Day of the Dead
Chapter Ten: Carry On My Wayward Son
Part I: Carry On My Wayward Son
Dean rubbed his eyes as he drove. It was a good eight hours to where John was keeping the girls. He was nearly there, but he'd been driving all night. They'd stopped to fill up the tank once, and to refuel on some caffeine. Dean was never a fan of energy drinks, not even as a kid, but he didn't have much of a choice at this point. Castiel went to try one last ditch effort to save John. He wasn't there to zap the fatigue away and there was no way of knowing if he would be back in time. Sam could have slept at any time, rested up, gear up for the fight they both knew they were walking into. The fight they knew would be the hardest they'd ever had in their lives. But with a little over an hour left into the trip, Sam was still wide awake. Too worried about Elena to sleep. Too worried about the outcome of the fight to rest.
He sighed and turned the radio on. The fact that Highway to Hell came on wasn't lost on Dean. He turned it back off and leaned back in the seat, trying to keep his body relax enough that his muscles didn't tense, but alert enough he didn't fall asleep at the wheel.
He picked up his phone from the middle seat when it started ringing. "Cas?" he asked, answering the phone.
"Where are you?" Dean gave him their location and glanced in the backseat, hanging up the phone when Castiel appeared.
"Did you find anything?" he asked. He was hoping against hope. Nothing was every easy for them.
Castiel shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dean."
He sighed and shook his head. "At least you looked." He glanced over at Sam. "We're sure we want to kill Dad?"
"I don't see that we have any other choice right now, Dean." Sam looked at him and sighed. "I don't want to kill him either. If there was another way, sure I'd say let's just knock him out and get him back to the bunker. But we don't have a choice. I'm not going to pick him over Elena."
Dean nodded his head. He really couldn't blame Sam for that. He wouldn't pick John over Dalia either at this point. Dalia had been there through some serious shit. She'd done things for Dean most people wouldn't even consider doing. She'd died for him. He knew John had sold his soul for him, way back before their lives had gotten so twisted with angels and demons. But now John was threatening his family, his life. Because that's exactly what Dalia was; his life.
He glanced at the map Sam had out on his lap. They weren't far. He cracked his neck and looked at the road ahead. When they got to the end of the road he was going to have a very hard choice to make. Was he going to kill his father? Or, was he going to go against his brother, against his angel, and keep John alive until he could find a way to break the hold Crowley had over him?
He sighed and shook his head. He was so damn tired. He'd been doing this for too damn long. He always told himself he could do it, just carry on. It would get better, he'd make it get better. But fuck it, he was tired. They'd been through the Devil's Gate, killing Azazel, then he'd sold his soul and gone to hell. They'd released Lucifer from the pit and had to put him back in, causing Sam to go to hell. When he came back they spent damn near a year trying to get his soul back. That year ended with a bang when the leviathan had been released into the world thanks to Castiel. He'd been to purgatory for a year, fought his way out. They'd been through the trials, trying to close the gates of hell for good, Sam had nearly died and been possessed by an angel after the fall of heaven thanks to Captain Douchebag. Then he'd gotten the Mark of Cain so he could kill Abaddon. That year had ended great. He'd died and woken up as a demon only to have Sam spend the next whole year trying to find a way to save his worthless ass.
After all of that, after all of the pure shit they'd been through. After losing Mom, Dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Charlie, Chuck. After everything, Dean only had four people left. Four people who would have his back no matter what. Who would always be there for him. He only had Dalia, Elena, Sammy, and Castiel. That was it.
Now John was threatening to take half of his family away. Dean couldn't let that happen. He pulled off the highway and turned down the road that would lead them into the backwoods that would eventually lead them to the cabin. Dean wanted one year where someone he loved didn't die, where the fate of the world didn't rest on his shoulders. This wasn't going to be one of those years. Not only was someone he love going to die, but he was going to be the one who put the bullet in them.
He pulled his gun out of the small of his back and rested it on his lap. He needed to psyche himself up for what was about to happen. For what he was about to see. He knew walking into that cabin that he wasn't going to see the girls unharmed. A sick, heavy weight in his gut told him that much. He saw Sam take a deep breath as he started to recognize their surroundings. They both sat a little straighter in their seats.
"Cas, when we get there…I want you to hang back." Dean looked at his best friend in the rearview mirror. "This is something Sam and I have to do ourselves."
Castiel nodded his head. "I understand."
Dean nodded his head and took the familiar dirt road to the left that would lead to the old hunting cabin John had taken over. He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes straight ahead, watching as the cabin came into view. He parked the car and turned off the engine. He didn't get out right away. Neither did Sam. They sat there, staring at the cabin, telling themselves they didn't have a choice. They were going to have to kill their father.
They both climbed out of the car, closing the doors. Dean slipped the clip out of his gun. When he was satisfied he tapped the clip against the barrel twice before sliding it home. He looked over at Sam. "Ready?" he asked.
Sam sighed and shook his head. "No, but we don't have much of a choice anymore."
Dean nodded and started towards the door. When they walked through, it was end game time. Either they were going to die fighting, or they were going to kill their father. Or Dean was going to piss everyone off by taking him back to the bunker and locking him up until they could find a way to get him away from Crowley's control.
Part II: There'll Be Peace When You Are Done
Dean opened the door and walked inside, his gun hidden away inside of his coat. The last thing he wanted to do was to alert John to their plan. John was sitting on the couch, a gun in one hand, a beer in the other, one foot resting on the opposite knee. His eyes drifted over towards the girls. They were tied to two old kitchen chairs, back to back, gagged with rags. Dalia's white and black hair was dyed a crimson red with all of the blood staining her skin and clothes. She had a black eye that was swollen shut, a couple of deep cuts on her arms, the bullet wound on her shoulder, and bruises everywhere Dean could see skin. Elena had cuts on her legs and arms, bruises all along her upper arms and face, and from the way she was wheezing Dean was willing to bet his bottom dollar she had a couple cracked ribs.
All notion of saving his father went out the window. John Winchester was a dead man. He glared at his father as he stood up and walked towards his sons. Dean's hand started to go towards his gun, but he thought better of it. He wanted personal, he wanted to make him hurt. As soon as he was close enough, Dean took a swing, feeling a sick burst of joy at the cracking of bones he heard.
John glared, rubbing his jaw as he looked at Dean. "So, you're picking them over your own family?"
Dean shook his head. "They are my family." He took another swing but John grabbed his arm, throwing him into the wall. While Dean was shaking off the stars from hitting his head, Sam took a swing. He caught John in the gut. John doubled over, the air rushing from his lungs. Sam fisted the back of John's coat in his massive hands and kneed him in the head, sending him flying backwards onto the floor. He advanced on him, but his rage made him blind. John swept his foot out, knocking Sam's legs out from under him. He hit the floor, his massive body aching from the hard fall.
Dean launched himself at his old man. He grabbed him around the middle once he was on his feet again and body slammed him into the wall. John growled and grabbed Dean by the hair, holding his head still while he punched him, effectively breaking his nose. The pain didn't stop Dean. He put his hands around John's throat, trying to choke the life from him.
John kneed him in the stomach and kicked him back. Dean fell over the table, breaking it as his weight fell onto it. John wiped blood from his lip as the boys slowly got to their feet. "I thought I raised you two better," he snapped. "You're fighting like a couple of love sick pussies."
Sam pushed his hair back from his face, glaring daggers at his father. Part of him wanted to pull his gun, to end this now. But the part of him that was in charge wanted blood. It wanted to make John beg for his life. "You didn't raise me," he said. "Dean did." Sam charged, wrapping his arms around John's middle, picking him up off of the floor, and slamming him down on his back.
John gasped for air, but kept Sam's hands from around his throat. He punched Sam hard enough in the head that his knuckles drew blood and Sam rolled off of him. John got up and grabbed Dean's leg that went for a kick. With a grunt he flipped Dean over, knocking his head against the floor. He backed up, going for his gun he'd left lying on the couch.
Dalia stuck her leg out and tripped him. John growled as he got up and grabbed the knife he'd been using on them. "After I teach my sons a lesson," he said, kneeling in front of her. "I'm going kill you, nice and slow." He glanced over as Dean and Sam both stumbled up again. "Hold my knife." He drove it deep into her thigh, causing her to scream behind the gag and a new wave of rage to wash over Dean, igniting the fire inside of him that would keep him going.
Dean rushed forward, punching John. John grabbed Dean's next swing and elbowed him in the stomach. Dean heard one of his ribs cracked as he was knocked back a few steps. Sam came up, right behind him and punched John so hard it put him on his back on the floor, bleeding and gasping for air. Dean didn't waste any more time. He pulled his gun and trained it between John's eyes.
"Stay down," he growled. His jaw was clenched, tight, his eyes hard as he stared at his father. He didn't take his eyes off of him as he spoke to Sam. "Get the girls out of here." He heard Sam move but he kept his eyes on John. He felt that little part of him raise up again, the part that wanted to try to find a way to save John. He heard Dalia whimper painfully when Sam pulled the knife from her leg. That one sound from the woman he loved sealed the deal. He waited until Sam had the girls out of the cabin, until he was alone with his father. "I'm sorry."
John nodded his head. "I'll see you in hell, son."
Dean pulled the trigger, one single tear falling down his face.
He dropped his arm and walked out of the cabin. Castiel had healed Sam and Elena and was just finishing up with Dalia. He walked towards Dean. "Let me heal you."
Dean shook his head. His voice was thick and hoarse as he spoke. "Nah, I'm good man." He put his hand on Castiel's shoulder and smiled a little, the much he could. "Can you do me a favor? Get my Dad's body back to the bunker?"
Castiel looked past him at the cabin before looking back into his eyes. He nodded. "Consider it done."
Dean nodded and went to Dalia. He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the pain that shot through him from his fresh wounds as she held him close. He kissed her head, rubbing her back. It felt so damn good to have her back in his arms. He just felt bad that he'd put her through so much shit lately. "Let's go home."
She nodded her head, burying her head against his chest for a minute before she let go. Sam let her sit in the front as he curled up in the back seat with Elena all but in his lap. Both of the boys needed the reassurance, needed to hold their girls close. Dalia slid to the middle seat and rested her head on Dean's shoulder as he drove them back home. He put an arm around her, kissing her head. When they got back they were going to have work to do. He and Sam were going to have to burn their father's body—again. And something needed to be done about Crowley. For good this time. He was ready for this to all be over. He wanted peace. He wanted to be done.
Part III: Lay your Weary Head to Rest
Dean sighed as he added a few more sticks to the pyre he and Sam had spent the last five hours building. John's body was lying beside them, wrapped in a white sheet. He looked over at the body as Sam went to grab the gas can, salt, and matches. He hated this life. He really did. When Sam came back they moved without talking to each other. They walked over to John's body and picked him up. They carefully carried him over to pyre and arranged his body on the wood. Sam picked up the salt and started pouring it across the wood and their father's body.
Dean picked up the gas can, waiting for Sam to finish. He spread the gas around and stood back, putting the empty can down beside them. He took the second book of matches from Sam. They each ripped the whole book out and lit the matches, tossing them onto their father's body. The irony wasn't lost on Dean. The first time they'd burned their father's body had been after Dean had killed him. It'd been indirectly, John had sold his soul to save Dean's life. This time, Dean had put the bullet into him himself.
He stood there, watching the fire burn, Sam standing beside him. It had been nine years since the last time they'd done this. Nine years, but it still hurt like hell. Worse this time. Dean rubbed his eyes. He wanted to go lay down. He wanted to curl up with Dalia, put his head in her lap, and just let go of everything that was inside of him.
Instead, he stood there and watched the flames eat at his father's body. The sheets were nearly gone down, the clothes burned away. The stink of burning flesh was in the air. They stood there for hours, until the pyre was nothing but a pile of smoking ruble. Dean turned and looked at his brother.
Sam looked just about as miserable as he felt. "We've still got work to do."
Dean nodded. They headed back inside. Crowley was still in their basement and he has an appointment with an angel blade. The girls were waiting for them when they walked into the library on the way to the dungeon. Dean walked over to Dalia and kissed her head. "We've got one more thing to do. Go to bed. I'll be there soon." She frowned, reaching up and cupping his face. Her thumbs brushed over the dark circles under his eyes. She looked worried. He wrapped his arms around her wrists, leaning his forehead against hers. "I'm okay, baby."
"No, you're not," she whispered. She closed her eyes, just leaning against him for a moment, offering him what strength she had. "But you will be." She bent his head down, kissing his forehead. She smiled a little and went back to the bedrooms, Elena following her.
Dean sighed and shook his head watching them go. "Those two are the best damn things we've ever done in our lives."
"No kidding."
They picked up their angel blades and walked down to the dungeon. They pulled the fake wall back and looked into the room. "Son of a bitch," Dean swore, throwing the angel blade across the room. Crowley was gone. The chains empty, lying scattered on the floor. "How the hell did he get out?" he demanded.
Sam shook his head, walking over. He walked over to the chains and started looking them over. "Son of a bitch." He dropped the chains, shaking his head. "He ruined the engravings."
Part IV: Don't You Cry No More
Dean walked into the bedroom and sat down on the side of the bed. He pulled his foot up to his knee and started unlacing his boots. Dalia sat up from where she'd been laying and walked around the bed until she was standing in front of him. She knelt on the floor in front of him, guiding his foot back down to the ground. She knew what he needed. For once, Dean needed someone to take care of him. She unlaced his boots and pulled them from his feet. She rolled his socks off, balled them up and tossed them into the hamper. She stood and eased his flannel from his shoulders, leaving him in his tee shirt. He didn't say a word, he let her guide him. After she had his jeans off she turned, putting the clothes in the hamper.
When she turned back around he wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his head against her belly. She ran her fingers through his hair, watching him. She could feel her shirt dampening under his eyes. She bent down, kissing his head as she ran her arms over his back, soothing him the best she could.
Dean pulled her onto the bed with her, curling himself into her. She kissed his head, holding him close. He fisted his hands in the back of her shirt. He was always so damn strong, always trying to hold on for everyone else. This was his time. He needed to break, he needed someone else to hold onto him. He needed someone to be strong for him. She started humming, giving him what he needed. The song she sang wasn't lost on him. Out of everything she could have picked, out of every song inside of her head, she's picked the perfect one. The one that he needed. The one that fit the situation.
He smiled a little when she stopped humming and started singing. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more."
Dean let her get through the song before he looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't slept in almost three days. They were red and puffy from the crying, the heartache. "Don't ever leave me," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
She kissed him softly, running her nails lightly over his scalp. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean."
He nodded his head, lying his head on her belly as she ran her fingers through his hair and down his back and shoulders. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Dean knew, in that moment, that he had everything he needed. He had an angel on his side. He had a brother he loved who was coupled with one hell of a woman. And he had Dalia. As long as his family stayed whole, he could carry on.
The End