AN: Final regular chapter! Just the epilogue to follow (well, and. . .actually. . .the epilogue-epilogue (: )
Thanks to my. . .one reviewer, really. Appreciate it! Enjoy!
Dean couldn't see anything. Or maybe there just wasn't anything to see. It was just white, or not-white. Not-white.
I forgive you.
Forgive me for what? Dean asked. I didn't do anything wrong. But even as he said it, he felt that wrongness in his body. What hadn't he done wrong? He'd failed Sammy. . .hadn't managed to keep him safe. He thought of all the lives he'd lost on hunts. Thought of his own deal with the Crossroads Demons, they people he'd tortured in hell. He'd broken the first seal. He'd caused the Apocalypse. He'd screwed more girls than he could remember, including a freakin' Angel of God. He'd sworn and boozed and never gone to church.
I forgive you.
Warmth suffused him, but was quickly washed away by the cold, bitter iron taste of guilt. Their own mother and father, dead because he couldn't save them. Madison, who he'd let his own brother shoot, tear-stained face and all. His father, who had gone to Hell, literally, to save his sorry ass. The faith healer.
I forgive you.
Jo and Ellen, dead because of him. Pastor Jim, dead. Caleb, dead.
I forgive you.
Bobby was paralyzed, once again for him. Castiel had fallen, had been cast out of heaven. And now even Sam. . .even Sam was gone. The warmth crept back, was still kept out.
I forgive you.
Well, that's just great for you. Doesn't mean I forgive myself.
Your hand was forced. I forgive you.
He had nothing left, no ammunition to fight against the warmth. So he let it in. For the first time in 26 years, Dean Winchester stopped fighting. He gave in. The warmth blossomed in his chest, spread through his limbs. The not-white became a little brighter. He could hear, so faint it was barely there, the familiar guitar riffs of Metallica. Barely there, but still comforting.
Thank you.
You have been a good son. You have done all that was asked of you, and then some.
Dean didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what he could say.
Who are you? Who the hell are you?
There was no answer to that, and Dean knew that he didn't need one. He could smell it now, warm and buttery. Hints of cinnamon, nutmeg. Freshly baked pie.
Forgive my children. Forgive my Son. They knew not what they did. They were only following orders.
Yeah, about those orders. What the hell? The only way to fix the world is through bloodshed? Through pain? What kind of God are you?
I have no rules. Love has no rules, knows no boundaries. Sometimes my children forget that. Sometimes they read too much of the history, and too little of the Word.
Like how he had always fixated on his fathers rules, his father's orders. Watch out for Sammy. It's your job. It's your responsibility.
But hadn't Dad always returned with food? Hadn't he stayed home for three days when Sam had the chicken pox, when Dean had gone to school?
Hadn't Dad been the one to rescue Sam from the shtriga?
Hadn't Dad rescued them from the black dogs?
Maybe what Dad had been saying wasn't that it was a job. . .that it was family. That it's how things worked. Maybe he'd never been asked to be a soldier. He'd just assumed that.
The warm feeling became stronger, the not-light brighter, the smell of pie sweeter, the music louder, and now he could feel, beneath him, the cool hum of leather seats inside a classic car.
I have been away too long. I have been looking over my other children, have forgotten you, forsaken you. I ask, now, that you forgive me.
For some reason Dean thought of Adam. Thought of that time he'd been laid up in the hospital for three months, when Dad had disappeared and come back when he'd finally been released. How he'd lost weight and strength, but his Dad had appeared better than he'd seen him in years. He thought he knew, now, where his father had been. He might have even known then. He'd still forgiven him. Because he was family.
I have gathered my angels back to Heaven. They are back in their home. I will return you to yours.
A shift of panic, stealing away the warmth at that. All of the angels?
Why bother? Dean asked. I have nothing. I'm thirty-three years old. I feel like I'm seventy. My brother is dead, my mom is dead, my dad is dead. My only friend is an angel, who according to you is now trapped back in Heaven with his dick brothers. All I know is hunting. It's all I can do. But . . .I can't. I can't even do that anymore. I'm too tired. Can't I just stay here? Can't it just be over?
God, was that his own voice? Whining? Broken? He was behaving like a prissy little girl. .
What have I done to you, my son. . .
There was such sorrow in that voice, and for a moment Dean thought he saw his father's eyes. But of course not. His dad was dead. Gone. But there was a warmth to the not-white, now. A kindness. Arms folding around him, clutching him close, and he sank into them, a flash of blonde hair, blue eyes, a white nightgown. . .and then it was gone, replaced with the leather seats.
It was nice, here. It was comfortable. Sure, maybe a little lonely, but Dean had always expected to end up alone. It was better than he thought. Maybe God had a decent set-up after all.
I cannot give you everything back. It would take away all that you have worked for. But I will give you back what I can.
Don't, Dean thought. Don't, begging now, just let me stay. . .but what good was his voice up here? When had he ever gotten what he'd wanted?
* * * * *
Huh, Sam thought. Well. This version of Heaven was better than the last one. There was a silence here, a peacefulness that he'd never been able to find in life. Everything was. . .off-color, somehow. That color that existed between black and white, between light and darkness. He'd like to study this color, this not-color, knew there wasn't enough time in all the world.
The musky smell of books, and a touch of lilac.
The feel of hardwood beneath him, and he wondered if he wasn't sitting in court, maybe.
The feel of a warm body beside him, and he knew, just knew, that if he reached up he would feel long blonde curves, and the soft yield of the only woman he'd ever met to match him in height, in wit. . .
Sam groaned. It had to be a lie, some kind of ruse concocted by Lucifer. Because there was no way he was getting this back. There was no way he'd get ot heaven. Not after the demon blood, not after the betrayals. Not after that look on Dean's face after they'd defeated Pestilence. . .correction, after he'd defeated pestilence, his face a cold mask, the pull for more blood deep within him.
I forgive you.
A warmth suffused him, and Sam suddenly, abruptly, felt that familiar course of faith run through him, encircling him, comforting him. That everpresent niggling in the back of his head that had kept him sane through the craziness of his childhood, that sense that there was something more than just hunting and creatures that went bump in the night.
Thank you, he thought, so grateful, so blessed.
You have suffered much. You have suffered admirably.
No, Sam thought. I broke. I drank demon blood. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.
The ends justify the means.
Do they?
No. But your belief makes this all irrelevant. You have suffered much, I feel much sorrow.
Sam twitched, a little uncomfortable. Because, yeah, sometimes it had been Hell, but it hadn't always been all that bad. He'd had a family growing up. He'd had Jess. He'd had four years of normalcy. He'd had a brother who would give up life and soul for him. He'd been loved more deeply than most people ever were. He'd saved lives. Hell, if he was where he thought he was (knew he was) talking to who he thought he was (knew he was) he'd saved the world. Wasn't that worth a little suffering?
I cannot give you back all that you have lost. Cannot give you back your innocent. That is a scar that you must always wear, a cross you must always bear.
Sam knew what he was referring to, that niggling pain that even now was at the back of his throat.
I can give you back the rest. Give you back your youth, your love, your father.
Dean?
Yes.
* * * * *
You have done the one thing you may never, never do.
I know.
Why?
You know.
I cannot give back what you have thrown away. You disregarded your home, your family, your father. You have orphaned yourself.
I know.
It was your falling that called me back.
I know.
You and your brothers were given one command. To love my creation, and to care for them as I always cared for you.
Yes.
My love was always pure. It was never tainted like this.
I know.
I never forsook you. My earthly creatures, yes. But you and your brothers. . .I never left you. And yet you left me.
I had no choice.
A pause, a beat, a light flicker of humor between the two. Because, after all, he shouldn't have had a choice. He hadn't had a choice to make, and yet.
I owe you my thanks. Had you not fallen, I would not have turned. My sons would have destroyed my creation. And yet. . .and yet you have betrayed me.
I cannot be sorry.
I cannot give you back what you lost.
I know.
I still love you, just as I loved Lucifer.
Will you forget me, as you forgot him?
He begged forgiveness. I accepted. He will join me again. Do you beg forgiveness, Castiel?
I cannot, Father. I am not sorry. Not if it saved him. Not if it saved what he loves.
I will give you all that I can. It will not be enough.
It already is.
Human love is nothing compared to My love.
I know, Father. It is flawed, and tragic, and greater.
* * * * *
"Jesus Christ!" Dean struggled up to a sitting position, ignoring his father's hand on his chest, trying to push him back down. "What the hell are you all doing in here? Just watching me sleep? It's creepy!" He glanced around at the room, filled to bursting. Sam, who was crying, just weeping like a little girl. His father, stuck in a wheelchair, but beaming. Jess, looking very good, Dean realized, in a low-cut blouse and tight, tight jeans. And. . .some weirdo chick in a long black dress. Behind them he saw still more faces. Bobby, still in the trucker hat he'd worn since he was younger. Bill Harvelle was there, with his wife, and that cute little slip of a daughter. Rufus was peeking around the corner, and Pastor Jim. Dean sighed.
"Seriously? Did you think I was going to kick it, or something? You plan a funeral?"
"Dean," Sam reached down, grasped his brother tightly. "Man, it's good to have you back."
"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbled uncomfortably. It did feel good, though, to feel his brother's arms around him. It felt complete. And when his dad placed a hand on his ankle, and the weirdo girl placed a gentle kiss on his forehead he thought. . .well, hell, maybe almost dying wasn't so bad, after all.
And they'd killed the Yellow-Eyed Demon, hadn't they?