The bench wasn't anything special. In fact, it was really quite average. It had a slated, wooden back, and a cracked wooden seat, and was carved with the initials of many bored individuals, kids with nothing but pocketknives and a lot of free time. But, it was on this particular bench that a worn out, lonely, insecure hunter with more problems than could be counted found tranquility, and more than just a little strength. It was on this bench that an angel, fallen from grace, broken and damaged with a hollow voice and lifeless eyes found peace, and learned that maybe, just maybe, even after betraying Heaven and his fellow kin, he might still deserve some measure of happiness and acceptance in the life he now led.
No, it was not a special bench at all, but for the two, shattered men, completely different from the other in every way possible, it was a haven, a gift sent from God himself. It was sacred. And this bench, this ordinary, sacred bench, held a deep, incredible story that, though short, would not be ever repeated, replicated or copied throughout the rest of time itself.
The sun was setting, a fiery orb that hung low in the sky, long, burning red rays streaking the heavens and casting dark, dark shadows over the little park. Black clouds rumbled ominously in the distance, and parents frowned up at the weather while their children continued to squeal and chase each other through the freshly cut grass.
Dean Winchester sat on the bench, his legs planted firmly in front of him, elbows planted on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared absently into the distance. His forest green eyes were unfocused, and his thumb ran absently over a raised scar adorning his index finger from a long ago hunt. If he noticed the cold breeze rustling his short hair and playing with his leather jacket, he gave no sign of it. His mind was elsewhere, with his brother, who was no doubt enjoying their Grandfather's company, soulless and uncaring, faking smiles and forcing compassion.
Dean let his head fall forward, his forehead leaning against his steepled fingers, and took a breath of fresh evening air to clear his head and keep his dark thoughts from overtaking his weary brain.
His mind was telling him to rest, to talk to Bobby, or even just get laid, anything to keep him from this despair that was slowly eating away at him, but his soul refused. His soul kept his mind running in circles, desperate for a plan or a solution, a loophole or trick, anything he could use to salvage Sam's own soul, bring back the little brother he knew and loved. The little brother he was supposed to protect.
Dean closed his eyes, closed them tightly. The darkness it brought was strangely comforting, tinged red by the light from the outside world, a world that Dean was no longer sure he wished to be a part of, not without Sam. The real Sam, not the piss-poor excuse for his brother that walked with Sammy's long legs and talked with his voice. Not the soulless Sam who watched as Dean was forced to swallow vampire blood, who snapped at a harmless old lady who still believed in fairies. No, he wanted Sammy, the one who always took time to comfort a complete stranger, who immediately stopped in the middle of a job just to help a lost little girl, the brother who always took time to ask Dean if he was alright. That's the Sam that Dean wanted. The Sam that he knew was probably lost forever, lost amidst the torments of Lucifer's fiery cage, doomed to a fate a hundred times worse than death. The thought sent despair spiralling into Dean's soul, tearing it apart, shattering it into thousands of tiny pieces. Bile rose in his throat and he was forced to choke it back down, suddenly certain that unless he screamed, he would explode from the sheer force of the emotion caught within him. The only thing that kept him silent were the children, still kicking around a soccer ball and laughing together, and their parents, quietly sitting and watching the games. But even the thoughts of ordinary people were not quite enough to quell his growing urge to just let out his frustrations and fears in one loud yell. He was just opening his mouth, the kids and parents be damned, when a deep, baritone voice spoke from beside him.
"Hello, Dean."
Acting on pure instinct, Dean whipped a gun from his jacket, clicking off the safety and pointing it at the voice, all in the time span of a couple seconds, ready to shoot. But then Dean focused on the person sitting on the bench beside him, and cursed.
"Damn it, Cas, don't do that! I could have shot you!" Dean hissed angrily, hiding away the gun before the families at the park could see the sleek black weapon. Castiel blinked in the face of Dean's rage, but it wasn't the angel who Dean was mad at, not really. He was bitter with their cruel, unforgiving world, the world that would always give Dean just a taste of happiness before throwing it all back in Dean's face with a flourish. The world that had taken everyone he cared about. The world that had dumped Sam back into the world without his soul, the very thing that made Sam his little brother. He was angry at that world, not at Castiel.
"I apologize." The angel said softly, and Dean's anger melted away, replaced by a weariness that settled over his bones and stooped his shoulders. He just wanted to sleep, to sleep and never, ever get up again.
"It's not your fault, Cas, I'm just a little…" Paranoid, scared of my own shadow, pathetic, weak…
"…Stressed." Dean finished, ignoring the snide little voice in his head. Castiel nodded and then frowned slightly, tilting his head in that peculiar way of his and staring at Dean in that way that made the hunter feel as if his entire soul was on display for the angel. He held his tongue though, and merely waited, looking into Castiel's light blue orbs, watching how the light refracted off of them, creating the illusion that his eyes had captured little fragments of sunlight within their depths.
"You are worried about Sam." Castiel observed finally, sounding as if he had just discovered the cure for cancer. Dean shot him a dirty look.
"No shit, Sherlock." He snapped, and Castiel just looked at him sadly, as if seeing something in Dean that no one else could. It unnerved the hunter, especially because Dean partly thought it to be true. Castiel seemed to read his very thoughts and analyse his emotions down to a point. This, in turn, pissed him off royally.
"What?" He snarled, holding Castiel's gaze for as long as he could, before the all knowing look in the angel's eyes forced him to look away.
"Bitch." Dean muttered under his breath. He didn't expect the sudden pang in his heart as he subconsciously waited for Sam's customary reply of "jerk" that never came. He closed his eyes and let his hands form tight fists, fingernails digging into the palms. Sam's not even here, you idiot, he thought, but it didn't dull the pain like he hoped it might.
To Dean's utter shock, he felt Castiel's hand settle carefully on top of his fist, curling loosely over the hunter's fingers, and he looked up at the angel, suddenly fighting against an onslaught of tears. Castiel didn't say anything, just waited for Dean to speak. Warmth from his hand seemed to spread through Dean's entire being, warming his heart and thawing out his soul.
Words stuck in the back of his throat, words that were slowly forcing themselves from his mouth and spilling from his tongue despite Dean's best efforts to keep them inside, and suddenly he was pouring out his heart to Castiel, who merely listened quietly.
"Sam isn't Sam anymore, Cas! He's different…I don't even think he's properly human anymore! I mean, what kind of human walks around without his soul? I keep telling myself, we'll figure this out, we'll fix him, but I don't know if that's even true anymore! I don't know if we – If I – can do this! You wouldn't believe how hard it is to see my brother beside me, same body, same voice, same hair, same everything – and know that it's just not Sammy, not my little brother. Not anymore." Dean's voice broke and he looked away from Castiel, unable to keep a tear from spilling over and rolling slowly, mockingly, down his cheek.
He felt Castiel's hand tighten on his own, fingers slipping between Dean's and holding on, a silent promise more effective than any words could ever be.
"You blame yourself." Castiel said simply, and Dean could only nod, closing his eyes against the tears. He hated, hated, showing weakness like this but it seemed that Castiel's simple touch had opened the floodgates within his mind, breaking down the dam that held all of Dean's guilt and shame.
"I promised I'd protect him. I promised. For the longest time, keeping him safe, keeping him alive…it was all I was living for. And now… I've failed him, Cas. Failed him, and I've failed my Dad. I just can't…" His voice cracked again as a lump formed in his throat, cutting off his words as effectively as a gag.
"Dean. It is not your fault that Sam is the way he is." Castiel said quietly. There was a pause, in which Dean finally mustered the strength to raise his glassy green eyes to Castiel's, searching his face hopefully for any sign of redemption. Castiel hesitated.
"In fact…if the fault lies with anyone, it lies with me. Dean, I was the one to raise Sam from perdition, not Crowley. I felt proud of myself, and you know how pride corrupts and blinds one from seeing what is right in front of them. It blinded me too, Dean, kept me from seeing that I had left Sam's soul back in the cage. I dismissed Sam's actions as trauma from all he had gone through with Lucifer and Michael and I was a fool. I am sorry, Dean." Castiel's voice was calm and even as he explained, but before Dean could even think of being angry, he caught the look in Castiel's eyes. A look of sadness so intense that it took Dean's breath away, alongside with the guilt that was so prominent that Dean wondered how the angel had not yet exploded from all of the pent up emotion from within him.
Before he could think about it, Dean put an arm around Castiel's shoulders, squeezing slightly for comfort, and drew him close.
"I don't blame you, Cas. You did the best you could." He whispered softly. The angel seemed to relax, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders and, in a rare moment of vulnerability, rested his head on Dean's shoulder. The two sat like that, hands entangled between them, Castiel pressed tightly to Dean's side, watching the now cloudy sky. Just two, broken men with shattered eyes and tattered souls, facing the grievances and hardships of a corrupted world. That alone was nothing new in their twisted, messed up lives. Nothing to brag about, nothing that would make an interesting tale in which to recount to generations of children. But as Castiel lifted his head from Dean's shoulder, and Dean gently kissed Castiel's soft lips, as the first drop of rain fell to the earth and the children all sighed in disappointment and gathered up their toys, a spark was ignited between the two. A spark that spoke louder than words, a spark that said that no matter how heavy the burden or how painful the future may prove to be, they were in it together. They would share each other's battles, share each other's victory and share each other's grief. They were in it together, and that was all that mattered.
Fin.