This story is set during the first season so may contain spoilers for canon events in that time. It seems to fit in the gap between episodes 1:11 and 1:12. Warnings for depressed!anxious Dean and angry!anxious Sam. Only hints at events beyond 1.11. (See chapter one for disclaimer.)

Thank you all so much for all your reviews, for reading and for your follows/favorites.

So this is it, final chapter!

-o-

Chapter 12

-o-

John kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal, the GMC thundering along. A glance in the rear view mirror showed the headlights behind him were keeping their position. As he sped past the next slip road the reason became clear, as more vehicles surged forwards to join the chase. They spread out across the road behind, an unbroken wall of bright lights. Normally he would be looking to turn off, lose his pursuers on some back road somewhere; tonight he just kept going, every mile drew the demons further away from his family.

A set of headlights detached themselves from the wall of light, closing on him quickly. John could make out the low-slung shape of a sports car as it shot past him, caught the throaty growl from its tail pipe. The car swerved from side to side in his path, forcing him to brake and manoeuvre, allowing the wall of light behind him to gain ground. Not wanting to be surrounded, John gripped the wheel hard and rammed the GMC into the rear of the sports car, sending it slewing wildly into the verge.

He floored the gas pedal, but his surge forwards was short-lived as a truck roared up the next slip road, tires smoking in his headlights as it lurched sideways and came to a halt, blocking the road from side to side. John stood on the brakes, wrenching the wheel and ended up sliding sideways into the trailer; the GMC crunched along its length with a rending scream of metal, showering glass onto him as it came to a standstill.

He raised his head, dazed and spitting blood out of his mouth, realised a demon was clawing at the door handle of the truck. John released the catch and kicked the door open as hard as he could, sending the demon flying. He slammed the door again, grabbed his machete and threw himself out through the broken windshield, scrambled up onto the roof, turning to behead a female rushing up behind him. He hadn't found a way to kill them yet, but you sure as hell could slow them down.

The remaining three demons closed in warily. John did a quick count of the vehicles abandoned across the road and realised, too late, that one driver was missing. He was smashed hard into the roof of the GMC, feeling ribs crack, as the truck driver leapt onto him from the top of the trailer. He struggled frantically against the hands wrapping around his throat, his vision blurring, managed to get the machete out from under him and struck viciously upwards. The force of the blow threw the demon down from the roof as, lungs burning in agony, John rolled backwards, dropping down onto the pick-up back and staggering to his feet, still trying to breath. He took two quick steps, swung his boot under the chin of the demon coming up over the tailgate and drove the machete into the chest of another, before dropping down to the road surface and wrenching open the tailgate.

He fumbled inside, back-kicking desperately at a demon and felt a rush of relief as his fingers found the cold metal of the large jerry can. He swung around with it clasped to his chest. All the demons except the headless one were upright, closing in on him. They were smirking, taking their time, knew he was easy meat now.

"Not so fast there, boys." John smiled, yanked the pins out of the grenades attached to the jerry can full of holy water, launched it at the demons and dived for cover.

Seconds later, deafened, covered in blood, not all of it his own, struggling to breathe with his broken ribs, John Winchester was back behind the wheel and heading for the hills.

-o-

0730 hrs

Sam was still asleep when Missouri took his tray of breakfast down to the basement. Asleep but not resting. He was muttering to himself and shifting around restlessly, the distortion of the virus rippling across his features. She set the tray down quietly and sat down to wait.

Just a few minutes later, Sam's movements stilled, the distortion in his face melting away to be replaced by an expression of misery. He sat up suddenly, a shout dying on his lips as he saw her in the chair.

"Dean?" he questioned immediately. "Is he okay?"

His eyes were wide, fearful and as she watched a dark, oily tear slipped down his cheek. His mouth twisted in remembered pain. "I was dreaming. He… he was dead…" A second tear joined the first, leaving a trail of dark slime down his face.

Missouri took a deep breath. "Sam, honey, I am so sorry. Your brother, he ain't doin' so good."

He stared at her in horror. "What d'you mean? Not so good?"

"The infection from his wounds was pretty bad. There was only so much I could do. His fever, it was burnin' him up. I had to call the paramedics, Sam. They rushed him straight off to the hospital."

His breath caught on a sob, dark tears flowing freely as he wrapped his arms around his middle, rocking forwards in his distress.

"No…" he whispered. "It's all my fault. I made this happen. Is he gonna be okay? Please let him be okay…"

Black oil began to drip from his nostrils. Missouri ploughed on, knowing how much she was hurting him.

"He wasn't lookin' too good to me, Sam."

"But you're a psychic! You must know if he's gonna be okay!" He was desperate, grasping at straws, oblivious to the gunge running down his face.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but there's somethin' else I gotta tell you. When they was takin' him off, I took a hold of his hand, tellin' him not to worry, tryin' to get a readin' from him."

His breath hitched; he stared at her with a frantic look on his face. "And?" It was more a gasp than a word.

"I couldn't see nothin', Sam. Just a dark shadow over everythin'. I couldn't see past it."

Sam crumpled to his knees as the meaning of her words sunk in, shock draining the color from his face. "No," he moaned, clutching at his stomach as though it hurt. "No! Dean! Oh please, Dean! I can't do this without you…"

Her heart broke for him as she fought against her instincts to give comfort.

He retched harshly, bending forwards until his forehead was nearly touching the ground. Dark liquid gushed from his mouth as he vomited uncontrollably onto the floor.

When the spasms showed signs of slowing down, Missouri stepped forwards. "It's all your fault, Sam," she said, despising herself, "Dean is gonna die, and it's all your fault."

He whimpered, heaving violently again, but bringing up only bile. He toppled slowly onto his side, hair sticking to his wet face as sobs wracked his frame, crying his heartbreak into the basement floor. After a while, Missouri could see the tears were paler, then at last clear.

"Sam!" she said loudly, holding a photo in front of him, taken from his wallet earlier. Sam took it with trembling hands, touched it with one shaking finger.

"Dean…" The tears and snot on his face were still clear, his expression tortured.

Missouri allowed herself to relax a little. She handed Sam a towel.

"Honey," she said, "I think I have some explainin' to do."

-o-

Earlier that morning

The early hours telephone conversation with Bobby had given Missouri interesting food for thought. Her mind had thrashed over his findings. Monk Edmond had tried prayer, but with limited success. Mainly it seemed to bolster the strength of the devout, but did little for the less devout. Holy water, exorcism and holy ground had no effect, the learned monk concluding this was because the victim had succumbed to a demon infection rather than a possession. This was no surprise to Missouri, whose dessert pie was baked in a dish blessed by her local preacher and whose stew had been made with holy water.

Bobby had made a suggestion and she'd pondered the possible outcomes for some time. She didn't like the plan, but couldn't come up with anything better. Eventually, deciding the risk was worth it, she settled down on the window seat and dozed.

Dean woke just after 6 am, Missouri alert as soon as she heard him stir. The stormy night had given way to a wet and miserable morning, but the sight of a little natural color back in his cheeks was better than any sunny morning.

She greeted him gently, watching sleep slowly slip away from his expression. He was feeling much better, he reassured her and "Yeah, I am kinda hungry." The last delivered in a slightly surprised voice.

He proved this was true, demolishing a waffle, buttered eggs and a glass of orange juice in record time. She refused his request for coffee, doling out a selection of pills and a glass of water instead.

"Before you take those," she said, settling next to him, "There's somethin' we have to talk about. There might be a way to help Sam, but it ain't pleasant and it ain't gonna be easy on him."

Dean wasn't happy, but eventually he'd grudgingly agreed to the deception and Missouri had set off with Sam's breakfast tray.

-o-

Early evening

Sam straightened up as he heard voices in the hallway above the basement. Missouri's warm lilting voice was followed by the unmistakeable growling rumble of his brother. Sometimes he wondered if Dean, who had an unnervingly close connection to his car, was actually trying to sound like the Impala.

It was the first real proof he'd had that Dean was actually okay, or at least okay enough to be upright and talking. The relief was overwhelming. He couldn't hate Missouri for what she'd done, but he felt emotionally exhausted, still strangely tearful, although he knew it had all been a lie.

When he heard the latch lift on the basement door, he shot to his feet, peering eagerly up the staircase. Missouri's feet came into view, then the rest of her as she descended. Sam noticed she had a hypodermic syringe in her hand. A sedative, he decided, thinking it was a good precaution in the circumstances. She smiled at him apologetically.

Sam craned his neck, trying to see past her and was rewarded by the sight of his brother's boots. "Dean," he breathed, feeling his stomach lurch with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Dean came down the stairs, treading slowly; he still looked pale and shaky but Sam was so happy to see him upright and conscious that he couldn't help the huge grin that stretched across his face.

"Dean!" he blurted again, unable to stop himself.

His brother reached the foot of the stairs. He was staring at Sam, his eyes shifting up and down as he checked him over, their movement still for a moment as he focussed on the restraints.

Sam smiled, shrugged. "It's okay. I don't mind 'em. Just want to be sure you're safe."

Dean nodded, tight lipped. He looked a little nervous and Sam felt his smile giving way. It was a big moment and despite hours of practicing in his mind, now it came down to it, he really didn't know what to say. How do you apologise to the person who is closest to you in the whole world, apologise for treating them like shit for weeks, setting them up for a beating, letting them nearly die from an injury they were too scared to tell you about?

It seemed, though, that Missouri wasn't the only psychic in the room, but then again Dean had always seemed to know instinctively what his little brother was thinking, what he needed.

"It's okay, Sam," he said in a gruff voice. "It wasn't you. Not your fault. It's gonna be okay."

Sam huffed a little, grimacing, thinking of the asylum. "How many times are you gonna have to say that to me?" he asked miserably.

"Many times as it takes, Sammy. Goes with the job. It's the family business, remember." Dean's tone was firm, but Sam could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Dean, I am so sorry."

"I know. I know you are, Sam."

Impulsively Sam stepped forwards, as far as the restraints allowed, reaching out to his brother. He was horrified when, just for a second, Dean flinched backwards.

"No! Dean, no! I'm not gonna do anythin', just wanted to give you a hug man!"

Dean dropped his chin, cheeks flushing a little. "Hug, huh?" He stepped forwards so he was within Sam's reach, then froze as Sam moved forwards carefully, gradually gathering him into his arms, careful not to jar his back. He could feel Dean's tenseness, the tremble of nerves through his frame.

"It's okay, Dean. It's not gonna happen again. I promise. I am never goin' to let anything bad happen to you again." He hung on to his brother, feeling the tense muscles slowly relax. Eventually Dean raised his arms too, gave him a quick hug and a slap on the back.

"Okay, Sam," he breathed. "Okay." He pulled carefully away.

-o-

John stood next to his truck, cell phone pressed to one ear. As he listened, he let the relief wash through him, allowed himself to drop back against the warm metal of the side panel.

"Yeah… good to hear…" His thigh muscles were shaking, relief and exhaustion unravelling his determination to stay upright. He swallowed, biting down on his emotions, trying to concentrate on the voice in his ear.

"Yeah, it was close, too close. I'm gonna have to go radio silent. Got somethin' to take care of first, then I'll be flyin' under the radar."

John finished the call. He took a deep breath, groaning a little at the grind of broken ribs. He let his chin drop and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the image burned into his memory; it was time to deal with some unfinished business.

Like so many before him, John had come back from war a changed man, only a battered surface on show. Those few acquaintances who truly knew him were uncomfortably aware that beneath that rugged and impenetrable surface, John Winchester and death walked shoulder to shoulder.

When he raised his head and climbed into the truck cab there was something feral smouldering in his dark eyes, a calm ferocity in the twist of his bruised face and the set of his jaw.

-o-

3 days later

Healing, physical and emotional, was easy in the calm ambience of Missouri's home, but by day three both brothers were feeling the need to move on. Not far, just a couple of towns maybe, stay in a motel for a while, get used to it being just the two of them again.

Missouri understood of course; she'd probably known they were leaving before they did.

Dean paused at the top of her porch steps, watching as Sam threw the duffles into the Impala. His attention was focussed on Missouri.

"How did you manage it?" It was a reasonable question. One small woman, two large men, one unconscious and one infected by a demon virus. She knew what he was really asking, could read the flicker of hope in his wide eyes.

"I had help, of course."

"I didn't see no-one else?"

"Doesn't mean they weren't here." It was as much as she could give him.

He sighed, knowing he wouldn't get more. "Thank you. For everythin'" His voice was earnest, eyes fixed directly on her own.

"Honey, you're welcome. You take care of yourself now and of that brother of yours."

He nodded, stepping carefully down the steps. Sam rushed over to help, but was brushed off impatiently with a terse, "M'okay!"

Dean came to a sudden halt as he gave the Impala his full attention. She was gleaming, black paint unblemished and glossy, chrome gleaming. The headlight was fixed.

"Sam!" A little soft smile quirked his lips, followed immediately by a frown. "I hope you…"

Sam cut him off, anticipating the question. "Yeah, man. All genuine parts. She looks good doesn't she?" He smiled hopefully at his brother.

"Yeah, Sam. She does." Dean grinned at him, running a hand appreciatively along his baby's smooth curves. Both brothers understood that Sam wasn't completely forgiven, but he was certainly heading in the right direction.

Leaving Dean to admire the Impala, Sam climbed back up to Missouri.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything. For being here. Dad didn't show. It's good to know we can rely on someone."

Missouri frowned a little. "Don't you go bad-mouthing your Daddy. He's a good man."

Sam snorted, "You don't know him like I do."

"No, Sam." Her chin was lifted, voice firm. "You don't know him like I do."

He shrugged, clearly not believing her. "Thank you," he repeated.

"No need to say it. You two look after each other."

No hesitation this time, his hazel eyes earnest. "We will."

-o-

Sam slouched out of the bathroom, towelling his hair vigorously. Dean noticed with amusement that the crisp motel towel wasn't doing too much good absorbing the water from his brother's shaggy mop of hair.

"Havin' a little trouble there, Sam?" He smirked, letting it grow into a grin and ducking away as Sam shook his head, showering him with droplets of apple-scented water.

"Dude," Dean protested mildly, turning his attention back to the laptop, open on the table in front of him. Quick check of the news, he thought and we'll be on our way. A couple of days in the familiar environment of a shabby motel, no-one but themselves to think about, had done a lot to get them back into their usual routine. There were still awkward moments, but considering everything that'd happened, things were pretty good.

Still standing, Dean rested a hip against the window ledge and began tapping on the keyboard. "Nothin' much goin' on…" he thought.

Across the room, Sam gave his hair up as a bad job and started folding things into his duffle. "You 'bout ready to make a move?"

"Yeah, just checkin' the news and we'll get on outta here, I want to get to…" His words tailed off as he focussed on the headline blazoned across the screen. 'CONVICTED RAPIST SHOT DEAD.' Underneath the headline was a photograph of 'Jake's Bar' with police tape and cruisers in the foreground. A smaller photograph was inset, the smirk of the oily-voiced man unmistakeable as he stared arrogantly out of the screen.

Dean shuddered, dropping into a chair as his knees started to shake, his gaze fixed on the screen. 'Convicted rapist, Dillon Hemming, was shot dead last night by an unknown assailant. Two close associates were beaten, receiving severe injuries. They were unable to describe the attacker, although an unidentified black truck was seen leaving the scene. Hemming was convicted of serial rape against both sexes and multiple cases of assault just three years ago. His surprise release on a legal technicality last year shocked the local community…'

"Dean! Are you okay?" His brother was staring at him with concern and Dean realised it wasn't the first time Sam had spoken. He nodded wordlessly, closing the screen and rapidly deleting the history as Sam stood up and walked towards him.

"M'fine." He hardened his voice. "Fine. Need to get goin'." He slammed the lid of the laptop shut and yanked the power cable out.

Sam didn't look convinced. "You went really pale there, dude?"

Dean just shrugged, pushed past him and began stuffing things in his duffle; this was one of those occasions when he was definitely not going to share. It bothered him that for some reason all he could see in his mind was John, standing in front of him on a dirt track, telling him it wasn't his fault, but with murder in his eyes.

-o-

2 weeks later

Two good old-fashioned salt'n'burns under their belts, one skanky long-dead post mistress and a Billy the Kid wannabe laid to rest, and the boys felt back on track. It was time to move on, put the whole demon virus thing to rest. Leave it to be hashed over some time in the future with all the other stored traumas, when there was time, if there was ever that much free time.

Love and remorse, what powerful weapons they'd turned out to be after all. Who knows how many more times the Winchesters would have to rely on them to keep fighting.

-o-

Dean dropped the taser box in the trunk, he beamed happily at Sam, "Tasers! Now we've checked 'em out on you, we'll give the next fugly bastard we run across a shock. Ha, shock Sammy, get it!" He chuckled at his own joke and waggled his eyebrows. Sam grinned too, happy to see his brother smiling again. One thing for sure, Sam wasn't going to be doing anything to cause that taser to be aimed at him again.

He threw his duffle in the back seat and paused, eyeing Dean and shuffling his feet awkwardly. Dean watched him warily, "What's up Sam?"

"So we're okay?" Sam's could feel his face screwing up with anxiety as he looked pleadingly at his brother.

Dean sighed, "Yeah, Sam, we're ok. Just give it some time, alright?"

Sam nodded, he wasn't entirely happy but it was good enough for now.

"I do owe you one thing though, Sammy."

Sam looked up, just in time to take a face full of Dean's fist. He sat down hard on his backside, hand flying to his jaw with surprise.

"That's for hurtin' my baby!"

Sam burst out laughing, spitting blood from his throbbing lip onto the ground and took hold of Dean's offered hand.

"Was that really necessary?" a frosty voice interrupted behind them.

Dean narrowed his eyes, sending a death glare in the direction of the voice, but Sam laughed again.

"Oh yes, ma'am, I definitely deserved that one!"

The End.

So, this story turned out a lot longer than I planned!

I hope I've tied up all the loose ends I created so that this fits in between canon episodes - the boys never know John was there, Bobby is very much in the background on the end of a phone, so he's not in the boys' recollections of that time either, one explanation why Sam is so insistent he won't let Dean die in Faith, the tasers... and of course demon mojo (thank you Babyreaper for noting I hadn't explained the lack of demon-style flinging when they were fighting John) we hadn't seen any of that in canon at that point in time. :-)

As always, if you have time to review, I will really appreciate it.

Thank you all for reading, following, favoriting and above all reviewing. I hope you enjoyed the story.