Living Legacy

Act II

"Come again?"

It was times like these Sam was grateful he knew his brother so well. He tightened his grip on Dean's arm the instant he felt the muscles tighten, effectively halting the older hunter's attempt to bring his gun to bear.

Henry looked at Dean as if he were mentally challenged. For a moment he stood there, hand outstretched, brow puckered in confusion, before withdrawing the arm with a huff.

"You should learn some respect for your elders, son."

This time Sam physically yanked Dean back, stepping in front of his brother in an attempt to curb any unnecessary bloodshed. He gave Henry – if that's indeed who he was – a reproachful look. God, he wished the man would stop pushing all the wrong buttons.

"Mr. Win –" Sam shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment, not ready to accept what his mind had already pieced together. "Henry," he tried again, keeping his voice level, his body between his brother and the older man. "What year is it?"

He held his breath, waiting on the answer, knowing if suspicions were correct, he would need every ounce of composure he had in him to convince his brother. The moment he'd laid eyes on Henry, his father's face had popped into his head. If what he suspected was true, it made perfect sense. Well… maybe not perfect, but it went a long way in explaining why this man had reminded him of John Winchester. They'd never seen a photo of John's father – all photos having burned up in the fire in Lawrence – so he couldn't be sure, but something in the back of his head was telling him that this indeed was the Henry Winchester.

Their grandfather.

The man had died long before they were even born. John had told them how his father, a workaholic, had paid him little mind after his mother had died. How he had left right after high school to join the Marines, and had only made up with his dad for a short while after he'd returned from his second tour before Henry had passed.

But here he was – Sam was sure of it – right in front of them. Considering all they'd experienced, all they had learned over the years, Sam would bet his brother's car they were currently looking at John's father.

"What year" Henry responded, exasperated. "Why it's 1972, of course. Don't tell me you're as daft as your brother."

Sam frowned at the insinuation.

"!972?" Dean laughed. "Seriously? Dude, do we look like the Partridge Family?"

Henry's face told them they did not.

Dean snorted derisively. "This dude's whacked, Sam." He glared at Henry who had the presence of mind to move back a step. "Or he's lying. Whichever, I'm not listening to this crap anymore."

"Dean, I think he could be telling the truth."

The older brother turned wide eyes to the younger. "Don't tell me you're actually buying this crap."

Sam shrugged. "Why not? It's not like the first time we've dealt with time travel."

"So now we're on an episode of the Twilight Zone?"

Both brothers turned to Henry in unison. "Shut up!"

Dean's mouth turned up into a grin. "Though the Shatner episode was cool."

Before Henry could answer, Sam grabbed his brother's sleeve and pulled him a few steps away. "Dean, could we focus here for a minute?"

"Fine," Dean's voice lost its humor. "So, what… time travel? How? An angel or god didn't bring him here. We used a summoning spell, man. How does summoning a demon spell time travel?"

Sam tilted his head in thought. It was a good question. One he didn't have a good answer for.

"I don't know. Maybe… maybe the summoning ritual pulled the demon from a different time? Maybe it didn't exist anymore in this one, so it found a way to bring it here from a time it did exist."

He was reaching and his brother told him so. "Besides, dude, it's not like we've never summoned a damn demon before. What makes this time different?"

Sam shrugged again. "Maybe because we were summoning a more powerful demon?" He shook his head, his eyes straying to the broken devil's trap on the floor. "Or maybe it was the extra sigils? Cas said it would make the trap more powerful. What if it made the summoning spell more powerful, too?"

Dean wasn't convinced, but he couldn't deny it was at least possible. "Okay. So what now, genius?"

Sam rubbed a hand down his face and thrust his chin toward Henry who had been quietly standing by, watching the two hunters with suspicion. "We take him back to the cabin?"

Dean sighed. "Fine. And we call Cas and ask him what the hell is going on."

Sam nodded in agreement then turned to Henry, not truly knowing what to say. He knew he was right. He believed this was his grandfather. Of course, a dead grandfather popping up wasn't a new experience for the Winchesters. After the debacle with Samuel, Sam couldn't fault his brother for his wariness. Sam's recollection of his year hunting with Samuel and the other Campbell's was sketchy at best, his soullessness distorting the memories, making them unreliable at best. What he did remember wasn't good. While he had been without his soul, his radar had been tragically off kilter. But Dean had been under no delusions. Dean had mistrusted Samuel from the start.

And he'd been right to.

So even if Henry was who he said he was, Sam was fine with using caution this time. What was the use of everything they'd gone through if they couldn't learn from the experiences?

"Okay. We head back to the cabin and check in with Cas. Maybe he can get a handle on Abaddon. We still need that demon."

It was Dean's turn to nod. He turned his head to look at Henry, snorted in irritation then made a beeline for the door.

Sam gave the older man a wan smile, motioning him toward the doorway, sighing heavily as he followed him out.

This was going to be one long ride.

….

Abaddon slowed, knowing the humans were not pursuing it. The meat suit it currently possessed was not built for running, especially with a large knife wound in its back. While the demon knew the wound was of little significance and it could continue to use this body, it was more inclined to exchange it for one that would be more… suitable to its needs.

It walked to the edge of the forest, eyeing the terrain that spread before it. Down a slight incline was a curving highway, with a few of the human transports known as automobiles rolling their way across. Stepping down from the edge of the incline, Abaddon walked onto the blacktopped road, turning and holding a hand toward a small, blue vehicle approaching. The driver, a perfect specimen it was pleased to see, slammed on the brakes, trying to bring the vehicle to a screeching halt.

The vehicle, going well above the posted speed limit, skidded sideways, smashing into the demon at a speed that would kill an ordinary human. It allowed the current meat suit to fly across the hood of the car, rolling twice before coming to a stop face up, lying across the dotted yellow line of the road.

Keeping its eyes skyward, Abaddon smiled inwardly as it heard the vehicles door open and the subsequent sounds of heels clicking across the pavement.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" A woman's high-pitched voice filled the air. "I 'm so sorry! I didn't even see you! Mister! Mister? Can you hear me?"

Abaddon watched the woman through its human peripheral vision, waiting until she was leaning over the body, gazing into the meat suit's unblinking eyes.

"Oh please don't be dead!" The woman sounded near hysterical and Abaddon decided to appease her. As the woman reached a hand toward its face, Abaddon lifted its own arm with blinding speed and latched onto the woman's arm. Lifting its bloody head from the blacktop, the demon allowed the meat suit's eyes to go black, smiling grotesquely.

When the shocked woman opened her mouth to scream, black smoke rammed itself down her throat.

A few moments later, a pretty, red headed woman climbed down a small incline and climbed into her 2010 Ford Escort. As she drove away, a large crow fluttered onto the road, attracted by the puddle of blood staining the yellow line.

…..

Sam was right. It was a long drive.

At first Dean just drove, ignoring Henry as he prattled on in the back seat of the Impala. The older man had asked questions, most of which had fallen on Sam to answer. Not that Henry was buying anything Sam was selling. The man was quick to believe they were hunters, and neither Winchester had missed the condescension in his tone when he had admitted it. Apparently, not only did their grandfather know exactly what a hunter was, he made no secret of his low opinion of them. He had used the words uncouth and uncivilized, and Sam had watched his brother's hands tighten around the steering wheel until they were white.

Dean didn't utter a word to Sam's surprise and relief, but he could tell by the ticking of his brother's jaw that Dean was seething with tightly controlled fury. Grandfather or not, Henry wasn't making any points with John's oldest son.

As soon as they'd pulled up to the cabin, Dean had gotten out, slammed the door of the car and stomped into the cabin, leaving Sam and Henry in his wake. Henry had made a remark about the older brother's vulgar and disrespectful behavior and Sam had clenched his fists, fighting the urge to deck the older man despite his age or potential relationship. While he couldn't deny Dean's attitude toward the new arrival was, in most respects, completely rude, he knew it was borne of experience. Grandfather's dropping in from the blue wasn't something they'd had much luck with in the past. Most people had enough sense to stay out of Dean's way when he was like this, though – the older hunter practically oozed menace; eyes hard, teeth clenched, muscles in his jaw twitching - and Sam believed it was almost impossible to miss the invisible neon sign flashing DANGER! above his head.

Apparently Henry wasn't one of those people.

After introducing Henry to Kevin and asking the young prophet to help their 'guest' set up another cot in the back room, Sam flopped down on the couch, exhausted, yet aware there was still a battle ahead of him.

Dean had bypassed the beer, going straight to the bottle of Jack. Sam watched as the older man slammed back a long pull straight from the bottle. Normally he didn't condone his brother's use of alcohol to placate his anger, but under the circumstances, Sam was half inclined to join him.

Apparently, Dean's 'Sammy Radar' was functioning properly.

"Here."

Sam accepted the bottle, taking a drink before handing it back. He shuddered as the alcohol burned down his throat, waiting while his brother took another gulp and dropped into the chair across from him.

"Unbelievable." Dean shook his head, and incredulous expression on his face. "Can you believe the balls on that guy?"

Sam shrugged. "He's a Winchester."

Dean glared, pointing a finger at his brother. "That's still undecided."

Sam sighed. "Dean, you heard the man. He's from 1972. He has a grown son? John? Due back from a tour in Viet Nam? Do the math, man."

"Just proves he's crazy," Dean mumbled. "Or messing with us."

"Why?" Sam argued. He leaned forward, resting his forearms across his thighs. "What could he possibly gain?"

"I don't know, Sam!" Dean rose and paced across the room, agitated. "Maybe he's working for Crowley. Maybe that limey bastard caught wind of what we're trying to do and dusted off the old 'bring grandpa back from the grave' plan to screw with us again."

Sam's lips thinned, and he nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "Maybe, but I don't think so, Dean. He just doesn't seem… evil. I'm not getting any bad vibes from him."

"You didn't get any 'vibes' from Samuel either." Dean crooked his fingers in air quotes, quite a feat without dropping the bottle.

Sam's resentment flared at his brother's accusation, but held his temper in check, knowing Dean was angry and hadn't meant to insinuate anything. "I know," he said between clenched teeth. "But can you honestly tell me that you think Henry is playing us?"

Dean sighed, walked back to the chair and bonelessly slumped into it. "No," he quietly admitted.

"You're not getting the same… 'vibes' from him that you did from Samuel?" He threw the air quotes back at his brother, letting his irritation sneak through.

"No," Dean confessed honestly. "But come on, Sam. Even if this guy is who he says he is, you know what happened. Dad told us how he had to practically raise himself after his mom died. How his father buried himself in his work until all hours of the night. Dad never could figure out what was so important. Henry wasn't there. He practically abandoned Dad. I mean that's why he left and joined the Marines the second he graduated."

And just what do you think Dad did to us? he wanted to ask his brother. He'd heard the same stories. John Winchester may not have been father of the year, and he and Sam had had many a fall out over the way they were raised, but Sam had finally accepted one thing: everything John had done was to protect them. The training, the moving from town to town, from job to job, never letting them set down roots, never allowing them to become attached… it had all been to keep them sharp, to make them tough. It had sucked big time, but Sam could understand why his Dad had done it. He was scared. Knowing what was out there had forced him to make them grow up long before their time – especially Dean. It wasn't much of a childhood, but it had kept them both alive. And for that, Sam was grateful.

"I know, Dean. But he also said that Henry tried to make up for it. Right before he died. That he had even asked him for forgiveness. Maybe… maybe we have a chance to give him that. For Dad."

"Excuse me."

Both hunters jumped at the voice. Sam's head snapped up as Dean pivoted in the chair, careful not to spill the whiskey.

Henry stood in the doorway to the back room, eyes wide, hesitant, an irresolute look on his face. "I'm sorry… I… I didn't mean to eavesdrop…" He shifted from one foot to the other before taking a step into the larger room. "Did I just hear you correctly? Did you say that John was your… that you are John's sons?"

Dean deliberately turned back around, his brows raised, his eyes telling his brother this one was all his.

Sam stood, wiping his suddenly moist hands on his jeans. "Um… yeah." Dean gave him a smirk that said 'eloquent'. Sam ignored him.

Henry looked from Sam to Dean, haltingly stepping around the chair and into the center of the room. "How is that possible?" He lowered himself onto the other end of the couch, his eyes studying each man's face in turn. "John's overseas. He's not due back for another nine months."

Sam opened his mouth once then closed it, not sure what to say. He looked to his brother, silently begging him to make the first move. They hadn't worried about the close quarters within the cabin before. Kevin spent most of his time in the back room, either working on the laptop or staring at the tablet, occasionally scratching comments down in his tattered notebook. They wondered what he did for stress relief back there, but neither brother wanted to broach the subject with the teenager and had mutually decided just to let him be. They had discovered he usually wore the headphones Sam had bought for him, letting music or whatever served as white noise for the young prophet help him shut out the rest of the world. Of course, they knew Kevin wasn't as oblivious as he appeared, but whatever he overheard he respectfully kept to himself.

Henry, of course, was a different story.

"It's not 1972," Dean said with a sigh. He kept his voice low and even, rubbing a hand across his eyes. Sam was relieved the anger that had previously colored his brother's voice was gone. "It's 2013. The war's over, buddy. Has been for a long time."

Henry slumped back against the cushion. "You're not joking." It was more of a statement than a question.

Dean answered anyway. "Nope. Not even a little."

"Huh, the Mayans were wrong." Henry shook his head. "How is this possible?"

Sam returned to his seat, angling on the cushion to face Henry. "We're still working on that, but, trust me, this is 2013."

"And you two… you're my grandsons?"

Dean bobbed his eyebrows once. "Hell of a family reunion, huh?"

"John?"

The brother's exchanged a look, neither wanting to be the one to tell the man his son was dead.

"He died a few years ago," Sam finally responded.

"How?"

"Demon." Dean saw no reason to lie. Sometimes it hurt less to rip the band-aid right off.

"Demon?" Henry repeated, his voice shaking. He swallowed hard. "Abaddon?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Different one. Azazel."

Henry nodded thoughtfully. "Did you kill it?"

"Dean did."

Henry's eyes locked on to the older hunter's. "Thank you."

Dean had no idea how to respond to that. They rarely received gratitude for saving complete strangers, having someone convey heartfelt appreciation for something he did more for Sam and himself was unsettling. He settled for an awkward nod.

The room was quiet for a few moments, then Henry slapped his hands against his knees and rubbed them against his slacks. "So," he said, his voice a bit too loud and upbeat to be convincing. "I have grandsons."

….

2013.

Incredible.

Abaddon folded the newspaper and dropped it onto the top of the plastic basket. It flexed the unfamiliar muscles of the woman's face into a smile as it approached the clerk at the small gas station it had pulled into for fuel. The teenage boy behind the counter returned the smile, leering at the meat suit's ample bosom.

"Find everything you needed, ma'am?"

Abaddon tilted its head, watching the boys eyes go from the possessed woman's eyes to her chest. A grin spread across its new face. "Not yet." it replied, letting the human's voice soften. It batted the woman's eyes. "I'm looking for a couple of guys. I think they may live around here. One is really tall, the other has a James Dean thing going on?"

The clerk was nodding his head. "They drive a cherry 1967 Impala?"

Abaddon recalled the sleek black car that had been sitting outside the church. "Yes, I believe they do." It leaned over the counter, giving the boy an eyeful of cleavage. Human males were so predictably easy. It was why the demon had always preferred female meat suits for its activities topside. "You wouldn't know where they're staying, would you?"

The teenager licked his lips, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at the view. "Uh… I… no." he finally managed. "But they've been in here off and on for a while now. So it must be close by. Maybe in one of those old cabins back in the woods?"

Abaddon's hand snaked out, cobra quick. It grabbed the young clerk around his wiry neck, snapping it like kindling, killing the weak human instantly. The boy fell to the ground in a boneless heap. She set the basket down, removing the newspaper and few snack items she had collected. One of the few perks of using these meat suits were the sugary confections they consumed. Without a glance to the dead boy behind the counter, she turned and left the store, intent on finding Henry Winchester and the two hunters who'd summoned her.

This was going to be fun.

…..

As darkness fell over the quiet cabin, the three men sat around the rickety table, the last of the beer supply divided between them. Kevin, sensing the Winchesters needed time alone, had made himself scarce, taking his notebook and headphones into the back room, giving them space to work through their unusual situation.

Henry, after two beers, was leaning heavily on the table, his eyes glassy, staring at the bottle, his hands idly picking at the damp label. Dean watched him, amused, finally understanding where his little brother's low alcohol tolerance had come from. Their grandfather was definitely a lightweight.

He wasn't sure when he had started thinking of Henry as their' grandfather', but there was no doubt in his mind now that the man in front of him was exactly who he claimed to be. After the initial shock had worn off, Henry had bombarded them with questions about their dad, the familiar feeling of loss sweeping over Dean so completely he had abandoned the beer after one bottle and fortified his defenses with the harder stuff. That left the last two remaining beers for Sam and Henry, which was obviously the elder man's limit.

Sam, surprisingly, was still sober. The younger man was keeping an eye on him, frowning as he poured another shot from the whiskey, but didn't verbalize his disapproval. It wasn't news that Dean could hold his liquor. Not even a stint in Purgatory could put a dent his countenance. While the others may feel the effects after a couple of beers, Dean's tolerance, after years of practice, was well above average.

Dean wished like hell it wasn't.

It wasn't that Henry made him nervous – quite the contrary. Since Henry had accepted that he'd been pulled into the future and was currently sitting with his previously unknown grandsons, he'd made every effort to quell his abrasive personality and deal with the hunters on a more personal level. Dean had even let his curiosity override his instinctive mistrust for the time being, sitting back and letting his brother feel the older man out without interrupting. Eventually he'd joined the discussion. They told Henry stories about John, bringing back some of the better memories of times when hunting wasn't everything and they had actually felt like a family. Dean was heartened to hear Sam reel off a few positive recollections, steering clear of the confrontations and downright hostile exchanges that had marked the last few years before Stanford.

Henry listened, his eyes losing focus as his own memories surged. It was obvious the man felt the loss of his only son – even if that loss was something he had never lived to see. A sad smile ghosted on his lips as the boys quieted, each lost in their own thoughts of the man that had been such an integral part of their lives.

"So," Sam finally broke the silence. He downed the rest of his beer and placed the bottle in the center of the table. "What now?"

Dean tipped his glass, downing the contents in one gulp, ignoring Sam's glare as he reached for the almost empty bottle and poured another drink.

"We still have a demon on the loose," he reminded them. He sat back and twirled the glass in his fingers, waiting for his brother to respond.

"Do we try the summoning spell again?"

"Yeah, because that worked so well the first time," Dean said dryly.

"True," Sam shrugged and sat back in his chair, one arm resting on the Formica tabletop. "Maybe it's time to call Cas?"

Dean took a sip of whiskey, tipping back dangerously in the chair. "Probably." He looked at his brother expectantly. It was he who had vetoed Cas' involvement in the actual summoning, arguing they had been at this job for most of their lives without angelic backup, it shouldn't become a crutch now. He was sure Sam had caught the unspoken 'considering what's happened the last few times we have' and had thankfully just agreed. Maybe, in retrospect, it hadn't been the right time to assert their independence.

"Me?" Sam's voice rose in pitch, his surprise evident.

Dean shrugged. "I told you, dude. You're holding the leash on this one."

Sam pulled out his phone, then looked hesitantly at Henry who was still lost in thought. He raised a hand, pointing a thumb at the door of the cabin. "Maybe I should… ah… make a beer run."

"Hunter's Helper, too." Dean said, silently agreeing with his brother that they should, for the time being, keep mum about their angelic cohort. "Maybe you could pick up a pizza at that little gas mart down the road," he suggested. "I'm starving." Although they had accepted Henry as their grandfather, after everything the man had been forced to absorb these last few hours, adding the fact that angels did exist and they had one looking over their shoulders seemed a bit callous. Until they could find a way to get him back to his own time, his knowledge of Abaddon could be of some use, but Dean felt they should keep the man on a need-to-know basis for the moment, and right now, Cas was something he didn't need to know.

"Right," Sam stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He shrugged into it, deftly catching the keys Dean tossed him in one hand. "I'll be back in a few." He glanced back at his brother, his brow worried. "You two… play nice?"

Dean waved him off before downing the rest of the amber liquid in the glass.

"Your brother worries too much." Henry remarked after they'd heard the roar of the Impala's engine fade.

Dean snorted a laugh. "You think?"

The two men sat in awkward silence for a while, Dean quelling the desire to chase down his brother and offer to go himself.

"So," Henry said after finishing the dregs of his beer and reaching for the last bottle. "You're hunters." He shook his head as if confused, and Dean could sense the underlying derision in his voice.

"You have a problem with hunters?"

Henry glanced at the younger man, the cold challenge on his face unsettling. "No… well, yes… but that's not my point. I just thought you would be… I mean I expected…"

Dean rolled his eyes, wondering just how blitzed a grown man could get off of two beers. "You expected what?"

Henry took a deep breath and squared his shoulder, raising his head and looking Dean straight in the eyes. "You and your brother should be studying the Letters instead of wasting time with this hunting. It's beneath you. What level are you and Sam?"

Dean's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Level? Like in Candy Crush?"

"What?"

"Never mind." The hunter waved a hand, replaying the conversation in his head, trying to make some sense of it. "What are you talking about?"

"I meant what level are you in the Letters?"

Dean shook his head and leaned forward, reaching across, moving the still capped beer bottle out of Henry's reach "Letters? Man, you're not making much sense. Maybe you should go a little easy on the brew."

Henry didn't appear to notice the loss of his drink. "But you and Sam are Legacies! Your father should've trained you to become Men of Letters when you came of age!"

"Dude, we're hunters," Dean said carefully. "That's what our dad trained us to be."

Henry sat back in the chair, his arms slipping off the table, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Dean shook his head and leaned back, unconsciously increasing the distance between him and the crazy man he shared the table with. "Do you?"

Henry raked a hand down his face, a gesture that reminded Dean of his father. His breath caught in his throat, his mind flashing to the millions of times he'd seen John Winchester make that exact same move. After a few minutes, the older man reached across for the beer, twisted off the cap and took a long draw.

"You never mention your mother," Henry changed subjects abruptly. "John wasn't seeing anyone before he shipped out as far as I know. Who is she?"

"Mary Campbell." Dean supplied the name but nothing more. Talking about his dad was hard enough, he didn't think there was enough alcohol left in the cabin to add his mom to the mix.

Henry thought for a moment before shaking his head. "The name doesn't ring a bell. Where is she now?"

"Dead." Dean cringed inwardly at the expression of sympathy that fluttered across the older man's face. "She died when I was four. Sam was just a baby."

"I assume it wasn't a natural death?"

Dean cleared his throat, shifted uneasily in the chair. "Demon," he finally admitted, his voice catching on the word. "Dad spent the rest of his life hunting the bastard down until…"

"It killed him."

Dean swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "Yeah."

"How did it happen?"

The hunter closed his eyes in frustration, wishing the older man would just please give it a rest with the twenty questions. "It was my fault." The admission surprised him as much as Henry. "I was hurt… dying… and Dad made a deal…" He didn't like talking about what John had done to save him. Even after all these years, the emotions were too raw, the guilt overwhelming.

"A deal to save you?"

Dean nodded, leaning his elbows on the table and bringing his hands up to cover his face. He did not want to talk about this. "He should've let me go."

Henry leaned forward and placed a hand on Dean's arm, his voice soft and low. "He couldn't. He was your father." His grip tightened for a moment then released, his heart breaking for the young man. "Someday you'll understand how far a parent will go for their child."

Or their brother.

Dean quickly squashed that train of thought.

He rubbed his face hard, then sat back, his eyes narrowed as he regarded Henry. "You didn't," he accused. "You left your son alone. He was just a kid and you cut him off. You weren't there for him when he needed you."

Henry's eyes dropped, not able to withstand the younger man's scrutiny. "My work was important."

It was a feeble excuse and they both knew it.

"More important than him?"

Henry's shoulders slumped and he took another sip of his beer. "Perhaps. I'm not proud of it, but my work –"

"Was important," Dean finished the sentence for him, his voice harsh. "So you said."

"I don't expect you to understand…"

"Use small words."

The older man raised his head, his eyes meeting his grandson's, swallowing at the accusation he saw in them. "Very well. I am part of an organization – an ancient brotherhood. We are called the Men of Letters."

"Letters. You mentioned that before."

Henry nodded, his voice strengthening with his explanation. "We are tasked with collecting and storing all the knowledge of the supernatural that mankind has discovered throughout the ages."

Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the tabletop, his eyes boring into Henry's. "Like an archive of the weird and unexplained."

"Precisely."

"So if your little cult is so important, why haven't we heard of it?"

Henry raised his hands, palms up in the universal sign of confusion. "I honestly don't know. I had planned to bring John into the order when he came of age, but he joined the service and shipped out before I could do so." Dean thought he detected a note of regret in the man's eyes. "Since you have never heard of the Letters, and your father raised you as hunters, I can only assume I never got another chance." His brows raised, his face displaying an expression of hope. "But according to your brother, I was able to repair the rift between us? Ask John for forgiveness?"

"That's what I always understood."

"Then I am at a loss."

Dean snorted a laugh. "Time travel will do that to you."

Henry smiled, unfazed that his grandson could discuss such a phenomenon as if he was an expert. After a moment, he sobered. "I wish I had the chance to know him as an adult. I would've liked to have known what kind of man he became."

Dean watched the older man for a moment before coming to a decision. He pushed himself from the table and crossed the room to where his duffel lay on the far side of the couch, rummaging through until he pulled his father's battered journal from its depths. He returned to the table and tossed the journal onto the formica top where it landed with a recognizable thud.

"Maybe you can start with that."

Henry gazed at the book, his hands ghosting across the worn leather reverently. He gently opened to the first page, his fingers skimming the initials 'J W' embossed on the bottom of the inside cover. "I bought him this journal for his high school graduation. It was for his studies of the Letters. He left before I could give it to him."

Dean swallowed, not expecting to hear the sadness in Henry's voice.

"Dad carried that journal for as long as I can remember. Everything he ever knew about the evil crap we hunt is in there."

Henry looked up, his eyes shining, and gave Dean a tremulous smile. "Would you mind?"

The fact that the man was asking his permission to read about his own son took Dean by surprise and he found himself unable to respond. The journal and the Impala were everything he and Sam had left of their father, and he would protect both with his last breath. But Henry had the right to know who John was, and Dean wanted him to understand that despite the fact he hadn't turned out to be who Henry expected, John Winchester had spent his life saving people, fighting the same fight his own way. The man was a hero. Dean hoped Henry could be satisfied with that.

He nodded his head once, then grabbed the whiskey bottle and headed out the door. He took a deep breath, letting the cool, crisp air clear his head. He was glad to have a reason to be alone. He'd revealed more about himself than he was comfortable with, and he desperately wanted some time – and liquid fortitude – to shore up his defenses before continuing the conversation with his newly found grandfather. Giving Henry some privacy to read through Dad's journal may give the old man some insight into his son, and negate the need for Dean to voice any more painful family secrets. The temperature had dropped with the sun, early spring in Montana still being on the cold side at night. Determined to avoid any more one-on-one discussions with Henry, Dean moved down the cabins rickety front steps, only to be brought up short by the angel who suddenly appeared before him.

"Damnit, Cas."

Castiel took a large step backward, a move that would have been quite comical if Dean had been in a better frame of mind.

"I'm sorry. I forgot. Personal space."

Dean sighed wearily. "Right.' He sat down with a tired sigh on the wooden step, careful to avoid the two large nails that protruded from the rotted end of the boards. He took a drink from the bottle before gesturing with his free hand for the angel to take a seat beside him.

"I wanted to 'drop by' for an 'update.'" The angel stated once he'd perched next to Dean. He sat, stiff, erect, making Dean's back hurt in sympathy. The hunter leaned forward, arms across his thighs, the whiskey bottle dangling from lax fingers between his legs. He couldn't suppress a grin. The pride the angel displayed at his attempt at slang was… endearing.

"Just thought you'd pop in, huh?" the hunter responded, laughing as the angel's expression changed from pleased to confused in a heartbeat. A thought sobered him abruptly. "Update" he repeated, turning his head to stare at the angel. "Didn't Sam fill you in?"

Castiel shook his head. "I have not spoken to you or your brother since before you attempted to summon Abaddon." The angel looked around the clearing in front of the isolated cabin. "I was curious as to your success."

The Angel had offered to accompany them, back-up, if needed in case Abaddon proved to be more formidable than they expected. A quick, non-verbal exchange between the brothers had concluded the angel's assistance wasn't necessary and Sam had spit-balled an excuse, claiming Cas' presence would be more useful at the cabin, helping Kevin decipher the remaining ingredient for the spell. The angel had been reluctant, but agreed to stay behind.

In retrospect, angelic back-up may have been a good idea.

"He was going to call you," Dean explained. "Fill you in on what happened with Abaddon." Something in Cas' expression was making him nervous. "He didn't call?"

Castiel shook his head. "No."

"Damnit, Sam," Dean muttered. He set the whiskey bottle down on the porch and pulled his phone from his pocket, punching the speed dial #2 number for his brother. #1 was still Bobby – both brothers having called the old mechanic more than even each other throughout the years. While Bobby had been gone for more than a year now, Dean still didn't have the heart to delete his number. It somehow made him feel his surrogate father was still close by.

It didn't take long for the call to connect.

"Hello, Dean." A woman's voice answered after the second ring. "I'm afraid Sammy can't come to the phone right now."

"Who the hell are you?" Dean's voice was a growl, a cold pit in his stomach beginning to grow.

"Oh, right. I suppose I sound a bit different from the last time we met. I'll give you a hint. The last time you saw me, you shoved a knife in my back."

As Dean's mind flashed to the meat suit they had summoned only hours ago, his eyes widened, locking on to Castiel's in fear.

"Abaddon."

TBC….