8.09 / 8.19
IT’S THE IMPALA-TARDIS.
THE IMPALARDIS. THE TARDPALA.
221tea replied to your post: Dammit Sammy.
You jealous, bro?
Ha ha haha ha… ha.
A click came from the door as it was being unlocked. Dean Winchester walked inside the motel room, not wanting to do anything other than sleep.
“How was he?” his brother, Sam, asked sitting on one of the two beds. His forehead was creased with worry lines and there was a small frown on his lips.
Dean just shook his head as he locked the door.
“Dean?” Sam asked, his voice soft. His attempt in delicacy was appreciated. Dean stood in front of the door, not having turned around yet. He let his head fall back as he took in a deep breath, steadying his emotions.
“He’s getting worse, Sammy,” Dean barely managed to prevent his voice from cracking. When he turned around his brother had his arms open and was moving towards him. Dean hated this, but he accepted the hug. Hell, he needed it.
Every time Dean visited it became harder and harder to keep himself together. He started believing the worst, rather than just fearing it. Castiel was losing his memory, slowly, but surely.
Dean rapped lightly on the blue hospital door.
“Come in,” he was given in reply.
He opened the door slowly, to see a man resting just under six foot with dark hair and blue eyes standing at the foot of the hospital bed. He was apparently doing something with the television before Dean had interrupted him.
“Oh, hello,” Castiel, the now fallen angel, greeted him. Dean tightened his lips letting his eyes fall to the floor for a moment. The tone in those words was as though Dean was just another orderly coming in to give him his check-up. He almost turned around and left right then.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean choked out.
Castiel’s head tilted to the side as he looked over at Dean, his eyes squinting. His face burst into a smile. “Oh! It’s you.”
Dean forced out a breathy chuckle because it was better than breaking down in front of the man who was once in love with him.
“I brought you something,” Dean moved towards the bed setting the paper bag in his arms on the sheets. Castiel moved to stand beside him, slightly too close. Dean opened the bag to reveal a burger, but not just any burger, a special burger. Homemade, free-range ground sirloin with lettuce, tomatoes, ketchup, and Swiss cheese.
“How did you know this was my favorite?” Castiel beamed removing the sandwich from the bag. Dean forced a smile out while the fallen angel took a bite.
The two sat together while Castiel ate. He was the one doing most of the talking since Dean knew if he spoke his composure would betray him. Castiel explained how there was a show on the TV that he did not like and how he was trying to change it. The remote wasn’t working so he had to get up, because calling a nurse for that is just a waste. Dean simply smiled and nodded.
When he was finished they both stood and Dean offered to take his trash and Castiel smiled. Just as Dean was grabbing the trash from his hands, Castiel stopped him saying, “Wait…”
Dean bit his lip, he sounded like his Cas there briefly.
As the ex-angel held Dean’s hand, studying it, a soft and sad smile came to his lips. “Your hands,” he muttered. “Has anyone ever told you that you have wonderful hands?”
“Yes,” Dean coughed out in a half laugh, half sob.
With tears welling in his eyes he said, “You used to. All the time.”
Hey Cas…. so…. it’s been two weeks since you left with the tablet. Naomi visited me yesterday, she told me some shit, that… can’t be true and I don’t wanna believe her. I don’t know where the hell you are or where you went or even if you’re coming back, but I want you to know that if you don’t give a fuck anymore about me… and about Sam, then maybe you should just…. stay gone. It would be easier that way…..
Castiel curled up tighter, drawing his knees up to his chest where he was sat on the floor in the poorly lit motel room, and stared at the angel tablet beside him. He didn’t know if Dean’s voice was real or not any more, didn’t know if he was imagining it or if it was all a mind trick. Of course he cared, more than anything, he loved both of the brothers with a burning passion.
But the prayers couldn’t be real. They were probably just a trick. Dean didn’t want him. He had hurt Dean, betrayed him, destroyed everything between them. He turned his back on the tablet, on the object he was charged with protecting, and curled his wings around his body. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted Dean.
Do you ever get sad when you realize that in all probablity, someday Sam and Dean are going to walk into a hunt — a haunted house, a warehouse, a forest, a lake — and not gonna come back? So then somebody realizes the impala’s been sitting the for a while now, grass is starting to grow, so it goes to a junkyard or a used car shop after they refit some parts and sold as pre-loved to someone who loves classic cars but isn’t gonna drive it much because the mileage is yeah-high? One day, the guy’s kids are gonna sit in it, and they gonna find all sorts of things: legos and plastic soldiers, empty cartridges, a bottlecap Sam stuffed between the seats because Dean was being an ass again and he was entitled to act like a little brother, a folded candy wrapper because when Cas fell for the nth time and was unable to zap things to the oblivion dimension he just got lazy, nothing telling, nothing important, just years’ worth of debris proving they had a home, they had friends, they existed?