Destiny is a weird thing. It’s supposed to be an impartial force, objective, impersonal, unchangeable. Something that not even the Fates themselves, as mere servants of an already written story, can interfere with. Something set in stone by a being who stands above all the rest of creations, oldest than Time itself, oldest than space as we conceive it. And yet, when you find out that this being isn’t as omnipotent and unblemished as they should be, the question becomes inevitable. Can Destiny be flawless, untouchable, immutable if its Creator is not? Can Perfection originate from Imperfection? The most logical answer would be that no, such thing isn’t possible, not even as the produce of the highest, purest mind. And thus free will is born. Unpredictable, flawed, extremely subjective. Untamable Chaos compared to that impossible cosmic Order.
And yet, at times, you get that unshakable feeling that things happen for a reason, that the events are supposed to go in that specific way. Whether you like it or not, whether it brings you happiness or pain, whether you can or not bring yourself to accept how it went, in a way, it just feels right. As if all the pieces have somehow slipped into place. Beauty or horror, life or death, peace or war, gain or loss, that is how it was supposed to go.
Dean Winchester had never been the kind of man to believe in Destiny, or in God, for the matter. The horrors, the injustice, the death he had seen every day, starting from that fateful night when he witnessed his mother burning on the ceiling, the very moment when his life became a scary tale made of living nightmares, had always seemed to be enough of a proof of the fact. His convictions had wavered a few times but never changed, not even when he and Sam had learnt that Heaven was indeed real, just as Hell was, and that there was a Superior Being, who however had thrown everything away and had disappeared, leaving his own creation to fend for itself.
The hunter’s conclusion had been that God was an irresponsible coward and that he couldn’t be trusted, which, in his eyes, was yet another proof of the fact that nothing was already written. They had managed to rewrite the whole story of the freaking Apocalypse, after all, despite everyone telling them that it was impossible. And meeting Chuck for whom he truly was, years later, had cemented once again his beliefs on the matter.
However, not even someone as skeptical as him had been immune to that odd feeling that settles in your bones when something it’s just supposed to be. Finding out that Sam had demon blood in his veins, seeing him struggling with it, having the responsibility to kill him, his brother, the most important person of his life, if the younger Winchester got too deep under the surface dumped on his shoulders, and all the other messes that had happened in those months had drained him, making him numb down to his very core. And when he had chosen to sacrifice his soul to give Sam a chance to be alive again, he had felt that it was the right thing to do. Not even when everything they had tried to break the deal had failed, not even when the hellhounds had been devouring his flesh, leaving behind nothing but blood, pain and a broken corpse, not even down, in the depth of Hell, screaming for help, not even for a moment he had felt that he had made the wrong choice. That was how it was had to go, no matter how much he might have hated it, no matter what unbearable agony the consequences had brought him. He would have suffered through it all and done the same thing again if he had gone back in time, because he felt it, deep inside his now tormented and torn soul. Everything was as it was supposed to be.
However, the moment when all the pieces had come together had happened much later, forty years of Hell later. Dean didn’t have a clear recollection of the events, but he could remember hearing a voice, of the kind he had never heard before and would have never heard again, calling his name. Then, something, someone had grabbed him and had dragged him upwards, saving him from the eternal dark of the Pit. Despite the incredulity, when he had emerged from the ground, alive and whole and solid, despite the suspicion towards whatever had pulled him out of Hell, leaving behind nothing but a handprint burnt in his flesh, the feeling of rightness, the same he remembered to have experienced when the light had wrapped him in a blinding embrace, had stayed, intensified even.
Then Castiel. A fucking Angel of the Lord, as the other had introduced himself, showing the terrifying and yet majestic shadow of his wings. What had captured the hunter’s attention, though, hadn’t been the games of lights or the exploding lamps, but those eyes, bluer than the sky itself, that had given him the impression to be able to see into his own as if they were open doors. The being in front of him, wearing the scruffy appearances of Jimmy Novak, was the one who had breathed physical life into him once again and, even if Dean still didn’t know it at the time, the one who would have woken him up inside many and many times in the future, saving him from himself as he had saved him from Hell.
The sense of rightness had stayed. During the Apocalypse, when Castiel had been there, after Sam had picked a demon over him, and when the angel chosen humanity, had chosen him, over Heaven and his mission, but also when, over one year after the end of the End, the being whom he had started to consider his best friend had betrayed him in the worst way, crushing the only thread that was still keeping him from falling into the chaos of his trust issues.
And yet, once again, it had been Castiel himself who had saved him from the nothingness that had grown inside him. Healing Sam, paying the cure with his own mental sanity, and deciding to fight by their side even if it went against the new life of naivety he had chosen for himself. And there had been Purgatory, with its endless forest and a monster waiting behind every tree, hidden in every shadow, the smell of blood and mud haunting Dean constantly. Castiel was gone, again, but he had chased after him, not caring about the consequences or about Benny’s protests. He had to find the angel, even if it had meant spending a whole year in God’s dump. He could have never abandoned him there, despite the pain and the betrayal that had passed between them. The mistakes, no matter how painful they might have been, were nothing compared to separation. He had learnt how it was to be without the angel, how frozen inside he had felt without his guardian breathing new life inside his broken core.
When all his efforts turned into dust, Dean felt like the ungodly forest had torn away a piece of him too, together with separating him from his best friend. The stain that the guilt had left behind had remained, even after Castiel had told him that he had chosen to stay behind, willingly. The hunter still felt like he had failed, failed them both.
That kind of pattern had seemed to become the norm for them. At times, Dean had found himself thinking that the universe was keeping on separating them just to have them struggling until thy got back together. Like a twisted, sick, endless game. Naomi, Gadreel, Metatron and the angels being kicked out of Heaven. The Mark of Cain and his time as a demon. Amara and Chuck. Mary coming back and the British Men of Letters. Lucifer’s on the run and making a son. And having to watch Castiel dying, again, before his eyes, again.
After that, he had truly felt like he had been living a lie all along, a life of sacrifices made for the sake of promises that had turned out to be fake and that had sucked everything out of him, till there had been nothing inside. He had lost everything, all at once, and for what exactly? What they had gained had been just more troubles. And pain. So much pain. He had taken it out on himself, drowning his mind in alcohol and gaining a collection of always freshly bloody knuckles. He had taken it out on Sam, trying to crush all the hopes his brother was so desperately clinging to. He had taken it out on Jack, wanting to blame everything on him and refusing to see his efforts to be good, when the boy’s only fault had been being born out of Devil’s Grace. Perhaps there had been a part of him that had known that he was at fault, but he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he had wanted to. It all hurt so much, it all felt so senseless, so wrong. That wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He knew it, deep inside his bones, deep inside his soul.
Now, all those losses were behind them, some of them healed, others still bleeding and scarring. Castiel was back, and so was hope. Mary was still locked away in that horrifying dimension, alone with Lucifer, but Dean now could feel the same positivity that Sam had carried for the both of them during the last few weeks. Jack was no longer a threat that would have turned on him, but the key to get their mother back and also to a better future for everyone. Nothing was perfect, there was still so much to fix, so many sacrifices to face. But things felt once again right and the older Winchester had learnt that it could be enough. He still didn’t believe in Destiny, but he had come to think that, perhaps, some things had to happen in a certain way.
Dean took a large gulp of his beer, looking up the starry sky. It was late night, already past midnight, but he hadn’t felt like going to sleep, so he had taken Baby for a run to the closest town. Sam had already gone to bed and Jack had been off with Castiel, learning about angel stuff. The hunter hadn’t gone back inside when he had got back and now he was leaning against the side of the Impala, bottle in one hand, the other tackle in the pit of his elbow. The air was chilly but still pleasant and the silence was soothing, almost peaceful. It had been a while since the last time he had allowed himself to empty his head, to give his thoughts some rest. It wouldn’t have lasted, but it was fine. It felt good and he intended to enjoy the moment.
When he heard the sound of approaching steps, he didn’t whip around as he would have normally done, but just turned his head, with calm, and raised his beer in a gesture of greeting as his forest green eyes met the familiar figure of his best friend.
“Hey,” he greeted quietly once the angel was close enough to hear him. “How’s the kid?”
“Hey,” Castiel echoed, easily slipping next to the hunter and settling against the metal of the car door, their shoulder barely brushing. “Jack is…well. He still gets frustrated when he cannot manage something, but he is getting better. At accepting failure too.” Those blue eyes, the same that had looked so penetrating the first time they had met and that now Dean knew for sure that were capable of seeing right through him, narrowed. “How are you, Dean?”
“I’m…I can’t say “fine”, but I’m still standing. And that’s something,” he answered, with just the slightly hint of hesitation. For a moment he had considered lying, but he had quickly decided against it because the angel would have known. He returned his gaze on the stars. “Cas, listen. Can I ask you something?”
A hint of curious perplexity touched Castiel’s face. The older Winchester wasn’t the kind of person who asked permission to pose a question. He usually just asked. “Of course, Dean. You know that you can tell me anything,” he replied, eyeing the hunter even more carefully. “However, I might not have an answer for you.”
Dean shook his head. “It’s…It’s actually pretty stupid, but…I can’t get it out of my mind.” He licked his lips and gulped down what was left of his beer, before setting it down on the roof of the Impala. He moved his head on one side, to be able to look back at his best friend. “Do you think that some things happen for a reason? I’m not talking about those Fate bitches or one of Chuck’s badly staged plot…No offence intended.” He cleared his throat. “Like…Like something happens and you just know? Know that it should have gone that way? That it should be that way?”
A look of deep contemplation morphed on Castiel’s feature and he remained quiet for several moment, blue eyes locked somewhere between him and the grass under their feet. The hunter couldn’t do anything but keeping on watching him, trying and failing to guess his thoughts. He knew his best friend very well by now and yet, at the same time, there was something in the other that was always so elusive. Maybe it was because they came from different worlds, or maybe because the angel was so much more ancient than he could have ever imagined and has seen things that he couldn’t even start to comprehend.
“I don’t know if those…feelings are real or just a subjective sensation,” Castiel answered in the end, his tone cautious, interrupting the trail of the older Winchester’s reflections. He still looked half lost in his thoughts, but his gaze regained focus as soon as it landed on the human’s face. “However, I can tell you that I have experienced such feeling myself in the past, more than once, and I’m inclined to believe that there must be some truth to it.” He tilted his head. “What about you, Dean? What do you think?”
Dean opened his mouth, but for a moment no sound left his lips. He cleared his throat again and looked away, tracing the invisible patterns that connected the stars for some time before returning his eyes on the angel’s expecting expression. “I…I do think that some things happen for a reason. Why they do, I can’t tell, but…It’s just right,” he ended up saying, lowering his arms along his sides. His shoulder bumped into Castiel’s as he shifted imperceptibly closer. “Even when you hate it. Even when they hurt. There’s something that makes you understand that there’s no way or reason to change them because that’s how it was supposed to go.”
“A series of predetermined constants in the universe,” the angel mused quietly, receiving a slow nod as an answer.
Silence fell over them once again as they both focused on the sky. Dean was almost surprised by how easily his fingers reached out and wrapped themselves around Castiel’s, linking their hands together, but the surprise turned into a comfortable warmth as soon as he felt the angel reciprocating the gesture, connecting them more firmly. None of them spoke a word, but there was a grin on the hunter’s face. Maybe it was madness, and most likely he would have had a crisis over the implications later, but for the moment it was fine. It felt just right.