Let Them Sleep

“I never should have come to see them,” you say to Billie, but mostly to yourself. She stands with you under the big twisted cypress tree as you look out over the dark bay beneath a starless sky.

She’s uncharacteristically quiet.

You take a deep breath and clear the burning urge to cry from the bridge of your nose. “Thank you for bringing the car. I can’t put them through that again.”

Billie only nods, standing with her hands clasped in front of her.

“What?” You ask her since she won’t say it. “Please, just say what’s on your mind.” The salty air shifts and gently presses past you, mussing your hair. You tuck the flyaway strands behind your ear as the distant call of the sea lions drifts on the breeze.

Her gaze doesn’t waver from the cruise ship on the horizon. Her jaw doesn’t move. For a moment, you wonder if she’s somehow trapped and unable to respond to you.

“Billie?”

She offers you a polite smile, the kind of smile that means pity. It ties a knot in the pit of your stomach as you study her perfect, stoic face. “Fate,” she says, breathing in your trepidation, “is not of chance, but by choice.”

You wait for more, but she stops. She gazes into your eyes, staring deep into your soul, and you feel her there. You stare back into her dark brown eyes, searching for clarification. Your heart thuds against your chest. “What are you getting at?”

She glances over your shoulder toward the parking lot where you left Sam and Dean lie sleeping off the last of the nausea and disorientation in the Impala.

“You’re here because you chose this.” Her eyes come back to you.

You shake your head. “Where are you going with this?”

“You broke protocol back there,” she says, her voice flat and low. “Dean Winchester got himself into that predicament; it was not for you to get him out.”

“It was my fault he was there in the first place.”

“You didn’t put him there.”

“I fixed it, it’s fine now.” You wish you could hold on to happy, tipsy Dean, dancing with you in the middle of the night, serenading you with old rock ballads. But every time you try to think of him, angry Dean pushes him out of the way. Angry Dean who doesn’t want to see you anymore. The Dean who can’t be in the same room as you because he hates you so much.

“No, boss. You were distracted even before that.”

You turn away, crossing your arms over your chest and running your thumb over the scars on the back of your hand. A sneaky tear slips out of the corner of your eye before you can stop it. Hastily you wipe it away before she can see it, but you know she already knows.

“And now, here you stand, watching over them as they sleep.”

You turn toward the cloudy night sky. “I owe them this much.”

“Why?”

“Because, they...” You can’t finish your sentence because there is no because; you’ve been caught in your excuse. Flustered, you drop your hands to your sides.

“You owe them nothing.” She doesn’t have to remind you what you did for them; bargaining your own soul for theirs.

Dean’s turmoil kills you, especially knowing that you’re to blame. What he said to Sam in the nightclub echoes through your thoughts. But if you relinquish your duty, your title, all to erase Dean’s guilt and suffering, you can’t ensure their souls make that final trip to Heaven. “It’s too important,” you say, more to yourself than to her, forcing yourself to think about Jonah and all the other souls you’ve escorted with your faction of dedicated and loyal Reapers.

The Angel of Death is not allowed to interfere with life, to stop bad things from happening to good people, no matter how much your heart breaks for the tragedies that come. Not every death is of natural causes at the end of a long, peaceful life full of love and happiness. Sometimes a job comes along - these days more than ever - involving large numbers of souls all in one place at one time. These are the most heartbreaking. These are the jobs that pop up just moments before, and you send whichever Reapers you have nearby as soon as the names hit your list. Time is of the essence when life is cut short; as your predecessor once said, “The human soul is not a rubber ball. It’s vulnerable but stronger than you know and more valuable than you can imagine.”

Billie is gone. Movement in the Impala catches your eye as one of the boys stirs. The sky begins to lighten to purple on the horizon as you stand fixed under the cypress tree. I’ll just wait until they leave.

The driver’s door opens with a creak and a Dean-sized silhouette stumbles out. He stretches his back, reaching toward the sky with both arms, and rolls his head from side to side. He strides down the sandy path toward the cover of the thick coastal foliage to relieve himself. You roll your eyes; if he had just turned his head the other way, he would have seen the public restrooms smack in the middle of Lovers Point Park.

You look back at the Impala; Sam is still sleeping. You turn your back to the car and the path and set your eyes on the horizon. You’re going to watch the sunrise today. You haven’t taken the time to watch a sunrise in over a year. Billie’s words bounce through your mind as the purple gives way to pink, then orange, then yellow as a tiny blazing half circle crests on the horizon, sending a shimmering line of golden yellow straight toward you across the bay.

You don’t hear him approach. “[Y/N],” Dean says, his gruff, sleep-laced voice startling you from your reverie.

You tense up, hesitant to turn.

He clears his throat and says again, “[Y/N].”

You fight the tears; you will not let Dean Winchester see you cry.