It is supposed to be confusing. So if you're like "wtf is going on," for a few lines, that's normal.
I'm celebrating! Because college started and I'm excited :)
This is an AU. So no hunters and no actual demons/shifters/vampires/etc.
RATED M for some language. ...Honestly, if you can handle the show, you can handle this.
**All characters belong to their respective creators.
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The Bridge
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Dean Winchester is a man with an objective.
A rather irritated man with an objective.
He has been driving east in the rain for what seems like an agonizing eternity. It is very late into the night at the moment and he is a bit tired, but he knows that he has to continue for a few more hours if he wants to make it to the bridge by tomorrow.
To make things worse, Dean is heading up a very tall mountain through a rather slow road. He has never been a big fan of mountains and he doesn't like driving through them. It doesn't matter how well-built or safe the highways are because it's the mountains themselves that he dislikes.
But he has made a promise. So here he is now.
Though he tries to distract himself from his negative thoughts with the scenery, he does not find any beauty in it. There's nothing comforting about a forest of black pine snags and grey, leafless trees. But then again, it is hard to find anything comforting these days anyway.
As soon as he thinks of this, Dean can hear Cas arguing with him about how magnificent everything looks. He tells Dean of how the branches of the pines seem to be reaching out to Heaven, like millions of souls with the single purpose of following and admiring their creator. He compares the black snags to sinners trying to redeem themselves of their offenses by becoming homes for other creatures or energy for the ground. He says something about the soothing, musical sound of the endless rain and the purity of the snow underneath the forest of branches.
But when Dean glances to the side to tell Cas to stop being so damn gay, he can only see empty space. And he sighs and tries to lie to himself about how exciting it is to drive on the highway.
It doesn't work. Mainly because he has employed the tactic of 'lying to oneself' too much for the past few months and he does not feel like making the effort to believe his own lies at the moment.
He can just think that he had forgotten how lonesome it is to be on the highway by himself.
It is a couple of hours later, when the faint light of an old motel appears in the distance, that he gives up on driving in the damn rain.
He has been listening to it for months now. Seriously. It's this close to making him go guano. Dean hates the rain.
He parks his black vehicle in front of the entrance with a heavy sigh. As he walks into the old, yellow building, he finds himself wondering how it is possible for people in London to live with the constant pitter-patter of the rain.
The inside of the motel is not very comforting. The grey paint on the walls is cracked and chipped all over, and there's big chunks of white from were the paint has simply fallen off. Sections of the metal window frames are covered by a burnt-auburn colour, obviously rusty and corroded, and the mismatched flowery curtains are tattered and worn. The floor is made of dark grey concrete, parts of the ceiling have cracks running along, and Dean doesn't trust the three chairs in the lobby with his weight, seeing as they are made of old, rotting wood. He clears his throat and dings on a bell that is laying carelessly on top of the receptionist's desk. And soon enough someone opens the door behind it. A very frail, bony man that can't be taller than four feet nine stands on a stool so that he can reach the tall desk. He adjusts a pair of glasses over his long nose and then turns to see Dean.
"How can I help you?" The old man smells like medicines and boiled cauliflowers, and his voice is rugged and breathless.
"I, uh," Dean lets his eyes wander around the lobby for a bit. "I need a room." The building is old and crummy, but Dean is not going back in the car to drive in the God-damned rain, at least not tonight. "One bed, nothing fancy."
The man gazes at Dean with lost, colourless eyes. "Very well." He pulls out a pair of keys that belong to room number five and hands them to Dean. "Forty-five bucks the night."
Dean stares.
The man stares back.
He squints his eyes and raises both of his eyebrows. "...Can I see the room before paying?"
"By all means, go ahead." The man coughs a couple of times and clears his throat. "I'm afraid I cannot go out there with you however, young man." He looks at Dean with those colourless eyes of his and, all of a sudden, it seems like his eyes recover a glint of life. "I trust you'll make the right choices."
Dean blinks a couple of times, rather bewildered. "Uh, thanks, I will." He nods slowly, takes the keys, and walks out of the lobby.
Surprisingly enough, room number five is not that bad. The toilet and the sink work fine and everything is a lot cleaner than Dean had expected. There's no complimentary soaps or creams, but Dean would have been surprised if there had been any of those in the room. The carpet, though it looks clean, is threadbare and old, and the mustard-coloured wallpaper needs to be replaced. The red bedsheets are clean and in good shape. Dean doesn't sleep with pillows so he doesn't care whether the one is comfortable or not.
In the corner of the room is a table with a pair of chairs and two complimentary granola bars that Dean does not plan to eat. There is no television, but there are magazines from two years ago stacked on top of a desk, next to a tall lamp. Lastly, the heat and the air conditioner seem to be working fine.
Dean decides to pay the man fifty dollars and lets him keep the change. In exchange for his gratitude, the man hands Dean a bottle of whiskey and a clean glass, and then he sends Dean off to his room to sleep.
...Except, Dean has to pay for the bottle before leaving.
He doesn't really care and pays for it without dwelling too much on the rather unfair prize, and then he walks back into his room.
Dean doesn't realize how tired he is until he lies down on the bed's red sheets. It's not long before he falls into a very deep slumber.
He wakes up at seven in the morning the next day; the rain has not stopped. The old man is knocking on the door; he has brought lunch: a small basket with two bananas, a pear, an apple, and two peaches. Dean thanks him and goes to get his wallet, but the man declines the money. He leaves after telling Dean that supper is served at seven in the room behind the lobby, in case he wants something to eat.
Tired and definitely not ready to get out of bed, Dean goes back to sleep.
It's at around noon that he opens his eyes again. His room is dark and chilly, but Dean still gets out of the bed. He is hungry and has a headache because of sleeping for too long. He thinks it's funny that he gets a headache the only time he's been able to sleep for the correct amount of hours in the past months. He doesn't need to get close to the window to know that it's still raining. ...Actually, it's not only raining now, there's a full-blown storm coming down. Lightning, thunder, wind, water –the whole jazz.
Dean does not feel like driving, especially not with the rain pounding on his car the way it is right now. Each and every drop sounds like a little gunshot and it unnerves him. He decides to leave tomorrow so that he can arrive just in time for Christmas. Cas will be happy and so will Sam.
Dean sits down at the edge of the bed and gazes at the closed window blinds, feeling somewhat trapped. He bites onto the apple from the basket as he wonders how everything will look like when he arrives tomorrow. Will there be a Christmas tree? Maybe lights? Probably lights. Golden and silver. It is supposed to be beautiful.
With Cas there, there is no doubt it will be beautiful.
The whiskey bottle sits unopened at the night table. Dean wastes no more time and, after opening it, pours the amber liquid into the glass. He is not doing anything today. He is just going to relax and try to enjoy his time, despite the cold rain and the bad quality alcohol.
Alcohol.
It's a funny substance, Dean thinks.
Its hard taste and pungent smell are familiar. Too familiar. But he doesn't really care. It's going to be Christmas tomorrow and he's going to see Sam and Cas, so who cares if he gets drunk today? It's a celebration, damn it.
He can see the faint image of Cas rolling his eyes at him. "You said you wouldn't drink anymore."
"I did." Dean answers to the air. "But I'm just relaxing a little bit, Cas. I...haven't done that in a very long time."
He knows that he is talking to no one. He knows that this Cas is just a product of mixing loneliness with anticipation and alcohol. But he doesn't care. Because all of a sudden, the only thing he can focus on is that Cas is right there, just a few feet away from him. All of a sudden rivers of memories start flooding his mind.
All of a sudden he can't hear the rain anymore.
So Dean pats at the spot right beside him and smiles at Cas.
Cas sighs and sits down on the red bed sheets. "...We haven't seen each other for quite a while."
Dean laughs bitterly. "It hasn't been that long, has it? Just a few months." He takes one last swig from the glass of whiskey.
"Seven. Seven months."
Dean's face becomes a little bit somber. "...Where does the time go?" He places the glass on the table and decides to drink directly from the bottle instead. After a sip, Dean cracks a bitter half-smile. "...I would have called, had I been able to."
It's quiet.
Cas rests the side of his body against Dean, his head on the man's shoulder. "...This isn't your best idea, Dean." He mumbles, his voice soft, guilty, and sad. "...I know how much you dislike mountains, I know that you hate the rain, and I know that you don't like being alone. These are not ideal conditions for you to be driving. Don't push yourself."
"I'll be okay, don't worry about me." Dean laughs emptily, takes a big gulp of whiskey, and sighs after swallowing it. He puts the bottle on the night table and shifts his position so that his back is now against the wooden headboard of the bed.
Cas gives Dean a concerned look. "Dean, please..." His pleading voice is rough, deep, and desperate, just like Dean remembers, and his eyes are so intense that at a first glance, Cas seems real.
But Dean knows that's not the case because he can't find himself in this hallucination's eyes. If those were really Castiel's, Dean would be speechless. He would be able to stare at those eyes for eternity. These eyes are a good imitation: the same tone of blue, the same size, the same emotions displayed by them. But this is not the real Castiel. The hallucination's eyes dim down if Dean stares for too long, and he can't see anything other than surface emotions swimming in these eyes. Castiel's would take that emotion and submerge Dean in it, and he would find himself surrounded by sadness, or happiness, or hope, or anything else. But these eyes are empty, soulless, and dim.
Still, the copy is too good to be ignored, and it's so much easier to succumb to the hallucination. Though it lacks Cas's actual spirit, it is almost perfect. The mannerisms, the personality, the height, the cheeks, the lips, the voice...everything is exactly like Castiel's. And Dean feels compelled to love him and treat him like this was the real Cas. He has been waiting since such a long time for a second chance with him. After all this fighting, all this time without Cas and all this time ignoring his imagination...Dean feels too weak to disregard it. And so, for a moment, Dean feels like the smaller man is really sitting in front of him, staring at him with a worried frown in his face.
Worried Cas. A pang of guilt hits Dean like freezing water.
"...I made a promise." Dean insists with a quiet voice after a while.
"I know, but I don't want you to do this because of me." Cas's voice is small and weak, and it squeezes Dean's heart to hear that tone. Cas should sound serious or fascinated or happy, hell, even angry. But Cas should never sound sad or guilty. "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself."
"I know, Cas, I –" Dean's eyes begin to sting all of a sudden and he is sure he is about to cry. He is not ashamed of crying in front of Cas, but he still feels the muscles of his face go tense out of habit.
"Shh," Cas whispers gently and reaches out to touch Dean's cheek, "it's okay."
Dean leans into the cold, stony, perfect hand and gulps. "Shit, Cas, I miss you." He says with a choked voice. "I miss you and Sammy. These past few months have been so hard without both of you."
"I know, Dean." Cas offers him a sad smile. "But you don't have to do this to yourself. We don't need to see each other this Christmas." Cas moves to rest his body on Dean's chest, and, other than the biting cold and the emptiness that it produces in Dean's heart, it feels so perfect that Dean can swear Cas is really there. "We can wait."
"But I promised." And the last word comes out awkward and a little bit high-pitched. "And not only to you, Cas, I promised it to myself. We haven't had a Christmas together ever since we met. ...Don't you...don't you miss me?" He hates himself for asking, but he needs to hear it.
Cas's eyes open wide and begin to get glassy. "Of course I do. I love you." He lays his head down, his nose tickling the base of Dean's neck, and sighs.
After a few seconds, he traces his fingers gingerly along Dean's arm in a soothing motion. Somehow, that manages to calm Dean down: he sighs shakily and says nothing for the longest time.
He's just so fucking tired of creating, shaping, and molding lies to make himself feel better. He can't continue with this. He has tried to believe that he is "strong," "brave," "admirable," and a bunch of other pieces of crap that people continue to tell him. He can't buy this crap that makes up for who he really is: a coldblooded, lonely, depressed, deranged failure of a man who can't even be a proper detective. He has honestly tried to believe.
But he can't.
Damn it, he can't do this anymore.
He needs to escape, just once. It's so much easier to believe that this Cas is real, it's so much easier to pretend that he is there, that they are together.
All Dean wants is a little moment of happiness. So is there really anything wrong with succumbing just once?
It makes no difference, he tells himself.
Just one night, he tells himself.
Just one night of succumbing to his hallucinations. Just one single night of letting himself be loved. Just one night in which he doesn't have to feel lonely and unwanted. One single night in which he doesn't have to be afraid of everything and anything. Just a little bit of comfort and stability and love and serenity.
Just tonight, and then you can go back to ignoring these hallucinations.
And as Cas's hands trail along his arms, he continues to croon this words to himself.
Even though deep in his mind he knows this will be his downfall.
About an hour later, he wakes up –alone, cold, and feeling like shit. He stands up and walks around to get the blood flowing through his veins. He sits down on the threadbare carpet, right in front of the old magazines, and closes his eyes.
The rain has calmed down considerably. Instead of the intense gunshots, all he hears now are the echos and voices of rain drops hitting everything that gets in their way. Dean is used to the sickeningly calm, pattering noise by now. He has almost forgotten what silence without any of that background noise is like. The rain has become familiar and well-known by Dean.
Recognizing this only serves to make him feel worse.
This loneliness is wearing Dean out and the rain is only incrementing the feeling of isolation. He doesn't need emptiness around him, he needs to feel empty. He doesn't want to feel anything anymore. He's exhausted; he's tired of how fake his existence is and of the continuos storm gushing in the background of his life. He's tired of having to lie to himself and everyone else around him, he's tired of living a fake life and of "hanging on."
"Wow, man. You look like shit." A voice says, behind him.
Dean jumps in his spot. He breathes out a heavy, exasperated sigh and then turns his body to see his brother standing a few metres away from him. "Sam."
Sam cringes. "Dude, what's with the beard? You look kind of like Hugh Jackman in Wolverine. ...Minus the whole, you know," Sam makes a gesture over his own hair with his right hand, "the whole hair thing he's got going on. Did you forget how to use a razor when you woke up from that coma?"
"Shut your cakehole, Sammy." Dean mumbles, not very impressed. "Coma jokes –not funny."
"Sheesh, okay," Sam scratches his neck, "who took away your Happy Meal?"
Dean cracks a tired, humourless smile and looks at the corner of the room. "...A drunk truck driver from Denver." He replies bitterly.
Sam heaves a heavy sigh. "The man's in prison, Dean and he feels guilty," he says rather convincingly. "You need to let go of that accident. This is not healthy for you."
But Dean doesn't feel like paying attention to Sammy or following his advise today. "What do you know? You're just a product of cheap whiskey and loneliness. Realistically speaking, the only reason you're here is because there's not enough alcohol in that bottle to knock me out for the rest of the day."
"Come on, Dean, it's Christmas tomorrow." Sam pleads with those stupid, big, lost-puppy-dog eyes of his. Dean thinks Sam is so used to using those on him that he does it automatically. "Don't do this to yourself. Drop the alcohol, get in the damn Impala, and drive home."
"No can do, Sasquatch. And don't diss my baby." Dean decides to ignore the bitchface that imaginary Sam is giving him –which looks eerily realistic, by the way. "Besides, I'm already on my way home."
Sam shakes his head and sighs heavily. "It's a bad idea, Dean."
"Oh, shut up. You're imaginary. ...And very irritating, too." Dean mumbles with a half-hearted frown. "You know nothing of what it's like to feel this way. Abandoned and really fucking lonely."
Sam frowns. "Well, that's an unfair assumption, considering that I'm in your head."
"You didn't wake up from a coma one day disoriented and lost." Dean answers back, a little bit more emotional than he had intended. He clears his throat and looks away. "And worst of all, completely alone. No one there to explain what the heck is going on."
Sam sighs, irritated. "Well, I'm sorry, Dean. I was trying to convict an important gang leader in Boston when you woke up, you know that. And Cas –you can't blame Cas for leaving after what the doctors told him."
"Should've had their asses sued." Dean grunts with resentment. "None of this would have happened if they hadn't told him I was brain dead."
"Calm down, Dean." Sam says, his voice softening considerably. "You don't want Cas and the real me to see you so dishevelled. Internally and..." he motioned at Dean's face, trying to lighten up the mood "...externally."
"Wow, ginormo, thanks for the encouraging pep talk." Dean mumbles, but he knows that Sam is right. He's going to get a talk if he doesn't keep himself together. He trudges into the bathroom, followed by Sam, and gazes at his reflection in the mirror. Curious, he runs a hand along his light beard. "...It's not that bad."
"Sure, dude." Sam replies sarcastically. "If you're trying to look like that hairy guy from The Hangover."
Dean rolls his eyes at Sam. He returns to the room and pulls a razor, scissors, and some shaving cream out of a Walmart plastic bag. Sam stands at the door frame and watches as Dean
"Do something about your hair too, while you're at it." Sam says, holding a chuckle. "You look like you're in a boy band."
"Yeah, thank you very much, but I'm not taking advise from you, Justin Bieber." Still, he knows that long hair is not his usual style. He takes the scissors and cuts random locks of hair carefully. Though the end result is not professional at all, Dean feels like it could be a lot worse.
"You look like you're a hobo-in-training, Dean." Sam answers with a hearty laughter.
Dean turns to him, lips pressed together. "...Bitch."
"Jerk." Sam answers with a wide grin.
Dean snorts lightly and grins at the sink of the bathroom. His wistful smile doesn't last long, though. After a short while, he gains a solemn expression.
"...You alright?" Sam asks from his spot at the door frame.
Dean is quiet for several seconds, analyzing whether he should or shouldn't voice his thoughts out loud. "...Do you think," he begins, his voice raspy and choked. He clears his throat and continues, "...do you think he'll be happy to see me?" His tone is serious and distant, contrite and lonely, contemplative and sad.
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Didn't you talk with him just now?"
"That wasn't Cas." Dean glances at the shaving cream just to distract his eyes from glaring at Sam. He gives up after a few seconds; he doesn't think he has the energy to be angry, anyway. "...And you're not Sam." He says it in a defeated, tired tone.
"And yet, here we are." Sam mumbles, rolling his eyes at his own brother. "Why do you ask whether Cas will be happy to see you or not?"
Dean sighs heavily. He trudges around the bathroom aimlessly, telling himself not to pay attention to this imaginary depiction of Sam. Dean does not win, he needs to say it. "...I'm the biggest jerk alive, Sammy."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "...What do you mean?"
"Cas and I, we...had a huge fight in the car." Dean gulps a thick build-up of saliva; his mouth feels dry all of a sudden.
Sam sits down. "Dean, I...I didn't know." His voice is so soft and caring that Dean has to remind himself constantly that this isn't Sam. But he has spent so much time away from his brother that he doesn't have the strength to will him away.
"I'm an idiot, Sammy." Dean grits his teeth, trying to seem strong in front of his brother despite the conditions. "I'm a fucking idiot."
"Dean..." Sam's voice is strangled and apologetic.
"...I said...Sammy, I said awful things." Dean closes his eyes tightly, trying hard not to cry.
"Dean," Sam says in a strangled voice. "I know it's hard for you, but...I'm sure that Cas already forgave you."
Dean sighs shakily. He presses his back against the wall next to him and sinks down until he's sitting on the floor, his head against the cold wall of the bathroom.
He knows.
"...I know that, Sammy." Dean mumbles in a quiet, hoarse, whispering voice. He stares emptily at the yellow tiles in front of him, wishing he was with Cas. "That's why I'm gonna go meet him."
Sam steps into the room, that determined look in his face. He kneels down in front of Dean and looks at him straight into his eyes. "Stop it, Dean. It's not a good idea." His voice hesitates. "Cas...he doesn't want to see you."
Dean snorts. "You don't know that. Good try, though. Except you're going to have a hard time convincing me of things. You're in my head. I know you're not real."
Sam presses his lips together, determined to convince Dean that he's wrong. "Exactly. I am part of you, Dean. I know that you doubt yourself. Fighting it takes time. Cas has moved on, so why can't you?"
Why can't he move on? Because it's not only about this. It's not only about being away from one of the persons he loves the most, it's about his entire life. His job, his friends (or lack thereof), his relationships, his thoughts...He is so damn tired of feeling like crap all the time, of finding reasons to hate himself, of being alone. He has failed so many times to get the bad guys, to stop murderers and robbers and kidnappers. How many lives rest on his hands? How many souls could have been spared had he not made the mistakes he had made? And Cas leaving him... He couldn't handle that back then and he can't handle it now.
Dean stares at the space next to Sammy's ear. He can't look him in the eyes. "I'm so tired, Sammy. I can't do this anymore."
"Yes, you can, Dean. Look, I know it hurts right now but –"
"Sam." Dean shuts his eyes as his patience runs out. "If this was going to get better, it would've happened by now. Seven months is a long fucking time. And you and I both know that I'm a fucking mess –and that's not gonna change. So let's just skip all of this motivational Joel Osteen crap, alright?"
Sam stares, his nostrils flaring as he tries to contain his emotions. "...Cas doesn't want to see you."
Dean stands up and sighs heavily. "Shut up."
"No." Sam follows after Dean, who is now walking to the room. "You have to stay. I won't forgive you if you do this to yourself, Dean."
Dean stops in the middle of the crummy motel room and turns to Sam, smiling with indignation. "I don't care, you're not real."
"You'll never forgive yourself. Especially after you realize the mistake you're making."
And Dean can't help but laugh as he walks towards the door. "I've never been able to forgive myself for anything, Sammy."
Sam rushes at him, "Dean –!"
He knows that Sam is gone as soon as the first rain drop hits his forehead. And the familiar feelings of frustration and pain rush back to him. He's lost and helpless. Tortured by vivid memories of better days and images of the two people he loves the most. He's alone, in the middle of a black void, and all emotions that are human invade him at the same time. At the lightest touch of the wind, he shivers uncontrollably.
The cry of a raven wakes him up minutes later.
Dean trudges into his room with heavy steps. He shuts the door and grabs a Walmart plastic bag from the floor. He is soaked wet, and he's cold and tired, and his shirt and jeans stick to his body suffocatingly.
After taking all of his clothes off and tossing them next to the bed, he changes into a black Henley shirt and some dark jeans, and slides into the bed. It's rather early in the day, barely five in the afternoon, yet he's tired as hell.
It's around twelve that he wakes up, choking in tears. He has had a nightmare about being condemned to go to hell and it seems to him like it is too graphic to be a simple nightmare. But when he realizes where he is, he calms down. It's the old, yellow motel room, not a dark, humid, chamber. And he isn't holding on to bits of his own flesh, but to the dark red covers of the stone-hard bed.
Even though he feels tired, he can't go back to sleep. And he doesn't want to. He doesn't care that he feels terrible.
Dean tosses the red blankets off of his body, jumps out of bed, throws a rugged dark green shirt on, grabs his keys, makes his way to the door, and stops suddenly. He remembers that the owner of the motel is a very old man living all the way up here by himself. So Dean turns around and instantly starts to put the room in order. He makes the dark red bed neatly and fluffs the unused pillow, taking his time with each task. He folds his humid clothes and leaves them inside one of the grey plastic bags, on top of the table and next to the basket with fruit. He cleans the things from the bathroom and throws the razor away, but leaves the shaving cream and the scissors next to the basket as well. He can't decide if he should write a note or not, but ends-up writing a short 'thanks' behind a Walmart receipt that he pulls from one of the bags. The glass and the whiskey bottle are placed next to the stack of clothes. Dean stares at the bottle for a couple of seconds before deciding to take it with himself.
Finally, he leaves all of the money he carries underneath the white note –seventy-three dollars and twenty-five cents.
It takes him an hour to finish everything, mostly because he pauses often to wonder why he is doing this. He doesn't know the man. He doesn't know anything. He has other things to do.
But despite his internal complaining, Dean does as much as he can to help. Because that's what Dean does.
He goes outside, where the endless echo of the raindrops is still interrupting the silence. It's freezing tonight; Dean regrets not bringing any more jackets with himself.
The Impala is waiting for him out where he parked it, good and trusty as always.
"Hey, baby." Dean whispers as he opens the door.
He is surprised when he spots his dark blue, M-65 coat waiting for him on the backseat of the Impala. As he reaches for it, Dean smiles very lightly, remembering that Cas always made him keep a jacket in the car.
And then he remembers.
He jumps out of the vehicle and runs to open the trunk –and there it is, folded like a flag: the trench coat. The light brown trench coat that Cas wore the first time they met. The trench coat that he left in Dean's trunk the night before it all happened. The stupid, dorky trench coat that Dean loves so much.
There it is.
Loyal.
Still waiting for Cas to return and claim it.
The cry of a raven interrupts the moment, and Dean snaps to reality.
He pulls the trench coat out and carries it inside the Impala with himself. He places it on his lap, starts the car, and drives away from the old motel.
He remembers to turn at the right spot and continues on the slightly darker dirt road to the bridge.
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A few hours later, he reaches it.
He parks the car under a leafless poplar tree and turns off the engine. Tonight, the moon is strangely bright, and it allows Dean to sit in the darkness with a mild knowledge of what surrounds him.
He stares at the bridge. It looks intimidating and black in the night, as if it was a black portal to some other world. But Dean knows that it is a simple bridge that is actually made of sturdy wood and metal. He has been here before, a very long time ago. Back when he was eighteen.
As a matter of fact, that day he had been sitting in the Impala, staring at the bridge the same way he stares at it today. Except that it had been dawn that peculiar day, and there had been no rain back then.
And suddenly, everything transforms. He can see himself as an eighteen-year-old teenager resting on top of his new car, waiting for dawn.
As the sun rises, the sky is coloured pink and orange and yellow and blue, and Dean can't help but think that life cannot be better at the moment. Then he sees someone standing in the middle of the bridge and Dean gets curious. He wouldn't call himself a 'people person,' but there's something about that other guy that keeps distracting him.
Finally, he gives in. Dean jumps from the hood of his car to the ground and paces over to where the other guy is standing.
"Hey," he starts rather awkwardly, "what are you, uh, doing here at this time of the day?"
The boy, which he can see better now, looks at least three years younger than Dean. "I could ask you the same." It's his voice that betrays his looks though: mature, serene, deep, and gravelly.
Dean scratches his neck. "True." He glances around, feeling like it's too late for him to ditch the attempt at socializing and return to his car to enjoy the silence. "...I'm on a road trip."
"A road trip?" The smaller teen turns to see Dean with a rather amused expression. "Where's your parents? Aren't you too young to be driving?"
Dean stares at him, raising an eyebrow. "...I'm eighteen."
The teen stares back and Dean notices that his eyes are abnormally blue. "Sorry, I, uh," he turns to see the water underneath the bridge, trying very hard to hide a smile, "I thought you were an over-grown fifteen-year-old."
Dean stares for a few seconds and then laughs heartily. "That's alright, uh...?"
"Castiel Novak." He extends his hand and offers a friendly smile.
'Castiel?' Huh. Different, but kind of cute. "Dean Winchester." Dean accepts the hand and grins.
He motions towards the Impala with his head, "your car?"
Dean grins instantly and he puffs his chest proudly. "Yeah. That's my baby."
Cas chuckles. "What kind of car is it? Looks like an Impala?"
"1967 Chevrolet Impala." Dean answers, overjoyed and rather impressed. "I inherited her from my dad after he bought truckzilla." Dean makes a face jokingly.
Cas laughs. "My family used to have an old, 1970 Chevelle SS, but we eventually sold it."
Dean raises his eyebrows, rather excited about that. This is his territory –if there's anything in this world that he knows, it's classic cars. "Agh, sweet, man. I haven't had a chance to take a close look at a Chevelle."
"Yeah, it's a shame we didn't keep it. It was a great car. Black with a couple of white stripes on the hood. F40 special suspension, J56 power brakes, wood grained steering wheel, Z04 heavy-duty chassis...Brand new grille, deck lid, fenders and roof line. L78 375 hp 396 engine." Cas answers with a light shake of the head. He lets out a light chuckle. "Man, I loved that car."
Holy crap. Dean has never met anyone else who knows what the heck a wood grained steering wheel is, let alone suspension and power brakes –besides mechanics, that is. Just...who is this person?
Cas raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "Dean?"
A few quiet seconds go by before Dean realizes that he's grinning like an idiot. He looks away and clears his throat, regaining his composure. "So, Castiel, huh? Where'd your folks get that name from?" He doesn't really want to change the subject, but he feels like he has to. He could talk about cars all day long; he doesn't want to appear too enthusiastic or he might scare Cas away.
"It's the name of an angel of the Lord." Cas answers, his voice suddenly transforming into something slightly more serious.
Dean doesn't believe in God and he doesn't know a lot about religion, but he knows enough to be able to tell when someone's parents are a little bit too into the Bible. He begins to feel uncomfortable, like he is not going to be accepted as soon as Castiel finds out that Dean is not very into praying. "...Like Michael and Gabriel?" He says, just to make sure.
"Yep." Castiel answers with nonchalance. "Except apparently not as badass."
Dean smiles and forgets about his previous assumptions. "So what brings you here, Cas?"
He sighs heavily and turns to look at the water in the river. "Camp."
"Oh." Dean cringes. "I've never been to camp. Running away from the team leaders, or whatever you call them?"
Castiel snorts. "From being one."
For a few moments, Dean wonders why a camp would let such a young teenager be a team leader. And then he realizes that he doesn't know Castiel's age. "So, wait, how old are you?"
"Just turned eighteen about two months ago."
Dean gets beet-root red, though he doesn't know why. It's never been this embarrassing to make an incorrect guess about someone else. "Ah, whoops." He jokes awkwardly.
Cas turns to him with an amiable smile. "It's alright. People do that all the time. Don't worry about it."
He motions at the large trench coat that is obviously several sizes bigger than Cas. "That's an unusual uniform for camp staff."
Cas half-smiles. "Not part of the uniform. It would be a nice addition, though."
"Isn't it a bit too big for you?"
Cas's warm expression tenses-up a little bit. He clears his throat and nods. "Yes, it is."
"...Why are you wearing it, then?"
"...It comforts me." He answers back, holding a sigh. "My father left it for me just before he disappeared. We were very close. ...It's stupid, I know, but..."
Horror strikes Dean suddenly. "No, no. I don't think it's stupid, I think it's a good idea." He can relate to Cas, sort of. "...If...if it makes you feel better, I lost my mother when I was four."
Cas turns to see Dean, an expression of panic in his face. "Why would that make me feel better?"
There's no sarcasm in his voice. There's no malice, no anger, no distaste or anything like that. There's nothing other than fear and guilt hidden in between each note.
And Dean suddenly gets a feeling of familiarity. It's as if he's eight-years-old again and he is explaining a difficult concept to his younger brother. "Well, Cas, sometimes people feel better when they meet other people that can understand them a little bit. It comforts you, you know? It's kind of like, you're not alone in this."
Cas nods a couple of times and considers what Dean has said. "...I see what you mean. However, I do not find it comforting to know that your mother has passed away. My condolences."
"Relax, Cas." Dean says, though he earnestly appreciates what Cas has just said to him. "It was a long time ago."
Cas nods, looking a bit silly in that big trench coat. "You know," he starts, a little bit hesitant, "I've always had trouble talking to other people. But it's easy to talk with you, Dean."
Something inside Dean breaks and his insides are flooded with warmth. Dean smiles at Cas softly and nods. "Thanks, I...I think the same." After a few seconds of silence, Dean attempts to continue the friendly conversation. "So I take it you don't enjoy camp."
Cas snorts. "I hate it. By the time I'm done with this summer job, I won't want to look after another snotty ten-year-old in my life. Seriously. I've been pulling horror stories out of my ass for the past month. Do you know how hard it is to scare kids nowadays?"
Dean laughs. "I didn't know there were camps around here."
"Well, it's not really around here." Cas scratches his neck, "it's about an hour away."
Dean stares. "...You hiked here?"
"No, I, ah, borrowed one of the trucks."
And Dean cannot help but gape. "You stole a truck?"
"No! Geez. I really did borrow it." Cas looks guilty, but also rather amused. "...They just...they think that I'm in town visiting my sick grandmother."
Dean whistles in surprise. After a short, comfortable silence, Dean eventually musters enough courage to ask speak. "And...for how long are you going to be visiting the sick granny?"
"Well," Cas begins, his voice rather nonchalant, "I wasn't planning to spend my whole day here. But I don't really want to go back to camp either."
Dean wonders if Cas is trying to imply something or if he actually means what he is saying. Then he realizes that he's dealing with a guy, not a girl, and decides to take the words as they come. He leans against the bridge. "I don't suppose you would mind some company?"
Cas turns to see him, rather surprised and pleased. "I wouldn't mind that at all."
And now it's all back to the rainy, dark days. Dean snorts at the old memory. How long has it been? Seventeen years? It feels like so much has happened since then that it can't possibly be just seventeen years.
Dean gets out of the car, unconsciously hugging the old trench coat to his chest protectively. The moment he steps out, he begins to shiver uncontrollably. It's freezing outside –the wind is blowing, the rain keeps pouring down, and the coldness of the winter season makes it all worse.
From where Dean stands, the water of the river underneath the bridge looks like blue and silver satin: smooth, soft, and glossy. It casts eerie reflections on the bridge that dance in the white moonlight like a million different ballet companies performing at the same time.
The wind carries the smell of the mountain: sickly crisp air combined with faint undertones of wood. It whistles through the bare branches of the poplar tree smoothly, and it seems to Dean as if it is trying to avoid them. An owl lands on one of the highest branches and gazes at Dean curiously for a few seconds. It hoots ominously, but Dean ignores it and walks towards the bridge. And the owl flies away.
He stands at the edge of the bridge and doesn't dare to move forward, afraid. "...Cas?" He calls quietly.
Nothing.
"Cas? Are you there?" His voice rises slowly, like he is just waking up. "Answer, Cas!"
Everything pauses, except for the rain.
Dean waits to hear a response from the other side of the bridge. He moves his body uncomfortably and finds that his clothes are stiff and frozen. The wind is so cold that he can't feel his hands and his feet anymore. Dean has to glance down to make sure that he is still holding on to the trench coat. After being sure that he is clutching it, he looks back at the other side of the bridge and waits.
Nothing.
The rain is starting to feel like thousands of needles falling from the sky.
"Please!" Dean's nose and cheeks begin to tingle ferociously; he knows that in just a few moments, his body will attempt to get rid of desperate emotions through tears.
When it happens, his vision is blurred for more than a second. He blinks, and all of a sudden, everything pours down onto his cheeks. It hurts and feels like the wind has frozen the humid trails to his face. But he doesn't care.
"Cas, please!" He is screaming his lungs out now and he doesn't give a shit if anyone besides Cas can hear him. "I –I'm sorry! I'm fucking sorry! I'm sorry for everything I ever did! I'm sorry for everything I said to you! I'm sorry for being the jerk that I am! Please answer, Cas!" His voice falls in strength until it's weak and weary, "Please answer..."
But there's nothing. Nothing other than the echoes of the raindrops.
"God damn it, Cas! I know you can hear me!" Dean hits the railing of the bridge with the hand that is not clutching the coat. Dean winces and clenches his jaw. The pain is delayed because of the numbness, but when it hurts it, hurts like nothing he has ever felt before.
It's mainly because of the silence.
Dean takes several deep, shaky, shivering breaths and tries to calm himself down. "I...I can't forgive myself," with his last ounces of courage and energy, he takes a step onto the bridge and begins his way to the other end, "God knows I've fucking tried, but I can't!" Every time he moves a centimetre, he is forced to ignore the feeling of being on fire. On every single step he is stabbed a thousand times all over his body. Somehow it seems that a combination of drive and tenacity is what keeps his legs moving. "I promised I would be there when you needed me, Cas! I promised I'd make you happy, and I promised I'd take care of you!"
Nothing.
Dean is exhausted and numb all over.
His voice shakes. "I promised I'd protect you and be strong for you! I love you! Cas, I love you more than anything in this world!" Damn it, Dean is so freaking tired.
Nothing.
He is so angry at himself for having failed that he isn't able to speak for a full minute. His jaw is clenched in a tight lock that could have shattered his teeth had they been made of a weaker material.
He steps forward and trips over a plank of wood. He falls onto glass and needles and fire and ice –all at the same time. Dean lets out a strangled cry of pain –he doesn't know if it's all in his head or if he has actually screamed out loud.
He wants to stand up. More than anything, he wants to stand up and reach the other side, but the wet, slippery, frozen ground is too much of a challenge. His arms have grown weak, his legs have given up, and his body is having a hard time functioning.
Unable to move any further, he pulls himself towards the vertical planks of wood that separate him from falling into the river. With the last of his physical strength, he lifts his body enough to sit down with his back against the sturdy, wooden railing. "I promised I wouldn't leave you," he mumbles. He can't feel his jaw anymore, but he doesn't care. "And I promised...I promised I would always come back if I ever did." So here I am; he says it in his head and tries to voice the words, "...So...here..." but the only thing that comes out is a shaky sigh. He gathers energy and writhes in his spot for several minutes.
His body is incessantly screaming for rest, pleading for Dean to stop.
And after ten more seconds of thrashing, Dean complies.
He relaxes,
he shuts his mouth,
and he shuts his eyes.
A few seconds later, when a sudden sense of urgency kicks in, Dean cracks his green eyes open again. He tries to scream, but he can't speak anymore. His jaw won't budge. And as the seconds go buy, his lips slowly freeze shut.
...So here I am. He continues in his head, still convinced that Cas can hear him. I'm back.
His eyelids slowly close the curtains.
I'm back, Cas.
I'm back.
He's so tired...exhausted..enervated...
He's just going to sleep for a little bit...
He'll gather energy and then get up and reach Cas...
He just wants to sleep...
Peace, just for a little while...
"Dean?!" Someone shakes him awake. "Dean, is that you?!"
The panicking voice seems familiar.
"Dean! Answer, Dean!" A warm hand taps at his cheek several times.
He cracks an eye open just enough to see a blurry image of blue and pink and black. "...Cas?"
The other man is in tears as well. Dean can hear it. "I heard you. I'm sorry, I heard you. I couldn't come fast enough. But I'm here now," he leans closer and presses his forehead against Dean shakily, "it's alright, Dean, it's okay. You're going to be fine."
But it's not.
"We have to get you out of here," Cas's hands are shaking more out of fear than anything. "Dean, we have to –"
"–It's not alright." Dean whispers hoarsely. He clears his throat weakly, but his voice still comes out raspy and rough, "could you forgive me?"
Cas's smiles at him, obviously trying to hide his fear and control his panic. "I have forgiven you already, Dean, you don't have to ask me to do it again. Just please get up, Dean. Please get up."
Dean smiles with difficulty. Every single millimetre of his face feels numb, but he manages something close to a grin. "Cas," he breathes out. "Thank God, Cas, you're here."
"Dean, I'm so sorry." Cas bursts into tears again. He can't help himself –he hugs Dean tightly, and Dean is filled with a warmth so intense that every single part of his skin seems to boil painfully. "My God, you're freezing. What are you doing here, Dean? We need to get you out of here!" He tries to pull the man up but ends up slipping down.
"I..." Dean still finds it hard to talk, "I came back. It's Christmas, Cas."
There are endless tears streaming down the other man's face. "Dean," he chuckles sadly and wipes his cheeks. "Yes, it's Christmas, Dean."
"But the rain..."
"What rain?" Cas is out of breath. "There's no rain, Dean. We need to get you up." He tries to pull Dean up again.
The burning and the needles return to cover each and every part of Dean's skin. And he welcomes the sickening feeling with a broadening grin and a difficult attempt at a chuckle. "There's no rain."
"Of course not. Let's go, Dean." Cas finally manages to pull Dean up. He drapes one of Dean's arms over his shoulder and begins to walk away. "How did you get here, Dean? Tell me something, tell me anything, just keep on talking, please."
Dean's head bobs limply, though he tries to keep it steady. "I can't...remember anything." He clears his throat again, but his voice is still hoarse and muted. "My hand."
Castiel doesn't stop to pay attention. "Your what?" He keeps on dragging Dean through the bridge with determination.
"My hand." Dean repeats, a little bit louder.
Cas's face becomes pale instantly. He shuts his eyes tightly and whispers hoarsely "please don't let it be frostbite, please don't let it be gangrene, please, please, please..." He braces himself and turns to see the limb that hangs from Dean's shoulder.
His eyes widen.
Dean grins. "Merry Christmas."
The trench coat.
Cas gulps and another wave of tears springs from his glassy, blue eyes immediately. "My –my brown trench coat." He laughs and snuffles, and lets out another choked laughter. "Thank you, Dean. Thank God you're safe." When his mind clears up, he remembers something. "Sam." He whispers. "Sam! Sam! Sam, help me out!"
"Cas?" Sam appears at the other end of the bridge not too long after that. When he sees Dean, his eyes widen and he rushes towards them. "Dean? Dean, are you okay?"
"Hey, Sammy," Dean croaks in joy. He can see clearly now; his vision is not blurry anymore.
Sam lifts Dean's other arm, "Shit, I –we have missed you so much. Dean, you –" His words betray him and choke on themselves. He can't talk. His voice shakes too much and threatens to become an incoherent noise.
Cas and Sam manage to carry Dean to the other side of the bridge awkwardly. They continue to ask questions to Dean, just to make sure that he is still alive and conscious, just to make sure that they don't lose him. And Dean hangs on to them because he does not want to wake up without them by his side.
By the time they reach the other side, the Sun is shining brightly above all. The three of them collapse on a patch of green grass, and everything goes black.
When Dean wakes up, the first thing he can see is the blinding white ball that is the Sun. It is powerful and preeminent, unconquerable and invincible. It casts a warm blanket of light on top of Dean and he suddenly feels like he has been reborn. He has hope and vitality, and an inner peace that he cannot explain. This is his second chance.
Cas and Sam are sitting several metres away from him. Dean can't hear whatever it is that they are saying. He is just aware that they are both all smiles and excitement. Cas is wearing that dorky brown trench coat like it can stop bullets and Sam is laughing harder than Dean has ever heard him laugh.
But most importantly, Dean is aware that they are there.
This is his second chance.
····································································
"I didn't know this many people would come."
"Me neither, but I'm not surprised. He was a fantastic detective who helped a lot of people."
Tears.
A man clears his throat solemnly. He knows the deceased personally and he himself has arranged this funeral, as a way to thank him for finding the man who murdered his parents. "We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life."
Though several leave, there are many others who stay for a much longer time.
"What a shame."
"Indeed. What a loss."
"Shame?! Loss?! What a tragedy!"
"I agree. Shame and loss does not cover it. We convict murderers and rapists all the time. We see the worse there is to see; the scum of the human race. And many of them continue to live." A bitter chuckle. "And this man dies. Brave and haunted. A kind soul gone from us."
"He did not deserve to die!"
"And he froze to death! What a painful experience!"
"It's not fair, the world is not fair!"
"Why was he even on that old bridge? If he hadn't been there, he would've lived."
"No one really knows why he was there. A group of hikers found the car and the body."
"Was he following a lead on a case?"
"No, he had quit three months before his death."
"Why would he quit? He helped put so many horrible people in jail. He helped so many families sleep at night knowing that justice had been made. Just look around you: there's so many families that are here to honour the man who helped them. Hell, the only reason I'm alive is because of him."
"Well, he was never the same after Castiel died."
"Who?"
"What?"
"Castiel? Who is that?"
"Don't look at me, I don't know either."
"Are you talking about Dr. Castiel Novak, the professor?"
"Yeah, how many other Castiel Novaks do you think there are?"
"And what happened to him?"
"They were in a car crash."
"Yeah, then Detective Winchester was in a coma."
"No, no. Another crash."
"What? For real?"
"They were in a car crash together. Dr. Novak survived with minor injuries, but Dean got hurt really bad."
"And that was the coma accident."
"Yes. But a few weeks later the doctors made a mistake and told Dr. Novak that Dean was dead."
"No, for real?"
"Yeah. Dr. Novak rushed home to get something –no one really knows what. A truck driver crashed against him and...well, he passed away."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. Dean woke up a week later and...well, when he found out, he freaked out. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't...be himself."
"He must have taken the death of a dear friend very roughly."
"Oh, they weren't only friends."
"...No way. You mean to tell us that Detective Winchester was gay?"
"Yes. I knew them. Not very well, but well enough to be invited for a few drinks with them."
"Who would've imagined?"
"But how does this relate to anything?"
"Well, didn't he go a bit crazy after the coma?"
"Yeah, and then his brother gets murdered by a gang member three months later."
"What?"
"Yes, his brother was the lawyer that convicted Mathew Martins."
"Oh, yeah. Four gunshots. I saw it in the news. Terrible."
"Oh, my goodness. No wonder Detective Winchester quit."
"He was not doing very well, no."
"They were all Dean had in his life. He became a very troubled man after the incident. Alcohol and depression, and hallucinations too."
"Hallucinations?"
"He said it was always raining. And sometimes he saw them both."
"My gosh, it's horrible. How can God permit these things?"
"There's no God, these things just happen."
"Let's not get into a religious debate here, please."
"...I heard that the last person to see him was some old man who owns a motel."
"How lucky he was."
"Yeah, not only did that man get to see Detective Dean Winchester before he died, he also had the honour of serving him."
"He said that Dean left like seventy dollars in the room. And some of his belongings too."
"Wow."
"That doesn't answer the question though."
"Yeah, why was he on that bridge?"
"No one knows for sure. All we know is that he was holding on to some old rag so tightly that it had to be cremated along with his body."
"So that's why we're burrowing an urn."
"Yeah. The body wouldn't have fit in a coffin properly, so he was cremated instead. And then buried next to Dr. Novak."
"Which one is Dr. Novak's headstone?"
"It's at the left of Dean's."
"Oh yeah."
"You see this statue?"
"This big one, in the middle."
"A weeping angel..."
"Yes. The priest and many of the guys at the police department got it sent to be made."
"Well, I bet angels are weeping this loss."
"But what about Samuel Winchester?"
"Dean buried him in the same cemetery as his girlfriend, who died on a house fire."
"What a sad story."
"Yeah."
"...You know, he always talked about needing a second chance to be happy. ...He...he never got his second chance."
"Second chances don't exist. You do what you do with your life. Sadly, Dean chose to throw it away."
"...Yeah."
Fini
R&R! (Did you hate it? Did you love it? Did you laugh? Did you cry?) I wanted to start it light-hearted to try messing with people. I'd like to know how that went.
For the record, I DO NOT AND NEVER WILL SUPPORT SUICIDE. The same way that writers don't necessarily (...hopefully) support murder or betrayal or whatever they write about.
**The story is not about a guy who offs himself** What do you think the story is about? -No, seriously, answer that question.
Think about what's found here and discuss. I love discussions. I love people who disagree and people who agree; I love extremists and moderates (and everything in between). I love every argument in the world. As long as it is polite and respectful. And yes, you can be polite and passionate at the same time.
Symbols
Setting:
Rain – isolation, emptiness, loneliness
Wind and Storms – violent emotions
Winter – death
Christmas – birth, change for the better.
*In this sense, death is simply the beginning of a new life (figuratively speaking).
East – land of birth or rebirth, associated with renewal, youth, song and love
.
Colours:
Red – passion, emotion, danger, blood, anger
Yellow – rotting, heat, decay, violence, decrepitude, old age, and the approach of death
Blue – cool, calm, peaceful; an insubstantial colour in the real world except as translucency, the void of heavens.
.
Other:
River – fluidity of life, stream of life and death, border between changes
Poplar – linked to the underworld, to pain, to sacrifice and grief, a funeral tree
Raven and owl – death omen