Chapter three/The Ending
Idaho was a nice place. The weather wasn't too cold or too hot, and everyone seemed friendly.
They stayed at a hotel the third town in from the southern border, as it was pretty cheap considering how it looked. And besides, the Winchesters wanted to do something nice for their last day with the MacManus'.
Outside in the city, there was a fair in town, so they all went. Sammy had to hold onto all of the money and give it out sparingly, since Dean was a sore loser and all of the games were rigged. However, on the first try, Dean won an AC/DC stuffed bear, much to his joy. Sam smiled at his reaction-jumping up and down, practically, and showing it off to Connor. It was then that he noticed Dean wasn't wearing a jacket like he usually was. He then noticed that Connor was wearing a green coat that looked suspiciously like Dean's. And then he realised it was Dean's, and smiled even wider. "Here,"
Sam looked to his left and was confronted with a large cotton candy cloud in his face, with Murphy standing behind it holding his own. He took it and thanked him, turning back to Dean and Connor, Connor now chasing Dean around with a pink princess streamer hat and trying to get him to wear it. "Dey look happy, don't they?" Murphy asked, biting into his cotton candy.
"Yeah, they do. Dean, he looks happier than I've ever seen him. Ever." Sam answered. "Hell, I'm happy. I feel great," he turned to Murphy with a shy smile, "thanks to you."
Murphy smiled a little in his usual way and bumped him with his shoulder, causing him to laugh and return the favour. The elder man rested his head on said shoulder and slowly ate his cotton candy, he and Sam watching Dean tackle Connor to the ground, his pink princess streamer hat half-crushed and missing all but two of its ribbons. When Dean straddled Connor and pinned him to the ground, Sam thought he might have to step in, but then Connor reached up and kissed the eldest Winchester, and he rolled his eyes and stayed where he was on the fair bench beside Murphy.
Eventually, they were kicked out for loud and obnoxious behaviour and spent the rest of the day store-hopping and eating artery-clogging food until they went back to the hotel and collapsed on their beds and watched the tellie before sleep pulled them away.
Dean awoke first around midnight that night. Usually, when he was with Connor, he could fall asleep and stay asleep until morning, but that night something was different. The junk food, probably. But his body felt fine. What was it, then?
A light settling around him caused him to frown and shift about in Connor's arms. What he saw when he'd settled he couldn't believe.
Connor had fucking wings.
Glowing, shifting, colourful wings of orange, white, and green. He almost gasped at how beautiful they were and at how confused he was. Connor had shown no signs of being an angel-except for maybe his asexuality, his strong Catholic beliefs, and the whole "killing for God thing", but other than that, nothing. So how does he...? "I was hopin' yuh didn't hafta find out, but I guess I wouldn't be tellin' da truth if I didn't." Connor mumbled.
Dean's head whipped down to his face, his expression confused and heartbroken. "Connor, what... what is this?"
The Irishman smiled. "I'm a saint, Dean. A warrior of good. Me an' Murph, we were chosen to kill all who are evil by God. It was only a year ago t'at we got dese." His wings fluttered slightly, the colour shifting and filling Dean with a wave of peace and strength.
"So, you're not an angel?"
"In some aspects, I suppose we are. But overall, no, we ain't."
Something stabbed sharply at Dean's chest, and his countenance contorted into one of pain. It... it was heart, he knew it was. It was trying to reject this invading feeling, this emotion; love, love that his heart was sure didn't belong there. Connor placed his left hand on the hunter's face and smiled a little sadly, leaning forward and kissing him. Dean slowly wrapped his arms around him and swallowed down his cries of pain as his heart began to lose the battle with love. Connor shifted so he was atop him. Orange, white, and green light brightened the room and cast a heart-shaped glow over the two intertwined men, Connor's wings fluttering and standing almost straight up. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes were glowing with a smoke-like mist that was the same colour as his irises, and the tattoos on his hand and arm-"Veritas" and the Celtic cross-had the same mist coming from them, except black. With each passing minute their lips remained in contact, he shined brighter and brighter, and Dean's heart pumped erratically and in such a familiar way that he knew if Connor ever left him he would never be the same.
Soon, Connor was a brilliant star, and was so bright he was starting to burn. "Dean, Dean we gotta stop, it 'urts." He pulled away from the younger male beneath him with a gasp.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean breathed heavily, eyes shut. After a while, as the light began to fade, he felt tears run down the sides of his face and huffed a sad laugh. "What?" Connor questioned, expression one of concern.
"Jesus Christ, it's gonna blow when you're gone. You really know how to make an impression, Conn."
Connor was silent a moment, and then muttered, "Who said I 'adta leave?"
Dean sat up quickly, expression one of hope and disbelief. "What'd you say?"
Both of their faces mirrored each other's, Connor about to reply when Sam's voice rang out, "Oh my God Murphy!" and Murphy's replied, "What?"
"You have wings! Are you... what..."
"They're not angels, Sam," Dean told his brother, he and Connor's fingers intertwining with bright smiles on their countenances.
"Then, what are-"
"Saints, Sam. Conn and I, we were-"
Dean and Connor tuned out their siblings and focused on each other instead, foreheads pressed and eyes locked on the other's. "I think I love you, Connor MacManus."
"Aye; likewise, Dean Winchester."
Now it was Sam and Murphy who were staring at their brothers, confused but glad that their siblings had someone to share the weight on their shoulders with.
A black '67 Chevy Impala passed through Idaho unnoticed, making for Washington. Four figures took up the seats; two men in the front, two in the back. Loud rock music that sounded like Queen blasted from three open windows, mixed with laughter, talking, and Irish accents. Junk food and cigarette smoke wafted in the air in its wake, and, if you were close enough, you could see two pairs of wings on the backs of the men in the rear seats, and the love in the eyes of the four of them.
The sight was lovely; sigh-inducing, almost, especially for those who knew what happened when hunters fall for saints.
They are saved.
END.
