The irony of how he lost his faith wasn't lost on him, either. His childhood hadn't been ideal by any stretch of anyone's imagination (and the less he let himself think about it, the better), but he'd gotten through it intact, had managed to retain his belief that there was a greater purpose to life, a divine presence that guided and gently set people on the path they were meant to take. Later, after joining the Marines early to escape his town, his life, and his past, John had lived through brutal war and unimaginable destruction in Vietnam, had lived through what he thought was hell on earth, had survived watching his friends get blown to smithereens or die screaming in pain in his arms. He'd seen the worst of what mankind could do to each other with his own eyes and, again, had still managed to come out of it with a belief that there was something greater out there, that his life had a purpose and meaning. Then he met Mary, and he knew that his faith had been rewarded, that he'd found his guardian angel on earth. And when she died...the way she'd been taken from him... Fuck. Well, what was the use of faith when something like that could happen? What use was God when He allowed demons to roam the earth and destroy families at will? No, John had no use for God. *** "Daddy, whatsa 'vengy angel?" John lowered his papers – research on a particularly nasty Hindu demon – and looked in the direction of the doorway of his bedroom to where his oldest son, Dean (five years old already, and when the hell had that happened?) was standing, already clad in his dark blue Batman pajamas. "Beg pardon, son," he said, thinking to himself that Dean needed a haircut before the shaggy bangs already hiding his forehead completely covered his eyes. Not only was the kid's hair growing as fast as the weeds in Bobby's backyard, but he was also growing out of his clothes faster than John could keep up. "A 'vengy angel," Dean said, and padded into the room, stopping by the side of the bed. John lifted him easily, and Dean snuggled in close to his side. His hair was still damp and he smelled fresh, clean, like Johnson & Johnson body wash and shampoo, which meant Bobby'd given him a bath already. Something John knew he should have done himself; he felt the familiar pang of guilt that he hadn't, but the idea of kneeling on hard tiles with the stitches in his knee (all ten of them, and he felt every fucking one of them, too) made John whimper inwardly in protest. He was grateful to Bobby for seeing to the task, and for putting Sam to bed. Hell, he was grateful to Bobby for a whole host of things. "You mean an avenging angel?" he asked, looking down into Dean's upturned, freckled face, with his wide eyes and absurdly long lashes. Christ, Dean looked more and more like Mary every day. Dean nodded. "Uncle Bobby said that's what you were. Are you?" Hardly. He was no avenging anything, especially after he'd fucked up that werewolf gig. He wasn't even a decent Hunter these days, and what was his life worth if he didn't at least have that? "Well, uh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that..." "He said you...ummm...were like, um, um, Zer-ke-kel. He's an angel," Dean supplied helpfully. "Zer-ke-kel's in charge of kids like me 'n' Sammy, that's what Uncle Bobby said." "Zerachiel?" John clarified, drudging the name from the depths of his memory, courtesy of way too many Sunday school lessons in his childhood. Patron saint of children and one of the Judgment Day angels, if he recalled correctly. "I know, Daddy. That's what I said," Dean sighed, with the long-suffering patience of the very young. John hid his smile and gave Dean a solemn look. "Of course, my apologies." "So? Are you?" "An avenging angel?" At Dean's impatient nod, John shrugged. "Like I said, son, that's not really how I'd describe myself. Avenging angels are driven by the spirit and word of God, and I'm not driven by anything like that." He hardly thought revenge for a life stolen was the stuff on which Bible stories were made. Dean's face scrunched up in thought as he processed John's words. "But you battle demons. Inn't that what 'vengy angels do?" "I suppose so." John shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't meant for Dean to know about what he did for a living quite so soon. Sure, they needed to be prepared - Sam needed to be prepared – but there was plenty of time. The boys were still so young, so innocent. "So why can't you be one?" Because God abandoned us and I haven't the heart to ask Him why. Heart-shattering despair – old, familiar, and welcome – swept through John like a hurricane. Over a year, and the sick feeling of loss and emptiness still showed no signs of abating. At this point, John wasn't sure what he'd do without it driving him. "I don't know," he finally replied softly. "I wouldn't know where to start." "You could pray 'n' ask God." Dean held chubby hands together in a steeple. "Like we do in Bible study. Although Mom's still not back yet 'n' I've been praying f'rever." Fuck, Dean... John bit back the sob and the need to gather his son close and never let him go. Once again, he was forcibly reminded that he wasn't the only one who had lost an anchor. "Is that what you pray for?" he asked, when he thought he could speak without choking up. "To bring Mom back?" "Uh huh." Dean turned big, hopeful eyes to John. "Not for me. For Sammy. He's little, Daddy. What if he f'rgets her?" "Won't happen," John promised, voice low and rough with tears he wouldn't allow himself to shed. He tightened his arm around his son. "We won't let him." "Promise?" "You bet." John dropped a kiss on the top of Dean's head, inhaled, and centered himself. He could do this. "Maybe...maybe you could pray with me." That's the last thing you want. John doubted that God, if he even existed, would want to hear from anyone as tainted as him. "I dunno, Dean..." "Please." Was there a parent in the entire history of the world who had ever been able to resist their child when looked at with such overwhelming love and absolute trust? If there was, man, they were a helluva lot stronger than John. "Sure," he finally said, giving Dean what he hoped was a reassuring, paternal sort of smile. Hoping that Dean couldn't see the panic lurking under the surface. Dean moved from John's side to crawl into his lap. His weight was a familiar comfort. "Put your hands 'ver mine. It'll work better that way." He sounded very sure of himself. John did as asked, and when Dean started to slowly recite The Lord's Prayer, John forced himself to go along, each word etching like rust in his throat. He may not be able to give his sons the normal life they deserved – at least, not yet – and he may not have a clue about how he was going to go about living and raising them in a world without Mary, but he could give Dean this lie. For just a few minutes, he could pretend that, somewhere out there, God was still listening.
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