Soaring overhead, Stealth Fighters carved through the veil of thin clouds and dust that lingered in the suffocated sky as air raid sirens sounded off, resonating sharp off of stale concrete and dilapidated buildings. The warning hum – much more a scream – plugged its way through the whir of machine rounds and inches of combat helmet till it stung the soft fragile brain tissue it was built to protect. Thumps of shellfire and howling rockets sang a grueling symphony spanning for miles, and the only color brilliant enough to break though the endless sea of charring gray and black was the breathtaking red of flesh and life.
Cheeks were hot with arid sweat, fingernails crunched against dirt and blood, and boot bottoms were caked in both muck and what might once have been human and real, but was now nothing more than dust at the feet of the broken and lost.
Night was fast approaching, as smoke and hopes lingered low the crescent moon chanced its way from behind one of the few desolate clouds not destroyed by the planes up above. On the ground, a handful of men trudged through the rubble that only days before resembled a town; bustling with apple carts and gossip. But what was once a home for many was now a battleground for the few as much of Iraq had morphed into over the course of the passing years.
A stray dog ran across the dirt road, a shot went off masked amongst the grenades; indicated only by a scarlet pool and the yelp of the stray as it hit the ground defeated, shadowing its surroundings. The wonder and magic of paws and fur were silenced with one final cry that pierced through the roar of war; the crudest sound that it made. Because while the sound of war could change from the cry of a mother cradling a limp son in her arms, to the yelp of a dog, so pure and innocent amongst the brutality it lived alongside; it was the roar, the deafening roar of bombings and gunshots and drones whizzing though smog and decay which scarred the most.
When he opened his eyes, the battlefield was gone. The town and road and stray were no longer before him, and the humming of sirens was replaced instead with his best friend who hummed wordless tunes that were meant to be calming, but only had Dean searching for inexistent lyrics. His calloused skin felt foreign against clean linens, and the strong arms that encircled his frame were gentle and kind apart from the coarse and anxious ones that had hauled his body across a field of mud and cruor only three years prior. Three years, that when Dean blinked were only three seconds as that's all it took for the images to return. Images that made Dean coil into himself and into the linens and into the arms that held him even closer. But the linens and arms, and even the earplugs, did little to stop the gunshots outside.
Castiel carded through his best friend's hair and hummed a song that his father used to croon to him when he was young and afraid of the dark. Looking around, he wished he could do more. The doors were shut and windows locked. The room was dark and all of the blankets he could find were tossed on his bed and huddled into the mess that Dean assumed every year. He helped him with the earplugs and held him as close as he could to his chest, but still, he couldn't stop the booming echoes that came from outside. He couldn't stop the fireworks that exploded every Fourth of July.
Castiel enjoyed fireworks. He found the kaleidoscope of colors beautiful and the fashion of ribbons and sparks enchanting as they parachuted back down towards the earth. He loved how they glistened and stripped the sky white before blossoming rainbows across the heavens, bursting as though by magic in an array of oh's and ah's. And every Fourth of July he made it a point to go to the park and revel in the show of blushing hues and gleaming sparks. That was until Dean came home.
His best friend returned home from Iraq in early February; solid and alive, or as alive as one can be when returning home from an injury. But still, he was home alive, and for Castiel, that had been more than enough.
He had seemed fine at the airport, lounging against the wall with his duffle bag, unbothered by the crowd and noise of family reunions, farewells, and the intercom system. The ride home was silent but peaceful as he stared out at the city he hadn't set eyes upon in two years. The skyscrapers stood brilliant against the setting sun unlike the fallen rubble he had become so accustom to. And for a while, Castiel thought that everything would be fine. Dean would be reserved for a while. Sure, he was healing. But what he was healing from, Castiel would never quite understand, because wherever Dean went, he took the war with him.
He would never understand why Dean couldn't look at a dog without twitching, or why black vans made him uneasy. Why hands in pockets put him on edge or why it took him five months to even consider touching a phone. He hadn't failed to notice his new penchant for whisky, nor his lack of conversation in any situation. There was a black cloud that lingered above his head, a cloud that could not be seen but easily felt. And Castiel felt it a lot. But still, he didn't give up. He couldn't.
Months passed, seasons changed, and on July first, while he and Dean were in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, a young boy no older then thirteen, innocently set off a firework. And Dean collapsed to the ground.
Another firework exploded somewhere unseen but easily heard and Dean huddled closer to Castiel, desperately tightening his grip on his white cotton shirt, trying to silence the noise. Trying to hold onto something real enough to erase the memories he wished were not. He couldn't understand and would never be able to fathom how people could enjoy monstrosities such as fireworks. How a whole nation could celebrate a country's independence - a country built upon war - with the last sounds heard by fallen soldiers. Each echoing blast triggered a day, and there were many days. Days that he had played audience to assault rifles as they paralyzed and silenced both enemies and friends; that their sector had moved position as their campsite was replaced with grenade shells, and days where he had witnessed actions and events that he wished he could forget. He always wished and never prayed, because how could he pray to a God who allowed such unjust actions and events to unfurl? Where was the justice in that?
Castiel closed his eyes and imagined the display of colors and charisma that was enveloping the sky. He hated missing such a show, but his best friend needed him more. He was confused that day three years ago, but was far more shocked when he googled gunshots. Yes, the sound of rifles and bombs mimicked close to perfection the clamor of fireworks, and in every instance - even those involving flying lights in the heavens - Dean would always come first.
The grand finale thundered outside. Fizzing sparklers, hissing fountains, and booming parachutes morphed into a bombarding orchestration of patriotic elegance. At least that's what Castiel could hear. All Dean could hear was war.
He curled into a ball in Castiel's arms and let a single tear slip from his guard. The earplugs could lessen but never silence the explosions and screams of delight he mistook for terror. He could sense the blasts around his body, feel their heat against his cheeks, and taste the smoldering debris as they burned his chapped lips. He could see the dead stray and the weeping mother. Could feel the blood under his fingernails and smell the rotting flesh beneath his boots.
The echo that shivered through his body whispered the tell tale sign that it wasn't a gunshot. Gunshots don't echo. But all he could hear were the crack of rifles, clout of shells, and never-ending roar of bombs up above. Whether on the battlefield or in safe inviting arms, every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the Fourth of July. And when the smoke had cleared and his ears were ringing with the ghosts of fire and blood…he could hear an angel whisper.
"It's over now. It's okay."
~~~ Reviews are always appreciated ~~~
There was a text post about such a scenario on tumblr and I figured I'd make it into something a tad lengthier. Happy belated 4th of July.