Serenity (1/4)
Title: Serenity (1/4)
Summary: Dean makes some choices about what he can and cannot change.
Word count: 1,400
Rated: pg-13 (Language)
Notes: Set S5; Spoilers through 5.10
Warnings: Character death (?)
Genre: Gen, angst, AU
Characters: Dean, Sam
Beta by: greeneyes_fan; many thanks!
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
As always, comments greatly appreciated.
***
O God and Heavenly Father,
Grant to us the serenity of mind
to accept that which cannot be changed;
courage to change that which can be changed,
and wisdom to know the one from the other
***
Dean has trouble sleeping. It’s 3am and he’s given up trying.
The nightmares don’t help, but they aren’t the reason for his insomnia. His waking thoughts are what have him staring at the ceiling when he ought to be dead to the world. It’s an unusual turn of events. Sam’s always been the one who lets himself get carried away with might-have-beens and big picture shit. Dean’s a man of action, of solving the problem in front of him. Wasn’t there a time when life was simpler? Gank the ghost, save the girl, none of this angels and apocalypse stuff. Or maybe the world has always been compromise and pyrrhic victories, and he’s just been too dumb to notice. In the silence and thin light of early-morning, he pulls on jeans stiff with cold and laces up his boots.
Sam is sleeping peacefully. At least, if he’s dreaming of the devil it doesn’t show. Dean’s relieved, both that his brother is getting some honest rest, and that he has the time to himself. Sometimes it’s hard to think clearly with Sam at his elbow, exuding self-loathing and silent pleas for forgiveness. Sam won’t understand what Dean needs to do.
Six months, Dean. According to Lucifer, that’s how long they have until Sam gives it up in Detroit. In the future where they don’t talk, it took years. Being together was supposed to be good, maybe prevent that future entirely. Dean wonders what he’s doing wrong. If there’s even anything right he could do, at this point. Still, bad news or no, he’s happy that Sam told him. Happy and guilty. He hasn’t exactly shared everything he saw in Zachariah’s future with Sam.
The motel has the heat way down even though it’s November, or maybe their room’s furnace is just busted. Either way, his t-shirt and flannel aren’t doing much to keep him warm. Dad’s jacket is at the bottom of his duffel, and Dean disgorges most of what he owns looking for it by feel alone. No need to disturb Sam by turning on a lamp, when his brother’s finally getting a good night’s rest. Anyways, Sam’s like a radiator when he sleeps. The cold won’t bother him. He’ll be ok.
Shrugging his jacket on, Dean considers the shadowy pile of clothes that makes up his earthly possessions. The car and weapons are communal, even if he’s the one that usually takes care of them. Over the year before hell, it had bothered him to own so little. No house, no kid, not even a nice suit. Didn’t seem like much to show for 30 years. Lately, it feels like a blessing. Not owning anything he can’t afford to lose means having that much less to worry about. He only needs a few simple things. A place to sleep is enough, a place to sleep and some clothes on his back and his brother.
Dean stands in the tiny kitchenette for a moment and watches the slow movement of Sam’s back in silhouette. For the first time since Lilith, he doesn’t feel the slightest twinge of anger or resentment. Actually, he can barely remember why he let himself push Sam away, why he punished both of them for what was really no more than petty blame and bruised pride. They’ve both sinned, he sees that now. And it doesn’t really matter. That guy at the convention was right- a brother who’d die for you is nothing to scoff at.
“Sam,” he says, walking to the bed to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It’s a bad idea, Dean knows that, but he gives into the selfish desire to rouse his brother all the same.
With an unintelligible mutter, one gargantuan arm flops out from under the covers.
“Gonna get some coffee. Want anything?”
“What time is it?” Sam bitches, so familiar that Dean smiles.
“You know we’re cool, right?”
Sam pushes himself up on one elbow, blinking owlishly in confusion. “Dean...”
Dean waves his hands, though Sam probably can’t tell. “Just…we’re good. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Sam huffs into his pillow and easily drops back off, never having fully woken. Yeah, he’ll be ok.
***
Dean shuts the door behind him quietly. Outside, the parking lot is still and quiet. He can see his breath in the air, and when he leans back against the Impala there’s a slight squeak of frost. The neon signs and city lights wash the sky a hazy purple, so you can barely make out the Big Dipper. Dean wonders how many people live their whole lives only seeing this fraction of the stars. Hunting’s not an ideal job by a long shot, but he’s had plenty of nights away from the city, in the parts of America where you could still see that the sky was a multitude of stars, stretching from one horizon to the other with barely a dark space between them. That was something. And saving people was something. There had been Lisa thanking him for Ben and the rest of the children, and the plane full of people that hadn’t crashed, and Sam pulling Taylor from the hotel pool, and all the other little victories. The best diner burgers, pie, beer on Bobby’s porch, Sam singing along to Metallica and the sunlit highway winding out in front of them.
It’s something, but it’s not enough. Now there’s six months left for Sam, another city destroyed, all those good people dead. There’s two more friends killed under the sorry battle standard of the Winchesters, Jo and Ellen blown to bits so he could take his pathetic, useless shot. And there’s his own voice sneering, that’s just not us, is it? Remembering the all-encompassing rage in his future self’s eyes is bracing. As much as he wishes he could find an out, the way things are headed now is unacceptable. “Just us” is failing miserably and it’s his responsibility to end what he started.
Finding the words Cas whispered to Raphael’s vessel had taken a few lies to Bobby about why he needed to borrow certain books, one last thing he wasn’t proud of. It had better be the right incantation he’s got in his pocket waiting to be read. Last time he needed an angel, he nearly shouted himself hoarse, and those sigils on his ribs are hiding him now. He’s really hoping he doesn’t have to break those. There’s a knife in his boot, though, and if he has to, he will.
Fist closing around the paper, Dean lets himself remember the man he saw in the hospital, propped slack-jawed in a wheelchair and staring unseeing at a wall. It’ll be much worse for you.
The words feel foreign in his mouth as he tries to replicate Castiel’s pronunciation, but there aren’t too many of them. All things considered, it’s a deceptively easy way to summon an archangel. When he’s done, he thinks he can feel a presence around him. Maybe a little like the first time Castiel tried to speak to him, but without the piercing pain. Maybe a little like being alone in a parking lot and talking to himself.
“Michael,” he says, hoping. “Only one condition and you can have your meat suit.” There’s no response, so he pushes on. “You take Lucifer out without killing any humans in the crossfire. No collateral damage, you hear me?” Despite how belligerent Dean tries to sound talking to the air, his demand is no better than a prayer. He knows he has no leverage once he gives his consent, no way of even knowing one way or the other. Might as well add something for himself, then, while he’s at it.
“Don’t let Sam worry. Let him know what happened and…keep him safe.”
There’s still no answer, but he wasn’t really expecting one.
“Well, okay then. Beam me up. Yes.”
And then, for a split second, Dean knows he’s not alone. There’s time for one last breath of cold air through his nose, time to love the way it stings and smells of motor oil- and then a white heat bursts in his chest and is rushing through to his fingers, burning everything in between.
And then, nothing.
( Part 2)
Summary: Dean makes some choices about what he can and cannot change.
Word count: 1,400
Rated: pg-13 (Language)
Notes: Set S5; Spoilers through 5.10
Warnings: Character death (?)
Genre: Gen, angst, AU
Characters: Dean, Sam
Beta by: greeneyes_fan; many thanks!
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
As always, comments greatly appreciated.
***
O God and Heavenly Father,
Grant to us the serenity of mind
to accept that which cannot be changed;
courage to change that which can be changed,
and wisdom to know the one from the other
***
Dean has trouble sleeping. It’s 3am and he’s given up trying.
The nightmares don’t help, but they aren’t the reason for his insomnia. His waking thoughts are what have him staring at the ceiling when he ought to be dead to the world. It’s an unusual turn of events. Sam’s always been the one who lets himself get carried away with might-have-beens and big picture shit. Dean’s a man of action, of solving the problem in front of him. Wasn’t there a time when life was simpler? Gank the ghost, save the girl, none of this angels and apocalypse stuff. Or maybe the world has always been compromise and pyrrhic victories, and he’s just been too dumb to notice. In the silence and thin light of early-morning, he pulls on jeans stiff with cold and laces up his boots.
Sam is sleeping peacefully. At least, if he’s dreaming of the devil it doesn’t show. Dean’s relieved, both that his brother is getting some honest rest, and that he has the time to himself. Sometimes it’s hard to think clearly with Sam at his elbow, exuding self-loathing and silent pleas for forgiveness. Sam won’t understand what Dean needs to do.
Six months, Dean. According to Lucifer, that’s how long they have until Sam gives it up in Detroit. In the future where they don’t talk, it took years. Being together was supposed to be good, maybe prevent that future entirely. Dean wonders what he’s doing wrong. If there’s even anything right he could do, at this point. Still, bad news or no, he’s happy that Sam told him. Happy and guilty. He hasn’t exactly shared everything he saw in Zachariah’s future with Sam.
The motel has the heat way down even though it’s November, or maybe their room’s furnace is just busted. Either way, his t-shirt and flannel aren’t doing much to keep him warm. Dad’s jacket is at the bottom of his duffel, and Dean disgorges most of what he owns looking for it by feel alone. No need to disturb Sam by turning on a lamp, when his brother’s finally getting a good night’s rest. Anyways, Sam’s like a radiator when he sleeps. The cold won’t bother him. He’ll be ok.
Shrugging his jacket on, Dean considers the shadowy pile of clothes that makes up his earthly possessions. The car and weapons are communal, even if he’s the one that usually takes care of them. Over the year before hell, it had bothered him to own so little. No house, no kid, not even a nice suit. Didn’t seem like much to show for 30 years. Lately, it feels like a blessing. Not owning anything he can’t afford to lose means having that much less to worry about. He only needs a few simple things. A place to sleep is enough, a place to sleep and some clothes on his back and his brother.
Dean stands in the tiny kitchenette for a moment and watches the slow movement of Sam’s back in silhouette. For the first time since Lilith, he doesn’t feel the slightest twinge of anger or resentment. Actually, he can barely remember why he let himself push Sam away, why he punished both of them for what was really no more than petty blame and bruised pride. They’ve both sinned, he sees that now. And it doesn’t really matter. That guy at the convention was right- a brother who’d die for you is nothing to scoff at.
“Sam,” he says, walking to the bed to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It’s a bad idea, Dean knows that, but he gives into the selfish desire to rouse his brother all the same.
With an unintelligible mutter, one gargantuan arm flops out from under the covers.
“Gonna get some coffee. Want anything?”
“What time is it?” Sam bitches, so familiar that Dean smiles.
“You know we’re cool, right?”
Sam pushes himself up on one elbow, blinking owlishly in confusion. “Dean...”
Dean waves his hands, though Sam probably can’t tell. “Just…we’re good. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Sam huffs into his pillow and easily drops back off, never having fully woken. Yeah, he’ll be ok.
***
Dean shuts the door behind him quietly. Outside, the parking lot is still and quiet. He can see his breath in the air, and when he leans back against the Impala there’s a slight squeak of frost. The neon signs and city lights wash the sky a hazy purple, so you can barely make out the Big Dipper. Dean wonders how many people live their whole lives only seeing this fraction of the stars. Hunting’s not an ideal job by a long shot, but he’s had plenty of nights away from the city, in the parts of America where you could still see that the sky was a multitude of stars, stretching from one horizon to the other with barely a dark space between them. That was something. And saving people was something. There had been Lisa thanking him for Ben and the rest of the children, and the plane full of people that hadn’t crashed, and Sam pulling Taylor from the hotel pool, and all the other little victories. The best diner burgers, pie, beer on Bobby’s porch, Sam singing along to Metallica and the sunlit highway winding out in front of them.
It’s something, but it’s not enough. Now there’s six months left for Sam, another city destroyed, all those good people dead. There’s two more friends killed under the sorry battle standard of the Winchesters, Jo and Ellen blown to bits so he could take his pathetic, useless shot. And there’s his own voice sneering, that’s just not us, is it? Remembering the all-encompassing rage in his future self’s eyes is bracing. As much as he wishes he could find an out, the way things are headed now is unacceptable. “Just us” is failing miserably and it’s his responsibility to end what he started.
Finding the words Cas whispered to Raphael’s vessel had taken a few lies to Bobby about why he needed to borrow certain books, one last thing he wasn’t proud of. It had better be the right incantation he’s got in his pocket waiting to be read. Last time he needed an angel, he nearly shouted himself hoarse, and those sigils on his ribs are hiding him now. He’s really hoping he doesn’t have to break those. There’s a knife in his boot, though, and if he has to, he will.
Fist closing around the paper, Dean lets himself remember the man he saw in the hospital, propped slack-jawed in a wheelchair and staring unseeing at a wall. It’ll be much worse for you.
The words feel foreign in his mouth as he tries to replicate Castiel’s pronunciation, but there aren’t too many of them. All things considered, it’s a deceptively easy way to summon an archangel. When he’s done, he thinks he can feel a presence around him. Maybe a little like the first time Castiel tried to speak to him, but without the piercing pain. Maybe a little like being alone in a parking lot and talking to himself.
“Michael,” he says, hoping. “Only one condition and you can have your meat suit.” There’s no response, so he pushes on. “You take Lucifer out without killing any humans in the crossfire. No collateral damage, you hear me?” Despite how belligerent Dean tries to sound talking to the air, his demand is no better than a prayer. He knows he has no leverage once he gives his consent, no way of even knowing one way or the other. Might as well add something for himself, then, while he’s at it.
“Don’t let Sam worry. Let him know what happened and…keep him safe.”
There’s still no answer, but he wasn’t really expecting one.
“Well, okay then. Beam me up. Yes.”
And then, for a split second, Dean knows he’s not alone. There’s time for one last breath of cold air through his nose, time to love the way it stings and smells of motor oil- and then a white heat bursts in his chest and is rushing through to his fingers, burning everything in between.
And then, nothing.
( Part 2)