There will be a door - SN fic - PG

[tigriswolf]

Title: There will be a door and I will open it
Fandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.
Warnings: AU after 4.17. Or, you know, from the beginning, depending on how you see it. Blasphemy.
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1980
Point of view: third
Notes: thanks tosadelyrate andcuddlyscorpio for reading over this!

 

 

He was in a bright, sunshiny park, a little tuxedo cat sitting pretty at his feet.

“Hello, Dean,” the cat said, smirking up at him, voice female and full of laughter.

“I’m dreaming,” he realized.

“Yes.” The cat flicked an ear.

“Let me guess—you’re another angel come to kick my ass in gear. Tell me, suck it up, soldier, we don’t have time for you to heal.” Dean glared at the dainty feline. “I’ve had about all I can take of that.”

“I am no angel,” the cat told him. “But we do need to talk.” She twined about his feet and he could hear her purring.

“Aw, why not,” he muttered and scooped her up, cuddled her to his chest. The park flickered around him and he froze.

“Do not be afraid,” the cat said, nudging the underside of his chin. “No harm will come to you while in my presence.” The scenery settled on his old room in Lawrence, the one he barely remembered. He watched Mom tuck his younger self in, heard her promise, “Angels are watching over you.” She kissed his four-year-old self’s forehead and flicked the light.

“After the fire,” the cat said. “You stopped believing. Why?”

Dean followed Mom down the hall, watched her crawl into bed with Dad.

“Because no angel saved her,” he whispered, arms tightening till the cat squeaked. “Sorry,” he muttered, loosening his grip.

“Your rescue from Hell was not ordered until you broke, Dean Winchester,” the cat told him. He lifted her to look at her eye-to-eye. There were millennia in her gaze, worlds unknowable.

“Not an angel.” He swallowed in shock.

“No.” She stretched a paw out to bat his nose. “I formed Life, just as I did Death. I gave the living beings the opportunity to choose. I have stood back and watched, continually awed by what my creations do.”

“So you don’t intervene anymore?” he asked, unable to look away from her large green eyes.

“The man you call Jesus was not a part of me,” she answered. “I have no name any of your kind know. I have not written or inspired any book, good or otherwise.” She blinked slowly, releasing him.

He jerked his head to the side, letting go. Like all cats, she landed on her feet.

“The apocalypse,” he began.

She interrupted, padding down the hall. “I made the deck and dealt the cards. It’s up to you mortals how you play.”

“What?” He followed her, trying to keep his temper. “This isn’t a game! It’s our lives.”

A shadow in Sam’s nursery. Old fear and hatred stung in Dean’s eyes.

“I made everything,” the cat said quietly. “I was alone and I sang a billion planets into being. Each planet has life, whether you humans recognize it or not. And each existence is unique.” The cat looked up at him as Azazel bled into Sam’s mouth. “When one world ends, the rest of creation will not notice. Here, the angels wage war against the demons. They will wonder about the Creator, will question—to themselves, save a few—where he has gone.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” Dean asked, closing his eyes as Mom ran into the room.

The cat stretched up, kneading his jeans. “Because, Dean, you need to understand. There is no grand scheme. Whatever Azazel had planned, whatever you started in Hell—I did not write it.”

He crouched down, nearly nose-to-nose with her. “What?”

She licked his chin. “Nothing is fated here, Dean. I start everything and then I back away. This world is governed by mortals.” She shrugged, tail flicking.

Dad grabbed Sam and told Dean to take your brother outside, fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!

“So it can be stopped?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

o0o

Dean jackknifed up, gasping for air. The room was dark, but his internal clock let him know the sun was about to rise.

Four angels, Anna had said. Only four ever saw the face of God. And what kind of higher being would make people only to punish them for what it knew they would do?

Castiel, Uriel, Zachariah, Anna—Azazel, Lilith, Alistair. A trickster. Could they all just be evolution at work, no Yahweh or Allah or anything?

Dean stared at the ceiling. It was probably just a weird dream, something left over from Dean Smith. Hell, probably an angel or demon messing with him.

He really was tired of being a chess piece on some cosmic board. Something the cat said niggled at him—Your rescue from Hell was not ordered until you broke. If she didn’t intervene, why order his rescue at all? Why not leave him there, with all the other dealmakers?

Dean slipped from the bed and silently walked to the door. He opened it as quietly as possible and left the room.

A dainty tuxedo queen sat there in the predawn light. Hello, Dean, she said, mouth never moving.

“What’s your game?” he demanded. “If there’s no plan, why did you save me?”

I didn’t, she replied. Zachariah is not an angel, Alistair always lied, and Castiel is very obedient to those he considers superior. You have no destiny, Dean. Fate is a human conception.

She looked away, toward the dawn. I have watched this world for time beyond your frail comprehension. If it ends soon, I will move on, possibly to the place your kind calls Saturn. It seems very interesting. She glanced up at him. You are the catalyst. That is why I’ve come to you. The demons believe you to be the one obstacle to Lucifer’s rise. The angels are sure you alone can stop your brother before Lucifer fully manifests.

She moseyed over to him as he sank down onto his haunches. Azazel fed him potent demon blood, Dean. His pet demon is giving him diluted human blood. He’s always had the potential.

She nudged him under the chin, ears tickling him. Alistair favored you, and Lilith fears you, because you have potential, too.

o0o

Dean’s eyes blinked open. Sunlight poured through the window and Sam brushed his teeth in the bathroom.

“Sam,” he asked. “Did you dream about a cat?”

“What?” Sam rinsed his mouth out.

“Nevermind.” He rolled out of bed and stretched.

Through the window, he saw a petite tuxedo cat trotting down the street. He watched till he couldn’t see her anymore.

Already, the dream faded, but he remembered I made the deck and dealt the cards. It’s up to you mortals how you play.

“Hey, Sam,” he said, going to stand next to him. He looked at their reflections in the mirror.

“Yeah?” Sam met his eyes in the glass.

“Fuck all this destiny crap. I’m done dancing to their tune. We’re fightin’ this war our way from now on.”

Right there in the bathroom, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sammy, Dean embraced every memory from Hell. Each torture, each scream, each prayer for deliverance that went unanswered—he stopped hiding from them. Stopped pretending they didn’t happen.

He went to Hell. He broke apart. He destroyed others and he liked it. But he was out now. Someone pulled him out because he alone could stop the apocalypse he started.

If destiny were real. He never believed that. Even as Dean Smith, he thought fate to be nothing more than a crock of shit.

“Really?” Sam asked. A smile lurked in the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “You and me. Our own team, our own gameplan. Fuck the angels and fuck the demons—not literally,” he added, just to hear Sam’s laugh. “You and me, Sammy. Azazel’s champion and Alistair’s prodigy. Let’s save the world.”

Sam smiled, ducking his head. “Okay,” he said.

“So, that means no more dates with Ruby,” Dean explained. “And any time the angels kidnap me for a conference, I’ll tell ‘em to shove it and find my way back to you.” He met Sam’s eyes. “Okay?”

Nodding, Sam’s full grin bloomed, the one Dean really hadn’t seen since Jessica died. “Let’s do it,” he agreed. “Boy with demon blood and man who left Hell mostly intact.”

Dean snorted. “We’re a soap opera, man.”

Sam lightly shoved his shoulder. “Pack up. Let’s get started.”

Pausing, Dean grabbed his arm. “I mean it, Sam. No more dates with Ruby. What she’s giving you—Sam, you don’t really need it.” Sam’s eyes widened, full of shame and shock. “If she—when she comes around again, send her away.”

Sam looked away. “Sammy.” His eyes flicked back to Dean and then to the floor. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”

He’s always had the potential, a soft, endless voice echoed in his mind. Alistair favored you, and Lilith fears you, because you have potential, too.

“But I’m back now, Sam,” he said. “I’m back and I’m done wallowing. I don’t give a shit about anything you did in grief, anything you’ve done under Ruby’s influence. But it stops now.”

Dean felt complete and powerful, knowledge of Hell finally at the forefront. As Alistair’s favorite playmate, he learned a lot. Hell had a different timescale. Four months, forty years—Alistair always lied—no, more like four thousand, a span his mind shied away from. He never left Alistair’s workroom. He had seniority over a paltry black-eyed child who spent all of her time Above.

If Sam didn’t send her packing or use his mojo, well. Dean wasn’t ignoring Hell anymore.

Sam looked at him, measuring him. He wasn’t the kid who went to Stanford, and he wasn’t the kid who left in a haze of smoke. He wasn’t the man who buried Dean, determined to put his soul back in a tattered body.

Sammy was still in this man Dean barely knew. Sammy who hero-worshipped him, followed him blindly, would have walked off a cliff if he asked.

“What happened last night?” Sam asked, half serious. “In that dream about a cat?”

Dean smiled. “I talked to God,” he said. “Now, let’s shag ass, dude. We’re wastin’ daylight here.”

Sam scoffed but left the bathroom. Dean glanced in the mirror. His body was perfect, completely flawless, except for Castiel’s handprint. Physically, he’d never felt better.

A little tuxedo housecat padded in his mind, large green eyes smirking and long black tail lashing. I do have my favorites, Dean Winchester, she purred. Nothing is fated.

Meeting his own gaze, Dean nodded. His eyes shone a white purer than even Lilith’s and Hell settled over him like a warm coat.

Dean'n'Sam, he mused. We’re playin’ our own game now.

“Hurry up,” Sam called.

He hurried. Places to be, people to see, a little demon to kill—and a war to win.

Dean wondered for a moment if Alistair would be proud, then decided it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore except Sam and keeping the world from ending.

“I’m hungry!” Sam yelled impatiently. “I’ll go without you, dude.”

Dean opened the bathroom door. Sam was dressed and waiting by the window, foot tapping, eyebrow raised.

“Let’s go,” Dean said. “What’re you waitin’ for, Sammy?”

They shared a grin. Dean quickly got dressed and shrugged on his leather coat, flicking the light as he closed the door. He followed Sam to the Impala, his little brother not hesitating before slipping shotgun. “Finally catchin’ on that I’m back?” Dean asked, settling in the driver’s seat.

Sam smirked. “I just didn’t wanna hear you bitch.”

The Impala roared to life as he turned the key. When he looked at the windshield, preparing to charge out the spot, he saw a small pawprint on the glass.

I have my favorites, a little tuxedo queen purred. Make your own destiny—nothing is foretold.

Dean smiled and turned the music up loud. Sam groaned theatrically, but when Dean started singing, Sam sang along.