Hello everybody!
This is the first fic I put on the website, though I'm not new to ficwriting. But it's the very first time I attempt translating one of my stories into English, as I'm not English at all – I am Italian. Speaking of what, I don't have an English mother tongue beta yet, so I guess this is going to be messy and full of mistakes (and if any of you feels like they want to point out some of them, I'll be very grateful for the help). It's a try and if it's too much not-English-but-some-strange-stuff-that-could-eventually-remind-of-a-human-language I'll put it down and try to correct it with some help.
This short story is set somewhere not long before 7x17, when Sam is starting to lose his mind but not going utterly insane yet. It's just some random speculation about Dean's thoughts, his angel-friendly scar and the memories that go with.
Hope you enjoy!
Scars
It was a Wednesday evening, but it could have been any other day of the week. A Wednesday indeed, a not too much cold nor hot one; and anything particularly noticeable had happened, nothing different from their everyday routine, at least. The motel was in Iowa but, that too, it could have been anywhere else. It wasn't especially dirty nor impressively clean.
It was almost time for dinner and Sam was out in the nearby looking for their meal, so he had taken the occasion for a warm shower, trying to wash away that awful stuff he'd been carrying around for weeks, months, maybe years; a viscous feeling, more and more impregnating him, always getting worse. He couldn't even find out how to call it: anger, exhaustion, resignation, helplessness. It was the same as always, stuck to him every day while waking up, impossible to avoid even in the night while going to sleep. The same as always, but maybe, just maybe, that night it was even worse than usual, hurting a little more.
It was sadder. And maybe, it's the reason for he stopped in front of the mirror when he walked out the shower.
Dean wasn't definitely a vain man in the very sense of the word: he knew he was an above-the-norm handsome guy and he used to exploit it for getting chicks in his bed, and that was all. Not the guy to spend his time in front of the mirror, check his hair or his shape to get sure he was still fit - that also because he usually had more urgent things to do, as massacre murderous monsters or attempt saving the world. At the most he could sometimes give a quick glance to his reflection before getting out their temporary "houses", just to be sure he wasn't going to terrify more than necessary suspects, witnesses and relatives of the victims.
He used to take the time for his thoughts while driving his Baby, or when sprawling on some sofa with a couple of beers; at bars with a drink in his hand, facing a burger in some shitty diner. Right, in fact he was sort of an over-thinking guy, way more than it was needed. But surely not a bathroom-thinker yet, that kind of guy who stands in front of the mirror, looks in his own eyes and seriously asks himself buddy-let's-talk-'bout-it-what-the-hell-are-you-doin'-and-how-do-you-think-this-is-gonna-end. It would have also been self-defeating, then, 'cause when you happen to hold in your hands the fate of the entire species every two weeks or so, you'd just better not ask too many metaphysical questions to yourself.
But, again, maybe that night he was just too tired. Sam had had a couple of weirder than usual hallucinations in the last few days, and Leviathans were getting closer and closer. He was starting to feel that things were slipping out of his control once and for good, and when he saw his reflection with the corner of the eye he found it spontaneous to stop and look at it, mostly to make the point: he was alive, his body entire, no missing arms, not even too much shabby for the lack of sleep. He looked exactly for what he was: totally wet, a towel round his ankles, tensed features, and chilling. Everything was normal, and given the situation that was an incredible luck.
He sniffed with a slight sulk, noticing the presence of a brand new expression wrinkle on his face, and he chose to blame for it the perennial anxiety he lived with, more than the passing of years. He later reached out his hand for another towel and that's why he paid attention to that.
He was so used in having it, the thing on his shoulder, that he never thought about it. He just didn't remember anymore, it was like a mole or a birthmark: just there, being part of his body. It wasn't actually that much normal to have on one's skin the mark of an angel's hand – Dean seriously doubted that anyone else on Earth could boast about such a dubious appeal. But he had never concentrated on it: the scar had become part of that natural order of things the angels themselves liked to mention the whole time.
Though, in that moment he could not stop looking at it. With the passing of time the mark of Castiel's fingers and palm had become paler and less evident, but there it was: a scar carved with divine fire, or whatever crap it was that angelic entities were built of, and probably it wasn't going to ever disappear. It was the biggest of Dean's scars collection; that shape, so precise, made it look almost unreal – and there again, what kind of hand could ever cauterize human skin? - and it wasn't going to leave.
The thought almost chilled his blood: even if for some absurd series of improbable events he was up to survive for decades, he wouldn't ever be able to get rid of it. Castiel was going to stay there, on his shoulder, for the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. And while he saw the corner of his own lips turning down in bitterness, or maybe bother, he thought that after all it was right. That scar was reflecting the simple and inevitable truth: he wasn't going to get rid of the memories, ever.
Every time that for some hazard he'd look bare-chested in a mirror, every time his eyes would fall on that part of his body, he'd remember everything: the first time he had seen the shadow of those wings on the wall in the bunker, the first inappropriate statement, the first sudden apparition on his side, the first childish question, first time he had rested an arm on the shoulders of his friend, first time they had worked together, first time they hadn't been able to understand each other for real, first time they had laughed together, first time he had seen disappointment in Castiel's eyes; he'd remember when Castiel had demanded him the respect he was going to forget too often about, that time in the brothel when they had managed to be cast out, laughing, the time Castiel had beaten the hell out of him – again - when he wanted to say yes to Michael; he'd remember Crowley, Castiel in the circle of fire, his stare, his eyes, he'd remember hearing him to ask once and once only "I need help" a couple of hours before his death, and he'd remember his shape on the floor, blood and worn skin, his voice speaking of apologies, forgiveness and remedy. He'd remember his arms wide open while the stubborn flying idiot was disappearing in the water.
Every time he'd really look at himself, he'd remember all of him, Castiel.
"Oh, sweetie, you're so beautiful."
He suddenly turned to the door. Sam seemed to be strongly concentrating on an heroic attempt to stay serious, but after a few seconds he couldn't bare it anymore and started laughing.
"Get outta here, you jerk!" Dean yelled, throwing the towel against him.
Sam, on his way to the bed, was still giggling. Dean gave a last quick glance to his shoulder in the mirror, before he chaotically took his clothes from the floor. Yeah, he'd remember Castiel all the time, because he was just wearing him around.
But even if he wasn't, he'd remember him anyway.