Chapter Text
Dean opened his eyes.
He was lying on his bed, in his small, cramped bedroom, shrouded in darkness apart from a single sliver of moonlight that seeped its way through the curtain. He spotted his guitar case in the corner, his Iron Maiden poster hanging limply from the wall. He studied the room around him, half-expecting something to feel wrong, to be out of place, for a catch of a demon staring at him through the keyhole—but there was nothing. Everything in this room was how he had left it, exactly as it should be.
He had done it.
He had saved his brother, freed the Lost Souls of the labyrinth, and killed the king—a man who had wanted Dean to stay forever…
A man he had almost said yes to.
There was something in his hand, he realised, digging in to his palm. He looked down, opened his fist.
It was his amulet.
The chipped face of the horned-man stared blankly up at him. He stroked the face without thinking. It had been so important in the labyrinth, such a great source of power, but here, now, it felt like nothing more than what it was—a cheap, worn-out trinket.
He got up from his bed, opened the door, and made the short trip down the hall, to the room where his little brother was sleeping.
His heart ceased to beat as he opened the nursery door. What if all this was a cruel trick? He would open the door, and find the crib to be empty, because Sam was still trapped in that horrible place. He hadn’t saved him after all, he had failed, he had—
The sleeping form of his baby brother lay soundly in the middle of the room, atop his sky-blue blanket, his little body moving slowly with each comforting breath. He looked so beautiful, Dean didn’t think he had ever loved him more than in that moment. He crept over to the crib, and placed a single finger through a lock of his brother’s hair. Sam let out a murmur as he shifted positions, his fat cheeks squidging against the mattress. He was positively angelic, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle.
He held the amulet in front of him, taking one last glance at the god-like figure. It was time it had a new owner, he thought, someone who could look after it better than Dean knew he could.
He rested it on the head of the crib. The horned-face swung slowly back-and-forth; a ward, a protector, a guardian of dreams.
He looked at Sam once more, kissing him on the end of his tiny nose.
“Castiel was wrong,” he whispered, pulling back. “There is no darkness in you. You’re good, okay? Fate can be changed. You’re good, Sammy.”
The sound of the front door closing made Dean jump.
He could hear the sound of boots being taken off, a jacket being hung on the coat stand, a sigh.
Dean moved warily to the door, closing it behind him. He watched his father from the top of the stairs, too scared, he realised, to unveil himself from the shadows.
John looked up at him, then. Neither of them saying a word, and Dean could feel himself shrinking back, despite himself.
And then, John opened his mouth.
“You look so much like your mother,” he said. His voice was different. Kinder. Younger, even. There was a look in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen since before the funeral, since before Azazel had crawled from the underground and up inside him, poisoning his mind, wearing his body to drink and beat and neglect his children. This was the John he could remember loving. This was his dad.
Dean walked down the stairs, still unable to say a word. John simply waited for him—tears glistening in his eyes.
Once Dean reached the bottom, John approached him timidly. His hands twitched, like he wanted to hug him, but wasn’t sure if Dean would allow it. Dean took the first step, and pulled himself into his father’s arms.
For the first time in six months, John did not smell of alcohol.
His father wept into his neck, holding him tightly. Dean never wanted him to let go.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Dean,” he said, over and over.
They moved to the living room, each one on a separate end of the sofa.
“After your mother died,” John told him, in a meek, tired voice, “I was lost. I didn’t feel in control of my own body.” He shook his head, then, dismissing his own defence. “Now, now I know that’s no excuse. What I did to you, how I treated you and Sammy… For as long as I live, I will never forgive myself for that.” He breathed out slowly, trying to find the words. He swallowed, almost shrugged.
“But… at the bar,” he began. “Something… happened. I was just sitting there, and… and it all changed.”
He looked up at Dean.
“I don’t know why,” John said, tears falling down his cheeks, “but I feel free.”
“So do I,” said Dean, and in that moment, he knew the labyrinth’s hold on his family was finally severed.
They talked for hours, of mundane things, of Sammy, of Dean’s mother. They talked about the future, the past, they laughed and they cried. John never stopped apologising, no matter how many times Dean forgave him.
He wanted desperately to tell his father the truth. That Mary’s death, John’s subsequent abuse, had been due to forces beyond their control. That John hadn’t lost restraint because of his pain, or his anger—because it wasn’t even him doing it. But he knew John could never find out. Even before Mary’s death, his father’s obsessive personality led him to do things that overtook his life. A lot of the time it was good things, like his work, or his devotion to his family. But it seemed obvious to Dean why Azazel had chosen his father as a vessel, how easy it was for him to take charge. John’s addictions, John’s anger—they had all been there beneath the surface, aching to come through. The demon had relished bringing them to life, had done so well in creating a John that could have existed without him if it were not for the love he'd had for his family. It wasn’t John’s fault; it was simply who he was. But he was strong, that man. Dean knew he would spend the rest of his life being the best father a man could be—and if he found out about the labyrinth, John would spend the rest of his life trying to find that place, find Mary—and it would destroy him.
The labyrinth was to be a secret Dean would take to the grave. His father, Sammy, they would never learn of their family’s destiny. They were going to have a normal life. He would make sure of it.
It was three in the morning, and his father was starting to yawn.
“You should hit the hay, Dad,” Dean said.
John nodded.
“You comin’?”
“In a bit,” replied Dean. “I think I’m going to take a walk first.”
“Okay,” said John, standing. “But only to the end of the street.”
Dean burst out laughing.
“I’m almost eighteen, Dad.”
His father smiled.
“My roof, my rules.”
He watched his father go upstairs, but not before going into Sam’s room. He could hear John cooing at Sammy, tucking him in tight. It felt so good to be a family again, Dean thought.
For the first time since Mary’s death, he was happy.
He walked longer than the end of the street. Dean figured, after the last three days he’d had, he deserved to do a bit of rule-breaking.
It was a quiet night, with only the occasional passing of cars to distract him. It was weird, having to get used to these every-day sounds again. Even the sky seemed odd; the labyrinth had had no cycle, the land remaining in a state of murky half-light the entire time he was there. He looked up at the stars, now. The last time he had seen them, Castiel had been dying in his arms, in that terrible, endless room, inside his castle, inside his labyrinth.
Will Castiel be the only person I ever love? Dean thought.
He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t yet eighteen, after all. He had his whole life ahead of him.
A secret part inside of him, though, a quiet voice in his head, told him that it didn’t matter either way. He would remember Castiel forever. He would remember his flaws, his deception, his pettiness. He would remember his weaknesses, and his strengths. He would remember the way he looked at him, the way he abandoned his pride as he told Dean he loved him, that he would have chosen Dean over the crown every single time. In a different life, perhaps, they could have been happy. In another future, in another world. Maybe they would have met as equals. Maybe they would have been able to love each other without having to sacrifice so much.
The sound of bike wheels on the road made him turn around.
A girl cycled past him, her skin pale, her face beautiful, but sad, and her hair—the colour of fire.
“Anna?” he said to himself, as she continued on ahead. He started running. “Anna!” he called after her. “Anna, it’s me!”
She braked, turned around, and stared at him like he was crazy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyebrows raised, “do I know you?”
Dean stopped running, doubled over, and laughed, like the idiot he was. He couldn’t believe she was here, really here. She was human again. She was free, just like he had promised her she would be.
“It’s me, Dean!” he cried ecstatically, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I can’t believe you’re here. God, Anna. We did it!”
She put a foot on the pedal, as if ready to speed off. She shook her head.
“My name’s not Anna,” she said, almost apologetically. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“Oh, right,” said Dean, finally realising. This must be the price of their freedom. Whatever memories they had of their past selves, the labyrinth, of Dean, had vanished. In order to live their lives, they couldn’t know him. They could never know of their lives before. Dean understood that now.
“Oh, right,” he said again, shaking his head. “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
It was okay, he said to himself. He didn’t need them to remember him, because he would remember them. Knowing that they were safe, that they could finally exist without being punished for it, was enough.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, unable to help himself. He knew he must look like a madman. It was three o’clock in the morning, after all, and they were complete strangers. He wondered why she hadn’t already took to her bike and left him.
Maybe a part of her did remember him, if only a little.
“And you’re strange,” she said finally, a little smile escaping the corner of her lips.
“I know,” said Dean, laughing. “Have a good night, now. I’m so glad I met you.”
“And I’m glad I met you, strange boy,” the girl said, putting her foot back on the pedal. “See you in another life.”
“I hope not,” Dean said, and as she gave him that same look again, he could only laugh once more.
He turned away, letting her cycle away to wherever it was this new Anna was going to live her life. Dean smiled, and did not look back the whole walk back to the house.
As he did, a snowy white barn owl watched him from atop a tree branch. It kept its strange blue eyes on him, long after he had disappeared from sight, until at last it spread its mighty wings, and flew into the darkness.