"I want to know what happened after I went to Hell."

Finally bringing it up had been simultaneously incredibly hard and incredibly easy. John knew, of course, that he was opening a can of worms he wasn't sure he could handle, any more than he'd been able to deal with Dean's earlier confessions. He also knew he'd have to eat crow. Apologize, even. But in all honesty, he'd been bursting to do just that since his temper had cooled. Hell, he'd been so unsure of how to talk to Dean again that he was actually a little glad the hell hound torn into him. Though his shoulder throbbed viciously enough to turn his stomach, and he was far from thrilled about lacking the use of his left arm until they got out, John sensed—and more importantly, thought Dean sensed too—that they were back in what had once been familiar territory. Surviving. Needing each other.

That they lacked familiar ground at all, now, was still hard to process. John knew his temper was short under the best of circumstances, and shorter still when he was under pressure or facing the unknown…conditions that had regrettably lasted for most of his boys' childhoods. Hell, in the years after Mary died, he'd been a walking short fuse, bad news for monsters but often worse news for the people around him. He'd recognized the problems it caused while his kids were little. He'd alienated well-meaning folks like Bobby Singer, butted heads with Sam though he was the adult and should have known better, and occasionally exploded at Dean though his eldest had done nothing wrong. But then, he'd had the benefit of near-constant contact with his boys to make it up to them in other ways. And at least until Sammy had run off to school, he thought he'd done all right. His boys had turned out as happy, healthy, and devoted to family as hunters could be.

But that had been more than a hundred Hell-years ago for John, and nearly half that for Dean. Even if his boy had been totally willing to pick up where they'd left off, John would have hardly known where to start. Hell, he'd been away so long he barely remembered how to be a person, let alone a father, let alone the man Dean had once known and admired. He'd let his uncertainty and anger take over as they always did, and he'd pushed Dean even further away from anything they might have considered familiar ground.

Now that they were on the verge of getting out of this stinking place, though, John couldn't take it longer. He wanted to fix things with Dean for the sake of fixing them, but also because soon he was going to have to face Sam again for the first time since arguing over what to do for Dean, sending Sam away, and leaving the mortal plane for what he'd thought would be eternity. If he couldn't patch things up here with Dean, the steadfast, loyal son, there wasn't a shot in hell he'd ever get back to normal with Sammy. He could still see an echo of the old Dean in his son's attempts to pacify everyone, after all, but Sam had never had even that, and if he'd grown as disillusioned of John as Dean apparently had...

"You want to talk about Hell," Dean said. His unusually tentative tone made him seem younger. "You sure?"

"It's about time," John said.

Dean nodded, then looked down to pick his way around a bush growing into the trail. "Well, I did tell you most of it," he said to the ground. "Except when Sam got stabbed in that ghost town, he died. I couldn't take him being gone so I made a deal and it all went south from there."

John inhaled slowly, dampening the reflexive feeling of injustice that came from knowing his tenure in Hell, a century of getting beaten and burned and broken and torn apart piece by piece while Alastair laughed, again and again and again and again, had all been for nothing. "Why'd you do it?"

"Seriously?" Dean sounded surprised and looked up at him, brow scrunched. "Sammy was dead. Why the hell d'you think I did it?"

"I'll tell you why I did," John said. It was as if some part of him thought that if Dean could understand his reasons, maybe he could understand Dean's.

Dean licked his lips. His voice was bitter. "You already told me. I was dying and you needed someone to look out for Sammy."

"No," John said, watching the surprise that flickered across Dean's face. "If you'd died, Dean, I'd've done whatever had to be done." He took a deep breath, though the movement made his shoulder throb harder. He recalled that Dean had been hurt and he'd been in a sling the last time he'd tried to have a heart-to-heart. Only this wasn't just long overdue, this was something he'd never in a million years thought he'd be in the position to tell. "Son," he said, waiting until Dean met his eyes again to go on. "Son, I sold my soul for you because everything that happened was my fault."

Dean looked doubtful and shook his head slightly. Hardly the reaction John had been expecting. John gritted his teeth, feeling his shoulder throb, and wondered if he'd misjudged the situation.

"You were possessed, Dad," Dean reminded him. "It wasn't you."

As if John hadn't known that already. As if he hadn't relived those hours a thousand times in his own mind while Alastair had peeled the skin from his body.

"That's not what I mean." John shifted his arm in his sling, grimacing more at Dean's lack of understanding than at the pain, though that was a bitch too. "I let myself get captured. I rushed into that fight because I wanted to end it once and for all but the truth is, I shouldn't've let any of it happen. I should've been looking out for you and Sam. ...I didn't go down to that basement looking to die. But my soul for your life seemed a pretty fair price. "

Dean blinked, his lips parting slightly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. It tugged painfully at something in John that his eldest would find the remnants of John's guilt so surprising. "I didn't know you blamed yourself," Dean said quietly.

John nodded tightly. "Yeah," he said. "So. Why'd you do it?"

Dean glanced up the path toward the vampire, then quickly back at Cas, as if to assess whether either of them might be listening in. As far as John could tell they were out of earshot, human earshot anyway.

"Sam's been my responsibility since I was four years old," Dean said finally, in a soft, resigned tone. "Came down to it, I didn't have a choice."

"Maybe not." John sighed, then added what he was fairly sure Dean was implying. "I made you his keeper. That's on me too."

Dean shook his head wearily, glancing over to meet John's gaze for a moment. "Come on Dad. All I mean is I wasn't throwing away what you did for me. I thought…Hell, I thought it was what you'd want."

"You were wrong," John said.

He loved his sons equally, always had. But it had taken him far too long to realize he had no idea how to show it, and by then it had been too late. He'd always needed Dean too much to show him the same tenderness he'd afforded Sammy, and when it came down to it, it made perfect sense that Dean would think John would rather have Sam alive than Dean. But to make that right he'd need far more than a vague apology, and he just couldn't find the words to say.

"Guess I was," Dean said.

"It doesn't matter now," John decided gruffly, then cast about for something, anything, else to talk about. "Tell me about Hell. After you made the deal. Alastair's offer."

Dean looked surprised at the change in topic but nodded. "Sure. I took it. Thirty years in. Tortured souls for ten more." The path beneath their feet had grown rockier since they'd begun talking, and all of a sudden he found it fascinating.

John took a breath to respond, and discovered that he didn't want to talk about it any more. There were too many memories already swimming close to the surface, threatening to enclose him again—the darkness and the heat, the stench of death and fear and hopelessness, Alastair's cackle and the unremitting agony. That Dean had joined the ranks of those laughing demons tearing into him and a million other human souls…some things, there was no forgiving. He wanted to stop right there and tell him the conversation was over, but it was only willpower born of his desperation that kept him trudging along, looking straight ahead.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean said.

John looked at him, working to keep his own expression neutral. "It's…" It wasn't okay, but with a monumental effort he forced back a hundred years' pain and terror and rage. "It's done."

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, sounding choked. "Really. I am."

"Forget it," John said. "I mean that."

"Okay," Dean said simply.

As they walked on in silence, however, John couldn't help but feel that he'd achieved something important. If they could make it past that...then maybe, just maybe, things would be okay. He could patch things up with Dean and then with Sam and then they could go back to their lives. They could be a family again.

It was that thought that made him take as deep a breath as his shoulder would allow, smile, and say in an even tone, "So about this apocalypse..."

Dean's relief was palpable, and John could see the tension go out of his shoulders immediately. "Yeah," he said, returning John's smile faintly. "Yeah, that was something."

John nodded. "Tell me about it."

As they walked on, Dean filled him in on what he'd omitted, his and Sam's hunt for Lilith to break Dean's deal, how Dean's going to Hell had kicked off the apocalypse and Sam's final revenge on Lilith had finished it. Then there was Sam's year and a half without a soul, Cas's betrayal and the clusterfuck that followed, their alliance with the King of Hell. It was all unbelievable, and his sons had certainly made mistakes, but he'd be damned if he wasn't proud of what they'd done. He asked few questions, willing to let Dean tell the story as he chose.

The only exception was when Dean discussed his foray into family life with Lisa and Ben, because he just couldn't help himself.

"Did you like it?" he interrupted, not sure what answer he was hoping for. "You know. Playing Dad to this kid?"

Dean looked at him with hooded eyes. "I…" He sighed. "Yeah. I did. I really did."

"Would you go back?" John asked.

Dean snorted derisively and gestured around at the forest. "And drag them into this? Nah. Even if I could, Dad, I have a choice. And this life is no place for a kid."

"No, it's not," John agreed sadly.

For the most part, though, it went more smoothly than John had expected. After Hell, there was little Dean could say to shock him, and even less that could spark the bone-deep rage that still rose in him at the thought of it. He doubted some of Dean's judgments, of course, and had trouble believing what Sam had done, drinking demon's blood. But Dean insisted his little brother had done it for the right reasons, and with the possibility of their all being together again looming on the horizon, John was willing to let it slide.

The angel butted in around the time Dean brought him into the story, apparently unable to keep up the pretense of not listening in once his own reputation was at stake. But Cas had rarely pointed out anything but his own failures, when Dean tried to gloss over them. It was Dean who apparently viewed the angel through the rosy-eyed glasses of friendship, or family, or whatever the hell they'd had going on between them before the angel had left him here. John appreciated the angel's bluntness, at the very least, and had to grudgingly suppose that Dean hadn't totally failed in his choice of friends.

Benny was another story. He seemed friendly enough, but John knew from experience that friendliness could mask a multitude of sins. Especially when that friendliness centered on the one person he needed to get what he wanted, but failed to extend to the rest of them. He'd saved Cas but had been willing to let John die, and if it hadn't been for Dean's quick intervention John knew he'd be hell hound chow by now. He was sure that once back in the world the vampire would return to hunting humans, like any of his kind.

They kept going until the shadows tightened and lengthened again—one final push until they were free, the angel could heal Dean's side and his damn shoulder, and they could find Sam and be a family again. Cas and Benny took on most of the fighting, as both John and Dean focused more and more on putting one foot in front of the other. The agony in John's shoulder had reached a new tenor, sapping his strength and concentration and making him stumble over nothing. Though he wouldn't complain, especially not in front of the vampire, or his son for that matter, he was fairly sure he shared Dean's expression of pure relief when Benny finally halted and looked around.

"What is it?" Dean asked tiredly. "Monsters?"

"Nah," Benny drawled, a slow smile crossing his face. "Fellas, we're gettin' close."