EPILOGUE

Rule Eleven: Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins.

The blood was still warm on his face, but slowly he felt it drying into crusted rivers running down his cheeks. He could still feel the death-grip of his youngest son on his jacket; could still hear the grunted acquiescence of his departure from his eldest. But mostly, as he drove down the dark Chicago street in his black truck, his vision was overcome by the sight of his haunted, bloodied, defeated boys. And that begged the question that he never managed to run far enough away from:

Have I done this to them?

There were times when he wondered how they might have turned out had he never taken the path he chose after Mary's death. If he could have ignored the signs, told himself that it was just a normal fire. If Sam would be normal. If Dean would be happy.

If he would be a good father.

More to drown out his thoughts—That Meg girl lured them into danger just to get to me, they could have died, a trap set for me, this is all my fault, sins of the father—than for any desire to listen to music, John fumbled with the radio dial until a country station crackled through the stifling air inside the truck. His headache (from being used as a piñata for shadow demons) intensified.

Am I a bad father?

Slowing as he approached a red light, John glanced left and right to find the street completely deserted. Sighing, he reached over into the glove compartment for something with which he might wipe the drying blood from his face. What his gnarled fingers latched onto was small, square, and plastic. He grunted in amusement as he read the side of the tape: AC/DC—the tape Dean had given him months ago, which he had stashed in the glove compartment and forgotten about.

As he waited for the light to change, John pulled out the cassette and popped it into the player. A relatively mellow song started playing, and while John didn't bother keeping up-to-date on Dean's taste in music, he knew that it wasn't AC/DC.

"New blood joins this earth

And quickly he's subdued

Through constant pain disgrace

The young boy learns their rules."

The song did nothing to augment his headache, so he left it on as the light turned green and he sped down the street, torn between wanting desperately to get away from Chicago and turn around to find his sons. To apologize for being a bad father. For leading them into danger over and over again for the past twenty-two years.

But the thing that made his gut churn was that he didn't regret it; and were he given the chance to go back and do things again, he'd make all the same decisions. The fact was simply that there was darkness and evil in the world; the Winchesters needed to be there to destroy it. And he desperately needed to find Mary's killer. It had grown to an insatiable hunger, ripping at him with his every move and thought.

Yes, he would make all the same decisions. His boys needed to be prepared; perhaps they had missed a few vital life lessons along the way, but they sure learned a hell of a lot about defending themselves.

Does that make me a bad father?

He wound the truck through several more side-streets as he pulled away from the city and onto a long stretch of highway.

"He's battled constantly

This fight he cannot win."

Everything he had ever done had been to protect his boys. How could it have harmed them in any way?

How could Sam look so beaten? How could Dean looks so unhappy?

How had he done this to his sons?

How could they ever forgive him?

"A tired man they see no longer cares

The old man then prepares

To die regretfully

That old man here is me."

He had taught them many things indeed. Well, he had taught Dean many things, at least—Sam hardly listened enough to learn from him. But he understood the roundabout way he had of reaching his youngest. He couldn't get to him directly, but everything he'd taught Dean had its way of finding Sam. Sam listened to Dean. And Dean listened to John.

He hoped he had taught Dean well.

There were many unorthodox things he'd taught Dean (and, transitively, Sam). As he peeled down the highway, he made a mental list of some of the more unusual or helpful ones.

1. We do what we do and we shut up about it.

2. Shoot first, ask questions later.

3. Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable.

4. Fifty push-ups a day keeps the digging cramps at bay.

5. Always know what kind of monster you're dealing with.

6. Lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill.

7. Keep a knife at the ready, no matter where you are.

8. Know when you're being watched and who's watching you.

9. A little lighter fluid goes a long way.

10. Driver picks the music.

John grinned wryly at the thought of that last one. He wondered if Dean had passed that information onto Sam yet. Knowing his sons, he probably had. He silently apologized to his youngest for the music selection.

But rather than lifting his spirits, the list only dampened them. Those were the kinds of things he had taught his sons. How many of those had anything to do with life? Or, at least, life as John had once known it, before Mary… Did his sons adjust well when they came into contact with aspects of "normal" life? Why should any father have to ask that question? God, did he even know his sons?

"What I've felt

What I've known

Never shined through in what I've shown

Never be

Never see

Won't see what might have been."

But he did know his sons. Sam was an honest, hot-headed, intelligent boy who was skillful in combat with a knife and wanted to be a lawyer. Dean was a cocky, lonely, guns-blazing smartass who listened to rock music and missed his mother.

He knew his boys. He knew them enough to know that he was not their favorite person right now. He only hoped that they would someday understand how very, very sorry he was. He had taught them a great many things; yet there were even more things that he had failed to teach them. He had made so many mistakes. He knew that he was not a good father. And he was sorry.

"Never free

Never me

So I dub thee Unforgiven."

He wished he could have been a better father.

Forgive me, boys.

THE END