Live Again

John Winchester was broken—heart and soul. He’d thought the night Mary had been killed by a demon had broken him, but sitting on the edge of the bed his youngest son had attempted to rest on watching his boys cling to each other like drowning men to a life ring between the toilet and bathtub of the cheap motel room he’d tried to make into a refuge he knew that, that night had only cracked his heart. The afternoon he and Dean had broken into Gerald Martins’ house and found the large man strangling his seventeen year old son while still in the process of raping him what was left of John’s heart shattered beyond what the king’s men could ever hope to repair.

Sam was broken beyond what he knew how to fix. Broken carburetor? Not a problem. Scraped knee? Not a problem. Hurt emotionally and physically in a way no human should ever be—huge problem. He’d never been good with emotions or “girly stuff” as he often referred to it, and joining the Marines didn’t help—Mary did though. He wished she were here.

She’d hold Sam and whisper words that would sooth and be what he needed. She’d chase the demons of the pedophile way. Her touch would be soft and gentle and Sam wouldn’t shy away from it—unlike his own rough, calloused hands and gruff touch.

During the very brief—very physical—struggle for the hunting knife John realized it was the first time he’d touched his son since before finding him being strangled by the same man who’d violated his body. Dean had been the one to rush to Sam’s side and lay careful hands on the teen’s body. Dean who’d helped the younger man to the car, and Dean who had sat with the trembling, barely conscious young man curled in his lap for hours as John drove as far as he could from the crimes that’d been committed before having to stop.

Even briefer than the scuffle with Sam had been the look carved into the boy’s eyes: pure panic and terror. Determination had been set on his teenaged son’s face only a moment before John had pushed his way into the small bathroom and grabbed Sam’s slender wrists—already chafed and bruised. John’d been forced to push his slightly taller son against the sink counter—bending them both slightly onto the faded and chipped tile of the countertop.

Blind panic washed away any expression of determination that had been set on his son’s face—breaking all that was left of John Winchester’s already shattered heart. The moment his twenty pound heavier body came into contact with Sam’s lanky frame the teen had fought in blind panic to get free, but his actions caused the opposite to happen.

Slowly the elder Winchester looked up from the wedding band he’d been twisting around his finger while the panicked expression he’d glimpsed during the struggle with his youngest son seared itself into his mind’s eye to watch his eldest son carefully inch toward the still frightened teen. The tears he’d been trying not to shed since he’d found the motel room empty the previous day fell in a near steady stream.

He’d failed his boys.

After the harsh struggle for the knife Sam’d tried to take to his face, John had little doubt that he’d never gat that close to his youngest son again. Pain laced icy fingers through the shards of his heart as he watched Dean’s arms—steady and sure—holding, calming, and reassuring the traumatized teen.

A knock, heavy and harsh, on the door to their room tore John’s attention from the moment of comfort Dean was offering Sam and his own thoughts. A second—equally as sharp—knock brought John to life. “Who is it?” he called out—scooping the hunting knife from the floor between the beds where it had landed and stashing it beneath the mattress of the already unmade bed.

Inside the bathroom Dean also was a flurry of motion as he hid the weapons bag beneath the towels Sam’d used after his shower before once again settling at his brother’s side.


“Police, Sir,” came the answer. John’s heart stopped. He loathed dealing with the police—it always entailed lying and fear. And getting arrested with his boys in the condition they were in would devastate all of them. “Please open the door.”

It was a simple request, and it was one John did not want to oblige.


“One moment,” John called through the door. With one last deep breath he pulled the door open. “What can I do for you, Officer…Hawkes?”


“We received a call about yelling coming from this room—is everything all right, Sir?” Officer Hawkes asked as his steel-flint eyes scanned the room behind John for anything out of place—the heel of his right hand resting against the butt of his service weapon.

“I’m sorry, Officer,” John apologized, “my son suffered a trauma a few years back and on occasion has outbursts.” He let his hand fall from the door as he moved to the side allowing the younger man into the room. In another time and another place, John would have reveled in how easily the lie fell from his lips, but this was not a lie he enjoyed telling—nor was the truth an admission he wanted to make. At the questioning look the officer gave him, John pointed toward the bathroom.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hawkes said, eyes drifting from the pile of dark curls in the sink to the lanky form curled in Dean’s lap staring at the world around him in a catatonic like state. “Does he need medical attention?”

“No,” John said, hoping he didn’t sound too hasty. “No, I just should have known better than to leave him alone.”

“How old is he?” The Officer asked, watching the unmoving teen while inching his way closer.

“Seventeen,” Dean supplied—glaring icily at the man. “I wouldn’t get too close, Sir,” Dean said, tersely, “he doesn’t respond well to people touching him.”

Cautiously the dark haired officer took a step away from Sam and Dean—taking note of the teen’s mostly even breathing and long blinks. “He cut himself?” he asked, noting the thin line of blood caked to Sam’s cheek.

“Yes,” both Winchesters confirmed.

“Took the razor from my shaving kit while I was asleep,” John said, disgusted with the ease at which the lie flowed from his tongue. John’s hazel eyes kept careful watch on the officer standing between him and his boys.

“He cut his own hair too?” Hawkes turned to face John—indicating the sink full of hair.

“He did,” John said brusquely. He didn’t like The Officer’s line of questioning or the implications The Officer was making.

“The razor’s safe from his reach then?”

“No,” John said, fighting the urge to harden his voice further, “I was just about to clean the hair out of the sink to see if it had fallen in during my struggle with him when you knocked. You’re more than welcome to look for it yourself.”

“He on any medications for his condition?” Hawkes asked, clearing annoyed by John’s sudden change in level of cooperation.

“What exactly are you implying?” John countered, tired of the game the young officer seemed to be playing.

“Sorry, Sir,” Hawkes said, once again watching Sam. “A boy was reported missing this morning from one town over. Little over six feet tall, slightly long dark hair, thin.”

“I see.”

“Woulda been pretty damn dumb of us to stick so close, don’tcha think?” Dean retorted—earning a sharp look from John.

“Can we take this outside?” John asked, recapturing The Officer’s attention. “I’d really rather not upset him again.”


“The boy lost his mother in a terrible accident and had never been the same. He witnessed it.” It was creative—and was close to the truth. The hard look in The Officer’s eyes melted for a moment and the younger man bowed his head in a sympathetic display of understanding.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Officer Hawkes said after a long pause. “How long has it been?”

“Ten years.” The lie was off his tongue and in the cool air of the night before his conscious brain had a chance to think, formulate, plan or otherwise concoct an actual story. This was the lie telling he tried to warn the boys against. Not thinking through the story made the lies harder to remember and easier to get caught in.

“Car accident,” John continued—allowing the lie to grow—hoping that adequate back information would satisfy the curious young officer enough to leave. “I was at work. They were on their way to pick his older brother up from school when a delivery truck ran a stop sign and broadsided my wife. They tried to get her out, but were unable to. It caught fire and blew up. He saw the car blow up with his mother inside.

“He’s been mostly mute since. The most noise he makes is when he has a screaming fit.” It wasn’t even close to the best lie he’d ever told or thought up, but all that mattered was that the officer standing before him was softening to the sincerity of his delivery of the words.

“Why was he home from school, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all,” he said with a false smile. He did mind, damn it. Dancing around the holes in his story was not a game he wanted to play at any time; especially not with a cop hoping to become the local hero by finding a missing child. “He had chickenpox—two small dots on his forehead. They were pretty well healed over and he was feeling a bit better, but Mary thought he should stay home one more day to be sure he was going to be allowed back at school.”

Officer Hawkes’ mouth opened and John was certain another question would tumble from it, but the radio attached to the shoulder strap of his uniform came to life with a harsh squawk. The younger man held up his index finger indicating he’d be a moment.

John watched the Officer pace in a small circle as he spoke with the dispatcher. He smiled inside as the Officer’s rigid posture melted to a hunch for a moment before the younger man hooked his radio onto the strap on his shoulder, squared his shoulders and turned back to John. The younger man’s mouth was set n a grim line.

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. …?”

“Jules. Adrian Jules,” John said not liking the tone of the Officer’s body.

“Well, Mr. Jules, it appears that the young man I mistook your son for is no longer missing.”

“Not all happy news, I take it?”

Impossibly thin pressed lips pulled tighter and Officer Hawkes turned his gaze to the cracked and chipping asphalt beneath his uniform issued shoes. “No,” he breathed.

“I’m sorry,” John said—the first true and sincere thing he’d said since he’d answered the door. He knew how much the loss of a spouse ached, but the pain of not knowing where your child is was so much worse than anything he’d felt after losing Mary. At that moment, though, he wasn’t sure what would hurt the most: Sam being physically dead or the emotional damaged and near dead that he currently was.

“I’m sorry to hear about your son,” Hawkes said, righting his posture again.

“My son won’t bother anyone again tonight.” It was a promise he fully intended to keep—even if they had to leave. “I am truly sorry for the disruption my son caused.”

“Your neighbors will appreciate that very much, Mr. Jules,” Hawkes said—allowing a faint smirk to pull at his still grimly set lips. “I’m sorry to hear of you loss. I hope that your son gets to feeling better.”

“Thank you,” John said, truly grateful that the Officer was no longer handing out veiled accusations of kidnapping and that the younger man seemed to have bought in the lies John had sold.

With a careful nod of acknowledgement the Officer turn back to his cruiser. John watched in sad satisfaction as the twenty-something clamored into the vehicle, started the engine and pulled it out of the parking lot.

Something resembling relief filled John Winchester as he watched the tail lights of the cruiser merge into the traffic on the town’s main drag. A slow sigh escaped his lips. Hoping he wouldn’t have to remember the lies he’d told the Officer, John went back into the room.

The air and mood of the room was thick and quiet. Dean lay on the bed Sam had slept in earlier with his head propped up by a couple pillows and the television’s remote in his hand. Beside him lay Sam. The teen’s back was pressed tight against Dean’s body.

“It’s cleaned up,” Dean said without taking his eyes from the bright glow of the television screen.

Without conscious thought, John glanced to the darkened bathroom. Fighting the urge to flick on the light and inspect the small room for the cleanliness his eldest son promised John nodded his head in acknowledgement of Dean’s words.

“We pull out in the morning,” he said moving for the still made bed.

Pulling the blankets back, John could feel the almost imperceptible nod of his eldest son’s head—Dean’s polite way of agreeing to disagree with you. He didn’t need to see it to know that Dean had done it; it had been the boy’s way of quietly disagreeing since his pre-teen years. The first few years Dean had simply given a nod in acknowledgement he’d heard his father, but was in disagreement had burned John.

It was never that John wanted a fight with Dean—though there were nights he had itched for a confrontation with anyone dumb or brave enough to take him on—it was more that Dean never wanted to upset Sam, and took up a quieter way of letting John know that he disagreed. And damn it all if that wasn’t just like Mary.

With a shuddering sigh, John settled into the bed.


“We’re going to Bobby’s for a while,” he mumbled, allowing his head to rest on the pillow. Tension fled his body faster than it had filled him. Dean would keep Sam safe for the night.

The End.