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themoonandotherslikeit · 5 years

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The Hand That Reaches for God- Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Her heart sank into her shoes as she realized at last how much she wanted him. No matter what his past was, no matter what he had done. Which was not to say that she would ever let him know, but only that he moved her chemically more than anyone she had ever met, that all other men seemed pale beside him.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

-98 Days After-

Two months at the cabin had been blissful. The Winchester’s and the Maklen’s had quickly and effortlessly fallen into a routine. It didn’t feel like the end, not anymore. Emerson felt like it had actually started to feel like home.

The leaves had changed and autumn was in full swing. There hadn’t been any more incidents with the rain, and they hadn’t seen more than a stray Rogue in weeks. The guys would sometimes leave for a day or two to go find supplies, but they mostly lived sufficiently on their own. They’d started a little garden with seeds that Sam brought back from town, and Dean had kept the weeds and grass cut low. There was a newly constructed, mismatched fence surrounding their little paradise to keep danger out.

There hadn’t been a night that Emerson and Dean hadn’t wound up sleeping side by side, even if half of the time Emerson snuck out of bed and walked down to the edge of the dock and sat, staring at the reflection of the sky in the water. Dean was keeping his respectable distance, trying with everything that he had not to push her boundaries.

In the wake of the new life that they’d all created with each other, they found themselves easily getting into a comfortable swing, like the sway of the recently hung swing under the large Dogwood tree. The flowers had plumed a blood red, like the rest of the world, making it unremarkable in comparison to its usual draw.

Pheli had found a few cans of potato soup in the back pantry and insisted on cooking it all by herself. She was going to make the first real Autumn meal. This left Emerson to sit on the end of the dock with her knees against her chest, staring out at the water like she did most days.

She thought about the day that they said goodbye to their mother. They wrote her letters, and Sam folded them into small paper boats. Emerson set the paper on fire with Dean’s lighter and sent them out onto the lake. She couldn’t say goodbye then, she couldn’t cry, but more than anything she couldn’t admit that the letter wasn’t for her mother at all. It was for herself.

She closed her eyes and felt the cool breeze off the water, not bothering to wipe the stray tear that rolled down her cheek. Somehow, in the ease of life, the weight that pressed down on Emerson’s shoulders felt so much heavier than it ever had before. It was heavy on her chest so she couldn’t breathe, she’d lost her appetite, and she could hardly sleep. That was no real surprise, though, sleep had begun to feel like a luxury that she couldn’t afford.

It was like she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, like she was being watched. She’d tried to explain it to Dean in the darkness when his nose was pressed to hers, but every time she opened her mouth, it was like Gordon’s palm was pressing against her lips to keep her silent. She just hoped that Dean understood that it wasn’t about him, that the cracks in her soul weren’t something made by him, but they also weren’t something that he could mend.

-9 Years Before-

Emerson watched the flames of everything her father left behind burning in the fire pit in their backyard. They licked up toward the night sky, the smoke blowing up, black even against the night sky, carrying glowing pieces of ash up to Heaven. She was sure that her mother didn’t intend to share an entire bottle of red wine with her two fourteen year old daughters, but there she was, sitting in the darkness, watching the fire burn down, her mind fuzzy and her tongue heavy. Ophelia had fallen asleep with her head on their mothers lap, Jana petting her hair, whispering quiet promises. She took Pheli inside, admitting that she was tired as well.

Emerson offered a brave smile and promised her mother that she would put the fire out and come to bed soon. What else could she say? She watched her father’s clothes burn. His favorite striped tie, the comb he used to tame his thick mustache, and the last newspaper he ever read. She’d never forget curling up on the porch swing, taking in the scent of his strong morning coffee as he read the paper out loud to her. “You see Emmy, this man saved a little girl from a fire. He’s a hero, don’t you think?” Who would save her father from the fire?

She didn’t know why he left, just that she woke up, and he was gone. She’d never seen her mother cry before, but right in front of her eyes Jana’s knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor like she was made of paper. She felt sick to her stomach, but immediately reacted. “It’s okay, Mom. We don’t need him. We have each other.” They burned the wall piece that said The Wilson’s and angrily cut him out of every family photograph. They didn’t belong to him any more than he belonged to them, and even though it didn’t look like it, Emerson felt that loss to her core.

Dean was seventeen years old, eighteen on his coming birthday. He was sneaking into the backdoor of his house when something caught his attention. His green eyes popped up over their shared fence, they glowed in the light of the fire. “Got any s’mores?”

“No,” Emerson grunted in annoyance.

“Damn, sorry for asking.”

“They’re always sorry aren’t they,” she slurred, her tongue still heavy with wine.

Her eyes were focused on Dean, well as focused as they could be. She caught his eyebrows coming together in a frown. “You okay? You sound a little…”

“Drunk? Yup. I’m great.” She turned her head away from him and focused back to the fire. She was pissed at the world, at men, and she just wanted to let herself cry, but she couldn’t. She’d crowned herself the strong one before she even had a chance to process what had happened.

There was a groan from the fence before the sound of Dean’s feet hitting the grass with a soft thud. He walked to her, lowering himself down next to her. “You’re drunk? You’re just a kid.”

“Fuck you,” she snapped, resting her chin on her knees. “I’ve never been a kid.”

Dean was quiet at her side, and for a second she thought he’d left. “I shouldn’t judge,” he said after a breath of silence, and her eyes flickered to him. “I’m not exactly a good role model.” He snickered into the darkness, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips, but didn’t light it. He stared at the fire with a desperate look of longing. “What’s with the clothes? You commit a murder or something?”

She pursed her lips, turning back to the fire. “Or something.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Emerson’s eyes focused on the stacked items inside of the flames disappear into each other, collapse into dust. Once everything had burned away would it be like he never existed in the first place? The concept made her chest ache.

Dean sat next to her like a silent pillar for minutes. It felt like he was building protective walls around her, brick by brick. The more safe she felt with him, though, the more distrustful she felt. Her father had been there for fourteen years, and he still up and left one day. Dean looked at her like a kid, so why would he be of any significance to her? What reason would he have for staying? None. You aren’t worth staying for.

She turned back to him, catching him looking at her. To her surprise, his eyes didn’t waiver when she met his stare. “Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth, but hesitated for a moment. He cleared his throat and put on a smartass smile that made Emerson want to reach out and punch him in the nose like she’d done six years previously. “I was out on a date with Stacy McGilvery, but I’m grounded. I was trying to sneak back in. The date went good, but I don’t know, she’s not really my type.”

Emerson frowned, her nose crinkling. “Stacy McGilvery… isn’t she a cheerleader?”

“Prom Queen last year.”

“So she’s pretty and popular, why not your type?” More importantly, why do I care?

“Not much under the surface.”

“No boobs?”

Dean looked at her surprised, letting out a laugh. “What? You’re seriously asking me that?”

“I don’t know what else you could be meaning,” she said, her tongue pressed to the inside of her teeth.

“Personality, kid. That’s what I mean. She’s got no substance.”

“Didn’t think guys like you cared about substance.”

“Ouch,” he said with a wince, touching his chest. “And I didn’t think girls like you got wasted on Saturday night. Guess we were both wrong.”

Touché. “I don’t, normally.”

“So why now?”

Maybe it was the wine pulsing through her veins, or perhaps it was the weight of him next to her drawing her in like an orbit, but she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say it out loud and let it go. “My dad left today.”

“Where’d he go?”

“No idea.”

Dean was quiet, pensive, but it didn’t last long. “Wait… you’re saying he…?”

She nodded, pressing her chin back to her knees.

“Wow. Wow. You didn’t know? Did he say where he was going?”

“I woke up, and he was gone.”

A new smoke invaded Emerson’s nose, making her eyes water. Dean had lit up his cigarette after all.

“Motherfucker,” he mumbled into the cigarette. “What kind of man…” Dean’s voice trailed off into the darkness in a puff of smoke. “Are you okay?” He asked finally.

“I feel like he took a piece of me with him. It’s like every person we interact with gets a small piece of us. They break it off, and when they leave they take it with them. Usually we don’t notice, but if someone is important… then that piece leaves a much bigger hole. I feel hollow.”

“He isn’t worth it.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know him,” she snapped, pain radiating through her.

“If he walked out on you, then he isn’t worth it. He’s an idiot. Anyone who would willingly walk away from you isn’t worth the time that you’d spend missing them,” Dean said seriously.

She turned to look at him and was caught off guard by the intensity of his stare, by the smoke leaving his lips as if his mouth was full of fire. She could feel herself burning within him, crumbling into dust under his tongue like her father's life was in front of her.

-98 Days After-

People are made up of moments, she decided. Every decision, every piece that’s broken off of them created a single person that was completely unique. She knew if her heart was held up next to her sisters that it wouldn’t be recognizable. It had to be so full of holes and broken pieces that she knew if it was held up to the sun that she could see the sun rays breaking through it, speckled and fantastic, casting shadows on the ground. It had started to break long before Gordon. She was built of moments, stacked together like Lincoln logs, up far too high that it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she was unsteady. That she wobbled and eventually crashed to the ground.

The dock groaned behind her under a weight that she now recognized as Dean’s. “Thought I might find you here,” he said gently, draping a blanket over her shoulders. “Can I sit?”

“Yeah,” Emerson breathed, exhaling warm white mist into the chilled, autumn air.

He lowered himself next to her and slid his arm around her, creating a protective belt of strength to hold her together. “I brought you something,” he said softly, tugging at the ends of one of her curls against her back.

“What is it?”

Dean reached into his coat and pulled out a KitKat bar and offered it to her, his palm flat.

“You got me candy?” She asked, her eyebrow quirked.

“I found it out of place at the supermarket. It’s your favorite, right?”

Emerson’s eyes scanned the candy and up his arm to his eyes. “It is. How did you know that?”

Dean smiled sheepishly. “I remember when we were kids, after Halloween, you and Phel would sit on the porch trading candy. You’d trade anything for those damn KitKat’s.”

She pressed her lips together and felt a tug in her chest. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember everything about you, Em.”

“Not everything,” she admitted softly.

“What do you mean?”

She sucked in her breath through her nose. She wasn’t sure why she was bringing it up. It wouldn’t change anything. If anything it would just give him ammunition to take another piece of her, but she needed to release the weight that held her down. “I was there, after your accident. I was there every day for weeks. Your heart stopped right under my cheek.”

“Wait… what? You were there?”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?”

“You didn’t want to have any visitors. You kept everyone away. I thought that you didn’t want me there. It just felt like maybe I’d been making it all up.”

“Making what up?”

“This thing between us.”

She felt his finger hook under her chin, tilting her head to look at him. “I had this dream, well fuck I thought it was a dream, and when I woke up I couldn’t shake it. It was more of a feeling I guess.”

“What was it?”

“I thought… fuck, it’s hard to explain.” He let out an irritated sigh, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts “It was you. It was just your face and when I saw you… I just felt so warm. It was right, Em. It’s like I knew that I couldn’t live without you. I didn’t want to.” She could feel his breath on her lips as they were separated by a short distance. “You didn’t make it up, Em. This thing between us is real. Fuck it may be the most real thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life. You’re it, Em.”

She took the candy bar from him like it was a goddamn engagement ring, like it was precious, and she laid it down on the dock gently before running her fingers along his jaw. She wanted to count every freckle that danced along the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. She wanted to kiss the one right at the place that his skin met his bottom lip. Every fleck of gold in his eyes seemed to glow in the low light, like the sun breaking through the trees, speckled across the ground.

She wondered then if some people were made of glue, because every second that she thought she was too broken to continue, Dean slid into the cracks inside of her that threatened to break her in two and held on tightly, holding her together even just for a minute.

There was something between them that didn’t have a name, something bigger than love, something that reached out past the bones in her chest, and deeper than the reaches of her blood. His soul touched hers, brushing it until it glowed brightly. As broken as she felt, there was something about the way he looked at her that made everything feel so much more stable.

“What’s that look for?” He asked her softly, as she ran her thumb over his bottom lip tenderly.

“What look?” She asked, her voice a whisper in the breeze.

“This one.” His fingers were tracing her features then, his thumb across her jaw, her earlobe, and knitting into her hair.

“I’m just wondering how I didn’t see you before. You’ve been here the whole time.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But you weren’t ready. It’s okay to not be ready.”

What did ready really mean?

She thought about when her father taught her how to ride her bike. Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go! She didn’t think she was ready. She was wrong.

Her eyes flickered back up to his. Her lips parted, and she was ready to tell him everything. He was Dean, after all.

“Hey lovebirds! The soup is ready! Get your butts up here!” Pheli yelled from the back porch, her hand on her hip. She shook her wooden spoon in the air like some housewife, beckoning them.

Dean exhaled swiftly and pressed a kiss to her forehead, making her heart race. “Let’s table this, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, even though all she wanted to do in that moment was drown in him.

Emerson took his hand and let him lead her up to the house. Pheli had already went back inside by the time that they reached the back porch. Dean reached for the doorknob, and she placed her fingers over his, stopping him. He turned to look at her, and she captured his lips in an urgent, breath-stealing kiss.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip; his were eyes wide like he was surprised. “Can’t kiss a guy like that and expect him to think about soup, Maklen,” he said with a rough voice.

She grinned up at him and offered a wink. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

“Evil, evil girl.” He shook his head disapprovingly, with a smile that he was trying to hide.

He opened the door wide, and she ducked under his arm to enter the house.

The handmade oak table was Sam and Dean’s grandfather’s, it had been built by a tree that he cut down himself, sanded down by hand, and glossed over with a shiny finish. The shape was irregular, like the thickness of the tree trunk, and the rings of age were visible through the sheen. Pheli placed a vase with the remaining last few mutant roses from the bush out back. The vase was surrounded by a random assortment of candles, which flames flickered, creating a peaceful glow against the white china bowls.

“It smells great,” Dean mused, eyeing Sam.

“It was just from a can,” Phel said self-consciously, as she sat down in her own chair.

“Looks amazing, babe,” Sam promised, placing a kiss on the crown of her head.

Emerson discarded her blanket on the couch, and walked to the table. She ran her fingers along the back of her chair before lowering herself into it. Dean sat next to her, instead of his usual place across from her at the table. His fingers brushed her knee under the table making her sit up a little straighter. She picked up her spoon, spinning it in her fingers. Her eyes locked with her sisters. Something was up. She could feel it like a static in the air. She could almost reach out and touch it.

The girls were in no way psychic, but there was something special about having a twin that was completely unique. Most of the time, the girls knew what the other was thinking with a single look. They were usually so in sync, but ever since the Pheli killed Gordon, it was like a wall was put up between them. Emerson had no idea what her sister was thinking. She still didn’t, as she looked at her across the table, but she wanted to know. There was something there, she just couldn’t identify it.

Dean slurped at his soup next to her in a way that was so obnoxious it was almost laughable. He was such a child. She shot him a look and he shrugged at her mid bite, with his spoon against his lips. She grinned widely at him and put her own spoon in her soup.

She wondered if maybe growing up required distance. Pheli knew her better than anyone, but she always had Sam. Ultimately, he knew her in a way that Emerson never could. Maybe growing up meant loosening the leash she had on her sister to make room for someone else.

Dean was humming into his soup, picking up the bowl and finishing it off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a satisfied, happy sigh. “Damn that was delicious.”

“Damn, big hungry,” Emerson complained.

He grabbed his spoon, stealing a bite from her bowl playfully. He slid the spoon into his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Hey!”

He tried to put his spoon back in, but she stopped it with her own. “Back off, Dean Winchester or you may lose a finger,” Emerson threatened, narrowing her eyes.

Ophelia cleared her throat, causing Emerson to stop clinking spoons with Dean and look up. Her sisters hands were intertwined with Sam’s and they were looking at her and Dean intensely. Em’s gut twisted as she stared at her twin. Something was up, she was sure of it.

“Sam and I want to tell you something,” she began. “Both of you.”

“Sammy?” Dean questioned, his eyebrow quirked up. His spoon was left in Emerson’s soup as his hand moved away. His palms were flat on the table.

Emerson felt like they were both waiting for an impact as if they were standing on the train tracks, staring into the light of an oncoming train.

Pheli took in a deep breath, before pulling her hand from Sam’s and thrusting it across the table. A glistening stone caught the light of the candles, sparkling golden in the lowlight. Emerson’s mouth went immediately dry as if she’d just been told something horrible. She stared at her sisters left hand. An engagement ring? It all seemed so normal.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean shouted.

Emerson jumped, turning to Dean, but what she saw was unexpected. He stood up, his palms still flat on the table. His lips were turned up in a bright smile, and his eyes were filled with tears. “You finally did it.”

“I’ve been carrying it around in my pocket for a year,” Sam said, with a bright smile. He was looking at Pheli like he always had, with this proud look of adoration, like he couldn’t get enough. “And I figured that there was no point in waiting. Not anymore. She’s the good in the world and from what I’ve seen in the last two months has shown me that we need as much good as we can get. Our time is limited, and I don’t want to waste any more of it not being with her.”

Dean’s hands left the table, as he approached Sam, pulling him into a brotherly hug. He was mumbling something against Sam’s ear that Emerson couldn’t hear. Her eyes were locked back on the stone.

“Em?” Pheli asked, her voice shaking.

The sound of her name pulled her out of her trance, and she finally met her sister’s eyes. They were a perfect reflection of her own. “Yeah?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” Emerson ran her tongue over her bottom lip, thinking about what Sam said. They always treated life like it was a given, when in reality it’s never been. She thought about the glowing butterflies, and Dean’s fingers brushing against hers. “It’s about damn time.” She took her sisters hand in hers. “It’s beautiful.”

Ophelia immediately broke into a relieved cry, wiping her cheeks. “I’m so glad. I love it.”

Sam put his hand on Pheli’s shoulder. “Dean, we were going to ask you if you’d marry us?”

“I’m not into you like that, Sam,” Dean teased. “But I’ll say some stuff, if you want.”

Sam rolled his eyes and made a face, curling his lip up in annoyance.

“When?” Emerson asked, her stomach clenching at the idea of a wedding. On one hand it seemed so trivial in light of the world, but on the other it seemed like the exact kind of thing that they needed.

“A week,” Pheli said, squeezing her sisters hand. “I want to go into town and see if I can find something to wear. Maybe dress the place up a bit.” She gestured widely out to the back of the house. “And I want to stay in your room all week, so Sam and I can have a chance to miss each other.” Her nose wrinkled as she looked up at Sam, he leaned down and kissed her nose.

Dean grunted at Emerson’s side, and she shot him a look that said, this is so not the time . He shrugged in response.

“Of course, whatever you want,” Em said with a nod.

“We’re getting married,” Phel said in a rush of air.

“Yes we are.”

Emerson’s eyes locked with Dean’s. “I’m going to do the dishes.”

“I’ll move my stuff up to your room,” Phel said, standing up.

“I’ll help,” Sam said mischievously.

“Don’t even think about it, Winchester. You haven’t made an honest woman out of me yet.”

“I’m banking on that,” he snickered, chasing after her to their room.

Emerson grabbed a few dishes and turned on her heels to start the dishes. She made it to the sink and turned the water on at the sink. It wasn’t a moment later that she felt two arms snake around her waist and lips against the back of her neck. Dean.

“A wedding,” he sighed against her neck.

“A wedding,” she repeated.

“That’s the last thing I thought would happen out here.”

“They’re insane.”

“I don’t know.” Dean kissed her skin again, swaying gently back and forth. “I think Sam’s got the right idea.”

“Yeah?” She asked, letting the water run over the bowl, overflowing into the sink. Her mind wasn’t on her pruning fingers, the bowl, or the water. She couldn’t escape from the sway of his body against hers and the inevitable weight that a wedding brought.

“No real reason not to be with the person you wanna be with. The wedding is symbolic, it’s not like anyone is going to take an apocalyptic marriage seriously if we ever get out of this, but if it makes them feel better then I don’t see a problem. Fuck, I get the sentiment.”

Emerson always felt like marriages were supposed to mean forever, but she supposed that humans were more likely to be able to commit to that forever if their time was so limited. “You’re right,” she said with an exhale. She sat the bowl down, wrapping her arms around his, brushing her wet fingers against his. She closed her eyes and swayed with him. “Maybe it’ll be nice.”

“You’re gonna be there?”

“Yes?” She asked with a laugh, as if it were a trick question.

“Then it’ll be more than nice.” He hummed against her hair. “Maybe we can find some liquor and dance out there on the dock.”

“Promise?” She asked, spinning around, wrapping her arms around his neck. She stared into his green eyes, trying to pull his soul into her body, and wrap him around her as tightly as she could.

“Anything you want, Em. I’ll give it to ya,” he leaned in and kissed her. The water still ran in the sink behind her in a moment that was so painfully and beautifully normal that it made her vision blur at the edges and her stomach ache.

This is how it could’ve been , she thought sadly, before correcting herself. No, this is how it is. Her life with Dean wasn’t a consolation prize just because the world was crumbling around them. He came to see her the day the girls came home, the day that seemed like a lifetime ago. She wanted to ask him why he’d come by, because it certainly wasn’t to invite her to a party. She had to believe that whether the explosion happened or not, that they’d always end up right there. Just as she thought that she’d pull away and ask him, he depended the kiss, pressing her against the sinks edge, and she resolved to enjoy him instead. She spent too much time in her head, worrying and thinking about the next thing, or what could’ve been instead of what was happening in the moment.

The moment was Dean, and if people were made of moments, then maybe Dean and her were made of each other. Maybe they’d always been that way.

—————

Chapter Twenty-Six

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