Title: Like All The Years To Come.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13.
Word count: 847
Spoilers: 7x2
Warnings: Canon character death.
Feedback: Yes please.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything even remotely related to Supernatural.
Beta:
biggelois . Any mistakes are purely because I ignored her advice.Notes: Personally I'm in denial over Cas. He's still alive, dammit! But oddly, my muses wanted me to write this. And who am I to argue with them?
Summary: Sam hates this time of year.
Link to this fic on LJ and on DW and on AO3.
Like All The Years To Come.
Sam dragged himself up the stairs to his room in the little house he and Dean rented after the whole Leviathan mess was finally over. Even now, two years later, Sam was still amazed that they all made it through alive somehow. Well... almost all.
He stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall for a bit, just enjoying the silence. Dean had announced that he was going to lie down for a bit when they came home after their latest hunt, but Sam had wanted to put things away before resting. Sam's room was at the end of the hall, past Dean's room and the bathroom and he let himself sag for a little while longer before finally pushing himself away from the wall.
Just as he took the first step past Dean's closed door, Sam heard something. Stopping in his tracks, on instant alert, he listened hard and there it was again. Putting his ear carefully against Dean's door, he finally realized what he was hearing.
A sob.
Sam couldn't remember ever hearing Dean cry. He'd seen a few quickly hidden tears on his brother's face over the years but that was it. This was new and Sam was immediately worried. Did Dean get hurt on the hunt without telling him? Was he possessed or enchanted?
Just as he was about to knock, Sam heard another sob, followed by Dean's voice, sounding broken and rough: ”You stupid, stupid son of a bitch. Why didn't you listen...”
Sam let his hand fall back to his side. Oh... Right. Today was that day. The second anniversary of Castiel's death. Last year Dean had gone out and had returned home more hammered than Sam had ever seen him and that was saying something. He hadn't cried then. He'd merely puked all over himself and the bathroom, and staggered to bed. Sam had cleaned up the mess as a way of telling Dean that he understood without getting all chick-flicky on him. He knew Dean hated that almost more than anything else.
Sam had never been as close to Cas as Dean, but he'd still had a beer before bed and toasted silently to his fallen friend.
The only other time he and Dean had even acknowledged the whole thing was when they were moving in. Not that they had all that many possessions to move in with that wouldn't fit in the trunk of the Impala. Sam had volunteered to do the laundry while Dean put together the amazingly simple luxury of a couple of real dressers to keep their clothes in when they weren't hunting.
Sam had emptied their duffel bags for the first time in years and while he was gathering up all of Dean's clothes, he'd come across something unexpected. Tucked into one end of the duffel, carefully rolled up, had been Castiel's trench coat. It'd been washed and there was no trace of blood or other substances on it, but unlike when it had been an angel's accessory, every tear and frayed edge had been glaringly permanent. Sam hadn't known what to do with it, so he'd stared at it stupidly for a while, until Dean had come in, stopping dead when he spotted the coat.
Without commenting on it, Dean had announced that the dressers were assembled and that he was going to get a beer. But Sam had seen how Dean's eyes had clouded over and for once Sam had suspected that even someone who didn't know Dean as well as he did might have been able to see the grief on his brother's face.
And here he was, a year and a half later, lurking outside Dean's door, listening to his very private moment of grief. As if to remind Sam that he was being a jerk, another sob drifted through the door. A whining, crushed sound, like an abandoned child trying to be brave, but certain that no one will ever come to answer the small cries of despair. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself away from the door. He couldn't bear hearing those sounds a second longer and Dean would sure as Hell not welcome any attempt at comforting.
So Sam went to his room, closed the door behind him and sent up a heartfelt fuck you to the God he'd always believed in, in spite of it all, for putting his brother through this. And just for good measure, he prayed to Cas as well. Called out his name quietly in his dark room, begging him to come back somehow and relieve Dean's suffering.
He knew it was all in vain, but he didn't know what else to do. After all, Cas had been restored once before. Heck, they all had. Would one more time really upset the balance so much more?
From the end of the hall came suddenly the slam of a door and the sound of Dean stomping down the stairs and out of the house. Sam sighed. Just like last year.
End.