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amberdreamsTitle: Mists and Mellow Frutifulness
Word count: 1200
Characters: Castiel, Sam, Dean, OCs.
Rating: Gen, PG13
Warnings: Set in a far future with ambiguously alive or dead characters. Outsider POV.
The day the Storyteller arrived in Ashford, Virginia, the wind changed direction, bringing with it a hint of frost from the north, together with the first touch of flame in the maple leaves.
Abby wasn’t born when Cas, bearer of the Winchester Talecoat, had last visited Ashford, but Abby’s mom remembered him. She told Abby he didn’t look a day older, even though more than fifteen years had passed. He looked old to Abby, whatever Mom said. He had the biggest, bushiest beard Abby had ever seen, though his long dark hair was tied back, providing a semblance of neatness. Not that Abby wasted much time on the Storyteller’s appearance, not when she knew the famous Talecoat was hidden in the duffel bag on his shoulder.
Cas refused all offers of hospitality; he’d only be stopping the one night, like always. It was a well-kept secret that he kept his wandering to the backroads 0f the Old States, never venturing into any of the larger towns. The small towns loved knowing the Winchester stories were exclusively theirs.
“You know what to do,” he said to the gathered townsfolk, voice like the slide of gravel underfoot. Abby wondered how he’d make the tale telling wondrous with a voice like that, and got a smack round the head for fear he’d hear her rudeness. He did, but all he gave Abby was a flash of blue eyes and the hint of a smile beneath the beard.
Ashford was rarely so animated. The whole town mobilised, activity centred round the open-sided wooden structure that townsfolk liked to call the theatre, but was more a giant lean-to than anything else. Just about every member of the community turned out that night, and the bonfire they built for the occasion rivalled the one they lit up for Independence, piled ridge-high at a safe distance from the corrugated iron roof of the theatre. Mr Puckett, of Puckett’s grocery store and restaurant, had an outdoor grill going, and the rich scent of crisping pork fat filled the evening air.
All of which was forgotten when Cas put aside his plate and put on the Talecoat. In that one small act, he transformed from ordinary traveller to magical Story Spinner. The small crowd quietened down in anticipation, until the only sound was the crack and pop of the bonfire. Cas stretched out his arms and the tails of the coat flapped out like wings, even though there was no wind.
The Talecoat’s dull beige fabric sprung to life in the pattern of light and shadow cast by the dancing flames. A myriad of images woven into the fabric writhed and sparked. Abby had scorned her mom’s old stories of the Talecoat’s enchantments, but she believed now, as scenes flew off and circled Cas’s head like swarming lightning bugs.
Children and adults alike surged forward, filled with a longing to touch, to choose a thread. There was Sam with his first love, Jessica; there Dean with their father, John,hunting a black dog; there were angels, and demons, and monsters; stories of night terrors and devils wound black and red amongst the golds of love and family.
Mr Archer got first pick, and folk subsided with a shared disappointed sigh. Old Archer had chosen a dark one. Abby bit her fist when the wicked, conniving Metatron sheathed his angel blade into Dean’s chest, and wept when Dean died in his brother’s arms, even though she knew this wasn’t the first death the brothers had suffered, or probably the last. Sure enough, the story’s end was shocking, closing as it did on the opening of Dean’s demon eyes.
“Dean walked a dark road, but Sam never gave up hope,” Cas reassured the crowd.
Rob Astor chose next, his hand reaching out to snag gleaming silver. Cas launched into the tale, sadly not the resolution to Dean’s demonic transformation, but an earlier, lighter anecdote with many twists and turns that had the town laughing one moment and shocked the next. Abby decided that she liked this Trickster. It was fun to hear about a monster with a sense of humour.
Story followed story, each one’s thread blinking out into darkness as it was told. Dean died, Sam died, each was resurrected, possessed, made mistakes, saved the world; each tale seemed more dramatic and scary than the last. Finally, when the bonfire was reduced to half Abby’s height, and she’d near given up hope of being picked, Cas held up his hand.
“This is the last story, and I don’t know when I’ll be back this way again,” Cas looked directly at her. “Chose wisely, Abby,” Cas said. Abby couldn’t believe he’d singled her out at last, or that he knew her name, but she didn’t hesitate.
“That one,” she said, stretching out to touch one sparking iridescent thread. Cas smiled. “Good choice.”
The scene was a maple wood, just like the one surrounding Ashford, though the leaves were mostly fallen, rustling underfoot as the Winchesters stumbled out from the darkness.
“Fuck, Sammy, I hate hiking. Next time I get to pick the case, and we’re going to a nice warm beach.”
“Didn’t have much choice, Dean, Leshiye only hang out in forests. Don’t tell me you’d let a bit of frost stop you saving those kids.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean went straight to the trunk of the Impala, lifted out the green cooler and cracked the lid. He waved two bottles at his brother, teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. Sam spread a blanket over Baby’s hood so they wouldn’t get her muddy, and the two brothers climbed up, reclining with shared sighs of satisfaction that puffed white into the cold mountain air. Above the clearing the sky arched, vast and full of stars.
Abby could see their constellations clearer than the real sky over her own head – Sam the Hunter with Dean the Hound, Orion and Sirius as was, centuries before the Winchesters became legend. Before Cas started his wandering and his stories.
~0~0~
The townsfolk have all gone to bed when the Storyteller takes off the Talecoat. Ashford doesn’t have much, but they’ve pressed gifts on him – he’s going to leave the town with random riches. A bag of dried beans, a compass, a packet of heart-shaped candy, a candle, a lucky charm bracelet and a whistle.
Humans are strange.
“Good show tonight, Cas,” Dean says, bumping Sam’s shoulder as they step down from the shadowed wooden theatre. “I think we only died a couple of times.”
“That’s ‘cause nobody chose Broward County Mystery Spot this time,” Sam teases.
“Dude, getting flattened by a piano is no joke,” Dean protests, and Castiel hides a smile. He folds the Talecoat tight, watching the soul-threads that hold all of Sam and Dean’s history snap back into place, safe in the tight weave of his trench coat.
Dean grins at Sam, wicked.
“You know they’ve got the constellations all wrong, don’t you? The Hunter and the Hound? Everyone knows you’re the bitch in this relationship, Sammy.”
“Jerk.”
Their bickering fades in the dawn light, and Castiel, Angel of Atonement, formerly Angel of Thursday, packs his family into the duffel bag, and walks.
~0~0~ End ~0~0~