21
Bobby and Sam were bustling around, shrugging into coats, grabbing supplies. Bobby had a book, a couple of guns. Sam had the harness-like contraption they'd pieced together to hold the stone ring against his eye, leaving both hands free for the lance. Both occasionally glanced at the window, even though the other wards were still holding, so the dragon couldn't be coming toward the house. Not yet, anyway.
But the time was now. The monster was going down.
Dean stood still in the middle of the room, watching them. He had to swallow several times to work up the moisture to talk. "You guys go ahead. I'll…I'll be right behind you."
Sam nodded absently and gave him an understanding glance as he headed out the door. Bobby looked at him a little longer, wise brown eyes so knowing, as always, piercing straight through him. They thought they knew exactly why he was hesitating to leave the house. They didn't.
Dean turned to the window to watch them go, saw them striding purposefully through the salvage yard, Sam leading and Bobby only a few steps behind. The younger Winchester looked like a warrior, a hero, an illustration from a book, tall and strong and certain, jaw square and hard, eyes focused and intent, hefting that long, wicked-looking weapon in both hands with purpose and strength. He knew what he was doing. They both did.
Dean, though…
He turned to Castiel, watching him sleep. It had been almost fifteen hours since he'd said a word, and yes, Dean was keeping count. Ten hours since he'd managed to sip some diluted soup. Six hours since he had looked at Dean with any kind of lucidity. Three hours since the last time he'd woken gasping and choking, his breaths stuttering, almost halting altogether, then hung over Dean's arm sobbing for air while Dean clapped his back, trying to loosen the phlegm, help him get the oxygen he needed. One hour since Dean had noticed the blue-gray tinge around his lips, slowly growing deeper.
He didn't want to lose this kid. God, he didn't want to lose him. He and Sam…they had thought he was theirs. But Cas had never really belonged to them, not really—he was just on loan. And if Dean didn't do what he knew he had to do, he was going to lose him anyway.
There was no choice here. There never really had been, and Dean was an idiot for ever thinking that he had any kind of control over this situation.
Movements harsh and jerking, Dean got a metal bowl from the kitchen, a lighter from the box by the fireplace. Kneeling by Castiel, he fished out the hex bag hidden in the couch cushions. He had to shift the boy a few inches to the side to find it, but Cas didn't stir, just lay there limp and unconscious, breathing through his mouth, chest barely moving.
Dean laid a hand on his cheek and just looked at him for a long moment, memorizing his features. Then he put the hex bag in the bowl and lit it on fire.
His hands weren't shaking. They weren't.
He knelt there, waiting, long enough for the second hand to sweep twice around the clock on the wall. Long enough for Cas to breathe a hundred and three times. Long enough for his palms to sweat and his stomach to twist.
So Uriel wasn't a punctual bastard. Good to know.
Dean could hear Bobby chanting, even through the walls of the house. And that low rumble, rising and falling, full of evil intent…that might have been a dragon roaring, growling, declaring its intention to kill. Dean pushed himself to his feet and strode out the door, throwing on a jacket and drawing Ruby's knife as his foot hit the ground outside.
The incantation was working, obviously. The dragon had become visible. Not fully—Dean could see through it to the trees on the other side, the telephone pole broken jaggedly in the middle like a ship's mast torn away by a cannonball. It was as big as Bobby's house, gaping mouth like the open door of a forge revealing a bed of red-hot coals.
Sam stood in the bed of a junked pick-up truck, one foot up on the side, lance held like a vaulter's pole, as if he was just waiting for the right moment to run forward and leap right over the monster's back. The dragon swung its head toward him, nostrils pouring gray-white smoke, and Sam jumped to the roof of a Toyota, long legs steady and graceful, feet firm as those of a goat on a mountainside.
Bobby's spell was in Greek, so Dean didn't know most of the words, but he recognized the flowing syllables and complex words. The older man's voice was steady, constant, a solid foundation to fight on. Dean could see the dragon's attention wavering toward Bobby, wanting to put an end to the words that weakened it—and the man who spoke them—but Sam constantly shoved himself in the way, demanding that the dragon remain focused on him to prevent immediate impalement.
Dean stalked forward, feeling the rage rise up in him like a tide, welcoming its fuel. "Hey, bitch!" he yelled, commanding. "Hell sent you to kill an angel, huh? Didja think he'd be alone? Didja think he'd be helpless? Time to think again, you fire-breathing freak!"
The heavy head swung toward him, transparent yellow eyes sparking with mad fire. Oh yeah, it understood him, the tone if not the words. "That's right," Dean said with grim satisfaction, crossing the ward's border to stand beneath the dragon's mouth. "Come and get some. We're gonna send you back to the Pit where you belong, and there's nothing you can do to stop us."
The plan had been for Dean to distract it while Sam found a spot to strike with the lance. Dean was following the plan. If he was throwing himself into his role with maybe a little more fierce glee than Sam would be happy with, well, it was too late to change it now.
Sam was too busy fighting to glare at Dean like he probably wanted to, though. Dean's pride was fuel, too, watching his little brother come at the monster like a knight in a light tan coat, movements hard and efficient, not a step wasted, dancing among the cars, leaping from roof to hood to truck bed and down to the ground again, looking for his opening.
Dean was dancing, too, ducking and weaving, darting in and out, never staying within striking distance for more than a second at a time. The dragon snapped at him, then turned back to Sam, advancing and backing away, clearly unsure of what to do and pretty damn angry about it. The puff of black smoke through the nostrils was always a dead giveaway that a blast of fire was coming, giving them plenty of time to get out of the way, but they left scorched and blackened cars in their wake, craters on the ground, snow not melted but obliterated.
They were on both sides of the thing now, taking turns, tag-teaming it, the dragon-slaying Winchester boys working in perfect concert. The transparency gradually seeped away, color bleeding in like dye on cotton, spreading, then covering. Dean saw his chance and ran in, struck the knife a cut across a tendon as thick as his wrist in a shower of supernatural sparks, then sprinted back before it could turn on him.
The cut blazed. The dragon roared, and that leg went dead, useless. Not a fatal wound, but a helluva good one, if Dean did say so himself. He grinned, wide and glad, glad, watching for another chance like that one.
But it was Sam's turn now to find his opening, perching precariously on the hood of a semi, one foot braced on the cracked and bending windshield. The lance went in, smooth and bright as solid lightning, finding a vulnerable point between neck and chest. The dragon howled, and Sam pushed harder, twisted. Dean saw him shove it in the way that he knew would spring the spikes, already buried in the monster's flesh.
The earth shook as the dragon crashed to its massive knees, a creature of hell pinned on a human weapon, writhing and stuck. Only then did the wings unfold, trying to lift it away. But this was one thing that it could do in Hell but couldn't do here—earthly physics disallowed this one thing.
"Gotcha."
Sam's voice was not gloating or smug, though Dean wouldn't have blamed him if it had been. He simply sounded calmly gratified, a workman well-pleased with the tool he had crafted. The dragon twisted and wailed, eyes rolling, puking misaimed smoke and fire toward the sky. Sam held onto the shaft of his weapon, grim, solid, immovable. There was no chance of escape.
Bobby's voice continued in the background, a rising crescendo as the monster weakened. Sam slowly swung the dragon's neck down in an irresistible arc, forcing its head to the ground. Dean stepped forward, calmly side-stepping the last, weak billows of fire. He stepped on the dragon's snout, forcing its mouth shut, ignoring the sparks that spurted from its clenched teeth.
Dean saw the spot between its eyes, the vulnerable point where only a thin shell of blood and bone protected the brain, and stabbed Ruby's knife through it like an icepick swung sharply down, pouring every single ounce of anger and frustration and grief and pain into the thrust.
A last, muffled whimper, a pathetic wisp of smoke rising and dying in the frosty air, and the dragon was dead.
X
"We did it. We did it, Dean."
They had done it. Sam and Dean Winchester had killed a dragon. Sam grinned at his brother over the dead beast's head, heat surging through his veins, fierce and bright. It was finished. They had killed it together.
Dean just stared back at him grimly, though, no joy in his face. Sam's grin faltered.
He looked to Bobby, moving toward them, carrying the closed ritual book in one hand. The older man was grinning, too, his steps light as he walked through the patches of scorched earth. "Hell of a thing, boys," he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder and gazing proudly down at the dead dragon. "Hell of a thing."
Dean nodded. He snapped Ruby's knife out of the dragon's head with a sick slurping sound, wiped it on the dirt, sheathed it. Then he started walking back toward the house. There was no victory in his posture, his expression. For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out what was going on.
He realized that he was still holding the lance and let it go. "Bobby, will you finish up here?" The question was distracted, and he barely spared the second it took to see Bobby's nod before he headed after his brother.
"Dean? What's going on, man?"
Dean just shook his head, still walking. Sam followed at his heels, suddenly worried. He would have expected Dean to be crowing, cocky, incandescent with delight. Instead he looked…defeated.
Up the porch and into the house, and Sam gasped at the tall, dark figure standing over the couch, looking down at the sleeping boy. He reached forward to grab Dean's arm, expecting him to be in full fighting mode, but his brother just stood there, breathing harshly in and out. The intruder turned, and Sam understood it even less. Uriel, strangely less belligerent than the last time they'd seen him, his shoulders slumped and weary.
"You finally got my message, monkey," he said to Dean, but his voice lacked the condescension that should have been there.
"You finally let me remember it, dickhead," Dean said in the same tone.
Sam blinked, hard. "Dean, what…"
The other man finally turned to look at him, barely holding back a sigh. "Dickhead here has been trying to talk to me in my dreams for the last few days, but somehow we never quite came to an understanding until today."
"You…you burned the hex bag? Why?"
"Because Castiel is dying," Uriel said, deigning to look at Sam for a split-second, his dark eyes hot and high. "And as stupid as your brother is, he has enough brain cells firing, however erratically, to realize that only I can heal him."
Sam looked to his brother, and Dean looked back at him, green eyes large and mournful. So it was true. "But how…"
"He found Cas's grace. Demons took it, scattered it all over. Uriel found it, brought it back."
"But that means…"
"He'll be an angel again," Uriel confirmed. "He was never meant to be a human—of course you must realize this. I'm surprised he lasted this long."
"A week? You're surprised he lasted a week?" Sam laughed, hard and angry, and realized that tears were springing up in his eyes, unwanted, unwelcome, but undeniable. "So you're saying that God made a mistake then, giving him a body, sending him down here. I thought God didn't make mistakes?"
Uriel's forehead wrinkled. "Where did you get that idiotic idea? God didn't do this. Castiel chose. He used the last bit of grace he had—far too little for the task—and he brought himself down here of his own volition. Of course it was imperfect. He was nearly dead at the time, far from capable of performing such a feat well."
Dean drew in a breath, shaking his head in sudden confusion. "What, and you're okay with this? With your angel brother choosing to be a human? I'd woulda thought you'd be pissed about something like that."
The dark angel gave him a glare, hard and real, pushing away his weariness. "Of course I'm not 'okay with this.' Castiel was wounded, his judgment impaired. He needed somewhere to recuperate and he chose poorly, that's all. I will not abandon my brother for making one foolish decision while delirious and near death."
"So you've come to rectify his mistake." Dean folded his arms over his chest, but Sam could see that it was more to shield himself than to display any real stubbornness. Dean had accepted this.
This sucked. Sam might even go so far as to say that it sucked out loud.
He wanted to ask Uriel to just heal the boy and let him be. Angels could do that, right? Castiel had healed Dean.
But Uriel would never do that. He would never leave an angel, even transformed into a child, in the care of humans. And he wanted his brother back. Sam could understand that.
It didn't stop the ridiculous, useless tears from streaming down his face, though. Sam wiped at them angrily, but that didn't really help either. Dean was dry-eyed, and he was stupidly furious at him for it.
There was nothing else to say. Uriel turned away from them and knelt by the couch, resting his hand on the little boy's head. It was so strange to see tenderness in this being of prejudice and rage and destructive power, but there it was, soft and bright. Castiel didn't even shift under the touch, too far gone even to realize that his brother had come for him.
Uriel put his hands to his chest, and when he drew them out they were full of soft, glimmering light. This time it was not imprisoned in a vial, just held gently in large, callused hands, pooling and swirling as if alive. He poured the grace onto the boy's chest, letting it roll out of his hands like a lost pet brought home to its griefstricken owner.
"Close your eyes," he said softly.
Sam obeyed, hoping that Dean was, too. Behind his closed eyelids, light burgeoned and grew until the purity was unbearable, stabbing through the thin shield of flesh, and he raised his hands to cover himself in darkness.
When he lowered his hands, blinking hard and fast, Castiel and Uriel were gone.
Dean stood there silent for a moment, then lifted Missouri's afghan from the couch, abandoned and crumpled, empty. Slowly, carefully, he folded it in half, in quarters, in eighths. Then he held it to his chest, wrapped his arms around it.
He didn't say a word.
Epilogue
Another town, another playground. This time it was in one of the warmer states, still nice out despite the month. Sometimes Dean sort of hated himself for always gravitating to these places. But there was still something peaceful, something right, about watching children play, innocent and free, ignorant of the darkness. Despite everything, he still felt better, sitting on this bench, drinking his coffee and listening to young laughter ringing in the air.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean felt a smile spread over him, soft and real, and then turned his head to look, knowing what he'd see. "You got your old vessel back."
Castiel nodded, self-consciously fingering the opening of his trench coat. Dean looked away, remembering little fingers that had loved rubbing over fabrics, feeling textures, exploring the world. "I had left him behind, going off to think alone. It was…foolish of me. When I was isolated, that was when they attacked."
"Yeah, and we all know how that worked out."
Castiel nodded gravely.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the children play.
Dean didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "What…what do you remember?"
"Everything, I think. Not all of it clear, though." Castiel tilted his head, staring at him. Still those same impenetrable blue eyes, yet somehow Dean felt that he knew them better, now. "It's like looking through water, viewing those memories. Easier than when I was a child trying to remember being an angel, though."
"Do you…do you regret it? Uriel called it a mistake. I probably would, too. You were…you were awfully sick, Cas. You went through a lot of pain."
"I don't regret it."
The answer was swift, firm, no hesitation, no doubt. Dean looked away, smiling, unable to stop himself.
"I meant everything I said, too," Castiel added. "I…I want you to know, Dean. Uriel was wrong. When I was hurting, near death, I didn't choose the wrong place to recuperate. I chose exactly right."
Dean nodded and looked down at his coffee. He could feel Cas staring at him, though, and eventually he was forced to look up, meet his eyes again.
"I meant everything I said," the angel repeated quietly. "Sad okay. Anger not."
Dean couldn't help it. He laughed.
"I remember what you taught me." Stubborn now, still trying to get through to him.
Dean grinned. "Oh yeah? What do you say when you have to use the bathroom?"
"Racehorse."
The word was uttered so seriously, so calmly, in the same tone Castiel used to proclaim judgement on the most vile demons. Dean laughed again, or guffawed, rather, and set his empty coffee cup aside. He had to admit that he was pretty damn tickled about that one, despite everything.
Castiel stood up, gesturing for Dean to do the same. "Come."
Dean was confused, but rose to his feet. "What?"
The angel was already walking, long coat flapping around him. Without thinking about it too hard, Dean fell in step with him. "What? I don't get it."
"I told you. I remember what you taught me." Castiel stepped down in the sand of the playground, grabbing Dean's sleeve to drag him along. And then Dean saw where they were going. "Swinging is fun. I remember that very clearly. Come now, Dean. You swing, too."
Dean laughed, and let him lead the way.
"Yeah," he agreed, quiet but heartfelt. "Swings are awesome."
The End
A/N: KEEP COOL, MY BABIES! Alternate ending coming tomorrow.