Thanks be to Jack, it's finished! 7 months. 22 chapters. 40,000+ words. I would love to read comments about your thoughts and feelings on the road so far, and to answer any questions you might have for me; I do my best to respond promptly (though there isn't the option to reply to guest comments). If you've enjoyed the fic, please feel free to Follow or Favorite!

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DJ had read about dissociation, had studied it in school; his mind was trying to protect itself, to compartmentalize all the pain and grief and fear that was threatening to overwhelm him. It fucking sucked. His whole body was shaking as he came down off the adrenaline high, and he couldn't stop no matter what he did. The world had gone a little grey around the edges; he was missing chunks of time and his thoughts were disjointed and nonsequential.

"Dean, that's enough," Dad had said, tugging the Colt firmly out of his grasp after he'd emptied the goddamn clip; he'd gone on pulling the trigger even after the bullets were spent.

Violet had screamed, then cried, cradling David's body as she was slowly encircled by her former pack members, just like that chick from West Side Story .

"I'm so sorry—really, I am—but you guys have to go, now ," Ennis had urged. "I'll do my best to buy you some time, but the Duvals and Lassiters will both be out for blood."

The remaining Fitzgeralds had clung to each other, keening in agony until dad hauled Garth up and away from his son's body, insisting that he keep the keys to DJ's van and get his family the hell out of there. DJ had vague impressions of being manhandled into the passenger seat of his dad's car.

"Are you hurt?" Dad had asked, feeling for injuries. "Dean, look at me! Were you bitten ?"

"M'fine," he'd mumbled, tongue thick and uncooperative in his mouth, swatting his dad's hands away. "Take care of Cass."

Wait—was that before, or after? In the warehouse or in the car? DJ didn't know, and trying to piece it together was making his head ache. He rested his forehead on his folded arms, closing his eyes.

"Hey, no," Dad said quietly. "Let's get you cleaned up a little bit, and then you can sleep."

DJ groaned as dad knelt down beside the motel table—an unfamiliar table; dad's motel?—but he offered no resistance as his blood-soaked shirt, coat, and jeans were stripped away.

"I know," Dad murmured, voice tight, as he ran a damp rag over DJ's hands and arms. "I know, buddy. I'm sorry."

It wasn't the most efficient sponge bath, but dad seemed relieved to find that at least none of the blood was DJ's own. DJ shuddered at that thought, pulling away as dad tried to wipe off his face and neck.

"All right, then," the older man relented, setting the washcloth aside with a sigh. "Will you be okay on your own while I wash up?"

DJ managed a grunt of acknowledgement, shivering as he put his head back down. Dad hovered for a minute, then shuffled across the carpet to retrieve a fresh set of clothes and something that crinkled from one of his bags.

"Here," he said, dropping a package of peanut M&Ms on the table. "You should try to eat something; I think you're in shock."

Fortified by a small handful of candy-coated chocolate, DJ dragged himself over to his duffel to find his own clean clothes while his dad was in the shower, scrubbing away the worst of the gore. He still felt a bit wobbly, but the sugar really did help. Once the task was done—pull up the zipper, fasten the buttons, roll back the cuffs, lace the boots—he sat down on the edge of the bed, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his folded hands. He wondered, heart aching, whether Garth and Bess would give Cass a hunter's funeral. The last time DJ stood vigil around a pyre, he'd barely been old enough to understand its significance. It was so much more than just the ceremonial mourning of a loss; it was the solemn severing of every earthly tie in order to clear a departed soul's path to the afterlife, whether that be Heaven or Hell.

"Goddamnit!" He yelled abruptly, jumping to his feet as his blood ran cold.

Half-dressed and dripping, dad lurched back out of the bathroom with a knife in one hand, alarmed by DJ's sudden outburst.

"Fuck!" DJ shoved both hands into his hair, pacing erratically. "Dad, we have to do something; we have to get him back. Cass doesn't belong in Purgatory; he's not a monster!"

"Dean…" Dad paused, closing his eyes and taking a measured breath. "We can't."

"What do you mean, we can't?" DJ snapped, whirling to face him. "Of course we can; you've done it before."

"Yeah, I have," Dad said soberly, grimacing and rubbing his temple. "I've been down this road so many times , Dean, and it never ends well."

"We have to try!" DJ insisted.

"What we have to do," the older man responded calmly, visibly steeling himself, "is head up to the packhouse to be there for Garth and Bess; they just lost their son. Sam just lost his brother. They need us."

"No one's lost anything yet!" DJ nearly shouted, shaking his head violently. "We can still get him back!"

Dad's hands descended on his shoulders, holding him in place so that he could look DJ in the eye; his own were full of unshed tears.

"Listen to me," he said roughly, voice breaking a little. "I know that you're hurting, and that pain… it never goes away, not really. But you can't let it make you do stupid things, Dean; believe me when I say that there are worse things than dying."

"Oh, that is such bullshit coming from you!" DJ took a step back and threw off his dad's touch, disbelieving and livid. "How many times, dad!? How many times did you guys break every rule in the fucking universe to bring each other back, huh!?"

It was dangerous, this topic—usually avoided at all costs, in true Winchester fashion—but just now DJ was too pissed off to care.

"That was…" Dad made a frustrated sound, self-control slipping. "That was different."

"The hell it was!" DJ countered, bunching his fists. "'Family don't end in blood;' isn't that what you always say? Cass is family, dad; we can't just give up on him!"

"You think—you really think that I wouldn't help, just because—" Dad faltered, genuinely taken aback. "That has nothing to do with it."

"Then what!? What, dad!? Give me one good reason!"

It took dad a minute to get his shit together, setting the knife down on the table and bracing his hands against the back of a chair.

"You're right, Dean," he said, head down and breath ragged. "We did save each other; saved the world, even. But not until after we shot it all to hell because we couldn't let each other go. The things we did, the choices we made… innocent people always paid the price. We should have stopped, or someone should have stopped us; hell, people tried!"

Under any other circumstances, the catch in dad's voice and the hitch of his shoulders would have given DJ pause. But desperation and despair were clawing viciously at his insides, shredding any traces of empathy or compassion they found there.

"My father always came for you," he spat treacherously. "Even when you didn't do the same for him."

That was a low blow, DJ knew. They didn't fucking talk about this; they didn't need to, because it didn't make any difference. Sam Winchester was his dad, in every way that mattered. He had been the one to rock DJ to sleep and check for monsters under his bed, to dry his tears and doctor his scraped knees, to pin his report cards to the refrigerator and teach him his Latin declensions, to coach his Little League team and show him how to hold his own in a fight. Even when he was a stupid teenage shithead all hopped up on hormones, he'd never weaponized the knowledge like this—never flung it in dad's face the way he was doing now—but a savage sort of satisfaction unfurled in his chest, overshadowing any lurking shame, as the elder Winchester's expression crumbled.

"Dean," Dad's voice was strained, tears spilling over at last.

"Stop fucking calling me that!" DJ exploded, his own voice cracking as he finally reached his breaking point. "I didn't sign up to be a replacement for your dead brother!"

In all of DJ's twenty-one years, his dad had never laid a hand on him in anger. So the hit, when it came, was utterly unexpected. DJ saw stars as dad's mean right hook cracked across his jaw and knocked him on his ass, rattling his teeth in his skull. He lay there stunned, sprawled out on the carpet and tasting blood in his mouth, as his dad loomed over him.

"No one could ever replace my brother," Dad hissed, trembling with barely-contained rage. " You could never ."

The words hung heavy in the air between them as they glared at one another, panting furiously. DJ tongued at his split lip, but he didn't dare get up; dad's nostrils flared with every breath as he tried to rein himself back in.

"I need some air," he forced out at last, becoming a blur of motion as he dragged a shirt over his head and jammed his feet into his boots. "Don't wait up."

Dad slammed the door behind him with a thunderous bang, prompting the occupant of the adjoining room to pound on the wall and scream at them to keep it down. Staying down probably wasn't the worst idea, DJ reflected muzzily, bell thoroughly rung; the entire left side of his face was fucking throbbing, and the room was still spinning. A wave of nausea propelled him upright, his mouth flooding with saliva as he scrambled into the bathroom to retch miserably into the sink.

"Ugh, gross," he muttered to himself, reaching out to turn on the faucet.

DJ splashed cold water over his face before cupping a handful and raising it to his mouth to rinse and spit, feeling queasy all over again at the sight of the pink-tinged water swirling down the drain. His eyes skittered away, catching instead on his own reflection in the mirror above the sink. He looked like complete shit, eyes bloodshot and skin still streaked with blood, sweat, and tears despite dad's ministrations and his own perfunctory wash. DJ gingerly prodded at his cheek, which was already beginning to swell, wincing as he did so; that was definitely going to bruise.

"Jesus Christ," he grumbled, letting out a plosive breath as he tugged the med kit across the counter to dig out the ibuprofen and arnica gel.

A soft, metallic plink let him know that he had knocked something into the sink; he grabbed for it quickly before it, too, could disappear down the drain. DJ opened his fist to find the enigmatic brass face of a nameless horned god glistening wetly in the palm of his hand; nestled alongside it, slingstone-hitched to the same strand of leather with a length of scarlet ribbon, was a skeleton key inscribed with the Aquarian star. Dad had never been willing to run the risk of leaving the bunker key unguarded in storage or in hiding; he kept it on his person at all times. Except, apparently, when he bathed.

DJ stared down at the Key to the Order of Letters, ears ringing and thoughts racing. It was freezing outside, and his dad hadn't bothered with socks or a coat; he couldn't have gone far, and he could be back any second. DJ was already packed; leaving would only be a matter of shouldering his duffel and fishing the car keys out of dad's coat pocket. There was no time to consider whether or not this was a good idea; it was the only one he had, and if he was gonna do this, he had to go right now .

"Fuck it," DJ whispered determinedly, squaring up his shoulders as he slipped the amulet cord over his head. "Hold on, Cass, I'm coming."

His dad was nowhere in sight as DJ jerked open the driver's side door and shoved his bag across the center console before sliding behind the wheel and cranking the engine. He spared a few precious seconds to punch Sam's number into his phone, letting it ring as he twisted in his seat to watch the back window while he reversed.

"Answer your fucking phone!" he swore at his friend's voicemail, turning around and putting the car in drive. "Meet me in Lebanon as soon as you get this, and tell your family not to light Cass up; I've got a plan to get him back."

The tires squealed on the slippery asphalt as DJ hit the gas, peeling out of the parking lot and pointing his headlights toward the highway.


Whatsoever I've feared has come to life
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life
Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile
Sunspots have faded and now I'm doing time
Now I'm doing time

'Cause I fell on black days
Fell on black days

Whomsoever I've cured, I've sickened now
Whomsoever I've cradled, I've put you down
I'm a searchlight soul they say but I can't see it in the night
I'm only faking when I get it right
When I get it right

'Cause I fell on black days
Fell on black days

How would I know this could be my fate?

"Fell on Black Days," by Soundgarden, 1994.

It's Winchester Complicated™ y'all!

I'll begin publishing the sequel, "Nightshade," as soon as I've got a few more of the major plot points ironed out; I won't keep you waiting too long!