EPILOGUE
Dean’s footsteps creaked on the ancient wood floor of the Rustic Pines Retirement Community. It smelled like a hospital— every surface regularly wiped with disinfectant chemicals, stale processed air. Old people.
At the end of the hallway, a woman was waiting for him. She introduced herself as Betty, the resident coordinator. As they walked toward the East Wing of the building, she rattled off a list of facts that left Dean’s consciousness as soon as they entered. He really didn’t care about the bingo schedule. He was here for something else entirely.
They walked past a dozen rooms, all of them occupied. The faces inside looked friendly, content, which comforted Dean. Not a terrible place to grow old.
“The storage area is downstairs,” Betty said with a glued-on smile. “Excuse the conditions. We don’t usually bring guests down here.”
She wasn’t kidding. The basement was damp and unwelcoming, to say the least. Dean imagined he could feel the chill of the bare concrete through the soles of his shoes.
“Just through here,” she indicated.
A large door blocked their path. Its hinges were rusty and groaned loudly as she tugged on the metal handle. Inside, a sea of musty, ancient boxes greeted them. The remnants of entire lives, Dean thought. Like in the pyramids.
“I believe the articles you’re looking for are over here.”
With practiced swiftness, Betty navigated the maze of boxes and pulled out one in particular. The cardboard sagged at the bottom from the weight of its contents.
“Tell me again, what was your relation?”
Dean struggled with his answer. In the moment, with that box right in front of him, he couldn’t remember what he had told her on the phone. He took a stab in the dark.
“She was my great aunt.”
“She never talked about family. And no family ever visited.” That last sentence contained a jab directed squarely at Dean. An accusatory “Where were you?” was definitely implied.
“Yeah. Things were strained.”
“Better late than never, I guess. Although, for Julia, I guess not.” With that, Betty left Dean alone with the box.
He opened it delicately, almost afraid to touch the material inside.
Once Betty was definitely out of earshot, Dean whispered quietly, “I’m sorry you didn’t get your picket fence, Julia.”
Sam waited outside, leaning wearily against the Impala. Things are finally back to normal, he thought. More or less. Not that normal was good. In fact, Sam found himself missing 1954. For all of the tragedy, it had been nice to experience a time when things had been less complicated for a while. No Apocalypse. No horsemen. No impending battle to end all battles.
Dean walked slowly down the front steps of the retirement home, carrying a single piece of paper.
“You found her stuff?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. Let’s get moving.” Dean’s voice was gruff. Sam recognized his I-don’t-want-to talk-about-it face. Not that Sam ever let him get away with it...
“Dean, come on, what did you find?”
Dean stopped at the driver’s side door.
“Nothing worth yapping about.”
In one swift movement, Sam reached over the hood and snatched the piece of paper from Dean’s hand.
“Hey!”
“We’re gonna talk about it eventually. I’m just skipping a six-hour car ride with you brooding the whole way.” Sam unfolded the paper, finding a list written in blocky handwriting. A guy wrote it, Sam realized. Specifically, Walter.
Sam held in his hands Walter’s transcribed list of bloodlines. At the very end, the words “Michael” and “Lucifer” were written on two consecutive lines. Next to each—nothing. The paper had been cut, Dean and Sam’s names removed from the list.
“She kept it,” Dean said after a while. “Don’t know what that says.”
“But she took our names off,” Sam said. “I think that says a lot.”
Dean opened his door and sat heavily in the driver’s seat. He exhaled loudly enough for Sam to hear it.
“You... You think you could drive?”
Those words were so seldom spoken that it took Sam a second to register them.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve been in the driver’s seat a little too much recently.”
Reluctantly, Sam rounded the front of the car and swapped seats with Dean.
“Where we heading?”
In the passenger seat, Dean had already closed his eyes.
“Surprise me.”
As night approached, the Impala motored onto the open road. Toward—for better or worse—their destiny.