Song Remains the Same

Chapter 28 / Bullets in the Gun

"He went down, down, down…
and the devil called him by name."
- Tom Waits

Four Years Ago

"Dean, it's me," John Winchester protested, staring at the man currently holding him at gunpoint.

"I know my dad better than anyone," Dean growled back. The Colt was steady and unwavering in his grip, his expression a fierce glare. "And you ain't him."

"The hell's gotten into you?" John asked in disbelief.

"I could ask you the same thing." Dean wasn't fooled for a second. "Stay back."

The abandoned shack went quiet, the air charged with tension. Sam returned from checking the salt lines that moment. His face was bruised and bloody. An eye was swollen up from an encounter with a demon that day. He saw his father and brother and stopped short, frozen. "Dean! What the hell's going on?!"

Behind Sam, Alex emerged from further back in the house, and her expression dropped, matching Sam's almost instantaneously. She looked like Sam—the same demon who had beat Sam to a pulp had flung her into the side of a car and the entire left side of her face was a mess, her lip was cracked and bloody, her dark green jacket was ripped. Her silver whistle glinted up from where it laid against her shirt. At the sight of her in the same room with Dad who wasn't Dad, Dean edged closer to his siblings, keeping the revolver trained on their father.

"Your brother's lost his mind," John told Sam darkly.

Dean felt a flare of fear and panic. "He's not Dad," he insisted.

"What?" Sam sounded like his brother had suggested the unthinkable.

"I think he's possessed," Dean answered, his voice beginning to waver in distress and disbelief and how could he have been so stupid? "I… I think he's been possessed since we rescued him."

"Don't listen to him, Sammy," John said, relatively calm and commanding despite the tense situation.

Sam hesitated, unsure now, suspicious. "Dean, how do you know?"

Alex studied their father in disbelief and mistrust, trying to see what Dean saw too.

"He's... he's different," Dean managed, barely able to think straight.

"We don't have time for this," John said urgently, sounding every bit like their father, making it hard to figure out if Dean was telling the truth or not. "Sam, Alex, you wanna kill this demon, you've gotta trust me."

Sam looked at Dean, then their dad, and there was a long moment of silence. Alex's fingers tightened on Sam's arm, she moved toward Dean just slightly—her way of siding with her brother—and John saw it. "Sam," John appealed in a soft and pleading tone of voice none of them had ever heard him use.

Sam looked again at Dean, who was fighting to keep his composure. And that convinced him. "No," he told his dad, or whoever it was. "No."

"Fine," John said, barely whispering, looking defeated and disappointed in his children, who were all standing in a huddle near each other. "The three of you are so sure, go ahead." He almost appeared to be fighting tears now. "Kill me." He looked between the three of them for a moment longer, then bowed his head, waited as Dean held the gun steady… but Dean didn't pull the trigger. The Colt would kill the demon and Dad, too. He just stood there, the gun trained on Dad uselessly. Alex looked at Dean in abject horror and confusion and Sam stood stock still, holding his breath. They were all hoping Dean was wrong. Hoping it was Dad in front of them, not a demon.

But Dean was right.

"I thought so," John said, but his voice had gotten ominously deeper, there was a little smile on his lips—and he looked back up and his eyes were chillingly yellow. Their worst fears were realized. And before any of them could respond, they went flying separate ways, thrown up against three different walls to remain pinned there helplessly. The Colt clattered to the floor out of Dean's grip, and John—the demon—bent and casually picked it up. "What a pain in the ass this thing's been," he muttered.

Struggling against the demonic hold that pinned him to the wall, Sam stared at the yellow-eyed demon hatefully, recognizing the demon as the one who had killed their mother and destroyed their lives. "It's you, isn't it?" Sam's expression was deadly. The demon just smiled. "We've been looking for you for a long time," Sam said through clenched teeth.

"Well, you found me," the demon said, almost amused.

"But the holy water…" Sam said, confused when he thought back to when they'd tested him just to be safe.

A coy smile came as reply. "You think something like that works on something like me?"

Growing angrier, Sam tried to fight the invisible hold, tried to break free, only to be pushed harder into the wall. A frustrated sound escaped from his throat and he leveled the demon with a death glare. "I am gonna kill you!" he roared.

The demon didn't bat an eye. "Oh—that'd be a neat trick. In fact—" He put the Colt down on the old wooden table in the middle of the room, baiting Sam. "Here. Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy."

Sam looked at the gun but nothing happened and the demon chuckled lowly, turning his sights onto Alex who was pinned at the furthest end of the room. She went still from her attempts to break lose, watching his approach with a razor-like expression as her breathing increased rapidly. He only smiled, an eyebrow lifting almost imperceptibly. "What, don't you have some angry things to say to me, too?" he asked, then paused. "Oh—" he pretended to think of something, then that sly, triumphant smile returned. "That's right. Can't talk, can you?" He approached her, taking a dark lock of hair off her shoulder to look at it with fascination. He made a thoughtful hmm sound and Alex struggled, her breathing frantic and strained as she fought harder to get free.

"Leave her alone," Dean said, voice wavering helplessly. He was ignored.

"Daddy's darkest secret." The demon looked Alex in the eyes. "He doesn't like to tell anyone about you. His freak, mute kid." He touched the side of her hair, petting her almost, trailing his hand to her neck then running his thumb across the delicate skin there. She tried to shrink away, face twisted in revulsion. "But I don't think you're that bad," he said, smirking almost.

"Hey get the hell away from her!" Dean thundered. The demon turned, looking at him over his shoulder.

"Or what? You gonna kill me, too?" the demon mocked, looking over at Sam challengingly. Straining against the hold even more than before, Sam looked murderous. The demon let go of Alex.

"Well, this is sure a barrel of fun," the demon said, walking over to the window beside Dean. "I could've killed you a hundred times today, but this…" He sighed and chuckled, pleased with himself. "This is worth the wait." Dean struggled against the wall and the demon looked over at him, smiling just slightly. "Your dad—he's in here with me. Trapped inside his own meatsuit. He says 'hi' by the way. He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood."

"Let him go, or I swear to God—" Dean managed in a trembling voice.

"What? What're you and God gonna do?" the demon asked darkly. "You see, as far as I'm concerned, this is justice." He came over to stand in front of Dean closely. "You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter Meg." He paused. "The one you killed today in the alley? That was my boy Tom. You understand?"

"You gotta be kidding me." Dean shook his head, struggling to maintain his composure, trying to think of a way to break free and save his siblings and save his dad.

"What? You're the only one that can have a family?" the demon asked cynically. "You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?" He paused and slowly, so slowly, a dark smile spread across John's lips. "Oh... that's right. I forgot. I did." The smile was gone. "And you know, maybe I'm not done yet either." He looked in Alex's direction, then Sam's, who was glaring viciously.

"You tell me why," Sam demanded acidly. "Why you did it."

"You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty, little Jess?" The demon smirked at that question, turning and facing Dean again. "You know, he never told you this, but Sam was going to ask Jess to marry him. Been shopping for rings and everything. Well, I couldn't have that." He turned back to Sam, his smile fading, replaced by an ominous expression. "You want to know why? Because they got in the way."

Sam was gaunt. "In the way of what?"

The demon backed up a little, almost swaggering. "My plans for you, Sammy. You…" His eyes slid over to Alex, "and all the children like you."

Sam looked over at his twin in dismay, breathless, then looked back at the demon in confusion and horror. "She's not part of this," he insisted vehemently.

"Oh, but she is, Sammy," the demon smiled darkly. "And somehow, I think you already knew that." Sam's face fell into confusion..

"The hell you talking about?" Dean demanded angrily.

"It's really none of your concern, Dean," the demon said, short on patience.

"Like hell it isn't, asshole."

Rounding on Dean and coming closer again, the demon leaned closer intimidatingly. "You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam—he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."

Dean's jaw clenched tight even as the demon turned and looked at Alex. "Wait." The demon feigned thoughtful surprise. "Wait." His chilling smile was back. "How could I forget?" He pretended to be apologetic. "I take it back Dean. She needs you, in fact, sometimes you think it's too much. Sometimes the burden of caring for her threatens to send you over the edge. Mostly because you know you can't keep her safe. Not forever." He was going to Alex again, his voice was dropping lower into more ominous tones. "Not from things like me."

"You did that to her, didn't you, you sadistic son of a bitch?!" Dean was desperate to get the demon to engage with him instead. Anything to get the yellow-eyed demon away from his sister. "You made her mute that night in the nursery!"

The demon just chuckled, ignoring Dean to address Alex instead. "Do you ever get tired of Dean being your mouthpiece? 'Cause he doesn't always get it right, does he, Alexandra?" He touched her lips thoughtfully with his fingers and she stared defiantly into his eyes with fear and hatred and rage alike. The demon smiled mockingly even as Alex internally gathered the courage to do what she did next—which was viciously shoot her head forward as she opened her mouth wide, biting down as hard as she physically could onto his two fingers touching her lips. He screamed in pain and surprise as blood burst out—she let go and the demon recoiled briefly even as Alex spat into his face forcefully, blood and saliva alike.

The demon's face was utterly terrifying as he grabbed her roughly by the chin and made her look at him. She glared daggers, breathing hard as residual blood from biting him ran down her chin. "You little fucking bitch," the demon growled acidly, almost snarling he backhanded her across the face.

"Hey!" Dean bellowed, enraged and desperate to break free—Sam was straining even harder, turning red and hollering.

Wincing, Alex's head was turned to the side as her vision doubled and pain ricocheted. The demon smirked, looking at the brother's reactions, apparently pleased. "This is going to be so much better than I thought," he commented, then looked at Dean with a deepening smile. "Watch this trick."

Alex's head went back, her mouth wrenching open in a silent scream as she began to bleed heavily from her chest.

"Alex! No!" Sam shouted.

"Stop!" Dean pleaded, fighting the hold over him in complete vain.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," the demon said, then left Alex to writhe in pain as he walked over to Dean who suddenly shouted in agony, eyes screwing shut against the sudden violent onset of pain everywhere.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. Dean spasmed as warm, wet blood poured out of his chest. The pain was so intense, so unbearable—and Alex was still bleeding and convulsing and he couldn't get to her, couldn't do a damn thing—

"Dad!" Dean whimpered, "Dad, don't you let it kill us!"

Sam was shouting, trying as hard as he could to get free. Dean felt himself going weak, woozy, the world was becoming dark, there was blood in his mouth, the taste of it revolting—Alex's wild eyes silently begged him to help her, or maybe that was her wishing she could get free and help him. Dean could barely move now, it took everything he had to function at all, but with his last strength he looked up at his father and begged, prayed, hoped against hope that somewhere deep down his father would hear him.

"Dad, please," Dean whispered… and then the world went completely dark and silent as he passed out.

The Impala sped down the road in the dead of night, three badly wounded passengers inside as Sam pushed the pedal down all the way, demanding as much speed as possible out of the car. He glanced back in the rearview mirror, seeing Dean and Alex slumped against each other, covered in their own blood—his brother was barely there, Alex was unconscious. Even at the edge of consciousness, Dean was attempting to hold his little sister up.

"She's not part of this!" Sam had protested.

"Oh, but she is, Sammy," the demon had replied softly, shaking Sam down to his core. "And somehow, I think you already knew that."

Sam's eyes flickered over his twin and he was filled with sickened worry. Beside him in the front seat, Dad groaned in pain. Anxiety jumping up about ten points, Sam glanced at him guiltily.

Right after Dean passed out, Dad had snapped out of it somehow, regaining control over the demon's possession. Sam had gotten the Colt and Dad had commanded him to shoot him through the heart to kill the demon once and for all. But Sam hadn't been able. Alex had stumbled over, barely conscious, and Sam thought for a second she was going to take the gun from him and shoot the demon herself—but then the black smoke had poured out of Dad's mouth and it had been too late. Now Sam could feel his father's anger, his disappointment, his judgement.

Beside Sam, the man in question hissed in pain again. "Look, just hold on, alright," Sam said anxiously. "The hospital's only ten minutes away."

Instead of a nod and gratitude, Dad looked at him accusingly. "Why didn't you kill it? I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this! Killing this demon comes first—before me, before everything!"

Sam's insides were sick. He glanced in the rearview again at his siblings, jaw tight, his entire body tense. "No, sir," he replied firmly despite his nerves. He shook his head. "Not before everything. Look, we've still got the Colt. We still have the one bullet left. We just have to start over, all right?" Sam was trying hard to backpedal, appease his father just a little bit. "I mean, we already found the demon—" He was cut off by what happened next: a bright flash of light, the sound of a horn, the sensation of brutal impact, the realization that they had been hit by something—and then, nothing.

It had been several days since the accident. Well. It hadn't even been an accident: a black-eyed demon had done it, possessing a semi-truck driver and then smashing the several-ton truck headlong into the side of the Impala, trying and almost succeeding to kill them all. It was really a miracle that they had survived. Times like this, John could have almost believed what Mary had: that angels were watching over them. Well, maybe not him specifically, but his children? Maybe. If angels were real, they would want no business with the likes of him.

In the basement hospital, John crouched down and traced out a devil's trap—the white chalk line stark against the dark gray concrete floor. He had drawn so many of these that he did it without thought, even with one of his arms useless in a sling.

For so long he'd told himself it was right to raise his kids to know how to kill, how to fight, and how to hunt. He thought it would keep them safe, but now he saw that everything he'd ever done had pushed them into danger and trapped them there forever. There was no way out of being a hunter except to die. It was with the grandest sense of irony that he realized in his attempts to avenge his wife's murder he'd sentenced his children to death. But the alternative would have been running forever. And who could do that?

Grimly, John reflected. His oldest son was in a coma upstairs and it didn't look like he would pull through. His daughter was laid up with a broken arm, head trauma, and internal bruising among other things. She was refusing to communicate with Sam, upset about Dean—upset about everything. John hadn't gone to see her in her hospital room, not when she was awake, anyway.

Every time he looked at his daughter's bruised face, he felt his every failure deep down in his bones. He looked down at his two bandaged fingers that had been bitten. He remembered hitting Alex across the face when he was possessed and screaming internally stop that, don't touch her! But then the demon had slyly replied What? You've done this sort of thing before. Why can't I? John had struggled to regain control with righteous self-hatred and anger coursing through his veins. The demon was right. There had too many times when he had flown off the handle and hurt his own children. He'd never hit them in the face, but he'd shoved and yanked and pushed when the stress and alcohol and fatigue got too much. He wasn't proud of it. He wasn't proud of much.

At least one of his children was unharmed for the most part. Sam was fine, or at least of the four of them, the least damaged. But even if he was physically okay, John knew that Sam despised him for everything. His middle son's hatred could only be topped by John's own self-loathing. He deserved Sam's scorn. Every bit of it. Completely sober for the first time in a long time, John wondered why Dean was so loyal to him.

He finished the devil's trap, took out his knife, and began to mutter the incantation, preparing himself mentally. This was risky and maybe stupid, but he saw no other options. He sliced his palm open until blood flowed, then lit a match, finished the incantation, and dropped the match into the bowl where the flames leapt high, burned bright, then died out. He stood up, looking around, waiting—then a hand grasped his shoulder, turning him roughly. "You conjuring me, John," the man said—and his eyes flashed yellow—John leveled the Colt at him. "I'm surprised." A smile came over the demon's face, and two black-eyed demons in the bodies of a nurse and an orderly appeared behind him. "I took you for a lot of things," the demon said, almost intrigued. "But suicidally reckless... wasn't one of them."

"I could always shoot you," John pointed out. And damn, did he want to. It took everything he had not to pull the trigger and end this abomination right now. But Dean's life hung in the balance.

"You could always miss." The demon chuckled darkly. "And you've only got one try, don't cha?" His eyebrows furrowed just slightly. "Did you really think you could trap me?"

There was a long pause. "I don't want to trap you," John said and he lowered the Colt, revealing his game plan. "I want to make a deal."

The demon seemed genuinely surprised. "...A deal, John? With me?" His eyes narrowed slightly. He began to slowly pace the circle of chalk where John stood. "It's very unseemly, making deals with devils. How do I know this isn't just another trick?"

"It's no trick," John said truthfully. "I'll give you the Colt and the bullet, but you've got to help Dean. You've got to bring him back." He watched the demon closely. His voice softened, giving away his emotions. "And… my daughter. Give her back what I know you took from her. You do that for me, the gun and the bullet are yours."

"Why, John, you're a sentimentalist." Yellow-Eyes smiling mockingly. "If only your kids knew how much their daddy loved them."

"It's a good trade," John said, keeping his emotions out of it. "You care a hell of a lot more about this gun than you do Dean or Alex."

The demon smiled at that, stopped walking, and looked at John pointedly. "Funny, I might have said the same to you just a few days ago." His smile faded. "And don't be so sure about that. Dean killed some people who were very special to me. But still, you're right, he isn't much of a threat," the demon conceded, arrogant. "And neither is your other son. Or your very quiet daughter."

"You son of a bitch," John muttered, barely restraining his anger that boiled beneath the surface.

"Guilty as charged," the demon said, smiling wickedly. He stepped a little closer, looked at John thoroughly. "You know the truth, right? About Sammy and the other children?"

"Yeah," John admitted balefully, his stomach turning because he wished he didn't know. He felt sick. "I've known for a while."

"Then you know that little Alex was supposed to be one of my special children, too," the demon said, made a regretful little sighing sound as he backed up, turned away a little. John felt every muscle in his body tense as the demon shook his head slightly. "Shame. We had plans for her. I had plans for her." He looked back at John in a way that chilled him to his bones. "Who knows. Maybe they'll still work out, I don't know…" John wanted to lunge at the demon, tear him apart with his bare hands.

The demon smirked slightly, turning back to face John fully. "But neither of them know, John, do they? That you know much, much more than you let on. That you've been playing dumb. Stringing them along all these years, hoping you can change fate..."

John was losing composure. "Can you fix Dean or not? Can you give Alex her voice back? Yes or no."

There was a cocky little smile. "You need to sweeten the pot a little."

"What more could you want from me?" John demanded angrily. "I don't have anything else."

"Of course you do," the demon replied, and the look on his face filled John with uneasy dread. He suddenly flashed a grin. "I'll take the girl."

"What?"

The demon looked at John darkly, his former good humor gone in the place of deadly seriousness. "Dean lives. Alex gets her voice back… but she comes with me, no questions asked on your part." The smile was back, the lightness too. "It's just you and your boys like you always wanted."

"The hell would you want with her?" John asked in horror at the suggestion. The demon didn't say, just fixed John with a blood-curdling little smile. "No—hell no! There has to be something else you want."

The demon's eyebrows raised and he gave it brief thought. "All right. Your life for Dean's. He lives. You die. Alex gets nothing." There was a smug smile on the demon's face, as if he thought he knew which one John would choose.

John didn't even have to consider. "I wanna see Dean fixed before you take me. That's the deal."

The demon was silent and astonished. John grew intense. "Don't look so surprised," John said bluntly. "You really think I would let you have my daughter?" He stepped closer, his words blazing with anger. He may have been a terrible father in many ways, but he'd be damned before he sold out his own flesh and blood to these creatures from Hell. "Never. You will never have her in any way, you sick son of a bitch—not you, not any other hell reject, not even the goddamn devil himself, I don't care what they say my kids are gonna be used for. It ain't happening. Not if I have anything to do with it." He stared at the demon unflinchingly, resolute. "Now are we gonna do this deal or not?"

"I can't explain it," John could hear the doctor say to Dean on the other side of the wall. "The edema's vanished. The internal contusions are healed. Your vitals are good. You must have some kind of angel watching over you."

"Thanks, doc," he heard Dean reply and the doctor left, walking past John who stood outside against the wall, out of their line of sight. It was early morning. The demon had come through on the end of his deal—Dean was alive and well. John heard his boys talking in hushed tones as he blankly watched the doctor walk down the hall. The single thought echoed in his mind: today he died.

He thought about telling them, he wanted to, but he just couldn't. Not outright. Swept up in end-of-the-line emotions, regrets, longings, John almost thought of just going now without a word to any of them, surrendering to the demon what he'd promised, just letting it end like this. He wasn't sure how he could bear to look at his children and know it was for the last time.

He turned to walk away, but hesitated, listening to Dean's deep rumbling voice and Sam's soothing tenor tones and changed his mind, unable to walk away—but not just for sentimental reasons. Dean had to know.

John took a deep breath and made himself known, stepping into the doorway and knocking on the doorframe. His sons looked up at him in vague surprise. "How you feeling, dude?" John asked Dean, smiling at him softly.

"Fine, I guess," Dean said with a small smile at the sight of his dad. "I'm alive, at least."

"That's what matters," John said, returning the smile. The sight of Dean alive and well touched the deepest part of him, overwhelming him with so many thoughts and feelings. He was looking at his son and seeing him when he had been small, bright-eyed, eager, happy. Not yet scarred by the world. John cleared his throat and glanced around the room. "Where's—where's your sister?"

Still upset after the argument they'd had yesterday about the demon, Sam regarded his father without a smile. "Asleep in her room. She still isn't feeling too good." He looked at his father suspiciously. "Where were you last night?"

John looked at his youngest son silently. If only he knew. "I had some things to take care of," he answered ambiguously, wishing that just this once they wouldn't argue and fight.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Well, that's specific," he said, tone bordering on sarcastic.

"Come on, Sam." Dean sounded fed up.

Sam didn't even look at Dean, just kept his eyes on John. "Did you go after the demon?"

John looked down briefly, shook his head. "No."

"Why don't I believe you right now?" Sam asked accusingly. John finally came fully into the room, looking at his two sons, wishing he could tell them. He remembered when Sam had trusted him and used to run into his arms laughing—those days were so long gone that John could barely remember them.

"Can we not fight?" he asked Sam softly. Sam was taken aback at the uncharacteristically quiet question—and John shook his head sadly, almost unable to keep his emotions at bay. "You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads." John swallowed, tried to keep that faltering smile on his face because if he didn't keep smiling, he'd fall apart. "Sammy, I, I've made some mistakes." God, he had made millions. "But I've always done the best I could." The statement felt like a complete lie—and he almost took it back. Almost. "I know my best was terrible. But it was all I had to give." Defeated, he looked at his son pleadingly, needing mercy where he didn't deserve it. "I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"

Sam peered into his father's face with quickly increasing worry. "Dad... are you all right?" He was too intuitive for his own good.

John just kept smiling. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just a little tired." He paused, suppressing his pain, holding himself together just a little longer, hoping against hope that Dean would be able to save Sam. And Alex, too. "Hey, son, would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of joe?"

Sam hesitated. "Yeah. Yeah, sure..." He looked at John several more times but left, still frowning in confusion. John watched him go sadly, eyes lingering on Sam's retreating lanky form.

Dean's voice brought him back to the hospital room. "What is it?" he asked softly. John tore his gaze away from his younger son to look at his older one.

John was overcome with regret and he shook his head, still seeing Dean when he was only a little boy. His nostalgia and feelings about his oncoming death all made him rarely soft and emotional. "You know, when you were a kid... I'd come in from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be... I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you—you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd…" John struggled against tears as he remembered, "you'd say 'It's okay, Dad.'" He was losing control of his emotions, and his tears were audible in his shaking voice. "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean stared at his dad in quiet shock. "What?"

John tried to smile through the tears, but the smile was faltering. This apology was years overdue. "You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. You know, I put—I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of Alex, you took care of me. I should've been the one who took care of everyone. I wasn't." John paused somberly, almost talking out loud now, not even to Dean. "I messed you kids up good. I wish…" he trailed off, shook his head. The things he wished... they outnumbered the stars in the sky right now and naming any of them was pointless. Wishing didn't change anything, and maybe his life was a joke but at least he was leaving behind three young people who might do it better than he had.

He welled up with the sudden onset of pride, because his son was a man worth being proud of. John didn't think he had much to do with the man Dean had grown into, but he had to let him know all the same. "Dean... you were all the man I never was. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you."

Dean, who had been taking it all in silently, looked at John incredulously. "This really you talking?"

"Yeah, it's really me," John confirmed, and came closer to his son, who looked almost fearful at this point.

Dean was shaken up. He too was so intuitive. "W-why you saying this stuff, Dad?"

John looked at Dean through blurry, tear-filled eyes. "I want you to watch out for your brother and sister, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, you know I will," Dean said, voice trembling. "You're scaring me."

"Don't be scared, Dean. Just listen." John leaned closer, growing quiet, his voice low whisper. "You have to save Sammy. From himself, from what that demon did to him. And if you can't save him—Dean, you'll have to kill him." Dean drew back, eyes wide in shock. John wasn't done. He grew even more sickened than before. "And Dean, your sister… keep her safe. From Sam."

"From Sam?" Dean protested, more and more disturbed and terrified by the second.

John looked at Dean sadly, wishing he had more time. Because yet again, he was leaving too much on his eldest's shoulders. "There are… very bad plans for the both of them. I don't think I can say more. Just trust me, son. Watch your brother."

Dean stared, aghast. "Dad—I don't—what are you talking about? What did the demon say to you?"

John looked at his oldest, knowing he couldn't explain it, not in the time he had left. So he lied again, putting on a reassuring smile. "We'll talk about this later, son. Get your rest. I'll see you in a little while." And John retreated.

Dean watched his dad leave in shellshocked silence. John smiled through the pain at his boy one last time, then turned and walked away, closing his eyes and standing in the middle of the hospital hallway. Momentarily, he opened his eyes and they immediately went to his left, where Alex's door was open. He hesitated, his chest clenching. And slowly, he approached.

John lingered in the open doorway, looking at his daughter. She was on her side and sleeping deeply, her dark and messy hair a cloud around her head, her knees pulled up toward her chest, her hands underneath the side of her face. She'd always slept like that, difference was until she'd been six, she'd been snuggled up like that into Dean's side—Dean slept on his back, an arm under his head—and Sam would always be on the other side of Alex, his back to her back, his arms crossed and mouth open widely. They'd slept like that until John insisted they stop the 'little kid shit' and start sleeping separate. He'd still caught them like that a few times afterward, and it had infuriated him. Why? Why had that stuff left him so enraged? Maybe because his kids were better parents and family to each other than he ever was. Maybe it's because he was worried that depending on each other would make them weak. Maybe it's because for years everything had made him angry and crazy. Everything.

John came into the room hesitantly, looking down at his daughter, the little girl he'd spent a lifetime trying to convince himself that he was protecting. But seeing her laying there, bruised and battered and messed up as hell he couldn't help but think he should have let her go a while ago. Not only to keep her safe from this life of demons and hell creatures… but to keep her safe from himself.

Their relationship had always been strained. Over the years Alex had become an expert at avoiding John and he'd been okay with that, because he knew in his heart of hearts that he wasn't good for her and that he had no clue how to parent her. So, he hadn't really tried at all, although it always made him feel lower than dirt. Now, in the sunset of his life, he regretted everything.

He should have done so much more for her, but he'd always left her as an afterthought, uncertain how to relate to her, uncertain how to approach her at all. He'd been angry and helpless at her differences and her struggles. But now he was just angry with himself for the selfish, cowardly shit he'd subjected her to. He thought of when she'd been younger, a little stick of a girl with eyes too big for her head. The taller and older she'd grown, the more distance had been between himself and his daughter. Now, oceans might as well have separated them. And this was entirely his doing.

He was at her bedside now and didn't know what to do. He thought of waking her up to say goodbye—but he didn't. She wouldn't want that. He just watched her for a minute, then carefully, gently smoothed the hair on her head and felt the heavy sadness settle over his heart. "Baby I'm so sorry," he whispered brokenly, and just looked at his hand on her head. He hadn't touched her affectionately like this in—well—he couldn't remember. He withdrew his hand. Here at the end of his life, he felt his failures so much more clearly than before.

Deep anguish overwhelmed him and he turned, sitting gingerly beside her. He leaned over his knees, clasping his hands together, silent for a long moment. Then he looked upwards, searching the ceiling in despair, his voice just a whisper. Mary believed in angels. John not so much. But he still found himself praying out loud. "I… I haven't asked you for anything in a long time. But just… can you make sure she's safe?" John hesitated. "Please. I know I don't deserve anything good from you. But… she does." His voice cracked. "Please." He wasn't sure if he'd expected a reply or not, but he felt disillusioned and for a long moment, silence rang in his ears. Was this really it? At the end of your life, maybe you always expect it will be different. Grander, more like the closing of a chapter, like a majestic finale—not a question mark, not a comma.

John took in a deep breath and stood slowly to his full height, knowing what came next. He walked slowly to the door and turned back around to look at his daughter one last time. And awash in regrets he could do nothing about, John Winchester steeled himself, drew a deep breath, and walked down the hall, a soldier until the end, accepting his fate with a raised chin, a steady gaze, and the knowledge that he had made the rightest choice he could. He had saved his son's life. He had kept his daughter safe from the clutches of the yellow-eyed demon. The rest would be up to his children.

Not even five minutes later, Dean would yank Alex out of bed and rush her into Dad's room where he was crashing, unresponsive. John Winchester was pronounced dead at 10:41am.

Present Day

Alex spit and rinsed, the zing of minty toothpaste much better than the previous taste of vomit. Never again she told herself miserably. She'd been saying this to herself a lot lately. Her head was pounding, her ears felt muffled, her stomach was a frigging nightmare, her head felt garbled and woozy, her entire body hurt. Much to Sam's frustration, she and Dean had gotten wasted last night, again. But she'd drank so much more than usual, trying to keep up with her oldest brother—and she was now she was realizing exactly how stupid she'd been to think she could out-drink Dean like that. God—this was the hangover from hell.

Alex rubbed her face with the palm of her hand. Tired. Hurting. Heartbroken.

The past month was a blur. They'd spent about a week at Bobby's detoxing Sam and avoiding each other—then they'd left for Minneapolis to take care of a vengeful spirit and it had been a cut and dry job, nothing out of the ordinary except the mood in their family. There had been a lot of silence between all three siblings, a lot more tension than in a while, a lot of unspoken frustrations and suspicions. But they'd done what they did best: said nothing about it. Carried on like life were normal, like the apocalypse wasn't hanging over their heads, like the devil wasn't hounding Sam, like Heaven wasn't after Dean.

After wrapping up on that job last week, they'd caught wind of weird stuff happening back in Sioux Falls and returned to find that the dead were rising—including Bobby's late wife Karen. One by one they began to turn, to kill, and to dissolve into monsters. Alex stared at herself in the mirror, grieved. Bobby had wanted his wife to stay alive so badly. He didn't deserve for one second to have to see his wife again and then kill her again. Maybe all hunters were cursed to be alone. To see the ones they loved ripped to shreds.

Alex felt herself rapidly becoming emotional as she began to think about him. She clenched the edges of the sink. Castiel. The biggest reason she'd been drinking so damn much the past month. She'd been trying to sidestep her hurt feelings, trying to drown them out in a steady tide of beer and whiskey—but her thoughts were proving impossible to escape or forget, and the more she tried to run away from them, the more it hurt, the more the feelings burrowed deep, refusing to be moved.

Cas wouldn't answer her anymore. Alex had called to him almost every day of that first week, but he'd been silent and unresponsive. She hadn't even tried calling him at all this entire week, bitter, finally accepting that he wouldn't come. The last time any of them had seen or heard from him was at Bobby's, the night that… that they had come so close to killing each other or fucking each other, she wasn't sure which. The night that he'd confessed things to her and she to him, and for a moment she'd thought even though he had told her they couldn't, that they would anyway. Because even though he'd said that, even though he'd told her in so many words that being together couldn't happen—he'd gone against his words, kissing her so tenderly, leaving Alex absolutely convicted that there was no walking away, not from this… but then he had done just that, without any warning, and she'd been devastated. To have been warm in his arms one moment then alone and cold the next. It stung.

At first, she'd called to him frantically, worried… but as the days passed the worry had turned to anger, disillusionment—now she was left feeling heartsick and alone, abandoned, with the reminders of him remaining on her body. She looked at the back side of her arm in the mirror, at the soft pink raised line where Dean had stitched her closed. A souvenir of the night when Castiel had cut her deep, in more ways than one.

Alex's eyes flickered over her reflecting, seeing the deep sadness that she felt inside. It was etched all over her face, hidden in the slump of her shoulders and in the edges of her mouth which hadn't turned up in a smile in days and days. She wanted to physically break something out of frustration. Maybe Alex would have in the past, but this version of herself had no fire left. And instead, she just hung her head and leaned onto the sink, squeezing her eyes shut.

She'd always been focused on surviving and living up to expectations, fighting and following Dean and Dad… it had been her only choice and she'd accepted it. But now she found herself desperately longing for something new and different for the first time in her life. Him. Maybe he was trying to protect her by putting distance between them... but she couldn't bear it. Not after she knew what it was like to be in his arms and held like she was treasured. Not after she'd looked at him and seen her own feelings reflected in his eyes. When she wondered if she would ever even see him again, her heart physically ached.

Get—yourself—together. She forced herself to look in the mirror again and to stop it, right now. She straightened up, looking herself over tersely. She felt inches away from a breakdown and she looked away, trying to ignore reality. She readjusted the unfamiliar weight of the new pistol that was in the concealed holster at her hip. It was a semi-automatic nickel-plated Colt 1911 like Dean carried.

She could now hear low male voices vaguely in the other room through her messed up ears—the TV. Sam must be up she guessed. There was a flash of humiliation when she thought of her twin who had seen her in such an intimate and awkward position with Cas… as if that hadn't been bad enough, Sam had insisted on taking her aside and asking about it a few times, acting concerned and worried—but Alex, mortified as hell that he'd seen that, had dodged him every time. Sam didn't know how deep the wound was he was poking at, he was just worried about her, but Alex refused, further frustrating Sam.

Alex heard the familiar sound of a shotgun cocking out in the main room and looked toward the closed bathroom door, annoyed. Sam must be cleaning out his shotgun again—why did he have to do that inside? He was always getting shell dust all over her stuff. The sound of the men talking heatedly on TV grew louder and Alex suddenly stopped, her irritation fading away as she realized that wait. That wasn't the TV. That was someone in their room!

She realized too late that what she'd been hearing wasn't what she thought at all. Not a TV. Not Sam cleaning a gun. The unmistakable sound of two shotgun blasts punched through the silence and Dean was shouting, someone was barking "stay down!" and something was very wrong. Alex wasn't thinking, just reacting, and fast, adrenaline rocketing through her veins at breakneck speeds as she snatched her pistol up and charged out of the bathroom, gun held high in both hands. Two men in dark clothing with masks shoved up over their heads stood over Dean, their shotguns aimed at him. Sam laid motionless and bloody on one of the beds. The men noticed Alex the second she came out and the one closer to her was whirling, his gun swinging around toward her and Dean was jumping off the other bed, lunging toward the guys shouting something and Alex was opening fire at the guy in front of her before she could even fully take everything in.

The room exploded into a chaos of deafening gunfire and Alex felt something hit her in the stomach hard enough to make her stumble backwards—she watched the guy closer to her fall over dead, his shotgun clattering to the floor—and she looked down at herself, mystified. Her stomach was warm and sticky. Why? And then the unbelievably agonizing pain hit. Air left her lungs, her pistol clattered to the ground. She hit the wall behind her and slid down, legs going out from under her brokenly. The world tilted and shifted around her oddly and she looked up—remembering Dean had been there and where was he now?

She looked to her side with great effort, hearing the sound of her own labored breathing loudly in her own ears. Shock hit her like lightning when she saw that Dean was draped across the bed, staring up at the ceiling lifelessly, covered in blood.

"D-Dean—!" she choked out, but he didn't respond. On the other bed, she could see Sam's massive feet hanging off the end. "Sam?" she begged. No response and the thought they're dead shook her to the core and made the world close in on her, like her entire body was going to be sick, like everything was spinning out of control—and then the sound of booted feet in front of her. Alex looked up, panting painfully. She stared into the barrel of a shotgun—holding the weapon was a grim man. Behind him, the other guy she'd shot and killed was a crumpled lump.

Alex squinted up at her attacker, recognizing him. "W-Walt?"

He just stared down at her murderously. "You shouldn't have shot Roy, Alex," he told her lowly, lip curling upwards in a snarl. She heard the cocking of a shotgun and flinched. Click-click.

His finger slid toward the trigger. Alex closed her eyes, making a pathetic crying sound. And she didn't even think it would work but out of desperation and in pain and not knowing what else to do, she begged softly, brokenly. "Please, Cas…"

Five Minutes Ago
Glendalough Lake, Ireland

The Irish people called this valley a 'thin place,' believing it to be a holy ground, a spiritual refuge where pilgrims could seek to be closer to God. They said that here the veil was less, the divide was smaller—that one could reach out and touch God, be still and listen and hear his voice. Pilgrims came from all over the world to this place. One such pilgrim stood at the shores of the upper lake, looking over the tranquil waters silently.

Castiel observed the great verdant mountains surrounding the rippling lake, the billowing gray clouds above in the sky. He felt the cool dampness of the air, heard the lush rustling of the trees moving in the breeze. It was beautiful, it was serene, it was holy—but he didn't feel God here. He'd been looking for so long. There was almost nowhere left to look. A great, unexpected gale of wind came across the lake, whipping the angel's trench coat around him.

He wondered where God could be. Perhaps he was hiding, walking among humanity in a disguise. Maybe he was that child laughing and throwing pieces of bread into the water for the ducks. Perhaps he was the grizzled old man sitting on the bench leaning on his cane. But the biggest and most disturbing question was why would God hide? Why should God be so impossible to find? Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. The Word of the Lord. Castiel was beginning to feel as though he had been led astray… because how could a person find God if an angel couldn't?

Cas's mind turned to Alex as it usually did, and he wondered where she was. She hadn't called to him in days. He felt guilty, because she'd called to him multiple times after what happened with Famine—and he'd gone to her immediately each time. But he'd remained invisible, not allowing her to see him. She had never known he was there at all. He'd seen her face crumble when she believed he hadn't come—he saw her grow sadder and angrier each time. But he would rather her be sad and angry than dead at his hands.

It was beyond difficult to keep himself away from her like this, but he knew it was the right thing. He'd decided it now and he wasn't going to fail again. He'd had a moment of utter weakness when she had told him that she didn't want to walk away and did he? He just hadn't been able to bring himself to lie or sidestep. He'd only been able to tell her no, then close the distance between them with a kiss. A kiss that haunted his mind. All of his moments spent with her haunted him, but that kiss—being so close to her, feeling as though she trusted him with everything that she had—he felt certain that he would carry it with him forever, mourning the unknown. Grieving the fact that they could not be together.

A small bird flew overhead and Cas looked up and watched it: the powerful beating of the wings and graceful dip and swoop of the bird's body in midair. Truly a testament to God's artistry and power, something as seemingly simple as a bird. God was there somewhere and Castiel knew with perseverance and faithfulness, he would find him.

Cas stilled suddenly, hearing Alex calling to him—but this time was different—something was wrong, and he knew it right away.

He went to where she was immediately, and even before the scenery of Ireland faded completely, he smelled the unmistakable acidic tang of human blood. He stood in a dim motel room, mid-morning. In the space of a fraction of a second, Castiel took the sight before him in with absolute horror—Alex was crumpled and slack against a motel wall in front of him, her legs were bent under her strangely, she was covered in blood, her eyes were closed tightly, her face was a mask of pain—and a man Castiel didn't recognize stood over her, wielding a shotgun, the end of it just inches from her face.

Startled by Castiel's sudden appearance, the man with the gun reacted fast and whirled, the shotgun arcing up through the air to aim at Cas—but realizing what was happening and fueled by a typhoon of soul-scorching fury, Castiel was erupting into a blazing assault—he stopped the barrel of the shotgun midair with both hands, tearing the barrel in half ruthlessly even as the guy pulled the trigger. Buckshot fired out in a violent explosion, ripping through the air uselessly. Cas grabbed the man ferociously and whirled him around, brutally slamming him into a dresser. Wood splintered and the dresser broke in half from the force with which Cas had smashed the man into it—Cas ripped his blade from where it was hidden inside his trench coat, not even hesitating for a second, he brought the flashing blade down on the man, ending him.

The man's eyes went wide as the blade plunged through his chest, and under Castiel's murderous gaze, the man gasped out a last breath and died with no grand fanfare. He slumped over and fell to the ground, where Cas stared down at him, breathing hard, his heart hammering faster than normal, his entire vessel feeling shaky and uneven. The room was silent once more. Cas looked to his side, where he saw Sam and Dean each laying on a bed—both shot dead.

In alarm Cas turned, laying eyes on Alex again, fearing what he would see—she was looking up at him and she looked terrified, her face twisted up in pain—she was struggling to breathe and Cas rushed over, dropping to his knees in front of her, shaking physically, horrified, his hands hovering over her arms as he looked at her and saw how bad it was. "No," he managed just barely, seeing that she'd been shot in the stomach, that she'd lost so much blood. It was pooling around her and the wall behind her was splattered with it, too. She grabbed onto the sleeve of his trench coat weakly and their eyes met. He saw how afraid she was and it was just like the scene he'd witnessed in their future.

Panic swept over Cas as he realized that she was dying. He was powerless to do anything—he couldn't heal anymore—but Cas laid his hand over her stomach anyway, dizzyingly sickened when his palm became wet with her warm blood, when she made a pained, sobbing sound—a sound that wrecked Castiel completely. He began silently pleading with God, promising he would do anything in return, anything, if his father would allow him this one miracle, please! Cas stared at his hand in increasing dismay when nothing happened, and every desperate hope he'd held onto was dashed on the rocks, every bit of faith he'd placed in his father fell away like leaves fall from a tree in autumn.

Alex trembled violently underneath his hand, weakly putting her hand over his, her fingers shakily curling around his—Castiel stared at their bloody hands, shocked and dazed—at the sight of her smaller hand clinging to his larger one his chest spasmed painfully. He tightened his hand around hers, despairing. "I'm dying," she choked out, eyes full of tears as he looked at her in horrific denial, shaking his head, gripping the side of her head not even knowing why, his fingers tangling in her hair.

"No, Alex, no—" he begged her, feeling like he had lost control over everything.

Her warm hazel eyes were afraid, searching his even as her chest rose and fell raggedly. "Cas, I—" she faltered weakly, then trailed off, blinking twice as if her lids were heavy. Her breathing hitched, her eyes lost focus—and Cas gripped her tighter as if he could keep her from slipping away—but she went still, her eyes sliding closed, her head lolling to the side, the breath gone from her lungs, the life gone from her body.

"…No!" Cas protested in a shocked, shaking voice, feeling as if everything inside of him shattered. His whirling and frantic mind couldn't understand it. In grief and shock and anger and helpless dismay, Castiel looked upwards, not knowing what else to do, his voice barely a whisper. "Take—take me instead," he said, then when nothing happened, his voice raised to an enraged shout. "Take me instead!"

The silence was deafening, and his anger propelled him to his feet where he stumbled back a few steps, shaky. "Where are you?!" he shouted at the ceiling. Nothing happened and Cas lowered his gaze, breathless, confounded, not knowing what to do, not at all. He looked at Alex's body, curled against the wall brokenly and he looked upwards again, his chest tight in pain. "I—I need your help," he begged desolately. "Please."

Castiel waited, desperate for an answer, for anything. But nothing happened. God was silent. Forlorn and shocked in a way he had never experienced before, Cas staggered back to Alex and held her in his arms on the floor. As reality clapped over him like thunder, tears ran down his face for the first time.

Silence. There was utter silence. Then the sound of a heartbeat in her ears. Her own heartbeat?

She became aware that there was darkness all around her, the kind of darkness that no light can cut through—the kind of darkness that presses in on all sides cloyingly. There was some kind of ground underneath her feet, but the air was dank and motionless, breathing was difficult—she realized there was an overwhelming sense of fright in the pit of her stomach, of no, please, no. Why was she scared? Where was she before this? Alex wondered am I dreaming?

She turned a little, trying to look around, but couldn't see anything past the pitch-black depths around her. She turned again, growing in more and more distress—and then in the distance, just barely, her eyes perceived a faint light. She began to edge closer to it through the darkness and almost wanted to drop to all fours and crawl because that seemed safer, but she stayed upright, muscles tensed and mind on overdrive.

She got closer and closer to the source of light and then could begin to make out a definite structure. It was an old telephone booth—she saw the top of a solid stripe of blue and the white word PHONE flickering. It looked old and weather-worn—the soft florescent light from the booth dissipated out into the dark, softly lighting just a little bit of ground—pavement—but on all the other sides of the booth, the light didn't hit anything—it was just solid darkness in every direction. Alex stood there in front of the phone booth, mystified.

Without warning the shrill sound of the phone ringing cut through the utter silence, the black receiver rattling loudly on the hook. Alex flinched backwards, her heart jamming up into her throat out of fright. She looked around, maybe halfway expecting someone to appear and answer the call. Nothing happened. No one appeared. The phone continued to ring and Alex hesitatingly inched closer, hand outstretched. She waited a few seconds, unsure. Then she grasped the receiver and held it to her ear. She heard crackling on the other end and frowned. Then nearly dropped the phone when she heard a voice behind her.

"Hey Alex." She turned around with bugged out eyes, heart in her throat because she knew that voice only... it couldn't be, could it? But there he stood not even five feet away, looking just like she remembered. She stared, the phone clutched in her hand so hard that her knuckles turned white.

She searched his face, unable to comprehend how this could be happening. "...Dad?"