Entertaining Angels THE END
Dec. 23rd, 2008 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maychorianWord Count: 1653
(Don't skip Part A! http://maychorian.livejournal.com/70653.html)
Part 21.B
“We did it. We did it, Dean.”
They had done it. Sam and Dean Winchester had killed a dragon. Sam grinned at his brother over the dead beast’s head, heat surging through his veins, fierce and bright. It was finished. They had killed it together.
Dean just stared back at him grimly, though, no joy in his face. Sam’s grin faltered.
He looked to Bobby, moving toward them, carrying the closed ritual book in one hand. The older man was grinning, too, his steps light as he walked through the patches of scorched earth. “Hell of a thing, boys,” he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder and gazing proudly down at the dead dragon. “Hell of a thing.”
Dean nodded. He snapped Ruby’s knife out of the dragon’s head with a sick slurping sound, wiped it on the dirt, sheathed it. Then he started walking back toward the house. There was no victory in his posture, his expression. For the life of him, Sam couldn’t figure out what was going on.
He realized that he was still holding the lance and let it go. “Bobby, will you finish up here?” The question was distracted, and he barely spared the second it took to see Bobby’s nod before he headed after his brother.
“Dean? What’s going on, man?”
Dean just shook his head, still walking. Sam followed at his heels, suddenly worried. He would have expected Dean to be crowing, cocky, incandescent with delight. Instead he looked…defeated.
Up the porch and into the house, and Sam gasped at the tall, dark figure standing over the couch, looking down at the sleeping boy. He reached forward to grab Dean’s arm, expecting him to be in full fighting mode, but his brother just stood there, breathing harshly in and out. The intruder turned, and Sam understood it even less. Uriel, strangely less belligerent than the last time they’d seen him, his shoulders slumped and weary.
“You finally got my message, monkey,” he said to Dean, but his voice lacked the condescension that should have been there.
“You finally let me remember it, dickhead,” Dean said in the same tone.
Sam blinked, hard. “Dean, what…”
The other man finally turned to look at him, barely holding back a sigh. “Dickhead here has been trying to talk to me in my dreams for the last few days, but somehow we never quite came to an understanding until today.”
“You…you burned the hex bag? Why?”
“Because Castiel is dying,” Uriel said, deigning to look at Sam for a split-second, his dark eyes hot and high. “And as stupid as your brother is, he has enough brain cells firing, however erratically, to realize that only I can heal him.”
Sam looked to his brother, and Dean looked back at him, green eyes large and mournful. So it was true. “But how…”
“He found Cas’s grace. Demons took it, scattered it all over. Uriel found it, brought it back.”
“But that means…”
“He’ll be an angel again,” Uriel confirmed. “He was never meant to be a human—of course you must realize this. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“A week? You’re surprised he lasted a week?” Sam laughed, hard and angry, and realized that tears were springing up in his eyes, unwanted, unwelcome, but undeniable. “So you’re saying that God made a mistake then, giving him a body, sending him down here. I thought God didn’t make mistakes?”
Uriel’s forehead wrinkled. “Where did you get that idiotic idea? God didn’t do this. Castiel chose. He used the last bit of grace he had—far too little for the task—and he brought himself down here of his own volition. Of course it was imperfect. He was nearly dead at the time, far from capable of performing such a feat well.”
Dean drew in a breath, shaking his head in sudden confusion. “What, and you’re okay with this? With your angel brother choosing to be a human? I woulda thought you’d be pissed about something like that.”
The dark angel gave him a glare, hard and real, pushing away his weariness. “Of course I’m not ‘okay with this.’ Castiel was wounded, his judgment impaired. He needed somewhere to recuperate and he chose poorly, that’s all. I will not abandon my brother for making one foolish decision while delirious and near death.”
“So you’ve come to rectify his mistake.” Dean folded his arms over his chest, but Sam could see that it was more to shield himself than to display any real stubbornness. Dean had accepted this.
This sucked. Sam might even go so far as to say that it sucked out loud.
He wanted to ask Uriel to just heal the boy and let him be. Angels could do that, right? Castiel had healed Dean.
But Uriel would never do that. He would never leave an angel, even transformed into a child, in the care of humans. And he wanted his brother back. Sam could understand that.
It didn’t stop the ridiculous, useless tears from streaming down his face, though. Sam wiped at them angrily, but that didn’t really help either. Dean was dry-eyed, and he was stupidly furious at him for it.
There was nothing else to say. Uriel turned away from them and knelt by the couch, resting his hand on the little boy’s head. It was so strange to see tenderness in this being of prejudice and rage and destructive power, but there it was, soft and bright. Castiel didn’t even shift under the touch, too far gone to realize that his brother had come for him.
Uriel put his hands to his chest, and when he drew them out they were full of soft, glimmering light. This time it was not imprisoned in a vial, just held gently in large, callused hands, pooling and swirling as if alive. He poured the grace onto the boy’s chest, letting it roll out of his hands like a lost pet brought home to its griefstricken owner.
“Close your eyes,” he said softly.
Sam obeyed, hoping that Dean was, too. Behind his closed eyelids, light burgeoned and grew until the purity was unbearable, stabbing through the thin shield of flesh, and he raised his hands to cover himself in darkness.
When he lowered his hands, blinking hard and fast, Castiel and Uriel were gone.
Dean stood there silent for a moment, then lifted Missouri’s afghan from the couch, abandoned and crumpled, empty. Slowly, carefully, he folded it in half, in quarters, in eighths. Then he held it to his chest, wrapped his arms around it.
He didn’t say a word.
Epilogue
Another town, another playground. This time it was in one of the warmer states, still nice out despite the month. Sometimes Dean sort of hated himself for always gravitating to these places. But there was still something peaceful, something right, about watching children play, innocent and free, ignorant of the darkness. Despite everything, he still felt better, sitting on this bench, drinking his coffee and listening to young laughter ringing in the air.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean felt a smile spread over him, soft and real, and then turned his head to look, knowing what he’d see. “You got your old vessel back.”
Castiel nodded, self-consciously fingering the opening of his trench coat. Dean looked away, remembering little fingers that had loved rubbing over fabrics, feeling textures, exploring the world. “I had left him behind, going off to think alone. It was…foolish of me. When I was isolated, that was when they attacked.”
“Yeah, and we all know how that worked out.”
Castiel nodded gravely.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the children play.
Dean didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “What…what do you remember?”
“Everything, I think. Not all of it clear, though.” Castiel tilted his head, staring at him. Still those same impenetrable blue eyes, yet somehow Dean felt that he knew them better, now. “It’s like looking through water, viewing those memories. Easier than when I was a child trying to remember being an angel, though.”
“Do you…do you regret it? Uriel called it a mistake. I probably would, too. You were…you were awfully sick, Cas. You went through a lot of pain.”
“I don’t regret it.”
The answer was swift, firm, no hesitation, no doubt. Dean looked away, smiling, unable to stop himself.
“I meant everything I said, too,” Castiel added. “I…I want you to know, Dean. Uriel was wrong. When I was hurting, near death, I didn’t choose the wrong place to recuperate. I chose exactly right.”
Dean nodded and looked down at his coffee. He could feel Cas staring at him, though, and eventually he was forced to look up, meet his eyes again.
“I meant everything I said,” the angel repeated quietly. “Sad okay. Anger not.”
Dean couldn’t help it. He laughed.
“I remember what you taught me.” Stubborn now, still trying to get through to him.
Dean grinned. “Oh yeah? What do you say when you have to use the bathroom?”
“Racehorse.”
The word was uttered so seriously, so calmly, in the same tone Castiel used to proclaim judgement on the most vile demons. Dean laughed again, or guffawed, rather, and set his empty coffee cup aside. He had to admit that he was pretty damn tickled about that one, despite everything.
Castiel stood up, gesturing for Dean to do the same. “Come.”
Dean was confused, but rose to his feet. “What?”
The angel was already walking, long coat flapping around him. Without thinking about it too hard, Dean fell in step with him. “What? I don’t get it.”
“I told you. I remember what you taught me.” Castiel stepped down in the sand of the playground, grabbing Dean’s sleeve to drag him along. And then Dean saw where they were going. “Swinging is fun. I remember that very clearly. Come now, Dean. You swing, too.”
Dean laughed, and let him lead the way.
“Yeah,” he agreed, quiet but heartfelt. “Swings are awesome.”
The End
Alternate Ending
(Don't skip Part A! http://maychorian.livejournal.com/70653.html)
Part 21.B“We did it. We did it, Dean.”
They had done it. Sam and Dean Winchester had killed a dragon. Sam grinned at his brother over the dead beast’s head, heat surging through his veins, fierce and bright. It was finished. They had killed it together.
Dean just stared back at him grimly, though, no joy in his face. Sam’s grin faltered.
He looked to Bobby, moving toward them, carrying the closed ritual book in one hand. The older man was grinning, too, his steps light as he walked through the patches of scorched earth. “Hell of a thing, boys,” he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder and gazing proudly down at the dead dragon. “Hell of a thing.”
Dean nodded. He snapped Ruby’s knife out of the dragon’s head with a sick slurping sound, wiped it on the dirt, sheathed it. Then he started walking back toward the house. There was no victory in his posture, his expression. For the life of him, Sam couldn’t figure out what was going on.
He realized that he was still holding the lance and let it go. “Bobby, will you finish up here?” The question was distracted, and he barely spared the second it took to see Bobby’s nod before he headed after his brother.
“Dean? What’s going on, man?”
Dean just shook his head, still walking. Sam followed at his heels, suddenly worried. He would have expected Dean to be crowing, cocky, incandescent with delight. Instead he looked…defeated.
Up the porch and into the house, and Sam gasped at the tall, dark figure standing over the couch, looking down at the sleeping boy. He reached forward to grab Dean’s arm, expecting him to be in full fighting mode, but his brother just stood there, breathing harshly in and out. The intruder turned, and Sam understood it even less. Uriel, strangely less belligerent than the last time they’d seen him, his shoulders slumped and weary.
“You finally got my message, monkey,” he said to Dean, but his voice lacked the condescension that should have been there.
“You finally let me remember it, dickhead,” Dean said in the same tone.
Sam blinked, hard. “Dean, what…”
The other man finally turned to look at him, barely holding back a sigh. “Dickhead here has been trying to talk to me in my dreams for the last few days, but somehow we never quite came to an understanding until today.”
“You…you burned the hex bag? Why?”
“Because Castiel is dying,” Uriel said, deigning to look at Sam for a split-second, his dark eyes hot and high. “And as stupid as your brother is, he has enough brain cells firing, however erratically, to realize that only I can heal him.”
Sam looked to his brother, and Dean looked back at him, green eyes large and mournful. So it was true. “But how…”
“He found Cas’s grace. Demons took it, scattered it all over. Uriel found it, brought it back.”
“But that means…”
“He’ll be an angel again,” Uriel confirmed. “He was never meant to be a human—of course you must realize this. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“A week? You’re surprised he lasted a week?” Sam laughed, hard and angry, and realized that tears were springing up in his eyes, unwanted, unwelcome, but undeniable. “So you’re saying that God made a mistake then, giving him a body, sending him down here. I thought God didn’t make mistakes?”
Uriel’s forehead wrinkled. “Where did you get that idiotic idea? God didn’t do this. Castiel chose. He used the last bit of grace he had—far too little for the task—and he brought himself down here of his own volition. Of course it was imperfect. He was nearly dead at the time, far from capable of performing such a feat well.”
Dean drew in a breath, shaking his head in sudden confusion. “What, and you’re okay with this? With your angel brother choosing to be a human? I woulda thought you’d be pissed about something like that.”
The dark angel gave him a glare, hard and real, pushing away his weariness. “Of course I’m not ‘okay with this.’ Castiel was wounded, his judgment impaired. He needed somewhere to recuperate and he chose poorly, that’s all. I will not abandon my brother for making one foolish decision while delirious and near death.”
“So you’ve come to rectify his mistake.” Dean folded his arms over his chest, but Sam could see that it was more to shield himself than to display any real stubbornness. Dean had accepted this.
This sucked. Sam might even go so far as to say that it sucked out loud.
He wanted to ask Uriel to just heal the boy and let him be. Angels could do that, right? Castiel had healed Dean.
But Uriel would never do that. He would never leave an angel, even transformed into a child, in the care of humans. And he wanted his brother back. Sam could understand that.
It didn’t stop the ridiculous, useless tears from streaming down his face, though. Sam wiped at them angrily, but that didn’t really help either. Dean was dry-eyed, and he was stupidly furious at him for it.
There was nothing else to say. Uriel turned away from them and knelt by the couch, resting his hand on the little boy’s head. It was so strange to see tenderness in this being of prejudice and rage and destructive power, but there it was, soft and bright. Castiel didn’t even shift under the touch, too far gone to realize that his brother had come for him.
Uriel put his hands to his chest, and when he drew them out they were full of soft, glimmering light. This time it was not imprisoned in a vial, just held gently in large, callused hands, pooling and swirling as if alive. He poured the grace onto the boy’s chest, letting it roll out of his hands like a lost pet brought home to its griefstricken owner.
“Close your eyes,” he said softly.
Sam obeyed, hoping that Dean was, too. Behind his closed eyelids, light burgeoned and grew until the purity was unbearable, stabbing through the thin shield of flesh, and he raised his hands to cover himself in darkness.
When he lowered his hands, blinking hard and fast, Castiel and Uriel were gone.
Dean stood there silent for a moment, then lifted Missouri’s afghan from the couch, abandoned and crumpled, empty. Slowly, carefully, he folded it in half, in quarters, in eighths. Then he held it to his chest, wrapped his arms around it.
He didn’t say a word.
Epilogue
Another town, another playground. This time it was in one of the warmer states, still nice out despite the month. Sometimes Dean sort of hated himself for always gravitating to these places. But there was still something peaceful, something right, about watching children play, innocent and free, ignorant of the darkness. Despite everything, he still felt better, sitting on this bench, drinking his coffee and listening to young laughter ringing in the air.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean felt a smile spread over him, soft and real, and then turned his head to look, knowing what he’d see. “You got your old vessel back.”
Castiel nodded, self-consciously fingering the opening of his trench coat. Dean looked away, remembering little fingers that had loved rubbing over fabrics, feeling textures, exploring the world. “I had left him behind, going off to think alone. It was…foolish of me. When I was isolated, that was when they attacked.”
“Yeah, and we all know how that worked out.”
Castiel nodded gravely.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the children play.
Dean didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “What…what do you remember?”
“Everything, I think. Not all of it clear, though.” Castiel tilted his head, staring at him. Still those same impenetrable blue eyes, yet somehow Dean felt that he knew them better, now. “It’s like looking through water, viewing those memories. Easier than when I was a child trying to remember being an angel, though.”
“Do you…do you regret it? Uriel called it a mistake. I probably would, too. You were…you were awfully sick, Cas. You went through a lot of pain.”
“I don’t regret it.”
The answer was swift, firm, no hesitation, no doubt. Dean looked away, smiling, unable to stop himself.
“I meant everything I said, too,” Castiel added. “I…I want you to know, Dean. Uriel was wrong. When I was hurting, near death, I didn’t choose the wrong place to recuperate. I chose exactly right.”
Dean nodded and looked down at his coffee. He could feel Cas staring at him, though, and eventually he was forced to look up, meet his eyes again.
“I meant everything I said,” the angel repeated quietly. “Sad okay. Anger not.”
Dean couldn’t help it. He laughed.
“I remember what you taught me.” Stubborn now, still trying to get through to him.
Dean grinned. “Oh yeah? What do you say when you have to use the bathroom?”
“Racehorse.”
The word was uttered so seriously, so calmly, in the same tone Castiel used to proclaim judgement on the most vile demons. Dean laughed again, or guffawed, rather, and set his empty coffee cup aside. He had to admit that he was pretty damn tickled about that one, despite everything.
Castiel stood up, gesturing for Dean to do the same. “Come.”
Dean was confused, but rose to his feet. “What?”
The angel was already walking, long coat flapping around him. Without thinking about it too hard, Dean fell in step with him. “What? I don’t get it.”
“I told you. I remember what you taught me.” Castiel stepped down in the sand of the playground, grabbing Dean’s sleeve to drag him along. And then Dean saw where they were going. “Swinging is fun. I remember that very clearly. Come now, Dean. You swing, too.”
Dean laughed, and let him lead the way.
“Yeah,” he agreed, quiet but heartfelt. “Swings are awesome.”
The End
Alternate Ending
