Archive of Our Own

Some kid is making rounds at the bar, can't be more than twenty and he's sidling up to anyone and everyone who looks drunk enough to make some bad decisions. When he gets close John doesn't even bother looking up, downs his beer and ignores the way the kid's chest is pressed right up along his side.

"C'mon man, buy me a drink," he breathes into John's ear, reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. Kid like this probably has a wallet full of fake IDs, but being able to pay his tab is a whole different issue.

"Get lost," he says and jabs his elbow into the kid's stomach.

The kid takes a hint and backs off, slaps John on the back as he walks away. "Fine, fine. I get it."

John figures the crumpled wad of cash he'd slapped down on the bar a few hours ago is probably good for at least one more double shot before he leaves. He downs it quick and clears his throat, stuffs his remaining cash into the tip jar and stumbles out. It's not until he's patting down his pockets searching for his keys that he notices his wallet is gone.

The kid. Goddammit.

He finds the brat holed up in the filthy bathroom with his hand down another man's pants. John grabs him by the elbow and twists around until he's contorted and down on his knees.

"Ah, fuck! What the fuck, dude?"

The door swings shut behind him as the other man stumbles out of the room.

"Where is it?" John grinds out, shakes the kid's arm for emphasis.

"Where's what, you psycho?"

"My wallet, you little snot!"

He drops the act and goes from arrogant teenager to scared little kid in three seconds flat. "Back pocket. Listen I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please. It's all still in there I swear I didn't spend any."

"Take it out," John orders. The kid reaches around with his free arm, shifts up on his knees to tug the wallet out of his jeans pocket. He holds it up to John, and it's impossible to miss the way his hand is shaking. John snatches it away and lets go of the kid's arm.

"Stay down," he orders before the kid can so much as move to stand up.

He flicks through, checks the bills and the cards. His mind is still a little foggy from the alcohol but it doesn't look like any cash is missing. Years on the run have taught him to keep careful track of what IDs and credit cards he's got on him at any given time, so he knows at least none of those are missing.

"What the hell are you doing here, kid? Go on home."

The kid doesn't get up from the floor, just snorts and looks away.

John looks at him, really looks for the first time. There's all the surface stuff he'd cataloged back in the bar out of the corner of his eye; an ingrained habit to know who's around him at all times, be able to call up an accurate description of everything later in case it's relevant to a hunt somehow.

The ratty sneakers and ripped jeans are no surprise, and he's got layers of shirts that all look like they've seen better days. But even through all the layers it's easy to see the kid is bone skinny. Not some bratty teenager looking to rebel and piss off mommy and daddy. A kid like this hasn't had a home in a long time. The hem of his t-shirt is fraying at the neck, just barely showing the top of a sickly yellow bruise. He's got pale skin and freckles, big green eyes that make him look younger than he probably is. He's staring off to the side, focusing hard on the U-bend pipes under the sinks like he doesn't even notice John's in the room. The way his jaw clenches gives him away.

"Get up."

"You sure like giving out orders," he grumbles as he climbs to his feet. "It's ten bucks for a go, and I'm not sucking you or doing any of that other gay shit." The kid looks up to meet his eyes, his fear buried under bravado again. The kid is good at hiding, but still not good enough to cover the way he's shaking.

Some dormant parental instinct kicks in and forces him to ask, "How long's it been since you ate?" before he can stop himself.

"Could be eatin' right now if you weren't such an asshole."

John rolls his eyes. "C'mon," he says, grabs the kid by his collar and drags him out of the bathroom.

They're not in the kind of bar that serves real food, which is unfortunate. John doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, loading some mangy stray in his car and driving over to the nearest diner.

But he needs some food in him, can't remember the last time he ate and needs some solids in him to soak up the booze, anyway. That's how he rationalizes it to himself. He needs some food to sober up and this kid needs a good long talking to for trying to filch his wallet, and this way he can accomplish both.

It doesn't hurt that the kid looks utterly terrified the whole drive over. He could use a bit of a scare to set him straight.

When they get to the diner the kid shuffles in after him, sits on the edge of the booth like he's ready to bolt any second. He takes the menu from the waitress reluctantly, glancing up at John for permission and mouth opening slightly in shock when he gets a nod of assent.

The waitress sashays off, giving them a couple minutes to look over the menu.

The kid keeps sneaking glances at him over the top of his menu. John is watching him right back, but he's better about hiding it. He sees the careful glances and the way the kid is chewing on his bottom lip like he wants to ask something but is afraid to talk. John pushes his menu aside and decides to preempt the question.

"You got a name?"

"Phil." He pauses, only continues when it's clear John's waiting for a full name. "Phil Rudd."

John smirks, against all his better judgment, he kind of likes this kid. "You wanna try that again, and tell the truth this time?"

'Phil' smiles back, not pissed at being caught in the lie. More like amused with a hint of respect that John caught it. "I'm Dean. Last name doesn't really matter much, no family to share it with."

"John Winchester."

"Like the rifle?"

John nods. "Like the rifle."

The kid, Dean, eats like a garbage disposal. Keep the water coming and just shovel the food in as fast as it'll go on down.

John's half tempted to tell the kid to slow it down or he'll get himself sick, but he's not a goddamn babysitter. John takes his food at a slower pace, stops to lean back in the booth and consider things. The kid is gorgeous, clearly down on his luck and in need of a little guidance. But John is the last person to be taking in a kid, not when his own flesh and blood had run away without looking back and these days he's lost in the bottle more often than not.

But Dean is smart and pretty smooth, had to be to get one over on John in the first place. And it'd be a hell of a shame for that to go to waste. Maybe he can drop the kid off at Pastor Jim's or something, set him up somewhere nice with a responsible guardian. Someone not him.

"Not that I'm complaining," Dean interrupts his thoughts, "but if you're gonna be taking this out in trade later I wanna know what it is you're wanting."

It takes a minute for John to unravel that. "No trade. Call this one a freebie."

"This one? So how much does the next one cost me, if there's a next one?"

John ignores that, counters with his own question. "Where do you live?"

"Not of your fucking business, that's where."

"Homeless, then. Sounds like a nice gig." He's still too drunk to be compassionate about it.

"Fuck you."

"Watch your mouth."

Surprisingly, Dean's mouth snaps shut.

John finishes his meal in silence, pays the check and doesn't miss the lingering glance the waitress gives to Dean as she collects her tip. Women always did that with Sammy, too. His boy was all floppy hair and dimples, the kind of looks that had women smiling and doling out extra servings of food or discounts on whatever Sammy wanted.

The looks Dean gets couldn't be more different; John could see it in the bar and he can see it in the waitress' eyes now. Dean is too rough trade for that, all swollen lips and cynical eyes. That damn bruise on his neck is still visible and John makes a note to stop over at Goodwill before he hits Pastor Jim's.

Dean is clearly reluctant as they walk out of the diner.

"So uh, we doing this in the car or back at the bar? 'Cause there's no way m'going back to your place."

"I already told you, that was a freebie. Get in the car."

Dean spends the ride back to the motel fidgeting in his seat, getting more and more nervous when he sees they're not heading back towards the bar. His hand is on the door handle before John has even finished parking the car.

"Listen, thanks for the meal and all, but I think I'm gonna get going now- "

"No, you're not. Room's got two beds, you're sleeping in one of 'em."

What John doesn't mention is why the room has two beds. Old habits die hard, as much as he wants to wake up one day and not be immediately reminded of Sammy leaving, he can't bring himself to admit defeat by ordering a single.

Except Dean apparently doesn't hear him or is deliberately misunderstanding things, because the second the lights turn off he's crawling into John's bed in nothing but his boxers.

"What the- Dean, goddammit!"

John shoves the kid off and he goes sprawling to the floor. John sits up and flips the light back on. Dean is sitting on the floor, looking confused and scared but trying hard to hide it. God, he can see the kid's ribs and one good meal isn't gonna fix that. John wipes a hand over his face, tries to calm himself down before he says something to freak the kid out even more.

"Dean," he says deliberately. "Get in your own damn bed."

"Fine." Dean picks himself up off the floor and mutters something that sounds like fucking weirdo as he crawls into the other bed. John is too tired to deal with this crap tonight.

He's half expecting to wake up the next morning to find an empty bed, precisely why he'd snuck out last night and pulled the distributor cables from the car. Credits cards and the cell phone are easy enough to replace, but no way he's risking the kid stealing his baby and he definitely wouldn't put it past Dean to know how to hotwire a car.

But Dean is still asleep, open mouthed and dead to the world. It's probably been a long time since he's had a decent nights sleep in a warm bed, so John can't fault him for it.

John tugs on his boots and can't help looking at Dean. He looks younger like this; the bravado wiped away and hair mussed from sleep rather than spiked up and stiff with gel. He's got freckles scattered across his shoulders, tapering off as they move down his arms and chest. Christ but the boy is pretty.

John rests his elbows on his knees and hangs his head in his hands, trying to figure out what the hell he's doing.

This had all made a drunken kind of sense last night. Give the kid a bit of a scare for trying to filch his wallet, get a meal in him and then ship him off to someone better equipped to deal with runaways. But waking up this morning to hear someone else in the room, just hearing the sound of another person breathing next to him hits him hard, brings back the loneliness he hasn't felt so acutely since those first few days after Mary.

Now, he doesn't know what the fuck is going on except he feels somehow responsible for the kid. Which is stupid, 'cause he's probably gonna bolt at the earliest opportunity, hitch a ride with whoever'll take him on to the next crappy rest stop, and the next and the next. Boy should be doing more with his life, but who the fuck is John to say anything about that?

"Take a picture it'll last longer," Dean snarks from the bed. His eyes are only open a little bit, but he'd clearly woken up sometime while John was lost in his thoughts. Stupid rookie mistake, being unaware of his surroundings like that. "Or are you waiting for a show?" the kid asks with a smirk, trails one hand down his chest and slipping under the blankets.

"Get up and get dressed. I've got shit to do."

Dean sits up and scrubs a hand through his hair, grabs his shirt from the end of the bed starts tugging it on. "Seriously, dude. What's your deal? Not that I don't appreciate the food and a place to stay, but you do realize you're not actually my old man, right? You don't get to give orders and shit."

John is on him before he's even got one arm in the sleeve. One knee is pressed into Dean's stomach, lower body holding Dean's legs in place while he reaches up to grab Dean's head and shoulder, craning his neck so the fading bruise is fully exposed.

"As long as you're staying with me you follow my rules, that's my deal." He emphasizes the point with a shake, jostling Dean's head as he struggles to break the hold. "Unless you wanna go back to wherever you got this?" John spits, juts his chin at the bruising on Dean's neck.

They're stuck in a holding pattern. John locks his arms and Dean is clawing at him fruitlessly to get free. Finally the kid concedes.

"Alright, alright already! Dammit, let me go!"

John eases up but doesn't let go completely. Dean tries to shrug out from under him but gives up quickly enough, sits quiet and resigned.

"You gonna behave?"

"Yeah."

" 'Yeah' what?"

Dean looks up through his eyelashes with a half smile. "Yes, Daddy." John gives his hair a quick tug, not enough to hurt but enough to serve as a warning.

"Try again with less attitude."

Dean sighs and lowers his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Better. Now put your damn clothes on."

John's in no mood to risk a scene in a diner, even if Dean does look more subdued now than he did this morning. They grab donuts and coffee from a drive-through and Dean adds enough milk and sugar to his coffee to make John sick just watching it. He's got half a pink frosted donut stuffed in his mouth when he asks, "So, Pops, where we goin'?"

"Don't call me 'pops.' We're going to a friend of mine's."

Dean is silent for a minute, chewing and swallowing before he talks this time. John thanks god for small miracles, the kid's got atrocious manners. When he starts talking again it's more guarded. Not for the first time John wishes the Impala had driver side door lock controls, Dean looks ready to bolt out the door, moving vehicle or no.

"This some kind of human trafficking shit? You're taking me to be some rich asshole's buttmonkey?"

Christ. He's got imagination, John has to give him that. "My friend is a priest. He helps kids like you."

"'Kid's like me'? You don't know shit about me. And I don't need your damn help."

"I know that you curse too fucking much. Keep at it and next rest stop I'm washing your mouth out with soap."

Dean glowers at that. John doesn't need to turn his head to see it, he can feel the surly look directed at him from the other side of the car. But the kid shuts up for the next couple of hours and John takes that as a blessing.

They stop at a rest stop sometime in the afternoon, John has been measuring the days in miles and in drinks so long that the angle of the sun has lost it's meaning. He's only slightly tanked, the stiff awareness of Dean's eyes on him keep him from reaching for his flask as often as he'd like.

John leans in the open driver's side door while the gas pump works. "You got money for food?"

"You kidnap me and then expect me to buy you lunch? Not a chance, asshole."

John clamps his teeth shut and barely stops himself from smacking the kid. "Not for me, smartass. Your scrawny ass can't afford to skip a meal." He peels off a ten from his remaining cash and passes it to Dean. He takes it hesitantly, like it's going to be snatched away.

Dean doesn't move to get out of the car. "What about you?"

"I'm fine. Watching you eat has put me off food."

Dean rolls his eyes but heads off to the tiny convenience store readily enough. To John's surprise, the kid comes back just as he's paying the bill.

"So you decided I'm not selling you off to the sex trade?" John asks as they settle back in the car.

Dean shrugs. "Don't have nowhere else to go."

"You don't have anywhere else to go."

"That's what I said," Dean replies with a cocky smile that tells John he knows exactly what he said.

Dean crunches his way through a bag of chips one at a time, one-eighty degree spin from his two previous meals. He spends a ridiculous amount of time after each one sucking the grease and salt from his fingers, and John can't figure out if it's a painfully obvious seduction or Dean really feels the need to savor each chip that much.

From the hollow look of his cheeks, it's probably a little of both.

Whatever else Dean might've bought at the gas station, John doesn't see hide nor hair of it. Dean keeps the plastic bag balled up and tucked under his legs.

"That all you're eating for lunch?"

"Got my carbs and twenty-four percent daily value of salty goodness," Dean enunciates without even glancing at the bag.

"There any actual vitamins in that crap?"

"Says the man who bought me donuts for breakfast. You're lucky I don't have scurvy."

"You don't get scurvy from one morning of donuts."

"I'm just saying, m'not gonna sell for much at auction much if I'm missing all my teeth."

"For the last time, I am not selling you."

Six hundred more miles to go to get to Pastor Jim's and they can't go by fast enough.

"And here I was hoping you were just slumming it for the weekend," is Dean's first response when he steps into the motel room that night.

It's early yet, way earlier than John would ever stop on his own but sitting in the car all day with Dean is driving him up a wall even when the kid isn't talking.

Dean is right, of course. The motel is a piece of shit with a doped up 'hunter' theme that makes John want to bust out laughing. He doesn't though, because only Sammy's snotty but generally good-natured teasing could really make this funny. For some reason that makes him irrationally pissed at Dean, like it's his fault Sammy isn't here or that he can't be a better cheap substitute.

"Yeah I know, it's such a dump compared to where you were staying before."

It's a remark meant to cut but the hit doesn't land, Dean just slides out from underneath it with a grin and calls first shower.

John stays up late that night; pulls out his journal and makes notes, leafs through the newspapers he picked up at the gas station. Dean looks interested but keeps his distance. When he's done he tucks the journal under his mattress. Dean watches him do it but doesn't comment.

He wakes up some time in the middle of the night to a stifled moan from the other bed. Dean is twisting in his sheets and one fist shoved in his mouth, but his eyes are closed and slack and he doesn't respond when John calls his name.

It takes John a minute to sort out the movements; recognize the rocking of Dean's hips for what it is. Not the helpless struggle of someone caught in a nightmare, no. The kid's laying there having a fucking wet dream. Either Dean is way too old for this to be happening or John seriously miscalculated his age.

And John wants to chuck a pillow at him, yell his name, anything to wake him up and send him off to the bathroom; but he doesn't. Dean's just wearing his boxers, and there's a sheen of sweat on his skin that helps highlight his body in the dim light of the room. His lips are stretched and wet around his own hand, and there's the barest glint of teeth digging into the skin of his fingers.

He can't look away.

He reaches down, fumbles blindly with one hand and grabs the flask that's tucked under his bed. He takes a swig without letting his eyes stray from the show going on in the other bed. Dean head is thrown back, long line of his throat visible and Adam's apple bobbing with every swallow and bitten off whimper. He's beautiful like this, still too skinny and rough looking but beautiful in spite of it all.

When Dean finally finishes and settles down back to sleeping quietly, John lays flat on his back and stares at the ceiling as he jerks himself off. John's not a strong man and he's definitely no saint.

This is letting off some steam, he thinks. This is nothing.

Less than a day and a half on the road with him and Dean looks worse than when John picked him up. John knows for a fact Dean slept last night, and the night before. That plus a few solid meals and there's no way the kid should be looking this beat down. He's got dark circles under his eyes and doesn't talk much the entire day.

"Tell me you're not on something."

"I'm not on something," Dean parrots back obediently.

"Dean."

"I'm not. I swear! Like I got money to burn on that kind of shit."

"You're a pretty resourceful kid, I'm sure you could find a way."

"Jesus. You want me to pee in a cup for you? I'll pee in a cup."

"You piss in my car and you'll be squatting over the urinal for the rest of your life, kid."

Dean's mouth snaps shut and he shifts his hips away from John.

If it's not drugs then maybe he's detoxing.

There's gotta be some explanation but this isn't really his business and John resolves to stop obsessing over this. That doesn't stop him from spending the next three hours coming up with increasingly dire explanations.

They're only about a hundred miles outside of Blue Earth, but John is exhausted and hungry and Dean's been snoring with his face pressed against the car window for the past thirty minutes. He stops and shakes Dean awake, prods him along into the motel room and flicks through the complimentary fast food brochures on the table until he finds a place that delivers.

Dean is already half-asleep, leaning back against the headboard of one bed. John takes one look at him and tosses over a pair of sweats and an old shirt. Dean looks up, puzzled.

"What're these?"

"Clothes. You put them on and change 'em every once in a while so they don't stink, you ever heard of them?"

He swears this kid brings out the snarky bastard in him. Dean looks surprised, but strips down and changes right there giving John a flash of pale thighs and hips littered with more fading bruises.

Dean flops down on the bed without bothering to crawl under the covers and is out like a light within seconds.

John tries to shake him awake when the food arrives, even waves the kung pao chicken under his nose but Dean doesn't even flinch. He's busy shoving the food in the 'fridge when it starts again. Dean offers up a soft groan and rolls over limp as a rag doll. His face is flushed and his hips are twitching forward, like he's wants to rub himself off but doesn't have enough energy for it.

John stares. Two nights in a row, this kid is going to kill him.

He gives Dean a swat on the shoulder and gets no response. He grabs Dean's shoulder and gives him a firm shake, and he can feel Dean burning up through his t-shirt. Dean still doesn't wake up. John pries open his eyelids and finds Dean's eyes completely gray. His pupils look misted over with swirling patterns of light and shadow.

Something is wrong.

He shakes Dean, slaps him, empties an entire flask of holy water over his face to no effect. Christo does nothing. He shouts his way through every exorcism he knows; ignores the pounding on the door and the walls. He's woken the damn neighbors up but can't get Dean to bat an eyelid. Dean just lies there, his breathing erratic and his heart racing but his eyes stay closed.

He finally comes.

Dean's whole body shudders and relaxes as he lets out a deep sigh. John looks down the kid's body, expects to find a wet spot staining his sweatpants but there's nothing. John gets distracted by Dean coughing a little, dragging in deep breaths like they hurt and then pushing out one last long exhale of gray mist that swirls and blows out through the thin crack under the door.

What the hell-?

Dean sleeps peacefully enough after that, while John is slowly loosing his mind. He's heard of succubi before, but nothing that didn't have a physical form to hunt down and kill.

There are plenty of legends about creatures that feed on dreams and desire. Traucos and botos are both corporeal, and they're reported to go exclusively after young women. Not that John holds too closely with lore; he's seen too many exceptions to really have faith in the rules, but both of them seem too far off the mark to be of any help.

Popobawas are shapeshifters and have been known to go after men. But what he'd seen wasn't shifting, it was fully incorporeal. The most likely candidate is the German myth of the Walrider, a spirit that infects a victims dreams and feeds on the combination of terror and arousal.

If Dean is under the influence of a Walrider, he'll grow weaker and weaker with each night until he dies.

John has a few vague notes about how to ward it off but nothing solid, and even less on how to kill one. If John can't kill it, he'll have to find some way to banish the thing. Some way of warding it off. He scrawls out protective sigils across the headboard in grease pencil and resolves to stay awake for the rest of the night, even though he doubts it'll be back tonight.

Around sunrise he makes a quick trip out to the car to grab a few of his books from the trunk, risking a few minutes away in the hope that he can find something useful in them. The books don't offer any more answers. The information is either too vague or not focused on the right area.

Dean sleeps late into the morning and John lets him. When he finally wakes up he looks miserable, like he'd spent the night out drinking instead of sleeping for ten straight hours.

" 's there coffee?"

John shoves a mug into his hands and watches as Dean downs it all without stopping. When he's done he doesn't look any more awake, just lets out a giant yawn and scrubs a hand through his hair.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Never better."

John doesn't call him on the obvious lie. Dean stands and has to catch the hem of the sweats to hold them up, they're too loose and too long on him. Between the oversized shirt and pants and the mussed hair, he looks all of about twelve. John feels like a pervert and makes a point of not looking at Dean as he stumbles off to the bathroom.

Got to get the kid some real clothes.

He makes a call while he has the chance, warns Jim he's on his way over but doesn't explain why. He does ask about Walriders and Jim says he'll pull together all the information he has.

"Just to be clear, you are going to explain all of this when you get here. No more hedging around it, John."

"We'll talk," John concedes. "It's been too long."

"That it has." Jim graciously doesn't bring up who's fault that is, but he doesn't need to say it out loud for John to hear it. John hangs up just as Dean walks out of the bathroom, towel around his waist and scrubbing his hair with another.

"For someone so concerned about being sold off you sure don't seem to mind flaunting yourself."

"Hey, if you've got it..." Dean fires back but his heart isn't in it. He still looks dead on his feet, and it might be John's imagination but the bruising on his neck actually looks worse. He wanders back towards his bed and then stops. Looks up, embarrassed. "You uh- got any clothes I can borrow? I mean, since I apparently stink and all, thought I'd save your delicate sensibilities."

"Nothing that'll fit you. We'll stop somewhere today."

Dean shrugs and goes to pull on his own clothes. He balls up John's shirt and pants from last night, hands them back as John packs up his bag. John takes them without a word, he wants to tell the boy to keep them for himself but it's not like Dean has a bag to put them in.

He adds that to the list of things to pick up today and it reminds him so much of back to school shopping for Sammy that his throat goes dry.

They grab a few stale 'complimentary' bagels from the motel front office for breakfast and John navigates around the seedy side of town until they find a thrift store.

Dean bounces out of the car, putting on a show of excitement that's betrayed by the dark circles under his eyes. He holds out a hand expectantly. "So where's my allowance, sugar daddy?"

"Call me that again and I will spank you."

"Really?" Dean feigns excitement with a toothy grin and a salacious wink, and John wants to put his fist through a wall because he left an opening a mile wide and of course Dean jumped on it.

"Not like that," he says and grabs Dean by the back of his neck, pushing him ahead and into the store.

Dean plays up the whole thing, modeling jackets and asking for John's approval. John does his best to ignore it all, even if it is a little amusing to watch Dean pretending to be interested in little nightgowns and sequined vests just to rile him up.

In the end, Dean actually settles for practical purchases: jeans and shirts, a real jacket and pair of sneakers that are worn but still better than what he's got on. John throws in a pack of socks and some underwear from the new-but-irregular bin. Dean looks uncomfortable about it, like buying some underwear is really that much more personal than buying clothes.

John ignores that too, the kid's pride can take a hit if it means getting him some decent clothes. Dean gets changed in the bathroom of the store and balls up his clothes, old and new, and stuffs them in his new secondhand backpack.

"Thanks," Dean says warily as they leave the store.

"Don't mention it."

The clothes were cheap enough, and it's not like the money way hard to come by. He probably needs to hit a pool hall soon though, plans to just as soon as he leaves Jim's. Dean would probably clean up in a hustle, he thinks, distract everyone with his looks and faked innocence until they laid out more than they could afford to lose. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

"So, is it because you're a hetero with a capital H?" Dean asks out of the blue.

"Is what because of what?"

"Why you're not, y'know, taking advantage. You're pretty well closeted, man, but I've seen you looking." Dean is leaning back in the corner between the seat and the car door, eyes at half-mast like he wants to fall asleep but is fighting against it hard.

"I prefer partners with a little more meat on their bones. And ones that have actually finished puberty."

"Fuck you, I'm nineteen."

"Like I said."

Dean doesn't just roll his eyes, he rolls his whole body until his forehead is pressed against the window at an angle. John figures that probably means the conversation is over.

John can't deny that the kid is tempting, but that's exactly the problem. He's a kid; barely older than Sammy, and that's if he's telling the truth about being nineteen. It sounds like a big 'if.'

John fixes his attention on the road, tries not to give Dean any more ammunition than he already has. The miles tick by slowly, the landscape only occasionally broken by small towns and way stations.

Jim Murphy is seated in the back corner of the church, taking the confession of an elderly man by the looks of it. Dean balks as he walks in, has enough sense to keep his voice low but not enough sense to stop him from cussing.

"Oh shit. I shoulda known you were some kind of religious whack job. You're gonna ship me off to Bible camp until I accept Jesus as my personal savior or something, right? I know my rights, no way this is legal-"

John gives him a swift smack to the back of the head. Dean yelps and reaches back to rub his skull.

"I'm not trying to convert you. Show some respect, you're in a damn church."

Jim looks up at that, overhearing them from his pew only a couple yards away. He lays a hand on the older man's shoulder and leaves him to pray, gives John a stern look and raises an eyebrow when he sees Dean. He waves them back towards the vestry and they follow after.

"John. How have you been?"

He's using his Pastor-voice and John cringes. He has too many memories of Sunday morning services and endless lessons, and he has to bite down on the urge to spill everything. There's a reason he doesn't visit Jim very often.

"Been fine. This here's Dean."

Jim and Dean spend an awkward minute assessing one another. "You met him on a job?"

"On a break, you might say. Kid tried to lift my wallet at a bar, thought maybe he could do with a few good meals and some guidance." Dean gives him a offended look that probably has more to do with getting ratted out to a priest than anything else.

"Ah. Dean, how do you feel about comic books? I believe we have quite a collection down in the recreation room."

"I'm not five," Dean snorts. John casually steps down on his foot, hard. "But I'd love to relive the misspent days of my youth," Dean finishes with an overenthusiastic grin. Dean gets shuffled off to a larger room off of the vestry and John gives him a look that he hopes conveys Stay here and be good or I will end you.

Dean rolls his eyes and waves him off.

Once John and Jim are settled back in the vestry with mugs of coffee, Jim starts in. "So John, anything you want to tell me?"

"I think the kid's got a Walrider attached to him."

"And you figured this out from him stealing your wallet?"

"I saw an attack." If he keeps it nice and vague, maybe he can get away with kidnapping a random street kid and dragging him across the country. On the other hand, Dean hadn't been trying terribly hard to get away. How bad was this kid's life that he'd come along with so little objection? "I couldn't wake him up. Tried all the usual stuff and nothing took."

"Well from everything I've got here, warding one off takes something a little different than 'the usual stuff.' There's nothing on killing them, not that I've found. Just tricks to keep them away."

"That'd be a start."

"And I'm guessing from way you're talking about this with Dean in another room, he doesn't even know what's happening to him. How are you planning on hunting this thing without telling him?"

John clears his throat. "I thought we'd take care of this thing and then you could find him a program or something," he trails off.

"You want to leave him here."

"You want me to drop him off back on the street?"

"I think there's a third option you aren't considering. You can't leave him here alone, not after taking him across the country and telling him monsters are real." Jim folds his hands, looks down like he doesn't want to continue. "John, I know what you've been through. Especially these past few months. This is the steadiest I've seen you since Sam left. It could be good for both of you."

"You want me to drag him on the road, take him hunting? Teach him a good pool hustle? How is that better than staying here for a while, having some stability while he gets on his feet?"

"It isn't. But does Dean strike you as the kind of person who likes being pinned down to one place?"

And there's no answer to that, because of course he doesn't.

Dinner that night is strained. Dean freezes when Jim asks about school, mumbles off something about being out of the system anyway. John's ears prick at the phrase, too many near misses with CPS while Sammy was growing up to miss it. He can tell from Jim's expression that it doesn't surprise him.

"Foster kid?"

"Sometimes," Dean shrugs.

"That must have been very difficult, growing up." Jim's confessional-voice is back in full force, but it doesn't seem to have much effect on Dean.

"Yeah, sure."

Eventually Jim lays down his silverware pushes back his chair. "Well, I suppose I should let you get to bed. All that time on the road must have been rough, Dean you look wiped."

Dean's brow knits a little at that, catches the dig at John but doesn't understand what it means. John does a quick threat assessment, decides it would be better to do this with Jim around to corroborate (and subdue if necessary) rather than try to handle this alone. "No, we can stay up a bit. Some things we've got to talk about, anyway."

Jim is already half out of his chair and sits back down slowly when John's words sink in. Dean glances back and forth between them, hands braced on the table like he's getting ready to flee.

Decision made, John has no idea how to start. He usually skips out before these kinds of explanations are necessary, and it's not even like Dean has seen anything for himself, he's been asleep for the attacks.

Thankfully Jim steps in. "Dean, I know this must sound like a strange question, but have you noticed anything strange about your sleep patterns recently? Sleeping a lot but not feeling rested, that sort of thing?"

Dean's eyes flick to the side. "Maybe."

"We may have a theory about what's happening."

It doesn't go well. Dean thinks they're both nuts, which is probably justified and maybe a little true. He tries to bolt, not once but three times, until John and Jim get him pinned down in a corner and try to explain demons and spirits like it's all perfectly logical.

Dean seems, if not more calm then at least more willing to listen once they get him talking about the dreams. John was expecting this. Walriders don't just hitch on for a meal, they cause waking nightmares that get the victim's adrenaline pumping and forces their body aroused. Dean gives just enough detail to be horrifying but not enough to fill in the blanks, and John doesn't know if he should be grateful for that.

"You're saying this- thing makes me see that stuff?"

"It feeds on you through the dreams. We can stop it, if you let us."

"Did you know? When you picked me up in the bar, did you know this thing was after me? Is that why?"

"I-" God it would make this so much easier if he could say yes. He still doesn't know why he took the kid with him, can't even justify it to himself. Jim knows him well enough that he'd see through the lie, and Dean is sharp enough to pick up on it too. "No. I didn't know, not until I saw it happen that first night."

He doesn't ask, even though John can see the question forming on his lips. Then why? But they both know that's not something they want to talk about in front of Jim. John would rather not talk about it ever, if he's honest with himself.

"What do we need to do to get this thing off me?"

"There are several things we can try to ward it off for tonight. We'll look into more permanent solutions tomorrow."

Dean gets the guest bed and John makes up a cot on the floor with spare blankets. He doesn't plan on sleeping much tonight anyway, even though he can feel his eyelids going heavy and dry. Jim gives him a critical look, like he knows John is running on fumes and trying to ignore it. Maybe like he knows a little more than that, too. John turns around and examines the heavy iron horseshoe hanging off the bedpost.

"How sure are we this is gonna work?" he asks without turning around.

"There are many different legends, all with different feeding methods and means of banishing them." Jim taps John's shoulder and hands him two well used books with pages carefully tagged. He doesn't question that John's staying up, just accepts it and John is grateful for small mercies. "If one thing doesn't work, another one will. We try them all," Jim says to Dean as he hands him a vanity-sized mirror.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers of one hand twisted in the hem of his borrowed t-shirt. John had cursed a bit when he realized he'd forgotten to buy the kid sleep clothes, Dean had just waved his hand at John's bag and asked, "Can I?"

"You hold that on your chest, reflection facing down. If the iron in the horseshoe doesn't drive it away, the mirror should prevent it from getting inside of you."

"How?"

"Mirrors have magical significance, it's said they have the ability to reflect our true souls. Hundreds of years ago, it was custom to cover all the mirrors in a house when a loved one passed away, so their soul wouldn't become trapped in the reflection. Some people still follow that custom today."

It's strange to see them like this, John feels like an intruder in the scene. Jim is both teacher and kind guardian, and Dean listens quietly in rapt attention. John thinks it's the first time he's ever seen Dean so still. Dean would fit perfectly here, he needs this stability, this well-practiced guidance and understanding.

"The Walrider shows you lies, plants false images in your mind so that it can feed. With the mirror I think, even asleep you will have the true reflection of yourself nearby. To remind you what's real. If the creature cannot take hold of your mind, I believe it will be unable to feed."

"Right." Dean looks down and the mirror. "Well, here goes nothing." He slides under the covers with the mirror hugged right to his chest and closes his eyes.

"I'll be just outside," Jim adds quietly.

It comes again that night. Four, five hours later, John's not sure. But it creeps in through a crack around the window and hovers over Dean's chest. The lights are on, and John can just make out the smoke tendrils as it pulses over the bed. John gets his feet under him, crouched on the balls of his feet and ready to leap up in case the mirror and horseshoe fail to deflect it.

It hovers over Dean for a moment, as if unsure what to make of the mirror still loosely clasped against Dean's chest. Slowly, it creeps up towards Dean's head. As soon as it nears the headboard, where the iron horseshoe is hung, it rears back and John hears a faint howl. That's right, bastard. No snack for you tonight.

Dean snaps awake at the sound, eyes going wide and arms tightening around the mirror when he sees the smoke hovering before him. It's twisted from a fine gray mist into seething darkness, looming over the bed and still screaming in it's own way. Dean's eyes are fixed on the Walrider.

"John?"

"It's okay Dean. Don't move, it's working."

He can see Dean breathing hard, fear and adrenaline pumping through him double time. It's one time John wishes to god he hadn't been proven right. The boogeyman is real, sorry kiddo.

Minutes pass by, both of them waiting and strung tight. John's legs are aching from holding position but he pushes through it, concentration too fixed on the creature to slip up. It expands, a quick explosion of darkness and movement, then tears out through the open door. John chases it out, gets to the door of the house just in time to see it disappear in the night. Jim is on his feet next to him, a crucifix clutched in one hand and a flask of holy water in the other.

"It worked?"

"It worked," John answers.

Jim breathes out a sigh and heads back to the couch. "How is he?"

"Need to go check." John heads off and silently thanks Jim for not following. Dean is sitting up in bed, still holding the mirror and eying the horseshoe. "It probably won't be back tonight. And if tries, that'll keep it away. I'll be here." He's not sure why he needs to add that last part, but Dean nods eases back down to the bed.

"Yeah okay. I'll just sleep peacefully while the magical horseshoe keeps me safe from the evil demon-cloud. Fuck. Not that I don't appreciate everything, but my life was normal before I met you. I mean it sucked, but at least it sucked in a normal way."

"Dean-"

"Shut up, go to sleep and stop cursing? Yeah I got it." He rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes. It's hard to miss how close he's curled up near the horseshoe.

John sleeps after that. Not straight through, he can't remember the last time he slept through the night when he wasn't passed out drunk or high on pain meds. By the time really wakes up Dean is already out of bed and dressed, sitting in the kitchen with a small pile of Jim's books and bowl of cereal. He looks up when John stumbles in.

"Man, and I thought us young'uns were supposed to be the lazy ones."

"Coffee?"

Jim waves a hand towards the pot and Dean jumps up and is there before John can take two steps.

"Thanks," he says as he takes the mug from Dean. John raises an eyebrow and the kid shoves his hands in his back pockets and looks away shiftily.

"You look beat to hell, didn't think you could manage without spilling all over the place. Looks like I'm the only one that got a half decent nights sleep around here."

"Yeah and who's fault is that," John grumbles and instantly regrets it. Dean hunches down, sits back at the table and finishes his breakfast in silence.

Jim tries to pick up the conversation without much luck. "We were talking about ways to get rid of the Walrider. Dean brought up a few interesting theories."

"Yeah?"

They both wait a bit for Dean to jump in. When he doesn't, Jim continues. "The iron in the horseshoe repels it, but that only keeps it from attacking Dean. If it can't get to him it'll just feed on someone else. We think maybe we can trap it and starve it out."

"Trap it how?"

Dean finally pipes up, "In me."

John looks up at Jim. Dean is young and new at this, but Jim should damn well know better. "No."

"It makes sense! We know how to keep it away if we need to, but all I have to do is stay awake long enough for the bastard to die."

"It's not safe. We'll find another way."

"It's safe enough. I want to get the monster that did this to me, and if you're not gonna help then I'll do it on my own."

They stare each other down. "We'll use me as bait instead," John offers but Jim jumps in.

"I'm sorry, John, but I don't think that would work. The Walrider's attached itself to Dean. It completely ignored both of us last night; we might be too old for the job," he says with a sardonic smile.

"I'll be fine. I mean, you'll both be there and have my back right?"

Dean looks back and forth between John and Jim, waiting for an answer. However confident he sounds, he still looks nervous. John wants to tell him that of course he'll be looking out for him, but that would be agreeing to this madness and John hasn't had enough sleep or caffeine to be making these kinds of decisions.

He pours another cup and pulls over one of the books from Dean's pile.

John flips through the book as he drinks and tries to ignore the way Dean is still watching him. Jim knows enough to give him space, picks up the dishes and goes over to the sink. John's journal is still packed away in his duffel and he makes a note to come back to this book and add a few things.

By the time he sets down his empty mug, he still doesn't have another option to offer. He wants to argue that as long as Dean can protect himself, he shouldn't put himself in danger by risking this. But he'd be a hypocrite if he did, no one could understand better the need for vengeance. They can't let this thing go on hurting innocent people.

And Dean's right, there's no way he's going into this without John watching his back every step of the way.

"Fine. Lay it out for me."

Dean looks shocked but happy. The uncertainty is gone, replaced by the thrill of the hunt that John recognizes all too easily as Dean explains the plan.

"We can wait one more night for this. Catch some sleep before we start." Dean just looks at him like he's an idiot. "Yeah, I don't actually mean that. We're doing this tonight."

Dean climbs into bed, mirror in hand but tonight the horseshoe is gone. Tonight, they want it to come. There's no guarantee any of this will work; there's an equal chance the Walrider will take one look at the mirror and flee rather than getting trapped by it. They have to be prepared, nonetheless.

John sits across the room, hopefully far enough away to not spook the Walrider but close enough to the bed to jump in if things go south. The lights are all on, since it's never seemed to deter the thing before. Dean is lying in bed on top of the covers, feigning sleep and tapping out the beat of songs with his fingers to let John know he's still awake. John passes the time quietly guessing the songs, only knowing he's gotten it right when Dean's lips curl in a smile and his fingers change rhythm.

He's almost certain he's got the latest one pegged as "Hell's Bells" when he catches something in his peripheral vision. He clears his throat as softly as he can, heads up.

Dean gets it and his fingers go still.

It swirls around, takes it's time rather than heading straight for the bed like the night before. It's casing the room, John realizes with cold disgust. John hears a creak of springs from the other room, knows Jim is out there with the horseshoe and twelve gallons of coffee waiting. Finally the Walrider moves towards the bed.

Dean's eyes are clenched shut, John can tell how badly he wants to look but has to fly this part blind. Watching the smoke slip in through Dean's parted lips is far from the sickest thing he's seen in life, but it's definitely one of the most disturbing. John's doubts come back in full force, watching this and forcing himself to not do anything to stop it.

When the last of the smoke disappears, Dean takes a deep breathe and grabs the mirror from the side of the bed. Moment of truth, Dean pulls the mirror to his chest and sits up.

The moment draws out, both of them waiting to see whether or not the Walrider has been trapped or not.

"Dean?"

Dean nods but doesn't speak. He's awake and it's in him, and it hasn't come busting out yet. They might just have it pinned down.

"You need anything?"

Dean shakes his head. All that's left to do is keep Dean awake and the Walrider trapped inside and unable to feed until the bastard dies. It's all hinging on the assumption that the Walrider can't feed while Dean's awake.

"You up for some TV?"

Dean shrugs. Non-verbal communication it is. They head out to the living room and find Jim waiting on the couch with the TV on some old black and white horror movie. Jim cranks the sound up loud enough to be uncomfortable and they all settle down for a long wait.

By mid-morning Dean is fading and John's eyes feel like they've been superglued open and stuck to the tv. He nudges Dean whenever his eyes get to half-mast and Jim hands him a cup of coffee. Dean takes a large gulp and swallows it down, then pauses and gives Jim a betrayed look.

"It's decaf. Trust me, son, you don't want to be relying on caffeine this early in the game. You'll just crash hard later on."

John snorts and Dean looks resigned but finishes his mug. Jim has to leave to get some work done at the church, he gives John a rundown of all the supplies in the house and heads out with one last concerned look at Dean.

John drags Dean up as soon as he's done with his coffee, forces him to jog in place for a little bit to get his heart rate up.

"How about some lunch?"

Dean has refused every time so far, but he's looking a little less green by the hour and John thinks he might be ready to eat. Dean actually pauses to consider it this time, just for a second before shaking his head and flicks his fingers in a way John takes to mean maybe later.

Dean reaches out to stretch one arm and shrug his shoulder. He's been clutching the mirror to his chest for hours now and it must be uncomfortable. John slings an arm around his shoulders and rubs his back a little.

"How're you holding up?"

Dean holds up a hand palm facing down and waggles his fingers, so so.

"Come talk a walk with me."

They only go out to the car and back, grabbing an ace bandage from John's emergency kit. He loops it carefully around Dean's neck and under the mirror, criss-crossing it and tying it behind his back until it's enough to hold the mirror securely in place. Dean lets his arms down with a relieved sigh.

"Better?"

He gets a faint smile in reply and counts it as a win.

"Now you ready for some food?" Dean winces and gives him a doubtful look that John ignores. "If you're going to stay awake long enough you need some fuel. C'mon."

Dean forces down two pieces of toast and another mug of decaf while shooting John murderous looks. Dean spends the rest of the afternoon reading and getting poked at random intervals to keep him awake. He even stops making faces at the coffee.

Jim comes home with pizza, an obvious bribe to get Dean eating again. Dean sees through it but slams down four slices anyway and John relaxes a bit. Who knows how many days without sleeping is going to be bad enough, if Dean couldn't eat either it'd be a nightmare. But Dean manages to keep the food down and looks a little better for it.

John turns on every light in the house, trying every trick in the book to help Dean stay awake. The problem is, they don't know how long they'll have to keep this up. Jim talks John into catching a few hours of sleep himself. It takes a while, but Jim just keeps at it with quiet reasoning and even gets Dean on his side, the little traitor. Dean doesn't actually argue, but he clenches his jaw and points at the bed until John goes.

The bed smells like Dean, which throws John for a loop even though he should have been expecting it. It's surprisingly comforting; soap and sweat and a little bit of smoke, smell of bars that'll probably never leave Dean's skin. He's out in seconds, too many nights with no sleep and too much to worry about.

When he went to bed Dean was humoring Jim by playing boardgames. He wakes up to find them playing cards, Texas Hold 'Em by the looks of it and Dean has a suspiciously large number of cheerios piled in front of him. Jim has about seven left in front of him.

"Please tell me you didn't agree to play for money?" he asks Jim. Dean tries to look innocent.

"He that layeth up treasure for himself is not rich toward God. Luke, 12:21."

"Uh huh sure. Ante up or fold, old man." Dean's voice is a rasp, but it's good to hear.

Still, "Dean."

"Sorry, sorry. Ante up or fold, old man sir."

Jim looks amused, and John thinks maybe he should get Dean away from him before Jim erases any hope John has of teaching some discipline. He sits down next to Dean and puts his arm around his shoulders.

"How much have you won?"

"Uh, not sure."

"Bullshit."

Dean grins.

Two more days pass and Dean is losing it. His eyes are too tired to read, he just sits watching tv with a blank look on his face. John resorts to giving Dean his wristwatch and setting a timer to go off every ten minutes. It's annoying as hell but John's too afraid he'll zone out for a few critical minutes and drop the ball.

If Dean falls asleep the Walrider will have him, and John doesn't know if the horseshoe is enough to drive it away once it's already in a victim.

Dean looks gaunt and pale, his appetite hadn't made a reappearance since the pizza that first night. He chokes down toast and soup when they force it on him, but never enough to set John's mind at ease. They try anything to make it easier, music and television and as many distractions as they can think of.

John helps Dean into a bath on the third morning, tries not to think anything of it that Dean doesn't so much as blink at being undressed by another man. John keeps an arm around his chest to keep him from sliding down too far into the water. Dean leans forward and presses his forehead into John's shoulder. It takes John a full five minutes to realize Dean is crying silently.

"'t hurts," Dean mumbles and John barely catches it.

"Where, Dean?" He waits for an answer but doesn't get one. "Dean!"

He feels awful, but shakes Dean until he stiffens and sits up a bit. "Wha-?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere. 's inside."

John can't say anything to that, just rubs his hand up and down Dean's back until the water goes cold.

They finally start allowing Dean real coffee sometime during the fifth night. John isn't even sure it's really helping, and they have to limit his intake since he's not eating much either and the shakes are getting progressively worse. The watch alarm stops working to keep him awake, Dean gets too used to the sound and they have to trade it out for a louder alarm.

Jim gives his congregation notice he needs some personal time off for family business and stays home to help.

They stop giving Dean solid foods when starts looking like he's forgotten how to chew. John spoons watery oatmeal into his mouth and bites down on his rage when Dean flinches every time he tries to swallow.

This was a mistake. They could have used the horseshoe to ward off the Walrider at night and Dean would be safe and healthy right now. They chose the harder path and are going to get nothing for it. This is slowly killing Dean and for what? So a bunch of strangers can sleep peacefully through the night.

The hallucinations start on day six.

When it ends, it ends suddenly. Dean is laid out on the sofa, twitching and muttering to himself while John holds his arms down to stop him from tearing the mirror off his chest.

Dean's eyes open wide, wider and more aware than they've looked in days. He takes a gasping breath and when he exhales, light pours from him. His entire body lights up like a beacon, skin translucent and every muscle goes taught at once.

The howling sound John heard a week ago is amplified many times, enough that John presses his shoulder to one ear to partially block the sound while he tries to hold on to Dean as best he can.

Jim runs in from his bedroom, watches in horrified fascination as Dean convulses and blazes with light.

John blinks and the light disappears. Dean's harsh breathing is the only sound in the room, the only thing John can hear over the ringing in his ears. He carefully pulls Dean back into his lap and unties the harness holding the mirror to his chest. Dean is damp with sweat, pale and shivering.

And asleep.

Dean sleeps for a day and a half straight before John gets impatient and shakes him awake.

"Hey, kid."

"Augh." Dean blinks awake and tries to sit up. He doesn't get far before he sinks back down. "Fuck, my head."

"You'll feel better once we get some food in you."

He lays one hand on Dean's stomach and lets the other drift to his forehead, trying to wipe away the distress there. He's not sure when this became okay, sleep deprived lines blurring together in a seemingly endless race to this moment.

"We got it, right?"

"Yeah, you got it."

"Good. I'd be so fucking pissed if that was all for nothing."

John slips out while Dean is sleeping the next day and heads to the nearest hardware store. It takes three tries and some creative 'borrowing' of a petrogen torch to cut the washer, and he finds a leather cord for cheap in the surplus bin. Dean is sprawled out on the couch half asleep when he gets home, and John plunks it on his chest without a word.

Dean picks it up and examines it, rubs his thumb over the small iron horseshoe and looks up. "Just in case?"

"Exactly."

"Thanks." Dean knots the cord carefully and loops it over his neck. "It's a lot nicer than the last piece of bling you gave me. I didn't want to say anything, but man was that thing tacky."

"You're the one who refused to take it off." John reaches out and tucks the makeshift horseshoe under Dean's shirt.

Dean is back on his feet a few days later, still too thin but he's eating again and playing poker with Jim at every opportunity. Jim takes it well, lets the kid win his own weight in cheerios and smiles goodnaturedly when Dean bitches that John won't let him collect on it.

It's getting time to hit the road again. John can feel the itch under his skin that says sitting duck and wasting time and trail's gone even colder. He waits as long as he can, knows it'll kill Dean when he leaves and won't admit it might hurt him a little too. He stocks up on supplies and ammo, changes the oil in the Impala and starts scanning the obits again.

Dean doesn't miss any of it. Watches him packing supplies in the car and reading the paper with a hard look in his eyes. Jim sees it too, corners him one day after breakfast and says, "In some cultures if you save a man's life you become responsible for him."

"I don't need that kind of baggage."

"Is that really how you think of Dean?"

"Why are you pushing this? I can't be responsible for someone else's life right now. I've got other stuff I've got to do, Dean doesn't need that."

"I see. So you're leaving for his benefit?"

"Cut the crap, Jim. You know how Sammy was raised, from what I remember, you weren't all that fond of the idea. Now you want to shove Dean out the door with me?"

"No one's shoving him anywhere, he's perfectly welcome to stay here with me. He doesn't want to. And Dean isn't like Sam, you're doing them both wrong to think like that." Jim thinks for a long moment. "For someone like Dean, trust isn't easy to come by. He trusts you. Don't betray that."

"I don't know what you're expecting here. It doesn't get any better than what you've seen. I live out of that car and I hunt whatever I can find. There isn't some nice house waiting somewhere." John thinks a moment, tries to remember every argument he'd ever had with Sammy. "And you can't have a dog."

"I don't really want a dog," Dean says hesitantly. "And white picket fences freak me the fuck out. I don't belong here. I want to be on the road, with you, staying in skank-ass motels. Teach me to hunt and I won't let you down. Please."

The please does it. Dean still looks too fragile, too pretty to live like that; John can see him with a gun in his hands and it shouldn't make him feel better but it does. He wants Dean to be able to defend himself.

He wants even more to make sure the kid doesn't take off on his own and try to hunt without backup. And he knows Dean. Knows he would try it anyway, bite off too much and get himself hurt.

There's really no other choice.