Disclaimer: Not for keeps.
Warning: Oops, bit of swearing, mostly the f-word. Sorry. Guess it's not for those with delicate ears. Oh, and for those who read this, hopefully you'll read this too. As of now I HAVE NOT seen the finale, in fact, I've only just watched Folsom Prison Blues. I don't know what happens, or if they kill the demon, so if they do, then this is an AU, I guess.
Author's Note: So, this is the little story that wouldn't let me sleep... um, well a little while ago now. But considering the follow-on to Fight Club was, up until the weekend, close to being posted, I didn't put this one up, cause I wasn't really liking it. But that plan was scraped by a very mean and disagreeable computer, when it went 'Error' and put up this blue screen and refused to turn, sooooo, it might be a while, considering I have to rewrite about half of it that I can't get to. So, in the meantime, have a squiz at this!
When The End Comes
When the end came, it came with a quickness, and a clarity and one very loud scream. When the end came, it didn't exactly go to plan. But what the hell hunt ever does.
But the demon, The Demon, it died in a blaze of fire and darkness and vain promises of revenge. Vain, because they killed it. They didn't send it back to hell. They destroyed the mother-fucking bastard so completely that it could never fuck-over another family again.
And then the brothers stumbled from the burning warehouse, clinging to each other, coughing, hacking, bruised, hurt. Alive. They were alive, and the son of a bitch that had taken their family was gone forever.
But Sam swore something was missing. Some relief in his heart. Freedom in his soul. Some weight gone from his shoulders. All that was missing.
When the end came, it didn't really come at all. Because The Demon had managed to fuck them over one last time. When the end came, it was no end at all.
Twelve glorious minutes. That's how long they celebrated for, driving as fast as they could away from the inferno behind them, away from the past. Dean was smiling, wrapped up in savouring the ever-sweet victory. And his joy was catching, because Sam had forgotten all about what was missing.
Later he didn't remember the crash. Didn't remember the Impala's tyres squealing around a corner, didn't remember turning to grin idiotically at his brother. Didn't remember his unbreakable brother slumping forward, didn't remember screaming, racing for the steering wheel, didn't remember the Impala losing the fight against a too-solid brick wall. All he knew was that the instant after he had gotten into the car, one foot in the future, he was waking up in hospital, dozens of lines entering his body and the earth-shattering news that his brother was in a coma. Severe brain damage somehow obtained before the crash. Might never wake up.
Like he always did, Dean proved them wrong, though he had the scars to show how close to the truth those doctors had come. He could walk, and talk, and think. He could breathe, and cry, and joke, and thank God every day that he was alive. And somehow that made up for the fact that he could never hunt again, couldn't run, couldn't take loud noises, couldn't exert himself in fear of seizures. Maybe, possibly not for good, but for now, at least, Dean was too hurt to be anything but a hindrance on a hunt.
Sam didn't care. The Demon had taken one last swing at them, one last attempt at separating the great Winchester brothers for good. And it had failed. Sure, those vain promises hadn't been so vain, but they were still here. He still had Dean, and maybe, just maybe, he could… they could have some semblance of normal.
Twelve days after Dean woke up, Sam found out that The Demon hadn't been the thing he had to worry about. Twelve days after Dean woke up, Sam learned that the world in general could fuck them over twice as bad.
That first 'nightmare' was the worst. A scene of blood, and gore and screaming so loud that Sam woke up with it ringing in his ears, clutching back his own scream so he didn't wake his brother. He didn't dare go back to sleep, not wanting a repeat of the dream.
It wasn't until the next morning that he found out it was real, as the woman from his nightmare was wheeled into the emergency room where Sam was negotiating with the vending machine.
He never told Dean. Never told Dean that, contrary to almost hopeful belief, The Demon hadn't been sending those visions. No, the son of a bitch had to have been keeping them back. It made sense; why would The Demon send him the fractured images of its 'soldiers' killing, murdering, especially when it knew Sam would end up killing them.
Only now that The Demon was gone, Sam had nightmares of every supernatural death within a hundred mile radius.
In the end, Dean knew he should have seen it coming. While Sam tried so desperately to keep it from him, he knew. He knew. He knew it from the way Sam didn't sleep anymore, from the way that at times Sam just couldn't handle being touched, as if he knew your every little dirty secret when he was. Knew from the days when Sam would just lock himself inside his room in the rundown apartment they ended up renting, and would just blast music. And hell, the blasted light bulbs gave it away as well.
The first time Sam disappeared, it was for a weekend, and the entire time Dean panicked. The second time, it was a whole week, and Dean couldn't help but worry as the days wore on.
The third time Sam disappeared, Dean knew he had lost his brother.
Again.
Oh, he came back, pretended he didn't have the bruises, didn't come back with bloodstained clothes, circles under his eyes. Pretended he didn't come back with everyday, garden variety nightmares brought on by some recent tangle with the supernatural. And Dean did nothing. Because Sam had cut him off from that world.
Though it wasn't like he didn't do his own pretending. Pretended he couldn't see what Sam was trying to hide in plain sight. Pretended he didn't hear the noises of the nightmares, the thrashing, the cries. Pretended he didn't know when the visions came back, when Sam would clutch at his head and excuse himself in any way possible.
It was his early childhood all over again, though the ringing of a phone had been replaced by the excruciating pain of a vision. And he had never felt more alone.
He had to admit, that when Sam finally left, for good, it was with some relief. Despite the empty apartment, and hollow feeling inside, the inevitable jealousy, he was relieved. Because he didn't have to pretend anymore. He almost didn't care that Sam left without a note, a glance, a goodbye. Almost didn't care that the prick had just packed his things and left in the middle of the night. Almost.
He rang the little shit over and over, but the younger man ignored his calls with the same stoicism their father had displayed. And slowly, slowly, Dean began calling less and less. He began to let himself drift into that normal life Sam had so desired, feeling guilty that he was the one with it, while Sam lived the life on the road, hunting because he couldn't take just leaving the victims of his nightmares to the evil son of a bitch he had picked up on his psychic radar.
It was twelve weeks after Sam had left when the cell rang in the middle of the night. Dean swore, rubbing grit from his eyes, and fumbled for the phone. Without looking at the caller id, he answered the damn thing, ready to give the caller a tongue lashing.
"Dean?"
The man shot straight up in bed, wide awake, relief hurting his chest.
"Sammy? Thank God, Sam, are you all right?"
There was a pause, before his little brother sighed. "Yeah, I'm okay." He didn't sound it. He sounded tired. So very tired.
But Dean barely heard it. "You fucking little shit!" he swore, grip tightening on the phone. "You just leave without a word, just pick up your things, you don't even leave a fucking note! Do you now how worried I've been? You didn't answer any calls, I left dozens of messages! Goddammit, Sam, you knew how worried I was when Dad disappeared like that!"
The younger man let his brother wind down before leaving a awkward pause again. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I never wanted to. I just couldn't handle it anymore."
"How about now?" Dean demanded callously. "How you handling it now?"
Sam gave a grim chuckle. "About the same. But at least I get there in time now. I don't have to watch everything on the news the next day, or the next week. I save people, Dean."
The older man softened at the relief in his little brother's voice, and gave a short sigh. "We always did, Sammy."
Another pause, not so awkward, a little content. "Yeah, I know. We did. We were a great team, Dean."
This time Dean was the one to pause, fiddling with his sheets. "We still could be, little brother. You know the doctors gave me a clean bill of health last week."
He almost heard Sam shake his head. "No, we can't, Dean. You deserve what you've got. Let me guess, she's blonde?"
Dean turned to the woman asleep beside him, and gave a cautious grin. "Yeah. How did you know? You been watching me?"
"Not physically."
"What the…" Dean trailed off as he realized what Sam meant. "Wow, your powers have grown that much?"
"Yeah," Sam answered. "And don't worry about it. You and her, it's the one bit of happiness I can see whenever I want, happiness I don't have to force myself to see. It helps me to keep going, Dean."
The confession left a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach. "Sam, are you ever coming back here? You know, to see me again. You could meet Hallie face to face."
"I already know she's your dream come true. That's all I need to know. Actually, it's kinda the reason I'm calling."
"What do you mean?" Dean asked slowly, not really wanting the answer.
"Dean, you need to forget about me."
"What!" Dean hissed. "Sam, are you nuts… you're my brother!"
"I know. And you'll never know what that means to me. But you have to leave me. Alone, I mean. Get on with your life. Else you'll end up cold and miserable, and even more alone than you think you are now. You're not. You're not alone, Dean."
"Sam?" Dean begged, tears springing to eyes as he felt the very grief and pain in his little brother's voice. It clenched his heart, made it difficult to breath. "Do not do this."
"I'm so sorry, Dean," the younger man breathed. "I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry I won't be there. I'm sorry, for so much more than I can ever explain. Sorry for leaving you alone. But you need to forget about me… you need… I never should have called. Sorry Dean. Have a nice life."
And then suddenly the phone was beeping, and Dean was calling into it, calling out for Sam to answer him. But the answer never came.
When the end came, the real end came, it did so with blood and pain and tears, desperation, leaving loneliness and grief and guilt. When the end came, the real end came, it did so slowly, slowly tearing him apart from the world before dumping him back in it with the excruciating pain.
Dean woke in the middle of the night, stomach blazing in agony, falling to the floor beside the bed, alone in an apartment touched slightly by a woman's hand. He groaned, and at its crescendo, the groan turned into a scream, pain rippling. And then visions assaulted his head.
Snow, cold, all around… trees, thin air, pain… pain… PAIN… a scream, so familiar, dropping… dropping to his knees, then to his side, unable to… unable to move… so painful, hurting so badly, blood seeping through the hands… blood seeping through the hands clutched at his stomach, trying to hold death back with a… trying to hold death back with a weakening grip…
Phone, need the phone… GODDAMMIT WORK!... no reception, please, I'm begging you… please, just this once, I need… please, I'm begging you… please… FUCK it hurts… please!... thank you, thank you so much…
And then the fractured images disappeared and he dropped with relief, tears of pain seeping through tight eyes…seeping…
As he lay there, on his side, it took him a moment to realize the phone was ringing.
Gut dropping, he jumped to his feet, dashing to where his phone lay discarded in his jacket. Hands trembling, he answered the call from a number he didn't recognise.
"Hello?" he asked shakily, instinctively knowing this call would be one to haunt him for the rest of his life.
"Dean," came Sam's pained answer, shaking just as badly as his own, only it was with cold, fear, pain, relief. "Thank God, I thought you weren't going to answer…" he trailed off into a grunt, a cry of the hurt he was feeling.
"Sammy, what happened?" Dean demanded. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
Sam let loose a cry, and Dean knew his baby brother was weeping. "Dean, I'm so sorry. I fucked up, I'm so, so sorry." He gave a sob. "I never should have left you, I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry, so sorry."
Dean sat down on the carpet, knees unable to hold him up anymore. "Sammy, what's wrong?" he breathed.
"Wendigo," his little brother spat out. "I was too slow, just too slow. Maybe I wanted to be…"
"Oh, God, Sam, are you okay? Where are you hurt?"
Again, he felt Sam shake his head. "That's not why I'm calling Dean," he told his brother.
"Where are you? I'll come help you."
"NO!" Sam shouted desperately. "Please, don't leave me, Dean, please, don't leave me, don't let me die here alone!"
It was a far cry from the 'leave me alone' that had been the message of the last phone call, but Dean paused where he was, his little brother's fear tearing into some part of his soul, twisting it, ripping it, letting it slowly die.
"Sammy, please…"
"It's too late, Dean. I can't stop… I'm so sorry," he said in a sob. "I didn't want to go, I'm so fucking sorry."
"Stop saying that!" the older man ordered, not feeling the tears running down his face. "Sam, hang up the phone and call 911!"
"Too late," the hunter whispered. "It's too late Dean. God, I'm so cold. I can't feel it anymore Dean. Can't feel anything…"
"Sam? Sam!" Dean shouted, screamed, cried out, hoping the pure emotion behind his yells would bring Sam to him. "Sam, don't you dare, don't you dare leave!"
"I'm sorry I'm doing this Dean. Dean…" He paused, and Dean heard a wet coughing in the background, pained cries, before the phone shuffled slightly. "Dean, I'm so afraid of dying. But I was terrified of dying alone. I needed to speak to you, once more, one last time. I'm so sorry."
The sobs were gone now, replaced by a too-calm dazed voice with only hints of tears and pain.
"Sammy, there's nothing to be sorry for," Dean said, bowing his head, realizing he was about to really lose his brother.
"I shouldn't have gone, shouldn't have left you… please say you'll forgive me, please."
The beg wrenched what was left of Dean's soul, and he had to smother a sob. "I already have, Sammy. I did, a long time ago."
He could almost feel Sam's relief. "Thank you, Dean, thank you." His voice was filled with peace, with serenity. "I love you, big brother."
And then there was a dull thud as the phone landed on a hard surface, and Dean's breath caught in his throat. "Sam, please, say something. Sammy! Sammy! SAMMY!"
He couldn't take it, couldn't handle it, and he clutched the cell like it was a life line. "Sam, don't go! Sam, can you hear me. I love you too, Sammy, I love you too! God, please, wake up. Sam!"
But there was no answer but silence, and Dean sat in his apartment, alone in the world, crying, shattered.
The end had come, the real end had come, and yet the earth was still moving. The end had come, and Dean felt there should have been some significant occurrence to tell the world they had lost a champion. But all there was, was silence as Dean's world crumpled.
When 'the end' came, it was no ending at all, but another chapter of misery and pain, of a life not allowed to be lived, of the world fucking two men over in a never-ending battle for balance.
When the real end comes, it doesn't exactly go to plan. But what the hell hunt ever does.
When the end comes, the real, the true end comes, none but a few notice, and the world keeps on spinning in balanced ignorance, leaving brave men weeping and selfish champions gone.
Yeah, I killed Sam again. I have a habit. So, what did you think? I don't think it really did what I wanted it to do, but what the hey. Hope you liked it! And I swear I'll get moving faster on the follow-on to Fight Club.