John
On the third day, I knew it was the last one.
Not because the pain was getting worse. The pain had been a constant for a long time, a low hum I'd learned to ignore like the rumble of an engine. No. I knew because my body started forgetting things. How to stand up. How to close my fingers. How to breathe without thinking about it.
It was evening. The motel room smelled like baby powder, cold coffee, and the oil Dean used to clean his guns. Three smells that had no business belonging together, and yet they were everything my family was made of.
Dean sat on the floor. Johanna lay on a blanket in front of him, kicking her legs and reaching for his fingers. Every time she caught one, she made that sound—half squeal, half laugh—and Dean grinned like he'd just hit the biggest jackpot in the world.
Sam sat at the table. Laptop open. But he wasn't typing. He was watching. Watching Dean and Johanna with that look he got when he understood something bigger than words. His pen lay on a notebook, and from here I could see what he'd written. A list. Vaccinations. Pediatrician. Birth certificate. School.
School. My boy was already planning school for a three-week-old baby. That was so Sam it hurt.
“Boys.”
They looked at me. At the same time. And I saw it in their eyes—they knew too. They knew today was different. That my voice sounded thinner. That my hands weren't shaking anymore, but still, too still—the stillness of something that had stopped fighting.
Dean picked Johanna up. Automatically. Like she was a part of him he couldn't put down. She rested against his shoulder, one hand fisted in his shirt, and her green eyes—my eyes, his eyes, our eyes—were open and looking at me.
“Come here,” I said.
Dean stood up. Came to the bed. Sat down beside me. Sam came from the other side. And there we sat. My three children. Two of them raised to be soldiers before they were allowed to be children. One of them so new that the world was still a promise, not a battlefield.
I reached out and laid my hand on Johanna's head. Her blond fuzz was soft beneath my fingers. So soft it felt like something that didn't belong in this world. Not in my world.
“I have to tell you something.”
“Dad—” Dean.
“Let me finish.” I looked at him. My oldest son. The boy I'd told at four years old: Look after your brother. The boy who had never said no. Who had never asked why he had to do it. Who had simply—done it. Always. “I've gotten a lot of things wrong.”
Dean opened his mouth. I raised my hand.
“I've gotten a lot of things wrong, and I don't have enough time to list them all. So I'll just say what's most important.” My breath rattled. I ignored it. “I never should've turned you into what you are. I should've given you a childhood. Birthdays. Christmas. A home that didn't have wheels.”
Sam swallowed. I saw it. Saw his jaw tense, saw him clench his teeth to keep from saying anything. Because Sam wanted to say a thousand things—I knew it, I knew him—but he let me talk. For the first time in his life, Sam Winchester let his father finish.
“Dean.” I laid my hand on his arm. He flinched. Not from pain. From surprise. When was the last time I'd touched him? When was the last time I'd put my hands on my son without bandaging a wound or dragging him out of a danger zone? I didn't know. And that was the answer. “You're the best person I know. Not the best hunter. The best person. And I never told you that because I'm a goddamn idiot.”
Dean's jaw worked. His eyes glistened. But he didn't cry. Dean Winchester didn't cry. Not in front of me. Not in front of anyone. He swallowed it down, crushed it tight, shoved it into the corner where he kept everything too big to feel.
“Sam.” I looked at my younger son. “You left. Went to Stanford. And I hated you for it.”
Sam flinched. Briefly. Barely visibly. But I saw it.
“I hated you because you did what I never could. You left. You said, ‘This isn't enough for me. I want more.’ And I was too proud and too stubborn and too broken to understand that it was the bravest thing any Winchester had ever done.”
Sam's eyes were red. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he gave up and let the tears fall. Quietly. Without a sound. That's how Sam cried—silently, like he didn't want to be a burden to anyone, not even with his pain.
Johanna made a sound. That cooing she did when she was content. As if she didn't know the world was falling apart. As if everything was fine as long as she lay against Dean's shoulder and felt his warmth.
I looked at her. My daughter. Three weeks old. Green eyes, blond hair, a face so beautiful it hurt. She was the only thing in my life I hadn't broken. Not yet.
“Do better,” I said. “For her. Make everything better. Give her what I didn't give you. A home. Even if it's the back seat of the Impala. Even if it's Bobby's couch. Even if it's a lousy motel room—make it her home. Be there. Every day. Every goddamn day.”
Dean nodded. Once. Hard. Like a soldier receiving an order. But his eyes said something else. His eyes said: This isn't an order. This is a promise.
“And stop destroying each other.” My voice grew quieter. Not because I wanted it to. Because my body decided it was done. “You're all she has. If you fight, if you separate, if you make the same mess I did—then she'll have no one. And this child deserves someone.”
I leaned back. The wall was cold against my back. Everything was cold. For days, everything had been getting colder, as if the world were slowly turning out the light.
“Give her to me,” I said. “One more time.”
Dean placed Johanna in my arms. Carefully. As if she were made of glass. And I held my daughter and looked into her eyes, and she looked into mine, and for a moment—a single, perfect moment—I wasn't a hunter. Not a soldier. Not a broken, dying man in a motel room.
I was a father.
Johanna reached for my finger. Her hand was so small it couldn't even wrap all the way around it. But she held on. As tightly as a three-week-old baby could. And I thought: This is enough. It has to be enough.
“Hey, Johanna,” I whispered. My voice broke. For the first time. For the last time. “You won't know me. You'll grow up and not know who I was. And that's okay. That's—that's maybe even better this way.”
Dean made a sound. Quiet. Choked off. I didn't look at him. If I did, I might stop talking, and I had to finish this.
“But if someone ever tells you that your dad was a hero—don't believe him. I wasn't a hero. I was a man who lost his wife and then did everything wrong that could possibly be done wrong. But I got one thing right.” I looked down at her. Green eyes. Blond hair. The most beautiful face I'd ever seen. “I brought you to your brothers.”
Johanna yawned. Stretched. Closed her eyes.
I gave her back to Dean. He took her, and his hand brushed mine, and he held on to it. My hand. Not Johanna's. Mine. For a second. Two. Then he let go.
Sam laid his hand on my shoulder. Squeezed. Said nothing. He didn't have to.
I closed my eyes.
I heard Johanna breathing. That soft, whistling sound babies make. I heard Dean start humming again. “Hey Jude.” Mary's song. The song she'd sung to Dean before the blanket caught fire and everything turned to ash.
I heard Sam stand up and pull the blanket over me. Carefully. The way I'd never done for him.
And I thought: This is enough. Three children. Two who are strong enough to survive anything. One so beautiful she drives away the darkness. This is enough.
It has to be enough.
John Winchester fell asleep.
He never woke up again.