, he dreamed of darkness and fear, and he always jerked awake when his eyelids danced open on their own. So he passed the next two days in this way, dosing Dean with everything a growing (and injured) hunter needed, getting as much water into him as possible, and subsisting himself on a diet of coffee and Snickers. Dean had gotten his unhealthy eating habits honest, that was for sure.

It was the third morning of the same storm, the same routine, the same fear and anger eating him, when John found the cell phone on the bedside table ringing him awake.

The ringtone was a dark, deep melody, and wrenching himself out of a mild nap, John found himself staring at Mary on the ceiling, almost like he remembered her last. Her nightgown was stained, not over her stomach, but over her heart, and there was no pain in her eyes. Instead, they were on him, accusing, and her teeth were like daggers as they gnashed her own lips.

"Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold."

A blink later, and she was standing in front of him, body aflame, fire dancing over her face. She reached out a hand to his face, arm moving unnaturally fast, and she placed a single burning finger to his lips. Her skin was like ice.

"Today is victory over yourself of yesterday."

Barely breathing, unable to move, John kept his eyes locked on the specter of his long-dead wife, her voice flaring with the writhing heat. She gave him a small smile, her lips healed again, her teeth white and straight once more, and she turned his head towards their sleeping son, her attention never leaving John.

"But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him."

John exhaled sharply, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and the orange flames dimmed a bit, glowing low and blue. She turned slightly, then, her own gaze resting on her oldest child, and the look on her face was pained but calm. Looking back at John, she nodded once.

"There are only two kinds of men: the righteous who think they are sinners, and the sinners who think they are righteous."

Then she smiled – truly smiled, the way John loved – and she spoke outside of a quote for the first time, her voice sounding in his head only.

And you are both righteous men.

Jolting, John brought himself truly awake, the image of Mary shattering, her words echoing in his ears. He shook his head hard and ran a still-shaking hand over his face as his phone danced on the table beside him. He'd destroyed Dean's phone, but hadn't been able to bring himself to get rid of his. So it rang its mournful ring until he finally snatched it up and stared at it with bleary eyes, a vice tightening in his chest as he read the number.

Giving himself a two count, he flipped it open and asked, "Yeah?"

The man on the other side of the phone was no stranger to the gruffness of the older hunter, so he took no offense.

"Hello to you, too, sunshine. Where you at, Winchester?"

John sighed tiredly and wracked his brain for a moment; thoughts were fragmented upon creation, and it took him a moment to remember.

"Nevada. Northeast."

Bobby Singer huffed and snapped, "Well, ain't that a kick in the petunias. Got a hunt a few hours north of you, near Shoshone, Idaho. Hikers are going missing on Smiley Mountain. Might be a wendigo, sasquatch, or maybe a witch; it's near the Craters of the Moon, so anything's possible. You and the boys up to it?"

Shifting in his seat, standing from the divot his body had carved into the opulent upholstery, John glanced down at Dean. The fever, while lower, was still hanging in there, and the bruises still stood out darkly on his skin. His cheeks were gaunt from the sickness, and the webbing of thin veins on his eyelids was prominent. No way in hell was Dean up for this.

"Not so much," John admitted sharply as he turned and walked towards the door, stepping out into the hallway, closing the door to a crack.

He paced the hallway as Bobby exploded, "What the hell? You've been on that damned poltergeist thing for almost two weeks! What, did you forget how to place a hex bag or something?"

His own ire raised before he could even grapple it, John retorted, "Fuck off, Bobby. It was two poltergeists and a fucking haunted mirror."

Sarcasm was heavy as the old hunter-researcher sallied back, "Oh, my mistake, princess. Want me to come down there and hold your purse while you finish up?"

A pulsating headache, John's constant companion in Dean's silence, was pounding in his head as he snarked back, "Can't you bother someone else with this shit for once, goddamn it?"

There was an abrupt and heavy silence over the phone, and Bobby was quiet for only a moment before he interrogated, "All right, what the hell happened, who's hurt, and why the hell are you drying out? Poltergeist break all your beer bottles or something?"

Coming up short, John blinked dumbly as he realized that that was exactly what was going on. And damn Bobby to hell and back again for picking up on it.

"Sam left, took off for college, and he isn't coming back."

He tried to keep everything out of his voice – pain, resentment, abandonment, fear – but he knew he'd failed miserably when Bobby's tone grew a bit softer.

"Balls, John...I'm sorry. Couldn't have been easy. But you knew it was coming. Boy's never had his heart in hunting, not like his brother." There were a few heartbeats of sympathy before distant suspicion entered the conversation. "John...John, what happened to Dean? If Sam left, he's not hurt. You sound fine. So what happened to him?"

Swallowing hard, the movement audible in the relative quiet of the rain-soaked house, the father looked back through the door to his son, who was laying right where he'd left him.

"Nothing, Bobby. Just got banged up a little by...by the poltergeist. Couldn't tell you which one."

The suspicion became accusation.

"Dean's a better hunter than that, especially with all three of you in the act. What the hell happened, John?" This time, there was no sympathy. "John, what the fuck did you do?"

Wincing, John ran a shaky hand over his lips, feeling the familiar nausea rise up his throat. He ducked his head a bit, shame roaring through him in a burst of guilt and memory.

"I...I messed up, Bobby," he murmured softly, and there was a whoosh of air on the other end of the line.

"I figured that much out, dumbass. Did you hurt him?"

John couldn't keep his voice from shaking a bit as he responded, "Y-Yeah."

Bobby's voice was slightly strangled as he asked hoarsely, "Did you kill him?"

Sharper than he intended, John bit out, "No, Bobby! Fuck...I wouldn't..."

His old friend's tone had grown a sharper edge than his best knife.

"Well, excuse me for having to ask, Winchester! I've seen your damned temper, and I've seen you drunk. Can't imagine the mix of 'em, and I don't fucking want to. Is he gonna be alright?"

John didn't hesitate in his answer.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. I've had to dose him with antihistamines; kid wouldn't stay in bed."

Whatever fear Bobby had been feeling had apparently been replaced with rage.

"I wouldn't fucking stay in bed with you around, either, you goddamn bastard." John flinched at that, but knew he deserved it. "What did you do?"

Throat suddenly dry, John stared straight ahead and tried to work some moisture into his mouth; his guts like lead. He felt like a whore in a confessional.

"He got cut, a bit. Few bruises. And..."

Bobby interrupted, "So help me, Winchester, if you say you shot him..."

John, instead, said nothing, which, of course, said everything.

The distant hunter's voice was level and eerily calm as he said, "I'm going to kill you, John." Closing his eyes, the ex-Marine felt a familiar burn behind his lids as Bobby exploded, "You shot him. You fucking shot him, John. You realize what that boy's put himself through for you all these years? What he does for you? How much he fucking idolizes you? You think he's going to trust you now?"

Whirling so his back was to the door, John responded thickly, "I was drunk, Bobby! I didn't remember it at first. I didn't have a clue. And when I found him, he was just...laying there. Goddamn it, Singer, you think you can say anything to me that I haven't thought myself? This is killing me!"

There was a sort of seething heat in his friend's voice as he said, "Maybe you ought to finish the job, then."

Before John could respond, Bobby continued, "He'd better be all right, John. I swear to God, you'd better pray he's all right. If he's not, I will hunt you down, you understand me? No force in heaven or hell will save you. You and your boys are as close to kin as I've got, but right hand to the Lord, I will end you if you're lying to me."

The promise was easy to see, and it hung heavy in the air.

"I know, Bobby. I know."

Bobby growled, "No, you don't. What the hell were you thinking? You think shit like this isn't hard enough on Dean as it is? Think he needs you shooting him to rub it in?"

John couldn't think of too many words to defend himself, and he was mostly okay with that.

"I didn't mean to, Bobby."

It was weak, but it was all he could come up with, and it just served to reignite the powder keg on the other end of the line.

"You didn't mean to? Well, that's fine, then! It just makes everything hunky-fucking-dory! I'll just take back everything I just said, and you can go put the bullet back in your gun, and everything'll be just fantastic!"

A cold sweat broke out over John's brow, one that had nothing to do with the detox his body was going through.

"Bullets."

He thought it might make Bobby blow again; instead, it just got deadly quiet.

"God damn you, John Winchester. What've you done to his head?" Bobby breathed lowly, and John shook his head uselessly.

"I don't know, Bobby. He hasn't really been awake yet. Mostly just fevered, some nightmares, hallucinations..."

John trailed off as he remembered the icy terror that had sucked his breath when he'd found Dean out in the rain. The older hunter let him wander in memory for a few seconds before he cut in on his reverie.

"How're you gonna fix this, John? Dean's bounced back from a lot, but I can't imagine expecting him to even think about doing that here."

Again, John shook his head.

"I don't know. I don't fucking know, okay? I can't make this better. He's my boy and I shot him, Bobby. I shot him twice. I beat the piss outta him, cut him, stabbed him, and then I fucking shot him. What the hell do I do?"

His tone betrayed his guilt and frustration, and Bobby's anger dimmed just a bit.

Instead, his tone was more exasperated as he said bluntly, "I don't know, and I can't rightly care. But you will fix this, Winchester. Oh, you'd better fix it." There was another ringing in the background, one John knew belonged to one of the many fake phone lines the hunter operated. "Mother of God...I'll call back later, John, and you'd better have good news, you hear me?"

There was a heavy thunk and then the line cut off, the sound taking every breath of air from John's lungs, and he let the phone clatter to the floor as he slumped back against the wall behind him. He was drained, like he'd just run a marathon, and he couldn't keep the tremor from his hands as they scrubbed at his eyes. He didn't have the first clue what to do.

A creak behind him brought to mind something that Bobby had said, the words playing out in his mind as he quickly as he turned towards the bedroom door.

You realize what that boy's put himself through for you all these years?

Seeing Dean hanging on the doorjamb, hyper-aware gaze on him, John realized that he didn't have a single, goddamned clue.

The two hunters stared at each other for a few moments, the soft pitter-patter of rain the only sound for several seconds, and John finally cringed, his eyes lowering. That didn't help him. Instead of seeing the dark bruises, the pale skin, and sleep-flattened hair, he saw bandages, bandages, and bandages. He honestly didn't know which was worse.

Inhaling a shaky breath, John finally raised his gaze again and started, "Dean, I..."

But his son shook his head and started staggering away, leaning on the wall, his arms around his torso. Real, stabbing, heart-wrenching terror grabbed John as he watched him disappear from sight, his mouth hanging open. For the first time, he realized that Dean was going to leave him. It took several minutes of listening to Dean's muffled gasps and groans to spur himself into action. He wouldn't let Dean leave. He didn't know if he could survive losing both sons, both by his own hand.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he hurried after him, panting as he reached the bottom of the stairs just as Dean headed around the corner towards the rear of the house, taking a long way around. John went the other way, figuring he was headed towards the back doors that led to the Impala, but when he skid to a halt at the end of the hallway, he heard noises coming from the kitchen instead. Frowning, he hurried that way, stumbling to a halt when he reached the entry.

Dean was standing in front of the sink, a bottle of vodka in his hand, dumping it down the drain.

There were three other bottles of half-drunk rotgut on the counter next to him, and as he finished with one, he started on another. John watched him stupidly for a moment, his gaze on the amber liquid streaming from the bottle, and he flinched when Dean turned his head towards him. Unreadable but exhausted green eyes bored into his face, and John almost quailed under the glare. But there was an unspoken question, a desperate plea, in his son's focused glare, and he barely hesitated before he nodded once. Without a word, he went through the house, mechanically grabbing every bottle of anything even vaguely alcoholic and bringing it to the kitchen. Then he searched the car and grabbed a few cans of beer that were scattered throughout the trunk and the two bottles of top shelf whiskey he'd hidden under the front seat, and brought them inside, too.

Then he stood there, silently, watching all the alcohol slide away from him, the taste of it on his tongue and his taste buds titillated by the smell. Then he looked at Dean, at the way he held himself, the white gauze that the unbuttoned flannel didn't hide, the marks his knuckles had left in his face, and the desire fled.

When Dean reached the beer cans, he didn't pause; he simply slammed them against the bottom of the sink and let the cracked metal spray and leak its contents in peace. The house was quiet as he worked, the rain outside seeming to slack off a bit, and he finally reached the last bottle.

It was Jameson, possibly John's favorite liquor, and he eyed the jade bottle as it hung precariously from his fingertips. His father had already unscrewed the lid, and he stared at John across the short distance that separated them. Locking his gaze on the other hunter's face, Dean brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, heady pull, the smooth burn not even registering in his unchanging expression.

But he had his mother's eyes, and they translated everything he was thinking.

No more drinking. Not ever.

Reading his emotions like a book, John gave a slightly watery smile and nodded once, the conditions given, taken, and accepted. Dean dropped the bottle from his lips and set it on the counter, giving it a single meaningful glance before he leaned against the island that separated him and his father. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed an unflinching look on John, who swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry."

Dean tilted his head a bit at that, incredulous pity on his face, and he took one step towards the back hallway. John jumped forward, hands up, and he exhaled shakily.

"Please, Dean. Please," he begged, and the younger hunter paused, unable to deny the pleading that was so obvious in his father's voice.

John leaned heavily over the counter, his palms flat on the tile, his elbows locked. He stared at the grout lines, tracing them with his eyes, as he tried to find the words.

"Hallmark doesn't have anything for 'sorry I shot you twice', does it, dad?"

John whipped his head up at that, Dean's emotionless tone nearly undoing him. But he shut his eyes tight and shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek with his back teeth.

"What do I say, Dean? What can I do to fix this? I didn't...I never meant to do what I did, Dean. I was so mad, so hurt. All I could think was that Sam couldn't desert me, couldn't desert you. I thought he was walking away from what we made and didn't stop to think that this is what's best for him, what you've always wanted for him," he whispered, and the back of his neck felt warmer for a moment, like a fiery hand was massaging the tense muscles there.

Dean was quiet for a minute before he said, "I helped him with his application. Got the paperwork printed off at the library on that witch hunt a few months ago. He had a few different colleges that wanted him, but Stanford was his first choice. They sent his acceptance letter to Pastor Jim – that's the address he gave them. Got it when we swung by there last month. He's been waiting to tell you. So we...well, we had a plan."

Suddenly, John's hearing and vision faded, replaced with a bright and clear memory from a perspective that almost didn't seem his own.

Dean stood from the stairs, coming to stand a few feet from his father's invisible and unerring path as the older man paced in front of the door. He ran a hand through his hair, swallowing hard; how many times had he practiced this? To Sam? To a mirror? It shouldn't be so difficult. He'd known about tonight. He and Sam had had their goodbyes a few hours prior, and everything had played out perfectly. Sam was out, he was gone, he was off to Stanford and all the safety that came with it. He was away from their father's increasing unpredictability, the baddies that were pouring from the woodwork, the uncertainty of the life they led.

Now he just had to talk his father down from chasing Sam and hauling him back like an errant child.

"Dad..." he started, and John whirled and snapped, "Thought I made it clear you weren't to talk, Dean!"

Cringing from the hot boozy breath that wafted his way, Dean said, "Yeah, I know. Look, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, dad. He can take care of himself, and this way he's happy, right? I mean, he's safe, he's happy, he's got his apple pie life."

John growled, "Yeah, he's got his normal life. What've we got, Dean?"

Frowning slightly, Dean hazarded, "The car?"

Something in his voice must've given him away, or John wasn't as drunk as he thought, because the pacing abruptly stopped and heavy boots came to a standstill right in front of him. John glared daggers at his son as he got in his personal space.

"You knew, didn't you?" Dean hedged for a second, unsure which way he should go, and John shoved him with one hand, snarling, "You fucking knew. You helped him. What, you think he deserves that life more than we do?"

Dean stumbled back a step and held a hand up, trying to head off the coming apocalypse.

"We've all sacrificed, dad. Some of us just have to give more than others sometimes. It's the name of the game; you know that."

John stalked forward and pushed him again, shoving Dean closer to the front door.

"So you planned all this shit behind my back? Thought I wouldn't be smart enough to figure it out? Thought you'd be able to get this kinda shit by me?" he snapped over the sound of his son's sputtering objections.

Dean blocked the next hand coming towards him and held his father's wrist tightly, a frown on his face.

"Dad, you're drunk. Just calm down, okay? Dad, please," he said softly, and John ripped his hand from his son's grasp, still walking forward.

"The last eighteen years of our lives, we're all we've had, Dean, and you helped your brother walk away from all of this without a word to me? What were you thinking?" John demanded as he grabbed his son and shoved him against the door, fingers fisted in the twin layers of flannel the younger hunter was wearing.

A spark of something that could be fear flared to life in Dean's eyes before he found himself answering honestly in the face of all the anger on his father's face.

"I was thinking about what mom would want."

John froze, rage dying before rekindling a thousand times over, the memory of his late wife and his youngest child burning in him with the intensity of the sun. Before he knew what was happening, his fist smashed into Dean's face, and red haze had descended over his vision. All he could see was the thing that had killed her, different monsters crossing his head, his eyes seeing all of them in his son's features.

The last one, the worst one, was a mirror image of himself – screaming at his sons, putting them through workouts and drills, pushing them, demanding more, shaping and molding them, doing everything but love them.

And he decided he needed to kill it.

He needed to kill it dead.

John finished throwing up into the kitchen trash can, unsure of how he'd gotten there or how long he'd been there. He went through the familiar actions of spitting out the last of it, used to the routine, and then something was changed. A water bottle was shoved into his hand and a wet cloth was pushed into his face, and he took them both gratefully, reviving himself as much as possible. A glance up at his son revealed his hadn't relived this particular brownout memory in complete silence.

Judging by the way he was studying him with dedicated thought, John guessed the latter part had been the noisy part.

Sure enough, Dean leaned back against the counter and asked, "You really think you're that bad of a father?"

The two men took swigs of their respective drinks, John barely missing the beautiful burn on the alcohol that Dean was bound to be feeling mix with his pain meds, and he gave a halfhearted shrug.

"I raised you kids like soldiers, not sons. You were thinking of your mom when you helped Sam. I was only thinking of her death when he left. Can't say which of us was right or wrong until we reach either the pearly gates or damnation," he sighed softly, feeling self-loathing roil through him.

They stood across from each other for several minutes, their focus on intent, the father waiting for the son to either leave or shoot him.

Finally, Dean blew out a breath and started walking out of the kitchen, and the ache in John's chest intensified. But Dean gave him an expectant look as he brushed by him, and his father followed, hesitating as they reached the dining room. The weapons were still perfectly laid out, and despite what he'd told his fever-ridden son a few days before, he hadn't yet taken care of them. When Dean reached for the Desert Eagle, still laying where it had been abandoned, John sincerely wondered if turn about was going to be fair play.

But Dean sat down, just as gingerly as he'd sat at that same table before, and started cleaning it again. John watched him quietly for a moment, standing behind the chair that was opposite his son, and he wrestled with himself for a few minutes.

Finally, Dean looked up at him, uncertainty in his eyes, and he said softly, "I can't do this alone."

John frowned, hearing everything unsaid, and it screamed through the air between them.

I want what Sam has, but I can't live it. I can't do anything but what I do. And I can't do this alone.

Dean bridged the gap between the two of them with those few words, offering an olive branch John wasn't sure was his right to take. But he grasped it firmly with both hands, and held tight.

"Yes, you can."

I want what Sam has, but I can't live it. I can't do anything but what I do. And I can' do this alone.

Glancing back down at the pistol in his hand, Dean ran a finger over the chamber before he finally looked back up at John.

"Well, I don't want to."

John gave a faint smile and responded, "Neither do I."

He sat down across from his son and grabbed the next gun, a Beretta, and began dismantling it carefully, cleaning it with long-familiar practice. Dean watched him for a few minutes before retuning to the Eagle, the two of them working in companionable silence as the rain outside slackened and finally stopped.

The balance was different, now. Dean had been a soldier, before, a warrior, his father's favored weapon. John had been a captain, a general, a commander in chief, beating the drums of war and forcing the troops to march.

No more.

He was Dean Winchester.

He was John Winchester.

They were a father-son duo that kicked supernatural ass wherever it may roam. They were two thirds of a family dedicated to protecting the last third with distance and obscured purpose. They were sinners who were righteous in no one's eyes but a ghost's.

But they weren't alone, and for now, that was all they needed.

Four years later, Dean stood in a dimly lit apartment, a rumble in his gut as his little brother said, "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later."

Dean ducked his head for a just a moment, the memory of the night Sam left for Stanford soaking his mind, the taste of Jameson and blood heavy on his tongue. His left hand twitched as he remembered the ease of the knife through his skin, and his shoulder twinged as a shadow of a bullet tore through it again. The rage and fear and helplessness of those days was tainted with a bone-deep cold, and the small shudder that worked its way up his spine put a smirk on his face.

Sam didn't know, and he would never know; he and John had agreed on that in a heartbeat. So the smirk stayed in place when he raised his head again.

"Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

This time Sam listened to everything he was saying and wasn't saying, everything that couldn't be said coming across loud and clear. They hadn't lost that touch, that hunters-comrades-soldiers-brothers-in-arms silent communication.

"Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."

As Sam tossed on some clothes, Dean wondered what he was getting his little brother into. And as he opened the Impala's trunk, he sent up a heartfelt prayer to the guardians his mother always told him were watching over him.

Please, whatever happens, keep Sam safe. Hurt me, not him. Please.

As he played the message and explained the job, slowly talking and guilting his brother into coming along for the ride, he wondered if anyone heard him.

Or maybe all that angel crap was just a crock of shit after all.

End Point of Know Return

A/N: Well, it's been a GREAT ride! This was supposed to be a three page oneshot. Turned into a little bit more. Quotes and attributes are below. Please read and review!

"Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold." - Andre Maurois

"Today is victory over yourself of yesterday." - Miyamoto Musashi

"But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him." - Charles Wolfe