The Service - Supernatural
Title: The Service
Author: transientlight
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Ellen, Jo, Bobby (Slight Dean/Castiel)
Spoilers: Spoilers for Episode 5.10
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: Dean and Sam attend Ellen's funeral.
A/N: This fic has been Kripke'd to the hilt...
Truck drivers on their way to Connecticut find Ellen sprawled in a pit, her throat slit, chest gashed, a pentagram clutched in her hand, on Monday.
Dean receives the call from Bobby around three in the morning on Tuesday. Bobby doesn’t go into details, his voice hollow. He can hardly speak. The boys don’t need anymore bad news.
Dean’s mind spins as Bobby talks, his fingers going numb, and he forgets how to hold a phone.
Bobby listens to the silence and doesn’t say anything until Dean’s cracked “How?”
Bobby pauses, half expecting to hear more anger in Dean’s tone. A “who are the bastards who did this and how can I kill the sonofabitches?” But nothing comes. Just the squeak of bed springs as Dean sits.
“Demons. A hord of evil bastards. Ellen just couldn’t stop’em all.”
“Jo?”
“She’s fine. Wasn’t hunting.”
“Good.”
“The service is on Thursday. Jo’s gonna scatter her ashes round Ellen’s hunting ground near the bar.” Bobby waits a beat for a response. “You commin?”
“Yeah. We’ll be there.” Bobby hears Dean’s voice crack, the phone cold against his ear.
“Do you want me to tell Sam?”
“No. I’ll… I can do it.” Dean says.
“If you need anything… you phone, you hear Dean?” Bobby sounds like dad and Dean’s hand trembles.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll be seeing you boys on Thursday then.”
“Yeah.”
“Dean. Take good care of yourself and Sam.” Bobby says, his voice low and warm.
“Yeah.” Pause. “You too Bobby.”
Bobby hears the soft click as Dean hangs up and the ringtone. “Don't going and doing somethin stupid boys,” he says into the silence. Bobby tries not to think it’s a prayer.
Sam just sits there when Dean tells him about Ellen. Dean waits for his brother to cry or yell or crumple, his own eyes bloodshot, voice horse, and the familiar taste of beer in his mouth.
Sam doesn’t cry. He doesn’t yell or ask for a beer. He gets up and starts packing, meticulously putting his things into his duffel bag. He slides knives up his sleeves and wraps a thick piece of leather around his ankle and slips in a dagger.
“Sam - ”
“We should go soon.” Sam keeps packing. “Kill those bastards for Ellen.”
Sam sounds tough, like Dean when he’s in charge. But underneath the voice, Dean can hear the quaver, see the slight shake in Sam’s legs and the fumble in his fingers.
“Sam, we gotta go to her service.” Dean has to keep on looking forward, always steps away from tripping and smashing. He can’t give into Sam even as the anger in his chest swells. The burn to kill those sonsofabitches and make them pay for what they did. He has to focus on the fight against hell and those angel pricks. He has to.
“After. We have to do something Dean. I can’t let those sonsofabitches go free.” Sam says, Dean looking at his brother - himself, the words like Sam and unlike him. Sam sounds like the man Dean had been. No. The man he is and wants to change.
“Let’s go to the service first. Jo needs us.” Dean listens to himself. He sounds older. His own voice heavier with age.
“But Dean we can’t just - ”
“No, we can Sam.” Dean wants to hit something. Smash his fists into the wall until they bleed and all he can taste is blood. “I want those sonsofabitches dead as much as you do, but we have to see…” Dean struggles back the word mom, “Ellen off. We can’t let her - ”
Dean’s voice cracks, his nails digging into the pit of his palms. “We have to go Sammy.”
Sam stops collecting his things.
“Dean - ”
“We’ll leave tomorrow.” Dean turns away and walks out. He wishes Sam had cried so he could.
There are a bunch of hunters at the memorial that Dean has never seen. He recognizes a few names from his dad’s weathered book, but can’t remember what his dad wrote about them. He looks around and see's Sam standing by the food slash booze buffet table. Sam’s not eating or drinking, but lingering, giving him an excuse to not be by his brother.
Jo goes from hunter to hunter excepting condolences, her eyes strong and handshakes firm; only the red dots underneath her eyes and the way that she hugs herself when she believes no one is watching shows her pain.
“She’s a strong girl,” Bobby says as he wheels up to Dean.
“Yeah, she sure is.” Dean says, seeing how much Jo’s changed. How the word “girl” doesn’t fit her anymore.
“How are yo - how is Sam hangin on?” Bobby says, trying to sound unquestioning and laid back. But the concern filters through. The father trying to console the wayward son.
“Good.” Dean lies. He can’t tell Bobby how him and Sam haven’t talked since the news. How he’s so angry inside that he’s ready to punch anyone who makes one wrong move. Hopes someone does. And how he feels bad because part of the anger comes from the fact that Sam seems be to handling Ellen’s death better then he is… or worse… but is better at hiding it. Sam has changed again and Dean doesn’t know where he fits.
Jo comes over and smiles at Dean and Bobby. “Thanks for coming. My mom would be happy that you’re here.” The words tumble from her mouth, Dean not knowing how many times she’s had to say the same lines over again. How fake her smile is.
Jo extends her hand and Dean feels compelled to pull her into a hug. Feel her shake as she cries and let his t-shirt soak up the tears.
He grips her hand and squeezes her shoulder, looking straight into her eyes. Hoping he’s saying everything there, because he can’t speak. Not in front of the hunters. Not in front of Sam and Bobby.
Jo leans down and hugs Bobby, the man batting back tears. She pulls back and looks to the booze buffet.
“Have some drinks. The tabs on us tonight. Mom wouldn’t want anyone coming out of her funeral sober.” Jo makes a move to smile and for a moment her eyes light up as she leaves.
Sam hugs Jo when she comes to him and makes her smile full.
Dean tells Bobby he has to go to the washroom and finds himself at the Impala. He sits in the old leather seats and waits for the rush of tears.
Dean’s in his motel room when Castiel arrives.
He’s curled on his side, staring at a fat crack in the old mossy green motel wall. He feels Castiel looking at him and glances up, the angel's blue eyes saying everything, giving Dean everything, one more brick wall crumpling.
Castiel only says “Dean,” as he tilts his head, his hand coming forward and resting on Dean’s shoulder.
The last part of resistance breaks in Dean and he knows he’s crying, salty tears at the corner of his lips. He feels detached form his body. Detached from the world that keeps revolving when he’s not.
The bed dips as Castiel sits. Dean feels Castiel’s coat against his arm and the angels back against his thighs.
Dean rolls to the left of the bed and lies on his back, the last of his tears tapering down his cheeks. He closes his sore eyes and hears Castiel shift, his feet scrape against the wood floor.
“It creeps me out when you watch me, Cas.” Dean doesn’t open his eyes.
It’s like wind passing through his mind as Castiel reads his thoughts, figuring out what Dean wants him to do. He opens his eyes then. Watches as Castiel rigidly takes of his shoes like he’s never done it before (Dean figures the angel hasn’t). He lies quietly beside Dean, folding his hands across his chest. The angel looks up at the ceiling unsure of what to do next, his body as tight as wire.
“Close your eyes and relax.” Dean says, his and Castiel’s shoulders bumping. A calm comes over Dean as the past few hours fall to the back of his mind. “I can’t sleep if I’m lying next to piece of wood.”
Castiel relaxes slightly at the sight of Dean’s teasing grin. His shoulders droop, the muscles in his throat slacking.
Dean shuts his eyes and listens to the small movements that Castiel makes as he fiddles with his tie.
Jo scatters Ellen’s ashes as the sun sets, the sky burnished in reds and oranges. Her bar a black spot on the horizon.
She leads them on an old trail in the bushes, the hunters carrying flashing lights to illuminate the way. Dean helps Bobby wheel through the pebbled path, until they come to a clearing - an old lot with a dugout fire pit and a garbage bin filled with beer cans. Two lawn chairs sit in the middle, old and rickety looking, rusted through. Jo scatters her mom’s ashes around the pit and sprinkles them around the lawn chairs, her hand unsteady. She looks as if she’s going to speak, say something like “This is where me and my mom came to relax after a hunt.” But she doesn’t say anything and one of the hunters Dean can’t really remember cracks open a beer. He takes a large swig, rivulets of beer soaking into his bushy beard. He raises his can, swallowing.
“To the best damn hunter. To Ellen.” He drinks again, the other hunters repeating “to Ellen,” beers being passed around, Bobby handing Dean one.
Jo looks like she’ll cry, but keeps it together, drinking and laughing as the hunting stories about her mom start to surface - the hunters gathering around the pit. She sheds a few tears as she laughs, but no one says nothing. No one says nothing when a hunter cries.
Dean doesn’t let himself get drunk (even if the pull of the bottle threatens to take him under), Sam knocking them back for them both. Dean looks into the crackling pit of the fire and at the sky, believing in heaven for a moment. Just for Ellen.
Sam’s a tumbling drunk and Dean half carries and drags his brother to the motel. He dumps Sam onto his bed, sighing and shaking his head. Sam struggles to get up, his beer goggles inhibiting him.
“Go to sleep Sam.” Dean pushes his brother back gently. Sam falls without a fuss.
“I can’t believe she’s dead.” Sam says, Dean’s fingers wrapped around the door handle. “And I know its because of us.”
“Sam, don’t start this.” Dean says, his body heavy, his eyes burning; he’s not in the mood for a Winchester pity party.
“She’s dead. Dead. Ellen’s dead like mom.”
“Sam - ”
“We couldn’t stop either of their deaths, Dean. But somehow we keep on coming back alive.” Sam finally cries. “We keep living. Keep making deals and the people we love keep dying.”
Sam’s body starts to shake as he cries. Dean can’t move from his spot, his fingers white against the gold doorknob.
Sam gets up to wipe his face or take a piss after his body stops trembling, unsteady on his feet. Sam passes his brother, Dean reaching out, leaving the safety of the door. He brings Sam into a hug and holds him, gripping him like the day he found Sam after Hell.
Dean can feel Sam crying and he pulls away and looks his baby brother in the eyes, placing a hand on his cheek.
“I love you, Sam.” Dean says, wishing he could say it more. Sam looks as if he’s about to dissolve into a flood of tears and Dean pulls him into another hug, kissing Sammy roughly on the cheek like dad did when they were young. Dean can’t hear what Sam says into the fabric of his t-shirt, but after he tucks Sammy into bed like his brother’s five again, he hears “I love you too Dean.”
Dean can feel himself start to revolve with the world again.
Author: transientlight
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Ellen, Jo, Bobby (Slight Dean/Castiel)
Spoilers: Spoilers for Episode 5.10
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: Dean and Sam attend Ellen's funeral.
A/N: This fic has been Kripke'd to the hilt...
Truck drivers on their way to Connecticut find Ellen sprawled in a pit, her throat slit, chest gashed, a pentagram clutched in her hand, on Monday.
Dean receives the call from Bobby around three in the morning on Tuesday. Bobby doesn’t go into details, his voice hollow. He can hardly speak. The boys don’t need anymore bad news.
Dean’s mind spins as Bobby talks, his fingers going numb, and he forgets how to hold a phone.
Bobby listens to the silence and doesn’t say anything until Dean’s cracked “How?”
Bobby pauses, half expecting to hear more anger in Dean’s tone. A “who are the bastards who did this and how can I kill the sonofabitches?” But nothing comes. Just the squeak of bed springs as Dean sits.
“Demons. A hord of evil bastards. Ellen just couldn’t stop’em all.”
“Jo?”
“She’s fine. Wasn’t hunting.”
“Good.”
“The service is on Thursday. Jo’s gonna scatter her ashes round Ellen’s hunting ground near the bar.” Bobby waits a beat for a response. “You commin?”
“Yeah. We’ll be there.” Bobby hears Dean’s voice crack, the phone cold against his ear.
“Do you want me to tell Sam?”
“No. I’ll… I can do it.” Dean says.
“If you need anything… you phone, you hear Dean?” Bobby sounds like dad and Dean’s hand trembles.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll be seeing you boys on Thursday then.”
“Yeah.”
“Dean. Take good care of yourself and Sam.” Bobby says, his voice low and warm.
“Yeah.” Pause. “You too Bobby.”
Bobby hears the soft click as Dean hangs up and the ringtone. “Don't going and doing somethin stupid boys,” he says into the silence. Bobby tries not to think it’s a prayer.
Sam just sits there when Dean tells him about Ellen. Dean waits for his brother to cry or yell or crumple, his own eyes bloodshot, voice horse, and the familiar taste of beer in his mouth.
Sam doesn’t cry. He doesn’t yell or ask for a beer. He gets up and starts packing, meticulously putting his things into his duffel bag. He slides knives up his sleeves and wraps a thick piece of leather around his ankle and slips in a dagger.
“Sam - ”
“We should go soon.” Sam keeps packing. “Kill those bastards for Ellen.”
Sam sounds tough, like Dean when he’s in charge. But underneath the voice, Dean can hear the quaver, see the slight shake in Sam’s legs and the fumble in his fingers.
“Sam, we gotta go to her service.” Dean has to keep on looking forward, always steps away from tripping and smashing. He can’t give into Sam even as the anger in his chest swells. The burn to kill those sonsofabitches and make them pay for what they did. He has to focus on the fight against hell and those angel pricks. He has to.
“After. We have to do something Dean. I can’t let those sonsofabitches go free.” Sam says, Dean looking at his brother - himself, the words like Sam and unlike him. Sam sounds like the man Dean had been. No. The man he is and wants to change.
“Let’s go to the service first. Jo needs us.” Dean listens to himself. He sounds older. His own voice heavier with age.
“But Dean we can’t just - ”
“No, we can Sam.” Dean wants to hit something. Smash his fists into the wall until they bleed and all he can taste is blood. “I want those sonsofabitches dead as much as you do, but we have to see…” Dean struggles back the word mom, “Ellen off. We can’t let her - ”
Dean’s voice cracks, his nails digging into the pit of his palms. “We have to go Sammy.”
Sam stops collecting his things.
“Dean - ”
“We’ll leave tomorrow.” Dean turns away and walks out. He wishes Sam had cried so he could.
There are a bunch of hunters at the memorial that Dean has never seen. He recognizes a few names from his dad’s weathered book, but can’t remember what his dad wrote about them. He looks around and see's Sam standing by the food slash booze buffet table. Sam’s not eating or drinking, but lingering, giving him an excuse to not be by his brother.
Jo goes from hunter to hunter excepting condolences, her eyes strong and handshakes firm; only the red dots underneath her eyes and the way that she hugs herself when she believes no one is watching shows her pain.
“She’s a strong girl,” Bobby says as he wheels up to Dean.
“Yeah, she sure is.” Dean says, seeing how much Jo’s changed. How the word “girl” doesn’t fit her anymore.
“How are yo - how is Sam hangin on?” Bobby says, trying to sound unquestioning and laid back. But the concern filters through. The father trying to console the wayward son.
“Good.” Dean lies. He can’t tell Bobby how him and Sam haven’t talked since the news. How he’s so angry inside that he’s ready to punch anyone who makes one wrong move. Hopes someone does. And how he feels bad because part of the anger comes from the fact that Sam seems be to handling Ellen’s death better then he is… or worse… but is better at hiding it. Sam has changed again and Dean doesn’t know where he fits.
Jo comes over and smiles at Dean and Bobby. “Thanks for coming. My mom would be happy that you’re here.” The words tumble from her mouth, Dean not knowing how many times she’s had to say the same lines over again. How fake her smile is.
Jo extends her hand and Dean feels compelled to pull her into a hug. Feel her shake as she cries and let his t-shirt soak up the tears.
He grips her hand and squeezes her shoulder, looking straight into her eyes. Hoping he’s saying everything there, because he can’t speak. Not in front of the hunters. Not in front of Sam and Bobby.
Jo leans down and hugs Bobby, the man batting back tears. She pulls back and looks to the booze buffet.
“Have some drinks. The tabs on us tonight. Mom wouldn’t want anyone coming out of her funeral sober.” Jo makes a move to smile and for a moment her eyes light up as she leaves.
Sam hugs Jo when she comes to him and makes her smile full.
Dean tells Bobby he has to go to the washroom and finds himself at the Impala. He sits in the old leather seats and waits for the rush of tears.
Dean’s in his motel room when Castiel arrives.
He’s curled on his side, staring at a fat crack in the old mossy green motel wall. He feels Castiel looking at him and glances up, the angel's blue eyes saying everything, giving Dean everything, one more brick wall crumpling.
Castiel only says “Dean,” as he tilts his head, his hand coming forward and resting on Dean’s shoulder.
The last part of resistance breaks in Dean and he knows he’s crying, salty tears at the corner of his lips. He feels detached form his body. Detached from the world that keeps revolving when he’s not.
The bed dips as Castiel sits. Dean feels Castiel’s coat against his arm and the angels back against his thighs.
Dean rolls to the left of the bed and lies on his back, the last of his tears tapering down his cheeks. He closes his sore eyes and hears Castiel shift, his feet scrape against the wood floor.
“It creeps me out when you watch me, Cas.” Dean doesn’t open his eyes.
It’s like wind passing through his mind as Castiel reads his thoughts, figuring out what Dean wants him to do. He opens his eyes then. Watches as Castiel rigidly takes of his shoes like he’s never done it before (Dean figures the angel hasn’t). He lies quietly beside Dean, folding his hands across his chest. The angel looks up at the ceiling unsure of what to do next, his body as tight as wire.
“Close your eyes and relax.” Dean says, his and Castiel’s shoulders bumping. A calm comes over Dean as the past few hours fall to the back of his mind. “I can’t sleep if I’m lying next to piece of wood.”
Castiel relaxes slightly at the sight of Dean’s teasing grin. His shoulders droop, the muscles in his throat slacking.
Dean shuts his eyes and listens to the small movements that Castiel makes as he fiddles with his tie.
Jo scatters Ellen’s ashes as the sun sets, the sky burnished in reds and oranges. Her bar a black spot on the horizon.
She leads them on an old trail in the bushes, the hunters carrying flashing lights to illuminate the way. Dean helps Bobby wheel through the pebbled path, until they come to a clearing - an old lot with a dugout fire pit and a garbage bin filled with beer cans. Two lawn chairs sit in the middle, old and rickety looking, rusted through. Jo scatters her mom’s ashes around the pit and sprinkles them around the lawn chairs, her hand unsteady. She looks as if she’s going to speak, say something like “This is where me and my mom came to relax after a hunt.” But she doesn’t say anything and one of the hunters Dean can’t really remember cracks open a beer. He takes a large swig, rivulets of beer soaking into his bushy beard. He raises his can, swallowing.
“To the best damn hunter. To Ellen.” He drinks again, the other hunters repeating “to Ellen,” beers being passed around, Bobby handing Dean one.
Jo looks like she’ll cry, but keeps it together, drinking and laughing as the hunting stories about her mom start to surface - the hunters gathering around the pit. She sheds a few tears as she laughs, but no one says nothing. No one says nothing when a hunter cries.
Dean doesn’t let himself get drunk (even if the pull of the bottle threatens to take him under), Sam knocking them back for them both. Dean looks into the crackling pit of the fire and at the sky, believing in heaven for a moment. Just for Ellen.
Sam’s a tumbling drunk and Dean half carries and drags his brother to the motel. He dumps Sam onto his bed, sighing and shaking his head. Sam struggles to get up, his beer goggles inhibiting him.
“Go to sleep Sam.” Dean pushes his brother back gently. Sam falls without a fuss.
“I can’t believe she’s dead.” Sam says, Dean’s fingers wrapped around the door handle. “And I know its because of us.”
“Sam, don’t start this.” Dean says, his body heavy, his eyes burning; he’s not in the mood for a Winchester pity party.
“She’s dead. Dead. Ellen’s dead like mom.”
“Sam - ”
“We couldn’t stop either of their deaths, Dean. But somehow we keep on coming back alive.” Sam finally cries. “We keep living. Keep making deals and the people we love keep dying.”
Sam’s body starts to shake as he cries. Dean can’t move from his spot, his fingers white against the gold doorknob.
Sam gets up to wipe his face or take a piss after his body stops trembling, unsteady on his feet. Sam passes his brother, Dean reaching out, leaving the safety of the door. He brings Sam into a hug and holds him, gripping him like the day he found Sam after Hell.
Dean can feel Sam crying and he pulls away and looks his baby brother in the eyes, placing a hand on his cheek.
“I love you, Sam.” Dean says, wishing he could say it more. Sam looks as if he’s about to dissolve into a flood of tears and Dean pulls him into another hug, kissing Sammy roughly on the cheek like dad did when they were young. Dean can’t hear what Sam says into the fabric of his t-shirt, but after he tucks Sammy into bed like his brother’s five again, he hears “I love you too Dean.”
Dean can feel himself start to revolve with the world again.