Conclusion to 'How Dean, Sam and Johnny Spent Their Christmas Vacation'
Title: How Dean, Sam and Johnny Spent Their Christmas Vacation (2/2)
Author: Commodoresexual
Disclaimer: Spoilers through 4.11. I don't own Supernatural, Dean, Sam, Castiel, or Castiel's possible vessel.
Rating: PG-13, warnings for violence, hate crimes
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Castiel's (AU) Vessel
Warnings: As per usual, my view on religion is probably not the conventional one, so you have been warned!
Notes: Part of my Conversations with Angels universe - taking place after Part 5. This is Part Two, after a HUGE OMG hiatus. BUT IT IS FINISHED. REJOICE. I know I did. Part One is here.
Also, yeah, the vessel here is not Jimmy Novak. No worries, I have an idea on how to work him in later into my little AU verse.
Summary: On the last six days of Christmas...
7. On The Seventh Sad Day
Sam wouldn't tell Dean this, but since agreeing not to use his powers, he sort of felt like Willow from Buffy; The Vampire Slayer. Sixth season, to be precise, where Willow ended up being dumped by Tara for using bad magics and she realized she was an addict and had to be cut off for the safety of all. Then there's that one episode where Willow is old school and uses her computer and logic and saves the day, instead of magic, and it makes her feel better about herself. Sam felt that way every single time that he took over the research end of things - see, God, he's useful and he's being good - and it takes the sting out of knowing that in the end he might be the thing that slows Dean down.
He tried not to think of what happened to Willow, corrupted again and mourning, at the end of that season. He really, really did.
Especially since now he's got something so much more disturbing to deal with, as he pulled up the details of Bryan's death. The kitchen that the dead man built is deceptively warm and inviting as he reads, the coffee Dean made still sitting at his elbow, ignored as he feels his guts turn. He couldn't drink it now, no matter how good it smelt. He's pretty sure it would taste of bitter hatred and disgust.
The kitchen door swung open, and Dean slid in, a light dusting of snow on his hair. “Coast is clear - he's still down at the market. Man, am I glad he can't drive stick.” Sam wasn't sure what was on his face, but the second Dean looked at him, his brother's expression went tight. “Bad?”
Sam put his hands to his face, and rubbed it, before letting his fingertips rest against one another. Sort of a silent attitude of prayer. “According to the reports that - that Johnny and his friends made - Bryan was walking away from McDermott's, alone, to the convenience store down the street. Nothing major - he apparently went to buy some gum, and he picked up a package of those Hostess cupcakes. They found the bag with his body.”
He wet his lips, looking away, for a moment, just to compose himself, before he looked back to Dean. “Five guys cut him off before he got back. They didn't know him - just knew he was gay - and they were drunk and ignorant...” He clenched his hands into fists, forced them down. “They had pipes, and bats, and lighters... Dean, they dragged him into an alley and beat him. Just …beat and tortured him, to death. Not more than a block away from the pub.”
He swallowed. “Someone passing saw them leaving the alley and went to investigate. She called 911, tried to get help, but ...it was too late. He lost too much blood, took too much internal damage. He died on the table, at St. Mary's, not an hour later.”
“Jesus.” Dean's disgust was thick, and Sam watched his older brother stand up, anger riding in every line. “People, man. People. Biggest fucking monsters I know.”
Sam nodded his head slowly. People. They would do the most outrageously horrible things to one another, to their next door neighbor or one of their own relatives, and not blink twice. Hell could take lessons. “The woman made sure to give her statement to the police - the five sons a'bitches are rotting in jail as we speak, Thank Christ.” Otherwise … he didn't even know. Darker impulses ran through his mind and he squashed them. He didn't do that, anymore.
Dean leaned against the counter, his expression mirroring Sam's divided feelings - half like he wanted to hit something and the other half resisting the urge. He squeezed the counter-top with his fingers, and exhaled. “Okay, so, what do we do now?”
Sam opened his arms wide in a helpless gesture of, 'I have no clue', when the back door opened, and Johnny burst through, exclaiming, “Okay, have I mentioned how much I love short...” Sam jerked to action a touch too late in closing the computer screen, and he saw the way Johnny's eyes widened, and then became knowing as he lamely finished his sentence, “...cuts.” He put the bag of groceries down, facing away from them, as he continued speaking softly. “Because they save time, getting home so you can see the crime scene photos of your dead lover. That's always pleasant.”
Sam shot Dean a helpless look, as his older brother stood up, “Johnny - we just ...”
“You wanted to understand. Wanted to know why I invited you home, when I barely knew you, wanted to know why I dragged you to a bar, half-way across the state. You wanted to know what was going on because obviously, I'm acting a little crazy, even by your generous standards.” Johnny interrupted, as he started to rifle through the bags, looking for something. “So you did what Winchesters do. You decided to stick your nose into my business.”
Dean sighed, and looked at him directly, even though Johnny was not meeting Sam nor his brother's gaze. “What do you want us to say? That we weren't worried? That we decided to look up how your boyfriend died because there was nothing on cable?” He stood up straight, his eyes boring into the side of Johnny's head. “We're not like Alex or any of those guys. We don't have the history you got with them, and we never knew Bryan, never knew about your life together. Hell, to be fucking honest, we don't know much about you. But we're trying. We're opening up here. Might be nice, if you did the same.”
Johnny jerked a little like he'd been hit across the face, and Sam winced in sympathy. When Dean got honest, he didn't pull any punches, and Sam wondered if Johnny just felt like he got a good right cross to the guilt center. Johnny ran one hand through his hair, a gesture that suddenly sang of the angel, and stopped what he was doing as if he realized it. He stared at his hand and sighed, “I … I really wish Castiel was here.”
Dean looked over to Sam, and Sam rose to his feet, moving to stand by Johnny's side. “Why, Johnny?”
Johnny lifted his head, and there was something so sad, so lost in his eyes. He sighed. “Because he understands. Without me having to say. It's so easy, when all my sins and faults are laid out bare and he doesn't care - because I'm just a good man - or at least he thinks I'm a good man...”
“Johnny … what could you have possibly have done that would have been so bad?” Sam asked, not touching him, but making his presence known. He didn't dare look at Dean right now - between the two of them they had racked way too much self-recrimination and guilt. He couldn't look in Dean's eyes and see the same look he was getting in Johnny's.
Johnny pressed his hands to his face, his voice low and pained. “I didn't go after him.”
Sam frowned, but then comprehension settled in. “Outside of the … bar?”
Johnny nodded his head, and he wasn't crying, but his entire upper body trembled. “We had a fight. A … a really bad one. Yelling, screaming, complete and total blowout. It was so ...so stupid. He was jealous, I was tired, it got out of hand and I said something I shouldn't have. He walked out, said he was going to get some gum and talk to me when I wasn't being such a .. an asshole.” He looked up, and stared at the wall opposite. “He walked out the door, and the next time I saw him he wasn't Bryan anymore. He was just this bloody … pulpy mess. The man I loved, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, and he was just … gone.”
Dean's voice was soft, “Johnny - that's not your fault...”
“He was jealous. He thought I was cheating.” Johnny whispered, almost as if he hadn't heard Dean at all. “I let him walk out into the not-great part of town because he thought I was cheating and he deserved to wander around in the dark alone. I could have gone - should have gone. He'd be alive today if I hadn't.”
“And what were you gonna do, huh, against five armed guys?” Sam knew that tone in Dean's voice - felt glad it was going in another direction than his for once. Worry and over protectiveness translated straight into anger, and Sam glanced over to see Dean pointing a finger at Johnny. “Flutter your big, brown eyes at them? What the hell could you do?”
Johnny stepped forward and roared into Dean's face, his fists clenching at his sides, “I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING, ANYTHING! BUT I DIDN'T AND NOW HE'S DEAD! DEAD AND GONE! AND I'M ALONE, ALL ALONE! ”
The smaller man abruptly stopped yelling, as if shocked at the sound of his own voice, and silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of his silent panting.
Suddenly it's like there was claw around Sam's heart, reaching in and curling tight, piercing it, because that's how much it hurt to remember Dean's death - Dean lying dead in his arms. Dean being torn apart and Sam, helpless against the wall while Lillith laughed at him. Just laughed. He closed his eyes tight, and whispered. “And you're helpless, when it's taken out of your hands like that. Then all you can do is stand there, and hold tight, even though there's nothing left to hold onto.”
He opened them to find Dean and Johnny staring at him, Dean's heartache naked on his face and Johnny … Johnny looking like he and Sam were speaking in their own perfect language.
So Sam continued, “And you're holding on to grief, and you're holding onto anger, and self blame, and you hate yourself. You hate yourself, so damned much. So you give up things. You give up - your job, your loved ones, your sanity. I tried to give up my soul.” He paused, feeling his eyes sting, but he didn't cry, and he was silently proud of how steady his voice was. “What did you give up, Johnny?”
“People.” Johnny's voice is tight, his face contorting briefly. “You'd think … as much as I believed, as hard as I did, it would have been God, right? But - but God didn't make those men hurt my Bryan. They were just people - angry, ignorant people, and I couldn't … I couldn't stand to be around anyone. I hated humanity - I hated everything about them. I hated their fear, and their ignorance, I hated their fake sympathy at the funeral home and I hated their sincerity.” His voice went soft. “I couldn't work, after that. I couldn't go into the grocery store, for goodness's sake, without being filled with rage. I had a meeting, with Bryan's lawyer, about signing papers? I sat there, as he said nice things, comforting things, and all I wanted to do was throttle him. Beat his head into his desk because - because he was alive and Bryan wasn't and he was part of the whole damned universe that had taken my Bryan from me.”
Sam stared at Johnny as he exhaled again, looking down at the ground, his voice softer. “That was the day I decided I had gone too far. That I had to stop this downward slide of hatred, or I would be completely lost. I came out of that meeting, and went to the nearest church. I fell on my knees, and I begged, I pleaded, for a direction, a purpose, something that would tell me what to do … and Castiel came. He came down, and offered me a choice, and I took it without a moment's hesitation. Because God had answered my prayers.”
He finally looked up, and met Sam's eyes, and his brown eyes welled, “But now, knowing you two, knowing what you've gone through … and that you fought to stay, the both of you, I've got to wonder. All this, all this craziness is just me, wondering.” He let out a sigh, looking to the ceiling. “Wondering if I actually chose this, or I just saw a way out, and I'm just running away.”
Again, Sam found himself without words as Johnny turned and stepped past Dean, out of the kitchen, leaving the two brothers alone in a silence that seemed to seep the brightness of the kitchen with it.
8. On The Eighth Day Of Christmas
The first thing Johnny realized was that he was not waking up on the floor where he was pretty
he passed out last night after consuming an entire bottle of amaretto, but in fact was being jostled up and down from the very firm shoulder of one Dean Winchester.
The second thing he realized that he was in fact staring down at Dean's very nice jean-covered ass, and he wondered briefly what Dean would do if he leaned down and goosed him.
The third realization was that he was still pretty drunk, if that seemed like a good plan.
The fourth realization was if he was drunk, being held upside down and bouncing was going to be a bad idea sooner than later. He closed his eyes and willed himself to not throw up - for Dean to put him down - and for it to be someplace cool so he could rest his head against it. As if Dean could read his mind - and if he could Johnny was definitely putting him up for the coolest superhero ever outside of Spider-man - Johnny felt himself being lowered into something cool, and hard, and he pressed his face happily against the side of the … wait. This was the -
Cold water sprayed down on him from his perfectly pressurized shower head and he yelped and floundered at the bottom of his bathtub, “Aw Jeez Darn CRAP! DEAN! SAM!”
Dean was leaning against the wall on one side of the tub, and Sam was sitting on the toilet, and both of the smug jerks were smiling as if nothing was wrong. Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, his expression completely innocent, “Good morning, Johnny. Glad to see you're up!”
“Good idea, best thing in the world after an all out-amaretto bender. Nice, cold shower. Really gives your system that jolt it needs in the morning.” Dean added, his lips curving up in one end.
“I loathe you both, and I want to set you on fire!” Johnny snarled, but rather ineffectively since all he could do right now is flail around the bottom of the bathtub. “Lots of fire! Burning fire! Hot, flaming, painful fire!”
Sam looked solemnly over at Dean, “He's cranky when he wakes up.”
“Pity party hang-overs are never pretty, Sammy.” Dean answered with equal mock seriousness. “So we should let him turn on the warm water, strip off his wet drunk clothes, probably puke? Then we'll drag his grumpy ass out shopping.”
“That sounds like an awesome plan, Dean.” Sam looked over at Johnny and his thundercloud expression. “Not sure how well Johnny is going to like that, all things considered. He might just get stubborn.”
“Yeah, yeah, I figured he might put up a fight once he was a little more with it.” Dean said, nodding his head, before he smiled perkily. “That's why I figured on dragging him out as naked as a jaybird if he puts up too much of a fuss.”
“Wow, dragged out naked in winter. Ingenious.” Sam said slowly, widening his eyes comically wide.
“And pretty smart, too.” Dean waved his hand in the air to an invisible crowd, “Thank you, thank you, No, thank you.” Then he smirked down at Johnny, “Soooo, we'll see you downstairs in what, twenty, thirty minutes?”
“Fire.” Johnny growled in response. “Lots and lots of it.”
Dean smiled at Sam, who grinned back at his brother and got off the toilet. Sam called out over his shoulder. “We'll put clean clothes outside the bathroom door, and coffee will be ready when you hit the kitchen. See you in thirty.”
Johnny snarled again, without anything really behind it, and sighed as he leaned across the space to turn on the hot water. His soppy wet clothes were tossed out of the shower itself, and he made himself stand under the spray. His muscles started to un-knit, and he groaned in silent relief. What was it about a warm shower that made facing the rest of the day easier?
It was a saner, cleaner, and slightly less groggy Johnny that made his way into the kitchen to find one of his travel mugs waiting for him, and a half full coffee pot sitting next to it. He poured himself a full measure, added milk and sugar, and stumbled out of the house into surprisingly bright December sunshine. Had to be the hangover, he told himself, as he moved towards the Impala, crunching through snow. The car was already purring and blaring out some old hair rock as Johnny opened the passenger door. Sam smiled cheerfully up at him, to which Johnny responded with leaning down, pulling the handle that released the front seat and shoving it forward to send Sam's face solidly into the dashboard.
Johnny climbed into the backseat to Sam's howls of protest and Dean's snorted laughs, put his coffee down on the floor and leaned across the front seat. Then he smacked Dean solidly upside the head, knocking the elder's Winchester's sunglasses off his face, snagging them up with his free hand. Dean let out a yelped, “Ow! Hey!”, but Johnny silenced him with one raised finger as he slid the sunglasses on his face.
He waited until both Winchesters were sitting there, gaping at him, and he slowly lowered his finger as he picked up his coffee and said softly. “Fire. Burning, vengeful FIRE. I hath brought it, and you shalt take it.” He slouched in the backseat and muttered softly. “Thank you.”
Sam touched his nose gingerly and Dean rubbed the back of his head, as they both looked at one another, then back at him with a silent nod of acceptance. The Impala started as Johnny grabbed his coffee again and settled back against the leather seat, wincing at the sun again. The rising sun, if the tilt of the sky meant anything. He pushed his sunglasses further up his face and slumped a little more, squinting. Early start, indeed. “Where … exactly are we going shopping, anyways?”
“There's a mall around here. Best to get there before the Christmas crush starts, you know.” Sam was lounging back against the seat, and when he turned the morning sun turned his face and hair into a halo. Johnny briefly wondered how Heaven could even doubt that Sam was one of their own creations, and he felt a stab that they could lose him. Through their machinations, through Hell's, maybe even through Sam's.
He doesn't say any of that, though. The only thing that comes through his muddled brain is, “But Dean hates malls.”
“Eh. I'll deal.” Is Dean's curt reply, and it's a stunning reminder of how hung-over Johnny that he can't even drudge up an argument or a curious comment to that statement. Instead he worked on making his head not explode or his stomach turn itself inside out in protest. He winced as they reach the mall, wondering where they would end up, but Dean pulls the Impala way out by the Sears, and all three of them hoof it the seeming mile or so to its doors. Johnny finds himself book-ended and speed-walked between the two Winchesters, until they reached the center of the mall, where one of those nature-in-fountains were, and Dean pushed him firmly down on the cool, flat marble surrounding the thing. “Sit. We'll be right back.”
Johnny didn't even have the energy to protest, because he was never a drinker, and this hangover was literally kicking him right in the butt. He put his head in-between his knees and breathed out through his nose, willing his head to stop aching and the bile to stop rising. He listened to the tinkling water from the fountain, to the murmur of voices all around him, and just tried to get himself back into balance. Liquor hadn't chased away the aching pain inside, so now he felt his heartbreak and sadness, topped by all this physical misery.
He didn't know where Castiel was in Heaven, what the angel was doing right now, but he had a feeling that where ever he was, Castiel would be disappointed in him.
It's the sound of a little girl laughing that made him look up. He hadn't realized how close they were to the Santa pavilion, and it was still early so there weren't that many people crowding about. Still, there was a sizable line of children and parents. Little boys and girls, smiling, laughing, some crying but most of them looking a little excited and scared. Some of them were clinging to their parents, who looked loving and exasperated, but excited themselves. There was a joy there, that settled into Johnny's bones, and he slipped off his borrowed sunglasses, looking around more intently.
There was a young man on a cellphone who paused in his conversation to hold open the door for a much older woman, with a smile on his face when she thanked him.
There were two teenage girls chattering over a bag as they passed him, one of them saying, “She is so going to DIE when she sees this, totally worth the money ...”
There was a couple walking arm in arm, bags in their hands, pausing to admire furniture. He felt his heart squeeze, and then, surprising himself, felt it let go.
Someone cleared their throat close to him, and he jerked his head back to find Dean and Sam standing there. He blinked at them, confusion filtering into gratitude as Dean handed him a McDonald's bag and Sam handed him a smaller brown one with one of those small aspirin packets in it, before they flopped comfortably on both sides of them. He swallowed the aspirin down, took a hit of orange juice, and started in on the greasy breakfast, feeling his stomach settle.
And while he did this, Sam and Dean sat silently. All three of them watched the mall start to fill up, then Santa appeared to the cheers of children, and around them, people passed by on their way to doing this thing and that thing. Christmas music, cheery and tinny, could barely be heard over the bright hum of humanity.
They sat still and watching, while life kept moving on.
Johnny started to smile knowingly, a smile he shared with the Winchesters. He was unsurprised when they returned it, with the same nods from before. The silent 'you're welcome' hung in the air like the carols blasting through the mall speakers, and for the first time that Castiel had left, Johnny felt at peace.
9. On The Ninth Day Of Christmas
“Jesus Christ!” Dean grunted, and off of Johnny's harassed expression on the other side of the tree, he sighed and added wryly, “Was about due to be born at this point - or six months ago? Was a carpenter? Is awesome?”
Through the branches he could see Johnny rolling his eyes good-naturedly, and the other man sighed. “Just hold the tree in place, Dean?”
“I'm holding it, I'm holding it.” Dean shifted his grip, bit back another curse as the branches tried to attack his face again, and let out a huge sigh of relief when the tree was secured firmly into the base. “This isn't a Christmas tree, it's a goddamned -” he paused and rolled his eyes as Johnny gave him another look. “Gosh darned attack fir. I am frigging spitting up needles here, dude.”
“Whining about malls, gay bars and holding up Christmas trees.” Johnny smirked as he stood up straight. “Are all super-hunters big sissy girls?”
Dean glared at him, jabbed a threatening finger at Johnny while the man's smirk just widened. He upped his glare as he yelled out-loud. “Sam! How are those lights coming?”
“Well, I think I got all the bulbs replaced...” Dean turned towards the kitchen door, where Sam emerged, and he felt his lips quirk up as he saw his brother, covered in Christmas light strands - they were draped over his shoulders and dangling all around his impossibly tall form. Sam didn't see his look, because he was frowning at the string he was running through his fingers, “But frankly I'm still not sure I didn't get the colors all messed up.” He looked up, and then frowned deeper at Dean's grin. “What?”
Dean responded to the question by leaning down, and plucking up one of the socket ends of the lights. He found the nearest socket, and pushed in the connector, suddenly lighting up Sam like he's the Vegas strip. He grinned wide and wicked at Sam's confused look, turning that smile to Johnny as he hooked a thumb towards Sam. “All we need to do is to drape some tinsel over him and stick him in a corner, and I think we're done, dude.”
Sam's eyes widened as he looked down at himself, and the Little Brother Glare to end all Glares followed that, while Johnny coughed-laughed, and finally cleared his throat as he walked over to Dean and grabbed him by the arm. “All right, down to the entertainment center with you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Dean mock-grumbled, even as Johnny maneuvered him down the hallway, and away from still-glaring-and-might-possibly-jump-him-later-Sam.
Johnny snorted and lifted one eyebrow. “Tree mishandling and suggesting we up and decorate your brother? You're so twitchy that you're starting to make me nervous. You go downstairs, watch some cartoons and if you're a good …. largely sized demon hunter, we'll let you help us make baked goods later on.”
Dean sighed heavily, even as he was silently thrilled to be out of the decorating side of things. Bunch of fluffy nonsense. He didn't mind the tree-chopping or even the lugging around of decorations and shopping bags, but decorating was right out the fucking door, as far as he was concerned. “Fine, fine. But there better be Christmas cookies involved, that's all I'm saying.”
He climbed the last landing of stairs into Johnny's ridiculously large 'entertainment center', and dropped on the sofa, flicking on the TV with a touch of the remote control, letting out a sigh of relief. Finally, down to the man part of this holiday - sitting around on his ass and watching TV. He flipped until he found a channel playing Warner Brothers cartoons, and kicked off his boots as he settled in to watch. Within minutes, he was slumped backwards, fast asleep.
And somewhere in sleep, someone was calling his name.
He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the ceiling of the Impala, and there was a hand on his shoulder and for a moment he wondered if he had drifted off in the middle of a stake-out and how many embarrassing pictures had Sam taken before he had woken up - when the gravelly voice registered and he twisted his head quickly.
Castiel nodded at him, expression solemn but his blue eyes gleaming in the faint light coming from outside the Impala. “Good evening, Dean.”
Dean rubbed one hand across his eyes, before letting his gaze rest hungrily on Castiel again. “Dream?”
Castiel tilted his head in assent, the hand on Dean's shoulder going to run through his hair almost tentatively. “It is the only way we can communicate at this time, without my vessel.” The angel's blue eyes shifted from the top of Dean's head to Dean's face. “Thank you, for taking care of John.”
“Well, it's kind of a mutual thing.” Dean shifted, just making himself more comfortable, not at all moving into the warm touch of an angel, thank you very fucking much. “He's a good guy. Really good. Kind of beats himself up a lot. But, really … a decent man.”
There was that soft noise, an exhalation that almost sounded like a noise of an amusement that meant Castiel was laughing. The angel responded, his gravely tones soft. “Mm. I wonder who exactly that reminds me of.”
Dean snorted himself. “Gee, I wonder m'self.” He smirked at the angel, knowingly. “What is it with you and lost causes, Divine One? You just like us broken ones that much?”
Castiel looked off out of the side window, his fingertips still rubbing into Dean's scalp. He nearly purred in pleasure, but he bit his tongue as the angel sat and contemplated the statement. Finally, those blue eyes found Dean's again, as Castiel responded slowly. “A good soul cannot be broken, Dean, not permanently. No matter how battered it has become.” Those fingers twisted into his hair slightly. “Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to the realization, Dean Winchester, one day even you will accept the truth of that.”
Dean sighed, pressing his rough cheek again the leather, taking some comfort from it's familiar smell. “I'm not broken. I don't need to be saved.” He didn't say he didn't deserve to be, but from the look on the angel's face, he didn't have to.
“Because there is never anything wrong with Dean Winchester?” Castiel's voice was soft, but not gentle. Saying with few words that the angel thought differently.
Dean looked back at him, feeling his jaw tense, but those blue eyes would not accept any lies. He huffed out a sharp breath, keeping his answer vague.“Maybe. Maybe... not.”
Castiel's eyes glimmered in the darkness, “Kicking and screaming, Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt his chest twist tight, a hard lump suddenly letting go and warmness filling him, and it took everything in him not to ask for … well. Everything. To ask Castiel to stay, to ask him if Dean was what this angelic being really wanted. Feeling like a lost little boy, looking into a safe, warm place and just waiting for the door to be shut in his face, like it had before.
As much as he thought about it, as much as he wanted to believe, he couldn't. Maybe it was just the fear in his belly; Hell, maybe it was pure hunter instinct. He just knew that God couldn't offer him something this good without there being a catch. So, he was either paranoid, or God was playing the biggest Charlie Brown vs Lucy and the football moment of all time. 'Here you are, Dean! You can have your life and salvation and Castiel too! All you have to do is kick the football. I swear I won't pull it away.'
No, Dean had been around the block one too many times here. You didn't get to come back from the dead, and get your soul saved, not even mentioning getting to eat your angel food cake too.
So instead, he closed his eyes and muttered with a snort, “I don't scream. Screaming is for girls. And for Sammy.”
“You're impossible, Dean Winchester.” Castiel's voice is that mix of frustration and affection, and again the angel makes that noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. Dean opened his eyes, hoping to catch the angel in a smile, or maybe just a glimmer of it - but all he saw was the ceiling of Johnny's rec room.
Ah. Fucking great. He was awake, alone, and the damned angel hadn't even said 'Goodbye'. He grumbled as he sat up straight, pushing his hand down on the sofa cushion, “Typical. Fucking typical. I don't know how many times I've told that fucking winged bastard - don't leave without saying ...”
He trailed off, as he turned to the spot beside him on the sofa, where his hand rested. It was warm, as if someone had been curled up next to him, and had just gotten up to go. He traced his fingers up along the back - yep - same feeling of warmth. The impression of a body, next to his, close enough to touch.
One corner of Dean's mouth lifted upwards, and then the other. He glanced towards the ceiling, and said quietly, “Goodbye.” He looked at the sofa, then up again, his voice quiet and knowing, “I miss you too, Divine One.”
Continued here...
Author: Commodoresexual
Disclaimer: Spoilers through 4.11. I don't own Supernatural, Dean, Sam, Castiel, or Castiel's possible vessel.
Rating: PG-13, warnings for violence, hate crimes
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Castiel's (AU) Vessel
Warnings: As per usual, my view on religion is probably not the conventional one, so you have been warned!
Notes: Part of my Conversations with Angels universe - taking place after Part 5. This is Part Two, after a HUGE OMG hiatus. BUT IT IS FINISHED. REJOICE. I know I did. Part One is here.
Also, yeah, the vessel here is not Jimmy Novak. No worries, I have an idea on how to work him in later into my little AU verse.
Summary: On the last six days of Christmas...
7. On The Seventh Sad Day
Sam wouldn't tell Dean this, but since agreeing not to use his powers, he sort of felt like Willow from Buffy; The Vampire Slayer. Sixth season, to be precise, where Willow ended up being dumped by Tara for using bad magics and she realized she was an addict and had to be cut off for the safety of all. Then there's that one episode where Willow is old school and uses her computer and logic and saves the day, instead of magic, and it makes her feel better about herself. Sam felt that way every single time that he took over the research end of things - see, God, he's useful and he's being good - and it takes the sting out of knowing that in the end he might be the thing that slows Dean down.
He tried not to think of what happened to Willow, corrupted again and mourning, at the end of that season. He really, really did.
Especially since now he's got something so much more disturbing to deal with, as he pulled up the details of Bryan's death. The kitchen that the dead man built is deceptively warm and inviting as he reads, the coffee Dean made still sitting at his elbow, ignored as he feels his guts turn. He couldn't drink it now, no matter how good it smelt. He's pretty sure it would taste of bitter hatred and disgust.
The kitchen door swung open, and Dean slid in, a light dusting of snow on his hair. “Coast is clear - he's still down at the market. Man, am I glad he can't drive stick.” Sam wasn't sure what was on his face, but the second Dean looked at him, his brother's expression went tight. “Bad?”
Sam put his hands to his face, and rubbed it, before letting his fingertips rest against one another. Sort of a silent attitude of prayer. “According to the reports that - that Johnny and his friends made - Bryan was walking away from McDermott's, alone, to the convenience store down the street. Nothing major - he apparently went to buy some gum, and he picked up a package of those Hostess cupcakes. They found the bag with his body.”
He wet his lips, looking away, for a moment, just to compose himself, before he looked back to Dean. “Five guys cut him off before he got back. They didn't know him - just knew he was gay - and they were drunk and ignorant...” He clenched his hands into fists, forced them down. “They had pipes, and bats, and lighters... Dean, they dragged him into an alley and beat him. Just …beat and tortured him, to death. Not more than a block away from the pub.”
He swallowed. “Someone passing saw them leaving the alley and went to investigate. She called 911, tried to get help, but ...it was too late. He lost too much blood, took too much internal damage. He died on the table, at St. Mary's, not an hour later.”
“Jesus.” Dean's disgust was thick, and Sam watched his older brother stand up, anger riding in every line. “People, man. People. Biggest fucking monsters I know.”
Sam nodded his head slowly. People. They would do the most outrageously horrible things to one another, to their next door neighbor or one of their own relatives, and not blink twice. Hell could take lessons. “The woman made sure to give her statement to the police - the five sons a'bitches are rotting in jail as we speak, Thank Christ.” Otherwise … he didn't even know. Darker impulses ran through his mind and he squashed them. He didn't do that, anymore.
Dean leaned against the counter, his expression mirroring Sam's divided feelings - half like he wanted to hit something and the other half resisting the urge. He squeezed the counter-top with his fingers, and exhaled. “Okay, so, what do we do now?”
Sam opened his arms wide in a helpless gesture of, 'I have no clue', when the back door opened, and Johnny burst through, exclaiming, “Okay, have I mentioned how much I love short...” Sam jerked to action a touch too late in closing the computer screen, and he saw the way Johnny's eyes widened, and then became knowing as he lamely finished his sentence, “...cuts.” He put the bag of groceries down, facing away from them, as he continued speaking softly. “Because they save time, getting home so you can see the crime scene photos of your dead lover. That's always pleasant.”
Sam shot Dean a helpless look, as his older brother stood up, “Johnny - we just ...”
“You wanted to understand. Wanted to know why I invited you home, when I barely knew you, wanted to know why I dragged you to a bar, half-way across the state. You wanted to know what was going on because obviously, I'm acting a little crazy, even by your generous standards.” Johnny interrupted, as he started to rifle through the bags, looking for something. “So you did what Winchesters do. You decided to stick your nose into my business.”
Dean sighed, and looked at him directly, even though Johnny was not meeting Sam nor his brother's gaze. “What do you want us to say? That we weren't worried? That we decided to look up how your boyfriend died because there was nothing on cable?” He stood up straight, his eyes boring into the side of Johnny's head. “We're not like Alex or any of those guys. We don't have the history you got with them, and we never knew Bryan, never knew about your life together. Hell, to be fucking honest, we don't know much about you. But we're trying. We're opening up here. Might be nice, if you did the same.”
Johnny jerked a little like he'd been hit across the face, and Sam winced in sympathy. When Dean got honest, he didn't pull any punches, and Sam wondered if Johnny just felt like he got a good right cross to the guilt center. Johnny ran one hand through his hair, a gesture that suddenly sang of the angel, and stopped what he was doing as if he realized it. He stared at his hand and sighed, “I … I really wish Castiel was here.”
Dean looked over to Sam, and Sam rose to his feet, moving to stand by Johnny's side. “Why, Johnny?”
Johnny lifted his head, and there was something so sad, so lost in his eyes. He sighed. “Because he understands. Without me having to say. It's so easy, when all my sins and faults are laid out bare and he doesn't care - because I'm just a good man - or at least he thinks I'm a good man...”
“Johnny … what could you have possibly have done that would have been so bad?” Sam asked, not touching him, but making his presence known. He didn't dare look at Dean right now - between the two of them they had racked way too much self-recrimination and guilt. He couldn't look in Dean's eyes and see the same look he was getting in Johnny's.
Johnny pressed his hands to his face, his voice low and pained. “I didn't go after him.”
Sam frowned, but then comprehension settled in. “Outside of the … bar?”
Johnny nodded his head, and he wasn't crying, but his entire upper body trembled. “We had a fight. A … a really bad one. Yelling, screaming, complete and total blowout. It was so ...so stupid. He was jealous, I was tired, it got out of hand and I said something I shouldn't have. He walked out, said he was going to get some gum and talk to me when I wasn't being such a .. an asshole.” He looked up, and stared at the wall opposite. “He walked out the door, and the next time I saw him he wasn't Bryan anymore. He was just this bloody … pulpy mess. The man I loved, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, and he was just … gone.”
Dean's voice was soft, “Johnny - that's not your fault...”
“He was jealous. He thought I was cheating.” Johnny whispered, almost as if he hadn't heard Dean at all. “I let him walk out into the not-great part of town because he thought I was cheating and he deserved to wander around in the dark alone. I could have gone - should have gone. He'd be alive today if I hadn't.”
“And what were you gonna do, huh, against five armed guys?” Sam knew that tone in Dean's voice - felt glad it was going in another direction than his for once. Worry and over protectiveness translated straight into anger, and Sam glanced over to see Dean pointing a finger at Johnny. “Flutter your big, brown eyes at them? What the hell could you do?”
Johnny stepped forward and roared into Dean's face, his fists clenching at his sides, “I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING, ANYTHING! BUT I DIDN'T AND NOW HE'S DEAD! DEAD AND GONE! AND I'M ALONE, ALL ALONE! ”
The smaller man abruptly stopped yelling, as if shocked at the sound of his own voice, and silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of his silent panting.
Suddenly it's like there was claw around Sam's heart, reaching in and curling tight, piercing it, because that's how much it hurt to remember Dean's death - Dean lying dead in his arms. Dean being torn apart and Sam, helpless against the wall while Lillith laughed at him. Just laughed. He closed his eyes tight, and whispered. “And you're helpless, when it's taken out of your hands like that. Then all you can do is stand there, and hold tight, even though there's nothing left to hold onto.”
He opened them to find Dean and Johnny staring at him, Dean's heartache naked on his face and Johnny … Johnny looking like he and Sam were speaking in their own perfect language.
So Sam continued, “And you're holding on to grief, and you're holding onto anger, and self blame, and you hate yourself. You hate yourself, so damned much. So you give up things. You give up - your job, your loved ones, your sanity. I tried to give up my soul.” He paused, feeling his eyes sting, but he didn't cry, and he was silently proud of how steady his voice was. “What did you give up, Johnny?”
“People.” Johnny's voice is tight, his face contorting briefly. “You'd think … as much as I believed, as hard as I did, it would have been God, right? But - but God didn't make those men hurt my Bryan. They were just people - angry, ignorant people, and I couldn't … I couldn't stand to be around anyone. I hated humanity - I hated everything about them. I hated their fear, and their ignorance, I hated their fake sympathy at the funeral home and I hated their sincerity.” His voice went soft. “I couldn't work, after that. I couldn't go into the grocery store, for goodness's sake, without being filled with rage. I had a meeting, with Bryan's lawyer, about signing papers? I sat there, as he said nice things, comforting things, and all I wanted to do was throttle him. Beat his head into his desk because - because he was alive and Bryan wasn't and he was part of the whole damned universe that had taken my Bryan from me.”
Sam stared at Johnny as he exhaled again, looking down at the ground, his voice softer. “That was the day I decided I had gone too far. That I had to stop this downward slide of hatred, or I would be completely lost. I came out of that meeting, and went to the nearest church. I fell on my knees, and I begged, I pleaded, for a direction, a purpose, something that would tell me what to do … and Castiel came. He came down, and offered me a choice, and I took it without a moment's hesitation. Because God had answered my prayers.”
He finally looked up, and met Sam's eyes, and his brown eyes welled, “But now, knowing you two, knowing what you've gone through … and that you fought to stay, the both of you, I've got to wonder. All this, all this craziness is just me, wondering.” He let out a sigh, looking to the ceiling. “Wondering if I actually chose this, or I just saw a way out, and I'm just running away.”
Again, Sam found himself without words as Johnny turned and stepped past Dean, out of the kitchen, leaving the two brothers alone in a silence that seemed to seep the brightness of the kitchen with it.
8. On The Eighth Day Of Christmas
The first thing Johnny realized was that he was not waking up on the floor where he was pretty
he passed out last night after consuming an entire bottle of amaretto, but in fact was being jostled up and down from the very firm shoulder of one Dean Winchester.
The second thing he realized that he was in fact staring down at Dean's very nice jean-covered ass, and he wondered briefly what Dean would do if he leaned down and goosed him.
The third realization was that he was still pretty drunk, if that seemed like a good plan.
The fourth realization was if he was drunk, being held upside down and bouncing was going to be a bad idea sooner than later. He closed his eyes and willed himself to not throw up - for Dean to put him down - and for it to be someplace cool so he could rest his head against it. As if Dean could read his mind - and if he could Johnny was definitely putting him up for the coolest superhero ever outside of Spider-man - Johnny felt himself being lowered into something cool, and hard, and he pressed his face happily against the side of the … wait. This was the -
Cold water sprayed down on him from his perfectly pressurized shower head and he yelped and floundered at the bottom of his bathtub, “Aw Jeez Darn CRAP! DEAN! SAM!”
Dean was leaning against the wall on one side of the tub, and Sam was sitting on the toilet, and both of the smug jerks were smiling as if nothing was wrong. Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, his expression completely innocent, “Good morning, Johnny. Glad to see you're up!”
“Good idea, best thing in the world after an all out-amaretto bender. Nice, cold shower. Really gives your system that jolt it needs in the morning.” Dean added, his lips curving up in one end.
“I loathe you both, and I want to set you on fire!” Johnny snarled, but rather ineffectively since all he could do right now is flail around the bottom of the bathtub. “Lots of fire! Burning fire! Hot, flaming, painful fire!”
Sam looked solemnly over at Dean, “He's cranky when he wakes up.”
“Pity party hang-overs are never pretty, Sammy.” Dean answered with equal mock seriousness. “So we should let him turn on the warm water, strip off his wet drunk clothes, probably puke? Then we'll drag his grumpy ass out shopping.”
“That sounds like an awesome plan, Dean.” Sam looked over at Johnny and his thundercloud expression. “Not sure how well Johnny is going to like that, all things considered. He might just get stubborn.”
“Yeah, yeah, I figured he might put up a fight once he was a little more with it.” Dean said, nodding his head, before he smiled perkily. “That's why I figured on dragging him out as naked as a jaybird if he puts up too much of a fuss.”
“Wow, dragged out naked in winter. Ingenious.” Sam said slowly, widening his eyes comically wide.
“And pretty smart, too.” Dean waved his hand in the air to an invisible crowd, “Thank you, thank you, No, thank you.” Then he smirked down at Johnny, “Soooo, we'll see you downstairs in what, twenty, thirty minutes?”
“Fire.” Johnny growled in response. “Lots and lots of it.”
Dean smiled at Sam, who grinned back at his brother and got off the toilet. Sam called out over his shoulder. “We'll put clean clothes outside the bathroom door, and coffee will be ready when you hit the kitchen. See you in thirty.”
Johnny snarled again, without anything really behind it, and sighed as he leaned across the space to turn on the hot water. His soppy wet clothes were tossed out of the shower itself, and he made himself stand under the spray. His muscles started to un-knit, and he groaned in silent relief. What was it about a warm shower that made facing the rest of the day easier?
It was a saner, cleaner, and slightly less groggy Johnny that made his way into the kitchen to find one of his travel mugs waiting for him, and a half full coffee pot sitting next to it. He poured himself a full measure, added milk and sugar, and stumbled out of the house into surprisingly bright December sunshine. Had to be the hangover, he told himself, as he moved towards the Impala, crunching through snow. The car was already purring and blaring out some old hair rock as Johnny opened the passenger door. Sam smiled cheerfully up at him, to which Johnny responded with leaning down, pulling the handle that released the front seat and shoving it forward to send Sam's face solidly into the dashboard.
Johnny climbed into the backseat to Sam's howls of protest and Dean's snorted laughs, put his coffee down on the floor and leaned across the front seat. Then he smacked Dean solidly upside the head, knocking the elder's Winchester's sunglasses off his face, snagging them up with his free hand. Dean let out a yelped, “Ow! Hey!”, but Johnny silenced him with one raised finger as he slid the sunglasses on his face.
He waited until both Winchesters were sitting there, gaping at him, and he slowly lowered his finger as he picked up his coffee and said softly. “Fire. Burning, vengeful FIRE. I hath brought it, and you shalt take it.” He slouched in the backseat and muttered softly. “Thank you.”
Sam touched his nose gingerly and Dean rubbed the back of his head, as they both looked at one another, then back at him with a silent nod of acceptance. The Impala started as Johnny grabbed his coffee again and settled back against the leather seat, wincing at the sun again. The rising sun, if the tilt of the sky meant anything. He pushed his sunglasses further up his face and slumped a little more, squinting. Early start, indeed. “Where … exactly are we going shopping, anyways?”
“There's a mall around here. Best to get there before the Christmas crush starts, you know.” Sam was lounging back against the seat, and when he turned the morning sun turned his face and hair into a halo. Johnny briefly wondered how Heaven could even doubt that Sam was one of their own creations, and he felt a stab that they could lose him. Through their machinations, through Hell's, maybe even through Sam's.
He doesn't say any of that, though. The only thing that comes through his muddled brain is, “But Dean hates malls.”
“Eh. I'll deal.” Is Dean's curt reply, and it's a stunning reminder of how hung-over Johnny that he can't even drudge up an argument or a curious comment to that statement. Instead he worked on making his head not explode or his stomach turn itself inside out in protest. He winced as they reach the mall, wondering where they would end up, but Dean pulls the Impala way out by the Sears, and all three of them hoof it the seeming mile or so to its doors. Johnny finds himself book-ended and speed-walked between the two Winchesters, until they reached the center of the mall, where one of those nature-in-fountains were, and Dean pushed him firmly down on the cool, flat marble surrounding the thing. “Sit. We'll be right back.”
Johnny didn't even have the energy to protest, because he was never a drinker, and this hangover was literally kicking him right in the butt. He put his head in-between his knees and breathed out through his nose, willing his head to stop aching and the bile to stop rising. He listened to the tinkling water from the fountain, to the murmur of voices all around him, and just tried to get himself back into balance. Liquor hadn't chased away the aching pain inside, so now he felt his heartbreak and sadness, topped by all this physical misery.
He didn't know where Castiel was in Heaven, what the angel was doing right now, but he had a feeling that where ever he was, Castiel would be disappointed in him.
It's the sound of a little girl laughing that made him look up. He hadn't realized how close they were to the Santa pavilion, and it was still early so there weren't that many people crowding about. Still, there was a sizable line of children and parents. Little boys and girls, smiling, laughing, some crying but most of them looking a little excited and scared. Some of them were clinging to their parents, who looked loving and exasperated, but excited themselves. There was a joy there, that settled into Johnny's bones, and he slipped off his borrowed sunglasses, looking around more intently.
There was a young man on a cellphone who paused in his conversation to hold open the door for a much older woman, with a smile on his face when she thanked him.
There were two teenage girls chattering over a bag as they passed him, one of them saying, “She is so going to DIE when she sees this, totally worth the money ...”
There was a couple walking arm in arm, bags in their hands, pausing to admire furniture. He felt his heart squeeze, and then, surprising himself, felt it let go.
Someone cleared their throat close to him, and he jerked his head back to find Dean and Sam standing there. He blinked at them, confusion filtering into gratitude as Dean handed him a McDonald's bag and Sam handed him a smaller brown one with one of those small aspirin packets in it, before they flopped comfortably on both sides of them. He swallowed the aspirin down, took a hit of orange juice, and started in on the greasy breakfast, feeling his stomach settle.
And while he did this, Sam and Dean sat silently. All three of them watched the mall start to fill up, then Santa appeared to the cheers of children, and around them, people passed by on their way to doing this thing and that thing. Christmas music, cheery and tinny, could barely be heard over the bright hum of humanity.
They sat still and watching, while life kept moving on.
Johnny started to smile knowingly, a smile he shared with the Winchesters. He was unsurprised when they returned it, with the same nods from before. The silent 'you're welcome' hung in the air like the carols blasting through the mall speakers, and for the first time that Castiel had left, Johnny felt at peace.
9. On The Ninth Day Of Christmas
“Jesus Christ!” Dean grunted, and off of Johnny's harassed expression on the other side of the tree, he sighed and added wryly, “Was about due to be born at this point - or six months ago? Was a carpenter? Is awesome?”
Through the branches he could see Johnny rolling his eyes good-naturedly, and the other man sighed. “Just hold the tree in place, Dean?”
“I'm holding it, I'm holding it.” Dean shifted his grip, bit back another curse as the branches tried to attack his face again, and let out a huge sigh of relief when the tree was secured firmly into the base. “This isn't a Christmas tree, it's a goddamned -” he paused and rolled his eyes as Johnny gave him another look. “Gosh darned attack fir. I am frigging spitting up needles here, dude.”
“Whining about malls, gay bars and holding up Christmas trees.” Johnny smirked as he stood up straight. “Are all super-hunters big sissy girls?”
Dean glared at him, jabbed a threatening finger at Johnny while the man's smirk just widened. He upped his glare as he yelled out-loud. “Sam! How are those lights coming?”
“Well, I think I got all the bulbs replaced...” Dean turned towards the kitchen door, where Sam emerged, and he felt his lips quirk up as he saw his brother, covered in Christmas light strands - they were draped over his shoulders and dangling all around his impossibly tall form. Sam didn't see his look, because he was frowning at the string he was running through his fingers, “But frankly I'm still not sure I didn't get the colors all messed up.” He looked up, and then frowned deeper at Dean's grin. “What?”
Dean responded to the question by leaning down, and plucking up one of the socket ends of the lights. He found the nearest socket, and pushed in the connector, suddenly lighting up Sam like he's the Vegas strip. He grinned wide and wicked at Sam's confused look, turning that smile to Johnny as he hooked a thumb towards Sam. “All we need to do is to drape some tinsel over him and stick him in a corner, and I think we're done, dude.”
Sam's eyes widened as he looked down at himself, and the Little Brother Glare to end all Glares followed that, while Johnny coughed-laughed, and finally cleared his throat as he walked over to Dean and grabbed him by the arm. “All right, down to the entertainment center with you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Dean mock-grumbled, even as Johnny maneuvered him down the hallway, and away from still-glaring-and-might-possibly-jump-him-later-Sam.
Johnny snorted and lifted one eyebrow. “Tree mishandling and suggesting we up and decorate your brother? You're so twitchy that you're starting to make me nervous. You go downstairs, watch some cartoons and if you're a good …. largely sized demon hunter, we'll let you help us make baked goods later on.”
Dean sighed heavily, even as he was silently thrilled to be out of the decorating side of things. Bunch of fluffy nonsense. He didn't mind the tree-chopping or even the lugging around of decorations and shopping bags, but decorating was right out the fucking door, as far as he was concerned. “Fine, fine. But there better be Christmas cookies involved, that's all I'm saying.”
He climbed the last landing of stairs into Johnny's ridiculously large 'entertainment center', and dropped on the sofa, flicking on the TV with a touch of the remote control, letting out a sigh of relief. Finally, down to the man part of this holiday - sitting around on his ass and watching TV. He flipped until he found a channel playing Warner Brothers cartoons, and kicked off his boots as he settled in to watch. Within minutes, he was slumped backwards, fast asleep.
And somewhere in sleep, someone was calling his name.
He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the ceiling of the Impala, and there was a hand on his shoulder and for a moment he wondered if he had drifted off in the middle of a stake-out and how many embarrassing pictures had Sam taken before he had woken up - when the gravelly voice registered and he twisted his head quickly.
Castiel nodded at him, expression solemn but his blue eyes gleaming in the faint light coming from outside the Impala. “Good evening, Dean.”
Dean rubbed one hand across his eyes, before letting his gaze rest hungrily on Castiel again. “Dream?”
Castiel tilted his head in assent, the hand on Dean's shoulder going to run through his hair almost tentatively. “It is the only way we can communicate at this time, without my vessel.” The angel's blue eyes shifted from the top of Dean's head to Dean's face. “Thank you, for taking care of John.”
“Well, it's kind of a mutual thing.” Dean shifted, just making himself more comfortable, not at all moving into the warm touch of an angel, thank you very fucking much. “He's a good guy. Really good. Kind of beats himself up a lot. But, really … a decent man.”
There was that soft noise, an exhalation that almost sounded like a noise of an amusement that meant Castiel was laughing. The angel responded, his gravely tones soft. “Mm. I wonder who exactly that reminds me of.”
Dean snorted himself. “Gee, I wonder m'self.” He smirked at the angel, knowingly. “What is it with you and lost causes, Divine One? You just like us broken ones that much?”
Castiel looked off out of the side window, his fingertips still rubbing into Dean's scalp. He nearly purred in pleasure, but he bit his tongue as the angel sat and contemplated the statement. Finally, those blue eyes found Dean's again, as Castiel responded slowly. “A good soul cannot be broken, Dean, not permanently. No matter how battered it has become.” Those fingers twisted into his hair slightly. “Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to the realization, Dean Winchester, one day even you will accept the truth of that.”
Dean sighed, pressing his rough cheek again the leather, taking some comfort from it's familiar smell. “I'm not broken. I don't need to be saved.” He didn't say he didn't deserve to be, but from the look on the angel's face, he didn't have to.
“Because there is never anything wrong with Dean Winchester?” Castiel's voice was soft, but not gentle. Saying with few words that the angel thought differently.
Dean looked back at him, feeling his jaw tense, but those blue eyes would not accept any lies. He huffed out a sharp breath, keeping his answer vague.“Maybe. Maybe... not.”
Castiel's eyes glimmered in the darkness, “Kicking and screaming, Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt his chest twist tight, a hard lump suddenly letting go and warmness filling him, and it took everything in him not to ask for … well. Everything. To ask Castiel to stay, to ask him if Dean was what this angelic being really wanted. Feeling like a lost little boy, looking into a safe, warm place and just waiting for the door to be shut in his face, like it had before.
As much as he thought about it, as much as he wanted to believe, he couldn't. Maybe it was just the fear in his belly; Hell, maybe it was pure hunter instinct. He just knew that God couldn't offer him something this good without there being a catch. So, he was either paranoid, or God was playing the biggest Charlie Brown vs Lucy and the football moment of all time. 'Here you are, Dean! You can have your life and salvation and Castiel too! All you have to do is kick the football. I swear I won't pull it away.'
No, Dean had been around the block one too many times here. You didn't get to come back from the dead, and get your soul saved, not even mentioning getting to eat your angel food cake too.
So instead, he closed his eyes and muttered with a snort, “I don't scream. Screaming is for girls. And for Sammy.”
“You're impossible, Dean Winchester.” Castiel's voice is that mix of frustration and affection, and again the angel makes that noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. Dean opened his eyes, hoping to catch the angel in a smile, or maybe just a glimmer of it - but all he saw was the ceiling of Johnny's rec room.
Ah. Fucking great. He was awake, alone, and the damned angel hadn't even said 'Goodbye'. He grumbled as he sat up straight, pushing his hand down on the sofa cushion, “Typical. Fucking typical. I don't know how many times I've told that fucking winged bastard - don't leave without saying ...”
He trailed off, as he turned to the spot beside him on the sofa, where his hand rested. It was warm, as if someone had been curled up next to him, and had just gotten up to go. He traced his fingers up along the back - yep - same feeling of warmth. The impression of a body, next to his, close enough to touch.
One corner of Dean's mouth lifted upwards, and then the other. He glanced towards the ceiling, and said quietly, “Goodbye.” He looked at the sofa, then up again, his voice quiet and knowing, “I miss you too, Divine One.”
Continued here...