My Marble Guardian

Title: My Marble Guardian.

Fandom: Supernatural.

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 3486

Spoilers: If you know who Castiel is, you're good.

Warnings: None.

Feedback: Yes please.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything even remotely related to Supernatural.

Beta: mithrel. Thanks, dear!

Notes: This was written for the deancas_xmas secret santa exchange 2011. I was santa for tabi_jeff and I chose this prompt:

To get away from the stress of his life, Dean likes to hide out in an old graveyard. His favourite place to hang around is an old statue in the shape of an angel. Dean talks to it, and sometimes he almost believes it's listening. Then one day he knows it is.

Originally posted here.

Summary: AU. Dean is breaking his back to support his little brother alone after their dad took off. The only one he has to talk to is the angel statue in the graveyard where their mother is buried. Sometimes it almost feels like the statue is listening.

Link to this fic on LJ and DW and on AO3.

Dean was tired. Really frickin' tired. It was like his struggles never ended. It had been another rough day, in yet another rough week which in turn was just one more in a long line of such. He eyed the six-pack next to him on the front seat of his baby. Having a beer right then was tempting, but he truly couldn't afford to have an accident or get a ticket. He had to play it straight, all the goddamn time, and it was wearing him thin.

Even before dear ol' dad had taken off with no word of when or even if he would ever come back Dean had carried more than his fair share. Sammy was just a kid. A freakishly huge kid, but still a kid. Sort of an innocent. He should never have to carry the burdens of adult life before he was good and ready and Dean was damn well going to make sure he didn't need to. Even if it meant that Dean had to wave goodbye to whatever dreams he himself might have had once upon a time.

Sammy wanted all the right things. He was going to college. He was going to be something. More than Dean ever had potential for. So as soon as Dean realized that their dad was just not going to be able to be the parent he was supposed to be, Dean had dropped out of high school, gotten two jobs and started a college fund for Sam. He didn't have enough for the whole deal yet by a long shot, but he was still saving, and if Sammy got a part time job when he finished high school, they could make it work. Sam could have the life he deserved.

Dean pulled up outside a graveyard. It was an old place, only a few blocks from his and Sam's small apartment and their mother was buried there. Dean had been visiting her grave every Friday for as long as he could remember and tonight was no different. He almost took the beer with him, but decided against it. He had his other job in the morning and he wasn't in the mood to get up even earlier so he could pick up the Impala if he got too buzzed to drive the rest of the way home.

He went about his routine on automatic. Followed the gravel path to the small gravestone, brushed fallen leaves and dirt off the surface and laid his hand against the cold stone for a moment.

“Hi, mom. Just letting you know... -me and Sammy are okay. Still okay. No word from dad.”

Dean hardly even heard his own words. He said pretty much the same thing every Friday. He wished that he could offer more for the memory of their beloved mother, but he just didn't have the strength. With a final brush of fingers against the polished surface he got up, his knees popping from the strain. He wasn't even twenty five years old, but his body felt like it was at least forty.

Sometimes he would go home after his visit, but not tonight. Sam was doing some study group thing with his friends at home and for once Dean could really use a little peace and quiet. There was a bench a little further down the path, against the wall of some opulent mausoleum. He sometimes sat there, just soaking up the calm of the place. He did so again this night.

There was a statue on the path in front of the bench. Dean suspected it was put there to guard the mausoleum or something, but he always found it more soothing than threatening.

It was a full sized male angel, standing on a low platform, facing the gate to the crypt. In the half dark of early evening, it sometimes looked as if it was watching him sitting there on the bench. It should have been creepy, but it wasn't. Partly because whoever designed the statue had probably taken some liberties with the concept of angels.

The wings were pretty much what you'd expect. Huge and cascading from the shoulders to the ground. The way the marble was carved made them look soft to the touch and in the twilight they looked almost like real feathers. But the rest of the angel was somewhat more... down to Earth. Sure, it had all the trappings of old-fashioned angels, complete with robe and sandals, but somehow it gave off a scruffy vibe. The hair was short and kinda messy and Dean could have sworn that the face carried stubble that no ordinary angel would be caught dead with. Heck, even the robe seemed creased and uneven. Whoever modeled for this artist had clearly had a crappy day.

But the face was all angel. The eyes were open in a constant stare and there was no clear emotion to be found in the marble features. Which was probably why Dean started talking to it. With no emotion directed at him, Dean felt like for once he wasn't being judged. Wasn't being weighed or measured and found lacking.

He hadn't always talked to it. It just sort of happened one day. And now it seemed that every time he ended up sitting on the bench, he also ended up chatting to an inanimate object, because he had no real people to talk to. Dean winced at how pathetic his life had become.

“Hey, man,” he said casually to the statue as he sat down. “How's the angel business? Going slow?”

Dean smiled and nodded as if the angel had replied. “Yeah, I know what you mean. God, this has been a crappy week. But hey, what else is new?”

The statue's one hand was clutching a cross to its chest, but the other was always reaching out, as if asking for something. Dean had often thought that he should bring a beer and leave it on the upturned palm, so the angel could have himself a well-earned drink as soon as nobody was watching. He looked like a guy who needed one.

“Sorry, man, had to leave the six-pack in the car. Wouldn't wanna drink and drive, right? I'm sure your boss would be pissed.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “Ugh, mine was a total dick today. As usual. Nothing I ever do is good enough. I'm starting wonder why he even hired me if all he can say is how useless I am. One of these days I'm gonna punch him right in his smug little face...”

The blank features didn't exactly offer an opinion, but Dean still deflated. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Thou shalt not punch thy snivelly little boss. For he payeth your salary.” Dean chuckled to himself. “Thanks, dude. You always know just what to say.”

The marble eyes seemed to settle on Dean and he smiled at the statue. “I hope you don't do that creepy eye thing to little old ladies. They might need a plot here if you're not careful.” He sat back and leaned his arms on the back of the bench. “I don't mind, though. Stare all you want. I'm gonna take it as a compliment.”

Actually, he was kinda flattered. And also clearly insane and in more desperate need of getting laid than he'd thought. “Right, that's it, I have to go home and get a little drunk. Tomorrow's another day.” He hauled himself off the bench and patted the angel's wing amicably on his way out. “See you on Friday.” Somehow, Dean always felt a little lighter after talking to the statue. Some day he was definitely going to get that guy a beer.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

“Engaged. Sammy's engaged! To a girlfriend I didn't even know he had!” Dean was stomping back and forth in front of the statue the following Friday. “When did this happen? Why didn't he tell me?” The statue was still as usual, but Dean really felt like it was listening to him with sympathy. “I told mom, and she didn't know what to say either. Okay, so she hasn't actually said anything in a couple of decades, you know how it is.” He pulled at his hair and groaned. “What the hell is wrong with him? He can't get married! Not now! He's got shit to do!”

The statue's hand was held out as always and Dean felt like for once it wasn't asking for something but simply reaching out. It was comforting. “Seriously... all my hard work... was it all for nothing? If he's gonna throw it all away to get a crappy job and make babies, then I'm taking a leaf outta dad's book. I'll ditch this dump of a town, take my car and cross all the states.”

He sat down heavily on the bench. “You know, I used to wanna to go places. See things. Do stuff.” He cast a glance at the dirty-white marble. “I bet you can relate.”

Predictably, there was no reply and Dean rested his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know he said he's not gonna marry Jess until after college, but I know how this goes. He's head over heels and he's gonna forget all about his plans and marry her anyway. I give it a year, tops.” The quiet disdain from the statue made Dean groan. “Don't be like that. It's not that I don't trust him. I just... I know how tempting it is to just let everything else slide and take what you want. But life is a bitch, and before you know it, you're trapped with no way of getting back on track.”

Dean could have sworn he heard a huff of barely disguised mirth. “Oh, so you think I'm not really talking about Sam, do you? Well, bite me, angel. I never got what I wanted, but I got trapped anyway.” Looking up at the blank eyes, Dean frowned. “I don't even know what I want. For Sammy, sure. But for me? No clue.” The eyes held no answers for him.

“I guess you're right,” Dean sighed after a while. “Only one who can figure that out is me.” Smirking, he wagged a finger at the angel. “I am so getting you a beer next time.”

OoOoOoOoOoO

Dean kept his promise. The first thing he did when he arrived at the mausoleum the following Friday was to place a can of beer carefully on the outstretched palm. He even opened it. Then he gave the angel a silent salute and left the place.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Months went by and one Friday, much later than usual, Dean shuffled into the graveyard. He'd stopped at his mother's grave earlier but then he'd gone straight home. But it was now close to midnight and he was drunk and lonely. He'd walked – or rather, wobbled – the couple of blocks to the peeling iron gates and with complete disregard for the supposed holiness of the place, he'd brought more beer.

He plonked down on the bench and greeted the angel with a belch. “Hey. Guess what. Sam's leaving tomorrow. We've been celebrating.” Dean knew he should be happy for his brother. Sam's time had finally come. College was only a day-long train trip away and then he'd be ready to stuff his thick head full of all the passwords to the good life. Dean really should be happy. But he wasn't. All he could think of was that in only a few hours, he would be alone. Completely alone.

“Train's leaving at six AM. I guess I shouldn't be hammered. I have to drive him to the station tomorrow. Fuck it.” As if to underline his words, he popped open one more beer. As he sipped it, he cast a glance at the statue. Then he frowned. On the outstretched hand was a beer can. An empty beer can.

Dean looked around, checking to see if he was really alone, before reaching out and picking it up. It was the exact same brand as the full one he'd left there months ago. Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd expected some drunk to come by and appreciate a free beer and the can had indeed been gone the next time he'd come by. Looking more closely, he realized something else that probably would have freaked him out had he been sober. There was a scratch on the lid of the can. Dean always had trouble with the pin on the cheap beers so he usually used his keys to lift it before opening the can. Of course, he couldn't be the only one doing it, but the dent was so telling... he remembered how he'd been sort of in a hurry and the keys had slipped, making a weird, but memorable little pattern around the dent he finally made under the pin.

He sat for a long minute, just staring at it and then staring at the statue instead. “Well damn...” he mumbled. Then he shrugged and smirked. “You're welcome, I guess. Just lemme know if you want another one.” The hand was still reached out and Dean snickered at his silliness. Here he was, drinking buddies with a frickin' statue. And an angel statue at that. That didn't stop him from popping open another can and placing it carefully on the upturned palm. “There you go, dude. Enjoy!” He toasted to his marble friend and drank the rest of his beers in silence. And if he watched the statue a little more closely than usual, then at least there was nobody there to call him on it.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

After that, he stopped going home after visiting his mother on Fridays. Not having Sam living with him anymore meant that he had nothing to come home to and the few attempts he'd made at socializing had been abysmal. Either he was so out of practice he hardly knew the game anymore or maybe he didn't really want someone new in his life. Things were difficult enough without more people to worry about. Because even with Sammy half the state away, he still worried every damn day.

Dean was still breaking his back saving up for Sam's education and since there was no need to hurry home at night, he'd taken more and more hours at work. Any chance to bring in more money. But he could feel it now, deep in his bones. He needed rest, badly. When he collapsed on the bench one night, he almost slid off from exhaustion. His eyes fell closed and he let his head fall back against the wall of the crypt.

“So tired...” he murmured. “Can't do this shit for much longer. I need a break.” The silence was complete and Dean let it soak into him while letting his thoughts siphon out into the darkness. It was very late and he should have been home in bed already. But he needed this. He needed his little reprieve so very much. “Maybe I should take some time off. Take a little road trip. Dad's friend Bobby lives up North. Maybe I should go see him. Spend some time working on my baby. He's got an awesome workshop.” He sighed heavily, without opening his eyes.

“I know. No rest for the wicked. Not that I've had any time left over to sin at all.” Dean snorted. “Seriously, I gotta be on your boss-man's good side by now. Duty and hard work and all that shit.” He finally dragged his head back up and fixed the statue with a bleary stare. “Do me a favor, dude? If you happen to see the Almighty, could you tell him that a little reward for all my hard work would be nice? Thanks.”

A little breeze washed over Dean's face and in the shadows it almost looked like the statue was smirking. “Don't you get smart with me, angel. That wasn't blasphemy, that was logic.” Dean laid his head back again. It was nice sitting there. Just relaxing for a moment. Just a moment.

Suddenly, he felt something. Had he been drunk he probably wouldn't have thought about it, but he was stone cold sober. Exhausted as hell, but completely lucid. Something was ruffling his hair gently. Almost as if someone was stroking it. Dean cracked one eye open very carefully, half afraid he'd see some crazy bag lady molesting him. But there was nothing there. Only empty air. And there was still that feeling of light petting over his scalp.

His stomach did a few sickening flip flops, the kind Dean always felt when he'd come across something that made no sense. Shit you just couldn't explain. He hadn't felt it in years. Not since his dad left...

Very slowly Dean raised his head and looked around. The sensations on his hair faded away as he turned his head, but there was no doubt that he was quite alone there. Just as he was starting to wonder if he fell asleep for a second or something, his eyes landed on the statue. The hand was reaching out as always, only.... not as always. The palm that was turned up before, accepting beers and an occasional low-five when Dean was in a joking mood, was somehow, impossibly turned down. Now, the back of the hand was turned up and instead of reaching out confidently, it was only half extended, as if hesitant to even reach out at all.

Dean fought down his rising panic. His heart was hammering in his chest and he was breathing loudly in the chilly night air. “What the hell...?” he whispered. He looked at the face of the angel and he suddenly realized that it wasn't empty of emotion anymore. There was a tiny frown and the corners of the marble mouth was turned down. Not angry, no. More like... concerned? Pitying? And even without Dean's rising panic, it was quite clear that for once the eyes were not directed at the entrance to the crypt. They were fixed squarely on Dean.

Wildly out of his depth, Dean resorted to what he did best when cornered: being a smartass. “Seriously, angel. You're supposed to be guarding the dead, not add more to the pile.” He blinked and in that split second he wasn't watching, the angel's face changed. The frown was smoothed out and one corner of the mouth was lifted slightly. “Jesus Christ,” Dean breathed. “That's fucking creepy.”

Worried what might happen if he blinked again, Dean kept his eyes open until they watered. To his surprise he wasn't really afraid, just... freaked out. He desperately wanted to figure this out, whatever was going on. When he finally couldn't convince his eyes to stay open any longer, he impulsively reached out and put his hand over the angel's, eager to keep some sort of sense on alert, before letting his eyes slip closed.

The marble under his palm wasn't cold exactly, but Dean still shivered. Because it was too smooth. Weather, bird crap and whatever always made the surface of statues kinda grimy and rough. But this felt like it was polished down only seconds ago. Dean was suddenly absurdly afraid to open his eyes again. Because what would have happened to the statue while he wasn't looking?

Hardly had he thought it before the stone warmed under his hand and Dean gasped as the hand under his own slowly turned over and lightly grasped his fingers. He dared not look. The hand now holding his felt alive. Very much so. Warm and vibrant and moving. Dean squeezed his eyes closed even harder. “What are you?” he breathed.

There was a rustling, like dry leaves in a lazy breeze and then warm breath over Dean's face. He shuddered. How was this possible?

“Dean.”

His name was uttered with reverence, the voice deep and gravelly, as if the very vocal cords were still part marble. “Open your eyes.”

Dean shook his head minutely. “What will I see?”

There was a pause and more rustling and Dean flinched when there was suddenly one more warm hand touching him, this time on his cheek, just holding his face gently.

“Me. You will see me.”

Finally, Dean nodded and slowly opened his eyes.

End.