"Carry On Wayward Son," (Kansas, 1976) was the first song that came on the radio when I clocked out to drive home this afternoon; as good a sign as any that I should hurry up and get this chapter posted today. Enjoy!
The headlights glinted off a familiar bronze "W" bolted to a weather-worn mailbox post, and the crunch of gravel under the tires heralded their arrival. Illuminated by the warm glow of the porch lights, DJ could make out his dad's rangy form, ambling down the steps to meet them.
"Okay," he said over his shoulder to Sam, throwing the van into park. "Just sit tight and I'll—"
Cass wrenched the side door open, cutting him off.
"Come on, Sammy. I've gotcha."
DJ stepped out of the vehicle and stretched, leaving Cass to finagle his way under his brother's arm and up against his side, pulling him upright and supporting most of his weight as he gingerly twisted to get both his feet under him.
"Good to see you, boys," Dad greeted them, squinting behind his glasses as he gave each of them an appraising once-over.
"Good to see you too, sir," the twins replied in unison; DJ snickered.
"Aw," he teased, winking at his dad. "I love it when they talk at the same time."
"Shut up," Cass growled and punched DJ in the arm, but he was grinning.
"Ow," Sam complained weakly when Cass moved; the other man sobered immediately.
"Hey, Big Sam, you got someplace I can lay him down?" he asked anxiously.
"Yeah," Dad nodded, jerking his chin towards the house. "Come on in. I made up the pullout in the library; figured that would be easier than trying to get him upstairs."
DJ moved to brace Sam's other side, and the three of them made their slow, shuffling way across the yard and up the porch steps. His dad had stayed back to collect their bags, but he overtook them with long strides and led the way into the house. After jostling in the back of the van for two hours, Sam seemed only too glad to collapse into his makeshift bed.
"More drugs," he groaned dramatically, pulling up his t-shirt to grimace at his bandages.
"All right, you big baby," Cass scoffed, but he snapped his fingers and gestured for the pill bottle.
DJ fished it out of his pocket and tossed it; Cass caught it without looking, broke the seal, and shook a little handful out into his palm.
"Just one!" DJ insisted, but Cass just waved him off.
DJ rolled his eyes and left Cass to his fussing, shrugging out of his jacket as he stepped back into the foyer.
"How is he?" Dad queried, voice low, taking it out of his hands to hang it up.
"Mmm," DJ made a so-so gesture in midair. "He's in a lot of pain; the ride was rough. I think he'll be better once he's fed. God, I hope so."
Dad frowned and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Come here, kiddo," he said quietly, opening his arms.
DJ went, the tension bleeding right out of him as his dad folded him into his chest. DJ was hardly a small man, and he wasn't done growing yet, but dad towered over just about everybody, and his height and bulk had always made DJ feel safe and protected. He took deep, steadying breaths, filling his lungs with the comforting scents of bay leaves and parchment, whiskey and leather.
"Missed you, old man," he murmured, and dad's arms tightened around him for just a moment before letting him go.
Dad cleared his throat, forcing a cough, and clapped DJ on the shoulder.
"The boys tell you anything at all about those hunters?" he asked, turning away.
DJ followed him into the kitchen apothecary—all neatly labeled pigeonholes and work surfaces worn smooth with frequent use—and perched on the edge of a barstool while his dad found something to do with his hands; namely, putting on a pot of coffee.
"Not much," DJ admitted, sucking his teeth. "We've been a bit preoccupied."
"Well," his dad hummed, a non-committal sound, but his eyes glittered dangerously. "As soon as they're feeling up to it, we need to get names, or at least a good description of those asshats. Jody said she'd get the word out."
"You talked to Aunt Jody? How is she?"
"Fine; her leg's been giving her some trouble, but that's nothing new."
Cass' reappearance forestalled further conversation; he breezed into the room, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms like a boxer.
"All right, Big Sam, where to?" he demanded, rubbing his hands together briskly.
"Easy, tiger," Dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Give me a minute to grab my twelve gauge and I'll show you."
"Mmm, no. No thanks. Nope," Cass replied, antsy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "No offense, but you both smell really fucking good right now. It's… distracting."
Dad smiled tightly, discomfited; DJ was just glad Cass hadn't said delicious.
"Okay, son. If you head down past the barn and hop the fence, Jim's got a bait station over by the pond. Just keep your head down; don't let anybody see you, and don't leave the carcasses out in the open."
"Yeah, and don't get shot," DJ gibed.
Cass rolled his eyes and glared at him; dad's bitchface was spectacular. DJ wiggled his eyebrows at the pair of them, and his dad huffed out a disapproving breath. Cass took a moment to check the laces on his boots and zip up his coat; he declined dad's offer of a hat and gloves, saying that they'd just get in his way.
"I'll be back in a bit," he said, unnecessarily, when there were no further preparations to be made. "Don't wait up."
By unspoken agreement, they decided to ignore that last bit. DJ checked in on Sam, who had mercifully nodded off, and poured two cups of coffee while dad pulled out his laptop to start grading. DJ rooted around in the fridge for the creamer, but his dad waved off his usual unsweetened almond milk in favor of a generous splash from the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table.
"Dad," DJ said, looking askance at the bottle. "You okay?"
A muscle jumped in the older man's jaw as he pretended to be absorbed by his work.
"It's just that time of year," he said roughly, taking a long pull from his mug.
DJ winced; he'd forgotten the date.
"Sorry," he muttered, settling onto the stool again.
"Don't worry about it," Dad made eye contact, briefly, and one corner of his mouth twitched up in an approximation of a smile. "Tell me about school."
DJ shouldered the burden of conversation, regaling his dad with horror stories from his most recent clinical rotation, complaining about the time-consuming process of formatting citations for his thesis, and expressing his anxiety about upcoming exams. Dad laughed in all the right places and made the appropriate sympathetic noises, but DJ could tell that despite wanting to be, he wasn't all there.
"You know," he ventured, when there was a natural lull. "I don't have to leave first thing in the morning; I could stay awhile. We could go for a drive."
It was complicated, that suggestion; some of DJ's fondest childhood memories were wrapped up in it, but so was his dad's grief. Taking the Impala out to stretch her legs once or twice a year had always been a grand adventure; his dad would tug the canvas cover free and run his hands over the hood with a soft, "Hey, Baby," and they'd tune her up together. Then they'd get her out on the highway and open her up; DJ would fiddle with the radio, or his dad might ask him to pop in one of the ancient cassette tapes from the beat up cardboard box in the footwell, and they'd ride for miles with the windows down and the music blasting. Sometimes they'd stop at a little roadside diner and enjoy a slice of pie a la mode, or head out to the lake and go fishing, and DJ would wish that they could do this all the time. But at the end of the day, his dad would stay out in the garage by himself and cry for a long time, joy bleeding into pain. Remembering was hard; forgetting was impossible.
"Sounds good," Dad's voice cracked, just a little. "I, uh…" he cleared his throat. "I didn't feel up to it last year; it'd be good to take her for a spin."
This time, dad's smile was genuine. He reached across the table to ruffle DJ's hair, and the empathetic ache in DJ's chest lessened. He might've said more, but he was distracted by the creak of the front porch steps and the soft thud of weary footfalls.
"Sounds like Cass is back," Dad commented, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.
A loud thunk startled them both. Dad's brow furrowed, and he shot a perplexed look at the door.
"What the hell is he doing out there?" DJ grumbled, getting up.
"The door's not locked," his dad said, bemused.
DJ jerked the door open and poked his head out into the night to find Cass unselfconsciously stripping out of his clothes, which were absolutely saturated with blood. His boots lay in a haphazard heap against the wall; the spatter up the clapboard indicated they'd been thrown there with a certain degree of force. His coat, flannel, and t-shirt were strewn about indiscriminately, and he was currently wrestling one-handed with the button on his jeans.
"Oh good, you're up," he said breathlessly, flashing them a toothy grin. "You can feed Sam while I get cleaned up."
"What the fuck, Cass?" DJ gasped, a little appalled.
Cass' eyes were still a bit wild, but they were blue. He scratched above his ear, and the little bit of blond fuzz that wasn't plastered to his head stood on end.
"I might've gotten a little carried away," he admitted, unabashed. "I was hungry. Here, take this."
Cass thrust the heart at him, warm and dripping; DJ hesitated, gagging just a little.
"I've got it," Dad said, leaning around DJ to take it.
He clutched it in one large hand, cupping the other underneath to catch any drips, and disappeared back into the house—presumably to feed Sam. In the meantime, Cass divested himself of his soaked jeans and socks with a satisfied grunt and flung them in the general direction of the rest of his ruined clothes. Then he turned back to DJ, who was still staring stupidly from the doorway, and flapped his hands.
"Move," Cass growled impatiently. "I need a shower."
"Dude," DJ muttered, shifting to the side to let him by. "I think we're gonna need to use the hose."
Dean Winchester's date of death has not been given, canonically, so I've assigned him the original air date for "Carry On," which was November 19th, 2020. November is not a great month for Sam Winchester; his college sweetheart, Jessica Moore, was murdered by a demon on November 2nd, 2005. His mother, Mary Winchester, was murdered by the demon Azazel, a Prince of Hell, on Novemer 2nd, 1983.