John hit the ground hard, biting back a cry of pain when he reflexively threw out both hands to break his fall and caught too much weight on his torn shoulder. His lip was split where Dean had hit him and he looked more surprised than anything. Dean stood over him, shaky with anger, refusing to be moved by the pathetic picture of his father on his knees, bloody and bruised, clutching his arm to his chest and staring up at Dean with mixed confusion and betrayal as if, well, as if Dean had just punched him hard enough to send him to the ground.
"Dean," John tried again, his eyes closing with emotion or the effort of forcing the words out or maybe both.
"No, Dad." He wasn't going to let him finish. Dean had had enough of this, enough of letting his dad walk all over him and make decisions without him with no regard for what Dean thought or wanted or felt. He let the anger carry over into his words, his voice rough and heavy. "No. You do not get to tell me that that was the right thing to do or for my own good or whatever the hell excuse you had. I gave Benny my word I would get him out of there. Damn it Dad, Benny was my friend." He was panting by the time he stopped, his ribs aching, and had to reign in the urge to punch John again or grab him and shake him and throw him to the ground.
John straightened up slightly, wincing but watching Dean carefully. "I know he was your friend."
"Okay," Dean snarled through clenched teeth. "Great. That's not better."
"He was a vampire," John insisted, his voice still infuriatingly calm, as if Dean's outburst was a tantrum not worth responding to. "He couldn't be trusted."
Dean stared at him, disbelieving. "It wasn't your call to make."
"Bastard was in my arm," John said. "I think it was."
"You were going to take Cas," Dean realized, horrified. Of course there had been a catch. Dad didn't play nice with creatures, end of story. "Was that the plan all along? Dump Cas back in Purgatory then, what, gank Benny the second we got out?"
"No," John said forcefully, then gritted his teeth and started climbing to his feet so they were eye to eye again. Dean watched him struggle but didn't help him up. "No, Dean, that wasn't the plan. But once the vampire was in me, I couldn't do it. Knew I couldn't rest knowing I'd brought one more of his kind down on humanity."
"Benny gets his blood from the friggin' Red Cross," Dean snapped. "What exactly did you think you were bringing down on us?"
"That's what he told you," John snapped, finally incensed. "He was obviously using you to get out."
"I trusted him," Dean gritted.
John met his gaze, and his voice was hard. "I didn't." For a moment they just stared at each other. "Are you going to hit me again?"
"Am I…" Dean turned away suddenly, breathing hard, needing just a little space from this. When he turned back around again John was still watching him, gimp arm clutched to his chest. "Dad, if you had done that to Cas…" he trailed off, not even sure what would have happened. Anyone else, he might've killed right there. But Dad?
"I wasn't going to leave Cas," John insisted. "You said he's family. I respect that."
Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. His forearm was still glowing slightly where Cas had gone in. "This isn't over," he warned.
He could see John's fingers tighten around the bicep of his bad arm. "Didn't think it was."
"How could you…" Dean started, then snapped his mouth shut. Truth was, he knew exactly what John had been thinking. Benny, vampire. Vampire, monster. Monster, bad. It was exactly how Dean might've reacted years ago—hell, how he had reacted years ago, along with Dad's old buddy Gordon, until Sam had set him straight—to learning that between good and evil there were shades of, well, not-so-good, and not-so-evil. The world his dad had left behind had been far more black-and-white than the one he and Sam had discovered over the years. And he didn't doubt that John thought he'd done the right thing.
"I'm sorry, Dean," John said again, and he truly sounded it.
Dean set his jaw. "I'm letting Cas out," he said tightly. "If you try anything…" he let the threat hang, still not sure what he would do.
"I won't," John promised.
Dean didn't find it particularly comforting. He remembered how once upon a time he'd trusted his father implicitly, following every order without question. Now, he couldn't fathom it. Still, he had nothing left to say to John that wouldn't involve probably punching him again, and the skin on his arm was starting to pulse, as if impatient. "Gimme the knife," he growled.
His dad handed it to him without protest. It was still slick with blood and Dean forced back another wave of anger, drawing it across his own forearm instead. The agony that ripped through his arm as the white-blue light flowed out sent him to his knees clutching at it, again, and he yelled as his vision went white. He was gasping by the time it cleared. John had put a hand on his shoulder again but he shrugged it off violently, looking around for Cas.
He could have melted with relief when he saw Cas standing to the side, blinking slowly as if he wasn't quite sure where he was or what had happened. Without thinking Dean pushed himself to his feet, covered the distance between them in a stride and wrapped his arms around Cas in a tight embrace, burying his chin in Cas's shoulder.
Cas stood stiffly, obviously confused. "Dean?"
Dean let him go, stepping back. "Cas," he said. "You made it."
Cas looked around with narrowed eyes, his gaze stopping on John for a few seconds before returning to Dean. "I did. Why isn't Benny here?"
"Because I left him in Purgatory," John said before Dean could even think of how to put his father's betrayal in words. "I didn't trust him. It's done."
Cas's eyes widened slightly, and he turned to Dean. "Did you know about this?"
Dean let out a breath. "Of course I didn't friggin' know about this," he said. "Hell, I'm just glad he didn't do it to you."
Cas did look alarmed now, backing a step away from John though it was clear he posed no threat. "Did he intend to?"
"No," John snapped, sounding annoyed. His lip was beginning to swell where Dean had hit him. "No, I didn't. I didn't believe in angels until a few weeks ago. But I know vampires. Last hunt me and Dean went on, we nearly got wasted by a nest of 'em. They almost killed Sam."
"And Benny has saved my life more times than I can count," Dean argued. "Saved Cas's too."
"Not mine," John said.
"Because you treated him like a monster the whole damn time!" Dean could feel his fists balling again, and he took several breaths, as deeply as he could though pain from his ribs wrapped around his chest with each one.
"He is a monster," John insisted through gritted teeth. "I did what's best for all of us."
"All of us except Benny."
"Hey!" Cas cut in loudly before John could retort. "Can this wait?"
"Not if Dean wants to do this right here," John said, squaring to face him again.
Dean snorted. "What, you want to fight me?"
"Dean!" Cas said again, more forcefully, moving to stand between them but addressing Dean. "This is pointless. Benny is gone."
Benny was gone. It wasn't that he hadn't known it but hearing it aloud, and from Cas no less, made it that much more real. And with that his desire to hurt John again fled, replaced by a hollow feeling of loss, one he knew far too well, that sucked at his gut and made him tired. He was pissed, of course, but Dad had left Benny behind and now there was nothing Dean could do to bring him back. All the exhaustion and pain of the last few weeks—hell, of the last six months—flooded back to him and he swayed suddenly, putting a palm to his aching forehead. "I know he's gone," he muttered.
John just watched him, his brows drawn together and his mouth a tight line.
He was aware of Cas sighing beside him. A touch to his cheek later and the pain dissipated, his ribs as whole and strong as they'd ever been, though he still wanted to lie down and not get up for at least a month. He straightened up, testing his limbs and finding them pain-free, as Cas approached John.
"I'm going to heal you now," he told him.
John looked skeptical but nodded slightly. "Bout damn time."
Cas touched his forehead in response, and a moment later John was rolling his repaired shoulder, looking profoundly relieved if a little suspicious. "Thanks," he said cautiously.
"We need to decide what to do next," Cas said, ignoring John's gratitude to glance around at the thick woods around them. Hardly the change of scenery Dean had been hoping for, now that he thought about it. "I don't know where we are right now."
Dean and John exchanged glances, their fight not forgotten but taking the backseat to the one desire they knew they both shared. "We find Sam," Dean said without hesitation.
"Of course," Cas said. "Well. As you know his warding precludes me from locating him directly, but I should be able to locate the Impala. I don't expect to be gone long." He looked back and forth between them. "Please don't kill each other." And with that, he was gone.
John stared at the spot where Cas had just been. "They can do that?" he asked.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah. They can."
After a few minutes passed, Dean and John took seats at the foot of a thick tree to await Cas's return.
"I'm still pissed," Dean told him, but couldn't quite muster the fury he'd felt earlier. But then he'd never been able to maintain that level of anger at Dad, no matter what he'd done. Trusting him again…well, that was another story.
"I know." John shrugged. "But you have to understand why I did it."
As much as Dean wanted to say that no, that it was as unfathomable as it was unforgivable, another flash of memory—of a motel room not that long ago, and Amy's surprise when he'd plunged the knife into her stomach—returned to remind him that he had once done the exact same thing to someone Sam cared about, because she was a monster who had killed before and might kill again. The realization drained him, because he was no longer sure whether he was in the right. Whether he'd killed Amy because it was the right thing to do or as a last twisted echo of his father's legacy, and whether those things one and the same. Sam had been pissed at him then, too, as pissed as Dean was at his dad now. He put his face in his hands again, hating to doubt himself when righteous anger was so much easier. When he raised his head again John was studying him. "Yeah, Dad," he said slowly. "I understand."
"Good," John said.
They sat quietly, Dean feeling adrift in a sea of doubt, loss, and self-loathing. Boy was it good to be home.
John broke the silence after a few minutes had slid by. "The Impala. She still running good?"
Dean looked at him cautiously, not sure if John was making an honest attempt at conversation or if this was going to be a trap for him somehow. "Yeah," he said. "Least, she was when I left. Sam coulda douched her up again for all I know."
John's eyebrows rose. "'Douched her up'?"
Dean let out a short laugh. "After I went to Hell he put in one of those iPod things. Disgraceful."
A slow smile crossed John's face. "Yeah, Dean," he said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. "That's terrible."
A flap of wings announced Cas's return. Dean looked up to see him standing there, now clean-shaven and crisp in a new trench coat, suit and tie that was somehow still not done quite right. "I found him," he said by way of greeting.
Dean and John were on their feet immediately. "Where?" Dean barked.
Cas studied them for a moment, as if to ascertain whether they were likely to start fighting again. Satisfied they weren't, at least for the moment, he answered, "The car is at a motel in Texas. I assume Sam is there as well."
"Probably," Dean agreed.
"Still fighting the good fight, then," John said quietly, as if to himself, sounding once again like he wasn't sure whether he was glad Sam had never gotten away. Dean remembered suddenly it wasn't just Hell and five years in Purgatory that separated John from Sam—they'd hardly spent three days together since Sam had gone to Stanford so many years ago. Hell, not since Sam had been a skinny, dorky little high school kid. Well, Dad would be in for a surprise.
"Right," Dean said dismissively, still too upset acknowledge that Sam continuing to follow the path John had set out for them was either a good thing or—given what John had done to Benny—anything resembling what he would call "the good fight." But he bit back a more scathing response because right now, it didn't matter. After six months of fighting his way through the dank, stinking forests of Purgatory, he'd finally, finally made it home and his brother was only an angel flight away. He smiled at Cas. "Let's drop by."