Things Fall Apart - Team Free Will Big Bang - (4/8)
Title: Things Fall Apart
Rating: R
Characters: Dean, Sam, Cas, John, Bobby
Pairings: Gen
Warnings: Child abuse, implied prostitution, show level violence and blasphemy, swearing.
Spoilers: Seasons 2 to 5. Season 8.
Summary: When given his duty of guarding the First Seal, Castiel expects the Righteous Man and his Boy King brother. He does not expect to find two boys who fight and tease and defend each other over and over again. While Castiel may know a lot about fate and destiny, he’s about to learn a little bit about free will.
Previous Chapter
September 1988
Castiel watches as policemen and army soldiers stand by while a church in Haiti is attacked and burnt down during Sunday mass. Their faces remain impassive as their brothers and sisters scream and plead until life slowly fades from their bodies.
Once again, Castiel finds himself wondering what their Father sees in this species.
He misses the days where he could go on ignoring what was happening below him, finding bliss within ignorance. But now, all he can hear are the cries of a little girl whose only concern is if her mother is safe. Castiel pities whoever has to tell the child that her mother was murdered by the trampling masses.
Why?
Castiel projects the question to the other angels.
They remain silent.
Why?
He asks again, to no avail.
Why must they suffer? How is this righteous?
Castiel knows his thoughts have risen to a shout, but he cannot bring himself to care. A quiet voice sounds at the back of his mind.
Because it is the way He wills it to be.
And that is what it always comes back to. The Father and His Will. The Father who ordered one son to cast way another. The Father who created this Earth and this Plan and this Suffering, and then left.
Sometimes Castiel wonders if their Father ever existed at all.
_____
Castiel doesn’t know when he started favouring visiting the Winchester brothers over the autistic man’s eternal Tuesday afternoon when he needs to get away, but he finds himself observing a six year old Samuel Winchester in class.
“Okay kids, can everybody get out their pencils and their English notebooks and put today’s date and title,” the trainee teacher calls out. The syntax is that of a question and yet she says it like it’s a statement. Castiel assumes this is another one of humanity’s quirks that he will never fully understand.
The classroom is bright and airy, with walls covered in artwork of varying degrees of ability. The blackboard is bordered by the alphabet and the numbers from one to twenty. The carpet is a dull tan, worn down by hundreds of tiny feet, with the odd stain from when a child didn’t manage to reach the toilet in time.
Samuel Winchester appears to be very happy here. He opens his exercise book and runs a finger over the peeling gold sticker stuck underneath his last piece of work.
“We’re going to write a letter to our best friend,” the teacher continues. “What do we start letters with?”
Some children start to put their hands up, while others continue their debate about if ‘eating boogers lets you glow in the dark’. Sam chews on the end of the pencil he’s holding (something Castiel wishes he could warn him not to do, as Dean has chewed it before and there are still traces of bacteria from his mouth on it) and turns to the girl sat next to him.
“Who’s your best friend?”
The girl frowns and covers up her work quickly. “Mine’s Lydia, but you can’t copy me!”
“’M not gonna,” Sam mumbles. “How did you pick she was your best friend?”
“’S easy, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten. She always invites me to her birthday parties and we named our Barbie dolls after each other.”
Sam splinters the wood on the end of his pencil a little further, lost in thought. “I don’t have any Barbie dolls,” he admits, “and I got invited to Steve’s birthday party but we had to move b’fore I could go.”
“I dunno then,” the girl says, writing a large ‘Dear Lydia’ at the top of her page. “How ‘bout someone who helps you when you get hurt? Best friends do that too.”
“That counts?” Sam asks. Castiel sees the signals being rapidly transmitted through the small child’s brain. The motor neurons in his arms fire as he picks up the pencil and brings it to the blank sheet in front of him.
“Duh,” says the little girl, rolling her eyes. She returns to her page and writes a short sentence about how she likes that Lydia’s favourite colour is purple, the same as hers.
“’Kay,” says Sam, his tongue peeking out from between his teeth as he starts to write.
Dear Dean,
Your my best frend becus you always give me the last of the Lucky Charms. When Daddy isn’t there you look after me and help me when I get an ingury. When I am older I want to be just like you.
I like it when you read Batman comics to me and when you sing Hey Jude. This was Mommy’s favrit song and you know all the words. Daddy knows all the words too so he is my frend too. But he is not my bestest frend because he goes away a lot. Like when he went away when you were sick. You were coffing and snot came out and it was disgu- disgast- disjust- really yucky. I made you tomato rise soop and you sed it was just water but you still drinked it all.
You are also my best frend becus you tell me storys and play with me. Daddy never does that but thats becus he is always busy. I hope you never becum busy and leave like him.
Yours sinseerly,
Sam Winchester
Sam frowns at his name for a while before crossing it out and writing:
Sammy
He then gets off his seat and hands in his letter.
This is the boy with the demon blood, the vessel of Darkness. This is the Other Brother.
Castiel’s family is shattered, torn apart at the seams by a wish to follow orders and do what is right. But as he watches this young boy’s adoration for his elder sibling, he wonders how Lucifer felt fighting his brother. How Sam will when battling Dean.
He takes one last look at the child’s dimpled smile and decides he doesn’t want to know.
_____
“All right, if I’m not back by Sunday night?”
“Call Pastor Jim.”
“Lock the doors, the windows, close the shades. And most important?”
“Watch out for Sammy.” The boy glances over at his younger brother, who is currently engrossed in the pictures coming up on the glorified cathode ray tube. “I know.”
“Alright. If something tries to bust in?”
“Shoot first, ask questions later.”
John squeezes Dean’s shoulder fondly. “That’s my man.”
Sam doesn’t look up as his father leaves and Dean locks the door behind him. Castiel watches as John stands on the other side for a second, his shoulders slumped, staring at the wood separating him from his boys. A beat later, he sighs and walks away.
Dean heads for the kitchen to do an inventory of the supplies, a routine procedure for whenever they’re left during a hunt. John has told him he’ll be gone a week at most. It didn’t make sense to Castiel why Dean appeared to believe him, considering how inaccurate his estimations have been in the past.
Then again, Michael rarely questioned their Father either.
“Sam,” Dean calls out from the kitchenette, “you want Lucky Charms for dinner?”
“Yeah,” Sam replies, his eyes not leaving the screen.
Dean nods at the cupboard and pushes a soup can out of the way to reach the half empty box. His fingers stir the dust as he rummages, and a few flecks find their way up his nasal passage.
Dean sneezes loud enough to get Sam’s attention.
“That’s gross,” Sam pulls a disgusted sneer at the long threads of mucus hanging between Dean’s nose and hand.
“Your face is gross,” Dean grunts as he moves away from the cupboard and towards his brother. His eyes grow wide and a mischievous grin tugs at the edges of his mouth.
Castiel cannot see this ending well.
“Hey Sam, wanna give me a hi-five?”
His grin grows manic as he extends his hand towards a desperately scrabbling Sam.
“I have The Force. I can make you move without even touching you.” Dean edges closer while Sam backs away, gagging. “See!”
“Go ‘way Dean!” The child yells, hiding behind the back of the armchair. Seeing this has done nothing to stop his brother’s advance, he yells, “You’re not my best friend ‘nymore! I’m gonna send that letter to someone else! ‘M gonna send it to Steve even if I don’t know where he lives!”
Dean’s hand clamps down on Sam’s mouth.
“Quit yelling,” he hisses. “The landlord’ll hear us and kick us out.”
He looks down and recalls the mucus covering his hand. He quickly removes it. “Shit, sorry.”
Sam doesn’t stand around for his apologies. Instead, he runs to the toilet and starts to dry-heave into the ceramic bowl. Dean follows him in and rinses his hands at the sink. He then wets the motel towel and kneels next to the six year old.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says softly. He lifts Sam’s face up and wipes it with the worn cotton. “And what letter?”
“At school-not this one, the one we were at ‘fore the last one-” Sam murmurs between the swipes, “we had to write a letter to our best friend an’ I didn’t know who to write to so I wrote it to you.”
Dean puts the towel down and sits back on his haunches.
“Can I read it?”
“Nuh uh,” Sam says with a pout as he rests his head against the mold-infected bathroom wallpaper. “You put snot on my face. ‘M not your friend anymore.”
“Aww c’mon, it was an accident!” Dean voice rises before he catches himself.
Sam shoots him a pointed glare.
Dean chooses to ignore it.
“’Sides, what did you write in the letter?”
“Can’t remember,” says Sam, before standing up and walking out of the toilet. “Hang on, I’ll go get it,” he calls back over his shoulder, apparently having forgotten Dean’s earlier transgression.
The older Winchester smirks and rests back against the edge of the bathtub, his fingers playing idly with the edge of the rug. Sam comes back in with the letter and hands it to him. Dean’s eyes skim over the page as he drinks in his brother’s adoration. He lets out a snort at the failed attempts to spell disgusting but Castiel doesn’t miss the child’s insula lighting up as pride floods through his young frame.
“Dya like it?” Sam asks.
Dean nods and hands the letter back.
“I’m never gonna leave you, Sammy.”
_____It’s difficult to watch the shtriga approach the motel window without wishing desperately that there was something he could do to stop it. There is a six year old child sleeping in that room. It feels wrong to stand by and do nothing as this abomination ghosts in and comes to hover over his head. Its toothless mouth opens wide as it starts to breathe in Sam Winchester’s life force.
The door handle rattles and he shifts his gaze to the young boy who has just entered. Dean is now peering at the crack of light coming from his brother’s room. Castiel finds his wavelength shifting from its usual green to a vibrant blue as panic thrums through him.
This can’t be how it ends.
It has all been prophesied. These two boys are the key to the Apocalypse. Their lives must end at the hands of the other’s, not a minor paranormal aberration.
Do I interfere?
The answer comes short, sharp, like a bolt of electricity through his being. The voice carries an air of authority.
No.
Castiel remains silent, smarting at the reprimand.
He returns to watching the slow death of a child.
Dean has now picked up the rifle by the door and is holding it up with unsteady hands. The shtriga twists up to look at the intruder and howls. The boy hesitates, his grip fumbling with the forestock.
“Get out of the way!”
John Winchester bursts through the motel room door and starts to shoot at the creature. It reels under the force of the bullets and escapes through the window, leaving John to follow after it in a vain attempt at revenge.
He comes back in and cradles Sam in his arms, calling his name over and over again. “You okay?”
Dean peeks in through the door as he puts the gun down, watching his father fret over his son.
Castiel has always heard that God loved Lucifer the most. He can see that now.
The softness drains out of John’s face as he looks upon his shamefaced son. “What happened?”
“I-I-I just went out,” Dean stammers out, his sweat-drenched palms clenching in fear.
“What?”
“Just for a second. I’m sorry.”
John ignores the apology and continues to press Sam into his chest. “I told you not to leave this room. I told you not to let him out of your sight.”
And that’s when Castiel sees it. It’s small, subtle, far too easy to miss. But it’s there. As Dean takes in John’s scowl, the disappointment written across his face, the child’s vibrant blue soul dims by a fraction.
Dean walks out of the room and doesn’t speak for a week.
_____
“C’mon kid, you’ve dragged this on long enough.”
John takes another drag from his bottle of beer and peers down at his silent son. Dean parts his lips and pushes up his diaphragm. But his larynx refuses to produce any sound, leaving him to let out no more than a wet, ragged breath.
“I need to know if I can trust you,” John says. His voice steadily grows harsher as the alcohol hits his bloodstream. “I can’t have you not following orders again.”
Pastor Jim is on the other side of the wall, trying hard not to listen as he stirs the stew on the gas cooker. He cringes at the man’s words.
Castiel is fond of Pastor Jim. The man is God-loving, not God-fearing. His sermons never preach hate and he is accepting of all of God’s creatures. Castiel imagines that may be why he hasn’t been pushing Dean to speak. The man gives the boy his space and prays to Heaven to give the boy strength to overcome adversity. Little does he know Heaven prays for the same thing.
John sets his beer down on the coffee table and grabs Dean’s arm. The grip is tight.
A small groan slips out of Dean’s mouth.
“So you can talk...” John mutters, dragging the boy so he’s now stood in front of him.
Dean bites his lip.
“Quit that,” John barks. “Now, I’m only going to ask you this one more time. There’s a hunt in Lewiston, but it may take a while and I’m going to have to leave you and Sammy together for a while. Will you let him out of your sight?”
Dean grips one hand in the other and squeezes hard. Tears pool in his bottom lids. A couple overflow when he sniffles.
“Will you?” John asks again, shaking the child’s arm with vigour. Guilt flickers across his face before being swallowed up by his alcohol-laced glare.
Dean coughs and his voice comes out rough from disuse. “N-no sir.”
The grip on his arm loosens. John pulls Dean into a hug and gives the boy’s head a few clumsy pats.
“You’re a good kid,” he mumbles.
Dean merely cries harder into his father’s shoulder.
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