Posted this the second I finished writing it, no read-through, no editing, so all typos and weird phrasing is my personal suckage and not the fault of my editor!
When DJ was little, he used to tell people he had two dads.
He still remembers the widened eyes of most people, since their area was pretty much Small Town, America back then. The polite smiles, or the frowns. And then the confusion when they actually met his parents.
It took DJ forever to get it. Of course he had Mom. And Dad. And his other dad too, Dad's brother, the one whose rhythm ran through their lives stronger than any living heartbeat could.
Why wasn't it true to say that?
DJ knew his face from the second he did his own parents'. The pictures all over the house made sure of that. He had his music, he had his name. And thanks to Dad, he had his memories. Everything Dad knew about his brother, DJ's uncle, he told him. Story after story of bravery and heroics and sacrifice where other kids had Rapunzel and Snow White at bedtime, and the kind of antics and human failings that still make DJ wish he could have known the guy the way his dad did.
Part of him's still glad he didn't, though. Because the look in Dad's eyes as he talked, the lines on his face, the note in his voice...DJ was so afraid of ever feeling loss and pain that deep, when he was young. If he's being honest with himself, he still is.
It's like the first and last time Dad took him out to sit in that car with him. DJ wasn't very old, maybe...seven or eight? When he started to cry, he could see on Dad's face he knew he'd made a mistake. But DJ wasn't scared of the car itself, with its lingering smell of sweat and gunpowder. He wasn't afraid his uncle was somehow in there, because Dad had explained the car to him and he knew she wouldn't do that to her owner. It was because of what he saw in Dad's face. What he felt from him. It was terrifying.
It kind of makes him wonder how Mom did it. Their marriage wasn't perfect, but even though he's old enough to see that now, DJ also knows they loved each other. They were best friends, and they loved him, and maybe she was just...okay with it. That she wasn't her husband's first and greatest love. That she wasn't going to be able to replace him. That even dead, and with Dad having made damn sure nothing of him was hanging around, he was the fourth person in their house.
Dad didn't ever lie to DJ. To either of them. About anything. DJ used to resent him for that. He really hated him, in his teens. He doesn't anymore, is even faintly ashamed of it now, because he knows he would have been even madder if he'd kept things from him.
He never took him hunting until after DJ was out of college, ink still drying on his dual degrees in Mythology and Criminology. He kept things age-appropriate when he was growing up. And he made damn sure DJ knew he had what he didn't: a choice.
Or at least he told himself that he did, and yeah, maybe there's still a little bit of that resentment left. Because he's not sure he did have a choice, or that he was given one. After all, who's he named after?
He remembers when he first came home from his first solo hunt, knowing he'd made his decision and it was the right one. He had his hair cut short, a couple fresh scars on one shoulder, and the same sigil Dad had on his chest inked into his right forearm, flannel rolled up so Dad could see it. When he walked into the kitchen to tell him, Dad stumbled against the counter and dropped the bowl he was holding, lettuce fanning everywhere, cherry tomatoes bouncing.
He didn't look like he'd seen a ghost. He was used to ghosts. This was something else.
"Shit - sorry." DJ knelt to gather up veggies. "I thought you heard me come in."
"No, I did." A smile twitched across Dad's face. He took a deep breath, took his glasses off. "It's just...your hair's darker, but…" Another breath, shakier, and he swallowed. "You looked just like him. For a second."
That's one of a few reasons DJ wears his hair long.
He knew. His whole life, he knew. Dad made sure he did. About the man who saved the world, over and over again, the entire reason DJ was ever even born, and the guilty intimation there was that Sam never would have married Mom if he hadn't died. His namesake. His uncle, Dean.
It felt right, when the time came. The words coming so easy. Dad didn't tell DJ what he said, that very last time. When Dean died, and he didn't come back, because Dad finally let him go. He didn't tell him until DJ was twenty-nine, at least, and Mom was gone, and Dad was a little drunk, and DJ told him he wanted to hear about it. The one story Dad never told him.
He told him about the demon blood, about college, about Amelia and Purgatory. He told him everything, but never that, because losing Dean was worse for him than every single personal failing put together and multiplied. That's how Dad always weighed pain, and DJ knew it. Knows it.
He repeated it to him. What Dad told his brother. He let him go, knew he wouldn't try to get him back.
Now, DJ holds the hand that used to pick him up, ruffle his hair, tuck him in at night. Even when he was older, almost as tall as he was, Dad's hands always look huge to him. But it feels small now. Weak, with the monitor still flatlining. Just a body. Dad didn't stick around for a minute, and DJ has to wonder if he even waited for the reaper. He kind of hopes he did, he didn't have a great sense of direction. Maybe that's what happens when you spend most of your life letting someone else be the driver, pick the music.
DJ holds Dad's hand until it starts going cool. There will be people to call, lots of people. Not a lot of Dad's original friends are left, but he made new ones, plenty. He was that kind of guy. They'll want to come, when DJ builds the pyre, gives him a hunter's funeral. He will give a eulogy. He will tell everybody it was a good death, quiet, peaceful, his son at his side, the sort of death he deserved. Even if everyone will know, without saying, it wasn't the one he wanted, because it came thirty-odd years too late.
For now, though, DJ turns off the machines. He walks into the kitchen, makes coffee, puts a liberal splash of whiskey in it. He doesn't drink it. He's still there when Keith comes back from his grocery run.
He knows DJ well, he can immediately tell something's wrong. "What happened? Your dad okay?"
"Uh." DJ shakes his head. "No, he...he actually went." He smiles at Keith, tears in his eyes. "While you were out."
"Fuck." Keith slides into the seat across from him, takes DJ's hand. The same one he held his Dad's with. He squeezes hard. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you call me?"
"It was okay. It was quick. I mean...not like I wasn't expecting it." They've been here a few weeks now, and DJ's had time to get used to it, even if it came on pretty suddenly. Dad was healthy as a horse for years and years, all that jogging and salad really paying off.
He's gonna rub that in, when he gets where he's going. DJ knows he is.
"Still. I'm sorry." Keith holds DJ's hand for a long time, then gets up, goes to pour whiskey into his coffee.
"I already put some in."
"You need some more, dude."
DJ smirks a little. He doesn't drink much...less than the average hunter, at least. He's on the quieter side, he knows, and he likes to read. His dad passed on his love of running.
Keith doesn't run unless he's being chased, which is frequently. He likes loud music from decades ago, and beer, and greasy food. If DJ didn't make their bed, it wouldn't get made, but Keith takes good care of the weapons. He and Dad hit it off the second they met.
Patterns repeat. Sometimes it's bad, sometimes it's good, but they repeat, even when it's unintentional. DJ knows that from Dad's stories.
Keith helps him with what needs to be done. DJ appreciates it. He's still exhausted when they slip into the front seat of their car, ready to go, but not as bad as he would be if he'd been alone.
The leather feels familiar and welcome under him, more comfortable even than his childhood bed. Like she's welcoming him back, offering him what comfort she can; like she knows what happened. Keith loves this car, with its sharp black curves and rattling heater, but he's all thumbs with machines, same as DJ's dad. Good thing Dean's name wasn't the only thing DJ got from him; he thinks he can keep her running another fifty, sixty years, at least. Long enough to pass her on to somebody else who knows what they're doing.
Or let her go. If that's what she wants.
They sit in silence for a while. Then Keith clears his throat, looks over at DJ.
"So," he starts quietly. "How you holding up, man?"
"Well…" DJ takes a deep breath.
"Sorry. That's a shitty question."
"No. No, I'm…" DJ finds himself smiling. He turns the keys in the ignition. "I'm okay."
Keith squints at him. "Really?"
"Yeah."
DJ turns the radio on. Kansas blares.
"I know where he went."