x-x-x-x-x
The screen door creaked closed, as Sam made his way out onto the back porch.
Having left Dean alone with his thoughts, Sam was not the least bit surprised to find him sitting outside wearing only a t-shirt and sweatpants, the obligatory bottle of liquor clutched in his right hand.
"How do I know all of this... You... Bobby... How do I know this isn't all a dream, huh? A trickster or something? How do I know all of this bullshit isn't some pissed off demon with a grudge?" Dean wiped the traces of Jack Daniels from his lips with the back of his hand and kept his eyes trained on the horizon.
Sam shook his head in a lame attempt at formulating a response, and he simply sat down beside his brother and offered him a weak shrug. "I guess you don't," he admitted.
"Dean, you gotta believe me man, I wish things had been different. I... I know how you felt about Jo."
Dean laughed bitterly and shook his head as he peered into the depths of the bottle, and down into his only available salvation. "No. You don't."
"I get that you cared about her, I do," Sam pressed on undeterred, wanting his brother to realise that though Dean might not have voiced his feelings, Sam knew his sibling well enough to have seen the 'what might have been' where Jo was concerned.
"I remember everything, Sammy," Dean said quietly, his voice little more than a whisper as he sounded for all intents and purposes like a broken man. "If none of that was real, how come I remember all that stuff, huh?"
Sam puffed his cheeks out and blew out an unsteady breath, "I don't know. Our minds can come up with some pretty convincing details in dreams, Dean." He sighed as he admitted quietly, "Sometimes, I dream about Jess, and it's like she's really there with me. It feels real, like that's my life. But then I wake up and... She's gone again."
Dean appeared to digest his words, and he wiped his thumb irritably over his eyes at the tears Sam's suggestion provoked.
"No," he said determinedly, "No. I know..." The emotion catching up with him, Dean faltered and quickly took a swig from the bottle. "I know what she feels like in my arms, Sam, I..."
Closing his eyes, Dean tried to shake off the imagery that instantly permeated his mind, and he felt a familiar tightening enclose around his heart, as he imagined how her body felt, wrapped tightly in his embrace; how that one simple gesture always made his heart swell with something he could only describe as love.
Gesturing to the car yard around him, Dean shook his head, his lips tightening into a grimace as he considered the reality he had awoken to that was so very different to the one he had known. "None of this... None of this bullshit is real. So whatever's behind this, whoever the sick, twisted son of a bitch is that..."
"Dean," Sam interrupted, placing his hand on his shoulder and squeezing it lightly as it appeared his sibling was on the verge of breaking down once again.
Misery was etched all over Dean's face, as he stared down forlornly at the ground and he watched grains of dirt blow across the yard as if in a trance. The chilling winter breeze swept around the car yard with a suitably unearthly howl, and though Sam shivered against the icy chill, Dean appeared to not even notice.
"I just..." Dean began, swallowing hard as he still seemed unable and unwilling to accept that this was his world, "She made things better, you know?"
Sam nodded, wondering just how vivid Dean's dream must have been for him to have been affected by it so dramatically. Warning bells started sounding in his head, and the briefly hopeful glance Dean shot him instantly had him regretting his words when he next spoke. The last thing he wanted to do was give his sibling false hope, or allow Dean to believe he thought it any else than a cruel dream.
"What exactly happened in your... In the dream?" Sam asked carefully, watching as Dean bowed his head and grasped the neck of the bottle in his hand. The liquor rolled against the sides of the glass in waves of amber, and Sam sighed as Dean raised the bottle to his lips once again.
"It wasn't a dream, okay? I didn't just dream up two God damn years of my life. We both know I'm not that creative," Dean argued, earning a brief nod of agreement from his brother who waited for a further explanation.
"We were just... We were happy. We all were. Even you," he arched an eyebrow at Sam and shot him a wry smile. "You're dating this hot science chick, Bobby and Ellen are doing the nasty and we're all pretending not to know about it, and... There's me and Jo," he added softly, his hands visibly trembling as he blinked furiously against further tears and inhaled slowly, "I'm not lonely any more, Sam."
Dean never spoke about his feelings whilst they were on the road, he never hinted at or remotely alluded to his emotions. Yet Sam had always known that though they had each other, there was a deep longing within his brother to have the 'normal' life he had always secretly craved.
Dean wanted a home, and a family; to be able to share his hopes and dreams with another, instead of suffering the seemingly unending stream of horrors that he shared alone with his brother.
He had never admitted to loneliness, yet each time he feigned indifference or hostility toward those who lived that life, Sam saw the longing he masked behind his jokes.
The screen door opening behind them interrupted their conversation, and Bobby strode out onto the porch with a thoroughly unimpressed frown upon his features that both the brothers had come to know well, and in fact now anticipated in such circumstances.
"I hope you're planning on fixing up that mess upstairs," he folded his arms across his chest as he regarded Dean closely, and watched as the young man simply shrugged.
Sighing in obvious irritation, Bobby reached out and snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels from Dean's grasp, and he proceeded to pour the liquor out onto the ground before the first words of objection could pass Dean's lips.
"Get in the damn house, take a shower, pull it together and move on." Bobby ordered, his tone commanding and yet not unkind. "Life sucks, okay? We know that. God knows we know that better than any of the other poor bastards on this earth. But I'll be damned if I'll watch you drink yourself to death, not under my roof, you understand me? So... You get up, you find a way to move on , accept things the way they are... And you just make it through another crappy day."
"It's that easy?" Dean challenged, his jaw tensed as he stared down at his hands. Bobby laughed wryly and clamped his hand firmly around the young man's shoulder as he forced him to meet his gaze.
Shaking his head sadly, he considered all they had lost and sacrificed. Bobby replied in a tone laced with bitterness. "Kid, when have our lives ever been easy?"
x-x-x-x-x
The ladder balanced precariously against the wall of the house, shuddering with every advancing step the man took up each wooden rung.
Hoisting the tangled reel of Christmas lights further up onto his shoulder, he glanced down nervously below, and took a deep, steadying breath as he noted he was now some distance from the safety of the ground.
Melvin Greenacre, of Toledo, Ohio was fifty four years old. He was married to Connie, his high school sweetheart, and together, they had two children, three grandchildren, and two miniature schnauzers.
With retirement looming, Melvin was excitedly preparing to leave the world of accountancy behind him, and in the glove compartment of his prized red Lexus, lay the travel documents he would need to take his beloved Connie on a round the world cruise. Thirty years after they said 'I do', he would finally take her on the honeymoon he had promised her.
But Connie would never set foot on the luxurious cruise liner, because in exactly two minutes and thirty eight seconds, Melvin Walter Goodacre II was going to die.
The blonde woman stood expectantly beside the base of the ladder, unseen by the soon to be deceased, or any of the unsuspecting neighbors who passed by the front yard of the expansive suburban home.
Turning her wrist impatiently, she watched the second hand edge steadily around the dial, and she stared up at the rickety ladder with a strange sense of anticipation.
Clutching the large book to her chest, she smiled as she heard the wood groan and crack beneath the accountant's considerable weight, and a splinter of wood drifted to the ground some feet below.
"Right on time," she smiled buoyantly, no trace of regret or sympathy for the victim as she watched him ease himself up a further step and edge closer toward his destiny.
"Athropos."
Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she clutched the book that little bit tighter to her chest and shot an irritated glare at the figure who now loomed before her.
"Castiel," she retorted evenly, cocking her head as she gestured up toward her victim who was now frozen into place, one foot posied to take what would ultimately be his final step. "If you don't mind, I'm a little busy here."
Castiel remained unmoved by her attitude, and as he blinked impassively, a swirl of black mist briefly clouded his irises. The leviathans stirred within him, awoken by the stench of impending death and the presence of one of the three fates. Yet Castiel managed to overcome them, hoping his task would be completed before they gained control over their all powerful host.
"What have I told you about interferring?" Athropos demanded, tapping her heeled foot against the ground as she arched a blonde eyebrow in the direction of the deity. "It's not up to angels to rewrite history Cas, I think we've had this discussion before. You're just lucky I didn't go after your precious boys, we both know they've cheated destiny more times than is allowed."
"You are mistaken, Athropos," Castiel replied, his tone belaying no trace of the threat that was to be inferred, "I am not an angel."
Laughing in wry amusement, she widened her eyes and continued on undeterred. "I thought the 'Titanic' thing was desperate, but really Cas? What is it about the Harvelle women? Why are they so important to you? You thought we wouldn't realise you went back and changed things?"
Her accusations were true. Once ordained as God, Cas had immediately set about putting right those things he considered to have been unjust or wrong.
Joanna Harvelle had indeed died that day in Carthage, and one of Castiel's first acts had been to amend that detail.
As far as Jo, or any of the other hunters were concerned, Castiel had arrived in time to heal her wounds, and neither his former angelic self, nor any of the humans involved were compelled to question the turn of events. Life went on as they assumed it had been meant to, and Cas wanted to believe that this one act someone made amends for the betrayal he had committed against his friends. But now the fates had once again interferred in his plans and undone his good deed.
"They are important to those I once considered friends," Castiel stated, beginning to walk toward her as a radiant, brilliant light seemed to seep from his skin. The young woman's mouth fell open in shock as realisation dawned upon her.
"As I stated, I am not an angel," he repeated, watching with satisfaction as Athropos dropped to her knees and bowed her head in reverence. "You have disobeyed me. I cannot allow that to happen again."
"But I..." Athropos began, gasping as she felt the book being pulled from her grasp by an invisible force. The ancient tome flew from her hands and landed on the ground, where it promptly slammed shut against prying eyes, just as it was prone to do.
"I must be allowed to do my job," she protested, her words contained in a trembled whisper that was intercepted with a small smile from the man before her. "There must be order and reason."
Upon realising that history had somehow been changed, the fates had decided that the preordained time line they had originally written must be followed as they had planned. Though not able to travel directly through time themselves, it was discovered that a simple rewriting or amendment to previous works effectively reinstated their victim's fate.
Events happened as they were meant to once again, and none of the souls involved would ever remember that their lives had been any different; because in the continual loop of space and time, it had never happened.
As if not hearing her pleas, Castiel continued on as he had intended. "I cannot allow Joanna to die again. You have forced my hand, and I must now correct your mistake as I did before."
"She was meant to die in Carthage. It was written. It was preordained. That was her fate, it cannot be undone. The life you gave her was a lie, it was never meant to be." Athropos argued, climbing to her feet where she found herself suddenly pushed back down to the ground, as Castiel raised his hand above her head.
"It is my will," Castiel replied, watching as she struggled under his thrall, and clenched her teeth at the blinding pain that radiated through her body.
"Are you not a just and merciful God?" she shouted, as a torrent of wind suddenly swirled around them, and she felt her own immortal soul begin to be torn from the fabric of her vessel.
Castiel was unmoved by her words, and he merely watched as she collapsed onto the ground, finding himself struck by the irony of the woman's current situation as she was now faced with her own mortality.
"I am a just and vengeful God. And you have disobeyed me."
"My sisters..." she began, clutching at her chest as she watched her soul begin to drift from her body on a ghostly breath.
"Are already dead," Castiel informed her, cocking his head as he regarded her with no trace of pity or sympathy. "I have no further use for you. You are released from your contract."
A scream of anguish permeated the air, drifting through the howling wind that swept up the fallen body of the young woman as she crumpled to the ground. The sockets of her eyes appeared suddenly hollow, and a flash of light sparked in their empty orbits. The body disappeared into the ether, captured in a bolt of lightening that suddenly struck the ground where she had once stood.
Stalking toward the book, Castiel picked it up in both hands and instantly the cover flew open. The words began to lift from the page, the names, dates and manner of death that the fates had so meticulously written becoming little more than a jumble of letters and numbers. They drifted in a spiral, up and away from the pages and on into the heavens.
Opening his eyes, Castiel stared down at the blank pages before him and immediately, the book began to burn. Flames licked at the leather bindings, charring the pages as the fire slowly eat away at the paper.
Satisfied that his vengeance had been met, Castiel watched the ashes drift from his hands before he too disappeared and returned to the escalating chaos of his kingdom.
Melvin Walter Goodacre II reached the top of the ladder and hung the Christmas lights as he had planned. Three months later, he and Connie embarked on their cruise.
x-x-x-x-x
Some souls are created as solitary beings, fated to live their lives alone, or simply unmatched with their perfect other. They will fall in love and live a life that might perhaps bring them joy, but it was not fated that they would do so. There is no predestined match for them, and they remain none the wiser to this detail.
Other souls are created in pairs, sent out into the world separately in the hopes that they will one day find each other. Destiny provides several instances in which they might meet, but it is up to the lovers themselves to realise the true bond that exists between them.
Some meet as intended, yet for whatever reason, fail to forge a lasting link. They perhaps overlook the gift the heavens have bestowed upon them in favour of another, less perfect love.
But there are those who live their lives side by side, cultivating a love that will last even into the eternity of the hereafter.
They are imprinted on each other's hearts, and their bonds are truly eternal, even in death.
Castiel stepped from the shadows of the dimly lit bedroom, casting his gaze around the scene of destruction that greeted him, as broken furniture lay splintered around the floor.
The solitary figure lay still in the bed, immersed in a troubled sleep that caused his breath to hitch as he murmured unintelligably into the darkness. A beer bottle lay empty on the night stand, alongside a bottle of prescription pills intended to ease the patient into a deep, prompt sleep.
Standing beside the fitfully slumbering hunter, Castiel closed his eyes and allowed himself to delve into the flickering images that so relentlessly plagued the dreamer.
"Come on, Dean. Seriously, what's the big deal?" Jo whined, craning her head to glance back at her boyfriend as he wore a comically thoughtful expression and peered up from between narrowed eyes at the night sky.
"I'm thinking," he assured her, continuing to stare into thin air as he deliberated providing a truthful answer, or one Jo might perhaps find more paltable. He had learned from prior experience that angering a Harvelle woman was distinctly bad for a guy's health.
"Yeah, well don't think too hard, Dean-o," Jo teased, taking a swig of beer before leaning back against his chest and holding the bottle aloft in offering to him.
Dean wordlessly accepted the beer, wincing as he envisioned the response his confession was undoubtedly about to receive. He returned the beer to her hand, hoping to soften the blow.
"Okay, ball park figure... Late thirties, maybe make it an even forty."
Jo's hand immediately halted as the rim of the bottle was almost about to touch her lips, and she turned in his arms, both eyebrows raised and an incredulous smile on her face.
Shrinking back slightly under the intensity of her wholly judgemental gaze, Dean shrugged.
"Hey, I got lonely out on the road," he smirked, tightening his arms around her waist as he nuzzled the side of her neck.
Of course that was the truth; he had often been lonely. But the random encounters he had sought with the opposite sex had not provided comfort, they had merely been a distraction from his discontent.
"Lonely, or 'horny'?" Jo retorted, giggling as he punctuated her retort by nipping gently at her skin.
The summer night air was warm and balmy, and Jo released a contented sigh as she remained happily enclosed within his arms. They watched the fireflies darting across the car yard through the twisted carcases of metal, content to be sharing the evening together under a blanket of glistening stars.
The radio of the Impala was set to a local rock station, and the strains of a Led Zeppeling song drifted faintly through the air, alongside the rhythmic chirrup of crickets and the sound of soft kisses being brushed against her skin.
"Forty?" Jo repeated, shaking her head at his admission, which she felt more than merited the reputation Dean Winchester had earned himself as something of a ladies man.
Dean nodded, and Jo felt him smile against the nape of her neck as he continued to slowly rock the porch swing they were reclining on. The swing ground to a sudden halt, and Dean arched an eyebrow in questioning. A smirk twitched at his lips, and his eyes sparkled with obvious mischief. "Wait... Do twins count as one or two?"
Chuckling as her elbow swiftly connected with his chest, Dean gathered her closer and began to rock them backwards and forwards once again on the creaky old swing.
"Hey, you asked, sweetheart. I'm just being honest here," Dean pointed out, "No secrets right?"
"First of all, you're the one who started this whole 'magic number' thing," Jo corrected, eyeing him with feigned disdain, "and the fact you're a giant man slut was never a secret, princess."
She patted his cheek witheringly, snickering despite herself as his fingertips dug gently into her sides and he repeatedly pinched a particularly ticklish spot.
"So," he grinned charmingly, waiting for her to stop slapping his hands away before dragging her back toward his chest. He propped his chin on her shoulder and folded his hands together over her abdomen. "I'm number eight, huh? Always was my lucky number."
Jo released a snort of amusement. "Apparently not," she remarked wryly, referring to his significantly higher number of conquests.
Though Dean had been the one to broach the subject in a half-heartedly playful manner, Jo had been admittedly curious as to his answer. Certainly his reputation had preceeded him, and it was a reputation she now knew had been somewhat deserved.
An easy silence descended upon them, and Dean closed his eyes as he simply allowed himself to enjoy the moment. He pressed reverent kisses down her neck as he breathed her in, and the sensation of her fingertips tracing patterns across the back of his hand prompted a sigh of contentment. Despite all the women Dean had known, it had never been like this before.
He could talk to Jo about anything, he wanted to tell her things that he had perhaps never even told Sam. She was a curious combination of lover and best friend, and that was something Dean had never experienced before. It was something he never wanted to lose.
Breaking the silence between them, Dean pressed his cheek to hers, catching the corner of her mouth with his lips until she turned to catch his gaze. "I don't want anyone else, Jo."
Jo appeared taken aback by the solemnity in his tone, but a smile quickly illuminated her face and she nodded in understanding before her lips found his in a tender kiss.
Castiel stepped back from the side of the bed, reminded of the one oversight the fates had not been able to predict. For although Sam and Bobby, nor anyone else in this version of reality remembered their 'other' existence, the memories Dean had forged with Jo could never be erased.
Their souls were tied, joined at the very moment of their creation, and though Athropos had determined to remove all trace of her from Dean's mind, Jo had remained in his heart.
Bowing his head in regret as he allowed himself to ponder the friendship he had once shared with the hunter, Castiel made his old friend a silent promise. Dean would never know of Castiel's involvement, or even remember the details of this tragic time line he now found himself living in.
He would never know to whom he owed his happiness, or the ends the former angel had gone to, to secure this.
The war would continue to rage in heaven, and Castiel would become their enemy once again.
Shaking the final vestiges of regret from his mind, Cas stepped back into the shadows and prepared to change history for a second time.
Moments later, he returned to Carthage; and God's will was done.