[fic] 'Til We Meet Again - SPN

Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write.
Pairing or Characters Involved: Castiel, Dean and Sam Winchester
Category: Action/Drama, Angst
Rating: R
Warning: Suicide, violence, language.
Title: ‘Til We Meet Again
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, spnpromptcake
.
Characters or pairing: Dean/OC or author's choice
Situation: in the billiard room
Cliché: with a rope





“Dude, I’ve got nothing,” Sam shut down his laptop and pushed away from the kitchenette table with a sigh. “I can’t come up with a single reason why this Cullen guy would be haunted.”

“We’ve just got to dig deeper, that’s all,” Dean said, flipping idly through the newspaper clippings he had copied from the library’s archives. “When we talked to him at that fancy house of his, the EMF was lighting up like a freaking Christmas tree.”

“Dean’s right,” Castiel said quietly from the couch. “There was definitely a ghostly presence in that house. Whoever – or whatever – it was, it wasn’t happy.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. I checked the building’s history and there wasn’t any violent deaths or mysterious disappearances. Everything was just… normal.” Sam grabbed a clean plastic cup and filled it with water from the kitchen faucet, took a long drink. “There wasn’t anything at all unusual about Michael Cullen’s life as far as I see. The guy married his high school sweetheart, Mary Winters, settled down… and they were happily married for forty-five years.

This earned a snort from Dean. He pushed aside the clippings and wearily massaged his temples. They’d been at this for damn near twenty hours and nothing. No lead, no clue, no freaking idea whatsoever.

“It’s got ‘average American love story’ stamped all over it,” Dean muttered, “Talk about boring. So, what, no fights, no extracurricular activities on his part?”

“Dude, the guy’s almost seventy years old.”

“Hey, we’re living in the Golden Age of Viagra. It could happen.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, maybe it could, but it didn’t. At least not as far as I could tell,” He put his cup on the counter. “He’s clean. Squeaky clean. Everyone I talked to – his friends, neighbors, co-workers - said he had a picture perfect marriage.”

“That’s crap. There’s gotta be something. We’re just overlooking something.”

“Aside from the fact that they never had any children, there’s nothing unusual.”

“Problems with his little soldiers? That might undermine his masculinity,” Dean mused, “Could send him off the deep end, make him kill his wife. You know, freaky mid-to-late life crisis or some shit like that.”

“Now you’re just grasping at straws.”

“Maybe, but do you have any other suggestions?” Dean demanded. “Something sure as hell is going on. I mean, this guy says he’s been seeing his wife’s ghost everywhere. There’s gotta be a reason.”

“So you think he killed his wife because they never had kids?” Sam scoffed.

“Or maybe she wanted kids and he didn’t. Dean gathered up the clippings and stuffed them into a battered manila folder. “I mean, did you see that freaking house? Antiques and knickknacks everywhere. Didn’t look very kid friendly to me. Not that I blame him. Who wants a couple of rug-rats dragging them down?”

“Most normal people want kids, Dean.”

“What does normal have to do with it?” Dean demanded, pushing back from the table and stretching the kinks out of his back. “If you ask me, parents are out of their mind for wanting kids in the first place.”

Sighing, Sam walked over to his brother, leaned a hip against the table. “Dean, maybe there’s nothing here to investigate. Maybe her spirit is just… lingering. It happens. The dead aren’t ready to let go of the living so they stick around for a while, stay close to their loved ones.”

Dean shook his head. “Not that simple. And even if it was, we’ve still got to salt and burn her corpse - the sooner, the better.”

“The coroner said that Mrs. Cullen had died in an automobile accident.” Castiel said, quietly. “No evidence of violence, just… an accident. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it doesn’t sound like we have the makings of a vengeful spirit material.”

“And,” Sam added, “he never said that the ghost seemed intent on causing him harm. He just kept seeing her everywhere.”

Dean scratched his chin speculatively. “Dude, this sounds familiar. Like, I don’t know - déjà vu. How creepy is that?”

“It sounds familiar because we’ve done a case like this before, remember? When we went to visit Mom’s grave. The zombie - Angela Mason?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Creepy dead chick,” He smiled and shook his head as if reliving found memories. “Broke your hand, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled, taking another sip of water, “something like that.”

Dean chuckled, “Pussy.”

“Whatever. Just… concentrate, okay? If Cullen’s wasn’t cheating on his wife, then why would she haunt him?”

“Maybe he was an abusive jerk.”

“I don’t know,” Sam muttered, “He looked pretty harmless to me.”

“You got any better ideas, Einstein?”

“No…”

“Fine. Then I say we go have a little chat with our grieving husband.” Dean pushed back the chair and headed for the door, digging the Impala’s keys from his pocket. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’.”

***

The Cullen home was a grand manor in one of the city’s more affluent neighborhoods. Tudor in style with graceful landscaping, the place screamed money.

Dean parked the Impala in the driveway and got out, surveying their surroundings to make sure no one was playing snoopy neighbor. But then again, in a place like this, they probably used high tech security cameras. His hazel eyes scanned the building, expectantly.

Ah, there it was.

“Say cheese, boys,” Dean muttered, slamming the driver’s door and jerking his head toward a very discreet, very expensive-looking security camera. “We’re on candid camera.”

Castiel followed his gaze with a puzzled frown.

“Great,” Sam muttered with shake of the head. “That’s just what we need. Surveillance.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Dean said, crossing the lawn. Sam and Castiel exchanged a glance then followed him to the front porch.

Dean pushed the doorknob with the ball of his thumb and waited for a response. When no one answered, he tried again, leaning on the bell for several long seconds just in case Mr. Cullen’s was in the shower, or something.

“Dean, maybe he’s not home.” Sam ventured.

“Bullshit. His car’s right there in the driveway, genius. And Richie Rich didn’t look like a guy who’d take a stroll around the neighborhood just for the hell of it. Guy could stand to lose a few pounds, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel’s head shot up, his eyes widening. “The ghost, it’s here. And it’s very…upset.”

“Good enough for me,” Dean muttered, drawing his gun, keeping it close to his chest lest any suburbanites come strolling by with Fido. “Sammy, lock picks, now.”

Without a word, Sam produced his locking set from the inner pocket of his jacket and, kneeling down so he was level with the doorknob, set to work. Dean stepped behind him to shield him and his highly illegal act from prying eyes.

“Hurry up, Sammy,” He muttered under his breath.

“I’m working on it, Dean,” Sam hissed through gritted teeth as he continued to work the locks. Finally, he felt the lock give and stepped aside, “Got it.”

“Good,” Dean grabbed the doorknob, turned, and pushed his way into the house, eyes darting around, checking for unwanted company. “Mr. Cullen?” he called out, “FBI. Anybody home?”

His eyes darted to the fireplace and the poker set on the mantle. “Sam, grab the poker.”

“On it,” Sam mumbled, grabbing the solid iron bar and hefting it experimentally. “Feels like solid iron.”

“Good,” Then Dean turned to Castiel, “Hey, you still sense our spook?”

Castiel adopted a stance that looked almost like he was listening for something, some sound faint and far away. His head cocked at an angle. And then he nodded. “Yes, it’s still here. She’s very upset. We must hurry.”

“Shit,” Dean muttered, and then raising his voice, called out, “Mr. Cullen! Where are you?”

From further down the hall came a crash. “This way!” Dean snapped, darting in that direction with Sam and Castiel on his heels.

The hall opened up into an opulent billiard room done in rich, mahogany wood paneling, hunter greens and maroons. The whole place was so over the top masculine that for a split second Dean wondered if the old man had been trying to overcompensate for something.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean exclaimed, skidding to a halt when he saw the gruesome display before them.

Mr. Cullen dangled from the ceiling by a thick rope noose suspended from a massive chandelier, his red face slack, eyes bulging. An ornately carved cherry wood chair lay on its side nearby, obviously the source of the crash. Tiny crystals chimed as the body below jerked spasmodically from side to side.

A figure stood directly below the strangling man, arms up and reaching. Her eyes were red rimmed as if from crying and the short, bluish gray hair was in wild disarray. Judging from the photographs from the obituary, it was the ghost of the late Mrs. Mary Cullen.

“Get away from him, you bitch,” Dean bellowed.

He pulled the trigger, but the instant he did, the spirit disappeared. A large, white vase covered in delicate Oriental-looking flowers, exploded in a spray of shards. “Oops, my bad.”

A moment later Mrs. Cullen appeared again right beside him. With an almost casual gesture on the ghost’s part, Dean found himself flying across the room and into a floor to ceiling bookcase. The impact pushed the air from his lungs and brought a pile of leather-bound books cascading over his head.

“Sam, help me,” Castiel called, his blade in his hand. “Get under him so we can cut him down.”

Sam darted to the old man, trying to get his broad shoulders up under his bare feet to give the rope some slack. Thick chocking sounds could be heard, but the man’s face was going a deep, beet red.

The ghost materialized next to Sam, who jerked back. But just as he brought his arm back to strike out with the poker, Castiel grabbed his wrist.

“Sam, don’t.”

“What the hell are you playing at, Cas?” Dean yelled, pulling himself to his feet.

Castiel turned his head toward Dean as far as he could while still keeping the specter in his peripheral vision. “She’s not trying to hurt us… she’s trying to help.”

“Like hell she is!” Dean crossed the room in lumbering strides, obviously favoring his right leg. “Casper here tried to bash my brains in, or weren’t you paying attention?”

“She was merely defending herself,” Castiel’s voice was low, strained. “We do not have time to argue, this man is dying.”

Using his knife, Castiel cut through the rope and quickly lowered Mr. Cullen to the ground. Clumsily, he checked for a pulse, pressing his fingers to the man’s neck. Shaking his head, he leaned over and listened to his chest.

“Sam,” he said, urgently, “Help me, he’s not breathing.”

“Right,” Sam quickly moved into position and started CPR, while the Mrs. Cullen’s spirit hovered at her husband’s head, wringing her hands and blinking her eyes to disperse her tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sam gasped several minutes later and glanced first at the ghost then to Castiel, “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

Castiel bowed his head for a moment, as if in prayer. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, glanced to his friend. “It’s okay, Sam. You did you’re best.”

“So now what,” Dean demanded, “We let her get away with murder?”

“This wasn’t murder, Dean.” Castiel murmured sadly, “This man committed suicide.”

“Suicide? Why the hell would he do something stupid like that?”

“I have seen a great deal of sorrow over these past two thousand years, Dean,” Castiel sighed, shaking his head slowly. “While I do not understand the feelings that drive men and women to take their own lives, I do know that depression too often walks hand in hand with a deep sense of helplessness, of loss.”

His deep blue eyes went to Mrs. Cullen, who bit her lower lip, her eyes beseeching. “This was not your fault. I know now that you were trying to help him.” he whispered. “But the pain of losing you proved to be too much for him to bear. And… I – I’m sorry.”

The spirit of Mrs. Mary Cullen slowly rose to her feet, openly weeping now.

“Go,” Castiel commanded, gently, raising his hand, fingers splayed. “Be at peace.”

A soft white light emanated from the palm of his hand, bathing the billiard room in a gentle light. He reached out and laid his hand gently against the specter’s forehead. Mrs. Cullen’s closed her eyes and her mouth moved soundlessly. The light intensified and both Sam and Dean shielded their eyes from its brilliance.

When the light finally faded, the ghost was gone.

***

“Well, I guess you can’t save everyone,” Dean sighed, inserting the key into the ignition. The Impala’s engine rumbled into life. “Especially the ones that just don’t want to be saved.”

“So what now?” Sam wondered aloud, “What’s going to happen to them?”

“This man has taken his own life,” Castiel whispered hoarsely. “It is a terrible sin in the eyes of the Lord.”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, holding up a hand and turning in his seat to glare at the angel, “Are you telling me that those two will never see each other again? That his soul is Hell bound?”

“No, of course not. That is not what I’m saying at all. Life is full of sadness, pain, but suicide is never an acceptable option, Dean. Grief, depression, all of these things will eventually pass.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the line – suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, or some shit like that.”

“It’s true,” Castiel insisted. “Humans do not have the right to take their own lives. That belongs to God.”

“So much for free will,” Dean snorted.

“But seriously, Cas,” Sam prompted, “What’s going to happen to them now?”

Castiel meet his gaze directly, his deep blue eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. “It is not my place to say. But I believe that if it’s strong enough, love will find a way. And they will be together again.”

Dean glanced back at him. “You really believe that, Cas?”

“I do.”

“Okay, then,” Dean craned his head so he could look out the rear window as he backed the Impala out of the driveway. “Works for me.”


THE END