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Kriah

Summary:

Dean can do this. He can. He can raise Jack Kline, Lucifer’s baby. No, not Lucifer’s… Cas’ kid. Their kid.

With his mother gone, and Castiel dead, Dean finds himself hanging on by a thread. Castiel has died so many times on him, Dean is half-convinced himself that Cas will return to him. Dean evades the pain of the truth, carrying on in false hope until his soul renders into a million pieces. He learns quickly that taking care of a newborn is not for the faint of heart, sleep-deprivation, grief, and feedings rule most of the early days. During this time, Dean is forced to build a new life for himself. With a new name and identity change, Dean becomes a Dad. Something Castiel would be proud of. Dean cooks, he cleans, he reads, he sings his ABCs and 123s, and ultimately Dean does his best for Jack. It’s not until Jack grows into a small child that Dean feels like he can breathe again. The grief no longer suffocates him. His new life has meaning. He sees family and he allows himself to miss Castiel. To mourn him, to love him in death. And when Jack goes to school, Dean is once again reunited with friends and enemies from his past.

Notes:

Hello, everyone! And welcome to my second DCBB, I'm glad that you are all here. This lovely tale was born from grief while raising a child. Some of Dean's arc and journey parenting mirrors my own. And I hope this story brings you comfort like it did me.

Some housekeeping: You'll notice that throughout the fic that I pull dialogue from canon but shuffle it around to suit the story. Don't be alarmed, unlike canon this story does end happily ever after. :)

A few mentions of gratitude for my cheering & editing team; Feathers7501, Emblue_Sparks, the_communist_unicorn, and bodyandsoul. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a community to create a story. I am so thankful to each and everyone of them, from start to finish they all helped polish this story to what you see today. Additionally, thank you to the moderators for organizing this event and to my lovely new artist, d3vilstrap14, who is a such a sweetheart. I hope this collaboration encourages you to keep on creating. You can find their master post here.

As always, thank you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos.

 

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 


 

 

Kriah, Hebrew for “tearing,” refers to the act of tearing one’s clothes.
This rending is a striking expression of grief and anger at the loss of a loved one.

 

 



Appearance, Pulse, Grimace, Activity, Respiration (APGAR) test will be performed at birth to see if the baby needs emergency care or special treatment. 

 

The baby was hastily wrapped up in a bloody towel, his umbilical cord and placenta still attached to Kelly’s corpse. Grimy and gray, with blood and uterine debris still clinging to the small lanky body. The placenta is pooled next to it, its tree of webbing dark against the cotton of the towel. Already, Lucifer’s child is grunting and rooting for food. Dean knows babies are born hungry, consuming before they even open their eyes. 

It was par for the course that Satan’s child would be born and subsequently consume and destroy the lives around him. 

He hates this child. 

The awful, overwhelming urge to smother it rises up in Dean. It is Satan’s child after all. Does this sniveling creature deserve to live after what has happened?  To Cas? To his Mom? Even to Crowley? 

Cas had believed in this infantile conglomerate of organs and flesh. And Dean, Dean had believed in Cas. In them. Now, now… Cas was dead. Dean still had to carry his body into the house. To cover it up. To cut wood, to build the pyre, and to burn the remaining shell of his best friend. 

“I don’t know what to do, Dean,” Sam's voice wobbles, looking at the carnage around them. Childbirth was always disgusting, messy. Blood had soaked the sheets underneath Kelly’s body. 

Dean doesn’t know either…. Kelly is dead, Cas is dead. Their Mom is probably dead.

“I think he pooped,” Sam grimaces, lifting up the towel to show the black sticky meconium oozing from the little body. 

Dean quickly turns and leaves the birthing room, desperately needing some space away from the baby that caused all of his current sufferings. The metallic smell of blood burns his nose and he just needs some fuckin’ space to think. Some air. He just needs some air. 

Stepping into another bedroom, closing the door behind him with a resounding click. He sags against the door, closing his eyes and breathing deep. Inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, he can feel his nostrils flare and the rise and fall of his lungs. Slowly in and out, taking in the soft smells of the room around him. It smells like rain, or, what the air smells like after rain. The room, the quiet stillness around him, smells like Castiel. That flyaway rain scent that always escaped Dean. With overwhelming grief, it dawns on Dean that he’s stepped into Cas’ bedroom to seek solace.

He knows it was Cas’ bedroom. The bed is utilitarian but made with military precision, the blanket tucked so tight into and around the mattress that it looked like it was going to burst out in rebellion. Baby and parenting books evenly line up on a desk in Alphabetical order. Dean counts them quickly… all seventy-four. 

Turning, Dean realizes that the mixtape, his mixtape, sits on the nightstand next to the bed. Perfectly placed in the middle. Nothing else is on the little dresser. 

Feeling his legs give out, Dean sinks onto the bed… picking up the innocuous piece of plastic. 

Pressing it to his lips and curling around himself, he lets himself have a second of grief and a furious prayer. 

“Ok, Chuck. Or God or whatever. I need your help. You see… you left us. You left us. You went off, you said… you said the Earth would be fine because it had me, and because it had Sam. But it’s not and we’re not. We’ve lost everything. And now you’re going to bring him back. Okay? You're going to bring back Cas, you’re gonna bring back Mom, you’re gonna bring ‘em all back. All of them. Even Crowley. Because after everything you’ve done, you owe us, you son of a bitch! So you get your ass down here and you make this right. Right here. Right now.”

Absolute silence. Chuck doesn’t magically appear. That squirelly fuck. 

Rage, guilt, and despair roll in his blood. He feels like biting into that plastic, but Dean knows he’ll shatter the gift between his teeth. Instead, with violence that burns through his blood, he tosses the nightstand and punches the wall until his knuckles are bloody. Just like that, his anger evaporates and absolute despair ushers in. 

“Please. Please help us.” 

A broken plea from a broken man. 

Nothing. No Chuck. So Dean decides he’s going to have to manage on his own. 

There isn't any more time to grieve. He has too much to do and Sam… Sam doesn’t know what to do with a newborn. 

Carefully placing the mixtape into his breast pocket next to his heart, Dean gets up, rolls his shoulders back and heads back out into Kelly’s room. 

“I’m gonna cut the cord, clean the kid, feed him, and put him in the crib,” Dean curtly informs his brother who is still standing where he left him. His brother’s eyes are red-rimmed; he hovers near the end of the bed watching the infant’s tiny fists raise and lower. Ready to fight the world, it seems. 

“Ok,” Sam murmurs, twitches uncomfortably, and eventually nods. 

Scooping up the baby, Dean does exactly those things. He finds the doula kit Cas had painstakingly put together with the sterile scissors and clamp for the umbilical cord. He finds a little tub to bathe the baby in, organic baby soap, newborn diapers, and clothes. Dean picks out a soft cream zippered sleep-and-play. It reminds him of the color of Cas’ trenchcoat. All the clothes have been washed, smelling like lavender and neatly rolled up, one size per drawer. Newborn, one to three months, three to six, six to nine, nine to twelve, and twelve months. They stop at twelve. All of the clothes, the sleep-and-plays, the t-shirts, pants, and shorts have happy little designs all over them. Animals, trucks, cars, and all the colors under the sun. 

With sure movements, though he feels like he is breaking apart, he takes care of the baby. Bathes him when he wants to drown him. Feeds him perfectly warmed formula when he wants to press down and smother the life out of him. Dean swaddles him with precision in a soft muslin wrap and rocks him to sleep, singing Hey Jude when every fiber of his being wants to throw this creature that stole everything from him out the window. He wants to end the monster before it grows and hurts anyone else. 

But he doesn’t and he won’t… he won’t do any of those things. The moment he saw those books and the mixtape… Lucifer’s child became Castiel’s. 

Castiel’s baby with the million boxes of diapers in the closet, the neatly folded clothes in the dresser, the happy paint on the walls proudly proclaiming Jack and the alphabet. Cas’ baby with the bottles, the pacifiers, and the formula all ready to go and washed in the kitchen. Cas’ baby with the picture books in the bookcase, the baby toys in a basket in the living room, the swings, the car seat in the truck, and the stroller. 

Gingerly placing Jack down in the crib, Dean traces his fingers over the little beanie down the side of his face. He would never be able to care for Lucifer’s child… but he can make himself care for Castiel’s baby. He can do this, for Cas. 

“Dean?” Sam calls. “What’s next?” 

Dean’s answer is sure. “We burn the bodies. Burn the mattress if it's ruined. Leave no trace if we have to leave.” 

“What about Cas? Is he really dead?” Sam questions, so small. 

“You know he is.” 

“Are you sure about this? I mean… it’s Cas…you know? God, Chuck… maybe Chuck can bring him back? Maybe if we prayed to him.” His brother is grasping at straws, desperate. 

“Sam,” Dean grinds, “you don’t think I tried that? God’s not listening. Ok? He doesn’t give a damn. Let’s get this done.” 

Dean doesn’t accept help when he picks Cas’ up from the dirt. His arms strain holding up Cas’ muscular form. He fumbles a few times but holds tight, and when he lays him down on the table, Dean doesn’t know how to feel. Dean feels sick with grief and he can’t believe it. He brushes the dirt away from Cas’ coat, hyper-focused on something so stupid that the other part of his brain is screaming at him. He knows he’s being ridiculous but now Cas needs to be covered up with something soft. He goes into the linen closet. Pulling out a soft sheet, he puts it over Cas’— The word ‘body’ hovers there at the edges of Dean’s mind, but he refuses to acknowledge it. That would mean it isn’t Cas anymore, just an empty vessel. For much the same reason, he’s hesitant to cover his face. He lets the sheet slip from his fingers and immediately goes outside, grabbing the axe from the Impala’s hidden trunk. 

Away from the house, Dean’s muscles burn when he starts chopping trees and building a funeral pyre. Methodically, he slams the axe into the wood robotically. He doesn’t stop even when the sun goes down. 

“Dean? I tried feeding the baby… he just vomited everything up,” Sam’s worried countenance appears behind him while he’s stacking the wood. The angry wails of the newborn are loud and broken. His face is bright pink with distress. His Moose of a brother looks absolutely hopeless, trying to quiet the child by aggressively bouncing on his feet. Dean watches him for a beat, his baby brother bouncing on his heels like it’s a sport, jerking up and down in janky movements. 

Stopping, his muscles and bones protesting, Dean takes Jack from Sam. Rocking smoothly and shushing until Jack quiets, with a soft voice he asks his clueless brother, “How much did you give him?” 

“The entire bottle?” 

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, curling the soft infant into his sweaty chest, “newborns, they only have stomachs the size of a cherry. Two ounces max next time, ok?”   

“Alright… how do you know all of this?” Sam goes to reach out for Jack but Dean shakes his head and holds onto him a little longer. 

Admitting this hurts, but he tells Sam anyway, “Lisa’s sister had a newborn.” 

“Oh.” Sam’s voice says it all, sad and remorseful. Dean waves him off, he doesn’t need more pity tonight. 

“Did you take care of Kelly?” he questions his brother. 

“Yeah, and I gathered the sheets. Where are we burning?” 

“Far away from the house,” Dean grunts, dropping his nose to breathe in the sweet baby scent
in an uncharacteristic display of affection, “I don’t want it near us. We aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.” 

“What? We need to get back to the Bunker, find a way to get Mom back.” 

“Don’t. Mom’s gone. As soon as Lucifer realized we trapped him, you know he turned on her and killed her,” Dean states calmly, walking back to the house even though his project is half-finished. Jack has fallen asleep on his chest and he needs to put the baby down to continue. Probably change his diaper, too. 

“Dean,” Sam cries and follows after him, hot on his heels, “You’re just… you're just giving up? She may be alive.” 

“No,” he shouts then quiets his voice, aware of Jack’s soft noises of distress starting up once again and so he shushes the baby and sways, “I’m being realistic. I’m dealing with what’s in front of me. What I can do, which is take care of two bodies and a baby.” 

“He’s not just a baby, we need to see if he can open up a portal and get Mom home. But to do that, we need to get back to the Bunker, ” Sam states, somewhat stubborn, even a little petulant. 

“I’m not leaving, I’m not bringing an infant to the Bunker,” Dean firmly growls, low and deep. He doesn’t want to go back yet. Not yet, not into his home. Not without Cas. 

He ignores his brother’s protests, stomping back into the house and up the stairs to put Jack back down. The child sleeps soundly and Dean starts an alarm on his phone to feed Jack in two hours. Trudging back outside, he picks up the axe and starts swinging. He needs more wood, a bigger pyre. 

The knee that Cas had healed burns and aches in protest, but Dean pushes on. He assembles the pyre, sitting down on it when the sun comes up over the lake. His mind is blank, numb. His body roars loud enough to occupy his thoughts. Every minute movement, his muscles and bones scream in protest. In contrast, the sky is brilliant, a golden light of blues and purples. It’s breathtaking and Dean sees it, but he doesn’t see it. Like the rest of his body, his eyes are blurred and burning. While Dean sits, gazing but not seeing, his alarm on his phone goes off. Dean passes his brother, barely looking at him while Sam lays Kelly’s corpse down next to Dean, the bloody bundle of sheets at her feet. Poor Kelly. 

Dean warms a bottle with long-practiced ease, testing it on his wrist, and then gathering Jack up gingerly. As he feeds the gurgling, grunting infant, his dark blue eyes open briefly and then close. Newborns don’t stay awake long, exhausted from their fight to enter this world. He’s a quiet baby already, with a sweet newborn disposition. 

In his mind, Dean goes through all the steps to make Jack his…. and realizes he needs to falsify a lot of papers. 

When Jack swallows the last drop, the sun crests fully over the lake. It’s truly morning now. The sun is aggressive against his tired eyes as he sets another two-hour alarm to take care of Jack. Cas’ is still lying on the kitchen table. Purpose fills Dean, so he goes back out, finishes the pyre, and is greatly tempted to lie down on it himself. To rest, he lies to himself, just to rest. But he can’t… he has Sam, he has Jack now… he has to take care of them both. 

Dragging his weary limbs inside, Dean takes one last look at his stupid, stupid best friend. His face is grey, cold, with a huge hole in his chest that matches Dean’s own. Dean can’t look at the gaping wound. The hole punched through them both. Dean’s still alive though, only part of him is dead and lying there next to Cas. 

Looking out of the window, away from Cas, Dean feels mocked by the delicate buttercup curtains. They taunt him. So flimsy, so delicate, such a happy fucking yellow. He snatches one off the window and rips into it. The rending of the sheer yellow curtain, the loud rip as it tears in two is the only noise in the house. Dean rips and rips. He rips. His soul rends along with the curtains, creating ribbons to tie around Cas. He ties one around his feet, gathers his breath and says another prayer to Cas, wherever he is, a desperate plea… Don’t leave me. Please come back soon. Please. Fight. Come back to me.  

With shaky breaths, he moves on, tying the shroud around Cas’ body with those stupid fucking curtains. When his task is complete, he carries the corpse bridal style, and the hike down to the spot where he built the pyre is treacherous. Stones roll under the souls of his feet and branches wrap around his ankles. His feet don’t want to cooperate. He stumbles a few times and catches himself, curling around Cas’ body when he falls. Protecting Cas, protecting himself from the onslaught, the world pressing in too close to them.  

Eventually, he makes it and gingerly lays Cas’ silent form down next to Kelly. Resting his hand on where he knows Cas’ chest is, he says another prayer, not to Chuck… to Cas… please, don’t leave me, come back, fight it, come back soon… Tears threaten but don’t gather. There is a burning in the back of his throat but he swallows it away. 

His mind rolls over the words I love you, but he jerks his hand back and stomps off to the Impala. Scared of his own thoughts he leaves those words behind with the corpses. Of course, the gas tank is empty and Dean wants to scream at the injustice of the world but Sam magically appears and pries it from his fingertips. 

“I’ll get the gas, you watch Jack,” Sam states firmly. 

In the house, all is quiet and Jack is asleep. Dean can hear himself breathing, the floorboards creak underneath his boots. It’s too quiet, and feeling the incapacity to be still and respect the silence, Dean keeps himself in motion. He rummages through the pantry, the fridge, not wanting anything in particular but with the inability to stop moving at that moment. He feels his emotions whirling and egging him on. Dean’s impressed by the way the house is fully stocked, Dean assumes, for Kelly. Vitamins, fruit, vegetables, meats, different types of bread, pasta, all available at his fingertips. His stomach growls loudly, but instead, Dean walks away. Shuts it all up and goes upstairs to Jack’s crib, and lays down on the floor in front of it. 

He waits ‘til Jack stirs, taking care of his needs again and lays himself back down in front of the crib, watching with his eyes trained on the sleeping form of the baby. Dean can’t bring himself to go back into that room, to lie on Cas’ bed. He doesn’t want to disturb the neatness. He must have dozed off because Sam wakes him with a hand on his shoulder, right where the old scar used to reside.  Peering down at Jack, Dean looks at the time, noting that Jack shouldn’t be up for another hour but he gathers the sleeping baby up on his chest. Groaning at the pain catching up with him, he follows Sam outside down to the pyre. 

Taking the gas can from his little brother, Dean shakes the pungent liquid onto the wrapped bodies. Fumbling for the lighter, Sam stops him with a hand at his elbow. 

“Do you want to say anything?” he asks, eyes patient and overly understanding. 

“No.” 

Sam’s voice whispers out, “Goodbye Cas, goodbye Kelly.” 

He’s not going to say goodbye, not when it might not be goodbye officially. His false hope and traitorous heart says, Cas may come back. He feels like Eve taking a bite of a doomed apple, filled with false hope and knowledge. Even knowing what he knows, that dead things normally do and should stay dead, Dean can’t be 100% positive that Castiel is gone forever. He holds onto a small sliver of hope. 

Throwing the zippo onto the pyre, Dean watches as the bodies catch flame. The heat and smell from the fire burns his eyes. He’ll never get used to it, no matter how many bodies of family members he burns. His Dad, Adam, Karen, Charlie, Kevin, Bobby. The smoke is acrid, cloying, and totally overwhelms his senses.  For the first time since Lucifer put a blade through Cas’ chest, Dean allows the tears to well in his eyes. Staring out into the flames, they carve a molten trail down his face.

.

.

.

 

The angels come, descending on them in the middle of the night and attempting to steal Jack away from him. With relish, he puts his blade into each angel and lets them fall to the floor. Dean will never get tired of the thump of an enemy’s body hitting the floor. When the last of the angel’s vessels are out of the house and buried in shallow graves, Dean starts packing. Methodically and painstakingly, he packs everything up and puts it into the Impala and Cas’ truck. All of it, every last item that his friend purchased. 

“It may be safer in the Bunker,” Sam says quietly as they get the last of the items out of the house and Dean grinds his teeth, acquiescing that Sam is somewhat right but he doesn’t want to give in fully. The house they're in, it’s too open and frankly not secure enough even with Cas’ warding. He assumes he’ll never be ready to bring home a child without Cas. If Cas was here— But he isn’t and Dean doesn’t really want to bring a baby to live below the earth, with no sunshine and only stale recycled air. It’s fine for them, they are no longer growing and don’t need to thrive, just to exist as weapons for slaying monsters. Yeah, no, he won’t be bringing Jack to the Bunker. 

“Let's stop at a few places first,” Dean says and throws Sam the truck keys. 

Buckling the car seat into the back of the Impala has him swearing, but thankfully the infant sleeps through all of Dean’s jostling and profanity. In this moment of quiet, Dean gathers up Cas’ ashes in an old coffee can, while Sam watches stoically, his face a mix of pity and sadness. Dean can’t meet his brother’s eyes for too long, he’ll break down if he does. Dean’s hands and arms are covered in ash and soot, and he wipes them on the rest of his blue shirt. Not all of it comes off, the ash has stained his skin, it’s sunk into the lines of his hands into his fingertips, and underneath his nails. Dean pauses, staring at his hands until Sam clears his throat. Dean wraps the flannel around the very full coffee can. He buries what he assumes are Kelly’s ashes where the pyre stood, mixing it with the rich soil underneath. 

Hours later, his skin still the color of soot, both brothers are somber when they stop in their travels. Shoulder to shoulder they stand in the middle of a field, near a babbling brook, with a large old water mill with it’s toes in the stream standing stoically gazing over. With Jack asleep in his arms, Dean can hear the shifting and grinding of the old wood as it sways in the breeze. It’s peaceful. Dean closes his eyes against the morning sun. It’s warm and the whole place smells of wheat and wildflowers. With his ears straining, he can even hear the buzz of bees. 

“He’d like it here,” Dean murmurs, the old coffee can tight in his right hand. 

“He would.” Sam agrees.  

Dean buries the ashes, folding his shirt even tighter  around the coffee can to protect it. He carves the earth out with his fingertips, catching more soil underneath his nails. He feels so far removed from the moment as if he is not the one on his knees burying his friend’s ashes. He keeps Jack close, the little baby nestled into his chest sleeping softly. He kisses the top of his head, hair soft and smelling like the lavender soap Castiel purchased. His eyes water, starkly realizing that he just gave this child his first kiss over his father’s grave. 

Dean sinks father into his knees, his body curling around the baby and he feels his soul rending further, never to be mended again. The silence of the soft meadow is his companion. It stills and so Dean stills. Time is all he has now. Time alone. Time to find a new home for Jack without Cas. It’s all so oppressive and he’s too far away and he feels everything all too much to process any of it.  He takes his time rising from his knees, every step away from the freshly turned Earth sinking into his bones. 

.

.

.

In normal Winchester time without stops, it takes twenty-five hours to travel from North Cove to Sioux Falls. Traveling with a newborn takes those twenty-five hours and turns it into a four-day trek across the states. It’s torturously slow, stopping every two to three hours to take care of Jack. Feeding him, changing him, and ultimately comforting him. Dean exists in a vacuum of driving and taking care of Jack. It allows Dean to think. So, Dean thinks and thinks and thinks. Eventually, he tells Sam to go ahead to Jody’s and fill her in.  

When Dean finally walks through her door he thanks no God or deity, it was all him that got him to Jody’s place… no grace of God or blessings. He hands Jody the baby and sinks into her flannel woven couch. The bone-weary exhaustion is riding him hard. But Jody is a Mom, she gets it. She takes Jack from Dean’s arms with ease and presses a sisterly kiss to Dean’s head. Throwing a pillow and blanket at him. The blanket is warm, smelling like detergent, and Dean brings it up to his eyes and passes out. 

Dean sleeps deeply and he doesn’t dream. He only wakes up when he hears Jack crying what he assumes is hours later. His brother is there, handing him a plate of food and water. 

“You gonna tell me why we are here?” he asks wryly. 

“Need papers for Jack, and it’s safer here in numbers,” Dean gruffly states, taking a huge drink and putting the glass down on the coffee table. He scoops a huge helping of mashed potatoes into his mouth, relishing their garlicky taste. 

“Papers?” 

“Adoption papers, birth certificate, social security card. The entire shebang. There is no stork here, he has to exist in the real world in some capacity,” Dean bites into the chicken noisily. 

“And who is he going to belong to, Dean?” 

“Me,” Dean answers quickly. 

“We don’t exist, Dean, technically we are dead!” Sam exclaims. 

“I know, I know,” Dean replies waving off, “Obviously I would need papers, too. But we have Jimmy’s info. It wouldn’t be too hard to base an identity on that. What happens if this kid wants to go to school? Be normal? Go to college, like you did? He’s gotta have a paper trail.” 

Sam’s quiet, contemplative. “How are you going to use Jimmy's info?” 

“Well, Cas already started the paperwork as James Novak with Kelly. I could be Dean Novak. Go from there,” Dean explains, filling his mouth with more potatoes. 

“Dean,” Sam implores, “he has powers.” 

“And we are going to extract those powers eventually, when he’s old enough,” Dean replies easily, confidently. Like he believes his own words. That’s what they had planned, anyways… before Cas ran off with Kelly. 

“And how are you going to be Dean Novak?” Sam asks, honing in on the ridiculousness of the situation. 

“Marriage certificate.” 

“What the fuck, Dean?! Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” 

“Do you know how many times CPS almost took us away from Dad?! Or how many close calls we used to have over the years growing up? Someone will catch wind of this baby, an enemy, or a nosey little old lady at Ladlow’s when we are buying beer or formula and they will take him away. They will see that we have no relationship to this kid, find us unfit, and he will be gone. And fuck it. I’m not going to let that happen. Here, we have Jody. We are safe. And I will not have Cas’ kid taken from us.” Dean is close to screaming at his brother. 

Jody appears in the living room with Jack in her arms wailing the desperate cries of a newborn. “Lower your voices, you asses.” 

They stop bickering immediately, but Dean’s heart rate takes some time to settle down. He continues eating, more quickly than he should while Jody continues to try to comfort a wailing Jack.. Finishing his food, wiping his hands loudly with large slaps, he motions for Jody to hand the baby over. He checks his diaper, Jody informs him that he ate, so he stands up and pats his back while humming. Eventually, Jack quiets. 

“He’s bonded quickly to you,” Jody comments but doesn’t add anything more to her statement. 

“He’s not all human,” Dean murmurs, softly patting the baby’s back. Jack lets out a belch and spits up all down Dean’s front. Taking his napkin and wiping the spit up away, he can see Sam making a face in disgust at Dean’s actions in his periphery. He’s seen his brother head to toe covered in blood, a little spit-up shouldn’t bother him.  

“That may be so, but newborns know their parents,” Jody states, standing next to Dean, finger tracing one of those little baby hands. 

“Yeah. Survival instinct.” 

Dean doesn’t state that the kid is attached to him because it can tell its survival depends on his goodwill, but it’s definitely implied.  He doesn’t want to sound like a psychopath for admitting he sorta wants to harm this particular baby still. 

It’s Cas’ baby. Cas’ baby. Cas’ baby. 

The mantra in his head reminds him that Cas believed in this baby. Cas thought this baby was going to repair the world, change the world… that’s something worth protecting, right? Right.

Another voice whispers insidiously and rises in him like smoke clogging his lungs and his thoughts. Burning him and robbing him of oxygen.

Lucifer’s baby. Satan’s baby. It’s Lucifer’s child that you’ll be raising. Lucifer and poor Kelly Kline, murdered in childbirth.

The two conflicting thoughts beat through his skull, this baby is a monster and yet… he doesn’t want to harm it. Instead, he shuts down the warring voices by running a fingertip through the sandy blonde hair noting it's the exact same dark shade as his own. The child grunts and nestles into Dean’s chest, drawn by the tattoo of Dean’s heart. The thoughts evaporate when he’s holding Jack, all innocence and warmth. 

“What are you going to do?” Jody asks quietly. 

“Raise him, exactly how Cas wants me to.”

Sam’s face pinches uncomfortably, “Dean.” 

“No, Sammy, don’t start.” 

Silence descends heavily in the living room like a weighty fog. Dean hums to Jack, the words in his mind and the noise vibrating in his chest. Blackbird singing in the dead of the night, take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise. Dean watches Jack’s eyes close and he continues humming, the words clogging up in his throat. Humming is safer right now, with his brother’s and Jody’s eyes on him. 

“You know you guys own the land where Bobby’s house stood,” Jody offers, her voice cutting through the silence when Dean’s humming eventually fades out. 

“We do?” Sam asks, perking up. 

“Yes, it was in his will. The house, land, everything was left to you two.” 

“We should build a house, ward it like the Bunker,” Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes and patting Jack’s back softly. 

“With what money?” Sam asks irritably. 

“Charlie’s magic credit card. I know how to build a house,” Dean informs his irritable brother. 

“When did you learn how to build a house?” Jody asks, looking surprised and pleased at the new information. 

“Year I took off from hunting, I needed work. It’ll be slow, taking care of a baby and building a house, but… we could do it. I could do it. Something simple. Three bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and bathroom.” 

“I know some construction companies that will help you out,” Jody states, pulling out her phone and shooting off a message. 

“Whoah, when did we suddenly make this decision?” Sam protests. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on getting Mom back?” 

Dean levels a flat look at his brother, “We’ve got no leads on how to get Mom back. Unless you know how to open up a portal into another world? Use the baby as an intergalactic can-opener? Extract his grace without killing him?” Dean pauses for dramatic effect and for Sam’s resting bitch face to reach its pinnacle of bitchiness. “No? Me neither. But I do know how to take care of an infant who can eventually open a portal to another world. So, we focus on that first, and… we can’t bring a baby back to the Bunker, man. That’s no place for a kid to grow up.” 

Sam and Dean stare at each other, their eyes reminding each other of stories from their childhood. Familiar stories, haunting stories. The lonely road, the drinking, the hunting, going hungry when Dad was absent, and the isolation of only having each other. Dean would never want to subject another kid to that kind of life. Castiel wouldn’t have raised Jack hunting. With the knowledge he needed to stay safe from the things that go bump in the night, yes… but not the way they grew up. A childhood robbed by hunting. Definitely not twelve and making his own sawed-off shotgun, not sixteen and stealing peanut butter and bread, and not turning seventeen and hunting down gay ghost nuns all by himself. Terrified and hurting. 

Always hurting. His entire life has been one hurt after another. He can’t do that to another innocent. Can’t raise a child, a very powerful child, to be twisted and broken like him. Like them. 

Eventually, Sam lets out a large sigh and nods. “You’re right.” 

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They decide to crash at Jody’s place for a little while. Jody pulls all her old baby things out from the attic. It’s almost painful for Dean to watch. But he does and he helps bring it all down, every last box, because misery indeed does love company, and he too is in sharp agonizing pain. 

As they are setting up a temporary space for Jack, with Dean creating a bed at the base of the crib on a blow-up mattress, Claire comes home. Her presence screams with questions and Dean avoids her eyes. He pretends he’s busy with Jack, feeding, changing, burping, and always, always singing him to sleep. Dean sings another song: When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, Let it be, let it be. 

Dean’s voice warbles and cracks through the lyrics brokenly, but he continues on, each inhalation for the next stanza piercing sharply into his heart. When he puts Jack down in his crib and walks away, he no longer has the baby to protect him from Claire’s questions. She’s quick, expertly waiting for him in the kitchen when Dean goes to clean out the bottle. Dean knows Sam has told her everything because she just hugs him. A long, full-body hug that is completely uncharacteristic of her quick-witted, angst-ridden personality. Dean hugs back, taking comfort in another one of Cas’ kids. 

“I hear there is going to be a posthumous gay marriage happening and I’m getting a baby brother?” Claire questions wryly. 

“Yes,” Dean grunts, feeling embarrassed. He didn’t even think about Claire in this scenario, so focused on creating a world for Jack at the expense of Jimmy Novak’s name. 

“It’s alright, Dean,” she sighs eventually. “It’s a good plan. Dad always wanted more kids and I wanted a sibling. Just didn’t think I’d be getting one so late in life… you know?” 

Dean lets out a broken laugh and runs his hands through his hair and down his neck. Letting his hands drop like they are lead. He feels sick and has been for quite some time. The words escape his lips unbidden, “I could use a drink.” 

Claire looks at him. “Is that what you really need?” 

“No.” 

He doesn’t. If he starts drinking now, he’ll never stop. He’ll drink himself stupid. Dean will drink until the empties clutter up the floor and he has to wade through them to get to Jack. A stupid drunk taking care of a baby. Cas wouldn’t like that, Dean imitating his father in his grief. He pulls on his worn red flannel, playing with the edge between his fingers. 

“Nah, I don’t need a drink,” he sighs. “Maybe some fresh air instead. Wanna take a ride?” 

“It’s two in the morning.” 

Dean shrugs and Claire just looks at him her expression clearly stating; You are so stupid. “Isn’t there a saying? You sleep when the baby sleeps? Or some bullshit like that?” 

“Hell if I know.” 

“Go to bed, Dean,” Claire rolls her eyes and pushes him towards the mattress on the floor. He sinks half-heartedly onto it, noting that Sam is asleep on the couch, his legs spread out over the edge and mouth open. Dean sinks into the sheets, smelling Jody’s fabric softener. It's a clean scent, not overpowering and Dean appreciates it. 

He stares at the baby in the crib. Jack. Dean’s eyes eventually blurring and unseeing, but he still keeps his gaze steady on the little form. 

The name, Jack Kline-Novak, sounds alright to Dean. He’s mulled it over long enough during the past five days, anyways. They are going to be Dean and Jack Novak, a new life. He’s officially leaving Dean Winchester behind and becoming something new. Jack’s Dad, Cas’ husband… well, fake husband.

He’s given it a lot of thought, despite Sam’s objections that Dean’s idea is idiotic and thrown together. Dean’s thoughts were the only thing keeping him company and focusing him on the ride to Sioux Falls. He’s convinced himself that it makes the most sense, in a roundabout way. He has to exist to give Jack a real life and he can’t do that as Dean Winchester or even Dean Singer. So, he becomes Dean Novak… and he can say that Kelly Kline was their surrogate, just a gay couple wanting a baby. 

House, picket fence, maybe even a dog. Just a gay couple wanting a baby. He can create all of that. Feeling sick to his stomach, longing making his eyes sting, he fervently wishes that Castiel was there. A tiny voice in his head whispers so low… He’ll be back soon. 

He shoves those thoughts aside for now, because it won’t do him any good to entertain that nefarious false hope. Instead, Dean’s gotta focus on the here and now. There are so many things to do. Documents to make. Building permit to acquire. He needs a ring. His silver one has been missing ever since he rose from Hell. Well, since Cas rescued him from Hell. Fuck, that was forever ago.

The ache in his chest grows and Dean wipes his lips with the back of his hand feeling even sicker. He’s overtired, emotional. He knows it’s all in his head, he’s fine… he’s fine. His Mom is gone. Cas is gone. But Dean… Dean is alive and kicking when he shouldn’t be. 

Feeling like he should pray, he says a quiet Please. To whom, he doesn’t know. He knows Chuck isn’t listening and Cas is dead. There is no one to pray to. He looks at Jack, his child now. His very powerful child, and says it again a quiet broken murmur. “Please.” 

“Dummy, you were supposed to close your eyes and go to sleep,” Claire scolds, jerking Dean out of the moment. She's dressed in her PJs, holding a glass of water and her phone. 

“I need a ring,” Dean states softly, as if his random thought would make sense to Claire. 

“You need to sleep. I’ll figure something out tomorrow.” Her eyes are concerned, but thankfully she keeps her thoughts to herself. 

“Thank you, Claire.” 

 

 

Notes:

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Some of you may recognize Dean's singing The Beatles' Blackbird from clickbaitcowyboy's sketch of Dean looking after a baby Jack.