This is my very first Supernatural fan fiction. I love the show to bits, even though I have only watched a couple of full episodes. But I manage to keep with the Winchesters and their exploits thanks to YouTube, especially the excellent 'Misha Collins as Castiel' vids. I may have overdosed on these vids (while waiting for Merlin to start), and the next I know, I was sitting at my desk, typing away this story.
And now, it is with much trepidation that I post this little story. I enjoyed writing this story, as it played out in my mind. But I am afraid that I may have swung the characters way of their normal selves. I will take full responsibility, if that is the case. I made the characters the way they are because it made sense to me. Here's my defence.
* Dean may be old, but he is still Dean. And he will never change, even in his deathbed.
** Sam may be the polite one in the series, but I think decades of exposure to Dean would have made him take on a few of the 'charming' aspects of his brother's personality.
*** Castiel is a bit relaxed in my story, but only because the universe as Castiel knows it is at peace. He also knows where his Father is at all times, so that's one load off his shoulder.
**** I did not give a name for Dean's wife, because I am not familiar with Dean's romantic inclinations in the show (I would have put Castiel, but that would be a WHOLE different genre and storyline). Readers may insert their own names if they wish so =p
Of course, I do not own Supernatural. But I would like to own, in order of preference, a trench coat and Misha Collins.
They were whispering about him. He pretended to sleep because it was much better than looking at them. They were all of them going down the path of crazy. Kept looking at him as if he's already dead. He wanted to tell straight to their faces that he was only dying, not dead. He had done gone through the whole ordeal of dying, so it really wasn't a big deal for him. Besides, at ninety – eight years old, death was most welcome for him.
Of course, this time, there would be no resurrection for him. Just the light, or whatever crap at the end of the tunnel. Because Dean Winchester was dying of natural causes. Some of his kids; he had a few, he cannot remember who was there at the hospital because he was dying and everything, looked kind of relieved when the doctor told them that their old man had multiple organ failures and it would be advisable to notify their family members. It was supposed to be touching, he guessed, having his children's in-laws and his grandkids coming to his bedside and saying goodbye, saying that he should suffer any longer. Almost a century in age and he was still surprised that he could still feel strongly for every one of them. Of course, not every one of them deserved his affections, though.
The in-laws, he hated their guts and pretended to be comatose when they came over.
The grandkids...he could not fool them, they were Winchesters, all of them. He told them, when he still had the strength to speak, to give their parents hell because he sure was disappointed his kids did not do that. He had raised his kids in relatively peaceful times; the Apocalypse averted and God finally returning to take over the reins of a seriously out-of-control Creation.
That also meant a whole lot of hunting, but somehow, it was not as screwed up as it was before. Dean even managed a relationship with a woman for month than a month and when she got pregnant, she came searching for him and demanded he made an honest woman of her. That alone had been enough to hook Dean to her; but the woman was a trained mechanic who knew more about his Impala than he did. The first words she spoke to him were, "Nice car. Where did you steal it from?" The Powers That Be deemed it was alright for Dean to settle and gave him the fullest blessing for the PG – rated dream of a life Dean always had but never acknowledged; a house in a nice suburbs, home – cooked dinners, kids messing in the backyard and a woman he wanted to get home to every night. His marriage lasted twenty-eight years, until the cancer won the three – year long battle and took his wife away when she was sixty – two years old. She left him with four kids and he loved them all, even when they grew up to be painfully normal. Two of them were doctors, one showed great potential to be a hunter, but then became a horror writer. His youngest was a professor of theology, following the footsteps of his Uncle Sam, by joining the clergy when he was thirty. Dean kept tabs on his kids in ways they would not have imagined possible. Nevertheless, he also kept himself from interfering too much. They knew where to find him if they needed him and to his credit, he had never let them down.
This is probably why his daughter, the potential hunter, was sitting by his bedside, holding his hand and crying, whispering how much she loves him. He wanted to say it was going to be all right, that he was looking forward to this, but multiple organ failures meant extremely limited physical capacity. He was awake, his mind was lucid, but his body would not respond the way he would like to. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, the same shade as her mother's, but he could not. He could just look at her, thankful that at least the medical personnel did not seem to think he was in pain and decide to dose him with pain killers.
He was glad he could still feel his daughter's hand on his. She was fifty – three, but she was still his baby girl. And he remembers every second of the time he spent with her. The girl was a natural with a shotgun. And loved the Impala as much as she loved her Daddy. He gave her the car when she turned forty. By then, nothing of the Impala was its original part, but it was worth a nice tidy sum that reached just above six –figures. She keeps the car in a garage she built especially for it and never lets anyone touch it.
Her daughter was praying. Dean was not much of a fan of the Good Book, but he had his favourite in there. His daughter knew what it was."I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." Her voice was but a whisper and when she finished, she kissed his forehead gently. "I love you, Daddy."
Dean sighed inwardly. Dying was a bitch, especially for those he was leaving behind. A lifetime ago, when faced with the end of days, Dean would not have thought that so many people who loved him and whom he equally loved back, in-laws notwithstanding, would surround him on his deathbed. Only his wife was not there. But he had no doubt she was on the other side, waiting for him. Waiting with Sam, obviously.
Sam died a few years ago. Dean did not go to the funeral, because, he has seen Sam dead on a few occasions and this one did not warrant his attendance. Sam, of course, was livid; his could not believe his own brother was absent from his funeral. But, for a dead man, Sam had looked pretty good, like how he had when they first started hunting. Sam was attached to the Vatican as a diplomat from the USA, the highest – ranking cardinal with the foulest mouth in the holiest city in the world. Sam had found God, knew the love of God and with that knowledge, had entered the clergy, to start his own version of hunting from within the confines of perceived righteousness. He fought for God, the sanctity of His words. A special mass, presided over the Pope himself, was held at St. Peter's Church, was said for the priest with the Devil-may-care attitude...the exact words of the Pope, who offended billions across the globe when he uttered the D-word in the world's largest church. In his response, the Pope had said to hell with all those straight-laced priests who believed a single word would make him an agent of evil. Sam had always believed that what someone did was the big picture was what God was concerned with; not petty details like saying a few words that are deemed inappropriate. Sam had been impressed with the Pope's stance. He then told Dean that he would join him in three years time. Dean thanked Sam for the heads - up and told him to get out of his dreams. Sam hugged his brother and told him that he would be there when Dean's time came. When Dean awoke in his bed, he was clutching a photograph of Sam and himself, taken at Bobby's place after their first hunt. Dean had smiled, tears in his eyes, because he knew what had to transpire for Sam to appear in his dream. His daughter came into the room an hour later and told Dean what he already knew. Sam had died in his sleep in Rome.
And so, here he was, in his deathbed, awaiting the arrival of his brother. Sam's tardiness was causing him mild panic, what if Death came for him? Granted, it was Death's job, but wasn't Dean on a special list? Perks of which includes no more dealings with ambiguous, not to mention just slightly psychotic abstract beings.
People began to fill up the hallway outside his ward. Friends of his children. His own friends were either dead, or in a different realm altogether. Which made him wonder...
"Dean?"
The voice has not changed in the decades since he last heard him.
Dean cracked his eyes open and turned his head on the pillow. Castiel's blue eyes were inches away from his face.
"Personal space, Cas. Look it up sometimes." Dean's voice was a rasp, sounding like two sandpapers being rubbed together.
"Where should I look it up?" Castiel asked, looking as every bit intense as he had looked when Dean first saw him. But, despite the intense and deliberately severe expression, Dean saw something else in the blue eyes. The angel was actually experiencing what humans would consider satisfaction, happiness.
"Anywhere as long as it's two feet away from me," Dean replied, not realizing until he had spoken that his voice sounded close to normal. Younger even. Castiel must have done something about it, he thought.
Castiel moved away, a hint of a smile on his lips. Taking a step back, Dean saw the angel dressed as he always had; trench coat, the really bad suit and a slightly askew tie. Seriously, one would think a servant of heaven would at least have a decent tie, but Castiel looked like an accountant at the end of a long day, in his good days. On his bad days...well, Dean has seen road wrecks that had looked much better.
"I suppose they sent you to take me up? " Dean took a wild guess, looking at the man who was almost a brother to him. Dean realized a long time ago that brothers need not share the same blood to be considered kin. Castiel was his brother in battle, who gave and gave until he had nothing left, simply because he believed in Dean. Dean had not known how to thank Castiel. He certainly never said it. But all his sons' middle names were Castiel. As were his grandsons'. And one of his sons was Jimmy. Not James, just Jimmy.
"No, I came down myself," Castiel replied.
"Cas, are you still rebelling, man?"
"Every now and then," Castiel replied. "Just to remind myself that I could."
"That's blasphemy."
Castiel sighed. "All right, more like a free pass then," he said, an unexpected twinkle in his eyes. "I settled a small land ownership dispute in Jerusalem and God thought I should be rewarded."
"Middle East?"
"Massachusetts."
Dean actually had a bit strength left in him to chuckle. He shook his head and asked, "When?'
"Last month. It was..."
"I'm talking about my time, Cas," Dean said, wishing he could roll his eyes.
Castiel's smile was benevolent. "Anytime you wish, Dean. There is no hurry."
"Sam's there?"
Castiel nodded. "Your wife as well. Bobby, Ellen and your parents."
"What are they doing there?" Dean asked, wondering how these people could live in Heaven and not blow the place up, Bobby especially. Ellen would probably be in a shot-drinking competition with one of the archangels.
Castiel turned serious again. "What we have always done."
"Hunting?"
"Yes. Every day, except Sunday when we go to..."
"Church?"
"Joshua's place for poker, actually."
"You're not joking, are you?"
"No. We are one hand short ever since Uriel took offence of Bobby becoming the funniest angel in the garrison. He said something in Enochian that I could not even translate if I wanted to."
Dean started laughing. "Sounds like your having a hell of time up there."
"That's blasphemy," Castiel pointed out, but with a smile nonetheless.
"I can't wait to get there," Dean finally said, swallowing. He knows what to expect. And even if things are not how Castiel describes the, he knew he still had his family and that was all he needed. That was his heaven...his parents, his brother, Bobby, his wife. And his friend.
"Their versions of Heaven is not much different than yours," Castiel said, taking a step closer to Dean. "Except your wife's. Hers has a lot of shoes."
Dean suddenly felt the same constriction he had when he kissed his wife as she breathed her last. He was missing her so badly, he had never acknowledged that until that very moment and now, could not wait to see her.
"So, how do we do this?" Dean asked, getting for ready for anything. Well, as ready as a ninety – eight year old could manage anyway...
"What the..."
They were no longer in the hospital ward. They were both standing on a familiar road; the road that led his home as a child.
Standing...
That was when Dean looked at his feet. Boot-clad and strong. Dean held out his hand. Not a damn liver spot or wrinkle on sight; his hands were young and strong and...and...
He touched his face. He had always looked good, even as a ninety – year old, but there was no denying he missed his baby smooth and wrinkle – free skin. It was not vanity...
"I understand," Castiel said, as if he could hear what Dean was thinking. He probably could. They were in Heaven after all. And Castiel's powers were probably multiplied many times over in Heaven. "It is for the same aesthetic reason Jimmy is still my favourite vessel."
Dean was speechless. He had been expecting this, he had seen how young Sam had become, but it still came as a surprise when it happened to him, because one could never know how these things would work, anyway. But he had been lucky. Very, very lucky.
"Everyone's waiting for you," Castiel said, glancing up the road. Dean looked ahead. The road looked nice...gravel, with pine forest running alongside it. He looked back; more of the same. He turned to Castiel.
"My family's going to be okay?" he asked, missing his grandkids already.
"They will have you watching over them," Castiel pointed out. "The most bad-ass guardian angel in Creation."
Dean laughed. Putting his arm around the angel, he steered Castiel up the road. "Ah, Castiel. Are they ever going to write a book about us?"
"There's some groundwork for one with Chuck heading the editorial team. It is still too early to tell, but Father seems to like it," Castiel answered.
Dean raised an eyebrow, but he really was not surprised. Nothing would ever surprise him after all the things he has been through. But the moment they cleared a small rise in the road and his childhood home came to view, Dean was rendered speechless. Then, he saw his family on the porch, some of them sitting, some standing, waiting for him. He went towards them, quickening his steps. In a blink of an eye, Castiel was with the rest of them, part of the welcoming committee, as he was supposed to be.
Dean took the first step unto the porch, passing a threshold. There was a bright light; intense, yet warm and welcoming. And then...he was home. Sam passed him a beer.
In the hospital, what remained of Dean Winchester flat lined five minutes after his youngest grandson saw him talking to himself in the ward. He had thought his grandfather had pulled through another day. He was wrong. And he had never been more glad to be wrong. His grandfather has finally gone home.
~~THE END~~
Feedbacks make my day. I need to know how badly I screwed up with this one.