A/N: I wrote this story in light of the news that season 15 will be the last season of the show. I have made a few posts on tumblr about this, but still I find myself struggling to show my love for something that means so much, so hopefully this story does that.
"Sam and Dean Winchester…" God thought aloud.
Carry on my wayward son
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Chuck was writing, had never stopped writing, despite what He'd told Sam and Dean. He watched from above, in His own little dimension, a plain, leather-bound notebook on His desk that He'd purposefully made sure was worn, a pen of the blackest ink in His hand, and a song playing on the radio. The pages of the book were no longer fresh and white as when He had first created the book; they were yellowed with age, with wisdom, each rustle of paper layered with the scent of vanilla and almond, the book's decay. But there was a permanence to His words, to this story that He told, that He'd never stopped telling.
It was a story of two brothers, two boys who had grown into men despite the world trying its best to end them before their time, dogged by pain and torment and death. But wherever the went they took that pain, and from it grew kindness, compassion, love, till they were no longer alone.
The lives they touched along the way were too many to name in such a small book. But it wasn't really a small book. It was large, filled with their birth, to the wrongs committed against them, to their bravery in the face of evil that made Him weep and curse His decision to stay away, to the family that they made for themselves in the broken, little world that they fought so desperately to fix, to hold together.
He watched them now as He filled the last pages, tears brimming in his eyes for his creations that were so beautifully flawed, so imperfectly perfect, so human, so real.
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say
The four of them were in the bunker - Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Jack. The world had been saved. Over and over they had saved it, and it would never not need them. But their time would come, and they would end as all things must. Their time was marked with courage, with a burning resilience and brightness that would be blinding to even the strongest of angels.
Dean was coming home, a duffle slung over his shoulder, three boxes of pizza in his hands, and a case of beer in a plastic bag hanging from his elbow. His face showed his weariness, the age that Hell had added upon him, the marks of his most recent battle: blood and bruises. But his green eyes, they shone when he gazed down upon his family.
Sam came in from the kitchen, just as bloodied and bruised as his brother, but marked even more by his time in Hell, the nearly two centuries weighing upon him. A smile broke out on his face, a cheer leaving his mouth, as he clapped his hands, glad that the food had arrived, feeling more than ready to celebrate, the hazel in his eyes flecked with an eager light.
Castiel smiled from his seat at the table, white teeth showing, blue eyes wide and clear as a perfect day with the sun shining through. He gazed fondly at his family, rising from his seat and rushing up the stairs to help Dean with their prize.
Jack, too, had a seat at their table, darkness that had once been upon him long since passed, the mark of his father obliterated by the love of the three men who had taken him in and shown him the world. With a wave of his hand, his eyes glowing the gold of a thousand sunsets, radiant and pure, the boxes were taken from Dean's arms, and lowered to settle down on the table.
Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Jack gathered around, smiling, patting each other, ready to eat, ready to celebrate their survival, their kinship, another day that the Earth could carry on.
Carry on my wayward son
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
"So we saved the world," Sam said a minute into their joyous meal, once Dean's delighted moans had died down.
His brother responded, raising his beer, "Hell yeah, we did. To saving the world."
"To saving the world!" the other three cried, words tumbling over each other in their excitement to get them out.
Beer bottles were clinked together, smiles on their faces, and the four of them enjoyed a long drink.
"You think it's ever gonna not need saving?" Dean asked.
"Probably not," Castiel responded, tone solemn, expression thoughtful, and Dean nudged him to get him to quit bringing down the mood.
Jack chimed in, "But that's what we're here for."
"This life," Sam began, "it never really ends."
Sam, the man who had wanted out, who had wanted a family. But he'd found a family, as part of his life, the hunting, the fighting, the saving, the dying. Never again could he be that lonely boy he once was, the one who called himself a freak and felt the darkness of the world within his blood.
"But it's gotta someday." Dean, always coming to them with some strange wisdom when they least expected it, seeing the complicated matters of life in his own simplified way. "And you know, I'm okay with that."
Dean, the man who had fought against himself, to be someone he had no desire to be. The hate he'd felt inside for who he was washed clean by fond looks and someone there to hold when he needed them. The hunter who loved being a hunter, who learned to love himself.
Castiel was looking hard at his beer instead of at his family, still unused to the flavor of it even after all those late night drinks. "I'll go on," he admitted. "Jack, and I, we'll still be here."
Castiel, the angel who'd defied Heaven, the angel who got it right, who loved humanity for their humanity, who fought for them even when his brethren would not. Weighed heavy with failure he was, but strong in his ability to withstand it, strong in his ability to find his place in the universe, amongst people who were grateful for him even when he wasn't showing his uses.
"But doesn't everything end?" Jack asked, tone as light and curious as always, still innocent despite what he'd had to face and learn at such a young age, despite the traumas that shadowed his mind.
Jack, the boy born of darkness, of greed, and desire for power, of cruelty, and lies. Hope came from him, even in his darkest moments where he stumbled and fell and lost his footing along the way. And his family was there to take his hand and help him to his feet, to help him carry on.
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about like I'm a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say
Carry on they all did. Carry on they would, to the end, to the bitter, to the sweet, to their last breaths, their lives filled with a million lives, tales that could be told for years to come.
"Light isn't permanent," Jack went on, brow furrowed as he thought about it. "Darkness will catch up to it."
"Yes, Jack," Castiel told him, "all things end, but that doesn't mean it's bad. What matters is our time together, the moments we were here."
"We did something," Dean added on. "We all did. We made our mark on this world, and I'll be damned if we're forgotten."
"They'll remember," Sam said, "for as long as they can."
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals this splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely Heaven waits for you
They were a family, a broken, bruised, tattered family, but beating with love, and hanging on even when something dared to pull them apart, be it the sins of monsters and things that hid in the dark, the enemies lurking within their heads that many who had gone through such pain had to face, or even death itself. And as a family they finished their meal and made their way into the library, to the table marked 'S.W.', and 'D.W.'. Not quite sure what was going on, Jack looked to his dads, and Sam put a hand on his shoulder.
Dean handed over a knife to Castiel, his trusty Ka-Bar US Army, and fondly gripped his forearm.
"Why don't you go first?" he suggested.
And so the letter 'C.' was added to the table. After some thought, Castiel contemplating the men with him with fondness in his eyes, he added a 'W.', a testament to the people he'd chosen, the people who had taken him in, who had stayed by him even when Heaven had not.
From father to son, the knife was passed to Jack, and Sam and Dean settled around him to help him with the carving since he'd never done anything so exact with a knife before. They gave him pointers, and helped steady his hand, and directed how he should do it. Once the 'J.' was finished, he paused just as Castiel had.
"Do I put 'K' or 'W'?" he asked.
"You can put 'em both," Sam answered with ease. "You're both, Jack. You're a Kline, and a Winchester. You're your mother, and you're one of us."
So they helped their son add the two extra letters, and they blew away the chips of wood, as one, like blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Except this was not in celebration of another year, but instead the understanding that even they would end.
And so the table was marked, until it too would become worn and decayed, and nothing: S.W. D.W. C.W. J.K.W..
Content with His story, content with His creations, and all they had done for the world, Chuck - God, wrote His final sentence, black seeping into the yellowed page with a beautiful, and temporary permanence that would be gone with the end of all things.
It was time for His book to end, for the last goodbye to be said, for the curtain to be drawn and the bows to be made, for peace to be found.
As He watched the Winchesters hold each other, tears in their eyes, God closed the book, happy for their life, and sad for their goodbye.
Carry on my wayward son
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
He flicked off the radio, the song he'd been listening to dying, a final 'Don't you cry no more' to beat back the darkness.
"Sam, Dean, thank you. The world owes you one."