In a park near a wooded area a group of children playing flashlight tag. A little girl with her head against a tree counts to twenty. She gets to eighteen and a little boy calls out to everyone, “What’s that?” The little girl stops counting and looks to where the boy is pointing. The other children do too. In the distance, there is a tall shadow figure with long legs and arms. It moves like a tree in the wind, except there isn’t so much as a breeze. A low, incomprehensible whisper drifts to all the children and they all start walking forward to the shadow figure. A second whisper and all you hear is the rustle of the flashlights hitting the grass. The scene pans out and you see six flashlights shining in various directions, but no children. They have all disappeared with the shadow figure. 
Supernatural slams his tray down on the lunch table and sits down as hard as he possible can. His older brother, Smallville, slides into the booth, looking down, but still a thousand times better than Supernatural.
“What happened now?” You ask Smallville as you close the book you were reading and set it on the table. Supernatural opens his mouth to say something, but stabs his breakfast burrito instead.
Smallville sighs. “We can’t do our performances tomorrow,” he says.
You let your mouth hang open in disbelief. Supernatural and Smallville has been doing their show every Friday for almost six months, now.
“Why? People are expecting you guys, especially Supernatural,” You say. Your words come out at a squeak because you can’t seem to be loud enough despite how upset you are.
“I know,” Smallville counters. “but CW grounded us.”
Your chest tightens at the mention of Smallville and Supernatural’s adoptive mom. “Why the fuck did she do that?” You look to Supernatural because he still hasn’t said anything and you’re wondering if he messed things up again, like the time he beat up Castle and stole the kid’s spot at the talent show.
“I dunno,” Smallville admits, shrugging his shoulders. “she said something about Vampire Diaries and Nikita competing against American Idol in the pageant and how it was at the same time as our show. I’m not sure.”
“That’s bullshit!” It’s official, you hate CW. “Can’t you just take the car and do the show?”
“No, CW will have it and besides, I mean, it’s only for a week.”
The table shakes as Supernatural slams his fists down. Smallville has never been one to have good timing.
“Only a week?” Supernatural questions. His face is red and there is a visible vein throbbing at his temple. You’ve only ever seen him this angry once three years ago when his Thursday show was cut short due to the Theater workers going on strike. It took months to console him. “I work my ass off for that show. I sweat and bleed and break my back to make sure my show continues. There are people who count on me to be there!” Supernatural is half standing, half sitting now. He’s seething and you aren’t sure what to say to him. In a way Smallville is right, but you won’t dare tell Supernatural that. You’ve seen Supernatural fight and you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of his rage.
“But if CW catches you she might cancel your show completely,” You manage to say. Supernatural glares at you like you’ve just badmouthed his dead father.
“Let the bitch try. I’ll salt and burn her ass.”
Smallville just shakes his head and starts eating his food. He’s used to Supernatural’s antics, being his brother and all. But somehow, even after being Supernatural’s friend for six years, you still can’t get on board with the extra layer of crazy that Supernatural stashes away for special occasions.
–
“Sammy,” Dean whispers, looking at the clock instead of the steady artificial rise and fall of his brother’s chest. He doesn’t want to concentrate on bruised eyelids or broken ribs. But he does. And he can feel every pain, like he and Sam are linked for just this moment. Finally working on the same brain wave, except that now, Dean wishes they couldn’t.
Because this is his fault. Sam is dying because he strayed from everything he knows. And John’s words ring in his ears, loud and clear: “Trust no one.”
The monitor gives an unsteady chirp and Dean silently wishes his father would have mentioned angels too.
It happens in a blink, a single moment when everything stop and stills for too long. Dean is dying and Castiel can’t fix him; his power does’t extend that far. So Dean tells Castiel how to stop the bleeding, how to push Dean’s guts back in and keep him alive.
“Don’t leave me, you dick.”
“Why would I?”
“I’m just saying, don’t.”
A nod. An agreement. Sam lying on the ground, eyes closed, chest still. Dean knows he’s dead, he can feel it. It doesn’t hurt like it should. It’s not ripping a hole in him like the monster did. Because Sam died a hero, like he was supposed to - like he needed to. And Dean can’t be angry or hurt at that, he’s fucking grateful. Sammy’s a goddamn Savior, finally.
“Talk to me.”
“Dean, I…”
Cas looks down at his hands where they are keeping Dean’s stomach in his body. Blood seeps between his fingers.
“I’m not gonna make it, Cas. We’re just buying time.”
“Why?”
“Cause I don’t wanna go yet.”
“But you’ll be going to Heaven, Dean. Why do you want to remain in pain when you could be at peace?”
Dean hisses as a sharp pain wrecks his body.
“Pain is all I know, Cas. This, Earth and people, it’s what I know, where I belong.”
“But Sam is in Heaven.”
“He better be. The kid… fucking deserves it - shit.”
“And you don’t? Do you still believe that you aren’t good enough to be saved, to be wanted?”
“Cas, look at me. I am a goddamn headcase, no one fucking wants to deal with me.”
“I do.”
“Yeah, well good luck.”
A cough fills the dark, empty spaces that surround them and the color drains from Dean’s body like a grey-scale gradient. Castiel pushes Dean gently to his back and removes his hands from the wound, letting Dean’s insides pool inside the hole in his belly.
“I am sorry.”
“For what? You weren’t… the one who fucked everything up. I should have remembered that… they traveled in packs. It was a —”
“No, I am sorry that you cannot see how important you really are after all these years.”
“Don’t start that, Cas. I’m…dying…I’d like to go out with… a bit of dignity.”
“Of course. How are you feeling?”
“Can’t feel my legs…”
Castiel removes his coat and lays it over Dean, trying to stops the way his body trembles almost violently. Castiel doesn’t think they have more than a few minutes.
“Hey…You, you were good… with us. Best thing… that could’ve… happened to me… and Sammy. Personal… Angel… like the… Terminator. S’at make me… John Connor?”
“I don’t know, Dean.”
“Sam can be Sarah. He’s… always the girl.”
“Dean?”
Dean opens his eyes, turning to Castiel. He stares for a minute before he smiles. It’s weak but it’s bright like an epiphany is hiding behind it.
“You…comin’ with me?”
“Angels cannot stay in the Human realm of Heaven.”
“You’re…gonna stop breaking… the rules now?”
“Dean, your Heaven is meant for you and your family.”
“So… what have… you been all this time?”
Cas manages to smile in spite of the situation. Because Dean is calling him family, Dean is claiming him as his own like Cas has earned a place somewhere. And it feels so good.
“Thank you.”
“You…coming?”
“Yes, I will meet you there.”
“You… better…”
Dean closes his eyes again, this time for good. His chest rises one last time and he swings his arm, with his final effort, over Sam’s chest. It’s fitting, Castiel thinks. Beautiful, really. He waits a few more seconds until he feels a pull in his chest as Dean’s soul calls for him. He exits his vessel in haste, letting it fall over the brothers’ bodies. He only looks back once to remember this last adventure. Team Free Will’s - as Dean called them - Last Stand.
A second, stronger tug yanks at Castiel again. He smiles again. He’s ready for what awaits him.
Hunting for Flight
When I think of you, I think of ballparks and busted televisions being hauled back and forth because we can’t make up our minds on whether or not we want to keep it.
We took it back.
When I think of you, I think of popcorn and watered down perfection because you think I’m some angel reincarnate even though I’m pretty damn sure I’m not.
I’ve already fallen.
When I think of you, I think of silver dollar eyes and peppered steaks that have nothing at all to do with you except for the fact that they taste damn good.
Probably taste like you.
When I think of you, I think of red satin marbles and schizophrenic dreams because you once said I should be crazy without knowing that I already was.
Just not about you.
When I think of you, I think of saltines and crooked pool sticks because you tried to teach me the game once and I couldn’t get it right but you never gave up because at least I tried.
And at least I failed.
When I think of you, I think of broken movie reels and dirty jokes told in the front seat of a stick-shift where we laughed until sunset as I ground the gears up the hill.
We never got that far.
When I think of you, I think of lousy paychecks and the last time you looked at me with hope dancing in your pupils like two souls maintaining the rhythm of your heartbeat.
I’m so sorry.
When I think about you, I think of forgotten promise rings and a lifetime of tv dinners on top the washing machine because it’s the only thing that doesn’t have ties to you.
Except that everything goes back to you.
Eventually.
Her breathe on my neck, my hands on her thighs.
I’m supposed to fit there, she says –
Not with words, but her tongue –
Licking a path along my jaw, fitting her lips over my pulse.
This is how she meant us to be.
Pressed together like timepieces,
Fitting so imperfectly, so beautifully.
And she wants this,
Wants to feel me inside of her.
But not like this –
Never like this.
Cause the only ‘us’ she believes in
Begins with an F an E and a T.
I’m not a fucking donor.
I won’t support her charity,
The minute I do, she’ll end it
The next week because it excites her.
“Killing your seed is like killing you,” she says.
And I guess it’s supposed to hurt,
Supposed to sting ‘cause it’s the first time
She has ever admitted anything to me.
But it’s just like watered down wine –
Pretty to look at, but utterly pointless.
And in the middle of the night,
Her mouth full and her fingers working
magic beneath dirty two-dollar sheets,
I read the multi-colored post-it notes taped to her ceiling.
Constantly reminding her that:
We were broken before we knew we could be fixed.
He’s dreaming again, he knows because the sky is purple. It’s always purple when she comes to talk to him. Dean isn’t sure is it her or him who does it, but he hardly cares. They’re sitting on a curb in an empty parking lot, again. She tried a bench the first time they met and Dean almost hit her for it. So they’re spot is in front of an unnamed middle school right on top of the fire zone.
She’s dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt that has a rhino running on a treadmill on the front. She doesn’t look like the angel she claims to be. Her blonde hair is sticking up everywhere like she doesn’t know the concept of a brush and she’s barefoot. Dean has a hard time picturing her as the person Christopher always sees.
“Do you love him?” She asks as she stares at the empty playground.
“Christopher?”
She nods.
“Yes,” Dean admits.
She turns to Dean, her green eyes flashing as sunlight catches them. Her gaze burns him, it’s too intense. Dean wants to look away or tell her to, but he stays still. He means what he said, he’s not backing down.
“I am Emiel,” she finally speaks. Her voice is quiet but firm, Dean’s sure it’s an angel thing. “Your son calls me Emily, as do most children.”
Hands press against broken ribs, tracing the details of split bone beneath taught skin. He can heal this – all of it. The scars, everything, all the way down to the ones signed in blood, the ones labeled Alistair. He can fix the broken pieces and restore the hunter to his original state, except not really. He will never be that powerful, never be able to heal what doesn’t want to be healed. Dean says, no. So the bones stay broken. Please, let me do this. I can fix you. I’m not a busted toy. Dean flinches as the last word stumbles off his tongue. Shakes his head and arches against Castiel’s trembling fingers. I don’t need to be rewired. Dean…I… Castiel can’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t know what he had planned to say beyond that. So he bends his head to kiss dark purple bruises shaped like fingers. Castiel hears the hiss and the sharp intake of breath, and something in him dies a little. Because he swore he’d never cause Dean Winchester any pain. Not ever. And Castiel is slowly realizing that some promises were never meant to be kept. Please, Dean begs. And a small flutter of hope rises in the angel’s chest. Castiel lifts his hand, ghosting his fingers across Dean’s ribs. The hunter shakes his head almost violently. No, no fucking angel mojo. Just… What? Castiel asks, almost whispering the words for fear that he just might be dreaming this.
Dean only ever chokes on one word, one name – Alistair. It scrapes against his tongue, bleeds the muscle dry and laughs at the way it can bring a Winchester to his knees. Dean always prays when the name surfaces, always begs someone to take it way, replace it with something else. Castiel always hears him. And he always obeys.
But this time it’s different, because this time Dean does not pray. This time Dean keeps himself asleep and welcomes the violation. He lies still as sweat beads on his skin, sticking his clothes to his body. Castiel watches from very far away, wishing he could stop the way Dean seems to be enjoying the brutal visions. But Dean has not asked him to.
So Castiel cannot interfere.
But he can see. Can witness the memory Dean is replaying in his head like it’s something important. And Castiel wishes he couldn’t, but at the same time he doesn’t want to look away for fear that Dean will lose himself to the madness.
Castiel whispers, Dean. The hunter flinches. Because the way Castiel says his name is not how Alistair would say it. Castiel does not soak Dean’s name in acid so he can later use it as a weapon, reminding the man of what he once was.
Castiel cannot be so cruel.
Still Dean has not uttered his name, has not begged Cas…please…
So the angel does nothing.
And it hurts. Like a fourth degree burn, right down to his vessel’s bones – he is powerless. All Castiel can do is sit back and watch as Alistair digs his fingers into Dean’s fleshless hips and thrusts so hard that Dean vomits. The demon does it again and again until the man beneath him is not longer saying stop, but has added the words don’t and please, usually in the reverse order.
