5.22+ "weary head to rest" (PG)
~night~
Castiel walked into a bar. It was a typical place for Winchesters, a little dirty, a little dark, but it had cheap beer and pool tables, and Sam and Dean were hustling a group of guys, about to easily take five hundred.
Castiel had seen this dozens of times. It was one of Dean's fondest dreams. He smiled, and the dupes at the table grew a little dumber, Sam's break wonderfully clean. Sam played drunk with the brilliance of Redford, and Dean flashed a Newman smile through green eyes.
The brothers drank and cheated and laughed and hugged, and it was a dream, but for Dean, for the moment, it was real. His heart was full, and for the moment, unbroken, the light inside him blinding, feeding the grace of his Archangel, the holes inside him mending. Sam was a part of him now, trusted, beloved, mourned, but not a piece missing. Castiel smiled, and faded away without speaking.
~evening~
Dean had a whiskey with supper. It had been that perfect Saturday Dean never used to think he'd live to see. Grilled ribeyes hot on sizzle platters, fresh off the grill, and Dean passed the rolls and mashed potatoes, while Ben chattered on about how close he was to the black belt. Ben had thrown Dean twice that afternoon, sparring in the backyard, and Lisa had rewarded Dean for his very real pains with two fingers of classy Kentucky bourbon.
Castiel watched more closely than he ever allowed himself, peering into the hearts minds of these so beloved -- a consummation so devoutly wished that even Chuck, playing prophet, couldn't have improved on it.
Inside, a domestic triad was breaking bread. Outside, a crack of thunder rolled through the early May twilight, tolling the arrival of an ominous figure under a crackling street lamp.
The wings of an archangel hovered round the house, his thousand thirsty eyes trained unblinking on the souls inside.
The time, at last, was right.
Sam's might threatened to overflow, but Castiel was not really alarmed. Saviour of demons, arbiter of the crossroads, friend of an antichrist, counsellor of archangels-- Sam Winchester, demigod with a heart full to bursting, placed his finger on the bell.
Ben opened the door.
Sam stood on the threshold.
"Will you tell your dad someone needs to speak with him, please? It's ... a surprise."
Ben's wary eyes measured Sam, throwing holy water and cutting him with silver, but Dean hadn't trained this kid to fear, to lash out. Ben trusted Dean, trusted the wards on the house, the flicker of his eyes alerting Sam to the glowing lines of blessing he'd helped Dean apply to every ingress, the holiness of the mezuzah Lisa had mounted, the traps they painted, while permeating everything was the indelible Enochian with which Castiel had secretly graced every wall. Castiel told Sam that Lisa's house was one of the most consecrated in all of Indiana.
"Dean?" Ben yelled, not taking his eyes off Sam. "It's for you."
Dean pushed back his chair, grumbling. "Dude, I got a piping hot ribeye here that's not gonna eat itself."
As Dean walked the few steps to the door, Castiel saw Dean check his mental list of neighbors against the inventory of power tools lining the garage, saw him bet on Dennis and the powerwasher-- the siding on the north side of the house a few doors down was looking a little green.
He stopped dead in shock at the sight of his brother in the doorway, just shy of one year gone.
The world, in one sense, stopped turning as the Winchester brothers locked eyes.
The world stopped turning, time fell away from reality, as two souls, mates so twinned that all of Hell and Heaven had fallen paltry against them, leapt to greet one another, as their bodies stood riveted, hearts pounding, heat and cold running through them by turns.
Dean took a staggering step towards the door.
"Sam?"
"Dean."
Castiel was no stranger to glory. He was a creature fashioned of it, so that even a glimpse of the truth of him would burn away the unveiled eye. But the glory of this reunion shone so dazzling, Castiel thought of the brilliance of the Lightbringer bursting from his cage.
Now the prime agent of that Almighty, Castiel veiled his own staring eyes, humbled yet again by the power and the glory of human love.
Sam was a boy again, warm and treasured in the arms of his brother, the most important person in the world.
Dean, grown whole in a life he'd found worth living, was dizzy with joy at finding the pearl beyond all price.
They embraced, and time had no meaning -- two brothers, cleaving together, mighty heroes out of myth.
"Oh, my God!" Lisa said, in shock.
Dean broke free, the tears streaming down his face too familiar, the wide smile something she had never seen, something Castiel saw her hesitantly echo.
"Lisa," he croaked, overcome. "It's Sam. It's Sam." Dean reached for her with an open hand and Lisa stepped forward.
"Hey," Sam said, shy, maybe blubbering a little.
"How?" Lisa said, a little suspicious, her mettle up and equal to any Winchester's.
Sam widened his eyes, helpless to explain, speechless for once.
Castiel folded a few of his wings and stepped into the foyer.
"Lisa Braeden, the blessings of the Lord on you and all your house."
Lisa blinked and bowed her head slightly, but held her ground.
"You must be Castiel."
"Yes." Dean looked between them, still latched onto Sam with white knuckles, certain to leave a bruise.
"What took you so long?" A little fire, a little anger, sprang up in this righteous woman. She'd held Dean up when he was struggling to stand alone, learning who he could possibly be without his brother.
"Perhaps we could all sit down? There are many tales to tell, and we'll need plenty of time to tell them. "
"Dude, you're an Angel!" Ben said, loud, taking everything in. Castiel saw that he had stealthily produced the holy water and the silver letter opener from the foyer table drawer, but at least he hadn’t brandished them.
"And I'm your uncle," Sam suggested.
Dean's face cracked open with happiness, and in a flash, he was that nineteen year old kid Lisa had waited more than a decade to see again someday.
"Dude, you're Uncle Sam! I want you!" Dean intoned, pointing a finger.
Sam opened his arms, grinning. "You got me."