I have to apologise for how short this is, and how little happens. I promise that this will pick up, but I wanted to use it to really give an idea on what this fic will be focusing on; family, the brothers, all the highs and lows. The two of them against the world. As much as I love Hannah and Tessa and Gadreel, it's the humans who really capture my attention on the show. Them and the relationship between Sam and Dean.
The initial fic (which you don't really have to read just know: *MAJOR SPOILERS, DO NOT READ IF PLANNING ON READING INITAL FIC* TFW captured an angel, who lead them to capture Gadreel with the help of Hannah, and some randoms: Romeo, Beatrice, Rosemary and Uriah. Gadreel relented and told them that they needed a reaper to open the stairway to heaven, so Cas found Tessa, who was reluctant because of Cas's involvement with the Fall, but came with him. It came to Abaddon's attention that Sam no longer had his tattoo, so she sent a demon to spy on him (Kelly) and then had her demons kidnap him, locking Dean in the bathroom with a curse. Sam was kidnapped and Crowley came to free Dean, giving him the Blade and sending him after Abaddon. Abaddon was nearly killed by Dean, so she evacuated her body and possessed Sam. Sam managed to shake Abaddon long enough to give Dean the edge, and the brothers held hands as Dean killed Abaddon and ultimately, Sam. The fic ends with Dean hugging his brothers broken body.) It can be found here.
My tumblr is .com if you want to yell at me or something. This can also be found on AO3, my username is neatomosquito.
I aim to have my chapters over 8,000 words and update at least once a week. This fic will include OC's, violence and gore, major character death and angst. If any of those things aren't really your style, I suggest you go to Live Journal. That was a joke. I've never actually been on live Journal. No one's reading this. I can say what I want. Coo coo cachooo. Like a train. Ugh. I love myself. I got a 22 on the narcissist test. Go Megan.
This will be a 23 chapter Fic, a chapter for each episode of the season. I love both boys equally (that's a lie I like Sam more but I relate more to Dean so) if I mischaracterise them, PLEASE let me know.
I own nothing. All rights go to Eric Kripke and the CW.
"And I heard you say
when you left that day
does everything go away?
Yes everything goes away."
-Always Gold Radical Face
"You ever, uh, seen a grown man naked?"
"Would you turn that off please?" Sam asked, entering the room, glaring at Dean and then pointedly staring at the television screen. He looked oddly out of place in the motel that they were staying in, Hair damp where he'd washed it, face smooth and eyes bright, alert, like he hadn't just been sitting around for the better part of two weeks. Dean didn't see the issue towards growing lazy and rested while they could, sneaking naps on the couch and hitting whatever bar hadn't kicked them out yet. Sam wasn't too for the second, if Dean was to take in Sam's near constant bitching about it. Nor was he really that hyped up over the first, Dean always managing to do something annoying while Sam tried to sleep. The one memorable time that he had drawn a penis on his brothers cheek with permanent marker had also been remembered for Sam's revenge. Three cans of tinned spaghetti, tanning oil and a whole lot of empty shampoo bottles.
Dean glanced over and grinned. "Why, is it making you uncomfortable, Sammy?"
Sam glared, not sitting down but moving further into the room. "It's Sam. Anyway, you know the rules. No porn, not while I'm in the room."
"It's not even porn," Dean looked back to the screen dismissively. The day was rolling down to an end and he'd tried to ignore how agitated Sam was being. Clean hair and day clothes, twitching fingers and determined glances. Of course, He was due back any minute now, but surely Sam should at least be prepared for that. The fighting? Well, Dean would mediate. As always. Get them both to bed without anyone throwing punches. Like always.
Sam gave him a look. "If you say, 'Explicit Romantic Plot Line' one more time, I swear to God―"
"Nah, it's Flying High," Dean said, eyes not moving from where the movie was playing out, staring hard, not seeing Sam in his jacket, not seeing the nearly packed bag by the door.
"You do know that that sounds like the name of a porno, right?"
"It's a comedy," Dean explained, waving his arms airily in front of himself for emphasis, before letting them drop to his lap. "Whatever. I was bored of this conversation like, three minutes ago."
Sam paused and was silent for a few minutes, finger tapping incessantly on his thigh. "When―"
"He said a few days, it's been a few days, he'll be back," Dean answered, rolling his eyes, before Sam could get the words out. "What's the rush, anyway?"
Sam looked purposefully nonchalant, brushing his too long hair back from his eyes and shrugging, unable to look up to meet Dean's gaze. "No rush. I'm just worried."
Dean scoffed and turned his attention back to the movie. "Worried. Ha. That'd be a first."
"Jesus Christ. Don't be such a jerk, Dean."
Dean raised his eyebrows, looking again over to his little brother. "Don't be such a little bitch, Sam."
Sam just made a tight face and looked away, sighing and staring pointedly towards the closed curtains over the window.
Dean sighed to himself and dropped over his arms so that he leant on his elbows, skin pressing onto his soft track pants. He glanced over to Sam and tried not to feel...jealous? Was that the word? That Sam could want their father back. It's not that Dean didn't love the guy, it's not that he didn't want him home, but as soon as he walked through the door, there'd be something wrong. Sam would pick it up or John would, and then they'd butt heads. And they wouldn't stop. Not until John found another one man job, or Sam took off to clear his head. And Dean would be caught in the middle. Smiling through gritted teeth, one hand on his father's chest, the other one pressed into his brothers.
Ordering Sam to cool his head, take a walk. Staying behind and apologising on Sam's behalf, saying that Sam didn't mean it, that he was just bitter, that is was the life...And John would just sit, alone on the table, staring dejectedly off into the distance, only perking up when Sam came home, eyes wary, but mouth pulling into a hesitant smile. And Sam would apologise, and the peace would last an hour.
Those hours were Dean's favourite time. The in-between. Where they'd watch whatever was on, and John would clean out his gun, over and over again, and Dean, when he was younger, he'd fall asleep to that sound, arm pressed into Sam's slowly breathing back, John's deft fingers working up a Hunter's Lullaby. In the very early years, when it was just them, and he wasn't old enough to take care of Sammy on their own, the clicks were slow and careful, wrong and disjointed, coupled with curses under breath and John shifting his leg on top of the bed, irritated. Sammy would be softly snoring, his hair brushing on Dean's shoulder, Dean's knee, Dean's arm, his breaths slow and calm, his face lost amid innocence and no concern. Then he'd found the diary, John had grown tougher, trained Dean to be tougher, trained little Sammy to hold a gun and everything started unravelling.
Years and years later, after everything, Dean would wonder when it happened. His switch, from child to adult. From home meaning a place and a time and Dad, to meaning a black car with toy soldiers stuffed down crevices, Sam. He and Sammy and Baby, that was home. On the road, singing as loudly as they could to a song they'd heard a thousand times. Dean knew all the lyrics and Sam did too, though he only sung the chorus, and the world would flash by like days slipping from spring to winter.
(Oh God, Dean missed Sam so much. So damn much.)
There was a rap on the door and Sam stood to attention. And then Dean noticed the bag, and the clothes, and the shoes, and the time.
"Where are you going?" Dean asked, trying not to sound worried, trying not to be terrified. He gave Sam a once over and stood up. "A little late for the bowling alley with Jose and the boys, isn't it?"
Sam just looked down and clenched his jaw.
Dean felt something build in his stomach, something freezing and wrong. He felt it collide in it's iciness, in its invasion. It travelled up his spine and settled as a bad taste in the back of his mouth.
No.
The door opened and John walked in, smiling in greeting. "Hiya boys. How were things?"
"They were fine, Dad," Dean answered readily, walking over and shaking John's hand, helping him by taking the weapon bag over to the third untouched bed.
"Sorry you couldn't be on this one," John sighed. "It was a bitch, but it was a one-man bitch."
Now, that sounds vaguely dirty, Dean felt like saying, and would have said were it anyone but their father.
John looked over at Sam, sitting down heavily on the table. His quick Hunter's eyes drew to the bag and the clothes and the shoes. "Goin' somewhere, son?"
Sam cleared his throat, looked over and raised his chin.
Dean closed his eyes. No, Sammy. Not now.
But when Sam spoke he was perfectly civil. Like he'd been practising it. Like he'd been practising it for years. "I've been accepted into College."
You could hear the American Flag over the entrance of the motel flapping in the wind.
"I'm sorry," John frowned, standing slowly, looking across at his proud youngest son with steady eyes. "You what?"
"Got accepted into college," Sam repeated, not looking at Dean, looking at anywhere but Dean. He stared hard at John though, those Hazel eyes burning with defiance. "Stanford, actually. Pre-Law."
"How the Hell did you get accepted into College?" John asked, and though he didn't mean it to undermine Sammy's intelligence, Dean winced anyway, seeing Sam's face darken, feeling the threatening storm of words and regret that would soon follow.
"I applied. I got a full ride," Sam replied monotonously, which Dean was grateful for. Keep it simple, keep it safe, please, please, don't tear their family apart. He clenched his jaw. "I'm going."
That taste, that had crept along Dean's tongue and through his throat, that taste that seemed the reverberate through his entire body, seemed to ache now. Just ache with exhaustion. Sammy had gotten into college. Sammy was leaving Dean. Sam was saying goodbye.
"The Hell you are," John snarled. "You think you can just leave us? Me and your brother? Family? What kind of son are you?"
Sam looked like he was expecting this, looked like he was ready with an answer, and Dean had to wonder how long Sam had known. How many times he'd nearly said, how many times Dean had nearly found out. "I'm not just your son! What the hell kind of father isn't proud of their kid who gets a full ride? To Stanford?"
"You're leaving us, and you want me to be proud?" John asked, laughing humourlessly. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?"
Dean balled his hands into fists. Wrong, wrong. Push and he'll just push harder. Sammy, so stubborn and defiant, especially in times like these, especially when he was told that he mustn't do something.
Sam nodded and gave a short bark of laughter. "Selfish? You got some nerve, Old Man. You drag me and Dean around the country and you expect us to just wait around for the goddamn monster that killed Mom to just fall into our lap? You ruined our childhood just so you could avenge some memory?"
"Don't talk about her like that," John said, and his voice was deadly cold, distant. The boys could feel it, he was close to losing it, close to really getting angry. "Don't you dare."
"If I didn't have a picture of mom, I wouldn't even know what she looked like," Sam spat. He hadn't set down his bag. If anything, his hand had tightened around the handle. "So yeah, I'm gonna go to college. Because that's the life Mom would have wanted for us. You really think she'd look down at this and be happy? You think she'd be ok with any of it?"
"I swear to god, Sam," John said, nearly shaking. "Shut your damn trap."
"Well, I'm going," Sam looked around the room, to John and then to Dean, finally to Dean, and whatever Dean must have looked like must have made Sam falter, must have made him pause. But then he moved on, eyes flashing bright and angry again. "I'm going to go and make something of my life."
"Saving people," John said curtly. "That's not makin' something of your life? That's not doin' good enough for you Sam? You gotta be some hot-shot lawyer to finally feel like you're contributing?"
"Don't twist my words," Sam told him harshly.
He turned and walked to the door, throwing it open. The breeze that rushed through it was like a punch to Dean's gut, like a sock in the jaw. Like the last song of a swan before it died.
"I swear, Sam," John said low, slow, desperate. "You walk through that door, you don't ever walk back. You hear me?"
Sam paused, looked over his shoulder and sent a tight, bitter smile their way. "Loud and clear."
The door slammed shut, cutting off another gust of wind. Sam disappeared outside, the motel room shook empty with only two people in it.
John was breathing heavily, but Dean couldn't hear anything, nothing but the ringing in his ears. Sam had just left. Left like...like all of it...their family...was nothing. Like they were nothing. Nothing and nothing and nothing.
"Goddamn it!" John swung his fist and flipped over the table, yelling and kicking out, catching the faux wood before it hit the ground.
Dean's breathing picked up, his heart rate crept up. Nothing and nothing and nothing amen.
John spoke, but Dean couldn't hear the words. Just the sound and the tempo and the door slamming, again and again. You should have seen, you should have known.
Nothing and nothing and nothing.
"Dean!" John barked. "Dean!"
Dean blinked and looked over.
"Did you know?"
Did he know what? That Sam was going to leave? Or that Sam didn't want to stay? That Sam wanted to be a lawyer? Or that he didn't want to be a Hunter? That Sam knew what Mom wanted more than both of them, and they both knew it, or that Sam was never coming back?
Dean swallowed and shook his head slowly, trying to unravel all his thoughts, trying to sneak through all he missed on purpose. "No. I didn't know."
John watched him, half surprised, half upset. Then he bared his teeth and kicked again at the ruined table. "Goddamn it!"
Dean just stared off, towards the door Sam had exited. Exit stage left. Left. He'd left. Left Dean. Where was home now? Where? Left? Door? Sam? Come back?
Nothing and nothing and nothing.
(Nothing and nothing and nothing. He'd forgotten how consuming it was. Darkness and nothingness and hoplessness and death. And watching him die. And death.)
Dean stared. He did not sleep that night.
Neither of them did.
May 18th, 2014
12 Years Later
Castiel did not leave to fight Metatron with the small angel arsenal he'd built around himself. Despite them begging him, Hannah with her wide pleading eyes, Tessa with her reproachful glances, her shifting feet, her arms that hug around herself, Gadreel, cuffed and stationary, doing nothing but looking at Cas quizzically, he made not move. Looked at the ground, to the sky, and back again, waiting and praying to their absent god. Crowley's news of Abaddon and the Winchester's had come as a shock, to them all. And so it was with that that Cas pressed his advantage. Dean's mark, the Blade, the only real way they could be sure of Metatron's defeat.
"Castiel," Hannah said, her voice hitched, in awe, in sadness, looking to the entrance of the motel.
Cas didn't need any more explanation. The impala, black as liquorice and sleek and friendly, shiny and the Winchesters. It was them, that car. It summarised them perfectly. Sam's softness in the supple leather of the seats, Dean's anger, sarcasm, in her sharp lines, her ragged beauty. Cas had to say, should the car ever become humanised, it would be a mixture between the both of them.
Cas felt his stomach clench as he took in the car. As he took in what he could see.
No, no, no.
There was only one person sitting in it. In the car that drove too slowly for the other to be crouching in pain in the back, waiting for the angels to heal him. The sun shone on the screen and rolled behind a cloud and Cas looked away.
Oh, Sam.
"Sam," Tessa said softly, closing her eyes and listening, wincing slightly as she pushed herself back into the warped veil where the spirits screamed, for what they feared was eternity. She opened her eyes, and she looked sad, downcast, not like the angel she was. In fact, as Cas looked around, at Hannah's heartbreak, Gadreel's shock, the angel's grief, they were all reacting like humans.
"Oh my," Hannah clutched at her arms, hugging them close to her waist. She looked up at Cas with wide, scared eyes. "It hurts."
Cas placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. Trying to placate himself. For surely Dean would come out, and see them. And he would not want to explain something to people so wretchedly emotional.
If only he had his full grace, if only he and all the others weren't drained from their lives on earth, wasting their powers, watching as it dwindled to nothing, watching as the last precious drops were needed for something much bigger than one man.
If only.
Dean walked slowly out of the car, his bloodstained clothes clinging to his middle, taking in each of them coolly, only opening up fully when he met Cas's eyes. Cas almost looked away, from all that misery. But the grief, that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that Dean was used to feeling this way, used to feeling his whole world shatter. Then Dean closed again, and he didn't even look up to see Tessa's knowing eyes.
"Sammy's..." Dean clenched his jaw and didn't finish the sentence. "Abaddon...the bitch possessed him and..." Dean looked up, this time at Cas, like he was begging forgiveness. "And he told me I had to."
Cas felt it steal through him, that poison, the loss, the way Dean looked at him, his eyes clenched, and yet he looked so like a child.
"Abaddon is dead?" Hannah asked hesitantly, looking to Cas to see if she were being appropriate.
Cas nodded deftly once, casting her a grieved look. She looked slightly stricken as she realised that she'd been insensitive. Cas knew that she'd only wanted to help, only wanted to...to be proper. Maybe one day Cas would teach her how to be human. Perhaps one day, after the pain of losing her friend passed, she would want to become one herself.
"Yeah, Dorothy'd that witches ass," Dean said, not even attempting a smile. Cas wished that he would not. It hurt more than anything, to see a human smile through pain. More than anything.
"His death was...unwarranted," Gadreel said, eyes fixed on the ground, blinking thrice quickly. He swallowed. "He was a good man."
Dean ignored him. He looked at Cas. "I...his...Sam's in the back seat. I couldn't..." Leave him. Even though he'd already left. He balled his hands into fists. "We have to..." Dean worked his jaw furiously and blinked away tears.
Cas nodded heavily, looking around to Gadreel, Hannah and Tessa. "You are dismissed."
Hannah wavered, looking tenderly towards Dean, before placing a hand on Gadreel's arm, leading him away. It wasn't strong, or overbearing. It was the touch of someone with compassion, with empathy. A sharing of warmth between two people who'd lost their way.
Cas stared after them, pausing for a moment, Tessa unmoved from his side.
When Cas caught himself and looked back to Dean, he saw that he and Tessa were locked on each other, eyes holding the others, refusing to let go.
"Can you..."
"Hear him?" Tessa asked, and her voice only shook slightly, the wince from before, when she'd reached out her mind not forgotten by Cas, who moved closer to Dean, closer in order to comfort his friend. She smiled slowly, sadly, but she nodded. "He's..." Screaming with the rest of them. Walking around in uncertainty, begging for an end, for a rest. "He's calling to you, Dean."
Cas frowned at her, confused. It was insensitive to say as a lie, but how could it be the truth? How could his spirit yell so strongly, so vividly, that Tessa could recognise it? Perhaps Cas didn't give the Reaper enough credit. Perhaps she was better than he thought she was. But Cas couldn't be sure. What he could be sure about was that when she said it, Dean's eyes brightened with something dark. His shoulders hitched into strength.
"What is he saying?"
Tessa shrugged, miserable. "What they're all saying." She looked across the motel, across into the empty air. "They just want to go home."
Cas suggested that they burn Sam's body that night, pay their respects and then, if Dean was strong enough, go after Metatron in the morning.
"Not just yet," Dean said, staring at his brothers unmoving figure from the doorway of the motel room they'd decided to lie Sam out on. His gaze wasn't hungry with despair, or vacant. Just sort of inquisitive, lonely. "I can't let him go just yet."
Dean slept on his own, in his own room that night. Normally it would have felt empty, cold, without Sam's breaths, without his brother walking around the room agitated, or curled up with the laptop, screening for the next gig. But after having his own room in the Men of Letter's bunker for the past year or so, it had come second nature. To fall asleep without someone else having to be there, to wake up screaming, and pretend like everything was fine when the other person sat up, gasping, asking what the hell was wrong.
But he'd gotten used to it, to the point where he almost preferred it. But now, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he wondered how he'd ever managed to sleep at all.
"I recommend counting sheep," a familiar smarmy British voice said from the foot of Dean's bed.
Dean didn't jump when he saw the demon standing, his scruff casting long spindly shadows down his chin, his eyes fittingly darkened in the low light. "Son of a bitch," Dean snarled. "You have any idea what time it is?"
Crowley looked confused. "Should I?"
Dean rolled his eyes and sat up more fully. "The hell you want, Crowley?"
"I heard about Moose," Crowley shrugged. "Thought I'd come pay my respects. Problem, frater?"
Dean frowned.
Crowley sighed. "Brother. Latin for brother, dumbass. Don't know why the smart Winchester couldn't have been the one to survive―"
"Hey," Dean snapped, bundling the bed clothes in his hands. "You don't get to talk about him."
Crowley put his hands up in a mock surrender pose. "Alright, alright. Tetchy, tetchy Dean, my boy. I've just come to offer a favour."
"Unless you have some sure-fire way of bringing Sam back," Dean stated. "I don't want to hear it."
"Ah, no, unfortunately," Crowley sighed. "Sorry. Unless you want to sell your soul again, of course. There's always option number desperado."
Dean's heart rate quickened. If he brought Sam back like that, again, Sam would never forgive him. "No," Dean said quickly.
"Clever boy," Crowley smiled. "See? The thing does learn."
Dean glared pointedly at Crowley's beaming smile. "Really, Crowley, get to the point."
"Just come to offer my services," Crowley said easily. "You know, we go way back, Dean. Apocalyptic times...ah, those were the days."
"Amazing," Dean stated coldly.
"Right, sorry, another sore subject. Is there anything I can talk about around you?"
"You could explain why you're―"
"Yes, yes," Crowley interrupted, bringing up a hand and stopping him before he could repeat himself. "At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am here to help you Dean. Your brothers soul, do you know where it is?"
Dean frowned. "Not in Heaven? Why the hell would I tell you?"
"I can keep it safe, keep it dormant," Crowley said listlessly, glancing over to Dean, Used-Car-Salesman painted over his mouth in thick, red, paint. "Your brother will know nothing but rest."
"Yeah," Dean barked a bitter peal of laughter. "I'd trust you with my brothers soul. Right."
"I'd take care of it, Dean," Crowley said, almost defensively. "I'd make sure it stayed quiet and still. I'd save him, Dean."
Dean stared at the demons face for a suspended number of seconds. "Go to hell, you slimy little bitch."
Crowley looked flustered now. "I'm trying to help, Dean! Damn it! You really want your brothers soul just floating around? I could summon it and trap it in a second and I'm coming here for your permission."
"You still haven't given me a straight answer," Dean said, calm, verging on hysterical. "Why?"
"Because I told you where Abaddon was!" Crowley finally snapped. "I sent you on this Mission Impossible. And Sam's death, is on me."
"Yeah, it is," Dean said, gritting his teeth and staring hard at the king of hell's face. "But..." You weren't the one who had to stab him! You're not the one who had to do what he asked of you! Dean paused and gathered his thoughts. He was not D 'n' M-ing with the king of Hell. "There's nothing you can do, nothing, to fix that. So...so leave. Just go."
"Let me do this, Dean, Damn it!" Crowley snapped. "No wonder no one ever tried to help you. You don't accept anything unless you made it with your own hands. Let me save your brother!"
Dean closed his eyes, and he thought. He thought about the human blood and about Sammy, little Sammy, his soul bright enough to guide a host of angels home, lost and wearying of the world. Dean didn't know how long time passed through the underlayer, where Kevin was, where all the lost souls were, but he did know that any time was too much time. That it would be like a sort of hell, in there, bodies and souls pressed tight together, hot breaths and screaming, fingernails digging into your skin. What did that airlessness do to a person? What did that terror do to a soul? What would happen, when they did get to Heaven, if they got to Heaven? Would Sam recognise him...oh, God, would he recognise him? The years...how long...no...but...no, no, nothing and nothing.
Dean felt every muscle flex, every tremor in his body heighten, curl around in his blood, turn him from defiant to terrified. "Ok," and the words fell like drops of poison, snaking out of a dropped wine glass. "Ok."
Crowley looked surprised, the shock of Dean's admission melting the concern (actual human emotion) off his face. "Wait...really?"
"Yes," Dean stated heavily. He looked steadily up. "I hear of anything―"
"You'll kill me, you'll torture me, feed my innards to my own dogs, yadda yadda, heard it all before," Crowley cut in. He smiled at Dean, and should Dean have not known better, he'd say it would almost be genuine.
"Oh no," Dean promised. "It'll be a lot worse than that."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "I've heard that one now and again as well."
They stared off, trapped in their own little world for a few minutes, Crowley's smile still tickling at the corners of his mouth.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "You, uh, going? Or do you wanna stay for the After Party?"
"Oh, don't be vile Deanna."
Dean nodded towards the door. "Exit, stage left."
The smile dropped and Crowley scowled. "I despise human blood."
He disappeared and Dean stared off into the space where he had once been. The darkness of the room seemed to retract away from him as the moon and the stars crept slowly through the window, casting the room awash, the thing that had been attracting the darkness melting away to nothing. Dean felt his hands slowly relax, and he leant back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He closed his eyes, he thought about Sam, he did not speak, he did not sleep.
Dean was seven and Sam was three. The world was bright then, Sam had scruffy hair and a smile that could charm money out of a miser. Dean had started school. He liked it, he liked learning, being with other kids his age. He's ask them if they had a Sammy, uh, sorry, little brother, and they'd shrug or nod or shake their head.
The teacher would ask Dean when she'd be able to meet his parents. He told her that his mom was dead and that his dad was busy. But that his brother would see her, see her anytime she wanted. That Sammy was real special, and smart enough to join in their class, should she let him.
She'd just shake her head, laughing, saying that Sammy was too young, that Dean should be able to have some time away from his brother. Dean frowned and said that he didn't want to spend time away from Sam, that something might happen. She didn't really laugh after that.
Dean would come home from school and Sam would be sitting on the table, legs kicking. John would be researching in the corner, frowning over mounds of research. Sam looked up to Dean.
"Why don't we have a mom?"
Tessa kicked Dean's door down, barrelling through the door, eyes wide, fearful.
"Dean," she said, looking to him, scared. "I can't...I can't hear him."
"Hear who?"
Tessa closed her eyes. "Sam."
When Dean didn't react, she opened her eyes and looked at him, dumbfounded. "What, don't you care? Your brother is―"
"Safe," Dean finished for her. "He's safe." Like a mantra. Like if he repeated it often enough, it might come true.
Tessa recoiled and tilted her chin. "Dean, what did you do?"
14 and Sam was already a pain in the ass. Dean couldn't imagine him at 15, and oh god, 16 and 17. Dean was glad he'd cut the crap out early, all the moaning and listening to long, slow ballads about love and loss. It was irritating. It irritated him, it irritated their father and it irritated the hell out of Dean, who was sick of feeling sorry for himself by the third week.
Sam's first hunt. Your typical salt and burn. Not too much to handle, Dean didn't think. Now that Dean was old enough to stay back and completely take care of Sam, John left for longer and longer. They got to stay in the same place for a more substantial amount of time, which was good, because Sam got to make friends and get somewhere with his schoolwork, but it was bad, because every time they stayed somewhere long enough, someone saw how smart Sam was. And then College came into the picture.
As if Dean needed some Law-School transfer, who thought that they were better than everyone else, filling Sam's head with thoughts of college, of a future, of a life, of hope... Dean knew he was being selfish. Selfish and bitter. But he couldn't help it. Sam leave, and then what? Dean would be alone, with their father. He'd be without Sam.
Dean honestly didn't like thinking about it.
Sam sat rigid on his bed, working through math problems.
Dean came into the room.
Sam looked up, not hesitant, only curious. "Hey Dean, you ever think about going to College?"
"Gadreel is right," Cas nodded across at the angel in question and Gadreel seemed a little taken aback, if not thankful. "There is no way to get into heaven apart from the staircase."
"But Metatron will be watching it," Hannah insisted, irritated. "He'll know as soon as we arrive."
"He'd know anyway," Romeo put in.
Gadreel shook his head slowly. "That is not necessarily true. He might look the part of a God, but in reality, he is simply an angel who has granted himself more powers than he should. He would not see us, not for the first few milliseconds, if we were to find another route into Heaven."
"There are no other routes," Cas reminded him.
Gadreel nodded uncomfortably. "That is true."
Hannah let out a huff and Romeo nodded seriously, seeming a little overwhelmed that they'd let him and Beatrice in on their conversation. The second angel was just watching with the air of mild disinterest. The skin of her vessel, a few shades darker than her eyes, now warmed to the building of the sun as it approached the herald of morning.
"I think it might be time for a break," Beatrice suggested.
"You're right," Cas nodded. "We have been talking for many hours."
"And still we are nowhere," Hannah summarised blatantly.
"Would you perhaps like to go find Tessa?" Cas asked of her, cautious.
However, she seemed relieved that she'd been given a job to do, go from point A to point B, and if you don't find what you're looking for, trundle off to point C. It was the kind of thing angels were built for, clear cut instruction, no room for compromise or second guessing decisions. There was a sort of beauty to their order. Cas understood this, but he also understood that it was too easy to persuade, too easy to move the pieces in your favour when you were in charge of a group as loyal and obedient as the soldiers of Heaven. And most of the time, what they were ordered to do was far from as harmless as locating a temporarily wayward reaper.
"At once," she reported proudly, flitting out of the door, like she'd regained her wings.
"What of us?" Beatrice asked, inclining her head to Romeo.
Cas glanced at them. "Uh, you are...just dismissed."
They followed Hannah out of the door and off to where the other angels would be waiting for them.
Then it was Gadreel and Cas.
Gadreel cleared his throat awkwardly. "And, uh, what of me, Castiel?"
Cas smiled softly. "You were with Sam Winchester for a long time."
"He cared for you deeply," Gadreel said, nodding. "You and Dean. Very much."
Cas closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "I would like you to tell me more of him. Tell me the soft things, not the personal things." His eyes opened, blue and searing, into Gadreel's. "Do you understand what I mean?"
"You miss him," Gadreel stated, almost as if he was surprised. "I thought..."
"What?" Cas asked. "That I was not able to pose a front to my soldiers? I may not be a leader, but I'm no fool, either."
Gadreel paused. "I think of you as a leader."
"Thank you for the compliment," Cas said. "But I would like, now, to mourn my friend."
Cas watched the sunrise and Gadreel gathered his thoughts. The two angels sat, facing Aurora through the window of a shitty motel, basking in her glow.
"Sam Winchester had a bright soul," Gadreel stated, almost detached. "Sam saw a light at the end of this. He saw a way out."
Gadreel stopped and Cas looked over. "Is everything alright?"
Gadreel was looking stoically ahead. "I would...I would like to not think about Sam. And his death. If that is ok by you, Castiel."
Cas's heart gave a tremor. "That is perfectly alright."
Gadreel would have never spoken to Sam, nor properly, not without anger or betrayal ruining their regard for each other, but Gadreel had seen Sam, seen him in his entirety. Been him, seen the world through his eyes. Castiel would not mourn deeply if Jimmy were to die. Jimmy was a special soul, but Castiel's real regard for him fell as far as the strength of his body. Gadreel, however, seemed almost attached. Seemed mournful.
They were interrupted by Tessa, marching in a sheepish Dean, his hair in disarray, his head hanging despondent.
Cas stood and Gadreel watched, attached to the table by the cuffs that were still around his hands.
"Tell them what you did," Tessa demanded, eyes blazing with fury and worry. "Tell them!"
Dean looked at Cas, and Cas saw two warring sides, Dean's nonchalance, and his friends regret. "Crowley made an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Your soul, Dean?" Cas demanded, looking at Tessa, hoping beyond all hope he was wrong.
"Worse," Tessa hissed.
Cas frowned, confused, and tilted his head towards Dean. "What does she mean, Dean?"
Dean shrugged. "I told you, Crowley made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Answer the question," Gadreel said from behind Cas.
Dean looked over at him and his face lost any warmth. "Oh, hey there Lucifer 2.0."
"Answer, Dean," Cas pressed heavily.
Dean glanced at Tessa, who was watching him with her hands tucked under her arms, her mouth pressed hard down on itself, her cheeks reddening slightly, looking as though she held in a scream. Dean looked back at Cas, who could feel desperation starting to pump through his veins.
"Crowley offered to take care of Sam's soul while we fixed Heaven," Dean said easily. "I agreed."
Cas paled. "You what?"
Dean turned from nonchalant to surly. "What? Better than crammed in with all the screaming, right?"
Tessa huffed, like she'd heard him say that before and stalked out of the room, her black hair swinging behind her as she tried to take hold of her anger.
"Tetchy," Dean said.
"Dean," Cas reprimanded.
Dean looked at him sharply. "Don't, Cas. Just don't, ok?"
"No," Cas said defiantly. "Sam was my friend as well. I won't let you do this to him."
"Friend?" Dean asked, repeating it with a severe laugh. "I'm...I was his brother. I was supposed to protect him. I was supposed to save him. So, I'm sorry if me trying to do something right somehow gets in the way of your little morality fest, because I will not rest until Sam's soul is in Heaven, until his soul is at peace."
"At what cost, Dean?" Gadreel asked, tiredly. "How many times will you allow this demon to control you?"
"Well," Dean said, hard. "I gave up on trusting angels. Thought the flip side might be worth a try."
"You don't mean that," Cas said.
"Oh, Cassie," Dean said, smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes. They were so empty, like he was nothing, like all of this was for nothing, like the world revolved around nothing. Nothing and nothing and nothing amen. "I do."
This time, disposable angel minion number one came in the form of Rosie, possessing the body of a 16 year old leader of a chastity club. Number two was her best friend/part time benefited friend Riley, or Hazrael.
"So," Rosie said, chatting in the background while her TPTB was making nefarious plans right in front of her, torturing some poor shmuck and expecting her to retain absolutely 0 of what was spilling from its mouth. "You'll never guess what I heard on angel radio last night."
"What station were you listening to?" Hazrael asked.
Rosie giggled. "You're so funny, Haz! Haha, you should probably quote that on your blog, or something."
Haz looked offended. "Um, all I have on my blog is cats and jokes? That really offends me?"
Rosie laughed again. "Good god, you're just pulling them out of the air tonight, aren't you?"
Haz shrugged bashfully. "I guess so. I am pretty great, right?"
"Totally right," Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "Anyway, you know Metatron?"
"Oh, yeah, I call him Met," Hazrael nodded.
Rosie's eyes widened. "Whoa, wait, he told you to call him Met?"
"Sorry, what?"
"You know him, like on a first name, basis?"
"Haha, look, I can't understand you."
Rosie spoke a little louder. "You know him on a first name basis?"
Haz shrugged. "Still can't hear you. Maybe you should ask me something else."
Rosie frowned. "That's not how it works."
"Um, I find that really offensive?"
Rosie brightened. "Look! you can hear me now!"
Hazrael nodded enthusiastically. "Look at that! I'm all healed! Now, what did you hear about Metty?"
Rosie gushed back into her story. "So, you know how Castiel is like, building an army or something?"
"Or something," Hazrael nodded. "Yeah. I'm thinking of allowing him into my gang. What do you think?"
Rosie looked a little taken aback. "Well, uh, I think he already has a gang."
"Fair call, fair call," Haz nodded seriously.
"Anyway," Rosie continued. "Well, apparently it was all out of whack with what he had planned to happen―"
"Planned?" Haz asked.
Rosie nodded and rolled her eyes. "He wrote it all out like he hoped it would turn out. Like he predicted things, and then got upset when it didn't play exactly to how he thought it'd be? What a weirdo."
"I know," Haz shivered. "Imagine someone actually doing that."
Rosie frowned. "Uh, Metatr―"
"Metty. Yes. Continue."
"Metty did do that."
"I know."
Rosie frowned slightly, but then smiled. "Cool. Anyway, so, word is, he cried."
"NO!" Haz gasped.
"Yes," Rosie grinned fiercely.
"That's so WEIRD!" Haz yelled.
"I know," Rosie said, her voice proportionally quieter than his.
"Ugh," Haz flipped open the phone he'd taken off his vessel from the fall. "I'm telling everyone."
"Oo, can you send it via snapchat?"
"Too many characters."
Rosie nodded, sighing. "Fair enough."
"Angels-Possessing-First-Worlders problems, right?"
"So right."
Of the council called together to discuss the final assault on Metatron, there was Rosemary, Beatrice, Romeo, Uriah and Hannah, along with Gadreel sat careful in the corner and Dean leaning on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The morning was still afresh and the world was clear and new, crisp like it had turned over a new leaf, like the world was starting anew.
You wouldn't be able to tell, looking into the motel that day, the same angels arguing about the same age old things. A motel room left untouched, where a freshly dead Sam Winchester lay, his blood dry over his chest, his burnt out eyes hidden by closed eyelids.
Dean had sat by his brothers bed. He hadn't said anything, not like last time, when he couldn't seem to shut up. When he spilled out his heart, worked himself into a state and killed himself, damned himself. Kissed the devil and payed for the consequences.
"Dean," Cas said, almost softly. Dean looked over, and he hated how the angel looked at him. Like he understood, like he was compassionate to Dean's situation. Because no one could be. No one. No one understood, no one would ever understand. The only person who had a chance? Out for the count, lying on a bed where time would strip him further away, his soul nestled somewhere safe (Please, oh please). "Did you get all of that?"
"I heard," Dean said.
Cas looked like he didn't believe him, and Dean didn't put it passed the angel to chastise Dean like he was a student or something. But his friend just moved on, addressing Romeo on the group of Angels he'd be leading and what part of the mission they'd be carrying out.
Dean hadn't heard, but it didn't matter. He'd follow along as far as he had to, and then he'd branch off, find Metatron himself.
Sitting by Sam's bed, things started to click for Dean. Like how the world seemed to spin on this never ending high, how one man seemed to control that high, how that one man had more than enough power to bring Sam back.
And Dean fully intended to use it to the best of his ability.
Dean watched as Castiel moved through his ranks, placing a hand on Hannah's shoulder as he told her what she was to do. Smiling at Tessa when he instructed her. Tessa was avidly ignoring Dean, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. He'd ignore him if he was in her position. Giving Sam's soul to Crowley? Risky, but he couldn't...hadn't they suffered enough? Didn't the universe owe them a favour by now?
Cas called a Soul Mate a special case, and Dean had to wonder if all of this was balancing out the scales for his and Sam's never-ceasing epic 'bromance'. Were the people that had the most potential for happiness cursed to fall into a life where happiness was nearly impossible to come by? This fucked up world where the hits just kept coming? Maybe Crowley was human enough from the trials, maybe Crowley truly felt the need to repent (He's a demon, Dean) and maybe Dean hadn't just ruined everything, but he needed this. He needed that soul to be kept safe.
He needed to give his brother all the softness in the world.
The word 'Soul Mate', it shifted, not unpleasantly at the bottom of Dean's stomach. That he had a person in the world, who was half of him, who would take him for all he was and never let go. Despite all the crap Sam had had to deal with while Dean was constantly distracted by the blade, Dean knew that it was true, that it existed.
The need for the blade ached constantly, but it was Sam's final asking, his final wish, that Dean put down the damned thing, stop. And so that, that pressure, was everything compared to the push that was the desire for the blade.
Dean would find Metatron. Dean would talk to Metatron. Dean would bring Sam back.
At the cost of the world?
Sam had told Dean to stab him, hands clutching hands, last breaths, screaming, white light and last smiles. Tears in hair and on shirts, blood, blood and blood.
Nothing and nothing and nothing, amen.
Dean stared ahead. The world could wait.
His brother needed him now.
REFERENCES
The title of this chapter comes from the most famous quote of Paradise Lost, a book with characterization of Lucifer not unsimilar to spn's. "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven." (or something like that. Google it, Heathens.)
The song "Always Gold" by Radical Face is credited with being THE Winchester bro's song. Every single lyric is perfect. Check it out. (If you want a Radical Face/Spn playlist, I also recommend Black Eyes and Welcome Home.)
The movie Dean is watching at the start is 'Flying High' or 'Airplane!' and is hilarious. Like literally hilarious. Go watch it.
"Dorothy'd that witches ass" - Reference to the Wizard of Oz
"Mission Impossible" - that really bad movie with Tom Cruise where they steal things. I don't really know, I wasn't really watching. I went to be before it finished.
Nothing and Nothing and Nothing amen - a shout out to "Terrible and terrible and terrible amen" from the book Dreams of Gods and Monsters, where Eliza's family, the cult that worships the angel Elazael uses that as their mantra.
TPTB : stands for the Powers that be. Basically the peeps upstairs who call all the shots.
{"He wrote it all out like he hoped it would turn out. Like he predicted things, and then got upset when it didn't play exactly to how he thought it'd be? What a weirdo."} - stab at myself and some of the fandom for being overly disgruntled when things didn't play out exactly as we'd wanted them to.
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