When You're a Stranger (Epilogue)
A/N: Not very long, nothing earth-shattering, but I think this leaves the story a little more finished. Being for the benefit of naatz , since she's been asking for it. Hopefully it's not too much of a disappointment :P
Bobby's porch is dark and quiet, low enough to the ground that when Damien sits down on the edge of it the tips of his sneakered toes brush the dead grass that's grown up around it. There's a beer in his hand, but he doesn't remember how he got it--he doesn't even drink beer, for God's sake. His thumb is idly rubbing over the loose edge of the label, over and over again. Inside, Barnes is helping an angel--an angel--fix lasagna. He's handling this much better than Damien, and that just throws Damien off even more. He's supposed to be the one calming Barnes down. He's the level-headed one, and yet he's the one sitting out here, having a panic-attack party for one while Barnes cooks dinner.
Ghosts are one thing. But angels and demons? That's, like, huge. Epic.
The front door swings open, then shut. Damien's expecting it to be Barnes joining him for a little belated post-near-death freakout, but when he turns around it's Dean crossing the porch toward him, booted feet heavy on the creaky boards. He's cleaned the blood off his face and changed into a clean, faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and he still looks nothing like the image Damien still carries in his head from the books. Too rough-edged, too tired and real. Damien's sister runs a bar in Wisconsin, and this Dean looks more like the hollow-eyed roughnecks and soldiers on leave that hang around there than anybody's idea of a fantasy hero. He gives Damien a lopsided smile and gestures with the beer in his hand. "You mind if I sit?"
Mutely, Damien shakes his head, and Dean drops down next to him. He smells like strong soap and that pungent herb they burned earlier. "How you holding up?" he says at last.
"I feel really stupid," Damien admits. "I mean, you told me who you were, and I didn't believe you."
Dean shrugs and lifts his beer to his lips. "Don't sweat it. I wouldn't have believed me either."
"And this--this is just--" he lifts his hands, trying ineffectually to sketch out the hugeness of this thing that they've bumbled into.
"Believe me, I know."
Yeah, Dean probably does know, way better than he does or ever will. If even a fraction of the books are true, it's a wonder he's not curled in a fetal position somewhere in a padded cell. "How do you deal with it?"
"You don't," Dean says simply. "You just learn to stop thinking about it."
"That doesn't sound very healthy," Damien says tentatively, and Dean barks out a raspy laugh.
"That's what Sam keeps telling me." He shakes his head. "Hey, man, I'm a hunter, not a shrink. I just do what it takes to get me through the day."
He's smiling, still, but something about the way he says it is so sad that Damien has to look away. The kitchen window casts a yellow square of light across the lawn, glinting on the bits of metal and broken glass scattered among the weeds. Through the window he can see the top of Bobby's hat, Barnes standing by the counter in his X-Men t-shirt. He's smiling shyly, tentatively, eyes big in the lamplight.
"He really makes you happy, huh?" Dean asks quietly. Damien looks back over. There's still some part of him that's expecting the kind of reaction a pair of queer geekboys like him and Barnes always get from guys like Dean, but Dean's shadowed face just looks pensive. His cheeks are hollow and the rising moon cuts into the crow's feet beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, the furrow between his brows, the tension lines around his mouth. If the books were right, Dean's only thirty-one. Just a few years older than Damien. He doesn't look it.
"Yeah," Damien says. "He does."
Dean smiles. "Good. That's a good thing."
"Yeah." He hesitates. It's really not any of his business. Ghost-hunting was one thing, but this is something way bigger than he imagined. Angels and demons. The end of the world. The literal end of the world. There's an angel--a real, honest-to-God angel--standing in Bobby's cluttered kitchen greasing a lasagna pan. Damien's got a feeling that when he and Barnes get back to their apartment, they're going to have to sit down and do some serious self-examination.
But for now, here's Dean. A badass fantasy-hero demon-hunter in the flesh, sitting out here on this dark porch with a beer, and Damien knows what he saw. How Dean looked at Castiel.
"So," he finds himself saying before he can think better of it. "You and, the, uh, angel?"
Immediately after the words are out of his mouth, he wants to slap himself, but it's too late. Dean just shrugs, rolling his bottle thoughtfully between his palms, but he doesn't seem annoyed by the question.
"Sorry," Damien mutters. Awkwardness really isn't anything new to him, and most of the time he's pretty much okay with that. Most of the time. "None of my business."
"It's a funny world," Dean says after a few more moments of silence. Damien can't tell from his tone whether it's supposed to be an answer or not; he has his face tilted up toward the sky and his expression is a thousand miles away.
"Uh," Damien says. "Dean?"
Dean glances over, smiles a little. "You should head back inside, give your boyfriend a hand. Cas is all about smiting evil, but he can't cook for shit."
It startles a laugh out of Damien. Dean's smile broadens enough to show the sharp edges of teeth, and maybe now Damien can see, just for a moment, the angel-faced drifter in Carver Edlund's stories; the sweet-talking conman who charmed his way out of jail and into beds across the continental U.S. The Dean Winchester.
God knows how much of the story is actually true, but it's a nice thought.
On the other side of the kitchen window, Barnes is laughing while something crashes loudly to the floor. The dog is barking, and he can hear Bobby yell, "...your face out of the damn salad dressing, Romney, you stupid mutt--"
"I think I will go inside," Damien says, pushing himself to his feet. "Are you coming?"
"In a minute," Dean says, looking back out at the graveyard of scrap-metal and ancient cars. Damien hesitates for a moment before turning away, and he's halfway across the porch when Dean says, "Hey, uh. Damien."
"What?"
When he glances back, Dean is looking at him. Still smiling, a little. "You know, not that--" he shrugs. "The world needs people out there fixing copiers too, man."
For some reason, that's what it takes to unwind the last panicky little knots in his chest. Damien shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. "Thank you."
"Hey," Dean says. "Don't thank me. Get inside there and keep them from wrecking dinner, we'll call it even."
Damien nods again. He can do that much.
Bobby's porch is dark and quiet, low enough to the ground that when Damien sits down on the edge of it the tips of his sneakered toes brush the dead grass that's grown up around it. There's a beer in his hand, but he doesn't remember how he got it--he doesn't even drink beer, for God's sake. His thumb is idly rubbing over the loose edge of the label, over and over again. Inside, Barnes is helping an angel--an angel--fix lasagna. He's handling this much better than Damien, and that just throws Damien off even more. He's supposed to be the one calming Barnes down. He's the level-headed one, and yet he's the one sitting out here, having a panic-attack party for one while Barnes cooks dinner.
Ghosts are one thing. But angels and demons? That's, like, huge. Epic.
The front door swings open, then shut. Damien's expecting it to be Barnes joining him for a little belated post-near-death freakout, but when he turns around it's Dean crossing the porch toward him, booted feet heavy on the creaky boards. He's cleaned the blood off his face and changed into a clean, faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and he still looks nothing like the image Damien still carries in his head from the books. Too rough-edged, too tired and real. Damien's sister runs a bar in Wisconsin, and this Dean looks more like the hollow-eyed roughnecks and soldiers on leave that hang around there than anybody's idea of a fantasy hero. He gives Damien a lopsided smile and gestures with the beer in his hand. "You mind if I sit?"
Mutely, Damien shakes his head, and Dean drops down next to him. He smells like strong soap and that pungent herb they burned earlier. "How you holding up?" he says at last.
"I feel really stupid," Damien admits. "I mean, you told me who you were, and I didn't believe you."
Dean shrugs and lifts his beer to his lips. "Don't sweat it. I wouldn't have believed me either."
"And this--this is just--" he lifts his hands, trying ineffectually to sketch out the hugeness of this thing that they've bumbled into.
"Believe me, I know."
Yeah, Dean probably does know, way better than he does or ever will. If even a fraction of the books are true, it's a wonder he's not curled in a fetal position somewhere in a padded cell. "How do you deal with it?"
"You don't," Dean says simply. "You just learn to stop thinking about it."
"That doesn't sound very healthy," Damien says tentatively, and Dean barks out a raspy laugh.
"That's what Sam keeps telling me." He shakes his head. "Hey, man, I'm a hunter, not a shrink. I just do what it takes to get me through the day."
He's smiling, still, but something about the way he says it is so sad that Damien has to look away. The kitchen window casts a yellow square of light across the lawn, glinting on the bits of metal and broken glass scattered among the weeds. Through the window he can see the top of Bobby's hat, Barnes standing by the counter in his X-Men t-shirt. He's smiling shyly, tentatively, eyes big in the lamplight.
"He really makes you happy, huh?" Dean asks quietly. Damien looks back over. There's still some part of him that's expecting the kind of reaction a pair of queer geekboys like him and Barnes always get from guys like Dean, but Dean's shadowed face just looks pensive. His cheeks are hollow and the rising moon cuts into the crow's feet beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, the furrow between his brows, the tension lines around his mouth. If the books were right, Dean's only thirty-one. Just a few years older than Damien. He doesn't look it.
"Yeah," Damien says. "He does."
Dean smiles. "Good. That's a good thing."
"Yeah." He hesitates. It's really not any of his business. Ghost-hunting was one thing, but this is something way bigger than he imagined. Angels and demons. The end of the world. The literal end of the world. There's an angel--a real, honest-to-God angel--standing in Bobby's cluttered kitchen greasing a lasagna pan. Damien's got a feeling that when he and Barnes get back to their apartment, they're going to have to sit down and do some serious self-examination.
But for now, here's Dean. A badass fantasy-hero demon-hunter in the flesh, sitting out here on this dark porch with a beer, and Damien knows what he saw. How Dean looked at Castiel.
"So," he finds himself saying before he can think better of it. "You and, the, uh, angel?"
Immediately after the words are out of his mouth, he wants to slap himself, but it's too late. Dean just shrugs, rolling his bottle thoughtfully between his palms, but he doesn't seem annoyed by the question.
"Sorry," Damien mutters. Awkwardness really isn't anything new to him, and most of the time he's pretty much okay with that. Most of the time. "None of my business."
"It's a funny world," Dean says after a few more moments of silence. Damien can't tell from his tone whether it's supposed to be an answer or not; he has his face tilted up toward the sky and his expression is a thousand miles away.
"Uh," Damien says. "Dean?"
Dean glances over, smiles a little. "You should head back inside, give your boyfriend a hand. Cas is all about smiting evil, but he can't cook for shit."
It startles a laugh out of Damien. Dean's smile broadens enough to show the sharp edges of teeth, and maybe now Damien can see, just for a moment, the angel-faced drifter in Carver Edlund's stories; the sweet-talking conman who charmed his way out of jail and into beds across the continental U.S. The Dean Winchester.
God knows how much of the story is actually true, but it's a nice thought.
On the other side of the kitchen window, Barnes is laughing while something crashes loudly to the floor. The dog is barking, and he can hear Bobby yell, "...your face out of the damn salad dressing, Romney, you stupid mutt--"
"I think I will go inside," Damien says, pushing himself to his feet. "Are you coming?"
"In a minute," Dean says, looking back out at the graveyard of scrap-metal and ancient cars. Damien hesitates for a moment before turning away, and he's halfway across the porch when Dean says, "Hey, uh. Damien."
"What?"
When he glances back, Dean is looking at him. Still smiling, a little. "You know, not that--" he shrugs. "The world needs people out there fixing copiers too, man."
For some reason, that's what it takes to unwind the last panicky little knots in his chest. Damien shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. "Thank you."
"Hey," Dean says. "Don't thank me. Get inside there and keep them from wrecking dinner, we'll call it even."
Damien nods again. He can do that much.