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FIC: Carnival of Souls (1/10)
Title: Carnival of Souls (Part One)
Rating: Adults Only (rating is for violence)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (Dean, Sam, John - no 'cest, just the wonderful fucked-up family we all love)
Warnings: The story might get gory in the later chapters.
Summary: Pre-Series fic. Sam left his family to get away from the world of demons and ghosts. But when that world follows him to Stanford, Sam does the one thing he swore he'd never do: he calls his father.
Disclaimer: You don't seriously think I own Supernatural, do ya?
CARNIVAL OF SOULS
Part One: February 2002
"Dean," John said quietly.
Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, staring out to sea. The white-tipped waves crashed on the rocks below them, visible in each flash of lightning. The storm was still far out to sea, but it would hit land before dawn. John felt the first cool splash of rain on his face. Dean stayed where he was, silent and unmoving.
"Dean," John repeated more firmly. He pressed his hand harder against his wound, wincing at the sharp pain and the warmth of blood flowing. "Son," he tried again, "I need your help now."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the blood spattered on Dean's shirt. It wasn't Dean's blood. The young hunter's hands, too, were red with blood. He was turning the gun over in his hands, getting blood all over it. He didn't look at John.
One hand still clutching his wounded side, John reached out and gently took the gun from his son's hands. "Dean!" he said sharply. "Pull yourself together, dude. There isn't time for this." He clicked the safety on and pushed the gun into his pocket.
Dean did look at him then. "She was just a kid, Dad," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.
John shook his head. There were things that had to be said, but this wasn't the time or the place. "Get into the car, son. You'll have to drive." John was losing blood and he hurt. His vision was beginning to grey out. He couldn't drive.
Lightning flashed, and the rain fell with more force. John felt one heavy raindrop hit the back of his neck, flowing cold down his spine.
Dean's expression transformed instantly. "Why didn't you tell me you're hurt?" he demanded. Not waiting for a reply he jumped down from the hood and hurried around to the driver's seat.
Relieved, John made his slower way to the passenger door. He pulled the gun from his pocket, rechecking the safety automatically and tossed it into the glove compartment as he climbed in. The car was moving almost before John had the door closed.
"You want to talk about it?" John offered.
Dean threw the Impala into reverse, revving the engine loudly as he hit the accelerator and steered them away from the cliff.
It was all the answer John expected. He leaned back in his seat, letting his body relax and allowing the pain take over, for now. The wound wasn't so bad, really. It could have been a whole lot worse. He closed his eyes, trusting his son to get them back to the motel.
Dean's fist thumped his shoulder and John jerked awake. "What the – ?"
"Dad! Stay awake!"
"'M okay," John muttered.
"You've lost a lot of blood," Dean insisted. "Keep your eyes open. I'm takin' you to the ER."
That brought John back to alertness. "No! No hospital, Dean. Not after what we did tonight." It was much too risky. Show up at a hospital with an obvious knife wound, with Dean covered in blood. Someone would call the cops and he simply didn't have a good cover story for this.
"You need a doctor," Dean protested, ignoring a stop sign as he accelerated into town.
John didn't have the strength to argue. So he didn't argue. "Shut up and follow orders," he said gruffly.
"Yes, sir," Dean responded.
John clung to the motel room door, desperate to hide the extent of his weakness from Dean. It was just mild shock from the injury, and would pass soon enough.
"Dean. Lines of salt. Every door and window." The protection probably wasn't necessary now, but better safe than sorry. They sent one demon back to Hell tonight, but there could be others out there.
"Yes, sir," Dean answered, casting a worried look at John before he moved to obey.
With Dean thus occupied, John moved across the room to his bed sat down with relief. He began to remove his clothing. The heavy leather coat, first. John moved slowly, his fingers fumbling. Every motion hurt. It wasn't just the stab-wound, but the battering he'd taken before that. Beneath the coat, his shirt and t-shirt were wet with his blood. He balled the fabric up in his hands, feeling the sticky liquid soak through the layers. It was a shock to realise just how much blood he'd lost. Dean had been right to suggest a trip to the ER.
John let the ruined shirt fall to the floor and leaned back into his pillows to examine the wound. The blood flow seemed to have stopped. He took a deep breath experimentally and relaxed, satisfied the knife had missed his lung.
Dean was already opening a medkit as he came toward John. "Are you gonna make me stitch that?" he asked, and John detected a note of nervousness in his voice.
John probed at the wound with his fingers, wincing a little. "I think a bandage will do it."
"Okay." Dean laid the medkit on the bed. "Sit up, Dad, and quit playin' with it."
John felt a smile twitch his lips, hearing Dean give him orders, but he obeyed, turning to give Dean access to the wound.
Father and son were silent as Dean worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy made a fine field medic, John acknowledged silently. He cleaned his own hands before cleaning the wound carefully, wiping away the worst of the blood surrounding the wound before checking the cut itself more carefully. He worked with quiet concentration, calm and professional.
"This is deep, Dad. I think I should put a couple of stitches in it. Make sure it won't open up next time you... I mean..."
John nodded, accepting Dean's judgement, though he'd been hoping to avoid more pain. He watched Dean sterilise the needle and thread.
"You wanna bite on something?" Dean offered.
"I'll be fine, son. Just be quick."
Dean nodded stiffly and lifted the needle. John, braced for the pain, gave no sign that he felt it, but it seemed like hours before Dean taped a sterile dressing over the wound.
"Done," Dean announced. He put everything away, disposables in a plastic bag to be dumped in the trash, the rest back in the medkit, everything in its place. He did not look at his father.
John understood. He had a bitch of a headache to add to the rest, but Dean had taken care of him. Now he needed to take care of Dean. He reached behind him, arranging the pillows so he could sit almost upright, and lifted his legs onto the bed. "Dean," he said, and waited for Dean to look at him before he went on. "You did good tonight, son."
Immediately, Dean turned away, but not before John glimpsed his expression. "You trusted me to have your back. I fucked it up." He shook his head, smiling humourlessly. "Jesus, I fucked that up."
Privately, John agreed that Dean had made a couple of mistakes, but Dean didn't need a blow-by-blow analysis of the fight just now. So he shook his head. "No, you didn't."
Dean stood facing the bathroom, giving John his back. "She was only six years old," he said softly.
"Is that why you hesitated?" John asked. Even as he spoke, he knew it was a poor response.
"I need to wash my hands," Dean said, walking into the bathroom.
Right. John let him go. The fact was Dean didn't merely hesitate out there: he had frozen, just long enough for John to get a knife in his ribs. But when Dean saw the knife, he acted immediately.
Dean thought he'd killed a child. John, who knew what she really was, hadn't realised that Dean didn't see it. It explained why Dean froze...and raised some uncomfortable questions.
John rose from the bed with an effort. He had to lean on the wall for support as his head whirled. He clenched his fist. He would not pass out. Not yet. He made his way to the bathroom doorway.
Dean was washing his hands. The water swirling in the sink showed no trace of blood, but Dean was still scrubbing at his skin. It wasn't like him at all, but John understood his reaction now.
"Dean."
Dean reached for the towel and half-turned to look at John. "We should have tried an exorcism or something." It was an accusation.
John shook his head. "There wasn't time, but it wouldn't have worked anyway. That wasn't a possessed child, Dean. It was a demon that looked like a child."
"Then why did she bleed? How could I kill her?"
John hesitated. To Dean's first question the truthful answer was John simply did not know. Perhaps the illusion of humanity was just that complete. Perhaps taking physical form meant that particular demon became vulnerable. He didn't know. As for the second question...
"I switched the ammo. I thought you saw me do it."
Dean looked as if he wanted to throw up. "Iron?"
John nodded. "Consecrated iron." He moved back into the room, beckoning Dean to join him. "Son, when you fired, you didn't know what it was, did you?"
Dean simply looked at him. It was answer enough.
"We'll have to work on that."
John sat heavily on the bed, his legs giving way. He gazed up at his firstborn son, trying to decide how much to say. How much would Dean be able to hear, tonight?
Dean did everything right on this hunt, John realised. He killed the demon. He saved John's life. That he hesitated before killing that thing was understandable. John wanted to tell Dean he was proud, because it was the truth. This wasn't the first time Dean had proven himself in the field.
And yet...
If Dean truly believed the demon he killed was a human child, then John had misinterpreted that moment of hesitation. John had assumed the demon's form stayed Dean's hand: that Dean made a mistake, but he was wrong. Dean froze, yes, but then he made a conscious decision to shoot. By firing when he did, Dean may well have saved John's life, but if Dean deliberately chose John over what he thought was an innocent child...that was a problem.
Dean stripped off his shirt and began to un-strap the knives sheathed along his forearms. "Why are you so sure about the kid?"
"Experience," John answered shortly. He explained, "It didn't react like a child."
"Because she was possessed!"
"No, Dean. When a demon possesses a human it has access to its host's thoughts and feelings. The demon's reactions would have been more child-like."
Dean was silent for a moment, fiddling with his knives. Finally, came the confession. "I couldn't tell. I mean, I thought..."
"You were wrong." John sighed, too damn tired to get into this now. "Dean, you should be able to tell the difference by now. You've been hunting long enough."
"I know."
"Get some sleep, son."
In his dreams, Dean saw the black-eyed child stab his father, over and over again. In some dreams, Dean fired his gun before she struck, blasting a hole in her small chest. In other dreams, he relived the reality: the stark terror freezing his blood when he saw the flash of a knife in her hand, inches from his father's body, the gun warm in his hand, the recoil when he fired, half the child's pretty face and hair blown away in a spray of blood and bone.
But in every dream, Dean did fire the gun. In every dream, he killed a little girl because she threatened his father's life.
Dean dragged himself out of bed in the morning feeling like he was hung over, though he hadn't been drinking. Sitting on the edge of the motel bed, Dean saw that his father's bed was empty, his bag packed. The hand-drawn map and newspaper clippings they had pinned up on the wall were gone.
Hurriedly Dean pulled out his own bag and shoved his few possessions into it. He dressed quickly, not bothering to shower or shave. He could hear John's voice outside; he must be on the phone. Dean carried both of their bags to the motel room door.
"I don't know yet," John was saying. "A few days, maybe a week. There's something I need to take care of first." John heard, or perhaps sensed, Dean behind him because he turned and gestured toward the Impala.
Dean took in his dad's appearance. John looked tired, but he stood up straight and there was no sign of illness or pain. You dodged a bullet there, Dad, Dean thought, satisfied John was recovering. He carried their bags to the car.
Behind him, he heard, "Yeah...thanks again." John ended the call without saying goodbye.
Dean still had the Impala's keys, as he'd been driving the night before. He loaded their bags into the trunk and held the keys out to John.
John shook his head. "You drive, son."
Dean's brow furrowed with concern. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
John opened the car door. "I'm going to be fine, Dean."
Yeah? Why don't I believe you right now? Dean said nothing more on the subject. "Where are we going?" he asked, starting the engine.
"Lincoln."
"Caleb's place?" Dean grinned. That would be cool. Caleb was the weapons expert, and he always had some fun new toy to show off.
John leaned back into the leather seat. "Yeah," he sighed heavily.
Dean glanced his way. "Dad, are you sure you're okay? You don't want to swing by Suzanne's...?"
"Lincoln first," John answered, as Dean knew he would. He was silent for a moment, watching the scenery as Dean drove. "Dean, have you thought about hunting alone? Without me."
"No!" Dean answered vehemently. "You said it yourself, Dad. With Sammy away at school..." He stopped. He'd mentioned Sammy. Bad idea.
Though John was angry when Sam left them to take up his place at Stanford, neither of them really believed Sam would stay gone. Most college kids come home for vacation, don't they? But the Winchesters had never been much for celebrating the holidays. First Thanksgiving and then Christmas came and went with no contact from Sammy (not even a Christmas card). Dean knew then that his brother wasn't coming back.
They didn't talk about Sam now.
"You're right." John ignored Dean's slip of the tongue. "I do need you, but not on every job. We could cover more ground if we do some of the simple jobs separately."
Dean slowed the car for an intersection, and reached across to the glove compartment for a tape. "We've only got one car, Dad."
John smiled. "That's why we're headed to Lincoln. There's a truck Caleb's been outfitting for me. I thought you could take the Chevy."
Dean almost ran off the road. "Seriously?" He steadied the car then took his eyes off the road to stare at John. He couldn't mean it. The Impala was John's pride and joy; he'd been driving her since before Dean was born. It would be a snowy day in Hell before John would give her up.
But John was smiling. "Yeah, seriously. It's time you had a car of your own. And you'd better take good care of her."
Holy crap! "I will. You know I will!"
"I know you will. But I want something else from you in return."
"Yeah?" Dean asked, a little warily.
"You remember Bobby Singer?"
Dean frowned, thinking. "The demon guy?"
"I want you to spend some time at his place. A few weeks, a month maybe. No one knows more about demons and their ways, Dean, and it's stuff you need to learn."
Dad was sending him to school. Dean kept driving in silence. This was about last night. He'd screwed up and this was...what? His punishment? Hell, it couldn't be that bad if he was getting the car out of it.
He would have the Impala... Dean considered that for a moment. The thought of a month with only Bobby for company was...not appealing. But Bobby ran a motor workshop or junkyard or something. Dean could give his new car a full overhaul, soup up the engine... Yeah.
"Okay, Dad," he agreed, and accelerated toward the Interstate.
Also posted at AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2899
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