Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t the first time Bruce had heard Jason’s voice since that night.

It had only been a matter of weeks. His brain hadn’t adjusted to the silence of the manor. He heard Jason’s laugh echoing off the walls, his shadow flickering on the ground. Every black-haired boy wandering the streets of Gotham switched on the projector in his mind, replaying countless memories. He’d taken up residence in a bedroom in a different wing of the manor to stifle the urge to check that empty bed in the middle of the night. 

The suit was entombed in a glass case in the Cave. It was a reminder that Bruce didn’t need yet; the glass was never empty of reflections. There was Bruce’s,  of course, haggard and haunted, but there was Dick’s, too, and Alfred’s, and Jason’s– Jason, eyes wide and hands dirtied, halfway through taking off a tire. Jason, green eyes bright behind the black domino mask, throwing out quips as easily as he threw weapons. Jason, face lit by orange flames, limp in–

As Bruce froze on a street corner in Gotham, he knew this wasn’t the first time he’d heard Jason’s voice only to turn around and see that the boy wasn’t there. But this was the first time he’d heard Jason’s voice saying something new.

C’mon, Sammy. 

Bruce turned around. Jason wasn’t there. There was no flash of yellow and red and green. It was a chilly, cloudy evening in Gotham, so there was hardly anyone on the streets.

Jason didn’t even know someone named Sam, did he? No, Bruce was making things up. Maybe Alfred was right. Maybe he did need to sleep after all. 

He went back to the silent manor and he didn’t take the hallway that went past that old room and he tried to sleep until the sun came back up. 

It happened a second time, two days later. He was late for a meeting, walking briskly towards Wayne Enterprises. In the early morning, the sidewalks were much busier, but not even Superman could’ve picked up on that voice better.

“Dad said he’d be back in a few days. He’s fine,” the voice said, scurrying past.

There was another voice, also young, that replied. Bruce looked around, the meeting gone from his mind as he searched around, ears perked up for another sentence. He didn’t get one. 

But Wayne Enterprises did have plenty of security cameras focused on the front exterior. If anyone noticed how distracted he was at the meeting, they didn’t say. He went straight to his office afterwards, pulling up the security files, scanning for the right time. 

It had caught the audio of the voice– slightly grainy, but unmistakable. Bruce played the tape, then played it again, pausing and fast forwarding and rewinding. He was sure he was seeing things, filling in the poor quality of the audio and din of the rest of the crowd, but the voice didn’t just sound like Jason, it sounded so young . Like Jason on the day that Bruce first met him, before Bruce ever had a chance to fail him. 

He couldn’t be sure of the speaker; only the fact that it wasn’t Jason. He wouldn’t be that young. Bruce had watched the body lower into the ground himself. He’d held – he’d confirmed it himself. 

He replayed the clip. He couldn’t help but feel like he was failing Jason all over again. 

Dick was making a concentrated effort to be in Gotham more, despite everything he was leaving behind in Bludhaven. They didn’t talk about it, but Bruce knew Dick knew the gesture was appreciated. 

Now, Dick was in the Cave, suited up in his Nightwing outfit and looking everywhere but the glass case. 

“You said you needed my help on a case?” Dick prompted, standing over Bruce’s shoulder to look at the screen.

“Audio clip,” Bruce replied, pulling up the isolated audio.

“Anything you’re looking for in particular?”

He hadn’t given Dick any specifics for a reason. He needed to know that it wasn’t just bias, his heart looking for something that wasn’t there. 

“Just tell me what you hear.”

“Geez, B, I thought I passed all your detective tests already,” Dick joked, reaching forward to hit play. 

Dad said he’ll be back in a few days. He’s fine.

And the second voice, You said that last week.

The expression on Dick’s face, eyes widening and face paling, told Bruce everything he needed to know.

“That's–” Dick swallowed. “Where did you get this?”

Bruce told him about the voice in the crowd, the cameras outside the skyscraper that picked it up. Dick didn't believe him, not until he'd pulled out the original timestamped file. 

“He's dead,” Dick said.

“I know.” The voice was too young. It was saying things that wouldn't make sense for Jason to say. If he was back, he would have come home. Bruce confirmed the death himself. He replayed the facts in his head like a mantra.

“So we need to find the real source.” 

Dick pushed Bruce aside, taking over the computer, pulling up the rest of Wayne Enterprises's external security feeds, hacking into the buildings next door. Together, they managed to track down the next line of the conversation– Yeah, and I'm saying it now. Stop worrying – and the speakers: two boys, no older than ten, with brown hair and cheap, ill-fitting jackets that couldn't be doing much against the Gotham chill. They couldn't find a camera angle with a clear view of their faces, but they were last seen headed towards a small strip of buildings that was comfortably far from Crime Alley.

Nightwing had promised to keep an eye out for them both when he went out on patrol that night. 

Batman found them first. 

One of the buildings in the strip was a cheap motel– not the kind of place Bruce Wayne would ever step foot in, but thankfully, the building nearby had a rooftop that was perfect for perching. He was planning out ways to get access to the motel’s logs when the front door opened, and a small figure emerged, lit only by the dim streetlights.

Bruce recognized the clothing first and foremost; this was the boy. Bruce watched silently as he approached the small vending machine posted outside the motel room. He jabbed the keypad, then shook the machine. Something clanked in the machine, and the boy bent down to remove his prize from the bottom slot– two bags of chips.

When he turned around, giving Bruce his first full view of the boy’s face. Bruce was almost relieved– he looked nothing like Jason. The hair was brown and spiky, his face freckled and round. He was wearing jeans, scuffed and dirtied at the knees, a dark shirt, and the same brown jacket Bruce had seen on the security footage. 

The boy looked around, then disappeared back inside– at least, it looked like he had. He’d clearly been trained; if it wasn’t for the slight jangle of the fire escape a few minutes later, Bruce might not have realized he’d snuck up onto the roof at all. 

His footsteps were light and silent across the roof. Bruce didn’t say anything– he was curious, that was all, of what the boy might say. It had absolutely nothing to do with how happy Jason and Dick had always been whenever they thought they’d finally managed to sneak up on Bruce. 

“Slow night, huh?”

The voice hit Bruce like a train all over again, even though he’d been expecting it. Like he’d convinced himself that if he heard the boy up-close, it would somehow sound less like Jason. It didn’t.

Bruce turned around. The boy barely made it up to his waist, but his features were relaxed, confident. He wasn’t afraid.

His eyes were green. Not quite the same shade as Jason’s– more of a brown tint, where Jason's were bluer. But they were green all the same. 

He must’ve taken Bruce’s silence as a victory, because his little smirk grew, and he added, “If you’re stalking out a motel whose worst crime is a skeezy owner, then you must be pretty bored.”

Bruce cocked his head to the side. “Gotham is dangerous at night. You should head back inside.”

He made a mental note to investigate why the boy thought the motel owner was skeezy. 

“I can handle myself.” He tugged up his pant leg, flashing the silver knife tucked into his shoe.

“Who taught you that?”

“My dad.” The boy was puffing out his chest, and Bruce– well, of course the boys had a father. Bruce didn’t know why he would expect anything different. “He’s a hero, too, you know. He’s out saving someone right now.”

Bruce held back a huff, eyes now on the skyline of Gotham. He didn’t like anyone invading his territory, no matter who their son sounded like. But… he’ll be back in a few days. The boy’s father had left him in Gotham while he went out to…”save people” somewhere else. 

If the boy's father was indeed a vigilante, Bruce didn't believe he was a meta one. Even if powers took time to manifest, Bruce couldn't imagine someone like Barry or Clark taking the time to teach their prodigies how to walk that quietly.

“And the vending machine?” Bruce asked. He hadn't seen the boy insert any money.

“That's a Dean Winchester classic,” he replied smoothly.

A name. Dean Winchester. It rolled off his tongue too easily, and he was too relaxed, for Bruce to think it was a fake name.

“Spent enough time around motels to know all the tricks to them,” Dean added.

If Bruce didn't know any better, he would think the boy was trying to impress him. Fishing for approval.

And some part of Bruce wanted to indulge that. But more of him was filled with questions. Questions about his father, about the kind of man that let two young boys wander the cold streets of Gotham alone. The kinds of questions he didn't think Dean would want to answer.

“You should check on your brother,” Bruce said, before grappling away, leaving Dean on the roof.

Dean Winchester was born on January 24th, eight years ago, in a small town in Kansas. His parents were John and Mary Winchester, and he had a younger brother named Samuel– Sammy. John was a military man turned mechanic who disappeared, along with his two children, after a house fire claimed his wife. None of their neighbors had heard from any of them since.

Sammy couldn't be more than four, now. Dean was the one taking care of him, while John Winchester traveled around.

Bruce kept an eye out for rumors of vigilantes, even those on the other side of the country. He knew where to find information on new ones– their regions, their calling cards, their abilities, their weaknesses. He couldn't find an active vigilante who lined up with John Winchester– starting shortly after Mary's death, a human with military training, who traveled around the country.

He found a criminal record, though. A few nights spent in holding cells for drunken conduct over the years, but there was more than that– grave robbing and credit card fraud and an old case featuring the burned remains of several bodies in an old farmhouse in Illinois. 

He was a killer who covered his tracks. But Dean, the way he looked at Bruce, the way he'd treated him…he'd compared them, John and Bruce. There had to be more to John Winchester than a man made bloodthirsty by grief. There had to be. 

A man fitting John Winchester's description had checked into the motel days ago, paying enough money to reserve a room for a week. More payments had been made since, but the man Bruce had spoken to said he hadn't seen John since. 

John Winchester had left his sons, who had a combined age of twelve years, alone in a Gotham motel room while he saved lives and burned bodies somewhere else. Sitting at his computer, Bruce fought to keep his hands from curling into fists.

He needed to– he needed another set of eyes, another brain, again. There had to be something he was missing. 

Dick answered the phone on the first ring. “You found him?”

“His father is named John Winchester,” Bruce said, in lieu of replying.

There was a series of keyboard clacks, then a sharp intake of breath. “Did you check hospital records?”

“Clean.” John Winchester didn't seem the type to bring his sons to the hospital, but Bruce took solace in the fact that Dean hadn't looked injured last night. “He's not in Gotham,” Bruce added. “I need to find him.”

More clacks, then a pause. “Does the name Eric Castle mean anything to you?”

“That was the pseudonym he checked into the motel under.”

“I know where he is,” Dick declared. “At least, I know where he was a week ago.”

“Send me everything you have.”

Dick chuckled. “Nice try, B. Tell Alfred I want cookies.”

Dick made it halfway through a dozen before telling Bruce anything, perched on the bat-desk with the pan in his lap. He ignored Bruce's glare; Bruce supposed he should just be happy that Dick had outgrown trying to climb onto the BatCave's ceiling. 

Bruce told him about how Dean attempted to sneak up behind him on the roof.

“Perhaps the next costume should have pants, sir,” Alfred said, collecting the empty plate from Dick.

“ No .”

The growl surprised all three of them. Bruce stared at the monitors, not wanting to make eye contact. He knew what they were all thinking; he’d thought it too. But the moment Dean spoke…Bruce didn’t want to train him. He didn’t want to let him in the Cave, or any part of Gotham. 

He wanted to bundle the boy up in a blanket and sit him in front of a TV and make him watch cartoons and eat cookies and let the quiet lull him to sleep.  Make sure he never went near a weapon or a costume again. Make sure he had some semblance of a childhood that didn’t involve guns and dark alleys. He wanted to protect him from everything, even himself. He wanted to get something right for once. 

“Very good, sir,” Alfred replied, a hint of approval in his voice. “And there’s another tray upstairs, Master Dick.”

“What did you find out about John Winchester?” Bruce asked Dick. 

Dick took the napkin from Alfred, wiping traces of chocolate from his face. “He came by the police station last week, claiming to be a federal agent. I didn’t talk to him, but he was asking about an old cold case– a woman who died in her locked apartment.”

That explained why Dean regarded his father as a hero. John didn't believe the fire had been an accident like the police had reported, so he'd struck out on his own to find vengeance, and help others along the way. The story was painfully familiar.

“You didn’t check his credentials?” Bruce asked. 

“He gave the guy the number to his superior to confirm,” Dick said, sounding pleased with himself. He pulled out a scrap of paper consisting of nine hastily-scrawled digits. “Which makes me wonder who is really on the other end of the line.”

Dick pulled out his phone, dialing the number. Bruce heard it ring once, before a gruff voice answered, the words too muffled for Bruce to hear. 

“Hi!” Dick said cheerily. “I’m with the Bludhaven Police Department. One of your men, an Agent Castle, had requested some files from us, but he isn’t answering his phone. Can you pass along a message?”

After the man on the other end agreed to tell Eric Castle to stop by the police station, Dick hung up the phone, then showed Bruce the results of the trace: Sioux Falls. With a couple of keystrokes, Bruce had found the home phone number for one Robert Singer, a man whose criminal record could’ve been a brother to John’s, even if that was the only thing the two men seemed to share. 

When Bruce called, he picked up on the first ring, again.

“Who is this?”

“Robert Singer, I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Well, I asked a question first.”

Dick snickered as Bruce said, “I’m Batman.”

A deep sigh. “Dean, ya idjit, I thought I told you to knock that off.”

Oh. Well. Batman wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, other than wondering if Dean could duplicate his voice as well as he could Jason’s. 

“...Dean? That is you, isn’t it?”

“Not quite,” Bruce replied, smirking a little. “Though he is part of what I was hoping to talk to you about.”

“Balls,” Bobby muttered. “I thought I told John to stay outta Gotham.”

Bobby Singer was a hunter of the supernatural–ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves– based out of an auto shop in Sioux Falls. His own wife’s death at the hands of a demon first got him into the business, which Bruce supposed would have facilitated his relationship with John. 

“Is all that stuff really real?” Dick asked, voice lowered.

Bruce gave a grunt of affirmation, choosing not to tell Dick about the time he’d almost been turned into a vampire himself while helping Etrigan the Demon with a case.

Bobby had taught John a lot about the Supernatural world, and John had him teach Dean– and Sam, once he was old enough, Bobby said, with an edge of resignation in his voice– about both fighting and survival skills.

“How frequently does he leave the boys alone?” Bruce asked.

Bobby hesitated. “It ain’t like that.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “Some hunts are more dangerous than others. He doesn’t want anything following him home.”

And, well, couldn’t Bruce understand that? Once they were properly trained, Bruce had allowed– enlisted– both Dick and Jason to do their own patrol routes, their own missions. He trusted them to get the job done.

“And if something does?”

“John wouldn’t leave them alone if Dean couldn’t keep himself and Sam safe. He knows how to put up the salt lines and sigils, and he knows how to fight if it comes to that.”

How many times had Bruce done the same thing, trading salt-lined motel rooms with the endless expanses of dark rooftops? After four years, Dean and Sam were still alive; Jason wasn’t. 

The glass case across the room stared Bruce down. Thrifted coats were better than tattered and bloodied uniforms.

“Dean called his father a hero,” Bruce recalled.

“He is.” About that, Bobby was fully convinced. “He does good work out there as a hunter.”

John only killed monsters. It explained the burnt bodies. That was something you had to do, Bobby explained, to make sure most things stayed dead.  Bruce could only imagine Dean’s hands, small and steady, wrapped around the handle of a pistol, aiming at someone’s chest, thinking he was doing what he had to do.

“So what now?” Dick asked, when Bruce hung up the phone.

Now, Bruce should do nothing. Dean was not his second chance. He was not just a boy who sounded like the one Bruce had lost; he was someone else’s son, and he had his own life to lead, his own family business to carry out. 

The next night, during patrol, Bruce found himself circling back to that motel, again and again.

Dean never came out. Bruce hoped that meant he was sleeping peacefully, free from any nightmares or ghosts. Perhaps the salt really was doing its job. 

Dick and Alfred both knew about that, judging by the looks they both gave him over breakfast the next morning.

He was my family, too, Dick’s eyes said. 

It was true that Bruce hadn’t done as well as he should have, comforting Dick after what happened. Alfred had done much better, when Bruce was young. Bruce had withdrawn, from both of them; he’d pushed them away while tethering them to his own personal mission of vengeance.

But what could he do now? Letting Dick go would only make things worse.

“Have you ever been fishing?” Bruce asked, voice stilted, when Dick’s plate was empty and the old manor was on the verge of being dead silent again. 

Bruce had never been fishing before in his life. It was one of the things Bobby had mentioned teaching Dean. At eight years old, Dick would’ve rather vaulted off the foyer chandelier than sit still by a river somewhere– Jason, too. Or maybe fishing was just something that was harder to perform for a captive parental audience. 

Bruce still remembered the wild smile on Dean’s face when he thought he’d managed to catch the Gotham Bat off-guard. 

“Since when do you have a Bat-pole lying around?” Dick replied, grinning performatively. Bruce hated it. He hated the idea that Dick thought he needed to smile to balance Bruce out, and he hated that it worked.

“You know, the entire League thinks I was the one who named everything that,” Bruce grumbled, and Dick’s smile turned a little more genuine at that. Mission accomplished.

Dick left the manor with a pocketful of Alfred’s chocolate chip cookies. Bruce had half a mind to tell Alfred to never stop baking them, if only to keep giving Dick a reason to come back, but he wasn’t foolish enough to truly believe it was ever just about the cookies. 

At least, not just about the taste of them. One’s sense of smell was said to be the most closely linked with memory.

Bruce gave Dick a hug in the doorway of the manor. He’d grown up so much that he could hook his chin around Bruce’s shoulder, instead of just squeezing Bruce’s ribs and burying his face in his chest.

Clark had told Bruce, once, that Dick had looked so much like Bruce, even while wearing traffic-light colors and a smile, that he’d thought they were genuinely related. Bruce hated it. He’d never wanted his boys to turn out just like him; he wanted them to be better than that.

And they were. Nothing could stop Bruce from believing that. 

Dean found Bruce on the roof again. Maybe Bruce was imagining things, but he could’ve sworn the boy seemed excited. He told Bruce about his dad’s car, which was loaded with all sorts of weapons and tools, like “a portable version of the BatCave”.  Bruce bit his tongue to stop himself from referencing the Batmobile; he knew Dean would love to see it, could already imagine the starry-eyed expression on his face.

“Dad said he’d teach me how to drive soon,” Dean said. “In case of emergencies. I might get my own car, too, at some point, and once we get the thing that killed Mom and move back to Kansas, we’ll even have a garage that I can keep it in.”

Bruce knew better than anyone that there was never an end to revenge. John wouldn’t stop any more than Bruce could hang up the cowl. Even when Dick moved to Bludhaven, he stayed a vigilante on top of becoming a police officer.

“Is that what you want?” Bruce asked. To get out? To have a normal life, be a normal kid?

Dean looked surprised that he even asked, then shrugged. “Well, maybe not Kansas. Still makes Dad sad when we drive through it. Maybe we’ll move up near Uncle Bobby instead.”

At least he wasn’t considering Gotham. 

“How is your brother doing?” Bruce prompted. 

Dean sighed, casting a glance back at the motel room. He reminded Bruce of himself, trying to prepare himself before another Brucie Wayne performance.

“He was asleep when I left. I should go check on him. Goodnight, Batman.”

“Wait.”

Batman removed the small packet from his utility belt– four cookies, two for each of the boys, in an envelope along with a few bills that Dean wouldn’t find until Bruce was already gone.

Dean eyed the package, as if he was expecting it to be snatched away at the last minute. He finally plucked it from Bruce’s outstretched palm, tucking it into his pocket and murmuring a thanks . 

Bruce watched until he went back inside, then grappled back to Wayne Manor. He stripped off the costume, showered off the stink of Gotham, and went to his own bedroom for once. Someone– Alfred– had closed the door to Jason’s bedroom. But Bruce could imagine that behind that panel of wood, there was an unmade bed and dirty clothes still piled on the floor. 

Maybe Bruce should clean it. The sooner he did, the sooner he could stop pretending that the room’s occupant was going to come back.

About a week after Bruce first heard Dean’s voice, Dick finally met Dean. 

“He sounds just like him,” was how Dick started the phone call, voice hushed with disbelief. 

“Don’t tell me he asked you to go on patrol with him,” Bruce replied.

“I met him out of costume,” Dick admitted. He’d gone looking– he was my family, too comes to mind. “Grocery store.”

If Dean was buying more groceries, then John Winchester was still out of town, far longer than he’d told Dean he would be. Gotham wasn’t meant to hold two little boys on their own. Perhaps it would be the right thing to do, to invite them back to the manor. He’d done it before.

He wasn’t even in the Cave, but he could still feel the weight of the glass case’s gaze, staring him down. Maybe he needed the reminder after all: Dean wasn’t Bruce’s to take home.

“How was he?”

“Fine,” Dick replied, a little chuckle in his voice, like he was expecting Bruce to ask that question and reveling in his correct prediction. “I think he caught onto me staring at him. John must’ve trained him well.”

“What did he do?”

“He made sure to lose me before he left the store.”

He didn’t want Dick finding his brother. John had trained him well.

“You let an eight-year-old lose you?”

“Key word being let . I wasn’t trying to scare him.” Dick took a breath, and Bruce could hear the humor being sapped from his voice. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce admitted quietly. There wasn’t anything for him to do. He wanted to speak to John Winchester, but even just talking to Bobby about Dean had felt like an overstep. 

Dick hesitated, then said, “There’s a rumor going around the station that someone broke into an old cemetery near here.”

John’s mission was done. He’d be coming back to Gotham, and he’d leave, taking Sam and Dean with him. 

Bruce was on the streets before Dick could even hang up the phone. Apparently, he’d always known exactly what he was going to do.

There was a shiny black Chevrolet Impala sitting in the motel parking lot when Batman touched down. The motel owner didn’t bat an eye when he walked in. 

Bruce went straight to the room Eric Castle paid for. He knocked. 

Dean opened the door. His eyes widened. Over his tiny shoulder, Bruce made eye contact with John Winchester, who was standing in the center of the motel room.

“Hello, Dean,” Bruce said. “I need to speak to your father.”

Dean glanced back at John, who nodded his approval. Dean opened the door wider, letting Bruce step inside. He didn’t break eye contact with John Winchester. 

“Dean,” John said. “Get your brother into the car.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, more subdued than Bruce had ever heard him. Still glancing between John and Bruce like he was watching a ping-pong match, Dean bundled Sam up in a coat and took his hand, leading him outside and shutting the door behind him.

“I had a friend who warned me about you,” John started.

“I know. We spoke.”

“Didn’t know you made house calls.”

“Call it a vested interest,” Bruce replied coolly. “Gotham is dangerous.”

If John was surprised, he hid it well. “Dean knows how to protect Sam. That’s all that matters.”

The windowsills of the motel room were lined with salt. The post of Sam’s bed, furthest from the door, had symbols Bruce didn’t recognize meticulously carved into it. 

Bruce clenched his jaw so hard he was worried he’d crack a tooth. “Dean looks up to you. He thinks you’re a hero.” You’re lucky he does. 

“You saying he shouldn’t?” John challenged. “Didn’t realize I had to dress up like a flying rat to save lives.”

“We both know you’re more concerned with vengeance than saving lives.”

John huffed. He moved for the door, but Bruce mirrored his movements, blocking his path. Not wanting to directly challenge Batman, John stepped back. His shoulders were still tense, his eyes not leaving Bruce’s cowl. 

“What is this really about? Last time I checked, I’m not a meta, or whatever it is you fight.”

Bruce straightened to his full height. He let his voice slip into a low growl. It was the kind of overly-masculine posturing that Dick would mock him for, but Bruce needed a language that John Winchester would understand.

“They’re children,” Bruce said. “And you’re training them to be killers.”

“Killing things that ain’t human.”

“And you’re the one who gets to decide that?”

“A monster’s a monster,” John replied. “If it’s got fangs and claws, I’m chopping its head off, and I’m teaching the boys to do the same. Maybe if you did the same, your city would be better off.”

How many times had Bruce thought the same thing? But he was always wrong. 

“And if it was your wife with fangs?”

“You keep my wife’s name out of your mouth,” John growled.

“Why? Don’t you think she would be proud of what you’ve done to her family? To her kids?”

He could see the punch coming a mile away; John’s mouth twisted into a furious frown, his eyes hardening, his fist clenching. There’s a certain thrill, dark and wild, rising up in Bruce’s veins as he blocks the punch, grabs John’s arm, and twists it behind his back, immobilizing him before flipping him onto the floor. 

The door opens, as if blown open by the sound of a body thudding against thinly-carpeted floor– Dean, coming to see what had happened, eyes tracing the familiar path from John to Bruce, John to Bruce. Bruce could see the question spinning in his mind: if Batman was a hero, why had he punched Dean’s father? Shouldn’t they be on the same side? 

Dean’s stance shifted, tensing, as if ready to square up. He was a good son, a loyal one; he wasn’t Bruce’s to fail, but, somehow, Bruce had, anyway. 

“Next time, you should listen to Bobby Singer,” Batman growled at John, as he attempted to flip Batman off of him. “And stay out of Gotham.”

He got off John, brushing past Dean on the way out. He left the motel without looking back. 

Three hours later, Bruce’s phone rang. He was expecting it to be Dick; instead, it was Bobby Singer. 

“I was halfway to Gotham myself when Dean called,” Bobby said. “You punched him?”

Bruce didn’t reply; it wasn’t like goading John into punching him was any better. He’d lost control. It wouldn’t happen again

Bobby chuckled, taking his silence as an affirmative. “Yeah, he’s got that effect on people.” A beat, and then: “Dean didn’t say what the fight was about.”

“Is he alright?”

“He’ll get over it,” Bobby said. “It ain’t the first time he’s seen his dad get punched.”

Ah. So Bobby had done it too. Evidently, not hard enough to get himself removed from the boys’ lives.

Bruce took a deep breath. “You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

That was all Bruce could ask for. He hoped that Dean, by the time he became Jason’s age, he would have plenty of happy memories fishing.

The next time he looked at the glass case, the only reflection in it was his. 

Twenty-One Years Later

A shiny black Chevrolet Impala sped down a two-lane highway, music blaring. Inside, Dean sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. His brother sat in the passenger side, marking up a newspaper clipping about a woman who’d died in a locked apartment. 

“Hey, we’re near New Jersey, aren’t we?” Dean asked, cutting himself off mid-lyric, shooting a grin at Sam. 

It was true that the case was taking them further east than they normally went, but Sam couldn’t remember any friends of theirs that lived in New Jersey, much less one that would make Dean this excited. 

“Yeah, why?”

“ Dude .” This was the happiest Sam had seen Dean in…well, certainly since well before John died. “We should hit up Gotham. Maybe we’ll actually see the BatCave this time.”

“I thought you grew out of that Batman stuff,” Sam replied. Dean used to love the vigilante as a kid, but Sam hadn’t heard the name mentioned in decades. Since they were kids.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Dean said. “Bucket list, man.”

Guilt boiled up in Sam’s stomach; Dean was four months out from the deal coming to pass, and they weren’t any closer to finding a way out.

“We can visit Gotham,” Sam said. They weren’t metas; surely Batman wouldn’t have a problem with two hunters rolling into town for a few days. “But do you really think, what, we can just knock on the door and ask for a tour?”

“We’ll call him first, obviously. I’m sure Bobby’s still got his number saved somewhere.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, nice try. I’m pretty sure if Bobby had Batman’s number, he would’ve told us by now.”

Dean did a double-take so hard that Sam was shocked they didn’t swerve off the road. He was really laying this on thick, wasn’t he?

“You don’t remember meeting Batman?”

“ You met Batman?”

“Yeah, when we were kids! I know you were, like, four, but come on . I was two weeks away from being a Robin!”

“You were not . You wanna know how I know? Because you never would’ve shut up about it as a kid.”

Dean cleared his throat, his expression turning almost sheepish. “Well, y’know, Dad didn’t like me talking about it.”

Sam raised his eyebrow.

Dean blew out a breath. “Wow, you really don’t remember, do you? Batman punched Dad’s freaking lights out.”

“I’ve looked through Dad’s journals,” Sam said. Dean must really be bored, to resort to this kind of prank. “He’s never worked a case in Gotham.”

“The case wasn’t in Gotham,” Dean replied. “That’s just where the motel he dumped us was. You really didn’t remember this?”

“Say I believe you. How did you meet Batman?”

“He was hanging out on the roof of our motel. I snuck up on him!”

From the expression on his face, Sam almost believed him. But what would Batman , the dark cryptid of a vigilante, who barely let himself be photographed, be doing on the roof of a random motel building? And there was no way an eight-year-old Dean could’ve snuck up on him, even with their dad’s training. 

“Screw it,” Dean muttered. “We’re going to Gotham.”

(Dean’s plan for meeting Batman, apparently, was just to waltz up to the closest vigilante with a bat-like logo on their chest and ask for an audience with Batman. The more incredible thing, in Sam’s opinion, was that it worked. )

(“Who the hell is Jason?” Dean said, giving the yellow-and-black-clad vigilante a weird look. “My name’s Dean. Can you get me in touch with Batman or not?”)