Author's Note: So I realized that we were still in September, and the Year that Never Was is...a year, so I needed to move this thing along. I've got some pretty fun scenes in the works for once we reunite our heroes, but we've got to get to that point. I hope this works as a semi-graceful literary montage!
After the incident at the bunker, Dean and Martha and Castiel didn't stay in any one place very long.
They went from one place to another, stopping wherever there was a pocket of resistance and leaving as soon as Martha was done with the story—sometimes staying long enough for dinner. They'd camp out wherever Castiel deemed it safe enough, lighting small fires if they hadn't caught dinner with the resistance. Moving from one place to another, never quite safe, never quite relaxed.
It felt like home.
Dean settled into a rhythm with an ease that he hadn't expected, not after spending longer in Hell than he'd spent on Earth. But he knew where to find food, how to best build a fire so that it would be as little noticeable as possible, how to find shelter and keep safe from the elements and natural predators alike. While he knew that Castiel would be able to handle any bears or mountain lions that came their way, it still made him feel better, more useful, to protect them preemptively.
Martha, on the road for four months at this point, was the perfect Hunting partner—or at least the perfect camping partner. She was quiet when she needed to be, efficient and effective, and knew when there was time for small talk and seemed to have a sixth sense as to when Dean needed a little joke or a little verbal sparring. She had an easy smile and the generous, self-sacrificing spirit necessary for a mission like this.
It was almost like Hunting with Sammy. She wasn't Sammy, and she never would be, but they were gonna get Sammy back anyway so that didn't matter. But traveling with her, working with her, trusting her—
—because Dean did trust her. He didn't want to, and he rebelled against it sometimes, and she seemed to be okay with that. It was precisely that understanding, the way that she didn't push him for things he couldn't give, the way she bore his distrust and his biting remarks and his pushing her farther and farther away from him...the way she always came back, like a bad penny. That was why Dean found himself trusting her.
Martha Jones cared about him, and she knew him. She said he always pushed away people who cared about him, but that she wouldn't let him do it to her. She said she wasn't going to go away.
And freshly risen from Hell, Dean needed somebody to stay with him. And Martha didn't seem like she was going anywhere.
So slowly, over the course of weeks and months walking with Martha across the country, Dean was feeling himself open up to her, and it scared the crap out of him. It wasn't right. Martha's last name wasn't Winchester, and it wasn't Singer, and he hadn't opened up to anyone but his dad, his brother, and Bobby since his mom died. Twenty-three years. But Martha listened, and Martha sat with him, and Martha didn't pry at him and she didn't try to undo the stitches he'd so desperately and flimsily sewn up the wounds from Hell with. In fact, if anything, she was helping to sew them up better.
So he walked with her, and he argued with her.
"I don't understand why we're not going to get Sammy," he said, and it wasn't the first time, and something about Martha's exasperated sigh told him that she knew it wouldn't be the last. He threw a bit of brush into the fire, and turned to look at Martha for her reaction. The fire reflected in her dark eyes, but other than the sigh, she didn't act like she'd heard him at all. So he tried another familiar tactic. "Cas can just zap us up there and zap us right back down!"
Ignoring Castiel's brief attempt to interject, Martha replied, still staring at the fire, "And then we're back at square one. The Doctor's got a plan, Dean, and it involves Sam, and it involves both of them being up there. I don't like it any more than you do, because guess what? My mum and my dad and Tish aren't part of the plan. They're collateral. The Master's not gonna hurt Sam, because he's important."
The bitterness in her voice was inescapable, and it made Dean back down for a second, but this was his brother they were talking about. He'd gone to Hell for Sam. He wasn't gonna be cowed off of a rescue mission because Martha was mad at him. "You don't know the Doctor has a plan, and more than that, you don't know that Sam's a part of it. And I'd sleep better knowing my brother was safe."
"And the rest of the planet will sleep better when we all do our jobs and save it from extinction," Martha snapped back, and turned around, digging in her pack and pulling out a lightweight blanket. It was November now, and the weather in Illinois was brutal. "I don't want to fight again, Dean. I'm exhausted."
"We're all tired," Dean said. And knowing what was coming, he added, a bit testy, "Except for you, Cas. We know. Super angel mojo and you don't get tired and blah blah."
"I wasn't going to mention it," Cas replied, his tone a bit curt. "And your quotation is inaccurate. I have never used the word mojo to describe my powers, and I have never said blah, blah."
Martha's and Dean's eyes met almost immediately, and they both grinned in synch. "I got the angel to say blah blah," Dean said, giddy and triumphant.
Martha, still grinning, threw his pillow at him. "Go to sleep, you wanker," she ordered, and curled up under her meagre blanket. Dean ignored Castiel's affronted look at the human's apparent betrayal, and instead threw the angel a pillow, too, and laid down on his.
"I don't require sleep," Castiel said stiffly.
"Just lay down, Cas, it'll make us feel better," Dean replied, his voice already heavy with sleep. It was nice to have a 24/7 lookout, and to not have to take turns on the watch. Didn't mean that it was less creepy for Cas to be constantly watching them.
So the angel, still glaring at Dean, settled down on his back and rested his head on the pillow, keeping a sharp eye around them.
And Dean fell asleep between his angel and the Savior of the Earth.
Dean walked with Martha, and he had chick-flick moments with her.
"It's just that taking care of Sammy has always been my job," he said, beating aside the brush with a stick as they walked through the marsh in late December. "I can't, now. And it scares the hell out of me."
"I know," Martha replied, swatting a palmetto with her own stick. "Believe me. It's hard for me, too."
"Yeah," Dean sighed, "I remember. Your family's up there, too. It's just—"
"It's not just that," Martha interjected. "Sam's my friend, too. And I know that it's nothing like what the two of you mean to each other, because really, I've never met two people closer. But Sam means a lot to me, Dean. Don't tell me you haven't thought about how well we'd get along."
He couldn't say that, because he had. He compared Martha to Sam constantly, and not just because it was weird to have someone else as his traveling partner. Martha was a lot like Sam in a lot of ways. She and Castiel would have long, in-depth discussions about aliens, which Cas seemed to have a little trouble following, and they'd talk about sigils and lore and share stories of the Doctor. Then she'd turn right around and crack the filthiest jokes with Dean that he'd ever heard, always just a little too double-ententre for Castiel to get offended, although the angel always looked like he had an idea that he wouldn't like what was being said if he understood it. He figured if Sam ever got to meet Cas, it would be pretty much the same. Once Sam got to meet Cas, that is. When it happened. Because it was going to.
"When it all happens to you, you'll understand," Martha continued. "I mean, if it does. When it does. I don't know. But when the Doctor fixes this and we all get to start over, you'll see. It's brilliant, Dean. The lot of us? We're brilliant."
And she'd sling her arm around his shoulders, which was an awkward position for someone so much shorter than him, and beam up at him and he believed her.
Damn it. He believed every word she said.
Dean walked with Martha and he let her make him talk.
Actually, this particular time, he sat with Martha. Castiel had gone, scouting the area to make sure that there was no threat imminent. They'd built a little fire, because February was still cold, and they were each huddled under their own blankets while they tried to heat up some old MRE's over the pitiful fire.
"So what d'you think about Castiel?" Martha asked, in that way that said she was asking about something that worried her in her other timeline. Dean was, by now, pretty good at recognizing those tells. A little twitch of her right eye, cracking her knuckles behind her back, compulsively pulling her hair out of and back into a ponytail...and that hesitant darkness in her voice when she spoke about it.
When he asked about how Sam was doing, in her timeline, while Dean was in Hell.
When he asked about why the demons wanted him in Hell in the first place. (She didn't know, she said, and he couldn't even be offended by the lie, she was so obviously scared of the answer. It created a gaping, icy hole in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't press her.)
Now, when she talked about him and Cas.
Dean fidgeted, shoving his food a little farther into the fire. "What do you mean?" he stalled.
"I mean, you'd mentioned a while ago that you were uncomfortable around him," she said. "That changed any?"
Dean shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. He's..." Dean faltered, glaring at Martha. "I don't want to talk about my feelings, Martha. I see through you."
Martha gave an exaggerated sigh, throwing her head back in a fit of drama. "You never want to talk about anything but Hunting, Dean," she complained. "You'll have to eventually! You can't keep these things bottled up."
"What do you want me to say?" Dean demanded. "I mean, he's the guy who pulled me out of Hell. Which, while I don't remember getting pulled out, means he went down there to find me. He went into Hell to find me and get me out. And now he's tagging along with me and you on this trip, like he doesn't have better things to do. An angel. Like he doesn't have better things to do. So what do I think about him? I think he doesn't make any sense because things like this don't happen in my life. Okay? That's what I think about Castiel, Martha."
And it wasn't until then that Dean felt that they weren't alone. He quietly placed his food on the ground and buried his face in his hands.
"I'll leave you boys alone," Martha said sweetly, and retreated.
Castiel stood hesitantly at the edge of the light cast by the fire, his head tilted like he tended to do. "Dean—"
"You don't—" Dean interrupted, not taking his face out of his hands. "Damn it, I can't even say I didn't mean it."
"Good things do happen, Dean," Castiel said quietly. "To people who deserve it."
"Right," Dean snorted.
"People like you," Castiel finished, and Dean fell silent. "Little as you may wish to believe it, for whatever psychological reason, you deserved to be saved, Dean. And you deserve to be protected. I would not be here otherwise, and neither would Martha."
"I'm a drunk, a liar, and a womanizer," Dean muttered. "I let my kid brother die and when I was given the choice, I broke, and I...in Hell, I..."
"I am aware," Castiel said, not unkindly.
"I don't know what part of that means I deserve to be saved," Dean said.
Castiel sighed and walked over to Dean, sitting in an ungainly manner next to the Hunter, who didn't move over, but let the angel sit as close as he wanted.
There was a part of him that knew he needed to hear it, and a larger part that knew Martha wasn't going to stop doing this until he had this conversation with Castiel.
"I understand you, Dean," Castiel said heavily. "Better than you imagine. When I brought you back, I touched your soul—"
"Okay," Dean said, grimacing, "this is just, can't we say that a different way? I—"
"And I saw you," Castiel pressed on, frowning at Dean in disapproval. "And knew you, for who you are. I rebuilt your body and placed your soul within it. I don't understand everything about you; I don't understand the masks you put on to disguise your true self, or the way you hide the truth of you from the people who care. You are a Righteous Man, Dean, and that should never be hidden."
"A righteous man," Dean scoffed, but his tone was gentler than he intended.
"A Righteous Man," Castiel affirmed, and Dean could almost hear the capital letters this time around. "Even if you think otherwise, consider the people that associate with you. My Father commanded your rescue from Hell. The Doctor considers you a friend and a key ally. You are Martha's only friend, and she is content. If you will not trust yourself, perhaps you can trust the people you claim to be inferior to."
"Stop," Dean breathed, and Castiel was quiet. "Please."
They sat in silent for a while, Dean staring at the fire, determined not to look at Castiel. He picked at the MRE, suddenly no longer hungry.
But he found that his stomach wasn't the only part of him that had quieted, and when he went to sleep that night, he didn't dream and he didn't wake until Martha shook him because it was time to go.
Dean walked with Martha, and he made her talk.
"I don't know how much longer I can take it," she said, her voice barely above a breath, as they waited for the resistance to gather around them. "I mean, once this is done. It's hard, Dean. Traveling with the Doctor. There's no rest and there's no safety and god, why am I—sorry, Castiel—why am I even talking to you about this? I'm sorry. Like you don't know about that." She looked down and studied her fingers as though they could reveal the secrets of the universe to her.
Dean leaned back in his chair, late March sunshine streaming in through the dusty windows. "It's okay," he said. "I get it. And it's...it makes sense. You weren't born into this."
"It's not fair that you were," Martha murmured. "And you and Sam, you've held up so well. The fact that the two of you still manage to be good, caring people—"
"Don't think everyone would agree with you there," Dean interjected, a bitter chuckle escaping him.
Martha shrugged. "Don't care what everybody else thinks," she said plainly. "I think you're good people. The Doctor thinks you're good people. Obviously Castiel thinks you're a good person. So three people who've seen a lot more of humanity and the universe than your average pedestrian agree." She made a halfhearted attempt at a grin. "So I'd agree with us."
"You hung with us for a while," Dean said, changing the subject. "Obviously you've got what it takes. Hell, I've figured that out already. What can't you take?"
Martha looked down again, and said, "I want things I can't have, Dean. A normal life. White picket fence and settling down."
"You can still have that," Dean said, but broke off when he saw the tears threatening in Martha's eyes.
"Not with him," she whispered.
Dean didn't have anything to say to that, so he just put his arm around her shoulders.
"There's no normal life for him," she continued. "No normal life with him. And I'm so tired of being scared that something's going to happen, and I'm gonna lose him. I don't think I could do that." She ran her hands through her hair, propping her elbows on the table in front of her. "I don't think I'd survive that."
"He's tough," Dean said softly, and Martha barked a laugh. "Hey, come on. You know it's true."
"It's not gonna work," Martha said, shaking her head. "And it's okay. But I can't keep...I can't keep pretending, you know? Pretending that I don't know. Pretending that it doesn't kill me." She took the cup that had been placed in front of her, full of some of the camp's only clean water. She smiled wearily down into her reflection in the cup. "I can walk away, I think, when this is done. It'll be my last chance. If I wait longer I won't be strong enough."
Dean wondered if that was what Sam was thinking when he left for college.
"Then you do what you need to do," he said. "He'll understand."
"I know he will," Martha breathed. "That's the worst bit."
The rebels gathered around them, and they had to put it aside, but Martha squeezed Dean's hand under the table and Dean felt a warmth in his chest, knowing that he'd helped, just a little.
Dean Winchester walked with Martha Jones, and it was like home, and he realized that there was somebody—there were multiple somebodies—in the world who hadn't been saddled with him since birth who cared about what happened to him, who cared about his happiness, who listened to him when he needed to talk and didn't press him when he didn't and talked to him because they wanted his opinion and they wanted him to know what was going on with them.
Dean walked with Martha, and he talked to her because he wanted to. Or because he had to. Or because it was too quiet.
Dean walked with Martha and he let himself begin to believe that Castiel was right; that he deserved to be saved. He let himself begin to believe that he could let Castiel in and just be grateful to him.
Dean walked with Martha, and he let himself begin to forgive the Doctor, and to trust that the Doctor and Sam knew what they were doing—that somebody else could take care of everyone, for once.
Dean walked with Martha for a year, and it was the most peaceful year he'd ever known.