Chapter Text
Bobby eased the truck into the parking spot, killed the engine and glanced over at Dean. The boy just stared at the big, ugly, grey building in front of them.
"You don't have to do it, you know," Bobby said at last. "It wasn't a condition. It's just a request. He'll sign the plea bargain whether you come to see him or not."
"I know," Dean's eyes were still on the building, his face expressionless. Neither of them said anything for a while, and then Dean took a breath and straigheted up. "Okay, let's go in."
They went through the security procedures and into the visitors' hall of the county jail. A heavy wall of glass and metal ran through the center of the room, dividing the visitors' side from the inmates' and creating a row of windows with small circular devices set in the center of each one to allow voices through the divider. The windows were only half occupied with inmates and visitors, and as Bobby and Dean walked in, John Winchester was brought out to the other side. The jailor directed him to the far end of the row and he sat down by the window. He looked… diminished somehow, all the air of roughness and raw power gone.
Dean stood by Bobby, watching his father, and then resolve crossed his face and he walked over and sat opposite to John.
Bobby drew a bit closer, not wanting to disturb Dean – he gave exactly zero fucks about disturbing John – but wanting to stay nearby so he could watch over him. For the first few minutes, though, the father and son only looked at each other through the glass. Bobby carefuly studied Dean's face for any sign of distress, but it was as expressionless as before.
At last John spoke. "Thank you. For coming. I didn't think you'd want to."
Dean didn't reply.
"I don't… I have nothing I can really say for myself. To say I'm sorry would probably mean nothing to you. I can try and ask for forgiveness, but it's not gonna undo anything, not gonna fix anything. And I know I have no right to…" he stopped to take a breath and passed a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, Dean. For what it's worth, I am. I wish I could say I'd make it up to you, but I can't. Not what I did. I fucked your life up, yours and your brothers', and I can't make it up to you. I just wanted-" he took another breath and shook his head slightly.
Dean stayed silent for a long moment, and then he spoke, his voice quiet and even. "In three months, on January 24th, I'll turn eighteen. That's Friday. On Monday, January 27th, I'm filing the request to be granted permanent custody of Sam and Adam."
John nodded, slowly. "I thought you would. I won't fight it. That piss-poor public lawer they gave me thinks I should, but I won't. Adam is gonna be over eighteen by the time I'll get out, and anyway, you are more of a father to them than I've ever been." He looked down at his hands. "They're gonna get me into therapy here. After I sign the plea bargain. I never believed in this kind of thing. That's for pussies, right?" He smiled a humorless smile and raised his eyes. "I should have gotten that pussy-therapy years ago. I don't know if it would have made a difference then, but it might have. Everything could have been different." The smile was gone, his voice was down to a whisper. "It could have been different. Everything."
Bobby watched Dean's face. The bruises and cuts that marred it so horribly only some months before were completely gone, leaving no mark. At least not one that could be seen on the outside. That face seemed emotionless now, as beautiful and cold as that of a stone angel. But Bobby got to know Dean; well enough to see the tiny, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ever so light hint of moisture on his lower eyelids.
"It should have been different," Dean whispered back. Then he suddenly stood up, turned his back on the glass window and started walking away.
John got to his feet. "Dean?"
Dean halted, but didn't turn.
"You're a better man than me. You'll make your life a good one, yours and Sam's and Adam's. I know you will. And if you'll ever… if you'll ever want to forgive me… if…" he seemed to choke on his words, and then regained his voice again. "I'll wait. I'll wait for you, son."
Dean stood there a moment longer, his shoulders shaking slightly. Then he turned to look at his father.
"Goodbye, Dad," he said, quietly.
When he started walking away again, he didn't look back.