Song Remains the Same
Chapter 90 / Carry On
"You taught me the courage of stars, before you left.
How light carries on endlessly—even after death.
How rare and beautiful it is, to even exist."
- Sleeping At Last
Dean pinned another printout to the wall of Rufus Turner's cabin and stood back to scowl at his work. Newspaper articles, magazine clippings, internet printouts, and maps marked up with sharpies littered the entire wall almost floor to ceiling. The main theme of the intel tacked to the wall was Dick Roman—Dean's number one target and one of the only things he could think about these days. Dick had to go. Pronto. And Dean was starting to get his drive back, his determination. That meant bad news for Dick.
It had been something over three weeks since Bobby died. Three weeks of the brothers holing themselves up and doing pretty much nothing except languishing in a lot of silence and booze and bad TV. Time had evaporated without Dean even really noticing—it was all a blur of whiskey, fury directed at Dick Roman, and anguish about what had happened. Despite their mutual sorrow and general feeling of apathy as they grieved Bobby's loss, the brothers had tried to figure out what those damn numbers were. The ones Bobby wrote down in his last moment. But they couldn't figure it out—the number remained a mystery. Sam had suggested once or twice that maybe the numbers weren't important or didn't mean anything. But Dean knew they were something important. And he'd be damned if Bobby Singer's last act on this planet went in vain. Dean looked down at the yellow lined notepad he was holding.
45489.
45489.
45489.
Five scrawled numbers that plagued Dean's every waking moment. They weren't a zip code, a password, a bank number, a lock combination. They were a complete and total mystery that was really starting to really piss Dean off. He searched the wall in front of him, just knowing the answer was staring him in the face. Come on, come on. What do you stupid sons-of-bitches numbers mean? Why did you leave these numbers, Bobby? What's the connection? Am I just blind or what? What—do—these—mean?
Behind Dean, Sam was moving something around and then opening the refrigerator… basically getting on Dean's nerves simply by being in the same room. He tried not to pay attention, but with his frayed patience and mental exhaustion, it was hard not to let every single little thing get to him. Dean heard the familiar sound of a beer bottle hissing and popping as Sam cracked one open for himself. Shuffling footsteps came a little closer and Dean made a face at the wall. Here we go. He could sense it. Sam was about to say something. Dean wasn't in the mood.
Sure enough, sounding reluctant and a little meek, Sam spoke up. "Dean, you know, um... I wonder if—if we... I mean, should we be telling people?" Dean stiffened. "I mean, people he knew."
Dean turned around and completely ignored the question, pretending he hadn't heard—he had other more important things to worry about, anyway. "How long ago did I give Frank these numbers?" he asked imperatively, wracking his brain. Frank Devereaux, some whack job who was good at computers and more paranoid about government conspiracy than anyone Dean had ever met before. They had met him around when the Leviathan crap started and he'd proven to be an asset so far. But he was kind of hard to pin down or get a response from. "It's been a few weeks, right?" Dean was frustrated and close to throwing his notepad. "What is he nuts, or is he just being rude?" He turned back to look at the wall of papers yet again, hoping Sam would take the hint and shut up point blank.
"Probably both," Sam supplied hesitantly. "Dean, I—I asked you a question."
Ignoring his brother's prompts because he didn't want to talk about that—he didn't want the death to be real, he didn't want to have to call people and console them about it—Dean turned back around and kept talking about Frank. "Unless of course something happened to him…" he said, his tone cynical and short. "He can't get to the phone because a Leviathan ate his face."
"Yeah, also a possibility," Sam conceded tiredly. It was easy to tell how disappointed he was in Dean's reaction.
Dean didn't care. "We should go check on him," he said, waggling the pad of paper he held at Sam and giving him a pointed look. "And while we're at it, we need to find our damn sister. This has gone on too long, Sam, and I am sick of being in this cabin and not knowing where the hell she is or what she's doing or why she won't talk to us for more than five minutes at a time. I mean, it's crazy!"
Sam was staring at him unhappily. "Dean, do you wanna call Bobby's people or not?"
Bristling, Dean set his brother with a glare. "Did you not hear what I just said, Sam?" he asked rudely. "Or is your head so far up your ass your ears quit working?"
That earned him an annoyed, weary sigh from Sam. "Don't be a dick, Dean," he said flatly. "I'm just as worried as you are."
"Sure you are," Dean muttered.
"Why does it always have to be a contest?" Sam burst out, voice rising as he got exasperated and defensive.
Dean was shaking his head and pushing his mouth into a hard line as he tried to control his temper. He turned back around and tried to concentrate on his wall of research. "Just—just shut up Sam, stop hassling me about all this stuff."
"Dean—" Sam protested.
Jesus Christ. Dean whirled around angrily. "Why is it our job to call people and tell them about Bobby?!" he demanded loudly.
Sam was giving him one of those sad, earnest, concerned looks. "…Because who else is gonna do it?"
Dean wanted to punch Sam in the nose. "I'm not calling anybody," he retorted hotly. "If you want to, you go right ahead, princess." He jerked a thumb back at the wall behind himself. "I gotta pin more articles up here then call your dumbass twin sister and, you know, make sure she's still alive."
"Oh so now she's my sister," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes, giving up for the moment.
Dean ignored him and began to rearrange the papers on the wall with fiery, jerky movements. Besides a million other negative feelings floating around inside of him, he was pissed at Alex. He was confused and hurt by her behavior ever since Cas died. Shouldn't she be holding onto her family at this time? She wasn't. She had just ditched. She hadn't dropped off the grid completely, she wasn't completely AWOL, but she made it a whole lot harder to sleep at night. She checked in every couple days (mostly by texts), screening Dean's calls and instead calling when she was ready to talk. She refused to tell him where she was except 'safe' and 'where I need to be,' whatever the hell that meant. When he got belligerent and angry at her, she cut the conversation off completely. When he begged her to just please 'come home' she would tell him she wasn't ready yet. She wouldn't come to the cabin, she wouldn't agree to let them come see her, and it was the worst. She could have been in Timbuktu for all he knew. What if something happened to her or she needed help and they couldn't get to her in time? He went from wanting to shake her and yell at her to wanting to plead with her to just come back where he and Sam could keep her safe from all the goo-heads out there. Leviathan were no joke. But she wasn't having it. And Dean had to accept it even if he did hate it.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed suddenly. A sudden instance of hope kindled in his chest—was it Alex? Finally calling to say she was coming back? Dean pulled his phone out, unable to see the screen soon enough. He was disappointed, but only mildly so. Instead of reading 'A', the name 'James' and the little symbol that indicated a picture was attached were displayed. Dean opened the message with a frown, unsure of what James would be doing sending him a picture to him out of the blue—they had texted back and forth the past few weeks as she resumed hunting out on the east coast where she had some contacts, but he hadn't heard from her in a few days. As the message loaded, he was anticipated a photo of something nasty—maybe a disfigured murdered person she'd found, maybe a part of a bloody hacked up monster she couldn't identify. Instead, he found himself looking at a cell phone snap shot of an overweight chump standing at the side of the road in a very ridiculous pie slice costume and bright red tights—the poor sap held a sign that said Pies Pies Pies Oh My! Behind him was a building labeled Bertha's Pies and More.
Jamie had included the following message: So if your current career doesn't work out, here's an idea… ;)
Dean pulled a face, suddenly amused—and kind of confused. No murders, no monsters…? Just a guy in a goofy pie suit…? Just a silly text message? Pleasantly surprised at the sudden humor that had come out of nowhere and the fact that Jamie was thinking about him, Dean's foul mood was momentarily curtailed. A little smile grew on his face as he typed a slow reply that didn't give away his deeper, darker, more morose thoughts. looks good bring me some! ha ha
A few seconds later, she replied with two messages right after each other:
In Alabama right now, lol kinda far
Heading your way though - levi lead in Kansas
Dean's smile faded in favor of an immediately concerned frown. He typed pretty fast, concentrating deeply. What lead? Dont go alone if its levis…. u need backup?
Her reply was fast. I'm going alone AND wearing cheese just to make sure they can smell me a mile away
Dean made a face and rolled his eyes because he should have expected her snarky little ass to say something like that. ha ha very funny. seriously by urself tho?
No, with Owen and his crew. Not sure if lead is legit yet.
Dean paused before writing a reply. Owen the Samoan. Dean had met him and his team once on a job. He was one of the hunters Jamie had networked with back in the day and she still hunted with him and his family from time to time. Anyway, the instant feeling Dean had at the mention of his name? Jealousy. Because Owen was quite strapping and handsome and Jamie was quite the knockout. He wondered immediately if they were, you know. And it made him sour a bit. He pushed the thought away, shaking his head at himself. He'd give anything to kill and maim something to relieve all this stress either way. Dean's reply was worded carefully not to give away his desperation. ok well lemme know if we can help starting to go crazy here at cabin.
A few seconds later, her reply showed up. If you miss me just say so!
Dean smiled as he took the opportunity to tease her (it was too easy). I miss…..…... ur cooking
Her reply was pretty much what he'd predicted. lol dumbass. Gotta go.
Dean's smile was still there but fading. He was more than a little worried about her. Had been for awhile. He wrote out one final text and almost didn't send it. Then he pushed send before he could change his mind. Be careful james
No reply came and his heavy mood slowly descended back over him again until he was cloudy and grim once more. He couldn't completely pinpoint when Jamie had become part of his life like she had, but ever since Cas died, she'd been drifting into his life more and more and somehow, despite a lot of head-butting and the irritating attraction to each other that Dean was 97% sure was mutual, they were something like friends. Good friends. They'd had a few conversations that had gone pretty fucking deep—the kinds of conversations he just didn't have with most people. She was a good listener and had good opinions. He'd come to respect her, believe it or not. And she took up space in his head regularly now. Worries, fears. Curiosities. Jealousy of other dudes being around her, especially good looking ones. Irritated with himself, Dean rolled his eyes. That was never gonna happen with the two of them.
...He didn't think.
Dean pocketed his silent phone and stared blankly at the wall of papers in front of himself. Maybe he should drop this Dick Roman thing and work his way up the food chain instead. Maybe he should call Jamie to ask specifics about whatever hunt this was and get himself and Sam on board with her and just see where that took them. Or maybe he just wanted to see her again. At this point he wasn't even sure where his head was at.
Feeling a stare on his back, he turned and saw how Sam was looking at him skeptically. "What?" Dean demanded rudely.
Sam sounded judgmental. "Was that your girlfriend?" The bitchy tone earned Sam a wan, attitude-riddled look.
"Not my girlfriend, Sam," Dean denied flatly, turning his back on his brother and returning his attention to his wall of research. "Don't you have some phone calls to make?"
And that was how Sam and Dean continued on. Mostly at odds, letting their grief fester and come out in acts of passive aggressive hostility.
Two Weeks Later
Saint Paul Psychiatry and Mental Health Center
Topeka, Kansas
While the Winchester brothers slowly got themselves back on the road and resumed hunting, their sister was doing something very different.
Fighting hard was something Alex Winchester was very used to. She knew what it was like to get hurt, fall down, and survive by the skin of her teeth. She'd spent the better portion of her life fighting tooth and nail, being pushed past her limits. But the battle she had put herself into now was harder than anything else she had ever faced before. This kind of fighting was an entirely new experience.
After leaving Sunny Meadows and ditching Zip, Alex had decided it was time to once and for all get herself together on the inside. She knew that on her own, it wasn't possible—she wasn't sure how to be well-adjusted or how to deal with all the inescapable pain she was lugging around. She didn't know how to overcome herself and knew that something had to give. So she'd found a new clinic to check into. One in her home state.
Once at Saint Paul's, she'd committed herself for real to the inpatient program and to intensive therapy even though it was uncomfortable and it felt embarrassing to need as much help as she did. But if she never tried, she would never know. With that in mind, Alex gave it everything and cooperated with the staff as close to a hundred percent as she could, hoping that it would all pay off in the end. She had lived her whole life feeling afraid of diagnosis and labels. But this time, she had squared her shoulders and decided to receive those labels—and the help that would come with them.
Therapy and counseling was exhausting and intense beyond belief, it was hard as hell and made her feel bare—she had to force herself to trust the process even though almost every day she could imagine Dean's look of 'are you batshit?' and his comments about how talking her feelings out to complete strangers was the opposite of helpful. You don't let strangers in, you depend on your family and that's it. But she was trying something new and going out on a limb, taking the risk and forcing herself to have faith it would work. She stuck with it and tried to only listen to her inner voice. That voice told her to keep working hard at stripping off years and years of layered-on traumas and wounds. As time went on and the weeks passed, Alex found herself feeling stronger and more centered as her therapists worked with her and guided her through the stormy waters of her own mind and past. There was talk therapy, EDMR therapy, group therapy, and CBT/DBT therapy woven in. All stuff Alex had never even known about before.
Over the weeks, Alex spilled her entire life story (with more than a few edits about the more unbelievable parts) and let her doctors know everything. It was something she never would have quite pictured herself doing in the past, but after having dragged herself around on her face for so many months and only feeling worse and worse, Alex basically figured 'what the hell?' and decided to give transparency a shot.
Even though her instincts were to never tell anyone anything, she told them about her childhood, her mother's death, her absent and abusive father, his death, her brothers. She told them about her twenty-year plus mutism and her 'still unexplained' recovery from it. She told them about meeting a man named Castiel and how it tore her family and life apart in the end. She told them about Glen, she told them about the lost baby, she told them about Bobby dying and Cas dying (she said he killed himself by drowning)… she told them that before he died Cas 'went crazy' and abused her and attempted to rape her. She told them everything, spinning so that it was believable to people from a normal life.
The only thing she didn't tell them was about her painkiller addiction. She was very paranoid about appearing completely pathetic, so she decided to try to win that battle on her own (maybe to prove to herself she was strong in some way still). She weaned herself down in dose, taking Oxy before therapy began so that her addiction wasn't obvious. At night came the nausea and vomiting, the illness, the aches and shakes, the profuse sweating, the cramps, the all-out misery. Tenacity and the sheer determination to change herself were what got her through the daily withdrawals. It was hellish in its own right, having to suffer such physical agony all night long and then open up emotionally and mentally during therapy and counseling for a better portion of the waking hours of the day. Some days, Alex wanted to quit and drop out and say 'good enough.' But she hung in with the five-week program and kept at it because she was dead set on seeing this through. As the weeks passed and her mule-headed stubbornness paid off, the withdrawals got better as she got herself to half of the dose she'd been taking before. That was encouraging for her, a small victory. A reason to keep going.
What wasn't encouraging was what the doctors had determined over the past few week, or to be more succinct, the diagnosis that had been made: post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety and depression, and borderline personality disorder. She'd been found to have an unsafe inclination towards impulse and addiction. They said that she struggled with unhealthy feelings of inadequacy, guilt over situations out of her control, and deeply dangerous levels of suppressed anger and resentment. All of it sounded scary, but the doctors and therapists had walked her through each diagnosis and helped her feel empowered to face her dysfunctions instead of run away and let them have the wheel.
It kind of sucked to take a hard, long, honest look at herself and how jacked up she was, but it was also necessary. Being aware of the problem ensured that you could begin to address it (Doctor Ekwensi's words). Through the process and as every day marched by, Alex was given new challenges and epiphanies. It was painful, it left her raw, but it was working and she saw that it was, too.
However, she didn't know if five weeks was quite long enough to tackle all the darkness she carried. Today was supposed to be her final day, the day she was evaluated for release from the program. Alex knew from talking to the others at Saint Paul's that there was a test of some kind at the end of the five weeks. She wasn't sure what but she was nervous about what the test might be. Earlier that week Doctor Ekwensi had told her to write letters to the men in her life—Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Cas in specific—and to write down everything, to let out any apologies, bitterness, grudges, bottled up feelings, things she had never told them but needed to say. The letters were for catharsis and she was supposed to burn them eventually to symbolically release all the feelings into the void. Was that the test, maybe? The letters were due today and she was supposed to bring them with her. She had, but she only had three letters, not the four that had been requested. One for each brother and one for Bobby. She just hadn't been able to write the one to Cas. Each time she'd started, it had overwhelmed her and had felt so final that she hadn't been able to write more than a couple of words.
She was left idly wondering why Dad hadn't been one of her letter-writing assignments. He'd been identified as a huge source of instability, anger, and conflict within hours of when therapy first began five weeks ago. She thought if she wasn't given an assignment to write him a letter today, she was going to anyway. There was so much she still needed to say to him, dead or not. The letters she'd written to her brothers and Bobby had left her feeling so surprisingly relieved. It was encouraging. She felt like there might be hope for her after all.
Letters in her back pocket, Alex knocked on Doctor Ekwensi's office door—her primary therapist. He called for her to come in and smiled up at her from behind his desk as he put away some papers he'd been reading over. His office was bright and cheerful, cozy, welcoming. "Good morning, Miss Alex." Doctor Howard Ekwensi was an affable and calming presence—he never seemed rushed or at a loss—he always had an answer, always had encouragement to give. His ebony skin was peppered in age spots, his smile was constant and always in his twinkling eyes; he had a smooth, rich voice gently accented by what Alex thought was a Nigerian affect. His hair was a little wild and turning white. He had a constantly quiet, measured, and wise presence.
"Morning Doctor Ekwensi," she returned, trying to appear less nerve-wracked than she actually was. She took her seat across from him like usual. Knowing what today was had her a little jittery. Some days she felt more self-conscious than others when she remembered where she was: a mental health clinic.
The doctor looked her over in contemplation that was quiet and kind. "How are you feeling today?"
"A little nervous," she said, smiling tightly. She always got a little paranoid he was going to see through her and call her on the painkillers, but he hadn't. Not yet. Hopefully not ever.
"Now no need to be nervous!" said a new voice—Alex turned a little, recognizing the exuberant voice. Saint Paul's lead psychologist: Doctor Alice Stokes was in her fifties and always wore colorful patterned dresses underneath her white doctor's coat—she was an assertive, joyful woman who struck the balance of professional, empathetic, and personable. "Today is a good today, we gonna see great things happen in this office today!" she announced enthusiastically as she bustled in, then winked at Alex as she sat down beside her in the vacant chair. At Alex's stumped look, she smiled playfully like it was a family get together, not a psychological evaluation. "Bet you wonderin' why I'm here."
Alex looked at Doctor Ekwensi questioningly and briefly before looking back at Doctor Stokes. "A little…" she ventured cautiously.
"Doctor Stokes is going to assist us today," Doctor Ekwensi explained, his tone kind and reassuring without him even trying to sound that way. Alex nodded faltering understanding, even though she felt uncertain and a little skittish about what was going on. This was different. She usually met her two doctors separately. Doctor Ekwensi leaned across his desk and laced his fingers together and peered at her. "But before we get to today's exercise, did you write the letters?"
"I did," she confirmed a little nervously. "One to Sam, one to Dean, one to Bobby. It was, um, really hard. Harder than I thought." She wondered if he would be upset that she hadn't done four letters like she'd been asked. This would be the first time she hadn't delivered what her doctors had asked of her. "I haven't written the one to Castiel yet—" she hedged apologetically. "I started ten times, I tried, but I just… I couldn't quite get there." It felt embarrassing now and Alex wished she had been able.
There was an unruffled nod. "I thought you might have trouble with that one," Doctor Ekwensi said, and he didn't seem surprised at all or upset in the least. In fact, he just seemed empathetic. "So many issues around him, so many." He remained steadfast and kind.
Alex nodded somberly. That was putting it mildly.
Doctor Ekwensi rested a finger against his cheek as he leaned an elbow onto his desk and studied her. "Before we begin, I wanted to ask you which letter surprised you the most once you had finished."
It was uncanny how Doc Ekwensi always knew things like that—when Alex had gotten the assignment, she hadn't thought it would be that big of a big deal. But then she'd sat down to actually write the letters. "The one to Sam," she admitted, thinking about it and getting a faraway look in her eye as she did. "I never realized… a lot of stuff, really, but…" she trailed off, looking at her doctor in the eye and getting worried. "I know we're supposed to burn the letters, but I think I'm gonna give him his. I really want him to have it… is that okay?"
"Of course. You may do whatever you wish with the letters," Doctor Ekwensi said graciously. "The purpose of that exercise was to let feelings out into the air and address them, give them a voice and then burn away the things that are not needed in your life. If you feel that you and Sam's relationship would benefit from the letter you wrote… by all means. He should have it."
"This means you plan to burn the ones you wrote to Dean? To Bobby?" Doctor Stokes asked. She was very watchful and perceptive. And also right.
"Yeah," Alex confirmed somberly. "The letter to Dean ended up being more for my benefit than for his… and the one to Bobby is just me saying goodbye, I guess." A pang of sadness welled inside. It was still a shock that he was gone. Would be for awhile. But she'd written down everything she had never gotten to speak aloud to him and felt a deeper sense of peace about things because of it. Same thing with Dean and Sam's letters. Dean's letter had ended up being nothing that would do him much good to read, not really. Half of it was bitterness and anger, after all. However, Sam's letter… he needed to read it. And he would. Soon. But currently, Alex had other things making her anxious. She worried her bottom lip briefly and looked between the doctors questioningly. "So, uh, what are we doing today?" she asked in a tone that attempted to sound nonplussed.
Doctor Ekwensi stood slowly and straightened his white coat as he gestured to the other doctor in the room. "Doctor Stokes and myself have spoken at length and feel it's time to give you an opportunity to greet and then bypass one of the biggest roadblocks that's holding you back," he said, coming around from the back of his desk to stand in front of it and sit-lean casually. "One of the biggest sources of anger that we feel you have yet to confront." Alex frowned shrewdly. Anger over losing Bobby? Anger at Cas? Anger at life in general? It turned out not to be any of those things. "Your father."
Her stomach plummeted to the ground and she blinked twice in confusion. "Wait, what?"
Doctor Stokes was nodding silently, supporting everything Doctor Ekwensi was saying.
"If you agree to participate, we will engage in a bit of therapeutic role play today. I will be John Winchester, and you will tell to me everything you ever wanted to tell him," the doctor said evenly, explaining it in a calm and measured tone as Alex's face continued to show surprise. "I'll respond to you as I think he might, based on what you've told us about him, and you and I will interact and you can apply all the skills you've learned here to the discussion that follows. I'll attempt to draw out and trigger you so that your skills can be put to practice."
Alex gaped. There had been a little role play therapy before in a few of the group sessions she'd been part of with other patients, but she hadn't liked it. "You look a little frightened, Alex," Doctor Stokes observed.
"I'm, I'm just a little surprised," Alex said, resigning herself already to her fate. "U-unprepared." In the past, she would have immediately walked out of this or made an excuse. She would have scoffed and called it stupid, she would have discredited it immediately and refused to participate. But today, she stayed in the chair and considered her choices. She swallowed her misgivings and prepared herself for a lot of embarrassment. If the doctors thought this was going to help… maybe it would. Maybe the immediate aversion she felt was a sign that she needed this. But she felt like she'd said: unprepared.
"That's where I feel you're incorrect," Doctor Stokes said with a knowing smile. "You very prepared for this. The work we accomplished these past five weeks shows. I think you might be surprised how this goes. All you need to do is be open, honest, and candid—remember your skills. Take your time. It won't be easy... but when has therapy ever been easy?"
Alex nodded. She tried to look somber and serious on the outside. Inside, she was freaking out a little. This was going to be intense—she could tell from the looks on her doctors faces. Doctor Ekwensi motioned for her to stand up and Alex did slowly, noticing how her pulse was picking up from anxiety. Breathe. She inhaled deeply and steadily, controlling her panic through a grounding practice like she'd been taught in therapy. Doctor Stokes stood, too, and pulled the chairs back, making a bigger space to stand in front of the desk. What, were they expecting a fist fight to break out or something? Alex watched and tried to focus on calming her breathing. Dad was one of those triggering subjects for her. A huge question mark. A jumble of closeted feelings and emotions she had tried to just ignore for so long. She'd dealt with so much baggage during these five weeks but Dad had been a subject she always tried to sidestep because of how conflicted she was. Jesus, they're right, she realized.
"Are you ready?" Doctor Ekwensi asked gently, coming to stand in front of her.
Alex gave a soft, self-conscious laugh and shifted her weight. "Not really." Any way she stood or held herself felt incredibly awkward.
"You are ready," Doctor Stokes said firmly, her belief in Alex a support beam. She stood nearby, between Alex and Doctor Ekwensi. "And we'll wait until you say so."
Alex nodded, understanding she needed to initiate it. So she did. "I'm ready." Because on the other side of this was freedom and healing, so she was gonna do anything to get those things for herself. Even if it did make her nervous.
There was a kind nod. "Now. Close your eyes a minute." Alex let out a charged breath and closed her eyes and waited. Her heart was beating faster as she waited for Doctor Stokes to speak again. She heard the quiet tick-tick-tick of the office clock and it seemed incredibly loud. "I want you to imagine that Doctor Ekwensi is your father," Doctor Stokes instructed. Alex did. "Take your time. Now, open your eyes and look your dad in the eye and tell him: 'Dad, what I needed from you but didn't get was…'"
Alex opened her eyes and looked Doctor Ekwensi in the eyes. She tried to follow the instructions she'd been given. "Dad, what I needed from you…" she choked suddenly on a tight throat—those words did something to her, calling a sudden burst of emotion and torment forward she hadn't expected. Both doctors were silent and waited for her to continue. Alex swallowed and breathed deep and tried again in a steadier voice—she was looking at Doctor Ekwensi in the eyes, but somehow it felt like he really was John Winchester. And Alex wasn't at a loss for words. She knew exactly what to say. "Dad, what I needed from you but didn't get was… a fucking father." Words began to pour out. They came easily—surprisingly easily—out of the place she had locked them away deep inside. "Someone to depend on, to love me unconditionally. I needed you to be there for me, I needed someone to protect me and listen to me even though I couldn't talk, I needed you to be proud of me and to smile when you saw me and to care about my thoughts, my feelings—I, I needed you to do things for me and tell me I was important. But you ignored me, you expected me to be like a machine or something, you never let me be a kid, you made me and Sam and Dean into soldiers for a cause that destroyed us and ruined our lives. You chose alcohol and your job over us—your kids."
Doctor Ekwensi shook his head, playing devil's advocate. "I didn't choose alcohol, I was addicted to it, that was out of my control."
His words made her expression twist in distaste. "That is such bullshit," she snapped, getting worked up because Dad would say exactly that. "You were supposed to be strong for us, I know you could have kicked the habit or gotten help if you really wanted to but you wanted to drink and you wanted revenge so you ruined our lives over it and treated us like shit, you stole our childhoods, you hid from your problems and made it seem like it was our fault somehow."
"Now just because I made some mistakes, that doesn't give you the right to accuse me of ruining you and your brothers' lives," he replied, his tone short to convey disapproval and anger—two things John had often spoken to her with. "I did the best I could with what I had—you're being ungrateful and trying to pass blame off so you can be the victim like always. I see what you've become, and it's not my fault, not at all—it's ridiculous of you to say that. You chose your life—I've been dead and gone for years and you're an adult, stop kidding yourself." His words cut her deep and sounded true. "You're the one to blame for what's happened to you. All of it."
His words were like a slap, and her old instincts (to listen to him and swallow down his judgements) were still there. But she fought them; she shook her head adamantly and refused to let him make her feel like she was the problem. Maybe she was a problem, but whose fault was that, really? "I'm not to blame. You raised me to be a victim, to do what I was told and accept abuse, you taught me to live in fear and to trust no one—I was just a kid and you put a gun in my hand and told me the world was full of monsters and demons—do you have any idea how fucked up that was? You thought you were trying to make me strong and independent, but you made me paranoid, you isolated me, you kept me from learning to communicate and knowing how to cope with life, you made Dean so paranoid about keeping me and Sam safe that it turned into his lifelong obsession—he's still not over that, and I don't think he ever will be!" Her voice was raising as her emotions surged high—the memories of years past felt fresh and as painful as they had been then. "You took away Sam's chance at a normal, you made him feel like shit for wanting something good in his life, you took out all of your anger on me and Dean…" she was getting pretty riled up emotionally, her voice was high and her breath was short. "How is that fair? How is that right? You dragged us through so much shit, and for what?"
"So you're saying I screwed up," he said almost accusingly. "That I damaged you?"
"Yeah, I am," she replied in a snap, feeling empowered, furious, and high. "Would it have killed you to try? I needed a father. Instead, I got you."
"I was your father," he returned. "I never abandoned you, I never starved you, I took care of you well enough—you had it good. Are you perfect? Do you have it together? Are you doing a good job? Why are you pointing fingers at me? You try to solve all your problems by being angry."
Alex could have laughed from the miserable irony of it all—his words weren't cutting her down, they were just making her cynical. "Yeah, and just where do you think I got that from?"
He paused a moment. "Almost thirty years old and you're still angry at the past? That I wasn't there? Isn't it time you grew up? This stuff is in history, it should stay there, I don't have time for this."
He pushed every button when he said that, and her temper skyrocketed. "Exactly, you don't have time for me and you never did. Well, make time, John! Talk to me like a man for once in your goddamn life, stop trying to put everything on me instead of yourself! I was just a kid and what you did was wrong! Accept your part in this!" She was mad enough to hit and had to hold herself back.
He was rising up to answer her anger with some of his own. "Do you know how hard it is?!" he demanded loudly. "How hard you were? How difficult it was to live the life we lived and drag around this little girl who had so many problems? Yes, I drank! Yes, I lost my temper sometimes! Who wouldn't?!" He pointed a finger at her—Alex had told her doctors about how John always wagged his finger at her and her brothers and how much it had always bothered her. "You should be grateful that I put up with you and your brothers for as long as I did. You have no right to be angry at me after I kept you safe and alive and out of trouble. You never starved, you always had clothes, you went to school until you messed that up—you had it a whole lot better than you think you did. How dare you accuse me of all this?"
"You're an asshole!" Alex raged, letting out every last thing she'd boxed up. "When a man puts his hand on his kids, when he makes them do soldier crap from the time they're four years old, when he tells them that playing and doing kid stuff is bullshit and how they should be afraid of the dark… it's not right! That shit hurt, it screwed me up for life, what you did still affects me and it always will—you can say you're not to blame in how I turned out but we both know what you did was wrong and is never gonna go away—so yeah I can be angry about it! I can be pissed! And you don't get to tell me how to feel anymore!"
There was a short silence. Alex felt like she'd won the argument in a small way, but she didn't feel good about it. She just felt upset and pissed off and miserable. Wasn't this supposed to help? Why did she feel worse? Doctor Ekwensi was himself again for a moment instead of her father. "Now," he said steadily, intently, "what does this do for you, holding onto this anger?"
Alex shook her head. She felt run over and deflated like a balloon. "I don't know."
"What is it you're afraid of right now, Alex?" he pressed gently.
Alex looked at him again. Afraid of? She didn't feel afraid, she just felt defeated. She gave herself a minute and thought hard, trying to find fear. And then, it came to her and she realized she was afraid. She opened her mouth and spoke to her dad again. "I'm scared I'm gonna end up like you," she said softly in epiphany. She was terrified to end up angry, bitter, and obsessed with vengeance after losing the one she'd loved. She was halfway there, and it dawned on her with dismay. After Cas died, she'd given into addictions and abandoned her family and let anger and grief have control. Just like Dad. Her voice softened to a mere whisper. "I'm scared I'm gonna be a victim the rest of my life." It seemed so close to coming true that she was momentarily too petrified to breathe correctly. But she had a new thought, too, and her eyes filled with tears, her voice dropped mere breath: "Were you a victim too?"
Doctor Ekwensi was gentle, firm, deliberate, still role-playing John, but a much more tender version. "Perhaps I was." The clock ticked loudly, and Alex reeled—her feelings everything from shock, to dismay, to empathy, to pain on her father's behalf. The doctor was sensitive and careful in his next question: "I want you to think about who gets to decide if you end up like me. Sam? Dean? Me? Someone else?"
"No," Alex replied, her answer coming from hours of therapy—but she believed it now. She knew it. "Me. I make that decision." Even though she said the answer she knew they wanted to hear, she didn't feel it. She felt lost, hurt, too tired to do much else. So many unresolved feelings were gnawing at her.
"Speak what's eating you," Doctor Stokes advised. She'd been watching carefully the entire time. "If you don't let it all out, it will keep poisoning your life. Tell your dad what you're thinking. Tell him everything here and now, once and for all. Let yourself be one thousand percent genuine right now."
Alex shook her head and shut her eyes. "I can't," she whispered, hanging her head and putting a hand there onto her face. It was too hard. It was too painful. She just wanted to stop talking, stop feeling.
"Alex—you can," Doctor Stokes insisted in a strong, assuring voice. "Take your dad's hands. Hold on tight. Look him in the eye, speak your peace. You deserve this closure. Give it to yourself."
Alex opened her eyes and looked at Doctor Ekwensi—he held his hands out to her in welcome and she hesitated. Anger was easy to express. Sadness, hurt? Not so much. But she took in a deep breath and remembered her promise to kick it in the ass. And if she had to kick herself in the ass, if she had to defeat herself in order to survive… okay. Alex took the doctor's warm, dry hands in her sweaty ones. He waited for her to speak and she looked into his eyes, seeing John Winchester. A man she knew but also never had at all. The weight of her childhood and all the questions it had left her with was so much.
"I shouldn't have been scared of you," she finally whispered. "Y-you were like a dark cloud most days and we had to tiptoe around you so we didn't piss you off. I felt like I was the reason why you were angry all the time, and maybe I was, I don't know. But I couldn't help it—I was mute, and it wasn't my fault, it wasn't yours either. Why did you hold that against me, Dad?" Her heart broke, her eyes filled with tears, she would never be able to comprehend why she had been such a disappointment to her father by no fault of her own. "I'll never understand," she managed weakly, her tears starting to affect her voice. She had tried so hard for all those years to be good, to be better, to make him happy in any small way—and he'd never been pleased with her, there had always been this look in the corner of his eye like he was ashamed of her.
Alex tried to smile, but her face was contorting painfully as the agony manifested itself. "You know what the messed up part is?" she asked wretchedly. "I still love you." He nodded and held her hands a little tighter, encouraging her to continue. She let it all come out, even though it was agonizing to admit and had her crying from shame. "I still want you to come back and just put your arms around me and tell me you're proud of me, that I matter, and that I'm special," she managed through the rock in her through. She shuddered and sniffed valiantly, blinking away watery vision. She saw her father in front of her, and he could have been so different. So good. She had seen his potential and knew he had seen it, too. That was the saddest part for her. Why did it have to be the way it had turned out? "I want you to have been the man I know you could have been, I want you to have been happy—why couldn't our family have been happy, Dad?" That was a question she'd never know the answer to. "Why did it have to be so screwed up? Why? And you wanna know something else jacked up? I feel stupid for asking for love, I feel like I should be ashamed of myself for wanting to be treated right, like, with basic dignity and respect. I shouldn't feel like that, Dad! Why would you do that to a little girl?" It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it made her want to fucking weep on the ground.
"You're right," he said gently, surprising her. Her tears abated as she waited for him to explain. Right about what? "You shouldn't feel ashamed for wanting those things. I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I was afraid of parenting you and your brothers. I was selfish and I took the easy way out. I had it in my mind that I was doing the right thing. I did love you. Of course I did. Very much. But I didn't know how to tell you or show you, and so I let all of my own issues run the show. I let anger have the reigns, I didn't try hard enough to rise above the things that were eating me. I was hurt, and I turned around and hurt others to try and feel better. You deserved better than that. But I didn't try and go get help and I didn't give you what you deserved. I tried to do it on my own. I loved you the best I could with my addiction, my issues, the things my own childhood and life put me through but there's no excuse at the end of the day. I was an asshole. I wasn't a good father. I wish I could take it all back or do it over." He held her gaze somberly. "Do you believe that?"
Alex swallowed and nodded, a little stunned at how real this felt. "Yes." And she did.
"Question is, will you forgive the past?" he asked. "Can you let go of the things I said and did so you can be free? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you're done letting my voice rule your life? Will you choose to bury me and lay me to rest in your heart?" How could she know if she was ready for that? It felt like a question she had no way of answering. She'd held onto her anger at Dad for so long that it was part of her now—it felt scary to think about letting go of that. At her faltering silence, the doctor peered at her discerningly. "Do you need something or someone to be angry at to survive, Alex?"
She thought about that question for a tense moment. Did she? When she had found the answer, she shook her head. "No, I think I need someone to blame so I don't feel like the failure."
"Alex, is it all right to fail in life? To let people down? To be less than perfect?"
"Yes," she answered automatically.
A slight pause. "Do you really believe that?"
She wished she did. "I'm trying to," she answered truthfully.
He paused and then surprised her when he let go of her hands and took a closed-off stance in front of her. "Aren't you embarrassed that you broke down and had to go to this crazy house place to get help?" he asked, suddenly John Winchester again. "Do you know what I think of that? How disappointing it is to me? I expected you to always be strong, to never stop fighting."
In the past, Alex would have bowed her head and silently accepted the condemnation. But today, she stood up straighter and bristled at his words. "I am strong," she retorted in a surprisingly powerful, sure voice. "Because I can admit to myself when it's too much, because I can cry and allow myself to feel my feelings, even the worst ones, the ones that you never let yourself feel. Do you have any idea how hard it is to rise above yourself? I don't think you do, because I know you Dad. And you tried to avoid the issue, you covered it up and ran away from it and blamed everyone else. I am strong, because I looked my demons in the eye and I took them on one by one, I beat their pathetic, worthless asses into the ground! When did you do that?" She stood there and breathed hard for a moment from the impassioned nature of her monologue. And then, she realized she was ready to let this weight go. She became quieter, sadder. After almost thirty years of being alive, after losing him seven years ago, she had never truly realized that his hold on her was still so strong—and it wasn't because of him, but because of her. She'd chosen to cling onto so much and give him a power he had never asked for. Today, it was time to stop letting that be her life.
She took in a deep breath and realized this was goodbye, for real. "Dad, I'm gonna let go," she said softly. "Of what you did. Of the mistakes you made. Of all the resentment I carry around, of all the baggage you put on me. It's over. I need to move on. I'm forgiving you. Not because what you did was okay. Because I'm a better person than you were. It's easy to be angry and it's so goddamn hard to let go of anger. But you did what you did, now I make my choices." Saying those things felt like an oath, a promise… an elegy.
The doctor looked as if he were proud of her. "And what are you choosing now for yourself?" he questioned.
Alex cast around for an honest answer. "T-to live life on my terms," she said, saying the first thing that came to mind. "To get up and not feel guilty that I fell down."
When she said those things, she realized she was there. She was living life on her terms. She was picking herself back up and not beating herself up for falling down like she had. The therapy that had just taken place left her feeling like she'd just run a marathon. Her adrenaline was all over the place, her body felt drained, her mind was exhausted, her heart was pounding hard.
But she suddenly smiled through the tears that remained and realized that she felt free for the first time in a long, long time. Completely healed? No. Totally fine? Probably never. But free? Yes.
Lawrence, Kansas
A couple days later, Alex was at a little roadside park during the early evening hours. She had left Saint Paul's after Doctor Ekwensi and Stokes agreed she had made enough progress to graduate from the five-week program. She still had a lot of work to do and they encouraged her to continue in counseling, but she'd made big enough strides to get back to her life, they said. She felt like it was time.
After being discharged, she'd done the typical Winchester thing: stolen a car off a used car lot, nabbed plates somewhere else, and hit the road again. She was gonna rejoin her brothers soon (they didn't know yet though) and she was anxious, excited, and nervous for that. She missed them a lot.
But before she gave hunting another shot, she had one more thing to do.
That's why she was at the park with a pen and a notepad. She sat at a picnic table in the shade and carefully wrote the letter she hadn't been able to before. She put everything into it. Everything.
Castiel—
I can't even think your name in my mind without feeling sadness. I can't write it down without trouble. Even the blue sky, which I have to look at pretty much every day, makes me think about you. It's been almost six months since you died but it still feels as painful as yesterday. I still wake up sometimes and forget you're gone. I expect you to be there when I turn around sometimes… but you never are, and I have to learn to accept that for real. You're gone. Really, really gone this time. I know that logically, but my heart struggles to fathom it. I ask myself "why" over and over again. There's never an answer. Just the why. Who knew one single tiny word would take over my entire life?
I want to know "why" about a lot of things. I struggle with so many feelings over what happened. So much unthinkable crap happened in such a short amount of time and sometimes I think I'm still in shock or denial over it all. Finding out about the secrets you kept and the lies you told, finding out you took advantage of how much trust I put into you. I can't believe you would do that to me. I still can't. My days are constant hell as I remember the baby we lost, Destroyer and what he did to me through you, my inability to die now after what you or he did (maybe I'll never know if it was you or him who made me allergic to dying). I often wish *I* had been the one who died instead of you because dealing with all of the feelings and grief over what happened feels so impossible most days.
But I'm learning to cope. I've decided to take what could have ruined me and use it to get stronger. In order to do that, I have to let out all the things I've been keeping inside. So, here goes nothing.
Castiel, I am so angry with you, I *hate* you for lying to me for so long about such important things. I've never felt as betrayed in my entire life. It was like having a hole punched through me by the hand I thought was protecting me. I still don't understand how the hell you could have let it get so bad and never have told me anything at all about what was really going on with Crowley, Heaven, etc. I thought I was supposed to be your best friend, your partner. Your wife. And look what you did. You took on too much, you guaranteed a horrific and destructive end. You killed me. You got jealous over nothing and you *killed* me. Do you even get that? Because sometimes I'm still not sure it really happened. I don't know how you could have ever done that to me. You were my protector. You were so invested in making sure I was safe, that no one would ever hurt me. Then *you* ended my life in a fit of jealous rage. It's so confusing for me. I just don't get it. But I guess maybe I've lived a life where the people who loved me did a lot of jacked up stuff, so maybe I should have expected it? Sam's hands killed me when he was Lucifer, for example…
You know, a part of me thinks that *couldn't* have been you who hurt me and killed my brother and my uncle. Another part of me… the brokenhearted part of me… knows it was. That was the moment where all the stress and impossible burden you took on made you snap. Where everything you tried to do backfired. When you lost your mind and went over the edge. All because you thought you could do it all on your own. I wish to god you had told me. I wish it every single day. I thought you and I were closer than that, I thought you loved and respected me enough to be real with me.
I told you I forgave you for everything the day you died, but honestly, I'm not sure if I do or not. You hurt me worse than anyone else ever has, and I have been *hurt* Cas. I often think that I was a total idiot to trust you as much as I did and to love you without holding back, I feel like I'm to blame for letting myself love you in the first place. But you know what? Despite feeling this way and hating you so passionately in some moments, I know I would do it all over again. How screwed up is that? I'm writing it down and shaking my head at myself but it's true. I know that makes me sound like a dumb ass (it also makes me question what the fuck kind of person I am), but being loved by you… knowing you… everything we had together was pinnacle. So beautiful. I can't imagine my life without you in it. Even after the horror movie ending.
Help me understand how I can feel so much hatred and love at the same time. I don't know how it's possible. Sometimes, I don't think hatred is the right word. It feels more like this intensely angry, sad, screaming feeling. Like I'm in the dark and far out from the shore, trying to get someone, *anyone* to hear me. I don't know. It probably doesn't matter. I'll figure it out eventually I guess. All I know is that even though you wronged me so much, I just wish I could have protected you from what happened and kept you safe somehow. I mean, I understand. I've done similar shit before: I've tried to do the right thing on my own and ended up making a bigger mess than what was there before. No one's perfect, right? And I knew your heart. You always did try to do the right thing… and god Cas that was why I loved you so much. It breaks my heart that the consequence and payment for your actions turned out to be death. I blame myself, I blame you. I blame anyone and everyone.
Cas, when you died, everything crashed down on me. All the stuff I was trying to stand up under became too much. I gave up on life for awhile. On myself, my family, on everything. I feel like I lost who I was for awhile. I'm slowly getting back to who I used to be. It's not easy at all, but you'd be proud of me, I think. Honestly, I didn't want to try. I wanted to lay down and just die—it got so bad that I tried killing myself one night, which is how I found out what you did to me. It hasn't been pretty. I got addicted to painkillers, I self harmed. I'm getting better now. But… some days I still want to die because living feels like too much effort and pain. I did therapy and it's helping, but it's hard. So, so hard. I often want to just sit down and cry and give up, continue abusing myself to no end. But I've decided no. That's not happening and it's not allowed. After Bobby died, something changed and somehow I found the motivation to fight again. But it's lonely. I miss you, I miss my family. I'm almost ready to go back to Sam and Dean, but I still think about the inevitable constantly. They'll die someday (probably sooner than later) and I'll be stuck alive. No one should live forever, Cas. And I'm going to. Alone. Guess I just need to accept that. I don't seem to have another choice.
Do you remember the day you died? When you told me to find someone else and how I said I never would or could? I still believe that, but now I've gone and made a stupid mistake. It was one night, it was once, but it still happened. I wish it hadn't happened at all. I don't think I would have done it at all if I hadn't been so high and drunk and vulnerable. The only reason I was able to get anything from it was that I shut my eyes tight and imagined it was you. Looking back, I'm kicking myself over and over again. Especially since it turns out he was a fucking Leviathan… I feel tricked and dirty and violated, but what can you do? Guess you just can't trust anyone these days. Either way, consider me a nun now. It wasn't worth it for me. I'm not like my brothers or anyone else normal, I guess. To me, sex is something where if there's not love involved I don't want it. Had to learn that the hard way. Cas, I feel so guilty about it, like I cheated on you or spit in the face of what we were. I'm so sorry. Some people would probably say I'm a freak for feeling so much regret, but… I can't help it. I love you. Only you. More than I can say or hold. And I am sorry. I can't say it enough.
I very often think about how things could have ended so differently for us. I imagine a good life together and I think we really could have had that. It hurts to think about what we lost. It hurts because you didn't get to live long enough. It hurts that we lost a piece of us and never even knew it until far too late—I wish she hadn't died. Our daughter. I wrote those two words and stared at them for five minutes. Our daughter. We had a daughter. And if she had survived somehow, then I would still have a part of you here with me, a living and breathing reminder that you were real and our love made something. But the only thing our love made was disaster and destruction. Maybe you were right all those years ago when you were so adamant about us not being together because you'd foreseen the future where I died because of our relationship. Maybe we were screwed from the get go. I don't know, and not knowing is the greatest tragedy of all.
The doctors at Saint Paul's were very skeptical about how much I love you and how much I was willing to overlook concerning what you did to me. And the funny thing is they didn't even know the full story and how much worse some parts were. Even if you were the one at fault for me being mute (I don't think you were, I think Azazel would have done that if you were there or not), I need you to know I've made peace with it. I've accepted where I've ended up in life. I'm not angry about it anymore, about being mute. That was then and this is now. And I'll always have what you gave me: a voice. A place in Heaven that maybe I can get to someday. Memories of a love I don't know if I deserved. It doesn't seem fair that I would get all these things and you walked into a lake and drowned. You were trying to save us. And you paid the price.
I wonder if you'd still be alive if we never fell in love. I would have never have pursued you at all if I knew then what I know now… I'd rather you were alive and well than dead and gone because of us. But I can't change the past.
I'm going to the lake tomorrow and I'm going to lay you to rest. I need closure. I need to be able to move on from this somehow and stop tearing myself apart inside over losing you. But, just because I want to move on, that doesn't mean I'll forget you. I never would or could. As long as I'm alive, you will be too in some small way. I love you, forever. I miss you always. I was never good enough for you, but you loved me anyway… thank you. For showing me magic and beauty, for making me believe in love. I hope if I can someday and somehow make it to the next life, you'll be there too.
Until then.
Pinky promise.
— Alex
She sat back and wiped at her eyes and looked over the fruits of her labor. It had taken her a couple solid hours to think it through, write it down, and get through the process. The sun was setting and she was exhausted. As such, Alex didn't even bother driving to a motel. She got into her stolen car, hugged Cas's bunched up coat to herself, and slept restlessly. All night she dreamed that a man with dark hair was standing out under the stars and searching for her.
Several hundred miles away, an angel with no memories stood outside and watched the starry sky, in search of something he could not name. Daphne came out and found him and groggily asked what he was doing then told him to come back inside.
Bootbock, Kansas
The Next Day
The water reservoir was quiet and picturesque—thick pine trees dotted the edge of it and reflected back in the slowly shimmering water. Alex stood in the same place she'd been the day Cas walked into that lake and had never come back out. She held his coat to herself, neatly folded up. No one else was around. A lone bird sang a song to the lingering, golden dusk. To Alex, the cheerful twittering sounded morose. The sparkling water seemed mournful. The beauty of nature seemed to mock her somehow.
She had put off coming here all day long. And before she came here, she had tried one last crazy thing that had occurred to her: Summoning Crowley and asking about a soul deal. She'd gotten a smirk and a, "not interested." So now… here she was. Truly at the end of the line.
This was the place he'd died. The place her eyes had seen him last.
She looked across the surface of the reservoir with a clenched heart. Being here was surreal in a painful way and it left her feeling incredibly sick with the sadness of finality. After her last session with Doctor Ekwensi, she thought this would be easier than this. But it was clearly going to be one of the hardest things she'd ever done.
He was no longer here or alive. It wasn't a bad dream. It was reality. And yet she still longed to catch a glimpse of him, some kind of sign. She wanted some reassurance that he still existed in some way, however small. Her heart yearned to know he went on past this life, that he was in a better place, that he had found eternity and was at peace somewhere better than here. Would she ever know where he was and if he somehow carried on? Or would she live and live and live and always wonder? Could her soul ever rest if she didn't know what had become of him? Or was she fated to be a living ghost, forever haunted by the memory of an angel who had walked the world in the body of a man?
The late-day sun warmed her skin pleasantly and soothingly—her arms and her face, the top of her head were all kissed by light and warmth. Alex closed her eyes and concentrated on that feeling and let it comfort her. Sometimes, sunlight convinced her that Castiel went on and existed still. His true form was light, after all, and she associated him with warmth, with light, with nature. With anything magnificent and breathtaking. She opened her eyes and took in the landscape once more. It was the beginning of spring now. April. Flowers were beginning to bloom, grass was turning green again. Life was returning to the earth. I wish you were here to see it with me.
Alex looked down at his trench coat and swallowed away a sharp lump, trying to give herself courage and strength to do what she had come here to do. In the pocket of the coat, she'd very carefully put the letter she wrote and his ring. She was incredibly against the thought of letting all of these things go, especially his coat and the ring, but she didn't know any other way of being able to be free. This was probably the hardest thing she had ever done. She likened it to willfully cutting out her own heart or sawing off her feet. She didn't know if she could continue on without those things—they were part of her, and Castiel was part of her now, too. Always would be. She was crying quietly now, because she knew this moment had to happen. But every fiber of her being mourned so deeply and didn't want it at all. This was her saying through actions that he had died, that he wasn't coming back, and that she was committing to moving on as much as she could. That she was laying him to rest and saying goodbye and closing a chapter of her life forever. Her heart resisted that idea while her mind said she needed to do this to set herself free.
Trying to summon courage, she steeled herself and drew in a deep breath, letting it out shakily. It's time. She closed her eyes tight and buried her face in the fabric of the trench coat, kissing it briefly as her tears leaked into the cloth. I love you. Always will. A flurry of memories raced through her mind like sparks—seeing him walking toward her when he was a stranger and not knowing who he would become to her. A first smile. Eyes that captivated her forever. The memory of falling in love past what she had ever imagined. A first kiss. The way he had sounded when he first told her out loud that he loved her. His hands holding hers as he married her. The beautiful hope and excitement she'd carried for a future together, the belief that they would be together and share life and always love one another. The horrible let down when it all crashed and burned…
Alex opened her eyes again and looked up at the lake with a twisting expression. How strange to feel so hollow inside. How wrong that this was how their story had ended. Even though Castiel had made so many awful mistakes, Alex would never wish ill things on him. Especially not this ending that he'd been given.
Words she'd written down for him echoed across her mind.
As long as I'm alive, you will be too.
I love you, forever. I miss you always.
I hope if I can someday and somehow make it to the next life, you'll be there too.
With these thoughts at the forefront of her mind and causing emotions to run high and intense, Alex made herself start moving before she changed her mind. One foot in front of the other, she propelled herself into motion. She stepped into the water, boots, jeans and all, slowly moving forward. It was cold—the lake must be very deep to be so cold just a few steps in. Shivering briefly due to mental reasons more than physical, she held the coat tight to her chest, not allowing it to get wet or drag.
As she waded in deeper and deeper, she could only thing one thing: This was the water that had drowned him. Her feet were walking on the ground where his body had found its final resting place. Her grief felt like it would crush her down into the water and she stopped when she got to mid-thigh depth. Stomach turning and throat tight, Alex drew the coat away from herself to hold it in front of herself. This was all that was left of him. A thought that just didn't seem right at all. I wish I could have saved you. A tear dripped down and hit the beige fabric of his coat and her hands held it tighter but she refused to hug it again. Her heart raced and her mind told her to let go of the coat, to leave it there in the water and bury Castiel in her mind, let this be his funeral.
You need to let go of what's holding you back. You need to let go of him.
Her head spoke those thoughts and she tried to comply, she tried to lower the coat down into the water, but her heart said no. No. Don't you fucking dare. No. She abruptly panicked and held the coat to herself tight once again, bowed her head down, inhaled shakily and shut her eyes. She had come here to close a door. She had come here to stop holding onto grief and pain and a dead angel who wasn't coming back.
But it was becoming apparent that she wasn't ready for this closure, or she wasn't willing. Would she ever be? Did she really need to part with these things that were his? Couldn't she just keep them?
There was a slight breeze across the lake and Alex opened her eyes, wishing that breeze was from wings black as night. But she was alone and ill with overwhelming emotion, standing in dark water, and nothing was different at all. Contemplating the trench coat with teary eyes, Alex wrestled with herself. She wanted to be strong and prove to herself that she had made progress. But it felt so incredibly wrong to think about putting that coat in the water and walking away, leaving the only part of Castiel she still had behind forever.
She heard a deep voice speaking tender things to her, she remembered strong arms holding her, she recalled the conviction that she was loved and cared about and cherished. She imagined blue eyes that saw through to her soul itself, hands that carried her, healed her, cradled her. A mouth that had spoken things out of dreams to her and kissed her to life and death and every place between.
Alex stood there for a very, very long time, eyes going from the water before her to the coat she clung to. After a very long, silent debate within herself, she gave up. With a bittersweet expression on her face, she looked over the beloved garment as if it were Cas himself. "Not yet," she whispered. Alex's eyes fell closed and her voice dropped to bare volume as her eyebrows worked in towards each other. She was unsure how to feel about this. "Not yet."
She walked out of the lake with the coat and wondered if she had just proven that her therapy was worthless or what. But she didn't regret it, and she sat down on the shoreline and put on the trench coat—it dwarfed her. She sat there for a very long time remembering their good times. Times where it felt like they were just a boy and a girl discovering life and experiencing the rush of exhilaration called falling in love. The space beside her felt so empty.
Guess I'll always notice his absence.
She remembered feeling like this constantly before she'd known him. Like something was missing. Now that she knew what was missing, it made life harder. Barer and less livable than before. But she was determined and committed to living, to taking this existence and making it matter, to controlling her destiny once and for all.
If she had known how numbered her moments with Castiel truly were, she thought she would have opened her eyes more when he kissed her, she would have memorized the feeling of him loving her better. She would have asked him more questions, she would have tried to spend more time with him somehow. She would have found a way to save him.
When it began to grow dark outside, she stood up and pulled in a deep breath. It was time to start being a person again. For real this time. It was time to call up the boys and see about doing what she knew how to do: hunt, knock some bad guys down a few notches. "All right, Cas," she said under her breath, standing tall and taking in a deep breath to give herself some strength as she shrugged off his coat and folded it carefully. "Let's go kick some Leviathan ass."
She headed to the car she'd parked nearby. Halfway there, she heard a twig snap and she turned toward the sound fast, her hand flying to where she had a water gun full of borax mixed with water tucked into her belt. She listened hard but didn't hear anything else—she only saw trees and overgrown grass, no signs of anyone there. After a minute, she dubiously decided it was nothing. Quite often here lately, she felt she was being followed. But if she were, she had never spotted the person. She had a very high suspicion that it was Zip. She hadn't been kidding: she would kill him if she ever laid eyes on him again. Alex hoped she was just being paranoid, but she erred on the side of caution and took constant precautions in attempts to thwart anyone from being able to keep up with her.
The headlights of her stolen Jeep flashed to life and swept over the landscape as she turned around and headed off. Gravel sprayed and crunched as the rugged old engine roared.
From deep within the shadows where he was hidden, Zip watched and followed.