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She's tried to move on. She's got a new house and her daughter just headed off to college this year. She's got a job in an office keeping records and she's even a member of the neighborhood watch. But she can't forget her husband.
People wonder, she knows they do. But it's not like she can say An angel of the Lord is possessing him. I don't know if he's even alive. She could say He's out of the picture or He left or any of a hundred other things the other single mothers offer up.
But none of them are true. Jimmy didn't want to leave. He's not a deadbeat; he's not even dead, as far as she knows. But the questions keep coming, in a polite, midwestern way.
And that's why she's staring a flyer on the bulletin board in the post office.
The sheet of paper had just an address, with the words Missing someone? and a time and today's date. It's crazy to be thinking about going. She knows that.
But still she hesitates, staring at it.
And that's when she sees it.
It's in the corner, sketchy and faint, like a drawing done lightly in pencil then passed through generations of photocopiers. She picks out a triangle with a circle on top, two wings to the sides and a halo on top.
It's an angel.
And she knows she has to go. And glancing at her watch, she realizes she has to go now, if she wants to make it.
The house is compact, slate grey, with a latticed porch and a mailbox reading "Allen" in small, neat letters.
She stands on the porch for a long time before finally gathering the courage to knock.
The door opens immediately, and a woman smiles at her, wide green eyes crinkling in an open face.
"Hello. Welcome. I'm Daphne."
She holds out a hand hesitantly, immediately feeling drawn to this woman and not trusting the feeling. “Amelia Novak. I saw–”
“The poster, yes. I hoped it would find the people who needed it.” Daphne steps back, opening the door wider and waving Amelia forward.
Amelia takes a deep breath and steps over the threshold.
Just inside the doorway drifts the smell of baked goods and a buzz of conversation. There’s a circle of chairs in the living room just to her right and half a dozen women are seated around it.
She’s floating a little, disconnected, as she takes in the scene. Jimmy would laugh, she thinks. And Claire– she shakes her head. Best not to think of what Claire would think about this.
She blinks rapidly, pushing down the swell of emotion rising in her stomach. Not the time, Amelia. Get it together.
Amelia squares her shoulders and follows Daphne into the room.
There’s a brief hiccup in the conversation as the women turn toward her and smile. Daphne guides her to a chair and she sits, gripping the armrests.
She nods to them, a smile on her face, and wills the world to stop spinning. Since Jimmy and the Winchesters and Castiel it’s as if she hasn’t been able to get her feet under her, like she’s running and running, and no matter how fast she goes she’s always on the brink of falling or floating away. She’s held on tight since, keeping an iron grip on reality, but lately she’s just gotten so tired.
A hand rests on her shoulder, an anchor in the waves, heavy and cool. The world rights itself, centering on the touch, the rocking and blurring coalescing into bright clear lines.
Amelia looks up into green eyes full of– something. Understanding, maybe? But it’s more than that. It’s something calm and collected and deep, and Amelia grabs onto it like a piece of driftwood keeping her afloat.
Daphne smiles down at her and squeezes her shoulder once, then lets go and sits in the chair beside her.
“Let’s get started. Hello everyone. I’m Daphne. Welcome.” She glances down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “We’re all here because we’ve lost someone. I– my husband, Emmanuel. I found him, and then I lost him.” She swallows.
After a moment, the next woman speaks up, then the next. She tries to focus, to listen to the others’ stories, but they drift by her and she can’t quite catch hold of them.
Then she looks up, and all the eyes are on her.
“I’m Amelia,” she says, meeting Daphne’s eyes. “Amelia Novak. My husband was– he was taken from us. He came back, then he was taken again. I don’t–” she trailed off, not sure what else to say. How can she explain?
But she looks up, and they’re all looking at her with sympathy, not pity or confusion or discomfort or any of the things she’s used to seeing on people’s faces when she tries to talk about Jimmy.
It’s been so long since she talked about him, though– years, probably– that she can’t find the words to speak up. And when the hour is over, and everyone stands and hugs and starts towards the door, she finds herself caught by Daphne’s hand on her wrist.
“I always cook too much,” she says, almost nervous. “Would you like to stay?”
There’s no one at home, with Claire off at school. Nothing but a house empty even of memories. They’d moved to Colorado on a whim, trying to outrun the heartbreak and the memories and everyone they’d known in Illinois. Claire had adjusted soon enough, though sometimes Amelia still found her daughter staring at the sky for minutes on end, looking for something she lost when the angel surged out of her.
So Amelia nods and lets Daphne lead her forward into the quiet kitchen.
The evening has been so surreal that she almost doesn’t question it when there’s a picture of her husband’s face on the wall.
But then she stops, turns, stares. And keeps staring.
It’s Jimmy’s skin, his hair, his hands, but–
It’s not Jimmy.
It’s not Jimmy the way Castiel wasn’t Jimmy, but she doesn’t think it’s Castiel, either.
“Emmanuel.” Daphne’s voice is close, closer than she expected, but she doesn’t move. Amelia’s hand reaches up, traces the frame, hovers over the face that’s so familiar, but so alien. “My husband.”
She nods. Of course it is. Who else could it have been. She feels her mouth spreading in a smile, and she can’t hold in the sob of helpless laughter spilling past her lips.
Daphne is watching her, a small, confused smile on her face, and Amelia can’t seem to find the words to tell her why she’s staring at Emmanuel or Castiel or Jimmy or whatever the man in the picture really is.
Fumbling in her purse, she pulls out her wallet and flips it open, sliding out Claire’s graduation picture to the tiny family portrait behind it.
It’s a little creased, and stuck to the back of the pocket-- she hasn’t taken it out in years, and it’s a struggle to work it out. Daphne is watching her closely, face open and curious, and Amelia hands her the picture with shaking hands. “This is Jimmy. My-- my Jimmy.”
Daphne takes the picture and holds it up to the light. It’s a good picture of him, Amelia thinks, watching Daphne examine it. He’s got his arms around her and Claire and he’s laughing, mouth open wide and eyes crinkling. The man in Daphne’s photo is smiling small and closed-mouthed, but he looks still and centered in a way her Jimmy never was.
“I--” Daphne’s eyes are even wider, green and open in a pale face. She hesitates for a full thirty seconds, then hands Amelia the picture with a trembling hand. “I found Emmanuel. He was wandering in the woods with no memory, and I knew God had sent him to me.” She smiled for a moment, just a quick movement of her lips. “That’s why we gave him that name. Emmanuel. God is with us.” She sighed and turned, finding the couch and sinking into it. Amelia sat beside her and waited.
“I knew he must have come from somewhere. But I had hoped--” She swallowed and met Amelia’s eyes squarely. “I had hoped there wasn’t someone left behind.”
Amelia found her voice, finally. “When was this, Daphne? When did you find him?”
“Three years ago.” She glanced at the photo on the wall. “And six months later a man came and saved us from demons and took him from me.”
Amelia let out a long breath. “Daphne, Jimmy disappeared seven years ago. The man you knew? He wasn’t my husband. He wasn’t-- wasn’t Jimmy. Not anymore.”
Daphne is watching her closely. When Amelia doesn’t continue, she leans forward.
“Emmanuel had... gifts. Special gifts. He could see the true faces of beings that walk the earth in the bodies of humans. And he could heal.”
“And he left with a man, you said?” Amelia already knows the answer, but she has to ask.
“Yes. He said his brother was ill, and Emmanuel could help. His name was Dean.”
Even though she had been expecting this, Amelia’s heart still clenches. Dean.
Dean, with his green eyes and ready smile who's the face of the destruction of her family. Dean, who came to take Jimmy away again when he found his way back to them. Dean, who saved her and saved Claire from the world of angels and demons. From his world, and Castiel's.
“Amelia?” Daphne’s voice is worried, and she’s leaning close. “Is everything okay?”
Amelia chokes out a laugh, trying not to lean into Daphne as she pulls herself together, pressing her loss and sorrow and fear and rage back into the tiny box at her core. “I’m--” she clears her throat, and tries again. “I’m fine.”
Daphne is still watching her, wide eyes worried and close. She’s silent, reaching out to pull the photo from Amelia’s hands where it was creasing further in her tight grip.
“Dean-- he--” she swallows again, shutting her eyes for a moment to take a breath. “He took Jimmy, too.” When Daphne doesn’t respond, Amelia turns towards her, knees brushing Daphne’s jeans. “There was an angel. And he-- he needed Jimmy. And I think Emmanuel--”
Daphne looks up, interrupting, “Emmanuel was that angel.” She watches Amelia’s response. “He was, wasn’t he? That’s why he could heal people, and why he could see demons.”
Amelia nods, lips pursed.
“And before he was the angel, he was... Jimmy?”
Amelia nods again and Daphne stares at her hands, folded in her lap around the photograph. She turns it idly, watching the light play over Jimmy and Amelia and Claire’s features. “He doesn’t look like him. Like Emmanuel.” Her voice is wistful. “They have the same face, but I would never mistake him for my husband.”
A huff of amusement escapes Amelia’s lips. “I know.” She slumps back. “I looked for him, you know. I looked for him for years.” Her eyes shift to Daphne, catching the other woman’s gaze. “I thought, surely they don’t still need him. After everything he went through, they have to let him go some time.”
When she’s silent for a few moments, Daphne reaches out a tentative hand and places it on Amelia’s. “But they didn’t?”
Amelia’s eyes slide shut and she shakes her head. “No.” her voice is quiet. “Not back to us. To me.” She gives another little laugh, one with almost no amusement. “They might have let him go to Heaven. That’s the only place I’ll see him again.” She looks up at Daphne, whose hand is warm on her own. “What was he like? Your Emmanuel?”
Daphne smiles, and Amelia’s heart squeezes to see the love in that look. “He was kind. Quiet. He always stopped to talk to animals and children. He didn’t eat or sleep much, but he didn’t seem to need to.” She looked down, hand tightening on Amelia’s. “He was so naive in some ways, Amelia. He didn’t know anything about movies or music or current events, but he could look at a person and see their soul.” She smiles again, this time beneath eyes shining with tears. “He had a calmness to him. A restfulness. He brought peace to those around him.”
“Definitely not Jimmy,” says Amelia. “Jimmy was all tightly contained energy. He could talk for hours, and eat you out of house and home.”
Daphne leans back, shoulder brushing Amelia’s where they press against the couch. “I wish I could have met him. Jimmy.” She turns to Amelia. “He sounds like a wonderful man. You must miss him so much.”
Amelia nods. “Every day.” Her voice shakes. “And now that Claire is off at college, I--” she shudders and swallows, leaning into Daphne’s warmth. “We had so many plans. We were going to travel, to try new things, to have a second honeymoon once Claire grew up and got settled. And now, without him--” she turns to Daphne, whose wide green eyes are close and bright. “Without him, I don’t know what to do.” It feels like a confession, and something lightens in her chest almost imperceptibly.
“We go on,” says Daphne, quietly. “We go on, and we remember them.” She reaches out a hand, catching Amelia’s cheek and turning it towards her own in a brush of gentle fingers.
It’s been a long time since someone’s touched Amelia like this: softly, tenderly. She’s tried dating a few times since Jimmy, but it’s never been right. And Claire– well, getting Claire to touch anyone these days is a struggle. The wild look in her eyes when someone gets too close has kept Amelia at arms’ length for years. She can’t even remember the last time she held her daughter.
But this is different.
There’s no mistaking those green eyes for Jimmy’s blue ones, or the brush of her long hair for Jimmy’s coarse strands.
It’s the easiest thing in the world to close the inches between them and let her eyes fall closed as their lips meet.
This is new, she thinks, this is good. Her hands rise of their own accord, burying in the thick waves at the base of Daphne’s skull.
It’s not Jimmy.
But maybe that’s all right.