Chapter Text
Dean coughed, hard, the sound raw and harsh in his bruised throat. Hands gripping onto his knees for support, he bent double, sucking desperately at the damp air and trying to focus on the ground. Gradually oxygen reached his brain and began to chase away the shadows, until they hovered like fluttering dark rags at the edges of his vision.
He pushed himself fully upright, aware of Sam’s steadying hand on his elbow. In front of him the drama unfolded with the inevitability of fate as John crossed over the salt line and into the circle.
“Dad!” Sam’s alarmed shout was enough to bring Dean fully back into focus.
A thick root had risen out of the ground behind Joe. It seemed to knock him forwards and he took a couple of involuntary steps, his head rising as his eyes sought out the younger Winchesters. Dean’s eyes were caught and held in the intensity of the golden gaze; it clearly communicated ‘run’.
“No!” Even as the shout burst from Dean’s lips, Joe’s eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He stumbled forwards another step, his lips drawing back as his face twisted in agony. Behind him John was hacking at the root with his machete, a look of horror on his features.
Dean shook off Sam’s hand and snatched up the shotgun, rolling forwards and coming up just outside the circle. He fired the shotgun at point blank range into Lacey’s face. She disappeared with a scream. Joe smiled at him with blood-stained teeth.
“Get your Dad outta here,” he said with careful clarity. A thick rope of blood spilled over his lips and snaked down his chin and onto his chest. It soaked into the plaid shirt like water on desert ground. Joe kept his eyes on Dean and sank slowly down onto his knees as John finally severed the root.
“Help me,” John grunted, pulling Joe towards the edge of the circle. Lacey reappeared behind him, grasping at his arm but John swung the blade of the machete through her form and threw Joe towards his son.
Dean caught hold of the old man as he tumbled over the edge of the circle and they went down in a sprawl of limbs, John following close behind. Lacey shrieked her rage, edging around the inside of the circle, the remains of her face contorted in rage.
Dean scrambled out from under the old man with Sam’s help, trying not to hurt him any further, if such a thing was possible. The severed remains of the root were protruding from his back where it had worked its way in under his ribs and behind his spine.
John tore off his shirt and wadded it up to slow the bleeding, slowly rolling Joe onto his side.
“Dean! Get up where there’s a signal and call this in! We need help, now.”
“No.” Joe’s voice was surprisingly strong. He turned his golden eyes on John. “I’m done for, y’can see that.” He coughed, blood bubbling out of his nose as he laid a trembling hand on John’s forearm. “Now we can finish this, once and for all.”
“It’s finished. She burns here and now, with her tree.”
“No. Not enough.” The old man struggled for air, a strange translucent sheen appearing on the skin of his face. Dean heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath behind him and understood suddenly that Joe was dying.
“Not enough?” John frowned. “How not enough?”
“Don’t ya see… tree ain’t keepin’ her here.” Joe’s head sagged to the side, the stream of blood increasing. “Y’said mebbe somethin’ of hers, or Ben’s… his hair…”
John’s looked pained as realization sunk in. “Nothing left of hers,” he said gently. “Nothing left of Ben, except…”
Somehow, Joe managed to smile. “Yeah. Except me.”
“Identical twins.” Sam’s voice, a cocktail of wonder and horror.
“I’m sorry I got you into this, you and your boys.” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong as he reached out and grasped at John’s hand. John returned his grip, kept hold of the shaking hand as Joe turned to Sam and Dean.
“Look out for each other.”
Dean nodded, speechless, hearing the catch of Sam’s breath behind him.
Joe’s gaze slid past them, the light going out in his eyes as his hand slipped from John’s grip.
There was a moment’s silence and then behind them Lacey began to cry; she disappeared into the remains of her tree.
John stood up with a decisive move. “You boys alright?”
They nodded.
“What you gonna do, Dad?” Sam’s voice very young, a little cracked.
“You know what we’ve gotta do Sam. Salt’n’burn.” John directed a small, sad smile at Joe’s body. “Figure he deserves a hunter’s funeral.”
They built a pyre in the circle using wood from the wood store at the cabin and anything loose in the cabin itself. Somehow it seemed fitting, using part of something Joe’s brother had made to send Joe on to wherever it was he was going.
Lacey didn’t make an appearance until the very end, when John set light to the pile of wood stacked beside her tree and the flames crept up through the pyre and set the branches aflame. Then she flickered into sight, a small, pale form, young, untouched, her face peaceful at last. The flames roared as night fell and the pale smoke rose up towards the bright stars in the velvet sky above.
At the very end, when the incandescence at the heart of the fire was at its greatest, it seemed as though two other figures joined her, and then there was an almighty crash and the pyre folded in on itself and all three figures were gone, swept away in a great cloud of sparks that followed the smoke up into the night air.
Dean tucked his brother under his arm and pulled the collar of his jacket close against the cold wind flowing up the mountain. He’d look out for Sam. Always. The promise was a part of him, maybe it was all of him.
Their father stood apart from them, silent, watching another of Mary’s blood line burn and trying to forget that he’d just seen the face of his eldest in the flames.
.
They left the glowing embers behind them and headed back to the ranch house. By dawn all traces of their presence had been removed and John sent the boys outside. Very carefully he pulled out the photograph album and laid it on the coffee table.
“Good meeting you, Joe. Wish it could’ve been sooner.”
He ran his fingers through his dark hair and sighed, wondering if one day they’d all be together, somewhere, somehow.
Outside he could hear his boys, the sound of birds singing. John Winchester squared his shoulders. Maybe one day. But not today.