The Father, the Son, and the Unholy Spirit

by FateAndTragedy

Summary:

John Winchester leads a double life as a priest and a hunter, when one day a demon reveals that one of his sons bears a demonic soul. Between Sam, the pious and obedient son and Dean, the drug addict, black sheep of the family, which one is it? And how can they fix it and track down the demon who tore their family apart?

Notes:

So. Full disclosure: I wrote this around the end of 2023 with the intent that I'll start posting it when I finish the whole thing, but then my motivation petered off and so it sat in my notes app, untouched for a hot minute. Am I gonna finish it? I wanna say yes. I really, really do. But idk. What I do know is that I really like what I wrote so far and if there's someone out there who, like me, enjoys fics regardless of their completion status and would enjoy this particular one, then it's worth a shot getting it out there.

Chapter 1: Casa del Señor

"Then the LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground. He breathed the breath of life into the man's nostrils, and the man became a living person." 

            -Genesis 2:7

---

It was a good day in Lawrence. The sun shone bright for once, and its rays seeped through the stained glass of Saint mary's church, basking the sermon and its attendees in a heavenly, colorful light. 

A little further inside, things couldn't be more different.

The three winchesters were all nestled in the library. The eldest two were there because any other place lacked the privacy necessary for their heated argument, and the youngest was there because.. well, where else would he be?

Sam rubbed his temple in annoyance as he tried his best to filter out the snippets of the argument occurring on the other side. Brushing a few hairs out of his eyes, he turned the pages of his book; mindlessly scanning the lines before giving in to curiosity. He closed it, pulled out a sketchbook and pencil, and got to sketching mindlessly while trying to overhear the argument.

A few bookshelves away, Father John winchester cornered his son against the intersection of the history and religious shelves. His image was the pinnacle of upkeep, his priest outfit ironed and fit, his hair tousled carefully. His face, however, displayed none of that class. The combination of frown lines, early graying hairs at his temple, and the rageful expression he wore made him look much, much older than he was.

"I can't believe you!" Father John exclaimed. "Knocking up sister Constance! Have you got no shame? Have you got no respect for the church of the Lord? No respect for me?"

Dean was the opposite of his father, so much so it was like he did it on purpose, a prospect not that far fetched. Where his father was religious, Dean was disbelieving. Where his father was the image of self-restraint, Dean was as hedonistic as can be. In the matter of outside looks too, Dean loved to contradict his parent by dressing like a muddy hick some times, like a pimp the others. Even physically, in their God given features, the two men differed. Dean's bright green eyes to John's brown, Dean's lighter hair to John's darker, and Dean's freckled fairer skin to John's golden tan. It was like God had decreed that two men could not be more opposite than the Winchesters father and son.

Even then, mid argument, as John's face contorted with anger and indgnance, Dean's expression remained smooth, indifferent. 

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Well it's hardly my fault li'l Connie abandonned her sisterhood! I never exactly put a knife to her neck for her to bang me."

"This is not the point, Dean, and you know it. You've gone too far, you're going out of control..."

"Good! That's all you want, don't you? To control me? Guess what? Not happening!"

"For God's sake, Dean! Would you pull your head out of your ass and think about something other than yourself for a moment?!"

"Language, father." Dean said with a smirk. John's priesthood never cleansed him from his severe sailor tongue, a fact Dean loves to use to push on his father's buttons.

"Out. Out!" John cried out in a loud raspy voice, so loud both winchester sons flinched. Dean quickly turned his startled face into a glare and stomped out. "And don't bother coming home tonight!" John shouted in his wake.

Sam quickly switched out his sketchbook for a prayer book.

----

Despite being the tallest Winchester- an already reasonably tall family- Sam found himself often invisible. Unless he makes the conscious decision to be noticed, he regularly faded into the walls, morphed into the pillars and otherwise wrapped himself snug in the background, ignored by the mind's eye. 

He didn't mind.. not entirely. The background was a comfortable place to be. Safe. Secure. A place where his narrow eyes, two slits barely visible between the gaps of his bangs, could watch everything going around him without being watched. Could judge without being judged. He wore the guise of a watcher so much, that sometimes the sight of his own reflection would snap him into reality in such a harsh whiplash that it shakes him to the core. 'You are here.' It says. 'Do something. Be someone.'

Be who? He wonders. I am all I've ever known.

And so he stays in the shadows.

Sam sat in one of the pews, head bowed in serendipity, muttering a prayer under his breath.

The white church walls glistened around him, stained glass catching the light and refracting it in a thousand different hues. The place was not empty, a few people walked down the nave, engaged in conversation or skittering towards their business.

Still muttering his prayer, Sam kept his senses peeled to the world around him. If he strained, he could see in his peripheral vision- between the gaps of his curtain bangs- how a little further sat his father with a clearly distressed african american woman. He knew her; it was Missouri Moseley, a psychic his father regularly consulted to keep an eye on the supernatural. If he had to chance a guess, he'd say it's a hunt waiting to begin. That's why as soon as the woman departed and he felt, despite his closed eyes, his father's gaze fall on him, Sam quickly finished his prayer and drew the cross on himself, resigning to a job to be shortly assigned. 

---

Dean sat on the edge of a bridge, feet dangling in the air, arms hugging the iron railing. He took a swig of his beer as he tossed pebbles in the river.

A few moments before, he was in the bar; adrenaline surging, having all the fun he could with other drunk young men and women. But as soon as the alcohol level in his blood reached a certain threshold, all the excitement inside him drained out, and the small bar seemed all the more suffocating, overwhelming. 

That would usually be the time where he'd picked the girl he liked best and taken her somewhere isolated and quiet. But today he didn't particularly feel like gagging on a woman's tongue. As much as he hated to admit it, his and dad's argument had a not insignificant effect on him. He hated it, he hated that no matter how much he pretended not to care, to rebel, John always found his way inside his head.

It was stupid, is what it is. Fine, he might have noticed that Connie was a tad bit 'unexperienced', he might've noticed her cross necklace, and he might've remembered her face from the rare occasions where he visited the church out of necessity. But it's not like she was his responsibility! If she wants to break the stupid rules, so be it, he's not a cop!

Dean was about to throw yet another pebble when he spotted two people meeting by the river shore. They were too far away to see anything discernible, so with a final, deep swig, he tossed the beer bottle aside and left his spot to the other side of the bridge, where he climbed down to the same level as the two people meeting. He pulled a cigarette, just in case he gets caught, and crouched behind a bush as he watched them.

The meeting itself was very suspicious. First of all, it was the middle of the day. Had it been a regular sketchy meeting, to exchange drugs for example, it would have been best to do it by cover of the night. Second of all, the people. One was a middle aged man in a work suit, while the other was a wiry man caked in dirt and grime, covered in dirty rags.

Dean recognized him; he was a local homeless man ravaged by insanity and paranoia. Dean often saw him sob in constant fear and cower at the faintest rustle of wind. This time, though, he held himself with a poise and clarity so foreign on the man it looked straight up alien. His face, usually set on a permanet thousand yard stare, was relaxed in a devilish smirk. Dean suspected that the man was possessed.

He watched closer.

His doubts were confirmed when the homeless man's eyes shone a bright red, and he quickly pulled the other to a passionate kiss.

Crap. He was too late. To save the man who just sold his soul, at least. But this..this is the third crossroad demon he'd encountered this week. Maybe the fourth if he counts the one he was unsure of. Crossroad demons usually deal in.. well, crossroads. Mostly the intersections of dirt paths in abandoned towns and dilapitated roads, not in the middle of the city. One time's an exception, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern. The hellthings are planning for something, something big. 

Dean waited for the meeting to disperse, and lit his cigarette for real before taking a deep drag out of it. One part of him was calculating the upcoming danger, the other? The other just dreaded having to speak to John again so soon.

---

7 years ago 

When John was on yet another long hunting trip, Dean took Sam to a bar.

Now don't get them wrong, Dean was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have snuck Sam in unless he absolutely had to. Which was the case, ever since the money dad left them with ran out, and the church's kitchens closed. He and Sam hadn't eaten anything since their measly breakfast, and Dean wasn't about to let his baby brother go to sleep hungry.

The plan was to go in, befriend someone, hustle some pool, maybe get somebody to buy them dinner. Easy peasy, right?

Sam trailed behind his brother. "Dean, it's fine, I'm not even that hungry."

"Its gonna be fine, Sammy, yeah? Don't worry about it."

The two made a beeline for the pool table. Even though then-fifteen years old Dean was nowhere near as tall as the men around him, he looked just as old in the dim light with his raggedy six o'clock shadow and the lines nervosity drew on his face. 

"Jude! How's it going on?" Dean shoved himself between the players as he shook hands with a young man with dark skin. 

Soon enough, Dean was hustling pool as well. He won some, used it to win some more, then eventually the cheers and the adrenaline made him ignore the limit he's set for himself and gamble all his wins. Eventually, he wins a little too much for somebody's pride, so when he goes to the man to claim his prize, what he receives is a nasty push instead.

Stumbling back, Dean feels his heart hammering in his chest. He gambled all he had on that round, he can't just let the man have it. "Come on, dude, not cool." He says in the steadiest voice he can muster. "I won you fair and square, tell him, Jude!"

Jude, as everybody else, was too drunk to do a bit of anything. The only one who ended up doing something, came from the shadows, protesting in a high pitched pre pubescent voice. Sam punched at the man, and received a hard shove for his efforts. 

Despite that, Sam didn't budge. There was something primal in his eyes, a rage so intense flashed before he took the man's arm and dug his teeth in.

All hell broke loose, screaming erupting from everywhere, and Sam finally came off the man, bills bunched up in his hands. Dean rushed to come between them as the man shoved himself towards sam with murderous intent.

Sam was as violently angry as a elementary school bully; his cheeks were flushed and eyes rimmed with tears despite the evident and surprisingly deep marks of violence on the man's arms. Instead of silent tears, he screamed out, yelling obscenities that nobody could make out of his hiccuping sobs.

"Stop!" Dean yells.

Then all motion stops. Every patron stops and stares at the winchester brothers, a dazed look in their eyes. Dean gulps, grabs his brother and they get the hell outta dodge.

When Dean eventually comes back, nobody seems to have any recollection of that day.

---

John had been tracking demon signs for weeks on end, and all of them converged in the small town of [fuckall], a few dozen miles west of Lawrence. 

During the entirety of the drive, John was completely absorbed in thought. The woman he spoke to earlier was a psychic he frequented ever since Mary, his wife and the love of his life, had died, back when he was a broken man seeking answers in every nook and cranny. 

Her name was Missouri, and he usually met her in her house with the company of her mother, Odette, and her daughter, Avery. 

Odette specialized in seeing the future. It wasn't a straightforward skill; she could only receive snapshots every so often, nothing concrete. 

The day he met her—a particularly cold winter day in 1984—he had come to the Moseley residence with an infant Sam in his arms, a toddler Dean at his side, many questions in his mind and heavy grief in his heart. When he reached awkwardly to shake her hand, her eyes rolled back in their sockets. She held his hand in between her bony, wrinkly fingers and said : "no matter what you do, no matter what happens, the first decade of the new millenium will end with only one Winchester standing." With a certainty and lucidity she had never shown before and never replicated since.

Missouri, however, told of current truths. She knew the hidden facts, and she presented them to him : his eyes hadn't deceived him. His wife had been murdered by a powerful demon, although she confessed the reasons why remain a mystery to even her.

Missouri was unlike usual psychics, who dealt in the vague and interpretable. She gave him solid, clinical truths and her readings, when they worked, left little room for confusion. That's why it had been a shocker when she came to him at a random sunday and declared that something sinister and dark awaits the Winchesters, possibly the world as well, if they do not put a stop to it. 

She didn't have any idea what—said there was some kind of fog preventing her from making out any details—but what she knew for sure was that there were plans set in motion in the underworld.

Right after he finished their conversation, Ash, a tech genius friend of a friend, sent him a text with the result of his research : the location of converging demon omens. This was not a coincidence.

And here he was, impala's trunk stacked full of weapons locked and loaded, holy water and holy scriptures in the box glove, with his son sitting shotgun picking at a scab on his chin. Sammy was a great kid. He was devout, clever and fast, but he was nowhere near the level of skill, strength and reliability Dean had had before he strayed out of the way. 

Dean, his biggest disappointment. 

When Mary died, John had grown more religious as a way to cope with his loss; knowing that there was a being greater than yourself looking after you, making sure you'll meet your loved ones in the afterlife eased his pain greatly. But when he got introduced to the supernatural and made it his life's mission to hunt the demon that killed the love of his life, he committed fully into priesthood. The role fit him like a glove; he found himself at home in the church that introduced him to community, support, and most importantly : resources on dealing with the supernatural.

He'd hoped he'd be able to bring his sons up in the same light he's found... and he did! For a while, before Dean began to pull back. Before he started hanging out with the wrong crowd, before he lost himself to a life of endless search for instant gratification.

And it wasn't an immediate change either. Dean had always been resistant to John's teachings, if not always bold enough to express his doubts. A trait that eventually became one of Dean's main characteristics.

Now Dean was twenty two, and the only reason John sees him anymore at all was Sammy. The man was attached to his brother, if a little wary of him, but he undeniably cared about him too deeply to leave to somewhere where there was no John nagging at him.

And that, if anything, was enough a reason for John to hope.

----

Sam sat on the floor of the dilapitated house, holding up an ice pack to the back of his head. His vision swam, but he could see the demon tied to a chair in the middle of the room, and John standing outside the freshly drawn devils trap.

The conversation is dull, as it usually is before John would pull up some contraption to pull a confession out of a demon. He'd know when things got interesting.. right know he'd rather just relish in the coolness of the icepack against his pounding head...

"You really don't know what this is about?" The demon howled in laughter. The floor seemed to shake with every huff they took, but John stood his ground. "This is good, classic human ignorance!"

John splashed more holy water on the demon's face. It screamed and thrashed. "You have no idea what's coming, and it's closer, way closer than you think!"

"Well then, talk! What's going on?"

"One of your sons.." the demon said in its oily voice. Laughter rising once again. "Your son is demonic.. his soul is as more corrupted than you could imagine... his essence as dark as if it marinated for millenia in hell... he is Lucifer's gift to demonkind! He will lay waste to all of humanity, starting from you! On your dead body, he will rule hell and bring victory to us all!"

John's heart leaped in his chest. Remembering the psychic's words, he swallowed a lump before he jumped at the demon and held its collar. "You're lying!"

"Dad, no!" 

Sam yelled out, but it was too late. John had already stepped on the wet patch of the devils trap, breaking it. The demon grinned and smoked out of the vessel's mouth before disappearing out the door. 

Chapter 2: The Three Fates

John wasn't a patient man. That's why he and Sam were immediately at Missouri's door, even though it was two in the morning. A drowsy Avery opened the door, and right behind her was Missouri in a night gown and a bonnet.

Avery looked at the two men with sleep addled eyes. Behind John, Sam grinned and waved. Avery waved back with a toothy smile.

"Go back to sleep, baby, you got school tomorrow." Missouri ordered and Avery ran back to her room. She looked between the two men before inviting them in.

John, always the straightforward, took a seat in the living room couch. Missouri took the armchair across of him, and Sam settled on the empty spot next to his father.

"It's not looking good, Missouri."

"What did you do?"

"I interrogated a demon. They're saying one of my sons is one of them!" John exclaimed as quietly as he could. "How is that possible? They said he's demonic. What does that even mean?"

Missouri saw the desperation in John's eyes and held his shaking hands. "I know that you're scared but John, you know that I don't always have all the answers. Things have been fuzzy lately... like someone is running interference. I'll try to find out more, but I can't promise anything." She paused before glancing at Sam, who was already nodding off. "Is it Sam?"

John shook his head, then shrugged. "They didn't say. It sounds like even they didn't know."

Missouri nodded. "I'll try to find out. Again, no promises, but John," she heaved a sigh, "demons lie. This.. demonic son business may just be a lie to distract you from the real plan. So, don't get reckless just yet, okay?"

John nodded absentmindedly. Missouri rolled her eyes and got up of her chair. She glanced at Sam, who dozed off already. "Now wake your son up and take a trip to the ER, that looks like a concussion."

----

Dean fidgeted with his phone. He was laying on his buddy Kevin's couch, where he stayed the night. The lamppost light coming from the window facing him was wasted on the threadbare living room. It's four corners were littered with cans, and a single Machester City poster hung over the outdated TV. A very liminal space, apt for a single young man who's too busy taking advantage of his twenties to spend more than a very minimal time at home.

He was supposed to be passed out sleeping, especially after the few shots in his system, but he found that sleep evaded him to nervosity. There was this kind of sensation in his gut that told him something, somewhere, was terribly wrong. He felt like a frog in boiling water, slowly suffocating amidst a disaster he can't perceive.

He thought back to the multiple anomalous crossroad deals. Why would hell need so many souls out of a sudden? Dean knew that souls were the purest form of energy. That meant that the demons were stocking up. To do what, exactly?

That question only fed his worries more.

At some point, the phone slipped from his hand. He picked it up absentmindedly, and remembered why he took it out in the first place : He had meant to call John, or Sam at least, and ask if there had been any news. He couldn't get himself to do it. Pride, most likely.

'Like a bandaid, Dean.' He thought to himself. 'Off with it!' He clicked on the number quickly, before he could change his mind.

The phone rang once, and picked up on the second ring.
"Hello?" John's voice came through the other side, gruffier than usual.

"Oh, hey, did I, uh.. wake you up?" Dean cringed at his own attempt at civil conversation.

"No.. I mean, yes, but it's probably for the best, we're up soon at the queue anyway."

"The queue.. for what?" Dean racked his brain for any reason Dad might be in a queue at three in the morning. He didn't struggle much for an answer. "You're at the ER?" He groaned. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, Dean, thanks for asking." Dean rolled his eyes at his father's consistent need to make him feel guilty. "It's Sam. He hit his head pretty hard on a hunt, we're just checking to be safe."

"What?" Hearing Sam's name, Dean jumped. He stuck his phone between his ears and shoulder as he wore his jacket swiftly. "Which hospital?"

"He's going to be fine, I'll call you when we're done.."

"Fine, don't tell me." Dean gritted his teeth as he searched for his keys. He found them lodged between two pillows. Then he climbed down the window, not wanting to wake up Kevin to open the locked door. "I will look in each and every ER there is in this town." He paused for a second. "Tell me you're at least still in Lawrence?"

"It doesn't matter, Dean, just go ho-"

"I don't care, I'm still looking." Dean said as he swung a leg over his harley and revved her to life. "See you soon." He hung up, not waiting for an answer.

---

Dean found John in the waiting room of the third ER he checked. John sat alone between two bickering old women. As soon as he saw Dean, he left his chair and headed towards him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean said without niceties.

John sighed. "The nurse just took him in." A peculiar thing happened : the ever-confidrnt John looked away nervously. "Listen, we need to talk, but this isn't a conversation to be held here in a crowd.."

Dean fixed his green eyes on his father as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. "Fine. Smoke break?"

John glared, but he reached for one as they headed to the exit.

Once they were securely in the hospital's parking lot, Dean pulled out a lighter and lit both their cigrettes up.

They both took a deep drag.

"I just-" Dean started,
"I need to-" John said simultaneously.

Dean cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. "You, um. You go first."

"Right." John glanced at his son. "Listen, Dean, something's coming up with the demons. They're planning something.."

"Right!" Dean exclaimed in turn. "I've been meaning to tell you, I've been noticing those crossroad deals in remote parts of town so often.. shit like, four to five times this week.. yeah! Crazy numbers.. it's like they upped the production rate for an oncoming recession. I bet my bike that they're stocking up on souls to use the energy for something terrible."

"Right." John drawled out as he stared at his son. "And you.. stopped the demons before they claimed the souls.. did you?"

Dean spluttered. "I- I didn't.. I was pretty smashed..! Would you want me to fight a demon at a disadvantage?"

"You were drunk.. all four or five times?"

Dean frowned. "No, of course not! I just didn't have any weapons on me... you know, being in public and all!"

The cigarette was the only thing currently in John's hand, so smashing it on the floor didn't have much of an effect (other than wasting a perfectly good two thirds a cigarette). So instead, he compensated with his voice.

"Goddamn it Dean!" He yelled to Dean's barely contained flinch. "Have I taught you nothing? All your life I told you over and over, if you gotta be anything, better be prepared. And you were not prepared. Consistently. And as a result of you selfishness and cowardice multiple people not only lost their lives, but are damned to eternal suffering because of you. Their blood is on your stupid, dumbass, immature-"

"I don't wanna do this right now." Dean said in a shaky voice before he threw his cigarette and rushed back inside, only to bump into Sam as soon as he crossed the hospital doors.

Dean stood in front of his brother. He was wearing Dean's hand me down leather jacket, scruffy jeans and a shirt not nearly warm enough for the cold night. His forehead was bandaged, right under his hairline and his eyes seemed even smaller with sleep and exhaustion.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean said in a small voice. "It's me."

"Uh, sorry, who are you?" Sam said, paused for a frightening second then grinned. "Kidding." He said quickly, before his brother could freak out for real, and embraced Dean in a hug made awkward by their height difference. Dean hugged back, if a bit harder than he intended to.

"Dad told me what happned. What did the doctor say?"

"Just a teeny tiny concussion, nothing I can't handle with a little bit of sleep."

"Concussions aren't tiny." Dean groaned. "And you shouldn't sleep too much when you're recovering from a concussion. I'll call to wake you up every two hours, so don't freak out when I do. Did they prescribe you anything?"

"Uh, yeah—" Sam took out a couple of pill dispensers and shook them with glee.

"Good. Hide them from Dad or else he's gonna give them away." Dean said seriously. "And no more hunting until you get better."

"I feel better already!"

"Yeah, well-" Dean moved out of the way for a wheelchair user to pass by, "who's the current President of the united states?"

"I.... Obama?" Sam replied, unfortunately without a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Obama? Who the fuck even is that? That's it, no hunting for two weeks."

"Yeah, that's fair." Sam admitted.

"So I'll just-" Dean started,
"So are you-" Sam said simultaneously.

"Jesus fucking christ." Dean sighed. "You go first."

"It's pretty late, maybe you should come home. Just for the night. What do you say?" Sam said with a tiny, hopeful voice, and Dean felt like Sam was a kid again, his kid. And he sighed. 'Aw, man.' He thought. 'I'm gonna have to disappoint him again.'

"Maybe another time." He said as he patted his brother's shoulder and turned his back on his broken expression.

---

Sam walked into school with a 'headache of epic proportions'. An exaggerated account, obviously, but exhaustion and lack of sleep male Sam a real melodramatic.

He was taking his books out of his locker when the bell rang, a loud resonating sound that left vestiges of pain behind his eyes. Anyone who cared about their attendance jogged to their classes, including a girl with long shiny blond hair.

'You should pull it so she falls down,' a voice said in his head. 'And then you can pin her down, rip her top and ra-"

Sam quickly slammed the steel locker door on his fingers. It left a sharp pain and a red imprint, both due to fade in a few minutes.

Anyway.

Sam walked to class where he spent the rest of the school day, seeing doubles of everything. He couldn't wait for the day to be over so that he could go home and take a several hours long nap, his braincells be damned.

His hopes and dreams were crushed when he walked out of the school and saw the family car waiting for him in the parking lot.

What surprised him was seeing Dean sitting in the backseat of the car. Sure, he didn't look thrilled to be there, but he still was there.
Now how did that happen?

"The fuck you looking at, bitch?" Dean snapped. He was in one of his moods, which only meant he and Dad just had a hell of a screaming match. The theory was consolidated by Dean's red face and ruffled clothes.

As he sat down in the passenger seat, Sam thought he should keep the peace and shut up, be nice, but what came out instead was "Geez, you got a stick up your ass today, don't you?"

As soon as he said that, Dean jumped forward and pulled Sam's collar. "Watch your fucking mouth!"

"What are you, menstruating? Calm the fuck down!"

"Quit it!" John's yell silenced them both. "Jesus fucking christ, you're grown men bickering like toddlers. I better not see anymore of this behavior at Missouri's."

"Wait, we're going to Missouri's? What for?" Sam asked as the car revved into life and rolled away from the school.

"Stuff." John said after a beat.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, perplexed.

The drive to Missouri's felt elongated with anticipation and worry. Sam counted all the trees in his side of the road to help ease his mind. When they pulled up to the place, he was at 57. Odd number. Sam gulped, worried.

The two brothers were witness to an unusual sight when they entered the house. The blinds were all put down, shrouding the place in a darkness only lightly dissippated by a few candlelights.

"Something better come out of this, Winchester, if I'm including my mother and daughter." Missouri shook her head, hand holding her daughter's. Sam tossed a questioning look to the little girl, to which she shrugged.

Odette was already sat at the table, experienced hands engrossed in the mechanical task of knitting. Her eyes were unfocused, tired.

"Well," Missouri said curtly. "Let's get this started, yeah?"

John nodded curtly as he walked over by her side. Sam and Dean followed suit. John glanced up, and the confused sons followed his gaze to discover they had just walked out of a devil's trap.

John and Missouri looked at each other.
"That means nothing." John said. "We still don't know what takes and what doesn't on somebody like that."

"What the what does what on who?" Dean exclaimed impatiently. "Will somebody tell me what's going on?"

"Is this about the 'demonic son' business?" Sam said in air quotes. "Come on, dad, don't tell me you actually believe that! Demons lie!"

Dean turned around. "The what?"

John massaged his temple. "Just sit down! I'll tell you everything after we're done."

Dean's curiosity proved greater than his rebellious streak. He sat down, followed by Sam.

When John and Missouri went to the kitchen to bring some supplies, Sam leant into his brother's ear and whispered "Yesterday we caught a demon on a job and it told dad that apparently, one of us is demonic.."

"Demonic? What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"I have no idea!" Sam yell-whispered. "I thought it was bullshit but dad's been fixated on it ever since."

Dean nodded as John and Missouri returned to the table. Missouri sat next to Odette and seated Avery to her other side. John sat next to Odette, next to him was Dean, then Sam who was next to Avery. To Missouri's command, they all held hands in a circle.

A long time passed.. too long for the fidgety Dean. The itch on his nose was starting to drive him crazy when the Moseleys all opened their eyes in sync.

Candles were put out and away, lights turned on and prayers whispered in hushed tones. When everybody sat back down, Missouri put a gentle hand over her daughter's shoulder. "Avery, baby," the girl's eyes lifted, "Can you tell us what you saw?"

"There was a man with yellow eyes," at his mention, john perked up, "he was a.. a demon, and he was talking to other demons. Telling them what to do when he was gone, what to do when he was ready to come back.."

"Where did he go, sweetie?"

"He went to sleep." Avery gulped befoe she continued. "He was so tired from making a demonic child that he had to go to sleep for a long time."

Silence settled for a beat. "Thank you honey. Why don't you go to your room and play with your toys?"

The little girl shook her head vehemently, wrapping her arms around her mother's midriff. "Alright, alright.." the woman coaxed, "you can stay and watch tv and I'll let you sleep in my bed tonight, okay? I just have to speak to the Winchesters first."

Avery nodded. Missouri gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, sugar. Now go." Avery ran to the tv and turned it on. Cheery cartoon music played in the background as they continued discussing demonic business.

"It's bad, John." Missouri said. "The demons are preparing for his awakening. If he wakes, so will.. your son's demonic potential. By then it will be too late. And he's gonna wake up very, very soon."

"How soon?"

Missouri turned to her mother. Since they finished their seance, she had swiftly returned to knitting with the same mechanical precision, if with a little tremble.
"Mom?"

"Next full moon." Odette said calmly, before she got up with a creak of her chair and retreated slowly back to her room. The unfinished yarn project sat abandonned on the table.

"That's barely a week from now!" Dean exclaimed.

"Did you get a feel on which one's.. the one?" John said, ignoring his son.

Missouri shook her head. "I could feel the connection to the demon.. it's what we used to get this info, but I couldn't trace it back. There was some kind of interference.. always been any time I tried to find out. I'm sorry, John."

"Its fine, Missouri." John sighed and passed a hand over his face. "I've got a pretty good idea of who it is anyway."

Chapter 3: Ornery, scandalous and evil

Notes:

I was gonna post this on monday, but gosh dang life happened. Nothing drastic, just had a nightshift for the first time lol. Took the breath out of me fr

"You think.. you think it's me?" Dean spluttered indignantly. "On what grounds?"

"Well it's definitely not Sam!"

Dean scoffed in disbelief, an insincere smile on his face. "Well of course it's not Sam!" He mocked. "It's not the perfect child who reads his bible and prays everyday and.. and.. actually listens to every sermon, isn't that right?"

Sam retreated a little more into the background.

"Dean, you have to admit that you've had.. some particularities.. about you.."

"Yeah? Because I drink, and I get laid, and I don't listen to you, so I must be demonic! God, you are such a hypocrite.."

"You were a messed up child from the moment you gained consciousness!" John yelled out. "When you were a child, I always had to drag you into church screaming and kicking. You spat on bibles, you spewed blasphemy, laughing like it was nursery rhymes. You cursed out the nuns with words no toddler should ever know, and... All my life, I wondered why, why would you do that? Where did all this.. vicious hatred come from, and at such a young age! Now I still don't know for sure if this demonic soul spiel is real or not, but one thing I know for sure is that either way, your very soul is tainted and dirty."

A chuckle bubbled in Dean's throat, turning into full blown laughter. It did not reach his bleary, red rimmed eyes. John stared at his son, unsurprised disappointment etched on his face. Dean pointed a finger at his father. "You're insane."

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Dean climbed up his harley and took off, wind getting into his eyes, making his vision blurry. For a man he wasn't expecting much from, John had managed to pack quite a punch.

The floodgates on his heart were strained, threatning to burst. Tiny little Deans ran around in a panic, closing the gaps and holes and tiny little openings with duct tape. Little drops of emotion overflowed from the top of the dam, landing as tiny little tears on Dean's cheeks.

Wiping them hastily, Dean cursed his procrastination on still not buying a helmet after many long years of his ownership of the motorbike.

He drove around for a while before finding himself in front of the club he usually frequented. He parked his bike before entering. He was so done with John, so done with the demons, so done with Sam and the Supernatural and everything. He just needed to let go and forget.

One shot turned into two, turned into four, the alcohol drowning all his sorrow and miseries. Eventually, Dean found himself in some stranger's house party downing mystery drinks and snorting something or another off a coffee table. The substances mixed and matched, turning the already strobing lights around him into an even wilder light show.

Drunk with bliss, drowned in delight, Dean leaned on the couch and stared at the ceiling. The heavy bass of the song played was a soft earthquake that lulled him into further relaxation. He chuckled, the motion making vibrations opposite but synced to the bass of the music. He could almost see the undulations; perpendicular waves that met in the middle and formed square, chessboard-like formations.

Square waves. He vaguely remembered being a life guard at some point, telling schoolkids about those. Square waves were the result of two different currents meeting. Those currents, if met at opposing directions had no choice but to head in the only available direction : down. Anything and anyone caught in the "chessboard", as some called it, was in great danger of drowning, and possibly death.

He frowned at the sudden mention of death. With his hand, he brushed away the square waves formation, watching it dissipate into nothing.

With nothing else to look at, he pressed his eyes shut, digging his fingers into them like he used to do as a kid, and was delighted to find the desired effect. Neon colors exploded in his vision. They shifted before his very eyes, making beautiful, perfectly symmetrical patterns.

At some point or another, something else shot out from the far corner, an anomaly in the pattern. It disappeared as soon as he laid his eyes on it, but nevertheless left a feeling of dread deep in his guts.

After too many of those, Dean decided to get up and try staring at a wall instead. He shot up, too fast : his vision blurred and darkened. He blinked the blur away.

Right in front of him was a couple making out, and behind them was a door ajar. It opened little by little with a creak that somehow was louder than the noise of the party. Slowly, but surely, it revealed a deep darkness. Dean squinted, closing in on the door before it burst open in a sudden motion. A pair of brilliant yellow eyes and a wide smile came into focus.

Dean yelped and scrambled backwards. His heart was beating like a jackhammer, and his eyes couldn't be peeled from the sadistic yellow gaze. A deep panic shook his limbs as he fell over backwards out of the couch.

Soon he was on the floor between a tangle of legs in every direction. Shoes brushed against him, some even landing some pretty painful hits. Somebody tripped on his back, their heavy body tossing his neck in an uncomfortable position. Terror, claustrophobia and sheer insgnificance ran in his blood like a lost little child in a crowd too big.

Too weak to rise with his own power, and with no Father or Mother coming to pick him up from this scary new world, Dean resorted to crawling on all fours until he hit a clearing. He scrambled up, breathing a sigh of relief and looked back at the crowd.

Instead of seeing men and women drink, smoke, dance together and engage in various activities, they were all immobile, faces frozen in an angry expression, empty black eyes glaring at Dean. The bass kept on playing, and all lights seemed to turn to him as he shrunk under the terrifying and judgemental black eyes. A swooping fear bunched up in his stomach as the faces seemed to distort, reducing the spacetime continuum between them and himself until they somehow were all up in his face, all of them superposing into each other like glitched out video games graphics.

He stumbled backwards into a dark hallway, and as soon as the darkness engulfed him, the view shifted and all the party goers returned to normal. Dancing, chatting, using. He chuckled, shook his head and headed back in.

As soon as he was out of the hallway, the distorted black eyed faces were back at his nose, this time their mouths wide open; baring sharp teeth. Dean's blood ran cold, and he stumbled backwards on shaking knees. His back hit a door that gave way and he dropped on smooth bathroom tiles.

With a loud BAM, the door slammed shut by itself, shrouding Dean in darkness. Claustrophobia constricted his throat, and a primal terror overtook him when the yellow eyes and the sharp, too wide grin retuned. It grew bigger and bigger, as evil disembodied laughter rose around him. He scrambled up, back hitting a wall and turning the light switch on.

The yellow eyes and grin turned into wide red rimmed eyes, with green pupils and long eyelashes. The grin turned into chapped, dowturned lips. It took Dean's fogged up brain a second too long to recognize these features as his own reflection in the bathroom's mirror.

Then, the lights flickered, and the mirror showed a terrible reflection of Dean, with yellow eyes between dark veins and a wide mouth open in a silent scream, revealing multiple sets of sharp, bloody teeth.

Letting out a terrified scream, Dean held himself against the door.

Between one horrifying image and another, the door to the bathroom opened, and Dean pushed outside, into the hallway and inside the living room. He bumped into a blonde girl who seemed as dazed as he was.

He braced himself for the upcoming horror, waited in anticipation... but it never came. She smiled at him, he smiled at her. They both giggled before muscle memory kicked, and their hands found their way around each other and their lips to each other's faces.

They kissed until they reached the couch and he laid on top of her, still kissing. His lips left hers and slid down her neck and along her collarbone. He got down to the floor to be more comfortable, and when he raised his head with a smile, he found his mother's face smiling down at him. Something shattered between his ribs, the dams breakin, falling apart in an enormous shower of mud and dirt and grime. His glistening eyes welled up with tears. Her hands reached and cupped his face as tears streamed down.

His hands shifted and he sprung up and held her tightly, suffocating his sobs on her crop top. She froze, but soon passed a hand through his hair. His sobs increased in intensity, and all the hurt and pain he had shelved since the age of four spilled out of him. The grief, the abandon, the love, some of the hate, too.

"I-I'm sorry.. I'm-I'm so sorry. Pl- Please- Please- Please.. mama, I love you." He cried, hiccupping sobs breaking his speech into pained fragments. "I-I love you-you, so-so much.. please don't- don't leave me again."

"Shhh, darling." she cooed. "Mommy's here.."

He hugged her even tighter, if possible, before she continued. "...that is, if you still want me?"

Dean sniffled and chuckled. "Of- of- course I want you. I've always wanted you." His voice shook. "I miss- I missed you, mama."

"Did you? After all, it wasn't a coincidence that the second you turned four— the second you stopped needing me; I had a demon sicced on me, is it?"

Dean froze, brain sluggishly trying to understand the implication. He lifted his head out of her shirt, and looked at Mary. Her face was now a pale grey, green in patches with rot. Her smile was bloody, her eyes glassy and grey. Her bony fingers ran through his hair, dropping chunks of rotted flesh on his scalp. He held her tighter even as she started to fall apart.

"You killed me Dean." She said, smile unwavering. "Your dirty soul commanded it. And what demon was brave enough to refuse a direct order from their King?"

"No, no that's not true!" Dean shook his head vehemently, more tears spilling out. "I- love you.. I -I would never do that! Pl- Please!"

"Dean! It's fine!" She said with a small chuckle. "I'm waiting for you in hell, where you belong. Where all abominations like you belong."

Dean shook his head, sobs hiccuping up and down his throat. He stumbled backwards, got up with a sway, and left the house.

---

Dinnng, diiing, diing...

'Who, the fuck,' Sam thought as he lifted his head, eyes squinted in exhaustion looking for the clock, 'is here at four in the fucking morning?'

The answer hit him in it's clarity like a freight train. Dean. Of course it's Dean. Who else?

"Sam!" John's gruff voice, addled with sleep ordered. "Go 'et the door!"

Letting out a string of expletives, Sam freed his legs from the tangle of blankets before he stomped to the door and opened it.

It was Dean, alright, but he was unlike any state he's ever seen him in before. Sam's eyes widened, sleep officially knocked off of them.

Dean was.. a mess. His clothes were disheveled, mysterious stains everywhere, even torn at some places. His eyes were red, his irises blown out even with the bright hallway light shining directly into them.

But most importantly, Dean was crying. He was going full hiccup sobs as he wiped his tears with his sleeve. Pathetic whines escaped him from time to time, adding to the stumping image.

Sam froze. "Uh, Dad!" He called out tentatively.

Heavy steps resounded behind him, then abruptly stopped. "Dean?"

Dean dropped to his knees. "I-I'm a monster dad-dad... please- please... help me... I-" He sniffled and reached out to hold on to his father's robes. "I'm dirty and-and I-.. Mom.. she's- because of me!"

John stood there, frozen with shock. Dean buried his face in John's robes, whimpering. "Do whatever-" he sniffled, taking a deep breath before letting it out slowly out of his mouth. "whatever it takes... Save me!"

Chapter 4: Penitence

Summary:

The Winchesters begin the race against time to save Dean's soul.

Notes:

So.... you know what happens to a fic when people don't comment like... at all? It gets forgotten.... that's how I forgot to update for a month even though this chapter and the next 6 chapters have been written since forever..oops? Like I literally forgot that i was actually posting this lmfao.

Genuinely im not trying to be like "im holding the next chapter hostage until we reach x comments".
If this fic has no readers, that's perfectly fine with me. Its just that if you guys are actually here and do want regular updates, maybe let me know you exist?

3 years ago

A 14 years old Sam saw his life as a weird sort of limbo.

He was a high school student. He was part of an ill-kept secret supernatural hunting organization. He was his dad's best friend. He was his brother's son. Those things are not mutually exclusive .

(if they are, he firmly pretends otherwise. If Allison sheffield in the third story apartment can manage to have a fullfilling career and be a good mother to her six children, then he can be those things at once, damn it!)

His father is a widower, but he still somehow feels like a child of divorce, split at the seams. Today is Dean's day; he picks him up from school in his new harley that he bought last week. She is shiny, she is new, she is glowing. Sam's not sure how Dean affords her. He won't ask Dean. Too afraid of the truth.

Together, Dean and the Harley look straight out of a youth magazine. The ill-groomed-but-still-attractive white badboy with a vehicle he cherishes more than the pupil of his eye. He wears sunglasses and a leather jacket, and his breath reeks of smoke when he leans in for a hug and a hair ruffle.

A hug is not the usual protocol for picking up from school. Sam recoils, but the excitement of riding a motorbike for the first time ever overrides his concerns.

It's... harsher than he expects. They both ride without helmets, of course, and the strong wind blinds and deafens Sam. Anything not straight ahead is a fleeting blur, and anything that isn't as loud as a jet is overpowered by the roar of the wind at high speeds. Dean says something. "What?" Sam's own voice is lost in the noise. Dean doesn't repeat himself. He simply laughs and goes faster with a loud revv. Dust enters Sam's eyes and he closes them shut for the rest of the way.

When the journey is over, Sam lets go of his iron grip around Dean's waist and starts rubbing the dust out of his eyes. When he opens them, he doesn't recognise the place they're in. After a few seconds of adjusting, he realizes they're parked in front of a motel.

"Dean, what's this? Where are we?"

"Just.." Dean jogged ahead of him. "Follow me, It'll all make sense."

----

Sam and Dean sat on the pews as the church filled out, waiting for the confessional priest to arrive.

Confession. That was the first step in Dean's deep cleanse. It was a light first approach before they bring out the heavy duty rituals.

Dean smelled of cigarettes, a testimony to the nervous chainsmoking the Winchester family was subject to at the breakfast table. He was even still dressed in yesterday's crumpled clothes.

"So, uh, Sam." Dean said tentatively, leg bouncing up and down with nervosity. "You.. you good?"

Sam interrupted his prayer and drew the cross on himself before he replied "yeah."

"How's school going?"

"It's fine. I'm getting by."

"That's not good." Dean frowned. "Last time I checked you were getting straight As?"

"Still do, still do." Sam reassured him. "I'm just sick of it. Can't wait to get out of high school."

"That bad, huh." Dean paused. "Sent out any college applications?"

"Yeah, tons." Unsure what to do with his hands, Sam started doing and undoing a button in his shirt. "Sent out to Stanford, Columbia, Princeton... most of the ivy leagues, really. And then some community colleges all around.. you know, as a precaution if I don't get in any of the universities I want or if I don't get any scholarships.."

"Wow. Those are all pretty far from here, you know?"

"Well, duh," Sam gave a nervous chuckle.

"What do you mean, duh?" Dean frowned at the response. "You couldn't pick something that's near? Like, in the same state? Are they too lowly for you?"

"What?" Sam turned to face him, frowning. "What are you talking about? Where is this coming fr-"

"Dean!" Father John interrupted the conversation. "Father Roy is waiting for you at the confession booth."

---
3 years ago :

Dean leads Sam into a motel room. There are two beds, one suitcase on top of each. Sam's heart sinks as he recognizes his own clothes poking out of one's badly closed zipper.

"Dean..." he gulps. "What's going on?"

"A good thing, Sammy! A good thing is going on." Dean puts an arm over Sam's tense shoulders. "We are getting away."

Sam's eyes widen, and he retreats away from Dean, staring incredulously up at him as realisation dawns.

"Dad kicked you out?"

Dean turns his head away in momentarily shame.

"A-are you sure? I bet he's just mad, he doesn't mean it. He never means it—"

"I think this time is it, Sam. He's sick of us."

Sam scoffs, indignant. "Of you! I didn't do anything!"

"Well, he hates me! How much longer do you think before he hates you as well?"

Something inside Sam lurches at the thought, and his hands start shaking violently. Would Dad do that?

"Dean.. I-.. I can't.."

"Can't or won't?"

"Does it matter?" Sam exclaims. "Look at us! You're barely an adult and I'm in middle school! Who's gonna take care of us? Who's gonna feed us and.. and.. clothe us and keep me in school?"

"I will!" Dean replied, pointing to himself. "I can get a job, any job-"

"Will you?" Sam interrupts. His questioning look is enough to spell out the unspoken part. You're reckless. You're flakey. You're unreliable. You won't do it.

"Gosh, Sammy," Dean stomps, exasperated, "have a little faith in me, will you?"

"I- I'm sorry, Dean," he gulps down his guilt, "this is too much to ask."

Sam sidesteps Dean, grabs his bag and leaves.

He hitches a ride back to Lawrence, back to a clueless, cooling father.

After that fiasco, Dean shows back up in town about two weeks later. In the third week, Sam's picking up schedule returns to normal up until he is transferred to a school that is a walkable distance away.

Life goes on.

---

Dean rolled his eyes before he got up and headed towards the confession booth.

The tiny space was a lot smaller than he remembered. Through the wooden separator he could see the priest's shaded side profile.

It took Dean a moment to remember the procedure. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

"May God help you to confess your sins."

"Well, I..." Dean thought for a moment. Then another. Then another. "I guess. I guess I'm sorry for.." he grimaced as he shrugged. "...pissing dad off?"

"Yes, disobedience to a parent is a sin." The priest said patiently. "What did you do that, ah, infuriated your father?"

He thought about it. Why was he and John constantly at odds? He thought back to their fight at the hospital, when John got mad because Dean wouldn't carry a concealed weapon at all times, which is ridiculous. Unpermitted Concealed carry was a federal crime.

He also got mad at him for knocking up Sister Constance, which is also an insane thing to be mad at him about; they're both consenting adults, and she was the one who gave a vow to the church. Not him.

Maybe because he stays out most nights and rarely shows up at home? John should be grateful he sees his mug anymore at all. If it weren't for Sam, Dean would've moved out and disappeared completely.

Is it because he does drugs sometimes..? Now, now that's not fair. He needs his little something occasionally to help deal with life, right? Everybody has their little something that helps them get through the year, or month, or week.. right? Everybody gets to pick their poison, why doesn't he get to pick his?

"Bullshit reasons!" He exclaimed, righteous fury coursing through his veins. "It's all bullshit reasons, goddammit!" He stormed out of the chamber, stomping.

"Dean! What is this?" John, who was waiting outside, yelled as he walked up to him.

John stood in front of Dean. He tried to dart right, but John sidestepped. Tried to dart left, but John was again fast in blocking Dean and pushing him backwards. It was a scene right out of a high school fight.

"This is dumb!" Dean waved back the confession cubicle. "I have nothing to confess or.. or apologize for!"

"Dean, quit your games and get back in there-"

"To do what? I've done nothing wrong." Dean interrupted with a humorless laugh. "And if you don't think so, feel free to go inside and confess on my behalf!"

Enraged, John grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and shook him. "Don't play with me, boy. Get back in there or I swear to God, I'll beat your ass."

Dean smirked. "Language, dad? We're in a church."

"Dean," John said with a determined voice. "I don't give a shit. You will do as I say or I will fuck you up, Goddamnit!"

Sam emerged from behind a wall and didn't hide nearly fast enough for Dean to miss him. "You!" He snarled. "You're the one who should be here! You owe me the apology and the confession!"

John frowned and leaned in to take a sniff. "For God's sake, Dean, are you on someth-"

With a particularly sudden jerk, Dean shrugged off John and headed towards Sam who was retreating to the wall, eyes wide.

"I raised you! I took care of you! And when push came to shove all those years ago, you picked Dad!" At this moment, Dean's voice broke. "I was gonna leave everything for you.. I picked you! I-"

"Did you?" Sam roared, clenching his fist. He straightened his spine and towered over Dean. "Did you pick me? Would you have left everything for me? Would you have quit all your drugs and drinking? God.. Dean, you were an addict. Still are! for God's sake, look at you! You're high right now!"

"That's- that's not true." Dean gulped. "Shut up."

"That's it with you," John swooped in and grabbed Dean's arms firmly. "You've embarassed me enough today. Let's go."

John's firm grip lead Dean out of the church and towards the impala. Sam paled as his mind immediately went to assume the worst. After a few moments of frozen confusion, he followed them. "Where are you taking him?" He asked, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.

"Calm down, Sam, killing him is strictly last resort. We're not there yet."

"I'm right here!" Dean exclaimed.

A knot in Sam's chest loosened, but he was still just as nervous. "O-Okay, where are we taking him then?"

-----

Bobby's bunker was a sturdy place. Lined with two feet of concrete, a couple inches of iron, and clad with multiple sigils and devil traps, it was the peak image of impenetrablility.

John shoved Dean inside and locked the door.

"Don't look at me like that, Sam." John sighed. "Whatever it takes. We'll save him."

Sam nodded curtly. John ushered him upstairs.

While Sam spent the entire day pacing around Bobby's property, John was busy either running errands for supplies, or whatever rituals or lectures he did downstairs with Dean.

Eventually, when the sky started to darken, Sam returned to Bobby's house. He found him and John sitting around a table with piles of books and papers on top of it. He tried to slip by unnoticed, but John saw him and called out to him.

"It's good you're here now, we were just talking about Dean."

"John.."

"It's fine, Bobby, he's a big boy. He can handle this."

"Alright, I'll leave you guys to it." Bobby sighed as he got up and left.
Sam reluctantly took a seat at the table.

"So.. you know what I've been doing today?"

Sam nodded.

"Good, so uh, Dean's sober. And he won't start going into withdrawal until tomorrow morning at least, so I tried to fit in as much cleansing rituals as I could today. Of course, we probably won't know if any of them work until the next full moon, but that's..." John broke off trying to find the word, before he changed course altogether. "We'll try to give him as much space as possible for the next couple of days, at least until the agitation subsides. This.. forced detox won't be easy for any of us, but it's going to be an especially difficult time for Dean. I need you to be patient with him, be considerate.... listen, if he does or says something out of line during this period : do not take it to heart. I count on you to help me get through these hard times."

"Yes, sir. You can count on me." Sam nodded absentmindedly.

"This isn't all."

The air seemed to still around them as dread pooled in Sam's chest.

"There's a very real possibility that.. we don't find the right ritual soon enough.. that the full moon arrives and Dean turns Darkside. I-" John's voice caught suddenly. He took a deep breath before he continued shakily. "We.. might have to kill him. It's for the greater good, Sammy, do you understand?"

Sam's mouth felt dry and his eyes wet. He nodded.

"Don't nod, I need you to say it. Say you understand, Sammy, please." There was a foreign look in John's eyes, one that almost looked like desperation. Sam wanted to fold in on himself, close his eyes shut and force that vulnerable side of an alien John out of his memory.

"I- I understand."

"Thank you."

The father and son remained silent at the table. John pulled out a gun and started cleaning it, keeping busy, while Sam picked up a book he pretended to read. But really, his mind was racing. As much as he tried to reassure his father, Sam actually had no idea if, push comes to shove, he would be able to kill Dean. Hell, he didn't even know if he'd allow it to happen, if he wouldn't take the bullet for him, world and greater good be damned! Because what is a world without his brother in it?

It's strange, really. For the last few years Sam's world lacked Dean a lot. He saw him less and less often, and so far he has been okay with that. But the thought of a world permanently devoid of Dean sent a panic down his spine, and he knew, right then and there, that he would do anything and everything to keep him safe. He'll pay every price, break every rule, shatter every heart. Whatever it takes.

Chapter 5: Harvest moon

Summary:

The full moon comes to illuminate.

Dean laid on the cot, staring at the concrete roof. Sleep evaded him, slipping out as soon as he seemed to be able to catch it. He wasn't surprised in the least. After all, he knew almost exactly what would happen in the next few days, if not weeks. He had heard the horror stories. The worst pain of your life, they had said. The drugs are a clingy bunch, they are. They flush out of your system kicking, screaming and biting.

He'd heard about the deaths, the near deaths, and the long stays at the ER. The tears, the agonizing pain, the hallucinative episodes. The symptoms varied from one person to another, but the one thing everybody agreed on :

It was going to get much, much, worse before it gets better.

Already feeling the slight dizziness, Dean braced himself for what's to come.

Come midnight, Dean was starting to nurse a fiery migraine. Sleep was a distant memory, an abandonned hope already forgotten. His shaking limbs barely registered as he wrapped them around himself, bracing from the cold and chills.

Several hours later, in what he assumed was morning, a plate of food and water was slipped under his door. He ate some of it, stomach turning once he'd reached half, before it clenched and threw his breakfast right back up.

It was the first and last time he attempted to eat.

The next few days flew by in a flurry of pain, ache, and chills. Dean had, many times a night, cried, screamed, begged for release until his throat went raw and dry. He called for John, for Sam, for God; his old frenemy. He prayed, for the first time in years, for just an inkling of sleep to chase the pain away, to try to survive. He was so, so unbelievably tired, but each and everytime he closed his eyes, moisture he couldn't afford overflowed, forcing them open and conscious.

Finally, eyes red and wild, shaking hands bruised and holding onto each other in a desperate beggar's fist; Dean begged for death.

It was then, that the door to his cage opened, a heavenly light seeped through.

Was it real? Or was it a figment of his exhausted mind's imagination?

Either way, every function in his body halted with relief, and he crashed down, finally falling asleep.

-----

The three Winchesters woke up that day with a lump in their throats.

That night was the full moon. That night they would find out if their efforts gave purchase or if it had all been for nothing. That night was going to be either [stronger world for relief] or a death sentence/grief/mourning.

The last purification ritual had to be done on hallowed ground, so Dean was finally freed from his subterranean prison.

He looked.. terrible. Sam stared in shock at the state of his brother. Deep bags nestled under his eyes, their whites red with insomnia. He was pale, his lips dry and short hair greasy. Visibly a few pounds skinnier, he was almost indistinguishable from the man he'd seen last time. Dread sinking in his gut, Sam dug his nails into his palm. 'What have we done to you?' He thought desperately.

Their eyes met, and Dean gave a small smile before he climbed up the stairs, heading towards the bathroom for a much needed shower, leaving John and Sam in the bottom of the stairs.

"His eyes..." John started suddenly.

Sam turned sharply.

"They're sparkling again. He's back to us, Sammy." John smiled. "The real Dean is back with us."

Sam froze for a moment, whiplash evident in his face. He schooled his expression, before nodding. "Yeah."

When John climbed up the stairs, Sam took the opportunity to swiftly pick up a gun, secure it in his waistband before he followed.

---

By nightfall, the Winchesters were starting to wear out. They've been trying all kinds of rituals on Dean, and nothing seemed to work, or at least give any indication that it might have.

John was already more irritated than usual, getting more snappish by the second. Dean, however, sat in exhausted silence, waiting for John's next command. As for Sam, he ran all the errands with an unusual enthusiasm, seemingly taking any chance he could get to be elsewhere.

"Boys," John said eventually. "It's almost midnight. All we have left is this one, final ritual. It's all we got before we know for sure if we failed or succed. Sam? Dean?"

When the brothers got closer, John heaved a deep sigh. His features softened as he looked over them both with a rarely seen vulnerability. Finally, he reached out and wrapped them in one final hug.

After that, Dean settled in the middle of a devil's trap, wrists bleeing into a bowl. He dipped his index and middle finger into the blood, then drew the cross on himself, muttering a prayer.

As Sam watched from afar, leaning on a wall, John circled the limits of the devils trap, an old leather bound book open between his hands. He read incantations, alternating between Armaic and Latin. The full moon ran it's regular course in the sky, and just as John finished the ritual, the three looked at the gigantic stained glass window and found it nestled in the middle of the sky.

Dean closed his eyes, praying, and John and Sam stared at him with bated breath.

In his mind, Sam replayed the worst case scenario over and over. The cleansing rituals don't work, Dean becomes the monster he's meant to be, and then Sam would have to make a choice.

Glancing down at the glistening metal beneath his shirt; Sam's resolve hardened.

Sam held his hands together in a silent prayer, mind hyper aware of the gun at his waist, readying to draw it push come to shove... The silence of the night set the anticipatory scene aflame as it highlighted the rush of blood in his ears, the strong drum of his heart reverberating through his ribcage and skull. His hands, still clasped together, shook with vigor.

Isn't that too much for nervosity?

"Dean? Do you feel anything?" John's voice sounded distant, far away.

"Uh, nothing so far. Should I..."

A shrill ringing sound split Sam's skull and his vision doubled for a second before returning to normal. His heartbeat suddenly picked up, as if jump started, just as he heard a clap of thunder shake the building. The thunder died out, but the shaking didn't stop. Objects rattled with the movements, doors going back and forth around their hinges.

John and Dean swayed, as if they lost their footing for a second, but Sam felt none of that. How did he not feel any of that...?

Sam looked down to realize that he was levitating. The building shook with even more strength, like a proper earthquake. Objects jumped into the air and launched themselves into opposing walls. Every cross shook vigorously as it came undone and fell to the floor, each and every one of them landing upside down. Glancing at a nearby window, Sam caught his reflection. His clothes were the same, his terrified face was the same, his hair was the same length, but his eyes shone a bright, bright yellow.

John and Dean were yelling something at him, their voices lost in the noise of it all. 'Oh, God.' He thought, frantic, almost hyperventilating. 'Oh God, oh, no.' The dreadful dots connected. 'It's me, it's always been me. I'm the monster.'

His father and brother's voices barely reached him now, getting seemingly further and further with each passing second. Panic and shame pooled in his gut; he couldn't face them right now, he just couldn't. He landed, if a bit clumsily, and turned around to the door. 'I'd rather be anywhere but here.' He thought. 'I can't be here!'

And so he was somewhere else.

Notes:

Its short, I know I know :( i'll post the next way soon tho

Chapter 6: Tourniquet

Notes:

Hi..... so I wanted to post this by friday, but uhhh. Let's just say finals suck. Yeah... sorry yall. i promise do have this prewritten, I just needed some time to edit it (mostly to removed my own notes to myself... hehehe) and hey, it's still Monday in my timezone so im "technically" earlier than my usual tuesday posting schedule!

"Where is he?" Dean and John looked at each other, eyes frantic and wide. "Did you.. did you see... where did he go?"

Dean ran to the threshold, looking at both sides of the road. He paced back and forth as his nails found themselves between his teeth. "Oh, God. Oh, Sammy... Fuck!"

"Dean!" John's deep voice roared. "We should go look for him. You take the eastern side of town, and I'll take the west."

Dean nodded curtly before he made his way towards his harley. Shaking hands fumbled with the ignition.

"Call me the second you see him!" John yelled before he entered the impala and drove away.

Dean remained for a while on his motorcycle. Breaths hitching up and down. His face nestled between his hands as his panic reached a paroxysm and he burst into tears. The outburst lasted half a minute tops, before Dean wiped his face on his bloody sleeve and drove into the busy street.

"Sam!" Dean yelled into narrow alleys, peeked through [glass facades of stores?], to no avail. His heartrate picked up the more he looked and roamed.

Lightning illuminated the sky and thunder rolled a few moments later. Lightning, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, thunder. Lightning, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat thunder. An irritating pattern knocking on the back of Dean's mind.

In a moment of inspiration, Dean hit the brakes suddenly. He lifted his head, looking at the sky. This freaky, windy but rainless storm had begun the moment the full moon settled in the middle of the sky; the moment Sam's nature revealed itself. Lightning. beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, thunder. Five seconds, that's a mile, give or take. The center of the storm, Sam, was a mile away, give or take.

But in which direction?

Dean picked a direction at random and drove down that road. About a mile in, the telltale lightning struck, but thunder took twice as long to roll in. Groaning, Dean turned the harley around and drove at top speed.

After this particularly unfun game of cold/warm, Dean finally settled on a direction that seemed right. Eventually, the sea started appearing on the horizon, then the docks, then the beach and the railing that separated sandy rocks from solid, concrete ground.

That's when the path of destruction appeared; turned over cars, cracks in the asphalt roads, lampposts bent towards the dock–their lights flickering and sputtering.

Then, alone, leaning on that railing, was a tall figure shrouded in shadow.

Tossing the motorcycle aside, Dean ran up to Sam. Lightning struck again, bouncing harmlessly off a rock, and illuminating Sam's tear stricken face.

"Sammy!" Dean cried out. Sam turned lightly before he turned back and started walking away. "C'mon!"

"Go away, Dean!"

"Come home, Sam, please! We'll help you! Dad and I will do all-"

"Help me?" Sam exclaimed as thunder roared simultaneously, magnifying the rage and desperation of his voice towards the heavens. "There is no helping me here! You heard the Moseleys, it's too late!"

A choked sob escaped from his throat as he held his sleeve up to his eyes.

Dean stepped forward, but Sam stepped back and away. "There's only one thing I can do.." He said as he lifted his shirt, reached out to his waistband and pulled out a handgun.

Dean cursed and leapt towards Sam. "Put it down, Sam. Let's talk."

Sam walked further back, shaking his head as tears streamed down his face. Dean's heartrate picked up, and he jumped at Sam to snatch the gun out his hand, but he dodged.

"Stop!" Sam yelled out as he stumbled back. Dean set to follow, but he was frozen in place by a strange force. His feet were stuck to the ground, his arms unresponsive by his sides.

He had no choice but to watch what happened next.

"I gotta do what needs to be done." Sam sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "For what it's worth, I love you. Tell Dad I love him too. I'm sorry."

Dean wanted to shout, but he couldn't move his mouth one inch. The storm intensified, and the world came to a halt.

Sam flicked the safety off, put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The storm stopped at once and Dean's body came unlocked. Sam laid on the ground, blood splatter a crimson halo around his face. Dean fell to his knees and crawled towards Sam. He cradled his head to his lap, shock shaking his hands like leafs in the wind. He brushed back Sam's hair and felt bits of brain stick to his fingers.

Dean felt like his life ended at that very moment.

Or at least, he did, until Sam opened his eyes, bright yellow irises.

Dean cried out and flinched back. Sam sat up, looked around, seemingly dazed, before sharpness of mind returned and his eyes widened. "Fuck!" He cursed loudly.

-----

If exploding his brain didn't manage to kill him, at least it made Sam less freaked out and more willing to talk things out. Not by a lot, but still.

The two sat on the ground, backs to the raging sea. Sam hugged his knees and buried his face between them. The noise of the crashing waves eased the silence.

"Listen, uh- Sam." Dean started, impatient. "This is obviously something we didn't expect, and, uh, it's completely me and dad's fault for not anticipating it. Nothing's on you, right? So don't try anything, me and dad got this, yeah? We.. we're gonna fix you. And- And no more pulling that stunt you just did there, okay?"

"What's the point? It didn't work anyway."

Dean stared at Sam, almost like he didn't expect him to speak so soon, before he schooled his expression, scoffing.
"Well thank God for that. What the fuck were you thinking? It was a terrible idea!"
"Tell me about it. I regretted it the moment I pulled the trigger. This sucks.. no, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me." He rambled aimlessly. "I mean... Of course I'm not gonna like it! I'm not suicidal, I- I just... it just felt like the right thing to do... like, for fuck's sake, Dean!" Sam cried. "I'm a- I'm basically a demon. I'm a monster. Going by everything you and Dad taught me, I should be killed on sight!"

"Come on, you know we.." Dean waved his hand back and forth between them "...hunters aren't that bad. You know better than me that we only follow trails of bodies. Do you have a trail of bodies?"

"Other than myself?"

"Too soon, you fucking asshole." Dean deadpanned, remembering the pure feeling of dread back when he thought Sam was truely dead.

"It's too soon to tell. Who knows if in two weeks time I'll go on a blood thirsty rampage?"

"Do you have murderous tendencies right now?"

"Not particularly."

"Then you're fine. We'll go home, and we'll figure it out, together."

Sam sighed. "Fine."

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat before he turned to the side and spit a bloody chunk of flesh.

Dean, wisely, ignored that.

"Do you wanna go home now?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet."

Dean nodded before resting his head on the wall behind him. "Is it because of Dad?"

Sam made a so-and-so gesture, but he sighed "Yes."

Dean nodded again. "Let me guess," he said, "You feel like he's gonna see you and he's just gonna glare at you, all judgemental, disappointed."

Sam stayed silent.

"But you've gotta remember, Sammy, you never chose this. You never saw it coming, just like we didn't, alright? Again, You've done nothing wrong-"

"I might've." Sam whispered. "Known, I mean."

Dean opened his mouth, but no sound came about. He closed it before he collected his thoughts and tried again, with the calmest voice he could muster, "What do you mean?"

"I mean.. I never knew for sure what was wrong.. but ever since I was little, very little, I knew there was something wrong with me. This feeling of alienation, wrongness that's always there... it's hard to describe..." Sam glanced away. "One of my earliest memories was from when I was, what, 3 or 4? You were reading to me... "Knights of the round table", and there were all of king Arthur's knights, they were all in this holy quest... and I remember looking at this picture of sir Galahad, and he was kneeling with light streaming over his face... and I remember thinking..." Sam paused. "I remember thinking : I could never go on a quest like that, because I'm not clean."

"Shit, Sam, that's.." Dean stared off at the distance, "that's heavy."

"Tell me about it." Sam laughed a little. "Sometimes, it felt like everybody else knew something I didn't... like they could tell I was.. off and treated me accordingly."

"Shut up." Dean threw his head back indignantly. "What are you talking about? Everybody likes you."

"Everybody likes the idea of me," he corrected gently. "When faced with me is another story entirely. You don't see everything, Dean. You never have."

The two sat in silence, the crash of waves against the rocky beach the only noise around. The street in front of them was empty, with only a couple of stray dogs going in and out at a time. After a few minutes, one of them drifted and came close to the harley. Dean watched as it sniffed it around before it lifted one hind leg.

"Hey!" Dean leaped at once. He ran up to the motorcycle. The dog shrieked and ran away. "Fucking strays."

Dean turned to see Sam standing right behind him. A barely contained flinch escaped Dean's spine. "We should go home." Sam said in a tired voice as he rubbed one eye with his fist. "I can't keep my eyes open any longer."

-----

The Winchester residence was empty. Dean looked around before he realized : "Oh, crap, I forgot to call Dad. He's probably still looking for you...."

It was at this moment that they heard the lock being fumbled with, then the door opening. Sam and Dean stopped in their tracks.

"Dad."

"Sam."

"Dad."

"Dean."

An awkward silent settled. John cleared his throat. "Uh, so you found your brother. Why didn't you call me?"

"I was just about to, I promise.."

"You've certainly taken your sweet time to do it! I told you to call me the second you see him, is that so hard to understand?" John chastised. "And you, where'd you run off to? Huh? Why'd you run off, anyway? I was scared out of my mind already! I didn't need that too!"

"I needed some time al-"

"And what's all this blood on your clothes... jesus christ, what did you two do again?"

Dean looked at Sam, leaving him the floor.

"I- I fell and busted my head open. It's nothing."

Something in John's gaze softened at Sam's words. His shoulders deflated as he heaved a sign. "Come here, son. Let me see how bad is it."

Sam paled. He reached out to the back of his head- the would-be exit wound, and felt closed skin and hair follicles. "It's not there anymore."

The tension returned to John's shoulders. "Excuse me?"

"It disappeared." Dean took over for Sam, who looked like he was going to fall over. "It's part of his... thing. He doesn't... hurt easy."

"I see."

Sam nodded curtly, turning to Dean. "I'm taking first shower."

As Sam left, Dean took off his jacket and sat on the kitchen table. He poured a little bit of salt from the salt shaker in his cleaner palm and licked it. It helps keep him awake and focused. Or at least, that's what he tells anybody who ever asks.

John sat on the nearest chair. "So?"

Dean shrugged. "So?"

"How is he, is he... changed?"

"Yes, he's changed. Of course he's changed. But where it matters, here," Dean points to his head, "and here," to his heart, "is still the same. He's still our Sammy."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am i- of course I'm sure! I mean for fuck's sake-"

"Come on, Dean, you can't blame me for asking... you heard the prophecies.. you heard the talk! If my son's turned into someone else, someone... evil..! I'd wanna know about it!"

"Shhh! He could hear you, you know?" Dean hissed furiously. "Sam isn't evil. He's just Sam. He's still Sam. He's still the sweet little kid we raised. Do you understand?"

John passed a hand over his face. "This has been a long day for everybody. We'll talk more about it in the morning. Okay?"

John left without waiting for an answer.