Chapter Ten
After the trial was over everything went back to normal, except there were three new members to the congregation in the chapel every Sunday. The weekend after the trial Dean and Cas decided to celebrate and took Little Sammy to the old honey tree down by that magical stream. They laid out the picnic blanket, and Cas went through the same routine as he had the first time, all mysterious and whatnot. Dean rolled his eyes at him but didn’t spoil the surprise for Little Sammy. Though when the boy gasped sharply when the cloud of black swarmed Cas, Dean did whisper, “It’s okay.”
Cas returned proudly with his prize, bowing low as he presented it to Little Sammy.
“For you, Sir Stump.”
Little Sammy’s eyes were wide as dinner plates as he took the jar. “‘N’ you didn’ get stung at all?”
Cas shook his head, grinning. “Not once. Never have.”
“He’s a bee charmer,” Dean added. The boy stared between Cas and the jar of golden honey, starstruck until Cas gave him a gentle nudge.
“Go ahead, try some.”
Little Sammy stuck a finger in the jar and scooped a little taste out, sucking the sweet treat off with his eyes closed and a hum of happiness. “Wow.”
“Same stuff we use at the cafe,” Dean told him, “but it tastes so much better when it’s this fresh. Now gimme some a that, we got biscuits to go with it.”
Little Sammy handed it over, still basking in the afterglow of the taste. Dean went immediately for his own taste before pulling out the biscuits, his own hum and smile reflecting his son’s.
“Nifty.”
They were happy. All was well. They could live happily ever after now.
But that fall Dean lost his appetite. And it being Dean everyone knew immediately something was terribly wrong. But by the time Dr Harvelle had a look at him he said the cancer was so bad Dean only had a couple weeks. They moved him to the Novak house and set him up in the master bedroom so he’d be more comfortable. Missouri came with him and never left his side, taking care of his medicine and such. Cas just prayed for a miracle.
He looked awful. Face pale and clammy, eyes half shut out of sheer exhaustion. Cas felt so guilty for it but he didn’t want to see Dean like this. It scared him.
But he spent as much time with him as he could anyway. It wasn’t as much as he would like--he had Sammy to take care of and the cafe to run--but he knew he was running out of time. However much he hated to admit it.
Cas would sit on the edge of the bed, picking at the quilt Dean was huddled under, and try his best to look like he wasn’t falling apart. He wasn’t sure if Dean was fooled.
“Cas, listen to me.”
Cas looked up. He got the feeling from the look on Dean’s face that Dean had been trying to get his attention for a few moments now. Dean reached over to take the hand that had been picking at the loose strands of string. Cas winced internally at how much effort that seemed to take.
“Make sure he graduates. ‘N’ that he asks that Moore girl on a date or two. ‘N’ don’ let him come to the funeral. I don’ want him goin’ through that mess.”
Cas scoffed weakly. “Would you quit talkin’ like that? What funeral? You’re gonna be just--”
“Cas.”
He looked so tired. He looked so much older than he should’ve too. And there was this hint of sadness in those green eyes. Cas snapped his mouth shut.
Dean looked like he was about to say something more but instead of words a great hacking cough burst through his lips. He turned away from Cas, letting go of his hand and covering his mouth. Missouri hurried over from where she’d been waiting in the corner with a hanky and some medicine. Cas felt like he was watching Sam Senior get hit by that train all over again. Just this time it was more drawn out.
The door to the bedroom opened just then and Little Sammy walked in, plopping down into a chair with a huff and a little black raincloud hovering over his head.
“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean asked hoarsely.
Sammy only shrugged miserably. Cas looked quickly between him and Dean before standing up and stepping over to grip the boy hard by the shoulder.
“Let’s go for a walk, ‘kay Stump?”
As Cas lead Sammy back out of the room, closing the door behind him he caught a glance of Dean’s expression, gratitude leaking through the ever present fatigue.
Outside, a little walk away from the house, sitting on a log by the lake, Cas and Little Sammy had a conversation. Sammy’s baseball bat was propped up on against the log, mit sitting in his lap.
“You get in a fight?”
Sammy sniffed and wiped at his mouth irritably. “Got punched in the nose. I can’t play like everyone else.” He batted at the pinned up sleeve on his left side like it was a particularly persistent skeeter.
Cas honestly had no idea how to handle this. Dean was always the one taking care of Little Sammy, making sure he brushed his teeth, washed behind his ears, didn’t have mud stains on his knees. Cas just made sure the kid didn’t kill himself on accident and went to bed at a halfway decent time.
“I ever tell you the story ‘bout the oysters? All the millions of ‘em lyin’ ‘round--”
“‘N’ God put a piece of sand in one ‘n’ it turned into a beautiful pearl, yeah.”
Cas blinked at him. “Oh. Well. How ‘bout the one ‘bout the dog?”
“Three legs, never felt sorry for itself, I’m sure smarter than a dumb dog, yeah, you did.”
Cas stared. Little Sammy had no idea though, focused more on kicking at a small rock in the grass.
“You listen to everythin’ I say, don’ you?”
“Daddy gets mad when I don’.”
Cas felt a little queasy. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. Not without Dean.
“Well,” he said, swallowing hard. “You know ‘bout your daddy.”
“He’s sick.”
“Mmhm.” Cas couldn’t quite bring himself to confirm it with actual words. “See... see, now is the time for courage. I guess you already know there are angels masqueradin’ as people walkin’ ‘round on this planet ‘n’... your daddy’s the bravest one a ‘em.”
-----
A couple days later Little Sammy came racing into the master bedroom, baseball bat clutched tight in his hand.
“Dad, I can hit!” he cried excitedly, coming up right next to the bed. Dean blinked a little frantically for a moment, trying to catch up with what was happening. Behind Sammy Cas walked in, leaning against the doorframe and smiling.
“You shoulda seen me!” the boy went on, eyes bright and wild. “Cas, he hit me in the back with a curve ball! I didn’ duck ‘n’ I hardly cried.”
“He hit you?” Dean echoed hoarsely, still trying to catch up. After a brief pause the jumble of words that had just bombarded him fell into place. “Well. He hit me once too, but I think I did cry.”
The smile on Cas’s lips faltered.
“Daddy...” Sammy said, suddenly somber. “‘M sorry you’re sad.”
Dean smiled as best as he could. “Gimme a kiss ‘n’ I’ll never be sad again.”
Sammy leaned forward obediently, kissing his father gently on the forehead.
“‘N’ you best not be sad neither,” Dean continued seriously. “You understand? You promise?”
Sammy nodded. “Promise.”
“Atta boy,” Dean said with a small grin. “Now you go ‘n’ wash up.”
Sammy left the room, a small bounce still in his step. There was a moment’s quiet, but it was interrupted harshly by another hacking round of coughs. Missouri scurried forward with the medicine, but Dean shook his head feebly. Missouri looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes for an explanation. Then she nodded and backed away.
“I leave you two ‘lone now.”
She left the room, closing the door as quietly and gently as possible. Cas started studying the wallpaper very closely.
“Hey there.”
Cas looked up to see Dean watching him imploringly.
“Will you do one thing for me?”
“Anythin’.”
“Be good to yourself. Even... even settle down if you can find someone who can deal with your sorry ass.”
Cas tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak little huff. He rubbed at his nose fiercely.
“There’s so... so many things I wanna say to you,” he said as steady as he could manage.
“I know,” Dean replied, voice just barely above a whisper. “Tell me one of your stories, Cas. I love your stories.”
Cas looked at him quizzically. Dean smiled, the realest smile Cas had seen from him in weeks.
“Go on, you old bee charmer. Tell me a good tall tale. Tell me... tell me the one about the fish.”
“What fish?” Cas asked, utterly confused.
“You know. The one that lived out in the river.” Dean shifted under the covers, getting into a more comfortable position.
“Oh, that. Well, that was just a lie.”
“I know that, fool,” Dean said with something that was probably supposed to be a chuckle. “Tell me anyway.”
Cas swallowed thickly. “Well. This one time, there was this... this angel. ‘N’ this angel was walkin’ down ‘long the river ‘n’ comes across this fish on the riverbank all gaspin’ and floppin’ around like.” He wandered over to the window, unable to look at the expression of pure content on Dean’s face.
“This angel sees this fish ‘n’ feels sorry for it ‘cause it’s there dyin’ ‘n’ so he’s gonna step on it. Put it outta it’s misery ‘n’ all, right? But then the angel’s brother shows up...”
Cas could see the lake where he and Little Sammy had had that conversation the other day, water sparkling cheerfully in the sunlight. He watched as a flock of ducks settled down in the water, what seemed like hundreds and thousands of them. Cas blinked as his vision went a little blurry. It didn’t help. He rubbed at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand.
“Don’t step on that fish, the brother said. Big plans for that fish.”
A train whistled in the distance.
Cas turned back to look towards Dean, confused when there was no routine “what kind a plans, Cas?”. Dean seemed unnaturally still. Cas took a couple tentative steps closer to the bed.
“Dean?” he whispered, voice breaking.
Dean’s face was paler than it had been just a moment ago. Cas bit back the wrecked sound clawing at his throat.
“Dean.” His voice was hoarse.
There was no response.
Missouri heard the sob and diligently went about covering the mirrors and stopping the clocks. She stood behind Castiel and murmured soothingly, letting the covers of the bed soak in salty tears.
-----
A couple months after, the second great war started. Cas and Sammy listened intently to the radio that evening telling them all about the attack at Pearl Harbor. Soon Cas switched the radio off and told Little Sammy to head to bed. That was enough excitement for one day, he said. Of course, Little Sammy wasn’t so little anymore, but he was still an 11-year-old boy and wanted desperately to go overseas. Be like his granddad and fight. But even if Cas would’ve allowed it, and even if Sammy had been old enough, there was no way the army would let a one-armed boy go fight. So Cas and Sammy helped out with the war effort any way they could at home. Sammy wanted to drop out of school and to join the labor forces, but Cas remembered his promise to Dean to make sure the boy graduated. And he wasn’t about to break that promise, war or no war.
Soon after the war ended, and soon after Little Sammy finally graduated, he moved out and got married to the nice blonde girl from school, Jessica Moore. They left Whistle Stop and moved north. By then most of the town had already moved on. Missouri had passed away a few years ago, and Big Victor had gone to live in Illinois with his kids. Benny had gone and joined the Navy during the war and had gone missing. Charlie had moved to New York and was apparently living the dream. All of the older Novak children had moved away to bigger and better things. Whistle Stop was a ghost town. The world forgot and the world moved on. That was the end of the story.
But you’re still wondering if Cas actually killed Aby Sands, I can tell. The problem is, no one really knows. I suspect Aby Sands was the only one who did, and you know the saying. Dead men tell no tales. ...Or women, rather.
Though... Missouri did tell a story to her niece on her deathbed, a story she’d never told before, and her niece never told a soul. It was a story about the night Aby Sands disappeared.
So Aby Sands came into town that night. Dean was at Charlie’s, Cas was backstage at the Town Follies, and Missouri and her granddaughter were watching over baby Sammy as they cleaned up the cafe for the night. Aby Sands came storming into the cafe, door banging against the wall with a crack. Missouri recognized what was happening right away and started screaming at Big Victor’s little girl to go get help. Aby Sands backhanded the poor old woman, and Missouri fell to the floor with a thud.
Little Sammy started screaming the moment the door hit the wall. Aby paid no mind to the small one’s protests partially hidden by the train that was screeching through the town. And she must’ve not noticed the little girl sitting in the stall. Probably thought Missouri was crazy yelling at someone who didn’t exist. People like Aby Sands don’t have much respect for people like Missouri. By the time Aby Sands was storming out the cafe with the baby the little girl was gone, run to fetch her daddy.
Aby set the basket down in the dirt as she made to open the door to her truck. It was at that point that things stopped going her way.
“‘Cuse me, ma’am. I don’ believe you oughta be goin’ anywhere with Mista Dean’s baby.”
Aby turned around to see a rough looking man wobbling up to her. Chuck looked about as drunk as a loon though so she merely shoved him away and turned back to the truck. Chuck stumbled backwards wildly, landing hard on his ass. Dazed and a little bewildered by the sudden and unexpected movement, it took Chuck a moment to regain his senses.
But just as Aby’s fingers closed around the door handle she heard a sound behind her. As if something heavy had hit a tree stump that had been covered with a quilt. The sound she had heard was that of a five pound skillet hitting her own thick red hair a fraction of a second before her skull split open. She was dead before she hit the ground, and Missouri was already scooping up the screaming baby.
“Towanda.”
Chuck struggled back to his feet, frowning down at the figure crumpled in the dirt. “I told you you ain’ goin’ nowhere with Mista Dean’s baby.”
Missouri was already storming back to the cafe, shushing the child. Chuck scrambled after her. It was only a few moments later that Big Victor and his little girl, as well as Cas, showed up. Missouri, calm as can be, explained what had happened.
“It was self defense!” Cas exclaimed, now holding the sleeping baby and rocking him perhaps a little too harshly out of pure agitation.
“Don’ know why any white jury would care why I did it,” Missouri responded grumpily.
“Well I saw it,” Chuck offered. “‘N’ I can testify.”
“‘Cuse me,” Big Victor interrupted gently. “I don’ mean no offense here, but I don’ know who’s less likely to convince a jury: my momma or Mista Chuck here.”
“No offense taken,” Chuck said quietly.
“You a good man, Mista Chuck,” Big Victor assured him. “You done good.”
It was quiet between the four adults. Big Victor glanced out the window.
“It be light soon.”
Quiet again. Then Cas looked up. “Victor.”
“Mmhm?”
“I think... it’s hog-boilin’ time.”
Big Victor frowned at Cas, utterly baffled. “Nosuh. It ain’ cold ‘nuf.”
Cas shook his head a little wildly. “No, listen. It’s hog-boilin’ time.”
-----
That next morning most of the town was running business as usual. That Crowley man was on his way in to talk to Sheriff Lafitte about a missing woman, Dean and Missouri were cooking up a storm in the back of the cafe, and Big Victor was stirring the contents of the big black iron pot. Sure, it was a little early in the year but not too soon. Cas came out back where Big Victor was, casually nodding a good morning.
“Chuck left town,” Big Victor told him in an undertone. “Felt it would be best under the circumstances.”
Cas nodded. “Shame he had to go.”
-----
Later on that day as Fergus Crowley finished another plate of barbecue and Missouri came by to take it away, Cas was sitting hidden away in a booth a little ways away. The cafe was fairly empty at that point, the afternoon lull between lunch and supper, so Cas could hear every word that was said.
“Why, this is just ‘bout the best damn barbecue I ever had!”
A pause, just a hitch, then Missouri, god bless the woman: “Secret’s in the sauce!”
Cas wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hurl.
-----
Years later some official important person decided it was time for the house where Castiel Novak grew up to be taken down. A couple of men were working late on the project one day and started digging up a whole bunch of chicken skulls. One of these men had grown up in the South, raised in a family that had lived there for generations, so was easily able to explain the small and brittle skulls. The one human skull, however, he had no explanation for.
If you drive through Whistle Stop, Alabama today you might not notice. Though if you pay real close attention you’ll see a couple of old houses, a couple of old buildings. The train doesn’t run through anymore. There’s still words painted on the windows of the old cafe, peeling and worn: FRIED GREEN TOMATOES. There’s a crack just below the double e’s. If you happen to pass through, stop by the old cemetery. You’ll see generations of Novaks there, and a bunch of other old families from the town. You’ll see that stone for Little Sammy’s arm, SO LONG OLD PAL.
And right next to that you’ll see a grave marked,
DEAN WINCHESTER
1904-1939
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
And chances are that right there, sitting by that unassuming grave, you’ll see a jar of fresh honey and a note.
I’ll always love you.
Your Bee Charmer
A/N: Dedicated to My Bee Charmer.
With Love,
Your Honeybee
Cas returned proudly with his prize, bowing low as he presented it to Little Sammy.
“For you, Sir Stump.”
Little Sammy’s eyes were wide as dinner plates as he took the jar. “‘N’ you didn’ get stung at all?”
Cas shook his head, grinning. “Not once. Never have.”
“He’s a bee charmer,” Dean added. The boy stared between Cas and the jar of golden honey, starstruck until Cas gave him a gentle nudge.
“Go ahead, try some.”
Little Sammy stuck a finger in the jar and scooped a little taste out, sucking the sweet treat off with his eyes closed and a hum of happiness. “Wow.”
“Same stuff we use at the cafe,” Dean told him, “but it tastes so much better when it’s this fresh. Now gimme some a that, we got biscuits to go with it.”
Little Sammy handed it over, still basking in the afterglow of the taste. Dean went immediately for his own taste before pulling out the biscuits, his own hum and smile reflecting his son’s.
“Nifty.”
They were happy. All was well. They could live happily ever after now.
But that fall Dean lost his appetite. And it being Dean everyone knew immediately something was terribly wrong. But by the time Dr Harvelle had a look at him he said the cancer was so bad Dean only had a couple weeks. They moved him to the Novak house and set him up in the master bedroom so he’d be more comfortable. Missouri came with him and never left his side, taking care of his medicine and such. Cas just prayed for a miracle.
He looked awful. Face pale and clammy, eyes half shut out of sheer exhaustion. Cas felt so guilty for it but he didn’t want to see Dean like this. It scared him.
But he spent as much time with him as he could anyway. It wasn’t as much as he would like--he had Sammy to take care of and the cafe to run--but he knew he was running out of time. However much he hated to admit it.
Cas would sit on the edge of the bed, picking at the quilt Dean was huddled under, and try his best to look like he wasn’t falling apart. He wasn’t sure if Dean was fooled.
“Cas, listen to me.”
Cas looked up. He got the feeling from the look on Dean’s face that Dean had been trying to get his attention for a few moments now. Dean reached over to take the hand that had been picking at the loose strands of string. Cas winced internally at how much effort that seemed to take.
“Make sure he graduates. ‘N’ that he asks that Moore girl on a date or two. ‘N’ don’ let him come to the funeral. I don’ want him goin’ through that mess.”
Cas scoffed weakly. “Would you quit talkin’ like that? What funeral? You’re gonna be just--”
“Cas.”
He looked so tired. He looked so much older than he should’ve too. And there was this hint of sadness in those green eyes. Cas snapped his mouth shut.
Dean looked like he was about to say something more but instead of words a great hacking cough burst through his lips. He turned away from Cas, letting go of his hand and covering his mouth. Missouri hurried over from where she’d been waiting in the corner with a hanky and some medicine. Cas felt like he was watching Sam Senior get hit by that train all over again. Just this time it was more drawn out.
The door to the bedroom opened just then and Little Sammy walked in, plopping down into a chair with a huff and a little black raincloud hovering over his head.
“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean asked hoarsely.
Sammy only shrugged miserably. Cas looked quickly between him and Dean before standing up and stepping over to grip the boy hard by the shoulder.
“Let’s go for a walk, ‘kay Stump?”
As Cas lead Sammy back out of the room, closing the door behind him he caught a glance of Dean’s expression, gratitude leaking through the ever present fatigue.
Outside, a little walk away from the house, sitting on a log by the lake, Cas and Little Sammy had a conversation. Sammy’s baseball bat was propped up on against the log, mit sitting in his lap.
“You get in a fight?”
Sammy sniffed and wiped at his mouth irritably. “Got punched in the nose. I can’t play like everyone else.” He batted at the pinned up sleeve on his left side like it was a particularly persistent skeeter.
Cas honestly had no idea how to handle this. Dean was always the one taking care of Little Sammy, making sure he brushed his teeth, washed behind his ears, didn’t have mud stains on his knees. Cas just made sure the kid didn’t kill himself on accident and went to bed at a halfway decent time.
“I ever tell you the story ‘bout the oysters? All the millions of ‘em lyin’ ‘round--”
“‘N’ God put a piece of sand in one ‘n’ it turned into a beautiful pearl, yeah.”
Cas blinked at him. “Oh. Well. How ‘bout the one ‘bout the dog?”
“Three legs, never felt sorry for itself, I’m sure smarter than a dumb dog, yeah, you did.”
Cas stared. Little Sammy had no idea though, focused more on kicking at a small rock in the grass.
“You listen to everythin’ I say, don’ you?”
“Daddy gets mad when I don’.”
Cas felt a little queasy. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. Not without Dean.
“Well,” he said, swallowing hard. “You know ‘bout your daddy.”
“He’s sick.”
“Mmhm.” Cas couldn’t quite bring himself to confirm it with actual words. “See... see, now is the time for courage. I guess you already know there are angels masqueradin’ as people walkin’ ‘round on this planet ‘n’... your daddy’s the bravest one a ‘em.”
-----
A couple days later Little Sammy came racing into the master bedroom, baseball bat clutched tight in his hand.
“Dad, I can hit!” he cried excitedly, coming up right next to the bed. Dean blinked a little frantically for a moment, trying to catch up with what was happening. Behind Sammy Cas walked in, leaning against the doorframe and smiling.
“You shoulda seen me!” the boy went on, eyes bright and wild. “Cas, he hit me in the back with a curve ball! I didn’ duck ‘n’ I hardly cried.”
“He hit you?” Dean echoed hoarsely, still trying to catch up. After a brief pause the jumble of words that had just bombarded him fell into place. “Well. He hit me once too, but I think I did cry.”
The smile on Cas’s lips faltered.
“Daddy...” Sammy said, suddenly somber. “‘M sorry you’re sad.”
Dean smiled as best as he could. “Gimme a kiss ‘n’ I’ll never be sad again.”
Sammy leaned forward obediently, kissing his father gently on the forehead.
“‘N’ you best not be sad neither,” Dean continued seriously. “You understand? You promise?”
Sammy nodded. “Promise.”
“Atta boy,” Dean said with a small grin. “Now you go ‘n’ wash up.”
Sammy left the room, a small bounce still in his step. There was a moment’s quiet, but it was interrupted harshly by another hacking round of coughs. Missouri scurried forward with the medicine, but Dean shook his head feebly. Missouri looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes for an explanation. Then she nodded and backed away.
“I leave you two ‘lone now.”
She left the room, closing the door as quietly and gently as possible. Cas started studying the wallpaper very closely.
“Hey there.”
Cas looked up to see Dean watching him imploringly.
“Will you do one thing for me?”
“Anythin’.”
“Be good to yourself. Even... even settle down if you can find someone who can deal with your sorry ass.”
Cas tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak little huff. He rubbed at his nose fiercely.
“There’s so... so many things I wanna say to you,” he said as steady as he could manage.
“I know,” Dean replied, voice just barely above a whisper. “Tell me one of your stories, Cas. I love your stories.”
Cas looked at him quizzically. Dean smiled, the realest smile Cas had seen from him in weeks.
“Go on, you old bee charmer. Tell me a good tall tale. Tell me... tell me the one about the fish.”
“What fish?” Cas asked, utterly confused.
“You know. The one that lived out in the river.” Dean shifted under the covers, getting into a more comfortable position.
“Oh, that. Well, that was just a lie.”
“I know that, fool,” Dean said with something that was probably supposed to be a chuckle. “Tell me anyway.”
Cas swallowed thickly. “Well. This one time, there was this... this angel. ‘N’ this angel was walkin’ down ‘long the river ‘n’ comes across this fish on the riverbank all gaspin’ and floppin’ around like.” He wandered over to the window, unable to look at the expression of pure content on Dean’s face.
“This angel sees this fish ‘n’ feels sorry for it ‘cause it’s there dyin’ ‘n’ so he’s gonna step on it. Put it outta it’s misery ‘n’ all, right? But then the angel’s brother shows up...”
Cas could see the lake where he and Little Sammy had had that conversation the other day, water sparkling cheerfully in the sunlight. He watched as a flock of ducks settled down in the water, what seemed like hundreds and thousands of them. Cas blinked as his vision went a little blurry. It didn’t help. He rubbed at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand.
“Don’t step on that fish, the brother said. Big plans for that fish.”
A train whistled in the distance.
Cas turned back to look towards Dean, confused when there was no routine “what kind a plans, Cas?”. Dean seemed unnaturally still. Cas took a couple tentative steps closer to the bed.
“Dean?” he whispered, voice breaking.
Dean’s face was paler than it had been just a moment ago. Cas bit back the wrecked sound clawing at his throat.
“Dean.” His voice was hoarse.
There was no response.
Missouri heard the sob and diligently went about covering the mirrors and stopping the clocks. She stood behind Castiel and murmured soothingly, letting the covers of the bed soak in salty tears.
-----
A couple months after, the second great war started. Cas and Sammy listened intently to the radio that evening telling them all about the attack at Pearl Harbor. Soon Cas switched the radio off and told Little Sammy to head to bed. That was enough excitement for one day, he said. Of course, Little Sammy wasn’t so little anymore, but he was still an 11-year-old boy and wanted desperately to go overseas. Be like his granddad and fight. But even if Cas would’ve allowed it, and even if Sammy had been old enough, there was no way the army would let a one-armed boy go fight. So Cas and Sammy helped out with the war effort any way they could at home. Sammy wanted to drop out of school and to join the labor forces, but Cas remembered his promise to Dean to make sure the boy graduated. And he wasn’t about to break that promise, war or no war.
Soon after the war ended, and soon after Little Sammy finally graduated, he moved out and got married to the nice blonde girl from school, Jessica Moore. They left Whistle Stop and moved north. By then most of the town had already moved on. Missouri had passed away a few years ago, and Big Victor had gone to live in Illinois with his kids. Benny had gone and joined the Navy during the war and had gone missing. Charlie had moved to New York and was apparently living the dream. All of the older Novak children had moved away to bigger and better things. Whistle Stop was a ghost town. The world forgot and the world moved on. That was the end of the story.
But you’re still wondering if Cas actually killed Aby Sands, I can tell. The problem is, no one really knows. I suspect Aby Sands was the only one who did, and you know the saying. Dead men tell no tales. ...Or women, rather.
Though... Missouri did tell a story to her niece on her deathbed, a story she’d never told before, and her niece never told a soul. It was a story about the night Aby Sands disappeared.
So Aby Sands came into town that night. Dean was at Charlie’s, Cas was backstage at the Town Follies, and Missouri and her granddaughter were watching over baby Sammy as they cleaned up the cafe for the night. Aby Sands came storming into the cafe, door banging against the wall with a crack. Missouri recognized what was happening right away and started screaming at Big Victor’s little girl to go get help. Aby Sands backhanded the poor old woman, and Missouri fell to the floor with a thud.
Little Sammy started screaming the moment the door hit the wall. Aby paid no mind to the small one’s protests partially hidden by the train that was screeching through the town. And she must’ve not noticed the little girl sitting in the stall. Probably thought Missouri was crazy yelling at someone who didn’t exist. People like Aby Sands don’t have much respect for people like Missouri. By the time Aby Sands was storming out the cafe with the baby the little girl was gone, run to fetch her daddy.
Aby set the basket down in the dirt as she made to open the door to her truck. It was at that point that things stopped going her way.
“‘Cuse me, ma’am. I don’ believe you oughta be goin’ anywhere with Mista Dean’s baby.”
Aby turned around to see a rough looking man wobbling up to her. Chuck looked about as drunk as a loon though so she merely shoved him away and turned back to the truck. Chuck stumbled backwards wildly, landing hard on his ass. Dazed and a little bewildered by the sudden and unexpected movement, it took Chuck a moment to regain his senses.
But just as Aby’s fingers closed around the door handle she heard a sound behind her. As if something heavy had hit a tree stump that had been covered with a quilt. The sound she had heard was that of a five pound skillet hitting her own thick red hair a fraction of a second before her skull split open. She was dead before she hit the ground, and Missouri was already scooping up the screaming baby.
“Towanda.”
Chuck struggled back to his feet, frowning down at the figure crumpled in the dirt. “I told you you ain’ goin’ nowhere with Mista Dean’s baby.”
Missouri was already storming back to the cafe, shushing the child. Chuck scrambled after her. It was only a few moments later that Big Victor and his little girl, as well as Cas, showed up. Missouri, calm as can be, explained what had happened.
“It was self defense!” Cas exclaimed, now holding the sleeping baby and rocking him perhaps a little too harshly out of pure agitation.
“Don’ know why any white jury would care why I did it,” Missouri responded grumpily.
“Well I saw it,” Chuck offered. “‘N’ I can testify.”
“‘Cuse me,” Big Victor interrupted gently. “I don’ mean no offense here, but I don’ know who’s less likely to convince a jury: my momma or Mista Chuck here.”
“No offense taken,” Chuck said quietly.
“You a good man, Mista Chuck,” Big Victor assured him. “You done good.”
It was quiet between the four adults. Big Victor glanced out the window.
“It be light soon.”
Quiet again. Then Cas looked up. “Victor.”
“Mmhm?”
“I think... it’s hog-boilin’ time.”
Big Victor frowned at Cas, utterly baffled. “Nosuh. It ain’ cold ‘nuf.”
Cas shook his head a little wildly. “No, listen. It’s hog-boilin’ time.”
-----
That next morning most of the town was running business as usual. That Crowley man was on his way in to talk to Sheriff Lafitte about a missing woman, Dean and Missouri were cooking up a storm in the back of the cafe, and Big Victor was stirring the contents of the big black iron pot. Sure, it was a little early in the year but not too soon. Cas came out back where Big Victor was, casually nodding a good morning.
“Chuck left town,” Big Victor told him in an undertone. “Felt it would be best under the circumstances.”
Cas nodded. “Shame he had to go.”
-----
Later on that day as Fergus Crowley finished another plate of barbecue and Missouri came by to take it away, Cas was sitting hidden away in a booth a little ways away. The cafe was fairly empty at that point, the afternoon lull between lunch and supper, so Cas could hear every word that was said.
“Why, this is just ‘bout the best damn barbecue I ever had!”
A pause, just a hitch, then Missouri, god bless the woman: “Secret’s in the sauce!”
Cas wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hurl.
-----
Years later some official important person decided it was time for the house where Castiel Novak grew up to be taken down. A couple of men were working late on the project one day and started digging up a whole bunch of chicken skulls. One of these men had grown up in the South, raised in a family that had lived there for generations, so was easily able to explain the small and brittle skulls. The one human skull, however, he had no explanation for.
If you drive through Whistle Stop, Alabama today you might not notice. Though if you pay real close attention you’ll see a couple of old houses, a couple of old buildings. The train doesn’t run through anymore. There’s still words painted on the windows of the old cafe, peeling and worn: FRIED GREEN TOMATOES. There’s a crack just below the double e’s. If you happen to pass through, stop by the old cemetery. You’ll see generations of Novaks there, and a bunch of other old families from the town. You’ll see that stone for Little Sammy’s arm, SO LONG OLD PAL.
And right next to that you’ll see a grave marked,
DEAN WINCHESTER
1904-1939
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
And chances are that right there, sitting by that unassuming grave, you’ll see a jar of fresh honey and a note.
I’ll always love you.
Your Bee Charmer
A/N: Dedicated to My Bee Charmer.
With Love,
Your Honeybee