Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, gentlemen, can I help you find something?" Dr. Bailey's no-nonsense tone was perhaps the only thing that could have disrupted the two men from their wanderings around Seattle Grace Hospital. They were both young, no older than her interns, but dressed in plaid and faded jeans, it was obvious that these were not doctors.

"Uh, yes, hi," said the shorter of the two, who nevertheless looked older. "My name is Dean, and this is my brother Sam. We're looking for someone. Our father. John Winchester."

"Don't know any patients by that name," Bailey said. "Why don't you go to the help desk and see if they can help instead of crowding up my hallways."

Sam, who was barely more than a kid, really, put his hands up. "We understand. But he might be under a false name." He thought for a moment of his father's possible alias's. "It could have been a Pat Walters, or maybe...Denny Duquette?"

Bailey's expression dropped. "We weren't aware that Denny Duquette had family."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean had?"

"I'm so sorry," Dr. Bailey said. "Your father died last night. He had just gotten a heart transplant but...he suffered a stroke shortly after."

The light seemed to go out of his eyes. "Heart transplant?" Sam said. "Don't you need to be on a list for something like that? How long was he here?"

"Mr. Duquette has been on the transplant list for years. He's been on bedrest for months. You're saying you didn't know he was sick?"

The boys didn't even seem to notice her anymore as they conversed to one another.

"Did Bobby know about this?" Sam said to Dean, who shook his head.

"No. Bobby would have told us. This doesn't make any sense," Dean said. "Dad never would have just laid down and died. He would have found a way, any way...and he would have told us. He would have at least said goodbye, not come out here to die alone."

Bailey cleared her throat. "I am very sorry for your lost, boys. But as far as your father dying alone...there's something else you might want to know."

--

"Thanks, Bobby. We'll see you soon." Sam's voice was hollow over the phone.

Dean listened, his face stone-like as he leaned against the Impala. He had carried this inscrutable expression since they had left the morgue. So many thoughts had flooded his brain. Maybe it was a shifter or some other kind of body snatching monster. But not his father. John Winchester, killed by heart failure? A stroke? Impossible.

Sam pocketed his phone. "Bobby will be here by tomorrow for the uh - for the burial."

Dean shook his head and got into the Impala. Sam followed suit. "You're buying all of this?" Dean asked as he revved the engine.

"What, that it's actually Dad? I...I think it is, Dean."

"That doesn't make any sense. Last I saw Dad, he was hunting Yellow Eyes. And that wasn't even that long ago. Not long enough for him to be on any damned transplant list."

"Well I don't know, maybe he was, Dean. Dad went off on his own all the time. He easily could have been checking into hospitals without us knowing. And he was getting older. The life we lead, the life that Dad led...it isn't that far of a stretch to think that it would affect his heart. And you know, maybe he just got tired of fighting."

Dean hit the steering wheel. "Dad devoted his life to finding Yellow Eyes. To avenging Mom's death. He wouldn't give that up."

"I'm just saying, Dean. Maybe he couldn't do it anymore. Maybe he just decided to pass the fight on to us, I mean that's why he left us the journal, right?"

"I don't know, man. It doesn't sound like Dad."

"Listen, I know we weren't expecting this. But why don't we go talk to this...Izzie Stevens and see what she has to say. Maybe Dad left her with some answers."

"Yeah," Dean said skeptically. "Maybe."

--

Dr. Isobel Stevens had never been so defeated. She didn't care about dignity at all as she lay on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, still wearing that ridiculous pink dress that she had picked out for that ridiculous dance. She knew Meredith, George, and Cristina were all whispering about her on the other side of the door, but she couldn't help herself. Ever since Alex had pulled her off of Denny's body, when she had known it was the last time she would ever see Denny Duquette, it seemed as though something in her had died.

There was a knock on the door before it slowly opened. "Izzie?" Meredith said.

"Please go away," Izzie said.

"Izzie, there are people here to see you. Denny's sons."

Izzie perked her head up. "Denny didn't have sons. He would have told me."

"Well there are two guys here who say otherwise. Listen, Dr. Bailey told them that you were his fiance and they want to talk to you." Meredith paused. "It might be good for you, Iz."

Izzie sighed. She didn't want to go downstairs, but this was probably the last connection she would have to Denny. "I'm just going to change so they don't think I'm crazy. Tell them I'll-I'll be right down."

When Izzie went to her room, she felt a jolt as she saw the other dresses still strewn onto her bed. So silly, she thought, that she had been worried about dresses when she should have been trying to get back to Denny. Now, she shed the dress and quickly donned jeans and a tank top before heading down the stairs. Maybe she should care more what Denny's sons thought of her--their father's fiance. She would have been a step-mom.

But then she reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped short. Whatever she had expected from Denny's blood, it hadn't been this. She wasn't even sure why she was so surprised: Denny had been charming and handsome, but he had never been polished. So why did these boys, in their dirty boots and tired faces that bespoke anything but innocence, surprise her so much? For their part, they seemed equally surprised to see her. She was probably about the same age as the oldest. What must they think of her?

"Hi. I'm Izzie Stevens," she said, trying to smile as she held out a hand, although she was sure the expression fell flat. For a moment the hand hovered unrecognized, until the taller of the two held out a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Izzie. I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean. We were, ah," he paused for a half second before saying, "Denny's sons."

Dean was looking at the ground, his bright green eyes filled with a bitterness Izzie knew all too well.

"I am so sorry for your loss," she said. "Why don't you sit down? We have food...so much food, if you want anything."

"That's alright," Sam said, sitting down.

Dean, after a pause, followed his lead and then fixed those piercing eyes on Izzie. "So. That doctor at the hospital. She said that you cut our father's L-whatever wires to force him into getting a heart transplant. And that he asked you to marry him. That sound about right?" Izzie knew what people who had seen death looked like. Even in her brief months as an intern, she had seen it everywhere in varying degrees. While both boys had that look in their eye, Dean had it the most. This was someone who had seen some real shit. And here he sat on her couch, expecting answers about his father. She was terrified.

"I...yes. Your father, Denny, and I had become very close. I cut his LVAD wire so he could get a priority transplant. It was reckless, and no one is sorrier than me for how everything ended up."

Dean squinted at her. "Really. No one is sorrier than you? Well that makes me feel a whole lot better. Doesn't it make you feel better, Sam, that Dr. Legs over here is sorry?"

"Dean," Sam said, putting a hand on his brother's knee, but that did nothing to stop Dean's tirade.

"Tell me, Dr. Stevens, how much did our father tell you about his life? Did he mention that he had two sons? Did he mention that he had a wife who was murdered? Did he mention that Denny Duquette isn't even his real name? So just how well did you really know him?"

Izzie opened her mouth then closed it again as tears threatened and her throat tightened. She shook her head.

"Our father's name is..was...John Winchester," Sam said. "And you have to forgive my brother, but we didn't even know that our father was sick. This is all a big shock to us."

John Winchester. She thought of Denny's dimpled smile, all of his jokes, and tried to match that person with the man his sons were describing. It was something of a struggle.

"Where did you think he was all this time?" she asked.

They looked at each other. "It was common for our dad to go on long hunting trips," Sam said. "By the time we realized he was missing...well, it was hard enough tracking him to Seattle."

Dean cut in, "Was there anything else we should know? Anything strange that happened while he was staying there?"

"Not that I know of," Izzie said. "I visited him every day. He was a perfectly normal patient. We played a lot of Scrabble."

"Scrabble. Right." Dean stood up. "Well, thank you, Dr. Stevens. It was nice meeting you."

"I...that's it?" Izzie asked.

"Well there isn't more to say, is there?" Dean said. "Unless there's anything else you think we should know."

Izzie shook her head. "It was nice meeting you, even under the circumstances," she said. "Um. I know it's a lot to ask, but would you let me know about the funeral arrangements? I know we don't know each other very well, but I did know your father and I would like to pay my final respects."

The brothers looked at one another. "I'm sorry," Sam said. "We're sure you knew him very well. But our plan was to have our father cremated. It's what he would have wanted. Everything brief and...private."

Izzie bit her lip. "Of course. Whatever you think is best."

--

The next day, Sam, Dean, and Bobby stood in the dwindling twilight as John Winchester's body burned on a makeshift pyre.

"Why do you think he did it?" Dean asked. "Why would he leave everything he was doing to die alone? To try and start a new life with some blonde doctor?"

"Dad had a life before all this," Sam said. "Maybe he knew he was dying and wanted, I don't know, some sense of normalcy before it all went down. Anyway, she seemed like a nice girl."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said, although it shook him, the reminder that his father could have been capable of being a man opposite what Dean had known his entire life. But, he supposed, it was possible. If anyone could keep a secret, it was John Winchester.

-

Almost too far away to see, a lone car sat in an empty lot, and Izzie Stevens looked on as her lover's body burned in flames. This was no ordinary cremation. Who were these boys who were capable of burning everything she thought she knew about Denny into the ground?

No, she told herself. Denny was not a lie. Whoever this John Winchester was, he was clearly a different sort of man. A widower, a father of two, and God knows what else. But she had loved Denny, and she believed that he had loved her too. It was possible that one man could be two different people, she supposed, and she would have to hold on to the one that she had known.

It would have to be possible.

Chapter Text

They should have left Seattle right after the burial. Dean had wanted to leave --"Let's get the hell outta Dodge", he had said--but before they checked out of the motel, Sam found a case right there in town. He'd insisted it would be good for them to get back on the job as soon as possible.

They never thought they'd unearth the entire Grand Coven of Witches. And now, if Dean died, it was going to be Sam's fault. Dean had been hurt badly, and Sam couldn't get the bleeding so stop. Sam knew this called for desperate measures. He couldn't take Dean to a hospital--too many questions about the nature of his injuries, and besides, they had just been there half a week ago to claim their father's body. Not to mention they had let it slip that John had been under an alias.

But Sam couldn't stand to do nothing. He couldn't lose his father and brother in the same week. He pulled up to the townhouse almost without thinking about it. At the hospital, Dr. Bailey had told them that Isobel Stevens was on suspension because of what she had done to their father. Sam just hoped that she was home.

--

Izzie was baking when the doorbell rang. Her hands covered in batter for the cupcakes she was making, it took her a minute to clean herself off before going to the door. She hoped it wasn't more sympathy food. She really didn't want any more sympathy food.

She was not expecting to find Denny's youngest son standing in her doorway, his hands and clothes covered with blood and eyes filled with panic.

"Oh my God," she said.

"Dr. Stevens," Sam said. "I don't have any time. I need your help. It's--it's Dean. He's in trouble. I--I tried to stitch him up, but I'm not a real doctor, and I think something's wrong."

"You didn't bring him to the hospital?" Izzie said.

"I--there are reasons why I can't do that. Please? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious. I can't lose my brother. He's all I've got."

"I don't have any supplies," she said.

"That's okay," Sam said. "I have some. I just need someone who knows what they're doing."

There never really was any question that Izzie would help. It could have been a stranger and she probably would have gone anyway--that was her job, after all--but for Denny's son? Of course she would. She nodded vigorously, and Sam led her quickly down the stairs to that old black car. The passenger seat where Dean had presumably sat recently was caked with dried blood, and she made the flash decision to sit in the backseat instead.

"This is some ride," she said as Sam kicked the car into gear.

"It was my Dad's," Sam said. "Now it's Dean's. Well, it's been his for a few years now."

Huh. Izzie looked around the car with newfound wonder, and saw the character of the car. Initials carved into the side, presumably from the boys' younger years, meant that this car had been around for a long time. "John Winchester, you said his name was?"

There was a long pause from the front seat. "Yeah," was all Sam said.

She felt the need to press on. "I'm sorry again. I can't even imagine not knowing that your father was here this whole time."

"Yeah, well. My dad loved to keep secrets. And me and him haven't been close the past few years."

In those few hours when everything had been perfect, after Denny's new heart had stabilized and Izzie had said yes, she had dared to imagine what their future would look like together. She had thought of maybe having kids down the line. She had thought Denny would make a great father, full of life, eager to have sons to play ball with in the yard, to teach them how to ride bikes and helping them with their homework. So why was Sam's voice so bitter? How different was the Denny she had known to the John Winchester who had raised these boys?

Sam pulled into the parking lot of some godforsaken motel and was out of the car as soon as the it was back in park. Izzie followed his lead, but skidded to a halt in the doorway. Dean lay in one of the beds, his shirt off, displaying an array of deep gash wounds down his side. Sam had done his best to patch these up, but blood was seeping through them and onto the floral comforter. Bloody bandages were strewn around him and a bottle of vodka was open on the bed stand.

"Are you serious?" Izzie said. "I'm calling the hospital right now."

"No," Sam said, his voice firm. "You're not. Please."

Izzie took a deep breath and forced herself over the threshold.

Dean was bright with sweat and he squinted up at her from the bed. "You called Dr. Legs?" he asked Sam.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped. "This wouldn't be happening if you had waited for me before charging into that room. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I hate witches," Dean muttered, then gasped as Izzie pulled the bandage from his side to examine the wound. Blood poured forth more freely now, and she quickly clapped the bandage back onto his side.

"I need more of these," she said to Sam. "And I need to know what happened. Witches?" This last part was skeptical. Was "witches" code for something?

"Uh, that part is less important," Sam said, passing more bandages along, as well as the thread and needle he had used on Dean's more manageable wounds. "There was a lot of...flying glass. Some of them cut pretty deep."

"Okay, I need disinfectant," Izzie said. Sam handed her the vodka. "Are you serious?" Izzie asked. "When you said you had supplies, why did I think you had actual, medically sound equipment?"

"Your mistake," Dean muttered, but gave another startled gasp as Izzie poured the alcohol over his wound.

"Are you sure you got all the glass out?" Izzie asked Sam. "If there's still some in there, it could be scraping against something."

"I mean, it's possible," Sam said.

"Jesus," Izzie muttered. "Okay, I'm going to need tweezers or something."

"What, you're just going to dig around until you find something?" Sam said.

"Unless you have a better idea," Izzie snapped. "At a hospital, we could have taken an X-Ray."

"Pass," Dean said, and Izzie set to work, poking around until..."Got it!" she said triumphantly pulling a shard of sharp black glass from Dean's side. She didn't have time to examine the oddity of the piece, as she set about stitching up the wound as best as she could. "That should hold," she said, biting her lip. "Of course, I have no idea."

"Yeah, well, thanks for your help, lady," Dean said as he fought to sit up. "We can take it from here, really."

"That's it?" Izzie asked.

"That's--" Dean choked on the sentence. Suddenly, his breath was coming out in wheezes and he was clutching his chest.

Izzie looked at Sam. "Did he swallow something?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Shit! It's a hex bag."

"A what?"

But Sam was no longer paying attention. He was overturning pillows and pulling out drawers, scrambling to find something as Dean continued gasping for breath. "I need to do chest compressions," Izzie said, but Dean pushed her hands away, doubling over as he coughed and something came out: more black glass, and with it, blood. Dean kept coughing. "How much did you swallow?" Izzie said, but Dean could only shake his head as he gagged.

"He's going to tear up his esophagus!" Izzie said, but Sam had moved into the bathroom, opening more drawers. "Ha!" he yelled, and came back into the room with a small brown bag in hand. He grabbed a lighter from the counter, and lit the small baggie on fire. As it went up in smoke, Dean gave a final heave, and one more small piece of glass landed in his hand before he was able to look up, panting.

"You good?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Those bitches."

"Can someone please explain to me what's going on?" Izzie said, feeling suddenly close to tears.

"It's none of your business," Dean said, spitting a gob of blood onto the already stained carpet.

"Yes, it is!" Izzie said. "Your brother brought me out here to save your life, and that makes me your doctor."

Dean glared at her. "You can't blame me for not liking you."

Her cheeks turned red. "Is it so horrible to believe your dad and I were happy?" she asked.

"Hard to believe my dad would want to marry some girl my own age, would leave his sons and his life's work behind? Yeah, it's a little hard to swallow." Another spit. "Literally."

Izzie felt tears sting her eyes. "I wouldn't have stopped him from being your father. He never told me about you, but I wouldn't have gotten between him and...whatever his life's work is. Whatever was important to him was important to me."

"Not this," Dean said.

"Dean," Sam said. "Take a load off, okay?"

Dean glared at his brother, and took the bottle of vodka from Izzie. "You really shouldn't--" she started, but he took a considerable gulp, grimacing as it went down.

Izzie flushed and picked herself up off the bed. "Well, if that's all you need from me, I guess Sam could take me home." She looked around the messy motel room, and for the first time she noticed the gun on the bureau and a silver knife on that looked hastily tossed on the other bed. Who were these guys? She supposed she should be more scared, but she couldn't help herself from opening her mouth again. "I saw how you buried Den--John. You're 'cremation'. Are you a part of some kind of cult? With witches?"

Sam gave a hollow laugh. "No. We hate witches. And we're not part of a cult. We're hunters--"

"Sam," Dean warned, but Sam interjected, "She deserves to know, Dean."

He turned back to Izzie. "What you saw was what we call a hunter's burial. We burned his body so that he can't come back as a spirit, or so his body can't be used for any other kind of...supernatural reason."

"Supernatural," she said.

"Yeah. Ghosts, demons, monsters, witches...they're all real. And we hunt them. Our dad taught us how." He went into a drawer and tossed a leather bound book to Izzie. "That was his."

Izzie swallowed hard as she tenderly opened the book and began turning the pages. She recognized the handwriting, but the words had never seemed so foreign. Vampires, pagan gods, vengeful spirits...how could any of this be real?

She looked up at Sam and Dean, who were watching her closely. "That thing you burned, what was that?"

"It's called a hex bag," Sam said. "Witches use them to curse people."

"Yeah, witches can be real douche bags," Dean said.

"And you fight them?"

"Every day," Dean said. He was squinting at her, as if he wasn't sure what to make of her now. "Do you believe us?"

Izzie looked back down to the journal, and then all around the room. "I think I have to," she said. Her head was in a fog. She thought back to one night at Seattle Grace when she had stayed after hours to stay with Denny, and they had started telling ghost stories back and forth. Her stories had amused him, she could tell, but his had chilled her to the bone. Monsters that came for little children, a woman in white that lured men off the highway. She had realized with a jolt that all of the stories had been real. Was she supposed to have figured that out? Was he disappointed in her for not realizing it?

"Why would he ask me to marry him, if he knew that's what his life was really like?"

Dean looked like he wanted to make another smart-ass comment, but at the last minute, his face softened. "Honestly? We don't know. But he wouldn't have done it just to lead you on, I can tell you that. My dad wasn't like that."

"We were thinking maybe he was trying to get out of the life," Sam said. The way he said it, "the life," seemed so awfully final, some fact of fate that he was resigned to.

The three of them shared a long silence before Sam said, "Why don't I drive you home now?"

Izzie nodded, and followed him out the door. "You sound like you hate it," she said as they got into the car. "Hunting."

"I'm good at it," Sam said. "And if we don't do it, no one else will. That's all that really matters." He paused for a long time. "I don't want to get the wrong idea. The man that raised us was a hard man. He had to be. But the man you knew...that was him, too. You don't have to feel like the whole thing was a lie."

Izzie felt her throat tighten. "Thank you," she managed, wiping a runaway tear from her eye and hoping Sam didn't notice.

He pulled up in front of the house. "Thank you for saving my brother."

"It looked like you saved him," she said.

Sam shrugged. "You helped," he said.

Izzie put her hand on the door but didn't open it yet. "Will you be staying in Seattle?" she asked.

Sam shook his head. "We go where the job takes us. Never one place for too long, never the same place twice. We won't bother you again."

Izzie wasn't sure if she should be happy or sad to hear this news. "Well," she said. "Take it easy, alright?"

"Yeah, you too," Sam said. "For what it's worth, I think I get what he saw in you."

This meant more than Izzie could say, and indeed, she didn't say anything else as she got out of the car and went back into the house. Her batter was exactly where she had left it on the table, only she wasn't in the mood to bake any more. She washed Dean's blood off her hands in the sink, thinking that some of her questions had been answered, but so many remained. Maybe she didn't want to know the answers. Let Sam and Dean and John Winchester's absurd car speed off into the distance, so her memories of Denny Duquette might remain somewhat in tact.

Still, part of her knew it was too late. John Winchester had shattered her heart into a million pieces, the shards piercing her every time she tried to take a breath. If she was ever going to move on, she would have to find a way to forget him completely. She dried her hands with the towel and looked around at the kitchen, her domain. She sighed and decided to finish baking after all.

Chapter Text

The Winchesters were asleep in the Impala, somewhere past De Moines but not quite at South Dakota, when Sam’s phone rang. In the backseat, Sam woke with such a start that his head scraped the roof of the car.

“Who is it?” Dean mumbled.

Sam didn’t recognized the number, but so few people had his number in the first place. Part of him hoped it was Ruby—he hadn’t heard from her in a week—but she knew better to call him when Dean might be around.

“Hello?” he said, voice still bleary.

“Is this Sam?” It was a female voice he recognized but couldn't place. Definitely not Ruby.

“Yeah, uh, who’s this?”

“Dr. Izzie Stevens, from Seattle Grace Hospital. Oh, crap, I just realized how late it is. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“’S alright, Izzie,” Sam said, resigning himself to being awake and finally sitting upright. “Is something wrong?”

“You could say that,” Izzie said. “Normally I would just think I’m going crazy, but this is also supposed to be your kind of thing, and it’s also…it’s about your dad.”

“Our dad?” Sam echoed, a sudden pain in his chest unexpectedly sharp. “What about our dad?” Sam asked.

In the front seat, Dean bolted upright, sleep gone from his eyes. “Dr. Legs?” he mouthed, and Sam nodded, putting her on speakerphone so they could both listen.

Dr. Stevens was saying, “For weeks I’ve been seeing him. Talking to him…touching him. And on one hand, I’ve missed him so much that I never want him to leave. But on the other, I have a boyfriend and a life, and I know that nothing about what’s happening is natural. You said you dealt with ghosts, right?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Yeah, ghosts are our thing,” Sam said. “But we burned our dad’s body so that he wouldn’t be able to come back as one. Unless there’s something we missed?”

“We didn’t miss anything,” Dean said, indignant.

At the same time, Izzie said, “Well, there was the sweater.”

“What sweater?” Sam asked.

“There was this sweater that I knit for Denny, while he was sick. He loved it. But I was talking to this Navajo man, a patient of mine, and he suggested I burn it, so I did. But it didn’t do anything. Denny—I mean, John—he’s still here.”

“Are you sure you aren’t crazy?” Dean asked. “Is he with you right now?”

There was a long pause over the line.

“Yes,” Izzie said at last, her voice quiet. “He says not to worry, because he’s not a vengeful spirit, and also he’s been keeping an eye on you, too. And…to be careful about which angels you trust?”

Thinking of Uriel, Dean rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly a stretch.”

“Also, that right now I’m in Funky Town. He said you’d know what that meant.”

Sam and Dean exchanged another look, recognizing their codeword for trouble. John Winchester had coined it with them.

“Izzie, hang tight, alright?” Sam said. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

He hung up and looked at Dean. “Looks like we’re going back to Seattle.”

Dean nodded, his eyes far off. “Last week it was Truman High, this week Dad’s back from the dead but not a ghost. I’m not really enjoying this trip down memory lane, Sammy.”

—

Seattle Grace Hospital looked mostly the same as it had several years before, and it was horrible.

“Where are we supposed to find her? A clinic?” Dean asked.

“That’s where she said she’s be,” Sam said.

Just then, a man with incredibly voluminous black hair walked past them toward the hospital doors. Dean’s gaze followed him. “That guy looked just like Dr. Sexy,” he whispered. “Minus the cowboy boots, obviously.”

“Okay, Dean.” Sam was giving him a wry look. “I think the clinic is this way.”

Dean followed his gaze to a smaller building adjacent to the hospital, sobering as he saw the words DENNY DUQUETTE MEMORIAL CLINIC embossed over the door in white letters.

“Isn’t that supposed to be fake-Dad?” Dean asked, as they stared at the doors, both too stunned to go inside just yet.

“I—Yeah, I think so,” Sam said.

“Weird. I don’t like this already, Sammy. Just being back in Seattle skeeves me out.”

“It’s Dad, Dean. Whatever is going on, we have to figure it out. Just because he says he’s not a vengeful spirit doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And if he’s not…I mean, how many options are there?”

Dean grimaced, and led the way into the clinic, where a scrawny, curly-haired intern almost crashed into them. “Oh,” the intern said. “Have you been admitted?”

“We’re looking for Dr. Stevens,” Sam said.

The intern gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, you see, it doesn’t work that way, see, you tell us what’s wrong, and we give you a bed, and then—“

“Two! Aren’t you supposed to be with Dr. Yang?” Izzie appeared from behind a curtain, ripping off a pair of latex gloves.

“She told us to come here,” the intern said.

Izzie rolled her eyes. “Fine. Bed 3 needs to be tested for strep. Can you manage that?”

The intern nodded, then stumbled over his own feet in an effort to get away from them.

“You guys made it,” Izzie said. Now it was her turn to be nervous, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“You number your interns?” Dean asked.

“He isn’t my intern,” Izzie said, throwing her hands in the air. “One of the other residents…I never learned his name, alright? Come on, let’s talk outside.”

Having this conversation with their father’s former fiancé outside of a clinic embossed with his alias didn’t seem particularly desirable to either Sam or Dean, but they followed her back outside.

“So,” Sam said. “Start from the beginning. Our father’s ghost. When did this start?”

“A few weeks ago, when I was doing the surgery for the guy whose heart I stole for John. I thought it was just an emotional thing. But he hasn’t gone away, and he’s so real, I swear, I can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat off his chest…”

“We get it,” Dean said. “It’s like he’s really there. When do you see him? Is he here now?”

Izzie nodded, gesturing to the space to her left. “Right here,” she said.

Dean felt like he had just been punched in the gut as he stared into the open space. Was his father really right there? Next to them, but hiding just out of sight? Let me see you, he thought furiously, his jaw clenching. But of course, it was not like John Winchester to show up when Dean wanted him, certainly not when he was alive. Why would he be different in death?

“He says he’s sorry for not telling you he was dying,” Izzie said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Spare us the commentary,” Dean said, shooting a glare into the space in case John’s spirit really was there to intercept it.

“What’s he been saying to you?” Sam said. “Has he mentioned why he was here?”

Izzie shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. He says he wants to be here for me.”

“Have you ever felt any cold spots when he’s around? Flickering lights? Appliances stop working?”

“No,” Izzie said. “I told you he’s warm and — he’s saying he told you he wasn’t a ghost. Is that what cold spots are? Ghosts?”

“They can be,” Sam said. He looked at the place where John was supposed to be standing. “I don’t suppose you could just tell us what you are instead of playing this game and tugging us around?”

“Sam, relax,” Dean said. “We don’t even know if he’s really there.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

Izzie said. “He said I can see him because he’s here for me, and not for you.”

Sam ground his teeth, anger rising up in him.

Dean took over the questioning. “And you’re sure that you’re the only one whose seen him?”

Izzie nodded. “I know what that sounds like, it sounds like I’m crazy. I mean, Meredith said she saw him once when she was flatlining, but she also saw her dead mom and the dead bomb squad guy.”

“Hold on,” Dean said. “This woman saw him while she was dying?”

“Well, she didn’t actually die, but that’s what she said.”

Dean wasn’t listening. Understanding was flooding through him, but he didn’t like the path where it was leading.

“What were his exact words to you earlier? He’s “here for you”?

“Is that important?”

“Is that what he said?”

“Yes, that’s what he always says.”

Dean knew that Sam had picked up on it too, because his shoulders slumped slightly.

“Izzie,” Sam said gently. “Is it possible that he meant that he was here FOR you, instead of here to be WITH you?”

She looked between them, confused, then turned to look at John’s apparent visage beside her. “Is that what you meant?” she asked, her voice small.

“I still don’t really understand.”

“He’s a reaper, Izzie.” Dean said. “He came when your friend was dying, and now he’s here for you.”

She cringed at the phrase. “Am I…am I dying?

Dean wanted to say something snarky like, “Well, you’re the doctor, you tell us,” which seemed insensitive, and instead what came out was, “Well, on the bright side, you’re not crazy.”

Sam gave him a pointed nudge.

Izzie looked miserable. She glared sideways again. “You could have told me.”

Dean looked down at his shoes. On the other hand, she still seemed a little crazy.

“Dr. Stevens?” It was the intern named Two, who had run outside, his face stricken. “Bed four is seizing. I don’t know what to—“

Izzie’s composure changed completely as her head snapped up, and she immediately began to move back toward the clinic. “Doesn’t Cristina teach you anything?”
She glanced back toward them as she backed into the door. “Thank you, I guess.”

The door slammed shut behind her. Sam and Dean looked at each other. “Well, glad we drove all this way to figure that out,” Dean said. He should be more upset, but his mind was barely able to register another blow on top of everything else they were dealing with…the angels, Ruby and Lilith, and not to mention Alastair was probably still out there…

They were walking away from the clinic now. If Izzie was sick, there was nothing they could do to save her that her own friends wouldn’t be better equipped for.

“Boys.”

Dean had not thought twice about selling his soul for Sam’s life, and given the option, he might have done the same just to hear his father’s voice one more time.
Sam and Dean turned around as one.

John Winchester was standing there, casual in a T-white shirt and blue jeans, hands in his pockets.

“Dad?” This was Sam. Dean, for all his feelings, couldn’t express any of them out loud.

“It is real good to see you both,” John said, closing the distance between them in a few easy steps. No cold spots, no flicker. Really, truly him.

A Reaper.

An Angel.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were dying?” Sam asked, his voice hitching.

“You boys had better things to do than sit around and wait for me to kick it,” John said. He looked down at his feet for a moment before facing Sam squarely in the eyes. “All those fights we had, Sam. You know I always loved you, right?”

“Of course,” Sam said, although it was debatable whether he actually had.

John was still giving him a hard look. “If half of what I’ve been hearing is true, it’s not going to get any easier.”

“We’re going to stop it. The apocalypse, all of it.”

John nodded. He looked over at Dean, who felt his shoulders straighten and his chin lift as he met his father’s gaze.

“It wasn’t your fault,” John said. “What happened in Hell. It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean grimaced, his jaw locked tight again, but he managed a nod.

“You keep looking after your brother, no matter what, you understand?”

“Yessir.”

John nodded. He looked behind him, where in the distance, Izzie was directing a patient on a gurney into the main part of the hospital. “I have to go,” he said. “I have work to finish. You boys watch out for one another.”

And then, like that, he was gone.

—

Izzie was on call that night. This morning, the thought of it had made her giddy. Because even though she knew the Winchesters were coming to sort out what was happening with Denny—he was always going to be Denny to her—she hadn’t truly thought it would mean something terrible. Had looked forward to spending the night with him in the on-call room.

But now she was faced with this: she was dying.

Probably.

That’s what the Winchesters seemed to believe. Denny had said as much, once they had said the words out loud.

But she wasn’t dying now. Not in this moment. Her heart was beating, her nerves and synapses firing. She was a doctor.

“How soon?” she said aloud to the empty on-call room.

Except it wasn’t empty. Denny was there. He was always there.

“I don’t know,” he said, suddenly beside her on the bed.

“But you’re here for me.”

He nodded slowly.

“But you don’t know how it’s going to happen? Or when?”

“You’re not going to get hit by a bus, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“So I’m sick.”

“You’re sick.”

Izzie sighed, leaning her head against Denny’s shoulder. Maybe it was the eighteen hour shift, maybe it was simply that the truth hadn’t hit her yet, but she felt surprisingly calm. In the morning, she would run blood tests, and then she would go from there.

“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “Please don’t leave me.”

He wrapped his arm around her. “I told you, Izzie. I’m here for you.”