April 15, 2006
Interstate 90-West
The two-hour drive back to Sioux Falls was quiet and peaceful. The car stereo softly played some classic rock music that Dean mentally labeled the 'ballads of the mullet'. It was like his father had simply stopped listening to anything new after the death of his wife. Perhaps there was something to be said about that: time stopping for the older man in his grief. The sounds of the tires against the road were soothing, causing Dean's eyes to droop. He didn't remember much of his childhood after the trauma: only bits and pieces of his mother. The therapist reiterated that it was just a way his young brain tried to protect himself, but this – being in a car with his daddy and baby brother, feeling safe, he remembered.
It was that sense of relaxation and complete trust that caused Dean to let his guard down. His mind stopped – the anxious ruminations finally quieting. The trees and brush passed by all blending together. It was because of that trust that he stopped watching the road signs. It was only when the car slowed down as if they had arrived at their destination that he shook his head and finally noticed where they were.
Dean sat up so quickly in his seat that the belt activated to keep in place; the mechanism triggering as if there had been an accident. Heart pounding, Dean's breath stuttered as he stared at his family's house - the house he'd grown up in. Both Mama and Papa's vehicles were in the driveway. They were home – they were but 30 seconds from the front door. Whipping around, he verbally attacked John. "What the fuck, John?! Why did you bring me here?"
Not bothering to wait for an explanation, he pulled at the seat belt, fighting to get free – forgetting in his panic how to unlock the buckle. It was a move that annoyed him to no end in horror movies – highly intelligent people forgetting how to do something that muscle memory should have solidified in their minds since they were four. The fact that he was struggling with it now pissed him off.
A hand blocked him, holding him tight. "Dean, calm down."
"Why?" He roared, uncaring of the fact that Mrs. Hill was noisy and would poke her head out the window if she noticed anything suspicious in the neighborhood. She'd often ratted them out when they snuck out of the house to party. He and Jody would come home to see her there – hands over her hips looking at them disapprovingly sipping a cup of tea with Mama. Papa would walk her across the lawn back to her home after promising that the children would be punished for whatever she had complained about that week. As soon as Owen stepped through the door, he'd start laughing and wouldn't stop until Mama glared at him. He'd kiss her cheek, amusement plastered all over the smile he wore. Papa would point at them, telling the two of them to be better at not getting caught – and that whatever party they attended better not be interrupted by police or they'd be grounded.
It was the look on John's face that made Dean go still. He recalled that expression; it was the one he wore the night Mary died in the house fire. He saw an echo of it, the night John tried to deal with the devil to trade their lives. Dean waited for an explanation.
John licked his lips as if his mouth suddenly went dry. It was a sign that whatever the man would utter next, it was something that he didn't want to tell him. "What you're about to do… it's akin to going to war. I – um – I remember what that's like. When a man goes to war, he needs that last goodbye. Needs it in case – you know. But he also needs it to fuel his desire to return home. Kid, you need to say goodbye. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't."
The way that his father said 'rest of your life' gave him pause. "You don't think that I can defeat Lilith, do you? You don't think I'm strong enough?"
"You aren't, son." It was said with a mixture of pity and gentleness that made Dean want to punch John's face. "It's my fault. I should have trained you – this would never have happened if I had kept you by my side."
Rage, pure unadulterated rage filled Dean's blood. "Fuck you, Winchester! You don't get feel bad about abandoning us! And you also don't get to underestimate me! I'm stronger than you think I am. I'm not a little kid anymore praying for Daddy to come home. I'm the Michael Sword! I'm the last hope of mankind… if I fail, I take the entire human race with me." The fury filled him with a confidence that he hadn't felt since this entire sordid tale began. He gripped the lance between the seats tightly, the magic pulsing through the weapon and his entire body. "I'm not going to fail. So, fuck you."
He was nose to nose with the older man. Their hot breaths fogging up the windows of the vehicle. Mrs. Hill would start assuming things… but for once Dean didn't care. "What are you going to do, son?" John asked him menacingly with a cruel twist. "Use that on me in front of Mama and Papa?" He nodded towards the weapon clutched tightly. "I bet they'd love to see the man they raised commit murder."
The ruthlessness in his words was like a bucket of ice water dumped on Dean's head. He lowered the weapon back down to his side, then looked out towards his home. He thought back to what John was saying, not the tone or the bitterness but the meaning behind it all. His father brought him home to his parents to say goodbye. He didn't want him to live with regret; the same regret he was living with.
"I'd put them in danger." A token resistance, spoken in a tone filled with doubt and pain.
Bullheaded, John reached in the back for a bag that Dean hadn't noticed as it had been hidden under the front seat. Unzipping the pack, a short stack of black material. Brow wrinkling with confusion, Dean's eyes widened when he recognized the clergy collar peeping out from the folded dress shirt. A pair of cheap thin black slacks accompanied the shirt. "Put that on," his father ordered. He bent over to slide back the seats to give them more wiggle room to remove his pants; the man didn't bother to speak another word, as if his command was the Word, and John fully expected Dean to follow.
John had the black slacks on and was working on his shirt before Dean moved to change into the disguise. "Mrs. Hill is going to tell this story for years," Dean murmured under his breath. Scoffing, he sneered at the older man. "My parents aren't going to fall for this! Papa will be liable to put a bullet through your brain the second you step through the door."
Slipping the last button into the hole, John threaded the roman collar through the provided flaps – the front of a wise and pious soul arriving to bring comfort to a family in need. "This getup ain't for your parents," John didn't bother to conceal the bitterness when he spits out Dean's title for the Allen family. "It's for the feds stationed down the street monitoring who shows up at your family's door. Fuckers probably told 'em it was for their own 'protection'. Nothing in their arsenal will be strong enough to stop Lilith or Lucifer if he goes free." John rubbed his face tiredly, before slipping on a pleasant mask fit for his faux occupation. He turned and helped Dean thread the white plastic through the holes of the collar of his shirt.
Quieting, Dean let him show him how to correctly wear the guise. Nerves gradually overtook the anger. "What am I going to tell them? They'll hate -"
John cut him off with a sharp slap upside the head, stunning Dean. "The savior of mankind, huh? You're too cowardly to face the people who raised you – how the fuck are you going to go toe-to-toe with the daughter of the devil?" The look Winchester gave him was of disgust. Without waiting for him, John got out of the vehicle and strode towards the front door of the house.
Dean sat in the passenger seat, breaths coming out in pants. The thought that Papa would indeed shoot John Winchester in the head was the only thing that kept the panic at bay. He rushed out and practically ran to join his father waiting for the door to open on the porch. Hands trembling, he looked around frantically for anyone that might recognize him.
"Stop fidgeting. It draws attention. Just stay calm and act naturally." John advised him in a low voice. "No one is going to recognize you with that beard anyway. You look like a hobo."
Glaring at the older man, the insult distracted him long enough for the front door to open. Margaret Allen, his beautiful mother, stood at the doorway. Dean stopped breathing, unable to do anything but stare. John spoke for them, "Mrs. Allen, Father William, and I stopped by to pray with you."
She barely looked at them – eyes vacant, puffy as if she hadn't slept. It took several blinks for her to react, remembering her manners. "Oh, um – that's very kind of you. Why don't you come inside?" Her movements were stilted as if it was taking more energy than she had to walk towards the living room only 20 feet away.
There in the living room that he grew up in, Owen Allen sat hunched over papers littered on top of the coffee table and floor. He was sitting in Dean's usual seat, instead of the recliner closest to the TV that he'd received as a gift for his retirement. Papa covered his eyes as if the light from the open door was too bright – used to the darkness. Dean took it upon himself to carefully shut the door behind him, then followed behind his mother. "Who's at the door, Maggie?"
Owen looked up, mouth dropping in horror as soon as he recognized the 'Priest'. "Maggie, run!" The former sheriff yelled, before pulling a handgun that Dean knew was stored under the end table closest to his favorite chair pointing it as he predicted: directly between John Winchester's eyes. At that range, there was no way Papa would miss.
"Do NOT let her leave!" It was an order that Dean instinctually jumped to do. His body was primed – fueled by adrenaline as if he was at work. His mother was sluggish, the shouting frightening her to the point where she was shaking. Dean gripped her by the forearms, afraid she was going to pass out.
"Let my wife go, you filth." Owen ground out – directing his fury at the man holding his wife upright. Dean whipped to look at him; still shocked into silence. He wasn't hurting Mama – if anything, his grip was nearly the only thing keeping her upright; she was swaying and trembling. He'd expected that his parents would have recognized him the moment the door opened, stunned that the veneer of priesthood and a full beard had the effect that it did on them. Neither of them saw him. They only saw an accomplice; perhaps the beard was giving off the wrong vibe, as John had ridiculed but moments earlier.
Conversely, both of them seemed to know John Winchester – no matter that he was clean-shaven and auburn. He was standing nonchalantly as if there wasn't a gun pointed at his head. "You're not in any danger. We're just here to talk."
Mama's weight grew heavier; her gaze wavering towards Dean's chest – not looking into his eyes. He stepped towards her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. The move caused Papa to whip the gun away from Winchester and towards him.
"Let her go, please." Owen pleaded, his hands now shaking; his aim off and liable to miss. "My wife hasn't done anything wrong, but care for the children I brought home. I was the one that took 'em from you… you don't need to hurt her."
'Shit,' Dean thought, 'he thinks I'm hurting mama.' Every cell in his body wanted to call out, to tell him that he'd rather die than be the one to hurt her – but the words were vapor. He caught Owen's eyes, begging his father to recognize him so that he wouldn't have to confess his sins.
"Put the gun down now. You don't need it." John barked at Owen. Dean watched, heart-in-throat, as Owen bent down to lay the weapon down on the coffee table that he'd just been leaning over.
"Let's just all sit down," John suggested – if one could call it a suggestion. To his family, the man was a serial killer and one that they were all tied to, unable to escape the horrors brought down by him.
Owen did as he was asked, sitting back down in the place that he'd arisen – Dean's spot. Papa's face was stone – staring up at the man he believed was responsible for his son's death. He'd never seen that expression on his father's face before. The literal embodiment of 'if looks could kill'. Owen Allen would murder Winchester – of that, Dean had no doubt. He'd seen that look on killers that he'd hunted down before, but never on the man who'd always been so loving to him.
Dean's eyes filled with tears, throat was tight. He hadn't even spoken a single word and he was already destroying his family.
Mama rallied during the silent staring contest, trying to pull away from his embrace. Dean let her pull back, just resting his hands against her arms lightly – not wanting to let her go now that he was home. Finally, finally, she looked up at his face. Once their eyes met, Dean's resolve failed him and a tear slipped down unguardedly. Swallowing, he tried so very hard to keep from throwing himself at her feet.
He heard her gasp, a cry slipping past her lips even though she'd cupped her mouth with both hands as if it would prevent her from screaming. From the couch, Owen's back was tense as a rod – the ex-Sheriff poised to strike when their guard was down. Mama Maggie reached out to 'Father Williams' gripping him to prevent his retreat as he'd done for her.
"Oh my God! Owen! Owen!" There was no force in this world that would have prevented his father from coming to his wife's aid; the man pushed past the supposed serial killer and rushed towards Maggie's side.
"Maggie?" Owen asked gently, a hush falling the way it did when a man was uncomfortable with a woman crying. "What's wrong?" It was asked desperately – lacking understanding.
Dean imagined that Owen couldn't understand why his wife was gripping a criminal so tightly – pulling the younger man to him as if she were to crawl into his veins. He certainly didn't comprehend why the two of them were crying and shaking when there was a serial killer in their home.
"Dean? My baby, is it really you? Oh my God, Owen. Dean's alive." Maggie threw herself into his arms, wrapping around him like an octopus as if she'd never let him go.
Papa was trying to pull his wife off the stranger, disbelief clear in his tone. "Maggie, sweetheart, I know you have a feeling Dean's watching over us – but he's gone. This is a trick. Winchester is fucking with us. That's the kind of sick freak he is. He's trying to torture us…"
The thought that his father believed that Dean was even inadvertently trying to torture them sent him into a mental spiral. Pushing Maggie away, he flew back and then turned to throw up in the ugly umbrella stand by the door that Maggie's best friend Peggy had purchased her for her fortieth birthday. For ten years, the faded vintage rose embossed ceramic was by the front door; no matter how many paint chips came off the thing – it stayed right there.
After the purge, Dean leaned against the closet door and slipped down until he was on the hardwood floor. He wiped at the tears, then laughed hysterically. "Sorry 'bout that. You could tell Aunt Peggy that it shattered or something if you want me to get rid of it."
Both Maggie and Owen stood looking down at him in utter shock. Maggie clutched at Owen's hand; hard enough that Dean could see it turning white from lack of blood. John stood back, an awkward voyeur in what was becoming an utterly dramatic family moment.
In what was turning out to be a chaotic shit-show of a day, the front door opened without warning, bashing him in the leg. He shuffled his legs up towards his chest and rubbed at what was going to become a deep bruise, too slow to prevent the crash of a body falling over him. An elbow came dangerously close to his balls, landing but centimeters away on his upper thigh. It still hurt like the dickens! "Jody! Watch where you're going."
His big sister picked herself off the ground, shifting to where instead of laying on him – she was sitting beside him. In the shuffle, she accidentally brushed the budding bruise, and he kicked her in retribution in the opposite leg. "Hey!"
"See how you like it!" Dean said jerkishly as if he were a pre-teen messing with her once again. "What the fuck are you doing here anyway?" His voice was cracking, face still red and wet from the tears he'd shed.
Jody used the leg closest to the front door to push it closed; then wrapped her arms under her chest in that familiar put-out manner. "John texted me and told me to get here as soon as possible. I thought – well – I don't know what I thought. I just drove over here as quickly as possible. Benny and Victor are in the car; Benny dropped me off while Victor hid in the back. I told them to wait; the feds are watching the house and I didn't want to trigger any force of action if things were safe."
Their parents stood in the same place – unmoving; shocked and possibly traumatized by the turn of events. Owen's eyes were wide, he shuffled closer to where his children sat centimeter by centimeter as if he were afraid that they'd disappear.
Kneeling down, he reached out to his son with a shaking hand. It took him a couple of attempts to cup his cheek, pulling his fingers away in fear before he bravely made the physical connection. "Dean…" Owen breathed, "Dean? Jody? Dear God. It's a miracle." Papa kissed his forehead; it was wet. "Maggie – here's here. Our boy is here."
The cry flew from Dean's lips at being labeled a 'miracle'; tearing up yet again. Jody wrapped her arm around his back, cuddling with him. Mama Maggie dropped to her knees; Dean winced at the sound of the joints hitting the hardwood, but she didn't seem to feel pain as she draped herself on top of him. Papa wrapped his arms around the three of them; he leaned over Dean to kiss Jody's cheek, then bent down to kiss the back of his wife's head, which was pressed to Dean's chest. Settling back, Papa tucked Dean's head into the crook of his neck. Soon, the side of his face and chest were drenched in tears from his parents.
It was a family group hug that was missing a member of the family. Dean ached for Sammy to suddenly appear – surprise him like Jody had and walk through the door to tackle him in order to join their cuddle-pile. He wasn't sure how long they sat there, holding on to each other. No words were spoken for quite some time, and sniffles and soft touches communicated more than speech to the close family.
They sat there long enough that Dean's legs were falling asleep; Mama was a slender woman, but her weight was pressed against him long enough for them to cramp. Gently, he cupped her face – trailing his hands to her shoulders in order to press them away from his chest. "Why don't we get off the ground, huh? We can sit on the couch and talk."
Mama let him pull away long enough to get to his feet. Once they were all standing, mama grasped one of his hands while papa held the other – neither wanted to let him go. Slowly, they made their way to the living room couch. They managed to fit four grown adults on that worn three-person sofa. Jody smiled, softly commenting, "See Dean, it's not as bad as you imagined. Everything is going to be okay."
"What?" Owen reacted, hurt. "Jody? You knew your brother was alive and you let us…" He pulled away from his son, wrapping his arms around his belly, a distress flare via body language.
"Why?" Maggie cried; her reaction was more subdued, trembling but analytical in her regard. "Is this something to do with the FBI capturing Winchester? Were you undercover? I don't understand…"
Dean suddenly stood – realizing that he'd forgotten his birth father in the emotional reunion, pulling away from his family's touch to look around the first floor. "John?" He ran to the kitchen, then the dining room and bathroom to find the rooms empty. His heart beat in double time, running towards the front door to fling it open.
The vehicle that they'd arrived in was gone and along with it, the Lance of Michael. Dean pulled at his hair swearing under his breath, 'Fuck!'