FIC: Catty-corner from Hell (PG 13, Sam/Dean, Castiel)
Title: Catty-corner from Hell
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing/Characters: 3900 words | PG13 | wee!Dean and John, Dean and Castiel; mentions of Sam/Dean.
Disclaimer: All characters property of the CW and Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Summary: Dean realizes he’s forgotten something important, and he's got to make it right.
Notes: I haven’t seen 4.07 (or 4.08), but I’ve been told that there’s an accidental nod to 4.07 in this story, so spoilers up through 4.07. My thanks to essenceofmeanin , poisontaster , and apreludetoanend , all of whom had a look-see and offered some wonderful advice. Obviously with a trio like that weighing in, if anything still sucks it's all on me. This is a very belated happy birthday gift to my beloved brynwulf , whom I adore like Dean likes Pie Sam.
“Daddy?”
“C’mere, sport.” Just like that, he’s up and tucked into Daddy’s side. It smells like cars and baby soap, because Sammy’s there too, in Daddy’s other arm. “Did you have fun at Mrs. Carson’s today? How’s the new kittens?”
Daddy always knows when Dean needs a hug. His voice rumbles in Dean’s ear, just like the sound of ‘Pala when Daddy turns the key. It makes him feel safe and...and cozy. He learned about “cozy” when the kittens came, and Mrs. Carson showed them to Dean in their cardboard box, all squished up with the mommy-cat. She said they were all ‘cozy kittens’. Dean thinks maybe Sammy already knows ‘cozy’ too, and that’s why he likes it when Dean climbs into his bed with him.
“Somma their eyes are openin’, Daddy! But they’re ALL blue. Mrs. Carson says that’s how it is, that they’re blue when they’re little and sometimes they change and sometimes they don’t. There’s two black ones and three orange-y ones with stripes on their tails and one that’s all different colors mixed together. That’s called a cally-co cat!”
Daddy makes his hmms and his is-that-so’s, so that way Dean knows he’s listening and Dean can tell him more stuff. Sometimes Daddy is quiet, and then Dean knows he’s sleepy or sad, and when Daddy does that, Dean just snuggles with him instead, or gets Sammy’s bottle if he’s fussy so Daddy can have a rest.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?” Dean likes when Daddy says that, calls him ‘son’. It makes him feel bigger, and more important than just Dean.
“Daddy, was mommy a innicint?” Daddy gets really still. Dean thinks Daddy’s holding his breath, and he’s afraid he said something wrong. “Daddy?”
“What makes you wonder about that, Dean?” Daddy’s voice sounds a little snuffly, like Dean’s does sometimes after he cries a little. He didn’t mean to make Daddy sad. “Dean?”
“One of the kittens died today. There were three black ones, but now there’s only two. I was sad, but Mrs. Carson said not to be too sad. She said it was innicint, and God would take it to heaven and it would be happy there. So...” Dean stopped. It felt like he shouldn’t say it again. He wished he wouldn’t have said anything at all, now. Daddy’s arm that was around Dean’s back was shaking a little, like the kittens with their wobbly legs. Sammy must have felt it too. He was awake and staring with his big eyes - still blue, like the kittens. He looked like he was trying to decide if he wanted to cry or not.
“Yes, baby. Your mommy was innocent. She...she’s somewhere where nothing will hurt her ever again.”
“In heaven? With the kitty?”
“I think so, Dean. I think Mrs. Carson is right.” Daddy doesn’t sound so sure. Not like when he tells Dean not to jump on the couch or that he buttered the toast just right.
“Daddy?” This time Daddy doesn’t answer him at all, but his hand gives a little squeeze on Dean’s leg, so Dean figures he heard. And Daddy usually tells him if he doesn’t want Dean to talk, so... “Doesn’t the kitty miss his fambly? How can Mommy be happy in Heaven if we’re not with her?”
Daddy makes a funny noise, and Sammy starts to cry at the same time.
“The angels will make sure she’s happy, baby. The angels will take care of her and the kitty, okay?”
Dean pats Daddy’s wet, scratchy cheek.
* * * * *
Dean wakes with a jerk, fighting out from under the dream and gulping frantically for air. He thinks he must have called out, but Sam’s still sound asleep beside him. (Dean’s stopped using “dead to the world” - even in his head- ever since Cold Oak.) His heart is ribbitting in his chest, like it’s trying to knock itself out from between his ribs and get away from the lingering dream. Dean couldn’t blame it. How the fuck could he have forgotten about that? He should have found out already.
Edging out from under Sam’s arm, for once Dean’s thankful for his brother’s exhaustion. If Sam woke up now he’d go all twenty questions and insist on tagging along, and for the first time since Dean’s come back, he’s actually willing to leave Sam behind for a couple hours. He tries to tell himself that it’s because he doesn’t think Sam would be nearly as pretty with bleeding eardrums or exploding eyeballs, but deep down he knows he’s ashamed, and he doesn’t want Sam to be ashamed of him too. Dean Winchester, model son, finds out he’s got a personal feather-white hotline to CloudCity, and doesn’t even ask about his parents’ everlasting souls? Christ. What a fuck-up.
He scrambles into his clothes, shoving his feet into his boots without any socks. He doesn’t have any clean ones anyway, and going by the smell of Sam’s feet earlier, neither does he. Sam shifts for a minute when Dean’s fingers jingle the keys, but then resettles into the warm hollow Dean left behind, and Dean leans over and kisses his forehead. He usually only gets to do stuff like that when he’s drunk. Or when Sam is.
“Be back in a while, Sammy,” he whispers, but Sam doesn’t move. Good. Maybe he’ll still be here when Dean gets back.
* * * *
“CASTIEL!”
“Yes?”
“Sonofa-” Dean whirls. He doesn’t know what he expected, but an angel showing up as soon as he called...like Lurch when Morticia rings the bell...well, that probably isn’t it. He’d walked a mile or so until he’d found the burned-out strip-mall, and he was figuring on being out here screaming until he was hoarse. Or at least ‘til he got picked up for the drunk tank.
“I can’t help you, Dean.” Castiel has the same trench, the same loose tie. Dean vaguely wonders if angels have to bathe. Surely they’d get BO eventually, right?
“What do you mean?” Dean can feel his pulse speeding up. He had considered all the scenarios of this little outing, including that Castiel wouldn’t answer his question. He just hadn’t figured out any effective counter-measures. Dad would’ve kicked his ass for going into a situation with no plan B.
“I don’t know where your parents are. I can’t help you.” Dean just stares.
“How did you know what I...” Dean pauses. “Are you watching me all the time? Poking around whenever you want? What the fu-”
“Dean. No.” Castiel grips Dean’s shoulder, and Dean feels the scar-print flare in recognition of its maker. “It does not work that way.” Dean shrugs him off, but it leaves him dizzy, like he needs the support.
“Just how DOES it work, Cas?” Dean doesn’t know how this shit with Sam is gonna go down, but more and more it looks like his chances of taking Sam and trying to lay low if things go sideways are non-existent.
“You called out for me.”
“Yeah! Just now.” Dean paced. He can smell the oil some old beater had leaked onto the asphalt, and his feet, bare and loose inside his boots, feel unsteady on the slippery pavement. “So as soon as I call your name, that gives you the right to go diggin’ in my fuckin’ head?”
Castiel stays still, watching him, but doesn’t answer. Dean walks up to him, gets right in his face.
“Well? Is that how it works or not?!”
“Dean. Earlier. You called for me earlier.” Fuckin’ infuriating bast- whoa.
“Wait. What? W-what did you say?” Dean falters, steps back instinctively, trying to get some thinking space.
“When you woke up. You called for God. For forgiveness, for not thinking of your parents before now. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry to keep you on pins and needles,” Dean answers, but he feels like his smart-ass is only running at half-power. Castiel must feel it too, because instead of looking constipated, he just shrugs.
“I did the crossword.” He really did; Castiel’s wiped his hands on his coat at some point in the process, and Dean can see the newsprint ink left behind on the waterproofed beige. Of course he meant it literally.
“I...I should have asked you sooner.” He may as well cop to being a worthless shit. Castiel’s proven he can read his mind, so he already knows it anyway. “I...it...should have been the first thing I thought of,” Dean stutters. “I mean...when you suddenly find out that you’ve got your Own Personal Jesus, that’s what you do, right? You make sure your family’s okay. And I didn’t.” He manages to look up at the end, expecting a solemn face of judgment. But Castiel’s not even looking at him; he’s picking at a loose thread on his cuff-button.
“Yes. Because you had a great deal of time, between being raised from the dead, tracking down your errant brother, and fighting the minions of Lilith.” He gapes at Castiel. How the hell did Dean get to be Victor French anyway, playing the straight guy to Castiel’s Michael Landon?
“Minions?” Nobody really ever says minions. The look he gets is pure stone-face, and Castiel’s lips press even thinner.
“You blame yourself-again-and seek forgiveness where none is necessary. It would not have mattered if you had asked, Dean. I do not have the answers you seek.”
“Bullshit. How can you really not know where my mom and dad are? You’re an angel, for chrissak-” Dean trails off. Castiel seems pretty laid back, until he isn’t. Taking the lord’s name in vain while chatting with an angel might not be the best idea Dean’s ever had.
“How can you not know the population of Butte, Montana?” Castiel looms over him, and Dean flinches. He knows that if anyone was watching from the outside, he’d look like a bullied kid right now. “You’re an American,” Castiel growls back, and the deep, reverberating sound the “n” makes has Dean’s bones vibrating like tuning forks.
Dean’s hands feel damp, and his feet are starting to sweat and get slippery in his boots. He’s beginning to wish he’d brought Sam with him after all. He’s pretty certain that-minus his own personal pet demon tagging along-Sam could probably have a few minutes of polite conversation without pissing off an angel of God. Even if he was short-listed for the role of the Anti-Christ.
“You’re a little higher on the food chain than I am dude.” And Dean can practically feel the slope slipping away beneath him, but he can’t help himself. It’s like he’s watching from a distance, while someone else walks right into a clear and present fuck-up. He just wants to know they’re okay, and instead he’s apparently incapable of asking a simple question without pissing off an angel.
“And Heaven is more vast than the United States.”
“What? No Google in the great beyond?” And suddenly Dean’s on his hands and knees, sharp pebbles cutting holes into his palms. The night sky’s lit up like a super-nova, and all Dean can see is a photo-negative of huge wings seared onto the insides of his eyelids, like maybe he tried looking at an eclipse without one of those pin-hole foil boxes.
“I am not your secretary, you ungrateful wretch.” Dean still can’t see a damn thing, but he feels Castiel’s body bent close, his breath on the back of Dean’s neck, paralyzing with frost and fire all at once. Dean’s pretty sure he’s cowering, but he’s pretty sure he can’t do anything but ride it out, either. He has a perverse moment where he pictures Castiel filing his nails and bringing Dean a cup of coffee, but his desperate laugh turns into a sob and then he’s let go to land nose-down on a blob of someone’s ABC gum.
“In all the ages...all the long eons...there has been but a handful of humans that God has taken from the pit.” Castiel sinks to the ground next to Dean, legs crossing Indian-style and weight leaning back on his hands, as if they were just hanging out at a picnic. The abrupt blast and then absence of Castiel’s breath on his skin makes him clammy, and he’s getting bed spins in the middle of the parking lot. “You...are the only one who has shown so little gratitude afterwards...and so little faith...after so much proof.”
“I-I-” Dean’s gasping for breath, face still pressed to the ground. He can smell the left-over cinnamon flavor of the gum, and it makes his stomach turn over. He thinks he might barf a puddle of chili-dogs right next to Castiel’s knee. “I’ve been told I’m a real special snowflake.”
Dean feels Castiel’s hand come to rest on his hair, and he yelps but can’t move. Dean’s pushed too far, and now Castiel’s had it, and Dean’s probably headed back to hell just like Castiel had threatened. In the next moment, Dean’s completely disoriented. He always thought smiting would hurt more than this. Castiel’s hand is simply stroking his hair instead, and Dean’s nausea immediately subsides. In fact, he feels better than he has in...well...forever. His lungs open up, and it’s like somebody just lifted a tractor-trailer’s worth of concrete from his shoulders.
“God thinks so,” Castiel answers softly. Dean doesn’t know what to say to that so he concentrates on breathing for a minute instead. It feels easier, now; everything feels easier. When Dean finally tries to raise his head, Castiel’s hand scoops his chin from the ground as Dean rolls to his side. Castiel settles Dean’s head on his thigh, facing him, and his fingers brush away the small bits of gravel that got pressed into his cheek. Dean thinks he should be embarrassed at the tenderness, or, hey, maybe even turned on, what with his face that close to somebody’s groin, but instead he’s just...peaceful.
“My mom...she always used to say that angels...that they were watching over us.” He cringes; he doesn’t know why he’s spilling this now, except that the only other time he told that particular secret-to Sam-angels were involved then, too.
“And so we were. Watching down through the eons, waiting for you to be born. Most people are born with destinies already written for them.” Castiel’s fingers card through Dean’s hair again. His body feels like he’s never had an ache in his life, his mind like it’s never known a worry. This touched by an angel shit is the bomb.
“Most people?” His jaw works funny, smashed against the permanent press of Castiel’s black slacks, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. Ever.
“You, and Sam...your stories...” Castiel trails off, his fingers hovering behind Dean’s ear, and Dean immediately tenses up. Castiel’s leg shifts a little beneath Dean’s neck, and his head rolls on the angel’s thigh. Dean’s squinting up at Castiel’s face, expecting to be crushed again by whatever it is that even an angel has trouble telling him.
Castiel stares down at him, head artificially haloed in the streetlight, with an expression like Dean’s the one who’s talking in code and can’t be figured out. Castiel’s hand slips down into the dingy vee of his t-shirt, fingers tangling in the cord of Dean’s amulet, and finally palms flat to rest over Dean’s heart. Calm radiates out from the skin-to-skin contact, rippling like a pebble’s gone into a puddle.
“We’ve been watching for you because...your story has no ending.” Stunned, Dean blinks stupidly.
“What the hell does that mean?” His voice cracks, making “mean” into two syllables, a la Peter Brady. He doesn’t want to be special, knows for damned sure Sam doesn’t.
“It means...your ending...has not yet been written. You can make your own destiny.” Dean can practically hear the capital D in that.
“Just me?” Dean’s heart trips at the inference, like an out-of-tune engine. Even Castiel’s laying on of hands can’t soothe away the idea of Sam being stuck with his evil fate, while Dean whittles flutes in heaven or some shit. “What about Sam’s ending?” Castiel looks genuinely puzzled for a second, like whatever he thinks Dean is saying is something he has no frame of reference for. Then his face clears, and Dean sucks in a breath as Castiel’s fingers brush lightly over the restored tattoo on his chest.
“Dean.” Dean’s suddenly overflowing with feel-good vibes, like the magic fingers are being perpetually supplied with blessed quarters. He reads it like Castiel’s doing it on purpose, opening up the canals with a flood of heavenly Jack Daniels to overcompensate for cutting out the bullet without anesthetic.
“You and Sam...you only have one story. Together. Whatever happens, it began and will end with both of you in it.” Dean’s throat gets clogged, despite the good vibrations. “Surely you know that by now?” He swallows hard and nods; it’s not easy to do either, lying down. Dean’s always known that’s how he wanted it, but never really believed he’d get that lucky, that the final line of A Winchester Tale would have both “Sam” and “Dean” in it...one way or another.
“So you’re the good witch Glinda, sent to guide me down the yellow brick road?” Dean means it to sound more funny and less desperately hopeful than it ends up being. But he catches a glimpse of a smile from Castiel.
“I suppose you could have made me the flying monkey, all things being equal.” Dean smiles, and gets just a flash, a momentary impression of wings again. But this time it doesn’t feel all end-of-days like before...more like a glimpse of something you’d get flipping through on the remote.
“Flying into hell and back couldn’t have been easy.” For the first time, Dean stops to wonder if Castiel has any scars of his own, and if they ache when they’re in the same room, like the handprint on Dean’s shoulder. “I guess you drew the short straw, huh?” He’s visualizing a bunch of guys with wings sitting around, arguing over whose turn it is to take out the garbage.
“Not...no. It is meant to be an honor...a mark of God’s trust.” He’s speaking slowly, and for once, not looking at Dean, like he’s trying to maybe figure it out as he goes.
“But?” Dean prompts. Castiel’s hand on his chest feels like one of those icy-hot patches, cold and warm, with pleasant numbness radiating outward from it. Dean’d be happy to lie here on the greasy asphalt all night, so long as that feeling keeps pumping though his system.
“But sometimes, yes. It feels more like tribulation.” Dean grins at the pained expression on Castiel’s face.
“My second fifth grade teacher used to say something just like that,” he snorts, and Castiel nods in agreement.
“Yes. Mrs. Mulroney. She should have been less...enthusiastic...with her ruler.”
“Amen to that,” Dean agrees fervently.
Without warning, Dean’s suddenly on his feet again, but Castiel’s still holding onto him like a party favor. Which, hey. Fine by Dean; anything to keep the angel dust high coming.
“Your brother will wake soon, and you should be there. It’s time.”
“Wait!” Dean grips Castiel’s forearm, and the angel cocks his head, curious. “Can’t you find out? About Mom and Dad. I know it would help Sam, too, if we knew for sure. I- just. Please, okay?” Dean’s groveling now; he should feel guilty about playing Sam like he’s his hole card, but he doesn’t. And he figures deep down that the only reason it isn’t eating him up at the moment is because of the ripples of happy numbness Castiel’s still puttin’ out. As soon as he takes his hands off of Dean and the world comes rushing back, he’ll feel like a total jerk.
“Your parents died saving the lives of their children. Your mother gave hers for Sam, your father for you.” Castiel pauses, and Dean stares at the scuffs on Castiel’s regular business-guy shoes. Dean doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to look Castiel in the eye, but it seems like it’s what the angel is waiting for. He swallows hard and meets his gaze.
It hurts.
“God does not reward deeds, Dean. He isn’t throwing fish to dolphins. God recognizes goodness for what it is, and gives good people what they have earned themselves,” Castiel finishes.
“God’s a free-market capitalist?” Dean asks, and Castiel actually chuckles.
“Something like that.” Castiel’s fingers brush the tattoo again, and Dean shivers.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.” He’s pushing it, can tell by the way he feels like he has to glance away again. Castiel’s hand leaves his chest, but comes up to cup his chin instead, and Dean trembles, fuckin’ trembles, when the angel gets up close and leans in to speak soft and low into his ear. A trail of goosebumps spring up at the huff of Castiel’s breath, from Dean’s pulse point down to his collarbone. In his whole life, no one but Sam’s ever made his knees feel like they might dissolve at any minute. Until now.
“Faith. Faith is your answer, Dean.” When he lets go, Dean’s so completely lost and empty for a second that he almost wishes for the smiting instead. He’s felt...Sam would say bereft, or some other fancy word...only a few times in his life. Sam leaving for Stanford...Dad’s death...then Sam’s...but nothing’s ever been quite like this. He takes a few unsteady steps back, stilling when Castiel calls to him.
“Dean...” Castiel hesitates. Dean figures it’s probably not a good thing when an angel is picking and choosing his words. “Kittens.” Dean stares, something memory-fuzzy and hopeful beginning to work itself out in his head. “I have heard...there are lots of kittens in Heaven.”
Before Dean can really process that, he’s back in the motel room, and Sam’s still sawing logs in the king-size. Dean stares down at him as he strips out of his clothing. He’s pretty sure he’s got a blister on his pinky toe from where the boot rubbed, and Sam’s definitely not the only one with Dorito-feet now.
He slips under the sheet and curls in behind Sam, who somehow always finds a way to little-spoon himself back into Dean’s chest, even now that he’s all grown up and just about the size of a blue-ribbon Hereford. Dean buries his nose in the tangles at the base of Sam’s neck and inhales deeply, thinking about how Castiel’s hands grounded him. He tucks in shin-to-calf against Sam.
It feels pretty much the same.
Dean turns his face away from behind Sam’s ear, talking softly into the mole on his shoulder-blade instead, so Sam can’t hear his secrets. “Hey. Guess what Sammy,” he whispers, “I, uh. I think maybe Mom and Dad are in Heaven.”
That final confession drains the last bit of energy from Dean, and he drifts off to the blink -buzz of the motel’s neon. Sam doesn’t wake up, and for the first time since he got dealt the get-out-of-Hell-free card...neither does Dean.
Epilogue
“You shouldn’t get so attached to them.”
"It is not your concern, Cheriour.”
“But it should have been! Already your judgment lapses, Castiel, and the battle is near. We will all pay for your weakness.”
“Their endings are yet in shadow. They are strong, and will prevail.”
“Look at them! They are sinners, brothers who lie together. Undeserving of such favors, from your hand...or God’s.”
“So said Lucifer, before he was cast away.”
“If you fail...Lucifer will walk the earth once more.”
“Then we will see who is deserving...and who is the faithful fool.”
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing/Characters: 3900 words | PG13 | wee!Dean and John, Dean and Castiel; mentions of Sam/Dean.
Disclaimer: All characters property of the CW and Eric Kripke. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Summary: Dean realizes he’s forgotten something important, and he's got to make it right.
Notes: I haven’t seen 4.07 (or 4.08), but I’ve been told that there’s an accidental nod to 4.07 in this story, so spoilers up through 4.07. My thanks to essenceofmeanin , poisontaster , and apreludetoanend , all of whom had a look-see and offered some wonderful advice. Obviously with a trio like that weighing in, if anything still sucks it's all on me. This is a very belated happy birthday gift to my beloved brynwulf , whom I adore like Dean likes Pie Sam.
“Daddy?”
“C’mere, sport.” Just like that, he’s up and tucked into Daddy’s side. It smells like cars and baby soap, because Sammy’s there too, in Daddy’s other arm. “Did you have fun at Mrs. Carson’s today? How’s the new kittens?”
Daddy always knows when Dean needs a hug. His voice rumbles in Dean’s ear, just like the sound of ‘Pala when Daddy turns the key. It makes him feel safe and...and cozy. He learned about “cozy” when the kittens came, and Mrs. Carson showed them to Dean in their cardboard box, all squished up with the mommy-cat. She said they were all ‘cozy kittens’. Dean thinks maybe Sammy already knows ‘cozy’ too, and that’s why he likes it when Dean climbs into his bed with him.
“Somma their eyes are openin’, Daddy! But they’re ALL blue. Mrs. Carson says that’s how it is, that they’re blue when they’re little and sometimes they change and sometimes they don’t. There’s two black ones and three orange-y ones with stripes on their tails and one that’s all different colors mixed together. That’s called a cally-co cat!”
Daddy makes his hmms and his is-that-so’s, so that way Dean knows he’s listening and Dean can tell him more stuff. Sometimes Daddy is quiet, and then Dean knows he’s sleepy or sad, and when Daddy does that, Dean just snuggles with him instead, or gets Sammy’s bottle if he’s fussy so Daddy can have a rest.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?” Dean likes when Daddy says that, calls him ‘son’. It makes him feel bigger, and more important than just Dean.
“Daddy, was mommy a innicint?” Daddy gets really still. Dean thinks Daddy’s holding his breath, and he’s afraid he said something wrong. “Daddy?”
“What makes you wonder about that, Dean?” Daddy’s voice sounds a little snuffly, like Dean’s does sometimes after he cries a little. He didn’t mean to make Daddy sad. “Dean?”
“One of the kittens died today. There were three black ones, but now there’s only two. I was sad, but Mrs. Carson said not to be too sad. She said it was innicint, and God would take it to heaven and it would be happy there. So...” Dean stopped. It felt like he shouldn’t say it again. He wished he wouldn’t have said anything at all, now. Daddy’s arm that was around Dean’s back was shaking a little, like the kittens with their wobbly legs. Sammy must have felt it too. He was awake and staring with his big eyes - still blue, like the kittens. He looked like he was trying to decide if he wanted to cry or not.
“Yes, baby. Your mommy was innocent. She...she’s somewhere where nothing will hurt her ever again.”
“In heaven? With the kitty?”
“I think so, Dean. I think Mrs. Carson is right.” Daddy doesn’t sound so sure. Not like when he tells Dean not to jump on the couch or that he buttered the toast just right.
“Daddy?” This time Daddy doesn’t answer him at all, but his hand gives a little squeeze on Dean’s leg, so Dean figures he heard. And Daddy usually tells him if he doesn’t want Dean to talk, so... “Doesn’t the kitty miss his fambly? How can Mommy be happy in Heaven if we’re not with her?”
Daddy makes a funny noise, and Sammy starts to cry at the same time.
“The angels will make sure she’s happy, baby. The angels will take care of her and the kitty, okay?”
Dean pats Daddy’s wet, scratchy cheek.
* * * * *
Dean wakes with a jerk, fighting out from under the dream and gulping frantically for air. He thinks he must have called out, but Sam’s still sound asleep beside him. (Dean’s stopped using “dead to the world” - even in his head- ever since Cold Oak.) His heart is ribbitting in his chest, like it’s trying to knock itself out from between his ribs and get away from the lingering dream. Dean couldn’t blame it. How the fuck could he have forgotten about that? He should have found out already.
Edging out from under Sam’s arm, for once Dean’s thankful for his brother’s exhaustion. If Sam woke up now he’d go all twenty questions and insist on tagging along, and for the first time since Dean’s come back, he’s actually willing to leave Sam behind for a couple hours. He tries to tell himself that it’s because he doesn’t think Sam would be nearly as pretty with bleeding eardrums or exploding eyeballs, but deep down he knows he’s ashamed, and he doesn’t want Sam to be ashamed of him too. Dean Winchester, model son, finds out he’s got a personal feather-white hotline to CloudCity, and doesn’t even ask about his parents’ everlasting souls? Christ. What a fuck-up.
He scrambles into his clothes, shoving his feet into his boots without any socks. He doesn’t have any clean ones anyway, and going by the smell of Sam’s feet earlier, neither does he. Sam shifts for a minute when Dean’s fingers jingle the keys, but then resettles into the warm hollow Dean left behind, and Dean leans over and kisses his forehead. He usually only gets to do stuff like that when he’s drunk. Or when Sam is.
“Be back in a while, Sammy,” he whispers, but Sam doesn’t move. Good. Maybe he’ll still be here when Dean gets back.
* * * *
“CASTIEL!”
“Yes?”
“Sonofa-” Dean whirls. He doesn’t know what he expected, but an angel showing up as soon as he called...like Lurch when Morticia rings the bell...well, that probably isn’t it. He’d walked a mile or so until he’d found the burned-out strip-mall, and he was figuring on being out here screaming until he was hoarse. Or at least ‘til he got picked up for the drunk tank.
“I can’t help you, Dean.” Castiel has the same trench, the same loose tie. Dean vaguely wonders if angels have to bathe. Surely they’d get BO eventually, right?
“What do you mean?” Dean can feel his pulse speeding up. He had considered all the scenarios of this little outing, including that Castiel wouldn’t answer his question. He just hadn’t figured out any effective counter-measures. Dad would’ve kicked his ass for going into a situation with no plan B.
“I don’t know where your parents are. I can’t help you.” Dean just stares.
“How did you know what I...” Dean pauses. “Are you watching me all the time? Poking around whenever you want? What the fu-”
“Dean. No.” Castiel grips Dean’s shoulder, and Dean feels the scar-print flare in recognition of its maker. “It does not work that way.” Dean shrugs him off, but it leaves him dizzy, like he needs the support.
“Just how DOES it work, Cas?” Dean doesn’t know how this shit with Sam is gonna go down, but more and more it looks like his chances of taking Sam and trying to lay low if things go sideways are non-existent.
“You called out for me.”
“Yeah! Just now.” Dean paced. He can smell the oil some old beater had leaked onto the asphalt, and his feet, bare and loose inside his boots, feel unsteady on the slippery pavement. “So as soon as I call your name, that gives you the right to go diggin’ in my fuckin’ head?”
Castiel stays still, watching him, but doesn’t answer. Dean walks up to him, gets right in his face.
“Well? Is that how it works or not?!”
“Dean. Earlier. You called for me earlier.” Fuckin’ infuriating bast- whoa.
“Wait. What? W-what did you say?” Dean falters, steps back instinctively, trying to get some thinking space.
“When you woke up. You called for God. For forgiveness, for not thinking of your parents before now. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry to keep you on pins and needles,” Dean answers, but he feels like his smart-ass is only running at half-power. Castiel must feel it too, because instead of looking constipated, he just shrugs.
“I did the crossword.” He really did; Castiel’s wiped his hands on his coat at some point in the process, and Dean can see the newsprint ink left behind on the waterproofed beige. Of course he meant it literally.
“I...I should have asked you sooner.” He may as well cop to being a worthless shit. Castiel’s proven he can read his mind, so he already knows it anyway. “I...it...should have been the first thing I thought of,” Dean stutters. “I mean...when you suddenly find out that you’ve got your Own Personal Jesus, that’s what you do, right? You make sure your family’s okay. And I didn’t.” He manages to look up at the end, expecting a solemn face of judgment. But Castiel’s not even looking at him; he’s picking at a loose thread on his cuff-button.
“Yes. Because you had a great deal of time, between being raised from the dead, tracking down your errant brother, and fighting the minions of Lilith.” He gapes at Castiel. How the hell did Dean get to be Victor French anyway, playing the straight guy to Castiel’s Michael Landon?
“Minions?” Nobody really ever says minions. The look he gets is pure stone-face, and Castiel’s lips press even thinner.
“You blame yourself-again-and seek forgiveness where none is necessary. It would not have mattered if you had asked, Dean. I do not have the answers you seek.”
“Bullshit. How can you really not know where my mom and dad are? You’re an angel, for chrissak-” Dean trails off. Castiel seems pretty laid back, until he isn’t. Taking the lord’s name in vain while chatting with an angel might not be the best idea Dean’s ever had.
“How can you not know the population of Butte, Montana?” Castiel looms over him, and Dean flinches. He knows that if anyone was watching from the outside, he’d look like a bullied kid right now. “You’re an American,” Castiel growls back, and the deep, reverberating sound the “n” makes has Dean’s bones vibrating like tuning forks.
Dean’s hands feel damp, and his feet are starting to sweat and get slippery in his boots. He’s beginning to wish he’d brought Sam with him after all. He’s pretty certain that-minus his own personal pet demon tagging along-Sam could probably have a few minutes of polite conversation without pissing off an angel of God. Even if he was short-listed for the role of the Anti-Christ.
“You’re a little higher on the food chain than I am dude.” And Dean can practically feel the slope slipping away beneath him, but he can’t help himself. It’s like he’s watching from a distance, while someone else walks right into a clear and present fuck-up. He just wants to know they’re okay, and instead he’s apparently incapable of asking a simple question without pissing off an angel.
“And Heaven is more vast than the United States.”
“What? No Google in the great beyond?” And suddenly Dean’s on his hands and knees, sharp pebbles cutting holes into his palms. The night sky’s lit up like a super-nova, and all Dean can see is a photo-negative of huge wings seared onto the insides of his eyelids, like maybe he tried looking at an eclipse without one of those pin-hole foil boxes.
“I am not your secretary, you ungrateful wretch.” Dean still can’t see a damn thing, but he feels Castiel’s body bent close, his breath on the back of Dean’s neck, paralyzing with frost and fire all at once. Dean’s pretty sure he’s cowering, but he’s pretty sure he can’t do anything but ride it out, either. He has a perverse moment where he pictures Castiel filing his nails and bringing Dean a cup of coffee, but his desperate laugh turns into a sob and then he’s let go to land nose-down on a blob of someone’s ABC gum.
“In all the ages...all the long eons...there has been but a handful of humans that God has taken from the pit.” Castiel sinks to the ground next to Dean, legs crossing Indian-style and weight leaning back on his hands, as if they were just hanging out at a picnic. The abrupt blast and then absence of Castiel’s breath on his skin makes him clammy, and he’s getting bed spins in the middle of the parking lot. “You...are the only one who has shown so little gratitude afterwards...and so little faith...after so much proof.”
“I-I-” Dean’s gasping for breath, face still pressed to the ground. He can smell the left-over cinnamon flavor of the gum, and it makes his stomach turn over. He thinks he might barf a puddle of chili-dogs right next to Castiel’s knee. “I’ve been told I’m a real special snowflake.”
Dean feels Castiel’s hand come to rest on his hair, and he yelps but can’t move. Dean’s pushed too far, and now Castiel’s had it, and Dean’s probably headed back to hell just like Castiel had threatened. In the next moment, Dean’s completely disoriented. He always thought smiting would hurt more than this. Castiel’s hand is simply stroking his hair instead, and Dean’s nausea immediately subsides. In fact, he feels better than he has in...well...forever. His lungs open up, and it’s like somebody just lifted a tractor-trailer’s worth of concrete from his shoulders.
“God thinks so,” Castiel answers softly. Dean doesn’t know what to say to that so he concentrates on breathing for a minute instead. It feels easier, now; everything feels easier. When Dean finally tries to raise his head, Castiel’s hand scoops his chin from the ground as Dean rolls to his side. Castiel settles Dean’s head on his thigh, facing him, and his fingers brush away the small bits of gravel that got pressed into his cheek. Dean thinks he should be embarrassed at the tenderness, or, hey, maybe even turned on, what with his face that close to somebody’s groin, but instead he’s just...peaceful.
“My mom...she always used to say that angels...that they were watching over us.” He cringes; he doesn’t know why he’s spilling this now, except that the only other time he told that particular secret-to Sam-angels were involved then, too.
“And so we were. Watching down through the eons, waiting for you to be born. Most people are born with destinies already written for them.” Castiel’s fingers card through Dean’s hair again. His body feels like he’s never had an ache in his life, his mind like it’s never known a worry. This touched by an angel shit is the bomb.
“Most people?” His jaw works funny, smashed against the permanent press of Castiel’s black slacks, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. Ever.
“You, and Sam...your stories...” Castiel trails off, his fingers hovering behind Dean’s ear, and Dean immediately tenses up. Castiel’s leg shifts a little beneath Dean’s neck, and his head rolls on the angel’s thigh. Dean’s squinting up at Castiel’s face, expecting to be crushed again by whatever it is that even an angel has trouble telling him.
Castiel stares down at him, head artificially haloed in the streetlight, with an expression like Dean’s the one who’s talking in code and can’t be figured out. Castiel’s hand slips down into the dingy vee of his t-shirt, fingers tangling in the cord of Dean’s amulet, and finally palms flat to rest over Dean’s heart. Calm radiates out from the skin-to-skin contact, rippling like a pebble’s gone into a puddle.
“We’ve been watching for you because...your story has no ending.” Stunned, Dean blinks stupidly.
“What the hell does that mean?” His voice cracks, making “mean” into two syllables, a la Peter Brady. He doesn’t want to be special, knows for damned sure Sam doesn’t.
“It means...your ending...has not yet been written. You can make your own destiny.” Dean can practically hear the capital D in that.
“Just me?” Dean’s heart trips at the inference, like an out-of-tune engine. Even Castiel’s laying on of hands can’t soothe away the idea of Sam being stuck with his evil fate, while Dean whittles flutes in heaven or some shit. “What about Sam’s ending?” Castiel looks genuinely puzzled for a second, like whatever he thinks Dean is saying is something he has no frame of reference for. Then his face clears, and Dean sucks in a breath as Castiel’s fingers brush lightly over the restored tattoo on his chest.
“Dean.” Dean’s suddenly overflowing with feel-good vibes, like the magic fingers are being perpetually supplied with blessed quarters. He reads it like Castiel’s doing it on purpose, opening up the canals with a flood of heavenly Jack Daniels to overcompensate for cutting out the bullet without anesthetic.
“You and Sam...you only have one story. Together. Whatever happens, it began and will end with both of you in it.” Dean’s throat gets clogged, despite the good vibrations. “Surely you know that by now?” He swallows hard and nods; it’s not easy to do either, lying down. Dean’s always known that’s how he wanted it, but never really believed he’d get that lucky, that the final line of A Winchester Tale would have both “Sam” and “Dean” in it...one way or another.
“So you’re the good witch Glinda, sent to guide me down the yellow brick road?” Dean means it to sound more funny and less desperately hopeful than it ends up being. But he catches a glimpse of a smile from Castiel.
“I suppose you could have made me the flying monkey, all things being equal.” Dean smiles, and gets just a flash, a momentary impression of wings again. But this time it doesn’t feel all end-of-days like before...more like a glimpse of something you’d get flipping through on the remote.
“Flying into hell and back couldn’t have been easy.” For the first time, Dean stops to wonder if Castiel has any scars of his own, and if they ache when they’re in the same room, like the handprint on Dean’s shoulder. “I guess you drew the short straw, huh?” He’s visualizing a bunch of guys with wings sitting around, arguing over whose turn it is to take out the garbage.
“Not...no. It is meant to be an honor...a mark of God’s trust.” He’s speaking slowly, and for once, not looking at Dean, like he’s trying to maybe figure it out as he goes.
“But?” Dean prompts. Castiel’s hand on his chest feels like one of those icy-hot patches, cold and warm, with pleasant numbness radiating outward from it. Dean’d be happy to lie here on the greasy asphalt all night, so long as that feeling keeps pumping though his system.
“But sometimes, yes. It feels more like tribulation.” Dean grins at the pained expression on Castiel’s face.
“My second fifth grade teacher used to say something just like that,” he snorts, and Castiel nods in agreement.
“Yes. Mrs. Mulroney. She should have been less...enthusiastic...with her ruler.”
“Amen to that,” Dean agrees fervently.
Without warning, Dean’s suddenly on his feet again, but Castiel’s still holding onto him like a party favor. Which, hey. Fine by Dean; anything to keep the angel dust high coming.
“Your brother will wake soon, and you should be there. It’s time.”
“Wait!” Dean grips Castiel’s forearm, and the angel cocks his head, curious. “Can’t you find out? About Mom and Dad. I know it would help Sam, too, if we knew for sure. I- just. Please, okay?” Dean’s groveling now; he should feel guilty about playing Sam like he’s his hole card, but he doesn’t. And he figures deep down that the only reason it isn’t eating him up at the moment is because of the ripples of happy numbness Castiel’s still puttin’ out. As soon as he takes his hands off of Dean and the world comes rushing back, he’ll feel like a total jerk.
“Your parents died saving the lives of their children. Your mother gave hers for Sam, your father for you.” Castiel pauses, and Dean stares at the scuffs on Castiel’s regular business-guy shoes. Dean doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to look Castiel in the eye, but it seems like it’s what the angel is waiting for. He swallows hard and meets his gaze.
It hurts.
“God does not reward deeds, Dean. He isn’t throwing fish to dolphins. God recognizes goodness for what it is, and gives good people what they have earned themselves,” Castiel finishes.
“God’s a free-market capitalist?” Dean asks, and Castiel actually chuckles.
“Something like that.” Castiel’s fingers brush the tattoo again, and Dean shivers.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.” He’s pushing it, can tell by the way he feels like he has to glance away again. Castiel’s hand leaves his chest, but comes up to cup his chin instead, and Dean trembles, fuckin’ trembles, when the angel gets up close and leans in to speak soft and low into his ear. A trail of goosebumps spring up at the huff of Castiel’s breath, from Dean’s pulse point down to his collarbone. In his whole life, no one but Sam’s ever made his knees feel like they might dissolve at any minute. Until now.
“Faith. Faith is your answer, Dean.” When he lets go, Dean’s so completely lost and empty for a second that he almost wishes for the smiting instead. He’s felt...Sam would say bereft, or some other fancy word...only a few times in his life. Sam leaving for Stanford...Dad’s death...then Sam’s...but nothing’s ever been quite like this. He takes a few unsteady steps back, stilling when Castiel calls to him.
“Dean...” Castiel hesitates. Dean figures it’s probably not a good thing when an angel is picking and choosing his words. “Kittens.” Dean stares, something memory-fuzzy and hopeful beginning to work itself out in his head. “I have heard...there are lots of kittens in Heaven.”
Before Dean can really process that, he’s back in the motel room, and Sam’s still sawing logs in the king-size. Dean stares down at him as he strips out of his clothing. He’s pretty sure he’s got a blister on his pinky toe from where the boot rubbed, and Sam’s definitely not the only one with Dorito-feet now.
He slips under the sheet and curls in behind Sam, who somehow always finds a way to little-spoon himself back into Dean’s chest, even now that he’s all grown up and just about the size of a blue-ribbon Hereford. Dean buries his nose in the tangles at the base of Sam’s neck and inhales deeply, thinking about how Castiel’s hands grounded him. He tucks in shin-to-calf against Sam.
It feels pretty much the same.
Dean turns his face away from behind Sam’s ear, talking softly into the mole on his shoulder-blade instead, so Sam can’t hear his secrets. “Hey. Guess what Sammy,” he whispers, “I, uh. I think maybe Mom and Dad are in Heaven.”
That final confession drains the last bit of energy from Dean, and he drifts off to the blink -buzz of the motel’s neon. Sam doesn’t wake up, and for the first time since he got dealt the get-out-of-Hell-free card...neither does Dean.
Epilogue
“You shouldn’t get so attached to them.”
"It is not your concern, Cheriour.”
“But it should have been! Already your judgment lapses, Castiel, and the battle is near. We will all pay for your weakness.”
“Their endings are yet in shadow. They are strong, and will prevail.”
“Look at them! They are sinners, brothers who lie together. Undeserving of such favors, from your hand...or God’s.”
“So said Lucifer, before he was cast away.”
“If you fail...Lucifer will walk the earth once more.”
“Then we will see who is deserving...and who is the faithful fool.”