Title: Life Carries On
Pairing: Gen, mentions of John/Mary, pre-slash Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13? John says a dirty word, lol
Word Count: 1,554
Warnings: Angst! Mentions of hell and torturing, focuses heavy on the feeling of grief for the dead, it would be a trigger for me so: Character Death
Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Supernatural
Summary: John watches his son rise again.
Author's Note: March 06, 13 years ago, my dad passed away. It was instant but not unexpected (he'd been fighting his condition since I was five) and the worst part was the years that followed and it still is something that weighs me down. Perhaps part of my love for Supernatural and Dean is familiarity, to feel all this weight and death but I still have to move forward...rambling!
I posted this to livejournal on the anniversary of my Dad's death and then completely forgot about my fanfic account. So, I'm posting this here today. I'm in the midst of working on my very first 'in progress' fic. I'm hoping to post today, we'll see.
For now, Enjoy.
Life Carries On
Grief is...heavy.
It's a deep, suffocating pressure that carries you through life. It takes the place of the one you lost to death and drags a person down until finally they snap. It's an unstoppable force that infects everyone at some point in their lives, a disease one will never find the cure for.
A person never gets over grief.
They make room for it; etch out a piece of them that would have been for love, happiness, faith, and allow grief to make its home there. It burns that hole right into the soul of a person until their death.
Only in death, can someone's grief be uplifted. Unless your John Winchester.
Because he was trapped in hell. His wife, the perfect soul that she was, was far up in heaven with the angels where she belonged. His sons were suffering on Earth, fighting a war far greater then themselves, alone. And John was in hell, wallowing in his grief. He'd been there 99 years 12 months and 30 days now, a very long ninety-nine years that, through the soul-withering torture, allowed John to understand the path he took in life.
John hadn't made room for grief, he fought it, ignored it, allowed it to secretly creep up on him in the form of revenge and drive him mad. In all those years, John had never sat alone and grieved Mary's death. He regretted that now, perhaps his soul would have found its place beside her if he had.
Instead he is here, in the depths of pain and sorrow, finally feeling all the weight of losing a loved one in his heart.
"Oh John," Some faceless demon cooed to John while he stretched across the spiked rack. They all looked the same to John, all ugly, twisted and evil. Maybe he'd exercised this one at some point, "Don't space out on me! We're having so much fun."
Screams, non human screams different from the usual white noise in hell, erupted across John's conscious. He wondered idly if it was himself, finally breaking, finally giving in to the torture but the bright light off to his right was new as well. And when John came back to himself again, the demon that had been torturing him was gone now, a pile of ash and sulphur on the bloody ground.
John frowned down at the pile until a voice, or a feeling washed over him. He cried, for the first time since coming to hell, John wept. This feeling rushing through his heart was euphoric, all the suffering and pain and memories made way for pure bliss. But his grief was still there, a strong itch against the warmth within him.
"John," The light spoke, moved about him before becoming solid, a figure, a man. The characteristics were indistinguishable, a dark mass on top of the head, bright blue eyes in the middle and the rest was a cascade of color and light moving, "John, you must focus."
It hurt to speak, but John tried, "Yes?"
"We need the righteous man," The body of the man transformed, becoming solid shoulders, a long neck, a lithe body. This creature wasn't a soul, wasn't anything the lived in hell or on Earth but John was too afraid to think of what it could be. Instead he watched it try to form the image of a human, try to connect to John within his very soul. John was too numb to know if the creature was successful.
"Who?"
"Dean Winchester."
At first, John wanted to ask why the man was in hell then. Because his boy was on Earth, fighting a loosing battle against an army of demons, prevent Sammy from turning to the dark side like he'd been meant to all his life. But then John vaguely recalled that day a little over 40 years ago, when Hell was in an uproar because of some great catch. A demon had told John it was his son, Dean had sold his soul for Sam, but John took it as painful lies.
When faced with the truth, John found himself so weighed down with grief and pain that the bliss this creature had caused snapped right back into its body. The thing gasped, a shocking sound of pain as it undulated to accommodated itself again.
"What are you?" John felt the words heavy in his mouth, heavy in his body. He felt heavy and tired.
"I'm an Angel of the Lord," The voice spoke, deep and torn like recieving that piece of itself again burned all the way down it's throat, "I've come to raise Dean from perdition."
"He's not here."
"He is."
"He can't be."
"Its destiny."
John wanted to spit at the monster, defile it some way in hopes that it could understand how difficult it was to learn your son was suffering too, was here in hell to die all over again. This was the worst kind of torture and it was coming from a creature of heaven.
"I don't know." John swallowed, grief encompassing him entirely. He wanted to die but in the way that he no longer exsited, to be just something, wasting away into the ether.
"I will rescue you too," The angel said, masculine hands that shifted from young to old took hold of John, raised him from the rack, "You will show me to Dean Winchester and then I will take you home."
"What?"
They walked or moved about hell, passing wailing souls and other formless creatures of light. It was a battlefield, demons crying and dying, angels crying and dying. John wondered how he could be so distracted in the face of this one angel to not notice heaven destroying hell.
They came to Dean, black eyed, angry Dean who lashed out at the creature of light with his sharp tools of torture. John wanted to cry, his baby boy was demonic, was a creature of torture and anger. Had John turned him to this or had this been a part of Dean's fate? Did Dean ever have a chance?
When the angel took hold of Dean's wrist, John was no longer fearful of Dean's fate. The rage washed itself, his snarling features relaxing. He looked like the four year old boy that John tucked into bed and Mary sang to sleep. He was the child before death and pain and grief, before John's grief.
"Dean Winchester," The angel spoke and blissed passed through Dean, pure joy and peace. John had forgotten that expression, forgotten what happiness looked like on his son's face. The guilt weighed him down, the knowledge that his grief had been so great, so powerful as to weigh down his son too, "I am here to rescue you."
"Rescue me?" Dean whispered, leaning close to the creature. His eyes were focused, finding features that John hadn't seen when looking on the creatures face.
"I am taking you back to Samuel Winchester." The angel moved to wrap around Dean's soul, engulf his pain into its own and there was a moment when Dean and this angel were one person.
John had never seen it before, true bonding of souls. There was the human likeness when a man and a woman found love in each other for the first time, that first kiss, when they fuck. But he'd never seen this. This was a true, soul-deep bond.
Where Dean was sharp edges and grief, the angel was curved grooves and joy. They fit together like a puzzle piece, like they were made only for each other.
A feeling of dizziness passed through John and he was on Earth again, watching this angel mold muscle, tissue organs and skin to Dean's body. The angel was meticulous, gentle and spent an uncomfortable amount of time on Dean's face, chest and dick.
"What happens to me?" John asked, "Where do I go?"
"You'll go to Mary Winchester." The angel smiled, "And you will be happy."
"I want to stay," John gulped, "I want to watch."
He wanted to see his son open his living eyes, watch his son find this angel again, watch his son fall in love with his savior. Because this was fate, and these two were soul mates. The angel turned to John, struggling to form a face, eyes shifting across the entirety of the creature's head, "I can take you after I am finished with him."
"Thank you."
Dean did not open his eyes immediately, did not look upon the creature's face and fall instantly in love. And he did not rise from his shallow grave to embrace his soul mate but when the angel took John to heaven, he assured John that, in time, they would. It was fate.
"I just want him to be happy," John stood on the threshold of Mary's heaven, fearful, painful but finally, inexplicably grief-stricken. The hallow feeling in his heart became heavy with pain, sadness, everlasting longing for his family and it was something so much more difficult. It was hard to breath, hard to move, hard to speak, but this weight was right, was the feeling he'd needed all those years on Earth.
Perhaps if he had grieved, his sons would not be hunters.
But then his Dean would not be in love.
Author's Note: Geez, I cried after reading this over again. Ugh, I hate being a girl sometimes...
I'd like some reviews and love, maybe even some critique. This my first real angst and the next several stories that I'm writing are angsty-filled so anything to improve myself would be welcomed!
Thank you!