A/N: Thank you for the reviews, favs, and follows! This was supposed to be a one shot; I typed it up one morning at the spur of the moment but there are a lot of loose ends. I didn't wrap things up very well. So here's an epilogue of sorts.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, y'all.

-LdD

Dean Winchester is angry, and when he's angry, there isn't a corner on this earth where his target – this time, that skinny leather jacket-wearing vamp bitch – can hide. This vamp threatened his family, and family is everything. Family is what Dean bleeds for, what he's died for, what he's crawled out of Hell and Purgatory for. Nothing will come between him and family.

The vampire cowers at his feet but Dean's eyes are cold; he ends her life with a single swing of his machete. Blood sprays the trees, his face and jacket, the dead leaves on the ground. For a moment, all Dean can do is pant, his face still twisted in a feral snarl.

It's over.

He burns the corpse, disposing of it without ceremony, and heads back to the motel. The Impala growls as he whips it into a tight spot, tires squealing. When he lets himself into the smelly motel room, he heads straight for a bottle of whiskey, ready to drown his sorrows and his feelings and his love. After pouring a glass, he sits and stares at it for a moment.

God, he's the exact same shitty father to Ben that John Winchester was to him.

He takes a sip; the cheap whiskey tastes like dirt. Actually, he can't really taste it – you know you drink too much when 80 proof whiskey tastes a bit like water. Dean leans back, staring at the glass for a second, and then on impulse, hurls it at the wall. The glass shatters, spraying alcohol all over the room. He's panting, eyes wild; it's like he's been kicked in the gut, he wants to cry but the incumbent tears burn worse than any alcohol.

He finds his phone in his back pocket and fumbles for the speed dial. A hundred miles away, someone picks up on the other end.

"Dean?"

He takes a shaky breath and then forces himself to speak.

"Sam, I need you."

Sam has his own car now – a douched up 2012 Mustang, complete with iPod jack and satellite radio – and he practically flies to the address Dean stutters out over the phone. And when he walks into the motel room, panic and worry flashing across his face, he is shocked to find a nearly untouched bottle of whiskey on the table, and Dean Winchester sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a blank, silent television.

"Dean?" he ventures.

"Do you really believe in free will, Sam?" Dean doesn't look up, just keeps starting at the TV. "'Cus I'm not sure I do anymore."

"Dean…" Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. "What happened?"

Dean laughs; it's a cold, hollow sound. "You know how we fought so hard against Lucifer and Zachariah and Michael? Team Free Will, and all that?"

"Yeah…?"

"See, I'm not so sure anymore. Yeah, sure, we proved the douchebags with wings wrong, but what if there's more than just the big destiny stuff? What if there are only circles and spirals?" He struggled for a moment to find the right words. "What if, even though I don't have any biological kids, I'm still destined to be a shitty dad to Ben. Just like Dad was a shitty father to us, and Henry Winchester was a shitty dad to our Dad. Wheels within wheels, Sammie."

Sam's eyebrows wrinkle upward; he tries for a half-smile. "It wasn't really Henry's fault, that was Abaddon—"

"Yeah, but it happened anyway!" Dean grabs the front of Sam's shirt. "Do you even know where I've been the past two weeks, Sam?"

"No, I -"

"Trying to track down some vampires before they killed, Lisa and Ben – that's what I've been doing! And you know what? I failed! They could've died!"

"Dean, I -"

He shakes Sam. "And you know what else? Ben killed one of them!"

"What?"

"Ben killed one of the vamps!"

There is a moment of wild-eyed silence from Dean before he finally speaks. "I've tried so hard to stay away, Sam… I've tried so hard to keep them away from this life. I don't want Ben to be a hunter – I thought since he's not a Winchester by blood, he's not cursed. If I could just stay away, he'd be fine."

"It's not your fault, Dean."

"Have you ever noticed that we break everything we touch, Sam?"

Silence.

"So what are you going to do, Dean?" Sam says. "Get Cas to wipe Ben and Lisa's memories again? Cover it all up?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

And Sam doesn't know either. It's not the first time, but the Winchesters have no easy answers to this one.

"I'm going to bed," Sam says finally.

Late that night, with the lights off and the AC unit whining outside, Dean finds that he can't sleep. He gets up, pulls on a shirt, and wanders the parking lot of the motel until he comes to rest by the Impala. The pavement is cool under his bare feet; the Impala glimmers under a streetlight.

He can leave Ben and Lisa far behind, jump in the Impala and never come back again – at least until the next time they're threatened by something supernatural. Circumvent the Winchester curse, let Ben – maybe, that's the key word – live a normal life.

Or he could go back, explain, get Cas to put their memories back, beg, apologize, vow to protect them with his last breath – he can be a good dad to Ben. And Ben will become a hunter. Just like Dean.

He has to choose.

When the sun rises the next morning, there are dark purple-black circles under Dean's eyes. He walks with a shuffle, his gaze flickers from one thing to the next, but something else is different. Behind the fear, behind the exhaustion, there's a new element.

Purpose.

He calls Cas, leaves a terse voicemail as he backs the Impala out of the cramped parking spot, and drives to Lisa's house. As he parks alongside the grass, he realizes that his hands are shaking. The front walk is evenly paved, flowers along the edges, the doorbell rings before he realizes that he's touched it.

The door opens partway; Lisa looks cautious, confused.

"Lisa…" he starts, searching her face for any sign of memory. "It's Dean. Dean Winchester?"

Nothing.

"Do I know you?" she asks, eyebrows arcing upwards. Her hand rests on the doorknob, ready to pull it shut.

He clears his throat, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I can explain—"

"Dean?"

Dean freezes, lips parted, eyes wide. He turns around slowly, facing the new voice.

It's Ben.

They stare at each other, carbon copies with green eyes and brown hair and a troubled look. Behind them, Lisa's eyes widen slowly.

Ben coughs, shuffles his feet. "Dean?"

For a moment, he can't find his voice. Dean struggles, trying to find the words, and then settles for something simple. "It's me, Ben."

Silence poises on the tip of a knife; neither one can speak.

And then Ben's eyes get big.

"I remember."