Supernatural 1. Luckier Than Most

Luckier Than Most

**Episode: Time After Time, S 7 E 12, AU**

**A/N: While I liked Ness' advice, something Dean needed to hear, especially from his idol, it also made me wonder what would've happened if they'd stayed in the car a little longer. Here's my version of what happened.**

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><p>"Boo hoo, cry me a river you Nancy. Tell me, are all hunters as soft as you in the future? Everybody loses everybody and then one day, boom! Your number's up, but at least you're making a difference. So enjoy it while it lasts kid, hunting's the only clarity you're going to find in this life. That makes you luckier than most."<p>

The silence between the two men lengthened to the point of Elliot wanting to take a drink again. He didn't understand this dark hunter – a snort at the dramatic wording, yet still perfectly apt – because hunting was fun. Well, maybe not precisely _fun_ in the accepted sense of the word, but enough so he could get up each morning and attend his nine to five job hoping with each new case, a supernatural reason would be the cause for investigation.

It was the little things.

Dean Winchester was the strangest and most complicated person he'd ever encountered. If even a tenth of his stories were true, the future seemed grim indeed, though Elliot did feel a wistful pang at being stuck here in the boring 40s – current god nonwithstanding – while the real hunting happened years after his death. It was enough to gnash his teeth at the unfairness of Fate.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, dude."

_Dude? _ Elliot mouthed, but didn't bother breathing life into the word. It was more of the odd terminology this time traveler used; the words he spoke were easily translatable, but not always understood within the context of his usage.

"It might seem girly for me to whine about losing everyone I love, but when you've seen the most important people in your life die, become a ghost, or resurrect time and again, it gets tiresome. Plus, narrowly averting Armageddon or watching as your best fucking friend unleashes something worse than Hell on Earth…"

Dean 's rough voice smoothed out and trailed off as he shifted to look out the window. Elliot was sure he saw the glimmer of moisture in his eyes, but felt compelled to stay silent. Everyone came into the life for one reason or another – though it did seem a high proportion were victims of supernatural attacks – but he himself didn't have a sob story, and since he tended to act alone, he rarely interacted with any of his kind. Hell, until Dean, he didn't even realize there _were _more of his kind; he'd gone so long between hunter sightings, he was beginning to think he was the last one.

"I still say you're acting like a goddamn Nancy. Don't you know, life's a bitch and then you die?"

Dean started, whipping his head around in shock as his idol repeated the same phrase and motto he'd lived by for most of his life.

"What did you say?"

Elliot heaved a sigh and then repeated his last words

"_Dude,_ that's awesome!"

The older hunter shook his head at the enthusiasm suddenly pulsing through his companion. He was exhausted just trying to keep up with the mercurial moods of one Dean Winchester, unaware he was just one more in a long line of people heaving the same weary sigh and rolling their eyes in exasperation. Either way, somehow his words got through the younger man and when their quarry made his move, Dean reacted with renewed verve, momentarily stuffing his bullshit into the usual trap door in his mind, and reverting back to the trained hunter with keen senses.

Elliot watched the transition with a jaundiced eye and a shrug, followed by the (patent pending) hunter swig of alcohol from a beat up flask, then did his job.


	2. Heroes Are Made of Clay

Heroes Are Made of Clay

Sam was five the first time he realized his dad wasn't like other dads. Sure, he knew they were different because they didn't live in a house and they spent most of their time in motels, but kids are amazingly adaptive in the right circumstances, and Sam had Dean.

And Dean had Sam.

At nine, Dean _knew_ their dad wasn't like other dads, but unlike his little brother, he knew because he remembered the fire-engulfed house, the terrified screams of their mother, and the precious weight of a baby boy being thrust into his arms with his father's imperative _Take care of Sam_.

_Take care of Sam_ was the mantra of Dean's life and something he took extremely serious as each year passed. Even as he was learning the different ways to drill an enraged werewolf's body with silver bullets, he made sure his kid brother had clothes to wear and food to eat, regardless of whether he himself had the same. It didn't make a bit of difference to him that John was Sam's father and he was only the older brother. Sam was _his_ responsibility.

John returned from a hunt, tired, hurt, and pissed off – his usual emotional state nowadays – only to find both of his boys gone from the motel room he specifically told Dean to not move from under the threat of death. He knew his oldest boy wouldn't disregard an order lightly, being the good little soldier he was raised to be, so John grabbed his gear again with the intent on hunting down whatever had snatched the last pieces of Mary he still had.

Just as he was frantically searching through his list of contacts, the motel door swung open and an excited chocolate faced Sam tumbled through followed by a slightly more sedate and indulgently smiling Dean. This was so far from the horrifying situations racing through his mind, that John couldn't help gaping at the pair in stultified wonder, which was quickly replaced by rage.

The younger boy's chatter abruptly stopped as he realized the tall menacing figure was _Daddy_, the second pillar holding up his otherwise unstable world, and he ran forward intent on hugging him. Dean, well-attuned to his father's every mood, instantly tried to stop Sam from doing it because he could see John was on a trigger's edge, but moved too late, watching in disbelief and slow motion as John's hand swept down to slap the kid's face.

Time stopped as all three stood stock still in the abrupt silence after hard calloused skin met tender baby-soft skin. Dean was the first to move, to step forward and wrap his arms around the small chubby little boy who'd just been saying how much he couldn't wait until Daddy got home to celebrate his birthday. Sam, bewildered by the pain, turned his face into the comforting and familiar embrace of the one person who never left him or hurt him as he was hurting now. John stared at the two huddled boys for a moment and then walked past them, out the door, and was gone.

For the first time ever, Sam was glad his dad had left.

So was Dean.


	3. Silly Rabbit Trix Are For Kids

Silly Rabbit, Trix Are For Kids

"Can we get that?"

Dean followed Sam's pointed finger to the loudly colored box of sugary cereal. He inwardly cringed, but outwardly shrugged and let his brother take it down from the shelf and put it into their basket. It wasn't often Sam was allowed to pick their food – that was Dean's job when Dad wasn't around – so he felt very proud he was helping out, unaware his contribution cost more than the healthier breakfast Dean planned on.

It was the large doe-eyes and the bashful head tilt that convinced his stoic older brother. That, and the fact their dad hadn't returned in the three days he promised, and Dean was getting desperate as days ticked into a week and their money was slowly but surely eroding. He was very sure this would be their last grocery run, but it was worth it seeing Sam's cheerful smile as the lady at the cash register rang their purchases through. If anything, his brother's ability to charm anyone who came into his orbit worked in their favor: it befuddled her long enough to keep her from asking why a ten year-old boy and his six year-old brother were shopping at a grocery store without any adult supervision.

Dean was always hyper aware of outward appearances, especially when it came to him and his brother because he was terrified of someone calling the cops or child protective services. While there were many things about this life that sucked, Sam was the best thing, and he would fight heaven or hell to keep him safe and at his side. No one, and that meant _no one_, would keep them apart.

Sam looked up at him at that exact moment he vowed and grabbed at Dean's hand with his pudgy smaller one. There was such a look of love and trust in his eyes, Dean felt an unmanly rush of tears, so instead he ruffled Sam's hair and took off running, bags banging at his thighs, laughing as he heard Sam yelling his name in frustration because he couldn't keep up.


	4. These Words

**These Words**

**Episode: 4.19 – When the Levee Breaks & 4.20 – Lucifer Rising **

**A/N: It was something that just popped into my head as I drove to work so I had to write it down.**

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><p><em>You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.<em>

At five, Sam had hidden behind Dean, comforted by his older brother's presence as their father raged at his hunting partner who couldn't hack it the Winchester Way.

At eighteen, those words spurred him to run faster as he fled across the country to the hallowed halls of Stanford, his only regret he couldn't make Dean see it was better he left; he couldn't be the perfect soldier and hunter his father demanded he be.

At nearly twenty-seven, it was a grim reminder of his failure to bridge the chasm between him and his beloved older brother.

_You sound like your Dad._

At nine, Dean beamed proudly when he was told that; it was the best compliment anyone could give him other than telling him he was a good older brother.

At seventeen, those words were a weight on his shoulders, a spur to be better, faster, harder; essentially be the perfect soldier and hunter his father demanded he be.

At nearly thirty-one, it was a grim reminder of the chasm between him and his beloved baby brother, one he couldn't cross and didn't know how to fill.


	5. His Brother's Job

His Brother's Job

"Sam, we've talked about this. You need a haircut for your interview. "

Jess' fingers were gentle as they carded through the long brown strands tumbling over his brow, even if her tone was annoyed. This was the third time she'd nagged at him about cutting his hair in the past two weeks because every time he promised he would, he found some excuse to avoid getting it done. She didn't really know why he was so dead set against it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he mumbled, his attention clearly on his book and not on her. Jess was used to being the sole focus of his attention when she spoke, so she was a little surprised by his dismissiveness.

"Seriously, what the hell is your problem?"

Sam shrugged in reply.

Jess scooted away from him, pressing herself into the arm of the couch opposite from her uncommunicative boyfriend. They'd been dating for two years and lived together for about six months of that, and she would say she knew him best of their circle of friends, but there were times when even she was stumped by him.

He was a quiet man, true, but generally he didn't shut her out completely. The only time he did was when she questioned certain blank spots in his past; it didn't escape her notice he rarely spoke of his family other than his dad was an alcoholic and his older brother raised him.

Could this be another of those times? Sam's hair was long, nearly brushing his collar, and she was pretty sure he hadn't cut it once since he started at Stanford.

"Baby?'

Sam's hazel blue eyes flicked up to her, one brow raised at the soft tone. He'd clearly expected her to keep bitching about his hair and was taken aback by her new tact. Jess hid a smile as she mentally congratulated herself.

"Would you let me cut it?"

"You want to cut it?"

"Well, you are looking pretty shaggy and you want to make a good impression. I promise I won't butcher it."

Sam shook his head, the hair sliding out of his face. Jess sighed a little at the familiar gesture, her heart catching a little.

"I dunno."

"Please, baby? I get you not wanting to spend money, but you really do need one. You have split ends!"

His mouth curved slightly, the lower lip dipping inward as he sucked on the inner skin in thought. Jess wished she could read his mind and figure out his thought processes. His eyes traced over her face and his blank expression slid into the loving one she was accustomed to.

"Ok fine, but not too short."

Jess bounced up from the couch and raced to the bathroom to grab the pair of scissors she used on her own hair and sped back to the living room. She didn't want to give him too long to think because she was pretty sure he would change his mind.

Within an hour she realized why he didn't want to have his hair cut – he was a freakishly tall baby. He whined with the first cut, moaned about the next three, and shrieked like a girl when she cut more than an inch off. Jess finally had to stop when she was thinking about using the scissors on his ear to really give him something to whine about.

And three days later, when his (_admittedly hot_) older brother Dean stopped by (_okay broke in_), she saw his hazel green eyes light upon Sam's head with a hint of disdain.

"Nice hair there, Sammy boy."


	6. Driving Miss Sammy

Driving Miss Sammy

Dean's shoulder ached something fierce, the cold sharply reminding him of his age: when did 32 become so goddamned old? He grinned humorlessly because he knew the answer: 32 _was_ old for a hunter, especially once in the game as long as him. He didn't bother looking at his partner sprawled in the back seat of the Impala. The wheezing sound and subtle groaning let Dean know he was still alive.

"We almost there?"

"You say that one more goddamned time…"

The chuckle was faint, but Dean still heard it with ears attuned to this particular frequency.

"We're getting too old for this shit, D."

"I know, Sammy. I know."

And he did know. This last hunt, a particularly nasty poltergeist nearly a hundred years old and able to handle firearms, was supposed to be a routine salt-n-burn. When Dean wished for a break from angels, demons, and leviathans, he should've been a little more specific; but then that was the supernatural world for you. It always managed to screw you over at any given time, sometimes in many different ways all at once.

_Especially_ if your last name was Winchester.

"Do you ever miss Lisa and Ben?"

Dean shook his head, once, roughly. It was more out of shock from hearing those names than a real answer. It'd been months, maybe a year, since he let Cas wipe their memories so they never knew him, the last tether to the white-washed world he'd lived in while Sam was duking it out in the cage in the mother of all matches between Michael and Lucifier. He'd also commanded Sam to never speak to him of them after they left them at the hospital; his brother had let it go a lot longer than Dean thought he would.

"Nah."

"No bullshit, Dean. Answer the question."

"You don't have to be such a girl about it."

"You're the girl."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean lightly grunted, a signal to Sam his older brother was considering his words. It was a strange tic, one their father shared, and something Dean always used right before he went off on some soul-baring tangent.

"I miss what could've been rather than what I had."

"What do you mean?"

The silence stretched between them, the only sound the rumbling purr of the Impala chewing up the highway.

"I loved Lisa and Ben because they gave me a home, something I wanted, you know? Without you…Dad…I was alone."

Dean stopped again, his halting words conveying the depth of his emotions. Sam knew his brother wasn't a man who did a lot of soul-searching so he didn't try to rush in the lull. It wasn't often he could get his brother to this point, so he waited with bated breath; and a lot of pain since he had at least three broken ribs and a bullet wound which thankfully had an exit hole.

"Lisa was good to me. Man, that woman could cook. And she accepted me for everything I was, had done, and tried to help me…move on…" Dean drew a deep breath, ignoring the strain of a recently dislocated shoulder or the burn spreading through his bum knee. "But as much as I've always thought I wanted the apple pie life, well, when I had it, all I could think of was the road."

_And you_, was left unsaid, but it was heard in all the necessary ways.

Sam closed his eyes so the tears brimming against his lashes wouldn't fall. Dean was the rock upon which his world rested, something that was true as a kid and hadn't changed in the intervening years even as they fought together and against one another. It was probably one of the reasons why the angels had chosen Dean as their pawn: they knew the only leverage that could make Muhammad go to the mountain was Sam. And Dean couldn't be happy in a world without his baby brother, his Sammy.

It was humbling at times for him to realize just how far his older brother would go for him. Was there anyone else who could say their brother would rather burn in Hell than serve in Heaven if it meant saving his family? Sam knew Dean felt guilt about his time spent caged, and the ensuing problems once Sam was returned, but it was nothing compared to the agony he experienced when he realized he'd left Dean alone to roam the earth. If anything, Sam was surprised his brother had survived.

"Sammy, you stay with me, you hear me?"

A bittersweet smile curved Sam's lips as he heard the command he'd heard every time he'd ever been hurt or sick. It was another thing Dean had in common with John: the belief if he demanded something, Sam would obey.

And he always had (_with Dean at least_).

He opened his eyes and stared at Dean through the rear view mirror. Hazel blue locked with green.

"I'm okay Dean, it hurts, but I'm okay."

Dean knew, _knew,_ Sam wasn't on the verge of death as he'd checked him over before loading him into the Impala, but old habits die hard and he was used to being scared for Sam. Never for himself because it didn't matter: Sam was what was important.

"Yah, you are Sammy. Yah you're okay."

Sam smirked slightly even as his eyelashes fell against his cheekbones again, the exhaustion of the last few days, his wounds, and a hunter's life catching up with him. It _was _okay though, he was with his brother and they would live to see another day.


	7. The Importance of Being Purposeful

The Importance of Being Purposeful

**A/N: I've been rewatching the series from the beginning so naturally little ideas are popping up all over the place with one caveat: I'm channeling Chuck so I know how the series will go and my Muse is insisting on inserting serious AU machinations to some of the episodes as a result. Don't blame me; blame **_**her**_**.**

**Episode: 1.12 "Faith" – Dean is healed of a fatal heart problem at the hands of a blind faith healer. There is some dialogue from the show, but most of it comes from the fade to black.**

**Rating: T for some strong Dean language**

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><p>"Guess when you have faith you can't just have it when the miracles happen. You have to have it when they don't."<p>

She smiled softly, serenely, as if she were fine with the fact she was going to die and Dean might've believed her had his bullshit meter not been pinging wildly. It was human nature to retreat wholly from the idea of death if you weren't ninety and lived a full rich life. Layla was a few years over thirty with unrealized potential, so there's no way she could be this accepting of her fate.

"So, what now?"

"God works in mysterious ways." The soft touch to his hair was a nice touch because it allowed the bravery in her face to look real, but Dean could feel the trembling in her hand. "Goodbye Dean."

He couldn't just let her leave.

"You know, I'm not much of the praying type but I'm gonna pray for you." Dean _really_ wasn't much of a man for prayer because, let's face it, God let this fucked up world continue rolling without interference, so why would he start now? But the thought was kind.

"Well, there's a miracle right there." Her tremulous smile 'bout broke his heart and he stood stock-still for a full minute after she closed the door in his face.

Snapping out of his daze, Dean rushed through the door and down the stairs, arm outstretched to touch Layla's.

"Don't go."

Her blue eyes were bleached gray with the force of her emotions.

"Oh sweetheart, don't do this to yourself."

"It's _not_ fair! I've been faithful, I've gone to every fucking healing, and then _you_ came along and BAM you're healed."

Dean looked helplessly at Layla, her face etched with misery. He couldn't explain to her why he was healed and she wasn't – it was purely by chance he'd gotten the nod from the blind faith healer. Well, more due to his smart ass comments than chance really. He refused to believe the old man's assertions he was a man of purpose with an unfinished job to do. Sure, he'd helped a bunch of people over the course of his lifetime, but he wasn't the only Hunter in the world so it wouldn't be skin off the world's nose if he died young _(it was the Hunter's way after all_).

Being healed was great, in a sense, but also bad because it proved there was something supernatural going on. And grateful for a second lease on life or not, Dean Winchester was a Hunter first and foremost, so naturally he had to go poking around to find out why. He cradled the delicate, dying blond in his arms, her tears dripping down his shirt, and silently cursed himself for not waiting until she was cured too. He still couldn't answer her mother's question of why _he_ deserved to live and her daughter didn't – whether or not it was a supernatural cause, it seemed there was still no rhyme or reason to Roy choosing him to be up on stage to let the Reaper do God's Will (_or what he thought what was God's Will because at his heart he was a faithful man, blind in more ways than one to his wife's perfidy_)_._

Incredulity mixed with horror and a dash of awe: a fucking Reaper! He never knew they existed, which was silly of him he supposed, but who's to know what's real or not when dealing with supernatural lore? _And the ability to harness its powers_? He was still shaking his head over the temerity of that one.

Deciding this was a conversation better had in the relative privacy of his room he tugged on her arm and led her back up the stairs, feeling better once the door shut behind them. She willingly went into his embrace, looking up at him from the loose circle.

"Why you, though? You didn't even believe!"

He pressed his lips into her hair, cuddling her closer, but didn't respond. There was nothing he could say because it wasn't due to _him_ he was cured, but the tenacious love of a younger brother determined to drag his older brother back from the brink. Sammy had been surprised at how stoic Dean been in the face of impending Death – Dean didn't have the heart to point out he'd been almost relieved for the cessation of Life because he was just tired. _Fucking tired_. Having Sam back with him was heart-lifting, but the ache of a separated family, the unending stream of supernatural occurrences, and the knowledge he would most probably die a horribly gruesome death…well, was it any wonder Dean had embraced a mostly painless deliverance? The unspoken thought too was that Sam could go back to his apple pie lifestyle without regrets.

"I dunno, sweetheart. I'm sorry you never got your chance to be healed. It sucks."

The big blue eyes turned up to him with a look capable of rivaling Sam's biggest most heart-rending Puppy-Dog eyes, and Dean felt a rush of feelings he wasn't able to completely understand: the usual Lust for anything female, mixed with Pathos for failing to save the pretty girl, and an overwhelming Hurt for her, as if something was slipping from his reach.

So he did what Dean Winchester does second best – first being an awesome big brother and third a terrific Hunter – and comforted her right out of her clothes into the sheets of his bed tumbled beneath his own naked self. Her desire for answers to the unanswerable mysteries of the universe was forgotten beneath the onslaught of this particular brand of Winchester Charm. In between _oh god right there_ and _more_ _please harder_, Dean sent up a completely un-for-Sam prayer to the Heavens he usually didn't believe existed, tagging the ears of several astonished angels who watched over different factions of mortals.

Dean Winchester, the Human Vessel for Michael, was usually concerned with three things: pie, his Impala, and Sam. Not necessarily in that order, but it did tend to depend on what time of day and how much his baby brother had annoyed him. He did not – under normal circumstances – deviate from this list as he tended to think anyone outside the Winchester circle (_therefore un-needful for Hunter intervention_) was on their own and could certainly kiss their own asses goodbye without any help from him, so for him to actually _( if only unconsciously)_ want to help a relative stranger was perplexing.

Castiel, Guardian Angel for the Human Vessel of Michael, was most disturbed by the prayer because he had only been dispatched to watch over him a mere week ago – in angel time – so he was the most knowledgeable for all things Dean Winchester, but nothing had prepared him for this.

He'd been present upon the elder boy's birth, subsequent childlesshood (_even a Warrior Angel for the Throne of God winced at some of John Winchester's more assholish attempts to raise Hunter fledglings_), and entrance into supposed adulthood (_Castiel had overseen hundreds of thousands of mortals over the course of his Angel-hood and none had quite prepared him for Dean_). He'd even heard all of the pleas Dean had winged upwards on different occasions, always wishing he could chastise the careless Vessel for his overuse of the Lord's name in vain, and for encouraging the females of his species to use it incorrectly as well.

This, however, was different. Dean was tapping into the part of humanity that set itself apart from all of His Father's Creations: unselfishness.

Castiel hovered over the now sleeping couple, pondering Dean's face, marveling as always at how young he looked while he rested. It wasn't always the case, of course, for he had terrible nightmares, more so when the younger Winchester had left the safety of the nest, but for once he looked twenty-six instead of a hundred-six-year-old man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Using angel-vision, Castiel could see the glowing brightness of good health in Dean, while the female had ominous dark patches throughout her skull and leaching downward in an inexorable slide of death. It wouldn't be too much longer for her as she'd only endured as long as she had because of her mother's faith in finding a cure. Dean's subsequent entrance into her life had both shaken her surety in her mother's protestations, but also hastened the cancer devouring her heath, as if it were a conquering army sensing the impending collapse of the outer walls to the castle.

She stirred a little, huddling deeper into Dean's embrace, and he in turn smoothed a hand down her arm with a rumble of sound. It invoked a moment of _something_ in Castiel to see it: it was a familiar gesture he'd seen Dean do a hundred times for Sam during their growing years, and something severely lacking for the last five. Like a girl-child's teddy bear or tear-stained diary, Castiel was privy to all of Dean's hopes, fears, and wishes, so he knew how happy his charge was for Sam's return, anguish for being the cause of a young man's unnatural death, and impending sadness at how he couldn't help or save the woman in his arms.

It was the last which startled Castiel the most. Only three women had ever made an impact on his charge's life (_his mother, a lovely journalist, and an astonishingly flexible yoga instructor_), so it was uncharacteristic of Dean to care much about what happened to the females who passed in and out of his life. For so much angst over her – it caused his Guardian Angel pause.

And so Castiel did something he had never done before in the eons of his existence: he interfered with the path of _possibility_ and pushed into the realm of _probability_ by curing Layla of her inoperable tumor and subsequent bone mets. It merely took two fingers to the sleeping woman's forehead and the darkness oozed out of her much like exorcised demons leaving their meatsuits, but with a much better outlook for the host.

Dean - a light sleeper unless beaten, bludgeoned or shot and even then had one eye open and one ear cocked for Sam – awoke with a rush at the unfamiliar energy lurking in the room. He felt the presence of _something_ nearby and was half way up with his favorite gun in hand, but couldn't _see_ anything. Hunter instincts and awareness insisted there was a supernatural cause, but his limited mortal senses couldn't comprehend the celestial being standing mere inches from his body. His breath couldn't be seen so there wasn't a drop in temperature indicating a ghostly presence; the moon wasn't full so not were in nature; and the warm female lump beside him hadn't extruded rows of shark-like teeth so no vampirism in the offing. There were many other things that went bump in the night, but Dean was willing to forgo his unease because he couldn't actually pinpoint the cause and Layla had turned over, baring a portion of her naked body to him.

Castiel watched his charge for a few minutes, marveling at the strangeness of human copulation, then poofed from the room in a flap of unseen and unheard wings. It was not necessary to actually _be _with Dean all the time, though he did have a fascination for the way the eldest Winchester fledgling conducted his mortal life.

Dean left town two days later, leaving behind a satisfied and healthy young woman, who had indeed found her miracle through the prayer of an unbelieving yet still Righteous Man.


	8. Untainted Innocence

Untainted Innocence

John rested his hand on his youngest son's hair, marveling at the rich color of the interweaving strands and idly noticing how similar it looked to Dean's gilded gold. Guilt rose fresh and sharp at the thought of his oldest boy, but he squelched it as he had with any emotions related to _that_ son because inevitably it reminded him of the boy's mother and it was a downward spiral of guilt, love, resentment, fear, and self-loathing.

As if knowing he needed a distraction from his thoughts, precious eyes opened, trust and hope and love shining upwards at him. He was almost surprised they weren't hazel green, filled with the feral intensity of a burgeoning Hunter.

"Daddy, you're home!"

John smiled and swooped down, bussing kisses into the soft tender cheek. He'd missed this baby-scent; he couldn't remember Dean ever smelling like that. No, that one smelled of smoke and fire and wild green things, like some little forest godling placed in his care, worldliness etched too soon into an immature face.

"I –" he pretended something was caught in his throat (not emotion for chrissakes) and coughed dryly, saving himself from lying. _His_ home had gone up in a blaze of hellfire, a trapped and bleeding wife pinned to the ceiling as one son carried the other out into the hard cold world.

The boy beneath his hand ignored his silence and was uninterested in his existential crisis; instead he wriggled through his bedclothes into an upright position before hurling pudgy arms around him, head nestled against his breastbone.

"Will you stay this time?"

_Different son, same sentiment_. John was a failure of a father no matter how he looked at it, but this one was innocent in ways Dean wasn't, could never be, and he couldn't bear to break _this one's_ soul, so he tempered his response with a bit of the minute honesty he was infamous for.

"I'll stay as long as I can, Adam. I promise."

A cough from the door way brought his attention upwards to his youngest son's mother. She stood with her arms crossed, scowl forbidding on her face. John knew body language, however, and realized it was more protective than angry; he'd broken more than a few promises to Adam, though he was positive she'd always softened the blows.

He quickly kissed the six year old's cheek and convinced him to go back to sleep; as the boy obediently responded to his _father knows best_ voice John couldn't help but marvel at the difference between Adam and Sam. Sam was his debater, thinker, always needing a reason why. _Why _should he go to bed when he wasn't tired?_Why_ couldn't he stay up if Dean was allowed to be awake? John had often joked to Bobby and Pastor Jim that Sam's first word was "why" quickly followed by "how come?"

John left the door cracked an inch, knowing Adam was afraid of the dark and couldn't sleep without the hall light peeking in. He could still remember the first time Dean had come running to him because he believed there was something in the closet, and John had handed the five year old a knife because steel was the best defense against monsters. Four years later when Sam did it, he handed him a gun with slightly modified instructions – it was silver bullets or salt-packed iron rounds that were the best defense against monsters. By then, John had immersed himself enough into supernatural lore to pick up a few tips.

By contrast, this boy had a night light and a mommy to come running whenever _his_ monsters peeked out from the dark corners of his bedroom; he didn't have loss and deprivation branded into his skin, broken bones, or weary eyes. An uncharacteristic rush of tears unmanned John for a moment, but he hid it behind a stoic mask on by the time he turned around.

"Why did you come, John? You know I hate when you just drop by unannounced. If I knew you were in the area, I would've told Mandy not to let you in."

John knew that, which is why he was thankful Mandy was a new babysitter – a teen one at that - who couldn't withstand his entreaties. Since Adam was a blond version of him, and there was a picture of them together on the mantle, she'd know he was the deadbeat dad so she'd been easily charmed into letting him in the house.

"Jesus, Katie. I just wanted to see my son. It's not a fucking crime."

"It is, John. It is! You blow through here once every few months and you get his hopes up every time that _this_ time you'll stay. You'll be around all the time instead of whenever your job brings you around."

He mentally winced at her pointed remarks about his job; she no longer believed he was a salesman – which hadn't been a very competent lie to begin with given their initial meeting – but she never gave up trying to find out what it was exactly he did. A Hunter's life was meant to be lived in the shadows, so he left her to fill in the blanks and he knew she suspected illegal drug-running or arms dealing given the arsenal she'd once caught sight of in an unguarded moment.

"If you didn't want me to be a part of Adam's life then why did you ever tell me about him to begin with?"

Her pale face, haloed by a nimbus of streaked blond hair, reddened and her blue eyes darkened with some emotion John didn't bother to read. Kate Milligan was a stain against his soul and a breaking of his marital vows. Oh sure John had slept with bar flies from time to time after a hunt, but those women didn't count because they were forgotten the minute he pulled up his pants. Kate was different because she was the first woman (_and only_) woman he'd slept with who was of the picket fence and happily ever after variety since Mary.

She'd been the late night nurse in the E.R. when he'd been brought in by his hunting partner after getting mauled by a wendigo. Normally Jared would've just taken him back to the motel and patched him up, but the deep wounds he'd sustained during the fight had been beyond the scope of a hunter's usual mending skills. He'd been in the hospital for nearly a week, but it was enough time to get to know the soft and pretty nurse so when he was released, he'd found a place to stay in her bed. It was a brief yet intense affair which lasted for six months, though three of those months they'd only been in contact via phone since he'd had to go back for his boys and go on other hunts.

Everything had come to a head when she'd asked him where their relationship was headed; until then John had purposely blanked any emotional connotations to his interactions with her. They'd been lying in bed (_Bobby, Dean, and Sam thinking he was on a solo hunt in Maine_), her fingers idly tracing the scar on his chest he'd received courtesy of a sharp stick via a pissed off ghost he was salting. He'd distracted her with a kiss and overwhelmed her with physical passion to shut her up and later - once she was asleep - he'd grabbed his gear and left without a word.

Kate hadn't taken the abandonment lightly, but eventually stopped trying to contact him when he never called her back until a year later when she'd left a simple message: "Your son needs you."

If any words were guaranteed to stop John's heart, it was those. He knew he was no candidate for Father of the Year, but it didn't negate the deep love he felt for his boys; it was the showing that was harder (_and was becoming harder as the years passed_). The emergency turned out to be minor – at least compared to what he was used to – but it brought him some measure of comfort in an odd way there was a Winchester son living the apple-pie life Sam and Dean never would.

"John, are you even listening?"

He was rusty with women, but even he knew not to answer that affirmatively. He refocused his formidable attention to the here and now, leaving off torturing himself with the painful memories of the (_relatively recent_) past.

"Yes I am. I know I'm a fucking asshole for showing up, but I needed to make sure he was okay."

For a moment he wanted to tell her about the scare he'd had with Sam – weird to think of him as his middle son – on his most recent hunt. The kid hadn't wanted to go because he had a test he didn't want to miss and Dean, as always, had stuck up for his little brother, but John had overruled them both. It turned out what was supposed to be a routine haunting was instead a juiced up pissed off witch who was cursing her enemies and the ghost was actually a death omen instead trying to warn people. Sam had gotten caught in the crossfire, absorbing the curse being thrown at John and fell to the floor dead.

After John had cut off the witch's head, he'd turned to his son, only Dean had found him first and was cradling his smaller body against his chest. John could swear the only reason Sam was alive was entirely due to his older brother calling for him and refusing to let go of the _body_, saying his Sammy wouldn't leave him alone and they just needed a few more minutes. Sure enough, a few minutes later Sam started breathing in a huge rush of air as if he couldn't bear to disappoint his big brother's expectations for him. It was the uncanniest and scariest five minutes John had lived through since Mary died.

Kate must've read some of the residual fear and panic in his face because her own militant expression eased a little and she uncurled her arms. It was when she softened that John realized she was wearing her hair up in some girly way very unlike her usual no nonsense bun or ponytail; in fact, she was dressed up like she'd gone out on the town instead of at work like he originally supposed.

"Were you out on a date?"

"So what if I was, John? It's none of your damn business."

Jealousy and indifference raged inside – the jealousy was for another man taking his place in Adam's life and the indifference was for her. He'd well and truly moved on from his moment with Kate, but he was damned if anyone else would be _Daddy_; John ignored Kate when she took an instinctive step back as she registered the pulsing anger narrowing his heavy black brows into a forbidding frown. He knew the leashed intensity of his tall rangy body was intimidating for the much shorter woman, but he wanted to impress upon her exactly how much it _was _his business.

"It is my fucking business when you bring a strange man around _my_ son!"

"You're never here, so what would you even know about the people in _my_ son's life?"

Her voice was lower than his, but just as venomous, bitter anger and hopelessness mingling in her tone. John felt a sting of shame but then reminded himself he was doing – if not God's work (_since John wasn't sure the bastard even existed_) – then good work trying to keep the norms alive and naïve just a little bit longer while he and the rest of the hunters did the dirty work.

"I know everyone in Adam's life from his kindergarten teacher Mrs. Schiele to the garbage man Joe Henderson who picks up your bins every Tuesday morning at 5 AM."

"Who are you?" she whispered, a hand rising to cover her throat as she looked at him in shock.

"I'm a father concerned with the welfare of his son. I know I'm not here in person, but I do keep tabs on him. Who did you go out with tonight?"

Still shaking at the strangeness of this conversation and the sudden realization she never truly knew John Winchester, Kate mumbled, "A few girls from work. I'm not…seeing…anyone right now."

"Jill, Candice, and Layla?"

"Er, yes, how'd you know?"

The knowing look he threw her shook her even more.

"How long will you stay this time?"

When in doubt, attack from a different direction. Her strategy was familiar to the canny Hunter, but he refused to allow her to regroup and find an excuse to cut him out of the time he'd managed to carve out to see Adam.

"I'm here as long as I am, Kate. That's all I can say."

Those words were the same refrain Dean and Sam had grown up hearing from their absentee dad, his restless nature and driving need to find the creature who'd taken Mary from her family keeping him on the go. It was the one constant they could expect from John and in a way was a form of comfort for them; or maybe it was comforting for Dean and Sam just took his cues from him, who's to say?

But unlike them, Kate was a grown woman and a roused mama bear, so she didn't have to settle for his crumbs. "No. You're not welcome and I don't want you to see Adam again unless you plan on staying in one place for longer than a few days."

John – used to having absolute control in his world – ignored her words and started striding down the hallway towards the living room. "I'll be back tomorrow and will take Adam to school."

"I filed a restraining order against you after the last visit. One call to the cops here and you'll be thrown in jail as I have every intention of pressing charges."

He froze with his hand locked around the front doorknob.

"I don't want my son to be unduly influenced by you. I have no idea who you are or what you do, and while I'm appreciative of you giving him a portion of your liver when he was a toddler, there is no further need of your presence in our lives. You're not welcome here anymore."

John's head rested gently against the wood, his breath sawing in and out of his chest as he absorbed the impact of her cruel words. He couldn't just leave his own flesh and blood unprotected and alone; what if the thing that took Mary came after Adam?

The sound of 9-1-1 being dialed shook him from his misery and he whipped around, grabbing the phone from her hand. "Don't do this to me, Kate. I can't…just…abandon him."

Rage cut fine lines into her skin. "What do you think you do every time you walk out that door and don't come back for months on end? He's young enough he'll forget you eventually. Just leave us the fuck alone and don't come back."

"It's not safe for him."

"Safe from _what_, John? Your enemies? How could they know about him? Your name isn't on his birth certificate and I certainly haven't told anyone about you."

Realization flickered through him it really _was_ safer for Adam if he wasn't around. It went against every Winchester instinct he had which demanded he take the boy and protect him like he did his other children, but how could he really? Dean was getting old enough to be more involved in the hunts and Sam didn't have his brother's touch with children, so who could he entrust his precious youngest to? John shook his head as various different hunters passed through his mind, though oddly he thought of Missouri Mosely as a possibility before pushing the thought away too. It seemed Adam really was better off here, though John refused to cut off all contact.

He'd just have to be sneakier about it.

"Okay, okay. You're right, Kate. I'll leave."

He raised sorrowing brown eyes to hers and read the disgruntled surprise in them. He briefly wondered if she had wanted him to fight harder to stay, but dismissed the speculation. She mattered little to him, and in fact had made an enemy of him by trying to keep him away from his son, no matter her reasons.

"But if he ever needs to get a hold of me, please, please give him my number?"

Kate shook her head, a few strands slipping from her upsweep and falling into her face. "No, John. You will leave and it'll be like you never existed."

He nodded once – expecting her answer – then gently placed the phone on the table before whipping around to stalk out the door.

Today she had her way, but tomorrow was always a new day.


	9. Two is Company, Three's a Crowd

Two is Company, Three's a Crowd

"Dude."

"Dude."

"Dude!"

"Dude."

"Really?"

"_Really!"_

"C'mon."

"Nope."

"You suck."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Bobby sat in the back of the Impala, wishing he could just pop out, but unfortunately the damn flask was securely placed in Dean's front pocket, so he was stuck listening to the most asinine argument known to man.

_If they say one more God-damned word, I'm gonna go Poltergeist on their asses._

"Dude, did the temperature just drop in here?"

"No."

"It feels colder."

"You're imagining it."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes!"

Bobby dropped his head into his hands and sent a thought directly upstairs: _if anyone's listening, I get it now. I didn't go into the light, instead I went directly to hell._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: No clue where this came from other than a sudden PTSD flashback to car rides with my family.  
><strong>


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