SPN FIC - If the Fates Allow (Christmas) - Part 1 of 2
He looks off into the distance, even though there's nothing to see except a long stretch of white nothingness. It takes him a while to meet her gaze. "Because Dean believes he's damned no matter what he does. He's not of much use to us if he's not interested in the outcome of all this; it'll make him lazy. Careless." He pauses for a moment, then stares at her, unblinking. "You're the only one who might be able to change his mind."
Characters: Mary, Dean, Castiel
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: 5920 words
Spoilers: up through 4.10
IF THE FATES ALLOW (CHRISTMAS)
By Carol Davis
"Why?" she asks.
He keeps walking, a steady, measured, but not quite purposeful gait, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his rumpled, filthy trenchcoat. The light that surrounds them is enough to display for her the colors of the splattered stains on the coat, enough to let her guess what they might be. "Because God commands it," he says without turning.
"Castiel."
He stops walking then, an instant after she does.
"Do you know what love is?" she asks.
"I don't need to know. I need to -"
"Follow His bidding?"
His head tilts a little, and his shoulders round. As if he's tired. As if he's had nearly enough of being God's errand boy.
"Do you want to know?"
"I don't have time to engage in a philosophical discussion with you," he replies, and half-turns toward her.
Yes. He's tired.
"Would you like to know what I want?"
"Not particularly."
"I want to make love with my husband." He won't turn away again; she can see that in his eyes. This is only their second conversation, and it's been shorter than the exchanges she used to have with strangers on line with her at the supermarket. He's not transparent, exactly, isn't easy to read. Nor is he a man, with a man's predictable responses, much as he might look like one. Still, she feels secure in her evaluation. He won't walk away again, expecting her to follow. Not until he's let her speak her piece.
Not until he's heard enough to satisfy his curiosity.
"I want to kiss my children," she says. "And…I want to take a bath."
"A bath."
"You might want to consider that, too. Cleaning up."
He glances down, takes stock of the coat, his pants, his shoes. "I've grown accustomed to this… To this."
"Because it makes you look battle-worn?"
Castiel's lips part. He's about to make some pronouncement on the seriousness of the situation. Give her a little verbal slap.
"It makes you look careless and sloppy," she says before he can do that.
"You might want to remember who you're talking to."
"I haven't forgotten."
His eyes close for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks very, very human. Not divine at all. He's certainly not what she pictured back then, during her life, when someone said "angel" to her, or when she said the word herself. He has wings; there's that. But the white robe is missing. The soft, golden glow of Heavenly light. The gentle, perpetually outstretched hand. This angel is weary. Conflicted.
Alone.
"Why do you need me?" she asks with a mother's sympathy. "After all this time?"
"Because -"
"The truth, Castiel."
"I don't owe you an explanation. God commands, we obey."
"Castiel," she presses.
He looks off into the distance, even though there's nothing to see except a long stretch of white nothingness. It takes him a while to meet her gaze. "Because Dean believes he's damned no matter what he does. He's not of much use to us if he's not interested in the outcome of all this; it'll make him lazy. Careless." He pauses for a moment, then stares at her, unblinking. "You're the only one who might be able to change his mind."
"Is he wrong?"
"That doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"You're not in much of a position to bargain." Castiel gestures with a hand held palm-out before she can object. "You know His position on deals. You made a deal with Azazel. It's by God's grace that you're here at all."
"I did it out of love."
"Did you?"
She can't answer that, because she isn't sure, and she won't lie.
"Did you?" Castiel repeats.
"How can you judge? You don't know what love is."
His right eyebrow twitches. Goes up, just a little. "Love. Fear. Desperation. Vengeance. It doesn't matter why you did it, Mary."
"I think it does," she replies.
Inside the pocket of the battered trenchcoat, his right hand moves, as if he's got a worry stone in there and he's fingering it. "It makes no difference whether I understand or whether I don't. It's not my decision. I was instructed to take you to Dean. That's what I intend to do. When you've finished, I'll return you to -"
"I did it because I had to do it," she tells him.
And she has to do this. But not for the reason he's given her.
* * * * *
She rouses him the way she always did, with a kiss brushed softly against his temple. "Dean," she murmurs. "Dean." It makes her ache that the touch is so familiar to him, even after all this time, that he doesn't startle, doesn't react the way a hunter would, or should. He makes a sound, soft and low in his throat, that says he knows her and feels unthreatened.
Feels safe.
"Dean. Love."
He shifts a little. Enough to tell her he's waking but is avoiding opening his eyes because he's afraid of what he'll find when he does. He's afraid he'll find nothing at all, nothing but the greasy darkness of a dingy motel room, the latest in an endless chain of places that aren't home, aren't anything he yearns for, anything he wants. She rests a hand on the warm curve of his head, fingertips sliding through the short bristles of the military-style haircut she supposes is something John complimented somewhere along the line - a statement made offhandedly, maybe, but enough for Dean to hold on to like a handful of gold coins. A couple of yards away, Sam sleeps undisturbed, nothing visible of him but the hair that's as long as Dean's was the last time she touched either of them.
Dean's fully alert now, but still unmoving. His right hand is tucked up beneath his pillow, and she knows there's a weapon concealed there. A silver blade, maybe, or a gun. Maybe both. He's a hunter, after all.
After all.
"If you're here to kill me," he says, "get it over with. Otherwise, get the hell out of here."
His tone is as weary as Castiel's.
"Dean," she repeats quietly, then takes a step back, gives him space to move. His eyes open at last and his composure breaks for a second when he sees her. Underneath the pillow, he has the weapon in his hand.
"It's me," she says, but she knows the options that are running through his mind. Shapeshifter. Demon. A bit of underdone potato, maybe. That his mother is standing alongside his bed is way down on his list of possibilities. Maybe it's not on the list at all.
He's silent for a minute, eyes on her. He blinks a couple of times and has to struggle to hold on to a little bit of composure. He expected her to vanish when he closed his eyes, and she didn't.
"It's me," she repeats.
"What do you want?" he volleys back, the question broken-glass sharp and impatient.
To take the pain away, she thinks, but whose pain she means is a question.
He sits up then, moves the gun that was under the pillow to lie in his lap in a show of authority, of power he knows he doesn't really have. He glances at Sam, keeps his brother in his peripheral vision as he studies her. Then he makes a decision.
"Go away," he says. "Okay? Just go away."
His voice is thick and the words catch in his throat, a sticky collection of bile that's no good either up or down. He glances away, into the darkness in the far corner of the room, which prompts her to look that way too - at the battered table covered with books and papers and the remains of a takeout meal. There's something else there: a cardboard Christmas tree with a small tray at its base meant to hold candy, or greeting cards. A look around the room reveals nothing else that marks the day, the season. If the boys exchanged gifts, she can't pick out what they were.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "If I had known -"
"I said get out. I don't care what you want."
The gun lies still on top of the blanket, but it won't take more than a twitch for him to raise it, aim it.
John trained him well.
Mostly.
"I wanted anything but this," she tells their son with a small gesture that takes in only a little of the awful room. "I didn't want this. For you. For Sam. For any of us."
Dean's face pinches into a grimace. "Whatever," he grunts.
But he's listening. Watching.
"I wanted to run away. And he said he'd take me. John. He said he'd do anything I wanted. That whole next day, he told me, 'I'll take you wherever you want to go.' Even though his home was there, in Lawrence. His friends were there. His father. His job. He said he'd take care of me. He held me in his arms and said he'd do anything I wanted, anything at all."
"You're not her," Dean replies.
"I am."
"She's gone. You're -" His upper lip curls. "I don't know what you are."
"I'm not -"
His expression splinters and he tries to throw it back together like someone slapping spackle onto a badly cracked sheet of drywall. His shoulders twitch and quiver and the hand that's curled around the grip of the gun isn't steady now, won't be able to hold aim if he lifts the weapon and points it at her. He looks at the gun like it's something dead and rotting on top of the cheap colorless blanket that covers his legs, then returns his gaze to her and snarls, "She's GONE."
How much did he see, she wonders.
Did he see the fire?
See her?
"Which team are you on?" he spits, but real bravado's way out of his reach. "Upstairs? Downstairs?"
"Dean -"
"You're not a spirit. We laid down salt. We always lay down salt. So what are you? Who sent you?"
"You did."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"I came because you needed me. I wish I could have come sooner."
"Yeah, well, nothing sucks like bad timing, does it?"
He's looking at something, and for a moment she can't decide what. Then she realizes it's her clothing. When he saw her back in Lawrence, with Sam, the night she vanquished the poltergeist, she was wearing the white nightgown she'd died in. Is that the image he holds on to, she wonders; in his mind, is she always in white, frozen forever the way she looked in the moments before the fire took her?
Mommy in amber, forever in white. Is that what he remembers?
She's wearing jeans, her favorite pair, the ones with the paint splotch just above the right knee, and a plaid cotton shirt, worn soft as a baby's diaper, sleeves rolled up midway between wrist and elbow. The outfit's an accommodation, like the place she's been since she left Lawrence that last time and, finally, went into the light. The Lord's gifted her with jeans, a cotton shirt, sneakers - and the house she dreamed of having someday, after John retired, after their boys were grown. It's not the way she wanted to spend eternity, not at all, but it's better than a lot of other options.
Better than eternity in that damned white nightgown.
Maybe it's the jeans, and maybe it's something else entirely, but Dean shifts his weight and slides off the bed, the gun still in his grip but held a little looser, like a little piece of him has forgotten he's carrying it. He's lost weight, she thinks, and that's certainly not a surprise. Given what Castiel told her, it's a wonder Dean can eat at all, that he can force anything down and keep it there. He has nightmares, Castiel told her, each and every time he surrenders to sleep. Visions of Hell.
Memories of being in Hell.
She didn't reply to that, not right away.
"He hears the screaming," Castiel said. "The agony of lost souls."
"You let him remember that."
"It's not my decision."
"I told him angels were watching over him. When he was small. I told him that. I thought it was a good thing."
"Do you want me to apologize? It's not my decision. I follow instructions. We all follow instructions."
She can testify as well as anyone that there's questionable value in doing what you're told, but for good or ill, she has instructions to carry out on this night. Some of them are from Castiel; some of them from her own heart.
"What do you want?" Dean rasps.
"To bring you hope."
"Hope for what?"
"That the world won't end. That there'll be peace. That…you can have what you want."
"Yeah? What do you figure I want?"
There's so little left of the small boy she used to hold in her arms - so little of his sweetness, his joy, his blithe contentment. She'd be happy to blame herself for that, because of the deal she made. If she hadn't said yes to Azazel, there'd be no Dean, no Sam, and in some ways that might have been better; it would have spared them what they've gone through these last twenty-five years.
It would have spared them what she sees now in her son's eyes.
"So much," she whispers. "And so little. I wish I could give it to you."
He looks again at Sam, fast asleep in the other bed. "Whatever you came to do… Just do it," he says with a quake of his shoulders. "Get it over with."
"Dean -"
"Just do it."
Behind her, the door creaks hard on its hinges, as if some terrific force is pressing on it from the outside. It squeaks and groans, tries to bear the weight, much as Dean is doing, with not much more success. It's Castiel, she thinks, come to pull her out of here. Give me a chance, she shrieks in silent frustration, fingers curling into her palms. What did you think I could do in five minutes? She used to be good at delivering a punch, but taking a shot at the angel would accomplish nothing; for all she knows, the blow wouldn't even land, would pass right through him, if she's not as solid as she thinks she is. She's flailed at a lot of things over the years and most of the time it only serves to make her angrier.
Maybe this once, though, she can land a good solid right cross.
She turns to look, but Castiel isn't there. She knows there's a parking lot outside that scuffed and battered door, but she can't see that either.
"You don't mean that," she says to her son.
"You think?"
A pale light begins to rise behind her. "I know."
"I don't want to do this any more. Any of it. I'm not anybody's salvation. Let 'em find another grunt, so I can -"
The door creaks again. There's a sharp snick of metal as the lock disengages, a painful screeeee as the door begins to open. As it does, the light becomes more brilliant. It makes her sigh, because she knows where it's coming from, knows what lies within it.
"What -" Dean mutters.
He sees the light too, then.
Again, she expects Castiel, or one of his compatriots. They've run out of patience and they're coming to use their own brand of persuasion on her boy - forgetting that they summoned her in the first place because they couldn't bend Dean into the right set of contortions no matter how often they tried. But still, no one steps out of the light.
That's not to say she's not meant to go into it.
Dean shades his eyes with a hand tipped against the bridge of his nose. Then the hand snaps down to its former place at his side. "You…you're a reaper."
"No. I'm not."
"Am I dead?" His voice climbs over that last word, and he looks around nervously, first at his own unoccupied bed, then at the other one, where Sam is still snoring softly, blankets bunched around his shoulders. "Is that it? Am I - did I die?"
She can't help but go to him. She grasps his arms, shakes him a little, makes him look at her.
"What are you?" he wheezes.
She leans in. Lifts a hand and rests it against his cheek. He endures the touch for a moment, then jerks back, away from her.
"You can't be her. She's gone. Missouri said she -"
"Missouri's wrong, Dean."
"She -"
"Dean."
It's a plea, not a criticism. His head hangs low, though, as if she's rebuked him. When he finally lifts it again there are tears coursing down his cheeks. The light is bright enough to make him squint, and it washes out his features enough that all she can see is anguish. If they stay here, in this room, with Sam so close by, he won't listen to her; that's plain on his face. There's too much of the real world here, too many reminders of what's gone wrong.
Maybe there's another option.
She shifts a little, points to the doorway and what lies beyond it. "Can you see? Outside the door?"
His head jiggles but he doesn't reply.
"Come with me," she says, and as she speaks she knows it's the right offer, the one something wants her to make, but whether the something is her own heart or Castiel or something else entirely, she couldn't say. "Come with me, so we can talk."
"We can talk right here."
"We'll wake Sam."
"Sam won't wake up. I'm dreaming. That's how this works. If you're -"
"Come with me, Dean. Please."
"Why?" he demands, and swipes at his face with the palm of one hand. "Why should I do that?"
~~~~~~~
Part 2 is here.
Characters: Mary, Dean, Castiel
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: 5920 words
Spoilers: up through 4.10
IF THE FATES ALLOW (CHRISTMAS)
By Carol Davis
"Why?" she asks.
He keeps walking, a steady, measured, but not quite purposeful gait, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his rumpled, filthy trenchcoat. The light that surrounds them is enough to display for her the colors of the splattered stains on the coat, enough to let her guess what they might be. "Because God commands it," he says without turning.
"Castiel."
He stops walking then, an instant after she does.
"Do you know what love is?" she asks.
"I don't need to know. I need to -"
"Follow His bidding?"
His head tilts a little, and his shoulders round. As if he's tired. As if he's had nearly enough of being God's errand boy.
"Do you want to know?"
"I don't have time to engage in a philosophical discussion with you," he replies, and half-turns toward her.
Yes. He's tired.
"Would you like to know what I want?"
"Not particularly."
"I want to make love with my husband." He won't turn away again; she can see that in his eyes. This is only their second conversation, and it's been shorter than the exchanges she used to have with strangers on line with her at the supermarket. He's not transparent, exactly, isn't easy to read. Nor is he a man, with a man's predictable responses, much as he might look like one. Still, she feels secure in her evaluation. He won't walk away again, expecting her to follow. Not until he's let her speak her piece.
Not until he's heard enough to satisfy his curiosity.
"I want to kiss my children," she says. "And…I want to take a bath."
"A bath."
"You might want to consider that, too. Cleaning up."
He glances down, takes stock of the coat, his pants, his shoes. "I've grown accustomed to this… To this."
"Because it makes you look battle-worn?"
Castiel's lips part. He's about to make some pronouncement on the seriousness of the situation. Give her a little verbal slap.
"It makes you look careless and sloppy," she says before he can do that.
"You might want to remember who you're talking to."
"I haven't forgotten."
His eyes close for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks very, very human. Not divine at all. He's certainly not what she pictured back then, during her life, when someone said "angel" to her, or when she said the word herself. He has wings; there's that. But the white robe is missing. The soft, golden glow of Heavenly light. The gentle, perpetually outstretched hand. This angel is weary. Conflicted.
Alone.
"Why do you need me?" she asks with a mother's sympathy. "After all this time?"
"Because -"
"The truth, Castiel."
"I don't owe you an explanation. God commands, we obey."
"Castiel," she presses.
He looks off into the distance, even though there's nothing to see except a long stretch of white nothingness. It takes him a while to meet her gaze. "Because Dean believes he's damned no matter what he does. He's not of much use to us if he's not interested in the outcome of all this; it'll make him lazy. Careless." He pauses for a moment, then stares at her, unblinking. "You're the only one who might be able to change his mind."
"Is he wrong?"
"That doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"You're not in much of a position to bargain." Castiel gestures with a hand held palm-out before she can object. "You know His position on deals. You made a deal with Azazel. It's by God's grace that you're here at all."
"I did it out of love."
"Did you?"
She can't answer that, because she isn't sure, and she won't lie.
"Did you?" Castiel repeats.
"How can you judge? You don't know what love is."
His right eyebrow twitches. Goes up, just a little. "Love. Fear. Desperation. Vengeance. It doesn't matter why you did it, Mary."
"I think it does," she replies.
Inside the pocket of the battered trenchcoat, his right hand moves, as if he's got a worry stone in there and he's fingering it. "It makes no difference whether I understand or whether I don't. It's not my decision. I was instructed to take you to Dean. That's what I intend to do. When you've finished, I'll return you to -"
"I did it because I had to do it," she tells him.
And she has to do this. But not for the reason he's given her.
* * * * *
She rouses him the way she always did, with a kiss brushed softly against his temple. "Dean," she murmurs. "Dean." It makes her ache that the touch is so familiar to him, even after all this time, that he doesn't startle, doesn't react the way a hunter would, or should. He makes a sound, soft and low in his throat, that says he knows her and feels unthreatened.
Feels safe.
"Dean. Love."
He shifts a little. Enough to tell her he's waking but is avoiding opening his eyes because he's afraid of what he'll find when he does. He's afraid he'll find nothing at all, nothing but the greasy darkness of a dingy motel room, the latest in an endless chain of places that aren't home, aren't anything he yearns for, anything he wants. She rests a hand on the warm curve of his head, fingertips sliding through the short bristles of the military-style haircut she supposes is something John complimented somewhere along the line - a statement made offhandedly, maybe, but enough for Dean to hold on to like a handful of gold coins. A couple of yards away, Sam sleeps undisturbed, nothing visible of him but the hair that's as long as Dean's was the last time she touched either of them.
Dean's fully alert now, but still unmoving. His right hand is tucked up beneath his pillow, and she knows there's a weapon concealed there. A silver blade, maybe, or a gun. Maybe both. He's a hunter, after all.
After all.
"If you're here to kill me," he says, "get it over with. Otherwise, get the hell out of here."
His tone is as weary as Castiel's.
"Dean," she repeats quietly, then takes a step back, gives him space to move. His eyes open at last and his composure breaks for a second when he sees her. Underneath the pillow, he has the weapon in his hand.
"It's me," she says, but she knows the options that are running through his mind. Shapeshifter. Demon. A bit of underdone potato, maybe. That his mother is standing alongside his bed is way down on his list of possibilities. Maybe it's not on the list at all.
He's silent for a minute, eyes on her. He blinks a couple of times and has to struggle to hold on to a little bit of composure. He expected her to vanish when he closed his eyes, and she didn't.
"It's me," she repeats.
"What do you want?" he volleys back, the question broken-glass sharp and impatient.
To take the pain away, she thinks, but whose pain she means is a question.
He sits up then, moves the gun that was under the pillow to lie in his lap in a show of authority, of power he knows he doesn't really have. He glances at Sam, keeps his brother in his peripheral vision as he studies her. Then he makes a decision.
"Go away," he says. "Okay? Just go away."
His voice is thick and the words catch in his throat, a sticky collection of bile that's no good either up or down. He glances away, into the darkness in the far corner of the room, which prompts her to look that way too - at the battered table covered with books and papers and the remains of a takeout meal. There's something else there: a cardboard Christmas tree with a small tray at its base meant to hold candy, or greeting cards. A look around the room reveals nothing else that marks the day, the season. If the boys exchanged gifts, she can't pick out what they were.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "If I had known -"
"I said get out. I don't care what you want."
The gun lies still on top of the blanket, but it won't take more than a twitch for him to raise it, aim it.
John trained him well.
Mostly.
"I wanted anything but this," she tells their son with a small gesture that takes in only a little of the awful room. "I didn't want this. For you. For Sam. For any of us."
Dean's face pinches into a grimace. "Whatever," he grunts.
But he's listening. Watching.
"I wanted to run away. And he said he'd take me. John. He said he'd do anything I wanted. That whole next day, he told me, 'I'll take you wherever you want to go.' Even though his home was there, in Lawrence. His friends were there. His father. His job. He said he'd take care of me. He held me in his arms and said he'd do anything I wanted, anything at all."
"You're not her," Dean replies.
"I am."
"She's gone. You're -" His upper lip curls. "I don't know what you are."
"I'm not -"
His expression splinters and he tries to throw it back together like someone slapping spackle onto a badly cracked sheet of drywall. His shoulders twitch and quiver and the hand that's curled around the grip of the gun isn't steady now, won't be able to hold aim if he lifts the weapon and points it at her. He looks at the gun like it's something dead and rotting on top of the cheap colorless blanket that covers his legs, then returns his gaze to her and snarls, "She's GONE."
How much did he see, she wonders.
Did he see the fire?
See her?
"Which team are you on?" he spits, but real bravado's way out of his reach. "Upstairs? Downstairs?"
"Dean -"
"You're not a spirit. We laid down salt. We always lay down salt. So what are you? Who sent you?"
"You did."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"I came because you needed me. I wish I could have come sooner."
"Yeah, well, nothing sucks like bad timing, does it?"
He's looking at something, and for a moment she can't decide what. Then she realizes it's her clothing. When he saw her back in Lawrence, with Sam, the night she vanquished the poltergeist, she was wearing the white nightgown she'd died in. Is that the image he holds on to, she wonders; in his mind, is she always in white, frozen forever the way she looked in the moments before the fire took her?
Mommy in amber, forever in white. Is that what he remembers?
She's wearing jeans, her favorite pair, the ones with the paint splotch just above the right knee, and a plaid cotton shirt, worn soft as a baby's diaper, sleeves rolled up midway between wrist and elbow. The outfit's an accommodation, like the place she's been since she left Lawrence that last time and, finally, went into the light. The Lord's gifted her with jeans, a cotton shirt, sneakers - and the house she dreamed of having someday, after John retired, after their boys were grown. It's not the way she wanted to spend eternity, not at all, but it's better than a lot of other options.
Better than eternity in that damned white nightgown.
Maybe it's the jeans, and maybe it's something else entirely, but Dean shifts his weight and slides off the bed, the gun still in his grip but held a little looser, like a little piece of him has forgotten he's carrying it. He's lost weight, she thinks, and that's certainly not a surprise. Given what Castiel told her, it's a wonder Dean can eat at all, that he can force anything down and keep it there. He has nightmares, Castiel told her, each and every time he surrenders to sleep. Visions of Hell.
Memories of being in Hell.
She didn't reply to that, not right away.
"He hears the screaming," Castiel said. "The agony of lost souls."
"You let him remember that."
"It's not my decision."
"I told him angels were watching over him. When he was small. I told him that. I thought it was a good thing."
"Do you want me to apologize? It's not my decision. I follow instructions. We all follow instructions."
She can testify as well as anyone that there's questionable value in doing what you're told, but for good or ill, she has instructions to carry out on this night. Some of them are from Castiel; some of them from her own heart.
"What do you want?" Dean rasps.
"To bring you hope."
"Hope for what?"
"That the world won't end. That there'll be peace. That…you can have what you want."
"Yeah? What do you figure I want?"
There's so little left of the small boy she used to hold in her arms - so little of his sweetness, his joy, his blithe contentment. She'd be happy to blame herself for that, because of the deal she made. If she hadn't said yes to Azazel, there'd be no Dean, no Sam, and in some ways that might have been better; it would have spared them what they've gone through these last twenty-five years.
It would have spared them what she sees now in her son's eyes.
"So much," she whispers. "And so little. I wish I could give it to you."
He looks again at Sam, fast asleep in the other bed. "Whatever you came to do… Just do it," he says with a quake of his shoulders. "Get it over with."
"Dean -"
"Just do it."
Behind her, the door creaks hard on its hinges, as if some terrific force is pressing on it from the outside. It squeaks and groans, tries to bear the weight, much as Dean is doing, with not much more success. It's Castiel, she thinks, come to pull her out of here. Give me a chance, she shrieks in silent frustration, fingers curling into her palms. What did you think I could do in five minutes? She used to be good at delivering a punch, but taking a shot at the angel would accomplish nothing; for all she knows, the blow wouldn't even land, would pass right through him, if she's not as solid as she thinks she is. She's flailed at a lot of things over the years and most of the time it only serves to make her angrier.
Maybe this once, though, she can land a good solid right cross.
She turns to look, but Castiel isn't there. She knows there's a parking lot outside that scuffed and battered door, but she can't see that either.
"You don't mean that," she says to her son.
"You think?"
A pale light begins to rise behind her. "I know."
"I don't want to do this any more. Any of it. I'm not anybody's salvation. Let 'em find another grunt, so I can -"
The door creaks again. There's a sharp snick of metal as the lock disengages, a painful screeeee as the door begins to open. As it does, the light becomes more brilliant. It makes her sigh, because she knows where it's coming from, knows what lies within it.
"What -" Dean mutters.
He sees the light too, then.
Again, she expects Castiel, or one of his compatriots. They've run out of patience and they're coming to use their own brand of persuasion on her boy - forgetting that they summoned her in the first place because they couldn't bend Dean into the right set of contortions no matter how often they tried. But still, no one steps out of the light.
That's not to say she's not meant to go into it.
Dean shades his eyes with a hand tipped against the bridge of his nose. Then the hand snaps down to its former place at his side. "You…you're a reaper."
"No. I'm not."
"Am I dead?" His voice climbs over that last word, and he looks around nervously, first at his own unoccupied bed, then at the other one, where Sam is still snoring softly, blankets bunched around his shoulders. "Is that it? Am I - did I die?"
She can't help but go to him. She grasps his arms, shakes him a little, makes him look at her.
"What are you?" he wheezes.
She leans in. Lifts a hand and rests it against his cheek. He endures the touch for a moment, then jerks back, away from her.
"You can't be her. She's gone. Missouri said she -"
"Missouri's wrong, Dean."
"She -"
"Dean."
It's a plea, not a criticism. His head hangs low, though, as if she's rebuked him. When he finally lifts it again there are tears coursing down his cheeks. The light is bright enough to make him squint, and it washes out his features enough that all she can see is anguish. If they stay here, in this room, with Sam so close by, he won't listen to her; that's plain on his face. There's too much of the real world here, too many reminders of what's gone wrong.
Maybe there's another option.
She shifts a little, points to the doorway and what lies beyond it. "Can you see? Outside the door?"
His head jiggles but he doesn't reply.
"Come with me," she says, and as she speaks she knows it's the right offer, the one something wants her to make, but whether the something is her own heart or Castiel or something else entirely, she couldn't say. "Come with me, so we can talk."
"We can talk right here."
"We'll wake Sam."
"Sam won't wake up. I'm dreaming. That's how this works. If you're -"
"Come with me, Dean. Please."
"Why?" he demands, and swipes at his face with the palm of one hand. "Why should I do that?"
~~~~~~~
Part 2 is here.