Rock Salt And Feathers ~ Those Left Standing

In the Light of the Garden By Anunndriel
Home ~ Those Left Standing
Rating: G Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I did, but I don't. Summary: The world doesn't end, but Dean and Sam lose something important anyway. Notes: Inspired by A Very Long Engagement. Thanks, as always, to sdrohc_ratiug and ginnith.
They travel for days when it's over, exhausted and gritty, looking for a place to rest that's far enough away for them to forget, if only for a little while. Like every mile passed is a barrier to remembering. They don't talk much and when they do, they say even less. Dean spends a lot of time thinking about what they'll do now and trying to pretend he doesn't care that Castiel isn't with them. He knows Sam is worried about him. He keeps watching Dean, waiting. Dean's too busy watching the sky, the horizon, the road—looking for a sign, answers, anything—to do something about it. They stay with Bobby for a while before they get back to work, cleaning up stragglers from Lucifer's failed attempt to make hell on Earth. There's no word about Castiel. Nothing. For once Dean asks for optimism and prays for proof. But like their lives before Cas blew into them, he gets nothing in response. He tries to move on, focus on the work he and Sam have left to do. There's no way Cas could've survived...that. But lack of evidence makes it hard and Dean wants so much to believe. He thinks Cas would approve. Cas survived dying once before, after all. So they keep their eyes and ears open. Dean feels Sam's eyes on him, weighty, every day there's nothing. He stopped asking if Dean is fine weeks, months ago. Because of course Dean is fine. He has to be. They go on like that for a year, one ear on the ground at all times just in case. If Dean takes up praying regularly, well. That's his business. Until one day, they get a call from a friend of Bobby's. Dean's got the car turned around before he even hangs up, eyes straight ahead. He knows where he's going. They arrive in the afternoon, the sun's long rays turning everything warm and golden. Pulling up in front of the house—just an ordinary house in the country, nothing special or outstanding about it at all—Dean cuts the engine. They sit in silence, listening to the car settle. "We don't have to do this, Dean," Sam says eventually, glancing over at him. Dean doesn't take his eyes off the steering wheel. "Yeah, we do." Sam swallows and Dean can hear it across the seat of the car. "They said he doesn't—" Dean looks at him then, glares. "It doesn't matter. I don't care if he—" Movement behind Sam catches his eye. A man and a woman stand on the house's front porch, waiting. He looks back at Sam. "We're all he's got, Sam. I don't care." His mouth feels dry, so he tries licking his lips, looking away from Sam and out at the road. He can't deal with the amount of emotion on Sam's face right now, not with everything he's feeling himself. Sam just waits, watching him. They both know this is Dean's decision to make. After a minute, Dean takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. The inside of the house is dim after the light outside, but Dean finds his way to the back door easily, walking toward it like he's found the light at the end of the tunnel. He steps through the door and onto the back porch, briefly blinded by the abrupt change. He blinks twice to clear his vision before moving out into a yard that is well-kept and clearly loved. There are flowers blooming bright and cheery in pots and small flowerbeds, a small vegetable garden off to the side. There's a barbecue on the porch and a small stand of trees across the grass. It's there he sees Castiel for the first time in a year and wonders if this is what it feels like to have your prayers answered. There's a table near the trees and Cas is there, shaded and sun-dappled beneath their branches. His back is to Dean and he's bent over something, but there is no way Dean wouldn't recognize those shoulders, the bend of that neck, that shock of dark hair. As Dean gets closer, he sees Cas is bent over a book. Of course it's a book. Of course Cas would forget who and what he was and still be able to read and write and join Sam's geek club. Of course. Dean's choked back laughter—he'll argue it's laughter 'til the day he dies—draws Cas' attention and he turns, glancing up. He smiles at Dean, wide and friendly. It's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. "Hello," Cas says and, yes, that voice. Dean's heard that voice in his dreams, been haunted by it for days and weeks and months, been aching to hear it again. Dean would know it anywhere, from the darkest pits of Hell to the highest peaks of Heaven, to a small farm house in The Middle of Nowhere, USA. Dean doesn't dare say anything. Cas gestures to the chair nearest him, a finger slipping between the pages of his book, holding his place. "I've been expecting you." The wood is worn where Dean grips the chair, pulling it out and taking a seat. Because Cas offered and because he's not sure his knees will hold him much longer. Cas slips a piece of paper into his book and lays it flat on the table, hands folded over the cover. He watches Dean for a moment, a curious look on his face, before it slips away to be replaced with something soft and wondering. "I know you," he says. It's not a question, but Dean answers anyway. "Yeah, you do." Cas smiles at him in the light of the late afternoon and all Dean can do is smile back.
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