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Let us Be What we Can
1590 words
It's like someone planned it. Like some sick fucking entity with way too much power and time on its hands set down the outline of it, filled everything in, placed scenery and assembled actors, hit the lights, winched the sun up. Except it's still low and there's dew on the grass, and it reminds Neil for all the world of the morning of the fire.
And this is not going to end that way.
He's sitting in the kitchen staring down at the gun in his hands when Spike touches his shoulder - uncharacteristically gentle, but somehow he gets the feeling that if anyone is equipped right now to understand what's happening, it's Spike.
Also Dean. But Dean is outside. Dean is waiting.
"You're sure you want to do it like this."
It's not a question, but Neil nods anyway, because something like this needs confirmation. It needs it continuously, because it needs maintenance in order to happen at all. As a structure it's a few wobbly steps from collapse. He's made himself hard and cold - not just now but weeks ago when the first body was found - but underneath it he's a raw screaming mess and he doesn't doubt that everyone can tell.
No, he doesn't want to do it like this. But it has to be him. Kicking the job to someone else would be cowardice, and it would also be cruel, and he's run out of energy to feel ashamed of wanting to be kind to something that's become utterly inhuman, if he was inclined to feel ashamed of it anyway.
You love someone and it kills you. Or it kills them. Either way.
He gets up and goes outside without another word. It's an effort but like everything else these days he does it because there's no other option. One foot and then the other, one step at a time, off the flat slate of the path and across the grass. The girls' room overlooks this part of the lawn but they're not here. Of course. They're as far away as they can be and have been since it started.
He wants to believe they wouldn't be in danger. And in fact he mostly does. It's not to protect them from harm so much as to protect them from watching one of their fathers slaughter the other one.
Dean and Cas are waiting for him under one of the trees. Dean's face is flat and cold but Cas looks vaguely stricken. It's hit him harder than Neil might have expected. Maybe he should have. Cas is more likely to see this as a betrayal.
Neil can't really see it as anything other than an inevitability. In retrospect.
And Neil has no idea what his face looks like at the moment.
"He's ready," Dean says, and then looks away. Dean had offered to do it. Had almost insisted. In a way it would have been appropriate, and Neil thinks pretty much all involved parties would actually have agreed about that, but it was never honestly on the table. It's appreciated. Endlessly so. But no.
The gun in his hand feels like a millstone around his neck. It could drag him down.
"I'll be okay," Neil murmurs, and then lays a hand on Castiel's arm, because Cas really does look like he's only barely holding it together. It's not just this, what's happened and what's about to happen, but it's the girls, and what they're going to have to deal with all over again only about a hundred times worse. And there's no healing it. Grace can't make it better. Nothing can.
Dean is already walking away. Not looking back. After another miserable moment, Cas follows.
And then it's just the two of them.
He's on his knees a few yards away, hands bound behind his back. His head is down, but as he walks closer, Neil already knows it's not grief, nor is it remorse. Nor is it fear.
Mike can't feel those things anymore.
"Of course it'd be you." He doesn't raise his head. There's no spite in the words, for which Neil isn't sure if he's grateful - in some ways it's easier but in some ways this is so much worse, this calm matter-of-factness. "You were sure since the beginning, weren't you?"
Neil doesn't answer. He stops in front of Mike, staring down. All at once he doesn't want Mike to raise his head, because he know what he'll see on his face, in his face, and it's too much.
But then Mike does raise his head and it's just... It's him.
And it's almost okay. He almost drops the gun. It would be so, so easy to drop the gun.
But predators have camouflage. And the best ones can't be seen at all.
"Why?" He's not even looking for an answer but out comes the question anyway. Why? Why did you take everything we had and everything we built and throw it in the fucking fire? Why did you take this life, not always perfect but pretty goddamn wonderful on the whole, and tear it into shreds? Why did you? Why didn't you love us enough? Why didn't you stay in your warm, comfortable, open-arms cage?
Mike smiles, very small and pained in such a way that Neil actually believes it. "You ever hear the one about the scorpion and the frog?"
"Fuck you." He doesn't want to do this. He never should have started talking. It should have been quick, it should have happened as soon as he was in range, from a greater distance maybe, and maybe he should have just let Dean or Cas or Spike or literally anyone else do it for him. He squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head and fights it back. Wonders if Mike is enjoying watching the struggle.
But when he opens his eyes again he sees no sign of that. He doesn't see a monster. He doesn't see a predator, a killer. What he sees is the man he married, the same face he promised everything to on that beach, all open and warm acceptance and love.
And God, he actually buys it. Eats it up. Needs to.
"It's okay," Mike murmurs. "It's really okay. You do what you have to do." He takes a breath and the laugh he lets out is shaking just a little. "I'm glad it's you."
Why? he wants to ask again, to scream it, to beat Mike with the butt of the gun, smash it into his head and face until he's ruined and bleeding all over the pristine dewy grass, because it doesn't matter that he's glad, it doesn't matter what he wants or what makes him happy, because he's an asshole, because he's a fucking psychopath, and he's weak and that's why everything is shit.
But instead Neil just stands there and he doesn't fucking cry, and he raises the gun.
"It's okay," Mike whispers again, and then he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the muzzle and all Neil can see on his face is relief.
Because maybe neither of them were ever supposed to be here anyway.
"I'll see you," Neil says softly, and it's not a promise. Because Mike was right. Really, it's mostly a curse.
The shot isn't all that loud, actually.
Very far away, a bird starts to sing.
~
He's not sure how long he stands there. The world has blurred away and he can't see the body anymore. At some point the gun did fall from his hand but his fingers are curled as if he's still gripping it, and he's sobbing so hard his chest hurts, but he's also not moving and he's not making a sound.
So.
"That didn't end well."
He doesn't turn. He staggers, reels, swipes disbelievingly at his eyes, and he already knows what he'll see because he knows what he heard. Right beside him, close enough to touch. Not looking at him. Looking down at the body, the blood and brain matter staining the grass - really not much of either in the end. He looks sad, but only a little. Mostly he looks resigned.
"We should do something about this," Mike says.
"What," Neil breathes, choking on air. "What. The fuck." He looks back at what he's done, at his dead husband put down like a mad dog because that's what he was, and he starts shaking. "What the fuck is this."
"That was an experiment," Mike replies, and frowns slightly. "I think. I'm not sure. It's kinda... hazy. Y'know? Anyway, it didn't work out. Too bad."
And Neil knows him. He thinks. He's almost sure. Older, earlier, less certain of himself but in many ways so much better. Less peaceful, less settled, but so much more...
So much more human.
"You died on the beach," he breathes, and Mike nods and smiles a very, very sad smile.
"Yeah. It took me longer than I thought. To get here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about..." He nods at the body and something like regretful distaste flashes across his features. "That."
"Okay," Neil whispers, because he has no idea what to say. To do. This makes absolutely no fucking sense.
Then again, it would be so weird if it suddenly started to.
"You know what, we'll deal with this later," Mike says, and reaches out and lays a palm against Neil's face, and it's everything good and nothing of what he could never trust in the end. He leans against it and it's like coming home.
"C'mon. Let's go inside."
1590 words
It's like someone planned it. Like some sick fucking entity with way too much power and time on its hands set down the outline of it, filled everything in, placed scenery and assembled actors, hit the lights, winched the sun up. Except it's still low and there's dew on the grass, and it reminds Neil for all the world of the morning of the fire.
And this is not going to end that way.
He's sitting in the kitchen staring down at the gun in his hands when Spike touches his shoulder - uncharacteristically gentle, but somehow he gets the feeling that if anyone is equipped right now to understand what's happening, it's Spike.
Also Dean. But Dean is outside. Dean is waiting.
"You're sure you want to do it like this."
It's not a question, but Neil nods anyway, because something like this needs confirmation. It needs it continuously, because it needs maintenance in order to happen at all. As a structure it's a few wobbly steps from collapse. He's made himself hard and cold - not just now but weeks ago when the first body was found - but underneath it he's a raw screaming mess and he doesn't doubt that everyone can tell.
No, he doesn't want to do it like this. But it has to be him. Kicking the job to someone else would be cowardice, and it would also be cruel, and he's run out of energy to feel ashamed of wanting to be kind to something that's become utterly inhuman, if he was inclined to feel ashamed of it anyway.
You love someone and it kills you. Or it kills them. Either way.
He gets up and goes outside without another word. It's an effort but like everything else these days he does it because there's no other option. One foot and then the other, one step at a time, off the flat slate of the path and across the grass. The girls' room overlooks this part of the lawn but they're not here. Of course. They're as far away as they can be and have been since it started.
He wants to believe they wouldn't be in danger. And in fact he mostly does. It's not to protect them from harm so much as to protect them from watching one of their fathers slaughter the other one.
Dean and Cas are waiting for him under one of the trees. Dean's face is flat and cold but Cas looks vaguely stricken. It's hit him harder than Neil might have expected. Maybe he should have. Cas is more likely to see this as a betrayal.
Neil can't really see it as anything other than an inevitability. In retrospect.
And Neil has no idea what his face looks like at the moment.
"He's ready," Dean says, and then looks away. Dean had offered to do it. Had almost insisted. In a way it would have been appropriate, and Neil thinks pretty much all involved parties would actually have agreed about that, but it was never honestly on the table. It's appreciated. Endlessly so. But no.
The gun in his hand feels like a millstone around his neck. It could drag him down.
"I'll be okay," Neil murmurs, and then lays a hand on Castiel's arm, because Cas really does look like he's only barely holding it together. It's not just this, what's happened and what's about to happen, but it's the girls, and what they're going to have to deal with all over again only about a hundred times worse. And there's no healing it. Grace can't make it better. Nothing can.
Dean is already walking away. Not looking back. After another miserable moment, Cas follows.
And then it's just the two of them.
He's on his knees a few yards away, hands bound behind his back. His head is down, but as he walks closer, Neil already knows it's not grief, nor is it remorse. Nor is it fear.
Mike can't feel those things anymore.
"Of course it'd be you." He doesn't raise his head. There's no spite in the words, for which Neil isn't sure if he's grateful - in some ways it's easier but in some ways this is so much worse, this calm matter-of-factness. "You were sure since the beginning, weren't you?"
Neil doesn't answer. He stops in front of Mike, staring down. All at once he doesn't want Mike to raise his head, because he know what he'll see on his face, in his face, and it's too much.
But then Mike does raise his head and it's just... It's him.
And it's almost okay. He almost drops the gun. It would be so, so easy to drop the gun.
But predators have camouflage. And the best ones can't be seen at all.
"Why?" He's not even looking for an answer but out comes the question anyway. Why? Why did you take everything we had and everything we built and throw it in the fucking fire? Why did you take this life, not always perfect but pretty goddamn wonderful on the whole, and tear it into shreds? Why did you? Why didn't you love us enough? Why didn't you stay in your warm, comfortable, open-arms cage?
Mike smiles, very small and pained in such a way that Neil actually believes it. "You ever hear the one about the scorpion and the frog?"
"Fuck you." He doesn't want to do this. He never should have started talking. It should have been quick, it should have happened as soon as he was in range, from a greater distance maybe, and maybe he should have just let Dean or Cas or Spike or literally anyone else do it for him. He squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head and fights it back. Wonders if Mike is enjoying watching the struggle.
But when he opens his eyes again he sees no sign of that. He doesn't see a monster. He doesn't see a predator, a killer. What he sees is the man he married, the same face he promised everything to on that beach, all open and warm acceptance and love.
And God, he actually buys it. Eats it up. Needs to.
"It's okay," Mike murmurs. "It's really okay. You do what you have to do." He takes a breath and the laugh he lets out is shaking just a little. "I'm glad it's you."
Why? he wants to ask again, to scream it, to beat Mike with the butt of the gun, smash it into his head and face until he's ruined and bleeding all over the pristine dewy grass, because it doesn't matter that he's glad, it doesn't matter what he wants or what makes him happy, because he's an asshole, because he's a fucking psychopath, and he's weak and that's why everything is shit.
But instead Neil just stands there and he doesn't fucking cry, and he raises the gun.
"It's okay," Mike whispers again, and then he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the muzzle and all Neil can see on his face is relief.
Because maybe neither of them were ever supposed to be here anyway.
"I'll see you," Neil says softly, and it's not a promise. Because Mike was right. Really, it's mostly a curse.
The shot isn't all that loud, actually.
Very far away, a bird starts to sing.
He's not sure how long he stands there. The world has blurred away and he can't see the body anymore. At some point the gun did fall from his hand but his fingers are curled as if he's still gripping it, and he's sobbing so hard his chest hurts, but he's also not moving and he's not making a sound.
So.
"That didn't end well."
He doesn't turn. He staggers, reels, swipes disbelievingly at his eyes, and he already knows what he'll see because he knows what he heard. Right beside him, close enough to touch. Not looking at him. Looking down at the body, the blood and brain matter staining the grass - really not much of either in the end. He looks sad, but only a little. Mostly he looks resigned.
"We should do something about this," Mike says.
"What," Neil breathes, choking on air. "What. The fuck." He looks back at what he's done, at his dead husband put down like a mad dog because that's what he was, and he starts shaking. "What the fuck is this."
"That was an experiment," Mike replies, and frowns slightly. "I think. I'm not sure. It's kinda... hazy. Y'know? Anyway, it didn't work out. Too bad."
And Neil knows him. He thinks. He's almost sure. Older, earlier, less certain of himself but in many ways so much better. Less peaceful, less settled, but so much more...
So much more human.
"You died on the beach," he breathes, and Mike nods and smiles a very, very sad smile.
"Yeah. It took me longer than I thought. To get here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about..." He nods at the body and something like regretful distaste flashes across his features. "That."
"Okay," Neil whispers, because he has no idea what to say. To do. This makes absolutely no fucking sense.
Then again, it would be so weird if it suddenly started to.
"You know what, we'll deal with this later," Mike says, and reaches out and lays a palm against Neil's face, and it's everything good and nothing of what he could never trust in the end. He leans against it and it's like coming home.
"C'mon. Let's go inside."