Disclaimer

I own nothing.

Summary

The world is ending, again, closing in all around the Winchester brothers. But this time something is different. Dean and Sam are no longer the end of the Winchester line. A new generation is coming. And the children just might save them all. Canon-divergent, post 15x13. Expect spoilers.

A/N

Spoilers galore for seasons 1-15. This story begins right after the last aired SPN episode (as of spring 2020) 15x13, and (unless I'm somehow psychically tuned into the show's writers, which I'm obviously not) will diverge from canon after that episode. It's my attempt to write my own series finale, giving Dean a happy ending, someone to love, and a family of his own. Maybe not an apple pie life. But something of his own. I can't imagine Dean Winchester ever not hunting, or being a boring suburban dad. But I think he's always wanted a home, kids, a spouse or partner, someplace to go home to, etc etc. The life that was taken away from him when he was four.

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Prologue

Day five, and he'd finally won back a couple privileges. They'd stopped jamming needles into his ass-instead allowing the antipsychotics into his system by giving him pills to swallow. Like he had some dignity left. Like they'd decided to stop treating him as an animal. Yesterday, they'd let his mom bring him fresh clothes and this morning even gave him a razor, to shave while an orderly stood over him, staring into the bathroom mirror, supervising him as he lathered up with the hospital's cheap soap and shaved off five days of scruff. At least now he was wearing his own clothes and not the castoffs the hospital had thrown at him. He still looked like hell—the pills didn't help his "delusions," how could they, but they did make him look and feel like ass. He'd slept ten hours last night, and still felt so tired, worn down to his bones, that he felt physically ill. But at least he didn't look homeless. He'd never realized how important basic things, like shaving, were to feeling human. How good it could feel to be clean, and freshly shaved, and wearing his own jeans, his own clean underwear, and a worn-out AC/DC shirt he'd had forever, since he was a kid. Back then it was too big for anything but a night shirt. Now it fit him just right. He'd never known where it came from. Except, this week at least, maybe he did.

He'd gotten these privileges back because he stopped telling the truth about why he was here, stopped calling the doctors on their bullshit, and started telling them everything they wanted to hear. Of course he'd been unstable when he'd started screaming in the middle of the night, waking up his girlfriend and half the dorm. Of course he wanted to go to group and take the meds so he'd never do that again. Of course the black eyes in that old memory had been a hallucination. Of course all the crazy dreams and memories he'd had were just him having a mental breakdown. Of course ghosts and demons and angels didn't exist. Of course it was all impossible. He was just tired. Yes, of course it was college. College was stressful. He'd pulled a few all-nighters. Sure, drinking too much, that must be it. His mom had been wild when she was young, maybe his real dad was some kind of crazy person. Maybe this was just bad genes. Whenever possible, he agreed with whatever the medical professionals thought, about everything.

After starting off his stint in the psych ward being obstinate and pissed, he'd realized that the only way out of this place to start telling them, all of them, exactly what they wanted to hear. And the number one thing that every doctor, nurse, social worker, and orderly wanted to hear was that he believed, with every ounce of his body, that he needed to be here. In a freaking mental hospital. Admitting you had a problem was the first step to recovery. Since they refused believe that he didn't belong in a psych ward, he might as well get out of here as fast as possible. With as few drugs as possible. And after just five days, he'd noticed that the one sure way to get loaded up with too many antipsychotics, to the point that you were fuzzy in the head and drooling, was to fight the staff, either physically or with your words. Telling them that you were fine and didn't need the drugs—it was like printing up a big poster saying I'm a fucking crazy person.

Out of the bathroom, he wandered into group. Sat down, listened respectfully, tried not to look bored, politely declined to share anything other than that he understood now why he needed to be here and he was glad to have the chance to make some positive choices.

I can tell you're lying. Why? Because I lie professionally, that's how. Now tell your mom you broke the damn vase and take it like a man.

Those words, out of a weird memory vision thing, words which he didn't know if he'd actually heard, they were blaring at him. He could picture himself, as a kid, holding the phone, talking to this man, his mother's live-in boyfriend, the guy who'd lasted longer than any other man, the guy who'd been the closest thing to a father he'd ever had. Also the figure at the center of most of his disturbing vision memory things, all the disturbing memory stuff, the monster stuff, the demon stuff, the Mom almost dying stuff and then somehow not dying. This man, who lied professionally and had a habit of telling him to "take [any number of minor kid stuff situations] like a man," like this was his catch phrase. This man who was a man's man, tougher and cooler and more badass than anybody he'd ever met. The one person who might be able to tell him that he was indeed sane. His mom claimed not to remember this live-in boyfriend. He basically believed her. She was extremely authentic in her confusion and disbelief. He himself hadn't remember the guy until a week ago.

Dean. His name was Dean Winchester. If he existed. And the one way to figure any of this out was to find this Dean. He had no idea where the man lived. To the best of his knowledge, Dean didn't have a permanent place of residence. He was an itinerant monster hunter. The closest thing he had to a home was his brother and that freaking awesome muscle car.

He was really hoping the car was real. Hardcore hoping. A freaking 67 Chevy Impala in mint condition with a cassette tape collection he'd kill for.

So, no address. But he had a phone number. Three actually. Dean, if Dean was actually real, had made the kid-him practice those numbers every day, made him memorize them, so that when Dean went off hunting with that really tall guy brother of his, Ben could always reach Dean. On Dean's cell phone, his other phone, or, if it came to it, his other-other phone.

He'd been trying to get phone privileges for days. Now-dressed in real clothes, freshly showered, and shaved, with his brand-new, shiny, cooperative attitude-he was hoping they'd say yes.

After group, he hung back to talk to the therapist.

Marta, dressed in an annoyingly bright, yellow, fuzzy sweater and baggy jeans, was shuffling papers in her hands when he walked up to her. Close, but not too close. "Do you think I could have a phone call today, during phone time?"

Marta stopped shuffling the papers, glanced up at Ben with a smile that was too wide for the question. "Who do you want to call?"

He wanted to snap at her that it was none of her damned business. But he swallowed his emotions, and his pride, as he said his little monologue, rehearsed but not too rehearsed. In order to sound very sane, but not like he'd actually memorized a speech. "My uncle. He's always been really decent to me. I look up to him, you know? I just, I think it would feel good if I got to talk to somebody who really knows me. Like, he gets me, as a person. Seeing my mom, yesterday, it was great. But I kind of really want to talk to my uncle."

Ben had no uncles, but he was hoping the therapist didn't know that. Now she was nodding up and down, really happy about this answer. "So you're done with looking for the monsters?"

Ben nodded. "Totally done."

So, after he'd forced himself to sit politely and attentively through another group, and the freaking arts and crafts time that made him think he was in third grade, and a disgusting lunch, and quiet time, and another group, he found himself standing in line to access the pay phone before dinner. A freaking pay phone. It was like this place existed in the twentieth century.

The first number went to voicemail. There was no name, just a message to leave your details, but the voice did sound familiar. Very familiar. Achingly so. A tiny flutter of hope went through his whole body. He didn't want to leave a message, didn't even know what he'd say on a voicemail. The second number was out of service. He was getting scared that he wouldn't reach the ex-live-in-boyfriend, would have to go back to that first number and leave some kind of cryptic message, but then he dialed the third number. Miraculously, someone picked up on the second ring.

When he heard the gruff voice, so familiar, the voice of safety (despite all the scary bad crap associated with this man, despite one big betrayal, this was the voice of safety, protection, promises mostly kept), Ben let himself slide down the tiled wall so he was sitting on the cold floor.

"Yeah?" the voice said.

He had another whole speech planned out. But now, he couldn't. Something about this voice, he just couldn't. And it also made him feel like he didn't have to give a speech, or be reasonable.

"Dean?" he asked, choking up.

"Who's this?"

The young man swallowed all his emotions. "You're Dean? Dean Winchester?"

"Depends who's asking."

And now he just lost it. He started crying. He hadn't cried like this since he was a little boy. Since before he'd ever met Dean.

"Hey," the voice said. "It's okay. Yeah, I'm Dean. Just tell me who you are, where you are, and how you got this number."

Ben looked around, noticing several staff members watching him. He needed to stick to his plan. He swallowed down his emotions and his needs and his everything. He hurriedly wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and said as quietly as he could, "My name is Ben Braeden. Do you know who I am?"

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"Ben?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck!"

Ben snapped back. "Sorry to bother you."

"No, no, kid. That's not what I meant. It's just, you're supposed to be out. You and your mom, you're not supposed to be part of this anymore. I took precautions." A long pause, and then, "Fuck!"

"Did you have my memory wiped?" he asked. As quietly as possible. This was the type of thing that the hospital staff could not hear. This was the type of thing that would get all these hard-won privileges revoked. This was the type of statement that might even make the doctor reconsider her choice to let him take his meds orally instead of a shot to the ass.

Dean seemed to be clearing his throat on the other end of the line. "Look, kid, this is complicated."

"Not a kid anymore."

"What happened? You just now remember some weird shit?"

"Yeah."

"Your mom?"

"Still in the dark."

"Good."

He wanted to kill the other man. But he just sat down on the ground with a smile on his face, playing nice for the nurses and the orderlies. This was not the time to get into a fight on the phone.

"Are you safe?" Dean asked. "What's going on?"

He swallowed down his feelings once more. "Look, this is kind of complicated, and I'd rather not talk details over the phone, but um, I'm safe, I guess, maybe. But I need you to come get me."

"Where are you?"

"A hospital."

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, then realized that the mysterious man couldn't see him. He glanced around the room, making sure that nobody was listening to his conversation. He plastered on a fake smile and laughed good-naturedly. "Uncle Dean, I don't give a rat's ass if you're a Redskins fan through and through. They suck this season."

Dean let out a snort. "Nice. So you can't talk freely?"

Ben smiled for real now. "No." He murmured low and steady into the phone. "They put me in a psych ward when I started talking about ghosts and demons. And, you know, they don't get it. So if you could just come, you know, do your thing?"

Dean swore. A lot. After a minute, he said, "Just give me the address, kid. I'll drive all night if I have to."

And despite how freaking weird this was, Ben felt safer than he had in almost a decade.

#

Breakfast the next morning was interrupted by a gruff man's voice, coming from the chief of psychiatry's office. The voice got louder and deeper, and then increasingly heated; all the patients eating their substandard food could hear the angry voice, even though the doctor's door was closed.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I'm the boy's uncle, and I'm FBI, and I don't care what you think is wrong with the kid? I'm taking him home, goddammit!"

The doctor's voice was much quieter: Ben couldn't hear the doctor, only Dean Winchester getting more and more heated, punctuating the conversation with his general bad mood.

"I told you, I'll take him to see a doctor today!"

After more murmuring from the psychiatrist, Dean said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Against medical advice. Fine."

More murmuring.

"If you don't let me see him right this minute, I'm going to make a mountain of paperwork for you. You want to talk to my supervisor? Because let me tell you, next to him, I'm a damn peach to deal with!"

A minute later, the door flung open and an irate Dean Winchester in a pressed blue suit was walking out of the psychiatrist's office, heading into the breakfast room. And there he was, a smile plastered on his face, walking ahead of the doctor, not seeming to care about hospital protocol, or manners, or anybody's authority other than his own. Like always, Dean walked into the room like he owned the space, like he was the smartest guy in the room and he knew it.

This Ben tried to reconcile the haunted, weary, middle-aged man standing before him with the stepdad-figure who always seemed just a bit too young to fit in with the neighborhood dads, just not that kind of grownup. Of course, there were a million other reasons Dean had never seemed like a dad-dad type of person. None of those other dads had saved the world, or even knew what was really out there. The other dads certainly didn't have an arsenal in their trunks, or salt on every window sill. Civilians, all of them. Wimps.

Present-day Dean Winchester didn't not look that much older than the last time Ben had seen him. Same dark hair. Same haircut as the man Ben remembered. But his green eyes, which had always seemed haunted, were somehow more haunted. He'd aged well, physically. But there was this air about him, he seemed a lot older. He walked differently, like he'd seen more than one apocalypse, though of course that couldn't actually be true. Surely nothing could compare to that thing with Lucifer and Michael and Sam getting locked in some kind of cage in Hell.

When he saw Ben, he stopped, froze for just a second, like there might be feelings all complicated and mixed up in his head. Pain even. But then he took a breath and put the smile back on. "Ben. Good to see you, kid."

Ben didn't have to fake a smile. He jumped up and walked, almost ran, to the older man. He'd promised himself he'd play it cool, that had been the plan all the time. But just seeing Dean, Ben was filled with so much relief that he couldn't play it cool any longer. He hadn't expected to feel this glad to see the guy who'd wiped his friggin' memory. Who'd made him and Lisa forget the best year of their lives. He'd expected to be way angrier at Dean friggin' Winchester.

But he threw his arms around Dean, who just stood there for a second before hugging him back. Tight. "It's okay, kiddo," Dean said in that gravelly voice that got deeper when he seemed to be fighting emotions. "I got you. You just got to keep it together for a few more minutes. Okay?"

Ben pulled away, nodding, wiping his eyes because, dammit, he was crying again.

Dean gave him a hard look, a "follow my lead" look. Ben remembered that look from years ago. "Ben, get your stuff," Dean said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "I got a private doctor you can see, make sure you get your medications, whole nine yards. But I'm getting you out of here. Long as you want to leave."

Ben nodded.

"Agent Jagger, I really must insist," the doctor muttered.

But Dean just shook his head. "Thanks for looking out for the kid, doc, but I got it from here."

Ben couldn't shake the feeling that Dean was more than some guy who'd shacked up with Ben's mother once. Back then, a decade ago, Ben had wondered if the hunter might be his real dad. Now, he got the strangest sense that he was. It was like this prickle, in the back of his head, like something trying to tell him something.

#

They didn't talk while Ben gathered up his notebook and the few clothes Lisa had packed, while a nurse handed him the bag of stuff they'd confiscated off him, shoelaces, a belt, his cell phone, these objects of danger on a freaking mental ward. They also didn't talk while they walked downstairs into the regular part of the hospital, or when they walked out the front door.

It was nice outside. Breezy but warm. As the breeze hit Ben, he froze, just a couple steps out of the door. This didn't seem possible. This escape. It seemed too good to be true.

He started shaking all over. Dean, who was a step behind him, put a calloused hand on his shoulder and said, "Buddy, you just got to keep this up for another minute. You get me? Fall apart, flip the fuck out, scream, whatever. Once we're out of the parking lot. But right now, for a minute or two, just keep it together."

"It's all real?" He hated how much like a child he sounded.

Dean laughed, but not a happy laugh. "Sorry, kid, but it's all real."

"This sucks."

"I know."

"You shouldn't have made me forget."

Dean cleared his throat. He squeezed Ben's shoulder, just a tiny gesture, but it was real. "I know."

The Impala was as kick-ass as Ben remembered. It was also empty. "Where's Sam?"

"Sammy stayed home. I figured this was one I needed to do alone. Especially once we go talk to your mom."

Ben stared at Dean, only now doubting the man's sanity. "Dude. She doesn't remember you."

Dean laughed as he shoved Ben towards the frigging awesome car, then hurried over to the driver's seat. "Don't worry, kiddo. I've got methods to my madness."

Ben ran his hand over the passenger's door, but he felt so transfixed by the Impala, he couldn't bring himself to actually get in the car. He just needed to feel her, make sure she was real. Make sure he, Ben, was real. "Hey, baby," Ben murmured to himself.

Dean chortled. Actually chortled. He poked his head above the car. "That's my boy. But seriously. Dude! Get in the car. You want them to change their damn minds and lock you back up?"

Ben bit his lip. He most definitely did not want to be locked back up. His mind was still fuzzy from the drugs they'd made him down take this morning. He hopped into the Impala, settling himself on the bench seat. "Could we get some coffee, Dean?"

"Course. You look like shit. What'd they do to you in there?"

Ben laughed, but it was a harsh, fake sound. This wasn't funny. None of this was funny. Ben didn't know how Dean grinned through the crazy. There was this air about the man-as if pretending to be FBI, storming into a psych ward, and then checking out his "nephew" against medical advice, was no big deal.