Song Remains the Same

Chapter 148: Ad Alterum Latus

Song Remains the Same

148 / Ad Alterum Latus

"Papa was a rolling stone, wherever he laid his hat was his home -
and when he died, all he left us was alone."
— The Temptations

Five Days Later

She stirred out of a deep sleep to the newest sound in life: Castiel's rich, throaty voice alternating between humming and singing softly. While the angel had never been able to carry a tune and his attempts were pretty cringe inducing, Alex smiled fondly with eyes still closed—she thought she recognized the melody of the Friends theme song.

Sure enough, her theory was confirmed when he sang some lyrics: "I'll be there for you, when the—hmm, hmm, hmm, hmmm... I'll be there for you, da-da-da, hmm, mm, mmm, mmmm..." Cas crooned in a strained, pitchy voice, forgetting most of the words. Opening sleepy eyes because she couldn't bear to miss a moment more, Alex found the source of sound a few feet away from the bed. Dreamlike, she contentedly watched her new favorite sight, unable to believe this was her reality: Cas gently holding their child in his arms. He was simultaneously delicate and confident as he repeatedly switched his weight between both feet to rock the infant. Father and son held mutually enthralled eye contact—and to look at Cas, you'd think there was no one and nothing else in the world except his wide awake, fascinated baby boy. "So no one told you life was going to be this wa-aaay," Cas sung badly, his expressions very animated as he circled back to the beginning of the song—the part he remembered best. "Your job is a joke, you're broke, your love life's the awa-aaay—"

Alex chuckled with a bursting heart... at the wrong lyric, at how his voice broke adorably when he tried to sing higher pitch, at the unexpected song choice, and at how much she loved him. Cas looked over, hearing that she was awake. The pair shared a soft, knowing smile. "Good morning," the angel greeted. In his eyes, saw saw how she felt: a constant state of tender wonder and thankfulness.

"Morning," she replied, voice hoarse from sleep. Turning slowly onto her side, she took her time against the protests of a sore, healing body. "How is he?"

Cas sat down carefully onto the bed near her. "Wonderful. Enthralling." He glanced at her almost jestingly. "And a little gassy."

An immature grin split her face. Turned out babies farted a lot more than either herself or Cas had thought. "Better out than in," Alex joked, then winced as she shifted to sit up—her breasts were painful and swollen. "Ouch," she grumbled, putting a hand to one and cursing this awkward period of drying her milk up. It wasn't unbearable, just highly uncomfortable and irritating.

Cas kissed CJ's head lingeringly, admiring him a moment longer before he carefully handed the baby over to Alex's ready arms. "I'll get the ice packs from the kitchen." He leaned over and kissed her forehead then touched her face sweetly, holding her gaze for a couple appreciative, tender beats.

"Thank you so much," Alex murmured, yet again brimming with gratitude for the intuitive and thorough way he cared for them. He replied without words, his smile growing a little more soulful as he caressed her cheek with his thumb. The gratitude was mutual, and deeply so—and even though Alex had once thought she couldn't ever possibly feel anything more for Cas, seeing him become a father had proved her wrong and left her tumbling even deeper in love. Compelled to kiss him, she craned her neck and he met her more than halfway with sweet lips. Peace and serenity washed over. Cas murmured that he'd be right back after they parted and then made his exit.

Settling back against the headboard and getting as comfortable as possible, Alex traced her son's impossibly soft, thick hair and looked him in the eye, kissing him hello and breathing in his smell. She still couldn't believe this was her real life. 'Obsessed' was putting it mildly—and 'love' didn't even begin to cover it. "Hey buddy," she murmured, every bit as amazed by him as she had been the first time they met. She chuckled softly at the onesie he wore: it was patterned by cartoon pickles wearing sunglasses. He cooed and gurgled, eyes traveling her face curiously. "You miss me while I slept, Ceej?" Brilliant blue eyes stared back at her quizzically and Alex felt her heart melting. It was all so brand new but already felt like he was growing way too fast. "Did Daddy scare you with his really bad singing voice?" she teased in a gentle, careful voice—the kind she never used. She had to chuckle at herself: This kid had made her soft. Like, ridiculously so.

To Alex's relief, she was finding the motherly instinct came naturally. She was in tune with her baby, confident about meeting his needs, and while yes she'd been nervous and hyper-vigilant about doing everything right the first few days, she had somehow managed to be less of a paranoid mess than Cas had ended up being. The first few days after their son was born, the angel had been in a trance of awed fear—hovering nervously, afraid to break CJ or do something wrong, stressing over what was normal and not normal—all while he obsessively worried over Alex and her condition too. He didn't say as much, but Alex knew he was scared of her dying again. Cas had accidentally woken her up many times the first two days while she slept, his anxiety compelling him to verify (several times an hour) that she was still breathing. Thankfully he was relaxing more and more every day. She was too.

So far, CJ was a quiet and sweet infant who fussed little and slept a lot. When awake, he had this alert and inquisitive quality to him that Alex swore she wasn't making up. During the pregnancy, she and Cas had both wondered about his development and if it would be normal—after all, he'd ended up being in utero for just about four months total and even though he looked human, he wasn't. Despite all that, he seemed to be growing at a typical human rate now that he had been born. The only thing that was in definite conflict with all the baby books was his eyesight. CJ clearly had depth perception and could already track moving objects, which wasn't supposed to happen for like five months more or so. He was incredibly special—all mothers probably felt this way about their children—but Alex knew for a fact he was one of a kind.

She shifted her baby and herself, planting her feet in bed and bringing her knees up. There she rested him to lay upright against the gentle slope of her thighs as she took his little hands in hers. His fingers grabbed on, and he was strong. "You been hitting the gym when I wasn't looking?" Alex asked, and he sputtered and cooed in response. He was impossible not to admire: his button nose and elfin chin, the huge blue eyes framed by the tiniest little fanning lashes, the softest little pink cheeks. Something about him held a promise of good things in life and better days ahead—he stirred some part of her that had never quite existed before. And while she wasn't a good singer, Alex knew her baby delighted in singing, so she started the first thing she thought of: Guns N' Roses. "He's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories,where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky..." Her smile faded into bittersweet territory as she remembered Dean singing this exact song to her when they were kids. And just like that, the bubble of bliss was popped—as it was multiple times per day.

This is where the guilt always began to creep in. The inner whisper that she was not allowed to have any happiness, not even a little bit. The thought that she was a bad sister, hunter, and friend for not being on the road in an attempt to save the world and her brother.

"Mmmph," CJ grunted neutrally, his huge, interested eyes studying her. Alex came out of the intensity of her spiraling thoughts.

"You're wondering why I stopped, huh." Alex petted his hair, trying not to feel sad but failing. "That song makes me think of your uncle Dean," she murmured, then slipped her hand behind her baby's head, looking at him like he looked at her. She smiled, however sadly. "You'll get to meet him soon. I promise."

A cute little baby sound was the only response she got. "Mm." Bringing him close, Alex kissed his little forehead then held him, trying to commit every detail to memory—trying not to think about any other version of reality except one where Dean was cured and got to hold his nephew in his arms.

Sam, Bobby, Dad—I hope today's the day you catch him.

Dean had escaped the bunker during the pandemonium of CJ's birth with Bobby and Dad hot on his heels. Sam caught up with them several hours later after making sure Alex and everyone else in the bunker was safe and stable. So far, the three men had encountered zero luck bringing the demon back in. All that was left was aftermath: Dad had an injured leg, Sam and Cas were both busted up from coming to blows with Dean, Kyle had cracked ribs, Jamie had the bruised throat, Linda sustained a concussion, and Kevin had pulled his shoulder. Molly, Bobby, and Alex were the only ones who had escaped without much damage.

Now Dean was currently out there somewhere—again. Evading capture—again. Heart aching, Alex glanced at her phone—her current only connection to the outside world. She knew she had to let her feelings of inadequacy go and place trust in Sam and Bobby to get it done. And Dad too, she guessed.

Her thoughts swerved into more bitter territory as she thought of her father and all the unfinished business there. Sam had called regularly to check in—Bobby had even called to say hello and congrats—all while Dad hadn't spoken a single word to his only daughter. No congratulations, no how are you, no how's the baby—nothing. It hurt. And there it was again: stuff she couldn't let herself think about for too long. So she dug deep, put a smile on, moved those thoughts out of her mind, and began to croon a very slow, lullaby-esque version of My Sharona to her son.

A few moments later Cas reappeared with two gel ice packs, a little bottle of warmed formula, a steaming mug of black coffee, and two huge, sugar-dusted blueberry muffins—all on a little wooden tray. "Ooh," Alex said, eyes on the baked goods. Her mouth was already watering. "Where'd you get muffins?"

"Breakfast for my sweethearts," Cas replied, which immediately filled Alex with softness and affection. He'd been using terms of endearments more and more, especially about the baby. He set the tray down onto the bedside table. "Molly made the muffins," he continued. "And seemed nervous about if you would like them or not."

Alex pinched off a piece of one, chuckling in her throat. "Wait, Molly, nervous?" she quipped as she popped the morsel into her mouth. Her eyes closed as the perfectly textured muffin and the crumbled sugar top hit her taste buds. She sighed out leisurely. "Ish sooo good," she mumbled through the mouthful, becoming almost indignant at how good. Sam had never mentioned Molly could bake or whatever. Alex was a little jealous of that skill... but also not mad if it meant more baked goods could potentially be in her future.

Glad she was enjoying the unexpected surprise, Cas sat down with the gel packs and handed them over to her. "Is the soreness better than yesterday?"

"A little." Alex quickly scrubbed her palms together to brush off crumbs before trading him their infant for the ice packs. "I just feel huge and swollen and weird." She gingerly hugged the chilled shapes to her tender chest and suppressed a yawn poorly as she eyed the nearby coffee—she was sleeping much more than most new moms thanks to Cas, but still felt utterly tired and drained. Her body had never mystified or awed her like it had during pregnancy, birth, and now this weird period of time where things were stretched out, sore, and sagging.

"I can only imagine," Cas commiserated, touching her knee soothingly. He had that look in his eye like he was about to say something sappy. "I'm still so amazed by what your body brought to us."

Becoming a touch impish, Alex sent over a coy smile. "Took two of us to get him here, if memory serves..."

Cas became faintly stern as he immediately disagreed. "You grew our son inside yourself for four months of intense pregnancy and then endured a life-threatening labor—while all I did was—err... well." He grew embarrassed and glanced at his son as if he had said the wrong thing in front of the wrong person. His voice became hushed. "Not appropriate to say in front of Jimmy."

Alex just smiled and shook her head, one hundred percent amused. She watched fondly as Cas offered the bottle of formula he'd brought in to their son. Always ready to eat, CJ immediately began sucking down his meal with gusto, causing both parents to smile as they watched. "You're a hungry little fellow today, aren't you, my boy?" Cas asked, not bothering to hide the all-consuming love and adoration he felt.

"He eats like it's going out of style," Alex commented, helpless but to be overcome with the same powerful love she saw living in Cas's eyes. It healed part of her to see a father so warm and giving with his child. She reached out and touched his arm tenderly after a long moment of watching. "I really don't know what I'd do without you, Cas."

He looked her way, becoming mildly regretful. "I'm sure I could help more if I had my powers."

Alex had expected some sort of reply like that. She heard his disappointment in himself and it made her sad. "I'm fine, seriously," she insisted gently. "This is just part of having a baby." He wanted to take her pain away and speed her healing up, but she wasn't actually that interested. She wanted every piece of this experience, even the hard stuff. And it really wasn't that bad. Just uncomfortable. Birth had been the hardest part. She had to suppress a shudder to think about that. Instead, she studied her spouse with a heightening twinge of concern. He was in his head about his injuries and lack of powers, but there was more to it. "How are you? You okay?" There had been moments where she saw subtle signs of something unspoken bothering him. Something beyond what she already knew to be issues.

"Of course I am," he replied readily—maybe too readily. There was a contemplative pause in which he studied her with veiled eyes. "Or okay enough, anyway." He paused again hesitantly. "I suppose along with everything else vexing me, I'm still wondering how you survived the birth."

Ah. Alex nodded slowly. "Me too."

Cas hesitated. For a second, the only sound filling the otherwise silence was their baby's voracious swallows. "You're sure you don't remember anything?"

Alex reached for the coffee as she kept the ice packs in place with her other arm. "Nothing." And anytime she tried to think back to that moment of dying and coming back, she got a dull headache. Either it was a fluke, or someone (or something) had brought her back. For now, it would remain a mystery and leave Alex unsettled but thankful for each new day of life. She sipped at her coffee and studied Cas as he gazed at CJ's face. That's when she still saw it: The definite, faintest terse quality that gave away his mindset. Something was eating at him, something he wasn't wanting to say. "You're sure nothing else is bothering you...?" she prompted gently, worried about why he wouldn't share if something was.

He looked over and hesitated. And then her phone rang, jarring them both.

The screen said Sam Calling.

A rush of hope came over Alex. She set her coffee down, reached for the phone, and answered immediately with a positive voice. "Hey Sammy! Calling with good news?"

His familiar voice on the other end sounded pretty glum. "I wish. Don't have any right now—guy really doesn't wanna be found." A heavy sigh. "But, I finally got Dad to admit how he found and trapped Dean before."

Eyebrows rising up, Alex had to admit she was intrigued. "...How?"

"A witch."

Her mouth dropped open. "...Seriously?"

"Y-up." She could tell how Sam felt about it: supremely annoyed that he hadn't gotten that news five days prior. "He still has the capture spell, just no witch to perform it. So yeah, I mentioned Jamie and how she happens to, you know, be one of those. I'm calling her next. See if she'll help out for a day or two."

"I'm sure she will." Alex bit on her thumbnail absently. That was so telling, the fact that Dad had missed the fact that Jamie was a witch. It illustrated how checked-out he was, how disinterested to know about his kids lives—how little he'd tried to learn about the bunker and its residents. Alex was aggravated right along with Sam and gave a reluctant sigh. "What'd he say about it when he found out about her?"

Sam exhaled wearily. "That's the thing. I can't really figure him out anymore. He's either catatonic or flying off the handle. Nothing quite like when he stepped to Cas, but—yeah." Alex could hear how depressed her twin was. "He just said he never would have guessed Dean would end up with a witch and sighed."

"...Huh." Alex scoffed halfheartedly. Five days wasted because John Winchester had been too apathetic to even ask about his son's girlfriend. "Bet he feels like a real dumb ass right about now," she muttered resentfully.

Sam made an uncertain, downtrodden sound. "Hard to tell if he even knows how to feel anymore, honestly." Heart going out to her brother, Alex said nothing—because she knew exactly the pain he was feeling. He cleared his throat and forced a more upbeat quality in his voice. "Anyway, how's my favorite nephew? Really wish I was there with you right now."

"I know you do." She wished the same. Alex eyed her nearby boys, feeling fractionally guilty about how many happy and proud moments she was experiencing while Sam was going through utter misery with their indifferent father. "He's so good," she answered truthfully, trying not to gush. Cas had finished feeding CJ and was now holding the baby upright against himself, patting rhythmically. "Having a husband who never sleeps has been coming in real handy," Alex said, both to Sam and Cas. The angel glanced over and smiled quietly, hearing only half of the conversation.

"I'm glad you got him looking out for you," Sam replied earnestly, a little less stressed out to know she was doing well. "You feeling better?"

Alex remembered the ice packs and pulled them in a little closer to her tender areas. "Just sore, mostly."

"And Cas back up to speed yet?"

Alex paused significantly, mood fading into worry as her voice quieted. "No. That First Blade thing really did a number on him."

Seeming to realize Cas was in earshot, Sam lowered his voice. He sounded worried. "You don't think this is like... permanent, do you?"

That was her exact worry. But she wouldn't say so. Not yet. "Dunno." She eyed her husband and child, knowing that beneath Cas's clothing, very gruesome slashes remained unhealed, glowing softly with what she knew to be his Grace. It was slowly leaking out, which surely couldn't be good, but he'd dismissed her concerns and questions about it, saying not to trouble herself and that he was sure it would heal in time. Maybe that was what he was privately worrying over. Uneasy about the whole thing, Alex could only sigh quietly. "Hope not."

"Me either," Sam replied grimly, then paused almost nervously. "...How's, uh, how's Molly? She hacking it okay?"

There it was again, the paranoia Sam had about the young woman in question—he seemed to think he needed to use kid gloves around her, or felt like he couldn't let her in fully on the world the Winchesters lived in. Alex disagreed. The girl was shy and anxious, but also pretty ballsy in her own right and had already proved herself quite scrappy and resilient multiple times. Plus—baked goods. "One, she makes amazing muffins." She eyed the treat she was looking forward to chowing down on fully. "And other than that... she's staying busy. Anytime I've left the room, she's in the library cleaning it up and working on her little cataloging project or reading the books. She's sweet, Sam. No other word for her. I can see what you like about her."

She could hear the anxious but affectionate smile on her brother's face. "Yeah. Guess I just worry about her." Translation: I don't think she can hack it.

"Mmhmm," Alex confirmed patiently, finding it sort of endearing but also exasperating. "Look, she's a lot tougher than I think you give her credit for." A roundabout way of saying to just chill out.

"Yeah, maybe..." he hedged. "Guess I'm just hoping after all this calms down she can go home again." A nice thought, but Alex's instincts said it was a little too late for that. At the very least, Molly was going to have to keep learning the hunter ropes until she was competent enough to go survive out there on her own. Sam hesitated, then grew a little darker. "If this calms down."

Right. Another uneasy reminder that the world might be about to end again or... something. A dark, vague thought that Alex really didn't want to spend time on. Because when she did, it was all too familiar a worry. "Feels a lot like it did four years ago, doesn't it?" she mused uncomfortably, yet again looking at her husband and son with rising unease.

"Yeah. Sure does." Sam laughed softly, a cynical and humorless sound. "With all these weird, altered details I never would have predicted." Alex knew what they were both dancing around: their mutual and desperate hope that the rumors about Lucifer's return were untrue. "Speaking of," Sam continued, "Did any more angels show up since we last talked?"

Again, Alex's eyes skirted over to Cas. "No, just Hannah and the other thirty." Cas continued to rock their son, but he was clearly listening more intently now. Alex gave Sam the somber news, watching Cas apprehensively the entire time: "She said that besides two scout angels who're still out there... everyone else she knows about is dead."

A long, stunned second of silence played out. "...Wow," Sam breathed in soft horror. "So like... only Hannah's troop and some Lucifer loyalists are left? No other angels at all?" He couldn't believe it. And neither could she.

"Yeah." What had once been a host of hundreds of thousands of celestial beings had been cut down to almost nothing. A series of events had systematically accomplished this: The apocalypse—Raphael and Castiel's war—Destroyer's massacre—the angelic civil war on earth—and now the Lucifer loyalists bound and determined to wipe out any last survivors not devoted to their cause. "There's something like a hundred, a hundred and fifty total angels left in existence, we think."

Sam was quiet for a long, troubled moment. "Is Cas okay?"

Alex locked eyes with her husband. "Sad. Very sad." And she felt sad, too.

Hannah had resurfaced a couple days ago, limping back to the bunker with thirty-one other surviving angels. Apparently a group of around fifty known Lucifer loyalist angels had ambushed them then mercilessly cut their numbers by more than half. The survivors had barely escaped with their lives. As far as angelic allies... these were the last of them left in any realm.

Upon their unannounced arrival, Cas directed them to stay but hadn't been able to let them all into the bunker due to dwindling space and tension on both sides (the bunker residents not knowing or trusting the angels, the angels not knowing or trusting the bunker residents). So the very last of the angels were outside... staying in about fifteen tents that dotted the small clearing off of the parking area. Cas warded the area thoroughly to hide the angels from enemies and every day, he could be seen visibly trying to decide what to do as he split his time between his wife and son and a couple daily checkins with his angels. He felt responsible for them and at fault for everything that had happened, but he didn't say much else about it. Realizing she'd let a silence stretch out, Alex cleared her throat and tried for a light comment to Sam about all the tents, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. "Look, it's like a national park during deer hunt season out there, I'm warning you."

Sam chuckled sadly. "I'll just be glad to be home."

Home. A word he didn't use much. Not like that. "I'll be glad for that too," she said softly, suddenly missing him so bad that her throat ached.

"I gotta get going," Sam said, sounding reluctant to hang up.

Drawing in a deep and somber breath, Alex wished so badly she could be on the road with her brother. She knew it wasn't easy. Especially not with Dad there. Her single remaining hope was that Dean would be recaptured soon and that this nightmare would be behind them soon. "Bring him in, Sam. And come back safe."

"Will do." He paused. "Love you."

Her face softened into a tender smile, and tears unexpectedly pricked her eyes. "Love you too." The call ended.

Heavier in spirit now, Alex eyed the doorway out. Thoughts on Dean, Jamie, Dad, the angels, even Molly and the Trans and Kyle swirled. Nearby, Cas had stood up and now swayed gently in place, their son sleepily cuddled against his father's chest. The angel looked like he'd been doing this for years. But now, his face was sad.

Alex got out of bed, taking her time against little winces of discomfort before she joined her boys, hugging onto Cas and leaning on him in something like a slow dance made for three. She murmured that she loved him, wishing she could offer something more to take away his pain. This should have been a time of anticipation, hope, and new beginnings. Instead, it felt like forces around them were gathering. Like a storm was lurking on the horizon, ready to sweep in and demolish everything at any moment.

Somewhere In Idaho

Wearily, Sam ended the call with Alex and blankly stood in place for a long moment. Chaotic thoughts underscored a general sense of mounting dread that the hunter was trying desperately to ignore. The stunning scenery before him barely registered—not the snow-capped mountains in the distance reaching up into pristine blue sky, not the roaring pine-edged cobalt river cutting through the rugged landscape underneath his feet. All Sam could focus on from his place on the remote two-lane bridge was the RV he didn't even want to walk back to.

Parked just before the bridge began, the vehicle reminded Sam of a slouching beast. It vaguely felt like a prison, trapping three uncomfortable, distressed men into close quarters with a variety of resentments and issues all boiling under the surface. Cryptic comments, curt glances, and dead ends were Sam's living Hell right now and he couldn't wait to leave this emotional purgatory behind.

But for now, he had to make it work. He put Dean in the forefront of his mind, renewing his purpose. Bracing himself for discomfort and anxiety to return full force, Sam turned and retraced his steps toward the vehicle. As he got closer, he could see he wasn't the only one who'd stepped out for some fresh air: Dad leaned against the Winnebago listlessly with his haggard eyes on the horizon. Stiffening, Sam walked past to reenter the vehicle, assuming that more silent treatment was being served. He reached up to open the RV door.

"How's your sister?"

Startled, Sam took a beat to turn and stare at his dad. He almost replied with a cold 'what do you care?' but didn't want to start another fight that would go nowhere. So he tried to be gray as a rock instead. "Hanging in."

There was a faint nod and a sidelong dash of the eyes. "And the kid?"

...'The kid'? Sam forcibly bypassed his immediate negative reaction—but it wasn't easy. "Also doing well."

Nothing else was said or asked. Sam clenched his teeth, deciding to stow it and just get back into the vehicle. But he changed his mind after he pulled the door open. With a sudden burst of emotion, he shoved the door closed and turned to face his dad again. He was tired of trying to act like he had no feelings. "When are you gonna ask about me?" he asked brokenly. "How I'm doing?"

A crow cried out harshly somewhere nearby. John peered at Sam in vague confusion, which only made it worse.

"Look, Dad—I can tell you don't really wanna talk," Sam tried, heart on his sleeve. "And I mean, I don't get it—you were dead. We mourned you. Said goodbye forever." A painful lump cropped up in his throat, softening his unsteady voice. Dad looked down, unreadable. "I spent so much time thinking about if I could just get one last chance to talk to you... and I guess I thought you'd feel the same about me." John's eyes stayed on the ground. Pleading now, Sam felt like a fool. "I've tried to like be understanding and give you space, but..." he trailed off with an aching, mystified heart. "It feels like you don't even wanna be here right now."

More silence hung in which John looked off into the distance, his expression terse and troubled. When he finally spoke, his voice had gravel to it from lack of use. "Feels like I've been gone a lifetime, son." Another tortured, long beat of utter silence came. "And I haven't felt right with myself for a long, long time." He sighed. The weight to the sigh was immense. A weight Sam recognized. "I'm tired, Sammy," John murmured bleakly. "Just... hoping for some peace and quiet one of these days." He prompted Sam by looked at the phone still his hand. "You gonna call the witch or what? Time's wasting."

A vague, angsty response followed by a swift change in subject. Typical. Sam pushed his bitter disappointment away. "Yeah," he said softly, then had to clear his throat to get a stronger voice. "Yeah, you got it." He turned to leave, then changed his mind a microsecond later to say one last thing: "I'm tired too, Dad." That earned him some eye contact, but no reply. Sam set his jaw a little more squarely, becoming harder. "And her name's Jamie. Not 'the witch.'"

John studied his son quietly for a second. "Right." Fed up, Sam hauled himself up into the RV without a word—only a vaguely accusatory, hurt glance.

Somewhere nearby, that lonely crow called out again across the expanse. Other than that, the world was silent, loomed too large, and left John Winchester in the same place he'd pretty much always been: Hopeless. Wretched. And depressed past the point of even functioning.

But he'd never say so. Instead, he was resolved to putting one foot in front of the other until his son was back in the land of the living and Hell was shut for good. After that? John had no idea what awaited him—or if he could go on at all. Hell had destroyed what little was left of the already broken man he'd been before dying. There wasn't anything left to break, or at least he'd thought that... but damn if the universe wasn't out to see if it could shatter him apart further.

His daughter's accusations from five days ago stayed with him, tearing him down further and further in tandem with everything else—like Sam's words just now. Like the disgusted, disappointed, hurt glances that kept coming his way from Bobby and especially Sam. John knew he deserved all of that and more. Therefore he would keep taking it, even if it killed him in the process.

He could only hope to set something right here with Dean and with closing Hell—and then do his kids a favor by taking himself out of their presence for good. The thought of trying to reconcile with them only made John feel sick inside. It was far too late for that. And even if John wanted to, he didn't know how. He'd never known how to talk to them, relate to them, or be gentle with them. How was he supposed to know how to do that now? He had nothing left to give them but the same he'd always had: dust and ashes from a life that had burned to the ground thirty-one years ago.

It was truly ironic. Even after living through actual Hell for about a hundred years then being pulled out and given a second chance, John felt the exact same way he had since November 2, 1983. Alone in a way he didn't even begin to know how to describe.

Back at the Bunker
Dean's Room

Jamie ran frazzled hands over a frizzy scalp, quickly trying to fix her unkempt ponytail so that she didn't look like a complete discombobulated joke when she joined Sam and the others.

"Clothes, weapons, spell book, herb supply," she muttered under her breath, making a pile beside the hastily-grabbed duffel she'd tossed onto the bed. Back in her old days as a young, cocksure hunter eager to prove herself and be a badass, this specific feeling of preparing for a job had given her a thrill. These days, it only made her paranoid and anxious.

Nearby in her crib, Rose stood on wobbly legs while clinging to the railing and bouncing experimentally, gnawing on said railing as she drooled happily. "Ma ma ma ma ma," she babbled cheerfully. Jamie sent a weary, careworn smile her daughter's way before she paused her work for a second to go scoop up the baby. Shrieking with glee as her mother zoomed her overhead before wiggling her and kissing her cheeks thoroughly, Rose chomped on her own hand with a smiling, gummy mouth.

"Hey you," Jamie whispered, nuzzling into her daughter and swaying in place for a long moment. Rose had become her anchor in an otherwise changing, tumultuous world. Nothing else made sense... nothing else felt like home. The thought of leaving her baby's side again—which was exactly what she was getting ready to do—wracked Jamie with apprehension and guilt. She really didn't want to be apart from her child, but there wasn't really another choice here—she had to be part of the solution with bringing Dean back. Sam hadn't even finished asking for her help before Jamie said 'yes, of course.' She'd even agreed to the sketchy transportation mode he wanted to use to get her there instantly: Meg the demon.

If it meant saving Dean, Jamie would probably do just about anything at this point.

Standing here and holding his child in the room he'd once lived in, Jamie shut her eyes briefly, wishing she could stay in the safety and peace of this moment forever with only one detail altered: Him. Back here and with them, once and for all. The man with whom she'd once been bitter enemies—now the one she no longer wanted to live without. And Jamie wasn't the only one who needed him now. "I'm gonna get your daddy back, baby girl," she murmured, then gave Rose one final big kiss and cuddle. That's when she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror propped on the nearby ledge and went still. Her throat still bore pretty gruesome, large bruises from Dean's hands. Exhaling tensely, Jamie wondered if she should have accepted the angels offer of healing when it had been extended the day before yesterday. Put on the spot by the question, she'd automatically shaken her head no, because what were a few unsightly bruises?

But looking at the extent of those injuries made her resolve and confidence waver. The hatred blazing behind the black eyes belonging to the one who'd done this haunted her heart and left it heavy. One thought kept urging her onward: he'd fought tooth and nail for her when she'd been the one impossible to bring back. So now it was her time to do the same for him.

"Knock knock," came a new, hesitant voice. Jamie turned in surprise, jolting out of her thoughts. At the already open doorway, Alex hovered just outside of the room. Dressed and looking well, she had her baby with her, worn in a stretchy fabric infant wrap that kept CJ snug and safe in place while leaving his mother's arms and hands free. Despite that, the hunter still had two hands on him.

"Hey!" Jamie greeted a little too enthusiastically, suddenly feeling like she needed to look way busier and put together than she actually was. She briskly set Rose back into the crib then returned to her work of packing. "What're you doing out and about? And dressed this time too?" she asked in a conversational, playful way, trying to hide her darker feelings and worries.

Alex sauntered in and leaned into the doorframe with an amused smile. "I had a baby, I didn't have open heart surgery." James chuckled, folding clothes quickly and tossing them into the duffel. Touché. "We just wanted to come check on you two," Alex clarified, looking over at Rose and sending her a smile. "Hi cousin Rose." There was an elated shriek from the baby in question, which both mystified and amused her mother. Rose was the world's happiest baby for reasons Jamie just couldn't fathom when she thought of her and Dean's more grumpy dispositions. It was the sweetest thing, and Dean deserved to see it...

Jamie glanced at little CJ—he was sleeping peacefully against his mama. A pang resounded deep inside as Jamie wished she'd gotten a chance to be her daughter's mother at that age. Knowing Alex got to have these moments did warm her heart though. "How's your little guy doing today?" she asked, folding a shirt briskly and putting it into her bag.

Alex glanced down at the sleeping babe, her smile growing a little wider and prouder. "Life of the party, clearly," she joked, then became more somber and meaningful as she looked up at her friend again. "Thank you again. For everything."

Jamie grinned, deflecting the attention away. "We've been over this, Winchester. You're not allowed to thank me anymore." Delivering the baby successfully had been luck only. Jamie still wasn't entirely sure how she'd pulled that off.

"Fine, fine," Alex sighed, then glanced at the duffel bag conspicuously, changing subjects. "Looks like Sam called, huh?" she prompted, studying her friend curiously. "You're going?"

"Yeah." Jamie stood a little taller, hoping Alex was happy about it. "Molly and Linda agreed to tag team with taking care of Rose. I won't be too long." Both women were trustworthy and so kind, but Jamie still felt incredibly guilty and trapped about imposing on someone else like that. She had no other choice and that felt bad.

There was a long, somewhat uncomfortable silence. And then an unexpected question. "How are you? I mean, really."

Jamie froze, put on the spot. She hadn't been asked that since—well, she couldn't remember. Dean, probably. It caused a sudden mini crisis in her mind of all the things she hadn't taken time to acknowledge fully. The things she had kept hidden.

How am I? Tired, scared, grieving, hurting, overwhelmed, in love with my baby, exhausted by my baby, lost, confused, unsure what my life is right now, still in shock about even being alive... terrified that I saw Dean for the last time that day in Ohio.

"I... I dunno," she finally answered, finding herself in an unexpected moment of vulnerability with one of the only people on planet earth she fully trusted. "It's... a lot," she admitted, a little taken aback when she thought it over. "I mean, I killed myself... went to Hell... got possessed by the queen bitch of all demons... got another chance at life... got my baby back—" her voice dropped in volume as she arrived to the hardest thought of all: "Then lost one of the most important people in my life." She said it without thinking then caught herself and looked at Alex with nervous eyes, not sure if she was allowed to say that about Dean or not. "I mean, we all did," she edited awkwardly, fearing she'd stepped onto someone else's territory. Rose spluttered merrily, which only added to the sudden feeling of pain. Of the giant, gaping hole. "You should've seen him with her, Alex," Jamie whispered with eyes on her daughter, a daughter who had only known her father for something like fifteen minutes. Every day Jamie suffered the cruelest pain as she thought back to that day and obsessed over how it could have played out differently. How if she'd chosen different actions or been paying better attention, Dean wouldn't have ever been killed. "I really miss him." Her voice broke over those words, which were much too small to convey how Jamie truly felt.

Alex was similarly devastated. "Me too."

Still not sure if she'd offended her friend or not, Jamie grabbed her jacket and began to pull it on in an attempt to change the subject and hide her very painful emotions. Her insecurities were now firing on full blast mode. "I'm sorry if this is weird for you," she said, almost rambling now in an effort to conceal her feelings. "You probably didn't exactly imagine me being all up in your life like this when we first met." Jamie began to fiddle with what she'd packed, rearranging things needlessly as her stress and embarrassment increased. Alex had to have feelings about her once-friend turning into her brother's girlfriend then baby mama. And as if that wasn't enough, Jamie was now essentially living in Alex's house without an end in sight. Imposing, intruding, and interfering.

Alex watched with soft eyes. "You know... I can tell how you feel like an outsider here half the time," she observed gently, which caused Jamie to go still mid-movement as her surprised eyes flew up. "And I don't want you to feel that way." There was an unguarded kindness extending from Alex's tired eyes. "It feels right to have you here with us."

Outwardly, Jamie's mouth quivered into a tiny, brief smile and her eyes flickered around tentatively on Alex's. Inwardly, she felt touched, unworthy, and perplexed. "Thank you." She heard herself say the words automatically.

"Seriously," Alex insisted, seeing the doubt in the other woman's eyes. "You're family now, J." She made a bit of a face that communicated how she knew this was kind of awkward, but that she felt it necessary to say. "I mean it." Family. That word was very sacred and meaningful to someone who'd felt abandoned most of her life. Family was something she'd spent a lifetime thinking she'd never have in the way she wanted. In fact, Jamie had always envied Alex's relationship with her brothers—the protection, the loyalty, the unspoken promise of always having each other. Now, Alex was saying Jamie was part of that unit. Too overcome to know what to say back, Jamie said nothing. "I'll help look after Rose while you're away," Alex added, which almost made Jamie cry on the spot.

Programmed to resist outside help, the witch was already trying to decline while hiding her pricking eyes. "No, no—you've got enough of your own thing to deal with, don't trouble yourself."

Alex offered a bittersweet smile. "Your things are my things now. I've got your back."

Jamie felt a soft, tearful expression growing on her features. Their time as hunting buddies drifted across her mind. She remembered it as a period when things had been a whole helluva lot less complicated... but the sentiment had been the same: Them, having each other's backs and facing shit head on as they took down whatever monster-of-the-week. Honestly, the memories hit Jamie with a sudden feeling of the 'good ole days.' A serene fondness welled up in her heart despite everything else. And she realized she'd been in her head thinking she wasn't wanted here. A tentative, reassured smile grew. "Just like old times, huh."

"Just like old times..." Alex confirmed, then smiled humorously in realization. "...Except now with babies." She laughed, and it was rueful and nostalgic and a little exasperated all at the same time, making Jamie laugh the same way. Motherhood was an entirely new frontier for both of them and putting them both through the paces. It was funny the way things had worked out. They went in for a hug mutually, careful not to squash or jostle CJ. The sum of all they'd been through together was very present in both their minds at that moment—as well as the future they would continue to forge as friends and even eventually as sisters.

"I've got your back too," Jamie promised fiercely as they embraced. "And I'm gonna go get our guy." In her mind, Jamie pictured this bunker becoming a home where children laughed. Where monsters and apocalypses were just a bad memory. Where Dean would watch little Rosie take her first steps and rock her to sleep at night and give her a crazy silly soap mohawk at bath time. Jamie held all this in her mind unwaveringly as her eyes squeezed shut hard. "I promise." She meant it too. She wouldn't return here until Dean was in her possession. And then the rest was up to John Winchester.

Alex nodded, her voice suddenly a vulnerable whisper. "Good."

The Next Day
4:03pm

Jamie made good on her promise, and a day later, the RV returned with all its human passengers—and also one demonic one.

Outside to meet them in the waning afternoon light, Cas stood near the bunker entryway watching the vehicle come to a parked position. His feelings were a mixture of tense hope and apprehension for what was next. He watched as John Winchester exited the Winnebago first. The older hunter directly approached Cas, who stiffened and wondered if he should prepare for another physical altercation. And that's when the other man came to a stop directly in front of the angel and offered a hand out for a shake. "We got off on the wrong foot," John said gruffly. "John Winchester."

Doubtful and suspicious but also intrigued, Cas looked at the weathered hand, the unreadable dark eyes. What was this? A do-over? A trap? After a beat of consideration, he decided trap or not, he would play along. He put his hand into the man's and grasped firmly. A little more firmly than necessary maybe. "Castiel." He paused uncertainly, feeling his eyes crimp up. "Angel of the Lord."

John's eyes narrowed. "...Right." Behind them, Sam hopped out of the RV. The angel and the hunter's hands came apart and John cleared his throat uncomfortably as he cast around for words. "Look. I uh, I know about everything you've done for my daughter and my boys." It was visibly a struggle for him to verbalize these things. "So... thanks for that."

Cas was too taken by surprise to reply immediately, but he wasn't given the chance anyway. John turned and walked off back to the RV, leaving the angel confused but also a little encouraged. Sam approached now, his face drawn but smile soft. "Coming from him, that was a pretty big deal," he commented with a rueful, tired chuckle, then sighed with profound relief as he arrived to his brother-in-law: "Heya Cas."

"Sam." Cas hugged him warmly. "It's good to see you." He gave Sam a quick, bracing squeeze on either arm when the hug ended.

"Likewise, Cas." Sam's keen, distracted hazel eyes glanced around at the encampment. "Any news?" He didn't ask about what, but he didn't have to: Lucifer.

Troubled and quickly becoming grim, Cas regretted he could not provide a more optimistic answer. "The reports we've been fielding... from the few angels still on the ground. They're not looking good." The look on Sam's face caused Cas to remind him: "We don't have enough information to draw solid conclusions from yet."

"Right, right," Sam agreed, nodding a couple times and trying to hide his anxiety around the subject. "I'm sorry to hear about everything happening with the angels."

It was exceptionally difficult and sad for Cas to think of the near-extinction of his species. "As am I," he said heavily, then pushed those very weighty thoughts away. He watched as at the nearby RV, Bobby and John began to drag out a gagged, unconscious Dean. Jamie emerged next, her expression both haggard and resigned. "When will the cure begin?" Cas asked, still finding himself full of disbelief at Dean's state.

Sam joined Cas in looking at his brother, face hard to read. "Today."

"That's good news, Sam," Cas said gently, sensing the other man's anxiety.

A brief, distracted glance came his way. "Hope so." Sam took in a deep breath and then rapped Cas on the shoulder twice, rallying. "I'm gonna go see Alex and little Cas Junior, okay?"

"Yes. Good." Nodding with a soft smile springing up at the mention of his son, Cas eyed Dean and his entourage. "I'll be in shortly too."

As Sam swept past, Cas prepared to make himself useful and help with Dean. But then across the way, motion at the little encampment of angels drew his attention.

"Castiel!" Hannah approached and she looked excited about something which immediately caused Castiel to feel cautious interest. Hannah had chosen the vessel of a woman of faith with demure features, kind eyes, and a gentle smile. Right now, that smile was broad. "Good news!" she announced almost breathlessly as they met. Her eyes had a light to them Castiel hadn't ever seen. "Simeon finally found him."

Cas's eyebrows rose. He didn't need to ask who Simeon had found. "...And he's certain it's him?" he asked urgently, hardly daring to believe it. But Hannah nodded, hope bright in her eyes. "Then I must speak with him immediately," Cas said in growing urgency. "Take me there at once. But first—"

He looked back behind himself back to the bunker's front facade, knowing where Kyle would be sitting with binoculars and a weapon in hand on the hill. He was there—but what Cas had not predicted was the company he'd have. Engaged in casual conversation while sitting at the ex-Leviathan's side was Kevin. Cas approached the boys a little closer with Hannah following, and by the time he was close enough to be heard by them, both young men were looking at him and Hannah curiously. "I'm leaving briefly," Cas called to their position up the hill. "Can you tell my wife I'll be back soon?"

Kevin nodded and stood to his feet, on his way to do as requested even as Cas and Hannah disappeared into thin air.

Hannah ported them to an unknown place on earth and Castiel found himself in a cool, misty day hanging over a lush, well-kept garden. He and Hannah stood on a small covered bridge which stretched across the tranquil waters of a lily-pad dotted pond. At first, it appeared that no other living being was present in this immaculate garden except for a small, curious rabbit who poked around in the tassels of an elegant umbrella plant onshore. Then, Cas saw the being he sought an audience with. In coveralls which bore various gardener's tools in each pocket, his back faced them as he pruned a flowering yellow tree just down the winding pathway. Joshua. Heaven's gardener. The angel who spoke to God. Until today, he had been presumed dead since Heaven's civil war.

Cas looked at Hannah, who nodded readily, already intuiting what he wanted to do. "I'll wait here."

"Thank you, Hannah." Drawing his breath in deeply as he prepared for a reunion he hadn't even known possible until a moment prior, Cas crossed the bridge with elation and apprehension alike. His feet followed the paver pathway as a burst of delicate butterflies flitted across the way. Everywhere the angel looked, he saw evidence of excellent, nurturing care given to the quiet host of plants growing here. After Cas passed through a veil of weeping willow boughs, he came to a stop at a respectful distance.

The gardener paused his work. "Castiel." He turned with a welcoming, pleasantly surprised smile on his careworn face. "...It's been a long time, dear brother."

Struck by reverent nostalgia, Cas felt himself smiling back. It was a moment he never thought he would live to see. "Hello, Joshua. Indeed it has."

Somehow, Joshua still had his vessel from years prior: a Black man in his late seventies. His neatly-kept short hair and beard were both graying, and his dark weathered skin carried many wrinkles and age lines. His eyes, however, sparkled with the vigor of a youthful spirit. Not a thing seemed to have changed about him... except his location. Curious, Cas's eyes wandered the immediate vicinity briefly. "Have you been here since the fall from Heaven?"

"And before then too," Joshua answered elusively, his raspy tenor voice full of mystery. Wherever this place was and how long he had been here remained unaddressed. The gardener joined Cas in looking over the serene setting. "It's not exactly Heaven's garden... but it keeps me busy all the same." It was easy to hear how satisfied he was with the work of his hands. Cas readily joined him, marveling at how neat, orderly, and tranquil the place felt. He touched his fingers to the yellow blooms adorning the short tree they stood beside, taking in the grand but simple design of the flower. "Forsythia," Joshua supplied fondly before giving Cas a significant look. "The blossoms are said to be a symbol of anticipation."

This was the moment when Cas looked around again, noticing how much forsythia decorated the garden. It was everywhere. "One might suppose you're full of anticipation to look around your garden, old friend," he observed thoughtfully, casting a curious glance at the gardener.

Joshua smiled, and it was both humble and maddeningly secretive. "Indeed I am."

Keenly feeling that Joshua knew something, Castiel worded himself carefully. "For what, exactly?"

The smile only became more coy. "And why does it need to be exact?"

Cas should have known better than to expect a straight answer. Rueful, he shook his head. "Full of riddles as always, Joshua."

"And you," Joshua returned playfully, "full of questions, as always." His eyes sparkled as Cas hid a smile and had to admit—he was right. "Nothing much has changed, has it, Castiel?"

It had all changed. And yet, at the root, the gardener was right. So many things had remained exactly the same. Cas studied Joshua at length, deciding to just ask what he'd come here to ask. "Do you believe our Father still watches over us?"

The response was simple and prompt. "I do."

An instance of wild hope shot through Castiel. "So you still speak with him?"

Joshua began to prune the branches in front of himself again with patient leisure. "No. I do not."

Rapid disappointment sank in. For a moment, the only sound was of happy birds singing somewhere nearby and the snip, snip, snip of the shears. "When did he last speak to you?" Cas asked after swallowing his confusion down.

"Oh, around the last apocalypse, I suppose it was," came the mild response.

A very specific choice of words. "The last apocalypse." Cas's eyes narrowed. "Meaning..."

"Yes." Joshua ceased his work and gave Castiel his full attention again. "The imminent destruction of the world and the salvation of the righteous is upon us once again. As written, it will take place." If he had feelings about it, his neutral demeanor didn't give away what those specific feelings were.

It was a blow that Cas hadn't quite prepared for. Another apocalypse. Or another attempt at an apocalypse, anyway. Daunted and exhausted, Cas focused himself. "Have you seen him? Is Lucifer truly walking this earth again?"

The answer was in no way uncertain or unclear. "Indeed he is."

Another instance of great sinking came over Cas. He hadn't wanted to believe it. Now he had no choice but to do exactly that. The angel's mind spun in dismay. "But why?" He simply didn't understand. "And how is it that our father can he leave us alone in this?"

Joshua remained serene. "He isn't a chess player moving pieces around, Castiel, nor is he a travel guide. He's a creator. And his job—creating—was made complete quite a long time ago. He simply doesn't feel its his business to interfere in the story being written."

This set fire blazing in Castiel's veins. "His son is intent on utterly destroying humanity—on rendering the Host of Heaven extinct—it is his business."

Joshua nodded sympathetically. "An understandable opinion to have."

Frustrated at the kind of feelings he hadn't felt in a few years—dissatisfaction at his father's absence, confusion about his unexplained abandonment of Heaven, Earth, and everywhere between—Cas took a moment. He knew it was a waste of time to be angry about what he couldn't change. So he forcibly focused on what he could do. The stand he would take. He squared his shoulders. "The world can't end. We won't let it."

This earned him a soft, knowing look. The first instance of Joshua visibly trying to tell him something without exactly going into the details. "When you say world, to which world do you refer?" Joshua's mysterious air grew even more pronounced. "What makes you so sure planet earth is the world which the apocalypse will end...?"

Intrigued, Cas pressed in. "What world, then? Hell?" He thought of the vastly destroyed Host with sudden astonishment. "...Heaven?"

Joshua chuckled again, a leisurely sound. "I'm only a simple gardener with foolish and fanciful notions. I wouldn't know."

Again, Cas did not accept the act. The gardener knew more than he let on—but kept his knowledge sealed in nearly as tight as a tomb. Castiel tried a new tactic. "Am I right to assume that you what's happening to the angels?"

Joshua became appropriately somber. "Yes I do."

"We're almost extinct at this point, Joshua," Cas reiterated sadly, still barely able to believe it. "Was this God's plan all along?"

Again, the gardener was elusive. "He never made mention, I'm afraid."

Cas was becoming exasperated and hopeless. "What are we supposed to do, Joshua?"

"...'Supposed to'?" Joshua repeated quietly, hints of amusement playing in his old eyes. "Castiel," he admonished fondly. "Old habits die hard, don't they? By now I think you have learned there is no 'supposed to.' The choice is ours. Angel and human alike. And I choose to garden." He touched a reverent hand to the blooming forsythia. "Tend to life, nurture growth." A kind smile came Cas's way. "I think you've chosen the same thing. Your garden just looks a bit different than mine."

This softened Castiel. His garden: Alex and their son. Sam. Dean. He now had a family—a home—and a very clear place on earth. All of it born out of his embrace of free will. "You have quite a way with metaphor, Joshua." And quite a way with never giving out straight facts. Cas decided he had learned as much as he would here today and nodded respectfully, at the very least grateful that he'd been able to see a dear old companion for what he supposed might be the last time. The rest he had to let go of. "Thank you for your time, Joshua."

Joshua merely smiled. "Mm." With a pleasant if bittersweet smile, Cas turned to depart. And then Joshua's voice halted him mid-step. "Before you leave, I must ask you a question." Curious, Cas turned to look back. Joshua studied him closely, and the faintest sadness hovered at the edges of his soulful eyes. "...Are you aware that you're dying, brother?"

Cas's jaw tightened and his gaze fell downward. For a long moment he said nothing. "Yes," he finally replied honestly. "I am aware."

Joshua came close, taking his time, then laid a compassionate hand onto the other angel's shoulder. His kind gaze was steadfast. "Good luck, old friend." His smile was sad. "I don't think we shall meet again."

Nodding, Cas found a small, bittersweet smile on his face too. "Be well, brother."

Cas returned to Hannah, his steps heavy. Yes. He was dying. Slowly—but dying all the same. The wounds that Dean had inflicted with the First Blade were not healing. They were not healable. Hannah had already tried and then several others before Cas had waved them away. He had yet to tell anyone what his instincts had been telling him for days now. Joshua had confirmed it.

In the most quiet innermost places of his mind, Cas returned to thoughts of what he'd been considering for a long time now: Falling from Heaven in earnest. Becoming human, once and for all. Hadn't the path always been leading here anyway?

Quietly, he remained immersed in these thoughts as he took in the beauty that Joshua's hand had sustained. Then he crossed the bridge to where Hannah waited to return them both to Kansas once more.

Later
The Bunker
5:18pm

Fully engrossed in humming to her baby, Alex turned a corner in the bunker's maze of hallways then came up short to avoid crashing into someone. It was her dad, and he looked just as deer-in-the-headlights to see her as she was to see him. He'd been back for an hour or so, but this was the first time they'd run into each other. For a second neither one could say anything. Then John cleared his throat, his eyes flickering from his daughter's face to the baby worn on her front. "You're, uh, you're looking well," he complimented uncertainly. "Glad... everything went good."

Of all the things to say to your daughter who'd just become a mother. Alex made a face. "Yeah, you too," she muttered, scanning him dispassionately. "Angels fixed you up, huh?" He stood tall and straight again.

He confirmed that they had with a wan, flighty expression. "Good to be on two feet again." He was dying to escape the interaction, but Alex decided not to let him.

"Dad, this is CJ—my son." Her blunt statement doubled as a request to please give a damn.

He looked surprised at the introduction, which mystified Alex anew. Then his expression shifted and he tried to honor her request. "CJ, huh?" He craned his neck to get a look at his grandson's little face and it visibly hit him. The realization that his child was now a parent. It softened him in a way Alex hadn't seen in years. He took a long moment to find his voice. "Y'know, I remember when you guys were that small," he breathed softly, and he sounded full of love. Emotion. Cautious, he looked at Alex again. His eyes were now strikingly vulnerable, and his expression was working overtime. Just as Alex was beginning to feel a surge of hope and connection—it was suddenly over. Dad shut himself down, clapped her on the side of the shoulder, nodded crisply, and made his escape as he spoke in a forced gruff, businesslike tone. "Gotta get this cure going. See you then." He was already departing.

Stung and startled, Alex could do nothing but watch him walk away. With a sinking heart, she realized his behavior would just probably never make sense to her. She exhaled hard then looked at her son apologetically. "And that was your granddad," she muttered hollowly, eyes going back to the hallway ahead for a long, glum beat before she put a more positive attitude on and kissed her baby's head. "Come on bud, you're gonna hang out with your dad awhile, okay?"

5:45pm

This was the moment they'd been working toward ever since realizing their brother was a demon. And now that it was here, it was terrifying. Sam traveled down the basement hallway at a quick pace—it was much darker and more eerie down on this level than the rest of the bunker, resulting in a foreboding feeling. Right behind him, Alex followed, her anxious silence somehow deafening. Dad waited directly ahead in front of the closed prison room door at the end of the hall. He wasn't pacing, but the way he stood gave away his antsy nerves.

"Good," he said as the twins arrived. "Good. Everything's ready."

Sam nodded, anxious. "So you already purified your blood, right?" he asked. "Made your confessions?"

A frown came his way. "Confessions?" John shook his head. "I used a spell."

Sam deflated a bit. "...Oh." He felt mild embarrassment—he'd never even known that was an option.

Dad was all business, ignoring Sam's gaffe. "Here's how it's gonna go. Eight injections, one every sixty minutes. I'll need at least one of you around each time just in case... I dunno. Just in case." He glanced heavily toward the room where Dean waited then gave the twins a meaningful look. "Listen. I know demons. And that one in there's gonna try to manipulate us. Whatever you do, don't let him get in your head."

The twins exchanged a terse glance and Sam was the one who managed to ask first. "What's the plan if things go sideways?" He was afraid of the answer.

John's dark eyes glanced his son's way testily. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning... what if this hurts him or like clearly isn't working?" Alex supplied when Sam got frustrated with their Dad's question and had to bite away a frustrated comment.

"I'm finishing the cure," John asserted with grim resolve that left no room for any alternative. His jaw tightened and he looked into the room through the small viewing slat. "And I just gotta hope Dean's on the other side. Otherwise, we lost him the day that angel killed him in Cleveland."

A devastating thought that made the air go still. Another quick glance was exchanged by the twins. "Dad... are you sure about this?" Alex asked, her discomfort becoming more and more pronounced. "We're still not sure if this will kill you or not. Have we really looked at all our options here? I mean Sam was as good as dead after he tried this same thing."

John was dismissive and distracted. "That was different. Look, your brother Sam's already tried to talk me out of it the past five days but I made my decision." His eyes remained hollow but determined. "I'm closing Hell. And I'm saving my son."

Sam grew uncharacteristically meek at his dad's comment about him. "I wasn't trying to talk you out of it, just..." he trailed off, feeling like a stupid little kid. "I don't wanna see you die again."

Their father wasn't cruel or snide, but his message was very blunt: "I know." His eyes went to and stayed on the door Dean was imprisoned behind. "But you need to prepare yourself for that possibility." Sam's heart sank. He knew that—of course he did. But hearing it made him want to be sick. Without anything further at all, Dad gave Sam and Alex a dour look, grasped the door handle, then decisively entered the room, leaving his jolted twins outside in the realization that this was it.

Mutually stricken, they stared after their father. Sam shook his head in a daze. "...I'm not sure I'm ready for this," he confessed weakly, looking to his sister maybe for some sort of consolation or hope.

Similarly afraid and stunned, Alex was unable to find words at all. She could only meet his gaze with terrified eyes, silently asking him to give her some reassurance. She was just as scared as he was—if not more. Sam reached out and put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the side of her head, setting aside his own fears to comfort hers. "We've come back from crazier. Here's hoping our luck hasn't run out," he murmured, then with nothing else to do but face the music, they followed after their dad into the quiet holding cell.

Awake and tied to the chair with two times the ropes he'd been secured by before, Dean sneered from his position dead center of the devil's trap. "Oh, what is this? An episode of intervention?"

Over at the nearby table full of supplies, John gave Dean blazing eye contact. "It's eviction day." In front of him were syringes, spell ingredients, and the spell for the cure itself written out in his bold handwriting. The spell was remarkably close to the one Metatron had tricked Sam and Dean with prior—with a few very significant differences, of course.

"Whoa whoa whoa John, slow down—" Dean chuckled as John slid a finger down the side of a blood-filled syringe thoughtfully. "You don't even know if this cure of yours is gonna work—you could kill your precious little Dean in the process, did you think of that?"

The only thing that question earned the demon was a sidelong flick of the eyes. "My son's already dead, and if you think I care if you die, guess again."

Dean feigned indignant offense. "Your son's already dead?" He scoffed and grinned. "Afraid you got your facts wrong bub—I'm the real me, all right. The new real me—the me that sees things for what they really are, the me who's finally free." He raised his chin to scoff down his nose at them. "Look at you. Winchesters. Do-gooders. Fighting the natural order. All while barely holding it together, slaves to the life because you're 'such good people.'" He laughed a short single 'ha!' "Gimme a break. You bunch really put the 'fun' in dysfunction." He leaned forward as much as he could, ropes creaking as he did so. Sam swallowed nervously. "Lemme tell you something—guys like me, we are the natural order," Dean bragged. "It's the way it was set up."

"Says the guy tied to a chair," John countered offhandedly as he sauntered toward Dean.

The demon looked mildly nervous for the briefest instance. "Yeah well lemme ask you this, John," he said wryly, eyes darting back and forth from John's face to the shining silver needle in his hand. "If this little cure of yours doesn't work, can you really kill me?"

John leaned forward, his face made of stone. "Without—hesitation."

Even the twins were authentically shocked by the performance. Dean was faintly impressed. "Ice cold," he murmured before breaking into the smallest and creepiest smile. "You will make an excellent demon someday, John Winchester."

Face twisting, John jabbed the needle into the side of Dean's neck and depressed the plunger. The demon's head fell back as the blood shot into his body. Dean made a pained bellow then roared, he wheezed, he writhed. John barely managed to yank the needle out without it snapping in half.

As everyone stared breathlessly, Dean quieted, blinking in disoriented shock like he didn't know what had just happened. He shook himself, gaping for a second before he remembered his audience and wiped the semi-scared look off his face. "Spicy," he commented, a blasé challenge.

John matched Dean's chill blow for blow. "Yeah we'll see if you can handle the heat, chump. Sit tight." With a jerk of the head, he signaled his other son and daughter that it was time to step out. As a group, the three made exit.

"This is a waste of time!" Dean yelled defiantly after them. The only reply he got was the solid metal door shutting with a terrific clang.

Outside in the dim hallway, the twins peered at their dad apprehensively as he exhaled shakily and lost some of his put-on confidence. "Feel okay?" Sam asked, worry making his voice soft.

"Yeah fine," was the distracted reply. "I'm gonna sit here. Wait for the next dose."

An uncertain glance passed between the siblings. "We'll wait with you," Alex offered.

There was a long silence. "I'd rather be alone if you kids don't mind."

That made Sam feel very small and let down. Disappointed and rejected. But he wasn't gonna fight the tide. "Sure," he agreed in quiet defeat, seeing that his sister was also trying to hide a gutted reaction. "Yeah."

Together, brother and sister began to walk away from their father. "This is gonna be a long night," Alex muttered under her breath once they were a few paces off.

"I mean, we can't force him to wanna be with us," Sam reasoned with a dejected shrug, saying it as much for himself as he did for his sister.

"Yeah I know." Alex's head shook a couple shallow times. "I just don't get it."

They arrived to the stairs leading up to the main level. Pausing there momentarily, Sam fixed his twin with pained, empathetic eyes. "Me either." They looked down the hall in unison at their dad who had sunk to sit on his heels with a hung head. The man was determined to be an island. Sam felt a familiar old sadness growing inside. "And I guess we probably never will."

Alex's thoughtful frown stayed on their dad for a couple beats longer. "...Why didn't his arms do that weird lighting up crap yours did back at the church with Crowley?"

Sam became wan and faintly embarrassed. "Dad said he found out the spell Metatron tricked us into using is almost identical to the one to close Hell. Literally just a few of the steps are different from each other." So at the very least it was obvious that this spell was different. And had a potential good chance of working.

There was a long and contemplative pause. "So Hell could really actually be boarded up for good," Alex said softly, seeming to find it too good to be true. "No demons getting out ever again, no demons going back to the motherland if they're topside when the spell is complete."

Sam nodded, even though the idea of Hell being closed forever seemed pretty impossible to accomplish. "Sure looks that way." Honestly though, all he cared about was getting Dean back at this point.

7:00pm

When the time for dose two came, the twins returned to their father's side and hovered uncomfortably, watching him draw more of his own blood. Dean begin to chuckle darkly when John lifted up the syringe and approached.

"What's so funny?" John asked peevishly.

"You," Dean answered simply. "Thinking this brings back your son." Savagely, John stabbed the needle into Dean's neck and the same thing happened as before: roaring, shocked bulging eyes, gasping. But this time, even after John pulled the needle out, Dean's eyes stayed screwed shut against apparent agony. "I hope you regret this stupid idea the rest of your life, you son of a bitch," he growled, eyes popping open full of anger. He was beginning to sweat and show signs of an adverse reaction. "You're about to watch me die! All three of you bozos!"

"Well maybe if you die you'll finally shut your trap," John muttered irreverently, giving the impression that he truly didn't give a shit. Shaken up but not showing it, the twins again followed John out into the hallway. But this time, their father was not collected and bland. Instead, he paced a few steps off, ran a hand through his hair, then cast a worried look into the room where Dean had his eyes shut again and was breathing shallowly against a face full of clear suffering. "This on par with what you and your sister saw with that Crowley guy?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

"No," Sam hedged uncertainly, worried eyes flickering over to Dean a few times.

"He might be pretending," Alex reasoned doubtfully.

Sam wasn't convinced. "And he also might not." The twin's anxious gazes met. Then their father's voice took their attention to him:

"Your brother's already dead. That thing in there isn't him." He was reminding them as much as himself. "This is the only way to maybe bring him back." He squared up to his two children with a very severe look to his eyes. "I need you two strong. No wavering. No distractions. I'll do this by myself if you can't handle it." It wasn't a threat, but it sort of felt like one, all things considered.

Sam spoke for them both with firm authority. "We can handle it." The two men's eye contact held for a challenging moment, then John looked away and said he'd see them in an hour. Again, the twins left grudgingly.

The third dose came and went very similarly to the second. Dean hedged, scoffed, raged—then reacted painfully to the needle and afterward sweated and complained of pain and a headache (all while cursing their names, of course).

At nine o'clock and the fourth dose, Dean was visibly beginning to panic. He had now begun to sweat so much that his clothes were blotchy and his hair had become unkempt and wavy. "Don't you fuckin' dare do this to me!" he raged as John yet again approached with more blood to inject. "It's not too late, I'll promise to leave your worthless family alone if you let me go now!" Dean fought his restraints as hard as he could, sweat dripping off his brow onto the floor. "Sam!" he bellowed as the twins both looked away with uncomfortable, pained expressions. "Make him stop!" Dean shouted even as John shoved his son's head sideways to expose the neck and drive the needle in. Dean screamed at top volume as the blood was forced in. He was left panting and heaving then shaking his head with tremendous force as if he was trying to clear his vision. "He's killing me!" he insisted in a frighteningly convincing bellow. "You people are killing me!" John walked away heavily, his face full of a resigned, sick fatigue. He was starting to look sort of pale himself.

"You know we can't stop, Dean," Sam said softly, pity and grief in his eyes.

"Sure you can, you just stop! Oh come on!" Dean strained at his ropes uselessly for the hundredth time then looked at Alex wildly. "Alex, you really gonna let them do this to me?! This is your big brother Dean we're talking about here!" Her arms were crossed and her expression guarded. She said nothing and merely looked away. Dean became immediately nasty. "Great. Silent treatment. That's on brand."

"Watch your damn mouth," Sam snapped, pointing a harsh finger as he stood taller and became immediately more hostile.

"Make me," Dean retorted, face twisting up with repulsed anger as he decided to tear them down verbally. "Look at you, Mary-Kate and Ashley! Acting all high and mighty, well, I don't see any other ex-demon blood junkies in the room, do you?!" Sam's jaw clenched tightly at the accusation while Alex's expression flickered guiltily. "Wanna take a sip of me, Sammy?" Dean asked in dark humor, chuckling as Alex shut her eyes and shook her head. "And while we're on subject, either of you losers notice I tried to get as far away from you two as possible?" Dean made a big show about how putrid he found his siblings. "Away from your whining, your complaining, your constant issues. I chose the King of Hell over my own blood, how's that for a laugh? Maybe I was just tired of babysitting you both and always having to clean up your messes and fix your mistakes and cover for your crap! Always having to yank your lame asses out of the fire since... well, forever."

It was hard to hear and Sam glanced at his sister, who was still silent but visibly growing more triggered. "This isn't our brother talking," he reminded, both to Alex and Dean at the same time.

"You never had a brother!" Dean fired back at full volume, then whipped his head to look at John accusingly. "I was too busy being what he couldn't pull himself together to be! A father!" He began to laugh again, and his sweaty, sallow appearance made him look like a lunatic. "How's this for a family therapy sesh, huh?" he seethed, looking at the patriarch with contempt. "John Winchester. Now there's a prize. The man who brainwashed his three kids into wasting their lives fighting his losing battle—and even managed to get his bastard son Adam and his bitch of a mom killed by association. That's talent, folks!" John stayed stock still in place at his table of supplies, his eyes drilling into the wall in front of himself. "Bet you feel real good about yourself right now, don't ya, old man?" Dean enjoyed watching the hunter stiffen more and more in attempt not to lose his temper. "You're the common denominator John. Everyone around you dies, and turns into demons, and goes to Hell!" The empty syringe in John's hand cracked. "You proud of your legacy, 'Dad'?" he demanded, then began to shout allegations at full volume, veins popping out onto his forehead and arms. "Pathetic drunk! Absent, abusive, toxic fucker! You had a family to look out for! Coward!"

John threw the syringe against the wall with a sudden outburst of violence and his head whipped sidelong. The anger in his eyes was terrifying as he jabbed a livid finger out like a knife. "That's enough!" he shouted, spit flying as he advanced a couple staggering, furious steps. Nervous, Sam got ready to possibly leap across the gap and stop his dad from lunging if he had to. A little further back, Alex was visibly petrified of what might be about to happen.

"Oh I'm just getting started, John," Dean replied, suddenly cool as a cucumber again now that he saw he'd gotten under skin. "Funny you're even attempting this with your track record. All you ever do is fail. Yourself, your wife." Dean cracked a grin as John's fists clenched shut at his sides. "Yeah, that's right," the demon purred. "You and I both know how often you wish it had been you instead of her up there burning on the ceiling instead of her. It's a damn cryin' shame how life goes, huh? I bet Sammy and Al always secretly wish it'd been you up there too." John balked at that cruel suggestion, turning even paler. Dean was already throwing his next barb. "Everything you touch turns to shit, you ruin and destroy everything! Why'd this sack of meat idolize you like he did, huh? You're pathetic, you're low, you're everything you hate in the world! What kind of father does the kind of things you did to your blood, huh?!" He fell silent for a moment, his eyes glinting with a knowing, cunning fire. "Word to the wise, I know exactly why you didn't confess to purify your blood. Why you took the shortcut and used a spell." His mouth curved up in a nasty, soulless smile. "If you were to start confessing, you'd never be able to stop!" Incensed, John lunged hands first, tackling the chair and Dean both as he choked the demon with every ounce of strength he had. Even as the chair hit the floor and John throttled mercilessly on top of his son, the demon managed to gasp out the following through a crazed grin: "There he is, the John Winchester we all know and love!" His eyes bulged and veins popped as he turned red as a tomato.

Sam and Alex were already yelling and attempting to pull John off of Dean. The instant they managed to yank him off he stormed out, but not before he tossed the table and all its contents wildly. He slammed the door loudly, leaving a traumatized room behind. Alex exhaled shakily, expression scared, small, and shaken up. Behind her, she could hear Dean laughing lowly. With dead eyes, Alex looked at the syringes rolling on the floor, the spell paper fluttering to a gentle landing.

"We really should gag him," Sam muttered, stressed to the max as he yanked the chair holding the leering demon upright with a grunt. Alex dutifully began to pick up the things her father had trashed. This old song and dance was very familiar to her, after all.

"Why, allergic to the truth, Sammy?" Dean prodded, unbothered by the attack he'd just endured. "Look at you. The family rebel! Always acted like you're too good for this life but I know the truth. You're the dark one, the one who lost his soul, the demon blood tweaker—hell, you've even slept with demons. No wonder you're Satan's favorite chew toy!" At the barrage, Sam visibly lost some confidence. "And by the way, how does your brain even work at this point?" Dean continued. "The Cage, your hallucinations, the angel mind-wipe crap? Buddy, I would not wanna be you, and boy am I glad I don't have to call myself your brother anymore." He lowered his voice, enjoying the sad, hurting captive audience he held. "You're a walking, talking curse," he declared, then waggled his eyebrows. "... And you're gonna get that little librarian girl of yours ki-iilled..." He said 'killed' in a distinctly soft and ominous singsong before smirking at Sam's destroyed expression. "Everything you touch turns to dust, boy."

And then the demon's face went whipping sideways as a right-hook landed that could break bones. Sam blinked in surprise at Alex, who shook out her hand as pain radiated from the impact of the punch she'd just thrown. "What?" she muttered in grumpy defensiveness, wincing through the sensation that screaming in her knuckles. "We both wanted to."

Dean looked at her with narrowed eyes before he straightened his face towards her. "Oh I have things to say about you too, little girl," he announced darkly. "Stage-four clinger, Alex fuckin' Winchester. Always playing second fiddle to the main act." He spat out a mouthful of blood. "You hit like a little bitch, too." He grinned at her mockingly, his teeth bloody. "What, don't tell me you miss your babysitter. Need big bro to tuck you in and read you bedtime stories? Change your diaper too while I'm at it? Pathetic, just pathetic. He'd never tell you this but I will: you're this family's weakest link. He knew it. You know it. All you ever do is make shit more difficult." He scoffed with disgust. "Do you know how much you cramped this guy's style? How sick of taking care of you he was? It's absurd the things he set aside to just waste his life taking care of you. Even if he did come back, trust me... he hates your guts for doing that to him." Alex's jaw was tight as things that felt too close to home pummeled her. "It's just too bad he didn't have anything better in life to aspire to be than your goddamn mouthpiece," Dean spat. "The dude was loyal, Alex! What the fuck were you?! Selfish. A selfish fucking cunt."

Dean's head suddenly whipped the other way, this time thanks to Sam's fist. "Don't you ever talk to her like that again," he commanded, shaking with rage as he held himself back from whaling on Dean relentlessly.

"I'll do what I want," Dean replied insolently, and Sam turned on his heel, grabbing the roll of duct tape. He yanked some off then slapped it onto Dean's mouth hard.

"Sorry, what was that?" Sam asked with fake politeness, then grabbed Alex's shoulder and steered her out of the room, shutting the door aggressively behind them. Dad wasn't anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

Both siblings took a second to calm down after the merciless attack. Alex exhaled shakily as put her head into her hands, Sam visibly squashed his anger away and forced himself to focus. "You okay?" he asked after a moment.

Downcast, Alex's hands drifted away from her face as the hurtful things she had the most insecurity about whirled around in her mind. "I mean... he didn't say anything I've never thought about myself."

Sam grew sadder. "Yeah me either."

A long, charged silence stretched out.

"What he said about you was trash, Sam." Alex peered up at her brother in concern. "You know that, right?"

Sam felt put on the spot and it showed. "I dunno." He had to admit: "Some of it hit real close to home."

Relating, Alex's wounded eyes went to stare at the door to the dungeon room. "Did Dean really hate my guts?" she asked in a soft whisper. "At the end, I mean?"

Sam immediately scoffed. "No, are you kidding me? Dean could never hate you. That was a demon saying that crap to us. A demon who has Dean's memories and echoes of his feelings, maybe. He's using all that against us." Alex met his eyes doubtfully as Sam became more and more convinced, remembering the facts of the matter. "Demons lie. He's trying to get under our skin. It worked. Just like Dad said." Alex's uncertain gaze went to the door again and Sam gently took her by either arm. "Eyes on me, Al." She falteringly did as he requested. "I really think it's gonna work," Sam insisted in a whisper. "I mean why else would he be so scared and be trying all this crap?"

Alex dared to hope. "You really think so?"

Sam looked toward the room where the shadow of their brother remained. His eyes were forlorn, expectant, and afraid. He only had one answer ready. "I have to."

After cooling off, Sam and Alex returned into the room where Dean was silent thanks to the duct tape. There they waited, wondering where their dad had gone off to. Just as Alex was about to nod off where she sat against the far wall on the floor, John returned like a dark storm cloud, inexplicably bursting into the room with his journal in one hand and a small piece of paper in his other hand. "What is this?! How do you have this?" he demanded angrily, waving the small piece of paper so fast it made little thwick-thwick-thwick sounds in the air.

"How do we have what?" Sam asked in alarm, already on his feet and clearly unable to even figure out what their father was gesturing with so angrily. On the floor, Alex found herself reverting to an old behavior in the face of an outburst from her dad: going stock still and hoping she wasn't seen or heard.

"This fucking picture!" John snapped, then shoved it out so it could be seen. It was the small wallet-sized photo of him as a child with his father, Henry.

"Okay okay okay, just hold on, I wanted to tell you about this once Dean was cured—" Sam started.

"Tell me about what?!" John exclaimed thunderously, in a frenzy. "My piece of shit old man?!" He shook his journal angrily at them, the place Sam had tucked the photo for safekeeping. "You put this picture in here to spite me, didn't you?" Without warning, he threw his journal sideways to crash into a wall as he ripped the photo up into about six pieces and threw them on the floor, crushing one under his heel even as Sam's eyes bulged and he panicked.

"Dad no, hey stop!" he cried, hands out uselessly in a silent plea.

"My old men left me behind like trash on the road, and you decided it'd be cute to put his picture in my goddamn journal?!" John accused. He almost looked ready to fist fight his own son over this. Nearby, Alex slowly rose to her feet, appearing ready to bolt or defend her brother, whichever came first.

"No! Of course not!" Sam insisted passionately. "Dad—it's not like that! Listen to me—your father did not leave you like you think he did!" This caused John to pause, but his expression said an explanation was needed now. Visibly under duress and trying to think quickly about how to explain, Sam wet his lips and quickly gathered his rattled thoughts. "Hear me out, because I know this sounds crazy," Sam coaxed, bumbling a little as he rushed to think clearly. "Henry—your dad—traveled through time into the future—into earlier this year—and then got killed in the line of duty."

Taken aback, John became instantly confused. "What?" His brain visibly worked to make sense of what he'd just heard. "Time travel?" He repeated incredulously. "And what... 'line of duty'? My dad was a traveling salesman."

"No. He wasn't." Sam worded himself very intentionally. "Henry Winchester had a secret life you knew nothing about." Trying to be calming, he approached his dad slowly as Alex remained jumpy near the wall. "I told you about the Men of Letters, right? But what I didn't tell you was that your dad was a member—he was the whole reason we found this place. It was him." John continued to look more and more absolutely shellshocked—and even a little afraid. "And it wasn't just him, Dad. His father was in the order. His father's father." Pausing and realizing how big a moment this was, Sam indicated one of the chairs nearby gently. "Sit down, Dad. I'll tell you everything."

Seeing that Sam was absolutely serious, John took a very long few seconds to puzzle at his son in a confounded daze, then look to his tense daughter. "Alex... you knew about this?" he asked, utterly bewildered.

She shook her head stiffly. "Not until after Hell." She would have told him if she'd known.

It took John a good ten seconds or more of letting all this news settle in until he semi-robotically took a seat like Sam had requested. With a relieved, charged exhale, Sam sat down across from him and with a cautious breath in, he took a few minutes to explain as gently and thoroughly as he could the story Alex had already heard: of Sam, Dean, and Jamie in a motel room when a strange man burst in looking for John Winchester. This man said his name was Henry and that John was his son. He said he was from 1958, and with him he carried and protected a very important key he was trying to get to John—it was the key to this very bunker. Henry had been closely followed by Abaddon... who ended up murdering Henry a day later in an attempt to get access to the bunker and all the resources inside. Henry had been telling the truth about who he was, and Sam and Dean had been the ones who held Henry when he died. It was a sobering, tragic recollection. The most impactful part though? When Sam told John about how Henry tried at the last minute to go back to his time—to be with his four year old son and change the past instead of upholding the mission the Men of Letters had tasked him with.

With disbelief on every facet of his weathered face, John went silent as a stone for a very long moment as he looked at the ripped pieces of the photo on the floor nearby and the scattered loose contents that had come out of his thrown journal. Sickened, shocked, and absolutely reeling, he was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "I'm... I'm gonna need a minute," he finally murmured hollowly, then left the room in a slow, baffled stupor.

The twins said nothing—merely sagged in relief to be alone again. Sam cast his concerned gaze at his brother, who was disgruntled, sweating and still blessedly silent thanks to the duct tape on his mouth. Alex, however, was eyeing the tatters of the ripped up photo which laid silently on the floor.

10:00pm

John Winchester had spent a lifetime hating, resenting, and hurting for a father he only vaguely remembered from the hazy memories of a four year old boy.

Now everything had changed that he'd previously held as eternal fact. His dad hadn't abandoned him. He'd been taken away by the same miserable forces that killed Mary. John didn't know how to feel, but once he left the eyesight of his children, he found an empty basement room and sobbed as emotion flooded him. 'Why me?!' was a question he wanted to shout at God or whoever was in charge of this backward, dismal place called reality. He felt nothing like joy, or even relief—not yet. Only absolute despair. It was more of that same lifelong feeling of being lost and alone. Of being stuck out to sea without any hope of escaping treacherous waters that would inevitably drown him.

After about thirty minutes of reeling and experiencing the types of feelings John hadn't even known he could feel anymore, he was able to get himself together enough to return to the holding room. He was still as stricken as he'd been before, but the initial shock and emotion had worn off. He re-entered the quiet room, avoided the twins apprehensive glances, noticed the mess he'd made had been cleaned up, then quietly made the fifth injection without a word. Dean moaned and resisted but this one went quieter than the ones before—maybe thanks to the duct tape. After, John sat down again in the chair he'd been in before, elbows on his knees as he hunched forward and shook his head listlessly.

Alex was the first one to hesitantly speak up.

"...You okay?"

John's jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth and realized he didn't fucking know how he was or what to even say. And he didn't even know why his daughter would care after the shit he'd subjected her to, the fear he'd seen in her eyes earlier at his fit of rage. After a long moment, he was finally able to answer. "I've spent pretty much my entire life thinking my father ditched out and didn't give a shit about me," he said in a soft, hoarse voice. That's when he realized he recognized this feeling. Grief. He was mourning.

"It's a lot to process," Sam offered compassionately when John said nothing else. And judging himself unworthy of the sympathy, John shut his eyes and rubbed at his forehead absently, sighing out his self loathing heavily. The sadness was so intense it felt lethal. He hated himself. And kind of wished they did too.

Seated nearby with veiled eyes, Alex wet her lips—one of her tells, giving away the fact that she was nervous. Then she got up and stuck what she held in her hand out toward him. "Here." When he saw what it was, his expression worked not to crumple. It was the photo of John and his dad—carefully glued back together as best as possible. A spidery criss-cross remained across the picture where the paper had been ripped. Face contorting, John took the photo and silently looked his daughter in the eyes. A wordless thank you for an act of kindness he didn't deserve. He tried to say something. Then just couldn't. Instead he looked at the photo with stinging eyes speechlessly.

A long moment passed. "What happened after he disappeared, Dad?" Sam asked quietly.

This was something John had never spoken about and for a moment, he wanted to clam up and refuse to go there. But then he found himself in a trance, reminiscing out loud, looking into a past he'd kept his back turned to for decades.

"...My mother got angry," he remembered somberly. Even saying that out loud brought back a shock of visceral suppressed memories: the shattering sound of a thrown glass—the acid of her bitter, fiery rants—the bang of a slamming door and the sting it left behind in his little heart. "Real angry. Spiraled big time." He remembered the long hours shut in his room hiding while she drank her misery away. He remembered never being able to make her happy and how much it had hurt. "When I got older, I realized she always blamed me for him running off," John reflected grimly, then smiled joylessly. "Funny thing is, up until then, I'd always blamed her for that. Guess I started seeing it more like she did at some point." There was a hollow pause. "Couple years after he went vamoose, she married some new guy who treated me like trash. Had two kids with that chump. It was like those were her real kids and I was just... some reject. A ghost in my own house." Somewhere along the way, the scared kid hiding in his room had morphed into an angry, troubled, violent young man who lashed out and got in trouble at school and turned to substance for a semblance of peace. John found it so ironic he could have laughed had it not hurt so badly. "The damn Marines were more loving than my old lady ever was." And that was about all he could think to say about Millie Winchester.

"...So that's why you never talked about her," Sam said softly, empathy and shocked sadness thick in his voice. John let himself glance at Alex, who looked similar to Sam did: Sad for him. Pained on his behalf.

It only made John feel worse. It only made things feel more full circle. After all, John had known this truth for a long time: he'd become his mom in a lot of ways and still had no idea how to change it. John made his voice be harder as he began to feel too vulnerable. "She didn't want me, and eventually I didn't want her either." But it still hurt. This primal wound he still carried at age fifty-two. Or age hundred and fifty-two, if you counted his time in Hell. He looked around the room without seeing anything as he realized something: "She's gotta be dead by now. I don't even know."

The twins didn't know how to respond. Sam ended up being the one to offer another sympathetic counsel. "Henry really loved you. We could see it."

John's heart squeezed. His chest ached. He had been loved. He had been wanted. And things could have been so different. But the hollow feeling persisted. "At this point, I barely remember the guy," John managed hoarsely, and that was sad too. He kept looking at the picture in his hand again and marveling in the worst of ways at how long he'd believed a false truth. His eyes continued to blur and ache. "Only the anger I felt about him." Anger he'd passed down to Dean, to Sam, to Alex. Hindsight was cruel, and John felt lower than dirt. Lower than he ever had before.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," Sam said. "When Dean's back... let's talk about this. We'll tell you everything from our time with him."

John offered a sad smile as his heart continued to break. "I'll hold you to that." If he survived this thing at all. There was still something he was planning to do that Sam and Alex knew nothing about. Something that might kill him. And honestly, maybe John wanted to die. He certainly had no wish to continue on like this. Sinking into silence, Johnstewed in his thoughts and checked his watch. The next injection would be approaching soon.

A few moments later the angel came in, breaking John's request for family-only privacy. Now he was wearing the strange fabric baby thing Alex had been wearing earlier. In it was the newborn.

Mood instantly changing, Alex rose and went to the angel eagerly even as John contemplated a barbed remark about the blatant disregard for his request. But he decided against it, because he guessed technically speaking since Alex and this guy were supposedly married... the angel was family. Like it or not. John looked at the sleeping baby instead, remembering when his kids were that small. When Mary had been alive. Those years were the only good part he could remember of his life.

"Hey guys, everything okay?" Alex asked, a loving hand on her son's head as she looked him over then gave him a little impulsive kiss.

"Yes, everything is fine—I just wanted to check on you three," the angel told Alex, his tone surprisingly gentle. Castiel—who everyone called Cas—glanced at John briefly, then set his gaze onto Dean. "How is he? Is everything progressing well?"

Crossing his arms, John shrugged and sat back in his chair stiffly. "You tell us."

"Well, he's still a demon," Cas said, studying the gagged demon with what appeared to be very sharp, perceptive eyes. "But... something about him is different than before."

"That's good, right?" Alex asked, joining him in looking at Dean. Her eyes held vast worry.

"I can't be sure. But I think probably yes." Castiel and Alex's gazes met, communicating something silent. "I hope so, anyway."

Nodding distractedly, Alex looked at their son again, helpless but to smile at the sleeping infant. "You doing okay with him? I can come up and take over if you need me to."

The angel's face softened into a very tender smile that John felt weird about witnessing. "Every moment spent with our son is a treasure," Castiel said with great amount of feeling. "It's important for you to be here with Sam and Dean for this." He glanced at John, who looked away awkwardly. "And your father too, of course."

"Yeah," Alex agreed as a surprising dash of sudden humor entered her voice. "And it's also important to not keel over because it's way past dinner and no one in this room's eaten since lunch or something." She looked at Sam and John questioningly. "Anyone want a sandwich?"

Sam shrugged, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Sure."

John waved the idea off. "I'm set."

Nodding, Alex left the room with Cas. "Be back soon."

The door shut, leaving father and sons in silence. Sam studied Dean at length deeply and fell into deep, tense thought.

"He's a weird little guy, isn't he?"

Sam looked at his father questioningly, startled. "Who, Cas?" he smiled briefly and had to admit John wasn't too off track. "He's different, that's for sure. But you get used to him." Thoughtful, perhaps remembering or thinking about things John would never know, Sam's gaze turned fond as he continued to watch Dean. "I can really appreciate his oddities these days."

Oddities. Different. Yeah, John had gathered that much so far. The trench coat was weird, the deep voice and stilted word choices were weird. Even his name was fucking strange. But the guy was clearly who Alex had chosen, and even John had to admit from what little he'd seen that the angel and her were very closely bonded. In love. That, and the way the angel spoke of and looked at their son was very hard not to feel touched by. Speaking of, John still had quite a few questions about him—CJ. Like how Alex had gotten out of Hell just about four months ago and grown a baby in that time. And was the kid even a human? How old was that angel, anyway? Was he mortal or what? Where were his wings? John thought these and more questions over, simultaneously knowing that it wasn't really his business. He contemplated Sam closely for a couple beats, then decided he needed to know one thing—the rest he could let stay unknown. "He treat your sister right?"

Sam met his dad's waiting gaze with veiled curiosity. "Yeah." His eyes traveled around John's face quickly, trying to find the reason why his father was asking these things. "He does."

There was no ulterior motive though. And realizing his son thought there was one disheartened John further. He knew his failings deeply and intimately—he carried them with him day and night—in this realm and all others. However... the look in Sam's eyes did something new to John. Made something click. And finding himself remembering one of their last conversations on the road to getting Dean back here, John decided to do what Alex kept insisting of him: try. "How are you, Sam?"

Immediately confusion showed. "Huh?" Sam's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out the angle. "Wh—" Then he answered wrongly, puzzlement on his face the whole time."Tired, sore—?"

John was quiet and rueful. This felt exceedingly difficult. "No. Not like that. Like the other day when you asked."

Sam's frown melted away in favor of surprise, which was quickly ushered away by heavy sadness. "I—I'm not good, Dad." John watched his middle child immediately dismiss himself. "And why would I be, you know?"

A lifetime of understanding plagued John's mind. "Yeah, I do know." He took in a deep breath, feeling ill-equipped to console his son. He tried anyway. "It's gonna be okay son. Somehow."

A brief, pained smile came in response. Sam was touched by the care. For now, it would have to be enough.

Both men maintained the silence for a few moments more and then Sam softly broke it, his tone forlorn. "Do you think the world ends, Dad? Does Lucifer win? Is there even a choice in all this?" John found his son's eyes pleading with him. The first apocalypse had taken place after John's death, but he'd heard whispers about it for years prior and at first had scoffed, writing it off as a demonic fairy tale. By the time of his death, John had understood it was coming. Only after his death had he learned, in the depths of Hell, about the true threat that Lucifer posed—not only to the world, but to his family specifically. Learning about the potential for this second apocalypse left John troubled. And Sam too, understandably. The kid was near tears at this point. "Is there even a point in fighting?" he begged.

The truth was, John had no idea. None. In fact, he wanted to give up. Every hour of every day, he just wanted to lay down and stop trying completely. But the stubborn jarhead inside wouldn't let him. He knew what it took to see shit through refused to admit defeat or abandon the mission. "It doesn't matter, Sam," he counseled, hoping that the strength and firmness in his tone would shore his son up. "We keep fighting. Because it's in our blood to always keep going, no matter what." Sam didn't look so sure, so John decided to get back to business. He stood up, eyes on Dean. "Now let's see where we are with this degenerate." He checked his watch then ripped off the duct tape harshly. Still sweaty, Dean glared up at him with a surly expression. "Any new insights to offer?" John wisecracked.

Dean's sour expression just grew more twisted. "Up yours."

Sam sighed. "There he is."

11:00pm

Alex returned with sandwiches for herself and Sam, then made coffee and drank three cups in an effort to stay alert. After Dad made the sixth injectionand Dean sweated, cringed, winced, and howled, his energy shifted into delirious sadness. His eyes became decidedly glassy, his mental clarity took a steep dive. In tandem with him, Dad began to show signs of his own fatigue. Maybe from the steady loss of blood, maybe some other supernatural reason.

The mood of the room was quiet and intense—but at least not angry anymore. Alex found herself sitting against the wall again, picking at her fingers and thinking absently about Cas and CJ. How much she loved them, how she missed them even though she'd just seen them. Her gaze and thoughts eventually wandered to Sam, who sat in a chair across the room from her with a bowed head and absently rubbing hands. Worry began anew in her tense chest. All she wanted to do was take away the burden he carried. See him be okay again. Sensing her eyes, Sam's head lifted and he met her gaze.

That was the moment that Dean abruptly did something strange. He screwed his eyes shut and began to sing with a slow, wandering, soulful gait. "One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing—you're gonna spread your wings, child, and take to the sky—sky, sky, sky..." He stopped on a dime, confused at himself even as everyone else in the room looked at him funny.

"...Janis Joplin, huh?" Alex asked, not sure what to make of it.

In response, Dean looked at her strangely. "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?"

Sam's youthful features showed rising hope and confusion at the same time. "...What fif you just say?"

"I wanna see my daughter," Dean replied woozily to no one specific, and everyone straightened and became brighter and more alert. "Where is she?" And then horror came across his clammy features. "I can't ever see her again, who am I kidding? Look at me. I'm a monster." His panicked, wild eyes looked at everyone in the room. "Don't let James see me like this," he slurred urgently.

"Dean?" Alex asked breathlessly, daring to hope as her eyes grew wider and wider. She'd gotten to her feet the second he had asked to see his daughter.

He looked her dead in the eye and seemed to recognize her. "Al! There you are!" He grinned stupidly as he continued to sweat profusely. He blinked like there was a film in his eyes and caught sight of Sam, who was hovering nearby incredulously. Pure, unadulterated awe and excitement showed. "Sam?" Dean asked, then grinned broadly. "Sammy?! Thank god. Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days. Think you can you help us?" By now, everyone was captivated and stock still, as if they might break the spell. Dean suddenly shuddered and shook his head back and forth hard a time or two. "Man I am smoking some strong ganja..." he muttered, then hung his head pitifully. "Everything hurts," he whispered, and it took all Alex had not to run over and put her arms around him.

"Getting toward the end now, Dean," John said in a tone that was grim and caring at the same time. "Hang in there."

"Oh bite me, you worthless hag," he retorted darkly, then resumed scowling listlessly for awhile. Sam attempted to talk to him and was met with more insults. Whatever brief anticipation and excitement Alex had felt faded, but she watched him closer than before, biting all her nails off without even realizing it as she paced.

A few minutes later, a sudden burst of song startled everyone with no announcement. "Maybe it's not too late to learn how to love and forget how to ha-yee-yaaay-ate," Dean sang badly, then began to laugh hysterically.

"What's so funny?" Sam asked, full of concern.

Still laughing, Dean beamed at his brother. "I'm a mog! Half man, half dog. I'm my own best friend!"

Sam sighed wanly as a hand came up to his forehead. "...Great. Now he's quoting Spaceballs." Sidelong, he noticed Alex's moony expression. "Why you smiling?"

Caught, her pained but reminiscent smile dropped and her eyes darted around sheepishly. "Because for a second, it kind of felt like... just a little bit... kind of like it did way back when." She clarified. "The four of us." Life on the road, cramped into one room or car with the brothers driving each other up the wall, Alex silently watching, and Dad nearby.

Speaking of Dad, he looked sad but touched. Perhaps he was glad to hear that there was something good in the sea of bad known as their childhood.

Midnight

Alex went upstairs to check on her family and take something for her aches and pains shortly after Dean's moment of clarity. She returned just after the seventh dose. The second she re-entered, she saw that Dean was weak, exhausted, and fully out of it.

"You're just in time," Sam reported glumly. "He's singing Def Leppard's entire discography."

Sure enough, Dean's unseeing gaze stayed in front of himself as his head dipped to one side and then another like he was severely drugged. "Pour... some... sugar on... me... in the... name of... love..." he mumbled. It could barely be called singing. He looked terrible, and it was frightening—he no longer really resembled himself. It was like losing him all over again, but this time they were having to bear witness to this cruel, slow death.

"Look sharp, you two." John's sudden command left the twins mystified but aware they needed to be ready for potential action. Their father took his chair and dragged it into the devil's trap, seating himself directly across from Dean—who didn't seem to notice anything at all and just kept mutter-singing. "Dean?" John asked after he wasn't acknowledged for upwards of twenty seconds.

A fraction of clarity returned to Dean's eyes. "Present." He spoke like he didn't have full control of his tongue.

Inexplicably, John drew out his wickedly sharp, jet-black hunting knife. Sam bolted to his feet in alarm and Alex lurched forward even as John held out his other hand toward them both in a silent 'stay back.' His quick glance said to trust him. Unsure if they should or not, they hovered anxiously. John returned his focus to Dean, who was yet again staring off at nothing. "Dean."

"Yo," was the woozy reply.

John took in a deep breath. "I want you to surrender the Mark to me, son."

Sam's eyes bulged. "Dad, what?!"

"Are you serious?!" Alex demanded breathlessly almost at the same time.

John didn't look at either of them—instead, he kept Dean's faltering eye contact. "Just trust me." He took the knife and sawed the ropes on Dean's right wrist. Dean didn't even lift his arm, he just looked at his own newly freed limb with a disoriented frown. John held his hand out. "Dean. Give the Mark to me."

Sluggish, Dean was surprisingly agreeable after a long beat of consideration. "What the hell," he slurred, then reached his hand out toward his father weakly. "I'm bored of it anyway."

John strongly took hold of Dean's forearm... and nothing happened. Instead, some clarity returned to Dean's eyes and he hesitated, confused concern growing on his struggling face as he pulled back feebly. "Dad, no," he said, wincing through pain and sounding much more like himself. "No, I took this thing on, it's my job... to carry... it." In clear, intense pain, Dean gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and moaned softly. "God, my blood feels like acid..."

John reached up and in an astonishingly tender moment, cupped his son's face then braced him at his neck. His voice distorted as his expression did too. "You can let go now, Dean." Still confused, Dean looked at his own hand, which was limp—then at his father's hand, which gripped onto his forearm, fingertips just brushing the ugly red welted Mark.

"...You sure?" Dean looked deeply vexed as he stared his father in the eye again.

John let all his shields fall away and his broken heart rose up to rest in his eyes. "It's okay, Dean," he whispered, tears glittering as a careworn smile rested on his weathered face. "I've got it from here."

There was another long, woozy deliberation. And then a soft surrender. "Okay, Dad." Dean gripped his father's forearm weakly. Immediately, both men's faces gritted up as the Mark coursed from one arm to the other, shooting across skin in a painful scorch of red. Dean gave a shout of absolute gutted pain, appearing near collapse, trying to get away from the grip John wouldn't let him out of—not until the Mark had transferred. In the chaos, Alex rushed to brace Dean as Sam did the same for Dad. And just as quickly as it had begun, the moment was over. Dean slumped back unconscious as Dad sagged forward, breathless and panting noisily. On his forearm, the Mark now glared.

Mutually shocked, Sam and Alex stared at each other first before turning wide eyes onto their father. "Dad, what the hell?" Sam asked breathlessly as Alex tried to check Dean's breathing.

John stood up with effort, a certain resolute quality holding his shoulders square. "I'm saving my son," he said with quiet strength and pain alike. "Like I'd save either of you." He touched two careful, hesitant fingers to the Mark on his arm. "He never should have taken this on in the first place." His temporary softness was gone and he took some extra rope out of a pocket then set to work re-securing Dean's loose wrist quickly.

"Yeah and maybe you shouldn't have taken it on either—" Sam reasoned incredulously, his anxiety hitting the roof anew. "We don't know what that thing will do to you! It could kill you!"

John looked at his son plainly with surprising emotion on his face. "And?" Sam's expression fell as his father said it plainly. "I'll do whatever it takes, Sam."

A wounded silence. "...Including leaving us again?" Sam questioned, unable to hide his hurt.

A glimmer of something real showed through on John's haggard face: Heart-shattered confusion. "And just why the hell would you want me to stick around?" he asked with one hundred percent gutted bewilderment and raw emotion the likes of which the twins had rarely heard from their dad. "Either of you?" He grew more confounded as he looked back and forth between their astonished eyes. "...Don't you get it, kids?" He gestured hopelessly, at a loss for any other response. "I did this. All of it. Everything he said about me is true and then some. Dean in that chair, you trapped in this stupid hunting life... all of it goes back to me and my selfish decisions." His truest emotion—defeat—shined through as his voice caught on what almost sounded like tears. "You should want me gone, Sam."

Sam shook his head with injured, shining eyes. "Dad... no. Never."

John refused to look at his kids as he messed around with the table of instruments. "I could have done everything differently," he insisted stiffly. "And then none of this would ever have happened."

Destroyed, Sam said nothing. But his twin spoke up. "That's not true, Dad." Her quiet voice drew everyone's eyes. "You know it's not. Heaven and Hell wanted us in this life." She paused, growing a little less poised. "Sam and Dean anyway." While in Hell, there had been a lot of time to talk about everything: Sam as Lucifer's vessel, Dean as Michael's—Alex a pawn used against them. And now Dad knew his own Men of Letters legacy—and how he was as destined for this life as the rest of them. It ran in the Winchester DNA, more or less. Dad met her gaze guardedly. And for reasons Alex couldn't name, she found that there were tears gathering in her eyes. It really meant a lot that he regretted his choices and how they'd affected his kids. But at the end of the day, one fact remained. "If you hadn't become a hunter... if you hadn't dragged us all into the life... then the angels or demons would've killed you too."

A great and burdened silence followed, in which the surviving family members of the Winchester family contemplated the truth in those words. "Yeah well maybe that would've been better," Dad finally said with a force that sent the room into a heartbroken silence.

"Dad, no," Sam begged again, but John shook his head softly, eyes down on the ground. He had the look of a man who had seen too many battles.

"Look, I'm never not gonna blame and hate myself for all this. End of discussion." He hesitated, then softened and proved that somewhere deep down, he was working on changing—even if it was a little bit. "Please."

Sam and Alex respected his request, but the mood of the room became like a tomb after that.

1:00am

Dean thankfully regained consciousness about ten minutes after Dad took the Mark, but the demon barely said anything once awake except a few mumbled and barely coherent Led Zeppelin lyrics. It was impossible to get a read on who he thought he was, and it was very disheartening to see.

In that last hour, Alex found herself switching between watching the time like a neurotic hawk, sadly contemplating both brothers, and quietly watching her father—who after today, she understood much deeper than ever before. He would complete his mission soon—and if he succeeded, Hell would seal demons in forever. The only new being to ever set food into Hades would be souls destined to go there. It was honestly just a sidenote for Alex, who only cared about seeing Dean return.

She knew what to expect now, as Dad had told them about it earlier: The final injection would be followed by a dousing of holy water, a spoken incantation, and then an oral blood seal. There would be no coming back from whatever this set into motion. And while Alex didn't know who she was praying to, her heart silently begged the powers that be to please, please let Dean be on the other side of these efforts. If he wasn't... the sun would never shine on her like it had before. There would forever be an empty space in her heart no one else could ever occupy.

Sam was as silent as she was, barely moving as time ticked down. Even Dad retreated into a somber state of contemplation himself. It felt as though the four of them were at a funeral.

The silence became so unbroken that when Dad did finally speak up loud and clear, it had the same startling effect of smashing a bottle onto the ground unannounced. "Okay kids, strap on in," he said as he checked his watch yet again and found that the time had come. "This is it." Instantly feeling sick, Alex swallowed hard and looked at Sam, who offered an attempt at a hopeful smile that fell flat.

Dad approached Dean, who was the same as he'd been for the last hour: dazed, befuddled, and groggy. "Any last words?" John asked, but it was gentle.

Raising his head with great effort as his face relayed how utterly spent he was, Dean's waxy expression only showed suffering. "Just end it," he requested wearily. "Put me outta my misery."

Nearby, Sam and Alex hovered in dreadful anticipation, faces stricken by expressions that made them appear years younger than thirty-one. With uncanny compassion in his eyes, John looked Dean in the eye for what could be the last time. And just in case it was, he said the following in a soft, husky whisper. "I love you, son."

Hearing those words, the twins immediately became intensely emotional and reached for each other to huddle close and hold on. Sam murmured something tearful that attempted to encourage, but Alex couldn't hear him over the deafening roar of her own racing heart. What was about to happen next would affect the rest of their entire lives.

Gently, John made the final injection into Dean's neck. The demon barely responded except a soft groan of defeated pain. Gathering the strength and force it took to finish strong, John took in a huge breath and pulled out his flask of holy water. Without faltering or losing his willpower, he threw a generous splash holy water into Dean's face. Immediately, Dean cried out and writhed. But it wasn't anger he was crying out in. It was suffering and misery.

John began the incantation with a voice he had to work hard to keep firm and strong. "In mea verba adiuro inferno eternaliter clausa ab hodie et deinceps," he began and a great wind suddenly came upon the room, forcing John to stand his ground more strongly and raise his voice. Dean began to thrash, his eyes flashing black as he suddenly gave a last, desperate fight. "Super hoc petitur, ego praecipio inferni ad sigillo clausas!" John shouted as Dean raged and the wind picked up more, whipping objects and hair into a frenzy, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, reduc in vita sublata, restituere hoc daemon ad humanitatem!" With bared teeth, John slashed his palm with his knife and blood ran free. Around his head, his close-cropped graying hair churned. His eyes were bright, focused, and unstoppable as the wind roared as loud as a freight train. "Lustra," John commanded, then clapped his hand to Dean's screaming mouth as his voice raised to a deafening shout with the final word of the spell. "Adiuro vos!"

The wind fell away and a powerful blast of coal-black smoke exploded out of Dean head to toe, sending a small shockwave out that made the room buckle and floor shake. The room was left in a haze, and when the coughing twins had their bearings again, Dean was unconscious in the chair—and their dad was laying unmoving on the floor.

My head is freakin' killing me...

This was the first coherent thought Dean Winchester had as he came out of what felt like a deep, dark hole of nothingness.

There was no immediate recollection in his brain... only an uneasy feeling and a lot of physical pain, like he'd just been lashed from all angles then hit by a truck. He opened his eyes with great effort, finding the world blurry and tilting as his vision struggled to find focus and ears fought to make sense of the muffled sounds. And what was all the shaking about?

That's when he realized the muffled sounds were his name being called. "Dean! Dean!"

In front of him, a familiar and hopeful face. His confusion and fear ebbed away into hope when he recognized this person. He felt immediate and delirious happiness. "...Al?" he asked groggily, wondering why she was holding his forearms so tightly. Then he saw who was with her—more weary, inexplicable joy grew. "Sammy?" He tried ferociously to recall where he'd been before here, and his good feelings became uneasy. Something was wrong here, wasn't it? "What..." he mumbled. He could see a nearby table littered with bloody syringes. "What happened?" he asked slowly, becoming alarmed at the way his siblings looked at him.

"We gotta get these ropes off," Sam said urgently to their sister.

Ropes? What ropes?

Dean looked down and realized he was bound to a chair—ankles, mid-calf, torso and arms, wrists too. His pulse picked up in dismay.

What the hell?

With impressive speed, the twins began to slice the rope off. Beginning to get his senses back in earnest, Dean looked at the floor under his feet and alarm bells truly began ringing.

... Am I in a devil's trap?

As soon as he noticed that, he saw his unconscious father on the floor nearby. Red as murder on his arm, the Mark of Cain. Horror clapped over Dean instantly as it all came flooding back: his death at the hands of Gadreel... and then the resurrection that wasn't a resurrection at all. Horrific, dark, evil memories began to swarm and Dean felt his breathing intensify rapidly as his mind cleared. The last of the rope binding him in place fell away but he barely registered it. "No," he whispered softly, his chest constricting as absolute dismay descended.

4:00am

Dean barely remembered the moments following everything that happened at one in the morning. Three hours later found him sitting in the dark, alone, unable to even think about doing anything but hiding for the rest of all time. He was in the kind of shock he couldn't remember experiencing before, so thunderstruck by what had occurred that he could barely find the ability to speak.

When he'd come to, Sam and Alex's overjoyed disbelief to have their brother back had quickly become intense concern at Dean's shellshocked, barely responsive condition. They'd tried to coax him into going upstairs, they'd tried to counsel him and soothe him and tell him it was okay now—but Dean didn't even want to look at them in the eye, much less leave the place he'd found himself. The idea of being around anyone had made him want to be sick—yes, even around his brother and sister. So instead the twins ended up carrying their still unconscious father off to the infirmary and leaving Dean alone in the destroyed prison room to have some space like he requested. Dean had tried not to see their anxious, longing glances as they left him. But had had seen. And it stayed with him endlessly.

Like a living ghost Dean grieved awake in stillness. His shocked trance lasted hour after hour. He couldn't believe the things his hands had done. The lives he'd taken, the injuries he'd inflicted, the people he'd had sex with, the crimes he'd committed while a demon. It brought him to new depths of mourning and an absolute conviction that no one would ever be able to fix any of this. He'd become the thing he hated most. And worse still he remembered it all, from the moment Crowley had brought him back to life to Dad showing up and kicking his ass for the first time.

He clearly recalled attacking basically everyone here in the bunker. Including his at-the-time pregnant sister. Including his girlfriend. Including his best friend Cas, his brother Sam, his own goddamn father. Hell, he remembered kicking Molly's damn cat too. How would anyone ever look past what he'd done? He didn't know how he could manage to forgive himself, let alone anyone else.

Laying on the cot he'd found and pulled out then placed on the devil's trap solemnly, Dean wondered how he would face people in the morning. Or if he would face people in the morning. The thought of running away crossed his mind in earnest. But then he thought about his daughter, who'd be asleep somewhere upstairs. Shutting his eyes against the emotional agony, Dean focused on breathing. She needed a father. But maybe... maybe that just couldn't be him. How the fuck did James feel about all this?Dean still remembered trying to choke her to death. He would have done it too if no one had stopped him. More tears came even with his eyes screwed shut. And Alex. He understood what no one had come out and directly said yet: his attack had sent her into labor. That was one of the only things he'd managed to actually ask her earlier that night. If her baby was okay. Because for a moment or two when the memory had come back, he had been terrified that he'd killed her baby. Knowing he was alive and well was a small consolation. And just another reminder of what a fucking scourge on this family Dean was...

An indistinct amount of time later, a soft sound made Dean open his eyes and look to the doorway in a pained squint.

"Hello Dean."

Startled so bad his stomach flipped, Dean found himself sitting up and gaping up at a larger-than-life figure standing in the doorway. Illuminated from light behind, an angelic effect cast a glow around a very familiar person. "Cas." What was he doing here?

The angel stayed in the doorway, cautious and tender. "Can't sleep?"

Sleep? Dean felt sure he'd never sleep again. He sat up a little more purposefully, unprepared to interact with anyone... but finding himself in that situation anyway. "Yeah I... I sure can't." Cas wore a trench coat and suit like he had for years, and the familiarity of it was unexpectedly comforting. Dean found himself smiling unexpectedly, however veiled and small. Cas's energy was warm, caring, and merciful, and despite how terrible and low Dean felt, something about his old friend's presence allowed him to find a little bit of himself again. "Fatherhood suits you, Cas." Just like old times, Dean threw in a joke by second nature: "You're glowing." At the immediate frown on Cas's face, Dean had a genuine moment of exasperated amusement. "Not literally, you gigantic nerd." Cas understood and a bashful smile showed. Dean took a long moment to move through an assortment of big, raw feelings. "Congrats, man." He meant it too, however sad he felt. He'd regret it forever that he missed being there for Alex during such an important moment of her life. But what else could he do but accept the way things had gone?

Cas smiled, and from the look in his eyes, he understood how Dean felt. "Thank you. We really look forward to you meeting him." He eyed the room thoughtfully then came in by a few steps, testing the waters. "Which brings me to my next question. Why are you down here like this?"

Dean looked away. The shame consumed him. And he knew the angel could relate. He thought about when Cas had been used by Destroyer. "You know why." Dean now understood the angel in a way he never would have wanted to. "How it feels to know all the hurt you caused. Even if it wasn't exactly you who did it." He bowed his face into a hand briefly, shaking his head with an empty heart and head. He wanted to weep. He couldn't accept what he'd done, but acceptance or not... the past was the past. He'd done what he'd done. Fear so great and terrible pressed in on Dean, making him small and useless against the crushing force of terror. "How am I supposed to face anyone ever again, Cas?"

Cas gingerly sat beside him, peering at Dean with concern. "I know how difficult it is, Dean. I truly do." He thought for a long, somber moment, his eyes traveling Dean with empathy and compassion. "For whatever it's worth... no one holds this against you."

Heart pricking, Dean wished he could let go of it that easily. "Yeah well I do." A long silence was shared, and Dean shook his head, dismissing his own pain. "Are Sammy and Alex okay?" That was number one.

"Yes. Worried about you, of course." More guilt settled over Dean. He was such a burden to them. Such a fuckup. They should hate his guts for all the trouble he'd caused. Cas offered a kind, torn smile, distracting Dean from the self flagellation. "And so is everyone else. Jamie truly almost wouldn't listen about not coming down here."

The mention of her sent a whole new set of feelings surging forth. Shame, guilt, love, longing, hope, despair. Jamie wanted to see him—maybe to punch his lights. Maybe something else. But she'd respected Dean's request to be left alone. Cas, however, had not. Interested in why, Dean studied the angel sidelong with forlorn eyes. "Why'd you, then?"

Cas's eyes flickered downward. "I suppose I shouldn't have."

Dean however smiled ever so faintly. "Honestly?" Cas's eyes met his again and Dean shrugged shallowly. "I'm glad you did." Dean hadn't made his mind up yet about how to approach this situation or how to get through it—how to face his family, how to feel like himself again. He was so sick of cramming more and more guilt into an already past-capacity heart. But here he was doing that exact thing. And come to think of it, he contemplated the angel with quickly rising alarm as he remembered their hand-to-hand fight with the First Blade a few weeks ago. He'd known at the time that any sort of injury with the First Blade would be fatal to an angel—a direct stab would kill on the spot, more minor lacerations would slowly kill. And he had slashed Cas's torso up like crazy. "I really messed you up, Cas," he whispered, suddenly petrified. "...I don't even think you know how bad."

However, Cas back at him with grim understanding. "I do know how bad," he replied gently, conveying that he had it handled somehow.

"What're you gonna do?" Dean implored, ill at what he'd done.

For whatever reason, Cas smiled and placed a hand onto Dean's shoulder. There was a knowing, weary, tranquil quality in his blue eyes. "Have faith, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

In a different energetic space, Dean would have more than likely demanded Cas tell him everything about his plans to save his own life down to the detail. But today, he just nodded heavily and decided to let Cas handle it. "Okay Cas." Dean had enough of his own crap to work through. He tried to think of something else to say but his mind felt both past capacity and utterly blank. After a long moment of trying to suss out what he needed, Dean realized it was pretty simple. "I could use a little more alone time right now if you don't mind."

Cas nodded readily. "Of course." He again touched Dean's shoulder and squeezed encouragingly, offered a pained smile, then stood and walked away. A couple steps into leaving he turned to look at Dean with a hopeful, worried, affectionate smile. "See you soon?"

Dean found himself offering a similar smile back. He wasn't ready yet, but he felt worlds different than he had just a few minutes prior. And that gave him the smallest morsel of what he needed most: hope. "Yeah Cas," he agreed quietly, surprising even himself. "See you soon."

The angel's footsteps faded away and Dean was left by himself again. But now, something had stirred inside of him. His eyes went upward to where the residents of the bunker all slept. And he considered what he would do next.

Author's Notes:

The chapter title is Latin for "To The Other Side."