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dosciencetoitPart I – I Try To Make Things Better And The World Gets In The Way
Goodnight Demon Slayer
Lawrence, Kansas – 1983
Dean had always been a precocious child, so it was easier for John and Mary to attribute any strange behaviour to his intelligence and a very active imagination. And if he hugged them a little too tightly, as though afraid they’d disappear, it didn’t have to mean anything. Dean was their first child, and it was common to worry over nothing.
She couldn’t ignore Dean’s behaviour on the night of Sam’s six month birthday, however. After she’d put him to bed and had John tuck Dean in, she’d expected a quiet night. Sam would need feeding, but he was sleeping longer each night. She woke up partway through the evening to Sam’s cries over the baby monitor, followed by Dean’s voice, trying to quiet him.
Rolling over, she felt an empty bed beside her. It was wishful thinking that John would be up for looking after it, so she got up and shuffled down the hall to see what Dean was up to, and whether it was feeding or a change that Sam needed this time.
Her heart nearly gave out when she got to the nursery and realized it was neither.
Instead, she found Dean sitting with his back to Sam’s crib. He had a fireplace poker in his small hand. She took a step into the room and was bombarded by the sight of of what she thought were poorly drawn devil’s traps on the floor by the door and window. There were also lines of salt.
Her son was warding for a demon attack.
Despite the exhaustion written on his face, Dean looked pleased with himself. He smiled when he saw her come in, certain she would be pleased with him as well. “Protecting Sammy from the demons. Now they can’t kill you.”
Mary swept Dean up into her arms and hugged him tight. Petting his hair as she looked down on Sam, she whispered into his ear. “Hush, baby. No demons are going to get us. We’re safe here. There’s nothing to worry about. Angels are watching over us.”
Dean must have known she was lying from the way her tears fell on his head, but he hugged her back as tight as he could. It was as though he was trying to protect her. He whispered fiercely, “I’ll watch out for us. Angels are dicks.”
When John woke up and made his way upstairs later that night he found Mary sitting on the floor with Sam cradled in her arms. Dean was leaning against her, asleep. She looked up at him with blood shot eyes and tear stained cheeks. Then he noticed the Satanic looking pentagrams on the floor.
He looked back to Mary, anger and confusion apparent on his face. He had the control not to raise his voice, for fear of waking the boys.
“Dean drew them to protect Sam from demons,” Mary murmured, stroking Dean’s head. She told the truth, because no other explanation came forth. She worried about John’s reaction to the occult, but he handled his anger rationally.
“Take Sam into our room. I’ll put Dean back to bed and then clean up this mess,” he decided out loud. “I should have something in the garage that can get the paint out of the carpet, but we’ll need to leave the windows open to air it out. We’ll talk to Dean in the morning about it.”
John’s reaction was sensible, and Mary let herself respond to the authoritative, logical orders. It made her glad to know John could keep his head even when things didn’t make sense. It meant she had a partner in this.
The following morning went about as well as could be expected. John praised Dean for wanting to protect his younger brother, but he stressed that monsters weren’t real. Dean kept quiet, but from the petulant expression only children can pull off set on his face, Mary could tell what he was thinking.
Of course monsters and demons were real.
Dean couldn’t understand why anyone would try and tell him otherwise.
With Dean playing outside and Sam strapped into his Jolly Jumper, John and Mary sat down for coffee to discuss the issue.
“We’re going to have to take Dean out of his nursery school,” John stated, his town leaving no room for argument. “It’s the only place he goes without us, and if she isn’t a Satanist, she’s at least exposing him to some very questionable material.”
Not wanting to voice her true fears, Mary acquiesced. It wasn’t enough to warrant telling John about hunting. While John went to talk to the nursery school owner, Mary went up to the attic to dispose of the few remnants from her life as a hunter. While she wasn’t sure how Dean could have gotten up there to see the books and scrolls, kids were nothing, if not inventive.
She was determined to throw them all away. The last ties of her past life. She even made it as far as the entrance to the county’s public dump site, but she continued past it. A sinking feeling in the very pit of her stomach warned her that throwing away valuable resources would be a terrible idea.
Instead, she took it all a small place outside of town that rented out storage units and stashed it all there. If John ever asked about the bill, she could tell him it was some of her parents’ old things that she couldn’t bear to get rid of. Because it was the truth, she wouldn’t even have to feel guilty.
Disarm
Lawrence – 1992
Hunting had lent Mary to being a light sleeper, but having two children made it so that even the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door woke her. Dean’s whimpers from down the hall were constrained but they woke her none the less. Nothing roused her as quickly as her babies’ suffering.
Even so she wished, just once, that Dean would be quiet through the night so she could get some uninterrupted sleep. Just one night without nightmares. It had escalated to the point that she was dropping dishes in the kitchen out of sheer exhaustion. She’d even sworn in front of Sam when she’d cut herself slicing onions, and it was only through the grace of God that he’d been too engrossed in his book to hear her.
Rolling over, she laid a hand on John’s chest, shaking him gently to wake him up as well.
“John,” she whispered, sleep muffling her voice. “Dean’s having another nightmare. It’s your turn to wake him up.”
In truth, she’d lost count of whose turn it was, but she just couldn’t bring herself to get out of the warm confines of her bed. This nightly ritual was beginning to strain the family, and she was seriously considering John’s suggestion that they take Dean to some kind of a specialist to figure out why he couldn’t behave like every other child.
“Fine,” John grumbled back, rolling out of bed.
Mary felt the weight shift through the mattress rather than saw it; she was already falling back asleep. John’s heavy footsteps sounded down the hallway. Dean’s door creaked when John opened it to step inside. She finally let go of consciousness when she heard John’s deep voice trying to coax Dean awake. “Come on buddy,” he was saying. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.”
An angry roar filled the air, and Mary was up out of bed running down the hall before she even recognized what she was doing.
“Dean! Stop!” John yelled, voice loud enough to wake the dead, and certainly loud enough to bring Sam out of his room, stumbling down the hall with a sleep-addled gait.
Before Mary reached the room Dean let out a loud shriek, and something clattered to the floor. She came in to see John holding Dean’s wrist in a vice-like grip, his own forearm bleeding from a large gash, an iron knife lying on the floor. For his part, Dean looked like a terrified animal, eyes darting back and forth wildly, searching for an escape. He was tugging on his wrist, too, but John wouldn’t release him.
“Stop it!” John yelled again. “Calm down!”
The fury in John’s voice aggravated Dean more, and his struggling intensified. Hoping to help calm him, Mary came up to his side and tried to place a hand gently on his shoulder. Her efforts were rewarded with an elbow to the face, Dean reacting to her sudden presence beside him. She stumbled backwards from the surprising force in the blow.
A more forceful approach was needed to subdue Dean. Realising this, Mary found herself slipping into a familiar take-down move her father had taught her years ago. It subdued a demon with minimal damage to the host. It was a gentle way of incapacitating someone much stronger than her without injuring them, and Dean was certainly stronger than normal in his fear-heightened state.
In short order, Mary had Dean face-down on the floor with one arm pinned behind his back.
“Dean, sweetie, you have to calm down. It’s just us.” She kept her voice low and gentle, the kind used to talk to frightened animals. It seemed to work. Dean’s struggling subsided until he was lying boneless on the floor, but Mary didn’t let him up until she was certain he wasn’t trying to lull her into a false sense of security. She didn’t ease up until she heard the first choked sob below her.
“Oh my god,” Dean whimpered, voice cracking. He drew himself to his feet, shoulders shaking. Looking at John, Dean couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t believe he’d actually injured his own father. He took a step towards the man, one hand outstretched, pleading silently with him to deny the whole thing, but John stepped back, anger and fear written clear as day on his face. Dean dropped back to his knees, a keening sob escaping.
“I thought you were the yellow-eyed demon,” he tried to explain, voice strained and raw. “I didn’t realize it was you, Dad. I swear.”
John ignored his son, looking past him to the wall. Speaking over Dean to Mary, he said, “I need to get this cleaned up. I’m going to take Sam with me and go to the ER. That knife looks rusty, so I might need some shots. You deal with Dean.”
It was only then that Mary noticed Sam was standing in the doorway, teddy bear clutched in one hand, his eyes wide with shock. John moved across the room, took Sam’s hand in his, and then stalked out, dragging Sam behind him. Mary turned to Dean and took both of his arms in her hands to help him stand up.
“Go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face,” she instructed him, looking towards the doorway John had just walked out of, unable to look Dean in the eyes for fear of what she might see there. “I’ll be right back. We’ll get this sorted out.”
She pulled Dean towards the hall and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom before running downstairs to John and Sam.
“Get Sam’s coat on,” John said gruffly, the reality of the situation finally hitting him; the anger was being replaced with concern for his son’s wellbeing. “I’ll wrap this up. Bring Dean to the hospital with you.”
Nodding, feeling numb, Mary got Sam’s coat from the closet and started to manhandle him into it. She did it entirely through muscle memory, incapable of focusing her thoughts, unsure of how to speak to Sam in the wake of the situation.
Sam didn’t have any such qualms.
“Mommy,” he said, soft-voiced to catch her attention. She looked at him, her heart breaking at the serious expression on his young face. He bit his lip, considering whether it was the best time to question her, but is curiosity and concern for Dean won out. “Is Dean going crazy?”
It broke her heart even more to have to look at Sam and shake her head. “No baby. Dean’s just sick.”
Keys clutched in a white knuckle grip, John returned with a bandaged arm and took Sam by the hand. With one last glance, he was out the front door, dragging Sam behind him. Mary very nearly didn’t hear glass shattering over the sound of the door slamming right in front of her. It must have registered, however, because it only took a few moments spent staring at the closed door before she was running upstairs and to the bathroom.
Dean turned to her when she arrived, fists bloody and looking so lost. He was surrounded by fragments of the shattered mirror, so he cut his foot when he tried to take a step towards her. A choked sob escaped, and he looked up at her with a deprecating half-smile, as though he deserved no less for his efforts. His voice was broken. “This isn’t me, Mom.”
“Oh, Dean,” she whispered, unable to watch her child suffering. Without thinking, she took the towel off the rack and set it on the floor, using it to sweep the glass out of the way to clear a path for him out of the bathroom. She held out a hand to him, encouraging him to come out. He went rigid when she enveloped him in her arms, as though he couldn’t believe she was willing to touch him after what had transpired, but he sagged into her when she tightened her embrace. “We’ll figure this out, honey.”
When she pulled away, she took a look at his hands to assess the damage. His one hand was cut up, but the left had one rather deep cut that would likely need stitches. Shards of glass were imbedded in his hands as well, and she wasn’t confident she’d be able to get them all out. She was too emotionally charged. She was reluctant to take him to the hospital; she knew the doctors would want further tests given how badly Dean’s nightmares were affecting him, and she didn’t want to acknowledge there might be something wrong with Dean beyond an overactive imagination.
A part of her wished she could blame it on possession. The number of times hunters were asked to exorcise family members who suffered from mental disorders was disgusting, and a quick application of holy water ruled it out. Still, Mary had checked Dean for possession, and now she didn’t know how to deal with alternative.
One look at Dean, his listless expression and downcast eyes, made up her mind, though. Things had escalated beyond her control. She got Dean to wrap one arm around her shoulder. Helping keep the weight off of his injured foot, she brought him downstairs and placed him into the car.
They made the trip to the ER in silence, Mary thankful that there was no one else on the road at that hour. She wasn’t certain she’d be able to pay full attention to the road. She kept one eye on Dean; she would have given anything to know what he was thinking. He hardly blinked, and every so often a shudder would run through his body. Taking one hand off of the steering wheel, she placed it on his shoulder only to have him jump at the contact. His eyes darted towards her, wide with pupils blown. She let her hand hover for a few moments before she put it back on the wheel.
She wondered where she’d gone so wrong, that her poor, sweet boy couldn’t even stand her touch.
At the hospital, they treated Dean’s injuries without much fuss, until they learned what had happened. The doctor in charge suggested calling down someone from the mental health ward for a consultation. Mary hesitated, looking over to where a doctor was carefully pulling glass out of Dean’s foot.
“I’m not sure,” she started to say, but John cut her off.
“That’s bullshit, Mary!” he exclaimed, the force of his voice and the fact that he actually cursed at her startling her into silence. “Dean’s been… off, for a while now. We’ve just been trying to ignore it. He needs help, and we can’t give it to him on our own.”
There was strain in John’s voice, the barely contained frustration and disappointment. He felt as though he was a bad father, and it was his fault; Mary felt it all, the perfect mirror of her own soul. She nodded. They needed to figure out how to help Dean.
They had to let the psychiatrist speak with Dean alone. Mary knew they would question Dean about his home life – awkward questions the doctor didn’t think Dean would answer in their presence. It took a lot longer than she’d expected, too. Sam had fallen asleep spread across the waiting room chairs, while John paced back and forth, unable to sit still.
She knew there was something wrong as soon as the nurse came and offered to watch after Sam and keep him entertained if he woke up. On the tail end of the nurse’s words, the psychiatrist came to meet them, Dean nowhere in sight. Mary’s stomach dropped when the man brought them into another consultation room and asked them to take a seat.
“I don’t want to alarm you,” the doctor began, words sending Mary’s heart racing, “But I’m afraid the situation may be more serious than either of you imagined.”
Beside her, John’s hand groped for hers, and when she took it, John squeezed tightly. “What do you mean?”
The doctor leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table in front of them, the picture of authority, trying to put them at ease. “There are still more tests to be done before we can prescribe a treatment…”
“Wait,” Mary interrupted her mind unable to keep up with the conversation. “What do you mean, treatment?”
The doctor leaned back in the seat, hands unclasping, presenting his palms up, trying to make her feel in control of the situation. “Mrs. Winchester, I’m sure you’re aware that Dean has been unwell for a while. From what your husband told the doctors earlier, and what Dean’s told me, he’s in a bad way right now. Did you know your son has been experiencing pervasive hallucinations?”
Mary could only shake her head, unsure of what ‘pervasive hallucinations’ even meant.
“Dean told me that he’s worried about protecting your family from demons, Mrs. Winchester,” the doctor said, voice stern. He sat upright with his weight supported on his arms, palms flat against the table; imposing this time. “He told me about how he believes demons have a plan for his brother, and how he’s the only one who can stop it. He told me how he stopped a ghost from haunting the abandoned mill near the high school by digging up a body and then salting and burning the bones. This is not a fantasy. Your son truly believes he is under threat from demons.”
The ground disappeared from under her; it was the only way Mary could explain the way her stomach dropped and her heart jumped in to her throat at the same time. She could feel the blood draining from her face, and she had to work to bring air into her lungs. This can’t be happening.
The doctor was relentless, noting the signs of her panic attack with disinterest, thinking it was the best way to drive his point home. “While it is rare for symptoms to present in adolescents, Dean is showing signs of paranoid schizophrenia. Pervasive auditory hallucinations and delusions centring on religion are not uncommon. Paired with the violent outburst John has mentioned and his anger and patronizing manner with myself and my staff, it seems very likely.
“I would like to keep him in the hospital, under observation, while we perform more tests. I’m going to need to ask the two of you more questions about Dean’s behaviour, and with your permission I’d like to speak to his teachers about his performance in school.
“The bad news is that I’m uncertain how early we’ve caught this. The good news is that, because he is young, Dean has the family and social support systems needed to promote compliance with the treatment regime. It will mean major changes to your family structure, and…”
Mary tuned the doctor out, still trying to come to grips with the bombshell that had been dropped on her. Beside her, John was on the edge of his seat, ready to be proactive and do whatever was necessary to get his son back on the right track. He wasn’t one to sit back and let things happen, so he would listen to the doctor speak of further testing, of other illnesses that could be effecting Dean, of various treatment options, of what it would mean for the family.
Mary couldn’t bring herself to care. Dean wasn’t crazy.
She wasn’t sure how he knew, but Dean was hunting.
Once the testing was over with, and the treatment plan decided upon, Dean was allowed to return home. They didn’t tell Sam what was going on, just that Dean was sick, and that the doctors were going to make him better. Mary ensured that John would be willing to let her take care of Dean’s medication. The first thing she did after picking up the medication from the hospital pharmacy was to flush the pills down the toilet and replace them with mints she’d bought at the corner store.
Dean was released from the hospital while John was at work and Sam was in school. The reasoning was that it would be better to get Dean settled before everyone else came home. Instead of taking Dean home, Mary took him to the outskirts of town, near the city dump, where she’d rented the storage unit nearly nine years before.
Looking at her in askance, Dean didn’t get out of the car right away. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he was losing his mind; he couldn’t figure out why his mother would take him out here instead of home, where he would lead the sheltered life he was doomed to.
“Come on,” she insisted, not excited, but optimistic. Her tone was enough to startle Dean into action. He got out of the car, eyes on the ground, and came to stand beside Mary in front of the car. For a while, she didn’t speak, taking deep breaths to steady herself. Dean kept silent next to her, waiting for her to explain what was going on. “I’ve kept this from your father since he’s known me. I ran away from this life when I met him, and I was trying to protect you and Sam from having to live the same way I did growing up, but I think you need to know.”
Reaching into her pocket, Mary noted that Dean was looking with expectant eyes. There was anger, and suspicion, but something akin to hope and excitement as well. Dean was daring to think there might be something more to what was happening to him.
She pulled out the key she’d never used, taking another deep breath. Walking towards the storage unit, she felt a heavy weight lift off of her shoulders. This is right.
When Dean stood next to her, she put the key into the lock and turned the deadbolt over with a heavy click. Her hand was shaking when she turned the knob, but the door opened without even a creak of protest. Sunlight filled the room, catching on the dust motes that were disturbed by the open door. Before Mary could say anything, Dean was in, taking in the old tomes and grimoires, the carefully shelved knives, swords and crossbows, the curse boxes and artefacts precisely organized on tables and old bookshelves.
It was everything she’d sworn to give up.
Dean looked at her like it was the most miraculous thing he′d ever seen.
“You come from a long line of Hunters,” Mary explained. “Your grandparents were some of the best. They mostly looked after hauntings, but they had experience with all kinds of monsters, and even a few demons. Everything in this room belonged to them. Everything needed to kill all of the evil that walks among us.
“I gave it up when I met your father. I was sick of looking for trouble. I was sick of being afraid of the shadows. I just wanted a normal life, like the rest of the girls my age.” Mary couldn’t help the bitter laugh that accompanied the words. “I should have known you can’t escape what’s in your blood.”
“Mom…” Dean began, uncertain what she was expecting of him.
“No, Dean, it’s alright,” she replied, trying to reassure him when she wasn’t certain herself. “Ever since you were little, you knew things you shouldn’t. You tried to protect Sam from demons when you were four, and you actually set up salt lines and wards. I should have known then there was something special about you, but I assumed you’d gotten into your grandparents things, so I took them from the house and hid them here. Turns out you were born to be a hunter, now you just need the training.”
Dean let out a sigh of relief, and when she looked she saw there were tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank god. I’m not going crazy.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re not, but there are going to be times you wish you were. You can’t tell anyone about this. We’re going to have to pretend that you’re on medication, and we’ll have to go to counselling, but you’re not crazy. Now tell me about your dreams, about what you think you know so far.”
“They’re not really dreams,” Dean answered, shaking his head. Mary looked at him in askance. “It’s more like… I’ve been through all of this before, except it’s all wrong. It’s like things were supposed to happen differently.”
“What do you mean?” Mary came forward and laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. For the first time since before the incident, he actually relaxed into her touch.
“I remember when I was four. A demon was supposed to come into the house and feed Sam demon blood on his six month birthday. Sam was destined to jumpstart the apocalypse. He came that night and you found him. He killed you that night.” Dean signed, knowing he sounded crazy. “But I also have memories where that never happened. Dad sat me down and told me monsters weren’t real.”
“How vivid are these memories?” Mary needed to know how and why Dean was affected. There would probably be rituals to perform, but the questions were easiest for now.
“I think they were a lot more vivid when I was younger. I remembered the demon’s yellow eyes and his plans for Sam. Now I mostly just get impressions, unless I really try to focus on something. I think I’ve reconciled what’s real and what’s not, now I just know things. Rock salt repels ghosts and demons. A devil’s trap can keep one in place. I knew how to build an EMF reader out of my Walkman.”
“EMF reader?”
“It picks up the electromagnetic fields emitted by supernatural things…” Dean tried to explain.
“I was taught to rely on the physical tells of supernatural presences,” Mary replied. “I’ll teach you all of these things, too, and we’ll figure out why this is happening.”
Dean nodded, trusting his mother for the first time in a long while.
Lawrence, Early 1995
“Where do you and mom go together?”
Dean jerked his head up to find Sam standing at his bedroom door. It was nearly midnight, and Sam was supposed to be asleep. Instead, Sam looked at the gear on Dean’s bed curiously. The intensity in his eyes and the firm set of his jaw told Dean that Sam wasn’t going to go away until he’d answered the question.
There are countless answers that Dean could supply. Mary taught Dean to lie on command, because it was the only way a hunter could gain information, but the idea of lying to Sam made Dean’s stomach sink. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“You know how Dad always told you the monsters in your closet weren’t real.” Sam wrinkled his nose, wondering where the conversation was going, but he nodded anyway. “And remember how mom never said anything?”
Sam nodded again, but he became impatient. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Mom didn’t say anything because she knows the monsters are real. She teaches me how to hunt them.”
Sam was old enough to be sceptical of Dean’s explanation, but young enough to still be curious. He scoffed, but his eyes were bright. “Yeah right, Dean. Don’t lie to me.”
“You don’t believe me?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. A small part of him wanted to deny it all, and laugh it off. If Sam didn't know how to hunt, the demons won’t be interested in him, it supplies. The rest of him knows that Sam needs to know this stuff if he’s going to be able to protect himself. That’s the part that wins out. He gestured to his gear. “Come take a look at this. I can tell you what all of it does.”
He spent half an hour explaining the holy water, rosary, rock salt and the various weapons. Watching with rapt attention, Sam asked pointed questions, trying to learn as much as he could.
“Do you think mom will let me come train with you guys?” Sam sat on his knees on Dean’s bed, all but bouncing in excitement.
Shaking his head, Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Mom only agreed to train me because I knew too much already. She doesn’t want us involved in the life.”
Sam’s face fell, unable to hide his disappointment. Dean ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry Sammy. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. You just have to promise you won’t tell mom or dad.”
The smile that lit up Sam’s face was worth all of the unease Dean felt about the promise.
Lawrence, June 1997
Next to hunting, working on the Impala was Dean’s favourite pastime. Surrounded by the smell of engine oil, he kind of felt at home. He understood it. The parts fit together in a certain way, and stopped working if you didn’t treat them right. There was no mystery to it. No unexpected happenings. It was just simple, silent work. He would always come home from school when he had a spare period and work on the car to unwind.
He was about to wrap up, wiping his face on the back of his arm, when John called to him. His voice was loud and angry. “Dean!”
Dean walked out of the garage, not sure what he could have done to piss his father off. John was waiting outside the garage, arms crossed over his chest, scowling. Sam stood beside him, staring at his feet, mop of brown hair obscuring his face.
“Dad?” The confusion was evident in Dean’s voice.
“Don’t play coy with me, son.” John’s voice was a low rumble. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” Dean had learned it was a lot easier to appease his father if he slipped the ‘sir’ in. It was his way of conveying disciplined respect instead of childlike petulance.
“I got a call from the high school. Apparently the other kids were giving Sam a hard time because he had a tattoo. A tattoo!” John was almost yelling by that point. “Your mother and I certainly didn’t give him permission to get that! So I’ll ask you again, what were you thinking?”
Dean was proud of Sam for keeping his mouth shut about it for so long, but he was struggling to come up with a reasonable explanation. No lie was going to be able to smooth things over. Dean kept his mouth shut instead.
“I wouldn’t care less if you got yourself a tattoo, but what kind of place did you take Sam to that would actually let him get it? Neither of you are adults yet! He could have gotten an infection, or worse!”
Stoic in the face of John’s yelling, Dean could only pray Sam would keep his mouth shut. He didn’t regret what he’d done, keeping Sam safe, but his father’s anger was justified. Sam didn’t seem to think so, though.
Concerned that Dean was taking all of the blame for something he’d happily taken part in, Sam looked up at his father. “Dean took me to a really good place, Dad. They autoclaved their tools and everything. And it’s just a small tattoo. It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits. You can’t even see it unless I take off my shirt.”
Sam was proud of himself, but John froze at the mention of evil spirits. Crouching down, John looked Sam in the eyes. “Did Dean tell you that?”
Sam worried at the tone of John’s voice, but answered anyway. “Yeah. He has one, too. It’s supposed to stop possessions.”
Standing up, John rounded on Dean. “When was the last time you took your medication?”
Dean had to stop himself from groaning or rolling his eyes. Any mention of the occult or the mystical and John immediately thought it was mental illness. “I took it this morning, just like every morning.”
“What medication?”
Both John and Dean turned to Sam at the question, and Dean’s heart stopped for a moment. Anxiety threatened to overtake him. They never talked to Sam about Dean’s supposed schizophrenia. Both he and Mary knew he wasn’t sick, and John assumed the medication was doing the trick. Both John and Mary had decided it would be best to avoid telling Sam until he was older.
John glared at Dean when Sam asked again, “What medication.”
Crouching down again, John put his hands on Sam’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Dean sometimes isn’t well, and when he forgets to take his medicine he starts imagining things. There is no such thing as evil spirits or possession. Dean was just confused.”
Dean wanted to deny it, but he knew if he said anything it would just make things worse. He almost caved and spilled everything when Sam looked up at him with wide eyes, betrayal written all over his face, but then John was sending Sam inside.
Later, when John confronted Mary, she confirmed that Dean had been taking his medication every day. John was appeased, but only slightly, and it took the better part of the week to convince John not to take Dean back to the doctors to re-evaluate his dosage.
When Dean was finally able to get Sam alone, Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Let me explain…”
“Explain that you lied to me?” Sam bit back. “Was it all some kind of joke to you?”
Dean took a step back at the force of emotion in Sam’s words. “No. I’d never lie to you. Dad just doesn’t understand…”
“Go away Dean!” Sam yelled, hurt in a way that only adolescents could feel. It was irrational, and heart felt. “I hate you!”
“Sammy…”
“I hate you!” He threw the plastic cup holding the pens and pencils on his desk at Dean. In the silence of the room it fell to the floor with a deafening clatter.
Dean slipped out, hoping Sam would cool down. Mary refused to mediate, because she refused to tell Sam about the supernatural.
By the time Dean left for Cornell University in August, Sam still wouldn’t look him in the eye. John’s reluctance to let Dean go off unsupervised made for a very awkward goodbye. In the end, Dean left with the impression that Mary would be the only one who would really miss him.
