my specialty is living said a man [1/2]
MY SPECIALTY IS LIVING SAID A MAN
dean/castiel, michael, sam, ocs. character death. rated pg-13. ~13,400
Dean is continually waking from horrible nightmares.
(c) title from a poem by e.e. cummings of the same name
a/n: written for dc_fireplace. written before 5x13, so all things learned from that episode don't apply. thank you to spilled_notes for listening to me rant about this story, to thevinegarworks for being endlessly and lovingly supportive and to bauble for not being afraid to tell me what wasn't working.
beautiful cover art! by thisfishflies ♥
my specialty is living said a man
(one). THEN
In a warehouse in Sheldon, Iowa, they think they've found what they're looking for.
(He's out of breath. He was out of breath months ago and he thinks, he thinks this has got to stop, this world has got to stop. He never thinks to ask why they're still running-it was never about asking, always about what had to be done and he tried, tried so many years ago to get answers until he realized there are none. But, yeah, yeah, he still looks for them and it's overwhelmingly comforting and familiar when he doesn't find them still.)
It's the sound of shots firing from a gun, the hot air tearing in two and crashing around them, that let's Dean know it's wrong, all wrong, and they shouldn't be here. Castiel closes his eyes and Dean looks out the window at the sky, choked with lightning and dark, dark clouds. He hasn't seen rain clouds in months: just ash and ash and he could breathe it like air now.
The walls shudder, breathing like them, and the lights flicker soundlessly. Dean turns on his heel, hands out.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean would move if he could.
“Michael.” Dean feels the give-way slip of certainty and it crashes. “It was a trap.”
The man (angel, actually, vessel with eyes the colour of the sky, bare and misplaced delight) nods, a wry, casual smile on his face. “Yes, it was a trap.” He steps out from behind a table, bowing his head. “It's good to meet you, Dean. I've heard so much about you.”
Castiel shifts beside Dean, hands pushing gently against Dean's back.
“How did you find me?” Dean asks.
Michael tilts his head to the side. There's something unnerving (familiar) about it. “I'm a little stronger than you think.”
∴
(two). NOW
The air is sweet, sweet incense, melted wax and paper books. This room is full of shadows that are nothing more than the clear absence of light, the stained glass windows still covered with boards, burnt candle wicks struggling to stay aflame to keep light moving through the pews.
“Don't feel abandoned.”
Dean's sweating; he feels his body move in tremors, laced with nerves and unease. He wants to take off his shirt, sticky and unclean, and stand in the open sun. He can feel everyone breathe, feels the room get smaller when they breathe in and just thick-smoke scents are left behind.
“God hasn't forsaken you. He hasn't forgotten you.”
They're going to take the boards off the windows soon. Summer is coming, along with rain clouds and they say the sun might come back, too; they want to be ready for it. There's still the smell of the rapture in this place; they hope the rains will wash this town and its streets clean. The streets will turn black and muddy and the lumber they salvage will swell and warp: Dean doesn't really understand how they can look forward to more disappointment.
(But the rapture isn't still here because of the bodies in the basements, the grave markers that haven't yet been built, in the smells that the town holds in its walls-it's mostly in the way they remember things, how they see it all in their dreams, even now, as if it hasn't stopped yet.)
They're still finding things left from the fires when they dig up old pieces of land.
“We are tested, we are pushed down and we feel like we are alone. You're not. You have each other.”
Dean wants the light to wash in through the windows. He remembers what the colour used to look like. He misses it.
“You have God.” A pause. “Thank you, everyone-that's all. I'll see you next week.”
There's a shuffling of feet, an obligatory silence before the noise grows and screams back from the empty halls. Dean steps down from the altar and pulls off his robe.
-
The sky is a beautiful shade of grey today. Dean's shaking hands outside the church.
“Thank you, Father,” they say and Dean mostly says, “No, thank you.” And they take it as they wish, take it as they want, but Dean doesn't really know what he means by it anymore. (He's happy to not be as alone.)
A familiar man grabs his hand, holds Dean's fingers between his hot palms. “We'll see you at the opening tomorrow, Father?”
Dean smiles. “Absolutely, Mr. Evans. I wouldn't miss it.”
The man smiles back and the wrinkles fold in his skin. Dean's eyes wander to Mr. Evans' hands: burned in the war, the skin is smooth and almost shiny now, his fingers curled into his palms. The sight of it used to bother Dean, guilty and grotesque-now it bothers him for different reasons.
“I've told you to call me Jack.” Mr. Evans laughs, waves his hand and walks away. Dean notices he's alone.
-
The air is achingly familiar, thin and sweltering, as he walks home. He's shaking by the time he gets there; he manages to climb up the steps to his door before he collapses on his front porch. He's weak and he can't figure out why.
-
He reads his Bible before he goes to bed, and most of the time it bores him but he needs it; he's stuck under the soft light of a candle, distracted by the hum of the generator in the next room. He tries not to look out his window: there is nothing to see there anyway.
His house cries with its emptiness.
∴
(three). THEN
They're at Bobby's when it starts, when Castiel shows up, standing at the end of Dean's bed in the middle of the night, holding his shoulder, face painted with red fingerprints.
(They lost track of him days ago, near the North Carolina border, hunting down a coven of witches holed up in an abandoned farmhouse. Sam was dragging the last body out of the house, Dean knee-deep in damp black soil, when Castiel said, “I can hear Him.”
Dean threw his shovel down beside him. “What?”
Sam sighed when Castiel disappeared, the sound of beating wings following him.
Dean stared at the space where Castiel had just been for a moment before he waved his hand, crouching down into the grave. “Whatever, man. Come on, let's get this over with.”
They might have been worried when Bobby called, asking for Castiel, sounding agitated and rough.
“Find him,” Bobby said, “Find him 'cause there's something bad coming.”
But, no, no they were never worried because Dean never let them be.)
“Fuck, Cas.”
Dean thinks he feels bone snapping, ribs cracking, underneath his fingertips when he reaches out and touches the angel. Castiel collapses, bent over, hitting the floor, on his hands and knees. His hands are bloody, nails digging into the floorboards. Dean thinks he can see him smile.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean grabs Castiel's collar, pulling him up and sitting him against the bed. Castiel's eyes are darting quickly, unfocused and bright. He breathes deeply, his head falling to the side. “Fuck.” Dean scrambles to his feet, turning on the lights to find his duffel.
“They found me,” Castiel mumbles. Dean almost doesn't catch it.
“What?” Dean snaps. He glances up from his duffel, looking for needles, string, whiskey. Castiel is looking back at him. There's blood in the corners of his mouth. “Who?”
“The angels, Dean,” Castiel says and the blood moves when he moves. “They were looking for you.”
Dean looks up from his own hands. The sheets hanging off the end of bed, wrapped tightly into Castiel's fists, are already stained a glorious red. “Jesus.”
Castiel's shoulders drop; he's sinking into the floor, his eyes closing again.
“Hey!” Dean screams. He drops his duffel and it makes such a sound that trembles and shakes the floorboards and Dean doesn't want Sam or Bobby to wake, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. He kneels in front of Castiel, grabs his shoulders and pulls him back into a sitting position, shaking him quickly. “Wake up!”
Castiel barely opens his eyes.
“You're going to be fine,” Dean says. “You just can't fall asleep.”
“I'm becoming more human. I feel.” Castiel sounds awed. Dean hates that sound.
Dean swallows. “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat, rubbing his hand across his eyes. He pulls the duffel to his feet. “Just give me a second.”
“Michael is getting impatient,” Castiel says, but he's laughing, like it's not that funny but it should be, and he's becoming too human too fast and Dean can't keep up, won't keep up.
“He knows my answer,” Dean bites out. He moves closer, starts unbuttoning his jacket. He already sees the blood on Castiel's shirt, he knew there was blood, of course there's blood, fuck-all over his arms, his chest, his neck-and the smell of it stings and the sight of it burns and he wants to say he's sorry because it's his fault. He tries to ignore the bruises on Castiel's face, the soft purple-blue framing his lips, as he loosens Castiel's tie, takes the scissors and cuts open his shirt. “Where else?”
Castiel shakes his head, his breathing ragged and slow.
“Okay, okay,” Dean sighs. He leans in, fingers running across the deep cuts along his chest, swollen and irritated white. “This might sting a little.” He soaks the bath towel with whiskey, raising his hand to Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel stops him, his fingers on Dean's wrist. Dean looks up at him. They're both shaking.
“Thank you, Dean.”
And Castiel smiles.
-
Dean falls asleep when he doesn't want to, when he knows he shouldn't, with Castiel beside him. He wakes up late, and he's too calm for this day, too open for what has to has to come, and it's warm like summer under the blankets. It jerks him awake. He looks over, past the filtering light and the heady scent curling in the air, and sees Castiel's bright, bright eyes looking back.
“You're sticking around then?” Dean asks because he is surprised, he is honestly that surprised and disquieted and a little unsure, but he thinks it's a good kind. It is the good kind.
The corners of Castiel's mouth shudder. Maybe he knows it's the good kind too.
∴
(four). NOW
They've built this town from scrap, from nothing, less than nothing, and less than scrap because even then it's mostly black and ash. This town doesn't even have a name, but they don't think it needs a name yet. There's no one else for miles. They are making it work for them, without government, without order. It's confining and freeing.
Most of them are scared.
They're opening the hospital today. A doctor, shell-shocked and quiet, finally made his way in from the far stretches of nowhere (no one asked because no one cared about where and why and what, just now and now and now). The hospital is small, one storey, flat against the endless horizon of the Ohio skyline. The doors are mismatched, the walls covered with leftover vinyl siding and lumber. The rooms inside are bare, with a lone chair in each, a small cupboard stocked with Q-tips and bandages and cloth wraps that the church ladies cut up the night before. A sign sits in front of the doors, neatly hand-painted calligraphy: Hospital.
They've never been prouder.
-
They're holding the picnic on the church grounds. They're dancing beside empty graves that have lost their names and no one seems to mind. Dean thinks he should say something, but he wouldn't know where to start. It's not that they're bad-he's just worse.
Dean notices a young girl sitting by herself by a grove of trees, away from where the other kids are throwing pebbles at each other, screaming obscenities that sound like sirens, sound like nothing at all, but Dean remembers what it's like to be a kid, what it's like to be angry for no reason. So, he knows; yeah, he knows.
He walks over to the trees, to the girl, his hands behind his back, his heart in his head, his feet wet from the grass.
“Can I sit with you?”
She turns away, looks away, towards the others, and nods.
Dean sits down, leaning back against the tree. He brushes the dirt from between his fingertips. “Are you new?”
She nods again. Dean nods, too. They both look like they have nothing to say.
“You're the priest, right?” she asks and her voice is small and sounds like something familiar (like-like-and he can't remember and he doesn't want to remember, but he knows, he knows it's something he knew so well, that was his and-theirs. His and theirs.)
“I am. Everyone calls me Father, but I would rather they call me Dean.” He smiles at her. She doesn't smile back.
“What were you before?”
Dean's smile stops on his face. “What do you mean?”
She looks at the people on the lawn. “Before all of this, these people were someone else. The mayor was an accountant. The grocery store owner was a college student. The teacher was an environmentalist engineer.”
Dean brushes his hand over the back of his neck, muttering, “Oh.”
“We're all different now. We have to be, I guess,” she says. “So. Who were you?”
Dean looks at the people with her. “No one worth mentioning.”
-
He shouldn't have locked cabinets. They aren't allowed to have secrets. Communication, they're saying. Nothing is private, because when things are private, that's when people get angry. Dean hasn't been angry in a long time. They might be afraid that he'll break, he'll snap, and no one knows when and that makes them abrasive, tormented (they're all so horrified that things are still unexpected and they think they should see everything coming, but it's just twists and turns and Dean has never tried to tell the future because when he did know he couldn't stop it anyway. Once is enough. Just once and he'll never try again).
He still has locked cabinets. Mostly, they're empty. It's a detached sense of security that he fills with air. One day, he'll crawl in there and lock himself away.
But one cabinet holds a shoe box. The shoe box holds letters. The letters hold words void of much of anything besides fear and scribbled begging. They're all addressed to Sam.
He thinks:
I think it's been a year and I still haven't seen you. Where are you? I haven't looked at a calendar in years. Do you remember when we could still tell time? Not just by clocks or watches or days-but by how far the Impala could go, how many times we had to move in a month, how each night was its own day, its own world? We were weird, then. All the things we saw, all the things we knew. We were strange. Where are you?
He writes:
I hope you're okay. You should come visit. Take care of yourself, Sammy. See you soon.
They're not supposed to have secrets, but Dean's got all kinds of them, ones that change nothing and ones that change everything.
∴
(five). THEN
It's almost as if Dean woke up and the world was always this way. It could have always been this weak, this alone, this harmful, and maybe he was always meant to try to save it and never able to. Sure, he was a little thoughtless, a little arrogant and some days he was so tired he was okay with watching the world burn, but he was born on a day when the sun rested on the world and it still churns in his veins. Some days, it's the only reason he's still moving, he thinks, flames and fire coiling inside his head.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and he knew that this was how it was going to end. Yeah, everyone said it was going to end bloody and young for them and all that would be left over was a legacy whispered in the heads of the crazy ones, the remains of a mistrust that they abused all too often to gain nothing at all. And Dean knew it was true. But he always smelled fire, always saw the sky crashing down on them, the ground cracking and swallowing, and he would die fighting a great shadow.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and the day the world wasn't theirs anymore felt exactly the same as every other day. He thought his heart would rattle against his ribs until it stopped beating, that the fires of Hell would melt his skin, that the demons would be able to break past devil's traps and he would take death without warning. But he woke up and the air might have been heavier, tasted of sulphur when he breathed in; but Sam was in the shower, and the room was quiet, and all he wanted was to get in his car and drive. It was exactly the same.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and knew that Castiel would still be there. He usually was. And it wasn't that he was right there; he was usually in Dean's head, usually waiting with words and halted questions. He was mostly just a picture, too bright, too contrasted (Castiel's true form, all blinding light and shattered edges of the world), and his voice was louder, drowning out all other sound, and Dean would find himself listening.
Sometimes, not often, he was waiting outside the door, in the room, in the back seat of the car. It annoyed Dean at first. Then he realized it calmed him; the familiar eyes, the hot-cold of Castiel's skin, the curve of Castiel's lips when he wanted to say something, anything, maybe really nothing at all, but he said it anyway.
-
Dean is bitter, he's angry, he's drinking.
Castiel is endless, he's confused, he's waiting.
Dean points the half empty bottle at Castiel. The day is warm. They're sitting on the hood of Impala. Castiel won't stop staring at the sky and Dean wants Castiel to look at him.
“You're still looking for God?”
“I haven't given up,” Castiel says, and he's detached and fleeting.
Dean brings the bottle to his lips. “Good for you.”
Castiel drops his head. He twists his fingers together. He glances at Dean, barely moves his head; he might even be smiling. Dean drinks and it burns. Castiel is smiling.
Dean doesn't want to pity Castiel, but he does. Because Dean knows all about absent fathers and searches started in desperation, in love, ending in vain, in something more polite than hatred, but America is full of heathens and traitors and people with too much to gain and the universe is full of things they don't understand. So, he pities Castiel and he hates that he does because Castiel doesn't need this kind of pity, doesn't deserve this kind of pity, but Dean does it, gives it anyway because he's drinking and he's frustrated and he's betrayed. Most days, he just feels alone. So, he pities Castiel. And Castiel doesn't know.
But Dean's been known to mistake envy for pity. No one ever taught him the difference.
-
Sam thinks he's still good at lying to Dean, so he keeps doing it. Dean doesn't want to break his heart, so he lets him.
Dean is worse at lying to himself. So he just doesn't tell the truth anymore. He just doesn't say anything at all.
Castiel never lies. So when he doesn't come around for a week or so, and Dean's not counting, not really, Dean gets a little frustrated, then a little worried and then he's screaming at Sam because Castiel hasn't come back in days.
So, when Castiel does come back around and Dean's sitting outside the motel room because he's too tired to sleep, Castiel doesn't lie. Dean grabs him by the arm, slams him against the wall. Castiel becomes darkness: Dean cannot see.
“Where the fuck were you?” Dean demands-he's blinded.
“Looking for God,” Castiel says. He would never lie about this.
“Why didn't you answer me when I called you?” And Dean sounds a little weaker at this point, but his fingers are digging into Castiel's elbow and his skin is so soft, malleable, beneath the pressure. He won't move.
“I was afraid,” Castiel murmurs. His lips barely move; Dean touches them with the tips of his fingers. Castiel looks at the sky. Dean pulls his hands away.
“Bullshit,” Dean spits. He turns away and likes that there is nothing to see.
(But Castiel doesn't lie.)
-
It's almost as if Dean woke up (from dark worlds and a life he thought his own) and he knew that he loved Castiel and Castiel loved him.
∴
(six). NOW
There's something wrong with him. Something wrong about him. And now no one talks of him, talks with him, because, God, they can see it in his face. All the different faces he has, wears. He's hesitant-of what, of nothing, of everything, he can't figure out what.
He stops praying (it's a sort of religion, when you lose your faith, believing in the lack of belief and that has to count for something). The words just come right back to him and he's sick of hearing the sound of his own voice-it's when he knows he's alone. No one answers back.
He'll walk instead: around his house, in jagged circles, cut off by locked doors and corners; around town, past the church and the grocery store and the mismatched houses with bed sheets over the windows; out of town, where he shouldn't go because they say it's not safe yet (for no reason except they say, they think, it's safer in here), but he was a hero and he read comic books when he was a kid (oh, it must have been years ago, a completely different life-lost his memories and now he's making it up as he goes), and heroes never die.
He never finds anything. Naturally, he'll find rocks and fallen trees and a car in the ditch, rusted and beaten, and maybe he'll find something that could have been alive, but he has seen this for years. It's nothing. He thinks he'll find things that mean something, that change him, that fix him, that prove to him that he made mistakes and he's doing okay.
He never finds anything; he gets used to it. He was always looking for signs, for moments of clarity, for a meaning besides the one he believed, but he never found them. Always hiding.
Or-never there at all.
-
“Father.”
(People are always wandering into town. It's war-it was war-and it's like everything is tightening, spiralling down, and people need a place to finally rest and they are the dead. There's nothing for miles and miles, highways and states that have been stripped and ravaged and ruined-they are historical, text in a book for centuries and centuries, they are inspiration. Maybe countries are left bare, too. Maybe they are the only ones left. The only town left in the entire world. He could scream and scream and scream and no one would ever hear him, except for in this town. It makes him feel like a giant before he goes to bed. This thought wrestles under Dean's skin and makes him feel horrible, act horrible for days.)
“Hey, Father. What can I help you with?”
“May we talk?”
(People show up at all times of the day, of the night. Two separate days to Dean. There's always some sort of light on and he's grown tired of the sun. They never set up walls or fences or barriers. They felt no need. It's not that they felt safe: they didn't feel safe, that wasn't it-no one felt safe anymore, not with what they had seen, had lost and been forced to give up. They could have been safe, but no one would have noticed: they were too afraid.
Sometimes, Dean takes a shift as a watcher. The night-days were long. He brought his Bible with him and a pen. He would underline the same passages until the candle flame died or someone else took over. He never saw the sun rise across an empty field.)
“Of course.”
“How are the people receiving the Lord lately? I'm-I'm worried about our efforts here.”
(This person that showed up somewhere between the third and fourth stroke of Dean's pen was a minister-Dean knew, he knew right away, because he was sick, so sick from no food and no water and no sleep, but he kept his Bible in his hands. He asked to remain a minister, even with Dean in town. No one could say no; he had such young eyes, such blue eyes. It hurt Dean to look at them for too long and he was beginning to forget why.)
“You think they're going to waste?”
“Not to waste, no. Just-maybe they feel abandoned? Forsaken.”
(He stayed with Dean for a few days. A few nights. They talked of God because they had nothing else in common to talk about. They talked of miracles and faith and wish-giving and belief and how it's difficult to let go, difficult to understand and how they could never grasp, fully, God's plan. Oh, God did have a plan for Dean, but when it wasn't Dean's plan, Dean outran God for as long as he could before weakness settled in, surrendered, and allowed himself penance and atonement. But he doesn't share this with the minister. He's young, impressionable, and so full of danger and passion, Dean couldn't risk ruining the world for him. So, he asks Dean how he found God because everyone wants to know, because it's always harrowing and disturbing, staggering and beautiful. So, he asks Dean, “How did God come to you?” and Dean could tell him hundreds of stories, all true, but none are right. Not for the question, not what the minister really wants to know: so. Dean just smiles because he can't expect this young boy to understand.)
“Those who believe will stick around, Father. I've seen the faith these people have. I'd rather you not question what makes them happy.”
“Yes, yes, you are right, Father. I'm sorry.”
(They are allowed to doubt themselves. They are never meant to question themselves. It leads them to roads they cannot turn back on, guides them down paths away from what their true intentions are meant to be; Dean feels as if he knows this better than anyone. He knows a lot of things better than anyone. It never comes into use anymore, but he still keeps a bag of rock salt in the cold room, a loaded gun underneath his bed, a knife in his backpack. But no one knows because secrets aren't allowed.)
-
He doesn't dream of places. Thinks of them instead because he's sure he's seen it all and there is nothing left to dream of when there's truth in your head. He thinks of the fields beyond the town, the fields he can never reach; his legs are weak and his bones are older than he is and he doesn't make it far. So he thinks of the fields that touch the sun, the clouds, the sky and he thinks he knows what could be out there. It doesn't scare him like it used to.
∴
(seven). THEN
(They are driving. Sam is sleeping in the back seat. Dean misses his brother already. He knows he will miss him more, so much more, when he's not there at all.)
“I wish you believed in God.”
“I kinda know He's real. Does that count?”
(Castiel has agitated little sighs, twitching fingers that wrap loosely around his knees, when Dean does something he doesn't like, doesn't approve of, understands but hates.)
“No. There's a difference in knowing and believing.”
Dean nods, fingers running along the dashboard. “Sure there is.”
“I meant to say I wish you had faith in God.” Castiel's hands run up and down his legs. “In what He can be, what He can do. What is happening is not His will-it is my brothers' and sisters'.” Castiel looks sideways at Dean, the colour of his eyes lost in the glare of the sun. “God is kind, Dean.”
(Dean laughs because he's nervous and he's never known what to do. He looks at the angel through rose-coloured glasses and sees a human staring back at him, saddened by the sound of Dean's voice.)
“Why? Why do you want me to believe in Him?”
Castiel taps his fingers against the window. “I never wish to lose you.”
-
Would you let yourself lose me-
There's bodies they need to bury after their last hunt. A family possessed by a group of demons, rode so hard they they bled from everywhere, couldn't talk or see or breathe and Dean thinks, maybe, it's better this way. Sam digs and his hands blister and bleed; the ground is too cold, he says, and Dean doesn't hear him.
-could you stop it-
“Christ, Dean,” Sam snaps. “Can we just burn the bodies instead?”
Castiel has a soft, kind look on his face. It looks unnatural against the setting sun, the blood in the sky.
-or would it never make a difference?
“We can't burn them.” Dean runs his fingers across the tops of tombstones. He wonders what it would be like to never die; he wonders how much he would truly hate this world after years and years. “They're just-they didn't do anything wrong.”
Dean can see the confusion in Sam, the complacency in Castiel. He knows he's odd, that what he wants is not what he should want, that the words coming from his mouth sound like a different language. He's okay with that.
“Keep digging,” Dean says and picks up his own shovel.
-
Dean comes back to their motel with take-out and Sam's waiting for him by the door. Sam's familiar in his dirt-stained t-shirt, in the streaks of black up his bare arms, the yellow grass in his hair, the fatal, lingering look in his eyes.
“Forgot how to turn on the shower?” Dean asks, taking off his jacket.
Sam frowns at Dean. Dean chuckles and slaps Sam lightly on the back.
“Where's Cas?” Sam asks when Dean sets the bag down on the table.
Dean glances up, looking around the room quickly. “Not here.”
Sam nods and sits down on his bed, hands folded. “So, he's sticking around, huh?” Sam asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, shrugging. He sets the food out. “I guess he is.”
Sam drags his hands through his hair. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “What's up with you lately?”
“Well, the apocalypse, for starters-”
“Dean,” Sam says in that way that only Sam can, in the way that makes Dean stop, his hands falter, his heart beat in slow time. “Come on. Talk to me. You've been on edge ever since Cas came back.”
Dean sits down at the table, pulling a burger close to him. For a minute, he rests his hands on his knees and-he tells himself not to think about it. Then, he smiles. “Let's eat, okay?”
∴
(eight). NOW
They all talk about how they've lost so much. They talk about their houses and their pets and their victory gardens; they talk about jobs and family pictures and things they bought that they never thought they would lose. Sometimes, they talk about people, neighbours and friends, about what they saw before they looked the other way, about what they felt the day the sky split and the ground soaked red.
Dean's lost things, too, but mostly it was his own fault, he was to blame for things always ending, and when he thinks about it, what he lost is nothing compared to what they have.
The ground is toxic, poisoned by blood and gunpowder, and someone said nothing could ever grow here, but they've got stubborn men with the taste of diesel in their lungs who are all too ready to start again. So, one day, things might grow when the rain comes back and they'll be able to stop living off of preserves and canned everything, but it seems too long to wait.
Once, Dean didn't have to wait. Long before this, he could move to where he needed to be and he could find anything he wanted and waiting was never an option. Waiting wasn't something he could endure and something about him still can't, but it's the momentary stasis that has him caught, has him finally waiting.
∴
(nine). THEN
Castiel is hard to love, but Dean loves him anyway. Dean's imperfect and so is this angel he didn't choose, and who didn't choose him either (chose him from Hell, picked him up by grace and God and rebuilt him with the same, but didn't choose this-didn't choose to stay around for what Dean is terrified to give, but he stays anyway. They know they have to, they both have to, because it's worse to think of what would happen if they didn't). Their faults are the staggered opposites of each other and it feels like storms on a sea, buildings that never stop burning, because it all comes back to this and that which neither of them wanted. It comes back to that and this, something they want to understand, but can't.
(this this this-that that that: Dean wants to know. He thinks it's everything, because he's human and he sees what he wants to see. Castiel wants to know. He thinks it's love and God, because he's an angel and he sees forever.)
Castiel is hard to love because he wants these things, all these things that Dean can't give, and he's frustrated. But Dean loves him anyway. It's not their flaws that make them weak; it's the frightening knowledge that Dean suddenly can't be without him. It's a betrayal of himself and he can't let himself be like this-so vulnerable and dependent-again, but Castiel makes him.
Castiel is hard to love because Dean wants to love him, does love him, and he also knows he can't, he shouldn't. It's not their need that makes them angry; it's Dean pushing away and Castiel pulling back. It's Castiel not knowing boundaries and limits and Dean knowing them all too well. It's Castiel forgetting who he is and Dean remembering all too well.
Castiel is hard to love and Dean knows he, himself, is harder to love still. But Castiel loves him anyway.
-
It shouldn't make sense because Dean doesn't want it to make sense, but it still does. He still lets it slip and slide and grow and take him whole.
(Girls in bars with pretty pink lips and small hands that fit inside his. He can see their smiles through the blue smoke and haze.)
Dean doesn't know where it began or how it even happened, but Castiel is suddenly there and he's alone and Dean knows he's alone. The blank look in his eyes gives way to a turn of the head, a small glint that screams at Dean for days.
(Girls with cold hands in back alleys and it's disgusting down here, but he doesn't want them knowing. Keep it a secret, keep it a secret from everyone. They giggle and he likes the sound.)
Castiel tries to be the same, but it's like he's shifted off-center and he walks differently, talks differently, and Dean can't make himself believe that Castiel is still who he was. He's walked through oceans of blood and seen fire like no other; but so has Dean. He can't remember if he's the same either.
(Girls who have names, Dean knows their names, but he doesn't say them. Girls who look kind of like someone he used to know, girls who remind him of things he shouldn't think of, girls who kiss him on the neck and leave lip-shaped brands.)
Maybe it isn't what he has seen, but what he hasn't done. Yeah, Dean knows what that's like.
(Girls who Dean never tells anyone about, but Castiel knows. I can see them on you, smell them on you; Dean can. Maybe Castiel can't. Dean would never ask.)
“Did you enjoy your night out?” Castiel asks.
Dean never says a word and neither does Castiel.
-
Castiel's head makes a sick smacking sound as it hits the wall. Dean almost hates it, but not enough to regret it.
“Stop it, Cas,” Dean says.
“Stop what?” Castiel asks. He's just as simple, just as impassive as he always is and Dean hates him: hates him like a child hates the world, so empty and vapid, pointless and encouraged. It's not meant to be anything, to reveal anything; he just hates because it's worse to feel the opposite.
“You know what-just stop,” Dean says roughly. And he doesn't have time for this, for all these stupid little explanations because Castiel can't know, refuses to know, until Dean tells him. “I can't deal with this.”
It's getting dark outside, nearly night. Dean feels them-whoever they are-coming in through the shadows. But maybe it's just him.
“Make up your mind, Dean,” Castiel says.
“I have!” Dean screams. (You, but you shouldn't be here. You, but I don't want you around.)
There's disappointment painted between the lines. New colour, new flavour; Dean likes it. It leaves aches and bruises in his bones.
“And what do you want?” Castiel asks. He never lies.
Dean looks at Castiel. “You know.”
Dean is trying not to lie either.
∴
(ten). NOW
It might not be something wrong with him, he thinks.
It's in his head, it's in his head, it's outside and beyond the walls and he thought it was in his fingers, but it's really in the trees. It's really in the water, in the ground, in the pages of his Bible when he turns them over (snap, crack, paper that crumbles beneath his hands), in the car he doesn't drive anymore and the stories he used to tell Sam when they were kids and Dean needed a reason to think that he could change the world just by changing his words, but he can't remember the middle, the ending, the beginning; it doesn't mean much if he can't remember what he needed to fix in the first place with words and words and words.
It's really nothing-something wrong with him, he tells himself.
It's the yellow skyline and the blue-black hills and the clouds of soft grey smoke from the cities they have to burn. They'll never burn this one, whoever they are: the government, the army, people who can't remember what it's like to be human. People who can't stand the lasting smell of judgement feigned. But they will never burn this town, not this one, because they need it and want it and can't imagine trying to live out there. No walls, no fences, no boundaries, but out there is still out there and, here, you can't keep secrets and you have to be afraid of what can get in, what can get out.
He still doesn't pray. He knows God can forgive him for this one.
It's the emptiness of his house and how it screams back at him when he doesn't say a single fucking word. It's how he never reads books, never learns new words, feels primal and old because he learned everything from chance and doing and the glare off a television screen, off the blade of a knife, off puddles of blood, but he doesn't have those things anymore. They are moving forward but falling over themselves to relive a past they never had; they have books to guide them and he doesn't read them. So, he lets his mind wander and he lets himself remember and when he does, he hurts so fucking bad, but he can't remember-find-think-can't remember.
It's what's wrong with his head, yeah. But he blames the familiar smells in the air.
-
They ask bless my daughter, my son, my mother, my father and he does because they ask nicely.
They ask pray for my crops, pray for my health, pray for my family to find me (they're just lost, they'll find me here, I know they will) and he does because he likes these people.
They ask is God still here?-Are we really alone?-Is he listening to me?-Does it mean anything anymore? and his answers are always different; he knows what they want to hear.
They ask bless me, Father, for I have sinned but he doesn't have that kind of grace. His is just borrowed.
-
The young minister preaches that Sunday. Dean can't look at the stained glass windows: all the angels look the same and they are someone he doesn't want to know.
∴
(eleven). THEN
“It's time to make a decision, Dean.”
“No.” Dean thinks it's enough.
“I thought you would say that,” Michael says around a smirk.
Dean can't help but let his head grow too full of evil, evil things and he sees them in everything, once the entire world went dark, so he can't tell the difference between absence of light and just shadows. “Then why did you ask?”
Michael raises his hands, palms open. “I was willing to give you a chance.”
“A chance?” Dean breathes, laughs through his teeth. “A chance to become your meat suit? No thanks. I'll pass.”
Michael bows his head. He's still smiling. “Say yes or-” He lifts his head, lets his eyes drift to stare behind Dean (where Dean can feel him, feel his hands), bored and fragmented, “-I will kill Castiel.”
The wind howls outside. Dean feels his hands shake. He doesn't look back.
“What?”
Michael shrugs, just that easy, that unfamiliar. “He won't come back this time, Dean.”
∴
next.
dean/castiel, michael, sam, ocs. character death. rated pg-13. ~13,400
Dean is continually waking from horrible nightmares.
(c) title from a poem by e.e. cummings of the same name
a/n: written for dc_fireplace. written before 5x13, so all things learned from that episode don't apply. thank you to spilled_notes for listening to me rant about this story, to thevinegarworks for being endlessly and lovingly supportive and to bauble for not being afraid to tell me what wasn't working.
beautiful cover art! by thisfishflies ♥
my specialty is living said a man
(one). THEN
In a warehouse in Sheldon, Iowa, they think they've found what they're looking for.
(He's out of breath. He was out of breath months ago and he thinks, he thinks this has got to stop, this world has got to stop. He never thinks to ask why they're still running-it was never about asking, always about what had to be done and he tried, tried so many years ago to get answers until he realized there are none. But, yeah, yeah, he still looks for them and it's overwhelmingly comforting and familiar when he doesn't find them still.)
It's the sound of shots firing from a gun, the hot air tearing in two and crashing around them, that let's Dean know it's wrong, all wrong, and they shouldn't be here. Castiel closes his eyes and Dean looks out the window at the sky, choked with lightning and dark, dark clouds. He hasn't seen rain clouds in months: just ash and ash and he could breathe it like air now.
The walls shudder, breathing like them, and the lights flicker soundlessly. Dean turns on his heel, hands out.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean would move if he could.
“Michael.” Dean feels the give-way slip of certainty and it crashes. “It was a trap.”
The man (angel, actually, vessel with eyes the colour of the sky, bare and misplaced delight) nods, a wry, casual smile on his face. “Yes, it was a trap.” He steps out from behind a table, bowing his head. “It's good to meet you, Dean. I've heard so much about you.”
Castiel shifts beside Dean, hands pushing gently against Dean's back.
“How did you find me?” Dean asks.
Michael tilts his head to the side. There's something unnerving (familiar) about it. “I'm a little stronger than you think.”
∴
(two). NOW
The air is sweet, sweet incense, melted wax and paper books. This room is full of shadows that are nothing more than the clear absence of light, the stained glass windows still covered with boards, burnt candle wicks struggling to stay aflame to keep light moving through the pews.
“Don't feel abandoned.”
Dean's sweating; he feels his body move in tremors, laced with nerves and unease. He wants to take off his shirt, sticky and unclean, and stand in the open sun. He can feel everyone breathe, feels the room get smaller when they breathe in and just thick-smoke scents are left behind.
“God hasn't forsaken you. He hasn't forgotten you.”
They're going to take the boards off the windows soon. Summer is coming, along with rain clouds and they say the sun might come back, too; they want to be ready for it. There's still the smell of the rapture in this place; they hope the rains will wash this town and its streets clean. The streets will turn black and muddy and the lumber they salvage will swell and warp: Dean doesn't really understand how they can look forward to more disappointment.
(But the rapture isn't still here because of the bodies in the basements, the grave markers that haven't yet been built, in the smells that the town holds in its walls-it's mostly in the way they remember things, how they see it all in their dreams, even now, as if it hasn't stopped yet.)
They're still finding things left from the fires when they dig up old pieces of land.
“We are tested, we are pushed down and we feel like we are alone. You're not. You have each other.”
Dean wants the light to wash in through the windows. He remembers what the colour used to look like. He misses it.
“You have God.” A pause. “Thank you, everyone-that's all. I'll see you next week.”
There's a shuffling of feet, an obligatory silence before the noise grows and screams back from the empty halls. Dean steps down from the altar and pulls off his robe.
-
The sky is a beautiful shade of grey today. Dean's shaking hands outside the church.
“Thank you, Father,” they say and Dean mostly says, “No, thank you.” And they take it as they wish, take it as they want, but Dean doesn't really know what he means by it anymore. (He's happy to not be as alone.)
A familiar man grabs his hand, holds Dean's fingers between his hot palms. “We'll see you at the opening tomorrow, Father?”
Dean smiles. “Absolutely, Mr. Evans. I wouldn't miss it.”
The man smiles back and the wrinkles fold in his skin. Dean's eyes wander to Mr. Evans' hands: burned in the war, the skin is smooth and almost shiny now, his fingers curled into his palms. The sight of it used to bother Dean, guilty and grotesque-now it bothers him for different reasons.
“I've told you to call me Jack.” Mr. Evans laughs, waves his hand and walks away. Dean notices he's alone.
-
The air is achingly familiar, thin and sweltering, as he walks home. He's shaking by the time he gets there; he manages to climb up the steps to his door before he collapses on his front porch. He's weak and he can't figure out why.
-
He reads his Bible before he goes to bed, and most of the time it bores him but he needs it; he's stuck under the soft light of a candle, distracted by the hum of the generator in the next room. He tries not to look out his window: there is nothing to see there anyway.
His house cries with its emptiness.
∴
(three). THEN
They're at Bobby's when it starts, when Castiel shows up, standing at the end of Dean's bed in the middle of the night, holding his shoulder, face painted with red fingerprints.
(They lost track of him days ago, near the North Carolina border, hunting down a coven of witches holed up in an abandoned farmhouse. Sam was dragging the last body out of the house, Dean knee-deep in damp black soil, when Castiel said, “I can hear Him.”
Dean threw his shovel down beside him. “What?”
Sam sighed when Castiel disappeared, the sound of beating wings following him.
Dean stared at the space where Castiel had just been for a moment before he waved his hand, crouching down into the grave. “Whatever, man. Come on, let's get this over with.”
They might have been worried when Bobby called, asking for Castiel, sounding agitated and rough.
“Find him,” Bobby said, “Find him 'cause there's something bad coming.”
But, no, no they were never worried because Dean never let them be.)
“Fuck, Cas.”
Dean thinks he feels bone snapping, ribs cracking, underneath his fingertips when he reaches out and touches the angel. Castiel collapses, bent over, hitting the floor, on his hands and knees. His hands are bloody, nails digging into the floorboards. Dean thinks he can see him smile.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean grabs Castiel's collar, pulling him up and sitting him against the bed. Castiel's eyes are darting quickly, unfocused and bright. He breathes deeply, his head falling to the side. “Fuck.” Dean scrambles to his feet, turning on the lights to find his duffel.
“They found me,” Castiel mumbles. Dean almost doesn't catch it.
“What?” Dean snaps. He glances up from his duffel, looking for needles, string, whiskey. Castiel is looking back at him. There's blood in the corners of his mouth. “Who?”
“The angels, Dean,” Castiel says and the blood moves when he moves. “They were looking for you.”
Dean looks up from his own hands. The sheets hanging off the end of bed, wrapped tightly into Castiel's fists, are already stained a glorious red. “Jesus.”
Castiel's shoulders drop; he's sinking into the floor, his eyes closing again.
“Hey!” Dean screams. He drops his duffel and it makes such a sound that trembles and shakes the floorboards and Dean doesn't want Sam or Bobby to wake, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. He kneels in front of Castiel, grabs his shoulders and pulls him back into a sitting position, shaking him quickly. “Wake up!”
Castiel barely opens his eyes.
“You're going to be fine,” Dean says. “You just can't fall asleep.”
“I'm becoming more human. I feel.” Castiel sounds awed. Dean hates that sound.
Dean swallows. “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat, rubbing his hand across his eyes. He pulls the duffel to his feet. “Just give me a second.”
“Michael is getting impatient,” Castiel says, but he's laughing, like it's not that funny but it should be, and he's becoming too human too fast and Dean can't keep up, won't keep up.
“He knows my answer,” Dean bites out. He moves closer, starts unbuttoning his jacket. He already sees the blood on Castiel's shirt, he knew there was blood, of course there's blood, fuck-all over his arms, his chest, his neck-and the smell of it stings and the sight of it burns and he wants to say he's sorry because it's his fault. He tries to ignore the bruises on Castiel's face, the soft purple-blue framing his lips, as he loosens Castiel's tie, takes the scissors and cuts open his shirt. “Where else?”
Castiel shakes his head, his breathing ragged and slow.
“Okay, okay,” Dean sighs. He leans in, fingers running across the deep cuts along his chest, swollen and irritated white. “This might sting a little.” He soaks the bath towel with whiskey, raising his hand to Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel stops him, his fingers on Dean's wrist. Dean looks up at him. They're both shaking.
“Thank you, Dean.”
And Castiel smiles.
-
Dean falls asleep when he doesn't want to, when he knows he shouldn't, with Castiel beside him. He wakes up late, and he's too calm for this day, too open for what has to has to come, and it's warm like summer under the blankets. It jerks him awake. He looks over, past the filtering light and the heady scent curling in the air, and sees Castiel's bright, bright eyes looking back.
“You're sticking around then?” Dean asks because he is surprised, he is honestly that surprised and disquieted and a little unsure, but he thinks it's a good kind. It is the good kind.
The corners of Castiel's mouth shudder. Maybe he knows it's the good kind too.
∴
(four). NOW
They've built this town from scrap, from nothing, less than nothing, and less than scrap because even then it's mostly black and ash. This town doesn't even have a name, but they don't think it needs a name yet. There's no one else for miles. They are making it work for them, without government, without order. It's confining and freeing.
Most of them are scared.
They're opening the hospital today. A doctor, shell-shocked and quiet, finally made his way in from the far stretches of nowhere (no one asked because no one cared about where and why and what, just now and now and now). The hospital is small, one storey, flat against the endless horizon of the Ohio skyline. The doors are mismatched, the walls covered with leftover vinyl siding and lumber. The rooms inside are bare, with a lone chair in each, a small cupboard stocked with Q-tips and bandages and cloth wraps that the church ladies cut up the night before. A sign sits in front of the doors, neatly hand-painted calligraphy: Hospital.
They've never been prouder.
-
They're holding the picnic on the church grounds. They're dancing beside empty graves that have lost their names and no one seems to mind. Dean thinks he should say something, but he wouldn't know where to start. It's not that they're bad-he's just worse.
Dean notices a young girl sitting by herself by a grove of trees, away from where the other kids are throwing pebbles at each other, screaming obscenities that sound like sirens, sound like nothing at all, but Dean remembers what it's like to be a kid, what it's like to be angry for no reason. So, he knows; yeah, he knows.
He walks over to the trees, to the girl, his hands behind his back, his heart in his head, his feet wet from the grass.
“Can I sit with you?”
She turns away, looks away, towards the others, and nods.
Dean sits down, leaning back against the tree. He brushes the dirt from between his fingertips. “Are you new?”
She nods again. Dean nods, too. They both look like they have nothing to say.
“You're the priest, right?” she asks and her voice is small and sounds like something familiar (like-like-and he can't remember and he doesn't want to remember, but he knows, he knows it's something he knew so well, that was his and-theirs. His and theirs.)
“I am. Everyone calls me Father, but I would rather they call me Dean.” He smiles at her. She doesn't smile back.
“What were you before?”
Dean's smile stops on his face. “What do you mean?”
She looks at the people on the lawn. “Before all of this, these people were someone else. The mayor was an accountant. The grocery store owner was a college student. The teacher was an environmentalist engineer.”
Dean brushes his hand over the back of his neck, muttering, “Oh.”
“We're all different now. We have to be, I guess,” she says. “So. Who were you?”
Dean looks at the people with her. “No one worth mentioning.”
-
He shouldn't have locked cabinets. They aren't allowed to have secrets. Communication, they're saying. Nothing is private, because when things are private, that's when people get angry. Dean hasn't been angry in a long time. They might be afraid that he'll break, he'll snap, and no one knows when and that makes them abrasive, tormented (they're all so horrified that things are still unexpected and they think they should see everything coming, but it's just twists and turns and Dean has never tried to tell the future because when he did know he couldn't stop it anyway. Once is enough. Just once and he'll never try again).
He still has locked cabinets. Mostly, they're empty. It's a detached sense of security that he fills with air. One day, he'll crawl in there and lock himself away.
But one cabinet holds a shoe box. The shoe box holds letters. The letters hold words void of much of anything besides fear and scribbled begging. They're all addressed to Sam.
He thinks:
I think it's been a year and I still haven't seen you. Where are you? I haven't looked at a calendar in years. Do you remember when we could still tell time? Not just by clocks or watches or days-but by how far the Impala could go, how many times we had to move in a month, how each night was its own day, its own world? We were weird, then. All the things we saw, all the things we knew. We were strange. Where are you?
He writes:
I hope you're okay. You should come visit. Take care of yourself, Sammy. See you soon.
They're not supposed to have secrets, but Dean's got all kinds of them, ones that change nothing and ones that change everything.
∴
(five). THEN
It's almost as if Dean woke up and the world was always this way. It could have always been this weak, this alone, this harmful, and maybe he was always meant to try to save it and never able to. Sure, he was a little thoughtless, a little arrogant and some days he was so tired he was okay with watching the world burn, but he was born on a day when the sun rested on the world and it still churns in his veins. Some days, it's the only reason he's still moving, he thinks, flames and fire coiling inside his head.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and he knew that this was how it was going to end. Yeah, everyone said it was going to end bloody and young for them and all that would be left over was a legacy whispered in the heads of the crazy ones, the remains of a mistrust that they abused all too often to gain nothing at all. And Dean knew it was true. But he always smelled fire, always saw the sky crashing down on them, the ground cracking and swallowing, and he would die fighting a great shadow.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and the day the world wasn't theirs anymore felt exactly the same as every other day. He thought his heart would rattle against his ribs until it stopped beating, that the fires of Hell would melt his skin, that the demons would be able to break past devil's traps and he would take death without warning. But he woke up and the air might have been heavier, tasted of sulphur when he breathed in; but Sam was in the shower, and the room was quiet, and all he wanted was to get in his car and drive. It was exactly the same.
It's almost as if Dean woke up and knew that Castiel would still be there. He usually was. And it wasn't that he was right there; he was usually in Dean's head, usually waiting with words and halted questions. He was mostly just a picture, too bright, too contrasted (Castiel's true form, all blinding light and shattered edges of the world), and his voice was louder, drowning out all other sound, and Dean would find himself listening.
Sometimes, not often, he was waiting outside the door, in the room, in the back seat of the car. It annoyed Dean at first. Then he realized it calmed him; the familiar eyes, the hot-cold of Castiel's skin, the curve of Castiel's lips when he wanted to say something, anything, maybe really nothing at all, but he said it anyway.
-
Dean is bitter, he's angry, he's drinking.
Castiel is endless, he's confused, he's waiting.
Dean points the half empty bottle at Castiel. The day is warm. They're sitting on the hood of Impala. Castiel won't stop staring at the sky and Dean wants Castiel to look at him.
“You're still looking for God?”
“I haven't given up,” Castiel says, and he's detached and fleeting.
Dean brings the bottle to his lips. “Good for you.”
Castiel drops his head. He twists his fingers together. He glances at Dean, barely moves his head; he might even be smiling. Dean drinks and it burns. Castiel is smiling.
Dean doesn't want to pity Castiel, but he does. Because Dean knows all about absent fathers and searches started in desperation, in love, ending in vain, in something more polite than hatred, but America is full of heathens and traitors and people with too much to gain and the universe is full of things they don't understand. So, he pities Castiel and he hates that he does because Castiel doesn't need this kind of pity, doesn't deserve this kind of pity, but Dean does it, gives it anyway because he's drinking and he's frustrated and he's betrayed. Most days, he just feels alone. So, he pities Castiel. And Castiel doesn't know.
But Dean's been known to mistake envy for pity. No one ever taught him the difference.
-
Sam thinks he's still good at lying to Dean, so he keeps doing it. Dean doesn't want to break his heart, so he lets him.
Dean is worse at lying to himself. So he just doesn't tell the truth anymore. He just doesn't say anything at all.
Castiel never lies. So when he doesn't come around for a week or so, and Dean's not counting, not really, Dean gets a little frustrated, then a little worried and then he's screaming at Sam because Castiel hasn't come back in days.
So, when Castiel does come back around and Dean's sitting outside the motel room because he's too tired to sleep, Castiel doesn't lie. Dean grabs him by the arm, slams him against the wall. Castiel becomes darkness: Dean cannot see.
“Where the fuck were you?” Dean demands-he's blinded.
“Looking for God,” Castiel says. He would never lie about this.
“Why didn't you answer me when I called you?” And Dean sounds a little weaker at this point, but his fingers are digging into Castiel's elbow and his skin is so soft, malleable, beneath the pressure. He won't move.
“I was afraid,” Castiel murmurs. His lips barely move; Dean touches them with the tips of his fingers. Castiel looks at the sky. Dean pulls his hands away.
“Bullshit,” Dean spits. He turns away and likes that there is nothing to see.
(But Castiel doesn't lie.)
-
It's almost as if Dean woke up (from dark worlds and a life he thought his own) and he knew that he loved Castiel and Castiel loved him.
∴
(six). NOW
There's something wrong with him. Something wrong about him. And now no one talks of him, talks with him, because, God, they can see it in his face. All the different faces he has, wears. He's hesitant-of what, of nothing, of everything, he can't figure out what.
He stops praying (it's a sort of religion, when you lose your faith, believing in the lack of belief and that has to count for something). The words just come right back to him and he's sick of hearing the sound of his own voice-it's when he knows he's alone. No one answers back.
He'll walk instead: around his house, in jagged circles, cut off by locked doors and corners; around town, past the church and the grocery store and the mismatched houses with bed sheets over the windows; out of town, where he shouldn't go because they say it's not safe yet (for no reason except they say, they think, it's safer in here), but he was a hero and he read comic books when he was a kid (oh, it must have been years ago, a completely different life-lost his memories and now he's making it up as he goes), and heroes never die.
He never finds anything. Naturally, he'll find rocks and fallen trees and a car in the ditch, rusted and beaten, and maybe he'll find something that could have been alive, but he has seen this for years. It's nothing. He thinks he'll find things that mean something, that change him, that fix him, that prove to him that he made mistakes and he's doing okay.
He never finds anything; he gets used to it. He was always looking for signs, for moments of clarity, for a meaning besides the one he believed, but he never found them. Always hiding.
Or-never there at all.
-
“Father.”
(People are always wandering into town. It's war-it was war-and it's like everything is tightening, spiralling down, and people need a place to finally rest and they are the dead. There's nothing for miles and miles, highways and states that have been stripped and ravaged and ruined-they are historical, text in a book for centuries and centuries, they are inspiration. Maybe countries are left bare, too. Maybe they are the only ones left. The only town left in the entire world. He could scream and scream and scream and no one would ever hear him, except for in this town. It makes him feel like a giant before he goes to bed. This thought wrestles under Dean's skin and makes him feel horrible, act horrible for days.)
“Hey, Father. What can I help you with?”
“May we talk?”
(People show up at all times of the day, of the night. Two separate days to Dean. There's always some sort of light on and he's grown tired of the sun. They never set up walls or fences or barriers. They felt no need. It's not that they felt safe: they didn't feel safe, that wasn't it-no one felt safe anymore, not with what they had seen, had lost and been forced to give up. They could have been safe, but no one would have noticed: they were too afraid.
Sometimes, Dean takes a shift as a watcher. The night-days were long. He brought his Bible with him and a pen. He would underline the same passages until the candle flame died or someone else took over. He never saw the sun rise across an empty field.)
“Of course.”
“How are the people receiving the Lord lately? I'm-I'm worried about our efforts here.”
(This person that showed up somewhere between the third and fourth stroke of Dean's pen was a minister-Dean knew, he knew right away, because he was sick, so sick from no food and no water and no sleep, but he kept his Bible in his hands. He asked to remain a minister, even with Dean in town. No one could say no; he had such young eyes, such blue eyes. It hurt Dean to look at them for too long and he was beginning to forget why.)
“You think they're going to waste?”
“Not to waste, no. Just-maybe they feel abandoned? Forsaken.”
(He stayed with Dean for a few days. A few nights. They talked of God because they had nothing else in common to talk about. They talked of miracles and faith and wish-giving and belief and how it's difficult to let go, difficult to understand and how they could never grasp, fully, God's plan. Oh, God did have a plan for Dean, but when it wasn't Dean's plan, Dean outran God for as long as he could before weakness settled in, surrendered, and allowed himself penance and atonement. But he doesn't share this with the minister. He's young, impressionable, and so full of danger and passion, Dean couldn't risk ruining the world for him. So, he asks Dean how he found God because everyone wants to know, because it's always harrowing and disturbing, staggering and beautiful. So, he asks Dean, “How did God come to you?” and Dean could tell him hundreds of stories, all true, but none are right. Not for the question, not what the minister really wants to know: so. Dean just smiles because he can't expect this young boy to understand.)
“Those who believe will stick around, Father. I've seen the faith these people have. I'd rather you not question what makes them happy.”
“Yes, yes, you are right, Father. I'm sorry.”
(They are allowed to doubt themselves. They are never meant to question themselves. It leads them to roads they cannot turn back on, guides them down paths away from what their true intentions are meant to be; Dean feels as if he knows this better than anyone. He knows a lot of things better than anyone. It never comes into use anymore, but he still keeps a bag of rock salt in the cold room, a loaded gun underneath his bed, a knife in his backpack. But no one knows because secrets aren't allowed.)
-
He doesn't dream of places. Thinks of them instead because he's sure he's seen it all and there is nothing left to dream of when there's truth in your head. He thinks of the fields beyond the town, the fields he can never reach; his legs are weak and his bones are older than he is and he doesn't make it far. So he thinks of the fields that touch the sun, the clouds, the sky and he thinks he knows what could be out there. It doesn't scare him like it used to.
∴
(seven). THEN
(They are driving. Sam is sleeping in the back seat. Dean misses his brother already. He knows he will miss him more, so much more, when he's not there at all.)
“I wish you believed in God.”
“I kinda know He's real. Does that count?”
(Castiel has agitated little sighs, twitching fingers that wrap loosely around his knees, when Dean does something he doesn't like, doesn't approve of, understands but hates.)
“No. There's a difference in knowing and believing.”
Dean nods, fingers running along the dashboard. “Sure there is.”
“I meant to say I wish you had faith in God.” Castiel's hands run up and down his legs. “In what He can be, what He can do. What is happening is not His will-it is my brothers' and sisters'.” Castiel looks sideways at Dean, the colour of his eyes lost in the glare of the sun. “God is kind, Dean.”
(Dean laughs because he's nervous and he's never known what to do. He looks at the angel through rose-coloured glasses and sees a human staring back at him, saddened by the sound of Dean's voice.)
“Why? Why do you want me to believe in Him?”
Castiel taps his fingers against the window. “I never wish to lose you.”
-
Would you let yourself lose me-
There's bodies they need to bury after their last hunt. A family possessed by a group of demons, rode so hard they they bled from everywhere, couldn't talk or see or breathe and Dean thinks, maybe, it's better this way. Sam digs and his hands blister and bleed; the ground is too cold, he says, and Dean doesn't hear him.
-could you stop it-
“Christ, Dean,” Sam snaps. “Can we just burn the bodies instead?”
Castiel has a soft, kind look on his face. It looks unnatural against the setting sun, the blood in the sky.
-or would it never make a difference?
“We can't burn them.” Dean runs his fingers across the tops of tombstones. He wonders what it would be like to never die; he wonders how much he would truly hate this world after years and years. “They're just-they didn't do anything wrong.”
Dean can see the confusion in Sam, the complacency in Castiel. He knows he's odd, that what he wants is not what he should want, that the words coming from his mouth sound like a different language. He's okay with that.
“Keep digging,” Dean says and picks up his own shovel.
-
Dean comes back to their motel with take-out and Sam's waiting for him by the door. Sam's familiar in his dirt-stained t-shirt, in the streaks of black up his bare arms, the yellow grass in his hair, the fatal, lingering look in his eyes.
“Forgot how to turn on the shower?” Dean asks, taking off his jacket.
Sam frowns at Dean. Dean chuckles and slaps Sam lightly on the back.
“Where's Cas?” Sam asks when Dean sets the bag down on the table.
Dean glances up, looking around the room quickly. “Not here.”
Sam nods and sits down on his bed, hands folded. “So, he's sticking around, huh?” Sam asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, shrugging. He sets the food out. “I guess he is.”
Sam drags his hands through his hair. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “What's up with you lately?”
“Well, the apocalypse, for starters-”
“Dean,” Sam says in that way that only Sam can, in the way that makes Dean stop, his hands falter, his heart beat in slow time. “Come on. Talk to me. You've been on edge ever since Cas came back.”
Dean sits down at the table, pulling a burger close to him. For a minute, he rests his hands on his knees and-he tells himself not to think about it. Then, he smiles. “Let's eat, okay?”
∴
(eight). NOW
They all talk about how they've lost so much. They talk about their houses and their pets and their victory gardens; they talk about jobs and family pictures and things they bought that they never thought they would lose. Sometimes, they talk about people, neighbours and friends, about what they saw before they looked the other way, about what they felt the day the sky split and the ground soaked red.
Dean's lost things, too, but mostly it was his own fault, he was to blame for things always ending, and when he thinks about it, what he lost is nothing compared to what they have.
The ground is toxic, poisoned by blood and gunpowder, and someone said nothing could ever grow here, but they've got stubborn men with the taste of diesel in their lungs who are all too ready to start again. So, one day, things might grow when the rain comes back and they'll be able to stop living off of preserves and canned everything, but it seems too long to wait.
Once, Dean didn't have to wait. Long before this, he could move to where he needed to be and he could find anything he wanted and waiting was never an option. Waiting wasn't something he could endure and something about him still can't, but it's the momentary stasis that has him caught, has him finally waiting.
∴
(nine). THEN
Castiel is hard to love, but Dean loves him anyway. Dean's imperfect and so is this angel he didn't choose, and who didn't choose him either (chose him from Hell, picked him up by grace and God and rebuilt him with the same, but didn't choose this-didn't choose to stay around for what Dean is terrified to give, but he stays anyway. They know they have to, they both have to, because it's worse to think of what would happen if they didn't). Their faults are the staggered opposites of each other and it feels like storms on a sea, buildings that never stop burning, because it all comes back to this and that which neither of them wanted. It comes back to that and this, something they want to understand, but can't.
(this this this-that that that: Dean wants to know. He thinks it's everything, because he's human and he sees what he wants to see. Castiel wants to know. He thinks it's love and God, because he's an angel and he sees forever.)
Castiel is hard to love because he wants these things, all these things that Dean can't give, and he's frustrated. But Dean loves him anyway. It's not their flaws that make them weak; it's the frightening knowledge that Dean suddenly can't be without him. It's a betrayal of himself and he can't let himself be like this-so vulnerable and dependent-again, but Castiel makes him.
Castiel is hard to love because Dean wants to love him, does love him, and he also knows he can't, he shouldn't. It's not their need that makes them angry; it's Dean pushing away and Castiel pulling back. It's Castiel not knowing boundaries and limits and Dean knowing them all too well. It's Castiel forgetting who he is and Dean remembering all too well.
Castiel is hard to love and Dean knows he, himself, is harder to love still. But Castiel loves him anyway.
-
It shouldn't make sense because Dean doesn't want it to make sense, but it still does. He still lets it slip and slide and grow and take him whole.
(Girls in bars with pretty pink lips and small hands that fit inside his. He can see their smiles through the blue smoke and haze.)
Dean doesn't know where it began or how it even happened, but Castiel is suddenly there and he's alone and Dean knows he's alone. The blank look in his eyes gives way to a turn of the head, a small glint that screams at Dean for days.
(Girls with cold hands in back alleys and it's disgusting down here, but he doesn't want them knowing. Keep it a secret, keep it a secret from everyone. They giggle and he likes the sound.)
Castiel tries to be the same, but it's like he's shifted off-center and he walks differently, talks differently, and Dean can't make himself believe that Castiel is still who he was. He's walked through oceans of blood and seen fire like no other; but so has Dean. He can't remember if he's the same either.
(Girls who have names, Dean knows their names, but he doesn't say them. Girls who look kind of like someone he used to know, girls who remind him of things he shouldn't think of, girls who kiss him on the neck and leave lip-shaped brands.)
Maybe it isn't what he has seen, but what he hasn't done. Yeah, Dean knows what that's like.
(Girls who Dean never tells anyone about, but Castiel knows. I can see them on you, smell them on you; Dean can. Maybe Castiel can't. Dean would never ask.)
“Did you enjoy your night out?” Castiel asks.
Dean never says a word and neither does Castiel.
-
Castiel's head makes a sick smacking sound as it hits the wall. Dean almost hates it, but not enough to regret it.
“Stop it, Cas,” Dean says.
“Stop what?” Castiel asks. He's just as simple, just as impassive as he always is and Dean hates him: hates him like a child hates the world, so empty and vapid, pointless and encouraged. It's not meant to be anything, to reveal anything; he just hates because it's worse to feel the opposite.
“You know what-just stop,” Dean says roughly. And he doesn't have time for this, for all these stupid little explanations because Castiel can't know, refuses to know, until Dean tells him. “I can't deal with this.”
It's getting dark outside, nearly night. Dean feels them-whoever they are-coming in through the shadows. But maybe it's just him.
“Make up your mind, Dean,” Castiel says.
“I have!” Dean screams. (You, but you shouldn't be here. You, but I don't want you around.)
There's disappointment painted between the lines. New colour, new flavour; Dean likes it. It leaves aches and bruises in his bones.
“And what do you want?” Castiel asks. He never lies.
Dean looks at Castiel. “You know.”
Dean is trying not to lie either.
∴
(ten). NOW
It might not be something wrong with him, he thinks.
It's in his head, it's in his head, it's outside and beyond the walls and he thought it was in his fingers, but it's really in the trees. It's really in the water, in the ground, in the pages of his Bible when he turns them over (snap, crack, paper that crumbles beneath his hands), in the car he doesn't drive anymore and the stories he used to tell Sam when they were kids and Dean needed a reason to think that he could change the world just by changing his words, but he can't remember the middle, the ending, the beginning; it doesn't mean much if he can't remember what he needed to fix in the first place with words and words and words.
It's really nothing-something wrong with him, he tells himself.
It's the yellow skyline and the blue-black hills and the clouds of soft grey smoke from the cities they have to burn. They'll never burn this one, whoever they are: the government, the army, people who can't remember what it's like to be human. People who can't stand the lasting smell of judgement feigned. But they will never burn this town, not this one, because they need it and want it and can't imagine trying to live out there. No walls, no fences, no boundaries, but out there is still out there and, here, you can't keep secrets and you have to be afraid of what can get in, what can get out.
He still doesn't pray. He knows God can forgive him for this one.
It's the emptiness of his house and how it screams back at him when he doesn't say a single fucking word. It's how he never reads books, never learns new words, feels primal and old because he learned everything from chance and doing and the glare off a television screen, off the blade of a knife, off puddles of blood, but he doesn't have those things anymore. They are moving forward but falling over themselves to relive a past they never had; they have books to guide them and he doesn't read them. So, he lets his mind wander and he lets himself remember and when he does, he hurts so fucking bad, but he can't remember-find-think-can't remember.
It's what's wrong with his head, yeah. But he blames the familiar smells in the air.
-
They ask bless my daughter, my son, my mother, my father and he does because they ask nicely.
They ask pray for my crops, pray for my health, pray for my family to find me (they're just lost, they'll find me here, I know they will) and he does because he likes these people.
They ask is God still here?-Are we really alone?-Is he listening to me?-Does it mean anything anymore? and his answers are always different; he knows what they want to hear.
They ask bless me, Father, for I have sinned but he doesn't have that kind of grace. His is just borrowed.
-
The young minister preaches that Sunday. Dean can't look at the stained glass windows: all the angels look the same and they are someone he doesn't want to know.
∴
(eleven). THEN
“It's time to make a decision, Dean.”
“No.” Dean thinks it's enough.
“I thought you would say that,” Michael says around a smirk.
Dean can't help but let his head grow too full of evil, evil things and he sees them in everything, once the entire world went dark, so he can't tell the difference between absence of light and just shadows. “Then why did you ask?”
Michael raises his hands, palms open. “I was willing to give you a chance.”
“A chance?” Dean breathes, laughs through his teeth. “A chance to become your meat suit? No thanks. I'll pass.”
Michael bows his head. He's still smiling. “Say yes or-” He lifts his head, lets his eyes drift to stare behind Dean (where Dean can feel him, feel his hands), bored and fragmented, “-I will kill Castiel.”
The wind howls outside. Dean feels his hands shake. He doesn't look back.
“What?”
Michael shrugs, just that easy, that unfamiliar. “He won't come back this time, Dean.”
∴
next.