AUTHOR'S NOTES:  I don't have a recording of this episode, so I wrote this story from memory and information I found by obsessively searching the web.  I apologize in advance for any canon inconsistencies. 
 

He'd do it again. 

He would. 

He would. 

John Winchester repeated that statement over and over as he walked into the empty hospital room.  His time was almost up. 

He did it for Dean.  Hell, he did it for both his boys.  His sacrifice meant something.  It had to. 

He pulled out the Colt, barely stopping himself from fidgeting.  His future was certain, but not so for his boys.  Dean and Sam would continue his work--their work.  He hoped they didn't get themselves killed in the process.  Hell, maybe they'd stop the Demon.  They could, he was sure.  As long as they stuck together and were very, very careful, they'd be damn near invincible.  And maybe, if they found another way to kill the Demon... 

No, he told himself.  Don't go there. 

They could never know.  Never.  They'd go bat-shit crazy if they ever learned the truth, do stupid things, maybe get themselves killed, or worse... 

Just like him. 

He couldn't bear it if they ended up like him. 

You made your bed, John told himself.  Now you gotta lie in it. 

No stalling.  Very deliberately, he put the Colt on a table and said, "Okay." 

Time stood still. 

A spot of inky darkness appeared on the floor, grew into an oily black pool.  John watched with horrified fascination. 

He hated himself for the tiny vestiges of regret and fear he could not expunge.  It doesn't matter, he told himself.  Only Dean's life mattered.  Only his boys mattered.  He'd do anything for them.  Even this. 

"I'm not sorry," he said aloud, into the deathly still air.  "I'm not."  But you're afraid, something whispered in the back of his mind.  Oh, so afraid. 

"It doesn't matter," he said.  "I'd do it again." 

The darkness crawled across the floor until it was just a few feet in front of him.  John clamped down on his emotions, fought the urge to scream and flee.  He won his battle, stiffened his spine and stood proudly, though his stomach churned.  The black blot grew into a man-sized column of restless, smoky ash, twisting and shifting despite the stifling, stagnant atmosphere. 

"Come on," John goaded recklessly.  "You can do better than that." 

From the darkness came a wet chuckle, then the Demon morphed into something so hideous--so loathsome and horrific and completely overwhelming--that John covered his eyes with his hands.  Just that quick glimpse tore at his sanity.  He couldn't suppress the small whimper that escaped his lips. 

"Better get used to this," the Demon said, and gave voice to grinding laughter fit for the damned.  "You're going to be seeing a lot of it." 

John didn't reply.  In the quiet hospital room, he heard a sound like the flapping of giant, leathery wings, then the Demon said lightly, "You can look now." 

Slowly, cautiously, John uncovered his eyes.  A grizzled, middle-aged man now stood in place of the hellish nightmare. 

The Demon picked up the gun and tucked it away.  He held out his hand.  "It's time to go, John.  I hope you made all your goodbyes already, because I'm not waiting any longer."  He grinned, displaying a set of perfectly ordinary teeth. 

Chilled but defiant, John finally found his voice.  With deliberate contempt, he said, "What's your rush?  You've got all eternity to have your fun." 

"I just can't live another moment without your gratifying presence, John."  The Demon's tone was equally sneering.  He grabbed John's hand, yanked him close, and enfolded him in a grotesquely tender embrace.  "You sold your soul to the devil," he murmured into John's ear.  "No matter what the reason, it's an unforgivable transgression.  The so-called powers of good would rather see their playthings die first.  They would have wanted you to just stand by and watch your son die.  They have no sense of perspective." 

John stood there, passive in the Demon's arms.  "You aren't telling me anything I don't already know," he said flatly.  He knew there would be no reprieve for him.  He'd made his choice willingly and with full knowledge of the consequences. 

With a strangely understanding expression, the Demon said, "Family's important.  I've got children, too."  His face hardened.  "And now some of them are dead.  You're lucky I agreed to save your murdering spawn." 

Dean!  John froze like a trapped animal.  "Our deal..." 

"Oh, don't fret.  Your kid's fine.  I'm sure he'll give me plenty of opportunities to even the score."  The Demon purred, "Our deal was much more important than simple revenge." 

John started to laugh.  "I never realized I meant so much to you," he said, as incipient hysteria crept over him.  "When I summoned you, I thought you really only wanted the gun." 

"That, too."  The Demon tightened his grip until John grunted with pain.  "The immediate threat, and the long-term gadfly.  Now I have both, freely given, to do with as I please." 

John felt the Demon's cold, charnel aura wrap around him, a choking miasma that would freeze him, burn him, swallow him whole.  Unmake him.  Death and sulfur scorched his nostrils.  Panic rushed through his soul.  For a moment, just a moment, he wanted to beg and plead and cry, renege on his deal, let Dean die-- 

No. 

Not that, never that.  With a shudder, he closed his eyes and envisioned his boys.  Dean, alive and healed, gaining strength.  Sam, watching over his brother, worrying about his father's strange behavior.  In his mind's eye, John saw them both.  As infants, as children, as strong-willed young men, no longer estranged, but together, fulfilling their mission. 

We did good, Mary, he thought.  Our boys, they turned out good. 

Light and warmth and a preternatural calm suffused his being.  It was comforting, almost...radiant. 

"Time to die and be damned, John," the Demon said. He stroked a frigid finger along his captive's cheek, leaving a searing trail of ice-fire on John's skin.  "Is your life flashing before your eyes?  Are you pining for things undone, perhaps?  Wishing things could be different?" 

"No," John said shortly. 

"What, no regrets?" 

And John spoke the truth:  "Not a one, you bastard." 

With a bark of laughter, the Demon wrenched John's soul free of his body.  The corpse collapsed, an empty shell lying in a graceless heap on the linoleum.  Everyday noises returned as time continued for the living. 

The Demon made John watch as Sam found his body, as the medical team frantically worked to revive him, as his sons saw them fail, as the doctor called the time of his death at 10:41. 

At the doctor's words, the Demon smirked unpleasantly and drawled, "How fitting."  Then, in a swirl of black nothingness, he gathered up John's soul and seeped down through the floor. 
 
 

--fini-- 

October, 2006 
 
 
 

A note on the time of John's death and numerology:  Using the simplest and most common form of digit summing, 10:41 becomes 1 plus 0 plus 4 plus 1 which equals 6. 

According to Wikipedia at the time this episode aired, the New Age definition for the number 6 is: Responsibility.  Synthesis of heavenly and earthly.  Family.  Family responsibilities, and also a sense of responsibility to society.  Need to find, or create, harmony in the family, or in society.  Difficulties saying "no." 

Other, more esoteric, numerological definitions didn't seem to apply very well, but this one fit too well to be an accident on the writers' part.  *G* 

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