Dean tried to smooth down the creases in his suit. He knew they were more imagined imperfections than reality; a way for his paranoia to resurface – he could see, in the audience of the church, familiar faces. The ones he only knew from work – the dangerous types that Sam and Jess would never, ever put on the guest list. The back of his neck was sticky with sweat as he feared that a less than perfect ceremony would see bloody bodies spread out on the church floor.
It was like a dream. A nightmare. Except Dean knew, he knew that all of this was much scarier than that; it was reality. Cold, unabashed, inarguable reality; it was Lucifer's deal, two months of planning coming to fruition; a catalyst that started the moment Jess came home, right on the heels of their boss.
Doctor Romano had been an acquaintance before, and that was the extent to which they explained it to Jess, the morning after Lucifer's visit. She came stumbling in, an overnight bag on her shoulder, hastily packed the night before when she had caught glimpse of Lucifer's singular car coming to a stop on the curb. Dean didn't know how she did it; keeping herself together while he and his brother were forced to slink around; listening to the gossip some of their escapades caused must have been torture, and she hardly asked for a thing. Women were kind of like that, anyway, but more often because the men told them not to say a word. She and Sam, though, they knew more about each other than some couples married for ten, twenty, thirty years. Equal in every way.
She loved him, then, it was as simple as that. It was more of a fact than a romance; love was one of those driving forces, the thing that kept him and Sam together without contempt, the thing that kept his brother and Jess understanding when their lives ran near parallels sometimes. He had so often wanted to thank her for that; for just getting it without knowing, for giving his brother the one thing he couldn't. And at that moment, seeing her all tired and sick with worry, her hair matted as if she had merely sat, unblinking on a drape sofa in a friend's apartment until the first rays of morning shone through, he could see it: In the way she wrapped herself up tight in Sam's grasp, and they held on like they would drown unless they pressed themselves as close as they could manage.
He considered her family.
What wouldn't Dean do for family?
Dean knew it was all over at that moment.
The three of them had talked more, in eager voices; wondering why Lucifer would ever strike up a deal with them – mobsters, bootleggers, murderers, really. It wasn't a brand of business known for giving its long-term employees a crystal clock or coffee set. They managed to prop up a few theories, together. If they were willing to take out Doctor Romano to pay the rent, how could they say no to bringing an end to their scumbag of a boss? It could be that Lucifer was just getting rid of the best hitmen before someone decided to take advantage of their lack of loyalty. Lucifer, of course, had plenty of little demons ready to fill up the ranks, ones that posed less of a threat; ones he could send to the bottom of the sea with a bat of an eye.
He was breaking all the good toys.
If I can't have them, none of you can. It was kid logic, plain and simple.
That was what they had hoped.
The wedding and California slipped out afterwards. For a frightful moment, Dean wondered if he had misread the signs, assumed Jess was head over heels when she was just barely tolerating his brother. But just when he was thinking that all hope for Sam's happy ending was lost, she had a spark in her eyes that matched the bright glint of her teeth. She cracked a joke if Sam would have married her even if his job wouldn't pay for it, and flung herself into his arms, where he was practically crushed, after previously sinking down in his seat from mortification. Dean had left the happy couple alone after that, merely proclaiming that he wanted to see a ring before the end of the summer. And that was that. He closed the door to the apartment, and spent the rest of the summer trying not to think that he had closed himself off from the two people who meant the most to him.
He now realized that he had been convincing himself for nothing. Sam and Jessica's new life was beginning in about five minutes, when she and the rest of the wedding procession burst through the doors of St. Andrew's Church – the closest one to their apartment, and the one Sam and Jess had attended for years; not that Dean could remember that.
In those few minutes, Dean stood beside Sam at the altar. The groom's men and maids and flower girls were all in a side preparation hall, and Dean knew that, being Best Man, he should have been there with them.
But he couldn't leave Sam. And he wouldn't, not until he had to. There was an organ playing chords that floated out through the few open windows. Dean had an impressive view of the back of Sam's head; his hair was working its way from waved at the end to curly, late June heat invading the chapel. Dean leaned over and whispered, "I'd savor the moment, Sammy. These are your last few minutes of freedom."
Sam looked over, in too high spirits to pull the proper, pursed-lips glare. Dean called it the 'bitchface' but it had never really caught on with Sam. For some reason.
Then his brother went, "You see them?" He didn't have to elaborate before Dean made another casual scan of the crowd.
"Yeah, I see them. Take it they didn't get an engraved invitation?" Lucifer hadn't made an appearance since they had accepted his deal. He recognized a few of his men by name and face – Adam Milligan especially. He had more of Dean's look than Sam. A half brother they had never gotten close to. Maybe Dean would have to, now. Considering.
He and Sam had their talk ages ago; plenty of them, actually, interspersed between wedding planning sessions. It was as if they couldn't stop talking to one another – as if all their little moments would make up for the huge lapse in time they would have. It was obvious enough, when Dean stood beside Sam instead of lining up with all the other men and women, just so they could have one more moment of being simply Sam and Dean and nothing else. It was a final moment that lapsed by in normalcy; and the death of the simple existence of Him and His Brother passed silently in the proceedings. Dean watched the church doors as much as his brother's back, and when they opened, and the rest of the wedding party proceeded in, Dean subtly stepped back, away from Sam, more into line with everyone else. And when Jess finally made her grand entrance as the most beautiful woman in the room – in the world, at the moment – he saw Sam's shoulders hitch as he took in a surprised, relieved, delighted breath, and he knew that the solidarity they had between them for twenty-two years was over.
And that was the thing. Dean had always been taught to protect Sam, to keep Sam safe. Before his brother was a year old, he was already the most important thing in Dean's life. He realized that playing Mom, Dad, role model, a knight in shining armor, friend, a brother, and anything else he needed to be made him rely on Sam more than the other way around. He needed Sam. And, at the time, Sam needed him. But now? Dean was pushing Sam off, watching him free himself from the cage he and Dean had constructed for themselves in childhood. He had Jess now, a future. He had the key out of this place, but Dean was still trapped inside.
Sam was leaving. Now what? Dean tried to imagine someone else filling his brother's place and couldn't. He had the sick feeling of drowning, the weight of bars pressing in from all sides.
The priest opened a gold cut tome and addressed the crowd, "We have gathered today…" and by the end of the service, Dean had been moved to tears, though he was hard pressed to know what had been the motivation.
xxxx
The reception was in the lounge of the Prospect Hotel, so close to the Bay that you could hear the gulls' pitched whine every time you went out for a breather. As usual, Dean felt better after a few glasses worth of champagne were shoved down his throat. Most of the hotels on Surf Avenue had retained their liquor license, which made them the perfect place to hold a party of any kind. That might have been the only slightly appealing thing when Dean thumbed through the available one-room apartments in the city, and one on West 31st – a bit East of the hotel – had seemed decent.
The reception hall was rented out for the evening, and a few forward thinking guests had bought rooms upstairs, so there was a constant stream of men and women dragging themselves out while more attendees, freshly rouged and rested, replaced them.
Dean took his job of best man in stride; making sure he took his date – was it a cousin of the bride or a friend or a cousin-like friend? – on enough spins across the dance floor. He flirted with the women and joked with the men and kept on eye on his brother to make sure that Sam hadn't gone and drowned himself in the punch bowl or anything like that.
Now it was late enough that most guests could only manage a wobbling slow dance. The Maid of Honor disentangled herself from Dean and announced that their arranged date had gone well, and she was retiring upstairs. A calling card with her room number was slipped inside his breast pocket. She took his handkerchief – a blue silk to match the maid's dresses – and went off with it, a dirty promise in the future for him.
Dean worried that something was wrong with him, because instead of smirking and toying with the invitation tucked away in his jacket, he felt saddened that the cloth had been taken away, as if his date had deeply wronged him somehow.
He remained on the edge of the dance floor, drinking what had once been chilled zinfandel but was now merely watered down. He determinedly chased an elusive, numbing buzz and did not cease drinking until a man to the right of him coughed.
Dean looked over, assuming a fluke, but caught sight of Crowley; a short, vaguely plump man with thinning black hair.
Crowley, Dean wasn't sure if the man possessed a last name – or if that one was honestly his first. He had an accent, somewhere between British and Scottish, but his stature and supposed family were from the likes of Sicily. Enough to pass for a Brooklyn mob boss.
Dean nodded to him in greeting, trying to remember if he had seen him in the chapel hours before. Crowley made some faint compliment to the party, and Dean dutifully nodded his head. "Lucifer always possessed a talent for sweet-talking deals, of course." Dean stiffened at that; he hadn't known exactly how publicized their collaboration with Lucifer was going to be, and it put him on edge.
Crowley took notice. "Don't look so much like a kicked puppy. I have a right to know."
"Being the city's gossip?"
"Being your new boss, actually."
Dean sputtered, tried to hide it by coughing, before finally pouncing on a moving tray of cheap wine. "You?" he said finally.
"I thought I might come here to introduce myself."
"Why you?" Dean asked, a sour look twisting on his face, and he was too far gone for that to be just from the rough taste of the drink. "Did you talk with Lucifer? Did he ever tell you why – "
Crowley held his hand up. "I came here for a chivalrous courtesy call, not to be interrogated. Besides, it's one of your brother's last days in the city; I wouldn't want to waste it talking business. But that's just my opinion, of course."
Dean huffed into his glass. "Figured you were the kind of guy to take the work with you,"
"On the contrary," Crowley said, "I do enjoy a good party now and then. You must have been to one of mine before."
"I might've,"
"Well, I'll make sure to forward you an invitation then, hm?" Crowley gave him a tight-lipped smile, as if amused over something that he never said out loud. He clapped Dean on the shoulder and leaned towards him, quietly saying, "You can come by the offices in Dyker next Friday. I look forward to seeing you work for me, Mr. Winchester." And then he was walking away, the sound of his shoes muted by the ten-piece orchestra.
Dean kneaded his fingers into his jaw for a moment, trying to unclench his teeth. He managed to drink the rest of what was in his glass before taking the calling card out of his pocket.
Sam and Jessica were presumably up in their room, and Dean needed at least an hour's worth of distraction.
xxxx
Dean found his way to Sam's room – a grand set with a furnishing of couches and curtains; a large bed deep set in the room. He was still far flung from sobriety, but he was together enough to make sense and not ramble. Instead he was merely without inhibitions. Sam would argue Dean never had any of those anyway, but really, no inhibitions for either of them just meant the pull of honesty.
Sam pulled open the hotel room door, rubbed at his eyes. "Dean?"
"I just came to say goodnight," he suddenly felt that his presence was unwelcome. He had two months to say goodbye properly; a man's wedding night was not the time to reminisce about good ol' days.
"It's…" Sam paused and leaned back, hand on the door frame to brace the stretch; Dean presumed he was looking at a far off desk clock. "It's almost three in the morning,"
"Is that Dean?" Jess came up besides Sam. While his brother had only managed to remove his cuffs, collar and dinner jacket, Jessica's hair was pulled out of its elaborate up-do, and every single speck of her glamorous wedding outfit had been sent somewhere else. She was back in a cotton blouse and relaxing skirt, hair down and messy, like it was another Saturday morning she'd been spending inside all day. Jess was the type of woman who enjoyed that flashiness that life occasionally offered regular folk, but she never wasted time mourning its loss when it was over; never had a need to want more than what she always had.
Except perhaps the addition of Sam, a permanent fixture in her life; Dean hadn't mistaken the fact that it was a friend's Father and Mother sitting in for her missing parents, whether they were gone or merely disapproving was a piece of information Dean had never gotten around to knowing – he didn't appreciate his own family history, so he had never attempted to grow curious enough to pry.
She looked between both men and put a hand on Sam's arm. "I think… I have a few words to say to some other people, too." She disappeared for a moment, to put on some flat shoes, and padded down the hallway.
Dean was ushered in then, wringing the little piece of blue cloth that smelled of rosewater perfume, and bodies tangled together passionlessly. Sam saw the motion, took in Dean's rumpled state of dress and mingled scents. "You have fun?" he asked.
"By the regular definition? Yeah." Sam watched his brother sink onto one of the drop couches, tucking away the handkerchief as an afterthought. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
Sam thought for a moment. "One of the groomsmen managed to half-drown himself in the punch bowl." Dean snorted.
"It was Ash, wasn't it?"
Sam laughed. "Uh, yeah. We took him up here, cleaned him up and sent him back home. A few of Jessica's friends came up here to make it a party."
"Who was the Maid of Honor? Do you know?" Sam shrugged.
"She's moving to Europe soon, I think. So Jess let her be head maid before she left America for good. That's all I know."
Dean hummed absently. Then said, "I met the new boss."
"What?"
"Guy I'll be working for was downstairs, drinking brandy and talkin' to me for a minute."
"Who is he?"
Dean smirked. "Take a guess."
"Someone we know?" his brother's eyes got a wide, worried look in them; "Oh God, Dean, don't tell me it's Alastair – Lucifer wouldn't of… I mean, would he?"
"You think I'd be smiling if I was back with that guy again?" he leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. "It was just Crowley. No need to get your stockings in a twist."
From the odd angle, he watched Sam flop on the couch, his slumped posture one of relief. "Okay, Crowley. I can deal with that."
"You're not working for anyone anymore, remember?"
"Might as well be… You saved the apartment's address right? So you can write to us?"
"'Course."
"And you have enough for the down payment on the new apartment for next week, right?"
"Yep."
"And you can get a car to take us all to the train station?" Dean let out a breath and threw an arm over his eyes. He didn't feel like talking anymore. He was dead tired, but he couldn't bring himself to just up and leave. Sam and Jess would hop on a passenger car tomorrow at nine, and Dean knew he'd be too hungover to do anything decent, so this goodbye needed to happen now.
Even with an arm over his face, Sam seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "Have any regrets?" he asked softly.
"Last few drinks, maybe."
"I'm being serious, here."
"So am I," he sat up, scrubbed at his face. "Do I, what? Regret letting you and Jess go have the lives you deserved? Normal and happy? Away from all of this?"
"It's not going to be easy on you," Sam stated.
"You think riding around, taking care of you for twenty-six years was easy on me, either?" Sam's mouth twitched, but it could have been a smile or a grimace. Dean sighed and came away with a wince, "God, I remember, you were five when you asked me how Mom died – why we kept moving around, why we didn't have a regular house, why Dad never talked about his job. You remember that?" Sam shook his head. "I… I tried not to tell you; figured you deserved to be a kid a little bit longer." He looked down then. "I'm nothing compared to Mom, or even Dad, you know, before." Dean swallowed, not quite knowing where the sentiments came from. Sam didn't seem to know either, but it was going to be a long while before they could do this again, just talk, so Dean continued. "But you're still the best guy I've ever known, Sam. And I know pretty much everything about you, too, so either all the guys I know are awful bastards or…" he tried to chuckle a bit, but his throat clenched up. He stood, trying to breath clearer. "A few years away ain't nothing; because before you know it, I'll be getting on a train and coming out there and moving in with you and Jess; get somewhere on the shore, where the sun hardly sets. I can wait for that. And it'll be easier if I know that you're happy out there."
Sam cautiously rose to his feet. "I'll be happy out there," he conceded, before pulling Dean into an embrace. "But I'll be happiest when you get out there too, I think, so hurry, alright?" Dean felt the muscles in Sam's arm clench around his shoulders. Without thinking his fingers were on his brother's back, his fingers paling with effort as he pressed Sam closer, relishing the bone crushing hug. Of course they mostly didn't hug anymore – it was something grown men just didn't do so much – but in that moment, one could take away the extra muscles and height both men had gotten in their lives, and they were two kids again, reuniting after a long day of separation, or some sort of slip up that meant blood and bruises from a childhood misadventure.
It was as if after all those years, they had never forgotten how to do that – underneath the time and scars and the marriage, there were still some things that would never, ever change.
Dean cried once already, and had no intention of doing so again. Besides, the clenching in his chest, the hardness in his throat? This time, Dean knew what it was from; and above all things, it wasn't sadness.
xxxx
A/N: I so did not spend multiple, frustrating sessions with my story planner to try and (futilely)set this up so that this chapter would be number seven, and I could entitle it, "Chapter Seven, Time for a Wedding!" because I liked that particular episode, alright? St. Andrew's is an actual Catholic church, located less than a mile from where Sam, Dean, and Jessica's apartment would be in Bay Ridge. Also, I will totally blame the lack of updates on the fact that weddings, fictional or not, are one of the most boring things on God's Green Earth and I hate writing them.