Supernatural and its associated characters belong to Eric Kripke (who should be reported for abuse and have his mind-children turned over to me!)
Author's Note: My little space markers STILL aren't working, but I've found a solution.
This is one of my favorite chapters...there should be a few after it; it's not yet the end!
Impala
Sam's driving. No one else offers to, and he wouldn't want them to; just like last time, the Impala is sole property of the last and youngest Winchester. His music will pound out of the speakers now, his coffee cup will rest on that awkward little bump between passenger and driver and slosh stickily onto whoever has the misfortune of sitting next to him at ass'o'clock in the morning. Michael's occupying the hot seat at the moment, twisting his fingers together and muttering something in Enochian; Sam hopes for his sake that it can be translated into "God, bring Dean Winchester back now," or so help him, he's pulling over and buying a Winchester-sized cup of coffee.
Castiel's sitting very quietly in the back, scrubbing a Wet One over the bridge of Dean's nose, which had to have been broken and rebroken a thousand times for it to look the way it does. He stops once, spreading slick fingers over the plane of Dean's chest and burning Enochian into the ribs; the thick smell of burned meat lingers. He prays continuously under his breath, a rich bass hum that weaves itself into the soundtrack of the open road- rushing wind, scrape of wheels, purr of engine- and the road twists and blurs before Sam's eyes for a while after that. He wonders if God's laughing at him, wherever he is, or if Chuck's tossing back endless bottles of hard liquor and settling in with Mistress Whats-Her-Name as the protagonist of the piece lies dead in the back of his '67 Chevy; he wonders if everyone but him and Cas saw it ending this way, with Dean's brain scrambled by a bullet, his body beaten and broken beyond recognition, his soul in the hands of the angels he'd always hated.
"Please explain why we left Faith behind," Michael says, when they're almost in Sioux Falls but still not far enough away from the damned warehouse, never far enough away.
"She wouldn't have fit," Sam replies. "One of you would've had to fly to Bobby's, and I think I'd rather ease-"
But the truth is nothing's going to ease Bobby into this; not explanations, not gentle proddings, and definitely not an Archangel who'd left his meatsuit (who, by the way, might as well be Bobby's son) in the hands of the Devil. Sam stops talking. It's all a lie anyway.
"She was not welcome with us any longer," Castiel says softly. Adam Milligan blinks at him, and Sam can see he's surprised to hear the truth fall so bitterly from another angel's lips.
"Brother-"
"You can go after her if you want," The lesser angel's voice is hard, unforgiving. "But I never want to see her face again."
The rest of the drive is painfully, awkwardly silent; Dean's boot knocks against the door whenever the Impala turns a corner, and he'll have nightmares about the sound for years afterward.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota:
Bobby doesn't open the door for them.
He's not entirely sure why, but he's got a slick, aching feeling in the center of his chest that refuses to go away; in intensifies now, when the scrape-thud of Sam's unsteady gait echoes hollowly through the house. The youngest of the Winchesters slides into Bobby's line of sight a moment later, his hands and shirt smeared with something thick and dark and Bobby remembers sitting in an empty house watching Dean try to repair the rip in Sam's spine, his face spattered with dead man's blood. It's got the same color, the same texture, and the aching place in Bobby's chest expands.
"Where's Dean?" he asks. "Faith called and said-"
Castiel appears behind Sam, cradling something against his chest that might have been human, might have been Dean Winchester straight from Hell, the one they never got to meet but sometimes dreamed about. Shredded and broken and twisted into a nightmare, his eyes sticky and black and without pity, his fingers more accustomed to curling around a razor-blade than they were to holding his little brother's hand, guiding a frightened woman to safety; but it was so beyond reach, so unimaginable... and now it was in Bobby's living room.
"The couch," he says. The ugly fabric makes improper funeral hangings for a man who saved the world, the miscellaneous rips and stains poor decoration for the closest thing Robert Singer ever had to a son, but it's all he's got and all Dean would ever have wanted. Castiel gently relinquishes his hold on the corpse, neatly setting it down and arranging its boneless arms and legs, folding the former against the hamburger meat of Dean's chest and straightening the latter; shattered bone grind and scrapes, but eventually it looks almost natural. Like Hell!Dean is sleeping on Bobby's couch.
"How-"
Dean's angel, his personal saviour and the closest thing he ever had to a best friend, turns knowingly towards Sam. His soft white fingers touch the bruised and bloodied span of Dean Winchester's forehead, showcasing the ragged twist of bone at the temple; the exit Dean's soul took when it left his body.
"Lucifer shot him," Sam's voice cracks. "With the Colt."
The gun the Winchesters had been searching for all their lives, the one they'd found and traded and lost again... Bobby always knew the damn thing would bring them nothing but bad luck. But they'd never listened, and now there was only one Winchester left; one out of three, a pathetic 33.33 percent that enjoyed sucking blood and exorcising demons with his mind.
"Robert Singer." An unfamiliar young man is standing next to Bobby when he finally looks up, and there's something of John around the face, an unidentifiable shift towards the Winchester that takes Bobby by surprise. He blinks at him, the fair, slender boy in his living room, and it takes him a moment but he finally sees the twist of an angel in his powder-blue eyes. "My name is Michael. Dean Winchester served me well-"
Sam jerks the Archangel back before Bobby has a chance to do his vessel any serious harm.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" he screams, and he can taste copper at the back of his throat. Michael looks nonplussed, maybe even vaguely amused as Bobby lurches forward as far as he can without falling out of the wheelchair and tries to grasp some part of the angel that had used up-wasted- a perfectly good life. "BRING HIM BACK! BRING HIM BACK NOW!"
"He is in Paradise, Robert. Even if I wished to, I'm certain he would refuse to return to..." The Archangel looks distastefully around the room, with its scattered bottles and tattered books and leaflets from the Protestant Church in town. "This."
Bobby pitches onto the floor; Castiel carefully lifts him up, then says,
"Brother, this is Dean's Paradise. He has no other."
"You're biased, Castiel." Michael's voice is stiff, cold.
"I created him from nothing," Castiel replies. "You think I don't know-"
"Carnality is forbidden; don't you remember the Grigori?"
"This is not about-"
"Damn it, Michael!" Sam intervenes, pushing Bobby's shoulders into the canvas seat. "We're asking you for a favor."
The Archangel frowns.
"Samuel Winchester," he says. "What you're asking is more than a favor."
"We'll do anything. Whatever it takes, just...bring him back." The last and youngest Winchester's voice breaks, and Bobby knows without having to turn that he's looking at Dean's corpse, shattered and inhuman. "Please."
Michael's frown deepens, and for the second time Bobby wonders who his vessel is; the large shoulders, the slight turn of the nose; they're Winchester traits, but as far as he knows John didn't have any 'other' kids. He was always so careful, worried about soiling the boys' memories of his and Mary's marriage, weakening their family... the Archangel sighs and his features smooth out, cold and detached.
"Shut your eyes."
Bobby feels the space in front of him explode in a whirlwind of fire and blood and Grace, hears the high-pitched grate of angelic speech and the deafening pound of wings and a long, drawn-out scream that scrapes at his soul- Nonono, PleaseGodno- and he topples. Neither Sam nor Castiel catch him and he lands hard near the epicenter, feels something like red-hot iron and silk driving itself into his skin and realizes it's Michael; he cries out in horror because it's burning him alive, biting at his face and hands and he wonders if Dean felt this way when he was being passed into Heaven.
And then there's nothing.
Castiel watches Michael reach out, accept the quivering pulse of human soul from Zachariah and remembers when he first cupped Dean in the palm of his hand. Remembers the gentle shudder of that bright, beautiful spirit and the immediate jolt of emotion he'd experienced when he was told to rebuild its body; he had flown through time and space looking for things to give Dean. Skin as smooth as it had been when he was eight years old, a virginity he hadn't possessed since 9th grade, the eyes from the hour before he'd been dragged to Hell, the smile as slick and easy as it had been since he turned 17... he'd kissed it goodbye in the way angels did as he lowered it into the pine box and prayed it would serve its purpose. Maybe that was the moment he loved Dean; maybe it was one of the hundreds of others, the sideways glances, the casual gift of a name.
"Brother," Michael's voice makes Sam cry out in pain, flings Bobby from his chair. "You understand that I can't make him as he was before."
"You mean he'll be scarred."
"Will this hinder their ability to love him?" Michael asks. "Would Dean Winchester truly be better off in Paradise?"
Castiel looks squarely at Dean's ruined corpse, with the crude, bloodied etchings and the gaping holes; he's never had worse than this. A beating of this magnitude is unprecedented, even for a Winchester.
"No."
"Then here," Michael pours the little soul into Castiel's bright hands, his angel hands. "You have the honor, Castiel." His lips twist in a wry smile; something he learned from Dean. "Again."
He relishes the merry, uncomprehending bob and weave of Dean's spirit, the inconquerable rush of humanity; it was his favorite part of bringing Dean back, the brief, simple union of angel and soul. He kneels beside the sofa (the carpet curls back, black and stinking) and gently, gently passes his fingers through Dean's chest. After a breath of hesitation, a still beat where he's not sure Dean is going to return to his body, the soul quivers in his grasp and slots perfectly into place; the reaction is immediate.
Dean's back arches and his toes curl into the flat cushions, fingers biting into the sensitive flesh of his palms; Michael and Zachariah press him down, hands singing the sofa and the ugly red slash of blades and thick darkness of bullets and puncture wounds seal, a delicate pink cross-hatch against the skin. Dean screams and his eyes are open and they're watering, and Castiel gently covers them with the palm of his human hand.
"Hush," he says. "Be still, Dean."
"CAS!" Dean's mouth doesn't move when he speaks; it's a cry of the soul more than a cry of the body. "IT HURTS!"
"Shhh..." He kisses the starburst scar on Dean's temple, and this time he doesn't pray for Dean to be a willing vessel, a righteous man. This time he prays for Dean to live, love, and fight as he chooses; this time he prays for free will.
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