God Grant Me the Serenity
Disclaimer: If only they were mine I would never treat them so cruelly. Or maybe I would- they are so pretty when they're emotionally tortured.
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set post Swan Song but before Sam's return. Dean goes to church and finds his own kind of peace.
There's quite a crowd gathered outside the church.
Dean doesn't have it in him to mingle and hangs back, waiting for the very last faithful few to go dutifully in and find their seats before he follows.
With only two narrow windows standing at either end of the building it's cooler inside than he imagined it would be. And darker. The last three rows on each side of the isle are empty.
He takes the nearest to the door as quietly as possible, ignoring the looks of several regulars who turn to stare, their gazes' not unkind but curious.
It's not unusual for strangers to find there way to the church door, newcomers seeking solace or sanctuary but there's something about Dean that makes people look, the same kind of presence that draws eyes to him when he walks into a bar. Sammy used to claim it was due to his effeminate facial features and general air of instability but Dean liked to believe it was all part of his mystique.
The surroundings are almost familiar to him, thanks to a lifetime spent stealing holy water from a thousand different churches and turns his eyes to the front as the priest begins his sermon. Dean never paid much attention to religion until religion started paying attention him, had up until that point always left the praying to Sammy. His brother had always better at hope.
He tries hard to listen to the words he really does but the man's facial hair is distracting. The priest is sporting an impressive ginger beard and for some reason it reminds Dean of being sixteen and stupid, so proud of the spattering of stubble across his top lip and chin. Until Sam had pointed out, between fits of giggles, that he looked like some hideous ginger love child of Che Guevara and Hitler. He'd shaved it off in a fit of rage, so pissed off he cut his chin deeply just above the jaw line and Sam had to stick the wound together with steri-strips. In the right light he still has the scar.
The wooden bench is uncomfortable, cutting into the backs of his thighs. He tries not to shift around too much, still not entirely sure what he's doing here. He wants to believe that he came because Lisa thought he should, or for some finally grand 'fuck you' to the great almighty. But it wouldn't be true.
It's not about answers either, Dean's long stopped looking for those. He thinks maybe it has something to do with choosing life, like getting up each day when everything in you feels broken. Like learning to drive without someone in the passenger seat or purposely forgetting to leave the window ledges unsalted. Somewhere along the way, in the vast black chasm of Dean's grief, he decided to survive.
The priest is quoting now.
'The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace;'
Dean hears the words and wants to laugh. He thinks about all the things he and Sam had to do, the life they led without choice, without rest, their destinies wrapped up in a neat little box, playthings for some higher cause neither of them ever believed in.
Dean remembers the sound of hellhounds, cold unimaginable fear like nothing he'd ever known before. Where was God when they were ripping his throat out? Where was God when he held Sam's body in his arms, already cooling, the blood soaking through his jeans? Somewhere his brother, who was strong and brave and loved, is burning. Burning because in the end he made the right choice. Dean will never be able to reconcile himself with that.
As far Dean's concerned the Lord has never been gracious. He has never blessed them, and kept them and given them peace.
He thinks about the world ending and how all these people were probably sitting right here in their smart Sunday clothes while he and his brother were fighting, bleeding, to keep them safe. About how desperately his brother had prayed for answers, for mercy, for help and they're all-knowing, all-forgiving god had never so much as lifted one omnipotent finger to help.
How in the end they had been alone.
But he knows that isn't exactly true even as he thinks it.
He remembers the blue of Castiel's eyes, thinks about how he keeps expecting him to show up, even now. To one day turn around and find him right there, in his camel trench coat, breaking all the rules of masculine personal space, obscure and aggravating and utterly loyal.
He thinks about Jo, tiny, beautiful Jo who could be brave even as she bleed to death and Ellen who loved her daughter more than life and in the end let her fight, let her go because Jo asked her to.
He thinks about Ash, with he's stupid fucking hair and his smart arse fucking mouth, a genius in red-neck clothing.
And Bobby. Always Bobby. As much a father to him as his own.
No, they'd not been alone.
The sermon comes to an end and every faithful head bows in silent prayer. Dean looks up, past Jesus bleeding on the cross, to the window and the sunshine beyond it and can't think of anything to ask.
It hardly matters, the quiet only lasts a minute and then the priest is lifting his head to thank everybody for coming, entreating them in an appropriate church-soft voice to come once again next Sunday. People get to their feet, filing steadily down the rows, voices raised and cheerful, comfortably content in the security of their devoutness for one more week.
After a heartbeat he stands up to join the crowd and follows them slowly into the light
Its hotter now, the temperature picking up as the sun gradually moves towards noon. The flowers Lisa planted so carefully in their yard weeks ago have opened, blooms turned devotedly towards the light and its time to go home. He will get a cold beer from the fridge and take it outside, turn on the sprinklers and drink in the sunshine for a while. Maybe Lisa and Ben will be back from shopping and they can play cards on the porch until dinner. Ben's already getting pretty good at five card stud.
Dean's never had much faith, couldn't find the trust for it, but he's had the kind of friends worth dying for and a guardian angel in a trench coat and a over sized giant of a brother who he loved above everything else. He thinks maybe that's enough.
'God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference
As always love it or hate it please review- comments are like oxygen!
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set post Swan Song but before Sam's return. Dean goes to church and finds his own kind of peace.
There's quite a crowd gathered outside the church.
Dean doesn't have it in him to mingle and hangs back, waiting for the very last faithful few to go dutifully in and find their seats before he follows.
With only two narrow windows standing at either end of the building it's cooler inside than he imagined it would be. And darker. The last three rows on each side of the isle are empty.
He takes the nearest to the door as quietly as possible, ignoring the looks of several regulars who turn to stare, their gazes' not unkind but curious.
It's not unusual for strangers to find there way to the church door, newcomers seeking solace or sanctuary but there's something about Dean that makes people look, the same kind of presence that draws eyes to him when he walks into a bar. Sammy used to claim it was due to his effeminate facial features and general air of instability but Dean liked to believe it was all part of his mystique.
The surroundings are almost familiar to him, thanks to a lifetime spent stealing holy water from a thousand different churches and turns his eyes to the front as the priest begins his sermon. Dean never paid much attention to religion until religion started paying attention him, had up until that point always left the praying to Sammy. His brother had always better at hope.
He tries hard to listen to the words he really does but the man's facial hair is distracting. The priest is sporting an impressive ginger beard and for some reason it reminds Dean of being sixteen and stupid, so proud of the spattering of stubble across his top lip and chin. Until Sam had pointed out, between fits of giggles, that he looked like some hideous ginger love child of Che Guevara and Hitler. He'd shaved it off in a fit of rage, so pissed off he cut his chin deeply just above the jaw line and Sam had to stick the wound together with steri-strips. In the right light he still has the scar.
The wooden bench is uncomfortable, cutting into the backs of his thighs. He tries not to shift around too much, still not entirely sure what he's doing here. He wants to believe that he came because Lisa thought he should, or for some finally grand 'fuck you' to the great almighty. But it wouldn't be true.
It's not about answers either, Dean's long stopped looking for those. He thinks maybe it has something to do with choosing life, like getting up each day when everything in you feels broken. Like learning to drive without someone in the passenger seat or purposely forgetting to leave the window ledges unsalted. Somewhere along the way, in the vast black chasm of Dean's grief, he decided to survive.
The priest is quoting now.
'The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace;'
Dean hears the words and wants to laugh. He thinks about all the things he and Sam had to do, the life they led without choice, without rest, their destinies wrapped up in a neat little box, playthings for some higher cause neither of them ever believed in.
Dean remembers the sound of hellhounds, cold unimaginable fear like nothing he'd ever known before. Where was God when they were ripping his throat out? Where was God when he held Sam's body in his arms, already cooling, the blood soaking through his jeans? Somewhere his brother, who was strong and brave and loved, is burning. Burning because in the end he made the right choice. Dean will never be able to reconcile himself with that.
As far Dean's concerned the Lord has never been gracious. He has never blessed them, and kept them and given them peace.
He thinks about the world ending and how all these people were probably sitting right here in their smart Sunday clothes while he and his brother were fighting, bleeding, to keep them safe. About how desperately his brother had prayed for answers, for mercy, for help and they're all-knowing, all-forgiving god had never so much as lifted one omnipotent finger to help.
How in the end they had been alone.
But he knows that isn't exactly true even as he thinks it.
He remembers the blue of Castiel's eyes, thinks about how he keeps expecting him to show up, even now. To one day turn around and find him right there, in his camel trench coat, breaking all the rules of masculine personal space, obscure and aggravating and utterly loyal.
He thinks about Jo, tiny, beautiful Jo who could be brave even as she bleed to death and Ellen who loved her daughter more than life and in the end let her fight, let her go because Jo asked her to.
He thinks about Ash, with he's stupid fucking hair and his smart arse fucking mouth, a genius in red-neck clothing.
And Bobby. Always Bobby. As much a father to him as his own.
No, they'd not been alone.
The sermon comes to an end and every faithful head bows in silent prayer. Dean looks up, past Jesus bleeding on the cross, to the window and the sunshine beyond it and can't think of anything to ask.
It hardly matters, the quiet only lasts a minute and then the priest is lifting his head to thank everybody for coming, entreating them in an appropriate church-soft voice to come once again next Sunday. People get to their feet, filing steadily down the rows, voices raised and cheerful, comfortably content in the security of their devoutness for one more week.
After a heartbeat he stands up to join the crowd and follows them slowly into the light
Its hotter now, the temperature picking up as the sun gradually moves towards noon. The flowers Lisa planted so carefully in their yard weeks ago have opened, blooms turned devotedly towards the light and its time to go home. He will get a cold beer from the fridge and take it outside, turn on the sprinklers and drink in the sunshine for a while. Maybe Lisa and Ben will be back from shopping and they can play cards on the porch until dinner. Ben's already getting pretty good at five card stud.
Dean's never had much faith, couldn't find the trust for it, but he's had the kind of friends worth dying for and a guardian angel in a trench coat and a over sized giant of a brother who he loved above everything else. He thinks maybe that's enough.
'God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference
As always love it or hate it please review- comments are like oxygen!