Finding God
Title: Finding God
Rating: PG-13 for Dean language
Spoiler: 522
Characters: Dean, Chuck
Wordcount: ~1500
Summary: It's a few months later when Dean finds God. Pity he doesn't even know that.
A/N: I know, everyone writes Codas these days so here's my two cents. Oh, unbetad by the way. Sue me!
Disclaimer: Not mine. Blahblah!
Summer has come and gone. A train passing, crowded with people and names, jobs and bottles with tea-colored liquids. None of it remains. Life turns into a highway and Dean is standing on the roadside ditch.
Well, actually, he's standing in front of a house. It looks inconspicuously mundane in this neighborhood but Dean knows better. He knows what's inside. Or Who.
He knocks. Raps hard with his knuckles against the wood. Twice. Listens to the rattle of the embedded window and takes a surprised step backwards when the door swings open, unlocked.
A sudden foreboding grips him and when he enters the house, he gets the distinct feeling that no one has been here for a long time. It sure looks lived in. In fact, it looks like a whole football team is living in it. Clothes are strewn all over the place. Through the open sliding door Dean catches a glimpse into the kitchen where dishware is stapled in the sink. But all these signs aside, this house feels empty. There's dust gathering on every surface and thick, fluffy flakes are populating the corners, celebrating their own party.
It smells odd, musty. Dean sneezes as dust tickles his nose, the sound strangely muffled yet way too loud. It even stirs up some dust from the ground and Dean fawns his hand in front of his eyes to clear the air.
"Hello?"
There's no response. The couch is empty. A rumpled, scratchy looking blanket - probably older than Dean - is thrown over the side rest and a half empty glass of...something is resting on the small couch table. Waiting.
This is wrong and Dean's hope is fading fast, replaced by the familiar devastation. This has been his only hope. His proverbial last straw and now the little annoying nag isn't even home. Hasn't been home for a long time, it seems.
"Is anyone home?"
There is only silence and Dean can feel the rush of blood in his ears, the tingling in his fingertips as his hope goes poof.
This is so typical. Why had he expected anything at all in the first place? He should know better by now. It isn't like he could show up on the prophets front door, ask him for directions and then go to pick up Sam from the next bus station. It's a nice thought, though. Nonetheless Dean has known all along that this is just another step towards a painful realization, that Sam wouldn't come back. And if he does, it isn't because Dean had knocked on the right door.
No! This is just another self-induced torture that he's so fucking good at.
"Dean?" Dean whirls around and there he is, standing in the doorway to the kitchen in all his glory: In a striped bath robe, socks on his feet and hair that looks disheveled enough to provide a nest for a whole family of storks. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Chuck looks dumbfounded, his hand wrapped around a glass, in which Dean can see a brownish liquid.
"Is that cocoa?" Dean can't hold back his amused chuckle as the man looks affronted.
"Yeah. So? I like to drink cocoa."
"Okay, fine!" Dean lifts his hands in front of him, a peaceful gesture, and looks around. "What happened? Did you forget to pay your cleaning lady?"
"Naah," Chuck says and has the decency to look a bit sheepish. "I just... took a break. You know? Came back only recently. I totally didn't expect you to storm in to my home."
There's a strained silence and Dean tries really hard to come up with the question he's come here for but it seems he has forgotten to pack the right words before leaving for Chuck.
"Anything specific you want to talk about or do you just want to complain about me poor cleaning abilities?" Chuck wonders and leaves the kitchen to drop on the couch, spilling some cocoa over his bath robe. "Great," he mumbles as he dabs at the spot, smearing the sweet drink only wider into the cloth. It leaves an ugly blotch.
"I wanted to..."
The words are almost there when Dean's eyes are falling on the kitchen table where a laptop is standing. Forgetting all about his questions he walks over, takes a peek at the display where he can see a white word document. Empty, except for the angry blinking cursor, waiting to be used. Empty. Empty. Empty.
Unwritten.
Suddenly, Chuck appears beside him and yes, maybe Dean is a bit startled. But give him a break, wouldya?
"I'm sorry, Dean," Chuck says and Dean stumbles. He has to lean against the table and closes his eyes. Hey, sorry doesn't mean anything. It could mean Sorry I didn't offer any cocoa or Sorry I'm wearing only a bathrobe but I'm a lazy ass, you know that. It doesn't necessarily mean Sorry that I have to crush your hopes in finding Sam.
"What for?" Dean croaks, clears his throat and adds, "For being oh so useless?"
Chuck looks almost hurt, then he shrugs his shoulder. "Maybe. It's not like I can change destinies with my mind, right?"
The cursor is still blinking accusingly.
"Did you... did you hear anything?"
Chuck's eyes narrow. "You mean since Sam..."
"Yeah! Since then!" Dean interrupts. There's no need to word the truth. Words are useless. Except when they tell you things you don't know.
"No, Sorry." Dean can feel a hand on his shoulder and he glares at Chuck who quickly takes his hand away. "Sorry."
"Stop saying sorry, goddammit!"
"Uuh...sorry?" If Dean wasn't so damn angry he probably would've laughed about Chuck's listless grimace as the prophet wipes his hands on his dirty bathrobe.
"Look," Chuck begins and Dean can see how uncomfortable the author is feeling and how very much he'd like Dean to leave him alone but this is not an option. Dean has come here to find answers, not excuses. "I can't tell you anything about Sam that you don't already know, Dean." His dark brown eyes sparkle and Dean can see sorrow in it. Honest sympathy.
"That's not enough!" His fingers curl into fists at the side of his thighs and he resists the urge to wrap them around Chuck's dirty, fluffy bath robe collar.
"I know it isn't but I can't give you more than that, Dean. The story hasn't been written yet."
"This is no fucking story, Chuck!" Dean yells and he doesn't care that he's spitting. That Chuck cringes away from him like a beaten puppy. "This is Sam!"
"I know, I'm sorry!" Chuck says hastily and blushes when he realizes he said sorry... again. "But in the end, everything is a story. Maybe not for me or for you. But every truth you tell is a story, one way or another. And you just gotta wait for the next chapter."
Dean is tired and his patience is waning fast.
"No, Chuck, you're wrong. My brother isn't some story you can satisfy you fans with. My brother is real. And now he's gone."
"Being gone doesn't have to mean he's not real anymore." Dean blinks, fingernails digging into the soft skin of the insides of his hands.
"Is he alive?" Dean asks and it comes out as a plea. "Is he alive somewhere? Is he still...my brother?"
"He's probably not dead," Chuck answers casually. "But I'm pretty sure that's not what you wanted to hear, right?"
Is it? Dean isn't so sure himself. Of course, his brother being alive that's a good thing, right? It's much better than his brother being dead... again. "How do you know?"
Chuck raises an eyebrow, then stutters, "I don't... uhm... know, e-e-exactly. But... come on, Dean! How often did you and your brother come back from the dead? You fought your way out of hell and your brother jumped into it. You don't really think that any fate, as accomplished as it might seem, can keep you two apart?" He snorts, then walks over to the fridge and pours himself another glass of milk. "It needs more than some bored omnipotent power to do that. No way. If there's a sequel to be written, I'm pretty sure you two guys are the ones choosing the words. I'm just typing it to keep it for future generations."
He grins, as if there's nothing more to say and raises his glass in silent salute before taking a long sip. As he lowers it, he's got a cocoa on his beard and he just looks so ridiculous that Dean can't help but groan. He lets his head fall on his chest, his emotional pool dried up and wrinkled. God, he's a wreck.
Without another word he turns on his heels and strides out of the house, not looking back. Not even as Chuck yells after him to watch out for himself. It's not like he means it anyway.
And as the Impala gains speed and takes him away from Chuck, God lets himself flop in front of the laptop and stares at the empty screen. He stretches his knuckles, writes and stares at the written line for a few seconds.
"And just around the next corner..." But then he deletes it again, goes for another glass of milk and decides that maybe, he really should let Sam and Dean decide, when they would be ready.
This could get interesting.