Part Five
"Cas." Dean stiffens, eyes taking in the form of the angel standing in the high tower room, his back to Dean. There's no mistaking his voice or the silver shoulder guards he'd so admired when they met. The metal glimmers with the moonlight that streaks in through the open windows, the only light source in the entire tower.
“You seem surprised.” It’s mildly put and something of an understatement when the angel turns to face him and Dean registers the eerily quirked smile on his face. If this is Cas, it’s no Cas that Dean remembers. “After all that I’ve done for you, are you going to simply stand there?”
He edges further into the room, keeping one eye on the door behind him as he moves in. It’s fruitless, slamming shut as soon as he’s far enough away from it to escape being hit by the heavy wood and iron as it swiftly closes.
“Kneel, Dean.”
“I - ” The hunter hesitates, watching Castiel as he stills. The angel’s still got his back turned to him but that’s not enough to put Dean at ease. If anything, he’s more on edge. “Cas?”
“I’m not sure that that’s appropriate, Dean. I’m your king now, aren’t I? You should respect me.”
He chooses his words carefully, wary. From out in the hall he can hear whoever was coming up the steps getting closer. “What happened to Lucifer?”
Before he the angel - if that’s even still what Castiel is - can answer, the door to the tower room blows open, whoever had been following Dean bursting into the room. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t need to, because Castiel is quick to glance at the new arrival.
“Balthazar.”
Now Dean twists, eyes catching sight of the blonde angel who’s arrived. There’s a dried trail of blood running down the side of his face, originating somewhere in his hairline and he looks utterly exhausted, but Dean doubts that he looks much better himself.
“What is this, Cassy?” There’s a hint of disappointment in the myrmidon’s tone, chiding the show of power that Cas is displaying, the way Dean’s still crouched in a kneel before him.
“My legacy.” A smile curves up in the corner of Castiel’s lips and he takes a step closer, skirting around Dean’s crouched body, but not before he bends to retrieve his own sword, fallen on the stones from when he had first hit his knees. “This is what we always wanted, isn’t it? I’m on the throne, Balthazar. It’s mine.”
A wry smile forms on Balthazar’s face as he draws his own sword, pale blue eyes skirting over to where Castiel is clutching his weapon. “It looks different than I imagined it would.”
“You’re not one for much imagination, are you?” Castiel holds his sword forward, drawing a nick of blood from Balthazar’s cheek when the point sears through the skin of his cheekbone as though it’s nothing at all.
Balthazar takes a halting step back, eyes hardening. “You know I would stand at your side always, Cas. Always.”
“Yes.” He’s skirting around Balthazar now, moving slowly to his back and Dean can only watch with wide eyes as Balthazar does nothing to avoid the movement, standing still, open as Castiel moves to take up place behind him. “Always.”
The pierce of the sword isn’t immediately office until Balthazar begins to choke, bright light spilling forth from his lips, as he keels forward, the steel forced through his chest completely. In a moment, he’s gone, leaving nothing but the burned-out imprint of his wings against the stone floor.
Castiel remains where he is for a moment, sword slowly lowering. “Swords are a funny thing. If he’d tried to hurt me, his wouldn’t have allowed it. Amusing, isn’t it, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes trail over the charred image of Balthazar’s wings, the fact that the other angel is gone not quite sinking in yet. “And it’ll let you hurt me?”
“I suppose that’s something we can find out right now.” And Castiel’s moving forward, striding to close the gap between them, three feet, two. When he’s just close enough to injure, Dean rolls to the side, rising to his feet and then diving forward to snatch up Balthazar’s discarded weapon.
Castiel chuckles as he rises once more, sword balanced in his hands. “Didn’t I just tell you that his sword can’t touch me? He loved me too much. As a brother, something more. I don’t know. You can’t even draw blood with that blade.”
Dean doesn’t care, because drawing blood isn’t the first thing on his mind when Castiel lunges, the metal of their blades sparking violently as they crash together in a single sweep. He doesn’t have the training to best Castiel, he knows that. But if he can just keep himself alive...
The image of Sam on the ground below sparks back to his head as they begin to circle each other, Castiel letting the sword weave slowly from side to side, a direct refusal to broadcasting his intended movements. Why? Why keep himself alive?
Is there a point?
The sword flashes out once more and Dean grunts, heaving his own blade upwards to block it before the downward slash can connect with his shoulder. He snarls and forces upwards, heaving Castiel’s sword back, the pressure off of his arms before taking a quick step back, sword brought back up into a ready position.
What’s he living for, anyway?
“What are you living for, Dean?” There’s a sneer in place on Castiel’s face as he watches Dean step further back, not bothering to pursue. Not yet. “Your father’s dead, Dean. He didn’t even make it this far. They threw him into a battle and he fell in the first wave. One of my brothers killed him.” His smile widens and he twirls the sword over its pommel, “Maybe this is the sword that killed him. There’s no way of knowing.”
Dean twists to the side once more, leaping just barely out of the way before Castiel can do much more than glance his forearm, searing pain shooting up the limb as the slice draws blood. He cringes, hand immediately going to cover the gash, holding tight even though it means he’s put both arms out of commission, holding loosely to the sword at his side.
“Now that’s hardly an entertaining way to fight, Dean.” Castiel is watching him, dark eyes glinting in the darkness of the room, a deeper shade of blue than Dean remembers. Just another instance of why this Castiel isn’t his. “You don’t think I couldn’t kill you in an instant?” He laughs and the chuckle only serves to unnerve him further. “I don’t need this,” he jerks the sword upwards, “To finish you.”
With that, a flash of pain splits through Dean’s skull, and the sword is forgotten completely, clattering to the ground as violent agony courses through his head, threatening to burst it completely. His hands go to his skull now, clutching it as he crumples, seizing against the ground. He’s never felt anything quite so agonizingly painful in his life, and Castiel is standing there laughing and there’s nothing he can do, can’t even think.
It stops as suddenly as it began and Castiel is reaching out to him, familiar hand going through his hair, a sneeringly familiar gesture. “You understand that I don’t want to see you die, don’t you?”
“More than can be said about Balthazar,” he spits out, letting loose a mouthful of blood as he speaks. It sprays out onto the stones and he cringes, wiping at his face. The pain is all but completely gone now.
Castiel tilts his head to the side and nods. “He was always faithful to me, wasn’t he? Dog killed by its master.” He takes a step forward, laughing as Dean flinches away from the slash that doesn’t come. “I want you, Dean. Since we met, I’ve been quite enamoured with you.”
Dean takes a deep breath, panting a little now that he’s more or less motionless on the floor, still crouched on the cool stones. “Oh yeah? I don’t remember you being such a crazy son of a bitch back then.”
The prince smiles and bends down so that he’s on level with Dean, still smiling eerily at him in a full-on leer. “I’m much improved.”
“Yeah, well, improve on this.” He snatches up Balthazar’s sword and swipes it across Castiel’s front. He doesn’t really expect the attack to have any effect, he’s already been warned that Balth’s sword won’t hurt the prince, has already seen it to be true, but he doesn’t have anything better.
At the very least, it sends Castiel reeling backwards, stumbling on his knees, and with a flare of satisfaction, Dean registers the traces of blood starting to show in his leather tunic.
Castiel glances down at the blossoming stain as well and blinks at Dean in surprise, clearly he hadn’t been expecting it either.
“Guess that proves my point. You’re not the same Cas.”
The prince’s brow furrows and he dips in close again, this time more wary of Dean’s sword, and before the hunter can raise it to fend him off once more, he’s holding the hilt of his own sword high, bringing the pommel slamming down against where the fingers of Dean’s left hand are splayed against the stone. The metal bears down into his knuckles, crushing them and Dean lets out a howl of pain.
His hand curls in to his stomach instinctively, back arching forward to protect the injured appendage reflexively, but he’s learned now and he keeps a hold of the sword with his right hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, Cas.”
A dark eyebrow goes up on the prince’s forward as he twirls the sword, rebalancing it in his grip. “You have no idea how concerned I was that it might come to that, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, I think we’ve reached that point.” Dean swings again, cuffing Cas in the head with the flat of the blade. He’s not trying to cut, just to knock and it works, sending Castiel further reeling, addled by the sudden ringing in his ears from the blow to the head.
Dean leaps to his feet, closing the added distance between them, sword point angled towards Castiel’s throat, held high, threatening. He wasn’t lying, doesn’t want to hurt Cas - how could he? But he doesn’t know what to do.
For a moment, Castiel just laughs. Tilts his head back and howls with laughter at the irony of the turned tables, but then his eyes lighten, if only for a moment, to a shade that Dean better recognizes. “Do it, Dean.”
He swallows, and lunges.
A violent burst of light tears itself from Castiel’s chest, spilling from his open mouth, tear ducts, nostrils until it seems to be forcing itself out of him so brightly that it’s coming from his every pore, engulfing him in brightness.
Dean hardly registers what he’s seeing as the burning ball of light draws closer and is suddenly blanked out by an arm thrown across his face. He’s standing so close to Cas, touching him even, shielded from the angel’ own brightness by his own hand and yet suddenly it’s eerily dark.
He leans into the hold, snaking one of his own arms around Castiel’s waist and holding tight as the angel convulses, shuddering against him. There’s a dull roar echoing in Dean’s ears now and he’s not sure where exactly the sound is coming from, but it is loud. “Cas - Cas, it’s - it’s gonna be okay, just hold on - just - ”
He bites back the desperate cries as the rushing wind whipping around them - and where did that come from? - steals his words completely. All he can do is hold on to the angel and Cas is so far-gone now that the arm thrown around Dean’s face goes limp and falls away. He can’t even open his eyes now if he wanted to.
When it stops, it all stops in a single rush, like the force of the light and the noise and the wind has been completely blown out by the negative space it once filled. It’s gone and as soon as Dean regains use of his limbs, he clutches at the angel who’s suddenly sagged violently against him.
Blinking against the darkness of the tower, apparently without evil Cas around to fill the room with an unearthly light, the room’s nearly pitch black, he lays Cas’ body out on the cold stone, hands desperately seeking a pulse point, throat, wrist, it doesn’t matter because Cas isn’t moving, isn’t breathing and there’s something wet seeping out of his chest - blood, Dean’s brain reconciles. Has to be. That’s what happens when you stab someone.
His only reconciliation is the fact that he’s still here. He can still feel Castiel’s body under his hands. He’s not gone completely, not burned away to nothing like Gabriel and Balthazar and that has to count for something, right?
He pulls himself closer, flopping over Castiel’s chest, head tucked against his neck as the last of his energy gives out.
* * *
When Dean wakes up, it’s not to any sort of face he expects. And okay, that’s pretty reasonable given that since leaving home, he’s woken up next to Castiel, under Tessa’s cool hands and to find himself receiving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Chuck. But at least during each one of those occasions, he’d actually had a name to go with the face leaning over him. This time he’s drawing a perfect blank at the dark haired man peering down at him now.
And yeah, as if that’s not enough to make him a little self-conscious.
He sits up in a rush, immediately regretting the action when the blood rushes too quickly from his head. But then there’s light hands at his shoulders, pushing him carefully back down.
“Who are you?” He slurs out, not quite managing to make his dried out lips and clumsy tongue make the words sound like he knows they’re supposed to, but the man leaning over him doesn’t seem to have any problem understanding.
“The archangel, Michael. My brother, Castiel, brought you downstairs before he succumbed to his wounds.”
That sparks something in his brain and Dean nearly sits up again.
“You’re not physically hurt, Dean, just give it a minute to let everything stop spinning.”
And how did they know everything was spinning, churning around him in a jumble? Oh. Dean realizes that that wasn’t Michael, that was Tessa, sitting not too far off from him on her knees. Her hands are smeared with dried blood and he grimaces, wondering how many of his companions were injured or worse in the battle that’s suddenly rushing back into his memory.
One of the reaper’s cool hands rests against his forehead and suddenly the dizziness is gone. She smiles wryly and sits back. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Dean realizes that yes, yes that helps tremendously. Enough so that he can sit up without wanting to vomit, and he does, eyes scanning the room. They’re back at the bottom of the tower steps. All that’s left of the “them” that they once were, that is.
Becky’s hair is in frizzy whorls around her head, the edges of her sleeves singed and burnt from where Dean can only assume her fire magic managed to catch on the wispy shirt. Chuck is leaning against her, blood dripping from his right temple, the stains of a nosebleed still marking his upper lip. They’re both watching him wide-eyed and he realizes that of all the people to make it this far, he never thought it would be them.
Never expected that an archangel and a celestial myrmidon would fall before a hedge-witch and a scholar, but somehow they made it through.
Inias is over speaking with a group of other angels, new ones that Dean doesn’t recognize, though he thinks he can see Rachel somewhere amongst the group. Their red-headed commander - Dean knows what markings to look for now - steps forward to draw Michael away, conferring with him.
The only ones unaccounted for are Castiel.
And Sam.
Dean bites back a sudden gasp as he remembers the fight with his brother, the burn in his arms suddenly rushing back to his wearied limbs as he recalls the heavy clash of sword on long-handled war hammer. But then there’s Tessa again, her hand light on his shoulder, steering him to look across the foyer to where Sam’s leaned up against a wall, bandage wrapped around his head, looking bruised and bloody and awful and it’s wonderful.
“But I - ”
Tessa smiles faintly at him. “I didn’t think it was his time. It would appear that my father agreed with me.”
Dean reaches for her, pulling her close in a hug before letting her go as his thoughts drift almost immediately back to Castiel. Before he can ask, her smile’s starting to falter and she pulls away.
“Dean, I only stayed to see you wake up.” She ducks her head, eyes bright. “Michael is here, Lucifer and Raphael have both been incapacitated. I believe my work here is finished, it’s time for me to return to my father.”
One of the garrison angels steps forward, helm visor slid down and Tessa reaches for Dean’s hand, squeezing it once, gently. “It has been a true pleasure to know you, Dean Winchester. I know our paths will cross again.”
As she goes to pull away, Dean clutches at her fingers, memories of late night campfire conversations and fighting at each other’s sides flashing through his mind. “Thanks. Tessa. I - thank you.”
She nods and pulls away, following after the angel.
“Wait - can I just - ” Dean rises to his feet, grateful that she’s taken all of the hurt and dizziness from him. That same niggling thought of Castiel pushes its way to the surface of his mind, but it’s not the angel that he asks about. “My - my dad?”
Tessa’s face is passive as she glances back at him. “I think you already know the answer to that, Dean.”
“Yeah, I - I guess I do.”
She gives him one last, tiny smile and walks off, the sound of Pegasus wings beating the air following from just outside.
With Tessa gone, Dean’s eyes skirt around the room once more. Chuck and Becky are going to want to return home, too, he’s sure. And with Chuck’s newfound skills, maybe he can make a name for himself that’s more than just a phony false-mage operating out a second-floor shop in the middle of the seediest street of the Mage’s Quarter in Limbus. Maybe even the angels will have some sort of use for him. Becky, too.
But that leaves just him and Sam and Dean realizes that his brother is watching him with the kind of reverence that he hasn’t seen on his face since they were kids, and that alone is enough to last Dean back to the kind of mindset he’d started out with. Loving his brother, wanting to take care of his brother.
But they’re all looking at him for leadership now, angels included. And Dean knows he’s moved on to something so much bigger. It almost seems like a crime to go back to Lawrence now.
He turns then to face Michael. The tall, proud angel is still watching the proceedings, a mask of passivity across his face.
“Can I see him?”
“I think, given the nature of the damage your association with my younger brother has already caused, it would be best if you didn’t.”
* * *
The angel garrison tidies up the mess that’s left of Lucifer’s castle, without the assistance of Dean and his remaining companions. Sam spends a lot of the rest of the day sleeping in one of the army tents set up outside, fighting off a raging headache that comes with regaining control of himself, and Chuck and Becky take some time for themselves to simply be.
Dean asks around, trying to learn as much as he can about what exactly went down. There’s some things he knows: after capturing Castiel, Raphael and Lucifer force-fed him reaped souls until he became so convoluted that he himself became their worst adversary - except for the part where he managed to kill both of them in the process.
He knows that Lucifer had Crowley imprisoned in the same dungeons as Sam and that Inias and a band of angels have found him. He doesn’t ask what they’re planning on doing, doesn’t want to know.
And his brother fell to the wrong side for the right reasons, lured there with the promise of finding their father and gaining the right power to end the wars and restore everything to what it should be. And what kind of Lawrence-raised farm boy would he be to not want any of that?
So Dean doesn’t blame him for the whole going-evil thing.
But what he doesn’t understand is why Castiel won’t speak to him.
Surely the prince must be awake by now. No one in the garrison seems to be especially concerned, so he can’t be that badly injured. And while yes, no one’s exactly letting him go see the angel, surely no one’s going to stop Cas from trying to see Dean. Right?
By early evening, most of Michael’s detachment have left. Some to allegedly seek out Lucifer’s paladin demons, Ruby and Lilith, the rest to return to heaven or tidy up where some of the hellion legions continue to attack civilians. Soon enough, there’s one garrison left over, and having already said goodbye to Inias, who had been one of the ones to head back to heaven, Dean is ready to bid farewell to the rest of his companions too.
“We can offer you and your brother safe passage back to Lawrence,” Michael’s already offered. And while Dean’s not especially enamored with the idea of riding pillion with an angel - an angel that’s not Castiel, anyway - he’s also not particularly hot on the idea of walking back home. Not after all they’ve done walking back this way. Besides, he knows Sam’s eager to get home.
His brother is leaning against the fence of the makeshift corral that’s been put up to house the angels’ mounts. His eyes follow a Pegasus as it struts around the field and Dean can only assume that it’s Michael’s, pompous that the archangel is.
“You okay?”
Sam shrugs, a slight heave of his shoulders, twisting to glance at him. “Been better, I guess.”
Dean nods and leans against the fence himself, forearms resting against the rough wood. “Me, too.”
They’re silent together for a moment, the easy quiet between them not lost or warped by the weeks apart despite having spent a life time within reach of each other. “Was it worth it?” Sam’s voice is small, and Dean knows what his brother’s thinking without him needing to say it. If Sam had stayed with him in Limbus, things would have been a lot different. Not better, necessarily. But different.
He shrugs his own shoulders. “World feels a whole lot smaller than it did before.”
Sam nods and then lets his sombre expression break into something that resembles a bit of a smile. “All I can think about is what dad’s gonna say when he sees us fly in on those things.”
Dean is quiet, but it’s a thought he can’t exactly let slide. “Sam, I - ”
“Don’t.” His brother turns to face him more thoroughly. “Don’t ruin it. Not yet.”
Chuck and Becky leave before Dean and Sam do. The angels offer to take them at the same time, Limbus is on the way to Lawrence and it would be easy for them all to travel together, but Dean’s not ready to go.
As the sun starts to sink further below the horizon, it’s obvious that the remaining angels are beginning to grow
uneasy, though the fear isn’t reflected by those higher up. They want to leave, want to return to their homes and see their families and they’re ready for Dean and Sam to go.
Dean’s not leaving until he can see Cas.
When he finally gets it into his head to just go for it, he does, setting out at a jog to go cross the makeshift campsite, headed for the tent on the direct opposite from where he and Sam have been asked to remain. There’s two angels guarding the door but they don’t do much more than voice their protest as Dean pushes past, throwing open the draping door to look inside.
It’s empty.
He whirls, rounding on one of the guards, righteous fury incarnate. “Has he left? Did you send him off already?”
The guard opens his mouth, struggling to get a word in, but it’s a deeper, more familiar voice that stops Dean in his tracks.
“I was looking for you.”
He turns, meeting Castiel’s eyes as the prince steps forward. He looks more whole than Dean can remember ever having seen him, which says a lot given the poison he’s taken into his body, forced on him by Lucifer and Raphael. But he looks even brighter than he did when they had first met and as though registering this unspoken question, he glances down at himself. “I seem to have gained some of my brothers’ grace.”
“Oh.” Now that he’s facing him, Dean finds he doesn’t quite know what to say.
But Castiel moves in close and the unfamiliar barrier is dropped when the angel reaches for Dean’s arm, pulling it close to examine where he nicked his arm with the sword. “I don’t think at the time that I truly believed my sword would harm you.”
Dean’s eyes follow the hand’s movement on his arm and he shrugs. “I don’t think you were thinking much of anything at the time.”
The prince nods, sheepish. “I’m sorry, Dean. I should have been stronger. Should have been able to resist them or - or not let it happen in some other fashion.”
Dean knows though, there was no other option. Not one he would have accepted, anyway. At least this Castiel is alive. “After everything, why’d you let them keep me away?”
Now Cas is looking away and Dean knows what’s coming isn’t gonna be good. “I had a conversation with my brother, while you were sleeping. He reminded me of my... responsibilities.”
Right. And Dean’s liking the sound of this even less, realizes that the two guards have disappeared and they’re alone now. Great.
“I thought it would be easier if we simply - ” He falters and lets the sentence die. “There is no easy way.”
Dean swallows, expression suddenly hard.
“Dean, I - ” Helpless. He’s so helpless.
Dean reaches for him, hand dropping just short of actually touching him. “Back to Heaven, right?”
Castiel nods and leans in, reaching out to cup Dean’s cheek in his hand and the hunter leans into it, expression softening. “I - ” The angel begins, faltering.
“Look, I get it. We’re not - you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”
The angel looks away. “It’s not that I - wouldn’t rather be with you. But you must understand, Dean, that - ”
He doesn’t need to be told, doesn’t need to understand anything other than that Cas is gonna leave and go back to heaven and set everything straight. Place must be in a shambles, three out of four archangels dead, a bunch of their top people smoldered away to shadowy, burnt impressions on the ground. “You have to clean up heaven. I’ve got some things to clean up back in Lawrence, too.”
Castiel nods once more and leans in, resting his forehead against Dean’s collar bone as he heaves a heavy breath of air. The moment is a short one and he’s stepped back before Dean can even think to drape his arms around him.
The corner of the angel’s mouth is upturned slightly when he glances back up at the hunter. “I will miss you tremendously, Dean.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna - gonna miss you a lot too, Cas.” He’s stepping forward now, ready to take back what he’d been planning to ever since Castiel finally put in an appearance, but now there’s an angel between them, eyes bright, eager as he addresses the prince. Dean gets the impression that the little snot doesn’t get the opportunity to speak with someone like Castiel very often.
“Sir, your sword.” He’s holding out a very familiar blade, offering it to Castiel with slightly trembling hands, too eager, this one.
Castiel glances at it, one hand reaching for the hilt before he seems to think better of it, letting his arm fall back down to his side. “I believe you mean his sword.” He’s looking at Dean again now, smiling. “It belongs to Dean.”
“But I thought - ” The angel looks down at the heavily jewelled blade in his hand, the pommel inlaid with real sapphires, solid gold connecting the whole thing, laced over the iron. He gestures down towards the sword hanging against his hip, clipped to his belt haphazardly. It’s nicked and worn, the handle wrapped in thin leather and Dean recognizes it as Balthazar’s.
“That one’s mine.” It’s Balthazar’s sword Castiel is reaching for, gently removing it from the angel’s side and holding it carefully in his own hands. “Thank you.”
The angel’s brow furrows, but he lets Castiel take the sword, and with one last, wide-eyed glance at him, offers the other blade to Dean.
He takes it in his bandaged hand, holding it with care as the other angel disappears, recognizing that with his delivery made, he’s no longer needed. “Is this the part where you tell me to take care of it?”
Castiel tilts his head, “I was hoping it would take care of you.”
Dean nods wordlessly, clipping the sword to his own belt and swallowing hard. This is - this is it.
Cas is securing Balthazar’s sword to his hip as well, resting his hand on the hilt for a moment before looking up, eyes bright as he reaches out to the hunter, clasping his hand once, then dropping it. “Goodbye, Dean.”
EPILOGUE
“It’s smaller than I remember.” Sam glances around the clearing, a sort of heartbroken almost-smile on his face as he takes in the cottage. It’s still standing, which is a lot more than can be said about most of the other homes in the village. But even those families have started rebuilding in the time since they’ve been away. The Road House might not have looked as good as it did when Dean last saw it, but there’s a new roof in place and Ellen had looked happy, if tired when she greeted their return.
“Maybe you’re just bigger.” Dean shoots Sam a smile and leads the way to the front door. “For your sake, I hope that’s not true.”
Sam moves around to the east side of the house, reaching under the window sill for the heavy brass key that he knows is tucked there, joining his brother at the door.
Inside, the house is the same as how they left it and Dean starts to feel that same sense of smallness that Sam had mentioned. There’s a thin layer of dust across the wooden table and countertops, but everything is in the same exact place they were before.
Sam’s already moving to the hearth to throw a couple logs into the fireplace. “Guess dad never made it back, huh?”
“Sam. About dad...”
His brother shrugs and moves towards the back door, jerking the knob hard when it jams. “Yeah, I know.”
* * *
Sam hangs his war hammer over the mantle with a laugh, like it’s some kind of war trophy to be proud of. And as Dean watches his brother secure the heavy iron to the wall, he sort of feels like maybe it is.
“It’d look better if you put that sword up there, too.”
Dean’s eyes drift over to where Castiel’s sword is still wrapped in leather, set carefully aside. “Yeah.” But he makes no move to put the blade alongside Sam’s hammer. Something about it doesn’t seem quite right.
* * *
They put a little memorial up in the back garden. Dean manages to get some whitewash from town and after applying a new coat of paint to the outside of the cottage in preparation for the winter, he does up a little cross with some old boards and a couple spare nails that Sam picked up on his way home from helping out in the village. It’s not the best looking of crosses, not even really straight, but when they scratch “John Winchester” into the soft wood and put it up next to their mother’s grave, it seems about right.
* * *
Sam tears up the surety bond about a week after they've been back and he never once brings up Whitefish. They feel their way slowly back to how things used to be, a little different but things in Lawrence never really change. He makes a name for himself helping with the rebuild of the village, and Dean puts in his fair share of work thatching roofs and digging out burnt-out foundations himself as well.
But it’s Sam’s life now. It’s Sam who’s really been putting the lifeblood back into Lawrence in the weeks since their return. Funny how things can shift so much. Dean had always been perfectly content to think he’d live here forever, follow in John’s footsteps to go off on the occasional hunt, but always have Lawrence to come home to.
It really does feel a lot smaller now.
His brother’s just coming in from one of these odd-jobs just as Dean finally contemplates putting away Castiel’s sword. “Pass me that, will you?” He asks as Sam closes the back door gently behind him. His brother reaches for the leather bound blade carefully, knows how much it means to Dean, and hands it gently over.
Dean runs the thin leather over his hands and undoes the tight knot that holds the whole thing together, letting the leather fall away to reveal a blade that still gleams, the sharpness never quite dulled away though it’s been weeks since it last saw a whetstone.
Sam’s eyes flick up to the hammer still mounted over the fireplace and moves back towards the door. “It’s a good spot for it.”
“Yeah.”
But Dean can think of a better one.
He urges the Impala forward, heels pressing into her heaving sides as they take a fallen log at breakneck speed, sunset blazing at his back. The sword bounces in its new leather sheath, strapped against the saddle and Dean’s fingers twine through the horse’s mane, holding on for dear life as he steers her down the path.
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