Author's Notes: I don't even know, okay?
I dislike the formatting of this one, but blame this site. Otherwise, the formatting would have been brilliant, of course...
The God in the Trenchcoat, and His Epilogue for the Damned
Do you remember standing on a broken field
White crippled wings beating the sky
The harbingers of war with their nature revealed
And our chances flowing by
If I can let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field
-"War" by Poets of the Fall
"I'm tired," Dean had told Castiel once (and the thought had been there for years).
"I know," Castiel had said, and that had been that.
Dean is a mechanic now. He has his own store and a half-decent apartment beside it. He has beer in a fridge that belongs to him for more than a day, and three framed photographs of his family (one of his brother and two of his parental units: John and a pregnant Mary in front of their new house, and one of Bobby caught smiling in front of a car) that sit on a rickety side-table.
And if the citizens of Dean's new town whisper about him, about the scars he doesn't bother to hide and the nights he spends in the only bar in town, his brand new TV can always drown them out.
Sam resides in Dean's spare bedroom. They have lived in the apartment for two years, and the place is still firmly Dean's. It is Dean's fridge, Dean's TV, Dean's bedroom. It's not something they discuss. Dean starts work at 8 am and comes home after five to find some semblance of a meal on his kitchen table.
It's good, Dean thinks. This is what his life should have been like. Normal. Benign.
Boring.
On another battlefield, Dean had knelt beside Bobby's corpse and stared blankly at the horizon (which changed not an iota to reflect the twist in destiny three men and a failed god had wrought that day) until Castiel had come to stand silently behind him.
"Allow me to begin to atone," he had said, and only the thin thread of desperation in his voice caught Dean's attention.
"Castiel?" Dean had blinked at him through a swollen eye. "It's okay, we fixed it."
"You did," Castiel had agreed. "Now I'll fix you."
Castiel's idea of atonement is the Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. It is a bank account and two leases and a fridge. Atonement is not contacting Dean for his own purposes. Atonement is:
"Hey Dean," his receptionist/secretary says one day. "That man's outside again. The one in the trenchcoat? You told me to come get you whenever he shows up?"
Dean opens the door, and Castiel stops peering intently through the glass of the storefront window ("He's creepy," the receptionist had said once. "He just stares. And well, he bears quite a resemblance to that murderer, doesn't he?" Dean had shook his head, assured the woman that Castiel was absolutely not the Trenchcoat Murderer. The words had tasted like blood and ashes in his mouth).
"Castiel," Dean greets formally. "Next time, go into my office."
"Dean," Castiel says, in that deep voice that is all Dean can hear when he drinks.
"Got another case for me, then?" Dean asks, drawing nearer only so they won't be overheard.
"A town in Montana," Castiel replies. "Every third child was killed last night."
Atonement is bringing Dean news of interesting cases only when he begins to strain against the banality of his adopted life.
Dean packs his bags and heads for Montana that afternoon. He goes alone.
Sam greets Dean upon his return with a quiet "Hey" from where he sits at the kitchen table, back tense and shoulders rigid.
"Hey man," Dean replies.
They are both silent for several minutes, Dean setting his bags down at the door to his room and surveying the kitchen and living room.
"So... a hunt, eh?" Sam says.
Dean nods. "Montana. A ghost was killing kids."
"Oh," Sam says, picking at the grain of the table with his thumb, head bowed. "Did you...have fun?"
Dean scratches the back of his neck, irritation flashing through him as he realizes he and Sam seem more like distant strangers than brothers. "Not really," he sighs. "But...the itch is gone."
Sam nods, once, and stands slowly. "I'm going to go back..." he nods in the direction of the spare room.
"Right," Dean says, watching as his brother takes small, too-quiet steps across the floor.
"Hey Sammy?" he says, before Sam can close the door to the room softly.
"Yeah Dean?"
"Thanks."
Sam nods, and door closes quietly.
The truth is this: Sam was never an integral part of bringing the Leviathan down. He and Bobby found an old spell to free the monster from Castiel's vessel, and then he watched from the sidelines as his brother fought.
This truth hides several other truths with its magnitude:
Castiel visits Sam more than he does Dean. Dean knows that they often sit in the spare room together, Sam haunted by memories of The Pit and Castiel haunted by what should have been.
Castiel frequently tries to fix Sam, as he is attempting to free Dean's life from anything that could possibly tire him. He has never recovered his full power, and that is always abundantly obvious when faced with the pieces of Sam's mind.
(And one more secret for the road:)
Sometimes, when Dean has drunk too much but still can't sleep, when the bed feels empty and each whisper of movement could be a flap of wings, he sits on his couch, in his living room, and pretends that Castiel has a chance in hell of fixing them all. It is always a nice dream, and Dean always wakes up at seven the next morning to repeat the schedule of his wait.
Sam does not explicitly say that he still hallucinates Lucifer, just as Dean never explicitly tells Sam that the room is his. But there are too many extra glances, too many hesitations as someone else replies that Dean has to pretend to miss, during which he has to busy himself (I'm not looking at you, and if I'm not looking you're the only one who can see him and we don't have to talk about it). There are nights when Dean will sit at his table and gaze at the door to the guest room for hours, thinking of Sam, alone in the room in which the Devil sits (full-circle).
In The Winchester Testament there is no mention of life now. No mention of how Dean has all of Chuck's books stacked haphazardly on a rickety bookshelf, and no mention of the costs of free will. Their story ended with the Pit.
This is just an epilogue, a last chance to try to tie everything together and make it worth something. This, a crappy apartment, hallucinations, and lonely nights, is as close to a happily-ever-after a Winchester can get.
One day, Sam is waiting without Dean's dinner when he gets home.
"I want to go outside," Sam says, and Dean stops on his way to the bathroom.
"Okay," he says, as though this isn't a big deal, and they go for a walk around the block.
"I've been seeing Lucifer less," Sam says when they return.
"Hunh," Dean says. "Well, that can only be good."
Sam nods. "Think it's because I'm starting to believe in this world," he says. "So I wanted to see it."
"That's good," Dean says, uselessly, and wishes he felt the same.
Atonement is:
Finding Dean a home.
Failing, but trying, to fix Sam.
Giving Dean permission to miss hunting.
Showing Dean the world.
Hope.
Castiel shows up at Dean's work the next day, sitting in the waiting room and making the secretary nervous with his placid stare.
"Dude," Dean greets when he comes in for lunch. "I told you to go into the office next time you showed up."
Castiel blinks and turns his gaze to Dean. "It seemed like that would be an imposition," he says.
"Oh," Dean says, hesitating. "Well... it wouldn't be." You wouldn't be, he thinks, but his throat always closes around the words.
"Are you feeling restless?" Castiel asks, as Dean leads them into his small office.
Dean considers this for a minute. "No," he says (and as always, it is surprising).
Castiel takes the plastic chair in front of Dean's desk, and their knees brush underneath the table until Dean shifts away.
'Then...what do you need?" Castiel asks, frowning.
"You can tell when I need something?" Dean asks, and then runs a hand through his hair. 'Of course you can."
Castiel considers him. "What do you need, Dean?"
Dean studies the table. "Nothing," he says. "I'm fine."
Castiel cocks his head to the side and, after several more seconds, blinks. "You want to talk," he says, the words slow and surprising out of his mouth.
"What?" Dean asks.
Castiel settles back into chair. "You wish to talk to me," he states.
"No," Dean attempts, but it ends with a weak sigh. He starts to pick at the grain of the desk with his fingers. "Sam came outside with me yesterday."
"Indeed?"
"Yeah...said he wanted to see the world he was starting to believe in."
"Good," Castiel says.
They are both silent for a minute, Castiel staring intently at Dean's face, which is still turned down.
"Now..." Dean hesitates. "Now I'm the one who only half believes in this world."
"You believe you do not deserve a normal life," Castiel states.
Dean shakes his head. "That's not it...it's more like I don't believe it's possible for me to have a normal life."
Castiel says nothing, and after a moment Dean lifts his head. "You didn't...fiddle with destiny, or anything, did you, Cas?" he asks (the old nickname slipping over his tongue like honey, the earlier confession its match in butter).
"No, Dean," Castiel says, grave. "This is all possible."
Possibilities:
Dean having an almost normal life.
Sam reconciling his memories enough to function.
Owning a couch, and a tv, and useless game consoles that Dean had bought on a whim (normal people had these) and never truly bothered to figure out.
Redemption.
Castiel follows Dean home that night, almost hesitantly, and Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him to leave after the guy had spent the afternoon on the hard chair in Dean's office, staring at the wall.
"Castiel," Sam greets from the table when they come home.
"Sam," Castiel says in reply, and doesn't comment on the fact that Sam is sitting in front of a plate of food.
Dean takes his own seat, and studiously surveys his own plate while Castiel stands in the middle of the kitchen for several seconds before perching himself on the third chair (the one never before used. Not that they had discussed why it was there at all).
Sam picks at his food, darting glances over Dean's shoulder the whole meal, and they are all silent. There are some possibilities that will never be normal.
Sam soon puts his plate in the sink and retreats to the guest room (a spare room, as though this is still a transitory state). Dean rests his elbows on the table and looks past Castiel and out of the small window.
"We could watch a movie," he says blandly, as though his knotted stomach is not attempting to crawl up his throat and choke him.
'That would be acceptable," Castiel says, and Dean ignores his stare (a burning brand across his cheek) as he dumps his own plate and makes his way into the barely furnished living room.
They sit on opposite sides of the couch and watch The Terminator with forced attentiveness, and when the movie is done Castiel departs with the sound of wings.
Dean doesn't move until the digital clock on the side-table says midnight, and when he retreats to his bed he doesn't allow himself to notice the cold of the lonely sheets.
The last person Dean had sex with was a woman he had picked up at the bar and taken to his apartment to christen his new room. The last person he kissed wasn't human. Not that they discuss it.
Sam is waiting for Dean the next morning with a cup of coffee. And he follows (like a lost puppy) when Dean walks over to the shop, avoiding the gaze of the few people already on the street whose eyes are drawn to the livid scars down his cheek (it was not enough for Lucifer to scar his soul). When Dean turns around after opening the shop door, Sam is already making his way back into the apartment.
It's enough.
Life goes on (as it does, now). Dean and Sam walk around the neighbourhood once a day, and Dean starts work too early but usually ends at a reasonable time, and an angel watches them eat every Sunday (the symbolism lost on no one but Castiel). It takes Dean two months to begin to chafe against the routine, and, as usual, Castiel appears soon after.
"There is a hunt two hours north," he says without greeting. "Several campers have disappeared, but there are no signs of a struggle."
Dean nods. "Thanks," he offers.
"I'll leave the specific coordinates on your table," Castiel says, and disappears abruptly.
In the end, Dean spends two weeks in a South Dakota hospital bed, bandages covering his chest and left hip, and medication keeping him groggy. It takes Castiel only a day to appear beside his bed. "I apologize," he says immediately.
Dean blinks his eyes open. "Cas?" he asks groggily. "You checking up on me?"
"Yes," Castiel says decisively.
Dean pats his hand against the bed, missing Castiel's hands by inches. "That's nice," he mumbles, and closes his eyes once more.
Atonement is:
A hospital room, an old chair, and nothing but the blank, pale green walls.
Castiel spends thirteen days in Dean's room. Dean spends only three of these trying to convince him to leave. A lifetime ago, he saw the expression Castiel wears on his own face when he looked in a mirror and saw only guilt and Sam's pain. It is startling to see the emotion once more, and so Dean sets out to teach Castiel every card game he knows, instead. And when Dean is released—cursing werewolves all the way, much to the confusion of the nurses- Castiel walks a step behind him all the way to the Impala, a quiet, solemn body-guard. Dean allows Castiel to slide into the passenger seat without comment, starts the car, and manoeuvres his way out of the parking lot silently. He can't remember when the last time he drove with Castiel was, and he contemplates this for several minutes. Was it with Sam as a passenger and Castiel in the back seat, a fallen angel that shouldn't have been sleeping? Was it after Sam had fallen into the Pit, and Dean had listened as Castiel planned to leave him too? Or was it more recent, Castiel bleeding in the back seat, Sam absent?
"One day," Castiel says. "You can take me for a pointless drive."
Dean clears his throat. "Okay," he says roughly, and sees Cas smile slightly out of the corner of his eye.
It feels like absolution, but Dean's not sure for whom.
Redemption is atonement, and atonement is possibilities.
Sam greets them at the door, and scuffs his foot against the floor when Dean can't hide his surprise quickly enough (being met at the door an action from another life, reminiscent of lost childhoods and endless quests). 'Hey," Sam says. "You...you okay?"
"Yeah," Dean says roughly. "Yeah Sammy, I'm okay."
Christmas is a quiet affair. Sam and Dean watch old movies they've never had a chance to see until Sam takes the turkey out of the oven. Castiel appears just as Dean is half-hardheartedly setting the table properly, and they sit after Sam sets down the bowl of mashed potatoes.
They sit in silence for a minutes, awkwardly glancing at each other then away. Dean thinks of saying grace, or some prayer full of Christmas blessings (disjointed memories of childhood dinners, huddled together in a hotel room, flashing before his eyes) and then he looks at Castiel and thinks of the desperation it would take to endeavour to fill the void left by God. He clears his throat. "Right, well," he says gruffly. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Sam echoes, and Castiel smiles as he watches Dean.
Sam and Dean eat too much, as you are supposed to on Christmas, and when their plates are finally clear for good, they lean back in their chairs, groaning in unison. "Your turn to do the dishes, jerk," Sam says.
"Bitch," Dean says, but it lacks any heat at all for the word is almost unfamiliar on his tongue, and he stands with a groan and collects their plates.
"Cas and I will just be in the living room," Sam announces. 'Unh... configuring the Wii that you got."
"Quite." Cas nods decisively, and they both get up and walk stiffly around the corner.
Dean raises his eyebrows but says nothing, turning the tap on and rummaging through a cupboard for the dish soap. He straightens when he hears Sam's footsteps reach the kitchen doorway and pause momentarily before continuing into the room, Castiel's footsteps following Sam's only to the doorway.
Sam clears his throat uncomfortably. 'Unh... Dean," he says haltingly, glancing back at Castiel, whose face remains carefully blank. "On second thought... why don't we leave the dishes for tomorrow?"
Dean shrugs. "Sure, Sammy. Everything alright?"
Sam scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Course, Dean. Just don't want to break your Wii without you there to watch."
Sam turns around and shuffles back to the living room, Dean following behind. Castiel clears his throat when Dean reaches his side, glancing up significantly. Dean follows his gaze and his mouth falls open.
"Is that mistletoe?" he asks in disbelief.
Sam laughs shortly. "Unh...yes?"
"I believe a kiss is now required," Castiel states.
"Mistletoe?" Dean asks again.
"Of course, if you would rather not..." Cas begins stiffly. "I merely thought that kissing for the sake of tradition would alleviate the awkwardness and tension the anticipation of this act may have necessitated between us in the future."
Dean looks over Castiel's shoulder at Sam, who shrugs in uncomfortable agreement before significantly turning his back.
Dean looks back at Cas, clears his throat. "You're probably right," he says quietly, heart in his throat as Cas leans in. His kiss tastes no different than before, despite the intervening blame and guilt, and Dean pushes a desperate hand into Castiel's hair almost immediately, holding him in place until the need for air becomes unavoidable.
"I'm here," Cas assures him when they part, noses still brushing. Dean nods shakily, and one of Castiel's hands moves slowly to mirror Dean's, fingers sliding through short hair.
"So am I," Dean whispers, and for the first time the sentiment does not taste like a lie.
End