FIC: Tripping (NC-17) Chapter 12/13
What do you do when the Universe itself seems to have decided you belong with your very stoic, very angelic, very MALE hunting companion?
Dean's about to find out.
Chapter 12 - Dodge
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Dean headed to Lisa’s. He had no idea why - he only knew that staying at Bobby’s was unthinkable. A place where he and Sam had spent so much time together... No. Out of the question. Missouri too was off his list, if only because Dean didn’t think he’d be able to handle her particular brand of truth right then.
Once upon a time Lisa had been… well, what he'd thought of as his happily ever after. It had been a sappy, ridiculous notion but one that he’d clung to through some of his darkest hours. She and Ben were what he had imagined normal life for him might have been like. Then he’d taken his first bite of the most awesome blueberry pie on EARTH and unwittingly taken his first steps down the road to wanting something very, very far from any kind of normal.
But then that had turned out to be just as much of a damn fantasy.
Ben and Lisa were… safe. They knew nothing about what had happened and had never met Cas. He wouldn’t be forced to talk about the apocalypse and all the accompanying bullshit and he could just… God, he didn’t even know - he just knew that he didn’t want to be alone.
Lisa, fucking wonderful person that she was, welcomed him into her home with open arms. The offer of a beer quickly turned into an offer of a couch to crash on for a few days and before Dean knew it, he was picking Ben up after school and helping out around the house - doing odd jobs and various chores in an effort to not be a complete worthless lump. Staying busy was the key. When he kept himself distracted he didn’t have time to think.
Sam’s loss was a crushing weight on his chest. Every time he woke up it was there - smothering him like a hand around his heart. Cas… God, even the thought of Cas made Dean’s head pound with the same anger he’d thrown that night on the side of the road. His fury wasn’t abating, and while a part of him knew it wasn’t really fuelled by just anger, the rest of him was too busy stoking the flames. Because if he allowed himself to feel what was really behind all the heat he wasn’t going to survive.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t so much Lisa that helped keep him afloat - not that the woman wasn’t awesome incarnate, seriously. In Dean’s book, she was right up there with Mother Theresa. The number of times he’d been pulled back from dark thoughts by the press of a cold beer in his hand and a pointless, funny story from her days as a yoga instructor were getting difficult to count. But no - in the end it was Ben who did him the most good.
The kid was, by some miracle, exactly what Dean needed at the end of it all. His brash youth and unwillingness to let Dean brood were, quite often, the only things that got Dean through the day. Then Ben had introduced him to Stu.
Stu was the next door neighbour. A grizzled old guy with Bobby’s fashion sense and hair like he started his morning by sticking his finger in a wall socket. He also had a wit to rival Dean himself back before the world had ripped most of his humour from him. All of this would have made Dean admire Stu for sure - but what really elevated the old grouch to godhood was the fact he was restoring a 1973 Dodge Charger. It was like his Baby’s little sister was being built in the garage next door.
Stu had taken one look at the rapture on Dean’s face and made a lot of noise about the fact it was taking him so damn long to finish her. “If only I had another pair of hands,” he’d bemoaned pointedly, and even Ben had scoffed at the obviousness of it.
“You’re paying me in beer,” Dean had said simply.
And thus his routine was set. Dean would get up in the mornings early enough to make Lisa and Ben breakfast while Lisa packed Ben’s lunch (she still didn’t trust him after the day Dean had sent Ben away with a lunchbox full of chocolate with an instruction to swap with the other kids for something healthy). Once Ben and Lisa left for work and school he’d odd-job it around the house ‘til ten to give Stu time to down his heart-attack inducing four cups of coffee of the morning before heading next door. He’d made the mistake of turning up earlier once and had discovered there WAS in fact one other person in creation who was less of a morning person than Sam… than Sam had been...
Working on the car was easy. Dean spent his days up to his elbows in grease and machine parts and with every black, streaky stain he added to his t-shirt he felt a part of himself loosen. He wasn’t okay - not by a long shot - but he was surviving. Making it through the days, one hour at a time. Some days were harder than others. Such a one was the day his cell had rung and he’d picked up to a strange yet familiar voice on the other end.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Dean? Dean Winchester?” the voice said and Dean frowned, aiming the dishcloth into the sink across the kitchen.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Jimmy - Jimmy Novak.”
Dean sat down very suddenly. It was only sheer luck that the kitchen chair was behind him.
“Look I uh… I heard about your brother and… well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Jimmy continued as Dean struggled to keep breathing. He’d known - logically he’d known that Cas was gone but it was one thing to think it and another to have living, talking proof of it. Jimmy’s voice bore only a vague resemblance to Cas’s and for that Dean was glad - he had no idea what he would have done if he’d had to talk to Cas’s vessel with Cas’s same voice.
“Uh… thanks,” he finally managed to force out, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep his voice level. “You’re back with your family?”
“Yeah, I am. They were surprised to see me.” Dean listened as Jimmy huffed a wry laugh. “Can’t say I blame them.”
Neither could Dean. After their last parting he had no doubt that Jimmy’s wife had expected never to see her husband again. By all intents and purposes she shouldn’t have. But Sam had pulled a rabbit out of a damn hat and God had juiced Cas enough for him to put Jimmy’s body back together, obviously - give the vessel another chance at life. Even with everything he’d lost, Dean was kinda glad that something of the whole mess had worked out for someone, even if the feeling was a little bitter. He told Jimmy so (omitting the bitter part, of course) before they hung up.
Then he buried his face in his hands and didn’t come up for air for a good long while.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was his second week in and two days after the call from Jimmy that Dean started to talk to Stu. About Sammy and his Dad at first, then his mom and finally, one day after many, many beers he’d started to talk about demons and angels and all the other fucked up supernatural shit in the world.
There was no doubting that Stu thought Dean was nuts and yet somehow the old man appeared to take this in stride. He didn’t judge; didn’t scoff or roll his eyes - he just listened. And strangely enough, the fact that he didn’t believe a word that came out of Dean’s mouth seemed to make the words flow even freer. Dean told him everything. About Yellow-eyes, Lilith and the Apocalypse. He talked about Sam, Michael and Zachariah. In the end, there was just the one thing he consistently failed to mention.
Cas.
And then, by some fucked up twist of fate - Stu himself managed to bring the damn angel up.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“So who’s running heaven?” the old man asked, bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips as he reclined in his customary fold-up chair on the driveway. Dean froze with his own bottle halfway to his lips. He’d been taking a five minute break - sprawled in the brother of Stu’s own chair across from him and soaking up the sun. Stu’s words though sent something cold skittering down his spine.
“Huh?” he asked, stalling.
“Heaven,” the old man repeated. “God’s a no-show and Michael’s in that cage thing. Who’s running things now?”
Dean would perpetually find it weird that the man could be so damn astute while not really believing a word he was saying. It was like the world’s best role-player was sitting across from him, humouring what he thought was psychosis but doing it in such a way that Dean couldn’t possibly get annoyed with it. Of course the guy had never asked anything that required Dean to bring up… him.
“Cas,” he said, shocking himself with the sound of his own voice. It was the first time he’d said Cas’s name out loud since... God, he didn't even remember. Clearing his throat he glanced up at Stu’s questioning look. “Castiel,” he repeated, the full name sounding foreign on his tongue. “He’s an angel. One of the… less dickish ones.”
“He your friend?” Stu asked, curious.
Dean swigged a mouthful of beer to try and distract himself but only ended up succeeding in remembering the the night he and Cas had shared a bottle. Glancing down at his hand Dean bitterly noted it was even the same friggin’ brand.
“Something like that,” he answered quietly. “He… he went back, though,” he explained, bullying his voice into something approaching casualness and slightly failing as the next words left his mouth. “I won’t be seeing him again.”
“But you want to,” Stu noted beside him. It wasn’t a question, which was bad enough. Worse was that Dean couldn’t deny it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was a bad day. Dean had awoken to a gnawing at his chest. The gaping hole left by his brother’s loss was a constant companion but he'd re-opened a fresh wound yesterday. Cas. Damn it. He shouldn’t have mentioned anything. It was like just saying the goddamn angel’s name had brought everything to the forefront - the pain and anger; betrayal and something like…
No. He wasn’t doing this. He’d forget - he’d forget just like he’d been trying to since that night that seemed like eons ago. Because Cas was gone. And he wasn’t coming back. Just like Sam.
Dean had staggered through his morning on autopilot, only slightly burning the bacon but earning himself a worried look from Lisa for it nonetheless. When Ben and Lisa had finally left he’d collapsed into a seat at the kitchen table, head in his hands as he tried to still the shuddering in his shoulders.
It took him a moment to realise it wasn’t just his body doing the shaking.
He looked up sharply just as the microwave blew itself out, the sky darkening outside the window as unnatural clouds rolled across the sun. It was all very friggin’ melodramatic. Dean wasn’t even surprised when the first flash of lightning set the room alight - throwing a man shaped shadow across the wall in front of him.
Dean sighed as he pulled himself to his feet, turning to face the intruder. Raphael glared back. “You don’t write, you don’t call…” Dean remarked sarcastically, a flash of his old humour returning despite himself. It had to be an angel thing - the dicks always seemed to bring it out in him.
“You destroyed everything,” Raphael accused, something in his voice reverberating in Dean’s very bones - just like it had the first time they’d met. Dean couldn't deny that being faced with that kind of power was more than a little unnerving. Even so...
“Actually, it’s the other way around,” Dean said flippantly. “Destroying was taken off the menu.”
Dean didn’t flinch when the lightning arced once more, etching the fury on Raphael’s face into black and white. When he spoke again, the archangel’s voice scraped across Dean’s skin like razor-wire. “My brother is in the Cage-”
Dean scoffed harshly, because seriously? “I’m weeping for you, really,” he spat bitterly, uncaring when Raphael’s eyes narrowed and the room shook. Dean rolled his eyes. “You want to kill me?” he sighed. “Go for it. I got nothin’ left anyway.”
They were the words Dean had been struggling not to say out loud. He’d known if he did then he would lose the battle he’d been having with himself; the battle he only continued to fight because Sammy - stupid, fucking stubborn Sammy - had made him promise. But now they were out. And as Raphael glared at him Dean couldn’t help but feel… relief. Icy and painful but oh so fucking sweet…
“If you think I will make this swift, then you are sorely mistaken,” Raphael growled, his voice carrying with it an edge of oath as he stalked forward. “I’m going to tear apart your very soul.”
And Dean grinned then, actually fucking grinned, the feeling foreign and twisted on his face. “Bring it, Chuckles.”
Raphael reached for him. And Dean didn’t know why or how but the last thing he heard as Raphael’s hand closed on his arm was a gravelly voice, familiar and sweetly painful in his ear - a voice straight out of memory. Close your eyes… And because Dean had obviously lost it - completely and utterly - he did.
The violent, white light that filled the room a second later hit him with an almost physical jolt, and Dean thought that if this was what Raphael had meant by torture then he was obviously off his game. There was no denying the power of it - complete and absolute, but there was also something to the sensation… something so painfully right…
Dean didn’t realise Raphael was screaming in fury until the hand on his arm was ripped away and then, as quickly as it had come, the light was gone. Dean blinked his eyes open long seconds later, gaze taking in the empty kitchen.
And the weight of what had happened, when it hit him, sent him to his knees.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Castiel was the new sheriff in Heaven, it was true. But unlike a sheriff, his office was not even remotely western. Instead he now landed in a perfect recreation of the mountain peaks of the Himalayas - just as he’d envisioned it. The wide, deep furrow Raphael’s form made in the snow as Castiel threw him down was very satisfying.
“How DARE you -” Raphael began, true form blazing with wrath as he rose to his feet. And he was fearsome - Castiel had not been exaggerating when he’d explained to Dean all those months ago that archangels were Heaven’s most terrifying weapon. But that was then.
“Do not fight me,” Castiel commanded darkly. “You will not win.”
He watched as Raphael faltered a moment, his true face darkening as he took in the truth of Castiel’s words. Castiel knew what he saw. Power - entire, unadulterated and utterly unsurpassed. The new sheriff was a force to rival most anything in creation.
“You look like your vessel,” Raphael spat. Castiel glanced down at his true form - much changed from what it had once been. It was true - his angelic form now looked as Jimmy Novak did - complete with tan trench-coat and thread-bare tie. Angels were not physical; not solid as humans were - their true forms shifted with their own perceptions of themselves. Raphael’s shape, for instance, was as fearsome as the very being - tall, unyielding and shining - terrifying in his brightness. Castiel’s appearance was pathetic by comparison, he knew, but in a way he enjoyed the contrast.
Castiel shrugged, enjoying the feel of it. “I do,” he conceded. “My perceptions are much changed by my time on Earth.” Raphael scoffed and Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “I see yours are not.”
“Our brother rots in the Cage and you sully his memory by protecting the one who put him there,” the archangel accused, only to flinch as Castiel’s power flared white hot.
“You will not harm Dean Winchester,” Castiel growled, trying and failing to fully control his wrath. The world around him shook with it; a manifestation of his own turbulent grace. It was… disturbing. Castiel prided himself on his control - his time since returning to Heaven had been a test of it again and again but he'd never failed; never slipped. Until now.
Until Dean.
It was wholly and utterly shocking. Castiel had thought that with his return to Heaven would come the return of the certainty; the cold sureness that had been his constant support through the initial age of his existence. And while he had admitted to himself that he would miss certain aspects of humanity, would miss... But no. That path was closed to him - had been closed to him with furious, bitter words.
Castiel had accepted his role - had accepted that God’s will seemed to dictate this sacrifice.
And he’d thought he’d made it, thought that he was free of human emotion - free of the sweet pain and sensation. But then he’d seen Dean. Dean, who he hadn’t allowed himself to watch before now. It was only the massive power of Raphael streaking across the globe with murder in his heart that had pulled Castiel’s attention to earth once more, to the man that had turned him so thoroughly inside out.
Dean had been as broken and painfully beautiful as Castiel remembered. His very being shining with a sharp clarity as the man had grinned into the face of painful obliteration and welcomed it…
And it had been in that moment that Castiel had realised. The feelings hadn't left him, hadn’t faded. He had buried them with a very human desperation but one stray glance at Dean and everything came crashing to the surface once more. In that moment, Castiel found himself with a very intimate knowledge of why fallen angels never returned to the fold. If this sort of perception could follow you - if even the power of Heaven was not enough to burn it away…
“I can smell it on you,” Raphael hissed suddenly, pulling Castiel from his turbulent thoughts. “Pitiful human emotions. Weakness. Love.”
Love.
It was a foreign word in the celestial realm. Devotion, bliss, duty - angels knew these well. But never love. Love was a human word, a human sensation. It had nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with desire - selfish, human want. But just as surely as Castiel knew this, he could also feel that the word in this instance was inherently... true.
“You’re a disgrace,” Raphael spat but Castiel hardly heard him, eyes unseeing as his mouth curved upward. Because suddenly Castiel knew what he... yes, what he WANTED. The look of shock on Raphael’s face when he looked up - a very real grin set across his features was intensely amusing.
“I quit,” he said simply, almost laughing when Raphael’s mouth dropped open in a very un-angelic sort of way.
“What?” the archangel croaked incredulously.
“I’m going to indulge my-” Castiel’s eyes danced, “- my ‘pitiful human emotions’ for a while.”
Raphael looked like someone had slapped him in the face with a wet fish. “You - you can’t!” he blustered.
Castiel tipped his head, fixing the archangel with an amused stare. “Why not?”
For a handfull of seconds Raphael could only gape wide-eyed as he searched for a worthy answer. Castiel knew he wouldn’t find it. Heaven was stable - or as stable as it was going to get without God. Castiel’s work had been extensive but efficient. Lucifer was as trapped as Michael. There was no impending apocalypse; indeed no real fight at all as most of Earth’s demons were laying low or retreating to Hell in the aftermath of the short-circuited End. And, probably most importantly, Castiel was more powerful than any being in Heaven. He was top of the chain - even if heaven had still been chaos; even if he hadn't felt some sense of responsibility - nothing could have stopped him from leaving.
You couldn’t defy orders when you were the one giving them.
Castiel watched as this realisation dawned across Raphael’s features and he smirked. "Exactly,” he said as he turned away. A beat passed as Castiel stretched his wings, preparing to take flight before he glanced back over his shoulder. “Touch Dean Winchester again and I will destroy you.”
Raphael swallowed - a very human gesture, and Castiel thought that perhaps there was hope for his brother yet.
Then he flew.
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