Talisman. Supernatural Fic
Title: Talisman
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: Season Five Final Episode
Word Count: 7423
Pairings: Dean/Lisa, Dean/Castiel
Author: Laurie
Warnings: None.
Rating PG-13, for language.
Summary: AU. Dean built up a fantasy life with Lisa and Ben; he wants to keep his promise to Sam, but he's scared he's going to fuck it up. Getting drunk his first night at Lisa's house probably wasn't the best idea he's ever had.
Beta'ed by my very kind and helpful friend, janedavitt. I am an idiot for not remembering to add this to my original heading. I'm very sorry, Jane.
Excerpt: Talisman
1. Any amulet or charm.
2.Anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.
Talisman
1. Any amulet or charm.
2.Anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.
After Dean filled his glass half-full of whiskey for the fourth time in ninety minutes, yearning to feel blessedly numb, Ben took enemy action.
The boy got up from his place at the table - a table set with real silverware, real dishes, even real napkins - and as he reached Dean he pretended to stumble over his own feet, awkwardly knocking into Dean's arm, causing the cheap whiskey to douse his shirts and lap.
The combination of the strong smell of whiskey soaked clothes and the determined, scared look on the kid's face made Dean feel dizzy, and it wasn't because he was well on his way to being pie-eyed, no, it was because he'd experienced that combination before, lots of times, only it hadn't been with Lisa's kid and himself.
It had been with Sammy, brave little Sammy, and their dad.
Sammy would do this when John was approaching the point of no return, when their father was well on his way to becoming a stumbling drunk. Dean always took care of Dad when he'd drunk too much, but Sammy would try and stop it from happening.
Accidentally knock the booze out of the drunk's hand and maybe he'll stop drinking for the night; sneak the bottle out of sight and maybe he won't go looking for it.
Sam and Dad, butting heads back when Sam hadn't even come up to Dad's chest.
And both of them lost to him now.
Damn it. He just wanted to deaden himself to the pain of being the last Winchester left standing. In fact, dead sounded pretty good to him, but he was bound by his word to his brother. He had made Sam a promise, and he might not be good for much right now, but he was going to keep it.
He'd been a good son.
He'd loved his brother. Tried to keep him safe, had always tried to teach him what he needed to know so that Sammy could keep himself safe.
Sam had chosen not to be safe. He'd thrown himself into Lucifer like a soldier falling on top of a grenade, and now he was imprisoned in Hell, right along with the Devil.
A fresh wave of pain hit him with those thoughts, and he looked at the bottle in front of him and then he looked at Ben.
Ben met his eyes, and the kid was tense, but he wasn't backing down or backing away. The kid had guts.
He didn't deserve to grow up trying to save Dean from his own self-destructive actions. Or to have to protect his mother from a drunken boyfriend.
Lisa had jumped up from her seat and was standing behind Ben, her hands on his shoulders, trying to tug him away. She looked worried, and concerned, and very beautiful. She didn't deserve to have to cater to a drunk, tiptoe around him, clean up after him, and hope that she and her son wouldn't be hurt by him.
Dean might not be worth jack shit anymore, but he could still protect Lisa and Ben.
Even from himself.
Dean sat the glass back down on the table, and held up his empty hands.
“I”m sorry. I'm really sorry. I won't be doing this again,” he said, voice rough and gritty, gesturing at the whiskey bottle.
He rubbed his face, fingers sliding into the hair on the back of his head,
He had loved his father with an unswerving devotion, always excusing behaviors that Sam had challenged, back when they were kids, and even more so when Dean and Sam had first teamed up to track down their once again missing father. During those long cross-country drives, though, Sam's argument that their upbringing had been in a lot of ways harmful had started to finally make a lot of sense. And Dean had felt a long buried anger rise.
He still loved his father, but he had a much more realistic view of him now. His dad had loved him and Sam, had given his own life to save Dean's, but the way Dad had raised him and his brother had been seriously fucked up. And Dean knew he was warped from it. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to fit into the apple pie life he'd built in his dreams and that the Djinn had spun for him.
But he could stop himself from imitating his father's worst habits. He could stop drinking around Ben and Lisa at least. And he wouldn't stumble home to them from bars, either. His father had done that plenty of times, and Dean would help him get undressed and steer him over to the motel bed, before sliding back into the other bed and curling up with Sammy, only dozing until the loud snores from his father told him Dad was out for the count.
He looked at Ben, who had resisted his mother's attempts to pull him away from standing too close to Dean.
“You know, kid, you remind me of my... And you're a good son. You don't have to worry anymore.” He was glad to hear that his voice wasn't slurred. At least not yet. Some of the booze probably hadn't had time to hit the speech centers of his brain.
“Mom says you're a kind of soldier and that you were hurt in a war against evil stuff, and that you're staying here till you feel better. But you look okay to me. Where were you hurt?” and Ben waved his hand at Dean's body, waiting to hear what part of Dean had been injured, skepticism in his voice.
“Ben,” Lisa warned.
Ben turned around to face his mother. “What, Mom? Is Dean going to be your boyfriend? How long is he going to be here? Am I going to have to call him Dad, because he's not my dad, and I'm not going to call him that.”
Lisa looked torn, and Dean wondered for the hundredth time if he was being fair to her by showing up on her doorstep, all of his baggage with him, and he wasn't talking about his green duffel bag.
“Dean and I don't know yet if he's going to live with us, baby, but he's my friend, and he's your friend, too - he saved us, remember? - and friends help each other out. And not all wounds from wars are on the outside, honey. Some are inside, but they need time to heal just as much as broken bones and gunshots.” Lisa shot Dean a look, one that said 'We need to talk' and 'I'm worried about you.'
“It's time you were headed to bed, anyway, Ben-Ben.”
Her son scowled up at her. 'Mom! I'm not a baby. Don't call me that.” He stomped off up the stairs, successfully distracted enough to drop his interrogation of Dean.
Lisa looked at Dean, compassion shining from her. “Dean. I want you to stay here. It's the least I can do for you, after what you did to save us and our friends. I'm grateful. Our friends are grateful. When you're ready, we can find a job for you, don't worry about that. And Ben does like you. He talked my ear off about you after you and Sam left us.”
She moved close enough to cup his cheek. “I know you're hurting. Anytime you want to talk, I'm willing to listen. But the booze really isn't going to help, and I have to think about my son. I can't let your pain hurt him. But we'll talk about that in the morning. Why don't you go up to bed, too?”
“Whose bed, Lisa? What do you want? I mean, I show up at your doorstep like something washed up with the tide and you let me in, and I know that this all might be pretty one-sided. I had to hold onto something sweet and normal and I made it be Ben and you, but that was kind of a fantasy, and I fucking know that. I know it, Lisa, and I don't want a life with you unless you want one with me. I promised to try and I want to be with you and Ben, but I don't want you being with me just because you're grateful I helped put some evil sons of bitches down. That's what I do.”
He paused, feeling bewildered, like he was finally understanding something.
“That's what I did. And I'm not going to be doing it anymore. Christ.” He glanced back over at the bottle at the table.
“Whose bed am I sleeping in, Lisa?”
Lisa paused, and then said, gently, “I want you to sleep in the guest room, for now. Let's take this one day at a time. I'm not a teenager anymore and I have to think about my boy. Let's get to know each other again, before we hop into bed.”
Dean stood and faced her. “Okay.” She hugged him then, just a brief friendly gesture, and he felt himself relax, just a little.
He was astounded at how relieved he felt at not having to perform and prove himself in bed. One-night-stands were all he really knew how to do well; the couple of times he'd tried to go beyond that he had failed spectacularly.
“Why don't you go and change, and I'll throw your clothes in the washer.” Lisa offered, gently patting his damp shirt.
Laundry. Even when the world had been coming to an end, he still had to do laundry. Shirts and jeans didn't stay clean long when you tended to get grave dirt and blood all over them. And he only had a few changes of clothes.
“You don't have to do that. Just point me to the washer.”
“Not tonight. Let me help, okay?” Lisa's eyes were kind, and he was so weary.
He closed his eyes, wanting so badly to feel better and fearing that this normal life gig was going to be like chasing a will o' the wisp - stumbling after a flickering, beckoning way of life that he'd never really be able to grasp.
“Dean?”
He opened his eyes. Lisa was offering him the comfort he'd come here for, and he felt so fucking needy.
“Yeah. I'll bring down my dirty clothes. Thanks, Lisa. For, you know...”
She smiled and shook her head at him - and it was kind of funny, really, how often he'd gotten that reaction from other people - and gave him a little push towards the stairs.
He went.
///
Before he had time to gather his dirty laundry, Lisa stopped by the open door of the guest room, wicker laundry basket in hand, and Dean emptied the dirty clothes out of his duffel bag into it. He sat the duffel on the bed, then slipped off his outer shirt, and dropped it into the basket and pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it in, too.
He was unbuttoning his jeans, not looking at Lisa, but he heard her make a surprised sound.
“Dean, what's that on your...?” She sat down the basket and reached out to touch where Castiel, now once again a fucking mighty Angel of the Lord, had branded him.
“God, this looks bad. What burned you like that? I swear it looks like a hand print.” Lisa reached for him, her hand curving to fit the pattern on his shoulder, drawn to touch the marks like everybody who saw them was compelled to do.
Anna had gripped him tightly there while they made love. Maybe because she knew one of her own kind had left that scar, and she wanted that connection to Heaven's power while she engaged in a last wholly human act before continuing the search for her lost grace.
And the girls he'd had for fun, to indulge himself in sensation and skin, every last one of them had latched onto his shoulder, their hands holding tight to something they couldn't begin to understand, but which called to them, nevertheless.
He'd noticed that Bobby preferred to grip him on that shoulder, and so had Sam. God, Sammy. Everybody but Crowley. Crowley had flinched when his outstretched hand had gotten close to Dean's angel-seared skin.
Dean usually didn't mind, but right then he knew that he didn't want to feel Lisa touching the memento Cas had left him, and he stepped back from her.
She looked a little confused and maybe hurt, because yeah, he'd just increased their personal space. Jesus Christ, sending that rejection was a crappy thing to do to the person he'd fantasized about being Mr. Average Joe with for the rest of his life.
He flashed on finally agreeing to be Alistair's apprentice, and how well the instruments of torture had fit in Dean's hand, but he shook those thoughts off and locked them down for now. Jesus, Lisa might kick him out when she learned how despicable he'd been in Hell, but he had made it her right to know about him when he'd come back to her doorstep and asked her for that beer she'd offered once before. She knew he wanted to sink into the warmth of the family life he'd witnessed when he'd come back to see her. That was his wish, but he'd seldom had his wishes come true.
He reversed his step and enfolded her in a hug. “I'm sorry. I swear, I will come clean about what that thing on my shoulder is all about and everything that's happened because you have a right to know about me. About all the things I've done.”
He just held tight to her for a minute, then kissed her on the forehead, asking for an absolution that he couldn't articulate, and whispered to her, “But I just can't do it tonight.”
He dropped his arms and moved away from her and she let him go without protest.
“But you will tomorrow?” Dean nodded, tired of talking, tired of everything, and the whiskey he'd guzzled earlier didn't help, not really. It made him feel numb and he wanted to sleep it off and hope that tomorrow he could cope better with feeling so dead inside.
He sat down on the bed, took off his boots, socks, and then stood back up to finish undressing. He dumped his dirty jeans and socks in the basket on the floor, and Lisa picked it up,
Awkward, he told himself. He didn't know if he should give her a good night kiss or hug her again or what, and she held the laundry basket up in front of her like a shield.
Lisa cut him a break. She stepped back through the doorway, and that message was received loud and clear. They were going to take it slow.
“I'll see you in the morning, Dean. Sleep well.”
“Yeah. You too.”
And Lisa shut the door.
///
He felt grimy, even though he wasn't really dirty, but he smelled of booze, and the thought of hot water and soap on his skin and hair was enticing.
Clean. He wanted to feel clean.
In the past he would have shrugged, not caring about the stink, and just fallen down on top of a motel room bed to pass out and pray he had no dreams of Heaven or Hell. But it seemed kind of sacrilegious to do that in this tidy little room with the pictures on the wall of the family whose lives he'd just invaded.
Pictures of Ben as a baby, fat and dimpled, and making faces in school portraits were interspersed with ones of Lisa with her parents. There were others of Ben and another little boy, and the resemblance between them suggested that they were probably cousins. In one large photograph, Lisa stood next to a woman about the same age as her, who shared her dark hair and smile, their sons held in their arms. In another, three men were shown, their ages spanning about a decade, and they all had Lisa's eyes.
So Lisa had a sister and three brothers, and a nephew. She had parents. And they all were probably alive and well.
He closed his ears to the voice in his head taunting him with the truth. You're a motherless child, Dean, and Dad raised you and Sammy to be lone wolves. You don't have a clue how to relate to other people's families. Hell, even the fantasy fiancée you dreamed up was the girl from a booze ad.
He had no real idea how to fit into Lisa's and Ben's lives.
But he'd made Sam a promise, and damn Sam for having seen into his dreams, seen that he'd built a shrine to a normal life, and that he'd placed Lisa and Ben in the center of that holy place.
Which didn't mean that his needs should outweigh their needs, and he'd break that promise to Sam if his joining this family started hurting them.
He'd done a lot of truly terrible things in his life. And maybe other people, Sam, Bobby, had told him it hadn't been his fault, that having been broken in Hell excused him from the harm he'd done there. His actions in this world, they'd understood that he'd had to sacrifice people for the greater good sometimes; they'd given him a free pass.
He wasn't letting himself off the hook. Not ever. And he wouldn't add to the list of his mortal sins by damaging Ben and Lisa.
First, do no harm. He snorted back a laugh suddenly, picturing the look on Sam's face if he had told him he knew the Hippocratic oath.
It had amused him to make his brother get that dumfounded look on his face when Dean had come up with something that messed with Sam's image of Dean as mostly ignorant about the kinds of things Sam had learned in his college classes. And okay, Dean only had a GED, and he hadn't exactly exerted himself to go beyond it much. Compared to him, Sam had been so smart and had sucked up knowledge like a Hoover, ever since he could talk.
But Dean wasn't dumb, even if he presented that facade to others. He'd taken an IQ test at one of the entirely forgettable schools he'd attended - not his idea -- and he'd been told he was smart and could make very good grades if he applied himself. He just hadn't seen much of a point to doing homework when he could be helping his dad or taking care of Sammy or the Impala. Hell, he'd passed the GED without even studying for it.
He shook his head at the way he'd just been standing, staring at the walls, and unzipped a side pocket in his duffel, looking for a clean pair of boxer-briefs to change into after his shower.
He drew out a black pair, and something slipped from it and landed on the bed. He dropped his underwear in shock.
Oh, God.
His amulet.
He picked it up, remembering how in despair and anger he'd tossed it into the trash can in that lousy motel room.
He clutched it tightly, the memory of that long ago Christmas when Dad had not been there and Sammy had given the amulet to him, overwhelming him and oh, God, oh, God - he missed his brother so damn much.
He bit his lip hard enough to bring blood, tasting the warm, flat taste in his mouth, and fought for control. His amulet. He'd worn it everyday of his fucking life after that dismal Christmas because Sam had given it to him. His brother Sam had cared about him, and sometimes, when he felt like his life sucked in awesome proportions, touching it had made him feel better.
He wished desperately that he was sober, that he hadn't let himself be vulnerable to these emotions that threatened to drown him. And that was a paradox, because he'd gotten drunk in the first place because he'd wanted to numb his feelings.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something else had been tucked into his briefs, and he mentally sent a 'what the fuck were you doing messing around with my underwear, dude', thought out to his brother, his brother who was trapped in Hell, probably for all eternity.
Dean could see a piece of notebook paper folded over and over that Sam had hidden with the amulet.
Sam must have done it when he was by himself, standing at the back of the trunk, drinking all those fucking gallons of demon blood. He must have shoved this note and Dean's amulet into the side pocket, knowing that Dean never opened it until the rest of his clothes were too dirty to wear.
He couldn't stay in this room and read his brother's last note to him. He just couldn't.
He was shaking, the adrenaline hitting him as hard as shooting pure smack would to a junkie.
Dean dropped the amulet over his head, such a familiar gesture he didn't consciously realize he'd done it until he felt the metal, warm from being gripped in his hand, resting against his bare chest.
He grabbed his last pair of clean jeans from his bag and jerked them on, and then barefoot and without a shirt, he grabbed his keys and the note and with the caution that long years of hunting had ingrained in him, he quietly stole out of his room, out of the house, and went to the place that had given him comfort all of his life.
He climbed into the Impala, and shoved the key into the ignition.
///
Dean let the motor purr while he slid down the seat, till he was staring up at the head liner, and then as time passed and he still couldn't bring himself to read Sam's letter, he sat back up. He shoved in a Skyner tape, the first album the band had recorded that had Simple Man on it. He'd been playing it a lot since he'd left Bobby's place. He knew he was being the world's biggest dork for thinking his mother would have told him those same words, if she'd lived. Didn't stop him from playing it compulsively, though. He fast forwarded till he heard it begin, and listened, steeling himself for the ordeal of reading Sammy's last note to him.
He stalled, rewinding when the song ended, listening to it again. He'd just decided that, hell, he wasn't that drunk and he could probably drive okay. He'd go somewhere else because he really, really didn't want to do this where Lisa might figure out he was sitting in his car with the motor running outside of her house because he really was just that pathetic.
The music rolled over to Things Going On and Dean straightened, ready to shift from park into drive and go the hell somewhere else for a little while. Somewhere private.
He caught the flash of tan out of the corner of his eye, and then the car was quiet and Castiel was holding the Impala's keys in his hand.
“Cas? What the fuck? Gimme my keys.”
“Friends don't let friends drive drunk, Dean. You are my friend. And you are drunk.”
“Christ. You got that off a commercial didn't you? We never should've let you watch TV. Except maybe for porn. Now that could've been educational for you. And anyway, why do you care? You drank an entire liquor store when you went on a bender.”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You are wearing the amulet.”
Dean was silent, but shit, Cas would and could wait for fucking hours, staring at nothing, and Dean was too exhausted to even try to out wait an angel. Maybe, if Castiel had fallen all the way into being human, he could have out lasted that patient stare, but he doubted it.
He really fucking doubted it.
He did some staring of his own, straight ahead at the dark street and he wondered what was wrong with the street lights by Lisa's house; Dean felt a flash of concern because lights going wonky in his world usually meant supernatural trouble.
“Cas, can you tell if everything is okay here? The lights are out, is there some ghost or monster I'm gonna have to take care of?”
Castiel reached over and turned Dean's head so that he had no choice but to look at his friend, restored back to all of his angelic power, and then some. Cas had gotten a promotion. He was supposed to be up in Heaven, kicking angelic ass, not down here stopping Dean from getting a DUI.
“You are safe, Dean. Lisa and Ben and everybody on this street is safe. Where did you get the amulet?”
Dean closed his eyes, because, fuck, he sometimes felt he could fall into Cas' blue eyes and never surface again.
But he opened them anyway. Because Cas already knew just about everything about him, knew how tarnished his soul was, and for some damn reason, he seemed to care about Dean anyway.
“Sam left it for me in my duffel. I just found it, and a letter from him, and Cas, please, give me my keys back. I can't read it here.”
“No. But I will grant your wish.”
“Dude. It's genies who grant wishes, not angels.”
Castiel didn't bother to answer and Dean wasn't fast enough to block the two fingers that touched his forehead.
///
'Damn it, Cas,' he thought, and he sort of wanted to punch him because Cas shouldn't get off scot free for yanking Dean through space. Again. God, he hoped it was just space and not time, too. But he'd have been faking the anger necessary to slug Cas. He didn't really care - too drained, too drunk, too twisted up about Sam's letter. Too fucking thankful to have the amulet resting against his skin again. It, and a handful of photos and Dad's journal were all he had left to remind him of his family. Except for the Impala.
He was still sitting in it, but he was at the edge of a field and the night sky was huge, dark and scattered with brilliant pinpricks of light; the air was filled with blinking stars that swooped and danced -- it was like they had fallen down to the Earth and transformed into something mortal. They'd end their dance quickly here, but maybe it had been worth it to them.
Anna had thought so. Castiel... hadn't liked it, becoming human, but he'd accepted it as the consequence for his rebellion. And maybe it hadn't been all bad, his becoming the next thing to human.
“Cas. Where the fuck did you take us?”
“I visited your Heaven, Dean. You had a good memory here, of fireworks and Sam, and you were happy. You do not want Heaven, I know, but this place exists on Earth. I can feel the traces through time of when you and Sam were boys and laughed here. Let me share it with you, and it may bring you comfort.”
Dean knew where they were now, and Cas wanted to show him the angel version of home movies. He shouldn't. He should let the past stay in the past. But when had Dean Winchester ever done the sensible thing?
“Crap. This is probably a bad idea, but, okay; do your mojo.”
Castiel took Dean's hand in his and Dean relived that joyous evening, saw Sammy dancing with glee at lighting the forbidden bottle rockets and fireworks. Felt the hug his little brother gave him. Felt young and carefree, stolen moments from their lives as hunters.
He didn't know when he'd started crying, holding tightly to Cas' hand, but it was long before the last glorious burst of colors had faded from the sky. And then he was laughing and crying at the same time, because they'd set the field on fire and were furiously trying to stamp it out, before they heard the sounds of sirens coming closer and closer and they'd booked through the woods, afraid of getting caught and having to explain to their dad why they'd brought the attention of the law down upon them. They knew the fire department would take over for them, the smoldering grass wasn't in much danger of getting out of control now.
He wiped his face with his free hand, but his eyes were still leaking. The images Cas had produced were gone now, and he only felt his own, anchored-in-this-time, emotions.
His head hurt. He wanted to blow his nose. And he didn't want to let go of Cas' hand.
Castiel used his free hand to pick up the folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper on the seat next to Dean. He shook it open. Dean didn't tell him to stop, didn't protest that Castiel was invading his privacy, much the same way he used to invade his personal space.
Let him. He didn't mind it anymore when Cas crowded him. And if Cas had stayed human, maybe the staring at each other would have gone to something more than just Dean winking at Cas, and telling him to blow Dean. Yeah, at the time, he'd thought he was just being a smart ass, but after Sam had pointed out that Dean was flirting - flirting, Dean, you are so flirting with an angel - for, oh, the hundredth time, Dean had figured it out. Yeah. Flirting. Which implied you kind of wanted the person, or angel you were flirting with. Which didn't mean the angel, or person in question, wanted you back.
Castiel had the paper all opened now, and he squeezed Dean's hand in warning.
Then he read Sam's note, in his low pitched gravely voice, and Dean's tears slowly dripped down his face, feeling cold and burning against his skin.
///
Dean
I don't know if we will make it through this or not. But if you do, don't you dare throw away your life like you did the amulet. I don't care if this sounds like a chic-flick moment or not; you are a good man, and you deserve to have some happiness. I love you. Bobby loves you, and I'm pretty damn sure that Cas loves you, too.
Remember you made me a promise. I want you to wear the amulet again, as a reminder of that promise, and you'd better damn well keep it.
Sam
Castiel's voice fell silent and Dean's free hand squeezed the amulet hard in answer to Sam's admonition; he wouldn't throw his life away like Sammy had been so worried about, even if he and Lisa didn't work out.
Sammy. He felt a fresh wave of grief wash over him, and he wondered if he ever would feel free of it. He didn't think so.
Finally, after he'd spent a while trying not to think about anything at all, hoping that the tears would dry up, he pulled his hand free from Castiel's warm grip.
He scrubbed his face, and gave a sideways glance at Cas. His friend, his fucking angel, was studying him intently. He supposed he should feel ashamed for crying in front of him, and tears were still forming in his eyes even now, but Cas had seen him cry before. It was nothing new to him. He didn't have to pretend with Cas that he didn't do emotions. Cas knew better.
“Dean.”
Castiel touched the hand that was holding onto the amulet, and said, “Let me, Dean.”
Let me. Dean felt a desire to just turn things over to Cas. Yeah. Let him do what he wanted; it was easier that way. He was fucking exhausted, and he trusted Cas. Cas had rebelled against Heaven for him. Cas had come through for him, even when he'd been reduced to only human abilities, knowing he would probably die from defying Lucifer. Maybe Cas did love him. He knew he loved Cas, even now, when Cas was totally an angel again.
He opened his hand and let the amulet drop into Castiel's palm. Cas murmured some words in Enochian, and the amulet flared to a brilliant blue-white in his hand. He carefully let it rest against Dean's bare chest, and the inadvertent touch of his fingers against Dean's skin startled him a little, before Castiel moved his hand away.
“What'd ya do?”
“You are still hid from Heaven's eyes, Dean. The sigils on your ribs protect you even now, but I will be able to find you, just me, as long as you wear this.” Castiel laid his palm against the amulet, pushing it firmly against Dean's bare skin.
“I will keep watch over you, Dean, as I have done since we parted. I wish to know if everything is A-okay with you.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. He felt oddly better, with Castiel touching him again.
“I thought you told me you weren't here to be my guardian angel. So why now?”
“I don't know. But my time here with you has marked me as strongly as I marked you when I carried you from Hell. My mark on you is visible to the world.” Castiel slid his hand to cover the scarred hand print he'd left on Dean's shoulder.
“Yours to me cannot be seen, except perhaps by God. But your soul touched me, and I knew you, Dean Winchester, and I found that I cared for you. And I still and will care for you; you are more than one of God's creations to me.”
Dean found himself staring into Castiel's eyes, so blue, so very, very blue. He felt uncomfortable knowing that Cas was going to be tuned in to him, but he also felt warmed, and maybe a little aroused.
He wiped his face and eyes again, and noticed that his breath had a hitch to it. Probably had been doing that little half-sobbing thing all along. God. It was a good thing that there was only Cas here to see him fall apart like this, but at least he wasn't crying anymore.
Castiel was still gripping him tight, just like he'd said he'd done when he'd taken Dean from Hell. The rescue itself aside, Dean was grateful that Castiel had stopped him from hurting those other damned souls. It was the part of himself that he hated the most, that he was capable of torture and enjoying it. He'd enjoyed hearing the screams, enjoyed reducing the soul stretched on the rack in front of him into a quivering mass of pain. He'd been on the way to turning into a demon, and the thought that he might have come back to this world, to swirl around as black smoke and rape some poor bastard by entering him, made him feel sick and full of loathing for himself.
Castiel had stopped that from ever happening, and Dean was thankful to him for that alone.
“Sam thought that I love you, Dean.”
Dean panicked. He didn't want to go there. Not now, not when he was such a mess.
“Uh...”
“I am perhaps not entirely clear on the distinctions between different types of love. Jimmy Novak felt one kind of love for Claire, and another kind for his wife.”
Why did it always fall to him to explain human beings and human emotions to Cas? It wasn't like Dean was any good at it, anyway.
“He felt parental love for his daughter.”
“Like Mary and John did for you. And it is how Bobby loves you.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And Sam. What he felt for you was brotherly love. It is what you felt for him.”
“Yeah.” Loving Sam had been a kaleidoscope of wanting to hug him, or hit him, being proud of him, and embarrassed that he was even remotely related to him. He'd wanted to take care of him, and resented that he'd had to watch out for the kid. He'd wanted him safe, always, and had wanted to teach him how to kill evil bastards and how to do it right. He'd wanted Sam to look at him like he had the answers to the world's mysteries and had wanted to be free of being on that pedestal Sam had put him on when Sammy was a little squirt. Although he'd been shoved off of that for a long time now. He'd wanted his brother to respect him, and he'd had to learn to accept that Sam really was grown up. He'd loved him like a brother.
“Lust is not love.”
“Uh, no. But it can be kind of mixed together.” And he wasn't getting into Jimmy's feelings about his wife. It wasn't any of his damn business.
“You have referred to me as being your friend. Your buddy.”
Dean sighed. 'Why me?' he asked himself. He'd had to explain sex to Sammy when they were kids, and this was just as bad.
But Cas seemed vulnerable, with all these questions and the big eyes he was making at Dean, and he'd felt kind of protective towards him since Castiel, good soldier of the Earth Garrison, had made his choice to fall from grace. And even though Cas was back to being a bad-ass angel, Dean had the feeling that he was Castiel's Achilles heel. Cas could be hurt by him or through him. He owed Cas. And he paid his debts. Well, unless they were from using fake credit cards.
“You're my friend, Cas. You're my best friend.”
“Friends love each other?”
Oh, God. He felt a blush starting to bloom on his face.
“Some friends just like each other and some love each other.”
“And what about us? What kind of friends are we?”
Oh, God, just shoot him now. Please. But he was stuck in the Impala, and Cas was still holding onto his shoulder and what the hell - he'd tell him the truth, but nothing would come of it, because Castiel was a fucking angel again. He was busy up there in Heaven. He wouldn't really have time for Dean, to hang out with him and be buddies. Especially not fuck buddies.
“Uh... this is a private conversation, right? Just between us, okay? Don't go blabbing what we talk about here to all the other angels. Because I still think most of them are dicks.”
Castiel turned up the intensity of his stare, although Dean didn't have a clue how that was even possible.
“I wish to know what you think, Dean.”
Dean closed his eyes for a long second. Then he opened them to face the music. Why he was admitting this he couldn't have said. But he might as well clue his clueless friend in. God knows nobody else would now, with Sam lost. Sam would have gone all emo face and explained all this shit a million times better than Dean ever could.
“We might have ended up as friends with benefits.” There. He'd admitted it.
Unfortunately, Cas frowned at him and looked puzzled.
“I do not understand this reference to benefits.”
Dean groaned, and decided, what the fuck, he'd just show him what he meant.
Which is how he ended up kissing Castiel, a fucking angel of the lord. Who had finally caught on, hands sliding over Dean's skin, and was kissing him back like there was no tomorrow.
Except there was. And his tomorrow might have Lisa and Ben in it, might mean he was part of a family again.
He wasn't going to screw that up. So he gentled the kiss from needy and desperate to sweet and simple, and finally pulled back far enough away to look Castiel in the eyes.
Cas looked surprised, and oh, God, he looked so human just then. But he wasn't. And there was less future for them as lovers than he'd had with any of his one-night-stands over the last ten something years.
“Cas. I love you, man. And maybe once, we'd have been able to, to...” Dean gestured with his hand, encompassing himself and Cas, and a whole future that was never going to happen.
“To have benefits. I understand. I also love you, Dean. It is strange, to have this desire, this lust. It winds through my Grace, and it pulls me to you. But you have gone to Lisa, and you wish to have benefits with her, to know her as Adam and Eve knew each other. And I have my duty to God. I will return to Heaven, and you will return to Lisa.”
Castiel once again gripped him hard on his shoulder, where he'd branded Dean with his angel's touch.
“You must trust in God, Dean. I do not know what his intentions are, but have faith. God has a plan for all of his creations.”
“I just want God to leave me the fuck alone, Cas. Sammy and I were just game pieces to him, although I'm glad he put you back together. You must be his favorite kid.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean wondered if he'd learned that from him or Sam.
“I will see you again, Dean Winchester. My friend.” Cas touched his head with those two damned fingers once more, and then Dean blinked and looked around.
Cas was gone, his keys were on the seat, and he was back in front of Lisa's house.
He felt so wiped out, and he was tempted to just put his head against the window and go to sleep. He'd done it so many times before, but instead he made an effort, and picked up Sam's letter, and his keys, and patted the dashboard. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said softly. Dean slid out of his car and locked it, and then went inside, up the stairs and back into the guest room.
He picked up what he needed to take to the bathroom and after he'd finished with his shower and brushed his teeth, he looked at himself in the mirror. He knew people said he was a good-looking dude, and he'd always gone along with that, joked about it, too, but when he looked at himself he didn't see a handsome man. He saw a guy who still had kid freckles, a guy who sometimes looked like a scared kid and sometimes looked like he felt a hundred years old. He touched his lips, and remembered the feel of an angel against them.
He'd kissed Cas. He wouldn't kiss him anymore. He wanted to believe he and Lisa had a future. And Cas was needed in Heaven, and while Dean had been a hell of a one-night-stand guy, he wasn't going to be the cheating kind. If he and Lisa hooked up, then he wasn't going to stray.
He'd wanted the white picket fence, a wife and kids, a family to love and protect.
A blue-eyed angel with dark, mussed hair and soft lips didn't belong in that dream. Not as a lover. And not as a friend with benefits, just sharing casual sex between them.
But maybe there was room for a friend.
He touched the amulet and kind of prayed that Sam wasn't in any torment, and that Cas was okay. Heaven wasn't exactly without its politics and there had to be a lot of resentment that an angel as lowly as Cas was pretty much in charge.
Then he had a thought that made him squirm a little. Maybe Cas had just watched him take a shower. He amended the prayer to include a quick refresher on what exactly private meant.
The sheets were crisp and clean and Dean slid between them, grateful that Lisa was giving them a chance. But his last thoughts before slipping off into exhausted slumber, holding the amulet in his fist, was of how Cas had tasted, and how forbidden fruit was the sweetest.
The End.
Continued in To Serve and Protect
Laurie
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: Season Five Final Episode
Word Count: 7423
Pairings: Dean/Lisa, Dean/Castiel
Author: Laurie
Warnings: None.
Rating PG-13, for language.
Summary: AU. Dean built up a fantasy life with Lisa and Ben; he wants to keep his promise to Sam, but he's scared he's going to fuck it up. Getting drunk his first night at Lisa's house probably wasn't the best idea he's ever had.
Beta'ed by my very kind and helpful friend, janedavitt. I am an idiot for not remembering to add this to my original heading. I'm very sorry, Jane.
Excerpt: Talisman
1. Any amulet or charm.
2.Anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.
Talisman
1. Any amulet or charm.
2.Anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.
After Dean filled his glass half-full of whiskey for the fourth time in ninety minutes, yearning to feel blessedly numb, Ben took enemy action.
The boy got up from his place at the table - a table set with real silverware, real dishes, even real napkins - and as he reached Dean he pretended to stumble over his own feet, awkwardly knocking into Dean's arm, causing the cheap whiskey to douse his shirts and lap.
The combination of the strong smell of whiskey soaked clothes and the determined, scared look on the kid's face made Dean feel dizzy, and it wasn't because he was well on his way to being pie-eyed, no, it was because he'd experienced that combination before, lots of times, only it hadn't been with Lisa's kid and himself.
It had been with Sammy, brave little Sammy, and their dad.
Sammy would do this when John was approaching the point of no return, when their father was well on his way to becoming a stumbling drunk. Dean always took care of Dad when he'd drunk too much, but Sammy would try and stop it from happening.
Accidentally knock the booze out of the drunk's hand and maybe he'll stop drinking for the night; sneak the bottle out of sight and maybe he won't go looking for it.
Sam and Dad, butting heads back when Sam hadn't even come up to Dad's chest.
And both of them lost to him now.
Damn it. He just wanted to deaden himself to the pain of being the last Winchester left standing. In fact, dead sounded pretty good to him, but he was bound by his word to his brother. He had made Sam a promise, and he might not be good for much right now, but he was going to keep it.
He'd been a good son.
He'd loved his brother. Tried to keep him safe, had always tried to teach him what he needed to know so that Sammy could keep himself safe.
Sam had chosen not to be safe. He'd thrown himself into Lucifer like a soldier falling on top of a grenade, and now he was imprisoned in Hell, right along with the Devil.
A fresh wave of pain hit him with those thoughts, and he looked at the bottle in front of him and then he looked at Ben.
Ben met his eyes, and the kid was tense, but he wasn't backing down or backing away. The kid had guts.
He didn't deserve to grow up trying to save Dean from his own self-destructive actions. Or to have to protect his mother from a drunken boyfriend.
Lisa had jumped up from her seat and was standing behind Ben, her hands on his shoulders, trying to tug him away. She looked worried, and concerned, and very beautiful. She didn't deserve to have to cater to a drunk, tiptoe around him, clean up after him, and hope that she and her son wouldn't be hurt by him.
Dean might not be worth jack shit anymore, but he could still protect Lisa and Ben.
Even from himself.
Dean sat the glass back down on the table, and held up his empty hands.
“I”m sorry. I'm really sorry. I won't be doing this again,” he said, voice rough and gritty, gesturing at the whiskey bottle.
He rubbed his face, fingers sliding into the hair on the back of his head,
He had loved his father with an unswerving devotion, always excusing behaviors that Sam had challenged, back when they were kids, and even more so when Dean and Sam had first teamed up to track down their once again missing father. During those long cross-country drives, though, Sam's argument that their upbringing had been in a lot of ways harmful had started to finally make a lot of sense. And Dean had felt a long buried anger rise.
He still loved his father, but he had a much more realistic view of him now. His dad had loved him and Sam, had given his own life to save Dean's, but the way Dad had raised him and his brother had been seriously fucked up. And Dean knew he was warped from it. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to fit into the apple pie life he'd built in his dreams and that the Djinn had spun for him.
But he could stop himself from imitating his father's worst habits. He could stop drinking around Ben and Lisa at least. And he wouldn't stumble home to them from bars, either. His father had done that plenty of times, and Dean would help him get undressed and steer him over to the motel bed, before sliding back into the other bed and curling up with Sammy, only dozing until the loud snores from his father told him Dad was out for the count.
He looked at Ben, who had resisted his mother's attempts to pull him away from standing too close to Dean.
“You know, kid, you remind me of my... And you're a good son. You don't have to worry anymore.” He was glad to hear that his voice wasn't slurred. At least not yet. Some of the booze probably hadn't had time to hit the speech centers of his brain.
“Mom says you're a kind of soldier and that you were hurt in a war against evil stuff, and that you're staying here till you feel better. But you look okay to me. Where were you hurt?” and Ben waved his hand at Dean's body, waiting to hear what part of Dean had been injured, skepticism in his voice.
“Ben,” Lisa warned.
Ben turned around to face his mother. “What, Mom? Is Dean going to be your boyfriend? How long is he going to be here? Am I going to have to call him Dad, because he's not my dad, and I'm not going to call him that.”
Lisa looked torn, and Dean wondered for the hundredth time if he was being fair to her by showing up on her doorstep, all of his baggage with him, and he wasn't talking about his green duffel bag.
“Dean and I don't know yet if he's going to live with us, baby, but he's my friend, and he's your friend, too - he saved us, remember? - and friends help each other out. And not all wounds from wars are on the outside, honey. Some are inside, but they need time to heal just as much as broken bones and gunshots.” Lisa shot Dean a look, one that said 'We need to talk' and 'I'm worried about you.'
“It's time you were headed to bed, anyway, Ben-Ben.”
Her son scowled up at her. 'Mom! I'm not a baby. Don't call me that.” He stomped off up the stairs, successfully distracted enough to drop his interrogation of Dean.
Lisa looked at Dean, compassion shining from her. “Dean. I want you to stay here. It's the least I can do for you, after what you did to save us and our friends. I'm grateful. Our friends are grateful. When you're ready, we can find a job for you, don't worry about that. And Ben does like you. He talked my ear off about you after you and Sam left us.”
She moved close enough to cup his cheek. “I know you're hurting. Anytime you want to talk, I'm willing to listen. But the booze really isn't going to help, and I have to think about my son. I can't let your pain hurt him. But we'll talk about that in the morning. Why don't you go up to bed, too?”
“Whose bed, Lisa? What do you want? I mean, I show up at your doorstep like something washed up with the tide and you let me in, and I know that this all might be pretty one-sided. I had to hold onto something sweet and normal and I made it be Ben and you, but that was kind of a fantasy, and I fucking know that. I know it, Lisa, and I don't want a life with you unless you want one with me. I promised to try and I want to be with you and Ben, but I don't want you being with me just because you're grateful I helped put some evil sons of bitches down. That's what I do.”
He paused, feeling bewildered, like he was finally understanding something.
“That's what I did. And I'm not going to be doing it anymore. Christ.” He glanced back over at the bottle at the table.
“Whose bed am I sleeping in, Lisa?”
Lisa paused, and then said, gently, “I want you to sleep in the guest room, for now. Let's take this one day at a time. I'm not a teenager anymore and I have to think about my boy. Let's get to know each other again, before we hop into bed.”
Dean stood and faced her. “Okay.” She hugged him then, just a brief friendly gesture, and he felt himself relax, just a little.
He was astounded at how relieved he felt at not having to perform and prove himself in bed. One-night-stands were all he really knew how to do well; the couple of times he'd tried to go beyond that he had failed spectacularly.
“Why don't you go and change, and I'll throw your clothes in the washer.” Lisa offered, gently patting his damp shirt.
Laundry. Even when the world had been coming to an end, he still had to do laundry. Shirts and jeans didn't stay clean long when you tended to get grave dirt and blood all over them. And he only had a few changes of clothes.
“You don't have to do that. Just point me to the washer.”
“Not tonight. Let me help, okay?” Lisa's eyes were kind, and he was so weary.
He closed his eyes, wanting so badly to feel better and fearing that this normal life gig was going to be like chasing a will o' the wisp - stumbling after a flickering, beckoning way of life that he'd never really be able to grasp.
“Dean?”
He opened his eyes. Lisa was offering him the comfort he'd come here for, and he felt so fucking needy.
“Yeah. I'll bring down my dirty clothes. Thanks, Lisa. For, you know...”
She smiled and shook her head at him - and it was kind of funny, really, how often he'd gotten that reaction from other people - and gave him a little push towards the stairs.
He went.
///
Before he had time to gather his dirty laundry, Lisa stopped by the open door of the guest room, wicker laundry basket in hand, and Dean emptied the dirty clothes out of his duffel bag into it. He sat the duffel on the bed, then slipped off his outer shirt, and dropped it into the basket and pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it in, too.
He was unbuttoning his jeans, not looking at Lisa, but he heard her make a surprised sound.
“Dean, what's that on your...?” She sat down the basket and reached out to touch where Castiel, now once again a fucking mighty Angel of the Lord, had branded him.
“God, this looks bad. What burned you like that? I swear it looks like a hand print.” Lisa reached for him, her hand curving to fit the pattern on his shoulder, drawn to touch the marks like everybody who saw them was compelled to do.
Anna had gripped him tightly there while they made love. Maybe because she knew one of her own kind had left that scar, and she wanted that connection to Heaven's power while she engaged in a last wholly human act before continuing the search for her lost grace.
And the girls he'd had for fun, to indulge himself in sensation and skin, every last one of them had latched onto his shoulder, their hands holding tight to something they couldn't begin to understand, but which called to them, nevertheless.
He'd noticed that Bobby preferred to grip him on that shoulder, and so had Sam. God, Sammy. Everybody but Crowley. Crowley had flinched when his outstretched hand had gotten close to Dean's angel-seared skin.
Dean usually didn't mind, but right then he knew that he didn't want to feel Lisa touching the memento Cas had left him, and he stepped back from her.
She looked a little confused and maybe hurt, because yeah, he'd just increased their personal space. Jesus Christ, sending that rejection was a crappy thing to do to the person he'd fantasized about being Mr. Average Joe with for the rest of his life.
He flashed on finally agreeing to be Alistair's apprentice, and how well the instruments of torture had fit in Dean's hand, but he shook those thoughts off and locked them down for now. Jesus, Lisa might kick him out when she learned how despicable he'd been in Hell, but he had made it her right to know about him when he'd come back to her doorstep and asked her for that beer she'd offered once before. She knew he wanted to sink into the warmth of the family life he'd witnessed when he'd come back to see her. That was his wish, but he'd seldom had his wishes come true.
He reversed his step and enfolded her in a hug. “I'm sorry. I swear, I will come clean about what that thing on my shoulder is all about and everything that's happened because you have a right to know about me. About all the things I've done.”
He just held tight to her for a minute, then kissed her on the forehead, asking for an absolution that he couldn't articulate, and whispered to her, “But I just can't do it tonight.”
He dropped his arms and moved away from her and she let him go without protest.
“But you will tomorrow?” Dean nodded, tired of talking, tired of everything, and the whiskey he'd guzzled earlier didn't help, not really. It made him feel numb and he wanted to sleep it off and hope that tomorrow he could cope better with feeling so dead inside.
He sat down on the bed, took off his boots, socks, and then stood back up to finish undressing. He dumped his dirty jeans and socks in the basket on the floor, and Lisa picked it up,
Awkward, he told himself. He didn't know if he should give her a good night kiss or hug her again or what, and she held the laundry basket up in front of her like a shield.
Lisa cut him a break. She stepped back through the doorway, and that message was received loud and clear. They were going to take it slow.
“I'll see you in the morning, Dean. Sleep well.”
“Yeah. You too.”
And Lisa shut the door.
///
He felt grimy, even though he wasn't really dirty, but he smelled of booze, and the thought of hot water and soap on his skin and hair was enticing.
Clean. He wanted to feel clean.
In the past he would have shrugged, not caring about the stink, and just fallen down on top of a motel room bed to pass out and pray he had no dreams of Heaven or Hell. But it seemed kind of sacrilegious to do that in this tidy little room with the pictures on the wall of the family whose lives he'd just invaded.
Pictures of Ben as a baby, fat and dimpled, and making faces in school portraits were interspersed with ones of Lisa with her parents. There were others of Ben and another little boy, and the resemblance between them suggested that they were probably cousins. In one large photograph, Lisa stood next to a woman about the same age as her, who shared her dark hair and smile, their sons held in their arms. In another, three men were shown, their ages spanning about a decade, and they all had Lisa's eyes.
So Lisa had a sister and three brothers, and a nephew. She had parents. And they all were probably alive and well.
He closed his ears to the voice in his head taunting him with the truth. You're a motherless child, Dean, and Dad raised you and Sammy to be lone wolves. You don't have a clue how to relate to other people's families. Hell, even the fantasy fiancée you dreamed up was the girl from a booze ad.
He had no real idea how to fit into Lisa's and Ben's lives.
But he'd made Sam a promise, and damn Sam for having seen into his dreams, seen that he'd built a shrine to a normal life, and that he'd placed Lisa and Ben in the center of that holy place.
Which didn't mean that his needs should outweigh their needs, and he'd break that promise to Sam if his joining this family started hurting them.
He'd done a lot of truly terrible things in his life. And maybe other people, Sam, Bobby, had told him it hadn't been his fault, that having been broken in Hell excused him from the harm he'd done there. His actions in this world, they'd understood that he'd had to sacrifice people for the greater good sometimes; they'd given him a free pass.
He wasn't letting himself off the hook. Not ever. And he wouldn't add to the list of his mortal sins by damaging Ben and Lisa.
First, do no harm. He snorted back a laugh suddenly, picturing the look on Sam's face if he had told him he knew the Hippocratic oath.
It had amused him to make his brother get that dumfounded look on his face when Dean had come up with something that messed with Sam's image of Dean as mostly ignorant about the kinds of things Sam had learned in his college classes. And okay, Dean only had a GED, and he hadn't exactly exerted himself to go beyond it much. Compared to him, Sam had been so smart and had sucked up knowledge like a Hoover, ever since he could talk.
But Dean wasn't dumb, even if he presented that facade to others. He'd taken an IQ test at one of the entirely forgettable schools he'd attended - not his idea -- and he'd been told he was smart and could make very good grades if he applied himself. He just hadn't seen much of a point to doing homework when he could be helping his dad or taking care of Sammy or the Impala. Hell, he'd passed the GED without even studying for it.
He shook his head at the way he'd just been standing, staring at the walls, and unzipped a side pocket in his duffel, looking for a clean pair of boxer-briefs to change into after his shower.
He drew out a black pair, and something slipped from it and landed on the bed. He dropped his underwear in shock.
Oh, God.
His amulet.
He picked it up, remembering how in despair and anger he'd tossed it into the trash can in that lousy motel room.
He clutched it tightly, the memory of that long ago Christmas when Dad had not been there and Sammy had given the amulet to him, overwhelming him and oh, God, oh, God - he missed his brother so damn much.
He bit his lip hard enough to bring blood, tasting the warm, flat taste in his mouth, and fought for control. His amulet. He'd worn it everyday of his fucking life after that dismal Christmas because Sam had given it to him. His brother Sam had cared about him, and sometimes, when he felt like his life sucked in awesome proportions, touching it had made him feel better.
He wished desperately that he was sober, that he hadn't let himself be vulnerable to these emotions that threatened to drown him. And that was a paradox, because he'd gotten drunk in the first place because he'd wanted to numb his feelings.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something else had been tucked into his briefs, and he mentally sent a 'what the fuck were you doing messing around with my underwear, dude', thought out to his brother, his brother who was trapped in Hell, probably for all eternity.
Dean could see a piece of notebook paper folded over and over that Sam had hidden with the amulet.
Sam must have done it when he was by himself, standing at the back of the trunk, drinking all those fucking gallons of demon blood. He must have shoved this note and Dean's amulet into the side pocket, knowing that Dean never opened it until the rest of his clothes were too dirty to wear.
He couldn't stay in this room and read his brother's last note to him. He just couldn't.
He was shaking, the adrenaline hitting him as hard as shooting pure smack would to a junkie.
Dean dropped the amulet over his head, such a familiar gesture he didn't consciously realize he'd done it until he felt the metal, warm from being gripped in his hand, resting against his bare chest.
He grabbed his last pair of clean jeans from his bag and jerked them on, and then barefoot and without a shirt, he grabbed his keys and the note and with the caution that long years of hunting had ingrained in him, he quietly stole out of his room, out of the house, and went to the place that had given him comfort all of his life.
He climbed into the Impala, and shoved the key into the ignition.
///
Dean let the motor purr while he slid down the seat, till he was staring up at the head liner, and then as time passed and he still couldn't bring himself to read Sam's letter, he sat back up. He shoved in a Skyner tape, the first album the band had recorded that had Simple Man on it. He'd been playing it a lot since he'd left Bobby's place. He knew he was being the world's biggest dork for thinking his mother would have told him those same words, if she'd lived. Didn't stop him from playing it compulsively, though. He fast forwarded till he heard it begin, and listened, steeling himself for the ordeal of reading Sammy's last note to him.
He stalled, rewinding when the song ended, listening to it again. He'd just decided that, hell, he wasn't that drunk and he could probably drive okay. He'd go somewhere else because he really, really didn't want to do this where Lisa might figure out he was sitting in his car with the motor running outside of her house because he really was just that pathetic.
The music rolled over to Things Going On and Dean straightened, ready to shift from park into drive and go the hell somewhere else for a little while. Somewhere private.
He caught the flash of tan out of the corner of his eye, and then the car was quiet and Castiel was holding the Impala's keys in his hand.
“Cas? What the fuck? Gimme my keys.”
“Friends don't let friends drive drunk, Dean. You are my friend. And you are drunk.”
“Christ. You got that off a commercial didn't you? We never should've let you watch TV. Except maybe for porn. Now that could've been educational for you. And anyway, why do you care? You drank an entire liquor store when you went on a bender.”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You are wearing the amulet.”
Dean was silent, but shit, Cas would and could wait for fucking hours, staring at nothing, and Dean was too exhausted to even try to out wait an angel. Maybe, if Castiel had fallen all the way into being human, he could have out lasted that patient stare, but he doubted it.
He really fucking doubted it.
He did some staring of his own, straight ahead at the dark street and he wondered what was wrong with the street lights by Lisa's house; Dean felt a flash of concern because lights going wonky in his world usually meant supernatural trouble.
“Cas, can you tell if everything is okay here? The lights are out, is there some ghost or monster I'm gonna have to take care of?”
Castiel reached over and turned Dean's head so that he had no choice but to look at his friend, restored back to all of his angelic power, and then some. Cas had gotten a promotion. He was supposed to be up in Heaven, kicking angelic ass, not down here stopping Dean from getting a DUI.
“You are safe, Dean. Lisa and Ben and everybody on this street is safe. Where did you get the amulet?”
Dean closed his eyes, because, fuck, he sometimes felt he could fall into Cas' blue eyes and never surface again.
But he opened them anyway. Because Cas already knew just about everything about him, knew how tarnished his soul was, and for some damn reason, he seemed to care about Dean anyway.
“Sam left it for me in my duffel. I just found it, and a letter from him, and Cas, please, give me my keys back. I can't read it here.”
“No. But I will grant your wish.”
“Dude. It's genies who grant wishes, not angels.”
Castiel didn't bother to answer and Dean wasn't fast enough to block the two fingers that touched his forehead.
///
'Damn it, Cas,' he thought, and he sort of wanted to punch him because Cas shouldn't get off scot free for yanking Dean through space. Again. God, he hoped it was just space and not time, too. But he'd have been faking the anger necessary to slug Cas. He didn't really care - too drained, too drunk, too twisted up about Sam's letter. Too fucking thankful to have the amulet resting against his skin again. It, and a handful of photos and Dad's journal were all he had left to remind him of his family. Except for the Impala.
He was still sitting in it, but he was at the edge of a field and the night sky was huge, dark and scattered with brilliant pinpricks of light; the air was filled with blinking stars that swooped and danced -- it was like they had fallen down to the Earth and transformed into something mortal. They'd end their dance quickly here, but maybe it had been worth it to them.
Anna had thought so. Castiel... hadn't liked it, becoming human, but he'd accepted it as the consequence for his rebellion. And maybe it hadn't been all bad, his becoming the next thing to human.
“Cas. Where the fuck did you take us?”
“I visited your Heaven, Dean. You had a good memory here, of fireworks and Sam, and you were happy. You do not want Heaven, I know, but this place exists on Earth. I can feel the traces through time of when you and Sam were boys and laughed here. Let me share it with you, and it may bring you comfort.”
Dean knew where they were now, and Cas wanted to show him the angel version of home movies. He shouldn't. He should let the past stay in the past. But when had Dean Winchester ever done the sensible thing?
“Crap. This is probably a bad idea, but, okay; do your mojo.”
Castiel took Dean's hand in his and Dean relived that joyous evening, saw Sammy dancing with glee at lighting the forbidden bottle rockets and fireworks. Felt the hug his little brother gave him. Felt young and carefree, stolen moments from their lives as hunters.
He didn't know when he'd started crying, holding tightly to Cas' hand, but it was long before the last glorious burst of colors had faded from the sky. And then he was laughing and crying at the same time, because they'd set the field on fire and were furiously trying to stamp it out, before they heard the sounds of sirens coming closer and closer and they'd booked through the woods, afraid of getting caught and having to explain to their dad why they'd brought the attention of the law down upon them. They knew the fire department would take over for them, the smoldering grass wasn't in much danger of getting out of control now.
He wiped his face with his free hand, but his eyes were still leaking. The images Cas had produced were gone now, and he only felt his own, anchored-in-this-time, emotions.
His head hurt. He wanted to blow his nose. And he didn't want to let go of Cas' hand.
Castiel used his free hand to pick up the folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper on the seat next to Dean. He shook it open. Dean didn't tell him to stop, didn't protest that Castiel was invading his privacy, much the same way he used to invade his personal space.
Let him. He didn't mind it anymore when Cas crowded him. And if Cas had stayed human, maybe the staring at each other would have gone to something more than just Dean winking at Cas, and telling him to blow Dean. Yeah, at the time, he'd thought he was just being a smart ass, but after Sam had pointed out that Dean was flirting - flirting, Dean, you are so flirting with an angel - for, oh, the hundredth time, Dean had figured it out. Yeah. Flirting. Which implied you kind of wanted the person, or angel you were flirting with. Which didn't mean the angel, or person in question, wanted you back.
Castiel had the paper all opened now, and he squeezed Dean's hand in warning.
Then he read Sam's note, in his low pitched gravely voice, and Dean's tears slowly dripped down his face, feeling cold and burning against his skin.
///
Dean
I don't know if we will make it through this or not. But if you do, don't you dare throw away your life like you did the amulet. I don't care if this sounds like a chic-flick moment or not; you are a good man, and you deserve to have some happiness. I love you. Bobby loves you, and I'm pretty damn sure that Cas loves you, too.
Remember you made me a promise. I want you to wear the amulet again, as a reminder of that promise, and you'd better damn well keep it.
Sam
Castiel's voice fell silent and Dean's free hand squeezed the amulet hard in answer to Sam's admonition; he wouldn't throw his life away like Sammy had been so worried about, even if he and Lisa didn't work out.
Sammy. He felt a fresh wave of grief wash over him, and he wondered if he ever would feel free of it. He didn't think so.
Finally, after he'd spent a while trying not to think about anything at all, hoping that the tears would dry up, he pulled his hand free from Castiel's warm grip.
He scrubbed his face, and gave a sideways glance at Cas. His friend, his fucking angel, was studying him intently. He supposed he should feel ashamed for crying in front of him, and tears were still forming in his eyes even now, but Cas had seen him cry before. It was nothing new to him. He didn't have to pretend with Cas that he didn't do emotions. Cas knew better.
“Dean.”
Castiel touched the hand that was holding onto the amulet, and said, “Let me, Dean.”
Let me. Dean felt a desire to just turn things over to Cas. Yeah. Let him do what he wanted; it was easier that way. He was fucking exhausted, and he trusted Cas. Cas had rebelled against Heaven for him. Cas had come through for him, even when he'd been reduced to only human abilities, knowing he would probably die from defying Lucifer. Maybe Cas did love him. He knew he loved Cas, even now, when Cas was totally an angel again.
He opened his hand and let the amulet drop into Castiel's palm. Cas murmured some words in Enochian, and the amulet flared to a brilliant blue-white in his hand. He carefully let it rest against Dean's bare chest, and the inadvertent touch of his fingers against Dean's skin startled him a little, before Castiel moved his hand away.
“What'd ya do?”
“You are still hid from Heaven's eyes, Dean. The sigils on your ribs protect you even now, but I will be able to find you, just me, as long as you wear this.” Castiel laid his palm against the amulet, pushing it firmly against Dean's bare skin.
“I will keep watch over you, Dean, as I have done since we parted. I wish to know if everything is A-okay with you.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. He felt oddly better, with Castiel touching him again.
“I thought you told me you weren't here to be my guardian angel. So why now?”
“I don't know. But my time here with you has marked me as strongly as I marked you when I carried you from Hell. My mark on you is visible to the world.” Castiel slid his hand to cover the scarred hand print he'd left on Dean's shoulder.
“Yours to me cannot be seen, except perhaps by God. But your soul touched me, and I knew you, Dean Winchester, and I found that I cared for you. And I still and will care for you; you are more than one of God's creations to me.”
Dean found himself staring into Castiel's eyes, so blue, so very, very blue. He felt uncomfortable knowing that Cas was going to be tuned in to him, but he also felt warmed, and maybe a little aroused.
He wiped his face and eyes again, and noticed that his breath had a hitch to it. Probably had been doing that little half-sobbing thing all along. God. It was a good thing that there was only Cas here to see him fall apart like this, but at least he wasn't crying anymore.
Castiel was still gripping him tight, just like he'd said he'd done when he'd taken Dean from Hell. The rescue itself aside, Dean was grateful that Castiel had stopped him from hurting those other damned souls. It was the part of himself that he hated the most, that he was capable of torture and enjoying it. He'd enjoyed hearing the screams, enjoyed reducing the soul stretched on the rack in front of him into a quivering mass of pain. He'd been on the way to turning into a demon, and the thought that he might have come back to this world, to swirl around as black smoke and rape some poor bastard by entering him, made him feel sick and full of loathing for himself.
Castiel had stopped that from ever happening, and Dean was thankful to him for that alone.
“Sam thought that I love you, Dean.”
Dean panicked. He didn't want to go there. Not now, not when he was such a mess.
“Uh...”
“I am perhaps not entirely clear on the distinctions between different types of love. Jimmy Novak felt one kind of love for Claire, and another kind for his wife.”
Why did it always fall to him to explain human beings and human emotions to Cas? It wasn't like Dean was any good at it, anyway.
“He felt parental love for his daughter.”
“Like Mary and John did for you. And it is how Bobby loves you.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And Sam. What he felt for you was brotherly love. It is what you felt for him.”
“Yeah.” Loving Sam had been a kaleidoscope of wanting to hug him, or hit him, being proud of him, and embarrassed that he was even remotely related to him. He'd wanted to take care of him, and resented that he'd had to watch out for the kid. He'd wanted him safe, always, and had wanted to teach him how to kill evil bastards and how to do it right. He'd wanted Sam to look at him like he had the answers to the world's mysteries and had wanted to be free of being on that pedestal Sam had put him on when Sammy was a little squirt. Although he'd been shoved off of that for a long time now. He'd wanted his brother to respect him, and he'd had to learn to accept that Sam really was grown up. He'd loved him like a brother.
“Lust is not love.”
“Uh, no. But it can be kind of mixed together.” And he wasn't getting into Jimmy's feelings about his wife. It wasn't any of his damn business.
“You have referred to me as being your friend. Your buddy.”
Dean sighed. 'Why me?' he asked himself. He'd had to explain sex to Sammy when they were kids, and this was just as bad.
But Cas seemed vulnerable, with all these questions and the big eyes he was making at Dean, and he'd felt kind of protective towards him since Castiel, good soldier of the Earth Garrison, had made his choice to fall from grace. And even though Cas was back to being a bad-ass angel, Dean had the feeling that he was Castiel's Achilles heel. Cas could be hurt by him or through him. He owed Cas. And he paid his debts. Well, unless they were from using fake credit cards.
“You're my friend, Cas. You're my best friend.”
“Friends love each other?”
Oh, God. He felt a blush starting to bloom on his face.
“Some friends just like each other and some love each other.”
“And what about us? What kind of friends are we?”
Oh, God, just shoot him now. Please. But he was stuck in the Impala, and Cas was still holding onto his shoulder and what the hell - he'd tell him the truth, but nothing would come of it, because Castiel was a fucking angel again. He was busy up there in Heaven. He wouldn't really have time for Dean, to hang out with him and be buddies. Especially not fuck buddies.
“Uh... this is a private conversation, right? Just between us, okay? Don't go blabbing what we talk about here to all the other angels. Because I still think most of them are dicks.”
Castiel turned up the intensity of his stare, although Dean didn't have a clue how that was even possible.
“I wish to know what you think, Dean.”
Dean closed his eyes for a long second. Then he opened them to face the music. Why he was admitting this he couldn't have said. But he might as well clue his clueless friend in. God knows nobody else would now, with Sam lost. Sam would have gone all emo face and explained all this shit a million times better than Dean ever could.
“We might have ended up as friends with benefits.” There. He'd admitted it.
Unfortunately, Cas frowned at him and looked puzzled.
“I do not understand this reference to benefits.”
Dean groaned, and decided, what the fuck, he'd just show him what he meant.
Which is how he ended up kissing Castiel, a fucking angel of the lord. Who had finally caught on, hands sliding over Dean's skin, and was kissing him back like there was no tomorrow.
Except there was. And his tomorrow might have Lisa and Ben in it, might mean he was part of a family again.
He wasn't going to screw that up. So he gentled the kiss from needy and desperate to sweet and simple, and finally pulled back far enough away to look Castiel in the eyes.
Cas looked surprised, and oh, God, he looked so human just then. But he wasn't. And there was less future for them as lovers than he'd had with any of his one-night-stands over the last ten something years.
“Cas. I love you, man. And maybe once, we'd have been able to, to...” Dean gestured with his hand, encompassing himself and Cas, and a whole future that was never going to happen.
“To have benefits. I understand. I also love you, Dean. It is strange, to have this desire, this lust. It winds through my Grace, and it pulls me to you. But you have gone to Lisa, and you wish to have benefits with her, to know her as Adam and Eve knew each other. And I have my duty to God. I will return to Heaven, and you will return to Lisa.”
Castiel once again gripped him hard on his shoulder, where he'd branded Dean with his angel's touch.
“You must trust in God, Dean. I do not know what his intentions are, but have faith. God has a plan for all of his creations.”
“I just want God to leave me the fuck alone, Cas. Sammy and I were just game pieces to him, although I'm glad he put you back together. You must be his favorite kid.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean wondered if he'd learned that from him or Sam.
“I will see you again, Dean Winchester. My friend.” Cas touched his head with those two damned fingers once more, and then Dean blinked and looked around.
Cas was gone, his keys were on the seat, and he was back in front of Lisa's house.
He felt so wiped out, and he was tempted to just put his head against the window and go to sleep. He'd done it so many times before, but instead he made an effort, and picked up Sam's letter, and his keys, and patted the dashboard. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said softly. Dean slid out of his car and locked it, and then went inside, up the stairs and back into the guest room.
He picked up what he needed to take to the bathroom and after he'd finished with his shower and brushed his teeth, he looked at himself in the mirror. He knew people said he was a good-looking dude, and he'd always gone along with that, joked about it, too, but when he looked at himself he didn't see a handsome man. He saw a guy who still had kid freckles, a guy who sometimes looked like a scared kid and sometimes looked like he felt a hundred years old. He touched his lips, and remembered the feel of an angel against them.
He'd kissed Cas. He wouldn't kiss him anymore. He wanted to believe he and Lisa had a future. And Cas was needed in Heaven, and while Dean had been a hell of a one-night-stand guy, he wasn't going to be the cheating kind. If he and Lisa hooked up, then he wasn't going to stray.
He'd wanted the white picket fence, a wife and kids, a family to love and protect.
A blue-eyed angel with dark, mussed hair and soft lips didn't belong in that dream. Not as a lover. And not as a friend with benefits, just sharing casual sex between them.
But maybe there was room for a friend.
He touched the amulet and kind of prayed that Sam wasn't in any torment, and that Cas was okay. Heaven wasn't exactly without its politics and there had to be a lot of resentment that an angel as lowly as Cas was pretty much in charge.
Then he had a thought that made him squirm a little. Maybe Cas had just watched him take a shower. He amended the prayer to include a quick refresher on what exactly private meant.
The sheets were crisp and clean and Dean slid between them, grateful that Lisa was giving them a chance. But his last thoughts before slipping off into exhausted slumber, holding the amulet in his fist, was of how Cas had tasted, and how forbidden fruit was the sweetest.
The End.
Continued in To Serve and Protect
Laurie