Epilogue

Paris, Montmartre, 1901, Late Spring

Days turned into weeks, and weeks to months. And then, one not so special day, I sat down at my typewriter and began to write our story. A story about a time, about a place, and about the people who made it all what it was. But above all, this is a story about love. And that is a story that will live forever.

The End.

The final ding of the typewriter was soft on his ears as he pulled the last page out and set it to the side. He had gathered them all up into a neat stack, and as he gently tapped them on the desk to even them out, he wondered vaguely if he was supposed to feel differently. He didn't feel much differently.

But then, he considered, maybe it would take time.

Gabriel stood and found a folder for the manuscript, placing a clean sheet over the front page. He placed the folder in his briefcase and looked about the room. The place was a mess, and it was only thanks to the breeze that was coming into the room that there was any way for him to breathe. It reeked of a place gone too long without airing, and he suddenly felt a great, ferocious urge to air the place out. He set the briefcase on his bed and threw open the windows, gasping in relief as the fresh gust of air washed over him. The scent of rain and chestnuts hit him like a wave, as beyond, the rains of Spring were passing away from Paris. The sun had just come out, and he felt himself smile for the first time in months.

Turning around, he surveyed the room.

"This," he announced, "will not do."

oOo

The landlady was a little shocked when he came bounding down the stairs, four days of beard bristling, and asked with more enthusiasm than he'd shown since he was with Sam if he could have a bucket and some rags. She gave him a mop instead, and told him that if he was going to clean, he could clear out the apartment next to him as well. She would even knock off a week's rent if he did so. He agreed wholeheartedly, and set to work.

Away went the dirt of the floors and the grime on the walls. The sheets were stripped from the bed and hung out the window to air, and bottles that had accumulated tossed out in the trash. The kitchen was cleaned out, the walls were scrubbed until they gleamed, and he even polished the bedposts. By the time he was done, the apartment was better than it had been when he arrived, and he looked around, extremely satisfied. The warm breeze made the soft curtains billow, and his heart swelled a little as he looked out on Paris.

Maybe he was getting better.

oOo

The next day he walked up the long and winding streets, checking the paper he clutched in his hand every once in a while. He wasn't certain that Castiel would even still be there, but he had to check, and at last, he found the place. It was only a little way away from Sacre Couer, a tiny, white, two story house squeezed in between two of the newly constructed four story buildings now there. There was a balcony overflowing with plants, and as he looked up, he was unsurprised to see Dean looking down at him, smoke drifting from the cigarette he held in his fingers. The two looked at each other for a long time before Dean called down, "I'll let you in."

Gabriel nodded, and let himself into the house. It had been divided into three or four different apartments, it seemed, and he climbed to the top and knocked. Dean opened the door after a moment's hesitation, and let him inside.

The place was airy, comfortable, and smelled wonderful. There were two bedrooms, it seemed, and a small bathroom off of the big main room, which housed a sitting area with beautiful furniture and a low coffee table, and a round dining table near the little kitchen. On the stove sat a strangely flat pie, from which the smell of baked apples was wafting.

"What's that?"

"It's an American pie," Dean explained. "They're deserts, not dinner." He walked over to peer at it. "And I think this one finally turned out right. I've been hoping it would, Castiel's been wanting to try them."

"Ah," was all Gabriel said, and an awkward silence fell as the two looked helplessly at each other. There was so much history between the two of them, neither of them knew where to start. Eventually Dean waved helplessly towards the balcony.

"Cigarette?"

"God, yes."

They ended up leaning on the railing together, smoking quietly as people passed below them.

"Cas is at work," Dean said quietly. "He works up at the Basilica now. Grounds keeping. I don't know if I've ever seen him so happy. He says he likes it- nice and simple. Keeps his head clear and his hands away from the Absinthe."

"Good," Gabriel said, nodding. The sun was starting its slow descent to the horizon, and the tower was shining bright in the distance. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl out of his mouth like he was some ancient Oriental dragon, sitting on the balcony and watching the people below with a sort of disconnected fascination. "I finally wrote the book."

Dean went still beside him, cigarette halfway to his lips. Smoke curled from the end. "That so?"

"Yes."

He nodded, and quietly put the cigarette out. Gabriel followed suit, and quietly handed over the briefcase.

Dean took it and opened it, taking out the manuscript and sitting in one of the low slung chairs on the balcony. Gabriel sat in the other, staring pensively out at the city through the wrought iron rails. The sun slowly dipped further and further down in the sky, until Dean was halfway done and had only cried twice.

Then came the coughing.

His skin crawled at the sound. He'd heard it too many times from Sam, from the boy who'd lived in the room next to his and slowly, slowly died of it. It was the consumption cough, and Dean stood up, putting the manuscript on the little table beside him. Rising, he went into the apartment, into one of the bedrooms, and he heard quiet voices. He knew he shouldn't, but he found himself rising to go and see who was there.

He felt his blood turn to ice when he saw who Dean was bent over.

Meg lay in the bed, her fragile body shaking as she coughed up blood. Her hair had been sliced away, close to her head, and her arms were skin and bone. She was paper thin, her face drawn tight around the skull, and Castiel's stomach churned a little at the sight of her. Dean was gently rubbing her back, talking quietly to her as she hacked and coughed, tiny body shaking with the onslaught. When it was finally done, the horrible sounds receding to mostly silence, she flopped back, shaking. She was obviously exhausted, and her breathing was ragged when she calmed down. Dean stayed with her until she was asleep again, and then rejoined Gabriel.

"When the Moulin Rouge was shut down, Meg was very nearly bought by Lucifer," Dean said quietly. "I nearly went to Michael, his brother. He's a Captain, and by all accounts very fond of using pain on his mistresses and whores. But Castiel outbid them both for our contracts."

Gabriel's eyes were fixed on the woman, and he felt once again the unspeakable horror of the disease that was permeating the city. "That was…good of him to do."

"He felt he owed us something better," Dean said, still quiet as he watched Meg through the door. "He couldn't let us go knowing that we'd be killed like some of the others. No one looks for a whore when they vanish."

The matter of fact way he said it made Gabriel want to cry and shake him, say, "No, no, I watched when they vanished from the streets and I feared they were swallowed whole. I remember their names and their faces and the way they had all the hope sucked out of them. I remember you."

Dean brushed past him, and went back to his reading.

Gabriel stole another cigarette, and went through two more before he was lighting up the lamps in the house so Dean could keep reading.

Eventually a key turned in the lock, and Castiel walked in. Gabriel stood up, looking at his old friend. There was a long pause as the two looked at each other. Castiel looked better than he had when they had worked together- his skin was darker now, tanned, and lean muscles were hidden under a slightly stained shirt. He wore a long tan coat over the affair, and as they looked at each other, he was struck by how much brighter his eyes were.

After a good minute, Castiel turned away. "Have you told him yet?" he asked in his familiar low growl.

"No," Dean said, cigarette dangling from his fingers as he watched Castiel with slightly wary eyes.

"Oh." Castiel placed a long stemmed rose in a vase and set it on the counter. His face was troubled when he turned back. "Balthazar's dead."

Gabriel couldn't say he was shocked, but the words hurt all the same. He sat back down, quiet. "How?"

"Couldn't get away from the absinthe and the women. He drank himself to death," Castiel said bluntly. "Have you had dinner yet?"

"No, I came over around 3 o'clock."

A thin, reedy voice from the bedroom called, "That you, Clarence?"

Castiel immediately left them and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Dean watched him go with tired eyes, and Gabriel watched as his shoulders slumped.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No," Dean said flatly, picking the papers back up to continue and taking a long, hard drag on his cigarette. Gabriel decided not to push the matter and kept staring out towards the sunset.

After a while, Castiel left the bedroom and closed the door, his face as unreadable as ever. Dean was obviously pretending that he wasn't aware of him, suddenly focusing very intently on the pages, but Castiel merely shook his head and walked over to gently press a kiss to the top of his head. Dean slumped, giving up and looking up at him pleadingly. Castiel smiled, kissing him with a sweetness that made Gabriel's heart ache, and walked away to the kitchen area.

Dean watched him go with the shadow of a smile before looking back at the manuscript. "I made you a pie. It's in the oven."

Castiel brightened, and looked in at it. "How curiously flat," he said, fascinated. Gabriel watched, struck by the easy domesticity as he took it out, smiling at the delicate designs Dean had made on the top before going and fetching things from the cupboards to begin work on dinner.

"You needn't do that," Dean called absently. "I can make dinner if you want to rest."

"Once in a great while I like to cook," Castiel said defensively. "And it was an easy day today, there's no reason for me not to."

Dean looked up, only to pause. "Gabriel? You okay?"

Gabriel blinked, looking over at him in confusion.

"You're crying," Dean said, and he reached up to touch his face, surprised when he felt tears there.

"Oh," he said blankly. "So I am."

He wiped his tears away, and lit his cigarette again with shaking fingers. Dean looked at him with a bit of sympathy before going back to his reading. Gabriel closed his eyes, exhaling quietly as he made himself relax back into his chair.

There was a dull thump, and his eyes snapped back open to see that Castiel had passed out on the floor.

There was a long pause, and Dean snorted. "Narcolepsy, I ask you," he muttered, standing up to drag the man onto the more comfortable rug to wait for it to wear off. Gabriel couldn't help but smile at that, and tried not to chuckle as he listened to Dean muttering in annoyance.

They ate soup for dinner, a sweet kind with meat in it, and when all was done and he'd obediently tried the apple pie (very sweet, very odd, but very good), he went in to see Meg.

It was worse than he'd anticipated. She was frail, her skin delicate and clinging to her bones. Holding her hand was like taking a skeleton's hand.

"It was only fair," she whispered, her once velvety voice a hoarse rasp from the abuse her throat had taken. "I fucked it up for you big time. He thought that Sam would choose him, that he'd get bored with you. I told him he was wrong. And you both paid. And so now I pay the same way."

"I'm sorry that everything went down the way it did," Gabriel said softly. "And that I just vanished. I should have done something."

Meg gave a rattly laugh. "What could you do? It's called consumption for a reason. It consumes you."

Gabriel lowered his head, gently squeezing her hand.

"Look out for them," she said quietly. "If you think you need to make it up to them. Protect them from themselves. Dean doesn't know his head sometimes, too wrapped up in the past, and Castiel would stray to the bottle if left alone. Look after my boys, Gabriel."

"I will," he said quietly, and kissed her forehead before leaving to let her sleep.

oOo

He broke into the Moulin Rouge that night.

He walked the old hallways, lifted old pieces of furniture. The place was largely untouched, save for the rats that had infested the place. He went through Sam's dressing room, unsurprised when he saw that it had been looted.

Lucifer was not the kind to let go of an obsession.

He went up to the elephant, ignoring the creaks and groans of the joints, and sat on the dusty bed to stare at the one thing that had been left untouched.

On a dress stand, the red dress-coat had been lovingly placed, and on the neck of the stand, sat the great necklace, silver and diamond, gleaming in the lights from the city beyond that filtered in. The elephant was slowly dying, covered in dust and decay, the red room where he had first fallen in love falling apart, save for the dress-coat. He spent some time looking at it before standing up and walking back down the spiraling steps and back to his apartment, quietly closing up behind him.

Once there, he looked around, looking out over the city. The rotted windmill of the Moulin Rouge still creaked and sometimes turned, and the Eiffel Tower was as glorious as ever. Montmartre sat like a fat, overripe peach beneath him, quietly rotting under the moonlight. It had once been so romantic to him, the music of the so-called revolution soaring up into the night sky. But Victor's clever hands didn't play anymore. There was no laughing Balthazar. Castiel lived with a dying woman and a broken man, and who knew where Crowley had taken off to.

There was no Revolution anymore. Just drunks who had lost their sense of reality.

oOo

Meg died four weeks later. The three of them took a trip to the ocean and scattered her ashes. Dean broke down, and Castiel held him, his eyes as somber and tired as they'd ever been. Gabriel went home and drank a bottle of wine alone, and gently stroked his fingers over the one picture of Sam he had found in the wreck of the Moulin Rouge.

That night, Gabriel looked over the manuscript. The top page had remained blank and after a moment's hesitation, he reached over and got a pen, carefully writing across it before setting it on top.

The title was simple.

Moulin Rouge!