An Apple Pie Life-DeanCas
Title: An Apple Pie Life
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, some others
Prompt: Season 5 Finale
Word Count: 1,532
Genre: Angst and… other stuff
Rating: PG-13
Summary: More appropriately titled 'Five ways it might have ended'
Warnings: Character death in a couple, also the Devil being the Devil :|
Author's Notes: V. kind of ties into this
I.
The world ends with a clap and a bang. Dean hasn’t had a bath in five years, or at least what he believes is five years. There is no water on the earth anymore so there are no baths. He makes due with his nails, clawing at the caked red blood that’s managed to collect in the folds of his skin. He wonders if some of this blood isn’t his and he is reminded of a noon day in a graveyard. He chuckles when he remembers Chuck describing it as an exploding bag of meat because that had been exactly what it looked like. He wishes he had been able to apologize.
He distantly feels someone stopping him from scratching and he looks up into unfamiliar eyes in a terrifyingly familiar face. Lucifer tells him not to do that, that it upsets little Sammy, and Dean really ought to smile more, it’s only the end of the world. He hears the Devil laugh like this barren wasteland the world has become is some hysterical joke, and he wonders how he’s still alive, not for the first time.
He spies his mother crossing across the gravel and dust, and knows Lucifer is no longer at his side from her squalling cry. He turns his head away because he’s learned that it’s usually easier that way even if he still has to listen to her sob no no, this isn’t my son, stop please stop. Later, they’ll have warm apple pie that turns to dust on their tongues in the illusion of a happy family’s kitchen and if they’re lucky, Lucifer will let them sleep tonight. He can’t help thinking his mother is protesting too much for that to happen though.
II.
The world ends with a clap and a bang. Except it doesn’t. Dean doesn’t understand how this can be the end of the world when everything is soft and cool and all the edges are fuzzy and unimportant. Sometimes he thinks there’s something missing, but then there’s Bobby and Mom and Dad and Chuck and Jo and Ellen and… A full house and he laughs over a picnic in the summer sun. Lisa tells him the apple pie is the best and kisses him, and Ben tugs him over for a round of Frisbee with the dog.
He smiles and doesn’t let the strange fuzz at the edge of his vision bother him except when he goes to sleep. He feels like there should be another, but he can’t place who or what or where, only that the sound of one of the guard angel’s canvas cloth trench coat grates against his ear like something he almost remembers but doesn’t.
The day dawns bright and early as it has for five years. Probably, maybe. When he really thinks about it, he realizes he’s not exactly sure, not like he used to be when every day weighed heavy on his shoulders, but the apple pie is quite delicious and the grate of half remembered canvas cloth isn’t quite so bad today.
He lets himself fall into the moment and his family and this cotton edged end of the world and doesn’t catch the sad look the guard angel gives him as it passes by.
III.
No one knows much about Dean Winchester. They know the day he rolled into town in a black Chevy Impala his face looked like someone had pulped it with a hammer. They know he went to the local clinic and once he had finished spitting up a few of his teeth, he found the cheapest motel he could and stayed there for a few weeks. They know he bought a little house on the corner of 4th and Sweets Drive and that he only leaves it twice a week, the first to get groceries and another book from the library, and the second to get a slice of apple pie at Mary Jane’s pub.
They know that he will drink himself into unconsciousness while he’s there and when he is far gone he will mumble names and phrases, thin admonishments to someone named Sam and fond little curses at another named Bobby, words of love for a woman named Lisa, except sometimes when her name is Jo. They know Mary Jane will leave the key by his hand to lock up when he finally sleeps the alcohol sting off. They know that he is never there in the morning when she opens again and the key is always left in the roof tile just above where she can reach so she has to call Jonathon McGinnis over to help her.
They know that right now he is wrapped in a white straightjacket, locked up at the asylum five miles past the edge of town, and they know he was crying the name of an angel when he was packed away. They don’t know what finally broke him down after five years, but when they ask Father Hummel, the priest can’t identify which angel he was calling for.
IV.
The moon is full tonight, silver light washing over the rooftops only to catch and fade in the golden street lamps of suburbia. It’s a night on the cusp of winter, and a sharp, chill wind whips past a man in a trench coat as he knocks at the door.
A dark haired woman welcomes the man and he gives her an awkward, strange smile, like it’s something he’s had to practice at for years, and goes past her into the waiting arms of a taller, older man. They converse for a moment, small talk and catching up even if every name that leaves the visitor’s lips sounds like something from the Bible. Eventually, the man gives the woman an earnest sort of look, and she chuckles and calls for a young boy. The boy watches the visitor for a moment before slipping out of the room with the woman.
When she is gone, the man pushes the visitor onto the couch, though they both look uncomfortable, like this is something that doesn’t happen anymore. The taller leaves for a moment, returning with a slice of apple pie for them both, and he mentions idly that the other is welcome any time, that it doesn’t have to be once a year and who’s really keeping him away now that he’s in charge.
The visitor just smiles, and though it’s more natural than his first, it’s still private and strange. He clears his throat and asks after the boy, and the other shakes his head, says that he’s doing well, just had his thirteenth birthday and goddamn are birthdays getting more and more expensive or what. But the visitor doesn’t understand, so the man fills the silence with a misplaced chuckle instead.
They pass the time like this, and when the silver moon has risen high enough to finally wash out the golden street lamps, and the antiquated clock on the far wall strikes midnight, the visitor says he must go, that They are waiting. The other sees him to the door and doesn’t apologize even if it seems like he wants to.
The man in the trench coat nods and goes out into the chill bite of the almost-winter wind, and when he reaches the corner he is gone, the beat of wings the only thing to fill his sudden absence.
V.
It’s five years since they saved the world when they finally get their own place. Dean offers to carry Castiel through the door and the angel tells him he’s being ridiculous, but lets him do it anyway. Neither can imagine it ending any other way, and Castiel’s hands digging into Dean’s shoulders when he almost trips over an uneven floorboard grounds them both in the now.
When they start unpacking, Dean comes across his mother’s old cookbook and Castiel complains that Dean never learned how to cook and what is he going to do with that, the house is going to smell like burnt food. The man silences the angel with a kiss, traps him flush against the wall.
And later, in the half unpacked boxes and the smell of burnt food, Dean says this apple pie tastes like his mother’s, and Castiel kisses him because he’s curious what that taste is exactly. He says he might plant a garden for something to do, and asks if Dean might like an apple tree to make more of these apple pies of his mother’s. The burnt smell isn’t quite as bad as he imagined after all, and he seems happy enough with his creation. Dean smiles like he never used to, and nods.
Time slips them by, and the little mound of seeds grows, and in the shade of the young branches, they lay together. Castiel murmurs that it’s almost too good to be true, and Dean tells him to shut up and accept what they’ve been given. The sun rides the sky, throwing highlights over the red blossoms of first harvest and the angel decides maybe Dean is right this time, and doesn’t say another word.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, some others
Prompt: Season 5 Finale
Word Count: 1,532
Genre: Angst and… other stuff
Rating: PG-13
Summary: More appropriately titled 'Five ways it might have ended'
Warnings: Character death in a couple, also the Devil being the Devil :|
Author's Notes: V. kind of ties into this
I.
The world ends with a clap and a bang. Dean hasn’t had a bath in five years, or at least what he believes is five years. There is no water on the earth anymore so there are no baths. He makes due with his nails, clawing at the caked red blood that’s managed to collect in the folds of his skin. He wonders if some of this blood isn’t his and he is reminded of a noon day in a graveyard. He chuckles when he remembers Chuck describing it as an exploding bag of meat because that had been exactly what it looked like. He wishes he had been able to apologize.
He distantly feels someone stopping him from scratching and he looks up into unfamiliar eyes in a terrifyingly familiar face. Lucifer tells him not to do that, that it upsets little Sammy, and Dean really ought to smile more, it’s only the end of the world. He hears the Devil laugh like this barren wasteland the world has become is some hysterical joke, and he wonders how he’s still alive, not for the first time.
He spies his mother crossing across the gravel and dust, and knows Lucifer is no longer at his side from her squalling cry. He turns his head away because he’s learned that it’s usually easier that way even if he still has to listen to her sob no no, this isn’t my son, stop please stop. Later, they’ll have warm apple pie that turns to dust on their tongues in the illusion of a happy family’s kitchen and if they’re lucky, Lucifer will let them sleep tonight. He can’t help thinking his mother is protesting too much for that to happen though.
II.
The world ends with a clap and a bang. Except it doesn’t. Dean doesn’t understand how this can be the end of the world when everything is soft and cool and all the edges are fuzzy and unimportant. Sometimes he thinks there’s something missing, but then there’s Bobby and Mom and Dad and Chuck and Jo and Ellen and… A full house and he laughs over a picnic in the summer sun. Lisa tells him the apple pie is the best and kisses him, and Ben tugs him over for a round of Frisbee with the dog.
He smiles and doesn’t let the strange fuzz at the edge of his vision bother him except when he goes to sleep. He feels like there should be another, but he can’t place who or what or where, only that the sound of one of the guard angel’s canvas cloth trench coat grates against his ear like something he almost remembers but doesn’t.
The day dawns bright and early as it has for five years. Probably, maybe. When he really thinks about it, he realizes he’s not exactly sure, not like he used to be when every day weighed heavy on his shoulders, but the apple pie is quite delicious and the grate of half remembered canvas cloth isn’t quite so bad today.
He lets himself fall into the moment and his family and this cotton edged end of the world and doesn’t catch the sad look the guard angel gives him as it passes by.
III.
No one knows much about Dean Winchester. They know the day he rolled into town in a black Chevy Impala his face looked like someone had pulped it with a hammer. They know he went to the local clinic and once he had finished spitting up a few of his teeth, he found the cheapest motel he could and stayed there for a few weeks. They know he bought a little house on the corner of 4th and Sweets Drive and that he only leaves it twice a week, the first to get groceries and another book from the library, and the second to get a slice of apple pie at Mary Jane’s pub.
They know that he will drink himself into unconsciousness while he’s there and when he is far gone he will mumble names and phrases, thin admonishments to someone named Sam and fond little curses at another named Bobby, words of love for a woman named Lisa, except sometimes when her name is Jo. They know Mary Jane will leave the key by his hand to lock up when he finally sleeps the alcohol sting off. They know that he is never there in the morning when she opens again and the key is always left in the roof tile just above where she can reach so she has to call Jonathon McGinnis over to help her.
They know that right now he is wrapped in a white straightjacket, locked up at the asylum five miles past the edge of town, and they know he was crying the name of an angel when he was packed away. They don’t know what finally broke him down after five years, but when they ask Father Hummel, the priest can’t identify which angel he was calling for.
IV.
The moon is full tonight, silver light washing over the rooftops only to catch and fade in the golden street lamps of suburbia. It’s a night on the cusp of winter, and a sharp, chill wind whips past a man in a trench coat as he knocks at the door.
A dark haired woman welcomes the man and he gives her an awkward, strange smile, like it’s something he’s had to practice at for years, and goes past her into the waiting arms of a taller, older man. They converse for a moment, small talk and catching up even if every name that leaves the visitor’s lips sounds like something from the Bible. Eventually, the man gives the woman an earnest sort of look, and she chuckles and calls for a young boy. The boy watches the visitor for a moment before slipping out of the room with the woman.
When she is gone, the man pushes the visitor onto the couch, though they both look uncomfortable, like this is something that doesn’t happen anymore. The taller leaves for a moment, returning with a slice of apple pie for them both, and he mentions idly that the other is welcome any time, that it doesn’t have to be once a year and who’s really keeping him away now that he’s in charge.
The visitor just smiles, and though it’s more natural than his first, it’s still private and strange. He clears his throat and asks after the boy, and the other shakes his head, says that he’s doing well, just had his thirteenth birthday and goddamn are birthdays getting more and more expensive or what. But the visitor doesn’t understand, so the man fills the silence with a misplaced chuckle instead.
They pass the time like this, and when the silver moon has risen high enough to finally wash out the golden street lamps, and the antiquated clock on the far wall strikes midnight, the visitor says he must go, that They are waiting. The other sees him to the door and doesn’t apologize even if it seems like he wants to.
The man in the trench coat nods and goes out into the chill bite of the almost-winter wind, and when he reaches the corner he is gone, the beat of wings the only thing to fill his sudden absence.
V.
It’s five years since they saved the world when they finally get their own place. Dean offers to carry Castiel through the door and the angel tells him he’s being ridiculous, but lets him do it anyway. Neither can imagine it ending any other way, and Castiel’s hands digging into Dean’s shoulders when he almost trips over an uneven floorboard grounds them both in the now.
When they start unpacking, Dean comes across his mother’s old cookbook and Castiel complains that Dean never learned how to cook and what is he going to do with that, the house is going to smell like burnt food. The man silences the angel with a kiss, traps him flush against the wall.
And later, in the half unpacked boxes and the smell of burnt food, Dean says this apple pie tastes like his mother’s, and Castiel kisses him because he’s curious what that taste is exactly. He says he might plant a garden for something to do, and asks if Dean might like an apple tree to make more of these apple pies of his mother’s. The burnt smell isn’t quite as bad as he imagined after all, and he seems happy enough with his creation. Dean smiles like he never used to, and nods.
Time slips them by, and the little mound of seeds grows, and in the shade of the young branches, they lay together. Castiel murmurs that it’s almost too good to be true, and Dean tells him to shut up and accept what they’ve been given. The sun rides the sky, throwing highlights over the red blossoms of first harvest and the angel decides maybe Dean is right this time, and doesn’t say another word.