Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine
Summary: He has no regrets (John, post “In My Time Of Dying”)
Spoilers: “In My Time of Dying” and “Crossroad Blues”
Notes: This is my first stab at John. Hope I did him justice.
On Dealings with Demon
It’s not until he leaves Dean’s side that he realizes he is completely and utterly fucked. The coldness is setting in even as he whispers in his son’s ear. When he pulls away shock is scrawled over his son’s features and he thinks that it might have been better for those secrets to die with him.
Too late now. Too late to save Mary. Too late to save Jessica. Too late to make true peace with Sam.
Not to late to save Dean.
He has no regrets.
There are worse reasons to trade your life.
The demon takes the gun with a borderline gleeful smile that twists the man’s weathered face. If it had only been John, he’d have killed the guy without a second thought, put a bullet in his brain, get rid of the demon and leave the body there, still bleeding.
The thing takes the gun in it’s hands and for just a second, John is sure it’s going to end his life then and there. Shot him and be done with both the colt and John Winchester. Dramatic irony.
Sam should have shot him when he had the chance. Dean should have let Sam shoot him.
“Goodbye, John,” the demon says with a sickly sweet smile and turns a way. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
John tenses for a moment, waiting for the end, but it doesn’t come for a long time. Finally, he figures it might be safe to move and, feeling as strong as ever, he takes two steps forward, keels over and dies.
It takes him two more fires to realize this isn’t hell, that this is still Earth, that in every fire lays a woman (they all look like Mary) on the ceiling and an infant (it isn’t Sam) in a cradle.
The demon, steals away unchecked, leaving a blaze of lives in his wake and John can’t do a damned thing to stop it.
He thinks his sons are trailing after the thing, appearing just a split second before he’s pulled after the demon, circling forever in the thing’s destructive wake.
He sees Dean right before the trail of fire pulls him away, not exactly happy, but healthy and alive.
He knows it was worth it.
He gets to the next fire before the Demon lights it, sees the clock stops, sees the lights flicker and he knows what’s coming. The temperature in the room must have dropped about twenty degrees right then, because a lady in a night dress crawled out of her bed shivering through her thin white nightdress (she looks like Mary).
He goes to the nursery himself, finds the infant right where it should be and tries to pick it up, tries to carry it out to safety, but his hands slip straight thought the blankets and the baby starts to wail. “Don’t cry,” he whispers, “please don’t cry. I’m trying…”
“Thought I’d be seeing you again, Johnny-Boy,” the Demon says from behind him, a smile twisting over its stolen features
It watches him with yellow eyes as it pins the mother to the ceiling as if it were an afterthought.
“Enjoying the show?” the Demon sneers.
He shouldn’t be here. Sam and Dean would have salted his bones and torched them. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
He can hear the thing laughing over the baby’s wails. “Guess you put a little too much into that damned book of yours.”
John tries to scream, but can’t.
Between the fires the Demon taunts him. Describes just how it’s planning to kill his boys. Dean first, burned alive just like Mary, leaving Sam alone and unprotected. “And when I’m done with Sammy,” the thing taunts, “you’ll wish I had taken him as an infant. The boy holds such darkness in him…”
Sam’s his son. No matter what, Sam will always be his son.
“Or maybe, I’ll turn Sam while Dean is still alive. Let him meet his death by his own brother.”
“Sam would never…” John grits.
“It won’t be Sam by the time I’m done with him.”
John doesn’t reply.
“You could have protected him,” the Demon says softly.
Dean can do it better.
“Your eldest isn’t without chinks in his armor. Getting that close to death is never particularly good for the soul.”
John wishes he could block out the voice.
Another day, another fire. Or maybe it was more than one day and more than one fire. John’s starting to lose his grip on time and once that’s gone, he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to stay himself. He knows how angry spirits are born….
He stops trying to stop the Demon, stops throwing himself in front of burning mothers and wailing infants.
“Still think you made the right choice, Johnny?” the Demon cackles. “War’s just starting.”
One of these days, his boys will get there first.
When the Demon tells him about Dean and the crossroads, he very nearly loses it.
He never intended to become a bargaining chip. Never intended to become a weapon against his own sons.
You’re eldest isn’t without chinks in his armor.
Dean will do anything for family and for the first time, John finds that a frightening prospect.
He finds that with enough effort, he make it from the fires to the journal (never when his boys are near it. He suspects that’s the Demon’s doing.)
The irony of his predicament does not escape him. His lasting legacy, his bible of supernatural knowledge has turned him into what he always hunted.
He can’t write in the journal, can’t form new words, but he finds that sometimes he can alter the old ones. Burn the bones becomes burn the book. Over and over again. He can only hope Dean will find it. He can only hope he’ll know what it means.
A storm’s coming. John can’t tell but he thinks the Demon’s increased its pace, thinks there are more fires, more possessions, more death.
“Was it worth it?” the Demon whispers, filling his head with nothing but death and destructions. “None of this would have been possible with you mucking things up.”
“They’ll stop you,” John tells the Demon. “They’ll stop you.”
“They’re tear each other apart in the end. Without you there to pick out the signs, it’s impossible for them to avoid it.” The yellow eyes shine in the darkness. “This may be the worst deal you’ve ever made. That secret will tear them both apart”
John thinks of Dean and Sammy, still alive, still together. They can handle it. He wouldn’t have made his choice if he thought they couldn’t.
Besides, demons lie all the time.
So I know it wasn't the happiest fic ever, or even remotely holiday related but... Merry Christmas to all you guys!