Recommended Playlist:

My Chemical Romance – Mama

Snow Patrol – Chasing Cars

Chapter Ten:

Greenville Cemetery, Greenville, Illinois 11:22 a.m.

Friday 3rd October 2008

"We're just about to head off – to Pennsylvania of all places. We'll be careful I promise, but you know how these things are. With all due respect, I never thought I'd be saying that to you but hey – you're one of us apparently… or we're one of you –whatever."

It was funny to think how long it had been since their last visit, though this time the eldest Winchester had come alone without the usual company of his little brother, the kid back at the motel Dean had booked out for him, Sam probably trawling through endless amount of lore despite the fact they already knew how to catch and kill the freaking things. He'd slipped away with the 'low supplies' excuse, taking his baby round to the nearest florists, a little quaint corner affair with buckets full of blooms littering the sidewalk, snapping up a bouquet of wild white daisies and, on reflection, a red rose. The woman who ran the joint had given him a look women her age only ever gave younger men, the 'well-aren't-you-a-sweet-young-thing' glance that always came with a half-smile and a tilt of the head, Dean receiving a soft pat on the back of his hands as he paid for the flowers, nodding politely as he bid his hasty retreat. He knew what it looked like – what he looked like, a young man in his best jacket, fresh shaven face, hair having received the attention it more than likely deserved for once as he slipped into his overly clean car after carefully placing the bouquet across the back seats. He looked like a man on the way to see his girlfriend, young lovers still in that sickly honeymoon stage where the man bought his girl flowers and crap to show her how much he loved her – though he'd never quite got his head around that one. They were pretty plants that'd die and stink up the place after a few weeks, what the hell did they have to do with displays of affection?

"So I er – I got you these," he murmured, flicking the flaps of his jacket from his hips as he bent down, carefully laying the bouquet against the brown marble of the headstone. "I know dad used to get you daisies, I remember you putting them in a vase on the dining table or something – you said your mom used to do the same."

The boy knelt down in the grass, taking time out to carefully arrange the blooms so that that one red rose would sit perfectly in the middle. He was hyperaware of the dog tags he was sure were buried somewhere beneath his right knee, their own secret tribute in memory of their father.

"I'm sorry – really I am. We haven't been to see you in freakin' years and…"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, bit down hard on his lip to keep it all bottled in. He'd have thought he'd have a hold on it by now, but he could feel it collecting in his head, all the pain, all the panic, all the fucking drama that had haunted their asses for more years than he cared to remember. He clenched his fists hard against his knees, wind gently combing its fingers through his hair as he fought to hold everything back, everything he'd wanted to say but didn't have time to deal with, everything he had planned to say but didn't have time for.

"Mom – I don't know what else to do. I just-"

He wiped the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, bowed his head against the weight that had settled itself on his back. He ploughed on regardless, half of what he said garbled nonsense, other snippets and pieces laced with some sort of logic despite the rest being nought but a desperate outpouring.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, chocking back his words. "I am. The last time we saw you – Sammy brought us along and I didn't wanna' come – I didn't stay. I wanted to – boy did I want to but I didn't and that's what really matters doesn't it? I didn't stay. And he paid his respects to you and I didn't because we'd lost Dad and I had all this shit in my head that just seemed more important at the time but-"

Dean sucked in another raspy breath, his head aching, mouth dry and, for the umpteenth time, at a loss at how to carry on.

"But it wasn't – nothing is more important than this. So I bought you flowers and here I am," he laughed humourlessly, spreading his arms as if to reinstate his presence, "here I am kneeling in front of you and asking you – begging you to forgive me. I should have come more often – I should have come to see you and I didn't and I hate myself for not coming. Sam would have if I'd given him half a chance, but I've been keeping his so busy with my shit he hasn't had a chance either. And what does that say about me huh? What sort of son does that make me? Oh man-" he murmured, running a hand roughly through his hair, sniffing once to clear his sinuses.

He found himself laughing again, this time a little less darkly, though his hands remained clenched and taut against his legs, back still bent, head still bowed. He was honestly exhausted, chest tight and full of years' worth of repression, physically and mentally dragging himself through the mud simply because his head was too damn heavy to lift. But there was a lightness that now washed over his body, a cool breath that felt like sanctity, kissing and brushing his feverish skin as if to thank him for his honesty, as if to say all had been rectified. He didn't know if it was the breeze or not, but he comforted himself in the delusion that somewhere, above his head, his Mother was kicking Angel ass and keeping those sons of bitches in line.

"Oh shit – I have to be the worst son in the history of first born sons," the hunter muttered, taking a more relaxed stance, stretching his aching legs to the side in a bid to rid his toes from that pain in the neck static feeling you only ever got when you deprived an area of blood. "Sam on the other hand – he would have made you so proud. You know something – I bet he has… hasn't he? Or he would have if I hadn't have dragged him back into this mess. He could have been some big, smart-ass lawyer with a closet full of suits – apple pie life with Jessica and maybe even a kid. He'd be a great dad wouldn't he?" he murmured, eyes no longer lingering on his mother's name, "would have made a great dad."

That was the life he wanted for Sam, the only legacy of his mother's his still hoped would live on. Sam wasn't going to die all bloody like him – not again, not on his watch. He'd find a girl on their travels and settle down, a girl like Jess with prospects and ambition, buy himself a house with a white picket fence and an old SUV and get a dog or some shit like that that'd tide him over until they had a kid. Sam was the kind of guy to have a girl and, because he was a soppy son of a bitch, the kid'd end up being called Madison or Jessica or Mary or all of the above because Sam was like that, he thought things through like that. He'd get a job as an English teacher or a lawyer or a doctor or something awesome and leave Dean to his life, and he knew he'd be parking up across the street just to catch a glimpse of him mowing the lawn or playing baseball with his little girl. That was what he wanted for Sam – what his Mom had wanted for the both of them. It was too late for him but-

"I don't know if it's too late for Sam," he sighed, tilting his head back, squinting his eyes against the blinding sun. "I have tried so damn hard to keep him on the straight and narrow Mom I – I just don't know how much more I can take. He is going so far left when I'm dragging him right – and now there are Angels involved and they're threatening to bring freakin' Heaven down on his head if he doesn't stop and -"

Your brother is heading down a dangerous road Dean. We're not sure where it leads. Stop it, or we will.

"You told me Angels were watching over me – that was the last thing you ever said to me and I lived by that for a good long time before life beat it out of me…we both did. I don't know if you've figured this out for yourself yet Mom but they are dicks – like real dicks. I don't like swearing in front of you but seriously man," he scoffed, rocking back on the heels of his hands, fingers running through the blades of grass and coming away damp with dew, "they have some serious issues in terms of ego. You thought demons were bad – Jeez."

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his nose twitching slightly at the feeling. All around him the stalks of green grass shivered beneath his touch, his own body reacting violently to the change in the air. But he was accustomed to it by now, knew the feeling, could put a name to the pain in the ass static effect it had against his skin. The boy felt many things he couldn't quite put into words, his mood somehow encompassing the entire human emotional spectrum in a single breath, anger at him for intruding on what was his place, a sense of puzzlement and intense curiosity as to why he was paying him a visit now of all times and the overwhelming urge to pluck his wings naked one feather at a time for both the former and the latter. But Winchester's were well known to be somewhat tactical, and so the coming of Castiel seemed to go unnoticed by Dean Winchester who continued on his lonely conversations with the deceased, all the while a small smile playing on his lips, a welcome reprieve from the tears that had stung his eyes only moments earlier.

"There's this one," he sighed, running his tongue over his lower lip, "that's a little…different. I don't get the son of a bitch – he's hot one minute and cold the next, like he can't make up his mind. And you know somethin'? Bastard even had the freakin' audacity to threaten your son."

"Dean-"

"Now don't get me wrong," he muttered, "Sam's turned into a bit of a fruit cake of late – gettin' all wrapped up with demons and shit, but Sam is still Sam and that's all that matters to me. But," Dean continued, feeling his voice get harder, words now sifted through teeth, "what everyone else doesn't seem to freakin' understand is that you don't just threaten one of us. I bet if you'd stuck around a little longer you'd have given him hell for spoutin' shit like that. But, since it's just me, I guess I'll have to be the one to do it on your behalf."

"De-"

He growled, "Because that's just the kind of son and the kind of brother I freakin' am? Understand?"

"You're angry?"

Dean turned, forced to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun that had baked his back near solid beneath the layers of his suit, dark shadows cast across his eyes as he forced himself to adjust to the piercing white light that enveloped Castiel's silhouette like a blanket. He could just about distinguish two eyes from the great black mass that was Cas's darkened expanse, trench coat covered arms hanging straight at his sides, hands open and peaceful compared to his clenched fists. He was such a fucking duckling, all open and vulnerable looking with mussed hair and ill-fitting clothes, a tie that he couldn't tie round his neck, collar open and off kilter. He was literally a child walking about in human adult form, barely even worthy of his livid tongue, almost (almost) underserving of the anger he so often directed towards him. It really had to be the equivalent of picking on the little dorky kid in the school yard, the kid with the glasses who always had his head in a book, the kid who'd raise his fists but never really throw a punch – simply because he didn't know how or didn't have the heart.

He sighed, "What do you think?"

"I think your anger and irritation is understandable for someone in your current predicament."

"Well you hit the nail on the head there Cas – now what d'you want?"

He was overly dismissive, even Dean could feel how bitter his own tongue tasted in his mouth as his words fell from his lips, though he felt no desire to withdraw them. He wanted to be alone with what was left of his family, his father below his knees and his mother beneath his feet, content with the fact that Mary was sitting pretty somewhere far above his head. Castiel didn't shift, even despite the hunter's blatant displeasure; instead he collected his hands in the folds of his coat and settled himself beside the other man, Dean barely registering his company as the Angel settled himself in the grass, legs crossed, elbows resting against his bent knees. Castiel squinted his eyes slightly, clasping his hands in his lap as his eyes roamed the headstone, brown marble reflecting the sunlight like polished metal, Angel reaching out and running his fingertips across its smooth surface, Dean regarding him patiently out of the corner of his eye. The Angel's hand lingered there a moment, attentions and gaze elsewhere before he retracted his hand and settled it back in his lap, bemused look returning to paint his face fifty shades of five year old.

"I'm sorry about your situation."

Dean huffed out another sigh, "I don't know what I can do with that but – thanks."

Cas turned to look at him, hunter feeling his gaze though he felt no immediate desire to reciprocate.

"I would not wish to find myself-"

"I get it Cas – you're sorry. Leave it," he snapped.

They sat quietly like that for a long while, side by side in the graveyard's grass. Neither of them made to take their conversation further, the Angel having the unique ability to turn himself to stone, chest barely rising and falling with every breath as though he'd simply switched himself onto standby to conserve energy. Dean would watch him every now and again for a few precious seconds at a time, observe him, try and understand him whenever he thought the duckling wasn't looking. He noted the tilt of his head, the soft slouch of his back as though he had the inability to sit up straight – as though he'd never heard of posture. He was one to talk though, sat as he was with his knees brought up to his chest, arm wrapped tightly around his shins. He could barely get over how peaceful it was, how quiet things were between the soft flutter of leaves in the precisely planted trees that lined the driveways, the rustling of grasses against their coats or the birdsong that drifted lazily over their sun-warmed bodies from the hedgerows far to their left. He'd never get that – he'd accepted that a long time ago, at the age of about sixteen. Dean, just like his father, would go up in flames on the traditional funeral pyre, the mark of a hunter, the demolition of all remains and therefore the erasing of an identity, never to be found, never to be tracked, no record of an existence. He wouldn't have a headstone dictating his name, age and the sentiments of those who'd loved him, lucky if he got a crude wooden cross at the place where he'd fall, something he hoped Sam might visit more times than he'd visited his mother's. But it was nice all the same, to bask in the light of his mother's resting place, at least for a little while.

"Do you speak with her often?"

It was the hunter's turn to make eyes at the Angel, though Castiel's concentrations still remained elsewhere. Dean shrugged, settling his chin against his knee, eyes hooded against the hazy weight of day.

"Sometimes," he murmured lightly, absentmindedly adding, "When I think she's listening."

"Would you like to know something Dean?"

The hunter closed his eyes, barely able to hear the world outside the drone of the bees in his ears. He growled low in his throat in response, neither a confirmation nor a dismissal of the Angel's question, happy to let the child decide whether or not that meant 'yes' or 'no'.

There was silence for a little while, a pause that lead Dean to believe Cas had taken that as the latter.

"She's always listening."

Danny's Bar, Sedalia, Missouri 5.33 p.m.

Friday 3rd October 2008

They were ever such fascinating things.

They milled around and herded together like cattle, as if they required the company of others to function, as though they could not live simply off the heat their own body's generated. But there'd always been those with the ability to buck the trend, those that would observe, calculate, who had the ability to step away from the crowd to perceive and therefore understand. There was however no one there of that ilk that night, and Anna found herself incredibly alone in her independent scrutiny.

Her fingers drummed against the table, the Angel taking another sip of her drink as her eyes roamed the room. She'd procrastinated in a way she had never done before, taking her time, wandering about the Earth aimlessly in an attempt to pass time. It had been a good week or so since she'd met with her brother and, as always, time ran ever so differently in her world. With days spanning months and weeks elapsing into mere hours at their fancy she'd been everywhere and anywhere at her leisure, revisiting places of her past, a hillock she'd adopted as her own in Persia, roamed the streets of Calcutta, immersed herself in a Scottish Loch so cold it'd turned the skin of her vessel blue. But it hadn't been enough to consume the time, and as her days had dragged on she'd found herself becoming more and more irritable.

So she wasn't in the best of moods to say the least. She shivered a little in her coats as the door opened a crack, bell tinkling in the back to signal the exit of customer and – the entrance of another. Her wings twitched at her back, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She could smell her already, a heady mixture of pulsing blood, rose scented soap and honey. Chemicals and other foreign scents clung to her in amidst the others, exhaust fumes, hair colorant, leather, gun oil, another that she couldn't place her finger on, and something that made the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle. She emptied her bottle, pushing it across the bar and beckoning the keeper for another two.

"You're late," she muttered, only then turning in her seat to catch her eye. She frowned.

"I er-"

"You're better presented than expected."

It was her turn to frown. "Excu-"

"I have familiarised myself with your file and am therefore used to other attire. The dress, although second-hand, is a surprise."

The Principality's eyes roamed the girl's body none too covertly, content to watch her squirm beneath her prying gaze as she sized her up for all the faults she'd attempted to hide beneath swathes of swiftly applied make-up and chemical scents. Human females she often found were far more fascinating creatures than men, each one containing a different brand of depth males could never seem to grasp. Men were primitive creatures, driven by urge and desire. Their basic behaviours were built on foundations of instinct and socially constructed notions of alpha-masculinity, leading each and every one of them to similar conclusions and ends, thus leaving them far too predictable for her to waste her time on. Females were however, a far different story.

It was taller than she expected though as lanky as its photographs. She was entirely deer-like in every conceivable sense of the term, wrists so small she doubted she'd find bracelets or shackles to fit her though, if you took the time to observe, muscle rippled beneath the skin whenever she'd shift as gently as a wave would lap the shore, a subtle hint of some sort strength but a form of strength all the same. The cosmetic alterations to the child were plainly obvious, hair colour recently altered, nails far too perfect not to have been done recently though one had already been chipped at the corner. And Anna noted the trauma; saw it written across her body both physically and mentally. Scars littered her skin in (what would look to the unseeing eye) the most random of places, though patterns would emerge if one looked closely enough and then had the mental capacity to process such information. Cuts across wrists, silver slivers of scarring across neck and shoulder just managing to peak through voluminous waves of honey dyed hair, attacks made in a bid to kill and maim. They were the badges she'd seen worn by many a hunter in her time, though such things had often scarred the bodies of beaten down veterans and not the fragile thing that stood before her shivering beneath copious folds of unnecessary fabric.

"I'm guessing a cider will suffice although, as you are menstruating, I am unsure as to whether or not the alcohol will have any adverse effects on your pain medication."

She seemed dumbstruck, mouth hanging open wide as though it was her aim to catch as many flies as physically possible for a stationary human. Anna made to spur her on, looped a finger through a strap on the girl's dress and tugged gently, using her other hand to pat the seat at her side. She tried not to smile as the great lanky thing stumbled forward like a deer on ice, feeling the tremendous weight of second hand embarrassment fall into her lap as she hauled herself into the stool that sat spare and waiting for her, Anna fully aware of how all the words she'd psyched herself up to say had fallen from her tongue as soon as she'd opened her celestial mouth. They were so entirely predictable...

"I'm guessin' you know who I am."

"Ah – it speaks."

Despite her sarcastic tone she was pleased it had plucked up the courage to address her, even if her first fully formed sentence had been a question and not the introduction she'd hoped for. Its accent was far thicker than she'd expected however, and her own seemed to it like a crisp white bedspread would seem in comparison to a well-worn comforter.

"I however – well I haven't had the pleasure of readin' up on your good self."

"You'd find nothing even if you'd had the brains to make an attempt," she muttered, returning her attentions to her drink.

"Well," she coughed, clearing her throat, "I guess-"

"Also a fruitless endeavour. You'd never come close to-"

"Now you listen to me-"

The Angel raised an eyebrow, only offering the girl any courtesy in an unspoken dare for her to continue in her current tone. She noted how the little thing had clasped the bottle between her palms; palms Anna guessed were slick with her own sweat and were currently in the process of cooling against the glass dripping with condensation. She nibbled her lip, brow furrowed, fingers plucking gingerly at the cider label as she calculated how she'd continue, Anna noting how hyper-aware she was to every single movement occurring in their immediate area. A highly predictable quirk found in hunters and beings of her ilk, but a fascinating quirk all the same. In the end, the Angel felt pleased that the girl's tone had remained the same, that of a young child standing up to its parent for the first time, an assertiveness that walked the line of nervous and skittish, entirely delectable for the Principality to observe though, at the back of her mind, she was just happy to see that the girl has balls after all.

"I have driven Lord knows how many miles and bled more times than I wanna' say just to find and meet you – least you could do is give me the courtesy-"

Anna shrugged, "courtesy is something earned, not something given. You can keep your courtesy country girl; I've no need for it."

That seemed to have sucked the wind from her sails at least a little, leaving the girl with no stable floor to stand on. She knew she was pushing her luck, testing her boundaries. She may have been given the orders from Michael but that didn't mean she had to follow them to the best of her ability, nor did it mean she had to like the task she was given. A Charge meant far less time doing her Father's work and more time babysitting a soft-tissued, snot-nosed brat of a fledgling who, by the looks of things, had discovered lip gloss for the first time and gone to town. The girl at her side shrugged and took a swig from her drink, emptying far more of the bottle than the Angel would have deemed possible for thing like her. The hunter slammed the bottle down against the counter and smacked her lips in a bid to show her contentment, though Anna was unsure whether or not it had been for her benefit.

"So you know how I am huh? Tell me – enlighten me."

"You really want to do this sweetheart?" she sighed, burying her hand in a bowl of trail mix.

She ran a hand through her hair, shrugging again, scents of shampoo and sweet smelling oils just about penetrating the overpowering stenches of alcohol and sweat that wafted over from the bar's others occupants, a welcome relief to the Angel who'd spent more time than she'd care to remember in that place waiting for her Charge who'd actually had the audacity to turn up for their meeting late.

Anna smirked, emptied her second bottle, and began.

"Your name is Rebekah Victoria Joyce Aston, names given to you by your mother, first being that of your great grandmother, second that of your grandmother and third belonging to your mother's sister. You have your father's frame but you inherited your mother's breasts, a fact you've never come to terms with considering the fit of the dress you bought on a whim from the thrift store down the road though – ah – you've walked in new shoes the past few days in a bid to wear them in and have only gained a blister on your right foot four your efforts," Anna cut off, motioning to the bar keeper for another drink, ignoring the slowly darkening expression on the young woman's face at her side as she wrapped her hands around another chilled bottle. "Where was I – oh yes. You wear make-up despite having no desire to do so, the lip gloss is not your shade and has therefore been borrowed from a friend and or stolen. Knowing you it's the former. The jacket you wear isn't your own. It's far too big for you – far too well worn. An outsider would say a lover's but I know it to be your brother's. There is a blood stain on the left lapel that has never washed out," The Angel murmured, only now beginning to feel the weight of her words, eyes flicking from the garment momentarily to observe their effect, "but you're aware of that – aren't you."

"I am," she whispered, gaze never wavering, eyes dark. "Is that all?"

"All that I care to divulge for the time being."

As she'd admitted before, women were a different story altogether, beings made of complex emotional ties and grudges that spanned more time than they themselves were aware of. They were walking maps of passion and ambition, trapped and held back by memories and feelings that men of their kind could sweep beneath the rug and be done with. But women weren't like that; they retained information like a sponge would water, soaking up experiences and never letting go. And that was all Anna saw when she observed the sad, broken little fawn that had been put so randomly in her unforgiving Charge, a complex web of memory and permanent painful ties wrapped in a scarred skin. And, despite herself, she felt an overwhelming sense of pity for it.

"Seems you've got me," she remarked dryly, fingers still plucking absently at the steadily peeling sticker on the front of the bottle.

"Seems I do."

"So what does and Angel like you want with a girl like me?"

Anna paused, her lips hovering over the neck of her drink. She wasn't looking at her, head bent over her work as she dug her nails beneath the damp paper, label coming away in her fingers in mushy little bits that stuck to her skin and the table is greyed clumps, great swathes of hair enveloping her and the bar, shielding her from the Angel's sight. She hadn't realised she knew as much as she did, expecting her side to come to the table empty and for her to be comfortable sitting on the bed of knowledge she'd amassed. Now it was her turn to recalculate where she stood, something that sparked an interest in her that had sat dormant for a good long while.

"You think I'm an Angel – that's cute."

"I've seen alot'a things in my time," she murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear, allowing Anna a fleeting view of her face. She was surprised to see a small smile playing on the girl's glossed lips, a look that didn't seem to want to fade as she ploughed on, "I think I know and Angel when I see one."

Anna scoffed, taking a swig from her drink, emptying a handful of trail mix into her mouth, settling the flavours on her tongue.

"I suppose I can agree with you there."

"At least we're agreeing on somethin', though that doesn't answer my question."

Gone was the stuttering, quivering glob of human shaped jelly she'd been introduced to, Anna almost missing the tremendous upper hand she'd had in the situation. She was now faced with a young woman who'd collected her wits and had settled them about her, wrapped herself in a cloak of confidence that only a hunter would have, a hunter that more than likely had a few tricks up her sleeve to trap or maim a being like her (at least that's what the naïve little thing thought anyway). It was an interesting transition, the Angel finding herself becoming less disinterested in the task that lay ahead of her, glad to find that the thing that had been placed in her care actually had a spine and didn't need a rod shoved between its shoulder blades in order for it to stand on its own two feet.

"I suppose I owe you that."

"Only if you believe I earned it."

Anna smiled. She may even enjoy her job a little if things were going to continue in the direction they were going.

"I shall answer your query if you first answer one of mine."

"My mama always said never to answer a question with a question."

"Well – how on earth would you know that?"

She caught the intake of breath, realised a little too late the dark undertones of her words. Her Charge seemed to shrug them off however, Anna almost breathing a sigh of relief to see the dust settle, feathers twitching a little in her repressed agitation as she tried to make amends.

"I apologise. I didn't-"

"It's fine," she muttered, waving away her concerns. "I've had far worse said before. And in answer to your question, I've had black feathers clutterin' my brain for about a week or so now. Gettin' a bit sick and tired of it if I'm real honest which, by the looks of things, we're bein' with each other. So-" she smiled turning her seat to face the Angel, holding out her hand for her to shake. "My name you already know. I'm a Scorpio with three dogs, a drinkin' problem and a hell of a lot a baggage. Pleased to meet you."

Anna dropped her gaze, inspected the hand that was offered to her. She'd always said you could tell a lot about a person from their hands, from the lines that marked their palms to the gravel that sat beneath their nails. All she saw was as expected, a soul laid bare and gathered in a palm, offered to her in the most simple of human gestures. The Angel returned her attentions to the being in her Charge, the girl with the honey coloured hair and the thick dark brows, the hunter with the wintry blue eyes and a key against her breast hanging by a worn length of ribbon. She laced her hand through hers and clasped it tight, palm now dry and cool against her own, and a hand strong and assertive as it shook hers in their delayed greeting, skin calloused from work yet smooth from product, a young woman who took as much care of herself as she did those she cared about.

"I am Anna - I am an Angel of the Lord, God's Divine Retribution, and it seems, from this moment on, you are in my Charge."