Hold On Until Dawn Chapter 19B/19 COMPLETE
The scene froze before his wide eyes and John fought for breath. Sam had just killed Dean. Castiel stepped up beside him, a sympathetic look on his face.
“This was the destiny that Dean and Sam were headed for, one of several possible fates based on the choices they’d made,” Castiel nodded toward Sam hovering above Dean’s lifeless body. “Sam would eventually become the vessel for the fallen angel, Lucifer, and Dean would die at his hand.”
“Were?” John asked hopefully, his voice thickly laced with emotion.
“Yes, were. Their decision to act on their feelings irrevocably changed the path their lives were on. This is no longer their future,” he waved his hand and the vision dispersed like smoke, leaving John with the sight of his stark room at the Roadhouse. “Do you believe me now that there were worse things than your sons finding their soulmates in each other?”
John dropped heavily on his bed, face buried in his hands. His body was shaking, each image burned into his mind. Lives of brotherhood that led to blood and death. Numbly, he shook his head.
“I am certain that you will do what is right.” The angel awkwardly patted John on the shoulder.
They both turned as cries echoed through the wood paneled walls. John quickly went to the door and opened it, the sounds of anguish and fear washing over him from the closed door across the hall.
“Don’t, please! No! Dean!”
John leaned against the doorframe and stared at the flat expanse of wood that separated him from his tormented son, restraining himself from charging in, knowing, with a heavy heart, that he wasn’t the soother of Sam’s nightmares anymore. He could just make out the soft shushing sounds of Dean trying to wake Sam, the words indistinct but the tone low and cooing.
“Please! Please help!”
John closed his eyes on his son’s panicked pleads for help, but refused to move from the open doorway. This was his fault, he deserved the pain of hearing the unanswered calls Sam made for them. That was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him… it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.
“Dean-De! Dad! Daddy!”
A warm hand encircled his, startling John, and pulled the door shut. “Dean is caring for Sam,” Castiel voice was different, less gravel and more comfort, “There is nothing to be gained from subjecting yourself to his cries.”
“I deserve it,” John voiced his earlier thoughts, resting his head on the door. “This is all my fault.”
“I believe the culpability for Sam’s suffering lies with Nathan Schneider.”
“Don’t you understand, you heartless ass,” John raged, spinning in place, hands fisting in his anger, “I took him there, I introduced him to the man that attacked him and I was the one that didn’t believe him when he told me something was wrong.” He pivoted, his fist connecting hard with the door and splintering the wood outward. He stared at the crater he’d created as the rage was replaced with overwhelming grief. “I’m his father, I was supposed to protect him. He’s my baby boy and I just handed him over to a monster that raped,” he choked on the word, “him.”
Castiel watched was John hobbled over to the dresser. Pictures were wedged between the mirror and frame, some of the few that had been spared in the fire. He traced the tip of his fingers, bloodied from punching the door, over the image of him and Mary, outlining her delicate features and ghosting over her smile. “I made a promise to Mary after she died, after I couldn’t save her,” he amended, “that I would always protect our sons. I failed. I failed her and I failed them,” he whispered, head hanging low as tears he hadn’t cried since his wife’s death streamed down his face.
Castiel approached the eldest Winchester and, with slow movements, gently took the damaged hand in his own. Leading him to the bed, he cupped the torn skin and broken bones in both his hands and allowed his healing warmth to engulf them.
When the angel released him, John stared at his newly mended hand through a veil of salt water and shook his head despondently. “It’s no wonder they’ve replaced me. You’ve saved them, twice now, when I couldn’t. All I’ve ever done is tear their lives apart, but you, you, put them back together. All I ever was to them was a drill sergeant.”
“Your sons love you. They would never replace you,” Castiel stared at the wall opposite the bed, nodding to himself. Sam’s cries had stopped and the only sound he could hear was the dulcet tones of Dean singing softly.
John huffed a laugh, “I don’t know why. I damn sure don’t deserve it.”
Castiel’s blue eyes glanced at him thoughtfully, “That is the second time you used the word deserve. Maybe the time for flagellating yourself for what you believe you deserve is over and it is time for discussing what it is you want.”
“What I want?” John swallowed, head falling back and wet eyes cast upward as he bit the inside of his cheek. “You moonlighting as a djinn now?” He rolled his head toward the angel whose only response was a raised eyebrow. Looking back at the ceiling, he sighed. “Lots of things. I want for none of this to ever have happened, I want Mary alive to see how her boys grew up, I want the boys to have known their mother, I want my damn leg to be good again, I want my sons to be happy, but the thing I want the most is to be forgiven for what I did to them.”
“That is within your reach.”
He straightened his head out, stretching the tense muscles in his neck. “You gonna forgive me? I confessed my sins to you and now you’ll give me reconciliation?”
“It is not my forgiveness that you seek. Sam is the only one that can lessen the burden on your soul. You need only ask for it. I can give you a modicum of peace though,” he placed a hand on John’s shoulder and a sense of calm flowed through the hunter’s mind and heart, “and a word of counsel should you choose to accept it.” Castiel stood and walked to the dresser, plucking the picture of John and Mary from the mirror and examining it. “Ghosts do not make good companions. Memories can make you dwell on what you’ve lost and blind you to what you have found. Don’t cleave so hard to the past, John Henry Winchester, that you forget to live in the present.”
John came up beside him and took the picture, running his thumb along the worn edges. “Mary would have liked Ellen.” He saw Castiel nod his head in the mirror and set the picture down on the dresser. His eyes took in the other photos, landing last on one of him and the boys sitting on the Impala. He studied Sam’s innocent face, smiling up in Kodak color, and tilted his head to the side. “Castiel?”
“Yes,” Castiel eyed the man in confusion.
“Can I ask a favor?”
*****
Dean combed fingers through Sam’s hair as he sang softly to the sleeping man. Sam had come to bed and fallen almost immediately into an exhausted sleep only to be taken by a nightmare almost as quickly. Dean’s heart ached hearing his little brother’s cries for help, and for him, and he did his best to wrestle Sam from the dream’s grip as quickly as he could. Sam clung to him as he calmed his breathing and heartrate, ear to Dean’s chest using his brother as a metronome to set the pace. Dean hummed to him quietly, hands soothing over fear-sweat covered skin and lips pressing reassuring kisses to forehead and temple.
“What are we going to do now?” Sam voice was small and subdued.
Dean curled his arms around Sam and pulled him tightly to his chest. “Try to go back to sleep?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed wearily, “You know what I meant. They’re going to ask and it would be nice to know what to say.”
Dean rested his cheek against the top of Sam’s head and nodded, the silky locks tangling in his stubble. “We’re going to take some time off. We’re not brushing this under the rug. You need time to heal and you can’t do that and hunt. It’s too dangerous.”
Sam leaned up on his elbow, looking down at his brother. “Dean, I might not be healed for a long time. Even with Jess and the support group, it took a while last time.”
Dean was quiet for a minute, eyes shining in the fading moonlight seeping through the thin curtains on the wall. “Then I guess we’d better find someplace to rent,” his mouth quirked thoughtfully, “I’m good with my hands, so I could get a job as a mechanic or in construction or something. With that big brain of yours, I’m sure you could find something pretty easy.”
“Wait. What?” Sam jerked back in surprise. “Just like that, you’re going to give up hunting and settle down?”
“Yes, Sam,” Dean rose up and mirrored his brother’s position, hand coming to rest on Sam’s hip, “just like that. I’d do anything to make sure that you were okay, were happy. Don’t you know that? Hunting isn’t the most important thing in my life, you are. We did what we meant to do. Azazel is dead, Mom is avenged. It’s time we had something for ourselves, something that didn’t lead to an early grave.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” Sam stared at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t say anything,” Dean smiled softly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips, “Just think about what type of place you’d like us to have.”
Sam followed Dean’s lips as they pulled back, chasing the intimate touch. They met again and the simple presses quickly turned hungry, mouths parting and tongues dancing. Dean’s hand skimmed the waistband of Sam’s boxers, pinky dipping below the elastic to tease the sensitive skin at the top of Sam’s crack.
Sam froze instantly, cold sweat erupting along his skin and he gasped against Dean’s mouth. Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes and his hand came up to press against Dean’s chest. “I-I…”
Dean leaned back under Sam’s urging and took in the terrified look on his brother’s face. Carefully, he pulled his hand from beneath the cotton and smoothed it up Sam’s back. “I’m sorry, Sammy. It’s okay.”
Sam shook his head harshly, face apologetic and pained. “I-I’m sorry,” he gently bumped his fist against Dean’s chest and buried his face in Dean’s neck, “I’m s-so sorry, Dean.”
Dean enveloped him in a tight embrace, lying back, cradling him against him and peppering kisses to any part of Sam’s head he could reach. “Don’t apologize, baby boy, you haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing is gonna happen unless you’re ready for it. It’s all on your schedule. I’m not going anywhere and we’ve got all the time in the world.”
Sam melted in Dean’s arms. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, baby boy. Always have, always will.” Dean rocked them gently, humming a few bars before he allowed the lyrics to flow. “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…”
*****
Dean jerked up from the bed, something waking him from the light doze he’d fallen into. One hand automatically slid under the pillow, fingers wrapping around the grip of his Taurus hidden there, and the other lightly rested on Sam’s chest beside him, ready to wake or soothe depending on what the situation called for. The door to their room opened and in the gray pre-dawn light he could just make out the silhouette of his father, hands raised in surrender. Considering for a minute, Dean slowly slipped his hand out from under the pillow and rubbed gentle, lazy circles over Sam’s heart.
“Come on, Dean. There’s something you need to see,” John’s voice was just barely a whisper and Dean relaxed slightly at the absence of malice or anger.
“Dean?” Sam stirred at the sound of his father’s voice, fingers reaching out for his brother and curling over Dean’s arm. This was something that Pike Creek had changed. Sam was clingier than he used to be, hands unconsciously seeking and body heedlessly gravitating toward Dean at all times, reassurance in touch and body heat.
Dean studied his father for a minute, hand still caressing Sam. “Sssh, Sammy,” he leaned close to murmur in his brother’s ear. “Go back to sleep, baby boy,” he nuzzled the shell with the tip of his nose and pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple, “I’ll be right back.”
Sam made a sleepy sound of protest, but a kiss to the neck quieted him. Loosening his grip, he rolled over and nestled into the pillow again. The sheet was pooled around Sam’s waist, his back bare to the cool air of the room. Dean’s eyes raked over the tanned muscles, smoothing a hand over the goosefleshed skin until his fingers ghosted over the scar on Sam’s lower back. He traced the handprint, following the curve of each finger and the roundness of the palm, Castiel’ reminder of Sam’s resurrection. The sound of weight shifting reminded Dean of his father’s presence and he turned to see John’s eyes trained on where his hand was outlining the distorted skin with an odd look on his face. Frowning, Dean cleared his throat to gain John’s attention and pulled the blanket up to Sam’s shoulders.
Careful to not jostle the bed, Dean rose and shifted through the discarded clothes on the floor until he found his jeans from the day before and pulled them on. Grabbing the first shirt he encountered, he headed to the door, shivering in the chilly morning air. He squinted at the shirt, realizing now that it was Sam’s as he turned it right side out, and threaded his arms through the appropriate holes. Hooking his thumbs in the neck opening to pull it over his head, he noticed his father staring at the scar on his shoulder, the twin to the one of Sam’s back, with the same odd expression. Tugging the shirt on, he quirked an eyebrow at his father, whose only response was to jerk his head toward the hallway.
“What is it you wanted to show me, Dad? I don’t like leaving Sam alone right now,” Dean threw one last glance over his shoulder at his sleeping brother before shutting the door with an almost inaudible snick.
“It’s something that Castiel is going to show the both of us, but trust me you’ll want to see it. We won’t be gone long.” John motioned toward his bedroom door and followed Dean to it.
“Castiel?” Dean’s eyebrows rose, “What happened to ‘feathered freak’ and ‘cherub’?”
John hesitated for a minute, “We’ve come to an understanding.”
Stopping in front of the closed door, Dean looked at his father. “An understanding?”
“Yes,” John huffed. “The faster we do this, Dean, the faster you can return to Sam.”
At the mention of his brother’s name Dean’s attention snapped back to the door to their bedroom, head tilting in a move that John wasn’t completely sure Dean was aware of, and listening for any indication that Sam needed him. Apparently satisfied that Sam was still peacefully slumbering, Dean nodded and pushed his way into his father’s room.
“Good evening, Dean. You are looking well,” Castiel stood near the window, looking out on the misty fog settling over the landscape.
“Cas,” Dean acknowledged. “Dad says you have something to show us.”
Castiel nodded once, sharp and precise, then moved quickly to stand before them. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” Dean asked at the same time John answered, “Yes.”
A touch, blackness, then Dean was standing on shaky legs in the middle of a white hallway, walls lined with doors on both sides with a window set at eye level in each. The chemical smell of antiseptic mingled with the slight nausea of angelic transport and his stomach churned threateningly. “Damnit, Cas! You gotta quit doing that.”
Castiel’s face was unapologetic and, dismissing Dean’s protest, he pointed to a door on the right. Brow furrowed in confusion, Dean stepped forward and peered through the glass. Inside the room, in a straight back chair facing a large window, was Nathan Schneider. He sat staring unblinkingly at the world outside in a set of pale blue scrubs and matching slipper socks, face placid and the fingers of his right hand tapping restlessly against the arm of the chair.
Dean spun around, shifting to the side to afford John the opportunity to see. “What is he doing here?”
“He will live out the remainder of his days here,” Castiel answered simply.
“You think this is sufficient punishment for what he did!” Dean bellowed, incredulously.
“Dean,” John’s hand cupped his son’s elbow.
“No, Dad!” Dean snatched his arm away. “This is bullshit! He fucking tortured Sam, r-,” Dean swallowed, “raped him and all he gets is a padded cell?”
John grasped Dean’s arm more firmly and pulled him into Schneider’s room. The man in the chair didn’t respond to their entrance, just continued to stare out the window.
“I agree with you, Dean,” John told him, hissing a forced calm voice through his teeth, “but getting us kicked out of here won’t do any good.”
“Dean,” Castiel stepped closer, “I think you have misunderstood. This isn’t the extent of Schneider’s atonement. He was judged by Heaven and subjected to their justice.”
“Yeah,” Dean laughed humorlessly, “I can see how harsh their justice is,” he waved his hand toward the healthy and whole looking man ignoring their presence. “What did you do tickle him with your feathers until he peed himself?”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed at him and John was reminded of the angel’s temper in his room earlier. “Schneider incurred the wrath of Heaven and I can assure you that not even the horrors of Hell can compare to it. I guarantee he has suffered for his egregious faults.”
“Cas, it’s only been three days.” Dean’s voice was lower, but the edge to it hinted that it could increase again at any moment. “People suffer longer from the flu.” He stared at the monster that had dared to hurt his Sammy and his fingers itched for the cool steel of the gun resting under his pillow.
“Here,” Castiel corrected, “In Rhapsody and in Damnation time moves differently than in the mortal world. For you, it has been days. For him, it has been decades. Thirty years to endure the most creative castigation that the Holy Host could envision.”
“Then why is he here?” John asked, startling Dean, “I’m not sure I can abide by Heaven allowing him to live after everything he’s done.”
Schneider’s fingers jerked spastically at the sound of John’s voice, the tapping growing more insistent and louder than before. Now that Dean was paying attention, there seemed to be a pattern, a rhythm, to the staccato bursts. Curiosity pulled him closer and he rounded the man to face him fully for the first time.
Schneider’s face was blank, his mouth slack and eyes staring vacantly forward, the only sign of life within was the rap of nails on wood. Dean waved his hand before the man’s face, snapped his fingers close to his eyes and clapped his hands next to his ear to no avail. Green eyes flashing with hatred surveyed the seated form before zeroing in on the hand, trying to decipher the pattern.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asked the angel, eyes remaining on the dancing fingers as his mind filtered through why the beats seemed so familiar.
“Schneider was punished to the extent of ecclesiastic power for nearly thirty of your years. Although he has been returned to this world, the psychic pain from his penance has left him mute, trapped in his own mind. A mind that will be filled with memories of the torment he suffered there until the end of his natural life.”
“So, he’ll spend the next thirty or forty years reliving his time in Heaven?” Dean’s eyes widened as his father spoke and Nathan’s harsh tapping of fingers elevated to him banging his whole hand.
Castiel nodded. “Interspersed with experiencing each of his attacks from his victim’s perspective. It was decided that if Sam was forced to live the rest of his life with the memories of his attack that Schneider should share the same fate. It was one of Uriel’s more brilliant ideas. Once he succumbs to his natural end, he will begin his eternal damnation.”
Dean nodded, impressed despite himself as he watched the bouncing hand. “Dad, is that…?” He motioned toward Schneider’s hand.
John focused on the fingers. “Morse code? Yeah, I think so.”
“You know what he’s trying to say?” Dean pulled his eyes from the hand to look at his father.
“Been a while,” John concentrated, mouth working out the letters Schneider was spelling, “Sorry?” He turned to Castiel. “Can he hear us?” John asked, moving to in front of his former friend.
“Yes, he is aware of the world around him, just unable to interact with it.”
John leaned forward, lips hovering over Nathan’s ear. “You can be sorry all you want, you motherfucker, but I will never forgive you. I trusted you and allowed you to manipulate me, turn me against my own blood. That is my transgression and we all have a penance to pay. The angels were merciful. This pitiful, tortured existence is better than you deserved for what you did to my son, but I have faith that the demons in the pit will more than make up for it.” He stepped back from the broken man, smirking at the flash of fear in the empty eyes of the man he’d thought was his friend before moving away. “I’m ready.”
“Wait! I have something I want to say to him.” Dean bent closer, whispering words only for Schneider, “You should know you were wrong, you never broke him. He’s going to get better and you will be a bad memory he tries to forget. You will never see or touch him again. You were right about one thing, though. Sammy is mine…in every sense of the word. While you sit here and relive what you took from him, know that I am somewhere relishing in what he gives to me,” moving away he sneered down at the man. “You never broke him,” he repeated “My Sammy was too strong for someone like you to do that. I wish you a long life, you earned every minute of it.”
Dean walked back over the Castiel and John. “Sammy never sees this, never even hears about it,” he said seriously, “Even after everything, Sam would feel guilty about this worthless piece of shit and I refuse for Schneider to get any of his sympathy.”
“I agree,” John concurred as Castiel nodded his agreement.
“Let’s go. I want to get back to Sam.”
*****
Dean’s feet hit the floor and he sat down heavily on his father’s bed. “Cas, I swear, you ever do that to me again, I’ll clip your wings.”
There was a knock on the door a moment before Ellen poked her head inside, glowering at the damaged door. “Morning John,” she frowned at the three men, “oh, uh, hey. I was going to go down and start breakfast if y’all are hungry. Dean, I think Sam’s still asleep. If he’s going to want something to eat, you’ll have to wake him.”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He stood, locking his knees in the hope they wouldn’t buckle. Walking past Ellen, he gave her a peck on the cheek.
“You going to join us, cherub?” Ellen graced the angel with a warm smile.
“You are a kind and generous and possess a beautiful soul. I would like nothing better than to stay and bask in your presence, but I must decline,” Castiel smiled charmingly, “I have a few things to attend to.”
“Okay, angel face,” she smiled and John frowned at the slight blush on her cheeks. “You’re welcome anytime,” she winked playfully, “I could use some help with the bacon, if you don’t mind, John?” Her forehead wrinkled at the scowl on John’s face.
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“O-kay,” she repeated and shut the door.
“How come you didn’t give her the ‘I’m the great and powerful Oz’ riot act?” John crossed his arms over his chest.
Castiel shrugged, “She’s more aesthetically appealing than you are.”
“Is that what the ‘you have a kind and generous’ blah, blah, blah was about? Nerdy, angel flirting?”
“I do not believe there is anything wrong with my flirting. I learned it by observing the best.” If possible John thought Castiel looked indignant.
“The best?!” His arms relaxed, “What do you consider the best? Revenge of the Nerds?
“No, my knowledge of human sexual interaction has been garnered from watching Dean and a brief viewing of the movie Pizza Slut. Now if you’ll excuse me, “ he vanished in a flutter of rustled feathers.
“Pizza Slut,” John repeated dumbly, blinking when he realized the angel was gone. “Stay away from my woman!” John yelled to the empty room.
Part C
“This was the destiny that Dean and Sam were headed for, one of several possible fates based on the choices they’d made,” Castiel nodded toward Sam hovering above Dean’s lifeless body. “Sam would eventually become the vessel for the fallen angel, Lucifer, and Dean would die at his hand.”
“Were?” John asked hopefully, his voice thickly laced with emotion.
“Yes, were. Their decision to act on their feelings irrevocably changed the path their lives were on. This is no longer their future,” he waved his hand and the vision dispersed like smoke, leaving John with the sight of his stark room at the Roadhouse. “Do you believe me now that there were worse things than your sons finding their soulmates in each other?”
John dropped heavily on his bed, face buried in his hands. His body was shaking, each image burned into his mind. Lives of brotherhood that led to blood and death. Numbly, he shook his head.
“I am certain that you will do what is right.” The angel awkwardly patted John on the shoulder.
They both turned as cries echoed through the wood paneled walls. John quickly went to the door and opened it, the sounds of anguish and fear washing over him from the closed door across the hall.
“Don’t, please! No! Dean!”
John leaned against the doorframe and stared at the flat expanse of wood that separated him from his tormented son, restraining himself from charging in, knowing, with a heavy heart, that he wasn’t the soother of Sam’s nightmares anymore. He could just make out the soft shushing sounds of Dean trying to wake Sam, the words indistinct but the tone low and cooing.
“Please! Please help!”
John closed his eyes on his son’s panicked pleads for help, but refused to move from the open doorway. This was his fault, he deserved the pain of hearing the unanswered calls Sam made for them. That was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him… it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.
“Dean-De! Dad! Daddy!”
A warm hand encircled his, startling John, and pulled the door shut. “Dean is caring for Sam,” Castiel voice was different, less gravel and more comfort, “There is nothing to be gained from subjecting yourself to his cries.”
“I deserve it,” John voiced his earlier thoughts, resting his head on the door. “This is all my fault.”
“I believe the culpability for Sam’s suffering lies with Nathan Schneider.”
“Don’t you understand, you heartless ass,” John raged, spinning in place, hands fisting in his anger, “I took him there, I introduced him to the man that attacked him and I was the one that didn’t believe him when he told me something was wrong.” He pivoted, his fist connecting hard with the door and splintering the wood outward. He stared at the crater he’d created as the rage was replaced with overwhelming grief. “I’m his father, I was supposed to protect him. He’s my baby boy and I just handed him over to a monster that raped,” he choked on the word, “him.”
Castiel watched was John hobbled over to the dresser. Pictures were wedged between the mirror and frame, some of the few that had been spared in the fire. He traced the tip of his fingers, bloodied from punching the door, over the image of him and Mary, outlining her delicate features and ghosting over her smile. “I made a promise to Mary after she died, after I couldn’t save her,” he amended, “that I would always protect our sons. I failed. I failed her and I failed them,” he whispered, head hanging low as tears he hadn’t cried since his wife’s death streamed down his face.
Castiel approached the eldest Winchester and, with slow movements, gently took the damaged hand in his own. Leading him to the bed, he cupped the torn skin and broken bones in both his hands and allowed his healing warmth to engulf them.
When the angel released him, John stared at his newly mended hand through a veil of salt water and shook his head despondently. “It’s no wonder they’ve replaced me. You’ve saved them, twice now, when I couldn’t. All I’ve ever done is tear their lives apart, but you, you, put them back together. All I ever was to them was a drill sergeant.”
“Your sons love you. They would never replace you,” Castiel stared at the wall opposite the bed, nodding to himself. Sam’s cries had stopped and the only sound he could hear was the dulcet tones of Dean singing softly.
John huffed a laugh, “I don’t know why. I damn sure don’t deserve it.”
Castiel’s blue eyes glanced at him thoughtfully, “That is the second time you used the word deserve. Maybe the time for flagellating yourself for what you believe you deserve is over and it is time for discussing what it is you want.”
“What I want?” John swallowed, head falling back and wet eyes cast upward as he bit the inside of his cheek. “You moonlighting as a djinn now?” He rolled his head toward the angel whose only response was a raised eyebrow. Looking back at the ceiling, he sighed. “Lots of things. I want for none of this to ever have happened, I want Mary alive to see how her boys grew up, I want the boys to have known their mother, I want my damn leg to be good again, I want my sons to be happy, but the thing I want the most is to be forgiven for what I did to them.”
“That is within your reach.”
He straightened his head out, stretching the tense muscles in his neck. “You gonna forgive me? I confessed my sins to you and now you’ll give me reconciliation?”
“It is not my forgiveness that you seek. Sam is the only one that can lessen the burden on your soul. You need only ask for it. I can give you a modicum of peace though,” he placed a hand on John’s shoulder and a sense of calm flowed through the hunter’s mind and heart, “and a word of counsel should you choose to accept it.” Castiel stood and walked to the dresser, plucking the picture of John and Mary from the mirror and examining it. “Ghosts do not make good companions. Memories can make you dwell on what you’ve lost and blind you to what you have found. Don’t cleave so hard to the past, John Henry Winchester, that you forget to live in the present.”
John came up beside him and took the picture, running his thumb along the worn edges. “Mary would have liked Ellen.” He saw Castiel nod his head in the mirror and set the picture down on the dresser. His eyes took in the other photos, landing last on one of him and the boys sitting on the Impala. He studied Sam’s innocent face, smiling up in Kodak color, and tilted his head to the side. “Castiel?”
“Yes,” Castiel eyed the man in confusion.
“Can I ask a favor?”
*****
Dean combed fingers through Sam’s hair as he sang softly to the sleeping man. Sam had come to bed and fallen almost immediately into an exhausted sleep only to be taken by a nightmare almost as quickly. Dean’s heart ached hearing his little brother’s cries for help, and for him, and he did his best to wrestle Sam from the dream’s grip as quickly as he could. Sam clung to him as he calmed his breathing and heartrate, ear to Dean’s chest using his brother as a metronome to set the pace. Dean hummed to him quietly, hands soothing over fear-sweat covered skin and lips pressing reassuring kisses to forehead and temple.
“What are we going to do now?” Sam voice was small and subdued.
Dean curled his arms around Sam and pulled him tightly to his chest. “Try to go back to sleep?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed wearily, “You know what I meant. They’re going to ask and it would be nice to know what to say.”
Dean rested his cheek against the top of Sam’s head and nodded, the silky locks tangling in his stubble. “We’re going to take some time off. We’re not brushing this under the rug. You need time to heal and you can’t do that and hunt. It’s too dangerous.”
Sam leaned up on his elbow, looking down at his brother. “Dean, I might not be healed for a long time. Even with Jess and the support group, it took a while last time.”
Dean was quiet for a minute, eyes shining in the fading moonlight seeping through the thin curtains on the wall. “Then I guess we’d better find someplace to rent,” his mouth quirked thoughtfully, “I’m good with my hands, so I could get a job as a mechanic or in construction or something. With that big brain of yours, I’m sure you could find something pretty easy.”
“Wait. What?” Sam jerked back in surprise. “Just like that, you’re going to give up hunting and settle down?”
“Yes, Sam,” Dean rose up and mirrored his brother’s position, hand coming to rest on Sam’s hip, “just like that. I’d do anything to make sure that you were okay, were happy. Don’t you know that? Hunting isn’t the most important thing in my life, you are. We did what we meant to do. Azazel is dead, Mom is avenged. It’s time we had something for ourselves, something that didn’t lead to an early grave.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” Sam stared at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t say anything,” Dean smiled softly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips, “Just think about what type of place you’d like us to have.”
Sam followed Dean’s lips as they pulled back, chasing the intimate touch. They met again and the simple presses quickly turned hungry, mouths parting and tongues dancing. Dean’s hand skimmed the waistband of Sam’s boxers, pinky dipping below the elastic to tease the sensitive skin at the top of Sam’s crack.
Sam froze instantly, cold sweat erupting along his skin and he gasped against Dean’s mouth. Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes and his hand came up to press against Dean’s chest. “I-I…”
Dean leaned back under Sam’s urging and took in the terrified look on his brother’s face. Carefully, he pulled his hand from beneath the cotton and smoothed it up Sam’s back. “I’m sorry, Sammy. It’s okay.”
Sam shook his head harshly, face apologetic and pained. “I-I’m sorry,” he gently bumped his fist against Dean’s chest and buried his face in Dean’s neck, “I’m s-so sorry, Dean.”
Dean enveloped him in a tight embrace, lying back, cradling him against him and peppering kisses to any part of Sam’s head he could reach. “Don’t apologize, baby boy, you haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing is gonna happen unless you’re ready for it. It’s all on your schedule. I’m not going anywhere and we’ve got all the time in the world.”
Sam melted in Dean’s arms. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, baby boy. Always have, always will.” Dean rocked them gently, humming a few bars before he allowed the lyrics to flow. “Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…”
*****
Dean jerked up from the bed, something waking him from the light doze he’d fallen into. One hand automatically slid under the pillow, fingers wrapping around the grip of his Taurus hidden there, and the other lightly rested on Sam’s chest beside him, ready to wake or soothe depending on what the situation called for. The door to their room opened and in the gray pre-dawn light he could just make out the silhouette of his father, hands raised in surrender. Considering for a minute, Dean slowly slipped his hand out from under the pillow and rubbed gentle, lazy circles over Sam’s heart.
“Come on, Dean. There’s something you need to see,” John’s voice was just barely a whisper and Dean relaxed slightly at the absence of malice or anger.
“Dean?” Sam stirred at the sound of his father’s voice, fingers reaching out for his brother and curling over Dean’s arm. This was something that Pike Creek had changed. Sam was clingier than he used to be, hands unconsciously seeking and body heedlessly gravitating toward Dean at all times, reassurance in touch and body heat.
Dean studied his father for a minute, hand still caressing Sam. “Sssh, Sammy,” he leaned close to murmur in his brother’s ear. “Go back to sleep, baby boy,” he nuzzled the shell with the tip of his nose and pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple, “I’ll be right back.”
Sam made a sleepy sound of protest, but a kiss to the neck quieted him. Loosening his grip, he rolled over and nestled into the pillow again. The sheet was pooled around Sam’s waist, his back bare to the cool air of the room. Dean’s eyes raked over the tanned muscles, smoothing a hand over the goosefleshed skin until his fingers ghosted over the scar on Sam’s lower back. He traced the handprint, following the curve of each finger and the roundness of the palm, Castiel’ reminder of Sam’s resurrection. The sound of weight shifting reminded Dean of his father’s presence and he turned to see John’s eyes trained on where his hand was outlining the distorted skin with an odd look on his face. Frowning, Dean cleared his throat to gain John’s attention and pulled the blanket up to Sam’s shoulders.
Careful to not jostle the bed, Dean rose and shifted through the discarded clothes on the floor until he found his jeans from the day before and pulled them on. Grabbing the first shirt he encountered, he headed to the door, shivering in the chilly morning air. He squinted at the shirt, realizing now that it was Sam’s as he turned it right side out, and threaded his arms through the appropriate holes. Hooking his thumbs in the neck opening to pull it over his head, he noticed his father staring at the scar on his shoulder, the twin to the one of Sam’s back, with the same odd expression. Tugging the shirt on, he quirked an eyebrow at his father, whose only response was to jerk his head toward the hallway.
“What is it you wanted to show me, Dad? I don’t like leaving Sam alone right now,” Dean threw one last glance over his shoulder at his sleeping brother before shutting the door with an almost inaudible snick.
“It’s something that Castiel is going to show the both of us, but trust me you’ll want to see it. We won’t be gone long.” John motioned toward his bedroom door and followed Dean to it.
“Castiel?” Dean’s eyebrows rose, “What happened to ‘feathered freak’ and ‘cherub’?”
John hesitated for a minute, “We’ve come to an understanding.”
Stopping in front of the closed door, Dean looked at his father. “An understanding?”
“Yes,” John huffed. “The faster we do this, Dean, the faster you can return to Sam.”
At the mention of his brother’s name Dean’s attention snapped back to the door to their bedroom, head tilting in a move that John wasn’t completely sure Dean was aware of, and listening for any indication that Sam needed him. Apparently satisfied that Sam was still peacefully slumbering, Dean nodded and pushed his way into his father’s room.
“Good evening, Dean. You are looking well,” Castiel stood near the window, looking out on the misty fog settling over the landscape.
“Cas,” Dean acknowledged. “Dad says you have something to show us.”
Castiel nodded once, sharp and precise, then moved quickly to stand before them. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” Dean asked at the same time John answered, “Yes.”
A touch, blackness, then Dean was standing on shaky legs in the middle of a white hallway, walls lined with doors on both sides with a window set at eye level in each. The chemical smell of antiseptic mingled with the slight nausea of angelic transport and his stomach churned threateningly. “Damnit, Cas! You gotta quit doing that.”
Castiel’s face was unapologetic and, dismissing Dean’s protest, he pointed to a door on the right. Brow furrowed in confusion, Dean stepped forward and peered through the glass. Inside the room, in a straight back chair facing a large window, was Nathan Schneider. He sat staring unblinkingly at the world outside in a set of pale blue scrubs and matching slipper socks, face placid and the fingers of his right hand tapping restlessly against the arm of the chair.
Dean spun around, shifting to the side to afford John the opportunity to see. “What is he doing here?”
“He will live out the remainder of his days here,” Castiel answered simply.
“You think this is sufficient punishment for what he did!” Dean bellowed, incredulously.
“Dean,” John’s hand cupped his son’s elbow.
“No, Dad!” Dean snatched his arm away. “This is bullshit! He fucking tortured Sam, r-,” Dean swallowed, “raped him and all he gets is a padded cell?”
John grasped Dean’s arm more firmly and pulled him into Schneider’s room. The man in the chair didn’t respond to their entrance, just continued to stare out the window.
“I agree with you, Dean,” John told him, hissing a forced calm voice through his teeth, “but getting us kicked out of here won’t do any good.”
“Dean,” Castiel stepped closer, “I think you have misunderstood. This isn’t the extent of Schneider’s atonement. He was judged by Heaven and subjected to their justice.”
“Yeah,” Dean laughed humorlessly, “I can see how harsh their justice is,” he waved his hand toward the healthy and whole looking man ignoring their presence. “What did you do tickle him with your feathers until he peed himself?”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed at him and John was reminded of the angel’s temper in his room earlier. “Schneider incurred the wrath of Heaven and I can assure you that not even the horrors of Hell can compare to it. I guarantee he has suffered for his egregious faults.”
“Cas, it’s only been three days.” Dean’s voice was lower, but the edge to it hinted that it could increase again at any moment. “People suffer longer from the flu.” He stared at the monster that had dared to hurt his Sammy and his fingers itched for the cool steel of the gun resting under his pillow.
“Here,” Castiel corrected, “In Rhapsody and in Damnation time moves differently than in the mortal world. For you, it has been days. For him, it has been decades. Thirty years to endure the most creative castigation that the Holy Host could envision.”
“Then why is he here?” John asked, startling Dean, “I’m not sure I can abide by Heaven allowing him to live after everything he’s done.”
Schneider’s fingers jerked spastically at the sound of John’s voice, the tapping growing more insistent and louder than before. Now that Dean was paying attention, there seemed to be a pattern, a rhythm, to the staccato bursts. Curiosity pulled him closer and he rounded the man to face him fully for the first time.
Schneider’s face was blank, his mouth slack and eyes staring vacantly forward, the only sign of life within was the rap of nails on wood. Dean waved his hand before the man’s face, snapped his fingers close to his eyes and clapped his hands next to his ear to no avail. Green eyes flashing with hatred surveyed the seated form before zeroing in on the hand, trying to decipher the pattern.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asked the angel, eyes remaining on the dancing fingers as his mind filtered through why the beats seemed so familiar.
“Schneider was punished to the extent of ecclesiastic power for nearly thirty of your years. Although he has been returned to this world, the psychic pain from his penance has left him mute, trapped in his own mind. A mind that will be filled with memories of the torment he suffered there until the end of his natural life.”
“So, he’ll spend the next thirty or forty years reliving his time in Heaven?” Dean’s eyes widened as his father spoke and Nathan’s harsh tapping of fingers elevated to him banging his whole hand.
Castiel nodded. “Interspersed with experiencing each of his attacks from his victim’s perspective. It was decided that if Sam was forced to live the rest of his life with the memories of his attack that Schneider should share the same fate. It was one of Uriel’s more brilliant ideas. Once he succumbs to his natural end, he will begin his eternal damnation.”
Dean nodded, impressed despite himself as he watched the bouncing hand. “Dad, is that…?” He motioned toward Schneider’s hand.
John focused on the fingers. “Morse code? Yeah, I think so.”
“You know what he’s trying to say?” Dean pulled his eyes from the hand to look at his father.
“Been a while,” John concentrated, mouth working out the letters Schneider was spelling, “Sorry?” He turned to Castiel. “Can he hear us?” John asked, moving to in front of his former friend.
“Yes, he is aware of the world around him, just unable to interact with it.”
John leaned forward, lips hovering over Nathan’s ear. “You can be sorry all you want, you motherfucker, but I will never forgive you. I trusted you and allowed you to manipulate me, turn me against my own blood. That is my transgression and we all have a penance to pay. The angels were merciful. This pitiful, tortured existence is better than you deserved for what you did to my son, but I have faith that the demons in the pit will more than make up for it.” He stepped back from the broken man, smirking at the flash of fear in the empty eyes of the man he’d thought was his friend before moving away. “I’m ready.”
“Wait! I have something I want to say to him.” Dean bent closer, whispering words only for Schneider, “You should know you were wrong, you never broke him. He’s going to get better and you will be a bad memory he tries to forget. You will never see or touch him again. You were right about one thing, though. Sammy is mine…in every sense of the word. While you sit here and relive what you took from him, know that I am somewhere relishing in what he gives to me,” moving away he sneered down at the man. “You never broke him,” he repeated “My Sammy was too strong for someone like you to do that. I wish you a long life, you earned every minute of it.”
Dean walked back over the Castiel and John. “Sammy never sees this, never even hears about it,” he said seriously, “Even after everything, Sam would feel guilty about this worthless piece of shit and I refuse for Schneider to get any of his sympathy.”
“I agree,” John concurred as Castiel nodded his agreement.
“Let’s go. I want to get back to Sam.”
*****
Dean’s feet hit the floor and he sat down heavily on his father’s bed. “Cas, I swear, you ever do that to me again, I’ll clip your wings.”
There was a knock on the door a moment before Ellen poked her head inside, glowering at the damaged door. “Morning John,” she frowned at the three men, “oh, uh, hey. I was going to go down and start breakfast if y’all are hungry. Dean, I think Sam’s still asleep. If he’s going to want something to eat, you’ll have to wake him.”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He stood, locking his knees in the hope they wouldn’t buckle. Walking past Ellen, he gave her a peck on the cheek.
“You going to join us, cherub?” Ellen graced the angel with a warm smile.
“You are a kind and generous and possess a beautiful soul. I would like nothing better than to stay and bask in your presence, but I must decline,” Castiel smiled charmingly, “I have a few things to attend to.”
“Okay, angel face,” she smiled and John frowned at the slight blush on her cheeks. “You’re welcome anytime,” she winked playfully, “I could use some help with the bacon, if you don’t mind, John?” Her forehead wrinkled at the scowl on John’s face.
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“O-kay,” she repeated and shut the door.
“How come you didn’t give her the ‘I’m the great and powerful Oz’ riot act?” John crossed his arms over his chest.
Castiel shrugged, “She’s more aesthetically appealing than you are.”
“Is that what the ‘you have a kind and generous’ blah, blah, blah was about? Nerdy, angel flirting?”
“I do not believe there is anything wrong with my flirting. I learned it by observing the best.” If possible John thought Castiel looked indignant.
“The best?!” His arms relaxed, “What do you consider the best? Revenge of the Nerds?
“No, my knowledge of human sexual interaction has been garnered from watching Dean and a brief viewing of the movie Pizza Slut. Now if you’ll excuse me, “ he vanished in a flutter of rustled feathers.
“Pizza Slut,” John repeated dumbly, blinking when he realized the angel was gone. “Stay away from my woman!” John yelled to the empty room.
Part C