AN: So, I've had this idea for a while. And last week's episode just spurred me all the more (and actually gave me a few decent ideas). Also, Menthol Pixie's awesome fics have made me want to post Supernatural fic. Thanks, dah-ling! Anyway, on to the "legal" stuff.
Warning: This contains slash. Mild slash, but slash nonetheless. So, eyes off if you don't like it.
Disclaimer: I do not own the television show Supernatural. I do not own the characters of the television show Supernatural.
And there you have it. Enjoy!
Because I'm Falling Down
Chapter One:
For a series of agonizing moments, as Dean cradled his younger brother's unresponsive body to his chest, he was worried that Sam's life hadn't mattered enough, that he would end up in hell just as the elder of the two had. But with three brief words, Castiel put his concerns at . . . a relative ease.
"He's with us."
And when the concern and anxiousness left, anger consumed. "Fix this," he growled, shifting Sam in his arms. "Fix this now."
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, his monotonous tone conveying little apology.
"Bullshit." The word, no more than a whisper, filled the bright alley as if it had been screamed. Funny that a place like that should seem so bright, what with Dean's life turning to ashes. "You said you'd look after him. You should have been here. I trusted you."
"There was nothing I could do. He left, and with the insignia I couldn't track him fast enough."
"I don't want to hear you damn excuses! I want you to make this right! Bring him back!"
Castiel's blank eyes stared at the eldest—and now the only—Winchester boy. "It can't be done."
"What do you mean 'it can't be done'? Don't say that to me, Cas. Don't you dare—"
"Dean!" Castiel rarely raised his voice, and when he did, it was usually just before he smote something—or someone. "It can't be done!"
"Why?" Dean was hysterical, desperate. Already the color in Sam's cheeks was fading, his skin becoming unnaturally cold under his fingers.
"It's . . . heaven." Castiel had no words to describe the place where he was from—the home he had given up to stay with the Winchester brothers, to stay with . . . . And now Sam was in heaven. In his place. Was this what jealousy felt like? "No one leaves heaven of their own accord."
"You did," the young man argued.
"Angels don't have free will like humans do. And when we get desperate enough . . . we do desperate things," Castiel explained, his resolve weakening with every look from those eyes. "Humans, given a choice, will choose heaven. Ripping them out of that—out of perfect happiness . . . Dean, it just isn't done."
"Well, I want it done!" Dean shouted, his voice hoarse. "I want him back, and I want it done now. You owe me!"
A cold, harsh wind kicked up the debris around them, causing it to smash and clatter against worn and crumbling brick. Dean closed his eyes against shattered glass and splintered wood, torn paper and projectile plastics. Only when the wind died abruptly did he dare to look up again.
Castiel was gone.
0 o 0 o 0
Sam remembered nothing of pain. He remembered nothing of demons and monsters, blood and possessions, angels and apocalypses. He remembered Jess's eyes as they opened for the first time to greet a new day, his mother's sweet lullaby before he fell asleep, his father's smile when things were quiet enough for him to appreciate the A's on his report cards.
He remembered Dean. And he felt an overwhelming sense of relief that his brother was safe, followed by a reassuring sense that he would see him again someday. He knew Dean would live his life despite the younger man's absence.
Yeah, right.
He shook the voice from his subconscious away, concentrating on his surroundings.
Overall, he knew that he was happy—a kind of happy that he had never felt; not with his family, not with his friends, not even with Jess. But he was here, now. No need to dwell on the past. Here, there was no past. There was no future. Sam just was. And he couldn't think of anything that would make him happier.
Except . . . .
0 o 0 o 0
"Are you sure this is what your brother would want?"
Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, the Impala swerving to the other side of the road before evening out. The young man glared at his newly-acquired passenger. Skipping the dropping-in-on-people-while-they're-driving-or-taking-a-shower-for-that-matter-is-bad-because-of-the-whole-dying-thing speech, he took a deep breath and faced the road again, trying not to look at the body of his younger brother in his rear-view mirror.
"I've done it before," he said defiantly, "and I've paid a higher price than anything you can throw at me. So just . . . take what you want and put Sam where he belongs."
"What's to say he doesn't belong in heaven?" Castiel asked curiously, furrowing his eyebrows and studying the young man's profile as he drove. Could Dean really rip his own brother out of eternal happiness for his own selfish reasons?
"Because I'm still here," Dean said simply. "Because I'm still alive." His eyes involuntarily wandered to the rear-view mirror, where the pallid face of his brother stared back at him. "And if you don't do something, I'll find someone who will."
The angel clenched his jaw, facing forward. "You can't make deals with demons about souls that have already found their place in heaven."
"I told you, I've done it before."
"No, you haven't." Castiel's harsh words sounded dull in the small compartment of the car, small and not anything like an angel's voice should. "Your brother's soul was trapped the first time you brought him back."
" 'Trapped'?" Dean's voice broke on the word. He didn't want explanations. He wanted his brother.
"He died unexpectedly, violently. He was already making the transition into an angry spirit. If you hadn't made that deal, he would have been your next hunt." Castiel was trying to hit his point home, trying to make Dean see what would happen to his brother if he did what was asked—commanded—of him. "This . . . was not a pointless death. Sam sacrificed himself to keep you safe. Bringing him back would only cause unnecessary pain and grief." The angel sighed in a rare show of humanity. "He's happy, Dean. He's very, very happy. Is that not enough for you?"
Dean gritted his teeth painfully. He knew he would sound selfish and childish. He knew this would make him the worst brother imaginable. But he couldn't stop himself from saying, "No." He shook his head. "It's not."
0 o 0 o 0
Slender fingers slipped into Sam's hand, warming his entire being instantly. He knew before he turned who was standing at his side.
"Jess," he sighed with contentment, squeezing the hand in his. She smiled, and his world brightened all the more. "You're here."
"I'm where ever you are, Sam," Jess replied quietly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I always have been."
"And now we're together."
The young woman looked up. "Are you happy?"
"Of course," Sam said without hesitation. Almost immediately, a voice echoed from somewhere distant.
Liar.
Doubt crept across Sam's face, and Jess squeezed his fingers. "Sam?"
Why are you here?
"I like it here," Sam answered the voice that sounded surprisingly like—
"Good. I'm glad." Jess smiled again. "You can stay here. You can be happy."
You sure about that?
"Yeah." Sam was becoming increasingly worried. Was heaven supposed to be like this? Temptation? Voices that sounded like—
"Your parents want to see you, Sam." Jess interrupted his train of thought.
This caught the young man's attention. "My parents?"
"Yes."
"I can see them?" A smile crept onto his face. After everything—after the loss and hurt—he was finally going to be with his family.
Your 'family'?
Sam's chest tightened. Family . . . Everyone except—
"All you have to do is let go."
The Winchester boy's eyes searched the young woman's. " 'Let go'?" he repeated.
Jess smiled sympathetically. "You've been thinking about him since you arrived."
Sam didn't need to ask who "him" was, and he certainly didn't have the urge to deny the statement.
"He's my brother," he replied simply, shrugging.
Jess nodded. "And he always will be. But the longer you hold on to him, the more difficult it will be."
"For me?"
The young woman shook her head. "For him."
0 o 0 o 0
Dean pounded on the door of his friend's house with waning patience. Breath held, he closed his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable conversation—one that, unfortunately, he'd had before. Moments passed, and as Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot and raised his fist to pound on the door again, it suddenly opened. Bobby sat in his wheelchair, sweats and T-Shirt wrinkled, disheveled hair hidden under a hastily arranged baseball cap.
"Dean?" the older man groaned tiredly, barely suppressing a yawn. "It's—" He checked his digital watch. "—three in the morning. What the hell—"
"Gonna need a bed, Bobby," Dean said quickly, softly.
Bobby searched the young man's face, his teeth gritting as he noticed the lack of the other half of the Winchester duo. "Where's your brother?"
Dean hesitated. "He's in the car."
Bobby's teeth creaked. "Why ain't he here with you at my door, waking me at this ungodly hour?"
There was silence for a long moment as the young man considered what to say. "Because I have to carry him in, Bobby."
The older hunter bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. The bitter taste kept his tears at bay—for the time being. "Bring him in."
0 o 0 o 0
Once Sam's dead weight was in his brother's arms, Dean had a hard time putting him down. Not even Bobby's gentle insistence could break him away after his arms gave out and he was forced to take the body to the spare bedroom.
"Dean, why don't you get some rest?"
"Not tired."
"Then how 'bout something to eat?"
"Not hungry."
"Then how 'bout a beer?"
"Not thirsty."
Bobby sighed. "Then how 'bout a God-damn word with a tired, crippled man."
This got Dean's attention, and as he turned toward the other, Bobby was privy to a look that no one in the world—ex company included—was ever allowed to see. Desperation seeped from every pore in the Winchester boy's face.
"Bobby," he said, his voice strained and trembling, "I think he's gone for good this time."
Bobby's gaze shifted to the still form on the bed. Sam's skin was pale-gray, making the man wonder how long Dean had been driving around with his brother's dead body.
With a sigh and a hand on the back of his neck, Bobby said, "Do I need to mention how morbid this is?"
Dean shook his head, his gaze returning to his brother's sullen face. No worry lines, no creases between his eyebrows or along his forehead. Just smooth skin. It made Sam look younger, almost like a kid again.
"Dean?"
"In a minute, Bobby," he said quietly. "Just . . . in a minute."
The sound of the man's wheelchair squeaking and wheeling away echoed down the corridor before Dean was drowned by a deafening quiet.
0 o 0 o 0
"He's suffering, Sam," Jess said, her eyes taking in the spectacular view of stars stretched out above them. They sat, the two of them, on a porch swing, covered with a quilt and gently swaying back and forth in a mid-summer breeze. "We always wanted a porch swing, didn't we?"
"I can't let him go," Sam sighed, shaking his head. "I just have this feeling . . . Something's not right."
"The world will go on," the young woman said. "The great Dean Winchester can handle the big, the bad, and the ugly all by himself."
"He shouldn't have to." Sam wasn't sure why he was arguing. He wanted this. He wanted all of it. Being with Jess was absolutely amazing. And being with his parents—able to meet and get to know his mother, to finally introduce Jess to his parents. What more could he want?
How about that brother of yours? What was his name again? Don't tell me you've forgotten already . . . .
"Dean," he murmured, looking out over the quiet night and watching blissfully as a beach appeared. Jess stood, taking his and hand tugging lightly. Sam followed without protest, pulling her tight against his side as they set a lazy pace down the sandy walkway.
"You know," Sam said, laying a kiss in Jess's soft, light-colored hair, "we never got to do this—take a walk on the beach." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "There were a lot of things we never got to do."
Jess wrapped her arms around his torso. "We have all the time we need, now. Whatever we want to do, it's all here at our fingertips."
Sam stopped walking, his eyes glazing over. "You mean . . . if I let go."
The young woman took his face between her hands, forcing him to look in her eyes. "It will kill him, Sam. He'll be so consumed by your memory, he won't stop trying to bring you back." Her smile trembled. "Sam . . . save your brother. Save yourself." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered in his ear. "Stay with me, Sammy."
0 o 0 o 0
"Stay with me, Sammy," Dean whispered, his head dropping to the bed as he hunched over in his chair.
This was how Bobby found him almost an hour later. If the older man had been a bit younger—and a bit more mobile—he would have moved Dean himself. Boy was going to have one heck of a crick in his neck when he woke up. Bobby settled for the next best thing—pulling a blanket over the young man.
He debated for a long moment about covering Sam's body, then decided against it, adding it to the mental list of things to talk about in the morning as he wheeled himself to his own bedroom for a couple hours of sleep.
0 o 0 o 0
Dean woke.
And immediately panic set in. Sam's body was gone.
"Bobby!" he yelled, standing and heading toward the door. Someone stood in his way. For a second, he held his breath, waiting for an attack. But as his eyes focused on a familiar face, the air left his lungs in a whoosh.
"Cas."
"I've been looking for you," the angel said, his tone holding a surprising note of exasperation. "The voice on your cellphone keeps saying that you're unavailable." Castiel looked around. "You're at Bobby's?"
"Yeah. Cas—"
"I'll be there soon. Wake up."
"Cas, wait—"
0 o 0 o 0
A hand shook his shoulder firmly, and Dean woke from the most sleep he'd gotten in days. He wasn't sure whether the body of his brother was a reassurance or a disappointment.
"Dean."
"Cas," the young man said quietly without turning around. "Why are you here?"
"I have been thinking," Castiel said carefully, and Dean's ears perked.
"Yeah?" the Winchester boy said, trying to refrain from sounding hopeful.
The angel paused for what seemed an eternity. "You're certain that bringing your brother back is the right choice?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"Even if it means pain for him? Perhaps for the rest of his life?"
This made Dean pause. "What do you mean."
"You have felt the pain of having your soul ripped."
"Well, yeah. But it doesn't hurt now."
"Trust me," Castiel said solemnly, "this is going to hurt for a very long time."
Dean studied his brother's body, vaguely aware that Castiel's hand was still on his shoulder.
"How long will it take?"
"I don't know for sure." The angel shrugged in a very human way. "It depends."
"On . . . ?"
Castiel chose his words carefully before speaking again. "On how far he has integrated himself into the levels of heaven."
" 'Levels'?" Dean asked incredulously, one eyebrow raising as he cast the other a brief glance filled with skepticism. He frowned at the hand on his shoulder, as if just realizing it was there. He opened his mouth to mention something about personal space but found he just didn't have the heart or the strength to do so. Besides, it felt . . . nice to be comforted. "You're telling me that heaven has levels? . . . Like a department store, or something? First floor, white robes, halos, and angel wings?" He didn't expect Castiel to get the reference, which he didn't, but it would have been nice to have someone to share his strange sense of humor with. A thought occurred to him suddenly. "You mean like . . . level levels? Like the levels of hell?"
"Hell was created in the image of heaven, to mirror it. The levels of hell differ only in number . . . and the final level."
"What happens in the final level?"
"Ascension," Castiel explained warily, putting a great deal of reverence into the word. It wasn't everyday that one was able—allowed—to talk about the levels. At Dean's questioning look, the angel continued. "Human spirits may choose to ascend to a higher plain of existence—an existence not unlike that of the angels."
"So . . . Sammy could be an angel?"
"Nearly." Castiel's vague reply spurred more questions, but Dean centered on the most important ones, trying his best not to let the hope in his chest dwell for too long.
"So what? Why would he want to be 'nearly' an angel?"
"Because then he could bring himself back." Dean swore he saw a spark of light behind Castiel's stoic eyes. "Ascension is generally only used as a means of descension."
"Meaning . . . ?" False hope be damned, Dean's chest was swelling with eagerness.
"Meaning that if your brother can make it through the levels of heaven, he can come back. He can be alive again."
0 o 0 o 0
"Shouldn't there be . . . more?" Sam whispered languidly, his fingers stringing through Jess's hair as they lay side-by-side on a raft that swayed gently with each rolling wave of the ocean. They were alone, in the middle of a dark, softly churning sea of stars. Normally it would worry Sam to be so far from everything. But Jess had assured him that with a mere thought, they could be anywhere.
"Anywhere?" Sam had asked curiously, his mind wandering to certain places he had felt particularly attached to on earth—ones that contained memories of a not-forgotten brother. The places had appeared, one after the other—some of them flashing by so fast that Sam barely got a decent look.
Finally, an image froze, stuck in the young man's mind and refusing to budge.
Bobby's house.
Smiling, Sam had approached the front door, his hand barely on the doorknob before he was calling, "Bobby? Dean?"
0 o 0 o 0
"So how do we let him know? How do we get him from A to 'next time won't you sing with me'?" Dean was pacing now, four steps from the door to the opposite wall—but only three-and-a-half back to the door.
"I have to find him," Castiel said matter-of-factly, his eyes following the young man as if he was seeing a game of Pong for the first time.
" 'Find him'?" Dean repeated, his pacing halting abruptly as he stepped into what would have been the angel's personal space—if angels understood personal space, of course. For all intents and purposes, Castiel didn't mind the space intrusion.
"Yes, I have to find him."
"What do you mean 'find him'? You're an angel. Work your mojo. Do your 'beam me up, Scotty' shit." Dean grabbed the lapels of the all-too-familiar trench coat, pulling the angel flush against himself—another all-to-familiarity; one that he didn't want to think about at the moment. "Get to my brother, and tell him what he needs to do to get back here."
Castiel's fingers itched to touch Dean's face, to string through Dean's hair, to glide over Dean's lips. "Dean . . . ."
The Winchester boy finally noticed his position and released Castiel's coat as if it had burned him. He swallowed hard and turned away, placing a hand on the back of his neck and squeezing hard. A million images raced through his brain, all of them involving a certain ascended being, but he pushed them away with one glance at his brother's body.
"Get him back, Cas," he said through clenched teeth. Spinning on his heels, he gave the angel a determined look. "Go."
And then Castiel was gone.
0 o 0 o 0
Sam had searched the whole house and found no sign of either Dean or Bobby. There was beer in the fridge, there were devil traps on the ceiling, and there were open books with pages screaming about resurrections strewn across the floor. But not a soul—living or dead—haunted the rooms or the hallways.
Entering the den for the third time, he'd found Jess waiting for him with a concerned smile and an explanation. "It's just a place, Sam—an image from your memories. Bobby and Dean are on earth, where they belong."
"But . . . ." the young man murmured, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced around. "The books?"
"The mind sees what it needs to see," Jess replied simply. "It's okay to miss them, Sam. But . . . obsession will only lead to grief—for you and your brother."
And so Sam had promised to try letting go—try being the key word. He couldn't put the books out of his thoughts.
What your mind 'needs to see'? The voice in his head scoffed. That's bullshit, and you know it. How would your head possibly come up with a detail like that?
Sam frowned and pulled Jess tighter against his side, closing his eyes and letting the gentle roll of the waves take him away.
0 o 0 o 0
Castiel did not feel many emotions—outside those for the Winchester brothers . . . especially the older of the two. But he imagined that if he could feel something as he planned his return to heaven, it would simply be fear.
He could feel thousands of pairs of eyes watching him, waiting for him to cross the barrier into the afterlife. Thousands of ready and able beings wanting nothing more than to see him repent, beg forgiveness.
If that was what it took to re-enter the gates of heaven—for perhaps the last time—then so be it. Because the fear that Castiel should have been feeling wasn't there, replacing instead by a Winchester-fueled determination.
"I'm here, Sam," he whispered, breaching the boundary.
AN: Next chapter up soon! Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side.
