Anyone else need help sweeping up the remnants of their shattered heart at the end of this ep? Some pieces of mine might still be caught under the sofa.
I didn't think there was much to tag for this ep, and I certainly didn't want to impose my will upon what we were given. This is just one small thing that COULD have happened in one of those missing scenes, keeping Michael in the mix and addressing whether that's something they would have told their dad.
The Paradox of Free Will
Dean twists the key in the ignition, turns off the car. The engine ticks and pings, small sounds seemingly amplified as they bounce off the concrete walls of the garage. In the backseat, the requested groceries – fixings for a salad to pair with Mom's artery-clogging casserole and a damn good bottle of bourbon – begin to soak through the brown paper bag.
Neither of them moves.
After what feels likes an eternity, Sam clears his throat. "We have to tell them."
"Yeah," he responds noncommittally, voice hoarse. His muscles are beginning to lock up, and his heartbeat rebounds painfully in the swelling skin stretched tightly over his cheekbone.
"Dean. You know I hate this. But we have to. We can't just – "
"Yeah, Sammy, I know." Dean's gaze drifts to the rearview mirror and he sees the blood at his mouth, the bruises coming to color around his neck and already framing his left eye. He swipes a palm along his chin, smearing the blood and wincing as the cuff of his jacket sleeve brushes torn skin. What they have to tell their parents will be an emotional gut punch, for all of them. It'll be better if their sons don't look physically beat to shit when they do it.
Sam follows suit, leans forward and digs into the glovebox for a wipe to clean the blood from his own face. He wordlessly hands one over to Dean.
Beneath the blood is a decent gash, worth a stitch or two if it wasn't the absolute last thing he's worried about. Sam has one to match across the bridge of his nose, and an impressive shiner. Dean had forgotten how much of a dick Cas Version 1.0 really was, and the angel certainly hadn't pulled any punches.
A sense of dread settles between them, hits taken and loss already felt once and waiting to be felt all over again. Dean tilts his head back, doesn't look at his brother. "What the hell are we supposed to say to him?"
"The truth." Sam exhales roughly, presses against the bruises on his face and hisses. "Dad deserves that."
"And we're supposed to let him go, just like that?" Dean's voice breaks, but as heavy as this moment is, the falter isn't due to emotion. He swallows his a wince, rubs his tender throat. Dammit, Cas.
"We have to."
"How?" he asks hollowly, maybe hoping this will be the one time his brother doesn't have the answer for everything.
"Uh, destroying the pearl should…undo it."
"Should?"
"Yeah." Sam sighs, narrows his eyes. "Only one way to find out, I guess."
Dean nods, taps his fingertips against the steering wheel. Still, neither of them makes a move to get out of the car.
Beside him, his brother shifts. "Dean – "
He flings open the door and heaves his stiff, sore body out of the car before Sam can get another word out. Before he can try to take it back. There is no taking it back. Dean knows that. This is what has to be done. He knew this whole thing was too good to be true from the jump, and the both of them should know better by now than to screw around with wishes. But having to give Dad up so soon…it just feels cruel.
He knows they talked, Sam and Dad. His brother hasn't come right out and said so, but the kid's been…different. Like a weight he's been carrying for more than a decade has been lifted.
Must be nice.
Dad meets them in the library, coming from the direction of the kitchen and bringing with him a faint scent of garlic and seasoned meat. There's a doofy, unfamiliar grin on his face, but the smile fades quickly when he sees them. "What the hell happened to you boys?"
The worry flooding Dad's features is unexpected, but welcome. No one ever accused John Winchester of being soft. At least, not in the time he was their father. The hard, weathered hunter had never shown them this level of concern, especially not over a couple of negligible bruises. Something about this experience, this opportunity to know the way his obsession led to his death, that his sons had to learn to be men without him, and having Mom back – it's softened those barbed-wire sharp edges of the man who'd fallen into this room just a few short hours ago.
"Ran into some old friends," Dean answers drily, subconsciously reaching up to press his fingertips to the contusions around his eye.
He allows himself a half-second's indulgence, allows himself to imagine how nice it would've been to grow up with this Dad, even if only for a couple of years. If the man could go back to 2003 knowing what he knows now, having had whatever moment of closure he did with Sammy…
But it wouldn't make a difference, not really. They'd still end up here. Or, Dean would still end up here. Maybe not in the Men of Letters bunker, and maybe not with an archangel riding shotgun in his fucking head, but maybe that's not enough to want to change the way things were. He's been around the block a few times where time travel is concerned, and he's seen the future play out in more than one way. You change a couple of variables, but Dean is never the one who ends up living a completely different life. He always ends up here. A hunter. Sometimes with his brother at his side, sometimes not. And he knows – already knew – that he doesn't need anything different.
He loves his father, and he's grateful for this opportunity to see him again. He wants Dad here, with every fiber of his being, but he doesn't need him. Maybe what Dean's heart really desired was some confirmation that he'd been more than weak and stupid when he let the angel in.
Maybe he got it.
There's no denying they've fucked up – a lot, and bad. But at the end of the day, Dean's good with where they are. He's even good with Michael in his head, because he saved Sam, and Jack, and the son of a bitch isn't hurting anyone but him. And he's prepared to do whatever he needs to do to keep it that way.
Sam settles the bag of groceries onto the nearest table. "It was, uh, angels. Zachariah, specifically, and Cas. They followed you here from 2003."
Dad frowns, lifts a hand. "I thought you said the angel was a friend."
"He is," Dean says, squinting against a flare of pain in his head. The flare turns quickly to a merciless pound, a throb at the back of his rung skull that pulses all the way around to his temples.
"It wasn't…" Sam pauses, takes a breath. "It wasn't our Cas. Dad…you being here, it's created a kind of…temporal paradox." He looks around the room, gestures vaguely. "If you stay here, in this time, none of this will be the same for much longer."
His brother's voice begins to warble as the pounding in Dean's head intensifies. Almost like an angry, relentless fist connecting with a steel door. Not now, you son of a bitch.
"Not us," Sam continues, throat working around a swallow. "And not Mom."
Like he senses an opening, Michael whales on the door in his mind, throws his considerable weight against Dean's wavering strength and battered will, over and over. He clenches his jaw, but the archangel's assault is just too damn much in this particular moment. His brother blurs, and the entire library slides sideways as Dean's knees buckle.
He slaps blindly at the tabletop, struggling to stay physically upright as he fights to strengthen the lock on that damned door in his head. The forceful pounding begins to recede, settles into the dull roar of background noise he's been carting around for days.
It lasts only a moment, but it's long enough.
He blinks furiously to clear his vision, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his fingers are tingling.
"Dean?"
There's a large, warm hand on his back, and a voice booming in his ear. A voice that causes his heart to ache.
"You okay, son?"
"Fine," he grits, shoving up from the table. He straightens, flashes Dad a too-wide, too-false grin that pulls at the tear in his lip.
"Dean," Sam starts quietly, pointedly.
"Just took one too many hits from the nerd squad." He locks eyes with his brother. "That's all." Dean rotates his head back toward his father, plasters on another too-tight grin. "I'm good."
Sam bites his lip, shakes his head.
Dean gets it. He does. And sure, maybe he's being a hypocrite. He agreed that Dad deserves the truth. And he might have made his peace with his situation, but that doesn't mean he can have his father knowing this. The weight on his shoulders, the battle raging in his mind twenty-four-seven.
"What was it supposed to be?" Dad asks, gaze drawn to the pearl on the polished tabletop.
"What?" Dean's still trying to process what's happening, the shock of his father standing right here.
"You were surprised to see me. Whatever you boys were trying to summon, it wasn't me. So what was it supposed to be?"
"Uh, w-we didn't – " Sam stammers, gaze darting to Dean. "It wasn't – "
"It was an accident." Dean offers his father a smile, ignoring his brother's gaze burning into the side of his head. "Lemme get you a drink."
"Dean," Sam tries again.
"I'm good, Sam," he repeats, meaning let it go.
Sam purses his lips unhappily, drags his hands down his face. His gaze falls on the groceries, and he shifts his weight. "Where's Mom?"
Dad looks to the doorway, but a clang from the ancient oven in the kitchen answers for him.
Sam nods, almost like he's steeling himself for the conversation ahead of him. He scoops up the paper bag, jerks his chin. "I'm gonna…"
"Yeah." Dean nods. "Yeah, I got this."
The kid heads down the hall with heavy, somber steps, leaves them standing in a tense silence, just delaying the inevitable. Finally, Dad grins loosely.
"A 'temporal paradox'?"